Four Corners Region—Trailing the Ancients

August 10, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 1999. © Photo: Philip Greenspun.

The Four Corners region means different things to different people. To Terry Tempest Williams it is Navajoland, where every conversation, every sigh uttered by the “longtime-ago people” circulates around you. To Edward Abbey, the ancient canyon art of this region was the first world language that represented images ranging from the crude and simple to the elegant and sophisticated.

To me, it was a headache to sort through what the Four Corners meant to different people. OK, so my definition is a bit of a downer. But in my non-prolific defense it was overwhelming to determine which archaeological sites, modern communities and Indian lands to cover in an area that smacks of a primeval and intangible world.

My friend John and I turned to the Visitor’s Center in Monticello for the inside scoop on following in the footsteps of the Ancients. Little did I know those ancients would be by way of the local geriatric ward. A sweet grandma greeted me at the main desk. Haltingly, I asked her if she could help me find some backcountry routes in the region.

“Of course, sweetie,” she replied. “If I can’t help, then Herbert can.” OK, I didn’t exactly capture the name of the ancient, sun-worn man she pointed to at the end of the counter. But if any man looked like a Herbert, he did. It took mere seconds to confirm that they would not be good resources. They loaded me up with brochures and John and I headed to the BLM Ranger’s station a couple of blocks away for the real scoop.

We came away with concrete plans. We would start at the Edge of the Cedars Museum and State Park and cut over to Cedar Mesa and Grand Gulch. From there, we would hit Valley of the Gods, Monument Valley, and then Canyon de Chelly in Arizona. Our final pinnacle experience of the lopsided loop would be to stand on the Four Corners marker to symbolize the end of our own Trail of the Ancients.

Edge of the Cedars Museum and State Park
We headed south on U.S. 191 to the Edge of the Cedars Museum and State Park in Blanding. For $1, we were introduced to the largest collection of Anasazi (pre-historic Puebloan) pottery in the Four Corners region. Located on the site of an ancient ruin, the museum has a collection of archeological treasures from the Ancient Pueblo Indian, Navajo and Ute Indian cultures that includes pottery and a ceremonial kiva, home to the Anasazi between A.D. 825 to 1220.

A sun marker stood just beyond the ruin. The Anasazi used this solar sculpture to calendar when to plant and harvest crops, connecting them with solar, plant life and ceremonial cycles. John moved in for a closer look as I stood back to analyze the dance of shadow and light. I gave up after two minutes of intense scrutiny and resolved there was a very good reason why I live in the 21st century when all connections with time are made with my trusty calendar and digital watch.

My favorite part of the Edge of the Cedars was the Observation Tower. This circular room’s expansive windows traced many of the Four Corner’s ranges, starting with Sleeping Ute Mountain and extending to New Mexico’s famous Shiprock and Utah’s Grand Gulch Plateau. Sometimes called Cedar Mesa, this 1,000-square-mile recreation area includes many archeological sites and was next on our agenda. The Abajo Mountains rounded out our view in the semi-circular tower.

Grand Gulch Primitive Area
I was eager to explore the Grand Gulch Primitive Area, one of the premier backpacking areas in Southern Utah. A friend had raved about an unparalleled 22-mile backpacking trip from Kane Gulch to Bullet Canyon, which winds through ancient ruins. John and I stopped at the Kane Gulch Ranger Station to get the ‘411’and permits. If the building was any indication, we were in for a primitive experience—the station was in a condemned trailer transported from Hovenweep National Monument.

The gal on duty gave me a detailed play-by-play of Cedar Mesa, home to numerous rock art panels and prehistoric ruins. Ancestral Puebloans inhabited the canyons and mesa tops between 700 and 2,000 years ago, and many of their dwellings remain in tact and fragile. For this reason, permits are limited and required for all overnight and day trips.

She tipped me off on an area outside of the Gulch in Cedar Mesa: Mule Canyon. I was immediately attracted by her description of this 10-mile roundtrip hike. Two fairly easy hiking areas are found in the north and south forks of Mule Canyon, which cut through sheer sandstone walls and ponderosa pine. But the true appeal of this trail is that it contains the highest concentration of ruins found anywhere on the plateau—more than one ruin per mile. We were sold.

Mule Canyon
We arose to the predawn colors of the desert and watched as pink, magenta, silver and purple shafts of light enticed the sun over the horizon. We were on the trail by 8 a.m.

John portentously wore his new trekking hat that his friends allegedly bought in Nepal. He bore a strong resemblance to Paddington Bear but I decided I’d have more fun with exploiting the Nepalese claim and asked if this meant he was Sherpa for the day. He was not amused. But when I pointed to his CamelBak—“the Sherpa”—he resigned himself to his station of servitude.

As we hiked, the canyon deepened and eroded alcoves lined the cliffs. The majority of cultural sites were on the south-facing slopes among typical high desert vegetation. The north-facing slopes were verdant with Douglas fir and ponderosa pine that spilled down from the Abajo range.

We had hiked about 0.75 mile when Sherpa John suddenly stopped. “Do you think that could be something up there?” he breathlessly asked. I gazed at the sandstone wall shrouded by ponderosa pine. What could his stealth Sherpa instincts be telling him? But then I looked at the ground—a giant arrow had been traced in the sand, pointing to the wall. So much for instinct. His sighting did not amount to anything, but he pulled through about 1.2 miles up the canyon where he discovered the first of a string of Anasazi ruins.

We spent the rest of the hike perched on the sandstone walls exploring the various alcoves. We crawled into the ancient settlements and marveled at the fallen masonry of the dwellings. Shards of pottery, worn but still proof of the artistic refinement of the ancients, were strewn around the rooms and organized on rocks by other hikers. The desert sun had shifted by the time we made our way out of the canyon, the colors, textures and shadows of our surroundings changing with the angle and intensity of the sunlight. Mule Canyon had come to light—and life—before our eyes.

Monument Valley
We then followed U.S. 261 through Grand Gulch until we reached the Moki Dugway overlook where we gazed down upon the Valley of the Gods and Monument Valley’s compendium of silhouetted buttes. We descended three miles on the graded gravel road and then explored the 16-mile loop through the Valley of the Gods—often called a miniature Monument Valley. The rock/clay surface road was a roller-coaster ride through a sandstone museum that included Castle Butte, Rooster Butte, Battleship Rock and Setting Hen Butte.

And then it was onto Monument Valley—land of the American West, and backdrop of hundreds of western movies and magazine ads. Where a simple image, the silhouette of a monolith held sacred for the Navajos, is enough to make us dream of infinite possibilities and empty spaces. The Navajo Nation Council designated Monument Valley as the first tribally-owned-and-operated park on July 11, 1958. More than 140 habitation sites have been found on the 17.6 million acre Navajo Reservation that straddles the Utah-Arizona border.

I was initially disappointed with how tightly the Navajo Nation regulates the valley. There is no hiking allowed off the 17-mile road unless you have a guide. We passed on shelling out $30 for a 2-hour tour, bought a $2 brochure and set out to explore the valley on our own terms as best we could.

The first monoliths we encountered were the famous Mittens, which according to Navajo legend were once deities who lived upon Mother Earth in the beginning of time. As we drove, the subliminal imagery of the monoliths, spires, buttes, mesas, canyons and sand dunes invoked a powerful associative reflex, and the distinction between reality and illusion became blurred.

We continued along the rectilinear ribbon of the road until we encountered one such mirage of the ancients. OK, maybe it was only a burro but for a moment I was transported back in time. John insisted we stop for a picture and I rolled my eyes at his hypocrisy. He generally mocks tacky tourists who take pictures of animals in the wild and then get attacked.

And then a Machiavellian plan unfolded. As he made his way back, I deviously exclaimed, “The burro is attacking!” Instinctively, John raced back to the Jeep to find me laughing hysterically. In his defense, he weakly said, “I thought I heard him running.” My query, “Do burros RUN?” did not lesson the pain. He will not be stopping to photograph wild and ferocious burros anytime soon, I’m sure.

Canyon de Chelly
We were intoxicated with the sights and smells of the labyrinth called Canyon de Chelly from the moment we arrived in Arizona’s northeastern desert haven—from the pungent scent of the vegetation, to the purity of the dust and the lucidity of the air.

Canyon de Chelly (pronounced d’SHAY) is really several canyons that rise as high as 1,000 feet above the floor, overshadowing the streams, cottonwoods and small farms below. The Canyon de Chelly National Monument was established in 1931 to preserve the land where people have lived for nearly 5,000 years—longer than anyone has lived uninterrupted anywhere on the Colorado Plateau. Embracing nearly 84,000 acres within the Navajo Reservation, the monument is administered by the National Park Service but belongs to the Navajo people.

Backcountry camping was out of the question in Navajoland so we stayed at the Cottonwood Campground, which was free of charge. We stopped as the Visitor’s Center in the morning and learned the rules and regulations were similar to Monument Valley.

With the exception of one designated trail, we were not allowed to hike unless we were on a tour or with a Navajo guide. The tours cost $40 for a half day, or $15 per hour with a private guide, with a minimum of three hours. We opted to explore the south and north rim drives on our own, which took in famous ruins such as the Mummy Cave and the Sliding House.

The highlight of Canyon de Chelly was the 2.5-mile roundtrip hike to the White House ruin. We followed the trail along the rim for about 1,000 feet before descending steeply into a canyon that had been polished by eons of sandpaper winds.

The White House was like an apparition floating in the cliffs. Built and occupied centuries ago by ancient Puebloan people, it is named for a long wall in the upper dwelling that is covered with white plaster. At its zenith, the village housed about 100 men, women and children in 60 rooms. The pottery shards surrounding it testified to the leavings of an ancient civilization.

I could not wait to document the ruin on paper and film. Until I realized I had forgotten my notebook. And then my camera malfunctioned. Regardless, we were in good spirits when we finally made the steep ascent back to asphalt and civilization and prepared for the final leg of our Trail of the Ancients.

Four Corners Monument
The sprint to the Trail of the Ancients finish line had a few speed bumps. Our final stop was at the Four Corners Monument, the only place in the United States where four states and two Indian nations share borders. Established in 1912, this monument was to be the capstone of our Four Corners tour.

I had envisioned our crowning moment. The desert sun would blaze down upon us. We’d explore the Visitor’s Center and small jewelry shops on the perimeter of the monument before planting ourselves on the marker. And we would smile like tacky tourists as photographs were taken to document the experience for posterity.

Of course, that was the illusion. Reality was that we got caught in a blinding sandstorm. We skipped the booths and made a mad dash to the marker where we stood for a good five seconds.

And pictures? Get real. Don’t forget the broken camera.

Total elapsed time at the monument: five minutes.

The total elapsed time of finally hearing the silence of a region that many revere as sacred: timeless.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, Colorado, hiking, Humor, travel Tagged With: , , ,

Oregon’s Eagle Cap Wilderness and Hell’s Canyon: Characterizing Heaven and Hell

June 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

When people grasp for descriptors about me, they usually fall back on the safe catchall phrase that I have “personality.”

But have you ever happened upon a place that is dripping with it? My friend John and I had one such encounter just outside of Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area in Oregon when we stumbled upon Imnaha, a self-professed “tourism-be-damned” kinda town.

Now, when people say I have personality, I’m sure they are referring to my charm, vivaciousness and unfathomable wit. For Imnaha, personality means down home, eclectic and unapologetic. How else could one describe a town whose lifeblood is a funky tavern with hundreds of dollar bills stuck to the ceiling, and whose pinnacle event is the annual Bear and Rattlesnake Feed each September? Juxtapose this against a rustic bed and breakfast ranch down the road and you have an eclectic mix of irascible and charming.

Northeastern Oregon is all about character. In addition to its backwater hamlets, it boasts some of the steepest and deepest terrain in the United States. The 358,000-acre Eagle Cap Wilderness is characterized by snow-capped peaks, high-alpines lakes and meadows, crystalline streams, and U-shaped glaciated valleys. As if that weren’t enough to tantalize outdoor folks, there are 47 trailheads that access more than 500 miles of trails.

Add that to the neighboring Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area, the deepest gorge on the continent. This cut of perdition hosts almost 700,000 acres of the most rugged wild lands on earth, and the wildest whitewater stretch of the Snake River, which straddles the Idaho and Oregon boundary. Ominous canyon rimrocks shoot down to the river, more than 1,000 feet deeper than the Grand Canyon.

The Popular Chief
We started in Joseph, the gateway to these backcountry playgrounds. In 1998, Sports Afield touted it as one of the 50 best outdoor sports towns in the country. For the most part, Joseph has remained undeveloped with only a smattering of funky little cafés, some outdoor shops, a few hotels, and a gas station.

We followed Hwy. 82 through town and traced the perimeter of Wallowa Lake where glaciers slithered over the area eons ago. We planned to hike 18-miles roundtrip to Ice Lake where many backpackers set up base camp and then climb the Matterhorn. At 9,845 feet, it is the highest peak in a range that is referred to as the Alps of Oregon. The peak season for the wilderness is July through September. Our visit was in April, which meant two things: there was a lot of snow and we were the only ones nuts enough to be in it.

Upon arrival in the empty parking lot at the West Fork Wallowa River trailhead, I obtained a free permit at the trailhead. We then loaded up our backpacks. In addition to my snowshoes, I crammed in all the comforts of home. Well, at least all the comforts for a very cold home—one with no heat and lots of snow.

We lasted about five minutes on the trail before we changed our route. The soupy, unconsolidated snow pack leading up to Ice Lake looked like the mouth of an avalanche waiting to roar. We instead took the right fork up Chief Joseph Mountain, a 14-mile roundtrip hike that climbs a few thousand feet to a meadow below the famous peak with a great view of the valley.

Minor patches of snow blotched the path up the gorge and icicles glistened along the walls of the cascading Wallowa River. We confronted an obstacle at the first bridge crossing: a tree had taken out the rail and a part of the bridge.

I nervously glanced at John, whose strategy for crossing was rather obtuse. Now, I am in no way criticizing him. All I am saying is that this chick[en]’s tactic would have been significantly different. Instead of using the tentative and safe approach, John pounded his foot with each step to check stability. If he was gonna go, it would be with gusto.

During the ascent, we had stunning views of the jagged Wallowa Mountains, sparkling rivers rushing by seas of waving tussocks, and the Wallowa Valley’s picturesque lowland farms. In the distance, the faces of the Seven Devils Mountain in Idaho peered over the rise from 9,395 feet. The trail climbed gradually past rockslides with chirping pika playing hide-and-go-seek, through open meadows interspersed with lodge-pole pine and alpine fir, and the occasional luminous waterfall.

As we hiked, I asked John the origin of Chief Joseph. Rather than admit he was clueless, Chief of the Bridge-Pounding Dance attempted to fake it. “Well, he was a very famous chief,” John paused as I suspiciously watched him. “And his name was Joseph.” We burst out laughing—that was my commentary? We later found out at Joseph’s grave bordering Wallowa Lake that he was the principal leader of the Wallowa Nez Perce who was a key player in treaty negotiations.

We were within a mile of the summit when a tenuous bridge of snow halted us over loose, unconsolidated mush. There was no telling if the sheet of snow had lost its strength from the balmy daytime temperatures and the traverse would be risky. I announced to John that conditions were too sketchy.

Now, his reaction by forging forward could be explained in three very male-oriented ways: 1) He did not hear me 2) He chose not to hear me 3) His definition of “sketchy” was that it would be cool to sketch his butt in the snow down the steep mountainside.

After taking a few steps, he finally succumbed to my female wisdom and we turned back.

Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area
Contrary to its name, Hells Canyon Recreation Area (HCNRA) is paradise on earth. It includes portions of the Nez Perce, Payette, and Wallowa-Whitman National Forests.

It was too early in the season to raft down Hell Canyon’s famed Wild Sheep and Granite Creek rapids, and we had to skip Hat Point for the same reason. Balanced on the west edge at 6,982 feet, Hat Point is the best viewpoint into the deepest gorge in America. The Snake River coils at 1,276 feet below and Idaho’s Seven Devil’s Mountains Range looms at more than 9,000 feet.

Imnaha River Inn Bed and Breakfast
Whether you call it a bed and breakfast or a rustic lodge, I fell in love with Imnaha River Inn Bed and Breakfast. Located five miles from Imnaha and light years from civilization, one would think this an imprudent place for a 7,000-square foot B&B. Remote. Inaccessible. But for this reason Imnaha River Inn is able to work its magic on the borders of Hells Canyon.

Nick Vidan, who spent a lifetime building similar homes in Portland, built the gorgeous log and stone lodge. With its high vaulted ceilings, Imnaha River Inn is reminiscent of the grand lodges of the Adirondacks and Rockies built by industry scions in the early 1900s. He and his wife Sandy developed seven themed guest rooms including Elk, Fish, Bear, Cowboy, Indian and the Fishing Hole.

The B&B’s greatest allure is not so much the lodge but the hosts. Nick and Sandy make this a personalized place with her home-cooked meals and his hilarious stories of the area’s history and activities. And not to be forgotten is Eula, Nick’s mother, who somehow topped them both when it came to cooking up humor and food.

Before going to bed, I stood out on the deck watching the Imnaha River wind through the valley. The orange moon pierced through the black-violet night and the silence penetrated. I gained an appreciation for this place where the Imnaha River and the star-studded heavens both seemed just a stone’s throw away.

Imnaha River Trail
We took Nick’s advice and hiked the 10-mile roundtrip Imnaha River Trail (or Cow Creek Trail). Its allures include early spring access without snow, a profusion of wildflowers and front-row seats as the Imnaha River Valley’s steep, jagged canyon narrows before merging with the Snake River.

We followed the country road for 15 miles. Shortly after the B&B, the pavement turned into a steep, narrow dirt road that is negotiable with a passenger car but high-clearance vehicles are recommended.

We parked at the Cow Creek Bridge, checked out the salmon and steelhead trap sites in the river, and then hit the trail. The hike was enjoyable but Nick had warned us about rattlesnakes in the area so we kept our eyes open. Well, John kept his eyes open while I took his ears out with my yelps each time we spotted ‘em.

After a leisurely (albeit stressful) 5-mile hike along the river, we reached the confluence with the Snake River. We stretched out on a rock and observed the gurgling waters clash, spurt and then merge into a fluid motion. American dippers dive-bombed the river, the sunbeams illuminating their heads as if their avian blood was radioactive.

As we reluctantly turned back, we heard a buzzing sound foreign to our environs. Soon, an anomalous motorboat passed by. “What is that?” I queried. John informed me it was a mail boat.

“Well, where’s the female boat?” I joked.

His reaction confirmed that I am often my best (and only) audience.

We then drove the poorly maintained yet awe-inspiring mountain passage another 15 miles to Dug Bar in Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area and on the Nez Perce (Nee-Me-Poo) National Historic Trail. Upon dropping down several feet to the Snake River, we reached the traditional crossing site where the Chief Joseph band forded immediately before the 1877 Nez Perce War. Although they did not know it at the time, this treacherous crossing was the band’s farewell to their homeland.

We drove back up the steep gorge to the apex of the mountains and paused to venerate the 360-degree view. The only boundaries of this world were the mountains’ hazy, purple curtains beyond which the horizon shimmered in the distance.

Back to “Civilization”
I realize that extolling Imnaha is very atypical. Inevitably, most people who drive through town breeze right by its three buildings—the post office, the Imnaha Store and Tavern, and the café—without a second glance. And I can’t really blame them.

But John and I were fortunate to stumble upon this hamlet when it came to life. Take a Thursday night, add some oil and oysters and you have one hoppin’ fry-fest at the tavern. Daily coffee hour at 9 p.m. also brings the locals out in spades as the day’s gossip is tossed around.

Built in 1908, almost 100 years of history is crammed on the tavern walls—old pictures, funny sayings, animal trophies and old license plates. Hundreds of dollar bills plaster the ceiling of this tavern that doubles as a general store. That night, the pool table doubled as a dinner table to accommodate the crowds.

I sauntered up to the bar to get the inside scoop. As luck would have it, I not only stumbled upon locals, but THE locals—Fred Warnock and Kelly Clark Both have deep roots in Imnaha, and were delighted to share them with me.

Imnaha is best known for its annual Bear and Rattlesnake Feed, which is held the third weekend of September. The 12th annual party will feature a rodeo, parade, dance and yep, you guessed it—fried rattlesnake and barbequed bear. The event has grown so popular that more than 300 people killed and donated rattlesnakes for the cause last year, their signatures proudly displayed on a banner in the store.

As for the dollar bills, tradition has it that when the store finally closes its doors for the last time, they’re throwing a huge retirement party. The money contains the name and phone number of those who want to be on the invitation list.

After an engaging evening, Fred announced that I needed to leave my mark on the ceiling. I pulled out a dollar bill and followed his instructions involving a pushpin and a quarter. I was then left alone to throw my bill at the ceiling in hopes it would find a place among the other revelers.

Sound easy? Think again. I knew my margin of error would be huge on this one. Fred and Kelly encouraged me. John pretended he did not know me. I won’t divulge how many attempts it took but after the first few times (and close calls), the locals caught on that I am not someone to be ignored when a sharp projectile is placed in my hands.

When my dollar bill finally stuck, I had quite the audience. I’m not sure if their cheers were for my success or that they no longer felt threatened. Regardless, it was the perfect capstone to a charismatic region that gives a glimpse at both heaven and hell.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Havasupai, Arizona: A Garden of Eden in the Desert

June 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2000. ©

Perhaps it is a bit of a hyperbole to describe Havasupai as a “Garden of Eden”.

Sure, it is a stunning region of glistening waterfalls and verdant foliage that are especially luminescent under a full moon. But our group of intrepid hikers also encountered our fair share of serpents in this garden, which amounted to danger. Big danger.

From the ferocious food-mongering stray dogs to the vile dwellings of doom known only as “the toilets”- to the deadly snare of the black hole in our campsite, to our leader’s murky sleeping chambers that we reverently referred to as “the tarp.”

Albeit risky, this trip to Havasupai amounted to high adventure. Located in the western reaches of the Grand Canyon, it is no surprise that this place is referred to as the Shangri-La of Arizona. Maze-like canyons wind through a dusty brown landscape and eventually descend upon an oasis of turquoise waters at the foot of four cascading waterfalls. A narrow green ribbon-Havasu Creek-connects them all as it cuts through the red canyon floor. A heat-induced hallucination? Not quite-try Havasupi!

It had been years since I traveled into the backcountry with a large group, and our group of 11 was like no other:

Ray – Sadistic Leader(S.L.)a.k.a. Tarp Man
Travis – Little guy with the fast feet
Julie – Kodak spokesperson
Robert – Guy with the patience of Job
Melvin – Keeper of S.L.’s blackmail Panda stories
Preston – Lopsided backpack man
Brent – Maniacal barefoot trail walker
Layne – Packer of the kitchen sink
Trisha – Giggly newlywed
Marshall – Camp dog
Me – CEO of Moleskin, Inc.

We arrived at the trailhead early on a mid-April afternoon. The sky was thankfully overcast, providing a reprieve from the region’s typically scalding temperatures. After unloading my gear, I stood for a moment on the canyon rim overlooking the parched desert before me. From here on the arid Hualapai Hilltop, the thought of Havasupai’s green and azure paradise seemed downright whimsical.

Thirteen-year-old Travis led the way down the moderately steep 1.5-mile descent to the canyon floor, and then along the Hualapai trail, which twists 6.5 miles through a flat wash to the village of Supai. The convoluted canyon’s steep and embayed cliffs dwarfed us at every turn. This dramatic sweep of sandstone was punctuated by dizzying rock pinnacles that caused us to frequently pause for orientation and inspiration.

We were alone on the trail, except for the occasional mules hauling backpacks and mail through the wash. Ray assumed the role of Tour Guide Extraordinaire. “See that tree over there?” he asked. We all leaned forward expectantly, awaiting profundity. “That is a green tree . . . with purple flowers.” His banal banter continued- from “orange flowers” to “flowing creek” to identifying graffiti on the walls as pictographic evidence that “white man was here.” Julie (somehow) seemed impressed because she had her camera out at every turn.

Despite Ray’s comic relief, the arid stillness of our narrow confines stifled at times and our packs weighed heavily on us. I looked sympathetically at Preston, whose loosely attached sleeping bag flopped with every step. And then at Layne, who in anticipation of his first backpacking trip since Boy Scouts, was overloaded with brand spankin’ new gear. Regardless, everyone remained upbeat.

About 1.5 miles before the village, the canyon opened into a wide plain shaded by cottonwood trees was correct and Havasu Creek was no mirage in the desert. We finally arrived at Supai, home to more than 500 Havasupai Indians. The tribe, whose name means “people of the blue waters,” has lived in this isolated country for centuries. They once farmed the fertile canyon floor each summer then moved to the plateau after harvest to gather abundant wild foods and firewood during the winter.

Though we already had a confirmed reservation, we still had to sign in at the Tourist Office and pay the rest of our dues ($15 per person). Conditions in town were cluttered and unkempt path and stray dogs lapped at our feet. We wandered, checked out the rodeo grounds, café and general store, and then watched a chopper land. For a price, less adventurous trekkers can buy their way into this canyon. Then again, flights in that dilapidated helicopter looked like they held their own high adventure.

The campground was another 2 miles from Supai, so we continued through Havasu Canyon to where the creek tumbles over the limestone cliffs of Navajo Falls. Less known than Havasu and
Mooney Falls, this 75-foot waterfall branches out into a series of smaller waterfalls that cascade into a pool shielded by lush foliage.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Havasu Falls, just half a mile from the campground. Pummeling 100 feet down travertine columns and shelves that were formed by limestone deposits, its blue-green color rivaled the jealous sky. Dusk only intensified the saturation of its brilliant waters and red-rock backdrop.

We paused for only a few minutes before continuing to the mile-long campground that was nestled along Havasu Creek. Most of the campsites were just off the main trail and a freshwater spring provided drinking water. We found an area that was somewhat secluded from the bustling crowds and proceeded to pitch our tents. That is, most of us pitched our tents; Ray had instead opted to take the easy and lightweight route by packing a tarp for shelter. An hour after the rest of us had set up camp and eaten dinner, he was still struggling to secure the tarp as he recited his knots aloud. So much for ease of use.

The next morning I rose before the sun but after the stirring dogs. Following a brief mishap when I discovered the camouflaged hole in our campsite the hard way, I limped to the dreaded outhouse. On the way, I was struck by the desire to visit Havasu Falls. I had yet to see them in daylight, but the thought of witnessing them by myself before sunrise was appealing.

I wasn’t disappointed. A light wind carried the falls’ mists like dust through this mystical lagoon. I expected the colors to be dim in the early light, but instead they had caught fire when touched by dawn’s cool brilliance. I tested the waters with my toe. The air was brisk and the water colder, yet adrenaline pushed me to jump in. It pulled me out even faster.

By the time I reluctantly made my way back to camp, sunrise had awakened the surrounding peaks and campers as dawn sketched patterns in the sky. Ray quickly discovered his food was missing. After searching all over the campsite we could only deduce one thing: the roaming dogs must have feasted on it the night before. Sympathetically, we thrust food his way. “Beware of dog” took on a new meaning in Havasupai’s campground.

An hour later, drowsy newlyweds Marshall and Trisha emerged from their tent. The rest of us were discussing Tarp Man’s great loss when Marshall plopped down at the table and innocently said, “Hey, I don¹t know whose this is, but someone left it out last night,” and tossed Ray’s bag of food down on the table. Laughter followed shock as we identified the dog to beware.

We had plenty of options for our day of exploration. We could: 1) Hike up the small side canyon to the east of Havasu Falls; 2) Follow another trail that can be reached by carefully climbing up a steep rocky area near the village cemetery along the west rim of Havasu Canyon that leads to Beaver Falls; 3) Hike along Havasu Creek another 8 miles to where it flows into the Colorado River; 4) Continue a few miles down Havasu Canyon and swim below Mooney and Beaver Falls.

We chose the last option and hiked to Mooney Falls, a hike of half a mile beyond the campground. Heralded as the most impressive of the area’s waterfalls, they plummet 196 feet into a vibrant pool that is a popular swimming hole. Gazing down from the steep ledge, it takes little imagination to see how prospector Daniel Mooney (after whom the falls are christened) fell to his death in 1880.

With the aid of chains and iron stakes, we eased down the steep, precipitous trail that descends through the travertine’s handiwork which resembled petrified waterfalls (or were we the petrified ones?) We were fascinated, awestruck and nervous as we passed through two tunnels that dulled the resounding drum of the falls. Upon reaching the bottom, we jumped into the chilly waters. I marveled how Mooney Falls was as much a visual splendor as an experiential one.

We then continued along the creek’s moist banks. Lush with cottonwood, willow, wild grapes and watercress, they provide a dense haven for hummingbirds, mallards and rock squirrels. The trail, though rough in places, offered a welcome sense of variety versus the flat wash that brought us to the campground. We climbed into the cliffs, passed by countless travertine pools and traversed the creek. After several crossings, a very frustrated Brent ditched his damp shoes and went barefoot, defying the sharp rocks and prickly cacti along the trail.

We discovered a swimming hole at our first river crossing and as a bonus stripped down to our bathing suits and took our turns swinging into the tranquil pool. Robert and Travis then opted to patiently wait while the rest of the group continued a few more miles to Beaver Falls. The largest of the travertine pools and small cascades, this area was more difficult to find and less frequented than the other falls.

When we finally headed back to camp, I marveled how I could feel such isolation and solitude while surrounded by so many people. Perhaps that was the magic of this canyon. It was only when I saw footprints meandering haphazardly along the trail that the presence of others was brought into my realm of serenity.

Dinner was uneventful. No missing food. No black holes. Just Melvin’s entertaining blackmail stories, Trisha’s contagious giggle and a smorgasbord of chow as we tried to devour everything to avoid packing it out the next day. And not to be forgotten was Ray’s glorified chicken noodle soup. Oh, I mean delicious angel hair pasta dish. Even the adopted camp dog (the real one, not Marshall) was invited to partake of our goods.

At dusk, we made our way down to Havasu Falls and were surprised to find that we were alone. The hues of the ebbing sun and presence of our group changed this beautiful place that had seemed frozen in time that morning. It came to life as we played Frisbee, explored the filmy curtains of travertine that produced small caves at the base of the falls, and enjoyed one another’s company.

I sat quietly for a few minutes breathing in my final scent of the spray before we headed back. Two torrents of water sliced down the canyon and bellowed over the falls. Perched between them a lone tree sat, defying erosion. Below, the subtle silver paints from nature’s palette glazed the cliffs as a waxing moon fought for space in the clouds until it finally dominated the ebony sky.
As we walked back, the full moon set the trail aflame.

“Look,” someone commented, “It’s almost like we have a spotlight on us!”

I looked around at our group and it was true radiance made us glow like beacons in the desert…a Garden of Eden in the desert

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: ,

Good Karma Yurting in Sun Valley, Idaho

May 15, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001

Men. You’d think after surviving a lifetime of torment as the only sister in a family of brothers I’d have a clue. I don’t.

This was confirmed during a recent trip to Sun Valley with my friend John as he gunned my Jeep up a precarious road. It was evident that my warning, “Hey don’t forget about the bikes on top” was completely lost on him when he replied “Great point, Amber. We can ride them back out when we get stuck.” We somehow made it out alive but that was just the first of many perplexing glimpses into the male psyche during the trip.

The Valley of Sun
What took nature millions of years to create has in the last several decades become the outdoor playground for the rich and famous. Sun Valley and neighboring Ketchum are gold-plated European-style resort towns with a gentrified Western feel.

While celebrities, gilded shop signs, a clock tower, opera house and fine dining all characterize Sun Valley, there is a lot more to this celebrity enclave than meets the eye. Venture a few miles out of town and you will encounter the largest roadless area in the lower 48, much of it encompassing the 756,000-acre Sawtooth National Recreation Area.

Not to be missed is the 8,701-foot Galena Summit Overlook, which marks the separation of two watersheds: the Big Wood to the South and the Salmon to the North. Galena has expansive views of many of the 40 gray needlelike spires that march more than 10,000 feet across the 35-mile Sawtooth range. With 300 lakes, four mountain ranges, and headwaters that feed four of the region’s major rivers, the Sawtooths provide what money can never buy.

Conversion in Sun Valley
John and I wanted a unique backcountry experience, so we turned to Sun Valley Trekking, featured in Outside magazine for their hut-to-hut backcountry skiing. Co-owner Carrie Douglas informed us that only one of their five yurts—Coyote—remains open during the summer because of Forest Service permit restrictions.

Nestled at 8,700 feet in a stand of spruce and fir, Coyote has a vast network of hiking and mountain biking trails for all abilities: from rolling Jeep roads for beginners, to hardcore singletrack leading to Baker Lake, to fat-tire classic Adams Gulch. Throw in some spectacular views of Boulder and Pioneer Mountains and you’ve got a yurt made for a Mongolian King in a Sun-kissed Valley.

Sound too good to be true? Yep. It was May and the yurt was still surrounded by snow. Carrie suggested we take advantage of one of their lower-elevation yurts—Fishhook—before they took it down for the summer. A 2.2-mile hike from Redfish Lake leads to this yurt where the Sawtooth’s highest peak—10,766-foot Thompson Peak—stands sentry.

It was not her description of the environs that piqued John’s curiosity, but rather the fact there was a hot tub at the yurt. That is, if you consider an old trough heated by a wood-burning stove a hot tub. John was not rattled when she told him it would take 70 buckets of water from the nearby creek to fill it.

He deflected my disparaging look. “I’ll fill that tub myself,” he announced. His machismo then proved spiritual: “It will be good Zen.” Good Zen? Last I heard, he was not a convert to Buddhism.

We set out on our Zen-ith experience to Redfish Lake, about 60 miles north of Sun Valley on Highway 75. We stopped atop Galena Pass. The sweeping views of the Salmon River’s headwaters reflexively caused a deep, whistling intake of breath. The descent into the postcard-perfect Sawtooth Valley was effortless, the mountains growing larger until we were swallowed by their shadows.

We arrived at Redfish Lake, snuggled under 10,229-foot Mount Heyburn. Named for the sockeye salmon that once spawned there by the thousands, Redfish is the Sawtooth’s largest and most popular lake.

Once at the Redfish Lake trailhead, we loaded food, clothes and sleeping bags in our backpacks. Carrie recommended we pack lightly because the yurt provided most essentials such as matches, dishes, lanterns, a stove and sleeping pads. We set out on the easy trail and wound along Fishhook Creek through a forested valley.

After a 2.2-mile jaunt, we came to an open meadow and a view of Williams and Thompson Peaks. The area is a compendium of striking vistas and a labyrinth of streams that mirror serrated peaks chiseled by a goliath’s saw.

A Yurt, a Trough and Zen
We bushwhacked back through the forest about a quarter-mile until we found the yurt–
rustic, remote and fortified by a wall of firewood. Bunk beds lined one side of the concave walls, a rectilinear table divided sleeping and cooking quarters, and mice had left their droppings as welcome.

John immediately started hauling buckets of water to the hot tub. Ten trips into it, the shirt came off. Thirty-eight buckets later, he was weary but finished.

We then explored the area. The yurt’s guidebook contained a topographical map with a gallimaufry of hiking routes. Our options for the next day were to summit snow-covered Thompson or Williams Peaks (we had no mountaineering gear), bushwhack a few miles using a map and compass to Yurt Lake (we had no compass) or to hike the well-marked 10-mile round-trip trail to Marshall Lake. We chose the latter.

Upon return from our explorations, John gathered kindling and chopped firewood. It finally came time for the pinnacle Zen cleansing: to light the fire. I reverently stood by. And I kept standing by for quite some time. John had made the inauspicious discovery there were no matches. Anywhere.

I am sure that even Buddha would have had a good chuckle over this one. After an hour of ransacking the yurt, we halfheartedly settled down to eat (note: no matches plus a gas stove equals a cold dinner).

During our meal, John thought to read the yurt guidebook, which disclosed the location of the matches. Now, this would mean good Karma for most, but not for John. While I leisurely watched a double sunset: one igniting the peaks, the other shimmering across the water, John spent four hours chopping wood and stoking the fire. He finally took a brief plunge around 11 p.m.

And his payback? He was so sore and tired that he couldn’t get out of bed the next morning. So much for our hike to Marshall Lake. Ahhh, men. Or would that be Zen?

Mountain Biking with Karma
We eventually backpacked out and then drove to Hulen Meadows, just outside of Ketchum. I left John to ponder his Zen experience while I went in-line skating. A paved 21-mile bike path winds from Ketchum to Bellevue through the Wood River Valley. I took a 14-mile chunk out of the beautiful trail that winds along the Big Wood River, through residential lands and past Sun Valley Resort.

Carrie had recommended a few areas outside of Ketchum for mountain biking that included the fat-tire classic Adams Gulch, the Norton Lakes Loop off Baker Creek Road, and the Fox Creek Trail, often referred to as the best all-around trail in the region. Again, we chose the latter.

In keeping with bad Karma, the Fox Creek Trail was closed due to high water damage from the river. We resorted to the Adams Gulch Trails network, within a short distance of downtown Ketchum. Unfortunately, we were not the only ones who chose the area—the parking lot was full when we arrived in the popular valley.

We had a couple of options. We could do the 5.5-mile loop, often called the ultimate loop in the Sawtooths, with numerous side trails and a complimentary grind during a steep 1,270-foot ascent. Or we could opt to do the Adam’s Gulch Trail, a 14-mile out-and-back with a 2,450-foot elevation gain. My sources at the trailhead used such descriptors as technical, serious and abusive. We chose the former.

It should have been the wise decision but we did not have time to fully study the map before two busloads of children arrived. Panicked by the threat of a kiddy obstacle course, we set out in the counter-clockwise direction. The only thing I could remember about the Adams Gulch Loop was that the trail started on a Jeep road. (We started on singletrack.) And that there were several stream crossings on the ascent. (The trail was dry.)

With 6-year-olds hot on our wheels, we eased through aspen groves and tight lodgepole forests. It was a climb of attrition, as biking turned into hike-a-biking in some of the steeper areas. The ascent made me forget why I like mountain biking.

But it was during our wet-footed, mud-dotted descent that I remembered. A white-knuckled
downhill led us over epic singletrack and several stream crossings. Footbridges are in place so getting splattered is optional, but all of the traverses are rideable. Well, mostly rideable. Fortunately, my inadvertent dunk was nothing short of refreshing.

We finally hit a Jeep road that felt like a freeway after the constricted trail. It took me a few moments before I clued in that this was the road we should have tackled at the beginning. We had indeed done the loop in the wrong direction. Bad Karma? Perhaps.

But hanging out in Sun Valley can only be good Zen.

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

The Flakes of Zion National Park’s West Rim Trail

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

Flakes. I can’t stand ‘em. I am, of course, referring to non-committal types; flakes of the snow variety are always welcome in my book…and most definitely on my slopes. Little did I know that my most recent trip to Zion National Park would be chock full of both.

I had already experienced most of the popular day hikes in Zion including Angels Landing, Observation Point and the Narrows, and I was itching to backpack something more remote. That something was the West Rim trail, often called the pinnacle backcountry excursion in Zion National Park. In just 14.2 miles, this moderately strenuous trail climbs along the backbone of the park and offers expansive views of a paradise where stone meets sky.

In retrospect, the trip was a gamble from the get-go because I was hooking up with a mixed-bag of friends:

Dave—Had been hanging out with him for less than a month. Seemed stable, reliable and sane (disclaimer: those were also my first impressions of Kramer.) Dave was training for a marathon and one of his favorite pastimes was night-riding Slickrock—a sure sign of water (or rocks) on the brain.

Kristy—Had dragged her along on several rigorous hikes over the years including a recent trek up Mount Olympus, after which she did not speak to me for quite some time. The West Rim was to be her first backpacking trip. Our friendship was at stake.

Mike—Volleyball buddy. Known to hit on random women in Taco Bell. No accounting for taste (regarding the restaurant and the women in question). Did Glacier National Park with him the summer prior; claimed a knee injury the day before a 20-mile hike. Instead spent the day hitting on women in the park.

Flake Number One Revealed
Upon arriving in Zion, we checked on weather conditions and obtained our backcountry permit and campsite assignment from the Visitor’s Center. We then grabbed some dinner and set up camp outside of Zion overlooking the Virgin River. That night, we watched the sun bleed into the crimson cliffs. I drifted to sleep watching lavender stars paint the sky, with no sign of either variety of flakes on the horizon for the next day.

We decided to drop Dave’s SUV at the Grotto Picnic Area in the park and then shuttle up Kolob Canyon in Mike’s vehicle and begin at Lava Point. When hiked north to south, the West Rim trail gains 1,265 feet in elevation and loses 4,825 feet. The plan was to backpack 6.8 miles from Lava Point to our campsite, spend the night, and then hike the remaining 7.4 miles to the floor of Zion Canyon. At least that was the plan.

Enter: morning. And Mike the flake. Shortly after breakfast, he announced he was not coming because he felt unprepared for adverse conditions. We had learned at the Visitor’s Center that it would probably rain or snow on the rim that night—a precaution I had given them prior to the trip. It was, after all, late-November, and the peak season for doing the West Rim is May – October. And so the first flake materialized.

Mike reluctantly agreed to shuttle us into the park to drop off Dave’s vehicle at the Grotto Picnic Area and we then followed Kolob Terrace Road to Lava Point. Beginning at the town of Virgin, 15 miles west of the South Entrance, the road climbs north into Kolob Canyon past jutting rocks, towering cliffs, and high plateaus, gaining 4,400 feet in elevation over 16 miles. The road winds past the Guardian Angel Peaks and eventually ends up at Lava Point, a fire lookout station at 7,900 feet.

It was noon when Mike finally dropped us off at the Lava Point trailhead and we were behind schedule by several hours. I surveyed my fellow backpackers. Dave, the king of supplements, downed his Blue Ox and graciously gave me a swig as he expounded upon the benefits of energy drinks. Kristy was nervous, yet eager. I inwardly chuckled as she strapped on my old Lowe backpack, its colors an obnoxious pink and teal medley.

It was very en vogue in the early ‘90s when I bought it. Really.

Storming Horse Pasture Plateau at Lightening Speed
The road leading up to the trailhead was closed because of snow so we hiked an additional 1.3 miles until we reached the West Rim marker. Once on the trail, we quickly passed a junction with the Wildcat Canyon Connector Trail. We soon found ourselves atop Horse Pasture Plateau. Over half of the hike is spent atop this finger of land that points toward Angels Landing. The trail often skirted close to the rim and we watched the wilderness unfold in shades of beige, red, brown, orange and yellow.

Blackened hulks of trees littered the plateau, remnants of the wildfire that ravaged the area in 1996. Numerous charred snags attested to frequent lightening strikes in the high country. I looked to the sky. Murky clouds were creeping in and a storm was palpable. For the first time, I made a connection between the weather and our surroundings; a lightening storm seemed inevitable on this plateau.

I was going to discuss my concerns with Dave but he had forged ahead while I hiked with Kristy. I glanced at our virgin backpacker to see if she had drawn any similar conclusions about her surroundings. Nada. She had innocently taken to quoting her favorite Simpson’s episodes, and informed me that the show could be seen 14 times a week on television. I figured it was best to keep her distracted by continuing to enlighten me with the inside scoop on Bart and Homer.

Our dramatic views really began as the trail glided up to a high overlook facing westward. The canyons began to gash deeper and deeper. We stopped and gazed at South Guardian Angel keeping watch over Left Fork Canyon. As we continued southward, North Guardian Angel, the fang-shaped crag to the right, appeared in this cut of Zion.

We followed the spine of the park until the trail led us down into Potato Hollow’s grassy meadow—the 5.2-mile mark (or 6.7 miles for us). We hiked through this narrow valley, passing an overgrown pond and a spring that fed into an old stock tank. Overgrown grasses, fir and pine sheltered our route. Numerous corpses of trees, scorched silver and black, were strewn around the meadow. New aspens were beginning to repopulate the area around the spring, breathing new life into this sheltered hollow.

Flake Number Two Revealed
Beyond the trail to our right was a campsite, the first of several designated sites along the West Rim. We had been assigned site No. 7 from the Visitor’s Center. The ranger had promised me this rooftop view overlooked some of Zion’s grandest wonders. I had envisioned we would arrive early in the day, set up camp, and then eat dinner while admiring the rose and purple canyons cast against an autumn sky.

But that was prior to the flaky Mike setback. What we got instead was dusk and an introduction to a second kind of flake—snow.

From Potato Hollow the trail turned south and we climbed steadily to regain the ridgetops. We made the final pitch and reached a junction with the Telephone Canyon trail as flurries set in. We needed to find our site, and we needed to find it fast. We took the right fork of the trail and were relieved to see a campsite marker in the distance. We were finally at lucky No. 7…or not.

As we drew closer, we discovered it was No. 6.; we had somehow missed our assigned campsite. We took one look at the sky and figured No. 6 was lucky enough for us. We quickly pitched our tents and dove in just as the snowstorm started pelting us.

Kristy felt ill but was still in good spirits. After dinner, I planned to share insights from my Zion guidebook with her. What I read did little to foster enthusiasm. As it turned out, my fears were confirmed: we were camped in an area that was notorious for getting struck by lightening during storms. In 1980, a lightning-caused fire blitzed the area, opening up westward views of Greatheart Mesa. A stellar view did not comfort me in the least, especially if we wouldn’t survive the night to enjoy it.

Kristy must have sensed my uneasiness. “So, what’re you reading?” she inquired. “Oh, nothing of major interest,” I casually replied. No sense in scaring the babe in the woods. If I thought she was mad at me for dragging her up Mount Olympus, getting struck by lightening would amount to a lifetime of the silent treatment.

Dave paid us a visit and I laughed as we jammed his 6’1 frame into our two-person tent, along with our two bulking backpacks. Mr. Supplements had a contraband cure for Kristy’s ailments—black market Canadian painkillers—and Kristy gratefully downed them. She then curled up in her sleeping bag so we had a wide-angle view of her backside, mumbled that she just couldn’t find a sociable position, and then she was out like a light. Dave and I kicked back and listened to the sky’s eruption continue unabated around us for a couple of hours before calling it a night.

I awoke to a flash of lightening at 2:30 a.m., which even roused Kristy from her drug-induced slumber. We listened to the constant hiss and flutter of the wind and snow on the tent. We timed the thunder and lightening in the distance. The strikes started minutes apart and slowly crept closer until the increments were a matter of mere seconds. We found ourselves no longer witnessing the storm from the sidelines, but a part of the perilous action.

I instructed Kristy to discard of any metal she may have had in her pack and peered outside. Herds of sinister clouds raced in the sky, imprinting the landscape with a shifting matrix of blinding snow. The only reprieves from the fusillade of snow whirling around were the colossal thunderheads that illuminated the heavens with surreal bursts of gold and blue lightening. Despite the drum roll that was pounding in my chest, I had to admit that the storm had a cold,
phantasmal beauty.

After what seemed like an eternity, the lightning inched away. Kristy drifted back to a restless slumber, constantly shifting and moaning. I poked her every few minutes to quiet her down, while also whacking the heavy snow off the tent. Suffice it to say, I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.

A New Glimpse at Zion
By 5 a.m., the storm had subsided, leaving only light flurries. A foot of fresh snow was heaped on the plateau, and we were relieved to discover we could still decipher the trail. We backtracked to the Telephone Canyon junction and opted to take the Telephone Canyon trail instead of the Rim Route as originally intended.

The latter of the two would have been ideal for a clear day and offers the best views from atop the rim. But visibility was nil at that point and our primary concern was getting down the mountain. And so we chose the shorter descent, which eventually joined the Rim Route at West Rim Spring Junction.

Dave assumed the role of pathfinder. We sandwiched Kristy between the two of us. Despite a thorny initiation into backpacking, she was in great spirits and relished in the beauty of the snow.
And best of all, she was still speaking to me. Who would’ve thought that climbing Mount Olympus would be more traumatic than almost getting blasted by lightning in the middle of nowhere? I had underestimated the dear girl and Mr. Rocks-on-the-brain.

It snowed lightly as we shot down narrow Telephone Canyon. The snow pampered our every step and the surrounding monoliths looked like they had been embedded with millions of glimmering crystal deposits. We finally reached the West Rim Spring, where a slow flow of water seeped from the ground to feed an algae-choked pool. Shrieking birds swirled like snowflakes past the fingertips of the quaking aspens and Arizona cypresses that sheltered the spring.

From here, the main trail began its descent, traversing a sheer wall of sandstone. Our views opened northward to Mystery Canyon. Morning’s white beams streamed upon the pure snow that blanketed the canyon’s tall pillars. We wound through a lush gulch of Douglas fir and spruce underlain by bigtooth maple and Gambel oak. Their branches drooped by the weight of the snow, bowing in reverence to the storm that had ruled its environs.

We continued our steady descent around the base of Mount Majestic, bottomed out at a bridge over a side canyon and then began a steady climb. As we neared the top of the grade, we were greeted with a view of the Mountain of Mystery, Great White Throne and the Red Arch Mountains. The route turned slick when we reached a passage of naked bedrock. We methodically eased by the cairns, fluidly shifting weight between our feet, calmly studying the route’s curves and bulges.

We soon began the descent to the base of Angels Landing where it reaches a trail junction at Scout Overlook. When it came into full view, we stopped, gawked and succumbed to our tourist instincts by taking pictures. Like a hooded monk with a pure, white cloak, Angels Landing presided over the valley. The sculptured textures of its knife-edge ridge were sheer brilliance in the morning light.

And at this epiphanous moment atop the world (after realizing I was not going to die), it hit me—the West Rim trail had introduced me to a new Zion. Prior to my backcountry adventure, the park had conjured up many defining images: it was a day hike down a narrow canyon, a thrilling scramble up the precipitous cliffs of Angels Landing, and the quiet appreciation of sunset over majestic peaks.

But my Zion was now a collage of images and secrets veiled in deep canyons and high-forested plateaus. Where sheer rock buttresses seamed with snow pressed in from both sides, rising like the shoulders of a malevolent god. Where even the air had a shimmering, crystalline quality and distant peaks seemed close enough to touch.

Not bad for a flaky trip.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: ,

Dominican Republic: Taking the Merengue to Extreme Heights

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide Magazine, 2000.

I wobbled up the final passage of the rigorous ascent. My feet were swollen with blisters and my dirt-splattered legs screamed out in fatigue. In the past few days I had mountain biked, bushwhacked, swam, climbed and rafted, all on minimal sleep. I looked like a woman in dire need of a vacation, when in fact, I was on one.

I was in the Dominican Republic–the Caribbean’s answer to extreme outdoor vacations. As the only place in the Caribbean that offers mountain biking, rafting, hiking, snorkeling and horseback riding, this island serves as the perfect retreat for any outdoor lover who seeks to do more than indolently worship sun gods on pristine sandy beaches.

The Dominican Republic is a tale of the highest of highs and lowest of lows. It hosts the highest point in the Caribbean–Pico Duarte-which, at 10,417 feet, reflects atypical characteristics like pine trees and below-freezing temperatures. Less than 70 miles away is the lowest point found anywhere in the Caribbean–the salty Enriquillo Lake at 144 feet below sea level.

Couple these extremes with the fact that 11 percent of the island’s land mass is set aside in the form of 16 national parks replete with crystal clear mountain rivers and thundering waterfalls and it’s no surprise that this country is becoming the Eco-tour capitol of the Caribbean.

Mountain Bikin’ With Mama
My adventure began in Cabarete. Located on the northern shore of the aqua-tinted Atlantic Ocean, this coastal village is an internationally renowned haven for windsurfers. It also serves as a point of departure for numerous Eco-tours.

While I usually enjoy exploring new terrain on my own terms, hooking up with a local guide is almost a necessity in this country. With hundreds of miles of trails of breathtaking downhills and challenging singletrack, the untouched quality of the Dominican Republic makes it difficult to explore the backcountry unaccompanied.

I turned to Iguana Mama, the oldest licensed adventure tour operator in the Dominican Republic. The owner, American-born resident Tricia Thorndike de Suriel, is practically revered in Cabarete. In addition to setting up Eco guidelines within the national parks, Tricia donates 20 percent of Iguana Mama’s income toward local schools and parks.

Our tour group was as varied as the terrain: a few hard-core Rocky Mountain bikers, a couple Scots who coined the mantra “When’s the booze?” as motivation to keep pumping, and a few East coasters who had to be introduced to the “shocking” new technology of front-suspension on our Specialized mountain bikes (note: disclaimer on their lame pun).

Our motley crew started our trek at the summit of the Cibao Valley in the interior of the Dominican Republic. We had a quick breakfast overlooking the valley, the largest and lushest in the Caribbean. This breadbasket is a staggering cacophony of glimmering emerald-green tobacco, rice, beans, pineapple, coffee and mango trees rooted in the deepest topsoil in the Caribbean.

It was against this incredible backdrop that we cruised down 3,000 feet of vertiginous drops and passed through impoverished villages of clapboard houses painted audacious shades of pink, purple, yellow and green. At each turn, the local children enthusiastically ran out to high five us.

I spotted several lemonade stands along the winding road. As a good Samaritan (and also a very overheated one), I figured I would contribute to the grass-roots economic community and buy a beverage. I dismounted my bike and approached one of the little entrepreneurs.

“How much?” I asked in my broken Spanish.

Dumbfounded, the boy looked at me and shook his head. Thinking it was my pathetic accent, I repeated myself, this time flashing my Dominican pesos. Still, the same response. I was confused. Did money not talk in this country?

Just as I was going to give this obstinate kid a few sales tips, one of the trip’s guides came up behind me. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me with laughter in his eyes.

“Trying to quench my thirst by contributing to the local economy.”

“Well, I suggest you do it in another way–I don’t think buying gas is going to satiate any kind of thirst. These jugs contain gas for motorists in this remote area, not drinks.”

Ohhhh. I gave the little guy a bright smile and feigned that I knew what was going on the whole time. He flung me a what-a-stupid-American look. I smugly scoffed. Little did he know–I’m Canadian. . . .

Our trip was not limited to the primitive mountain roads. We shot down epic jungle singletracks that evolved from dry, rutted footpaths scratched by farmers walking back and forth among their villages. We eased over rocky ledges that plunged giddily into deep valleys, crossed Herculean rivers and gorged on delicious fruit at a roadside fruit stand (which did indeed prove to be veritable fruit).

Our reward after a long, sweaty, sun-scorched day was a tropical oasis–a beautiful pool of water at the end of the Jamao river. I peeled off my gear and dove in headfirst, shoes and all. We leisurely soaked our battered bodies and relished the rejuvenating solitude.

Rafting the Republic’s Rapids
Our next destination was deep in the heart of the country. A beautiful mountain resort, Jarabacoa is to the Dominican Republic what Interlaken is to Switzerland–the country’s gateway to mountains and whitewater. With river rafting, canyoning, trekking, tubing, paragliding, horseback riding and jeep safaris, this is the Dominican Republic’s adventure playground.

Jarabacoa rests near the towering Pico Duarte and sits on the confluence of the turbulent rivers Jimenoa and Rio Yaque del Norte. The most significant river in the country, the Rio Yaque del Norte starts near Pico Duarte at an altitude of 8,514 feet and empties into the northwest coast.

We opted to take a bite out of this 184-mile beast and hooked up with Franz Adventuras, a rafting outfitter in Jarabacoa. We were provided with all the comforts of home on the water – wetsuits, helmets and lifejackets – and set loose on the class four rapids with our Dominican guide Lenny.

While certainly not my most extreme whitewater experience ever, the surroundings made this journey one of the most surreal. I had been warned not to expect much from the scenery due to Hurricane George’s rage that was unleashed on the area. The deforested landscape I expected was very different from what I saw.

Dripping orchids festooned the path down this deep-set valley that glistened with white water. Velvet waterfalls swooned down the mountain slopes, spilling into the rushing river. Often shielded by the lush foliage strung along the deep canyon walls, these cascades almost magically appeared at the fingertips of the foliage. In this enchanting chasm, it seemed as though the plants were weeping.

I was entranced with this tropical paradise. I was not surprised when Lenny informed us that portions of Jurassic Park were filmed in this very river valley.

The rapids were extreme enough to give me a few quality surges of adrenaline. We were introduced to the Mother-in-Law rapid and then socked by Mike Tyson. We resurrected ourselves in the Cemetery, slithered through the Snake and relieved ourselves in the Toilet. Well, uh, kind of. We hopped out of the raft and cascaded down the gurgling porcelain bowl.

Hiking “Hispanolian” Style
If there is a rite of passage in the Dominican Republic, it is conquering Pico Duarte, the Caribbean’s highest peak. Located in Parque Nacional Armando Bermudez– the granddaddy of all the mountain parks–Pico Duarte appears as a jagged mass of summits.

This strenuous 29-mile climb requires a commitment of at least two to four days, depending on conditions and routes. We had four hours.

Though I am known as an iron woman in my circles (which usually consists of a party of two: me and myself), I was barely able to take a chunk out of this spectacular hike. The 20-mile, four-wheel drive up the Yaque del Norte River valley was a large part of the adventure. We forded streams, skirted steeply terraced cropland and snaked through tiny villages where pendulous tree ferns swung over the fractured road.

The dirt road ended and trailhead began at the small village of La Ciénaga. We checked in at the park headquarters, paid a nominal fee for a permit and signed our lives and passports away to the park ranger. Because of numerous side trails, park regulations strongly suggest that hikers be accompanied by at least one park guide.

Tropical downpours can turn the steep mountain trails into muddy rivers in a matter of minutes during rainy months of May and August through November. Temperatures also drop below freezing at night, so preparation is essential.

We began at over 4,000 feet. We plunged into the park’s densely vegetated temperate zone, replete with paths of cana brava, or wild cane, and orchids. Giant fronds of waving palms grew side-by-side with bamboo and banyan trees whose root systems seemed to be above ground. These tropical trees gave way to alpine tree ferns and mountain pine canopies that dominated the skyline around 6,000 feet above sea level and continued to the crown of Pico Duarte.

A flock of birds with lime-green plumage and small white spots on their foreheads flittered in the trees as we ascended. I questioned Jackie, our Iguana Mama guide, about the name of this curious bird. While not sure of the exact name, she suspected it was a parrot of some sort.

“If all else fails, just put the word Hispanolian in front of the bird and chances are, you have half the formula,” she jokingly said. “The Dominicans aren’t very imaginative when it comes to classifying plants and animals and everything seems to start or end with Hispanolian.”

I repeated my question to Aldolpho, our Dominican guide. “Oh, that is actually our national bird and it is very rare,” he proudly announced. “We call it the Hispanolian parrot.”

The Pulsation of the Dominican Republic

Despite my many exhilarating adventures in the Dominican Republic, possibly my most memorable was a tranquil moment in Jarabacoa where we set up in a very civilized camp at the beautiful Hotel Gran Jimenoa bordering the gurgling Jimenoa river.

At dusk, I made my way down to the riverbank and settled in for the performance of a lifetime. Directly across from my perch, the exuberant tones of the merengue resounded from the bar. I listened, intrigued, as tourists and locals threw themselves into this fast and furious dance.

My attentions then turned to my natural setting. The clouds draped the upper slopes of the village, saturating the dense forest of verdant coconut palms. The water around me glistened with drops of light as I witnessed the birth of a slivered moon.

Two curious Dominican boys hesitatingly approached me. I eagerly welcomed their presence and before long, they choked out a few tunes for me on their rusty harmonica. As they played, the plaintive songs of birds bubbled to the surface in a chorus that continued full force as darkness settled upon the enigmatic gorge.

This strange but wonderful duet took my breath away–it was the witching hour of the Dominican Republic’s thrush.

Here was a place where two hearts beat as one—the frenetic merengue that pumped the cultural blood, mixed with an adventure playground that sets the pulse for anyone who chooses to venture beyond the beaten path.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel

Catching the Wave in Paria Canyon

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

My friends call me Amber Murphy in honor of my adopted Uncle Murphy, whose law I have the misfortune of living. I have traveled thousands of miles for a wedding, only to miss it after getting into an accident. When I show a broken appliance to a repairman, it works perfectly. And I know that anytime I put an item in a “safe place,” I will never see it again.

So what are the odds that I was one of only four walk-ins permitted to enter a place in southern Utah so remote and hidden that it is not on any map? That I stumbled upon this congealed ocean in the desert where the colors of a rainbow have been carved layer upon layer by wind and later–where violet and gold and green and salmon and scowling red splay across this chasm that trades colors with sky and cloud. Its hardened currents are christened The Wave. And I have never witnessed anything like it.

Of course, my journey was not lacking in calamity. I made the mistake of gloating to my friend John that I had road tripping down to a science and was able to pack in less than 10 minutes. John knows me too well. He flung me a skeptical look and proceeded to go through our checklist. Sunscreen? Check. First aid kit? Check. Tent? Silence.

Could it be? Had I forgotten the item most integral to our nocturnal comforts? “No worries,” I countered. “Temperatures are supposed to be in the upper 90s and sunny all weekend. We’ll be fine.”

It rained most of the weekend. As my wise Aunt Sue Murphy always says: “Things are never 100%, Amber, never 100.”

Paria Canyon
“I haven’t seen it all. I wonder if anyone has… But I’ve seen a great deal of it, together with Buckskin Gulch, a major tributary [of Paria Canyon], and it is one of my favorite secret places in the canyon country.”

-Edward Abbey, Days and Nights in Old Pariah

Edward Abbey’s Paria Canyon was a land of cavernous gorges, a fake ghost town built by Hollywood for some mediocre movies, a cow stuck in quicksand, high sheer tapestried walls of golden sandstone, the often impassable mouth of Buckskin Gulch, freshwater seeps and springs, blazing meteors by night and a radiant sun by day. Routine stuff.

The Wave is only a small part of the Paria Canyon-Vermilion Cliffs Wilderness. Located deep in the clutches of Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, the wild and twisted canyons of the Paria River and its tributaries offer one of the most spectacular canyon treks in the state for experienced hikers.

The main trail through Paria Canyon extends 38 miles down the 2,000-foot-gorge of the Paria River in southern Utah to Lees Ferry in Arizona, where the Paria River empties into the Colorado River. Hikers must register at White House, Buckskin, Wire Pass, or Lees Ferry trailheads when entering or exiting.

Plan A was to backpack the length of this canyon but we did not have the 4-6 days required. We instead opted to do an overnighter from the White House Trailhead (at the mouth of Paria Canyon) to the Confluence (7 miles) and then continue 16 arduous miles up Buckskin Gulch, a major tributary. Heralded as the ultimate slot canyon of the Colorado Plateau, Buckskin is one of the longest and most consistently narrow canyons in the world. We then planned to arrange a shuttle to haul us back to the White House Trailhead the next day.

At least that was Plan B. But Plan B required an overnight permit issued from the BLM and the permits [of course] had been accounted for in advance. So, we quickly recreated Plan C. We would day hike to the Confluence and continue another couple of miles up Buckskin Gulch until we reached the rock jam, a 30-foot drop in the slot canyon. We would then retrace our steps back to the White House trailhead. The next day, we planned to enter Buckskin Gulch via Wire Pass, another tributary.

Murphy in Old Paria
We followed in the footsteps of Ed Abbey and camped near what was left of old Paria (Pahreah as it was originally called) our first night. Before we hit the ghost town, we passed the Paria Movie Set where several western movies and TV shows were filmed from 1963-1991. The set survived the gunfights but not the ravages of nature and floods eventually destroyed it. In 1999, volunteers tore down the set and reconstructed two of the buildings—the Red Rock Saloon and the Lost Lady.

Most people mistake this for the original Paria, but Ed Abbey did not lead us astray. With Days and Nights in Old Pariah in hand, we followed the dirt road for another mile beyond the Hollywood set and past the Paria cemetery until we arrived at the silt and sand bottoms of the Paria River.

We parked the Jeep under a cottonwood tree and waded across the river. Originally settled in 1865 by Peter Shirts, Paria was vacated because of Indian raids and resettled again upstream in 1870. Repeated floods forced the settlers to leave.

John took the lead as I read Abbey’s instructions aloud. “ You wade across the river and climb the left, or eastern bank. Here, scattered over a mile of rocky benchland, some of it shaded by cottonwoods, are the ruins of the original town.”

It is probably not difficult for the average person to find the ruins, but as I’ve said before: anything is [im] possible with Amber and Co. John and I split up and scoured the sandy wash and benches but the only remains we found were petrified cow pies.

To our credit, Paria’s ruins were few even in Abbey’s day. But after a while, our fruitless search was forgotten. As we casually made our way back, the sun began to glow upon the surrounding mesas and buttes. The shadows lingered with rhythms of light and shade through tucks and swales and ridges, abruptly shifting as if haunted by the spirits of Paria.

We set up camp (which, thanks to my absentmindedness, consisted of our sleeping bags and pads) under the cottonwood along the banks of the Paria River. John, still in the spirit of the great Kerouac of the desert, consoled me, “Amber, don’t worry–Ed Abbey never used a tent!”

These words were recanted the next two nights when it rained. That John—such a fair-weather friend….

I have spent many nights in the outdoors cursing my stubborn insomnia. But on this night, sleep was a waste. I watched the falling sun set the bluffs ablaze, backlit by puffs of smoke-like cloud that shrouded the valley with a thick smell of history. And when the sky fell dim, I watched far-flung deities in the heavens.

The next morning, we stopped at the Paria Ranger Station on Highway 89 to check out conditions in Paria Canyon. A couple from Switzerland was in front of us talking to the ranger. As Eavesdropper Extraordinaire, I overheard them mention The Wave, and my interest was piqued. I had seen a National Geographic special on The Wave a few years ago and had been transfixed by this Kodachrome enclave.

But its environs were kept nebulous and for good reason. Fragile and cosseted, The Wave is not marked on most maps. It is located within Coyote Buttes, a protected area deep in Escalante. The BLM’s Web site issues only 10 permits per day, and these are usually booked six months out. The ranger station allows four walk-ins per day, and often has to turn to a lottery system because demand is high among the few people who know about it.

With these odds, the probability that a member of the Murphy clan would get a permit was pretty slim. But miraculously, there were two walk-in permits still available for the next day. I did a Murphy-Be-Damned jig and we eagerly listened as Ranger Dennis gave us detailed instructions to The Wave. We then set out for our day’s adventure to Paria Canyon.

Paria Canyon
We did not arrive at the White House trailhead until 10:30 a.m. and the pulsating sun was already inexorable. We registered and paid $5 each at the trailhead and then wound down Paria Canyon’s 2,000-foot gorge.

Promises of The Wave were soon forgotten as we lost ourselves in this multihued conduit that electrified 200 million years of geologic history. The riverbed that sweeps through Paria Canyon is navigable if you don’t mind getting your feet wet in multiple river crossings. In early spring, expect to hike in ankle to knee deep water.

During summer, the Paria River can be dry for the first seven miles, with the remainder below the Buckskin Gulch confluence flowing year round. Few obstructions block the path except for the large boulders that clog the river at mile 28.

Most hikers leave the canyon floor and follow a route on the south side of the stream. Flash flood danger is high July through September so precaution should be exercised. The Paria River’s white tongue trickled out when we reached some power lines, the unofficial 2-mile mark. Four miles in, the wide but dry riverbed slimmed into the Narrows, and these sinuous confines led us 3 miles to the Confluence. The shade of the canyon walls lengthened and often only a sliver of the sky was visible from between the 500-foot ramparts.

When we reached the Confluence, we paused before entering Buckskin Gulch, Edward Abbey’s secret hideaway. Innumerable little worlds, surprising worlds, and hundreds of hidden paradises existed within those crimson walls. Photographs fail to capture more than a micro-slice of its magnetism.

There are three routes into the Buckskin: Paria Canyon, Buckskin Trailhead, and Wire Pass, a shortcut into the gulch. This slick-rock slot canyon is like a canyoneer’s funhouse. Rock- and log-jams require innovative bouldering techniques. And large, deep stagnant pools of water may require swimming through stretches of the gulch where the walls are an arm’s length apart.

John and I continued only two miles up the Gulch until we reached a 30-foot boulder jam that requires the use of ropes to ensure a safe ascent (located 14.5 miles from the Buckskin trailhead). Reluctantly, we turned around.

Usually the return trip is anti-climatic for me but the bulging sidewalls of Paria Canyon provided a memorable playground. We skirted around the quicksand and tempted its clutches with taps of our feet. We chased the shade of shadows to escape the white sun. When the blue sliver of sky turned murky and gray, we marveled at distant glittering shafts of rain.

After slipping, slogging and hiking through the final stretch of the canyon, we were grateful to finish the hike before the torrents of rain really started. The result, I imagined, would be similar to flushing a toilet down this flash-flood prone canyon. For once, perhaps Murphy proved to be in our favor by denying us an overnight permit.

Our attempts to find sanctuary from the rain that night were disheartening. What we wanted to find: a cool grotto or casing of rock. What we found: shelter under a picnic table in a campground. I fruitlessly tried to console the chagrined John–“At least the small pavilion that encamps the picnic table is kinda cool. ”

Ed Jr. was not persuaded.

Doing the Wave
Shortly after 6 a.m. the next day, we were on our way to The Wave. We had camped only a few miles from the trailhead so it wasn’t difficult to get an early start. A sleepless night under a picnic table didn’t hurt either.

As we started hiking to this land of swirling sandstone atop the Paria Plateau, I felt a part of a clandestine conspiracy. The ranger did not reveal The Wave’s location until after we had our coveted permit in hand. There is not a developed trail and we had to follow the landmarks the ranger had shown us via his photographs. We were then sworn to secrecy about revealing its whereabouts.

We followed a Jeep road before the trail vanished and we were left to forge across a scrub-brush hill. This eventually gave way to swirling sandstone, a hint of what was to come. Three miles later, we crawled up the final cornice.

When we landed atop the plateau, I felt like I had crawled onto a Monet canvas and was unleashed to glide across this palette of mad, extravagant colors. The Wave’s concave walls looked like a kaleidoscope of frozen ocean waves.

In this hanging canyon, my senses failed me. My notes later seemed as limp and banal as a televangelist’s sermon. I was annoyed by my lack of eloquence, but also consoled by the realization that to describe a place that defies description by not saying anything is the best description of all.

After exploring every nook and swirl, I perched atop the apex of The Wave. For a moment, the heroic sun emerged and clanged across this stone rainbow like a cymbal. The clouds then antagonistically crept in, and the enclave was filled with an enormous hush as the sharp colors melted away in the fainting light.

Our explorations were not limited to The Wave. We climbed to a lone arch perched above us and later discovered a slot canyon that sent us gushing down Coyote Butte’s sandstone whirls and eddies. When we finally hiked out of the canyon, I was taken aback by the day’s perfection. Sometimes things have a way of going just right, even when the start seemed to go wrong.

Even for a Murphy.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Jackson Hole and Beyond: Exploring the Road Less Attempted

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: JT Palmer

I have a very doting and fun-loving family. Except for when it comes to any man I bring home. Suddenly our cozy episode of The Waltons becomes a painful outtake of Meet the Parents.

The only man they have ever liked is Jason, a cross between exalted Greek God and homegrown Idaho boy. And, of course, a man I have never actually dated.

When I received the assignment to cover Jackson, Wyoming, I knew Jason was my playmate de choix. I met him my freshman year during a two-month course, The Natural Science Field Expedition. With packs on our backs and notebooks in hand, we trekked all over the western United States while studying geology, field and environmental biology and campus wildlife (in reference to the great outdoors, of course).

Jackson Hole has been our backyard playground over the years. We have summitted the South Teton via Hurricane Pass and Alaska Basin. We have boated Jenny’s Lake in Grand Teton National Park and hiked into Cascade Canyon. In the Gros Ventre Geological Slide Area, we have scavenged for gastroliths (or “gizzard stones”) from a dinosaur’s belly. We have tamed rapids on the Snake River, snowshoed the Big Hole Mountains and conquered snow-capped Mount Glory atop Teton Pass on my 27th birthday in February.

The scope of activities is endless around Jackson Hole. Roughly 80 miles long and seven miles wide, the valley is bound by Hoback Canyon to the south, Yellowstone National Park to the north, Togwotee Pass to the northeast, the Gros Ventre Range to the east, Teton Pass and the Snake River Range to the southwest, and not to be forgotten is the Teton Range to the west. The Grand Teton towers above it all at 13,776 feet. Two wilderness areas–the Gros Ventre and the Teton–punctuate the Teton National Forest’s beauty.

I yearned to try something new this time around and my trip did not disappoint. I learned taxidermy in Victor, Idaho, and stayed in a cabin behind the shop. I boated with a rake, robbed the cradle at Granite Hot Springs, hiked an obvious peak and missed it, bulleted through the mountains on the fastest motorcycle in the world, went fishing with the goal of not hooking a fish, and camped outside a power plant. Wow. This was Idaho and Wyoming at its best.

Peaking in Jackson
I started my adventure by hiking Jackson Peak a couple of days prior to meeting Jason. A local favorite, this trek is just a few miles from town past the National Elk Refuge, a range that hosts approximately 7,000 elk in the winter. The sweeping view from atop the 10,741-foot peak peers down upon Jackson Hole to the west and the Gros Ventre Range to the northeast.

I camped past the refuge in Curtis Canyon on a secluded bluff overlooking the Tetons. I was on the trail by 7 a.m. Now, most people do this hike in 9 miles (roundtrip). I did it in 12 miles—a rare talent. The trail has a 2,380-foot elevation gain and the landscape revealed itself teasingly as I ascended through an open meadow studded with towering Douglas fir. The lush valley below glowed with green; the far-flung Tetons sparkled like jewels.

At 2.8 miles, I crossed a murmuring creek and arrived at cymbal-shaped Goodwin Lake 0.2 mile later. Beyond the lake, my guidebook stated that Jackson Peak’s east ridge becomes obvious to the right and involves a steep scramble to the crest of the rocky summit. Generally one to miss the obvious, I did.

A few miles further, I reached an intersection. Granite Creek veered to the left and Cache Creek to the right. Jackson Peak was nowhere to be found. I explored both trails for more than an hour before scrambling up a peak that I thought looked like a Jackson Peak.

My logic was that it was a peak and it overlooked Jackson. Close enough.

Granite Recreation Area
I spent the rest of the day at the southern edge of the Gros Ventre Wilderness in the Granite Recreation Area. Located off U.S Hwy 189 about 25 miles from Jackson, I followed Granite Creek Road past Flying Buttress Mountain, creek-side campgrounds and open-air apartment buildings for rackety crowds of nesting birds.

I had received an insider’s tip about a trail that delves into the Gros Ventre Wilderness. The 22-mile roundtrip trek to Turquoise Lake boasts views of sharply glaciated, snow-capped mountains that descend upon a deep blue-green body of water cradled at the base of 11,190-foot Gros Ventre Peak. Hikers can either return the same way or walk 2.2 miles to the top of Cache Creek Pass and descend via Cache Creek Trail, completing an 18.5-mile hike. Granite Hot Springs awaits weary hikers at the trailhead.

I stopped at Granite Creek Falls. Swooning, multi-tiered cascades left clouds of spray hanging perpetually in air. I attempted to capture the tumbling rainbow-ridden falls on film but trees and rocks obstructed a clear shot. I debated fording the gushing waters but decided against it.

Then I noticed a middle-aged man traversing—a gawky man who was as balanced as a pregnant woman on a tightrope. I wrote him off as nuts until I noticed the rest of his family huddled in a rock cluster on the other side. A young boy waved at me.

I could no longer turn my back on this river crossing. Was I not an adventure travel writer? With the resolve of one determined to one-up a 7-year-old, I delved into the river’s thrilling frigidity. Soon the water was thigh-deep, the swift current tugging at my feet. With arms flailing for balance like an ostrich attempting flight, I crossed the torrent and snapped my blasted picture.

I then continued to Granite Hot Springs and the trailhead for Turquoise Lake. I hiked a portion of the trail, resolved to return to hike its entirety when I had more time and descended to the hot springs.

A cute guy in his early 20s eagerly gave me a thorough rundown. While the hot springs have attracted visitors for thousands of years, it wasn’t until the mid-1930s that the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) captured the thermal-heated water in a small cement pool. With the temperature varying from 92 degrees in the summer to 112 degrees in the winter, the pool is a year-round attraction.

Granite Hot Springs is a favorite among weary hikers who conquer the Gros Ventre Wilderness’ network of seldom-used trails. Winter guide services often include Granite Hot Springs as a destination for their dog sled and snowmobile adventures.

The young lad was exceedingly helpful and peppered me with questions of my travels. When I finally turned to leave, he coyly reeled me back in. “You know, the best time to go for a dip is actually after we close.” I stopped. Was Junior flirting with me? It was less than an hour until closing and the prospect of taking a dip after hours by moonlight was tempting…all in the name of journalism, of course.

And then I heard it– a baby crying. The lamentation must have come from the pool but I took it as a very translucent Cradle Robbing Sign. I let the subject drop. I was disconcerted to later ascertain that he was closer to my age than I thought—27. And so I traded a dip under the stars for camping in my Jeep outside of the Bonneville Teton Substation.

Who was the one whining that night?

Teton Valley
I arose early the next morning to hike the 4-mile Pass Ridge Trail from atop Teton Pass prior to meeting Jason in Victor. I proceeded south along the ridge, which gleamed with pink, orange, blue and purple wildflowers.

I paused when I encountered a moose and her calf foraging in a meadow. For half an hour, I watched them chew, stroll, scrutinize me and chew some more. I made myself appear more moose-like (at least to a shortsighted ruminant) and slowly moved forward to capture the treasured moment on film. I then drove from Teton Pass into a valley known as Teton Valley or Pierre’s Hole, Idaho.

The gentle course of the Teton River (a fisherman’s oasis for cutthroat, rainbow and brook trout) is nestled between the jagged Teton Range to the east and the rolling Big Hole Mountains to the west.

Great western towns Driggs and Victor have become popular settlements for those escaping Jackson’s tourist megalopolis and high taxes. It is a closely guarded secret that mountain biking is better on this side of the pass, with Pole Canyon, Mahogany Trail, the Big Hole Challenge and the Aspen Trail among the favorites.

In Victor, I traded my Jeep for the backseat of Jason’s new motorcycle—a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-12R. The model meant nothing to me. Jason was determined to make it meaningful. ”This is the most powerful motorcycle in the world,” he huffed. Seeing that my response towards this apparatus was directly tied to his ego, I raved on cue.

We cruised all over the western flank of the Tetons. The terrain had a polychromatic, if often raw, diversity of hues: green farmlands, milky-blue ponds, golden expanses of wheat, and the tawny browns and rust reds of the Big Hole Mountains’ rhyolite hills that spilled into Swan Valley. We zoomed along precarious turns and stopped to explore lofty summits.

Taxidermy, a Rake and a Fish
Our final stop was the pinnacle experience of the trip. Jason’s boss has a friend who owns a taxidermy shop four miles west of Victor. This friend also rents out a cabin behind the shop. I was extended an open invitation. Now, I did not want to be rude but I was a bit wary of the whole thing. Stay at a taxidermist’s cabin? I envisioned dirty animal trophies cramming the walls and hunting rifles as centerpieces.

I was mistaken on all accounts. Keith and Claudia Davis run Fin and Feather Taxidermy out of their spacious log home. Claudia gave us a tour of the tasteful gallery that features mostly fish and birds. Most of their taxidermy customers are local hunters but people come from all over the world to purchase their wares.

Her husband Keith decided 20 years ago that she would skin the animals (grisly) and he would stuff (more pleasant). I deemed this an advantageous assignment to get him out of the dirty work. He deviously agreed.

Jason, a hunting fanatic, was in his element. He did not hesitate to respond affirmatively when Claudia asked if we wanted to see the taxidermy process. Before I had a chance to object, we were being led into the shop. I exhaled and decided to suck it up. Witnessing road kill reduces me to tears. How much worse would a taxidermist’s chopping board be?

Fortunately, we did not see the actual procedure and Claudia merely explained the equipment and materials she uses. At the end of the tour, she hopped on her ATV and we followed her down to the cabin.

I was more than pleasantly surprised–I was mesmerized. Fin Springs Cottage is a charming log cabin snuggled at the base of a riotously green valley. A natural spring trickles through the yard, feeding into two ponds that are stocked with rainbow trout for catch-and-release fishing. A gas grill, fire pit, teepee, horseshoe pit, picnic area and swing dot the secluded grounds.

Keith entertained us with stories of Victor’s environs as he gave us a tour. When he left, Jason gave me a fly-fishing lesson. Not even 10 seconds after he dropped the line in the pond, he caught a fish. He offhandedly flattered me: “Gee, Amber, I think even you can handle this.”

He was wrong.

Later that night, I eased the steely rowing boat onto the pond with rod in hand. As I started to board the craft, I noticed I was bereft of something kinda critical—oars. After combing the area, I noticed a rake on the grass. Improvisation was in order. I pushed out with new “oar” in hand, raking the water of the small pond. Streams of fish gawked at the curious claw that avariciously grasped for them.

I set the rake as anchor, grabbed my rod and viewed my prey. I wasn’t out for the kill or even the catch, just a few nibbles. Capture would involve touching the fish to release the hook. And after an afternoon of Taxidermy 101, I was not quite prepared to do that.

A nibble here. A bite here. A rake there. I had a grand time–until I caught one. The fish flipped, flopped and writhed. I did the same. When it became evident this guy wasn’t going anywhere, more ingenuity was in order. I won’t get into the sordid details but let’s just say I released him without touching one slimy scale.

I spent the rest of the evening on the grounds, watching the spring abruptly belly into the crystalline pool as fish glided back and forth like World War II torpedoes. Fin Springs’ charms were a diversion from the missed opportunities on Jackson Peak, at the hot springs and on the pond. And I could definitely forget about any professional aspirations as a taxidermist.

But my only consolation was benign: who needed all that when I had discovered my own private Idaho.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

Note: I am remiss to say that a few years after my visit, Keith and Claudia Davis of Fin Springs were killed in a car accident.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Solo in the San Juans: Exploring Colorado’s Highway to Heaven

May 6, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: Away.com.

Good travel companions are difficult to come by. I should know—I’ve had my share. Since “roughing it” means downgrading from the Hilton to a Motel 6 for the majority of my female friends, I generally travel with men. I have learned to accept their flaws (i.e. messiness and smell), and they have learned to accept mine (i.e. my loving written exploits of their failings.)

Much to my dismay, I found myself bereft of companionship during a recent mid-week trip to the San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado. I assured myself it was because of demanding work schedules and not as payback for my exposés. I mean, who could resist a land of craggy contrasts and stiletto cliffs–with me?

I have longed to return to the San Juan Mountains since skiing Durango Mountain Resort a couple of years ago. The range’s 12,000-square miles compose the highest area of elevation in the lower 48. With harsh, challenging, and rugged peaks, the backcountry adventures translate into some of the most dangerous and wildly irregular in the world.

Many male friends questioned the wisdom of my solo trip, which inspired me to action. I mountain biked a portion of the famous Colorado Trail, bagged two 14ers (14,000-foot peaks) in one day, subjected my Jeep to a suicidal 4X4 road, summoned spirits by camping in a ghost town, and hiked some of Colorado’s most alluring summits. As reward for my backcountry exploits, I pampered myself to a night at the Wyman Hotel and Inn in a quaint mining town—a bliss that most men just wouldn’t appreciate.

Doing Durango
The solo trip began a bit surly. Upon arriving in Durango, I spent the morning at a garage repairing my blown-out tire that had self-destructed in the boonies. That was after I had backtracked 65 miles when I realized I had forgotten my wallet at a restaurant. Oh, and then my Jeep’s tape deck broke. Good thing I brought numerous books-on-tape for my lonely drive.

I remained undaunted. My plan was to start in Durango and follow the majority of the San Juan Skyway, a 236-mile scenic byway acclaimed as one of the most beautiful drives in the United States. It crosses 5 million acres of San Juan and Uncompahgre National Forests, passing through Victorian mining towns and historic ranching communities.

Nestled in the Animas River Valley in the afternoon shadows of the San Juan Mountains, Durango is renowned for its mountain biking. A variety of great rides only a short distance from town provide easy access to the backcountry.

After reviewing my options, I took a bite out of the 480-mile Colorado Trail. OK, more like a tiny morsel. The Dry Fork Loop has several options, one of which is an 18-mile loop that begins in town on U.S. 550 and turns onto Junction Creek Road, the westernmost trailhead of the Colorado Trail. The other is a 9-mile loop that begins up LightnerCreek Road.

Since I had wasted most of my day at the garage, I opted for the shorter loop. I followed the singletrack clockwise about 3 miles up a moderate slope through pine and aspen groves until I met the Colorado Trail. I turned right (left leads to Kennebec Pass, another option) and climbed a short section before riding downhill for 3 miles.

I watched for my turnoff at Hoffheins Connection and upon reaching it, kept right on going. No, I did not miss it (which is usually the case) but I instead checked out the great views at Gudy’s Rest, a few hundred yards down the Colorado Trail. I explored the trail for a while before climbing back up and descending Hoffheins Connection until I met the Dry Fork trailhead.

The Heber Creeper This Ain’t
There is a movie star in Durango—the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Train. This hot not-so-little chugger has appeared in more than 24 movies that include Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and How the West Was Won. During the summer months, the train makes the journey to Silverton and winds through beautiful aspen forests, climbs narrow canyons, and hugs granite cliffs that stand sentry over the glistening waters of the Animas River.

I had a great experience on the train during my last trip. But a repeat performance as a sardine-packed tourist did not tempt. The only exception would have been for the train’s unique backcountry experience: superb hiking and backpacking routes off the Needleton and Elk Park stop-offs. Needleton’s Chicago Basin is a hotspot that serves as a base camp for scaling a network of summits, including three 14ers: Sunlight, Mount Eolus and Winom Peaks.

The Alpine Loop–Colorado Style
I instead delved deeper into the backcountry on my own fuel. I planned to follow the San Juan Skyway 49 miles to Silverton and then take the 65-mile Alpine Loop Backcountry Byway to the Silver Creek Trailhead. I would then conquer 14,034-foot Redcloud and 14,001-foot Sunshine Peaks the next day. This 11.7-mile hike has a grisly 4,634-feet elevation gain and is rated difficult due to the distance and total elevation gain.

Unlike most paved scenic byways, backcountry byways focus on out-of-the-way-roads that are typically gravel or dirt. Nearly two-thirds of the Alpine Loop is dirt roads, suitable for two-wheel drive vehicles. I, of course, chose the one-third that was not. My guidebook ubiquitously said, “high-clearance, four-wheel-drive vehicles are recommended.”

I came to realize that when traversing over 12,620-foot Cinnamon Pass, one of the highest in the San Juans, there should be a more definitive distinction between “recommended” and “required.”

Mine sites and ghost towns dot the loop that winds between Lake City, Silverton and Ouray. I had an apparition of my own after I passed by ghost town Animas Forks when I noticed something hovering in mid-air; something that resembled the bar end on my bike. I was disconcerted to discover my bike clinging on for dear life.

I encountered the only car I would see that evening, and the man came to my rescue (I’m sure the fact I was blocking the road had no bearing upon his service). We determined it would be best to throw my bike in back. As I prepared to leave, he looked at me doubtfully. “You’re going up there all by yourself, Hon?” I nodded. “Well, watch out” he chimed before heading back to town.

Now, well wishes generally vary but they are usually along the lines of “Good luck” or even “Be careful.” His warning threw me for a loop…until I reached the turnoff for Cinnamon Pass. A precipitous and technical cluster of rocks had “bottoming out” written all over it. A very steep slope that shot straight up to the sky followed.

My Jeep has low clearance due to the running boards that serve as stepstool for mounting my bike. This has led my friend John to derisively nickname it “Girlie Jeep” (the man has no respect for short people.) As I pondered this, along with Mr. Watch Out’s warning, my fire was fueled and I shifted gears into 4-Low.

As I crawled over the next several miles, I saw my life flash before my eyes in crimson flickers, which I later attributed to my red Jeep jolting with each wallop. When I reached Cinnamon Pass, poor Girlie Jeep had become a woman.

The view was worth every painful scrape. I had witnessed the transformation from a tree-covered valley to alpine tundra, found only in the Arctic and in isolated areas in high mountain ranges. Mottled grasses and flowers struggled for survival in the very short growing season. Gazing east of the valley, I could see Handies, Redcloud and Sunshine Peaks, three of the “fourteeners” in the Alpine Triangle.

After some nasty switchbacks, I reached American Basin at the bottom of the valley. The Silver Creek trailhead was another 4 miles. I camped at the trailhead across from Burrows Park where only two structures remained in this ghost town.

Two 14ers in the Bag
My guidebook recommended an early start because afternoon storms are common at 14,000 feet. I arose to a clear sky at 5 a.m. Everything proceeded pretty smoothly. Sure, my pita bread lunch was fungus-infested and I had to turn back a few minutes into the hike to retrieve my trekking poles. But these were all minor in the Amber Scale of Catastrophes.

I followed the west side of the Silver Creek drainage for 3 miles to the head of the basin. From there the trail grew steeper through a broad tundra valley on its way to a saddle northeast of Redcloud Peak. The sun had made its appearance but the valley was still cloaked in shadows when I reached the saddle.

The hike earns its difficult ranking at this point and climbs steeply up a scree ridge to Redcloud. Mountain goats or maniacs had formed a trail that shot straight up. I chose switchbacks. Or at least that was my intent. I somehow found myself slip-sliding up the treacherously straight path at one point, cursing my deviation.

Redcloud’s summit was in view. Of course, it turned out to be a false summit, with the real Redcloud taunting me in the distance. I determinedly gulped the thin air and made a conquering yelp once at the summit. I paused only momentarily as I eyed Sunshine 1.5 miles away. Bagging two 14ers was palpable and I continued on without even so much as a swig of water.

I dropped back down to 13,480 feet, a nice reprieve. Regaining more than 500 feet in a steep haul up Sunshine was not. My final minutes were agonizing but I dedicated my climb to Girlie Jeep owners and to every woman whose backcountry prowess has ever been berated by skeptical men.

Sunshine Peak was an island in a sea of mountains. Flush with triumph, I nestled in a makeshift rock shelter to eat my fungal pita. I gazed down the long spine of the San Juans, my body marinated in sweat. The wind caused my unruly hair to do a fine impression of a Joshua tree. I stayed for an hour, drinking in the mountain air that conspired with light. Distant horizons were magnified and 14,000-foot peaks a hundred miles away appeared near at hand.

I vowed I would rather slog through swamps and tar pits than climb up Redcloud again. I discovered an apparent “descent” into the South Fork drainage in the saddle between the two mountains. The prospect of saving two miles and skipping out on climbing back up Redcloud was inviting. But the steep, dangerous talus tucked between two rocky ramparts was not. I resigned myself to the tar pit and retraced my steps, trying to comfort myself this was equal to bagging three 14ers. Err…right?

Silverton’s Heaven on Earth
I spent the night in paradise. Of course, anything that had a shower and bed qualified as paradisiacal glory at that point. But I had christened Silverton heaven on earth during my first trip a couple of years ago. Nestled at 9,318 feet in the heart of the San Juan
Mountains, this quaint mining town is a gem ringed by mountain splendor.

If you stay anywhere in Silverton, it should be at the town’s premier B&B: the Wyman Hotel and Inn. Built in 1902, this red-sandstone building has period antiques, arched
windows, high ceilings, theme rooms, gourmet breakfast and a perfect blend of nostalgic and contemporary facilities. Owners Lorraine and Tom lavished me with attention and gave me a tour of the 19 rooms and honeymoon suite—a restored caboose in the courtyard.

I then enjoyed a Tuesday night on the town. I wandered the colorful boardwalks past
Victorian buildings, restaurants and saloons that displayed reminders of the early boom times. I ate heartily at the Trail House, Silverton’s newest restaurant, and became privy to all the town gossip. I then spent a quiet evening in my Jacuzzi tub watching a movie.

Oh, and gazing out my window at summits I did not have to conquer. This had to be heaven.

The Skyway’s Homestretch
Over the next few days, I traced the San Juan Skyway to Ouray and Telluride, with a detour to Ophir Pass.

I was enchanted with Ouray’s verdant 14,000-foot peaks in this ”Switzerland of America.” Ouray opened the world’s first park devoted exclusively to ice climbing in 1995, and thousands of climbers have descended upon the hamlet ever since. Great hiking is in abundance, with rock climbing and a kayak park in the developmental stages.

In the mountains cocooning Ouray, water proves that gravity works. Natural hot springs flow into pools at the base of towering peaks, vapor caves lead into the earth and iridescent waterfalls line the walls.

I went on two short hikes: to Cascade and Box Canyon Falls. Feeling ambitious, I even climbed a whopping 0.25-mile to an overlook above Box Canyon. This inspired me to think expansive, effusive thoughts, including the wisdom of building a bridge directly over the falls so as to completely obstruct the view.

I then hiked 6 miles along the Bear Creek National Scenic Trail, drove to Telluride and hiked 4 miles to Bear Creek Falls the next day. But it was during a detour to Ophir, a small mining town 8 miles from Telluride, that my loop of the skyway came full circle.

I had taken the turnoff for no other reason than the great views that beckoned. I was
pleased to discover some of the best-kept backcountry secrets in the area, along with the town of Ophir. Damaged by avalanches in the early 1900s, I was told Ophir is currently experiencing a revival (if you consider population: 70 a revival.) Hardcore mountaineers live here including many of Telluride’s mountain guides and ski patrol.

It was atop Ophir Pass (where four-wheel drive is recommended but NOT required), that I encountered Him: Mr. Watch Out. He was pulled to the side so I could pass on the narrow road.

“You made it out,” he commented. I boasted about bagging the 14ers.

He went in for the kill: “So, where’s the bike?”

I flippantly replied it must have fallen off somewhere along the Alpine Loop.

This did not seem to shock him, confirming his opinion of me.

Then he surprised me, “I’ve gotta tell you, Blondie. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He and everyone else, and admittedly neither did I. But I learned on that trip to Colorado’s rooftop that it is not so much about bagging summits as it is about surmounting personal ones.

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, Colorado, Favorite Posts, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: , , ,

Mt. Elbert or Bust Busted on Mt. Elbert

July 3, 2007 By
I am proud to say we bagged Mt. Elbert–Colorado’s highest peak and the second highest in the lower 48. I enjoy saying that because it sounds impressive. Not so impressive is my next confessional: I have hiked much steeper and more difficult mountains than Elbert.
Don’t get me wrong: scaling 4,700 vertical feet was no stroll in the park but I was pleasantly surprised this mountain did not send me to my grave. Well, at least not completely (though admittedly one foot did make its entrance).
Prior to setting out on our trek, we realized Jamie had misplaced two key items: the map and an altimeter. We managed to fudge our way without the former but were hatin’ it without the latter. You see, ascertaining your elevation with an altimeter helps you avoid something agonizing called false summits: thinking you reached the top, only to find the real summit taunting you in the distance.

For further clarification: Baby keeps you up for first six months of her life. Finally sleeps through the night. Parent thinks HOLY CRAP, BABY SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT. I HAVE ARRIVED! Next night: Baby wakes up every hour. False summit.

Feel my pain?

When climbing 14,000-foot peaks (14ers) it is critical to be off the summit by noon due to dangerous weather patterns that blow through the Rocky Mountains. We stayed at a nearby B&B and were on the trail at the crack of dawn. It did not take long for the pitch to become fevered. Jamie and I have very different hiking styles. He is more of a sprint-and-stop kind of guy while I am slow and steady.
Despite the commanding views at the top, I am not partial to 14ers for their beauty. Part of the reason is you are doing the brunt of the climb above treeline. And call me crazy but there is little innate beauty about rocks, particularly when that is all you see for hours on end.

But this hike was different. We ascended through whispering aspen groves, boreal forests, glacier-scoured valleys nestled between craggy peaks and through profusions of wildflowers in full bloom. In the distance, the silence was punctured by the howl of coyotes and the call of an elk. Oh, and the cussing of a Canuck. Did I mention just how steep it was?

We kept pace with one another until about 1/2-mile from the top when Jamie got summit fever and picked up his pace from a slow crawl to only a semi-slow one.
“What are you doing?”
“Summit Fever, Amber. Summit Fever.”
And then I gave him that look. You know, that one that says you had better slow down right now if you want to create our final child and also spend the rest of our lives practicing. That look.

He stopped in his tracks.

I am proud to be a role model for supporting a husband’s aspirations and dreams.

Reaching the summit is like an elite club of folks whose altitude sickness has made them forget the misery of the climb. And that is what keeps them coming back again and again. The group is always eclectic, always friendly, and always has a story. Like this young buck who set the goal to juggle atop all of Colorado’s 14ers.

Huh?

I felt strong the first few miles of the descent but the intensity of the hike kicked in the last 1.5 miles and our knees screamed out in protest.
Jamie’s knee was still bothering him when we arrived home so I graciously unloaded his luggage. And you’ll never guess what I discovered.

“Hey Jamie. I just found the maps.”
“Oh, where?”
“In your backpack.”
“Oh yeah. I put them in there so I wouldn’t forget them on the climb.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, hiking, Humor, outdoors Tagged With: ,
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