Ralphsclimbingblog

Climbing with the Jacksons

2011-12-20T15:50:00.000-08:00

It's a rare treat to climb with Renny Jackson. And even rarer to climb with Catherine. Now, there is a third member: Jane. This October we arranged to meet in Indian Creek, best crack climbing in the world.

Renny and I go way back: both of us are from Salt Lake City, we both worked as climbing rangers in the Tetons at Jenny Lake, and we are now both retired from the National Park Service. Renny worked in the Tetons for years, but in the early 90's he and his wife Catherine moved to Talkeetna, Alaska, where he worked on Denali for a few years. I had just left my post in Denali, so we missed each other there. Catherine Cullinane was the first woman to guide for the Exum Guide Service in the Tetons, so she holds her own in the climbing world. I'm always the junior partner (although older) when I climb with those two! This summer, Renny and his daughter Jane climbed Denali together. This launched her into the climbing world, and she took to it with a vengeance. In a few short months, she rocked upward in her skill level; check out the photos below.

On my fall road trip through Salt Lake City I passed by the Kimbrough's home on my way south to the desert. Paul, Peter, Tom, Barb and others were still up with the lights on at 9:30 pm, so I stopped in for a beer. There was so much energy among the young climbers and skiers; I was hoping some would rub off. They were psyched to climb, so we arranged to find each other during the next weeks in Indian Creek. I would be there, camped at Creek Pasture, as always.

South and North Six Shooter seen from the Second Meat Wall in Indian Creek

At "The Creek", we chose 'The Second Meat Wall' as a climbing area; it would be out of the hot sun through most of the day. We wandered north along the wall looking for an opening; most of the good climbs were already taken by the early risers. Chris and I made our way along until the vestige of the trail disappeared. An owl flew into a tree above us and we stopped to look. The owl didn't seem bothered and sat on the tree for a while; then it flew up a few more feet to a perch on the cliff. Neither of us had seen it before, so we sat down and watched it for quite a while. Chris later identified it as a Long Eared Owl, supposedly a more secretive species, but it hug around for us. Maybe we were encroaching on its territory, and it was just trying to outwait us.

It was cool in the shade, but we were wearing fairly skimpy climbing clothing, meaning expendable. The sandstone rips everything to shreds, including skin, knees, elbows, and hands. We wrapped adhesive tape around our knuckles, put on our climbing harnesses, and decided who would lead the first climb: "Two Timer". Jane was eager to lead; we were eager to follow. I was amazed that in a few short months she had risen from a novice to the strongest member of our party. While Renny belayed Jane up the climb, Catherine and I roamed around taking photos. Renny called up helpful advice on climbing technique and ways to protect the climb. It must be difficult watching a daughter engage in a dangerous sport. My ex-wife said that after a while she couldn't watch the kids climb with me. As I looked at Catherine and Renny I could understand that feeling.

Jane puts on her climbing shoes; Renny gets ready to belay her,
a typical father-daughter activity

Jane gears up for the climb

And checks the quick-draws: carabiners on nylon slings

Jane moved quickly up the crack system as though she had been climbing these walls for years. I was amazed at her fluid and confident motions. I'd been climbing for 54 years, yet she made it look so effortless.

Jane makes the first moves up the cliff

It wasn't easy, but she seemed to figure out every move, stemming on some of the fine holds to the left, climbing the crack directly when possible.

Moving up into the pure crack; a little overhanging in places, and very smooth

As she slipped the cams into the cracks, she seemed to have it all down: the crack climbing technique, the body position, the ease of placing protection. I marveled. Renny issued constructive advice.
As she neared the top of the hundred-plus-foot crack, it got harder; Renny and Catherine called up encouraging thoughts. The crack narrowed, and I remembered how difficult it seemed to me when I climbed it. She laid back against the wall, fitting her smaller fingers into the crack. That's a very Euro approach to the wall, but it worked. If I try it, I only get too tired and eventually flail.

Jane at the layback

As Jane called down a little desperate, I worried, then she figured it out, slid in a small cam, and moved up into the crack without using the layback technique. I was impressed. Maybe her fingers were smaller than mine, I rationalized.

Nearing the finish line

Then she was at the top. Renny lowered her, left the rope through the anchors, and gave everyone else a turn at the climb.

Renny getting a kinked neck from looking up at Jane

Mission accomplished!

Check out those legs

Catherine capturing it all on the camera

First, Catherine breezed up the climb. I watched her technique, always trying to learn something new, even at my advanced age. She made it look easy, but I knew it to be difficult. The breeze blew; Renny was still in a down jacket.

Catherine's turn

Cruising upward...

At the crux

Every once in a while I darted right around the corner to snag one of the other nearby climbs. Eventually one opened up and I got in a lead. It wasn't too hard, but it had a tricky section about two thirds of the way up. Next it was Chris's turn. She had come to Indian Creek with me a few years ago and unfortunately gotten a taste of the brutal crack climbing on the red Wingate sandstone. Somehow it gets in your system and you can't get it out. This year she had come with her friend Noel. It was his first experience on the splitter cracks, and he couldn't get enough of it. Today he followed some other friends while we climbed with the Jackson family.

Chris at rest

I was amazed at how well Chris was climbing, having not been her for quite a while. Lots of stamina, nice technique, and lots of perseverance pushed her ever higher on the climb. Over the next few days she continued to tick off climb after climb.

Chris at work

I couldn't help photographing all day. My favorites were of the knees, brutalized in the cracks after weeks of climbing, wedging, scraping, and grunting upwards. I joked that the women would never find a boyfriend with knees like that. Well, maybe they'd find just the right kind!

And check out those knees!

In the evening, we drove to Cottonwood Creek along the Beef Basin road where the Jacksons and their friends, Peter Popinchalk and other young folks were camping. What a crew!! Just as I had expected, I had been energized by their enthusiasm.

The team: L to R, Renny, Catherine, Chris, Jane's friend , Peter, Jane

CHASING THE ANASAZI THROUGH BEEF BASIN

2011-12-14T19:25:00.000-08:00

Mystery attends the Anasazi peoples who lived in the Four Corners area from about 700 AD until they suddenly left in the 1300's AD. Who were they? Why did they leave? Were they killed, or did they migrate? Where did they go and what has become of them? Among the many theories proposed, the one I believe is the simplest and most convincing is that the Hopi and Zuni are the modern descendents.

Since I was a young boy, I have been fascinated by the anthropology and archeology of the early peoples in these lands. In college, I had the good fortune to take an introduction to anthropology taught by professor Jesse D. Jennings, the world authority on the Anasazi at the time. Later, in Alaska, I studied and worked with the finest archeologists on the peoples of Alaska. Now, later in life, I had found myself camping and climbing in the midst of the some of the finest archeological resources in the Southwest.

Last summer I discovered a new writer: Craig Childs, whose books on the Southwest were not only authoritative, but also works of literature. I read everything he wrote and dreamed of the summer months when I could follow one or two of his itineraries to the world of the Anasazi. After spending the previous two weeks rock climbing, my body was craving a rest, so I asked my good friend Chris if she was interested in a brief intermission to search for Anasazi ruins in Beef Basin.

Looking north from the Beef Basin road into the Indian Creek drainage

Chris had just spent the previous month on the San Juan river assisting her niece on a geological survey and was keen to go with me in search of ancient culture. Our other climbing partner, Noel had opted to take Chris' car and join the younger crowd who were climbing hard cracks in Indian Creek. We took my 'new' truck up the narrow dirt road the 38 miles into Beef Basin. At an average speed of about 15 mph over rocks, powder-dry dirt, and steep cliffs, it took us about 2 1/2 hours to reach our destination. We drove up to a wide spot in the road at the mouth of Ruin Canyon, parked the truck, and decided to walk the remainder of the road to avoid scraping all the paint of the sides of the truck. As we walked the few more miles, small granaries and dwellings appeared in the cliff bands above.

A small cliff dwelling nestled in the cliffs

Then we spotted "Hilltop Ruin", directly west and on top of a small knoll. We looked for a level spot, set up camp under a juniper tree at the base of the hill and headed up the trail in the late afternoon sunlight.

Hilltop house

As opposed to most of the cliff dwellings nestled in defensible niches among the cliff bands, Hilltop House sits out in the open on top of a beautiful forested knoll. It made me wonder if the function of this edifice might be more cultural or ceremonial than domestic. Many of the larger hilltop ruins in the Southwest have a ceremonial 'Kiva' attached, indicating some religious use for the building. The stones on more than half of this structure had fallen down and were laying around the perimeter, so I couldn't get a good idea of how the building all fit together.

Fallen buildings exist as a pile of sandstone blocks

Chris and I walked around the ruins marveling at the workmanship and detail still remaining at the site. Each of the sandstone slabs fit very closely without much trimming; no cement or mud was used to fill in between the stones, but it would likely have been quite a buffer against the wind, if not against the cold. The walls looked to be about 18" thick, two stories tall.

No mortar and still standing after 700 years

I wondered what my home might look like in 700 years if I just abandoned it. Likely only an overgrown cement foundation would be the only thing left. The panorama from the hilltop gave on a beautiful vista of cliffs, mountains, and canyons below.

Chris at Hilltop ruin

We walked around, checking every angle

Compare Chris to the height and thickness of the walls

Yours Truly at the ruin

We walked down the trail a few hundred yards to the camp on the lumpy sagebrush flat under a huge juniper tree. The sun had only an hour left before setting, so dinner would be next. I went in search of two rocks we could sit on. Other than hiking back up the hill several times, I found only two small ones for stools.

Chris at camp

Chris had volunteered to be the chef on this trip. So, dinner started off with a tin of tiny clams in olive oil on crackers, washed down with a red wine. Then a risotto with a spinach topping: quite the fare for a camping trip, all cooked on a tiny propane backpacking stove. Life on the trail is good!

Chris, the gourmet chef with fine wine and clams

After a cold night in my light summer sleeping bag, I truly welcomed the sun and warmth. We wandered across the sagebrush to find the first sunlight as it hit the slope a hundred yards to the west, clutching our coffee cups. Chris brought the stove, and using a tree as a cupboard, had us caffeinated in a few minutes. Within an hour it was T-shirt weather again. We picked up our camping gear, packed our packs, and headed back down to trail to the truck.

Driving west on the 10-mile loop around Beef Basin, we searched the cliffs and hilltops for more ruins. Since they are all visited regularly, every spur road seemed to hold some cultural artifact.

A small granary on the rim

We hiked to the top of another hill and found a small granary used to hold the corn (maize) for the winter months. They were everywhere. About half way around, I hiked up another hill which held promise of a larger ruin and found a long house-like structure, mostly fallen into the ground. It also sat with a stunning vista of the surrounding desert and mountains. Whether some group of families lived here, or whether this was a cultural center, I didn't know, but I could envision myself waking up, walking out to the porch and reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee. I wondered if earlier settlers to the area used these structures as camps while they herded cattle.

This large ruin is just a few feet above the road

The day was flawless. The sun was warm. The desert made me feel at home. It was tough to leave. Following the dirt road around, we drove slowly looking for more artifacts from the past. Mostly I looked at every inch of the road, full of huge rocks, slickrock, holes, and ditches ready to take the bottom out of a car. My truck was just the ticket for negotiating the place, but even in it, I rarely drove over 15 mph. We arrived back at the Pasture Creek Campground in Indian Creek just at supper time, having traveled about 80 miles. It felt like a thousand miles and a thousand years back.

You could almost put a roof on and move in

Into the Fiery Furnace

2011-12-12T22:08:00.000-08:00

It seemed like a great alternative to dying. The morning started great. We drove 50 miles from Indian Creek to climb the Unbalanced Rock in Arches National Park. After climbing seventy feet up a wide crack without finding a single spot to place any climbing gear to protect us from a fall, my common sense kicked in, and we descended. It was a rare event for me. Safe on the ground, Noel suggested we visit the Fiery Furnace instead of climbing. We stopped at the visitor center, paid our fee and watched the mandatory film on proper travel techniques in the delicate desert. The drive through the park was beautiful on the cold, clear, windy morning.

The Fiery Furnace

Driving north on the Arches park road, the fins and towers of the Fiery Furnace appear as crenelated fortress barring the way. However, looking at the geologic landscape you can see how enormous salt domes, underlying the red sandstone strata were dissolved leaving a series of huge valleys over hundreds of miles along the Colorado Plateau.

The creation of a salt valley

The red fins of the Fiery Furnace and the area northeast of Salt Valley are carved out of Slick Rock sandstone. The Slick Rock formed during the Jurassic Period, about 150 million years ago. During the Jurassic, the Colorado Plateau experienced extensive eolian (wind deposited) sand seas, called ergs. The region was located at the same latitude as today’s trade wind belt: hot winds sweep in a south-westerly direction towards the equator, drying up any moisture along the way. This is the same latitude as the Sahara and Arabian deserts. During the Jurassic Period, the climate of the Colorado Plateau would have been like the Sahara. As the earth's tectonic plates moved during the Jurassic, South America was separating from Texas coast; Europe and Africa were drifting from North America. High mountains to the west of the Colorado Plateau were depositing tremendous volumes of sand into the basin that would become Arches and Canyonlands National parks. Today, the Arabian Desert is 30% covered by sand. The deserts in the Jurassic period, the time of the dinosaurs, were formed over 40 million years, and the volume of sand was staggering by comparison. The Slick Rock sandstone cliffs are 200 to 350 feet thick.

The Slick Rock sandstone formation.
Looking southeast across the Furnace into Arches backcountry

The parking lot was packed, but we found a spot next to a park ranger's car. The rangers take park visitors on guided hikes through the furnace, but we opted to explore on our own. Besides, we had Noel, our expert, having been here once before.

Noel descends the Slick Rock into the labyrinth

As the salt domes underneath the sandstone dissolved, the rock cracked into thousands of joints (cracks), towers, and fins. The trail led to the bottom of the canyons, where it broke into a true labyrinth of thin joints. The air was cool, since the sun rarely reaches to the bottom of the cliffs and pinnacles.

Chris on the 'trail-less' approach into the maze

We followed Noel down the rock, avoiding the cryptobiotic soil where bacteria have hardened the fine silt to prevent it from blowing away. Footprints destroy this tiny fortress and allow the sand to disappear in the wind. We kept to the rock and gravel creek bottoms. From time to time I'd check to see if I was leaving tracks. Not many!

Old juniper trees are irresistibly photogenic

My camera stayed at the ready. Every few feet looked new, and I wanted to take pictures from every viewpoint. The stubby junipers, called cedar trees by my grandfather, are the largest plant. From time to time a bit of color from a late blooming flower would catch my eye.

Peeking through a joint into the sun

The joints and canyons narrowed. I looked up and saw a darker blue sky. Where the sun shone directly in, it looked like a floodlight compared to the darkness at the bottom.

A park ranger interprets the landscape to a guided group

As we clambered over the huge boulders, wending our way from maze to maze, we heard voices, the only folks we met during the entire afternoon we spent in the Furnace. It was a ranger-led group. I tried to be friendly, but it was apparent from her comments to us that the ranger felt we were intruding on her territory. I thought of how the park service has changed during the 41 years of my career. She didn't know me, and I didn't say a word.

Yours Truly in the depths

Time flew by. I was mesmerized by the landscape and lost track of both time and location. It didn't matter, because water flows downhill, and we could always follow a waterway to a bigger one until we found the way out.

Phallic towers ring the Furnace

Chris and Noel seemed to be enjoying the area as much as I was. We were three climbers, now reduced to tourists, having stepped back 150 million years in geologic time and back to childhood in our enthusiasm and curiosity.

Noel and Chris on the sandy bottoms

Chris and Noel are excellent traveling companions, up for anything, full of life and adventure. We could have been crying in our beer to be defeated on a climb, but now we had forgotten the bad experience of the morning and were fascinated by the landscape, the narrow canyon walls, the plants, the rock, the lizards, and the scrambling.

Noel

I had a tendency to climb up things; at one point I climbed high up a canyon for a view and got my bearings. The afternoon sun gave me a warm welcome, and I bathed in its light for several minutes before made my way back down into the grotto.

A huge monolith towers above Noel and Chris

As I climbed down, we noticed a thin crack that led to the bottom of a joint. I slithered down to the ground, turned around and photographed Chris and Noel as they descended the chimney.

Chris climbs down a chimney-like tunnel

We quickly moved into another corridor and found huge pillars and towers. Climbing over boulders and chockstones, we found ourselves ascending into the Rabbit Ears slot. Huge towers looked like rabbit ears, how appropriate.

Climbing over a chockstone and dropping into a joint

The light pouring through the cracks looked almost fluorescent. It was hard to keep our eyes tuned for the darker tunnels if we stared straight into the bright sky, such was the contrast in light values.

The distance between the walls narrows, and the sun is excluded

Every turn brought a new vista; I couldn't stop taking photographs. Each tower was magnificent, so my portfolio of sandstone towers grew exponentially as the day wore on.

Another tower rises into the sun

It all seemed so static, yet looking at the size of the boulders choking the way forward, you could see that when a tower topples over, or an arch falls, it must be catastrophic. I looked up to see if there were any danger here. It just looked beautiful. During a storm, flood waters fill these joints and cracks with a wall of water, washing everything in their path. Watching the weather before a canyoneering trip is the most important preparation for the event. Over the years I've watched and read of boy scouts and other folks who have been washed away in such floods. It's a terrifying prospect. The sky looked blue above, a comfort.

Noel climbs over a giant boulder to gain entrance into another corridor

From time to time we would dead end in a wall of rock, or a slot would narrow beyond our ability to continue, so we would turn around and find another route, a true labyrinth. Looking up we could see a double arch, like a giant pair of eyes looking at us. I wanted to climb up and out an eyeball, but the rock was steep and overhanging in parts.

Double arch

Even thought the desert is very dry, water would pool into small basins and remain a drinking spot for insects and wildlife. I loved the reflection in this pool and wondered how deep it might be. I thought of Craig Childs, the Colorado author who wrote one of my favorite books: "The Secret Knowledge of Water", about finding water such as this in an otherwise dessicated landscape. What would this water taste like if I were desperate and out of liquid?

A rare pool of water

Time seemed to get away from us; before we knew it, it was late afternoon, and we had more vistas to visit. We tried to find our way out, made only one false turn, and little by little, tracks in the sand and features we remembered guided us back to the car. Had I done only this, it would have been a full day. However Chris and Noel wanted to see sunset from an arch. We drove to Delicate Arch, however the 3-mile hike would be just a tad too long to reach before sunset. So we drove to Window Arch. A cool breeze was still blowing, but a dozen or so folks were at the arch for the same reason; all had their cameras ready. Two German men ran by in shorts, no shirts, apparently oblivious to the beauty, but trying to impress their girlfriends how tough they were. They quickly descended, missing the sunset.

Chris stands under South Window arch

A ten minute walk to the top set us up for a view through Turret Arch as the sun sank. I looked for the "Green Flash" in the west as the final rays of the sun disappeared. A perfect ending to a fine day in the desert.

Sunset near Turret arch

Hamburger Rock Service Project

2011-12-08T17:04:00.000-08:00

North Six Shooter, just south of Hamburger Rock Campground

Hamburger Rock, a flat rock perched in the middle of the Indian Creek plain, is a Mecca for climbers, campers, and off-road vehicle enthusiasts. Its dust-bowl campground with the vast panorama of sandstone cliffs and and the needles of Canyonlands National park, was also in serious need of care.

Bob Leaver, the Recreation Planner, at the BLM, Monticello Field Office, in southeastern Utah has been the driving force for upgrading the facilities for climbers, tourists, and ORV users in the area. Over the past few years he has worked with The Friends of Indian Creek, a devoted group of folks who have raised money and provided toilet facilities at the campsites. To learn more about this group see: http://friendsofindiancreek.org/ They also have a nice Facebook site: http://www.facebook.com/friendsofindiancreek?ref=ts&sk=wall

This summer, working with funds from the Friends group and the BLM itself, three vault toilets were installed at Creek Pasture Campground where many rock climbers stay and one at Hamburger Rock. Each fall during National Lands Day, the American Alpine Club has worked with Bob to do a service project in the area. Jim Donini, past president of the Club, has organized the climbers for the work. For more on Public Lands Day: http://www.publiclandsday.org/

Jim Donini confers with Bob Leaver

I spent the previous week saving campsites at Creek Pasture for the 70 or so folks who had promised to participate in the project. Jim and his wife Angela arrived on Thursday, loaded with food and supplies. Saturday morning, Bob Leaver met us at our campground and led us to the worksite where he and two other BLM employees had hauled two trailers full of logs, shovels, and tools.

Bob looked familiar. After a brief discussion, we discovered we had both worked for the National Park Service in Alaska in the mid-80's. Small World!!! He and the crew pulled the equipment up while we volunteers unloaded the supplies at three work stations. As a first priority, Bob dressed us in public "Public Lands Day" T-shirts. Very cool! We broke into four groups. One small contingent of mostly young and very strong folks went to the "4 X 4 Wall" about 10 miles away to build a new trail. The rest of us formed three teams for the campsite work.

The first project was a reclamation of a short road that led diagonally through the site of the new rest room. The crew gathered native plants, sticks, and dirt to replace the compacted dirt of the road. After digging and scarifying the site, folks carefully replanted the bushes and plants. Then they took the dry sagebrush branches and stuck them in the ground to discourage people and animals from disturbing or walking on the newly rehabilitated soil.

The Reclamation project on the old road

The second project was to build a 'buck and rail' fence to discourage the formation of a spiderweb of social trails leading to the restroom, and harden one trail in the middle. This involved the use of power tools; I volunteered. We cut 4" logs into appropriate sizes according to a jig, drilled holes, and bolted the sawbucks together, then laid the 12' rails and bolted them to the bucks.

Cutting the bucks on the chop saw

The cool of the morning was wearing off, and the sun started to cook us. The battery-powered drills were no match for the big bits and large logs, so we used the generator and a cord-powered drill. Nothing seemed to slow the crew down.

Using the jig to build the bucks

The work went quickly; the fruits of our labors grew by the yard. Everyone I met was totally into the job, full of energy, and capable of any job. I'm sure the BLM was happy to see so much transpire in such a short time.

Bolting the rails to the bucks

To facilitate orderly travel, we lined the correct path with rocks to direct the campers along to the rest room. Lifting the rocks in the heat of the day, I thought of Cool Hand Luke.

The completed buck and rail fence

Lunch time, everyone hid under a 'hamburger-like' rock to avoid the direct sun. It was a time to meet new folks, renew friendships, and get rehydrated. As I looked around, I noticed a number of really good friends I hadn't seen in a long time.

Mike Munger

It was fun to catch up, but as the afternoon sun is a scorcher, and the hot desert dessicates you quickly, we wanted to finish all of the projects quickly.

Mary Ann Dornfeld and Jack Tackle take lunch

We finished the fence, so I walked around to the third crew to lend a hand. My friend Marshall Ralph was working on a ten pad, a flat spot to pitch a tent. The volunteers built a square frame out of 4" treated timbers. The ground is uneven and rocky, so the BLM had hauled in a pile of sand; the crew shoveled sand into the frame and leveled the ground for the tent site.

At work on the tent pad

I had known Marshall 38 years before, and our last trip was likely a week-long 100-mile XC ski trip through Yellowstone in 1973 or 74. We had reconnected the previous evening by accident around a campfire. His son Jeff was a fine rock climber and had dragged Marshall along with him to Indian Creek. What a treat for us two geezers to reunite!

Marshall Ralph

The tent pads looked great. I walked around the rock, thinking about how much a group of people can do if they just put their minds and backs into it.

The completed tent pad

After the circle of campsites around the rock knoll had been stabilized with the tent pads, we all moved to the giant dirt pile and spent the next half hour shoveling it into a trailer and moving it to the last campsites.

Even Bob digs in to move the gravel

I think everyone was proud of the effort. We loaded up the trailers, tied down the loads, and Bob passed out a few more shirts, paper binoculars, and other goodies. We waved good-bye to the BLM crew who had now become good friends. We felt like a bath.

John Parsons admires the day's work

A bath? Just a mile down the road is the only swimming hole on Indian Creek which at this time of year is just a trickle. A cliff across the creek created a waterfall with groove down the center ending in a pool about 12' deep. I didn't know there was this much water anywhere near here. Chris Klotz drove us down in her Honda Element. Several of the volunteers arrived at the same time.

Indian Creek swimming hole

Already here were a number of families, with kids and parents jumping into the pool from three levels: 6', 8', and about 15'. As I looked up at the cliffs and saw remains of Anasazi dwellings, I thought back to the time 800 years ago when their kids were jumping in the swimming hole.

Kids and water

I loved this shot of a father and his daughter jumping into the icy water. It looked murky, but no one seemed to mind. You couldn't keep the kids out of this pool.

A dad jumps into the hole while the daughter watches

Now it's her turn!

I was hot and sweaty, so I stripped down to my skivvies and jumped off the top cliff. The perfect ending to a very special day.

SOUTH SIX SHOOTER

2011-11-22T15:30:00.001-08:00

There are two "Six Shooters" in Indian Creek, the North and the South. They dominate the horizon for 30 miles in every direction, making them an irresistible goal for a rock climber.

I was enjoying the morning eating a leisurely breakfast at the campground. A car drove by sporting an Alaska license plate. What?? I looked at the driver: it was my great friend Mark from Talkeetna. Amazing. "Mark I screamed and waved my arms; he didn't see me, but folks at the next campsite flagged him down. What a great coincidence. After a brief exchange, we decided to climb together the next day. Mark had planned to climb towers with his friend Stoney, now I was the third. I had just bought a 4-wheel drive truck, and the 4 1/2 mile hike in the powdery sand would be a slog, so I volunteered to drive us in the truck. A little cramped in a single cab, but with the big bench seat we all fit. It seemed to take as long to drive the road as we could have walked it. But, in the heat of the day, the truck was a welcome addition to our tool kit. We wound around the gullies, over some steep rocks, then down into a dry river bed following the tracks of other jeeps and trucks. The area is popular with the off-road vehicle crowd who had followed the old ranching roads up the wash to the base of the climb.

Hiking up South Six Shooter

I had met Mark in 1996 when I and my friend Rick were in Mount Rainer National Park investigating the deaths of two park employees; Mark was our contact and guide on the mountain. We kept in touch over the years. Then Mark moved to Alaska, married Lisa who is the Base Camp Manager on Denali. Eventually he joined the Park Service as a ranger in Talkeetna. In 2010, Mark invited me to join his patrol on Denali; I couldn't resist. I wrote a little blog on the trip:

Mark, one of the finest alpinists in the country, has accumulated an impressive list of climbs, including The Escalator on Mt. Johnson in the Ruth Gorge, The East Face of Mount Grosvenor, the Denali Diamond route on Mt. McKinley's southwest face in less than 48 hours, and as I arrived in base camp he and Jesse Huey were climbing the Slovak Direct Route on Denali. He seems so humble about it all. I was delighted to be with him and Stoney today.

Mark at the top of the first pitch

It is still a hike up the trailless boulders and scree to the base of the actual climbing, but we made it in about 45 minutes; it took longer to drive the dirt road. At the base, another party was climbing ahead of us, so we took our time roping up. Stony flew up the 4th class cracks, Mark followed; I finished. Technically, the climb is unlike any other in Indian Creek. Very few long splitter cracks lead to the summit: mostly boulder hopping, a few hard moves and shaky boulders lead the way. I was having a blast with my two friends and hardly noticed the climbing. It was all about the friendship.

Stoney brings Mark up to the final pitch

Stoney peeks around the corner

The summit was fantastic. We took in the views, made friends with two folks from Boulder, Colorado. Nice folks. Almost everyone I've met in the mountains has been special. It must take a certain kind of person to slog up a cliff.

Stoney and Mark on the summit
North Six Shooter in the distance

Mark called Lisa from the summit. I was amazed that a cell phone could get reception through several mountain ranges to a cell tower 50 miles away, as the crow flies. It's a miracle.

Mark finds a signal and calls Lisa from the summit.

After hanging out on the east, or higher summit, we rappelled down, climbed over and up the slightly more difficult west summit. Time to go. We set the ropes, rappelled down and took pictures of Ashley rappelling down the sheer face from the summit. Once down we took a nice lunch break at the start of the climbing where we had left our packs. As we hopped down the trail-like trace in the rock following cairns, Mark talked about his father, and I reminisced about mine.

*************************************INTERMISSION ************************************

That evening my friend Chris and her friend Noel arrived at the campsite after the long drive from Boulder. Chris and I had climbed here before, but this would be Noel's first experience on the splitter cracks. It's a brutal learning curve, so I thought that the South Six Shooter, which I had just climbed, would be a worthy goal for the day. I now knew the route, particularly the driving route in the truck! Back on the dusty road. I felt like a tour guide, but only after one trip to the rock. Bagging a desert tower the first day at 'The Creek' would be a great start to the trip.

Noel and Chris

Chris had quit her job in Denver and had spent the previous month supporting her niece on her Ph.D. dissertation field work on the San Juan river, just down the way from Indian Creek. She was in great shape and eager to climb. Noel, an excellent rock climber, was enthusiastic. We made an excellent team.

Back up the hour-long hike through the arroyos and boulders to the base of the climb. Since I was doing the leading, we have few photos of the climb, except for the fine summit shot!

Noel, Chris, and I on the summit

Desert towers are fantastic places. The panoramas from the summit range from huge snow-capped mountains like the Abajos, the La Sals, and the Henry's, all visible from the Six Shooters. The La Sal mountains sit above Moab, Utah, and are my landmark from a hundred miles away as I drive I-70 south to Indian Creek each year. Twelve of the peaks in the range are over 12,000 feet high; Mount Peale, the highest peak rises to 12,721 feet. They, like the four other ranges in the viewshed are composed of igneous intrusions of porphyry.

The view from the Top: The La Sal Mountains

The Henry Mountains are the last mountain range in the U.S. to be mapped. John Wesley Powell mapped and named them during his field work floating the Colorado river in 1872, doing so in honour of Joseph Henry, the first secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. The Henry Mountains are composed of igneous rocks, a 25 million year old intrusion into the Colorado Plateau. They are the home of about 500 bison; the herd is one of only four free-roaming and genetically-pure herds in North America.

View to the west: the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park

The Henry Mountains in the distance

The rappel from the top is spectacular! A vertical to overhanging wall about 100' high rises directly from the base. I enjoyed photographing Chris and Noel as they roped down the rock.

Chris rappels down the cliff

In the evening, we walked over to the big campfire at the end of the campground. All the Silverbacks were holding court in their camp chairs. The stories grew, the legends increased, the we were part of it all.

MARTHE, MY NEW FRENCH FRIEND

2011-11-19T10:59:00.000-08:00

George and Marthe in the campground

"Ralph, I met this French woman, Marthe, in Yosemite this week; I told her I'd teach her to climb cracks in Indian Creek. She's suppose to be there this weekend, and she'll be looking for you by your white Ford truck at Creek Pasture campground." Jim is my main climbing partner: past president of the American Alpine Club, all-around great guy, calling on the cell phone from Yosemite.

The next morning Marthe walked by my truck, stopped and spoke with a beautiful French accent in perfect English, "Are you Ralph?" Thus began a most excellent week.

My campsite was perched on a slight rise with a short red sandstone cliff behind it to the west. A large folding table, 2-burner camp stove, cooler, grub box, and another full of dishes, pots, pans, and utensils surrounded the cooking area. I slept on a mattress in the back of the truck. Marthe eyed the setup, and I invited her to dinner: salmon steaks with broccoli and a salad. Many folks equate camping with suffering; I do not. Eating well in the out-of-doors is a reason to camp!

Jim drove over the next morning, and Marthe and I met him at the Donnelly Canyon parking area. The cliffs on both sides of the canyon are the most famous and usually fill with climbers by late morning. We are early risers, so we were first onto the cliffs. Our first venue was "Generic Crack", named because it is a pure 'splitter', a split straight up a flat face. Jim led up the one hundred foot climb, clipped the rope into two fixed anchors and lowered down. Now Marthe's turn.

"Generic Crack", an Indian Creek classic

Crack climbing is the most difficult type of climbing to learn and to do well. It takes a special technique that does not feel natural, unlike climbing on handholds and footholds. Depending on the size of the crack, a hand or fingers are inserted into the crack, cupped or squeezed to form a wedge, then the arm or fingers twisted downward to cam the hand into the crack. This hurts! To minimize the pain and the blood, the hands are wrapped with adhesive tape to make a glove on the back where all the pressure is exerted. After the taping session, Marthe headed up.

Marthe's first crack climb on "Organic Crack"

Grunts, complaints, excuses, swearing... Crack climbing is brutal, and Marthe was getting a lesson akin to being thrown into the deep end of the pool. She kept at it and little by little her technique improved as she moved up the crack. I was impressed.

Moving up

By now the sun was cooking us and the rock, so we hiked down the hill and up to the west-facing wall of Super Crack Buttress, home to the most elegant climbs. 'Double Cracks' was next on the tic list. It has a variety of holds and hand sizes, so it's a great place to learn the secrets. The feet are the most important; certainly learning to cam your hands into the crack is the more interesting, but the feet push you upwards. To make the feet work, you need to slide the toe in sideways with the knee out, then twist the knee in strait thus caming the foot into the crack in a tight wedge. It hurts. This is the downfall of most climbers who give up and don't end up liking to climb cracks.

On the "Double Cracks"

Double Cracks seemed made for her; she moved right up and completed the climb in short order. The named climbs have been done often, and two expansion bolts have been permanently set at the top of the climb. The leader puts the rope through the bolts, then the following climbers have a rope securing them from the top. When the climb is finished, the last person can pull one end of the rope through and coil it for the next climb.

Success!!

A belayer is the second person who holds the end of the rope secure to catch a fall of the person who is climbing. Marthe had been climbing quite a bit in her native France and was adept at face climbing and certainly rope handling methods like belaying the leader. Here she is belaying Jim as he set the rope up in the double cracks.

Belaying Jim

Jim was eager to show Marthe "The Incredible Hand Crack", or just Incredible as it's known here. It's one of the great classics of Indian Creek, a crack in a dihedral wall that overhangs about 10 feet half-way up the 100' pitch of climbing. Here Jim is leading the overhanging portion. He puts his hands way into the crack, makes a fist to jam the hands into a cam that will hold his body weight, then inserts and twists his feet and pushes up.

Jim leading "Incredible Hand Crack"

Marthe now had the technique and made short work of the first 30'. You can see her hands jammed into the crack, her left leg twisted a bit to the left, and the right toes cammed tight in the crack.

Marthe on "Incredible"

The overhang is difficult, both mentally and physically. Marthe tried to lay back, push her feet against the sandstone and pull out on the edge of the crack with her hands. This is possible for a short ways, but at Indian Creek with the huge climbs, you tire within 10 feet and fall off. It wasn't until she trusted her feet in the crack that she was able to master the moves, with Jim shouting encouragement and technique tips.

On the big overhang

We met a whole group of French climbers at the cliff. They live in a more concentrated society than we in the western US do, so there was a lot of grumbled criticism when they stole one of Jim's climbs. But the women were so beautiful it was hard to remain angry very long. By evening I had met two other climbers, Dougal from Wales, and Stephanie, an alpine guide from Chamonix, France. I invited them to dinner, excited that now Marthe would have a fellow country-woman to talk to. Stephanie is an outstanding climber; sometimes it's easier for women to teach other women climbing. I've picked up some of the terminology, like 'Push the bush' to make a woman pull her hips forward and get her correct balance. Women seem to be comfortable shouting that up to their friends. I'm more squeamish.

Stephanie, Dougal, Marthe, George at 'Creek Pasture' campground

The next day our friend George from Ridgway, Colorado, joined us. So, Jim, George, Marthe, and I spent the next few days climbing a variety of climbs all over Indian Creek. Jim had befriended folks from the Philippines, so he divided his time as best he could. Marthe had been on an extended trip climbing throughout the United States, but in two days she had to be in Las Vegas to fly out. So, one more day. Bummer! She wanted to visit the Grand Canyon on the way, so she left by noon after one more session. We bid her a sad farewell and wished her luck on her trip.

Dougal, Marthe around the campfire

Next morning we were off to the Scarface buttress, home to a variety of climbs...some very hard. I was impressed at Dougal and Stephanie attempting very difficult climbs and ticking them off one by one. I was at ease. The sun was warm, the company was the best, and the scenery was stunning. Couldn't ask for more.

The gang at the base of the Scarface cliff

George puts tape on his hands; Stephanie, Dougal

George hanging by his feet about 100' up "Big Guy"

Looking up at George

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

2011-11-17T23:30:00.000-08:00

Ouray, Colorado, snug in the middle of the San Juan mountains of southwestern Colorado, has become my winter home for the past six years. I migrate down from Anchorage, Alaska, each fall to my friends' home where I store all my winter climbing gear. Ouray, where I climb the frozen waterfalls in the ice park, take a backcountry ski tour in the high mountains about Red Mountain Pass, or scoot over to Telluride for a day's downhill skiing. I had driven from Salt Lake City on Sunday, arrived late, and checked into the "Chalet" above Jim and Angela's garage.

The view of Corbett Peak out my front window

It took a full day to haul out all my camping and climbing gear from the basement, take inventory, and repack it into my newly acquired pickup. Angela and I caught up over dinner, talked about her pending retirement, and exchanged the latest information about our mutual friends. It is always relaxing to hang out in Ouray. Jim arrived the next day from climbing in Yosemite, so I stuck around, and Angela and I had dinner at Dr. Debbie's with some fine old friends. Finally it was time for me to head to Indian Creek. I took the long route over Red Mountain Pass, through Durango, so I could see the fall colors and visit friends.

An avalanche bridge over the Million Dollar Highway up Red Mountain

The fall colors were at their peak, so my camera sat on the seat of the truck next to me. The speed limit is only 25 mph for much of the winding two-lane road with its huge drop-off on the river side. I stopped several times to get photos, and I even shot some out the car window.

Prime fall colors: yellow aspens, pines, cottonwoods

I looked up at the high peaks and cliffs. Several of the peaks in the area are over 14,000' high. Red Mountain Pass itself is 11,099' high. Up, up, up!

limestone cliffs

I had left Ouray in brilliant sunshine, but as I ascended the mountains, the weather changed. Snow started to blow, the temperature dropped, and I began to swivel my head looking at the white caps on the highest peaks.

First snow

By the time I got the the top of the pass, I was driving in an inch of slush and blowing snow. A huge semi-trailer crept up the hill ahead of me. No chance for speeding now. The driver was generous and pulled over at the summit to let me pass. It was such a terrific day I didn't need to go any faster. The trip down the other side of the pass to Silverton is fast, but winding and dangerous, particularly in the winter when it's snow covered.

The snow deepens

It's not a long drive to get to Durango, but it's a steep and windy one. Down the hill to Silverton, then up a long incline to Molas Pass, 10,910' where snowplows were already at work the first of October. I passed carefully. Still one more pass to go, Coal Bank Pass at 10,640', then down the long, long, long incline to Durango. I stocked up on groceries at the supermarket, filled the cooler with ice and decided to have lunch at the Serious Texas BBQ, where my daughter, Daphne had taken me a year ago. I opted for the pulled pork sandwich.

The stark decor of the Serious Texas BBQ, Durango

My goal was Indian Creek, my twice-yearly home in the desert south of Moab, Utah, home to rock climbing, hiking, and camping. over the next three weeks I spent most of my days climbing the splitter cracks in the Wingate sandstone cliffs, hiking the trails in Canyonlands National Park, and cooking great food. The next four episodes of the road trip take place her.

Indian Creek: the greatest crack climbing in the world

North Six shooter as seen from my campsite

MOTORCYCLES & RESTAURANTS

2011-11-15T23:28:00.000-08:00

The candy-apple red bike caught my eye. Thor, Sarah, and I were walking up the street through Truckee, California, to meet Garry and Linda at "Burger Me", our favorite watering hole. Although there are millions of motorcycles, and some very cool ones, I couldn't help taking a photo. There must have been some great gathering, because everywhere I looked, groups of bikers were tooling through town. I think they must have been lawyers and doctors dressed in headbands and leather, because the bikes were just too elegant. I couldn't afford one, I know, so we wandered up the street and ordered a beer and a burger.

A beauty seen on the street

Garry and Linda at "Burger Me"

Just a few blocks from my brother Tony's home in Salt Lake City, is The Blue Plate Diner, a regular breakfast stop on my migration route. This little Honda 125, totally restored was sitting in front. A group of guys were hanging out in front and as I admired the bike, they told me its story. They had found the bike and totally restored it as a present to the owner's daughter when she graduated from school. I told them my brother had a Honda 50 in about 1970...a similar vintage. Now this was a bike I could love! I drooled over it for a minute and stepped inside for the Blue Plate Special and a cup of coffee, wondering where I might find an old beater to restore.

The little restored Honda

The Blue Plate

My friend Heather Sanchez owns "Eggs in the City", a favorite breakfast stop in Salt Lake City. It's close to my old friend Ted Wilson's place. Ted was may of Salt Lake for 3 terms, and I often meet him her for breakfast when I'm in town. This particular morning, I sneaked over to grab an early morning breakfast and spied this little gem. Not exactly a motorcycle, but I'd love to take it for a spin. I tried to figure out the owner inside, since the polka dot helmet was maybe the coolest ever. It would certainly turn my head if I saw it driving down the street. More in my price range, too!Check out the polka-dot helmet on this classy scooter

Eggs in the City

I BUY AN OLD TRUCK

2011-11-14T23:19:00.000-08:00

"A good pickup is a thing of beauty and a joy forever." John Keats

At one time I drove a pink Cadillac, but it disappeared to the Kidney Foundation. Renting a car for every road trip has cost me a ton of cash. So! On my recent road trip through the West, I decided to buy a car in Salt Lake City, and spent two days on KSL.com at my brother Tony's house looking for the perfect vehicle. First, I checked out Subarus; I drive one in Alaska, they have all-wheel drive, hold up well, and seem to be one of the two cars of choice for outdoor types like myself. The other choice is a Toyota Tacoma, however, I'm not really a small-car type guy. My last truck was a diesel, so I checked out all the diesel trucks and found a beauty, a long-bed, extended cab 1992 Chevy with a new engine. It drove like a firetruck; I wanted someone to steer the rear wheels around a corner. Harumpf!

I've owned several Ford F150, 6 cylinder, single cab, long-bed pickup trucks, ranging from 1967 to the mid-1980's. I know that engine intimately. After two and a half days searching I found almost the perfect vehicle, except it was a short-bed. I decided that it had other redeeming features, like a short wheel base for driving over desert roads, and a 5-speed on the floor transmission. Perfect!

It was in Pleasant Grove, Utah, a 45-minute drive south. So, my lovely sister-in-law, Shelly, hopped in her Jeep and drove me south to check it out. There it sat amid a pile of broken glass, trash, and weeds behind a store in the middle of town. It had been sitting for five years, so the tires were hardened and flattened on one side. However, it was otherwise in pristine condition. The guy selling it had put in a new battery, so it started instantly. I checked it out, examined the engine, took it for a test drive and listened to all the sounds it made as I drove it, and knew I had a winner. I do all my own mechanical work; this baby was in very sound condition.

The New truck stares at me from Tony's garage

The price was super cheap! After emptying the ATM at the local bank, I handed the guy a stack of $20 bills (about 75 of them) and drove down the road behind Shelly. Once on the freeway, the set in the tires rattled the truck all the way home. Only one fix: new tires. There was still time that evening to buy them, so for a few more bucks, I had a brand new ride. Awesome.

My new baby!

This would be my new 'home away from home', so I needed a cap to contain all my gear: my 1975 Stella French racing bicycle, a gigantic tub of climbing gear and ropes, a box of tents, sleeping bags and clothes, my stove, a box of cooking gear, and a grub box. These were stored between Tony's garage, and my friends, the Donini's basement in Ouray, Colorado, my next destination. Back to KSL.com. I found the perfect cap; unfortunately it was also in Pleasant Grove. Bummer! Back on the road with Tony. On the way we stopped at an auto parts store to score four C-clamps to hold the camper on. It was night when we arrived at the home; the fellow called his son, "I just sold the camper top. Where's the key?" The son arrived, we lifted the cap onto my new truck, exchanged a hundred bucks, and I was off.

The cap on the bed of the truck.

Insurance next; a phone call to my agent, then to an agent in Salt Lake, decided to register it in Utah; I know Alaska plates are cooler, but Utah is great, too! I dreaded the visit to the DMV, but it was smooth as could be. The clerk ushered me through the whole registration process which turned out to be cheaper than at home. Then she wanted to know about traveling to Alaska for a fishing trip. Now we were bonded.

A trip to Home Depot found the basic tools, and for $19.88 I bought a 4" foam pad for the back so I could sleep in the truck while I went climbing in the south-west desert. A 5-gallon bright orange Home Depot water jug, and a big tarp completed the gear. My brother lent me his huge 5-day cooler, and I was pretty set.

It had taken a week to get the whole rig together, but now I was a happy camper. Sunday Morning was special for Tony and Shelly: the LDS church conference was in session, so they invited Shelly's father and wife to brunch. The two spent the morning making crepes with two kinds of filling: fruit with cream, whipping cream and yummies, or sausage and onions. I had two of each. Now that I was fueled, it was finally time to hit the road.

The previous week I'd flown from Anchorage to Portland to meet my son, Thor, and daughter-in-law, Sarah, ridden south to Lake Tahoe with them (on a wild mountain biking and camping trip), and then hitched a ride with Tony to Salt Lake City. I'd been on the road only a week and had covered about 1,500 miles already. The second half of my road trip was about to begin. My friends Jim and Angela were expecting me in Ouray, Colorado, a 6-hour drive from Salt Lake.

Memories began to fill me as I flew south on I-15; I felt so free, so full of life. One of my favorite books is Jack Kerouac's "On the Road", a volume that has spoken to me many times since I first read it at was age 14. As soon as I got my drivers license I began driving north to the Tetons to go climbing. Then far south into the desert to Shiprock, New Mexico, with my friends Milt and Dave to climb the famous volcanic plug "Shiprock". My parents likely didn't have a clue about my road adventures. During the '60's I drove across the country at least twice a year to attend graduate school in Baltimore, rarely stopping for rest on the 44-hour lightning push before the advent of the 55 mph speed limits set by the Nixon administration. In those days, neither Nevada nor Montana had speed limits, and my 1959 Chevy Bel Air ate up the road on 25 cent/gallon gas. I turned up the radio, searching for good rock and roll music. Today life was good, and I was going climbing.

The old Ford cruised past American Fork, Orem, Provo, then up the Spanish Fork on US 6, over Soldier summit and down the long glide to Price where the great coal mine disaster took place a few years ago. I turned off and grabbed lunch for the road. Another hour and we were past 9-Mile Canyon full of petroglyphs and the Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry and turned east on I-70 towards Green River. I wondered if the truck would make it to 75 mph; no problem! I searched for a station playing rock and roll, but it's tough in this part of the country to find anything but country-western.

I had my sights set on Ouray, but the hour was getting late, and I'd gotten a much later start than I'd planned. By the time I reached Grand Junction, it was dark. Angela had wondered if we would be having dinner together, so I called and said I'd likely not arrive till 9:30, so I stopped in Delta, Colorado, and choked down a McDonalds, but not the whole thing--what wretched fare. It was pouring rain. The wipers afforded me a changing screen of the black road littered with deer at this time of night. Flashing signs told me to slow from 65 to 55 from Oct 1 to May 1 for deer on the road. I know; they are everywhere from Montrose to Ouray. I turned up County Road 14 and into the driveway. The Donini's were in bed, so I slipped into the guest house and lit the fire. The old truck had done a days work and we were both ready for a rest.

THE HIGH UINTAH MOUNTAINS

2011-11-14T00:20:00.001-08:00

In the mid-1950's my uncle, Bill Hurst, whom we called "Dee" by his middle initial to distinguish him from his father, grandfather, and son, was a forest ranger on the east side of the Uintah Mountains of eastern Utah. I and my sister Judy spent part of those summers living with Aunt Dolly and Uncle Dee, playing with my cousins. My cousin Bill J. and I often tagged along with Uncle Dee on his horse patrols in the Uintahs. Those days were a major influence on the rest of my life and career.

Dad, who was a doctor in Salt Lake City, would meet us and we'd end up camped at Tamarack Lake where Dad could fly fish for cutthroat trout. The horses allowed us to pack just about everything: a wooden grub box full of food, canvas tepee tents, the Dutch oven, and coffee pot. I can still smell the boiling coffee, the trout frying in butter, and the smell of browned biscuits from the Dutch oven as the coals were brushed off the top and the lid opened.

They are huge mountains: Kings Peak, the highest point in Utah rises 13,528 ft. It's the highest east-west range in the country; its quartzite rock is is about 700 million years old; the range uplifted between 70 and 50 million years ago. I learned all these things when I was a young boy and fascinated by geology. Vernal, Utah, where the cousins lived had a fantastic museum, full of dinosaurs, and Dinosaur National Monument is just a few miles away.

I hadn't been to the Uintahs since I was a boy. While I was in Salt Lake City on my most recent road trip, my brother Tony and his wife Shelly asked if I wanted to drive up to the mountains and check out their cabin site they had purchased. It had been a dream of theirs to build a little cabin there and retreat on the weekends. We hopped into their Jeep and headed east, up Parley's canyon, up, up to the town of Kamas, up the Provo river to Smith-Morehouse canyon.

Tony and Shelly walk up the road to the homesite

The magic key to the gate didn't work, so we parked outside and walked the mile up to their property. It was pretty overgrown, but Tony looked for the corners, while Shelly wandered through the trees. Tony's dogs, Pepper and Jack, ran amok, picking up thousands of prickly burrs. I was careful but still managed to be covered with the sticky seeds. Lots of work needed here to build a cabin.

Shelly in the aspens

Tony finds a corner post

I can see why they fell in love with the property; perched on a hillside, it had a great view of the surrounding mountains. Memories of an earlier era flooded through my mind. My first Boy Scout camp was near here at Camp Steiner. The last time I saw my T-shirt, my daughter Daphne was wearing it.

We hiked back to the car, drove up Smith-Morehouse for a hike. I was amazed at the number of people here and the variety of motorized equipment they carried: 4-wheelers, motorcycles, jet boats, motor boats. I never remembered seeing anyone when I was a kid.

Tony drives past the reservoir

We parked the car and started hiking. As I walked, I looked up at the peaks, the quartzite and shale shown pink and gray through the vegetation. These mountains are very old, so there are very few sharp cliffs like my beloved Teton range, a young pile of granite only 10 million years old.

The mountains peek through the pines and aspens

As I headed up the trail, the fall colors were just at their peak. I constantly turned on my camera and snapped shots of Tony's and Shelly's butts ahead of me framed by the brilliant golden aspen leaves. I could smell the pine gum on the lodgepoles and pinions which took me back again. I would break off a piece of dried sap and chew it into gum, which made my breath smell like turpentine, but was a great fun for a kid.

Shelly and Tony hike ahead

Tony and Shelly were preparing for a huge hike the next weekend: they and friends were hiking from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon to the South Rim, the equivalent of a marathon, but with several thousand feet of elevation change. I hustled along behind them, the high altitude making me pant like a chicken that is too hot.

Red scrub oak

Every now and then scrub oak would give a brilliant red contrast to the green and yellow of the pines and aspens. Even though it was late in the year, purple daisies were still in bloom. We stopped at an open meadow and took photos of the panorama, then each of us posed atop a large boulder.

Shelly, Tony, and Jack pose on a boulder

Yours Truly atop the boulder; the aspens in full splendor

Jack, Tony, and Shelly share lunch at the forks

At the forks of the creek, we stopped and sat down on the flat boulders over the tiny trickle of stream still flowing late in the dry year. Jack rooted around looking for a handout. I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the staple of the mountains, full of calories and taste. Tony and Shelly looked like marathon runners. I, of course always look like a mountain climber.

Tony, Shelly, and myself in the stream bed at the forks

Time to turn around and head down. Tony, Shelly, and Jack left me in the dust. I hoofed the five miles as fast as my senior legs could carry me. They were on a mission; I was just having a great time. Every scene needed a photograph. I looked over the edge down to the stream; Jack was gulping a bit of water. In an instant he was back up on the trail.

Jack runs down to the stream

As I rounded a bend, a huge caterpillar was lumbering across the trail. His gold and black 'fur' shown in bright contrast to the dirt and leaves on the ground. I had to take a final photo.

A caterpillar crosses the trail

CAFE RIO

2011-11-10T08:17:00.000-08:00

Fresh Mexican cuisine is my favorite. Cafe Rio on 33rd South in Salt Lake City is the consummate fast food bar. They have all the traditional Mexican dishes: burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, and it's along the lines of many fresh taco restaurants. You walk in, get in the queue, decide on what you want, start down the line explaining to the server what ingredients you would like on your food. I ordered some giant enchilada special, with the pulled pork, pinto beans, tomatillo salsa, and fresh cilantro thrown across the top. All in a little aluminum pie pan. It takes such a container to hold all the ingredients
The colors of the furniture and walls are as fresh as the food. I walked across the room, checking out the customers, their choices, the smiles on their faces. Salt Lake has a large Hispanic population, and they seemed to visit in abundance, a sure sign of authentic border food. The locals had brought their whole families. I'm sure it's as cheap as a traditional fast food burger place, but so much healthier.
I sat down at a rickety table, watched a young couple wolf down their towering tostadas, and dug into my tin of goodies. I could taste every ingredient, not overly spicy, but full of good, natural flavors. I'm a cilantro fan, so the big sprigs brought out the flavors of the pork, beans, rice, and salsa. Cafe Rio is always on my migration route through Salt Lake.

VISITING THE SINCLAIRS

2011-11-06T21:49:00.000-08:00

Pete and Connie are the coolest folks. Pete is a gentleman, scholar, father, husband, author, mountaineer, and was the senior Jenny Lake Ranger when I first worked in the Tetons. Connie comes from an old Jackson Hole family and worked for the Park Service when she met Pete. They are two of my favorite people and dearest friends, although we live 2,400 miles apart. Each year when I visit my son Thor in Portland, I have managed to take a day, drive up to Olympia to visit them and their three very grown children: Kirk, Melanie, and Summer.

Our annual Tingey family reunion was the occasion for my latest journey south. Monday morning I borrowed daughter-in-law Sarah's car and headed the two hour drive from Portland to Olympia. Connie said everyone would be there. Pete greeted me at in the yard, a beautiful piece of land shaded with towering spruce trees. In the back sits Connie's old Ford pickup in the corral for her horse. Their deaf dog followed us around as we headed into the kitchen to give Connie a hug and catch up on a year's supply of news while she prepared for dinner with the clan.

I first met Pete in 1961 when I drove to the Tetons to climb. Pete was a ranger at Jenny Lake, one of three mountaineering rangers who performed the mountain rescues in the Tetons. Pete had made the first ascent of Mount McKinley's West Rib in 1959, and I was in awe. I remember him giving me some advice on the climb I was proposing, then signed me out; in those days you had to register for each climb in the Tetons. By 1965, I was a ranger myself, and Pete was the senior ranger. My friends Bob Irvine and Rick Reese, both close climber friends from Salt Lake City, were the other two rangers. The four of us were know as 'The Jenny Lake Rangers' and constituted the mountain rescue team. When an accident happened in the mountains, we hung a little sign on the door of the ranger station "Station Closed - Mountain Rescue Underway".

The four of us bonded as only life and death situations can bond; where we literally depended on each other for our lives all summer long. We lived next door to each other in Lupine Meadows in the old Kimmel Cabins, now the ranger residences, the Tetons just a mile away and 7,000' above. It was the most idyllic setting in the country, and we were in heaven. Pete and Connie lived in the old lodge with a giant cast iron stove and a stone fireplace. Kirk and Melanie their two kids were tiny. Janet and I lived next Door; Rick and Mary Lee on one side; Bob and Marie with their two kids, Stacey and Craig on the other.

Then, in 1967, Gaylord Campbell and Lorrie Hough were struck by rockfall on the North Face of the Grand Teton, and for three days, we lowered Gaylord 2,000' down the sheer granite cliff of the north face in what was considered the most technical mountain rescue ever in North America. It was in all the newspapers and magazines at the time. If ever an experience could produce a permanent bond, this was the crucible that could do it. We have never forgotten the experience. Pete, a professor of English at Evergreen College in Olympia, wrote a book about us and these times: "We Aspired: The Last Innocent Americans". So, I've always held Pete and Connie in the highest regard. I cherish every time we meet.

The mountain rescue team after the rescue on the North Face of the Grand Teton, from the left: Ted Wilson, Pete Sinclair, Yours Truly, Mike Ermarth, Rick Reese, Bob Irvine

Later in the afternoon, we gave Connie some room and shifted into the back yard to await the arrival of Kirk, Melanie, and Summer. Unfortunately Melanie got waylaid in the eastern part of the state and wouldn't make dinner, but Kirk and his lovely wife Debbie and Summer and her husband Tom arrived right on time.

Pete in the back yard

The sun was setting, and the light shone through the trees into our eyes. The temperature dropped, but we settled into the lawn chairs and talked about the past year and what everyone had been doing. By now we had three dogs milling around: a deaf blue-eyed collie, a half-blind Pomeranian, and an asthmatic pug. I raced sled dogs for 10 years, so having a lap-full of fur was a treat.

Kirk, Summer, Debbie, Tom, Pete

For the past two years, we have been helping to make a film about the 1967 North Face rescue, and I had just returned from the summer filming session in the Tetons. Connie asked about who was there, what was happening with the film, and when it might be coming out. I had gone climbing with our mutual friend, Yvon Chouinard to the summit of Mount Wister with our friend Amy McCarthy where she deposited the ashes of her dog, Wister. I felt like the village story teller, bringing all the news from afar and spreading it around the town.

Kirk & Summer

I remembered back to 1967 watching the arrival of the Sinclairs to their cabin at Jenny Lake. Pete, Connie, Kirk, and Melanie with their large German shepherd "Jenny" pulled up in a tiny Volkswagen. Everything they needed was contained in a large trunk, somehow stuffed in the middle. Connie fed the giant cast iron stove in the cabin, cooking great meals in the old style. After work we would all gather around the wood pile in the back, settle onto a log to drink gin and tonics. It was a highly educated crowd: Pete was working on his Ph.D. in English literature from the University of Washington; Bob on his dissertation in mathematics from the U of U; Rick on his in international relations from the University of Denver; I on mine in Near Eastern languages from the Johns Hopkins. Ted Wilson and Mike Ermarth, who lived up the road were studying economics and modern European history respectively. The conversation was always fascinating, the humor dry. It was a party of peers, a group of gentlemen and women. Pete and Connie set the bar.

Kirk, Summer, Debbie, Tom

Their daughter Summer came after Pete and Connie left Jenny Lake and took a job in Olympia teaching at Evergreen. I missed their presence each summer and realized the end of an era. Over the years I divorced, remarried, but remained at Jenny Lake each summer, finally staying on year-round as the place became my permanent home. Pete and Connie became more remote as the demands of daily life took over. I heard from them occasionally, and once in 1979 when we had a year old son, Thor, we took a long road trip in our van ending up at Pete and Connie's place in Olympia. Thor bounced in his "Johnny Jump Up". I met Summer for the first time; she was now a young woman.

Five years ago, Rick, Bob, and I made a pilgrimage to Olympia to see the Sinclairs. It was as though we'd never left. (After the visit the three of us tried to camp at Mount Rainier, but a huge rainstorm filled my leaky old tent, and we returned to find our sleeping bags floating in a deep pool inside, so we ended up in a motel. I paid!)

Summer, Kirk, Debbie, Tom, Pete

After dinner we moved into the living room where we settled in for dessert and more talk. I got to know Debbie and Tom, new additions to my circle of friends. Kirk, Melanie, and Summer are now twice the age I was when I first met and worked with Pete. It seemed like yesterday that they were running around Lupine Meadow.

Pete & Debbie

The years have passed. Connie had lost two sisters and a brother-in-law this past year, so the family had made several trips back to her home recently. I asked Connie how the past 40 years in Olympia had felt. "Oh, Jackson Hole is still home to me". I think we all feel that way.

The whole Sinclair clan:
Kirk, Debbie, Connie, Tom, Summer, Pete

PETITE PROVENCE OF ALBERTA

2011-11-06T17:16:00.000-08:00

A trip to Portland, Oregon, is a gastronomic adventure. My son Thor and wife Sarah live there, and on each visit for the past seven years they have taken me to a new restaurant. Every one has been excellent, or as Thor says, 'If they aren't outstanding, they fail; there are too many fine ones in town.' Portland is famous for its farms and produce, and even though it is a port, it doesn't seem to be a fishing port like Seattle. Everything I've eaten there has been delightfully fresh. So, it is always with eager anticipation that I arrive in town.

Sarah's mother, Cathy, invited me to breakfast so we could catch up on kids, gossip, and good times. She had been to Petite Provence of Alberta recently and recommended it highly. It gets its name because it sits on Alberta Street, a fairly nondescript neighborhood not likely to sport a fine French restaurant. I was expecting good food in a funky neighborhood atmosphere. The reality was the opposite. The exterior was a beautiful black with gold lettering. Inside full mirrors surrounded the sides, while the black and gold continued around. Cases full of pastries, pies, cakes, all exquisitely decorated curved around the right side. We were seated and given a huge menu. The waitress returned three times before I could focus and make up my mind.

The Menu

Pascal, Didier and Alain owners of Petite Provence Boulangerie and Patisserie arrived in 1996, and opened their first, La Provence Bakery and Bistro in Lake Oswego. This is the fourth location they have developed. The place looked so new, so clean, so tempting. I rubernecked the entire place, checking what others were eating, watching the waitresses bring the armloads of food. Everything looked good; choosing became more difficult.

Looking around

I hadn't event thought to bring a camera, but I had my iPhone, so I lifted it into the air, pointed into the mirror and snapped away.

I focus the camera into the mirror

I deferred to Cathy's suggestion to order a croissant with jelly, freshly made and warm with a cup of coffee and cream. I think a croissant is an excuse to squeeze butter out of bread. Perfect; I really didn't need anything else -- just several of these would have sufficed.

Cathy with the first croissant, coffee, and jelly

Next she suggested what she and Will had eaten the previous visit: corned beef hash with poached eggs. The waitress recommended the French toast. I went with the waitress. Cathy ordered the risotto with yams. What???? Didn't sound like breakfast to me. She let me taste the risotto. The verdict was 'guilty', and its now on the menu at Chez Ralph's.

Cathy's risotto with yams

The French toast, dipped in a white seasoned cheese sauce was a new fresh taste to my palate, experienced as it was in a thousand years of standard French toast. Two poached eggs garnished with chives and paprika topped the toast. Another Americano to wash it all down and I was set for the week.

The French toast with poached eggs and cheese sauce

Be sure to visit their website and click on the 'Photos' to see the pastries, decorations, and decor:
http://provence-portland.com/

Tingey Family Reunion

2011-09-30T21:25:00.000-07:00

The Tingey Family

Our father, Ralph Lee Tingey, M.D., the patriarch of our clan, died June 6, 2003. Our mother, Margaret Anne Hurst Tingey, went to live with our sister, Judy, on the north shore of Lake Tahoe. Judy and husband Grant are saints to have taken on the task of caring for her. For twenty years until dad's death, I had visited my parents a half dozen times a year on my trips from Alaska to the "Lower 48". Now that dad was gone, Judy invited us all to have an annual family reunion at her place with our mother.

Judy

It made sense, since Mom couldn't travel, and Judy had the condos for us to stay in. Party, party, party. We would arrive Thursday and Friday, have a big day on the beach, then each family would take turns preparing a meal. Judy had it all on a schedule, emailed in advance, but posted on her door. It became a tradition to gather Saturday night on the east shore beach boulders to watch the sunset and take family photos. Then on Saturday, some would go shopping in Truckee or South Tahoe, while others would rent mountain bikes or hike to the top of a peak.

The reunion idea took off, and we enjoyed each other so much, that it has become an annual event, with the cast changing slightly as new grand-children come into the picture, or students, missionaries, or newlyweds miss the event for a year.

I had flown to Portland where I joined my son Thor and wife Sarah on a long mountain-bike and road trip to Lake Tahoe. I posted photos and told the story in my previous post.

This year our niece, Liz, married Jason, who brought his children to meet all the new relatives.

Jason strides by Sarah

Jason and Liz are world travelers: rumor has it that Jason proposed on a hospital bed after a ski accident; then a second time (when not on drugs) in Singapore at a candle-light dinner. Liz has traveled around the world, visiting Nepal, the Far East, and points beyond. Jason works internationally, so they are among the wanderers in the tribe. Our family has two kinds of members: those that bought a home and settled down, and those who wander. Each of my brothers and sisters has a daughter who wanders; my own Daphne is the wanderer in my family. I'm caught in the middle, owning a house in Alaska, but wandering half the year.

Liz

I had flown from Anchorage to Portland to visit my son Thor and daughter-in-law Sarah; together we would slowly make our way south, riding the extensive mountain bike trails durning the day, and camping at night. Thor and Sarah were excited to see John and Erica, fellow mountain bike racers and spend a day with them on the trails. On Saturday, Erica had planned to quietly escape for a couple of hours and do a race at the local ski area. Thor and Sarah wanted to watch, so I tagged along for the adventure.

The bike racers: Erica & John

I had no idea that downhill mountain bike riding was so popular. Hundreds of people were dressed in what looked like protective hockey gear, barreling down the mountain trails at high speed. The winter skiing had become summer mountain biking; the movements were the same, only the the toys were different.

John, Kirkham, and Erica at the end of the race

At noon we had planned to meet my cousin, Linda, and her husband Garry at "Burger Me" in Truckee. We were late, so the cousins wandered for an hour. "Burger Me" is a fine establishment, and I'm a connoisseur of fine burgers. I of course selected the basic burger; Thor the most extreme one.

Garry, Linda, Sarah, Thor at Burger Me

On the beach! The sand was warm; the kids were in pig heaven; the adults were like kids. I, with my Alaska tan, sat under an umbrella.

The beach scene

The kids played in the lake, where nephew Will took them crawdad hunting. They came back with a bucket full of the wiggly creatures. Some wanted to eat them for dinner; common sense prevailed, and the little crustaceans were returned to the water and swam back under the rocks.

Kids in the water

Adults mostly talked, but then Tony produced 'Men's Journal' and 'Outside' magazines which made the rounds on the beach.

Sarah into "Men's Journal"

Jim's wife, Teri, brought her daughter Auri and her children. You'd think a family would know all its members, but I hadn't met Auri all these years, so it was such a treat to finally connect.

Auri, Teri's daughter

As we talked, Auri's daughter discovered how to bury the boat pump nozzle in the sand and blow dust into the air. Totally cool!

Kate and Kirkham blow up the sand

Grant had to work on Saturday, hosting the zoning folks. I couldn't believe they hypocrisy of the local zoning commission, which came to visit taking Grant's time to insist on various painting to the buildings and special bushes to screen the condos from the folks recreating on the lake. What I saw was a giant speedboat, painted with flames, powered with two 600 HP engines rocketing across the water in excess of 70 MPH in an ear-piercing motor-head orgasm. I'm not sure the pilot of the boat cared whether a bush was growing in front of my feet.

Our host, Grant

Brother Jim is the continuing athlete in the family. A former BYU swimming champion, now working at Los Alamos, still swims, runs and skis. His wife Teri seems to run from marathon to marathon, recently the NY marathon, so she's in the big time. Everything Jim says makes me laugh; some folks just have the knack of it. His son Will came, but daughter Annie was having a baby; daughter Lucy is an LDS missionary in Japan, and son Sam was working. Families seem to grow, and the kids just get a life of their own.

Jim

Tony and Shelly live in Salt Lake City, where we all originated. Our Great-great grandfather, John Tingey immigrated from England in the 1840's and was a Mormon pioneer. I was born living in the same house he built at 245 W. North Temple, a block from the Mormon Temple. Now, Tony & Shelly are the only remaining members of the family to still live in Utah. I love to return home, so after the reunion I would ride with them the 700+ miles back 'home'. Tony makes me laugh, too, and when Jim and Tony get together, the humor never stops.

Tony and Will's torso

Their kids were scattered to the four winds: Spencer and wife Amy live in West Virginia, where he is going to medical school. Son Alex is in school in Provo, Utah, while their daughter is engaged and working as a geologist in Salt Lake City. None could make the reunion this year. My daughter, Daphne, couldn't make it either, although she had planned to come. She had just moved from Mancos, Colorado, where she had been working for her mother at Alpacka Raft Co., to Philadelphia to discover the East Coast and attend business school. Shelly complained of 'Empty Nest Syndrome'.

Shelly in contemplation

Also, my sister Mardie's kids, Katie, Mark, and Allie were now grown up; my baby sister is now 50??? Her kids are out of the nest??? How did this happen? Anyway, the are all in school around the country. Even her husband Mark had to work, just separating from his law firm and establishing his own practice. What a landmark! Anyway, Mardie couldn't miss the fun, so she showed up alone. None of us siblings have ever missed the reunion. Mardie was actually the greatest athlete in the family. Now, after the soccer mom years are over, I expect to see her once again rise like a Phoenix and get back in shape.

Mardie: Love that pink hat!

Beach life: Kate, Auri & Teri

The evenings were a continuation of the fun, but condensed into a small condo. There were only 29 of us this year, but we still ended up in fairly close quarters during dinner. But, it was a time for talk and stories.

Teri prepares our dinner

My cousin Linda, sister Judy, and I grew up together, but I hadn't spent much time with her in the past 50 years until our reunions started. Now we email each other regularly and have made the reunion an annual adventure. Her father, Hal Rumel, was a master photographer of the West; I have two of his giant photographs in my bedroom of the Teton range, my prize possessions.

Linda's husband, Garry, is an engineer and told us about his latest project to make refrigeration pipe from extruded aluminum, coupled with mechanical couplings to get around the copper and solder problems of the past. It was the most fascinating discussion of the event.

Garry, Thor, Linda

I'm always sad to leave; it's the only time during the year that we are all together. I'm the oldest, the one who grew up first, the one who lives far away in Alaska, the only non-religious one, the wanderer. Judy and I were 'War Babies'. The rest of the kids were 'Baby Boomers' and didn't come till 9, 11, 13, and 15 years afterwards, so I've had very little face time with my brothers and sisters. Thus, the reunion has become the most prized time of the year for me to re-unite, rejoice, and learn the news of the clan. I think we are now closer than I've ever been in my life.

Up the Volcano

2011-09-29T20:59:00.000-07:00

Lemolo Lake at sunrise

Sunlight irradiated the mist covering Lemolo Lake as I popped my head out of the tent. Not a ripple, not a puff. Thor again fired up the 3-burner camp stove for our Promethian breakfast. I packed up my sleeping bag, tent, and gear, then joined Sarah on the beach to soak up the BTU's in the morning sun.

Sarah on the beach

The plan was for me to shuttle the truck, so Thor and Sarah pedaled off down the road for a long mountain bike ride along the Umpqua River. I drove to the lodge, gassed the truck and headed for the Toketee Falls rendezvous. The lodge, a beautiful 'mom and pop' operation reminded me of rural Alaska; I felt right at home as I talked to the owner about the season and the four species of fish in the lake: Brown trout, rainbows, lake trout, and the 'fishwitch', a hybrid from the Mowitch Lake and another species. "They grow really huge and are big predators", the fellow told me. "Keeps the rainbows in check!"

I pulled into the parking lot to wait for Thor and Sarah and take a hike downstream. A twelve-foot diameter redwood stave penstock squirted jets of water onto the parking lot at the falls. The pipe, built in 1949 carries water from the reservoir to the North Umpqua Hydroelectric Project. I'm always fascinated by these reminders of America's great industry.

The 12 foot penstock squirts a shower on the road

After the mountain biking experience yesterday, I'm in great shape, and the half-mile walk down to see the falls is a breeze. I skipped along at high speed and stopped several times on the journey to marvel at the height and girth of the trees. The serene little stream suddenly drops 40 feet into a narrow cavity, then emerges and cascades another 80 feet into a large plunge pool. It's cold water from the mountains, otherwise it would surely invite me for a swim. tall Douglas fir trees hang over the cliffs. The Forest Service had built a solid wooden fenced viewing platform at the end of the trail.

Toketee Falls

Back at the truck, Thor and Sarah had finished their little ride, smiles on their faces. We were hot and dirty, so we used the jets emanating from the holes in the penstock to clean the bikes, shower, and in my case, shave.

Then we were off through the mountains; destination: Crater Lake National Park. Along the way Reynolds peak, a craggy volcanic 'plug' caught our attention and lured us off the highway to the scenic rest stop to read its story. It is one of the many peaks and buttes in the North Cascades formed within the past several hundred thousand years. The glaciers have worked them into various shapes and sizes. This peak, an older one has been worn down to the core, like the core of an apple, eaten away this time not by teeth, but by glaciers.

Reynolds Peak - an ancient volcanic plug

The road turned directly south and we began our ascent of Mount Mazama, the home of Crater Lake. The landscape soon had a barren moon quality to it, the remnants of huge eruptions within the past few thousand years that spread pulverized pea-sized gravel over many square miles. It reminded us of the Aniakchak Caldera in Alaska, surely fodder for another story.

The desert-like plain on the slopes of Crater Lake

We topped out at the rim of the crater and stopped to get the first view...and see the chipmunks, fattened for hibernation by a season of begging peanuts from tourists. We were all stunned by the clarity of the lake, the colors, the sheer verticality of the cliffs, and the general scene. No wonder it is a national treasure; even a jaded park ranger was impressed.

Sarah and Thor first view Crater Lake

It is one of the oldest parks, set aside from sale by the federal government by Grover Cleveland, then made a national park by president Theodore Roosevelt in 1902. It became the sixth national park. Mount Mazama, a huge volcano is part of the Cascade range and was violently active in very recent times. The lake was created 7,700 years ago by the collapse of the 5-mile wide crater due to loss of magma underneath. The floor dropped several thousand feet, then filling with snow and rain water and has no outlet. We commented on its deep blue color.

The happy tourists

If you are interested in Guinness-style facts, the lake is is 1,949 feet deep at its deepest point, making it the deepest lake in the United States, the second deepest in North America, and the ninth deepest lake in the world. Early explorers took a boat down the steep sides and lowered weights to measure the depth. Very cool!

Wizard Island in Crater Lake

Crater Lake Lodge is one of the premier national park lodges in the country, so we had to see it, also. Built a century ago but recently remodeled, it still looks the way it did long ago. The original copper roof and clapboard siding belie the beauty of the rustic interior.

Crater Lake Lodge

We oggled the interior like the tourists we were, along with a few thousand of our best new friends. I thought the fireplace was great, but instead of burning down the forest every night, a new gas log fixture had been installed. I asked the clerk the price of a room with a view and how far in advance to book. About $200 per night, depending on the room and a year in advance...hmmmm! Might just be worth it.

The lobby

The Fireplace

We stepped out on the terrace. What a great place to have a meal and a beer!

The view from the terrace

We ate lunch at the picnic tables across from the lodge, then hopped back in the truck heading for California as far as we could get before camping time in the evening. Thor found a small unused forest service road, so we pulled off out of sound and view of the highway and set up camp. A hatch of little yellow flies brought out the ninja woman in Sarah.

Ninja camper!

Again the sun rose clear. Granola, and a walk into the sunny meadow for morning coffee and goofiness. These are the best of times. I loved watching my Thor and Sarah enjoying each others company. I rolled up my sleeping bag and tent, helped Thor pack the truck for the final leg of the journey. Then we were off to Lake Tahoe and my sister Judy's place for the family reunion.

The lovely couple; Sarah brings Thor coffee

Big smiles!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

2011-09-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more fragile I become. You can only be young once, but you can be a child all your life. I must still be somewhat of a child, since I allowed my son Thor and daughter-in-law Sarah to talk me into going with them on a mountain biking vacation. They are neurotic mountain bike racers.

Each year we Tingeys, (and I'm now the oldest), have a family reunion at Judy and Grant's place on the shore of Lake Tahoe. Judy is the next oldest of our clan and the great organizer of the group. She also lives on a lake; a huge plus. So! I flew down to Portland where I joined Thor and Sarah, and together we would spend three days driving south to Tahoe while spending the days mountain biking and camping. They have a big truck, and the three of us and three bikes managed to fill the entire bed with gear.

After a 19-mile ride through the forests of Portland on Sunday, I thought I might be prepared for the week. Although an ominous fall in the parking lot at the end of the ride when I couldn't get my foot out of the pedal, portended more evil to come. Monday I bought food. Tuesday evening, we loaded the truck and grabbed dinner at "the Carts", a collection of little food carts tucked into a Portland neighborhood. Thor grabbed a burger at Lardo where they fry the potatoes in lard, of course. Check it out: http://lardopdx.com/

The "Lardo" food cart

A Lardo ham sandwich (courtesy of Lardo)

I had a lamb gyro from an adjacent cart; I couldn't eat the whole thing, but Thor and Sarah were kind enough to finish it for me. As the sky darkened we headed south to Oakridge, then up the Middle Fork of the Willamette river to "Secret Campground", a beautiful forest service site right on the river. Our tents sat on the bank of the stream which roared all night, drowned out all other sensations and thoughts, and lulled me to sleep. I was camping again.

In the morning Thor pulled out his three-burner professional propane stove, set up the breakfast bar with farm fresh eggs, bacon, and Gabriel's fried fresh chewy bagels. We were not roughing it.

Our forest camp on the bank of the Willamette

Chef Thorkild at the grill

Sarah a third of the way into 'Exodus'

After breakfast, we broke camp and drove up the Young's Canyon road to the top of the peaks, literally. A forest service fire lookout sits on the peak. We were dressed looking like bumble bees, at least I was. Then off along a single-track trail into the forest, my feet securely clipped into the pedals, so there was no chance of escaping my fate. It was a blast! Down and up, and I had little trouble keeping up; I think they were babying me.

Thor and Sarah head into the forest

After about a mile of riding, easy for them, harrowing for me, we came to an outcrop of rock with a view of the surrounding countryside. This is the cascade range, where most of the mountains are volcanoes, and most of the rock is volcanic. I was fascinated to look out in the distance and see how the landscape had been formed by such a huge amount of volcanic activity. Blue sky, few clouds, and smoke from a dozen forest fires in the distance.

Thor surveys his domain

Proof that I was actually there!

We climbed down from the peak and headed back a short distance to a junction where Thor and Sarah headed downhill on "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" to the bottom. Allowing my better judgement to rule, I volunteered to drive the truck to the bottom and pick them up. They beat me.

After a quick lunch, we headed across the river and down a narrow single-track bike trail that followed the river south. The forest was filled with huge Douglas fir trees, moss hanging from the lower branches. Ferns, poison oak, willows, and other ground vegetation slapped at our bare calves. I only fell off a few times, feet firmly affixed to the pedals. I'm tough; nothing broke.

The Middle Fork of the Willamette

I can see why they love the sport: we flew through the trees, around sharp corners, and down steep hills at high speed. The uphills were hard, and we walked a few of them, but even then it was a blast. The river raced along side us as we descended through the forest. Boulders, trees, and other obstacles kept me on my toes...literally.

At a bridge on the second leg of the day; along the river

At one point we saw a huge fir tree downed across the trail, but the forest service had sawed it into bite-sized chunks and cleared a path for the bikes. Looks like it would have been a fun job for a logger. I imagined the size chain saw they must have used and mused back to Norman MacLean's book, "A River Runs Through It" The first of three stories tells the tragedy of his younger brother, the great fly fisherman. However, there are two stories there about logging before chainsaws: "Logging and Pimping and 'Your Pal Jim'", and "USFS 1919: The Ranger, the Cook, and a Hole in the Sky", both autobiographical of the days he worked as a logger in the Northwest. This little book has my 4-star recommendation for anyone who loves the outdoors.

The Forest Service cuts a path through a fallen giant Douglas fir

I was sad to see the end. Thor and Sarah were energized, but we had another couple of hours to drive to the next campsite on the Umpqua river. Up, up, up we went over the mountain range on a single-lane dirt road. The sky came closer it seemed. We saw only one other vehicle that evening. We got lost twice, but by six o'clock we arrived at Lomolo Lake. Chef Thor went into action; Sarah went into "Exodus", and I puttered as best a father can when his son and daughter-in-law are so competent.

I had brought Charles Darwin's "The Voyage of the Beagle", a book that kept me energized long after my bedtime. Tomorrow I would play shuttle driver. More to follow!

End of the ride as we cross the bridge onto the roadway

Filming "THE GRAND RESCUE" in the Tetons

2011-09-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

The Teton Range from Blacktail Butte, 6:00 am

"The Grand Rescue: A True Story of the 1967 Teton Rangers" recreates three days in August, 1967, we spent on the North Face of the Grand Teton rescuing Gaylord Campbell and Lorraine Hough. The story has been told many times, but the best was by Pete Sinclair in his book "We Aspired: The Last Innocent Americans".

Jenny Wilson, the daughter of our fellow rescue ranger, Ted Wilson, approached three of us one winter evening at Ted's home in Salt Lake City, and proposed making a film of the North Face rescue. Not understanding that it would take a lot of money, we greeted this new adventure with the enthusiasm only geezers can muster. Jenny and her husband Trell jumped in with both feet. Somehow I envisioned an amateur photographer making home movies of us getting together some 40 odd years later. It turned out to be so much more.

That next summer of 2009, all of the remaining rescuers met at Lupine meadows for a rendezvous. Jenny had procured a photographer, our good friend, Peter Pilafian, who lives in Wilso, and was set to make a movie. What a treat for me. We arrived at Lupine Meadows where Jenny surprised us by bringing Lorrie Hough back. None of us had seen her since the rescue, so we hugged and talked while the cameras rolled. Over the next few days Peter filmed away as the director, Meredith Lavett interviewed each of us. The last day we hiked to the Teton Glacier, stared up at the face, and reminisced while Peter filmed. Each of these days merits its own story, but since I've written it previously, this is just a thumbnail.

Skip forward two years... It takes a lot of money to make a film, and Jenny had been working to find enough funding to do some re-enactments of the rescue. I flew down from Alaska to Salt Lake, met Bob Irvine, and the two of us drove to Jenny Lake for a week of camping. Bob and I had known each other since we were young and had worked together for years at Jenny Lake. Now we were re-living the rescue.

Day 1: The crew met at 5:20 am for the first day of filming at Blacktail Butte. It was a long way from the North Face, but it provided a great venue for setting up the rescue system as it would have been in 1967, working out the bugs, and getting the close-ups of the rigging, actors, and details. John Logan Pierson, the Line Producer, had breakfast, gear, and support personnel already at the scene; over the week, he was the main go-to guy for any question I had. Renny Jackson met us; the recently retired Jenny Lake ranger took charge of the rigging and safety.

Bill Kerig, Jenny Wilson, John Logan Pierson

I hiked up the cliff with him to help set up the Stokes litter and rescue rigging the way it would have been in 1967 for the shoot. Bill Kerig, the new writer/director met us and explained what he wanted to accomplish for the day. He had hand-drawn every scene of the shoot, so we could all see his vision. I'd never worked on a film before and was impressed by the level of detail Bill had drawn. Everything was new to me, except the rescue rigging; I'd done that hundreds of times.

Peter Pilafian drops over the edge as the crew prepares the stokes litter

Peter Pilafian and Ken Saul, the cinematographers, arrived with cameras and gear; a small team helped them carry the gear up the hill. Peter lowered over the cliff, hanging from ropes next to the litter for the close-ups. The hot sun made it a long day for an Alaskan.

Renny Jackson and Bob Irvine bemused at the anchor site

Days 2 & 3: We head for the North Face of the Grand Teton. This was the hook that got me going: the chance to be out on the North Face again. The crew hiked up from Lupine Meadows to the Lower Saddle; it was a hot day, and being from the north, I suffered from the heat. Forrest McCarthy, an Exum guide, actor, and Jack-of-all-trades hiked up the trail with me. We have been great friends for years, so it was a special treat for me. Peter and I are similar in age, so we traveled at about the same rate. At the saddle, the crew rallied. Jane Jackson an Catherine Cullinane, Renny's family, had come to climb the Exum route, and Jane cooked the most excellent burritos and handed me one as I arrived. I couldn't be happier. All along the trail I had run into old friends, guides, and new folks. Here at the saddle, I knew most of the guides and it seemed like old home week. Among the folks there was Peter Metcalf, his son Hunter, and friend Ruth. Peter is the CEO of Black Diamond, Inc and had hosted the first gathering of the North Face gang when Pete Sinclair's book was published. What a treat!

Peter Metcalf, Hunter, Ruth at the Lower Saddle

Sunset and the shadow of the Tetons on Jackson Hole

We headed out at first light. Peter's photo crew climbed to the Enclosure which looks over at the West Face and North Faces; he could photograph the actors re-enacting the support team's gear carry across "the Belly Roll" on the Owen-Spaulding route, then across the West Face and onto the Second Ledge of the North Face, the site of the rescue.

Peter and crew on the Enclosure

We did a hundred takes on the belly roll, getting footage of the vintage gear that Rick, Bob, and I had brought from our basement of memories. Then Renny and Andy Barden climbed across the Belly Roll, down the ledges, and set up a handline for me and Ken Sauls. Climbing across those ledges brought back a million memories: some of former rescues, some of great climbs with friends, like the day Don Storjohann and I climbed the North Face, just two weeks before the rescue. It was coming back to life in my mind while Peter and Ken were recreating it for the future.Ken Sauls photograph's Andy Bardon soloing the 'Belly Roll'

Looking down the Second Ledge of the North Face brought back the gut-turning of 44 years ago when Pete Sinclair and I carried the two parts of the Stoke litter lashed to Kelty packframes on our backs solo down the ledge. I remember it scraping and being top-heavy; I called down to Pete, "It would be great to have a rope right now!". Two thirds of the way down the ledge lay Gaylord Campbell with his shattered leg. I had led the support team from the Lower Saddle up to this point where the Scott brothers, Larry and Hugh, Ed Mortensen, Dave Black, and Bill McKeel had brought up all the supplies. Now it had been left to the seven of us on the face to ferry the gear down to the accident site and lower Gaylord down the face.

Ken and his camera on the Second Ledge of the North Face

The memories came rushing back. At the ledge, Ken positioned me and filmed while Renny asked me questions about that day 44 years ago and the work of the rescue team on the ledge. I gazed at the panorama: the North Face fell vertically below me; Mount Owen straight across; Teewinot far below and across the glacier. The day was clear and warm, and I was in my element.

Looking down the Second Ledge of the North Face

Days 4 & 5: Renny had scouted out a location for the re-enactment of the actual lowering: the vertical north face of Disappointment Peak, almost a continuation of the North Face of the Grand Teton. It had a relatively easy access for the cameras and crew, and looked just like the real thing. It was an ingenious solution. Peter loved it and seemed to relish the idea of hanging out on the sheer wall shooting the action

Rick Reese, my life-long friend, climbing partner, and fellow rescuer drove down from Bozeman to join Bob and myself at Jenny Lake. In the morning, Rick and I hiked up to with the entourage to Amphitheater Lake at the base of Disappointment Peak for camp-out and photo shoot.

Rick and I on about the zillionth switchback of the Amphitheater Lake trail

At the lake, Renny and the crew set up the director's camp: a giant green tarp that sheltered the planning during a rain and hail storm during the afternoon. Rick and I huddled in under the fly of his new light-weight tent. In the evening, Renny gave a little talk on proper behavior at the lake, including the use of the RestStop 2 poop bag.

Peter, John, Renny, and Rick: The poop bag talk

Alan and Renny had fixed ropes up to the shooting location overlooking the face, so all the crew had a safe ascent and descent route. Rick spent the morning climbing to the top of Disappointment Peak, then down to join his wife Mary Lee for the evening. I headed up to the action. Worried that I would be in the way, I tried to stay clear of the crew, but to my delight, the crew asked me questions all day about exact details of the rescue. Then, Renny asked me to lower the actual litter for the shoot. Well...I could do that! The first shots were of "Bob Irvine" dropping a rock over the face and timing the returning sound as it hit a ledge, a true scene from the actual rescue. We gathered rock after rock from my ledge to give to Forrest as he tossed the rocks for Peter and Ken.

Sunrise on the Grand from Amphitheater Lake

Andy Bardon, dressed in my original ranger shirt and Bob Irvine's original helmet, and wearing Rick Reese's original boots would play the part of Pete Sinclair. Jenny would ride the litter in the sleeping bag as the injured Gaylord Campbell. Forrest would belay the load. Alan Oram was the safety engineer. Renny supervised the entire affair. He had his hands full.

Renny & Jenny look over the edge as Andy prepares the litter

Finally in mid-afternoon, Andy took Jenny over the edge. Peter and Ken hung from ropes secured at the anchor and filmed as the litter lowered down the face. Radios went silent and the action started. Inch by inch, the load slipped through my fingers and down the face.

Jenny strapped in the Stokes litter; Andy as rescuer; Alan & Forrest advise

It was a success! Bill, Jenny, Peter, and Ken were pleased as I could hear from the radio traffic. I was worried they would want a second take, which would take hours. The next day Jenny had a fundraising event at the Center for the Arts in Jackson, so I hiked down in the late evening, called Bob who picked me up and fed me a baked chicken dinner from his dutch oven at Jenny Lake.

The next evening was special: Rick, Bob, Ted, and I spent the evening socializing at the fundraiser and meeting some of our favorite friends:

The Fundraiser at the Arts Center

Ted Wilson, Rick Reese, Ralph Tingey, Al Read, Yvon Chouinard, Mary Lee Reese, Bob Irvine

Day 6: The Helicopter scenes. Dr. Rich Sugden and Teton Aviation agreed to furnish a period helicopter, the Bell 47 for the shoot. How Jenny persuaded them, I'll never know, but it was the finale for the filming. Dr. Sugden had been a medical adviser to the rangers when I worked at Jenny Lake in the 70's. What a nice gesture! Bill and Jenny had a crew of actors who would play the wives and families of the returning rescue rangers as they returned from the mountain. Particularly, Pete, Connie, and Melanie Sinclair were in the spotlight.

Chris gives the young actors their cues

A short rehearsal and we were ready. The kids were the stars this time. We heard the thumping beat of the helicopter in the distance, and I couldn't wait to see it.

The Bell 47 Helicopter arrives

Peter Kline of Teton Aviation at the controls landed in the field and the action started. Lots of waving, lots of hugs, lots of action and kids ran everywhere. A cooler of beer for the returning rescuers was the only other prop. Peter filmed from the helicopter, and also had cameras set up on the perimeter to capture the joy. The heat cooked me, wearing my old 60's vintage shirt and Levis.

Trell Rohovit and Peter Kline confer

The next scene was a recreation of the "Morphine Toss" when District Ranger Doug McLaren tossed a package of the drug right into Leigh Ortenberger's lap while he was sitting in his sleeping bag on the Second Ledge, the second morning of the rescue.

"Doug McLaren" tosses the morphine package from the helicopter

A third member of the original team arrived: Ted Wilson, Jenny's father and inspiration for the film. We all dressed in our old uniforms and now played character actors as the "Superintendent" and "Chief Ranger". Peter, filming from the helicopter, also donned a uniform shirt to play Doug McLaren.

It had been quite a reunion and a memory movie for me. I'd had a week camping trip with Bob Irvine, a hike and camping trip up to Disappointment Peak with Rick Reese, and now a day with Ted Wilson.

Ted Wilson, "Pete Sinclair's double", Peter Pilafian, Ralph Tingey
In costume!

Director: Bill Kerig, Producer: Jenny Wilson, Director/Producer:Meredith Lavitt

A note from Producer, Jenny Wilson

We're halfway there. We still need to edit and produce the movie. The film has signed up for a KICKSTARTER grant. Pledges are pooled and if we reach our goal of $ 20,000 by mid October, your pledge will become a reality and the film will receive a huge boost. There are also some great rewards related to the film! Please take a look and see if this is something that might fit into your giving plans.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/thegrandrescue/the-grand-rescue-a-true-story-of-the-1967-teton-ra-0?ref=email

A Morning Walk up Wolverine Peak

2011-09-07T22:25:00.001-07:00

Fall is rushing in; the leaves are turning yellow and brown; the clouds are boiling over the peaks. My knee has been sore for the past two weeks from a fall, but I was antsy to get into the mountains again and not lose the fitness I'd gained during the summer. Mark and Lisa from Talkeetna stayed at the house last night, which is always a joy for me. We had a leisurely coffee at Kaladi down the street, and by 10:00 am, I'd decided to head uphill.

Wolverine Peak overlooks Anchorage and beckons this morning. The peak's 4,550' elevation belies the effort to reach its summit, but since Anchorage is at sea level, the mountain gives the feel of being in the Rockies. From the trailhead it's close to 12 miles round trip to the summit; this should be a fine workout. I'll be back by 3:00 pm if I hustle, leaving the Prospect heights' trailhead at 11:00 am. A sign at the trailhead warns of recent grizzly bear activity, right where I'm headed. What's new? There are over 65 of those bears in this area, but I've never had a problem. Looking through the trees I see the goal in the distance.

After a couple of miles along a very well maintained flat trail, crossing Campbell Creek, the trail forks uphill towards the peak. Up till now I had been cruising at a good clip. In spite of the knee, I hadn't lost much of my precious conditioning.
Up I went through the spruce and birch forest, the trail still a bit muddy and slick from a week of wet weather. I've been here before and power up the steepening trail, hoping for my first unobstructed view of the mountains. Soon I break out above treeline into the sub-arctic tundra. It is definitely autumn here: all the plants have changed color. Seeds litter the ground from the sedges, grasses and flowers along the trail. Suddenly I see a beautiful blue harebell. What are you doing blooming at this time of year??? The rest of the plant world is going to seed and shedding its leaves.
The broad expanse of the tundra stretches ahead; Wolverine Peak looks more distant than when I started. The trail heads straight up with no switchbacks. The sky is pretty black, a breeze is blowing, and the weather report is for rain. "Strong winds to 70 MPH on Turnagain Arm and on the hillside" was the weather report on the radio this morning. Hmmmm! I see the clouds scud by at a fairly good clip. The only blue sky in hundreds of miles is directly over Wolverine. I'm sure it's just a sucker hole, but it lures me upward.

This whole landscape is the product of continental glaciers that receded as recently as 10,000 years ago. The valleys are U-shaped where the glaciers gouged them out. Even the tremendous Susitna Valley stretching from Mount McKinley south through Cook Inlet was filled to thousands of feet with ice. I look on the ground and see granite boulders. "No granite in the Chugach", I say. These rocks were transported south either 40 miles from the Talkeetna Mountains, or a hundred miles from the Alaska range and deposited 4,000 feet high on the ridges of this peak. I look out and see a huge granite erratic stuck in the ground.
Two hours on the trail, and I've covered nearly five miles uphill. The summit and the speck of blue sky are now within reach. I'm on a ridge leading to it, but as I reach it, the wind hits me in the back. It's stiff, maybe 20 knots. And it's coming from the wrong direction; well, not really. It's the rotor wind blowing back like an eddy in the river as the more powerful wind flows over the summit, then drops over the summit and washes back at me. I'm wearing a thin cotton shirt, and although the temperature is in the fifties and I'm working hard, my temperature drops. Gusts increase as I move uphill. I have a jacket in my daypack, but I'm reluctant to put it on; I'm sweating and think I'll just sweat harder with the coat.
The ground is composed of the granite and limestone rocks from afar, signs that this was part of the glacial outwash. I'm still amazed that the foreign stones are so high up this mountain and try to picture the ice over a mile thick flowing through here. Then I remember my days on Mount McKinley (Denali), where even today on the Kahiltna Glacier, the ice measures a mile thick.

At my feet the ground is red with reticulated willow, one of the 46 varieties found in Alaska. Interspersed are blackberries and moss. It's a beautiful carpet!
Searching the ground, the dogwood that was so recently in bloom with little white flowers and green leaves, now sports red leaves and orange berries.
I'm now well up the peak, and the wind has increased against my back, maybe 40 knots. I lean back, and am blown uphill. Looking down the cliff I see the remains of a crashed helicopter, it's twisted hulk like an extinct dinosaur, so out of place here. But it's on to the summit; no turning back now, no matter what the weather. Suddenly, a gust blows me back a few feet, and I lean into the wind. I'm on the summit ridge, looking down the cliff to the north. Wind is coming from every direction. I can't believe this is the only patch of blue anywhere, and it has stayed in this spot for hours. My ball cap goes into the pack. I'm afraid it will be blown off to the next valley. I have a little wool hat in the pack and a pair of light gloves. The wind is rocketing off the rocks, knocking me around like a rag doll. "The summit at all costs", I say. Once on Mount Dickey with a bunch of life-long friends, I was leading the charge to the summit, and one asked Thor, my son, "Is he always like this?"
I look north: it's raining, and the distant mountains are dim. I'm in my element and couldn't be happier. I stop to take a photo and move on.
The summit is almost calm. I put my cap back on, take a photo, grab a drink of water and nibble a bit of my peanut butter sandwich. I can't stand all the energy bars: most taste like compressed sawdust. The best are regular candy bars; my favorite are Snickers and Payday, because they have lots of nuts. But mostly I bring a good sandwich and an apple. I've found I have more long-lasting energy with real food.

I scan the horizon in every direction. To the north I see where Denali should be. To the east, the Chugach range. Looking up the broad valley I see the Willwaw Lakes and promise myself a camping trip there before the snow flies.
To the west, Cook Inlet, and Anchorage. It's a long way down, so I don't tarry on the summit too long. The wind will be in my face. I jump down the trail, full of energy. My coat like a sail as I lean into the wind and float down the mountain.
My only stop is to look at another willow plant, that is now bright yellow next to its red cousin. Looking across the tundra, it predominates and gives the ground its tan and yellow hue.

Further down, the wind is pushing the krumholtz flat. I know it's a powerful blow, but not uncommon here. It has shaped the vegetation and this landscape over the years. I'm flying down the mountain at high speed, but I worry that I'll be sore tomorrow. "I'm too old for this", I say to myself as I slow to a trot. "The Hell with it", and I break into a little run straight down the hillside. "I can make it to the car in half the time I hiked up", I tell myself as a little race begins.
Soon I'm back on the flat, racing to the car to meet my goal. Suddenly a huge split birch tree is right in front of me. I'm retired! I'm in no hurry. So I stop, look at the tree for a minute, fish out my camera and take it's picture. What a great day!!

The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris 1830-1900

2011-09-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

THE GREATER JOURNEY: AMERICANS IN PARIS 1830-1900, David McCullough

Having read TRUMAN and also JOHN ADAMS by David McCullough, I was sure it would be a winner. I had just finished reading THE AGE OF WONDER: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science, a book that covered scientists and poets in England during the last of the Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries. Joseph Banks, William and Caroline Herschel, Sir Humphrey Davies, Mungo Park... It would be a natural lead in to this volume, so I grabbed it off the shelf at Barnes and Noble in hardback. Each morning, I ride my fixed gear bike to the local Kaladi coffee shop, grab an Americano, and read for a while between chats with friends as they pour through the door. It's a fine place to hold court and get a little reading done when a lull permits.

I was delighted by the stories of the Americans who as young folks booked passage on ships and sailed to Paris to get a finer education. McCullough focused on a few and told their stories in depth, all the while mentioning others who also visited. Many were new to me, however the main characters of the book were folks I knew of, but certainly didn't know their stories.

For example, Samuel F. B. Morse, was one of my electrical heroes from my youth, but the Paris connection centered on his life as a young oil painter, living a Bohemian existence while painting a huge canvas "The Gallery of the Louvre" which he hoped to sell to the Congress back home. Each day, James Fenimore Cooper, who was writing The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Deerslayer, and other novels, would join him at the Louver and watch the process. The sideline of inventing the telegraph was not so much a Parisian adventure, although McCullough does do it justice in an outline. I would have been fascinated to learn more of the telegraph's rise, but the book only leaves the protagonists in Paris and drops them as they leave France. A pity!

The section of the medical schools in Paris was fascinating, with emphasis on Oliver Wendell Holmes, and the first woman obstetrician, Mary Putnam, who studied at the famous French hospitals and schools. It was the beginnings of modern medicine, and since I grew up a doctor's son, I was fascinated by the crudeness, the horror of the operating rooms, the death, the stench, and the general septic aura of the medical profession only 150 years ago. By the time I was born, we were already in the modern era of medicine, and my life as a one year old was saved by penicillin.

Charles Sumner, the Massachusetts politician who advocated for the abolition of slavery spent a considerable time in Paris, both before and after his trouncing with a cane at the hands of a Southern senator. The incivility of today's Senate and Congress seems a bitter mirror of that era. Perhaps my favorite section of the book, and undoubtedly of McCullough's was of Elihu Washburne, the American Minister to France during the reign of Louis-Philippe, the Siege of Paris, and the Communards. The civil war, the destruction, the hunger of the times were enough to drive out all but about a hundred of the 4,000 Americans there at the time, but Washburne stayed on, saved hundreds of lives through his courage and hard work. I was sucked into this adventure; it merited an entire book.

The later part of the work centered on Augustus Saint-Gaudens, the American sculptor who created such famous works as "The Farragut Monument" in Madison Square Park, unveiled in 1881, and "The Sherman Monument (with Victory)". Much time was spent on Augustus and his wife Augusta, but I was actually more fascinated with John Singer Sargent and Mary Cassatt, likely because I took art lessons as a young man.

It ends with the rise of the Eiffel Tower, the electrification of the great expositions, the amazing explosion of science and technology at the end of the 19th Century and Thomas Alva Edison. That's where I started: as a young grade school kid, I read his biography and it changed my life.

On the whole, the book read like a series of vignettes connected only by the fact that the men and women in the stories had come to Paris as young folks to learn either art or medicine. I saw a thousand more connections, and personally would have enjoyed following these to their conclusion, showing how Paris had influenced those ideas and this nation. But I was disappointed in this and felt I was reading more of a list of Americans who had visited Paris during the time period and listened to their stories while they were there.

Amy Takes the Geezers for a Walk

2011-08-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

We all loved Wister. He was Amy McCarthy's faithful friend who followed her and Forrest to the tops of a hundred peaks and down a thousand trails. For the past few summers Wister had led me to the top of Taylor Mountain, the southernmost peak in the Teton Range. We had our routines: stopping at the last stream in a meadow blooming of lupine, geranium, daisy, and arnica. Wister would flop belly down into the small brook and cool off before the steep ascent up the peak. Half way up he would find a snowdrift for the second cooling; and at the top he took a drink from my water bottle before heading down.

I was in Jackson Hole to help make a movie, and at the fundraiser, Amy asked if I would climb Mount Wister with her and spread a few ashes on the summit. Our long-time friends Yvon and Malinda Chouinard were also there, and Amy invited them too. We would pick them up at 6:00 am; Amy's friend Kim Young would meet us at the trailhead, making a perfect hiking team.

We were on the trail before first light, and as we walked up past the Taggart pasture and tack shop, memories flooded back from the first year I was a park ranger and bunked at remains of the ancient Taggart Ranch lodge. Each morning I would walk out to the barn, feed a stack of hay to the horses and fatten a few with a coffee-can of oats. Then I'd walk the pasture and change the canvas dams for irrigation. All before reporting to work at the Fire Cache at 8:00. Today a sprinkler system sprays mist into the cold dawn.

Up the trail we cross Taggart Creek on a nice bridge, then head west to the lake. The first sunlight hits the top of the Grand Teton while we are still in the cool, almost frosty air, a mist rising from the creek. Yvon, Malinda, Amy, and Kim appropriately wear Patagonia down sweaters; I'm in a white nylon shirt and feel the cold, but the brisk pace keeps me warm.
I ask the group to stop for a photo when the sun turns the Tetons to gold. We're all smiles. The conversation turns to trapping: Malinda wants me to tell the story of how I trapped Jack Dornan's cat, 'Kitty Blue' in my skunk trap and of letting it out at Schwabacher's Landing and unsuccessfully chasing it through the sagebrush calling "Kitty Blue! Kitty Blue!". Now the tall tales begin. We are laughing at Yvon's stories, then Malinda's. The day is off to a great start.

It's about a mile and half to the Lake, and when the lake comes into view there's not a breath of wind, and the reflection of Avalanche Divide and Mount Wister are mirrored off the water. Our goal is directly ahead, but many miles and 5,000' feet away. Suddenly my back feels wet; I flip off my backpack which is now full of water from a leaking container. Everything is wet, so I dump out the pack and announce that I have a refrigerated pack and shirt to keep me cool through the heat of the day.Another mile and a half around the lake we start to lose the trail and enter a rain forest full of ferns, cow parsnip, and nettles, similar to where I would hike in Alaska. Malinda wisely notices that it is time to turn around if she is to wend her way home alone in time for her day's work.
The unmaintained trail narrows, downed logs cross our path and we need to climb over them. Every now and then we lose the trace and search for it. A boulder field, my least favorite form of trail is suddenly in our path. We're spry and make our way, catching the track again.

We four plod on. I'm already warm, so I take off the thin long-sleeved shirt and put on a blousy short-sleeved one for the rest of the day. The canyon seems long and steeper than I remember. The noise of the creek drowns some of the conversation, but likely the exertion has also slowed the hot air. Near the forks of the canyon, Yvon spies a massive glacial boulder with a huge crack running up the center. "Jim Donini would love this, wouldn't he?", Yvon states, then cruises over to size it up for a climb.
Looking up from the forks we can see Taminah Falls spilling out of the lake. I know it's still a grunt just to get there, and the air is warming up on this clear morning. Mount Wister, named for Owen Wister, who lived in the Valley a century ago and author of "The Virginian", rises on the left. On the right is Nez Perce, the Howling Dog. To the west is the skyline ridge of Gilkey Tower, Cloudveil Dome, Ice Cream Cone, and The South Teton. Amy asks Yvon if he has any 'First Ascents' here. He tells the story of how he and Rick Black climbed the first and only ascent of the South Face of Cloudveil. "The hardest pitch of a first ascent I ever led: 5.11. Rick was belaying, so after I climbed the overhang, I told him to rappel down." Later he points to two buttresses that look like magnificent climbing. "I climbed a line on each of those. I doubt anyone has ever repeated them. Good rock, but it's too tough to hike in here." I know what he means. It's been a late spring and summer in the Tetons. No brown yet; lots of snow and green everywhere. I photograph tons of flowers: bright red Indian paintbrush, yellow cinquefoil, blue monkshood, purple penstemon, arnica, yarrow, lupine. The flowers of spring are blooming in late August after the largest dump of snow on record. The mountains are still spilling over with snowfields, and the rivers are high.

We have gained about 1,500' of elevation up to where Avalanche Canyon forks. Straight ahead was Taminah Falls. We climbed up the steep scree slope to the north. Amy and Kim sprinted ahead, while Yvon and I contemplated the flora. The cliffs around the falls are difficult, so we climbed above and dropped down to the lake shore.Mount Wister now appeared and we could choose a route to the top: the snow couloir leading up the saddle, then west up the east ridge. At the lake edge we sat down for lunch. Yvon talked about his ideas and plans for the future of Patagonia. Each of us expressed our preference for mountain foods. It ran the gamut from Mojo bars to canned salmon to sandwiches. Real food was the winner!

Amy asked if I would like her to take a photo of me. Very cool, since I have few photos of myself. My first mountain patrol as a ranger was up Avalanche Canyon a zillion years ago. In those days many of my patrols were done solo; there were only 4 Jenny Lake Rangers, and with station duty and days off, we never had a chance to patrol together. I thought back those many years and remembered searching for a path through the forest and climbing the scree to the lake where I set my little Exa camera on a rock and took a self portrait, the only photo I have of myself from that year. I'm smiling at the camera wearing a ranger shirt, badge, Levis, and no hat, my short blond hair whitened by the summer sun. I thought of that photo several times during the day. This one is so totally different: I look like a lost tourist from Florida. Same child-like enthusiasm for the mountains underneath.

Kim started out and found a logjam across the outlet stream. We followed and fought our way through the thick spruce and willows to the south side of the canyon and up the rocks to the snow couloir.

Looking back down on Taminah Lake, it is so clear we see huge boulders and talus spilled to the bottom.
Ahead the North Face of Wister looks smooth. Yvon tells us that Layton Kor, the great climber of the 50's and 60's put up a route there. As a rescue ranger I am reminded of the deaths, the accidents, and rescues all over the range. On this north face I see the fallen climber of 35 years ago and remember scrambling all over the mountain, including the north face unroped looking for any clue to his disappearance. I mention this, and immediately regret saying anything that would taint the joyous mood we have cultivated all day. I can't help it. Part of me is this sad past. I look up again and Amy is taking my photo. My spirits soar.
Amy is all smiles, the most cheerful person I've ever known. She tended bar at Dornans in Moose for 12 years and knows everyone in Jackson Hole. Amy is now the director of the Teton Raptor Center in Wilson, Wyoming. Her husband Forrest, Public Lands Director for the Winter Wildlands Alliance and mountain guide, is one of my best friends. She and Kim move gracefully up the snow for a ways, then Kim pulls out a pair of crampons as the slope steepens. Amy, Yvon, and I kick steps with our soft approach shoes. As we head up the hill, a spontaneous rockfall starts from the huge scree slope above the snow. Baseball and larger sized rocks come hurtling towards us. Amy and Kim skip to the side. Yvon and I are lower and are in the firing line. It's a tense minute as more rocks come and spread out like a shotgun blast at us. I finally sprint to the left to avoid a volley. Yvon holds his ground waiting to jump at the last minute. All clear, and we head to the left edge to avoid any more rocks.

At noon, Kim has to turn around in order to make it back to Jackson in time for afternoon obligations. A tinge of regret flows through me as I see her disappear to a dot down the snow slope, since she and Amy were so delightful together all morning. The snow steepens. We hit the huge scree slope, but it's dirt and rubble. Nothing holds together, and we make only a foot of progress for every two steps. We climb close together and at each others' sides, because every step sends scree down the hill. We all agree it might be one of the worst rubble slopes ever. Who talked me into this???

Yvon has picked up a walking stick somewhere in the forest. Amy has brought us each an ice ax; I feel like I'm cheating using it next to Yvon and his stick. He is likely envying my ice ax. As the slope turns to ice and snow again, Amy leads out kicking all the steps and doing all the work. I chop the steps bigger for the possible descent in the cold afternoon. If we come back this way it will be dangerous unless the holds are big. I'm planning ahead, since a fall could be disastrous.

We are almost to the little saddle. Looking down the snowslope, it appears even steeper from above. They always look foreshortened from below. Yvon's picture gives a sense of scale.We take a quick break for food and water at the saddle. The north face of Buck mountain is directly across. I break my rule and start to tell of a tragic accident on the face in the mid-'70's. I apologize and change the subject. The sun is warm, the Mojo bar was tasty, and I rehydrate with water brought from the lake. I've never treated water in the Tetons; I know others do. Maybe I'm immune after all these years.
We start the rock climb up the ridge. Amy is on the rock first, firing up the pitch. I call out that we do have a rope if anyone needs it. Hmmm! Amy doesn't. I don't, and certainly Yvon wouldn't. As we touch the rock my fingers feel the warmth, and I remember the first words of French I translated from Gaston Rebuffat's "Neige et Roc" when I was a young boy: "The touch of good granite is agreeable and reassuring."
The rock steepens. Yvon packs the walking stick in the loops of his backpack. Amy is moving quickly up the rock. The granite seems to be full of holds; it's a joy! Amy comments that this is her favorite type of climbing: good steep rock, solid, exposed...
Amy smiles and waits for us again. Yvon and I have been at sea level for a long time, so the 11,000' air is a bit thin. We set a slow pace, but move up confidently. I love the feeling of putting my hand on a hold, gripping tightly and moving up on my feet. It doesn't get any better than this with my two fine companions.
I look straight down at Yvon climbing smoothly up the rock face and think of the thousands of peaks he's climbed: El Capitan, Half Dome, Fitzroy, the north face of the Crooked Thumb. Everywhere! What a privilege to be in his company today.
Yvon pops over the cliff edge. We take a mini-break and drink some water. It's so easy to dehydrate at this elevation in the dry air, and exerting in the sun the way we are. Life is good!
The route curves to the right up a knife edged ridge. The rock is good, but a fall on either side would be bad. I have my camera out half the time, wanting to remember every second of this climb.
Amy looks up and announces that we are near the summit. That's good news; it's been a long day. We scramble the few remaining feet to the top where a huge vista appears from every direction.
Looking down the ridge we can see Avalanche Canyon, the knife-edged ridge running from the South Teton to Nez Perce. To the east Jackson Hole, the Gros Ventre range, and beyond that, the Wind River range. To the south the enormous north face of Buck Mountain. To the west, Victor and Driggs, Idaho. And on the north, the Grand Teton sits above everything.

Amy scatters some of Wister's ashes. He's been deposited on many summits, including Gannett Peak, the highest in Wyoming where he made six ascents. Wister the Uber-Mountain Dog!
Neither Yvon nor I had been to the summit of Wister; Amy had been here 13 years ago. Over the years I'd crawled all over the mountain looking for a lost climber, but never touched the summit. Another Teton peak bagged!

I ask Yvon if he wants to call Malinda. He's intrigued that we get cell reception on the summit, so I dial Malinda and joke about the Geezers on top. It's 3 pm, so she knows we won't be home for a long time. We chat, and as I look around I see a huge thunderstorm coming at us from the southwest. It looks a half hour or more away, but we need to get out of here.

We climb down the east ridge the way we ascended. At the knife-edge arete Yvon looks down the steep couloir and asks if it looks like a good descent route. We check it out and all agree it does, and it eliminates the need to descend the hard afternoon snow gully we climbed in the morning. It's a much safer alternative. Scrambling down isn't hard, but there is a massive amount of loose rock and dirt everywhere. We stay close together, so a dislodged rock doesn't hit one of the others.

About a third of the way down the gully, my foot slips on a loose boulder and I twist down hard, slamming my right knee into a sharp rock. The pain is severe, and I worry that I've just severed my ACL or torn a meniscus. I can still walk, but slowly. We keep up a pace to get out of the gully before the storm hits. The thunder drum rolls begin just as we hit the snowfields at the bottom. Only a few raindrops pelt us, and since we are so hot from the exertion, we continue moving. I'm the slow one, but Amy and Yvon wait for me periodically.

The south fork of Avalanche Canyon, a new vista in the Tetons opens up. I thought I'd visited every canyon in the range. There is no sign of another human being: no campfire rings, no trails, no tin cans or candy wrappers. Now the adventure is truly complete. The only problem is that my bum knee isn't much fun.

Amy stops at the foot of the snowfield below a huge waterfall as the canyon turns north. It's time for a dinner snack: more pizza and another Mojo bar. The icy water is what I want, burbling out into a small stream from under the snow. It's a great treat, and I stand up refreshed. My knee has frozen up, and it takes a minute of walking before I'm loose enough to hop and jump down the boulder field. We walk through a beautiful meadow, but are stopped by a thick krumholtz. I cross the stream on mossy boulders to go down the opposite side, however Yvon and Amy have already picked a faster route. I hurry, cross the stream at the bottom near a huge swamp and join them on the left side. We find a trace of a bear trail and continue down. Where is the end? We look down another thousand feet of scree and boulders to the main floor of Avalanche canyon and pick our route.
The creek has broken into a number of smaller channels, each one negotiable as we make our way to the faint trail we came up on. Almost as we see it, we disturb a cow and calf moose about 50 yards away. We worry about the cow, so we bush-whack for another fifty yards or so through willows and swamp to avoid them and hit the trail very near the huge boulder with the crack. We are back on track.
It seems interminable. I get into the "zone" and set a pace out, Amy and Yvon behind me, since I'm likely the slow one tonight. We make good time, and before the sun has set, we see the reflection of Taggart Lake in the distance. The thunderstorm has moved east, and we see the lightning striking the Gros Ventre range. (In the morning a plume of smoke rises from behind the Sleeping Indian mountain to the east of Jackson Hole.)
Down the trail, around the lake, onto the flats. Now it's almost dark, and we slow a bit to make sure we don't stumble on unseen boulders in the trail.

We drive into the Chouinard's yard at dark. Melinda has home-made soup on the stove for us. After a beat-out like today, it's the perfect food. Melinda has done her hair, and we all comment on it. She sees my bum knee, heads to the fridge, pulls out an ice pack and wraps my knee, feeds me Ibuprofen, and elevates the leg on a chair. I'm in good hands. Yvon and I are beat. Amy still has her great smile.

Canadian Rockies Part 5 - Plain of Six Glaciers Teahouse

2011-07-26T18:06:00.001-07:00

In the lobby of the Chateau Lake Louise was the only place we could find a restroom, and what a fine one it was! On the walls hung black and white photos of the early days at the hotel. The original chateau was conceived by the Canadian Pacific Railway and built at the end of the 19th century. It was part of the chain from the Banff Springs Hotel and the Chateau Frontenac.The Painter Wing, built in 1913, is the oldest portion of the hotel still standing. It is a magnificent building. Refreshed, we walked around the turquoise lake and caught a glimpse of the huge hotel framed in the lake and the Rockies.
Also a glimpse of Rebecca's butt as she scooted up the trail ahead of me. Looking up the trail, the Plain of Six Glaciers emerged in the distance. Glacial "milk" or silt, from the grinding action of the glaciers above turns the lake into a milky turquoise color. It had been a late spring, and snow still covered the high country just a thousand feet above. But, we were wearing our running shoes and being Alaskans, didn't have much to worry about.
The stream coming down the valley didn't look too intimidating. In Alaska it would have been a raging torrent. The mountains and trail system, including bridges, looked so civilized to us. But then, since the late 1800's, princes and kings had visited this spot, walked these trails, and stayed at the Chateau.
UP, UP, UP!!!
The crags caught my attention at every turn. I was mesmerized by the constant beauty of the limestone peaks and cliffs, snowy couloirs, and green forests along the trail. We thought this should be an easy hike, since so many people were on the trail. We must have confused kilometers with miles, because it seemed endless. But I didn't care. I was in my world.
Huge coniferous rain forests reached up on both sides of the trail. Moss grew on every tree; the ground was a green sponge coating, and every flower seemed to be in bloom.
Looking up at the end of the lake, we saw my friends, the rock climbers. Even though it was a misty rainy day, the climbers were on the rocks, and I stopped to watch their progress.
As we rose above treeline, snow blocked the trail. It took a bit of care to cross some of the steeper patches, since a slip would have had severe consequences: a slide down a steep slope ending in a rock pile.
While at our feet, the green plants and flowers were everywhere, poking their little blossoms up at us. I photographed every species. However you can thank me for being selective in what I've posted here.
Looking up, waterfalls spilled down the cliff sides and caught my eye. This one seemed to have worn a grove down the striated limestone. If it hadn't been such a cold, dank day, it would have been tempting to take a shower.
As we reached the Plain of Six Glaciers, the peaks ringed the amphitheater. A glacier oozed out of the gap to the south, and a permanent glacial ice cap hung above the peaks to the south and west. We were walking on an enormous lateral glacial moraine, seen in this photo below.

At my feet, tiny flowers from the pea or vetch family caught my eye growing from the most rocks. At the other side, a vertical cliff dropped precipitously. Parks Canada had affixed a steel cable to the rocks to make sure folks didn't slip off the trail. Water rushed under foot, making the slick flat limestone very slippery.
I heard a huge rumble and looked across the valley to see a serac of ice crack off, pulverize and pour in an icefall down the cliff face. It lasted over a minute, time enough for me to snap a shot.
Finally, as the rains really started to unleash their fury on us, we spotted the Plain of Six Glaciers Teahouse, a beautiful log home sequestered in the forest and overlooking the glaciers and moraines below.
They served soup and bread...maybe even a sandwich. And tea! It was cold, rainy, and dark, but the staff was wonderful. We didn't have cash, but they said, "No problem, just pay the bell captain at the hotel. He will give us the cash later". That doesn't happen everywhere.
We ordered the soup and bread. Perfect for the weather. I heard a young man trying to start a chainsaw below. I wanted to go help and show him how to make it work, but Rebecca held me back. Fortunately the chainsaw never started.We descended into the rain, but then it began to let up; blue sky appeared among the darker clouds, and Lake Louise appeared below.
I couldn't help taking another picture of a flower. I must have a thousand of them, just from this summer alone.
I hated to walk down. It had been a fantastic week in the high mountains, with a hike to a different location every day. It seems we had just touched the surface of the thousand peaks and valleys in this one area. And there was so much more: Jasper National Park, Kananaskis Park, Yoho Park, Glacier Park... A world of my dreams.
Meanwhile at the lake, a horseback party of dudes crossed our path, a reminder that this is a tourist Mecca, par excellence!
The crowning glory of the day was this little pika, peeking out from under a boulder at the shore of the lake. Pikas are a member of the rabbit family, about the size of a large mouse. They spend the summer storing all kinds of grasses and sedges in their houses for the long winter hibernation. You want to reach out and pet one, but usually they are elusive. This was as close as you might get.
Back at the hotel, we strolled through, waddled back up to the parking lot to the car and rolled down the road to Canmore. Time for that final beer!

Canadian Rockies Part 4 - Eiffel Lake

2011-07-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

Rebecca and I ticked off the best of the best hikes. Next on the list was Isis Lake, at the other side of Temple Mountain. As we drove up Highway 1 from Canmore, the sky turned horribly dark and the rain began to fall. We slowed down at a pit stop to mull over our options. Every day was precious, and this was one of the best hikes...maybe number 5 on our list. Back in Canmore the skies were blue. Here several hundred meters higher, we were in the thick of the weather. We owned fine parkas, had umbrellas and Alaska spirits so we continued on.

We drove up through the rain, past Lake Louise, turned onto the Morraine Lake road and headed uphill. A vintage green Mercedes coup drove up the 14 kilometers to Morraine lake ahead of us. I remarked at what a beautiful old car it was and how much I'd enjoy owning one. , By the time we arrived, the weather turned beautiful. The Canadian parks trail system is first class. Here is the sign for our trail up into the mountains above Morraine Lake to Eiffel Lake.

At the lake shore, crowds of tourist were disgorged from dieseling busses, that continued to belch fumes into the valley as the crowds wandered quickly to the lake edge, take a photo and hop back onto the bus. Behind the lake, the many peaks wound in a circle around the lake and up back around to Lake Louise to the west. Sentinel Pass rose to the right; a beautiful lodge was built on the lake and provided food and lodging for the guests.

There, sitting by the lake shore was the owner of the vintage Mercedes, a vintage Danish/Canadian. A fine gentleman who enjoyed our company and our appreciation for he treasure of a vehicle. We spoke for a while; I could have spent the rest of the day with him.
The trail gets right with the program. Seven cruel switchbacks brought finer and finer views as we ascended. We passed a lovely young family from Chicago. They were of Indian origin, but as American as we were. The girls, ages 10-13 were a delight and told us of their 15 mile hike the previous day.
At the trail junction we veered left; last time we'd gone straight up to Sentinel Pass. This time we were headed to Eiffel Lake, supposedly one of the most beautiful places in the Rockies. Soon we were on snow. The spring in the Rockies was late again this year. We should have learned from our adventures two years ago to bring boots instead of running shoes. Looking SE across the valley, every peak looked massive and forbidding.

We could see Morraine Lake far below; snow covered the peaks ahead and across from us.
The earliest spring plants were just beginning to flower.
Every step brought huge new peaks and cliffs into view.
We heard an avalanche across the valley, and I looked across just in time to snap a photo of the powder falling down the limestone cliffs.
The huge pines of the lower valley gave way to a larch forest, then to alpine tundra.
Looking ahead at Isis Lake, we could see that it was still frozen over. Huge snowfields barred the way, but undeterred we plowed on...in our running shoes. It was a little harum scarum over some of the steeper slopes, but we went methodically across.
The air cooled and we donned parkas; the sky threatened; the sun disappeared. We traded sweat for frost.
At the lake, the heavens opened. We sat under our umbrellas and ate the sandwich, apples, and granola bars. After a few minutes, the fun ended, and we packed up the remains and started the downward trek in the rain.
Not too far down the trail, I saw a hoary marmot...then three little one playing and fighting over some root and food in the ground. They looked and played like all kids! We must have spent fifteen minutes right next to them, taking photos and watching their antics. Momma seemed to be disinterested, but stayed within 10 feet or so.
My gazillion dollar Mammut parka was perfect. I stayed warm, dry and happy all day, taking photos, gabbing, boring Rebecca to tears with stories, and saving a bucket of memories for the next trip. Time for a beer!

Canadian Rockies Part 3 - Lake Annette

2011-07-25T19:34:00.001-07:00

Mount Temple is the highpoint in the range, 11,624'. The hike into Lake Annette at the base of the North Face of the peak is one of the most beautiful in the Rocky Mountains. Lake Louise is next door; Moraine Lake on the south side; and fine hiking trails over Sentinal Pass connect them. We had done Sentinal Pass the previous trip, so today we could knit the whole mountain together. The only negative for the day was that a forest fire in northern Alberta filled the Bow valley with smoke. This first photo of the north face is hazy and gray--just like it looked to us; there is nothing wrong with my camera.
On the side of the trail, the flowers were flourishing in the late wet spring. Pink, soft as a down feather, these blossoms caught my eye as we entered the meadow near the creek.

We hiked along a fairly level trail; when it started to rise gently I never noticed, however Rebecca did. After a while it dipped down for a mile, but I thought it was level the whole way.

Mount Temple rose up out of the forest in front of us. North faces have intrigued me since I was young: the Eiger Norwand, North Face of the Dru, North Face of the Grand Jorasses, North Face of the Grand Teton. Here in front of me is the massive North Face of Mount Temple. I looked for climbing routes, lines of access, but the whole face looked forbidding.
The bridges over the river were beautifully made. We stopped for a bite between peaks; both of us took out our cameras an dueled to snap photos of the other. Her I caught Rebecca with a smile!
After the third bridge, we started up the last mile of trail, a steeper rise through a moist forest and a switchback trail to Lake Annette. The last few yards wound through steep snow, then there it was. It was an explosive view, even with the smoke. A couple of Goldeneyes swam and dived in the lake. I took a dozen photos, trying to get the upper mountain in focus, but he best shots were of Rebecca.
Her shoes were pinching her toes. Wish I could have bought another pair right there for her, but we wrapped a bit of tape around one toe, and she was much relieved. New shoes were in her future.
We took a joint photo in front of the face, bid good bye to Mount Temple and headed back to the car. It was such a beautiful day that I hardly realized the time that passed.
Suddenly in front of us, a porcupine waddled across the trail. It was more scared of us, but splayed out the quills on its tail as we passed. Five minutes later, another crossed the trail. I followed it up into the thick of the forest where it crawled under a rotten log, so I turned on the flash and got a photo of the little guy.
Not ten minutes later, a third porcupine crossed the trail, flared its tail, then headed up a tree. It was the night of the porcupines!

I thought the route down would have been a constant grade to the car. I had forgotten the mile uphill grade; Rebecca remembered. Every rise I thought was the last one. How wrong I was. We talked and had a fine walk back to the car after one of the most beautiful hikes into the Rocky Mountains. Time for a beer!

Canadian Rockies Part 2 - Grassi Lakes

2011-07-24T18:37:00.000-07:00

Grassi Lakes, named after an early citizen in the area, are nestled in the narrow valley just above the town of Canmore. The trail up to the lakes starts from the south edge of town next to the Nordic Center, so hundreds of people every day hike the two or so miles up to the lakes. After a steep 8 miles on Friday, we opted for a shorter walk on Saturday, so although we expected crowds, we were happy for the close but beautiful trail. We passed and were passed by a lot of folks: families, hikers, Olympic athletes, tourists from Japan, locals on a Sunday walk. The first lake was stunning. It looked like one of the Yellowstone hot springs; its stunning colors were so inviting, but I didn't see anyone swimming, no garbage, no disturbance.

Moving up from the lakes we could see the peaks above us to the east and west, giant limestone crags. It would be great to climb there someday.

The water in the tiny creek looked great for drinking, but we had brought our own. It comes out of a large reservoir above, and to the SW, huge shining steel penstocks drop down the cliff face right into town. Electrical lines follow. Although this is virtual wilderness, it exists butting up against a large town with all the modern conveniences.

The lakes were stunning. I took too many photographs, but likely not nearly as many as the Japanese tourists, armed with the latest assortment of fine camera equipment, constantly snapping photos of everything.

Rock climbers have their way on the limestone cliffs on both sides of the canyon. I was intrigued and watched for a long time. Rebecca asked if I wanted to climb and why I didn't bring my shoes and chalk bag. This was a hiking trip, and I had climbed these cliffs a few years earlier with Jim Donini and Charlotte Fox when the American Alpine Club held it's annual meeting in Banff in conjunction with the Canadian Alpine Club.

We walked on up to the top where a powerful wind was blowing the dust and dirt horizontally into our eyes. Nothing to see there, just a dam, parking lot, and tough going, so we turned around and headed down.

There was an 'Easy Trail' and a 'Hard Trail'. We had come up the 'Easy Trail', so we opted to descend the 'Hard Trail', which was not hard, just hundreds of steps down a cliff side. It was worth the steps, because the views were excellent: huge waterfalls, steep mountains, vertical cliffs below our feet, and more tourists.

It was soon over; a shorter day, but this gave us time to go shopping in Canmore. Two years ago I'd spent a zillion dollars on a Mammut parka. Today I spent half a zillion on a Mammut hoody from the same store. Time for a beer!

Canadian Rockies Part 1 - Borgeau Lake

2011-07-23T22:45:00.000-07:00

Rebecca set aside a week in June for her timeshare condo in Canmore, Alberta, the gateway to Banff National Park. We planned to do a number of the classic hikes in the park, as many as the snowline and time would allow.

On Thursday we flew all night on the Red-Eye from Anchorage to Seattle, boarded a smaller plane to Calgary, rented a cool car, and headed to the supermarket to stock up for a week in the mountains. The weather was hot, the sky was flawless, and we thought we had struck alpine gold. However, we had read the weather report and knew that clouds and rain were in our future.

For our first hike we picked Eiffel Lake and Wenkchemna Pass, a rather long and steep hike, but a classic for the opportunity to get to the top of a peak and view much of the park in every direction.

The Banff-Jasper highway, Canada Route 1, is lined on both sides by high wire fences to keep the wildlife from entering the roadway. At convenient intervals, large rock and earth bridges have been constructed over the highway so the animals can cross to the river or mountains. They are architecturally beautiful, planted with spruce, pines and birch to look like natural crossings to the critters. To enter the trailhead we needed to climb a metal style and open a gate...easy for us, impossible for a bear.

Many of the trees seem to suffer from a bark beetle infestation, so we found dead trees in large groves. The forest was still stunning, and the trails were easy to walk, well maintained, and of a very comfortable grade.

Rebecca and I stopped often to photograph the flowers. In this area, beautiful lady slipper orchids were everywhere.

The floor of the forest was covered with moss, soft under foot, and fragile. The trail started out fairly even and straight, but after a while switchbacks appeared as we gained altitude. Looking out to the west, a steep cliff rose from the river below. The sounds of the highway disappeared and were overtaken by the rushing water.

Looking back across the valley we could see the vertical limestone cliffs and pinnacles, so different from the glaciers and craggy peaks above us. It was like two different worlds on either side of the Bow river.

Our first snow was the remains of an avalanche, covered with rock and debris from above.

We looked up to see our goal on the other side of the valley. We still had a way to go, having covered about 4 miles so far.

A nice bridge covered a small steep stream coming from a large snowfield above. The Canadian park trails were so civilized after 31 years in Alaska. We sat down under a tree for lunch, and the afternoon rains began. Four hikers came down the trail and reported that it was solid snow, unconsolidated and nearly waist deep ahead by Eiffel Lake. We were dressed in running shoes and by now had an 8-mile round trip for our first outing.

Back to the condo and a Cesar chicken salad washed down with a beer, energized for day two!

Sand Canyon

2011-05-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

Daph at the Canyon entrance

Sand Canyon, or as the BLM sign says, "Canyon of the Ancients", a path to spectacular Anasazi ruins in the very southwest corner of Colorado, about 20 miles west of Cortez. Daphne lives in Mancos, just up the road, but she's leaving for Philadelphia soon, so I flew down from Alaska to visit. I've always had a great time with her, so we decided to take a day-hike up a local canyon with her two hounds, Diddy and Archie. Sir Didymus, "Diddy", is a Pomeranian named for the dog in the David Bowie movie, "Labyrinth".

Looking through a hole in Castle Rock back down to the road

Right in front of the parking lot is Castle Rock. I hiked up to the backside and saw the site of a storage bin, a rock structure down the trail, and the great view of the area. All within sight of the road.

A yucca in bloom

The weather in Colorado has been cool and wet, so the grass along the river bottoms is green and the flowers are out in profusion. Cacti are all in bloom, too.

Daphne with Archie in the pack

Archie is a long-haired Chihuahua that Daph rescued from a puppy mill several years ago. In spite of their size, they are tough little guys. Archie was feeling poorly, the heat was turned up high, and we had a ways to go, so Daph made a nest in her pack and carried him in.

The Entrada sandstone showing a slight defect

The trail winds up over slickrock on the west side of the canyon. To our left short cliffs of creamy pink Entrada sandstone barred the way. The BLM has marked short "Spur" trails that lead to the Anasazi ruins that dot the way.

Scarlet Gilia

I couldn't help photographing every flower: the colors were stunning, like the Scarlet Gilia, small cacti, and bushes. If I didn't think it would overload the site, I'd have published dozens.

Diddy on the precipice

About two miles out the trail overlooks Sand Canyon, 250 feet below. Diddy was fascinated, but Daphne called him back from the lip. I was fascinated, too!

The onion shaped Anasazi house

All the ruins were spectacular, little homes and granaries set in alcoves in the cliffs. One looked like an oven, or an onion. I is my favorite setting.

Looking back at Sleeping Ute Mountain

We settled in for lunch and looked south to Ute Mountain, a high pinion and juniper covered peak. On a cooler day I'd like to hike to the top and get a view of the whole countryside. To the east is the long Mesa Verde, home to the National Park Service park where some of the most profound, intact, and complex cliff dwellings are located. Our canyon today was special, too. At one point we saw the outline of a kiva, a circular structure that is generally thought to be for ceremonial purposes. The modern Hopi and Zuni are the descendants of the ancients who built these structures between 2000 and 700 years ago, so the modern kivas give archeologists a clue to their use.

Daphne in the house

I photographed Daphne in one of the little structures to give a sense of scale here. The masonry, composed of sandstone blocks and red mud, often mixed with organic material, is still strong and intact, because the dwellings are sheltered under cliffs and haven't suffered the damage rain and the elements would inflict. The upright slabs of storage bins poked up through the dirt.

Lunch with the Anasazi

The floor of this little room was built on the sloping sandstone ledge, then filled with sand up to the point of Daphne's shoe. Diddy hung in the cool shade of the corner out of the afternoon sun, which was likely a cooking 80 plus degrees.

Cactus flowers

These little barrel shaped cacti were in exotic full bloom and sucked us in until we were down on our knees with the camera inches away.

A spectacular example of Anasazi architecture

Many of the cliff dwellings are multi-storied, or on several levels in one sheltered alcove, as above. Small steps, "Moki Steps", are carved into the rock to facilitate passage to the higher levels, or wooden ladders, still in place and strong after at least 700 years are used.

Diddy on the trail

The day wore on, we leisurely inspected every small path and ruin, but by late afternoon we turned around and headed back to the car. Time flew by as we checked out more flowers, more stones, and admired the scenery. The dogs seemed not to notice the distance. Archie, much improved, and likely a little barn sour, headed home like a cockroach, right on my heels.

End of the day!

The Tool Chest

2011-04-11T23:51:00.000-07:00

Laminated pine planks were on close-out sale at Home Depot last fall. I couldn't resist. I have wanted to make a tool chest similar to the two my father had in the basement when I was young. I believe his father, an electrician, had made them, although they could have been much older. Dad's were about 12" high, 18" deep, and 30" long if my dim memory serves. My brother Tony has one of the old chests, and I could have called and asked, however, I still remember almost every detail even though it has been over 40 years since I opened one. These old chests had a beveled top, a heavy lid, sliding trays so that you could reach down and get any tool without lifting a tray out. I knew what I wanted to make, and now I had some fine wood to saw: several 18" X 48" boards.

I had made a sled with a box-joint jig for my big table saw, with inserts to produce box joints of 1/2" and 3/4" for the most common sizes of dimensioned wood. This pine was 3/4" stock, so I decided on making the main box 18" X 18" X 24" with 3/4" box joints. Rather than nail on the bottom, like my grandfather's tool chest, I used a sheet of plywood fitted into a dadoed groove. No matter how heavy, the bottom wouldn't fall out. Here is the main box with joints glued.

Next, I hand-cut a dovetail joints in the corners of 3" boards for the base trim, glued it to the box, and beveled the top so it wouldn't have a sharp edge.

For the lid, I joined two 1x10 boards, planed them smooth, added a 1 1/2" trim around the edge with mitered joints and set in on the box with two brass hinges attached flush at the back. With the lid set straight on the top of the box, I added a mitered 3" trim of hemlock around the upper edge, creating a lip at the top of the box for a tight closure.

A small piece of walnut has been sitting in my little scrap box, so I planed it into a rhomboid handle, glued it on the front of the lid so it would be easier to lift. Then I screwed a brass chain onto the lid and box to keep the lid from falling backwards and breaking the hinges.

Now time to put in the trays. I made 3 trays: two for the upper level, resting on a half-inch board fastened inside at each end, with a lip at the bottom to hold the third tray, which slides underneath the other two. I made the trays out of hemlock, a very straight-grained wood with a little color to it. The bottom tray is one inch shorter then the top trays so it will sit on the rails underneath. My grandfather's trays had little dividers in them, so I put dividers in the bottom tray; I could always add dividers.

For a finish, I applied Minwax 'Natural' to keep the blond of the pine as natural as possible, then I hand rubbed several coats of tung oil into the wood for a long-lasting hard finish. The trays took on a beautiful red color, complementing the light pine. I made the box for Rebecca who has been such a wonderful friend the past three years. On Saturday I delivered it to her home in Wasilla where she immediately put it to good use as a repository for the train set her grand-children play with.

Afterward we skied at Hatcher Pass, but forgot the boots, so we walked on the new snow until our ears froze. We thought it was going to be so warm and spring-like, but it was mid-winter and the snow was fluffy powder, still!!! Then we drove to Palmer and had a fine dinner at Turkey Red, our favorite restaurant in the valley.

CHARLOTTE ON ICE

2010-12-10T16:27:00.000-08:00

Charlotte called: “Want to go climb ice tomorrow?” We talked for a while about friends, climbing, and plans. It had been a great summer of climbing, biking, hiking, friends, family, but here I was in Ouray now contemplating climbing on ice. Living in Alaska I climb more ice than anything else, but climbing with Charlotte is always a treat, so I was psyched to go. She arrived on the minute, picked me up, and headed up the Camp Bird road where we met her good friend, Chris.

Camp Bird Road - ice climbs abound

I rubbernecked the entire ride, eyeing ‘The Ribbon’, ‘The Talisman’, ‘Birdbrain’ and other climbs on the north side of the creek. Arriving at the parking lot we knew we’d have most of the climbs to ourselves; a 10 am alpine start in Ouray guarantees solitude. As we hiked up the road, your sea-level guide was gasping like a guppy in bad water; we were near 9,000’, and I, a member of AARP, was wearing boots and carrying an alpine pack. Two of the Skylight climbs were fat. We stopped at the first one, ‘Slip Slidin Away’. Chris made his apologies and departed to mend his incipient bronchitis. Charlotte was left with me.

Our Goal - “Slip Slidin’ Away’”

Dropping the pack, I felt relieved and a burst of energy impelled me to volunteer for the first lead. Charlotte’s dog, “Max”, was certainly full of enthusiasm for the fabric toy and never tires of fetching it. I think this is why Charlotte takes friends climbing.

Giving Instructions to Max

The approach gully was warm, temperature of 42 degrees F. Snow balled up in my crampons in spite of a fine antibot plate. It would be truly embarrassing to slip down this pile of rocks and ice. I felt good to be in the mountains and on ice again.

The Approach is Sketchy

After saddling myself with too much gear for a first lead of the season I headed up. The first ice was plastic, and I cruised. What looked like a nice vertical curtain from the bottom, at the top was actually a sheet about a foot from from touching town, hollow at the back. I placed tools, was careful, but still couldn’t get good feet. After laying a finger aside of my nose...

Cheerful at the start!

Charlotte cruised up; we rappelled the pitch, and coiled Chris’ twin and now soaked ropes.

En Rappel

The next climb, ‘Chockstone Chimneys’ was another hundred yards up the road. Charlotte’s turn to take the sharp end. I slithered under the first chockstone, remembering Aaron Ralston. Canyoneering a couple of months ago, my friend Bob called wiggly chockstones “Ralstones”. I hoped none of these monsters fitted the category. The approach looked simple, so I put the hunk of rope over my shoulder and started up, finding a chimney, and two ice pitches on the way. I felt like the young girls who carried balanced water jugs on their head in Egypt many years ago. I had fine posture

All Roped Up and Ready to Lead

Charlotte was chomping at the bit. And up she went, no problem. I tried to take photos with one hand when she put in an ice screw. It’s an art. As Donini said, “I always have you on a tight belay...unless I’m taking your picture.”

“Chockstone Chimneys”

It’s an awesome spot. I peeked under the giant chockstone trying to formulate a good photo in my mind. After the climb I took a few, but it felt almost impossible to do justice to the scene. When I have a free afternoon, I’d like to hike up the cracks in these walls and explore; it’s that kind of place.

The Giant Chockstone

Placing the First Screw

Charlotte was fast, and careful, placing screws a good intervals, but moving up gracefully. The climbing looked fun as she cheerfully called down to me how great the ice was, how plastic, how solid. Some folks tire of ice-climbing’s repetitive movements, but somehow I never have. It seemed Charlotte hadn’t either.

Charlotte Nears the Top of the Pitch

We ‘Yo-yo’d’ the pitch a few times, then headed down for lunch at the brew pub. This was a short day, to break me into the season, not trash me. I could have climbed all afternoon, but now I was cruising. I looked across at ‘The Ribbon’ again thinking I should climb it this weekend. Charlotte hugged Max. We found his toy. It was a great day.

The Joyful Reunion with Max

Geezers on Albright Peak

2010-08-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

We needed a few hundred thousand dollars...to finish the little film we started a year ago in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Jenny had arranged for a fund-raiser at a friend's home, and we had agreed to meet and help her raise the money.

I had driven down the Alaska Highway in a large moving van two weeks before. My son Thor had offered me a car to drive the short 806 miles from Portland to attend the event. The Tetons seemed so close, so I hopped in the car and blasted cross-country, being somewhat amazed that the distance seemed quite a bit further than I had remembered it two years ago.

Ted had proposed a short hike up Death Canyon, an ominous choice for "The Geezers", and possibly a climb to the top of Static Peak. But at 7:00 am. We rebelled. At our age, 8:00 am mirrored reality a bit closer. My niece, Liz, called to say she had seen my Facebook note that I was in Jackson Hole; she would join us. When I reached the parking lot, Irene and Dan were waiting, packs on the back. Irene is one of the great climbers from my youth, having put up the most beautiful climb in the Tetons in 1957: "Irene's Arete." She is still full of energy! One by one the entourage trickled in: Rick in a Honda Odyssey; Ted, Holly, and Jenny in the Prius. I could hear the engine and the screeching of tires on the gravel; Liz driving the truck slid in with Allen and Ammon.

Irene and Dan, nattily attired, led off up the trail. She knew exactly where to turn off the main trail up Stewart Draw and the old horse trail that would lead us directly to the Static Divide. Soon the trail disappeared, but Irene and Dan held forth. I, coming from sea level, was panting like a chicken that is too hot. There was no trail, but Irene navigated from bush to rock, over the creek, and seemed to know every step of the way.

Irene leads Rick and Dan through the vertical bushes

The day warmed and the sun beat on my neck. I had presciently worn shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, an entirely different uniform than I would have been seen in in the '60's, due to climate change. It is no more apparent than in the high mountains and the arctic, the two areas I've inhabited all my adult life.

Upward through the rocks on a bear trail

Voila! Static Peak popped up over the western horizon. The final push to the divide led through a beautiful meadow filled with daisies, lupine, and wild geraniums. I had promised Liz that I was only going on a 4-hour hike, so she could confidently tell Allen to pick her up a few hours later. I had lied. It was now noon, and the group was divided about going up Albright Peak to the east, or Static Peak to the west. We had lunch at the saddle, took a hundred photos, dithered and talked.

Dan, Irene, Rick, Ralph, Holly, Ted, Jenny

Irene and Dan headed for Static Peak; the rest of us went up Albright, a new summit for all but 'Yours Truly'. The cliff face to the north was awesome, and the route ran right along the edge. A slip would have dire consequences, so everyone watched their footing as I coached and cajoled the crowd. The summit was beautiful, vistas in every direction: Yellowstone to the north, Jackson Hole below to the east, Driggs, Idaho, to the west. The Grand Teton loomed behind the group. But, just a month before, 17 people had been caught in a lightning storm on the Grand, and an all-day rescue effort by the park service had made national headlines. A huge thunderhead seemed to appear almost suddenly overhead. We skedaddled down the ridge.

The summit:
Rick, Ammon, Ralph
Jenny, Holly, Ted, Liz

At the summit we discussed the merits of descending directly down the "trail" we had ascended, or going the long 8-mile trail down the west side of the Static Divide into Death Canyon. What the hell; go the scenic route down into the canyon. I was so far beyond the 4-hour mark I had Liz call her friend and apologize. Down, down, down. What had taken a few hours to ascend now turned into another 4-hour march, albeit through incredible country. Switchback after switchback down a trail built into the steep mountainside 1920, still beautiful, still strong.

Liz & Ammon on the Static Divide trail: seven miles to go!

We finally arrived at the parking lot about 3:30 in the afternoon. We reunited at 'Dornan's' in Moose for the chuckwagon dinner. No one else showed up for a long time, so I had dinner with Dick and Barb Barker, listened to the Hootenanny, and waited for "The Geezers". Beer on tap was excellent; I had a pint of my favorite, the IPA. And, as is only right, we seniors closed the bar!

In the Tetons with Wister

2010-08-23T14:27:00.001-07:00

He’s not Owen Wister, author of “The Virginian”, but a fine dog. And not even my dog; I’m just his buddy. He is Amy’s darling.

Each year I have visited Jackson Hole to climb mountains, hike, and visit old friends. My friends Forrest and Amy have been my hosts at their home in Teton Village. Whenever I show up Wister is my hiking companion. The old hound is fourteen years old, graying at the muzzle, part Black Lab, Greyhound, and Border Collie. Wister even has his own Facebook page: ‘Wister the uber-mountain-mutt’. Photos show Wister atop dozens of Wyoming peaks, including over 50 peaks in the Wind River Range of Wyoming, including six ascents of Gannett Peak, the highest mountain in Wyoming.

Our favorite jaunt is Mount Taylor: drive over Teton Pass, down the west side to the Coal Creek parking lot and hike up the Wilderness trail. So, when Forrest and Amy felt their 3-day 3-peak marathon tour of the Wind Rivers last weekend might be too much for the old guy, Wister and I hopped into the Subaru and headed for Teton Pass. But first an unannounced visit to Dick, my fine friend in Wilson, Wyoming. Dick and I started climbing mountains together, and his father, Rich, was our mentor. Fortunately my surprise visit prevented him from cleaning the house or mowing the lawn. We walked up to his deck and started in on the coffee; Wister made friends with the three other big dogs in the yard. After a short while our friend B.J. drove in and joined the coffee klatch. We hadn’t seen each other in years and reminisced about a kayaking trip we took in the old Ford Econoline 35 years ago when the dogs rolled in something terribly dead outside of Las Vegas. Soon Peter and Diana arrived; Dick now had no chance of working. After serious discussion and plans for dinner, I left the group and headed over Teton Pass.

Ralph, Peter, B.J., and Dick with cell phones

The Senior Geezers in Wilson, WY

The trail up Coal Creek towards Mount Taylor passes into the Jedediah Smith Wilderness area steeply up through Douglas fir, lodgepole pines, and blue spruce, cutting across meadows of wildflowers and bushes in full bloom.

Coal Creek

About 2 1/2 miles up, the trail crosses the Coal Creek, and since Wister has done this hike a number of times, at least three with me, he knows it’s time to cool off and rehydrate.

Wister in the brook. Time to cool off!

The meadow is expansive and covered in sticky geraniums, daisies, arnica, and other flowers. Hundreds of tiny blue butterflies fluttered above the mud of the stream.

The brilliant blue butterflies next to the water

Wister cooled his belly, lapped up the water and regrouped for the final push to the summit.

Wister gets a drink

The trail goes up at an aggressive angle, and the heat cooked us quickly. I started to sweat and Wister panted. Half-way up, Wister found a snowbank in the old rock glacier where a chunk if ice had formerly melted out leaving a huge depression that fills with winter snow and doesn’t melt till fall, if ever.

Wister finds snow

He looked at me, waiting till I stopped, then he splayed out on the snow to cool off his under belly. I’m sure he had done this hundreds of times, and he wanted to know that I knew that this stop was the protocol.

And wants to nap in the heat of the day

When I sat down to take a drink, Wister took it as an indication that he could take a short nap on the cool bed. I hated to wake him...

Asters

So, I took the camera and walked a few feet to take photos of the brilliant display of wildflowers in bloom. It had been a cool summer with lots of precipitation, and the blossoms were at their peak, even at 10,000 feet.

Wild Geraniums

Geraniums, columbines, whole meadows of buttercups, lupine, asters, arnica, daisies, yarrow, Indian paintbrush (both brilliant red and yellow varieties).

Onward and upward through the flowers and boulders.

Even though it was the heat of the day, we were of a mindset, “the summit or die!”

Entire meadows were in full bloom.

The trail wandered through the glacial cirques, then switchbacked up the hillside through spruce and pine trees. Near the top we stopped in the shade of an ancient whitebark pine, likely 500 years old, twisted by the wind, cold, and sun. Wister loved the shade and plopped down in the cool flowers and bushes while I grabbed a drink of water from the bottle in my pack. I tried to dribble some on my companion’s tongue, but he seemed not to care.

Wister nestles into the bushes under a tree to escape the heat...I follow.

The whitebark pines have been under attack by a pine-bark beetle for many years now, and some of these giants on the ridgetops likely are over 1,000 years old. Now they are dead or dying. The Park Service and Forest Service have attached little pouches to some to the trees to attract the beetles so they will not bore a hole and lay the eggs which turn into the larvae that girdle the tree bark and kill the whole tree.

Dead Whitebark Pine trees, killed by the pine bark beetle.

Up, up, up to the summit! We reached the final ridge where only a half mile and a few hundred feet separated us from the summit. I looked down through the bands of sandstone, grass, limestone, and other strata. These old sedimentary layers cap the mighty granite pluton of the Teton granite underneath. Taylor Mountain is the furthest south peak in the Teton Range.

Looking at the summit; the banded sedimentary layers below.

Even along the summit ridge the wildflowers were superb: gentians, sky pilots, arnica, buttercups, lupine, geraniums...

The blue ‘Explorers Gentian’ sits between sandstone slabs on the summit.

Wister knew the summit, lay down and enjoyed the moment. I scanned the horizon in every direction. The Grand, Middle, and South Tetons, Buck Mountain, and Mount Wister loomed to the north.

Wister makes the summit for the umteenth time. The Grand Teton twenty five miles in the background.

Pierre’s Hole to the West. Jackson Hole to the East. A huge jet airport reminded me that this was not the wilderness of 100 years ago. Even the wilderness of my youth. Now multi-million dollar homes filled every grove and overlook the river banks, filling former hay pastures and fields.

The view of Teton Valley from the top

After a brief stay on the summit we were both ready to find some water. Wister knew the routine and headed down leading the way. He seemed to feel I knew what I was doing and let me set the pace. Once more into the drink, cooling off the belly and loading up on the stream water for the final descent. Now, off to dinner at Dick’s. I hope he got that place cleaned up!

Good buddies!

Biking the Columbia Gorge

2010-08-20T08:39:00.000-07:00

“Dad, you and Cathy should go bike from Hood River to The Dalles”, Thor said. I had driven down the Alaska Highway with Cathy in her ‘Jumbo JH’ U-Haul Moving van from Anchorage to Portland and was enjoying the warm sun and fine weather. I keep a vintage handmade Italian road bike made by Ciocc at Thor’s house, so I don’t need to transport it every time I head south. So Cathy and I drove to Hood River and headed east on old Highway 30 above the town towards Mosier. The old road is closed to all but foot and bike traffic and has been newly resurfaced, so it’s a dream on a road bike. The first section rises steeply, and the day was hot. Below us the Columbia river runs west to its mouth at the Pacific. I thought of Lewis and Clark in the region, over 200 years ago.

The Columbia River below

Cathy is in fine shape and pulled ahead. I’d been dormant for a month, and my thermostat has been set to ‘winter for the past 10 months, so I suffered mightily pulling the first couple of miles uphill in the hot sun. Cathy muttered something about ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen...’

Cathy

The old road sits high on the hillside. Constructed in the 1920’s, it is a marvel of engineering and landscape architecture, coming from an era when aesthetics and form meant as much as utility and function. The sidewalls and overlook terraces of the road were built by hand with local stone mortared into place. The road follows natural contours and weaves through the countryside; little scenic pullouts provide a view of the Columbia Gorge and surrounding landforms: The great Cascade volcanoes, Mount St. Helens and Mount Adams to the north, and Mount Hood to the south.

Yours Truly with the vintage Ciocc bike: sew-up tires, downtube shifters, pink paint job!

It is a popular venue with the local cyclists. Hood river has become a thriving artistic and resort community. Brewpubs and fine restaurants dot the street where Patagonia, bike stores, and sailboard shops predominate. Real estate is pricey. I asked Thor what all the seemingly idle young folks did for money. “Parents”, he answered.

The bike trail and overlook, a popular place

After five miles, the road is open to cars, but since it doesn’t go anyplace, few were seen until we coasted downhill to Mosier, a sleepy little burg with a couple of shops. We decided to push uphill another six miles to Rowena Crest where the overlook was said to be excellent. The wind was in our back and we made good time.

Looking upriver from the Rowena Crest

At the Crest we had another decision to make: turn around in the heat of the day and head for a cool lunch somewhere, or take the Tour de France-like hairpin turns down 2 1/2 miles to Rowena just to say we did it. The architect of the road built the grades to no more than 5% and the turning radius that would allow a semi-truck to negotiate them. We couldn’t resist. How would we face our kids if we didn’t do the Rowena Loops. Down we rocketed. I worried about a bulge in one tire, so I applied the brakes on the turns. Cathy did not! We exceeded the speed limit, usually difficult on a bike, but could not resist. At the bottom we simply turned around and started the long pedal back uphill. We almost did it a second time.

The Rowena Loops

Now we were heading back west into the wind. The hot air pounded hard into our faces and dried the sweat instantly, leaving a salt crust on our skin. We even pedaled downhill, otherwise the wind would stop the bike. At Mosier we stopped at the only shop: it sold ice cream and Porsche cars. I’m always interested in these little businesses that say things like, ‘Tanning Salon and Gun Store’. We needed water desperately, so we ordered a mocha milk shake, and although it tasted great, it sat like a bag of marbles in my stomach. A glass of water would have been better. The woman filled our bottles for the rest of the ride. I was intrigued by the Porsche shop filled with memorabilia from years gone by. What a cool place!

Ice Cream and Porsche store in Rowena

Only six miles to go till beer and pizza at the Double Mountain brewery in Hood River. They make the best pizza, and the IPA is killer! As we sat at the sidewalk table, the waitress made conversation and asked her if she were local. ‘Yes, I’ve been here four years’, probably an old timer by resort town standards. At the neighboring table a loud drunk talked about how Memphis was so great and how Oregon sucked. I almost suggested he return, but the pleasure of the day prevented any unpleasantness. It was so fine we will likely do it again!

A HIKE ACROSS ALASKA or HOW I STAY YOUNG

2010-05-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

My friend Forrest called this spring, "Ralph, how would you like to help me and Michael. We are flying in to meet Andrew Skurka who is hiking across Alaska, and we need a ride."

My friend Forrest and wife Amy live in Teton Village, Wyoming, and they are first-class folks. Amy tended the bar at Moose Entreprises for a dozen years, was Assistant Director at the Murie Center, worked in finance, and is now the director of the Teton Raptor Center. And I can't keep up ith her on a hike... Forrest is a bundle of energy, a former Exum mountain guide, Alpine Ascents guide, and now director of the Winter Wildlands Alliance. He always has a great project going. The two of them are some of my best friends ever. So, Forrest knew Andrew, who knew National Geographic, who hired Michael. Michael is a National Geographic photographer on assignment to photograph Andrew. And Forrest asked me to drive them to Talkeetna. That's how I got involved.

Forrest fuels up

Forrest arrived in town, and mi casa es su casa for both of us. I love having Forrest visit; he imparts a huge amount of energy and enthusiasm that gets me out and going. At the Bear Tooth Grille he regaled me with stories of his recent adventures and the work of the Alliance. The next day we met Michael at the Sheraton and loaded his ton of photographic gear in the trusty Subaru. Michael, originally from the Skagit Valley, Washington, has a masters degree from Ohio University in Visual Arts and a bag-full of cameras. He is spending a year in China living out of a van and documenting the changing way of life there. But National Geographic called and pulled him off his project for a few months to follow Andrew. You can check out Michael's exquisite photos at: http://www.mcbphotos.com/

We were off: picked up camera batteries and headed to Talkeetna, the hub for mountain climbers going up Mount McKinley. Paul, the owner of Talkeetna Air Taxi would fly them across the Alaska Range, drop them at a deserted airstrip in hopes that Andrew would arrive there after skiing about 500 miles south from Kotzebue, the Inupiat village above the Arctic Circle.

Michael downloads photos on the back of the Subaru

I had heard of Andrew many times and of his ultra-marathon hiking adventures. Among the 23,000 miles he has hiked in the past 8 years, his projects include a 6,875-mile Great Western Loop linking the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico, then back up the Continental Divide trail back to Canada. And the 7,778-mile Sea-to-Sea route from Cape Gaspe, Quebec, to Cape Alava, Washington. National Geographic named him "Adventurer of the Year". Besides his hiking, he raced the "Leadville 100" for a lark and came in second. You can check out his bio and hikes at: http://www.andrewskurka.com/AK10/index.php

Andrew models his new duds

The two of them were all energy and enthusiasm, so after paying my respects to the wonderful women at Talkeetna Air Taxi, I headed home, my work done. A few days later I got a phone call from the Satellite Phone. Boot problems! They were flying back and need me to find new ski boots for both of them. Bummer!!! For a wild two days, we shopped every ski store and Thrift Shop and found only only one pair of boots for Michael. So, we bought a hunk of steel, and I set about making a new steel toe for Forrest's boots in my shop. They worked beautifully in the shop, but I worried about their trail-worthiness. Back to Talkeetna we went for Paul to deposit them at Wonder Lake to meet Andrew and go with him over Anderson Pass and the middle of the Alaska Range.

A week later the phone rang: they were in Cantwell, 210 miles north, and needed a pick-up. I hopped in the mighty Subaru and headed out, finding them with Andrew at the post office, opening packages full of food, shelter, and clothing for the next leg of the trip. I offered fresh bananas and a dozen donuts, welcome food after the freeze-dried meals they had been eating.

The Crew lounging in front of the Cantwell Post Office

Snow patches lingered in the shade, but the valley bottom was mostly snow-free, so Andrew changed into his new gear: thin nylon pants, shirt, and running shoes. He repacked all the gear his parents had sent to the Cantwell PO, organized all the food into a waterproof bag, stuffed the new sleeping bag and stove. He checked his itinerary, neatly printed out in the map folder; he has scheduled the entire year-long trip by the day into 30-mile segments. Then he sat down with his new cell phone and called home, reassuring his folks that he was on schedule and doing well. We headed to Tsesyu cafe, talked with the new owner who cooked great Mexican cuisine in the tiny village of about 100 folks. The hikers wolfed down the chow and wanted more!

Andrew unpacks his mail & regroups for the next leg

Andrew started walking north. Forrest, Michael, and I hopped into the Subaru and headed south, Michael to Talkeetna for aerial photos, Forrest and I to Anchorage. Now the energy of the group was split, but continued at high speed like a split atom. The next day Forrest suggested we grab Brad and climb up to the top of Hatcher Pass. The day was sunny and warm, so we climbed a peak and skied the creamy spring corn snow back to the car. The whole way Forrest talked with Brad about the current management plan for the area, irrepressible in his enthusiasm and ideas. When we got home, Forrest began planning a float trip down the wild Six-Mile Creek for the next day with Roman. I needed a day of rest!

Seward Pub Crawl

2010-05-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

The day looked grim, just like the day before. Cold, dank, miserable. But I have a little house, and the four of us were stuffed inside with a huge pile of mountain climbing gear piled several feet high covering the living room floor. We had to get out. Looking south, the clouds seemed to be lifting, so I asked the guys if they would like to go to Seward, the tiny sea port 130 miles SE of Anchorage.

A quick detour up to Flattop to check out the panorama of the Alaska Range: Denali and Foraker in the north; and the start of the Ring of Fire down the Alaska Peninsula: the giant volcanoes Mt. Spurr, Redoubt, and Iliamna in the west. Still a lot of snow!

Chad One phones Gina; Mike is all grins

My guests were two disabled veterans and an out-of-work photojournalist, in Anchorage for a few days before flying into the Ruth Glacier to climb the dreaded Moose's Tooth, a massive granite monolith in the foreground of Mount McKinley. Chad One had lost his leg after an IED explosion in Iraq; Chad Two, had lost his leg in a car accident. Mike was a bundle of energy photographing everything his eyes landed on.

Ralph, Chad One, Chad Two, Mike
Girdwood, Alaska

The drive south along Turnagain Arm is one of the most awe-inspiring journeys in Alaska. The massive tide was emptying the basin, so the crew wanted to stop and watch it flow past. Above us thirty Dall sheep sat lazily on the mountainside in the sun. Six eyes rubber-necked on the endless mountains as I kept my eyes on the road and rocketed south in the little Subaru. We stopped for lunch in Girdwood, where our Russian waiter, an amateur photographer, bonded instantly with Mike who had him take a photo of us with his huge Nikon professional camera.

Seward, a little jewel at the head of Resurrection Bay. Steep cliffs line the bay as far as the eye can see. Nary a tourist in sight. A stiff cool breeze blew across the water, but we drove to the end of the road, hopped out of the car and the crew boulder-hopped down to the water's edge while the gulls screeched and swarmed overhead, trying to steal a loon's catch.

A brew sounded good, so we walked the street and found the Seward Alehouse where, joy of joys, they had Moose's Tooth IPA on tap. The bartender's thick Welsh brogue got us talking, and soon we were a close happy bunch.

Mike, Chad & Chad with the Welshman

However they didn't serve dinner, so we wandered out and checked the menus of the restaurants on the block. Holy Shit!! They were all way overpriced; I couldn't believe someone could charge $28 for halibut fish and chips. I had often eaten at Christo's Palace, also overpriced, but likely the best pizza in town, so I took the group there.

Christo's Palace, Seward, Alaska

Walking in from the dead cold spring to the warmth of At the back of the restaurant, a full-width bar built in 1890's and brought up from San Francisco in the 1980's covers the back of the restaurant. Made of mahogany and cherry, it was originally painted with black lacquer.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, the restaurant was destroyed by fire ten years ago, but the bar was saved. It now sits restored with new mirrors and original wood finish. Complementing the scene was Amber, a local woman with the perfect personality for our embarrassing quartet.

Amber at the bar

I noticed the wine bottles in the rack were covered in dust. Either it is only for looks, or no one in Seward drinks wine, just beer and whiskey. Likely the latter.

The cherry lion's head keystone in the bar

Carved wooden salmon adorn the south wall

Chad, Chad, and Mike enjoying a brew

I was the designated driver and took the time to take a number of photos. No tourists at this time of year, and business was slow, so we got to know Amber, the joy of the evening.

Mike is in love; Amber is a good sport!

The clam chowder, calamari, and shrimp covered Ceasar salad were excellent and within budget for the mountain climbers. We wandered onto the street in desperate need of exercise. Mike raced around town photographing Chad Two along the beach, in the street, by storefronts...

Mikes snaps Chad snapping Resurrection Bay

Seward is the start of the Iditarod Trail, where the serum run of 1924 began. A dogsled marks the spot on the south beach. Mountains rise in the distance and I dream of skiing them.

Mile 0 of the Iditarod trail

Finally I realize we need to head home. A two and a half hour ride to go, and it's 9:00pm already. As we pass Portage, a cow moose leads her calf into the swamp in search of something green

A cow moose leads her calf to safety

A serious sunset caused us to stop constantly along Turnagain Arm. Mike must have taken a thousand shots. Even I, the driver, nearly filled my SD card with sunsets.

The brilliant sunset at 11:00 pm
Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet

BRUSSELS SPROUTS

2010-02-12T09:06:00.001-08:00

Femme Forte recently took me to task over my remark that "...I was forced to eat Brussels sprouts." Her quibble has bothered me ever since, so I decided to go boldly forth and attempt to develop a taste for the little member of the cabbage family. I had eaten them only one way: boiled, with an acrid aftertaste resembling chewed tinfoil.

They are cute, tiny little cabbages grown atop a long stalk with a few large leaves at the top. They were so named because of selective breeding of the cabbage in Belgium in the thirteenth century, and like their larger forbears, there are red and green varieties. When selecting them at the market, late fall and early winter are the prime time. Look for dense, small sprouts, preferably about 3/4 to 1 inch in diameter.

I bought about 16 heads at the grocery store, plopped them onto the counter of my little galley, and prepared to overcome my life-long distaste for the tiny nodules.

The galley at Chez Tingey

First, I cut off any remnant of the stem, leaving only the final leaf bud, then sliced them lengthwise into 1/8" pieces.

A sharp knife and 1/8" slices

I use a cast iron or stainless steel fry pan. I drizzled olive oil in the bottom of the fry pan and sauteed the slices for several minutes. Then I poured in 1/4 inch of chicken stock, about 1 cup. If you use chicken bouillon mix, remember it is salty, so go lightly on any additional salt!

Brussels sprouts in chicken stock

I added chopped fresh thyme, fresh ground pepper, a dash of salt, and squeezed in a lemon slice. Cooking for another 7-10 minutes rendered the liquid into a slightly emulsified sauce.

All salted, peppered, and reduced
and ready to serve

Last summer my friend Rebecca and I caught a mess of halibut in Cook Inlet, and I still have a freezer full, so I thawed a fillet, sliced off the skin, washed and dried the fish, and chopped it into bite-sized chunks. I have a wonderful old Griswold cast iron deep-sided chicken fryer into which I poured enough canola oil to deep fry the fish rolled in corn flour. A simple but beautiful meal.

The deep fried halibut chunks

Rebecca brought a bottle of red "Rebecca" home-made Shiraz. Gone from the sprouts was the acrid metallic taste I remembered from my childhood. Can't wait to try it again with a mutton dish.

Rebecca at the feast

So, Candace, this sprout's for you!