Elves' Chasm

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh this.

I think I painted this around 1982.

Matkatamiba Canyon, near the confluence with the Colorado River. 4" x 5" polaroid. Notice the hack job on the mat; it's my first in a few years. I think I might be getting ready for a show.

My black toe - I think I'll paint it red. My tribe.

Guess What ...

My freind Roger said when he saw this.

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.

The Golden Gate

Will braves the elements.

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.

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.

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.

Black Toe

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?

My Vacation Options

Ahhh yes, vacation!

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

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 fell in love with met in Zion ...

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.

Lessons in Grace ...

In The Charcoal Cathedral

4 days in the charred remains of an ancient wilderness. 26 miles on foot. 2 Black Bears, one Bald Eagle, 3 Mule Deer, a Western Tanager, the sound of an Owl. One river, three springs, two dogs, two friends. I think I might have heard the sound of a Woodpecker. 4 days in the charred remains of an ancient wilderness.

Humility sanctified. Lessons in grace.

There was hope. The trip was defined simply enough. Hike from Chinaman Hat to the Illinois River at Collier Bar via the 1161 (or 2) and 1174 trails in the Kalmiopsis wilderness. By way of Bald Mountain Spring, Polar Spring, and the spring at the Pup's Camp. Around 13 miles each way.

The trail was rough and hard at the beginning and end, with a 3000 ft. descent from Bald Mountain into the Illinois River canyon representing the most formidible feature. It was a difficult and challenging hike. The first day we hiked to Bald Mountain Spring and then to Polar Spring and broke off to make camp at the Pup's Camp, totalling 9 miles or so for the day. The climb from our parking spot to Bald Mountain spring barely served to warm us (my friend Jim and I, the dogs Josie and Lily) up, and as the day progressed it seemed clear that our pace was not going to bring us to the IllinoisRiver by the end of the day. We shot photos and videos and looked for cougar (0), or as the local teen trail cleaner girls called them, "Screamers," which was followed with a bit of giggling. And bears (2), or Elk (0) or Deer (3). We lally-gagged at the springs, drinking deeply, and growing used to the wilderness. Jet fighters flew through a cloudy sky to help minimize the culture shock.

We fought our way down the trail. There was a lot of debris, since the forest was burned to a crisp in the 2002 Biscuit fire. Some areas were also burned in the 1987 Silver Complex Fire. There were many fallen trees and branches blocking the trail. Sometimes it is so much easier to walk around and step over the obstacles. It appeared the no one had been down the trail since last summer. We were alone. There was very little life and no bird song. It was ominous and severely quiet.

Charred giants. Entire hilltops rendered treeless. Sticks remaining. Large sticks. A forest destroyed, charred beyond comprehension. I was there in 2003 or 2004, and although the carnage was obvious, I just saw the edge of it. The Biscuit fire was the largest fire in Oregon's history. That forest was torched, totalled.

It is still inherently beautiful.

There is no way to describe in words or pictures the awesome power whose force is evident before me. And how insanely gorgeous I found this forest to be.

Part of the reason for stopping at the Pup's Camp was my concern about my knee and going downhill. We spent the night there and in the morning we hiked the 4 miles and 2000 ft down into the steep Illinois River Canyon and set up camp. This was a bit hard on my knee. But not as bad as the poison oak. I have poison oak. I got it 3 or four different times on this trip. The trail was overgrown with Poison Oak. The Elder Brother says that "it used to be called the poison oak forest ... ." Jim insisted that I eat tablespoons of Certa™ and I put Gold Bond™ cream on it. It disappeared. Like a badge of honor that vanished. I swam and bathed in the Illinois River. We hardly moved from the camp at Collier Bar until Monday when we packed up and bailed out with a bit less than a days food left, to hike the 13 miles out. We did discover this hornet's nest hanging in a tree almost in camp.



Oh -- The mushroom girl might enjoy this.

Lily at the first bath in the Illinois River.

Jim the videographer.

Josephine in the river cooling down.

The hillside across the Illinois River from our camp.

Jim on the QRP (low power) radio checking in from Collier Bar.

Remember these.

And there was hope everywhere.

On the way back down the trail we met a party of 12 of Oregon's youth clearing the trail. Their leader told us that while we were out the fire level had risen to 2, meaning no open campfires, and that they were to spend a week clearing the trail to Silver Creek. They were a sign of hope in a stale climate of preserving, rather than enjoying the wilderness. 12 young people learning early lessons of work and joy in the wilderness. So there is hope, we saw other signs of hope.

Like the Black Capped Rasberries and Hungarian Blackberries that compensated for the fact that we had run out of food. I think we may have eaten several pounds of rasberries each.

Those are rasberries there in the foreground. Despite the dead trees everywhere, the understory had sprung to life with layers of Madrone and Douglas fir, oaks, rasberries and poison oak. There was a carpet of a youthful forest before us, promising to return to a past glory. There were places with a hundred fir trees per meter. It was stunning; brilliant in both the vibrance and urgency of the new growth.

Coming down the last hill, I hammered my toe, and I will probably lose the toenail. My knee was fine during this descent, and I am hoping that the pounding I took over 4 days has finally convinced my body to behave.

There was hope everywhere. Hope for me, in my 4 day marathon in charcoal, and hope for the forest. The two represent personal bests for me. Longest trip at 25+ miles, and longest single day at 13 miles.

End of the trail.

Trip Day

If you look closely at these two pictures you'll see some familiar things ... these shoes ... and all the regular stuff one takes into the wilderness. Matches, pink water bottles, a bandana ... GPS.

Tomorrow I will be sitting around with my old friend and we will be picking apart the contents of my backpack, commenting on the coffee pot and the can of sardines ... talking about bear spray, and escape routes over a map, and reducing the load one more time. I am sure it's not the addition of that titanium fork that pumps the weight up, but rather the way that things just seem to get heavier over time. Although the two extra days of food could contribute, we all know that a fleece vest weighs about a pound when you buy it, but after carrying it for a while it weighs about ten. This is not a function of fatigue, but rather a general property of things to get heavier over time. It's called the uncertainty principle. You'll never quite know how much you're going to have to carry.

Despite knowing and planning for the afternoon showers and humidity, I will probably eliminate the rain gear in favor of the river shoes or try to strip the first aid kit by half. For some reason this pack is about 10 pounds heavier than it was back then. It's 50 pounds, and oh man -- there's no camera in it. Adding the 10 lbs I would normally wear and the 4 pounds of camera, my burden will be 64 lbs. Ouch. Once I eat all the food ...

It's always too heavy. Jim will remind me that I don't need an extra day's meals and that maybe I don't really need that jar of prunes dried fruit. He will carry about 70 lbs. while I struggle with 40 50. Go figure.

Velogirl Sighting

That's right, I definitely saw the velogirl (on the pink bike) zipping in front of me this afternoon, and I was, embarrassingly, riding on the sidewalk near my home. I said "Hello", but well, it was rush hour, and she had clearly already made it through the scary intersection. Maybe next time we'll get a chance to say "Hi." I think I heard a "Hello" back -- she might have recognized me -- but it was uber busy, cars and traffic and me in a hurry.

Remodeling the Wilderness

That can't be what they mean.