The Flakes of Zion National Park’s West Rim Trail

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not bad for a flaky trip.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

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

Dominican Republic: Taking the Merengue to Extreme Heights

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide Magazine, 2000.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pulsation of the Dominican Republic

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Amber Borowski Johnson

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

Catching the Wave in Paria Canyon

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Edward Abbey, Days and Nights in Old Pariah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ed Jr. was not persuaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even for a Murphy.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

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

Jackson Hole and Beyond: Exploring the Road Less Attempted

May 9, 2009 By

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was the one whining that night?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

-Amber Borowski Johnson

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

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

Why everybody needs a Bode in their life

May 7, 2009 By

I adore this boy (picture was taken at the summit of a recent hike). Not only is he the sweetest most cuddly kid but he is also my ally, as was evidenced during a recent conversation.

“Amber, please do not ask me if I have the car keys.”

“But you frequently forget them, Jamie.”

“If I forget, I will simply go back in the house and retrieve them. I don’t need you nagging me about it.”

“Fair enough.”

[A few minutes later as we walked out to the car, out of habit I started to ask him if he had the keys. I fortunately stopped myself before I uttered a word and slipped into the car. Bode, on the other hand, had his own ideas.]

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Bode?”

“Got keys?”

=======================================

On another note: see my new widget on my sidebar? It is an ultra-cool Colorado-based company, The Blog Frog, and one of the founders is a Denver mom. The Blog Frog is a great solution if you want to turn your blog just “just a blog” into more of a community.

When you sign up for TheBlogFrog, it asks for the address of your blog. Behind the scenes, TheBlogFrog visits your blog and looks at your Blogroll. The people on your Blogroll then become your Blog Friends. Once TheBlogFriends knows who your Blog Friends are, you can install “Social Add-ons” on your blog and start having fun with your friends with an interactive community that includes a forum and Twitter. It is the answer to all my blogroll dilemmas because I just can’t keep up with adding everyone. Best of all? It is a great way to promote your blog and it is a part of a network of thousands of blogs.

So, if you’re a blogger be sure to link your blog to mine and then just click on my nifty widget. Your latest posts will show up in my stream!

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Uncategorized

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

May 6, 2009 By

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

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

May Days (not to be confused with MAYDAY)

May 5, 2009 By

I think Spring fever had hit many of us, judging from the lower number of visitors I’ve had and that many of you are updating your own blogs more infrequently. I have a very full plate this next month and here are a few things keeping me hoppin’:

My Bladder

It still gets me up at least twice a night.

Mile High Mamas Redesign

With the demise of our competitor The Rocky Mountain News, The Denver Post is soaring high. We are currently undergoing a redesign for Mile High Mamas that we hope will be relaunched by the end of the month. The Denver Newspaper Agency (which is responsible for the newspaper’s ads) is FINALLY getting on-board and is developing a marketing plan along with sponsorships and partners. I’m so thrilled everything is finally taking off and I’m been busy with fundraisers, meetings, events and even got asked to lead a round-table discussion for the Boulder Chamber of Commerce later in the month.

Yeah. I’m still laughing about that, too.

Haddie’s Birthday on May 25th

The kid is obsessed with The Incredibles so that will be our theme. She informed me last week my hair bears an alarming resemblance to Syndrome’s. Forget boring ol’ Elastagirl. I’ll be traumatizing all the kiddos with Syndrome’s villainous laugh. And killer hair.

Pixo Inc.

A few months ago, Jamie launched his own web development business, Pixo Web Design and Strategy. Things are going great and he has made some intelligent business partnerships that bring in even more work. Let me know if you can think of anyone who needs a needs a Web site; I’m always happy to pimp him out. I love having him work from home and don’t miss his big paycheck at all.

At least for now. :-)

Staycations

Between the Swine Flu and the economy, a lot of people will be staying closer to home this summer. We’re no exception so I decided to make myself a professional “staycationer” and we are going to do a whirlwind tour of Colorado. Some trips I have in the works: The Broadmoor, The Crested Butte Musical Festival, Steamboat Springs, YMCA of the Rockies and Chatataqua in Boulder.

As always, I will be documenting our many mishaps along the way. Because let’s face it: when have any of my vacations ever gone smoothly?

The Truth Revealed

Bad luck runs in the family. That is the only possible way to explain it. A few examples:

The Infection
My brother Pat and his wife Jane have spent the last couple of months getting SCUBA-certified so they could go on a diving trip to Honduras for their 20-year anniversary. This is the first time they’ve traveled abroad. Ever. They have been living and breathing this trip for ages. Then Pat got an ear infection so was unable to dive. You know: the entire reason they went to Honduras in the first place.

The Illness
We have been encouraging my parents to travel while they still can so they booked a trip to Mexico a couple of weeks ago. The week prior to departure, my mom took a turn for the worst and only my dad was able to go while my sister-in-laws and nieces stayed behind with my poor mom.

The Swine
The only place Jamie’s parents ever travel is Utah. His grandpa recently surprised all his children and spouses with a Mexican cruise. This is the first time Jamie’s folks have ever left the country and have been busily shopping for their beach vacation and getting passports. Enter: swine flu. Their Mexican cruise was canceled and they will instead be going to Seattle.

Nothing against Seattle but it’s not exactly [virgin] pina coladas on the beach.

OK, maybe “mayday” may be in order after all….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, Humor, Jamie

The Unsung Mom: A True Hero

May 4, 2009 By

It has been five years since I saw her.

I was recently at the post office and she was standing near me in line. Our eyes connected and she blankly smiled. She did not recognize me. She really had no reason to. But five years ago, she left an indelible impression on me.

In the world’s eyes, she is an overlooked middle-aged mom, with unkempt hair and clothes. I had initially dismissed her as well. But during our interactions, I came to know a beautiful person. Possibly one of the most beautiful I have ever known.

When we first met, I was on the cusp of a new life: a newlywed, pregnant and with a whole new world of hope and possibilities in front of me. In my eyes, she was weary and beleaguered.

I came to know why: she gave and gave, often leaving nothing for herself. She was a foster mom and had adopted many into her home. Not just any children, but those with physical and mental handicaps. The forgotten children, most of whom had been severely abused and then abandoned because no one wanted them. But she did.

“I sometimes wish my kids were as little as yours,” she wistfully said in the post office, pointing to my little boy. “Just last night, I was at the police station with one of my teenagers.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only love. She knew if she was not there to catch them when they fell, that no one would. And she was willing to give them everything she had to give them a shot at life.

Many moms deal with these same struggles and special needs. The difference between the rest of us and this woman is that most of us do not choose this path but we are chosen. And we do the best that we can with what has been handed to us.

Just as I had five years ago, I marveled at her. And mourned the society we live in where people who can throw a ball or who make millions at the box office are those we place on a pedestal.

Heroes surround us. Most do not receive any recognition and quietly go about their business. But on that day in the post office as I gazed at this woman’s glistening blue eyes, I was sure she was as close to a hero as I have ever come.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Uncategorized

Wasatch Adventure Race 2002 Masochists on the Mountain

May 3, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002.

I fancy myself adventurous. I jump off the 2-foot diving board at the swimming pool. I can ride my bike sans hands for 10 seconds. And I have been known to stroll across a busy intersection without the permission of a walk signal.

So my interest was piqued when I heard about the 2002 Wasatch Adventure Race (WAR). As the name suggests, the Wasatch Mountains are the place and adventurous is the race. Participants navigate nearly 80 miles in less than 36 hours while running, biking, hiking, climbing, rappelling and paddling, with the odd mystery event thrown in for kicks and giggles.

Sound like fun? Twenty-eight teams from all over the United States thought so. Their idea of fun, however, was to submit themselves to masochistic measures on the mountain, such as trudging sleepless all day and night in the middle of nowhere with only a soggy map as guide. There was mud and snow, freezing temperatures, and then frozen mud.

Fun, eh? WAR is hell, it has been said. Indeed.

Mr. Eco-Masochist
I wanted to ease into adventure racing before diving in full throttle, so I opted to volunteer this time around. That proved to be a wise decision. I soon learned to think twice before participating in a race designed and directed by a guy who worked for Eco-Challenge for three years.

I first met Todd Olsen at an R.E.I. adventure-racing clinic. He and his wife Holly run High Mountain Productions, a company that organizes outdoor races and clinics. May’s event was the second annual Wasatch Adventure Race.

The first annual race in March of 2001 had a few hiccups. When I pressed Todd for details, he had a pained expression, similar to Mom’s when she talks about enduring my early years. He told me they had to contend with a snowstorm, which caused perilous avalanche conditions. To ensure safety, he had to modify the route several times.

Todd chose to hold the second annual race over sunny Memorial Day Weekend. He was meticulous, even neurotic, about plotting the course. He trekked, biked and rappelled it several times as the race date approached. Conditions were perfect and dry.

Until a freak snowstorm sacked the Wasatch Front mere days before the race.

Despite these conditions, Todd remained in great spirits, chiming this was, after all, an adventure race. This confirmed to me that we were at the mercy of a deranged Eco-Masochist.

Cheerleader of the Year
I met my fellow volunteers at 7 a.m. at the Provo Marriott. We spent much of the morning registering the athletes and performing mandatory team equipment checks, discipline assessments, communication safety and race briefings. I had been assigned to the difficult task of taking team photos and checking out toned legs. (OK, that last task was self-assigned–but nonetheless imperative.)

Most of the teams were from Colorado and Utah, with a smattering from Oregon, Idaho and California. Team Fugawi (as in “Where the…”) came all the way from Connecticut, and we also had two Kiwis and Aussies in the mix. There were three different divisions: 3 members mixed, 2 members open, and 1 member open. Most of the teams brought support crews who provided them with food and equipment at designated transition areas. For $50, High Mountain provided support for teams without a crew.

Before setting out to the starting point at Utah Lake, Todd gave the volunteers a thorough play-by-play of our responsibilities. Admittedly, my only volunteer race experience was at a triathlon in high school. I had been stationed in the boonies for the final leg of the race. It was a rare day in Calgary—temps soared in the 90s and the Arctic-lovin’ racers were sweltering. I enthusiastically cheered my Canucks and they were grateful for the encouragement.

I was just about to receive the accolade of Cheerleader of the Year until the organizers drove out to my station. I innocently informed them the last racer had passed me about 20 minutes ago.

And then I learned the terrible truth: I was supposed to be the designated
turnaround point.

In my defense, they had somehow forgotten to disclose this somewhat important information. I won’t divulge the nasty events that unfolded, but I learned that day that there really must be some truth to the connection between cheerleaders and airheads.

The Adventure Begins
WAR officially started at 3 p.m. Racers were filled with both alacrity and trepidation at the start line. The 28 teams were a range between seasoned veterans with Eco-Challenge experience and those with less-intense race résumés who only participated in outdoor activities recreationally.

Todd opened the race. The teams eagerly burst off the line, sprinted down to the beach, jumped in their canoes, and began the 6-mile paddle to Lindon Beach. Once there, they exchanged their canoes for in-line skates and bladed to checkpoint two at Battle Creek Park in Pleasant Grove.

A one-man show, Coloradoan Andrew Hamilton of Team Achilles, blew away the competition by arriving a couple of hours ahead of the estimated time of arrival. Another volunteer, Christie, and I recorded his time, signed his passport and sent him to retrieve his mountain bike from his support vehicle for the next leg up Battle Creek Canyon. His nearest competitors did not arrive until 5 p.m., half an hour after his departure.

The Race Dynamics
Mere hours after the start, race dynamics were glitching. There were crashes. There was malfunctioning equipment. There were arguments. And those were just with Salt Lake City-based Team Entropy’s support crew.

The racers were exhausted by the time they reached checkpoint four in American Fork Canyon. Their 16-mile war-torn ride up Battle Creek along the shoulder of Mount Timpanogas had been ravaged by snow, mud and cold as they navigated their way along a network of criss-crossing hiking trails, game trails, and old Jeep roads.

In Greek mythology, Achilles was the Trojan War’s greatest warrior. WAR’s lead combatant proved true to legend as he conquered Battle Creek with a huge lead on the others. Many teams did not arrive until after dark and were shivering after hiking their bikes through deep snow in frosty temperatures. Some did not turn up until the middle of the night and ATV crews combed the area to ensure their safety. A few teams had either dropped out or were either disqualified because they missed the time cutoff.

For those who remained, night’s embrace was more like a tight squeeze. They had only a waxing full moon and their headlamps to penetrate the darkness as they sloshed through the muck- and snow-heaped Mud Springs, Tibble Fork and Beaver Bog areas. Mr. Eco-Masochist had, of course, thrown some wrenches into the race to trip people up.

Those wrenches, however, were more like hammers that pounded the competitors. Todd had charted a tricky bushwhack for teams from checkpoint seven to eight. Unfortunately, several teams took the wrong turn and missed checkpoint seven at Beaver Bog. After scouring the area for hours, many opted to continue onto checkpoint eight. A few stayed behind until they found seven. Those who bypassed seven were given hefty time penalties.

The Home Stretch
While many of our fellow volunteers spent the night huddled at checkpoints in remote mountain locations, Christie and I were in the most far-flung of all: the Timpooneke Parking Lot. With an onslaught of holiday revelers, the race ambulance and medical personnel. And a diesel truck that choked us with fumes all night long. Nothing like getting back to nature.

Achilles knocked on my tent at 5 a.m. I’d like to say we were awake and awaiting his arrival, but truth is we were apathetic and asleep. The next competitors arrived several hours later, many fatigued and irascible after a cold and confusing night looking for checkpoint seven.

Their reward was what Achilles called “cruel and unusual punishment”: to retrace the recalcitrant route through Battle Creek. But their payoff was an exhilarating 275-foot rappel from atop Battle Creek Canyon, followed by mountain biking to their transition area at Dry Canyon. And then the homestretch: a trek up Little Baldy before dropping onto Glen Canyon Park in Provo Canyon. They then skated back to the lake and did a short paddle from Oxbow Park before finishing where they started.

Seventeen teams finished. Eleven teams dropped out. By the end, most hated Todd. Hated the course. Hated the conditions. But they call it adventure racing for a reason.

Most of those racers are masochists. Most are nuts. And most will be back for round three of the Wasatch Adventure Race in 2003. And I may just be masochistic enough to join them.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Humor, outdoors, Utah
Newer Posts »