Hang Up Your Phone!

A good article from Wired.

"The phone isn’t the problem. The problem is us—our inability to step away from email and games and inessential data, our inability to look up, be it at an alpine lake or at family members. We won’t be able to get away from it all for very much longer. So it’s vitally important that each of us learns how to live with a persistent connection, everywhere we go, whether it’s in the wilderness or at a dinner party."

http://www.wired.com/gadgetlab/2013/10/honan/

Growing Up

Someone I've known since I was but 5 years old posted this and I thought it was a most excellent read (I'm a bit biased towards stories that mention bears).

http://hatoverthewall.wordpress.com/2013/10/23/friluftsliv-for-our-thoughts/

Keep up the good work Jacki!

Valley of Death: Part III

A Farewell 

Death Valley National Park - Late April, 2012

It's the winter of 1849, and what is left of the San Joaquin Wagon Train is stranded in the Mojave Desert, west of the Nevada border, lost. They'd left Salt Lake City for prosperity in California, but had been too slow and were lead astray by a man posing as a knowledgeable guide. Seeking "the Old Spanish Trail" through the Sierra Nevadas to cut miles off the journey, they'd come face-to-face with the Panamint Range, an endless, towering wall that rises up from the barren desert below. Some tried to hike their way out, butchering their oxen for trail rations. Others -- the Bennett-Arcane party -- decided to wait for rescue, sending two young men to gather supplies: William Lewis Manly and John Rogers. 

The party had thought they were at the base of the Sierra Nevadas and expected the men to return swiftly. In truth, the young pioneers had to walk 300 miles to the San Fernando Valley. When the men finally returned from their long journey, all but two of the families had left and one man had died. As Manly and Rogers lead the last families out of the desert and to the coast beyond, one of the survivors shouted out,"Goodbye, Death Valley!" 

*     *     *     *

I don't remember walking back to the tents, but when I woke I was stiff and my eyes felt puffy -- as often happens when I sleep on the ground -- and the air was sweet with the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon. After we'd had breakfast and packed camp, we made our way out of Racetrack Valley, passing old four-wheeler roads that were now blocked by boulders and signs that stated the road was being reclaimed by the wilderness, per order of the Department of the Interior. Alice told me that this was the work of an overzealous park ranger, who traveled the park closing old roads and campsites. Returning nature to nature; a man after my own heart. This must have come to the dismay of local yokels, who liked using the trails to tear around the park on their loud vroom-vrooms. "Gat dangit!" They must have shouted. "That's my fa-vo-rite dirt road. Gat danged FEDERAL government is treadin' on my rights!" And with that, they would cart out rusted refrigerators and washing machines, large logs and boulders, and drop them in the middle of the main road, so that park travelers would be forced to use their prized dirt road. Such is the politics of desert wilderness.

Ascending Easy Canyon

A sign for Teakettle Junction, adorned with pots and pans, passed our window as we continued on the main road. Leaving the valley, we came to a pull-off and parked the car. We pulled out binoculars and spotted two cars making their way to us. When they arrived, five people got out of the cars: two younger guys, a young woman and a woman in her thirties, and an older, bearded man who looked rustic and rusted. He was sporting a well-worn, full-brim hat, a long-sleeved shirt that was falling apart at the seams, a purple and white paisley tie with a bright tie clip and cargo pants that were riddled with holes, as if hit with bird shot. This was James Winters, and he would be the guide on our trip.

James was an earnest, kind man, with a thoughtful gaze and a wonderful Oklahoman accent. His nose was askew from where shrapnel had hit it in Vietnam, and his skin was dark and leathery from a lifetime in the outdoors. He'd walked across the country twice and had been working in the National Parks for longer than most in our group had been alive. He was Forrest Gump mixed with an Ent.


Today our expedition involved walking up Easy Canyon* and then rappelling back down -- the kids call this "canyoneering." Our cars were parked about a mile from the entrance to the canyon, which lead deep into the heart of the mountains. We walked through open desert, weaving between creosote, sagebrush and desert holly, and walking up dry washes. James spotted a horned lizard -- one of my favorites, and one I never thought I'd see -- and I followed it as it darted between bushes. It was colored much differently than I'd expected, with black rings around its eyes and a rust orange, brown and black tiger-stripped pattern covering its body. I went to grab it, but James told me to let it be. Why must I always grab at all the animals?

The ground was mostly pebbles and smooth, rounded rocks, but sand perpetually filled my shoes. The young woman -- I forgot all the other new people's names, my meet-new-people energy was focused on James -- picked up a metal link and asked what it was. Alice recognized it and said her coworker believed it was part of a door hinge, but I knew it was a bullet chain link, like you'd find on an M-60 (I was familiar with it, because I made a few bullet belts during my punx days, not for other illicit reasons; that's a whole other story). James confirmed my identification, and told us that during WWII, fighter pilots used to use the area as a shooting range, filling decommissioned tanks with hot lead. The links would drop to the ground and remain until they rusted or washed away. We found them scattered all over the place.

Might this be a bighorn petroglyph? We'll never know.

At the mouth of Easy Canyon, the trail went sharply upward. Within a few feet, we were already shimmying up dry waterfalls. James led us to a wide room in the canyon, where the walls were marked with countless petroglyphs, or rock wall art. These had been carved by the Shoshone, anywhere from 200 to a thousand years ago. Images resembling bighorn, lizards, snakes -- one must say "resembling," because our Anglo eyes do not know what the shapes really are -- as well as unknowable abstract shapes and spirals decorated the walls. There were also four hand-carved stairs up the dry fall that assisted climbing to the next level. After admiring the art, we moved on.

The ground was sandy, with little shrubs and grasses scattered along the walls. Petroglyphs and the occasional pictograph were scattered about the canyon. Above, little pockets and caves in the orange canyon wall hid bushes and unknown animals. The canyon reached far above us, and the sky was bright and blue. We didn't talk much going up; James and Alice would talk about other hikes they'd taken in the park, and bastards who defaced the beloved petroglyphs, while French identified whatever plant I asked about. We passed putrid pools of water, teeming with mosquito larvae and rotting millipedes.

*     *     *     *

Climbing up the canyon.

Eventually, we took a side path out of the canyon and hiked a narrow trail to the surface of the mountain. We could peer out at the valley now -- hazy in the afternoon sun -- and at the sloping mountain above, the large gash of Easy Canyon driving towards the summit. The trail we followed was not made by man, but by bighorn. Little pellets of scat and scrapes on the bare rock -- made by the sheep's hooves -- showed us the way up. Along the trail, the bare skull of a male bighorn sat, bleached by the sun. I picked the skull up -- because why not pick up a dead animal's skull -- and it couldn't have weighed less than twenty pounds (thwarting my attempts to take it home with me**).

French climbing down.

Exiting the afternoon heat, we descended back into the canyon. After a short walk, we made a small rappel, anchored by James' special climbing belt, where the anchoring carabiner is attached to a hole in the belt buckle. He spread his feet and pushed them against the walls of the canyon, giving us a stable way to climb down. When James was the last one, he jumped down the 15 foot drop, landing like a cat.

The next fall was a little taller, so James could not descend without lines. He took webbing and anchored it to a rock that jutted out from the canyon floor. When we had all made it down safely, he pulled the climbing rope through and left the webbing there to be picked up later.

Our super secure and safe anchor. Look how safe it is!

We walked for another few minutes when the trail came to a sudden stop, dropping off nearly 50 feet to the canyon below. Atop the dry fall was a large, unstable looking boulder that we would need to climb under to get down. There was nothing around to securely anchor ourselves to, so we made a pile of large rocks. Looking at the photo now, it looks incredibly unsafe, but three of us couldn't topple it -- and we tried. One by one, our canyoneering compatriots climbed into the unknown. I was among the last to attempt the descent. Harness on, walking backwards, my throat felt like it was closing shut as my pulse rattled my neck. My heart beat so hard that it moved my shirt. Up-down, Up-down. I smiled and made sure my carabiner was secure.

Tight squeeze.

As I approached the small hole -- not much larger than a manhole -- I peered down below. I'd have to climb down for about fifteen feet before becoming suspended in the air for the rest of the way to the ground. With the line taught, I lowered my right foot below me, feeling around for the first foot hold. By the time I found it, my left knee was in my face. Initially, I could go no further; the spacing of my legs allowed for no more flexibility. After some rearrangement, I finally pried my left leg into the hole and tucked my body towards my feet so that I could fit under the large boulder that loomed precariously above me. As I passed through the opening, my face was inches from the rock wall. Once I was clear of the boulder, I erected my body and slowly climbed down. In the scouts, they'd taught us how to rappel face-first, Australian style. But that was at the Quincy Quarries, not in the middle of Fuckall, CA, so I decided to keep it simple. Most of the way down was on smooth rock face, rough edges having been carved away by a millenia of flash flooding in the canyon. There was nothing to grip and I lost my footing a few times, sliding down a foot or two before catching myself. My climbing skills were a bit rusty. After a few yards, the wall dropped away from me and I hung, suspended above the canyon floor. Slowly, I fed the rope through and felt relief when my feet sunk into the sandy canyon floor. With the descent finished, I unhooked myself from the line and sent it back up for the last two climbers.

The room at the bottom of the rappel was cool. We enjoyed a slight breeze as we sat and ate our lunches. When we had finished, we made our way back out of the canyon, towards the open desert to get back to our cars. Winding out way through the canyon, we slid down dry falls and pointed out wall art we'd missed on the way up. The smooth rock labyrinth brought us to the terminus of the canyon and opened to the vast Mojave before us. Leaving the canyon, we hit a wall of heat that wrapped us from every direction: From the sun above, the ground below, the air around us. That dry, oven-like heat that old people dream of (why do people loath humidity?). We meandered through washes and sun-bleached plants, eventually arriving back at the dirt road.  We said our goodbyes to our canyon buddies and Alice, French and I watched as the other two vehicles made their way down the road, past the bluff, and out of sight.

We took our time getting home, stopping at the Joshua Trees we'd seen the day before so French could examine the burgeoning seeds. Because there is so little water in Death Valley, it can take 10 years or more for some plants to germinate, so when they do, people take note. We stared out at the mountains and the desert, with no one else around as far as we could see, or hear, and enjoyed our solitude with an afternoon beverage. Three friends, satisfied by companionship in this strange, endless place.

*     *     *     *

Joshua Tree forest.

The sun was setting when we got back to the house. I climbed up to the bluff behind their house and enjoyed a pipe, watching the colors of the sky dance and change while Alice and French sauteed mushrooms and prepared burgers for dinner. We dined like desert royalty and enjoyed our last night together before going to bed. In the morning,  I found a scorpion in the bathroom and Alice threw it outside instead of letting me squish it.We let French sleep and Alice and I got in her car and drove to Las Vegas. We passed Red Rock National Recreation Area and admired the towering red mountains, like something in Sedona. No longer with my friends in a lonely place, and about to be alone in a friendless place, I said goodbye to Alice and made my way home. Goodbye Death Valley.

*Had to change the name of the canyon to keep people from going there and defacing the artifacts, because people are terrible.
*Because Steph loves when I bring home animal heads to hang on the wall.

Support Your Parks

We can all agree at this time that Congress is being a bunch of bitchboys. Because of their inability to be productive members of government, our beloved National Parks are closed.

This upsets me.

Not because I am going to one any time soon -- regrettably -- but because they are our parks where our fellow citizens can find solace, solitude, and wonder, and where many others -- including some of my dearest friends -- can find good, honest work.

Congress is unable to show them any support at this time, so let's show them some love. On your fancy, new-fangled social machines (twitter, faceplace, instagram), post a photo of your favorite national park with the hashtag #supportyourparks .

And let's all get out there soon.