Cliffs Notes

Here are some photos and quotes from my trip with Isobel to Tent Rocks, the condensed version of the Bravado post.

"Hey, that looks like a weak woman."
"A weak woman?"
"Well, she's kind of sad. She has a line under her eye. And she has a haircut like Eva's."















"But Dad, I like climbing more than hiking."





















"Whoa, we can see the WHOLE WORLD, it looks like."

Giardia

Here's a PS about that hike with my Grandpa Joe.

I remembered it wrong. We didn't even bring any water. That drink from the spring was my first of the hike, too, but I was dying for it. He was just taking his medicine.

On the question of whether to ever drink untamed (wild, unfiltered) water, here's my opinion. I try to always purify water in the woods. Unless I can see it bursting right out from under its first rock. Or unless I miscalculated how much water I'd need, didn't bring a purifier and there is a small, cold, bubbling stream staring me down.

I never stay thirsty in the presence of a clear, cold stream. I'd drink from a lake if I were hallucinating or something. But to drink from a big houseboat-covered reservoir, I'd have to be staring into the gates of hell and feel sure that that was my fate if I didn't take a swig.

The first time I get giardia, the clear-stream/spring policy may change.

Bravado

I have always been a bit skeptical of technology's role in the woods. Compasses, for instance, and first aid kits, and the principle of hydration. You know, the If-you-get-thirsty-you-will-die mentality. A good friend of mine took the "clear and copious" doctrine so far as to tell me, "If you don't need to pee, you're not drinking enough." I said, Well, sure, if you don't need to pee for a whole day or something, you're probably not drinking enough, but he said, No, if you don't need to pee RIGHT NOW you are dehydrated. He told me this just after relieving himself and just before guzzling half a liter of purified water and dancing along the ridge for a hundred yards or so to the next bush.

Another favorite rule of the hydration-obsessed is, No caffeine, no carbonation. But there's very little I like better than downing a can of Coke, the ultimate dehydrator, just before descending from a high peak. I drink it for a treat, a boost, not for hydration. I also drink water on the trail, but only when I'm thirsty. I still drink a lot more water than my Grandpa Joe. I remember huffing, puffing and guzzling along behind him one day about four miles to a spring, where he stopped for his first drink (right from the source, by the way, with only a passing, snickering reference to giardia).

"I take water like medicine," he said. "My doctor said I need to drink water, so I try to remember."

I once asked a wilderness survival type for some suggestions for being out in the winter. He said, "Number one rule, no cotton." But I still wear a cotton T-shirt on every hike, every backcountry ski trip, and Levis on all but the wettest and coldest.

Maps and a GPS are fabulous tools. I consult them to find out roughly where I am and where I'm heading. But more than a tool for getting found or not getting lost, I use them to find out where I want to go and remember where I've been. A compass does neither of those things and the imperfect measure of the position of the sun is all I've needed, so far.

All this could get me into real trouble sometime. But it hasn't yet. (And you could make a good argument that if it hasn't gotten me into real trouble yet, then you'd have to be either miraculously unlucky or monumentally incompetent -- because I am a good bit of both -- to get into real trouble on the kind of mildly adventurous trips I take).

Today, Isobel and I went to Tent Rocks National Monument. I decided to turn it into a winter hiking story for a local newspaper, so I found a group of Sierra Club members that were headed there and kind of tagged along. "Kind of tagged along" means I met them at their office at 8 a.m., when it was 8 degrees, talked to them about the place and whether we should expect snow and ice in the bottom of the deep, narrow slot canyon, told them I'd probably see them down there and went home to get Isobel.

I did see them down there. They were almost back to the trailhead. I asked how the trail was. A 50-year-old lady with trekking poles said, "Spectacular, a little icy near the top." And the trip leader said, "You won't make it in those sneakers. You need some boots with gripping soles like these," then brandished his $200 hiking boots.

That's when I thought of Devin forgetting his Sorels and wearing Vans to near the top of a snowy peak last winter. And Devin scrambling in his Vans up a steep off-trail boulder field to a 13,000-foot pass in the Wind Rivers. And Devin's old, shredded, treadless Vans skiing down a snowy slope toward Logan Canyon during a recent deer hunt. (Thankfully, he wasn't hunting and, you know, carrying a gun.) I thought of Devin's recent geology field trips and his complete disregard for the "mandatory sturdy hiking boots" rule.

I said, "I guess we'll just go as far as we can."

Isobel did slip once, then spent the rest of the trip warning folks we passed. "Be careful," she said. "It's a little slippery up there. You might fall." ("I'm being a good helper, aren't I, Dad.") But she didn't tell anyone to turn back. In fact, she said, "This was SO FUN. I'm going to tell Mom and Eva that they should have been here. We have to bring them with us next time."

Like I said, I know there is a chance that my disregard for sensible advice could get me into trouble someday.

A friend of mine told me of a 30-mile hike into Yosemite with a guy in running shoes (the wisdom of which my friend questioned at the trailhead), followed by a 30-mile hike out with a guy with a broken ankle. Vince once rock-crawled off a rugged dirt road in a beat-up pickup and gave a bit of advice to a couple of hot shots in a brand new Toyota -- "It's a little rough," he said, and the hot shots laughed -- then Vince heard gears grinding and metal crunching for a few minutes before watching the hot shots belly-crawl by with heads down and eyes averted.

This has never happened to me. When I ignore advice, nothing but good ever comes of it. For instance when Bettie said, "I think we should stop for gas here before we drive into that secluded forest," I ignored her. And when we ran out of gas after dark with a 10-month-old girl in the back seat, it wasn't five minutes before a car came along and drove us all to the next little dingy hotel.

It always turns out OK in the end.

Knock on wood.

Gunsight Peak reprise

This blog's first-ever post (see it here) should have had this photo in it, but the light when we started the drive toward it (at 1 a.m. in a rainstorm) just wasn't quite right.

Devin sent me this photo later.

This is the view of Gunsight Peak I saw growing up, the little volcano across the valley.

Out one day with you, hallelujah ... Moab part IV

On the fourth day of Moab, Eva sang to me ...

That song is why I take those girls out into the wilds (whether they like it or not). Once again, they learned this from driving around with their mom, not from listening to their dad. I don't even remember the name of the artist, but it's very sweet. (We heard it on a great mix from Bettie's friend, Jayna.)

While I like to think she was singing to me, Isobel's definitely her favorite climbing partner.














This was our last day in Moab. We spent the morning on a short hike at Mill Creek; it's in town near the Slickrock trailhead. Follow the creek, take the north fork and soon you come to a pretty little waterfall and a large pool that I hear is great for swimming in the middle of the summer. March, not so much, especially at 9 a.m.

Then we went back to the spot we saw the first day, along Onion Creek near Fisher Towers. We went up the next canyon and looked hundreds of feet straight up at the spot we'd sat a few days before looking hundreds of feet straight down. On the way up, Eva started singing again and kept it up for the rest of the day. And once again, Isobel joined in.

I love my girls.

On the way back, Eva got hold of Devin's hat and backpack, dipped the hat in the creek to keep her head cool and marched down the trail saying, "Look at me. I'm Devin." For about 20 minutes, she would correct anyone who got her name wrong.



















































I, for one, think Devin is pretty darn cute.

I'll end with this great picture Devin took of Isobel on Mill Creek. This is like a photo from Harry Potter -- I can see her happy little strut like it's a video.


















Hallelujah, I love my girls.

Nobody SHOUTS ... Moab part III

On the third day of Moab, Eva sang to me ...

That night, Bettie and Grandma Polly joined us and we stayed at my cousin Cody's house. Isobel wasn't too thrilled with sleeping in a bed that night, but Eva liked it.

My brother, Vince, and my happy daughter.







Cody shared some great local wisdom, sending us first to Funnel (aka Cable) Arch, in the Kane Creek area.
There's no marked trailhead or trail to this and I haven't found it on any maps, but it was a pretty short hike to a huge arch. Sweet.

On the way down, Eva burst into song again. "Nobody SHOUTS ... not in my closkle on a cloud." Once again, she repeated it for the rest of the day. Eventually Isobel taught her the line between and it became "Nobody SHOUTS or talks too loud. (now very quiet and sad) not in my closkle on a cloud." And that was it. I bet she sang it at least once every five minutes for the rest of the day. At least 200 times in total. And I loved it every single time.

Isobel shouts in the desert.









Then we drove on, stopping for lunch.

This is Isobel "eating lunch."

















... and a potty break.

Here's how Eva spends her time between long drives.









And here's Isobel. They're not different at all.














We headed toward Long Canyon, Cody's next suggestion, via the Shaffer Trail.

This is the best-known section of the Shaffer Trail, a rough road in Canyonlands National Park that climbs to the Island in the Sky.

We made it to Long Canyon. There's a spot near the top where the road crosses a spine at a group of impromptu picnic areas. If you stop there and just walk out along the spine, it narrows until you end up way above a huge canyon.

We thought this was cool. Great, long echoes, with a loud one that comes after several soft ones.
















Luckily we kept going, though, and the ridge kept narrowing as another canyon came in.


Then it got really good. It echoed up both canyons, with dozens of voices coming back at you from both sides at varying volumes.

And when you've had enough of that, you can always take a bath in the tub right at the end.
















Up next: Part IV: Out one day with you Hollylujah.

Seven Deadly Sins

Here are seven random, stupid things that happened to me, some from before I got religion (back). You can blame Share for this post. Numbers 4, 6 and 7 are PG13.

1. Poor taste
This is the reason Share tagged me with this, so here you go: If I happen on an Ace of Base song on the radio, not only do I not change the channel, I always turn it up.

2. Absentmindedness
My father-in-law calls me the Absent Minded Professor. Here are three absurd examples, all having to do with car keys.
a. I locked my keys in the car, in a parking lot, while the car was running, after I had backed out of the stall, 40 miles from any town.
b. I locked myself out of our house, called Bettie to ask her to come let me in, hung up, walked from the porch to the sidewalk, noticed my phone wasn't in my hand, looked for it and never found it.
c. I borrowed my mom's car once and parked it in my driveway. I walked straight to my room, where I noticed the keys weren't in my hand. I immediately started looking, but never found them.
Judging from where things usually turn up, that phone and those keys are probably in a pocket of the pants I'm wearing right now.

3. Be ye not prepared
Here are a few things I've done to Bettie on our family vacations.
a. Forgot to bring water, then got lost and stuck in the desert.
b. Ran out of gas in a National Forest 20 miles from town with a 14-month-old girl in the back seat.
c. Drove over a mountain pass in a Lincoln Continental with only one headlight, in a blizzard that dropped 6 inches of snow in an hour. Made it out, then, at the first hotel we stopped at, instead of checking in, I picked up a bum and drove around Bend Stupid Oregon for more than an hour looking for his hostel. Thankfully, we were pulled over by a cop, who informed us our headlight was out, gave us directions and wished us a pleasant honeymoon. That's right, honeymoon.

4. Rock and roll
My favorite concert I ever went to began at 2:30 a.m. and ended at 5:30 a.m. on a Tuesday night. Most of those who bought tickets -- and even the bartender -- went home before the band showed up. The band, Crash Worship if you really want to know, squirted wine from bags into people's mouths and flung black and red paint at the crowd.
The best part was after I left. I walked into McDonald's just as they opened -- totally wrecked, 24 hours without sleep, the paint making me look like I'd been beaten badly -- and asked for the employee discount on a Sausage Egg and Cheese biscuit.

5. Working for the Man.
Yes, I worked at McDonald's. I also worked at Denny's for six days and at a place where I scanned calling cards (I think I was the only boy) and at a dude ranch in North Carolina and in a gift shop at Mount Rainier.
And cooking at Big Sky ski resort, where I was shocked how many people were in it for the money. For instance, if it was slow, the manager would ask who wanted to leave. Duh, the lifts were running and we all had free season passes. My hand went up every time, but usually it was the only hand.
And for a 19-year-old kid and his uncle moving houses. They actually jacked the house up off the foundation and trucked it to a new location. My favorite time was when this farm-raised 19-year-old newlywed started the day by backing the big truck with the big winch onto a lawn despite a few inches of new snow, then spent three hours spinning the tires, telling me to stick a block here, dig there and push over there until the lawn was a deep, vast mudhole and the truck was hopelessly stuck. Then we went home, waited a few days, came back and dug the truck out.

6. Shoplifting
I once tried to hitchhike from Asheville, N.C., to New Orleans, for no reason. It was an utter failure. A highlight: Two guys picked me up, drove to WalMart, stole a fishing pole and sent me in to return it for cash. (I guess they were known there.) The checker said I needed the receipt and I said, 'OK. Thank you. Goodbye,' gave the guys "their" fishing pole and walked back to the highway a mile or two from where they picked me up. By Mobile, Alabama, I'd had enough and bought a bus ticket home, to Utah.

7. Very poor judgment
Here's a little story: There was once a girl who pawned her guitar, then accepted a cleaning job from the opportunistic pawn shop owner. She went but there was no work to do that day, so he just talked to her about his fabulous and frequent trips to Thailand, then paid her and told her to come back in two days, saying there would be some work to do then. It took three increasingly uncomfortable visits -- she had been invited on one of those Thai trips by the last one, but still hadn't found any cleaning to do -- for her to decide not to go back for any more "work."
What has this to do with me and my poor judgment? I was dating this girl when it happened.

All my dreams came true. But now I have a bunch of other dreams.

Fat Man, you're up.