Wild By Nature

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXV)

2010-01-08T01:55:00.009-05:00

Part Twenty-five: Mountains to the Left of Me, Mountains to the Right, Here I Am, Stuck in the Valley - Great View!

On to the Owens, my favorite ‘lower 48’ valley. To get there though I must take Route 190 through the west part of the park and it was closed this morning due to ice and snow in a mountain pass. I stop at the ranger station to check the status - it has been reopened. Yay! What a great road to drive, all twisty and turny with roller coaster ups and downs, and always surrounded by beautiful lonely desert scenery as far as the eye can see that changes with the elevation – everything from creosote bush and mesquite to sage and Joshua trees.

After leaving Death Valley I head north on I-395 through the Owens Valley, the deepest mountain valley in the lower 48 states. In the town of Lone Pine, the elevation rises from 3,733 feet in the center of town to 14,505 feet on the summit of Mount Whitney – that’s an almost 11,000 foot difference!

I can’t help but be in a great mood – I-395 is one of the most scenic drives anywhere and I do love it so. To my left the incomparable Sierra-Nevada Mountains loom like a massive, impressive 400-mile long snow-covered stone wall; several peaks including Whitney top out at over 14,000 feet.To my right the Inyo–White Mountain ranges rise to similar lofty heights (White Mountain tops out at 14,242 feet) but that is about all they have in common, they are arid, brown and look more like big, soft rounded hills than mountains providing a nice contrast to the Sierras.

The Sierras rise muscularly from the valley floor, an impressive escarpment of towering jagged granite spires. They catch and wring out moist Pacific breezes; hundreds of green river and creek corridors spill out of these mountains. Some places in the Sierras regularly receive more than 500 inches of snowfall per year; the town of Tamarack once recorded 884 inches in one winter! That’s 73.7 feet! Another year they received 390 inches of snow in just one month – that’s an average of 13 inches every day in that month!

The Inyo–White Mountains by contrast are in the rain shadow of the Sierras and receive on average less than 12 inches of precipitation a year, most of which arrives as snow in the winter. On a summer's day the amount of precipital moisture in the air is about half a millimeter, the lowest ever recorded anywhere on earth. But these very hardships contribute to these mountains producing trees so old they surpass the majestic Giant Sequoia of the Sierra by more than a millennium! The bristlecone pines are in fact the oldest trees on earth - a specimen of this species nicknamed "Methuselah", is 4,700 years old! Its exact location is kept secret, since an even older specimen, nicknamed "Prometheus", was cut down in 1964.

I practically have ‘The Owens’ to myself. Not many people travel here at this time of year (with one exception, those traveling to ski at Mammoth Ski Resort) because mountain access is limited at best; most of the roads that go up and into the Sierras are now closed, buried in snow and will not reopen until June. But I have no intention of going up into the mountains, I just want to camp at their base and admire them. In my opinion, this is the best time of year to see them, when they’re wearing their full winter coat - from late spring through fall, they look blotchy, kind of like an animal shedding its winter coat.

Next: Wasting Film – Just Can’t Help Myself!

A Christmas Hike

2009-12-26T14:41:00.007-05:00

It has become a ritual. I have no family in the area to get together with (they’re spread out from Florida to Texas to California), so I always go for a substantial hike (a snowshoe if there is enough snow) every year on Christmas or the day after. And this year is no different.

It’s a miserable day out there – temps in the mid-30s with a cold rain pouring down, but that won’t stop me. I lace up my hiking boots, throw on a rain slicker and head out, Sprague Brook Park my destination. There is a most wonderful trail in this park; it follows the ridge high above the creek and its myriad tributaries and has great views but what I really like about it is that it weaves in and out of old growth forest.

I set out at a little after 2pm giving me about 2 ½ hours to complete the 6+ mile hike before darkness sets in. Normally that is plenty of time but today it’s a trudge because there is 3 or 4 inches of mushy snow on the ground making every step a challenge - especially slippery going up or downhill – which is much of the hike.

This is truly a bleak day, the kind they invented the word 'bleak' to describe. The winter sun, which is already low in the sky this time of year, is completely blocked out by thick, gray overcast; the light is so muted it feels like twilight in the middle of the afternoon. To add to the atmosphere, curtains of icy rain blow sideways in the gusty winds; it’s a challenge to keep the hood on my head, the winds try again and again to tear it off. There is no keeping dry, the wet quickly makes its way down inside my boots, jacket and hood; before I know it, I’m wet through and through.

Nevertheless, I’m lovin’ every step! I say a bad day hiking is still better than a week of good days inside. I’m just getting to know this trail as I only discovered it earlier this year so I stop often to marvel in the impressive views and at the plentiful huge old trees. I find a black cherry that I estimate to be at least five feet across (I must remember to bring a tape measure with me next time.) It’s the widest forest-grown (as opposed to field grown where there is no competition for sunlight) black cherry I think I’ve ever seen. This is one massive, impressive tree.

I also find a couple of sugar maples that I guess to be seven feet wide! Then, wandering off trail, I discover a special grove of at least twenty towering old growth sugar maples in one small area - it must be really dark here in the summer when these monsters are fully leafed out, the canopy has to be nearly impenetrable. There are also plenty of other old trees along the trail besides cherrys and maples, other impressive specimans include hemlocks, beeches and birches.

With the rain pattering on my hood and the howling winds I can’t hear much else, so it really startles me when a blue jay suddenly screams from the murk. The first animal encounter of the day. Next, I watch a gang of chickadees flitting from tree to tree, foraging for food. I recall reading somewhere that birds require upwards of 10,000 calories a day – the equivalent of a human eating 150,000 calories! The search for food must be all-consuming task every day for those brave birds that overwinter here in the north.

Now I spy a little bandit digging in the snow. I stop walking. He stops digging. We stare at each other, neither moving a muscle. Then he (she?) slowly ambles over to a tree and begins climbing up. At about ten feet off the ground, he stops and looks at me with curious eyes – what a cute picture! Only I haven’t brought my camera because it’s so wet and windy (I guess I’ll never learn the lesson to always bring it.)

My final wildlife sighting of the day is of a deer down in the gorge that has caught sight of my movement up here on the ridge. We watch each other for several minutes until I raise my hand to salute this beautiful animal and wish it a Merry Christmas. With that, she takes off at a gallop. I love watching those fluffy white tails bob through the forest with the greatest of ease!

I make it back to my vehicle just before dark, soaked to the bone, but content if not cold and a little tired. This has been a wonderful hike, the very best one yet until… the next one of course!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

2009-12-19T01:14:00.003-05:00

Sorry I haven't posted anything of late - busy, busy, busy!

Please keep checking back, especially after the first of the year.

Take care and enjoy your holidays!

Dave Reade

No Pics With This Post

2009-11-29T20:45:00.002-05:00

And it’s my own damn fault. I have told myself a million times (OK, maybe just dozens of times) never, ever, go on a hike without a picture-capturing device of some type because one never knows what might present itself. Well, today, because I didn’t listen to that voice, I missed a glorious opportunity.

It’s Thanksgiving Day afternoon and, with family far away and friends celebrating with their own families, I am alone. I decide to go for a hike before it gets dark (way too early this time of year.) It’s a gloomy, overcast, drizzly day but, as soon as I enter the woods, I feel better. I have decided to leave my camera gear behind because, after all, what could I possibly see that’s photo-worthy under these conditions?

I slog through the soggy forest, wet down by a persistent, consistent, but significant pitter-patter of raindrops on fallen leaves, soaked to the bone and splashing through puddles that fill my boots and make them all squishy inside. And it’s chilly, but I do love the forest so, so I don’t mind at all. The trail I’m following was once a road probably used for logging. I can see it stretch off far in the distance ahead of me.

Suddenly I notice a glowing uptrail as if the woods were on fire. The sun has split the clouds and the wet forest is shining, bathed in a golden radiance. I reach the edge of the forest, pop out of the woods and see… a magnificent double rainbow; possibly the most vivid I have ever seen, arching over the meadow, in a full half circle, pots of gold at both ends. Set against dark clouds, it stands out as I have never seen before, just like a rainbow in a children’s book, all glorious, surreal, ideal – but, in this case, the real deal, arching hugely across the sky.

At first, I curse myself for not bringing my gear but then I lapse into a form of paralysis, I can’t move for having to avert my gaze to take a step. It hangs up there for what I would only guess was at least ten minutes while I just stood there, amazed, jaw on the ground, only half believing what I was seeing.

Lesson learned… maybe. At least the image is forever etched into my brain, never to be forgotten, even if I can’t (unfortunately) share it with you.

Primevil Perceptions

2009-11-08T01:38:00.003-05:00

It’s 65 degrees outside today and I’m reveling in it. For Western New York on November 8, this is a full 15 degrees above ‘normal.’ And, for some reason the air smells incredibly sweet too. I’m feeling euphoric - I’m thinking that there must be more oxygen in the air today than usual. Of course, there isn’t, because if the percentage of oxygen in the air were anything more than the normal 21 percent, I and everything else on earth would spontaneously burst into flame and if it were any lower, it would not support life as we know it. I think about how improbable and miraculous life on earth is; everything has to be just right. How is this possible? And why? Ah, big questions – it’s much too nice out to be pondering big questions today.

I’m wondering along the high bluffs above Sprague Brook, in and out of lush old growth forest. In my last two posts I discussed my personal survival, my cat-like existence, now I’m thinking about the survival of the remaining old growth forest here in the east. There isn’t much left; by one account, less than one-half of one percent of the original forest remains. This means that for every 200 acres of original forest less than one acre remains. Quick work considering the architects of its demise have only been here for about 200 years or so.

Allowing anything to fully mature and die a natural death is something that mankind (man unkind?) is not very good at (except, of course, when it comes to himself.) In these days of ever spiraling population and more people demanding a higher standard of living, these trees are more often than not looked at as ‘resources’, valued not for their inherent selves but for what they can provide by cutting their life short – lumber and paper. With this kind of pressure to cut them down, it’s a miracle that any of these primeval places still exist - making the ones that do that much more special.

To me, entering an old growth forest is to be setting foot in a sacred place. Wandering among the ancient trees is a privilege, and I always feel lucky that I have two sturdy legs to carry me into these awesome places. It’s balm for the stressed out soul. I admit that lately I have become obsessed with searching out these places; even finding a small pocket with just a handful of old trees in an otherwise young forest thrills me. And every time I stumble upon a patch of old growth I try to figure out how it escaped the ax while everything around it was being cut down.

Sometimes it’s obvious, like being hidden deep down in the bottom of a ravine or gorge or on a steep slope. Other times there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to its survival and I just scratch my head and wonder. The truth is that the loggers didn’t miss much unless it was inaccessible, part of protected public land, on a private estate or purposely set aside as a refuge.

Old-growth forests are quiet, hushed places – nature’s cathedrals. The sounds of an ever-noisier world are filtered out here or at least greatly reduced to the point that I believe I can actually hear myself think. I go to the old growth to tackle seemingly unsolvable problems or lift myself out of a depression and somehow, the answers or spirit-lift I need always seems to be waiting for me upon my return from such a place.

Next: Primeval Perceptions: The Search

A Charmed Life

2009-10-31T17:22:00.010-04:00

In my last post, I detailed an adventure in which, while though I didn’t exactly confront it head-on, death was close enough so that I could feel it lurking. To talk about my life so far in any meaningful way it is necessary to mention the compendium of near-death and ‘almost near-death’ experiences I’ve survived. There is a plethora of them and they have affected how I see life profoundly.

There have been so many narrow escapes over the years I could almost write a book about them. To name just a few:

♦ come within a few feet of being broadsided by a speeding tractor-trailer truck that I couldn’t see coming around a curve (my vehicle’s engine hesitated, inexplicable because it was an almost-new rental that didn’t hesitate at all before or after the incident during the entirety of a two week trip)

♦ nearly froze to death in the winter desert (this and the experience above happened the same day!)

♦ skidded to a halt within inches of plowing off a cliff with my truck and trailer in a snowstorm while driving through mountains.

♦ climbed an extremely steep cliff until I was 300 or 400 feet off the ground before realizing that I couldn’t go up any further (blocked by a protruding rock shelf) and that trying to go back down was almost sure suicide.

♦ been held up by a knife-wielding drug-crazed man.

♦ almost froze to death in a northest forest.

♦ been caught underneath a pounding waterfall, not able to tell which way was up and almost losing consciousness.

♦ been in a plane that was both struck by lightning and hit by wind shear as the pilots tried to land it (they couldn’t, we finally had to land at another airport 100 miles way)

♦ realized I was slowly, but steadily being surrounded by 2,000 degree lava pushing its way inexorably down a mountain side in Hawaii and jumping over it at the last minute.

♦ and so on...

Then there was the incident this very morning. I pulled out of my driveway just before dawn to head up to Williamsville to deliver some books. It was a dark and stormy morning; pillowy gray clouds with angry black-bottoms were scuttling across the soggy sky. Rain pelted down and wind gusts heaved me from side to side. As I entered a particularly wide-open stretch of the New York State Thruway, a tractor-trailer truck, suddenly caught broadside by an extreme gust of wind, lost control. The truck jackknifed and careened slowly and smoothly like it was on ice from one side of the road to the other, crashing into both barriers in explosions of sparks before finally winding up sideways in the middle of the highway. All this seemed to happen in slow motion. I hit my brakes and skidded to a halt some twenty feet away; had I been following any closer, well - I’d rather not think about it. Good thing it was early on Saturday morning and traffic was sparse – I wasn’t rear-ended and no one else hit the truck either. I shudder to think about the results if this had happened during rush hour.

This is why I’m convinced I’ve lived a charmed life - so far anyway. These experiences have opened my eyes, ironically allowing me to see life’s magnificence (especially in nature) through coming so close to death. These incidents also inspire me to share what I see and feel through my writing and photography.

And nowhere do I feel the beauty of life more than in old growth forests. Just recently, I have started on a mission to explore what’s left of old-growth forest near my home and eventually in the rest of the Northeast.

Next: Primeval Perceptions

Danger Dave Somehow Manages to Find Yet More Danger (Danger Dave Part 2)

2009-10-28T01:19:00.000-04:00

Fortunately, there is no problem making it safely back down to the bottom of the hill. What a difference a little elevation can make, down here there is far less snow and the roads are just wet. I head for the Red House entrance; there should be no problem getting into the park that way, the road is wider and the elevation lower.

As I approach the Red House Lake area, I am stunned; it’s a surreal world of fall colors and snow; it’s breathtaking. Better get to work while these conditions last. I shoot various pretty scenes around the lake then decide to hike into the woods to see what the snow accent around Allegany’s only real waterfall, Bridal Falls. By now, the temperature is beginning to warm up and snow rains down from the trees, pummeling me as if I am on the receiving end of a snowball barrage from above. A few times, a heavy blob manages to land squarely on the back of my neck, making its way inside my jacket and shirt, sliding down the skin of my back; brrrrrrr.

The waterfall is just a trickle; I had assumed with all the wet weather we’d been having that there would be more to it; disappointing. As I look around for something else interesting to shoot, I hear the crack! of a gunshot. I am momentarily confused, I know that bow-hunting season begins the next day, but no one should be in the woods hunting today, much less with a gun. Only it’s not a gunshot, it’s a tree limb, cracking off under the weight of the snow and crashing down about 20 feet away in a maelstrom of flying snow and leaves. Yikes! Nevertheless, I soon find myself absorbed in the composition of an interesting scene, forgetting all about the danger of falling limbs and trees when I hear more cracking. This time a whole tree comes crashing down off the embankment down which the waterfall cascades, its roots ripped right out of the cliff by the burden of the incredibly heavy snow. O.K., it’s time to leave, no image is worth being killed for.

As I make my way back, the snow rains down from the trees even harder than before and, by the time I pop out of the woods, I am thoroughly soaked and shivering. Only one solution to this problem, I jump into the truck and blast the heater - ahhhhh, that feels so good. By now, the snow has turned to all rain and the magic has melted. I head home, wet, warm and happy, for I have once again been fortunate enough to have seen the kind of beauty that most people only experience a few lucky times in their lives. Even if it did involve some danger, it was definitely worth it!

Danger Dave - Part One

2009-10-25T12:08:00.007-04:00

This experience occurred on Friday, October 16th; I didn’t post it until the images to go along with it were developed.

I guess by now regular readers of my blog know that I seek out unusual conditions and places that have the potential for capturing unique and exciting photography. Sometimes, by their very nature, these conditions or places lead to increased chances of bodily harm; that is, sometimes the risk factor goes up with the corresponding increased potential for interesting photography; I would soon find out that that would be the case today.

The forecast called for a wet snowfall overnight and I woke up well before dawn excited about the prospects. With many of the autumn leaves still hanging like ornaments in the trees, this could offer some unique scenery – despite our reputation for snow here in Western New York, it is not common in mid-October when the leaves are at their most colorful.

I look outside; sure enough, a layer of snow has blanketed the trees and ground. With the temperature hovering around freezing and the forecast calling for a gradual warm-up, I know these conditions won’t last long so I decide to hedge my bets; I head south to higher elevations, to Allegany State Park where the temperature should be a few degrees colder and these promising conditions may last a bit longer.

Fortunately, the roads are still warm and the snow is not sticking to them so I make good time. I head up the winding, twisting north entrance road into the park just as dawn’s early light begins to reveal the towering forest on both sides of me. This road tops out at about 1,000 feet higher in elevation than back home and the closer I get to the top the deeper the snow gets; slipping and sliding now in the icy slush, I switch into four-wheel drive.

Unfortunately, this same heavy wet snow that increases the potential for interesting photography also increases the likelihood of downed tree limbs and branches. Limbs and even entire trees are sagging precariously under the weight of the cement snow and several times, I have to thread the needle between bent or fallen trees to keep making progress. Alas, rounding a bend I witness a tree slowly shuddering to the ground right in front of me. Naively, I think I can get out and move it – not a chance; it’s a bigger tree than I thought and it’s completely blocking the road. Nothing to do but turn around and go back down the way I came, hoping that another tree hasn’t fallen in the meantime caging me in.

Next: Danger Dave Somehow Manages to Find Yet More Danger (Danger Dave Part 2)

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXIV)

2009-09-30T14:19:00.004-04:00

Part Twenty-Four: Willow Creek Canyon Falls and the Bighorn Sheep

(First time reading this 'Desert Daze' story? Scroll down to 'Older Posts' to start with Part One)

Or rather, his skeleton, but I’ll get to that…

For the second waterfall hike of the day, I tackle Willow Creek Canyon. The first section of the route is pure drudgery; it’s more than a mile across a vast, ankle-twisting alluvial fan before even reaching the canyon mouth. (An alluvial fan is an outspread, gently sloping mass of alluvium [rocks and sand] deposited by a stream, especially in an arid or semiarid region where a stream issues from a narrow canyon onto a plain or valley floor. Viewed from above, it has the shape of an open fan, the apex being at the valley mouth.) There is not even a hint of water here, just rocks, sand and more rocks and sand.

When I finally do reach the mouth of the canyon and enter it, there is still no sign of water. I hope the waterfalls are running since that is the whole point of this hike. After about another three-quarters of a mile of trudging through shifting sand and loose rock, the canyon abruptly narrows into not much more than a deep crack in the mountain wall. Not long after that, water magically appears in the form of a pretty, little gurgling stream, the music of which reverberates pleasantly off the canyon walls. I realize now that the water was with me all along but deep down in the sand whereas here there is only solid rock, nowhere for it to hide.

With the discovery of water, my enthusiasm is now rekindled and I practically sprint up the narrow defile until I reach my goal – the waterfall.

There it is and it’s a nice one, spilling and splashing down a fifty foot wall. I’ve read that there is a way up and around the waterfall, with more waterfalls upstream but this is the end of the hike for me, I’ve done enough today and I’m not about to attack a fifty foot wall.

I’ve enjoyed two waterfalls in one day in otherwise bone-dry Death Valley, who would’ve thought? I turn to go back, but as I turn, something in my peripheral vision causes me to look right. There, at the base of the wall is a skeleton! It’s of a bighorn sheep! I guess even these normally surefooted animals slip once in a while. Before today, I hadn’t even realized that bighorn sheep inhabited Death Valley, I thought they only lived in much colder climes - but here lying at my feet was irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

With my hiking and solitude urges satisfied for the day, I leave the waterfall and skeleton behind and trudge back through all that sand and rock to where I started. At least this way is downhill. Finally, I spy Hotel Truck waiting patiently in the distance for the next adventure. When I reach ‘er, I climb in, start ‘er up, and get back on the road pointing ‘er west towards my next destination: the deepest mountain valley in the lower 48.

Next: Mountains to the Left of Me, Mountains to the Right, Here I Am, Stuck in the Valley - Great View!

Desert Daze: A Southwest Adventure (XXIII)

2009-09-17T05:16:00.010-04:00

Part Twenty-Three: Death Valley Waterfalls

(First time reading this 'Desert Daze' story? Scroll down to 'Older Posts' to start with Part One)

A river runs through it. No really – as I drive across the park, each time I reach a low point in the road, a stream is running across it causing me to have to slow down, as the water is up to a foot deep in places. Bizarre, considering where I am.

Almost all the other roads in the park are still closed - washed out, sand covered or, in the case of higher elevations, snowy and icy. These conditions deny me access to most of the park and make me a little claustrophobic. After a week and a half of solitude and open spaces, of seeing few vehicles and even fewer people, this feels like a small city – hustle and bustle, traffic and people milling about - all trapped in this one section of the park.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I no longer visit most National Parks because they have become so crowded they no longer feel wild at all. (I call the valley portion of Yosemite “Yosemi-City”; there is no longer a ‘slow season’ there to visit, just always lots of vehicles spewing exhaust with long lines of traffic commonplace.) DV has never suffered this problem because it’s vast and, with the exception of today, visitors are usually spread out over the entire park.

Therefore, I need to escape. My plan: I’ll hike to a couple of remote waterfalls. Waterfalls you say? In DV? No, not the extremely temporary kind created by all the rain whose lives can be measured in hours, but one that is year-round and another that, fed by snowmelt from the surrounding mountains, runs for about six months of the year. Both hikes are upstream and long enough to discourage those who aren’t willing (or able) to make the effort – and that’s most people – so I’m assuming I’ll encounter few others. I’m right; in fact, I do not see another soul in either location. I have my tranquility back.

I decide to hike to Darwin Falls first. This waterfall is truly an anomaly in the middle of the desert. It's fed by the China Garden Spring high up in the hills which consistently produces enough water to supply the creek and falls all year (along with the nearby tiny settlement of Panamint Springs.) I make my way upstream towards the falls through luxuriant growth that effectively shields the creek bed from the parched desert all around it. If I had somehow been plopped down here with no clue as to where I was and without seeing the surrounding desert, even my wildest guesses probably wouldn’t include DV.

I spy a pipe running alongside the creek – it’s no larger than a few inches in diameter. The entire water supply of Panamint Springs runs through this conduit. I reach the falls. A single ‘fall’ charmingly splits into two as it makes its way down the rock face. Small by almost any standard, these falls may as well be Niagara Falls to me today - I think they are just spectacular. Surrounded by lush growth - trees, shrubs, and even several hanging fern gardens

and with birds high up in the trees singing praises of the place, I feel like I have found the mythical Garden of Eden. I sit down in the shade to eat my lunch serenaded by the always alluring melodies of falling water and beautiful birdsong – in the middle of the desert - magical!

Next: Willow Creek Canyon Falls and the Bighorn Sheep

Trees and the August 9 Storm, cont’d.

2009-09-02T05:56:00.000-04:00

So, what about the trees? I hadn’t had a chance to go hiking since the storm and didn’t see many trees down while driving around town so I just assumed there wasn’t much of that kind of damage. I was wrong. On a recent hike through the forest near my house, I found plenty of trees down, some yanked right out of the ground, root ball and all and others snapped off. A good number of these trees were quite large and had weathered many a storm before succumbing to this one; it was obvious that it had been particularly violent.

An undisturbed forest with few holes in its canopy can usually weather storms pretty well. This is because any particular tree can only bend as far as the tree next it and that tree as far as the one next to it and so on, providing a natural stopping point for each. However, where there are holes in the canopy, some trees have nothing to ‘lean on’, and, especially, from late spring through early fall when they are fully leafed out, powerful winds can catch a tree top and bend it so far that something has to give – it either uproots or the trunk snaps. The forest near my house had been selectively logged in the not too distant past and obviously suffered the consequences of holes in its canopy from this storm.

In contrast, yesterday I had a chance to walk through some old-growth forest, untouched by the hand of man. This forest is full of magnificent trees, some with trunks three, four and even five foot wide and attaining heights of over 100 feet – here the canopy was mostly unbroken. What a difference. I had to look hard to find any damage from the storm at all.

But I did notice something weird that affected both forests - the ground had been swept clean in many places, the leaves and branches that usually litter a forest floor were gone, even on gentle slopes –somehow it just looked naked. I have hiked in forests a gazillion times in my life and had never seen such a clean sweep; the storm rainfall rate and quantity must have been incredible. According to the National Weather Service, the town of Perrysburg (near Gowanda where there were devastating floods) received six inches of rain in about an hour and a half – an amount and rate on par with hurricanes and tropical storms!

So where did all the leaves and branches go? Into the gullies and ravines. There, I found great tangles caught on tree trucks, roots and rocks; in some places the piles were as tall as me! The storm of August 9 significantly changed the look and feel of local forest landscapes for some time to come.

Trees and the August 9 Storm

2009-08-28T16:01:00.002-04:00

If you’re from Western New York you most likely remember the storm of August 9, 2009. It blew through here (quite literally) in the evening, dumping an incredible amount of rain and producing a spectacular light and sound show. If you live in Gowanda or Silver Creek, you will remember this storm for a long, long time. Many people in those areas were flooded out, and, in Gowanda, a wall of mud joined the water. The town was closed to traffic for a week, there was so much to clean up.

I had the great fortune to be driving home from an art show that evening. It was one of my scariest drives ever, even including white-knuckle drives on ice and in blizzards. I literally stayed with the storm the whole way as it drifted from north to south across Erie County. The constant flashing made it seem like daylight much of the time. The thunder was so close, so deep and powerful, it felt like I was inside a giant subwoofer. The rain was coming down so hard, I had my wipers on high and still, they often couldn’t keep up. And even though I was naturally going slow, a couple of times my tires hydroplaned and I was surprised when I didn’t slide right off the road.

Due to flooding roads were being closed right behind me. The north and west accesses to my road were both closed. I’m lucky I made it home. The sense of relief I felt when pulling into my driveway was indescribable, let’s just say I was mighty thankful I had made it home. But it wasn’t over yet.

The power was out. I grabbed my headlamp that I keep right by the door for just such emergencies and made my way into a pitch black house. Great, with the power out I wouldn’t be able to shower (I have a well) and I was a sweaty mess, so I poured myself a glass of wine and sat by the windows watching the light show continue outside. Suddenly, my skin prickled and I had the eerie sensation of what it must be like to stick your fingers into an electrical outlet. The next moment, thunder and lightning crashed and flashed simultaneously and I knew it had hit just outside - I swore I saw it peeking in the window at the other end of the room looking at me. Weird description I know, but that’s just what it felt like.

I went outside to look for damage and didn’t find any. But there was damage. It fried my telephone line (I was without my phone for five days, the repair crews were so busy), zapped the motion detector on the outside light, cooked my stereo and when the power came back on and I turned on the computer, it acted like it was brand new – it was telling me to activate Windows. But I am alive and undamaged (as far as I can tell, please do let me know if I am acting a little strange) and for that, I am, once again, thankful.

Now, you’re probably wondering why the word ‘Trees’ is in the title. I’ll get to that in the next post…

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXII)

2009-08-25T04:18:00.004-04:00

Part Twenty-two: Ghost Towns and Snowplows (say what?)

Dawn: I start out towards DV, hoping the roads are open and am distracted by a sign for Rhyolite ghost town. Some history: On August 9, 1904, prospectors "Shorty" Harris and "Ed" Cross found gold on the south side of what was eventually called Bullfrog Mountain. They took a piece of ore that was about the size and color of a bullfrog in the town of Goldfield to have it evaluated. Word of the discovery spread and soon thousands of hopeful prospectors and speculators rushed to the ‘Bullfrog Mining District.’

Rhyolite, named for the deposits of the mineral rhyolite that contained much of the gold, became the largest close settlement to the mines. The industrialist Charles M. Schwab bought the most promising mine and expanded it greatly, hiring workers, opening new tunnels and drifts, and building a huge mill to process the ore. He bought another town's water and paid to have an electric line run 100 miles! from a plant at the foot of the Sierras.

Three railroads eventually served Rhyolite. By 1907, the town had an estimated population of somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000. Production began to slow down by 1908 and the mill and mine were closed in 1911. By 1910 only an estimated 675 people remained in Rhyolite. The last train left Rhyolite in July 1914. The power was turned off in 1916 and by 1919, the town was completely abandoned.

Some of the old buildings are now fenced off to protect them from vandalism including the railroad depot:

and ‘The Bottle House’ (sorry, I didn't get a good shot):

A house built from thousands of beer and liquor bottles by Tom Kelly in 1906. Most of the other buildings, including the bank, schools, and jail, have long since decayed and partially or completely caved in.

It’s snowing and sleeting at this elevation (3,800 ft.) as I poke around the ruins, a raw day.

And it’s early so I have the place completely to myself. All the better to feel the spirit of the place - it’s kind of creepy actually. No one would choose to live here without gold for incentive, it’s bleak, dry, extremely hot in the summer and remote. How quickly they fall when the gold (money) runs out.

Now I continue on to my original destination, Death Valley - will the roads be open? I descend down to 3,000 elevation, then 2000, 1000 until I am at sea level. And what do I see? A big, fat snowplow! plowing sand off the roads accumulated from yesterday and last night’s flash flooding. I travel 3,000 miles from the midst of a Western New York winter to the hottest, driest place on the continent and encounter a snowplow! Talk about ironic…

Next: Death Valley Waterfalls (again - say what?)

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXI)

2009-08-17T15:27:00.005-04:00

Part Twenty-One: The Torrential Rains of Death Valley

After spending the night in a cozy motel (I needed to both thaw out and catch up on my notes), I am off across southern Nevada, heading for ultimate of harsh desert landscapes: Death Valley. (While I am writing this in August, I clicked on the weather forecast for today: Sunny, 124 degrees and no breeze – then ‘cooling off’ to 95 tonight. These readings are taken at 5 feet above the ground, on the ground itself temperatures can rise to above 200 degrees, eggs can be fried on rocks!) I am surprised anything at all can live in this climate, so arid and sooooo hot from late spring through fall.

I, however, am visiting in early February, when temperatures are quite pleasant - in the 60’s and 70’s during the day, 40’s and 50’s at night. I’m looking forward to hiking through marbled canyons, fields of sand dunes and, of course, I must do the tourist thing – amble across the salt flats of Badwater, at 282 feet below sea level, the lowest place on the North American continent while snowcovered 11,000 foot Telescope Peak hovers above.

I do so love Death Valley for it’s pitiless landscapes, it’s such a contrast to everywhere else, even the high altitude deserts that I’ve spent the last week and a half in, seem positively lush by comparison. Here on the ‘valley’ floor there aren't even any cacti or creosote bushes, just rock, sand and a few scraggly saltbushes.

But Death valley has its own kind of unique beauty – the earth laid bare revealing bands of pastel colors running through the rock walls of the surrounding mountains – in places it resembles different flavors of ice cream layered on top of each other if one uses a little imagination.

At sunset and sunrise, when the low sun accents the colors, the effect can be quite stunning. Sand dunes also stand out during the magic hours of dawn and dusk, taking on a warm glow with long shadows accenting their textures.

So why do I find myself in a motel again tonight, outside of the park? Because, believe it or not, it is pouring relentlessly and all the roads in the park are closed due to flooding (and snow and ice at higher elevations.) What? In Death Valley? The place where the 1.9 inch annual rainfall is greatly exceeded by an evaporation potential of 150 inches per year? Yes, I have timed my arrival perfectly (not.)

Guess I’ll have to enjoy the relative comfort of a motel room for one more night and see what tomorrow brings. It’s not like I have a choice, my next destination is the Owens Valley and it is only accessible from here, at this time of year, by traversing Death Valley.

Next: Ghost Towns and Snowplows (say what?)

Desert Daze: A Southwest Adventure (XX)

2009-07-30T03:29:00.007-04:00

Part Twenty (finally!): Red Rock Canyon vs. Bryce Canyon

(First time reading this 'Desert Daze' story? Scroll down to 'Older Posts' to start with Part One)

Well, there really shouldn’t be a ‘versus’ in the title, both places are equally spectacular and feature some of the same red, pink and orange rock formations. But in terms of visitation, and despite being only about ten miles apart, they may as well be a million miles away from each other. Bryce’s National Park status and easy access make it a favorite of the tourist crowd, often scurrying right through Red Canyon to get there.

A mistake, in my opinion. I’ve been to Bryce several times before, done the tourist thing - visited all the overlooks and taken several of the recommended hikes. But, because of its popularity, it doesn’t have any feeling of wilderness or solitude, it’s got that ‘Disney-esque’ atmosphere that many of the National Parks have. So this time around, I choose Red Canyon. Although its access is right off the main highway, the minute I hike beyond the sight and sounds of the road, I am in pure solitude; I spot not another single person the rest of the day.

It’s chilly here at 7,500 feet and scattered snow patches contrast nicely with the vivid reds. I start hiking to the top of a ridge to gain sweeping views into the canyon; it’s slow going in the shifting red sands at this elevation. When I finally reach the top, I am breathing heavily. I stop, catch my breath and marvel at the splendor spread out before me.

The sand resulting from the erosion of the rock settles smooth creating an unreal-looking soft landscape of rich color and sexy silkiness (if rocks and sand can ever be sexy and silky, they are here, or maybe I’ve just been out here alone for too long.) It is a dreamscape, almost too beautiful to be true. Yet another place to come back to; to explore in more depth on a future trip.

Next: The Torrential Rains of Death Valley

Hike For Health

2009-06-20T05:49:00.006-04:00

It’s too beautiful of a night not to get out into the woods – not too hot, not too cool - just right. Ambling over hill and dale, I jump over fallen trees, dodge scratchy branches and watch for ankle-twisting woodchuck holes – a natural obstacle course if you will.

This is excellent exercise, not just for the heart and muscles, but for coordination and mental alertness as well. It occurs to me that hiking like this is a great activity for overall fitness, one that just about anyone can do at their own pace. And this is not to mention being given the privilege of beholding some of Mother Nature’s finest while doing it - lush foliage, gorgeous wildflowers, magical encounters with our forest friends, heartbreakingly beautiful birdsongs and the incomparable sweet and oxygenated fragrance of the forest to mention a few.

If it’s been a while since I last visited one of these sylvan cathedrals, I start to feel disconnected from the world around me. But as soon as I enter the woods, I’m renewed, at once both in touch with the cosmos again but freed of its challenges and problems, at least for now. Surrounded by forest, I am somehow incapable of worry.

When I see or hear that another one of these sacred places is being scalped and bulldozed in favor of a few who would profit and/or to support an ever soaring human population and its crushing footprint, I get sad. Once a forest ecosystem has been obliterated, it will be a long, long time (if even ever given the chance), until it returns to its former glory - certainly not in our lifetimes.

Sadly, every last scrap of woods that I grew up exploring in as a child is long gone. With suburban sprawl pushing out further and further, forestland is disappearing at an alarming rate - so I hike that which remains whenever I get the chance. Developers don’t seem to have learned what I have in this life: money in itself cannot bring happiness – I’ve been both well-off and poor – but a simple jaunt in the woods can. I’ve never not felt better, physically, mentally and spiritually, after a hike than before. I hike for my health!

Coming soon: Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure: Part Twenty

Desert Daze: A Southwest Adventure (XIX)

2009-06-01T09:07:00.006-04:00

Part Nineteen: Canyon Squall

I am told that there are some incredible hikes in the contorted landscape that is the Waterpocket Fold, but for now I only have eyes for a warm bed and shower and it’s already mid afternoon. I add this area to my getting-very-long list of places to get back to, to settle in and explore at length – there’s so much out here to explore - I hope I live to 100 (yes, I’ll still be hiking, albeit maybe a little bit more slowly)!

For now though, I must keep my weary eyes on the road as it twists and turns through Long Canyon. Suddenly, I find myself in a snow squall and the road an icy sheet. I better put the truck into 4-wheel drive. Oops, I don’t have 4-wheel drive this time - I’m so used to having it both at home and on these adventures that I forgot momentarily that I don’t have it on this trip.

Warily creeping down the slippery canyon road, the truck slips and slides but I manage to stay out of the ditches. As I slowly descend in elevation, the squall diminishes and finally disappears and I am once again on dry pavement. Relief.

I cross a bridge over a small, but energetic stream coming out of the cliffs above; it looks intriguing. I pull over to investigate. As I get out of my vehicle, a group of cattle eye me warily, then snort and crash away into the lush undergrowth. They must love it here, I think, lots of vegetation to eat (and trample) and plenty of water to drink (and befoul.) I hope that the people living and exploring down stream from here realize these cattle are up here fouling the waters, Guardia is a nasty thing, causing long-lasting diarrhea and dehydration.This creek (and several others I am about to cross) are tributaries to the Escalante River, meaning that the water of the Escalante is definitely not safe to drink.

I finally reach the tiny town of Boulder (Utah, population: 178.) Not finding suitable accommodations here, I decide to head south to the town of Escalante (population: a whopping 818 persons.) To get from Boulder to Escalante, one must drive the “Million Dollar Road”; a section of Scenic Byway 12 that was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps and completed in 1935 (paved in 1971) providing the first year round access for automobiles to this isolated pocket in southwestern Utah. Before then, mail and supplies were carried to Boulder by mules and pack horses over Hell’s Backbone or the Boulder Mail Trail, both hazardous routes.

One segment of this route, over ‘The Hogback’ is, in my opinion, the scariest section of paved road in Utah. (I have to qualify this statement with ‘paved’ because there is no shortage of scary and even downright terrifying unpaved roads throughout Southern Utah for the truly adventurous.)

There is little margin for error when driving ‘The Hogback’ section; it’s a narrow, winding road with steep drop-offs down into Calf Creek Canyon on one side and Boulder Creek Canyon on the other starting just feet from the sides of the road. The views are incredible, but, unless you’re a passenger, don’t even be tempted to glance at them while driving; instead, wait for a pullout where you can safely drink in the expansive panoramas of sandstone country surrounding you.

One of my favorite places in the area to visit is Calf Creek Falls (pictured above), a 126-foot cascade in a lush, enchanting grotto with a deep pool surrounded by shade trees. It’s quite a contrast to the thirsty country around it. On the way to the falls, large pictographs can be seen high up on the opposite canyon wall – but what I want to know is just how did they get up there to paint them, they must be at least 50 feet up?

Next: Red Rock vs. Bryce Canyons

Desert Daze: A Southwest Adventure (XVIII)

2009-05-17T14:25:00.011-04:00

Part Eighteen: Holy Sh*t, You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me, The Road Goes Where?

I find out later when looking at my map that I’ve been driving on the Notom-Bullfrog Road. Gotta love the names of some of the roads around here: Notom-Bullfrog (goes to Eggnog Junction!) Hole-in-the-Rock. Moody Canyon. Lampstand. Nipple Creek. Death Ridge. Left Hand Collet. Carcass Wash. Etc. All very descriptive and I’m sure, with some interesting stories behind them.

I looked into a couple of the names when I returned home from the trip. Turns out Left Hand Collet Road simply refers to one of two canyons (Left Hand and Right Hand Collet) that merge into Collet Canyon; not too exciting. Carcass Wash Road however, refers to the bodies of cattle that are found in the road after attempting to cross this steep wash and not making it. Turns out this steepness has created some human carcasses too. In 1963 a party of 49 people, including members of a Scout Troop, were heading to a boating trip down the Colorado River here (before it disappeared under the waters of Lake Powell) when the truck they were riding in lost power while climbing out of the wash, and then lost its brakes. It rolled back into the bottom, killing 13 adults and children.

Driving Notom-Bullfrog Road north, I am lost in reverie, consumed by the extreme beauty all around meand almost miss the road heading off west to Boulder.

I turn, but then realize it heads right up the massive wall of the Waterpocket Fold. Uh-oh. I see no warning signs indicating that this is four-wheel drive only, so I continue on. It is an admittedly very well maintained road, but still, it is gravel, only one vehicle wide in places, and heading straight up. And, just to keep things interesting, there are patches of snow and ice on the switchbacks near the top. And no guardrails. Arghhhhh!

Once committed though, there is nothing to do but keep pushing upward (can’t even imagine trying to back down.) I stop at one of the switchbacks near the top to look down at where I have just come from – whoa!, this is one steep mother of a road – it looks to be almost straight down from here.

Oops, now someone in a jeep is coming down at me from the top and I’m blocking the road. I have stopped at the edge of a snow patch - not too smart. I try to get going again and only succeed in spinning the tires, moving the truck sideways towards the edge. I’m scared. I think I need to change my underwear scared. I back up to dry pavement and try again; this time I gain enough purchase and momentum to make it through the snow patch and to dry pavement on the other side. Whew! I pull over in a wider section and let the Jeep pass me. The occupants are two women, apparently out looking for adventure like me. It's not too often I see women in remote areas like this. They look at me wide-eyed, probably thinking something like “this guy is totally nuts coming up here in that van” but they smile and wave. Naturally, I smile and wave back trying to appear nonchalant, trying to keep the terror off my face.

Of course, you knew I made it or I wouldn’t be telling this story. According to what I've since read, this road on this steep, 600-foot slickrock and scree slope is the only relatively easy crossing over the entire southern Waterpocket Fold. (Harrumph. If you had tried to tell me a few minutes ago when my heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings (that's about 50 times per second) that it’s a ‘relatively easy’ crossing, I would have taken issue!)

I pull over at the top to gather my wits . I look back: an incredible view of classic desert scenery and mountains. Up here, the weather is different; there are patches of snow scattered about and the wind is bitingly cold. I am on the Burr Trail, named after John Atlantic Burr, who was born in 1846 aboard the SS Brooklyn somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He and his family lived in Salt Lake City, then later moved south and established the town of Burrville, Utah, in 1876. The route was probably initially used by American Indians, but John Burr further improved it to move cattle back and forth between winter and summer ranges and to market. This cattle trail through the rough, nearly impassable country around the Waterpocket Fold, Burr Canyon, and Muley Twist Canyon eventually came to be known as the Burr Trail.

And said Burr Trail will get me to Boulder, eventually - it’s not done with me yet!

Next: Canyon Squall

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XVII)

2009-05-14T16:58:00.010-04:00

Part Seventeen: Ticaboo Town, Pedestal Alleyway and the Great Wall

(Story continued from the April 28th posting. not the May 1st one.)

It’s a miracle - the fumes of the fumes get me to Ticaboo. And there are gas pumps here – Hooray! Turns out Ticaboo isn’t really so much a town as it is an all-in-one resort complex. It was established in the 70’s as another uranium mining town, but now relies on tourism business due to its relative proximity to Lake Powell (about eleven miles from here.) So here, in the middle of desolate nowhere, you’ll find everything you could possibly need – a store, deli, motel, tavern and, of course, gasoline. It’s probably a hoppin’ place in the summer, but now, in winter, the store looks closed. Oh no, now what do I do? But when I see that the gas pumps operate 365/24/7 by credit card, relief floods through me. Hooray indeed!

Flush with gas (the truck, not me), I continue south towards the lake. I spy a road labeled as a ‘Scenic Backway’ heading off towards the west. A sign indicates that this road will take me to the little town of Boulder and that’s exactly where I want to go - I desperately need a shower. So, if this road will get me to Boulder and someone thinks it’s scenic, that’s enough for me; I turn.

The road turns to dirt after a few miles but it is well-graded - so far. Dipping down into a ravine, I see a ‘Road Closed’ sign at the side of the road. Evidence in the form of eroded road bed and still-wet earth high up on the banks of the gully show why it was closed - the creek running through it had obviously recently flash flooded. Fortunately, the water is now low enough for me to ford it; I push on despite the little voice in my head questioning whether that’s a good idea. I tell the voice to shut up - after all, that’s what I’m here for - adventure!

Whoever designated this road scenic sure got it right. Grand walls of layered limestone accented by red striped mounds lying at its base rise monumentally in front of me as far as I can see.

Turns out this wall of rock I am driving next to is the ‘Waterpocket Fold’, a long warp in the Earth's crust. It’s a monocline: a regional fold with one very steep side in an area of otherwise nearly horizontal layers. A monocline is a "step-up" in the rock layers; the layers on the west side of the Waterpocket Fold have been lifted more than 7000 feet higher than the layers on the east. Major folds are almost always associated with underlying faults. The Waterpocket Fold formed between 50 and 70 million years ago when a major mountain building event in western North America, the Laramide Orogeny, reactivated an ancient buried fault. When the fault moved, the overlying rock layers were draped above the fault and formed a monocline. However it was formed, it’s impressive – essentially a ‘Great Wall’ of rock that stretches for nearly 100 miles!

On my right, a trailhead sign whizzes by. I turn around to investigate - the trail leads to the ‘Pedestal Alleyway’, a small canyon full of hoodoos.

By now, you’d think I’d have had enough of hoodoos but I can’t resist. The hike is tough going; it’s through disturbed desert (cattle grazing – I’ll say it again, what in the heck are cattle doing grazing in the desert?), a painfully slow slog through loose sand. I realize that my legs are still very tired from all the ambitious hiking I’ve been doing and that has, combining with not drinking enough water, reduced my legs to little more than wobbly wet noodles.

I finally make it to the 'alleyway' and it's an intriguing place. All varieties of hoodoos have ‘sprouted’ here in this little canyon - short ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones and even some that strikingly resemble a certain part of a man’s anatomy, if you get my drift.

But I have to admit that by now I have seen so many of these rock peculiarities that I am a little hoodoo'ed out. I shoot a few shots and then begin the long slog back. Lift foot, move it forward, put foot down, now the other. This is the way I’m feeling, like every step is a process. I’m so very tired of hiking through energy-sapping sand.

Finally, back at the truck, I wolf (why wolf, why not coyote?) down some peanut butter and jelly (no bread) and drink at least a half a gallon of water. This refreshes me both physically and mentally and I am now ready for more adventure – well, maybe only of the driving kind for the rest of this day.

Next: Holy Sh*t, You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me, This Road Goes Where?

Patience please...

2009-05-12T06:52:00.002-04:00

With art show season upon me (for those who don't know, I exhibit my photography at outdoor art shows spring thru fall), posts will be a little more sporadic, generally about once a week. Part 17 will be posted later this week. Please keep checking back! And post any comments you have, lets get some dialog going.

Thanks so much for your interest!

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XVI)

2009-05-01T04:47:00.008-04:00

Part Sixteen: A One Night Vacation at Ghost Marina

(First time reading this story? Scroll down to start with Part One)

(Note: I actually got ahead of myself with the last post, accidentally skipping over some of my notes - the gas dilemma and Ticaboo actually happen tomorrow. I will continue with that story next post, today however, I am still in the middle of grand and lovely nowhere, heading north from my night spent at Muley Point.)

When I get back from one of these journeys, people often ask me how my ‘vacation’ was. Vacation? What Vacation? I usually need a vacation after one of my adventures.

The word ‘vacation’ comes from the Latin word vacare, “to be empty.” I guess that is what most people want to experience - a week or two spent empty of mind, responsibilities and physical demands and often it’s a chance to just lie around and do whole a lot of nothing. Be empty. And certainly there’s nothing wrong with that but…

By that definition, my adventures are hardly vacations. On what vacation would you dutifully get yourself up everyday an hour or two before dawn to be out hiking at first light? On what vacation would you willingly freeze half to death almost every night? On what vacation would you spend time every evening diligently writing notes instead of relaxing? On what vacation would you come back more physically exhausted than before you left?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I do love my adventures, but the word vacation just doesn’t fit. But, like a good vacation, I always come back feeling mentally refreshed and in better physical shape. Also, by the end of the trip, I feel that my spiritual gas tank has been re-filled, I have re-connected with the universe and usually have lots of new work and words to share. These trips actually allow me, for a couple of weeks at a time, to be who I really am – an explorer and adventurer - I escape to myself. Unfortunately, I can’t take these trips nearly as often as I’d like to, life and things like making a living get in the way. I am quite sure though that, in a past life, I was once a full-time explorer, maybe Lewis or Clark or possibly even John Wesley Powell.

Speaking of Powell, I am now descending steeply into the Colorado River valley towards the northeast end of Lake Powell. A marina suddenly appears like a mirage floating in the desert. The Hite Marina has all the facilities you would expect: bathrooms (open), store (closed), boat ramp and docks, but the ramp and docks are high and dry and there’s no one around. It’s feels like a ghost town, albeit a more modern one made of concrete and steel.

After several years of light snowfall in the Rockies, the lake has evaporated much more water than has been replenished, it’s down almost 100 feet from its highest levels. It’s almost back to being a river here. White ‘bathtub' rings high up on the rocks illuminate just how low the lake is. Add this to the fact that this is a weekday in midwinter and it’s no wonder that no one is here.

I benefit from the marina’s empty (vacare!) status in numerous ways. First, camping is free and I can select any campsite I want - I choose one with a great view. Secondly, there’s plenty of firewood (driftwood) just laying around for the taking. Third, it’s very peaceful and quiet; there are no motors out on the lake. And lastly, I have, all to myself, a real brick and mortar (clean!) bathroom with running water and toilet paper - what luxury!

I build a blaze, the first real bonfire of the trip (as you can imagine, the desert doesn’t usually offer up a whole lot of wood for fires.) Then I uncork a bottle of wine, take out some cheese and crackers and just sit by the fire while gazing contentedly out onto the surface of the lake (or what remains of it), where the glowing red cliffs above are being reflected. Beautiful!

It’s warmer here than any of the other places I have camped so far and not just because of the fire; I’m at lower elevation, 2,500 feet lower than last night for instance, which makes for about a ten degree difference. With the fire, that’s really significant, and, for the first time on this trip, I’m actually comfortable being outside after the sun goes down without needing to bundle up like the Michelin man. Real bathrooms, running water, good wine, a nice fire and relative warmth - I guess you could say I am on ‘vacation’ tonight!

I’m up well before dawn the next morning (vacation over!) to shoot the first light.

It’s cool, but not frigid and I am actually enjoying the morning placidity without shivering for once. There’s hardly a sound except for my breathing and the occasional vehicle passing by out on the highway. I consider staying here for another day – it’s all so very comfortable - but decide against it; there’s so much yet to explore and only a little more than a week of ‘vacation’ left to do it!

Next: To Tiny Ticaboo Town

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XV)

2009-04-28T11:29:00.006-04:00

Part Fifteen: Beyond the Back of the Beyond

I am cruising north on Route 261 toward the Henry Mountains, the last discovered mountain range in the lower 48 (even more remote than it is now and it's still remote...), floating like a mirage on the horizon. This is real backcountry; I encounter nary another vehicle for many miles.

The Grand Gulch primitive area lies on both sides of me, rugged canyon lands accessible only by pack animal or on foot. The Anasazi ("Ancient Ones") flourished in Grand Gulch between 700 and 2,000 years ago. What makes this area truly unique is the multitude of unexplored and sometimes uncatalogued cultural sites hidden away in the canyons waiting to be discovered by the intrepid explorer. Many are in excellent condition, you can find dwellings, pottery, tools, and art work (do not disturb!) Historians theorize that the Anasazi abandoned the area for the surrounding mountains due to a prolonged drought, but, for whatever the reason, they vanished suddenly after making it their home for over 1,000 years.

To discover one of these sites would be exciting, make one feel like a real explorer. I am sure that I would really be able to connect to the spirit of the place too, at least so much more than I can at some roped off ‘historical landmark’ surrounded by a flock of gawking tourists and hovering park rangers. I make it a priority to get back here equipped with the proper wheels (four wheel drive de rigueur, many of the trails lie off rough roads that I don’t dare pursue with Hotel Truck) sometime in the near future.

Route 261 ends at Route 95, left heads toward the northern end of Lake Powell and right eventually takes you to Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. I choose the more remote route (surprised?); I turn left.

Lake Powell was created in 1963 by the damming (damning?) of Glen Canyon. Edward Abbey in his writings called it Lake Foul. He was convinced that eventually it would become one huge miasmatic, oil-slicked cesspool filled with debris, garbage, human waste and even a few cow carcasses washed down out of the neighboring canyons. He floated Glen Canyon twice before it was dammed and reported scenic, cultural, and wilderness qualities comparing to America's finest national parks. Glen Canyon has (had) over 80 delightful side canyons of colorful Navajo Sandstone containing clear streams, abundant wildlife, arches, natural bridges, and thousands of Native American archeological sites. Abbey was angry that all this was submerged to satisfy America’s twin addictions to power and relentless ‘growth’ (Abbey on unchecked sprawl and industrialization: "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.")

Toward Lake Foul we go, let’s see what the hand of man has created. I hear it’s actually quite beautiful in spite of its ruinous history with its blue waters lapping up against red rock bluffs. The road to get there is beautiful in itself; I am surrounded on one side by a deep, mysterious river canyon that compels me to slam on the brakes, throw on my hiking boots and plunge down into it and on the other side by massive, impressive walls of fluted red rock. This is grand country, no doubt about it.

I glance down uncomfortably at the gas gauge edging down inexorably towards ‘E’, my last fill was way back in Page, Arizona (in hindsight, I shoulda got gas in Monument Valley or Mexican Hat but I am loath to backtrack now) and I am truly in the back-of-the-beyond; I haven’t seen a house or structure, much less a gas station for many miles. The map shows hope in the form of a tiny dot called Fry Canyon just ahead. Alas, it turns out to be all but abandoned. A former uranium boomtown, now all that remains is the Fry Canyon resort and even that is closed for the winter and it’s the only town shown on this route until Hanksville, about 100 miles away.

Sucking on fumes, I come to the intersection with Route 276, which angles off to southwest towards Lake Powell. It dead ends at the lake (in the summer there is ferry service to the other side where the road continues) but my map shows another tiny town called Ticaboo (love that name!) along the way, but will there be gas or will it be another ghost town and/or closed down for the winter? Well, there’s always the Bullfrog Marina all the way at the end of the road if I can get that far; I point my wheels towards Ticaboo and hope.

Next: To Tiny Ticaboo Town

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XIV)

2009-04-21T05:13:00.006-04:00

Part Fourteen: Muley Magic – The Best Sunset and Sunrise Views Money Can’t Buy

(First time reading this story? Scroll down to start with Part One)

As I watch the setting sun cast long shadows across the Valley of the Gods below, I wonder, what is this fascination with naming places after death, god, hell and the devil? Valley of the Gods. Devil’s Playground. Hell’s Backbone. Devil’s Postpile. Hell Hollow. Death Hollow. God’s Castle Spires. Death Valley. Kill Devil Hills. Devil’s Tower. Sleeping God Canyon. Hell’s Canyon. Hell’s Kitchen. Devil’s Run. I could go on…

But who cares anyway why? The view from here is simply incredible no matter what you call the landscape features. The sun sets the rims of the San Juan River Canyon, curling off into the distance like a giant, black snake across the plain, on fire, highlighting the contrast between the deep, dusky canyon and the plateau above. In this light, the canyon floor, dimly seen, somehow doesn’t seem all that far away; I feel like I could almost float gently down into it like a feather; again, the canyon beckons me. What glorious mysteries are hiding down in its depths? Basking in this golden sunset light, drinking in the awesome panorama spread out before me, I feel as if I am dreaming the best possible dream but am somehow still awake. Life is but a dream?

Once again, I have another spectacular place all to myself. How lucky am I? The New York Times called Southern Utah ‘America’s Outback’ and, while it’s certainly no Australia, it’s about as remote as you can get in the lower 48 - that’s one of the reasons I love it so. I have thought numerous times about moving here permanently, I could hike a different trail every day for the rest of my life and probably never run out. However, when seriously considered, the annoying problem of how to make a living here in ‘America’s Outback’ always rears its ugly head.

Wandering about Muley Point in the evening glow, I look for interesting photographic opportunities. I find a puddle that, if I lay down next to it on the ground, captures the reflection of a bush with the sunset glow behind it.

Neat. Again, I reflect on how simple life is during an adventure like this. My biggest concerns are typically: What should I shoot (photograph)? Where should I head next? Do I have enough food for the next few days? Water? Wine? Gas? I must figure out how to sneak away on adventures like this more often…

Rant: The sunset sky is crisscrossed (and therefore ruined from a nature photographer’s point of view) by dozens on contrails. At this time of night I notice that the majority of these planes are traveling west to east, I surmise it’s mostly end-of-day business travelers returning home from Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Here I am in the remotest of remote spots and I can’t escape ‘syphilization’ as Edward Abbey liked to call it. You may say I am a hypocrite because I flew out here, but I fly at most once or twice a year, while business travelers think nothing of hopping on a plane often, sometimes once or twice a week. With modern technology at their service, why can’t they video or phone conference more often instead of flying and putting unnecessary CO2 into our already besieged atmosphere? (Not to mention ruining the sky for my pictures, of course.) OK, rant over.

Waking up after yet another frigid night in Hotel Truck, I bundle up and go outside into the chill air to watch the golden sunrise slowly creep across the vast plain and canyon spread out before me. Watching this spectacle, I am a very happy, if not more than just a bit chilly, camper this morning.

Next: Beyond the Back of the Beyond – From Muley to Powell

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XIII)

2009-04-12T16:37:00.006-04:00

Part Thirteen: From Mexican Hat to Muley Point

(Scroll down to start from the beginning)

Leaving the monoliths of Monument Valley behind, I drive across a flat plain towards the tiny town of Mexican Hat. The town gets its name from a large, flat rock balanced precariously on a smaller base below; it’s really quite a spectacle. The San Juan River runs through here carving inexorably deeper and deeper into the earth exposing an amazement of colored layers; the cliffs here look a lot like one of those glass enclosed layered ‘sand art’ pictures come to life in grand scale.
I take the dirt road that leads up to and then beyond ‘Hat Rock’; it ends at the banks of the San Juan. This would be a beautiful place to camp but I decide that I want to be at Muley Point for sunset so I turn around and drive back to the main highway. From here, I can see Cedar Mesa looming in the distance like a giant wall; Muley Point is at the top of that wall. To get up there you must take a steep gravel road that ascends 1,100 feet in three miles over a series of switchbacks. Well before the beginning of that ascent, there are signs posted dissuading large vehicles from continuing on; some of the switchbacks involve extremely tight turns.

So it’s ironic when, as I begin the ascent, I see a huge tanker truck coming down towards me, brakes squealing and engine roaring - the driver has obviously ignored all the warning signs. I pull over to let him by; he waves thanks. At one particularly tight bend, he performs a three point turn to make it; he seems to know what to expect, he must have driven this route before.

When I reach the top, I pull over to get out and look back. The view is immense, to the south I see the buttes of Monument Valley and the Valley of the Gods (including the fancifully named Setting Hen, Rooster and Lady in the Bathtub Buttes) sticking up like so many fins and turrets from the desert floor. To the west, I can see some of the goosenecks of the San Juan and to the east the vast desert plain stretches out seemingly forever.

After marveling over this view for a few minutes, I climb back into the truck and continue on until I reach the turnoff for Muley Point Road. It’s a rough gravelly road and, like before when I traveled the deeply rutted road to Coyote Buttes, I must focus my full attention on my driving to avoid bottoming out. It’s a jostley five mile ride, but all that is immediately forgotten when the view of the goosenecks of San Juan River canyon suddenly appears at the end.

I’m now standing at the edge of a precipitous cliff looking down thousands of feet into the depths of the canyon. The river here turns back on itself repeatedly creating the goosenecks; at one point, it travels five river miles but only makes one mile of forward progress. The river that did all this sculpting is mostly hidden behind rock walls; only in a few places does it reveal itself. This incredible view has me hypnotized, I can’t look away and, for some reason, I get the feeling that the canyon is trying to suck me in - I move back a few steps from the edge.

Next: Muley Magic – The Best Sunset and Sunrise Views Money Can’t Buy

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XII)

2009-04-09T04:14:00.001-04:00

Part Twelve: From Page to Sage
(Scroll down this page to start with Part One)

My kingdom for a warm, comfy bed. I deserve it. And I could also really use a shower too, so I rent a room in Page, Arizona, a strange little bustling city on the banks of Lake Powell. It’s a noisy place – people yelling and conversing loudly, kids screaming, horns honking and it would seem that very few cars and trucks here are equipped with mufflers. Or is it me? Am I just super sensitive after spending the last six days in desert silence? No matter, I’m out like a light the second I hit the pillow; normally a light sleeper, no horn nor voice nor loud vehicle can keep me up tonight.

On the other side of eight hours of sleep, I wake up totally refreshed. I decide to take it easy today, no hurry, no worry. I organize my stuff, eat a leisurely breakfast, study the maps to choose my next destination, do some laundry, shower then finally hit the road around eleven. I have my sights set on Monument Valley and the sagebrush country of Utah.

Monument Valley is located in southeast Utah just north of the Arizona border. It’s an impressive place - huge sandstone buttes dot the valley, the largest of which towers 1,000 feet over the valley floor. These buttes are not just big, they are also vividly colored with red being the dominant color. As in Coyote Buttes and throughout the Southwest, various oxides impart the color in the rock; the reds in particular is imparted by iron oxide.

Three distinct layers make up these monoliths: the base is made up of Organ Rock Shale, this is soft shale; the middle section is DeChelly Sandstone, hard shale; and the top is Moenkopi shale topped by Shinarump siltstone. These rocks have what are called ‘joints’ - vertical, very smooth and even, and they determine how a rock erodes and give these particular formations their unique look.

A fascinating place but I don’t stay long; I need to find a place to camp tonight before dark. Northward ho!

Next: From Mexican Hat to Muley Point

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XI)

2009-04-05T05:24:00.015-04:00

Part XI: Coyote Buttes North - More Fascinating Features
(Scroll down to start with Part One)

The Wave is perched up high on a long relatively flat bench of rock; I wander the surrounding area and find some other neat stuff. I’m always looking for reflections; these frozen puddles provided nice butte (that’s butte, not butt!) reflections.

To the north, I discover an incredible swirl of texture and color, too bad the light isn’t quite right! Ah, a reason to come back! (Yeah, as if I needed one…) Now a good distance away from The Wave, I pick my way carefully down a slope off the bench into a canyon and supernatural world of blue shadows, red sand, slick rock and big buttes.

Following the path of the occasional flash floods that must roar through here, I encounter a steep drop-off. At first glance it appears unscalable without ropes. Just when I’m thinking that I’m going to have to turn back and re-trace my route, I spy a way down via some protruding ledges. That obstacle overcome, the canyon spits me out below The Wave.

That’s where it hits me, how utterly exhausted I am and I still have to hike back. At this point I’m also experiencing sensory overload, so much stimulation in one day. It’s definitely time to leave.

My legs, complaining the whole way, manage to drag my tired torso back to the entrance and the scene of the couple of unnecessarily added hiking miles early this morning. Those extra miles are looming large now as I trudge up the wash, staring at my feet, willing them to keep moving. After what seems like forever, but in reality is only about a half mile, I look up and, hooray! - there it is - Hotel Truck. Its four wheels and shining shell of steel never looked so good! Oh magic ride, take this crumbling carcass some where it can sleep, in a heap, long and deep – won’t need to count sheep to fall asleep!

Next: From Page to Sage…

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (X)

2009-04-02T05:20:00.001-04:00

Part Ten: On to The Wave…

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

Despite my pooped pins, this parched person makes good time; that gives me about an hour before anyone else shows up. This is my second time visiting The Wave, but it amazes me all over again - I’ve never seen anything quite like it, it’s truly a wonder of the world. (Yep, that's me standing in The Wave, below.)

The Wave consists of Jurassic Navajo Sandstone and is named for its resemblance to a cresting ocean wave. Its coloration is a wide range of red, orange, yellow, white, and purple hues largely controlled by iron oxide mineralogies that document diagenetic (the conversion of sediment into rock) fluid flow and chemical reaction fronts.

There were at least four distinct coloration events: an initial reddening by iron oxides; a bleaching event that pulled some of the oxides back out of the rock; a second introduction of iron oxides, this time tending towards black to purple and then a final overprinting of yellow banding.

The Wave follows a large natural fracture in a cliff that has been enlarged by water. The smooth bowl is a wind-scoured channel whose dimensions are just right for it to act as a sort of venturi, effectively increasing wind speed within it, further sculpting and enhancing textural differences and highlighting the colors.

Even knowing how The Wave was formed and seeing pictures beforehand cannot prepare you at all for the awesome-ness of it. It’s, well… just incredible. Unbelievable. Surreal. All these things and more. No words seem good enough to describe it.

Finally, another one of the fortunate twenty shows up; that’s my cue to go off and explore other intriguing parts of CB that I passed up previously in favor of spending alone time with the one and only ‘The Wave’.

Next: More Fascinating Features of Coyote Buttes North

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (IX)

2009-03-30T15:17:00.010-04:00

Part Nine: Exploring Planet Coyote North & The Wave

I am up and out of Hotel Truck well before dawn, excited about the prospects of the coming day. As it turns out, it’s a good thing I awoke early; navigating a dark, damp wash by headlamp beam, I miss the turnoff to Coyote Buttes at first, adding about two miles to my hike. I wouldn’t have stood a chance to make it in there for sunrise, as was my plan, without the extra early start.

Actually, it wouldn’t have been a bad thing if I had just kept going down this wash instead of turning around; I would have ended up in Buckskin Gulch. According to what I’ve read, Buckskin is the longest and deepest slot canyon in the entire Southwest, the canyon by which all other slot canyons are judged. I do want to explore it sometime for sure, but just not today.

Backtracking, I find the turnoff, easily missed by a single, narrow beam probing the dark, but now obvious in first light. After an uneventful mile or so of hiking, I climb up over a ridge and, Voila!, the otherworldly landscape of CB is revealed to me just as the sun’s corona peaks up over the horizon.

Perfect timing. In my estimation, there is nary a better place in the entire universe to be than here, now; from where I’m standing, fantastical formations are spread out before me as far as the eye can see. As if on cue, namesake coyotes again provide the soundtrack for a magic moment; I am privileged to hear their peculiar yelps, yips and yodels more often during this trip than all my other previous western adventures combined.

Now I again begin pushing one boot clad foot in front of the other over the rocky terrain. My feet feel heavy, as if they are encased in cement; I suddenly realize just how tired my legs are. This is the sixth straight day I'll be hiking at least eight miles – strenuous miles of ups and downs and clambers over rocks, ridges and ravines, all at relatively high elevations. Of course it’s my own fault that my feet are fading, not only do I choose challenging routes, but my unstoppable drive to explore often takes me off trail, adding miles to my original plan every time. The up side: I'll be in great shape by the end of this trip!

I also haven’t been drinking enough water. The high, dry desert, even in winter, sucks the moisture right out of your body; you don’t even realize you’re perspiring because your sweat is immediately wicked off your skin. Many people who move to arid places from wetter climes eventually form kidney stones due to constant dehydration; I once read that people are seven times more likely to develop kidney stones in the Southwest than in other parts of the country.

Intriguing formations abound along the route to The Wave, all calling out desperately to have me explore them, but I am one-focused. Actually, I am being selfish; I want The Wave all to myself for at least a little while and if I go straight there, I should be able to have some time alone before any of the other nineteen hikers show up. (Only twenty permits are issued to explore CB each day. By imposing this strictly-enforced limit, it is hoped that wear and tear will be kept to a minimum, sandstone is very fragile.)

Next: On to 'The Wave'

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (VIII)

2009-03-21T15:00:00.011-04:00

Part Eight: Exploring Planet Coyote – South

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

Absotively posilutely (same word!) fantabulous. Oh no!, I’ve sunk to using funny but frivolous portmanteau words that really don’t tell you anything. I’m running out of superlatives to describe these places; even my good friend thesaurus isn’t much help anymore. Did you know that it was the author Lewis Carroll (real name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. How’s that for a mouthful? Try saying that ten times fast…) who first used the word portmanteau in this sense? (It also means ‘a large, double compartmented suitcase’). In his book Through the Looking-Glass, Humpty Dumpty explains to Alice the coinage of the unusual words in Jabberwocky: ’Slithy’ means ‘lithe and slimy’... You see it's like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word. ‘Mimsy’ is ‘flimsy and miserable’ (there's another portmanteau ... for you)". The word itself is a portmanteau derived from porter (to carry) and manteau (mantle).

Anyway, as I said - fantabulous. I round a bend in the trail and suddenly, there they are – dozens of large twisted and tortured red rock ‘teepees’ looming before me. Hard to believe that these curious creations, in fact, the whole of the Colorado Plateau - an area larger than the Sahara Desert, once lay far away, near the equator and at a much lower elevation. The Colorado Plateau, which of course, wasn’t yet a plateau at that time, just a large desert, lay in a belt of strong trade winds, which blew quartz sand into dunes. Gradually, the dunes were buried and, under pressure, solidified into sandstone. Later, the whole area was thrust up, twisted and shoved north by plate tectonics, the interaction of ginormous (love that portmanteau!) plates deep beneath the earth’s surface. The uplifted area then weathered down, exposing the formerly buried sandstone we see now. Why the incredible colors you ask? I’ll get to that question in the next post…

South Coyote Buttes, when compared to North is relatively unexplored. For example, twenty people have permits to explore North today (and most every day) while I’m the only soul in South; I have the place to myself (yes!) Why the difference in interest? North has a truly standout formation called ‘The Wave’, (images to come) which is quickly becoming world famous. I read recently that ‘The Wave’ was featured in a German movie and that, as a result, many Germans venture hoping to visit it in person. While South may not have ‘The Wave’, it has its own collection of awetastic (hmmm, don’t like that one, sounds too much like autistic) formations and the solitude will be an added bonus; it’ll feel like true wilderness.

Wandering around in an awe-struck state with no plan in mind, I stumble upon a huge amphitheatre of twisted rock hidden away between some buttes where you’d never expect to find it; I suspect others miss it entirely. That would be a shame, its walls have some of the best striation patterns I’ve seen anywhere.

At this point, I could continue to attempt to describe what I see here in words, but I think I’d rather just let my pictures tell the rest of the story. Suffice to say that this is a most fanciful place, very ‘Alice-in-Wonderland’ (Lewis Carroll again!) in its otherworldliness.

After a wonderful day of hiking, climbing and clambering, I trudge back to my vehicle (at least it’s downhill this time!), then repair to my campsite. Despite the knowledge that I will be soon enduring yet another cold night in Hotel Truck, I am in good spirits; the thought that tomorrow I will be one of the privileged twenty who get to explore North Coyote Buttes keeps me warm. It’ll be a short night anyway, I’ll be getting up very early to be the first one in so I can spend some alone time with ‘The Wave’.

Next – Exploring Planet Coyote – North and ‘The Wave’

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (VII)

2009-03-14T11:58:00.009-04:00

Part Seven: Like Being On Another Planet

I pay the price for camping in winter in the high desert in an uninsulated van yet again. By 3am, my feet are frozen stiff and I try in vain to pull the blankets closer. It’s no use; I must get up and move. I take a moonlit hike, a brisk amble to get my blood flowing down the road that got me here.

This need to move turns out to be a good thing; it’s a beautiful night. I glide through the crystalline air warming up quickly, soon forgetting I was ever cold. Sparkling stars and a sliver of a moon provide all the light I need. I reach an apex in the road and stop to look around. It’s dead still and completely silent without my footfalls, I can hear my own heart beat. Above me, the Milky Way is painted in a great swath across the sky. Glittering stars reach all the way down to the horizon in every direction. Out of corner of my eye, a shooting star streaks across the black canvas. Suddenly, I am swept up into it all, into the vastness, floating amongst the stars, tethered to nothing. This is what they must mean when they say you feel you are ‘one with the universe.’ I am it and it is me. Pure magic.

The spell is broken when some coyotes set up howl in the distance, bringing me back to earth. I now notice the first faint glow of morning on the horizon; it’s time to return and prepare for the day ahead. I have permits to explore the adjacent wilderness areas known as Coyote Buttes South and North today and tomorrow. I explored the North area once in the past – it’s the closest I have ever come (and probably ever will) to being on another planet. The rocks are all twisted and layered into unbelievable shapes and patterns and the colors… well, suffice to say that they’re likewise almost unbelievable– deep reds, lovely pinks, soft yellows, vibrant oranges, pastel creams and all shades in between, like nothing else I’ve seen on this earth. I know I probably overuse the word, but I can think of no better to describe Coyote Buttes: surreal. Sublimely surreal.

Today’s permit is for the South area; this will be my first time there, it’ll be all new. I always get extremely excited, like a child about to open a present on his birthday, whenever I am going somewhere new - I can hardly stand the anticipation. Actually, the child and his present is a great analogy: this life spent exploring Mother Nature’s bountiful treasure chest is a wonderful gift to me from all those who support my work; I feel great gratitude for this.

The BLM ladies informed me yesterday that the trail to the buttes is 2.5 miles long, all uphill and extremely sandy. I park at the trailhead and begin the slog. They are right, especially about the sand. Another two steps forward, one step back type of a hike which makes for a long 2.5 miles, especially at this elevation. Very tiring, but as I round a bend about halfway there, a few of the fantastical rufous buttes pop into view in the distance, providing me with all the motivation I need to keep plodding ahead.

Next – Exploring Planet Coyote - South

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (VI)

2009-03-11T07:46:00.001-04:00

Part Six: Troughs, Tables and Technology

It’s getting dark and I must find somewhere to park Hotel Truck to sleep. I spy on the map the remote Stateline Campground just off the road I will hike from the next two days. The enthusiastic women in the BLM office told me that this road (called House Rock Valley Road) is passable by two wheel drive vehicles but, setting out on it, I immediately have my doubts. It’s extremely rutted, some so deep they’re more like troughs, forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace staying high on the dried-out top ridges to avoid scraping the undercarriage. Cringing as I creep forward, I expect at any moment to hear the dreaded screech of metal on rock. I bottom out the van several times and each time I look back fearing the worst – a trail of oil stretching out behind me. It never happens; we survive the drive, Hotel Truck and me, but it’s a loooooong 8 ½ miles.

As I drive into the campground, a little sign informs me I have left Arizona and entered Utah, hence the name, Stateline. It has picnic tables – hooray! My kingdom for a picnic table! I think about just how much that means to me right now - a place to eat, sit, open up a suitcase, and to type in these words. How interesting it is that in today’s gadget-intensive society that something so simple as a place to park my butt could mean so much, miles away from civilization as I am. And that's just the way I like it on these trips, primitive, where the simple is significant; it really helps me connect.

I have the place to myself, as usual; it’s just too darn cold at night for most people to consider camping. I pour myself a glass of fine red wine and wander the campground, basking in the faint glow of last light, admiring the red-rock hills surrounding me while enjoying John Huling’s heavenly ‘Spiritlands’ album on my iPod - this beautiful music has become the soundtrack for this trip.

OK, I admit it - there are two modern gadgets I can’t live without on these adventures any more. The first is the just mentioned iPod – what a great invention. So much music, so portable; for personal listening, it just can’t be beat. The other gadget I always bring along is the similarly named iPaq. By today’s standards, the iPaq is ancient technology (I acquired it in 2002), but it serves my needs wonderfully – it’s a ‘Pocket PC’ that I use to input and store my notes. It and the foldable keyboard I purchased along with it are so small that I can store them in my backpack ready to be whipped out at any time I need to capture some fleeting thought that I surely would forget otherwise. You may ask why I don’t just take a small notebook in which to jot down my notes - if you saw my handwriting you’d understand why. Even I can’t decipher it any more; I’m so used to typing on a keyboard that writing makes me impatient and my handwriting suffers. Badly. Besides, with the iPaq I can easily then transfer my notes to my laptop or home computer to work with them – sure beats typing everything in from hand-written notes!

Next – Like Being On Another Planet

Desert Daze - A southwest Adventure (V)

2009-03-06T03:57:00.020-05:00

Part Five: Hoodoo Redux Two - Dali's Dream

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

It's like coming home, I’ve dreamed about getting back here ever since I stumbled upon it years ago. So surreal, it’s like being inside a Salvatore Dali painting – the impossible hoodoos, melting rocks, smooth patina and intense colors all contribute to the unreality of the place. I call it ‘Dali’s Dream’ – surely, he would have been proud to sculpt something like this. But Mother Nature’s not through yet, it’s still a work-in-progress - I tread lightly.

Hidden high up in a hanging canyon, you’d never know it was here. I’ve seen nary another footprint on either visit - I wonder if anyone else knows about it? If not, that’s even better - what nature lover doesn’t fantasize of finding their very own ‘secret garden’?

I stumbled upon Dali’s Dream while trying to find a way up a cliff to get closer to some toadstool hoodoos I’d seen sitting high atop a wall near here. Driven by my desire to commune with the magic mushrooms, I paid no attention to how I wound up in Dali’s Dream and soon found darkness closing in around me with no escape plan. Nearly froze to death in paradise.

What a fitting end that would’ve been – like I always say, if I die while adventuring, I died doing what I love. They say that in the final stages of hypothermia, the victim no longer feels any pain; in fact, it’s reported that one often experiences intense feelings of well-being, contentedness and bliss, sometimes paradoxically shedding their clothes just before they lay down to begin their next big adventure.

Obviously, I did find a way down but I’ve longed to come back ever since. I’ve wanted to see if this fantastical place would give me the same extraordinary feelings of being inside a dream it did the first time – and the answer is an emphatic ‘yes.’

Alas, when you have found Shangri-la, you never want to leave. But I must, I have permits to explore two more unreal places the next two days and it’s getting late. Déjà vu. Except this time I know my way out…

Next – Troughs, Tables and Technology

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (IV)

2009-03-02T04:48:00.014-05:00

Part Four:

'Hoodoo

Redux'

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

As Dr. Suess might have said: 'Whew! Hoodoo beaucoup! It's true, more than two, more than just a few! Who knew? Did you?’

Who knew there were so many hoodoos? They are found all over the Southwest, indeed, throughout the world – if you know where to look. Hoodoos are erosional towers left in place when a hard cap rock (generally a boulder or cobble) protects a column of more erodable sediment beneath. Thus, while the material surrounding the hoodoo is washed away by direct rainfall and surface erosion, the hoodoo stands, sometimes just an isolated one or two, sometimes whole ‘fields’ of them. They come in a great many varieties – tall, short, skinny, fat, rough, smooth, white, red, gray (and all shades in between), etc. – every hoodoo is unique and every location is unique, all it takes for the possibility of hoodoos is a harder layer of rock above a softer layer.

My first priority upon arriving in Kanab, Utah on this most pleasant morning is to visit the local BLM (Bureau of Land Management) office. It is from these knowledgeable men and women who staff the offices that I often get good information about unique places to hike and shoot. These rangers know their area well and are happy to share their knowledge – I guess I’d be happy too, with a job like theirs.

This time I’ve come specifically for permits to hike into Coyote Buttes where the semi-famous ‘Wave’ formation is located (more on Coyote Buttes and The Wave later.) I get my permits to explore the Buttes tomorrow and the day after leaving me with the rest of today to poke around elsewhere – I go hoodoo hunting.

I visit two locations. The first area is called ‘The Toadstools’; it is a hike featured in the BLM’s Grand Staircase-Escalante visitor information pamphlet and has an actual trail. It’s all new to me; this is my first visit. The hoodoos vary from white with red capstones to all red. There are three main sets, each different. The first bunch I encounter are red with a little striping, sitting high atop a base of furrowed bright white sandstone. The change from white to red is abrupt, there isn't any transition zone; I wonder why that is (anybody?)

A short distance away, another group sits beneath an imposing white cliff, mostly red again with slightly darker capstones. For some reason, this group brings to mind the ‘Flintstones’, that old cartoon TV show from the sixties. There’s something cartoonish and slightly absurd about hoodoos, as if someone with a goofy, but fun-loving sense of humor created them. They always make me smile.

The third set is hidden away and, if you’re not the curious type like me, you could easily miss them - I suspect many do. As opposed to the other two all-red sets, these have white columns.

Speaking of my curiosity, a few years ago it led me to stumble upon a truly surreal place that I am quite sure not many know about. This magical place is the second hoodoo location I visit today…

Next – Hoodoo Redux Two - Dali's Dream

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (III)

2009-02-26T06:20:00.007-05:00

Part Three: 'The Valley of Fire'

My feet feel like two blocks of ice. I have forgotten just how cold it gets here in the high desert at night during the winter. Guess I’m going to need to procure another blanket or two and some wool socks. My ice-cube feet have awakened me at 4am, but that’s OK because the timing is right, I want to be in the Valley of Fire for sunrise and it’s a bit of a drive from here.

I careen through the early morning darkness on remote roads until I sense the presence of monoliths around me - I have arrived. Funny how, even though I can’t yet see a thing, I can just feel that this place is going to be magical. Looks like I'm not the only one excited about being here to watch the golden orb rise, I see a huddle of vehicles gathered in a parking lot, tailpipes issuing forth a steady stream of steam to keep the passengers warm. Later, I see that these people are here to film a Ford commercial – I run into them (well, not literally) all over the park using the fantastical formations for backdrops.

I spend two days exhilarating days exploring this place. Filled with huge, alien, mostly red, rock formations, it looks more like Mars than earth. The valley was formed from great shifting sand dunes approximately 150 million years ago. Complex uplifting and faulting, followed by extensive erosion, have created the present bizarre landscape. The hiking is splendid, and if one explores the park beyond the obvious - off the roads - he or she will find some amazing hidden rock formations. Among them (my names), ‘The Roman Villa’ (complete with steps!),

‘The Pottery’, three colorful, giant ceramic pots perched on a cliff (featured as one of my March Images of the Month on my website) and, ‘The Balls’ an area where all the smaller rocks ranging from the size of peas to tennis balls are perfectly round - it's really quite bizarre.

On my second crisp and clear morning here, I set out on the ‘White Domes’ trail. This hike has it all – amazing rock formations (this is where I find ‘The Pottery’), a deep slot canyon, an arch you can climb through

and the remnants of an old movie set. Some of the rock formations tower hundreds of feet above you, it’s almost intimidating at times just to think that if a hunk of this rock were to let loose, well, I wouldn’t be telling this story.

After two splendid days exploring all the gifts the Valley of Fire has to offer and three nights now spent in Hotel Truck, I’m feeling it’s time to move on. Moreover, I’m beginning to feel a bit ripe, time to find a motel. As I am driving out of the park on the main road, I pass by one of the campgrounds and spy a building off to the side– nah, it can’t be. It is! Showers! Ahhhh, a warm shower never felt so good ( I say that every single time after a few days without one). Now feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, I point the truck eastward, my sights set on Utah.

Next: Part Three: Hoodoo Redux

March Images of the Month and more...

2009-02-26T06:05:00.007-05:00

March Images of the Month: The Southwest Rocks!

Also, now available, fresh from the darkroom - ten new images! Please check 'em out.

Thanks for your interest in my work!

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (II)

2009-02-24T17:19:00.007-05:00

Part Two: 'Escape from Vegas'

The plane shudders to a halt; I’m happy to be on the ground. It’s extremely windy out making for a rough and stressful landing. I really don’t mind flying at all; it’s these landings that give me pause.

So let the adventures begin! I get my rental vehicle – a van this time instead of my usual SUV. I have chosen a van because it should be much more comfortable to sleep in and I plan to sleep in it often because I will be visiting some seriously remote areas. I also want to be able to immerse myself in these places without worrying about where I will be spending the night – I plan to drain each sunset and be out hiking with the sunrise each day. I just hope I don’t regret not getting four wheel drive – it’s real winter out here at higher elevations and some of the roads I will be traveling are not much more than two dirt tracks.

I flee Vegas via the road less traveled, naturally, taking the north route through the Lake Mead National Recreation Area instead of the interstate. Excellent choice, the scenery’s immediately magnificent and there are so few other vehicles, it feels remote just a few miles away from the city.

After driving for about a half hour, I realize that it’s already late afternoon and that the sun will be setting soon. Time to start looking for a place to throw down anchor. Just as that thought goes through my head, I coincidently spy a little wooden sign pointing down a dirt road towards the water that says “Stewart’s Point.” Sounds good to me, let’s find out why this fellow Stewart has a point named after him The road is rough and just a few hundred yards in I see a sign stating ‘Four wheel drive recommended.’ “Uh oh” I say to myself and I wonder if I will already be regretting my choice of vehicle. But the road turns out to be passable if one pays strict attention to avoiding the ruts and rocks. It leads me to a beautiful vantage point overlooking thevast blue lake and the arid, rugged mountains on the other side. Perfect.

I park in a level spot and go wandering. I find a bundle of firewood close to my campsite that some kind soul has left behind. Excellent. My game plan now: soak up the beautiful views until dark and then have me a little campfire – what a great way to spend the first evening.

As the craggy brown mountains across the lake dissolve into soft pastels and blue shadows in the twilight, a pack of coyotes sets up howl in the distance. How I love that sound, it speaks to me of wilderness. As the darkness sets in in earnest, the thinnest possible crescent moon (if it were any thinner it wouldn’t be there) and a brilliant star (must be a planet) pop up from below the horizon. Now the Big Dipper, tilted so far back that anything in it would spill and with the handle almost touching the water, reveals itself reflecting in the lake along with a million other (give or take a few) twinkling stars.

Stars don’t actually twinkle, the effect is caused by the light being bent and twisted as it passes through the earth’s atmosphere. Here in the dry, clear desert air, they put on quite a light show, better, I dare say, than anything you could find in Vegas.

Now that ol’ sol has retired for the night, the desert cools off rapidly. I put on long johns and a sweatshirt and then start my fire. I stay outside admiring the lavish sky above until I run out of wood. By now, it’s become seriously chilly and with the fire down to a few small coals, it’s time to retire to ‘Hotel Truck’ for my first night in the desert. As I lay my head on the pillow, shimmering stars are still floating through my head; I fall asleep content.

Look for Part Two soon...

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (I)

2009-02-19T08:30:00.015-05:00

Part One: Introduction

I just spent 16 days freezing in the desert. Freezing in the desert, you say? But, the desert’s a warm place, an escape from the cold north this time of year, you protest. Nevertheless, it’s true, with one brief exception that I’ll get into later, I spent most of my time bundled up in the high desert, where temperatures struggled to reach highs in the 40’s and often hovered between zero and ten above at night - and me, camping in an uninsulated van.

Why on earth would I do that? Because I’m a little crazy? No doubt. But, that aside, I do it for one reason: to truly connect with the wilderness. Oh sure, there’s wilderness in the Southwest at all times of the year, but it just feels so much wilder when there’s no one around, no one on the roads, no one on the trails and no tourists demanding ‘services’, in the tiny, out-of-the-way towns that swell to several times their permanent populations during the summer. Nothing smashes the perception of wild more than finding oneself stuck behind a string of behemoth RVs, those ridiculous homes on wheels (let’s go bag us some nature, dear!), crawling up some remote, winding mountain road.

For similar reasons, I mostly avoid the National Parks (Edward Abbey: “The National Park-ing lots.”) on these adventures. The Disney-esque, automobile-oriented, theme park atmosphere fostered at most of these parks, as beautiful as they are, prevents me from truly connecting – and those connections are the very essence of my work. We human beings have a tendency to love the best places to death, chasing away the very spirit that originally attracted us until we wonder ‘What happened?’

As Edward Abbey said in Desert Solitaire: "Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread. A civilization which destroys what little remains of the wild, the spare, the original, is cutting itself off from its origins and betraying the principle of civilization itself." I couldn’t agree more. Therefore, I go and freeze my ass off. And couldn’t be happier. I let my legs and intuition carry me to new places, perspectives and impressions. It is my hope that the words and images that follow can convey even a small part of the magic I felt so often during those sixteen wonderful daze...

Soon – ‘Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure’ - Part Two

Glad To Be Alive

2009-02-15T04:14:00.005-05:00

It’s the night before I am scheduled to fly back to Western New York. I am sitting in a motel room in Las Vegas, Nevada after a wonderful sixteen days exploring the desert Southwest, organizing and packing my bags, feeling depressed; I always feel a little depressed at the end of a great adventure and it's no different this time. I decide to check the weather forecast for WNY; the National Weather Service is predicting high winds and snow as a nasty front moves through. Oh great.

I wake up early the next morning, return my rental vehicle, check my baggage and go to the gate. I check the monitor for my flight and it says simply ‘On Time’, but I see that the corresponding flight from Buffalo to Las Vegas has been delayed. This makes me a little uneasy.

We board and take off with no problems. After we’ve been in the air for about an hour, the pilot informs us that we have a tailwind and we should be landing in Buffalo about 30 minutes ahead of schedule. So far so good. As we approach Buffalo I see snow falling from the clouds in great shifting curtains. We descend into the clouds and the ride gets bumpy. Nothing but a wall of white now outside my window; this is uncomfortable for me because I am such a visual person. I marvel at how pilots are able to land planes precisely on a runway without being able to see; to me that seems akin to barreling down a road at night in heavy fog without headlights. I know that very sophisticated equipment aids in the navigation but if I were a pilot it would still drive me crazy not being able to see.

Now we’re rocking and rolling as winds buffet the plane. I’ve been in this type of situation before; once, as we were about to land in Denver, the plane was struck by lightning and simultaneously shoved down by wind sheer; the pilot had to quickly ascend to avoid us being smashed into the ground. He didn't attempt to land at the Denver airport again; instead we flew to Colorado Springs some 70 miles away.

Finally, we descend out of the clouds and I can see the ground below- it makes me feel better knowing that the pilot can too. But we are still being pushed around by the winds and I see the runway looks icy. We touch down pitching from side to side - one tire, two, then all three, we are on the runway but still unstable . If one of the wings hits the ground… I don’t even want to think about it. Very quickly we decelerate from hundreds of miles per hour to a crawl – we have landed safely. Everyone cheers and applauds the pilot.

I get home a few hours later and turn on the TV. The news people are in the midst of informing us that a plane has just crashed near Buffalo Airport– they don’t know the details yet. Immediately I think how easily that could have been me – my plane landed in similar conditions. Suddenly I am no longer depressed - I am feeling lucky just to be alive!

By now, most everyone has heard about the horrible crash of Continental flight 3407 just a few miles from Buffalo Airport. My heart goes out to all those who lost a loved one in this awful tragedy.

Southwest Shooting Trip

2009-01-30T10:11:00.005-05:00

I am currently on a four state photography trip to the Southwest. For those who are interested, I will posting brief updates throughout the trip.

Update: I have deleted the brief updates and am now recounting the whole story with images: see 'Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure' above.

The Last Night (and next morning) in Killarney - Part X

2009-01-29T13:48:00.002-05:00

(scroll down to start with Part One)

After a day of inconsequential rambling (still immensely enjoyable, my bumper sticker would say “A day of inconsequential rambling in Killarney is better than a day spent doing almost anything else anywhere else” or something like that), I return to the campsite for The Last night in Killarney. I’m celebrating five wonderful days spent here with a blazing campfire, a bottle of wine and crackers, cheese and pepperoni.

There is a saying when sitting around a campfire that ‘smoke follows beauty’ – I don’t know where this saying came from but, if it’s true, I must be friggin' gorgeous tonight. No matter where I move, the smoke follows! But nothing other than the fact that I must leave tomorrow can bother me, smoke or no smoke, I love it here so (gee, can you tell?)

Parting is such sweet sorrow – but, while the fire dies out and I finish the wine, I’m already plotting my next trip here – next fall, a little earlier to catch more fall leaves. I hit the sack. I wake up to a clear day and decide not to head out until early afternoon for two reasons: (1) I don’t want to leave and (2) I do want to avoid the crazy daytime traffic of Toronto on the way back.

I decide to visit the Killarney graveyard for the first time ever. I had driven past Cemetery Road many times but had never checked it out. I like cemeteries, especially old ones, so I decide to explore it. Given that people have been living in the town of Killarney for many years, I am surprised to find that most of the graves are newer. I suspect there is an older graveyard somewhere else that has run out of room, maybe next to one of the churches in town. However, what really catches my eye is the birth date on a headstone at the foot of a fresh grave –it’s the same as mine. Whoa! That puts me in mind to express gratitude for my life - he’s already gone. I doubly resolve to get back here next fall.

After my cemetery visit, I go for my third hike of the week to the Georgian Bay shoreline– it’s just so incredibly beautiful here, the sexy pink granite, sculpted by weather and waves, the myriad small islands dotting the bay with their charmingly crooked trees
and the horizon that doesn’t end – blue bay as far as I can see.

As I am gazing out into the bay I suddenly sense a presence - a deer has come to visit. She seem as struck by the scenery as me, she just stands and looks out. Then she turns and fixes her big, beautiful eyes on me; I see no trace of fear. We both enjoy the view for a while then head back from where we came – her to the woods, me to my vehicle.

I finally decide to start the loooooong drive back, it’s always seems to take much longer than the drive here. The worst part is the section through the bustling city of Toronto – it will be a rude awakening after five and a half quiet days spent communing with nature. I stop at a few shops along the main highway, not wanting to leave the area. But eventually I can delay no more.

Soon all the signs that civilization is not far start to appear – the highway widens from two lanes to four, then to six. A McDonalds appears on the horizon, then a shopping mall and finally endless houses and development. I wish to get through Toronto as quickly as possible but I am not in luck – the traffic ahead of me turns into a sea of red brake lights and soon we come to a dead stop. We crawl along for about an hour covering barely a mile. We finally reach an exit where everyone is being shuttled off the highway, a sign says some about “emergency repairs.” In all three lanes? Must be one heck of an emergency.

I eventually make it through Toronto and then home, it just take three hours longer than usual. But nothing, not even gigantic traffic jams can take anything away from this wonderful Killarney visit - these memories are untouchable and the best part is, I can recall them any time I choose.

Killarney Part IX: Ravens and Wolves and Bears - Oh My!

2009-01-25T10:33:00.005-05:00

The timber wolves are howling tonight! What a wonderful sound – to me, the wolf howl embodies wild-ness itself. That's why I'm sitting here in the frigid woods tonight –to be at one with the night sounds of the wild. I have given up on this type of endeavor at most campgrounds – all you hear is other campers – but here in Killarney the place goes pin-drop quiet at dusk – there is real respect for nature and for fellow campers who come here to experience the quiet sounds of nature - so rare in this day and age.

It’s so quiet I can hear my own heart beating. You don’t often find this kind of tranquility in today’s society, where noise is accepted, expected and sometimes even desired – people can get uneasy when it’s ‘too’ quiet. Here, I can clearly hear every beautiful sound – a faint rustling of the leaves, the far off trickling of Chikanishing Creek and something, probably a raccoon, slinking through the woods. A group of ravens nesting nearby for the night starts up a conversation uttering a whole mélange of strange croaks, squawks and squeaks. I wonder what they’re saying - probably just ‘good night’ to each other.

So now I’ve mentioned wolves and ravens – so what about the bears, you ask? Well, I admit, I added bears to the title because it was catchy; I will see none of them during this particular visit to Killarney. But I have, however, seen or experienced direct evidence of them many times here in the past. I'll never forget the time I went hiking for the day and inadvertently left a cooler outside. It contained only beer and ice, but the bears didn’t know that. They know that coolers often contain food and therefore all unattended coolers must be investigated. I returned to beer and ice spilled out all over the ground and a cooler lid lying in the dirt with a deep puncture mark in it – the bear had evidently pried off the lid with its teeth.

Then there was the time I literally smelled bear breath. I was tent camping on this occasion and after a long day of hiking and a hearty meal, I retired groggily to my tent for some well deserved shuteye. I was pleasantly dozing when I awoke to shuffling sounds just outside. And intense sniffing. That’s when I smelled him – or rather, his wild breath. He was alternately sniffing and snorting, his nose evidently reporting to him that there was a human inside and he wasn't sure what to do. Fortunatelty, he must have decided that I wouldn’t make a good snack or that I was probably too much trouble because humans refuse to willingly become food and will fight back. In any event, he soon shuffled off snorting and huffing back into the woods from whence he came, but sleep didn’t come easily for the rest of that night.

Back in the here and now, I gaze up at a sky positively glowing with stars, as only can be seen in this magnitude in places like this where there is no artificial lighting for many miles around. Finally, as much as I am enjoying the night’s charms, I tire of shivering and my teeth chattering, so I go inside. While falling asleep, I plan to shoot the morning sunrise from a vantage point high up on a bluff near my favorite campsite.

I wake up about an hour before dawn. I go outside to pee and check out the current conditions and I see that all the stars have been blotted from the sky as if someone had closed the observatory roof – it has clouded over. There will be no magic light this morning so I go back to bed. When I wake up a couple of hours later the sky is an uninspiring gray, but at least it’s not raining. I hang around the site organizing my stuff (getting ready for the inevitable return to society), eat a leisurely breakfast and then slowly sip a couple of cups of tea - a very relaxing morning when compared to the pre-dawn starts of the last few days.

Finally, in the late morning I amble over to the La Cloche Silhouette trail, which starts only a few hundred feet from my campsite. I have no set agenda today; I will just wander wherever my wanderlust takes me. Almost immediately, it takes me off the trail - the wild north shore of George Lake is calling me. I bushwhack to the edge of a steep cliff and search for a way down. I find one and scale it down to the edge of the water. The view from here is spectacular - precipitous white cliffs plunging into the brilliant deep blue water as far as the eye can see.

The area surrounding the place where I am standing itself too is beautiful; soft white pines drape overhead and picturesque boulders decorate the shoreline with stretches of pink sand beach in between. If it were (much) warmer I would strip down to my birthday suit and plunge into the inviting water, but it’s decidedly not a possiblilty today. So instead, I sit down on a big chunk of quartzite and revel in this little piece of heaven, gazing dreamily out at the lake and the small islands dotting the horizon.

The gentle sound of lapping water and soft breezes singing in the treetops provides the soundtrack for my reverie. I think about how comfortable I am in Killarney, how it all feels so natural, it’s like I am at home here.

NEXT - Part X - The Last Night in Killarney

The Crack at Dawn - Killarney Part VIII

2009-01-14T14:09:00.011-05:00

I awake with a start, pale light is seeping in – oh no! Did I oversleep? I look at the clock, it's only 1:30, it's a crescent moon that is bathing the forest in dim light. Now I'm wide awake. I turn on the light and busy myself with preparations for the day ahead. At about 3:00 I start to feel sleepy again, so I go back to bed - and this time oversleep for real!

Luckily, my 1:30 prep session has me ready. I throw some gruel down my throat, quaff a cup of tea and shoot out the door. I arrive at the trail head about an hour before sunrise, it’s going to be difficult to make my goal - to be at the top of The Crack for sunrise - considering it's a good hour-long hike in full daylight and I’ll be starting out in the dark.

My headlamp does its job well on the mostly level first leg of the trail and I am able to make good time. I reach Kakakise Lake and stop for a moment. It’s a still morning, the only sound I hear is my own breathing. The lake is just beginning to reveal itself in the first light of day. Somewhere out in the distant mist a loon announces with an eerie warble that dawn is coming.

From here, the hike increases in difficulty, an uphill slog over rocks and roots and in the woods, it’s still dark. Taking it slowly, I make my way up to the top of first incline and pop out of the forest into dim light. Then, almost immediately, I am back in the forested hollow and need my headlamp again.

As it gets lighter and lighter, I make better time. My desire to watch the sun rise over the Georgian Bay from the top of The Crack energizes me; I practically bounce across the rough field of broken quartzite leading to it's mouth.

The Crack is filled with giant boulders; I pick my way up and over them with care, a misstep here could lead to a significant fall. The thirty pound camera pack swaying on my back doesn't help my balance, but I make it to the top without incident. I turn around just in time to see the first sliver of sun revealing itself – perfect timing!

Coming soon – Part IX: Ravens and Wolves and Bears - Oh My!

The ‘Whew’ Factor

2009-01-12T07:23:00.009-05:00

One of the people with whom I correspond regularly mentioned that, in a recent blog entry of mine, “once again there was a ‘Whew’," meaning that I take chances, some risks when I adventure - it’s true. She said, as far as she was (and most rational people are) concerned, “It's better for me to experience the whews vicariously. The 'Wow' factor, rather than the 'whew' factor is more me. Thanks for giving [me] both." ‘Wows’, not ‘whews’ for her.

It's definitely 'whews' for me, which often lead to the 'wows'. After spending years of my life not feeling fulfilled and nagged by thoughts that there is something specific I am here on earth to share, I believe I have found it – my appreciation of the profound beauty of our natural world and love for adventure. My friends and family know that, should I die doing this, at least I have died doing what I love – and I sincerely mean that.

When I ‘adventure’, I am not foolish. I take calculated risks, meaning I assess situations based on experience and confidence in my physical abilities. For example, most times I hike alone, sometimes far away from the possibly of rescue. I do not take a cell phone or emergency beacon with me; those modern conveniences would ruin the sense of adventure for me. I know that many cannot understand this - when I tell people I refuse to carry such equipment when I hike alone, they invariably look at me as if I have a screw loose. “What if you get injured?” they say. Honestly, I never even consider that, I keep myself in the best shape possible and have the confidence borne of 35 years of experience.

People who have read the story about the guy who, while canyoneering alone in Utah, got trapped by a boulder and had to cut his own arm off to escape, say “That could have been you!” and it’s true - to some extent. I am not apt to perform seriously risky maneuvers with thirty pounds of camera equipment on my back. I usually keep it reasonable. I am skilled at finding alternative routes or other ways to get to places I really want to be. Or, occasionally, I have to admit defeat when I know something’s beyond my technical abilities, I tell myself “It wasn’t meant to be.”

All the same, when I am hopping from slimy boulder to slimy boulder amidst a rushing stream, creeping to the edge of a precipice for a better shot (that's me in the red in the picture above - Photo: Mike Reade), hiking in the dark with just a headlamp to be somewhere at sunrise or snowshoeing through frigid fields of ice in the dead of winter, there is a chance I could suffer a debilitating injury. Nevertheless, it’s a chance I need to take - that blood pumping adrenaline rush that comes with a little danger is part of my muse, that which inspires me and makes me feel alive. And, there is the fact that I am still here to talk about it.

That said, there was this one day in Utah…

Coming soon – The Day I Almost Died, Twice.

Killarney - Rocks, Logs and Lakes (Part VII)

2009-01-09T10:24:00.012-05:00

>>>>if you haven't already, please read parts 1 - 6 first (scroll down to the bottom), the story will make much more sense...

Killarney Rocks! I really can’t say enough about the rocks; it’s what sets the place apart. The defining La Cloche mountain range is composed mainly of beautiful white quartzite, which explains why it is still here after 3.5 billion years - it is a very hard, erosion resistant rock and only a few gemstones like ruby, sapphire, topaz and diamond are harder. Quartzite is quartz sand that has been metamorphosed (by heat and pressure.) It breaks through, not around, the quartz grains, producing smooth surfaces when broken or split instead of rough granular ones; a field of the angular slabs looks to my eye like a quarry of unfinished headstones. Quartzite rocks do not easily settle or pack making negotiating a field of the stuff tricky, it can shift under your feet at any time. Add to it that the smooth faces can be slippery (especially when wet) and you know you will need to pay attention when hiking through it.

It can be difficult to take a good photograph of a scene dominated by white quartzite because it fools the camera’s internal light meter into thinking that the scene is more brightly lit than it really is. (Same thing happens with snow pictures.) The exposure may need to be manually adjusted to compensate, which causes another problem – other elements in the scene may now be overexposed.

The other fascinating rock type in the park is pink granite. The color can range from slightly pink to a deep, almost red in places depending on how much pink potassium feldspar it contains. This stuff is sexy and I don’t just mean because of the color - it tends to weather smooth and rounded – the undulating deep pink shoreline along the Georgian Bay is particularly striking.

OK, so enough already about rocks – back to the hike. I climb out of the chasm somewhat disoriented, looking for the trail. At this point, it passes through a field of quartzite and the only trail markers here are cairns of quartzite, which of course, blend into the landscape; they can be difficult to spot. I stumble back and forth through the field, still not finding the trail. Finally, I go back to the edge of the chasm to see where the trail lines up on the other side; I see that it is about a hundred feet upstream from where I am and now I have no problem picking it up on this side. I trip back through the field of quartzite and then the trail enters the woods.

I pass by several babbling brooks; at one of them I spy the remains of an old ‘lincoln log’ type cabin – now reduced to just a few rotting notched logs. I sense some real history here, the large tree now growing in the middle is evidence it was built quite some time ago. I vow research it to learn more when I return home. (Update – I couldn’t find anything at all about it.)

Next, I pop out of the woods along the shoreline of beautiful Acid Lake. It gets its name from being one of the most naturally acidic lakes in the park causing the water to be incredibly clear, but nearly devoid of life. I was looking forward to getting here, this is one of the most scenic parts of the entire hike. The trail is sheltered by pine trees and the footing beneath is soft, pine needle duff, quite a contrast from the usual rocks and roots. The lake is not big, but is very fetching; it’s dotted with tiny islands and an impressive quartzite ridge wall rises up behind it. On a warm day, this would be a great spot to stop and lollygag; but it's decidedly not a warm day today and the wind is still blowing; I linger just long enough to take in the view while I stuff an energy bar in my mouth.

The trail then crosses the Acid Lake outlet over a steep beaver dam - a real tightrope walk. If you slip here, you will either: (a) fall into the lake or (b) fall about six feet down onto the rocks of the outlet creek. Neither one sounds like fun to me, so I pick my way across carefully. From here, the trail re-enters the woods; I walk for about five more minutes and then decide I’ve had enough for today - I want to have enough time to go into town for a shower and get back to cook dinner before dark.

Fast forward three hours: hot water and soap suds are cascading down my body washing away three days of grime and sweat - what a lovely feeling; I’ll never take a shower for granted again. Now well-scrubbed and warm, I return to my campsite in great spirits. I pour myself a glass of wine and prepare dinner in fading light. After a good hike, food always tastes delicious, it doesn’t much matter what it is. On the menu tonight is Italian sausage, squash and homegrown tomatoes – yummmm! Under the influence of clean, well-fed and a couple of glasses of wine, I decide that tomorrow morning I will attack THE CRACK. Since I want to be there for sunrise, a good portion of the hour long hike will be in the dark.

Next - “THE CRACK at Dawn”

Starting The New Year Out Right

2009-01-02T14:21:00.008-05:00

It’s a chilly one this first morning of 2009 – two below – but, as is often the case when it’s this cold, the sky is clear and sunshine is calling me outside.

After a power breakfast of four eggs, a bowl of raisin bran with extra raisins, a banana and two cups of tea, I am off to my favorite, close-to-home escape – the Zoar Valley gorge. There isn’t much snow, most of the three feet that was on the ground here just last week melted away during a warm spell, so I won’t need snowshoes, just warm clothes and my trusty hiking boots. (My hiking boots feel like a natural extension of my feet; I rely on them completely. Whenever I am climbing a cliff, descending into a steep ravine or hopping from rock to rock to cross a creek, all with thirty pounds of camera equipment on my back, I know I can count on them to provide excellent traction and ankle-saving stability. That’s why it is so worth it to me to spend big bucks on a high quality, proper fitting pair, not to mention that, despite all the hiker miles I log, they last a long, long time - my boots truly become my good friends.)

Today I will hike the north rim trail to enjoy the numerous views, visit my Favorite Frozen Waterfalls and end up at The Throne (more about The Throne later). There are no other human footprints here, just those of the four legged variety – deer, coyote, rabbits and fox are among the ones I notice. My own private wilderness. The muddy water is roaring deep down in the canyon but otherwise it’s very quiet, not a breath of wind. One by one, I pass all my favorite landmarks: first, the Family Clump, a group of about ten large trees all seemingly sprouted from the same roots, yet with separate trunks but very close together.

Next comes the Knife Edge Ridge, an anomaly really, a lone spine of earth descending all the way down to the water below with sheer cliffs surrounding it. Why it hasn’t eroded away like everything else around it, I don’t know. The view from the top of the ridge is awesome – the serpentine gorge winds away from you in both directions and the massive fluted cliffs across the way are decorated with icicles and a dusting of snow highlighting the fluted textures.

As far as I can tell this area along the rim where the trail is has never been logged - there are some monster trees here - mostly oaks, beeches, hemlocks and a tree with deeply furrowed bark that no one that I’ve brought here has been able to definitively identify. There is one red oak that I always visit in particular; it’s so impressive - at least six or seven feet wide at its base. Somehow I can feel its vigor, its alive-ness. It has been here a long, long time - based on articles I have read, I would estimate at least three to four hundred years, six to eight times longer than I myself have been here on earth.

The footing is slippery up and down the frequent ravines, about six inches of fluffy snow hides a layer of loose leaves below and it’s easy to start sliding. At times, I find it necessary to walk sideways, using the full length of the boot sole to dig in for traction. A few times I must plunge my bare hands into the cold snow to arrest a fall.

But nothing compares to the slipperiness I will soon encounter. At the bottom of the steepest ravine is a creek featuring my Favorite Frozen Waterfalls. They’re my favorite not because they’re big - they aren’t, just a few feet tall, nor because there’s anything really unusual about them, they are certainly pretty in a diminutive sort of way, but because in winter, beautiful ice formations form on and around them, especially after a thaw then a quick re-freeze like happened in the last couple of days.

It’s treacherously slippery down here and I’ve forgotten to bring my new Kahtoola Microspikes (think ice chains for the feet, you slip them on over your boots when you need them.) And besides the slickness, the ice isn’t very thick, just a skin really, and I break through each time I try to cross it, coming dangerously close to getting a hot foot – or a very cold foot in this case - definitely not recommended when it’s this frigid out.

Despite the dangers, I manage to move around enough to shoot a roll of film, then cross the stream and move on to my last stop for the day – The Throne. The Throne is my name for a large, flat rock that juts out of the side of a cliff - the best seat in the house. Perfectly sized for a couple of rear ends and backpacks, the 270 degree view of the river and cliffs is breathtaking. In the summer, it’s safe to reach and there is no better place in my estimation than here for a little back-of-the-beyond picnic. Today however, the throne is covered with snow and I don’t want to get too close to the edge when it’s this slippery, so I take in the view standing about ten feet back.

By now the sun is getting low in the sky (short days this time of year!) and it’s time to begin the hike back. I amble slowly, not really wanting to leave this paradise. I take in all the same views and admire all the same landmarks that I did coming in - I never tire of them. When I pop my head out of the woods at the beginning of the trail, I see the sky is aglow with a beautiful sunset - a most fitting end to this little adventure – I feel I’ve started out this New Year right!

Spring in December

2008-12-28T08:17:00.003-05:00

It’s definitely winter here in Western New York, it's December 27th, yet here I am, high on a hilltop being buffeted by sweet, sixty degree winds. Why does the air smell so sweet on unusually warm winter days - is it perhaps more oxygenated for some reason? I am not sure but I do know that the aroma is lovely, even if that loveliness is perhaps accentuated a bit by a mind addled with a touch of spring fever.

It smells like baking pies out here. No, that’s not quite it, not actually baking, but cooling atop a stove, as smelled from a room far at the other end of the house. But the air not only smells sweet but clean too, like clothes that were hung outside to dry. Maybe all this is just my brain’s reaction to fresh air after spending so many days in a row inside, but I don’t care, I am in high spirits as I explore my woods on this wonderful day.

I feel so good I feel swept up with the breezes, like I could fly, such is the whimsy of spring fever. With my mind and senses acute, I roam the forest noticing things I might not have otherwise. I spy a tiny hummingbird nest built in the fork of a skinny branch. Then I spot another. And yet another. So miniature and cute, they stand out as bits of triangular solid among thin branches silhouetted against the sky, easy to spot now, but something you’d never see when they’re actually in use hidden deep in the leaves of summer.

Now I stumble upon a stand of black birch trees. How unusual, I don’t ever recall seeing black birch bark before. Yellow (golden) and white yes, often, but black? No. I’ll have to do some research when I return home to see how rare this is. But, for now, I just appreciate seeing something new.

The forest is alive with squirrels dashing to and fro. I imagine they are taking advantage of the warm weather to stock up on nuts revealed by the melting snow. The snow is sprinkled liberally with them, mostly beechnuts. I also spot clusters of wild grapes and wonder if the squirrels like them too.

Now the sound of rushing water down deep in a ravine draws me; I head there. This stream, a mere trickle in the summer, now gushes with thick, brown, unstoppable water coursing towards it’s meeting with the larger stream further downhill. I know this stream intimately but now it’s almost unrecognizable. It has filled its banks and more – the water has crept partway up the hillsides and, with its newfound might, it has moved some of the larger dead trees well downstream from where they originally fell.

Gone now are the numerous little tinkling waterfalls I enjoyed last summer, obliterated by the muddy torrent. Of course, next summer, there will be brand new tiny waterfalls to fall in love with, courtesy of the reshaping power of three feet of rapidly melting snow.

A cold mist trails the streamwater downhill while on the hillsides, a curtain of fog shapeshifts over the remaining snowpack. You’d never know that there was sunshine and blue skies just above this ghostly scene. I really like the contrast of these two worlds knowing that I can inhabit either within a few hundred feet of each other. The eeriness of this ravine microworld is reinforced by two decidedly different air currents being felt at the same time; a wintry chill emanating from the water and snow mingling with the much warmer ambient air. It’s like being in the arctic and the tropics at the same time.

I climb out of the ravine back into warmth and sunshine. What an absolutely delightful day it is! Of course, I am well aware that winter will be back soon enough – about three more months of it yet to go. Nevertheless, I am reveling in this short break, intoxicated by the sights, sounds and smells of spring in December…

--->Killarney Part VII to be posted soon.

Killarney - Part VI

2008-12-24T10:12:00.006-05:00

Morning. The rain has finally stopped but it’s still cold and dripping outside. I dress for it - long underwear, rain slicker, etc. and off I go. I am hiking in from the south terminus (or start) of the legendary La Cloche Silhouette Trail (doesn’t the name alone spark the imagination?) The trail in full is about 63 miles in length over extremely rugged terrain and generally takes experienced backpackers 7-10 days to complete. I will only be hiking in as far as I can go to leave enough time to make the return trek back to camp before dark.

I begin the hike at brisk pace, my energy level high due to being relatively sedentary the last two days. Quickly I find myself in a misty valley between two towering and craggy quartzite cliffs that resemble fortress walls of old castle ruins - very impressive. Though I’ve hiked this portion of the trail a number of times before, I’m later in the fall season this time than ever before and all the leaves are off the trees - this is the first time this magnificent scene has been fully revealed to me - it’s like a completely new trail! And as happens often in magical places like these, I am humbled and amazed by the sheer beauty of nature.

The theme of this hike as remembered later will definitely be water. Not the lakes and streams I will pass but the water that is coursing everywhere, even trickling and babbling from the most unlikely of spots, like high up on the cliff sides after 24 straight hours of rain. In places, even the trail itself has become a creek. Today’s challenge will be to avoid stepping in water above the tops of my waterproof boots – not an easy task with the thick mat of last night’s leaf blowdown hiding puddles and hollows like hidden trap doors.

The rain may have stopped overnight but the wind is still blowing impressively. Each gust starts as a far-off roar, sounding similar to a distant waterfall, but with the difference being that the din gets closer and closer until you are suddenly awash in it, hair blowing back, wet leaves slapping you in the face and cold wind finding its way into every nook and cranny in your ‘windproof’ clothing. Nevertheless, I barely notice the frigid gusts, I am just so thrilled to be on this trail with its whole new look and feel - there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now!

Soon I am fully soaked from head to toe (I did manage to find a couple of those hidden puddles that were deeper than my boots are tall and the soggy vegetation and wind took care of the rest.) I slosh to the brink of what I have dubbed Acid Chasm on previous trips. A stream running from higher elevation Acid Lake to Lumsden Lake below has cut a steep slot through solid rock like it would have taken pure acid to do it. But given time, just regular ol' H20 can cut though anything, and time is something it’s had plenty of to do its work here.

Several waterfalls drop the water down the chasm to the lake below. Full time waterfalls are rare in this hardpan landscape; water runs off so fast in steeper places that waterfalls dry up quickly and where the terrain is more gentle, water has had eons to smooth rock faces making flumes or gentle rapids more likely than waterfalls.

Easing my self carefully down the slippery smooth sides into the chasm, I reach bottom where I am able to admire these elegant waterfalls at eye level. In addition to the cascades, there are strikingly colorful lichens coating the rocks. Nowhere else have I ever seen lichens so brightly-hued, I call this special area the Killarney Painted Rocks. There is no shortage of lichens here in Killarney, it’s a hardy form of vegetation that can endure extremes of cold and drought, but here in this chasm they have taken on beautiful colors, perhaps due to the consistent presence of moisture. Do you know what a lichen is? It’s a fungus and an alga that have taken a ‘lichen’ to each other.

Part Seven soon!

Killarney, Part V

2008-12-08T07:55:00.006-05:00

After my pleasant visit to the Killarney village, I return to the campground. It’s still windy, rainy and cold but I’m not ready to be cooped up yet. I put on my rain slicker and go for a stroll to visit my favorite campsite. Upon arrival, I immediately feel pangs of regret that I'm not camping here. The view is simply stunning, it sits on a bluff high over the water with an unobstructed view of the lake and mountains beyond. One of the best views of any campsite in any campground I’ve ever visited. When staying here, I drain this view every night ‘til I can see no more. I think to myself that since no one’s camping here this week, maybe I’ll wander over each night at sunset and drain the view anyway.

Tonight, the view is much different from when it is clear - the mountains, mantled in thick mist, look delightfully mysterious and foreboding. And each powerful gust of wind sends a wake skittering across the surface of the lake – I can literally ‘see’ the wind!

By now, the unrelenting driving rain has me soaked through and through despite the slicker - I sure wouldn’t want to be backpacking and camping out in those mountains tonight! As the cold and wet penetrates to my bones, I change my mind about draining the view and simultaneously realize I haven’t brought along my headlamp to find my way back to camp anyway. I leave while I can still (barely) see the way.

Given the weather, I decide that tomorrow will be a lowland hike since everything will be wet and slippery even if the rain has stopped. The trail I’ve chosen will be perfect for a soggy morning, a meander thru misty, ethereal forests of hemlock, aspen and white birch. I fall asleep with visions of rainforests floating through my head.

Part VI soon...

Killarney, Part IV (parts 1-3 below)

2008-11-25T06:36:00.003-05:00

I am hoping for clear, cold and quiet weather this week, my ideal recipe for photography. However, as this day turns slowly into night, it becomes obvious it is going to be anything but that tonight. It’s still warm, in the sixties and the winds are picking up. I watch as the gusts grow continually stronger, sending waves of crisp leaves sweeping across the ground and raining from the trees. Above, ominous gray clouds freight train across the sky. After several days of unusual warmth just prior to my visit, a cold front is approaching; the weather gods are about to set things right for this time of year.

The storm seems to be justifying my decision to rent the yurt instead of camping. Now inside, I hear the fury growing stronger, lashing the canvas roof and walls again and again with waves of rain. I begin to wonder just how well built this thing is; another shuddering gust has me concerned it could be torn from its moorings. Eventually though, I get used to the howling winds and pounding rain and drift off into an uneasy slumber; I dream of tropical storms and hurricanes…

Apparently, the yurt is built well enough; it survives the night. I awake in warmth but sense cold lurking just outside the door. There’s a different sound on the roof this morning, a rapping instead of a tapping – freezing rain. I step out to pee and almost fall on my butt, there’s a thin sheet of ice coating everything. The temperature has dropped like a rock overnight, from sixty to twenty degrees (F).

By the time I finish breakfast, wash up and dress, it has warmed up enough to turn the precipitation back to all rain, but it’s still not letting up. I drive to the Georgian Bay shore trailhead and sit for a minute pondering whether I should attempt the hike in this cold rain. Not much stops me; I set out. The first thing I see is a little sign stating “Rocks slippery when wet” -this whole hike is a clamor over smooth rocks. The sign proves prophetic (no surprise), within a matter of minutes I am forced to turn back. The cold rain has indeed rendered the rocks dangerously slick.

Nothing else to do so I head to the little town of Killarney. I take a slow drive around; it takes all of about two minutes. The park has increased in popularity since I first visited many years ago but this tiny town has hardly changed at all - it still has that quaint old fishing village feel that I am so enamored my. Until the 1960’s when they punched a road through from the highway 45 miles away, it was only accessible by boat or small plane.

The rain lets up just enough to park my vehicle and walk around town. The summer gift shops are now closed; they’ve been boarded up since September 2nd, the end of the Canadian Labour Day weekend. Not much of a tourist season up here, but that's one of the reasons I like it - no glitz or glamour. Walking to the western edge of town, I discover an area overlooking the bay that I had somehow missed before. It’s a perfect place to watch the sun disappear below the watery horizon; how I love a good sunset! I’ve been coming here for thirty years and still somehow managed to miss this vantage point, guess it sometimes pays to have a rainy day!

Killarney, Part Three (Parts 1 & 2 below)

2008-11-20T08:58:00.007-05:00

My camp-to-be is still occupied when I arrive in the park so I go for an amble to untie my legs. I return later to the now vacated yurt, ready and waiting for me to move in. By the time I settle in it’s mid-afternoon, too late to go for any kind of an ambitious hike (dark comes early this time of year) so, instead, I wander along the lake’s edge, admiring the ancient rocks that define Killarney.

Accented by the late afternoon light, the near shoreline of George Lake glows an improbable pink. From a distance, the rock appears rounded and smooth – this from eons of erosion and numerous glacial bulldozings. A closer up inspection however, reveals deep grooves, fractures, fissures and scour marks – this rock has truly been ‘etched by the ages’. In addition to its unique coloration, in places you’ll find rich veins of smooth, marbley-white quartzite running through it, quite striking in contrast to the pink. These quartzite veins remind me of a much larger version of the delicate inlays you’ll sometimes find in high-end wood furniture. Mother Nature’s inlays.

Now I gaze further out into the distance upon the impressive ridges of gleaming white quartzite, remnants of a once towering mountain range, that plunge precipitously into the lake. Hiking up on those ridges in bright sunshine can be literally blinding – sunglasses de rigueur.

I then try to imagine these diminutive mountains once soaring higher than the Rockies but I fail miserably; I just can’t envision these ancient, rounded ridges as the spiky towers they undoubtedly once were.

The rocks here are among the oldest on the planet; depending on where you are in the park, they range from about 2.2 to 3.5 billion years old. I think about how long these mountains have been crumbling and dissolving to reach their current state and I realize just how little of that time we have been around – modern man doesn’t even qualify as a blip on the radar.

Meandering now away from the lake, I enter the woods and the piney/earthy scent immediately hijacks me, as some smells are wont to do. I slip into a reverie; a highlight reel of past visits dances through my mind. I remember as if it were yesterday the first time I climbed to the top of Killarney Ridge and was completely dumbstruck by the view. I recall the sudden and enthusiastic chorus of a wolf pack howling together on some distant ridge; until that moment I had never heard a wolf howl or even been in a place where wolves still roamed. I’ll never forget watching the setting sun light the red rocks of the Georgian Bay shoreline on fire and marveling about how I’d never seen bare rock look so beautiful.

And then there was the night that, while admiring a perfect reflection of the Big Dipper on the still surface of Lake George, a shooting star streaked across the scene, how I wished I’d been able to capture that on film! Once I ran into (well, not literally) the same moose twice on a trail at two different elevations, as if he was a friend, meeting up with me. Another time I was privileged enough to watch a family of otters play at waters edge like kittens as I silently drifted by in my canoe. I remember spotting a beautiful flower I’d never seen before along a trail and wondered what it was; when I looked it up later imagine my surprise when I found it was a wild orchid - I had always thought orchids were too exotic to be found along hiking trails!

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven the first time ever I woke to eerie warbling of loons reverberating across the lake in the complete stillness of dawn – how I thrill to that haunting sound, even today. And I’ll never forget seeing that black bear family I mentioned earlier, sitting placidly and contentedly by the side of the road, munching on berries. This place holds so many wonderful memories for me I could go on forever... as these scenes flashed through my head I realize just how much I love this place and why I am drawn back again and again, like nowhere else...

Part Four soon!

Killarney Part Two

2008-11-10T16:40:00.013-05:00

---> Make sure you read Killarney - An Epic Journey (Part One) first!

...I leave at 2am to avoid Toronto traffic and to gain almost a full day of daylight in the park. The weather was drizzly when I left, but six hours later, as I neared my destination, the weather gods give me the gift of a beautiful sunrise. I stop to do a little shooting.

Finally, after three hundred and twenty long and dark miles, I turn onto Route 637 - only 36 more miles to go - I start to get excited! This is a quiet and scenic road; a perfect lead up to the park. It’s dead-end and only exists to service the park and the tiny town of Killarney beyond it, so there are few human artifacts to spoil the wild on either side of the road.

The first thing I see after turning the corner is a fox trotting down the middle of the road with something in its mouth. It's a turtle – I sure didn't expect that, I thought it would be a rodent of some kind. Years ago, I saw a bear sow and her two cubs munching on berries at the side of this very same stretch of road.

When I first started visiting the park years ago, this road was much rougher, the campground check-in was a little self-service kiosk, and the campground was very primitive. Now there is an imposing visitor’s center, hot showers, and, in addition to the campsites, yurts, the first ever roofed accommodations in the park.

To me, the camping experience is more authentic than sleeping in a room at night. I am immersed in my subject twenty fours hours a day and feel more connected, usually resulting in better photography. Contradictorily however, this time I’ve rented a yurt. I kind of wish the yurts weren’t here so that I’d have had no choice but to camp. I am hoping the added comfort will equal better photography since I won’t be wet and/or chilled to bone like I usually am when camping this late in the season. On the other hand, I am worried that the disconnect each night may actually cause the opposite to occur. We’ll see!

Being late in October, the regular camping season is over. The showers are locked tight, the water’s been drained and the ‘sneaker crowd' (I cringe when I see people hiking these slippery rock and root strewn trails without solid, ankle supporting hiking boots) is gone. There is some consolation in this as it feels just a little bit wilder, more like it used to be. If they continue to add improvements to this place, they will eventually improve the wilderness right out it!...

Look for Part Three soon...

Killarney - An Epic Journey (Part One)

2008-11-07T05:36:00.004-05:00

OK, I’m addicted. I admit it. To the Killarney Wilderness Park in Ontario, Canada. I think about her all the time. If I don’t get there at least every year or two, I start to go crazy, she consumes my thoughts. This promises to be an epic journey - thirty years from my first ever visit here and the first time exploring the park alone, just my camera and me. But first, a little about the park.

Killarney, she is old. Really old. About 2.2 billion years ago, a towering range of mountains , higher than the Rockies, rose up. After all these years of erosion and glaciers later, what’s left is a much more subdued range of mostly white quartzite. In a huge but vertically challenged province like Ontario with little or no real mountains, these stand out. Add deep blue lakes with pink granite shorelines and emerald forests and to the rugged, wild beauty of these mountains and you have the formula of paradise, at least to these eyes. The park has only one campground, the rest is wild. About 247 square miles of wonderful wildness to lose yourself and forget your troubles in. The rugged and remote La Cloche Silhouette trail alone is 63 miles rugged miles long and usually takes a week to ten days to complete.

I remember vividly how disappointed I was when driving there for the very first time – I was only a few miles from the park and still no mountains in sight! I had read of quartzite cliffs – where are they? I arrived at the campground, drove in and… was blown away! The rugged, wild, mountains seemed to rise straight up out of the waters of George Lake – it was love at first sight and that love has only gotten stronger.

I have been to Killarney at least a dozen times since, but never on my own. I can’t properly concentrate on photography when I’m with others so this time will be different, I hope to do her justice on film. It’s gonna be a great trip, I can feel it already...

To be continued...

Welcome!

2008-10-26T14:19:00.003-04:00

Welcome to my new blog, 'Wild By Nature'! What you'll find here is recountings of some of my adventures, thoughts on nature, wilderness, etc. and news, both about me and my work, new images and other things I thought would be interesting to pass along. I hope to post here at least a couple of times per week. You can subscribe (see link on right side) so you'll always know when there is a new post. I welcome and look forward to your comments and suggestions - don't be shy!

My first substantive postings will recount a recent adventure to the Killarney Wilderness in Ontario, my favorite place on this side of the continent. Check back very soon...