tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80883826559652949162024-03-13T09:22:05.205-07:00dirtmongerA blog dedicated to endurance, adventure, and wandering.dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-4596430936355641812023-10-03T14:25:00.000-07:002023-10-03T14:25:03.364-07:00HRP<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Haute Route Pyrenees:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyol25x80ZMqxxTYLeJRk67AXBEFw6p7hwX3eg5AkYxN0ZLMt2AYi2o8B09vcnmJI-5_qr_Tzz0Nb_FrrQZ3dB1yzd6FEN9nVSckh5jx56DlDYwkrCTxDL9oSc34ODH_CZMaPzKGyWhn2oZYqFUsmFBaiW5_5vB-YgaNtSkIBgsD_7i8W-RADIVhZv1s/s1440/98296BE5-1C43-413B-8BEE-F22B5E6E1F94.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyol25x80ZMqxxTYLeJRk67AXBEFw6p7hwX3eg5AkYxN0ZLMt2AYi2o8B09vcnmJI-5_qr_Tzz0Nb_FrrQZ3dB1yzd6FEN9nVSckh5jx56DlDYwkrCTxDL9oSc34ODH_CZMaPzKGyWhn2oZYqFUsmFBaiW5_5vB-YgaNtSkIBgsD_7i8W-RADIVhZv1s/w400-h300/98296BE5-1C43-413B-8BEE-F22B5E6E1F94.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc9g7TPlVtxvgDWRdj_OR8Uw20KH1eg4vVaQAULYo5_GzfXT5CVUabfwjmsXMUyO9KYPz61ZOehgzW0qRBGnT1JhiQiMoXLNsGBZPifvyv8mo-5TKdliyp7Xl5LJw_HuycB5oS3c5nS12TIZBAJKtBUkOhlt6_QonoJokIkBLX2un5IrQy7vpjrZcjlc/s1440/79E5C101-B0B1-496E-9445-7481B21F8507.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc9g7TPlVtxvgDWRdj_OR8Uw20KH1eg4vVaQAULYo5_GzfXT5CVUabfwjmsXMUyO9KYPz61ZOehgzW0qRBGnT1JhiQiMoXLNsGBZPifvyv8mo-5TKdliyp7Xl5LJw_HuycB5oS3c5nS12TIZBAJKtBUkOhlt6_QonoJokIkBLX2un5IrQy7vpjrZcjlc/w400-h300/79E5C101-B0B1-496E-9445-7481B21F8507.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The travel from Iceland had me bushed, just plumb tuckered out. A flight at 2am from Reykjavik to Madrid, plus a connection to San Sebastián, had me up nearly 24 hours. So, once I walked to Hendaye from the airport, I wrapped up some last minute route chores, grabbed some food, and settled in for the night early. I tried to sleep as much as I could before starting the Haute Route Pyrenees. I knew this route would be formidable, especially with the pace I had wanted to undertake. With the effort of recouping some lost sleep, I kept my excitement at bay. In Reykjavik, after coming off the Iceland Crossing feeling sky-high, I eagerly awaited the HRP. I felt strong and confident. I had been eyeing the HRP since ‘14, and now I would get a tackle at it in top shape. I knew the route would probably be the toughest since the Grand Canyon Traverse, too. Just this thought alone stirred me up. Sitting around in a coffee shop or a bar in Reykjavik and planning the route, I wiggled in my seat. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also changed my end date in Europe due to a memorial for the passing of a friend. I would get home earlier to attend his memorial. So, this left a gap after the HRP and my return home, the gap not big enough for my initial intention of hiking the GTA but just long enough to do something smaller. I just wouldn’t have enough time to tackle the GTA, and that was okay with me. About to set foot on the HRP, things felt so much closer to the end of this huge year. I had not thought about it much up until that point. I had kept my mindset in the moment and on task with whatever adventure was at hand. Now I found myself eager to cap this year long adventure off and return home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yet, I first needed to capture sleep. I laid around in bed until I deemed it time to go down to the buffet. I scarfed down as much food as I could without looking like an uncouth American idiot. Already with my French being terrible, my manners probably were not too far behind. Plus, with my scraggly and long bearded appearance, I made for an unusual sight: an American bigfoot wandering across the mountainous countryside. I struggled deciphering some aspects of the French breakfast Buffett. Since I couldn’t really communicate in French I just went in clumsily and surreptitiously, embarrassed by my growling stomach and lack of proper manners. I had to hide an egg in an empty tub of yogurt to see if it was hard boiled or not. It wasn’t and the yolk leaked and filled the tub. I felt so thankful for my obstructed seat at the table, odd pillars blocking the sight of me. Not only was I somewhat hidden from the other patrons but I could spy on the others. I wanted to see how to eat these damn eggs. After a few minutes of observation, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I finally figured out how to boil an egg and eat it. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hid the use of my hands and fingers. I wolfed down my food and slurped my coffee and juice, part anxiety to get on trail, part anxiety to get out of sight of the proper French tourists. The French must think I’m a bear, I thought, and I nervously ate my way through the rest of the meal. I left the hotel and wandered down to the beach and laid my palm in the shallow and rippling waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, I set off through the streets of Hendaye.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I moseyed out of town at a chill pace. Flowers decorated the sidewalks of the bustling beach side city of Hendaye. Instantly, I was smiling at the fact it was the middle of summer. The warmth of the sun felt so good. After the long nights of the Bibbulmun Track and the blustery chilly weather of the Iceland Crossing, I was excited to have long warm days in comfortable clothing and lighter gear. My dark suntan would come back, that bronze swarthy skin I had in the Outback. I ran into other hikers going the westbound direction as they were about to finish whatever trail they were on, respectively. I even ran into a German fellow who was about to finish the Hexatrek. We happened to be on the PCT in ‘16, although we never met. We talked about how the PCT is the best trail in the world. After a nice chat, I moseyed on.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX0dbmMe_DcE-6CXIjWC8VC0oOYQLyKMHTzuEx-jllCknEsPD0B5m4v5GSGX_e7i5WCIorewom5aJ6fdUdyikGFYP-0niEAjrRJp2Z9-BAYLNxmdrBQUmraRWTHEpHB57jV5UdENXhyK59QtAiIxdlhKlRbNLxoznwX92FO84N-AovpnGmViisZi5RgU/s1440/8AAEA6B1-643B-4F6B-BE36-1AC1697D4EEC.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX0dbmMe_DcE-6CXIjWC8VC0oOYQLyKMHTzuEx-jllCknEsPD0B5m4v5GSGX_e7i5WCIorewom5aJ6fdUdyikGFYP-0niEAjrRJp2Z9-BAYLNxmdrBQUmraRWTHEpHB57jV5UdENXhyK59QtAiIxdlhKlRbNLxoznwX92FO84N-AovpnGmViisZi5RgU/w400-h300/8AAEA6B1-643B-4F6B-BE36-1AC1697D4EEC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The track went up into hills and stayed there, the city getting farther and farther away. Cows, horses and people out for day hikes crowded the trail. But, it was all pleasant. I think I was just excited at the sight of animals, too. Just everything felt ‘in season.’ Everything felt like the perfect time to be hiking and enjoying summer. After the rugged hilly day of trekking in warm weather, I set up a bivouac camp under some oak trees adjacent to some picnic benches. I laid there after dinner and just listened to the myriad of animals. Birds tweeted, bees buzzed, crickets chirped, cows mooed and grunted, horses neighed, grazing bells rang, a fox or some canine squealed a puny howl, dogs barked, chickens squawked, the sheep bashed----such a fairy tale. Everything seemed so much more vividly alive than the past two routes I had been on. As I laid down, a friendly Spanish family came for an evening picnic. We joked and laughed at the cows who had turned so curious at the group of people from across the road. The cows poked their rubber noses through the gaps in the barbed fenceline. The cows tussled for position, their bulging eyes wide and fixated on us. A couple of dogs ran around free and unleashed looking like they too were excited to get away from home. After an hour, the group wished me a good night and left. I shut my eyes and became lulled asleep by the bells of grazing animals ringing lazily like wind chimes in a summertime breeze.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7R5NBw39E5Cy6SpwnGLbh_d0TaBTcGWc-Vve1fLy4STjWt4D-hLljozLD2jD14_sr3EHNdJNDAlF6vTjtFoRPXpg3WYJcB6oN0rKpF7-UtK1pxhw6XU30_xb6nnr4Xwvk1jtzGChHAt2ZEf8VpCN6HD6mDEZtq5okVi5p_ufXNdhduqZ_oC08NwJGBqg/s4032/IMG_1982.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7R5NBw39E5Cy6SpwnGLbh_d0TaBTcGWc-Vve1fLy4STjWt4D-hLljozLD2jD14_sr3EHNdJNDAlF6vTjtFoRPXpg3WYJcB6oN0rKpF7-UtK1pxhw6XU30_xb6nnr4Xwvk1jtzGChHAt2ZEf8VpCN6HD6mDEZtq5okVi5p_ufXNdhduqZ_oC08NwJGBqg/w400-h300/IMG_1982.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The heat persisted early in the day, sweltering and humid. My legs picked up a bit after a sluggish first day. I hadn’t known I was sluggish until I laid down to sleep. I had minor soreness but that went away as I got loosened up. By noon, I strolled into the tiny village Ordoki. I laid in the shade of a bridge built by the Romans, some 2,000 years ago. I washed off and splashed off, cooled off by the fortune of chilly water. Then, I began another ascent in the heat of the day. I took my time and indulged in whatever shade I could find under groves of birch. At the top, clouds began to spread across the sky. My views became limited and a halo of smothering clouds covered the skyline of peaks and ridges. In Aldudes, I took a long break because I seemed to be an ahead of schedule for the day. I did some minor shopping and ate a huge lunch. A 2,500ft climb ensued and I crushed it. The clouds reinvigorated me and gave me boosts of energy, the heat stifled by the cloud cover. On top of an undulating crest, I ran into horses and goats, a pastoral existence up high above the French hamlets down below. Soon enough, I walked into the cloud layer that had now moved in. A fine mist pattered me but I stayed warm with my movement. I set up camp near a sheep corral as the mist turned to rain.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnEhZGMTpRh59RipAGVI3DRElpjYfifCup3j_s219GQZPGBkkHGHOmx1SGdtdgXkan3f2T-juCR7kkL1YjvUbaAlpdHaBC5IQFu1_Qnqp0-8CgemelBFn2b1aYqDeDs7JRjGKez9Th7lhui0EYPD3MtmQ2zWsOXBDogGTrzS13P8MFcYNU3oVU-hGk3o/s1440/3D27F98A-AC54-4F33-9D90-7D5DE478156D.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnEhZGMTpRh59RipAGVI3DRElpjYfifCup3j_s219GQZPGBkkHGHOmx1SGdtdgXkan3f2T-juCR7kkL1YjvUbaAlpdHaBC5IQFu1_Qnqp0-8CgemelBFn2b1aYqDeDs7JRjGKez9Th7lhui0EYPD3MtmQ2zWsOXBDogGTrzS13P8MFcYNU3oVU-hGk3o/w400-h300/3D27F98A-AC54-4F33-9D90-7D5DE478156D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">More or less cloud cover all the next day, a fine thick layer hovered about a thousand feet beneath the peaks; I was walking within the clouds. Once on top or in that layer, some instances I couldn’t see a 100ft in front of me. At one point a driving rain drenched me straight on in the face. I moved quickly and scurried for a couple miles to get to a metal shed that I hoped would be empty. It was, and I waited out the rain, although the clouds and fog dug deeper and I could here ice pellets splattering the shed. I dried out a bit inside and that peeked my spirits up. After a couple naps in a few hours, I sauntered off. The day continued with the dense fog, so typical of Basque country, but the temps rose and the drizzle ceased. The bells of the grazing animals the only sign of existence in my silver globe, I would hear the bells off into a grey abyss and think they would be so close. Yet my perception was distorted. How sound moved in this foggy world. I felt like the cows and horses were buoys in a bleak port in the wee hours of an autumn morning. I didn’t think of much today. Really, I wanted the rhythm of yesterday. Well, I mean I did have the rhythm of yesterday; I just didn’t have the views. This didn’t bring me down, however. I just kept at it, one foot in front of the other. I found a camp in a wide open green space. I spotted the fringe under some trees right next to the river. I hadn’t seen the sun all day, so I was ready for a warm meal and shelter. I couldn’t believe I got more than my anticipated mileage that day. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IO_DDe79WsbBRDVMTtVhWxTRB6QpfRyX8mLeVG0qQirD7NNm45Ei0Br6wl-UALws_XWOmjXhLknhi_ytLtpmTKCpdG8FlMRxlmmgBwxniVyxZyPQisy6tUN0iJgyEw1egd3w9hkw3B6X73uvZqdzfbDxQvoIql6nPdWUTMhPNWgHwaU8bEgZXAxYC4A/s4032/IMG_1977.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IO_DDe79WsbBRDVMTtVhWxTRB6QpfRyX8mLeVG0qQirD7NNm45Ei0Br6wl-UALws_XWOmjXhLknhi_ytLtpmTKCpdG8FlMRxlmmgBwxniVyxZyPQisy6tUN0iJgyEw1egd3w9hkw3B6X73uvZqdzfbDxQvoIql6nPdWUTMhPNWgHwaU8bEgZXAxYC4A/w400-h300/IMG_1977.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hiking is a constant reflection. There is nothing like it in any endeavor for me. At the same time, hiking is the endeavor that is most in the moment, the most present. I poked my head out of my shelter and saw a few rays of morning light persevering through the puffy stratus layer of fog. I saw what was out there, and I packed up and hiked towards it. I sought the warmth of the sun. I found it and stood there with my eyes closed and thought of nothing of that warmth of the sun. I soaked in the love of the sun and forgot about everything that ever was. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Col d’Iraty the alpine country opened up. High pointy peaks jutted into the crystalline blue sky, water crystals still shimmering in the chilly morning atmosphere. From here, I found my escape from the fog and mist and the suffocating swath of clouds. I had pointy peaks piercing the blue sky. I tingled with the warmth of the rays of sun spattering my face. I pushed on up towards the ridge escarpment of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pic d’Orhy, the first proper peak. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">On the way up, I focused on the task at hand, present and breathing, dialed in, thriving, feeling the body in unison with my breath with each step. From the top, I see the landscape far off ahead, aspirations for the future, growth, forward progress, and humility through hard work. The skyline looked intimidating. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the top, peak baggers hovered in small groups like day trippers in the Rockies bagging a 14er. I found a nook between two small boulders painted with cow shit. I nestled in between and ate my lunch of bread, cheese, and sausage. I gazed out over the High Pyrenees to the east. A stiff breeze dried my sweat and a warmth from the glorious sun singed my arms and face. My eyes squinted and I traced the skyline of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">rugged peaks</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> in front of me. I could envision where I was headed, like a sprite flitting through a forest of flowers. I thought of the sprite whisking through wildflowers and the ragged peaks looked a bit less intimidating.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fJjkCCEHx3HDbrXMUbM5eAW4Qs8y3G8i9RYYZFgL6iYqjfMCPJQILlgw0hT8WbMo1plceI1j25HDEBKa1Msg-1aguOvlBl82qCYaCMaUEKcgnF0TlGu3X5qpDhZXpGHNWSOJgYUytAQmUmg0aLs__Q8XN6cfu1RHCUeDWMtBz85VtJnTSQ1P1n9II0w/s1440/E2DEDEFB-1FFD-4021-9C1E-ED8B12C582D0.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fJjkCCEHx3HDbrXMUbM5eAW4Qs8y3G8i9RYYZFgL6iYqjfMCPJQILlgw0hT8WbMo1plceI1j25HDEBKa1Msg-1aguOvlBl82qCYaCMaUEKcgnF0TlGu3X5qpDhZXpGHNWSOJgYUytAQmUmg0aLs__Q8XN6cfu1RHCUeDWMtBz85VtJnTSQ1P1n9II0w/w400-h300/E2DEDEFB-1FFD-4021-9C1E-ED8B12C582D0.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, the crest undulated like a roller coaster. The grassy slopes rolled up and down from peaks and gaps. Tremendous views, peak after peak after peak, reached out in front of me, an endless scope of mountains. The texture changed quickly just as quickly as I went from the foggy Basque country to the pointy peaks and then to the grassy slopes. Now, massive limestone walls and escarpments gleamed in the afternoon sun. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The limestone landscape was utterly fascinating and dry as a bone, like walking atop a scrap pile of bleached bones. The deer/goat like creature, izards, scampered along the sharp limestone with magnificent agility. A slew of them hopped about, on guard. I would hear a couple of the goats scuff and snort, that mixture of sound that an antelope makes. High basins filled in with the limestone karst and sinkholes; you could tell where the water went. So, obviously I found not a trace of water. This sector of limestone seemed so out of place, a division line between the coastal ranges and the very high alpine region of the Iberian Peninsula strip between France and Spain. I don't know how I found a camp up there with every square inch littered or covered with sharp limestone. But, I did, creatively, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">in between some limestone ribs, barely a patch of grass or dirt around.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Around me, on knobs and mounds, warped pine trees, wind blown and hardened, endured the barren rock. The wind howled and whistled through the cavernous landscape. I fell asleep to the empty howls of wind rifling through limestone ribs, alley ways, and ridgelines.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCJHNTf65I_BwhVEvJlR_n2Jl8r2wY5PmWXEtBIMVdzfE5F5OC3HKLBt74lUtlT05fzWltbnrbFIsxeyY3foNwk-i6SclikniXne2BigNmC4g9rOxqS_DzNYFMKpad97TfotYYbF8eaSiUzfB1XVbvZiT6zU5HBg6IgzH6p_Xhm26FkIhOoXqounwBqk/s4032/IMG_2051.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCJHNTf65I_BwhVEvJlR_n2Jl8r2wY5PmWXEtBIMVdzfE5F5OC3HKLBt74lUtlT05fzWltbnrbFIsxeyY3foNwk-i6SclikniXne2BigNmC4g9rOxqS_DzNYFMKpad97TfotYYbF8eaSiUzfB1XVbvZiT6zU5HBg6IgzH6p_Xhm26FkIhOoXqounwBqk/w320-h240/IMG_2051.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A clear morning in the world of limestone perked me awake. I felt the sunlight filtering through my sheltering, the red gleam behind my eyelids Mother Nature's alarm clock. On the descent I ran into some friendly mules. I enjoyed their company for a few minutes. Two mules sandwiched me and nudged my hands for some petting. As I descended, further misty clouds covered the craggy limestone cliffs and serrated ridges above. As I neared the village of Lescun, I couldn’t help but marvel at the quaint and rustic French countryside below. I strolled past the latticework of pastoral grounds that surrounded a stone home at each rectangular plot. The serene scene was something out of a movie. Plots of vibrant green grass and wildflowers adorned the lower flanks of the hills beneath the dark green birch and pine forests. The scene was quite picaresque and dreamy. I couldn’t help but think that most of those cottages are of familial lineages, passed down from generation to generation, something so completely foreign to me coming from the western U.S. Everything from the stone walls and posts, to the barns and the cottages, to the bridges and alleyways and streets, everything was beautifully old. The stone homes were decorated simply with various colors of potted flowers. In Lescun, I ate a couple lunches of quiche and lasagna, both homemade. I chatted up Tristan, the young local waiter who had been a foreign exchange student in Indiana last year. He helped me get sorted on the little things, this having been my first true town stop—charging my phone, other little trivial things that made me nervous, and of the like. I tried to explain Hoosiers to him, but he was way too young. I described the Rockies and Colorado. His eyes lit up: ‘Ay, mas major de Indiana.’</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLrMfFZd2lKIlckSW6CYjeFhp9-Sg_AkbWbKvlnw5FyDHgUfz40VTo2GszMhkJP0XemAhyphenhyphenehx5qqjiwtvvgxFWhWScKI9oliuqP9q4lknRajo75sghhghBs2Us1Z2f4eqTKx0xcOSAgBHAljc7NlpJPsA9rMQSVNaZudMptJM3a739GKj5jey9DMEDkA/s4032/IMG_2039.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLrMfFZd2lKIlckSW6CYjeFhp9-Sg_AkbWbKvlnw5FyDHgUfz40VTo2GszMhkJP0XemAhyphenhyphenehx5qqjiwtvvgxFWhWScKI9oliuqP9q4lknRajo75sghhghBs2Us1Z2f4eqTKx0xcOSAgBHAljc7NlpJPsA9rMQSVNaZudMptJM3a739GKj5jey9DMEDkA/w400-h300/IMG_2039.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After town I started up towards the next pass. I met Columbus and Blue Bear, Brits who live in France now, who were on the HRP again this time with their infant daughter and 2 year old son. So impressed by the physical and mental feat and the family unity, I asked them so many questions on the how-to's of such a different way of hiking. They had hiked the PCT in '17. Down the rabbit hole we went pleasantly talking about the PCT. We spoke about how the PCT is the best trail in the world. The PCT is the one trail that could be hiked and re-hiked again and again. Once every 3-5 years seemed about the right duration in between hikes. They had such an infectious enthusiasm. It was so cool to see folks so happy about long distance hiking, even more so as a family. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzgNVlI16jZIv59ZVSgCawPbKJz5n2xwGDlSPhJ7TsRuFE_V63C0cCNL5QSqIoGtH3LF1lsChx6YVe0wT_5mgjxKsKPiLq7yyE5q8XaCeW2GY1omKHMXNPHzP6ru-3QZIOor4kJFeYzdAeqb1xEwcbT70l1ivb5xxlhjaT3TO1wnntCq6hbW1BZJbXqA/s1440/787B69BD-D644-4225-B939-A2C69D5F6A0E.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzgNVlI16jZIv59ZVSgCawPbKJz5n2xwGDlSPhJ7TsRuFE_V63C0cCNL5QSqIoGtH3LF1lsChx6YVe0wT_5mgjxKsKPiLq7yyE5q8XaCeW2GY1omKHMXNPHzP6ru-3QZIOor4kJFeYzdAeqb1xEwcbT70l1ivb5xxlhjaT3TO1wnntCq6hbW1BZJbXqA/w400-h300/787B69BD-D644-4225-B939-A2C69D5F6A0E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Up at Col de Pau, the clouds swirled and collided with each other then dissipated into the ether. Round after round would occur, the crest getting slammed by vaporous clouds. Every so often I would be mesmerized by the views of the surrounding limestone monoliths and crags. Then, the mystified air of wispy clouds would slam shut the vista. I hit a mile long stretch of fog and ran into a herd of horses, their large bells clanging, the huge shadowy figures silhouetted in the shroud of fog. I hit a shoulder on the crest and rounded it through a gap. Suddenly the clouds vanished and a huge ferrous red striped buttress appeared in front of me, a murky blood red conglomerate of crumbly rock smushed together. The trail contoured under the deep red walls. I could see the trail meandering for a while, a dream of a trail. I continued on the crest and past a crowded refuge, the overnighters missing the best part of the day. On and on, the terrain opened up beautifully. Alpine grass carpeted the hanging valleys above treeline, Strips of streams lazily meandered through the meadows and glistened in the fading afternoon sun. The whole hillsides struck up a colorful glow that highlighted the striations of rock and the blanketing tundra. I continued still and went through another high basin filled with sheep. More and more peaks appeared, taller and pointier. I descended a long ways down until I reached a huge valley and set up camp on a bluff overlooking a meadow. What an incredible day. That night, as the evening air cooled the valley, I ate cheese for dessert because I am in the Pyrenees. So, why not?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFhtej3b8iH7qgOkk4is2g6QORF4Ig6KoDdwqUejUahtjyrX9etsp1C_LZ8_FE5fef2F9_TTuYgD0MVNVE3UfCwLyZ00BCZhY70bKfkHLSmttgjNb1dsDORfQ8twE26hSOV8hAp1wC71zPpf5t_AVvuNAEOKA9CVyQMy3FVDSt_-z1IC2jVA4rHv4lGI/s4032/IMG_2111.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFhtej3b8iH7qgOkk4is2g6QORF4Ig6KoDdwqUejUahtjyrX9etsp1C_LZ8_FE5fef2F9_TTuYgD0MVNVE3UfCwLyZ00BCZhY70bKfkHLSmttgjNb1dsDORfQ8twE26hSOV8hAp1wC71zPpf5t_AVvuNAEOKA9CVyQMy3FVDSt_-z1IC2jVA4rHv4lGI/w400-h300/IMG_2111.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I reached the town of Candachu in the late morning. A tiny town on the Spanish side of the Pyrenean border, the highway that switchbacked through town buzzed with weekend activity. I found a small store to resupply in and then headed over to a small café. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The owner of the café, a tatted up rock-a-billy from Madrid, made me two meals within an hour of each other. I devoured the large breakfast dish. Then, did the same for the lunch dish. She hadn’t seen anyone eat like that before. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Helados?" she said. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"No, otro mas...un bocadillo de loma, por favor."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She looked at me incredulously. "Ah, claro, si si, eres tan muy grande.’ We laughed together. It’s nice to know no matter what continent I am on I can impress anyone with my appetite. We continued chatting in my broken Spanish and her broken English. It was small talk, but I enjoyed the simplicity of just relating with another person. We complained about where we were from, both big cities, and how we prefer the mountains now and never want to go back to any large metropolis. We now have too much disgust for any big city. She let me linger in the restaurant even after my meals. I charged my phone and just relaxed. After a while I left. She stood on the sidewalk waving me on.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufAb8hKeLxUiqfFGEOR9tA4tZtQGBVQ4mBFOazfpf9WduaoLI3oj73EHp1k6hjIDcERZOUkmJ3p2WBbDoz4RP2Y4rry1DRf6D4OC_XKaw0hYb0GbhTqFRmCtx4yCAiUAJDzmytx-eBgf3F6mXOrh3HTQljWpyo_hvWqElhaFX32MrT8xZ_OB7T5o3X8w/s4032/IMG_2114.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufAb8hKeLxUiqfFGEOR9tA4tZtQGBVQ4mBFOazfpf9WduaoLI3oj73EHp1k6hjIDcERZOUkmJ3p2WBbDoz4RP2Y4rry1DRf6D4OC_XKaw0hYb0GbhTqFRmCtx4yCAiUAJDzmytx-eBgf3F6mXOrh3HTQljWpyo_hvWqElhaFX32MrT8xZ_OB7T5o3X8w/w400-h300/IMG_2114.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As with creativity, leave a little in the idea tank, the stream of consciousness must not be dammed and will grow with flow. We must revisit these streaming waters, to grow on with, to seed and nurture the creativity of the day, of the next year. Even though an end is not in sight, or the vision is obscured by the moment, we must save up the well of creativity to entertain the freshness of newness. And, because of this thought, I was not bothered by the h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">eaps and heaps of people out enjoying the backcountry. I just didn’t care. I probably would have minded, say if I were in the High Sierra or the San Juan. I just wasn't bothered by any of it out here. Certainly, I was seeing something for the first time. The mountains of any range in any place feel like a museum to me. When I first see that mountainous museum I cannot help but feel the freshness of first-time seen art. Why piss on the genius and beauty of art in a museum just because of the tourists? I can block it out if I have to. And, I did just that.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5cLOQ8cK_art1qMSiTOkI3cSLAZJNu99EdquAEzzC-N5ilepuuEm5wsl03NI5PoXYkJWheox9pYEpF72mqh79WIP3M_ddFFiZdU_OHWR0GK9hO2FnZoOGE5GkfS92wFYoES-kc8rg45rzMWIsBgM_nEZmMObr-Wm7V2cTJ-nL1AWGT2ECiJoG_4gOtI/s4032/IMG_2100.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5cLOQ8cK_art1qMSiTOkI3cSLAZJNu99EdquAEzzC-N5ilepuuEm5wsl03NI5PoXYkJWheox9pYEpF72mqh79WIP3M_ddFFiZdU_OHWR0GK9hO2FnZoOGE5GkfS92wFYoES-kc8rg45rzMWIsBgM_nEZmMObr-Wm7V2cTJ-nL1AWGT2ECiJoG_4gOtI/w400-h300/IMG_2100.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Of course, over the pass and down some hardscrabble trail I hit the refuge at the foot of a lake nestled in a huge cirque. Towering sheer cliffs loomed over the basin. Impressive as the cliffs were I fell into that human trap of ‘it’s not me that’s the problem, but the others…’ The cirque and basin resembled a corral for the hordes of people and horses. Such a buzz of activity hovered right around the refuge and the lake. The lake even resembled a giant shared bathtub. People scrubbed themselves off with soap. The beautiful alpine lake lost its lustrous sky blue tinkling. The strong aroma of fire singed in the air. It was at least 80 degrees and 3pm. ‘What for…’ I thought, ‘I can block it out if I have to.’ It is so funny to be so far from anywhere yet so close to everywhere. Wilderness is not an idea here. It is merely a word with a definition. A philosophy is not behind it. At least with the Basque grazing and shepherding in the mountains, it was a way of life beyond generations. I understand why everyone stops here at Refugio de Pombie. I truly do. The high country scene is spectacular. Surely we can piss in the art museum directly under a world class work of art and want to visit again. Would we visit the art museum if it was filled with shit? Pun intended, I’m sure my drift is caught. Maybe I like it better when we people are simply moving, passing one another by on this trail of life to where we go we do not know. And yet maybe it’s not? I mean, wilderness is not an art museum. What I was blabbering about was eco-tourism. I am a part of it too. I’m actually an even bigger part of it out here. I am not from this country. Most of these people are and this is how they do it. I thought about this as I departed the basin, just how lucky I am, how grateful I am to see these places before they are all gone or completely changed. I pressed on down a lonesome valley. The only company the clanging of the bells dangling off the bulky neck of cattle. I so recognized I am a literal walking contradiction in so many ways.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yet why am I bitching so much. It feels so petty and silly. I really don’t think about the crap I’m complaining about anyways. It doesn’t linger in my head for too long. I just don’t like crowds no matter where I am at. I am in complete and utter joy and glee out here in the mountains. My senses are piqued, my body is riding good, my head is so clear. All of it…THIS…this place is perfect, these blissful mountains. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKD5nh-Dv-7VlJ5EPkXzy5qBlYVwu76xHbbVeDE32BrChgBuad6dwV7ZabtEyi7Nrq8kWreQEusQK-zWS0FRi0AYxUoogfNLHfh8KRR9c84uj_pznRcjecbvDgjfmi4SzkHr52DNW_vhnew7DK0aNgsjUeCBw9KeCh7P311pkUu6xXWpxl3N4DggREx3s/s1440/097C7A7A-FF27-4D8B-A3E1-58C1130E47F2.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKD5nh-Dv-7VlJ5EPkXzy5qBlYVwu76xHbbVeDE32BrChgBuad6dwV7ZabtEyi7Nrq8kWreQEusQK-zWS0FRi0AYxUoogfNLHfh8KRR9c84uj_pznRcjecbvDgjfmi4SzkHr52DNW_vhnew7DK0aNgsjUeCBw9KeCh7P311pkUu6xXWpxl3N4DggREx3s/w400-h300/097C7A7A-FF27-4D8B-A3E1-58C1130E47F2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pushed up into another drainage and hiked up into the clouds. I camped just shy of Col d’Arrious, nearly my 4th pass of the day. I found a small basin within a stones throw from the pass and camped in the clouds as water vapor misted against my shelter. After a comfortably chilly night of sleep, I woke up refreshed, probably from both the morning mist and the deep sleep. So, I lingered and</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> dragged a bit to get going, despite being up early. The clouds and fog still swallowed up the basin I was in. I lingered in my warm and snug quilt not wanting to get wet. I left an hour later than usual. I had become aware of an early morning storm the next day, so the late start wasn’t ideal. I wanted to get a beat on it and have a good chance at getting to Gavarnie by midday of the storm. I finally broke camp and scrambled quickly up the last couple hundred feet to the shrouded pass. I found a hidden lake tucked in a high cirque, the fog just barely hanging over the surface. I scaled a rocky ridge and then traversed a stretch of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">crumbled rock along a thin pathway on a damp cliff </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">face. A cable set in place extending the length of the traverse eased me across. It wasn’t difficult or technical. I just had to concentrate. The thick fog obscured my vision and the water vapor made the pathway slippery. Despite the fog I could feel the long drop of the couloir that fell precipitously off into an abyss.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The clouds began to dissipate and I took off my rain jacket. From the Col d’Arremoulit, across the deep valley, a high peak sprouted out through the clouds. The alpine lake way down below held a deep turquoise blue. I held the incredible vista in my memory for a second. I gulped in the crystalline air. I scanned the high basin. The granite resembled a gopher snakeskin pattern varnished with a patina of lichen and moss. Splotches of dark water bled down the faces in seeping streaks. In the middle of the scales of rock chunks and blobs of dark green vegetation gave the diamond scale pattern of the snakeskin. I maneuvered down from the pass, the turquoise lake shimmering like a tube in an icy kaleidoscope. I was mesmerized by the hypnotic glimmer of the crystal clear water being pushed by the wind. The high alpine walking continued in perfect serenity.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSqggGlNwubOcfWRjmv1i0gi8bEdSCuB0LvC9xu9jFZgmisOresge1-TiMbhPdsUgVbwTsl8Xtnkh7XmNZJW4UyKTLLCMm-n-lYecc8HnbWBrfC_UuqbAbeL0rV3iUIBRKAYBhGcu0MQ0Qr_a2Wb56lc6TQnLECOZZHnIhysrbECXTnClIkqg_H92Erc/s4032/IMG_2156.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSqggGlNwubOcfWRjmv1i0gi8bEdSCuB0LvC9xu9jFZgmisOresge1-TiMbhPdsUgVbwTsl8Xtnkh7XmNZJW4UyKTLLCMm-n-lYecc8HnbWBrfC_UuqbAbeL0rV3iUIBRKAYBhGcu0MQ0Qr_a2Wb56lc6TQnLECOZZHnIhysrbECXTnClIkqg_H92Erc/w400-h300/IMG_2156.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At one point on the descent from Col de Fache, I found a spring gushing from a gneiss wall, flaky and sparkling in the sunlight, the water pouring out from ribbed cracks, tiny yellow wildflower mounds lining the outflow. I found myself smiling, a huge wide smile. I find springs like this so powerful and special. I paid homage by gulping a liter, my brain freezing from the cold clear water. I splashed my face and ritually thanked the mountain spirits. I filled up 2 liters and pranced down the trail. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Beneath the Col d’Aratille, the comical choughs chortled up in the high crevices of gnarled granite. Chasms hung down from within the jagged peaks. The echoes of the choughs careened maniacally. The cacophony seemed to be coming from every direction, like caroms from a pinball machine. The wispy clouds rammed into the high peaks, a lonesome lake nestled in a red quartzite cirque, the ruby colored talus slopes in direct contrast to the smooth worn glaciated walls across the tarn; and the funny birds chortled within something so silent it felt whimsically absurd.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZUFNZE7gEEUTFCp0JcANHf3c7sKWt933dCVHyowzeKYTm31px2W5AD96cO6YkkXLYZQCGniM_muZdTrslt21eKA6akBqmrZQxUD6qNwvTo3UGqeaYiDy6jTm7zesSHKwM2K7RgTb0GFJYmBS7PiwPSOlQLG5D6TVpzCPkxhOB3OUUpZdznGFN_yHjiY/s1440/D270AD88-6F5C-4BFB-9003-CDE2F915FD1E.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZUFNZE7gEEUTFCp0JcANHf3c7sKWt933dCVHyowzeKYTm31px2W5AD96cO6YkkXLYZQCGniM_muZdTrslt21eKA6akBqmrZQxUD6qNwvTo3UGqeaYiDy6jTm7zesSHKwM2K7RgTb0GFJYmBS7PiwPSOlQLG5D6TVpzCPkxhOB3OUUpZdznGFN_yHjiY/w400-h300/D270AD88-6F5C-4BFB-9003-CDE2F915FD1E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I passed so many lakes that day. I noticed them all, observed them glistening in the scorching sun. I swam in a couple, just gorgeous blue alpine lakes shimmering in the alpine sun that felt so refreshing as hard as I was working. I was consumed by the world of rock that surrounded me, too. The mountains felt endless, views upon views around every bend. And, as usual, after 4pm or so the trail became empty. I had all the beauty I could contain within. At my proposed camp I realized I could stretch the day a bit more considering how early it was. I went for my 5th pass of the day. I hunkered down as the clouds swirled in the massive basin. Waterfalls and gorges gouged the amalgamation of glaciated rock above. I think I even spotted some marble layers, smooth varnished rock as if made by a jeweler. I looked at the map. I couldn’t see the peaks above but I knew they were huge. Just looking at the glaciated destruction confirmed the loftiness of the big peaks. I’m not sure how much elevation I loss and gained today but I knew with the 5 passes, not including the one I camped just shy of, that combined with the 25 miles at least hiked I had my biggest day on the HRP thus far, quite possibly the prettiest day yet too.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXmQB0p0k-NKjGgPlcvIE1HpyPcegPyt4YvOtf72q5tNAQoWttUo37CFr_Yom_Tb8Q1KlrVUdDMC0xYbKK0g1LlIFW84Y8O3TIFfSFWvXQfmxX7b411qXbII8jAM0xlLuihF8g_7YYb7OtWmCwcquFEjWm6Sg2gzVEMbHy7IeUCmOF3DqmILa4aoN44k/s1440/57B33D1A-4AC5-434B-93E6-0F336452C349.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXmQB0p0k-NKjGgPlcvIE1HpyPcegPyt4YvOtf72q5tNAQoWttUo37CFr_Yom_Tb8Q1KlrVUdDMC0xYbKK0g1LlIFW84Y8O3TIFfSFWvXQfmxX7b411qXbII8jAM0xlLuihF8g_7YYb7OtWmCwcquFEjWm6Sg2gzVEMbHy7IeUCmOF3DqmILa4aoN44k/w400-h300/57B33D1A-4AC5-434B-93E6-0F336452C349.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sleet and ice splattered the sides of my tarp, the splitting and tingling noise startling me awake. I figured the storm was upon me. I stayed snuggled in for a bit shutting my eyes again and again hoping to have one last entertaining dream. After an hour or so, the sleet stopped. I had a window and I hurriedly broke camp. The rugged trail spiraled down the huge cavernous cirque, the middle reaches shrouded in </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">gray clouds and </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">encumbered</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> in a thick moisture. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">As soon as I hit the glacial floodplain, the rain fell in sheets, sideways sheets. The wind raged in. I mentally buckled in. I knew I only had a few hours till the town of Gavarnie. The wind got stronger and stronger, a fierce driving headwind pulsing straight into me. My fingers began to sizzle, tinged with fire. This only confirmed my frostnip hadn’t fully healed since Iceland. I knew it anyways. I gripped tighter and forged ahead. Turned out, when I de-gloved in town I found a couple new blisters on a couple of digits. Either way, I needed to get to town to warm up and get out of the elements.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In town the streets buzzed with activity, as if the rain was an afterthought. The weather was warmer and not raining. Hikers strolled through the streets with all their rain gear on over-prepared and out of place. At least I could tell someone else had been on the shit. The town was stunning—-stone architecture backdropped by the immense Cirque de Gavarnie. After two meals within an hour, including defrosting my hands with 3 piping hot cups of coffee, I checked into the gite d’etape and immediately hit up a piping hot shower. Now I could relax and enjoy a half day off while the weather was shitty outside.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQSxhjPtv7Ac47j25-rTPbH9bXNddLqiFi_u102Ep2G8nMYd1hTwEL7Mj_mnYJTr2zcEWOZVnr-HM3ReaWOM7KLnrwo5Tq1WPaesHAOaEQOeIzfTvtke-2_C248PcKgQ57c7dEajsWjrLd_8JsmQJKIl4VgCleg2oEJwiMMnfjrJqlU-POMOyqViWdNY/s1440/8CEDAC73-5CA4-4F8D-82E8-5D1E0524BE53.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQSxhjPtv7Ac47j25-rTPbH9bXNddLqiFi_u102Ep2G8nMYd1hTwEL7Mj_mnYJTr2zcEWOZVnr-HM3ReaWOM7KLnrwo5Tq1WPaesHAOaEQOeIzfTvtke-2_C248PcKgQ57c7dEajsWjrLd_8JsmQJKIl4VgCleg2oEJwiMMnfjrJqlU-POMOyqViWdNY/w400-h300/8CEDAC73-5CA4-4F8D-82E8-5D1E0524BE53.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Along long green benches towering above the huge canyon of Gave de Heas, I glanced up amazed to see the dramatic uplift of the jagged range and the precipitous plunging of the deep and narrow canyons to the French countryside to the north…an indelible nature dominated the landscape but semblances of human existence still nestled in flat green ledges, an old civilization still present, still showing the age of a pastoral life, much quieter yet harsher. The scene was beautiful. Massive glaciated walls towered above in the Cirque de Tramousse, the silvery and amazingly smooth limestone glinting in the afternoon light. Below as the canyon dropped and the river cascaded, chunky and mangled red rock walls showed the devastation of time and water and ice. Bizarre lenticular clouds capped the high peaks and swirled furiously in the path of the strong wind. Folded triangular monoliths resembled giant fangs which just made the cirque even more threatening, the jaws of a mountain monolith monster, an iron bear trap massif. Then, the roving clouds swept in and the shadows of the wispy clouds danced on the worn and polished limestone panels, a silent movie of a ravaged landscape. The shadows made the mountain cirque appear to be heaving, breathing. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I scaled up a tilted limestone slope angled at 45 degrees or so. The wind pushed in forcefully as I neared the top. A couple of times I had to maintain my balance on the steeply angled limestone ledges. At the crest I had the lofty view of the Cirque de Tramousse. I felt exhilarated. Incredible views abounded in a sweeping panorama. Jagged peaks of the heart of the Pyrenees poked up over every ridge and canyons. I could see where I had come from. The view was breathtaking. Then I hiked up the ridge to only drop off of it and traverse under a huge blocked summit. The wind roared as I tiptoed the catwalk between two high peaks. Down way below I sighted the most incredible sight, another cirque on the backside of the other cirque, the line of peaks carved out, huge epic walls and cliffs shooting directly off the summits. Patches of glacial tarns and a couple lakes sat below the alluvial fans of crumbled rock. I knew the route went down to that cirque but I still had to scale Pic de la Gela immediately in front of me. Minor third class scrambling seemed a bit more difficult with the wind wailing on me but I managed just fine and stood atop the block summit in the center of huge valleys and ranges bracing the holes of wind. I felt so small. I picked my way down the bluffs and hit a pass. From there I had a rugged trail to the cirque under towering limestone cliffs. I pitched camp on the backside of the lake, the one I saw from above, as clouds slammed into the cliffs of the massive cirque. The wind gusted in like a menace. I laid up near the pass to have a shot at the epic ridge run and traverses of the next day: Crete de Port Vieux, the Crete de Bataillence, the Crete du Moudang, and the Crete du Lia. The wind continued to rip through as the sun set and crashed into the enormous headwall. Upon impact, the wind barreled under and careened back like a massive rip curl, the current thrashing everything. I closed my eyes and thought of the ocean, the crashing waves, of a tsunami. Needless to say, it was hard to fall asleep. I just hope the wind dies down a bit, I thought. What a day. Exhilarating and exhausting, epic.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNMdO8_FCQ1_FDzDANx4EE5ycxyG7w5toeNa9FVUA-mYoACJMKN7ZpZZq4joTcKLX7eo25e5-9QsvzKRmrglMJf92zwJ4_oT1Y1P0lKuyVECiHyXfWXSOBAXMklY7FpDRfahd46u6E8U2SBW-iWEQtL-ZVljWVSatdVYQID5RRxsUzPS-csLDJ6xP4Yw/s1440/9115B6FE-7682-4091-A1F4-1024C708EFB9.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNMdO8_FCQ1_FDzDANx4EE5ycxyG7w5toeNa9FVUA-mYoACJMKN7ZpZZq4joTcKLX7eo25e5-9QsvzKRmrglMJf92zwJ4_oT1Y1P0lKuyVECiHyXfWXSOBAXMklY7FpDRfahd46u6E8U2SBW-iWEQtL-ZVljWVSatdVYQID5RRxsUzPS-csLDJ6xP4Yw/w400-h300/9115B6FE-7682-4091-A1F4-1024C708EFB9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KicLJRUMYAJTVIT2-ugY6R4enunL8SUP7HkmotEUoXARjPGWI9X3BTRndwGRUCbGhuMq5JIvKCV8SkkyJXFxVuvt059XfIKmR7WKRtiRLaZundgcfYDQR3LYocSluauXHG7linovn8rBcXAzqfta6BQPLbRit3QCxx6dy-UJPFJSHE2kASRgbbnKCao/s4032/IMG_2230.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KicLJRUMYAJTVIT2-ugY6R4enunL8SUP7HkmotEUoXARjPGWI9X3BTRndwGRUCbGhuMq5JIvKCV8SkkyJXFxVuvt059XfIKmR7WKRtiRLaZundgcfYDQR3LYocSluauXHG7linovn8rBcXAzqfta6BQPLbRit3QCxx6dy-UJPFJSHE2kASRgbbnKCao/w400-h300/IMG_2230.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The wind did die down and I woke up to quiet still seas. The vagaries of mountain weather can both be tempestuous and peaceful all at the same time, for nature is still at work, always at work. Alpenglow gleamed on the glaciated headwall, a spectacular light show for the biting cold morning. A bluebird day, worth the prior evening’s wind barrage. I scampered up to the pass and began the traverse. Peak after peak, a beautiful climber trail undulated along the crest. The slabs of rock up ahead where I was headed had a watery sheen even though water wasn’t on the slabs. The slabs gleamed like mica, and the rock was different, those metallic broken plates sounding thin slat pieces one finds up high, the type of talus that’s fun to hike on. My legs dragged. I was </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">tired and worn, but happy, that special feeling of passion and work. As I got up to my last pass a stream of clouds pushed in and tumbled over the peaks and crests like a blanket of thick pearl wool. I hurried down as a cold wind blew in. I hurried a bit as the trail became dusty. I found a nice campground amongst Spanish families protected from any wind down low and amongst a forest of birch and pine. I must’ve looked odd and funny looking with my simple gear, big bushy beard and scraggly hair. Salt encrusted my shirt and my legs were caked with dust. I was filthy. I still hadn’t properly showered other than jumping into a couple lakes, which happens to be the two times I’ve rinsed my clothes. I had only used the shower in Gavarnie to warm up. I relished in the moment of being a lone stranger in a strange land. I felt more than me than ever. I </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">slept through most of the night I was so exhausted, which is a rare event for me. Maybe I smelt so well because I was completely disarmed of the ego. Sleep enveloped me like an instinct from deep within. I embodied sleep as a predator hunts prey. I slept with hunger, with a survival for my whole being. It was simply peaceful and correct.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1P3R3XyMMbPrybFSWiNSrp0u1b0-4bC35FhNnVPqTFES1n4QDsdpU5a0q0ErppIqSIT0BDZP1hTUa27YSgHzxDgbgO7qQaKT2a4liL9PqmXzm0qemPsmN1gYRTVMwAVKrY3dgVsJoirNAe-WwTpC1u6iuChKXVJLmmc3J7wy5ysU0CEcJi-ne3vicvy8/s4032/IMG_2023.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1P3R3XyMMbPrybFSWiNSrp0u1b0-4bC35FhNnVPqTFES1n4QDsdpU5a0q0ErppIqSIT0BDZP1hTUa27YSgHzxDgbgO7qQaKT2a4liL9PqmXzm0qemPsmN1gYRTVMwAVKrY3dgVsJoirNAe-WwTpC1u6iuChKXVJLmmc3J7wy5ysU0CEcJi-ne3vicvy8/w400-h300/IMG_2023.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A 3700ft ascent to start the day… this would be a theme. Really a proper high route for the whole day, especially since Lac de Caillaouas. I was surprised to see so many people tackling such a rugged route. Even families were going for it. Got me thinking about routes, trail history, and trail culture. Here the mountains are deep rooted culturally. Sure it’s crowded and the huts seem weird to me. But it’s deep rooted and passed down from generation to generation. They follow these difficult routes like they were taught as kids, and so on. There’s a history here. Sometimes it’s so frustrating in the US. There’s a lack of trail history. Even route creators get trashed at because the younger generation don’t know when something or how something was created. We need to cultivate trail history, a log of record, the people who’ve paved the way, the philosophy, instead of just ticking off the boxes. It would honor what we do, where we have been and where we are going. As much as I refrain from big groups or gatherings I do see the need to be a tighter community, almost like the rock climbing community. I just found the generations of mountain families here in the Pyrenees so meaningful. The people are connected to the mountains. It is the supreme sense of place here that really seems to lack in the US. These mountain folk don’t just go to the mountains; they are absolutely of the mountains. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Oh, how the high peaks and rugged valleys teach us the understanding of time. Oh, how love and loss grant us humility, generation upon generation dwelling in the mountains. Oh, how nature grants us a bountiful life if we only stop and listen to it, acknowledge it and honor it. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">That’s it. One may have to walk the world to process all of life. Some just abide by life. I don’t envy those people, the majority. Yet, I see the power of the mountains infused in the people hiking the routes regardless of their experience. These mountains are in their blood. What are these mountains without the people. What is a route without the exploration of the soul. What is life without exploring. What are these people without these mountains.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWENBfMjYfokEnqx7172RroNzb9R36I10m4QHK5Fmp6ico7y7SUJHWQlnatSOSUWDMTS8QjMME1fzY-t4PlAvBjADqsG2y7SaCHPAufVxakULf7s7rUlYg-p5eC5NgJ12LEUUiNnCTUorEPOjI8INAJQijwxzayXPmTo8Ic1a-JpOHZuwYnVOoM9ZjRk/s4032/IMG_2304.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWENBfMjYfokEnqx7172RroNzb9R36I10m4QHK5Fmp6ico7y7SUJHWQlnatSOSUWDMTS8QjMME1fzY-t4PlAvBjADqsG2y7SaCHPAufVxakULf7s7rUlYg-p5eC5NgJ12LEUUiNnCTUorEPOjI8INAJQijwxzayXPmTo8Ic1a-JpOHZuwYnVOoM9ZjRk/w400-h300/IMG_2304.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Some ramblings don’t make any damn sense. But, I feel it here in the Pyrenees, the absolute why of it all. I encountered so many more people. And, it was ok. I could see the joy on their face. I could see their generational connection, lineage of the mountains through the erosion of rock and ridges. I enjoyed going the opposite direction. I enjoyed feeling different. All simply because I enjoyed the observation of the life, of the mountains and of the people. I scrambled up a massive moraine, huge turreted peaks poked right up into the sky blue heavens. The basins held the gasps of air that sucked from the caverns under giant boulders. Cerulean tarns looked so out of place in this galaxy of rock. A father and son asked me to snap their picture at the scenic pass. Two older women asked the same. I held up their phone camera and on the screen I saw the father and the older women young again. I could envision their first time scrambling up this pass. I let them head down first giving them some space. I ate a lunch of meat and cheese and sunk into the void of all the gnarled rocked. All around me chaos reigned yet counter to the mangled appearance of flaked and mangled rock, the sun blared down and the cool breeze stifled the pulsing heat. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">navigated superbly, descending down a scrappy pile of talus and enormous piles of cleaved boulders. I ran into the other travelers who maneuvered slowly and carefully through the jumbled moraine. I called them over with a loud whistle that reverberated from the head walls of granite peaks. The wrong-wayers took the most laborious way through, so I hailed them over to get them back on track. This place was dangerous and any one novice could use a little bit of guidance. I saw the young boy following his dad. He looked more comfortable than his father did. He spotted me, nudged his dad, and began heading towards me. I slowed a bit to keep all the people on sight. Eventually, they got on the safest track through. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgONuOqnPO4t4Bg132DwMCjewHlzsYXLXSf5k3E83JyCgs70jneuJwatXJ8A-fatUfKt5J9icVWah5LKyo7ZbDKPdfQPQc1pflEQYsdPXA5KzzCMWJn3mdXoQIPYOBp_AEzo6jxVZFQnU8F4DULDjdL3_B1BA620BkWGoI9of1U67tE7MCrn1AOGZ-JY/s4032/IMG_2341.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgONuOqnPO4t4Bg132DwMCjewHlzsYXLXSf5k3E83JyCgs70jneuJwatXJ8A-fatUfKt5J9icVWah5LKyo7ZbDKPdfQPQc1pflEQYsdPXA5KzzCMWJn3mdXoQIPYOBp_AEzo6jxVZFQnU8F4DULDjdL3_B1BA620BkWGoI9of1U67tE7MCrn1AOGZ-JY/w400-h300/IMG_2341.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pushed and scrambled over chossy rock broken off and grated by glaciers. Then, I maneuvered over shabby granite slopes and ascended to </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">the Col des Gourgs Blanc. From there one could spy the next target Col du Pluviometre. A rounded granite dome summit bulged in between. Down below and nestled in the massive basin a shimmering lake contrasted the dominant burnt red granite skyline with sheer blue brilliance. The </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lac du Portillion</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> might have been the most spectacular sight I had seen up to that point on trail. I just couldn’t believe how beautiful it was situated </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">beneath cragged and jagged 10000ft peaks. The lake held a deep blue towards the center, concentric rings showing the profound depth of the lake. I could imagine the power of a massive glacier in the past that pressed and pressed down into pure rock. I </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">marveled at the skyline from my vista. I could even see the eventual crux of this section across the enormous basin cradled by massive serrated peaks, the Col Inferieur de Literole, the highest pass of the whole HRP at over 10000ft. I was in the middle of it, the heart of the Pyrenees: a proper high route. I gulped in the thin air and held my chest out. I dug deeply inside with my breathing. I felt so goddam alive.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTEj5wQmY8Gd6-QmKbT25t5l4e3CQSvje9fNN-B0zqJXBkczs4cl71IPT6AZG9aGVeZ-jIBimoJAw-RSL5edXb9kN5lKtCq0ZR6tFjfJhgHAHbLSrjP7NREbTeF4nWO-WeihSBnmtiM7SMiYgGA34-Thyphenhyphen_MrPdBkDkUoAkhMBP3RPLZBm20a_WAvdooA/s1440/79CC3BC0-C36B-418D-9127-3050591BA7C8.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTEj5wQmY8Gd6-QmKbT25t5l4e3CQSvje9fNN-B0zqJXBkczs4cl71IPT6AZG9aGVeZ-jIBimoJAw-RSL5edXb9kN5lKtCq0ZR6tFjfJhgHAHbLSrjP7NREbTeF4nWO-WeihSBnmtiM7SMiYgGA34-Thyphenhyphen_MrPdBkDkUoAkhMBP3RPLZBm20a_WAvdooA/w400-h300/79CC3BC0-C36B-418D-9127-3050591BA7C8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a couple more bulging summits, I descended towards the dam of Lac du Portillion. I knew I had a shot at the next Col some 2500 feet up. It had been a bluebird day all day with a calm and warm wind, and nothing seemed to be changing. So, I gave it a go. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">People were lying about and chilling, lounging in the remaining warm sun at the refuge. I didn’t even stop, I was focused, I wanted this climb. I pushed through and headed for the Col. In less than a mile and a half the climbers trail ascended 2500 feet. I got it in an hour, the last pitch atop a dirty glacier with water so refreshing and cold I slugged a liter not before getting a brain freeze. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Down the opposite side the views opened up a bit and less pointy peaks dominated the skyline. A huge mound of a mountain stood apart from the smaller peaks. This bulwark was Pic de Aneto, the highest in the Pyrenees. Below me in the high glaciated valley hung three steely mirrored lakes. I aimed for the biggest one at the foot of the valley. I stopped at the head of the lake—not a soul in this pristine silent cirque but me. I know a special moment when I have one. And, this was one. I stopped and set up camp, then strolled over to the lake. A silent chill fell over the basin, the echoes of streaming water pervading the silence. I washed my legs off, a solid day of soot. I scrubbed my face clean and the hairs on my arms stood up as I shivered with cold. I lumbered back to my shelter and dove in. I scoured over the map—I estimated some 18 miles and at least 9000ft of elevation gained today. I couldn’t wait to sleep in this massive bowl of silence, the seed of space enveloping my innards, an emptiness that hung with fullness.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUcXmqcVBpDJFy5UEFr5Lu0u45Gme2Bl0gbPQuVsVWBPMhsrDdBbWxUj33yFVIbe46ugSGPnMxRcpVpzf0qE9AHC4My37TsBiCTIclqdjAQvWbIVjh4_Lp-zWqWYjjcmvdm6I_k4xjQuEk6mmo_MbR2L4dQFvlkV1shtRB56nFHj0-jprbus3Q2WXKVs/s4032/IMG_2357.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUcXmqcVBpDJFy5UEFr5Lu0u45Gme2Bl0gbPQuVsVWBPMhsrDdBbWxUj33yFVIbe46ugSGPnMxRcpVpzf0qE9AHC4My37TsBiCTIclqdjAQvWbIVjh4_Lp-zWqWYjjcmvdm6I_k4xjQuEk6mmo_MbR2L4dQFvlkV1shtRB56nFHj0-jprbus3Q2WXKVs/w400-h300/IMG_2357.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Se</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">renity, a peaceful night, I slept within the barren rock like the rock, still and silent. The night was warm at 9000ft and I woke up with my quilt halfway off of me. An alpine bird tweeted and saluted the rising sun and alpenglow baking and crisping onto the jagged and crumbly cliffs above in the cirque. I picked my around the lake and hopped across the outlet. Up a slabby knob I left the quiet basin. I picked my way down huge slopes of pink slabs of granite and quartz. Early on the morning was hot. I felt the heat smother me and I felt a little tired in the legs. A long slog of a descent persisted on a jumbled mishmash bouldery route and a zigzag pathway through a gorge over a few thousand feet—a real pain in the ass and I felt a little clumsy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I finally got to Besurta, the bus access point for the town of Benasque. At the chalet I was surprised to find soda, bocadillos, and salty chips. Not that I was craving both a beer or town, but they both sure sounded good. I refrained from both and relaxed under the awning of a picnic area and slowly ate and drank my bocadillos and sodas. I knew a long break would help me recover a bit, both the tired kind and clumsy body, for the heat had been stifling. I would be in a town the next day and I could gather some recovery time. I was motivated by that thought alone. This kept me pushing. All this elevation and mileage in the blazing heat everyday is adding up. I feel great and tired, worn with a full heart. Even so, as much time as I can spend in the alpine the better, the better for my soul. I’ll be damned though, the huge 32oz plastic cup filled with an ice cold pilsner really looked refreshing. After the long break, I pushed on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Waves of Spanish tourists crowded the trail. I had seen heaps of them get off at the chalet. Now I had caught up to them. Most were doing day hikes up to the high reaches of Aneto. I weaved through the crowds and reached Plan d’Aiguallut. Here, the merging creeks fell into a sinkhole. Strangely enough, a bizarre sight, around 100 people laid around amidst about 200 cows doing the same. What a strange and, oddly enough to me, a lovely sight. I’m not here to judge humanity or culture, or to make any sense of it; only to observe it. I am a part of the madness. I don’t know; I just embraced it. I felt amused by the swarming mass of people and cows lounging in a huge meadow in 100 degree heat. I also felt confused and conflicted, yet I refused to answer the dying question of WHY. We all do what we can and feel is right. However, I’ll be damned we live in a very crowded world so detached from our primitive instincts.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-2cA3lUDvTAdw7nfQymsQpScfRaCsArxx3435I7YX87H5UhDidFhgYSsoHqFwRMciP-msi-puXDrTRfdwX_Kx4Jo8ja8x11KrFfWC6HvWArZAuFR1kn_WuMlaOmqlLZ4Nidq2-dzH23uvUfxumV8ZMVy5VqtJSfDjxpfPQ6-GgQStnSH9df3L_xR4Qg/s1440/46A585C3-1801-4D1C-92AD-B25DADF6D59A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-2cA3lUDvTAdw7nfQymsQpScfRaCsArxx3435I7YX87H5UhDidFhgYSsoHqFwRMciP-msi-puXDrTRfdwX_Kx4Jo8ja8x11KrFfWC6HvWArZAuFR1kn_WuMlaOmqlLZ4Nidq2-dzH23uvUfxumV8ZMVy5VqtJSfDjxpfPQ6-GgQStnSH9df3L_xR4Qg/w400-h300/46A585C3-1801-4D1C-92AD-B25DADF6D59A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left the throng and escalated into a galaxy of sheer granite. I started the day with a 3700ft descent. Now I embarked in the bulk of a 4300ft ascent to Tuc de Mulleres at 10,000ft. The heat reflected off the granite slabs and I sweated profusely. I must have rinsed my shirt off and splashed my face a dozen times at a lake, or a pond, or countless tarns. Yet, I pranced on up. This was fun. The crowds had diminished and I immediately felt so far from everyone while up in the slabby sphere of granite. Up and up I went and followed the most sensual way through. Angled slabs made for direct ramps up into the basin and directly beneath the summit. I scaled a ridge and before long I was sitting atop the blocky summit watching the puffy clouds float on by. The granite slabs shimmered in the blaring sun. Aneto was just across a couple basins close enough to think I could have gotten there lickety-split if I so yearned. I didn’t yearn to scale Aneto nor to put that much more effort into the day. I traversed the ridge of the summit over serrated rock and slabs to a pass. I found a keyhole to get through and skied down a rough hewn path chopped in my sliding steps. The scrabbled dirt was sketchy and slippery with fine dust and marble sized rocks within cleaved boulders. Finally, my day felt closer to sleep. But, I had a crushing 4700ft descent. The huge lakes below nestled in the basin lured me down. I wanted to cool off so badly. However, the </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">descent pervaded brutally underfoot. The terrain was terribly slow going. The navigating wasn’t the hard part at all either. Just the shitty rock and mangled slabs and slippery marbles, beyond steep, beyond even moderately easy. The ascent up to Tuc was awesome. Gleamed granite slabs easy to walk on, ramps almost all the way up. This descent was the complete opposite. I was on the ravaged side, the north facing side that probably got slammed by Winter. This side the rock crumbled and was eaten away by the forces of a brutal nature. It was really beautiful, but it was harsh. And, I was exhausted. I buckled down and picked my way across the steep slabs slowly. Even when I finally hit trail, I tumbled steeply down. The descent was endless.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqcIFEkX8CTtXh8F084wg5tUyB6CjA9dP5hrRZWgji9M-l7YrKoY9S4aRz1DMxs8Zd-eEHtPm2FjK-wFaSKUc78hdfqSoNSjfpZDUb4cl9x50uWaEtPGhdzq6TkqFs5Omp0drIoBXSUexF2Y3VLJD4xQ94naeFjZI53d0RdMbPTlRRIiGPvko_QrvPfY/s1440/9F05B0FA-EAF7-4F4A-AB5B-7990693A4546.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqcIFEkX8CTtXh8F084wg5tUyB6CjA9dP5hrRZWgji9M-l7YrKoY9S4aRz1DMxs8Zd-eEHtPm2FjK-wFaSKUc78hdfqSoNSjfpZDUb4cl9x50uWaEtPGhdzq6TkqFs5Omp0drIoBXSUexF2Y3VLJD4xQ94naeFjZI53d0RdMbPTlRRIiGPvko_QrvPfY/w400-h300/9F05B0FA-EAF7-4F4A-AB5B-7990693A4546.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I climbed out of the deep valley filled </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">with green meadows. I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Tuc in my rear view. The ragged peak emerged from my tired eyes thousands of feet above. I parked my butt in the creek nearby. I rinsed off, cooled off, and soaked my feet. I was thoroughly bashed. Looking back up at the peak, in that moment, it felt unbelievable to me that that was where I was at a couple hours ago. The remaining daylight highlighting the peaks above faded and the plateau I set up camp in plunged with the coolness of the oncoming night. I made up some dinner quickly and tallied up my day. In doing so I couldn’t help but tabulate the last four days. I pushed and worked so hard. I felt so full and strong and at the same time deflated and worn—one of the best feelings in the world. For the next day , I would treat my mashed legs to a hotel room. I was excited to engorge this ragged body with food, stoked for a shower, and eager to get some laundry in. Before I could even finish typing this out, I fell asleep in my shelter. I needed some rest. That was certain enough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">22m 8600ft + / 5400ft -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">27m 7000ft + / 9400ft -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">18m 9700ft + / 5900ft -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">18m 5000ft + / 8300ft -</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TbCULMDO08YhOb2NdJ29VifEEFsdtMJnw352rUgTMWLiTxACrwS_qZNqFE-950gtNtpOERVIMwDj4sPnJI9adHbBEFMS2GF7KBmNXBdyWsZSnwP1Pucs5kHIyX1DjrwTq7yW38NIemNBdgQ0Sevi4Ei_hRZay_8Vyv6lUqgQ8o_NMkfWE63mIDPHaBw/s1440/638339D2-A6C4-46B9-A37E-B5EFF5434339.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TbCULMDO08YhOb2NdJ29VifEEFsdtMJnw352rUgTMWLiTxACrwS_qZNqFE-950gtNtpOERVIMwDj4sPnJI9adHbBEFMS2GF7KBmNXBdyWsZSnwP1Pucs5kHIyX1DjrwTq7yW38NIemNBdgQ0Sevi4Ei_hRZay_8Vyv6lUqgQ8o_NMkfWE63mIDPHaBw/w400-h300/638339D2-A6C4-46B9-A37E-B5EFF5434339.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Salardu around noon. I had a long rest and overstuffed my belly with food. As much as I was wiped, I continued the hard push and pace I was on. The tendency of the route remained the same: I ascended about 4000ft to start the day. Up in the high grassy benches, the ski lodges down below appeared dwarfed with the giant mountains surrounding the valley. I noticed how the mountain scenery has changed again, too. The ranges are not as precipitous and are further apart separated by massively deep canyons. The plants are changing, also. A bush similar to ephedra cloaks the slopes. Pines line the hillsides in furry patches. The very high reaches of the peaks are smothered in grass and the threadbare summits are less bare rock. People are scant-- I was in an empty area. Once I left the ski areas, I had only myself for company. Hardly a soul out there and, in fact, I didn’t see another the entire day afterwards. One thing I noticed on my person: my shirt is thrashed. Turns out my timing in arriving in such an empty area so unlike any other part of the region was spot on, as I didn't have to be as presentable as normal Although I doubt I would be presentable anyway. Just having a tattered shirt made me way more disheveled. I think giving the shirt a thorough wash the day before only made it worse. The salt encrusted in the seams of the shirt only shredded the threads. As I got into camp, I spotted a couple holes and rips up on my shoulders. Soon the shirt would be in complete tatters, essentially falling off my bones. I needed a new shirt soon. Sounds silly, I know. A shirt of such importance. However, the </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">shirt has been with me the whole year on this big solo adventure. From New Zealand to Australia, from Iceland to now here in the Pyrenees, this ragged shirt endured whatever the weather presented, endured all my rough touches and handlings, and all the countless episodes of profusely sweating. I was a bit sentimental. How funny is it that a shirt feels like a companion to me. I wore it everyday and the navy blue shirt embodied me as if I wouldn’t know even who I am without it.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7XoGtdwS06aR_0IeiQgJmxlZkAhUQ-FWklKjMe34GZYICc6_21EzjRN-BbUb1luMfnaJFCnLVo1sKxXTzVNz780WXPF2sYP34F1mdXm4_ht_jSCZOxUXHPKr8ETdzr2R5pHNjzJ5OhlAlfTeFaOPr4j5tXTv0luudAzJdmFQmA7tSzxGMWoLHQ8_H3A/s1440/06864F2C-7BA6-48D7-812F-59A4B195B2CC.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7XoGtdwS06aR_0IeiQgJmxlZkAhUQ-FWklKjMe34GZYICc6_21EzjRN-BbUb1luMfnaJFCnLVo1sKxXTzVNz780WXPF2sYP34F1mdXm4_ht_jSCZOxUXHPKr8ETdzr2R5pHNjzJ5OhlAlfTeFaOPr4j5tXTv0luudAzJdmFQmA7tSzxGMWoLHQ8_H3A/w400-h300/06864F2C-7BA6-48D7-812F-59A4B195B2CC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sauntered on the next morning with my shirt barely hanging on. I ran into another HRP’er early on near a series of stepped alpine lakes. In fact, he’s the author of the guidebook, Tom Martens. We hiked together a bit. I enjoyed the company. I hadn't hiked with anyone since the Te Araroa in New Zealand some 6 months. He provided me with further background and history of the route. I thoroughly enjoyed this and this new information really tied the route with my steps and the people and mountains around me. We got into a conversation about route creation, guidebooks, and the language of maps. He’s a master of languages, charming and witty, cool to hang out with. We then got into our HRP journey. We had actually camped around the same alpine lake a week or so back. We had deduced he was the one I was keeping an eye on on that huge traverse day. I was ahead of some wayward soul behind me, but I couldn't shake the hiker like all the rest. He remembered the silhouette of a tall hiker ahead of him that he just couldn't catch. We had been on the same ridges at the same time, just an hour or so apart. Now, we re-kindled a chance meeting. We decided to head into Tavarscan and share a lunch. Since he was the author of a very popular guidebook, he knows a lot of hotel and shop owners in so many small towns across the Pyrenees. He got invited to lunch at a very nice hotel. Straggling into town with him, this meant I was included. I should hang around people more often because we were regaled with an epicurean feast on the house and solely because he writes the guidebook and knows the owners and all the publicity from the guidebook keeps these businesses in business. It was awesome, I must declare this was trail magic. I definitely would not have gotten that on my own looking the way I looked. I had the works: a chicken stew with some fresh bread, various meats on a scorching stone slab, french fries, and a beer. I couldn't believe the spread. Upper class visitors sat in the restaurant and over in the corner sat us smelly and dirty hikers lapping it all up. I raised my first pint of beer on the whole route and saluted Tom and the moment. After the late lunch, we moseyed into a lounge and splayed out over on a couple couches. We charged up our phones, took a nap, and waited for the market to open back up after the siesta. I was still feeling pretty gassed from the previous week while at the same time rejuvenated. My spirit was high and intense and no matter how my body felt I had that spirit to fuel me. Though I could’ve easily laid on the sidewalk or leaned up against a wall near the cold drinking water village fountain on that lazy street in the tiny mountain village, we pushed up a 4000ft climb in sweltering 90 degree heat, our aim for a basin high above to camp for the night.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGd3sIT6bXkeP2SbxBPrHogWiIDTvWYWxX91arpPSqG2UPCtdcyI2xazypUlETO7GH3KwzsF0d4_A_lWiWt2TuOVadNrnuIiUwiXeaxMvCo8KXmPLzSxplAY0nBa1p3OxniRopkkC-i3k3RmAAvEAUCFKMvJ1hyphenhyphen5TES7EWPqpJXFfyTbCB3e38KbJwLE/s4032/IMG_2435.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGd3sIT6bXkeP2SbxBPrHogWiIDTvWYWxX91arpPSqG2UPCtdcyI2xazypUlETO7GH3KwzsF0d4_A_lWiWt2TuOVadNrnuIiUwiXeaxMvCo8KXmPLzSxplAY0nBa1p3OxniRopkkC-i3k3RmAAvEAUCFKMvJ1hyphenhyphen5TES7EWPqpJXFfyTbCB3e38KbJwLE/s320/IMG_2435.HEIC" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">The climb up out of the quiet village was grueling. A hot ascent on rough and tumble trail, a tad overgrown, steep, yet I pushed on swiftly. I felt my energy pulsing through my legs. I got up to a plateau in a basin and found a hut, recently refurbished and no one around. I had the entire basin to myself. I washed off in the cold stream. I cooled down as the wind fanned me off and the shadows began to cast across the basin. Tom came strolling up about an hour later. We met at the hut. I couldn’t pass this up, so why go any further. My first and only hut on the HRP--I was pretty stoked The sun began to set and the basin sunk in a purple ambience that exuded a soothing serenity. We sat on a couple of rocks and ate a light dinner. I noticed my head start to ache, a slight pulsing in my head. I found it odd and I drank a half liter before bed thinking I was a bit dehydrated. I laid down on the wooden platform, the cool meadow air wafting through the open windows. Tom got into his shelter outside the hut. Darkness fell, utter and deep, thick; I couldn't even see my hand if I threw it in my face. I pooped an aspirin for the headache and gulped some water. A light breeze continued through the rafters that lulled me to sleep.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwtXk4mPRK19UbWfcEK20NWVV_uwGN0Ue682soPDz0wfxuG4jrLJdbSOCuhuTIXXjIzdiS7p-Hb86yY5q9Qma4oKU9BuawzNRf4pMf6cX0gjxPZQ1xS_VhJ22fBYZphJylto4pqpoqVgw0ogOyxlbDMnJzYV8VhzG2zvJhvndrme-aPlSFM964sbej_I/s3088/IMG_2437.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwtXk4mPRK19UbWfcEK20NWVV_uwGN0Ue682soPDz0wfxuG4jrLJdbSOCuhuTIXXjIzdiS7p-Hb86yY5q9Qma4oKU9BuawzNRf4pMf6cX0gjxPZQ1xS_VhJ22fBYZphJylto4pqpoqVgw0ogOyxlbDMnJzYV8VhzG2zvJhvndrme-aPlSFM964sbej_I/s320/IMG_2437.HEIC" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few hours later my eyes fluttered open. I felt nauseous, not in my belly but in my head. I felt drunk, obliterated as if waking up in a stupor of booze after passing out. I had an incredible urge to piss, yet the nausea kept me splayed out on the platform. I breathed deeply and slowly to grasp some bit of composure to stand up and go outside to piss. About 5 minutes I laid there breathing to combat the crazy nausea that persisted. I struggled to get my head right. This is what a black out drunk episode must feel like...except I was sober and aware. The twinkling stars shimmered and provided the only light I could fathom inside the dark hut. My staggering eyes tried to straighten the blurred images in front of me. I breathed deeply and slowly. I fought off the urge to vomit while trying to hold in the incredibly urge to piss. I sucked it up. I fought it off...I slipped my shoes on without putting my socks on or tying my laces... stood up, wobbling, staggering, grabbing at the air with my hands, extending my arms to maintain my balance. I hurried on in that stumbling drunken stagger. I steadied my balance with my arms and used the momentum of movement to propel me forward. I open the bottom metal door, a loud squeak clanged from the metal rod and clasp. I drunkenly maneuvered over the rip-rap of leftover and littered granite rocks not used for the stone walls of the hut...my legs wobbled and my head lost blood and I felt like I was about to pass out. I reached my right arm out to the coarse granite wall and felt the coolness of the rock and pushed off to right myself the right way up...took a step and my right ankle twisted lightly but strongly enough to make me wince...I was about to go down, tumbling down...I felt faint, blackness, intoxicated in a drowning dark black sea...I turned the corner of the hut and fell to my knees...I was going down and having the sober head I instinctively wanted to control my fall. I fell to my knees banging the caps on granite rocks compacted in the dirt and grass, cobbled and raised....passing out the night enveloped me, the urge to piss consuming my whole body, that tingling sensation raising my hairs...the swirling stars in the massive black eddy of night circling, my eyes in swoon, diving, falling, twirling in a whirlpool...I fell, falling into an abyss...everything went black and dead...no consciousness, no awareness, no thought, no dreams, no imagery, no physicality....nothing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I came to...from utter blackness into utter darkness...a new moon, no light in the sky save for the twinkling stars...I laid in a fetal position, shivering, sweating in the cool grass and cool meadow, the galaxy above me my only shelter. Confused, unaware of where I was at, I blinked a couple of times to gather my vision back, to transfer what I could barely fathom to my brain...synapses turned over and sputtered...it took a couple minutes to gather my brain off the floor. I felt like I had passed out from being extremely intoxicated...but I wasn't...I was confused, I had no idea what was going on. I continued fluttering my eyelids focusing on that to fire up a continuous stream of synapses to the brain. Where was I? What is going on? Why am I wet? I'm cold, freezing. Help me, I need help....</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I felt the urge to piss again. This urge triggered a memory. I had come out here to piss; I fell after tweaking my ankle. Suddenly things felt clearer...cognizant of why I was laying down in utter darkness in this massive basin under a tremendous galaxy, alone and vulnerable, ailing. I must have pissed myself...my shorts and the bottom of my shirt soiled, soaked...my upper body clammy, sweaty, cold. What the fuck is going on? I tried lifting my shorts to piss again but my shorts were so soaked they stuck to my thighs. I just pissed letting the warm flow of liquid warm me back up....</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">and my headlamp, I reached around for...I must've lost it in my tumbling to the ground. I laid there for a minute breathing deeply under an immense darkness, feeling the relief of urination, of a completely empty bladder. No headlamp; I lost it in the blackness, my blackout...my knees stung from the sweat, cuts scraped from the fall, I reached down and felt warm blood oozing from the scrapes. I tried to assess myself, my body, my brain, my breathes...my lower back held a dull pain...the darkness my light. Was I laying on a rock for a while? How long was I out for? Why is my lower back sore? I finally pushed myself up...I needed to lay down; I needed shelter; I needed by sleeping quilt. I hurriedly staggered back to the hut, my nausea controllable...not like before, I could manage. I laid down. I tried laying on my right side...no, uncomfortable, nausea crept in...I tried on my left side...no uncomfortable. I tried to stave off nausea but I couldn't find the spot or side to lay on to relieve the wooziness. Finally, after a few minutes of deep breathing I managed to find a spot, just face down on my belly. A memory came rushing back to me...pissing kidney stones throughout the night at Nita's Toaster House in autumn of '16 while southbounding the CDT. The uncomfortable pain, the wriggling, the urge to piss, the nausea, the total body discomfort...is this what is happening right now? I calmed myself down; I needed to maintain my composure and remain calm. I dozed off. Then suddenly woke up a bit later with an incredible urge to shit. I wasn't as nauseous as before and I slipped my shoes on and teetered out the door with my phone light leading the way. I found my headlamp then, on the ground and some distance away from where I had passed out. I scurried over to a rock pile and let it rip. I felt instantly better. I teetered back to the hut, the nausea gone, my head still pounding. I tried lying down on my right side...no, uncomfortable. I tried lying on my left side...still no. I laid on my belly and focused in on my breathing. I fell asleep finally. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few hours later around 5am I woke up with a throbbing headache similar to a hangover. I slowly packed up. I knew I had to get to town that day. I had 25 grueling miles away to the next town. I had to move forward, even if I potentially needed medical attention. I am not sure if I was a little shell shocked but as I sat there trying to focus the mind on the monumental task of the day in getting to town, I felt a sudden overwhelming feeling of gratefulness of being alive. The night felt like such a blur that I must've looked pie-eyed. I packed up slowly. In my movements, I felt a tremendous pain in my lower back right on top of my right kidney. It seemed every movement I made only exacerbated the pain in that region. I began to fret over the day. Do I turn around? Or keep going? I opted for the latter. I needed to maintain forward progress. Plus, enduring pain is something I am so used to, so it made sense to me to push forward no matter how uncomfortable I felt. I met Tom outside the hut.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'How'd you sleep?' he asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Well, I'm sorry if I woke you up a couple times.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Nah, you didn't. Why you saying so?'</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqzimYVo-dV6tSbilzux-ZNJHuz8MVXRiqLPVLd_wWQTsw9oPkYXQiNYNd2u7QWtN_JoJofQZjsqgCSPCN0JqI6iJiWp4uioE88411d3Rh7uuz6paqXisJ30ZVQZGjNz8eH9C7gOYbxVv5pVU3L6eHhfKBUN1GuH2VauJbzx-PGBPaTUdQat0PUSSa_4/s1440/DDA9AB35-E017-4727-8B9D-A0942EF169C3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqzimYVo-dV6tSbilzux-ZNJHuz8MVXRiqLPVLd_wWQTsw9oPkYXQiNYNd2u7QWtN_JoJofQZjsqgCSPCN0JqI6iJiWp4uioE88411d3Rh7uuz6paqXisJ30ZVQZGjNz8eH9C7gOYbxVv5pVU3L6eHhfKBUN1GuH2VauJbzx-PGBPaTUdQat0PUSSa_4/w400-h300/DDA9AB35-E017-4727-8B9D-A0942EF169C3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I then went into the journey of the night. After the morning ramble, we ascended a pass that put us on the crest of a massive ridge spanning back to the heart of the mountains. A broad grassy plateau adorned the top and we had some easy hiking ahead of us. I continued in my headspace of embracing the pain while at the same time utilizing our conversation to distract me from the pain. But, as soon as the trail became difficult every lunge, long step, or step up and down my lower back throbbed with pain. I winced occasionally and audibly groaned. Tom kept tabs on my whereabouts and state of pain. The kidney pain throughout the morning just kept getting worse. However, by mid-morning I was fully committed to get to town. I would get there or die trying. Around noon, Tom and I parted ways. He diverted up another path to scout a potential route alternate. I took the main route up a high valley and basin filled with shimmering alpine lakes. Luckily for me the heat of the day refrained from anything stifling. I finally took an Advil despite not wanting to to alleviate any severe pain. Town was getting close and I needed that extra mental boost. Plus, I just needed some pain relief for the massive climb just ahead. I muscled my way over the loose scree of Portella de Baiau, blasting by other hikers. I was on a mission driven with pain. I understood the need to get to town with a potential serious injury. And then, once atop the pass, I sort of cruised to town, skipping along. Sure enough, I managed to stroll into town nearly two hours ahead of what I had anticipated with the pain. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The town buzzed with people on a Saturday afternoon enjoy the respite of the mountains.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I had been so focused to get to town that the hordes of people through me off, so much so I almost left town as quickly as I had arrived. I focused on my needs instead. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Immediately, I found a new shirt. Then, I searched for WiFi. I found a room, one of the few left. But, I still thought about leaving. I think I was still in the movement zone, the habitual form of movement which made me feel good despite my throbbing lower back. I wandered into a market and thought about just grabbing a resupply and leaving town. Of course another massive climb would be in the way. I forced myself to be patient, present. I felt strong, fine really. I was hungry. Even though the kidney is still throbbed severely, I tended to my personal needs before getting to the room. I was okay with everything by then. I figured to rest up and hydrate and decide in the morning whether I should stay and rest or forge ahead.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I tried to get some rest and I did. I fell asleep watching a movie while squirming around the bed with my kidney still sore. I felt it as I tossed and turned, a dull pain just uncomfortable in any position. I reached out to an EMT friend. I was concerned, to be honest. This is the second time this year I’ve felt some kidney pain after a heat related event, maybe even an hypo/hyper natremia event, the first being on the first leg of this year of adventure on the 2nd and 3rd day of the Grand Canyon Traverse. The pain also felt so similar to the kidney stone episode I endured in ‘16. Whatever happened wasn’t identical to the GCT event, however. I wasn’t severely cramping and the nausea was in my head and not my belly. I also wasn’t pissing out iced tea this time. I had been hydrated and was pissing clear. I was still pretty flummoxed about that night, puzzled as to what happened.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up sore, really needless to say. I really wanted to get out hiking that day, but I relented in my egotistical pursuit. I thought better of it. I had been pretty stoked for a 22 day on-pace finish. I had to think long term though, bigger picture. I had plenty of time to finish this route. And I still had discomfort back there. It sure as hell wouldn’t hurt to rest it up. After all, the pain is in an organ area. I needed to take extra precaution no matter how my ego felt about it. And, I thought—-</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hey…this is what I do. It’s about endurance, the paincave…reaching the depths of your soul, body and mind and getting through. I think I’m ok. I will be ok. No matter what. In the end, a single day won’t matter to anybody but me or to anything other than my kidney. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I spent the day hydrating and eating and laying around…and planning what I’m hiking after this before I have to go home. Of course, a foolish endeavor that provides me with solace. I had no end point, so it made sense to just keep planning ahead.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Nonetheless, when I wasn’t planning I harped on the incidents of this past year. I’ve had 4 events this year, including the other night, that could be considered life threatening. The heat event in the Grand Canyon, the scary mountain lion encounter in the Grand Canyon, being swept away by a glacial river in Iceland, and now this most recent kidney event. Clearly I had been putting so much wear and tear on my body. If you know me, too, I don’t do anything lightly. In some ways, the scenarios feel completely reasonable in regards to my personality, my drive, my intentions, and the areas I had ventured into. Australia was a pretty clean trip other than the back tweak. That wasn’t life threatening, though. I’ve had legitimately 4 very close calls. I reflected on each and every one of those moments. Strange to say too, I felt more alive than ever sitting in that hotel room squirming with kidney pain. I wouldn’t have it any other way than to live my life full fucking throttle.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOmyHVZGDlTKuTs3kFBMPCI3RD7CH7t9qSeVMYhOPvUBwGt5fmi2NVHfsQ8pNBoQIanecPOzHjJ9JJm26BIqUaBiqTU_Jr6tDnp8PEuizBTrwteXrr1X7vnPLCnuIpueZXL4f7WIXdjByPOB83pBkazDOMoFfm3khuXJjICyiGTEv_EirQhiJv_WKY_s/s1440/BE862548-818D-41FA-89CF-9D0212387747.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOmyHVZGDlTKuTs3kFBMPCI3RD7CH7t9qSeVMYhOPvUBwGt5fmi2NVHfsQ8pNBoQIanecPOzHjJ9JJm26BIqUaBiqTU_Jr6tDnp8PEuizBTrwteXrr1X7vnPLCnuIpueZXL4f7WIXdjByPOB83pBkazDOMoFfm3khuXJjICyiGTEv_EirQhiJv_WKY_s/w400-h300/BE862548-818D-41FA-89CF-9D0212387747.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But all jokes and toughness aside, I definitely play up the character of whatever endurance bravado I am trying to embody. I do truly mean the paincave endurance spiritual shit. It is who I am. Yesterday morning, however, I was hurting really bad. The pain was that severe, no joke. I was really concerned. I’ve not forgotten that. I had to check my ego at the door because I wanted a badass 22 day finish. I need to get through this route. And, I will. I know it. Nothing will stop me. Yet at the same time, I’m cautious and concerned. I’ve even thought about the past couple days of just wrapping it all up after I complete the HRP and just head home earlier than I have wanted. I know I need some rest and care and some other occupation to shift my mindset. Planning hiking stuff today is solace for me, but it’s not reality in a way. It is as addicting as a drug. I am humbled, too. These experiences are not necessarily fun. I mean, I actually enjoy going through life-on-the-line experiences. Life just matters most in those moments. Life is the most precious. Sensibly though, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I just want to finish healthy. I know it’s a tall order after a year of pushing myself this hard. I’ve accomplished a lot. Maybe I want to find the peace of the adventure rather than chasing more pain. Maybe I just need an endpoint.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It is interesting timing on the year long journey, however. I started out in emotional pain from a heartbreaking break-up. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. I’m in a very good spot right now. I’m strong. I feel more than me than ever. I’m in a very good spot. I’ve endured the roller coaster of the whole year battling my emotional pain. I’m not trying to seek pain anymore now. That is a huge difference. I want ti be happy again and I am currently. This hike and the trek across Iceland has brought me peace and solace, has brought me pure joy. I feel really prepared to go back into the real world. I think back, I really am doing so. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">There hasn’t been a single time my sadness paralyzed my movement this year. I kept my momentum up, and tried to stay patient with myself. Were there lows? Sure. But that’s on any adventure. In some way, I knew what to expect with the rigors of an adventure, most certainly I did. I understood things would not ever get worse for me emotionally as in the previous year. I was out here solely out of my own freedom of choice to deal with my pain. And I held that as special. I held that as sacred. This only meant I held my action as ritualistic. I would not take that for granted. I was on a journey of personal proportions. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I feel quite at peace at the moment, probably because of all the pain, probably of what it has taken to get here. I am here right now, battered and bruised, but happy and strong. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stopped trying to figure out the why of yesterday. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Maybe kidney stones, maybe AKI from so much wear and tear and being on the fine line of hydration balance, especially in very hot weather and very difficult conditions, maybe it’s just whatever. At that point, I just wanted to finish the HRP. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It sure as hell is a long game. I think you think you are going to wake up. Most of the time you do. And the only time you don’t there’s no coming back. Endurance is the game. Endurance is my game.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next morning, I woke up with slight discomfort but felt good to go. I took my time getting ready and ate a long breakfast before taking off just. I needed to ensure nothing weird was going on. I took it slow out the gate and ascended the huge climb with relative ease with little discomfort. I arrived at El Serrat way earlier than expected. I took on the next climb with some vigor and before I knew it I was up there high on the pass feeling rather joyous. I knew I was on my way to the Mediterranean Sea. I had some luck, too. All the trails in Andorra were pretty well worn in and used, even maintained, which leads to swifter travel and less discomfort in my kidney area. This meant I could simply walk. Then, I hit a high. I floated on down from the pass and traversed the valley. I was grooving. This continued and I hiked until sunset. I met a young Andorran at the last hut before I was about to head up into the next basin to lay up for the next pass. He was curious as to why I was still hiking so late. He was shocked by how far I had come and how tiny my backpack was. He was a pretty cool dude. I liked him his enthusiasm. We chatted for about ten minutes—about the route, the Pyrenees, the epic camp spots, why I hike so much. It felt so good to impart some inspiration. His eyes were beaming, his smile wide. I found a camp just above a meadow. God, it felt so good to lay there and feel the cool breeze. It felt so good to be high in the mountains feeling good rather than laying in a hotel room with no clue with what’s going on with my kidney. Once again, movement to the rescue.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7RbuaogAmOjpUJd9R9CWwgHk0nBGnmWeZ3Q_Okrl_DvEjKEm0ZsUn0Nggii6lL9wMwl7tXzvuSLkmqcSsjJwPyW7YzJQyPoUpr_LtxZhNKP8OH9vVxanZ2wmSy_exqDnRZlsDR2G_b-qMKU7zI6bl261dtu_kuUVKCyv-hktE0JeFcBgCcJ_4d2G5yQ/s1440/FBB15A69-27C6-4A64-8314-CD8C069777D7.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7RbuaogAmOjpUJd9R9CWwgHk0nBGnmWeZ3Q_Okrl_DvEjKEm0ZsUn0Nggii6lL9wMwl7tXzvuSLkmqcSsjJwPyW7YzJQyPoUpr_LtxZhNKP8OH9vVxanZ2wmSy_exqDnRZlsDR2G_b-qMKU7zI6bl261dtu_kuUVKCyv-hktE0JeFcBgCcJ_4d2G5yQ/w400-h300/FBB15A69-27C6-4A64-8314-CD8C069777D7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The days got easier. I neared the next village, the coast, the last of the HRP. One night, I laid down in a grove of aspen. I laid my body down, my kidney almost feeling normal, and cooked me up a huge meal. As the forest sunk in silence, I heard the cow bells. A few cows roamed into the grove. Then, a bull sauntered in like he owned the place. I kept my headlamp on to let the herd know exactly where I was situated. But, they didn’t give a shit. After an hour or two I relented my space in the grove and found another flat spot and set up camp in the dark a bit away. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I did actually get some sleep, though. In the morning, the cows hung around. The herd lingered in the grove grazing on the tall green grasses interspersed between the aspen. The cows looked at me with familiarity, as if a part of the herd. I enjoyed their presence despite the huge dominating and stubborn bull. I left early enough to enjoy the coolness of the aspen grove.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I strolled into a tiny French village. The village was beautiful with buildings adorned with amazing stonework, lean streets, and a wonderful country market with an artisan meat selection out of this world. Fresh bread, amazing cheese, the chicken on rotisserie, I enjoyed resupplying out of the market. The sausages looked like art in a display case, the spectrum of reds and purples sumptuous and beautiful. I found a perfect refueling spot before the next 4000ft climb.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lB45GFOjSnL8O_07MD1SyJlDaZ1IEPHnU4_n3vSkIO0jUq0OcKLw_i-lngscXP6bolCCeCA3PnWkJ7Hq32hc0YqsNZh8rjI0T3V4DBg57eHT0KPDY_BdgQnqAOy7FkA119S_45H8kuYZ44_Ily0CO2XBjwgu1IyF_MBA5Qnhjicefu8jwAAXTZjFjpo/s1440/CF48BB95-BE6E-4FBA-AF80-F3C3840C4EF2.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lB45GFOjSnL8O_07MD1SyJlDaZ1IEPHnU4_n3vSkIO0jUq0OcKLw_i-lngscXP6bolCCeCA3PnWkJ7Hq32hc0YqsNZh8rjI0T3V4DBg57eHT0KPDY_BdgQnqAOy7FkA119S_45H8kuYZ44_Ily0CO2XBjwgu1IyF_MBA5Qnhjicefu8jwAAXTZjFjpo/w400-h300/CF48BB95-BE6E-4FBA-AF80-F3C3840C4EF2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left after a long spell chilling at a table in front of the market. I filled up on some yogurt, croissants, and coffee. I strolled down the streets with a long baguette tucked into my backpack. I was looking forward to the end and I was near. I wanted to lay by the beach and not do a damn thing. All that changed once I hit the high basin below the sharp ridges. In that instant, I didn’t want to finish anymore. I simply wanted to remain in the mountains forever. I clambered up the pass to an </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">epic ridge. High peaks reached up into the sky and I was surprised once again by the scenery in front of me. How could mountains be so high near a sea? I scurried along the long traverse of the ridgecrest, a definitive trail outlining a future of gleeful trekking. Peak after peak after peak, amid rocky and grassy slopes, a hiker’s dream, the trail continues into an endless undulation. Storm clouds lumbered in from the north and remained off the line of sight of the ridge. I remained dry and unthreatened by the stormy clouds. The changing rock, the high flat grassy tablelands, less jagged and more broad and swooping peaks, spaced out more instead of crammed together within huge monumental cirques, less lakes, I entered a different sphere of mountains. At first a busy trail, but once past the first set of peaks I had the rest of the ridges nearly to myself. I ran into a bunch of izards. The sort and agile goats jumped and danced on the high slopes and rocky hillsides. The goat/antelope creature, so swift and nimble, pranced in a stupor, the blood of the mountains oozing from their corporeal spirits. The jubilant goats pranced away from me, definitely wary of my presence and not so jubilant. I was just impressed by their nimbleness. I rested at a ski hill in the late afternoon. I let a minor squall pass on through before I scaled atop another crest. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">What ensued atop the last proper crestline proved to be my last lengthy extended stroll up high. I relished it all. I had the whole crestline to myself and took my time over easy miles that barely undulated over primo singletrack paralleling razorback juts of rock. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Seeing the sun rays rise above the puffy clouds, radiantly crepuscular, warm and soft, a pathway of light to a heavenly altar, just could make one believe in a higher power. I soaked it all in. I was having so much fun. I couldn't help but smile at the whole experience of the HRP. I found a pleasant camp tucked in huge granite outcrops, the decomposing rock twinkling with quartz crystals. I gazed at the sunset slowly sinking over the western horizon, the crepuscular rays angling longer, lower, dimming with the sinking sun.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixr0gAxZcqHQ-oL-ctNFq9942IgGaQKGKWZAaSRqQLJOXpfAcv-YH2tjw-rX5OfUh6NyXfqDQjSw29XrfuXWKgVDK3AGJUNIMI7HhaiOVjujYWejhsQr27etxAVDeFfgCnFaRnbD2A6pc4SoTnCgp7TnU-8t4Fm2L7H91L3nYnPXrdihQpaqawDZLdvdc/s1440/BF8BE56B-C0B1-49D0-8710-04223447B1D9.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixr0gAxZcqHQ-oL-ctNFq9942IgGaQKGKWZAaSRqQLJOXpfAcv-YH2tjw-rX5OfUh6NyXfqDQjSw29XrfuXWKgVDK3AGJUNIMI7HhaiOVjujYWejhsQr27etxAVDeFfgCnFaRnbD2A6pc4SoTnCgp7TnU-8t4Fm2L7H91L3nYnPXrdihQpaqawDZLdvdc/w400-h300/BF8BE56B-C0B1-49D0-8710-04223447B1D9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I enjoyed the respite of the last reaches of the higher Pyrenean mountain ranges. I woke up to a cool morning, probably my last one. I hiked in the pleasant morning sunshine up high on an open tableland, views abounding to the north and south, glimpses of the Mediterranean Sea outline pilfering through the marine cloud layers way down below. I observed humongous buzzards soar and circle in the morning thermals backdropped by the warm glow of the sun, a sea of wool with the tops of mountain coastal ranges appearing like islands that the buzzards would land on. The whole scene was dreamy, majestic even. I understood what the buzzards were doing, not in the scavenger sense rather the freedom of flying sense. I had not a care in the world this high up above everything, high above whatever the year brought me, whatever stirred inside of me. I was soaring with my wings riding the thermals of life carefree and flowing wherever the current took me.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-xzea3gfgP9Le67A5bcjbkhYe9aD9EBJMKhnLLuCz5QMdml79CukTLQaqyNEhdS4ExL8MgeMFkbnrR59H-Vf7M83tXUG6OYPoTW647XVpWIuxIDuM5YVbzebPCbfI8KOsM3ufWbB13kc8idrDabcukYt7mDXh0xhkIMH_AhaF1T-c3QcY-QF69fcAII/s1440/1D5EF5CF-CC34-4063-AF23-49E06DEB2F13.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-xzea3gfgP9Le67A5bcjbkhYe9aD9EBJMKhnLLuCz5QMdml79CukTLQaqyNEhdS4ExL8MgeMFkbnrR59H-Vf7M83tXUG6OYPoTW647XVpWIuxIDuM5YVbzebPCbfI8KOsM3ufWbB13kc8idrDabcukYt7mDXh0xhkIMH_AhaF1T-c3QcY-QF69fcAII/w400-h300/1D5EF5CF-CC34-4063-AF23-49E06DEB2F13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The final scrambling ascent up Pic de Canigou had some chossy and crumbly rock. Hordes of people scrambled up from both the route directions of the summit. I had to slow down a bit in the climber-choked chimney. I enjoyed the scramble, something I hadn't done in a while. This was the last big peak of the Pyrenees west to east traverse. I had a similar feeling to Pic d’Orhy when I officially entered the high country except now I was officially leaving the high country. With the summit of Canigou, I officially departed the high Pyrenees for the coastal ranges. Both the peaks are portals and bulwarks of a spectacular range spanning the width of a peninsula, a land bridge never to be submerged.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPQ1nAiyuf-czooZn8QXkUv8KADkvfLgH2jb9kSHQRYoXyiBcoY1nWN3xqV0acXY2ZbtxQOYjRjnm9g-SoZsU9FnItL14LvdJ3M3LnS-wN66NQvcfGMat48ae2oDbScm-rlgG2XoJyHYx0iY_5vSyGBxoRfEZdGi89jIB8FhvxERrcrXokiu2br1Q_UA/s1440/A0287628-EA1B-42AE-9B26-FEC29AB1E1BB.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPQ1nAiyuf-czooZn8QXkUv8KADkvfLgH2jb9kSHQRYoXyiBcoY1nWN3xqV0acXY2ZbtxQOYjRjnm9g-SoZsU9FnItL14LvdJ3M3LnS-wN66NQvcfGMat48ae2oDbScm-rlgG2XoJyHYx0iY_5vSyGBxoRfEZdGi89jIB8FhvxERrcrXokiu2br1Q_UA/w400-h300/A0287628-EA1B-42AE-9B26-FEC29AB1E1BB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had a hunch the last two days to the Mediterranean Sea would be hot. It surely was and turned into a more than expected scorcher. A terrible night of sleep ensued where the temps just didn’t fall and the humidity rose. I could barely move or touch anything in my tarp. Everything was so sticky. I was even more antsy to finish then. I rose early to try and beat the heat. My right kidney ailed and my lower back was sore, remnants from that weird night about 6 days prior. Lactic acid filled my quads and I winced a bit. I felt like I was in the heat of the day in a 100 mile race on a very hot day. I had 23 miles to go to the Mediterranean Sea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At a spring along the side of a road, a piped fountain spewed cold water. I took a breather; I was drenched from sweat and it wasn’t even 8am. I sat there and let the mind wander listening to the steady drip and flow of the spring water. I couldn’t wait for the sea. 'What was I going to do afterwards though?' I thought. But I didn’t want to think about it. A major highway thrummed in the near distance. I leaned back against the coarse decomposed granite wall. I took a breath in and exhaled whatever it is inside of me out: I am tired, sore, very happy, full and content, and I’m ready to be done, ready to return. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am excited to decide on the arrangement of time for what lays ahead, for whatever adventures I have in mind.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am excited to work towards them, earn my way, and continue exploring the world. I am ready for rest.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7TIy8D6wKu3pBqvYkAKR_jrKDuwjc5a0nOC-ZAdS5aNt8ucPp44P1Fw70C_wcj6JzzHsMTtCZITuBFN7EmsCO-rKZHE1pKDEmJ-nsg0FEzg_NMEJGNwqPmrNmYzKA1DE1mhste7nyA406tRN4kDV3Z5frbnf5aohVkuINn0by9xsjMeblol5twzWcWY/s1440/4CE4A8A5-2152-447C-9F6F-5CEF6F87DDEA.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7TIy8D6wKu3pBqvYkAKR_jrKDuwjc5a0nOC-ZAdS5aNt8ucPp44P1Fw70C_wcj6JzzHsMTtCZITuBFN7EmsCO-rKZHE1pKDEmJ-nsg0FEzg_NMEJGNwqPmrNmYzKA1DE1mhste7nyA406tRN4kDV3Z5frbnf5aohVkuINn0by9xsjMeblol5twzWcWY/w400-h300/4CE4A8A5-2152-447C-9F6F-5CEF6F87DDEA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26isAPn5zRlu6KAdS6OvGuvfClbbLZjp70uNjXfYGk28PSlTWCmHdFQN42fMOTA-kA8DEJ9ytm1NcafSiw11mQnxksO2xIFC0dn0ATCShgCHS0HIGG_mpWX4wgk9xSVzNPK5Vvdt_rgmk2HJwTXK7aXQQn6Y1nD8RfRDy-u9dEgu4BTmvoTw9civC1Jk/s1440/57E4277C-F57A-4F38-9627-E2F0C495902A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-mPGrD4fyG6IwxkTwZ_375s8CzzjlEYoOHZf9wP5qZjLolOpTBheC-15mDuISxTmiYneqiYTfS97bQOeWr5qv7t5dCeCSuwfOHdLiXb3bf1I5_PGXjC1KXbvLlIJu56S2R_Vg-O0DaDZzRfrKfb1eAKKovIMB1XZztrMW83w7GPbUBOkk1aozJBkuxQ/s1440/15877B10-B6DD-4F82-ABBF-534DD097E981.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-mPGrD4fyG6IwxkTwZ_375s8CzzjlEYoOHZf9wP5qZjLolOpTBheC-15mDuISxTmiYneqiYTfS97bQOeWr5qv7t5dCeCSuwfOHdLiXb3bf1I5_PGXjC1KXbvLlIJu56S2R_Vg-O0DaDZzRfrKfb1eAKKovIMB1XZztrMW83w7GPbUBOkk1aozJBkuxQ/w400-h300/15877B10-B6DD-4F82-ABBF-534DD097E981.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-18977042155416399042023-07-25T08:30:00.005-07:002023-09-06T14:18:21.687-07:00Iceland Crossing<div style="color: #454545;"><b><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Iceland Crossing</span> (350 miles)</span></b></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFerSAqN4nUFkjE74oX9ubFaxvKQiXqtjaLARNG5Z-yrIMWrykBGdV-XF_2GdqDLTAZ3MgEZs3vsH8CJau2fLvjz9m0bmD3vXoHtkV9VPykBXdP5YWrn__upD_axHb8qI_2TV_6Ulsifaknep3ea2V5ktq4i048VnC8QkuYEuETHNLT9Okm9jPjV-4rY/s1440/73C6EC79-4C73-4004-A155-C4F3F05BFEE3.jpg" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFerSAqN4nUFkjE74oX9ubFaxvKQiXqtjaLARNG5Z-yrIMWrykBGdV-XF_2GdqDLTAZ3MgEZs3vsH8CJau2fLvjz9m0bmD3vXoHtkV9VPykBXdP5YWrn__upD_axHb8qI_2TV_6Ulsifaknep3ea2V5ktq4i048VnC8QkuYEuETHNLT9Okm9jPjV-4rY/w400-h300/73C6EC79-4C73-4004-A155-C4F3F05BFEE3.jpg" width="400" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Husavik to Myvatn (80 miles) </span></b></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcDrV3ZIbmp9bDTl5y8b4LiDEvFhifRY6NJuWmuyFB22mWo_5cSuj9oF95-JDSCR2vCs-lEcDDVEkVHIXkzeNsdR-v7cNm6aksSqToipCZAG3wm4rnbotpm3VGn4Vz3nGe-jHoq43H2EXsYNLv7yB_wbSpFc32KgFpE8SL0rPaM09_IOP0PNq7bSrxLA/s4032/IMG_1455.HEIC" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcDrV3ZIbmp9bDTl5y8b4LiDEvFhifRY6NJuWmuyFB22mWo_5cSuj9oF95-JDSCR2vCs-lEcDDVEkVHIXkzeNsdR-v7cNm6aksSqToipCZAG3wm4rnbotpm3VGn4Vz3nGe-jHoq43H2EXsYNLv7yB_wbSpFc32KgFpE8SL0rPaM09_IOP0PNq7bSrxLA/w400-h300/IMG_1455.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Within the first two hours of the trek I entered the marine layer of low clouds pushing through the volcanic hills. Over my shoulder, the coastal town of Husavik tucked into a neat little bay flanked by hills. Above the town, a lupine clad cone towered over the quaint and picaresque whaling village. A large lake nestled into a glaciated bowl just below me. In front of me the volcanic hills loomed although I could only put eyes on the lower flanks. I entered a maze within the barren landscape, the misty ceiling pressing down onto the soft pumice ground. I could not see the tops and the low smothering clouds gave the illusion that the mountains went upwards forever. From then on I was in unfamiliar territory, unknown in every which way. I could hardly visualize what was around me, yet I felt fairly content in navigating with dead reckoning. I could apply my wits. I could use the fitness of my body. I could leave the world behind. I could simply hike by feel. All that said, I would take a compass bearing and feel my way forward stopping occasionally to recalibrate my direction and feel. I stayed alert constantly reading my surroundings even though my surroundings were encapsulated my that thick marine layer driving in off the coast. I started at sea level. I entered the cloud later at 1000ft. I wandered and navigated my way through close to 3000ft. I read the scant contours of which I could sight with my vision. The wind pushed at my back. But, at least the landscape was barren and free of bushy ground clutter and forests. Even if I was fogged in, I could see my way ahead.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I reached a creek outlined with bright green moss. This is the only life one can obviously see here. The vibrant moss and the clamoring creek juxtaposed the quietude of the moonscape. I reached down and filled my bottle and drank half of it. So crisp and cold the water felt metallic. The crystalline water tinged my gullet with the stillness of a pitch black night. The water streamed down my gullet like shooting stars. Occasionally, I spotted some sheep prints, sometimes I saw a bird hopping about; it’s the sporadic plant life specifically here in this biozone, the volcanic hills, that pop out. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The fog hung like silky curtains, damp wool draped from a spool. The mist cling to whatever object it gravitated to, the water magnetic in its humidity. Smothered are the conical tops or flat tops, I am not entirely sure. My vision is obstructed. Yet my mind felt clear, clearest it’s been in a long while. Every once in a while, I would hit a drainage that fell off the bearing I was on. I avoided the deep cuts into the ground and rounded above the drops. Every once in a while, I walked across damp pans, usually dry lake beds in drier weather. An eerie feeling would envelope me, as if tiptoeing across an open space in hopes of no one spotting me. I felt that fog and clouds made me feel hidden from the world, as if no one else existed. As if I was the only person left, with simply nothing left to do, as primal as anything you can imagine, I hiked on, my footprints the semblance of life encrusted on the surface of the moon.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Descending the volcanic hills onto another dry lake bed I could barely see a wedge of brilliant greenery. Was it an illusion, a mirage, all of my mind? The fluorescent green shocked my senses into another mode of discernment. The large triangular patch of green illuminated the dismal ceiling pressing down. Shortly, I rimmed the meadow occasionally trodding on some spongy ground. The lime green meadow splayed within a pan wedged between the pinching barren hillsides. A small creek fell off as a small waterfall into a badland chasm, channels of other small meadows breaking up the plummeting of water. Marked by erosion, the rounded land scarred quickly. I navigated in a meandering manner pushing my way atop patches of tundra, slivers of volcanic gullies and strips of compacted pumice. Out ahead, an expanse of dark green shot in an endless zoom into the low clouds. The land was so flat it angled upwards into the leveled clouds. My perception became distorted. I could not quite figure out what I was looking at. I took a couple glances from the slopes to figure out if I could cross the plains. As I picked my way down, my vision became clearer. I could finally see what was ahead of me. A huge lava plain stretched out in front of me. I looked back up from where I came from and beaming in burnt orange hardscrabble streaked the hillsides, a brilliant green pockmarked the broad ridge humps tumbling down, all below the cloud layer that loomed in stark contrast with its dreary spectrum of grays. I looked back towards the lava plains. I knew the crossing would be monumental. I scrambled down a grassy slope. A road appeared, a really rough road, but a way through. I picked up the rugged jeep track and followed it. After a few miles I entered a hallway of grabens and horsts, huge fissures in the terrain. I glanced back I could see the smear of pumice and crumbled lava rock, grays, browns, and reds adorning the flanks of the hills with a crown of clouds on top, the lava plains clad with a thick green shrubbery extended to the east. I forged ahead as I gradually ascended. Soon enough, a thick mist fell. Soon enough, I found a flat patch of grass for camp on the leeward side of a sharp and craggy lava bulge.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Nearly 24 hours of daylight persist up at this latitude. Once again I find myself living in the extreme of seasons. Two weeks ago, in the southwest corner of Western Australia, I had barely 9.5 hours of daylight. Either way, I will most likely have a lengthy ‘night’ in the tent. On the Bibbulmun Track, I squeezed in as much hiking as I could into the shortened day. I had very long nights in the huts I had slept in. Here in Iceland, the weather will dictate my hiking style. With the impending inclement weather, besides the barren landscape that I will be walking through which will have hardly any reprieve from the unending wind, I envisage my movement to be within a consolidated period of time within the day. I will cover as much ground as I can, only that I will not have imminent darkness to contend with. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Already I feel the biggest difference. I can see the obvious differences in the extreme landscapes and most interestingly I can see the similarities. However, what is already way different is my headspace. On the Bibb, I was winding down the Australian trip. The forests were tall and dark, endless, and the weather became very rainy. My mood dipped when I only wanted to reflect on my Australian trip in peace. Really, what got me through all that was injuring my back. That helped me focus on things other than myself, as weird as that sounds. Yet, here in Iceland, despite the gray globe and blustery weather I am physically walking in, I am in a much more jovial headspace. It might be the terrain and type of travel, which is more motivating to me, more my style. But, I think it is that time has passed. I see myself as a part of my time, an actor in the play rather than the critic. So, for this reason, there’s an accountability I accept. My name is in the credits.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I woke up to drizzle splattering my tarp. I got up anyways and packed up quickly. I followed rugged and muddy jeep track through the lava plains scarred by long fissures and crevices and adorned by flowering shrubs. The mist hung low and caressed gently the left side of my body, a soft parting of dampness that would then dry in the cold wind. I ran into sheep, usually a ewe with two lambs. They would scamper off after hearing me. Quizzically they gave me a stare, obvious their sense of hearing incredible even over the clamoring wind. Little narrow trails within the lava humps and fissures showed how the sheep traveled. I would see them bounding off, hopping from lava bulge to lava bulge and weaving within the thick shrubs. The sheep tickled me, as they seemed so out of place here in the lava plains.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">One thing stood out to me as I hit the spectacular canyon of Jokulsa. I had to trust in movement. This seems so obvious to me, a credo I always trust in. The mantra feels more prevalent here. Not just for the sake of mood rather for the sake of survival. I needed to keep moving to stay warm. I took a long break in the shitter at a campsite, the handicap room plenty big enough, thankful for the windbreak. I scampered out once I thawed out and hiked swiftly to regain that heat of movement. The canyon opened wide with basalt bluffs dropping precipitously. Ledges and terraces hung in the middle layers. At riverside, huge prominent sawtooths and spires adorned the banks like fangs in the jaws of a bear trap. Suddenly, I was at the gates of Hell. I looked for Cerebus. I listened for the growls of the hellish dog but all I could hear was the ferocious river silty and brown as the color of runny dog shit. I mean all this to be a beautiful description, too. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">As I went up canyon, the day became even more blustery. Waves of angled drizzle persisted, the wind became frigid, yet I was comfortable walking. I ran into series of waterfalls spread a few miles apart as the canyon narrowed and the walls shot straight up. The clouds drifted at the rims and all that really shown out was the serpentine tongue of the glaciated river snake. Up canyon resembled the maw of a serpent, a dark tongue and even darker throat, the most of the waterfalls the steam emanating from the fanged mouth. I went up and around a deep side canyon and into a lunar desert. A compacted gravel expanse spread out into the ether of the gray globe, granite outcrops popped up as imperfect mounds mangled in the nothingness. The drizzle turned into rain and everything felt so bleak, desperate. I ambled over a rise and civilization appeared unexpectedly to me. I thought I was the only person on the moon. Hordes of tourists resembled ants moving back and forth from the parking lot hole. Frankly, I was surprised to see so many tourists this Kate in the afternoon. I guess the day never sleeps this time of year. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I crossed over to the anthill and the white mist of Dettifoss pilfered the gray skies, the defeaning roar trembling a dreary air. I hurriedly hiked down the path. I had suddenly become drenched. I was cold, but I just had to see the monumental falls. I reached the basin shrouded in a thick mist, really a downpour. Dettifoss roared wildly over a basalt terrace and down into a narrow chasm. Compelled by the immense power I went as close as I could to the immense falls. Surging over the lip, roaring murky water spilled and splashed into the abyss and violently flung into the air. A torrent of rain pounded me. Nevertheless, I gawked in amazement like the other ants did. Then, I hiked over to Selfoss, the wide spillage of waters less impressive as Dettifoss. Selfoss resembled a stone garden for whatever resided above the gates of Hell. The moment, albeit brief, ended and the cold sunk into my core. I hiked back to the anthill where the tourist buses and rental cars parked. Through there I went back over a granite mound to the designated campsite. I found a huge boulder and hunkered down behind it, my refuge from the brisk wind. It didn’t feel like a very long day, but it must have been. I got in 30 miles, unbeknownst to my tired legs. I settled in in my bleak rocky domain, again not a soul around, ready to endure the long night of light.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I broke camp early. The anthill parking lot laid as empty and barren as the surroundings, eerie after the hordes of tourists I saw the afternoon before. I strode into ash laden hills. My shoes sunk only about an inch as the gravel was hardened from the precipitation. Although it was early, one couldn’t tell if it was afternoon or morning; I could just feel the silence of morning, the yawning of a new day. Over the first rise I immediately landed on the moon. Soon, desolation followed. The wind slapped at my hood diminishing the silence, vanquishing any solace I may have had over any calmness. I leaned in. The wind blasted in from my right, from the north. I would glance up sporadically mainly focusing my vision on the ground in front of me. I would memorize the terrain and the corridor I would be steering towards. In my narrowed vision against the starkness of the moonscape the tiny beauty of very bright and tiny flowers, patches of simple beauty, would jar the monotony. These patches brought a propulsion of glee to me as if my heart skipped a beat. Then, I would look back up at the barrenness dispassionately. I knew what I had to do: keep moving.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I hiked across the hardscrabble moon, these barren plains of ash and pumice, mounds of volcanic dust. Mist drove in from the north and pulsed in soggy waves drowning out the landscape. The clouds pushed in and dominated two-thirds of any volcano on the horizon. To me, in this dismal gray globe, everything appeared flat. Everything appeared bleak, pure nothing, a void of gray rock. Once again, I had the feeling of being the only one left. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I continued my exploration of the lunar landscape. In low-lying hills I weaved between as an ant between piles of dirt. I traversed around the rounded flanks of a volcano shrouded by soggy clouds. Between two cones the wind would siphon through and blast me in rounds right in the face. I buried my chin in my chest abs pushed forward, the brittle wind drying off the drippings of cold water. The sights around me I am sure would be jaw dropping—Jorundur, Krafla, Hildarfjall. Unfortunately, my views were gone and I needed to succumb my vision to the gray globe. I knew this would last and continue. And, that’s okay; it is what it is. I knew the volcanoes loomed over the barren landscape. I could feel them; I could imagine them. I made it through a craggy lava field, molten rock frozen, dead like molten skin, the earth shedding what is old. The rain persisted, just on my back, my headward direction focused on the community of Reykjahlid. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I decided to wait out the worst of the remaining weather in Reykjahlid. The decision proved to be a good one as it rained consistently throughout the day. It was cold, blustery, and miserable out. I whiled away the idle day revisiting Wes Anderson flicks. I needed some bright color in my life to counterbalance the gray. My inner vision scrambled my antennae with that vibrant green moss lining the waterways, the interstitial space between the crystal and the bleak. I cherished the vibrancy, the intense brightness. I scoured over my route, too. Not that I could memorise any of the Icelandic place names, I settled in on the landmarks. I enjoyed this exercise and became more familiar with the route and place. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">It occurred to me, as well, that I have neglected to update my changed plans. Really, it is not a big deal to me. It is just the way things worked out. Allow me to indulge the reader. I had very nearly pointedly decided to hike the AT by the time I had completed my bikepacking route in Darwin. I started the Bibb thinking that would very well be the next trail. But, then my back threw out. That changed a lot mentally. As the pain continued I floundered in my thinking that I could accomplish the AT in the timeframe I had left. Couple that with the pace I needed to attain, a successful attempt just did not seem feasible. The last thing I wanted, too, was to go for the AT and have to bail because of my back. As I finished the Bibb, my back felt fine, just not back to normal. It became a very clear choice to me then that Iceland and at least the High Pyrenees Route would be next. I would finish the year off that way. I knew with my back I could manage 25mpd over the same time period rather than the mid-30mpd I needed to reach on the AT. I am not sure I will be able to get the Gran Traversata de Alpi in within my regaining time. And, that is ok. In some way, throwing out my back relieved some pressure. I could simply try and enjoy myself more out here rather than obsess over the singular goal of crushing the AT. So, there you go; everyone is updated. It is a matter of goals: what is attainable. It is a matter of enjoyment: what would be more fun.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">As for an Iceland Crossing, I had this route more or less planned for a while now. For years now I had something scribbled out. In Melbourne though, I really started to narrow down the route and plot down some true groundwork. Of course, within my plannings and upon arrival, some changes needed to occur due to logistical changes within the country. First off, I would start at the whaling village of Húsavík rather than the northernmost point of the island at the Hraunhafnartangi lighthouse. Public transportation terminated at Húsavík and no longer went the rest of the way to Raufarhofn. I did not want to spend an unknown time trying to hitch there when I could simply walk out of town. Secondly, most blog resources go into food parcel delivery into the interior of Iceland. A series of huts exist in the interior and it used to be possible to get touring companies to deliver such parcels to the remote huts. Obviously, this is a crucial and advantageous logistical point. This would really save some west and tear on the body and break up the long carries. As of a few years ago, touring companies no longer provide the service. It sounded to with all the tourism occurring that the touring companies do not want the responsibility anymore of delivering parcels. I think it is not worth the effort to them when they can make significantly more money with actual tourists than being a part time delivery service. Also, I got a hunch that there is just way more and more people attempting to cross the island on foot (by bike too). I imagine the business had to decide which service is the priority. So, I adjusted that part of my itinerary. I used the postal service and shipped a box to Reykjahlid. From there I would carry 7 days or so to Landmannalauger. 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margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eEUihVFx_0Z4ukL001NsOQuvk_rj5X8eXjIq5dCNO1aWbE5JyWkIX9tRffWr-_Urz2-tO7LHUqrpuyNCaY9LmXYOYNJpL3AFkz1ZgApEjWXHvWTZOrKiPCTg-ab1cD3wPD8hpdtOfvqYBeePRBdMID9mh_uEHemVsTnw-usQsSMYVmhSGNb9XJuNUxk/w400-h300/IMG_1474.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b style="background-color: #fff2cc;">Myvatn to Landmannalauger (200 miles)</b></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Ok, enough of that crap, back to the crossing.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">…silence is a steel blade slicing through the air, gleaming the diamonds of the crystalline cold wet air over the lava beds and pumice hills, carving the silence drooping from the low layer of clouds. Silence is metallic. Silence is sodden. You can taste it in your mouth, over the wind. The wind careens through a vacuum, whistles and whirls through every porous pocket, every hilly corridor, every canyon. The wind is absolute. Underlying the absolute wind is the steely silence. Pockets of it scream at you. I suck at my teeth, my ears ring; there it is. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I cannot even begin to understand the geology of this mangled place. I can barely get to the geology of what it is to live a life. I just understand erosion, deterioration. That’s it. I can learn of that through the visualization of time, through endurance. Sure, I can process lava spewing up onto the surface of the earth. I can understand the planet pulsates, throbs like a living being. I mean, I have heard it groan before out in the empty Great Basin of Nevada. Normally, I can read landscapes, interpret the terrain in front of me, much better than most folks. I tie my imagination with my smarts. I can see it. Yet, maybe it is the enveloped sky that is making my understanding of geology so hard to reach. Probably so it is my lack of learned education in the field. This area is complex, a multi-complex of systems layered and layered on top of one another layer. Chaos is apparent, harshness a normalcy. <br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The lower flanks of Sellandafjall adorned the silver lunar glow of the steamships of roving clouds. Strips of fluorescent green moss hung like tassels from the volcanic dress. The neon green ribbons lining the gullies resembled alien blood, the stuff from movies, ectoplasm, bright green goop from chlorophyllic colonies, a neon green of glow sticks lighting the way under gloomy skies; here, I knew a volcano mountain stood, something above the waistline. I trodded across barren plains of punchy dust damp from the rainy days. These arid and forbidden plains resembled the Great Divide Basin in Wyoming, just on a gloomy day. I halfheartedly expected at any moment to spot a pronghorn galloping away from me, undulating over rolling hills. I am sure the cloud cover disillusioned my wandering imagination. On a clearer day I would see volcanoes sprouting up and the notion of a pronghorn would seem foolish. But, on a day like this the notion did not seem too unreasonable.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I entered gloomy lava beds with a large river meandering through it. Is this the River Styx? I chuckled to myself. The frozen-in-time lava glistened from the dampness. Water sparkled on the timorous and bulging lava. The lava is recalcitrant in its defiance of time. The lava shows you what it once was for all time. It is old, but fresh. Bubbling and roving water filled every pocket, every inlet in the lava field. Water gurgled up from beneath the lava beds. Everything around was gnarled and mangled lava, old and hard, like steel, the hard roots of a living mountain. Yet, along the river corridor birds flew about and dove into the shallows. Ducks quacked breaking the silence of the misty fog and the gurgling river. The river gleamed in the steely gray light giving frigid glare. On the banks the vibrant and lush vegetation fought away any dreary thoughts of a faraway hinterland. I might be in Hell. But, there is pretty parts. Along the sinuous road tall pointy cairns signaled the way, giant wizard hats distinctively noticeable even in the mist and fog, angled and tilted, pyramidal. Suddenly, the Botni Hut appeared onto the bleak expanse, refuge from doom. I nestled in for the night, cozy and warm, a break from the weather.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Over the black compacted desert shadows do not exist. The clouds have smothered the wilderness, the suffocated fog clenching in and squeezing out the air. The lack of shadows is distorting, one’s bearing is lost. I follow a two track etched into the black gravel. It seems like a traveler has not passed through in a lifetime. All is lost on this new planet. Inhospitable, uninhabited, shadowless; grave. If it was not for the eternal sun, one could not tell what is up from down. Am I walking on the clouds, on the ceiling? Luckily, my footprints crunch with each step; I am on land. At least I doubt that clouds crunch underfoot, anyways. What appears as a shadow is an object unveiling the thickness of fog as I step nearer. Giant boulders unveil from water vapor mists. Small mountains undress the fog like the slipping off of a slumbering night gown made of silk.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">A hut emerges from the soulless valley of fog. The hut looks desolate, forsaken, an abandoned lunar outpost. I enter, it has been a half day of hiking. I find solace here, not only from the weather but from the world. Here, I am unbound by any constraint other than weather and my food and water supply. However, I am not unbound by my wants. I desire to see this place other than merely walking across this place. It would seem rather silly for me to continue on today under the shroud of a visually debilitating fog. Like I just said, I find solace here. I will wait, read and write. I will turn on the propane heater and gaze out to the hills that occasionally appear during the heaves of fog. I have the good fortune of time. The thermometer hangs between 2-3 C. I also have the roofed fortune of shelter.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">My patience paid off. I left the hut early and almost within minutes I was afforded views both up and down canyon, the volcanic landscape crisp in its dampness. Streaks of rust brown smeared the conical slopes, rust blocks and boulders laid strewn about from the bluffs around, all amidst a sphere of silver gravely slopes angling in. In the middle of the drainage black lava followed the path of least resistance when in liquid form. Fresh snow rimmed the tops. The further I ascended the valley the views widened. Suddenly, I could see what was on the map. Even a couple rats of sunshine appeared, which brought a bright smile to my face. I mean I had been having a blast out here in this wide open desert expanse, but after walking nearly a week this was my first true glance at a panorama, my first chance to feel the warmth of sunshine on my cheeks. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The day continued this way. Really, the only eventful decision I made was deciding to head north around Trolladyngja. At a high rise, with snow clad ramparts of Askja on my left, I could see the lowest parts of the Vatnajökull Ice Cap. Fresh snow lingered in the hills below it where my original route had me going. I already decided not to go for the Askja Crater with the low lying fog and now deep drifted snow; this made sense. The last thing I wanted was to be disoriented on a sketchy slope with fresh snow with zero visibility. I really wanted to get up close to the ice cap though, but I could see the snow inundating the way through. I looked to west and saw huge desert hinterlands snow free. An abrupt promontory shot up and flanked the northern end of the valley. An enormous lava field choked the valley beneath Trolladyngja. The choice was an easy one. I ventured to the west. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">After the massive lava field I gradually ascended pea gravel hills bleached gray like old bones, scuffed as if sunkissed. I rolled and rolled over the ashen plateau. Pristine river water flowed out from another lava field in between the ash-laden hills. The cold and crisp water was some of the best o have tasted anywhere. I washed my face off and let the cold wind chap my cheeks. I felt so alive, even amid the desolate hills. I forded the river and once across I hiked back up into the hills with a jovial whistle. Another rise, and another, and I could see the massif Vatnajökull. With interspersed stratus clouds I had bounding views to the south. The rolling ashen hills lapped across the barren landscape like a tattered and worn wool blanket. The hills fell at the feet of glaciers. I could not wait to get down there, to be right up the hulking icy beast. I found a break in a lava bed and set up camp on tamped pea gravel. After a long day of 35 miles, I ate dinner plopped down on the gravel. The midnight sun rose and the rays funnel through the clouds. It was warm out, the wind still. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I woke up early to a brittle wind. The temp had dropped a tiny bit but with the frigid wind the temp hovered around freezing. I got up anyways. Low stratus clouds hung low in the sky but I still had views. I forged ahead into the windswept plateau. The going was straightforward enough. I followed a four-wheel drive track that weaved in and over the ashen hills. The Vatnajökull Ice Cap loomed to the east like something so much bigger than anything surrounding me. The low clouds stifled the illusion of something monumental. But, if you traced your eyes along the angle of rise, you knew a behemoth stood there. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I enjoyed the desolate plateau. Even though one could get dispirited out here in the emptiness, I relished it. This type of environment is what gets me going, gets me psyched. The wide open expanse fills my mind with wonder. I rock back and forth with sublime bewilderment. Give me a horizon and I can barely contain myself. The wind whipped a cold air onto any exposed skin chilling me a bit. I stumbled upon skyline lakes, silver potholes that reflected the sky. I found small streams that tumbled over small ledges into which flattened out in dishpan sinks. Little pink pompom blossoms poked out of the gravel cement and brought me immense joy. Oh, how life finds a way. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I ran into three bikepackers riding across the island from east to west. We chatted at the bridge of the Skjalfandafljot River, a cerulean blue glacial fed torrent. The trio hailed from Iowa. We chatted briefly about our own adventure. Where we came from, where we started, how long; that sort of thing. After we parted ways, I dreamily watched them pedal away into the rolling volcanic expanse. I thought of the bikepacking trip the length of South America in the near future. I longed for the Altiplano again. I dreamt of the Andes. Either way, I took a breather at a breathtaking waterfall to gather the moment back. While I obtained the present, the falls fell off a break in the mulched layer of thick rock, on top piled with gravelly pumice rock, moon dust. The glacial blue water rippled right before the river cascaded over a couple ledges. The river appeared harmonious just before plummeting over the precipice in a fury. Some of the water funneled into chutes, the whitewater crashing terrifically. Once back in the main channel, the river carved its way through a mangled canyon. I left after a spell, all here and about, and headed back into the bleak gray hills. <br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I attained a huge basin. The scenery opened up dramatically and a long trek ensued across the emaciated plains. As usual, the lazily meandering stream was highlighted by neon electric green. I enjoyed following the curves of the serpentine stream, a long thin snake wiggling its way across the basin. At the head of the basin, a pass afforded an overlook over an enormous caldera. Suddenly, it was apparent a colossal artist had swathed and streaked the taller mountains circling the caldera. Yea, is it not funny how we compare new places to familiar and loved places. The caldera and the ochre painted mountains struck me as the San Juans, that huge volcanic area between Lake City and Silverton. The view was mesmerizing and sweepingly stunning.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The colors changed; the moon transformed from gray and bleak to whimsical and dreamy. The ice cap crept closer in a crisp haze, ethereal as a phantasm. From the pass and I said goodbye to the lunar landscape I had been apart of for some time. To the south an entirely different terrain appeared. I strode across braided glacial river and towards the mini San Juans. Up and over a mound of soft tuff I stumbled onto a punchy tundra. Trodding on a fleshy and muddy floodplain, I watched my footprints disappear behind me. Suddenly, a squall came quickly in, the neon green moss and pointy volcanic cones consumed by the smearing squall. I ascended a pass as the wind raged, whipped, and thrashed, the ululating breath of an uncontrollable wind traversing an island. I didn’t last long at the top. I nearly galloped down the sandy slopes, plunge stepping my way down through obsidian flakes. With a sense of urgency, I propped my tarp up at a somewhat buffeted camp. I gazed across the foggy valley with a seriously furrowed brow and became confused. Patches of snowfields up on the northerly flanks of rounded mountains appeared like drifting cotton ball clouds, out of place, lonesome. The curtains of mist caused a distortion of place and elevation, even more so in my mind having been so wind-lashed. I thought I was dreaming.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I fought the burly wind throughout the night. What buffeted camp I thought I had turned to shit once the wind shifted. Instead of blowing into my lower foot box, the wind funneled into my taller front end. I constantly keep an ear and eye open in thinking my tarp was no match for the menacing wind. I tripped out at the noise from the outside open air. Funneling fingers of twisting wind spiraled in a trajectory right off to the sides of my tent, like phantasms of bleakness shot through its own sucking gravity. After a crazy gust blew two front stakes out I re-pitched my tarp. I stormed up to the trail nearby in my skivvies and grabbed a wooden trail stake. I used that as the lower end pitch. I doubled up my taller front end with my trekking poles, with one of the poles now in-collapsable after the string on the inside of the poles untied somehow. I liked many more lava boulders on each stake to hunker down. No way was I not getting any restless sleep. I laid down again and waited. A funneling finger wrecked past. Another pushed and sucked through. All the sails withstood the tempest. And, then I woke up a few hours later ready to trample the moon dust in vigor, rested and fueled. I braved the night, as silly as that seems. But, in emptiness one must find a way to shelter oneself.<br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I crossed the first major river within a mile or so from camp. The luster of the silver hills drew me in, a metallic sheen of magnetism that pulled at me. I knew I would have some killer wanderings through those desolate hills. I roved through and every once in a while I would glance back and spot my footprints in the compacted gravel. To me, each step crunching and punching into the gravel felt kind of like that 80s metal pin impression gizmo thingy. The morning sun his behind swirling veils of gossamer clouds. The lighting distorted the distances, light shimmered on the horizon. I exited the hills down a narrow ravine and crossed a milky river at a dark blue tributary, the mixing of the waters bizarre as the dark blue resembled a shadow cast from a tall bank. The splicing of the dark blue stream propelled me even deeper into the world of illusion in the Icelandic Central Highlands, the perfect representation of a Salvador Dali painting.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I continued trudging up the remote wide valley. Isolation permeated through the crisp light and bubbling waters. Soft pumice mounds, detritus from a receding glacier—-this is what a golf course must look like in its construction pre-lawns, fairways and greens. Silviculture aside, isolation continued to permeate this adventure. I simply need large doses of isolation in a very big place. No person around for miles and miles; when I need to decompress I need as much head discs as possible. I get so drawn to places like this and at the same time so repelled by cities or just crowds. Up onto the high plateau I could visualize the path of the receding ice cap, the swath of bleached and grounded rock and ash a snail trail. Soft-piled dunes spread out in a chaotic mess like piles of dirty laundry stacked randomly about. Turquoise tarns filled sinking potholes, gems on that tattered and worn gray wool, those filthy piles of laundry. It was like walking through a humongous gravel pit. The receding of the glacier dredged the rock, scraped and plied the rock into bits. Scree piles and dunes laid as detritus from a churlish moving beast that ate everything in its path. The bigger rock within the piles was worn and smooth, unlike the lava rock in the lava beds. A smooth tarnish colored the texture of millions of rock punched into the black dust.<br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I kept close to the glacier, hugging the ice cap in my meandering navigation. I knew I had some very large river crossings and I wanted to either hit the bigger braiding parts or have a chance to cross any torrent along the glacial edge. Soon enough, I encountered the Svedja River. I did not linger long as my gaze became swept away in the hypnotic raging current. I would start my gaze upriver and follow a contours of rolling waves of murky water. I traced the crest of the waves and spied the spindrift splashing out of my periphery. The chocolate shake slop blended passed me and my neck turned quickly to trace to flow downriver. I snapped out of it quickly and went for it. About 75 yards across I stepped onto the cobbled banks minutes later. Even though the river reached my belly I never felt out of control. I forged across like a bear, the only casualty the bottom part of the broken trekking pole. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I crossed a couple more channels of turgid waters until I hit another large dishpan basin. The roar of the Svedja River barreled downhill off to the right of me as I discovered a swath of drifted sand that led me between some high hills and a massive lava field. Suddenly coming in from my left out of the hills I encountered a set of footprints. I traced the line coming down and out of the huge sandy hills. I thought to myself that whoever this was must have crossed where I crossed but instead went directly into the hills rather than around them like I had done. Above where I had crossed a the river cut through chasm adjacent to the hills. Above even that a glacier shouldered the high sandy hills like a lumbering backpack. My curiosity piqued. As if shipwrecked I had just discovered another’s existence.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">For miles I weaved in the seam of soft sand between the tall hills and the sprawling lava beds. The sand sifted with my cleaving shoes and made for slow-going. Yet, the labyrinthine movement in my little hideaway was very entertaining. Around every bend something new would appear. And with each sighting of a new bend I would be enticed by another new discovery. I was simply exploring and wandering like a child. This brought me immense joy.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The pointy cone of Syori-Haganga became a trusty companion for most of the day, a directional cue, a beacon to reference from my position. Near the southern end of the hills the ice cap came back into view. The lava beds jammed up into the recesses of the sandy highlands. I almost backtracked in a sense to get around the incorrigible lava field. From a bluff, I looked out over the impenetrable lava field and I could see the movement of what the lava was when it was alive and growing and consuming. I crossed the lava on craggy fissures and breaks in the crests hopping over caverns that looked as if the floor had collapsed during the cooling process. I found myself on top of the hills looking down onto the lava field. I headed towards the direction of the ice cap.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">After some intentional wandering, I found the jeep track that led to an emergency hut. I had gotten in some 25 miles or so from camp at this point and reaching the jeep track meant I could ‘slow-roll’ it into camp. The rugged track snaked through remnants of lava. I popped in a podcast thinking I could use a break from all the tasks and shift into cruise control. I mean, the weather was great, the sun shining over patchy puffy clouds, some easy navigation ahead…all is good. I curved along a big bend in the road and then I saw it. A huge bombastic river boiled over a waterfall. The tremendous roar louder than anything I had heard up to this point since Dettifoss. I gulped for a second and hoped there was no way in hell that I would have to cross that beast. I glanced at my three separate maps and none had the river marked. Maybe it is the Jokulkambur River, a glacier that is a part of the Vatnajökull Ice Cap. I hiked on towards what I fretted would be a crossing to investigate. At the road crossing, I stood in awe, literally my jaw dropped. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The colossal river raged maniacally, a muddy chocolate menace with unbelievable furor. I was stunned, dumbfounded, but shelved any emotional contrivances aside. I needed to focus. I took a couple deep breaths and strode in to test the power. I tried near the crossing of the jeep track and the turgid river quickly rose up to my thighs. The force of the river almost swept me away right then and there. I retreated.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I hiked upriver towards that crazy waterfall I saw earlier. Silty opaque whitewater crashed into the rocky layers. Some of the sides of the channel crumbled. The river must have been at a high point. I stayed patient. I sobered up. I would go as high up to the braids as possible. I went around and up the terrifying waterfall on river right. I couldn’t cross it anywhere near where I was at or up in the distance at first studying glare. I needed to continue to go upriver where I would hopefully find even wider braiding. About a mile further up I tested the river again at a wide channel. Same results, no dice; retreat. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The waves did not show the power as downriver yet I couldn’t trust the depths in the murkiness. I went up another two miles or so and thought I saw a way. From a rise I could see the milky glacial river braiding and splitting the raging and boiling waters almost down to rapid ripples. I continued clambering over the chunky terrain and crossed flood zones and flooded inlets. I scouted a spot after several minutes. I stood at the cobbled bank and waterproofed some items. The torrent at this spot didn’t seem as nearly dangerous as the Svedja crossing. So, I went for it. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Halfway across the murky chocolate waters the sheer powerful force pushed me down river, my feet scraping into the loamy sandy bottom. I pushed back, fought and battled. I only had one trekking pole to use since I lost the bottom half of my other pole at Svedja. I could feel that I had no control, utterly no strength to combat the incredible force pounding me. I was submerged up to my chest in a raging churlish sea. I recognized I was so insignificant and my efforts were so futile I tried to skid my way back over towards the bank I had come from, kind of glissading my way over. I was so close to the sandbar, too. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I tried to backtrack with the skidding technique but I kept getting pushed down. One wave crashed over me as my feet sank into the liquefied bottom. I gasped loudly as the shock of the water hit my core. I turned my neck and saw some rapids about to come up. I turned my head back and got slammed by a wave. The current swept my feet out from under me and I went down. I tried to force my poles at severe angles to hold me up. I went down further and dunked. In a flash of clarity, I knew what was going on. I flipped around on my back with my feet forward. If I was going to be caught I needed to ride it out. In that moment, that moment I could write into years, that moment that was actually s split second, I consciously decided to flip over and ride the rapids feet first. This maneuver probably saved my life.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I don’t know how I hadn’t submerge completely. Maybe it was my lightweight backpack. I could feel myself bobbing. My head bobbed along the surface. The rapids neared quickly. My zippered half neck gulped a ton of water and shockingly struck my core. My feet kicked trudging water out of the way. I dug my heels into the ground and skated. It all was chaotic! I can just recall trying to figure it out, processing things monumentally fast. I can vivid recall clearly an overwhelming feeling of focus and calm. This was my life at the moment and I was living it thoroughly. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, my feet hit a boulder. I nearly straight shot up. I had traction and a secure foothold now. Miraculously, my lone trekking pole stayed clasped in my hand. I reached out to river right to feel the bottom, the depth. I was about 10 yards from the bank. I jabbed my pole around into the dark waters and poked a sand bar. I forged my way over to the bank, stomping and clawing and fighting my way over. If there was a wall in front of me I would destroy it. I fought and fought. Finally, I clambered up. I was out! But, I didn’t have time to dally. I was hyperventilating from the cold. My limbs singe with a burning cold, tingling. I was aware what was happening but I was freezing. I mean fucking freezing. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I started marching upriver. I needed to move a bit normally, like a walking locomotion, to maintain my composure from the sheer cold I was experiencing. So many thoughts began to run through my head. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">[Set up camp? Get warm? Where? Fuck me, there’s no coverage…I need to get warm, set up camp you idiot, no…keep moving dammit]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I focused in on my breathing which was vigorously heaving in and out. My eyes bulge out of my head. Two breaths in through my nose, one forceful breath out my mouth. Repeatedly, I did this. I felt my heart rate decrease, the pulse throbbing like a loud drum in my head. My eyes receded back into their sockets.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">[I can’t stop, keep going…cross this bitch. C’mon… breathe…C’mon keep moving…go go go]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">[Never let me die on a regular hill…the river boils when it sees me…I am not giving up…move you bastard…C’mon]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I stopped quickly and threw on my rain gear. I needed to trap in some heat and needed a barrier against the cold headwind coming off the glacier. I quickly inventoried my gear and checked my phone. I noticed my gear looked relatively in tact except for my sunnies. My phone was fine. I marched. I needed to rejuvenate heat. I trained in on a plan. I was determined to cross this river. I aimed for the glacier another two miles up. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">[Head down…breathe deeply, get the eyes back in the sockets…go go go!] </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">My sleeves streamed out water. I couldn’t believe how drenched I was. Sounds crazy but I was 10x wetter than I could ever fathom. I was 10x colder than that too! With my head down breaking the wind, I got to a channel and crossed it. A small waterfall spilled through icy chutes. I looked up and I was at the glacier. Beautiful and mesmerizing, my mouth opened in wonder. I looked off to my right and the glacial river absolutely raged out from under an ice cave, as strong as any current I had seen. I scanned the glacier above the ice bridge…walkable. Soot and grit covered the glacier. I knew I would have traction, which I needed because I was so stiff and nearly immobile from the cold to do any type of nimble agility. I reached my eyes far over the icy arete splitting the two channels. The other one roared as loudly as the one in front of me but I saw a way around it. I dove into a deep focus. I felt alive and on a mission, driven with purpose, exploration of my depths—-fucking survival. <br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I stepped onto the glacier and began scaling and hopping over huge ice chunks. Bright blue water sculpted long ribbons and chutes, the melting ice glistening and sparkling. A whole new planet enchanted me as anything I had ever seen. One part chaos end destruction, the other part fairytale. I hopped between rivulets, scaled the arete and crossed the muddy liquefied flats to the banks of the second torrent. The ice bridge here was less in tact, so I had to go higher up on the glacier. I maneuvered my way around safely and hit an unseen channel. Wide and doable, I crossed through the icy waters, occasionally my feet sinking up to mid calf in the liquefied mud. Actually, the mud caked my shoes and trapped in the heat I had worked up. I slopped my way through…finally land ho!</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Once on permanent land, I continued to March in gravely hills and dunes. I still needed to get warmer. Now, however, I could ring out my gloves as water continued to stream down my sleeves. Dexterity came back to my hands, warmth developed through my movement, and the wind was now at my back. I gained some hope. Out of nowhere those same footprints came in off from the right through the labyrinth of dunes. This sighting brought me tremendous spirit! Whoever this was had needed to do nearly the same thing I had just done. I just hope whoever it was didn’t have an encounter like I had experienced.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I found a couple of large potholes and gulped some water. I reached into my pack and tore into a snickers bar. I knew now I needed to manage everything else. I was now easily over the 30 mile mark and I wasn’t going to stop until I got more or less dry and thawed out. Then, I hit a lava field. It felt endless, painstakingly so. Still determined as anything, I tackled it head on. Actually, the navigating was easy enough and the lava not too jagged and widespread, I found sandy corridors with volcanic scoria punched in. It made for some pain-in-ass ankle-busting hiking, but this got me warmer. I fell into the trance of walking with the crunch underfoot, the rock and pebbles and dust swishing hypnotically. Under the leeward side of a lava bulge I finally stopped in earnest for a break. I tinged out my socks and my layers. I ate another snickers bar. I had been navigating by my internal interpretation of the land. My paper maps were tattered and drenched. I checked my map and GPS on my phone. I was dead on target. I checked the time and I had been at it since I first saw the river for 3 hours. I looked ahead for any potential water sources. I needed a couple more hours of hiking in to call it a day.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">A short while later I found the jeep track. I sighed a huge exhale in some sort of relief. About two hours later I found a small steam and filled up my bottled. I then found refuge under a pile of lava wedged between a bluff on a flat spot in a wash. I set up camp and began the thorough inventory of my gear and assessing my body. My hands had tiny cuts all over them. My fingertips singed with an electric numbness. My shoes and socks were filled with black soot. My left knee hurt, my wrists— both prolly from bracing the force of the water. I had some minor bruises on my shins. My fingertips incessantly tingled and the tiny cuts on my hands burned. I found more scrapes at various spots on my hands and arms. I couldn’t fathom how that happened. I replayed the scene over and over. I couldn’t have scraped the bottom, could I? I was pretty certain I hadn’t because it was so deep. Did I have some symptoms of frostbite? </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Everything inside my backpack was unscathed and dry. My phone was good to go, too. My paper maps had shredded at this point. My lighter was flooded and rendered inoperable. Everything had black soot on it, a fine black dust when dried. I kept my rain jacket on and slipped into my silk liner. I unenthusiastically ate a cold dinner of spicy couscous and mashers. I just knew after the day I had had I needed the calories. I had pushed and fought nearly 40 miles that day. Too bad the meal wasn’t hot. I was more or less dry at that point and I longed for a long sleep in a warm quilt and liner. I hoped my body heat would dry everything else off. I nestled my eye cover on and closed my eyes. My ears rang, or a resounding ringing in my head pulsed and throbbed, like I had my bell rung. I must be coming down, I thought. I took two inhales through the nose and one deep breath out the mouth. I did this a couple times and the ringing quieted some, not a lot, just some. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I woke up with the sun angled low in the sky and it blared into my shelter. I felt the warmth on my foot box. My fingers still tingled though. My cuts stung and oozed. I needed to mind the hands. I reached for my lighter and gave it a scuff. Money. I took a breath of relief and boiled some water for coffee. The night had been still unlike the previous night, hardly a breeze. I slept soundly, as well, unlike the previous night. I hardly woke up. I must’ve been exhausted, guaranteed.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The way through got fairly easy and I knew I left the crux long behind me. I got to an intersection near a hut. A sign post lettered ‘Impassable‘ mark the way I just came from. I chuckled aloud: hell no it ain’t. The day ensued in an anticlimactic kind of day, especially after the dramatics of the previous day. The way prices to be straightforward, some walking on soft moon dust. Some driving mist cooled me off, nothing too crazy. The hard part was finding camp, finding a windbreak of some sort. I had to hike a few extra miles to find a secure somewhat covered alcove in some pumice hills. I could feel the end nearing. I would reach Landmannalauger soon, the start of the famous Laugavegur Track. From there I would be 2-3 days out from finishing.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjq2qm-rzksj-r42XTjUt1a2vnRlgytQ5XsURwy4-eQYjg8E2YTdMrm4SA-rg29duK9t5pPKKNrl6h5zhLVX_lWVPEdUNBd01H_F9qBaRSliv6TBl3dKapxrqHu4JjoQw86721HgvEKaF72KTU7DK935WoKYgryq1q9_XBPfUE3coKJSfsOFMCaypVLco/s1440/B3ED4520-13D8-4070-8E68-AFF0E23C92B2.jpg" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjq2qm-rzksj-r42XTjUt1a2vnRlgytQ5XsURwy4-eQYjg8E2YTdMrm4SA-rg29duK9t5pPKKNrl6h5zhLVX_lWVPEdUNBd01H_F9qBaRSliv6TBl3dKapxrqHu4JjoQw86721HgvEKaF72KTU7DK935WoKYgryq1q9_XBPfUE3coKJSfsOFMCaypVLco/w400-h300/B3ED4520-13D8-4070-8E68-AFF0E23C92B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I took the most sense so and logical way into Landmannalauger. As I neared, the scenery completely changed and spired knobs and cones popped up all around me. Hordes of vehicles drove by. Dust and particulate matter filled the sky. Even so, the striking scene was startling. Each cone resembled dusty chia pets, the mountains covered in a pale sage colored moss and that covered in dust. The pale sage moss glowed with a regal furry eminence, a royal pet. I wanted to bounce on the furriness of the slopes. Trails appeared and I left the road for good and climbed dome after dome. From the last summit before Landmannalauger, a lunar outpost appeared. This was the camp, and it looked as busy and as colorful as Everest Basecamp.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I found a quiet patch of grass within the colorful masses. I quickly set up and headed to the Mountain Mall for some grub. Three school buses painted army green position in a three-sided formation had it all. A really cool vibe, warmth, and quiet. I chilled in a cozy bus listening to Icelandic music and old funk. I was in the bus with the two young Icelandic workers. They were much younger than me but we had similar music taste. We got into some engaging conversation even going into music sampling. We played The Clash’s Straight to Hell, an all-timer for me. We then got into an engaging conversation about the toxicity of the US, how most people are now afraid of Americans because we’re simply assholes and bullies. I wish we can see ourselves from the outside looking in. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I digress, but I sat there with the two Icelanders for about an hour, ate a couple of hot dogs, listened to punk and funk, and just straight up chilled. I left reluctantly because I had enjoyed being there and I didn’t want to go out into the horde of tourists. But, I found a picnic table away from the middle, the perfect observation spot. I grabbed a couple of warm pilsners and sat in the sun. I dried my shoes and socks out. I closed my eyes and indulged the surplus of sunshine. I people-watched and laughed to myself observing the backpackers dressed like mountaineers. How silly they looked to me. I enjoyed listening to so many different languages being spoken at one time. I was in a very happy moment. I slurped the beer, loosened my shoulders, felt the chap on my face smoothen, and I felt grateful I had survived that river crossing. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">The Laugavegur Track is a world famous trek. At 55km it packs world class scenery in carrying and changing volcanic landscapes. Hordes of tourists hike the route whether independently or with a tour group. Posh huts and outposts are scattered out every 8-10 miles. I figured to either do it in a day or lay up at the last campsite before Porsmark. I would decide during the trek depending on the crowds. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Up out of camp, right off the bat, you are up in the lava fields and steam vents witnessing the marvel of vulcanology. The trail roller-coastered over an undulating rugged landscape. I just hammered it. I was in a playground with my fitness level. I was practically running. To move swiftly through a landscape like this, negotiating tough obstacles, just motivates the shit out of me. It’s like I can’t stop. I was amazed at how the huge snowfields clung to soft precariously steep slopes. The fields hung in tucked ravines, dusted over, dirty. I got ahead of the hikers leaving Landmannalauger, so I had the trail to myself all the way to the first hut. After the second hut, the scenery opened up and huge rolling mountains rimmed the wide basin. Plumes of steam billowed in the distance. The terrain changed color again and gave that San Juan ochre streaking appearance. What a marvel gazing into a painted landscape. The colors of the soil and terrain mixed with bright whites and tans, brown and mauve and magenta, sepia brown and burnt orange, smoky taupe, smears of cobalt blue dispersed as if thrown over the shoulder at random.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I passed loads of people but I was having so much I wasn’t bothered or crowded. I skipped along with glee. At a lofty pass, a shockingly green valley ranged widely below, the cliffs falling precipitously away from the mangled glaciated and volcanic landscape. Below looked ornate, decorated as if the symmetrical cones were figurines placed by an aesthetician. I couldn’t believe the picaresque view. I scurried down the scree-lined zigzagging trail and headed to the next hut. I ate lunch at the hut with a couple of Pakistani blokes who reside in New Jersey and a pair of Icelandic bikepackers. We dove into lightweight gear and I admired the sleek streamlined set up of the young bikepackers. It was exciting to pick their brains and then pick mine. The Pakistani fellows brought the humor and I enjoyed their company. I got to admit sidling up to the cafe at the posh hut I slurped up the steaming mushroom soup and hot cup of coffee with eager pleasure. Fuck it, I thought, let’s mash it out. That valley I saw from the vista, yea, the track wended around the cones atop volcanic plains. Around every bend and cone another close up beautiful view would enter my line of sight. I felt like a giant running a cones course. At Porsmark, I met the bikepackers again. We did the same track with them a few hours quicker. They had to hike-a-bike up a lot of the steep ascents, even some of the sketchy descents. I grabbed another warm pilsner and shot the shit with them. I stayed up later than usual. I didn’t close my eyes until sunset, almost 1130pm.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">I felt excited to wake up the next day and finish the crossing of Iceland. It has been a perfect adventure—-me against the land; me connecting with the land; endurance, living in each precious moment. I even just felt confident, social, open to the world. Such a sweeping opposite feeling and headspace than the aloof person I was on the Bibbulmun Track. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;">Atop the main ridge leading to the crestline the hazy illumination of the glaciers in the refulgent atmosphere, I had an incredible panorama. I knew it literally was all downhill from that point on. I stopped for one last long break. I wondered if the haze was pyroclastic dust adorning the glaciers. I looked back to the north and the platinum atmosphere walled up in the near distance. The whole trip flashed before my eyes. My vastness I had been a part of was gone. I rubbed my cut fingers. A few blisters had developed, my fingertips still buzzing. I had jam packed a big adventure out here in such a short time. The air tinkled with misty clouds from the offshore flow. Maybe it was from the active erupting volcano west of here? Bah, why indulge further when the southern coast was in sight? Why indulge further when I could reflect when I am completely done. I tumbled and spiraled down the mountain and finally hit the astonishingly beautiful Skogar River canyon. Huge waterfall and huge waterfall appeared, an endless tantalization. What a way to finish. Of course, the Skogafoss Waterfall parking lot was a spectacle of tourist trap, an amusement park. I grabbed a bite to eat, some real food in a real restaurant. Then, I hurried down to the ocean to finish.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh92CdiIdvUUX9advTlDC4SbZnUtDsiI70AsYLSVmBHfHRDs31fNBi5ijY6ulFh68YB9N-OPai-rMTZ0d9m8X5SDPZqtMpZuzQa4twlgKJnmVPdmb0d0FnOWSztEr5EI3tJ1C8tIgYeYcLVAgHY0o01E06PJzKdAZXJC6tJkEfL3KkG7pkXjKsB7Qa_sE/s4032/IMG_1726.HEIC" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh92CdiIdvUUX9advTlDC4SbZnUtDsiI70AsYLSVmBHfHRDs31fNBi5ijY6ulFh68YB9N-OPai-rMTZ0d9m8X5SDPZqtMpZuzQa4twlgKJnmVPdmb0d0FnOWSztEr5EI3tJ1C8tIgYeYcLVAgHY0o01E06PJzKdAZXJC6tJkEfL3KkG7pkXjKsB7Qa_sE/w400-h300/IMG_1726.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGmLEpsV1K98VicoDzBhBfngSpGZxO58jXrT2J2ZvMV6COnY33Aq0u4zzBXyiUsghUNKylGJhpaZ3XiEdySD0aYR3pDmZsrXYFJezUucWMmMuIfxk8-dBH37tVrmyTbDv-m-JRZn3_XHlF3-EBUCVyamL_2NEWfzgnOOaa1dTfRzhlVp6AkSuNkDH-Es/s4032/IMG_1845.HEIC" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGmLEpsV1K98VicoDzBhBfngSpGZxO58jXrT2J2ZvMV6COnY33Aq0u4zzBXyiUsghUNKylGJhpaZ3XiEdySD0aYR3pDmZsrXYFJezUucWMmMuIfxk8-dBH37tVrmyTbDv-m-JRZn3_XHlF3-EBUCVyamL_2NEWfzgnOOaa1dTfRzhlVp6AkSuNkDH-Es/w400-h300/IMG_1845.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilR2IM27IYAF16ZTwOBNd5SYOAqNHg70IDm3Jvh2C68wl0gA6M6DWSIKMU-BIoKBcvQEmodqfQ88pVChKvcnRGIbIHTwton_a13-Mv2ZJ-o1jwmO4HAcocWBwUrc2B4fUCow-WOGXnTNhjVrLVuk1ycuokedCGzzIjyYVBZ18y6AIyx6TY7z2_wXbJKa8/s4032/IMG_1846.HEIC" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilR2IM27IYAF16ZTwOBNd5SYOAqNHg70IDm3Jvh2C68wl0gA6M6DWSIKMU-BIoKBcvQEmodqfQ88pVChKvcnRGIbIHTwton_a13-Mv2ZJ-o1jwmO4HAcocWBwUrc2B4fUCow-WOGXnTNhjVrLVuk1ycuokedCGzzIjyYVBZ18y6AIyx6TY7z2_wXbJKa8/w400-h300/IMG_1846.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-15646828214295991662023-07-01T16:44:00.001-07:002023-07-01T16:44:26.366-07:00Whales: OZ<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Whales:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNFU2euYa1JUmxyARds4Q-_UB3GFI4bTAgceCpS9CE0lpjsXYM6r8g5JLJ5p09KGrpAYpUuv8ppjbRrBkZZRiS8GAp999t1s5F1BL-0KXtIOl4hr8EPm--52kx7hotSTtvYJQ9K2pL7HPptS4MOs-OgWzMuv-rd3UvEVGjpOKdeGo_qN-va-gsX059aY/s4032/IMG_1085.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNFU2euYa1JUmxyARds4Q-_UB3GFI4bTAgceCpS9CE0lpjsXYM6r8g5JLJ5p09KGrpAYpUuv8ppjbRrBkZZRiS8GAp999t1s5F1BL-0KXtIOl4hr8EPm--52kx7hotSTtvYJQ9K2pL7HPptS4MOs-OgWzMuv-rd3UvEVGjpOKdeGo_qN-va-gsX059aY/w400-h300/IMG_1085.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There are dreams and then there is reality. Life can be blurred like a drip into a still glassy pond, ripples extending through an imagined time forthwith like the fronds of a palm. Life is as confusing as mixing alcohol. You think you know why you do it yet regret the double cross as soon as you wake up, the morning swirling with malcontent, vomit, and piss. Life is crystal, sublime like an alpine ridge after a surging thunderstorm passes through. Life tingles. Life imagines possibilities and impossibilities. Life takes a shit on you. Swallows you up. Or life is something you binge. Life is real, life is fake; who am I to make the discernment. I might rather live with my head in the clouds as long as my feet are touching ground. Luckily, I’m tall enough to span the gap between dreams and reality. Nonetheless, the different versions are endless.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Isn’t that, though, the beauty of it all. Really, isn’t it the surprise of all when the surprise hits least expectedly? Isn’t that the beauty of it? Pilfering through life’s choices I can trace the twist and turns through the imprint of my memory that is timestamped on my dreams. I understand where I have been, yet I fumble with the understanding of why I have been where I have been when I have been where I was. I honestly feel a little duped by the disguises of the twist and turns even though those twist and turns I use to guide my way. What is blurry is the actions of people around me and not so much the occurrences of randomness. Even though people are more ambiguous and impermanent than randomness, I have faith in what is random, of what I cannot control. Simply because I can adapt to the nature of something with my own nature. We humans change and morph constantly. We are incredibly malleable beings filled with emotions and morals that ebb and flow like the tide. Yet, we are the same, sterile and predictable. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ6GAvY6BUZEC6i0AfeQl0M5DqFDQJFuwT9q5ws_hWDyJBJytgzmldmyACcJughM9HHrVUeRnmNj3Rw2bC30L1dQUgQdClVxeD1d_PEC_oMmf0yptEOVjbPeIolaaceq6QaXOe9qXN0xIDuwOfPtcVdZtrSc-XCTBaoAliw_VcXRTaPaX8cSVwGHhOMs/s1440/5A2FC849-1233-457C-82F9-52999ADD823B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ6GAvY6BUZEC6i0AfeQl0M5DqFDQJFuwT9q5ws_hWDyJBJytgzmldmyACcJughM9HHrVUeRnmNj3Rw2bC30L1dQUgQdClVxeD1d_PEC_oMmf0yptEOVjbPeIolaaceq6QaXOe9qXN0xIDuwOfPtcVdZtrSc-XCTBaoAliw_VcXRTaPaX8cSVwGHhOMs/w400-h300/5A2FC849-1233-457C-82F9-52999ADD823B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I write this in my own rubber room. As fragile, ambiguous, ever-changing and concretely the same as everyone else. Yet, why do I feel I live in a completely different world than everyone else? Maybe it is because I have been traveling solo for so long. I still have these curiosities of why we are the way we are, not just presently. I still have the pratfalls of delving into the past and looking at an event from afar. I dive into solutions that do not matter, that will not provide me with a different answer. I explore different corridors that have dead ends. I explore pain within. And, then I look up and I’m out in the world moving forward with whatever route choices are in front of me. I marvel at the fruition of a dream. I am so grateful for the pursuit and, now, I almost do not know where to go from here. Not in a lost kind of sense rather introspectively I merely see a blurry horizon. All I can think about is the arrangement of my life to continue to pursue my other dreams. Where does South America fit? How can I hike across Europe in the ‘off years?’ When will Africa be? Central Asia? Mongolia? The Himalaya? My mind drifts to these places and the arrangements of time because I am a dreamer. Yet like waking up from a dream I am putting together this journey across Australia into my own discernment slowly, very slowly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I do not think I have ever been taught how to process a dream. I am treating it like an experience. I mean it is. But, it feels different. I am treating it like an experience that has actually occurred. Shit, who knows. Maybe I still hold a fear from going out in the world and living my dreams. I do know that that fear is never bigger than the fear of living a normal life. Maybe this shit is all in my head. Then again, maybe this is all to fuckin’ real. I need to start understanding the new way I have chosen to live. Maybe I need to present it to the universe. I cannot hide behind my dreams anymore when I am in the actual pursuit of them. Bah, hell…traveling cures all this wandering of the mind. I will go as far as I can go, all the way. As long as this body holds up, all the way. I am committed to that—to my dreams, my travels; to my body, my spirit, unapologetically, unabashedly, fully. All the way, the dreams I have, all the way. I see no other way.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLtH3QIFHIVTV34_KwEqY-GOrZbRyK43CCZwkDeWigBEcR_gpVQsM24COrJfHOT5vSQFOvG3xTNyiEg56iu2TOyhpnMpO3p9DhocmpxOesXeakGeqJE-wjpOEwDDkjkpoys8lFTa8HlrDEThIycrB52azbsGRiUX4STmaSmZjxM_SSYq8N9OCfS-3JJ0/s4032/IMG_0992.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLtH3QIFHIVTV34_KwEqY-GOrZbRyK43CCZwkDeWigBEcR_gpVQsM24COrJfHOT5vSQFOvG3xTNyiEg56iu2TOyhpnMpO3p9DhocmpxOesXeakGeqJE-wjpOEwDDkjkpoys8lFTa8HlrDEThIycrB52azbsGRiUX4STmaSmZjxM_SSYq8N9OCfS-3JJ0/w400-h300/IMG_0992.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stood atop a spit of granite rocks that splayed out into a cove nestled between the hilly bluffed land and the deep blue ocean. The waves gently rolled in and flooded the granite potholes with every incoming flow. The ancient granite rock seemed out of place, as if connected to a foreign land. Out in the bay, roiling waves crashed amongst submerged and naked rocky outcrops. Free of sand, the surf cloaked the the granite rocky protrusions like a cape. The constant pounding of the rolling waves created a whitewater tumult of suds. The waves lumped atop the submerged outcrop and spliced into ribbons forming whirling eddies. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wanted to jump in to cool off, clean my body. That felt like a natural impulse. I felt the need to rid myself of something with the saltiness of the ocean. The thought of brining myself seemed like a scraping of the dead skin I have been carrying. I could soak in a brine and seep out whatever negative energy I had. The thought felt almost appetizing. But, a warmth of fear enveloped me and I hesitated. I stared into the swirling waters that ebbed from dark blue to turquoise. I timed the waves, the current of pulsing water, counting the propulsions. After a few minutes I shook with fear as if I was trembling with cold. I suddenly thought: just fuckin do it. I took a step back with my right foot. I prepared a lunge for the dive. My arms swung back to propel me forward out and away from the shelf of granite rock and into a deep waterhole. My eyes bulged, my heart raced pumping like pistons. I transferred all my weight to my toes ready to jump and dive. I counted down…3, 2… Then, a shadow loomed in from the depths. The shadow swum in so fluidly I startled back with fear. I stood back, on guard. I could tell this wasn’t a wave. I felt a presence. I peered over the ledge as the shadow ebbed back out and disappeared, the turquoise waters returning. As the next round came in the shadow reappeared. What is it? I thought. My knees trembled. I shivered. I held my stare in the waters transfixed enough to not run away. I was scared and curious at the same time. I watched the yawning of the underwater shadow, like an inverse pendulum. I could feel the weight of the shadow. Whatever it was I understood it to be huge. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, in the next roll, the shadow slowly came in and abruptly came to the surface with the tide. A giant whale, the deepest of blues I could imagine, plopped then slid onto the platform of granite. I backed up but sort of held my ground as I thought I had enough distance and height above the whale to be safe. The whale then slid back in the water. I craned my neck out over the ledge and the shadow jumped out with an enormous open maw that sucked the warmth out from me. I immediately felt cold and jumped back. The whale plopped onto the higher platform I was on. The whale squirmed towards me. I turned and ran, the whale wiggling and slithering in a hot terrestrial pursuit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I ran onto a large lawn and began zigzagging to deter the whale from snapping me up. Frantically, I ran around the park going in circles and zigzagging. The whale smartened up and waited in the middle of the park undeterred by the inundation of terrestrial air, as patient as a mountain. I came to a stop and realized what the whale was doing. Instantly, I realized I was the threat I had been afraid of and that the whale posed no harm to me. I crept over cautiously, nervously. A giant pitch black eye followed my movement and led me in with a vivacity of something you thought didn’t exist but actually did exist. The whale’s existence alone pumped hot blood through my body. I needed to touch it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">More or less stumbling over, I reached the whale. I reached out with both of my arms and planted my hands on the flank of the whale nearest the enormous eye that had led me in. I deeply gazed into pitch black eye. I time-traveled and saw the flash of my life. I felt an overwhelming power emanating from the whale, a strength beyond strengths. I pushed back and almost fell down. I felt strong, content, soothed, clear-headed. I felt like I peered into the depths of my soul in a flash of an instant. Then, the whale turned into an amorphous figure and grew two legs. The giant eye still attached the smaller and indistinguishable head of the figure. The blob absorbed the light in a brilliant spectrum of color, like a walking blurred rainbow. The figure walked back towards the rocky beach. Compelled to follow, I reluctantly took off my shoes and cast them aside. I could only now feel the reluctance letting go, like an attachment, or a lack of confidence. Yet I did take the shoes off without a fathom of doubt. I followed the whale barefoot back to the rocky platform. The amorphous figure sat down and melted into the granite, the giant eye filling a pothole. I sat down next the pothole retaining the eye and cupped the water and slurped from my palm. In a compulsion, I stood up and jumped into the ocean. I started swimming underwater feeling like I was swimming towards myself towards those sturdy submerged outcrops.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFOU-ZN3YoBV-R6JWF2QiaoIc0KYzW8oJ9aiDhyaCKdWkc0EPguA25jRDZnX527cD84X8OYAGX7XX6wL8ehRV8yeyo8dCpEFvYWWw1CqYu4Irlqm4RNuD2Y8yak6GvBltHIgg3VYw2wO6QXpqlpgQx0lKPTwNMhyBnMXmMTQd5Bpeyw-ELP5uzoeIpqs/s4032/IMG_1028.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFOU-ZN3YoBV-R6JWF2QiaoIc0KYzW8oJ9aiDhyaCKdWkc0EPguA25jRDZnX527cD84X8OYAGX7XX6wL8ehRV8yeyo8dCpEFvYWWw1CqYu4Irlqm4RNuD2Y8yak6GvBltHIgg3VYw2wO6QXpqlpgQx0lKPTwNMhyBnMXmMTQd5Bpeyw-ELP5uzoeIpqs/w400-h300/IMG_1028.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, I woke up. I packed my backpack, showered, ate a healthy breakfast, drank too much coffee, arranged storage for my duffel bag, and briskly walked over to the train station. The train departed and once above ground my eyes perked up alertly and all the color of the city sparkled tantalizingly in front of me. Perth shimmered in a royal blue as if basked in a terrarium skylight. The city twinkled in a silvery grey as tinsel dangling on a Christmas tree. I leaned back and thought about the whale. That’s all I could think about. I saw blips blinking past me, the blurry imaging of a speeding train on a still landscape. I saw all these things, yet all I could really envision was the dream of the whale. Like a movie screen I watched the dream in front of the blurry images speeding by. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The train and bus ride took all day. Throughout the lengthy journey, I would trace a thought to a winding corridor and gloss the feeling coming from the exploration. I knew everything would be alright. I craved movement, activity. I felt strong emotionally. A full day of travel, one half on train, the other on a bus, I was a passenger. I enjoyed watching the scenery—the tall forests, the tiny towns, and the streets of those tiny towns. I napped occasionally content with whatever was going to happen. I was along for the ride.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4eQ-p_noVnAPIqQ2gUZGMhYvbkOB4GRmUIrFcvbmo4S48dWMy8Bui-4GKkjgO9873EOK_NFCnxoVv7l0_KUWLDxNbTerpkXIp-KVol6p-kbEVHf_LWRIPEcEbyGE98VhB1JqOurOyxkwskLs_DbmkBCRzE_cL0HuDvD-QNmieZZVbzdDlsmDaWpMMFA/s4032/IMG_0980.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4eQ-p_noVnAPIqQ2gUZGMhYvbkOB4GRmUIrFcvbmo4S48dWMy8Bui-4GKkjgO9873EOK_NFCnxoVv7l0_KUWLDxNbTerpkXIp-KVol6p-kbEVHf_LWRIPEcEbyGE98VhB1JqOurOyxkwskLs_DbmkBCRzE_cL0HuDvD-QNmieZZVbzdDlsmDaWpMMFA/w400-h300/IMG_0980.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The southern terminus of the Bibbulmun Track is the town center of Albany. I moseyed on over after a very big breakfast, tapped the terminus sign and strolled out of town. No fanfare, no fuss. The track was easy enough, quite pleasant actually. Rolling trail undulated over giant dunes clad with trees and shrubs. I got my first view of the rugged coastline from atop a sandy knoll. I knew then I would very much enjoy the coastal walk. A coastal walk could affect one’s demeanor depending on the mood of the individual. The roaring waves evoke emotion. The ocean is ominous and can churn fear within while the mist can be refreshing, the waves soothing. At least to me anyways. The ocean conjures up deep rooted emotion, just comes to me in a swoon, a torrent, a flood, a thunderous rolling tide. As soon as I see the ocean I feel inundated with an internally powerful something of whatever, a lucid recognition of depths I can’t see otherwise. It’s the acknowledgment of the unknown that the ocean burns into me. I guess when I stood atop that sandy knoll I felt the urge to reflect, at least the urge to begin the reflection process. I felt ready for it, strong enough to deal with whatever would come up. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JEwm6aggdCGMoH7yELEqhVpzibxojAJIRCC2-mM3npldDvmAZm8YB3JSCwLSF8Bonx9-sqRjVY8szFyatcHVykYeFP1ijqPbx2TZ2mxLRk1CZmqEDO7h0PlMMJsXDEmHJRIFBU4GrN3ZZK2zSrFULcQrMr3vGk6Lz9yt--ZvS5dVnLPjr23RefbJRsM/s4032/IMG_1023.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JEwm6aggdCGMoH7yELEqhVpzibxojAJIRCC2-mM3npldDvmAZm8YB3JSCwLSF8Bonx9-sqRjVY8szFyatcHVykYeFP1ijqPbx2TZ2mxLRk1CZmqEDO7h0PlMMJsXDEmHJRIFBU4GrN3ZZK2zSrFULcQrMr3vGk6Lz9yt--ZvS5dVnLPjr23RefbJRsM/w400-h300/IMG_1023.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The trail continued to undulate over low lying hills atop the bluffs of a long thin beach. I kept the pace low and slow, just trying to find a rhythm. I stretched often, too. The day kept cool and cloudy so whatever effort I put in wasn’t overwhelming. I felt fine keeping things low and slow. I arrived to the Torbay Hut as the last bit of light fell away to the west. I met Dave and Mary in the dark under the canopy of the hut. A pleasantly friendly couple, I found out how adventurous they are, in particular on the bike. The Bibb was their first long hike while they have been on a couple very long bikepacking tours across Australia. This September they will be on a rugged and remote bikepacking route starting in South Africa and finishing in Namibia. We delved into bikepacking and bikepacking routes and long distance self-supported races. I asked them about their first time experience on a long distance hike. They had been enjoying the shift of pace versus the bike, very much so enjoying the slower pace of a hike. They would be taking nearly two months to accomplish the Bibb, at a leisurely and comfortable pace. They were definitely ready for it to be over but they understood what immersive mindset they were in. It would be hard to get adjusted afterwards, they knew. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">They were sensablists, that gear sweet spot between ultralight and midlight but more towards midlight. They took what they needed, carried lightweight and durable gear, sensible gear, all within the confines of their experience and comfort levels. They had a knack for travel and fun, you could tell just talking to them. I bet it must be all those bikepacking trips that helped them shave down unnecessary gear. Backpacking only refines that further. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUFozeqQQnwyDaGQhUmq3U5voqWudjKZd4s5N7jI5QNKOYRHzxVfkWKi6F_b39hFwvznWvyYKHi-qv0R7nsCQkysAfrSy4A2H9ssKhgnHMi0hcbAVdPhO_A6-Ybgl9NkgeUbRbgcn_0d5nvEZi8HbkoRL8xGiVCMDR3cC9_fsuhb1TZ7EA7iM9dlpjT0/s4032/IMG_1021.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUFozeqQQnwyDaGQhUmq3U5voqWudjKZd4s5N7jI5QNKOYRHzxVfkWKi6F_b39hFwvznWvyYKHi-qv0R7nsCQkysAfrSy4A2H9ssKhgnHMi0hcbAVdPhO_A6-Ybgl9NkgeUbRbgcn_0d5nvEZi8HbkoRL8xGiVCMDR3cC9_fsuhb1TZ7EA7iM9dlpjT0/w400-h300/IMG_1021.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We dove into 1000 km hikes. Really, I brought it up. This length of a long distance hike is a sweet spot. That length suffices the itch for the seasoned trekker or the dream of a curious newbie. You become immersed in the hike and the environment but not too long that you might go crazy. You become skinny but not emaciated. You are hungry but not famished. You look rugged and swarthy, healthy, but not quite tattered, scary looking and shunned socially. You can still walk into a town and not feel the urge to walk right out because you are just too damn dirty. You are strong, not the strongest you have ever been but marble strong. You finish strong and aren’t quite worn out. You even got a little pep in your step. You go back to work refreshed and replenished, ready to tackle the day and not in a too self-aggrandizing manner. You have earned it, worked for it and don’t take things for granted. Yea, 1000 km, 600 mile hikes really are the sweet spot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We continued sitting on the bench under the hut in the dark until we realized we might as well hit the sack. Nothing else to do for nearly 12 hours of darkness, just read until you fall asleep, then sleep some more. The long night didn’t feel too long when one has accepted it. I loved the long rest my legs were getting, still a bit mushy from the bikepacking trip. My feet became tender throughout the day and I expected the first week would be that way. I was very pleased to rest during these long nights. My body would benefit, no doubt. That was crucial during this hike, resting the body while getting the legs and feet strong for the AT. I was going to be meticulous on this long hike, the 1000 km sweet spot.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMzfQw5LUleEwsM-0ewuzkXqenIetktobEjky1JitqxTiIM-wuCybVHzjsnLjdk83Lbek3xOzmvU2Fr0JasAyMO3_7loltOplTtk9Dzl0wwQx8gyT7U3HFhTx7-51kYh00AhiygsK7LpGJfaMTfnPxlzztRikndzi--TJ6I3IsKiHYLinDiQX8YbcYHw/s4032/IMG_1004.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMzfQw5LUleEwsM-0ewuzkXqenIetktobEjky1JitqxTiIM-wuCybVHzjsnLjdk83Lbek3xOzmvU2Fr0JasAyMO3_7loltOplTtk9Dzl0wwQx8gyT7U3HFhTx7-51kYh00AhiygsK7LpGJfaMTfnPxlzztRikndzi--TJ6I3IsKiHYLinDiQX8YbcYHw/w400-h300/IMG_1004.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We all woke up early, predawn, and just started chatting right away. I enjoyed talking to Dave and Mary. The </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">morning conversation swayed and ended up on whales and sharks. They told me about their observations of pods of whales, orcas, and dolphins from the bluffs the previous days. Dave and Mary effused utter joy and amazement as they spoke about the whales and orcas. They spent considerable time idling away just watching the whales play around in the surf. Then, Dave told me a quick story as I slurped up the last of my oatmeal mixed with coffee. He said a beacon had been found on a lonesome beach by a person recently. The beachcomber returned the beacon to the scientists on the label. The beacon evidently had been tagged on a great white shark. Somehow it loosened off and ran ashore with the tide. The beacon traced the path of the great white shark in the depths of the great southern ocean. The scientists marveled at the shark’s lengthy journey. But, one trajectory left the scientists baffled. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The shark dove straight down for a couple thousand meters into an utter abyss. At first, this movement was unexplainable to the scientists. They hypothesized and surmised why the great white could possibly behaving in such a way. The pathway disappeared at some very deep depth, but appeared many kilometers away after an extended period of time. What was the shark doing? Was this a maneuver or a movement? What was this behavior? What was the shark doing down in those depths? Then, some observers on a fishing boat witnessed orcas hunting and killing a great white shark. This observation got passed back to the scientists, which in turn began to study the interactions between orcas and great white sharks. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5TpSv3qPIuJ5EtXJzfGBGPonFfY3tTNUMANx6pojS5BLI5DJ1jbJVSledm9RHJECJ_CxpDujvAcjBSu1cenwCGJhGa0IboGnTsCVYPDNdsG3qsG80UC9RH5XyYwjxnR4Uox1wiwWOPyw1aDr4A4bI3rCjJ4aSeE9rVBpz-B1VfgdUPc3qJd6hb5gmQE/s4032/IMG_1047.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5TpSv3qPIuJ5EtXJzfGBGPonFfY3tTNUMANx6pojS5BLI5DJ1jbJVSledm9RHJECJ_CxpDujvAcjBSu1cenwCGJhGa0IboGnTsCVYPDNdsG3qsG80UC9RH5XyYwjxnR4Uox1wiwWOPyw1aDr4A4bI3rCjJ4aSeE9rVBpz-B1VfgdUPc3qJd6hb5gmQE/w400-h300/IMG_1047.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now, I could be telling Dave’s story out of order here. And, I’m no shark scientist. It doesn’t really matter. The gist is still there. Maybe scientists had been studying the interactions of orcas and great white sharks before the beacon had been found. Either way, the interpretation of the shark’s behavior on the beacon is the crucial part of this story. Scientists determined that the tagged great white shark dove straight down into an abyss to avoid being killed by the orcas. This maneuver eluded the orcas who being mammals could not attain such depths without sufficient air. Diving straight down into utter darkness and into a seemingly great unknown was the shark’s great escape. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was stunned. I think I stood there with my mouth open hypnotized by the story, possibly oatmeal gruel drooling from my pasty lips. In my head all I could envision was the shark diving straight down into blackness. I could not get the thought out of my head of a great white diving straight down to avoid being prey to orcas. ‘What was the shark doing while it was down there?’ the question burned. ‘How did the shark know where to go?’ ‘Was it scared?’ burned even further. I don’t think Dave was a great storyteller as much as I was just into the story itself. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypoOsRHCU_alb0RiOtt8iqiYvRXkt5wUhOUX25Mv6O-X850wPPU0JqxH-CpSqABv_QVNTOnTh48AQ_v_CXx6FD6nWQA0EvjB47x10Y0buxvD5soUNI78gadeI8uJr-e7sRa0eUl-UhjM31HtLXRaxVX3X7hN7fuDStkny24lhyLbBK8ydm6XK8H_7wys/s4032/IMG_1075.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypoOsRHCU_alb0RiOtt8iqiYvRXkt5wUhOUX25Mv6O-X850wPPU0JqxH-CpSqABv_QVNTOnTh48AQ_v_CXx6FD6nWQA0EvjB47x10Y0buxvD5soUNI78gadeI8uJr-e7sRa0eUl-UhjM31HtLXRaxVX3X7hN7fuDStkny24lhyLbBK8ydm6XK8H_7wys/w400-h300/IMG_1075.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">See, when I was about 20 years old I had a dream of a great white shark. It all felt like a documentary film at first. Observing, watching, gazing, scouting—Then, I became a part of the film. I was transposed from hovering heights in the sky downward and into the body of the great white shark I had been observing. I was invisible in the scene, my eyes like the camera. I nosed-dived straight into the great white shark and enveloped the soul of it. Suddenly, I felt a part of the essence of the shark and not the corporeal part. I couldn’t feel the body of the shark at all. I just felt the spirit of it from the inside, through the eyes, of the soul.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, I began floating and falling into space. I felt the soul leave the shark’s body and fall and sink. I had now taken over the soul and departed the body. I vividly recall looking back up to the surface. The waters shimmered crystal clear in the light, spectacularly clear panels with the interstitial space between the brilliant sunlight and the extreme blackness of the depths below glowing, refulgent in the peripheral penumbra. The body of the great white shark just hung on the surface. In my vision, the shark’s vision, this squared clear frame, I saw wildlife swimming toward the hovering body. A humpback whale, a couple of orcas, dolphins, and so many different types of fish all swimming towards the dead body, the lone figure the nurse log of the sea. Looking back up and feeling the light diminish I understood my body had died and my soul was carrying on. I sunk and sunk weightless and utterly free. I sunk and sunk, and I went into a dark realm where I felt my mind and my spirit gravitating in a black space. Yet, as I floated there, I still felt gravity pulling me down softly, slowly. I succumbed to the blackness with the entire invisible orb of my soul. I felt soothed like in a warm mass, succumbed to the void, rapt in the blackness, as if I knew where I was going. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBRkjokFNCXe4AcnZxNekcSIOcDl3WuW5JjflYIVRAhfiu27OkgyA3Hla1FFT41UGEzx6S5MZ9bfztvbzgUoKIj0R_ndA328U0GgWDiUjLHdQlDoRb-0i34lalxsH-cEGe4aO8UO00RYWNSGG84GK_WvjxerPLNqQUPVib61V4UI_tdrIwQi25xfkdmE/s4032/IMG_1078.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBRkjokFNCXe4AcnZxNekcSIOcDl3WuW5JjflYIVRAhfiu27OkgyA3Hla1FFT41UGEzx6S5MZ9bfztvbzgUoKIj0R_ndA328U0GgWDiUjLHdQlDoRb-0i34lalxsH-cEGe4aO8UO00RYWNSGG84GK_WvjxerPLNqQUPVib61V4UI_tdrIwQi25xfkdmE/w400-h300/IMG_1078.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The dream continued on in brightly colored detail but I will save those intimate parts for myself to ruminate on. Some things I do choose to keep to myself. Nevertheless, all these years later and I still remember the dream as vividly as what I did the day before. The dream is real to me. I have explored it so much over the years and the part that intrigues me the most is the soul floating in the blackness, as if passing through time and space, heading somewhere unknown on a guided and instinctive path. Maybe I just see the depths of the ocean that way, a place where time and space is null and void. I know it’s a conundrum I stumble on from time to time. Questions always arise: What is our purpose? Does it matter what we actually do on this planet we call earth? What’s the point of it all? Are we real? Or an illusion? Or is it all mind and soul? What am I made of? How far am I willing to go to see what I am made of?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I shoved off from the hut saying soft goodbyes to Dave and Mary. I was in complete deep thought as I headed down the rolling path. The sun illuminated through a mass of cotton ball clouds over the roiling platinum ocean. Transfixed on the imagination of the deep dive of a great white shark, I knew instinctively the trail was in front of me, a sliver of a tunnel of dirt guiding me. Yet, I couldn’t shake the vision. I had become obsessed. I was mesmerized by the massive great white shark appearing so infinitesimally small backdropped by the biggest blackness you can imagine. The great white seemed so insignificant yet so powerful, vulnerable and brave simultaneously. It was both a brutal and beautiful thought at the same time. The vision conjured up feelings of fear and dread, and courage. As much as I understood the great white to be diving in a physical sense, I also understood the great white to be floating in space metaphysically. The dichotomy of this mental manifestation enchanted me as I hiked atop rolling bluffs latticeworked with thick low lying brush.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqOjmM2V2fR8lkBM8h6WR1j0O-9OeO5L7JM0_FFSGDLNW1JmkLb1-lybcWBRHWat1PYtN45mcr4vQBg2FiXXd1D4xcrD4ytiul3ittQV8n9C0sfh9vT3nB1arAuk_zckOrqGEIw0ztWWZSjSOSfZ5mVCdXZTbV_Ugwo0fZRbg5Nmz9Y60TGeseAmH5yo/s4032/IMG_1010.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqOjmM2V2fR8lkBM8h6WR1j0O-9OeO5L7JM0_FFSGDLNW1JmkLb1-lybcWBRHWat1PYtN45mcr4vQBg2FiXXd1D4xcrD4ytiul3ittQV8n9C0sfh9vT3nB1arAuk_zckOrqGEIw0ztWWZSjSOSfZ5mVCdXZTbV_Ugwo0fZRbg5Nmz9Y60TGeseAmH5yo/w400-h300/IMG_1010.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly at a wind blown sandy summit…I came to. I snapped out of my dream-thought hypnosis. The great southern ocean roared like a grumbling beast far down below. The ocean roared so loud I felt the roar in my stomach. The booming waves rolled in massively with a deep low moaning. My bones shook, the hair on my arms stood up in the stiff wind, my skin tingled. I observed the ultimate force of the unobstructed waves crash against the rugged coast. At this latitude, these waters churn and circle the globe unstopped by any continents. Here, the ocean feels unstoppably great like a god. The massive rolling waves set the balance of pace between an innate power and an immovable object. A deep churning ocean crashes into a continent, what gives? The answer must be time. I turned inward. The reflection within will not always mirror the outward fragility. My balance teeters with waves of emotion. That’s where my depth lies. Maybe that’s why I seek such unknown spaces.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtBsQJ49Rkfp1h2dau2nhjLQ-1vOrW06Ffpx_lMQBUqrJPOI-XklxHtIf5gwWZxVqJ7Ea1Hcbm28ua9L09B_7482H48v0cxQAJbIMnMnlYbzvQmilIWBB8HTVFDRokRNbkGww0JeBKEds85UlacroLUmckh1bzI_-8fnA2WQalx1Lu4BOek5u-U0Oy_I/s4032/IMG_1016.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtBsQJ49Rkfp1h2dau2nhjLQ-1vOrW06Ffpx_lMQBUqrJPOI-XklxHtIf5gwWZxVqJ7Ea1Hcbm28ua9L09B_7482H48v0cxQAJbIMnMnlYbzvQmilIWBB8HTVFDRokRNbkGww0JeBKEds85UlacroLUmckh1bzI_-8fnA2WQalx1Lu4BOek5u-U0Oy_I/w400-h300/IMG_1016.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled up and down over shrub clad dunes like roller coaster humps. Slowly up ploddingly, then crashing down plunge-stepping. The dunes piled high, wind thrashed over eons and compacted by the incessant inclement weather. One may not see heaps of dunes from far away or even from the air. But, the dunes are evident when one is slogging away through the maze of piles sand. The weather remained fickle from drizzles, to quick squalls, to dazzling rays of sunshine. At the head of a drainage squished between two tall bluffs, a ravine, I heard a whale spout from the sea a couple hundred feet away. I stopped immediately. I knew the noise. The pod of whales breached and tumbled and spouted all the while swirling in the whitewater churning surf. I speculated the pod was playing in the surf, socializing, maybe even feeding. My view was far enough away I lost the intimate details of the pod from the roiling waters. Once again I fell back into my dreamscape. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got to the Nullaki Hut an hour before sunset. Rough weather was coming in overnight, so I laid up with concerns of a soaking. As dusk illuminated the sky, far clouds quickly enveloped and diminished the last light of a short day. The rain fell hard, a tinging cacophony of raindrops atop a fiberglass roof. I nestled into a corner away from any ricochet of spitting wind. Under the protective hut, I dwelled into a long night of sleep. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBb9Jxr-Fj6xpjkTkB7Jl7wbR0SFsW37RRMjt9GmSdMKAGaKQ8wNMz8PF0wshgwB2fz_aNdeqEggZcm4W1NII6OGpg9aneHms26WyH32prpZo8zbgqXpny-xAaUR2hlG2AdB98km7KWyAv7wVLjTu1mOoKuEDoFHFYbBZmLjGnKoUzQ3SbqL8LIE9xRA/s4032/IMG_1031.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBb9Jxr-Fj6xpjkTkB7Jl7wbR0SFsW37RRMjt9GmSdMKAGaKQ8wNMz8PF0wshgwB2fz_aNdeqEggZcm4W1NII6OGpg9aneHms26WyH32prpZo8zbgqXpny-xAaUR2hlG2AdB98km7KWyAv7wVLjTu1mOoKuEDoFHFYbBZmLjGnKoUzQ3SbqL8LIE9xRA/w400-h300/IMG_1031.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before I know it, a new day rose. Nothing shiny or bright, just a gloomy rise under grey skies, the sunlight behind the curtain of puffy damp clouds. Determined to get to town that day to wait out some weather, I shoved off early with a headlamp. Water drops hung on the intricacies of dilapidated and vacant spider webs. Raindrops twinkled in front of my face as if they were flashes of meteors shooting across the dimly lit sky. I knew I needed time to rest anyways, the rain just an added reason to get to town. My legs had been a bit jelly-like since finishing the ride, even my forearms and fingers ached. My feet felt the drubbings of the constant walking, too. I was doing ok. I am ok. I needed to exercise some patience and some tender meticulous strategy to enjoy this time I have left in Australia while getting ready for the AT and completing the Bibb. Start at a comfortable pace and ease into things; then, rise as I strengthen and become inured to the pace of waking. I crossed the wide sandbar of the inlet under moody skies, an open desert of beach presented an exhilarating moment of fresh salty air blowing in directly into my face. I headed to Denmark to rest and wait out the rain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZKUdiH2hEa_lq_pSUMm7zOmJ4sb5BIteiiVuK0Ino0RRMqpnkynutcrm6FAsk0fU9Gz6c_M9zndV0d_VfTI2KsY02ZaoyLi8thne4xAjmezQALhgn-KczmnkJgWNy1sApac0Gth63LxUYAQx8ECDygPuIFFtPG0VsjUvTtmSuG78sm_1wn256BZRubI/s4032/IMG_1082.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZKUdiH2hEa_lq_pSUMm7zOmJ4sb5BIteiiVuK0Ino0RRMqpnkynutcrm6FAsk0fU9Gz6c_M9zndV0d_VfTI2KsY02ZaoyLi8thne4xAjmezQALhgn-KczmnkJgWNy1sApac0Gth63LxUYAQx8ECDygPuIFFtPG0VsjUvTtmSuG78sm_1wn256BZRubI/w400-h300/IMG_1082.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Denmark on a blustery day, nothing too miserable however. I ascended a forested fitted with huge white eucalyptus. Eventually, after some meandering, I got back to the beach where the weather turned a bit soggy again. The wind picked up and roving storms moved in. On Mazzoletti Beach, a long strip of wild beach, the surf rumbled ferociously. I put on the raincoat and squinched my hoodie to try and block out the wind and driving mist. With the surf and the wind I could hardly hear myself think. Yet, with the firm sand I walked on I had a chance to glance up at my surroundings every once in a while. Virga smeared from the cumulous clouds out over the sea. Suddenly, with the white sands, turquoise blue surf, the deep blue ocean, the puffy grey and white clouds, a brilliantly bright rainbow appeared out over the ocean horizon. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gYksqgf6t71NnsKmicH8Lk_5_pIYlvzlxYT7pE7gq-nCObZo8ymUi-BqGZwEYAbVz_T03ao2teSBlnfSzKKT4ycYJj5Pk8tiMZkyS9YrvP4FWiYTsXcEuu46Q0yazuiCWv-jBZ63B-ZPt05iLzjVhiFST-IVkAW3-3gGnOB7ElZCMp3q-HFSST2LDS4/s3883/IMG_1064.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2912" data-original-width="3883" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gYksqgf6t71NnsKmicH8Lk_5_pIYlvzlxYT7pE7gq-nCObZo8ymUi-BqGZwEYAbVz_T03ao2teSBlnfSzKKT4ycYJj5Pk8tiMZkyS9YrvP4FWiYTsXcEuu46Q0yazuiCWv-jBZ63B-ZPt05iLzjVhiFST-IVkAW3-3gGnOB7ElZCMp3q-HFSST2LDS4/w400-h300/IMG_1064.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The entire way along the strip of beach the rugged waters turbulently tumbled with fury. Squalls rumbled in with thick mist and sideways rain. The whole way across, spectacularly a beaming rainbow far off in the spindrift horizon sprouted straight up to unknown heights. The rain lie disappeared into the clouds and in blissful fantastical thought I assumed the rainbow kept on going up towards the infinite. Incredibly, the rainbow was so present I began to think it was a fixture of the environment, a poster on a bedroom wall, as permanent as a mountain, as sure as sand is in the desert. For a couple hours this went on, my marveling cloaked in a resplendent spectrum of color and light. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEileqtpr4AZc_qdELESUVJ97IbunCcJ70UTewkX70HuDS0WsgP9UrihYecImmtJtcw5kIHk6-Pvl4GFQWHj-oGxr3C9S7Juz3bt3LVpsX8HfZQUDG8pXWf3MIX-FcC2UL1JxBBfBabHqVPvBmf9z4HJXCe_aic4QSxszUjT_uTGUqAL513j7MRRyNF7XtY/s4032/IMG_1062.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEileqtpr4AZc_qdELESUVJ97IbunCcJ70UTewkX70HuDS0WsgP9UrihYecImmtJtcw5kIHk6-Pvl4GFQWHj-oGxr3C9S7Juz3bt3LVpsX8HfZQUDG8pXWf3MIX-FcC2UL1JxBBfBabHqVPvBmf9z4HJXCe_aic4QSxszUjT_uTGUqAL513j7MRRyNF7XtY/w400-h300/IMG_1062.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I strolled into Parry Beach camp, early enough to sit on the spit of rocks overlooking the turbulent sea, the swirling blue waters of a great southern ocean. I just felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. How lucky am I to experience this journey. To thrive, to mettle, to sidle, to dwell, to linger, to ache and pain, for all of it how lucky just am I. I gazed out over the granite rocky shore. I transported to my dream in Perth. I had been standing here in this very spot. Worn potholes filled with foamy seawater and tiny coastal sea life. I craved my head over the edge of the granite platform staring into the sudden drop off, the deep blue spectacle of an unending imagination of fear and the unknown. Out in the bay, violent waters crashed and spilled over submerged piles of enormous boulders of rocks, islands of unattainable desolation. Damn me, all I could fathom was the whale. Then, the great white crept in. Both dreams had colors and an amorphous figure beaming with a swirling of all colors. I thought I was going to fry standing right there. I felt a bit overwhelmed by the moment. But, I tucked it away and kept my chin up defiantly happy. The sun set and the bay turned platinum, a silvery aura of an easing contentment, nature at a standstill. I scrambled back over the granite rocks and headed to a dark campground, the other fellow travelers nestled in for the chilly and damp night.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8Xuf0vYwalQY6b9VrQmTnEodOsqJRrmAGy9T1bN10C_bVYPdZxGsFbunw0BN364M9npRso2eh6osYExoIC39ppiX5rqhhqrhkMG3EuN6bTX8jMw1yWAaVZ3-gtifK2zJ8ZTfbhJhOOp8xwj1kWwLB4d78Lx63Fd-0YPcDdLJ0467R2TQGKoHbAU8Rs8/s4032/IMG_1087.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8Xuf0vYwalQY6b9VrQmTnEodOsqJRrmAGy9T1bN10C_bVYPdZxGsFbunw0BN364M9npRso2eh6osYExoIC39ppiX5rqhhqrhkMG3EuN6bTX8jMw1yWAaVZ3-gtifK2zJ8ZTfbhJhOOp8xwj1kWwLB4d78Lx63Fd-0YPcDdLJ0467R2TQGKoHbAU8Rs8/w400-h300/IMG_1087.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The weather forecasted the next couple days to be terrible. I pushed some bigger miles to try and time some of the weather with a town stop in Walpole. I left Parry Beach early then. All the campers still huddled in their caravans as I walked out of the campground under predawn darkness. I could make out the early light perforating the karri trees, the trail wide and clear. I climbed up giant dunes cloaked in shrubbery. The sun poked through a misty curtain of clouds and radiated a purple lilac glow on the smeared virga draping down. Really, the day was quiet. Not a soul to run into on the wandering trail amid huge sandy bluffs. The wind whipped through the ravines rushing up from the ocean. Spindrift turbulently gusted from the crests of huge waves that blurred the vista down the coastline. The track even went inland towards an inlet bay where a boat shed held canoes for the hiker to paddle across the narrow portion of an inlet. I pushed pass Peaceful Bay to try and get to the Rame Head hut. I knew from the slanted hills I would have a view of the sunrise over the roaring ocean.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up to predawn rain pelting my tarp. But, I still got ready. With these long nights I fall asleep earlier than usual and so I wake up much earlier than I usually do. Sometimes I lay around waiting for some semblance of light. Other times I wait for the rain to stop. Then, even more so, I start my hooves tromping in dim twilight. The rain stopped and turned into mist, and I ate my breakfast of cereal and slurped my coffee under the hut. Nonetheless, the weather on the slanted hills seemed unsteady yet typically coastal enough to just push out of camp. I had to get a bead on the impending inclement weather.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FOnm5poMILFMun-CkqxCFUs1w8N0H-LXsgKOqx8RVvV8sfyO_ONjBeX_-kaIiFdyoTqgANWfvSAHBd6uSqb_ddYjPAU4H_fDQ_AQi3JncJPWQoqNprUAWyYYigjBM5XhL2_dw1bVqqJdsDZt5Rc6ADMperJwKJn7Jh4X3n9cwnk1b12Sa-840iri7VM/s1440/23A695A0-0933-49F3-B5F0-494844E6717F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FOnm5poMILFMun-CkqxCFUs1w8N0H-LXsgKOqx8RVvV8sfyO_ONjBeX_-kaIiFdyoTqgANWfvSAHBd6uSqb_ddYjPAU4H_fDQ_AQi3JncJPWQoqNprUAWyYYigjBM5XhL2_dw1bVqqJdsDZt5Rc6ADMperJwKJn7Jh4X3n9cwnk1b12Sa-840iri7VM/w400-h300/23A695A0-0933-49F3-B5F0-494844E6717F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I roved over undulating dunes with steep descents and ascents. From each crest I could only see the next one, each long and narrow dune forming a graben with the prevailing winds. The weather staved off as I left the coastal plains and ventured into the giant tingle eucalyptus forests. In such a short distance the scenery changed dramatically. Suddenly, I was in the amazing forests of the giant tingles. Yellow, red, and rates, the tingles are some of the largest trees on the planet. I relished the hill climbing getting into the dark hovels of the forests. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My legs pumped and guided me on cruise control as I continuously gazed upward onto the massive canopy. In awe I hiked on swiftly, inspired. Massive trunks bulged as wide as buildings. The trail yawned widely around the tingles. This place is a very rare and special place, for the tingles grow here only and nowhere else in the world. Unfortunately, because of their isolation the square hectares the tingles grow in is relatively small. And, with my pace I entered and left the tingle forest in a few hours. Next thing I knew, I arrived in Walpole. I strolled in under a slight darkness, a new infant night. The rain had began to fall. The rain is coming. The rain is here…</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzNeLE6vLU699gH1uNWCAZVFZTvkUsMioMUg1Xq0YahM4QUSCVVhN9J_CTU6PS2ZjnzrQ1DS8ux4MAuoqGevozJJi2tA1mRuEi5dL7IJ4w59B5x5tHPcAbbftVnXxXoDQHsaZHqGyrIFl95ZaecyNKtqyVPiKi4J8GZV5IlX7ebV7KUBotuHTIWKCNDxk/s4032/IMG_1098.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzNeLE6vLU699gH1uNWCAZVFZTvkUsMioMUg1Xq0YahM4QUSCVVhN9J_CTU6PS2ZjnzrQ1DS8ux4MAuoqGevozJJi2tA1mRuEi5dL7IJ4w59B5x5tHPcAbbftVnXxXoDQHsaZHqGyrIFl95ZaecyNKtqyVPiKi4J8GZV5IlX7ebV7KUBotuHTIWKCNDxk/w400-h300/IMG_1098.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdsmhM0b7uuhEWXGCMTCRFPI9tbDS5Q7yTK5G5_CBcoVCNVJOpixaihse0kX8Z6UdjmnKloDP-mng4ciMYW8eMZ7WCsG93Vg_sXKXni_tHQyvtSGJ8dkn31XFCENysIFGn7vA8Lu3ZDqk4_tfBuJ1ONxxCVLOMU2_IRGxV3UvTzE8Qq7pMJE9smTleoY/s4032/IMG_1100.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpdU9hl4KDVr4GEZpYsDliFEr2hN2AXdC2YDwnzFmkmfgRQz68XymGJ0lgAhJqEzK4hNr1LvCfW9EPAbGavt5woUTf8odiO6J3FNsjHm4EpgXsB_NPgxa6F3jxHIcQIZochkvFEQoLJHJV9lHv0ezYpeslredAfazJjTWjRknr2vVgllTx8jbFfROpXU/s4032/IMG_1124.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpdU9hl4KDVr4GEZpYsDliFEr2hN2AXdC2YDwnzFmkmfgRQz68XymGJ0lgAhJqEzK4hNr1LvCfW9EPAbGavt5woUTf8odiO6J3FNsjHm4EpgXsB_NPgxa6F3jxHIcQIZochkvFEQoLJHJV9lHv0ezYpeslredAfazJjTWjRknr2vVgllTx8jbFfROpXU/w400-h300/IMG_1124.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The Survival of Enjoyment:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I realized conditions were changing while I laid in the toasty hotel room. I knew winter had set in in southern Western Australia. Things would be wet from here on out. I strategized on how to keep my momentum going without losing too much time with the weather. I was on a tight schedule and I needed to adapt to conditions, that I knew. I knew with the even worse forecast coming in I had to be a little patient and flexible. At this point, I’d rather waste a couple days up front resting and waiting out the rain than burn days later. All that meant was with the crappy weather I had to adjust my pace to the higher rate later on down the line. So, the rest I would get during the storm would essentially be all that I would get. Now with that being said, once the weather settled, I had to be very consistent with the remaining mileage. I had to tag 25 plus miles every day in limited daylight to achieve the goal of end to ending the Bibb Track before my flight took off at the end of June. I knew I had time, but I also knew I was cutting it close.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkshUpGDSNxfqpTyUrB_dE6yixnqZY3t3KRxlyl_jqMhBUY3G2NTe62E3nUu5CDNpqzB4SjVloGEJ_I699AdyJNtxPJNmWII1l91Jteo1PtpjLtZgDLZY4GLxVwAhvqHi4oTPBnnlUs_7t0yiJcUiNbPliUaJ-Tv94CXp7H9Whs5noaREqwW-aqyFvc84/s4032/IMG_1121.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkshUpGDSNxfqpTyUrB_dE6yixnqZY3t3KRxlyl_jqMhBUY3G2NTe62E3nUu5CDNpqzB4SjVloGEJ_I699AdyJNtxPJNmWII1l91Jteo1PtpjLtZgDLZY4GLxVwAhvqHi4oTPBnnlUs_7t0yiJcUiNbPliUaJ-Tv94CXp7H9Whs5noaREqwW-aqyFvc84/w400-h300/IMG_1121.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sure enough, as forecasted, the rain fell in sheets. I found huts each night, usually with myself or another soggy and cold hiker. Spirits were low, nobody seemed chipper. The rain dropped spirits. I picked my days apart with low mileage over the next 4 days just avoiding the heavy rain. In fact, in a 2 day span 100mm (nearly 4 inches) of rain fell. One of those days, the heaviest one, I retreated and left a hut, found my way to the highway, and hitched back to Walpole. There, back in town, the power went out, marble sized hail fell, and lightning flashed throughout the heavens over the course of a full day. The skies just really opened up and dumped down cold, cold water. I dried out, stayed warm and toasty, and fretted over the time I had left here in Australia. I knew the safety of ‘now’ meant the pushing of the pace later. But, at least I was warm and dry.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4K8ZOgFEdtk0zCquzgJougiTkiSwAJpQEcfl6W42xlsXr7vQ9mZgkIT--uvG453Y60Rv7vyCXBk7Z73vGdFJ14GW24-Jugbjb60k5GAFiqAKhGLlwb8RAQtYXqE_NG6_8XoIjCpt23quBPeuizjuWYRti-fFq-OdqSqSeTbrph88EDTOrXO3Eu_5zQk/s4032/IMG_1151.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4K8ZOgFEdtk0zCquzgJougiTkiSwAJpQEcfl6W42xlsXr7vQ9mZgkIT--uvG453Y60Rv7vyCXBk7Z73vGdFJ14GW24-Jugbjb60k5GAFiqAKhGLlwb8RAQtYXqE_NG6_8XoIjCpt23quBPeuizjuWYRti-fFq-OdqSqSeTbrph88EDTOrXO3Eu_5zQk/w400-h300/IMG_1151.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Nearing Northcliffe I had a reprieve from the torrential rain. When I had first set foot on the Pingerup Plains, the ground was compacted and damp, not flooded. By the time the rain had fell, a foot and an half of puddles water now spread across the plains and the track, an utter swamp laid ahead of me. As I left the plains, some of the flooded water had receded. With still some deep puddles about, nothing was as near as when it was downpouring. And, now the sun poked out. I walked into Northcliffe completely dry although most of my gear was still damp. A few long and deep puddles remained to drain in the saturated sand, the tall karri dripped and shook loose the remaining droplets in the breeze, the air still hung with moisture, and a heavy dew looked like a fog retreating with the fading cold weather. Nevertheless, the shift in attitude and in mindset when the sun comes back out and shines and the threat of cold rain subsides is amazingly positive and cheery. Even the cows looked pleased with their shaggy winter coats.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6L1PKcOYOogj3EARlMh6zKXxg2X9D0Z9fS6C6C7BW_RS7LO9mml2Lyo6quURRrOIHpVV6qfD4LfrIOEX_bvT1Di34ND86GkWdH-Io42z0D5Vs9rpy1ZTDjWaLciXazA7lD-NfW-YBg-_1246AGDsVBgUQD30VLsQAtKihCsC4d5So0nmMQXY4sU1BCE/s4032/IMG_1127.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6L1PKcOYOogj3EARlMh6zKXxg2X9D0Z9fS6C6C7BW_RS7LO9mml2Lyo6quURRrOIHpVV6qfD4LfrIOEX_bvT1Di34ND86GkWdH-Io42z0D5Vs9rpy1ZTDjWaLciXazA7lD-NfW-YBg-_1246AGDsVBgUQD30VLsQAtKihCsC4d5So0nmMQXY4sU1BCE/w400-h300/IMG_1127.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled up to Shafer Hut that night feeling groovy about things. I was dry, the skies were clear, and I was moving pretty well. I shared the hut with a couple from Perth on their first thru-hike. A couple of funny and convivial Aussies, they introduced me to marron fishing. Out over a large pond, a piece of salami was baited into a long sock. Jay dangled the bait from the small pier. I shined my headlamp into the murky water on the biggest of the crawdads, a behemoth mother with huge pincers. We giggled about, oohing and aahing, enjoy the silly spectacle we were endeavoring. The marron put up a serious fight and Jay kept at it, myself standing to the side with a rake extended into the shallow waters trying to wedge the marron so Jay could reach in and grab the marron once it was close enough. In a burst of loosened sand, the marron exploded to the surface of water, its pincers splayed outward and the tail tucked underneath the lobster-like body. Jay almost fell into the waters in a frantic attempt to grab the marron. To no avail, we still giggled, still oohed and aahed. The couple went back to the hut and I had the pier to myself. No more headlamps, no moonlight, just the pure darkness of wilderness. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHenhDZzbUEYzhaMI1yKG4MwCWY8-NHj1rPDKKT9s7EjKMIzQLWSjXRdlc6u9A3yKJ-cFmx_3XjfOre9PWpOfoaPwbjErNUjsgOspKeW_U7Ejd2UHD98ggMQnlFLzGyRlkPwL4pp-KbMGuFqA-WxvNYByEd52GDLDAzWtGC7rAJ8VekaspopjWy4UEjY/s4032/IMG_1147.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHenhDZzbUEYzhaMI1yKG4MwCWY8-NHj1rPDKKT9s7EjKMIzQLWSjXRdlc6u9A3yKJ-cFmx_3XjfOre9PWpOfoaPwbjErNUjsgOspKeW_U7Ejd2UHD98ggMQnlFLzGyRlkPwL4pp-KbMGuFqA-WxvNYByEd52GDLDAzWtGC7rAJ8VekaspopjWy4UEjY/w400-h300/IMG_1147.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Out over the still glassy pond, the stars above twinkled in their heavenly reflection, a thousand winks providing me with startling clarity, for I hadn’t seen the stars in quite some time. Either the clouds suffocated the blackness of space and the eminence of stars or the incredible filling moon drowned out the stars with its brilliant illumination; I just hadn’t glimpsed the stars in some while. I felt there in that moment like Huck Finn. After the marron escapades I felt ridiculously boyish. The stars settled back my seriousness to adulthood. What is it in the millions of stars that drowns out life? That makes you realize where you are at and what you hope for? Imagine if the stars were actually attainable? Would I be steadier in life, less mercurial? The hell if I know. I’ll continue drowning myself in stargazing, the binge of the curious.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpMOBpA3rm3GCI7XoSHe-IEnVmNKtatBcak7nqFQLxY6ZeWSvaj0DHwcOUyMOIozT0FMH0tLwvF_KhBERc0D1gsxlYyFUmbdDepSM7MKpAi9D_wuG8FHzOoQFC0VEFCZPZqyOW5OoBHhtncJT2AWlRKX7m8d-0EP4QQlSHcBMUv0jeYJWlFzfqu5wvuE/s3933/IMG_1145.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2949" data-original-width="3933" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpMOBpA3rm3GCI7XoSHe-IEnVmNKtatBcak7nqFQLxY6ZeWSvaj0DHwcOUyMOIozT0FMH0tLwvF_KhBERc0D1gsxlYyFUmbdDepSM7MKpAi9D_wuG8FHzOoQFC0VEFCZPZqyOW5OoBHhtncJT2AWlRKX7m8d-0EP4QQlSHcBMUv0jeYJWlFzfqu5wvuE/w400-h300/IMG_1145.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The kookaburra returned. The funny birds raucously, cheerily, and rambunctiously squawked aloud cacophonously in the morning. A good birthday day; it was my birthday. Things looked on the up and up: good weather, feeling good physically, pushing hard, incredibly tall and thick eucalyptus forests. I even got to the town of Pemberton in time enough to pick up my shoes at the visitor center. I felt it, I was back on track in my timeframe. I had a quiet birthday dinner sitting in the corner nursing a beer and eating a huge steak in a crowded pub. I felt fulfilled in so many ways. Then, the next morning my back goes out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The unbearable weight of suppressed emotion, maybe, maybe it’s that. Maybe it has been laying down for so long during the winter nights only to be very active for 10 hours nonstop—that precarious mix of stagnation and activity that borders on mania. Maybe it’s just as simple as wear and tear on the body after a strenuous 8 months. Are things catching up to me? Or, was it just a fluke back tweak? Not that I wasn’t trying to delve into what-for’s of the thrown back. I truly wasn’t. I just knew it was real and I had to endure it somehow over the next week or so at least. Heroically, I had bent down to pick up my small sized backpack, nothing more than that, nothing exceedingly heavy. In fact, it seems downright silly that I threw my back out this way. But, this is not the first time I’ve thrown my back out picking up my backpack in taxing hiking adventures. One thing I know for certain, I’m getting older. That’s just a matter of fact: the night before I turned 46, a few years closer to 50. Well, whatever, I knew what I had to do. I had to not let the back think it knew it had me. I couldn’t let the back think it needed rest. I had to will the body into moving forward and upright. So, in Pemberton I strapped on the pack and wincingly marched out of town.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx3D_BKmU73YY9DhcJ_aeG4R3eASoaz-B5HruHyztnN7kD_uS2RKY0VRNxr-gXBfaVjmgP6w9z72Nq8Ynf2g1s4m0-rLaoNjiO_atXPhwDuhamUQAVmB-ocTTfVyE0WUT4pR_H7urdAFRq7F995MoTcCT6xSCTex1z_mgurT19v31VJIht8R15pz3mWY/s4032/IMG_1175.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx3D_BKmU73YY9DhcJ_aeG4R3eASoaz-B5HruHyztnN7kD_uS2RKY0VRNxr-gXBfaVjmgP6w9z72Nq8Ynf2g1s4m0-rLaoNjiO_atXPhwDuhamUQAVmB-ocTTfVyE0WUT4pR_H7urdAFRq7F995MoTcCT6xSCTex1z_mgurT19v31VJIht8R15pz3mWY/w400-h300/IMG_1175.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">All day frustration settled in for the hiking. Yet, I’ve been in this state before. I could manage pain, sometimes I even prefer it. Really, pain can help me focus, empowering me through a weakness. I controlled my breath and took it careful. I was in the paincave, my happy place. Anyways, the rain consistently fell throughout the day. In some ways I preferred the cold rain as it took my mind off the back. I moved fairly well but I still had to walk into the evening as I had a late go of it in Pemberton because of the back. As the day grew to a close, I had a chance to dry out as the rain had stopped for a couple hours. I figured I had a clear go at the next hut for two hours of night hiking. My spirits regained some positivity, the back lessening in pain throughout the day. Then, darkness came and the heavens opened up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">For two hours the rain unleashed chilled me to the bone and flooded the track. I pushed on to keep warm and I moved in a strengthening hurry. I was ready to hunker up and sleep, to forget about the day. Under the pounding rain under a headlamp I marched within an animated tunnel, the torch turning the streaming rain into anime. Suddenly , I felt cartoonishly determined, like some fable of sorts where the hero marches on against all odds. I played this image up in my head which kept me very motivated. Rainwater dropped and streamed everywhere on my body. I could feel the cold water running down my ass crack. Just everywhere on my body was untouched and unzipped by cold water. With my adrenaline pumping the roof of the hut shimmered in the bleary light. I arrived completely drenched. A couple of hikers laid in the hut on the wooden platforms tucked away from the world and hidden inside their sleeping bags. I disrobed and put on whatever dry clothes I had even though my pack was thoroughly drenched through. I hurriedly got my bedroll ready, forsook dinner, and crawled into my swampy quilt, my back wringing and pulsing with pain.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRIr2ZNPqL3CUdJpJBNYsnprlkEMfUek-vMHp1G9CLxnLxvuaxpZemjS2aXDknv-t8wTuhVlNpcaOnai0MF2-JzREYPRjgojnui2A-imb-9n0_S68i1YGe9daqvyFGIB3KN1RJLRQS2KjBQNkY4uupYLaT-DppcjzkxGpmx5iZMgHptSXgpKrNps9TE8/s4032/IMG_1160.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRIr2ZNPqL3CUdJpJBNYsnprlkEMfUek-vMHp1G9CLxnLxvuaxpZemjS2aXDknv-t8wTuhVlNpcaOnai0MF2-JzREYPRjgojnui2A-imb-9n0_S68i1YGe9daqvyFGIB3KN1RJLRQS2KjBQNkY4uupYLaT-DppcjzkxGpmx5iZMgHptSXgpKrNps9TE8/w400-h300/IMG_1160.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the morning as dawn neared, the other sleepers crawled about. A headlamp or two settled in on me. The hut rang so loudly with the raindrops that pelted the roof all night that neither of the hikers realized I was there. I gingerly sat up, my back as stiff as a board, as dead as a sun bleached plank. I got ready and left before everyone else. Despite my sogginess I knew I had to get going to get my back loosened up. I would rather walk with back pain rather than lay around with back pain. Of course, the day was long and agonizing, my back tremendously painful. I lived with a wince on my face while trying to not show any teeth. I couldn’t waste the fight on the visual. I had to save my strength for the inner realm. It continued raining, unfortunately, not making anything better. I arrived to Tom Road hut after a 26 mile day. At the hut I settled in. The hut was lonesome and in a very dark forest, empty. I watched the tiny fairy wren the size of chickadee hop around my feet and peck the ground for crumbs and insects. I admired how spry the little birds were. As I laid down, the rain continued falling and a tumult nearby shot above the tinging of the rain pattering the roof. A large tree toppled over and crashed to the ground. The noise crashes so close I thought for a second that it could hit the hut. I couldn’t move anyways, for my back had me immobile and helpless. I didn’t admire the tree like I did the emu wrens. I envisioned the giant gum as a morbid reflection of getting older, creakier. I’m tall like a tree and one day I may fall like one. It’s just a fact of life. While I wouldn’t have it any other way, it still sucked to have the back spasming the way it was. At that point, the hike, in some way, felt uncertain. I was at a low spot in my intentions, and I was trying to come to grips with it in the dark corner of the isolated hut hidden in the dark and lonely forest. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1jpJemf-8AikeawzjesWC1mmFZj_yHEz8bRhZCVvoFFyfN0Vvy-UBxeDI1Pse1x5lODnnN_IzmmULDnZq4oqDKJNAZCIj0nYxYwAgUEKCQTP_0K5kgkJu69YkilN8L8rCEGQqylH-lFIEacdgKkfp-MbXmmwN9Oj9fbUTqHHFz15DFUo3SQ42uUN1k4/s4032/IMG_1154.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1jpJemf-8AikeawzjesWC1mmFZj_yHEz8bRhZCVvoFFyfN0Vvy-UBxeDI1Pse1x5lODnnN_IzmmULDnZq4oqDKJNAZCIj0nYxYwAgUEKCQTP_0K5kgkJu69YkilN8L8rCEGQqylH-lFIEacdgKkfp-MbXmmwN9Oj9fbUTqHHFz15DFUo3SQ42uUN1k4/w400-h300/IMG_1154.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Shadows, the idea of the awareness of shadows fascinates me. How we see ourselves in the world may not be who we really are. The fronts we put up to behave in this world has nothing to do with who we actually are. Fronts are just fronts; the truths are somewhere behind. We can spend our whole life trying to learn about ourselves. We can grow or diminish from our experiential intel. How often does one get to delve into one’s own shadows? Perhaps never. I truly don’t know if it really matters that I have tried to dive into those depths through endurance. I mean, I don’t know shit. I’ve nothing figured out. Yet, I can find some semblance of realness down in those depths. I value those times even though during those times I was pretty much scared out of my mind. It’s like that great white shark that dove straight down into an incredibly dark abyss to avoid the killer orcas—dead reckoning is somehow crucial to navigating the survival of life. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At some times during my life I’ve seen myself as a shadow, flirting about the real world with these vagabond dreams. Oh, at times I’ve yearned to live in obscurity, dwell in the shadows permanently. Just alone in the wilderness leading a life along a wandering path. However, there’s more to it all. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In my hiding places I find my fragile self. Hurting inside, hiding my face from the world. Sometimes visiting the shadows is where one finds what is dwelling in the shadows. I don’t know, I wasn’t lonely. I wasn’t feeling isolated. I was just feeling separate from everyone, far away and nearly stranded. Disconnected, that’s the word. Afraid, that’s an even more ideal word. Well, I figured, there’s always more to the process of healing. That’s what I believed in, and really hoped for. I’m not mad or angry anymore. I’m not sad. I was searching for answers while lying in the succumbing darkness strangling my head, my back throbbing with electric spasms. The night felt so long just lying there stagnant and immobile. But, I got up the next morning and pushed on. There was nothing left to do. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPzwwXoxoWo4eytnyD7ngB7jMHmnfwhWH9AGk1hgg_5DehBCYjbIsD87sdsRpZoAqBlaRFrvOM-yyFzBn8hERAD4_nmWj1le9oyk206Kjcl9pVqi-blIPIYr0CNjGix2huLaecb1WeswCyht1Hnjso28AgexxDjjv7dc38NKpUwqVBfP544jSuhcA7XxE/s4032/IMG_1167.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPzwwXoxoWo4eytnyD7ngB7jMHmnfwhWH9AGk1hgg_5DehBCYjbIsD87sdsRpZoAqBlaRFrvOM-yyFzBn8hERAD4_nmWj1le9oyk206Kjcl9pVqi-blIPIYr0CNjGix2huLaecb1WeswCyht1Hnjso28AgexxDjjv7dc38NKpUwqVBfP544jSuhcA7XxE/w400-h300/IMG_1167.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is what swirled in my head. I became the shadow lurking in the deep and tall eucalyptus forests. I heaved as the forest heaved. I bent like a shadow as the light spliced through the dense canopy. I was the underside of life. I was the ribbon of trail in a dank forest coursing a way through like vein through a body. I was the dark blood in those veins. I pumped and dealt, pumped and dwelled. Here they come, those thoughts—-I understand that I will always live with the heartbreak. I understand she is a variation of my past, a wavelength intersected at a particular point in time, a dream memory that will revisit me in the future in the form of a good dream. I could have lived moments and lines in so many different ways in the past. The trail diverges, always has. Nothing seems continuous anymore. This is the last time I’ll mention that heartbreak dreamline again. Some things I must keep to myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The days went on, the rain pestered incessantly, my back just fucked up. I lurked in the shadows just wading through blind like that great white shark. I saw myself standing on the precipice of a rugged granite coast ready to jump in to be enveloped by the whale. And, then I found something, something cantankerous and bitter, something timid and afraid. From the inside observing what the inside sees on the outside I saw that I had fell into a sort of trap, a self-preserving one. I had begun to treat every relationship and encounter in a defensive manner, as a confrontation. I pondered recent interactions. I revisited the past two years in my consciousness. I could have done things differently, but I didn’t. All I could see was my true intentions of loving something that was there and loving something that was gone. Deep in the shadows I could finally see how afraid I have been. I had been jarred so much by the heartbreak that every encounter with anyone I didn’t have the ability to trust. I felt abandoned, ghosted, an empty shell of myself. Why should I invest myself into anyone anymore, the morbid thought floated in my head. I felt saddened there sitting in my own shadows, such a far reach from the person I knew to exude positivity and playfulness. I had to molt whatever dead skin I had. I had completely scoured out my insides to reveal only an exoskeleton, a facade unto the real world. Maybe this is the depths the great white shark was diving to, these abysmally trapped emotions that have scarred my life. I keep going back to that image. I see that I am the great white shark diving to the unfathomable dark depths to sit with the darkness, explore the absence of light, poke around and prod the void. One day, when the sun comes back, I hope to venture back up in an explosive resurfacing with some knowledge and understanding. Until then, I merely needed my back to loosen up so I could stomp everything out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The back still hurt regardless of what I wanted. I had to endure the back pain and the shadows. I was, however, more than willing to endure the struggle mentally. That I yearned for. In those depths, I wanted to release the sadness I had had and fill it with something positive. I meditated on the raindrops cascading from the giant karri trees, some of the largest on earth. I contemplated a lasting memory of her: the last good moment together. I found it there in the darkness a glimmer of happiness. And, I stored it deep inside rooted within my core that I hoped one day would seed into something not so dark. Maybe it would bring a smile to me one day. I believed walking on in the shadows brought a new set of eyes to the travels I had been on. I became embedded within the place I roved deep in the heart of the karri forest. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQquG2SennhYv2H4p6tHFFIUJuWmig9aFxowKuSFnJL020FbCYDr8oZpn4CeUjP3pzwDZdli5pbIg9wMViNRmgmNoxq7k_64wiJ_FAY-h1U94RKIRT_gb87utJBzVhahOs8wBSs26c-Akaqi2STYfWQp4WtWsqpF18alG9TTS59wGYmmHk-cqaSYul-s/s4032/IMG_1173.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQquG2SennhYv2H4p6tHFFIUJuWmig9aFxowKuSFnJL020FbCYDr8oZpn4CeUjP3pzwDZdli5pbIg9wMViNRmgmNoxq7k_64wiJ_FAY-h1U94RKIRT_gb87utJBzVhahOs8wBSs26c-Akaqi2STYfWQp4WtWsqpF18alG9TTS59wGYmmHk-cqaSYul-s/w400-h300/IMG_1173.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not all places are spectacularly scenic. With some places it’s the angle of light refracting through the trees, the dank odor of rotting leaves, the damp rank of a soggy forest, and the crackling of the cold settling in through the canopy of eucalyptus that makes a place memorable. When my consciousness and my sense meld together that’s when I connect with a place deeply. I began to pull myself up out of shadows despite the metaphysical weight of the back injury. I have tired of looking at myself from the outside where everyone sees what they see. I am so tired of compromise. As much as I am more me on the inside and more me to myself, I am embracing the shadows I exhibit on the outside. To know me you must be embedded. I see my travels differently now. I see my travels with a stern sense of self where I am living naturally with a boyish wonder. I will do what I want to do. Certainly that wonder thrives but the majority of the time I am sitting with myself. I carry it, the self, as deep a memory as a vivid recollection of a place. I used to see my own self as a horizon where the light is casted through the shading clouds and onto the aspirations and hopes of something grown and enlightened. What signified a distant end is truly an endless endeavor. These new eyes and shadows only show me I still have a long way to walk to get there. These new shadowy eyes show me I am still on the journey. I cannot dwell in the shadows; I must move forward with the shadows. The light is always changing. I can have faith in that.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wi2P-IczOMw4kIcjfT2Gd2dwelaJfFj9ZXnOCH2BIiQuRdvypm2Swg5waupPKqKuGkIr9VrA1wURGlKF1zTqQz-N-XuciIL69jsGuP0k34e-AU3QVKctxB2h3eYvvMOfID8LGlt7Xu2YSWAVweaiwKa4Yrrp4pml3VnQ5y3azlF5ESwr3Y6wnoVdNKQ/s4032/IMG_1185.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wi2P-IczOMw4kIcjfT2Gd2dwelaJfFj9ZXnOCH2BIiQuRdvypm2Swg5waupPKqKuGkIr9VrA1wURGlKF1zTqQz-N-XuciIL69jsGuP0k34e-AU3QVKctxB2h3eYvvMOfID8LGlt7Xu2YSWAVweaiwKa4Yrrp4pml3VnQ5y3azlF5ESwr3Y6wnoVdNKQ/w400-h300/IMG_1185.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next couple days I pushed on with the miasma of gloominess and the pangs of a sore back. Thankfully, the Bibb is not a difficult track that would otherwise make matters worse for my back if it were a difficult and rough and tumble track. I had a smooth corridor to walk under enchanting giant forests and a hut at the end of nearly every day. Life could’ve been worse, certainly. My mood shifted with a clean light pushing through the ebbing rain. I’ll get it back, I thought, that positivity and cheeriness, my playfulness; I’ll get it back, what I once had. I still have that in me. I believe in that. I understood that now as I walked out of the shadows. This is temporary, seasonal. Everything is changing and all at once at all times. I had started to sign trail registers at the huts I stayed at. I began to make my presence known. Seems trivial, but to me this proved I existed. I wanted to show my face again. I saw it as a step forward, a step towards a light of the proof of life. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_r4vE2DvjJJicoDmQsDQcVGDFJitYbLktXdrW2XqLLqBjhZpvigAfeLKnIB0sHmUItpvT5EskXhqaLu8gSGjpryX_Cp0msbS3gCfOKIO2uf0gLSPogtsbInPSf-rJPC57MeL7ok-WVv_Z6q1WYRpKLdg01Nht_ppZX2S12JHBpayyuh6HKg1rgVzT-c/s4032/IMG_1206.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_r4vE2DvjJJicoDmQsDQcVGDFJitYbLktXdrW2XqLLqBjhZpvigAfeLKnIB0sHmUItpvT5EskXhqaLu8gSGjpryX_Cp0msbS3gCfOKIO2uf0gLSPogtsbInPSf-rJPC57MeL7ok-WVv_Z6q1WYRpKLdg01Nht_ppZX2S12JHBpayyuh6HKg1rgVzT-c/w400-h300/IMG_1206.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Light from the Shadows:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Over the week. the back slowly got better, the rain eased up, and I began to enjoy the hiking through the forests again; the sun had poked through. In Balingup, I shared a couch at a trail angels’ house with the bloke and watched the evening news. The toasty living room basked in an orange ember glow from the pot belly stove. The mood was warm. I shared an evening news session on the television as we sipped on a light beer. We watched a segment on a humpback whale that had been inadvertently caught in some stray rigging and ropes. Rigging specialists came in to untangle the whale. After two days of trailing the whale, the crew finally got the whale free of the intertwining predicament. I gazed into the tube on the segment, my eyes not blinking for the few minutes as the segment rolled. I felt something stir inside, almost welling up. I felt that way; trapped and swimming almost futilely, bogged down, the inability to dive deep. It was almost like looking at myself from a 10,000 foot view. Whatever came up, I decided to soak up the moment in the warmth of the living room and kind hospitality. My clothes had been washed and I was clean. I was fed, dry, and warm. I was content and I could see now just how close I was to Perth. Despite the delays in the rain and with the back injury, I could see myself finishing right on time with the remaining mileage left. The only thing I had been considering, and with no blue demeanor, I realized I probably wouldn’t be attempting the AT if any soreness in the back persisted as got back to Perth some 10 days away. The turnaround time for recovery was too close. The back had me aware and cautious, careful. I knew with the timeframe and pace I would need to do the AT in that the sore back would prohibit such an endurance attempt. And, that’s ok. I had my original plan anyways.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhGCc9AWNt523tUuktQO7AGFfG-pwKLtrVsrGS-2oxElkxH3YuFXBhLIGHQwZthUrQEM1VG7AOQpOMln3jeZXwTHbjWhJkzEHPqNYvxiXI6LGKKQt0-BkYUzY9IPXS6-LZ2jdsggiwl_782-rcPQBXOjPyJk7X4MSCqy6mI7RVXaI2Aw93aq1Y7UlKXg/s4032/IMG_1219.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhGCc9AWNt523tUuktQO7AGFfG-pwKLtrVsrGS-2oxElkxH3YuFXBhLIGHQwZthUrQEM1VG7AOQpOMln3jeZXwTHbjWhJkzEHPqNYvxiXI6LGKKQt0-BkYUzY9IPXS6-LZ2jdsggiwl_782-rcPQBXOjPyJk7X4MSCqy6mI7RVXaI2Aw93aq1Y7UlKXg/w400-h300/IMG_1219.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">As emblematic as the depths are of an ocean, it doubles as the depths of a person, in a way I am viewing it personally. The infinite encapsulation of emotions, the entirety of thought, within those depths lies the soul. And, I think that soul lies in darkness; it’s just not easily found. The sun rose above the foggy valley, the morning light perforating the silvery wall of mist. Slowly the sun rose over the next couple days. The heart of winter drew close in the far under-reaches of the southern hemisphere. The sun hung low in the sky and I recognized the process of life, of healing. The warmth of the rays caressed the land. The warmth of light piercing through the shield of darkness drying the land and the canopy of tall forests. Things take time, even one single day.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNy8gyGvyxGGm2-4ArDicJDRuH8QpVfbA-EwEggqjeE-GZA3Uab9cYYumh1obl0Us4WVrMlwvVAJYP1hgYKYTUL94SyqNB2QoAGgf4O9UxKlMzFBPOS99-hMEe4nDL6BeEo9YUa0MM4OzZfL1-OgH5UDCBrOtVJogFYyimayOyhf-JSeiZMAalCSyqBO0/s4032/IMG_1224.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNy8gyGvyxGGm2-4ArDicJDRuH8QpVfbA-EwEggqjeE-GZA3Uab9cYYumh1obl0Us4WVrMlwvVAJYP1hgYKYTUL94SyqNB2QoAGgf4O9UxKlMzFBPOS99-hMEe4nDL6BeEo9YUa0MM4OzZfL1-OgH5UDCBrOtVJogFYyimayOyhf-JSeiZMAalCSyqBO0/w400-h300/IMG_1224.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">As the sun gradually dominated the sky, the clouds scant, my pace quickened. Soon enough I found myself in Collie almost ahead of what I had anticipated. I took a zero day to finally rest the back fully. And, it paid off. Wow, what a day off can do to rest the mind. I hadn’t realized the stronghold of the concentration on the back until I had completely stopped. It helped too that I had some wiggle room now. It paid off—the enduring the pain of the back with hard work, staying the course. From Collie, with a good forecast over the next week, I could now open up my stride.</span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qaG3wHIXfL-RmNTnvOQQ0xGlAe623jsWGle4AqWHcUFqj-pNcmuqtry0VDzhIL-jydaZdRzk7B9IFwV7eX0AkG0xJPommW7mwTFFY1FvVrQBe7tzHPEVTi2SJWQJhPvqqxrz79tVLoEml-lF9n8Z37_mCifz3yUCVJP8Yem-BPAdW8X6VjhrqcEv9WQ/s4032/IMG_1231.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qaG3wHIXfL-RmNTnvOQQ0xGlAe623jsWGle4AqWHcUFqj-pNcmuqtry0VDzhIL-jydaZdRzk7B9IFwV7eX0AkG0xJPommW7mwTFFY1FvVrQBe7tzHPEVTi2SJWQJhPvqqxrz79tVLoEml-lF9n8Z37_mCifz3yUCVJP8Yem-BPAdW8X6VjhrqcEv9WQ/w320-h240/IMG_1231.HEIC" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">The going went smoothly enough through tall forests along the Murray River. The temps dropped to nearly freezing temps for the long nights and early morning. I enjoyed the cold temps which provided me with pleasant walking. At least it wasn’t raining. Other hikers were back out on trail, too. I had begun to wonder if the soggy weather had held hikers at bay. For a solid week or more, the presence of an empty trail dominated my perspective. The track felt lonesome. I hardly saw anybody, at least not until near Dwellingup. Then, I found myself standing in the old lookout tower watching the clouds move on by, watching the trees sway in the wind, atop Mt. Wells. The high dome teemed with bird life, views ranged over a wide area. I finally had a view, a perch. Birds fluttered in and around the banksia and the taller gums playing their evening songs—the startling green parrots, the lamentations of the raven, the peeps of tiny robins, the tiny blue capped fairy wren with the long thin fan tail, the bronze wing pigeon, the thrushes—listening to the birds, the hustle and bustle, the squeaks and peeps, the chortles and chuckles—feeling the warmth of the sun on a chilly day, I started reflecting on a lot of the hiking I have done over the past decade. In my memory I traveled around so many trails. The wind caressed the lookout between the trestles causing a whirring sound. I observed a squall moving towards me. I felt the dashes of sprinkles sporadically falling in. I tend to not dwell on those types of memories even though those memories are the best kind. I tend to be so present on the trail that I am on I almost discard the old ones. I pondered how much more I need to think about this kind of stuff. These memories of my hiking life bring me so much joy, peace, and tranquility.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpkNtHuDPi7z-D1NZxzcgbRVvDbNsJUYJcuRCMTB4nZtQJks14NsEnRdwS3rx7BBXUXW5TZxRyi6z05mUsjyt2WKou0cOAcVHlxvt-5yzBa3umKTR3q3sG7L7rTxfUx9_06DwM0eRfq2ndPereoZnxwDjJf44gzkw9HAKAhx15OSnepiIYHrtumh0WUY/s4032/IMG_1237.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpkNtHuDPi7z-D1NZxzcgbRVvDbNsJUYJcuRCMTB4nZtQJks14NsEnRdwS3rx7BBXUXW5TZxRyi6z05mUsjyt2WKou0cOAcVHlxvt-5yzBa3umKTR3q3sG7L7rTxfUx9_06DwM0eRfq2ndPereoZnxwDjJf44gzkw9HAKAhx15OSnepiIYHrtumh0WUY/w400-h300/IMG_1237.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dusk fell and the crescent moon glimmered onto a purple backdrop. I stood around the campfire the other camper made. The stars and the Milky Way came out early, my neck craned to the heavens above. I couldn’t believe how dark it was. We chitchatted around the fire briefly before an owl swooped down towards me. I dodged violently with an evasive maneuver that startled the other camper. The owl perched on an exposed low branch of a banksia. The owl stared back at me. Fir a few minutes this went on before the owl swooped back towards me. The owl must be insect hunting using the fire light. This hut proved to be a memorable one for me on the Bibb. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbUIdDjV_O_IoPwIpMrUbZ4V0j4k8kqDDaIux5trLw1PEfWb_1OiLKbT7AmjIRUMe91OiXPo_Awew1hD7QzFXLetIoITdaM2vqTnzSzowLT8my4mohQ74CcRzveZ74DmX1u-zayliQyLiZVKlNm55CvfLIcaT-Fx5I2PIgxHR-ZOF-lxlggYmOmZMO9Y/s4032/IMG_1254.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbUIdDjV_O_IoPwIpMrUbZ4V0j4k8kqDDaIux5trLw1PEfWb_1OiLKbT7AmjIRUMe91OiXPo_Awew1hD7QzFXLetIoITdaM2vqTnzSzowLT8my4mohQ74CcRzveZ74DmX1u-zayliQyLiZVKlNm55CvfLIcaT-Fx5I2PIgxHR-ZOF-lxlggYmOmZMO9Y/w400-h300/IMG_1254.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I entered the spot on the maps where the topography lines looked interesting. Finally some relief in the form of domes. Some actual ascending and descending occurred. This was fun hiking. Forests of sheoaks, the banksias, the grasstrees standing like giant people among the jarrah and marri gums, the forests were enchanting. Then, I would climb up granite slabs following cairns to the granite domed knob. Moss carpeted the slabs. The potholes were full from the evening rain. Views abounded in a full panorama. Out in the distance, a hazy fog layer hung above the dark green forests. I dripped with sweat, a cool breeze cooling me off.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SiM2M1UV6x7CtxsW4ThyUZ2Qme6yD-SduorNbcGDP2pEdtHnCuLUdrnF9eYOW6FKr29DhxG4AAUetItYb1pSQMhwOVrtiGJule2NrNlLtEi2-0By32PjnilfsxtDGGwByyR4zIBsPwP4iLWA9YatzyOo60IlD0-VxCwH0ETYr0pb4aRZTi5aU84TDhk/s4032/IMG_1252.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SiM2M1UV6x7CtxsW4ThyUZ2Qme6yD-SduorNbcGDP2pEdtHnCuLUdrnF9eYOW6FKr29DhxG4AAUetItYb1pSQMhwOVrtiGJule2NrNlLtEi2-0By32PjnilfsxtDGGwByyR4zIBsPwP4iLWA9YatzyOo60IlD0-VxCwH0ETYr0pb4aRZTi5aU84TDhk/w400-h300/IMG_1252.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Canning Hut, I had the lot to myself. I got there in time as the rain drizzled on the roof softly. The gum trees swayed in a chilly breeze rolling back and forth with a rhythmic swishing noise that drowned out the dearth of silence. This place felt remote, far away. Black cockatoos squawked as the day neared an end, the crackles and squeals piercing my droning thoughtlessness. I observed the birds from a bench under the hut. The cockatoos sternly communicated with each other, I think in tabulating a flock count. Some swirled in the canopy riding the current of the stiff breeze. The black cockatoos huddled near each other for the duration of the night, safety in numbers and lookouts. Then, as the black cockatoos settled in, I zoned out on the solitude granted to me. I simply sat and melted into the changing soft light of dusk. I melted into the swaying and rolling breeze. Right before I laid down I walked down to the track. A light mist toppled down from the gum canopy. I looked up and gazed at the twinkling Milky Way, a river of stars streaming across the black sky. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8go9qYGsipdJ9R5GlGgFzp6X3M3-AYMC7bl7vy0r5FhALlMYwSr5ZUvCHiQ_GAXDviNF1pTRC0wUpaP9LsQGEjfvCvOZU7uKTvKtGQf36cT14Ywl3Iu6bv9hbmStNflss8do7eXJ0vBtVRRFmRILnv7Pyf-dDXtwhJnpTNGT0YnPx1IjDckwXxNSBpg/s4032/IMG_1239.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8go9qYGsipdJ9R5GlGgFzp6X3M3-AYMC7bl7vy0r5FhALlMYwSr5ZUvCHiQ_GAXDviNF1pTRC0wUpaP9LsQGEjfvCvOZU7uKTvKtGQf36cT14Ywl3Iu6bv9hbmStNflss8do7eXJ0vBtVRRFmRILnv7Pyf-dDXtwhJnpTNGT0YnPx1IjDckwXxNSBpg/w400-h300/IMG_1239.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up in the middle of the pitch black night. The crescent moon had already set. A drizzle softly pelted the roof of the hut. I don’t know, I felt this immense sorrow carving my face. I thought of death, the memory of others long gone, a permanent scar on some unknown and distant land. Damn, my heart hung heavy. I am not sure why. I ran through memories of old friends who passed away. I rifled through their smiles and the blurs of times passed spent with each of them. I delved into the days leading up to my grandma’s death, her passing to me acknowledged by the lone raven above in an alcove in the swollen Paria River canyon narrows. I yearned to communicate with all of them through this metaphysical trail, the wavelengths of souls. I yearned to sit next to them, embrace them. I fell into the lost love that brought me here. I wept, alone in the hut under a stupendously starry black sky. Something I had been dreaming of must have spurned these churning thoughts up. Or, my dream whale was back from the depths messaging me from deep within. I decided to pray. As silly as that sounds to me, I prayed and then tossed and turned for an hour in the weeping wee hours of the night. I felt a longing to be with my grandma, to sit among her and spend time with her. I moved to my memory of the lost love. I ran through the first time I said ‘I love you’ and finally meant it. I sobbed a little. Nothing to fill up a puddle, merely a little. The stars lit up the hut and shimmered the periphery around me, guiding me. I waded through the darkness following the glimmer of the stars. I swam and swam, swam so everlasting hard into the darkness and towards the shimmering light of the stars.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRD4hyT9BUtFv5m505CuhTP7qNruliFAcRqNK1FTH35T3piYtuViiVoPKIMV0Y-E_wVyddY_Q5Zgn5a1g3s1mJu0gt1UaGPhebuZsJLqajeRVsnzAnm00XTY3dHAuWQcgVKxDGYjwAdgSYWWa5jFlIxMw5-au4LN9LmrLslx9LcYR90eYYYoG_Qf0nmJ0/s3862/IMG_1221.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2896" data-original-width="3862" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRD4hyT9BUtFv5m505CuhTP7qNruliFAcRqNK1FTH35T3piYtuViiVoPKIMV0Y-E_wVyddY_Q5Zgn5a1g3s1mJu0gt1UaGPhebuZsJLqajeRVsnzAnm00XTY3dHAuWQcgVKxDGYjwAdgSYWWa5jFlIxMw5-au4LN9LmrLslx9LcYR90eYYYoG_Qf0nmJ0/w400-h300/IMG_1221.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up tossed and turnt, my quilt off of me. A dream within a dream, I came to with a slight shiver. The predawn cold sunk. I wrapped myself back up in the quilt. Not to be too morbid or anything, but these moments are fulfilling. I can deeply contemplate on life, reflect on all the good fortune of all the friends I have had. A moment of thankfulness, gratitude, by myself in isolation. It seems to all go back to the rainbow along the southern beach, the dark rainy forests with the gigantic gum trees, the lookout, and now this hut. I am grateful for my dreams for taking me this far, for guiding me, for spurring on my imagination. Without them I would be misplaced. This is why I love nature. This is why I need nature. I need to get to the depths of myself. This is the only place I can truly find solace. It’s not in a bar, or at work, or just in the confines of society. This soul searching is truly conducive with immersion deep in the woods, faraway in the outreaches of a desert, in the mountains, on the sea, just anywhere where there is nobody else.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBD__Ojw8eeKYon2x1uOabqCuiV-IFDUQ4JSYi90cF5GFNTGR6iBl5fL-jmONStjGoWeJ353NZn6xqXulg0jg0tvNnpzfi65DKqo7G-uarVBP3azv9-hjjM_oRtutPceYaPS2QSeK2KygNoMUWaFjxCctWrcVUGkNsxOplSr_KYsksoOE6yPT8tmN8WY/s4032/IMG_1226.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBD__Ojw8eeKYon2x1uOabqCuiV-IFDUQ4JSYi90cF5GFNTGR6iBl5fL-jmONStjGoWeJ353NZn6xqXulg0jg0tvNnpzfi65DKqo7G-uarVBP3azv9-hjjM_oRtutPceYaPS2QSeK2KygNoMUWaFjxCctWrcVUGkNsxOplSr_KYsksoOE6yPT8tmN8WY/w400-h300/IMG_1226.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I walked hard the next day knowing the next day I would be finished and needed to get to Perth so I had at least a night to get ready for my flight out of Australia. Indeed, I spent the day thinking about my time in Australia. So, I walked on in a pretty high buzz. I arrived at the Helena Hut that overlooked the valley on a granite promontory. I shared a hut with 3 other hikers who were about to finish the Bibb, as well. They just were finishing in two days time, as I was one. We chatted about the Bibb, even surprised at how young all of us were as compared to all of the other hikers we have seen out on the Bibb. We cracked jokes and reminisced about our experience. It was actually a really fun time. Then, the evening came and all of us stood out over the bluff and gazed into the heavens. We observed the changing color of dusk into evening and into night, a slew of purples galore. We counted shooting stars streaming across the sky. And, we just stood there. That's it. For an hour or so. It seemed we were all sharing a moment.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kSRzONAzeQb-C0CGlYBV5Rfh4pI52KjZtzw1KF2bsy0x7QsogEKDMelq-Zb7mHg74sWJfIVRMHOP6pvnczFn-Wst1VvLEx_UcYI0A-rM0AeJLdN3JqAAPn0N58y8v8GxDhJEW_iylvoXDf2hQKm_tJn7JHF42gh2ed6VClLmFqjmAiPBpYBqLoza2dk/s4032/IMG_1275.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kSRzONAzeQb-C0CGlYBV5Rfh4pI52KjZtzw1KF2bsy0x7QsogEKDMelq-Zb7mHg74sWJfIVRMHOP6pvnczFn-Wst1VvLEx_UcYI0A-rM0AeJLdN3JqAAPn0N58y8v8GxDhJEW_iylvoXDf2hQKm_tJn7JHF42gh2ed6VClLmFqjmAiPBpYBqLoza2dk/w400-h300/IMG_1275.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a sound sleep I leapt up early. I only had 18 miles to the northern terminus in Kalamunda, but I wanted to rise with the sun. I knew I would get a spectacular show from the perch the hut sat at. The low marine layer slowly crept in over the steely fog. The fog hung thickly over the deep canyons below. Up the side drainages the fog tiptoed like wispy smoke with a still breeze. Everything was deathly silent. The first tangerine glows permeated the fog silhouetting the nearest gum lined ridge. Purple came next that highlighted burnt branches from old spindly snags. Then, a few birds groggily chirped, which turned brightly, almost cheerily as the day slowly churned over; my Australian journey would be over soon. Everything appeared in front of me as a dream: a spectacle of memory, reality, and the realm in between. How could I ever forget this moment.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPkwzmwlOVHcU6Sz_xxRESl7TLg0LnEoTrZRiZEdvwxRrRCUqEX0de0sOs0eWO6MKlNHwDpwlQAGolrB8FtncLIdlOpQ5VJ0JOZ4Ss5-rFzWGtte9s2MXnntR7fSfwNNMSMyqNLlZ53y-5in_w8urf9kqgB00shpf4RgJeNVoHJ2dSvNwFpsDeVzQ1N8/s4032/IMG_1273.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPkwzmwlOVHcU6Sz_xxRESl7TLg0LnEoTrZRiZEdvwxRrRCUqEX0de0sOs0eWO6MKlNHwDpwlQAGolrB8FtncLIdlOpQ5VJ0JOZ4Ss5-rFzWGtte9s2MXnntR7fSfwNNMSMyqNLlZ53y-5in_w8urf9kqgB00shpf4RgJeNVoHJ2dSvNwFpsDeVzQ1N8/w400-h300/IMG_1273.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOpLvUcpSfymk-mRCzIGUdhjkAz9RDZWkh9ugyxRbF1OfZlkBOJ2lT74AQscKG6U0cK3q2qTnp9tTmxZsbWlOh4DprQhQnx05ahDTQjyzszJiAcqgvEORgCwNHHCfzaJMXIPYsHiD1txe3oVlYz90h6lRXK6J0e347I2dn79OO897cX53Oa0zVXDSTq8/s4032/IMG_1241.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOpLvUcpSfymk-mRCzIGUdhjkAz9RDZWkh9ugyxRbF1OfZlkBOJ2lT74AQscKG6U0cK3q2qTnp9tTmxZsbWlOh4DprQhQnx05ahDTQjyzszJiAcqgvEORgCwNHHCfzaJMXIPYsHiD1txe3oVlYz90h6lRXK6J0e347I2dn79OO897cX53Oa0zVXDSTq8/w400-h300/IMG_1241.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTu1c2abwNVztOqqAwlZ_Na5PS4g3XbGjv3rWoY4YYmgAPa1MrZKsi9s_T9Ox5SFK8jApOfPcyVf0cWswhPNWWt2etYNaD7LvbvKNpW2b-ktxdtUbYYTREfB09w37MZYNSKHD-mqMsRvqOj21egRC9vMDvIAuRdg2K1Dgb9FU-3TaorAtwapm-QzjQPM/s4032/IMG_1259.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTu1c2abwNVztOqqAwlZ_Na5PS4g3XbGjv3rWoY4YYmgAPa1MrZKsi9s_T9Ox5SFK8jApOfPcyVf0cWswhPNWWt2etYNaD7LvbvKNpW2b-ktxdtUbYYTREfB09w37MZYNSKHD-mqMsRvqOj21egRC9vMDvIAuRdg2K1Dgb9FU-3TaorAtwapm-QzjQPM/w400-h300/IMG_1259.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_OSPcVKO6YMvblf4UCVls-I03G8olOceFxq5D18mT5RBO8XJuHCuXXnQl0PBsut30DsdE6Epuo1M-lE8y7Kt0PJZVlrsTsJvMATl7mgqVTqxRRkC1MeXlUSHWlVMFl9mqmFDUftgtbcAp6pHjVLOxxZCZEa9ZjzjfI9bKDY-mL6jhBb4wdMicVC-5bI/s4032/IMG_1271.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_OSPcVKO6YMvblf4UCVls-I03G8olOceFxq5D18mT5RBO8XJuHCuXXnQl0PBsut30DsdE6Epuo1M-lE8y7Kt0PJZVlrsTsJvMATl7mgqVTqxRRkC1MeXlUSHWlVMFl9mqmFDUftgtbcAp6pHjVLOxxZCZEa9ZjzjfI9bKDY-mL6jhBb4wdMicVC-5bI/w400-h300/IMG_1271.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlKOYhT76-Hu-uBUPqVgVVqv7Vq_vs-kl8F-0xiyNmdxe0scTVre-LkaYKOIldIUyrbJqDqwE8U5O_9DKFRkHoh9Cw2f-83VtgD_GV0PebaqP6BlM2nokMbCbqsupl7eF67J7JTPSzc3PPh1uFvWJ_Cqt2VrxI90Q34KQvJAarhCLh3-3TgauIqhbkDc/s4032/IMG_1280.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlKOYhT76-Hu-uBUPqVgVVqv7Vq_vs-kl8F-0xiyNmdxe0scTVre-LkaYKOIldIUyrbJqDqwE8U5O_9DKFRkHoh9Cw2f-83VtgD_GV0PebaqP6BlM2nokMbCbqsupl7eF67J7JTPSzc3PPh1uFvWJ_Cqt2VrxI90Q34KQvJAarhCLh3-3TgauIqhbkDc/w300-h400/IMG_1280.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-36526459304700636602023-05-24T19:08:00.003-07:002023-07-01T05:55:15.139-07:00Away from the Red Centre Dream: OZ<p><span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Away from the Red Centre Dream: OZ</b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZKdyxp5Z0WJyyha9TfAi2IjTOHVsPC3M6hpsBNz0kGehKsOadqFWN4-XOrMlWrZUNkWf8mcKQuCTQ3l0uVlY9h0mUdNHxayfOwC-7D3KD7xE2GG3O08JQFFT0N1cijQndDzq1_8r0zKZTTy12pIZQTgJ68AuLGaOixBgRdwm2XNTyf9xjpPE5_uC/s1440/2B9735DC-A6A3-462E-9E84-0C9AAA810ECC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZKdyxp5Z0WJyyha9TfAi2IjTOHVsPC3M6hpsBNz0kGehKsOadqFWN4-XOrMlWrZUNkWf8mcKQuCTQ3l0uVlY9h0mUdNHxayfOwC-7D3KD7xE2GG3O08JQFFT0N1cijQndDzq1_8r0zKZTTy12pIZQTgJ68AuLGaOixBgRdwm2XNTyf9xjpPE5_uC/w400-h300/2B9735DC-A6A3-462E-9E84-0C9AAA810ECC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The Larapinta Wind-down:</b><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Approaching the outskirts of Alice Springs, a multitude of thoughts seeped through the adventurous focused mindset of my brain. My head flooded with logistics and to-do’s that had been dammed up in deep recesses like waterholes tucked away in the red quartz gorges of the West MacDonnell’s. So many items clicked and ticked through my noggin that I couldn’t even stop and ruminate in the moment that I considered somewhat a milestone. The traffic zipped by me and I trained my senses instantly to be on alert. I rode into town and headed straight for McDonald’s, a familiar place I knew where I could get WIFI and I could then get my bearings straightened. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I scarfed down a meal I had no interest in other than to merely fill the vacant space in my gut. I ate the meal in the play area somewhat hiding in the corner, a place where I could hide from the world and ease into the real world while at the same time keep an eye on my bike. Since Adelaide I had heard rumblings, proclamations, affectations, and opinions that Alice was a harsh and tough town. ‘Watch your bike,’ they said. ‘Watch the kids,’ they harkened. Aboriginal kid gangs had been plaguing the town with thievery and muggings. The town council had limited the sales and places to get alcohol because of the effect liquor had on the Aboriginals. I respected what I had been told and kept my eyes and ears open, but I wouldn’t hold any judgment at all towards anyone. I would see things for myself. But, as with any hinterland adventure, I get shy when visiting a city or big town after some extended time in the boonies. So, I sat in a corner of the play area at the McDonald’s waiting for my social nerve to break. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got myself checked in at the hostel, showered, and immediately went in to planning a 6 day trek on the Larapinta Trail. With ample information and a very good logistical map of the trail I didn’t need much time. A backpack I had ordered even showed up to the hostel by post as I was wrapping up my itinerary and obtaining my permit and campsite reservations. I even had a full day off the next day which I was not only using for some rest but utilizing the time to figure out some future logistics spanning the rest of my time in Australia and my plans for the rest of the summer. As much as I had heard Alice was popping off, I had the preoccupation of logistics to keep me safe and out of trouble. So, there will be no commentary of the atmosphere of the social structure and sufferings here in Alice.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrT2IuqzmkM-jnXgLSAEG7T9eay093Pa2pp5YM9jjsHbpHbtVhXI0U7RLhOdggyA2ADX1Bpf1_c0uRQMz8ORpsfwN4yvKLSG0dJ28B7rWS0yC51Q1PzsuW2icdVp1XyfGRTAGDrMfsC8MhJ-LC8QLzQQ7ZhPz8K4G-3kCZeW7N4bBysX7ISFGl5IH/s1440/DDA525D2-3BE8-40B9-9607-EE71C39EDACB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrT2IuqzmkM-jnXgLSAEG7T9eay093Pa2pp5YM9jjsHbpHbtVhXI0U7RLhOdggyA2ADX1Bpf1_c0uRQMz8ORpsfwN4yvKLSG0dJ28B7rWS0yC51Q1PzsuW2icdVp1XyfGRTAGDrMfsC8MhJ-LC8QLzQQ7ZhPz8K4G-3kCZeW7N4bBysX7ISFGl5IH/w400-h300/DDA525D2-3BE8-40B9-9607-EE71C39EDACB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had been dreaming of Alice. Alice was a black dot I had pointed to on the map page in the ratty old atlas I had as a boy. Alice was the center of the universe, in a way, so far away from everything and everyone. I could not have dreamt of a more meaningful spot. I needed to be here. I was drawn to here since a child. In some way, I felt like I had been on a lifelong quest to get here. I wondered why I had chosen this place on the other side of the world. The answer probably lies within that sentence, too. Because it was on the other side of the world, the place on the ratty old map page provided an escape from all the bullshit that was going on with my mom and whoever she was with when I was a boy. That atlas transported me here way back then. Those long drives across the Mojave Desert from Los Angeles to Las Vegas transported me to the empty space of the desert. This is when my wandering began. As an escapism, I found these empty blank places as the gateway to my soul, to introspection and knowledge of just who I am. It is unbelievable to me that I am in Alice. I never felt that way in all the wanderings across all the deserts in the U.S. Those places just felt like home, a familiarity evoked through a sense of place. Alice, well, simply felt like the farthest place I could ever get away from all the bullshit in my life. Being here now, I felt that. And, I was in a somber state. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had reached the center of the universe, the summit of the highest mountain, and now I must go through the other side, to descend the peak. I am in my 8th month of travel in this year long adventure. More than halfway in monthly terms, yet this is the halfway point of my intentions, the midway place of my wandering. I strolled over to the supermarket and floated up and down the aisles. Impressed by the myriad options of fresh food and variety, I gravitated between all the colorful fruit and vegetables like a fruit fly. My eyes bulged out of my head pressed out by sensory overloading. At least my mind went blank. Because from that point on until I started the Larapinta Trail, I would be inundated by logistics. I understood deep down I couldn’t wait to walk a long trail to slow down and empty the mind, to simply focus on managing the body and reconnecting my soles with the rocky dirt.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmn2Y0zkABISE6UcG_GhzdNZFgArv6F5MujL5e8BACm2nQz_J5tr81726NfYGTMr9aXULA-cMJOZ55-slGhNeM9ImARjXSe700JIXdsV_sqkALGMzg7yZ3WMGFA16q5wLXwrIHIjDSUkglQON_jqP1ehpZaGJV0v-xcE_T6HpteK8JEo5KqlfA9YfM/s1440/DE8DF2A4-2691-40A7-8CFC-07002657627A.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmn2Y0zkABISE6UcG_GhzdNZFgArv6F5MujL5e8BACm2nQz_J5tr81726NfYGTMr9aXULA-cMJOZ55-slGhNeM9ImARjXSe700JIXdsV_sqkALGMzg7yZ3WMGFA16q5wLXwrIHIjDSUkglQON_jqP1ehpZaGJV0v-xcE_T6HpteK8JEo5KqlfA9YfM/w400-h300/DE8DF2A4-2691-40A7-8CFC-07002657627A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had, however, despite my present blankness and the recent compulsion to be present in the Red Centre moment, I had planted the seed of planning for the rest of the trip and summer. Reaching Alice not only conjured up a childhood dream and an inner accomplishment, the seed began to sprout sprigs in Alice. I spent my day off mulling over countless scenarios. I had the Australian itinerary adjusted and dialed in. I changed my flight up in Darwin so I would have enough time to hike the Larapinta and still ride the bike on up there. My flight from Darwin to Perth now fit smoothly with a comfortably swift pace to enjoy the Bibbulmun Track in Western Australia, the final trip of the Aussie journey. I was pleased with the Aussie itinerary. I would finish up with a slower pace and explore a landscape on foot rather than by bike. I needed and craved this change. These changes didn’t take too long. Where I struggled with was the rest of year long trip, namely summer. As in: what’s next, how to, is it what I truly want, and is it sensible. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Months ago I began planning a European finish to this year long adventure. In order: an Iceland Traverse, the High Pyrenees Route, and the Gran Traversata de Alpi. I really had everything more or less planned by Melbourne. Plane tickets had been bought, routes sketched and drawn, but I hadn’t the nitty gritty details. When I left the States I made a notated effort that I would need to be as flexible as possible for the duration of the trip. Not only would I need to be flexible for natural changes and things I could not control, I needed to be flexible for personal needs and wants. This would provide me with clear prospective as I traveled. I hope this strategy would provide alignment with what I was experiencing at the time, how I felt emotionally and physically, and what laid ahead of me with the terrain. The Grand Canyon Traverse went smoothly enough even with monumental challenges. New Zealand and the Te Araroa Trail went successfully as planned. The great unknown of this whole trip would be the bikepacking part in Australia. I figured I would explore Australia as best as I could with the bikepacking routes I had in mind and try and fit in what hiking I could, namely the Larapinta and the Bibbulmun Tracks. As I pedaled, I began to fall in love with Australia. The landscape, the people, the bike, just the whole experience out here. I was getting the wear and tear rest I needed while riding the bike yet I began having so much fun riding into these remote places and meeting the locals. I fell for the pub culture and the characters dwelling with those local community havens. I led this trip with my heart and I followed it. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">With the heart leading the way I was more open to changes within my route and my time here in Australia. This meant constant adaptations and changes throughout the journey. This meant I spent more of the budget I had planned for this long leg. This time here in Australia, my experience here, is one of my most rewarding and memorable experiences yet. Who cares that I spent more money. I had the best time I could possibly have while in this country. I wouldn’t have it any other way, that’s for damn sure. Plus, I’ll even have the opportunity to hike the hikes I wanted to hike. Yet, in Alice I needed to seriously contemplate two things: getting the bike home and what will the summer look like. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivH6ppWdYAQ_Nk1nNuccOJ93gkxmaBs3Ylwa3SovCxryVaLWekOfTmvfnamI3gW2HqtCeS1SsXhDeR-8erH6pwtK6C-cmssOCn6F065VqEbbYACEtZqnK1qYRoSS6kdEp6mRCjVHvtnxAiYDOH2YnpJg2E7GVrs17DbgyeuPri_GW4yeEkfHV-g_ZO/s4032/IMG_0799.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivH6ppWdYAQ_Nk1nNuccOJ93gkxmaBs3Ylwa3SovCxryVaLWekOfTmvfnamI3gW2HqtCeS1SsXhDeR-8erH6pwtK6C-cmssOCn6F065VqEbbYACEtZqnK1qYRoSS6kdEp6mRCjVHvtnxAiYDOH2YnpJg2E7GVrs17DbgyeuPri_GW4yeEkfHV-g_ZO/w400-h300/IMG_0799.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">First off, I had to figure out the shipping of my bike. I got that more or less figured out quickly. Second off, I had to narrow down the logistics of Europe. I was completely unmotivated and, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the latter. I had maneuvered, adapted, changed, and kept fluid with my Australian itinerary that now I understood my need for simplicity. What I was afraid of was that my Europe plans would become very complicated with logistics and all the moving parts. I knew that would mean too much money would be spent. I also knew that that would limit my experience out there. I didn’t want to get so bombarded with the tons of logistics and un-familiarities of a few countries that having a good time would take a back seat. Easy explanation here, an easy need: I want to walk with uncomplicated logistics for an extended period of time</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">So, I looked into the feasibility of changing and adjusting my European trip. It seemed easy enough. I would just need to change my flights to a year later. That’s it. I could then spend significant time planning that trip over the next Winter. Now, with my Australian budget going over, this meant I needed to think about working again. I reached out to a buddy (boss) at work. I could go back to work the same weekend I left last year, exactly one year apart and return exactly for the big event I helped run. This lined up fittingly. Now, and finally, what to do with the time I would have left, roughly 75 days between July and mid September. With a rough idea, I decided to push the puzzle pieces, scenarios, budget concerns, and wants and needs aside for the rest of the off day. I didn’t need to make a decision right then and there. So, I put my mind adrift into hiking the Larapinta Trail. I </span><span face="-apple-system-body">submerged my inner dialogue and mental needling deep into a peaceful waterhole. I could just float into the meditation and musing </span><span face="-apple-system-body">a cool crisp Autumn hike in the Outback for 6 dull days. I could clear the head and reset the body. I could not think about anything for the first time in a very long while.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiss-FZqVpkgvIam7hIdoTARkGzWeP_zFE9Zj0t1vFPLAXV8YbcKysLOph-XaybJaHfCX4Qzwx_xJqck4aW6jtI-M1sbSxf2QEk1Sznh0Aozcz_bbRvpjXnfqT6jHhJifrKpQxqMflP4n21Uye4SvzX8E2Outt8EZmiJ2ubbLP8qOcR6Xya7qPDxWOn/s1440/BC683092-8C0A-4F74-9B73-4C031DDE26B4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiss-FZqVpkgvIam7hIdoTARkGzWeP_zFE9Zj0t1vFPLAXV8YbcKysLOph-XaybJaHfCX4Qzwx_xJqck4aW6jtI-M1sbSxf2QEk1Sznh0Aozcz_bbRvpjXnfqT6jHhJifrKpQxqMflP4n21Uye4SvzX8E2Outt8EZmiJ2ubbLP8qOcR6Xya7qPDxWOn/w400-h300/BC683092-8C0A-4F74-9B73-4C031DDE26B4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Within the first few steps along the hardscrabble trail, the pointy blades of spinifex grass jabbed into my shins, a newfound and rekindled sensation all rolled into one. I reached down with my calloused hands to rub the pokes, the discoloration of my gloveless hands and fingers a striking contrast to my dark tanned forearms and legs. I wanted to feel my legs feeling the pokes, to verify that the sensation was real. I flirted with the notion that I wasn’t on my bike with a smile and a snort. I bent back up and looked all around me. Red rock in every direction. And mountains. Finally up close and personal with mountains after nearly 2,500 miles of utter flatness. I skittered off down the winding trail and up the scrappy pathway that led to Mt. Sonder, the lofty summit that is the western terminus of the Larapinta.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">A couple hours later I stood on Mt. Sonder. I hovered above the valley floors below me. I marveled at the undulating texture of long and thin ridges, folds of rock resembling an imaginary reptilian spine. Huge flat pans spread out beneath the ridges, the Outback proper. If one looked carefully one could see the meandering vein of the main drainage within the enormous flat pan. Taller and bushier gum trees lined the ribbon. I traced these water passageways trying to discern the contours of a flat landscape. Abruptly the serpentine waterway appeared to slam into an escarpment and explode right through it. In a curved archway the rock spilled into a cut recess. Within the narrow cut a gorge formed. I tried to envision a flood of water splicing through the rock and dirt. I tried to imagine the flat and immense pan flooded with water. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">I turned in every direction doing the same tracing. After an hour on the summit, I turned to hike back across the knobby ridgecrest and back to the junction that would lead me east along the Larapinta Trail and towards Alice Springs some 140 miles away.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxpeB03ywgfUdVQd1W8fcW4V0xYxKberaIdmmHfAMB8vu_slnNFm2Ax2sCoLpNDkPs_r7VHTYaX7Eoec0NqckxgbPDA5Q3Jax1hKEN7G_aaIX-4-iBixFNbJAk3i2ecgWx9EOCIw-JWw5JAEHm-KECX6TGs6KqOY6uFTXtsKXm_ROcTk37-cWqLQl/s1440/4525D19D-AD1A-4D0B-BBA4-3C9FCDCA7408.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxpeB03ywgfUdVQd1W8fcW4V0xYxKberaIdmmHfAMB8vu_slnNFm2Ax2sCoLpNDkPs_r7VHTYaX7Eoec0NqckxgbPDA5Q3Jax1hKEN7G_aaIX-4-iBixFNbJAk3i2ecgWx9EOCIw-JWw5JAEHm-KECX6TGs6KqOY6uFTXtsKXm_ROcTk37-cWqLQl/w400-h300/4525D19D-AD1A-4D0B-BBA4-3C9FCDCA7408.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">I picked up fairly quickly the change in sensation from riding a bike to hiking. My breathing shifted. Slower and purposeful, I controlled the sifting of air with my strides, my breath no longer under the bane of revolutions. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">On the land, each step connecting with the dirt for a spell, I am a part of the desert. I am not passing through it with the propulsion of the bike. I walked under ochre cliffs, the flaky and glimmering quartz noticeably detailed at my walking pace. I followed the meander of an undulating trail weaving through the mulga grasslands, the crunch under each footstep in unison with my breath. In this sense, the world breathes as I breathe. Each step I feel the heaving of the earth bounce back. I am meant to travel this way. I am tied together with all natural things. I saw the warm morning light rise upon the landscape. The purple plum dawn light arced and framed in a blazing orange in the planetary way that I understood my place, my actual location. Fire orange emblazoned the tiger stripes on the horizon, a golden yellow came from the honey hue, a citrine glow stacked atop the yellow layers. A receding darkness curved above the cheeriness that broke and refracted. Cyan blue, indigo, pierced upwards into the curling purple sky, dawn lifting the veil over lilac-blue eyes. The western walls of the gorge revealed a grainy texture showing that a wall is simply just not a wall but a fortification of layers compacted together, squeezed and pressed into a crumbling fate. Water has broken through here dramatically, violently, slowly. </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t1JfD9PzMM_gmkV45_RSGck1X1Nwbi6vXmfRIMPZPtcFh3ENPMMco0bTlc8Nq6UN2wlUNt08qMoSu_7slKCg42bRS1goGkYn-y4AdnqPMsZF7XIhkPpN8-vPpRkqsnUoiR7itSbLhFmKzHnEdpmg0dro0QdmmaCefrN7_i4Z2r_hEjTK7up_MS_L/s1440/19854449-5462-4B59-889A-FC0273AD77FC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t1JfD9PzMM_gmkV45_RSGck1X1Nwbi6vXmfRIMPZPtcFh3ENPMMco0bTlc8Nq6UN2wlUNt08qMoSu_7slKCg42bRS1goGkYn-y4AdnqPMsZF7XIhkPpN8-vPpRkqsnUoiR7itSbLhFmKzHnEdpmg0dro0QdmmaCefrN7_i4Z2r_hEjTK7up_MS_L/w400-h300/19854449-5462-4B59-889A-FC0273AD77FC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">In the depths of the gorge, I reached my hand out for my palm to caress the smooth white bark of a river gum tree. The stripes, striations, and splotches of tans and browns broke the white trunk into a static marbled lava lamp. The morning sun rays emitted a warmth to the woody mass, my palm feeling the cold on the shadow side, the warmth of the sun on the exposed side. I felt the smoothness, the porcelain coolness and smoothness. I looked up into the sprawling canopy, a madness of hidden breath, of a long slumber in a mangled bed. The long and slender leaves glimmered in the daybreak. The oval arc of one side of a leaf resembled the elliptical arc of the rising sun and the diminishing darkness. In each leaf within the entanglement of the canopy and branches, a million sunrises reflected in the rising light. The leaves shimmered and crackled as if aflame. With each flicker the scintillating leaves unfurled from a cold underbelly and cast a reflection of a new and impending day. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">In essence, with the quaking leaves I could hear the sun rising. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">The light shone jumbled in the shadows sun-flecked like freckles on skin. Odd when a panel of something so pale gets diminished by something so bright that the brightness is the shadow. Is this a sort of eclipse we can witness everyday if we pay attention?</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My skin tingled with the wind. My pores unlatched from my protective biology. My pores yearned to be free. My skin tingled with the wind. My forearms pricked up like the morning chirps of a songbird. I felt the wind pass within me swallowed up by my open pores. I closed my eyes and guzzled the wind like a cold beer. Thank fucking god I wasn’t riding my bike into it headlong. I felt my knuckles creak with the dryness, the sting of the wonderful wind permeating my aged hands. I clasped my hands together and popped my knuckles. What I would give to have my hands cold and dry every morning. I absorbed the wind. Because I didn’t have to battle the wind, I absorb the entity into my body. Suddenly, I felt as connected to the wind as I had been to anything, any place, or anyone in so damn long. I embraced the wind back. I sought the puzzle of the wind in that moment. I wanted to fit. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The day passed. At first I scaled a ridge, a short climb into desert oblivion, the feeling of emptiness overwhelming me as if I blacked out. I won’t have to search hard here for the word. You know it. I know it. Intoxicating. There, I said it. Nevertheless, I absorbed so much wind I became drunk. I teetered about the ridgecrest that tilted among other curving escapements. Then, I tumbled down the ridge playfully like a scamp at a bar wiggling through the dance floor. I sobered up within rolling low lying hills. My feet became sore, hungover. My shins ached. As if I hadn’t expressed any love, my lower extremities needed some cuddling. My feet and lower shins simply hadn’t been used, or loved, in over 4,000 miles of pedaling. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVgTc2nbEpH33HenmPZyvZauPT7jBhtnECkPGL-Hm9thM2l1UNjea5bm8_lHSc_Sm6SrsxhT6_Owlv5moueYhJfsjqi2KN_wGpGMF05H3J7CqJs3IiTyIXzAw5mHFXPatKOTcejOn0RAF1jzUdf2NvU7x_ZxoAnkc3Df4T66rbJwS98DpJh8nfCP4/s1440/9A99F338-B087-4A4B-B409-D2E67E69F47A.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVgTc2nbEpH33HenmPZyvZauPT7jBhtnECkPGL-Hm9thM2l1UNjea5bm8_lHSc_Sm6SrsxhT6_Owlv5moueYhJfsjqi2KN_wGpGMF05H3J7CqJs3IiTyIXzAw5mHFXPatKOTcejOn0RAF1jzUdf2NvU7x_ZxoAnkc3Df4T66rbJwS98DpJh8nfCP4/w400-h300/9A99F338-B087-4A4B-B409-D2E67E69F47A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I scrambled up a steep and craggy abutment, a staircase of switchbacks rising into the heavens. The climbing eased the pressure off the drubbings of my soles. I utilized my quads like jackhammers, what they had been trained to do while in the saddle. I elevated to the top, then snaked my way on a cobblestone path, irascible with loose rock. The afternoon subsided and evening approached. I hiked eastward as the sun dipped westward. The blazing orb fell behind the spines of isolated ranges far, far away from me. I hiked my way through the hopscotched rubble, yet my neck remained craned towards my rear view. The magic of alpenglow began. I stopped dead still. I had two miles to camp way down below, but I stopped dead still. I wasn’t about to miss the sunset. The sprawling ranges, ridges, and escarpments oozed into that purple hue the sunsets infect the land with here in the Outback. As if a needle injected blood into a lifeless body, the land bruised as purple as a plum. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidil68ym-vKXzJC1wcFprQJTFe6Bvt9VaO5rle4KCCyVAzfIYGGLbYMm5mx204OloS6p5Cy9ugIdV98xCEZw3-hxaAd_WetAwNvkJRmIAr9W1qRNYWbEUbIWb3PdnvzX5Ya049M7FtOwWfZRekRtmokjedBmq0NvuiYGSBeIyCR7scpvknnqSbb27h/s1440/5BD8EDBE-FF05-4393-8137-9AF90D7513E3.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidil68ym-vKXzJC1wcFprQJTFe6Bvt9VaO5rle4KCCyVAzfIYGGLbYMm5mx204OloS6p5Cy9ugIdV98xCEZw3-hxaAd_WetAwNvkJRmIAr9W1qRNYWbEUbIWb3PdnvzX5Ya049M7FtOwWfZRekRtmokjedBmq0NvuiYGSBeIyCR7scpvknnqSbb27h/w400-h300/5BD8EDBE-FF05-4393-8137-9AF90D7513E3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">Convening with the red quartz and the cleverly constructed trail, I spiraled my way down a plunging pathway, darkness enveloping and tucking into the narrow ravines of pinched canyons. I led my feet by feel. I let the rocky pathway navigate my landings. Oh, what glee I felt. I sank as the sun sunk. In the canyon bottom I flicked on my headlamp. I hopped atop boulders lined chaotically from terrible times of floods. The moon rose early over the sharp ridge, the moonlight filtering through the river gums. I felt the coolness of the night press against my skin. I found the waterfall waterhole. I lumbered over to the lip of the water, the soles of my feet planted on the smooth rock. I knelt down and felt my knee and quads fill with blood, a long day of hiking that scabbed over my joints like fresh wounds. I knelt there at the cusp of the waterhole and closed my eyes. Shit. I probably could have knelt that way for an hour. I opened my eyes and spied the water spiders wading through the pool. Almost comically, the spry little buggers goofily pilfered through the still water like a couple of oats. Life never stops, I thought. So, I stood up and broke my way through an overgrown trail hanging with brush. At a low pass, I could discern the emptiness of the canyon floor, a pan shaped hollow that swallowed sound, noise, and air. I understood camp was below. I marched on and ran into a full camp, the Aussies completely shell shocked at a nightwalker. Their silence erupted in confusion with them thinking I needed help. I merely needed a flat spot, and I wasn’t stopping until I found one. I did, a fumbling barefoot Aussie in tow dodging the spinifex trying to give his bravest assistance. I settled down for the night in earnest, the moon brighter than anything I could imagine at that moment. My eyes stung from the darkness, the </span><span face="-apple-system-body">gleam of the day </span><span face="-apple-system-body">enduring. The moon was the hair of the dog, as if I felt around in the dark for a warm beer as the bright mid morning sun punctured through a slit in the curtains.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUAOeeycT4noygG4SoRaDP0D5MHpChC1wP34Bf6x6XDCmFTSZI30mBoq7SmOLMy5AyIJPhaFg1fzijTxP59XDcqE_VjKxvvdBAgF1uTG1gfal4wcY8w50V5MBP6jyXjr6PZiGhCXHieQz8WGmVpfWdtLDwaeWwH_xY0fmnkSqgjNAT0VipFkE0nNC/s1440/AC579313-234B-404C-BD0B-78FFEAC96000.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUAOeeycT4noygG4SoRaDP0D5MHpChC1wP34Bf6x6XDCmFTSZI30mBoq7SmOLMy5AyIJPhaFg1fzijTxP59XDcqE_VjKxvvdBAgF1uTG1gfal4wcY8w50V5MBP6jyXjr6PZiGhCXHieQz8WGmVpfWdtLDwaeWwH_xY0fmnkSqgjNAT0VipFkE0nNC/w400-h300/AC579313-234B-404C-BD0B-78FFEAC96000.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I left camp before anyone had stirred about. A silvery sheen wrapped around the lily pads in the sky. I thought I was gazing up from the bottom of a pond. I gingerly hopped, slowly hopped for that matter, onto the cobbly path angled towards a low pass between strafed and pointed hogbacks. I could envision the cleaving of this valley over time with torrential downpours. My feet took a few minutes to get un-achy. In my mind’s eye I pictured the sole of my foot, the contact with each pebble through my cushioned shoe. I followed the soreness through an imagined neural highway running the length of my body from synapse to synapse, the telephone game in the body. The electric feel terminated in my brain. I could see the pain. The electricity passed through my brain to my mouth. I uttered: C’mon, you lazy bastard. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Occasional gusts careened down valley a cold wind. I stayed layered up and cinched off my hoodie. My senses piqued. The biting wind nibbled at my nose, gnawed at my fingers. My legs ached and I replayed the neural highway road trip. Then, I stole away from everything. I understood I was walking, but I forgot. Everything became second nature. I observed the movement of the patchwork of clouds, the swirling sky current pushing the puffy white fortresses across the sky. I fell into a trance. I just watched the patchwork morph with each tile as the whole pyramid resembled a puffy quilt. The cirrostrati layer slowly inched across the sky as a whole, yet each tile shifted and morphed as if some invisible old crony knitted a giant quilt in the sky. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZemX9ut8QLMPIsQsW5s7-AtpTv6Td32PjUkaRjMS7PLhI6zMt4dgIdQonHMBJqfesLzGzo0rTJlQCu3go2fhTj5xpXwwMiN5XH8El4Ethqp2ZNmFDfGJ53JphzZXxc53BjaryO2X29R9lGejpd62IHXwhZNXKEYkAcFbzCqMaH9Jhfoir-Fb7YLfp/s1440/2CADB5D6-426C-4FE7-9357-C4604A641824.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZemX9ut8QLMPIsQsW5s7-AtpTv6Td32PjUkaRjMS7PLhI6zMt4dgIdQonHMBJqfesLzGzo0rTJlQCu3go2fhTj5xpXwwMiN5XH8El4Ethqp2ZNmFDfGJ53JphzZXxc53BjaryO2X29R9lGejpd62IHXwhZNXKEYkAcFbzCqMaH9Jhfoir-Fb7YLfp/w400-h300/2CADB5D6-426C-4FE7-9357-C4604A641824.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The whole morning went by this way. The next patchwork round sifted through, the invisible hands continued to knit the puffy tiles. For a moment, I walked with my hands in my pockets and my chin tucked in. Nevertheless, I continued glancing above as if what was upward led the way. Finally, in a red gorge, the wind broke still and the morning stillness in the mangled chasm felt so audibly loud compared to how silent the arena actually was, like how water temperature feels when plunging back into hot or cold water from hot or cold water. Everything felt heightened and quiet at the same time. I took a second and plopped down on my rear end on a cold tawny quartz tiled shelf. I sensed the cold through my buttocks shoot up through my torso, down my arms, and out through my fingertips. I pressed my palms to the tiled shelf and gave the cold back. ‘Here,’ I thought. I stood up and scrambled down ledges, hopped over boulders, and slogged through sandy bottoms down the short chasm until I reached the mulga scrubland. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8FNVNuJupF2Sf0uAand5TRKKe895kEnU7eOT1Od-Ho217EI40TrwM-BV1CED6GJRAWXpQ1TXwq_BvhDBnFw3P1Vul714w_kKrkw6h9lLHiiKaLFXOO-NtSR3cDwEh224qX_uzWsLGFzZJDvMLjD_KrgCupvRXherHq6kE9L8JjqNGVoNtHWrpLYt/s1440/3BB51CC8-E005-4F2E-A197-4E5329010DB2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8FNVNuJupF2Sf0uAand5TRKKe895kEnU7eOT1Od-Ho217EI40TrwM-BV1CED6GJRAWXpQ1TXwq_BvhDBnFw3P1Vul714w_kKrkw6h9lLHiiKaLFXOO-NtSR3cDwEh224qX_uzWsLGFzZJDvMLjD_KrgCupvRXherHq6kE9L8JjqNGVoNtHWrpLYt/w400-h300/3BB51CC8-E005-4F2E-A197-4E5329010DB2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next couple days, I rose predawn under moonlit skies. A dry cold swam over the big red desert. A pesky wind continued to throttle and whip across the Outback. I particularly enjoyed the cold and brisk mornings. It would be quiet, wonderfully lonesome, and I would hear the desert crack alive slowly with the warming sun rays. The myriad of birds would chirp flittingly signaling the hustle and bustle of their activity. I weaved between craggy ridge lines, fissures of long and undulating spines extending in an east-west line. At a break in an escarpment, I would enter a gorge, a portal to the other side. Here, in these gorges, dark glassy waterholes existed, life sources so important to the people and animals of the area. Some of the waterholes are nestled in a sacred stance. I treated each one as such. I have always found it hard to swim in a place of water if that water is an important source for people and animals, the dwellers and survivors of the desert. Each time I passed through a gorge I recognized my insignificance in such a place being a visitor who is merely passing through. The chasms and gorges stood like cathedrals, or places of worship, altars within a harsh landscape. I sat by the waterholes for a few minutes and listened and stared into shimmering glassy waters. I listened to the river gums flickering leaves casting 'sunflections.' I gazed into the reflection of the river gums in the glassy waters. I meditated then, yet at the same time I sat politely as if I was in somebody else’s house absorbing the art on the wall. That’s all I could do. All I wanted to do. All that I understood to be right. I respected too much what water had built, what nature provided, and who sustained and worshipped a life over these waterholes. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOSeB_E8KqAToYlE72QE5Xafc9nD6X7ggFYGQWZS1r0JwOnFxaQOKYP-ipzH1uw7Zo8Lor52PXhx-mBQFdoxCCKZchfa5nphZbeyLkAnXF9QOXa-QazzrKqqVvR2jemjwSjarV6SaHrk87YcezntnYoK8SXseM5LlZiQ9glMYkwSc6P_c7HSYT9Ed-/s1440/9423AF78-8CF8-4BA5-AE3D-9787C62C2A5A.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOSeB_E8KqAToYlE72QE5Xafc9nD6X7ggFYGQWZS1r0JwOnFxaQOKYP-ipzH1uw7Zo8Lor52PXhx-mBQFdoxCCKZchfa5nphZbeyLkAnXF9QOXa-QazzrKqqVvR2jemjwSjarV6SaHrk87YcezntnYoK8SXseM5LlZiQ9glMYkwSc6P_c7HSYT9Ed-/w400-h300/9423AF78-8CF8-4BA5-AE3D-9787C62C2A5A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">The weaving between the craggy ridges ensued, </span><span face="-apple-system-body">labyrinthine corridors with </span><span face="-apple-system-body">narrow choked valleys and wide pan-shaped amphitheaters. On a clear paths, I watched every step to avoid loose rock. Marble sized, baseball sized, pea sized, whatever sized, I stayed diligent. The red quartz rock had crumbly characteristics. Chossy slopes piled beneath scraped bluffs. Pockets of quartzite and mica twinkled on red slabs and chunky boulders from a sun-stanced distance. On overgrown paths, I had to duck to avoid the golden orb weavers’ webs, the giant spiders omnipresent smack dab in the middle of giant webs stretching tautly between tall shrubs and mulga. The wind would catch the web and press through it and bulge the web outward as the spindly limbs bent in pressure, the web anchored with an incredible strength showing the tethering relationship of connectivity. A gleam of sunlight would cast a sheen onto the web at an exact angle and twinkle like sparking jewelry. </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UhZPS3nOz52-j2s4E_qFhjy3JbAAfGaQ-2pNeSPDk-iJmskzUoXdh4ien9lV5lRBWKd1stCnOWzjoVSNB-4N9dh_KDnhvt5BJ-v38N9JW33XNyc1KKlB-erZqIL3DYoPdP5_k1Bjltrtt7ryOc5s2Z6k1bSyW0-HpbhOwO9tNb0lS2b8dBdFsvN-/s1440/15D222B4-5124-47D9-B74B-5588D82F14CD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UhZPS3nOz52-j2s4E_qFhjy3JbAAfGaQ-2pNeSPDk-iJmskzUoXdh4ien9lV5lRBWKd1stCnOWzjoVSNB-4N9dh_KDnhvt5BJ-v38N9JW33XNyc1KKlB-erZqIL3DYoPdP5_k1Bjltrtt7ryOc5s2Z6k1bSyW0-HpbhOwO9tNb0lS2b8dBdFsvN-/w400-h300/15D222B4-5124-47D9-B74B-5588D82F14CD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">Nonetheless, mostly I hiked unimpeded. I simply had to manage my body. I drank what I needed. I massaged my lower shins every couple hours. I plopped on my back and finger-four leg-locked myself to stretch my hamstrings. I rubbed the bottoms of my feet. I ate. I continued to drink. I continued to hydrate my ligaments, tendons, and muscles. I know the body engine better than anything when I am walking, especially more in harsh desert environs. My soreness equated a better connection to the ground beneath my feet. On </span><span face="-apple-system-body">the bike, I push through the landscape like being pushed by an invisible shoulder heaving me forward and away from an area faster than I can realize, similar to the weather front pushing the fortresses of clouds through an atmosphere. On foot, I am latched to the earth, connected to the ground. I feel I am moving with everything around me and not the other way around. The ground nestled back against my tender feet and I, in turn, pressed down on the ground. The relationship is completely reciprocal. The ground provides me with a tenderness only the ground can give me. I can give it continuity through endurance, and endurance of mind, body and time, something ancient within from long, long ago. </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The nights got colder, remaining still and bright with the moonlight shock. The wind would cease as soon as the sun set. Then, the moon would rise unto the land like the sun and illuminate the same land as if with the same light. Enamored with the distortion, I had to shield both my eyes with my fleece so I could sleep. The nights were long and the moon roved slowly across the sky like a meandering wide estuary river across a flat spit of land. The moon blurred solid land from a land infiltrated by melting light. My dreams remained empty and barren then, too blurry to decipher. I only had room for the moonlight, like the expansive red land. Other than the Waterfall Gorge campsite, I had every other camp towards Alice to myself. I timed my pace and my soreness to arrive at camp a half hour or so before the sun set. I would then stretch, guzzle water, and cook. I would eat my dinner as the sun sank and the cold sunk even deeper. I didn’t think on anything, or contemplate much else other than my body and the land. That’s all I had space for. There is a depth beyond an horizon when that depth is internal. The wind would die peacefully like the old age of day. Every night felt like the blues would be playing on as an ebbing day fell and the journey into the night began. The nights were like novels, long and deep. Then, on the second to last night, I had the dream.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWQDlDi4uNKh1MKZmUmB8r3XhK2j18uocS7PUSNJUqPcOBQtcUgOAsimjIzgdHDwlj7OoqVsBiGMhZC8r7XnLjiyVlqYf182gnOJWoM9_fLzgIIoL3jEFpx4zTY77MRR1McI8KV3B1O3P3j3OS6szXPom-eYFL6cotM-p3YAMmFrP9-oXHrAbmyBz/s1440/25D13E11-B58E-4A57-AACF-F291A254727B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWQDlDi4uNKh1MKZmUmB8r3XhK2j18uocS7PUSNJUqPcOBQtcUgOAsimjIzgdHDwlj7OoqVsBiGMhZC8r7XnLjiyVlqYf182gnOJWoM9_fLzgIIoL3jEFpx4zTY77MRR1McI8KV3B1O3P3j3OS6szXPom-eYFL6cotM-p3YAMmFrP9-oXHrAbmyBz/w400-h300/25D13E11-B58E-4A57-AACF-F291A254727B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I startled to early in the predawn. I couldn’t even see any vestiges of pink nor any remnants of the moon glow. Still enveloped in the cold dark, I stared up at the apex of my pyramid tarp. Clearly I had felt something. I couldn’t shake whatever it was. I couldn’t quite comprehend why I was staring up at the tucked pyramid point pocket. I couldn’t fall back asleep at all, let alone close my eyes back in that slumbering way. Suddenly, my mind felt emphatically clear. I realized a dream had spurred me awake. I understood I knew what I wanted, a feeling warmed over me like I had pissed myself. I sourced out the feeling with my clear head. I retraced my dream, too blurry to describe poignant details. It worked that way for me too. Dreams work that way, we all know that. Too blurry. Yet, I followed scene to scene and tiptoed invisibly through the crowd. I brushed shoulders of faces I haven’t seen in ages. I passed faces I instinctively repulsed, like I knew them for advantageous reasons but still sought their approval. These flashes felt fake. I relived that feeling deep in my gut and I felt my eyes slink away from that tucked pyramid point pocket. ‘That’s not it,’ I muttered softly.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Transported back to the scenes, I ascertained my connection to those faces through the places and the languages each person spoke. The faces spoke languages they did not know. Or, at least languages I did not understand. Why did I feel I needed their approval? I felt gut-wrenched, more repulsed by my own passing by than anything else. This wasn’t it. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WyXen5lS3b2aRRrpkAbTo-ouuN0Pxp_dbVYTp2RSpfK7W6y128qwvV_BuoFOlADhGlryPj-3-Bc98V9eFyvurbepn-Ip_j2Lc5rvR5vYZqDPponS8XTUDz04VcXQa436oFjU5rSNas4zwf6qthT3ZRQPW0z0bqIO42PZFAovocHHJJsSAq5deVKZ/s4032/IMG_0786.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WyXen5lS3b2aRRrpkAbTo-ouuN0Pxp_dbVYTp2RSpfK7W6y128qwvV_BuoFOlADhGlryPj-3-Bc98V9eFyvurbepn-Ip_j2Lc5rvR5vYZqDPponS8XTUDz04VcXQa436oFjU5rSNas4zwf6qthT3ZRQPW0z0bqIO42PZFAovocHHJJsSAq5deVKZ/w400-h300/IMG_0786.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, I was in an empty room, an empty room in a forest. The walls were clear, see-through. I recognized the walls had been erected by me in the forest. I saw myself laying there, no one else around. Tall trees stood straight up, grey and brown barked, some smooth, some gnarled. I visually inspected the scene. I was looking for a break in the walls, a break in the emotional framework. I know it sounds silly, but I was breaking down the dream construction. My mind still felt emphatically clear. My eyes closed again and I went back to the forest room. I saw myself in the middle of a forest room. I opened back up my eyes. I saw peace in that room solely emanating from the belly. I had broken the emotional framework of the dream. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stared back at the tucked pyramid point pocket, my eyes wide open.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">I was in my tarp in the red desert, my room. A beam of purple light smeared across my tarp, the day slowly beginning to rise. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">I knew right then and there what I needed to do. I knew what I wanted to do, more than anything. I felt as clear and lucid as the crisp morning desert air. So relaxed and content, I stretched fully my legs as one compacted spasm. That morning stretch that gets the heart to beat loud, I sat up and let the air out of my mattress. I packed up, exited my room and broke down the walls. </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUAwACp9HtjwbxteRmLnnd1aIqEunf_nOHYTvHyskdOEK58Vx8nHl4uO0QBvTgCQ2Lyv8gGUeGf1W1dfUXXfgpZoLHLHXjQCjSYc0m7XBOuyA8f83LB4y3KgEEesZ2f56X7Wgn4bLzh93g1zrjjndTJtXystnph2mByf4DuDc4LRQMyt9mSr_xT2R/s4032/IMG_0850.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUAwACp9HtjwbxteRmLnnd1aIqEunf_nOHYTvHyskdOEK58Vx8nHl4uO0QBvTgCQ2Lyv8gGUeGf1W1dfUXXfgpZoLHLHXjQCjSYc0m7XBOuyA8f83LB4y3KgEEesZ2f56X7Wgn4bLzh93g1zrjjndTJtXystnph2mByf4DuDc4LRQMyt9mSr_xT2R/w400-h300/IMG_0850.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My feet guided my being down the cobbly pathway atop the compacted banks of a very wide wash. I intermingled between fanned out mulga reaching out my fingers to brush against the long fingered sprigs. Spinifex brushed and poked my shins. In the cold morning air, the pricks felt as refreshing as a cold splash of water. Revived with a tingle, my legs no longer felt sore. I put my hands in my pocket and traipsed within a shivering cold. With my eyes I scammed the terrain and traced the trail meandering up the rocky scrubland slopes. The trail twisted and swirled clearly up on a charred slope and spun its way to a saddle flanked by huge deep red bluffs and a domed ridge.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4u4GamFvsGw3rSEJWBboE_jHYOdnn7e0zhEHNs5BhBPGMm98UmGuU36a-ezSpki6976sgWqHKxjUxGrAc58e2r9Ygvu9ZW585o-LQe5c-w3g5oBurnlEfv4ef_2GCJcKlhF6Ca9oX5mVfWAf-4Isrrxcbo4nw-XDeRi2RvR2r7wcma2lghaN1EcG/s4032/IMG_0818.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4u4GamFvsGw3rSEJWBboE_jHYOdnn7e0zhEHNs5BhBPGMm98UmGuU36a-ezSpki6976sgWqHKxjUxGrAc58e2r9Ygvu9ZW585o-LQe5c-w3g5oBurnlEfv4ef_2GCJcKlhF6Ca9oX5mVfWAf-4Isrrxcbo4nw-XDeRi2RvR2r7wcma2lghaN1EcG/w400-h300/IMG_0818.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Atop the razorback, I saw each bluff as congruous as if the land had been filleted by a giant cleaver. I teetered in balance along a precipice of blatant sharp rock. I churned my way with a momentum leaning to keep my balance forward. All around me I envisioned the ridges, escarpments, and fissures as hieroglyphics, as if a being carved symbols into the barren red rock. This land meant something powerfully. Shit, I dove into my dream again while hovering above the valleys tiptoeing on a desert high wire. I fell into a morning ponder. I dove into the dream, conjuring up the dream of me interacting within the dream and finding me in the forest dreaming. Could I break down the meaning? Most likely not. Yet I could possibly taste the dream like the meat on a baby back rib. The meat needs to be cooked correctly, perfectly. Too much sauce and it doesn’t matter how good the meat is cooked, the succulence is gone. I fell into my dream long and slow, like those ribs being smoked. I scanned the gnarled razorback, the abrupt craggy bluffs, the serrated turrets of limestone, and I marveled at the ingenuity of trail construction within such harshness. Within a formidable landscape a trail can be created. Within emotional turmoil a dream can be meaningful. I pushed on with perfect balance, flowing with blood flooding my legs, feet and toes. I hiked on a weaving trail flowing with the precision of a heart pumping blood. On full cylinders, my mind went blank, perfectly blank.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCSoxATrWZv8BAIT2USkhWqY5_u26tZH24Z2w61NuyJ8zdtoPQ32oWxZLm6yZQTSRXF7jVSR-TomA_LeLU82TPfOMfMf700t3Es1vqqvw43_YCOA2IIG7rPskYEE4dbp6qv0_SQiT7qAaYZ7DbuG5tHanI8kTjPM6qkwfJmVXFRULEvNPD0HmYcQO/s4032/IMG_0836.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCSoxATrWZv8BAIT2USkhWqY5_u26tZH24Z2w61NuyJ8zdtoPQ32oWxZLm6yZQTSRXF7jVSR-TomA_LeLU82TPfOMfMf700t3Es1vqqvw43_YCOA2IIG7rPskYEE4dbp6qv0_SQiT7qAaYZ7DbuG5tHanI8kTjPM6qkwfJmVXFRULEvNPD0HmYcQO/w400-h300/IMG_0836.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Plans change, I’ll simply say that. I set off nearly 8 months ago on this year of adventure and challenges, of what and where this would lead to for the next chapter of my life. When I departed Colorado I already had the Grand Canyon Traverse planned, the Te Araroa Trail too. For Australia, I had a pretty good idea what I wanted but I left my aim open for the wants and needs of a bikepacking adventure, as well as just exploring thoroughly a completely new country to me where I would have to create my route. I kept this Australian part, in particular, open for changes, adaptations, and personal needs. I knew that I would need to pace out the rigors of the whole year. I had learned the strategy associated with a big year in ‘16 where I had hiked the Sky Island Traverse, the PCT, and the CDT. I had plateaued that year while southbound in New Mexico on the CDT. My body became stiff, tired, and sore. My mental state became exhausted, spent, and weary. Both the physical and the mental exasperated more because of a food poisoning bout in Grants, NM. This illness led to a severe dehydration in which I developed kidney stones. I passed the stones on the porch of Nita’s Toaster House in Pietown on a pitch black night in the throes of pain. I endured it all and pushed on to the border even though I had lost a costly 2 weeks in taking time off, healing, and recuperating. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I learned from that miserable time. I still had a hike planned for that year that I had to cancel. The bouts with food poisoning and the kidney stones just pushed me over an unhealthy ledge. I had to lay up. Yet, I learned strategy, pace, and more flexibility with the unseen. Over that winter, I developed a severe plantar fasciitis that lasted nearly 9 months. My body seemed broken from the previous year. Had I gone too hard? What did I do incorrectly? What would I have changed? So many questions bogged me down while occupying a positive space in my head. I wanted more and I knew it despite how it ended. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FvptCAvuioaCOzBkwbXjcDnN1GK6oLCJ-i4u6gUC61T2tJdMlegx7JfKx_DXZ8Lep9ABMsqwyJ5TiQHdM8YFCg8Dn9CBXy598EWlNkpozr94EN1w9Sn2NPyAn9a8qhH88NxHnR3uXR7nok2Ss92STkwjuFpv7XU8x7vGSCuZ6ZAf2QEfRjTDWgmB/s1440/D670C07F-0A14-463C-9185-3DBBA4854A15.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FvptCAvuioaCOzBkwbXjcDnN1GK6oLCJ-i4u6gUC61T2tJdMlegx7JfKx_DXZ8Lep9ABMsqwyJ5TiQHdM8YFCg8Dn9CBXy598EWlNkpozr94EN1w9Sn2NPyAn9a8qhH88NxHnR3uXR7nok2Ss92STkwjuFpv7XU8x7vGSCuZ6ZAf2QEfRjTDWgmB/w400-h300/D670C07F-0A14-463C-9185-3DBBA4854A15.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What got me out of that long lasting painful injury and that mental bog was the bikepacking trip of ‘17. That year I rode a 5500 mile loop from Mexico to Canada and back via a route I put together across the Arizona Trail, Utah, Nevada, Idaho and Montana. For my southerly return, I utilized the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. I learned from that miserable time prior to the bike trip. I’ll say that doubly so. I also learned a lot from the bike trip, in general. I learned I needed to be flexible more than anything. There is a constant education in flexibility with myself. The more I learn and grow the more I need to be flexible to learn and grow. I also saw the distinction between traveling the land by foot and by bike. I could see that some areas of the world or particular areas of countries could be best explored by either foot or bike. Why not connect the two, I thought. This would make a lifelong dream of traveling the world come true. I could explore remote areas and traverse countries and continents with this double-bubble method. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Why am I saying this? This year in its totality is part of a bigger project. Australia would be better explored and continentally crossed by a bike. One of the most important reasons to have this bikepacking trip in the middle of the year would be to spell the body, that riding in the saddle would limit wear and tear on an aging body where I’ve put over 50,000 miles on foot over the past 12-15 years. Again, it’s the strategy to tackle something this big from my first attempt in ‘16 at a huge year. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YTX_UmpnyTIP7Km42ch0-ECkfBxvs7t0CHETmB18ZO9sDCj-SbUVSlDsxWpLvV4mBhMxhWwQCA1tklpOyImzdfoGDCwufw7Bu6Uo4h2d5Hzidgww7gY3mhbI2Kt5KmMHj_K8lV_BYNJBlb6-r2rgx_pntj6Db75Z41Or1Tl5yofe_xAluZsfNyEh/s4032/IMG_0790.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YTX_UmpnyTIP7Km42ch0-ECkfBxvs7t0CHETmB18ZO9sDCj-SbUVSlDsxWpLvV4mBhMxhWwQCA1tklpOyImzdfoGDCwufw7Bu6Uo4h2d5Hzidgww7gY3mhbI2Kt5KmMHj_K8lV_BYNJBlb6-r2rgx_pntj6Db75Z41Or1Tl5yofe_xAluZsfNyEh/w400-h300/IMG_0790.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have kept my eyesight and vision on this whole thing both long and short term. Other than the Grand Canyon Traverse where I spent nearly 2 years extensively planning, I could hike the TA and bike Australia incrementally. The TA was very straightforward. Other than some minor planning details, like purchasing a hut permit, scheduling a ferry ride, and booking a couple flights, everything about that trail was simple enough. I just had to hike it. While on the South Island of the TA I began looking long term towards the summer. I had gathered so much intel and researched thoroughly potential routes that I settled on 3 routes: an Iceland Traverse, the High Pyrenees Route, and finally the Gran Traversata di Alpi. I purchased a round trip plane ticket with the remaining timeframe I would have left. This felt right at the time and I was eager and excited for the European adventure. I traveled for nearly 4 months with the expectation that that was what I wanted. But, the Australia bikepacking journey changed all that. I didn’t expect my Australia to change as much as it did. Be that as it may, I adapted instinctively so to enhance my enjoyment of the whole bikepacking trip. The other thing that factored in—I fell in love with Australia. I was having the best time I could possibly imagine. And, there was no way I was scimping out on a trip I was thoroughly enjoying. However, the penalty meant I would have to alter the rest of my summer plans. I knew there was a give and take, a consequence of being present in the moment. I simply was okay with that. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">So many changes in logistics ran up my budget. Plus, so many logistics just got me mentally tired, in particular as I began to look ahead. Looking ahead took me away from the present time that I was having such a good time in. The future logistics were large enough that I knew I couldn’t just tuck them away and figure them out as I went along. With these concerns, as I rolled into Alice Springs, I started to see the writing on the wall and the need for change. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">Plans change, I’ll simply say that again. I hadn’t planned on hiking the Larapinta. As I rode through the Red Centre I craved to be wandering out in the middle of the red desert landscape. I couldn’t just pass up the Larapinta Trail now, could I? No way, no how, I thought. Thus the changes had begun. It turned out that not only would the hike slow me down mentally and physically, it was a chance to reconnect slowly with nature, the desert, and myself. I understood I had a need for simplicity. Part of attempting something so big is to employ ‘the feel’ of something, to harness self-awareness, to be in tune with what’s around you, to be in touch with what you truly want. Such a tricky idea to employ, the tinge of flexibility coloring the decision making as evident as can be.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnDVa7FrucJzrfaFGJ2QOth-86g686HjyIPdTf4CM47oh4eK5uaLpMVuA07FdhsNY2k0T2kXOEo6AiwO91xvyAzP3WwNQuVL1QB-xQqGai9KiFdtWGJfn9tbHGefCya0viUkHTjHdb2UFpC25gGpMvCk_un9lgnvac584_jGhheB8tQpruAIivS0i/s1440/103C684F-3CEE-4A15-9B8D-E3080D5EC127.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnDVa7FrucJzrfaFGJ2QOth-86g686HjyIPdTf4CM47oh4eK5uaLpMVuA07FdhsNY2k0T2kXOEo6AiwO91xvyAzP3WwNQuVL1QB-xQqGai9KiFdtWGJfn9tbHGefCya0viUkHTjHdb2UFpC25gGpMvCk_un9lgnvac584_jGhheB8tQpruAIivS0i/w400-h300/103C684F-3CEE-4A15-9B8D-E3080D5EC127.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Eights months into this year long adventure, I stand having accomplished what I have set out to do. I am nearly done with the bikepacking part of Australia, and I know I need to get my summer plans dialed in. The dream I had on the Larapinta brought out some intimate internal communication with my wants and needs. The dream provided me with clarity and calmness, dialed into my gut. I knew what I wanted to do then as if I had planned the whole time. I would forego the Europe trip. I knew the trip would be bombarded with just as many logistics as Australia and would be very costly. I decided to reconvene with those plans over the winter. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To reiterate, I craved simplicity. Simple logistics, simple planning, and to be simply hiking a long trail for nearly 3 months. The Appalachian Trail had seeped into my mind in the forests of New Zealand. I just never thought me hiking that trail would occur anytime soon. Yet, forest walking felt pretty soothing and very, very new, so opposite of what I prefer in and of the desert. I hadn’t thought about the AT notion until Adelaide. Then and there it crept in. It crept and crept in as the thoughts of even more logistics receded away. Then, with everything I had done up to the point in Alice Springs, I had thought about the AT as an even deeper reality. The idea itself wore me down in a different way. Europe illustrated stress. The AT illustrated a long walk. It just made sense and lined up with everything. The bike had gotten me stronger, even rested in some ways. The trail would be long and continuous which means simple logistics. The timeframe to finish the hike lines up with a return to work exactly one year from when I left. Adding up all the mileage the AT would put me over 10,000 human powered miles in one full year. Finally, completing the AT would give me the Triple Crown, something I have scoffed at but deep down inside means a lot to me. The AT feels personal to me, important to me and me only. Not only would it cap off my US hiking, completing the AT sets me off on my global project properly, fully. After all, this year long adventure is just the beginning of my lifelong obsession to see and explore the world by foot and now by bike. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38xLVFpoPzQQzRqiK5rLSgWZRWY4OK1U9A0adKndsuWBqDiErluSMVxbCV-5VkKb1SaxDtGlVS_XTYktP_dhRzRI7ePsAgfSlc7ZFI4fXTQ_RGdT42q3MKGgqP-wEY8YuM4MK1ysO21V_s48X2tSje40q1quYc3WFhTEnMImeihp1pfkiMOram9uy/s1440/090DFED0-4BE2-45FC-96E2-8EE1292CE20F.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38xLVFpoPzQQzRqiK5rLSgWZRWY4OK1U9A0adKndsuWBqDiErluSMVxbCV-5VkKb1SaxDtGlVS_XTYktP_dhRzRI7ePsAgfSlc7ZFI4fXTQ_RGdT42q3MKGgqP-wEY8YuM4MK1ysO21V_s48X2tSje40q1quYc3WFhTEnMImeihp1pfkiMOram9uy/w400-h300/090DFED0-4BE2-45FC-96E2-8EE1292CE20F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ58eI4lpBBlU7lxjopCL9ZFbvSu8Taj6F3rO_LMt6IQdpN3gePW1s2S9hiBqmxKzkYevsGeT9irgEhRvbTsT46HfPc64rolLi-bx5WbWz1Oq649QvCpWrFntfaA4aQZHv7f63vt4auLbDpISbLdMwY9nUZ0ZEzhsxHTkoZk-HxZhAlBIbVJaVBmU4/s1440/D823224C-1A24-4331-9DC3-8F11D9CDFE3E.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ58eI4lpBBlU7lxjopCL9ZFbvSu8Taj6F3rO_LMt6IQdpN3gePW1s2S9hiBqmxKzkYevsGeT9irgEhRvbTsT46HfPc64rolLi-bx5WbWz1Oq649QvCpWrFntfaA4aQZHv7f63vt4auLbDpISbLdMwY9nUZ0ZEzhsxHTkoZk-HxZhAlBIbVJaVBmU4/w400-h300/D823224C-1A24-4331-9DC3-8F11D9CDFE3E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0Or7nuSVB2wAUObUCSunbvhrBTU_ztuAB9wTpxjGKCvc8BehzXVQAgVYUTKy1Yx49TLt4fF79Y3q4-Tq2ULsCqXBAiaPcvb4TF6cLCH-XHf7Zob8U-6iGmm8VaRA88XZb1KOh94smOmFaYReyfIthOQor0u2vCrmXD4-O338bVA3SKJ7FSuTTVkd/s1440/0BCD0C59-FF81-4E3B-9E28-30ABA58A09FD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0Or7nuSVB2wAUObUCSunbvhrBTU_ztuAB9wTpxjGKCvc8BehzXVQAgVYUTKy1Yx49TLt4fF79Y3q4-Tq2ULsCqXBAiaPcvb4TF6cLCH-XHf7Zob8U-6iGmm8VaRA88XZb1KOh94smOmFaYReyfIthOQor0u2vCrmXD4-O338bVA3SKJ7FSuTTVkd/w400-h300/0BCD0C59-FF81-4E3B-9E28-30ABA58A09FD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtrs4_dHrzOy6h8Kwa1p7_3AZJ-ke1EQXOLEC13X9kECxqvDJwS-6MFfeT4Oe2y3wp6hKO1A9U-R9XS18GettxradvzSCzBbUbMSxr0bVkvZt3YHswsra7Ryh-CeUz__1_P_scit0KTzG59AbtvyNN3Wf5jcmI0xL_TeSfcMnXeusznyj-Zcd1ire/s1440/288369C3-9F1E-41B5-A502-750120D1305A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtrs4_dHrzOy6h8Kwa1p7_3AZJ-ke1EQXOLEC13X9kECxqvDJwS-6MFfeT4Oe2y3wp6hKO1A9U-R9XS18GettxradvzSCzBbUbMSxr0bVkvZt3YHswsra7Ryh-CeUz__1_P_scit0KTzG59AbtvyNN3Wf5jcmI0xL_TeSfcMnXeusznyj-Zcd1ire/w400-h300/288369C3-9F1E-41B5-A502-750120D1305A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Leaving Alice:</b></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Life goes on</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sometimes like the long road, life feels straight</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">No junctions, just a long straight road</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sometimes the road behind you is dead and gone</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Leaving something behind for good</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj15Gluw6BCUpdSR-r3ZDO-EOoHvUoWHvtKYFu6aEO-pYye1RLJbAd3rryDxlHzhgWzvrQQqfUZjlSuUNcQNNVONb1ML_VTAdZjmprNHxrClEAeE8t6fMn1ff3Dw5sRWPTJ2P5j-ObckydzLjdeYoeD-go0W7bIN8ffMprq1Ej51iPMUwj8wdxY40L/s1440/CFACEDD3-4706-4BE3-B968-90A04D6BC64A.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj15Gluw6BCUpdSR-r3ZDO-EOoHvUoWHvtKYFu6aEO-pYye1RLJbAd3rryDxlHzhgWzvrQQqfUZjlSuUNcQNNVONb1ML_VTAdZjmprNHxrClEAeE8t6fMn1ff3Dw5sRWPTJ2P5j-ObckydzLjdeYoeD-go0W7bIN8ffMprq1Ej51iPMUwj8wdxY40L/w400-h300/CFACEDD3-4706-4BE3-B968-90A04D6BC64A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">An accidental poem feels like the like we live. Why do we end up anywhere is anybody’s guess. And, that’s just it—life feels like a guess. I could easily envision myself forging my way through an unknown area as an explorer back in old times. Not in a colonization type way. Just in what the pure essence of human exploration represents. The lines of roads, boundaries, territories, cities, whatever we draw on a map is a social construct. These lines, in truth, do not define the world, rather the lines only make interpretation of the world around us confusing. Nature inherently knows no lines drawn. As I explored maps as a kid, I tried to look passed the lines humans created for their own use. I followed rivers, mountain ranges, coastlines, deserts. This was the language I wanted to hear, this interpretation of the actual world within nature. Yet, as an adult, all these natural lines blended in with human lines to the point sometimes I couldn’t tell what is made up or natural. I am influenced by my experiences, my dreams, my human brain. I am influenced by places, by nature. How can I blend the two? I am not from a tribe of people. I am a citizen of a capitalist country. The only way I ever thought to learn about the world would be to rebel against the capitalist country’s themes and just walk the world. To navigate this world I needed a deep communication with the land,</span><span face="-apple-system-body"> a sense of place</span><span face="-apple-system-body">. I also needed maps.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My dreams are maps. My human memory is my internal world drawn with dreamlines across that map. Sometimes those dreamlines intersect, branch off, or remain long and straight. Utilizing my internal map of my world with the map of the real world I can travel through places across wide expanses amongst different types of people. I feel connected that way, interwoven within the latticework.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgZsUdbGrAykVmFeEUidkG_LXuWSEXgnHVc3Y-uM5_jDNVQAf753RQsCA_f6j7PBg3kyRcxmdokISiDfzufxcLD0REZmWbwZ0rG2DF693h49drj4PTlahgygQdeG3NwI9-EKu8Ey-GbiFmbTjkv4XIUG_06VCctzHMBZF31z731elTGMi5LwLfTgw/s4032/IMG_0897.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgZsUdbGrAykVmFeEUidkG_LXuWSEXgnHVc3Y-uM5_jDNVQAf753RQsCA_f6j7PBg3kyRcxmdokISiDfzufxcLD0REZmWbwZ0rG2DF693h49drj4PTlahgygQdeG3NwI9-EKu8Ey-GbiFmbTjkv4XIUG_06VCctzHMBZF31z731elTGMi5LwLfTgw/w400-h300/IMG_0897.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are all just wavelengths anyway. I must confess that notion is a romantic idea I have of traveling. I don’t want to believe what I have left behind me is long and straight. I want what I leave behind enriches with intersections, encounters, junctions. My dreamlines seem to expand through time. I feel something deep enough that I understand it to be a very old thought or feeling. My experience doesn’t come from ‘right now.’ My experience feels as if it’s a human memory passed through time immemorial. If all that is true, or I believe that to be true, then at present moment I am living a dream. I am following a map.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left on the year long adventure with some very personal goals, or to say some very personal intentions. I needed to know if my culminating travels would end or would I want to continue. I realized this particular question with months after my partner left. I wanted a family with her, a home. And, that vanished. I was willing to sacrifice extensive traveling and a dream of walking the world for the love I had found with her. Again, that vanished. So, I was left with my dreamlines, yet the map was blurry. What would I do next in life? Do I choose to try and fulfill my dreams? I’m at middle age and my body is aging. What can I do in this body still that is aging? How long? Do I still want a home with a partner? This means love. If I chose the former, could I ever have love? As much as I was driven by the hikes and the bikepacking trip for the year I had taken off, these questions were the real reason I was out here. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body">Certainly, I want all that shit. Soon enough, in New Zealand I had an epiphany. My mom and my brother, that’s my family. They’ve been there the whole damn time and I was the one who never fully embraced them for who they are and the unconditional love they had given me. I see this in how my mom and brother interact with me and my brother’s son Cru, my nephew. He’s growing up so quickly and he knows me as me. My mom and brother ensure that. The realized that my family had accepted me for who I am and what I do. I wasn’t judged for it. Suddenly, I felt so enriched with love. This enlightened moment brought me to the next moment. A home. My family and I have begun talking about that in earnest. </span><span face="-apple-system-body">Shortly after those epiphanies, I had another one. I want to continue to try and live out my dreams of walking the world. I want to be the </span><span face="-apple-system-body">vivid embodiment of the life long dream of my human memory. I want to explore the world. I can do that especially with a family and a home to go back to.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjSEwa7KTrtS-vcL9fFZDqhzFo6FGmBfceCE8gmEuSUPD9xtLtATDWzIwIVO4tHnzDnvmZevcAVj6I_6jkwb2tqbhJbriX9k8q2zVPcxH2H4QxtQX7Fq2GrPOKTFFig6faSFWrGcTgFe1qP_M5C5kLorBHixdYtW3rI2YcsKBPyTgWIQv3V2X2xaj/s1440/A539DD9F-0F49-44F8-9582-F52D1297BE80.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjSEwa7KTrtS-vcL9fFZDqhzFo6FGmBfceCE8gmEuSUPD9xtLtATDWzIwIVO4tHnzDnvmZevcAVj6I_6jkwb2tqbhJbriX9k8q2zVPcxH2H4QxtQX7Fq2GrPOKTFFig6faSFWrGcTgFe1qP_M5C5kLorBHixdYtW3rI2YcsKBPyTgWIQv3V2X2xaj/w400-h300/A539DD9F-0F49-44F8-9582-F52D1297BE80.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Alice in a good headspace. For once in a very long time I felt happy. At the moment I cranked my first pedal out of Alice, I loved myself. Whatever I thought this journey would be I just had taken a big guess, a big leap of faith. I just knew that if I followed my heart I would at least know that I tried, that I gave my dream a shot. I pedaled out of Alice unapologetically me, unbroken. I took a look back over my shoulder. Obviously Alice was right there in front of me, yet in my mind’s eye I saw Uluru, the heart of the red land. I saw myself touching the rock with both hands and praying. That was the first time I felt that I could live with the heartbreak I had experienced. I understood it would never go away and that I could live my life with it. Yes, the road ahead was long and straight. But it was anything but linear. That’s not how life works. It’s just one big giant guess.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The miles flew on by. The further I got from the Red Centre the more healed I felt. I felt…real. I felt like I could live with it, with pain, with happiness, with love, with my dreams, with myself. I passed roadhouse after roadhouse. All on bitumen now, the route felt uneventful. The scenery changed daily. The trees got bushier, taller, thicker. I rode in a narrow corridor with an immensely flat landscape. The road stayed straight, sometimes it curved and bender, but it mostly stayed straight. I did drift into thoughts of other bikepacking routes I had to push aside because of the lack of time. I imagined riding the Tanami and the Canning Stock Tracks. I imagined the isolation, the beautiful loneliness, empty skies, the red sand dunes, the grind. Nevertheless, I stayed engaged and motivated because I knew the ending of this bikepacking trip would soon be over. I needed to end this thing one way or another. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-Q2JnIs9hM5glWvkU-T8IFYBi2VmVSc1O-ALnihpy2IVpbwf0pZIVk-Sp2Y6W8WdyxuyKgxgqNIOyeP9L0BBwmmmqeUWKBAut_M-lnF7IiJXqqz3N8cm_eR3s7QNE-TCyRHB0ZAVd8UWWfLWYOw_NpKt_SNXaIsPLhXl7okiJia_HBv6GMv2InNp/s1440/F027D101-A633-415D-9FBE-3690D0635462.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-Q2JnIs9hM5glWvkU-T8IFYBi2VmVSc1O-ALnihpy2IVpbwf0pZIVk-Sp2Y6W8WdyxuyKgxgqNIOyeP9L0BBwmmmqeUWKBAut_M-lnF7IiJXqqz3N8cm_eR3s7QNE-TCyRHB0ZAVd8UWWfLWYOw_NpKt_SNXaIsPLhXl7okiJia_HBv6GMv2InNp/w400-h300/F027D101-A633-415D-9FBE-3690D0635462.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Renner Springs, I sidled in around dusk. Before I could even stroll inside to the pub, a few people had intercepted me to ask me some questions. I got the usual list of questions: where’d you come from, were you going, for yourself or a charity, why? Most of these conversations feel trivial like ‘nice day today, mate. How’s the weather?’ I remain polite and carry on the conversations as a brief matter. There’s nothing deep in them. I believe these folks are curious in nature but it’s more of the ilk of rubbernecking and not of a genuine exploratory or connective nature. Yet, as I got within 20 feet of the pub doors a gentleman poked on over. He had just come out of the pub, so he hadn’t beelined to me like the others had. We sort of ran into each other. The usual drivel ensued, however, he was the one to trim the fat on the conversation. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67f4aTK4FktFyuWznrSES4V9aHZzVtgoii--RFbOTg4dAFxQs--5SgsOn5P2JAuhlIE2SOS9ZHPnmgQiYkzmNTWi4RHjKEosszCldQnR7cC7xz8hCkEf2gMNVyW2YqTym1HaEB9qDsnCE7qWLB2bebnPhU-F6ceKQY7yb9JG9A6-SV4Rx8fvfeOTH/s3088/IMG_0915.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67f4aTK4FktFyuWznrSES4V9aHZzVtgoii--RFbOTg4dAFxQs--5SgsOn5P2JAuhlIE2SOS9ZHPnmgQiYkzmNTWi4RHjKEosszCldQnR7cC7xz8hCkEf2gMNVyW2YqTym1HaEB9qDsnCE7qWLB2bebnPhU-F6ceKQY7yb9JG9A6-SV4Rx8fvfeOTH/w300-h400/IMG_0915.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Have you had this dream since you were a boy? Or is this for something bigger? Or is it mid-life?’ </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My politeness turned serious. I could see he was asking me a genuine question. I was still flummoxed by it, too. I was on guard a bit. Where was this going? How far do I want this conversation to go. Nonetheless, I answered immediately.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Seeing Australia has been a dream of mine since I was a boy.’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Wow. Good on ya, mate.’ He shook my hand. ‘Safe travels, mate.’ And, that was it. Finally I felt represented wholly for the person standing in front of another person. I felt real, a physical representation in the real world spawning from my dreamscape. He saw it. And, I felt honored by his encounter.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The resort had a relaxing atmosphere. The place reminded me of those rundown places we now see driving to Las Vegas from Los Angeles deep in the heart of the Mojave Desert that used to be thriving oases back in the 70’s and 80’s. I for sure transported back in time, like being at Stateline 30 years ago, the place between heaven and hell in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the desert where anything can happen, an outlier amongst nothing, a strange yet heavenly place, where nothing matters actually mean nothing matters. It felt good to be there. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Four beers in and the sun widely set, casting a gleam on an unforeseen era. I looked around at the cast of characters. A thin man in a suit sat in the corner by a window that looked out into the patio. A handful of grey nomads lurked in the patio sitting at long wooden tables waiting for the lounge music. The bartender, gruffly told told stories sarcastically. His jaw undercut is nose and he just appeared like a cartoon character to me. This made him look friendly, even cheery. He was utterly wacky, so eccentric through his wit and barbs that if I combined all his physical traits he was effusive enough to be liked. He spoke of his cars, his white wine collection, and the new Indian owners who give him an open check book to renovate the roadhouse. He went about gesticulating like mad. The galahs started to roost outside. In their giant flock the galahs flew into a couple giant eucalyptus, the cacophony of the galah in direct opposition to the enveloping blackness. I wandered outside to catch the last flint of Outback light. I stood stock still for five minutes before turning back around and headed back inside. I needed another beer. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As I turned I spotted the man on the flyer that hung around the pub. His likeness to Tom Jones was uncanny other than just being short. His fake tan glowed like a brand new basketball. His black coat shimmered with a twinkling spectrum of bedazzlement. He floated about the patio area with an aura of importance. His hair boofed up with a rollover wave as hard as a statue. He was so animated he appeared like claymation. Out of place, he fit in. The Outback is full of characters. I thought for a second I was propelled back to cheesy old middle America cruising along Route 66.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The twang of the speakers squealed throughout the patio. He gave a guttural clearing of the throat. The music began. And, he started crooning. The grey nomads murmured loudly to hush things up abs began to sway. I ventured back inside to get that beer I needed from the slack-jawed quirky bartender. On the television Seinfeld was on. I plopped down on a stool and slurped my can of beer and watched Seinfeld as the croaks of the Tom Jones singer bellowed away.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2laIbFZXi590fToClbh37BUhxqumVfC-VLfAmKz-3CwI1v3wO0TYn4nVWPMXkkOeVT18pNro3p6f4tz1PpAwFko2I09dUCLqUx4EjWU2CXgAWBBYX6XFfh4D4b-vm_LqGYDj-oNse2ajnr6RMCAyOKHbHeTSb0cKQMaylQ_bCUlFUU8WD91Phdpj/s1440/73B5CB4D-2E67-459D-B64B-A3F29526DB57.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2laIbFZXi590fToClbh37BUhxqumVfC-VLfAmKz-3CwI1v3wO0TYn4nVWPMXkkOeVT18pNro3p6f4tz1PpAwFko2I09dUCLqUx4EjWU2CXgAWBBYX6XFfh4D4b-vm_LqGYDj-oNse2ajnr6RMCAyOKHbHeTSb0cKQMaylQ_bCUlFUU8WD91Phdpj/w400-h300/73B5CB4D-2E67-459D-B64B-A3F29526DB57.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wobbled back to my shelter not long after. I was tired, sleepy from a long day in the sun, sleepy from the few beers. I peered over my shoulder at the patio performance. The cheesiness brought a big smile to my face. A Las Vegas performance in the dusty roadhouse in the middle of the Outback. Sigh, I felt sleepy because I knew my eyes would shut soon. That the journey was nearly over. That my time in the Outback was gone. Somehow I felt the need to say goodbye, somehow. I could feel this was the right moment. This moment had all the right quirks, the remoteness, the oddities, the beauty—-the complete definition of the Outback. I walked from the shimmering patio lights to the dark campground. Above the trees a light penetrated from the top of the pub. A windmill shone emblematically the representation of the Outback. I hobbled over to the shrine, the giant blades refulgent with the roof light backdropped by the immense darkness of the night. The pixelated stars hovered like fireflies on an active night. Orion laid really low on the western horizon, enormous, booming, heavy. The amphitheater was set. I heard over the scuttle of the wind blowing through the trees, the lounge singer belting out Crazy by Patsy Cline. My heart melted despite how ridiculous I thought the lounge singer was. I gazed up at the blades of the windmill. The blades turned softly with a whimpered squeak and in timing with the song. The song echoed lowly across the emptiness, a beautifully echoing ballad lulling the desert to sleep. I adjusted my eyes back to the patio. Tom Jones swayed and crooned to an audience of a handful of retired grey nomads. Two couples hugged and leaned into each other. Bah, fuck me, I tested up. I laid down in my glowing shelter from the sterile lot orange light, the crooning fading to a rebuffed silence. I said goodbye to the Outback in this strangely beautiful setting. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82cK55gCwz1RuKaJa23Gf8ZTXnUgrYXGErRszRM1RNf9ZgK9w0DVFOGCw6-_FONqu83Uh-8bIWXh4yNc9Wy9oNiOSMaNj4D2P4CzCGBIHUvUb-jqcBMmYVpIwZKHA-aFIc8X2YkxoDzXTIaEi8yHjvfen0jbMGMQXMFDnc_EOdE4TXDmDTK1FuALz/s2532/IMG_0930.PNG" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2532" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82cK55gCwz1RuKaJa23Gf8ZTXnUgrYXGErRszRM1RNf9ZgK9w0DVFOGCw6-_FONqu83Uh-8bIWXh4yNc9Wy9oNiOSMaNj4D2P4CzCGBIHUvUb-jqcBMmYVpIwZKHA-aFIc8X2YkxoDzXTIaEi8yHjvfen0jbMGMQXMFDnc_EOdE4TXDmDTK1FuALz/w185-h400/IMG_0930.PNG" width="185" /></a>Now, I trace my index finger over the map, the same way I did as a boy. I see that I am near the Bay of Carpenteria, so far north on Australia. I trace my finger over the map and see that Darwin is a mere three days away. In my rear view, Alice was long gone, Uluru even further away, and now the Outback began to diminish. I rode into the tropics. Kangaroos popped up again. The bird life became insane with the different types. Saltwater crocodile billboards began to pop up, corny tourism back in my periphery. I pushed on somewhat blinded to all the silliness. I needed an end point after all. And, I could feel the end in Darwin super present on my mind. I was ready.</span><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="-apple-system-body"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rode into Darwin thinking of the next couple hikes, the Bibbulmun Track and the Appalachian Trail. I thought of future dreams and the organization of those dreams so I could fulfill them. I thought of my family a bunch. I thought of living in Colorado with them. I also thought of rest, doing absolutely nothing for the next couple days. Plain simple rest for a week spell. I rode into Darwin thinking of Sydney, Canberra, Melbourne, and Adelaide—major places I had broken up the entire trip with. I filtered through memories and emotions. I focused on the present. I felt happy. I felt pretty content in that moment of wandering around Darwin not knowing where the hell I was at. I felt diminished, small, yet I felt determined, driven. I felt glazed over by my dreams. I felt empowered by my dreams. It all felt just like a dream.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rode around Darwin not knowing where to signify the end of the bikepacking trip. After an hour or so, I found it on a bluff overlooking the bay, the cerulean blue waters a sight to behold. I kept my hand on my bike for a bit, such a part of me over the 10 weeks in riding neatly 4800 miles from Sydney across the Australian continent. I asked a nice lady to take my picture. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5RR4UC_AuHF7YvFulZhdgQNHAsrGXxzlGna-yY8Y69_N0iNtM7_KJFl1S57W7a_2uO7Z26E0JBJIJjWV3QTH6xx1MZTs_ojkb6YcHltpmMv0D9zhw2qF1tFhTNVPxj9QPerCY0QirYTI2Z59K0eZoIxO12l3dV4-jJklLfsoD-DZKtFkez1T8y0A/s4032/IMG_0929.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5RR4UC_AuHF7YvFulZhdgQNHAsrGXxzlGna-yY8Y69_N0iNtM7_KJFl1S57W7a_2uO7Z26E0JBJIJjWV3QTH6xx1MZTs_ojkb6YcHltpmMv0D9zhw2qF1tFhTNVPxj9QPerCY0QirYTI2Z59K0eZoIxO12l3dV4-jJklLfsoD-DZKtFkez1T8y0A/w300-h400/IMG_0929.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Can I ask you for a favor?’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Why of course.’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Can you take a pic of me? I know it’s weird, I just rode from Sydney.’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">She smilies timidly and with her kind eyes she said, ‘Congratulations.’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hunkered in the shadow of a giant fig tree and leaning against the WWII memorial plaques backdropped against a beautiful sky blue palette, I stood out of place—-grimy and dirty, salty, my beard and hair thick and wild, my bike looking too big to be here in this city. She fiddled with my phone. I held my smile for a second, then released it.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You got it?’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Well…just one problem…your face.’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I chuckled. I thought to myself this is the perfect way. A dream can exist in the shadows. One must look deeply inside to find it. I assured her the picture was okay. After all, just look at my face. I thanked her quietly while smiling. She continued on her walk. I pushed my bike across the grass towards the downtown. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp_UTiz-xNe6gzkySwp3rMUyKviF9nEfCLBZLuo5MsDb0tc12ZGZWpf9dVVmcC4HsfbpiWra9t-BuqPQakvl-XdAiHIQoCs8Hc0gHLPT8bkoqu6JbSFmHrMelbKWrhhcpEn3h_Jqcc_No4wAlgMuEr2H-S6xU11IGz1qyVyVmaaW-4NSqci2HPTmc/s1440/A9324FEB-8D69-4904-BE20-E0C48E56A9F2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp_UTiz-xNe6gzkySwp3rMUyKviF9nEfCLBZLuo5MsDb0tc12ZGZWpf9dVVmcC4HsfbpiWra9t-BuqPQakvl-XdAiHIQoCs8Hc0gHLPT8bkoqu6JbSFmHrMelbKWrhhcpEn3h_Jqcc_No4wAlgMuEr2H-S6xU11IGz1qyVyVmaaW-4NSqci2HPTmc/w400-h300/A9324FEB-8D69-4904-BE20-E0C48E56A9F2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="yj6qo"></div><div class="adL"><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-6417963613872274292023-05-12T20:19:00.006-07:002023-05-23T03:19:07.086-07:00Dreams: OZ<p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">OZ Bikepacking:</span></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTyo5efb3CYIucqxn5UAZQK9eTmGM9E9l_nXjOvin01phVTkAJm_qa3h8mxf4LHjrAfjZ3hpPZdHudsaPQNdMC4tWuBjOFcc1hMieIkUjQLAZHmu-6-24SvNWbGZW-17mPlliHlLmiotSfZqq_5P-TAEW2w_o0gF2kqbZxexzV5z-Ee0UWYERyEeT/s1440/9DD36EB8-E9DF-4818-8C0C-F2836D45DF27.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTyo5efb3CYIucqxn5UAZQK9eTmGM9E9l_nXjOvin01phVTkAJm_qa3h8mxf4LHjrAfjZ3hpPZdHudsaPQNdMC4tWuBjOFcc1hMieIkUjQLAZHmu-6-24SvNWbGZW-17mPlliHlLmiotSfZqq_5P-TAEW2w_o0gF2kqbZxexzV5z-Ee0UWYERyEeT/w400-h300/9DD36EB8-E9DF-4818-8C0C-F2836D45DF27.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Adelaide Prologue:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dreams never die; dreams carry on through everything, as long as you believe in them. As a boy I thumbed through an old ragged atlas. It was my favorite book, not just that particular atlas, but any book of maps. I would thumbed through and randomly place my index finger on a random page and scour that page. I would memorize the geography, the place names of rivers, deserts, mountains, plains, towns, anything and everything. Even as that little boy I would envision walking across whatever map expanse I was scanning. I would escape from whatever crap was going on and delve into a paper world of the world, a map within my mind. One place, I kept repeating the walking visions. One place, I would imagine myself into, looking up at the reader, the inward gazer, the imaginer. That place was the Outback. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled into the bike shop in Adelaide. I met Abe, Darren, and Dave. Instant friendliness exuded from the shop, eager to assist. I discussed my route intentions and what I needed for the bike going forward through the Outback. Abe also put me in contact with a friend of his, Aiden, who had ridden The Race to the Rock Route a few years back. The route, which changes yearly, happened to be from Adelaide to Uluru in the Red Centre. Once I left the shop I reached out to Aiden and lined up a meet-up over a cup of coffee the next morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also had friends in Adelaide. After the shop, I Ubered over to Karley and Felix’s house in the hills. Early evening set in, my quads full of lactic acid, a slight burn only to be cured with cold beer and laughs. Karley, her buddy Adam, and I drank late into the night. We reminisced over our overlapping years in LA at the pub. It was quite fun going down memory lane. </span></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I met up with Aiden the next morning. Groggy and hungover, I cleared the head full of intrigue from what Aiden was describing. The route I had drawn had matched up some of the route he had ridden but he enlightened me on some other ways through the area. He lined me up with some crucial water and resupply waypoints that would have taken me hours to research and validate. He also gave me some valuable insight to possible road conditions. His route validation set me at ease while getting me that extra excitement of a buildup over lifetime. I couldn’t believe the opportunity I had fell into with speaking with Aiden. ‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘It’s about to go down.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I walked back to the house and set to planning. I spent a few hours plotting, sketching, and delving into the route and maps. I retraced and retraced the route ahead becoming one with it. Maps can do this, one can embody a place, a dream, a vision. I fell back into my childhood, the vision of my peering deeply into an old ragged atlas. For months on end the Outback had been set deep in my mental visualizations. Even while in New Zealand. Even on the ride over from Sydney to Canberra to Melbourne to Adelaide, I knew the ‘what for’ I was doing. All the prep, the training, the gaining of familiarity of the country, the bike, and the route, all towards this one goal of crossing the Outback—it was finally here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V9b1SO69kL2V8PjWRRn5YGKpwefeVbatXgcQMGNCUyd3SW6puEmDvq74YTpR1L9ziGlDNG2OKeFf5ZkPDDYXhZoFxaFmbR2tqJF7gPip_qbSByuzASuuadmWuS-MtWvp_LGoWjPluZDCDKL4BMx7HONLMWNz7C4zLgIGVzjT2pxTHaSWmktHGisK/s4032/IMG_0035.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V9b1SO69kL2V8PjWRRn5YGKpwefeVbatXgcQMGNCUyd3SW6puEmDvq74YTpR1L9ziGlDNG2OKeFf5ZkPDDYXhZoFxaFmbR2tqJF7gPip_qbSByuzASuuadmWuS-MtWvp_LGoWjPluZDCDKL4BMx7HONLMWNz7C4zLgIGVzjT2pxTHaSWmktHGisK/w400-h300/IMG_0035.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I cannot spoil the reader with same interlude as Sydney. I had a joyous time in Adelaide. Felix and Karley provided me with such a full experience in Adelaide to try and put all of it into words would pour into a story into itself. From gin tastings to whiskey tastings, brewery hopping to grub hopping, drives through the country side to coastal excursions, we did about as much one can do in the two extra days I took off in Adelaide. Rainy weather hit on the last two of the days, so we all ambled about Adelaide. I could then let the mucky roads dry out on the Mawson Trail that headed north out of Adelaide. The last night in Adelaide we made it a good one. After driving into aromatic gins, we watched some folksy music from Queensland, storytellers of the dwellers of the northland. The beer kept flowing as my smile widened. Early the next morning, Felix took me off down to the shop where I was to meet Aiden and Abe. Abe opened up the shop for me on Easter Sunday. The immense friendliness and kindness of my hosts and the bike shop overwhelmed me a bit. I walked around the empty block soaking up the emptiness, preparing for a getaway into the big red. I felt I could reside in Adelaide I had that powerful of an experience. Many thanks I could express, I could toast on end repeatedly. But, it’s time to start living this vision, do I dare say dream.</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_p5nSsyjB19wUV2JF3o8RKkRYF8YaHF_V9V0POnJ_jWV7eQAOwHswmoqulUNKM8PdjOTs4LNC0BZsNyQnav7mMFD2gOhY49O4VezKjwSAUYYr_LgBH1RHzy3SAGOkqmAwcjt7_s1YzMayxRfAi-qvDs-7Oes8PDfb7QPOMaWnNuqWTqRzlePpqRNN/s4032/IMG_0276.JPG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_p5nSsyjB19wUV2JF3o8RKkRYF8YaHF_V9V0POnJ_jWV7eQAOwHswmoqulUNKM8PdjOTs4LNC0BZsNyQnav7mMFD2gOhY49O4VezKjwSAUYYr_LgBH1RHzy3SAGOkqmAwcjt7_s1YzMayxRfAi-qvDs-7Oes8PDfb7QPOMaWnNuqWTqRzlePpqRNN/w400-h300/IMG_0276.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>A Viewful Pass:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">One must have the benefit of enjoyment within a life. I agree with the sentiment of that statement, however, I am not sure how one must get there. To receive such a blessing of enjoyment one must be open for it. One must be present for the opportunity. I also think one must work hard for it. Within all toil I wish a love for the endeavor, too. I guess my main question is: Will this all be what I have dreamed of?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Certainly not. There. I have answered that. I have said it out loud. I am expecting things not to go as planned, let alone as I would have been dreaming. I mean, this dream runs deep. Yet what is a genuine dream without the adventure to truly live the dream? There. I know the answer to that. I have the will to answer that. There.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When it is all said and done I simply hope to have had a viewful pass. A sweeping excursion where I can be both the subjective participant and the objective observer, the personal experience and the understanding. All I ever seem to want is a contentment of effort that which will bring me enjoyment and understanding of myself and the world around me. With this in mind I can stop for a second and observe life go on by, my eyes full, my heart swollen, my muscles tired, my skin weathered and wrinkled, my bones as rooted as a blue gum, stout and gnarled, the footing of an endeavor branching the sky and the dirt; I can just watch it all float on by. To boot, I’ve worked hard to get to this point. I have plugged and plugged away, pursuing this year long adventure. I want to earn this experience through my efforts. This brings out my gratefulness for the world floating on by. This dream, vision, I have worked so hard to get to this point. That viewful pass, when I’m done, I can look back and see it set across the big red right in front of me.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt35UQYkoU5il47KSxjiIUU9lKbJ2uiJIwMqh4ibW1h-f9KOEjwsYAyY-WnP7fN8dDK6RdAClIfaPuXJAGIwy3Cr3SAq4Y1igJFXaW4OSOpAeKJZVlXeb-GRnE_2F5MVNAz4nqu9xX7KJNGFXqTsll4GR5PTUlM7Gu3eqG8o-Dz2L1SNiP1UpI06dX/s1440/46115B45-51A9-4BF4-BBC3-5ECA841A99A7.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt35UQYkoU5il47KSxjiIUU9lKbJ2uiJIwMqh4ibW1h-f9KOEjwsYAyY-WnP7fN8dDK6RdAClIfaPuXJAGIwy3Cr3SAq4Y1igJFXaW4OSOpAeKJZVlXeb-GRnE_2F5MVNAz4nqu9xX7KJNGFXqTsll4GR5PTUlM7Gu3eqG8o-Dz2L1SNiP1UpI06dX/w400-h300/46115B45-51A9-4BF4-BBC3-5ECA841A99A7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I set off tailing behind Aiden, my mind’s eye visualizing what is ahead of me, my heart brimming with what I have just experienced. Aiden guided me out of town, an honor to have a local lead me out. Pedaling up to the top of Norwood Summit we stopped at a koala nestled up in the crook of a eucalypt, my first sighting in Australia of the plump and fuzzy furball. I admit I was giddier than I should have probably been. Just that events just seemed to be lining up. Plus, I had fallen for Adelaide. I really liked it there. There have been many places I could see calling a home. Adelaide felt like a pretty natural fit. Yet, I had to push on. After some undulations through the beautiful and lush forests of the Adelaide Hills, Aiden bade me good luck and farewell. I rolled on confidently away from the hills and the city and pedaled onto the plains and into the great wide portal to the great wide empty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Adelaide behind in the rear view. I entered the rolling hills of wine country along the Mawson Trail. The Mawson Trail is a well-signed, well-graded, and clearly well-traveled along cruisy and dreamy gravel roads. I rode atop a ridge line with the coast in sight. The sun magnificently setting with a brilliantly shimmering yellow warmth. I dispelled my hangover, both from booze and social glee, as I wriggled my way along a rail trail with the purple dusk slowly falling away in the western horizon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Really nothing eventful happened over the next couple days. I continued on the dreamy Mawson. Weaving through fast gravel roads and swift rail trail, it felt so nice to ride within the organized structure of a truly ridden route. The town folk are keen of it, that feeling of being a part of something, just presented a warm and welcomed feeling out there in the countryside. The next day covered an expedient 100 miles. I pushed on from Clare and rode into the evening on desolate farm roads, the sun setting in a purple eminence so wide to push the sides of the horizon into an endless purple space. I rolled into the caravan park in Burra just as darkness fell. I set up my shelter and boiled myself up some ramen. I met a couple other cyclists camped there who were heading south. We chatted until it was time for the long snooze.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I shared a breakfast with the fellow cyclists from the night before. Really, other than the bike shops mates I have met I have not had an opportunity to engaged any other cyclists, let alone even see a couple riding about on the journey so far. We chatted about the impending inclement weather which would bring wind and rain. Of course, we got into gear, itineraries, mindset, anything along the line of adventuring. I left them after I wolfed down a large breakfast and pushed on trying to get a beat on the weather. A headwind blasted me all morning, as I rode in a remote corner of low lying hills. It all felt a bit wild out there, getting close to the boonies. I got to the small town of Hallett as the drizzling became thicker, the clouds smearing the sky. I hunkered in a warm trinket shop and had a coffee, an orange juice, and a chocolate peppermint slice. I sat comfortably toasty before pushing on again ahead of the next wave of the storm. Up and over Parker Ridge the wind shifted and a proper rain fell on me for a solid hour. The gradual climb kept me warm and I was able to brave the sogginess. The rain kept all the dust down and compacted the gravel into a perfect state. Up at the pass the wind blasted me. I could feel the bike being pushed. Sliced my way through the wind down the curving road. Soon enough the route shifted direction and I had the wind at my back. I soared down the road and into the town of Spalding as the rain began to fall heavily. I stayed at the pub, an 150 year old building. The new owners Ange and Fletch.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZrg5rvt5B05s089hulujYlddh9r7drJymSfMDcBsp2JNZg9Nz3PpD-A56BbXedba1ZCW0jPwuofywrFuLC52WFbAt3gTHOVxz9kytZr2E3pfxCzvhw5N6ODudUGeRWk9rhkZHF3jflgnp7WVG-iEhuRN110GxX1uBuAFE0pgXZMSHuHFauwrjhQT/s1440/3770D00F-5A8E-4BF1-BE7A-0CC377A9E730.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZrg5rvt5B05s089hulujYlddh9r7drJymSfMDcBsp2JNZg9Nz3PpD-A56BbXedba1ZCW0jPwuofywrFuLC52WFbAt3gTHOVxz9kytZr2E3pfxCzvhw5N6ODudUGeRWk9rhkZHF3jflgnp7WVG-iEhuRN110GxX1uBuAFE0pgXZMSHuHFauwrjhQT/w400-h300/3770D00F-5A8E-4BF1-BE7A-0CC377A9E730.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, laying around that night I saw the next forecast of weather, a cyclone soon to touch land in northwest Australia that would soon swoop over the continent by the weekend. I began to think about strategy. The wave of the storm would last until Sunday morning as it pushed through, so I decided Melrose would be my place to hunker down. Besides waiting out the weather I had had a planned stop in Melrose for the Friday, the day the storm would push in, so as to get my tires replaced at the last bike shop between Adelaide and Alice Springs. The storm felt sort of fortuitous timing with my planned stop in Melrose. I mean, shitty for the folks living out in this mess, but as far as I was going, a traveler, I couldn’t be too upset. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">During the night, the rain fell constantly. I could hear the shimmering rain pellet the tinny roof of the old hotel, the sound a bit unnerving as I knew this could mean very unnavigable dirt roads. The wind battered the pepper trees out my tall windows. I fretted some.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUFEuhGTSFq9diWqxEK7IW9CeG8NaEvbBK3qlqlIaK_w7pOY51-v7kPbPgMviERCUcONjdklCUUUEo6f24sFkIe524S87ozriyatjI7MTlcieLQlmp8S7579LhbmZaBbzwIiLV1HoNJmclU8Lvhm_TxEH5WbgegF2pS56PfK23E8t6gqTdQ0GKErS/s1440/BD67B49C-07B8-4782-8CCD-FE1B88F3EEFF.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUFEuhGTSFq9diWqxEK7IW9CeG8NaEvbBK3qlqlIaK_w7pOY51-v7kPbPgMviERCUcONjdklCUUUEo6f24sFkIe524S87ozriyatjI7MTlcieLQlmp8S7579LhbmZaBbzwIiLV1HoNJmclU8Lvhm_TxEH5WbgegF2pS56PfK23E8t6gqTdQ0GKErS/w400-h300/BD67B49C-07B8-4782-8CCD-FE1B88F3EEFF.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the morning, I got ready as usual. Melrose was one long day away. I could get there today or tomorrow afternoon, either way I had to get to Melrose by Friday for the tires. Outside the wind howled and the low lying clouds fizzed and frothed with rain. I took off northbound and got shut standing straight up in the seat and sopping wet within a minute. I turned around with the forecasted winds pushing 50kph consistently throughout the day with gusts only getting stronger. I knew I could let the roads dry and not fight the wind today, so I turned around and headed back to town. I hung around the store drinking coffee and pushing off the inevitable. It wasn’t worth the fight to push forward to a town I could get to the next day and on a sunny day, all before the storm. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have had a little bit of weather to toy with, some pissy headwinds. I have had to downshift a bit to not get too ahead of myself. I try and practice patience, yet education in patience is unending. Although I learn and relearn, experience and understand, at times I find myself in conflict with being antsy, too eager, or bored. Yet, I am keenly aware of when to be patient. Heeding these times is not always the easiest thing to do. I am amused at how I can be so cold-heartedly patient yet at times be so wiggly with anticipation. And, on the forecasted front a cyclone looms on reaching land in Western Australia that may affect my pathway ahead. Luckily enough, for this first moment, I had a full day waiting out weather in an 150 year old pub. The owners Fletch and Ange, such great hosts, offered up some extra hospitality for a wayward pedaler. The pub is nice and beautifully old, austere. A couple gulps of beer and I smiled forgetting about the blustery weather for that day, the cyclone looming in the back of my mind. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got to Melrose in a jiffy. Tons of rolling hills in a remote countryside, I sped my way through in a playful traipse. Eucalyptus trees spread wide over the hillsides, some quite thick with girth and standing alone, the lone figures resembling a mixture of sycamore and oak, the canopy extending out to the canopies nearby, the trees strung about with connecting tendrils of leaves and branches. I careened into Melrose and headed straight to the bike shop. The tires were there a day early. Now, the waiting game began.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPebVCGeHoyZIOgqYQtEnEZm0OhNR9HVRXHbF0M3qU5MTAG9bLAMDXiVLSHDWJ3DpyBTTTPfRSRf5e9O7DLotJDELlvH-vW7ZLDsru81SHC0CZwI4JRvf64MADYRZN3EiYGNnNaX9j8NYCQ9UTyVnw-j5XKNtoOwAUGEJO6EB4CcEmALhDOJNX-PQT/s1440/EABBF823-9906-463B-B463-11BBB14185D8.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPebVCGeHoyZIOgqYQtEnEZm0OhNR9HVRXHbF0M3qU5MTAG9bLAMDXiVLSHDWJ3DpyBTTTPfRSRf5e9O7DLotJDELlvH-vW7ZLDsru81SHC0CZwI4JRvf64MADYRZN3EiYGNnNaX9j8NYCQ9UTyVnw-j5XKNtoOwAUGEJO6EB4CcEmALhDOJNX-PQT/w400-h300/EABBF823-9906-463B-B463-11BBB14185D8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Felix and Karley drove up from Adelaide to spend a couple days with me. At first, the plan was for me to ride the day and meet them at campsites or towns. But with the rain coming in we decided to hunker down in Melrose for a couple days. The bike shop got the bike ready the next morning, and with the forecast for rain changing and now coming in later that evening, I snuck in a 50 mile ride to Quorn where Felix and Karley would shuttle me and the bike back. The rain fell quite hard that evening and the next morning. It felt so satisfying to be holed up while the rain fell and not out in the open with it. We all shared some laughs at various dinners over drinks. We floundered around town and even took a drive out to Alligator Gorge for a small hike. We spent the last night together in the pub. We ate our steaks on the bar itself and stayed a little later than I probably should. I went to bed drunk, a far flung thought when the evening happened. I had wanted an early start the next day and I knew that it would be a tougher one. However, I’ll take a fun time with friends in a tiny rural town on a rainy couple days any old time. I’m chill, I swear as I think to myself. Yet I know I am champing at the bit. I don’t know the trick to the patience game. I just know it’s a feel for the tussle of ‘in the moment’ and ‘bigger picture’— the push and pull of adventure, how to pace, how to mash, and how to chill—it’s the awareness of the world around you and the calming of your nerves. I fell asleep drunk that night. Hold your head, I thought.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kPRyhqZJnoM9Y4WFjtqAf0K4OSQioSuOpckiEK_EsQuXw9eLRwSbSTCo6I1V2F3vbUhUqoMH0JPqkNzooHNonLeY1I1fRIJc9D-fIlMGAHgOckrNolZ8jmGWWusu5banNIMIJ5gXP5MCniXbkmUWTXyEuQz9bfKP9wLT6RFr2rBz6aLdHUhlqi_S/s1440/442C41D9-978B-4C2D-BDE9-14C96BF11665.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kPRyhqZJnoM9Y4WFjtqAf0K4OSQioSuOpckiEK_EsQuXw9eLRwSbSTCo6I1V2F3vbUhUqoMH0JPqkNzooHNonLeY1I1fRIJc9D-fIlMGAHgOckrNolZ8jmGWWusu5banNIMIJ5gXP5MCniXbkmUWTXyEuQz9bfKP9wLT6RFr2rBz6aLdHUhlqi_S/w400-h300/442C41D9-978B-4C2D-BDE9-14C96BF11665.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Melrose still hung with thick and wooly clouds heavy with mist the next morning. Drearily I tried to keep positive. It’ll be fine, I said, once we clear this ridge. It’ll clear up by Quorn, I continued. Sure enough, once the drive commenced the clouds thinned out and dissipated out to the west and south beyond. Floating islands of puffy clouds pockmarked the sky to the north, the crumbling of a dying storm. We took some time getting ready, saying goodbye. There felt to be no rush. And, then I was gone. Out into the escarpments sprouting out of the arid landscape like a reptilian spine rising from the depths of sand. The wind rode at my back, a first in a few long days. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_eeeEMUFt17I5ekP4yhjTjC2rBuaHRHu87YkuRfq2f_iZvzc06EOp_UpT0E_hYvRFRaRkJ_av1PyPdQhdKBxMYLgfnv-CdCLAyaq_tQZ8Ym-re4cpN5THFqQinhNrvD33HGqRkqT_dgehZGTCnCcvfc1R777ZRoczEh_WEMUGY02QFcl1qrOeDJI/s1440/70CEE07A-4653-408C-9C55-2567BD62106F.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_eeeEMUFt17I5ekP4yhjTjC2rBuaHRHu87YkuRfq2f_iZvzc06EOp_UpT0E_hYvRFRaRkJ_av1PyPdQhdKBxMYLgfnv-CdCLAyaq_tQZ8Ym-re4cpN5THFqQinhNrvD33HGqRkqT_dgehZGTCnCcvfc1R777ZRoczEh_WEMUGY02QFcl1qrOeDJI/w400-h300/70CEE07A-4653-408C-9C55-2567BD62106F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled into Hawker in time to nab a quick bite to eat. With the early enough arrival I decided to push on to the next camp at Mt. Little Station. Riding into the evening the sky changed from a flaming yellow into a blue-purple. Kangaroos hopped about the brush and the emus galloped away from me retreating to cover. Some stars started to shine as the horizon progressively sunk with the purple glow. I skidded down the track weaving between rocks and ruts. Easing into camp as darkness surrounded me, I found a camp quickly. Directly to the west a curved escarpment shot straight up and had the cockscomb ridge silhouetted against a darkening sky. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCz0_tTJNci1C5y3sgQwCXAmza5lSguk8yyI-bRaGgbXMgorpEcgleo0ZkHMh1_oHCr6o6iXlPHz_QBbVi4x6fLvdaP-wz-jPEo-Pu2aAe3cLCu-a_e2jZIWP8aToFihlbTFs1PHNyA7AMHlwj1k0r72Ps0mkSe7PcRiiiQsvW45E2mh6nuS7zU9_L/s1440/D4F1C0B4-F8AD-43EA-95A2-281FFE25C6B6.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCz0_tTJNci1C5y3sgQwCXAmza5lSguk8yyI-bRaGgbXMgorpEcgleo0ZkHMh1_oHCr6o6iXlPHz_QBbVi4x6fLvdaP-wz-jPEo-Pu2aAe3cLCu-a_e2jZIWP8aToFihlbTFs1PHNyA7AMHlwj1k0r72Ps0mkSe7PcRiiiQsvW45E2mh6nuS7zU9_L/w400-h300/D4F1C0B4-F8AD-43EA-95A2-281FFE25C6B6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Off early the next day, the route weaved in between island ranges down rolling hills above wide drainages. Other ranges of the Flinders appeared and had the spectacularly curved eroded escarpments rimmed with pointy and craggy cliff tops. At Wilema Pound Visitor Center, I overheard rumblings of road issues up ahead, a rumor that folks couldn’t get to Coober Pedy and would have to veer off course down south and then around Lake Torrens and up north along the bitumen. These wavelengths of communication filtered through my head flippantly, as I was more interested in lunch. Anyways, I figured I would keep moving forward and decide what to do when if I got to an impasse. What secrets could I trade with experienced Outback travelers rather than overhearing the rumblings of tourists. It’s the same for me on any route: see it for myself, take fear-mongering with a grain of salt, and filter out the information from truly knowledgeable folks.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqdBwHlBC0UUDMsq7KGdWSV2jcIPJgANAqgIGGAkHRepnNXAMGmN7J33O3hDZa1MlAGDw5jaL-T_2q3amNcI080Rdasc1iYVprETjOCG5NJm8da4CFK95b9GCTF3zKInbCs4m6mcK9XGL5nIGZKxSz45SRBKjlZNS6z45fgjk3xU44bleMOkt1pJG/s1440/C742821F-01BF-4818-970F-30AD885BFC4A.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqdBwHlBC0UUDMsq7KGdWSV2jcIPJgANAqgIGGAkHRepnNXAMGmN7J33O3hDZa1MlAGDw5jaL-T_2q3amNcI080Rdasc1iYVprETjOCG5NJm8da4CFK95b9GCTF3zKInbCs4m6mcK9XGL5nIGZKxSz45SRBKjlZNS6z45fgjk3xU44bleMOkt1pJG/w400-h300/C742821F-01BF-4818-970F-30AD885BFC4A.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pushed on from the Visitor Center and had some of the best riding I have had on the whole trip. The track, the scenery, the wildness feel, and the undulations made for a really enjoyable experience. I just hammered the section out. I was having so much fun cranking it out that I ended up disappointed when I hit the sealed road. From there I cruised into Blinman and to the famous North Blinman Hotel. The end of the Mawson traditionally ends at this pub. I hoisted a pint to the heavens for this incredible stretch. I then asked for water and the publican had to search the cellar for any water available. I told her it would be fine otherwise. I okay with nothing to drink but beer. But, she found a water cube. I feasted on a huge steak and enjoyed the meal with two motorcyclists heading overland from Perth to Brisbane. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">What lay ahead I did not know. I tried to compartmentalize my anxiety by reading a bit. Ironically, I finished the lengthy book I had been reading for some time. I was far from done on my adventure but finishing a historical adventure novel helped me realized that events will end. So why be full of anxiety of what lies ahead when you want be in what lies ahead. Just let it happen, I thought, keep moving forward. I fell asleep with the familiar desert air surrounding the land around me, the silence engulfing the hills tremendously. The long Fall night held a crispness that soothed me to a cuddled sleep. I dreamed a ton that night, my visions morphing in my head under a stellar sky. I dreamt of the past and woke up at one moment with the notion: One part down, many more to go—the vision lies ahead.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1F3mNNRFJq7JnmtcvMH1X98hi_dLIH8kSgrNgkz7agWy4RYMI6hVELhLl6uZdpEvhQGWpdiNYD0yE4mXHljf_Rqzmmh3A_gKgZo_Q8VGA5jwmC56qorn7xSoIvUrUyqgNveeP0pkvNe0TnC6mMs0mNAL4PBGKDkPImdAVGpCdV7ho8_lcCv7kCrq/s1440/83421F57-C8E0-4DC1-ACA8-5E4AA4667967.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1F3mNNRFJq7JnmtcvMH1X98hi_dLIH8kSgrNgkz7agWy4RYMI6hVELhLl6uZdpEvhQGWpdiNYD0yE4mXHljf_Rqzmmh3A_gKgZo_Q8VGA5jwmC56qorn7xSoIvUrUyqgNveeP0pkvNe0TnC6mMs0mNAL4PBGKDkPImdAVGpCdV7ho8_lcCv7kCrq/w400-h300/83421F57-C8E0-4DC1-ACA8-5E4AA4667967.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_XowZ1sF31EPG28Tra-rRyKaZrfk48hkDR0tx7wOJF1xjPV73cXYX3I2E2uNrfWM8apu9kGCa5fdoU3QDb-qJGkRnhJcKoTuj7ZbzH-VK3TO4GorAX4VaOU3RuYZNMOGolyG83V59L3v4-ZIt_En1g8CDpOUoZoPYzVeYfJ6Y3gt3yTLrKlGCxEn/s1440/106561A4-45AD-4E42-ACC4-5469D32F39B9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_XowZ1sF31EPG28Tra-rRyKaZrfk48hkDR0tx7wOJF1xjPV73cXYX3I2E2uNrfWM8apu9kGCa5fdoU3QDb-qJGkRnhJcKoTuj7ZbzH-VK3TO4GorAX4VaOU3RuYZNMOGolyG83V59L3v4-ZIt_En1g8CDpOUoZoPYzVeYfJ6Y3gt3yTLrKlGCxEn/w400-h300/106561A4-45AD-4E42-ACC4-5469D32F39B9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMQI9bjLZaTKQ0si8tBs2L8_M6pVd0J7KacrhaAgcO-oMVQaZ0rPF7p7B5tOl_QQyL3mGb21Krdmh7RgSG6cJrVvRg5NaRaUbt1o1XWGPkLqxaxPjtjpeWxS7Mx9dSlarGshZH8zYF6BV0yKZ2iYHJpwSzcGmayBVwfKJiyQGbGPU3I_d4tp2oZWZ/s1440/DE649098-5944-4367-B268-849E321AE288.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMQI9bjLZaTKQ0si8tBs2L8_M6pVd0J7KacrhaAgcO-oMVQaZ0rPF7p7B5tOl_QQyL3mGb21Krdmh7RgSG6cJrVvRg5NaRaUbt1o1XWGPkLqxaxPjtjpeWxS7Mx9dSlarGshZH8zYF6BV0yKZ2iYHJpwSzcGmayBVwfKJiyQGbGPU3I_d4tp2oZWZ/w400-h300/DE649098-5944-4367-B268-849E321AE288.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQQsY0ZF1R6upSqaVN4d3PkIrQXKJyO8EvU5PBP3_Emxiq9q106vDW7anXequoCVh8J-wLfyT-eEg9fP8ciM_-8FCeVd2r1rpIyA0iNNkaDrEYdr6TL9Nv4RH4zfRzPYnEO1cluq7xSydswHfPmH8DrROlvqkfD7o9iJJanDqcNfP5p6WgMJ80mKF/s1440/2334AC73-38EE-4334-AE84-C89E0FBA0F6A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQQsY0ZF1R6upSqaVN4d3PkIrQXKJyO8EvU5PBP3_Emxiq9q106vDW7anXequoCVh8J-wLfyT-eEg9fP8ciM_-8FCeVd2r1rpIyA0iNNkaDrEYdr6TL9Nv4RH4zfRzPYnEO1cluq7xSydswHfPmH8DrROlvqkfD7o9iJJanDqcNfP5p6WgMJ80mKF/w400-h300/2334AC73-38EE-4334-AE84-C89E0FBA0F6A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiru_yBCVS1mebjNCN9TGqj9trG5tAvnkfE-nDgD_Jy-I2zP3z0EhhOUlQ4L7GSlj54QIfYZMcAmW9iDw-UltjaOVMqqwxxMZH4HsHVOUoXt000Ks7e0tff7t1axJs8-jVyH1GH0LN-PQASfehFg2gveX9p0QK0VSi2-TGe2V1XC9UMEFvJk0p4FWwp/s1440/602B5712-06C1-4442-916D-708F95E3FDBB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiru_yBCVS1mebjNCN9TGqj9trG5tAvnkfE-nDgD_Jy-I2zP3z0EhhOUlQ4L7GSlj54QIfYZMcAmW9iDw-UltjaOVMqqwxxMZH4HsHVOUoXt000Ks7e0tff7t1axJs8-jVyH1GH0LN-PQASfehFg2gveX9p0QK0VSi2-TGe2V1XC9UMEFvJk0p4FWwp/w400-h300/602B5712-06C1-4442-916D-708F95E3FDBB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Oodnadatta:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sun rises slowly over the hill just east of Blinman. A tall cairn pokes up at the top. Slowly the sky turns from a purple to an orange to a dim yellow to a soft light blue. The rising sun is marvelous. Heaps of birds fly about in an excitement of chirping. The warmth of the rays tingle my skin, my cheeks, especially my fingertips. I stay around camp sipping on my oat and coffee concoction waiting for this moment. I feel revived from the deep rest of the night. The rising sun feels like a dream all over again, the remnants of memory, the erosion of yesteryear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As the tall cairn atop the hill just above Blinman disappeared, the morning sun shining on my back, the crunchy road fell over a long rise. My morning thoughts fluttered yet I felt calm. I was in a state of the moment; simply here. Nonetheless, I could not not think about the conditions up ahead. The rutted and crunchy track showed the evidence of the muck that once was. I do not know what to expect the road conditions to be up ahead when I get to there. Certainly the recent storm injected scars on the red crusty roads from torrential downpours. Moments go by and I feel like I am riding into a great unknown. Moments go by and I am careening down the Parachilna Gorge. Huge river red gums impede the river gravel rock and form huge divots where flood water resides. Brush clings to the wide and gnarled giant roots of the gums showing the recent flooding. I see this all as I fly on by. I hated to say goodbye to the Flinders, at times wishing I was on foot to truly explore the area and connect deeply with the place.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rHrqL7SER2VTVefXX-q_0B_gT6oiBkKpGggBR8K6kEmaXPZYjnfNx4EgMzRyVIJFNwSnVYrXJRWvfKQexVjCnPHzLPRwEl627F1H4B_W3XVgqSYiGSyDvUSwSFz2LIPtbfbJiiC3Lhd4z-JnCSWdBp05T3ZN_J7S4s9ToL3-a4N2IYJ2hiPizd7e/s1440/0222B8BC-7AB0-4662-AD8B-4C9611AE440A.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rHrqL7SER2VTVefXX-q_0B_gT6oiBkKpGggBR8K6kEmaXPZYjnfNx4EgMzRyVIJFNwSnVYrXJRWvfKQexVjCnPHzLPRwEl627F1H4B_W3XVgqSYiGSyDvUSwSFz2LIPtbfbJiiC3Lhd4z-JnCSWdBp05T3ZN_J7S4s9ToL3-a4N2IYJ2hiPizd7e/w400-h300/0222B8BC-7AB0-4662-AD8B-4C9611AE440A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Passing through this life, a viewful pass at it all, the immense Outback comes into view. Stark and barren, the wide view is shocking. Nothing is in sight except for some hills and pockets of ranges in the faraway horizon. I fall into a humming velocity feeling the windy silence, observing the red land, and gazing into the vibrantly blue sky. I am a silent traveler on two wheels under an incredibly immense sky, hypnotized by the emptiness. I feel sheltered under the wide sky, the endless security beholden to an empty space, a vacuous air streaming with spirits, a freckled landscape dotted with the footprints of the past, the eroding scars of withering time; I am just a visitor passing through. I feel this already. To pass through is the epitome of enduring. I ponder this notion and realize it is absurd and arrogant. I am from an idiotic culture who in so many ways has lost the spiritual connection to the land. I crave this notion, this passing of life where one endures what the land provides. I yearn for a past where the wavelengths of the people stream through the essence of the land. My idea of how sacred the land is is nowhere near the spiritual knowledge, understanding and meaning of the indigenous peoples. All these miles I have walked, even biked, over massive landscapes yearning for this deep natural connection with Mother Earth and I could never understand the breadth of understanding of centuries and centuries of generations. Yet, I have these dreams of the land.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNlfAjNwXHlJTT3sIzV66TAGQ72v7YMf_GCpkriYBRd1k44gSNjAG0zXPO8mjh7ZDEeuLgYLGg2iqcHjufvj5k3y9biOn-do9qVNsxRPRI3FhjD3yWR30XX59FC3sIkY4eHRWtFm4aZRpeSnV2-PgXqNZLziPKsHUgLAFOnijXZHCfBWZeEQJAAR9/s1440/58DE60D3-1F9C-4EF4-B2FB-36DDCB427905.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNlfAjNwXHlJTT3sIzV66TAGQ72v7YMf_GCpkriYBRd1k44gSNjAG0zXPO8mjh7ZDEeuLgYLGg2iqcHjufvj5k3y9biOn-do9qVNsxRPRI3FhjD3yWR30XX59FC3sIkY4eHRWtFm4aZRpeSnV2-PgXqNZLziPKsHUgLAFOnijXZHCfBWZeEQJAAR9/w400-h300/58DE60D3-1F9C-4EF4-B2FB-36DDCB427905.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Under a sheltering sky I have lived with my dreams throughout my life. My head in the clouds, wandering out in the widest of the most open spaces, I am blanketed by the vastness of my visions. This is where I live my real life. What is the sky of my imagination out here is my rooftop with no walls. I can dream forever out here. Why have a body when I have dreams? Why have a body when I have a spirit? I so yearn to roam these faraway lands. I dream forever so. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I landed in Lyndhurst for the night. I had flown across the barren plains leaving the Flinders properly behind. In my head my imagination soared. I looked so far into the horizon I looked through it and passed it, my machinations of contemplation rounding the curvature of the earth. I re-entered my head rounding from the backside. A chill ran up my neck, the wind tickling me, the wind swinging back my imagination. Maybe that’s it—the wind and my imagination are one and the same. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-lVBz0OWqzpBrt2RGEU6Wb7q2oFJX9A72UDJ9h5-5QQAgG9zl2rxKMt-cF98V1rVY0Yizp4AW7IFrIrJO3P-dxDBtrAJ40D-A4pqeVS3jEAAAAtM6rFr3dCoeHnrYlcNonuCzLkvFgnrVMxQPllvCjPwvm5AXVlT577mLMj6cjTU6yb3ct1VXaUU/s1440/13820833-A45D-4703-B665-D91FF638C13B.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-lVBz0OWqzpBrt2RGEU6Wb7q2oFJX9A72UDJ9h5-5QQAgG9zl2rxKMt-cF98V1rVY0Yizp4AW7IFrIrJO3P-dxDBtrAJ40D-A4pqeVS3jEAAAAtM6rFr3dCoeHnrYlcNonuCzLkvFgnrVMxQPllvCjPwvm5AXVlT577mLMj6cjTU6yb3ct1VXaUU/w400-h300/13820833-A45D-4703-B665-D91FF638C13B.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled up to the hotel. A couple folks sat around a table drinking canned beers in the shade of the veranda and the willows blocking out the sun. The bloke motioned over to across the street with his chin and then rumbled, ‘Hey mate, I think ya fuel up ova there.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Across the street the diesel fuel pump stood like a broken totem machine bristled and dried from the wind, rusted and creaky from the aridity of the desert air. I laughed back at him and quipped sarcastically. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘The only thing that’ll keep my tank going is beer. I think I’ll go inside and fill my belly,’ I patted my belly during my babbling.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">They all got a kick out of that and together all laughed in raspy unison. I decided on the cheap room, only $20 more than the campsite with no grass and hard gravel. I took a quick shower and rejoined the group of drinkers on the porch. We shot the shit. Spoke about country life, the pretty feral cats living under the porch, the harsh desert existence of these tiny communities, long haul truckers, my bike trip, whatever came down the pipeline came flowing out. One of the women, the one with the butterfly tattoos randomly adorned on both arms, was visiting with her husband her sister who lived there in Lyndhurst. I had stumbled into a mini reunion. I drank with the group feeling good about everything. I was well spent and I had that good hard-earned feeling one gets when after pleasurably working hard all day. The group grew and a few truckers came over to drink some beer. This tiny community was a crucial layover for the long haul trucks. I inquired about their job and the lives they lead. Thru work very long hours in pretty dangerous conditions. I was enthralled by how adventurous their job needed them to be. I got some good insight into their adventurous profession. Finally, the bartender came out and said my steak was ready. The Outback sunrise was falling fast, a layered spectrum of dusky colors. I took a walk out into the desolate street. I inhaled the desert air, dry and cool. I went inside for the steak.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Rolling into Marree I was thrusted into a familiar situation. Caravans and trailers were littered throughout town, mostly hanging around the gas station and the entryway to the Oodnadatta Track heading west and north. Crunchy ruts lined and jutted strikingly from the red and pink track next to the large highway safety sign. This was eerily familiar to a wintry mountain highway closure in Colorado. Only this time I wasn’t dispatching, even driving passengers. I wasn’t monitoring the computer screens and transportation and weather websites to gather an idea of when the highways would be opened up and be safe for travel. This time, right here in Marree, everyone waited for the roads to dry. Now, the signs said opened but with caution and 4WD only, a yellow placard, but it had not been opened to vehicles towing a trailer. So, I hung around at the hotel in town, drank a couple of beers, and had a burger. By the time I got back out into the streets the streets were empty, vacuous and spacious. The caravaners had been allowed entry onto the track. I waited another hour to guzzle up some water and lay in the shade. Then, as patchy clouds lumbered in, I pushed on.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWjJVKz4bK4Jb9vJMfKvoAM6JUO8BOjGUv_MCvbxEXI1FRIunaHKjkiXIxRAf6VrvaarcZ8OjEjxNLyN79z38JbKkt36rwhtn8dIdftrSr4Wq1tqWhdBX_PgIt-Q6Ll1eIFZFz7hnKG3Jd-ZfFUOg3Wa45ZoIPUScxQFFacBpP5ALYcTiwFwDxAO1/s3749/IMG_0304.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2812" data-original-width="3749" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWjJVKz4bK4Jb9vJMfKvoAM6JUO8BOjGUv_MCvbxEXI1FRIunaHKjkiXIxRAf6VrvaarcZ8OjEjxNLyN79z38JbKkt36rwhtn8dIdftrSr4Wq1tqWhdBX_PgIt-Q6Ll1eIFZFz7hnKG3Jd-ZfFUOg3Wa45ZoIPUScxQFFacBpP5ALYcTiwFwDxAO1/w400-h300/IMG_0304.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I battled a fierce headwind leaving due west out of Marree. Sometimes a hindrance is a necessary part of the adventure. I had already gotten 50 miles riding into Marree all with a tailwind, so I felt after replenishing my gut with a big meal at the hotel and topping my thirst off extra wise that the late afternoon hours were kind of bonus hours. I would be cutting into a long waterless stretch and despite the wind I knew that temps would be cooling off. The convoy of caravans that had been parked by the gas station and store had now disappeared. The four wheelers and trailers had now gone west into the big empty. I followed suit. Within a mile outside of town I felt that ‘holy shit’ moment: an endless sea of sand and red dirt, flat and barren, wide and far in every direction. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I passed railway ruins, places for the workers to sleep at night. Instantly I was reminded of my childhood and crossing the Mojave. My love was for the desert started then, kindling the ways of a wanderer, stoking the furnace of a vagabond.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The wind eased and dusk settled in, the track slightly veering to the northwest. I passed a huge lot with abstract metal sculptures. The sculptures twinkled in the setting sun and creaked in the gusty wind, the middle of nowhere type creaking, too, almost ominous. I fell into the soft rhythmic sounds and thought that the artist would have envisioned this soothing pendulum song, one that conjures up an empty brain, a meditation brought with the wind thumping on the brain and heart in unison, the wind invoking the dream of the desert. I found a camp not too much further along as the sun finally sank behind the hills of an ancient rocky sea bed. The wind pounded my shelter as I fought to set it up. I got it going though soon enough. The constellation of Orion and the Dog Star, Sirius, shined first, Venus directly below on the low horizon. I opened up the flap of my tarp and boiled some ramen. The wind softened, softened to a light breeze that whistled through the barbed wire fence near me. The wind continued to strum the harp of the metal fence as my eyelids closed shut. Yet another long day tomorrow, but for now I will meditate with the wind of my imagination, the chiming of the barbed wire steering the vacillation of my dreams, the strumming the western winds forever.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h6Bovm2iQkp2VCmZxwXoM51cxVh5u7WahU1JGPsSf0JPn89_5M_Q-qHUJ6K8m_7KcAY9Wv3zsd_L3vj7tKPstwpQDVAKRfVqaQ6pBTlIRW5OEszIl2XpTj23JaY8SpTyEYkWvJq1-6EBxCNizwAJPbJ17j7mDjli-gFALO3VaanC0_tZi3RXwS9O/s4032/IMG_0313.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h6Bovm2iQkp2VCmZxwXoM51cxVh5u7WahU1JGPsSf0JPn89_5M_Q-qHUJ6K8m_7KcAY9Wv3zsd_L3vj7tKPstwpQDVAKRfVqaQ6pBTlIRW5OEszIl2XpTj23JaY8SpTyEYkWvJq1-6EBxCNizwAJPbJ17j7mDjli-gFALO3VaanC0_tZi3RXwS9O/w400-h300/IMG_0313.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could see the stars twinkling through my shelter, the thin white dyneema my iridescent ceiling. I woke up groggily, the night pitch black, and I began counting the twinkling stars on my shelter. It did not take me long to succumb to the blanket of darkness and fall back sleep. Even the moon hid from the darkness, the smothering too great. Eventually, I felt the pink light rising behind my eyelids. The flaps creaked open with the cold around my eyes sticking to the creases. I blinked a few times, the rays ever so softy rising. The sunrise does not rise dramatically out here in the Outback nor does the sunset plummet instantaneously. Out here in the Outback the sun rises slowly, an hour or so before the actual rising of the sun. She tiptoes out of the cold water, rising from a distant and dark surface as still as glass. The horizon is so wide that the arced spectrum of colors almost seem like a dry rainbow. The land is so wide and flat the curvature of the earth is revealed by this reversing arcing shadow. Her head and shoulders dappled with brilliant early dawn light, spectacular against the engulfing blackness, she continues to rise and stand. Simply spectacular. The rising of the sun here is regal, the land and its servants patiently wait. Once it’s risen, however, the sun is dominant and inescapable. The sun is the epitome of love.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C1vCepXSBLMQRlNTpM4hDqlhSz-xaeYubC-MGKgWc58oY4lSDJZtOQsBfhl6MSDEJtKNeJ0PdtLqORM14HIXcmw-xas2mVFwq34kNF9Vh8K5qIFBI1bogRc2cWOdacfAopF8ccv1KbFmh-Y75beLQ5EZ8P4AGFPIMvJUux6dvff92G_gS_Cy7t_6/s4032/IMG_0400.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C1vCepXSBLMQRlNTpM4hDqlhSz-xaeYubC-MGKgWc58oY4lSDJZtOQsBfhl6MSDEJtKNeJ0PdtLqORM14HIXcmw-xas2mVFwq34kNF9Vh8K5qIFBI1bogRc2cWOdacfAopF8ccv1KbFmh-Y75beLQ5EZ8P4AGFPIMvJUux6dvff92G_gS_Cy7t_6/w400-h300/IMG_0400.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sunsets dip below the western horizon. She takes off her clothes one layer at a time, teasingly, tauntingly flirting as she looks back knowing that she had provided you with warmth. Her eyes flutter and the sky darkens. The silhouette of shoulder of a mountain appears backdropped against the Outback purple. The dry rainbow appears again, opposite of the morning, the shadow of Earth pressing down on the arc as the spectrum squeezes together. She walks towards the horizon getting smaller and smaller, the small of her back glistening and I can finally focus on her longingly as I narrow my gaze. At this moment, I can stare into the sun. I can gaze at the small of her back as she languidly tiptoes away. She dips into the cold water, naked. The sun sinks into the depths of a cold space, a rippling chasm of beauty. The water tingles frigidly; my skin gets chilled. The sun fades with the last crisp of sunburst. Into the darkness she goes shimmering. Agonizingly, she, the sun, is gone.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDbB9GWbT3VcBWtRkPj6cHWlueekPBNlcRupjWK-HQKJDCxiu-jvAdGYV7Ws9q2weE2olUa4z0v2h1kcOJMta1TTrbZIMN2e7TrHYbrxndHk95kJ_m6DmnN3Hf-_Wasd4SaldpmVdqCZivmT-mNnDqd8TQfrPeZ3RHq09I3m_8XtRCmJRUtplqd4i/s4032/IMG_0315.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDbB9GWbT3VcBWtRkPj6cHWlueekPBNlcRupjWK-HQKJDCxiu-jvAdGYV7Ws9q2weE2olUa4z0v2h1kcOJMta1TTrbZIMN2e7TrHYbrxndHk95kJ_m6DmnN3Hf-_Wasd4SaldpmVdqCZivmT-mNnDqd8TQfrPeZ3RHq09I3m_8XtRCmJRUtplqd4i/w400-h300/IMG_0315.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The memory of one day should not be marked on a calendar. Living truly one full day from sunup to sundown creates an indelible stamp in one’s memory. This memory becomes a dream, one that inhabits the depths of our soul at the core of our hearts. One full day takes time, not what we as humans create. One full day lasts all of time, especially in one’s dreams. I strode out into the early morning light and onto the Outback plain. Encapsulated in serenity, the distant hills I crossed. The road was very hard packed and grooved with smoothness. I read the road like a river. The tire lanes providing the smoothest pathway, the ruts perforating the flow and bulging upwards showing the rocky obstacles. The track bends wide, yawns in its curving manner. The bends show the current of travel. Then, the rugged corrugating appears. From a distance what looks harmless rolling bumps, one jiggles violently over the rough ribs. These are the rapids, in the form of heavy corrugations where the traffic slows over an obstacle, where the point person gives signals with haves as to which direction the raft should shoot for. The channel of corrugated rock, sand, and dirt resembles the channel of water flow. My bike is my craft, my kayak, my feet powering my wheels through the sand and dirt as my arms would splice through the whitewater. One fights through the roar of rapids pedaling furiously, the bike clanging with a rugged clamor. Then, suddenly, one pops out. One is free and back grooving with an ear for the next roar of rapids, an eye out for the next set of gnarly corrugated dips.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I drifted in between tire lanes when I had to, but mostly hung on the edge of the road of the oncoming traffic. The other direction clearly had more traffic. Fortunately for me, traffic is seldom. And, when I see a vehicle coming towards me I can see it from miles away. Occasionally I look back for vehicles coming from my direction. When I hear a vehicle behind, however, I hear it from mikes away, a low boom hovering just over the land skimming the dirt. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The contours of dust tailing off a distant caravan conjures up a dream. I am ensconced in my head and taken back to the Altiplano in Bolivia when I walked 500 miles across a 15,000ft barren desert and volcanic plain. There as well on a barren high plain I would see from miles away the tails of dust whipping up with the winds. The land would whistle and blow while I would drift and ponder, the low hum booming within me on the thermals. My mind was the clearest ever then. Here, now, I am brought back to that dream. Here, now, my mind is clear, although not the clearest. Nonetheless, I can clearly, and tangibly, feel that memory. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZtp7uecTd0sIRAPvB3sFEzbhSZ_WWPaqYYQJF30lQOQ2UnOEcmoQZk-Uc00bc7y2IYIQXq0P_ys-FjamIEd9RNGujsNRSYyIGcKJjjm4NpEhSOOBBuBp9e9jCY7LP9Bo0iWPjGKc74JTB9XSWs-ZYvxjboy4zM_I9xwM_JqccKA0CROmrGrTxSie/s4032/IMG_0404.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZtp7uecTd0sIRAPvB3sFEzbhSZ_WWPaqYYQJF30lQOQ2UnOEcmoQZk-Uc00bc7y2IYIQXq0P_ys-FjamIEd9RNGujsNRSYyIGcKJjjm4NpEhSOOBBuBp9e9jCY7LP9Bo0iWPjGKc74JTB9XSWs-ZYvxjboy4zM_I9xwM_JqccKA0CROmrGrTxSie/w400-h300/IMG_0404.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I passed by Lake Eyre, a massive dry lake bed stretching for miles into the extremely bright sun, the surface refulgent with brilliant sunshine. At Coward Springs, I indulged in a vanilla sage ice cream cone while under a canopy of shade. I lounged about drinking a soda afterwards while nursing a liter of water. This oasis spoiled my isolation, yet I was appreciative of the shady rest. I would not take it for granted. I pushed on to Williams Creek and began to battle the hordes of flies, which would now be omnipresent. I strapped on my fly net and instantly I felt the reprieve of the little pests. The flies sought the water from my nose and eyes. I wouldn’t be relinquishing any liquid to satiate, however. To boot, the netting provided a bit of shade. I got to Williams Creek in no time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is where my run-in encounters began. Caravaners approached me inside the pub. Usually my fellow travelers recognized me. ‘The lone cyclist’ or ‘man on bike,’ or ‘MOB’ for short. I recognized a family from Marree who had the cutest little tykes known to mankind. Folks seemed so surprised to see me sitting there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had arrived earlier than expected, so I had an opportunity to wash my salty clothes. I scrubbed the salt off my clothes first before getting them in the washer. I was completely encrusted like the glistening surface of Lake Eyre. At dinner, I chatted up the family I had met earlier with the little tykes. Lucy, the one year old with tiny front teeth took a liking to me. I gave her a French fry. She ate half of it and reached out with the other half for me to take back. She grinned with those tiny front teeth surrounded by gums. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t warm my heart. So many different people I have connected with on this journey. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwTRp5lo173lvWtTJ3pdwHiIk5Ft-OjZRzIxM8Jds8mkK3VEf_01VwopGKZCD-SOZM4G1Qz0fRZ0UoJho58yGVTP9gLsbQDAuAwczDeT10kvGUpbLirR6xANuB0-zPZeKlTiaGQJYG5W8trdKllz-2v_zV9zpCLILT3JcGjxOmoDNh6xDMeH16wO0/s4032/IMG_0326.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwTRp5lo173lvWtTJ3pdwHiIk5Ft-OjZRzIxM8Jds8mkK3VEf_01VwopGKZCD-SOZM4G1Qz0fRZ0UoJho58yGVTP9gLsbQDAuAwczDeT10kvGUpbLirR6xANuB0-zPZeKlTiaGQJYG5W8trdKllz-2v_zV9zpCLILT3JcGjxOmoDNh6xDMeH16wO0/w400-h300/IMG_0326.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a huge breakfast, I left Williams Creek with the fly net on. More flies came buzzing about earlier than I had expected but the wind made them tolerable. I was out a couple hours earlier than the caravaners. They lingered about in Williams Creek waiting for further road conditions updates. Some of the roads up north were either still closed or opened with limited conditions, for example one couldn’t tow trailer on certain tracks due to the boggy and muddy states. Nonetheless, the ones that were out were usually a big overland vehicle trucking along. One that stopped included a couple of cheery blokes from Germany, Joe and Frank. They greeted me with a morning beer and topped off my water. We swapped some tales in a short minute and they motored on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The wind soughing through the mulga trees in the wide sandy wash, ploughing it’s way through the pink sand sifting the energy of memory through disappearing ruts, putting me back at the sea, waves crashing softly, an oozing mediation within a burnt landscape—that was my lunch spot. Seldom I found shady spots, a much needed break from the sun and the flies. Another caravan pulled over, going the opposite direction. They asked if I was okay, told me about the waterhole up ahead. The bogan grinned toothlessly and said, ‘We seen everything, mate,’ the kids cheering in the back. ‘Saw some ‘roos and emus, even a crazy cyclist out here in the bush all by hisself!’ Toothy smiles all around. He continued to give me directions to the waterhole off the track. I knew then that I wasn’t far from the oasis. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBbiY1Q0evMzO2UJCwhrimmkpqAwqxfXZ-orI2UnpWEcLrsL7_rOq1zM1AjDiDSvaDN1oROJ_vxMhedoSobGocloQF25nq02N6lmGpUzBNTTaRmRhprPK9vrqCJY3SotqDW18jvVVWaAsyWbVm0OXxk5PJy4VxpyfeXC6F6ydEbxrpYyd4PnLso68/s1440/4635B475-54FD-4671-B133-981E2BBBDDF4.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBbiY1Q0evMzO2UJCwhrimmkpqAwqxfXZ-orI2UnpWEcLrsL7_rOq1zM1AjDiDSvaDN1oROJ_vxMhedoSobGocloQF25nq02N6lmGpUzBNTTaRmRhprPK9vrqCJY3SotqDW18jvVVWaAsyWbVm0OXxk5PJy4VxpyfeXC6F6ydEbxrpYyd4PnLso68/w400-h300/4635B475-54FD-4671-B133-981E2BBBDDF4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon enough I made it to Algebuckina Bridge and waterhole. This wasn’t my intended plan as it seemed too far out. But the miles just slid on by. I moseyed on down to the waterhole to find a camp spot. I ran into Shannon, Nicki, and Charlotte right at the edge of the waterhole atop the high banks. They greeted me with excitement as they had passed me at least four times over the past couple days. They couldn’t believe the kilometers I was putting in per day. They invited me over for a beer after I took a swim. I set up my shelter and then hurriedly waded in. The waterhole was enormous, essentially a lake extending in a river channel as far as I could see in either direction. The water was so cold and so refreshing, so deep I positively thought that this waterhole could be perennial. After I washed up and cooled off I joined the family. They were now full time nomads and traveling Australia on a 2.5 year plan. All that they owned was right there towed behind the truck. Charlotte was homeschooled, they traveled together as a family, living together simply and in a minimalistic fashion. I envied what they had built together as a family. The simplicity, the shared adventures, the planning together, the thriving out in the world moving from place to place, they had something figured out independent of the rat race the majority of people live in. I ended up staying for dinner. We spoke about crappy coffee in the US, healthy whole food and crappy processed food, the philosophy of how they lived, the stars above us and the sunsets, all as the sun set across the waterhole. Venus sat on the horizon just above the trees. Orion looked above Venus. Charlotte showed me the Southern Cross. Life was all right just then.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFTGyzHlSbk-w02xDYBoTuKhMXCIvBQU0f2YsrVg9jMGqh_OabGbxCZKPCZacCE9aY7o5_xWPVIuaaz7Jx3Ipafu23NMp8ovr6CXu8YMbMRne5wu51W5huO4IQuqpL5KBsY3DoIB15VvkOMKwl6WGF1lg0QwdzJj3GT7FlrEIETKk1ymuvpZKtO4u/s4032/IMG_0353.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFTGyzHlSbk-w02xDYBoTuKhMXCIvBQU0f2YsrVg9jMGqh_OabGbxCZKPCZacCE9aY7o5_xWPVIuaaz7Jx3Ipafu23NMp8ovr6CXu8YMbMRne5wu51W5huO4IQuqpL5KBsY3DoIB15VvkOMKwl6WGF1lg0QwdzJj3GT7FlrEIETKk1ymuvpZKtO4u/w400-h300/IMG_0353.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was up early before the blazing sunrise. Out over the waterhole a shimmering serenity gripped the still waters. The cockatoos downstream cackled softly like as if the birds let off a collective light snore, the chortle sounding like an out of tune bagpipe. I could hear them scurrying about. The riot would soon fully weaken. Then, the sky rose aflame with a burnt orange hue like the tips of a campfire. Soaking the whole scene up, I walked around in the bush a bit observing the heavens beginning to glow. I said good morning and goodbye to my friends next door, rode on over to the Algebukina Bridge of the Old Ghan Railway, the longest bridge of the whole lengthy old railway; then rode breezily along dreamy dirt track to Oodnadatta.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_xTL50_B8nG3t33hkNNRDQoj-tXBKy-85SyrDZJD6LNL12ZnlLKJDWpl5XefBWjZ2dmP11DSn-L0-t_tV3gWirTF6qElgLpNLcDtN19Y4lGnArESSyNrBctrFszYbOTRk1zJqCpxt-2iW2W4cLIReWUIbT_S8cNgx2SLLctmRI7kfvxXeuEjW4lB/s4032/IMG_0368.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_xTL50_B8nG3t33hkNNRDQoj-tXBKy-85SyrDZJD6LNL12ZnlLKJDWpl5XefBWjZ2dmP11DSn-L0-t_tV3gWirTF6qElgLpNLcDtN19Y4lGnArESSyNrBctrFszYbOTRk1zJqCpxt-2iW2W4cLIReWUIbT_S8cNgx2SLLctmRI7kfvxXeuEjW4lB/w400-h300/IMG_0368.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Seeing the family with the cute little tykes, meeting Shannon, Nicki and Charlotte again, and getting introduced to the Off Grid crew, I had inadvertently stumbled and developed a trail community. We kept passing each other, running into each other, and now had kindled that special thing that develops when on a long distance hike: a community connection. In the middle of the Outback, so far away from any thing, so remote, so isolated, and I had stumbled upon this bond between travelers. I was instilled with a bubbling spirit that was ready to pop every time I ran into one of the groups. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect things to pan out this way.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdWtwvwe1xxS6LDTrADoREyO7P7zagKliQYBzh1T9yNY0Ztr_39-2amz2s1KIl0Gd86xBSqRC0C4WVgaiES0d2euxgJRsvdilu191KwMuU3Hvw6tKc3Rr8WpcenOxCOnY7Xy-G9KGULQEtD6QPdJhJDmRh5Jnh3d6HpTxgzKvGQyMOpE5Bz-OvmkV/s4032/IMG_0665.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdWtwvwe1xxS6LDTrADoREyO7P7zagKliQYBzh1T9yNY0Ztr_39-2amz2s1KIl0Gd86xBSqRC0C4WVgaiES0d2euxgJRsvdilu191KwMuU3Hvw6tKc3Rr8WpcenOxCOnY7Xy-G9KGULQEtD6QPdJhJDmRh5Jnh3d6HpTxgzKvGQyMOpE5Bz-OvmkV/w400-h300/IMG_0665.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got in so early to Oodnadatta I basically had a full rest day. My main goals were to eat a ton, hydrate even more, and do some route research with the road conditions up ahead. Eventually, I wandered over to Shannon’s camp, poached some better cellular connection to download some podcasts, and tentative plan with them a reunion near Alice Springs. Then, I had dinner with the Off Gridders. The crew, in particular Graham, have a very large following on YouTube. All four of them oozed an adventurous spirit and were so lighthearted. We were both going towards Finke on a track that could possibly be very crappy. I felt reassured to know I wouldn’t be the only idiot out on that remote area just after the roads had opened cautiously up. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAAJz43YthSsti3tCX1Yw56NsAVrHhML9jnX9KtV9up7ISVXNU9VdEkFU7F9lVdJM6Pow_T7Ag4h4DLOvk8JhDUxBdWz4cFZNC299RSvxOzGlvJGcTIcKv_jB3YL7jUzSrcQGrRMOgIxGTCTxv03SXHs-aDEUw38QQiYORvWxjwBX76AdzuKiNojW/s4032/IMG_0380.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAAJz43YthSsti3tCX1Yw56NsAVrHhML9jnX9KtV9up7ISVXNU9VdEkFU7F9lVdJM6Pow_T7Ag4h4DLOvk8JhDUxBdWz4cFZNC299RSvxOzGlvJGcTIcKv_jB3YL7jUzSrcQGrRMOgIxGTCTxv03SXHs-aDEUw38QQiYORvWxjwBX76AdzuKiNojW/w400-h300/IMG_0380.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3n5WGan7SEGRLTnw6-7UazjDHnG4YbgDzTIgEIUj1qDDMVG9jvaCmm117IExrFY20l-WAs_H0uny8n3OHLDHG5GZNOHZzLKlYRWV6og3jjYkDrBmpeXTLbyFqi9R-Oorrkhy84oq0fCwA2o3ies9V54iFM0ZtrbAH35rVKBxQBAkPHFeI74JvDexk/s4032/IMG_0369.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3n5WGan7SEGRLTnw6-7UazjDHnG4YbgDzTIgEIUj1qDDMVG9jvaCmm117IExrFY20l-WAs_H0uny8n3OHLDHG5GZNOHZzLKlYRWV6og3jjYkDrBmpeXTLbyFqi9R-Oorrkhy84oq0fCwA2o3ies9V54iFM0ZtrbAH35rVKBxQBAkPHFeI74JvDexk/w400-h300/IMG_0369.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Out There:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The rising early in Oodnadatta trying to get a head start on the heat, I had an undeterred sight of the Milky Way. I rolled out into the dusty and lonely street. I seemed to be the only one up. I enjoyed my stay there and could have easily stayed another day. But, I have to keep this thing moving. My plan was to ride from dawn to about 1pm, taking the occasional break along the way. Then, from 1-3pm I would hunker down in some shade, hopefully a wide wash with wind flow through the mulga trees would capture my restful wishes. The road was smooth sailing to the Marla cutoff, clearly the safest and most conservative way towards the Red Centre. I really wanted to go the direction towards Finke, however. I had heard so many good things about that particular way from the hardcore enduro-cyclists I had met. I would have the Eringa Waterhole as a major water source and oasis. Plus, the route is just ‘out there,’ and I mean ‘way the fuck out there.’ Simply put, that intrigued me. I was craving the challenge, the task of crossing this remote place. Assuredly, I knew the Off Gridders were headed that same direction, and if I got into any trouble I would have a bailout option. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The morning was surprisingly cool. The sun slowly opened up like a desert rose. I welcomed the warmth with open petals. A breeze cooled me off from a side angle. I welcomed the cooling even more so than the warmth. Being that it’s Autumn, even if temps are supposed to rise, the real heat should only last a few hours. So, I would push on until 2pm. Of course, the events of the day were not that smooth. The track became extremely rutted, crusted and dried from the recent massive rain event. Large ponds of murky water spread out on the track in the low lying areas. The intense concentration applied to navigating the crunchy and sharp ruts proved to be a challenge of the highest degree. I had to choose my line carefully. I would stand up in the saddle constantly to look ahead and choose my line. I maintained my balance this way too. You can feel the grips of the softer dirt bear hugging the sides of my sinking tires. The gravitational pull of the walled ruts funneled me down a narrow channel. I had to ‘hold on and shut up.’ I mumbled gruffly out loud to myself, ‘Just steer and keep pedaling you dumbass, stop jotting things down.’ The going was tremendously slow and tiring, yet I still made progress. By the time the Off Gridders caught me I had put in nearly 40 miles. They topped my water bottles off as I guzzled an extra liter or so right there on the spot. They finally got to see my bike and asked about my set up. I walked them through it, just stopped out in the middle of the track in the middle of nowhere, no one else around for miles, chatting for about 15 minutes. Then they shoved off with a cloud of thick pink bull dust flailing behind them. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9wyJd-hlVgUSyOag9ZftcJSCCGI1zBGDhfaB-ws5jlOqczOhXXz4wYI8fV_Z5JYYEoxWuXfl5D5aqiq6pawOsonihe5tRfbvKWDtrljZYqWDfnMOalFt57P0yiqlVB8x-7phKgAGEa862J7iI1L-O758gbWIHdfBEZZUoXqfjzc-oSwsqWhVibys/s4032/IMG_0394.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9wyJd-hlVgUSyOag9ZftcJSCCGI1zBGDhfaB-ws5jlOqczOhXXz4wYI8fV_Z5JYYEoxWuXfl5D5aqiq6pawOsonihe5tRfbvKWDtrljZYqWDfnMOalFt57P0yiqlVB8x-7phKgAGEa862J7iI1L-O758gbWIHdfBEZZUoXqfjzc-oSwsqWhVibys/w400-h300/IMG_0394.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The road got worse. At one point I heard a low booming roar over the crunchy track. A huge long haul cattle trailer came lumbering by. The man ran Hamilton Station. He told me the roads were terrible and shitty all the way to Mt. Dare. ‘Slow going mate, my heli pilot said the road is chewed up for miles, really slow going.’ He even offered me to fill up my water bottles at the station. His update didn’t leave me feeling peachy, save for the access to water. I waved him on, his long trailer rolling and rollicking slowly away, twirls of huge ball dusts swirled from the many tires, the wind pushing the thick dust right into me. The lumbering beast came straight out of the George Miller apocalyptic classic and trilogy Mad Max. I just needed steampunk goggles to fit in.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I lowered my head and closed my eyes. I could feel the dust stick to my sweaty arms and legs. For a second I felt a tad disappointed by the track updates. Bah, I shoved the downtrodden thought quickly aside. I had done well up to that point trudging through the gnarly ruts. I wasn’t going to be swayed otherwise. I wasn’t turning back unless it was absolutely necessary. I would adapt and veer off course if I had to. And, I understood that seemed likely up ahead. I understood his report probably meant I had to play it safe and get to Mt. Dare and the hotel, a last ditch stop for travelers on the edge of the Simpson Desert. There, I knew I could re-up on water and food and have more bailout options rather than the original route I had planned going due north on unknown and most likely even shittier roads, even if the detour would add a full day. There was nothing for me to do but to go forward. That conclusion seemed simple enough. So, I bared down and pushed my eyes squinting with determination, my brow furrowed with gutty focus. Caked in bull dust in the creases of the eyes and brow, I fought onward like a road warrior.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a quick stop at Hamilton Station of refilling my water, I moseyed on down to the waterhole crossing nearby. I splashed my face and neck with a clearest pothole I could find. I rinsed my shirt out using that same pothole. Then, I sat in the shade of a gnarled mulga. I closed my crusty eyes. I felt the breeze cooling me off and I thought that in the breezy shade temps felt at least 10 degrees cooler. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEz9gOFbWg7YE2OHv2fffKB8AcL4hWozrZcI7Aa59ulGCrIj_qg1qlTRTGibs73g__42OmKHiRvEvgGL4Q28KO0gsbgbNih1jf8Fwow4jzvbLDtpYN3fc5bC-JIhZE1g3lrBD75eGsLgAQ-QZpbNgRooeUzrw5-zoGxGBot54gH9eG-XZPcmAZwbu6/s1440/1FC74AAF-BB47-41B7-BCA1-4A6BF5DBE996.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEz9gOFbWg7YE2OHv2fffKB8AcL4hWozrZcI7Aa59ulGCrIj_qg1qlTRTGibs73g__42OmKHiRvEvgGL4Q28KO0gsbgbNih1jf8Fwow4jzvbLDtpYN3fc5bC-JIhZE1g3lrBD75eGsLgAQ-QZpbNgRooeUzrw5-zoGxGBot54gH9eG-XZPcmAZwbu6/w400-h300/1FC74AAF-BB47-41B7-BCA1-4A6BF5DBE996.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">More of the same crappy rutty roads became the normal characteristic of the track. Just terrible and slow going, excruciatingly tiring. Yet, still I made progress. My eyes stung from the dusty day and the incredibly bright sunny day. The glare itself caused the most acerbic stinging that I had a little headache. I was getting really tired as the day ended. I found a flat spot on compacted pink sand. Although the sunrise wasn’t particularly thrilling, I finally caught a glimpse of the crescent moon. The moon radiated that lunar pearly glow as the sun set. I scarfed my dinner down, so eager to eat after a very difficult and tiring day of 97 miles. A couple of cockatoos sat up high in the branches of the mulga surrounding my campsite. The cockatoos made some low growling chortles that sounded like a kid possessed by a demon in a horror flick. ‘Man, I am out here,’ I thought. When one has been ‘out there,’ as I know it, and believe you me I know it more than most; when one is ‘out there’ there is no other feeling like it. I seek these types of environs the most, in particular the desert places. Here I am, so far away from everything at this very spot laying in my shelter in perfect desert bliss.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My ears were open as I slept evidently. I had heard a long bark in my sleep. My eyes sprung open like a trap. I could feel my senses turning on to high alert. I sat up and wriggled around to the porch of my shelter. I listened carefully to my surroundings. I thought I could hear the pitter patter of a four legged critter. I understood a dingo was near my camp. The purple tinges of night sky percolated in the western horizon, the fringes of the hinterland beginning to illuminate. I started my water to boil and packed up my smaller items. Then, as I was stirring my coffee into my oatmeal, I heard the pitter patter of paws treading softly a few feet from my shelter. I smacked a pane of the shelter and a dingo popped out springing away from me. He looked like a young dingo. His beady eyes vacant and black. I stood up in my skivvies and threw in my shoes. I scurried him off but he only made a circular evasive movement. I glanced around for any others. I didn’t see any other movements in the thin brush. I took a slurp of my porridge. Then, I began packing up in earnest, quickly. The dingo and I danced a game. I could see he was not looking directly at me, he was looking at my things. I kept my items close after I packed them up. I threw a rock into the brush that I had kept under my porch. He ran over to investigate. As soon as he turned around back to me I had rushed towards him flailing and flopping my sleeping pad. He ran off. This bought me some time to pack up the bigger items, all the while slurping my porridge. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiD9kDKFUOo-67LgWGcdKK081FFYAGWKY4JI0EYipme-2rDQ1bN8ojHiyMD-jwijuwxMsCHP6eT2dGLjxfAe1CfzgK_55d2zUBwzF6Iyn3K86HUvXrmDwYg7ufEijCrP7QfwAP3IUUvykluorYIj--yqLAdm2vf5X3HXq9oBFeewyMtsxwlvGqYruK/s4032/IMG_0497.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiD9kDKFUOo-67LgWGcdKK081FFYAGWKY4JI0EYipme-2rDQ1bN8ojHiyMD-jwijuwxMsCHP6eT2dGLjxfAe1CfzgK_55d2zUBwzF6Iyn3K86HUvXrmDwYg7ufEijCrP7QfwAP3IUUvykluorYIj--yqLAdm2vf5X3HXq9oBFeewyMtsxwlvGqYruK/w400-h300/IMG_0497.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The dingo came back, this time getting closer. He lowered his forelegs and arced up his rump, his tail wagging. He appeared to be playing with me. I shooed at him aggressively. I didn’t feel threatened at all but there was no way I was letting him get at my stuff. I made a sturdy step towards him, my foot stomping up a cloud of dust. He howled something like hold a barking and guttural note for a long while. I then heard a couple other howls roar in from the wash. I now had my tarp in hand and decided to end the shenanigans right then and there. I chased him with my tarp flapping wildly. He darted off with his rump squatted, clearly looking defeated. Nonetheless, I did not take my guard down. I packed up meticulously and diligently quick. The spectrum of dawn now lit up the mulga and the red dirt. It was time to get moving.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-Rl09KKHZh5PBkPqKkDbcaKNtKvwQZwoWpxBd6rIrse_PD1YU9GwLlHCADgyX34ZNk-ElHOrBi6zD4IAAzhPGAGlVrPjZsy0bn8IkAgpw_w7fQWc0uxRPwExj2y84sjiapNDIJSAsESKno0Y59WoVSYB9Z_kXuYJfCx5n6dIa6iTXXnQv8l85z3f/s4032/IMG_0414.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-Rl09KKHZh5PBkPqKkDbcaKNtKvwQZwoWpxBd6rIrse_PD1YU9GwLlHCADgyX34ZNk-ElHOrBi6zD4IAAzhPGAGlVrPjZsy0bn8IkAgpw_w7fQWc0uxRPwExj2y84sjiapNDIJSAsESKno0Y59WoVSYB9Z_kXuYJfCx5n6dIa6iTXXnQv8l85z3f/w400-h300/IMG_0414.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ride to Eringa Waterhole went smoothly enough though after an eventful morning. The breeze kept me cool and I pedaled atop decent grooved track. At Eringa I met up with the Off Gridders. I had a quick snack and a fill of water and pushed on knowing I would see them soon. From then on, hell, progressed an adventurous day. Certainly the most adventurous of the whole trip, quite possibly could end up very well being the highlight. </span><p></p><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The track turned to shit shortly after the waterhole crossing. The rutted grooved tired treads had higher sharper walls. Knobby rocks littered the track. Worst of all, pooled water still laid on the track. I gave a wide way the pools and puddles, even ponds, and the soft punchy mud and dirt. I passed the junction to Finke and didn’t even bat a lash at heading that direction. No fresh tire marks and certainly road conditions would be untrammeled and risky. The windswept gibber plains howled with a punishing wind. Mini dust devils twirled in the thermals emanating off the cast iron ground. I hopped back up on the bike and forged ahead towards Mt. Dare. The further on I went the wetter and muddier the track got, even the red rocks got bigger. Of course as luck would have I encountered a head wind as well. Yet, the leapfrogging with the Off Gridders kept me patient enough with the obstacles as I enjoyed the game we were inadvertently playing. I got to watch them cross some super deep and boggy channels with their beefy souped up rigs and trailers. At one point, we ran into a motorcyclist from Korea who was trucking along on his own. At one major crossing I hiked and carried my bike around the obstacle while the Off Gridders blasted through with ease. The motorcyclist backtracked a ways and eventually disappeared, uncertain he seemed with the deep water crossing for him and his motorcycle. We all pushed on thinking he may have turned back around to Oodnadatta. We were not sure if we would see him again. For a moment, everything felt a bit off course, way off my intended route, yet I knew I was taking the correct way. I understood in the moment that every decision would have an impact on what would happen ahead. The road to Finke had no sign of fresh tire track as I said before, but as wet and muddy as the track I had just been across was it all gave indication that the road to Finke would be doubly worse. I had to keep my head on straight.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZG1ZdJB1vfro6XGemapWdxOl25Ch7tfkurnvHch1lRC13PfSzzh4pH3Of2SWJ2x_arO0Ke7A-SCCwCEXrtf9WaHcEsWWxsDKNQZOs6pvYz6K8TeZHULEFW01mmf0VyD5TPuxRkK69ihWRmGvXJ8L-GgVbnE5gO-gE2QFnkP-iiJ2LMgV84o_SPSI7/s4032/IMG_0419.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZG1ZdJB1vfro6XGemapWdxOl25Ch7tfkurnvHch1lRC13PfSzzh4pH3Of2SWJ2x_arO0Ke7A-SCCwCEXrtf9WaHcEsWWxsDKNQZOs6pvYz6K8TeZHULEFW01mmf0VyD5TPuxRkK69ihWRmGvXJ8L-GgVbnE5gO-gE2QFnkP-iiJ2LMgV84o_SPSI7/w400-h300/IMG_0419.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The headwind hit harder. There were so many flooded water crossings I kept up with the film crew. Nonetheless, I fell behind as I had to pick my bike up and navigate my way around every single crossing. I couldn’t afford any sticky gunk getting into my gears or frame. Then, when I thought the rocks couldn’t get any bigger, the track had an infinite amount of baby head sized rocks, all punched in the soft dirt, the jolts jarring my forearms constantly. I put forth a valiant effort to keep pushing onward. Up ahead, I could see the water shimmering on the horizon, heat waves wiggling up from the mirage, an invisible waft of bleakness. The wind blared into my face, my ears deafened by the lashings. The flat barren expanse filled my panorama— absolutely nothing in any direction for hundreds of miles. The track became completely flooded, the size of a couple football fields. The track channel resembled a creek, and side tracks lead up onto the compacted banks where the occasional smooth riding ensued. The track weaved through the mulga trees and brush then and I got the feeling I was racing on a singletrack course. Frustratingly, once back in the trenches the going was excruciatingly slow, more worse for the wear. My forearms ached from the bouncing, the constant jolting, double that with the constant bike portaging. I was working so hard to keep any momentum going. I felt out of balance and I had to grip harder to hold on and to tighten my shoulders and neck to keep my head from bouncing around like a rag doll. The headwind, the giant rocks, the mud, the water, the portaging, all made my effort feel impossible. Yet I carried with me my indefatigable will. I passed the Off Gridders having lunch 10km from Mt. Dare. I breathed laboriously, heaving deeply underneath my bug netting. I yelled over to them that I wasn’t going to stop, that I had to push on. The track meandered in a mulga lined wash, only getting deeper and deeper, resembling an aqueduct. I pushed up onto the compacted banks and followed the wandering two track through the scrubland. I garnered some strength and momentum, almost flying down the two track. I made a mad dash, a crazed pursuit at the track ahead. Nothing was going to stop me. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVl_7FmVrkn-QkDUB1Y3fyRNhMwS5R8DXwo3QPdUO_U_rDFAGqKZxyoWB-XvZ7KdrlNuvD9SyHd7s_MSpKBzTNq08ZaZ-clUqg_4feVaNF4N_4AOGxj8v09eayOuLY06xVCD4bHqApn4_7UYb2Pkjpz2wN_gEaB3nbn78my8C5X3LipvakhAbwpEek/s4032/IMG_0466.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVl_7FmVrkn-QkDUB1Y3fyRNhMwS5R8DXwo3QPdUO_U_rDFAGqKZxyoWB-XvZ7KdrlNuvD9SyHd7s_MSpKBzTNq08ZaZ-clUqg_4feVaNF4N_4AOGxj8v09eayOuLY06xVCD4bHqApn4_7UYb2Pkjpz2wN_gEaB3nbn78my8C5X3LipvakhAbwpEek/w400-h300/IMG_0466.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, a big bend in the track appeared and I was one mile away. An endless swampy bog loomed ahead gleaming ominously in the scorching sun, an enormous floodplain completely submerged. Somewhere under the water laid the track. Crickets chirped in the deathly silence of the boggy desert plain. A humidity kicked up, heat waves shimmered on the horizon. I could see the giant skeleton of a windmill towering over the gum trees. I was so close. I picked my bike up and scrambled through the pokey shrubs. My forearms and fingers began to cramp on my right side. I switched hands to the left and got the same cramping. I was utterly exhausted. But, I knew Mt. Dare was near, right around the proverbial corner. I carried and pushed the bike until I got to the dry crusty bits. The task felt monumental and that it took forever. I followed the contour of the road on the spongy scrubland, the squishiness of water seeping up from punched in mud seeping out and releasing waterlogged air. Finally, I was clear of the obstacle, I hopped back on the bike and rode into the pub. I made it. Spent. 60 hard fought miles; way more challenging than yesterdays tough long ride. I passed along some workers stringing up the Australian flag. Each one congratulated me on an effort well achieved. In a raspy voice I thanked them. They do get bikepackers out here, but still we are a random sight. I walked in barefoot, my shoes encased in mud. I didn’t want to track in the mud. I almost stumbled through the swinging door, staggering in with my absurd tan lines. Faces turned to me with looks of bewilderment. I could barely discern any sense of language. I just forced out sand through my parched lips. Immediately I ordered a beer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ya goin, mate? Shaynee asked me. ‘How bout a beer?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Don’t tempt me with a good time in the middle of nowhere,’ I gravely exclaimed. She slid the ice cold can right over. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ya earned this, mate. I’ll spot ya that one.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A couple of other folks bought me a couple beers too. I leaned my neck back and guzzled that first long swirling gulp of ice cold beer. I could feel the ice cold beer traveling all the way down through my esophagus and into my belly. I put the cold can up to the side of my forehead. I thought for a ruminating moment: fuck yea, this is it, everything I have searched for, this is fucking it.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckYsL8gd560JrT8mXoMOQJ6zYRtpjravdARRz26bktCxPEhptBdsaqWJe7Km1t1W41Jij4aJ3R44M0fOMr9w_PrpptVHIoEv1Uk26SuW0p_3B4DW5wTwd-Lunqc0MtRwRdMTG34Npag5NSHJ8gUBFnwwYf5grecw_zbCT9sG1_I2PWBLcMkKe_VgP/s4032/IMG_0425.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckYsL8gd560JrT8mXoMOQJ6zYRtpjravdARRz26bktCxPEhptBdsaqWJe7Km1t1W41Jij4aJ3R44M0fOMr9w_PrpptVHIoEv1Uk26SuW0p_3B4DW5wTwd-Lunqc0MtRwRdMTG34Npag5NSHJ8gUBFnwwYf5grecw_zbCT9sG1_I2PWBLcMkKe_VgP/w320-h240/IMG_0425.HEIC" width="320" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mt. Dare is Australia’s most remote pub. An outpost in the wild frontier, you are in the core of the hinterlands, on the cusp of a distant galaxy. Not only just the idea that a place like this exists, the cast of characters are just as unique and larger than life than the actual pub itself. They are Road Warriors, salvagers of wrecks in this faraway sandy galaxy; horsemen and long rangers steering the safe direction of wayward travelers off course, the inexperienced, the bleak, the mired, and the samurai of the caravan. Any minute I expect Han Solo and Chewbacca to pop in after crash landing the Millennium Falcon. Any second I expect to see a caravan of camels with dusty nomads come strolling in coughing up sand and pouring out thick bull dust out of an empty canteen. Any moment I expect Mad Max to come barreling in, thundering his way across the barren gibber plains, roaring with an earthquaking tumult splashing his way through mud and bogs—-then Graham and the Off Gridders show up. I am in a fucking movie. All that said, beneath the band of misfits appearance underlies an overwhelming sense of family and community deep rooted in togetherness. It is so palpable as you walk on in through the doors.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13GYKpu3pIQND5Wn3TmXxVQdMGAmjxYyxZAqhlp9aS0S1wPp77inD0cGo8DYTVa0N1JEteeaGTHKstCujm7ZqUEEjS7iB_iSog2opP1CsA_IM-zbnCbYF8bY1s0NMV42CLqEzGj2yP83uxLUfw00f3t9GUE_NtGrKSIMKXg5LVM_QcbSnx8hbjjqY/s4032/IMG_0413.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13GYKpu3pIQND5Wn3TmXxVQdMGAmjxYyxZAqhlp9aS0S1wPp77inD0cGo8DYTVa0N1JEteeaGTHKstCujm7ZqUEEjS7iB_iSog2opP1CsA_IM-zbnCbYF8bY1s0NMV42CLqEzGj2yP83uxLUfw00f3t9GUE_NtGrKSIMKXg5LVM_QcbSnx8hbjjqY/w400-h300/IMG_0413.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Off Gridders had an adventure of their own. At the last mud bog they needed to scrutinize the way through, as they had to take caution because of the massive trailers towing behind. Scouting on foot and with drone they found the way through: straight up the guts. When they arrived I walked out of the pub. I could barely see the white paint of the vehicles. Caked with splattered mud, the mechanical beasts resembled giant elephants after an afternoon mud bath. I admit I was shocked to see them arrive a couple of hours after me. To be clear, I wasn’t worried with this crew. At our last crossing I had been so dead set on persevering forward I blurted out: ‘If I beat ya to the pub, I’m buying y’all a round!’ So, when Mad Max and his crew came barreling in with cheeky muddy smiles, I thought they were toying with me. But, it turns out the last swampy mire proved to be a tougher task than expected. Stamping out the dust from their boots they trundled in. A stammering chuckle welled up inside the pub, the arrival of the mad crew capping off an adventurous day. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once camping arrangements were settled, I sat and had another cold beer. A quick note on beer selection. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">-Point one: I love all the damn lagers here in Australia. Aussies take supreme pride in their lager devotion and production.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">-Point two: I start with the cheapest and most local so I won’t offend the locals. That way I can always work my way up according to who I speak to. Now, Aussies love their locally brewed beer pridefully. I respect that notion so much, so it’s an easy starting point.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">-Point three: I love all the damn lagers. So damn cold. Don’t matter what state it’s from, I’m in heaven, especially after a really rough day of bush bashing on a push bike. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynpuHyIXLis9a0x55292rtMm_bDTGAeDRtMXLS0myJYMRPUlHAVufUpHf6eLp55cUmTLBnuwREIbIV4RB93_X0hZJNxy87ysh2-_9XIR3ojrNXPpPsFxitmD-5bGrGW8swDia4swwUNEI0v634lF8AD5snuNJNl-Ntj1FGHhJH3MdxrWkdhSAi1S_/s4032/IMG_0427.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynpuHyIXLis9a0x55292rtMm_bDTGAeDRtMXLS0myJYMRPUlHAVufUpHf6eLp55cUmTLBnuwREIbIV4RB93_X0hZJNxy87ysh2-_9XIR3ojrNXPpPsFxitmD-5bGrGW8swDia4swwUNEI0v634lF8AD5snuNJNl-Ntj1FGHhJH3MdxrWkdhSAi1S_/w320-h240/IMG_0427.HEIC" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">After my refreshment I headed over to the shower. The ice cold water chilled my core, my eyes opening wider. I snapped out of my stupor of exhaustion. Caked in thick dust I had to really scrub my skin. Ribbons of murky rivulets funneled down my legs and through my toes, swirling down the drain the muck went. I popped back into my cabin. I had turned on the A/C unit before I left and when I came back I walked into a chiller. I laid about on the bed for a bit drinking a liter of water and trying to rest my squinting and burning eyes fresh from being scorched by the sun. My forearms and fingers still cramped. A tad concerned, nevertheless, I must have dozed off because I startled to as the clamor of the A/C unit kicked into overdrive. I rose up, banged my shoes to get rid of the sticky clay and stumbled back over to the pub. I was famished and ready to eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sat back down at the bar, just in a quiet spot on a late dusty afternoon in the middle of nowhere. I slurped my beer and a euphoria rushed over me. I was happy. Sounds silly, I know. After the rigorous day I had I sat there on a stool feeling effervescent joy. I slowly slurped the beer to let everything soak in, everything to seep through down to my bones. I wanted this memory in my marrow. I wanted this memory to be a dream. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had dinner with the Off Gridders that night. We laughed and stirred up some good conversation. They incited such enjoyment. I actually for some moments thought I was becoming Australian. The group invited me to join them the next day on a trip to Dalhousie Springs, an hot springs oasis in the middle of the Simpson Desert. With my forearms and fingers still very sore and cramping a slight bit I decided to take a rest day the next day and accept their invitation. I knew it would be a fun experience. Also, Shaynee came over to the table and invited us to the 6am morning ANZAC Day ceremony. We all happily obliged the honor. Knowing I was chilling out the next day I ordered a couple of more beers, my eyes squinting and stinging now from joyful tiredness. This is the best place I can dream up to spend an entire day. My body was telling me something, so I must listen. Plus, I would see the morning ceremony, eat a big breakfast, and not rush out if I was to leave. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We slouched into chill mode, the blazing sun setting in a fiery display of flames, the wispy and stringy clouds showing the flaming windswept sky. While wrapping up dinner, suddenly the front door swung open. The Korean motorcyclist came tumbling through the door like a lost zombie, wide eyed and dusty. The whole place looked up at the surprising intrusion. ‘There he is!’ the bar shouted. He had walked in from the last swampy mire unsure if his motorcycle would make across in the fading light. He resembled a clumsy malfunctioning broken robot clad in his motorcycle armor sans helmet. I expected to see wires jutting from his broken armor. He finally broke a weary smile. He looked so relieved to be there. ‘As do all of us, mate, as do all of us,’ I thought to myself.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxRJJm3j_aokpkcNTQHX44HZU6CZmKzo0l-taacVLDCqh6FINBfqFOfVpPMSW_F3FxSjkd3RB7Car8df4jk4L3jDvJlU0sbbsoO_R3yMIkkaJprPsR4HvV5LKI98BOkefM0lRL_o4a4OK6Y7R3tUYFg2I3vKtWBPeQEbXrrNFvcdyhWi2XRiN-GLH/s4032/IMG_0444.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxRJJm3j_aokpkcNTQHX44HZU6CZmKzo0l-taacVLDCqh6FINBfqFOfVpPMSW_F3FxSjkd3RB7Car8df4jk4L3jDvJlU0sbbsoO_R3yMIkkaJprPsR4HvV5LKI98BOkefM0lRL_o4a4OK6Y7R3tUYFg2I3vKtWBPeQEbXrrNFvcdyhWi2XRiN-GLH/w400-h300/IMG_0444.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">ANZAC Day commemorates and memorializes those that have served and are serving in the Australian and New Zealand armed forces, those that perished in war, served, and are active. A crowd of about 20 stood in the early dawn around the lighted gallows, a steel rig used to string up engines and the mechanical like. A broad shouldered older bloke began the ceremony as the roaring generator in the tin shed turned off. Silence engulfed the still desert air, all I could hear besides the birds rummaging and chortling about were the shoes of the attendees scratching the dusty ground. He went into the history of Australia and New Zealand’s involvement in war, namely in Turkey and Gallipoli during WW1. He choked up occasionally as he read the affronts of war, the bleakness and decrepitude of combat. After he got through the reading, him and Shaynee read a heartfelt poem written by an anonymous soldier. Back and forth they went, stanza got stanza, doing their best to hold it all together. Not a soul stirred outside of the body, the sun rising slowly as of recognizing the tribute, as if the sun were memorializing the souls of soldiers into the heavens above. The sky to the east began to radiate a soft warmth, one that still lets you wear a fleece. The poem read, the Last Post was played by Shaynee’s father. He started out emotional on the trumpet, the notes inconsistent with the convulsion of grief. Then, he played crisply, honorably. The sun rays began to shine incandescently over the barren windswept desert, the blades of skeleton windmill a totem rising from the shadows. The last note faded out, the flag pulled up a rope and rose to the rafter of the gallows. A light breeze wiffled through the flag and occasionally would undulate outright showing the country’s pride and honor. Shaynee broke the ceremony inside to have a shot of rum and a breakfast. I walked in last after gazing up at the Australian flag in the pink and orange morning sun. At the bar counter a long row of rum shots stood in order, all the same, filled to the brim, perfectly poured. I grabbed one, all the others reached in. ANZAC! was saluted with the shot glass in the air. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RuA-b-o7f4hw9SV57lgUu98GlP57DpGcdeAcFx2Tz3kKuZ0HQ49O9imnfuXTaJiaWXMuVd_nyI6OADud65uGX7Y3NENBPpiKAYio4ndc2R8XDxIWkv4dX9EuwWDXy71bYXykyvyFPEHl3Q7WmOKIgWHLBdwB14cxpIgKukbVamzqPV2KiHBVak9I/s4032/IMG_0429.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RuA-b-o7f4hw9SV57lgUu98GlP57DpGcdeAcFx2Tz3kKuZ0HQ49O9imnfuXTaJiaWXMuVd_nyI6OADud65uGX7Y3NENBPpiKAYio4ndc2R8XDxIWkv4dX9EuwWDXy71bYXykyvyFPEHl3Q7WmOKIgWHLBdwB14cxpIgKukbVamzqPV2KiHBVak9I/w400-h300/IMG_0429.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After our 630am shot of pick-me-up, I ordered a bigger breakfast. Most folks had left back to their camps. The owners and the workers sat at the big table. They invited me over. I felt so honored to be a part of such a special tradition and commemoration, as so much is lost or diluted in the US, too divisive or too many people or we’ve just fought in too many damn wars to make anything feel special. Here in Australia, I had no idea how literally everyone has been or is affected by a family member who has served in the armed forces. The gleam of the US is tarnished, more so outside looking in. We are just assholes. I held back tears a bit listening to the older folk talk. I ate my big breakfast as others drank coffee. I felt really blessed to be there. I am getting to know and understand this country very well. And, out here in the middle of nowhere, just out there, the way back hinterlands, the Outback, I find this strikingly loving community against the harsh landscape. People live and thrive here together as one nation. Touched by this perspective I thanked my gracious hosts and bade them all a good morning. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I laid around the cabin until the Off Roaders crew came over and asked if I was ready to go to the hot springs. I was pleased to go on an excursion with the fun living crew. We hopped in the trucks and mashed through the first bog, the suped up rigs churning beastly through the muddy waters. They left the trailers behind, so once we exited the bog we farted down the chunky and chossy track. I rode with Steph and Harley, the young spirited and cheery couple of the crew. I enjoyed getting to know them better. After a couple of filming sessions crossing other bogs we arrived at Dalhousie Springs after a couple hours. A large pond surrounded by mulga and other shrubs spouted out of the barren gibber plains, an endless bed of insane hard rock. The crew did some filming while I soaked in the 37 Celsius waters. Even though the temperature outside the waters rivaled the temperature of the water, the soak felt refreshing and soothing enough. I slowly waded and walked over to a shady spot and felt a light breeze touch my shoulders. Tiny fish nibbled on my feet and belly. I could feel my arms and shoulders relax. Shit, I really needed this break. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P9f-bMKichWDvCb8N732Gys6MP0baYp7TZVxC8IV8goBcWKfv7p2P2daJtbzpFk45CndU1-Y41LbA9rkjOYl_zWTQMJLaU69fMfQp2LX-HjQMlYHylXeLXKXcmFdTLdoWX-isVoqOntGrgx_KU3O-aQAOujFF5J2-AONlPaTTCriRN079EDwdlf1/s4032/IMG_0464.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P9f-bMKichWDvCb8N732Gys6MP0baYp7TZVxC8IV8goBcWKfv7p2P2daJtbzpFk45CndU1-Y41LbA9rkjOYl_zWTQMJLaU69fMfQp2LX-HjQMlYHylXeLXKXcmFdTLdoWX-isVoqOntGrgx_KU3O-aQAOujFF5J2-AONlPaTTCriRN079EDwdlf1/w400-h300/IMG_0464.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a lunch under the canopy of the truck, we cruised back to camp. I was ready for a nap by the time we arrived back at Mt. Dare. I went over to my cabin and hit my bike ready and outfitted with water for the next day. I needed to leave early the next morning to beat the heat. I finally laid down and closed my eyes. I woke up shortly after dozing off. I dreamt of the cool waters of waterhole out here in the empty desert. I had been swimming at dusk when I gazed up at Venus. For some odd reason, my reaction to the bright planet in the sinking purple sky startled me awake. I realized I was hungry then. So, I ambled over to the pub and grabbed me a cold beer. The ANZAC Day Australian Rules football game between Collingwood and Essendon was on. Shaynee and Woodsey rooted for each team, Shaynee by far the fanatical one. Another unique moment where one gets lost in the moment as if lost in space. In the middle of nowhere watching a crazed footy match just seemed ludicrous. I thought I must have been dreaming. Receivers watched intently as Collingwood made a gritty comeback to eventually win the contest. The pub was abuzz with clamorous cheer. Well, mainly Shaynee ran rampant like a mad fan high-fiving everyone. She even adorned her dog with a Collingwood scarf and posed her for the cutest winning pics. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Amused by everything at that moment, I wondered if I had ever had a zero day like this ever on trail. I couldn’t think of a time in all the years of my travels. I enjoyed another dinner with the Off Gridders. We spoke about future endeavors and the like and when we would possibly see each other again. I’m sure we were all a bit tuckered out, probably buzzed too, and we wished each other a good night. I settled up with Shaynee figuring with my early start the next day I wouldn’t see her. She gave me a Mt. Dare business card and asked me to call and check in when I got to Kulgera. I thanked her and told her I would, just the thought of her kindness and her stewardship of this area really just made me feel positive about the world. Here was someone who really cares. I thanked her again, especially for the ANZAC experience and for letting me be a part of their family experience. Shit, if she offered me a job right there I would’ve stayed. I loved it there that much. I sauntered off to my cabin, the blackness of the desert sky pressing onto the wide empty plains. The crescent moon hung like an ornament from a bright star. I gazed up at Orion. I tilted my head to get my usual visual of the constellation. The constellation of Orion has been a stalwart beacon in my entire life, a talisman of guidance for me. I wondered an absurd thought at that moment. Do my dreams come there? I can always access them no matter where I am at in this wide world. I settled on a hopeful ‘yes’ right then and there. Amused by my silly notion, I dived into a slumber and into the dreamworld. Somewhere I woke up in space amongst the stars. I yearned for the next day subconsciously. I couldn’t wait for it. But, for now, I waded through the stars of the Milky Way.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqb6bz9r78EgQuYl-35QM4xKcaVEL-XbB-yf_HrWFf_8B21ZG1p_gSXsMXHYSQAhokHgA0Gv_EZreX_oTIsFnYe3IEEK4dPuD1zEoJU7F2pjVr0_NQOpMLejyLigxZY4FwZHruVY5GwTe0Uk8_B4xDN_otUySi3w46RrRr4GgbluDt1pEBOao0Jv5/s4032/IMG_0389.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqb6bz9r78EgQuYl-35QM4xKcaVEL-XbB-yf_HrWFf_8B21ZG1p_gSXsMXHYSQAhokHgA0Gv_EZreX_oTIsFnYe3IEEK4dPuD1zEoJU7F2pjVr0_NQOpMLejyLigxZY4FwZHruVY5GwTe0Uk8_B4xDN_otUySi3w46RrRr4GgbluDt1pEBOao0Jv5/w400-h300/IMG_0389.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc38Om2z9-QWyt5ye9Y4XGzobE5eUd6jUzgx9oe0WwAe_s5RK2ZLUW5js1IzLsADn-x0vMFs3N8e-NrkHBPeDgWJXfXIR8jfR9bCgKPRegi302G3LaDOjep-A_RJ86WrgpgdqP5V8ZYAJR89t_U58nSNv4TIq2hzt6iP_B5NDmrIbFc8Gc1lWWDs02/s4032/IMG_0387.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc38Om2z9-QWyt5ye9Y4XGzobE5eUd6jUzgx9oe0WwAe_s5RK2ZLUW5js1IzLsADn-x0vMFs3N8e-NrkHBPeDgWJXfXIR8jfR9bCgKPRegi302G3LaDOjep-A_RJ86WrgpgdqP5V8ZYAJR89t_U58nSNv4TIq2hzt6iP_B5NDmrIbFc8Gc1lWWDs02/w400-h300/IMG_0387.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkiLjUpItKuIt_fVD2nInFm_E-p9V-JqygfmQJ4wH0MHhlGGJLj2pYaamovhGi4fJV_r-Y35ivwLd_nRzzKtrwrkdMX_wrYmzau-Qt6wuFUFFt02jbrMQHSvmTn9G9AIE2pf1ZSQVpDb4Wkaa8plmbHk9J0EjI2XwEXS146tv09NwS0h2voaU738w/s4032/IMG_0374.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkiLjUpItKuIt_fVD2nInFm_E-p9V-JqygfmQJ4wH0MHhlGGJLj2pYaamovhGi4fJV_r-Y35ivwLd_nRzzKtrwrkdMX_wrYmzau-Qt6wuFUFFt02jbrMQHSvmTn9G9AIE2pf1ZSQVpDb4Wkaa8plmbHk9J0EjI2XwEXS146tv09NwS0h2voaU738w/w400-h300/IMG_0374.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMA1zVng1ViRbPBs8xlhXT27fSrqx34UCle1ROrmFRD8HtcmoIBIT4HzQK1DzKMc2bS0BUop4mpfSEAvioBGHJMiX3--0_SswhXR6Qp4v3BEcIyMINwlZhsUQSy23YjGFup8xhZQV7OtlsoeIFMaO5Rq8RqpB0NaEoe_pbpptINwcRUtJB0ph3C4n/s1440/1C5EAB64-EF65-4FEA-9351-89455685197E.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMA1zVng1ViRbPBs8xlhXT27fSrqx34UCle1ROrmFRD8HtcmoIBIT4HzQK1DzKMc2bS0BUop4mpfSEAvioBGHJMiX3--0_SswhXR6Qp4v3BEcIyMINwlZhsUQSy23YjGFup8xhZQV7OtlsoeIFMaO5Rq8RqpB0NaEoe_pbpptINwcRUtJB0ph3C4n/w400-h300/1C5EAB64-EF65-4FEA-9351-89455685197E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGx55VpcdODeXEPzFqHVv96xrcFnBFdkIdW7cxjpaCbCWCsf8NCoDb15LKwzkfzqtxbVED2aXi-SCpIVi_HAPxY4Qftn38WB2DU3YFsYAuUQiyeXYn5puin99-B6rFBm5lWgeAjJnwG721nUATcgylsmz8RQgObFedFK4Ynf0shMDlVn0ZYw9sASX7/s4032/IMG_0475.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGx55VpcdODeXEPzFqHVv96xrcFnBFdkIdW7cxjpaCbCWCsf8NCoDb15LKwzkfzqtxbVED2aXi-SCpIVi_HAPxY4Qftn38WB2DU3YFsYAuUQiyeXYn5puin99-B6rFBm5lWgeAjJnwG721nUATcgylsmz8RQgObFedFK4Ynf0shMDlVn0ZYw9sASX7/w400-h300/IMG_0475.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn87MGbTmJllNx5nO36iwkhQ2k4lWk4BVhb10mBn0V4lZpxRrV_cUZKvoCwtX5oY7fK0wJDBPoG6mU2yMbDpNO6UlVPdW_-dhbBt8j0RsMGESMyC4g_FOS-spnDLGgpveiQnLpQaThzk3LGIH4zKYuWIVQHsvoOAEfwNVfSklOPVwSe00KoDuvI06G/s1440/0CE33258-3D7B-4562-9ADE-B40E1DC7D9E4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn87MGbTmJllNx5nO36iwkhQ2k4lWk4BVhb10mBn0V4lZpxRrV_cUZKvoCwtX5oY7fK0wJDBPoG6mU2yMbDpNO6UlVPdW_-dhbBt8j0RsMGESMyC4g_FOS-spnDLGgpveiQnLpQaThzk3LGIH4zKYuWIVQHsvoOAEfwNVfSklOPVwSe00KoDuvI06G/w400-h300/0CE33258-3D7B-4562-9ADE-B40E1DC7D9E4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>To the Red Centre of My Dreams:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Up at dawn, I rolled out of the outpost. A quietude enveloped the dusty desert post. Nary a soul out, I left as soft as a whisper. That is until I hit the great bog of my exit, the moat that obstructed my on-ramp to the great gibber plains to the north. I hoisted the bike fully loaded with 2 gallons of water and entered the brush on the spongy banks of the waterlogged track. My shoes sank a bit in the saturated red dirt, a sucking noise whopped up after every slow plod. I kept my cool but grunted a bit from the effort. Ain’t no point in causing a muck, I thought, just get through it. I strategically picked my way a bit like walking on snow. From the color and shade of the sodden dirt I could tell where to put my foot that would have less of a chance of getting bogged down deeper. I made good progress until I hit a wide swath of water that flooded to the water bars on each side of the track. No choice but to sink and plod through mud. To my surprise I only sunk up to the top of my shoes for about 5 mushy steps total. One more football field worth of soggy ground, the track still completely flooded. Firm and dry track tantalized my wishes, but I kept calm and hoisted the bike up for one last massive effort.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtV1FLCZFj7vXvpd74HEv1IbyYscCt23bEMKHN4Ojpeg6hgwUkJGS1AT3xWRKbMvK_FywTISeoX8nsLFDYv46_SWE9XJX3Q4uOK2BHwGPn_Zr3IfOtg4FQI56UQMG3bouYX5ZQPpUSlMLRPPckrzisp4xulDbd66oIg8Cc1Pzw_nAnnfKHVoNEBjPC/s4032/IMG_0468.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtV1FLCZFj7vXvpd74HEv1IbyYscCt23bEMKHN4Ojpeg6hgwUkJGS1AT3xWRKbMvK_FywTISeoX8nsLFDYv46_SWE9XJX3Q4uOK2BHwGPn_Zr3IfOtg4FQI56UQMG3bouYX5ZQPpUSlMLRPPckrzisp4xulDbd66oIg8Cc1Pzw_nAnnfKHVoNEBjPC/w400-h300/IMG_0468.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before I knew it I was out of the stranglehold of mud and flood. I eagerly hopped up on the saddle and rode on into dusty, dried, and barren bliss. Halfway through to Finke, the Off Gridders came trundling by. I figured I wouldn’t see them again after this point. After a brief conversation about the morning, the crew left me in a friendly cloud of dust. Before I knew it they disappeared over a rise like the dust being whipped up into the deep blue sky. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Later on, Steve and Nick, friends of the Mt. Dare crew came by and topped me off with water. They offered to stash some water after Finke at the turn off to Lambert Centre, the center of balance point of the continent. I had really enjoyed this friendly couple. The night before they regaled me with photos and tales from Mongolia, a place I so badly want to visit. I chuckled to myself as they motored off. I found it so amusing how many new friends I have gained here in the Outback.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I arrived into Finke, an aboriginal community. Not that I heard it wasn’t friendly or open to visitors, rather I heard it would be best to get in and get out. Just don’t linger too long. My plan wasn’t to stay long anyways. I really just wanted to visit the store to get some snacks, a quick lunch, and top my water off. As luck would have it, I arrived to the store 5 minutes before its opening for the day. Out in front of the store, a motorcyclist leaned against his bike. He, too, was waiting for the store to open. We swapped stories. He had nearly completed a gigantic loop from Adelaide through an enormous empty, arid, and hot landscape. In fact, he had ridden some of the tracks I had researched about, including the Canning Stock Route. Eager to hear about his experience, I took notes in my head from his tales and photos. He even got stuck out on that particular route during the cyclone. The photos of the amount of water in such a desert environment was staggering. I envied his adventure. Of course, he envied mine. When you are in your own you may not think you are doing shit. You just cannot afford to be egotistical. You have to be pragmatic, present, and full of respect for whatever you are undertaking. So, it just doesn’t seem as impressive as what someone else is doing. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRK2A4UcXIWtrJKu5yuChWEGVxzazPeulrP7UmQv9RXqrO_NsUm-v9m7cMHiNi1U_fPdVXBX0ib_529ji8QF5Ts1YgHlba5SmYcnkcC-jDBj5FdM5UXNqBVhPgk2mCsPB6_X6etE8xAW7XBbA9mwvS004iUVNnwtXUmPak50qME-fhRkyu6wnLIEkc/s1440/567F79D8-F03C-4DD4-94FF-4995C423BCC6.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRK2A4UcXIWtrJKu5yuChWEGVxzazPeulrP7UmQv9RXqrO_NsUm-v9m7cMHiNi1U_fPdVXBX0ib_529ji8QF5Ts1YgHlba5SmYcnkcC-jDBj5FdM5UXNqBVhPgk2mCsPB6_X6etE8xAW7XBbA9mwvS004iUVNnwtXUmPak50qME-fhRkyu6wnLIEkc/w400-h300/567F79D8-F03C-4DD4-94FF-4995C423BCC6.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The motorcyclist was on his way back to Adelaide, so close to cinching off his loop. By way of the Chech Republic he has lived in Australia for 20 some odd years. I watched his bike as he went into the store, as the locals began to surround us. After five minutes or so he came back out. Then, I ran in and bought my stock. I noticed something strange about his right arm, as we continued to chat over lunch. The Chech was such a jovial bloke. He playfully kicked the soccer ball around with the locals, as we chatted. Then, he just brought it up nonchalantly. His right arm was paralyzed. I thought, ‘how in the hell had he been riding this gnarly as terrain with a flappy, nonfunctional arm?’ I actually said the thought out loud. I was blown away. He had a neuro-brachial issue that made his right arm useless. But, he said he uses it as a guide while he rides. He can’t steer with it but it helps him stay upright, like a peg leg. His arm dangled like a dead rabbit, as he lifted the dangling arm with his left hand and swung it to his handlebar grip. His diminutive stature became even more apparent through his armor, his dirt bike looking enormous compared to him as he sat on his saddle. He resemble a boy on a horse. No way what I was doing was harder than what he was doing, I assured him. To say the least, I was inspired. A brief encounter that really left an imprint on me, it’s the fighting spirit one exudes I will remember the most from a person. Not many have it. This bloke sure as hell did. He zipped in away from me heading towards Mt. Dare. I branched off and began the speedy track to Kulgera. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Down the road from Finke, I found the water cube left by Steve and Nick. Taped to the top of the box was a note wishing me safe travels. What a sweet sentiment, I thought. I found a camp a few miles down the track. I set up camp away from the road behind some desert oaks. Evening set upon the land quickly while a blanket of mugginess crept in. I sat in my shelter sweating from the swampy heat. I took off everything but my underwear and splayed out like a fillet. I cooled off soon enough and the muggy heat was eventually swallowed up by the sinking cold air of the desert. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Jnax57uYKnNbCjvcvMVZp-MpJr-jvd7WlyegRqqbBHV0Zef91j1gJgNUma1s18lmPcmWbBD-mwELno6s8pKYu-R3cY2pAhaNWf8ZPUlCHgpUDVyBk3bfah0zwQyx4rvO_NzaI9iEeYzTdSDgccGgSZbxamJ0Zxc44tHdUUD0-6sQXl5xp6KlvsJj/s1440/9E745ADD-C4C0-4A1E-8B99-CFB389B4CC8F.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Jnax57uYKnNbCjvcvMVZp-MpJr-jvd7WlyegRqqbBHV0Zef91j1gJgNUma1s18lmPcmWbBD-mwELno6s8pKYu-R3cY2pAhaNWf8ZPUlCHgpUDVyBk3bfah0zwQyx4rvO_NzaI9iEeYzTdSDgccGgSZbxamJ0Zxc44tHdUUD0-6sQXl5xp6KlvsJj/w400-h300/9E745ADD-C4C0-4A1E-8B99-CFB389B4CC8F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The scenery began to change on my way to Kulgera. Bunches of spinifex sprouted up tall and bright green. The desert oaks and the mulga shimmered with a fluorescent green, scintillating in the warm arid wind. The verdant desert showed signs of the recent poundings of rain with lush gardens. Buttes and mesas stood on the horizon, even though I had to get on my tiptoes to gain a vantage point of the highest formations of the flattest of lands. The land became a deep blood red with dunes flowing with pink sand piled decoratively by the sculpting wind. I was getting closer to the Red Centre. I could feel it more than I could see it. I slid into Kulgera striking pavement, the first sign of bitumen in nearly 1,000 miles. I beelined it to the store. I bought some refreshments, some laundry soap, and an en-suite room. I couldn’t wait to cool off, clean up, and catch up on things. Really, I was excited to not do a damn thing for one full afternoon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I began to notice a pensive contemplation on the day’s ride, even more so the next day. Riding north a short bit on the Stuart Highway, I felt the change within as the outward scenery changed again. Being on the bitumen the riding went smoothly, so smoothly I fell into a trance. I just rode forward with my eyes transfixed on the faraway horizon. Cirrostratus clouds smeared the wide sky giving the heavens a shallow appearance, as if I stood on my pedals I could poke my head out through the bleary surface and take a deep breath of the troposphere. Yea, I felt the pull of the big red. I felt the thumping, the pulse. I felt the gurgling of blood; I felt the land. The wind pushed at my back. I did look up once in a while away from the horizon to my smeared ceiling. I traced the warpath of the wind, the canvas ever-changing instantaneously. I would blink and the next moment my imagination went another direction. I did get to a road side camp under old pines. I camped away from the caravaners. I felt introspective. I believed I was in the right place. I just wasn’t sure how to process how the hell had I gotten here. A camper came over as I cooked my ramen. He brought me over a couple of bottle waters and two bananas. We small chatted. I was shy, distant. It was clear I didn’t want out of my shelter. I thanked him for the nice gesture and he wandered back to his trailer. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6awH8bzVqDmq1YmEXJN7i2XaMhY3IHPonmdfvys3AE4FNdRDEAuE0FuoyCDDzTBY90W_IfgyTqYfIKiMiG2QoUCBeTxenX0NR-Z_8xzpaaK15E_8tBk3bE55mHGoxH6AWPun_s_oRSdK08pmZ1gv-2S6xV4Bs1Mc2zTxBQy4t_YnNoEYzFZ6WvPi/s1440/87B84933-9945-45FE-A01C-B583ED514ED8.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6awH8bzVqDmq1YmEXJN7i2XaMhY3IHPonmdfvys3AE4FNdRDEAuE0FuoyCDDzTBY90W_IfgyTqYfIKiMiG2QoUCBeTxenX0NR-Z_8xzpaaK15E_8tBk3bE55mHGoxH6AWPun_s_oRSdK08pmZ1gv-2S6xV4Bs1Mc2zTxBQy4t_YnNoEYzFZ6WvPi/w400-h300/87B84933-9945-45FE-A01C-B583ED514ED8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The wind howled through the pines throughout the night. A chill dropped through to the sandy soil. I rose before the sun did and brewed a cup of coffee in the predawn light. I sipped on the hot titanium brim and reminisced on the Grand Canyon on those long Autumn nights under an incredibly starry black sky. I thought of how weary I was yet so rested from the time I had to sleep, the opportunity to sleep long uninterrupted and peacefully. I would just lay there in moments throughout the night. I would eventually doze off again. I simply recalled the peace I felt then, as the hot coffee pursed my lips. I left camp and rolled on to Curtin Springs for breakfast. I continued to be shy not out of wont; I just was. I conversed in an almost hushed voice. I averted eyes. Did I deserve to be here? This place, the pull of this place, has been all a dream, a dream of dreams. And, now here I am here. I scarfed down a big breakfast and rode on. Might as well get to it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I fell into a deeper contemplation throughout most of the day until I saw a glimpse of the towering monolith of Mt. Connor. Teased by the mere sight of the cap of the rock mesa, I thought the red hump was Uluru. Regardless, my excitement flickered up and lit like a campfire getting stoked with fresh oxygen. I should be okay with my journey to get here. I have traveled so far and wide to get here. I wasn’t expecting to find an answer, I understood that. Something just felt about to be over. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got to Yulara mid afternoon, another breezy 100 mile day. I found a market, a proper market, the first of its size in 1,500 miles or so. I walked around the aisles reading the labels and envisioning myself cooking a spread of sorts. I, then, wandered back to camp, Uluru off my right shoulder giving a bulking view I refused to acknowledge yet. I could see I was putting off the inevitable. I didn’t want this thing to end. I understood this journey started so long ago. I wanted to love again the one I loved. Being here in Uluru only meant time had moved on so far away from the time that was. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4P3UDxFqvfhWyKvC9-ib1CP_o14yADsnDfyQSsg_dPfmCYbpR8dhXWEcqcF1e4fV-TSFp0zbliQsTV0M9IYQ1h9oa_6xavhqK7fNDCX-STDb--T7iyUfMqWmUpP8G9jtsaKbn9S5siTqYWg2uMqDcHTaN-nDinUCkoU3wYNbZz8KAXPrlZoLTKXFl/s1440/B787393E-5AB0-430F-8089-EDA87099D44E.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4P3UDxFqvfhWyKvC9-ib1CP_o14yADsnDfyQSsg_dPfmCYbpR8dhXWEcqcF1e4fV-TSFp0zbliQsTV0M9IYQ1h9oa_6xavhqK7fNDCX-STDb--T7iyUfMqWmUpP8G9jtsaKbn9S5siTqYWg2uMqDcHTaN-nDinUCkoU3wYNbZz8KAXPrlZoLTKXFl/w400-h300/B787393E-5AB0-430F-8089-EDA87099D44E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t know how I got here. Sure as shit feels that way. If you told me a year ago last October that I would be here in the heart of Australia I would say you have to be shitting me. Let alone even a year ago, I would have said I was lost at the thought of being here at the red center. A year and a half ago my life felt geared in a different direction. Last year at this time I sunk to the deepest depths I could fathom personally. I can vividly remember how damn low I was, so low I couldn’t see the light out of the asshole. I definitely could not have told you that I would be here at this moment in the Red Centre. Yet, in some strange way, saying that I’m here at all I’d say you bet your ass. Because this has been my dream. So much changed for me the past year and a half, yet it’s still all the damn same. I am the same, my dreams are the same. I’m exacting the dream of a child, of a lifetime. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAnLJf-R_lya74ws_cx1BphjNQqlK4vX3_O4Nrb5DwE8CzEydRz9uQcPYxkcShE6vJlO59mCtDa5YEQ9UAK9IYn4nDS0LXFpCLVXTz7OIyuXEag8FmGbENt2-2gixU8Ffqq94eJ-BY4L6afLPmYRQoVwYIaJMzQCWlHNkAlVurC_oJzBltMiufBNj/s1440/9A509CD9-54C6-4752-B328-0A8BE8210952.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1440" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAnLJf-R_lya74ws_cx1BphjNQqlK4vX3_O4Nrb5DwE8CzEydRz9uQcPYxkcShE6vJlO59mCtDa5YEQ9UAK9IYn4nDS0LXFpCLVXTz7OIyuXEag8FmGbENt2-2gixU8Ffqq94eJ-BY4L6afLPmYRQoVwYIaJMzQCWlHNkAlVurC_oJzBltMiufBNj/w400-h301/9A509CD9-54C6-4752-B328-0A8BE8210952.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I see the red rock as an analogy, as the heart of the land and its people. I feel the rock as love. What I’ve always believed it would be. I rose before the sun did and brewed a cup of coffee in the predawn light. I sipped on the hot titanium brim and reminisced on my childhood. I saw my little self thumbing through an old ragged atlas, the slivers of paper stringing off the binding. I always wondered deeply would it would be like to be here in this exact place. The rock drew me in. I felt my heart thump. I hopped on the bike and rode towards the red rock heart in the dark. I have never felt lost until then at that moment. I could see where I was going, clearly, yet my mind was cloudy. The rock drew me in, however. The power of the rock was unmistakable within me. The lilac light pushed up the purple curtain on the horizon. A cyan blue appeared atop the lavender arc. The first light crested the horizon and sparkled into the vermilion rock. The rock became bigger, so much bigger than what I thought to be unremarkable on my approach in. A couple cars passed me, but I had the road more or less to myself. The sun continued to rise and bask the blood red bluffs, so vividly I could see the striating scars of water on the cut massive hump protruding from the flat earth. I stopped when I thought I was close enough. I could have sworn I felt the thumps of light impacting the vermilion monolith. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcbmSKMTNKom4t1Z05Kb48tbTQQr1-SwwfUuMyQXGgAh8kQojfBhMM6qgbDOqeMeNbqA05g-FKmLANAl0BcsAlEOZWmNblbb952GnzGoLlzQALszShf97tpX0jp5HFfxxORAsjQhEZIpryfwWKsXrEg0WHNVsxSJAqJz1wxE53MPtBL2ny6_hpSmnv/s1440/B25B79E8-75E6-4537-B539-BD8D28378E6F.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcbmSKMTNKom4t1Z05Kb48tbTQQr1-SwwfUuMyQXGgAh8kQojfBhMM6qgbDOqeMeNbqA05g-FKmLANAl0BcsAlEOZWmNblbb952GnzGoLlzQALszShf97tpX0jp5HFfxxORAsjQhEZIpryfwWKsXrEg0WHNVsxSJAqJz1wxE53MPtBL2ny6_hpSmnv/w400-h300/B25B79E8-75E6-4537-B539-BD8D28378E6F.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I felt like I came to awakened by the gleam of a vermilion glare. My hands rested on the wall of an overhang of the monolith. The cold of the sandstone searing into my palms. The coldness sent a chill through my nerves directly to my brain. I snapped out of it shaking my head. I think I was praying. ‘Why not enjoy this?’ I thought, ‘Be here now.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I haven’t been on many journeys where I wondered how did I get here. Usually I aim for a spot or a destination purely out of an adventurous curiosity. Only a few times can I say I’ve actually wandered with intent. Yet this Australian journey feels the epitome of my wandering so far. When I left the U.S. in late November I understood I sought a missing piece. A lot of this journey didn’t feel planned; I’ve been guided by a pulse, something from within. Traveling all this way to the red center of the Australian continent to a lone deep red sandstone monolith I felt like I found that missing piece: the heart, the heart of this whole damn journey.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQ6j83eUKDtP47__xktoxt3CckoGwD7W_xXlkOHIqV5q48o0k9FbAVKxvMK8K_9Mpbq0fPeLsi7owYCD2_U267L2qF8Zn9MHE9XJCunNqKE1vTuAbMBrLge9jl5Jwogwh20KhlsNTLCy-ClZyzX-QGeB8rLUtnzNuODstAtUypXyKYmQ3ImRptAIZ/s1440/49FC18EE-EBB4-4ABD-A95B-2E3AFE39ECD9.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQ6j83eUKDtP47__xktoxt3CckoGwD7W_xXlkOHIqV5q48o0k9FbAVKxvMK8K_9Mpbq0fPeLsi7owYCD2_U267L2qF8Zn9MHE9XJCunNqKE1vTuAbMBrLge9jl5Jwogwh20KhlsNTLCy-ClZyzX-QGeB8rLUtnzNuODstAtUypXyKYmQ3ImRptAIZ/w400-h300/49FC18EE-EBB4-4ABD-A95B-2E3AFE39ECD9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am humbled to be here. I gazed up at Uluru with a deep reverence for the land, the people of the land. I am grateful for all that have come before, here now, and who will come after me. I am merely a traveler of earth passing through. I am here now circling the rock. I will ride away from here after and continue living out my dreams that spawn from the red center, the heart.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I lingered at Yulara at the cafe for a couple hours. I ate a couple meals. I could feel my belly as a bottomless pit. I could not get enough food in me for the life of me. I ate and ate and watched the tourists intermingle with the Aboriginals. I observed the interactions without hearing any voices through their mannerisms. When it was time to go the quad area had become too crowded. I left amid a punishing headwind. Uluru vanished out of sight and because of the challenging wind out of mind. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhsVdwku6bM6lbBjeNQMwxLt1ZYnXmh5T_eT6gVfnpWkNV5PmOz2MPh4JZzImWkUPYfN5kmtUBkzINBXul7OzUmBXZ3cjTkMYmh6jqzPsnFPShKuZzFxIeTFvuUkcjaqrV-wmHwCZXLILljhDYB0Elt8933Ym2mrXgeejyfab-mwykAPLrKEP95yI/s1440/B5847C26-FD45-43AB-8C8D-1FD09D58D112.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhsVdwku6bM6lbBjeNQMwxLt1ZYnXmh5T_eT6gVfnpWkNV5PmOz2MPh4JZzImWkUPYfN5kmtUBkzINBXul7OzUmBXZ3cjTkMYmh6jqzPsnFPShKuZzFxIeTFvuUkcjaqrV-wmHwCZXLILljhDYB0Elt8933Ym2mrXgeejyfab-mwykAPLrKEP95yI/w400-h300/B5847C26-FD45-43AB-8C8D-1FD09D58D112.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I turned my focus onto Alice Springs. The forecast had me battling headwinds over the next couple days, but I knew I needed the rest. I barreled on focused and introspective, as if the churning legs were the cog of machine where I let them do their own thing. This freed me up to marinate in whatever I was feeling. I wasn’t thinking of anything at all, just a smothering feeling I couldn’t place. I felt almost hungover. I knew I felt something from the Uluru experience. I understood I was revisiting an emotional landscape that I had processed. My legs churned as if I was making the batter of understanding. Did I ever learn anything new over the past year and a half? I didn’t know the answer to that yet. Maybe half heartedly I did know, yet I couldn’t place it. Before I knew I rode into Kings Station, a working ranch and tourist park. I ate a double camel burger butchered right there on the property. I then moseyed on over to a lonesome corner for my camp. I showered and I laid tiredly on my back in my shelter contemplating. My thoughts were slow. I understood I was soaking up the dream of the rock— the first sight that dawn, the prayer, the power of the heart; I was beginning to reflect. Even though I was fully aware this adventure was far from over, I understood that I hit the crest of this year long journey. I knew feelings, visions, memories would begin to develop. I knew these feelings, visions, and memories would shape my life going forward. I could see the moon through my shelter. After a week of pitch darkness, the moon had begun to rise and bloom, just early in the evening. I narrowed my introspection to the sheltering moonlight. I felt safe up in that moonglow. I traveled inwardly along the beam of light letting myself go. The wandering dingoes began to wail, chirping at each other, their ululations swirling in the cold air, like wind chimes in the back porch of my mind. My eyelids slowly closed and I drifted into the moonlight deeper. It didn’t take me long before I fell asleep to the moaning and wailing dingoes that circled the ranch. I wanted to be alone in the tube of moonlight that harkened my dreams. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also wanted to keep pushing. I knew the more I cranked the pedals the process of reflection would conjure its own way out of me. So, I zeroed in on Alice. I felt so determined. I was also famished. No matter what I ate I wanted doubly more. I left Kings Station after a substantial breakfast buffet. I passed by Kings Canyon and the bluffs protruding from the mesa. I wandered in for a brief look. I didn’t stay long as I felt driven by hunger. I headed over to the resort for some grub. I slurped up a couple liters of water cameling up for the next long dry stretch. Again, I watched the tourists float by almost aimlessly, probably similar to how I gazed at Kings Canyon. Alice hung in my mind. I knew I needed a proper rest. I had been going strong for a couple weeks now in such harsh conditions and in such a crazy environment. Plus, during the ride to Uluru I decided I wanted to hike the Larapinta Trail. I needed to slow down a bit and really connect with and immerse myself into this Red Centre. I figured by hiking the trail I could tie into the landscape with my feet, slow down to the pace of nature. I had time. I didn’t have much left on the bike to Darwin anyways. I couldn’t pass this up. I was eager to walk.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOMXnfSbtyJ7GrxaKkWnwMZIocmdrA_Mr75cNIVaFDJ5wJjKZI0yRCW3S-DGpeO_0O5Znf_ZxxInZYZnl6PTtVRX8ID4AblHWpDDebNzZnmoSr71q2pgG6YLb4XkMDtvclg_Bibnl6XM9Iy3iu-11TIQDvUoUbX4oRkSVg1Klkkwx2HzTjnbW_oxy/s1440/5AF793C3-2DF6-42E9-B2DC-FCDA088803C7.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOMXnfSbtyJ7GrxaKkWnwMZIocmdrA_Mr75cNIVaFDJ5wJjKZI0yRCW3S-DGpeO_0O5Znf_ZxxInZYZnl6PTtVRX8ID4AblHWpDDebNzZnmoSr71q2pgG6YLb4XkMDtvclg_Bibnl6XM9Iy3iu-11TIQDvUoUbX4oRkSVg1Klkkwx2HzTjnbW_oxy/w400-h300/5AF793C3-2DF6-42E9-B2DC-FCDA088803C7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The track turned to a burnt red, the dried blood of a scab. The red color was tantalizing. Up atop a mesa I could spy the outcroppings of other hogback ranges. My vista widened to a pointy texture, the spines of various dinosaurs rising from the sandy surface. Desert oaks spread out sparingly, and whatever I thought an African savannah would look like, I found it. Brumbas grazed about, hundreds of them scattered about here and there, the wild horse here taking place of the zebra. The track turned to shit, a corrugated mess compacted with hardscrabble rubble. I had to shift my focus from the landscape to the slit of track cutting across the land. I bobbled along deliberately holding on tight to my grips, my feet clinched to my shoes, my shoes clinched to the pedals. Occasionally, I would hit a clearing of ruts and find a seam along the shoulder. Then that would turn into sand. Nothing I could do other than pedal and hold on. With my pace slowed down to a crawl I found a camp well short of my intended goal. But, I felt good, a day’s worth of hard work type of good. I found a sheltered spot off the track, both from the wind and passersby. A herd of brumby grazed nearby. Ochre cliffs backdropped my porch, a diving off point for the wind. Dark gray cirrostratus clouds smudged the evening sky in dusky splotchy tiles. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The desert ambiance fell deathly silent. I could hear the brumbies mulching the grass from about a hundred yards away. I sat there at my tarp porch on the hardened pink sand and felt the cold sink. I slurped my noodles, then listened to the dead silent air. The wind dropped to a gentle breeze, an inhospitable whisper disseminating a crisp and brittle cold. I could feel it on my knuckles. I zipped things up as I quickly slurped the last of my warm broth. I laid down on my back. The whir of silence crept up, that ringing in your head from the reverberating echoes of a gusty day. Then, I heard the wails through the stone cold silence. A maelstrom of lament swirled in the brisk desert air. A lonesomeness slunk in with the howling breeze. The dingoes moaned and wailed like screaming spirits from the dead. From the ululating lament I could track their circling, especially with the bluffs above me shooting back to me their yowling. I thought I could hear the four-legged trot of the wild dogs. It seemed to me the brumbies stopped grazing. I could envision their ears pricking up on high alert. I was on high alert, too, as the wailing circled in. I waited. And, then I fell asleep. The wails had vanished, the moans disappearing in the vanquishing silence. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe6AZ7i8uozMfPUwWGwuOkY-M1WETa94Ae1Zop8rRcWZHW3uNtA5cVqJXYSsw900mfR-C8FeRx-VepmYOmB9QZjiBK6CCva9KbWKJenouUF5nOGqsp4Y89vs-NEBAaJqICUd707kR2xlqxABg05nrk8sKvqEk2rxQcBFhJ5YZJuxNSFOf3orrjV2b/s1440/26501482-9A6D-4413-ADC6-11CE3B5BCEAA.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe6AZ7i8uozMfPUwWGwuOkY-M1WETa94Ae1Zop8rRcWZHW3uNtA5cVqJXYSsw900mfR-C8FeRx-VepmYOmB9QZjiBK6CCva9KbWKJenouUF5nOGqsp4Y89vs-NEBAaJqICUd707kR2xlqxABg05nrk8sKvqEk2rxQcBFhJ5YZJuxNSFOf3orrjV2b/w400-h300/26501482-9A6D-4413-ADC6-11CE3B5BCEAA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I startled to as the dingoes had invaded my dreamscape. I had been swatting at one dingo trying to leap up at me with open jaws. Dingoes are so clearly not coyotes, an animal I so relate to. Living on the fringes of humans, the coyote can slid in and out of sight whether alone or in a pack, a blurry line of infinite territory, coyotes roam. The dingo is clearly a territorial dog. They work together. They mark their own fringe. When you see one you can see they understand us. In my dreams, I run with coyotes. In my dreams, I stave off the dingoes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The night felt long. Although I had a deep slumber, I was up every so often listening for the lament of the dingo. I had a hard time discerning the world around me from my dreamscape. I thought I heard screaming or a small critter getting caught in the jaws of a wild dog. Mostly, however, I heard nothing other than the stone cold silence. And, then it was dawn. I rose up to get my coffee set and boiling. The eastern horizon rose softly with a lavender glow. An indigo blue emanated above the soft lavender arc. Mesmerized, I blew on my coffee to cool down. Mesmerized, I stood stark still gazing into the indigo heavens. I woke up in my shelter on my back. My eyes must have perceived the purple colorations perforating through the fabric of my shelter. I had been dreaming of this morning. I rose up to get my coffee set and boiling. The eastern horizon rose softly with a lavender glow. An indigo blue emanated above the soft lavender arc. Mesmerized, I blew on my coffee to cool down. Mesmerized, I stood stark still gazing into the indigo heavens. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_OWT3FS8A2eVRMDTl2BtInCbMtVWjZKguNh3gUMp4jGbnbgsuK0i8TC_0TbMjpif6ukeAudG2OeTxYtT7ECtz5gH5VddH64s9MlPIgEoi-KT_0k2jTxofowTsBjoEtMeIUTjvnxwgdvVDokR0gjMVCWnV40uAtKQhbMizChzsARUcU1brtNGsFNKA/s1440/AAF9F084-708F-4A0C-A928-0F19588B072B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_OWT3FS8A2eVRMDTl2BtInCbMtVWjZKguNh3gUMp4jGbnbgsuK0i8TC_0TbMjpif6ukeAudG2OeTxYtT7ECtz5gH5VddH64s9MlPIgEoi-KT_0k2jTxofowTsBjoEtMeIUTjvnxwgdvVDokR0gjMVCWnV40uAtKQhbMizChzsARUcU1brtNGsFNKA/w400-h300/AAF9F084-708F-4A0C-A928-0F19588B072B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnk1DPYQreWChLfCFNmdqPtQjpypTCBjIs-ytgWmL4vY-ImVmsBb34fW1h0QrsDTCqCOljUIvYV9B8ZPAotAizZGLeSZVeNhbRanBE-rGaCeW7PfSLvxcXJUFEW-GGEpzMxvlVvVnU6Av71Qy81977pHtE1WY_2xkpouFejR0x8xpuJA4Jzlyod1yn/w400-h300/B8261DEE-ACF7-4B32-9A6B-D9B7CC530B9A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnI30RNiOArFXfQvqe9HFYzJRr-u64g2o-n2dAEVyU4aAZZsVfkwSvSywQKiSvAEggfVnnP0nBvaUysjDqSyEWVMFfprugzF3JWjlhvs1toX3Wxo-tUX44JCTrBJdiUZs-yXeen5_PvbwibdBRwidl33sYGUh8RcKt9bo3hwK4y1Rl2xwzbNvI8UV0/s1440/5B6740B7-882B-4706-A2CF-7174CD25BBAD.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnI30RNiOArFXfQvqe9HFYzJRr-u64g2o-n2dAEVyU4aAZZsVfkwSvSywQKiSvAEggfVnnP0nBvaUysjDqSyEWVMFfprugzF3JWjlhvs1toX3Wxo-tUX44JCTrBJdiUZs-yXeen5_PvbwibdBRwidl33sYGUh8RcKt9bo3hwK4y1Rl2xwzbNvI8UV0/w400-h300/5B6740B7-882B-4706-A2CF-7174CD25BBAD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-84515433996748468262023-04-05T16:02:00.001-07:002023-05-24T18:34:05.580-07:00The Ground Under the Dream: OZ<p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Ground Under the Dream: OZ</span></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dzkpLUKFfRCsVU_YYw23cWoyTmhpVNkq96AjyV-K5BLmxRgM5zDL0zZ8w0thIgc3D4yvFiQqF9LcNjYIIntTTzIviooaEITLWRULDp5vJAlScj2U2hUP_MhUmqwKotRRJIRP0paW3NX5565QrbZh0SqQZN8JXv641YwcEdrXx0NwmLvDIVw_QMP1/s3584/IMG_9622.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2688" data-original-width="3584" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dzkpLUKFfRCsVU_YYw23cWoyTmhpVNkq96AjyV-K5BLmxRgM5zDL0zZ8w0thIgc3D4yvFiQqF9LcNjYIIntTTzIviooaEITLWRULDp5vJAlScj2U2hUP_MhUmqwKotRRJIRP0paW3NX5565QrbZh0SqQZN8JXv641YwcEdrXx0NwmLvDIVw_QMP1/w400-h300/IMG_9622.JPG" width="400" /></a></b></div><p></p><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Sydney Prologue:</span></b><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am opposed to the city, earnestly. In the city my staticity is dull. I am un-electric. I barely bend, I barely zap. I am as torpid as hibernation. Parrots and ibises, the high ones above the ground, my eyes flicker to their glistening wings, my scaly ears perk as if hearing a tambourine, yet all I can muster is an empty gaze. My eyes dart to the birds flittering, again; lethargic. I probably lay coiled like a venomous snake in the hot sun. My eyes flitter yet I stare blankly. I want nothing to do with you. I only rattle to warn. I will slither away and hide. This barstool over a clean sink. Yet, anthropomorphically I am probably more like a stray cat, a Sydney stray, a walking hibernation of apathy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sit with it, the city. I sit with it, repelling a juxtaposition when I cannot sit side by side. I don’t fit. I can’t just rub shoulders with it. I can merely sit with it. Somehow the manicured trees, plants, and flowers placate a raspy pitted gut that sees the sadness of the city that no one a part of the city feels, let alone sees. I harken a wilderness from the gutter. In that blank stare behind glittering lids I see the big red desert. I watch the rain tumble down from the dingy roofs, cascading through tin gutters, and I think a barking whisper: I can drink it. And, you can’t. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5pELUffZyx5WazwTvV_z9rP9tXzqPdEgF5jDmof9GBCVRjBCiSi6bfH-uEsz7pqPWOfaIWFGbxgJbD_NCRtuSZtLD8XcePfsbESNkFwJWj_LAiD172Jci6eAVCdoe3GE97uHcKTjgJLkWHQviQIBtQqwRPy826NpefMrjhjO37KQBWNWvPaySxai/s4032/IMG_0014.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5pELUffZyx5WazwTvV_z9rP9tXzqPdEgF5jDmof9GBCVRjBCiSi6bfH-uEsz7pqPWOfaIWFGbxgJbD_NCRtuSZtLD8XcePfsbESNkFwJWj_LAiD172Jci6eAVCdoe3GE97uHcKTjgJLkWHQviQIBtQqwRPy826NpefMrjhjO37KQBWNWvPaySxai/w400-h300/IMG_0014.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The miasma is a wave of sadness; what does everyone else see. I’ll be gone soon to the empty desert, the empty red. Until then I’ll sit in an empty bar feeling that juxtaposition of isolation and the concrete. Now, I can sit with that, or maybe I mean without it, or under it. Either way, I believe my drift is caught.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">A bar can be a wilderness. This bar I am in right now playing new indie rock is my wilderness. A bar, and a wild open area share one trait: breathable space. Until then, until the big red, I feel what I once felt living in Los Angeles. Back then, indeed I established a wilderness. It just wasn’t red. I needed to go deeper but I just couldn’t, I was too afraid. Nonetheless, I feel the wilderness here, the morose of the under, the isolation, the sadness, the stark hinterland; the skyscrapers shimmer in the sun setting, the buildings seem to fall rather than rise, the shadows pressing down. This is not the Earth’s shadow. This is our own shadow. And, I am not afraid any more. It has been so long since I’ve been so, a reminder of the time when I lived in my 20s in Los Angeles.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s all harsh, right? A bit much? I reread this again and it feels almost a bit whiny, a bit lonely, over the top self-loathing, a wee tinge of pretentiousness because I am antsy and ready to get out to where I am feeling the pull. Certainly, this is how the city feels to me. Really, I am not bullshitting you. I just don’t want everyone else to look into themselves from my writings and see how stupid they look. Of course, that should not be the case. Nobody reads my shit and thinks ‘I am the stupid one.’ I am sure if that. The weird one, the un-relatable lone one, an un-repeatably far away voice that has no echo, my voice is empty and I am outnumbered. I know that I am different. My voice does not stick to the dead and silent air of the city. My voice, however, sticks to the emptiness of the big red. I am just hollering internally loud enough to catch my voice later on down the line in the empty big red. Or maybe I am just lonely.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2kHP41_t9SargEk9bg1hJAowL61BLarqszrgmS0okqEDvi-dHPem8ucQoteLUhdORz7ccX8L8bMF5WaVWVC3f0KxpwojylLsjP0SD7fpzyiW51nkiKy-vxliZYzJhJU5eDm9LfD8TB9aUgOQMOYrCmsa5CnK1U8x1nAUWa7IEYyjrdg_IS6kDSfC/s4032/IMG_9538.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2kHP41_t9SargEk9bg1hJAowL61BLarqszrgmS0okqEDvi-dHPem8ucQoteLUhdORz7ccX8L8bMF5WaVWVC3f0KxpwojylLsjP0SD7fpzyiW51nkiKy-vxliZYzJhJU5eDm9LfD8TB9aUgOQMOYrCmsa5CnK1U8x1nAUWa7IEYyjrdg_IS6kDSfC/w400-h300/IMG_9538.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dusk has crept on in, slithering in like this buzz of three proper pints. I wobble up from my perch at the window, my narrowly squared vision into the city. I slightly push the stool back, grab the pint, and slug the rest of it. When I walk around the hood I see expansive webs, spider webs as wide as shawls that spread across couches, draped like silk curtains. I see giant bats traversing the sky that careen in between buildings seeking fruit and blossoms, the flying foxes of the urban woodland. When I walk around the hood I see a white man with a bloody eye. I glance at him and keep walking on, his glare of what-the-fuck-you-looking-at meaningless to me as my headphones pump. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut on the side of his squinting left eye, I saw that. He trudged on soberly, his shoulders wide, still pissed off. When I walk around the hood I see hordes of people, the masses, the herd, all shuffling in a distorted rhythm no one can see; everyone is marching in unison. So, I slide into another bar and find me a $10 jug of some lager called XXXX Gold, the cheap hooch to keep this human shit show going. At least I’ll be smiling like the rest of them, with my eyes too.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I leave the bar after pounding the jug, didn’t take long, 30 minutes tops. And, the rain begins to fall and I see the shit sink. I walk around the hood and I smell a heavy dank redolent of an empty sea bed, the tide rolling out, a new wilderness revealed, the tinge of city flushing away where only a steely silence remains like a Michael Mann film.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am up early as usual. I sit up and feel the urge to pack and roll. I am not at camp though. I feel constricted from a stifling warm breeze flurrying in through a window cut into a blank wall. The city is barren with silence. I squander the early hours with some reading before heading out for some coffee. I am antsy and ready to depart the city. The city has drained me, my emptiness craving for adventure. The year I have planned is big enough, long enough, that I know this time off in Sydney is something that will reset me. I will rest and recover my legs, spirit, and the lust. This time in the city is valuable. This time in the city is replenishing my urge to move again. I am trip planning most of my days here: my itinerary, my route, my gear, my bike. With the year that I have planned, I am right in the middle of it, I need to pace it out, refuel my endurance, use the vapid and barren city to inspire my storyline. Ooh, I am ready to be cut loose.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think I saw a dog being killed today, most likely heard. I think animal control put the dog down or at least forced it somewhere. I can’t be sure. I heard the unimaginable squeals even under my headphones. People stopped in their tracks, even headed towards the scene. I pulled a headphone out and heard the yelps echo between the buildings. I put my plug back in and walked on. Heads continued to turn. Most kept walking, I kept walking. It’s the city. Shit like this happens all the time. <br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">A wide open window cuts open the vibrant city seen in front of me. I have a glazed look on my face, my cheeks rosy under a salt and pepper beard. I admire a woman’s ass lump up and down with each stride. I trace the outline of her breasts underneath her tank top, no bra. I fall into the beauty until a flashing neon sign breaks my gaze free. Beyond the gaze the street focuses into clarity. A Toyota Yaris squinches into the rear bumper of a purple Lamborghini. A Chinese women, attractive and slender in a short plaid skirt, sitting outside of the pinched rectangled window, takes a snap shot of her dinner for the fifth time. She eats slow and ravenous, at the same time, like a sloth eating fresh leaves. She has posted to TikTok at least three times. Her and her friends are small, ill-equipped for drinking cheap malty beer and having an iPhone. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">On this perch, stowed away in the loge deck, I observe the play. I stare into the marbled grains of the steak medallions, my nose zeroes in. Suddenly, the Lamborghini screams, the rocket roaring from underground like a set of violent rapids surprising a napping rafter on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. The purple rocket slides onto the street and spits tire grit back onto the Yaris and the Chinese woman and her friends’ medallions. I lose the smoky grilled scent through the exhaust. I suddenly realize the scream of the Lamborghini sounded like that dog earlier today, the one being killed or whatever. I mumble to myself, ‘This is the city, this is the wilderness.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">If I know and understand one thing it is wilderness. I reckon walking is a close second. I find my story interwoven within those wavelengths of a walking wilderness. I am borne of that place, that essence of the hinterland, where my own wilderness is a vacuum, the driving throbbings of my heart across an empty expanse. That is where I get my fill. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wouldn’t be writing all this stuff if I did not admit to the juxtaposition of my story and being in a city. Am I the wilderness in a loathing city? I walked around the museum today. It is part of my truth and my brooding. A John Muir in Hollywood, that type of sort, mixed with Bukowski, the combination merging to an Abbey-like figure. I recognize I could never be as saluted as a national hero, let alone anyone important. I can never fall in place. Even though I am inspired by some of the faces and stories, I understand I am not that special of a human. I care about wild places more than people. I sat in one spot in the aboriginal exhibit feeling the wrinkles of those faces. I stood up and left with the big red in mind. I am a loathing wilderness in a city.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sidled through some tall vaunted doors and slid up to a bar, order a pint, and found a varnished green framed window to observe the vapid masses. Swarming in droves, what appears as chaos lies an order underneath, the compulsion to follow along, the common denominator of the herd. What people do in the city I find no meaning. Life is not on the precipice here. Life is robotic, groomed, fucking sterile, a laboratory, a concrete maze where bells chime and snacks are set at the end of corridors.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">He turns his head to the left, then to the right, his hands clasped behind his back, then he strides across the street. The man is pleasant looking, wearing a small black vest, Korean, eyes smiling. He walks softly into the street pleasantly wandering. A young tourist, probably European, scuffles along the sidewalk behind the nice Korean man, trips over her bulky luggage, hard plastic and sizeable like a water tank on a roof top just with wheels, towing a barrel she clambers across the intersection, aimless, her heading shifting from ground to the skyscrapers, her eyes looking for cracks and signs. Damn, the city is grooving, alive with a purple gelatinous glow, long lines and queues, humans of all shapes and colors, noises and clangs, movements and rhythms, debauchery and business, the fashionable and the derelicts; keep it moving, the order, the belt tightly holding the pants up, the swaying, the flailing throng, the belt a tight conveyance. Everything, everyone is fucked up yet following along. My grip on it all is watching that polite Korean man wearing a black vest striding across the street. He’s in happiness, content, doing what he is supposed to do, I slug my eighth pint, or whatever count I am on, I can go all night. And, I know this is the stage I need for preparation, my office and space for the mental schematics for what I am about to undertake. I must see the differences, the oppositions, the contradictions, the humiliation and absurdity of being human. We are not animals in the city. We are trained, non-instinctive. We are just like little mice careening down city corridors wedged between skyscrapers. I am a part of this as anyone, as any other human. I just observe things differently, a sideways slant. Ding, a bell rings, a crosswalk chimes, a food order is up, an iPhone sparkles. Ding, I shake loose. Ding, I am in my head, the big red desert of my head. Ding, I shake loose. I cannot wait for the laws of the big red. In the morning, I will walk out of my hostel and down a few kilometers to the bike shop. I will saddle up my steel horse, pack it tight, and ride into the west of the east. Ding, in two days time I should be rid of the city, rid of the stranglehold, rid of the dings. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ding.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinriWUIx_4ICz7vky7djK5ZsGD98b26-WFm24bM75LimOaZMM_bR72zldchR7OnI-hkIsv22LI9sIKyLE8taGuTq4qkIzrkFKybApSR7gVDOf7UxXnpyyrL6ebw60NR6R-6pmsLAMaWJEHCeRD1IQW6sPMT1RrR5Hojj-33hI4TbqYO-2Jyh2QG_5z/s4032/IMG_9542.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinriWUIx_4ICz7vky7djK5ZsGD98b26-WFm24bM75LimOaZMM_bR72zldchR7OnI-hkIsv22LI9sIKyLE8taGuTq4qkIzrkFKybApSR7gVDOf7UxXnpyyrL6ebw60NR6R-6pmsLAMaWJEHCeRD1IQW6sPMT1RrR5Hojj-33hI4TbqYO-2Jyh2QG_5z/w400-h300/IMG_9542.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Out of the City and into the Blues:</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I felt some semblance of loneliness in Sydney, some isolation I needed to chew away from. Ironically, what I craved was solitude. I can reread the prologue and feel the depression, a desolation in the city, yet I can also see the yearning for solitude, of reconnecting with a natural place and not some man made concrete slabs and edifices. I zipped through the river trail extending west out of the city. I followed man made canals, the infrastructure placed by man to tame the city. I pedaled and pedaled away, away from it all.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I did, however, end up in a motel that night. With what I am currently undertaking this full year, I need to pace this while Australia bikepacking trip out, let the body warm up, let the new muscles get lubed up. Most importantly, I need to let my pace be that of the bike. I must transition from 3mph to somewhere near 8mph. I must feed myself differently, drink differently, pack my gear differently. I must pace my muscles out differently, take care of different areas. Mentally I must shift into a different head pace, get that rhythm my body and mind can sync up to, and all with the bike. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wasn’t going to fight the city that first day. I used it. I stopped short of 65 miles that day in just under 7 hours. I stopped in the late afternoon and had two dinners. I started out very intent on managing my body and mind. I knew I would be out if the city proper tomorrow anyways. I fell asleep early despite the raucous bar below me, the locals out for a rollicking Friday night. I dreamt of the bike all night, situationally, through eucalyptus forests, the wind flowing up onto my face. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfGtuDrgy098WRxAL4J_LsXBlypzQc9l9mPL-Py73FtA99rGQn-lcZ7ZhJW2B__iKYx9_4H5KO0Hz16X79AQkTbI1MJN2mkpAmu4wqiQl9B-kVj1dXUH6OpDhyKfSbILPKcQUSoXf9u2SBvzE7o_iixwPpl1w3NnEGAHL0KtC4uGEaE-JkJEIu73w/s4032/IMG_9631.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfGtuDrgy098WRxAL4J_LsXBlypzQc9l9mPL-Py73FtA99rGQn-lcZ7ZhJW2B__iKYx9_4H5KO0Hz16X79AQkTbI1MJN2mkpAmu4wqiQl9B-kVj1dXUH6OpDhyKfSbILPKcQUSoXf9u2SBvzE7o_iixwPpl1w3NnEGAHL0KtC4uGEaE-JkJEIu73w/w400-h300/IMG_9631.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Certainly the conversation overheard at lunch spurred me on. A light drizzle slowly leaked from the gray skies above. A shiver took hold of me, my fingertips numb, my body shook the chill loose. I grabbed a cup of coffee to warm my hands back up. I leaned back into the wooden backrest. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, letting the hot liquid percolate down my gullet and into my core. From the booth adjacent me, two couples noshed on what was left of their lunch. A lady squawked loudest of the bunch. She told some inane story about almost getting hit by a car as she was walking in her neighborhood. Because of having just finished hiking in New Zealand where pedestrians do not have the right of way, I thought to myself: lady, you have no fucking clue. Of course, the conversation steered to behaviors of people behind the wheel. I swallowed the rest of my coffee quickly, quickly enough to burn my esophagus. I left the cafe and went to my bike. I loaded it up with some extra food and rolled on out of that town.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I descended from the tablelands and into a wide valley. Red sandstone bluffs fell precipitously from the mesa, weathered patina striated the cliff faces with black scars, dark overhangs under-tucked in the thickly forested glens, as I cruised on through. Strange to want to hike in the thick forests at a slower pace yet feel so rid and free of the city. Just being surrounded by the forests and the cliffs brought me a chipper demeanor. At the 6 Foot Track singletrack began. Now, my bike is huge, a beast, a jeep with two wheels that turns like a bus. I wanted it this way rather than fleet and nimble because of the big water and food carries down the line in the Outback. So, negotiating a tight and narrow trail proved to be a challenge, especially only this day being day two on this rig. ‘Pick your line, and commit.’ I kept saying this aloud to myself. I was learning a crash course all over again. I lugged the rig up and over the stiles and fences. The rig is heavy and I heaved mightily the rig angled over my tight shoulder, my left hand gripping a railing and pulling my weight upwards. As much as this proved to be a challenge I welcomed it. I got to know my bike better, forming that tightness and bond of a relationship we need to have. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The intoxicating aroma of the eucalyptus forests from the recent rains tickled my nose. In some way, I was transported back to running the Santa Monica Mountains of Los Angeles. I know it’s from all the eucalyptus we have in LA. Thrust back into little league baseball memories where every city park has huge stands of eucalyptus. That sweet smell has been with me since childhood. Eventually I made it through the tough singletrack section. I even had some encouragement from the locals out on trail who couldn’t believe I had brought this rig this way. I came to the Cox River and picked my bike up above the surface of the knee high river. A man and his son watched me, the son gaze transfixed. At the camp I relaxed under an awning, the lawn area for camping crowded with tents with everyone inside their shelters. Four miles and a steep climb to the next camp, I decided to push on considering I had ample daylight left. I wanted a taste of the climbs, to understand what I was getting into tomorrow. I had to push the bike most of the way up the steeply graded road. While I definitely have a high fitness level established, I still do not have the wind and power to pedal the bike up very steep ascents. For sure there’ll be ascents all riders get off and push the bike up. I just know I have room for improvement and the gaining of pedal strength and wind. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Of course, what took me an hour and a half to go up, I coasted the same distance down in 15 minutes. Towards the top of the climb I spotted my first two kangaroos, their tiny deer like heads peering at me over the tall grass. One hopped away and I giggled out loud. I arrived at camp drenched in sweat, thoroughly from head to toe, clothes, skin and all. I hurried changed into drier clothes to begin the drying process of the sweaty clothes, but being camped in a small meadow along side a stream after a humid and misty day I knew my effort would be futile. The idea of putting on wet and sweaty clothes in the morning didn’t bother me. I’m used to that. What I really needed to dry out was my saddle sores, those raw red dimples on my ass cheeks where the cushioning of my shorts end and the rubbing begins on those areas. I hurriedly ate dinner and then set up my shelter quickly. Once inside I stripped down and turned my ass sideways. I rubbed some chamois cream with tea tree oil on the sores and closed my eyes. I could feel the light diminishing through my shelter, the tall eucalyptus forest casting a dark curtain. Some kookaburras pierced the air with their cacophonous laughter that echoed in the glens. The laughter subsided and the stream slowly rolled in, lolling blissfully along down the gully. The insects chirped loudly but in unison causing a steady background noise not loud enough to distort thought. A chill sunk inside my shelter and I fell asleep on my sleeping pad naked, my ass to the side airing out. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-J-llT3hmiOoWB9yhZNhowLqd8B7WQ-IVxQpprIbZK5CGoW4Od3fdrtzb35B8HTS9gkdvbRXqcscdxOHSABz0ElXxGG2ZnFAmrteR5VBj83uXDjKYJc-UeE3xLIDC-KEvAkPnWtjDqt_Yj70w24o_ru_tsIXUepo2aADl45YNj4CpR6_K0etkNRoa/s1440/F7422636-46F6-497D-999F-48A861BC310B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-J-llT3hmiOoWB9yhZNhowLqd8B7WQ-IVxQpprIbZK5CGoW4Od3fdrtzb35B8HTS9gkdvbRXqcscdxOHSABz0ElXxGG2ZnFAmrteR5VBj83uXDjKYJc-UeE3xLIDC-KEvAkPnWtjDqt_Yj70w24o_ru_tsIXUepo2aADl45YNj4CpR6_K0etkNRoa/w400-h300/F7422636-46F6-497D-999F-48A861BC310B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The heave ho push out of the Little River drainage woke me up swifter than a fist to the face or a pot of piping hot coffee. The ascent was incredibly slow going, at a hiking pace. It made sense, too, considering I was hiking and pushing the rig at the same time. Yet, I embraced the haul and enjoyed the morning light pilfer through the forests, the parrots squawking raucously as the day began. Of course, at the top the terrain leveled out. The climb had taken me 2 hours, mostly pushing the rig with my hiking strides. I sat down profusely sweating. I knew the forecast had a couple days of hot weather, so sitting there with my clothes already drenched at 930 in the morning I knew I was in for a long day. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Fortunately, I had to take a detour around Jenolan Caves due to mudslides that have damaged the road. At a road closure sign I sat in the shade and did some quick planning and re-routing. I turned back down the road, the direction I came from. It can be like this on a bike with travel potentially being so swift. I turned around without fretting too much about it, whereas with hiking the detour might have gutted my soul. I would have to thoroughly assess the situation with better scrutiny on foot than on a bike. Water becomes a life or death issue. On a bike, if the terrain is favorable, I wouldn’t even notice the detour. This detour also meant I wouldn’t have to climb out of the Jenolan Caves area, a grueling 2000ft ascent on exposed slopes in 90 degree heat. As luck would have it I ran into a Ranger who was posting up ‘no fires’ signs at a campground. I confirmed my detour with him which ensured I was making the right move. I motored through the rolling hills of the tablelands. No longer at a snail’s pace, I gobbled up the miles that mentally had me in quicksand. In fact, what mileage I thought would take me two more full days to town, I rolled into camp thinking I may be able to get to town tomorrow, some 60 miles away.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC0K4IJrxy7xLOEqLBAWUy2aIeoVQ7S3ZpT_VvLrgC0YmT33YtP_6-XAOUUgMCynzvvr5OPEdCo_gjZ0DQGLZU4hvTSqauqoGvexJ1ATL_FQf-dOl6aGFEo_uD7ezoYUfd-Z0aTLWOQ2OUF_XbeOpFu7Sqgz-uwvcsfiuuOnWQs5B9fmtiTCpnc9i/s1440/B9E525E6-8AFF-463A-905A-2BCF52B0D132.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC0K4IJrxy7xLOEqLBAWUy2aIeoVQ7S3ZpT_VvLrgC0YmT33YtP_6-XAOUUgMCynzvvr5OPEdCo_gjZ0DQGLZU4hvTSqauqoGvexJ1ATL_FQf-dOl6aGFEo_uD7ezoYUfd-Z0aTLWOQ2OUF_XbeOpFu7Sqgz-uwvcsfiuuOnWQs5B9fmtiTCpnc9i/w400-h300/B9E525E6-8AFF-463A-905A-2BCF52B0D132.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had the Mount Werong camp to myself. I took my time in setting up where with backpacking I’m usually hiking until dusk. I had full two hours to unwind in the cooling light. Wallabies sauntered into camp to graze on the grassy lawn. Katydids trilled somewhat pleasantly their continuous chirps. A riot of kookaburra cackled in the distance, their laughter echoing through the gum forest, as if something social, festive, was really going on, as loud as that pub below me the other night. The forest around me was bustling with dusky activity.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I slowly fell asleep, drifting off as slowly as the last rays of sun set. I aired out my ass again and slept naked on my sleeping pad. I was not concerned about the open sore yet, but I was taking the precaution to prevent any infection. The wind picked up, gusting through the eucalyptus trees and blowing off some shaved pieces of bark. I could hear the wallabies hopping around, even heard some possums scratch their way down the trunks of the trees. My ears were open. I slowly fell asleep, now, more so I was on alert in a new environment. A thunderstorm rolled in through the night. I should’ve known the gusting wind was a precursor of a hot summertime evening show. Pulsing flashes striked occasionally directly overhead, roiling thunder followed that roamed the skies. The hubbub about scattered the wallabies. I could hear them scampering off, bounding away quickly. The rain poured heavily for an hour, the wind whipping up and gusting down through the skeleton forest. After the storm stampeded through, the relentless wind continued wreaking havoc on the trees, some strips of bark landing on my tarp. I heard some trees toppling over in the forest. Unknowingly lucky I had set my tarp up in the middle of the grassy area. A few strays of flaky slats I favor over any old beefy trunk tumbling down. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I crawled out my tarp to the grassy area littered with strips of eucalyptus bark. The littered lawn had not been so littered the night before. The morning look like an aftermath of a music festival where the nighttime is loud and raucous and the morning is scattered with trash and vacant. The morning was pleasant enough though. The air hung with the sweet fragrance of eucalyptus, the wind pushed a cool leafy chime through the hanging branches, and everything was dry after the stormy soaking. I packed up trying to get an early start to beat the heat of the day. After breakfast, I hopped on my saddle and pedaled off. I straddled my body atop the bike along a broad ridge and careened down the eucalyptus corridors feeling the breeze pushing through me. The wind boomed through the canopy up high, heavy gusts flung large armed branches from the gums, ripped them off, tumbled and crashed to the ground. I swiveled my head side to side and up and down. I avoided the sticks in the track with gliding swerves. I scanned the canopy for any stray snapping and cracking of the long fingered branches. The eastern light sliced through the forest and cast ribbons of shadows, long and bent, onto the track. I fought against squinting until I read the lines better. Once I could discern shadow versus branch, rut versus slat, I opened my stance and crunched my quads down.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CSgpqNxro0TUESNxpU5DG8wDdsUc7kXAQuqdKQqeoxwuhFSKrPdYGP0iayfO3nw1URlB0IEJ7wndj1KmgXYLwwXQAzLxcQ6xuILQU_ZLSwv_15PdYaeS0CoeBLQQgZEERhGpFYWDQAhx6DQkolMhWoZ3bw2uEzlqCu98lo3Kie7zCJWGqxUiZHdT/s1440/0886591C-E993-4A34-8BA9-7471FD059068.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CSgpqNxro0TUESNxpU5DG8wDdsUc7kXAQuqdKQqeoxwuhFSKrPdYGP0iayfO3nw1URlB0IEJ7wndj1KmgXYLwwXQAzLxcQ6xuILQU_ZLSwv_15PdYaeS0CoeBLQQgZEERhGpFYWDQAhx6DQkolMhWoZ3bw2uEzlqCu98lo3Kie7zCJWGqxUiZHdT/w400-h300/0886591C-E993-4A34-8BA9-7471FD059068.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wiggled down a precarious sandy track carved into a steep hillside. The heat smothered me and I could feel the indentations of the rays perforate my skin cells on my forearms. Veering with the bends of the road, gliding and soaring over the valley above, I held on softly to my grips. At the bottom I washed my face off, arms and neck too. I drenched my shirt and wronged out the sweat and salt. The Wollondilly yawned wide and slow, lazily under a scorching sun. I laid in the shade for 10 minutes not letting me relish the moment too long. I made my halfway mark before lunch, nevertheless the heat would only get worse.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the very beginning of the climb out a hazard sign spanned the road. With the road repairs above vehicles were shuttled by a pilot car alternating directions. I spoke with the bloke, the authorized traffic controller. He thought I was crazy for being there and going up, couldn’t quite wrap his head around me and the bike. He let me through and I rode on. I passed by the sealers and plowers in huge machinery with all of them cheering me on. ‘Hiya goin, mate!’ ‘Get onnit, mate!’ I pushed on like I wasn’t feeling the heat at all, my spirit swelling with encouragement. The long ascent wasn’t too bad other than temperatures reached 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The 8 mile ascent went smoothly enough, occasionally I pushed the bike when I felt overheated. At the top, I stopped under a large shadow of a gum tree at the side of the road. Two other traffic workers manned the post on either side of the gate. The older bloke eyed me up: ‘C’mon mate, cross the finish line!’ The younger bloke smirked at me sarcastically: ‘What took you so long, mate.’ I replied wittingly back, ‘If had known cold beer was up here I would’ve chugged harder.’ We all shared a laugh, these reactions and moments where we all recognize how silly we are. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Town felt so close now. I knew I could air out my saddle sores and get rested up. I knew I could wrap my head around this whole damn adventure. I continued on a rolling open savanna and felt stifled by the heat, stuffed full by hot breaths. I reached a final crest of a high hill and found some shade and breathed shallow the blistering air. Twenty miles away felt so far, so so far. I mustered up some will power and forged ahead. Then, suddenly, what felt suddenly, I hit a road junction and signage. The last 20km went by so fast I hardly knew it. This all seems so trivial now, especially when I will look back on it down from the end of the road. These little steps provide little strides in confidence.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Pick your line, and commit.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HHTX_yqgENtp0WzIliIJrd8ydpPVGzvOYlBjYl9hHpIZdPnmqi8ARxgQBbfqoarvLfPJ4liFivYeS4wR9plvQashJ59vygd6Zl93K6cKnpqhHexDPaYroYxbBQNBpaqOi-qkMt42HMMS31IiJ2786_19h848sMjj2ku86LmkgCS9X6W3SkOtboao/s4032/IMG_9636.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HHTX_yqgENtp0WzIliIJrd8ydpPVGzvOYlBjYl9hHpIZdPnmqi8ARxgQBbfqoarvLfPJ4liFivYeS4wR9plvQashJ59vygd6Zl93K6cKnpqhHexDPaYroYxbBQNBpaqOi-qkMt42HMMS31IiJ2786_19h848sMjj2ku86LmkgCS9X6W3SkOtboao/w400-h300/IMG_9636.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Buns:</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I took a day to air out my saddle sore, all day long massaging chamois cream with tea tree oil into my sore cheek, propping the haunch up while I laid on the bed. Many different things are to be managed while on a bikepacking trip versus a hiking trip. The bike lends itself as the item needing most care. The second is your body, in particular your ass and taint. Like callouses on a hiker’s feet, I need to harden the cheeks that sit on the saddle for hours on end each day. I seriously spent the day doing nothing but resting my ass. It was important enough to do so as not to compromise the trip due to negligence on my part. I must stay on top of it, or the bottom of it, pun intended. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left the next morning after taking my time to load up. I am developing the routine I need to have to be efficient in the mornings. I know it’ll make life easier. Just as I experienced on my first bikepacking adventure in ‘17, the packing of gear, the rigging of gear, the stowage, all of it, just seems so cluttered and un-simple, so far different than backpacking, like the rigging on an old seafaring ship. So, I take my time now to nail it down later. I am getting better, too. I feel it’s noticeable. Before I knew it, I shoved off on the Attack of the Buns Route, a bikepacking route running from the towns of Bundanoon to Bungendore, except I was tying in and branching off the route from where I was coming from and to where I will be headed. I’ll miss the paved road connections to the Buns essentially. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Fitzroy Falls, I craned my neck over the lookout and held my sunglasses atop my visor to keep them from falling off straight down some 300ft. From the perch I could see the varnished patina smeared down the tall sandstone cliffs giving the precipices a weathered look, old and gritty, shaggy and worn. From my vantage point, I could see for miles out of undeveloped forests either sprouted atop the cliffs on the highlands or plotted thickly within the canyons below. The backbush sprawled out in front of me, my understanding of the landscape around me growing as the pace of the bike slows down internally. I couldn’t wait to get deeper. I could tell I was reading the land better.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xeWIGKAX5j_tr9BzJgoze_F8Z5eu0xaUnrrCa2Xlss7sJq9RbvanWykopb_kl5LeMzTEMjbr-ZCAeHVeW9dJUlWZ92GA4Kg_QBeoFkqsBXHnNHgo3spV8rh14_Yl8CztXvl-F3n2apMsC_OzCzYyupxS_A_zwfsvda9w3l_ToN-CIYhqQIiLdooY/s4032/IMG_9660.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xeWIGKAX5j_tr9BzJgoze_F8Z5eu0xaUnrrCa2Xlss7sJq9RbvanWykopb_kl5LeMzTEMjbr-ZCAeHVeW9dJUlWZ92GA4Kg_QBeoFkqsBXHnNHgo3spV8rh14_Yl8CztXvl-F3n2apMsC_OzCzYyupxS_A_zwfsvda9w3l_ToN-CIYhqQIiLdooY/w400-h300/IMG_9660.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I cranked deeper into the backbush along fire trails, isolated roads equivalent to the fire roads of the SoCal area I grew up on. The gum forests moved swiftly by, the terrain and gradient less aggressive. The eucalyptus on top of the mesas were shorter in height than the forests along the canyon slopes and drainages where an almost rainforest captured the gullies and glens and tucked them away and hid them from the world, strictly inaccessible. The fire trails fell steeply off the highlands and I held tightly onto my roller coaster ride only to hike the rig slowly up the steep road on the other side of the canyon. The weather was great, spirits were high, riding or slowly pushing my bike surrounded by pure nature, yea, I was doing alright. Before I knew it I rode into the hamlet of Kangaroo Valley and immediately spotted a food truck.</span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPZOW2yHHQPzdmY54pAhaVZqhqCfz1Gsvwq4t6hazh-wTRDy3--iPXQVaDmD7tgO0X_hd7UAx9LEg2a-AKFeLeJtYmEl6cyXdVzPP-HRCrObaURouhBdhbS1Zlsd-rQ9s8YltTy_PXFfA2McZ_uB8GCHlrNbkK1UQwEPMfPnKCDxTd2akBti7oHqB/s4032/IMG_9675.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPZOW2yHHQPzdmY54pAhaVZqhqCfz1Gsvwq4t6hazh-wTRDy3--iPXQVaDmD7tgO0X_hd7UAx9LEg2a-AKFeLeJtYmEl6cyXdVzPP-HRCrObaURouhBdhbS1Zlsd-rQ9s8YltTy_PXFfA2McZ_uB8GCHlrNbkK1UQwEPMfPnKCDxTd2akBti7oHqB/w400-h300/IMG_9675.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am still always so amazed at how fast travel can be on a bike. I am sure some of it is that already I am getting stronger on the bike and my ass more hardened. Some of it is that it is hard to break the walking pace that is so wired deeply inside me. On a bike, I tend to estimate very conservatively. And, then I’m there, in like half the time. Feeling pretty good about everything I sat down under the canopy of a large tree directly out front of the food truck. A road worker showed up and ordered some food. He recognized me from the dirt road when he was edging the shoulder in his bulldozer. He came over to me and sat down the table over.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ya goin? You’re movin’ mighty fast, mate.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We shot the shit as we scarfed chicken kebab and fries into our gullets. I enjoyed his sarcastic humor, his rough-around-the-edge demeanor. I whipped back right at him, too, cracking jokes and busting chops. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Seen a brown snake yet? Them buggers can get 10 feet long, mate. Betta watch ya ass.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I have, a couple.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ‘bout a funnel spida? Ya get bit by one of them, mate, you might as well sit down, grab ya knees, put ya head in between ‘em and kiss ya ass goodbye.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘That quick, huh?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Mate, just watch out for them. Oh, and if a goanna comes runnin’ at ya, lay yaself on the ground. Don’t want ‘em thinkin’ ya a tree to climb up.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We finished our lunches, shook hands and parted ways, I onto my bike rig and him into his pick up. Next thing I know I was 40 miles further on and riding into a tourist park in Nowra for the night. The wide Shoalhaven River at the foot of my camp, mackerel skies shimmering in the dusk, the bridge construction crews shutting operations down for the night, the white cockatoos squawking softly in their roosts, the salty smell, I was somewhat near the coast again. The town was noisy and rowdy, cars hooning across the river whipping up dust, as the night came on. It wasn’t the most wildest place by any means, but I laid in my shelter slammed shut by sleep from a good day. I am getting the feel and the pace down of the bike, my last fading thought of a victorious day.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopjFEFteIemBc2iKHUoMm-5ay24d8vmYDTvxswa9VKWFod3M7N1i1zVAaEOSjDZXNYSQ8vR_s1yrcTpjpndusFoAhG7x6lLngENQ3aJCJ0XEC4--knVPILbot46ABK3oi4ozxoHUL32JVbtUdRrJ6mnqV2YQL7bgqaq0993rhYvhNHlUY87l33Uo6/s4032/IMG_9668.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopjFEFteIemBc2iKHUoMm-5ay24d8vmYDTvxswa9VKWFod3M7N1i1zVAaEOSjDZXNYSQ8vR_s1yrcTpjpndusFoAhG7x6lLngENQ3aJCJ0XEC4--knVPILbot46ABK3oi4ozxoHUL32JVbtUdRrJ6mnqV2YQL7bgqaq0993rhYvhNHlUY87l33Uo6/w400-h300/IMG_9668.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long isolated dirt road stretches characterized the next day. I kept hitting my mark, these little step by step goals of timing and pace. I got to my estimated lunch goal 2 hours ahead. The day flew on by, as did the gum forests. The shadows of the crooked eucalyptus shifted throughout the day as the sun arced across the wide blue sky. I got to my intended camp site almost 3 hours early, so I pushed on. I rode into a broadening landscape, away from the escarpments of Morton National Park and deep into the highlands. I came upon wide golden meadows gleaming in the setting sun across an expansive horizon. I worked up a greater sweat despite not putting in an over-exerting effort. I easily rolled into camp sopping wet and sticky, totaling 75 miles this day. Wog Wog, the camp’s name, sprawled out in patchy gum trees wide enough to hide the other campsites. The air hung with smoke from a nearby campfire and a light fog crept in, sinking through the crooked branches and dimming the cheery mood. I leaned the bike against a eucalypt and hurriedly put on some layers. But, I stopped. I stopped to take in my surroundings. A soft purple lilac twilight glow emanated from the west, the outline of the canopy almost eerie, the light falling away into shade of purple, a soft lavender displaying a haunting silhouette of the gum trees. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply the moist air. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hi ya! Sorry to interrupt,’ he slurred. I could tell I had a drunk neighbor. ‘How ya goin, mate. What ya got goin there?’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I greeted James with a handshake and a mini tutorial on a tarp set up, the material and pitch. He wasn’t really too much into my set up as he let on but he seemed friendly enough. He invited me over to his fire for a couple of beers. I would oblige him but only after getting completely set up. He set off back to his camp and I furiously peeled off my clothes and futilely tried to hang dry them. I staggered over, my quads a bit stiff now from the cooling temperature. James hung a Victoria bitter beer into my hand wrapped tightly by a coozy. I popped the top and took a deep pull, a slug to the brain to lather the day up. He pulled up a stool for me near the fire. He stumbled around without a headlight, the stool in one hand, a pink stubby cup in the other filled with vodka. I sat down on the stool and looked up at James. He stood there swaying and knackered, smiling, absolutely content. We went into a lively conversation. Everything from racism in Australia, Aboriginal peoples and cultures, his family, life in general, my trip, to shitty beer and microbrews, to the wildlife, to war, the differences between rednecks and bogans, Aussie and Kiwi differences, you name it, we broached a broad spectrum. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigA2w3oXu-HMxkrB8XmnkOneRJatDpt1w2mk3ELDuur2_nRB805_sK3eOrh-qxyNI9fMys-OFtm25mCBoVSVclTsfZiv4t5cK86EkGXO5yZrp0uBxH07sYQ4L7y2Y9CLhkD7B553I-VhabZ0rVannfv5TZ2Thv_Vi7Czbdjixbb_H_9pyg5pfFy-hK/s4032/IMG_9670.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigA2w3oXu-HMxkrB8XmnkOneRJatDpt1w2mk3ELDuur2_nRB805_sK3eOrh-qxyNI9fMys-OFtm25mCBoVSVclTsfZiv4t5cK86EkGXO5yZrp0uBxH07sYQ4L7y2Y9CLhkD7B553I-VhabZ0rVannfv5TZ2Thv_Vi7Czbdjixbb_H_9pyg5pfFy-hK/w400-h300/IMG_9670.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">James was a war veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq. He sets off from Canberra, where he and his family lives, every so often to ‘just get away.’ He struggles with PTSD and getting outside to the bush helps him relieve his pain. He scrambles around the bush pretending he is a person of the land from eons ago. He told me he thinks of the Aboriginal peoples often when he is thrashing about. He wishes life was simpler, for everybody. In some way this takes him to a place of peace. I could tell he was being earnest despite his rosy drunken cheeks. He will spend a week away from home. Some days he drinks and smokes weed all day in camp and paints. Some days he wanders about looking for relics and petroglyphs. He stays as long as his food holds up. It is evident he brings more booze than food though, I could clearly tell. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I liked James. Part bogan, part family man, part loner. He leaned in from his chair looking for his drink. He had finally grabbed a head torch. He scanned the ground beneath his chair, behind the log adjacent, his car. He giggled to himself at his predicament. He had been trying to be so hospitable that he forgot where he put his drink. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Crikey, bloody fuckin’ hell,’ he muttered and giggled simultaneously. ‘Bah, let me fetch ya that other beer, mate.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Is all the microbrews catchin’ on in the States? Hell, I don’t even know what an IPA is!’ his laughter getting raspier. ‘Just give me the piss, I say.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">He came back from the truck and handed me the other beer. I still had half a can left but I kept it anyways. It was cold enough out to keep cold. He fell back into his chair and began scanning the ground around his chair again. Suddenly—‘aho! Here it is! It was right under me elbow!’ His drink in the pink cup was right under his chair the whole time. Amused by this I busted his chops a bit. He lashed back and we went on about nothing playfully. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Forty five minutes went by and I was into my second beer. James had refilled his pink cup twice during that time. He stoked the fire with some dry eucalyptus branches and the smoke lightly billowed up, the fragrance sweetly aromatic. The fire wasn’t raging or anything like that. The fire brooded slowly, as if trying to breathe out its last lung towards a long life. The dimly lit fire flickered on the gleaming white trunks of eucalyptus. Critters came out, I could hear them climbing in the canopy. Night was upon us.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘So, world travella. How lucky you are. You get to see all of this,’ his hands and fingers spreading out from his widening arms. ‘Allll of this,’ he said slowly, ‘This is what ya afta. This is life.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘But, why? Why ya doing this? What ya running from, mate?’ He bit into his bottom lip, a question more for himself, his eyes fluttering almost holding back a tear. ‘But, why…’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I don’t know how young or old ya are. I mean, crikey, maybe you look spry enough. But not many blokes middle aged have the balls to do what ya doin.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I said flatly, too flattered to acknowledge his compliment, ‘One lucky dude, for sure.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Did ya chickie leave ya? Family troubles?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Yea, a year ago my chickie left me. Just wasn’t gonna sit around and wait for life to swallow me up. Ain’t no runnin’ away from anything, mate. I’m just curious for adventure is all. I’m too old to be runnin.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been asked this particular question a few times this year while on the journey. ‘What are you running from?’ Certainly, I think about it after someone asks me. More or less, I’m perplexed by the question. I definitely do not think I put on airs about this question. I know what I am doing. Goal driven, mad, pushing like hell on this adventure I am on. I usually push the question aside. It’s a stupid one if the person asking the question really knows me. Sometimes I’ll pop off an answer of ‘I just need a break from myself.’ Thinking this will dissuade further diggings, as if most people would entertain such an idea, this answer is earnest and not in an insecure manner. I mean it. Last year I wallowed in my own self-pity, self loathing as much of myself as I could. I came out here to open myself up to the world, to eject a self indulgent ego. Yes, I had some questions about family, the meaning of family and family creation, and that answer came immediately enough into this journey. I know where my home is. Most importantly, I know who I am. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Took a year off to stop feelin’ sorry about myself, was sick of it,’ I blurted at him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dgzeI5jJQ3mhgkcW3ZM2ldJLmNg1nhpUEM-LmPNDOQEaF4DALFuijVWChmS1b8ZOeKl_e14kb3a8UEyX4ApA1ISryXqDp0iNYsiUKpRBL5DDYJluFY9MnB6UdHuyeOVzf-VJbJ_9QQa0RzMmW3xgbFIsu1ldN-X3ulaBhhaoZfU0z_Yz0Z6s-sOe/s4032/IMG_9672.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dgzeI5jJQ3mhgkcW3ZM2ldJLmNg1nhpUEM-LmPNDOQEaF4DALFuijVWChmS1b8ZOeKl_e14kb3a8UEyX4ApA1ISryXqDp0iNYsiUKpRBL5DDYJluFY9MnB6UdHuyeOVzf-VJbJ_9QQa0RzMmW3xgbFIsu1ldN-X3ulaBhhaoZfU0z_Yz0Z6s-sOe/w400-h300/IMG_9672.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s fulfillment of the life I have dreamed of; it’s the not waiting to die, waiting for what’s next type of stagnation. I refuse to wait around and see what’s gonna happen like the rest of ‘em. I am following my dreams. The first place I ever wanted to go to, when I was a kid, was Australia. I have had this curiosity in me since I was a boy. It hasn’t left me. It’s who I am. What am I going to do, go to work every day? That’s not me. I’m not trying to solve life’s mystery. I’m simply trying to explore it. Why wait for life when I could be living life. I ain’t runnin’ when it’s adventure I crave. I wonder because I wonder, point blank. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">All these thoughts ran through my head furiously, the last gulps of beer cascading down my throat. I am haunted by a dream. I burn whatever it is through these footsteps, these travels. These footsteps leave the imprint of me, who I am. I see the path I have blazed. It’s right behind me. And, the curiosity within me sees the horizon ahead compelling all that is me forward. How much impact could I have in anyone other than me is fated by this dream. And, I am living that dream. Will I ever be fulfilled? I don’t know that answer and I don’t expect to find it. I am being what is instinctive, what is borne from the inner. So, why not keep walking forever? I see the monster in me. Or, at least the monster everyone else sees. I keep coming back to this notion, this undying dream…this is what I was born to do. Fulfill my curiosity, explore, live in the moment—yea, that’s the push, the monster. And, I have it, you don’t.</span></div><div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is an obsession. This is what I do. Yet I understand more than ever now that I do have a family of my own and not from a partner that I had hoped to have one with who had tan off. I am getting long in the tooth. I want a home, a family. But, I will be who I am in an utter absolute way. My ‘chickie,’ as James would say, left me yet what I craved then I still crave now. I will travel the world and my family will always be there. I will always be there for them. My mom, brother and his son. That’s it. Just took me years to realize they’ve been there since day one. As much as I have needed them to embrace me, I, in turn, needed to do the same to them. We are so much smaller now, the four of us. I must be a part of them more than ever. Yet, I can still continue my obsession and what I do. They know who I am. I have been so driven all these years, almost defiant, in pursuing my dreams, so fulfilled for all the years of walking to show my family that this is who I am, that I am so grateful to them for always accepting that, no matter how much of a pain in the ass I was, they have always been there. And while I am apologetic for never acknowledging that before I am not and never will be apologetic for who I am. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I ain’t runnin’ away from shit. Simple as that; I am a traveler, one who is exploring.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Bah, what do I know. I’m envious is all,’ he chimed back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘It’s ok. We all have our own trail to walk. Cheers.’ We clink my beer can to his pink cup. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You’re right, mate. We have to live now. Do you believe in god?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘What for when we got all of this,’ my hands and arms spread wide, the full moon rising behind me. ‘I don’t want to believe in anything collectively. We just end up killing each other.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Aye, mate. That’s not what we humans should be doing to each otha. The fuck we killin’ each otha for?’ he sighs and pauses, a deeply haunting rhetorical question. Us two, there right now, understood how precious life is.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How many guns do ya own?’ James asks incredulously. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘None, mate.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Wha?! I thought all Yanks own guns,’ he blurted out. ‘Bah, that’s what keeps ya Yanks so sensitive, church and guns. Crikey mate, our bogans here wear fanny packs!’ We both erupted in laughter.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Yea, I dunno if our rednecks would wear a fanny pack. They’re too busy telling people what to do and what to believe in.’ A brief silence crept in. We were both getting tired. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hey, I better hit the hay. Aussies know that saying?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Oh yea, mate. Just be aware of the Bushman’s alarm clock. That’ll git ya up before sunrise.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘What’s that, the Bushman’s alarm clock?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ah the kookaburra,’ he chortled, ‘they’ll git ya goin, all that laughter.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">James paused again, him swaying in his chair he was that drunk. His head floated side to side, a wide cheeky smile on his face. ‘How far ya think ya goin?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I dunno, mate. One day at a time. I ain’t done anything until I’ve done it. Until then, I’m in the middle of it.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m not sure where that came from. ‘Hey-a world travella, have a good night.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AZrmSUb7-5SjP1twVnEutq4rptCexdOnyOL9iLTNoLBD0zi9tp1ukPjeJLFZq8P43_uLLbZsKRgsPqrS8Wc-m4gLGvDu25v8ab-a0Pote3sxbarGsJf6vsDcJsrKxX9-pvDYA17KIZseA3NqCQpUAZkTsMSx6kpQdwvufa-baciL22N6upPS8a0O/s4032/IMG_9665.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AZrmSUb7-5SjP1twVnEutq4rptCexdOnyOL9iLTNoLBD0zi9tp1ukPjeJLFZq8P43_uLLbZsKRgsPqrS8Wc-m4gLGvDu25v8ab-a0Pote3sxbarGsJf6vsDcJsrKxX9-pvDYA17KIZseA3NqCQpUAZkTsMSx6kpQdwvufa-baciL22N6upPS8a0O/w400-h300/IMG_9665.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I slept deeply that night cloaked in a damp blanket from the moist air. I would wake up and turn over and feel the moist air blow on my clammy skin chilling me. The moon arced across the sky, bright and full, a fat light beaming through my shelter. I like to think I was cloaked more by the moonlight than the moist air, but the dawn indicated otherwise. Everything was soaked. I slowly got out of my damp quilt. A fog slunk through the eucalyptus and clung to every mass. The morning rising sun tried to seep through the misty fog but just wasn’t powerful enough yet. I donned my wet cycling gear, packed my bike, and rode on over to James’s camp. He had just gotten up. He smiled that same knackered smile at me. I guess he always looks that way. Just friendly. We bade each other farewell. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Down the road the rays of sunlight permeated the forest. Long angled bands of sunlight reached through the tree canopy and touched the damp dirt. I rode on a bit nippy, my fingertips numb, my ears chilled. About an hour worth of mist ensued until the sunlight was strong enough to defeat the wetness. I had easy riding today. My ass hardened, my legs pumping, and Canberra came into sight. I let my mind clear a bit as I listened to some instrumental music, melodious, as the city traffic zipped on by. James was right…</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is what I am after.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilo7Ud0JMTBlV1EzJJykOIH0EAMBtMzUUbAIsHJ02tomnWlSwXa6nBN74rUAAF6GG1s7eSyKeuJs7KKXETv27dw77VkZ8kCnsUsY5lwJVu0m8JifIL-BwJScbXqdra57TGgx3VaN3rER6QIbpMlN-LUeVaEvLQG-uNM_ZctQGPFn4kfGhfnJKpQ1DH/s4032/IMG_9674.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilo7Ud0JMTBlV1EzJJykOIH0EAMBtMzUUbAIsHJ02tomnWlSwXa6nBN74rUAAF6GG1s7eSyKeuJs7KKXETv27dw77VkZ8kCnsUsY5lwJVu0m8JifIL-BwJScbXqdra57TGgx3VaN3rER6QIbpMlN-LUeVaEvLQG-uNM_ZctQGPFn4kfGhfnJKpQ1DH/w400-h300/IMG_9674.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Hunt for the Sweet Spot:</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I lingered in Canberra two full days, one of which was at an Irish pub. I didn’t leave for hours, almost putting in a work shift. I met a couple from Albury, some hours away from Canberra, who were in turn for a comedy show. We bantered back and forth, really me just asking questions about the way of life in rural Australia where they own some property on a farm. Gavin loved his tractors and had a keen sense of mechanics, which a motorcycle mechanic being his main gig. Kathy was a government lawyer who traveled all the time. They were an interesting mix: part bogan, part academic. We traveled around the world in our drunken stupor, rounds bout every 30 minutes or so. I swirled my head around the plaza observing the hordes of interesting characters whistle by. We clapped at the chess tourney finale, a young boy no older than 12 the Irish pub champion. We went on and on until the squawking cockatoos came back to roost at dusk. When it was time for their comedy show we parted ways, each of us swaying in our lilt a gleeful tilt. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVjf_UDd5MzlSqhwg2jX9BJ73BIeoGJz4FB6z8I-qgj_fxaeFRQAdWT7EfRUk36V8-YMfjtj1se1AUi5Rz9wy1jaED3NELclcmfdhi-z_LTbBmAlIu6P-NwH9jyILjHhY7E6TXhaz9U3JMd_eBpaReQkae8OBT9HI_qsONYGpYRWnDEgG5mQzFsdx/s4032/IMG_9807.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVjf_UDd5MzlSqhwg2jX9BJ73BIeoGJz4FB6z8I-qgj_fxaeFRQAdWT7EfRUk36V8-YMfjtj1se1AUi5Rz9wy1jaED3NELclcmfdhi-z_LTbBmAlIu6P-NwH9jyILjHhY7E6TXhaz9U3JMd_eBpaReQkae8OBT9HI_qsONYGpYRWnDEgG5mQzFsdx/w300-h400/IMG_9807.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I took the next day off as well. Not because I felt too foggy from the boozy shift at the pub, really I just wanted to laze around and to nothing. That’s the thing with me and this year long adventure: I’m in the middle of it, and this Australian bikepacking trip is a reset of sorts, to take some time off of my hiking feet. So, I find myself getting caught up between always trying to do hard shit and just having a good time. Usually they go hand in hand, but I feel a bigger picture must be observed, as well as the acknowledgment of my objectives. My push and inner drive instinctively guides me towards the toughest of challenges. I, normally, oblige that push naturally. The balance I need to have will come from self awareness, of being honest with myself in what I want and want to achieve. I understand now that my heart needs a bit less of a challenge and just more chilling out. My push is always there anyways, so I have altered my route a bit forgoing a sufferfest for one that is more about enjoyment, plain and simple. I know what I am capable of and I know I will achieve something big when it’s all said and done. I am all out here on my own anyways. I don’t have to be brave or exceedingly egotistical. I do not have to impress anyone, most importantly me. So, I just want to pedal and crank creating my own wind down whatever road I find myself on. I must feed the soul and not the ego. That is the point of this trip.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIbzLnbU1UeBjteG8G38iT8XcUFTGkxKGiFKrIJsLXdQXvc9AtiFFQrhc9tCJSQwbJhjTbJFZ1UIHTHjITCNGkuNdSr73IoBh7UoPWo-jP8ed2jeERdJXhfBJbl-_fD9i_sefwYokT_wjP6nn1h-lwtWa5uRZYfjw86PR-V0PvwxKH8mqF50Pq3Yw/s4032/IMG_9688.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIbzLnbU1UeBjteG8G38iT8XcUFTGkxKGiFKrIJsLXdQXvc9AtiFFQrhc9tCJSQwbJhjTbJFZ1UIHTHjITCNGkuNdSr73IoBh7UoPWo-jP8ed2jeERdJXhfBJbl-_fD9i_sefwYokT_wjP6nn1h-lwtWa5uRZYfjw86PR-V0PvwxKH8mqF50Pq3Yw/w400-h300/IMG_9688.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The dusty road undulated over the Great Dividing Range. My shins caked up with a thick layer of dirt, dusty and stained eucalyptus leaves and trunks lined the road, widespread clouds sprawled over head, and trucks and motorbikes zipped by kicking up plumes of grit. This all made the atmosphere hazy, almost gloomy, a dusty globe atop the mountains. Most of the trucks and motorbikes signaled me a thumbs up or a honk from the horn, encouraging upward. I took a long breather when I knew I was to leave the main dusty road for good. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It wasn’t long before I was angling and zigzagging my way through giant eucalyptus forests, the tallest I’ve seen so far. The trees lifted skyward with fingers out spread in the canopy. The two track crunched and crackled with the running over of the crusty bark slats and the twigs. I rolled up and over hills, powering the bike with my quads, wrenching on the handlebars with my arms to keep my momentum alive. I worked up a tremendous sweat and panted like I was running straight up a hill until finally I attained the flat highlands above. I pushed for camp as I now was well above the settling dusty haze, for the horizon ahead looked clearer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis__wqLK5L39lvxfhMlzo2G-RsOXPRSoLe8gzn4hI51aJNbzo0UV3iep98Xcers3DYCO-Nssejq26N6msdUKVA4ENJbM7nxtg1kzto7yVZp7TjeN7cg0MdckyoNMDwGFIkq-H7BYNOdSzm_h6JCw_OCq4PhoRwor1sxX9h4ryZXyU0CEZIpwAmZMa-/s4032/IMG_9699.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis__wqLK5L39lvxfhMlzo2G-RsOXPRSoLe8gzn4hI51aJNbzo0UV3iep98Xcers3DYCO-Nssejq26N6msdUKVA4ENJbM7nxtg1kzto7yVZp7TjeN7cg0MdckyoNMDwGFIkq-H7BYNOdSzm_h6JCw_OCq4PhoRwor1sxX9h4ryZXyU0CEZIpwAmZMa-/w400-h300/IMG_9699.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I cherish the twilight. The light on the fading horizon maximizes the stretching tired soul. Another day has spanned from one universe to another, the memory of the day, where I have emptied everything, the heart leading the way to a place to call home for the night, the brain retreating to a sleeping recess. I cherish the twilight because the twilight symbolizes truth, an exact truth in that moment where the light is fading. ‘I have lived for today,’ the light murmurs. I feel full and empty at the same time, hopeful, full of love, opened. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rode into the Long Plain, a long and thin meadow stretching for mikes atop the highlands. The stretching plain was silent, lonely, pristine. I found a stream and rinsed the soot off my face and the caked dust from shins. The light faded to a lavender hue softly emanating the eastern sky. The western horizon shimmered atop snow gum canopies. The cockatoos cackled as much as they could before dusk shadowed all stirring. The day was done. I crawled into my tarp and slurped up my ramen accentuated with robust green olives. The air sunk with a silence even more deafening than a desert. I understand this silence, this ringing alpine bliss. I expected it to be a cold night. I expected to see fog thinly stretching across the meadows in the morning.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_-00lRMnpbWMYuo1Tqa1D5wqA1UEm3nGG2ZEbammxPiepkHBeUvK7XBQj2W3zsQQbZoKNgl2waYgIjnRpW-j_Z1wINWnqPna6yLTQ_v2BQw6xmJrAbwwvhKQqI5pytJcrY2DGFXchD83cfkbm-tBvGjM6tFl7Q1s0rDQu2be_OgJCgSohzN1QjMR/s4032/IMG_9783.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_-00lRMnpbWMYuo1Tqa1D5wqA1UEm3nGG2ZEbammxPiepkHBeUvK7XBQj2W3zsQQbZoKNgl2waYgIjnRpW-j_Z1wINWnqPna6yLTQ_v2BQw6xmJrAbwwvhKQqI5pytJcrY2DGFXchD83cfkbm-tBvGjM6tFl7Q1s0rDQu2be_OgJCgSohzN1QjMR/w400-h300/IMG_9783.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Throughout the night I heard a soft mist dapple my tarp. The soft hum strung me between that lucid state of sleep and being aware. I could feel autumn closing in, the chilly air swung down from the still bright moon, and I slept for the long of the night. I slowly came to from an endless dream of sleep, right before the hullabaloo of the kookaburra. I knew what time it was and began boiling some water. I understood the vacillating journey I was on. I went to bed full and empty and woke up partially both. For some reason I know deep in my heart the cranking of the pedals each day balloons me up. So, I took my time. I tuned my bike up, slowly packed everything up, and sat on a rock watching the brumbas, the Aussie version of a wild horse, grazing in the meadow adorned with a silvery sliver of fog. The nights were getting longer, the days shorter. I’ve gone from an autumn in the Grand Canyon to a summer in New Zealand and now back to an Autumn, just one in Australia. With these seasonal shifts not being of the normal swoon, I must take kind to my vacillations. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, I took my time. I continued watching the brumbas float across the meadow. The cockatoos sprung to life and the meadow broke its stranglehold of silence. A couple of cockatoos, white with their crowned feathers and greenish translucent wings, swooped in and around me. One fiddled with a pile of horse shit with its claw and beak, the other poked through the grass for anything mealy. Some magpies flew in and hung up in the broad canopy. They looked down on me and gazed with curiosity softly cawing their far out coo, a noise I cannot even begin to describe.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wrapped up the coffee session and cleaned up the cup, my peaceful moment over. The morning sun rays peaked over the snow gums and the fog formed wispy clouds showing the clash of heat and cold. I rode on down to the water source and tanked up. I stared a duck and a brumba. The duck quacked and flew off, the brumba neighed and bolted. I straddled my bike and took off across the Long Plain. In the sunlight glinting in the golden meadow, a herd of brumbas strutted, then galloped off. I was in a race of sort. The brumbas didn’t seem startled of me. They seemed goaded into power. I stood up and cranked, as the lead mustang wild galloped towards me whipping its mane and stomping the dry dirt and crusty grass. I came up on him, some 100ft away, his eyes glaring wildly as big as blazing fireballs. He darted off, caught right back up to the herd, and wrangled the group and branched a break across the dirt road and onto a horse trail that led up a hill and into a squatty snow gum grove. Pfft, like that, they were gone. And, I was heading on.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My quads are the cauldron, my heart the coal, my bike the steed, my mode of conveyance that ties it all together. I am not here to suffer; I am to cook, disperse my thoughts into the open space, incinerate black emotion and rid the filth. I must refill the heart with my ears and eyes, the pumping scenery driving by, full scale soul absorption, my heart pulsing forward. Sometimes I am not sure where I am at. The smell of peppermint rings effusively through my nostrils. I am in a globe where my heart sees past the permeating wall of sight and smells. All I know is that my heart is pushing me forward. I am not here to suffer. I’ve quit that, the suffering heart. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The days go by so fast, the nights so pleasurably long. Today, I veered away from the ‘tough as nails’ route. I understood what I really wanted at the junction. Strangely enough, I filtered through my wont to suffer and my need to fulfill my heart, unusual for me to do so for I am mule headed. The days go by so fast, the nights so pleasurably long. I just wish the twilight lasted longer than all of it. Empty and full at the same time, the end of day and beginning of night, the perfect balance of tranquility and moving forward, of a full spirit and a tired reality, of rest and progress.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I ended up in a pub/hotel in Tallangatta. I finally have figured out that a ‘hotel’ is a public tavern in disguise. Sure, there’s accommodation. Indeed, there’s food. Most importantly, there’s ice cold beer, legal betting hubs, and a place where the true local hang out. I asked the pregnant barkeep if a room was available. She set up with a small room, cheap, and slid me an ice cold pint of Carlton’s. I slugged the pint to my head, a refreshing reprieve from the scorching day outside. Sweat beaded down my neck, salty, but I could feel the AC flowing in. The pipes encasing the beer lines were frozen, my pint beaded with frozen water. This is what I am after, all of this. I thought of James, of seeking the sweet spot, and I knew my twilight tonight would be spent here in the hotel pub. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPm8F9b_9eCsUISyEXN--cjOwgNGEha824mL8vBgM-BErjx9Pjfev4oibBicNV9-ceEr54-8qQcyHRPUoND3ELjdyXDOigngCPPFvrz6KyHldFLou6pxeI0TWPlp8Tca0X1095v794LsFyICKHqDdP3pLdUR_uM8LjYD_59XcvPSnUCh7IobJHQcC/s4032/IMG_9736.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPm8F9b_9eCsUISyEXN--cjOwgNGEha824mL8vBgM-BErjx9Pjfev4oibBicNV9-ceEr54-8qQcyHRPUoND3ELjdyXDOigngCPPFvrz6KyHldFLou6pxeI0TWPlp8Tca0X1095v794LsFyICKHqDdP3pLdUR_uM8LjYD_59XcvPSnUCh7IobJHQcC/w400-h300/IMG_9736.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘What are ya gonna tell ya mum ya wanna be when ya grow up, boy?’ the friendly drunk told the boy sitting at the high table with him. Two other little boys chased after each other through the bar. On the betting tellies horse racing and dog racing took turns every 10 minutes or so. One big bloke kept his gaze entranced at the screens, every 5 minutes or so he placed a bet on the races. A few more road workers came in, a couple more women who were the mums of the boys running about. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Now ya know I wouldn’t lie to ya. Check the books,’ the big bloke spoke to the young lady who walked behind the bar to help out. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Are ya sure ya ain’t lyin’ to me?’ she belted out. She was thin, pretty, and wasn’t taking any lip from the ogre. A tall fella walked in with an infant in his arms, the husband of the lady who had just straddled the bar. He swayed the baby in his arms, cooing at her. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Tell your mum that when you grow up you want to be a gynecologist. That way you can play with your favorite toy all the time,’ the friendly drunk explained. The tall fella chuckled, his wife rolling her eyes. I delved into my fourth pint letting the cold liquid drizzle down my throat. I sat there observing life as is, as is of people I see myself in. Where is my place in this world? I fell back into the day, losing the aimless blurp into the present. I burped, looked around me, a loving semblance of family presided over this pub, an aura of community. I slurped another gulp and felt my mustache beaded up with the froth of lager. I felt my quads tense up, sore. So what if my route isn’t the toughest or the baddest. I ain’t trying to impress anyone. The hunt, the hunt is for the sweet spot. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I continued to sit at the high table. ‘Boy, what are ya gonna be when ya grow up?’<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The boy giggled, knowing he was being teased and loved, ‘A gynanacologist.’ The bar laughed, even the big bloke who had become belligerent. I chuckled to myself observing the scene, the innocence of the room, the normalcy. I pulled up the pint to my mouth eyeing the depth of the lager with my eyes seeing the lights of the bar blur through the wet glass. ‘So what if my route isn’t the toughest or the baddest. The hunt, the hunt is for the sweet spot,’ I think to myself. And, I go deeper thinking I finally understood what I’ve meant when I’ve said ‘to wander with intent.’ It means to play the twangy strings of the heart, to roam with the heart as the lead horse, no red line, no line at all, just the imprints of my heart on the land, the song of a wavelength permeating from the pulsing bloody mass, a primeval sonar guiding the way, a beacon of instincts that falls off the map; to be right here in this blocky pub sucking on a pint watching the world go by, the real world go by. Take the brain out, leave the heart in; mummify this body to contain a soul forever, something that lights it afire for all of eternity…the sweet spot. I finished off my beer and ambled up the stairs to my tiny cheap room. I fell asleep instantly. ‘Where will tomorrow take me,’ I murmured softly, ‘trust the heart again.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m not sure how this phrase popped into my head. Probably at a time I had the most questions about life and the direction I was going. Maybe the phrase was a synopsis of all the different readings I had done, picked apart all the musings that tied with my seedling beliefs. I believe it first came to me in Montana, then became a changed mantra in ‘13 while on the Vagabond Loop. Hell, maybe I heard it somewhere and became so consumed by it that I forgot where it came from. Shit, maybe I coined it. It feels so familiar to me, that’s all I know. It’s my phrase. I embody the essence of that phrase. The coyote, nothing is aimless. Shit, I’ve only marched to the beat of my own drum, yet maybe I hadn’t the understanding of truly what it meant to me until now.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left the hotel early, early enough to beat the heat. I followed rail trail and stopped at an overlook at a long bridge spanning an inlet of Lake Hume. A cyclist coming in from the other direction rolled by, then stopped. The usual questions came about. Where you headed? Where you come from? Where’s all your gear? The usual. Pleasant enough, the man and I spoke politely, nothing deep or anything. But, he did give me a route idea. He mentioned the Vic Divide 500. After he left I quickly googled it since I had heard of this route before and with the mentioning realized that I possibly could be close to it. Sure enough I was. I downloaded the route and scammed it quickly. Now I was onto something. I excitedly pedaled on to connect with the route. I rolled through Yackandandah and grabbed some lunch. I noticed mountain bikers out and about, whether having lunch, scooting around town, or cars fixed with bikes on racks. Again, I was onto something. Continuing on I found junction after junction of mountain bike trails. Eagerly I pushed on with the next moment I knew I was on the roller coaster crest of a range with sprawling views to the west. I rode on in absolute glee. One moment I’d be pushing hard up a steep quick ascent, the next I’d be flying down the opposite side ripping through the dusty road, the eucalyptus trees whizzing on by. I found myself wiggling my butt side ti side as I stood in my seat. The music was hitting me good, the roller coaster exhilarating. This is the fun I had been after. I rolled into a caravan park in Myrtleford and had 60 miles by 3pm. I could rest up a bit, staying disciplined on my body’s continuing and needed recovery, the mindset of pacing the journey all the way out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Myrtleford along quiet wine country roads. Trailing brush trucks hauling freshly harvested grape vines bounced and heaved down the highway, the pungent aroma wafting on by, each driver waving to me. This country, Australia, is so friendly, even more so the further into the sticks I get. Frequently I get waves, occasionally I get the toot toot of encouragement. Off-roaders will stop and ask me if I’m alright. Folks at the small town stores and shops venture over and chat me up. I rolled into Chestnut, a tiny town with a tiny General Store. I felt ‘out there,’ like Four Corners isolation. I chatted up the clerk a bit asking about her and the shop. I thought of my grandma for some reason, the stories she told me of tiny towns and shops back in the ‘50s and ‘60s. How she described the hospitality combined with the dustiness of those rural locales, I felt transported back in time. I lingered a bit in the shop inhaling the rustic beauty and serenity of small town quietude. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then, miles later, I stumbled into remote territory. On a vehicle-less road I plunged the pedals, churning the rods with assertive might, climbing gradually through tall groves of eucalyptus. I fell into an intoxication of focus coupled with the pungently aromatic groves. I felt like a wild animal on the hunt, the tranquility of the small town feel completely dissipated. The track got steeper, and I mean holier-than-shit steeper. I had to get off the saddle and push. I dug into the compacted dirt, in between the cantaloupe sized rocks as slippery as boulders, and heaved to bike upwards. The climb went on and on, endless, 4000ft of pure aggressive exhaustion and grit. I was sweating profusely even as I climbed into cooler temperatures. I started to get a chill as I achieved the summit, nearly tumbling and skipping on the loose hardscrabble cantaloupe boulders. I leaned onto the saddle of the bike and deeply breathed. I pushed upwards continuously, nonstop for a hour and a half. Now the sun was setting and views wide up high spanning forever loomed to the west, the shimmering rays greeting me with an ephemeral warmth. I was feeling ferocious yet relaxed, thirst and hungry, tired yet awake. What had me so unmotivated in Canberra now thrilled me. I didn’t mind suffering if it was unplanned. I simply dealt with whatever came my way then. I understood then, at the summit, that maybe I just wasn’t ready before. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Part of seeking the sweet spot is granting yourself a little bit of grace. Huh, maybe this whole damn trip is about trusting my heart again, a thought I seriously had not thought of since I left Colorado for the Grand Canyon back in late September. I just knew I had to go on something big. Across miles and miles traversing the length of the Grand Canyon and spanning the length of the islands of New Zealand, after enduring the immense sadness of last year, and here I am in Australia trying so hard to figure out the sweet spot of this bikepacking trip and this isolated thought flutters into my noggin. I realized then that I don’t want to suffer, on trail, off trail, wherever, I will not choose to ever again.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIqfdPV7BMDL34Gn_BZpnVMBtx3nyb5J0qMCY-QOPlgt2Yp7Cy9zXf00ZlBwWogoC5_dZnC65PoTR0nXC6zfQU-YrfVpQVn79r_DeQIsW7_0pJPabUrbACuLCfFfIkbyrR2A_DDoFCZL8rbXxhQwBkp44T6hOtLfxFnwNGCf9cgyMZZl6ajaH13Si/s4032/IMG_9770.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIqfdPV7BMDL34Gn_BZpnVMBtx3nyb5J0qMCY-QOPlgt2Yp7Cy9zXf00ZlBwWogoC5_dZnC65PoTR0nXC6zfQU-YrfVpQVn79r_DeQIsW7_0pJPabUrbACuLCfFfIkbyrR2A_DDoFCZL8rbXxhQwBkp44T6hOtLfxFnwNGCf9cgyMZZl6ajaH13Si/w400-h300/IMG_9770.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pushed on from the summit under a diminishing twilight, the fading rays of sun filtering through the snow gums. I wasn’t sure how far I was going. All I knew was that I needed to find a camp spot in a hurry. I trundled over the knobby road, my ass as weathered as a broken in catcher’s mitt, each bump feeling like an 100mph fastball straight to the palm. After a quick sandy downhill I bended a corner and found a hut, the dirt road now groomed with constant trampling. In the grassy clearing a small family, Daniel, Eliot and Willow, sat cooking and preparing dinner. The sight was a precious one: dad cooking a camp dinner for his young children as the sun was setting.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I creaked open the gate and greeted them. I leaned my bike against a wooden beam and asked if I could join them for dinner. We chatted, I got to know the kids who were so excited for dinner. Just a winding down the day type of conversation, innocent, genuine. They even offered up some fruit cake for dessert. Eliot cut me a fat slice and I wolfed it down. A diamond bright star emanated from a purple dusky sunrise. I pointed it out and we all sat silently gazing at the sparkling orb. A cold fell to the highlands, the grass getting damp, moist and sticky. We wished each other a good night and I set up my bedroll in the hut and let the darkness consume the empty space. The moon rose thinly and so the dark was getting near pitch black as my tired eyelids winched shut from a very long day.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HUwffzlPg3-w5NJ6uzjdV95vX68XI390MTM1q-wTCDqmc5hNN8BKIklYZOm2_n05bDnAjTWgZbcExX-Zjwl3Up8ywob99NZwV5Snj-giQYMcl7uoI-FMGSTSjaYDhhDNUAmMppsp4hSRTxl3MYSK8bmxRnwj5oRPmuIPsQOmW4HYkGp4j3SZDiP3/s4032/IMG_9775.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HUwffzlPg3-w5NJ6uzjdV95vX68XI390MTM1q-wTCDqmc5hNN8BKIklYZOm2_n05bDnAjTWgZbcExX-Zjwl3Up8ywob99NZwV5Snj-giQYMcl7uoI-FMGSTSjaYDhhDNUAmMppsp4hSRTxl3MYSK8bmxRnwj5oRPmuIPsQOmW4HYkGp4j3SZDiP3/w400-h300/IMG_9775.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I came to sweating, a warmer morning than expected. I had layered up too much. I looked around me groggily. I shined my head torch around the dark empty space, all around. I had to squeeze the sides of my eyes out from my wrangled sleep to spot a giant huntsman spider poised like a spread out palm, motionless and still on the beam way above me. I shivered even though I was sweating. I let my sleeping pad free of air. I had to get up. The warm breeze flew in and a lavender light shone through a square window in the dark hut. Something felt promising about the day, even though the giant spider made me quiver.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I ambled on over to the long drop. The long leaves of the snow gums flickered under the morning light and the branches oscillated with the warm breeze, back and forth, the sunrise through the snow gums, a few snags and petrified totems adorned and broke the peaceful sky, the striated silhouettes highlighted the reach for the sun, or what was left of the reach frozen in time. The purple hue of the sun rising is a very distinctive characteristic of the Australian bush sunrises, a stamp on the atmosphere, this particular place, similar to the steel blue of the Mojave sunrises. You see those colors no where else. I’ll remember this gorgeous walk to the long drop, probably the prettiest stroll to ever go take a crap.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I waved goodbye to Daniel, Willow and Eliot and pedaled on a less tumultuous road. A smoky haze highlighted the ranges to the east as the sunlight angled in through the skeleton forest. With the rising sun rose the pungent fragrance of peppermint too. I fell into a vision I have held for so many years, a dream I’ve held since I was a boy of exploring Australia. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I cruised onto the Mt. Buller area. Various land users were out and about—-overlanders, mountain bikers, dirt bikers, campers, hikers. I cruised on by amid the giant forests of eucalyptus, thick and tall, the trunks ripped on by me like pylons on a highway, the swooshing sound so constant like Steph Curry draining 3s. I careened around corners and bends, swooped on a downhill coursing from the summits to the Howqua River, a smile plaquered wife on my face. I felt like a dog with my head out the car window feeling the wind crash into my face my sweat the substitute for slobber. And then I had to start pushing, I mean pushing real hard the bike up a staircase hill. For 2 miles I pushed nonstop the 2000 vertical feet. Eventually, I reached a saddle directly under massive cliffs. I could pick the limestone bluffs through the trees. After a quick huff-and-puff I rode under the skyline of tall bluffs, Buller looming high like a proper alpine peak on the opposite side of the canyon. What took me so long to climb up I traversed along the ridge and then steeply descended a meandering about 10 miles in less time. Getting lower and lower I made it back to the Howqua River, the taller eucalyptus forests seemingly scraping the sky. It continued, the route continued to be relentless, the climbing never stopping. I had one final push up another staircase fire track. All the effort of the day was awarded with a fine cruise along a ridge line with the setting sun emanating the far western horizon, the twilight embellishing the layers of the mountains, the glow peeking up the canopy of the eucalyptus resembling broccoli florets. The dusty light created an endless vision to the western skies, warm and hazy, shadows and layers, the landscape basking in a refulgent effervescence. I slid into a sprawling campsite near the river, this one a bit more rowdy than the others, the smell of hamburgers punching me in the face. Pop rap, pop country, pop reggae, and just plain pop, all of the US, blared from various camps. Even though I fell short of my mileage goal, I had so much fun today. Now I can spend almost the whole day in the saddle. My butt is getting hardened. Hike-a-bike sections don’t intimidate me anymore. I found a quiet spot where the music lightly crescendoed through the giant eucalyptus. Fires fluttered all around, bright pockets of a warm glow. The voices muffled too. The night crept in deep smothering and diminishing the noise to distant echoes through the forest. The kookaburra began their raucous cackling so fitting for a campsite looking to party. The loudest of all, the kookaburra seemed to be having the most joyous of times. Nonetheless, the people were not far behind and the campsite danced into darkness, a celebration of the end of summer. Tired and amused, I fell asleep easily celebrating the end of summer, as well. I was content, comfortable, and smiling.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ah, the night came tumbling down with darkness. The blank trunks of the eucalyptus shown like a canvas displaying a movie in the park. There was no moon though. But, the campfires played a movie on the white trunks and dwindled with an uneventful ending. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYS9WEVZI08xbQaEIhVdZbqO7tmvqAwpIhPfA4GVPwi47aHoZTZpOwVhkvS6E5xS8p8jDO3ElV2DHqcf6pAoI9EcbCh3rIknol-EukAGy_64XB96axjyUF3qVgy_gH2qOyKGPs_3sIFpLMKfP4lQ1JhGibfCnPynrjlm4gxVBfZ1HqY4sJwXjCBQ16/s4032/IMG_9796.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYS9WEVZI08xbQaEIhVdZbqO7tmvqAwpIhPfA4GVPwi47aHoZTZpOwVhkvS6E5xS8p8jDO3ElV2DHqcf6pAoI9EcbCh3rIknol-EukAGy_64XB96axjyUF3qVgy_gH2qOyKGPs_3sIFpLMKfP4lQ1JhGibfCnPynrjlm4gxVBfZ1HqY4sJwXjCBQ16/w400-h300/IMG_9796.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Oh, the morning came trundling up from the hollowed depths of a river dale. I perked up early like the kookaburra. Everybody who has partied the night before still laid about in a simple drunken bliss. I looked to the trees first, then the sky. I left camp early before anyone stirred about, my neck craned to the canopy above. Fuck, can life be as simple as this. A light drizzle dappled the dusty road as I clambered from the mountains to the countryside. One may not know the difference. The eucalyptus are everywhere, no matter the elevation here, subtle differences only an expert could decipher. I just see the smell, one and the same regardless. I rode swiftly to Jamieson, a small town with a small general store. Another small town feel like the ‘60s, I chatted up the friendly clerk who happened to be from Montana, Fort Smith to be exact. She grew up on the Crow Reservation, so close to where I lived in Montana some many years ago, in Billings, moved to Jamieson 26 years ago. We giggled when I pronounced ‘to-may-to’ rather than ‘to-mah-to.’ Then we spoke about real small town charm, most of which is truly gone in the crowded US. That’s why she loves Jamieson so much, reminds her of slower times and a slower pace of life. We just have too many damn people in the States, we concurred. All that charm has been radicalized or yuppy-ized. The goodness of us all feels so separated from what has been established. I know there’s more land than people, but, hell, it feels like the opposite most days.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">After I ate 3 bacon and egg butties and drank two cups of coffee, the barista came over to talk. He was so proud to live there in Jamieson, his home for so long. He moved there from the coast 29 years prior after having met his wife whose father owned the general store back in the day. Him and his wife took over when her father died. He wanted to know about my bike trip, so we chatted about that. I asked him about Jamieson. He had been so busy when I arrived that I thought business was good. The two hour busyness snippet was no where near pre-Covid times. But, he felt busy enough. He was anticipating autumn right around the bend. He couldn’t wait fir the trees to change color. We shared a few laughs at how odd the world has changed since Covid, yet the seasons still stay the same, our inner clock still wired while our social programming majorly skewed. I enjoy these random conversations. I feel soothed by people content in life. From the party-going weekenders to the overlanders to the warrior cyclists to the small towners all living their life in contentment. This gives me hope, hope within a wandering life, hope for a wanderer ever in search of a home. Yet, I am very content as well. I’m just different. I’m not sure I can do what everyone else does. How simple is life while how complex it can be at the same time. I am doing what the heart desires, nonetheless. Maybe it’s a genuine connection with a random encounter that fills me with the most joy. Probably a common sentiment for most people of the world. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdGZKdv9bzFpBO4CI2-x23R2Cjhiay2-uR4OSGiB8xwxfkYNqsqODO4cUH7Zkz96C1zfBHEPJVOxGqUcaQNBcgZ4DDYl-ezDKAyQXFf3JKVvJeZDVR-YFUeI3dSMenCn_keAEav4ME8w8dOcefMQm4jrpMUntqGHXD4ZjhkGHCEuYshoBvfRlzyQv/s4032/IMG_9788.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdGZKdv9bzFpBO4CI2-x23R2Cjhiay2-uR4OSGiB8xwxfkYNqsqODO4cUH7Zkz96C1zfBHEPJVOxGqUcaQNBcgZ4DDYl-ezDKAyQXFf3JKVvJeZDVR-YFUeI3dSMenCn_keAEav4ME8w8dOcefMQm4jrpMUntqGHXD4ZjhkGHCEuYshoBvfRlzyQv/w400-h300/IMG_9788.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left feeling a bit chipper, most likely the caffeine cranking me up. A cloudy day, a reprieve from the heat and the blazing sun, so when I ascended a quiet country road I didn’t suffer too much. I pretty much motored up the 2000ft climb, then careened down hill on a luge course feeling the cool breeze rocking through my sweaty shirt. The quiet roads stretched on seemingly unending. Things were uneventful. Then, Big River Road undulated with the contours of the wide canyon, in and out of ravines and gullies. I felt so far away from everything. I figured most likely folks had gone home and left the weekend behind. Big River yielded big eucalyptus trees, and I mean enormous, mind bogglingly enormous. I slowed the pace down to admire the giant canopy. So impressed I laid in a desolate campsite in a patch of grass and just looked straight up. The giant totems reached for the sky so high and branched out that with the brilliantly white massive trunks I could imagine the earth spitting up a reverse lightning strike. Mesmerized after an hour, I kept up the lonely ride up the river valley, the forest getting thicker, huge ferns under giant eucalyptus, a jungle if I could call it that. A dampness settled in and cling to my gear and skin, a moisture starting to bead up on my hair follicles. A cloud layer smothered the ridge tops and I thought differently about forging ahead. I settled in a camp in another sprawling campground, this time I the only occupant, this time only the riot of the kookaburra, the buzz of mosquitoes, and the wind soughing through the tall eucalyptus stands; dead silence resided over the glen while the music of the weekend remained absent.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The hunt for Melbourne was on my mind as I fought the wind from extinguishing my cook pot flames. Up above the leaves of the giant eucalyptus shivered heavily with dew. Eventually, I was slurping up my pot of ramen. The heart and the drive remain separate, the tension of the two separated by what my heart wants. I must keep the two separate, the boundary to remain blurry, two levers that interact and balance each other. I just don’t want to hurry.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up early in a fluttering darkness. Moisture dappled my shelter from the jingling leaves above. The weight of water balanced with the wind melt a strict balance of order: not too damp enough to soak, and not too windy to chill the bones. I came out of the shelter in pre-light and boiled me some noodles with cheese. My body warmed up with the fog sifting lower and lower into the camp. Eventually, I got going and hit the top, a wide and flat saddle with a paved road intersection. The air cooled to a brisk temperature and I had to put on all my layers, as the downhill came swiftly enough. Lyrebirds, a slew of them, jumped out in front of constantly. Once I hit the valley floor I was dodging no more and hit my stride all the way into Melbourne. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">From Canberra to Melbourne, I combined the routes of the Hunts 1000, a gravel route from Canberra to Melbourne that I found on the internet, and the Vic Divide 500. I rolled through small towns like Cabramurra, Corryong, Tallangatta, Myrtleford, Yackandandah, Chestnut, and Jamieson along fire trails, gravel roads, rail trails, and remote paved roads. The bike is my mode of travel, from one place to another. I sit here in Melbourne having cycled a tad over a thousand miles. I think I’ve found what I’ve been after, that sweet spot. <br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy0kDUQL8aqup0dyQCjdUqurO9RDIegy0ifFTMalXfdCpbzNKR6lmGwRumEO0m0tat62OpsHfF-u34mZ1vXnuWQPtexCCK1EdWEPoWLBxdxGXpPvv4R8aZETDYT5c9W7OR606cYJQK2NY9DQGQGVUE9Betf3jrrdZ-53S8N9jW5e1Rnl2P5ObBmxg/s4032/IMG_9803.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy0kDUQL8aqup0dyQCjdUqurO9RDIegy0ifFTMalXfdCpbzNKR6lmGwRumEO0m0tat62OpsHfF-u34mZ1vXnuWQPtexCCK1EdWEPoWLBxdxGXpPvv4R8aZETDYT5c9W7OR606cYJQK2NY9DQGQGVUE9Betf3jrrdZ-53S8N9jW5e1Rnl2P5ObBmxg/w400-h300/IMG_9803.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Vh4af0UXqeKXoWrHDpPao6kLTXh2Ti8hr4wdjL9PjT8LqXO7c1XVXm1Jt_Gm2K54zNKIp4WCTQDWvW0zKOsLhZSOjeGNyLhZWm5nQQQ5Sg4pIO59DQ-8fAdeSoIhZ7aH_QHxbDXq-PZZep1CuVe8JzXPcOZPbEvzE-t9DBiZssOGVX0Juoo6E8CX/s4032/IMG_9697.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzdvf6QOt51njg4KoyFh7xCAZtUjFGgCGDEbF6CmadSuM955eun3YyQWqxa3BD-5JjnE7NxTUlCe0waF2b8lzMILXrHwLFrMS1c2f1O4pw7yokK19YzBxtz84P20KL7PYjFwm5icY_qMu47-LeboaY3oMyqgmbEJoF8xGBFWH-QNNH82qx7mlNsTQ/w400-h300/IMG_9792.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTL99x15jh174cl-z1KvkLAbD_yNugvQfn8pw3UlKGxJyeXsY1P-6G3FKYx0pDn9Wu7KxO3MZNMS_CRd77wAcYWG-oMp9c7SQdEL-Vt9zzryg4U9KxLxnLMc71jD4-BKdGBqaaOeh7pD_AZpfKg5kx1uwv-U320MgidpMdkmpoadQA-move9_5mJI/s4032/IMG_9802.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTL99x15jh174cl-z1KvkLAbD_yNugvQfn8pw3UlKGxJyeXsY1P-6G3FKYx0pDn9Wu7KxO3MZNMS_CRd77wAcYWG-oMp9c7SQdEL-Vt9zzryg4U9KxLxnLMc71jD4-BKdGBqaaOeh7pD_AZpfKg5kx1uwv-U320MgidpMdkmpoadQA-move9_5mJI/w400-h300/IMG_9802.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The Missing Piece:</b><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The first part of living with the heart is to find the heart. I think what I have been trying to say, what I have been observing in local pubs, looking for across the country while pedaling a bike; what I have been seeking, most likely in vain, is love, a love to fill the damn heart. I am not aimless, I am just empty. For a full year, slightly longer than a year really, I have been floating in isolation. I am not bothered by being alone. I prefer that actually. Yet I have felt so far away from everyone around me. Detached and drifting away not from a choice but from a tide of sadness. This wave of sadness balloons up unexpectedly usually after bits of positivity, after surges of energy. What normally has provided me with an escape from whatever affliction I am under has not hit the mark. I experienced the depravity of it all when I traversed the length of the Grand Canyon. I wanted to leave everything there in the deepest pit in the universe. I felt so compelled to fall away from everything. Not a day goes by since that hike in last October and November that I wish I wasn’t there all over again. There, in the deepest canyon in the universe, I could truly escape from everything, everything that had gouged out my insides. There, I could not feel anything anymore.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlpIv0qM1AdtBetLUvvbHan1RkdseAe3kyqM2QPq9ov8i7Q1AXPqDMj3ZPrAC6IAIE345zXJGhlVRSch48wEkd4FOPd9oysv7u-nhMDWBJent4NM3zTHIr37RpQDiz5QlWJ-jtEbm84VJFbsuhnf-XNGuZ-rr_8uMUEAvjMPGd0GhiXZUeU6yi513/s4032/IMG_9993.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlpIv0qM1AdtBetLUvvbHan1RkdseAe3kyqM2QPq9ov8i7Q1AXPqDMj3ZPrAC6IAIE345zXJGhlVRSch48wEkd4FOPd9oysv7u-nhMDWBJent4NM3zTHIr37RpQDiz5QlWJ-jtEbm84VJFbsuhnf-XNGuZ-rr_8uMUEAvjMPGd0GhiXZUeU6yi513/w400-h300/IMG_9993.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">While trekking across New Zealand I was still held under the swoon of the Grand Canyon. It was like I was numb. In Australia, I found myself in those painful bouts occasionally, drifting off again on some isolated tide of isolation. I mean, to be clear, this isolation is one I have created. This is not the solitude I crave. I mean, it came from somewhere, it came from a loss of love. Yet, I am compelled to truly seek physical isolation to combat it. I could sit in a pub and feel worlds away from everyone around me. It wouldn’t matter if I was home or away; I am in the same stagnation I was in last year at this time. Stuck, in pain, stuck in pain. Nevertheless, I can feel the pull of the physical isolation of the big red, just like the pull of emptiness the Grand Canyon provided me. I feel the pull of solitude. This type of physical isolation provides me with solace, a peaceful and calm smothering of an inflamed heart, a sobering reality of contentment. Until I am there, whenever I stop, whether for the night or a day or couple days, I truly find myself in pain. This is the condition I am in. I am having a hard time defeating it. However, I will keep going to the ends of the earth until I can fill the heart with love. That’s what I know the heart is telling me, instinctively I know.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It makes sense to me that I find myself in pubs, these family and community type of environments where the locals celebrate each other with love and cold beer. It makes sense I find myself surrounded by people living normal lives. I find a simple beauty in regularity even though it frightens me. Blast it all to hell, I found myself sitting in this pub hurting so deeply. The minute I stopped pedaling I fell away. I fell so far away with the tide coming in to swoop me off my feet and take me out to sea. I traced the great road of the southern ocean and felt the waves crashing against the tall bluffs. The coast, mangled and isolated, brought me deeper back to sadness. It seems like the ocean does this to me. Each day since leaving Melbourne I rode into a surf and coastal town to stay at a simple accommodation above a pub. Tourist families mingled with local families, surf bums danced with city dwellers, and I just felt gloomy. I know it’s the ocean, too. I know the ocean speed these gloomy feelings forth.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi867AVacmB_RnF2uQ7hlBouI_XbSkiFHtfT4hv25-BeWW93N3XWJZ2DVKRYIyLvdeHRV6UH8JumQi9-JQxZj4lZST6l6vEH9GcE4fkU3u-tSKZS7cofRuuWXiJTaarFQNk1NBUqtIJ9sTdKYDn4sxeMPa9Y7D2qMRBHavLmd0lLwcw1_IFmIIN6sUn/s4032/IMG_9845.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi867AVacmB_RnF2uQ7hlBouI_XbSkiFHtfT4hv25-BeWW93N3XWJZ2DVKRYIyLvdeHRV6UH8JumQi9-JQxZj4lZST6l6vEH9GcE4fkU3u-tSKZS7cofRuuWXiJTaarFQNk1NBUqtIJ9sTdKYDn4sxeMPa9Y7D2qMRBHavLmd0lLwcw1_IFmIIN6sUn/w400-h300/IMG_9845.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the southernmost pub in Australia, Apollo Bay, an old couple sat down across from me on some plush chairs. Crowds were grouped around various television corners that displayed their favorite Australian Rules Football team. The footy fans, adults and kids alike, cheered the teams on and roared with excitement on every score. One television even had rugby on. My head moved back and forth between the games. I studied the differences. The older gentleman leaned in over the noise. ‘I heard ya came on a bike. How ya goin alone?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I am. It’s all good. Nice and easy, don’t have to wait for anyone.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘On a push bike, yea? Prolly nice to have a motor bike, bloody hell. That’s what we got.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could only oblige obsequious platitudes until their meal came and they moved to a table. I sat around watching footy as the bar became really lively. A few more rounds and I felt bleary eyed from a long day riding along the coast. The coast just ate it out of me, not in the physical way, just the emotional way. I led myself upstairs to bed, lugging up the stairs with tired footsteps, the music pulsing through the floorboards, the walls pounding with the throbbing of the beat.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I took my time getting ready in the morning. I walked out to the bay and watched the sky light up. I was surprised I was the only one on the beach. Maybe the locals partied too hard, same with the tourists. The small waves lapped up onto the beach softly, the morning still, the early light emanating through the low mackerel clouds. The scene felt very uneventful. I made my way over across the street for another cup of coffee. I sat at an old wooden table and watched the sleepy town rise. Soon enough the people came out and I knew that was my signal to move on.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got off the Great Ocean Road and ascended into the Otway Forests. As soon as I hit a dirt track amid the eucalyptus giants the fog that has been suffocating me lifted. My focus on the weaving road took over. I could see the coast intermittently through the tall forests, but I found myself gazing upward into the canopy. For a few hours this went on. A cold sweat clung to my skin and layers. I shivered even on the climb. I passed by the biggest eucalyptus I had seen so far in Australia. The misty clouds touched the canopy. Huge slats and strips of thin bark hung from the trunk and large branches above. I stopped for a minute or so but left as soon as my teeth started clacking. I found my way through the high and long ridge road and hit a coffee stand at a junction of roads. I had a third cup of the day, this time more for warmth than anything else. I knew some weather was coming in, so I figured this was the cold pushing in. I hustled on into Port Campbell but not before pulling over at the 12 Apostles, a rugged coastline with spectacular buttes and spires detached from the mainland with wild raging waves crashing into the bluffs. Tourists flooded the hiking paths leading to the vistas. I had to partake in the dramatic scenery, too. I didn’t linger too long, so I continued with my hustling to town. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqUSe9Pd0GTLJwHmx4efRXcvk4Knl14VW1pWhNU6o6tcglJr_YDQA5327W5TGzIBNoQpZUylU6QeNM0dE2keXiAA4UWGQezYRlesuoNz1WmlymfFsl97pZNBPOcduWTNuYUKQq389orugvcJ_nFItrXPWIBIvwl_mpVvPJP85yGC8FtHVlaC55QRZ/s4032/IMG_9872.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqUSe9Pd0GTLJwHmx4efRXcvk4Knl14VW1pWhNU6o6tcglJr_YDQA5327W5TGzIBNoQpZUylU6QeNM0dE2keXiAA4UWGQezYRlesuoNz1WmlymfFsl97pZNBPOcduWTNuYUKQq389orugvcJ_nFItrXPWIBIvwl_mpVvPJP85yGC8FtHVlaC55QRZ/w400-h300/IMG_9872.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I arrived in Port Campbell mid afternoon and checked in at a lovely hostel above a brewery. Music blared from the park as I rode in. The charming and friendly host set me in nicely. She told me the festivities were for Cray Fest. I hurried up enough to take a hot shower and jog on down to the park. The food vendors had closed up shop but a band still played. I could tell it was winding down, so I wandered over to the only pub in town. Shawls, drapes, thin curtains, sarongs, and various other colorful thin tapestries hung from the ceiling that had been tacked in to look billowy. Because of the puffy draperies and the rainbow of colors, the vibe of the pub instantly felt energetic, lively, even robust, full of life. I pulled up onto a stool at the bar and let the night over take me. People from the festival staggered in. Before I knew the pub was full of teetering smiling people. A bartender cranked up the tunes. Everyone swayed to the music. I bantered back and forth with a couple of bartenders. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Chet? Short for Chester?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Nah mate. Just Chet.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ah, ain’t that a good thing. You don’t wanna be called Chester the Molester.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The other bartenders overheard this playful banter. The rest of the night the others called Chet Chester. The mass of people swayed throughout the surf pub. A couple of surfers tapped the ground in bare feet, others looked like grizzled fishermen. Pretty girls strolled about and danced within the throng of rosy cheeks. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You have friendly eyes,’ she said. I looked around me not playing dumb but looking dumb. I hadn’t heard a compliment on my physical appearance in ages. The woman from Hong Kong was on her third beer. Out of the corner of my eye I had kept track. I sat in the corner against a window so I could see the floor. She sat two stools over, so it wasn’t hard for me to observe her. Ruby invited me over and bought me a pint. Friendly conversation ensued. We flirted but in a friendly manner, mingling in unison with the vibe of the bar. Suddenly, the mix was around us, the pulse of music ripping through my brain, the two of us laughing at her cats responding to her voice through the camera set in her living room. We watched the fluffy critters on video on her phone. I don’t know, it was just a simple buzzed conversation in a crowded and jovial bar. I noticed her long and slender fingers as she reached over to softly rub the back end of her hand against my beard. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You look young,’ Ruby said. I scoffed it off playfully knowing that she was being nice. I have way too much salt and pepper spread throughout my beard. She told me how she was named and why she came up with the substitute name of Ruby. ‘Glowing snow in spring,’ she said, ‘My mother that I looked like spring snow on top of a red tulip when I was born. So, I took Ruby.’ I bought another round for Ruby. I glanced up at the fluttered movement of the tapestries tacked to the ceiling. The pub heaved with the rhythm of the music and the people. In the pub things felt alive, the people even more so. Then, life was brilliant.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before long I realized it was close to midnight. A thick drizzle had begun to fall outside. I had reached my limit. I wanted this night kept in this pub where laughs, music, conversation, and the beer flowed. So, unexpectedly, to me and her I think, I got up. I waved over to Chet. ‘Hey, thanks Chester!’ She finished her beer and we left the pub together. Outside in the center of the roundabout, we went in opposite directions. ‘Thank you Ruby,’ I said, ‘Goodnight.’ I wasn’t disconnected from the moment. But I knew I wanted to wake up alone. We were simply two strangers passing each other by in the strait. I wanted my heart placed in earnest. Heartbreak is love without a place to call home. I need my heart to find a home, not a bed for the night. The drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Droplets of water streamed down my face, as I walked down the dark street to my room. The next day had an all day rain forecasted. I smiled to myself. I knew I had that night full up inside me. That was enough, just a glimmer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got up bleary eyed, too early for the hangover. I forced myself to walk over to the bakery to get a strong cup of coffee. I then strolled over to the bay. The sea raged, the winds coming in from the southwest, spindrift blurred the morning air, a powerful mist blew into my face; I remembered last night. I swayed to the memory of music with my feet in the sand, my toes gripping for balance. I watched the tide come in from the draining ocean. I felt the wind slap my face. I threw my hood on and set back to the hostel. Inside I found a large jigsaw puzzle of the Great Ocean Road area. I grasped my head around the area, eyeballing where I had pedaled from. I sat down and killed a couple of hours before turning my hangover and focus to summer hiking plans. I bided my time on a day I knew would not be fun to pedal in. I absorbed the scene of the coast that day. I wasn’t necessarily gloomy anymore. I was drained emotionally, yes, but I was present. I knew I wouldn’t see the coast for a long time coming. I wanted my memories to be held in that warm pub. And, that’s where they sat. Perhaps I should allow my heart to race, a whispered thought drifting in with the next frothy round of waves.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The morning drizzled with rain and anxiousness. I was ready to go. I just had to wait for the coast to grant me a window. Once it did I struck up on the pavement and headed north and out from the coast. I ran into two road workers who immediately stopped me to see what the hell I was up to. Both the blokes busted my chops, teasing me in a friendly manner. I dished it right back. In a short five minutes I shared more laughs with them than anyone on the whole trip, save for the Chester moment. The older bloke reached his hand out as he motioned with his other for a big rig to stop. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Well, I’d like to shake ya hand, mate. Bloody damn big balls ya got.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I reached out and squeezed his calloused palm. I shoved off with a smile wide as the whole southern coast. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Give it hell, mate!’ he yelled.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, I was off into the flat plateaus of farmland, the wide open mesas of open country. The open skies shifted my mood almost instantaneously. I sliced through the clouds above me, perceptibly splitting the coastal skies into prairie skies. I was no longer smothered by the dismal coastal gloom. I could see the tiled stratus clouds steadily moving in unison. I had this image head of the coast probably spurred on by Jack Kerouac. I imagined the Dean Moriarty character standing atop a dock, leaning against a salt tarnished, in thick mist on a bleary San Francisco night, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as he gulps a bottle of port wrapped in a brown bag, his brow furrowed with sadness, of desolation, the look of being misplaced in this world. Hell, maybe it was an image of my derelict father who roamed desolate streets for 20 years homeless. Hell, this image frightens me. Am I the one to go down a dark and distant path heading out to a foreboding sea of desolation? Most importantly, I harkened this image as an immense state of sadness. And, now I shifted the tune while these high plains wide open with massive skies sliced whatever dismal attitude I had been cavorting with. Yes, yes it was a dance with sadness. I must forge ahead and into the endless sky.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxIal1zInZHLLlxbyZqUN4Ys3cG5S51UMO8cH5J-wKyMWEBAdfRNu17DPEvRKu_IOAcVJS7eUeLu5mlJ4K1s0jnanw9ybawMSDz-ziWfNn-BamH5sUZNfzBlLYM4guTMuWN2qIbfFgGR6IRWlrgfsJK_0Rr9rDSnALP5KxmwqXRDQ94JvDgFYYbCe/s4032/IMG_9898.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxIal1zInZHLLlxbyZqUN4Ys3cG5S51UMO8cH5J-wKyMWEBAdfRNu17DPEvRKu_IOAcVJS7eUeLu5mlJ4K1s0jnanw9ybawMSDz-ziWfNn-BamH5sUZNfzBlLYM4guTMuWN2qIbfFgGR6IRWlrgfsJK_0Rr9rDSnALP5KxmwqXRDQ94JvDgFYYbCe/w320-h240/IMG_9898.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>I entered a kaleidoscope of eucalyptus, a corridor of fragrant trees arching over the rail trail. The meager gradient made the corridor spin with the long thin leaves and the smooth tan, grey, and white striped trunks of the trees. I spiraled in a pedaling trance beelining in a perfect exactitude of straightness, transported through a mood portal that relinquished the morose state I had been in. Then, suddenly, POP! I was out, free, and into the wide open. I had to adjust my eyes. I wriggled a knuckle against the crease in the side of my salt varnished eyes. After the salt cleaning, I squinted properly and narrowed my vision further into the distance, a grey wall no longer a hindrance. I’m sure the long straightaways of isolated road pushed me on. Each rise and ride to the next horizon was compelling. I lulled into a rhythm with only the sound of me pedaling and the wheels spinning in the road. I barely saw a vehicle the last half of the day. A sweeping silence fell onto the dry grassy expanse, as did the sun. The western sky was off to my left. Towering cloud funnels of flies billowed into the shimmering sky backdropped by permeated sunlight filtering through the stratus clouds. Towers and towers of the fly twisters had suddenly become omnipresent. Everywhere I looked the funnels shimmered in the cascading light, morphing dust devils alive with a frenetic twisting pulse spiraling up from the ground. I cycled on by with the glittering funnels tantalizing my vision with little sparklers. I rode into the tiny town of Skipton and headed straight to the oval for the camping reserve. Houses blocked around the oval and a couple of caravans had set up. The fading sunlight reflected off the half moon in which the brilliant white hung in stark contrast to the orange and purple hues of the sun setting. A tall caravaner slowly walked over to me. I sat in an empty netball court in the bitumen overlooking the oval. Stadium lights towered straight up, the long craning necks trying to glimpse the last pink rays. I looked up at the tall man who now stood like a stadium light tower. He had brought me over leftovers from him and his wife’s dinner. I was touched by their thoughtfulness. He scooped the leftovers onto my titanium cup and we chatted about our travels. We wished each other a good night and I dug into the flavorful curry. I observed the light sinking behind the pointy pine trees. I could feel the silence taking hold. I sat there on the barren paved court until the sun was gone. Dogs barked in the echoing distance, a desert like solace encumbered the vastness of the plains and the tiny town. It felt like any little movement I did echoed like those dogs barking. I tiptoed to my tarp and tried to muffle the zipper. Wispy clouds moved in and the last of the fading pink light dappled the tips, the remaining hope for another day.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOWdwzv_Gf3GJcTFoUs5aUSMBa1jbdJ-N8Wx0Zv-ACH4_V5IDx5zzWmUqeYLDcUFIQZPty5eYM10kuVxoYkfheKd8fiN4GvSfc0p2iGNNvqK2G_O9MYyq164UxjEhDxhlmofj6MxmDVGCbisjhWIz7rvPmrc8akdeLvL6VFan_aZ78QTaWaGJMPSG/s4032/IMG_9905.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOWdwzv_Gf3GJcTFoUs5aUSMBa1jbdJ-N8Wx0Zv-ACH4_V5IDx5zzWmUqeYLDcUFIQZPty5eYM10kuVxoYkfheKd8fiN4GvSfc0p2iGNNvqK2G_O9MYyq164UxjEhDxhlmofj6MxmDVGCbisjhWIz7rvPmrc8akdeLvL6VFan_aZ78QTaWaGJMPSG/w320-h240/IMG_9905.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>The next morning, a thorough drizzling of the grounds persisted, enough to keep everything damp and cold. My fingers stuck together, all my gear was soaked. I carried on into, however. The wind pattered my face with tiny droplets that felt refreshing. I wasn’t cold, just comfortably warm and clammy. Along a quiet road I dodged tiny frogs brought out with the dampness. I weaved in between and around thousands of tiny pink frogs. For a few miles this went on until I ascended a flat rise where the frogs no longer appeared on the road. Now tiny pink snails littered the road. Some were smushed, most were slowly slithering across the wet road. I weaved in between them as well. These little creatures I couldn’t fathom destroying haphazardly. I continued on swiftly with an intense focus not to crush any cephalopod or amphibian. I almost lost the focus because of the intense aroma of the damp eucalyptus lining remote country roads. Finally I had to merely stop just to soak it all in through the olfactory senses. The aroma was intoxicating and I couldn’t weave through tiny snails and frogs anymore drunk off eucalyptus. Of course, after a sobering spell, I regained my focus and the sun peeked through the clouds and mist and the day began to warm up and dry out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The humps of the Grambians had been in sight since yesterday as soon as I ascended to the top of the flatlands. Now, the Grambians loomed really near. I could see the bulwarks of red sandstone cliffs, a mega-escarpment shooting straight up over the plains below. The surrounding area became heavily forested and thick with bush. Dead kangaroos became a common sight, dead on the side of the road, mauled and massacred. I knew I was getting into tourist country. I chose some backroads to within a reasonable distance of Halls Gap, the station pocket of the whole park. Huge mobs of kangaroos, the size of a large elk herd, grazed out in the grassy pastures just outside the limits of Halls Gap. Emus pecked at the ground among the mob. The scene felt exotic. Little tiny kangaroo heads stared at me with tiny little black bean eyes, glassy enough to appear lamenting. Joeys hopped about or lounged in the grass. The emus moved elegantly like dancers through a crowd at a big party. I got to the eco-hostel and settled in. Then, I walked to town a kilometer away. Suddenly, I was in a thick forested area with a huge tall canopy, a creek ran by babbling softly cluttered with decaying leaves. Precipices of sandstone, immensely high and painted with the bright patina of lichen backdropped the tiny town. Cockatoos and parrots squawked uproariously flying in between the canopy, as I held my head upward trying to let my eyes follow the chaos. The abundant magpie flew from tree to tree, lawn to lawn, looking for a feeding opportunity, their psychedelic twangy song serenaded the forest. Aye, what holds it altogether for me is a sense of place, that magical philosophy where one is intimately connected to a landscape. Even just a sliver of connection has me intoxicated. I know nothing of this area, but I can feel the connection seeping through my skin cells. I was back in solitude and it felt wonderful. Whatever pain I had on the coast had subsided with the ebbing tide and now I was glommed over with a calming grounding and humility. I was grateful to be where I was in that moment. Through all my travels within wide open landscapes, I tend to find my inner sanctum. It’s the scene, the set up, the stage, the classroom, whatever you want to call it. It’s my processing, my learning style, my interpretation of the world around that feels fulfilled within a certain vastness of landscape. I am sure my gloominess brought out with the ocean is spurned on by my lack of knowledge and understanding of such a place. I get it. I also get I understand deserts and mountains more. I get it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVRfSvhY8Qc5jEAoXPdsbaHepY-6ytzbWsn1G1lbLuIm_2Dg0Gr5ubLVT62KrTa_cCguEBgGoGKNcBT5tNKt7wcyfcyeFTAA7duDB8u_NPAaYR-X64huzyu0WCoI1ACq7_MID7eOJ7ZRlwHYN-YDjASzjZSGLOabypIXby5urBOqZa8_VBeLga1xV/s4032/IMG_9912.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVRfSvhY8Qc5jEAoXPdsbaHepY-6ytzbWsn1G1lbLuIm_2Dg0Gr5ubLVT62KrTa_cCguEBgGoGKNcBT5tNKt7wcyfcyeFTAA7duDB8u_NPAaYR-X64huzyu0WCoI1ACq7_MID7eOJ7ZRlwHYN-YDjASzjZSGLOabypIXby5urBOqZa8_VBeLga1xV/s320/IMG_9912.HEIC" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">Both places I have to grapple with what exists inside me. That grappling is not equal, however. My mind is quiet out here, calm and clear, lucid, a blank slate. I feel like I could see forever. This is part of my journey, I get it too. I set out to endure whatever pain I have, to endure everything alone, whether in advantageous environments or in a gloomy milieu, whether in a good mood or in the desolate depths of a depression. It’s all part of it. My aim is to endure this alone using the heart as guidance. This missing piece in my navigation is the heart. This is about picking myself back out of the muck, about learning to love myself, getting back out into the wide open to reassess myself, to reconvene why I am out here. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am here alone by choice, although I am here to absorb and feed off the world outside of me in places I am unfamiliar with. I need the outsourcing of observation and love from a world around m to fuel a world within me. I want to be inspired. Random encounters fill this aim, local pubs too. I reminded myself of this. Sometimes it’s the ocean, hopefully most of the time is either eucalyptus forests, the mountains, and the Outback. There’s a sweet spot to be found anywhere, certainly. Isolation is a gift. The absence of love is the cancer. I just know the majority of this journey will be alone, me, myself, and I; my experienced self and my fragile emotional self, my open self; my brain and my heart and my being.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9jpytPtLlzrksldzUoJQ3P4RDPTectyIgKo5qW2j8PBQmuBQjBYHAzUFSp0Tza8w3ZlrrpNQtxrzWjof_iwrJri4Uopk_5NIq31uPdUsf5X-qNyf8UMfBoaP2wTb_eXBcxq6BnPwwHPyYDdI44ZbwGEd-MbrGeUHX6gM8kzVh2exf40jvfLZt5yq/s4032/IMG_9919.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9jpytPtLlzrksldzUoJQ3P4RDPTectyIgKo5qW2j8PBQmuBQjBYHAzUFSp0Tza8w3ZlrrpNQtxrzWjof_iwrJri4Uopk_5NIq31uPdUsf5X-qNyf8UMfBoaP2wTb_eXBcxq6BnPwwHPyYDdI44ZbwGEd-MbrGeUHX6gM8kzVh2exf40jvfLZt5yq/w400-h300/IMG_9919.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Halls Gap under blustery skies. It was cold and rainy. I zippered up my rain coat, threw on my thicker gloves and pedaled until I got out of the foggy cloud layer. I couldn’t see anything anyways. Plus, no one was on the thoroughfare cutting through the park. I could only glance at the shimmering slabs of giant rock. I could only scan the forests. It was so cold I could only push on to keep warm. With a day like this I headed to the nearest big town some 50 miles away of Horsham. I got in early and decided to utilize this half day as a rest and chores day. I finally got to wash laundry. The innkeeper was so excited to ask me questions about my trip. I hadn’t spoke of it in length in a long while. I hadn’t spoke about myself in a long while too. I tell you what, it felt good. The innkeeper looked so amused. He did my laundry for me free of charge. The next morning he brought me a big Aussie breakfast again free of charge. I couldn’t believe it. It’s so fascinating when adventuring how things can change so fast. Certainly those changes can be life threatening or dangerous. But then you have the simple and unexpected veering offs, little things that being the most joy. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewCUTw74udvmIzBwVTIuLihVzxsdGKXInbCQvgUidUNGrsQTsAGpTk0p2pPbBqS86EnoFixvCywE3TCcTuwNXEOw_Z-yplzIfYTdOluOqGwXaKOETf7s17TA7p3wweQ0WN-47cjpBKguWju3mN_XlNHOW_yebMcQ4BRTNg3S0fBaERBV8XpPuzgBO/s4032/IMG_9953.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewCUTw74udvmIzBwVTIuLihVzxsdGKXInbCQvgUidUNGrsQTsAGpTk0p2pPbBqS86EnoFixvCywE3TCcTuwNXEOw_Z-yplzIfYTdOluOqGwXaKOETf7s17TA7p3wweQ0WN-47cjpBKguWju3mN_XlNHOW_yebMcQ4BRTNg3S0fBaERBV8XpPuzgBO/s320/IMG_9953.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">For some unknown reason, the next day I rode 115 miles in one push. I am certainly capable of such a tally, even capable enough for consistent high enough averages. Yet I have refrained but pushing too hard. I tend to organize each day by what the landscape gives me, keeping on open mind on an open road. The wind was favorably at my back, the roads so straight and so lonely that I just went for it. I found myself in the twilight, my favorite time of the day on this whole Australian adventure. The sun rays flickered through the mallee gum forests, the constant farmland becoming scant. Huge swaths of stratus clouds smeared the giant sky, the light spreading spectacularly. What an incredible sight to see. I wasn’t too sure what I would find ahead. I wasn’t positive about camp, or dinner, or the tiny little dusty town I was nearing. I just loped along in the lovely twilight. I got to a sign near the turn off: SILO FART TRAIL. The ‘F’ spray painted in, a perfect sense of humor. I chuckled and snapped a photo on my bike under the sign. I had a good feeling.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hit the outskirts of Patchewollock, maybe two blocks from the center as small as it is. A young red headed lad rode up on a tiny bike and wanted to race. He zipped ahead to the pub, his other two buddies hanging outside. Maybe one of these turkeys sabotaged the sign. I liked them before they even said a word to me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The portly lad with the Flash shirt on asked me, ‘Where’s the accent from?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Colorado. You dudes hear of it?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Yea, mate. Denver. And South Park. That’s our favorite show.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Is that an e-bike?’ the scrawnier kid asked. This question comes up so much, almost as much as ‘are you a Trumper?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Nah,’ I told him, ‘it’s a push bike,’ a phrase I’ve come used to calling. I asked them what was good to eat, if this place was as cool as it looked. Cheerily they added: hell yea, mate. It’s good fun.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I followed the sign with the pointing finger ‘THIS WAY FOR BEER.’ I pushed the bike around a corner and found the patio area with all the locals hovering about outside. This scrub town of Patchewollock, or Patchy for short, has a population of 133. Out here in the dry and arid Mallee scrublands this tiny town vibrates with a tough and raspy personality, light hearted but tough like a good pair of jeans. I bet every single one of these Patchy’s were at the pub. A town that used to flourish with prosperous wheat and sheep raising, now the water has gotten scarce and the locals have as many wrinkles from the sun as the land does. The sheep are still here, they still have that. But, their wheat crop doesn’t yield what it used to. Their small rural agricultural way of life has almost become instinct. The pub acted as the town hall, the community center, the bar, the hotel, the only restaurant in town, the babysitter, the park, the playground, the rest stop; this pub is everything Patchy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidJX4z1bqYxf7kbzcf_5OZrEuDkoQjm4EhdLtV9dwr4P_Vyps7tVd6RT2ciqbV4uJwaHEtDOqXHfOrxh75QVTDliwoWE3odQBiCDjy2TQDbAIM-XsRP8Tfwu4Y5vdseL2o1rNmtuEpDauhAY6c8CyB8msLElXeUXmftN-LQ8IKzLGeeGfS963o746L/s4032/IMG_9968.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidJX4z1bqYxf7kbzcf_5OZrEuDkoQjm4EhdLtV9dwr4P_Vyps7tVd6RT2ciqbV4uJwaHEtDOqXHfOrxh75QVTDliwoWE3odQBiCDjy2TQDbAIM-XsRP8Tfwu4Y5vdseL2o1rNmtuEpDauhAY6c8CyB8msLElXeUXmftN-LQ8IKzLGeeGfS963o746L/s320/IMG_9968.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pushed through the doors. The doors swung back into the glaring sun, a worn creaking on the swiveling. The rafters reached high into an a-frame ceiling. Newer beams hung in a fresher gleam, less varnished from time. Blades from plows decorated in bunches of fours, rusting and showing what this place represents. Large splintered yokes hung up high too, dull scythes were tacked and nailed up, the leather strapping dry and torn, jerkied, sun bleached. Other agricultural tools, rusting and splintering, implements I have no idea what to call, lined the banister of the bar, the top of the bar, the walls, the beams up high, everywhere implements of the way of life decorated the interior. You could envision the wrinkled brow and calloused hands of the people. This place had the homey feel of a rural Irish pub combined with an eastern Montanan roadhouse—-part cowboy, part rancher, part farmer, part time mechanic, part time roughneck, full time boozer, full time family and community. A chattering crowd hummed as I moved to the bar, to a corner, to get to the bartender. I found her pouring whiskey straight into a Coke can.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Well, that gets straight to the point,’ I said loudly. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">She laughed, ‘That’s how we go around here.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ9CGcbuH17Xkmmft_gs6WchgZowUQgQ7eHjmmLlAMMMWv8ixZx5IxqDdTi62ptIoPTQpkruIXFGh96KbhO5gHYtEOaO0EdAvggbv-bVYRyf27H9aoMu1SFhaIS17daW5SWBFDjbQNYtUYcXaMqVnNBo6S7XNnqk0tdiqcDMCeGwYjxWN6wt4SAJU/s4032/IMG_9967.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ9CGcbuH17Xkmmft_gs6WchgZowUQgQ7eHjmmLlAMMMWv8ixZx5IxqDdTi62ptIoPTQpkruIXFGh96KbhO5gHYtEOaO0EdAvggbv-bVYRyf27H9aoMu1SFhaIS17daW5SWBFDjbQNYtUYcXaMqVnNBo6S7XNnqk0tdiqcDMCeGwYjxWN6wt4SAJU/s320/IMG_9967.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">She poured me a pint from the frozen tap. Everywhere I go to in Australia the tap lines are always visibly frozen, a thick layer of ice encapsulating the metal that leads to the spout. No matter how run down a place is or how new a place is, the taps are always frozen, icily cold, and appear spanking new. Every time I pull an ice cold beer to my lips I can taste the freshness, not flat, not stale, just crisp and clean and damn cold, cold enough that I have to watch how big my gulp is so I don’t get a brain freeze. There’s a matter of pride going into the working person who has earned an ice cold beer. Hard work is respected, money is hard earned. So, the beer better be damn good. These pubs aren’t just an establishment to make money. Sure, that’s an objective. But it’s not evident as the first objective. The locals come first, the community, the people. No matter where I go in the beautiful country: ice cold frozen taps. Emblazoned in ice, the bartender pours a frothy pint. The bartender slides over the pint to the patron. It’s just as good as saying I Love You.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I thirst for ice cold beer. A weary traveler ending a long day my first thought is of an ice cold pint of lager. It feels customary, a commercial in my head where a bead of sweat crawls down my temple, I raise the dewy pint up to my parched lips, I can feel the cold emanating from the glass, my grip thawing out a frozen bead of water; I pull the icy glass to my lips and take a pull. I can envision the travel of the gulp heading down my gullet and cooling off my whole system, the coolant of life in the Outback. Nonetheless, the reality of it, of sliding up to the pub and ordering a beer is to feel loved, to connect with the people. Having that first big gulp is me trying to communicate I Love You back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9u5lSZbFUhStHInfD1Sbs424NkqwdgCHueKkl8o-yC2ObW2Wlon5QCpU19PhY4zGxtKbLGICglgV5zCqEsq7WfFxxQ3Zu-hsXVyIklRJ_RsPexyzlIgT-wKdqVm0Qbk9KfdpvWYbD8g2R1-2O8GulQLlmw9gr5SfXTX8FiOKXqvqdUAygP2esCP7/s3660/IMG_9958.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2899" data-original-width="3660" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9u5lSZbFUhStHInfD1Sbs424NkqwdgCHueKkl8o-yC2ObW2Wlon5QCpU19PhY4zGxtKbLGICglgV5zCqEsq7WfFxxQ3Zu-hsXVyIklRJ_RsPexyzlIgT-wKdqVm0Qbk9KfdpvWYbD8g2R1-2O8GulQLlmw9gr5SfXTX8FiOKXqvqdUAygP2esCP7/s320/IMG_9958.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The bartender set me up with my room. She led me down a corridor lining a courtyard with a tiny in-ground pool tucked in the middle, the water level on halfway. I followed her with beer in hand. I swaddled after a short ways to the room. I wouldn’t be far from the pub, stumbling distance for sure. I cleaned myself off and sat down at a table to eat at the cafe attached to the pub. The specials were a hot item: sausage schnitzel with mashers and veggies, and bolognese with meatballs. I went with the latter option, the slender kid out front told me that was what he liked the best. As I sat waiting the door to the bar swung open and a man teetered in. He had that drunk face: red cheeks and nose, puffy, bleary eyes, and a wry smile. He came directly over to me, like as if he had been waiting to get a chance to chat with me. I could tell he had sought me out. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ya goin, mate? Where’d ya come from today?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ya goin,’ I said back, ‘Horsham.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Bloody hell that a long way,’ his eyes bulging out, his stance swaying. We got through the chit chat and he laid a question on me, one I was waiting for.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘So, mate…’ Here we go, I thought.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Are you a…’ Here it is, another damn Trump question. The indictment is happening, this must be it. I could’ve sworn I saw him mouth the word slowly: Truumpper.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘So, what’s ya thought on the Paltrow case? Ya been following that?’ I could tell right then and there this wrinkled, tough and weathered old man was savvy. I had told him I was from Colorado. He didn’t even touch on the usual US politic bullshit. I chuckled out loud. I hadn’t paid attention to the case, only hearing this and that from news outlets.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ha, no I haven’t. But I heard she’s suing back for $1.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We both got a good laugh out of it. My buzzer went off. My food was ready. He told me to seek him out later. I nodded as I walked away. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">After dinner I strolled back over to the bar. I sat down on a free stool away from the crowd. The bartender came over and handed me a pint on the house. Eagerly and grateful I gave her a giddy ‘Cheers!’ The bloke next to introduced himself. Mick was traveling around on his Harley. From Adelaide he makes occasional jaunts out to the Outback to see new sights, old relics, old railways, old mines, salt flats, whatever tickles his fancy. A retired railway engineer, Mick was well spoken, intelligent. He didn’t have the same rough-around-the-edges slang the usual rural pub-goer exhibits. We got to chatting about his travels. He even showed me pictures of the Outback, my heart thumping out from under my shirt. I slammed down the first pint, then the second. Mick ordered another Jim Beam. The bartender gave me a twist of the arm gesture with a wink. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You definitely don’t have to twist my arm,’ I told her, ‘Keep ‘em coming.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">She giggled at me, ‘Right’o.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mick continued showing me pictures of the landscape on his iPad. I was mesmerized. I was taken back to the hinterlands of barren Nevada and the red Utah. Suddenly, a bloke stood up on the brick bench wall next to the chimney. The point bloke went into pulling tickets for a raffle as an intermission. The winning raffle ticket gave away a couple of meat trays and sausage racks, all proceeds going to the pub.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Who’s Allison?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Aye, it’s me!’ a bloke yelled out, the bar falling into an instant mad craze. The handlebar mustache bloke in the ten gallon hat nearly fell off his stool. His right arm shot up and back as if he was riding a bucking bronco. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Now give Allison the sausage rack she won,’ he blurted, the bar falling into a feverish laughter, the cacophonous hullabaloo echoing into the empty streets. After a few more pulls and winners the murmuring in the bar raised, a steady hum of palpable tension. The people were anxious. The ambience was as thick as the ice covering the beer taps.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hey-o! Attention! Alright alright, let’s get us started,’ his drawl slurred, slow and fierce. Mick put away his iPad, I ordered a quick pint figuring the bartender’s attention would be disposed of for who knew how long. The bloke went into a slurred speech about the Patchy pub and the town of Patchy. Some blokes who sat around the bar slurringly chimed in at key points. <br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I mean the Japanese would put money into this place. They’re not bad people, but they ain’t from here,’ a sun drenched mop tussled in.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Aye,’ added another chiseled face painted red with booze, ‘Aye, what do we gotta pitch in to make it work?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The point bloke went into it. A hubbub roared up into the rafters. ‘Shut it!’ ‘Calm down, one at a time!’ I watched intently, mainly eyeing the lip movement to hear what they were saying better. My ears had begun to ring with the few pints and 115 miles from the day under my belt. Couple that with a slurring Aussie accent and I had to pay attention. A steady blare hummed in the bar, the tension high. The point bloke regained his balance, his face bleary, seen some sun and seen some whiskey. He spoke up as he staggered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘We gotta keep it for us,’ the Aussie emphasis on ‘for.’ I could pick out the phrases from the drunken murmurs. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How do ya reckon?’ one added.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘With what feckin’ money?’ another blurted.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The bloke to the right of me put his pint back down to the bar with a slap, empty. The bartender quickly filled him up. His flannel looked tattered and dapper at the same time. His giant calloused hand gripped the schooner. His beach blonde hair whipped up and with a twitch of his neck his voice boomed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Get back on with it, mate!’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The pub went still, like the moments after the earthquake finally stops, the tinkling of trinkets left to sway from the shaking chaos. The point bloke still stood up on the brick bench next to the chimney. He swayed with the drunken wind borne of the pub, the intoxicating miasma of the old wood infused with booze since God knows when. He swayed and began to orate. He got into deeply, almost eloquently save for the occasional slur of a word. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. The town hall meeting was happening right then and now on a Friday evening in a tiny dank and dark pub. The whole town was there, the leaders all leaned up around the bar. I could feel their passion, their love for ‘this.’ I looked around in amazement at ‘this.’ My eyes widened. All these people were salt of the earth characters. They wanted what they had and they were fighting for it right now. Mick leaned in and whispered to me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘They is really putting their money to their mouths. It’s put up or shut up.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I thought I felt my eyes well up. I was touched by the scene. I could feel their connection to this place as much as I could physically see their connection to this place. In their wrinkled and squinting faces the land and the sun left an impression, each one of these people had been eroded and withered away like their once thriving industry. Yet, they were still standing, never backing down, staring the sun directly in the eye, their sun bleached hair and their squinting eyes emblematic of a blazing sun, emblematic of their place, their home. These people were the symbol of the heartland. I lifted my beer and swilled a deep gulp to hold it all together. And, then it was over, adjourned over a raise of the glass. They decided to all pitch in somehow, even if they don't have anything. Nothing was better than survival. Nothing was better than home. Nothing was better than this pub.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The chummy bloke from earlier, Gus, strolled over after the bar cleared out. He tilted in his stance, swaying with his buzz. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Whatdya think of that?’ Gus referred to the pub meeting.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I almost couldn’t believe it was happening,’ I said. ‘Tough times?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Yea,’ his voice slowed, then picked up.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ya fuckas got a lazy 20 grand layin’ around?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We all laughed. Gus, Mick and I went into an array of topics. From railways and derailments, to Obama and his pregnant pauses, to my bike ride and my hardened ass; we just went where the booze took us. Mick and Gus were vastly different. Mick looked and spoke like he was from the city. He was clearly educated at a university many years ago. Gus spoke with a roughness, a quick witted and acerbic glib that made him incredibly likable. He was from the Mallee bushlands, a rancher his whole life. He was irascible in his delivery, sharp, almost mean, but with a smile. His face was as weathered as a pair of leather work gloves. He dressed like he was still in the 80s while Mick looked like a professor with a motorcycle habit. Needless to say, Gus didn’t take to Mick. They clearly grew up in the same era and grew up vastly different. Their differences were still visible, like scars. I swayed the conversations acting as the middle man, even bought everyone a round. I got us back on track and started talking about random shit. Nearing midnight the bartender came over. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Nearin’ midnight Gus. Want a roadie?’ she asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Gus looked smittened, his cheeks reddening. He guzzled the last bit of his wine and she handed him a can of Coke with whiskey in it.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I only got 10k’s to home.’ Gus shook our hands and left. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Pleasure meetin’ ya,’ he added as he turned around. Mick and I got up, too. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XqW11pXhyYSigM-TTV6E9KgFgXl-dlY2zGv8QTBwE4w6DTCRri9Hs8H0YKfZlMjGwyF8UerpgkmV5hHTM_eKtQSj69weYWm_RhkQ-5jiJPx1A7GwzWaAG7kNcV_dVDyQqEneb2tosk_p8jUVTDqvxToi-wLbuRdk-8NctpdLRCubt0ULyb-pTMFr/s4032/IMG_9962.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XqW11pXhyYSigM-TTV6E9KgFgXl-dlY2zGv8QTBwE4w6DTCRri9Hs8H0YKfZlMjGwyF8UerpgkmV5hHTM_eKtQSj69weYWm_RhkQ-5jiJPx1A7GwzWaAG7kNcV_dVDyQqEneb2tosk_p8jUVTDqvxToi-wLbuRdk-8NctpdLRCubt0ULyb-pTMFr/w300-h400/IMG_9962.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up with a pounding headache. I clearly hadn’t hydrated enough after yesterday’s huge ride and a jaunt into the night at the pub. I made coffee and massaged my temples. Outside the sky was perfectly clear and blue. I knew I was being called to get out. A chill pervaded the desert scrubland air with a dryness that would crack the skin of working hands. I walked my bike around the hotel to the front of the pub. The streets were desolate. The wind blew in with a whistle and I expected a tumbleweed to go rolling by. I looked down the opposite end of the street. Nothing, empty. I was looking for a water spigot and then I remembered the silos. I went over about a hundred yards to the pines lining the weedy sidewalk. The two silos stood over the pines. I glimpsed a wrinkled face and a blonde mop over 100ft into the air. I leaned the bike up against a metal post and walked over to the tall silos. A giant mural of a man had been painted on the main silo. The one next to it had a Mallee eucalypt painted. The man, bleached from the sun, tarnished from years upon years of working outside in the harshness of the Mallee desert scrubland and farmland. A solemn look on his weary face represented the spirit of the people, of the hardworking souls that symbolize this landscape, the people of this land never giving up. I gazed up at the mural and the man from many different angles. He looked so familiar, like everyone in the pub the night before. Then, a memory trickled in, my mind still hazy from the hangover. Mick had said something about the man on the mural, that he was sitting a couple seats away. I looked closely into the mural. I could tell now that it was the bloke with the booming earthquake voice and the giant hands. He was tall and lanky like this mural, flanneled up and chiseled; he resembled the land. I welled up with emotion. I was touched by this place and the people. I drifted in a distant memory of a picture of my grandma’s dad, my great grandfather. He looked so similar to these people. He was from Oklahoma, an Okie in the Great Depression, flannel shirt and faded blue jeans, a constantly squinting expression as if the sun was always out, wrinkled skin everywhere, his hands calloused and big. I had only met him when I was really young, no more than two years old. But, I had a distinct memory of him somehow. I gazed back up at the silo and thought of my grandma. Oh how I missed her then. I couldn’t wait to share this experience with my mom. This is what that side of the family had come from, from a place similar to this. I had been transported back in time somehow to 1950’s America. I walked away a tad sullenly and found my water. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">After witnessing last night’s town hall pub meeting, the painted silo bored weight onto me. If I had gotten here any other day the silo probably would’ve just been another boring silo to me. I didn’t though. The silo stood as a totem of a culture. To me, it represented a harsh life, a precious life, one worth fighting for. Heartbreak is love without a place to call home. And, this home was worth fighting for, this way of life. I saddled up and went on my way. I thought about nothing at all that day. There simply was nothing to think about. I just rode the bike like I was supposed to, almost numb, content, unrestricted, relaxed. The sky was a bright blue that day, the dirt road refulgent with a glaring sun. I squinted even with my dark sunglasses on. I was squinting extra hard. I wanted the carvings in my face so bad. I have always been envious of folks with wrinkles, always meant to me that one has been outside a ton, a life under the sun. Simple as that. You are wrinkled because you are outside all the time. That’s a simple endeavor to aspire to well enough.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie32919LhlTChyW5FJunb5J0AJ95s4uflkPYDap2bZnjprgbNMmzOaEmS_s9LssxbpLsROepmydYfCCQ8zeVFykKxiQpxC_gGuc43lWAe4afLUvNu-_bbn-1QuBhZNzT2jHpjEOPJuW5AV2Fga7XgxVH78xiV3q-sBdB_T1y7z-75EpFNnYOXQ8NSM/s4032/IMG_9951.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie32919LhlTChyW5FJunb5J0AJ95s4uflkPYDap2bZnjprgbNMmzOaEmS_s9LssxbpLsROepmydYfCCQ8zeVFykKxiQpxC_gGuc43lWAe4afLUvNu-_bbn-1QuBhZNzT2jHpjEOPJuW5AV2Fga7XgxVH78xiV3q-sBdB_T1y7z-75EpFNnYOXQ8NSM/w400-h300/IMG_9951.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Down the road, suddenly a boomer scuttled in the brush and bounced off. He flew through the low Mallee scrub bounding 20 feet at a time. I stood up in my saddle and cranked it. I kept up for a bit until the boomer turned his head and saw me close enough for him to spring and careen ahead in the controlled swiftness of a fighter jet pilot navigating a fighter jet careening through a tight canyon. I tried in vain to keep up. He extended his lead to a couple hundred feet. Every quarter mile or so he would stop and assess his coverage. He would spot me again and bound off in an accelerating manner. The boomer weaved through the brush and low branches. I could see the visage of trail, the network of the kangaroos. He knew the racecourse intimately. Broad shouldered and stout, tall, the boomer looked intimidating, so athletic whisking through the brush, his strides extending to 10 yards long. I kept at him until he got to a clearing in the fence, finally a chance for him to get out of the corridor. A couple seconds later I got to the clearing in the fence line perpendicular to the road. I saw the boomer bounding away in a dry wheat field rising up a small hill, then vanishing in an instant with one hop over the horizon. I pumped on feeling the rejuvenation in my legs. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrBSBJGE52B_RgGthMXEV544clPNiXduMkPJzwu0s9CeZOMbap5FEPeax4pc-h5vM9jw0sI1EleUqPkiy03OgwJQagnoNkKuTCuHQ8Cev09AJMgm-pbS8zQqxeRnIDvfU3CCgxPI_FuWGKli_IVSfC9DRPElwcy9OAvHv12-wIZv9SXoBdhiItTM_/s4032/IMG_9982.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrBSBJGE52B_RgGthMXEV544clPNiXduMkPJzwu0s9CeZOMbap5FEPeax4pc-h5vM9jw0sI1EleUqPkiy03OgwJQagnoNkKuTCuHQ8Cev09AJMgm-pbS8zQqxeRnIDvfU3CCgxPI_FuWGKli_IVSfC9DRPElwcy9OAvHv12-wIZv9SXoBdhiItTM_/w400-h300/IMG_9982.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rolled into Murrayville a few hours later, the town eerily quiet. I pulled up to the roadside rest area across from the ornate hotel. Nothing, not a sign of anyone anywhere. I walked over to the hotel and peered into the windows of the pub. Some semblance of life appeared present but I did not see a physical person. I walked around to the main entrance and pushed the swinging doors. A small young Frenchman appeared from behind the bar, his diminutive stature looking so comical to me, cartoonish. Guillerme set me up with a room and a pint. I was the only one there. I threw a game of Cricket on the dart board, unwinding, clear headed. The front doors swung open and a couple of sandpaper cheeks and clunky boots rolled in. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Billy Gil!!’ they yelled. The parrots outside flocked in huge numbers across the street at the rest area. The sky turned that purple purple of the Outback. I ordered another pint. Guillerme set me up again. I felt the chill of the ice cold beer drizzle down my throat. He we are again…</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Three days later I raced into downtown Adelaide. The open spaces were still open except now buildings were everywhere. The St. Vincent Gulf came into view, the shimmering waters still in the bright sunlight. I raced along side vehicles and felt the unrelenting pull of getting to where I needed to get to: the bike shop. I rolled into the shop and immediately met the friendly blokes. This would be my last legitimate bike shop until Alice Springs some 1400 miles away in the center of the continent. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been pacing out this trip strategically, even if most of the time it feels chill. I have taken my time to get to Adelaide, trying to get stronger and confident, enjoying the locals and the scenery, partaking in the rural pub culture---really, all of it has been a filling of the heart all of it has been for the next stage. Now, the Outback, the big red desert, the place I have been dreaming of since I was a boy is ahead, finally here. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4R0YplqUWYfK9t2tSBeoLLc_3DpE-offHVAQtW4DHYp6iFTR5jQ06FJ5XXm9ZP7Ow7q6_h4MYYCkTg5InpMyoOueMPEut8c8t96PnzApFVD2ZHbJ0JpB6i8G91IimBmNLe8zTGTkR-1nrYSCHVpm4zPhW2qmQmBm_TlCdzMLnN5BCOuwCeuaLYG6/s4032/IMG_9921.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4R0YplqUWYfK9t2tSBeoLLc_3DpE-offHVAQtW4DHYp6iFTR5jQ06FJ5XXm9ZP7Ow7q6_h4MYYCkTg5InpMyoOueMPEut8c8t96PnzApFVD2ZHbJ0JpB6i8G91IimBmNLe8zTGTkR-1nrYSCHVpm4zPhW2qmQmBm_TlCdzMLnN5BCOuwCeuaLYG6/w400-h300/IMG_9921.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJebITmMXa2FQG5K0pEi9rfqo1cg2nopx3_SU9zkRRhT12ei0tOEeNXlkVu7VrFYYC3Hp8qKrn5F2aHRJJAvwWstMy0xF5nlDcG7m-H0X8bWuk-UwUX_Mp48Xk3LgFm2IusEqxTNZUBPlbj5tdGbzqEgO3sv0yLeKyoqO0tkrxdOhddp45GEBqOdGS/s4032/IMG_9499.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJebITmMXa2FQG5K0pEi9rfqo1cg2nopx3_SU9zkRRhT12ei0tOEeNXlkVu7VrFYYC3Hp8qKrn5F2aHRJJAvwWstMy0xF5nlDcG7m-H0X8bWuk-UwUX_Mp48Xk3LgFm2IusEqxTNZUBPlbj5tdGbzqEgO3sv0yLeKyoqO0tkrxdOhddp45GEBqOdGS/w400-h300/IMG_9499.HEIC" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><b style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>South Island Overview:</b></div></b></b></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you’ve read this far then you have read my blurb on the North Island already. I’ll expand in another way where the differences between the North and South Islands are clearly different. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Te Araroa does not feel like a ‘long trail’ or a ‘route’ as I am accustomed to as a long-distance hiker. It just isn’t. The TA is a way across the North and South Islands, a thoroughfare. Easy as that. For most of the North Island, the TA follows a nonsensical way through an area. Frustration seemed to be a common theme among all the hikers I met. I mean it, almost all of them. The peachy outlook and perspective the TA Trust gives is a very skewed view into what the actual route provides to the thru hiking experience. I definitely found myself being a tourist like all the other people visiting the island, being herded around like frontcountry tourists visiting Yellowstone. This did not provide a prospective hiker and/or an experienced one with a fulfilling and transformative experience. One can almost travel through an area non-thematically, so much so going from point to point was all that mattered. The journey felt lost. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, absolutely it’s a privilege to thru hike. But, the community of long-distance hikers are a breed of their own sort, like rock climber or bikepackers. We just don’t do things the touristy way. We seek adventure on the fringe of what most of the world see as an adventure. We seek a journey and not a trip. The TA can dupe first time hikers into thinking the North Island is a genuinely incredible, yet in reality they just don’t know any better. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you are reading this, you know and I know that we can spot or smell a thru hiker miles away. If you are reading this far now, you know and I know that we can spot a tourist anywhere. As long-distance hikers, we have a look, the gear; we embody the scene of what’s fringe, our own scene, the eschewing of total comfort: the dirtbag adventurer. I kept a constant mindset of ‘why make sense out of something I cannot control’ while on the North Island. Sometimes cursed, sometimes I wondered ‘why the fuck,’ however, I truly, truly was content just walking along. Then, the South Island changes everything.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The TA tries very hard to be what ‘thru-hikers’ would drool over on the South Island. The South Island simply has more open spaces, more incredibly beautiful scenery, longer days between towns and resupply, freedom camping, less tourists where the hiker walks save for a few places—these qualities favor the journey of a dirtbag adventurer where a long-distance hiking community is cultivated and nurtured. The South Island is world class. While the TA doesn’t touch the scale of beauty and wildness on the South Island, the pathway provides a challenging way through that fulfills thru hikers’ needs and wants. There’s just so much wild open spaces in the Southern Alps and Fiordlands the pathway must be selective in providing a way all the way through. Some of the landscape down there is very treacherous and would have small windows to go ‘all the way through,’ yet the line provided gives that glimpse into the relentless urge to move forward mindset. You morph and grow getting stronger and more confident as you leave Ship Cove. You are tested constantly, brutally so like in the Richmonds. I couldn’t wait to get off the North Island. On the South Island, the whole island became one with my whole being. I craved the accomplishment of getting through the South Island. Here, my New Zealand adventure truly began. Before the South Island my time here was just a vacation that I needed. I could’ve spent my entire time of 3 months here in New Zealand on the South Island. There’s just that much stellar stuff to see on the South Island.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, let’s get a proper thankful synopsis. Thank you for…the condensation every morning, the non-right-of-way flow for a pedestrian (I guess people have a just-as-quick response time as a vehicle), the judgmental leers at my small backpack (yea I have a bonafide tent in there and no I am not carrying an extra set of boots), the long black or the Americano or whatever I am having (I dunno you tell me please), the confusion with my accent thinking I’m Canadian (I don’t talk that funny), the ‘please wait to be seated’ and/or order at the bar clarity (I’m either sitting there looking like a dork or appear too pushy at the bar), the fascination with my smart water bottles (yes, I smuggled them over), the strange definitions and descriptions of ‘bounce box,’ ‘trail angels,’ ‘thru-hike,’ hiking times and ‘camping’ (absolutely no need to make sense of it all), the incredibly boring road walking (even though I thoroughly needed to be bored and relished in being bored after hiking across the length of the Grand Canyon—really, I was just ecstatic to be out of the US for a bit—gimme all the easy road walking you can—just kidding—).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">All kidding and jokes aside…I am so grateful for this TA hike and the experience out here. All of it, both the North and South Islands truly enriched my life. New Zealand has been absolutely wonderful. Special thanks to my dirtbag family out here I met down south. I really had a fun time sharing miles, river crossings, hitches, huts, and motel rooms with Yak, NoPoles, Sprocket, Chipotle, and Sprocket. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Overall, I needed a vacation. I chose a vacation-hike rather than an adventurous one. After hiking the length of the Grand Canyon, the TA was a fairly easy hike for me. I had tons of time to be nice to myself. In the beginning of the trek, it felt so good to be bored and away from everything stateside. Whatever hole inside me that was left from last year I refused to fill it up with my own indulgent ego. I needed to be away from myself for a bit and have that hole filled with the world around me. I needed to quit my self-loathing. For 82 days ~1902 miles I focused on not focusing on anything. I tried to keep myself open for absorption. What a great trip. Now, on to the next!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>South Island: Ship Cove to Bluff</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Rating of my enjoyment of the South Island:</b> 10/10</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I found it difficult to write when I am having too much fun…so here's a summary with pictures.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Ship Cove to Arthur’s Pass:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Tv4uioN4MaYrw57NexAw_Nxal7Q0SeTlcKpeG7RrhPqFe5pFt7feyO0yCZKPN4C7REIbKSNkSWTkTWIccSOaYrlfSlbpopJvCmFompbY9g_XFsuuCJv2YOwycs9W6fxUvzZ4Fe5EH5nySVDb5tt_uoErI9olBVs1DVDG7gmNNC-TeHJ-hqepxSUd/s4032/IMG_8521.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Tv4uioN4MaYrw57NexAw_Nxal7Q0SeTlcKpeG7RrhPqFe5pFt7feyO0yCZKPN4C7REIbKSNkSWTkTWIccSOaYrlfSlbpopJvCmFompbY9g_XFsuuCJv2YOwycs9W6fxUvzZ4Fe5EH5nySVDb5tt_uoErI9olBVs1DVDG7gmNNC-TeHJ-hqepxSUd/w400-h300/IMG_8521.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8b3EyVOgscMUr-61OXEOK-ljaQTR7O1kW7rVfucZgClJFMbl6tWxZJeVEHptZ-P00N5yinUZkxaTUUVARIJZgaaSGAedAk3KuwTnlav4BJk1wIk4RC2jNOeMpQduWaxS1Yg_eZ5pAgDJdurJd4TdPhmUNRUT-00GuCxefZaLoub8IzX7N9Wf8tw6W/s4032/IMG_8834.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8b3EyVOgscMUr-61OXEOK-ljaQTR7O1kW7rVfucZgClJFMbl6tWxZJeVEHptZ-P00N5yinUZkxaTUUVARIJZgaaSGAedAk3KuwTnlav4BJk1wIk4RC2jNOeMpQduWaxS1Yg_eZ5pAgDJdurJd4TdPhmUNRUT-00GuCxefZaLoub8IzX7N9Wf8tw6W/w400-h300/IMG_8834.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Arthur’s Pass to Queenstown:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYzC8q8GfKL63rIegpFVLNfcqBelr3C_vgL7VKKtr9ybDZEzsdmm24pjPRWq_KUfVr12U1mzR-Z7JoXlHZ4slxg_iObnM6e8wzrBwHyR__iNEGORlnxuLilvNOYnAA_MNfCgMswx1rOe42OG-bvxjHjmv82PaGNMijxrEbWhbtl-WiJvmPTajYY40/s4032/IMG_8840.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSnUpWeh-Nrvw9GnJSnkSypYNL-i1sMuKRUe77nwFllqjDGGD6XGS88sWwuvd1NBBkhXAn0PnMwDVgUhUcU1RA8HbRrrFJK3kGUEoaD-ciohQ4Lcf2ESYgqjPvIB6UTjgvbaq18Weq3C5aaA2sobJAmIxrfDYrGMS806Kulp-t7YPmyZ5TYBW-CnJ/w400-h300/IMG_9158.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx4JpFySZtpJbcZ7q2l_ZP-VfoSNgmp43Jb0rqQxwtc6bqK3y9w5REgosgAxmHq3gxqWEKPz_uWHvOCR1MP6rBSIYAW7iM1RA9BT03j46yVHRstayzaj1Clh4CkTw5MsGPWgRSROQdeOZIXS4Xm0TTmBTBaTTZE0toEZ6Oka7m42_QsAVuXv8NkoQ/s4032/IMG_9167.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx4JpFySZtpJbcZ7q2l_ZP-VfoSNgmp43Jb0rqQxwtc6bqK3y9w5REgosgAxmHq3gxqWEKPz_uWHvOCR1MP6rBSIYAW7iM1RA9BT03j46yVHRstayzaj1Clh4CkTw5MsGPWgRSROQdeOZIXS4Xm0TTmBTBaTTZE0toEZ6Oka7m42_QsAVuXv8NkoQ/w400-h300/IMG_9167.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Queenstown to Bluff: </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">With the time I had left on my visa I included some alternate routes such as the Five Passes Route, the Routeburn Track, and the Kepler Track, while still utilizing the TA the rest of the way to Bluff. The Five Passes Route was such a cool and fun challenge in a very remote area, seldomly tramped with stunning scenery to backdrop a 3-day adventure. To boot, I experienced the route with Yak, NoPoles, and Chipotle. Sharing the laughs and high mountain passes with a good group of mates most certainly was the highlight of my time here in New Zealand.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUibSesvo-sY4INUMBzdz78htLb3hvt5-RtQM_yA22E9Ay4WJvDZ20cUcf7YkHgr_Y_ecqRyj6F8jiymhT8M_jWPmeu5PjhaVdSVtHImajneAKvjS-FHUlFgRJ0XSoDWtiwoiRCxHgLue2B2k2AVLbkTGEAvE-n2Y9aSKXwpxi-10ExekWWo6zSHQu/s4032/IMG_9178.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUibSesvo-sY4INUMBzdz78htLb3hvt5-RtQM_yA22E9Ay4WJvDZ20cUcf7YkHgr_Y_ecqRyj6F8jiymhT8M_jWPmeu5PjhaVdSVtHImajneAKvjS-FHUlFgRJ0XSoDWtiwoiRCxHgLue2B2k2AVLbkTGEAvE-n2Y9aSKXwpxi-10ExekWWo6zSHQu/w400-h300/IMG_9178.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR0VswH68MtJnRDWrNXo2EnfivZcVy7men701yRgrsiW2oDPyCiTx1C7o8EEwwoSjF2oVeKD1bZNPmxE7QoIV0OfaVI3NChew1TwkzgRd0aKrzK8TbNdV7k2IKZrGAd2dW9SjqDyuTEqCqvWxeF_oAGE9CBCHyUYWUWU-QY2yiavuASNRDevli_0Ax/s2080/50A55A1C-151C-49ED-8A00-873406B19F37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR0VswH68MtJnRDWrNXo2EnfivZcVy7men701yRgrsiW2oDPyCiTx1C7o8EEwwoSjF2oVeKD1bZNPmxE7QoIV0OfaVI3NChew1TwkzgRd0aKrzK8TbNdV7k2IKZrGAd2dW9SjqDyuTEqCqvWxeF_oAGE9CBCHyUYWUWU-QY2yiavuASNRDevli_0Ax/w225-h400/50A55A1C-151C-49ED-8A00-873406B19F37.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></b></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-45163683601618024322023-04-05T02:21:00.000-07:002023-04-05T02:21:02.349-07:00Te Araroa: North Island<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Te Araroa:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhfico9oq1AfAkryyycmmyuV_XMS671lRJCfdtXSMowqQuX38cDhP6NwBlj8W7l6PYos5Do0LFjxHDwK9wdMFsbYNTZVouQTmrcnypdhCY4XW9tRcR_0siYA6WZsu2eZnyqKWX_UZs1aLCS54lh0GRf6DicsdA0uGWapPOXN4nC6vUWRrsIEHrejp/s4032/IMG_8032.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhfico9oq1AfAkryyycmmyuV_XMS671lRJCfdtXSMowqQuX38cDhP6NwBlj8W7l6PYos5Do0LFjxHDwK9wdMFsbYNTZVouQTmrcnypdhCY4XW9tRcR_0siYA6WZsu2eZnyqKWX_UZs1aLCS54lh0GRf6DicsdA0uGWapPOXN4nC6vUWRrsIEHrejp/w400-h300/IMG_8032.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>North Island Overview:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The TA is a roughly 3000km (~1860m) long distance trail traversing the North and South Islands of New Zealand. I won’t give much more info on the trail as loads of resources are available on the internet. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I didn’t do much writing on this lengthy trek, although I started out loquacious with my fingers that expressed the words babbling from my emotive mind. The first couple weeks my fingers rambled on. Every night I tapped the keyboard until I decompressed into a stasis brought on by the urban setting. I was very happy being bored walking along paved roads and nonsensical routing until Auckland. I knew what to expect and I held an attitude of ‘why try and makes sense when there may be none.' I understood what I was getting into, and this mindset helped me be a bit numb to what I had heard others complain about. In addition, I had just come off a full-length traverse of the Grand Canyon, an incredibly challenging and immersive route where every step needed care and intent to stay safe. The ennui of the TA in the Northland completely reset that honing mechanism and the full-on concentration that the Grand Canyon blessed me with.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, from Auckland to Hamilton the TA lost its luster. The invisible tissue that binds us with nature evaporated and the ‘long pathway’ became the long slugging ‘what the hell am I doing’ way. The way became more of just a way through rather than a trail, a thoroughfare of sorts that resembled neither trail nor route. At least in the Northland the rural scenery was beautiful. The green land up there held a connection between the people and nature, a communion of sorts where the land held a special importance to the people living up there, a woolen thread that weaved interlaced between each plowed plot, forest, beach, and community. Out of Auckland, I tried a futile effort to fathom a connection with concrete, traffic, lack of culture, and uber-urban areas. I spiraled into frustration and spent an isolated day in a hotel room drinking beer in Hamilton. I wasn’t bored anymore. I wasn’t engaged at all. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stopped writing then. Yet where the TA failed in a connection with nature in that stretch, things did get better again, although I wasn’t pleasantly bored this next time. I felt the pull of the South Island, the magnetic draw of less people, more wilderness, long hiking stretches, more freedom camping, just the total aspect of what long distance hiking is all about. Nonetheless, the way through did get better all the way until Wellington. Stands of nature became more prevalent again, the forests lush and deep, the streams and rivers wide and swift, the mountains volcanic and bigger. However, I wrote only one more entry in the time after Hamilton.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Overall, I truly did enjoy the North Island. The Māori of the Northland, the beach walking, the beautiful forest hiking, the rain—even walking in the warm rain was pleasant; Pirongia, the Timber Trail and the 42 Traverse, Tongariro and Round the Mountain track, the Tararuas until a cyclone arrived, the Escarpment Track, and the Skyline walk into a beautiful hilly Wellington, all of these places hold a firm happy memory in my head. I even rode a bike alternating from the Whanganui River canoe ride to a swift cycle trip down from Ruapehu to the coast that made me spin with glee. I pedaled with the air whipping through my normal hiking rhythms into joyful revolutions. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Wellington the feeling of the whole long pathway of New Zealand shifted. The skies poured down rain as I walked in, and I knew I was leaving the North Island behind for good. I knew that I was in for something better on the South Island.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Wellington, Heaps (a friend and a long-distance hiker) hosted me along with three other thru-hikers of similar ilk as me. We spoke the same lingo, swapped stories, sheltered from shitty weather, and drank heaps of coffee and pumped ourselves up with what we thought the South Island was going to be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The brief North Island notes are below. The South Island will be even simpler to describe with hardly any words. Pictures will do my experience justice and the memories of feeling like actually thru-hiking will persevere.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>North Island: Cape Reinga to Wellington</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Rating of my enjoyment of the North Island:</b> 6/10</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The Northland: </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Happy, happy to be away from the normal, away from everything. Happy to be in a place so very different than where I am from, from what I am accustomed to, and from where I could be. Maybe I needed to be halfway around the world to decompress fully what has been pent up for over a year now. Maybe I needed to be in a place where I know no one, not even the places, nor any names of the plants, trees, and flowers, even the names of birds and other critters. A blank slate, what is upcoming…rid the garbage I’ve been holding onto, the garbage I left in the Grand Canyon, in that enormous abyss of rock with a nurturing and powerful river. Just feels like a new start, a freedom of sorts, a release from the time I had been borrowing. Maybe the Grand Canyon had bestowed upon me some tantalizing feeling, some magical spell of joy and gratitude that life feels hopeful, again. Just arriving in a vastly different place than where I had come from had me kind of shaking with glee. I get to walk again. I get to find that rhythm with the natural world at the bottom of the world. I get to be me outside of the Grand Canyon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Maybe this intro shouldn’t have started this way. This introduction reeks of sadness. Yet, it doesn’t, at least to me anyway. Truly, I am jotting down the expressions and the first words that come to mind. The canyon taught me something. You can keep digging in the deepest place imaginable, you can keep going and going, striving forward, clawing inwardly away, you can be slumping and lurching downward, something will always pull at you. You can try and deceive time; you can try and cheat it—but you can’t. All that and the canyon teaches you the wonder of learning, of curiosity and imagination. The canyon teaches you a deeper sense of those things, a deeper sense of time and place. I can always learn more. I can keep growing deeper. After all, nothing matters in nature, definitely not my own. We are insignificant to nature’s indifference. Yet, curiosity keeps the soul adrift in the current of the river. Ride the river and you can read the land. You can read the wrinkles of your skin and the eyes of the people. I am here in New Zealand on the raft of my curiosity to continue down that river of an unquenching life. The canyon left me thirsting for more knowledge that I know not what to learn; the spring is unending. There are wonders around us that we are blind to. We must go deeper. The Grand Canyon left me open and willing to go deeper. The big ditch taught me I will not be anything other than me. It ain’t the dig or the chase anymore; it’s the fulfillment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The bus undulated through beaming green farmland, rolling hills as far as the eye could see, a dazzling spectacle of lushness. Grassland and pastures stuck out the most, then the dark forests with mixtures of giant ferns, palms, and the kauri. Soon enough the bus pulled into the turnabout and the end of the land shimmered just above the sea. The sea roiled in its vastness; an uncontrollable mass confined within itself with nothing else to do but crash into itself. The point of the cape hooked between the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean. The sight to behold was spectacular. I ambled away slowly and tucked my gawking eyes back into my head. I was starstruck, dumbfounded, gob smacked. The lighthouse squatted on the point, short and stout, yet I am sure the edifice is proficient in its usefulness. The coast to the south spread out like the curve of an arcing back. I could trace my finger at the point of the breaks that traced the curvature of the backbone. I made my way down on a trailing path tracing the abrupt ridge line that fell away unto cliffs that had been battered by the joining of the seas. I fell away down the pathway crashing into myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sandy beach and teal sea are smeared with platinum, that reflective gleam that transports you into a globe of foam, salt, and mist that disintegrates a being, an image, and into that sphere of drifts, dunes and grit that eliminate our trace of existence with the wind, the image. We are essentially ephemeral; our footprints tell us so. The imprints disappear with the blending of that sea of teal and turbulent water and the sea of toasted and drifting dunes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The beach extends forever. Spindrift whips up in the air like eyeing a blizzard from afar. A long ways down the beach you think you may be walking into a whiteout. I find it difficult to meander on the beach. Nothing but straight line-walking, unless the tide pushes you up a bit. The dunes buffet the shore from the inland forest, as if the waves bulldozed the dunes into a bulwark of piled sand. A light green and tall grass sprouts atop the dunes, a unique ecosystem that when entangled in the hilly maze you may be transported to a desert. On the beach, one follows the demarcation of frothy water, of where the water line once was. One looks for the darker and damp sand for swifter and more efficient travel. Then, you walk with your head up as there is never a tripping hazard. You can see the curvature of the dunes and only then you notice and understand that the land has character. As much as the land is at the whim of the sea, the land fights back, stands erect in direct contradiction from the universe of flatness of the ocean.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A light rain dappled the shore. A light rain dimpled my body. Throughout the day I was dappled and dimpled by a light rain that massaged my swarthy skin like the tawny sandy shoreline. Always angling in from the north I never had to put on any rain gear. Walking southerly with the rain on my back only let the rain feel refreshing. I could see the tendrils coming in arriving in a soft smear, a soft glow of gray and steel blue. The wind dried my skin and gear. I could feel the rain imminently arriving with the staggered drops dappling the damp sand with soft smacks, each drop a kiss given to the gritty earth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Everyone stopped at Twilight Beach. I had nearly 20 miles of coastal walking to myself afterwards. The only souls I saw drove by in a pickup truck. They tooted their horn, waved and smiled, and zoomed off down the beach. All the afternoon I was squeezed by the sound of crashing waves and tinkling rain. I walked slowly and easily, disencumbered by any hanging thoughts. I just walked in my own snoring slumber of the sea and sand. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The tide extended low away from me about a hundred yards. The low clouds had crawled away and hid inland. Now, the higher clouds moved in with affirmation that the end of this day neared its time. The sunlight hung below clouds on the far horizon, the glare of the sun illuminating the wet shore in a brilliant white, as if a lair of frost had suddenly coated the sand. I had all this to myself. I slowed down a tad more knowing camp was near. I had to relish in this soft glow of an ending day. I was tired yet relaxed, less wrangled from the stressors of everyday life. In short, I was happy and felt fortunate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next morning a silvery light glowed on the beach. The radiance eschewed my being in a ball of tinsel where through my vision all I could see was this silvery light. All I could hear were the waves crashing and crashing the beach. The roar could not help me from feeling the pulse of sound that vibrated the silvery light to life. In my tinsel ball I rolled down the beach pulsing slowly with the booming waves. For hours, I languorously tumbled along in a straight vector. I almost felt possessed by some inward discipline to stay the line. Yet, the tumbling waves crashed so far off the beach I had no obstruction to force me off this vector. Other than the wind, of course, which would bring me to wiggling the roll vector I was on. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, a brawny wind came. At first the wind pushed me from behind, the sand pelting my legs. In the afternoon, the wind changed course and came directly from the sea. The side wind pushed the water and the oncoming high tide. The waves violently crashed in succession. I got sandblasted and wind thrashed. My eyes wanted to squint but the wind forced them open, my lids seemingly flapping. Sand clung to all my clothing and stuck to every skin cell and hair follicle. I became sticky. The fierce wind brought in the spindrift and sand through the air. This combination spackled to my skin. I fell into an embattled trance of the defeating roar of the wind and waves, the reverberations coupling in thick and moist air. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I tried to find a sheltered dune to break in. This was a hopeless endeavor. Any thought I would be bunkered away from the wind proved to be a dumb notion when I found myself in a wind tunnel that whipped sand violently around. I just pushed on and waited to find a stream inlet to find any relief. For hours this went on, hours of the deafening roar and the incessant whiplashing of sand, mist, and wind. The tide rolled in and pushed me up into softer sand. Nothing too soft, however, for I was still able to manage a straight and possessed vector.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I arrived at the holiday park and enjoyed the amenities of the community driven park. Before I even set up my shelter, I went to a bench that ended my capture within the wind. I was free for the moment of the grasp of the menacing wind. A motel, RV spots, backpackers, and car travelers all shared a communal space, showers and toilets, and the kitchen. The park felt lovingly friendly. The vibe, like all of New Zealand I have felt so far, was chill. Of course, the wind continued outside as I slurped up my pasta. And the wind continued to bash the coast throughout the night. I splayed out in my shelter, my own little bunker that afforded me a snugness in slumber. It was not long before I drifted off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a hot breakfast I strode onto the beach. Instantly, the wind howled and crashed against my face. Nothing was soft anymore: the colors, the feel, the silvery globe. Nothing. Everything was abrasive and interruptive. The wind overpowered everything: the sand, the waves, the sea, the only human walking on the beach. Everything. Into the headwind I dove, head long and looking down, my neck craned, wrapped in the desert wind set-up. Since I had only a straight line to consider, I burrowed my chin into the crook of my neck and walked on in a blinding manner. My eyes trained on the color of sand beneath my feet, so that I knew how far I was from the crashing waves and the drier and blowing sand. The gnarly wind kept at the punching. I burrowed the chin in deeper. Countless of purple jellyfish had been deposited from the high tide onto the beach. I hopped over as many as I could see as the purple blobs came into my vision occurred abruptly. I slipped on a couple, nothing more, as I got better at the dodging of the stomping of jellyfish. The wind continued to batter me. As being the only thing to batter the wind did not let up. I think my trekking poles could have stood up on their own, no doubt, because the wind pounded so incessantly. I had 8 miles until the reprieve, a windbreak. I burrowed my chin even deeper. Three hours later, overstepping thousands of jellyfish, crunching hundreds of seashells, my core infiltrated with sand, even the soul felt violated, at long last, I finally made the town of Ahipara. I sought out some fish and chips and a wind block. I found both. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The birds sing. The names I know not, the birds tweet, chirp, chortle, cavort harmoniously, and belt out sweet timorous tunes. The birds sing and I do not know what the birds are called. All I understand is that the birdsong is a sweet melody to my ears. Maybe the names will be learned, maybe they won’t. I just want my learnings to come naturally within the flow of my exploration and curiosity. That way I will openly accept anything completely new and solidify an enduring memory. And, then I hear the squawk of a pheasant. I’m flashed back to Montana suddenly spotting the panicked bird as the colorful tail feathers flash before me on a rural gravel road. The pheasants do the same here: panic, squawk, alarmingly so, and either fly onward across an expanse or smack into an oncoming speedy vehicle. So many carcasses of this colorful and elegant bird line the roads. A malfunctioning defense mechanism, I guess.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The air smells so sweet. I am reminded of gardenias. Maybe the redolent aroma is gardenias. I see a shrub that resembles the flower, a small tree, as well. The aroma wafts in funnels through the humid air, so similar to sweet grass that leaves one intoxicated. I almost feel like I am floating in the evanescence of an aromatic glade. I traipse past and turn my head unwittingly to get that last sugary sniff in. Every single tree is almost as sweet smelling. Each tree, each unique shape of each tree, emits a soft charisma. The plants and trees are here to tantalize me. I stroll in this sweet honey haze, a smog of confection. I walk with my nose in the air reaching for the funnel of honey. The air is redolent of freshness. So potent with fecundity and softness, of a precious spring, of soft angelic hair, a heavenly fabric, this aroma leaves me craving more and instills a calmness in each step. I know I have developed a sweet tooth. I can feel it in every step pulsing from the nostrils to the nerve endings of my molars, pulsing all the way down to the balls of my feet, shooting out to my toes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Notes from the road…I do not care that I am walking on roads. It is not that I do not care for walking on roads; I simply do not care that I am walking on these roads. The mundane and the boring feel fulfilling to me, at the moment. I am not working the crazy winter. I am not holding onto any baggage. So, what’s the difference. I truly feel that walking a country is the best way to learn about it. I have done it with my own countless of times and I have, since my first long hike many years ago, developed a deeper understanding of the landscape and the people associated and connected to that landscape. Being here enjoying the chill vibe, I mean, there is some special meaning in walking across a whole damn country. Shit, that just doesn’t get old. A tramp across a country, from one end to another, is absolutely special, simply valuable at its core.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Kaitaia, I woke up early, early enough to be the only one about. I brewed a cup of coffee and sat down to read. A palomino tabby cat wandered over and looked at me with longing eyes. She wanted some attention. She hopped up in my lap, her orange and black and white spackled body nestled tightly. She looked up at me with these emerald green eyes, polished jewels from a river. I swooned at her and petted her while I whispered to her. I was reading The Emerald Mile, fittingly so. I drifted to a vision of me as an old man. Just me and a cat that I caress softly, sitting in a chair, a window open, or a front porch, in the Southwest somewhere. The palomino tabby nestled there in my lap for a couple of hours. Then, I had to go. I thanked her for the vision. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hours went by and I saw two dogs running towards me. On the road, they took up both shoulders with one of the dogs taking a side. I pulled out a trekking pole and got ready. They lumbered over goofily, like juveniles. The boys wiggled over and scooted through my legs, whining and moaning, just begging for some affection. I obliged and cooed the boys before I shooed them off. I chased them into a yard to get them off the road as I saw a couple of cars coming in each direction. So much for the angry dogs I have heard horror stories about.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another couple hours later, I passed a pasture with a quarter horse grazing about. The horse rose one leg and stomped it down. I clicked at the horse and the other front rose and stamped the ground. In a playful manner, the horse moved obsequiously and invitingly towards me. He followed me along the fence line as I clicked back. He trotted a bit and caught up with me and snorted. I grabbed a handful of grass and went to him, his long nose excitingly jabbing the air. His snout wrapped around the strands of grass and I caressed his cheek and the bridge of his nose. I softly petted his forehead and he snorted and turned quickly around and darted off. I watched him smoothly move through the grassy pasture before he stopped and turned around one last time, his eyes big and wide.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up with the birds chirping in a forested park with a large stream running around. I clambered up out of my tarp in the thick damp air. I could feel the moisture drizzling on my skin, all the while the sun hazily shone through the low hanging clouds. After a road walk through stunning and vibrantly green farmland I stumbled onto a community cook out. I walked on over and ordered a couple of burgers. I sat down at a table with two locals, one a Māori elder, the other a retired South African who lives on a farm close by. The best burgers I have eaten in very many a year sat on my plate. I drooled, the men laughed, and they could tell I was voracious. The sweet kawakawa bread, similar to ciabatta, sandwiched the tender beef laced with cabbage. A large red leaf lettuce leaf splayed across the patties. Atop the canopy spread some sweet red relish crunchy with pickle and peppers. To top it all off, the icing on the beef cake, an over medium fried egg, the yolk so creamy to take the place of cheese. Along side all of this goodness rolled out a roasted sweet corn cob. Ugh, I was in heaven. The combination of such freshness in such a savory and lavish array of flavors just melted my taste buds. The locals laughed. I don’t think they’ve seen a hiker eat that much that early on in a trail. They probably haven’t heard the moans of pleasure in relishing their burgers either. Here’s the thing too. I didn’t feel gluttonous at all, or to be eating unhealthy. The cultivated food had been grown and raised in the farmland I sat in between, right in the intersection of where the valleys met. The food was organic and cultivated with love. The burgers felt fresh and healthy. The burgers felt nourishing. I felt literally like I was eating a burger for the first time. That’s right, that type of freshness. Although I understood I was eating a burger, I understood that I was not eating a burger, at the same time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once I scooped my tongue back into my mouth, we chatted about the plants and crops of the farms, about the cattle and the beer, and, of course, taking care of the land they use and love. This sense of connection to the land, individually and communally, felt so genuine and welcoming, so dislike the American version of defensiveness, lone individualism, and large landowners. With the farms out here being managed by so many people the land is loved. The land is groomed with the heart of the people. The land is respected, and, in turn, the people respect each other, love each other. The land here is not a possession one holds. The land here ties the spirit of the people together. We are severely lacking that aspect in the States.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pushing on…I found myself, for a brief spell, walking in a meandering creek enclosed in a curvy gorge. The coolness of the water, the shagginess of the hillsides, the clear water, I became mentally fogged in in a chasm. I forgot where I was. I was so far away from everything. No one around but me and the current of the stream. I crossed the main river and hiked along a strip of trail undulating over roots, up and down muddy hillsides, and in thick tropical forests. With the fragrance of the flowery perfume, I pictured myself as a root entwining within the spongy ground. I felt my woodiness damp and punchy, smothered in a profound ambrosia. At camp, birds chortled and sang about in a perfect pitch. One second two hoots perfectly whistled, then two deep chortles almost like clucks, and finally a seductive call that lingered in the forest air languidly like a song drifting through an alley way between two lovers. I was transfixed, everything blended into one place, an embedded spot in a dimension where sound and smell thrived and pulsed in this acre plot. The birdsong charmed me. I listened attentively for each note and the order of each sound. I could only imagine the bird had a long and colorful tail. The river rushed down below and this bird hypnotized my ears with an arrangement of sounds so utterly beautiful I forgot where I was. I was enrapt in my imaginative colorful tail feathers of this bird. Like the envisioned routes, the tail feathers, and the meandering current within the chasm, I was simply immersed in a delightful nature. The evening crept over the forest and the bird’s calls faded, as I faded too. I slipped into a slumber yearning for another perfect hoot. I would get one and jar awake. Then, I would slip again. We played this game until a dark shroud huddled over the forest. A damp silence fell and the cascading creek remained softly raucous. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Woke up at the fog line, the thick strip of moisture laden clouds that filled the canyon with a bounty of sheeps’ wool. The forest walking that basked in the grounded morning sun rays enriched the soles of my feet. I felt the warmth seeping through. The draping canopy hung over the path as kauri sprouted stoutly above shooting its way through a thick forest and stood at the helm of lords over the forest. I was cloaked me in a warm green shawl. Occasionally, I would slip into giant groves of the kauri. The robust trunks held a thin bark reminiscent of the flaky eucalyptus, the papery birch, and the appearance of the jumbled puzzle pieces of the ponderosa. I strolled among the giants and marveled with my neck upward. Eventually, the day passed and ended in Kerikeri. Throughout the day I walked through lovely farmland, bromeliad forests, riverside groves, and manicured lawns. The flowers bloomed widely and gaped for the warm sunshine. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Kerikeri, the motel owner greeted me and graciously welcomed me into his place. What charm and friendliness. We perused over his lovely gardens, in particular his giant bromeliads with the deep red and purple luster sprouting high into the air. These bromeliads (the name escapes me) were about to bloom, at which point they would flower and decompose, their once in a lifetime bloom. The plant was one of the most beautiful and exotic plants I have ever laid eyes on. I was transfixed. He walked me over to the pool and pulled a gardenia flower for me. I wafted the flower deeply and almost keeled over. Such sweetness. But, this was not the flower I had seen before on this trek. I spoke about the sweet smell of the air here in the Northland, of this constant aroma that had intoxicated me. He pinpointed it immediately and showed me. Jasmine, jasmine held the answer to my odiferous question. Turns out, jasmine is an invasive species to boot. Regardless, the smell has captured me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There’s just no feeling of drama here in the Northland. I have needed this. No drama, no stress, just chill vibes, sweet smelling air, and a gorgeous green landscape. In the States, we are just inundated with drama. So much so, we all seek the drama. I am so grateful to be away from that noise. The people here have no pretentiousness. The people here are so communal, so friendly and nice. Sigh, this is just a positive/negative rant. I am so damn fortunate. Take this for example. At another holiday park, our country’s equivalent to an RV Park except no giant diesel trucks and even the bigger giant trailers. I met a family from Toronto here in New Zealand on a month long holiday. Michele and Richard wanted to take their family on a holiday to a stress free place. They chose New Zealand to take Mary and Roy. I met Michele and her daughter Mary in the laundry room. We small talked, then ramped it up to about what we were all doing. Michele and I had a very easy conversation and we both felt the mood stemmed from not being in the place where we are from. We just weren’t surrounded by hordes of people and all the drama associated with those places. We even spoke of Terry Fox, the beloved Canadian who after becoming stricken with cancer and losing a leg, attempted to run across Canada, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. He got around Lake Superior and the cancer returned and he died. He died a national hero and now Terry Fox Trots are run by kids nationwide. Michele was surprised I had heard of him. Somewhere in this nugget of my head I had heard of the story. Mary got a little excited that I had gotten there on foot. She opened up and her eyes glared excitingly as she described her experience watching a pod of dolphins surprise her and the family on the ferry trip they had taken this morning. Michele excused themselves to dinner and I continued charging my phone. After about a half an hour I walked back to camp. Roy slung open the motor home door. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hi! I’m Roy!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hey there Roy!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I hope you make it!’ I blushed and smiled wide at the thoughtful remark coming from this young man. The next morning I ran into Michele and Richard. They offered me a cup of coffee. We small chatted quietly. They told Roy was so excited after he saw me. They said he said he loves hiking now and wants to see the world on foot. I didn’t have a chance to see Roy that morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I had those same dreams…Try not to let him forget about ‘em.’ I told them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Oh he will. That’s all he talks about. Seeing you though, really left an impression.’ I blushed and smiled again. I shook their hands and walked off and bade them happy trails.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Heavy rain settled in for three days straight. It became difficult to fall into a rhythm because the rain fell so hard, even if all one was mostly doing was walking roads. So, I strategized to have at least one half day and dry out in a hotel room. More or less I walked with my head under a rain jacket hood and narrowed my vision to that of a hooded one. Fortunately, the temps remained warm enough and it was not difficult to remain warm and clammy, a mantra I normally use when hiking in the usual cold rains in the Rocky Mountains and such. After some rest, I left a seaside village amid still thunderous skies. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sun finally popped out after another dreary morning. Sweat dripped from me as the thick humidity clung to a warm air. I found myself in a cheerful mood because of the sun. After some hours of walking and plodding across a waist deep estuary I became stuck in a seascape painting, frozen in awe, the waves rolling through on an uproarious conveyor belt, the weight of the whole Pacific Ocean pushing into the coastline heaving the weight of an open sea from a South American continent worlds away, the most water I think I have seen at once, the most powerful. One wave crashes and another one follows suit directly behind it, an endless cacophonous line of power. Misty clouds hung in the nooks of the mountainous heads, the moist fog line distinguishing the layers of dirt and saltwater. Only a thin ribbon of pale sand stood out. High tide, the tide was raging and pushing into the grassy dunes barricaded above the beach. I found a flat and grassy patch on top of a bluff as night sunk in. With the booming noise and desolate farm land, the area held an empty feeling, lonesomeness at its highest frequency. I watched the shore swallowed up. Soon, a deep and raucous sleep enveloped me as the waves influenced my ponderous slumber. I tucked away whatever sadness on the surface the scene provoked. Instead, I simply listened and let the crashing consume me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the morning, the low tide afforded me swift travel along the beach. The misty atmosphere felt like a hangover. Although my mind has been freer lately I couldn’t help but see and feel the pulsing and crashing coastline as symbolic. I had an awakening of sorts. The misty clouds oozed towards me, the rear bottom sagging with moisture. I didn’t feel it right then, but I understood I had been in a profound sadness this past year. Like in a misty fog I couldn’t recognize the ailment until the sun poked through. Some part of my soul had been waging a swirling wade on a lost coast. Something had vacated my being and left a vacuous and murky hole. What appeared to me in this moment along this South Pacific beach, what laid out in front of me, the surging waves, the powerful roar, the proud character of nature, all of this; I felt inspired to patch that hole up and fill it with this wandering mist, the verdant hills, and the moist and smoothing shoreline. I had been awakened from my dypsomanic stupor, startled awake from that hangover with the roar of nature. My thinking in sadness ended right there. I licked my lips, I tasted the gritty air, the salt. A plume of air bellowed up from my belly. I mumbled in a belchy breath: I will not be anything different for anyone ever again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ocean, the coast, the beach, and the sea have always invoked a layer of sadness to me, a gloominess ensconced in mist and fog. It’s an impression I have had from reading books and growing up in the desert, a place so distant in nature. I understand the emotive meaning of waves and water, of the provocative essence the sea brings, the emotional eruption spewing forth from the ocean. I hiked along that beach not in that spewing fate of an emotional gush. I promise you. I walked on in am understanding of what I had suffered through the past year. I understood that love has a sadness to it. Love must be as true as the ocean. I could now don my cap of grace back on and bid farewell to the forgiveness and sorrow that I had sunk into. The ocean reminded me of those depths and provided me with introspection. I walked on with a fuller insight because of this moment by the ocean.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stopped for breakfast at the camp the other hikers had walked to late last night. I caught up to them after road walking around a ferry option that the hikers had taken. Yea, I am solo, and am aiming to stay that way, however, part of this little adventure is to get out of my comfort zone. Granted, my comfort zone usually makes people very uncomfortable. Yet for me, being a tad more social on trail is something I’m not generally accustomed to. So, I ambled on over to camp and had a warm breakfast. It was fun chitchatting and we had planned to try and meet up for the water taxi at Whangarei Heads. The muddy and humid track of Bream Head felt like a sauna. At least, I sure as hell sweated like I was in one. The narrow ribbon of trail became a chute and if it wasn’t for the well constructed stairs the hiker would zip on down like a log in a flume. Thick moisture laden clouds smothered the craggy peninsula. I couldn’t see the views of the ocean and the bay. Eventually, I popped out on some soggy grassy slopes and spied the views of the bay. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the dock, I knew I would be hours ahead of the others, the Bream Head track being too slow going. I took off my shoes and socks and leaned up against a shed and watched the ride softly lapping into the gravelly cove. The taxi time neared and things felt just a little too empty. Then, I heard a tractor motor. The tractor came lumbering down a drive way and the fisherman immediately saw me as he drove down the gravel ramp and entered the cove. He threw me a motion of ‘need a lift?’ I obliged his gesture with a head nod. In a few short minutes I was across the bay and walking the beach, the remnants of city life evident in the folks recreating up and down the beach. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I must have passed hundreds of people. Fishermen of every ilk, dogs and walkers, couples, horse riders, people driving their trucks or riding their dirt bikes, swimmers, old people, kids, families, grizzled fisherman, chiseled baskets—-you name it, I saw the spectrum. I gazed back across the bay and the high points were still smothered in clouds. The silky smooth clouds blanketed the rooftop of the heads and looked like an eerie smoky afternoon in the Pacific Northwest. I had mackerel skies above me. And, get this, I had a social walk. I bet at least 10 people, all different and random, ask me if I was hiking the TA. As different as all those folks were, the cheeriness and hospitality made me feel so welcomed. I was reminded of my first successful PCT hike in ‘11 when I would run into random strangers who all seemed to know of the PCT. I just recall how they treated me with such cheer and glee. Walking along this beach felt very similar. It may seem silly, but this was pushing my comfort zone and I was embracing it. I wanted to write it earlier: I think what I need now is to be around nice people. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once across the Whangarei Harbor, I could see a routine develop on the maps. I wouldn’t have to wait for tides to lower, camping would be at regular intervals in regards to my pace, and I could carry 3 day’s worth of food. The only challenge would be the forecast. More rain followed, again. Nothing too torrential and on two of those days I covered nearly 30 miles in rain all without wearing a raincoat, the temps remaining warm enough to do so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This trip being so different than a Grand Canyon traverse, the complete opposite, and how the notion to relax feels imperative, both physically and emotionally. My spiritual bucket is so full from the GCT to be super engaged in the social aspect is paramount to not being as engaged in the environment. The country is pretty. This trail is almost boring, almost mundane in the lack of a natural creative route. And that’s ok; I’ve already accepted to be fulfilled by simply walking, an act I love most in life. I know why I am doing this: a much needed break from the work I had been doing for 11 years, a break from being in a close relationship, a break from the States, and most importantly a break from the self-indulgent self. If you think this means running away, well, you are simply dead wrong. I had been so loathing in my own self I felt I needed to be removed from that self, a grounding of sorts, to fill that hole in me with the world around, absorb anything other than my own ego. I’m there just as much, I’m completely aware of me. I just need a break and simply be, just simply fucking be. And, the Te Araroa is fulfilling that stop gap. I need my mindfulness back and not that image I’ve been harping on the past year. This is called my songline, in a way. I am using my inner compass fueled by my curiosity. Check the ego at the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Holiday park at Takapuna—the seaside windsurfers, the pulse of the city mixed with travelers, the intermingling in the kitchen with a Dutch couple, a British couple—at dinner; a British family at breakfast. At the cusp of a major city I felt the bite of the raucousness and the busyness. All these encounters with travelers, whether on holiday or on foot, I am observing what makes them tick, trying to get some insight on what is providing them with purpose. These observations, I hope, will provide some insight on how to navigate an unknown future. As for the locals, my observations through the interactions with them is to garner knowledge of what makes up a community, of what type of humble makeup it takes to be content with a home and a normal routine of life, of what constitutes a family. See, I really don’t think I know the definitions too these things. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Auckland to Hamilton:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Life goes on…and so does a bland part of trail all the way from Auckland to Hamilton, just not enough connection to nature, strictly urban and mundane. This is all suddenly a big digression…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Hamilton to Wellington:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally leaving Hamilton, about 10m outside of the city, I finally felt that rural aspect of getting out there. Remote farmland, rolling green hills and knobby limestone points. Getting onto a mossy and thick forest trail going up to Pirongia, the gradual climb to a steep sticky mud climb all through a green tunnel and finally attain the summit to gather some wide views of the surrounding areas, from Hamilton to the Tasman Sea. At the hut I pitched my tarp and walked over to the deck to observe the sunset, my first sunset in just over 3 weeks on trail. This was the summer solstice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next morning waking up to a thick blanket of mist and fog, the mind is clear. Ambling along through a hallway of fog I scrambled down some slick boardwalks before hitting a slippery and muddy trail. I skidded and slipped down a couple hours until reaching a dirt road. I had it all to myself since I was up way earlier than the others. An afternoon downpour totally drenched me for 2 hours, to skies clearing up and drying me off, more meandering through occasional rain forests and grassy farmland, immersed in a rhythm of walking—-this writing is choppy, sporadic. Finally, an evening stroll to find a campsite, the orange and pink hues of sunset crowned with plum colored rays emanating the first full day of summer. My writing is turning antsy, a jiggled flick of the wrist and twirl of the fingers, I tumble onward in joystick rhythms. The days are suddenly moving swiftly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ribbon of trail threaded through a thick, comforting forest and the soothing Mangaokera River. The gorge sprouted with huge trees, both tall and wide, from pines and cedars and other native trees. The jungle would open up to a rustic grassland, the slopes white specked with grazing sheep. I lingered along this meandering trail before I knew I was exiting a thicket and onto a gravel road. The long gravelly dirt road weaved to a high grassy plateau where I glimpsed sidelong views of endless green prairies and knobby cones. Evening crept in and the blue sky turned to a purple and magenta mixture signifying my good Christmas eve was over. Then, a truck rolled by. I recognized the lady because she had passed me twice already along the road. I asked her if there was a field out of sight to pitch my tent. She told me of a wool shed 2km up the road. I continued on like a slow cooked thick sauce dreaming of a good nights rest after a filling meal that would cost my stomach. The sky turned a darker purple with the remaining rays bleeding through the smeared clouds a dark red. An ATV rolled up on me from a house. I had heard music and seen some people rustling around from the road. I was surprised at how quick the ATV got to me, right as I was passing the long driveway. The girls each wore a Santa hat. They smiled cheerfully and asked if I was a TA walker. The farm manager, the driver’s dad, yelled from above—</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hey! It’s all right! The shed! Good to go!’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He eagerly gave a couple thumbs up as he swayed to the reggae music. The girls showed me the way to the wool shed as they pulled up next to the chiller to pick up a load of mussels for the party. They zoomed away after showing me around, both of them laughing and smiling as friendly as anyone could be. I’m pretty sure they were stoned. I giggled when they sauntered off. I hurriedly washed up and gulped down a bagel with cream cheese. At the house, the welcoming vibe grooved along. Wayne greeted me with a smile and a beer and introduced me to everyone. Tuti the son, Brian the brother, and so on. His wife brought out sandwiches of fresh ham, roasted chicken, aioli dressing, and butter lettuce. The Christmas Eve party was just beginning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A jovial chaos ensued. Marinated in debauchery, I was glazed over in laughter. Wayne and I discussed our families. He was sort of shocked at how small mine is. I was pleasantly intrigued at how large his is. He passionately pointed around the area where family members lived. He listed them off. I asked him more about the farm. The head of cattle and sheep, the pastures, the shearing process, the milking, the Māori trust he had been instilled to manage and the land behind it. So much more. He continued passing me beers and offering up the mussels. I slurped the mussels with a garlic sludge that tickled my tastebuds. Three sandwiches went down easily. The beer just flowed. I wasn’t overwhelmed with the friendliness and hospitality either. In fact, I was the complete opposite. I was thrilled to be engaged with this family, to know their history and how they do things. Everything felt just natural. I could feel the family’s connection to each other and their lineage. I could also feel their connection to the land and the animals. This party was a tradition and I was a part of it. This is communal bonding at its fullest.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Tuti yelled over to me in a drunken Kiwi drawl. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Wait till you see the stars!’ He sprang up from his seat and we stumbled over to the lawn in the darkness. I gazed up bleary eyes from a tilting stance. The beer set in and I squinted my eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Is that Orion? Why does it look so funny? What the fuck?’ Tuti laughed and he pointed out some southern stars the Māori had names for. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had gotten stuck on that Orion looking constellation though, so I couldn’t pick up all the words or which stars he was pointing at. Then it hit me like a shot of whiskey. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Wait!’ I said a slurring bit. ‘It is Orion!’ I laughed and expressed in amazement, exclamation points in earnest. ‘It’s just upside down!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Somehow this brought me back to earth. I felt grounded right there in exactly that moment. All the silliness of self absorption ceased. I was a part of this family for tonight. Tuti and I slung our arms over each other’s shoulders and swayed back to the patio. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Fraser the cousin turned up the reggae. By now the mussels were gone and everyone was happily drunk. Tuti and I spoke of traveling at length. So much so, I had forgotten that I had probably needed to get to bed. So, the beer kept coming. Aunty showed up and we got a laugh at how many times she passed me today. Both Aunty and Tuti said that in 12 years of living there, that of all the walkers I was the first to have the gumption to come up to the house and personally say hi. Suddenly, the group behind the table, Wayne, Hope, Siobhan, and Fraser the cousin began singing along to Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds. They all locked arms and swayed rhythmically to the lovable tune. Everyone joined in and we all sang out the chorus:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Don’t worry…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">About a thing…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Every little thing…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Is gonna be all right…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The song ended but the vibe and pulse of the song felt like it just continued on. I finally looked at the time on my phone. Half past midnight. A round of hugs ensued and we continued chiming the song. After a long and happy goodbye, which included another beer, I staggered back to the sheep shed for a bleary eyed night of sleep chiseled with a smile on my face.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yea…from there I walked all the way into Wellington. Nothing would compare to the Christmas Eve night with the Māori family. I found myself in some good walking and some beautiful scenery. The vibe evened out. I camped under the skies more often, stealth camped here and there. I felt the impulse of being grungy. I wanted things to be wild. Of course, a cyclone spun in and got things a bit too wild. Needless to sweat about it when all the effort was given. Wellington fell into place grandly, a wonderfully hilly city on a pretty bay, small yet big the city brought amazingly beautiful urban trails, diverse cultures mingled together, and the harbor brought on a metropolitan busyness. Most of all, however, Wellington brought on hiker friends. Steeped under Mt. Victoria, Heaps hosted me and a couple other hikers with an angelic hospitality of the truest sort. After three full days of mingling, planning, eating, and relaxing, I shoved off on a midnight ferry for the South Island. The seas were rough, but I medicated strongly enough to receive loud knocks at my cabin door. I drearily walked down the plank in the early grey morning and onto the soil of an imagine place and a new hopeful trail. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKLfsslT1SHxt-WGUHWz-iVs82xpfT3LOdjUC2wrplgoxQCnnJC5OMaRegwIFK_BGThfR4fOEofGq3dgjxXwEPjyodpfTHnqom9HT4G6JJ92eWqUq4NPqA7sttn4yTDzshYJ4WaVeZhlrCOoO7Xu3XQqbaNTICihsvnVKvmRE3AIPmdM59D4GWUOk/s4032/IMG_8026.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKLfsslT1SHxt-WGUHWz-iVs82xpfT3LOdjUC2wrplgoxQCnnJC5OMaRegwIFK_BGThfR4fOEofGq3dgjxXwEPjyodpfTHnqom9HT4G6JJ92eWqUq4NPqA7sttn4yTDzshYJ4WaVeZhlrCOoO7Xu3XQqbaNTICihsvnVKvmRE3AIPmdM59D4GWUOk/w400-h300/IMG_8026.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9JVoNCb9-IdX2gXCtvfW_zCe3ObP3NYq3St6TknZZ7dQtULcBDwxdvlJDgNWAuwEBVWtXtam9Di9TuKoGzjMCam6HPuUmH8KXvIKgkw78mx4VsU3Qt5w4uV34uwDW-FUFg7I3yhyxCoY47RKILYDNGmsjAB6xrhzLBCBgNDLJTb1o_1xnPFLkh3A/s4032/IMG_8482.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9JVoNCb9-IdX2gXCtvfW_zCe3ObP3NYq3St6TknZZ7dQtULcBDwxdvlJDgNWAuwEBVWtXtam9Di9TuKoGzjMCam6HPuUmH8KXvIKgkw78mx4VsU3Qt5w4uV34uwDW-FUFg7I3yhyxCoY47RKILYDNGmsjAB6xrhzLBCBgNDLJTb1o_1xnPFLkh3A/w400-h300/IMG_8482.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><br style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;" /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><br /></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-39486877485433152352022-11-20T06:12:00.000-08:002022-11-20T06:12:03.873-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 31-35<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsMKWS4N9DqtfG1tNiwi920ZDxZLePka_nYChPkyeHMhfxtR2juYN_dMB2fRWvAk1S_zXY1hbMXq8LODMTDB2CPt4BDuCsTroqZMEmWe7bvHoqIp0nfJPKjuYg60_zGWULKfCFBBf0_669fEmx_25UaRWpWxyBhURN5ZoyQX5Mcmo18Y2Zh6QJGbt/s4032/IMG_7663.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsMKWS4N9DqtfG1tNiwi920ZDxZLePka_nYChPkyeHMhfxtR2juYN_dMB2fRWvAk1S_zXY1hbMXq8LODMTDB2CPt4BDuCsTroqZMEmWe7bvHoqIp0nfJPKjuYg60_zGWULKfCFBBf0_669fEmx_25UaRWpWxyBhURN5ZoyQX5Mcmo18Y2Zh6QJGbt/w640-h480/IMG_7663.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 31:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Grand Canyon is the realm of the impossibility of what is possible. One needs a lifetime to understand the enormity of this place and what it has even gone through in the breadth of time. It is impossible, I know, yet to even scratch the surface, to even read the first page of the tome is breathtaking, special. One can easily hop into some of the most rugged mountain ranges in the States. The High Sierra, the Winds, the San Juan among others, and one with some decent level of experience can nearly place oneself there and perform superfluously without having a ‘feel’ for the place. One can drift in thought in these places. This is not a feasible method in the Grand Canyon. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Being immersed in the Big Ditch there is no word for lost; one is simply misplaced, both in the physical and metaphysical. One has to be on point at every second. One must live thoroughly in action and intent in every second. In that sense, time is immemorial. Time simply stops. This giant paradox as you look at the scars of erosion over millions of years in the walls and layers of the Grand Canyon does not confuse the traveler. This paradox only makes you one with this immense place. To sum it up, this past month has been incomprehensible. Incomprehensible to what I have seen, experienced, and hiked through. I am at a loss for words. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The past couple days have been a calm eddy. We woke up on our last day at the west end of the Grand Canyon 5 miles from Tassi Ranch, an arbitrary end point with the nearest access road to the Grand Canyon without crossing the Colorado River. We waited for the sun to rise to defrost our gear and then slowly walked to the ranch. We waited for our friend Li who was to pick us up. He was slightly delayed and we had to wait about 3.5 hours. However, funnily enough, with all our thoughts and obsessions about food and our gear the past week, we just laid around in a meditative state, really, just relaxing. He eventually arrived and we indulged in some snacks before the rugged 2 hour drive out to the interstate. After a meal and a resupply spree in St. George, we arrived at the North Rim at midnight. Immediately, we went to bed exhausted. The next day we did some laundry and had a hot shower, the first of each for the both of us in 24 days. After breakfast we got our permit arranged with the Backcountry Office to finish the stretch we missed from Rider Canyon to Nankoweap. Then, Katie and I said our goodbye to Li and began the process of shuttling cars for the last stretch. As the sun dropped behind the Kaibab Plateau we were at the Rider Canyon trailhead, ready to go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A little blurb for Li is in order. I held back tears in thanking him. Back in '13 while on the Vagabond Loop, I met Li on the North Rim at the exact same apartment. He housed me, made me delicious food, cranked out margaritas, and gave me a beer in a glass with the imprinting of the logo Vagabond Ale. Our friendship began then. Every time I have seen him since we chatter like long lost friends. I'll be honest, I do not think I hold up my end of the bargain in our friendship. I usually ring him when I am passing through. For this GCT adventure I wanted to be self-supported and did not reach out to Li until a week before we started on 9/27. Even then, I had not arranged for him to pick us up at Tassi Ranch. It wasn't until the night before our second go-around in the canyon that I spoke with him after countless of ideas had failed or just didn't work out. I finally asked him if he would be willing to pick us up at the western end of the Grand Canyon. He obliged me a quick answer of 'Sure, why not.' He ahs been so generous with his time, not only in hosting us too. Having him pick us up really felt fitting to me. He introduced me to the likes of Harvey Butchart and George Steck. He planted the seed in me long ago in '13 about the possibility of a Grand Canyon Traverse. Thank you Li. Thank you, my friend. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXmdFHNSnMEXz-xGFNFVi3pfvevDXaeJnuHR__1I7huuw4A1tS_Ncko53PnxXRRbzNbI2Gz9BzWFvvf88VclDExODNCDGa8JUPhl2JMFD5js6VEWnkjwP4w_dS6NHSeqarjkOidti8MBA1s0QXsVfWUZIgV_bEDvzkoeidbUrrdB0xLRaaInzvQP-/s4032/IMG_7592.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXmdFHNSnMEXz-xGFNFVi3pfvevDXaeJnuHR__1I7huuw4A1tS_Ncko53PnxXRRbzNbI2Gz9BzWFvvf88VclDExODNCDGa8JUPhl2JMFD5js6VEWnkjwP4w_dS6NHSeqarjkOidti8MBA1s0QXsVfWUZIgV_bEDvzkoeidbUrrdB0xLRaaInzvQP-/w640-h480/IMG_7592.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally back at the Marble Canyon section. I had been waiting for this moment since I staggered out of Rider Canyon over a month ago with hypernatremia and heat exhaustion. I woke up on the hard ground cold. The morning was downright brisk. When there was enough light out we began the trek into Rider. Such a different feeling going down than when we came up. The potholes were brimming with fresh rainwater, the dirt compacted, and we had an aura of less trepidation, like we knew what to expect and what to do. I, personally, didn’t think too much about how I was the last time we were here. I felt so far removed and grown away from that experience. I have learned so much since then. I was glad to be walking back down that canyon with Katie to finish this big ol’ thing up!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a few pour offs that took some consideration, we heard the roar of the Colorado River from the slot within Rider Canyon. We stopped for a second and just listened to the roar. I grew excited. Going back in was in no way anti-climatic. Our adventure was still in progress. I wanted so bad to say ‘we have hiked the length of the Grand Canyon.’ We sauntered on towards the river. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the mouth of the canyon, the colossal cliffs gave way to a rugged beach and a narrow tube of water with huge whitewater. The canyon echoed with the tumbling water. Our jaws dropped at the color of the water. The river was cerulean blue, simply stunning in its steely reflection before cascading over the rapids. We totally expected the water to be murky and muddy like we had been seeing for the past three weeks. I got the chills at the sight of such beauty and power. What a moment to be back in such a remarkable setting. Such a moment filled with gratitude and humility. How lucky we are to experience and observe the awesome nature and rawness of the Colorado River. We looked all around us, our heads nearly spinning off of our necks. The walls of Marble Canyon went straight up in the narrow chasm. The river powerfully snaked its way through, barged its way over rocks, and made such a ruckus the sound was nearly deafening. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIakA75U95wvuAOjz6M1fDZkgTAKoSe5dZsIkPcix5ALKp2a8lNDtH7x3Fcl2Oq8ZsHIUOL8MxC4JYDosi9xlET_gJCJudsqSjpPNJexyi_fDRtzMHmb4vVM6PWzDXZANQbQG4I9wpKy7No5F3Yc7aynyxM4OgZBNC_7L7tmRna_xOH8bgUKKKCZQt/s4032/IMG_7585.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIakA75U95wvuAOjz6M1fDZkgTAKoSe5dZsIkPcix5ALKp2a8lNDtH7x3Fcl2Oq8ZsHIUOL8MxC4JYDosi9xlET_gJCJudsqSjpPNJexyi_fDRtzMHmb4vVM6PWzDXZANQbQG4I9wpKy7No5F3Yc7aynyxM4OgZBNC_7L7tmRna_xOH8bgUKKKCZQt/w640-h480/IMG_7585.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The temps were cool. The narrows were dark. The river was so incredibly blue and clear. We hiked on down canyon and slid back into our routine almost immediately. We found a thin ribbon of sheep trail, we boulder hopped constantly, tiptoed atop ledges, and took our time all right along the azure river. We were comfortable yet hardened, confident yet humble, enthralled and charmed yet unemotionally focused and boring; we were no longer novice Grand Canyon adventurers. We past rapid after rapid, so unlike the quietude of the western Grand Canyon where the river oozed at a snails pace towards its mouth. The days are so much shorter now, too. We have to watch the time and adjust our pace if we are to find a decent campsite. We are eager to finish, however, we cannot rush things with the amount of daylight we have. We still must endure 13 hour nights. Yet, these nights have been probably my favorite experience of the whole hike. The calming rest has been so rejuvenating to me, my mind still as an cold and dry late Autumn morning. The preparation of dinner and breakfast has been a soothing chore. The stargazing and moongazing has kept me enraptured every night. I cannot wait for these moments during the day, for the nights bring me such joy. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, tonight is no different, even if we almost got pinched by the sun. We luckily found a sandy bank wedged between two crumbling Redwall cliffs. We are directly above the river. The river slowly moves by, ekes and slinks like an inchworm. It is a quiet spot, while the roars of the rapids remain in the hallways upriver. The stars shine brightly. I am so grateful for this blackness of night. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 32:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the river belches at night</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">splashes, speeds up and decelerates -- burps, gurgles, babbles </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the river belches at night </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the river moves immovable boulders </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the river thuds at night -- groans, sings, whistles, thunders</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the river belches at night</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBG4xC-tfwXGuh6Xlr42sSmgDAp67wHOhJIXufQMKwzahhWgvVcT_NvRmOOuXQ0BUFxwS8afXdqsphtUyXA7hwdlPBvI_mKQDFS37y_xw6y1DuTgm83oC3P94rvq4fUBBonJ_jol4AjwxVCOoeZGHS41-et-vx-QLMo048Dn9kZAA7HVoJnshV9d7/s4032/IMG_7613.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBG4xC-tfwXGuh6Xlr42sSmgDAp67wHOhJIXufQMKwzahhWgvVcT_NvRmOOuXQ0BUFxwS8afXdqsphtUyXA7hwdlPBvI_mKQDFS37y_xw6y1DuTgm83oC3P94rvq4fUBBonJ_jol4AjwxVCOoeZGHS41-et-vx-QLMo048Dn9kZAA7HVoJnshV9d7/w640-h480/IMG_7613.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Redwall finally breached the surface. The unassailable layer had brief stretches of skimming just above the waters like a gray whale looming from the depths of the ocean. The indefatigable feature emerging taller and taller, more imposing the more that is exposed, more dominant as it rises higher. Here, as the Redwall rises, the layer is gray, like typical limestone. The name connotes the distinct coloring of the formidable wall at most points. This coloring is from the minerals above that contain ferrous running and smearing onto the gray layer. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here, now, the walls stem some 300ft directly down to the river. The emerald river runs within this narrow wedge and corridor without a shoreline, only the occasional beach. Pour offs plummet from above, the layers are squished and stacked like a crammed sandwich layered with meat. The canyon is so narrow here. Voices echo from below, clamoring against the walls, loud and boisterous. The water can either funnel rapidly or cruise at a hiker’s pace. And, we are directly above it on top of the Redwall. We can see for a couple miles in each direction the snaking ess curves, the wiggles of the bright green river. Here, the water is emerald green, refulgent under the red walls beneath the rim. Alcove pockets are dug out mysteriously. Who lives there? And, then you forgot about fantasy and are simply mesmerized by the emerald color, the gleaming waters that embrace the reflections of the walls above, and the long shadows of the towering rim. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">What a beautiful day, even if we didn’t feel a ray of sunlight until 1030 or so with us being in this narrow passageway. Only the ravines posed any real challenges. We straddled a thin ribbon trodden by sheep above the emerald ribbon of the river. We fetched water at South Canyon beach, a couple hundred feet below. I kicked myself for forgetting my camera. The scene was indescribably beautiful. We angled into South Canyon and found a rough yet pristine camp above the narrows. I threw rocks into a small cave nearby just in case a cougar resided inside. I would rather know up front. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">My perch observes a promontory across the river.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">This point had the last rays of sun in the area. I watched the sunlight rise up on the point and fade away into the purple dusk above, contrary to the setting sun. Another day is done.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 33:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">An icy wind sliced through the canyons careening down from the Kaibab Plateau. The gusts settled within the Redwall corridor, the icy air sinking into the great gash. I had a hard time keeping my hands warm. I rubbed them together, blew into them, to no avail. We crossed South Canyon and then had the wind at our backs, my hands regaining warmth slowly. By the time we turned on the downriver point of South the wind ceased. However, that icy air smacked my cheeks. As usual, we followed sheep trail. We plodded along sheer cliffs, stunning and jaw dropping to see the canyon walls curve and bend from above, astonishing that the power of rushing water did all this. We passed by the surveying site of a potential Marble Canyon Dam from so many years ago. Antique garbage, is what folks call it. Crazy to think people were up here atop the Redwall on opposite sides of the river gorge trying to figure something out, probably yelling at each other on windy days, simply conversing in stillness on silent days. I wondered if I could throw a rock across the chasm, the rims were that close. Obviously, the dam was a no-go here. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We battled the ravines, but the going was a bit easier. Less loose rock, less steep, and less slippery slopes. We could follow the sheep trail right through the gullies. Generally, in this stretch, we had to scramble and hike in between Supai boulders that were strewn about. The tighter the slope, the tighter the hiking within the boulders. These types of boulders are more favorable than the man-eating limestone of the western canyon infamy. The boulders are less hungry, less menacing and sharp. The Supai are softer, rounder, and more forgivable. So much so we can almost take a bite out of one. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOLszVHOvK_laQEGLh2QxpO0PtmXhYNEz6Y8SJH5YJVB-_Iwj73TtZfcQr8riu9buQV5e8oetTAR0hyqRNUqKqcOBCgdqZ5Yu-kCfLtUEJrgtUDSDTPTQx6r-XiuQPjMJL6YewXxRDYFNuyzoIUWaprlYwjs3lz37Ldcdn6IRc8lqdwu7owpC6ZOy/s4032/IMG_7703.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOLszVHOvK_laQEGLh2QxpO0PtmXhYNEz6Y8SJH5YJVB-_Iwj73TtZfcQr8riu9buQV5e8oetTAR0hyqRNUqKqcOBCgdqZ5Yu-kCfLtUEJrgtUDSDTPTQx6r-XiuQPjMJL6YewXxRDYFNuyzoIUWaprlYwjs3lz37Ldcdn6IRc8lqdwu7owpC6ZOy/w640-h480/IMG_7703.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The platform atop the Redwall widened and we trampled along fairly swiftly. This was unexpected and may have been some of the most efficient and easiest hiking we have had on the whole trip. With the ease of travel, I sunk into deep thought about isolation. Absolutely no one felt to be around. The scene did not feel desolate rather than isolated, removed from any other place. This is pure wilderness. Such a tremendous solitude existed as we ambled within some rolling hills of crushed limestone and sandstone. We have overlooked the rim a couple of times and gulped at the drops. The snaking of the river meandered like a sharp cleaver slicing its way through marbled meat. The waters shimmered in the sunlight when sunlight would reach the bottom. Shadows loomed over the majority of the canyon. Absolutely no one was out here. To think we are mere specks in this giant world. Although the canyon feels disproportionately enormous to this world, the Grand Canyon is its own galaxy. The canyon is submerged from the surface of the earth. It is subterranean, and within this giant crack an unknown universe exists. We are lonesome travelers in the universe. We are explorers of the depths of the canyon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We yawned into Buck Farm Canyon on those rolling hills of sorts atop the Redwall. This canyon tributary went nearly straight out to the river with sheer cliffs. Down in the dark hollows chutes, pour offs and slick funnels </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">fell into an abyss. We gawked at the darkness of the slots and the abrupt cliffs. We found water from a pothole, one of many we saw today. We are blessed in this stretch with cool temps and brimming potholes, so unlike what we’ve heard about this stretch. In some way, our timing back to here after what happened in the beginning with me, feels forgivable for such an act of negligence, a reprieve from my idiocy. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I will set up the shelter tonight to stave off the wind. I want to be warmer against the icy wind from the Kaibab Plateau. I want my hands warm again. I will still poke my head out to see the stars and the moon. Most of all, I will relish in the silence and solitude of the canyon.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVQJO-NYf-HbzDOUWYFMtXW_nPkg_WpJ0r7kpf-PJaaWH3dzpE3TrAN-AqseOyK4ctveYEa3f5xI6mao4uLKU_hIAQxmEAc4_m-uy8_gGi35LnPr0k0t4OWvhCmKIjSwNSGQYufBm7h2eomD9ZceuD5rA-TC_T9j6SS01shjWeWuUvKl2BCTqYQLQ/s4032/IMG_7714.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVQJO-NYf-HbzDOUWYFMtXW_nPkg_WpJ0r7kpf-PJaaWH3dzpE3TrAN-AqseOyK4ctveYEa3f5xI6mao4uLKU_hIAQxmEAc4_m-uy8_gGi35LnPr0k0t4OWvhCmKIjSwNSGQYufBm7h2eomD9ZceuD5rA-TC_T9j6SS01shjWeWuUvKl2BCTqYQLQ/w640-h480/IMG_7714.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 34:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the owl hoots from some unknown hollow</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the lilt is encompassing,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the slots remain pitch black,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>out on the rim</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the sun daubs us earlier today</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">a gleaming plaster,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">light brown clouds of sediment </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">drift and swirl in the emerald current </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">a sky, a sky within a sky </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>down below</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">as I peer over the cliff</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">tan puffy clouds in an emerald sky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the rolling hills are steeper</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">up</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>yawing</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">down </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we churn the soft dirt</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">still saturated from last week’s storm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the potholes are full </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">in polished limestone pockets</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">resembling marble</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">tiny sticks, little worms, grass </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>float</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I fill and swill</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">at least it is not scorched earth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">crumbled ravines take time</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">crumbled ravines erode quickly</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>in time </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">traverse the gullies with ease</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we churn the crumbling ravines.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we summit a saddle of a long point,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">in the u bend of the river </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>yawning </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">around this point, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">we play on jumbled boulders</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">scaling, wedging</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>churning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">finally,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Nankoweap.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can see the gashes of the canyons, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the wide beaches of the meandering river,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the icy wind revisits, like a terrible aunt,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">so, we opt for lower elevations,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">down a spiraling limestone tower</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>of the Redwall</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">How are we getting down the Redwall?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had wondered,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">for we rose gradually on top</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">as it rose from the deeps. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">down a spiraling limestone tower </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>of the Redwall</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we go into Little Nankoweap</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">as if the beginning is the end,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the walls across the river are paneled </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>in daybreak </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">illuminating a blaze of rock,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hear the river screaming</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">crawling up the inside the side canyon</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the rapids never stop.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we sleep on a sandy flat</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and dump out from our socks pink sand </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>from the day</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we will finish early</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">so, we eat as if fulfilling a promise,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">one more night under the starry canopy</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we sleep on our backs in the narrow </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;">Little Nankoweap, the darkness our blanket. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEyNdDDdjgsj_Jerf_zuNPZPERE-dyQ70gPaCC181xDAXXTnzImRskr8c04KkefkRfgYMQWHW4IU0m1jx7faiuciDj8bJ0W78qtRLBeLLus9Hax0E1frkigQFodcC6KNZ0a5ZsseKUuNoR--wKoMxqsz7jWDHk9B_7pI2A1AIi2iixHU7uRfwHL8g/s4032/IMG_7722.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEyNdDDdjgsj_Jerf_zuNPZPERE-dyQ70gPaCC181xDAXXTnzImRskr8c04KkefkRfgYMQWHW4IU0m1jx7faiuciDj8bJ0W78qtRLBeLLus9Hax0E1frkigQFodcC6KNZ0a5ZsseKUuNoR--wKoMxqsz7jWDHk9B_7pI2A1AIi2iixHU7uRfwHL8g/w640-h480/IMG_7722.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 35:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t have very many words left. I left my emotions on day 2 on the ledges of Rider Canyon and on day 10 in Tuna Canyon. I left all of my emotions there, enough to fill the Grand Canyon, my emotions from a whole year. I have been so focused otherwise. Objectively observing, unemotionally grinding, steely, nervy, machine-like routine, disciplined and driven; all my words have left me. The Grand Canyon has filled me with an awesome splendor. As I hike down the dark hallways of Little Nankoweap dawn is rising. I am rising. I am at a loss for words, everything here in this place has been indescribable. It makes sense I cannot describe my emotions. I did it, a dream come true: I have walked the length of the magnificent Grand Canyon. Yet, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t always have the words for the feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">While the river has been the power source, the Redwall has been the barometer of that power. Condensed pressure, a way through or not; it is fitting we get to the river on our way out and in the process of doing so get below the Redwall layer and unto the Muav. We need the river more than anything, and it has always been the Redwall that seemingly allows to get to the river. Not all the time though. Nevertheless, when we look up we see the indomitable layer of the Redwall, staunch and steadfast, resistant to the power of the river. And, to feel the river one last time is me saying ‘Amen.’ This prayer has been answered.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4_9RCuyIga1LFSm9494VF9h2hNSBUjVUhiciSz2oPHUDbprAcLNu_tC9b3-DZ4bUoZwihRnfdkdIr2ZVDjKhOr62azkZZCE666u41CgrppOqaLpijwZinb0Ohc5dsAN4aqCbCzUTk1b_hoVF9PSXSL5GwKVNsvEkk13nkylzr2-XogtExxo-bqb9/s4032/IMG_7724.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4_9RCuyIga1LFSm9494VF9h2hNSBUjVUhiciSz2oPHUDbprAcLNu_tC9b3-DZ4bUoZwihRnfdkdIr2ZVDjKhOr62azkZZCE666u41CgrppOqaLpijwZinb0Ohc5dsAN4aqCbCzUTk1b_hoVF9PSXSL5GwKVNsvEkk13nkylzr2-XogtExxo-bqb9/w640-h480/IMG_7724.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC71QZmMRFuPfn-hmIVNxbPtKZxTVrqTWva7GgIQebD-m7w-1K_UrsCbBNwF6dBVNLZG9W1uvsdLKxGeF1hgJWmlvf_FayOItKEgSaYHlO9PfB3ivhDow3zdBvwSE_QNljZpO6MFZMR3HmCx_XH5_6oxyQgHTfXSSTo1cT0cEYAc2d8E__-kXfr7w_/s4032/IMG_7569.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC71QZmMRFuPfn-hmIVNxbPtKZxTVrqTWva7GgIQebD-m7w-1K_UrsCbBNwF6dBVNLZG9W1uvsdLKxGeF1hgJWmlvf_FayOItKEgSaYHlO9PfB3ivhDow3zdBvwSE_QNljZpO6MFZMR3HmCx_XH5_6oxyQgHTfXSSTo1cT0cEYAc2d8E__-kXfr7w_/w640-h480/IMG_7569.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-56471676728499199832022-11-20T06:11:00.002-08:002022-11-20T06:11:49.136-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 26-30<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4y9jv88OCSfC2ZSigoqZ_5RxtGlnfMPdPJ3l2ptJDmO9aJCOOwoEgAlTbOoBtFsWLEty_dvVV-SDzWCrDI160MbA8EOcKGjVNrzWmpAHdmiTolkx2Lf_rxIQAgc7UaPELeckWcmwr4Z_0BCfyG2_d2EGuPb5iOnUtdjTBTfyqwMAW7z2N-l6hw_6/s4032/IMG_7433.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4y9jv88OCSfC2ZSigoqZ_5RxtGlnfMPdPJ3l2ptJDmO9aJCOOwoEgAlTbOoBtFsWLEty_dvVV-SDzWCrDI160MbA8EOcKGjVNrzWmpAHdmiTolkx2Lf_rxIQAgc7UaPELeckWcmwr4Z_0BCfyG2_d2EGuPb5iOnUtdjTBTfyqwMAW7z2N-l6hw_6/w640-h480/IMG_7433.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 26:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I awakened to the uproarious brays of the burros from across the river. The burros are seemingly worlds away across this giant chasm. I think about them fondly, like an astronaut thinking of his pet dog back on Earth. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Luckily, as I laid there hearing the echoes of the brays, I saw a couple shooting stars in a few short minutes. I stayed groggily awake for a bit stargazing. The moon had set. I wonder if astronauts see shooting stars the way we do down here on Earth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our first task of the day was to find water in Gneiss Canyon. We descended the canyon smoothly. Once in the canyon we went down the canyon to begin our search. About 3/4 mile in we found a small pothole. We went further down to the granite chutes to no avail. We actually ran into a 100ft pour off. We opted to snag what we could out of the tiny pothole we had found. I was able to fetch a gallon out of the pothole. We were pleased, a much better feeling than the uneasiness I had felt searching for the water. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Out of Gneiss Canyon, we continued the precarious traverses just atop the Tapeats rim. The drops we worse than yesterday’s. The talus slope above would bulge steeply onto the rim, in which hung sheer drops of hundreds of feet. I remember eyeing the first sketchy one from across the bay wondering how in the hell were we going to get across that. We rounded the drainage and continued on our very faint sheep trail. We tiptoed across concentrating every single step and every breath. We controlled our vision and stayed focused. In some places we could look directly down to the river below, some 600ft straight down. Some talus bulges bulged really far out. Some had sharp limestone boulders, some had a slurry of sandstone rocks, and some slopes had blue shale. This stuff, the blue shale, is slippery and loose. When it appeared on these thin lines we had to take extra caution. In the bulges, we followed the sheep trail that angled higher onto a slightly leveler slope. I thought to myself: Even the sheep are like ‘fuck that!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After hours of contouring along the weaving rims we descended into Separation Canyon. We could see the creek flowing below, sparkling in the warm sun. We hadn’t seen an actually flowing creek in some time, so we indulged a bit. The water tasted great, so damn refreshing. We even got to wash up our clothes and bodies a bit. On the ledges above on our way back out towards the river I noticed the straightness of Separation Canyon. The canyon across the river was smaller but shot up just as straight. I found this so odd that in this Grand Canyon, some mega-place where water has shaped and carved everything in utter chaos, there lay a canyon etched in a straight line. Every single other canyon we have seen has been more or less a corkscrew. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n6v2iTDidVb2R6GBc5MJ6VgseBHdH4dUuhbd942OtMFcR4xouKIkMla1JqBnzWi0RNhAWviLVghCFTQ6TpP6RYj6f_ft9xZ7HLsngvEfUx_OYzVK4s5xIk9vHLRILFkU_4ZAs_EEwLSrK8lbw6d3YCkenUoIa6hzo8GT_ghZ7Qi5yeSBOhYiMHb3/s4032/IMG_7392.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n6v2iTDidVb2R6GBc5MJ6VgseBHdH4dUuhbd942OtMFcR4xouKIkMla1JqBnzWi0RNhAWviLVghCFTQ6TpP6RYj6f_ft9xZ7HLsngvEfUx_OYzVK4s5xIk9vHLRILFkU_4ZAs_EEwLSrK8lbw6d3YCkenUoIa6hzo8GT_ghZ7Qi5yeSBOhYiMHb3/w640-h480/IMG_7392.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Separation Canyon is where Powell and three of his crew split up. The ones that left perished and were never heard from again. The others finished running the Colorado River and exited the Grand Canyon two days later. As we rounded the point of Separation Canyon, the sun tucked behind an enormous monolith. The long shadow calved the point right in half. I felt like the day suddenly ended even though we were in such a vast and open space. The rays of the sun highlighted the ridge line way the heck above that emanated a crowning glow, almost heavenly. We walked in a giant net of shadows the rest of the day. Dusk barely felt different. Yet, we beat the curtain of dusk closing the day to find camp on a flat and broad shelf. We inventoried our food and estimated our mileage left. We had another big day today. We need more days like this to finish in 4.5 days. Really, we can. We can stretch our food. We just need our shoes to hold up. I got holes in the heel part of my soles. I just need them to hold up a little longer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The moon is nearly full. She makes it difficult to sleep. But, I pray to her. I lay on my back and simply look up at the tantalizing ceiling above me. All the tremendous cliffs are aglow, refulgent barriers of rock, the stalwarts of the Grand Canyon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 27:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Little gnats have been buzzing in our ears the past couple nights making it difficult to lay in peace. They are a frustrating little nuisance. We lay here under the dark and starry sky for nearly 12 hours, so hopefully we can get enough shut eye. The moon set at 4am. I hurriedly tried to take a nap before we got moving. Out here the sun rises and sets fast. One second I am slurping up some breakfast, the next minute I am packing up and we are off. Just a matter of minutes, even the sunsets too. One second you are dazzled by a magnificent display of light, the next minute the moon is rising. As big as this place is you can blink and you would still miss something.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Early on we found a deep pothole. Frogs hopped out and away from me. The frogs are little pebbles with tiny springy legs. The frogs tuck up into creases in the sandstone. I filled the bottles up and the water was bright green. I wondered why the frogs were not bright green. The pool didn’t look too algae filled, so I was tickled about the color. It was like having a new flavor out there. The Mountain Dew green without the Mountain Dew.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We have learned to speak sheep with our vision, our feet, and our steely nerve. We follow their lead in scratch. Scratch is the term I use for faint trail, that technical discoloration of the rock, where the dirt and rock have been scraped, or scratched. This marking is like a scent to me. We push through catclaw without a flinch. We avoid the worst spiny plants and shrubs like the bighorn. Most thorns are imperceptible to us. Frequently, we find spines lodged in our leg. We have no idea for how long the spines had been lodged in.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, we saw a band of bighorn sheep, five to be exact with two big rams. We wouldn’t know the actual number because they are nearly impossible to spot. Unless they are moving or galloping atop boulders, we are liable to pass many during the day. We see prints everywhere and sheep shit. We know they are here, most definitely, these ghosts of the canyon. We watch them prance across the boulders and slopes with ease. And, I realize we have not yet learned to speak sheep.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbl3qgHE0eBxR7d2B6A3TiM2V6FOK8ikY-tgIkMkcflcF66g0lThJJ8UYPMQKB8ktdxPYFaMqIk22BGf3UeB-PQakG7OxHwdzhIiKEaiY9Az6K6wyf8OfokFKTQzYwAiytpkrJYUqH4qLJ4z0wvZ4HcZk6eolw38vqlP27xHzqbB_0eT9glOK5RSV/s4032/IMG_7361.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbl3qgHE0eBxR7d2B6A3TiM2V6FOK8ikY-tgIkMkcflcF66g0lThJJ8UYPMQKB8ktdxPYFaMqIk22BGf3UeB-PQakG7OxHwdzhIiKEaiY9Az6K6wyf8OfokFKTQzYwAiytpkrJYUqH4qLJ4z0wvZ4HcZk6eolw38vqlP27xHzqbB_0eT9glOK5RSV/w640-h480/IMG_7361.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The whole day felt like walking a tight rope along cliff edges. I tired under the stranglehold of focus after hours upon hours of walking the thin line above sheer fall offs and certain death. The concentration is arresting, exhausting. However, most importantly, this focus is engaging. We rounded a big bend in the river today and entered a new monumental hallway. The western part of the canyon is so empty and wild, almost feels untouched. This is as faraway a place I have been, so very desolate. There’s not very many names on the maps save for major side canyons. Towers and mega-buttes hover above and would be cherished in other National Parks. Out here though, the towers and buttes are just a speck in the Big Ditch. Just another stacked pile of rock.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cToRrpu2PT82qyVwUnNb63CtOm_HXf4K1Qhq4IXwEJj5ByuZYthCrpUe3Ltgwi0aNJLEGOlZDmGYGoTdEIiS8Yf6ZLmymvad-KP56BoZaadlfxuN7RcvAqS6jq-wfbwrwSfsQVrXTDSofcZf8Nn9BE4JZ8Zh8Eay5YBk2DfH3YlSJNsF-XAdkwr4/s4032/IMG_7401.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cToRrpu2PT82qyVwUnNb63CtOm_HXf4K1Qhq4IXwEJj5ByuZYthCrpUe3Ltgwi0aNJLEGOlZDmGYGoTdEIiS8Yf6ZLmymvad-KP56BoZaadlfxuN7RcvAqS6jq-wfbwrwSfsQVrXTDSofcZf8Nn9BE4JZ8Zh8Eay5YBk2DfH3YlSJNsF-XAdkwr4/w640-h480/IMG_7401.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At lunch, we noticed some dusty haze up high. The forecasted wind must have brought in some particulate matter of loose and dusty grit. The temps had been warm and the haze brought on a shadow that provided some relief from the blaring sun. The haze began to sink and brought an eerie and foggy atmosphere similar to a cove along the ocean shoreline. Quite the opposite, though, for this deep desert and canyon landscape. We descended down into Surprise Canyon, another running creek, only this one is bigger. We filled up on water and rinsed off and left out of the lush waterway and back up onto the Tonto. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The rough going kept going rough, yet we kept our slow and steady pace, each step dropped with intent. The haze brought on an oozing grayness, even the cliffs look sad. We hit a flat and properly sat. The clouds had smeared the sky above the dusty haze as the sun was setting. A pink and purple sunset dazzled our hearts and eyeballs which felt one and the same. I looked up at all the bright colors through the lens of the dusty haze, like I was watching the sun set from underwater. Mesmerized, we both oohed and aahed. Then, in an instant the beautiful scene was gone. We set up camp as the moon was shining behind the monuments, the miles of cliffs above us now showing a happy red under the tremendous moonlight. Am I hallucinating? Is this real? Maybe I am high. Yea, that's it. I am high.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI0hWpeP-gLWqPM7FlHGb3AjuGyiCUGq8WQ8XPf9oNOn0X3zE5FGxtFNbsGth2aQXwAnzTfN5_VjluYLEOcSpqhALwiNbvMeSX0QdTlU8f7nTzkTzU2xe1ilaPXmg51AW0k-UkC3o3qPHZqJr4e-gwf5JZqKer6-C82yF7edEqw8Z9b6NY7ttXX_n/s4032/IMG_7408.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI0hWpeP-gLWqPM7FlHGb3AjuGyiCUGq8WQ8XPf9oNOn0X3zE5FGxtFNbsGth2aQXwAnzTfN5_VjluYLEOcSpqhALwiNbvMeSX0QdTlU8f7nTzkTzU2xe1ilaPXmg51AW0k-UkC3o3qPHZqJr4e-gwf5JZqKer6-C82yF7edEqw8Z9b6NY7ttXX_n/w640-h480/IMG_7408.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 28:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">No gnats and cloud cover; better sleep. All we had were the squeaks of bats that sporadically chirped through the night air. But, they are cute enough to not wake us up. Low stratus clouds rolled in with squared creases like tiles. Because of this the full moon barely shown through. By the time I was getting ready for breakfast, her great and full illumination poked through a moving cloud break. Her showing was brief, maybe 15 seconds, but her fullness excited me. I could see the moon falling on the other side of a massive wall. When she vanished the sun poked up over an eastern wall. What synchronicity to witness the setting moon and the rising sun. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We were eager to get going. Rain is in the forecast for the afternoon and we needed this particular day for crucial miles in regards to our food supply, gear, and our lift out of here. We needed to make a dent in the remaining 56 miles or so left so we wouldn’t walk the whole day Friday. Our packs were incredibly light with so little food, so any extra water wouldn’t weigh us down. We moved swiftly and intently yet, as is our mantra, slow and steady.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_gRRducb8zhtNSRXa1sISwfGy0UsW-a88WYFzQnj93eYpj0MtkSxzuVVqK0i53mZtltPUtBLuUJ7pCShS9vOnukm9TAuV4FIo8uxZ-tPMyU6hXYNmY8AlgU85DOqn4MYXT6IhNRjQiJQryikGBJp8NwHpvSWTbte_hU4A-kJMBujXMxmGcYaaNq4/s4032/IMG_7442.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_gRRducb8zhtNSRXa1sISwfGy0UsW-a88WYFzQnj93eYpj0MtkSxzuVVqK0i53mZtltPUtBLuUJ7pCShS9vOnukm9TAuV4FIo8uxZ-tPMyU6hXYNmY8AlgU85DOqn4MYXT6IhNRjQiJQryikGBJp8NwHpvSWTbte_hU4A-kJMBujXMxmGcYaaNq4/w640-h480/IMG_7442.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The past couple of days I have been walking gingerly, tiptoeing with intent. Every foot placement matters with the condition of my shoes. I feel every single rock. And, the rock has been gruesome. Whether loose and unstable, sharp and gritty, steep surfaces and angles, rocks and boulders just strewn about everywhere, you name it, we have seen it all. The worst is the limestone. I swear it is evil and carnivorous. You can barely touch it with your hands or it’ll lacerate your palm. You can’t sit on a block because it’ll shred your shorts. We encounter slopes and slopes of the limestone menace. Yet today the walking has been a little bit softer on the feet. Maybe the cooler temps and cloud cover helped a bit too. My feet just didn’t burn today like the past couple days. We also had less side hilling today. We are seeing less and less major side canyons on the north side of the river. We had pretty damn good sheep trail today, as well. I noticed that the limestone just wasn’t as omnipresent as the previous days. We are slightly lower on elevation on the Tonto, but I am not sure if that had anything to do with it though. The surface we are hiking on today has had a lot less of the carnivorous limestone. My feet felt glee and brings a little hope that my shoes will make it. My hopeful ramble ends.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We made it to Salt Canyon and found a cairn on our entry point. We hadn’t seen one in days, a cairn. We both signaled it a moment like ‘we are humans and here is a sign that other humans are out there.’ After a short jaunt in the creek bed, we improvised a way out and scaled up a crumbly steep talus slope and up the Tapeats cliff band using the bulky blocks and ledges. I really enjoy when Katie gets her eyeballs on a cliff band. She can see the way up and through like reverse Tetris.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The vastness of this place is mind boggling. It is so empty out here, just extreme isolation. We have not seen a rafting party since Diamond Creek five days ago. I had heard most rafting parties in the Fall time forego the Lower Granite Gorge and put out at Diamond Creek rather than Pearce Ferry. This is because there’s just not as many rapids in that lower stretch, just a lot more rowing. But I thought for sure we would see one or two. Here I was about a week ago thinking that could be a bailout option, a hitch on a raft if shit went to hell. Such a novice out here in regards to the actual river and what rafters do. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Nonetheless, as fate would have it, as we rounded a bend and the Burnt Canyon monolith loomed ahead, we heard a plague of helicopters. That’s what I’m calling them. They are like locusts. We watched them land onto some helicopter pads across the river at the same level as our Tonto platform. Suddenly, the skies were invaded by locusts and people. Alas, I am aware that I am as much of a visitor as they are. I am a locust, as well, out here walking through.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The rain began to fall and dapple our dusty skin and varnished clothes. We were close to Burnt Canyon. We pressed on. We found camp on a saddle beneath a knob that overlooked the river. I sidled down the dirt cliffs to retrieve water from the river, which was surprisingly clear. Then, we set up our shelters as the rain came in. I felt relaxed in my shelter, dry and content from a good day. We got in early after one of our longest days yet. I think we are close to 39 miles left. Tomorrow we have a nasty bushwhack across Burnt Canyon. It’ll be fun thrashing our way through a wet thicket filled with tamarisks, catclaw, and mesquite. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unfortunately, Katie broke her trekking pole tip as she was setting up her shelter. A nasty wind gust toppled it out of position and snapped the tip. She is on a nub now with that as her only pole to boot. My two poles are functional but I have two worn out nubs as well, both victims to the menacing and voracious limestone. I cannot wait to replenish our bellies and our gear in a couple days.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbcJHUluiwYim9CEl0M0JAetLgp91b1AkcWesCeWLTMvIbqheBbE7RJWYGm57tOKo34hpMqXME9Rrmank2IGV7T5510VKW8fi6V_Nb6J6ptr4nxCe46b176WqIeGQrJj4UFTSNFXl6vMGrPR2pa2lmQoZkK_nhf2D1iUYoBOzyyDcwMI8a61JD-Kg/s4032/IMG_7337.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbcJHUluiwYim9CEl0M0JAetLgp91b1AkcWesCeWLTMvIbqheBbE7RJWYGm57tOKo34hpMqXME9Rrmank2IGV7T5510VKW8fi6V_Nb6J6ptr4nxCe46b176WqIeGQrJj4UFTSNFXl6vMGrPR2pa2lmQoZkK_nhf2D1iUYoBOzyyDcwMI8a61JD-Kg/w640-h480/IMG_7337.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 29:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">rough night </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">in a tumbling storm</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">rain in sheets, the wind ferocious;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">crashing like waves</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I held my pole as a mast on a ship </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">in a torrent at sea</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the wind ravaged our shelters </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">a whipping maelstrom</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we are throttled and lashed</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the roar and terror for hours; it finally let up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the roar returned</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Burnt Canyon flashed</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and is flashing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">pink waters churning</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">flowing like spewed blood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we wait for the eye to pass.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">then we walk</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">warm and clammy</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and learn from previous mistakes</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">go around the tangle,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I held suspense;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">is there a way through?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">no scratches</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">not soggy or cold,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">a way through.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the helicopters chirped nonstop</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">they are ignored now</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and part of the soundscape.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">yet the canyon is changing</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">looser and more fragile rock</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">100ft silt bluffs</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">sand bars, or silt flats, as long as airstrips</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">nothing alive</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">barren</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">only shafts and stalks of dead tamarisks</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">remnants of an invasive species.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">walked all day thinking about food</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">that song that’s been playing</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">in my head </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">for the past week</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">is gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">only food now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the canyon is changing</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">black desert patina stains the dreary walls</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the limestone is different</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">creating caverns</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">sharper</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">sadder, gloomier, as if weeping</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the towers and terraces look haunted</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">an island fortress of lairs and caves.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">our bodies are famished</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">not as sharp as this limestone</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we crumble</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">but only a crumb</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and not a lot</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">for we are still desert tough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we sleep under our black canopy dappled with twinkling stars</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">the bats squeak and chirp.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I saw a light on a high point</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">thousands of feet up and miles away</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">just makes me dream of faraway places.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">we are adrift in a black and dark sea</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">ships in the night</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">waiting</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">for the moon to rise</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">under chilly and clear skies</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">yearning to reach ashore.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRTM8Acr4f9AeJwAXfzqKIlm9QO8nKNPnK6MHrWd1-8BEBw-lrcacybuBiPvPg5pkl7Pg0Skw2rdD0R2umbhi_EEXEqLlBFDJvvtevi2MezRFmyldS_aCP8brNJOqFFwgYGyHHeR7UsZl7L1ZEeL4cxHMTjMw7T7Ice0tgb_ac0eIDN23yYvWqPda/s4032/IMG_7427.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRTM8Acr4f9AeJwAXfzqKIlm9QO8nKNPnK6MHrWd1-8BEBw-lrcacybuBiPvPg5pkl7Pg0Skw2rdD0R2umbhi_EEXEqLlBFDJvvtevi2MezRFmyldS_aCP8brNJOqFFwgYGyHHeR7UsZl7L1ZEeL4cxHMTjMw7T7Ice0tgb_ac0eIDN23yYvWqPda/w640-h480/IMG_7427.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 30:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was in the middle of the night. I thought I heard a dog bark from the distance. I thought maybe it had possibly come from the plateau where I saw that light the night before. I poked my head out of my quilt. The barking happened again, only closer. The cliffs and walls were reflective in the bright moonlight. More barking occurred, closer. Then, I realized it was the honking of a goose. A couple more honks and I realized a couple geese were flying by in the middle of the night. I giggled and turned under my quilt. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Redwall looks less intimidating, only a mere couple hundred feet thick, almost feeble and penetrable, even all the other layers appear to be shrinking. The appearance of the rock layers resemble a melting candle, oozing and dripping, almost sagging. The river is slow and wide, a giant mud puddle that drifts very slowly down canyon the width of a football field. A river crossing is seemingly possible except one would have to find a way to scale the 100ft silty and sandy cliffs buffeting the river banks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">About 5 mornings ago, I woke up and put on my shoes. A piece of my sole fell into my hand. From that point on, I vowed not to inspect my shoes. I refrained from trying to fix the shoes. I understood it was impossible. I didn’t want the pieces to fall out if I was to inspect the shoes. The thought alone to inspect just wasn’t worth it to the psyche. I had to put my faith in the rubber, consciously step with intent and scrutinize every foot placement. We are so close. We barge through the dead tamarisks fields, where once Lake Mead had flooded to. These silt flats are huge and…flat. Once the lake was drained a bit, tamarisk invaded the flats. The dead branches must be the eradication effort. Travel wasn’t so bad, just tedious. Still, I had to watch where the heel cup of my shoe landed. I had to make a full print step rather than the usual forefoot plant while climbing or side hilling. Interestingly enough, and luckily, if not for my inserts I would be feeling the ground, rocks, and tamarisks with my heel. The inserts are equivalent to the metal whiskey flask lodged with a bullet in the vest pocket of a drunk. He started the fight, woke up not knowing what had happened, feels his chest. He feels pain yet still reaches for the whiskey. He finds the bullet wedged in, his vice his saving grace. He takes a whiskey slug with a slug for a plug. I cannot believe the shoes are going to make it.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipolknp8EZRJxKg2rm52Blv9KX4FgRZmFD9xWLzd6al_C2n9RlvIFc4HJzGpNlDxRBMvJp0Nrfn4Zs4lzNfRJDC0ePifrztTJ0AjGCdwJx8696-Wc0Z9Omy7fMm0VFF2v5zpKRueVeRI5R78-Bv8w-W-vhQ6ofvVRxFJOsPSJvFTjQSuvbJWNSldn/s4032/IMG_7522.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipolknp8EZRJxKg2rm52Blv9KX4FgRZmFD9xWLzd6al_C2n9RlvIFc4HJzGpNlDxRBMvJp0Nrfn4Zs4lzNfRJDC0ePifrztTJ0AjGCdwJx8696-Wc0Z9Omy7fMm0VFF2v5zpKRueVeRI5R78-Bv8w-W-vhQ6ofvVRxFJOsPSJvFTjQSuvbJWNSldn/w640-h480/IMG_7522.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Well shit.’ That is what one says when they see the end in sight that is simply not as grand as what we’ve been walking through. Just like that…the Grand Canyon ends. From a distance the Grand Wash Cliffs angle into and through the river splicing all the layers of the canyon and forming Pearce Canyon and other various washes. These cliffs put an obstacle for the north side to forge through. The river changes direction here. The terrain changes instantaneously. The Mojave Desert shimmers. From afar, it is astounding. Everything just opens wide. The Grand Canyon almost melts away. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yet, I was surprised to see the enormous cliffs vanish. We had been submerged for so long I had believed the canyon went on forever. Yet, the exit, the ending of a passageway and into a portal. We scampered down some knobby granular hills and I found a couple potholes in a limestone chute. An amalgamated rock worn down to a smooth surface held wonderful and clear water from the last storm event. The water sparkled, shimmered in the afternoon sunshine. These pools feel miraculous. I sat down and filled a gallon for each of us. The act alone felt so ritualistic that I felt I was praying with the pouring of the water. I paid my gratitude, my eyes watered, and we ambled towards the portal.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslkvTeBPXfGm8TXAvvMlzQaasROuL3XsOWR8L2PYDpoP-2HRMaC06wYBcefrB0947Etrg2kfD8zUZ2afhJ5XIngBWeoz4pEyHC0UVR7m0DWMSb9gsDl7G5hGGDjU-3bj9oqhY3S3bsuAGCFmJk7lt1V_7s3W4K6p2-T0n2JZUogwnum9l28N6R3X4/s4032/IMG_7509.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslkvTeBPXfGm8TXAvvMlzQaasROuL3XsOWR8L2PYDpoP-2HRMaC06wYBcefrB0947Etrg2kfD8zUZ2afhJ5XIngBWeoz4pEyHC0UVR7m0DWMSb9gsDl7G5hGGDjU-3bj9oqhY3S3bsuAGCFmJk7lt1V_7s3W4K6p2-T0n2JZUogwnum9l28N6R3X4/w640-h480/IMG_7509.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the last Colorado River water access site, we climbed down some shale bluffs to spend a couple minutes with these magical waters. We were baptized by the movement of time and water, the riffles wrinkled like desert skin, the river channeling at an harmonious angle revealing the singing nature of the land. All of this, just feels like something created this. The river is so magical, so powerful, and so precious. We sat in silence, our feet dangling into the muddy red waters, the surface gleaming with the rays of sun, my face basking in the warmth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Into the Mojave Desert, the great wide open, I looked back at the portal one last time. The gates had fallen yet I could still see into that other world, the world of the Grand Canyon. We have come out a different person. We are carved, eroded, and layered. I feel it when I look out over the Mojave from a hardscrabble hill top. The great wide open is beckoning. We have been released through that portal. She has released us and set us free at the same time. I just feel completely eroded and am now floating down a river. Time simply doesn’t matter. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We found a gravelly campsite on a low hill to lay upon. The Big Dipper sat low on the horizon to the north, the moonlight hid behind the horizon to east, Las Vegas emanated from the west, and utter blackness silhouetted spires and towers to the south of the mouth of the canyon along the Grand Wash Cliffs. So strange when our horizon has been the walls and cliffs of the inner gorge of the Grand Canyon the past month. We have some loose ends to tie up in Marble Canyon, which we hope to in a couple days. This, right now, feels so right, just feels like the end. But, we have a gap to fill. I, personally, have some atonement to pursue. I wouldn’t mind whatsoever to be submerged again in the great chasm.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlciGvuVkrIF9nYedA55oP94LHBWE6PkcFdSsNFOb4TfvmrcEqRfPyjCb98K7hRdQMYK_Ku_gDY141DmhC6Angr1E_J7unAn4G0ni972ZIlWfRp2K7reU1cnhwpV9zonyUegIpODMU-Ues29aCViNj5mD10ly6z00svtHn_2VxTopGpjbVJ95kITvz/s4032/IMG_7345.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlciGvuVkrIF9nYedA55oP94LHBWE6PkcFdSsNFOb4TfvmrcEqRfPyjCb98K7hRdQMYK_Ku_gDY141DmhC6Angr1E_J7unAn4G0ni972ZIlWfRp2K7reU1cnhwpV9zonyUegIpODMU-Ues29aCViNj5mD10ly6z00svtHn_2VxTopGpjbVJ95kITvz/w640-h480/IMG_7345.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArJINxQvt5U708eKkHjqJkt_WtN_hr-XxGkABJWAk5ZB9FRzgcWUWFRGUFootvx2Tcww_FTaTEhFjTa0s_L04RlUVXzQhq-Lg20c_YDLW1bfSq38Kb6RkpAe7E9nl6aqYrt92eFBQIa0L52uVSKAQHWjZVcigjlOW74KynFsvKFFoclKFwqhG7FzU/s4032/IMG_7368.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-58150285717953464052022-11-20T06:11:00.001-08:002022-11-20T06:11:20.951-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 21-25<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmbDhp6aDRT7umEo-u7HO7lo6y-ZGt241FtUCSCv3KeHx_ffZjMN-Jre2jfBcD582pl81y-TbwWP-_IhcoEiWCcFmDEQRJF1dFUhWqk_qcufP9NFIONWwiKKozKUKFk3oxwkG8MW82CAmjHu7yQOwasCiMX4HZHwvyu7fCIBwo1uYvSh_kDuyUR48/s4032/IMG_7288.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmbDhp6aDRT7umEo-u7HO7lo6y-ZGt241FtUCSCv3KeHx_ffZjMN-Jre2jfBcD582pl81y-TbwWP-_IhcoEiWCcFmDEQRJF1dFUhWqk_qcufP9NFIONWwiKKozKUKFk3oxwkG8MW82CAmjHu7yQOwasCiMX4HZHwvyu7fCIBwo1uYvSh_kDuyUR48/w640-h480/IMG_7288.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 21:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can tell what time it is by where Orion is at in the early dawn sky. I knew it was time to get up soon. Riffles of clouds began to glow in the east above Lone Mountain. A luminous pink blaze spread and smeared until all the stars were gone. Soon, orange spackled the clouds, some even showed long shadows of a steel grey, even porous in some spots like a coral reef. The sky turned into a shallow and colorful sea. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KIK4zMyMGv4TGXXNWF2AveeeLAy-3zGBNTernDVIIqkcHNM7RtMF1Xu-yPH4Ecrmr1j7d3WHZiKE9NwaPOV-yg1XEoJDJTLubBAmRWKaS3o6oRCtfpBOtTd8kw1fZ50402h3c4zmfFzU4sysLeLcEdtHGOYgA-V-WPUcXLOVU96lhH62vRka_0AC/s4032/IMG_7114.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KIK4zMyMGv4TGXXNWF2AveeeLAy-3zGBNTernDVIIqkcHNM7RtMF1Xu-yPH4Ecrmr1j7d3WHZiKE9NwaPOV-yg1XEoJDJTLubBAmRWKaS3o6oRCtfpBOtTd8kw1fZ50402h3c4zmfFzU4sysLeLcEdtHGOYgA-V-WPUcXLOVU96lhH62vRka_0AC/w640-h480/IMG_7114.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The night before I was wrought with concern about our route into the Parashant. I felt 70/30 about it. I read about in a Buschart book, read another blog in detail about it, and scoured satellite imagery. I felt okay with what was plotted but felt I just didn’t have enough information. I kept thinking we would work hard all the way down only to find an impassable pour off. In a place like this, you cannot hope there is a way through; you must know whether or not it goes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sunrise tempered my worries a bit, and then we hit the turn off. A chunky descent filled with ledges and gullies went, and I knew my satellite investigations paid off so far. Down a wash we went, easy grade. Then, a game trail, a couple cairns, and the further the trail went I figured we were on to something. I found animal track. Coyote, deer, maybe even a burro. Buschart had said the exit through the slot canyon that even a burro could walk through. I began thinking we were in a corridor all can travel through. I mean, a well placed cairn is truly something simple and effective. Finding cairns that matter, that mean something, that are genuinely communicating with the traveler, can assist that traveler with crucial decisions. We even had a cairn assist with a bypass route. Clearly we were on the right track. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We entered the narrows. Smooth and polished limestone suddenly funneled into a narrow slot. We picked our way down and hit a very deep pool, at least deeper than my trekking pole. We opted to turn back and look for a bypass. We were about a tenth of a mile from the Parashant canyon floor. We ascended some ledges and gazed over the rim. We had our answer: an impassable 100ft pour off. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRq5V8j3NQW1SdnYizhadcP3RpCJemHbJmYijR5ogJVlkqHchWgkdNcjwtFiOnsDRpHNz4HcLV9_fOnTT-CMvupYYjdtzg502t4vCDXdqR6t7uImeIl5v5S6V3eclp_rifUWhSO0izry1qSdhu9uRNkFtAlhUp16y8IzMjd-bG_lfCYrP0RvYzczt/s4032/IMG_7126.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRq5V8j3NQW1SdnYizhadcP3RpCJemHbJmYijR5ogJVlkqHchWgkdNcjwtFiOnsDRpHNz4HcLV9_fOnTT-CMvupYYjdtzg502t4vCDXdqR6t7uImeIl5v5S6V3eclp_rifUWhSO0izry1qSdhu9uRNkFtAlhUp16y8IzMjd-bG_lfCYrP0RvYzczt/w640-h480/IMG_7126.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When shit hits the fan or when you don’t truly know what to expect, that’s when the real adventure begins. So, we took off our packs and developed a plan. We reread some notes and went towards another spring hoping to find the slot from above that is Buschart’s. After a couple hundred foot ascent up to the top of some limestone bluffs we stopped. We feared we were going to have to go higher up onto another bench. I offered to scout around the corner of the ravine to see if the way up went through. As I was doing this I looked down at the mouth of the ravine. It looked like the gully reached the canyon floor. The shrubs and small trees grew as if stacked on each other on a slope. I threw off my pack and went down the 200ft. Once in the gully I found a game track. I went just a bit further and could see that the gully went to the canyon floor. Definitely not a slot, however, no doubt a ravine that a burro could get through. I hurriedly scrambled back up the slope to tell Katie. Just as I signaled ‘it’s a go!’ with my hands in the air signaling a successful field goal, she got a message from her canyon buddy confirming what I had just found. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">There I was for a split second thinking our day had just gotten longer. But, a little scouring, some positive thinking, some toiling away, and we had it. Find a way through…that’s what we were born to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Parashant narrows oozed along a funnel with the Redwall sprouting hundreds of feet high on both sides of the canyon. The canyon is an awesome spectacle. The wash is filled with rubble and boulders all scattered about from the warpath of water. We took our time and at one point, for what seemed like a couple of hours, I fell into a trance with our steps crunching in the sand and pebbles, just hypnotized by the silence within the narrow canyon and our rhythmic steps. I was soothed to the core, incredibly relaxed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, Katie heard a voice and asked me if I said something. Baffled, I looked at her quizzically. But, sure enough, a man sat on a boulder in the narrows just ahead. We were all kind of shell shocked at seeing another human being. He was the first one we had seen in two weeks since the North Rim. We chatted and got to know each other briefly. Turns out he is the lone rafter I had heard about while trying to find a cache drop with a rafting company. He said he was alone and he looked at me funny when I asked him if he was from Colorado. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpJ2EPZvQTlrayA13Kmu2rjuNRdA-dniED-hHlfhVyyaXFX0mL7m8CP_bHIxKKclFw5XneL84yS_gMufNX4DaD035cNqZ1bFXFui2Y9os1o2RgIjO_qfCEWVFSvuZdMQQa8ZMLkqoawMG2mAS-AtQ_PsxLDVrIBObFCbvUi-1G3_lXAjd_MZuy61x/s4032/IMG_7169.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpJ2EPZvQTlrayA13Kmu2rjuNRdA-dniED-hHlfhVyyaXFX0mL7m8CP_bHIxKKclFw5XneL84yS_gMufNX4DaD035cNqZ1bFXFui2Y9os1o2RgIjO_qfCEWVFSvuZdMQQa8ZMLkqoawMG2mAS-AtQ_PsxLDVrIBObFCbvUi-1G3_lXAjd_MZuy61x/w400-h300/IMG_7169.HEIC" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Hey, I’ve heard of you.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘You have?’ He squinched is brow and looked at me curiously. He had been out for 19 days.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He offered us some food down at the beach. He would wait for us. And, a few hours later I was eating a tuna sandwich with mustard and cheddar cheese. We slugged a couple of seltzers, ate some apples and oranges, some almond butter too. We sat on his raft in a cove and spoke of the wonders of the canyon, what makes this place so special. The biggest difference between our trips, besides the obvious one of him being on water and us on foot, was that he constantly marveled of always looking up. I felt the opposite. I was constantly marveled of always looking down, for the most part. Either way, our vision spanned eons of time and thousands of feet of rock. After an hour we left and he shoved off. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Down towards the end of Parashant I could hear the roar of the river, the melodic thunder of moving water. Every time we get to the river, especially after not seeing it for some time, we feel the energy of the mother source, the movement and core of life of everything in this canyon, the splendor and magic of this entire region. The language of the Grand Canyon is borne of the river. I gazed upon the river trembling in amazement, my wonderment about to beat out of my chest and flow out of my tear ducts. I stood there trembling from the power of the river.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h4eUOLj5tu9VMLxarl1kzH1oIispJHmKCSV0AVFhnIUlA-wSZvCHuAvmWnwz4UpUldWYmLzePLB6NvOaCs2FbxUIzpvGwkURyjk_fzMTuSbaP1G9dAtPdUS1yPUjg6girmBK226wO-wGXFMlDaqG1gpv-qFE1_oIOcB7obbdcsVD1djkz7kntvYy/s4032/IMG_7142.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h4eUOLj5tu9VMLxarl1kzH1oIispJHmKCSV0AVFhnIUlA-wSZvCHuAvmWnwz4UpUldWYmLzePLB6NvOaCs2FbxUIzpvGwkURyjk_fzMTuSbaP1G9dAtPdUS1yPUjg6girmBK226wO-wGXFMlDaqG1gpv-qFE1_oIOcB7obbdcsVD1djkz7kntvYy/w640-h480/IMG_7142.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 22:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could see the canyon walls outlined by the bright moonlight. Shadows revealed the contours of the canyon walls. The rims of the cliffs were so high the moonlight made the cliffs look like they were directly over head. What a beautiful sight. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was up early and looked up for the remnants of the Orion meteor shower. I saw a couple meteors zip across the sky. The wind continued to pick up, so I tucked my head under my quilt and gave my effort for stargazing up. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I went to sleep the night before a tad hard on myself. I forced our way to camp rather than taking the sensible choice. I saw camp from afar and just wanted to get there. We ended up thrashing through mesquite and catclaw that really scratched us up. I went to bed thinking I need to relearn the river corridor travel again. Travel moves so slow down in these parts of the canyon. The surface changes constantly and you need to constantly pay attention to what level you are on. Most importantly, thick brush can make your experience a nightmare. We mastered the Esplanade, but we now need to understand the nuances of the river corridor, exercise patience, and look for sheep shit. Where there’s sheep shit, there’s a path.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We climbed up a series of bluffs this morning and walked along a platform a couple hundred feet above the river. Sometimes the footing was sketchy, other times we had flat and clear hiking above the lava bluffs. The closer we got to the river, however, the harder the hiking was due to the overgrowth of mesquite. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had managed along okay by the time we had arrived at Spring Canyon. We were aware of the bushwhack through the canyon and tried to strategize from a point above the canyon. Willows, mesquite, catclaw, acacia, and so many other shrubbery lined the flowing creek. We picked our way down the slope and went in the tangle. In hindsight, we should’ve stayed up canyon a bit and crossed where the thickets were less dense, then ascend a talus slope and follow the game trail atop the bluffs. Nonetheless, we settled on getting in early since we saw a way in, and figured we could climb the bluff nearest to us. I began to stomp my way atop the willows trying to clear a path. Katie stayed close behind me so we could give each other some extra support in pushing the branches around. Finally, I got to the creek with some considerable effort. While in the creek I filled our water bottles and realized I couldn’t cross as the overstory hung too low. Once back up on the dirt shelf we waged on. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPQzFK0pXDA_2T4C-FXv6kFwYQ-1VZNTREBrY2J9gID2jYOAyhtFak4RaEtnh9nNqlvlKyj9bXDVqsyIqkZBphuLVOTQtGocXonwLh_ZVEH7mEuafJzO53U5jIkbV5eUJvNKbAXjN9scfW2w759ppJ3KtIMaOoaMiDiYRa2SmtT9DuH5ZxXMQHQLY/s4032/IMG_7171.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPQzFK0pXDA_2T4C-FXv6kFwYQ-1VZNTREBrY2J9gID2jYOAyhtFak4RaEtnh9nNqlvlKyj9bXDVqsyIqkZBphuLVOTQtGocXonwLh_ZVEH7mEuafJzO53U5jIkbV5eUJvNKbAXjN9scfW2w759ppJ3KtIMaOoaMiDiYRa2SmtT9DuH5ZxXMQHQLY/w640-h480/IMG_7171.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We were basically trapped in the thicket. So, we walked directly down the middle of the creek in hopes of finding a game trail. We eventually did and we had to take off our packs to slither between some mesquite branches. Once free we stood at the base of the bluffs. We kept near the base and hiked around the bluffs that led to the river side. Again, we were stuck. We had so many cuts and scratches, we just needed to stay away from the mesquite. It felt impassable. Finally, I spotted a dihedral within the bluffs that we could scale up. We hoisted our packs up and made it atop the bluffs. A little bit more scrambling above and we found the game trail. Ugh, we felt so beat up and defeated. The shortest way between two points is not always a straight line, especially out here in the canyon. After a quick and dreary lunch, we sauntered on with our tails between our legs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We gained some momentum back later in the day. We swore to not tangle with the mesquite if we had a choice about it. We found game trail here and there and made some progress. The stormy sky brought in some dramatic light that lit up the canyon in a spectacular display. We made it to the camp at 209 Mile Canyon right at dusk. Tired, beat up, scratched up, a bit deflated, we set up our shelters as a rafters camp across the river whooped it up. The sang Cyndi Lauper. We are getting rain tonight. Makes sense why we saw so many tarantulas today, even one the size of the palm of my hand. The wind is blowing dust into my tarp and onto everything. The river is roaring and the rapids are churning. Our gear is getting spent and ravaged. We are hanging on by a thread here. The rain is beginning to fall. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbjr6ao7a6KouRlxjfnjudd1N-SeR0aVUS_J7opVLINgIZMgPa-zfsyOlbCxxvH_NhxteZUIwkAeIGDTkzGBlJNoGlrSamnwDQ0ar-zr3AVTUk4czzcK__qDRJ3Kua8xaCy_mC0UylgroB8iYmttTpsg4q7F_ezpjR3DpREdugeClRStE1NGsTPF-/s4032/IMG_7176.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbjr6ao7a6KouRlxjfnjudd1N-SeR0aVUS_J7opVLINgIZMgPa-zfsyOlbCxxvH_NhxteZUIwkAeIGDTkzGBlJNoGlrSamnwDQ0ar-zr3AVTUk4czzcK__qDRJ3Kua8xaCy_mC0UylgroB8iYmttTpsg4q7F_ezpjR3DpREdugeClRStE1NGsTPF-/w640-h480/IMG_7176.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 23:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The storm took my tarp last night. Not very far, but enough to scare the shit out of me. I hurriedly adjusted the poles and buried the stakes in the sand deeply. I fell asleep perched on my elbows as the storm drifted on. I woke up hours later in a dead calm. The storm had passed. The rapids sounded like an industrial machine. The waves and churning of the whitewater made sounds ruffle and whistle and roar at various moments. The rapids developed their own wind. It was a wind tunnel down there and it soothed me to sleep. I woke up a couple hours later near dawn. A bullfrog sat on my forearm and startled me in my groggy state. I shook him off and he slowly hopped away in the sand. A couple of lights flickered from the other side of the river. Some of the rafters were up early, probably the older folk. I went down to the river to wash the sand off my visor and sunglasses. The rapids were right there engulfing me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had some decent travel ahead of us. We are feeling the pressure of how much more we have left, how much food do we have left, and how swiftly can we travel in this terrain. We were again along the river and travel was slow. We continuously hopped over boulders, but at least we weren’t battling the mesquite. The worst part of the day were the deep ravines gouging out the talus slopes that made for tricky maneuvering. And then, the Tapeats level appeared right at water level. We climbed atop and the afternoon went by smoother. We filled our bladders at the river before ascending to the Tonto at our last break. We would not be sure where our next water source would be unless we found a side canyon to the river that went with no major obstacles. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Back up on the Tapeats and even a bit higher we found game trail on flat terrain that made us happy. We made up for lost time and cruised. We passed huge canyons on the south side, our necks craned up gawking into the giant chasms. We could see all the Grand Canyon layers from the top to the bottom from our platform. We could even see snow on top of the highest plateau. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The day had been chilly and gloomy. A drizzle there and drop here, nothing major. Eventually all that weather activity up high caught up with us. The skies opened up and started to pour a cold shower on our heads. We donned our rain jackets and hiked on feeling thankful we were on the Tonto and not the river level. After about 45 minutes we both began to get really cold. The rain persisted and we set up a soggy camp. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am here now. I am here. I can hear me from here. The rain stopped and some sun rays shined on the temples and towers and cliffs above us. Just majestic. Maybe this shower filled some potholes for us. We hope so. We are hunkered in for a cold night. But, sunny days are ahead of us. I am here. I can hear me.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjRdSXONJI1UrnryiLS9wJhoqfAtmK98Tvc8HmJjdM11DJsX9nmxDwVJsZ3HLI6r6xW0yqAB_WMoPFthMaTxyfUK82-TSjMFSSfpJFrtIO2JwyctkfFmAto5Oqn_InS7HmNJRU6vo5qpRkyQpe7dBg-qxEnGZnCYXBoHHjBFjxhRw8w-OZvnnSeQK/s4032/IMG_7245.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjRdSXONJI1UrnryiLS9wJhoqfAtmK98Tvc8HmJjdM11DJsX9nmxDwVJsZ3HLI6r6xW0yqAB_WMoPFthMaTxyfUK82-TSjMFSSfpJFrtIO2JwyctkfFmAto5Oqn_InS7HmNJRU6vo5qpRkyQpe7dBg-qxEnGZnCYXBoHHjBFjxhRw8w-OZvnnSeQK/w640-h480/IMG_7245.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 24:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The long night ended. The air was warmer than anticipated. The storm had past. We were eager to get our feet cranking. The sun rose behind the cliffs on the south side of the river. But, from the Tonto we could see the first sun rays touching and illuminating the upper walls. We had views from our platform stretching up and down canyon along the river corridor. We took frequent photos. This is the prettiest place I have ever seen. No question. So dramatic and breathtaking, simply unbelievable. The canyon just stretches forever in every direction. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We needed to find water. I was hoping the potholes would have filled. They did; just not full enough. Along the way to our side canyon that would descend to the river, we began to encounter cholla. The buckthorn cholla resembles a monstrous hydra, or better yet a stony yet vibrant gorgon, Medusa herself. Then came the teddy bear cholla. Fields upon fields of the furry menace all growing close together. The bulbs and barbs illuminated brightly from sunlight, almost fields of glowing green and yellow orbs. Katie said: ladies and gentlemen, put your hands and feet in the vehicle. It was like entering a field of land mines. The desert landscape here has shifted back to Sonoran. Gone, for the moment I suspect, are the creosote. Ocotillo sprout with their octopus tentacles way up in the air as far as the eye can see. The prettiest of ones are the ocotillo that still have their tiny leaves in them. If they do, no matter the size, the leaves have succumbed to Autumn with a yellowish-orange color rather than the usual vibrant green.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikAB53Z7KPuG9HlnPQ3NBnmOfGqBXz40oeI5AkKyAmNoUawnJAqEbVIxbSU59ZJRwfsKr336o87bz7maJM-OBuhThjEBXBwbXobJMpdBbEhGDFBfhBqmD3DFuPWvFuHV27YSXszgpAjzzZhpzkEN8QECg6Uw4SCFWsRsHgnPP9sHLHZ0ny1Yo4mf_/s4032/IMG_7271.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikAB53Z7KPuG9HlnPQ3NBnmOfGqBXz40oeI5AkKyAmNoUawnJAqEbVIxbSU59ZJRwfsKr336o87bz7maJM-OBuhThjEBXBwbXobJMpdBbEhGDFBfhBqmD3DFuPWvFuHV27YSXszgpAjzzZhpzkEN8QECg6Uw4SCFWsRsHgnPP9sHLHZ0ny1Yo4mf_/w640-h480/IMG_7271.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We went down for water 600ft below us. The brief visit felt holy, a return to church. We filled up and splashed our faces. We then returned up the boulder filled wash. We continued contouring on the Tonto, the side ravines being the most challenging. A trail would show up or persist along a contour that benefited us. Thank god for sheep, I said. But, the more I thought about it, especially with all the agave roasting pits we have been seeing lately, all within the side drainage areas; I began to think these paths have been here for eons and were used by the natives of the area. The sheep, quite frankly, will go anywhere they can. If people lived up on this platform, hunted and roamed, and had huge agave roasting pits clearly they would have developed a hiking network of foot paths. This brought a special feeling into my insides, a primordial connection with a human past. We are simply traveling through by foot, but utilizing something as simple as a foot path that has innocuously been there for eons felt really special.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had one last major side canyon to traverse, the one prior to Diamond Creek. This one took time. We were high enough to scuttle and tip toe across the sketchy slopes of the Bright Angel Shale. We also had to deal with massive limestone blocks that choked a gully on a very steep slope. We putt-putted along and finally after some considerable effort attained the Tonto above the west arm of the side canyon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The hardest shit seems impossible, just feels utterly impossible. Our shoes are ravaged. We are behind a day, maybe two, which means we are short on food. My logic is to take things as they come, compartmentalize the overwhelming difficulty out here and try to make small attainable goals. Can we get to the next river access from the point we are at now? If so, let’s get to there and re-access. Two days away? Do we have enough food? Will our shoes make it? If yes, continue onward. If not, hitch out to Pearce Ferry on a rafting trip. That’s all we can do. Work our butts off in the meantime and try and muster some positivity. As long as there’s river access at some reasonable point, we have an out. We just have to give it everything we got.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbmGnvzFtbrg-HRhmfb7ln0SWelWh60sikAFDMVS-K5kdJMeIUp77IrZarlemBHu6EOOyCEsDrlO8uJ_qscAwcy_ZZOZRxq0RFcd4AnOHfprRqaxZQIE-aLrsOxYUPaKbCHeEAQzgblv14V8jNScVJOIcsrvLFxrd0_FT3qBdWbRoQGndErSvhy1M/s4032/IMG_7184.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbmGnvzFtbrg-HRhmfb7ln0SWelWh60sikAFDMVS-K5kdJMeIUp77IrZarlemBHu6EOOyCEsDrlO8uJ_qscAwcy_ZZOZRxq0RFcd4AnOHfprRqaxZQIE-aLrsOxYUPaKbCHeEAQzgblv14V8jNScVJOIcsrvLFxrd0_FT3qBdWbRoQGndErSvhy1M/w640-h480/IMG_7184.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 25:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up after the moon had set. A cold wind had moved in and I sheltered deeper into my quilt. Of course, I still woke up early. Orion was up high in southwestern sky. I gazed at him for a bit. I was eager to start the day. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had a photogenic morning…again. Every night is the perfect campsite. Every evening has the perfect sunset. Every morning has the perfect sunrise. It’s just that good out here. We marveled at the the upper reaches of the canyon. The temples, the buttes, the pinnacles, towers, sheer cliffs, everything so stupendous. The Redwall formation caps it all off to me. Smack dab in the middle of all the layers, the Redwall is so imposing, so incredible formidable, and seemingly and utterly impassable. The Redwall lined our highest line of eyesight. The feature makes you feel like there’s no way out. The Redwall is inescapable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the ravines you have to keep working the line you are on. You can drift, but you must stay disciplined and stay with the indiscernible sheep track. Katie and I are getting a good eye for this miss-able and scant pathway. But, we see it intricately weaving within the limestone and talus slopes. When we break off it’s usually for a reason. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We scrambled down through the Tapeats and in the middle of a ravine. Katie found a decomposed rams horn. I got barbed by the teddy bear cholla right above my sock line in the lower front of my shin. It was a bear to take out. After a few minutes I was free of the furry and spiny hug. Then, we found some narrow yet deep potholes, lined like tinajas in some granite chutes. After a slurp of water and refilling our bottles we climbed out again through the Tapeats layer. Katie spotted a break in the upper walls and we put away our trekking poles to climb proper. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPp1dy3LMh3rbwdL9H5dQtLuvuqZnCTIIu90cTuxozpUFwoZsLjMaqGiHdY1_8no9Or789ZFTCSW9NE49TYOKX1nlZrkJu3dTZ0oGGKlB8hd9JLjSHVZqCtMDt5pg2hjBkeEhbcXhWYB3aZ2krg0tIqMPtxBsioUZxcGlDKuzeITuRwqu7UQKBesm/s4032/IMG_7186.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPp1dy3LMh3rbwdL9H5dQtLuvuqZnCTIIu90cTuxozpUFwoZsLjMaqGiHdY1_8no9Or789ZFTCSW9NE49TYOKX1nlZrkJu3dTZ0oGGKlB8hd9JLjSHVZqCtMDt5pg2hjBkeEhbcXhWYB3aZ2krg0tIqMPtxBsioUZxcGlDKuzeITuRwqu7UQKBesm/w640-h480/IMG_7186.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We were moving right along when we heard a burro braying loudly from the other side of the canyon. The bray chortled and echoed laughingly in all directions. It gave us a chuckle after a short flash of feeling dumbstruck. We do not hear very many different noises other than the wind, our crunchy footsteps, the roar of the river rapids, and airplanes. Hearing a burro bray took us by surprise, certainly did. We even heard another one down river a little bit later. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I found a large pothole later on. That rainstorm from the other day did in fact full up some potholes. Very fortunate for us. The end of the day we realized we were nearing Gneiss Canyon, an ambitious goal we didn’t think was a reality the night before. Nevertheless, before we could descend into the canyon we had some treacherous side hilling with some precarious footing and huge sheer drops. One misstep could lead to death, no question. These obstacles took some time and we settled for camp on a flat spot on a ridge line over looking Gneiss Canyon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As we arrived at the ridge the sky turned an array of pastel colors, just light and soft, even partly fluorescent. The walls all around us glowed an even brighter red and orange. All the cactuses glowed too because of the sunset. The sunset was fantastically brief. More like the magic minute than the magic hour this time of year. Then the moon rose so bright she lit up the canyon like it was daylight. The moon is almost full. I can remember when the moon was in the new cycle and how dark the sky was then and all those illuminated stars twinkling so clearly. And now, the canyon is so lit up I can see the red color of the cliffs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been enjoying the past couple days navigating with Katie. She is usually a short distance behind and looking at the bigger picture, like the next water source or the way we should contour into the next side canyon. I’m usually focused and zeroed in on the route directly ahead of us, just constantly reading the landscape. At any given second out here we are so preoccupied with so many many things. Pole placement, taking care with each and every step, our balance on a treacherous slope, our water needs, rattlesnakes, all the types of cactuses at our feet and at our shoulders, trying to keep that indiscernible sheep path, among so many other things. Our multitasking is constant, there is no break for there is no ‘real’ trail. This is all cross country. I know what we could do more or less the morning we take off, but I get bogged down in the task of constantly navigating. When Katie mentions the water source up ahead I file it away to recall in a bit and feel rest assured she’s on top of it. She’s the dogged copilot. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeed4E5S5ArdQaxxltpWJRvxwq3AtIDTBu-LLGsgKwSGM8aSG0NUnQp8SvHCzwOd4wz6gmSfv2jQ6x75nLOiECAIZMrTw6ec6NjgYoaSKNSY6SeWwTX_mMEBb_ekDja6Ntr0gw7EDbQHfwHG036e5fBlFPPKX0Y2PwF2XUQvuZHJYY8Eh0_MEcZJn/s4032/IMG_7146.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeed4E5S5ArdQaxxltpWJRvxwq3AtIDTBu-LLGsgKwSGM8aSG0NUnQp8SvHCzwOd4wz6gmSfv2jQ6x75nLOiECAIZMrTw6ec6NjgYoaSKNSY6SeWwTX_mMEBb_ekDja6Ntr0gw7EDbQHfwHG036e5fBlFPPKX0Y2PwF2XUQvuZHJYY8Eh0_MEcZJn/w640-h480/IMG_7146.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09qDYRwYc5Pe7efltzRfFZZ9RU6pWmt3G_DAXFJrHhCKfWdBVlHKCw5t3L93wxVGLO1iLJixotV9nW5_oN0PbYfuhQQ3gDzjskzE5vB7y_Rjv7dZLtWjNIy85Nagg1A1FCh8F6biejQOa339LQmejg2q6RA7_mwmQdpsKHD8FsXlb_wF2YbXYfXqU/s4032/IMG_7133.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09qDYRwYc5Pe7efltzRfFZZ9RU6pWmt3G_DAXFJrHhCKfWdBVlHKCw5t3L93wxVGLO1iLJixotV9nW5_oN0PbYfuhQQ3gDzjskzE5vB7y_Rjv7dZLtWjNIy85Nagg1A1FCh8F6biejQOa339LQmejg2q6RA7_mwmQdpsKHD8FsXlb_wF2YbXYfXqU/w640-h480/IMG_7133.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJe8fXGBVjnmBrSvejq1l-USDWGuChHtnMUAznZgEiOheA4_bd4z1qy23zcYkITcZ8K7ZvooyJzqPa3kFAa-uiFyfupE_fCFBXst6j7ez-9ZTX_Mt5GdtqpaU1couFKc8pADeB6S7RFJLfPLlXlyUvQPKkaOX0lPSptv0KGWGWatEHMyA3GAtf784/s4032/IMG_7156.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJe8fXGBVjnmBrSvejq1l-USDWGuChHtnMUAznZgEiOheA4_bd4z1qy23zcYkITcZ8K7ZvooyJzqPa3kFAa-uiFyfupE_fCFBXst6j7ez-9ZTX_Mt5GdtqpaU1couFKc8pADeB6S7RFJLfPLlXlyUvQPKkaOX0lPSptv0KGWGWatEHMyA3GAtf784/w640-h480/IMG_7156.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHzjlHWpjaqR7GstsVUfliKJlPcHeU2MWdM654wVgT9hMJT4QvJOaBkIP73UZOQRqlBmf17PJPhdni7SuLqifSlKwwDcwv3D0I-EgelZlg3YcU3Gyf5p79Dh6UA-0q6ME7WtJBEYi5cA1nHIJvWDPjD90ra0wamXIKCEoucmTxJ6hu8ZkgdPz9k6P/w640-h480/IMG_7228.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-85765713287463103512022-11-20T06:11:00.000-08:002022-11-20T06:11:02.600-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 16-20<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH8gKv_fA2NSr0ZuuOZ_ylGX43mQH2HLxSzWPQOr-ArPYAk7dLQNaQ1SOLaMLD7DNWqw44gZf6xNfy2sx4r-ZAiSJ2B6W-qPwxcO2StgunrDLvQjtXFq0d1jFxIA6sg-Jpu6f4gJA4T0u9_y2uF-mLptoQRcfRvG9g0gxxatyR8o3vTNXGWsGyuGt/s4032/IMG_7042.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH8gKv_fA2NSr0ZuuOZ_ylGX43mQH2HLxSzWPQOr-ArPYAk7dLQNaQ1SOLaMLD7DNWqw44gZf6xNfy2sx4r-ZAiSJ2B6W-qPwxcO2StgunrDLvQjtXFq0d1jFxIA6sg-Jpu6f4gJA4T0u9_y2uF-mLptoQRcfRvG9g0gxxatyR8o3vTNXGWsGyuGt/w640-h480/IMG_7042.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 16:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A terrible wind ravaged us at night and flung sand and grit into our quilts. I weighted down my lighter items and found them still the next morning. The air was cold again. I cooked a hot breakfast of granola and milk with a coffee packet added. Then, I began to undust. I shook out as much pink dust as possible. I managed feebly so. The wind blew so hard the punk grit is in our skin cells. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Every morning out here is a waking dream. Bliss continues from sleep to the first simple step. We walked on bulbous rims that fell straight down to the river. I could make out the muddy vein weaving through a tall corridor. I scanned for rafters. There were none. My knuckles got cold and dry and I walked in with my gloves, the wind still occasionally biting me.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEvJ_RKANorpqwDHnu0JT8UuqaqBMLEiRZGBmjb2fJsR9ZS4K5XfeNphG45Q2u5CvWIKcrMQwdt4nuJp7Hf6bCSChTDNHAke60xpE39hqCy5zlgVzdGcIVU24aRkF-ss8EG8TYDouqI4HgV7V3XZQlDkAlRIlFI8yfgzU9yHpOf8PxoFMZY24it_I/s4032/IMG_6941.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEvJ_RKANorpqwDHnu0JT8UuqaqBMLEiRZGBmjb2fJsR9ZS4K5XfeNphG45Q2u5CvWIKcrMQwdt4nuJp7Hf6bCSChTDNHAke60xpE39hqCy5zlgVzdGcIVU24aRkF-ss8EG8TYDouqI4HgV7V3XZQlDkAlRIlFI8yfgzU9yHpOf8PxoFMZY24it_I/w400-h300/IMG_6941.HEIC" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The day was uneventfully meandering. The temps stayed cool and we were content with the walking, slow and steady. We have to mind time out here. We undulate in and around and over and under massive canyons, although these canyons are minor tributaries to the big ditch below. Nonetheless, each one is an obstacle that we have to take the consideration of travel-through. Each one is a puzzle. We must take a minute to plan the way. Huge ribs of limestone rubble interject the smooth slickrock with complicated obstacles. We plot and plod. We move slow and steady. We make progress and solve problems. We are content. We hiked 18 more or less miles today. We feel accomplished in this Esplanade terrain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Luna is finally back out in the low western horizon. She is crescent, thin and wispy, replenished. I spotted her over the Dome. I shouted out her presence. I ate my dinner staring up at skyscrapers of cliffs refulgent In alpenglow. I watched the screen of rock morph with the fragments of light. I was entertained by the giant screen. I turned around to gaze at Luna. Next to her, as the last slivers of light fell a contrail from a rocket or a fighter jet illuminated an odd glow adjacent to Luna. The corkscrew luminescence glowed fluorescently and changed color as the light completely faded. The moon glowed too. She showed her darker half in the shadows. I took one last look at her and closed my eyes.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOGsSjxNfmB4uF51xWyjJOqQuEqM0hxU8Vhof8uPInonJPwJoqrCq5sGiuKmu1avVWAbN7oRXe8eRQcD5n9vWxkq7Gw6zptLmXUF9-5wYk96murhgk0sIHN4sLG9-bOUH7ACCzn3wFOxd013paQ-dZAVF6l7dCqclxbT7xYZwNKLFhlbkWgKI9Rsj/s4032/IMG_6977.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOGsSjxNfmB4uF51xWyjJOqQuEqM0hxU8Vhof8uPInonJPwJoqrCq5sGiuKmu1avVWAbN7oRXe8eRQcD5n9vWxkq7Gw6zptLmXUF9-5wYk96murhgk0sIHN4sLG9-bOUH7ACCzn3wFOxd013paQ-dZAVF6l7dCqclxbT7xYZwNKLFhlbkWgKI9Rsj/w640-h480/IMG_6977.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 17:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The night falls quickly and the day rises even quicker. One second I am looking at a movie screen of cliffs shining with alpenglow, the next thing I am observing is the Milky Way. One minute I am wiping the grogginess from my eyes and noticing the shifting of the stars, namely Orion and Canis Majoris, and that it is time to get up, the next moment my gear is packed up and we are moving under a canopy of morning light. The sky is my rooftop, the Esplanade my front porch. This is the genuine way of watching the world go by.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The condition of our gear is a concern. Katie has already had a leak in her sleeping pad. A water bladder of mine leaks. Our shoes are mulching away. Will my fucking shoes make it. Then, on a basic rock hop and scramble Katie stepped on a loose rock and tumbled over onto a beaver tail cactus. The tumble snapped her trekking pole. We pulled out the thorns from her leg and hand, the middle finger feeling tender to her. We continued on, our minds majorly concerned with our gear. Every step matters out here. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3Xv-IDHwOIn0Ofa2pnhF5uWiPy1bRHkqBp9gT7uh0J2VTB903aGfbBipWk3UkY0lCncwvHmxYVDmcjQ33xuIKENOebGBRSE9bzQKOg5Nq2QKbshBkdEWpC3LNUgBH7eSVB7i9XxEOkEgRd3DJ0ztS6rm_ZqLmij8zT2t1yqf5RWrv_PFvMP4Lc-4/s4032/IMG_7010.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3Xv-IDHwOIn0Ofa2pnhF5uWiPy1bRHkqBp9gT7uh0J2VTB903aGfbBipWk3UkY0lCncwvHmxYVDmcjQ33xuIKENOebGBRSE9bzQKOg5Nq2QKbshBkdEWpC3LNUgBH7eSVB7i9XxEOkEgRd3DJ0ztS6rm_ZqLmij8zT2t1yqf5RWrv_PFvMP4Lc-4/w400-h300/IMG_7010.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Harshness and beauty; that’s a guarantee, that is what is out here. Ain’t like there’s an inch of ugly out here in this canyon universe. Yet, it’ll eat you up and spit you out without you blinking an eye. It’s how you bounce back that matters, become consumed by the harshness, the rigors. Let it take you, but not all of you. You have to show your grit right back. Harshness and beauty, that’s guaranteed. We don’t have an inch of ugly in us. Nothing but grit. Nothing but rigor.</span><div><p></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHizIqklozODeFeVHQFjSd3R5jIwEXxvNyKSTLy7BgS6Cl1FGEayGM1xcEZD_-qfVH5bHd0CrpAzIKSlHm6SjYA7YWP8efGs431PqPKvYu2zOCsETo2JVRZlz_HXGFv0W8Eew2hy-BHS_bB9P_fI4pdg6rF761bks8eORlz3Ww5ZkowhQDvXegxGh/s4032/IMG_7018.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHizIqklozODeFeVHQFjSd3R5jIwEXxvNyKSTLy7BgS6Cl1FGEayGM1xcEZD_-qfVH5bHd0CrpAzIKSlHm6SjYA7YWP8efGs431PqPKvYu2zOCsETo2JVRZlz_HXGFv0W8Eew2hy-BHS_bB9P_fI4pdg6rF761bks8eORlz3Ww5ZkowhQDvXegxGh/w300-h400/IMG_7018.HEIC" width="300" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We cut off of the Esplanade to get into Tuckup Canyon. We had heard a pictograph panel was tucked up under a bulging giant boulder protected from the sun. As we walked up canyon, I was reminded of my dream of the night before. I was in a circle with Indians, a fire, a deep dark sky, and we were communicating. I cannot recall the words, only gestures make sense. ‘Lead me,’ I thought. A couple minutes later, I scanned under a massive perch. I could spot the scribbles and drawings. We climbed up onto the perch and observed just thrilling beauty. Such clear shapes and outlines of bucks and rams, snakes too, of colored suns, of various figures adorned with headdresses and body armor; arms were raised in the air and the hands were outlined in red. The hands were small and plump, almost squatty. I shadowed my hands over it. I thought, ‘Guide me.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0QrIrigOaMEOrtGuKy-e5drOQrUgoKEGAYdHXsZ07UPUKiuMRp_6w69gHuDc-JI0D7npLfVni60Xs1vcBtRGgFEVB6z3VkZ4KkGXKViIfXmubKPLgQIqy6j_T31nDI5MM0_qi1HNg-FimR57TsS4RLvXpCP9CdxWpBzPp9OiVNxkdFGmP2Yw7dDg/s4032/IMG_7015.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0QrIrigOaMEOrtGuKy-e5drOQrUgoKEGAYdHXsZ07UPUKiuMRp_6w69gHuDc-JI0D7npLfVni60Xs1vcBtRGgFEVB6z3VkZ4KkGXKViIfXmubKPLgQIqy6j_T31nDI5MM0_qi1HNg-FimR57TsS4RLvXpCP9CdxWpBzPp9OiVNxkdFGmP2Yw7dDg/w400-h300/IMG_7015.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We dawdled there on the perch under the canopy. A frog hopped with intent from the Shamans Panel directly towards us. The frog must have had someplace to go. The frog sprang in earnest. It bolted under the boulder I sat upon and went under a tiny hole in a tiny overhang. Then, the frog continued onward in that straight line hop of his, turquoise spots and red warts and all going who knows where. Maybe he stopped by the Shamans to converse.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the basalt narrows, an alien landscape within a landscape so strange. So strange yet so the same. All the layers, so congruous, so predictable and I still cannot pick out the rhythm in chaos. I say this while I love the sound of jazz. At the basalt narrows, a tube of polished lava holds icy cold water. I climb down a chute and clean up finally, my left butt cheek caressed by the smooth and cold basalt. We tank up on water and leave replenished from our alien world, back to the world of rock and out of the lava.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Really good trail and tread ensues along the Tuckup Trail. We flourish and feel giddy. Just a tad easier on the body. We still continue to contour but it’s less brain consuming. We scan the wiggle of trail from so far out. Our eyes are trained for this particular thing. We cruise along and slow roll it into camp. 19 to 20 miles today that felt like not much work. It is less cold tonight but I’ll still bundle up just to stave off the shivers. The Milky Way and the rest of the billions of stars are out again. I will, however, take the shivers of the sparkling galaxy any time. This is endless, forever endless. I can see forever. I can feel forever.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRJOzO5RGGnJ67ztH-yVZc7fiMI42mEOwtY1o5-uvwzY6v23km4OA5kGbykiNrQazNfTNuG1QEiNHYV_BUJORb6XR87Rke16-O8m2B32jrQurF1Gqwzbs1prNezR4DHxjaIs5mdOujuI8q6O-Am3NKSHj2kOW0ILVaLscp1OWL2mzYfKTnvWZ_D4u/s4032/IMG_7033.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRJOzO5RGGnJ67ztH-yVZc7fiMI42mEOwtY1o5-uvwzY6v23km4OA5kGbykiNrQazNfTNuG1QEiNHYV_BUJORb6XR87Rke16-O8m2B32jrQurF1Gqwzbs1prNezR4DHxjaIs5mdOujuI8q6O-Am3NKSHj2kOW0ILVaLscp1OWL2mzYfKTnvWZ_D4u/w640-h480/IMG_7033.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 18:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sky lit ablaze filtered through long clouds. I watched the sunrise creep up slowly with a paintbrush from some godlike hand and side swish away the whole damn sky. I had a hard time walking because of it. The canyon look long and narrow, a kaleidoscope twirling with all the dawn colors. The Dome donned its chocolate dew drop hat while the Coconino cliffs tantalized and danced with the morning light creating a reflective spectacle. And, then it was gone. Impermanence is a genuine ideal out here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The pink sandstone appeared soft and crumbly, even malleable. The rock held porous pockets as if coral was exposed on an empty seabed that had been drained. Chutes and narrows with rail thin steps and dugouts careened playfully down to the bigger drainage. Bubbles looked frozen in time with circular pockmarks dotting occasional slabs. Some were so porous and coral-like I could spy a skeleton’s rib cage or an eerie organ played by some melting demon. We walked along the Esplanade that felt like walking in a drained inland sea. Everywhere around us showed the scarring of water. I don’t mean erosion either. Certainly, that is the main culprit out here. But, you can clearly see this big old tub filled up with water at some point in time. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MUZYI5SXvzFByKTm7W4pu-UWthpVXFLS5W7i_i9RJCAfD4DtgPc6hnPVCrRvGANlTqj86AZx6gxX7Z3PAQJymW6d4kaYu0a1QaN9wlrnh5NZAShkwHbNv13hJ49IvlpM_h1_Plp1m7xMhEJPZmpCll6_RsEeyxZ59xqO_h62p0rPPKnDKL8VyX8N/s4032/IMG_6965.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MUZYI5SXvzFByKTm7W4pu-UWthpVXFLS5W7i_i9RJCAfD4DtgPc6hnPVCrRvGANlTqj86AZx6gxX7Z3PAQJymW6d4kaYu0a1QaN9wlrnh5NZAShkwHbNv13hJ49IvlpM_h1_Plp1m7xMhEJPZmpCll6_RsEeyxZ59xqO_h62p0rPPKnDKL8VyX8N/w640-h480/IMG_6965.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon Tuckup Canyon was gone, the Dome too, even Powell Plateau so many miles east and upriver. Powell Plateau we spotted a week ago. It took us nearly three days to enter and exit Tuckup, all the while twirling around the Dome like a spindled top. I woke up every night to unravel my quilt because of this circuitous panorama. We rounded Big Point and entered Big Cove. We would see no more of the formations I just mentioned. To the west, Vulcan’s Throne rounded conically into our path of sight. Pinyons and junipers seemed to love this area and the plateau across the river to the south too. I wondered what animals would reside here if tree-life was present. No gradual introduction either. Just a sudden sprouting of a forest. I am not sure why and this mesmerizes me. Songbirds are about more and they tweetle us into camp. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We sleep on pink slabs of slickrock again. We watch the sun fall and the silhouetted cliffs of the plateau become a dark square mass above us, except for the cliffs lit up by the moon. She is out, slightly more than crescent. A little bit of her goes a long way out here. I can see my shadow, although it is so incredibly dark. She hangs like a chandelier. In some sense I want her to go down so I can sleep. She’s too bright. I love her anyhow. So, I eat a last filling meal before arriving to our cache tomorrow. Tonight is ‘hiking partner appreciation day,’ so we regale each other in niceties. Under a cloak of moonlight I snore myself to sleep.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbLwFocUqUI89R5BXLOkm55vB6Bd9ZMjlb-gBagQV6895FqhevWielabYr0Y6SpDKW2klUVcCMBb07oDDwifgyQ2E0QbQMTSC4h92613IBsPGCZHH43Tm2vaIkhYHqcS_NGiAB3KNeAh2UX6GFUeT12M-kiSnWI8bW49m0CVd0EJGtF0ZZaeREkbs/s4032/IMG_7036.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbLwFocUqUI89R5BXLOkm55vB6Bd9ZMjlb-gBagQV6895FqhevWielabYr0Y6SpDKW2klUVcCMBb07oDDwifgyQ2E0QbQMTSC4h92613IBsPGCZHH43Tm2vaIkhYHqcS_NGiAB3KNeAh2UX6GFUeT12M-kiSnWI8bW49m0CVd0EJGtF0ZZaeREkbs/w640-h480/IMG_7036.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 19:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">About an hour later after I shuttered my eyelids and the words I typed out above, Katie called out to me in a serious tone so unlike her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Ryan.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Yea?’ I blurted out sensing her tone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘There’s a big cat near me,’ matter of fact absolutely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stood up immediately and asked her where.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘What? Show me with your light.’ I needed to be between her and the cat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I fumbled with my headlamp and took off one glove to negotiate the fitting. The moon still casted shadows and still showed objects clearly. I clicked my light on. Sitting like a giant house cat behind a shrub was a mountain lion. At first I thought I was looking at a bobcat. Then, an image etched in my memory I will absolutely never forget, the mountain lion slunk and weaved in between some shrubs, the body lurking, the hinds legs pumping smoothly, the haunches cranking slowly, and the incredibly long tail floating behind it. Like a shadowy figure above you in the depths of water, the lion looked like a shark prowling. I walking sternly over to Katie and shined my light back on the cat, now under the side canopy of a juniper. We both began yelling aggressively. The cat remained slunk to the ground, low and poised, its eyes glowing ominously yellow against our headlamps. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The cat was huge, at least 150 pounds. I had to shake my amazement and shock. Katie shook her clanging stove. I grabbed a rock and threw it at the cat’s direction. The cat scuffed the ground and lurched forward in a pouncing position. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I muttered, ‘oh fuck, oh fuck.’ Katie said something but I couldn’t discern what she said. I thought to myself: bring it, this is it, oh fuck this is really happening. I was scared and not scared. The cat remained silent, no audibles growls or screeches, just those glowing eyes and that head and that pouncing position. We asked each other why the cat was acting this way. We hurriedly pieced together a scenario. Clearly he wasn’t hunting Katie or else she would’ve been a goner. She had felt the cat coming towards her silently on the slickrock after she had heard a rock move. She then had sat up and saw the massive body move away from her, just feet away. That’s when she yelled out. So, we deduced the cougar was on a recon mission or maybe the cougar had a lair nearby or, possible, she had kittens nearby. We listened for meows. Nothing. The big cat moved away from the juniper and vanished into the darkness over a slight rise. We scanned the darkness with our lights. I saw a lurking blue eyes off towards the ravine up-gulch, reminiscent of a raccoon slouching off. We both thought that was odd. We hadn’t seen raccoons at all out here, no sign whatsoever. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Her eyes popped up again. ‘GO AWAY!’ I yelled. We had a pile of rocks nearby, our trekking poles, our lights, and our bodies trying to look even bigger with those lights. We yelled continuously. So strange how he was acting, we thought. I shined my light back down in the ravine and the blues eyes were there. Cannot be a raccoon. Nothing else but a kitten. The big cat meandered back and forth along the small ruse. This cougar was a she, had to be. We would spot her and she would disappear again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We decided her behavior was strange, no growling or screeches, no attacking other than a defensive posture, and she just seemed to have an uncanny sense of curiosity about her, like she just wanted to see what we were and got caught doing so. We couldn’t leave the area. No trail, terrible terrain, a ravine behind us with a long drop to the bottom. We needed to hunker down here and set up a shelter and convince the big cat we were not an easy take down. I went and grabbed some big tie off rocks for Katie’s guylines. This area where I got the rocks split the rise and the ravine. The cat moved over into some thick shrubs near where I had gathered the big rocks. I stood lookout while Katie got her shelter up. The cougar neared slowly and I could see the glowing yellow eyes narrow, no blinking. I threw another rock. This time she scurried up some dirt and got into that leaping and pouncing position. I whistled as loud as I could. Everything just echoing chaos. Katie yelled so loud. We were right there! I stood taken aback, here we go again, this is it, oh fuck, let’s do it, oh fuck, here we go….</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She backed off and vanished into the blackness, for the moon now had set. I think the moon had set, I should say. I had tunnel vision, certainly. We were swallowed up by the blackness and the fright. After what seemed like a dead silent 20 minutes, we felt like the situation had subsided. The dark air was calm. I scanned the area again and still saw the glowing blue eyes of the kitten. The kitten blinked and was gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We got into Katie’s tent figuring we had to pal up under such unknowing and uncertain circumstances. As quiet as it had gotten, we both thought the night’s events were not over. But, I felt safe in there hunkered down even though that big lion could’ve done whatever she wanted. I slowly dozed off but not without having two mountain lion dreams. In them, the lion is magic, invincible, deadly and respected, a fantastical ninja. I know for certain we could not wait for daylight some 9 hours later. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">And morning came, not without us waiting for a full light to cast onto the landscape. We didn’t make coffee under the stars. We waited for the cover of night to be vanquished by the sun. And so, no more lion around. We got up and started our day like all the others. We went all the way into Big Cove that held such deep charms. We picked and picked our way until we stood above the northwest chasm of Big Cove and beheld such steep drops to make me squeamish. And then, we made quick work of the day. We found a large pothole and washed up and cooled off. And sure enough, we got to our cache at Toroweap and found a large juniper that carried a big shadow and laid about hidden from the world. We ate and laid around some more and got our 11 days worth of food ready. The landscape to the west looked different and the same. Mount Trumball and the undulating skyline were not flat like the plateaus and rims we have been walking by. Darker volcanic rock loomed from our vista. We perused our maps, checked in with folks expecting to hear from us, ate a jar of almond butter between the two of us, read our notes, got a weather update, and thought no way in hell are we fitting all this food into our tiny packs. We’ll muster strength and find a way. We have to. This is the best experience I have ever had in my entire life.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT9bzUD4baaKeblQeqdaPhhbfE2bN_XRUUfnUEC3sGR9lvMscsRlc6nJPD1bgNKjMFzefzZ86p7v0h55DywSVBxsK6XngnFWf0mrys2IPfz6zi8LRaFVmrhmlpi-0h8DPh8bzQWarzXpkqTPZTWSFRAiR9zq76efPxnEE82rYdQcu1S1ksUA7Gptu/s4032/IMG_7090.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT9bzUD4baaKeblQeqdaPhhbfE2bN_XRUUfnUEC3sGR9lvMscsRlc6nJPD1bgNKjMFzefzZ86p7v0h55DywSVBxsK6XngnFWf0mrys2IPfz6zi8LRaFVmrhmlpi-0h8DPh8bzQWarzXpkqTPZTWSFRAiR9zq76efPxnEE82rYdQcu1S1ksUA7Gptu/w640-h480/IMG_7090.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 20:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The morning was dry and cold, a brittle nip to start the day. We cleaned up our cache area and tried to fit 11 days worth of food and 6 liters of water into our 55L frameless packs. We managed a tight fit. After lingering in camp boiling hot drinks to warm ourselves we ventured for the lava fields. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">That first couple miles my shoulders really felt tight with the pressure and weight of the 11 days worth of food. Just uncomfortable I felt, like my pinch points were being constantly pinched. Fortunately for us, we made quick work over the lava fields. We didn’t have to dodge cactus and the terrain was more open and rolling. Then, we met open stands of creosote and I realized we were in a desert zone shift. We were less in the Sonoran Desert and now we were more in the Mojave Desert. The soil and compacted dirt, the plants, the alluvial fans, and the volcanic rock felt very familiar to me having grown up near the Mojave. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A less entertaining day ensued. We had the packs to occupy our gait, our minds, and our bodies. One chip at a time, slow and steady, this must be the credo. We did find a water catchment that had me enthralled. The concrete catchment was tucked up in a slickrock bowl and had hundreds of gallons of slightly green and partly clear water in it. On the concrete slab lining the top of the dam, names had been carved into the cement. Back in May of ‘13, some of the clan of Bundy’s constructed and refurbished the catchment. I have been intrigued about the Bundy history and their involvement with public versus private lands issues and conflicts with the government, from the Bundyville Standoff to the Mahluer Refuge Takeover. A hardscrabble life they live out here. I can see fighting for that. Just some parts turn me off. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">On a turn, Katie and I have become hardscrabble from this adventure we chose. We are weathered and hardened, tired and dirty, sunburnt and sun drenched, purely ravenous, and a little bit more in tune with the language of the Grand Canyon. We speak it more. We understand it more. We feel more a part of this landscape even though we have only touched the surface. There’s more secrets to feel and learn. We understand this.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxfSsr8LNbj6CYRyLYV2AjpJSxHgKxVjR6P5mPkxMDbpbXalgv3HpruLMncWeDsRZletdf_cQqg3SRM4c3yq_PAeIrA9f6YPdnbgTFgDMGKYcRcbA4cpt8cwnHKo3AubFSPBE8zOLIeesUsnnj_1RNDuVHPuex_PdZATAjIjH3TO-rt5kj6oUEovP/s4032/IMG_7109.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxfSsr8LNbj6CYRyLYV2AjpJSxHgKxVjR6P5mPkxMDbpbXalgv3HpruLMncWeDsRZletdf_cQqg3SRM4c3yq_PAeIrA9f6YPdnbgTFgDMGKYcRcbA4cpt8cwnHKo3AubFSPBE8zOLIeesUsnnj_1RNDuVHPuex_PdZATAjIjH3TO-rt5kj6oUEovP/w640-h480/IMG_7109.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpW9UvMPO64D0OA_nZjK1lWnBLXSgodKGC_KHHN7VyhHSLeYxpmWQ1vinYvLIG08Kke9TOjRx9ENrrnvuwjzB79NBpi0jEJ5aOhOnAu1kEAVM0ogwKIblFpomgDl4Of2obGw8FhYaxh5N1NJUNwSt5yxVyP0b0Odomy5LUvfYaaxIIZiOMuIBtDYv/s4032/IMG_7073.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyXRHE2nikdHu-QCTXefpXL-gS0QLA9cF5rH78CwuVyo6rEt7LuEw5P7EJfJ3KFnYTG5AyoBwFo15aN8gl9y72F98KMHNztutCO5rK3emwPNLaObAPOQMXNY4V2PIKlqIqsEEIXRoJfhhe3kFLPhUz7PlRkAy28jwogdbM7Qd3gIcEvo3SpuxApHf/w640-h480/IMG_6834.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 11:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We resigned to take the Sublime Route out, the one that Steck describes. A storm is rolling in. Wind gusts are at 40mph. Snow level is down to 5500ft. We are right in the wheelhouse, especially with what is immediately ahead. We felt really sketched on a 40ft exposed downclimb in shitty conditions. From the Tuna-Flint saddle, we route-found our way over through the Supai traversing along hillsides and cliff bands. A little overgrown but not too bad. Then after a quick jaunt through the Hermit Shale, we followed a deer track up a steep and broken talus slope with the Coconino. Finally, after two small cliff systems within the Toroweap the Kaibab loomed above us. We scaled through broken cliffs and crumbly towers until finally popping out on top of the plateau. I watched the shadow blobs of clouds swiftly moving against the awesome backdrop. Down in the canyons below showed how quickly the front was moving in with the shadowy clouds. The shapes twisted and morphed, moved swiftly yet lugubriously and lethargic. We were in for a thrashing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had ceased thinking about missing the gnarly downclimb. I began to sense we were are on a detour because we needed to be. Plus, the route finding going up preoccupied me. At the top of the Kaibab rim, I crawled up onto flat land, like out of some muck. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The feeling of scrambling onto the top of the rim was an odd mixture of escape from the depths of something and an accomplishment akin to summiting a mountain. I knew we would be safe. And, certainly that mattered most than our egos.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The plan was to get to Swamp Point ahead of the storm. We thought we had a window the next morning to get down through the freezing chutes of Saddle Canyon. The wind howled through the stout ponderosas. The tall trees thundered and swayed in the nastiest of gusts leaning the tall trees precariously too close to snapping. We had all our layers on and hiked on in that programmatic drudgery of storm-walking. At Swamp Point, we found a dug out hollow in the gambel oak and a grove of ponderosas. We huddled in as the wind crashed the point.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKNqkxPGZdiq0rAMgDjxixo6SGw_u3sbWZ66yhDVmd6py0FiC1Y0JqSpFci57d_CxvfOleIxWyCYsoSUH2M7dXK0G6cYIjw42zlxvJfLlL7fUq9vaqysnILsXdzTilfojAWYhsJme_MfCJRXjs4HASayzwkndoyvnwryFP8Tik5bE56nuNgxD_4ap/s4032/IMG_6691.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKNqkxPGZdiq0rAMgDjxixo6SGw_u3sbWZ66yhDVmd6py0FiC1Y0JqSpFci57d_CxvfOleIxWyCYsoSUH2M7dXK0G6cYIjw42zlxvJfLlL7fUq9vaqysnILsXdzTilfojAWYhsJme_MfCJRXjs4HASayzwkndoyvnwryFP8Tik5bE56nuNgxD_4ap/w640-h480/IMG_6691.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 12:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. Fall time dead. Ponderosa still towering above and wavering. The flakes float down softly atop a soggy 3 inches of snow. Boiling snow for breakfast. Never thought those words would form from my mouth along this desert route. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. To go down is too dangerous. Hypothermia is a legit concern. Freezing chutes. I have been there before. Even in the late Spring the water was neck deep on my 6'5'' frame, the coldest water I know.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. We hardly stop, our hands in our pockets, all our clothes on; we march for heat. We use our titanium cups to slurp from crusty brown icy puddles. We needed the water, so cold our brains freeze. The wind bites at our toes. The countless deer tracks tantalize us. How could we miss so much.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. We finally found a spring, a Quaking Aspen. We heat up black bean soup and our spirits rise. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">A squall moves in, drops the temperature. We were just warm enough. Thank god we are not down below. Just too dangerous. We plow our way through. The squall lasted an hour. We walked another hour on long snowy roads to dry off and heat back up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. We found a camp. A cold camp under skyward ponderosas, but hardly any snow on the ground. We expect 25 degrees tonight. I scuff the duff away for insulation under my tarp awnings. We will need everything we can get. A coyote broke the icy air and we burrowed in for the dead cold. We knew it and hunkered in for it curled up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long snowy roads. Our food cache lies ahead. No regrets. We are safe and not willing to insensibly risk our lives. We will walk to our buckets tomorrow morning, frozen and clear, on long snowy roads.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaB3ZaSPLxDhjlkgL_GZywcuelVXgPr9kN1dILXelx4Z1IK2EvuoFNAZ577X8n2G62scktvpvwbgc6Vzns7Gn81yBOOjvSOOm4Fs10Ig85vEY3obCyOwZVn4ZFaIJ1UEGU0A0jxb0tngTTUCUxLRxjWZl0V-FMryHeEZwgT0nPBSTAGFreh_LoV6Q/s4032/IMG_6701.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaB3ZaSPLxDhjlkgL_GZywcuelVXgPr9kN1dILXelx4Z1IK2EvuoFNAZ577X8n2G62scktvpvwbgc6Vzns7Gn81yBOOjvSOOm4Fs10Ig85vEY3obCyOwZVn4ZFaIJ1UEGU0A0jxb0tngTTUCUxLRxjWZl0V-FMryHeEZwgT0nPBSTAGFreh_LoV6Q/w640-h480/IMG_6701.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 13:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It must have been sub 25 degrees, easily. My tarp was icy and as crisp as an airy tortilla chip. I slept like I hadn’t before, completely encapsulated, fetal knees to nose. Cramped and taut in a laid down crouch just to maintain warmth. I tossed and turned with memories feeling like dreams; I think I slept. My shoes were frozen. I wedged my feet into place, hurriedly packed up, and marched down the road towards the cache. My feet stung. Katie wasn’t too far behind me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The cache felt like a big stepping stone, as we defrosted in the morning sun, finally warming up. At least we made it somewhere. The storm has cleared out. The sun feels warm and cold at the same time. We had been frozen from within. Now</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, the Esplanade will be soon enough. I have dreamt of this place. Some formation, some place, I have been waiting for so so long. I can get caught up in this beautiful thing called meandering. This simple endeavor in life, meandering. See a seam, take it. Dodge a cactus patch, lunge over black sage, stomp across the sharp limestone, find the Supai rim, skate over slickrock. Just let the feet and soul meander in unison. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Live life differently, meanderingly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Feeling inland once atop the Fishtail Mesa Saddle. Lush to the north, like the inner Utah Red Rock Desert. To the immediate south and west the enormous Grand Canyon world-system, the massive corridor of layers, barren rock and severe cuts and cliffs. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Indian Hollow is tantalizing. Pockets of clear and cold water, lush vegetation cling to the walls and line the creek bed, cottonwoods yawn and arch over the same bed and sprouting up over the next ledge system; overhangs, pour offs and small waterfalls display an array of color and sounds, the ripples of sand in the water pockets frozen or least waiting for the pendulum to swing back and shapeshift anew. Slickrock oozes into the bed like frozen pink and orange yogurt. Birds tweet, coyotes leave track, this canyon is luscious and vivacious. We meander at the will of the drainage. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A river of rubble careening down Jumpup Canyon, you can see the invisible motion of a flash flood -- the channels, the pools, the mud flow, rubble and rubble tumbling in an aisle 20 feet wide with the Redwall shooting 300 feet straight up, even higher in places. The walls are stained like a picture of a lava lamp, the lower channel a subway tunnel, smooth and worn, polished, gray. Say it slow -- gggrraaayy. That type of gray. We walked down Jumpup at dusk as darkness enveloped from below rather than from above. We slept on a sand bar and gazed at our sliver of heaven above, our universe of stars cut out by the narrow canyon walls above. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPGMSAVzIwrCOHFw0b9zSqlOutZG4eFLIZd66lX3o4whKZ4vYJ9LpcLoarNg5tzebuAKqU1-ohHXf-1D9IOmyoJvSMp-4q9IpWPkfTBHRV9B3qmQ7La_WV42r1K3_POFZBqBx52QAIw5Toa1f8IIWp-p71ZFtVkK8LCtlBmbp5NeiDKeXbpht3Kz6/s4032/IMG_6741.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPGMSAVzIwrCOHFw0b9zSqlOutZG4eFLIZd66lX3o4whKZ4vYJ9LpcLoarNg5tzebuAKqU1-ohHXf-1D9IOmyoJvSMp-4q9IpWPkfTBHRV9B3qmQ7La_WV42r1K3_POFZBqBx52QAIw5Toa1f8IIWp-p71ZFtVkK8LCtlBmbp5NeiDKeXbpht3Kz6/w640-h480/IMG_6741.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 14:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">No sound, dead silence, absolutely still, not even a whisper of wind. Utter blackness like a tomb, a vault tomb where an echo exists and spider webs are flung. A new moon, although we wouldn’t see her anyways from our confined pocket of night sky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We walk down the dark corridor, empty tunnel, dry and cold. The walls light up, the dark recesses glow gloomily red; daylight is above us. The confluence with Kanab Creek is a giant triangle within a labyrinth. Kanab is bigger, wider, taller. We find large pools, basically clear, and full up our water bladders. Too cold to wash off. We are still tentatively frozen from within. Our thawing and heating up is the crucial tenet of impermanence. Please, let the world spin and bring in other currents, preferably a warmer one, one that sunburns the hell out of my cheeks and nose. I'll risk the chap.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGs4UU0drF0Xkc8p0eMyBKfgIJJbvVWNGocgEJNyOQCiY5YR05yRPj_WH5c6izffPzjsxhNGWy8hMCsUxGrYqijpSiDd0iZ6eYMN-3IrISZ89cQ-UPMoaKRxdNnxNqdWzFmsM08NO3megDOdDbnqPsv76gjF3F8zVifQzkxaT9_HpM567LZLjE5YnN/s4032/IMG_6797.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGs4UU0drF0Xkc8p0eMyBKfgIJJbvVWNGocgEJNyOQCiY5YR05yRPj_WH5c6izffPzjsxhNGWy8hMCsUxGrYqijpSiDd0iZ6eYMN-3IrISZ89cQ-UPMoaKRxdNnxNqdWzFmsM08NO3megDOdDbnqPsv76gjF3F8zVifQzkxaT9_HpM567LZLjE5YnN/w640-h480/IMG_6797.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Flipoff Canyon, a little special pocket of goodness, like a little bubble of pork belly fat that bursts in your mouth with such an incredible flavor of amazement. House sized boulders jam up the tumble-away and we climb as if within a treehouse tumbling away. Beautiful clear pools tiled with blue green rocks shimmer in the morning light. I can see why some cultures call springs ‘ojos.’ The pools are an oracle, a gift in which you can see worlds. The eyes have it. Pink slickrock chutes slither down from under a pour off. We clamber like a tyke onto a bunk bed; so many ways to go tumbling up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Esplanade… we made it. A well-traveled foot path greets us and we walk in glee. This is what we love to do. It is simple. We love to walk. Contouring in and around drainages usually on red shale above a sliver of a white rim, below that the hamburger shaped blocks of Supai. The sun doesn’t get too hot today, and all that water I drank in the morning is paying off. I finally feel like myself. That simple act of meandering in a vast landscape. That’s me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are still inland, so far away from the inner gorge of the deepest. We are in the massive crater of the drainages that funnel into the main drainage of Kanab Creek. Around each massive bay we go. Some take hours upon hours, like Scotty’s Hollow, some will take days. From above, the canyons curl like a snake tail slithering away from you. The walls just plummet, away from you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As the sun casts behind Kanab Point, Fishtail Mesa lights up, a chandelier adorned in striated rock, browns, tans, reds, orange, all of the color lit up more with the setting sun. We contour atop a platform and I spot some potholes gleaming in the remaining light. We wiggle down there and scoop up water with our tin cups. This feels ritualistic. I should be worshipping something. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The desert meadow is highlighted by the standing pooled water. The air is clung with wetness, the smell is sweet from the grasses and sage. Everything is vibrantly green here. Cryptobiotic soil is everywhere too. This place here is a meadow, just in the desert.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaCTh1aQis3IKNux7-9pflu43eE4Y1OZSGHgo2IEf35PEX40wLN75-WuiVL_Bp-k46ksvXdwfZBVOBcNKyf6RrInivCAPLVIhQOQKxNa8foILOtETtsFsbVfIvzoBsZ0zKk9NarZJu7K_0ACTQDNrLA-kwqPAwm6M3hiHaRLMnSjnqyx5Q52GYqm4/s4032/IMG_6830.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaCTh1aQis3IKNux7-9pflu43eE4Y1OZSGHgo2IEf35PEX40wLN75-WuiVL_Bp-k46ksvXdwfZBVOBcNKyf6RrInivCAPLVIhQOQKxNa8foILOtETtsFsbVfIvzoBsZ0zKk9NarZJu7K_0ACTQDNrLA-kwqPAwm6M3hiHaRLMnSjnqyx5Q52GYqm4/w640-h480/IMG_6830.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We walk along a rim and I teeter over looking down below. A faint trail emerges. I see a point out from the apogee of the drainage. I want to camp there. So, we go to there. And, we lay down on slabs of pink rock as the cool air begins to sink. The night sky is immense. Every star is out, millions and billions, a complete opposite campsite of our corridor the night before. Tonight, we are in the big wide open blackness of the desert Esplanade.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 15:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Always the best camping out in this wide universe. Under the stars, atop some rock, in the open air, surrounded by incredible vistas, the morning creeps up and we prep breakfast in the dark. Soon, we are eating our breakfast in the dawn, the rosy hue rising over the Kaibab Plateau. We needed the hot liquid to warm us up from the desert cold. Soon, we are adorned in the orange and pink morning light and trudging afoot.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxn3bZ_zZEhtpT-FfJ43cjA5fiyZ7go8BYr5P2a8QxkybREbBRm2-vYzFcEan83Fz8fNXZPeJU2ItQRju-cx6WhTgxw7M7u9ORPFh_9Xec1tc95llHcEuCBoA5KmXhGbG0wqtYh7S_qVh87Nq-KMLXsrb8UJKYMxujdsNlprK3eTyvnb66E4OqkwFD/s4032/IMG_6855.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxn3bZ_zZEhtpT-FfJ43cjA5fiyZ7go8BYr5P2a8QxkybREbBRm2-vYzFcEan83Fz8fNXZPeJU2ItQRju-cx6WhTgxw7M7u9ORPFh_9Xec1tc95llHcEuCBoA5KmXhGbG0wqtYh7S_qVh87Nq-KMLXsrb8UJKYMxujdsNlprK3eTyvnb66E4OqkwFD/w640-h480/IMG_6855.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We continue to contour on the Esplanade. Our first jut was Kanab Point, then Paguekwash Point. We made fairly quick progress in the brisk morning. We ooh and aahed incessantly, like we oohed and aahed enough to be annoying. In 150 Mile Canyon, the northeast arm, I had to pick my jaw up from the crusty dirt floor. The drainages fell away precipitously into narrow chasms. One word to describe the view: geometrically unbelievable. I couldn’t fathom the formations of the chasms. I could see the Colorado River corridor not too far away. How did all of this happen? I get it, time is the culprit, erosion too. But, I sincerely cannot have the intelligence to figure this incredible marvel out. So, I just shake my head and gaze in absolute wonder. Unbelievable geometry, I’ll say it again.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbu1HCbXCCqYqT155byRUNbHNswhEizfQZ8Elf33wXgYehZXarOjN0vSyXcOaNxuSsP4d9HNyQdvas2GtvQfU-O0zyF3fftRL4mPznmRY9RYXiVv06YVVeBnPTCWuIhY7LSSwvJFVTPm2TN5yJJr-CNgeETznFslxUJmkafut4YN_AtQDcbvjJEOr/s4032/IMG_6890.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbu1HCbXCCqYqT155byRUNbHNswhEizfQZ8Elf33wXgYehZXarOjN0vSyXcOaNxuSsP4d9HNyQdvas2GtvQfU-O0zyF3fftRL4mPznmRY9RYXiVv06YVVeBnPTCWuIhY7LSSwvJFVTPm2TN5yJJr-CNgeETznFslxUJmkafut4YN_AtQDcbvjJEOr/w400-h300/IMG_6890.HEIC" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stumble upon a rams horn shed, giant and curled almost so the point would’ve touched the base of the skull. Even though it is hollow, the horn is heavy. I trace my hand over the keratin feeling the age of this desert beast. We stumble forward a few feet leaving the horn. Instantly, we get a waft of something rank and rotten. I looked over at a large catclaw. Under the canopy a dead ram decayed in the stale grass. A smaller set of horns, we wondered if the larger horned ram had killed this younger ram and lost a horn in the battle. The flesh was gone. The legs gnawed, even one of the legs had been severed off and deposited under a large jagged limestone boulder. The boulder was stained with splats of vulture shit. This young ram had been picked clean by the scavengers. I assume the skeleton won’t last long in this harsh desert environment. It’ll almost melt way in the brutality of the sun. Not a bad notion, come to think of it. I'll take melting away in the desert sun as a death fate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before camp, we crouched at some potholes and ritualistically tanked up. As usual, I say a brief prayer at these altars. Mainly, I express my gratitude. I feel so primitive, a basic element. I slurp the same water the wildlife does. Somehow that makes me feel connected to something richer.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MqhZn8bxJ1Rh7OmuUgsPgd4Htoqa5-LxubIgeVXHXVCWY3nTmVA9TSVvsSBXW1FM3f6Fxvr3u7cexKDmdlu90rxb1p4o4-171CjRfIPJtLu-YpFlDAjBvv6zhpxq-ypMOBo4CJdTdUls60nqkfzWzI3_lsGIz0HkPNPXdm1YC6BjSuuBbW9OuWKw/s4032/IMG_6884.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MqhZn8bxJ1Rh7OmuUgsPgd4Htoqa5-LxubIgeVXHXVCWY3nTmVA9TSVvsSBXW1FM3f6Fxvr3u7cexKDmdlu90rxb1p4o4-171CjRfIPJtLu-YpFlDAjBvv6zhpxq-ypMOBo4CJdTdUls60nqkfzWzI3_lsGIz0HkPNPXdm1YC6BjSuuBbW9OuWKw/w640-h480/IMG_6884.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyIvfW2dAq-lTQx27q45vFcHhDHFoQ4CMjcOOZNZHU08kxVfgxQGRakpRS4vwYTaMREqUYbR_HgbUeo8i2HF9e5eBc9NC27D_kehkRfDcVfYPYZL0Qg9enOuos2dWMWUkHO28DLl3_6puLfCBAbNn_rJF6fOAvK_zBF840S7oy2j1vdigDSriFjDx/s4032/IMG_6902.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-25604427914390376912022-11-20T06:10:00.001-08:002022-11-20T06:10:12.881-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 6-10<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSka102D4eMmJZj3ffDwxLmUui4GxvYP6cHDHWS0J3W2U9E0zXyUBgeJgl6wksiWbML7maUPH0o0zGqn-mpCVAacD-zxbxnF_Hw7VtPlzritJz0YXq4cUG5uvHnzbvaFHXyKEgbCPaRodEk-BGogdBCsS6UEm9BP1lGAUsOD-QyoGZNmQMrkpb9Ujq/s4032/IMG_6649.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSka102D4eMmJZj3ffDwxLmUui4GxvYP6cHDHWS0J3W2U9E0zXyUBgeJgl6wksiWbML7maUPH0o0zGqn-mpCVAacD-zxbxnF_Hw7VtPlzritJz0YXq4cUG5uvHnzbvaFHXyKEgbCPaRodEk-BGogdBCsS6UEm9BP1lGAUsOD-QyoGZNmQMrkpb9Ujq/w640-h480/IMG_6649.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 6:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our pocket for the night left us with some jittery sleep. Nightmares did not inhabit or dwell, although I found a tarantula crawling close by, a scorpion creeping within a few inches of my forearm, and a few black widows hanging nearby on the walls. The mouse did not bother me, though. I did chuckle to myself the tarantula story of Steck's. Thankfully, I did not wake up to something crawling atop the length of my body and waking me up from a sleep. Nonetheless, we were eagerly ready to go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our first taste of contouring the Tonto platform ensued. We went from pass and valley style of hiking to a wide open platform that displayed the whole canyon out in front of us. We could see the South Rim up high and away from us. The North Rim remained obstructed from our vision due to the towers, buttes, and temples. Cactus became everywhere, everywhere we stepped, weaved, and walked. Out in the open like this, one gains the gaping perspective of just how deep and wide the Grand Canyon. We made fairly easy work of our 8 miles or so on the Tonto. We had to go way in to the side canyon v-point of the drainage and nearly all the way back out to the river point on the level to go around not only the side canyons but the massive buttes above us. These formations took some time to go around.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTbOeOyedn6U8dcqS8vTCHIpOqragd9F_R-nrXbpiNzmNI5XXW0RVxH5Co_Zugtz1UzHuWEE3xAad57UCOmGcc_FBj9iseziP63RES4m4GTdJ4X45dFzWDKw0b7L2Oh3GGaXjgev-H_sWp68kHuh_-1qmW6u7ydxOCZVOtl0kDCrurhSGcseeoZ0G/s4032/IMG_6333.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTbOeOyedn6U8dcqS8vTCHIpOqragd9F_R-nrXbpiNzmNI5XXW0RVxH5Co_Zugtz1UzHuWEE3xAad57UCOmGcc_FBj9iseziP63RES4m4GTdJ4X45dFzWDKw0b7L2Oh3GGaXjgev-H_sWp68kHuh_-1qmW6u7ydxOCZVOtl0kDCrurhSGcseeoZ0G/w640-h480/IMG_6333.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We figured out the way down a branch of Clear Creek, our only real challenge of the day. In the main arm of Clear Creek we ran into a gushing torrent of water. The creek flowed profusely down canyon. Cottonwoods lined the lush creek. The creek just emanated an exuberant existence. We found a deep pool fed from a small waterfall. We climbed on in and soaked for a bit in the cool waters. Fuck, I let out a deep breath, one I had been holding in since I left Colorado. I felt like I had been walking the whole time to get to this spot just to start. This, this felt like the beginning. After soaking in the pool for 20 minutes we basked in the remaining sun on the slickrock. What had burnt us was now warming and soothing us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We moseyed on to camp. I hiked up the drainage a bit to see more of the flowing water. We were early. We knew we would exit via the North Rim the next day. 23 miles on trail is really no big deal for us. Laying around camp after dinner we had a visit from a mouse,. The mouse would shoot out from the boulder windrow and I would shoo it back in. I did this as the moon rose over Angels Gate. I stayed propped up on my elbows just soaking it all in. Watching the moon rise, I was only broken of this trance when the mouse would start to dart. I played this game for an hour before falling asleep on propped elbows. The moon lit up the cottonwood canopy. I felt rich surrounded by these jewels. Although, I knew we had to get out tomorrow as planned, regardless of the situation, I did not want to leave. I finally felt ready and healthy.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42AUSKfE_H0C58925kpIflQGem5dAJPFL7OF7tMlM1asqh8oRLDR2hpQHjIvdsmjpIAKcJabtk9F0BHlpc3b9x-pIfQYkwF2Af3V0sHKILXTPeK4xXmGd_oUNezeOvDH_WG_lm9ZjdAczzGVGqPEaCJcbXGzRimDsgIs2ffiBQTFFovCk75vJ8ys7/s4032/IMG_6340.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42AUSKfE_H0C58925kpIflQGem5dAJPFL7OF7tMlM1asqh8oRLDR2hpQHjIvdsmjpIAKcJabtk9F0BHlpc3b9x-pIfQYkwF2Af3V0sHKILXTPeK4xXmGd_oUNezeOvDH_WG_lm9ZjdAczzGVGqPEaCJcbXGzRimDsgIs2ffiBQTFFovCk75vJ8ys7/w640-h480/IMG_6340.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 7:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We hiked out on the Clear Creek Trail that connected with the North Kaibab Trail, some 7 miles away. This section of trail is probably the only section of trail of the Grand Canyon Traverse that is maintained. Out of roughly 575 miles, only 7 of those miles are maintained. That is awesome. I knew we had bigger challenges ahead. I knew we had a 10 day wait. I knew I had to use it wisely and rest. The hike out was uneventful, just passing by hordes of tourists and visitors. We popped in our headphones and cruised the way up. Along the way and the ascent up, I felt the determination to return and to be successful. The pool in Clear Creek gave me a chance to wash everything away. I feel the humility of the recent events, of just how lucky I am in so many ways. I will not waste another opportunity.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlw42kIalDUYKrnAvu0nxTuO6QcTbhBEDknI0gqnObVAWlEuxKFgB3BZu8y3p4HiIHmvNPnmchk5ZSKcyHARJDXIOv8gaHYB1XWZexznLOHlr0Ws5zaTu_ChfmVccOpAJtL0mJgDv6GP_oTh_DI9qWui3R2lMQ6UNk-yHix10znskUizQuAIChTrK/s4032/IMG_6660.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlw42kIalDUYKrnAvu0nxTuO6QcTbhBEDknI0gqnObVAWlEuxKFgB3BZu8y3p4HiIHmvNPnmchk5ZSKcyHARJDXIOv8gaHYB1XWZexznLOHlr0Ws5zaTu_ChfmVccOpAJtL0mJgDv6GP_oTh_DI9qWui3R2lMQ6UNk-yHix10znskUizQuAIChTrK/w640-h480/IMG_6660.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 8:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are back after a 10 day absence. We left the North Rim and went back down underground. We were absolutely excited. We felt more prepared, more aware, more in tune while also recognizing we just don't know shit about the Grand Canyon. We knew we had to exercise patience. Funny in a way, we aware of being patient in a land of time where time oddly doesn’t exist or is utterly incomprehensible. This notion feels absurd but the notion is so. You can see it in the immense scale of erosion and all the massive exposed layers. You can feel it through the rush of exertion when there’s no need to rush while only one needs to consistent and patient. The ruggedness of the canyon forces one to move slow, to trudge with relevance. One's pace must be of reverence to what is afoot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After navigating through the minor crowd of hikers heading downhill, we slithered through the Bright Angel campground to pick up the climber trail leading up through the Tapeats layer and unto Utah Flats. The user trail through the Tonto Platform became prominent and made travel across the Mars landscape efficient, Utah Flats looked just like inner Utah near Capitol Reef. After ambling along the user trail for a few miles, we dropped our packs on a ledge and headed down to Phantom Creek to fetch water. After a quick visit to the oasis to fil our capacity in water, we lugged 6 liters each back up 500ft in a mile to our home for the night on our ledge in the Muav. This necessity of work set a tone, as I look back now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The stars in the black night held our gaze from our perch and entertained us with shooting stars. While the twinkling soothes our spirits, we nestled in for the long night tucked in our small overhang. The creek bellowed below and the abyss all around us rang in its own sinking depths, a low ringing tone of collapsing air. We had a slight overhang above us. The ledges fell off to a steep drop but we had enough space and a cluster of boulders to leverage our confidence from rolling off. I woke up and noticed a bright red bulb in the sky above Orion. I knew it wasn’t Betelgeuse, the red star of Orion’s upper left shoulder. Mars filled me with bewilderment. I had never seen the planet so clearly big and red before. I tried to zoom in my vision to get my imagination way up there in space. Gazing out into the big black abyss was simply majestic, the air so empty in front of us that for a moment I believed I actually was in space. I could, really. Just lay on my back, feel the gravity of the darkness and the sinking cold, the emptiness palpitating, almost throbbing, no silhouettes of towers and monuments, no moon, the stars all around me…and I was floating about in space. What would I be without my childlike imagination?</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIuD0AhmhTAEoe8GqL1wsi9T7Iqfzs0j1bpkg_gfOa_3gevhEZHKqyEuZ0zvyEGIIbUra0KO6F-7TCOnnucm_dRGRE6d4F4pNRhS9nreVea1isg7B430zITwt46pnU6vblSKiaNCO2X8hR4iG83ug8Wq-acpw8y9MfoMTRFKuh4Q3S3bypTTYk244/s4032/IMG_6622.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIuD0AhmhTAEoe8GqL1wsi9T7Iqfzs0j1bpkg_gfOa_3gevhEZHKqyEuZ0zvyEGIIbUra0KO6F-7TCOnnucm_dRGRE6d4F4pNRhS9nreVea1isg7B430zITwt46pnU6vblSKiaNCO2X8hR4iG83ug8Wq-acpw8y9MfoMTRFKuh4Q3S3bypTTYk244/w640-h480/IMG_6622.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 9:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up in our aerie, a raptor looking out over the canyonlands below. I dreamt of flying to Mars last night on expansive feathery wings. Maybe a condor. I do not know. On the back, the wings flapped and we careened through the canyons that went vertical rather than horizontal. I saw the red star ahead at the end of a black canyon, at the mouth. I woke up in our aerie looking down. Then, I sat up and began breakfast. I could still see Mars over Isis Temple. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The minor climb up to the Cheops/Isis saddle afforded us unobstructed views of the towers and buttes starting to glow with the sunrise, bringing shape and substance of what had eluded me the night before. The sky gradually went from blue-black to pinks, blues, and purples, and finally to a bright orange. We followed a deer trail that now had cairns every so and often to lead the way. We contoured over into Trinity fairly quickly. We made efficient use of our morning.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2MCiK598oJVb0BpcFsJph5XNcZgic1CzI7N_bYBRvbx_0uNn5lEtc_VUynj4n2Oe4S8P8CFH8qZXpr-qtm5cXU6pOk63AlVjsIKq5H182hjww59szx6kLz5TUbRW0GJiUHWVLl40wU3nKMi9UvVIBZCVeZQiwzK-cBWa2tpttJcvaLMJzRj9JlaB/s4032/IMG_6603.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2MCiK598oJVb0BpcFsJph5XNcZgic1CzI7N_bYBRvbx_0uNn5lEtc_VUynj4n2Oe4S8P8CFH8qZXpr-qtm5cXU6pOk63AlVjsIKq5H182hjww59szx6kLz5TUbRW0GJiUHWVLl40wU3nKMi9UvVIBZCVeZQiwzK-cBWa2tpttJcvaLMJzRj9JlaB/w640-h480/IMG_6603.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our next hurdle was ruggedly contouring over on the Tonto platform through fields and fields of beaver tail cactus to 94 Mile Canyon. Unbelievable the amount of beavertail cactus. But, we became proficient at the weaving of our bodies and legs through the cactus stands. Katie and I both had had practice last summer in avoiding sagebrush in an absolute sea of sagebrush while on the Great Basin Trail. As we angled deeply into the canyon the heat of the day became persistent, just a scorching drudgery. We worked our way into the canyon to a slope in the Tapeats to reach the creek bed. Almost immediately, we scaled a steep gully in the Tapeats and reached the Tonto with a couple of ledges to jump up onto. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, the heat became oppressive for both of us. Realizing we were going to be short of our campsite goal at Crystal Creek, we decided to take our time and rest in any shade we happened upon. We knew that the descent down to the beach would need care and attention. Doing the descent at sunset just didn’t seem like an achievable proposition. Maybe I was more susceptible to the heat since I had that recent bout of heat exhaustion and hypernatremia. I really plummeted in spirit and rose in lethargy. I succumbed to the heat once again and really slowed down. I became exhausted and nearly consumed all my water. In the last tri-armed drainage we scaled up and over some decent sized ribs gutted by erosion with clean washes below them. I huffed and puffed over each one, my voice becoming raspier after each one. I was ready to plop down. Katie asked if I wanted to stop. We had 15 minutes of daylight left and getting over one last ridge would set us up better for the next morning where we would be at least 2.5 hours and that tough descent from water. We both knew too that the last drainage would have a good camp in the wash. I told her, ‘just go and I’ll follow.’ I rallied myself together and followed her. Halfway up the climb my right thigh began cramping. My fears came back. Not again, I thought. At the top both thighs cramped. About 200ft below I could pick out the slickrock bed we would be sleeping on. I rigidly picked my way down the slope. I just about fell onto my back on the slickrock. I wasn’t as bad as the last time, just felt like a good old fashion bonk. However, this cramping thing is really a concern.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg98pElqC03b38bCK4UDvR7OesRQuc9yvLKAXPaz30jZ_z-uJMCzBN5C12Z0ydfND1w2HaIYKTRkGQn-KNDufPzXP7I3IaUkhUsO54TyyqBfjpGZuUDo2B9-qI9orvRBIyTO1iMRh5uIrGhL3V3dSKCFTr7NHgmkwj6bpr-ufl5QSyJ2d54MB2rW2/s4032/IMG_6651.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZg98pElqC03b38bCK4UDvR7OesRQuc9yvLKAXPaz30jZ_z-uJMCzBN5C12Z0ydfND1w2HaIYKTRkGQn-KNDufPzXP7I3IaUkhUsO54TyyqBfjpGZuUDo2B9-qI9orvRBIyTO1iMRh5uIrGhL3V3dSKCFTr7NHgmkwj6bpr-ufl5QSyJ2d54MB2rW2/w640-h480/IMG_6651.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 10:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Woke up extremely thirsty. Parched. Confused. Cold, Had some chills. Couldn't heat up. Contoured over a mile to the climbing route in the Tapeats. Somehow we found the ledges and the broken pillar. Slowly we picked our way down. We had to pass down our packs at some spots. Eventually skated down a very steep ravine. And, I swear I saw what the sky was doing around me. I swear. The prettiest of sunrises. Maybe an omen of a storm. Finally at the waters of Crystal Creek. I cupped my hands and slurped multiple times. I am exhausted. So thirsty. The water didn’t taste minerally to me, so I continued throwing handfuls of clear and cold water into my mouth. At the Colorado River the waters ran like a muddy sludge. No way we could drink out of that. We waffled back and forth about some warning we had read about, about Crystal Creek being too minerally. I used my InReach to communicate with Li who found out no warnings as such. We slurped away. I double slurped to booster up my hydration levels.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The climb out through the schist and the Tapeats layer almost killed me. Utter exhaustion swooned over me. My mind went to so many places and my emotions plunged to so many depths. I felt hopeless. I do not know how I got up there. Lactic acid build up is excruciatingly painful. Contoured around the Tonto for about 5 miles...SLOWLY. The heat was there oppressing us as always. Luckily the sun was at our backs. In the Tuna Canyon drainage, we rested in the shade under some Tapeats cliffs. I basically broke down…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">No, I did break down. I had to move away from Katie. I had to cry. I felt old. I felt unfit. What was wrong with me? I have been holding on to so much. I have been holding on to so much. I have to doubly write that. My emotional slate has not been cleaned or emptied. It needs to happen now. Inhale quickly twice, breathe out assertively once. Repeat. Repeat until I am calm.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRls5Eob_PbnMlDWt6O0qjrFjOcIBoVf5HRXV7Dg6QYRQTtIDpxD6qtCeROenuYBRlG0pkfllaAe5Z0ZNTS4JzL0zLpl2Q8H4-N21j9p4Mo1882cpiVY99-DN3NhiVbG1ycNr1eOj84C2SPqW2hDCK9rRejEgqamhLwwCYsqrNNKp2ab8G--2hJH-f/s4032/IMG_6658.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRls5Eob_PbnMlDWt6O0qjrFjOcIBoVf5HRXV7Dg6QYRQTtIDpxD6qtCeROenuYBRlG0pkfllaAe5Z0ZNTS4JzL0zLpl2Q8H4-N21j9p4Mo1882cpiVY99-DN3NhiVbG1ycNr1eOj84C2SPqW2hDCK9rRejEgqamhLwwCYsqrNNKp2ab8G--2hJH-f/w640-h480/IMG_6658.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Up the northwest arm we went along a wide wash. We walked unhurriedly as the sun fell behind the massive Redwall formation and the buttes sitting atop. The shade cooled me down. I finally began to cool down. I no longer was drenched in sweat. I plodded along slowly and steadily. I used my whole body. I was torpidly walking. And, we made progress while I didn’t feel too shitty. One 50ft pour off negotiated, then a more complicated one and we found ourselves lined up to take on the final one. The limestone was sharp. Careful placement to not gash the hands or tear clothes or shred gear. At least we had grip on some exposure. Once atop we would be primed for an early morning summit atop the Flint-Tuna Saddle. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We laid down under a very dark sky. The stars shimmered. We found a semi-flat area atop the Redwall and under a juniper and on some red pebbly dirt. I mulled over the day feeling just utterly exhausted and spent. I did not feel as hopeless as I did earlier. I kept on. Goddammit I am keeping on. Dinner pepped me up and helped me stave off my emotions from the day. The hot liquid filled my belly and soul. I breathed in the cold night air softly. We spoke of the next day and a potential storm brewing. We spoke half-heartedly about making decisions. I just wanted to sleep and not think of anything that night for the first time ever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhq0FrXXJxUQYrOlyMvClBLDxMvteewfJ8tgjvnKuvOPVjrB06MWFU1CK_4XVohg3Hc2dlHNCV7kKLUuM4PCL7oYbjchUt3_fZ3UEuvoc4KW1c068-4eXfwid1Gd3VVZ8fvAccj3ktrdm_YLb8HzWJoN2lmCaEa2Lps4v1rD2NRUNXm_25rQbAHeY/s4032/IMG_6308.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhq0FrXXJxUQYrOlyMvClBLDxMvteewfJ8tgjvnKuvOPVjrB06MWFU1CK_4XVohg3Hc2dlHNCV7kKLUuM4PCL7oYbjchUt3_fZ3UEuvoc4KW1c068-4eXfwid1Gd3VVZ8fvAccj3ktrdm_YLb8HzWJoN2lmCaEa2Lps4v1rD2NRUNXm_25rQbAHeY/w640-h480/IMG_6308.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgYAvced19WqZV6Ls5xCQXfexn9q_mwg6QZjvas2gxli7gnFfUJPFMbLSdBS-IwyYGwKmeR2EZE46SEObhW1iiXt50YWRGmUZaqJrbzGFuEiWhX--0ixO3tZVHJL9EbJjPJ5GiiBMrSKpoE78XuneelvfDMz0kEurMYXsNM4mmzUIL5jEh-GXEIwkP/s4032/IMG_6321.HEIC" style="font-family: georgia; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgYAvced19WqZV6Ls5xCQXfexn9q_mwg6QZjvas2gxli7gnFfUJPFMbLSdBS-IwyYGwKmeR2EZE46SEObhW1iiXt50YWRGmUZaqJrbzGFuEiWhX--0ixO3tZVHJL9EbJjPJ5GiiBMrSKpoE78XuneelvfDMz0kEurMYXsNM4mmzUIL5jEh-GXEIwkP/w640-h480/IMG_6321.HEIC" width="640" /></a><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-16692036798623880272022-11-20T06:09:00.001-08:002022-11-20T06:09:53.142-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Days 1-5<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Iv_alEIR2wYf2eysOrddHch5Uh2WQBXhumScOy_xRneAzke_3oSdjnkufdpEUsnCvnOD0it9VvZOUD3sZInaRNV7nE1fOMn7uYuUdpd3wry8qwwXlPt5HOpJBtlJXsJbmi7_j8wjeOJ2cwAfI2WG9ln0UJyhb_ZbJvVuO5b61H4MMH7FqpwtRUXk/s4032/IMG_5985.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Iv_alEIR2wYf2eysOrddHch5Uh2WQBXhumScOy_xRneAzke_3oSdjnkufdpEUsnCvnOD0it9VvZOUD3sZInaRNV7nE1fOMn7uYuUdpd3wry8qwwXlPt5HOpJBtlJXsJbmi7_j8wjeOJ2cwAfI2WG9ln0UJyhb_ZbJvVuO5b61H4MMH7FqpwtRUXk/w640-h480/IMG_5985.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 1: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I am writing the start last. I do not hold the weight anymore. This only means this won't be as raw. I am content in that, too. To push is my immediate nature, the nature that is most on the surface. I have had time to reflect, but, to be honest, I left all that heavy weighted shit there in Rider Canyon. I was completely aware of the 'why' of what happened. I hold no regrets.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I have to start the Grand Canyon Traverse journal somewhere. I promise though, this will get better. Bear through this.</i></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeeg_tHfAYY8A09A6fD2hlERc69_rQBkZe_UbRtGLFb5EzzCMCTqPKKgToajGenqD5QLICVQRgGZi4tyQOG6Yh5aey65z-HCyGjCYXyL05N_SEK_CGfGCqvSYdRJbvJaxt5n9vprbDu8zhmols6IT4Sq2z9NKspD4-Pk4jSiads4OAJHvd_1VGntT/s4032/IMG_5941.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeeg_tHfAYY8A09A6fD2hlERc69_rQBkZe_UbRtGLFb5EzzCMCTqPKKgToajGenqD5QLICVQRgGZi4tyQOG6Yh5aey65z-HCyGjCYXyL05N_SEK_CGfGCqvSYdRJbvJaxt5n9vprbDu8zhmols6IT4Sq2z9NKspD4-Pk4jSiads4OAJHvd_1VGntT/w640-h480/IMG_5941.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">…what a dash. I will forego the</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> timeline of what happened to get to where I got to, the why-for. All I will say is this: I was behind the eight ball before we had even started. I simply took on way too much before this adventure.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Leaving the parking lot at Lees Ferry I felt the heat from the asphalt through my shoes. The balls of my feet were already warm. I shook it off. I was here. I was here now. This was it. This had been a long time in the works. I had drummed a dream, and now I was here drumming. Katie and I scrambled and picked our way along the shoreline of the Colorado River. The avenue of adventure began where the wide canyon walls narrowed. Suddenly, we were underground.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">With only one place to go the navigation is fairly straightforward. Follow the rocky shore. The temps are rising. I need to pop an electrolyte and gulp some water. I must stay on top of this. The rocks are reflecting the heat of the sun, absorbing all the scorching heat. I feel it. My skin is blistering with it. I cinch my mouth shut, I breathe through my nose, and lower the brim of my hat. We try to remain cool during the brutal heat. Sometimes the river is right there, the green river. So, we splash ourselves off. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The canyon walls are modest. The canyon feels like a ramp angling up. The canyon feels small. then, after a couple hours, we are under the Marble Canyon bridge. Hundreds of feet above us the steel structure spans the now towering canyon. The steel curves shadows arcing onto the river below. We hike into an alcove just beneath. Shade is present. I wondered if the people looking over would see us. Scrambling and steep side hilling ensue under the suffocating heat. I see the way through but the work is taxing. We are moving slower than I anticipated. I scan my GPS track and the terrain in front of me. Something is off. I underestimated the mileage. It is fairly evident. Katie sees this too. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are making significant miles today, yet I feel wrecked. I am feeling the weight of the heat, the ruggedness, the slow moving. I am forcing this. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZW6oLUxLs8K0f14RC9TNWPRP50U6vXxk6NiIXRY5yXbUQfT4Mo5hQf3sgyKtlv8qKPl_7S4_q7UxXLnHCeNjosVNS3m84rlOy0X2KeY-U5J3k0ibkUN2W83zJxucNibCqS1n0tzKUr82FGTHVdgl18Ar4iA20E6liLdP77eQ7Zig4oGSAvA3KaCM/s4032/IMG_5950.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZW6oLUxLs8K0f14RC9TNWPRP50U6vXxk6NiIXRY5yXbUQfT4Mo5hQf3sgyKtlv8qKPl_7S4_q7UxXLnHCeNjosVNS3m84rlOy0X2KeY-U5J3k0ibkUN2W83zJxucNibCqS1n0tzKUr82FGTHVdgl18Ar4iA20E6liLdP77eQ7Zig4oGSAvA3KaCM/w640-h480/IMG_5950.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">No matter what I tried, I simply could not drink enough water for salt I was consuming. I began to cramp in my quads. I wringed my shirt after soaking it in the river. The crusty salt lines melt away into a white creamy liquid squeezing from the shirt. My skin is stained with salt. I feel the salt burning into the creases of my squinting eyes. A little bit more further, We pick our way across boulder fields. Tedious, slow moving ruggedness, clambering up and over and under. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We fell short of our first camp goal and settled onto the beach of Badger Creek. I was so relieved to make it to camp. I was cramping. When it is really rough hiking, when it is boulder hopping, when it is scrambling, it is incredibly hard to do so when cramping in your quads. We found a sheltered swale between a couple sand dunes, set up a cowboy camp, and headed to the river to cool off. A pall of smoke had snuck into the canyon and began to sink. The smell wasn't overwhelming, just visually a heavy haze just hung low in the canyon. The smoke was from the prescribed burn we had seen up on the Kaibab Plateau a couple days earlier. Either way, a gloomy realism set in. Sitting on my air mattress</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I fiddled with a toenail that needed to be twisted off. That nail had been bruised for a month or so and all it took was one sweaty day in the Grand Canyon for the nail to be ready to fall off. My feet were raw, my legs continued to cramp, and I laughed nervously. I have been in spots like this before and I have always recovered. So, I didn't fret about my cramping legs. I really fretted, however, the conversation Katie and I had about how we had underestimated the actual hiked miles versus the drawn mileage on the map. We caught on to this and realized that potentially, if we were this far behind, that we would be short on food. Laying there and fiddling with my toenail, my focus went to conserving food and moving more efficiently. Really, my ego settled on moving faster and further.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I laid down still giddy from finally being out here, still confident about what we could do. I laid down exhausted but feeling upbeat, almost giggling about my condition. Why would I get any worse? My body is used to this. Right? I tore the toenail off. I closed my eyes with incredulity. Tomorrow would be a new day.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapI6rTHLsQ7TdDqGT76A1iAO7H2GIjJmJcQqUw6shldzpsRIsBJMD0lVEPda0RifNFz7dMF3glx83vVGZ9S0FmSo9C9mu7B2dO62UjbJ0psql32S5_ZV8n5GYtbDJUQuEfSiT3Eb34qSULSSkbI9PPAe9pY4Tr2gRNIZpdkZQLSNzBtKkNoOSV_iK/s4032/IMG_6003.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapI6rTHLsQ7TdDqGT76A1iAO7H2GIjJmJcQqUw6shldzpsRIsBJMD0lVEPda0RifNFz7dMF3glx83vVGZ9S0FmSo9C9mu7B2dO62UjbJ0psql32S5_ZV8n5GYtbDJUQuEfSiT3Eb34qSULSSkbI9PPAe9pY4Tr2gRNIZpdkZQLSNzBtKkNoOSV_iK/w640-h480/IMG_6003.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 2: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Smoke suspended in the warm morning air. A smoky gray cloaked the deep red walls. The canyon was monumentally deep now, the angled ramp gone. Now, the cliffs went straight up. My arches had cramped throughout the night. I could not get those all out body stretches I need without my legs seizing. I drank water through the night. In our favor, we had an angle in the canyon, a yawning bend in the river, that would not see sunlight until late morning. I monitored my water intake and lowered my salt intake. We hiked slowly and intently upon ledges raised above the swift waters. I favored to not hike expeditiously. I tempered my gait and my breath. I kept my emotions at bay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At lunch, we found shade. A half hour after I needed more shade. We found access to the river and I beelined to it and splashed my face off. I splashed my neck and arms. Salt glistened in the green waters under me, a small milky eddy formed from my dripping salty sweat. I began to become aware how futile it seemed in trying to cool my body off. The effort to do so felt enormous. Katie trudged on enduringly, while I struggled to keep up. I became frought with frustration. Something shifted after lunch. The sunlight hit our side of the canyon. Even the blanket of smoke could not stifle the heat. The rocks radiated the heat immensely. I slowly succumbed more and more to the extreme conditions. My mental resolve melted away. All the recent events coupled with the conditions finally had caught up to me. I began to stagger and sway. I sought shade as often as I could. My breath became shallow and strained. I was failing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A couple hours went by and we had climbed up onto the Supai shelves a couple hundred feet above the river. We had to climb a crack at one point. In doing so, I expended all my energy. All of it. All of it was gone. Once through the crack my whole body began to seize up periodically. My shoulders, then my quads, my hands and the front of my calves next. Katie shadowed me closely, tailing me like a rudder. I thought at one point she was pacing me in an ultramarathon. I went to the paincave so distinctly I felt I was zoomed right to the High Five 100 mile event a couple summers ago when I was so obliterated I had lost track of self. This makes sense if you have been there. And, I was there. Katie was pacing me. The snapping back from the vision made me realize that I must look like shit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Shade, I craved shade. Water was inaccessible. I drank as I could. I needed to. The heat beat me down. I sweated profusely. I became confused. I said things without knowing I said them. I thought things not knowing where I was at. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was super nauseous and tried to refrain from vomiting.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I knew, however, that I had to keep the legs going. Ask what you can of the body and the body will do what it is asked. Just keep the legs going. In my mind, I became focused on Rider Canyon, but in a tunnel vision kind of way. I harped on this. I was willing to die for this. Katie continued to hover closely. Sometimes I would move consistently. But, I would peter out and look for shade, even the smallest sliver of shade. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYFhwLxHhCxMimrPAzoDPU329bFZEDKS5bjrFbciJfWCkUE4H3QywYnYG8i5BLYnK5MrmHyn_9BWp3VFwZ2W6ngX1-7dc1IxmVbmeLl3Qxqd7C0eS6xdn3Y8VyKa2xW024Yksg4Z7pgX6dYpVMBQU1bVX5wGnbOlqIxgPE5j9IU7RGFeFDaJnFbr3/s4032/IMG_5995.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYFhwLxHhCxMimrPAzoDPU329bFZEDKS5bjrFbciJfWCkUE4H3QywYnYG8i5BLYnK5MrmHyn_9BWp3VFwZ2W6ngX1-7dc1IxmVbmeLl3Qxqd7C0eS6xdn3Y8VyKa2xW024Yksg4Z7pgX6dYpVMBQU1bVX5wGnbOlqIxgPE5j9IU7RGFeFDaJnFbr3/w640-h480/IMG_5995.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'We should stop and camp here before it gets dark.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I can get to Rider, ' I whispered gravelly. I stumbled and staggered, waddling atop the sketchy rocks. I would almost tumble forward to keep the momentum. Keep going...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally. I stopped.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Let's camp please,' I so pained to say. I plopped down on a slabby ledge of red rock. The canyon had cooled enough and I still took off my shirt. I became clammy and chilly. I just laid there with a thousand yard stare. I would shiver trying to regain some warmth. My lips quivered as I tried to hold it all together. Everything felt so lucid yet I felt so empty. I just laid there with my arms splayed. Katie assisted me in making me some Ramen. I craved the salty broth. I just couldn't do it myself. I tried to move and the seizing began. My whole body convulsed painfully. The seizes started at my arches and then went to my calves, my calves to my quads and hamstrings and over to my buttocks. My hands were next and cramped almost palsy like. The cramping went further up to my forearm and triceps and onto my shoulders and neck. I could see the electrical pulses malfunctioning. My body was a chart for wiring and I was misfiring. Finally, the cramping settled in my jaw. I had to sit still. I had to wait these misfirings out. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I tried to sit up again and my kidney area cramped. I reached back to my lower back. Fuck me, I thought. I was lucid enough to understand what was going on and I had to let it pass. I communicated to Katie what was going on besides the obvious crampings. I knew the soup would help and I slurped that down. I asked Katie to rub my legs to help alleviate the cramping and the pain. I writhed in pain and yelled out through the canyon, my wails echoing throughout. I could not contain my wails as the pain was that intense. We both had to wait this out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I don't think I can be in the canyon another day.' </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I squinched my face to refrain from crying. I felt completely exasperated, like my whole damn life was coming to a head. Right here and right now. Yet, I spoke flatly and serious. I knew I couldn't be out there, regardless of how hard that decision would be. I just couldn't risk organ failure, especially under the conditions out there. I needed to get out and to get some recovery. I couldn't put Katie in a compromising position either. I told her she could go on. She refused. We were in this as a team, together. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I clinched my teeth trying to hold everything together. I was so close to breaking. Katie continued to assist me. I am so grateful for her just being there providing a calmness to the situation. I told her I could walk out of there and pushing the SOS was unnecessary. She agreed. Eventually, my cramps ceased after about an hour of intense anguish and pain. I was finally able to get my bedding ready. I laid on my back with the quilt over me feeling empty and dilapidated as an old wooden shack. Splintered and falling apart, at the whim of the elements, I was an old leaning shack, hollow and lifeless. I fell asleep at various points. I would still cramp at night and I struggled with temperature regulation. I would be shivering one moment, then the next I would be sweating profusely. But, somehow I got through the night. Somehow I got through the night silently. For some odd reason I did not break that night when I clearly and easily should have. I do not have an answer for that. For some reason I held on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next morning, we found our way down off the shelves and ledges and into the bed of Rider Canyon. I felt 'okay,' We found some water in potholes and tanked up for the long walk out. For our bailout option, we had a 2 mile hike and scramble out of Rider, then about a 12 mile hike along desert roads to the highway where we could hitch towards Lees Ferry. This meant that we would have to forego about 4 days on our itinerary and we would have to jump back in at the next access point of Nankoweap. But, first we had to get to the damn highway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I continued to struggle. I still had nausea and still had to fight the vomiting threat. We slowly went along. I just felt like shit. I couldn't believe this was happening. I felt so damn bad for Katie and putting her in this situation. I just wanted to apologize over and over. I just wanted to hug her and cry. The temps, of course, rose as the morning went on. As soon as the sun hit me I fell back into that empty state. I was afflicted with heat. I needed shade to cool off. Of course, I needed the shade immediately even though the high desert had no shade. And, then we found a large upright boulder. I dashed on over and collapsed to the ground. I breathed laboriously and deeply trying to stave off the nausea. I closed my eyes. I needed to get to that highway no matter how impossibly far it felt. I tried standing up about four times in about 30 minutes. Each time I had to go back down. I asked Katie how far we had left. She said 6 miles, or 2 hours. An idea hit me. 'I can zombie walk that,' I thought, 'I just have to wake up.' I figured I only needed 2 liters to make that distance. So, the extra 2 liters was surplus, and cold. So, I dumped it on my head and neck. In an instant, I opened up and felt immediately alert and able.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a hitch from some friendly college students, I got us a hotel room. I went to a cold dark room while Katie hitched to get her car at Lees Ferry. The next day we drove to the North Rim so I could take a long day off to try and recover. We would start at the Nankoweap trail head the day after. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCBDZOxHnvTLkvZR_yLYzECiVOCHD_P5htB41YkoffdxZQftWKXDHy7X9ZuL6dwYqEw1a0Thw1MXv8-SSuKuKabbehNAQSbKmQCCwC4uOMIOjCuyzd0ERpceiwzrhzQA6mbTPoNMmHrugHP0ASj-HWu85u_v-csMkxgGSXoZRUpo8QZtaf4x9I9ZIs/s4032/IMG_6001.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCBDZOxHnvTLkvZR_yLYzECiVOCHD_P5htB41YkoffdxZQftWKXDHy7X9ZuL6dwYqEw1a0Thw1MXv8-SSuKuKabbehNAQSbKmQCCwC4uOMIOjCuyzd0ERpceiwzrhzQA6mbTPoNMmHrugHP0ASj-HWu85u_v-csMkxgGSXoZRUpo8QZtaf4x9I9ZIs/w640-h480/IMG_6001.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 3:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had felt nervous on the drive over. My bladder cramped and I still had kidney pain. I had cooled off a bit and had rehydrated. The nausea was gone and I even regained some color in my face. Did I give myself enough recovery time? Would my body misfire again? Would my kidneys hold up? I had so many nervous questions going into the next leg. I felt sort of ashamed, even guilty. I felt I had taken on too much and in the process had become very unprepared and unfitting to be out here. I more or less cowered in front of Katie. I had not seen myself like that before. I knew for certain she had not either. I couldn't ruin her whole trip. I absolutely could not let her or myself down. I just sunk to lowly places. I was worried. But, I went anyways. Somewhere deep down inside of my being, within the deepest recesses of my soul, I believed I would bounce back. I believed wholeheartedly that I could endure the suffering, that I could push through. In a stubborn sense, I knew no other way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We left at dawn from the Nankoweap trail head. The night had seen some thunderstorms, so the morning was cool. We staircased our way down the primitive trail, the spectacular scenery of the inner northeast portion of the Grand Canyon glowed in a refulgent display of light with the rising sun. I felt an uprising within. I still took caution and moved slowly and methodically. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-BFyau7KV2d70vHS18YoqpZuTHwfzpwYk3uQ4XzpqBv4Zn9_2lZQEU2dR-yEmpAVua5m0WyxKNPosuHSdq__bNuMHXZr4XHpq3bDICJkH2dXtx1Y1EV5jOeHEEo6uBqwxtvcRNo9HIvXYuSvbOSM7kwP5S2DBRDgQsTX7Arfg5uaDhLO5YxSTlqP/s4032/IMG_6102.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-BFyau7KV2d70vHS18YoqpZuTHwfzpwYk3uQ4XzpqBv4Zn9_2lZQEU2dR-yEmpAVua5m0WyxKNPosuHSdq__bNuMHXZr4XHpq3bDICJkH2dXtx1Y1EV5jOeHEEo6uBqwxtvcRNo9HIvXYuSvbOSM7kwP5S2DBRDgQsTX7Arfg5uaDhLO5YxSTlqP/w640-h480/IMG_6102.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Nankoweap Creek, we found a bluff casting a large shadow to sit under and rest. The cottonwoods quavered under a slight breeze. The creek babbled. I gazed around at all the openness of the valley. We were definitely under the North Rim except the rim was pushed back miles from where we sat. We were still 3 miles or so upcanyon from the river. We were in a fault zone. Slanted buttes and massive mesas hung over the river and laid separated from the North Rim by a fault line. In the fault zone a mangled mess of rock and volcanic rock angled on a north and south line splitting the North Rim. Huge valleys ran from the rim to the river holding precious water in flowing creeks. We got up from our break and began the Butte Fault Route.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We navigated up through giant basalt boulders strewn about a flat break on a hogback. The rock changed drastically in color, striations, layering, stacking, you name it, the rock was a kaleidoscope of color and a mosaic of displayed rock. The rock painted an artsy swath in front of us. With this type of terrain being more familiar with us to navigate, me made quick time up and over the first pass. We even took our time but this type of navigation was right in our wheelhouse. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Kwagunt Creek, we took another break in the shade and relished in the cool waters of the creek. A small waterfall formed a small pool filled with frogs. The scene felt almost landscaped. We each had our own Zen moment eyeing the frogs stuck to a stick jutting out from the water. The frogs held still and relied on their camouflage of pink dirt. I closed my eyes and listened to the song of water. We, the went for another pass. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I managed fine yet still had some cramping in the bladder. Yet, we went for another pass. Then another. At the final beneath Kwagunt Butte, the threatening thunderstorm finally showed up. A whipping wind and some lashing rain arrived as soon as we set up our shelters. I laughed in the rain as I pounded in the last stake. I felt good and was having fun. The storm ripped through the pass. Although brief, the wind of the storm tore down Katie's tarp and her trekking pole ripped a hole in the exterior shell. We battened back down the hatches and got her situated right around when the winds had died down. We prepared our dinner in the early evening and observed an electrical storm to the north. White pulsing orbs flashed in the brilliant sky. The heavens would brighten instantaneously and reveal a purple sea within the black mass of towering clouds. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Observing this electrical storm, I fell into some pondering about everything. I was glad to be here. Glad my bladder did not hurt worse. I felt lucky to be present. We even got further than anticipated. And, to sit up here on this saddle observing the spectacular spectacle of wild nature; I just felt exhilarated. I rocked myself to sleep with my breathing. I focused on that to slow things down. I was still keenly aware I had things to monitor.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Yn1GmJb3FwwrsennRRVg6Y2Ya7o7hJ6fiwC4cjoAyo_JU4HgdpuuGykj79aaj2K2CeBvhvX3qaIDRzEUWXbwNK20vlDzJ9UGYpK2S_SBkzX5ZFTf2utCLhHdJVYb7n66JUvs8UlMls4rjIQOshDdzAur9qMjzuYEiE_XqTGw3fuxinTyfHjL8gda/s4032/IMG_6116.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Yn1GmJb3FwwrsennRRVg6Y2Ya7o7hJ6fiwC4cjoAyo_JU4HgdpuuGykj79aaj2K2CeBvhvX3qaIDRzEUWXbwNK20vlDzJ9UGYpK2S_SBkzX5ZFTf2utCLhHdJVYb7n66JUvs8UlMls4rjIQOshDdzAur9qMjzuYEiE_XqTGw3fuxinTyfHjL8gda/w640-h480/IMG_6116.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 4:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My confidence grew throughout the day as we continued to move quickly. The temps were cooler, we had cloud cover, and plenty of water. We ascended the Horsethief Route and despite the efficiency of movement I still held some discomfort in my bladder. I kept my spirits up even has discomfort led to my left kidney area. I definitely was concerned but not alarmed. I felt I could manage the pain with water. I had to absolutely stay hydrated and needed to flood my kidneys. We ambled down the dry Lava Creek to visit the river. Pools did exist in Lava Creek but the water was undrinkable. At the river we cooled off and felt pretty tickled about revisiting the river under different circumstances. In just one day the terrain became so varied, so vastly different texturally. Lengths at a time moved so expediently while other sections felt utterly impossible. I would look back up and wonder how the hell did someone figure that out. Someone literally had the gumption to just go up some gnarly drainage to see if there was a way through. Oh, the impressive nerve and an even more impressive curiosity. We found ourselves in tight narrows that careened to the Colorado River just after side hilling along slippery and colorful shale slopes. The shale was decorated in rainbow. Just before that we were tumbling and scrambling down a steep ravine and gully dodging house sized boulders. I was so engaged I forgot about my cramping. The scope in size of the landscape is simply baffling. The skies were moody but only enhanced the character of the rock layers. Whether striations, color, feel, and touch the rock changed constantly. On guard, we monitored every single step, for we could not afford a mistake. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are mere specks completely vulnerable to this world of rock and erosion, this world of order and chaos. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrzEO2iKTfStFBBw0oVIR8p3-N46Oaa6lKgBVbc1fEm1zWs0xHvQGiialKWoqUp9WVVyMHMar3ltwmfgFrzB3_YOhjVwBWYAwq5ki70usPi2Nbzz5mdGPJpDRoLYjOWTCWcFTbI7GFR0h6l8aEKwXsGjNKtoLyKapKcfgTtH9pk6dtuDXLSb8nNjv/s4032/IMG_6182.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrzEO2iKTfStFBBw0oVIR8p3-N46Oaa6lKgBVbc1fEm1zWs0xHvQGiialKWoqUp9WVVyMHMar3ltwmfgFrzB3_YOhjVwBWYAwq5ki70usPi2Nbzz5mdGPJpDRoLYjOWTCWcFTbI7GFR0h6l8aEKwXsGjNKtoLyKapKcfgTtH9pk6dtuDXLSb8nNjv/w640-h480/IMG_6182.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We camped at the lonesome and colorful beach of Carbon Creek. Throughout the night I was mesmerized by the lightning pulsing frequently from miles away up on the Coconino and Kaibab Plateaus. Booming thunder was not present, only the electrical orbs. I drifted into a sleepy thought and thought about my nerve pulses, the twitching spasms spanning throughout my body like an electrical storm. I turned and turned trying to sleep. My kidneys and bladder became too uncomfortable to sleep. I writhed in silent pain, only the lightning orbs keeping me focused. I knew there was a storm in my body and I was not only feeling it, I was observing it.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBbgIumPxXlATv1Duz3G33LZB91xWBKzRhXVHNUCkCNEGk6g_7O0DQfhYA1bbW8JJw2JZQ_hhE5hc-Vq4xcP04KC_q-NA5UHFjkSVtmiJ17T_Q5f4Emt9gMEWZo7BevRkhxTQpig9hGU_l0qhEMLRPmc64kBS2utfkCbUkqt7Fk6JigtNoaVP-4QK/s4032/IMG_6204.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBbgIumPxXlATv1Duz3G33LZB91xWBKzRhXVHNUCkCNEGk6g_7O0DQfhYA1bbW8JJw2JZQ_hhE5hc-Vq4xcP04KC_q-NA5UHFjkSVtmiJ17T_Q5f4Emt9gMEWZo7BevRkhxTQpig9hGU_l0qhEMLRPmc64kBS2utfkCbUkqt7Fk6JigtNoaVP-4QK/w640-h480/IMG_6204.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 5:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Day 5 was a stormy day. I had a rough start after hardly sleeping a wink with my cramping. I was a tad more concerned, just not alarmed yet. I knew if I could get through this day that I could manage. We broke our shelters down as some light rain fell. The air was not cold, only damp. We found a small overhang and waited the brief spell of rain to fall. Once the lapse occurred, we found ourselves atop long mesas that had long washes slicing through dividing the terrain. We had to work the terrain at an angle utilizing straight line vectors. We cut across perpendicular to the mesas and had to climb the slopes of the wash directly to attain each mesa. A more consistent rain fell yet I was having a good time. The terrain was wide open and I could create. I could cleave this type of terrain in my sleep.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDuXKJgO4TZqSTnIh2-kgxSOEQoJuR0lUNpz78gVIjx45v1K5JvYpD-oEnbwZkPB1ersDiyUlVylmrJ4IqcY3LwCH7CF4pLd2nVKbHKUBEcbLrsjyNCaXm_hM-ZmUuup7sXY-hMT9lRGw_aS_ORBXJZbjJ_L3BGCrjsqB-WvEKmFAZ3OJmftW4PrR/s4032/IMG_6223.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDuXKJgO4TZqSTnIh2-kgxSOEQoJuR0lUNpz78gVIjx45v1K5JvYpD-oEnbwZkPB1ersDiyUlVylmrJ4IqcY3LwCH7CF4pLd2nVKbHKUBEcbLrsjyNCaXm_hM-ZmUuup7sXY-hMT9lRGw_aS_ORBXJZbjJ_L3BGCrjsqB-WvEKmFAZ3OJmftW4PrR/w640-h480/IMG_6223.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We descended into Unkar Creek directly where the spring spewed from the rocky wash and slid down some slickrock chutes. The wash up drainage was soothingly wide. We meandered along the bends and followed the path of the past rushing water. The layers shifted from the volcanic tuffs and ash laden flats to the typical Grand Canyon stacked layers. We were back in the world of dark blood red. I felt the warmth of the canyon even as the skies threatened a storm brewing. We had hoped to get over the Freya/Vishnu saddle before the rain came but we fell slightly short. The North Rim hung above us and the temps dropped. The rain fell harder and we found an overhang in the wash. We squished in together a tad cramped and shared the space a tarantula that crawled up the wall. I made sure to notice where the big bugger went. I could see a hairy leg or two just off the tiny precipice beneath the rock where the conglomerate bank met. A few minutes later, the hairy legs were gone. The tarantula must have went to a tiny cavern where water would not flow into.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">An hour and a half went by and the rain still persisted. I dozed off slightly and came to and noticed that my bladder and kidneys were no longer painful and cramping. The rain slowly stopped and we exited our slabby hovel. The way up to the saddle remained sticky. We had become concerned during the hour and a half rainstorm that the rock would become too slick to climb. Our concerns diminished as we detoured around our first pour off. We were blessed with cool and cloudy weather. The way up was tricky yet fun. We enjoyed the different type of leg work and got to utilize our hands. So different than the easy travel the past couple days. The views from the top, even with soggy skies, held our gaze. Temples, buttes, and the snaking canyons had me fixated. Wotans Throne had me enthralled. I tried to deduce the shape and contours of this island in the sky. I understood from the map that we would nearly semi-circumambulate the massive mesa. One day, I will try and go for the top of the throne. One day I will.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0z3YTvdtyt6YsTJDH0jhR3bmtQfy5kD_7chWu8YtOcM5XODnmtuC6TuOQdQLcbryBFVPJ64SwJ7l61yYTAIsh0wF57-8rQ88i9mlf9SRhHquPRj-C3tNRLXpvVNQD8GaFTDCNsgicj5Hu0LNXRwNmNfctCuW_qkv61ydLAkvMzSV1EMBUfM1E4Iu/s4032/IMG_6243.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0z3YTvdtyt6YsTJDH0jhR3bmtQfy5kD_7chWu8YtOcM5XODnmtuC6TuOQdQLcbryBFVPJ64SwJ7l61yYTAIsh0wF57-8rQ88i9mlf9SRhHquPRj-C3tNRLXpvVNQD8GaFTDCNsgicj5Hu0LNXRwNmNfctCuW_qkv61ydLAkvMzSV1EMBUfM1E4Iu/w640-h480/IMG_6243.HEIC" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We descended down from the saddle down a precipitous chute. Full body usage, clambering astraddle minor pour offs, and we were in the zone. I came off of one pour off choked with an ash tree and my focus coupled with my momentum threw me onto a large slab and in one motion dropped down another step and stared down an impassable pour off. A monster of a pour off. I gulped forcing my breath deep into my belly. I, then burped quietly. I scoffed at the sight, my eyes bulging out of my sockets. We scoured the ledges for a way around. We found a couple cairns and rounded a cliff point atop the Muav layer. Once out in the open air, I belched again and released the air into the wide open. We picked our way down some crumbly and chossy slopes beneath the Muav cliff band, almost rock-skiing our way down. Once in Vishnu Creek the going got better. Wide and gaping the wash wiggled, wiggling all the way into tapered slots. Someone must have painted the slots. Maybe Wotan. Or at least placed a mosaic of tiles lining the chutes and slabs, some god-like mason constructing a king-like toilet system. This is Wotans Slot, Wotan Shitting Pot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I kid. I was mesmerized and feeling playful. The slots felt like a slide. We dodge pools and tried not to get our feet wet. My pain in bladder and kidneys had completely vanished. The pain in my heart felt vanquished, released from my inner squabbles. I felt free, finally damn free. We found the Overhang cave and camped. I listened to our whispering echoes. I listened for the squeaks of the bat. I heard both, but also heard the scurrying of the mouse and saw the webby burrows of black widows suspended on the smooth walls. The pocket of sky above us closed and the darkness set in that I could no longer see the outline of the rim above.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgwYwohr1IMa59vkdWWaEZSH7bv5ddlzwjGcLuo_Db9DWDB1zdFoR2np_DYRJjnmbGxm6gvN_hDtoulcYXaeDeszgwqF6Fg9soRMoh0HscdKEQWvqnQG_1smYGwA5YWVBkWTXvTuHPv4LJ482ZoiNDI1Iy2jxEo8UsRS2gCzydUK9Jq9EM31wofi7D/s4032/IMG_6274.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgwYwohr1IMa59vkdWWaEZSH7bv5ddlzwjGcLuo_Db9DWDB1zdFoR2np_DYRJjnmbGxm6gvN_hDtoulcYXaeDeszgwqF6Fg9soRMoh0HscdKEQWvqnQG_1smYGwA5YWVBkWTXvTuHPv4LJ482ZoiNDI1Iy2jxEo8UsRS2gCzydUK9Jq9EM31wofi7D/w640-h480/IMG_6274.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZLL7-u9VesJl9U_81OkWeybAcb_APfGdm0iVOTG2zTTOPWZdbIAfN58Z-mKPLy3YefrI3t_0L1F2plOfH39_18syAKfdla-iC11pYv3Uj7d-RsqAqtY0hgfuv0jeNAJ9zPHzwb59uXhRobiXCmNdrYkv4QeCuuSawVZTlNYgbosF_SsfO5Jz60glg/s4032/IMG_6264.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhip12XxphWM2QikVbZGJJcZrEAlsVfagr4kiw3J4kvaRzd_16LLMyhV68zj3rJHH5UWr19i2KAbeox1gTrdNSfMJj39rg5i2Cz_RdFJ513HWnLrH_7Dx-O8sRowSccnfbqB6WTVkj25orcAOkOjMrGgZ0o5ziW581UgIzMF3KEqkFd4I6stFg08Rp4/s3520/IMG_5924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1980" data-original-width="3520" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhip12XxphWM2QikVbZGJJcZrEAlsVfagr4kiw3J4kvaRzd_16LLMyhV68zj3rJHH5UWr19i2KAbeox1gTrdNSfMJj39rg5i2Cz_RdFJ513HWnLrH_7Dx-O8sRowSccnfbqB6WTVkj25orcAOkOjMrGgZ0o5ziW581UgIzMF3KEqkFd4I6stFg08Rp4/w640-h360/IMG_5924.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-70946004089995768602022-11-20T06:09:00.000-08:002022-11-20T06:09:20.999-08:00Grand Canyon Traverse: Overview<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOQ3vjBDUIeYTQwL6WswRNqJZR8hiiQLUpKYBwE7WVQh2gx6Uu3yNf78fbG11iJC-B199LEiwBev-_lmIMIC3cgtBOKE5DemcaH-LnV1YxbryZSbRYui-NCk_8KpF3fxcS7wSZUHJ68wzSeit4CWO5mOXGvqXp4miKYwqZeh5V9eVQKx1q3H8w-J8/s4032/IMG_6658.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOQ3vjBDUIeYTQwL6WswRNqJZR8hiiQLUpKYBwE7WVQh2gx6Uu3yNf78fbG11iJC-B199LEiwBev-_lmIMIC3cgtBOKE5DemcaH-LnV1YxbryZSbRYui-NCk_8KpF3fxcS7wSZUHJ68wzSeit4CWO5mOXGvqXp4miKYwqZeh5V9eVQKx1q3H8w-J8/w640-h480/IMG_6658.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Quick Numbers of the GCT:</b></span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">~575 miles, 35 days, all on the north side of the river, footsteps connected, in totality.</span></li></ul><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Description/Planning/Strategy/Challenges:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Katie Gerber and I completed a Grand Canyon Traverse over the Autumn of '22. The GCT is a route spanning the length of the Grand Canyon from Lees Ferry at the eastern end to Pearce Ferry at the western end of the canyon, all on foot, all under the North Rim. We utilized the nearest access road on the north side of the canyon on the western end that terminates at an historic ranch on BLM land at Tassi Ranch. Pearce Ferry is usually the choice taken, but we did not want to stash a PFD to float and swim across the river. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The route that I had drawn followed various layers, platforms, and levels of the Grand Canyon with all of the track sketched on the north side of the river. Along the route, I wanted to experience a variety of scenery and challenges in the Grand Canyon while not being too technical. With that being said, this route did not have any rappelling involved nor any scaling or climbing above mid 5th class. Nothing really went over 5.2, actually, if we were lucky. We kept the route more in a fashion of one that is hiked and scrambled with some minor rock climbing. We did use a 30 foot webbing on occasion to hoist up or down our packs in certain spots.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I do not know how this route compares to others who have trekked the length of the Grand Canyon. There are literally a million different ways to find a way through. And, literally there are a million ways to get trapped or stuck. I do not think ours even compares in difficulty to Rudow's route. Our skill levels do not have the rappelling aspect or the experience enough to descend some of those crazy hollows I had heard so much about. We come from a long distance hiking world rather than a canyoneering world, to be a little bit more frank. So, the route was geared and organized as such. Our route followed more or less what another adventurer had used, Eagan. Either way, the GCT of whatever description is very, very dangerous and is not to be taken lightly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The majority of the route is cross-country. Shoot, although some aspects of the Tuckup Trail felt trodden and used, nothing other than the roughly 9 miles on the Clear Creek Trail is maintained. Everything else is cross-country, user trail, climber trail, sheep trail, deer trail, scrambling, scaling, crawling, creek walking, boulder hopping, ledge walking, tight-roping, cliff tip-toeing, chute sliding, and any other form of precarious foot travel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Besides the method and characteristics of travel, scarcity of water is probably the biggest concern. The Grand Canyon is a desert ecosystem for the most part. One has to be lucky with storms and potholes. One, however, must not rely on that luck. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Monsoons rage in August and September yet the higher elevations could see snow during that same timeframe. Spring can be wet yet the potholes can be dry from an arid Winter. Creeks are few and far between, springs even fewer, and although the Colorado River is used at some points, the river can be inaccessible or muddy and silty. Getting creative with water settling and collection is a tool one must know. Long water carries are an every day occurrence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The timing of such a hike has to be considered carefully. Spring and Autumn are the usual timeframes. I chose Autumn because of the timing with work, adventures, time for planning, and personal life stuff. We had temperatures ranging from in the low 20s to 100 degrees. We had 3 inches of snow fall on us one night, had an atmospheric river drop a deluge from overhead, and had very hot and dry conditions, all at various points and all at times that were relatively close to each other. We needed a wet monsoon season to fill up the potholes. We hoped the weather in late September would be cool. Yet, Mother Nature does not have our itinerary, as my friend Swami says. Luckily for us, late Summer had proven to be a wet time. Late September can still be sweltering in the Marble Canyon in the eastern end and the Lower Granite Gorge of the western end. We sure encountered that terrible heat when we started.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Resupplying at a store is not an option. Maybe the North Rim or South Rim if one chooses to do so. Other than that, food and water caching is a must. Whether driven by in car, hiked in, rafted in, preparation in advance with plenty of time given is needed. We had caches in South Canyon, Thunder River trailhead, and at Toroweap. Even with the cache at Toroweap we still had an 11 day food carry. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Travel is slow. We learned the hard way. Although I believe my expectations what Katie and I could do, I still underestimated the swiftness of travel. On average, what was drawn on the map was at least 20% less than what was actually hiked. In the planning and preparation process, I thought Katie and I were capable of averaging a 15 miles per day pace. While that is an incredible daily mileage for the terrain and character of the Grand Canyon, I believed with the route designed we could have achieved such a daily pace. That being said, the route dictated our pace and we traveled at a way slower speed than anticipated. Overall, we still nearly averaged that 15mpd pace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This route, if undertaken, will be a very challenging endeavor. One will be on a true adventure. Research upon research, back up plan after back up plan, whatever you think is kosher just do more, double it in fact; the diligence and preparation of a Grand Canyon Traverse is stupendous. The logistics alone is mind-boggling. This blog is not intended to assist one with hiking the length of the Grand Canyon. After hiking the route and getting to know the intricacies, I realized I didn't know shit about the canyon no matter how much research I had done. I have so much respect and admiration for the folks who have spent a lifetime out there in the Grand Canyon. This route is simply not one to 'plug and place.' I will reiterate that the route is very, very dangerous. I will reiterate you will need to do more research for this than anything you have undertaken before. And, when you feel ready, you still need to do double the research.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lastly, I will not be sharing a resource set with anybody. This mainly includes the maps, drawn track or GPS track. I am more than available to assist anyone with preparation or to answer questions about such a route.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSZqSyl9HxfKEFOFtu5EtTFc-K9zApQKP4uA5wyN0oXW-uzpSUd46eloTA0hfnNnE5gvDJ7oi7WMC37KqUiEPS8diJO1Gc_La5urkiCFGlY8Tu8YAMcROK3GJeW9Wqycomas4KcU0ytpJ5JVNGsn6gNpLmMNAtGMLY6HgtYLz6biBP0Wv7jh5zNqQ/s4032/IMG_7613.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSZqSyl9HxfKEFOFtu5EtTFc-K9zApQKP4uA5wyN0oXW-uzpSUd46eloTA0hfnNnE5gvDJ7oi7WMC37KqUiEPS8diJO1Gc_La5urkiCFGlY8Tu8YAMcROK3GJeW9Wqycomas4KcU0ytpJ5JVNGsn6gNpLmMNAtGMLY6HgtYLz6biBP0Wv7jh5zNqQ/w640-h480/IMG_7613.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Inspiration:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In '13, while on the Hayduke Trail portion of the Vagabond Loop, I met Li on the North Rim. Some friends had put me in contact with him. He hosted me for 2 days. We got to know each other. I had fallen in love with the Grand Canyon via the route of the Hayduke. Li provided me some history of how that route was drawn up through the canyon. Li introduced me to Grand Canyon explorers George Steck and Harvey Butchart. He showed me the books and I began scouring the books there at this house on my days off. Then, he mentioned Rich Rudow, who had thru hiked the Grand Canyon in '12. Needless to say, Li planted a seed in my brain. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Over the years, I heard about other hikes and continued to read Steck. Some friends who had spent time in the canyon as raft guides led me down a blog path where I found Eagan's. I pondered the route often but felt it was too much to undertake as I just did not have the knowledge enough to hike the Grand Canyon. However, I believed I knew it was possible and I knew I would plan for it eventually. In '19, I began the planning. I felt ready in the physical sense and my hiking and scrambling ability. I also felt ready to absorb the massive amount of information needed to undertake such an adventure. I began planning for an Autumn '20 hike. Sure enough, as everyone knows, the Pandemic hit and I put aside the plans. By early '21, I began the planning for a GCT attempt in the Autumn of '22. Now, as they say, the rest is history.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNuHU026EyQmSwD4_5EcpfQPX6dlXP7wJxt3JKqOMoTFxWEnzlScpLI4WtFYEf0qQ8OlhRUdemd4_cxD8BmOVPzt1WBTpOo-wJYuVtwwb350SjmcqCR2kAYGd2OO7-KOjxoWsinpEFT9DQTswuWB-RISIr8T0Em5-yW3hHfFJOwjDnbIlt6rYZpWK/s4032/IMG_7592.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNuHU026EyQmSwD4_5EcpfQPX6dlXP7wJxt3JKqOMoTFxWEnzlScpLI4WtFYEf0qQ8OlhRUdemd4_cxD8BmOVPzt1WBTpOo-wJYuVtwwb350SjmcqCR2kAYGd2OO7-KOjxoWsinpEFT9DQTswuWB-RISIr8T0Em5-yW3hHfFJOwjDnbIlt6rYZpWK/w640-h480/IMG_7592.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Intention:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our intention was to hike from east to west, from Lees Ferry to Tassi Ranch in a continuous fashion. I had sketched an estimated 475 mile route and broke that up into 4 sections. I estimated our daily average to be 15mpd. The first section from Lees Ferry to the North Rim would be the first 10 days, so Marble Canyon and the Northeast portion of the Grand Canyon. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, Katie had to take 10 days to work guiding hiking groups in West Virginia. This was a planned break. We would then reconvene at the North Rim to finish the last 23 days to Tassi Ranch. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The second section would be from the North Rim to the Thunder River trailhead. The third section would be from the Thunder River trailhead to Toroweap. Finally, the fourth section would be from Toroweap to Tassi Ranch. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">For our caching efforts, we</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> hiked in a cache in South Canyon. W</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">e utilized the North Rim as a resupply point two different times using Li's apartment. We drove in caches at the Thunder River trailhead and Toroweap. With all that laid out, o</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">ur 1st leg was from 9/27-10/6 and the 2nd-4th legs were from 10/20-11/10. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We ended up adding a couple of days on the 2nd-4th legs due to what we had figured out with the pace of travel. We moved way slower than anticipated. We also missed a 4 day stretch in Marble Canyon due to me having a medical bout with hypernatremia and heat exhaustion. This bout was serious enough that we had to leave the canyon. I was in seriously bad shape. You can read about it in the journal entries. We ended up completing that stretch after getting to Tassi Ranch. Although, the route ended up not being continuous, we connected all of our steps and in our eyes completed a thru hike that aligned with our intentions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We wanted to attempt the GCT in an ultralight trekking style. Our gear had been proven in some of the most harshest environments. We are experts in this style and philosophy. We would also utilize the planned break we had and the caches we planted to re-up, replenish, and repair any gear we were having trouble with or with gear that needed attention. We didn't always follow that rule, in particular with footwear. Sure enough, we both could have used another pair of shoes at the Toroweap cache. All our other lightweight gear handled the harshness fairly well. By far, the biggest strain on gear, other than the wear and tear on our shoes, was to our MLD Exodus 55L frameless backpacks. We wedged and scraped the pack in chimneys, chutes, and atop boulders of various gritty textures. The packs' durability held up supremely, however. I was really impressed when we loaded up the Exodus with 11 days of food and 2 gallons of water. An ultra lightweight pack held strongly with nearly 45lbs! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Along the lines of the ultralight trekking style was our intention to move swiftly, light and fast. We moved from the first crack to the last strands of daylight every day. We had limited daylight with the Autumn lighting, so we more or less hiked the whole day with 3 small breaks. This is the style we feel the most comfortable with. Maybe to hike the length of the Grand Canyon like this is unprecedented, I am not entirely sure. But, I can probably be sure that not a hiker before had roughly 10-12lb base weights.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally, and most importantly, I wanted everything to be self-sufficient. We did not have years of experience on the river or in the canyon. But, we came from a very extensive and experienced background in long distance travel in very tough environments. I do not mean the Triple Crown Trails either. We had extensive lengths of time in very remote places without much of any trail. While clearly I knew this GCT endeavor would be bigger in every way, I still wanted to be entirely self-sufficient. So, this meant we could hike or drive in a cache, but we were trying not to rely on the rafters for support. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the end, we were more or less self-sufficient other than Li picking us up at Tassi Ranch and letting us use his apartment on the North Rim. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzO5a7EudLrrVP5V_fDmq_jTZXEB3MoUWvbQclTnNy5K-jBE658iDkVVAorVdoRQZC3pxHHOP0SRva5c3fM__-YonalCeT2hxL7N_gO4y0bcFBGNgPjhaBastOUunKKQAc_u4qXaBACF0J7HXVTftRuc5xLVNh83rPK-QqJ22JRu-EJqVLc_AWkJY/s1440/3346A2B0-A1C1-4E7A-9657-F99986B32E4D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzO5a7EudLrrVP5V_fDmq_jTZXEB3MoUWvbQclTnNy5K-jBE658iDkVVAorVdoRQZC3pxHHOP0SRva5c3fM__-YonalCeT2hxL7N_gO4y0bcFBGNgPjhaBastOUunKKQAc_u4qXaBACF0J7HXVTftRuc5xLVNh83rPK-QqJ22JRu-EJqVLc_AWkJY/w640-h480/3346A2B0-A1C1-4E7A-9657-F99986B32E4D.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Length: </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sketched at 475 miles but estimated in earnest at 575 miles. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sketched route was considerably lower in mileage than the actual miles walked. The terrain and method of travel became toilsome, extremely so. The sketched route cannot account for all the boulder hopping, climbing, the constant up and down travel over, in, and out of ravines, gullies, canyons, and rocky knobs. The sketched route does not also take into account the constant weaving within and among the fields upon fields of various cacti. It is so hard to communicate clearly the severity of travel and the slowness of movement within the GCT route. The 575 estimated hiked mileage still feels on the conservative side.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Duration:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Anticipated roughly 32 days, finished the route in 35 days.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hiking dates: 9/27-9/28, 10/1-10/5, 10/19-11/10.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Red Tape and Safety:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Get a permit! The GCNP Backcountry Office is super helpful and will work with you if you have done your due diligence. Albeit the permits in total cost a pretty penny, having the proper permit felt safe most of all. While the process of obtaining a permit can be clunky, usually it is because one does not know the canyon that well. The rangers at the office are super knowledgeable. In fact, some have even thru-hiked the Grand Canyon, as well. Overall, the NPS provides a safety mechanism in an otherwise inaccessible place. Getting a permit for the Grand Canyon is the responsible thing to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">With that in mind, have your own safety plan. We used a DeLorme InReach with a messaging and SOS subscription and checked in with our support team nightly. Having a plan with the capability to check the weather is crucial. You will not have any cell service, you will be in very remote places without any access to the outside world. All that said, learn the river and how people use the river. I regret not doing this as much as I should have.</span></p><p>I<span style="font-family: georgia;">n the Grand Canyon, getting in a dangerous spot or being in danger is a legitimate concern. Even when you feel safe you are so far away from anywhere. Seriously. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaPb9AU5XjCgf2Fud9Rg-g7Pe9EW1u7adCCkbWWJNEAbhPkhDAFHZ7LVh_rNC8OPdmIs7HmIPPZbmmf6rNJ7kbDyDfFPWAF1oIFYILRZuhI0NcHb6w2AkUUyJN0ZJf76LqrzBYb26MWKaAcYpJf01qyR3GX8KmaAUsGyczRWwVNq9HCO6Vx7Jc-kx/s4032/IMG_7430.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaPb9AU5XjCgf2Fud9Rg-g7Pe9EW1u7adCCkbWWJNEAbhPkhDAFHZ7LVh_rNC8OPdmIs7HmIPPZbmmf6rNJ7kbDyDfFPWAF1oIFYILRZuhI0NcHb6w2AkUUyJN0ZJf76LqrzBYb26MWKaAcYpJf01qyR3GX8KmaAUsGyczRWwVNq9HCO6Vx7Jc-kx/w640-h480/IMG_7430.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Highlights:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So many too list! To preface, this is no doubt absolutely the toughest and most challenging hiking I have ever done while also being the most rewarding experience I have ever had. I had the time of my life through everything. Living second to second, each decision vital to the next decision, each decision with immediate circumstances, the GCT felt like the epitome of adventure. Second to none in my life. This GCT adventure has been the best time of my entire life.</span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">First and foremost, saying aloud to myself when it was all said and done: I can now say I have walked the length of the entire Grand Canyon. I experienced the best possible adventure I could ever have dreamt. At one point in my journal I texted out: The hardest shit seems impossible. Typing this now, hiking the length of the Grand Canyon feels unbelievable.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hiking with Katie. This adventure was a team effort. I have known Katie for about 5 years now. Last year she hiked most of the Great Basin Trail with me. We are so different personality wise yet have similar temperaments. So, we sync up with expectations and balance out our ways of doing things. Order and chaos, pull and push; however we balance each other out we get down to business when we have to. To be honest, I like hiking with her because she likes hiking and pushing the limits as much as I do. Out on the GCT we really flourished in navigating the route. I was normally out front picking out the way and reading the immediate terrain. She was not far behind looking at the bigger picture. We definitely had a co-piloting thing going on and the rhythm we had felt smooth. I know her well enough that we don't have to say much to know what the other person is feeling about a decision.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The second day and going through the hypernatremia and heat exhaustion. Yes, I know once you read the trial this sentiment seems absurd. But, I think a highlight is also one where one grows and learns rather than just being peachy, scenic, and positive. I learned so much because of that experience. In some way, that severe medical incident prepared me both mentally and physically for the rigors of the Grand Canyon.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The mountain lion encounter. Like I wrote in the post, an image I will never ever forget is of the mountain lion slinking and lurking away, weaving through the shrubs, her haunches raised and churning, her tail hanging in the air like a rudder in the water, her tail afloat as its own entity; that whole experience with Katie was exhilarating, frightening, crazy, life threatening, scary, exciting, and could have gone in so many directions. We feel very lucky to walk away from that situation unscathed.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The long nights, the very long nights. Simply stargazing, moongazing, observing the heavens and the world spin slowly by all under the darkest skies I have ever seen; observing the moon cycle over the month, feeling the bright glow of the moon and watching the shadows cast from the brilliant moon; sensing time by the location of Orion in the sky, praying ritualistically to the moon and Orion and Canis Majoris every night; these nights became my religion. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am not one to swoon on prayer and such. I just believe in the power of nature way too much, however, I fell into a religious swoon with these long nights. I succumbed to the darkness and fell in love with the world all over again. I found a faith I had never known because of these long nights, because of these constellations and moon. The cooking of dinner, laying on my back and drifting to sleep while stargazing, waking up throughout the night to have the blanket of the Milky Way above, to wake up with Orion in the same spot on the horizon, to preparing breakfast in the predawn darkness, all of this touched on something primordial, even pagan. I felt to be living life differently, so different than the world outside of where I was living the past month. The Milky Way became the murals and myths, the pages of a great book, all the temples and buttes became the dome inside the place of worship, the canyon walls and cliffs became the holy edifice and the sanctuary, the slabs of rock I slept on became my altar; the Grand Canyon became my church.</span></li></ul><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuqXRDCLSmrmHw_ofltdFcvohq8A2KMnfLY3H4C7j23roOiQGgudJlYYi0PeSKFhr9mUHuVr8ntLHCCh2wCzRdx8-fqNw0n3nKLrxFX1E3Qz9rIiEdIXoFpm9q4sdvV-gIU_twInbywKi131AvXxbKpTgU09X5hOpDIrn_HLbeGm5ywcXE7Ck9pKY/s4032/IMG_6830.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuqXRDCLSmrmHw_ofltdFcvohq8A2KMnfLY3H4C7j23roOiQGgudJlYYi0PeSKFhr9mUHuVr8ntLHCCh2wCzRdx8-fqNw0n3nKLrxFX1E3Qz9rIiEdIXoFpm9q4sdvV-gIU_twInbywKi131AvXxbKpTgU09X5hOpDIrn_HLbeGm5ywcXE7Ck9pKY/w640-h480/IMG_6830.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The potholes. I wrote a lot about the potholes, the oracles of the desert. Water falling from the sky and collecting into pockets in the rock, looking for the shimmers, knowing the gleam, then gathering up this water felt so engrained in my DNA, some ancient act of survival. Without these potholes, throughout the whole canyon, the accomplishment would other be impossible.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Shamans Panel. My friend Sirena gave me a waypoint for this powerful and cultural site. The colors, the imagery, the spiritual power, the connection with people of the past, the connection with nature, the setting, all of this left me stirring in spirit. I am so grateful for the brief yet powerful time among the ancients.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The navigating. Yea, this is my favorite thing to do. And, to do it in such a harsh and unforgiving landscape through such inhospitable conditions with so much rock, so much carnivorous and menacing rock, is simply amazing. With every different section I had to learn the nuances of travel within that particular landscape. I had to learn the language of the Grand Canyon all over again. In all my 45 years of life on Earth, I have never been so engaged with one act as I was in navigating the way through the Grand Canyon. Every second of every day. The Grand Canyon holds secrets, a secret language and I am so grateful in learning even a little bit of that special language.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The utter beauty of the scenery. Jaw dropping at every point. Every night was the best campsite ever. Too many superlatives to go on. Everything about the Grand Canyon is simply incomprehensible and indescribable. From Marble Canyon to the Nankoweap area to the Inner Gorge, from the Kanab Creek area to the Esplanade to the Tuckup area and then onto the Lower Granite Gorge -- nothing but spectacular. </span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">Reconnecting with Li. Seeing him at Tassi Ranch brought a huge smile to my face. I knew he understood what we had accomplished the instant we saw him. I cannot thank him enough for all the support and help he so generously provided. I cannot also thank him enough for introducing me to Steck and Butchart. He encouraged a wanderer's curiosity. All these years later, that vagabond has walked the length of the Grand Canyon. Li is a big reason and inspiration for that.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could go on an on, on and on...</span></li></ul><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K_o04x3UrflxE4J-HGkSCNNZ7EGf8uoGXcfQrdAzM9EIM3b_1M5ZviqtaQ0bUZzWrtDlE4oNaWsWgqt3UO0FE8BLg-zbI-0OUVy6UPETnPpI4YWdiUHe1yd_WI-q38NqCsWFDIL28SCWHui3qpIQD-3qqoCRjsoFFa0ZTw2uraIScr8VDWKfufwE/s4032/IMG_7176.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K_o04x3UrflxE4J-HGkSCNNZ7EGf8uoGXcfQrdAzM9EIM3b_1M5ZviqtaQ0bUZzWrtDlE4oNaWsWgqt3UO0FE8BLg-zbI-0OUVy6UPETnPpI4YWdiUHe1yd_WI-q38NqCsWFDIL28SCWHui3qpIQD-3qqoCRjsoFFa0ZTw2uraIScr8VDWKfufwE/w640-h480/IMG_7176.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dcfHEfxE7L5bi1rATbYeqp1-2yjM5zr0cv5ZbKgjEg0FWAOAgPiyqgG7VGMrrhlHoT4SgLTzU4e5gUQPX3lx0_gKmaEYH2gUh_jZlgDwLzIdzQfyIOq3yX3RKUOHfVaPeBuRwAxXy40GX9q2VOAXNSYkv2f39hcYHQFtZnUS121L-MnnUHCkFv6s/s4032/IMG_6656.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dcfHEfxE7L5bi1rATbYeqp1-2yjM5zr0cv5ZbKgjEg0FWAOAgPiyqgG7VGMrrhlHoT4SgLTzU4e5gUQPX3lx0_gKmaEYH2gUh_jZlgDwLzIdzQfyIOq3yX3RKUOHfVaPeBuRwAxXy40GX9q2VOAXNSYkv2f39hcYHQFtZnUS121L-MnnUHCkFv6s/w640-h480/IMG_6656.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-1076805619210373112022-09-06T08:27:00.000-07:002022-09-06T08:27:26.633-07:00Chapter 12: The End of the Vagabond<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Idaho Centennial Trail 2022</span></p><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP24P3hptfFd11ni5t1OT05uElPQGRhuGuUM5LbbVM3Xosh7YG7YhWekaiprJqlWDIeiwiP2hjYhqSezaIsulPbmSIUGC52ZMXFAfnaq17Wn2pFLDzcvQPwybt4mugoY5zY8YkWYnl8q6UOx2gq1ndwD6F44RbcR5n8MUyHHi6DNKB9pC-E-sLKavm/s1440/40A10907-E702-4CB6-97D9-271313CA3B9C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP24P3hptfFd11ni5t1OT05uElPQGRhuGuUM5LbbVM3Xosh7YG7YhWekaiprJqlWDIeiwiP2hjYhqSezaIsulPbmSIUGC52ZMXFAfnaq17Wn2pFLDzcvQPwybt4mugoY5zY8YkWYnl8q6UOx2gq1ndwD6F44RbcR5n8MUyHHi6DNKB9pC-E-sLKavm/w400-h300/40A10907-E702-4CB6-97D9-271313CA3B9C.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I threw my thumb out as I was collapsing and packing away my trekking poles. A sedan suddenly stopped and within 30 seconds of throwing my thumb out I was whisked away to the resort 26 miles down the road. Joyce immediately emitted a refreshing presence, just an immense kindness oozing from her person. We careened down the meandering and curvy highway and connected pretty quickly. We spoke of worldly travels and the pleasure of being in nature. I felt content, fulfilled in the fortunate happenstance of a weary traveler, and letting the wave of randomness take control. I was in my image I have had ever since I was a boy -- an explorer tramping the world with a slate of full experiences. She took me to the resort, as I was hoping to find a cafe and a room, besides a small market to padden my food supply. Since I had decided to go to town to re-up for the next big stretch, I felt the need to take advantage of the opportunistic shortage of food. I was happy to adapt to my food shortage, just to freshen up and replenish any weight I had lost during my Frank Church Complex romp. I wanted to take advantage of this brief overnighter, just to rest and eat. But, unfortunately, the cafe had been closed for two years. Joyce offered a lift down the road further to the town of Kooskia. We had lunch at a cafe and just laughed with an ease unlike most strangers. I inquired about a motel from the waitress and I was told the town did not have any. I couldn't go any further down the road, as I would spend too much time hitching back to Wilderness Gateway. Joyce, my perfect stranger, offered a lift back to Three Rivers Resort, 20 miles in the opposite direction. I couldn't believe her kindness. So, I ran across the street to the grocery store and piled up on a night's worth of food, as well as an extra full day of resupply for the next long stretch. Joyce drove me back and dropped me off back at the resort. I said goodbye, both us feeling our time spent together had been too short. A brief yet connected encounter, somehow helping each other out -- if that doesn't bring your faith back in humanity up, then nothing will. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got a room, showered, and laid on the bed for a couple hours with the AC blasting in my direction, my distended belly full from the massive lunch I had eaten earlier. With everything moving so fast and having to constantly adapt, all this rambling, I fell into a blissful nap and drifted into a happy dream of a wanderer. Later that afternoon, Coyote and Dre showed up. I had another chance to hang out with friends, friends with the common bond of Idaho and feeling like near death had hit us in the Selway-Bitterroot. Only now, we were safe and relaxed and compared our shredded shins. We laid around and watched a movie and sunk into relaxation. Early the next morning, Coyote and Dre were swooped away with a ride they had lined out all the way to Kamiah, the nearest town some 25 miles away where they would take two days off. As much as I craved to linger, I made a point to get out of the resort early, as well. Hugs were shared as we said our goodbyes, for real this time. I thumbed a lift back to the trailhead with Jeremy and Lisa, a couple who had thru-hiked the ICT in '20 and were now putting together a guide book for the trail. Jeremy had reached out to me on Instagram and had used some of my '15 ICT blog post quotes to give some sort of a sense to this rugged trail. Serendipitously, they were driving along highway 12 the same time I was hitching, a random encounter I could have never drummed up. The scenario I had rambling in had this magic about it, like the meta-trails were all syncing up. This type of magic is similar to deja vous, except the deja vous is in the moment and you forget that anything may be a recurring memory or a glitch in the mind. Life, in these instances, is incredibly harmonious. And, to listen and acknowledge this harmony, one is rolling with the flow, floating along a groove where a constant connection is felt. One is alive, like really fucking alive. And, alive as I was, I clambered out Jeremy's truck with my fully loaded backpack in hand and started eagerly up the trail.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Let's not get too peachy here. I cannot purport an image of myself that may not always be myself. I am not saying none of this shit exists, but the story needs to stop right here if I do not address these manic notions of thriving. Here it is, this is where I come from; this story, a different conclusion than what I had scribbled down in the beginning, I thought I knew the last sentence of this story. And, the story changed. Not because I control the narrative. It's not to say I don't have thoughts about the story being any different either. I long for the love I had. But, because that love had vanished I am left alone to face this idea that has plagued me, that which has not made me unique. This love made me open, even more vulnerable than being in a storm on a bald knob in the Selway-Bitterroot. I probably have been too infatuated with the idea of a wanderer. From all the stories and books I have read from Greek mythology to Knut Hamsun, from the Beatniks to Ruess, from Abbey to adventure novels, I am drawn to the image of a wanderer adventuring around various parts of the globe. I have also been tortured by that same wanderer notion but in a skewed way. That image is mangled by a vagabond father who abandoned his family, his dereliction to his wife and two boys a tragedy, and, ultimately, the image of his fate of abject homelessness. I am constantly on a tightrope constantly balancing these two images. The sad reality is that none of these images are actually true. It is all fantasy and trauma melded together. It is a struggle I find in life as I find tranquility and therapy out in the wilds, while in the 'real world' I struggle to connect with what the pace of society is. I am destined to be like him. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlqoHmaU64qQNmbPpK4S0EH4UCH7hwKVlPjRLQ2xFMewnTIekWlM9EbyFvmh5rAhfChY_jYfEqsCRZcSOUT_77A30zS_era2BelplxN8R_KLfB9PtQmzN8E6PHwoZMi_O-3vC2gqS8R4dLKbD662DsT1611iX1xc08fccCl85Aj-NffZggH_Ammsg/s1440/19027233-FA40-461D-8CE8-E5D65ADC7939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlqoHmaU64qQNmbPpK4S0EH4UCH7hwKVlPjRLQ2xFMewnTIekWlM9EbyFvmh5rAhfChY_jYfEqsCRZcSOUT_77A30zS_era2BelplxN8R_KLfB9PtQmzN8E6PHwoZMi_O-3vC2gqS8R4dLKbD662DsT1611iX1xc08fccCl85Aj-NffZggH_Ammsg/w400-h300/19027233-FA40-461D-8CE8-E5D65ADC7939.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Those meta-trails that seemingly felt connected were, in fact, actual encounters. Rather than shelve the idea of reality and slink back into the story I have always told myself, I decided right then and there on Liz Butte to commit to the act of living as the outward version of myself rather than the inward version of myself. Ooooh, I craved isolation at that instant, absolutely needing to go further into that palace of pain and shatter all the windows and walls I had created. I stomped atop the soil, I jumped and sprang over downed trees, and bashed my way through the overgrown paths. I had intention, a vitality of intention with boiling blood. I wasn't angry either, however, I was zeroed in. This image of a lonely wanderer I wanted dead. I knew I had to embark on this mission alone. I knew it would take a vaulted courage from deep within. I had to face the false reflection I had convinced myself was real. I needed to see the real me in the mirror and not the dogged and lonely wanderer that ultimately stemmed from the guilt of my father. I hiked on with wide shoulders as the trail weaved above a large meadow filled with beaver dams. The sun sunk and the air became redolent with the dampness of a dank and putrid beaver pond. The sun sank so much I became enveloped in darkness, all my lightness within matching the outer darkness. I knew this would get dark. I knew that externally I would be more afraid than internally, my body being a fleshy pod acting as the barrier between the war inside and my outer reality. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Bear shit, huge piles, became omnipresent. I side-stepped and dodged steamy piles and old crusty heaps. I hollered out in the pitch black forest trying to signify my presence to any bear. I whistled and sang a repeated tune of 'finding a camp.' I bellowed and rang out in a cacophonous voice that surely would deter any monstrous bear. I got a little nervous as I went along into a black tunnel. I forgot about myself and navigated with my mind, the puppeteer of the body. I kept my headlamp off until I truly needed it, as my eyes still held the absorption of light and I could make out shapes and shadows. The canyon narrowed, too, and the roaring creek muffled my clangy voice. I elevated my tune and shifted to a stern warning that tried to outcompete the raucous creek. An hour went by at least, and I finally put on my headlamp. I was looking for the glow of yellow eyes besides the contouring trail corridor. I kept my yelling up, as the black and moist air swallowed me up. I saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from the hillside but I could tell by the narrowness and the height that a deer was figuring me out. My heart jumped a bit and I tried to scan the darkness with my piercing light beam for a decent camp spot. I found another pair of yellow eyes staring at me, transfixed by the glare of my light. I kept moving and moving and every 5 minutes or so, another set of yellow eyes popped up, all deer. I came to a creek crossing and waded in. I used my trekking poles to jab the bottom and rocks to read the current and a path across. The coolness of the water felt refreshing, as if I had finally relinquished the overcoat of moisture in the air and donned water as my outfit. I scurried up the other side of the creekway and immediately smelled the cedar grove I was now walking under. Cedar incense filled the air and I shook off the water as I shined my light above into the tall canopy. My light now became potent and shined a wide archway against the massive trunks of the cedar trees, no longer my light getting swallowed up by the black space of night. I could see a red mound beneath a tall cedar about 30ft up the hillside. The mound had soft red dirt, a spot where a tree at some point had fallen over and had backfilled with that soft dirt. The roots and tree had long since rotted, so I was left with a bed of some sort and scratched the surface with my shoes to make a flatter and wider camp spot to lay in. I pitched my tarp low to the ground because the slope angled steeply into my mound pit. I used my silk liner to dry off my legs and climbed into my quilt exhausted. I crashed hard, hard to sleep. No dreams but of an open backdropped darkness, the cedars absorbing the swoosh of the creek, my dreamscape surrounded with the roar whitewater, I sunk into the torpor of a hibernating bear. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClCXtzrG5Synb0hvibocWKzd-PyU0z0digTLIN9OVuzs7z4ixzmnYm8nwzbKNN8nds74yVulEQWfJpuzWQ7NfJY4FR-YpziSqORMEGcfxSFCy0uQI517mgmxOLqjO_WPF96K11ACCw2dNXz7iHHbFs9yNV_WvB4CqOl5xs3FQdaQyjsORIOZgt0Zs/s1440/6E57ED70-478A-4F58-BE4A-12B43DCA7FEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClCXtzrG5Synb0hvibocWKzd-PyU0z0digTLIN9OVuzs7z4ixzmnYm8nwzbKNN8nds74yVulEQWfJpuzWQ7NfJY4FR-YpziSqORMEGcfxSFCy0uQI517mgmxOLqjO_WPF96K11ACCw2dNXz7iHHbFs9yNV_WvB4CqOl5xs3FQdaQyjsORIOZgt0Zs/w400-h300/6E57ED70-478A-4F58-BE4A-12B43DCA7FEB.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I rose early the next morning, the dusk barely penetrable into the tall cedar grove. I slowly moved along a damp trail with brush dripping in condensation. My skin and clothes sopped up all the moisture hanging from the brush and air. I entered a meadow with the brush reaching up to my chest. I saw a rust colored hump bobbing up and down in the brush ahead. I took out a yell from deep within in hopes of scaring away the black bear. The bear had his nose in the ground rooting and clawing at edible roots. He could not hear me, so I yelled louder, even let out a piercing whistle. That did the trick. He stopped bobbing and stood up on his hind legs and spun in a circle slowly, as if waltzing to the melody of the meadow. He then saw me waving my arms up high in the air and turned back up the trail and rumped onward. He sidled along slowly, almost hulking along, and I could tell he did not like my presence there. I could not go around so easily with all the thickets of brush and the rapid-filled creek nearby. I had to believe in his behavior as a black bear. He wanted nothing to do with me, I was not on his predatory list, and he was not protecting a territory, although I didn't quite feel that way. He looked grumpy and agitated probably because I was disrupting his breakfast of scrumptious roots. I stood my ground, however, and persistently kept yelling at him and waving my arms and looking big. He stood up again and rolled his neck in agitation almost exhaling a sigh of annoyance. After about 30 seconds he turned back around and leapt with his haunches, a sturdy burst of speed. I continued on up the pathway loudly. I exited the meadow and entered a tunnel within the forest. I saw the black bear about a hundred feet away through the pines and he jogged off reluctantly. I motored on ensuring a growing distance away from the bear. Soon enough, I felt safe enough away to get back to my usual morning gait. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Atop Windy Ridge, I settled my thoughts on this wanderer, away and comfortable from the fear and uneasiness of the morning, this lonely and gloomy image of a vagabond I have been obsessed with for years upon years. I walk alone because I like to think. Walking and thinking are my nature. I like walking and thinking in nature. That is my zone. I know deep down inside this is something that is so inherently deep within me that I understand multiple lifespans of walking, of being nomadic, and of the primordial act in itself means just simply being. Time passes as an act more than just the passing of time. I feel it in my bones. This is why I must understand what has plagued me has also helped me flourish. I fell into a memory, a memory that is an amalgamation of old photos, of brief stories I had heard from my granny or my uncle, or of my own blurry childhood memory. Where did my image of a vagabond come from?</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As much as I have been infatuated with a wanderer, I have been living an obsession based on my father. For most of the time in my life, that fatherly obsession has been beneath the surface and stored away in some faraway place inside of me. I am aware of it but I constantly ignore it. Although I have subliminally lived my life to atone for his action, I have tried to be just me. I have acted with him in heart. Of course, my first memory is of him. My first ever memory is me sitting in a bathtub full of water, dingy water, with lily pads of vomit floating atop the surface. I was alone in the bathroom, unsupervised. I am unsure if I wailed out. I just recall everything being so inward, so inward from the inner vision of my eyes, like looking out from a fishbowl rather than into a fishbowl. I clapped a hand on the surface of the water splashing little pellets of vomit. I do not recall feeling sick but clearly I was. I felt the tepid water cling around my belly. I was glancing around looking for something to do, looking at my surroundings. A man came in and spoke to me in a muffled voice. I was young enough to not understand words, only tone and feeling I could interpret. I was a baby. He was a familiar man with long brown hair that fell beneath his shoulders. He had a thick brown mustache that hung beneath his upper lip. He appeared calm and had friendly eyes. He reached down for me and picked me up out of the dirty tub and I felt the water dripping off of my pudgy little body, his warmth comforting me. The memory ends there. I never saw that man again until I was 28 years old.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yet, I had no idea who this man even was for another 8 years. I understood that man to be my father when my first stepfather came charging at me, my mother blocking and impeding his path, him charging like a madman yelling at her, ‘TELL HIM, TELL HIM.’ I continued to scrub my teeth, continued to look at myself in the mirror, my mother yelling, ‘YOU CAN'T, STOP.’ Frothing at the mouth he yelled, ‘I AM NOT YOUR REAL DAD.’ I swallowed some spit, but didn’t break my stare or my manner. I couldn’t, in that moment, let anyone know that that statement had affected me. From that point in time, I had begun to relive the tragedy of my real father’s actions at 10 years old. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even with that yelled statement, I never knew who that man was in my first memory. I couldn’t connect with it. I just knew that I must have known him and that everyone around me had known him too. My mother and my first stepfather soon divorced. This is the event that spawned the questions of that first memory. My mother fell on tough times directly after the divorce. So, my granny and my grandpa took me and my brother to provide us a safe haven. The questions began from me and my granny never held back. Eventually, my granny showed me a picture of my real father. There he finally was, there was the connection to my memory. The mustache and long hair. Me as a baby. That man in the bathroom in my memory was my father. Only then, did he feel real. Then, the image came up, the image of a wanderer borne from a choice so long ago. Even if it wasn’t his choice and he succumbed to mental illness or a drug addiction, either way, the event happened. He left us, my mother, my brother, and me. He left us pushing a shopping cart, homeless, outside of a restaurant in Burbank, CA, right after begging for money from my uncle. He had fallen off the face of the earth. Who knows how long that ten bucks lasted that my uncle gave him. My uncle once told me that he did not recognize the man pushing that shopping cart as my father, let alone as the man he had known. He looked off to my uncle, afflicted. He just disappeared.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNvt0RisWogxpdtCSuE_WPMytMXVW4fzVFN8ibyydnPJ_uUj9-OxQsepae6kAzMaAJDdyVcnhCLhvduuEEUuYDd4Py4rwER4srcJU1XD8a-mVuZJkfupPH6wj3f13V7SfBUci960Vgs-E2ckqv3T8oss7CFP50Vrcu8IRhBlxE7sqhzdi8ctSjPWf/s1440/E94D14D1-41D1-4887-A389-B501357800B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNvt0RisWogxpdtCSuE_WPMytMXVW4fzVFN8ibyydnPJ_uUj9-OxQsepae6kAzMaAJDdyVcnhCLhvduuEEUuYDd4Py4rwER4srcJU1XD8a-mVuZJkfupPH6wj3f13V7SfBUci960Vgs-E2ckqv3T8oss7CFP50Vrcu8IRhBlxE7sqhzdi8ctSjPWf/w400-h300/E94D14D1-41D1-4887-A389-B501357800B5.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I spent that afternoon atop Windy Ridge prying into my own soul. I was determined to get to the root of it all. The battle of jumping over downed logs, deciding which trail to take, navigating, eluding a mama bear and two cubs, none of these obstacles steered me from my inner direction. I navigated outwardly innately while I walked down dark hallways in my head. I could see the world in front of me as I was reliving a life inside of me. I descended to Kelly Creek that evening. The days just last forever up here in the Idaho north, my aching memories as long as those summer days. I had since left from the trance and coasted to camp. An easy night’s rest after a long day and I was greeted with a soft pink glow in the foggy morning. The air felt pleasant and new. I just felt purged. I don’t understand how walking ties everything together even though it is the connection with everything around me through walking that I seek. My dreams had been fine the past week or so. I wasn’t ailing or conflicted. I just 'was' just with a different hue over my lens. Yet this... I started off the ICT dying on the inside from heartbreak, something that was the realest thing that had ever happened to me. With all that crap dying inside, however, I walked on because I wanted to live, I wanted to pursue a real life with a different version that the one I had been living in. I went through clear visions in the Frank Church that helped me see how grateful I was for that experience I went through. The visions in the Frank, as well, put me on a direct path where my wherewithal to live headbutted my wherewithal to die. I had to choose, but choosing what I chose meant I had to live a life differently than the one I have always lived. At the end of those visions I chose to live with love. The Selway-Bitterroot showed me the value of life. And now? What's left? I keep asking myself this. What the fuck is left? Me. Me? Yes, I am getting in my own way and if I choose to live with love and I choose to live this life with intention whether alone or with someone, I must face the issue that is plugging me up, the torture that is severing my pursuit of that love. The next couple days up on the Bitterroot Divide, I waged a battle against a self-fulfilling prophecy that only stemmed from me feeling so bad about what had happened.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdySRL5ZwlIHNmu8i0XoxHf1vvpBQw0qKq-KlSzrWqwYdlbnoSBPlJPmmVm-jfOWE9FZATLnb_594E4tFLEhZ1HkEV1hTbc_D8WhZw-iHkjCCnfoKLNymDnrY3mbekwv9didxcavK0m8uLqRKT4IyITjZ24igdgbO8Y5Ccqm4EVWeYUSNkkGxu4ua/s1440/B0A873E0-E6C8-407B-B554-B9C2866AD9F7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdySRL5ZwlIHNmu8i0XoxHf1vvpBQw0qKq-KlSzrWqwYdlbnoSBPlJPmmVm-jfOWE9FZATLnb_594E4tFLEhZ1HkEV1hTbc_D8WhZw-iHkjCCnfoKLNymDnrY3mbekwv9didxcavK0m8uLqRKT4IyITjZ24igdgbO8Y5Ccqm4EVWeYUSNkkGxu4ua/w400-h300/B0A873E0-E6C8-407B-B554-B9C2866AD9F7.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I marched into the forest up Bear Creek drainage with the vigor of Dean Moriarty, I must start living with the nerve I so started with on this ICT. That is clearly true. I believe that because I wouldn't be here if I hadn't. I got to go from here on out with this death, the death of the vagabond. There will be absolutely no way for me to move forward if I do not kill off the vagabond. I cannot any longer be just a character in my own story. That is a character I do not love, or rather that is a character that stems from some distorted belief that comes from a dark place. I finally feel ready to love myself. I am ready to stop feeling guilty and just love myself. I am just sick and tired of feeling guilty for shit that was never my fault. I’m ready to act naturally. So, I fall back into my vision, into my rambles and wanderings. I fall back into a place I feel free from any emotional ails, free from hurting anyone around me, free from fucking guilt. I fall back into a life that tries to absolve the life my hobo father had lived. This cycle is the palace of pain I want so desperately to escape from. And, never has the moment felt so critical to change and grow from that palace of pain as now with a new found outlook on life. Plodding and trudging up the overgrown and indiscernible path, I felt real, that in that moment I was a real man, like tying a memory to a picture. I felt ready to kill off a part of myself. I felt ready to kill off these images, dreams, and fantasies. I felt ready to live wholly. I felt ready to rid the trauma and void left behind from my father some 40 years ago. It is not that these thoughts came out of nowhere. It all felt like a natural conclusion to an actuality of a gloomy life that had been acted out, a recreated scene to sum up the rest of everyone's life involved where I took the pain of everyone around me. I realized my freedom lies within my guilt, a guilt that is unfounded yet something that heavily weighs on me. Because of this guilt, my freedom has always lied within someone else. Therein lies the trap that circles me back to the palace of pain. What I mean by that is even though everything that happened was not my fault, I have always had an onus for everyone's well-being. Shit actually happened but I didn't cause it. I feel guilty for thriving, exploring, and wandering, even if my intention is not the same as my father's intention. This realization has engaged me to act alone with who I am, to answer those deep rooted questions within me without getting an answer or reaction from anyone else.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had to trust the way of the trail, the direction of the trail, the pull of the trail, for I couldn't always find it at all times up Bear Creek. The dotted line on the map did not match where I was at on the high slopes. Grass slunk over the trail and I had to blindly trust where I put my feet. I could sense the horse prints through my shoes, the ball of my foot fitting into each horseshoed rib and centering on the frog of the hoof. I clopped along drenched in seat giving my navigation away to my instincts and trust. I had to trust in the pathway, I had to give in completely to the trail, to be led by the dirt wavelength. I must live life with an unknown beacon that moves forward away from the gravity of darkness and memories of events of the past. I grunted, digging my arms into my poles and into the ground. I wanted the crest. I wanted to stare into a wide vista and feel that hope we get as wanderers of that wide vista. I just had to believe and trust in everything. I could feel the meta-trail I was on connected and crossing other wavelengths, I could feel the journey I have been on. The time was now.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[I pulled into a convenience store parking space adjacent to the gas station. I had gotten there early to scope out my surroundings, to play it safe and see the person I was to be meeting first. I put a quarter in the pay phone against the wall and told the man on the other line I was here. The white wall spackled with stucco over cinder blocks was stained with a yellow grime and the exhaust of vehicles. A small red sedan, rusted and sun-bleached, pulled nose first into a spot right next to my pick-up. I looked over, looked back forward, and immediately looked back over. It was him, I mean it was me, I mean it was him. He had that same dimple on the chin, the high forehead, the long nose, just older, haggard even. We nodded silently at each other, rolled a window down, and he said follow him to a restaurant. We walked into the family diner, burgundy red plush booths and tacky blood red walls with old ranching photos, the vibe almost more of a dingy dive bar than a family diner. We sat away from the other patrons in a dimly lit corner. It must've been late morning because he still ordered a coffee as I ordered an iced tea. We were not there to eat. We were there to have our first meeting in a neutral place. He laid into the story, his story. I didn't know what to start with, so I let him ramble. His arms gestured similar to the way I tell a story. His brow furrowed with those same three lines I have on my brow right between my eyes. I could tell it was me, a reflection, a relation.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1XL3aiMuaHubQiIYE80-nLmY_yyiUJr9RXBD6KxxrpKEMa1Uidj_0CBdOAmp643w6hO9JKd7ci7tVYA7ZOZbSvKls56bkzn9CZoUOB6e_wdPK5713Le1ZdCWUA5sIsxxC7zhbAt5_Fnj4bEVAfedDiqzDurTMICjB79tNm7dDO1kGcjOPlzQHo7Pi/s1440/545D8DDC-1208-44C5-BB9C-7D81F86C0F77.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1XL3aiMuaHubQiIYE80-nLmY_yyiUJr9RXBD6KxxrpKEMa1Uidj_0CBdOAmp643w6hO9JKd7ci7tVYA7ZOZbSvKls56bkzn9CZoUOB6e_wdPK5713Le1ZdCWUA5sIsxxC7zhbAt5_Fnj4bEVAfedDiqzDurTMICjB79tNm7dDO1kGcjOPlzQHo7Pi/w400-h300/545D8DDC-1208-44C5-BB9C-7D81F86C0F77.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally, after blindly rolling along the path, I attained the ridge. From my vantage point now I could read the contours of the terrain and get a scope of where the trail was headed, even though the route on my maps didn't line up. Regardless, I moved swiftly along. I found rivulets with tumbling cascades. I stopped at each one and splashed my face to wash the stickiness of the sweat I had accumulated. As my brow furrowed with thought and memory, I walked harder, harder into a state of rhythm, pure flow. I traveled back in time in memory on the meta-trails. And, finally, I was on the Stateline Trail, a beautiful singletrack running along the crest of the Bitterroot Divide. My senses piqued with the spectacular surroundings and the dreamweavy trail. I flowed in unison with my inner and the outer until I heard a grunt, a low grumble, even though the wind was blowing hard. I had just crossed a snowfield, descending the long field with a giddy trot as the purple twilight illuminated the rock faces above the Siamese Lakes, that perfect time of day. The low grumble came from about 30 feet away from me in the tall bear grass and the wind-sharpened pines. A young bull moose jumped up and sprang away from me and circled back once he felt far away enough to roll that lugubrious heavy head back at me. He clumsily galloped off and I climbed to the pinnacle of the crest that overlooked the lakes from an escarpment. I stood there and felt the warm rays of the sun on my back and fell into the shimmering and waning light on the wind ripples of the lakes. I scanned the direction I had come from and saw the gangly young bull moose trotting up the snowfield I had descended. I found a sheltered camp from the wind and sat on the leeward side of my shelter to observe the encroaching blackness of night. I peered into the hardened alpine dusk and into the darkening forest trying to pick out that moose. Like a resoluted memory that brings knowledge and understanding, I knew the moose was gone.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[The vestiges of his past did not remain clear. The remnants of his past felt distorted, almost present even as if reliving a current situation. I could envision from his wrinkles and manic mannerisms that he had lived a really hard life. The memory of us must have felt to him as real as in any way we tell our own selves whatever story we want to hear. He had to care at some point, nonetheless. He laid into his story wildly, barely even taking a breath. He had lived a rough life, a life that I am not sure he had wanted to choose. He told the stories in a bar-story fashion, a little bit of truth there, sprinkled in some exaggeration here -- this way you can trick your memory into being one grand adventure. From my perspective, he told his story without any excuses and any responsibility, just no accountability. It was what it was. He told his story as if it was in real time and there was nothing he should feel sorry for, let alone change anything. But there was a tick, something off, something even delirious, some crazed ego that was trapped in the mind, even though his demeanor was calm. I mean these stories were nothing to brag about. I almost didn't buy it.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I loved you two boys, I really did...but, I had to do what I needed to do. I had no choice. I always loved you boys though, always. I left Burbank pushing that cart north. I ended up in Reno and lived under a church there for 10 years. The churchgoing folks there used to call me Floating Jesus... I just hovered in and around the stairs, looked like Jesus with my long hair and beard. Then, a new mayor cme in and cleaned up the city...got kicked out of the church, so, I hitched out of Reno. I thought fuck it, I'll get outta town...I was hitching to Orem Utah because I heard they had a good soup kitchen...but, met this Indian on the on-ramp...he was hitching too...he convinced me to hitch the other direction and get to Chico where his mom lived...he said she would give me a pack of smokes, a six pack of beer, and a shower, get cleaned up. Anyways, when I got there (his arms flailing wildly, his eyes aflame), when I got there and knocked on the door I just said his name and that he sent me and sure enough she gave me a pack of smokes, a six pack, a place to stay for the night. I cut off my dreads there... I had these dreads hanging down my back to my knees...I cut 'em off with an electric razor almost electrocuting myself because I got the plug wet...there was hair everywhere, knots, dreads. I left the next day to Oroville and met some stranger who put me in charge of a pot farm...I lived in a corrugated pipe, what do you call 'em, a culvert, a huge culvert, for the next 20 years. For 20 years I got paid a little bit here and there, I would go to town and buy what food I could. Then, one day I came to town and passed out on the sidewalk, boom, just fell down...woke up in the hospital a ward of the state...somebody found me just lying there on the sidewalk, just passed out, and called the medics. That's why I am here...I have an apartment in a halfway complex...it is small but better than that damn pipe.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHnZvzW2wDhCGEeicf58xlVajO_l_dfkb_P1vHbsDOSn7q_OWey3AkVbLRVvth46M9xnecAR8Da_-Y105Vr5Pzs3S_DO06fRXn0ZMyFhU7kELM9MzLiafjD72Fa5XrAHrCjshl-uzK9WDutJsjLwwa6s4wPvJSxUpPJ1CHv1Xp0SAeUo3nvm2gKJd/s1440/4D5590FC-F151-4FB7-A727-F8A90A7D5CCF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHnZvzW2wDhCGEeicf58xlVajO_l_dfkb_P1vHbsDOSn7q_OWey3AkVbLRVvth46M9xnecAR8Da_-Y105Vr5Pzs3S_DO06fRXn0ZMyFhU7kELM9MzLiafjD72Fa5XrAHrCjshl-uzK9WDutJsjLwwa6s4wPvJSxUpPJ1CHv1Xp0SAeUo3nvm2gKJd/w400-h300/4D5590FC-F151-4FB7-A727-F8A90A7D5CCF.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up to a chilly morning with a rosy sun rising through a ruby haze. I packed up slowly, then began an even slower walk along the divide. I wanted to soak up slowly the morning glow softly rising in the east. The ribbon of trail was perfect, just perfect, perfectly groomed not-enough so I could walk with my hands in my pocket. I crested a small rise, a small enough rise to not see the tiny meadow below me, the meadow lined white pine that buffeted the western side of the ridge, wind-torn and small. Long shadows infiltrated the deep canyon to the east and I could feel the changing morning, a soft orange light that began to pierce the darkness deep within the canyon. I pulled out my phone to snap a shot, barely turning my head for a split second as I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I quickly looked back down into the meadow. A large mountain lion held a frozen crouch. We must have seen each other around the same time. The lion raised its haunches and sprang over one of the shorter pines. The lion vanished instantaneously from when our eyes connected with each other. With a snap of two fingers the lion was out of sight. Alertly, I trundled on with my shoulders upright and broad. I figured the lion had scattered way off because the cat's cover had been blown, however, I continued yelling some grunts and hoots. I shoved every waking thought aside and hiked briskly with my eyes wide and my ears open. I had a rush of adrenaline pumping through my body and I moved swiftly along the meandering trail until I hit Grouse Lake. I was certain I was far enough away from that encounter that I could slow the roll down a bit. Suddenly, a white flash darted in front of me uphill and on trail. I wended a corner and saw the abstract face of a mountain goat staring right at me, a kid tucked right in the rear haunches protected. They both stood there a couple seconds as I neared the duo before they turned and sprinted on the trail uphill and out of sight. I pumped onward again, my blood rising to the surface on this busy and adventurously slow morning.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmFkA_Y92X_zJcA6Pud-GTVlGNLjDWsnlOKe1MFIn8DyS3keONwD_j4uL87hCbGNNggA6ocMDFbjpMAqR-NUULknoZZEQe6hSODvW2BlOy70tUrE33rAmRzyH53UoVFcIYdhzKOIZyNT7j0bvs86wuU888XqFxDEwGlONR2uPez7yWPpuvyxp7g14/s1440/D4F8886B-77D7-4965-B88C-B264B1F9ACB7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmFkA_Y92X_zJcA6Pud-GTVlGNLjDWsnlOKe1MFIn8DyS3keONwD_j4uL87hCbGNNggA6ocMDFbjpMAqR-NUULknoZZEQe6hSODvW2BlOy70tUrE33rAmRzyH53UoVFcIYdhzKOIZyNT7j0bvs86wuU888XqFxDEwGlONR2uPez7yWPpuvyxp7g14/w400-h300/D4F8886B-77D7-4965-B88C-B264B1F9ACB7.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Eventually, things cooled off and I calmly lulled along the divide for the rest of the day. My mind wandered again to this puzzle I needed to solve. I knew I was different from an early age, all along just slightly off kilter. I felt inside of me a great need to roam and explore. I abhorred the notion of living like everyone else. I believed I was destined to leave everything behind like he did, just in a more dramatic and adventurous fashion. I thought that age would be 28. I thought by that point in time I would have everything in order to just go walk the world. Needless to say, life ain't that easy. At 28 I did, in fact, leave, however. I had flown to Mexico City to wander around Mexico. I recall my mom hugging me as if she was afraid I would never come back, the memory of her first love and the father of her boys pushing a shopping cart out of town too painful. My trip ended within a month...</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hiked the slopes of Volcano Iztaccihuatl. I reached a 3-sided hut at some 15,000ft, a shelter from the elements up on this voluptuous mountain. I hallucinated a dream, or maybe I was asphyxiated from the thinnest air. Everything felt so lucid and real, but on repeat. I was reliving situation. I woke up, or I came too, each time with a mouse running up my sleeping bag. The moon was cold and clear. I could see the thatched and spackled walls of the hut. Sometimes I ended up on the floor, sometimes I was on top of the table I was sleeping on. A bull with one long horn stood staring at me from the other side of a beam on the open side of the hut. At least the hallucinations started out that way. I fell into this loop, the one-horned bull flopping from one side of the beam to the other. Never, though, did the one-horned bull change its expression. Each time, no matter the placement, the one-horned bull faced towards the mountain, a stone face the bull held. Whenever I truly woke up, the bull had been at my side, table height and at a level that when I truly came to I dipped into the deep, dark eyes of the one-horned bull. The bull pointed the direction. I was awake and the fucking one-horned bull was still there, the beam still held its staunch reach from wall to wall. I shook my head, the frozen and thinnest air pierced with a frigid cold. I rolled off the table to the other side of the bull and I went to un-beam the beam. I lifted one side and the bull slowly lumbered out of the hut. He went down the direction from whence I came. I stayed up for the next couple hours waiting for dawn, waiting for light under a clear and cold moon. I mulled over my reality. This is where the guilt sunk to its deepest depths. I knew if I continued on at that point, the reality of that decision coupled with what my father did, I knew that if I just kept walking I would never see my family again, that I would fall into the same trap my father did, that I would be forever guilty. I decided, then, under an icy dawn, to go back to my family. To do so, though, I would need to find my origin of thought, the seed of my wandering visions. I would track down my real father to learn where I had come from. I landed in LAX and walked the 42 miles home, I swear my head down in shame the whole way. I was so dejected that I couldn't be my true self because of some ancient painful history. I was ashamed that I cared too much. I was ashamed because I thought in that moment I was reliving his abandoned deed. Yet, within a month I tracked him down to find out where I had come from. I needed to. I was unlike anyone in my family, shit, unlike anyone around me. And I had these thoughts, almost a fantasy, a vision of a wanderer, thoughts and visions that just put me in some weird and strange place amongst people around me in Los Angeles. Sure, my visions and dreams were of some fictitious explorer tramping the world on countless adventures, innocent and youthful, akin to 'what I want to be when I grow up' type stuff. Nonetheless, with him leaving and disrupting our whole family, my dreams and visions became toxic. She was so young when he left, just left alone with two baby boys when she was just barely an adult herself. Of course, I knew she saw him in me. So, when I wanted to venture out wandering the globe, the action was too similar and sore to his abandonment. </span></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, when I met him I saw me in him. I understood, finally, what my mom had felt and why she acted that way towards me. She couldn't lose something she loved again. I stood there in his tiny smoke-stained apartment, his bed barely bigger than a cot. His life felt out of order, everything felt so temporary as if his whole life had been temporary. The scene scared me. I refused to end up like him, I thought. I couldn't be troubled the way he was. So, when I left him after meeting him for the first time in my life I had this intense, just a fucking immense pain of lonlieness. Yet, I made a decision to do things the right way and not how he had done things. I left him after hanging with him for some 3 hours or so. I thought I had gotten what I needed out of it. So, I left. I left with good intentions, with the intent of not living my life the way he had lived. I just had to deal with my family first.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, I did. From '05 when I met my father for the first time to now, on the ICT in the Bitterroot Divide, I have lived my life with intention, lived my life the right way with my family and others, especially the love I lost recently. I had thought when I was younger that I would leave everything behind when I was 28, then I met my real father. I then concluded I would leave when I was 36, but I found thru-hiking and the Vagabond Loop. I finally set my target at the age of 44 to leave the whole world behind and just wander it. But, I found love and how to love. Now, with that love gone, I do not want to leave everything behind and detach myself from everyone and everything. During this whole time I had tried to do everything the right way. I couldn't shake the guilt of what my father did. It's like I was trying to live my life the right way and right side up while trying to atone for his actions, right side down. Fuck, we are all just little tiny chickadees flying and flittering within the tree of life -- fragile and vulnerable yet resilient and sweet, precious. This is hard for me to write about, incredibly so. I feel like I am essentially killing off something deep inside that I have embodied since I was a teenager, the notion of a lone vagabond navigating the world. While I have had an adventurous ting tied to that notion, I always fell into a gloomy bog, the sadness of my vagabond father. This is why I am out here. The ICT hike wasn't just to process a mega-heartbreak. This hike was to find love and rid myself of this general sadness and gloomy theme, the description of a lonely wanderer. I guess walking has provided me with those feelings and expressions most likely deep rooted from a lonely and lost soul that was my father. Maybe this is my own way of living up to my father, just better. Maybe this is why I don’t have a family of my own. Maybe this has bothered me more than I have realized, and all under the guise of a lonesome wanderer. Maybe this is why I have never known love until now, just afraid I would lose it or it would abandon me. None of this was my fault. He fucked up; I didn't. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLSgZ9RPBnAZbkTPncBzBfA7DUmFSoJjyVrHPvgk-PUiUvLBDfi1n0-Z992k9RIY5MW3UIj2J4k-c9MSpGCNApYGjT-YYOwFB_w22stbzsI0ZgW3gg39ad2wChZTn8MILkhBT75dyvT188mWoky7gAyBwNb_cwWcMgAA7IOKU3lo5KyiyWHjbp-j0/s1440/6F04F120-F2E5-4516-89F4-70BE035E1077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLSgZ9RPBnAZbkTPncBzBfA7DUmFSoJjyVrHPvgk-PUiUvLBDfi1n0-Z992k9RIY5MW3UIj2J4k-c9MSpGCNApYGjT-YYOwFB_w22stbzsI0ZgW3gg39ad2wChZTn8MILkhBT75dyvT188mWoky7gAyBwNb_cwWcMgAA7IOKU3lo5KyiyWHjbp-j0/w400-h300/6F04F120-F2E5-4516-89F4-70BE035E1077.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left it all behind there at Graves Peak as I negotiated some remaining sketchy snow banks. I had processed enough, spent too much time mulling over this puzzle. Although it was necessary, I just wanted to move forward with everything. In between Graves and Illinois Peaks I found a rock bench and thought about our connection to time. Not just in a variable and numerical way to justify our human existence within our societal constructs. I thought of time as a deep connection with a place. I yearned to get better at telling time by the sun. This felt more necessary to me than any inner-reflections. I was just done with it and I wasn't going to feel bad about shit anymore. I studied my pace and the angle of the sun. I wanted to be in sync, to flow with the pace of our world turning. And, I had it. I was just hungover from all this processing and from all this wilderness. I could feel the pull of town coming soon. After the Frank Complex experience of stomping down the ego, seeking harmony with nature, seeking rhythm, abstaining from social conventions, finding a deeper self through exhaustion and movement, breaking the ego down to find the joy and love I have for myself, I tried to begin normalizing. I found a camp at a pass crisscrossed with dirt roads under some power lines. Down below, the interstate moaned boringly. Above me, the power lines sizzled. The monotonous noise of both the interstate and the power lines irked at me right as I laid down, just a couple sounds so unfamiliar after 16 days across some of the most remote wildernesses, where roaring and rushing water reverberated throughout the canyons, where gusty wind shook my inner being and shaped ridge lines, and where an impenetrable silence remained omnipresent. The next morning, I farted like a big rig blaring by on the highway that jolted me awake. You know the sound, a semi careening by -- Wait…was the horn fart coming from the highway below? I forgot where I was, startled. I packed up quickly knowing the town was close. Clearly, I was so excited for town I confused a semi’s horn for a fart. A few hours later, I shyly walked into town, feeling socially meek and rusty yet physically bestial. A creek rushed through a large culvert under the main drag. I scrambled down some rocks to wash up, to at least look somewhat respectable. Now, I could strut a little bit, like I have been to a town before. Suddenly, with my ego chipper, a black sprinkler popped up from the corner of a large lawn just as I was walking by on the sidewalk. Prrrrsssshhhh!!!! I leapt up and fell away into the street, my heart jumping out of my chest, almost twisting an ankle. It took me a couple of seconds to understand that the sprinkler was not a rattlesnake. I needed to turn down my instincts. I had been cloaked with the wild and dipped in the beyond. Hours later, laying on a nice hotel bed, the television on, my clothes hanging to dry, I realized I had left my ATM card at a restaurant. So unlike me. Then, a movie trailer came on, my eyes glued to the animation and the color. I marveled at my shiny new toy. Then, reality sunk in and I shook off my wild gaze for a more civilized one. My mouth fell to the floor as Beavis and Butthead 2 was coming to a theater near me. I wondered aloud, ‘What happened to the world while I was gone for two and a half weeks?’ I should be asking, however, 'What in the world happened to me while I was gone for two and a half weeks?'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few days later, just laying it all out there and crushing easy miles, I found myself sitting at the general store in Naples. I leaned up against the building and an ice freezer in the shade near the gas pumps. I felt exhausted, not just physically but emotionally, drained. I wasn't completely dead though. I understood what was going to happen next. I have been here before, like in retrospect I had been at that same point when I started the ICT. The beginning of this hike was my Iztaccihuatl, the beginning of this hike was my terrible '15 year when I left Wells, Nevada and hiked into the desert scratched from a tiger; just the beginning of this hike was in an advanced stage. I soaked up the shade and relief from the blazing sun. I observed some crosscountry motorcyclists all dolled up in glamping gear. I felt proud to be where I was after having been through where I have been. I understood I was not like them. I understood I was not like anybody. I knew more than ever I was not like my father. I chuckled a bit when I thought of the irony of someone leaving me unexpectedly rather than me leaving everyone. I was amused by that now. I left the tiny little town and walked along the shoulder of the road. I felt a well of emotions begin to erupt. I refrained from writing or jotting notes and just let the swell of emotion swoon over me. From the depths of some shitty latrine I stared up from to this point just on the brim of the shitter about to prop myself out of the muck, my arms and elbows on the rim and pushing myself up out of the paincave -- I smiled and I chuckled and muttered to myself, 'When the world takes a giant turd in your mouth, go on a thru hike…'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCy3PFqasgWqp9mI51RxMZ7zadWrZKQPYUS_CzOWT69_3FIeiIfTBALS5OTnLPsLsC6KWv-mC7u-UtROHdiCokZhbXaWqXrEVprOpcCSu9Bevtrd8DnQcyYbipiIUVLC1Vo2wdkehP8oYRC5bxFU3Cv-Y3u4dyrcs7LCOp5IM1cy40Kgrah-rKIdX/s1440/13A562D2-829F-44A6-8DF9-7258182E9904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCy3PFqasgWqp9mI51RxMZ7zadWrZKQPYUS_CzOWT69_3FIeiIfTBALS5OTnLPsLsC6KWv-mC7u-UtROHdiCokZhbXaWqXrEVprOpcCSu9Bevtrd8DnQcyYbipiIUVLC1Vo2wdkehP8oYRC5bxFU3Cv-Y3u4dyrcs7LCOp5IM1cy40Kgrah-rKIdX/w400-h300/13A562D2-829F-44A6-8DF9-7258182E9904.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Two days later I followed the Priest River along a soft and spongy trail in a rainforest with giant cedars stemming into the blue sky above. I was geared to get to the end point. I was excited to live this newfound way of life with love. I had travel plans on my mind. I knew I was going to do what I had been destined to do. I felt it in my bones. In the end, and at the end at Upper Priest Falls, I could feel the change within me, constantly morphing like the tumbling waters of the ferocious waterfall. I was molting, shedding away these painful memories. The air hung heavy with mist, my skin cooling with beads of water. I washed up and splashed off my head, face, and arms. I gave this trail everything I had, everything. I clutched my knees and legs and thanked them for carrying me. At one point, sitting on the shoulder of Highway 20 a few weeks ago, I wasn't sure if I was going to finish because my knee had flared up so bad. I wasn't sure I was going to finish either because I felt so severed, so heartbroken. I knew, then, though, that I had to commit and dive fully into the paincave. I had to walk through it, walk into it, to seek the depths and find the roots of the pain. Feeling the rush of the falls, even soothed by the harmonious roar, it felt symbolic to sleep near the falls. Submerged in the depth and roar of sound, I know I am a different person than when I started. Surrounded by the beautiful sound of roaring water, immersed with the clamor of pounding water, I understood I went into the paincave and found love. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next morning, I woke up early and for the first time in months I dreamt of nothing, as if dreaming of nothing for the first time ever. I packed up and began walking down the trail, the clamor of the falls exiting my head. My body felt relaxed as if the barrage of sound had massaged my body, my head rang free of that same barrage as if the sun was rising unto a quiet dawn. I felt awake. Onward I hiked. I felt the hollowness that had been inside of me, that paincave, had been filled up. For the first time in my life I believed I had finally begun to love myself.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUJBcl2r-NFy0OQerIe5c9O5rjddFcNRExTMs9E3ax9U8bsrKfiS-DU3Ry5PKBA8I1Lez6aurnKBkgHa00oUslz_pNjXA2Zr6v8A3be-TjoTYbz2cOyjSAjCKmcKifk4Q9E2fvR-0SpJ7iGvLbUqTFFjvJzikQ0VXWbCNYIqQhcz1yB9XG-l_SZ8B/s4032/IMG_4929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUJBcl2r-NFy0OQerIe5c9O5rjddFcNRExTMs9E3ax9U8bsrKfiS-DU3Ry5PKBA8I1Lez6aurnKBkgHa00oUslz_pNjXA2Zr6v8A3be-TjoTYbz2cOyjSAjCKmcKifk4Q9E2fvR-0SpJ7iGvLbUqTFFjvJzikQ0VXWbCNYIqQhcz1yB9XG-l_SZ8B/w400-h300/IMG_4929.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-77375317672680323482022-08-20T16:23:00.000-07:002022-08-20T16:23:08.793-07:00Chapter 11: Brutally Perfect<p><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">Idaho Centennial Trail 2022</span></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":qa"><div aria-controls=":t0" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":t0" class="Am Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" g_editable="true" hidefocus="true" id=":q6" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 275px;" tabindex="1"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafmHe99x0JXqtD15JgE_qwieT6-NNFPH38Lwj14O74IPZ0WWkTtDRGrRG5YoEuIixbGkTYw5BLZ360U6l0HbXEw2i2j7ekgyRhkX8C5e9ZuQMggeA4gaB5A3ttXh7Lgil7_CE2VSFBraZC8GgQy7Twi54ZOl99hWyMBWfGjzKn71GfotJXf3zBOnN/s4032/IMG_4686.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafmHe99x0JXqtD15JgE_qwieT6-NNFPH38Lwj14O74IPZ0WWkTtDRGrRG5YoEuIixbGkTYw5BLZ360U6l0HbXEw2i2j7ekgyRhkX8C5e9ZuQMggeA4gaB5A3ttXh7Lgil7_CE2VSFBraZC8GgQy7Twi54ZOl99hWyMBWfGjzKn71GfotJXf3zBOnN/w400-h300/IMG_4686.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Crossing the Campbell’s Ferry bridge spanning the Salmon River, I felt a sense of newness, just a new outlook on life that committed to acting, living, and believing in and with love. I nearly felt whole. My love of wilderness and, for the first time in my life, the love of myself felt not an act of atonement, not reliving another’s past, and, most importantly, not guilt-ridden. I felt free and rid of any guilt. I felt full of gratitude, forgiving anything that punctured my insecure person. The heat still sweltered in the river canyon and my hunger became increasingly ravaged. As soon as I crossed that bridge and stepped foot on the other side, I zeroed in on Yellowpine Bar where I had a resupply package waiting. Recollections of the flames across the river and the Mylar-wrapped structures from my previous isolation here in ‘15 shown in front of my eyes, although I was not suffering in desolation this time like I had been that last time. The wide Salmon River powered downstream crashing into massive boulders that eons ago fell into the river, or unimaginably got tossed downriver by an unbelievable force. I passed by the road that provided me with a safe exit back some 7 years ago. I tipped my cap to some will o'the wisp, an impossible made up phantasm. I know that is nonsense, but that intersection had proved to be a meaningful point from that point onward. Here I was a newer person with another meaningful intersection.</span></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, a rumbling metallic noise screamed from the river, the cacophony of slapping metal baffling my ears. From a couple hundred feet above the river in a boulderfield I stopped and scanned down on the river below. The roar came from downriver and through the ponderosa groves a long metal motorboat powered its way fiercely slapping and clapping through the rapids and waves. I couldn’t get a whole view at first as the enormous ponderosas blocked my view. But, once the motorboat came into clear sight, I saw two giant flags waving in the wind off the rear of the boat: ‘FUCK BIDEN’ and an USA stars and stripes flag. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0QtdGXATIrvTEDhO6Eu6rEzVfmdaPq8RxojiAsTUsMMro6Fy8Xm9LgSdx9qCEqlqTsSPcewePK8ATZVjxZkHdvfLVQo6N3Mp1rqM7IFCq_vnuQCdAKaS7d_zlFIlUTdAXeQyVfns1KjAxfxydF8GEGCZUXBFBQTkB34rgzn8yqFe1mZ2My0wV71g/s4032/IMG_4675.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0QtdGXATIrvTEDhO6Eu6rEzVfmdaPq8RxojiAsTUsMMro6Fy8Xm9LgSdx9qCEqlqTsSPcewePK8ATZVjxZkHdvfLVQo6N3Mp1rqM7IFCq_vnuQCdAKaS7d_zlFIlUTdAXeQyVfns1KjAxfxydF8GEGCZUXBFBQTkB34rgzn8yqFe1mZ2My0wV71g/w400-h300/IMG_4675.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My wilderness and nostalgic stupor instantly retreated and left my mind vacant with a little anger. That social opinion and splinter was the last thing I expected coming out of a wilderness complex and into a wild and scenic river. I shook my head in disbelief and just felt bad for all the rafting parties along the beaches. Maybe some folks believed in his message, maybe some didn't. His message just felt 'all up in your face' and brought a divisive tension over the calming sense of the river. It wasn't that I cared or not for the man's opinion either -- I just wanted the wilderness space and feeling back. The trail careened into a drainage and the roar of the creek submerged the slapping of the metallic motorboat. I'm sure everyone on every beach read his message. Everyone saw the attention he was craving for. No matter, once the motor boat got further upriver the quiet of the canyon fell back into place. I walked behind and occasionally through beach camps with kids playing in the water, the grills smoking up with burgers and hot dogs, and the adults sitting around in comfortable chairs around a fire ring -- all just enjoying the open space. I fell back into tranquility just seeing folks smiling, relaxing, and having a good time. Soon enough, I turned a corner and the Yellowpine Bar airstrip splayed out in front of me in a straight and narrow swath. I spotted a cottage with folks mingling on the patio. I was surprised at how lively the canyon was with all the people I had been seeing in just a short couple hours. The Main Fork of the Salmon River canyon has a long history of residents dwelling and working in the canyon. The river canyon is so wide that in the bends huge sandbars have packed up over eons of time that large flat areas held ranches and tiny communities. In some places that had larger communities than others, as well as access and location to mines up in the Chamberlain Basin and the now Frank Church Wilderness areas, a ferry helped miners, residents, and travelers across the wide river. The Salmon River holds a rich history of wars, homesteading, and river life. Besides hardship or luck just plain running out, once the wilderness became enacted in 1984, many of the ranches either became ruined or have been upkept by historical societies, maintained by caretakers, or are still owned and managed by the same families. In some places, fruit orchards still line the river even though buildings may be dilapidated or have remnants of ruins. Some of the apple and pear trees still bear fruit that black bears gorge on. The history of the Salmon River is fascinating and is one history I would like to learn more of down the line.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6XX5dkp66NwC54ay5NNBvoFFt39CZPiv9Q_xJXaa0oh0JxkUGvOS_vkk4Lz-llH4wWKZZkgYSrREbzMUY1tdUp15af-nmMMhErJi0PK361wG-t7jlVJW_z3S5r6t91Dyjreb-RoxwOABwbPePFnRBMDIh5sBCZv-Y6fGzwJ7Txz0jcjBa-6ZYgNH/s4032/IMG_4615.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6XX5dkp66NwC54ay5NNBvoFFt39CZPiv9Q_xJXaa0oh0JxkUGvOS_vkk4Lz-llH4wWKZZkgYSrREbzMUY1tdUp15af-nmMMhErJi0PK361wG-t7jlVJW_z3S5r6t91Dyjreb-RoxwOABwbPePFnRBMDIh5sBCZv-Y6fGzwJ7Txz0jcjBa-6ZYgNH/w400-h300/IMG_4615.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yellowpine Bar held three homes lining the airstrip and I took a stab at the cottage with a large garden, a large work-shed, and a huge expanse of lawn. This place looked more year-around than the previous cabin. I knocked on the screen door hesitantly of the cottage with a redwood deck overlooking the Salmon River. I made a nervous entrance, but I had made it at a somewhat reasonable early evening hour, as long shadows swallowed up the bottom of the canyon with the rays of sun rising on the opposite side of the canyon with its lowering in the horizon to the west. The circle of the day had completed and my hosts, Greg and Sue, hospitably and politely regaled me with conversation, a highball glass of whiskey, a slice of pizza, and, most importantly, my resupply package. Greg and Sue have lived in the canyon some 30 years, if I recall correctly. Their first 10 or so years were spent downriver where they caretaked a backcountry ranch where a visitor had to hike in. The last 20 years have been spent here at Yellowpine Bar, a large flat area above the river that once held 1500 river people. Now, 3 homes are spread out adjacent to the airfield amid a ponderosa forest and stone fence ruins that have been weathered over the years. They live a simple life as caretakers: gardening, knife making and farriering, colorful creations of art, tending to pets, among a slew of other ranch duties of a simple life set in the backcountry. A neighbor came to visit as the long shadows engulfed the canyon. I slowly sipped my whiskey as a warmth washed over me, my eyes getting groggy. The trio spoke of river gossip. Even out here in the backcountry people are still people. Visitors to Yellowpine Bar -- the family reunions and former lives of the families out here; the history of the Salmon River -- the living museum in the cottage of Yellowpine Bar; the river etiquette -- the upriver neighbor who zooms on by with his motorboat that causes a wake and lifts unsuspecting boats and river rafter's vessels up onto huge boulders or beaches; the wildlife -- the bears picking at old apple groves, the deer and elk migrating across a ice floe across the river in the winter, and the lack of elk because of the reintroduction of wolves; and finally, the seasons -- the short winter days where the opportunity for solar power is scant available save for only about 3 hours for a very, very short day, the seldom trips to town, and the incredible wildfires of yesteryore that have scarred the landscape here -- all of these sentimental topics represented the real history and real lives of the people of the Salmon River. Sure enough, as they spoke of the neighbor upstream, I knew instantly they were speaking of the 'FUCK BIDEN' flag man. No matter where you live, in every neighborhood, even out here where neighbors are there to help each other out, there's always an asshole.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Greg led me to a cherry tree on a beautiful vibrantly green lawn to sleep under. The damp grass felt so soothing to lay down upon. The whiskey set in and I drifted quickly into a deep slumber, the chickens in the chicken coup quietly cooing and clucking, as if they were snoring like a tiny child. I woke up to the river churning below and I gazed above me at the twinkling stars above. I got up to take a piss in the bushes lining the bluff above the river and could see the reflection of the moon shimmering in the small rapids. I felt relaxed and tranquil yet vanquished by this tiny bit of paradise. And, now I wanted to slide away like the moonlight downriver to be swallowed up by the darkness of the canyon, back to a restful slumber where I would succumb to the nature that surrounds me, to simply let go and be sucked in by the blackness both of the night and the river. I stumbled back to my bedroll and dove in and nestled into my silk liner. The light switch to the moon turned off and I slept in dreamlessness. Sure enough, however, as soon as I felt my eyes had closed, a rooster began crowing. Then, another screamed into the early dusky morning and pierced the silence. I was up, but I rolled over feeling the condensation beaded up on my quilt. I lowered my buff over my eyes and I thought, 'I love this place.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I heard the screen door shut and I rolled out of my quilt and began packing up. I floundered over to the deck in my bare feet that sifted through the damp grass. Songbirds began to chirp, the chickens really began to cluck, and the house cat began rubbing up against and weaving through my legs, as Sue brought me out a cup of coffee. I was in no hurry, but I also did not want to overstay my welcome. I chatted with Sue, a mild-mannered and free spirit of a soul. I didn't want to pry too much on 'how did they make it work out here,' nevertheless I tried just a tiny bit. I was fascinated by the life they had created here. I was not envious -- I was inspired. Greg came out from the cabin with a cup of coffee in hand. He asked if I wanted a tour of his furrier shop and the museum room. I eagerly jumped up and followed him into the side cottage that substitutes as his workshop. Being as they live off the grid, Greg showed me the solar panels and battery storage system, all of which helped power his machines, such as a grinder, to fine tune his craft. We toured his masonry oven room, the brick ovens all handmade. He showed me the slag and metal scrap used to craft a blade. He walked me through the process from scrap to finished product. I could tell from this patient craftsman that to complete one knife took a fair amount of time. Slowly and methodically, he pounded out the molten metal to shape out a blade. He grinded and sharpened the beautiful and glistening metal to its perfection. In his shop, I could envision him in his process. Next up, he opened a door within the masonry oven room. We entered the room. Spackled, tacked, nailed and hung on the walls displayed the history of Yellowpine Bar and the surrounding Salmon River canyon. Old faded photos showed the canyon dwellers living life in the canyon or having leisure in the canyon along the river. On a large shelf stuffed wildlife heads were mounted in a stoic position. Skulls were positioned on another shelf above. I ogled at the black bear skull with the skeletal and vacant eyes. I peered into the mouth of the stuffed wolverine trying to envision the birth of their growl and ferocity. In the mix was an old picture from the 70's. A young man, mustached, wearing an animal hide hat, with peaceful and kind eyes with yet a vacant visage, stared ahead from the photograph. Greg let me know that the photograph of that rugged individual was of him right before they had moved west from Minnesota to Idaho. I could see that this room was more than the living history of the canyon. It was also the history of an idea and vision this kind man had so many years ago. His purpose along with Sue's appeared to be one of living intently. We closed the door and went back out to the deck. I was full of pep inside and eager to get hiking again with a sense of inspired purpose, while outwardly I maintained a calm demeanor. This visit to Yellowpine Bar at the hamlet of Greg and Sue had replenished me more than just with my resupply box. I had met two people who lived life together in unison, individually yet together, with a kind and peaceful disposition, with a purpose to thrive without the distractions of the crazy society we are all a part of, and lived a life with love.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CuTttdEKreY-7kkZQo8XLcACd5OvhVlxBMSm3TMev-AljeaEGYloyl1kSX06tBpTiqo5QOvs1_kyHyVX2QBPIMeyxNZYWxk45ipZo9KY1SAbrIPs01iWcc1fR4rxZBRCIvm2IBHqLQjmkGf699oKytcQbydz3UmxagrSb2Idzh21xyvZdMb95o46/s4032/IMG_4612.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CuTttdEKreY-7kkZQo8XLcACd5OvhVlxBMSm3TMev-AljeaEGYloyl1kSX06tBpTiqo5QOvs1_kyHyVX2QBPIMeyxNZYWxk45ipZo9KY1SAbrIPs01iWcc1fR4rxZBRCIvm2IBHqLQjmkGf699oKytcQbydz3UmxagrSb2Idzh21xyvZdMb95o46/w400-h300/IMG_4612.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I ambled upriver as the sun peered over the ridges high above. I passed the cove where the metal motorboat was beached. Not one flag hung from the rear of the boat. 'Just for show,' I thought. Soon enough though, I had rid the thought of that boat, never to bring it forth in the mind again. Rather, I focused on the welled up goodness and inspiration I felt from Yellowpine Bar. And, soon enough, five miles passed and I was at the junction to Bargamin Creek. I decided on this lower alternative route rather than the original Rattlesnake Ridge route of the ICT. Greg and Sue had told me the trail up Rattlesnake Ridge had been obliterated for some years. Coupled with my sense that most ICT hikers had been taking Bargamin Creek, the decision seemed like a no brainer. About a mile into the canyon, I felt happy to be back in the true wild. The canyon just had that feel about it. The canyon started off as narrow and the trail wedged in between the steep slopes above and the roaring and cascading creek. The trail was in rough shape, but nothing too difficult or annoying. Other than merely moving at a slower pace than I had been accustomed to, the first 5 miles or so the trail led upstream without too much obstruction. I dodged huge piles of bear scat, some fresh, some hard and crusty. My awareness piqued realizing I was in an even truer wild place than I had initially thought. See, I truly love wilderness. A place free from major human impact, a place truly wild in nature, a place where I can gaze into a horizon and feel the isolation and the emptiness of man, a place where I can be where I can face myself without any distraction, where I am truly me. Some places are more wild than others, some places have a sense of wilderness in bits while some places exude an immensity of wildness that one feels utterly immersed in this wilderness state. The latter is where I thrive, where I have to be aware of every single second of a moment, where every decision matters, where I am acting in pure nature within a pure nature. There is no other feeling like it -- this is the love I have always sought and will continue to seek.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUH9mmXURphl1J2Y-F6tXDnVUnGp0_c0icIzVF4TRY1WHnmaeSWQyiws31qFDM3We3PHspxCoJXJMd5VIj_QqXN47zXJU_P9BV9-8sLiELyoGlAvr0-SXAnssJS6m3qCzgm66vP6N6EiJypgVJKuopqkHF1JCrpTunZRUDWFSf-mQ1DxEEhfuXByGL/s4032/IMG_4635.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUH9mmXURphl1J2Y-F6tXDnVUnGp0_c0icIzVF4TRY1WHnmaeSWQyiws31qFDM3We3PHspxCoJXJMd5VIj_QqXN47zXJU_P9BV9-8sLiELyoGlAvr0-SXAnssJS6m3qCzgm66vP6N6EiJypgVJKuopqkHF1JCrpTunZRUDWFSf-mQ1DxEEhfuXByGL/w400-h300/IMG_4635.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hit a rock slide, a big one that had destroyed the trail. I had to climb over a couple huge trees that had fallen atop the rock slide. I looked up the steep slope and could see a fire scarring on the slopes above me. I knew that the trail would get worse from there. After I negotiated the rock slide, the trail became incredibly overgrown to where I couldn't see the ground below my feet. I began to understand that hardly a person let alone a rider on horseback had traveled this far in the depths of the canyon. I could tell that only bears used this corridor. I would go from an overgrown path to a trail full of carnage from smaller rockslides to large sections of downed trees. I looked at the map and thought that once the canyon widened, possibly the trail would get better. I slowed from a 2.5mph pace to a measly 1.5mph pace. I worked incessantly to get over the countless downed trees until I hit the widening of the canyon. To my surprise, the condition of the trail got even worse. Really, the trail was no longer. I negotiated my way through a meadow that once held a tall grove of ponderosa. My shins took on the beginnings of the constant thrashing I would encounter the next 4 days. I poked my way across this ravaged meadow climbing over humongous dead, burnt, or fallen ponderosa and in between each tree I fought my way through hard brush that lashed at my shins and forearms and snagged at my clothing. I could barely see the ground and fought my way through trying not to trip or fall. The temperature swooned and became hot as hell. Sweat poured down my whole body and stung my fresh new cuts and scratches on my shins. Suddenly, the sky turned dark. A strong wind came roaring down the canyon. I looked above and could see the formation of a thundercloud moving swiftly in overhead. Rain began to patter and I paid no mind to the water as I was already drenched in sweat. The rain fell harder and harder as I continued to climb over fallen ponderosa that had now become slicker with the pouring rain. The wind would careen down the side canyons and raged through the standing burnt totems of snags, as thunder boomed above. All of a sudden, the heaviest of gusts came roaring in and I moved with a speedy intent trying to get out of this ravaged meadow and out from under the totem trees that now creaked with the proposition of crashing down. In an instant, standing dead trees began snapping and the green trees whipped and yawned over almost to a 90 degree angle. Every time the wind howled through I would look up at the trees in case of one snapping or falling over. I tried to run but I had to keep climbing over the trees that laid across my pathway ahead of me. I was utterly vulnerable. The thundercell lasted about 30 minutes and I finally made it to safe forested confines of Porcupine Creek. I sat and leaned up against a giant fir tree and closed my eyes and slowed my heart rate down. The spectacle and escape from the roving thundercell had my adrenaline way up. I needed to calm down. I washed my face off in the cold creek and again leaned against the fir. I fell into a nap and out of the crazy excitement of the past couple hours. I fell into the last long break of the day and hoped for clearer paths ahead.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwhLTylI7MqxloEXbEjHsxZeMeSm_pMwrPssJoj-soyFBuRKG0jSSpQzMIG1GqvRMrWPWMJiyQXMGUcpM6fX_NBSG4aNhROnG2g8XI38BDuPTgVPL-Ywj7iXUHwYTDcT71YmOYtp_tspBFiWq_ZX51vogTkwRBPKsRfNS4eFF88gfjaSudtmjDgWC/s4032/IMG_4624.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwhLTylI7MqxloEXbEjHsxZeMeSm_pMwrPssJoj-soyFBuRKG0jSSpQzMIG1GqvRMrWPWMJiyQXMGUcpM6fX_NBSG4aNhROnG2g8XI38BDuPTgVPL-Ywj7iXUHwYTDcT71YmOYtp_tspBFiWq_ZX51vogTkwRBPKsRfNS4eFF88gfjaSudtmjDgWC/w400-h300/IMG_4624.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, the trail did get better, for about a 5 mile stretch. But, situationally, the weather had calmed too and I just had to walk. Beargrass blossomed in vast hillsides as I gradually climbed higher. The forest became aromatic with the scent of the massive fields of beargrass. Atop the tall stalks and a cluster of white flowers bunch together to form a bulbous flowering pod that is topped with a white or green nipple. The creamy white flowers splash pollen onto the hiker's clothes as one walks along a trail that is lined with beargrass. Beargrass reminds me of the yuccas in Southern California I grew up around. Not nearly in numbers, but if you look at some beargrass across a drainage and up on a hillside, the swaying in the breeze reminds me of the yucca on the chaparral slopes of Southern California. As I hiked up Bargarmin Creek, the beargrass fields became epic in numbers. I could not hike without getting the pollen in me and my clothes. The pollen and the scent of the beargrass soothed my senses. The pollen awas soft to the touch that caressed my and cooled my sweaty skin while the aroma of the flowers brought pleasant imagery to my imaginations. This splashing of the pollen from the beargrass continued on the duration of the Bargamin Creek trail until I finally popped out at the Magruder Corridor, the remote and backcountry dirt road that bisected the Frank Church and the Selway-Bitterroot Wildernesses. I arrived at the Poet Creek trailhead and rested my weary body sitting atop a log stump. The temperature had cooled down quite a bit since that sweltering oven in the canyon, however, the skies had remained dark since then. Giant cells roamed in the sky surrounding me, but, as usual with these large cells, a vacuum in the sky behind the passing cell kept the tail end storm free. After all these years of tracking storms on foot out here in the West, one thing you notice is the vacuum created by these massive storm systems and the space needed above for them to roam in. Another thing you also notice, is that they can still be very unpredictable and may circle back. So, as I was sitting on my lumpy stump I could see the tumbling of the system that had passed over me. I knew I had time, at least enough time to hike a bit more and set up campe before the cell came back around. So, I slunked into my lumpy stump and ate my dinner. A couple of moths landed on me as I was completely covered, really decorated, in beargrass. The moths paid no mind to my movements, albeit as slow as they were. I leaned in to inspect the moths, to investigate their movements with great scrutiny. I was fascinated by their arrival on my body. I marveled at my new disguise that had me blending in with the surrounding blooms and forest. I felt an animal within me finally becoming the animal on the outside. I watched the moths with their tiny proboscis peck at the splotches of beargrass pollen on my shirt and forearms. As small as they were, I could feel their softness, their gentle touch and kisses. I fixated on their tinyness, their dainty wings and hairy body. I lost track of time being absorbed in their microscopic world. Even though their world was my body, I had become detached from my own skin. I felt so high above the scene, soaring as an observer on the world below. Out of body and out of mind, I had misplaced my awareness in a wild forest as thunder boomed above me, a dramatic ending to the movie I had been watching. I packed up, stood up, and scooted down the trail trying to find camp in a burnt landscape. Indeed, after some time, I found a flat piece of ground on a saddle without any standing dead or burnt trees. I calmly set up my shelter as the wind strongly blew in. As soon as I got onto my sleeping pad, a light sprinkling began that within five minutes had turned into a steady downpour. Lightning flashed around me and thunder crashed within seconds after each flash. I tucked my head into my quilt and slowed my breathing down. I fell asleep dreaming of the moths pecking the pollen off of my skin. I dreamt of being a tall stalk of beargrass swaying lightly in the wind, as around me the storm raged. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOIk6L6THRPvuhi2bZ4BB0wBMuFT0ZSfd0Cn5yNNNe3YqfFZBZAStSJJWGlMAT5ztJs-hmhrh6NdGhKCVvIh_QlikqB96MvsW6K2PcoYU32vv6vrN-uqdFrxidZq9UbXvH1rnrubmJYwvAGt_zdYZ3nfLE3Cveb_XPewLEGn48SfECHPywYn-FXlV/s4032/IMG_4645.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOIk6L6THRPvuhi2bZ4BB0wBMuFT0ZSfd0Cn5yNNNe3YqfFZBZAStSJJWGlMAT5ztJs-hmhrh6NdGhKCVvIh_QlikqB96MvsW6K2PcoYU32vv6vrN-uqdFrxidZq9UbXvH1rnrubmJYwvAGt_zdYZ3nfLE3Cveb_XPewLEGn48SfECHPywYn-FXlV/w400-h300/IMG_4645.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Wilderness has different states. To me, true wilderness is as such: absolute in nature, the essence of a brutally perfect chaos, radically harmonious under the laws of nature. I woke up early to the storm rattling above me, like the last shakings of a tremor. I waited a few minutes for the raindrops to stop and poked my head out from under my tarp. I had a window, so I packed up swiftly and started uphill on an exposed and burnt broad ridge. This was my first full day in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. Immediately I encountered a terrible trail right off the bat. I jumped, climbed, scaled, crawled under, scooched over, and scooted on over hundreds of blowdowns. I moved slowly, at a snail's pace, in the early soggy morning. Things weren't off to a good foot like I had had in the Frank Church. Then, I hit the Lynx Meadows Trail and encountered another burn area and obliterated trail, worse than before. Each burn area has a unique character to it. Depending on the terrain, whether meadow, ridgeline, ridge tops, valleys, or canyons, each have a different scarring. The wildfire that had moved through an area had behaved differently depending on conditions. Weather would influence the tenacity of a fire, the winds shaping a scarring design in the trees that gives a wildfire a personality like a living and thriving being. Different types of trees influence the difficulty of hiking through a burn area afterwards. A forest of a certain type of tree determines the struggle. Whatever burn area you are traversing one must climb over each downed tree obstacle, must constantly scan ahead in pursuit of the corridor of least resistance, and must apply utmost concentration to avoid injury. For example, in lodgepole pine forests the carnage is the worst. Tall and thin trees with shallow roots topple over quite easily, and without much thick bark for fire protection and the stands growing all closely together, make for a denuding of the landscape which perfectly creates a horrendous wildfire aftermath with countless hazards to hikers and wildlife, not to mention completely obliterated trail. This is the place I was in. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, the storms did not stop. While climbing continuously over downed trees and dodging the roving thunderstorms at the same time, it is a necessity to remain persistent and concentrated. You absolutely cannot fuck up, especially in this wilderness complex being so far away from any town and help. Hours after creeping along, I finally got to an access road of reprieve before entering back into the wilderness. Luckily for me, a huge dumping of rain occurred right around that time. I found a large Douglas Fir for rain protection and hunkered down under the canopy to remain dry. The storm dropped hail that bashed the leaves of the smaller plants around me. I hardly got wet. Ascending up the Patrol Ridge Trail, the next cell hit as soon as I crested the rounded ridge top. This one was a big one, huge in scope and smothered the whole sky as far as I could see. Huge curtains of rain had finally caught up with me. The supercell moved in so fast, so alarmingly, I couldn’t take the breather I had wanted after the 4,000ft climb over 4 miles. The top was bare and had been burnt before, but had huge piles of huge boulders, outcrops large enough to possibly find coverage. I got to the first outcrop and sat under a partial overhang for 5 minutes before the storm and the rain curtains arrived. I was too exposed, so I bolted out from under the boulder. I needed to get lower somehow. I decided to get to the saddle below that had larger trees for protection. I ran as thunder clapped above me, my adrenaline at full tilt. Using my trekking poles for stability I meandered and jumped along a rutted out channel of trail. Moving swiftly, at a trot, I finally found a large grove of large trees slightly off the downhill side of the saddle. With a widespread and thick canopy, with all the excitement passing above me, I huddled under the perfect tree to keep warm and dry. I waited for the storm to pass and I fell asleep in a crouched position. The wind picked up and I opened my eyes, feeling the tail end of the cell. I looked up and could see the directional tail of the curtains of rain. The worst was in front of me. I got up and left and began the next climb up the ridge. Luckily I couldn't move too fast with such a steep trail because I did not want to catch the tail end of that storm. However, as I neared the top, a smaller cell crashed in from the west. Crashing and booming, the profound clack deafened me and brought a ringing to my ears. The storm was directly overhead; I was in it. I found another large jumble of boulders with a better overhang than the previous outcrop. I slid under and stashed my poles away from me and jabbed the metal tips into the damp dirt just beneath the boulder. Lightning flashed and the drops got fatter and began pounding the ground. All the fat drops turned to dime sized hail that indented the dirt. I sat dryly under my overhang and watched the pieces of hail bounce once the ice ball hit the dirt. Soon enough, balls of hail rolled down and into my hovel. I grabbed a couple and sucked on the ice that almost instantly melted in my mouth. While picking up the hail that had accumulated around me, just as alarmingly as the storm had come the storm had vanished and pushed north. Now, a deafening silence ensued, ensued like an action of silence, like a river of silence. The silence was palpable, almost as threatening as the storm.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AQIQl2c4dS_x7LAgo3QoLFQDT-PJGiVWDEhC-fR894XIllIqnXFdwt4_uYdQ6P3HLsTLxD36w3r9ZddOuxToZDoh-YKE2WyQFDMOecCbT-QwuvWWxp-tQxG5KbNjiNuH3BojjvLEufMagGWkTvjQwyCS0eCkPZG8RLRWBvWJTaN6E3c-R1RAm8vN/s4032/IMG_4626.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AQIQl2c4dS_x7LAgo3QoLFQDT-PJGiVWDEhC-fR894XIllIqnXFdwt4_uYdQ6P3HLsTLxD36w3r9ZddOuxToZDoh-YKE2WyQFDMOecCbT-QwuvWWxp-tQxG5KbNjiNuH3BojjvLEufMagGWkTvjQwyCS0eCkPZG8RLRWBvWJTaN6E3c-R1RAm8vN/w400-h300/IMG_4626.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hiked onward, still seeing the storm ahead of me zooming into the northern skies. I left the ridge at a saddle on a somewhat good trail. That's how it goes in these wild parts. Wildfires burn and burn widespread areas and leave a destroyed and barren landscape. Wildlife survives and finds a way, new plant life emerges and changes the looks of the land, water melts and flows unimpeded without a viable root system of the trees and lack of topsoil -- the landscape changes so drastically after a devastating wildfire. Then, a hiker encounters a lush forest at the burn scar boundary and instantly follows a good trail. I made up some time on this decent trail that wiggled through dense forest and lush meadows. I had lost some time dodging and taking cover from the storms throughout the day. I had to make up for some time somewhere. I knew losing a few hours here and there would affect my food rationing, so I hiked on into the evening under foreboding skies. Cumulus clouds circled back and I began to look for cover in a forested area. Raindrops pelted my tarp tumultuously, as I laid down nervously in a hollowed out swale not too suitable for a camp. I had no choice, nonetheless, and I slunk into my quilt as flashes of lightning upticked the pounding of rain onto my tarp.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">At some point in the night, the rain ceased and I woke up to everything being damp from the moist air and the dripping trees. I got up a little antsy not knowing what the day would bring. Would I continue to dodge storms amidst destroyed trails? How many trees would I have to climb over today? Both thoughts gave me an unending feeling of anxiety. I brushed away the greenery soaked from the previous night's rain that lined the trail. A carwash is what us thru-hikers call it. And, I was in the midst of a thorough drenching. Of course, I encountered a burn area. I hiked, scrambled, and picked my way through the burn area over hundreds of downed deadfall. The trail was gone and I followed only the contours of my map and of the terrain. While hopscotching over treacherous downed trees, I gouged my shin on a stob. I let out a yelp in the cool morning air and a young bull elk leapt from some thick brush about a 100ft away from me. He sprinted away, but then began to act strangely. He kept flanking back by me as if some territorial behavior of a perceived threat, or out of just plain curiosity. Maybe I was the first human this young bull elk had encountered. His odd behavior continued for about two miles up the drainage all within the burn area. These two miles went by slowly and I felt to really gather an experience with this young bull. I could see his ratty fur and short and stubby tines. I was amazed at how easily he traversed through the ravaged terrain simply hopping and jumping over piles and piles of logs. I excruciatingly kept on trying to keep pace. He would stop and wait for me to get within that 100ft barrier and then leap away. After those slow two miles, he crossed the creek and disappeared from me forever. A mile or so later, I stumbled out of the burn scar with my shin welting up with a bloody contusion. Then, with the snap of a finger, I was back on a better trail, the memory of the young bull elk supplanted with a knotty contusion..</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGxt1cy-Lr2e4g1Ey1ImarSjTRHHQPAN41abjNY-wLoUK6Fq_4M4hKyQ0Dz4nmf4auQWQyOT_xndfYBEQ3zcRpTIYDw9OOSvA4EdQMLyIJJb41IrqLM0BoFhyb5dqYyRZaMXjckjmuZn9eDiQoADR8D-LyEJYk5lv_-Mn9YxDQIugdlSJ8zCVKcCP/s4032/IMG_4655.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGxt1cy-Lr2e4g1Ey1ImarSjTRHHQPAN41abjNY-wLoUK6Fq_4M4hKyQ0Dz4nmf4auQWQyOT_xndfYBEQ3zcRpTIYDw9OOSvA4EdQMLyIJJb41IrqLM0BoFhyb5dqYyRZaMXjckjmuZn9eDiQoADR8D-LyEJYk5lv_-Mn9YxDQIugdlSJ8zCVKcCP/w400-h300/IMG_4655.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Later in the day spiraling down Moose Ridge, I was close on the heels of something. I couldn't pick out what I was following but I guessed by the overturned leaves around shin level that I was within an hour or so of a bear or Coyote and Dre. My tracking sense turned on and I spied out the ground in front of me looking for footprints, even the tiniest bit of evidence. The long descent dropped 5,000ft to the Selway River below. I scurried on trying to catch what was ahead of me, as my ears popped and my knees swelled up from the pounding of a steep downhill. I had a feeling it would be Coyote and Dre, though I couldn't be sure. From a bald point I could see the giant X of an airfield situated a couple thousand feet below me. I heard a slight hum in the air and saw a prop plane zigzag around the vast empty space above the airfield and coast in for a smooth landing. I enjoyed observing the landing, like a kid watching a model train go along the model tracks. Soon, I crossed the Selway on a long suspension bridge and hastened my pace. I was excited to reach the Moose Creek Ranger Station situated on the broad bar of the confluence of the Selway River and wide Moose Creek. I had arranged a package to be flown in along with a Montana Conservation Corps' backcountry immersion crew's resupply. So, my thoughts were trained on food, besides meeting the MCC crew that held the package. As I neared the Ranger Station within a hundred yards or so, I saw two figures standing in front of the main building. I deduced from their stature and their outerwear that I had caught up to Coyote and Dre. I smiled and waved and they waved back. I trotted on to the cabin.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMwsSewKi3YSwjQ4o8yJrIULy_kuFgcoCdkmCkDEsVeZl-_Sz6vUuImXR-ixCX6mV3nl4pqxZbawydkcUSYoT6NjlzcXAceJNxKQw5cR-NXADEQg0_6lVxbpuxu49gvYQrPmiydvs4BLPaVotVGJetHTJr54KKAeBBiEjAtQRTGqtQlEQZR7YB8iA/s4032/IMG_4659.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMwsSewKi3YSwjQ4o8yJrIULy_kuFgcoCdkmCkDEsVeZl-_Sz6vUuImXR-ixCX6mV3nl4pqxZbawydkcUSYoT6NjlzcXAceJNxKQw5cR-NXADEQg0_6lVxbpuxu49gvYQrPmiydvs4BLPaVotVGJetHTJr54KKAeBBiEjAtQRTGqtQlEQZR7YB8iA/w400-h300/IMG_4659.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In '06 I moved from Los Angeles to Billings, MT to serve a 10 month term in the MCC. I loved my experience so much I stayed for another 3 years. The program changed my life and proved to me that I could commit to something and follow through with it. I saw the value of the program in a young adult's life and how the program was a launching pad for the rest of their life. My experience in the MCC was like that: a launching pad. One of my favorite aspects of the MCC was the immersion crews, where 6-8 young adults went into a backcountry setting for 5 months on end. No cell service, no television, no city visits, just immersion in a vast wilderness with 6-8 strangers all working on a trail crew busting their asses in every type of condition. This experience was gnarly and one I had been most fond of when I was at the MCC. It just seemed the crews came out as such different and stronger people afterwards. The growth appeared profound. All these years later, too, I have remained in close contact with a friend I worked with in the MCC. Cliff has been a sturdy friend in my life the past 10 years. So, when I put the ICT trip together I reached out to him about any MMC immersion crews that were in the Frank Church Complex, in particular based out of Moose Creek Ranger Station. He then put me in contact with another MCC office that had a crew set to embark on their backcountry stint. After I shipped my package to the Missoula MCC office, my package then hitched a ride on a backcountry prop plane, similar to the one I had observed flying in way above on Moose Ridge. As I strutted up to the cabin Coyote and Dre hailed me in and out of the cabin came a couple of crew members with my box. Turns out I had, indeed, been following Coyote and Dre and they had only arrived about 30 minutes before me here at the cabin. We circled up on the lawn and chatted feverish away, our jaws flapping over the social encounter with so much to talk about. Coyote, Dre, and I yapped about our Frank Church and Selway-Bitterroot experience. We compared scraped shins and tattered gear. We created huge yarns of wildlife sightings and fierce lightning storms. I overlapped that conversation with getting to know the friendly crew members. I gutted my food box and divided up the goodies and treats I had had for the crew. Rice Krispie treats, chocolate bars, coffee, licorice, and a big plastic baggie of organic chili mac. I was so pleased over their excitement, and I could tell they had a wild glare after a month in the backcountry with the same food, the same tough work, and the same people. They were just about hardened and still glowing in that honeymoon phase. A rain cloud hovered over us and a few drops fell. We hurried inside to avoid a soaking. A buzz of activity came about as other crew members arrived and introduced themselves, as well as a University of Montana fire ecology crew. We were the stars amongst the stars there at Moose Creek Ranger Station, while I looked at the crew as the stars knowing their experience was just beginning. The MCC crew offered us up a huge pieced together meal of hot leftovers, some pasta and rice, while the fire ecology crew dashed us over a couple of beers. Our obsequious hosts just regaled us with our immediate needs. We scarfed down the dinner and soaked up the beers, and as the storm passed by us, we knew it was time to beat feet and go on and find ourselves a camp further up the trail. We said our goodbyes and wished everyone a great season, so grateful for their work out there and their help to us. We bade them farewell and a great summer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTR6py3bij0fb9b0D2nK0XZ3mhOGzUl-wuzvBBedoAyuxPtTsoCoY-3qy3JSyTvK03lAFQ4ttUGTrKdJAxvSaqA8S-wkPXAlrCN3S3VIS3kZu13EDlz1YtkN30i6_wcQ70TDTaofHqD8xVhhJFix0SVJdAFrjpRe_7prEG9jsq96-BMeeVbIot9Y64/s4032/IMG_4665.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTR6py3bij0fb9b0D2nK0XZ3mhOGzUl-wuzvBBedoAyuxPtTsoCoY-3qy3JSyTvK03lAFQ4ttUGTrKdJAxvSaqA8S-wkPXAlrCN3S3VIS3kZu13EDlz1YtkN30i6_wcQ70TDTaofHqD8xVhhJFix0SVJdAFrjpRe_7prEG9jsq96-BMeeVbIot9Y64/w400-h300/IMG_4665.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We woke up the next morning tucked away in the trees adjacent to a soggy meadow. Coyote spotted a moose on the other side of the creek, a young one that galloped away from him. We packed up and hiked away from camp through the damp and tall grass, the mackerel clouds hanging low in the valley. We had heard a Forest Service trail crew was currently up the North Fork of Moose Creek clearing trail and retreading the neglected pathway. The corridor started off that way, just saying. We were having early morning conversations, quiet yet giddy, for we were happy to be around one another. Really, this was the first company each of us had had on trail so far. We reminisced about our time in Stanley together, the conditions of the trail when they first started, my knee injury...all that shit. I mean, we basically got to know each other in a half day more than most people get to know each other over a span of years. Our mood was high. That's how it is with trail life. Everything matters so much because you are living in the moment. Every minute decision has a consequence. You have an intense purpose in every action. You have no time not to be committed fully or not to be acting in full. One cannot afford to be lazy with intention; one must act in earnest. We plowed on through tall undergrowth that drenched our bottom halves. Literally, we were plowing ahead. Sometimes we hopped a giant log, most times we fought through tall and thick brush, and yet we forged away even when more often than not we couldn't even see the path we were walking on. We kept going and going, following each other with cheerful conversation through worse and worse trail. Even with our outset from Moose Creek expecting better trails, we were resilient, almost immune to the rigor of the overgrowth. Nonetheless, after four consecutive days of tremdous effort, four consecutive days of hopping, crawling, climbing, straddling, scaling, scooching, poking, snapping, clawing -- over and under or around or atop or through thousands of downed trees, our shins turned to leather stropped and willowed like animal hide, our fortitude weakened and exacerbated with electric thunderstorms atop isolated knobs, dodging the downpours, non-existent trails just hairy with brush and wreak-havoced by a fire scarred landscape, throw in a couple sketchy creek crossings -- the fucking Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness became a matter of survival. And now, as much as the trail ahead of us in the North Fork drainage got worse, we laughed harder. I believed we all knew in that moment that nature doesn’t care -- thrashed shins, countless downed trees, high water, our determination through the chaos -- whatever it was, nature simply does not give a fuck. This is why I love nature truly and wholly. It does not love me back and, only then, do I understand fully the definition and philosophy of love. Everything in that moment, everything felt so damn perfect, simply brutally perfect. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxobKP2yY5BTeDvfx2ZUlTKpzYxsKVfq9iGwH0iFWKSd6iuKkY0DXmKR0UR9Blw2xgw-0hKUTuTMLrgIWxhKw25W7obdY5GvdWMstxxri3i6y8LVQgBdapI-u7Vw-c59y2S0hXuc7eeHsh3PQ7c9-1V0UxUbDtg7XVsaNtepw39JMw4N4KeQUyZCa/s4032/IMG_4672.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxobKP2yY5BTeDvfx2ZUlTKpzYxsKVfq9iGwH0iFWKSd6iuKkY0DXmKR0UR9Blw2xgw-0hKUTuTMLrgIWxhKw25W7obdY5GvdWMstxxri3i6y8LVQgBdapI-u7Vw-c59y2S0hXuc7eeHsh3PQ7c9-1V0UxUbDtg7XVsaNtepw39JMw4N4KeQUyZCa/w400-h300/IMG_4672.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We intercepted the crossing of the North Fork of Moose Creek around mid morning. Coyote was a few minutes behind me and Dre a few more minutes behind Coyote. I plunged right in eyeing the line across the wide creek. I could see the line break across the undulating waves where the creek funneled in and pushed through a deeper zone. The sun had crested the ridge behind us and the trees casted a shadow right on that fast channel that divided the river in two, the sunny side and the shady side. I got to the channel and felt the power of the water from underneath trying to sweep my feet out from under me. At this point the water was up to my mid thigh, yet I felt under control. I was reading the creek like a book, page by page, ripple by ripple. I propped and jammed my trekking poles into some secure pockets beneath some tire-sized boulders. I looked back to the crossing point from where I came some 20 feet away. Coyote trotted to the gravelly shore where the trail terminated into the water. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I yelled over the roaring water, 'THIS SPOT RIGHT HERE, THIS IS THE CRUX. THE CURRENT IS STRONG.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Coyote nodded in understanding, his brow furrowed in concentration. I could see in his eyes he craved this exact situation. I continued picking my way across the tumbling creek, the rest of the way as wide as a city street. I reached the other shore where the trail picked back up. I took off my pack and propped myself up on a rock to film with my phone Coyote and Dre crossing the creek, my trekking poles close at hand just in case I needed to spring into action. In Stanley, the three of us had had breakfast together. The duo had appeared a little shell-shocked from the trail conditions they had experienced in the Sawtooths (amazingly high snow levels and water content and runoff) and in the Frank Church (incredibly high flood waters blocking their way in). From that conversation in Stanley to our camp conversation the night before, I had a feeling they may have felt a little repercussion from those hairy events they had experienced. On many, many trails over thousands and thousands of miles, I have seen some hairy shit. I have been in their shoes once and I knew what to expect and what I was capable of. They absolutely had the capability and just needed confidence especially through experience. And, now directly in front of them raged a deep creek with strong currents and many strong rapids. Coyote had waited for Dre and they entered the water together after devising a plan. I had wanted Coyote to see the line that I took. I wanted them to take the same line, too, because I could see it was the safest line. Coyote led her out into the knee deep water where one could see the width of the creek in full view where the roar of the creek became deafening. Dre's trekking poles began to tremble in the swift current, as she leaned in upriver. Coyote shadowed her from behind with only one trekking pole, as his other one had lost the tension in the clip that tightened and held the rod into place within the extended length of the pole and now lived in his water bottle pocket on his backpack. They side-stepped over slowly facing upriver and leaned in with the weight of the backpack on their backs. Slowly and methodically they sidled over. A long minute had lapsed on the video mode of my phone. And... then they both came to a halt, just about 10 feet shy of the area that I had called the crux and had yelled at Coyote to be aware of. They both remained in the deep shadows of the other side. Coyote turned his head and looked at me nervously. His glare had changed and I could see he was at a somewhat impasse, like he was unsure of his stature and balance in the creek while sensing the tightness of Dre at his immediate arm's reach. I put down my phone in a dry spot. He continued to turn his head in every direction looking for foot placement in the creek, his left and poleless arm calmly flailing. I could tell he was trying to keep the calm out there, so as to not stir up any panic. I trudged into the creek at an angle slightly behind the two and set a vector to walk up stream while angling over. Dre remained focused on the water directly and below her. I thought she looked like she was stuck in tunnel vision. Coyote spotted me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a nervous grin. I thought he looked like he had no place else to go. He looked stuck. I had a feeling they needed some support, some encouragement. I started trudging across and reached a spot more than passed midway and right before the crux. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGNn_A6ll4OyFQ9nj75r7VfzCCrYU_oEVoB2FIZYrY4tATICm65APZaY3MORDhimNzhPf-KBlobTRSKRgKg4w3wa7T4H5SpBZtGrrfdhp6v5kIQ4K380ry_Ttufl-5nmz8y2NJ216OV-y-Kn_PEkUtDZBiwitce7XTF5aQYlTIlGa7zi0pRlBHmIE/s4032/IMG_4674.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGNn_A6ll4OyFQ9nj75r7VfzCCrYU_oEVoB2FIZYrY4tATICm65APZaY3MORDhimNzhPf-KBlobTRSKRgKg4w3wa7T4H5SpBZtGrrfdhp6v5kIQ4K380ry_Ttufl-5nmz8y2NJ216OV-y-Kn_PEkUtDZBiwitce7XTF5aQYlTIlGa7zi0pRlBHmIE/w400-h300/IMG_4674.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dre yelled out: YOU'RE COMING BACK</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got behind a decent sized boulder where the water rushed around the swole hump of the boulder. The water came up to my waist, but I had control. I locked my left foot in place, my shoe braced and wedged between some smooth rocks. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'YOTE, TAKE MY POLE.' </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I CAN'T MOVE. I CAN'T REACH.' I maneuvered to him just a few feet more and extended my arm out with the tip of my pole in hand. Coyote reached out as far as he could, as his neck strained. I inched a tad closer and he squeezed the pole in his hand. As he grabbed the pole his other hand came out of the water with a shortened pole. He had been stranded in that high water without a pole to brace himself. He had been stuck. Dre looked back at the maneuver. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'YOU NEED A POLE. HERE, TAKE MINE.' With an act of love she was willing to sacrifice her safety for the safety of her partner. I, then, noticed that Coyote wasn't just stuck, rather he was protecting his partner. These seconds slowed down to me, time oozed to a slo-mo clip of an action scene in a movie that conjures up deep emotion. I could see each movement slowly, their love for each other passing unto each other within their own river of love. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'NO, DRE, KEEP THE POLE.' She turned back around. 'LEAN! LEAN! FOCUS DRE! FOCUS!' </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Coyote looked at me, 'WHAT ABOUT YOU?' </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'LOOK AT ME,' waving my arms showing my stability in where I stood in the middle of the creek. 'I'M GOOD, JUST GET TO ME,' as I handed him my other pole.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They began to move slowly and steadily, carefully. I continued sternly yelling with encouragement. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'LEAN FORWARD, YOUR ALMOST THERE, FOCUS, LEAN FORWARD, LEAN, FOCUS.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They got to my area. Coyote looked at me with relief. He gave me back one of the poles and we trundled on to the other side. On the soft sand, we all looked at each other. Dre looked incredibly pumped. Coyote looked like a concerned partner, and I felt ecstatic. I could see their eyes wide and white, their legs pink and red from the cold, their cheeks flushed with excitement.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Let it out, if you have to.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I feel like that time I was a vet tech and a dog bit me violently,' Dre blurted. 'Well, shit, scream!' She let out the exhaust of adrenaline. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Let's walk for an hour, then let's talk about it.' We sauntered on with soggy shoes and feet, back into the overgrowth and the log-hopping.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Life is an act in progress with constant change. Characters change, you change, the stage changes, curtains close and open again and again. Within, one must stay flexible and rid the mind of rigidity. One must not confuse that rigidity for discipline or belief. With that, one must not be lazy about this act of life. Sure, it’s fine to lower expectations. In fact, I think it’s a sign of humility, even malleability. But, to be lazy only reinforces incredulity. If you cannot believe in what you are doing, then why do it at all. Life in the act of progress should not be hastened. Life is not of progress, however; life is growth and change. Age is only the tag under the collar that signifies the size of the shirt. Time is a concept that should only be looked at through the prism of gratitude. We cannot change things. We can only forgive. We can only be grateful. We can only leave it all behind. We can only love. We should only be supple. We should only kill off laziness and the rigid mind. To get stuck in trying to change things, to change time, one diminishes, one diminishes the act of life. We should only love truthfully, and live with love wholly. Whose time and life is one trying to waste anyways? Why waste the act of life? Has time passed you by? Or have you passed time?<br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Where had I been all these months drowning in my sorrow? Where did I go? Being around Dre and Coyote reminded me of how naturally positive I am, how indefatigably resistant to negativity I could be, how resilient and determined I am, almost overwhelmingly so. They provided me with the reminder of how much enthusiasm and energy I have for life, that pure and simple joy and love of nature and adventure. Seeing them look at me and I wanted to teach, to help, to inspire, just to anyone who would listen. Those moments I had with Dre and Coyote provided me with joy and purpose.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After our lunch debriefing, we parted ways. We hugged and said farewell not knowing what would happen on the rest of the trail and if we would all see each other again or not. I camped that night on Fish Creek Pass that held expansive views of the surrounding Bitterroot Range. I soaked up a sunset and sunrise, just smothered in pinks and oranges and purples. I looked down towards Fish Creek Lake and the airfield and scanned for Coyote and Dre. I could see no sign of the two. I recounted my food rations and I lost hope in thinking I could make it another 6 days with the appropriate amount of food. The recent trail conditions had me playing it safe. I could not afford to pull up short into town a full day short of food. I packed up my shelter and stuff and headed down the Boulder Creek Trail knowing I had to hitchhike into a resort 20m to the west along a weaving and quiet highway. I was cool with it, too. This is where life has led me. I will follow the path of life and acknowledge the harmony of randomness. I will follow the sign and heed the call of my pumping blood. I ain't dead yet. I trotted on excited for a meal, excited for a shower and a bed. At the highway, I scribbled a note on a kiosk to Coyote and Dre: SHORT ON FOOD, WENT TO 3 RIVERS. SEE YOU THERE. (:</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3j_ME8xFjXsWbhdI27c9iIFe7Z-3fMhcXv_V5WMGACZBtBVvKVUny3CH-HqQpZww9HFGJiS8T2sylvKs-xYRLZh2-wl7zYdvIo6lrefE5jk25tWyU6U8EexWQvVSbCdEY1OGALSV1GEgoO-RkUbF7CuQTXArmpF5_CK3ArO-CkmxMT_eki_1FpbXk/s4032/IMG_4667.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3j_ME8xFjXsWbhdI27c9iIFe7Z-3fMhcXv_V5WMGACZBtBVvKVUny3CH-HqQpZww9HFGJiS8T2sylvKs-xYRLZh2-wl7zYdvIo6lrefE5jk25tWyU6U8EexWQvVSbCdEY1OGALSV1GEgoO-RkUbF7CuQTXArmpF5_CK3ArO-CkmxMT_eki_1FpbXk/w400-h300/IMG_4667.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Z9noEiQxeqRm9L5eSWoYqf4du2XVIFVSEl9CNlJmhJL2wrJkcscm8DQ6IHZPpMJLA7FB4IWDneYntmgNhKi0Qs5hrYoRAWGB4jTIYIJHd4JPu6Z4If3DR86Tw1iMS-xIsJYPlnjVoHytIJdWhrTTi3Rla7DDpjUgk9pcKc0N9OQjRZH5rDq_8UWv/s4032/IMG_4628.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Z9noEiQxeqRm9L5eSWoYqf4du2XVIFVSEl9CNlJmhJL2wrJkcscm8DQ6IHZPpMJLA7FB4IWDneYntmgNhKi0Qs5hrYoRAWGB4jTIYIJHd4JPu6Z4If3DR86Tw1iMS-xIsJYPlnjVoHytIJdWhrTTi3Rla7DDpjUgk9pcKc0N9OQjRZH5rDq_8UWv/w400-h300/IMG_4628.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbvsPm9gLB-zgnFCrGzS6I2pF5UHlNCXJ_Sw663mS4j6EU3YvbwfwjgazBye0qbb-Gruau4shp6pS38ORDlrAXY6E1xznbiKzgrtVDOy1m5zRrXRjr3QW5EVIztBftRByEA8zMeMHTH4JbPn7x_OYq016O7L8leqVWLKDURds3M6em-qfBFwtqxrx/s4032/IMG_4621.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbvsPm9gLB-zgnFCrGzS6I2pF5UHlNCXJ_Sw663mS4j6EU3YvbwfwjgazBye0qbb-Gruau4shp6pS38ORDlrAXY6E1xznbiKzgrtVDOy1m5zRrXRjr3QW5EVIztBftRByEA8zMeMHTH4JbPn7x_OYq016O7L8leqVWLKDURds3M6em-qfBFwtqxrx/w400-h300/IMG_4621.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-19914846474144593912022-08-07T07:38:00.003-07:002022-08-07T07:38:47.450-07:00 Chapter 10: The Frank Church Vision Quest<p><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><b>Idaho Centennial Trail 2022</b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAzG1DGImlEI1P8XEv9c9KvOjlCiCROFfvVvn-ZCDwMbqJUA6-407jhZmcFXXEdcYm5Ihx4sbcIStL5Hn4NJS1jNCOVXERXlkUvq_wgQr10osLvOruvF-4sKKNz-ZHjjFo8IsKCiOeNz2TYug9hyJ3RDT67cZ0aAMdbqef1dvAI1hepLSewlgPcZj/s1440/34A178AD-D481-4B38-A6D9-A22E7517C7E7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAzG1DGImlEI1P8XEv9c9KvOjlCiCROFfvVvn-ZCDwMbqJUA6-407jhZmcFXXEdcYm5Ihx4sbcIStL5Hn4NJS1jNCOVXERXlkUvq_wgQr10osLvOruvF-4sKKNz-ZHjjFo8IsKCiOeNz2TYug9hyJ3RDT67cZ0aAMdbqef1dvAI1hepLSewlgPcZj/w400-h300/34A178AD-D481-4B38-A6D9-A22E7517C7E7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">When I was 12 years old, my brother and I had moved with my grandparents from Las Vegas to the small desert town of Mojave. My first day of junior high, a tiny dusty and windblown school on the western expanse of the Mojave Desert plain, I had a rock thrown at me from a bully and his flunkies. The rock hit me on the side of the end, just above my temple. I had been playing basketball alone at lunch recess. Barely halfway through my first day and I already had to look over my shoulder. At the first break, Malachi saw his girlfriend approach me at the basketball courts. Innocently, she was curious about who I was, where I was from, and if I knew what the desert was. I had not thought about any of those questions before. This was my 6th school in less than a year and a half and I still had not gotten used to being the new kid in school. I did, however, get used to floating around by myself with a basketball in hand, really just being the odd kid out alone. I had to answer questions politely to fit in, if I could. Luckily, the rock missed my temple, but I still stumbled and had to brace my fall with my right forearm on the ground. Stars twinkled above me and I felt the wind whistling through my head, the hot Mojave Desert wind, the kind that blows right through your hollow soul. I took a deep breath, regained an upward stance, and collected myself. I turned and went towards Malachi, shoulders square with intent. He was nearly the same size as me, and with his flunkies close by, I knew he felt pretty cock sure in his position. I narrowed my gaze, unfrazzled, without showing any teeth. His jaw went up pridefully. He wanted me to try and do something. I noticed the pole of the court behind him within a few feet. Rather than throw a punch I knew he would be ready for, I pushed him square in the shoulders knocking him off balance. He stumbled back and hit the back of his head on the pole. His flunkies helped him up and they stormed off, Malachi not even glancing back at me.</span></p><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandpa collected aluminum cans. Sometimes he would go for walks by himself, sometimes he would drive around the local markets and shops and scrounge in the garbage cans for cans. Sometimes he would send us out. I wondered if he would send my brother and I out on these missions just to get us out of the house. We would wander the desert pavement between the creosotes for hours on end. The wind would howl incessantly, our clothes becoming dusty and crunchy with pale dirt. The sun would blister our necks and forearms, our legs protected from the dusty coat of the desert. We carried large 30 gallon garbage bags and just meandered in between the neighborhood and the highway, the field a vast expanse of a barren desert wasteland filled with blown trash from the Los Angeles travelers. We found such a variety of trash, such shit from society, the dandruff of the city -- cans, dolls, condoms, beer bottles, broken glass, toys of all sorts. Sometimes, we would catch a king snake and find a rattlesnake for it to tangle with. We captured horned lizards and fed them ants. We poked scorpions with long and brittle sticks teasing their pincers annoyingly. Once, I found a kennel with 3 dead puppies inside, abandoned by some asshole. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsS4oD0GV3V3GrHFM1VOURd2nevQ3n6OUVG6l9tGLQtaHjtaSV6kkMbAdjAFk81Kdtoe4VKXz8T3jZUnGzgXg7Rj4tj0QZj6TV5u9EfJSwuNGKPFRhMrKjHdzBbFqxeZKdjMYipFP6PXQOaYs96mZVckIw7A8ZDdTmq3KjP5u_DGNiox5skyv-WTa/s1440/D212683E-1ED5-4538-A1E7-E3CEECFFFAEC.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsS4oD0GV3V3GrHFM1VOURd2nevQ3n6OUVG6l9tGLQtaHjtaSV6kkMbAdjAFk81Kdtoe4VKXz8T3jZUnGzgXg7Rj4tj0QZj6TV5u9EfJSwuNGKPFRhMrKjHdzBbFqxeZKdjMYipFP6PXQOaYs96mZVckIw7A8ZDdTmq3KjP5u_DGNiox5skyv-WTa/w400-h300/D212683E-1ED5-4538-A1E7-E3CEECFFFAEC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">A few days later after the Malachi incident, I was sent on a can collecting mission alone, my brother some place else with new found friends. As late afternoon began to drift into dusk, I zig-zagged through the creosote</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"> until I got to the highway. I had found a can here, a can there, but nothing out of the ordinary. I scurried across the busy highway dodging the weekend Las Vegas goers and scuttled towards the supermarket. I headed straight toward the large garbage bins in the back of the grocery store. I was surprised to find Malachi and his flunkies hanging around the bins smoking cigarettes. He glared at me, grimacing with an evil smile. He pulled a switchblade, as his flunkies began to chime in and surrounding me. I turned and bolted, with the group chasing after me. I held onto the garbage bag, the cans clattering with each stride against my thigh. I raced across the parking lot, careening between parked cars trying to shake the chasers loose. They had spread out and some of the flunkies had begun to flank me and angle towards me, cutting off some distance. I aimed straight toward the highway, and from my point of sight, I anticipated the angle and moment to hit the highway at full speed without getting pummeled by a vehicle. Wham! My left foot hit the pavement and I catapulted across not breaking stride in a straight beeline towards the other side, the garbage bag of cans clanking like the cans off of a rear bumper of a 'Just Married' couple's car. I hit the gravel, jumped a berm, and darted between the creosote. I was in coverage, in sidelong shade from the angling and setting sun, and I knew the bullies would not catch me. My adrenaline kept pulsing through my veins, my drive pushing and digging with each stride. Gravel dusted up and I fell into the rhythm of my breath now calm with the frantic pace. I was in freefall aiming towards the giant metal wind turbine monsters with the blinking red eyes. </span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, I heard huffing and puffing, like open-mouthed panting. A pitter-patter of clomping steps flanked from behind me on both sides. I twisted my neck to each side, not breaking stride. I spotted four coyotes at a full gallop, their tongues flapping off a corner of each of their mouths. Their bushy tails swishing in the air, bobbing with each elaborate stride. The coyotes gained ground and ran astride of me. They slowed a bit and pulled up alongside me, the whites of their eyes refulgent in the twilight and creased with the stationary movement of a crescent moon smothered by puffy clouds. The wild in their eyes scanned me, pulsing a primordial zap within my being. My stride lengthened. I tried to keep pace. I pumped my arms exhilarated at this sense of freedom. I lost track of time, of place; I just galloped instinctively feeling the magnetic pull of the coyotes. I blended in; I could hear the coyotes, feel them. Unsuspecting to me, the coyotes and I had angled towards the road leading into the neighborhood. The coyotes veered off to the north, slightly turning without breaking speed and into the darkness. I stopped at the road, the pavement as dark as night. I felt the warmth of the day that lingered on the pavement, the miasmic aura of bitumen. My feet absorbed that sun-beamed heat. I looked back to where the coyotes had broken off. I could see nothing, literally nothing. I scanned the darkness. Then, I saw headlights turning onto the lonely desert street from the highway about a mile east. I went back into the creosote feeling the cool of the air sinking onto the desert ground. My heart had calmed down and now I was smothered by a consciousness of emptiness, of a sensation of freedom that I had never experienced before, a sensation of an unending space. I sat on the ground and felt the darkness of night sink in. I had been cloaked by the void of freedom. I had entered the realm of the dreamscape. Oddly, I drifted to a soft voice that whispered in my head that asked the question: Do you know what the desert is? I jogged on to my grandparent's house, the garbage bag of cans shuffling against my hip. I knew my dreaming had begun within my waking life. I had to answer that question no matter where my life took me. Since then, I have had the recurring dream of running with coyotes.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjakce72Nbv0gVxZK982oRrWqEX3dmO93FXBA0WY8Pm4JZwGALLgtN5OBKTMyKqEbyw629rC7maOYjMFLuwkRIRdmKqk3I67zuZCw7h8M-8dPw1ZdZeJcvLsQKpBRdM5Xp6gGN2vWAq6iOjYydfJAVdty0YFwVf_z6mxU7V4eOHo7nRbcXuKlE4HDW3/s4032/IMG_4513.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjakce72Nbv0gVxZK982oRrWqEX3dmO93FXBA0WY8Pm4JZwGALLgtN5OBKTMyKqEbyw629rC7maOYjMFLuwkRIRdmKqk3I67zuZCw7h8M-8dPw1ZdZeJcvLsQKpBRdM5Xp6gGN2vWAq6iOjYydfJAVdty0YFwVf_z6mxU7V4eOHo7nRbcXuKlE4HDW3/w400-h300/IMG_4513.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I left Stanley without deliberation from a hangover. The next stretch would be long -- some 450 miles or so in a vast wilderness with only one pavement highway crossing, no cell service, two resupplies at a backcountry ranch and a ranger station, alone and heartbroken with a lingering knee issue. But, since I had committed fully a couple days at the bar, I was willing to stake it all. I knew I had to succumb to the journey that I was on. In 2015, I attempted an Idaho Centennial Trail thru-hike as part of a bigger adventure that I had aimed to highlight some of the least traveled areas —the NoName Route. That year, I was going through a divorce, a situation way worse than the one I was in. I had escaped the volatility and violent clutches of that painful marriage at some point in early August. I found myself at Interstate 80 at the truck stop town of Wells. I hiked northward under ominous skies with the scratches, bruises, and scars of a cat fight. I got into the Bruneau Desert amid 108 degree heat. I hiked like I had never hiked before -- 40 miles a day with only 2000 calories to spare for each day. I was broke, my money gone and given away, and broke of any close relationships. I was hiking like I was going to die on the trail. I got to Stanley around mid August. Hazy skies hung heavily with thick smoke in and above the valley. My fear of wildfires shutting my walk off had come true. Really, the closures meant I had to face my painful reality. I had nowhere to go, no one to go to, so I planned a way through the Frank Church that skirted the closures and wildfires. Chamberlain Basin was burning, closed to any traveler. I hiked around and got to the Main Fork of the Salmon River only to encounter even heavier smoke in the canyon and flames on the other side of the river. I understood what was happening and as soon as I hit the road near Whitewater Ranch I walked the 35 miles to Elk City. I came to value my life at that point. Maybe extreme loss coupled with not being able to do the very thing that made me even keel forced me with that decision: go on and die or deal with it. I am not an inherently selfish person— self-centered, yes — but I couldn’t fathom risking someone else’s life to save my dumbass. So, I escaped, both a marriage and a wildfire.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;">Needless to say, I had been waiting for the Frank Church ever since. This time I had open and blue skies and a dark and stormy heart. I had planned a different way to connect through to Chamberlain Basin because of my walking into Stanley to rest a weary and injured knee. Chamberlain Basin felt like this place that had been so inaccessible to me then, even now, that I believed I would find a secret there, a secret that would cure my inner wails. I hiked on slowly from Stanley, slowly enough to just think about the day solely in front me, to ponder at the bright blue sky and the pointy and glaring peaks of the Sawtooths, my imminent and present vision. I don't know -- I left a part of me in Stanley. Or, something fell away, broke off. I fell into a walking trance and became lulled asleep by the serpentine trail along the roaring Loon Creek. The tremendous shaking high volume of the swollen river invaded my head, as if I couldn't think of a thing, not even a song. I lost my inner voice, my conscious thought had gone hoarse. I heard the river screaming, sometimes bombarding me with rude belches, or serenading me with the sweet lilt of a charming brook. I undertook my cadence to blend in with the rush of the river. </span><span style="color: #454545;">I utilized the whole day, some 15 hours of daylight, to attain the mileage I needed without further injuring the knee, all in a flowing hypnotic state. My walking became the flow of the river and my thoughts became the roar. The roar was so deafening I could not hear myself think anymore. Probably the best thing for me. I stepped out of my skin and dove into the river. I stopped every chance I could to embrace the river. I splashed up handfuls of water as if throwing a comfortable blanket on my body on a nippy night. I yearned to be donned in the current of the river. I craved to have my skin crawling with the ripples of water. I was completely immersed.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLHFbGJcyhPohZJ_OhBjmPGdoDari4JLaEO_BXAPIXyP0DLMQZ7FJ-OdBUuVNsQ2W-dEPKF0mNV8vX8RG5VH8kGQepjOf6GvnILhR2EwLeRykipj5OplGngNB7xFm8yWdvQ0Sr6KQZxgr-zez7sf-SZQGrCoicP5Qr9fFQMQOHvLJ4-klahB5lNiWo/s4032/IMG_4512.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLHFbGJcyhPohZJ_OhBjmPGdoDari4JLaEO_BXAPIXyP0DLMQZ7FJ-OdBUuVNsQ2W-dEPKF0mNV8vX8RG5VH8kGQepjOf6GvnILhR2EwLeRykipj5OplGngNB7xFm8yWdvQ0Sr6KQZxgr-zez7sf-SZQGrCoicP5Qr9fFQMQOHvLJ4-klahB5lNiWo/w400-h300/IMG_4512.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">I stepped out of the Loon Creek portal and into the furnace of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The canyon was very wide, the river too. The river lumbered with the heavy weight of all the creeks that had drained into it. That lumbering went over massive river boulders that bulged up from underneath. In swift marrow sections, I would hear the clanking and booming of boulders being pushed by the undercurrent. An occasional rafting party would float on by, not noticing me high above the trail that cut into hillsides and rock above the river. In one massive gorge, I watched rafters tumble over the huge rapids wedged within the gorge. I could only see the rafters mouth out yells at each other as the rapids bounced off the jagged walls. Sweating profusely, I stopped and leaned against a rock wall in the shade to watch the rafters tackle the rapids. After a minute or so, I continued on on the undulating seam of the trail above the river. The reverberation shook the walls and my head. I hadn't known any other sound in seemingly forever; I was drowning in the roar. Sweat beaded up on my forehead and dripped and streamed down my face. The water I had left to drink had become very warm, almost gagging to drink. I muscled the hot water down and ran out. The heat became oppressive, as the rafters went floating by in the middle of the river down a spindrift chute. </span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;">Finally, the long casting shadows cooled the scorching canyon down. Up a tight ravine the trail switchbacked up until the meandering path topped out at a hogback 1,000ft above the river. A strong breeze cooled me off, the noise of the river noticeably gone. My ears rang out as I took a resting spell nestled under a small ponderosa. The shadows continued to cast, getting longer and longer, as the sun kept lowering on the western serrated horizon. With the roar of the river gone, I finally took a moment to assess my physical body and mental state -- any ticks, how's my water intake, are you eating enough with the blasted heat, how is your knee, is there anything swirling around in that head of yours? I felt remarkably calm, seriously, like the calmest in months upon months. My body almost felt sore from the lack of reverb from the river, my head slightly tingling without the deafening roar. I just felt clear-headed. After 30 minutes or so, I almost leapt up from my nestled position and shot down the trail. The rafting groups began to settle on the beaches along the river. I hung above the groups and silently avoided any potential interactions. I felt glor</span>iously isolated. I had chosen a portal that put me in the big wide world where I was present in the present moment, my whole being simply being. From afar I would watch the activity of the rafting camps as I drifted by. I even strode by a backcountry ranch with tourists playing dude. Rifle shots rang out, the American flag waved up high on a wooden pole, and the tired horses grazed in a verdant field after a long day of carrying those tourists. I traveled onward hoping to find a beach camp so as to take a dip into the cooling waters, as the air still clung with the day's heat.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcvVinM9RW2aJaLPP8i8f-cirGE7clEYqu0LOz8yz5TBrhagNha9M_H4yr3gbsaCxxWejdCPTcqTWYIXprusnJ8RsJYcYq1_sFIHJJPpZ63JMWXTZKNxxrzoqnRITtCyyz91Des3ix7bE6culj_CV7b-CXI9TdYocZZGLLV-bSDtKXrQR7RH65aqh/s4032/IMG_4534.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcvVinM9RW2aJaLPP8i8f-cirGE7clEYqu0LOz8yz5TBrhagNha9M_H4yr3gbsaCxxWejdCPTcqTWYIXprusnJ8RsJYcYq1_sFIHJJPpZ63JMWXTZKNxxrzoqnRITtCyyz91Des3ix7bE6culj_CV7b-CXI9TdYocZZGLLV-bSDtKXrQR7RH65aqh/w400-h300/IMG_4534.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I found a quiet and vacant beach. I felt the silence sink and I went down a few steps to the river. I crouched down and splashed my face, neck, and arms. The river slowly crept by hugging the contours of sunken boulders, the width of the river stemming on some ledged limestone cliffs. Dusk approached from above and pushed onto the surface of the water a shadowy hand, the river losing its sparkle. I traced a path with my eyes of the moving water and I took an unplanned tiny nap in my crouched position. A boulder clanged into another boulder, a clapping sound echoing from the cliffs across the river. I opened my eyes quickly and fell back on my rear end in the sand. I took off my shoes, socks, and shirt and slithered a couple feet to the shore and sat there in the cool waters of the river. Again, I fell asleep. I must have been exhausted. The Steely Dan song drifted into the front of my head from a deep recess in the back of my head. The song faded in and repeated two times and slowly drifted away and faded back in my mind from where it came from.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you reelin' in the years?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stowin' away the time</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you gatherin' up the tears?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Have you had enough of mine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you reelin' in the years?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stowin' away the time</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you gatherin' up the tears?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Have you had enough of mine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLwb2lJLyr6tmKJjO2SxmNjWtDl4qJ1_ERMfwzpITVv4TopxEfA2pO0p5fQmhkegJtSZu2jdnMa6J3lv4AvSS4uisMAzEyyzkV7gk0K0-oBvFmZyOEyv0pbzhK58ATQ6vCHd2RP3cXWLkWg5zylyRwms6B0CS-sxBuIypNnt2imMohheMyHzXEUji/s1440/F00F9ACB-B6FC-4B1B-BA6E-EBC43926E915.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLwb2lJLyr6tmKJjO2SxmNjWtDl4qJ1_ERMfwzpITVv4TopxEfA2pO0p5fQmhkegJtSZu2jdnMa6J3lv4AvSS4uisMAzEyyzkV7gk0K0-oBvFmZyOEyv0pbzhK58ATQ6vCHd2RP3cXWLkWg5zylyRwms6B0CS-sxBuIypNnt2imMohheMyHzXEUji/w400-h300/F00F9ACB-B6FC-4B1B-BA6E-EBC43926E915.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had a full morning left of the Middle Fork before turning up-canyon at Big Creek. I had slept soundly because the river had soothed me. No dreams, just flashes of visions of the landscape of the Frank. My nightmares had ceased since I had left Stanley. Since Stanley, I had felt free of anything, even myself. To boot, my knee had not hurt since Stanley either. I almost felt normal again. The morning felt refreshingly cool and the long shadows came from the eastern reaches high above. Long ridgelines extended from a mountain divide thousands of feet higher. One could only see a glimpse of the depth of the canyon,<span style="color: #454545;"> </span><span style="color: #454545;">it just seems like the land goes on forever here.</span> <span style="color: #454545;">I find it hard to imagine these swollen rivers and creeks at their headwaters. </span>The river wiggled its way through narrows and gorges, wide valleys and beaches, and meadows and basins. Creeks of all sizes dumped into the Middle Fork, none bigger than Big Creek. <span style="color: #454545;">Up the gorge, the roar of rushing water came back. The mountains sprouted straight up precipitously from the canyon floor. This only made the huge creek deafening. The side canyons rose dramatically craggy and almost everywhere I looked above the land had been burnt. Totems of gnarled, burnt, and petrified trees hung from the cliff sides. The bends of the creek had me in a maze, a labyrinth of land within the canyons and tributaries. Some canyons were hidden and the same</span><span style="color: #454545;"> with the ridge points overlooking the steppes of the canyon. I got lost within the landscape, tiny and insignificant as an ant on a random hillside within Big Creek Canyon. I was a traveler on a footpath as a bear or an elk walking from one canyon to the next. I sensed a theme out there: j</span><span style="color: #454545;">ust rivers and dirt of wilderness—tierra madre.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;">A rattlesnake frighteningly signaled a warning as I was walking within a canopy of greenery near the roaring creek. The bandit-faced rattler hung up in the ivy and shook his rattle fiercely. I got the picture and felt pretty damn thankful the rattler gave me the loud and scary warning. I snapped out of my trance of the creek. Out in an open basin, cottonwoods swayed in the wind shooting down the canyon. I could finally see the tops of mountains all around me. The creek, large and wide, swayed away from me as the trail arced to the north to avoid the meadows and bogs. My legs pumped and I began to move swiftly. The temps had lowered a lot since beginning the gradual ascent up Big Creek. In this basin, I could see the sun to the west in full view yet the air just felt calm and warm and not heavy and hot. Once again, I fell into a trance. Conditions were perfect and I began to thrive. I immersed myself into my physical being doing the simplest act: walking. I also immersed myself within the immense landscape doing the simplest act: walking. I began to get that 'flow' endurance athletes seek. I floated along the trail, above it, around it, and in it. My vision zeroed in around the bends of the creek and the contours of the hillsides, a montage of </span><span style="color: #454545;">movement. Then... </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgv3V9vZIhzN_aeAE2NlLxu-QQgMrVaAAeFQHH7dhgO7Nyw-8W2n9tnGkD9kHB2GUV0xgJ61XK-w1hH3U0cDep6G2G17PTbWNRGZXiog2ucGMgC3_ihNgO4oMZRoCuTEl9wBA6LDLTcYCCEe6H7qTL1jeXLo7l7LO_tKfi3JmC2fAzdk6wbdF5Mp0S/s1440/F9B05224-3280-49AE-B4AD-0754649A9735.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgv3V9vZIhzN_aeAE2NlLxu-QQgMrVaAAeFQHH7dhgO7Nyw-8W2n9tnGkD9kHB2GUV0xgJ61XK-w1hH3U0cDep6G2G17PTbWNRGZXiog2ucGMgC3_ihNgO4oMZRoCuTEl9wBA6LDLTcYCCEe6H7qTL1jeXLo7l7LO_tKfi3JmC2fAzdk6wbdF5Mp0S/w400-h300/F9B05224-3280-49AE-B4AD-0754649A9735.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">[…the dogs are back in my dreams. I’m running with the coyotes again. I turn my head to each side and see the rabid eyes of the coyotes. I am Coyote Head, now. My tongue is lashed out, dry. </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">I am thirsty in the worst way. </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">I feel the pull of them. I feel the connection. I feel the urge to go forward. I pull forward and continually lunge towards the freedom I feel ahead. I am tied with them. I turn my head and see the glow of the city that I recognize as Los Angeles. We are on the fringe of darkness and the city glow. I turn with the coyotes and leap into the empty night.]</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Walking is a waking dream. There’s a subliminal intent of direction in the simplest meditation. We travel inward to faraway places while outwardly we travel at the pace of nature. Walking is hypnotic, transforming, soothing, yet present, the senses piqued as you are a part of the world around you as much as you are in your own head. Walking is astral-blasting, reaching through two different spectrums of reality within light and vision and imagination. Walking will take you to the deepest corners of your inner space, the deepest recesses of our spiritual plane. Walking takes you to the backcountry of the mind. Walking is a ritual, transporting the outer reality to the inner primordial. Walking is a primordial need. We travel down wavelengths of our lineage through the simple act of walking. Walking is immersion into a place -- the river and the land -- and self -- the landscape of self. Walking is the pathway to my vision quest.</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;">I shook myself off of the vision and stared flatly at another rattlesnake. I walked on like a bear being stung by a bee -- aware, but not concerned. I melded back into my </span><span style="color: #454545;">rhythm, yet my stride became shorter as I slow-rolled into camp. I found a camp on an isthmus above a bend in Big Creek, just below a rocky outcrop. I paid one last visit to the creek and washed off. The coolness lathered over me like the length of time of that day. I flashbacked to the vision of the coyotes, to the thirst I sensed, to my transfixed pace. In a flash second I spanned 12 hours. I filled my water bottles up with the water of the creek that held the vision. I wanted this day ritualized. I needed the Coyote Head to stay on forever. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirk3X8MgU0-WtxpAxyPnc9TE3y9uqetFje_Er89UaHrFs_uc6q7FJYtB4QgL0yKzNYh9FThjyk9W5Q-Fqk0Vj2XLgNLufqX2bPF2OlXQEfduCwW_-yYsezydWeVgVLSvL5-jm6pzjRw2STCYijZpAF4cpqO0r_lvuFQCc-CBWfonC8xrF4mhumbNS9/s4032/IMG_4575.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirk3X8MgU0-WtxpAxyPnc9TE3y9uqetFje_Er89UaHrFs_uc6q7FJYtB4QgL0yKzNYh9FThjyk9W5Q-Fqk0Vj2XLgNLufqX2bPF2OlXQEfduCwW_-yYsezydWeVgVLSvL5-jm6pzjRw2STCYijZpAF4cpqO0r_lvuFQCc-CBWfonC8xrF4mhumbNS9/w400-h300/IMG_4575.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">I had a refreshingly cold night. I slept deeply, not rocked by my dreams. I slept with the creek wrapped in the comfort of the cold and the soft sound of rapids, the lullaby of isolation. In the morning, a new and different morning, I began the gradual climb up Coxey Creek. Dampness hung in the air in the small side canyon of Big Creek, the entirety of the canyon scarred by wildfire. Dew clung to the shrubs, bushes, and grasses lining the drainage, the trail overgrown and narrow. Because of the dampness of the brush my legs, feet and shoes became soaked. The spiky rose bushes thrashed the mosquito bites and scratches on my legs, roughly yet so soothingly and cool like new and frenzied love. Without the roar of any major creek, I kind of normalized and could hear myself think again. I hadn't polluted myself with any podcast or music since I left Stanley and I wasn't going to begin now. I wanted to reintroduce myself to myself. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNqJOIme-MfssVMHhc5NTdzRKd2ewokDU7gwA8oSavCB5LwbRhAIb9X0jF5WBSbHH1tD9v9rjXh96stJg07VCXcoORdg86FW9rrLv1UeY4pvlVAQe1f9bHdnYbbF8MU4Z3606aVg9zh9fzd6z9XwLbtZ2JZVM4s3Bw5d--qbEZtpwQ8F8tOR8UgzM/s4032/IMG_4586.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNqJOIme-MfssVMHhc5NTdzRKd2ewokDU7gwA8oSavCB5LwbRhAIb9X0jF5WBSbHH1tD9v9rjXh96stJg07VCXcoORdg86FW9rrLv1UeY4pvlVAQe1f9bHdnYbbF8MU4Z3606aVg9zh9fzd6z9XwLbtZ2JZVM4s3Bw5d--qbEZtpwQ8F8tOR8UgzM/w400-h300/IMG_4586.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">The ICT took me atop ridge lines and drainages high up in the mountains in the really deep wilderness in the Frank Church Complex. The trail's main aim today would lead me to Chamberlain Basin, the place that held a secret from me back in '15. The whole length of the day I encountered burnt forests, the what-was of lodgepole, conifer, and ponderosa pine forests. The mountains felt barren although green with grass and shrubs. The absence of trees could almost feel eerie, but I have always looked at burnt forests differently. I have compared them to a person being naked. Not just unclothed, but exposed to the inside thought of morals, honesty, and trauma: one cannot hide from oneself in a forest any longer. A deep and dark forest is where mythology, tales, and nightmares reside by the construct of cultures and tribes. Metaphorically, looking at a fire ravaged landscaped I can see the bare contours of the mountain's sinew of dirt, the connective tissue of soil and the arterial torment of water. With erosion the mountains become bare, like one looks at oneself in the mirror, naked. Totems of timber, petrified or burnt, bend stiffly in the wind that whistles and haunts through the standing flutes. You can hear voices, tortured and oddly reflective, creaking and booming. You can see the wind as a wrinkle on one's face. I found myself midday leaning up against a silvery petrified totem nodding off under a small canopy of lodgepoles. The sun arced slowly in the sky away from the shady canopy and glared into my closed eyes, my eyelids pixelated in a flourish of purple. I shook my head to detach from my momentary blindness. I gathered my sight and, across the small valley on a barren landscape, a coyote trotted away from me with an occasional look-back. He wound around a thick and burnt trunk and vanished but not before glancing back at me. I scooched over against the log and found more shade. I leaned my head back and wondered how close had that coyote gotten. Fifteen minutes lapsed as I woke up probably every three minutes or so. Flashes of blurred memories would startle me to a drowsy wakening, the coyotes sprinting along side me with an insatiable thirst in their eyes, But, as a couple carpenter ants crawled on my leg, I woke up from a vision of fingers tickling my legs. I snapped to, stood up, moseyed on, and I sent a message to the deeper self to remove the Coyote Head for a bit. I merely wanted to be outside of my head.</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">Atop a low pass, Chamberlain Basin came into view. This very large basin extended a wide panorama that included seemingly endless forests. I stood there on the low pass expecting to find something in that gaze, expecting for the secret to be located from the overlook. Nothing is that easy, however. The wind picked up behind me and chimed through a couple dead standing ponderosas. I looked back and the hillside was adorned in petrified gravestones of the remnants of the ponderosas that once dwelled here. I ambled down the low pass and skirted the large meadow adorning Chamberlain Creek. Twilight settled in </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">the amphitheater of Chamberlain Basin </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">and the sky morphed slowly from day to night, from sky blue to pink and orange to midnight blue and dusky purple. The song came back into my head again, the last time the song would reel in my head on this long hike. I whispered the lyrics and chorus under my breath. I could now pick up the song anytime I wanted.</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">Your everlasting summer and you can see it fading fast</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">So you grab a piece of something that you think is gonna last</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand</span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">The things you think are precious I can't understand</span></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you reelin' in the years?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stowin' away the time</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Are you gatherin' up the tears?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Have you had enough of mine</span></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBAWU7lyw8kC3ScRP7GYBKV_0dt8u1sTeocdwhMkQC0GFUE5065HcNtBp2K93MkG5gvNeKFzuB9CsdaBGMCnlRtlN_aO2buX1Z1a8TZ1kgGj8uQ6Md0Nz_6cyzoFKRhL4beogLq5UFmS-z4zUv5BsroX91LEtKgCU1CHKQuiOHF-1SXHq6H-lJ02S/s4032/IMG_4592.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBAWU7lyw8kC3ScRP7GYBKV_0dt8u1sTeocdwhMkQC0GFUE5065HcNtBp2K93MkG5gvNeKFzuB9CsdaBGMCnlRtlN_aO2buX1Z1a8TZ1kgGj8uQ6Md0Nz_6cyzoFKRhL4beogLq5UFmS-z4zUv5BsroX91LEtKgCU1CHKQuiOHF-1SXHq6H-lJ02S/w400-h300/IMG_4592.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;">I slept in an airfield that night, the forest adjacent to the airfield, actually. The cold drooped into the meadows and the humid air fell onto my tarp. I slept soundly amidst the solitude, even though a couple deer wandered into camp and hoofed at the ground looking for salt. I startled awake and broke the silence when I yelled at the deer. I blurted out, 'Hey git!' In the morning, the sky blazed in a soft orange glow amid the mackerel clouds tiled low just above the airfield. I assessed my food and realized I had run low on my supply and still had a very long day ahead of me until I could reach Yellowpine Bar where an historic ranch had held a package of food for me. </span></div><div><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyo8Jl6HRYvY3XOwT_WU3vp31x2HM9dklFteksCITkYqBrPSouiQeH8KHHnMPhR9zVQyrUSzniBVTthxGpUo-haIOB7Odrq1qooXpvxKIUj94LZMFCkjEnEQWfh5LeHYFqtMCL6E0AzCSTY8TzyP86lxAx6fiI50ZvfNBdsmx0dVobNCujiyCqMvGq/s4032/IMG_4604.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyo8Jl6HRYvY3XOwT_WU3vp31x2HM9dklFteksCITkYqBrPSouiQeH8KHHnMPhR9zVQyrUSzniBVTthxGpUo-haIOB7Odrq1qooXpvxKIUj94LZMFCkjEnEQWfh5LeHYFqtMCL6E0AzCSTY8TzyP86lxAx6fiI50ZvfNBdsmx0dVobNCujiyCqMvGq/w400-h300/IMG_4604.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div>Day 6: Leave it behind, go beyond, do, act, commit fully to the present act; forget why you want to be here, just be here. The mindset of an ultra, getting stronger as you go further, be the last one standing, dive into the cave but forget the pain. Be one of no more pain. Hands in my pocket on a cold morning. Breath low and slow... I decided to be determined that day to be objective. I needed to walk. This put whatever romantic notion of Chamberlain Basin behind me. I took off the Coyote Head. I focused on the forward -- get my ass to food. The surrounding forests held a moist air most of the morning and I just zipped along. I drank more water than usual to alleviate any hunger pangs. I probably had about 1500 calories for the duration of the day and 31 miles in total to get to the ranch. I performed greatly, however, just moving swiftly along a well-traveled trail, and the miles just flew on by. I found large wolf prints in the remaining small piles of snow in the shadows of a dark forest. My head went to the coyote briefly and I could feel the essence of a silent roamer in the faraway mountains. I shook the primordial trip. For a few miles or so the wolf prints would show up, either in the mud or snow, until I hit the burn area of '15. I came across a moose skull at the camp bordering the ravaged area, the evidence of a cold and wet meadow defeating the progress of the fire. I slid on through, pushing up a gradual climb through the scarred area. I had hardly taken a break that day until I had found a lunch spot in the trees, on a prominently long ridge above the Main Fork of the Salmon River. I had a gulping view of the crazy deep canyon, the river some 7000ft below me. I ate little and rested even littler. I got up with a sense of urgency to get to my food drop. Then, everything hit me all at once. I drifted into a zone that just took control over my mind. This zone dialed straight into my heart as I sobbed with each stride. I think I had been thinking of things without knowing I had been thinking of things. The depth of the canyon drew me in. Maybe it was the heat becoming oppressive again. Or, maybe it was my hunger making me a little hallucinatory. Maybe it was bottled up emotion that welled up all at once. But, I ended up with visions in front of my face, all the good memories -- leading the way in the Winds with her, saying 'I love you' in San Luis Valley, cooking for her in the backcountry; recognizing her at mile 60 of the High 5 while I was completely and utterly out of sorts; rooting for and supporting her while she was on the PCT, just seeing her living her best life then -- just moments of happiness. I stomped on in the sticky heat on a trail that plummeted down the enormously deep canyon. I spiraled down a staircase to the heart of it all. I came to terms that I’ll be forever heartbroken. But, I loved her more than anything, unconditionally, which I had never done before. I will forever be stricken by her actions, yet I can accept that my love for her will never die. I can forgive. I am thankful. I vividly thought: I've enjoyed my heartbreak long enough. I teared up with the memories of her and the love I had for her. I understood finally in my long damn life what love is. It wasn't something that I just felt. It is a way of living, a belief. Love was not a reaction. I had no clue where these coherent thoughts and visions were coming from. And, I decided to let all the anger go and leave the hurt behind. Spiraling down the trail and into the depths of the canyon, I began to believe in a bottomless love that would steer my life. I honestly can say I have never had that awareness of love in my entire life. This was different than a fleeting feeling. I felt so grateful in that moment, so fucking grateful. I also felt 'the now.' I felt love for what I was doing, and I felt love for myself. I embraced the positive emotions and I knew everything from that point would be ok. Everything from that point would be ok because I had chosen love to guide me from that point forth. I continued to tumble down the steep descent in the heat. Love swirled in my head, like a religion, and like a philosophy I dove into the newfound knowledge and understanding of love. I felt like my whole life flashed in front of me. Salty tears streamed down my face and I couldn't stop smiling. Love is enduring, love is eternal, and love has proved to be the biggest learning point. I had to lose myself to understand love. I had to give myself to someone to find the love I had never known. I neared the point where I had to end my ICT '15 thru hike due to wildfire. Oh, the time that has elapsed since then. From where I dug myself out of then to where I have dug myself out of now, when the love that someone had given me had completely disappeared without explanation. My heart pumped with the blood of purpose; I had found love within myself. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I went into this quest not knowing what I was going to find. I went into this healing knowing I was going to hurt more. I did not know that I was going to find love. I had no clue. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am walking to fill up this enormous canyon in this enormous wilderness. That is why I am here. In that moment of descent into the deep and enormous canyon, I decided to choose love.</span></div></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZNniAwPJFQRZyk3mAS45bwe9IZVTtomdzO-PvdbBb-8E4XZZ0Xe7GRUUgH6Pl4vFelN1YBrXCGWaYyFCH5azTdv5vLEk-lUVnz2ie5wAcm_lTRw3e1CZYsloSH7vxbJa28PDCxGhDG3HJ3Rq7V13MAziWKE9AGYBsl8dZ9NYMPATX_Enj69s25vJ/s4032/IMG_4612.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZNniAwPJFQRZyk3mAS45bwe9IZVTtomdzO-PvdbBb-8E4XZZ0Xe7GRUUgH6Pl4vFelN1YBrXCGWaYyFCH5azTdv5vLEk-lUVnz2ie5wAcm_lTRw3e1CZYsloSH7vxbJa28PDCxGhDG3HJ3Rq7V13MAziWKE9AGYBsl8dZ9NYMPATX_Enj69s25vJ/w400-h300/IMG_4612.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKtPgPZ-ODMSqiIWYK9KJaB0QQ1lsinQGLl3cNBEJYZGi3NWAJxzfc_b9C9xQ8J_jBU7Cl3GzXQVNKABBXKCGhPOizDpcYEf612HcznKLbty1ZNSPdXHihQOgqtO1LTE9d7UXGKCzupXm3K59DceVRrs4d_4gnuA4fS865jXMEtVkaHSkFwZ4Co1K/s1440/2BD56E41-833B-4ED6-9690-F0853A773C9D.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKtPgPZ-ODMSqiIWYK9KJaB0QQ1lsinQGLl3cNBEJYZGi3NWAJxzfc_b9C9xQ8J_jBU7Cl3GzXQVNKABBXKCGhPOizDpcYEf612HcznKLbty1ZNSPdXHihQOgqtO1LTE9d7UXGKCzupXm3K59DceVRrs4d_4gnuA4fS865jXMEtVkaHSkFwZ4Co1K/w400-h300/2BD56E41-833B-4ED6-9690-F0853A773C9D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div></div></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-15984431768011547682022-08-01T06:10:00.002-07:002022-08-07T07:44:55.192-07:00Tips and Advice for the ICT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssiUuHPsu3aJCXpTCMKoQ-ymO-fHYlC24KF2SO_lKu_ylJnzd0ZPZ2MjZwvu6yj1zFwRAwSr4upzTBCj8YTqeKYN5FY_y4X_gcr7A39Z8zKxEn1oTiTUYcrd86GI8CR9ddZe4mOVFgbj6mOtNgqF8XntAsSRXsvZKPgrLwY9TbGjdyK3sCabTosD6/s4032/IMG_4723.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssiUuHPsu3aJCXpTCMKoQ-ymO-fHYlC24KF2SO_lKu_ylJnzd0ZPZ2MjZwvu6yj1zFwRAwSr4upzTBCj8YTqeKYN5FY_y4X_gcr7A39Z8zKxEn1oTiTUYcrd86GI8CR9ddZe4mOVFgbj6mOtNgqF8XntAsSRXsvZKPgrLwY9TbGjdyK3sCabTosD6/w400-h300/IMG_4723.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>General Overview:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ICT stretches the length of Idaho from the Nevada border near the remote town of Jarbidge to Upper Priest Falls in the Idaho Panhandle just shy of the Canadian border, some 900 miles in length. I hiked half of the ICT in '15 and hiked the full length in '22, both northbound attempts. In '15, my timing for a northbound hike fell a little too late in the summer and I encountered massive fire closures north of the Main Fork of the Salmon River. Although the ICT is very challenging, it is not the 'toughest thing out there.' The ICT is rugged, remote, requires thorough preparation, is not well traveled, and has hard-to-find resources. Whether in '15 or '22, the ICT reminded of the condition and isolation of the CDT in '12, which means the hike should not be taken lightly. Since that '12 CDT hike, the popularity of long distance hiking has risen and, just 4 years later in '16, the CDT had so many more resources, a million times better signage, a lot more hikers, and had been 'Guthooked.' The CDTC also really began to manage the CDT, which helped with trail conditions and correct signage, town stewardship, and a well-developed set of maps. The ICT, however, since my '15 attempt, has had only minor additional and availability of resources. The ICT does not have an official association to manage the entirety of the trail. However, Clay Jacobson of the Idaho Trails Association did take some leadership coordination over the ICT in '16 after his '15 thru-hike. He has coordinated some voluntary trail maintenance events, including an event in the infamous Marble Creek drainage. But, signage is still the same -- mainly only in the first ~150 or so. One must still be proficient in map reading and navigation within the vast backcountry of Idaho. The backcountry is still very much wild and ravaged by wildfire, which only reinforces </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">perpetually changing</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> trail conditions. Hikers take alternates routes based on these changing trail conditions and wildfire closures. Resupplying is still very challenging, especially since the Covid Pandemic with some properties changing ownership and thus having different feelings about holding packages for hikers in remote areas.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWv0XW6mmqdCbb8UK4zsZv3tiOnKRSWTp16EgJglXk-V6gOL9HJ3ZnKrDNEcPPNjxIuLE0qHPbOe7b2nCatXuob3g2ApJSsczYRwIksQRLuuQwsIfBUVZ3DQKRvNSc3kDK_OA7NvaHlX5Wsk17P-BWR0Y8lXqPXfvbtyEBGbTiCBhnJHiMsKmkfye/s1440/34A178AD-D481-4B38-A6D9-A22E7517C7E7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWv0XW6mmqdCbb8UK4zsZv3tiOnKRSWTp16EgJglXk-V6gOL9HJ3ZnKrDNEcPPNjxIuLE0qHPbOe7b2nCatXuob3g2ApJSsczYRwIksQRLuuQwsIfBUVZ3DQKRvNSc3kDK_OA7NvaHlX5Wsk17P-BWR0Y8lXqPXfvbtyEBGbTiCBhnJHiMsKmkfye/w400-h300/34A178AD-D481-4B38-A6D9-A22E7517C7E7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">All this said -- the ICT is an incredible trail with an incredibly wild experience at the ready for the aspiring long distance hiker. The corridor of the route is there. One just needs to do their homework and prepare for the ever-changing conditions. Because you will need to adapt to the weather, closures, and obstructed/lost/obliterated trail. Because the ICT is wild as heck.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am open for further discussion privately if one needs help or advice, or has questions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Experience:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In '14, I had planned a thru-hike of the ICT until I decided to forego my plans for some other adventures . In '15, I had planned an ICT hike as part of a route from Mexico to Canada dubbed the NoName Route. I had wanted to highlight some of the least utilized and most remote places in the Lower 48. In the end, I came up half empty on the ICT due to closures from a wall of fire shutting off the Idaho Panhandle. In '17, I bikepacked some of the ICT and the whole state of Idaho. I put off hiking the ICT for years as I sought other tough trails and places I had not seen before. Finally, in the Winter of '21/'22 I began the aspiration of giving the ICT another go. Needless to say, this trail has been on my mind for a very, very long time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been entranced by the vastness and remoteness of the Bruneau Desert. I have also been scared silly into an adrenaline exhilaration the three times I have crossed that expansive plain by lumbering and booming thunderstorms. Further north when the terrain and environment greatly change, the Sawtooths sprout up above the Snake River Plain and presents an alipine playground for prospective hikers. Rivers are gorged with snowmelt, passes will be covered with snow, and the alpine lakes shimmer in the long summer days. The Sawtooths are spectacular, none other for me in '22 when record snow levels had sunk deep into the backcountry from a heavy wet Spring. The passes felt reminiscent to me of the High Sierra in '11 when record snow hung around for months over those high mountain passes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The town of Stanley is a magical vortex that has sucked me each time I have visited that town. Stanley is a wonderful spot to chill before embarking into the Frank Church and Selway-Bitterroot Wildernesses, which can span a detached and isolated time from civilization from 10-14 days. I am in love with the Frank Complex. No other place in the Lower 48 has enchanted me so other than the Gila Complex. The Frank Complex is wild, I mean fucking wild. The land feels endless with even more endless ribbons of the Salmon River river system. Canyons run as deep as 7,000ft from rivers to divides. Trails are either well-trampled or horrendously overgrown, littered with timbered downfall, or completely gone. Wildlife is wild, the bears ornery, the wolves eerily present yet quiet, the moose huge, the mountain goat suspicious, the raptors everlastingly soaring, and the rattlesnakes banded like outlaws. The Selway-Bitterroot feels even more remote, as if you are in the center of the wilderness universe. Most of the times the trail conditions are shitty, despite upkeep by wilderness immersion trail crews. The forest becomes more of rain forest the further north you get and your body temperature begins to go off the scale on both extremes as you are scorched by the sun or sodden by the overgrown foliage. As much as the Frank Church has burned the Selway-Bitterroot has too, yet the undergrowth is way more hairier with thicker undergrowth.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KExQX7i1t1nIhdxyX1FwjzyGg6GNrgxDR2XINH_4LGA_qRUAxZNdIzodxKf2WnVCYKa3--H50t3J5_w18Yx56ke7bNawZN6gROUB-l796n8Vve4vh16wHQOiY1iRjfeRoypVtsbVrHbHtEdAhiVJnOVG7Qgh5BOCKukEg6eW6OPozAjMNk0Ksy0E/s1440/08B12536-2F09-4FC3-87E7-8FEF62AAB3CF.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KExQX7i1t1nIhdxyX1FwjzyGg6GNrgxDR2XINH_4LGA_qRUAxZNdIzodxKf2WnVCYKa3--H50t3J5_w18Yx56ke7bNawZN6gROUB-l796n8Vve4vh16wHQOiY1iRjfeRoypVtsbVrHbHtEdAhiVJnOVG7Qgh5BOCKukEg6eW6OPozAjMNk0Ksy0E/w400-h300/08B12536-2F09-4FC3-87E7-8FEF62AAB3CF.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Once crossing the only paved road, Highway 12, in nearly 450m, the hiker enters the Bitterroot Divide area. Oh, what beauty to be crest walking for miles upon miles. I saw so many different types of wildlife, more than one can imagine. Tucked up in the cirques are alpine lakes. From the Bitterroot Divide, the landscape is completely forested as far as the eye can see. As much as I could have use some more immersion into wilderness, I was very happy to walk into Mullan and then taking a bus into Wallace. Other than Stanley, Wallace was my favorite town on the ICT. I could have spent the whole day there exploring the mountain history and lore of the town, as well as partaking in the few breweries around town.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The clear highlights to me span from the Sawtooths to Interstate 90 at Mullan. That vast tract of wilderness is beyond description and my time in that remote are being utterly isolated is something I will continue to dream about. I will cherish my time there. North of I90 the ICT gave me some mixed feelings. I found the Pend Oreille Crest pretty cool despite the road walking leading into it and out of it. I enjoyed t</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">he crossing of the Selkirks</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> even though the route through was too short. I thought the final 8 miles of the ICT along the giant cedar groves of the Upper Priest River was sublime. Giant ferns lined a maintained spongy trail that bumped with each step. At the Upper Priest Falls, I camped at the area submerged in the raucous cacophony of plunging water. That noisy immersion alone solidified my emotions of my isolated time on the ICT -- I loved this trail.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Overall Difficulty:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ICT is difficult. Is it the toughest? No, not even close. The Desert Trail and the Great Basin Trail make this route look very doable. However, the ICT is tougher than all other routes between 500-1500 miles in the U.S. with the addition of the Great Divide Trail -- say for example the GDT, the GET, and the Hayduke. Additionally and condition-wise, the GDT can be compared in difficulty to the ICT depending on the time of year and the weather. As mentioned above in the General Overview blurb, the ICT is similar to what the CDT was some 10-15 years ago. On the ICT, signage can be confusing and only common in the furthest stretches south, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">resupply stretches are very long, the trail conditions vary drastically from easy to where-the-fuck-is-trail, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">a slower pace expected, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">map sets are hard to find including non-thru-hiker created maps like the USFS maps of the Frank Church (even those do not highlight the ICT), and has very, very long stretches of isolation where you may not see another long-distance hiker let alone just a human.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErsCJMYtu5uur2dhRtBEglv1ExHVM1h23AnVIdCjn_VGp0j6jk0bMt5ejMzixtOzgA1UGIHIGHbtbRlq3seRsPbh2AOq2wQXB9KqiOP9Xw6e2m2kfvlszJ2dH5NTAepJ3eMa0MHMDOJ8Tmm758dbtQrY10me2j4tJasVL1qC6V03X_5LNfbMqIi72/s4032/IMG_4615.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErsCJMYtu5uur2dhRtBEglv1ExHVM1h23AnVIdCjn_VGp0j6jk0bMt5ejMzixtOzgA1UGIHIGHbtbRlq3seRsPbh2AOq2wQXB9KqiOP9Xw6e2m2kfvlszJ2dH5NTAepJ3eMa0MHMDOJ8Tmm758dbtQrY10me2j4tJasVL1qC6V03X_5LNfbMqIi72/w400-h300/IMG_4615.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But, the ICT has improved since '15. This time around in '22, despite the extremely high snow levels and water crossings in the Sawtooths, the Frank Church had glorious trail conditions. Trail conditions changed for the worse through the Selway-Bitterroot only to revert back to glorious the rest of the way of trail. If you have done the CDT, you can do the ICT. What has changed in the recent years is that the comparable trails listed -- CDT, GDT, Hayduke, with the exception of the GET -- have been tracked on Guthook (CDT & GDT) or has been tracked by another app and shared (HT). That definitely diminishes the skill level required to hike those trails. Like the ICT, the GET has not been uploaded and tracked by the Guthook app, which means you need to truly know what you are doing. In '13 when I hiked both the Hayduke and the GET as part of my Vagabond Loop, the Hayduke was way harder than the GET. Since the app plotting and sharing of the Hayduke, the Hayduke is more accessible and not in the same nature of what the challenge used to be. One is now more or less following a defined corridor on the Hayduke. The GET, on the other hand, has remained challenging and even more so has gotten more difficult due to the necessity to read a map, the lack of maintained trails, and access issues in certain areas. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hence, the Hayduke has become way easier than the GET now. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ICT will probably get tracked and uploaded up to Guthook at some point soon, too. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">So....get out and hike the ICT before you lose a really true wilderness and challenging experience!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Timing and Direction:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Research your timing wisely. This will require objectively assessing your skill level. If you go to early, you will see high snow levels and treacherous water crossings. If you go to late, your progress could stop with wildfires. If you go too early, you will be in areas before the trail crews can access the wilderness and may encounter horrible trail conditions with thousands upon thousands of downed trees from the Winter. Temperatures are hard to time with the Bruneau Desert and the Sawtooths. You will most likely be uncomfortable. Again, assess your skill level realistically and pick your poison.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think NOBO gives one a better and more attainable chance at giving a complete and successful thru-hike. With a SOBO attempt starting traditionally later than a NOBO attempt, I think one's chance of encountering wildfire closures is exceedingly greater. For NOBO's I think somewhere around 6/7-6/21 is feasible. For SOBO's, I think somewhere around 7/1-7/14 is feasible. Granted, these suggestions are my opinion and give a window for skill level and these windows may change depending on the year. Please, take the time to really consider your start date.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFHsKBMo3imLRx81Jea-j6o4O5mz1gebIWJlN33zslCEVMWeOcar3bQMvJLs7x1iuYXMC7dGxSBivH0ApTy5oyEd59u1n_9RpQ-gTXsbFueYBsaw56huOTuC67n_2u54wP-GV7Bi-vPcv7FWB6deWu2Bn1MR3-A0J5o324GgBoecHDjNhD-hOFq_9/s1440/C5ABFB2B-524B-4C15-904F-C2B34FE8F997.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFHsKBMo3imLRx81Jea-j6o4O5mz1gebIWJlN33zslCEVMWeOcar3bQMvJLs7x1iuYXMC7dGxSBivH0ApTy5oyEd59u1n_9RpQ-gTXsbFueYBsaw56huOTuC67n_2u54wP-GV7Bi-vPcv7FWB6deWu2Bn1MR3-A0J5o324GgBoecHDjNhD-hOFq_9/w400-h300/C5ABFB2B-524B-4C15-904F-C2B34FE8F997.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Trail Conditions:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I would not rely on Facebook groups or past hikers solely for this one. Trail conditions change so much on the ICT from year to year and season to season. I, personally, do not ascribe to what others who have not been out there recently are saying anyways. I am aware of my skill level and prefer to see things for myself. The only thing I would concern myself with is to what route or trail past or current hikers have used in very specific areas, like the Frank Complex. Some trails, or red line, of the old ICT route intention have been obliterated or re-routed, are in terrible condition, or are non-existent. This holds very true from Moose Creek Ranger Station to Wilderness Gateway. In these instances, I contacted former hikers I trusted, utilized USFS Trail Conditions Report, and spoke with the Moose Creek trail crews and ranger. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> tracked snow levels that gave me an idea of what to expect. You can contact land agencies and districts, from the USFS to the BLM, for current and updated trail conditions. Also, I found locals to give excellent advice, ones who utilize the backcountry.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFu9m9_lq5proG05zcoOoMiDt2ymkLPA6sGJfQUqJ-0eDaJ6DJ-T7yaMOC8SB8P_aEbUEqfkuRwvUh-CylzGOxCwOTd_Hw7OIpK_9oEbjmDg9EtJnplDsEuMTVUpNzZQ4KaUNZQT63gM5-aa7DDfcswwx8WpVYlVe_u4gThlJfASdMovyYL37z0Oq/s4032/IMG_4672.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFu9m9_lq5proG05zcoOoMiDt2ymkLPA6sGJfQUqJ-0eDaJ6DJ-T7yaMOC8SB8P_aEbUEqfkuRwvUh-CylzGOxCwOTd_Hw7OIpK_9oEbjmDg9EtJnplDsEuMTVUpNzZQ4KaUNZQT63gM5-aa7DDfcswwx8WpVYlVe_u4gThlJfASdMovyYL37z0Oq/w400-h300/IMG_4672.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I utilized the <a href="https://www.nrcs.usda.gov/wps/portal/nrcs/detail/id/snow/products/?cid=nrcseprd1491224" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Snotel site</b></span></a> for the Sawtooths. This site helped me assess snow levels for travel over the passes and the water equivalent of that snow depth to understand the potential for high and treacherous water crossings. I also monitored the <a href="https://www.sawtoothcamera.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Sawtooth SnowCam</b></span></a> in Stanley for a frame of reference of snowmelt.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then, for the Frank Church Selway-Bitterroot Complex I found the <a href="https://www.fs.usda.gov/detail/nezperceclearwater/home/?cid=fseprd506117" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>USFS Trail Conditions Report </b></span></a>very helpful. This gives the reports of the separate districts with updates and details of trail maintenance, the date, and trail names and numbers. The Stanley Ranger Station has some valuable information, as well as the Frank Church USFS large scale maps. Lastly, the backcountry Ranger Stations have valuable and current information from in-the-field rangers</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dig around these sites for current information. I found them so valuable before and during a hike.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>All this being said -- none of the conditions are guaranteed! One should have the mindset that conditions WILL change.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Resupply:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Very long resupply stretches exist on the ICT. Really, your main concern is from Stanley to Interstate 90 at Mullan. For the backcountry of the Frank Complex, you can try and utilize the backcountry Ranger Stations the ICT crosses -- Indian Creek, Chamberlain, and Moose Creek. The rangers super helpful. These Ranger Stations have an active airfield and you can call the district the station is in and arrange a box to be flown in via a chartered air service. This will cost money. And, you will have to do your own research. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Some of the historic ranches along the Main Fork of the Salmon River are no longer accepting and holding packages. In some case, ranches that held onto hikers' packages in the past ended up being stuck with them. This is a huge burden of responsibility put on these ranches. It is pain in the neck to get rid some of these packages. These ranches are settled in some of the wildest and largest tract of wilderness in North America. Please, consider how much these folks are helping you before shipping out a package to some extreme rural area.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">One last thing on ICT resupply -- while granted the ICT is growing in hiker numbers, some of these communities are still not as familiar with thru-hikers as other long distance trails may be. This includes Post Offices that may have new employees, resorts or ranches that have new ownership or caretakers, or hotels that reside in a community that does not have postal delivery.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>You have to really think in preparation for resupply on this trail!</b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7as3bSdm2EXwXIe6q03sc-dBbh7iUqgabqEfZnDBpW4L-A4bXknoFrxACVWTAYgslaMiFEY8dXCd7wLhI7NrDV31sJDIbh6szFwiwfVcWK5rQCl9m-RT64fEAMPQTos7q8ZaJ27hctR5EKoXOTJp9jb6hC30HL5faLgMXqKaRuVWxweuBW3SJXal/s4032/IMG_4626.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7as3bSdm2EXwXIe6q03sc-dBbh7iUqgabqEfZnDBpW4L-A4bXknoFrxACVWTAYgslaMiFEY8dXCd7wLhI7NrDV31sJDIbh6szFwiwfVcWK5rQCl9m-RT64fEAMPQTos7q8ZaJ27hctR5EKoXOTJp9jb6hC30HL5faLgMXqKaRuVWxweuBW3SJXal/w400-h300/IMG_4626.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Resources:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There seems to be a few options. I will only give this advice: Do not take the easy way out on this particular trail and just purchase a resource set if you find one. You will get into trouble just blindly following a red line on a GPS or app.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Please, do your homework on this one and plan the route as if you were building the route. It's 900m long, so it shouldn't take as long as something that may take 4 months to hike. The remoteness of the ICT requires it, I believe. Get to know the place!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Maps and Navigation:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Along with whatever ICT map set you use, utilize a GPS device or app in conjunction with the map set. The maps suggested below really give you insight to the scope of vastness of the wilderness you are walking through. This provides the user with bailout and alternate route options in case of flooding and wildfire whether spontaneous events or closures. The maps also highlight trail and corridor priority for trail maintenance. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Maps, 2 separate maps of north and south halves, published by the USFS:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKKtGYvRlBAi2G7xyseavlFgYwfrvgDIFHEWbQMGcGweiPDHymp2IPhG9z4TrTIKo3HAtWc8HP6aHtQBWtLq1M-E6IGgYucD-tviWJvqzN1KjW_uP10lO3p8st_PXEB3fiUiuOy0UwuHCci6P7Pd5OjzYswKM60IHVLwdBxcjPSMFENQXMH_4Y7DXC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="612" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKKtGYvRlBAi2G7xyseavlFgYwfrvgDIFHEWbQMGcGweiPDHymp2IPhG9z4TrTIKo3HAtWc8HP6aHtQBWtLq1M-E6IGgYucD-tviWJvqzN1KjW_uP10lO3p8st_PXEB3fiUiuOy0UwuHCci6P7Pd5OjzYswKM60IHVLwdBxcjPSMFENQXMH_4Y7DXC=w320-h208" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Maps, 2 separate maps of both north and south halves, published by the Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiastpuGTjYhdYXEc8ZdKVRBiKXuQnTb2V6L07BPrRg4UFxnAQJIpo_9Ffo9sF0BI965_Iz-yyOhafsYdNuvx4TIDMVt4fqqgwWJbYc66LTlEXCX3a1r88ikF4T3d_gTVYXzKHykh-pOdIHHqXr6BQ_yRbKupAhcYBvwHloa6PBBMpKtllKaSFg8XbJ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiastpuGTjYhdYXEc8ZdKVRBiKXuQnTb2V6L07BPrRg4UFxnAQJIpo_9Ffo9sF0BI965_Iz-yyOhafsYdNuvx4TIDMVt4fqqgwWJbYc66LTlEXCX3a1r88ikF4T3d_gTVYXzKHykh-pOdIHHqXr6BQ_yRbKupAhcYBvwHloa6PBBMpKtllKaSFg8XbJ=w181-h320" width="181" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Gear:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I packed my gear like I was packing for the CDT. Temperatures will be generally colder, but the temperatures vary so much depending on where you are at and at what time of the season you are in. For the overall temperature extremes of Idaho, the drastic change in terrain, the wetness of feet from the constant creek crossings and soggy meadows, and the humidity I brought along 2 crucial and extra items: a silk liner and an extra pair of socks (3 in total). The silk liner provided me with warmth in the chilly Sawtooths and river canyons, general overall comfort when I was sticky with sweat from the humidity, and, lastly, a light throw over when the temps were too hot to get into my quilt. I found the silk liner so damn useful. I have long since ditched a bivy, mainly due to the omnipresence of condensation and the inability to provide sufficient warmth when the temps dipped. I found the silk liner to be the flexibility and utility one typically thinks a bivy would provide.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Bug spray and a bug net for your shelter or an enclosed shelter are a must for mosquitoes. Ticks can be a pain in some areas. A</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> reliable rain coat is necessary for the roving thunderstorms in the summer, as well as the potential for snow. Please, consider at least one trekking for the creek crossings, which can be fierce to say the least. With the concern for the huge Sawtooth to Interstate 90 stretch, take an extra battery capable of at least 2 charges. Lastly, bring a beacon for that stretch, too. That long stretch one may not have cell service for at least 2 weeks, depending on resupply.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3YPHeMCW3YARLvX06xOsQiYyzwORy7EwOgN6-NpADHksTN_CnP8hd5REVvm-7Argt3XV11R5mukzGCJ45aapfK7ZAkpfF-ph7AyrCIPEenKBMBP6DARxQak5DWkrt-7VJGIO0IC4uzEFuqFFZvAjdYoTD00AUyy3iKylfJjzEoEtb5pdHAxzbd-0/s4032/IMG_4764.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3YPHeMCW3YARLvX06xOsQiYyzwORy7EwOgN6-NpADHksTN_CnP8hd5REVvm-7Argt3XV11R5mukzGCJ45aapfK7ZAkpfF-ph7AyrCIPEenKBMBP6DARxQak5DWkrt-7VJGIO0IC4uzEFuqFFZvAjdYoTD00AUyy3iKylfJjzEoEtb5pdHAxzbd-0/w400-h300/IMG_4764.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><br /></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-73118172312595717902022-07-28T06:37:00.000-07:002022-07-28T06:37:25.287-07:00Chapter 9: Dreams from Overland<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Idaho Centennial Trail 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Chapter 9:</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Dreams from Overland</b></span></span></p><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVI-73kP-XtOtQw28w4RzQ2IQmdA8B1_CnAJ3RO0xRO22re9y-uldCM6FnaZr_uzPMXQngi_xzlONgxAIkzCj0nietYdy_B7-kg-7aEIsaW4aexBixf0sF51ErxnH5BxpoghO8w9LzOfnjhUxXPMQlBXpvhmLWGRk6oAhWsBS6a9_keJLxIuzV53K/s1440/F8542409-599A-4304-8E44-C7954FC8A6A8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVI-73kP-XtOtQw28w4RzQ2IQmdA8B1_CnAJ3RO0xRO22re9y-uldCM6FnaZr_uzPMXQngi_xzlONgxAIkzCj0nietYdy_B7-kg-7aEIsaW4aexBixf0sF51ErxnH5BxpoghO8w9LzOfnjhUxXPMQlBXpvhmLWGRk6oAhWsBS6a9_keJLxIuzV53K/w400-h300/F8542409-599A-4304-8E44-C7954FC8A6A8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally, I stood out in the grand open, the immense space of the Bruneau Desert. I stood there out of shape, still recovering from a right foot and a left shoulder issue, in utter heartbreak from a tough past 7 months, and a recent bout of Covid. All of this had me nervous. Despite all this, I didn’t want to sleep any more. I needed my nightmares to end. I wanted my dreams to become real. I needed those two words, dreams and nightmares, to not mean one and the same thing. I really just needed to walk.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For some months now, I have been so tired I could stop dreaming. I have been a fool who was lulled to sleep by a sunken trap. My backbone has been broken holding up the weight of two people. My dreams have been warped, too. It has been like I have been sleeping but not sleeping; not awake but awake. I twist and squirm reliving recent events in distortion, in heartbreak, despair. But, all I wanted to do was sleep, to rest deeply, so as to wake up renewing what is lost, what has vanished, what died, amidst the crushing absence, to just move forward.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTvGs79rVparoV7wipcOzGMkbToQKifAgu_18QVhvTTMbTK1cSiXsYY-LoXBYdj5E9-TT9pGL_PqSWBtqJRCu1krbd70bbQYDl3coWuGWR3iy7m9iViE1y1aWl2BTN_-nKFjO8cxeMqZyAz0Jz0HzXBD8eL2ji45Qu0PAi2zda9-n7XGFEGhCQs8_W/s1440/64AB8047-2690-495D-A906-A1DFA30F7FB4.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTvGs79rVparoV7wipcOzGMkbToQKifAgu_18QVhvTTMbTK1cSiXsYY-LoXBYdj5E9-TT9pGL_PqSWBtqJRCu1krbd70bbQYDl3coWuGWR3iy7m9iViE1y1aWl2BTN_-nKFjO8cxeMqZyAz0Jz0HzXBD8eL2ji45Qu0PAi2zda9-n7XGFEGhCQs8_W/w400-h300/64AB8047-2690-495D-A906-A1DFA30F7FB4.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2300aT3Y7L1s2T-Mj_cbWI6jXcJF7iAYZps_DaUA2Ag2P96zu1PYciTiWsZaTFHJoG7ZvmWg4d0ovoxn_Hpxzmry6dEMc1sbEFXopcsq1t00-OPsyI9DW22z4nOegNy6Y9_J1scXRMfVgYriWwrKxjtvmcp-PdeBIW9NasisWGG-A0lVDr1Osi8I/s1440/9C433095-69FE-4C2A-BDF8-A36C4283661D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2300aT3Y7L1s2T-Mj_cbWI6jXcJF7iAYZps_DaUA2Ag2P96zu1PYciTiWsZaTFHJoG7ZvmWg4d0ovoxn_Hpxzmry6dEMc1sbEFXopcsq1t00-OPsyI9DW22z4nOegNy6Y9_J1scXRMfVgYriWwrKxjtvmcp-PdeBIW9NasisWGG-A0lVDr1Osi8I/w400-h300/9C433095-69FE-4C2A-BDF8-A36C4283661D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Out in the vastness, vulnerable, the storm went through me, the brittle wind passing within me, and, in my core, a calm fear settled within me. I, once again, felt raw, vulnerable, yet pulsing with blood. As much as I ached, I felt the surge of excitement in the unknown. I didn’t care that I was all those things above. I had to be present. Words and expressions boiled up and softened the callous around my heart. Goddam, I felt so alive to love again. This is me; this is the devil I love more than anything in life. This is just the beginning, I thought hopefully. I hiked on mainly trying to subdue my tears, trying to hold it all in. This is the beginning, I kept silently mouthing with my lips. Deep down I trusted that each step would crush the pain of heartbreak and that I could then again weather the physical storm and the emotional brittle wind.</span></div><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[Tonight, under a mammoth moon, I sleep with the coyotes, their wails and yips welcoming me back. My tortuous mange is drying out; take me out of this fucking skin. I feel the urge of the mask of the wolf. By the end of this metamorphosis, you will recognize me as I once was. I will be that ghoulish dog howling at the full strawberry moon, my snore of life growling at the wild sky.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up in my frosty cocoon. The cold air had sunk. The full red moon rose high in the sky illuminating the Jarbidge Range skyline. I could clearly see the serrated ridges and pointy peaks. The snow line and glinty pockets gleamed like spindrift off a frothy rapid. The refulgent moon blocked out the stars, almost like the sun would. The moon hung heavy, and I thought that I love the moon more than anything in this life, this world. A meadowlark sang in the bright night melting my heart, as I intertwined my legs and shrunk my body against the biting cold. I spun over every so often as the moon’s arc slowly yawned to the west. The stars in the east then made a sparkling appearance, almost audibly twinkling. Fuck me, I just needed to be embraced by the night, crushed in a hug by the brightness of the moon, blanketed by the cold, smothered safely by the blackness. I felt security in this void, alone. In order to love again I need to love the very thing again that does not give a shit about me whatsoever, that is incapable of such in utter nature, the impossible gift.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMvpaR-Ym27Hhe5L1vnokc2V8uorO0HE_M8iKi3RYPVYQYvpeI6H7tJMPCgxCJIUYg07xQg6M2sMW_c4c8iTJ8oS7ezxYySlRkSbMnV9cVM8VhitCD3eSS8I2lsyv6PGenxwSGE4YFL1tQlKLuVxAOjxSB5VNGmiTGOK2oaGPDm4nSmCf0UMByATM/s1440/5DAD8CB0-DEBA-4FC9-9166-79ADC9B88D82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMvpaR-Ym27Hhe5L1vnokc2V8uorO0HE_M8iKi3RYPVYQYvpeI6H7tJMPCgxCJIUYg07xQg6M2sMW_c4c8iTJ8oS7ezxYySlRkSbMnV9cVM8VhitCD3eSS8I2lsyv6PGenxwSGE4YFL1tQlKLuVxAOjxSB5VNGmiTGOK2oaGPDm4nSmCf0UMByATM/w400-h300/5DAD8CB0-DEBA-4FC9-9166-79ADC9B88D82.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">——An interjecting preface burped up—— </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I do not need you to understand what I am trying to say. These words are the medium for what is bubbling up. I won’t hide it. The words follow the wavelengths of dispersing trails with each stride on this trail. I am heartbroken. It’s that simple. While I am out on this adventure I am processing recent events and how I am relating to this place, to nature, is a direct correlation of that heartbreak. I am walking it off. And, I feel the spirit that is rising. Any moment I am immersed in something that pulls at me I detach from myself, immediately zooming into the moment while being 10,000ft above at the same time, everything piqued, and I no longer obsess over me. I am out here because I want to change. I want to forgive, to feel grateful, to be less hurt and angry. I am out here because I want to love again. I need to molt this old callous and matted hair, this mange I am afflicted with. I want a new direction, a new openness where I am not afraid.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">——I have hiccuped out away from that interjecting belch. I am ready now to euphemistically let it rip——</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqOKHO-n6JMeVDcBNP0rU0FhAxSUsLq29IloryCNP1m6TTti8gXuo3T3eAW0ot_QuLtKT-NTrlGVQ2exuJCTo5i1b3GuIhfVRxXsJZ58Dzjd8kWbOyhmqv3SVvXt3jKVTPfP9ToiNw7OgKYatxlpoZ6MmvQMViYAzsrlhJXJ7cZCH_AGHKzn5olnB/s1440/1CF78AD9-1629-4C16-B7BA-33735DE654F6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqOKHO-n6JMeVDcBNP0rU0FhAxSUsLq29IloryCNP1m6TTti8gXuo3T3eAW0ot_QuLtKT-NTrlGVQ2exuJCTo5i1b3GuIhfVRxXsJZ58Dzjd8kWbOyhmqv3SVvXt3jKVTPfP9ToiNw7OgKYatxlpoZ6MmvQMViYAzsrlhJXJ7cZCH_AGHKzn5olnB/w400-h300/1CF78AD9-1629-4C16-B7BA-33735DE654F6.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I woke up coated in condensation. I tried not to feel the cold, to touch it, for I did not want to shiver. Instead, I didn’t think about it, just packed up, put my hands in my pockets and plodded ahead with a purpose, with intent movement. The early light glowed softly atop the sagebrush florets. The glorious moon sank low to the west in a lavender glow seemingly more robust than she had been throughout the night. Low bellows of grazing cows came from the draw, the frost on the grass in meadows showing the last spots to warm up. I could see for endless miles in any direction. I walked on slowly drowning in the expanse, breathing slowly, listening to the sounds of the empty plateau.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hours later, the sun began to bake the land. Spouts of dust sprung up from the toiling wind. My skin reddened, salt squeezed in my furrowed wrinkles by the side of my eyes, burning and stinging. I went into desert mode continuing to breathe slowly and controlled, keeping my mouth shut. I donned my buff on my head and visor to diminish the glare. I put on the mask, my usual uniform. The first 48 miles of the Idaho Centennial Trail, there is no water source, no shade, just barrenness and exposure. Yet as drab and dry the surrounding expanse was, the landscape changed. What was seemingly flat was actually rolling plains. The plants and brush changed from large field to large field, some of the more grassy barren areas fire scarred. The colors flowed in a blend of Spring’s brightness; what was normally brown was green and vibrant. Flowers bloomed brightly and showy, none other than the Indian paintbrush. My mood constantly changed, not the normal ‘steady as she goes’ ship. Seeing the subtle changes in such a flat landscape made me recall the philosophy of impermanence, of constant change, of time and matter, of moods and emotion, of nature and wilderness. I would glance back occasionally, or turn my head to the left, and see the Jarbidge Range changing shape under light and perspective over distance. How things can feel and seem familiar yet appear differently minutes later. I found this thought introspective and moving, and continued walking under a scorched earth slowly recalling the past few months.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At times I wasn’t sure what to do this past Spring. I drank excessively, feeling to reach a precipice after each pull. I went down darker paths within. Drowning, life seemed hopeless. Someone I thought had loved me didn’t anymore. Just that notion crushed me. Then, she disappeared without communicating anything. I was left with my dreams and love of her. I couldn’t see past the next day. I was willing to end it and run away to far flung places to hide. Yet, I still sank deeper than that. I swirled around within the eddy careening around each curve to a darker level. I felt hopeless, alone. Clearly, as I hiked on, I was still affected by this madness. I could only look back at it now in reflection rather than despise the moment that I had been sunk in when I was living it. I merely did not have the energy anymore to hate myself.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One hundred degree heat smothered the next 2 days. The nights were big and empty and cool, though. I prayed to the moon. I would rather be out here struggling and living in the moment than to be sitting in my own shit. I think if I had not had any of these long distance wanderings in my life, I would still be in my own wallow. I needed to look outside of myself. This was absolutely necessary that I instinctively believed in. Deep down I knew the act of walking would be my savior. I needed real and tangible pain other than some vanished love pain, something that felt fake and unreal, let alone something that felt personal.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Hammett, at the PO, my package was not there. In some strange way, I was thrilled. I felt ecstatically the need to adapt. The curve ball pumped my blood, like in a survival situation. Granted it was not a survival situation. But, this adaptation provided me with purpose. I walked to the next town 8m away in 100 degree heat. I found a market, an RV park, and a restaurant in Glenns Ferry. I laid up in the shade, relaxed, my person full of kinks, damaged, and then let settle in my head the present concern —my IT band.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQlcQHhAQ6oIBrTpa7yYotd882TSaqgg0XTKwRioPmMlKc-E885sKlnNgS8dW1nVfHLd_HzYNI7asnger1oGSJrfN-HBhy6W9O3Zsv0lDB4j9knYrncCssNXBG4mlaK8mAZ2Ly26ctsxU1mNqYqZ_ItcyCVOOqyL_ix6UnJ7__Rgqadks2XLwc0uv/s4032/IMG_4309.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQlcQHhAQ6oIBrTpa7yYotd882TSaqgg0XTKwRioPmMlKc-E885sKlnNgS8dW1nVfHLd_HzYNI7asnger1oGSJrfN-HBhy6W9O3Zsv0lDB4j9knYrncCssNXBG4mlaK8mAZ2Ly26ctsxU1mNqYqZ_ItcyCVOOqyL_ix6UnJ7__Rgqadks2XLwc0uv/w400-h300/IMG_4309.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After some lounging and stretching filled my time at the RV park, I left early the next morning to beat the heat. My buddy, Handy, was to meet me at Highway 20, hike with me for 3 days over the highest point and snowiest pass of the ICT, then he would bikepack back to his car 140m. Needless to say, even with my gloom, I was looking forward to his company. Easy road miles ensued, yet still my IT band flared up even more. The flat roads, my being out of shape, starting out the gate too fast even though the quick pace was necessary, my body tightness, a recent cruddy bout with Covid—all of these factors contributed to this new-flared injury. I passed a rattlesnake on the road, dead. Someone ran it over, crushed its triangle head square, then clipped off the rattle. Yea, fuck it, I was emotional. I stopped to sit by the dead rattler. I petted its scales, softly caressing and tracing the scute patterns, the keratin spiky when nudged and flapped back. I stayed away from the head, but I felt its girth of the body, not rotten, just cool to the touch. I became transfixed in the squashed serpent’s eyes, its scaly pattern took me spiraling into a reptilian kaleidoscope. Deep down, I needed animal strength. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stood up and walked away. After about a hundred yards I finally looked back. A turkey vulture pecked at the long body of the snake and pulled stringy flesh from under the scales. So it goes, I thought. My pain became worse. I tried not to dwell or find a reason why this was happening. I just dealt with the pain straight up. I wanted to see what I could take in preparation for the foreseeable struggle. I did not medicate with anti-inflammatories. I just went on. I stopped often, trying to rest. I limited my strides, my pace slowed, I breathed deeply, yet my knee still would almost couple over. Finally, I got to the highway in the evening. Sitting on that side of the highway, I tried to hold it all in. I was hurting really bad, more or less writhing while leaning against the jersey barrier. I felt as dead as that snake on the road. My heart and head flattened, my imposing stanchions, my greatest gift, my legs, my rattler severed. I pensively contemplated hitching to the nearest town. I lamented the notion that I would have to bail, that I would be faced with a daunting decision that I would have no idea what I would do. Handy arrived about 45 minutes later. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpVYwVKJ5c2Cdtv2JhTjcCpR3vapiDCPDLVEzzOAKcBYVR6CiUGkHw8-DsiqV5V29Mb_LUCERZ9Cz62DFCxOEOeaX_W05kKHyS6ngmcQ2Umy_DvH6uMNc7YzX_Wsl1pnKtc_R1Rl7TKRT0B61weuWoXzIjDdlIMVmWWJY_qFQ9MEYkNHN3soDwjXo/s1440/08B12536-2F09-4FC3-87E7-8FEF62AAB3CF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpVYwVKJ5c2Cdtv2JhTjcCpR3vapiDCPDLVEzzOAKcBYVR6CiUGkHw8-DsiqV5V29Mb_LUCERZ9Cz62DFCxOEOeaX_W05kKHyS6ngmcQ2Umy_DvH6uMNc7YzX_Wsl1pnKtc_R1Rl7TKRT0B61weuWoXzIjDdlIMVmWWJY_qFQ9MEYkNHN3soDwjXo/w400-h300/08B12536-2F09-4FC3-87E7-8FEF62AAB3CF.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘How ya doin?’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘I’m…ok,’ I muttered, trying to conceal my grimace. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sometimes we need a friend to remind us of who we truly are. You can get so stuck in your own demise, your own head, that any type of feedback is rejected or any type of helpful introspection is lost. You are inevitably never alone. At least, that seems to be the case. Maybe you are alone in the physical, but, somewhere you are in someone's thoughts. Maybe not profoundly on someone's mind. Nevertheless, you are there somewhere. A friend who knows you can provide a mirror into yourself, to see how you may appear at the moment, or how someone sees you as. Handy immediately picked up on my insecure ambiguity. We got to a camp and perched the vehicle on a saddle adorned with granite spires resembling spires and skulls.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Lower your mileage. You started out the gate too fast. Are you taking Advil?'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Yea, I know you're right. I haven't taken anything.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Take some, dude. It's the blood flow that matters. Let's eat, have a couple beers, and get stoned. You'll be alright. You got time.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I knew he was right. And, I knew all was right and going to be alright. The next morning, we started off slow. We took our time crossing the Camas prairie and rested every couple hours so I could stretch. The morning went by quickly and, soon enough, we hit a bonafide trail. Almost instantaneously, my knee began to feel better. No longer any flat roads and terrain. No longer any huge water carries, as well, that had forced me to hike at a quicker pace and for longer periods of time. The trail undulated and meandered through a soggy canyon, weaved and contoured up onto a ridgeline that overlooked into the Sawtooths. The biting wind caused us to take our mid-morning break on a tree covered saddle that obstructed our views. However, we had seen enough of the mountains to the north that the snow levels were not as inundated as we had expected. Snow, nonetheless, was present up in the deepest parts. Still quite a bit of it, too, just less than we had thought would be there. My knee felt tolerable, that I could endure the pain. We broke a tab of acid in half and popped each half into our mouths. We both knew that we had some long miles and a couple hours before anything too hairy. The temptation of letting myself slip out my skin pulled at me. To dive into the sounds of nature and to be consumed with my senses within that nature, the moment felt right. We spiraled and plunged down Virgina Gulch, the sudden drop in elevation shifting the pressure in my head. halfway down the gulch, the effects of the acid began. My ears popped and I delved into the pressure in my head feeling the stranglehold of the recent bout of Covid escaping. As if I was breathing it all out of me, I could see the air directly in front of me twinkle with pixelation. My head tingled. I forgot about my knee. I forgot about my heartbreak. I just tumbled down the gulch absorbing and soaking in the new air ballooning up from the river canyon below. At the Boise River, a large pack bridge spanned the mighty river. The bridge heaved and swayed with each step, the roar of the river cascading down the canyon pulsated within my body, the water drumming straight through me. I found a sandy spot by some boulders under a canopy of ponderosas. I plopped down and leaned against a large boulder. I emptied my backpack displaying my gear in a disorderly fashion. I gazed straight up into the tall canopy and followed the jigsaw puzzle pieces of bark all the way up a ponderosa trunk until the branches sprawled out into the sky. Silhouetted by the blue of the sky, I traced each stained fragment of the ponderosa and pondered the water traveling in the xylem and up the length of the tree from the roots to the needles. I could hear the light wind soughing through the trees. I could hear the ponderosas speaking to me. I inhaled the redolent air of vanilla, the odor evanescent of a bending tree in the wind and the pendulum arc of the sun above that exudes the aroma. I took in the aroma and traced, with my eyes, the aroma in the swaying canopy. inward from the needles and branches, down the thick red bark and navigated my way through the ventricles of the phloem all the way down to the roots. My trance stumbled at the sand in front of me. Suddenly, the roar of the river echoed again. I looked over at Handy and saw him talking to, or rather being spoken to, by a couple with an infant. I did not envy him, at that moment. I wasn't sure I could fumble any coherent words out of my mouth.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: georgia; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1122" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCKCQddQzzbhT3NsQZlh8g73yz3j3zmxsyyIdgNwd29WEuVCLR5S6QofZ5nUbG9bDwn7KfdCMJj5u6ecvc7OVJZllHi7aMsfFTsJYoygOyH7TsS1f_rEns0TtE92EfVOC7ABRrqBHZIgcefdlQ44M3bV0N7qjGyiylAM20R_ZZwdRf7MVq538Ew1H/w300-h400/2CE3B125-BF33-4029-889A-387FE6A4B0A2.jpg" width="300" /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Up Willow Creek we went, my knee not up to snuff, as the sensation along the IT band came back. I could feel the pulse of the blood seething through the flared up area. I rubbed my upper hip, my side butt, and felt the mulched up area of the side, tight and mangled. The acid put me inside the hip and I was transported to the past Winter, to events of affliction, to depression. Then, the resounded creek boomed within a gorge. I snapped out of it. I wasn't as high as I was by the river, as the fuzzy sensation began to subside, like I was putting on a shirt over my head. I had lost track of time, but now I was 'here.' </span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: georgia; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">-- Snap!, like the fingers from a hypnotist --</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This pass, Ross Peak Pass, would prove to be the crux. Could I make it with the IT band blaring? I decided to indulge in my surroundings, to focus on the present. The creek shook the canyon, cascading with such a ferocity the ground seemed to quake. I trembled with a slight adrenaline fix, mainly the tremors of nerves. The trail meandered snow free for a few miles. So, we trudged on swiftly, my knee starting to feel good on the ascent. Early evening shifted the shadows in the canyon, the temps still staying warm. Rays of sunlight angled in from the western ridges. At times, my vision would fast forward ahead in a montage of foot travel. I found myself careening up the trail while looking down at the top of my head, a coyote head. I saw my legs and paws digging into the dirt at a swift pace. I was still elevated, the drug still taking hold of me in waves. I would sink in and out of myself. Some moments, I would feel nervous, while other times I would be back in my uniform, the head of a coyote. I teetered between the wild within and the meekly person I had been. I did not trust the shape of my meekness, for the higher up we went, the less I forgot about it, squashing the memory of the indulgence of self. I entered the primordial and attached the coyote head with clips on my shoulders.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDeRvYPW1FeSZFNb9Kkadq94KwyMMCmvpezcRmGXMEeWDFFYdvNmfbPhxoEsPqC4aidFgtBqh1n5HxUSVSmFIc3lB9XEdOX8hOt4nD76ychqdOWyCy2RnCFDizR-b7UzhInUzOQleeFy42YuUoHbTy-S9S-8Zcr7bnyjX8In-DEzyDzG6ct6QgcJF/s1440/ADDF3BE0-4BB4-43C2-ADA6-5565CFF1F873.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDeRvYPW1FeSZFNb9Kkadq94KwyMMCmvpezcRmGXMEeWDFFYdvNmfbPhxoEsPqC4aidFgtBqh1n5HxUSVSmFIc3lB9XEdOX8hOt4nD76ychqdOWyCy2RnCFDizR-b7UzhInUzOQleeFy42YuUoHbTy-S9S-8Zcr7bnyjX8In-DEzyDzG6ct6QgcJF/w400-h300/ADDF3BE0-4BB4-43C2-ADA6-5565CFF1F873.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: right;">Handy hollered at me as I had just splashed cold water on my face. I looked at him vacantly and adjusted my vision. Handy looked over at me at the snow line around 8,000ft and said, ‘let’s go for the pass.’ I nodded back, growling from within. I held my teeth from showing. We busted through the snow crust on top of the mounds and fields of old snow. We ambled along rather efficiently. The conditions were primo for hiking up the endless snow. Once in motion, I was not as reluctant as the initial thought of achieving the pass had seemed. I relied on my instincts, for I was not seeing anything I have not seen before. Really, the situation felt minorly stressful other than my flared up knee and hip. Flashes of my fragility would cross my stance in front of me with each blink, my lack of strength and confidence colored each flash with a white and glaring light. Then, another blink. I had the coyote head on. Everything went black. Back and forth, with each plodding step upward, I started to gear more and more towards the blackness. I committed more and more to the void. I had to. Then, we hit it—the flow, the trudge, the toil, the work and play, the focus, the heat and the pulse.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[Just when you think it won’t, it will. Just when you think you can’t, you’ll deal.]<br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I need to do hard shit. I crave it, yearn for it. I simply need to keep pushing myself. I absolutely must live strenuously. I may be broken, but I will give it my fucking all; my body will give what I ask of it.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[You still think I’m here to save?]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Whatever hole I am in I will dig myself out of that fucking hole. I must believe I will get my strength back. I must believe I will attain balance again.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[You’re jaded.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My heart races. My thighs pump, my eyes squint. My knee is screaming. My blood is sand.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[You are nothing.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Did she…]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I refuse to be in this space of mind I have been in. I must believe I will love again. I must believe I will thrill in living in this moment again. I refuse to give in to whatever obstacle is in front of me. My IT band is crushing me, burning me up from the inside. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[Embrace the process; some assembly required.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The obstacle is the way. I refuse to give in, to just drift away. I will wander with intent. I believe movement and momentum will guide me.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[I am a rock beast.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[I am waking up.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I saw the silhouette of Handy at the pass. I was near, just a few more grunts. At the pass, I embraced Handy. This is the simple thing I live for. I welled up, trying to keep my cool, but I was overwhelmed. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[I am awake…]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonkwjQzB6PJ4m_l37I20N_G4epaNy-MQkRm2c0lYehHaK6STOSENr7xRxLzpiWgzPq760lc4EP2LVSq0eHr3QErRe2byLWvGuR-LgenkN-Jab9qCyJDq4vyXnuiujej2WlKYGNTbJx_J03hm2l6oepzeZqxosclncmSwSye-2Dm8FKJNqFiEGlPaU/s1440/C5ABFB2B-524B-4C15-904F-C2B34FE8F997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonkwjQzB6PJ4m_l37I20N_G4epaNy-MQkRm2c0lYehHaK6STOSENr7xRxLzpiWgzPq760lc4EP2LVSq0eHr3QErRe2byLWvGuR-LgenkN-Jab9qCyJDq4vyXnuiujej2WlKYGNTbJx_J03hm2l6oepzeZqxosclncmSwSye-2Dm8FKJNqFiEGlPaU/w400-h300/C5ABFB2B-524B-4C15-904F-C2B34FE8F997.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The fuzzy feeling had worn off. The surrounding peaks of the Sawtooths gleamed in the evening dayglow. An ecstatic feeling warmed over me and I felt exhilarated. Tucked up in this formidable pocket of granite deep snow hunkered in the surrounding bowls and forests. Snow held our vision as far as our eyes could see. Handy dove off the pass and plunge-stepped his way down to the flat spot of the cirque. I followed shortly and would stop occasionally to soak in the views more. Puffy clouds appeared gray as the sun began to set in the western sky, the clouds capping off the day with a sleepy glow. Next, we caromed side to side through slushy snow through the forests. We skated along swiftly in between the hanging valleys until we hit the final steep cliff that terminated as a headwall of the valley. We picked our way down, as shadows became longer in the dark forest. We needed at least 15 minutes of dusk to hold strongly for us the remaining soft light. Handy scooted down a snow bank and crossed the creek along the slick log. I, not as brave as Handy, found a snow bridge and made my way into a soggy meadow. Cold air sunk into the forests and clung to the tufts of grass in the meadows. We sped along a soggy trail trying to beat the night. Luckily, the days are long this time of year.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'When the trail's a river, there's snow up high...,' I bellowed in a low and rather amusingly yet non-melancholic voice. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'What song is that?'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'I made it up, ' I giggled.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'It's good; I like it.'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We found the driest meadow we could find in the closing hour of dusk and tucked our tarps closest to the trees for whatever little warmth we would get from the pines. Handy started a quick fire to warm our soggy feet and nippy hands up. We breathed in the smoke and I put a tired smile on my face. Soon enough, we stamped out the fire and headed to our bed rolls. After a very long and adventurous day -- head-tripping and stunning scenery and all that -- needless to say, my spirit was peeling up.</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We slept in. Rather, I wasn’t going to get up until I needed to. I was warm and didn’t want to fight the bite of the morning air. I was exhausted from the previous day. But, I felt great, like that good type of exhaustion, the feeling one gets from a tremendous effort from a job well done. I found myself lowering my buff on my brow to provide my tired bones with darkness. I rolled over and sunk my head into my quilt. I floated in and out of dreams, good dreams unlike the nightmares from this past Winter. I had never slept in like this on trail. Suddenly, I felt an incredible warmth on my back. The sun had peeked over the craggy ridge line 3,000ft above and the first rays zoomed into the meadow we were camped in. Ah fuck me, I had never felt warmth like that. The warmth went right through my quilt, then my fleece, and finally through my rib cage to toast my heart. I now wanted to jump up and tackle the day! I felt loved with the sunshiny embrace. We skipped down the trail, really, I skipped down the trail. I found a spring pumping up from the ground. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuaeaE_tWad5vP9TOXMO285b-GkjGI5qCeIb9JgXa8W-Q3jhoC7IQoa987NOE4YTxwQPddtvUTc6512JXMTLqjVumT4Nw0290N0ZsnU-aBfxviYNBP65voJ23xgIZt-sSHtSb_HguVgkXnHGgDgVECiXSUShci5NgB6XWbRy8WXT025BTAk5kU2TW/s1496/84C01D01-4145-4BD7-966B-EFEC247AA0DC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1122" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuaeaE_tWad5vP9TOXMO285b-GkjGI5qCeIb9JgXa8W-Q3jhoC7IQoa987NOE4YTxwQPddtvUTc6512JXMTLqjVumT4Nw0290N0ZsnU-aBfxviYNBP65voJ23xgIZt-sSHtSb_HguVgkXnHGgDgVECiXSUShci5NgB6XWbRy8WXT025BTAk5kU2TW/w300-h400/84C01D01-4145-4BD7-966B-EFEC247AA0DC.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I yelled at Handy, ‘Hey! A cold spring!’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Handy more or less shrugged as I raised my voice again. ‘Never pass up a good spring, I always say!’ We sauntered on. I sang to myself the dirge I had come up with, but cheerfully .</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘When the trail is a river, </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There’s snow up high…’</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I came up with goofy lyrics that made me laugh. In the end, I settled up thinking about my aphorisms. ‘Never pass up a good spring, I always say. I also always say, never pass up a good shitter. Even if you got water, drink up from the earth; even if you don’t have to shit, just try and grunt one out, just sit on the throne for 5 minutes.’ Time just splintered away as we galloped down trail. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I said goodbye to Handy where he had stashed his bike. We had a beer each and parted ways. Handy sped off cranking the pedals on his bike. I took a less snowier alternate into Stanley. I knew I needed rest and time for the knee and hip. I needed to play it safe, to be a little conservative with my overworked body. I couldn’t risk the whole hike for a prideful decision. Besides, I had hiked the first half of the ICT in ‘15. I had seen that section before and I was stoked to see other parts of the Sawtooths. Content with my decision, I walked on alone. I was very grateful for my time with Handy, a dear friend. The pain in the knee and spending time with a friend reminded me of what I am good at, of what I can excel at, and, most importantly, that I can deal with physical pain. I am good at it. I can endure it. I just had not been familiar with a profound heartbreak like I had just experienced. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpF_vRMOT8lk3TwrivH9jRepnI10tnjGr2hET8EtnwvraUZCoCTzP0XGAc-AL25aeQYHsBBPkwBR_5pUZbT70Nzl_vbyHjcrfUzKol5rozKxMDGTGArxWAL9ukaQJ0LqsoEHeb4vIQr-EOvGjcdHkSDNeuxvcuQ58s5h_GOXQ052ejbiVjHTL64RK/s4032/IMG_4402.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpF_vRMOT8lk3TwrivH9jRepnI10tnjGr2hET8EtnwvraUZCoCTzP0XGAc-AL25aeQYHsBBPkwBR_5pUZbT70Nzl_vbyHjcrfUzKol5rozKxMDGTGArxWAL9ukaQJ0LqsoEHeb4vIQr-EOvGjcdHkSDNeuxvcuQ58s5h_GOXQ052ejbiVjHTL64RK/w400-h300/IMG_4402.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stanley, Stanley sucked me in. I walked in in time for breakfast. I was pleased with myself for getting this far. Shit, I didn’t think I was moving past Highway 20 when my knee got so bad. But, here I was looking for food, scanning the town for my needs, and looking forward to resting and recuperating the flared knee. After breakfast, I found my hotel. The room wasn’t ready, so I went seeking lunch, but not before asking about my package. The box wasn’t there. Another mishap, and I gulped in frustration. I didn’t let this get me down, and immediately went into planning a course of action. I called my buddy from home who had checked my PO Box and recovered my Stanley resupply box. Most importantly, in that box were the Frank Church Wilderness maps. I conversed with my buddy about what to do. I couldn’t wait out the whole weekend as I had limited time to be on the ICT to begin with. Automatically, staying in Stanley for the three rest days would put me two days behind schedule and I would be late to return to work. I went all in. This is a crucial moment. I pushed my chips all in and forked over a pretty expensive overnight shipment of the box. We reasoned out I would spend that much on groceries in Stanley for the long haul ahead of me and, since I couldn’t find maps in Stanley, shipping the box overnight made sense. I needed to have those maps. The maps were a safety measure, a back up in case my electronics failed, provided escape options in case of wildfire or flooded trail, and gave me a sense of security. The maps were critical for going into the massive wilderness complex with no cell reception for 17 days. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sat at the bar the next day around lunch time waiting for the box. I got a notification that it had been delivered. I retrieved it and sorted my food and maps. I went back to the bar, maps in hand. I unfolded the maps and dove into the maps and the endless land of the Frank. I followed the thick blue wavy lines, the branches of the mighty Salmon interlinked deep, deep canyons. I fell in love all over again with the process of exploration. Map reading and dreaming is, to me, one of the first steps of fulfilling a walking curiosity. At this point, I recognized the journey I was on. I had fully committed, all the way in. A beautiful woman sat down next to me at the bar. She struck up a pleasant conversation. I was nervous, as I hadn't spoken to a woman in a long time. I had been so isolated in recent months, so damaged, the mere thought of conversing with a woman scared the shit out of me. I couldn't fathom communicating with my trauma so on the surface of my heart. I ordered another beer, drinking this one even faster than the one before. We began asking questions of each other. She was a yoga instructor, a breath coach, and a well traveled and sophisticated woman, a fellow traveler. She was curious about me and I could hardly believe it. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hadn't been asked a question about 'me' in so long. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I excitedly spoke of the hike, energy oozing from my gesticulations and mannerisms. I had engaged after my nerves creased and folded to a place I could not remember. My emotions began to swirl with each swill. </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[She taught me to breathe again. I cannot make the same mistake again. My heart was broken.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Breathe</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[Forget the past. I fell into a marriage I shouldn't have been in. I chose the adventure of the notion of love rather than love itself.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You know how to breathe</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[I chose emotional excitement over the purpose of love.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I must breathe</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[She showed me the depth of breath, the practice.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Again. Slowly</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[Yes, this is not the first time my heart has been broken. I just thought there was nothing left.]</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Deeply </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">[And, then I found her, found the one I would spend the rest of my life with. I’m still severed; she quit us.]<br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Breathe forever</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The afternoon progressed in a sloshing and clinking manner. My head twirled. I felt my cheeks redden, my spirit swelled in feeling a sense of freedom of adventure. I breathed and laughed from the belly deep within. That night, we danced to a rock cover band. About all I can recall was the carousel of dancing that ensued, the swaying with the music, the Steely Dan cover. Then, I woke up alone, an empty beer can had toppled over in my armpit area, my chest hair matted. Infomercials rang out from the television. Was it all just a dream. I sought darkness and smushed a pillow over my head. I tried to forget that place where my nerves had slunk to. I thought how can I manage so well in the wilds, yet be so goofy in the world. I wanted my mask back on and I needed to rove again. Nevertheless, I fought the hangover and tried to focus on breathing. I zeroed in on my instincts. My mind cleared as I tried to swallow away the pain, a low lilt rang in my head, the cadence of a trilling whisper... </span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Your everlasting summer and you can see it fading fast</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So you grab a piece of something that you think is gonna last</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The things you think are precious I can't understand'</span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguRXLA2f7VERx5BPHX1agKs-9fGA9oRK7vww8oqRHVmMNgoE1NKorFbNH3fR8Pd-bZ55Bb1995894ukbcpZUlf-GyixwFbtSF1ErTUhsGTTnVVvLhzm5p8QJ_8ERjoIEuLYK7BIvSRBeDNlYyIlRgsDfdtHnX4lNjPszIIZGAGAau2IugudLPIrUw/s1440/623680D3-D281-4B31-A2BD-DF635D0958D4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD5Q9XuaYv_n2qyZKGYZbJAJ7f9rLUWqE73EGLPLKtc3RFZ7bQHtZwnrTbnPxE_cFnUD1QiXgUTQ7BPO1dgrHP3HzwpZ75ha2yTXl38isoyMtdA2_YzOel1z1dRxfLOzxFavuJZGQfxxhv_ivDwWfaR3OwmyO2sWJvzPiE6cCGP5kfj5E9zK-g6y6F/s1440/633F0753-3A94-4949-B089-CF9955E9E6DE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD5Q9XuaYv_n2qyZKGYZbJAJ7f9rLUWqE73EGLPLKtc3RFZ7bQHtZwnrTbnPxE_cFnUD1QiXgUTQ7BPO1dgrHP3HzwpZ75ha2yTXl38isoyMtdA2_YzOel1z1dRxfLOzxFavuJZGQfxxhv_ivDwWfaR3OwmyO2sWJvzPiE6cCGP5kfj5E9zK-g6y6F/w400-h300/633F0753-3A94-4949-B089-CF9955E9E6DE.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Caq_PYuUVjFC1mmxBZu3Wd4gtVFiqDDyynL5Lh7J3oGFIAhQqDHPIAO8lkG7MxfJxasLMIW1By7qJnhlIyfeep9g2UqyF4EylnoBlUYYV2B3UqSnLg1yo-W-paHXS7NDw6g262BhhjTq9eZoAR2AYhhmu5tNfxRMRPChTaMAsQ6A2tROyWZpvEch/s4032/IMG_4374.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Caq_PYuUVjFC1mmxBZu3Wd4gtVFiqDDyynL5Lh7J3oGFIAhQqDHPIAO8lkG7MxfJxasLMIW1By7qJnhlIyfeep9g2UqyF4EylnoBlUYYV2B3UqSnLg1yo-W-paHXS7NDw6g262BhhjTq9eZoAR2AYhhmu5tNfxRMRPChTaMAsQ6A2tROyWZpvEch/w400-h300/IMG_4374.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><br /></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-72432487464602458432021-12-22T16:46:00.000-08:002021-12-22T16:46:41.458-08:00The Second Time Around the Loop: Part 1<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Second Time Around the Loop: Part 1</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-b52b699d-7fff-ce62-91e4-ebd4109c399a"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyXqt2elLiS8-GUZi0btA4nhznEewslHX_V62xaztacSY7BClmgmUAbNBSFUqOctxtC3XN0k7ebVa9VPorTUmxzummRaZ7Uo790iGSVI3KHv7tWzIT3tWKCL_J7X0Ha_AJ-q9Gk0CEqoVyQJC2lnpRScM0v76pXzOS_CXPi6q41IyfGzpHpSEf0Vn7=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyXqt2elLiS8-GUZi0btA4nhznEewslHX_V62xaztacSY7BClmgmUAbNBSFUqOctxtC3XN0k7ebVa9VPorTUmxzummRaZ7Uo790iGSVI3KHv7tWzIT3tWKCL_J7X0Ha_AJ-q9Gk0CEqoVyQJC2lnpRScM0v76pXzOS_CXPi6q41IyfGzpHpSEf0Vn7=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The morning alpenglow start of the GBT</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The rays of the sun gleamed over the mighty ramparts of the Snake Range, the highest and craggiest ridgeback of the Great Basin, on the morning of my second go of the Great Basin Trail. The morning rays immersed the air in a hazy yellow that swallowed up views of the surrounding area. I felt enveloped in a sun globe of light squinting my eyes from the intense glare, gauging distance through a blur of light that muddled my perspective of the high ranges and long basins around me. Basking in the light I became confused about the way to go. I shook off the glow of the sun rays and tried to clear my head with some deep breaths. Settled and relaxed, a feeling full of an unknown path that lay ahead and fresh with a memory so recent my first step felt the same. The light had only baffled me briefly. I was back again, the same terminus of a beginning and an end. I rattled off in a shaky and hoarse voice to Woody and Pep: You ready?</span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The previous months, we spent time organizing a resupply strategy, arranging a shuttle plan, and planning a timeframe to get everyone ready for a Great Basin Trail thru-hike. Woody was coming from a Spring of exploring the rare plants of the arid inter-regions of the West, Pep was coming from Cali</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">fornia after working for the Winter, and, eventually, Katie would join us after she was free of her work commitments. I had hiked the GBT the previous Spring in ‘20, I took the lead on arranging our meet-up and timeframe. We planned on having buckets filled with food at various cache points along the southern portion of the route. We developed an itinerary with mileage and pace based on our backcountry experience and our expectations. Here we were, basking in that immense Great Basin light shining over the tall ridgecrest of the Snakes, ready to put one foot in front of the other, together navigating a meandering route that looped around and within the Great Basin of Nevada. We pointed a trajectory away from Wheeler Peak, seemingly up in heaven, an altar overlooking the entire Great Basin, a Mount Olympus of sorts where ghosts of dead miners, Paiute chiefs, and pioneers dwell, and headed south into the Fortification Range.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI63Oxy8lxagF2jTJmBdk6h25IT49azyfsDtnwKfeQr_ui7zEEYCMnjCKerRJoAOP1wjxa3FBnf5cmyocioxTmgsGQ_nqd7EXQPQytJPAiuBx24qk1RSkTZ5s63tWE67X6VSWHa_ZTNn3liRZ8JqccG3vwhJmB8nDfa7HArAR36Zyjt1xH6BPKeOuK=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI63Oxy8lxagF2jTJmBdk6h25IT49azyfsDtnwKfeQr_ui7zEEYCMnjCKerRJoAOP1wjxa3FBnf5cmyocioxTmgsGQ_nqd7EXQPQytJPAiuBx24qk1RSkTZ5s63tWE67X6VSWHa_ZTNn3liRZ8JqccG3vwhJmB8nDfa7HArAR36Zyjt1xH6BPKeOuK=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back towards the Snake Range</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Great Basin Trail circles 1,100 miles within the state of Nevada, with the obvious connotation of the vast ecosystem the trail resides in. This loop is huge, a vast and remote landscape adorned with isolation and empty terrain. Hardly any sign of humans exists in some of these remote expanses. The GBT is strung together by lonely ranges and empty basins, high ridge lines and barren sagebrush-filled valleys. None describes these characteristics more than the Fortification Range. This range is seldom visited by recreationists and campers, hardly peak-bagged because the peaks are not tall enough, and never off-roaded by jeepers because of the wilderness designation. This range is a wild horse sanctuary - laden with water, shade and grass, untrammeled by people.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOAGqHOuzwYQ8ko-6ePH7ed1MsdWhfH7pRFSkMrRBxY2x5Nc2j8LrMP5oyc352NxuWq1GEQGXYJPtdl1knYeF7NGe9GoMMFSXMJq-qQLKFYckMP7lLgQEhgoM5vVN8S_ZFKnEKclKWTxSkYulsPJMLNGFTfKKO0ZhVLOfKc7cRiTT88IEHEFzQFLvb=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOAGqHOuzwYQ8ko-6ePH7ed1MsdWhfH7pRFSkMrRBxY2x5Nc2j8LrMP5oyc352NxuWq1GEQGXYJPtdl1knYeF7NGe9GoMMFSXMJq-qQLKFYckMP7lLgQEhgoM5vVN8S_ZFKnEKclKWTxSkYulsPJMLNGFTfKKO0ZhVLOfKc7cRiTT88IEHEFzQFLvb=w259-h259" width="259" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From afar, the range looks inhospitable and beyond access. But, upon closer exploration, the walker finds a horse trail angling up into the ramparts along a large cliff band. Under the pink tufts sprouting up like a stegosaurus's back, the prominence below and all around of the Great Basin puts one in an ocean of empty land. Woody, Pep, and I followed this horse trail up into a narrow creek crammed under pink walls. We stopped occasionally, Woody stopped to inspect rare plant species endemic to the Great Basin. His knowledge immediately brought us closer to the landscape, his enthusiasm filled our veins with excitement. He spotted a few ponderosas under the toothiest of crags, a tree rare in these parts. More life existed in these inhospitable parts than met the eye. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s the key - I utilize descriptive words only in relation to human impact or existence. I cannot describe the utter spirit of wilderness. That feeling can only exist when us humans are gone or one is solo in isolation where that wilderness encompasses one’s presence and presses that emptiness atop insignificant and puny shoulders. We, humans, are no match for all of this wilderness. Nevertheless, we must go and dive in, the deeper we dive the more we succumb to the power of vulnerability and drown in the spirit of the wild. </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sun bleached bones littered the drainages and slopes near the springs, scattered about as if fallen from the sky by ravenous birds. We stumbled onto an elk carcass, the pelt exploded around the bull’s skeleton as if the skin had suddenly popped, each individual strand of fur outlining the carcass. The skull and antlers had long dried meat, purple from the dryness and decay. We studied the death site and could envision the throes of death in the Winter in an empty landscape, no person to hear the wails, probably most other animals giving a wide berth. This carcass was not here in the Spring of ‘20. This seemingly agonizing death felt recent and natural.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjo016X9hnRxreHWcnWsiZPY40a3dSs6dEovfuomzo4THLe7FahaVbJbmme433iSUuOpfJUO-kqZUxxcigPoEACvGRXfHsPZ5Ypg-Sx7tBrWsP_LcYFiBhB_gmwWcRRgZRYWkOzmugiYZd9hvcx5M3gwjTiDIzIlFtKa2vQKqP4k21nJ3_Dsvljnpj=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjo016X9hnRxreHWcnWsiZPY40a3dSs6dEovfuomzo4THLe7FahaVbJbmme433iSUuOpfJUO-kqZUxxcigPoEACvGRXfHsPZ5Ypg-Sx7tBrWsP_LcYFiBhB_gmwWcRRgZRYWkOzmugiYZd9hvcx5M3gwjTiDIzIlFtKa2vQKqP4k21nJ3_Dsvljnpj=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fortification Range</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beneath the range, we skittered along braided horse trails in a crescent-shaped divot, a cove in the valley that rose gradually and protected into the range. The Gouge Eye formation fortified the range as much as the ramparts did. Elk grazed here alongside the wild horse. At the namesake spring, we find the copper pipe dry and rusted, the dried-out pool signifying the drought we all knew the West is under. I felt disappointed to find this spring bone dry. Last year, at this spring a chickadee alighted on the pipe inches from my hand and face. I felt that moment to be a good sign, one that pervaded the long waterless stretches and the intimidation of the high desert. We stood almost tongue-less, parched, with thirst encroaching on our survival. I had filled up an extra liter, just in case, at the previous potholes, but I expected water here. We schemed out a plan that would push us forward while in search of water. Temperatures were cooler in the night and the morning. We would make miles then.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The search for water put a strain on our threesome immediately. We all had different experiences with these situations. Being I was sort of leading this expedition, I felt confident we would find water. I tried to maintain some calmness and sternness. We needed to keep forward progress while managing our conditions. We woke up to chilly temperatures that morning in Smiley Canyon and ambled along a forested wash. Eventually, we found water and lavished in the rich coolness of refreshment, really only having to go 12 or so miles without water in very modest temperatures. Deep down I had hoped this would set a tone - do not take this environment lightly.</span></p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdj950xDZw5GFFYbGdD-psJccI5tdgSMNTbc-vNTDoueKrmk7Ksrsndl7kDA4Q0TOvulvjKSpdmWP0FzTukncI3YbeyZUDoHyyyVBpuX1ghdVl_uAGkD3i5qM6foPK9_2Hc9d1nO1eo8VBcleLYT72o_r6wnSbp0tWrAF2ZKbsh2TQZfpvhy7pqjjo=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdj950xDZw5GFFYbGdD-psJccI5tdgSMNTbc-vNTDoueKrmk7Ksrsndl7kDA4Q0TOvulvjKSpdmWP0FzTukncI3YbeyZUDoHyyyVBpuX1ghdVl_uAGkD3i5qM6foPK9_2Hc9d1nO1eo8VBcleLYT72o_r6wnSbp0tWrAF2ZKbsh2TQZfpvhy7pqjjo=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water and Mapping</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After our indulgence of water, we scrambled up, over, into, and back up in the Wilson Creek Range. The route gets wooly here, the very thickness a pioneering sense of progress. Our group mentality rebounded positively with the prospect of plentiful water, yet we needed the overgrown patches to forge our fortitude - we were in it, committed. Finding a way through with Woody and Pep blended our skill sets together. We pushed our unexplored way through together discovering a new isolation. Huge conifers thickly lined the sharp angled drainages, aspen quaked in a slight breeze, and the cold night up on the high plateau and ridge brought a beautiful and brittle reality to our momentary lives. In a mahogany thicket, cluttered and tunneled out, we camped on a saddle, the cold air sinking, the dark sky shrouded by the branches. At one point in the night, the deafening silence was broken by a far-up airplane soaring by. I could see the stars twinkling in between the arms of the mahogany. Down below, I could see a sliver of a shimmering white light in the basin, a lone vehicle miles away hovering in the blackness. The three of us, like at the edge of an inland world, drawn together into the oblivion, we felt the loneliness of a unit rather than a lonesome solitary plight, a sullenness of torture brought on by isolation, as if we the travelers were left to roam the only emptiness left in this world. I forgave myself for my past obsession of traveling solo; I was grateful to have them with me. I leaned over and faced them from my bedroll. We all faced each other, our whispers breaking the silence, our beings in good company in this random and remote ridge.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Pioche, we settled up for the night in a haunted motel and saloon. I moseyed up to the bar and drank cold, cheap beer. Something nostalgic traveling through a dusty old mining town, like itinerant travelers back in the Old West, moving through and headed to where temporary work was. We left the next morning and set our sights on the Highland Ridge. Once atop, amid the communication towers and repeaters, we on-sighted the southern ridge descent. Woody marveled at the limestone summit and told us to keep an eye for some rare astragalus or something or other, maybe even claytonia. Every once in a while, I would hear him whoop at a rare find or a beautiful plant specimen. I got a kick out of it. I asked him questions, a ton really. Pep did the same. We navigated, Pep and I, while Woody scoured the hillsides and ridges for rare plants.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhphr-EVReCXj5o4mrav_nhmXrUfbvlAVb3zsZym1Asi4MG1bxGv5rQ-c6wlJYKgAGfsSDRjFdgmYDc41tLnaVWI3JhS8g1z1kmkHkLLt-d38_u5G_5A2Py7uMcwYyXKM0dxbdxOI03Oh-Prix5QsAXnL8fNJ2GW_VWk2sonW6Pjrjg6iiyK2Hbs97H=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhphr-EVReCXj5o4mrav_nhmXrUfbvlAVb3zsZym1Asi4MG1bxGv5rQ-c6wlJYKgAGfsSDRjFdgmYDc41tLnaVWI3JhS8g1z1kmkHkLLt-d38_u5G_5A2Py7uMcwYyXKM0dxbdxOI03Oh-Prix5QsAXnL8fNJ2GW_VWk2sonW6Pjrjg6iiyK2Hbs97H=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Highland Range ridge<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pep is in his element in these situations - no trail, cross country, his vision piercing through land blocks, his calmness finding a good way through, the most fun way. I liked having him in this trio. He led from the back, quietly. He only says something if he means it. And, I trust his instinct. When he asked if he could join us on the GBT, I eagerly accepted his request. I knew he could make the GBT better and ultimately provide an improved vision that would appease any exploratory hiker. He is a visionary, while I am the results-oriented masher. Woody is the scientist that would lend to a deep and intimate relationship with the land. I knew the route while they provided assets and skills to improve the design on the GBT route. We had already improved the Wilson Creek Range traverse, and now, up on Highland Ridge, with a panorama as wide as any on the GBT, I already saw the GBT route improving, finding a better line than the one I originally took while ground-truthing. Now, with Pep and Woody, we were ground-proofing.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I find the water; that’s what I am good at. I have a nose for water. But, even with all my research prior to hiking the GBT the first time, I had to dive into this vast expanse of the Great Basin with a relatively unknown sense and security in what the water sources would actually look like. I was willing to take the risk, to go thirsty for a couple hours or 10 miles. I knew I had trained for that, even having a belief that I am built for waterless endurance. It is a mind set I have been working on for years. Even so, I had water caches planned at a couple locations, sometimes stashed with our food buckets, to buffer any real serious issues like drought or hot temperatures. I knew what to expect, like how far the next source would be, how likely the next source would actually have water, etc. This second time around the loop I held a firmer confidence in knowing the sources I had hiked to the previous Spring. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Cyclone Spring, thirsty, hot and dry, all of us, I blatantly walked past the dugout spring area fully believing nothing was there. But, I turned back to investigate the area further, realizing I should exercise patience and observe more of the possible changing conditions. Maybe I missed something? Nevertheless, I decided instantly to maintain a level of exploration out here, like I had not hiked across here before, like I was new to the area. I mustered deep into the well of curiosity to seek what we needed, to provide for our survival in a sense, to stay on task. The dugout proved to be nothing more than a dug out pit of where someone kept digging to find water, as year after year water kept seeping deeper and deeper into the basins below.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG5ktQSoQbadBMdFfaS8Kxpnu3TwaeWjXnjgybwtQOVSW7wF0cStud5OQZ065BwSlLL0sIbQ3kpc-cl_5BLTS_oznwli1arB7fYcdD2j2PwgdfiNZwWKY7KQfitxXqPlcI355CxGvagRHCMZQ7XJX3x7khPD8AGefNIbvlEP4BAJY9Z9NahPFXDfHI=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG5ktQSoQbadBMdFfaS8Kxpnu3TwaeWjXnjgybwtQOVSW7wF0cStud5OQZ065BwSlLL0sIbQ3kpc-cl_5BLTS_oznwli1arB7fYcdD2j2PwgdfiNZwWKY7KQfitxXqPlcI355CxGvagRHCMZQ7XJX3x7khPD8AGefNIbvlEP4BAJY9Z9NahPFXDfHI=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG5ktQSoQbadBMdFfaS8Kxpnu3TwaeWjXnjgybwtQOVSW7wF0cStud5OQZ065BwSlLL0sIbQ3kpc-cl_5BLTS_oznwli1arB7fYcdD2j2PwgdfiNZwWKY7KQfitxXqPlcI355CxGvagRHCMZQ7XJX3x7khPD8AGefNIbvlEP4BAJY9Z9NahPFXDfHI=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, we stumbled upon an iron vat, a large tank with a heavy lid. I opened the lid not expecting anything. To my bewilderment, crystal clear and cold water flowed out of a pipe, a strong flow pulsing into the voluminous tank. I looked up at Pep and Woody, smiling from ear to ear. We found water. We found unexpected water. Clear and refreshing water, an oasis discovered by our stumbling and aimless direction. We splashed in sheer excitement, like in cartoons where the characters find water in the desert. Our tongues rolled out to the floor, our eyes bulging out of our heads, this tiny discovery filled our gullets and stomachs with joy, with utter refreshment, so much so, I relished the quench of this water more than any other water I have ever gulped.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That evening we walked into a sunset amongst a tall Joshua tree forest. The Great Basin Trail travels through a small northern section of the Mojave Desert ecosystem. Joshua trees flourish in groves in the angled slopes of the basins - just between the peaks and the valleys. The sunset, purple and orange, a palette of dusk, spanned across the whole western horizon, as we walked towards it, facing the end of a day in dramatic fashion, as behind us the looming darkness of night began to pull the cord on the curtain on this stellar and empty stage. We were small characters, tiny actors, in the wide expanse of the Great Basin, meandering across the desert in amazement, the blooming of the desert still fragrant, air teeming with the fragrance of the ephedra and the sage, an impending thundercell encroaching towards us flashing lightning up in the clouds while the last rays of orange turned to purple that silhouetted the layers of endless mountain ranges, a seemingly sea bottom in the desert simply bountiful with wonder. We laid down our bedrolls among a tiny grove of Joshua tree as the thundercell rolled on through. Woody looked upward in marvel yet with a nervousness that he set up his tent. Pep and I just let things happen, open to the possibility of a tiny drenching of a spring rain. My gaze went from the western horizon to a fixation on the roving clouds above. The lightning flashed directly above us, not reaching the ground, although sparking a circular bulb instantaneously, so fast that if I blinked I missed the heavenly sparkler. As my eyes fell into a slumber, we never got wet, the virga never touching the ground, the electric orbs signaling a beacon eastward for the next lonesome traveler.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVzueV9XRIa3HnuL4aPSnmgifaLP2IcmbLMg1z04T_bWQFD70sRKq51AZTlauzqPDeTxINuTgBwMRW0Kk4zMXIYhTwo_p_cUR1g9pLivYAnvpGwmyo7YYHXvZLHytomhujO_wwWJYbQltCFkg-YgEA2AvMhJL32Hl7IMWvd2D1_cgSOr9CRSmA6hzH=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVzueV9XRIa3HnuL4aPSnmgifaLP2IcmbLMg1z04T_bWQFD70sRKq51AZTlauzqPDeTxINuTgBwMRW0Kk4zMXIYhTwo_p_cUR1g9pLivYAnvpGwmyo7YYHXvZLHytomhujO_wwWJYbQltCFkg-YgEA2AvMhJL32Hl7IMWvd2D1_cgSOr9CRSmA6hzH=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojave Desert ecosystem with Joshua Tree</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the end, when my time is up and I have left everything behind, I want to believe I contributed to something, to a community, that for a small era in my life I passed a piece of shared work behind that can help people attain a valuable experience in an incredible landscape. I witnessed such immersion that evening: watching Pep’s eyes bulge in excitement at the flashes of lightning above, observing Woody’s passion for intricacies in the plant life of the Great Basin. I can see their marvel in the panoramic vision into the emptiness of the Great Basin. This is as unique an environment as any place in the world. I just believe in that. And, I truly hope I can pass that forward. The Great Basin Trail is my contribution for the thru-hiking community.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Limestone cliffs buffeted the summit of Mt. Irish making the peak seem unattainable. Once through a notch in the cliff band, we stumbled into a scattered ponderosa forest. The tall pines looked old from the appearance of the thick and jumbled red bark. Woody had his eyes peeled for a rare plant up here, Lewisa maguirei. Limestone led to his curiosity, limestone encouraged his learned experience. He just knew he was going to find something. This Great Basin landscape, the freedom of space intertwined with the natural exploratory character of being a walker, of Woody being a botanist, of our human instinct to rove, to be nomadic and take a keen eye to the landscape, will all influence one’s hike. We all have a purpose out here. We all have skills that benefit the meandering movements of our threesome. The freedom of space and movement within this landscape only bonds together a route that is personal to the walker, like a form of survival, a thriving of the wild spirit that taps into our genetic code. Free form, adapt, do what you feel - you do not have to walk anyone else’s path. My intention is to develop this route to immerse you in the Great Basin. I encourage you to loosely follow what I have created to form your own experience, to fulfill your own curiosity from what the empty landscape inspires. Our common thread, as the traveler, is the unbelievably immense and empty landscape of the Great Basin.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Woody yelled out. ‘Oho! Oh SHIT!! Maguirei! I found it!’ Woody had just extended the known range of an endangered plant species by a couple hundred miles, the only known places being the Spring Mountains and the Quinn Range, some distances away in the Great Basin ecosphere. Damn, I felt enthused by Woody’s passion, his excitement. I felt it in my veins. Pep rushed over to observe the discovery. He leaned down, crouched like Woody, and snapped photos in the same eager way as he. We were infected by the bug, this microscopic view of the dirt and limestone that brought another intimate layer to this wide place, that brought a pulsing life to the terrain.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I scoured the dirt beneath me, the chossy limestone broken apart atop raspy shelves. I found one Maguirei, then a couple more. Woody had me trained now to see even the tiniest of plants. I knelt down and imagined the sprout pushing through the chossy surface. How tough and resilient, I thought, the gall to live and thrive excruciatingly. One forceful stem shoving through the gravely dirt showcasing its tiny self to the sun, exposing its smooth skin to the dry air. Then, one leaf pops open slowly, tumbling over a moat of dry air like a controlled and chained bridge, finally splaying out. The leaves cup for water, begging for the clear sustenance, surviving in the harshest of climates, the ancient species still stubbornly persistent.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXBh3QCJtBBxrgLiHwfy3G8xDIxxMaRdMpwXjf0ioVv-C6WDqwuItAr4w9T5IO4nC66UfaUnROefDABfKdBl8VyDbvzsZ-Hyrjo-5mKLJXcJjLFDp3fu7XIdRdcnwxuk4wYFPs00bua66bKNaipFhYd_vasblw-VJk7NvdpRJWXMP-_xBh3MT13ktn=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXBh3QCJtBBxrgLiHwfy3G8xDIxxMaRdMpwXjf0ioVv-C6WDqwuItAr4w9T5IO4nC66UfaUnROefDABfKdBl8VyDbvzsZ-Hyrjo-5mKLJXcJjLFDp3fu7XIdRdcnwxuk4wYFPs00bua66bKNaipFhYd_vasblw-VJk7NvdpRJWXMP-_xBh3MT13ktn=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thundercell moving through the desert</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found it hard to leave the high limestone shelves beneath Mt. Irish. I wanted to dig more, to scrounge around and look for more rare plants. I felt like I was on a hunt while at the same time trying to traverse through. I ultimately kept my head up and forged my way to the top. All three of us sat under the communication towers atop the peak. We were afforded the usual wide views of the surrounding areas. We could see our next larger target: the Quinn Range about 50 miles away as the crow flies. In the foreground sprouted the Worthington Range, a gnarly craggy range short in length but precipitous in its jutting fault line. Pep eyed this closely. I could see it in his squinting brow. He sees something in the landscape most travelers do not. I could tell he wanted to traverse the range. I interjected his train of thought in a more conservative way. I even quelled my urge to stick with my plan of a harder crossing up and over the hogback. Instead, I vouched for my original crossing of the range in the northern and gentler graded slopes of the Worthingtons. I did not trust the water availability, as well as the amount of food we had left until the next resupply. The Worthington traverse would take time.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We focused all of our thoughts at the immediate craggy ridge line stemming off the northern point of Mt. Irish. Woody found a couple of bristlecone with roots hunkered into the chossy and exposed slopes. He mentioned how the bristlecone just loves cold and windswept ridges, how impressed he was that this particular scattered stand grew slowly and firmly in the lowest possible elevation for the tree’s life. He took a trip down ancient history and told us of how the basins below were filled with a vast inland sea. Ancient peoples navigated through the sky islands above the sea and probably saw this bristlecone stand as saplings. From our lofty view, I could only envision a past filled with unknown marvel and peril. I drifted off into a story I have read about, heard about, and now trying to walk about. I longed for that wild simplicity of purely existing. Instead, I trundled along soft talus that trained my focus to the present footstep.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Woody continued to teach us about the plants of the Great Basin. In every basin or valley, whether large or small, the plant life exhibited the blemish of the weather of the previous Winter and Spring. Various plants inhabited these lowlands depending on elevation, aridity, and alkalinity. Sagebrush is ubiquitous in the Great Basin. Sagebrush encompasses more often than not the basins around the Great Basin. One’s view is often glorified by the purple and greenish color of the sage. Once in the sea of sagebrush one’s nose perks to the sweet smell of the aromatic shrub. But, other shrubs dwell here in the Great Basin. We roved from greasewood to bitterbrush, sagebrush to salt brush, black sage to rabbitbrush. Huge forests of juniper and pinyon pine belted the foothills in between the basins and the highest parts of the ranges. In this belt and in the ribbons of creeks plummeting from the crests, cottonwoods colorfully lined drainages. The highest elevations held the occasional ponderosa, aspen, douglas fir, limber pine, and bristlecone pine. Woody rifled off names in such a stunning fashion that I ended up fumbling over my words and just fell into a trance gazing over the landscape. My descriptions above of the plants and trees of the Great Basin pale in comparison to the human guidebook that is Woody.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2tvm0JbJOx8aa3wZmjxmzscFqULIqp11dxx9oDZ_6PRy1FYQnbOd9poDrAJIhjlQfUqLaDlSqh8vf7b6XVODN66Zjgd3zoNWXYtnSWCQVXh0fv5ELA7jIsyxWpL8MFw5geuKXADLfQXOe31X3AqoRFolwXuzun-3GaB3H7NGn69kb1i-i26NccAsH=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2tvm0JbJOx8aa3wZmjxmzscFqULIqp11dxx9oDZ_6PRy1FYQnbOd9poDrAJIhjlQfUqLaDlSqh8vf7b6XVODN66Zjgd3zoNWXYtnSWCQVXh0fv5ELA7jIsyxWpL8MFw5geuKXADLfQXOe31X3AqoRFolwXuzun-3GaB3H7NGn69kb1i-i26NccAsH=w300-h400" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I began to look at basins differently because of him. As the GBT route creator, I am in constant search of a better way through, or a way that may hold more water for the hiker. I want to see how the seasons are different and how the seasons vary year after year. I am trying to envision a water record, to anticipate the quenching of the land through the needs of plants and shrubs, wild horses and trekkers. In the end, the greatest gift Woody taught was how to read the color of the plants to understand the water content of the plants, water levels of the basins, and how the storms of the previous Winter and Spring moved over the landscape. I developed a pattern in my mind’s eye in how the water fell and I began to understand in confidence what would lay ahead. This inadvertent teaching immersed me deeper into a desert landscape. I now saw the desert differently, more intimately.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was not shocked, then, to enter the Quinn Range and find running and pooled water scant in the first couple creek drainages we entered. No geologist here, but I tied the layer of rocks the Great Basin ranges were made of together with the health and vibrancy of the plants and shrubs. With limestone being composed of carbonate I could fathom the erosion of the brittle rock either soaking up or percolating the water through; I expected flowing water to be in lower elevations, but not as the creek bed entered a different rock layer at the upper edge of the basins. Either way, even if I could indescribably see water underground flowing like an electrician sees an electric current flowing through wires, I felt so ecstatic to present Pep and Woody the first perennially flowing creek on the Great Basin Trail. At a break, we lazed around in the pools amid the cascading cold water. We splashed our faces and necks, our skin rising up in tingling pricks. We even rinsed out our dusty socks and our salt-stained shirts. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Normally, I am in the front leading the hike, especially on the climbs. Sometimes, though, I want to linger behind and observe how Pep and Woody choose the way through the route. However, I found this difficult to do based on our vastly different styles. Pep really took his time absorbing the landscape, as if he was figuring out some code, deciphering the secret of the terrain, while Woody would be scouring the ground for rare plants. I found myself ‘leading’ too much most likely because of my personality and my intimate knowledge of the route. I really felt engaged when I did, in fact, have the opportunity to observe my two friends navigating their way through. I relished those moments when our brains worked together as one and we, together, had decided which way to go. Within a week or so of our start, I understood how fortunate I was to hike a big route with two new hikers unfamiliar with the region as I was. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbvGrgGNRdYeyYEr8yA3s0Zhj8LiG60oFBsbPKNGqD6mUAktKdWZOnwZv3E6FMW5pg9finD3ugBoUhOdH4dFBpAx74--p2CyrRmOf1Oa78FYYIzkRH36MBmedeXHV38h5YD4BJ4ScJ4c0klJlUkKWd82vw6AVbn7cHkdVNl4OIOXNDUPC_Jny-QhHJ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbvGrgGNRdYeyYEr8yA3s0Zhj8LiG60oFBsbPKNGqD6mUAktKdWZOnwZv3E6FMW5pg9finD3ugBoUhOdH4dFBpAx74--p2CyrRmOf1Oa78FYYIzkRH36MBmedeXHV38h5YD4BJ4ScJ4c0klJlUkKWd82vw6AVbn7cHkdVNl4OIOXNDUPC_Jny-QhHJ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Quinn's</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Normally, I am not one to hike with anybody. Usually, I find myself more driven than the person beside me. Generally, I hike for myself and my own experiences. I do not feel the urge to seek out socially driven experiences, too. It is just my general nature. But, to be very open about this, the GBT and this particular hike with Pep, Woody, and eventually Katie is about their experience and the experiences of future GBT hikers. I read people just as well as I read a desert landscape, and I am so lucky to have the chance to observe Pep and Woody weave and meander through this grand Great Basin. I know them, too. I know the ‘feels’ they get out here under the big, giant sky. I see the fervor behind their smile. I can feel their hearts balloon up with their immersion in this place. I am happy to be out here with two friends hiking a route I envisioned and created that I truly have not thought about my own personal time out here. I am enjoying seeing them do this. These two are talented, smart, and really, really care about an endeavor of this sort. Occasionally, I would well up with emotion looking back at them or sharing a vista with them. Them joining me and I leading them means so much to me. And, I will help them in any way I possibly can. Mainly this means adapting my route and my schedule to the group needs whether physically, emotionally, or route-driven. All I know is that to see Woody geeking out on a rare plant and to spy Pep gazing out over the Great Basin from some random spot means the absolute world to me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Atop the ridgecrest of the Quinn Range, we attained the best view of the whole GBT thus far. All around us we gazed in excitement at the profound distance we could see. We looked deeply into Area 51, looked intently back east at Wheeler Peak, squinted strongly towards the west and the Toiyabe - could we see the High Sierra? - and trained a furrowed brow to the north - could we see the Ruby’s or Diamond Peak? Massively impressed, our energies felt at an all time high. Pep lined his vision to the enormous canyon below us of the westerly ramparts. He looked up at us deviously: Should we take it? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEDurHltBl5Yvi98VJalwTyPKUjv2xj9Y5tWG0MD1jdIuPmCU4zquMeGyRfSzoT5Bq-WTfNw5gMsRDPeIAox-rc8jGF0vDX_dms46hBYwpoF7VDyTd9V_YnmJQf1IrbNSs4WtWR5MzvOdozsM0lNhQOAxEMXGy_O4gH1lzhb4WlvtklgTydRzBkqBA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEDurHltBl5Yvi98VJalwTyPKUjv2xj9Y5tWG0MD1jdIuPmCU4zquMeGyRfSzoT5Bq-WTfNw5gMsRDPeIAox-rc8jGF0vDX_dms46hBYwpoF7VDyTd9V_YnmJQf1IrbNSs4WtWR5MzvOdozsM0lNhQOAxEMXGy_O4gH1lzhb4WlvtklgTydRzBkqBA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The heart of the Quinn's</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s the effused freedom I envisioned a hiker would pulse with out here on the GBT. This landscape beckons the traveler on foot to trample across the terrain where one’s curiosity pulls and tugs at our exploratory and nomadic nature. Impulsively, we must go that way; instinctively, we need to go that way. The wide open and unwalled space of the Great Basin unlocks a movement that flows with our needs and creative wants - free-form, adapt, do what you feel - you do not have to walk anyone else’s path. My intention is to encourage the lengthy immersion within the Great Basin, to loosely follow what I have developed to create your own experience, to forge our common thread of exploration in this unbelievably immense and empty landscape. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">‘Hell yea, Pep.’ ‘Let’s do it.’ Woody and I chimed in, responding to Pep’s enthusiasm. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">‘What do you see, the line? The way?’</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We scampered along the ridgecrest weaving around piles of rock and in between clinging limber pines. At a ridge node we took the one most craggiest and slid down talus chutes and rocky limestone outcrops. At a low saddle, 500 feet below us, a negotiable descent began through a thickly sagebrush mountainside. The three of us split up following winding and twisting elk paths. Quickly, the peaks around us loomed steeply above, the gullies and shaded areas filled with crunchy snow. We reconvened at a wide and funneled pan directly above three creeklet forks that came together. Pep pointed out the canyon pinch point right around where the thick forest began. We aimed for the slopes adjacent to the small gorge. We ambled the elk trail that became straighter and etched through the rock and snow detritus. Large tumbled boulders and rolled logs laid stuck in the aggregated mess, but we moved swiftly. Soon enough we began an undulating traverse over a series of gullies, but not before running into a wild cow and her calf. Rough looking, wild-blazed, the horned cow trampled through the mahogany and pinyon pine thickets, the calf zig-zagging in any direction of least resistance. These two lived a quiet life up here. Branded, but probably forgotten, or known as too much trouble to capture, we envied the roaming and roving life of these mountain cattle in this wilderness.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the dense forest, we lost the game trail. We kept a closer eye on each other through here to avoid any wrong turns or unfortunate off-chutes. Even though we wanted to be like the cattle, uncaptured and free, we were each other’s responsibility. Giant ponderosa pines lined the gouged-out creek drainage and sloped flats. We stopped to marvel these tall stands knowing that the pines were old and hardly ever had human eyes look up at their high canopy with needles draping from long branches, or had human hands touch their thick and red jigsaw puzzle bark, or had a human nose smell deeply in that same thick and jumbled bark the sweet fragrance of butterscotch or vanilla. Woody understood how rare these ponderosa stands were. With hardly any access to this canyon and this part of the Quinn Range, this surrounding forest was protected from any human impact. As we descended the drainage, sometimes we would hit a clearing on a rocky point, or attain the ridge bump between gullies, and see the tallest of the ponderosas sprouting up through the forest, just towering over the smaller trees.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6aYSaMCEFepp1-ZejzqvNX4mqdNSpVmzGx6AEu-zU6M-OOQ5DUUk_XYiyTEHqoWhKHaEyl4Av7mMbzvWA9Az-tc_l1w80wRcMjX-1ftIaiwpmC1TlJJaQyvMoeANi6ajXBRnLvy-30jIFEfAQ8U0TDhb7iOR3P263LuL8MrR6tBv_c7-CKK0sjMae=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6aYSaMCEFepp1-ZejzqvNX4mqdNSpVmzGx6AEu-zU6M-OOQ5DUUk_XYiyTEHqoWhKHaEyl4Av7mMbzvWA9Az-tc_l1w80wRcMjX-1ftIaiwpmC1TlJJaQyvMoeANi6ajXBRnLvy-30jIFEfAQ8U0TDhb7iOR3P263LuL8MrR6tBv_c7-CKK0sjMae=w320-h240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We followed the flat banks of the creek that bounced us along atop ponderosa pine needles and duff.. Dry for some time, the creek bed had round boulders with a ‘clean’ patina. Yellow smudges showed the water mark, long ponderosa needles most likely the culprit of the stain. I wondered why this creek would be dry for most of the year. You could tell that maybe something cavernous fell below the channel or a porous characteristic drained the water below. With ample shade and the occasional pockets or pool of water, this canyon felt unoccupied, as if we felt the spirit of something residing here in this sanctuary that had not been here for a long time. At the confluence of the two major canyons, still hopscotching along rolling boulders, we found a cove tucked beneath a sedimentary textured rocky outcrop. Pink turrets poked up from the top just beneath the tallest of the ponderosas. A steep ramp led up to the cove. Woody eagerly spoke: ‘Let’s go look!’ </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We found a small overhang with a flattened and dug-out surface beneath, a small and indiscernible fire ring up against the lower parts of the wall. We looked around investigatively, especially Woody, the trained and educated eye. A shelf from the wall had splinters of rock and charcoaled wood. Arrowhead points and flints, tiny and broken, littered the shelf in a worn bowl within the rock. Woody found the best specimens directly on top of the dust and powder. He looked down at his feet and began picking through the thicker dust splinters of wood. He lined up his best finds. We had stumbled upon something, we knew it. We had found a cave long ago used by tribes. He looked up and saw pack rat midden glued to the roof of the cave, the amber gunk spackled into the potholes. He had studied, funnily enough, pack rat midden in recent summers. He understood that pack rat midden can tell us the timeframe of usage of this cave through the detritus stuck in the midden. Pine needles, charcoal, bones, whatever you can think of, if it was small the pack rat collected it and used it for its nest and the area of the pack rat’s shit and piss froze these small remnants in its amber. And, since the generations of pack rats kept the same nest, the pack rats shat and pissed in the same chambered room. Over time, these middens kept inadvertent track of the cave's history. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPwkqTfw3zZQ7vByzloYbOl-kwo54YHYbgwsvubpa9cVP3EjEF-i--uSuF1mD_oDCm_xa4UfLXW7tavW1ka4IsGLrigfDOTGSU76nOQxI0MVtGaU_qVKsEDotr0vd87_9QUfWouS6Pwq_KYwFo4jT9a9qLKoN7JEfjDPo-GAGhlSKIHg2860bBHNG8=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPwkqTfw3zZQ7vByzloYbOl-kwo54YHYbgwsvubpa9cVP3EjEF-i--uSuF1mD_oDCm_xa4UfLXW7tavW1ka4IsGLrigfDOTGSU76nOQxI0MVtGaU_qVKsEDotr0vd87_9QUfWouS6Pwq_KYwFo4jT9a9qLKoN7JEfjDPo-GAGhlSKIHg2860bBHNG8=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our skin tingled, our spirits swelled. This is why we walk a long way. We only hope and dream of something occuring like this, a discovery of our past, of a life much rougher and simpler, of less mainstream and electronic clutter, of no conveniences and fluff, of a tight knit family and tribe all geared towards survival. Woody felt the walls, poked at the ground, and gently caressed rocks while Pep gazed in wonder, his eyes wide and sparkling. I could not stop looking in circles, overwhelmed by the moment, envisioning that epic past life while trying to find the tiny remnants of that past life. My intelligible mind felt unaligned with my imagination, my heart and feel disconnected from my touch. Woody trained his eyes on something up high towards the outward side of the roof of the cave. Blurred and almost smeared in ochre, Woody spotted a pictograph, a figure. Our discovery continued on. </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After eyeing the pictograph for another few minutes, we trundled down the canyon until stumbling onto a giant ponderosa grove. The largest and most robust ponderosa had a crystal clear spring flowing from its exposed and massive root system. Again, for a moment, I lost track of our place and blurted out: ‘This cannot be Nevada.’ Awe-inspired, I gawked up at the glamouring giant tree. The isolation, the lonesomeness, the island-in-the-middle-of-an-ocean feel is what made that tree so special. A ton of other places out West with a similar feel would be overrun by hikers, climbers, hunters, off-roaders, mountain bikers - all recreation users - yet here in a sky island range in the middle of the Great Basin the grove and canyon felt unseen and untrammeled, just too damn hard to reach, the most faraway of all places. We tanked up and slurped the cold water that slaked our high desert parchedness on the altar of isolation, upon the shrine of individuality - this wilderness. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeJaxF9XYiyTfr-6NmALbuJ2rNxH6xV45Y0kc9YEpHd5O4Vf6Fkej5oVYhAV6IF1riFW-mUDIuyaw9_wyxu-beGMj5puZq8OkKoT33WNt-tvNOsbeOFc57qMP9DUTgu0Vv4_rVIqorKd9SBWceH0klWz2IL6O4t587Ohz556ggHZCb703IjP6MDcw_=s1440" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeJaxF9XYiyTfr-6NmALbuJ2rNxH6xV45Y0kc9YEpHd5O4Vf6Fkej5oVYhAV6IF1riFW-mUDIuyaw9_wyxu-beGMj5puZq8OkKoT33WNt-tvNOsbeOFc57qMP9DUTgu0Vv4_rVIqorKd9SBWceH0klWz2IL6O4t587Ohz556ggHZCb703IjP6MDcw_=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Down canyon in the Quinn's</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moments later, maybe a mile or so, our wilderness shield shattered when we stumbled upon an old marijuana grow operation. Rows had not been furrowed or plotted, however, the remnants of a future grow operation laid under the canopy: coiled hoses of a couple different types, tarps, litter. Something foiled this attempt and the grower left in a hurry.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘I thought we found an unmanned place.’ We left the area quickly with Woody shook, Pep nonchalantly looking down-canyon, and I apathetic to the situation. We have seen this shit before: the wilds taken advantage of and used by man, a special place tarnished by our greed and egos. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Out in the sprawling Railroad Valley, we walked across the basin far enough away from an agricultural ranch. The ranch seemed out of place with huge circular fields, at least half a dozen of them, growing green alfalfa in an otherwise dry world. Long and gangly sprinklers sprayed water out over the fields, the mist reflecting a peaceful and vibrant rainbow. So much life existed in the Great Basin ranges, but we were not expecting a sprawling agricultural ranch in the middle of nowhere. With Area 51 to the south, a massive, empty, and inaccessible landscape, civilization felt lost, or away from here. Our nights had been filled with a chunky Milky Way draping our camps with a stellar ceiling, almost blinding us from a deep sleep. We had hardly seen any track of civilization other than the scant towns we had walked through or crossed or walked upon the occasional dirt road. A couple houses were scattered about the property and looked separated from each other for privacy. Antelope jumped and roamed through the alfalfa fields, their heads poking up with abstract horns. Who contradicted the place more? The illogical presence of a sprawling ranch in a vast and wild area? Or, the wild antelope, primal and fiercely wild within a groomed field? Seemingly absurd and out of place, tamed yet flamingly wild, munching on alfalfa, poking sprigs out of their mouths, their jaws incessantly ruminating the green cud of vibrancy, the antelope still held the startling and wary look of precariousness. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQxmS42TMwMvqgx6TY57XcDU0b8mqNn7wf1mMacBic6ICqUUsTnxRBX7bdfF3_l-yS5mNWdoKOdj0gztJ0YztpF9HgD07ZDz6LeMC4or_3f5Lkn3bo_3uxAFvchaxZSXYvyvpdXnXlzNUIJ_H3b-3k1RS_IIoIIGeJdyvLVEKcO8soR-KH6sPZJ2qj=s3934" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2950" data-original-width="3934" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQxmS42TMwMvqgx6TY57XcDU0b8mqNn7wf1mMacBic6ICqUUsTnxRBX7bdfF3_l-yS5mNWdoKOdj0gztJ0YztpF9HgD07ZDz6LeMC4or_3f5Lkn3bo_3uxAFvchaxZSXYvyvpdXnXlzNUIJ_H3b-3k1RS_IIoIIGeJdyvLVEKcO8soR-KH6sPZJ2qj=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Railroad Valley</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were just as absurd as that ranch, just as privileged as that ranch too. I can tell myself as much as I want to believe that I walk with some sort of primordial favor, something deep-rooted, when mainly we walk out here because we can. We have the money, the public land, the time - we are just passers-thru with a lot of fortune and freedom. I abhor seeing our scars on the landscape when scars need not be present. I sometimes envision being back in the Altiplano of Bolivia while hiking out here in the middle of the Great Basin, the feel of the landscape so similar: both feel empty, both feel at bay to a wild nature. Yet, one has indigenous people while the other has colonizers, settlers in recent history. Something felt cheapened, something off, when walking across the basin near that ranch. We sat at Abel Spring, probably named for some Mormon settler, shadeless and hot. Our views widened as far as the eye could see. We lounged near the gurgling pool of hot water bubbling out of the ground. Alkaline plants and salts dotted and colored the area with greenery and acidic colors known of geothermal areas. A couple of cattle tanks nearby doubled as sipping and sitting troughs, one for cattle use and the other for human leisure. Surrounding the springs, in the areas where cattle hardly grazed, shards and splinters of arrowheads and points laid scattered around the dry and sandy floor, simply there innocuously and unseen. I was surprised that the artifacts had not been picked over, more signs of a past and forgotten people and time, more signs that this landscape has been utilized for centuries.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7-pbFTDjexGZkYWBrIj5GcgYIYaZkMfkzXItfVVFV4ysjyA1g0OfdujDzqik5pm7ZLFP2RwH2i75ebov4O5hIjMBFTyS3iPskjipumVSx4j2YQALxpDx7F3z8ItYcD8DuHfh4_3HQHClt8lOH3KkNG4eshzqQ93711RJnEfZsxugchbd8aZttxWi9=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7-pbFTDjexGZkYWBrIj5GcgYIYaZkMfkzXItfVVFV4ysjyA1g0OfdujDzqik5pm7ZLFP2RwH2i75ebov4O5hIjMBFTyS3iPskjipumVSx4j2YQALxpDx7F3z8ItYcD8DuHfh4_3HQHClt8lOH3KkNG4eshzqQ93711RJnEfZsxugchbd8aZttxWi9=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking towards the Worthingtons</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I sat in a morose state trying to relax in the blaring sun, trying to rest my legs and slurping up warm and salty water. I tried to find reason within the scars and in the presence of this wide open landscape, within the fathom of the incredible amount of people in this world with limited space. Would any voluminous population of man or culture destroy the inherent nature of a landscape? The shards of arrowheads tell me the people were a part of the landscape, working and living in unison. The ranch tells me a story of bullying, of barging a way in to force a home and way of life. They are no different than a corporation in a big city letting off exhausts that only pollute the world. I picked through the splinters of various kinds of tips and arrowheads, a palette of earthy colors and textures, probably traveled and carried from other areas. I was transported to a place and time I wanted to be in, away from here, in a more tangible sphere where I am truly connected to the land and spirits of this place. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We walked on into the tablelands to the west, some short distance away, walking away from a familiar memory now blurred, now a mirage of heat waves, the valley so flat and wide that even a small rise would obstruct any object of considerable height. The heat of the day began to blister the air making the heat upon your skin a scorched tingle. We sought the refuge of shade beneath the cliffs of a mesa. We walked between the layers of rock and dirt. To the east Railroad Valley ramped to an incredible flatness of lowness, while to the immediate west the Pancakes sloped upwards to another incredible flatness, this time in the form of mesas. Chutes and tiny alcoves lined the eroded cliffs and each of us found our own nook to recline under the shady overhang. I closed my eyes and I sat in nothingness only hearing the wind blow making the clouds whisper. I again was transported to a past time. I would be doing this a hundred years or a thousand years ago, lounging in the shade in relief of the blaring sun and gazing over the landscape and horizon. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilublkyqUeVCcj_SMn2snpS4Cnbx5enfw3nNl27Th-D7a3cwb7EZ8id7xWLR21uZyPL5iyzepyg-JnxqeH2CR6FO-PVypZFW8fgB1l6M2OylDjs1yeKlDyB8OgZrVouN8e3kacs7hHGchhCVdwSrOf0YEBh373MDAkhpw4PdKzgx65qNjDh8KcrON8=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilublkyqUeVCcj_SMn2snpS4Cnbx5enfw3nNl27Th-D7a3cwb7EZ8id7xWLR21uZyPL5iyzepyg-JnxqeH2CR6FO-PVypZFW8fgB1l6M2OylDjs1yeKlDyB8OgZrVouN8e3kacs7hHGchhCVdwSrOf0YEBh373MDAkhpw4PdKzgx65qNjDh8KcrON8=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Below the cliffs seeking shade and respite</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An hour went by and I slowly woke up from a nap. I stood up and began to explore the base of the cliffs. Few people have been here with this area being fairly remote and almost inaccessible. A rugged jeep track was within spitting distance. Maybe the wind had blown away all the footprints in the sand, maybe the rugged road kept the driver engaged enough to just get through; either way the alcove of the cliffs prevented the buffeted poundings of the wind and heat and this respite site provided temporary protection. I found more flakes and splinters near the base of the small alcoves, as if the knapper utilized the alcove as a shelf or a table to flake rock to pass away time during their respite from the sun. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am obsessed with nothingness. To find these areas that are characterized by an enormous sky and wide horizon that lie within emptiness - that’s what I am after. Away from the agricultural ranch and buffered by the cliffs I was taken into nothingness. Then, we found ourselves walking across Lunar Lake, a dry lake bed in the middle of nowhere. Maybe my ultimate dream is to be on the moon, or to continue to explore places with lunar characteristics. This world is filled with these pockets. I absolutely need to seek those places out.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQdhn7RuTcagViT5TJ8jophMeLAsqKy6unALnPEXyAzMovKjWTZxWKQSURhXGam9NrKRqptzcjqnbk9FDodkkQxNA78NiFI4XT_jCVvDLyQ2jCJqGrYxH8wjBTJJPNku-CbzdExgrjp6QwCtgxCFlYblrMVziKYSpVhmqivCAoXfm3lDLtSMKxJH1V=s3869" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2902" data-original-width="3869" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQdhn7RuTcagViT5TJ8jophMeLAsqKy6unALnPEXyAzMovKjWTZxWKQSURhXGam9NrKRqptzcjqnbk9FDodkkQxNA78NiFI4XT_jCVvDLyQ2jCJqGrYxH8wjBTJJPNku-CbzdExgrjp6QwCtgxCFlYblrMVziKYSpVhmqivCAoXfm3lDLtSMKxJH1V=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spread out on the Lunar Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We spread out, some hundred yards between us, each of us marveling along at our own place, our heads craning up towards the roving clouds in the sky to the mud-caked tiles our feet were stepping on lone streakers across the plains of the Moon within the galaxy of the Great Basin. Tiny volcanic marbles poked up from the tiles, signs that this barren area at some point and time in the year is filled with water and moves objects around. The power of wind and water in unison was present on the western shore of the dry lake bed. Piles and ribbons of volcanic rock filled in the nestled shore that pushed up against cinder cones. Beneath our shoes on each tile had footprints of sandhill cranes and herons, migratory birds in search of water to wade in, frozen in time proving this place held disappearing water. The flatness of the lake bed made the surrounding mesas seem tall and jagged. Enveloped in this globe of light, the tiles gleamed in the sunlight, the flatness of the lake bed shimmered with heat waves, and the wind careened in unabated and cooled our skin. The walk across the lake bed was only 3 miles or so, but that immersion in that emptiness felt like an eternity, just walking on the metaphysical plain of thought and emotion, the unending tube of hyperspace - Am I even existing in this spiritual essence of nothing?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhdfgLMp0NNO8KXTz53XwPTg6giNPokDDWDf6I-jQZYKKvhhYOF_lCo77ucF53erpt-FtiysjUpZVDEVfVYObqql_-VWK9Fb6cS9SMQOFHA9gEwpErQ8WXeE_plRwbaOvMtRmo7IveVT0MxHVOYeYlfcFQNAkFtZIJ_JXQX2PYn1YE8CWXqDu2yLG8=s3814" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2860" data-original-width="3814" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhdfgLMp0NNO8KXTz53XwPTg6giNPokDDWDf6I-jQZYKKvhhYOF_lCo77ucF53erpt-FtiysjUpZVDEVfVYObqql_-VWK9Fb6cS9SMQOFHA9gEwpErQ8WXeE_plRwbaOvMtRmo7IveVT0MxHVOYeYlfcFQNAkFtZIJ_JXQX2PYn1YE8CWXqDu2yLG8=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More empty and openness</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bah, I am so hokey, even though I find myself inspired by these barren landscapes where I find beauty in harshness, I know this is what I was born to do. We snapped out of our transfixed gait as soon as we crossed from the caked-tiled shore and into the scraggly salt brush and rocky pumice ground. Woody now scanned the ground for a rare buckwheat that is endemic only to this Lunar Crater area, this place separated by barren land from the ranges to the north, an infertile desert island. He found the skeletons of buckwheat from last year’s growth. He said this desert area had most likely seen no trace of water. Everything beneath our feet crunched and snapped to exclaim the dryness of the ground. This area seemed devoid of life, not even a lizard. But occasionally we would cross or follow a cattle path that wiggled through the alley way of cinder cones. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We walked into the sunset and to the rim of the Lunar Crater, a 500 feet deep divot plunging unexpectedly below us. A stunning sight to stand and gaze over. The wind rockets up from the depths and disrupts the peacefulness of the potential stillness one might assume. Turns out NASA had trained astronauts here in the early ‘70s, as the area resembled what scientists believed to be similar to Mars and the Moon. A dirt road lined the rim on the east side, but we had walked here to this lonesome and isolated place. That felt different and unique, our own little astronaut training in venturing towards the most untrammeled areas, only on foot, simple as that.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-OqwlPD_yBQ-3dDA2Mk9QEcZtXWu83QLRVyUnObZm7jqP-THOfJcbATtVT5GBmosmBUD1rpzOYj_4vi-zVEd3RL32pm9T0bTr6Hll2Hl1lLOKl1Vb9tAslVEI3-YL54P7j_oVpL8ZsYvl4v7jYm9s7L2g-thXUgQwkm1sM25KL24JmNPjvlN7EuhV=s1440" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-OqwlPD_yBQ-3dDA2Mk9QEcZtXWu83QLRVyUnObZm7jqP-THOfJcbATtVT5GBmosmBUD1rpzOYj_4vi-zVEd3RL32pm9T0bTr6Hll2Hl1lLOKl1Vb9tAslVEI3-YL54P7j_oVpL8ZsYvl4v7jYm9s7L2g-thXUgQwkm1sM25KL24JmNPjvlN7EuhV=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunar Crater</td></tr></tbody></table></span><div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Under a cool and exposed night, I slept like a volcanic rock wedged in hardened mud. Cozied up within the dryness and staleness, I awoke a couple times to feel the abomination of blackness deprived of any superficial light. The stars hung up there as if caked into a black wall, spackled as an ornament and definitely not a part of the black mass. It was so dark out there that you could tell that space is the overbearing entity of everything, the utter black backdrop the ruling force, the stars just mere freckles. Nestled among the spindly greasewood I felt the cold sink into the barren openness. I woke up replenished and groaned a morning wail under the purple dawn. Woody and Pep sat up from their greasewood pockets. We knew the day would end with us in a proper town. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Off we went with a spring in our step. Some 16 days or so into the Great Basin Trail trek, we were seared dry and wrinkled from the Great Basin, hardened from our wanderings, a little town relief would suit us well. A few beers, multiple meals, a bed, couple showers, all would suffice. At Highway 6, the lonely highway that bisects the GBT, we sat on a picnic table under a dying ash tree. We drank water from a non-potable hand-cranked pump and lounged for a bit. My mom was to meet us and drive us to Tonopah, her offer of help to isolated travelers. After lining out our meet-up point, we crossed the highway gazing into more rugged country to the north and west, the skyline imprinted in my brain the toil of much effort. I wondered what Pep and Woody felt - of what was behind us, of the unknown pathway ahead of us. I knew what they felt about town. We were ready to satiate our hunger and slake our thirst eagerly, to plump back up properly.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I continued to gaze north and west towards a pointy skyline, as we walked a short ways on. My mind cleared with a familiarity of place, a cadence of emptiness, the stream of faraway footsteps pitter-pattering and echoing into the corridor of nothing. I continually find my ‘nothing’ out here in the Great Basin. The year before amid the beginning of the Pandemic, I saw not a soul for 3 weeks before getting into Tonopah. I had released the strain of the world with that stream of faraway footsteps. To walk far and long, remotely and in isolation, the walking erases the mind into nothing. I could start over. I could start from scratch, calmly. This is what nothing means to me– completely present that connects the mind with the place that taps into my innate nature of wandering. Bring me nothing or nothing at all. It is my chance to struggle and persevere within myself and elements around me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We drove to Tonopah, the highway whizzing by the barren desert, the blurring of nothing. We entered the stream of nearby humanity. I immediately felt the longing to be back in nothing. I had hoped Woody and Pep felt that same notion, or that fleeting feeling of what that long and empty walk meant. I had hoped they felt ‘nothing.’ I kept on looking outward to the north and west as we neared Tonopah. I knew a couple days in town would be good for me, to refuel, replenish, to feel the need to re-clear again. We would be diving back into nothingness soon enough anyways. </span></p><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsggUtVk9GeuCabsVC89oUOMtR5dDsPQWUlkY26nUOBnNG6REqmj6zIsXQTLBkQxyXknhk_blEZFrKIZ8i86A8IWyFfiodlkZdOcnd9gW4qp2cFsc6W6aTuYEPoNKcRHCQjJ5eSwvfeM3-xr2fs-K40YanUuaO3Jow4YQNgAIHATqS6wF4r8MRZJIi=s1440" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsggUtVk9GeuCabsVC89oUOMtR5dDsPQWUlkY26nUOBnNG6REqmj6zIsXQTLBkQxyXknhk_blEZFrKIZ8i86A8IWyFfiodlkZdOcnd9gW4qp2cFsc6W6aTuYEPoNKcRHCQjJ5eSwvfeM3-xr2fs-K40YanUuaO3Jow4YQNgAIHATqS6wF4r8MRZJIi=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of the Fortification Range</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCCmhOqUs47IvLV2enmds3ts108DsArmDomPjkZkXXIGQDe6u-NyfuZIEljSpSJ6nV7bpxztvxf5vcNGNCjBY5n5M1lEetXGGlaAhFBWjn_PiWzhFxNeI4XtXY8alnpVxIHZa_FOxbwwWHeEhZCtbISW1n-FsMIABgZqgcXl5cHKJOvUU133oSXHzi=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCCmhOqUs47IvLV2enmds3ts108DsArmDomPjkZkXXIGQDe6u-NyfuZIEljSpSJ6nV7bpxztvxf5vcNGNCjBY5n5M1lEetXGGlaAhFBWjn_PiWzhFxNeI4XtXY8alnpVxIHZa_FOxbwwWHeEhZCtbISW1n-FsMIABgZqgcXl5cHKJOvUU133oSXHzi=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Southern Great Basin</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqz3a-brh2U8dri9DnHU1pONO_mJCiHxu6LvX-RsVuV-1vnl0PYGbf4pYILzfOu7PuhfOuPxRDbn8-k2CMcMQm-ot-hfameGpY3UGQ8DgvFg42MwQLWWsIOyzERwbXdSS3FZZC53kN0bFQXWgXT4qA1nkTWgOskrt33ZVju-StP0nzif3UjyFd852v=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqz3a-brh2U8dri9DnHU1pONO_mJCiHxu6LvX-RsVuV-1vnl0PYGbf4pYILzfOu7PuhfOuPxRDbn8-k2CMcMQm-ot-hfameGpY3UGQ8DgvFg42MwQLWWsIOyzERwbXdSS3FZZC53kN0bFQXWgXT4qA1nkTWgOskrt33ZVju-StP0nzif3UjyFd852v=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical barren southern basin</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfLvrIeUGD-ZKe5BaTGbW0wX2krYrkrQ8m0SgYQ2ysid10soPeTNE-BoYoVpkqkXphA4-_CDOcqd92qtYpb39YVQ-3-cHxk4F2tW4MrmDUGt4lOpJV5TaKkPPgYDBHPJo_C01VHH8JMcoDyzHi9eZs2KgTefC7JmxbKiUVgtSL29duvPSHYgCHCSSt=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfLvrIeUGD-ZKe5BaTGbW0wX2krYrkrQ8m0SgYQ2ysid10soPeTNE-BoYoVpkqkXphA4-_CDOcqd92qtYpb39YVQ-3-cHxk4F2tW4MrmDUGt4lOpJV5TaKkPPgYDBHPJo_C01VHH8JMcoDyzHi9eZs2KgTefC7JmxbKiUVgtSL29duvPSHYgCHCSSt=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of the Lunar Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk-VcYdps5IH0DG2WGRYYRdkBIjOlF0XrzLJAm2fRpw_hhke19z0V5NJNM5OtxVX3UbCeK3lQdm3Kc2gP1pRG2JozEzQrhTU5RiCpDf9TtNNp7B7Sjgnnik3QQfPFltjX5vpExoqmJxocWQ3THJ2l1EAgaSqtRF-95J2h_9EHDvhXAyfBSZFV4qZ0X=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk-VcYdps5IH0DG2WGRYYRdkBIjOlF0XrzLJAm2fRpw_hhke19z0V5NJNM5OtxVX3UbCeK3lQdm3Kc2gP1pRG2JozEzQrhTU5RiCpDf9TtNNp7B7Sjgnnik3QQfPFltjX5vpExoqmJxocWQ3THJ2l1EAgaSqtRF-95J2h_9EHDvhXAyfBSZFV4qZ0X=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Big Empty</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbeF5fGtlZu4Jh6EoqLYANeIW4BV2ylxyfxw0AaNB3srj8Z13Fsq3mI1BcZYfKRzPYLZrgJo9QeiJpGKAIQdyOid7AT3s40qKeaRfRN9CwRhlca8HqC_wIJIhaGWbHefcTykoWEON7E7q1kYbmndMXHp7d4wY_nq487Nt5EyGxmMmLtuduAK7ELDVv=s1440" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbeF5fGtlZu4Jh6EoqLYANeIW4BV2ylxyfxw0AaNB3srj8Z13Fsq3mI1BcZYfKRzPYLZrgJo9QeiJpGKAIQdyOid7AT3s40qKeaRfRN9CwRhlca8HqC_wIJIhaGWbHefcTykoWEON7E7q1kYbmndMXHp7d4wY_nq487Nt5EyGxmMmLtuduAK7ELDVv=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hazy craters</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-34117410483458472982021-09-11T12:40:00.001-07:002021-09-11T12:40:34.130-07:00PNT Sections<p> <b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><u>PNT Sections:</u></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>7/8-8/17, 41 days, ~1248m</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Chief Mountain to Eureka:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>7/8-7/12, ~135 miles</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ol3Hz_-I6M3XpySifNuYEYj2KW9zhAL7yMsTqgxT0agg7zIPDpBJNnk5QuJ9aL-GYVQYXB-zURcrBeX3ALAV13z9tv9FXzN5GpMa1dshcnEJAEcJ-M6UJn6OT5xzsieUFoBhQTS-XzA/s4032/IMG_2128.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ol3Hz_-I6M3XpySifNuYEYj2KW9zhAL7yMsTqgxT0agg7zIPDpBJNnk5QuJ9aL-GYVQYXB-zURcrBeX3ALAV13z9tv9FXzN5GpMa1dshcnEJAEcJ-M6UJn6OT5xzsieUFoBhQTS-XzA/w400-h300/IMG_2128.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I started the PNT at around 1145am and had to slug out 32 miles to my first campsite in Glacier National Park. I had to show up in person at a Ranger Station to obtain my permit, in which I hoped to revise my itinerary. Getting a permit at GNP is a real pain in the ass, straight up. While they say they cater to thru-hikers of the PNT and CDT, getting an itinerary in advance is hard to do. Going through a third-party to book a reservation seems pointless when you may not know your itinerary when planning months in advance for a GNP ending, or the system limits the amount of mileage per day a hiker could do, or recreation hikers do not cancel their reservations, or a thru-hiker upon arrival does not have a car, among myriad of reasons. The third party reservation system feels like I am booking through Expedia, which is mind boggling to me in regards to the Park Service letting such a third party manage bookings in a wilderness they are so very much responsible to care for. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuA89UByQ1tDbugwpWWE9PhW5LPoDXh5qgSCs8_3BnhJF5IKivqWf3oGEw_J5grlMYR91frJ-sUzvufRSArIzEIBcaNHgQqYE5u0viJzuUMs70bCqpwT9QEDlGISP4aexNaSupDPFT-Q/s4032/IMG_2139.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuA89UByQ1tDbugwpWWE9PhW5LPoDXh5qgSCs8_3BnhJF5IKivqWf3oGEw_J5grlMYR91frJ-sUzvufRSArIzEIBcaNHgQqYE5u0viJzuUMs70bCqpwT9QEDlGISP4aexNaSupDPFT-Q/w400-h300/IMG_2139.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">So, I went to a Ranger Station to honor my permit and, if fortunate enough, to change my campsite and mileage on my permit. The backcountry ranger did both. However, not only did he change it, he granted me a 32 mile day in grizzly country knowing I would start around noon and would be hiking into the night. He basically winked at me and granted me access to break the rules. Do not walk in the dark, camp in designated campsites only, etc. I was totally down for the feat, no doubt. Nevertheless, I ended up walking past a slew of unoccupied camp sites at a few backcountry campgrounds. I walked into the night with a feeling of unease trying to honor the permit, but finally said 'fuck it' when I found another empty campground, which he had assured me would be full. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsYdUoaeDQwWOKOyKrPx3AsU6xlKZMcxRkzo4xEKtRNJOacbQFKtCTvVyRK3g8yDM9t0IWq64eNAzyBFAJeE3vEu3doIkbkMlyyRFR7oUjYV7QkFMMChmcA5Bs7i3oYTGeiEdLk6GXbo/s4032/IMG_2155.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsYdUoaeDQwWOKOyKrPx3AsU6xlKZMcxRkzo4xEKtRNJOacbQFKtCTvVyRK3g8yDM9t0IWq64eNAzyBFAJeE3vEu3doIkbkMlyyRFR7oUjYV7QkFMMChmcA5Bs7i3oYTGeiEdLk6GXbo/w400-h300/IMG_2155.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Why even get a permit anymore in this park, or any other park, save for the potential fines, when the system seems to deter the ones who REALLY want to be there? Trust me, I ultimately know the answers. I really do. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Enough griping... let's get to the beauty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I set off into the grizzly bear filled and glacially carved mountains of the Central Rockies of Glacier National Park. The PNT coincides for 20-some odd miles of the Continental Divide Trail (2 National Scenic Trails) and, at one point, has a unifying point where the PNT, CDT, and Great Divide Trail intersect. This would be my 5th time entering and traversing GNP, including the route I would be on. Everything felt familiar to me, but not in a 'same way' that I did not understand the value of such a wild ecosphere. The backcountry scenery in GNP is absolutely</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> stellar and worth one's time to venture back there</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. While the scenery is probably up on the docket of one's trip to GNP, the importance of this backcountry with an open and wild space for wildlife habitat is crucial. Walking across GNP feels wild. No matter how many times I have walked across GNP, I am on guard, alert, piqued on the aspect of a wild feeling that I am clearly not in control out here, that I am not in charge. So exhilarating!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a 2 day backcountry stint across GNP empty of tourists, I encountered hordes of tourists from Bowman Lake to Polebridge. That morning I woke up with a sore throat and decided to get into the tiny hamlet of Polebridge and stay the rest of the afternoon and sleep everything off. I hung out with Oliver, owner of the North Fork hostel, whom I had met before. Chill times before I went to sleep in an empty bunk room around 7pm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next day I set off early into the smoky Whitefish Divide. A heavy pall of smoke sunk into the North Fork of the Flathead River valley nd stayed with me all the way to Eureka. The trail more or less meanders across the Whitefish Divide that would normally hold distant views. This smoky hindrance did not diminish my spirits, however. The cold and clogged head that had now enveloped me forced me to focus on something else other than obstructed views. Along the way, I met some PNT hikers, which felt good and reminded me that I am on a trail with other hikers. So, different than what I have been used to in recent years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I got to Eureka in the morning and checked into a motel to sleep and medicate the rest of the day. Despite the head cold, I still managed 32 miles per day.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-fg7blAvffGaGCT5wsq3r9z8wokE4lv14xjs-iT2oGZwPAVejaW6uQTEV6Vip8P68RMe1DXFAf-7HPZ-iZ6YxUYmBKNesMyxSewObYDQFdfJE9jvIpMg0U7_sTGl0D2SS5iK-967n1I/s4032/IMG_2141.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-fg7blAvffGaGCT5wsq3r9z8wokE4lv14xjs-iT2oGZwPAVejaW6uQTEV6Vip8P68RMe1DXFAf-7HPZ-iZ6YxUYmBKNesMyxSewObYDQFdfJE9jvIpMg0U7_sTGl0D2SS5iK-967n1I/w400-h300/IMG_2141.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Eureka to Feist Creek Resort:</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>7/13-7/15, ~96 miles</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj_kt5NoLIDupbu3WIQEB370VdGRQ7ugDr98GEOxEOy271xK-_P3ixLFgzMUGVyQXPWL6btq1xWgaxkquPt13FIJoWSyX_oEepIIfeynrQCH6rBPDiYmVqKJKItCk956HM1dsNC6zkAM/s4032/IMG_2218.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj_kt5NoLIDupbu3WIQEB370VdGRQ7ugDr98GEOxEOy271xK-_P3ixLFgzMUGVyQXPWL6btq1xWgaxkquPt13FIJoWSyX_oEepIIfeynrQCH6rBPDiYmVqKJKItCk956HM1dsNC6zkAM/w400-h300/IMG_2218.HEIC" width="400" /></a>I left Eureka feeling a lot better and left early in the morning to beat the heat in low lands on a mix of urban trail, dirt roads, and highway. Not the most scenic section, to say the least. At the end of the long flatland walk, I ascended 5,000ft up to Webb Lookout and into the Purcell Mountains. Up there, I met a family from Bonners Ferry, who I chatted up a bit while I rested. They knew of the PNT and I began to piece together a pattern out here: folks know about this trail. I found that interaction with those folks so peaceful and nice, real easy to just have a moment with folks from other walks of life. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">camped that night at Boulder Lakes, where things became eerie. </span></p><p></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Arriving at the lake, I quickly set up a bear hang and tarp, for the mosquitoes were out in full force. Under my mosquito netting in my tarp, I tried to shut my eyes as the lingering twilight dissipated. This far north in July the days are incredibly long. Around 10pm I began to somewhat fall asleep. Shortly after 11pm, my eyes popped open to sudden darkness surrounding me. The night sunk in pitch black. but, I had heard something. Since the established camp had limited space, my tarp felt too close to the fire pit and to the lake shore, but no other established space was nearby. Luckily I was considerable distance away from my food hang, however. I think you know what I am getting at...<span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I heard splashing in the lake, like lumbering footsteps splashing in the shallows. I could tell the sloshing was of a bear---grizzly or black I could not be sure. I yelled out, 'Hey bear!' and the sloshing stopped. One more assertive yell and the steps splashed about as the bear ran away. I had pulled the safety tab on my bear spray and nestled the canister close into me. That bear was that close. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I laid my head down with one eye open and both ears alert.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another short time later, one eye sprang open and I heard steps quietly walking through the outlet of the lake. The wet steps dripped with water and the bear was sneaking its way towards me. I figured out by this time that the bear probably took this pathway every night, probably to check on the food it smelled. This moment felt ritual, habitual. I deduced from this behavior that the bear out there was a grizzly bear---territorial behavior versus the predatorial behavior of a black bear. Again, I yelled out assertively to let that bear know I was there. With my bear spray ready to go, I took deep breaths and tried to remain calm. This was unnerving, to say the least. After seemingly forever, but probably a minute, I yelled again and whistled this time, my whistle reverberating throughout the dead basin air. The bear turned and sprinted away even faster this time causing a louder ruckus with the splashing of the water.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I stayed alert for some time now. At some point, though, I drearily fell back asleep and woke up with my bear spray canister nestled into the crook of my arm. I drifted in and out of sleep until I was again woken by the soft movements of a large animal in the shallows of the lake. This time, however, I caught the sounds later than I had before, for the bear now seemed super close. I grabbed my empty water bottle liter and smacked the bottle onto the ground excessively which made a raucous noise which I hoped would be unfamiliar to the bear, The bear stopped. In deafening silence I could pinpoint each water droplet falling from its stringy, wet fur onto the surface of the lake. I took out my headlamp and unzipped my tarp. I needed this bear to see me. I shined my light into the blackness of the lake and saw two eyes beaming back at me, glaring in an intense reflection. I zipped back up my tarp making a cluttering noise of what I hoped would be another unfamiliar noise. This whole time my bear spray remained cocked. I was ready, regardless of what was going to happen.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Suddenly, in a split second after I had smacked my tarp, the bear bolted off making an even louder escape in the water. My heart raced but I control my fear with deep breaths. I was not going any where until dawn glowed about.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">An hour or so after that third encounter, I heard the bear again. I doubt I had fallen back to sleep. Regardless, I heard the same stealthy approach of the bear lumbering in the lake shallows. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally, frustrated, I yelled out, 'Just give me goddam 30 minutes!' </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was not going to leave my shelter, my entrenchment of safety, until a sliver of light existed. This fourth and last encounter lasted about 20 minutes. The bear now seemed to be pacing back and forth in the water. I unzipped my tarp and in the dark purple twilight I could fathom a shape, even a color! I saw a blonde bear, huge in stature. I could see the tremendous snout of a grizzly bear. The enormous bear glared at me and glided around like a phantasm hovering over the water. Dawn slowly emerged over the basin. Dark plum purple became the color of a deep bruise, the sky ominous in injured light, the premonition of a fear past yet soaked through a bruised spirit. Once bright enough I incredibly quickly broke down my tarp, my bear spray clipped onto my collar of my button up shirt. After packing my pack with my gear I alertly and briskly walked over to the bear hang and untied the knot. My food bags slid down easily and I crammed the bags into my pack. I walked cautiously through the overgrown forest making noise, talking loudly, with my bear spray on my sternum strapped with the safety tab unclipped. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I walked in the small town of Yaak the next day and went to get some grub, to attain some type of feeling of a safe haven. After some relief and respite of my nerves, I walked out feeling at ease. Shit, I held my ground against a grizzly. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOIbpoV_ouBsKQ6cWb1NAmJrnLm69mP-ah5wQaRSq5JgjmmcTsTmHKojDHsXvd9LLezvLVIZZ5biUKV96QUxpd6kTPyLBgtZLvQhajpmEu4QmPgGs9HpI0mZWKJeFPVQMFK5vpCOiIQM/s4032/IMG_2216.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOIbpoV_ouBsKQ6cWb1NAmJrnLm69mP-ah5wQaRSq5JgjmmcTsTmHKojDHsXvd9LLezvLVIZZ5biUKV96QUxpd6kTPyLBgtZLvQhajpmEu4QmPgGs9HpI0mZWKJeFPVQMFK5vpCOiIQM/w400-h300/IMG_2216.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Up next on the PNT is the Northwest Peak area of the Yaak Mountains, more intensely filled grizzly country. Alas, nothing to brag about in this area with any more bear encounters, but I did finally have some scenery despite even the smoke-filled skies. Each day I moved swiftly and I walked into Feist Creek Resort after 32 miles and just in time for dinner. The resort is important for an efficient resupply point in between a very long stretch which eliminates the need for a hitch into the town of Bonners Ferry. The owner and workers of the resort are super-hiker friendly. They held a package for me, cooked me up dinner and breakfast even when they were supposedly closed, and let me crash in the pool area. I did not linger long, just the night and early morning. Enough to get a full belly, a full charge on my phone, and a full head of calm nerves enough to let me have a decent night of sleep without a bear pfaffing about.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Feist Creek Resort to Metaline Falls:</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>7/16-7/20, ~121 miles</b></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The temps remained sweltering across the Kootenai Valley, as they had the whole trek thus far. Enjoyable? Didn't really care one way or another. These paved road walks were just a means to connecting the route from the crown to the coast. However, I knew that the Selkirk Range, one I have wanted to hike in for some time now, remained adjacently ahead, just a meager 6,000ft ascent. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPBXEsJt5PWvhUtv59c1QhSxxrEtWBm_K3WTxB93hs1v6J6Vrp8v0m9dbnrQvZNqdaFMQcSQPuiUZ5NJDFYaC67SXVSJXHx5qtMnwlI13y6gE3pNoWWYPNAV7HRNW7qnmh3EreLC5-PA/s4032/IMG_2268.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPBXEsJt5PWvhUtv59c1QhSxxrEtWBm_K3WTxB93hs1v6J6Vrp8v0m9dbnrQvZNqdaFMQcSQPuiUZ5NJDFYaC67SXVSJXHx5qtMnwlI13y6gE3pNoWWYPNAV7HRNW7qnmh3EreLC5-PA/w400-h300/IMG_2268.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Recent trail work made for swift travel climbing up Parker Ridge. Before I realized, I was up high on the ridge and even under smoky skies I had a panoramic view far and wide. The Selkirks had an infamous alternate dubbed the Lions Head Ridge. Notably, this ridge alternate avoided an overgrown and more or less trail-less drainage and provided the hiker with incredible views of the surrounding granite basins and granite domes. The Lions Head Ridge route is the idea of my buddy Li, who thru-hiked and mapped the PNT in '09 (I may be off on this, but my memory is ringing with this year). He was a go-getter and route-blazer back in the day and most of the popular routes hiked today, Li was one of the first in most of the routes. He is a very skilled map maker too, probably one of the best in my opinion. I know he had an incredible PNT map set a while ago before the PNT took over the map set. I have seen that old Li map set----killer, just so much more thoughtful and incredibly helpful. Along these lines, I do wish his name was out on some of these alternates he created because all the young hikers have no clue who he is and I believe he is an important part of our long distance hiking community's history. From the Hayduke, to the ICT, to the GDT, and to the PNT, among others, he has left an impact far unheard of than what is actually common hiker mainstream knowledge nowadays.<br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8si5qp-fIDkmeSrwOafYnzJPt_wErvkbiHCOEihz-FtT5XQAuCjcHWn6TQwVTfRZwtVhQgxkE9v_EqNL6ph8OM7UiSn2T4aTlBguRVXAy5yO6KB1Qzx08gGKyprtR0TaT8hx1oY1-97Q/s4032/IMG_2266.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8si5qp-fIDkmeSrwOafYnzJPt_wErvkbiHCOEihz-FtT5XQAuCjcHWn6TQwVTfRZwtVhQgxkE9v_EqNL6ph8OM7UiSn2T4aTlBguRVXAy5yO6KB1Qzx08gGKyprtR0TaT8hx1oY1-97Q/w400-h300/IMG_2266.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lions Head Ridge is not to be missed. The astounding views are reminiscent of northern Yosemite and a world of granite gleaming in a granite globe is visible everywhere you turn. Up on the ridge proper, you will be challenged navigationally and, for an extended period of time, boulder hopping will become one's method of travel. But, this challenging alternate is not all too bad. Really, it is very hard with rewarding and unlimited views. I finally had a chance to cowboy camp up on the granite-slabbed ridge. The smoke sunk as the chill of the night came on and I finally got to see the moon, which had been so hidden in this forested route so far.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bAcfBQX5wYb5KCZSNj4yUKJ81_Rq6zmay4fCv-Oy7F-Bk8apmKwIlIdu-xoN5v8KRbi7DWcDrFj8YdlhEdPLhVgZ7YpWcCRoafVIefnfUu841cQCo1GFpRyIl9wNpaGJPP2-nGD5y0Y/s4032/IMG_2298.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bAcfBQX5wYb5KCZSNj4yUKJ81_Rq6zmay4fCv-Oy7F-Bk8apmKwIlIdu-xoN5v8KRbi7DWcDrFj8YdlhEdPLhVgZ7YpWcCRoafVIefnfUu841cQCo1GFpRyIl9wNpaGJPP2-nGD5y0Y/w400-h300/IMG_2298.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">Overall, the ridge did not consume too much time, 6 hours in all for approximately 10 miles. At Lookout Mountain, I eyed the 4,000ft descent and the blue waters of Priest Lake. All the views above and expansive were choked with heavy smoke. But, that blue of the water pulled me in. I scampered along the trail zipping on towards the lake in excitement. At a proper shaded beach spot, I indulged in the turquoise blue waters of Upper Priest Lake and my skin began to feel comfortable, soothed with the cool water of the deep lake. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Wonderful walking in a rain forest ensured along pretty trail. Ferns lined the forest floor, a deep red soil compacted the trail, and giant cedars stood incredibly tall above me. Light refracted through the tall canopy and I hiked in an arboreal trance only brought on by a thick northwest forest. Later that evening, I camped in a giant cedar grove and felt the darkness sink to depth rivaling the bottom of a deep lake. I could hear the wind wave up on the pointed crowns of the giant cedars some 200ft above. I was swaying in the hull of a ship, the trunks of the cedars the masts keeping this whole ship afloat.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52xUoI7zgG8FdFDxRhYF1gmKy0aHph38aDppsQgCIXLlt-kSTZf1fYBE7RKW7LgJCFoy15N3NFOEOz8U_btiduviyMlIRQiCDtE0P4o0-IV_Ck6uMYIFjqMmgbqKiTx7kL4U9UtZGGek/s4032/IMG_2269.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52xUoI7zgG8FdFDxRhYF1gmKy0aHph38aDppsQgCIXLlt-kSTZf1fYBE7RKW7LgJCFoy15N3NFOEOz8U_btiduviyMlIRQiCDtE0P4o0-IV_Ck6uMYIFjqMmgbqKiTx7kL4U9UtZGGek/w400-h300/IMG_2269.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Metaline Falls to Oroville:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>7/21-7/27, ~250 miles</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am a better storyteller than an explainer of thought. I describe scenes better than getting my thoughts out clear. So, I will just get into the scene over this ~250 mile stretch, as I blabbed off the cuff a little too much earlier on stuff. I will just describe what we did.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwp6DL3kNfsZv3PmHqvPR4AZyWAdob1X_qXC-_BDKKIMLOLC9t917SvuAs5E-0qXAblN2XNGsajOpJhSEekvCg4sp70FSXzPwBND0sBBf6RznHZfFjRWqOX6XIoRPlzUqq4LbbICrS5zY/s1600/IMG_2358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwp6DL3kNfsZv3PmHqvPR4AZyWAdob1X_qXC-_BDKKIMLOLC9t917SvuAs5E-0qXAblN2XNGsajOpJhSEekvCg4sp70FSXzPwBND0sBBf6RznHZfFjRWqOX6XIoRPlzUqq4LbbICrS5zY/w300-h400/IMG_2358.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">By this point, my head cold had finally subsided and I only had a nagging cough. Thankfully, the cough would not last much longer, not more than a couple days from Metaline Falls. From Metaline Falls to Northport, the PNT is uneventful except for the high point of Abercrombie Mountain. But, the news of Washington State Land closures within the next week had me concerned as I left Metaline Falls. I decided to just get to Northport to gather as much information as possible to develop a plan on moving forward.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Two brief days of walking and not trying to work shit up in my head proved to be a necessity. After a 21 or so mile paved road walk, I ambled into town early afternoon. I headed straight over to the bar restaurant, but not having not put out a message to Eric at the PNTA. After a big lunch, I spoke with Eric. The state lands of all of eastern Washington were to be soon closing because of the threat and dryness of extreme drought and fire conditions. At that moment, the Forest Service, a government run agency that manages public lands, had not made a decision to follow suit with the State Land Agencies. This left the eastern trailheads of the Pasayten Wilderness open that would require a planned detour around the closed state land around Chopeka Mountain. This also meant that the PNT from Northport to Oroville would be open as well since that long section consists of road easements and BLM and FS lands. My plan was to stay the night at the trail angels' place in town with some other hikers, then take 6.5 days to hike ~200 miles to get to Oroville. I wanted to get the long paved road sections out of the way besides the roads making for easy travel. At this point, I decided if I am going to come back up here to hike a section I missed it would be for something pretty and cool and not for something not worthwhile like all these paved roads. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had a mini-hiker party at the trail angels' pad. I had a good time with everybody. We all camped on the grass in the backyard. I met Oracle here, as well. Up early in the morning, I saw Nik take off with his tiny MLD pack. I left about an hour afterwards. I thought maybe we were potentially in sync with these closure plans. I booked it along the long road walk and that evening I camped with Oracle. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_zswmkf2MfMeukiySKaRkZDvXwTUbh-pLT1z1czSRqchEytMmnSM8jRnIjJDDYhdHT9LiL3r5nmFHpbA6rp-XVAairxtBVl90fNf74U1VEhoZKzozJmekjFcsubawvhIb1Kv3PPlJXE/s4032/IMG_2342.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_zswmkf2MfMeukiySKaRkZDvXwTUbh-pLT1z1czSRqchEytMmnSM8jRnIjJDDYhdHT9LiL3r5nmFHpbA6rp-XVAairxtBVl90fNf74U1VEhoZKzozJmekjFcsubawvhIb1Kv3PPlJXE/w400-h300/IMG_2342.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We got along right away. He has lived in Los Angeles for the past 6 or 7 years and being that I am from LA, we had plenty to talk about. I truly enjoyed this budding friendship and I felt so invigorated to talk with a young person who loves living in LA, who trains in my old stomping grounds of the Angeles Crest and the High Sierra. These conversations brought back cherished memories. We hiked on in sync without any one of with the ability to out-walk one another. He had such a cool demeanor and I could tell he had a great passion for his first endeavor in the long distance world. He had studied experienced hikers, dialed in his gear, practiced his style, trained hard, and pushed himself. He did not act like, look like, or behave like a first time thru-hiker. He acted like a professional, a seasoned veteran of the trail. I bonded with him immediately. I valued his questions and so appreciated falling in to kind of a mentor role. After 35 miles per day, seeing him struggle yet persevere through with a mild stomach issue, and get stronger all the way to Oroville, we were no longer in mentee/mentor relationship. We were peers and a friendship had formed.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RoqO7RgAXAjHXYn13s8BlHGxgZCnX60jVYIIO7F5C6K3cgETpz1K49kVH7iyD9MjORdsC9Dm97LXXxnBDjyWpCAdRNmDUcm-T2tLA0-MKEMK3p7T-5XAwg3_u94XED7rGuBkh9KsEfY/s4032/IMG_2350.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RoqO7RgAXAjHXYn13s8BlHGxgZCnX60jVYIIO7F5C6K3cgETpz1K49kVH7iyD9MjORdsC9Dm97LXXxnBDjyWpCAdRNmDUcm-T2tLA0-MKEMK3p7T-5XAwg3_u94XED7rGuBkh9KsEfY/w400-h300/IMG_2350.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I really enjoyed the Kettle Crest, despite the super-thick smoke that had enveloped the surrounding skies. We pushed harder to get through knowing that a potential window would be closing. We were game for the challenge, however. At times, I could feel myself figuratively foaming at the mouth to get what we were after. Up early at or before sunset, cowboy camping almost every night, streamlining our itinerary, and hiking until dark, we managed to get into Oroville in 6 days. We encountered around 5 bears in this section. One waking me up in camp and 2 cubs around 70ft up in a tall pine squealing like pigs being the highlights. We even had an evening and a morning in Republic, a pretty dope little town with an awesome brewery in eastern Washington. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">During this stretch, we had heard or saw that hikers had begun to flip, skip, and hitch their way around potential closures. Nothing had really occurred yet, just the potentiality of closures existed. I was flummoxed at the ease in such decision making. I understand I was being subjective, but I also knew what I wanted. And, there was nothing to really make a hasty decision yet. 'Keep walking' should have been the mantra. So it goes, I guess.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86Em646QlZoJwA7L8wBv5sG-l49mxNLpWNuwGiQjJhwvSZ7TpGXOhUc0IpOkLZQGirXvfVbbcoXzNURqRTttgQ1WQKUQuxWKOFUeb0qiN4Dyavl-KvURoXLfYqaN5By1uL-77Rv9PjdE/s4032/IMG_2344.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86Em646QlZoJwA7L8wBv5sG-l49mxNLpWNuwGiQjJhwvSZ7TpGXOhUc0IpOkLZQGirXvfVbbcoXzNURqRTttgQ1WQKUQuxWKOFUeb0qiN4Dyavl-KvURoXLfYqaN5By1uL-77Rv9PjdE/w400-h300/IMG_2344.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Oroville, we ate so much to fatten up the reserves we lost walking that hard in the heat. We, also, ate a ton to fatten our reserves for the next very long wilderness stretch. We developed a plan for the next stretch into the Pasayten Wilderness. We were not out of the closure area yet, or the threat of wildfire due to extreme heat and drought for that matter. No time to dilly-dally, especially with a thru-hike at stake. We had ahead of us a ~44 mile road walk with a detour from Oroville that would put us at the Boundary Trail trailhead and into the Pasayten. We could not let up yet. We still felt the urge to push.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Oroville to Baker Lake (Concrete):</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">7/28-8/5, ~255 miles</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4tO8GWhuQkyk05aZCnT3rHIUUG-9D39YcCEko5mpa2XNvlbRvMJmvpN6IXYAhz4mWIfYNiasHvuaAlBR6O2qTEAK8bH4IXSUL1Rkm20dJy8670QZ3SGnZ4Jlmm18MqbPU86CXGg6Fv4/s4032/IMG_2469.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4tO8GWhuQkyk05aZCnT3rHIUUG-9D39YcCEko5mpa2XNvlbRvMJmvpN6IXYAhz4mWIfYNiasHvuaAlBR6O2qTEAK8bH4IXSUL1Rkm20dJy8670QZ3SGnZ4Jlmm18MqbPU86CXGg6Fv4/w400-h300/IMG_2469.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPwahWg48jyWsQvBAnreRROJLp0Eluc0KEGBgGhap0XV1oRSI90ZEHbuKZH4YSbWBMW9aviGPlfRtlowTb4oSGkGcuiecJ_0jpFFFKY08TmEuMJbeVbUq2d0KFpjgWxOlbnZUwCO8jL4/s4032/IMG_2418.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPwahWg48jyWsQvBAnreRROJLp0Eluc0KEGBgGhap0XV1oRSI90ZEHbuKZH4YSbWBMW9aviGPlfRtlowTb4oSGkGcuiecJ_0jpFFFKY08TmEuMJbeVbUq2d0KFpjgWxOlbnZUwCO8jL4/w400-h300/IMG_2418.HEIC" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Pasayten Wilderness stretch is my favorite part of the whole PNT. This vast wilderness stretches for nearly 120 miles before dumping out into Ross Lake National Recreation Area. Combine the two and a huge wilderness swath is available for the most hardy of hikers. The PNT utilizes the PCT for nearly 14 miles, arguably the prettiest little stretch of the whole trail. Once out of the fire closure threat of eastern Washington state land agencies, we entered the vast tract of wilderness. We could see the huge cumulonimbus fire cloud of the Cub Creek fire to the southwest. The sky smothered in a haze of thick smoke, but now, being up so high, we could see where the smoke was coming from, unlike before. Before the smoke oozed its way across the sky and surrounding hillsides, like a smoky sphere encapsulated my enveloped my own personal globe. We also had an incredible pathway of trail! The feeling of flowing with nature on its own groove-way, streamlining a zooming connection with the slow twirl of the globe puts one in the transfixed zone and headspace. We moved onward in glee, an utter tick of a natural pace that tapped into our nomadic roots.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgR7e7jBJbzItlvXytVWxdB9RRavyxozHcB2N0TbwRa_QApFMGrYiYJ9xzctTjdub_SLdVUD1CjGeBwxxaRpbIrA_sWMGO21uhTBI36e9VUqlqTCvGH_QLHXcHcXQROA8tDYqNEmpKYbI/s4032/IMG_2430.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgR7e7jBJbzItlvXytVWxdB9RRavyxozHcB2N0TbwRa_QApFMGrYiYJ9xzctTjdub_SLdVUD1CjGeBwxxaRpbIrA_sWMGO21uhTBI36e9VUqlqTCvGH_QLHXcHcXQROA8tDYqNEmpKYbI/w400-h300/IMG_2430.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvQSGOK5Zt1Y3uX2OpA78JPbt5MEOX1s50nrHzsQ39GW2bNJ-vYDUP0zVc4txl7jtx8VRtn3hvv2KsSGMdxakLsL7XcvEyTkbrN3jF71uuiotsv6BCI2oNEptgjaSIN0N_VJvyfEeBUU/s4032/IMG_2490.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvQSGOK5Zt1Y3uX2OpA78JPbt5MEOX1s50nrHzsQ39GW2bNJ-vYDUP0zVc4txl7jtx8VRtn3hvv2KsSGMdxakLsL7XcvEyTkbrN3jF71uuiotsv6BCI2oNEptgjaSIN0N_VJvyfEeBUU/w400-h300/IMG_2490.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">High pointy peaks surrounded Cathedral Pass, the high point of the PNT. Sweeping views afforded us widespread views of not only the route ahead of us but of other wildfires seemingly close to our pathway. Atop Bunker Hill, we spied the close fire across the Canadian border, the billowing towers of smoke a living and moving entity, like a warping cocoon with a monster inside. We camped before the infamous remnants of hundreds upon hundreds of downed logs from a 2007 wildfire that ravaged this wild landscape. Our aerie put us in between three wildfires, the third now due west of us. Either way, we felt the worst parts behind us, like we were now officially out of the closure barrier and pressure we had in our heads. Regardless, hard work still laid ahead of us.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQZcvz-n2DXfRO-FKigAL11eB_xTcV8h1vSBOyi00ETjsaIQTJtWVKsvcEOF9fjSdToBiE7WTCoAUmewyESRvCnzyMG31Prs4_hHK24gYmtCx1DB87eyfdlTMRXUQffVJ1N8koIK5YpU/s4032/IMG_2449.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQZcvz-n2DXfRO-FKigAL11eB_xTcV8h1vSBOyi00ETjsaIQTJtWVKsvcEOF9fjSdToBiE7WTCoAUmewyESRvCnzyMG31Prs4_hHK24gYmtCx1DB87eyfdlTMRXUQffVJ1N8koIK5YpU/w400-h300/IMG_2449.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The downed log stretch, evidently nearly 600 logs across the trail, did not take us too long. But, this stretch was still a pain in the ass. Since our passage through the Pasayten River burn area, from Bunker Hill to Frosty Pass, the PNTA had a backcountry trail crew that cleared the mazework of downed logs making this stretch so much more enjoyable and less taxing to the hikers hiking in after us. One thing I can say, despite the nitpicking of the road walks, is that this PNT has an incredible support system and a great network of community. The PNT trail crews are really out there busting their humps in making this trail so less overgrown than in years prior. A huge thanks is in order....thank you very much!</span></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPFs6VT_-6g-aTcf1v8MfcsRaGsUaArOfBYFI3Oq8mhCjMes5UC9LcX04lQsxRoD3CioBv4riqU62zl2AbEWJdru2H9snrBb8AUNyqFH3-zd71yi-YFjAUOE_1ISiwSoKgsyAeD_5d1s/s4032/IMG_2471.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPFs6VT_-6g-aTcf1v8MfcsRaGsUaArOfBYFI3Oq8mhCjMes5UC9LcX04lQsxRoD3CioBv4riqU62zl2AbEWJdru2H9snrBb8AUNyqFH3-zd71yi-YFjAUOE_1ISiwSoKgsyAeD_5d1s/w400-h300/IMG_2471.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">Below Frosty Pass, near Castle Pass, we intercepted the PCT. Smoke smothered the skyline and the normal views I had been accustomed to up here this far north were gone. Nonetheless, this portion of trail tantalized our feet with well-trodden tread. I am sure Oracle had some visions of hiking the PCT, as I had visions of my past treks and even future treks of the PCT.<span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">That night, we camped below Rock Pass. Around 3am, a storm rumbled through and continued to rain until late morning. Under my tarp at 6am, I saw Oracle packed up and ready to go. This old man grumbled in a tired and allergic-to-water tone. I saw him amble down trail and I loathed myself for being wise. Sometimes confused for being smart, I see wise at times as being a nice word for fear. I do not necessarily want to get wise especially when I am not really being present in the moment. Oracle's zeal and enthusiasm squelched any tiny particle of fear. He was precocious and I was worn with experience. But, seeing him spring along trail in the morning rain, feeling that feeling of when I was 'new,' I leapt up and ran after him prancing along the trail. Later that morning, I felt giddy as the rain kept pelting me. I became entranced by the constant stream of drops and, for a moment, I yelled out with the fire of adventure, of living in and embracing the moment. Oracle was inspiring me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We got up to Devils Ridge that normally would afford us views of glacier laden peaks. Clouds smothered the hillsides and forests. Thick cotton like puffs of clouds rollingly moved over ridgelines and in and out of drainages. You could envision the body of wind pushing and pulling the clouds that plowed through the landscape, the wind the yoke of an ox-cart driving a team of oxen. We began to enter a dreamscape. The smoke from the day before had sunk and we knew we were among giant and craggy peaks, but we would only see slivers of point peaks and, at times in brief moments, I would confuse the glaciers clinging to the peaks for a distant white cloud that stood out in contrast to the lolling grayish cotton ball clouds in the foreground. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX3anPC46aR_Ut4yJpMcnGwdEBbpfPZ9J8rAsP4sInzRzu6_vCe6Qo_HOEdshIV_EQP9E_o8hQMA0HxRssh3jbtNikTB_-wHEDNuuqpJK47Jx6-SqtQLOr1r3XvIvTv-3gmlF_cxZcEM/s4032/IMG_2492.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX3anPC46aR_Ut4yJpMcnGwdEBbpfPZ9J8rAsP4sInzRzu6_vCe6Qo_HOEdshIV_EQP9E_o8hQMA0HxRssh3jbtNikTB_-wHEDNuuqpJK47Jx6-SqtQLOr1r3XvIvTv-3gmlF_cxZcEM/w400-h300/IMG_2492.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a tremendous descent down to Ross Lake and a long and hard push through the Pasayten Wilderness we entered an illusory world of smoke and mirrors. The cold and moist air had sunk the billowy smoke witnessed in the west the day before. Suddenly, from being in wet, foggy, and misty conditions, we were now in a globe of silver smoke that transported us to another dreamscape, this time, now, we were in some dark fairy tale that glassed over the reflective murkiness of Ross Lake. Maybe, one day, I will awake from this smoky dream with a tremendous tumult in the reality of concrete and highways where myths die.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had stayed the course, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">determined we strove. We </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">pushed hard and persevered through the unknown only controlling the thing we could control: our feet. We became immersed in a massive wilderness with unknown conditions and came out the other side safe and sound, connected and continuous.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the western side of Baker Lake, we hitched into the tiny town of Concrete to eat our first real meal in 8 days and nearly 250 miles. We were also waiting for Oracle's parents who had planned to trail magic Oracle. They lived in Anacortes, about an hour jaunt west and in the Puget Sound. Oracle is from there. In a sense, he was almost home. With our silence of wilderness broken, we got a ride from a dude who was hungover and going to town for the cure of coffee. I had forgotten how normal people lived because I had been so enrapt by the Pasayten and the North Cascades. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9JKNaBauknA_DGpJBQrMrzdp4Uy1MNCag4REYCd8sIDT2yDUSBFkQ8j_mMJSPE9htddV_5hoc4gmWGaeIK6I6XZNFJfjpMSJd2AKLYht7EkXnJWR_5evjF8rrVkfYgmGhhoaNtsZclg/s4032/IMG_2485.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9JKNaBauknA_DGpJBQrMrzdp4Uy1MNCag4REYCd8sIDT2yDUSBFkQ8j_mMJSPE9htddV_5hoc4gmWGaeIK6I6XZNFJfjpMSJd2AKLYht7EkXnJWR_5evjF8rrVkfYgmGhhoaNtsZclg/w400-h300/IMG_2485.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMslTaJXnp3kz6hDKfNDtbS8gZk7E1MTaqXFkRX7VItRvGcJAHbJ8Fu3cMXnUv_ZDM6zeitAXi8Ywpehbw4YxJhE555BRly8mcQvtP0TYsHVoyQtjoh8-TPTTXcbfayoNkCl-7VUZRBA/s4032/IMG_2439.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMslTaJXnp3kz6hDKfNDtbS8gZk7E1MTaqXFkRX7VItRvGcJAHbJ8Fu3cMXnUv_ZDM6zeitAXi8Ywpehbw4YxJhE555BRly8mcQvtP0TYsHVoyQtjoh8-TPTTXcbfayoNkCl-7VUZRBA/w400-h300/IMG_2439.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDtj7tfwdnaIqAGG0YbiMoG-luKgkxi7ucJkBoU7rVP6S00BnDlpiplLsKta8750eHdsmG1NFXcR8zmCYkF2pgBlf0URhrVal-v8F7MCjjacWjftxmzwG-gClWga24f37VgzudhjCmmw/s4032/IMG_2435.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDtj7tfwdnaIqAGG0YbiMoG-luKgkxi7ucJkBoU7rVP6S00BnDlpiplLsKta8750eHdsmG1NFXcR8zmCYkF2pgBlf0URhrVal-v8F7MCjjacWjftxmzwG-gClWga24f37VgzudhjCmmw/w400-h300/IMG_2435.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Baker Lake (Concrete) to Port Townsend:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>8/6-8/11, ~187 miles</b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HAkwbb-ikWA1zuQIHoxGB1DfG7B6FKtUTqq9VEZy4pHUdjm8FAm2fMvcwJZCJIAgvJyfShDT0B3jWKo4vJ3o-Yg6GgFGmu3sDiK9J_PzQP9skdw0BTEnZ7O_jcYRchTx7ly61HA5fvA/s3520/IMG_2633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1980" data-original-width="3520" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HAkwbb-ikWA1zuQIHoxGB1DfG7B6FKtUTqq9VEZy4pHUdjm8FAm2fMvcwJZCJIAgvJyfShDT0B3jWKo4vJ3o-Yg6GgFGmu3sDiK9J_PzQP9skdw0BTEnZ7O_jcYRchTx7ly61HA5fvA/w400-h225/IMG_2633.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Out of the North Cascades and into big timber and rainier country, out of the smoke and into the mist, the Puget Sound came into sight. Although only a glimpse, I raised my arms up in excitement while the skies opened up on us and poured down rain. The first two days of this stretch mostly rained. We did not see the upper flanks of Mt. Baker. But up on Mt. Josephine, a miniscule mount compared to Mt. Baker, we saw the large Skagit Valley. The forecast of rain looked ominous, in particular the second day. Need not to matter to us, we thought, because we were so close to the urban area around the Skagit Valley and the Puget Sound, as well as the sanctity of Anacortes and Oracle's parents' house.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDzFCbaeaVwVFqnwOhyNVfsXYXASmEl-qZcyynaRxxPQw-o_Zd58bQQcEefvsnAlCOU4SDTDRmg6LrDyuVRTEbNojQGfu1lB9qF3qTHZVWNhkcBi_5ZaOZxofAm0R3CPFC49nsdXbwfA/s4032/IMG_2591.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDzFCbaeaVwVFqnwOhyNVfsXYXASmEl-qZcyynaRxxPQw-o_Zd58bQQcEefvsnAlCOU4SDTDRmg6LrDyuVRTEbNojQGfu1lB9qF3qTHZVWNhkcBi_5ZaOZxofAm0R3CPFC49nsdXbwfA/w400-h300/IMG_2591.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At 4am, a couple huge solitary drops pattered my tarp. I thought something was walking through the forest towards our camp. Then, I realized the rain had started. At around 6am, I looked at the world from under my tarp in earnest. Again, I saw Oracle ready to go. Fuck, I wanted to sleep the rain off. Hell, this young buck is tough and enthusiastic. I got up with a belly full of piss, packed quickly and trudged on. A series of dirt roads on state lands with logging operations, the rainy day quickly became a slog. I started humming the mantra of the day pretty damn quick: warm and clammy...warm and clammy.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We trundled on in a wet misery. I realistically knew what today was going to be. I am not sure if Oracle knew, though. I grumpily continued on. I can hammer it out with the best of them, but there are times to throw in the towel and just go to town. I was not sure the suffering was worth it only to be cold and wet in the evening and to wake up cold and wet in the morning. I knew we would be thoroughly drenched, our gear even worse for wear. At a highway crossing, we hid under the coverage of a church's porch. I could have stayed right there. But, but we got right up and planned on continuing another 7 miles before camp.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWytdTJv_oRaFX_EftYQaexOzIj-ZZ7Xs0IDcjrgVXU_4Ma8n-1oXx1fK6DAxeUyDxaCbEezDBYeMFycXF-cGTA_2WzBNqdutX7Ji3FZvUbylu8Ez2k534iZrQf57LLEoJEvOGJ2K1K8/s1440/7CC1A837-19AC-4154-BD1B-20A22F05F8EE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWytdTJv_oRaFX_EftYQaexOzIj-ZZ7Xs0IDcjrgVXU_4Ma8n-1oXx1fK6DAxeUyDxaCbEezDBYeMFycXF-cGTA_2WzBNqdutX7Ji3FZvUbylu8Ez2k534iZrQf57LLEoJEvOGJ2K1K8/w400-h300/7CC1A837-19AC-4154-BD1B-20A22F05F8EE.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not everyday on trail is glorious. No two rains are the same. One has to be cognizant of the environment they are walking, the time of year, what your gear is capable of, what you are capable of, what your overall goals are, and most importantly, one has to be willing to adapt and be flexible when shit hits the fan. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At the top of the climb, the sun peeked out from the low stratus clouds. I could see the Puget Sound. The sea laid just ahead and at that moment the sun had greeted us. But, Mother Nature had different plans and just poured something fierce out of the heavens. Just to keep us humble, albeit a grumpy and uncomfortable humility, I knew our day was far from over even though it was early in the evening. We got to our hoped for campsite and saw it flooded. We began to get cold. And we were wet. It would be a monumental task to stay warm and clammy at this point. I waited up for Oracle...because when it is raining, one does not stop, one just fucking walks. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We looked at the campsite in disgust. Only one thing to do: keep moving. After another half hour, we entered the front side of the range that overlooked the rolling hills to the south of Bellingham, a fairly large city. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXI0yaiNl9ENeYg1XKg9gN2Aduc-IrRLsuRSvOuGDDjolvpbpxXhxTPRHBe2EVh8WUOqbA93ua5AQceBlZOhPc5AY2EIT9tcI-mgrNt7x5yl9p2v2vNYZKWkUWHOc1NTgmfeq9jQ3AfTA/s4032/IMG_2602.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXI0yaiNl9ENeYg1XKg9gN2Aduc-IrRLsuRSvOuGDDjolvpbpxXhxTPRHBe2EVh8WUOqbA93ua5AQceBlZOhPc5AY2EIT9tcI-mgrNt7x5yl9p2v2vNYZKWkUWHOc1NTgmfeq9jQ3AfTA/w400-h300/IMG_2602.HEIC" width="400" /></a>'At this point, I might as well call my parents,' Oracle said. Although I had searched for motels on my phone, I knew I could not call the day. I could only reinforce the idea if Oracle brought it up. He finally did at about mile 35, at about the time we were the coldest and a decent campsite seemed indefensible. He called his parents to ask for a ride. We would swap our 'zero day.' So, rather than walking into Anacortes for a zero day, we would ask for one now, when we were absolutely wet, cold, and miserable. This was not the most idealistic day for hiking, and many folks were in town or made their way into town. We did too, nonetheless, just after 40 miles of slugging it out.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl58VmeChNrQo797R8ee0Fc9SsNyw83Rat80Dd-wWLrK2g-AhKXGwX0gJWp9FFTjq5jMx97kJgiQXkvB6Wfr0UW0cfrABNbphp9Rf2yBzeVmpw1KqsLERwBbgBsNrmwae-F3g3OfzFB9o/s1440/6232817E-C241-45F5-8742-C9AB4F055FB9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl58VmeChNrQo797R8ee0Fc9SsNyw83Rat80Dd-wWLrK2g-AhKXGwX0gJWp9FFTjq5jMx97kJgiQXkvB6Wfr0UW0cfrABNbphp9Rf2yBzeVmpw1KqsLERwBbgBsNrmwae-F3g3OfzFB9o/w400-h300/6232817E-C241-45F5-8742-C9AB4F055FB9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">...Aaaaah, the zero day of my dreams. Just perfect. We got to James and Lezlie's house the evening before at around 10pm. We got hot showers and dried off. We even got fresh and piping hot chicken tortilla soup! Our gear was demolished from the rain, everything soaked through from a couple days of non-stop rain. We spent the next day lingering around the breakfast table and counter, feasted for lunch in Bellingham, and had a great dinner and drinks over looking the Puget Sound from the patio of the house. We laughed so hard and told stories. New friends, to say the least. A time to remember, no doubt.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGiTuVcKIBxuILQqUSN58RGofm7Cb8TQfkpfFf6ksDsDWlTu_eErADEQ8GuUEy0BC-M5lvL5ZVAqITCHFXZ-K3lpSM8iuPJsrNengBsxI2ZK4VcujDNAbvw7leISi119EcwMYKCQhEhA/s4032/IMG_2636.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGiTuVcKIBxuILQqUSN58RGofm7Cb8TQfkpfFf6ksDsDWlTu_eErADEQ8GuUEy0BC-M5lvL5ZVAqITCHFXZ-K3lpSM8iuPJsrNengBsxI2ZK4VcujDNAbvw7leISi119EcwMYKCQhEhA/w400-h300/IMG_2636.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We knew that the next objective was to get across the urban Skagit Valley and Puget Sound area in an efficient and stealthy manner. There was a ton of road walking in urban areas, tiny pieces of trail here and there, and a small bit of beach walking. But, in order to keep our pace and mileage, we would have to find clandestine camping locations unknown and hidden to the public. Luckily, I was hiking with a local. It was so cool to hike with Oracle in this area. He knew all the spots. I got to know him even further as we delved into his childhood years and teenage romps. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After walking through the city forest of Anacortes Island, we crossed Deception Pass on a bridge and landed onto Whidbey Island. From here, I got a case of the blahs. I was not excited about this urban road walking any more. After a cool stealthy spot camped near the Air Force Base fence line, we got to the west side of Whidbey Island. The beach walking was secluded enough to not feel any imposition from the human world until we hit Eby State Park. Back into the hordes of people, I just wanted out of the Puget Sound area. Again, with other road walking parts of this trail, shit just felt forced. On the ferry ride over from Whidbey Island to Port Townsend the Olympic Mountains held a deep and moody blue over the skyline façade. I could not wait to get back into the mountain. But first, we had to walk another highway with a very narrow shoulder to get to the foothills.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eqJOL9XPEApd5xhLuUJY2pNT2d0dUxVS8aWeDxEUvCiLFD8JaeZuFBOAzoX30VVqy0vnTXyh6TQO50L1nfO13H5s1JujREJuxFobXItoMqBXwG63vvScO_H8VUGyBBSWRtc3E0Sw2Ng/s1440/CD58561E-E357-4A6D-AB23-61E4FF40EF41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eqJOL9XPEApd5xhLuUJY2pNT2d0dUxVS8aWeDxEUvCiLFD8JaeZuFBOAzoX30VVqy0vnTXyh6TQO50L1nfO13H5s1JujREJuxFobXItoMqBXwG63vvScO_H8VUGyBBSWRtc3E0Sw2Ng/w400-h300/CD58561E-E357-4A6D-AB23-61E4FF40EF41.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemyNN6qjeXC5yvI2XpjIvXX_HSEINIhyphenhyphenim32oP-y6UVvcyfH_bt9QEzvJLVlcyWvfUc4PqWKbXunPEcnfx3KekHlDsG9KKL_Hm9L6hgRyGOcClh8pZuGResSKBJOTZOsLXai6U4A-IAw/s4032/IMG_2629.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemyNN6qjeXC5yvI2XpjIvXX_HSEINIhyphenhyphenim32oP-y6UVvcyfH_bt9QEzvJLVlcyWvfUc4PqWKbXunPEcnfx3KekHlDsG9KKL_Hm9L6hgRyGOcClh8pZuGResSKBJOTZOsLXai6U4A-IAw/w400-h300/IMG_2629.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Port Townsend to Cape Alava:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>8/12-8/17, ~180 miles</b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRW_vilo96frbAwDa3AJpVAbWiV8UqMPMYrmdpHXhRRbtmRKwSvCio_0C4CY94CExnxgnePStbvrXnHfk2FYTnkcfOy5DkFb9vib13vh2M1Q7-GWuarv1ZQWo61W7gm4WVEBkH-chj6eQ/s3780/52686FDB-2904-434F-A0D2-FFB144EF0202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRW_vilo96frbAwDa3AJpVAbWiV8UqMPMYrmdpHXhRRbtmRKwSvCio_0C4CY94CExnxgnePStbvrXnHfk2FYTnkcfOy5DkFb9vib13vh2M1Q7-GWuarv1ZQWo61W7gm4WVEBkH-chj6eQ/w320-h400/52686FDB-2904-434F-A0D2-FFB144EF0202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally, up into the Olympics. Finally, a more wild place. Of course, entering a National Park one can expect tourists, recreationists, and backpackers. Of course, we encountered all three. But, the views and the experience through Olympic National Park did not disappoint.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffoWJgkbah9GoHqm-GTIdT8ZyqVyNhSGXlODYI3o5m2aZ8B1_dQUUtVncBfkIuvuaUzFWYGEbdEGxPRoe2jvqi3uehUQv50bQMgq9VP_4cRLL9TXNiTlmC5d1xcH_G4VjbbYWBLhfE7w/s1440/3E5AD1DB-AA46-454B-91F7-222D54CA48A2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffoWJgkbah9GoHqm-GTIdT8ZyqVyNhSGXlODYI3o5m2aZ8B1_dQUUtVncBfkIuvuaUzFWYGEbdEGxPRoe2jvqi3uehUQv50bQMgq9VP_4cRLL9TXNiTlmC5d1xcH_G4VjbbYWBLhfE7w/w400-h300/3E5AD1DB-AA46-454B-91F7-222D54CA48A2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jnDHB76J_014v5j3m_BHuU98HvUimkU0GAgkkAlN1C67FEBx_LtvuhmX9SY8EKybEMiEZVPVreFydOqIbxJ-m60F5s-yYxgLoes2ztvB79SEIkf5cwH1B8LNZlvxrHE6N7BoTEtDw-4/s1440/7744BF2A-25C2-4AE1-965F-61EB8F747676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jnDHB76J_014v5j3m_BHuU98HvUimkU0GAgkkAlN1C67FEBx_LtvuhmX9SY8EKybEMiEZVPVreFydOqIbxJ-m60F5s-yYxgLoes2ztvB79SEIkf5cwH1B8LNZlvxrHE6N7BoTEtDw-4/w400-h300/7744BF2A-25C2-4AE1-965F-61EB8F747676.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">To our sudden surprise, we ascended into some very thick smoke, such a contrast to the deep and crystal blue we saw the day before while on the ferry road. Evidently, smoke blew in from the Vancouver, BC area and just smothered the entire Olympic Peninsula. With our views obstructed, we simply put our heads down and climbed, really climbed up some 6,000ft. Atop the climb, we ran into a campground full of campers, RVs, and 'walk-ins' with vehicles. We hurried through and aimed for the peaks just a few miles ahead out of everyone's hair. The evening hurried into a purple haze and sunset only became blazingly bolstered by the smoke. As night approached quickly, the smoke languorously melted into the palate of dusky hues. We could see a stream of wind bisect the smoky air, splitting the dusky purple in half. The calving of the smoke appeared violent, or repentant, like pure water ridding the sky of its sins. We found our camp on a mountaintop, an altar to worship the sliver of moon, praying for an exhaustive exit of this hazy pollution to our human-caused arsonist ways, hoping for a change.</span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXHmgnOuPover0INEtHwvUCECwcxtyK07fntAcadlNOFVG651iJFx1r4_Rc6rds2L-I8B85Wx4sRvT85UgtuWRRsff5hI210rhXw0E3GFQ6IQJPCw2tU7ZhQYlVjOA20lT7ANyfPvGGE/s1440/81404091-F416-4184-B2D7-4F890F8BAC2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXHmgnOuPover0INEtHwvUCECwcxtyK07fntAcadlNOFVG651iJFx1r4_Rc6rds2L-I8B85Wx4sRvT85UgtuWRRsff5hI210rhXw0E3GFQ6IQJPCw2tU7ZhQYlVjOA20lT7ANyfPvGGE/w400-h300/81404091-F416-4184-B2D7-4F890F8BAC2B.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Throughout the night, we obliged visitor in our small and exposed camp. A healthy buck nibbled on small patches of alpine grass all around us and in between us. One of us would waken and throw rocks at the buck to fetch him out of our area. I thought we had finally had a peaceful camp without any disruptions: no mosquitoes, no wind, no vagrants, no cars, no jet fighters, no grizzly bears, and no sign of rain. In the morning, we laughed off the buck's presence, just another little tidbit in a bigger story. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The end became palpably nearer, so much so I swear I could smell the salt of the coast in the air. We hiked on briskly, even descending another 6,000ft only to go back up another 5,000ft. The PNT ringed the Seven Lakes Basin and we ambulated along a crest that gave us front row seats to the spectacular sight of Mount Olympus. Truly incredible indeed, I could have gazed at that massive mount a full day if I had my choice. But...the coast beckoned.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTy_2RxUyREg0A63c7UIWhdUNgMlUP7P8F4E73htxsyIvOpwEoDAAa4cGKWBrnWsT_4eH-L8Ivl9SUld72Kjzs0XNiTy46rAiy6T6vWwUmTY0M2Pe4rXmg-z95r-vB9-nd-gFDyFwaOrc/s4032/IMG_2812.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTy_2RxUyREg0A63c7UIWhdUNgMlUP7P8F4E73htxsyIvOpwEoDAAa4cGKWBrnWsT_4eH-L8Ivl9SUld72Kjzs0XNiTy46rAiy6T6vWwUmTY0M2Pe4rXmg-z95r-vB9-nd-gFDyFwaOrc/w400-h300/IMG_2812.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After spilling off the ridgecrest, we tumbled into the Bogachiel River drainage, a proper rainforest that had recently seen some trail maintenance. This drainage had been notorious in its shagginess and massively downed logs across the trail. Giant hemlock, humungous cedars, and colossal Douglas firs populated the drainage all hung thickly and ubiquitously with moss. This whole rainforest cradled with bogs and bottoms had a red and punchy trail speed-bumped with large roots, enough to trip a whole herd of hikers. Pristine cold water flowed down gashed out drainages with slippery as an eel rock. Lastly, tall ferns came up to our shoulders, both us at least 6'4'' in stature. Nonetheless, this rain forest, even with its monumental shadows and its wet appearance, the sweltering heat made the sphere akin to a sauna. At camp that night, I tried to cowboy camp above the banks of the Bogachiel River. River rocks tumbled out of the tall banks and into the river, the banks in constant erosion. I could not sleep with the cascading noise, mainly thinking a bear was wandering into a camp through the brush. I grumpily set up my tarp, Oracle laughing at my ridiculousness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The tides of the Olympic Coast became our most proximate concern. I had no idea what to expect in this rugged coastal area. I had no idea what would pass as a warning or be good to go with us. I really did not know what to expect--I will say that again. After walking into Forks, we sat in a pizza place, charged our phones, and began to research the high and low tides. We both knew how important this research and familiarity would be to us, even with Oracle being almost a local, as this research would guide our pace through this area. After a few hours of eating, food shopping, and forming a plan...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVhM62-fy4nRNovnER0xl-N2Nk5GIkAIA5igMTmk9bPqzqKVJeYDB1lVZJWNgoM_fF6h09FJu1CN_WC-2RS9KkLfK8-woMVIoTc6wnyrKxjoF7vwQ49h_cvwC7RTN6JI1lmbePHPXa-gM/s1440/4F277E29-F4ED-4F8B-8C71-27EDF3D4DE6A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVhM62-fy4nRNovnER0xl-N2Nk5GIkAIA5igMTmk9bPqzqKVJeYDB1lVZJWNgoM_fF6h09FJu1CN_WC-2RS9KkLfK8-woMVIoTc6wnyrKxjoF7vwQ49h_cvwC7RTN6JI1lmbePHPXa-gM/w400-h300/4F277E29-F4ED-4F8B-8C71-27EDF3D4DE6A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">… the van turned around and honked at us, exactly the same van I had said I would not want a hitch from. The driver looked too sketch. I nearly turned down the hitch and figured to just walk back the 5 miles, but I knew our timing almost depended on this hitch. Oracle looked game for it all. The front window rolled down, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">a huge bull mastiff</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> sat in the shotgun seat, and the</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> tweaker asked if we needed a ride</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. I reluctantly said we did. The sliding door opened and another dude, all tatted up, sat on an ice chest. Two other big dogs sat on the rear bench seat. Oracle hopped in the back and I in the shotgun seat. Off we were to Bogachiel State Park. Little did we know at the time that this ride would prove pivotal for our tidal timing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Along the way, I noticed a bag of booze under the driver seat. His arms were pockmarked with burn scars and needle marks. His index finger and thumb of his left hand kept rubbing together. Something inside that hand he cupped like a wadded up Kleenex. He swerved along the curvy road, even going slower than normal traffic. At the turn off he pulled over. We said our niceties to each other. I do not know if I would have made that ride if it lasted more than 10 minutes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We stalled our steps leading our way out of the state park. We did not want them to know which way we were going. After they disappeared from our sight, we walked down the highway a mile or so to our turn off point. We needed 6 miles that night. The plan was to get up early in the morning, a 430am wake up call, and walk forested roads to another state park and the start of our beach walk at the mouth of the Hoh River. We needed to get those 16 miles by noon, as the high tide peaked around 850am. At around mile 18, we would have our most crucial high tide water mark at the Diamond Head. If we timed this wrong, we would have to wait until conditions favored us. Fortunately, we attained those first 16 miles by 1030am. We were trying to split the gap between the high tide and low tide marks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A steady stream of rain began to fall as we hit the state park. Thankfully, the air was not too cold. Evidently, this area of the Olympic Peninsula has more cloudy days than anywhere in the U.S. and is the only place other than Hawaii that has a rainforest. We expected the gloom and drizzle. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6h_cEyru09NOApi-0488VK0zBroUOIAuzf2L2tLJOcxN77s7xjWNM1lraZi3B5d_IDMnln5YGkBiDtgMEtlUjVsQjber8q4iVDLRjgug_Oo1CjnSvQRzzFMifUU0CziX5ziNzrFH60E/s1440/47D8D03D-5C7A-44EB-8FCD-8C65F0C39B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6h_cEyru09NOApi-0488VK0zBroUOIAuzf2L2tLJOcxN77s7xjWNM1lraZi3B5d_IDMnln5YGkBiDtgMEtlUjVsQjber8q4iVDLRjgug_Oo1CjnSvQRzzFMifUU0CziX5ziNzrFH60E/w400-h300/47D8D03D-5C7A-44EB-8FCD-8C65F0C39B11.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span>We entered the coast line. The roar of the waves crashing on the beach was deafening, a pure bombardment of chaos that left tombstones of driftwood and ravaged chiseled rock beneath the bluffs. A wide and long beach extended for a couple miles. Huge root wads sprang up from the compacted sand. Ocean water ran up the slopes of the beach after the waves had crashed and, with ease, angled back down through the pebbles and rocks that rang out in a shrill of metallic pings. The 'platinumsphere' (a word described to me by Oracle, a descriptive word of the Pacific Northwest coast in which the atmosphere is a smear of silvers, grays, and whites that create a platinum light reflecting all around you in the coastal atmosphere) enveloped the coast and the open water. The only real stark contrast was the dark green forest clinging to the banks above the beaches. The open sea rolled in waves that crested and crashed, the spindrift blowing in the sea breeze that formed a low mist layer that scintillated the crystals of water vapor floating in the air. Shrouded in another dreamscape, I could feel the gray, the sinking of the clouds, the the wind and power of the waves pushing the water vapor through a thin level of marine layer that formed a tier in the spectrum of mist. This misty layer had to reach land. It was inevitable. Surrounded by the sights and sounds of the coast we sauntered onward setting our aim towards the headland of Diamond Head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Everything felt wet. Our footing compacted the damp sand, not sinking in but tamping down further the dampness of the coast. I kept looking back at my footprints, the long zagging path of my existence that would live on until the tide rose high once again and would sweep my marks away. The contrail of thought held in a realm of gray and wet light, the wind would not brush me away like in the desert. Here on the coast, my time stood still, my footprints frozen in time as my beaten heart was led by the rising and setting of the moon.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Diamond Head, we scooted around the promontory with the seawater receding at the perfect mark. We scrambled over the slippery rocks covered in barnacle and other bits and pieces of sea life. Around each bend and contour of the coastline we went, methodical, hypnotized by the roar of the waves crashing, by the flushing of the spindrift misting our face, the rain still pelting our hoods. At a headland crossing, we climbed up some slippery ladders and ambled through a thick and dense forest. We finally became soaked to our skin as the ferns and other leafy branches coated us with a sticky water. This 3 mile overland stretch proved to be the most difficult and, at one point, I smashed my head into a low lying log overhead that I could not see with my drenched hood sagging too low over my brow. I plopped in a mud pit and a ringing in my ears persisted through my head. I sat there for a second and breathed. I struggled to get a full sentence out to Oracle, who stood by chuckling. As water dripped off the tip of my nose, I could only mutter: watch your head.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2G6Fa8CMv724g6-PrZhrsDGiq2oVUpaoE0YQKPUzCSkt6dUKcVac7bYQ-1l2vKifGdtfCa6WRj5hOCaji5KmpkAGh2boRxSAB0yyUSx9G73bdRa91xhj61KOqWlub-6EW-1RFgOw7Ng/s1440/1FFAD343-16CA-44EA-874B-362F83645CA1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2G6Fa8CMv724g6-PrZhrsDGiq2oVUpaoE0YQKPUzCSkt6dUKcVac7bYQ-1l2vKifGdtfCa6WRj5hOCaji5KmpkAGh2boRxSAB0yyUSx9G73bdRa91xhj61KOqWlub-6EW-1RFgOw7Ng/w400-h300/1FFAD343-16CA-44EA-874B-362F83645CA1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Some hours passed by and we were hitting our tidal marks in a most beneficial way. I actually lost track of time being so enraptured by the coast-- the noises, views, the colors of rock, the lack of color of the air, the giant driftwood trees, the craggy rocks and turrets out in the coastal waters-- the uniqueness of it all surrounded me in a curiosity unfulfilled. Oracle looked at me and said, 'We are getting to La Push tonight in time for dinner.' I could not fathom that notion at the time. I still did not know what to expect when the tide would get higher and how the terrain would look like. Around jumbled and rocky headlands further up the coast, the sun split the gray clouds and mist. I could feel the warmth dry up any trickle still wriggling on my skin. A few stretches of long beaches at low tide sped us across a few coves at an easy trot. Not much easier walking than that of compacted beach walking at low tide. That day we covered 35 miles and hiked into La Push in time for some fish and chips and clam chowder. We nailed our timing with the tides. We had a couple beers feeling celebratory, as if this was our finishing point. We had such a high as we reminisced about the entirety of the PNT and our time together. We knew we had one more day left, but today was an epic day, one that would be hard to beat.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSDqERoAKgVvZ1Z1o2FYLnVPpnmzYGjRhgu9MV6MgL40AcJC-8CrQM8eI5KrMlXvly6YvhdGlMD5XUT4fWHAeosn8ItZJnAyIH5ZYz9I2RidCHMbDynmZiHHv6sNcLlVZXb78zBybTw4/s1440/76E974A3-CCA0-402F-99A8-EB77A80DC0DC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSDqERoAKgVvZ1Z1o2FYLnVPpnmzYGjRhgu9MV6MgL40AcJC-8CrQM8eI5KrMlXvly6YvhdGlMD5XUT4fWHAeosn8ItZJnAyIH5ZYz9I2RidCHMbDynmZiHHv6sNcLlVZXb78zBybTw4/w400-h300/76E974A3-CCA0-402F-99A8-EB77A80DC0DC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">That night we stealthed camp at a beach tucked in between some large driftwood logs. At one point, some dude came over towards us. He did not see us, but proceeded to take a shit right there on the beach. I have seen plenty of people taking a shit, but I had never seen anyone's behaviors leading up to taking a shit. He looked all around, posing as if he was out for a walk at night. He dropped his trousers as he squatted and moments later pulled them right back up. We were covered by the darkness of the night, so he could not see us. I could not hear anything, even though he was like 30 feet from us, for the tide squelched out any grunts. A strange, yet funny, moment indeed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We woke up early the next morning, not only to avoid the 'ghost-pooper' but to get out of our camp before any one saw us. We had to wait until around 9am anyways to avoid the high tides. We were to have some breakfast before trying to find a ferry hitch across the mouth of the Quillayute River, which is a huge coastal inlet. The ride came easy enough. Gene, who runs the marina in La Push, approached us and asked if we were PNT hikers. I recognized him from the store earlier that morning. I saw him giving us a scowl. Little did I know that he was the marina manager. And little did I know that the size of our packs confused him. He just was not sure if we were hiking the PNT with backpacks so small. Once across the river channel, we began the same sea song as yesterday. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After our floating high from yesterday, this day proved more taxing. We only had 23 or so miles to the end, Cape Alava. Cape Alava is the western most point of the lower 48. Some of the day had some easy beach walking, while most of the day felt to be walking on slippery and precarious rock, boulder hopping over tidal pools. When we were not boulder-hopping we limboed under driftwood nestled up on the high, rocky shores of inland coves. We slowed down at times to gaze into the tidal pools filled with tiny sea life. We walked over shores laden with seaweed. We even came across some carcasses, a couple seals, a porpoise, and a whale. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVN3PJNLK9aWU5B_KsOC3Xd9IGr0rrSeE7jw1LRTH8vBlTJsmGqu6vA0K5_Dq8-rkl-36htEY-I-Ko5IpTJtKXEllB0DvGXS2MVBZfVBrzYAExZ81sbhD8lXAX7nfTLm_gRQqQLnsqQg/s800/IMG_3008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="534" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVN3PJNLK9aWU5B_KsOC3Xd9IGr0rrSeE7jw1LRTH8vBlTJsmGqu6vA0K5_Dq8-rkl-36htEY-I-Ko5IpTJtKXEllB0DvGXS2MVBZfVBrzYAExZ81sbhD8lXAX7nfTLm_gRQqQLnsqQg/w268-h400/IMG_3008.JPG" width="268" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">This part of the coast is more rugged. Huge islands sprout up out of the shallow waters. Turrets and spires point skyward being sashed by the crashing waves. Sea gulls hover over the larger of the islands where the gulls have nests, an inaccessible space from predators and humans. Walking along the coast in this section, when you did not have your head down, one could see the spires passing by and changing shape as one slid up the beach. The miles felt slow and the coast felt long, but looking south and west the feeling of time and space felt infinite, barrier-less, no ending other than what man has created. Where land and sea meet, head to head, something has got to give. Yet, in 4 cycles a day one can feel in charge of things or one can feel helpless. Regardless, just looking out into the ocean gives one a perplexity into existence, maybe akin to space. I do not know much about the sea. The sea is intimidating to me. Nevertheless, I could look out into the frothy expanse and have that same undying and curious feeling I get looking up into the stars, or sitting atop a peak in Nevada, and feel emptiness, that life is trivial and mundane, insignificant, yet mid-blowingly beautiful and precious. I can gaze out into the ocean and see the infinite and understand I will never get on that ride. I am better off eroding, pondering, relishing the tender moments of the actuality of my existence. Like those footprints in the coastal sand, a Utah canyon, or a Nevada salt flat---everything is impermanent except the force of nature.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">At a tiny spit of rock, we climb up individually to signify the arbitrary end of something. The moment felt good, accomplished. Seals barked from a nearby island and pierced the air with a hoarse cacophony. A oblong island backdropped the spit behind us. This was perfectly nice, unique and different. I was happy to share this moment with Oracle, most of all. I guess I could give two shits about my own personal thing. I mean, I accomplished my goal, but to see someone put everything in to something, like Oracle did, and stand there with a smile on his face, an infinite enthusiasm---yea, that's what it's all about.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmOXyC48RRlipSGW3zhcEB-JMNmbLPs-HN076Vyhq1L4soUa0P1jeYJltpriOJLxWShlhe1CHMWdG0wiAh1OCF-QlJQO-9De2HFciRSR0EBGORuwBdfABKiCycZbNmCgOo4z2zb8wonM/s1440/46828060-BEB1-4C13-A498-BD79497595CB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmOXyC48RRlipSGW3zhcEB-JMNmbLPs-HN076Vyhq1L4soUa0P1jeYJltpriOJLxWShlhe1CHMWdG0wiAh1OCF-QlJQO-9De2HFciRSR0EBGORuwBdfABKiCycZbNmCgOo4z2zb8wonM/w400-h300/46828060-BEB1-4C13-A498-BD79497595CB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_GZyUQJ0cwwMlhE9smtFIK-pzJQ1ZSgv19IZYL1USQWtFY1ZGi3UvnZ3DEmvGhG9JuIGTyjqr8ZTUE3aVg3zJN1MGEkOGXM9KGxMO_97Dfh1r8G5EMcA7uua_sfyhRhktZReEBCccrQ/s1440/72B8120D-8E15-482A-9CEA-92C003241AF9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_GZyUQJ0cwwMlhE9smtFIK-pzJQ1ZSgv19IZYL1USQWtFY1ZGi3UvnZ3DEmvGhG9JuIGTyjqr8ZTUE3aVg3zJN1MGEkOGXM9KGxMO_97Dfh1r8G5EMcA7uua_sfyhRhktZReEBCccrQ/w400-h300/72B8120D-8E15-482A-9CEA-92C003241AF9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-57674372416395764222021-09-11T11:36:00.003-07:002021-09-18T06:49:01.461-07:00PNT Overview<p><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;">Pacific Northwest Trail:</span></span></u></b></p><p><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></u></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgEBnOKdhaCMARgXurOicWaXoTRjGTIINHH5am-KGsgLyUoamnV8qrR9eyCJLw0AbZ_gyAYGu4HEumht-z5QE68d_gbi20R7wth0zKr0_Gxsyl-HDyfaF4Te9LiASMoJ5w3dYiPItpMc/s1440/46828060-BEB1-4C13-A498-BD79497595CB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgEBnOKdhaCMARgXurOicWaXoTRjGTIINHH5am-KGsgLyUoamnV8qrR9eyCJLw0AbZ_gyAYGu4HEumht-z5QE68d_gbi20R7wth0zKr0_Gxsyl-HDyfaF4Te9LiASMoJ5w3dYiPItpMc/w400-h300/46828060-BEB1-4C13-A498-BD79497595CB.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></u></b></div><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSNRz1cEtJUjzBNSOGMZxqjacKadBoRaWAWxJA5XexGUBqPE1huz-r1MCaD5TjlsKOvhyxtGeyn4hNMFOozbKxMngHEE-lc-QWeYwuvSPAEEldPmJrduRSQK6qsiu4GO_KbW8f6Tge90/s1440/3E5AD1DB-AA46-454B-91F7-222D54CA48A2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSNRz1cEtJUjzBNSOGMZxqjacKadBoRaWAWxJA5XexGUBqPE1huz-r1MCaD5TjlsKOvhyxtGeyn4hNMFOozbKxMngHEE-lc-QWeYwuvSPAEEldPmJrduRSQK6qsiu4GO_KbW8f6Tge90/w400-h300/3E5AD1DB-AA46-454B-91F7-222D54CA48A2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></u></b><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The PNT weaves for nearly 1250 miles from the crown of the continent in Glacier National Park in Montana to the coast at the Olympic Peninsula in Washington. The PNT is one of 11 National Scenic Trails in the U.S. and is the brainchild of trail visionary Ron Strickland who, nearly 40 years ago, conceived the notion of having a diverse and unique trail span and highlight the Pacific Northwest region from the 'crown to the coast.' The PNT is a most recent addition to the National Scenic Trails system and the PNT adorned the title in 2009.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPnaNoOC4BcFlRaO4OimSbdC3fiNM4ezQ3IVXdOt0q7Nc4A1rde7Po8jfUQLw15F5ZnF4SfENKdShZ6kcCUFa5yZrXHBXrtXkGc9fGePupppd3Ym9q0wSLJlZvnJHc6TcdbCN8CAfXCQ/s1440/F41BDBBB-BFCE-406B-B6E4-0220BFF04785.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPnaNoOC4BcFlRaO4OimSbdC3fiNM4ezQ3IVXdOt0q7Nc4A1rde7Po8jfUQLw15F5ZnF4SfENKdShZ6kcCUFa5yZrXHBXrtXkGc9fGePupppd3Ym9q0wSLJlZvnJHc6TcdbCN8CAfXCQ/w400-h300/F41BDBBB-BFCE-406B-B6E4-0220BFF04785.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The PNT is no easy trail. Because the PNT meanders just underneath the Canadian border and spans east to west, a narrow weather window is present in almost every hiking season. Timing the seasons and beating the snow, or waiting for the snow to melt, can pose a difficult task in completing such a lengthy journey in one fell swoop. Wildfire, bushwhacking, navigation, mosquitoes, inclement weather, high water crossings, wildlife (such as grizzly bears and moose), and remote country are all concerns and make the hiking season feel even tighter. All this aside, the infamous overgrown sections of trail of times past have seen some TLC in recent years. From friends who have hiked the PNT prior to me, I noticed a considerable amount of ease in bushwhacking and log-crawling. This, to be honest, made the hiking feel easier than what I expected.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">The trail is still in a young state, meaning that a continuous trail tread is a work in progress, where long road stretches tie together large areas of scenic public lands. These road stretches curve around any private land areas that pose a continuity hindrance. That being said, the route has multiple opportunities for extended jaunts into the wilderness. The primary route and alternate routes can make your journey longer or shorter, more physically demanding or less taxing, and lends to a sense of ownership in one's thru-hike. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The PNTA, the organization that advocates access of resources for all, organizes trail maintenance, and works in cooperation with land agencies to promote, maintain, and support this National Scenic Trail, has done a stellar job in promoting the meaningfulness of a long distance hiking trail in a region and place. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The PNT goes through small and rural towns in western Montana and eastern Washington which provide the long distance hiker with a sense of community. With this in mind, and to my surprise, folks along the trail really know about the PNT. I had not uncommon experiences where folks would roll on up to me on a road and ask if I was on the PNT. In towns, residents knew what you were doing. Trail angels and other resources in and around towns provide the hiker with comfort, community, and inclusiveness. For full information on the PNT, including preparation, resupply info, permit info, wildlife prep and awareness, trail support, trail conditions and closures, maps, detailed sections info, and shuttles and transportation to either termini, among a ton more of info, follow the link to the PNTA website <a href="https://www.pnt.org/" target="_blank">here</a>. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwpxtK-4f7wHx_ELwg3PmcbknSltD0skAG3h_mOeP6wKLT445zujqGLbzKsXcIYdxJeuYPB4YNCpGl1hx1qDN-vhWMfO-NB5N9bTHZje2UUgNVYPMluB9KsubKWCX7_PX5kGOmI9ppu4/s4032/IMG_2581.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwpxtK-4f7wHx_ELwg3PmcbknSltD0skAG3h_mOeP6wKLT445zujqGLbzKsXcIYdxJeuYPB4YNCpGl1hx1qDN-vhWMfO-NB5N9bTHZje2UUgNVYPMluB9KsubKWCX7_PX5kGOmI9ppu4/w400-h300/IMG_2581.HEIC" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here's the basic stats:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Termini:</b> Chief Mountain Portal/Belly River trailhead in Glacier National Park in Montana in the east; Cape Alava on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>States: </b>Montana (close to 300 miles), Idaho (close to 50 miles), and Washington (close to 900 miles).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Season:</b> mid-June (depending on snow levels) to mid-September (depending on when the cold and snowy weather returns).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Length:</b> ~1248 miles (depending on the year the overall mileage may change depending on closures and with the potential of refining the trail with partners and land management agencies).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Elevation loss/gain: </b>230,440ft gain, 235,729ft loss</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Average duration:</b> 68 days for an average time, according to the PNTA website.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i> </i></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>(I completed my '21 thru hike in 41 days)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Direction:</b> Most seem to go east to west, although a small number of folks go the opposite direction)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b># of hikers per year:</b> Anywhere between 65-80 potential thru-hikers. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now that I have the most basic info out of the way, below will be a summarized account of my overall thoughts and feelings of my 2021 thru-hike of the PNT. Afterwards, in a separate post, I will describe my experience in sections based on my town resupply and itinerary. In that sense, I can pick the highlights in a more streamlined version while aspiring hikers can follow my itinerary loosely. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDy_jAZF3UCLJ7Af-rIkWoaMeCiIJ42rumnZCXgVHsAWjagNd_Icl2_UCKUu1uEIQCk493W3PL0RRIlmvuvPca1WtB3xh5kuGxaKH2N8xZiaVMMFPtcrFlYWJSTfiv-jgWuceVWwyAPI/s4032/IMG_2827.HEIC" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDy_jAZF3UCLJ7Af-rIkWoaMeCiIJ42rumnZCXgVHsAWjagNd_Icl2_UCKUu1uEIQCk493W3PL0RRIlmvuvPca1WtB3xh5kuGxaKH2N8xZiaVMMFPtcrFlYWJSTfiv-jgWuceVWwyAPI/w400-h300/IMG_2827.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><u>Overall:</u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I finally arranged some time to tackle the PNT after initially planning to hike this route in 2014. I think I kept pushing it off because more attractable and more challenging routes were available for me to hike, as the impending lingering thought of major road walking hindered any really true advances in planning the route after 2014. Lo and behold, after hiking the Great Basin Trail again this past Spring of '21, I had an ample space of time to arrange a long hike on a popular long distance trail. I had not been on any real popular long distance trail in a thru-hiking fashion since '16, some 5 years back when I completed both the PCT and CDT back to back. Towards the end of the GBT loop in early June, while having so much fun just walking and feeling all the feels one gets from a long hike, I wanted something more socially connected in a hike. I mulled over a couple long trails but ultimately came up with the PNT as my next adventure revolving around 3 reasons: something new, something popular, and something I could hike in an efficient and expedient manner. All that in mind, after the GBT </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I dialed in an itinerary that would put me close to 30 miles per day, shipped out a couple of packages for resupply, arranged my travel, and set loose on the trail on July 8th.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR06q0fhAVqyJaHICZvRUTz84czhtlTLjYmoJQWuBOq3roT3_pQM3YxllX53-gpOsRjgHzqiIOCqalQaHMPX2CSJLb9dpqe0hyphenhyphen_M2DZ_B7LvxzSy1_y8EElTQYbAezOvgcLsW1fP2r2FY/s1440/5419A42C-62D3-4E3F-B2CA-42F88E4CC859.jpg" style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR06q0fhAVqyJaHICZvRUTz84czhtlTLjYmoJQWuBOq3roT3_pQM3YxllX53-gpOsRjgHzqiIOCqalQaHMPX2CSJLb9dpqe0hyphenhyphen_M2DZ_B7LvxzSy1_y8EElTQYbAezOvgcLsW1fP2r2FY/w400-h300/5419A42C-62D3-4E3F-B2CA-42F88E4CC859.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The biggest reason I enjoyed the PNT was hiking 2/3 of the tra</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">il with Oracle (Nik Massey). Nik was on his first long distance thru-hike of some considerable length. However, despite not having a long resume, he was so far advanced in his training, his hiking philosophy, and his gear than most experienced backpackers. This dude really prepared and practiced his hiking style and method beforehand that he essentially hit the trail at full steam. I'll be honest, I was thoroughly impressed. I enjoyed his gentle character, his forethought and thoughtfulness, his willingness to push himself and test his systems while still being grounded, and his overall zeal for long distance hiking. He asked questions galore and we spent hours on end talking about ultralight topics, thru-hiking strategies, training, diet, gear, resupply, other long hikes... you name it. I felt honored to hike along the PNT with someone with so much enthusiasm and humility. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Overall, the PNT is fun. Really cool towns, some incredible wilderness sections, and an incredible way to end a long trail at the coast. To actually sum up the trail personally to me, I describe the PNT as a string of pearls--- incredible pearls tied together with a cruddy string. Where the trail is good it is great; where it is a road slog it is shitty. I put a positive spin on these road slogs---easy miles, even though some of the road connections felt forced, like, in a way, just to make a vision connect. I would pop in some podcast and hike 3.5-4mph. But really, the road slogs went quicker than expected because of the threat of fire closures around Oroville and eastern Washington. I'll get to that later.</span></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftcDIo1tVlAjfftiiImgMqyQgTIUYhfuxw_vRhnH40m_-Zx8q4wNqsSyzZqxfRwzAsDDGV9W7NNMAxTYiIMvceq7yg6QlbCmZhCzlGQyZPF2fJLMUp2OeGlYlTZmC_f_sh12XOT1ei4o/s480/IMG_3023.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="338" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftcDIo1tVlAjfftiiImgMqyQgTIUYhfuxw_vRhnH40m_-Zx8q4wNqsSyzZqxfRwzAsDDGV9W7NNMAxTYiIMvceq7yg6QlbCmZhCzlGQyZPF2fJLMUp2OeGlYlTZmC_f_sh12XOT1ei4o/w281-h400/IMG_3023.JPG" width="281" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">I understood why the route would be routed on roads to connect wilder places. Private land and urban areas in some areas are hard to avoid. However, because of this forced-connected feeling I often wondered why the theme of the 'crown-to-coast' motto was so important when ultimately the PNT, in my opinion, highlighted the state of Washington. I believe I am nitpicking here. I understand that. Glacier does not feel like the Pacific Northwest to me. It is the crown of the continent. Now, one could argue I am nitpicking a name, let alone a place, but I would counter that the theme of a trail matters. In the end, the PNT felt like a trail highlighting the state of Washington (which is awesome, by the way!). I am probably too harsh in my sentiments and that is probably because I am now a gatekeeper and route creator of the Great Basin Trail where I had a certain vision in creating that route, namely a thematic route and one that would and should be worth hiking twice. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I absolutely loved the Selkirks, the Kettle Crest, the Pasayten and North Cascades, and the whole Olympic Peninsula. Usually two reasons revolve around why I hike a route: connection and immersion. The places noted above had both characteristics intensely with the Pasayten and the North Cascades having the longest stretch of an immersed time in the wilderness and in between towns. The length of the Boundary Trail proved to be an incredible stint in the wilderness meandering just underneath the border of Canada. Other than about 15 miles of trail that had around 600 downed logs across the trail the conditions were so much better than I expected and that section became so enjoyable to string some high mileage days together.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Two of my least favorite included the paved road walking sections of eastern Washington all the way to Oroville, over 100 miles in all, and the urban areas around the Puget Sound. For the long paved road sections of eastern Washington, the expediency through this area was catapulted by the threat of closures and potential wildfire. Heavy smoke smothered the views, the excessive heat suffocated the air, and one was left to just let the feet rip their way through the area. For the Puget Sound, at first the urban areas and walking along the inland coast felt so novel and cool. Then, that novel feeling wore off as the ever-presence of cars, jet fighters, lack of camping, houses and roads just wore thin. There was some cool spots and and some fun times like stealth camping in the communities like a coyote to the network of trails on Anacortes Island to the Whidbey Island coast. Would I walk those sections again? Easy answer: no.</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRYRmVSzu1hLIrobGGm0n-4CfG6eG3sFzTaBiPGZvvnUS1mwlUC0Cl2Jj_Z6ld9WBKnF47POy0IESo8k5XvXWYdhgSIejGjDPpb22vlCarzlG7p_pKjm_IZvPlmKljJl9gQF0unr7oAc/s1024/IMG_3009.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRYRmVSzu1hLIrobGGm0n-4CfG6eG3sFzTaBiPGZvvnUS1mwlUC0Cl2Jj_Z6ld9WBKnF47POy0IESo8k5XvXWYdhgSIejGjDPpb22vlCarzlG7p_pKjm_IZvPlmKljJl9gQF0unr7oAc/w266-h400/IMG_3009.JPG" width="266" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span>The threat of wildfire and closures loomed for most of the length of the trail. State agencies began looking at closures to preempt any human-caused fires and more losses to communities. Smoke was constant from day 2 of my hike and lingered incessantly for nearly a month. It became normal for me to expect smoke and to be okay with it. Overall, the smoke was mostly a visual eye sore than anything physically afflicting. But, the threat and presence of fire goaded me along, pushed Nik and I forward. I have dealt with similar issues before on other long hikes---from going through areas illegally, to halting a thru-hike, to hiking faster, to flipping--- I feel like I seen it all. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Albeit the presence of fires remained omnipresent this season, the nerves of agencies, the public, and hikers tingled at a seemingly all time high. I felt this tingling of nerves, too. No doubt the nerves were valid and legit. Nevertheless, rather than flip or skip sections, I chose not to panic and push miles until I could not. As with other times in my hiking career, I chose to gather as much information for myself from the appropriate agencies rather than from the hiking herd. I would see things for myself rather than react from what the group or whole was doing. Nik had a similar mindset, which I think lends to him being grounded and independent. We hiked from Northport onward as word of impending closures loomed ahead. Rather than 'go around' we would strive for 32-35 miles per day. We would respect closures, especially the imminent threat of a fire closure if they occurred. But as long as detours existed around an area we would continue in connected steps. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My theory in the threat of these closures: if I am going to come back to hike a section of this trail it will be to come back to something worthy. So, those eastern Washington high desert road sections I would quickly get through. These sections are not worthy enough to come back to, while the Pasayten would be, in my opinion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the end, we got through connected and continuous. All the effort made the trip pretty rewarding. Like I said, the PNT is a pretty fun trail. Good trail community, great trail where the trail is great, variety in scenery and diversity in landscape, this PNT is well worth the long hike.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxn6s9EidM59fiv7K70EpK5qCcNEOF-IEarteVcm4GZFb2MJFobeDJRGV_UvJoKiNHX92FK9JLJVbaNHMUH_5M7Mwcoj2a5ShhtLO3_ndXroNiW1Hr2-97tSwBTamMyBQgl6Hniqrh7ps/s1440/36AF9620-6A84-438D-A70D-663F86DEDAB9.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxn6s9EidM59fiv7K70EpK5qCcNEOF-IEarteVcm4GZFb2MJFobeDJRGV_UvJoKiNHX92FK9JLJVbaNHMUH_5M7Mwcoj2a5ShhtLO3_ndXroNiW1Hr2-97tSwBTamMyBQgl6Hniqrh7ps/w400-h300/36AF9620-6A84-438D-A70D-663F86DEDAB9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Lt1tVoY0XmDnAqXdYzRtP_RWpcXKAsTCYOGZLM09SzhpfE7R8MZzKgZyQyEKWKe6mDYArfd3upqKtAWOX15cgxduEfwqRm10gpoWobv0T05CJFi6VI529ekIpiOINiLdDO0wlKi70O8/s4032/IMG_2572.HEIC" style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Lt1tVoY0XmDnAqXdYzRtP_RWpcXKAsTCYOGZLM09SzhpfE7R8MZzKgZyQyEKWKe6mDYArfd3upqKtAWOX15cgxduEfwqRm10gpoWobv0T05CJFi6VI529ekIpiOINiLdDO0wlKi70O8/w400-h300/IMG_2572.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088382655965294916.post-9465811281238373282020-09-09T13:26:00.004-07:002021-11-22T18:09:04.278-08:00GBT Guide Part 4<b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJrsUSa6XSIinUETS_Xes7dx8FrCb-6JzwGWpz9hZesi7FHlrCU5fHGkTIsCX4n3yd9QP36ZOvh8QfzQMHfzFl7LYyfKmcPnA3_CFM1GRLVQNyHChgIcC7wfA4Greodb0grBjP4Q-5eXlf6Pz7th8ZxXNYl2gZXdwlkDv0sVRAlG23eCb2ZFB2nF4z=s900" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJrsUSa6XSIinUETS_Xes7dx8FrCb-6JzwGWpz9hZesi7FHlrCU5fHGkTIsCX4n3yd9QP36ZOvh8QfzQMHfzFl7LYyfKmcPnA3_CFM1GRLVQNyHChgIcC7wfA4Greodb0grBjP4Q-5eXlf6Pz7th8ZxXNYl2gZXdwlkDv0sVRAlG23eCb2ZFB2nF4z=w225-h225" width="225" /></a></div><br />Great Basin Trail: Guide Part 4</span></b><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">GBT Map Set and Track:</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have a Great Basin Trail map set and GPX track available for aspiring hikers. These are available under certain stipulations. I have created an email address (greatbasintrail@gmail.com) to address questions and for potential obtainment of the GBT map set and track. I am open to freely sharing the resource but I will only acknowledge the requests based on my intimate knowledge of the aspiring hiker or after a set of interview questions. The set I have potentially available is a third draft/edition, which will be updated by myself, or from feedback and information from other hikers as the time comes. When the updates occur I will resend the updated draft to the folks that have already had the previous map set drafts.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The 'track' is not a track. I am steering away from a tracked red line. Instead the 'track' is plotted waypoints from the field that will assist in navigation. These plotted waypoints act as checkpoints. This encourages the hiker to be engaged mentally and be present in the moment. Since the GBT is a suggestion of exploration through the landscape of the Great Basin and Nevada, I want the wapointed track to only bolster one's creativity of travel through that landscape. I do not want one to pigeon-hole there footpath by a solid GPS track where one has their head in their phone. The idea behind the GBT is to choose your own adventure, to stir up a sense of freedom in creating a route. I want you to to be engage in your own creation out there only letting my GBT waypoints to keep you in the framework.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Larry-Boy, route creator of the <a href="https://www.lbhikes.com/2019/12/dhr.html" target="_blank"><b>Deseret Hiking Route</b></a>, a rugged 1,000 mile journey and trek through Utah and portions of Idaho, has some poignant words in regards to route-sharing and 'guthooking' a trail. I believe along the same lines as him in regards to actually making a GPS red-line track. So, rather than mince words and regurgitate what he is saying, here is an excerpt: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>'Share Information Responsibly:</i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Over the years, we've all observed trails that were formerly 'out there' become a bit more domesticated. The CDT has been blazed in its entirely (allegedly!). The Hayduke Trail now has a smartphone app and is attempted by dozens of hikers each season. Off-trail travel in the Wind River Range has been commoditized. None of this is necessarily a bad thing, of course, and to some extent, fighting this trend is akin to tilting at windmills. But I'd like the DHR to be different - to give each hiker the sense that they are pioneering something new, be they the 2nd hiker or the 202nd hiker on the route. </i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>The quickest way to kill this sense of pioneering, in my opinion, is to publish a GPS track. Following the little red line doesn't encourage engagement with the terrain, exploration, or problem-solving. Of course, nothing says you have to use a GPS track or smartphone app of it's available, but the mere existence of such a resource makes attempting the trail without it seem a bit contrived - an artificial challenge.</i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i>So, for the sake of the hiker who seeks an uncontrived navigational challenge and to keep the route from being Guthooked to death, I'm going to blatantly ignore HYOH and ask as a condition of using these maps, that you not record or distribute a GPS track.' </i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKcW49EK1Pdp0HQXy_eTey7NRoBgLM-TlCTpEhDB0R3n-t1INRtxTM4jy8fZdllWTiG-d0EbaDP7gFLrOoaXQJnsGOdNyC6BF-qwd69JlxMEcO6J00Ind2n9NChZJd2jR4bhwAmPZiGc/s1834/IMG_9184.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1834" data-original-width="847" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKcW49EK1Pdp0HQXy_eTey7NRoBgLM-TlCTpEhDB0R3n-t1INRtxTM4jy8fZdllWTiG-d0EbaDP7gFLrOoaXQJnsGOdNyC6BF-qwd69JlxMEcO6J00Ind2n9NChZJd2jR4bhwAmPZiGc/w231-h500/IMG_9184.PNG" width="231" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="2090" data-original-width="965" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59UkAyIfOLAAb8Ri0AolfqxauN8mbHk7m3l3-KdUVFdZcIpS3iPO6cTVn6-Cdkf4VsSl8As5xRUFOTWlq5RDg9a-s3N2jUb77_rm6MOJ6dhRyIb9cSmt0-yfgreZ6KohZm286Yi4ucy8/w231-h500/IMG_9183.PNG" style="text-align: left;" width="231" /></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Great Basin Trail is for the hiker, whether long distance or section or day hiker, who wants to explore the Great Basin region. I have put together a themed route solely contained within Nevada that I believe hits some of the highlights of this often overlooked region. Because of the remoteness, general nature of the rugged terrain, and navigational and logistical challenges, I will have some general interview questions to discuss skill level and experience, realistic goals and expectations, safety precautions and measures. Reason being is I do not want anyone to get in over their head who do not quite understand the endeavor they are undertaking. I understand this trail is not for everyone, especially inexperienced hikers. I understand as well that that phrase, 'inexperienced hikers,' is relative and/or subjective to any person or hiker. But since I have developed and hiked this route I understand the rigors and skill set needed to hike this route. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In time, I truly hope to have at least 1 hiker to thru hike the GBT. I really believe in this route in its scenic value, wilderness experience, the provided growth of skill set challenges, the small towns and people of the Great Basin, and in the design of the route. The GBT has been one of the most enjoyable experiences I have had in all the years of long distance hiking and besides the characteristics listed in the previous sentence I found the GBT to be incredibly fun. If enough steam is gathered up in the amount of GBT hikers and inquiries I will have a Databook developed. Furthermore, if interest continues to persist, I may end up charging a fee for the complete resource set, considering all the time and energy I have put forth. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><b>Resource Usage:</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Great Basin Trail resources are designed to be utilized in a triple-navigation method, which means to navigate the GBT I highly recommend combining the GBT paper Map Set (priority), with the GAIA GPS track (back-up and verification), and the Nevada Benchmark Atlas book (overview and safety bailouts). The map set and track are inspired by the Desert Trail map books, and plotted and hand drawn maps of the DT. Since the DT is a route driven trail, I have the same aspiration for the Great Basin Trail. On the GBT Map Set, I have utilized a red dotted line to guide one through an area with plotted waypoints. Since the GBT has so much cross country meandering and weaving I refrained from a thick red line that would somewhat show or allude to what I walked. Furthermore, I refrained from not having a sole waypointed track without a dotted line to keep a corridor defined. This is a choose-your-own adventure! </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I believe, especially since I do not envision a ton of hikers out there, that 'guiding' one through a corridor will help in alleviating any extra stress on the landscape. Besides, enough scattered and braided wild horse and cattle trail litter and meander the landscape. So, the red dotted line is a suggestion through from the multitude of options through an area. Plotted waypoints are a specific spot I plotted from to ground truth the route or any major intersections. On top of that, the waypoints <span style="text-align: center;">are what one should be aware of or that a waypoint may ground truth and verify where one should be.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">As with Larry Boy, I want the Great Basin Trail to be different. I am wanting this GBT to be a route-driven concept with the hopes of challenging the most ardent and experienced hiker. If you have enough experience, the plotted waypoints are surely enough and more engaging than blindly following that red-tracked-line. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1950" data-original-width="901" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAvUME0XM0IibwE-lYBGna39ok0INLDrMnDmsioGEIxTe72UT0LJlqxivW9B5UqC9nxnU0qFCPjb2QA_5qKJmpLSHyjZjItnKUaLt2MYdJRjrEL6a4RdXQazgsT0wGBsNzUT-eiWEiYw/w185-h400/IMG_9185.PNG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;" width="185" /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">All that said, since the GBT Map Set and Track is route driven, the hiker will not have extensive information on what is in front of them. So, inevitably a high skill set is required in navigating through the Great Basin. The resource will help you but not walk you through. Because of this, I feel this gives the hiker the freedom to create, to have independence, to problem solve, and to be self-sufficient. However, the caveat is that the hiker will have to count the miles to the next water source, to the next town or road crossing, find their own campsites etc. I have not created a resource for you to not be engaged. The hiker thus creates their own experience. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mileage is not given on the map set and is only estimated in the route I have drawn on the GPS track. I do, however, feel my estimated mileage is accurate but that estimation only accounts for meandering in forward progress and not in getting turned around or misplaced. That being said I estimate a thru hike of the Great Basin Trail will be between 1050-1150 miles and will lean closer to the 1100 mile mark. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The map set is in the clockwise direction which implies a Spring time thru hike. The 7 Sections and 23 Segments are in that same clockwise direction. I do think if one chooses a Fall time hike, the GPS route is solveable enough to figure out the directional cue and information since I had already made the map set with the track fairly basic and route-driven. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Additionally, plotted waypoints, both informational and locational, are in red, while blue plotted waypoints are for water sources. I only plotted water sources that I found to be somewhat reliable. Until more hikers hike the GBT and provide additional water source information all water source information will be on the map set and track or found en route such as pools and ponds. <b>(Water Chart now available!)</b> Segment starts and endings are signified by a yellow flag, while towns are highlighted with a 'fork and knife.' Finally, cache point suggestions are marked by a 'red cross.'</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">As stated above, if you want any further information please email me at greatbasintrail@gmail.com. I believe the GBT Map Set and Track bring together my effort in sharing a route I have fallen in love with. The GBT is incredibly rewarding and fulfilling. And if you are looking to further your skills, or a seeking another long distance trail, or require isolation and time spent in an incredibly scenic area, then the Great Basin Trail may suit your hankerings. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lastly, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I cannot expect a future hiker to not track something. If so, I am asking that person to not share that GPS tracked line. Really, not only is it resource poaching, but it becomes a safety issue for those not experienced highly in navigation and map reading. Please share responsibly!</span></div>dirtmongerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12764867892426257306noreply@blogger.com0