Thursday, October 11, 2007
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Is This the Scary Part for Children?
Photo: The happy hiking guy.
Photo: The happy hiking guy.
Wind, Sand, and Rain. And Cold. And ladders, thin places, high places, narrow places.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
"We choose to do these things, ...
... not because they are easy, but because they are hard." So says Dale. And John Kennedy.
Although my trip was ten days long, we are just going to talk about the 5 days of serious hiking, and specifically now -- the first two days. We are not going to mention the flat tire in Lovelock, NV. Or mention how many "No Smoking" rooms there are in Utah that smell like smoke, despite a decidedly religous population and the Utah Clean Air Act. Or how difficult it can be to find a meal on Sunday, much less a beer.
We are not going to mention that I entered a raffle for a varmint rifle in Nevada (that den of despair, vice and immorality.) Or that I spent a lot of time with two people who speak metric. "It can't possibly be zero out?" Says I. We are not going to yak on about the broken camera.
So the first night went well in the campground at the trailhead for Paria. Reports from other hikers and the rangers encouraged us to skip our plan to hike Buckskin Gulch. It had water running in it the previous day forcing one group of hikers to bivy at the middle route. It was allegedly muddy down the length and had deep water in places.
So instead we hiked the Paria Narrows to camp at the bottom of Buckskin Gulch just up from the confluence. Right before the start of the hike my camera fell from the picnic bench and required that I change lenses just before leaving . The extent of the damage isn't quite known yet, especially after enlisting the hardware store guy to help me fix it with a pair of channel locks.
The first day was nine miles plus down the Paria River to the confluence with Buckskin. We all put on our boots to head downstream a few hundred feet and then change into our river shoes. We met a pair of hikers from GB who had ridden bicycles from Jasper to the Mexican Border this past summer. They vanished immediately when I fell the first of several times that day. I fell several times that day.
It was like snot -- the mud. "It's really just a choice between grey and brown mud," said one of the upstream hikers.
I fell about six times actually, the pain of which has finally reached its zenith. My ego is bruised, mainly.
The trip down the river becomes progressively narrower and more wet, as the canyon width decreases. The wetter it got the less I fell. The initial crossing was a bit comic. We debated for some time the best way to cross, changed shoes, nervously stepped in. We crossed the Paria about 300,000 times after that, and by the end of the trip down we were in the water all the time.
We camped in a site above Buckskin 50 ft or so. A little platform in the sky.
In the morning there was no dew and it was warm. My weather radar was working overtime telling me it was going to rain. I told "the boys" what my grandfather had always said -- "if there isn't any dew, it is going to rain." We were three or four miles down from where that narrows of the Paria opened up much. We immediately broke camp and left.
Although my trip was ten days long, we are just going to talk about the 5 days of serious hiking, and specifically now -- the first two days. We are not going to mention the flat tire in Lovelock, NV. Or mention how many "No Smoking" rooms there are in Utah that smell like smoke, despite a decidedly religous population and the Utah Clean Air Act. Or how difficult it can be to find a meal on Sunday, much less a beer.
We are not going to mention that I entered a raffle for a varmint rifle in Nevada (that den of despair, vice and immorality.) Or that I spent a lot of time with two people who speak metric. "It can't possibly be zero out?" Says I. We are not going to yak on about the broken camera.
So the first night went well in the campground at the trailhead for Paria. Reports from other hikers and the rangers encouraged us to skip our plan to hike Buckskin Gulch. It had water running in it the previous day forcing one group of hikers to bivy at the middle route. It was allegedly muddy down the length and had deep water in places.
So instead we hiked the Paria Narrows to camp at the bottom of Buckskin Gulch just up from the confluence. Right before the start of the hike my camera fell from the picnic bench and required that I change lenses just before leaving . The extent of the damage isn't quite known yet, especially after enlisting the hardware store guy to help me fix it with a pair of channel locks.
The first day was nine miles plus down the Paria River to the confluence with Buckskin. We all put on our boots to head downstream a few hundred feet and then change into our river shoes. We met a pair of hikers from GB who had ridden bicycles from Jasper to the Mexican Border this past summer. They vanished immediately when I fell the first of several times that day. I fell several times that day.
It was like snot -- the mud. "It's really just a choice between grey and brown mud," said one of the upstream hikers.
I fell about six times actually, the pain of which has finally reached its zenith. My ego is bruised, mainly.
The trip down the river becomes progressively narrower and more wet, as the canyon width decreases. The wetter it got the less I fell. The initial crossing was a bit comic. We debated for some time the best way to cross, changed shoes, nervously stepped in. We crossed the Paria about 300,000 times after that, and by the end of the trip down we were in the water all the time.
We camped in a site above Buckskin 50 ft or so. A little platform in the sky.
In the morning there was no dew and it was warm. My weather radar was working overtime telling me it was going to rain. I told "the boys" what my grandfather had always said -- "if there isn't any dew, it is going to rain." We were three or four miles down from where that narrows of the Paria opened up much. We immediately broke camp and left.
I led the charge upstream against the unchanging trickle of the Paria, the threat of rain spurning us on -- done in two hours and forty-five minutes. Dale passing us all at the first break. That's three miles an hour with 300.000 crossings and packs. Not bad, imagine the rate if it really were raining.
Eighteen miles in my river shoes with a full pack and mud. It's pretty amazing to me. At the last crossing there were a couple of people standing there debating how to get across; we just charged in and went across.
Elves' Chasm
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Although this is not from the trip I just finished ... 7 rolls of film from my Colorado River trip came back from processing while I was away. It's like Christmas.
I am sure you are disappointed, but the story of the Paria Narrows and Canyonlands is quite long and includes several hundred photos. It could take a while to prepare.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Towers of the Virgin
Virgin River bottms.
A weeping spring and hanging garden, looking straight up.
Virgin River Narrows -- notice hikers headed upstream.
End of the line. These are walking sticks left behindby hikers leaving the Virgin narows for the paved trail of the riverside walk.
End of the line. These are walking sticks left behindby hikers leaving the Virgin narows for the paved trail of the riverside walk.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Finding Paradise
Well, the route from San Francisco to Zion is not as clearly defined as you might imagine. Initially, I was going to go this way then that way, then I really thought it would be cool to stay at one of the big hotels in Vegas ... which is one.) expensive, and two.) not possible if you're me. I went that way. I ended up in Beatty, NV. Let's all imagine that some of the bling was missing, not to mention the girls. I followed the general advice of Abbey, and the very specific advice of the bar man at the stagecoach and turned East before the "Spaghetti Bowl", which is what I swear he called Las Vegas. I am probably better off because of it.
Zion is still where I left it. It seems crowded, and busy. Go figure. And I am still having trouble finding it. I had a plan to expose my inability to find it through a series of pix, and despite a lot of blogsnot™, I have managed it.
Springdale, Utah is an interesting place. I find it to be some tourist art extravaganza. It reminds me of the wilderness, with a hot tub, laundromats, RV's, and berry pie. And a petting zoo.
Maybe tomorrow I'll go find Zion.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Planes of Heaven
Virgin River Cattails. 4x5" Polaroid.
Or is it plains? I was in Springdale UT and talking to a young man about the name Zion and what it meant, and he told me that like Kanab, it was one of the "plains" of Heaven. Ok, well, ... that works ok for me. Is that what Moab is -- One of the plains of Heaven? Moses went from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo. God swept Elijah from the plains of Moab to Heaven in a chariot. It seems we might be close. close enough to get swept up.
The countdown has started. I am packing and making the final arrangements for ten days in canyon country, in the plains of Heaven. I'll be two days in Zion, two in Paria -- featuring bucksin gulch and a place called "the wave", and 3 in Canyonlands NP near the confluence of the Green and the Colorado Rivers, in Abbey's country -- in Chesler Park and at Druid Arch. I'll wear my Colorado River hat all red and brown with red rock like a badge of honor. I'll pack extra light and take the mini tripod, and dry bag everything like I was a river veteran. I've been rereading Abbey, and thinking of the river spirits. These are seriously classic wilderness hikes, in the hallowed canyons -- the very cathedrals of Heaven.
The quicksand laden, wet, impassable without swimming, magically lit, cathedrals of Heaven. Watch your step, and don't believe everything you read. There's a place referred to as the "Cesspool," that I will get to swim in. Cathedrals of Heaven.
It's been raining here, it's suddenly fall. There a wet and chill in the air, and now I worry about exposure and being wet in September in Utah. And that it might rain this week or last in Southern Utah, making me really earn my Slot canyon badge by swimming and by it freezing and me floatin' my pack across a still pool ... or two.
Falls in Zion Canyon. Digital Photograph
In my mind I am both ready ... and not.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Working Around the House
Picked up one of these.
Ummm ...
Did some bicycle admiration.
After the new bars and bar tape job.
Some harvesting.
Then more admiring.
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Thursday, August 30, 2007
I Could ...
... buy one of these Surly's and make it into a mountain bike. I think I will. I'll need a small one. And a single speed Phil Wood hub. Umm, and I think I need some rims. And spokes then. And stuff. And more stuff. That should make me feel better.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
John Francis Kielty
John Francis Kielty, born September 13, 1923, in Weston, Wisconson to Richard Patrick Kielty and Francis Vosberg; he died August 6, 2007, at 3:35 PM at the age of 83. John was married for 64 years to Ethel Francis Duchscher, on January 22nd, 1943 in Boston MA. He was a father of four. He was a good man.
As a Sailor in the Navy, he was part of the illustrious Task Force 16, also known as the Doolittle Raiders. They were the pilots, and seamen responsible for the first attack on the mainland of Japan just four months after Pearl Harbor. He was sunk on the Hornet (CV-8) at the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, he was at Iwo Jima on the Hancock, which lost two hundred men in a single kamakazi attack. He was a plankholder on the Lexington (I am sitting here looking at a piece of the floor of that boat). He was at the Marianas Turkey Shoot, he sailed into Tokyo at the end of WW2. I think he was in every major battle in the Pacific in World War II. He also served in the Korean War.
He taught electronics for the Navy in Monterey in the 50's. He was the only TV repairmen I ever knew whose TV never worked. He was a Little League coach, and president of the local Little League. (I thought) He invented T-Ball. He was an Indian Guide Leader. He taught Hunter Safety courses. He sold Amway. We hiked in the wilderness. He ran the Bay to Breakers (a 7 mile run across SF). He taught us all to revere the world -- but especially nature. He lived, we lived, he taught us to be proud. He taught us to work hard, and so did he. He was alive, and so were we. He was a good citizen.
He hit a hole-in-one.
He could be kind, and stubborn all at the same time, and often quite funny. He knocked out the chief of police of a neighboring community at my brother's wedding. Twice. He used to joke about us all meeting over at the (horse) race track bathroom to send his ashes out to sea by flushing them down the toilet. Endless stories will be told to recount the wit and humor of this man.
He is survived by his wife Ethel, children Jacqueline, Kevin and Shawn, grandchildren John, Dana, Molly, Danielle, Heidi, and William, and great-grand child Nicole, and his sister Mary Jane Flynn of Wausau, WI.
There will be the fifteen of us casting his ashes a sea -- On the following day there will be an open house at the Kielty home, starting at 1:00.
If you want to make a donation on his behalf; St. Judes would be a good choice.
In my life there's just a big hole where my father used to be.
As a Sailor in the Navy, he was part of the illustrious Task Force 16, also known as the Doolittle Raiders. They were the pilots, and seamen responsible for the first attack on the mainland of Japan just four months after Pearl Harbor. He was sunk on the Hornet (CV-8) at the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, he was at Iwo Jima on the Hancock, which lost two hundred men in a single kamakazi attack. He was a plankholder on the Lexington (I am sitting here looking at a piece of the floor of that boat). He was at the Marianas Turkey Shoot, he sailed into Tokyo at the end of WW2. I think he was in every major battle in the Pacific in World War II. He also served in the Korean War.
He taught electronics for the Navy in Monterey in the 50's. He was the only TV repairmen I ever knew whose TV never worked. He was a Little League coach, and president of the local Little League. (I thought) He invented T-Ball. He was an Indian Guide Leader. He taught Hunter Safety courses. He sold Amway. We hiked in the wilderness. He ran the Bay to Breakers (a 7 mile run across SF). He taught us all to revere the world -- but especially nature. He lived, we lived, he taught us to be proud. He taught us to work hard, and so did he. He was alive, and so were we. He was a good citizen.
He hit a hole-in-one.
He could be kind, and stubborn all at the same time, and often quite funny. He knocked out the chief of police of a neighboring community at my brother's wedding. Twice. He used to joke about us all meeting over at the (horse) race track bathroom to send his ashes out to sea by flushing them down the toilet. Endless stories will be told to recount the wit and humor of this man.
He is survived by his wife Ethel, children Jacqueline, Kevin and Shawn, grandchildren John, Dana, Molly, Danielle, Heidi, and William, and great-grand child Nicole, and his sister Mary Jane Flynn of Wausau, WI.
There will be the fifteen of us casting his ashes a sea -- On the following day there will be an open house at the Kielty home, starting at 1:00.
If you want to make a donation on his behalf; St. Judes would be a good choice.
In my life there's just a big hole where my father used to be.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Did You Bring the Flashlight, Pop?
This week ... has been about a month long. I am sure my father is dying, and dying a terminal death, and I am moving home again, being moved by the events, and there is a candid air about his impending doom that stills even the half full glass of water. I ponder Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, and the dying of cancer, his slow agonizing passage, my own suddenly human failings, and a series of fateful character building experiences of my youth. He is the architect of my strength. It is a strength I need now, to find a path through a mysterious maze of frailty. Mine, my mother's, my father's. I look to him and I wonder. He is emaciated and weak, speaking now in a difficult slurry one can only describe as a divine language. He has some control of his arms and legs, and frequently reaches up to grab something that is clearly not there. He often talks of his pain and now that they have him tied down in his bed, I am sure -- of his torture. In the divine language. All bets are off.
Today as I helped a nurse lift him free of his chafing bonds, I realized just how far I was from the day we got lost in the Mokelumne Wilderness (then just a wayward forest) right at dusk, or the day I limited in pheasants -- or shot two Canadian geese at dusk while his father watched us from a great distance. My grandfather later asked my father if he had shot those birds, and my father quietly pointed at me, an unspoken acknowledgement that I had reached a certain level of savvy mad voodoo skills. A lineage of male "hunter" and outdoor skills, passed from father to son, over generations, rewarding Indian Guides, Cub Scouts, Eagle Scouts, Fisherman, Woodsmen, Hunters, Rivermen, Boatmen, men, with the art of survival. Survival in a seemingly male way. A simple box of hand-tied flies passed down to a grandson ... a goose call gift in a car driving in the middle of the night, hours making decoys from paper in the garage, starting a fire, freezing you asses off. Hiking 50 miles in three days with a crazy dog eating road apples. Serious survival.
Today, I was at the hospital, and really just trying to find a wheelchair to roll my mother down to the car. I walked up to someone sitting at a computer and asked where to find a wheelchair.
"I actually can't help you with that, I am the chaplain."
"That's a pretty good job if you can get it, if you're here, I mean." Flirting with her a little.
"Yeah, especially if you do what I do." She flirts with me. "Go down there and ask ..." Pointing.
I hope she's there tomorrow.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned," a rush of condemnation slams me from my childhood and adulthood. I have done so many things wrong, how will I ever get these few things right. You are now free to feel guilty. I hope she's there tomorrow.
It is a strange day and we are in an 11 foot boat in a large open stretch of delta with 5' tall rolling waves and we are at three-quarters and going with the waves. The boat is rocking hard and my brother and I are laughing, and the man at the helm is looking across at me and saying something like "Knock it off," while meaning "Tighten up the straps on you life jacket and hold on, this is not a good time for laughing."
Fair winds and following seas, my old friend. I hope you are reaching up to greet the angels.
Today as I helped a nurse lift him free of his chafing bonds, I realized just how far I was from the day we got lost in the Mokelumne Wilderness (then just a wayward forest) right at dusk, or the day I limited in pheasants -- or shot two Canadian geese at dusk while his father watched us from a great distance. My grandfather later asked my father if he had shot those birds, and my father quietly pointed at me, an unspoken acknowledgement that I had reached a certain level of savvy mad voodoo skills. A lineage of male "hunter" and outdoor skills, passed from father to son, over generations, rewarding Indian Guides, Cub Scouts, Eagle Scouts, Fisherman, Woodsmen, Hunters, Rivermen, Boatmen, men, with the art of survival. Survival in a seemingly male way. A simple box of hand-tied flies passed down to a grandson ... a goose call gift in a car driving in the middle of the night, hours making decoys from paper in the garage, starting a fire, freezing you asses off. Hiking 50 miles in three days with a crazy dog eating road apples. Serious survival.
Today, I was at the hospital, and really just trying to find a wheelchair to roll my mother down to the car. I walked up to someone sitting at a computer and asked where to find a wheelchair.
"I actually can't help you with that, I am the chaplain."
"That's a pretty good job if you can get it, if you're here, I mean." Flirting with her a little.
"Yeah, especially if you do what I do." She flirts with me. "Go down there and ask ..." Pointing.
I hope she's there tomorrow.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned," a rush of condemnation slams me from my childhood and adulthood. I have done so many things wrong, how will I ever get these few things right. You are now free to feel guilty. I hope she's there tomorrow.
It is a strange day and we are in an 11 foot boat in a large open stretch of delta with 5' tall rolling waves and we are at three-quarters and going with the waves. The boat is rocking hard and my brother and I are laughing, and the man at the helm is looking across at me and saying something like "Knock it off," while meaning "Tighten up the straps on you life jacket and hold on, this is not a good time for laughing."
Fair winds and following seas, my old friend. I hope you are reaching up to greet the angels.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Puget Sound
Dungeness Spit, Hurricane Ridge, Sequim, WA, Obstruction Point, A lighthouse, A loon or two, A birthday cake perhaps. August 10 to 20. Ummm. Should I go?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
My Vacation Options
Ahhh yes, vacation!
Several opportunites appear.
1) Here a tentative itinerary:
Several opportunites appear.
1) Here a tentative itinerary:
Buckskin Gulch (http://www.utahtrails.com/Buckskin.html) is often described as one of the finest slot canyon hikes in the world and a photographer's paradise. Chesler Park (http://www.utahtrails.com/Chesler.html) is a meadow deep in the Needles district of Canyonlands National Park with some spectacular spires and arches.
Wed., Oct. 3
Start at Wire Pass trailhead, UT (Map.)
Hike 12.5 mi (20.8 km)
Camp at Buckskin Gulch campsite, additional campsites 1.5 mi and 2.5 mi further (1 mi and 2 mi after confluence of Buckskin Gulch and Paria River)
Thu., Oct. 4
Hike 7.5 mi (12.5 km) to Whitehouse trailhead
Drive 300 mi, approx. 5h40m to Needes, Canyonlands National Park, UT (Map.). We must get here before 4:30 pm to pickup permit or wait the next day until 9:00 am when the visitor center opens
Camp at Squaw Flat Campground
Fri., Oct. 5
Hike 7.5 mi (12.5 km) to Chesler Park campsite (http://www.nps.gov/cany/planyourvisit/upload/needles.pdf)
After setup of camp, day hike around Chesler Park 7 mi (11.5 km)
Sat., Oct. 6
Hike 1.5 mi (2.5 km) to Elephant Canyon
Leave packs, hike 4 mi (6.7 km) to Druid Arch (in and out)
Hike 6 mi (10 km) to Squaw Flat Campground via Squaw Canyon
End of official trip
Wed., Oct. 3
Start at Wire Pass trailhead, UT (Map.)
Hike 12.5 mi (20.8 km)
Camp at Buckskin Gulch campsite, additional campsites 1.5 mi and 2.5 mi further (1 mi and 2 mi after confluence of Buckskin Gulch and Paria River)
Thu., Oct. 4
Hike 7.5 mi (12.5 km) to Whitehouse trailhead
Drive 300 mi, approx. 5h40m to Needes, Canyonlands National Park, UT (Map.). We must get here before 4:30 pm to pickup permit or wait the next day until 9:00 am when the visitor center opens
Camp at Squaw Flat Campground
Fri., Oct. 5
Hike 7.5 mi (12.5 km) to Chesler Park campsite (http://www.nps.gov/cany/planyourvisit/upload/needles.pdf)
After setup of camp, day hike around Chesler Park 7 mi (11.5 km)
Sat., Oct. 6
Hike 1.5 mi (2.5 km) to Elephant Canyon
Leave packs, hike 4 mi (6.7 km) to Druid Arch (in and out)
Hike 6 mi (10 km) to Squaw Flat Campground via Squaw Canyon
End of official trip
2) August 14-18 Shawn's Birthday Puget Sound photo workshop.
3) Owens Valley Photo Workshop in October. It is planned as the Owens Valley / Kick Matt's (Blaize) butt out of California Workshop. Maybe someday I'll explain that, I'd be happy if he would finally stop teasing me about that waitress I
4) I want to go deer hunting.
Does anyone else wonder if the first trip seems kinda hard. Does the Buckskin Gulch part of the trip actually have a 30 foot rope assisted drop in it?
Trail: There is no trail for this hike, but the route is easy to follow. You will be walking along the bottoms of two narrow desert canyons. Occasionally there are deep pools of water in the canyon narrows, so be prepared with an air mattress or some other means of floating your backpacks across. You will also need a 30-foot length of rope to help you get down a rockfall near the end of Buckskin Gulch.
I know my friend is aware of this. It means dry bags and perhaps climbing gear, and extra water. Although I have the gear (harness and rope and whatnot), I need training. plus what -- you have to get out of the canyon and it's 12 miles long. At a very aggressive pace it's at least 4 hours in a slot canyon in October.
I've already committed -- God forbid anyone of my friends should have any real excitement without me. I will go -- they are getting permits on my behalf as we speak. I am sharpening my nerves and my crazy mad skillz. Perhaps the elder brother will teach me a bit more about the ropes.
So that's a 5k route plucked off the map right near my home. Before breakfast tomorrow. 3 times a week. till I can do more. I need to be able to keep the pace with the happy hiking guy. There will be risks. If it's tough going we need to beat a mile and one half per hour pace. I'll need a few extra pounds and the ability to pull myself up. I'll have a minimum of food -- but should try to get an ultralight sleeping bag. I'll want to wear lighter shoes -- so I need to work out in those.
So -- weight training and some climbing practice , and run on my shoes.
The top picture was appropriated from some one who has actually been there.
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