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.

Valley of Death: Part II

At the Ends of the Earth

Death Valley National Park, CA - Late April, 2012

Excitement is a hell of a drug.We woke early again, and despite enjoying little sleep, I felt no lassitude -- I was ready to get back out there. Alice and French whipped up another breakfast, involving home fries, eggs, toast and avocado, before we got in the car. Unlike the day before, our car was fully packed with two days' worth of gear: Tents, packs, camp stove, chairs, a cooler brimming with food and beer, etc. It wasn't yet 10 am and we were already blasting down dusty desert roads, my ears popping as we crept lower and lower below sea level. The road stretched straight and open before us, my stomach jumping as we lurched forward. Soon, the sagebrush and other scraggly plants disappeared and the landscape was rendered Martian, with rocks and sand defining the ancient lake bed. In the distance, mountains loomed, hidden by heat and blowing sand.

Entering Desolation Canyon

Eventually, we pulled up to a well-worn, dirt cul-de-sac and got out of the car, bringing only water with us. The nearby hills were made up of hard, bulbous rock flanked by packed sand, ribbed and eroded by what little water fell from the sky. The mountains were striped red and black by some mineral deposits. Everything was very still, quiet, hot. I followed Alice and French up a winding path into a ravine in the mountainside. This was Desolation Canyon (where they filmed part of Star Wars, which was why they took me here -- I love Star Wars, like, a whole bunch).

Mountains above Desolation Canyon

Desolation Canyon was wider than Grotto. It's ground was a dried, packed sand, where Grotto's was loose and beachy. Little channels bled blue and black down the banks of the mountains. We were exposed to the sun and there was naught a place to find shelter, not even a bush to sit near. Walking deeper into the canyon, the mountains above us became a mosaic of different colors: Burnt orange, red, black and tan, with ribbons of white creeping down. The sky above was cloudless and singeing. Life there was muted and the canyon felt abandoned and forlorn (one might say "desolate"). Still. The only noise I heard was the occasional tumble of small rocks down the canyon walls (a lurking Jawa perhaps?).

Leaving Desolation Canyon, we traveled deeper into the park to the lowest point in North America -- Badwater Basin. At the bottom of the valley, the basin is a large playa -- a dried lake bed -- covered in caked salt. The nearby mountains to the east -- which eventually extend to Funeral Peak -- are jagged, broken, rough and dark. High up on the mountainside is a large sign that reads "SEA LEVEL," 282 feet up. A boardwalk extends out from the parking lot, over saline pools and onto the salt flat. The rumble and roar of passing motorcycles clashed with the mountains before dissipating over the endless valley. Peering into the pools, where salt crystallized and formed little spires, small organisms darted about. Some sort of orange-brown bacteria blanketed the bottom of the pool like a rusty moss. In the distance, we could see Telescope Peak, the tallest mountain in the park. Where the boardwalk ended, the crumbling salt was packed down by foot traffic. Unknown vandals named "Shannon" and "Matt" had let all park visitors know they had been there by carving their names in the salt -- a marking that would take decades to wash away (maybe Matt and Shannon will come back by then to remind us, once again, that they were here). Droves of people walked out of their cars and onto the flat to experience America's lowest point (geologically, that is) before getting back into their vehicles to drive somewhere else in California. Maybe somewhere with trees. The American Dream.

*     *     *     *

Ubehebe Crater

We, too, returned to the car and made our way north, taking a detour down a winding road, shrouded by steep walls of rocks and imposing hills, to a breathtaking scene: Artists Palette. It is a richly colored mountainside, boasting the most extreme range of colors I've seen in nature. Deep blue to turquoise to peach to red to chocolate to ivory. On and on, titillating the imagination and pushing the notion of the color wheel. We viewed the scene for a while before moving much further north to Ubehebe Crater, a dinosaur of a volcano. Dormant, dark and desolate. The land rolled and bounded away from us, pocked and ashen from the last eruption -- over 2,000 years ago.* Ubehebe is Timbisha for "big basket in the rock."

Joshua tree with seeds. French was very excited.

Leaving the road to Ubehebe, we headed south west and away from Death Valley, passing a ranger station -- the last building for 90 miles, by the crow. It was a desolate, remote part of the park. The land sloped up away from the road, dotted with stunted Joshua trees. The mountains beyond were marked by diagonal colored stripes and pinyon pines, providing cover for bighorn and mountain lions alike -- open wilderness.

Climbing the monadnock in Racetrack

We passed no cars and, eventually, left the paved road altogether, signifying our arrival in Racetrack Valley. The road was graded to prevent washouts, making it appear like it had been driven on by a tank, giving us a bumpy ride. It was fun for the first few miles, but after an hour, the novelty had worn off. Alice taught me how to spot old survey mine entrances -- bleached white mounds on the side of the mountain -- and we got quite good at spotting them along the slow drive. When we got to the bottom of the playa, we pulled into a parking lot next to a vacant Winnebago. It was still hot, but a pleasant breeze from the south made it enjoyable to walk about. The ground was cracked into strange geometric shapes, where water had escaped the sun by draining beneath the clay. Out on the flat stood a monadnock. We made for it and spent some time climbing over the bulbous brown rocks, spotting little lizards lurking in rocky crags. Watching where I put my fingers and toes -- one must be ever-conscious of scorpions and buzzworms -- I made my way to the very top of the rock and looked out on the land. The pan around us was flat (playas are geologically the flattest surface on the planet) and ecru. The mountains beyond were a mix of maroon, gray-blue, white and dusty brown, slopping gently towards the valley floor.

I noticed tire tracks carved into the playa floor, whipping around in donuts, figure-eights, and other winding shapes. Climbing down, I asked Alice and French about the tire tracks. They told me that a few weeks before, shortly after a rain, some asshole -- perhaps the King of the Assholes, or at the very least a duke -- got the inspired idea to drive his truck over the dried lake bed. Because America. Whether or not he was aware that the playa was wet when he drove on it was not known, but what was known was that he had a notion that driving on the playa was illegal -- there are signs everywhere indicating this. Because the pan was still wet when he took his metal steed out to the ancient lake bed, and water has a tough time getting through clay, the surface of the ancient lake bed was mud, allowing his tire tracks to become embedded in the clay for all to enjoy. What's more, the individual didn't do this act in the dead of night, or when no one was around. No, he did it in full view of a host of tourists. One managed to snap a few shots of his license plate and showed them to the park rangers. Before long, every park ranger and park lawman was on the lookout for the gentleman, and it wasn't long before they found him. When he was finally pulled over, the arresting officer was surprised to find that he knew the man, because the perp was a local cop. Perhaps this explained the donuts.

Racetrack Valley from the Homestake Mine

*     *     *     *

Magic rocks!

We traveled further south in the valley to the other end of the playa to explore Racetrack Valley's most famous feature. At the end of the lake bed is a hill made up of broken rocks. Occasionally, the rocks roll off the hillside and onto the pan. And, every so often, these rocks move across the valley floor, carving trails as they grow. For a long time, folks thought this was some sort of magic, strange magnetic feature, or alien meddling (many still do, especially the last part. The desert does strange things to people's heads).

The best -- or most reasonable -- theory is that when the playa gets wet, the clay becomes viscous and strong winds can blow the rocks around, creating the trails. When the water evaporates and the clay hardens, the trails stay. No matter what theories are out there, no one has ever seen the rocks move, and no one knows how it really happens. Maybe it is aliens (the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence!).

French walking on the playa

Splitting up, we followed the mysterious trails as they zigged and zagged across the desert floor. But soon, our stomachs rumbled and we made our way up the road to the Homestake Dry Camp at the southern end of Racetrack Valley. There were a few clearings in the creosote bushes and we picked the one farthest from the main road and the back country toilet (because, well that should be obvious). After we'd set up camp and had a bit to eat, we grabbed a couple beers and made our way down an old road towards the edge of the valley. On the way, I spotted a large, fairly fresh scat on the side of the trail. It had folded in the middle and had a piece of burned toilet paper sticking out of it. Despite the presence of paper, it was certainly not human -- bits of bone and hair stuck out of it. The scat was still dark and malleable (touched it with a stick, I swear), so we knew it was less than a week old. Excited about my new Scats and Tracks app by Falcon Guides (worth every penny), I looked up the feces and was unsettled by my findings. I showed the suspect to French and Alice and they agreed: Mountain lion. Normally, this would have put me on edge, but we decided there were enough burros and mountain goats to keep a cat happy. Besides, they move far and fast, and this one probably wasn't around anymore. 

Old water truck.

Ahead, we spotted a rusting, yellow water tank trailer sitting atop a hill, riddled with bullet holes and a few bits of graffiti. There was an old foundation nearby and the ground was strewn with rusty cans (archaeologically quite significant, I'm sure!). We perched on the old foundation and viewed the landscape before us. To the east and west, imposing mountains ran the length of the valley. Because this was an ancient lake bed, the valley bowed to the north and the south. The parallel mountain ranges never met, but merely dipped below the flat horizon line, giving us the feeling that the world simply dropped off at the northern and southern ends of Racetrack. Nothing could be seen beyond the distant horizons. We were sitting at the edge of the world, with truly nothing around for miles. The silence was absolute. It is the farthest from anything I've ever been, and the closest to nothing. 

Free boots! They didn't fit.

Shadows stretched from the mountains as we made our way further up the road. Passing over hills, we could see the distant lights of RVs and campers in Saline Valley, twinkling in the early dusk. Ahead, structures jutted out from the mountainside. Sun burned wooden structures and gnarled metal piping of ore chutes and old mines were arranged haphazardly on the bluff, with jackknife trails leading to older mines high up on the mountain -- the Homestake Mine. The place had an eerie vibe to it. It had obviously been long forgotten, but felt as though someone might return at any moment, like being in someone else's house, waiting for them to come home -- must be a condition of living in the city, always expecting more people. Walking toward one open mine, I spotted a derelict pair of cowboy boots on the road, waiting for some forgetful owner to come reclaim them. We peered inside the mine shaft. About five feet in, the way was blocked by horizontal wooden beams. Alice told me that this was to let bats come and go from the abandoned mines and to keep intrepid morons out. (It's almost surprising how many people venture into these old holes, only to never return. Almost surprising.)

Homestake Mine

It was growing darker and there was catamount shit nearby, so we hightailed it back to the site to enjoy the best camp meal I've ever had. With onions, peppers, kielbasa, Near East rice mix and a couple cans of Bumble Bee canned chipotle chicken (which is absolutely delectable. Side note: Dear Bumble Bee, please sell this in Boston.), they made a scrumptious jambalaya, which I could have eaten ad infinitum. 

By the time our dinner was finished, the night was upon us. We sat around and talked, our headlamps providing light (did you know campfires in the desert aren't always a good idea? The more you know). After the bright moon slid below the mountains, we walked two miles down to the Racetrack playa. We took our shoes off and walked across the warm dry clay, letting my hobbit's feet absorb the day's warmth, looking up at the brilliant stars above. Never had I seen such lights, the Milky Way Nebula, any of it. It was brilliant and made me feel like I was spinning, dizzy. French, Alice and I laid down on the tepid ground and watched the stars slowly glide over our endless canopy as I drifted to sleep. 

The stars at night are big and bright.

Continued in Part III

*Evidence shows that the last eruption happened between 1,000 and 2,000 years ago, with some estimates ranging from 7,000 years to as recently as 800 years. So really, no one know -- but it was a while ago.

The Valley Of Death: Part I

A Study in the Shades of Brown

Death Valley National Park, CA - Late April, 2012

After visiting the American Southwest, there's this feeling I get sometimes that envelopes me. No, it's not Valley Fever. It's this rush of energy I feel inside: My stomach jumps, my arms tingle, and -- but for a moment -- I can feel myself back there amongst the red rocks, with that dry air blowing over me, the ringing in my ears of a silent, empty landscape. It is a fleeting feeling, and try as I might, I can never fall fully into it. Until I go back.

And so I found myself sitting in Denver International Airport, witnessing one of the most extreme displays of lightening I'd ever been privy to view. We'd just landed a short time before, clouds around my plane had been illuminated by the violent lighting in the thunderhead we had passed through (quite a rush, I might add). Normally, I love thunderstorms, but I was in no mood for one at this time. It was nearing midnight and I was stranded in Denver; my flight for Las Vegas could not leave until the storm passed. Lighting silhouetted the distant Rockies, and I frantically texted my friend Alice "Road Runner" Hunt, who was patiently waiting for me at the Las Vegas Airport. Digital apologies flew hundreds of miles while I waited to leave. When I finally got to Las Vegas, it was after 1 AM and I was cracked out from too much coffee. But the excitement of seeing my old friend and the anticipation for our adventure perked me right up.

Alice and I go back a bit, to my freshman year at college (which college? I'll never tell). She's a scrappy sombitch, earnest, honest and completely loyal. Crass when she needs to be, but always good to have around. We lived in a dorm flooded with Latin-studying classics majors and budding archaeologists. Alice was somewhere between the two. I, on the other hand, was an ad kid with good connections and a Latin-filled youth, so I got to live in this beautiful brownstone in Boston. Alice and Tomek (you might remember him), both older than me, took me under their wings and we became the three musketeers of the dorm. We were family. Over the next three years, we went on myriad adventures -- though none quite appropriate for this blog, so we'll start here. In Nevada. At 1 AM.

Alice, originally from the Midwest, had gone to work for several parks after graduating: Yosemite, Sierra and finally Death Valley. Being out west and all made it hard for her to come back East to visit Tomek and me, so we decided to head out to visit her. Besides, it'd be more fun to explore the Mojave than Boston's numerous swamps. The problem was Tomek pushed off buying his ticket until the prices soared above $500. So he was out and I went alone. It happens. The drive to the park was a bit of a blur. The land was dark and only a few stars managed to shine despite the ambient light of Las Vegas (no joke, you can see the lights of Vegas from Death Valley, over 100 miles away. It's atrocious, as is Las Vegas). We passed Pahrump, stopping for some supplies (it's the nearest place to the park to get anything), before continuing into the desert night.

Looming shadows of mountains passed on both sides. Ghostly sage brush and desert holly -- caked in dust -- were illuminated by our headlights. The bright green glow of a kit fox's eyes stared at us from up the road, before it darted off into the unknown. Our headlights reflected off of the white stucco wall of the Amargosa Opera House, a lonely hotel that stands in a ghost town on the border of the park. Alice pointed out sandy bluffs that indicated we'd passed into Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land (there are wild horses there, somewhere). We passed between two low mountains and I spotted a sign ahead:

Death Valley National Park

Homeland of the Timbisha Shoshone

We'd made it. By now it was 3 AM and fatigue was overtaking me. We pulled up to her apartment -- a cinder block building atop a hill, surrounded by tall, sandy bluffs -- and I fell into a deep sleep that would last for, oh, about four hours.

*     *     *     *

In the morning we woke early, ate a hardy breakfast, and I got to meet Alice's boyfriend French Gilman, a delightful, friendly and fun young fella, with wild hair and a scraggly beard. Calm and cool, he's instantly likable and I spent my time there making sure I impressed him (which, being that I'm the long-time friend, isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Oh well, I liked the guy). 

It was still early when we grabbed our packs, food and water and hopped in their white Izuzu Trooper. My first view of the Mojave from their front door was vast; if it hadn't been for a distant sand storm, one could see clear across the valley. The sky was a blinding blue and the air was dry, with that warm, sandy smell. The Mojave desert is quite different from the Sonoran. While the Sonoran is full of tall creosote bushes, towering Saguaro and countless prickly pear and cholla cacti, the Mojave is barren. Small bushes scatter the landscape -- a desert holly here, some sagebrush there. Where in the Sonoran, you can hear the rustling of lizards and quail, spot cactus wren darting between thickets, and spy some raptor cruising the thermals above, the Mojave is quiet, still. Almost hauntingly so.* On a distant road, a caravan glides across the empty landscape, silent and distorted by the heat reflecting off the ground.

The road to Grotto Canyon. We were stuck here

The park seems infinite. When you leave one valley, you just pass into another vast, empty wilderness. On the road, my eyes were glued to the window, watching the endless mountains pass us by. These were not the granite behemoths of my native land, but appeared like layers of packed mud that had erupted from the horizon in myriad chaotic angles -- which is exactly what they did. Not hidden beneath a blanket of flora, the mountains displayed the dynamic geological history of Death Valley; it's no wonder the area was once -- and still would be without the Department of the Interior -- a rather viable mining region. Ancient layers of mud, rock and detritus paint the mountains in a brilliant palette of browns. Green browns, red browns, blue browns, brown browns. Alice quipped that Death Valley had been referred to as "a study in the shades of brown."

We took a left off the main drag and followed a dirt road five miles into the bush. The road was on a steady incline as we neared the mountains and Alice informed me that we were on our way to Grotto Canyon to do a little light canyoneering. The smaller mountains ahead were a tan color, with those looming behind them rust brown, blood red and black. The smooth dirt road slowly became more sandy and our car struggled over some deeper pockets of loose dirt. When it seemed that we'd made it past the rough patches, the wheels of the car emitted a high-pitched whining. We'd become stuck in the sand. Alice took the wheel while French and I got out and pushed. It was no use -- the sand was so deep; even we were sinking into it. The wheels kicked up dirt, covering us in a thin layer of dust.

"Well," I shrugged. "Couldn't have gotten stuck in a purdier place."

Entrance to Grotto Canyon

I was surprised to learn that a car dubbed "Trooper" didn't have four-wheel drive; it seemed unAmerican. We would have to get out with just two-wheel drive and our wits.

We tried every trick we could think of. Floor mats under the tires. Digging out the tires. Pushing some more. We were five miles from the main road, exposed to the sun in a remote part of the park and the day was getting hotter. It was after ten and the heat was already in the 90's. We couldn't walk back to the main road without succumbing to the heat, our cell phones had no service, and Alice and French weren't too keen on using the satellite phone to call a ranger for help. The embarrassment would have been worse than death itself.

French climbing up a dry fall

We'd been working on the car for the better part of an hour when we came up with an idea. Digging through the trunk, Alice produced a car jack. We lifted the rear tires a few inches off the ground and filled the pits below the tires with large stones. Digging trenches in front of the tire tracks, we filled those with large rocks as well. Once we were satisfied with our makeshift cobblestone road (being from Boston, I'm kind of an expert on those), French hopped in the driver seat and gunned the Trooper while Alice and I pushed like our lives depended on it -- which they did. After a troubled start, the car made it out of the sandy patch and shot up the road. There was much rejoicing. Alice and French asked me if I still wanted to go on the hike or if I was too freaked out to carry on. I said I was good to go -- it's not an adventure unless you almost get stuck in the middle of nowhere, after all. We headed up the road and came to its nexus. Ahead was a sheer wall of  rock with a gnarly opening in the middle: Grotto Canyon.       

Chuckwalla!

We climbed through the winding canyon. Smooth rock slides, trenches and falls had been carved by a millennia of rushing water. Rocky overhangs gave us shade from the sun and the canyon was cool and breezy. Spires of sunlight poured through openings overhead. Here and there, we would come to big bends in the dried river where the canyon would open up. The sky was blue and cloudless above, and the heat radiated off the tall, sloping canyon walls. A chuckwalla -- my favorite lizard -- sat basking on a rock. This one was unlike those I'd seen in Arizona, however. It was black and a white-tan, with a leopard pattern and dark, black circles around its eyes. Before I could get too close, it darted under a rock and inflated itself in the crag. The trail brought us to many small, dried waterfalls and we had to shimmy ourselves up these narrow rock slides. Occasionally, we would come to a fall that was too high and broad to climb up, so we would launch French up and he would drop a line down to pull us up. After stopping for a small lunch, we came to a fall that was too great for any of us to ascend and we turned back.

Pesky buzzworm

Coming back down the waterfalls was much easier. Aside from the steep drops where we had to use rope to get down, we simply slid or jumped down, using the deep pool of sand at the bottom to brace the shock of our landing. We came to a bottleneck in the canyon, where the hard rock walls stood high above and close together, when Alice shouted my name and French grabbed my shoulder. They had seen it moments before I had unwittingly nearly stepped on it: A young sidewinder. El crotalo cornudo. It couldn't have been more than seven inches long, but that is when they are the most deadly. You see, most venomous snakes learn over their lifetime that they do not need to use their full supply of venom to incapacitate prey and predators. Small amounts will make the point. But the younger asps have yet to learn this. So if you are bit by a young viper, you are more likely to die. Most of the folks I've known from the Southwest are very keen at spotting snakes -- more so even than me, a person who loves all things herpetological. I was very lucky these two had picked up this trait. The sidewinder coiled itself tight, ready to strike, with its small rattle shaking furiously. The rattle itself was so small that, even a foot away, I could not hear it. Like I said, I was very lucky Alice and French stopped me. We gave the snake some space and watched it slither off -- to where? I don't know, there was a waterfall up ahead that it would be unable to summit. Oh well, not my problem.

A mountain lamb! Photo Cred: Alice

Coming back to the opening where I'd spotted the chuckwalla, I was no doubt telling some long story at an obnoxious volume, when I rounded the corner and spotted six bighorn sheep standing right in front of me.

"Whoa! Fuck!" I shouted, causing them all to pause and stare at me before darting up the steep slope to our right.

Grotto Canyon Skylight

They hadn't heard us coming -- strange, because I am not known for speaking quietly -- and were caught quite by surprise when we came around the bend. The slope they'd hopped up grew too steep for them to climb any further, so they stood where they were and watched us pass, giving us a wonderful opportunity to view them. There were two adult females, two juveniles and two lambs. We all stared at each other silently for a time before our group moved on, giving them the opportunity to run and hide deep in the winding canyons.

*     *     *     * 

Mesquite Dunes

It was late afternoon when we made it back to the car, and we gunned the Trooper down the sandy road so we would not get stuck again. We took a short reprieve at the expansive Mesquite Dunes, where I took off my shoes and socks and let my feet sink into the sand.

French and Alice took me out of the park to a podunk old mining town in Nevada called Beatty. It's a rough little desert community, a little run down, but quaint and welcoming. Western-style buildings, stucco houses, trailers and cinder block garages stand beneath cottonwood trees. The mountains were casting long shadows when we parked the car.

Happiest Place on Earth

We walked to the Happy Burro Chili & Beer and sat down around an old wood spool on the side porch, beneath a canopy of Christmas lights. The building itself was little more than a shed, but it had beer so I wasn't going anywhere. The bartender came out to greet French and Alice and ask me for my ID. I presented it and she asked how old I was. I wasn't prepared for an interogation, so my brain managed to fire off "It's July 4, 19XX so I am 23 years old." Completely unsuspicious. French brought out a pitcher of the coldest PBR I've had the pleasure of drinking -- the pitcher had a frozen gel pack in the middle that kept the beer cold in the Nevada heat. Drinking from mason jars, we were delighted when three bowls of chili came out. I am here to tell you, hand to my heart, that it was the best damn chili I have ever had, will ever have. Big beans, chunks of steak, and delightful ground beef filled my small bowl. It took great self control for me to not suck the whole thing down immediately; every bite needed to be savored, like I'd never relish in its goodness again.

There was no time to take a photo
of a full bowl

We enjoyed some more pitchers of Pabst while engaging with the local color. An old coot, sporting a false visor hat with fake hair on the lid, called Uncle John, came and chatted us up a bit, asking Alice when she would leave French to marry him. A dog named Hooker sat on a stool at the bar and came over occasionally to see if I would give him some of my chili. I was told the canine was the true owner of the bar -- indeed, a sign inside reads "Hooker runs this bar" -- but it didn't help him get any of my coveted chili. A younger couple, about our age, sat down next to us and the young woman quietly ordered a glass of white wine. It took a great amount of effort for me to not turn around and stare at her. Yeah, I thought. They'll go bust out their vintage Carlo Rossi for you. A man in a long, black duster and cowboy hat appeared at the entrance and sat at an empty table -- he looked like he was straight out of Tombstone. The Cimarron Kid. Alice and French warned me not to interact with him/look at him; he was a mean drunk with a quick temper. And he was armed. Two six shooters and a big knife. Finishing our beers, we brought the empty pitchers and glasses inside, paid our tab -- no joke, less than $20 -- and headed out. The gunslinger peered at me from under his black Stetson hat, his cold, sunken eyes surveying us as we left.

Back in the park, Alice took a sharp right off the main road. I was confused, as I knew we weren't back at their place yet. They told me they had something cool to show me. It was pitch black as we drove up a dirt road, unable to see far ahead. The ghostly visage of an abandoned building stood on the side of the road, a sign in front indicating that it was -- at one point -- a bank. They'd taken me to one of the area's numerous ghost towns: Rhyolite. Passing several gutted, dilapidated buildings, we came to the top of the road, where a grand old train station stood, surrounded by tall Joshua trees. We couldn't get too close, as there was a fence surrounding the building, but we admired the lovely Turn of the Century architecture. Walking past a an open mine shaft in the ground, French peered in and jumped back just in time to dodge a bat that shot out from the abyss. We wandered for a bit more before French and Alice said we needed to head back home. We had a long day ahead of us.


Continued soon in Part II.

*This is certainly not to say the Mojave is devoid of life. On the contrary, Death Valley is home to a plethora of unique and wonderful plants and animals. This needs to be noted so Alice and French don't chew me out next time I see them.


Rory's note: Yeah, the names in this are very much nom guerras. 

An Indian Summer in Downeast

It was during the colonial period in New England, when October brought the frost and snow and the land started to cool, that the colonists would feel safe in their outlying settlements on the edge of the frontier. Then, the winds would turn, bringing in warm weather, melting the frost and snow. The American Indian tribes would use this opportunity to strike the frontier settlements one last time before winter, as they could not easily be tracked back to their own dwellings. The settlers called it "Indian Summer."

October 7, 2011 - Deer Isle, ME

Jesse, Eric and me on Little Goat Island.

The day was not boding well. Eric and I were on hour four of our drive, and the sky above Penobscot was granite, cold. On the Jeep's roof, the new canoe that Eric and I had spent the last few months refurbishing was rattling in such a way to make the inside of the Jeep sound like the cabin of a helicopter. The only thing we'd found effective in combating the noise was blasting the stereo and shouting all of our conversations. We'd long lost interest in the only music we'd taken with us -- one CD of Old Crow Medicine Show -- and were too burnt to check the radio for acceptable alternatives; our voices were hoarse and we now only spoke when necessary. As we crossed the mimic-Zakim Bridge that traversed the Penobscot River, listening to "Motel in Memphis" for the nth time, I began to feel weary, like the road would go on, never bringing us to Deer Isle.

Eric has a slew of friends from his hometown that had adopted me into their clan. One of them, a wiry and smart young man named Mark, had a plot of land on Deer Isle -- or rather his family had a plot of land up there. On this land there was nothing but a tent platform and a shed to house a canoe, some kayaks and whatever raccoon was clever enough to get into it before the long winter. The land is made up of a large field -- probably two or three football fields, end to end -- and a winding Hemlock forest that brings you to a rocky inlet. The trip to Deer Isle is long, as anyone with a map can imagine, so trips are always made during long weekends. With Eric in school and me -- as I was tactfully putting it at the time -- "between jobs," we decided to leave early on Friday so we could set up shop. Mark and our other companion, Jesse -- a goofy soul who tries to keep his head amid our collective shenanigans -- would meet up with us later in the evening. They had jobs, the suckers.

So here Eric and I were, staring at Fort Knox (no, not that Fort Knox), wishing the gloomy day would deliver us, when the sun finally began to break through.

"Half an hour left!" Eric cried, bashing the steering wheel with open palms, as he does when excited and driving.

The tide was going out when we passed over the bridge that acted as a gateway to Deer Isle. It wasn't very late, but the sun was setting fast, blasting the sky with deep purples and violets (God sure does have a pretty paintbrush). Eric and I were famished, having taken little food with us for the long drive. We yearned for dinner, but knew we had work to do first. We had to make sure the camp site was clear.

You see, the plot up there in Deer Isle doesn't get many frequent visitors from Mark's family. This must have incentivized some young vagabond to make it his home, because the last time the group had ventured up for a weekend, they found the site occupied. A tent stood off at the edge of the woods, a fire smoldering beside it. The first two to arrive -- Adam and Hillary -- believed that a friend had beat them there; they were wrong. Upon investigating the tent, they found a disheveled man lurking inside. Adam asked the man what he was doing, without receiving much of a response. Eventually, Adam told the man he couldn't stay there. The man ignored him and began to spout out rants and conspiracy theories -- contrails, reptilians, etc. -- and Adam walked away. The rest of the group arrived, one by one, and were unable to figure out what to do with this unstable man. In true New England fashion, they ignored his presence and drank themselves into a fearful sleep. When they woke the next day, the man had vanished.

We had to make sure he wasn't back.

Eric and I briefly explored the field and found no evidence of recent human activity, but we did find a few apple trees full of fruit. We quickly set up a few tents and the cooking area. Satisfied that we'd completed the tasks at hand, we hopped back in the car and made our way down the quiet, winding backroads into town for dinner. Parking in the center of town, we found the one open joint at 7:30 on a Friday night, clearly Deer Isle's premier restaurant. The place was packed with vacationing AARP cardholders enjoying tuna salad sandwiches and chips. When we walked in, the place went silent and everyone stared. Eric and I could not figure out if we were such a spectacle because we were the youngest customers present by about 30 years, or if we merely seemed out of place with all the yuppies.

A kindly, young waitress came over with water and asked what we'd like to order, telling us that the kitchen would be closed soon, so we should order quickly. I asked how the "Pizza Cheeseburger" was.

"Oh, don't get that." She replied flatly. "Yeah, I'd get anything else on the menu."

I got the chicken salad sandwich.

After we'd been there for a while, the customers began to forget about us and go back to what they were doing. A middle aged man sat with his elderly parents, who were treating him very tenderly. I listened in to their conversation briefly, as Eric and I were too tired to talk between ourselves (eavesdropping is rude, I know, but gosh is it entertaining) and I noticed that the middle aged man spoke slowly, with difficulty. My first thought was, "Oh, this man has had a stroke or some such issue, and he is out to dinner with his folks on vacation. How nice." It was at this point that Eric and I both heard a key phrase uttered by the man that changed out whole vision of the restaurant's dynamic.

"Ya know buddy, I don't know ya, but I fuckin' love ya."

At this point, we began to notice the buckets of beer present on every table but ours. The slurred speech, the stumbling patrons, the listlessly staring eyes. That man had had no stroke. Those were not his parents. Everyone wasn't being rude for staring at us. These people were all hammered. All of them. Except Eric and me.

As the waitress brought our check, the drunken retirees began to jingle their car keys, indicating they were getting ready to get on the road. I, too, stood up to leave after we'd paid, when Eric grabbed my arm and brought me back down to my chair.

"Hold up," He said quietly. "Let's wait til all these people drunk-drive away from us before we leave."

We sat, finishing our luke-warm coffee as the drunkards trickled out. Walking back to the car, a man was getting into his Saab convertible, singing some unknown, out-of-pitch tune to his wife. The car took off with a screech and disappeared into the Maine night.

Back at the site, Eric and I set about building a fire and cooking some treats for Mark and Jesse. The night was crisp and chill, reminding me how I missed the humid summer nights we'd just left behind only weeks before. The last two companions arrived and were pleased with not being in the car any longer. It was a feeling I could identify with. We sat around the fire for a while, drinking whatever godawful beer they had brought before we all headed off to sleep, watching our breath condense in the night air.

*     *     *     *

Blastin' shit with the bb gun.

When we woke the next day, the temperatures had already reached the mid 70's, projected to rise to the 80's by midday and through the weekend -- uncommon not only for October in general, but especially for October in Maine. We took advantage of the pleasant, summer-like weather and set about exploring the island. As I was jostled in the trunk of Jesse's Wrangler, listening to David Bowie, we picked up some food and drink for later before venturing to Peter Beerit's "sculpture town" --  for lack of a more appropriate name. It is an enchanting place, which words struggle to describe. Populated with Picasso-like abstract human sculptures, rendered from salvaged wood, metal and other parts, the town is made up of a few themed areas: A Western town, with a Saloon, gunslingers and the like. There is also a Medieval village, where knights battle dragons and a king holds court. Bicycles and wheel barrows turned into monsters and abstract forms dot the property. We marveled at the creations and snacked on some Nervous Nellie's Jams, which are sold there as well. While I petted a greasy-coated, sleepy shepherd dog, we eavesdropped on the artist talking to other tourists (it's a real problem for me).

We left the installation for our camp and spent much of the afternoon shooting cans with our Daisy Red Rider BB gun, smoking cigars, and enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. When the daylight began to waiver, we took to the woods to gather firewood. At the other end of the property was a large rock outcropping that juts into the inlet. In this rock is a natural bowl, which acts as a neat fire pit when the tide is out. When the tide comes back in, it carries the charred firewood out into the ocean. It's not very green at all -- but hey, neither are campfires.

Darkness had set in by the time we'd gathered all the firewood and finished our dinners. The tide was not all the way out, leaving some seawater clinging to the bottom of the rock bowl. With a bit of critical thinking, we devised a plan to build a platform for the fire to sit on. At first, the fire roared, fueled by dry pine branches and a cooperative breeze. But soon, as we should have expected, the platform ignited and collapsed into the bit of water that was still in the fire pit. The fire smoldered and quieted down, troubled but not defeated. Quickly, we all took to rebuilding the fire, but had a bad case of "too many cooks in the kitchen." The flames still clung to the wood, but they were slowly becoming embers, despite our efforts.

Several times, Jesse repeated an idea that we should stomp on the fire to get it going. Eric argued that it would do more to harm the fire, but Jesse insisted. Finally, a frustrated Eric shouted "FINE, JESSE!" and took a long leap onto the fire, sending sparks, twigs and small flames around. Jesse and I ducked back, shielding our eyes from the shower of sparks and debris, while Mark took the opportunity to snap a photo. The bottom embers sizzled in the puddle of sea water, but the fire maintained its lazy blaze. We kept at the fire for a few more hours, but were never truly able to get it to a bon. As the stars grew brighter in the Maine sky above, we grabbed buckets of water, doused the waning embers, and headed back up the mossy trail to our tents.

*     *     *     *

Sea specimens!

When we woke the next morning, the sun was bright and the smells of low tide clung to the air. We made our way back up to the field and our makeshift kitchen to cook up a simple breakfast. Soon, with our bellies filled, we took two canoes and painstakingly carried them down to the rock outcrop (damn, are canoes heavy!) -- there was much swearing. Gently nursing stubbed toes, we waited for the tide to come in just a little more before we slowly and laboriously lowered the heavy vessels into the sea. It was a tricky maneuver, getting not only our gear, but also ourselves into the boats below us. There was little to hold on to and the water was a bit wavy -- being the ocean and all -- but we nevertheless succeeded, dry and uninjured. The inlet took us out of Long Cove into Deep Hole, and the open ocean beyond. The shoreline was dotted with run-down, quaint fishing huts and more elaborate vacation homes. We slinked by unused lobster boats and one large, Water World-esque boat that was covered in rotted plywood. It bobbed gently in the small waves, neglected and forgotten in the water. As we neared the ocean, the houses became less numerous and the coastline uninterrupted. The rocky shore was lined with tall stands of pine, giving the impression of a North Western vista. There were few other boats sailing around and we enjoyed the solitude.

Exploring the coast along Goat Island.

Now out in the ocean, we could see small island all around us. In the distance, Mount Desert Island erupted from the horizon, the view unimpeded by the lowlands around it. Seals splashed in the water off the starboard. Trying to decide which island to venture to, we steered our canoes to the largest, uninhabited one ahead of us -- let's call it Goat Island (the island is technically private property, so I'm disinclined to give its true name, as I would like to go there again without getting into trouble). There was a nice, long, flat rock that lead to the beach, giving us the ideal place to pull up our canoes. We dragged them as far onto the beach as we could, sitting down under a tree to reward ourselves with a beer when we were done. We wondered aloud "what should we do?" now that we were here. There was no one on the island, and the woods seemed dense, impenetrable. We circled the coastline a bit, examining sea specimens and wading in the cold water, before returning to our landing site. I looked around and noticed some coyote scat on a log. Beyond it, a grassy patch with a trail head on the far side. I called Eric, Mark and Jesse over and we decided to explore the trail to see where it went. A private beach? A madman's house? Who knows! Let's find out.

Eric and Jesse, enjoying the sea.

The trail meandered through the forest, sometimes forking left and right. We tried to keep to the left, so that we could walk the perimeter of the island to keep from getting too lost. Hemlock, pine and the occasional birch filled the woods and limited our visibility. Ferns and thick moss blanketed the ground, and strange mushrooms protruded from rotting logs and under lichen-covered rocks. Though there were no signs of people living on the island, humans clearly came here from time to time. Occasionally, we would pass a felled tree, laying across the trail. More often than not, a section of the tree would have been cut away to clear the trail. In some instances, there was still saw dust on the ground, perhaps a month or so old. We were also noticing an abundance of seagull wings dotting the trail. Never a pair, only one at a time. When we would come to a clearing near the water, shells would line the trail, cracked open so some unknown creature could enjoy the shellfish.

Drag them buoys, Eric!

Along the way, we had found many lobster buoys* laying on the rocky beaches or washed up near the trail. With a long rope we'd procured, Eric and I took to scavenging these forsaken buoys and looping them into the line. Before long, Eric was dragging a long chain of buoys through the woods, occasionally getting it stuck on roots and rocks.

It was after noon when we found a nice, sandy beach. We'd been walking for some time now, and decided it was time for a break. Jesse and I sat on the beach while I smoked my pipe. Mark, ever a busybody, rummaged around, finding a few new buoys and pieces of a lobster. Eric, rather boldly, stripped down to his boxers and jumped in to the ice cold water. Despite the air being in the 80's, the water was still rather unwelcoming. We laughed as he screamed out, splashing in the surf. Eventually, it proved too cold for even Eric, and he was forced out. He squeegeed himself dry and we continued our walk, eventually finding our way back to the boats.

Eric goes swimming.

Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree...

The day was now growing later, but with the tide going out and the sun still high, we decided to stick around a little more. We had procured far too many buoys, so we took them and began sticking them onto the dead branches of a white pine, like some New-England-seaside-Christmas-Tree (my mother later told me that that is, in fact, a thing people in New England do. And we thought we were so creative...).

With the tree adequately decorated and the island satisfactorily explored, we drove our canoes back into the ocean and made our slow way home. Before we could leave, however, we had to circle back to the beach -- which was on the clear other side of the island -- for Mark had forgotten his socks (or shoes? or something. Doesn't matter, it was an ass ache either way). We pulled up to the beach briefly and gathered his belongings -- shocked that someone hadn't come and taken them (hey, if this had been Allston, those socks woulda been long gone, baby). And on we went, stopping briefly at a small island off the western shore of Goat Island -- Small Goat Island. Atop this tiny isle -- which was more or less a glorified rock -- was a lone juniper tree and a sign that indicated this was a state-owned camping ground. We played on the rock, jumping around and such, for a while. We sat under the juniper, admiring the vibrant sky painted by the setting fall sun, when we realized with a start, "Oh my. The sun is setting."

Eric and me in the canoe, making our way back to Deer Isle. Look how close the sun is to setting! Ack!

With great haste, we made way back to the inlet. With timing unparalleled in all my adventures, we passed the opening to the bay just as the sun settled over the tree line. Good, I thought. Now we can't get lost at sea without the sunlight to guide us. Just follow the inlet back to the camp and we'll be golden.

Thunk! Went the bottom of the canoe. Thunk! Screeeeeeeeep! The tide, we suddenly noticed, was almost all of the way out. The sickly sweet smell of low tide clung to the air, penetrating our senses. Our canoes could barely make it down the inlet without scraping the ground. When it became too shallow to push on, Eric and I tried to get out of the canoe and drag it. But no! Dear reader, we could not! The ground was completely covered in a carpet of mussel shells and our feet, bare of any sandal, could not walk over them without risking slicing our soles open. We were trapped. To make matters worse, it was growing darker by the minute and we had yet to go to the grocery store to pick up food for dinner.

"Wait," Mark pondered."You see, here's the thing. My grandparents are renting a house right down the road from the bridge up ahead. If we can get to the road, we can stop in, say hello to my grandparents, and hang out until the tide comes back in."

"Genius!" We all cried. Mark had saved the day. We managed to find the deepest bit of water -- merely a stream at this point -- and navigate it up to the bridge. Stepping on the muddy banks of the inlet, we dragged our canoes up onto the shore, through the salt grass, and into the trees. Twilight had surrounded us, so we let our eyes adapt to the darkness while we found our way to Mark's grandparent's house. They were staying off of the main street, down a dark, winding dirt road. The deeper we got into the road, the darker it became, and the harder it was to see. Finally, ahead, we spotted some lights. We arrived at the rented house, a large structure that boasted a tidal pool in the back yard. (No, not like what you learned about in your marine bio class. This was a swimming pool that was fed by the ocean and filtered by the changing tides. That's rich, people.) We knocked on the door, rang the bell, but no one was home. This, however, being Maine, no one locks their doors. We opened the door to see what was going on and decided that we could borrow a few food items -- a box of pasta, some potatoes, an egg or two -- for our dinner. By now it was nearly eight and nothing would be open in town when we returned. Desperation; you'll steal from your own grandmother! Just kidding, they wouldn't have minded as long as we didn't take the wine.

*     *     *     *

We waited around a bit longer, hoping to bump into his grandfolks, but they never arrived. So we headed back to the boats, praying the tide had come back in. When we made it back to the boats,  we could see the moonlight reflecting off of the still water. The tide was coming back in, with a vengeance! Grabbing our canoes, we quickly dragged them to the water and made our way home. With the current working for us, the ride back was easy -- a nice bit of luck, as we were quite tired by this point. Schools of little fish were erupting from the surface of the glassy water, chased by some unseen predator. I watched Jesse and Mark's canoe, silhouetted in the moonlight, glide gently across the water's surface. Lights turned on and off in the houses we canoed by, and a dog barked at our passing, not ceasing until it was sure we were long gone.

Finally back to Mark's camp, we dragged the canoes back up onto the rock with haste; hunger and fatigue drove us to finish the task quickly. Securing the boats to a tree, we made our way to the kitchen, were we threw together a chop suey of whatever was hanging around. The best camp food I've ever had, it was not. But it worked in a pinch and it went along nicely with the Bud and PBR. Drinking ourselves into a stupor, we stumbled back to the tents and into a well deserved sleep.

*     *     *     *

The next morning consisted of the usual camp-breaking activities. Collapsing tents, cleaning up trash, pouring water on embers, combining all of the leftover food into a grand omelet. Apparently the boys have a rule about Deer Isle: the last one to poop in the woods becomes the least manly esquire of the trip. I had solved this problem on the first day, so I was not at risk of becoming the weakest of the group. It was Mark who had yet to utilized our more primordial toilet: nature. Mark, however, is a rather competitive man. While he is very modest about his accomplishments, the boy runs marathons and bikes across whole states in a sitting. Don't attempt a foot race with him on a mountain ridge (story to come). He is not to be outdone. While we were packing up our things, he grabbed the toilet paper and made for the woods. We spotted him through the trees, climbing the branches of a pine before disappearing out of site. A few minutes later, he returned, a smile from ear to ear. He had outdone us all, by pooping from a lofty tree branch. Touche, sir.

A little garter snake.

While we finished packing our things, I found a few small garter snakes. Yearlings, no doubt, as they were barely four inches long. Eric is not a fan of snakes, so he asked me to kindly move the serpents away from him.

Before I knew it, the weekend was at its close and we were making our way to the highway. Leaving the shore-dwelling pine groves, deciduous trees took over the land. The fall colors Friday's gloom had hidden were now revealed by the brilliant sunshine. I'm not much of a leaf peeper, but I couldn't help but admire the range of colors displayed by the maples, oak, beech and birch. We were about to leave Maine, passing by the Freeport exit, when Eric, who had been calm and quiet up to this point, started bellowing out like a rabid ghoul and jerked the car across three lanes of traffic without signalling. I grabbed onto whatever I could, terrified that this was it, the end. He pulled the car into the breakdown lane, still shouting like I'd never heard him shout before.

"What's wrong?" I begged of him.
"SNAKE!" He bellowed. "THERE'S A SNAKE! IN MY FUCKING SHORTS!"

He hopped out of the driver's seat and I followed suit. He was shaking out all of his clothes, swatting at all his appendages like he was being attacked by bees, when I saw it on the ground. It was one of the baby snakes from Deer Isle. It must have creeped into some of our gear and, eventually, into Eric's crotch. I picked up the harmless asp and brought him into the grass. Eric, still a bit shaken, took to the driver's seat, hands white knuckled on the driver's wheel, staring straight forward.

"Alright." He said, calmly. "Let's go home."
  

*Yeah, I know it's illegal to take buoys off of traps, but these were washed up on shore. The lobster men can go back to the island and pick them up whenever they want; they're still probably there.

All photos by Mark B.