David & Diane's Travel Blog

Hot springs empty 4,000 gallons per hour of boiling water into the Snake River

Bison crossing the Yellowstone River

Bison swimming across the deep section of the river...

Bison crossing the road as we wait...

Signal Mountain Campground, Jackson Lake, Wyoming

2011-09-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

Perched 30 feet above the shoreline of a cold Lake Jackson on a recently rain packed sandy bluff at the edge of a pine forest I am awaiting the sunrise and a clear view of the Teton Range across the lake. It is very still and cold, around 34 degrees and the only sounds are that of the lapping water on the frost nipped rocky shore. As the sky brightens on the eastern horizon behind me the 1,000's of geese begin to rustle in the reeds 1 mile away on the far shore. A raucous honking soon ensues with occasional bouts of frantic flapping as small groups jostle about. Soon the geese's song is joined by a lone loon and then the forlorn bugling of elk in the timber.

I am fidgeting with the camera with my stiff fingers trying to frame something compelling and waiting for the rose colored light to illuminate the mountains and lake surface. One half hour before sunrise I take the first exposures then slowly practice some yoga poses as I wait for the scene to evolve. By seven-thirty I am throughly chilled, the geese have silenced, and the campground noises behind me and through the woods begin to invade my consciousness. Now the full range is illuminated, but the spell is broken. I pack up my gear and rush back to the warm camper for some hot coffee and breakfast.

Grand Teton Range in morning light

Mount Moran from Oxbow bend - Snake River

Cascade Canyon

Moose family in Cascade Canyon - (taking collections for a bigger lens)
]

Hiking in Cascade Canyon - towering walls of the Teton Range above us on each side

September 23 - Sink Canyon Campground - Lander Wyoming

2011-09-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

We departed Rocky Mountain National Park after a night of rain and hail camped along the source of the Colorado river on the west side of the park. Our attempts to spot a moose had failed, but we did see a lot of Elk and enjoyed the wistful airy and somewhat magical sounds of their bugling to one another across the marshy lowland spanning the slow moving waterway. The morning broke clear and very cold so we determined to find warmer climates and improved weather for our final leg homeward. Just outside the park is the mountain hamlet of Grand Lake, on the shores of, you guessed it, Grand Lake. Lots of newish development, but also a few gems found as we seek out internet connectivity to check weather and to look for groceries. The small country store in the rustic barn like building has the essentials that we need, but we pass on the overpriced bacon ($9.00/package). A quick stop at the local soft ice cream shop (called Dairy King) nets a wonderful coffee milkshake and news of a used bookstore nearby (named Hoarders). At the bookstore we find a very helpful book seller willing to take a pile of used books off our hands (a 2 month trip will generate a pile of used books) and in exchange for a very small amount of cash we are provided with a restocking of our on-board library suitable for the trip home. (Basin and Range by John McPhee, Close Range - Wyoming Stories by Annie Proulx, and English Creek by Ivan Doig). Sufficiently fortified and reprovisioned, and informed by weather updates from a stop at the visitor center upon exiting the park, we set our sights on northwest Wyoming, and the Grand Teton National Park.

After a long afternoon's drive we arrive in Lander Wyoming and discover Sink's Canyon State Park, just west of town. I believe I stayed here over 30 years ago but had no clue at that time of what a jewel the place really was.

Sinks Canyon is so named because of the Middle Po-Po Agie (pronounced Po-Po-shuh), a rushing mountain river that flows out of the the Wind River Mountains and through the deeply gouged and ancient canyon. Halfway down the canyon (near the campsite in fact), the river abruptly turns a corner into a large limestone cavern, and the crashing water - all of it - disappears (sinks) into fissures and cracks in the back of the cave. The river runs underground for 1/4 mile before emerging in a crystal clear sandy bottomed pool down the canyon called "The Rise". From there it continues down the expected watercourse down the canyon. In "the Rise" there is a year round congestion of very generously sized brown and rainbow trout feasting on the rich cold, upswelling water, all easily viewable from the overlook above.

What's truly amazing is that dye studies have shown that the water takes about 2 hours to travel the 1/4 mile underground, and comes out at a higher volume then it went in. No fish can make it upriver from the Rise. Geologists speculate that the water circulates up and down through a series of narrow winding fissures and subterranean pools until it resurfaces.

Roocky Mountain National Park

2011-09-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

We awake to a crisp 31 degrees and a clear dark sky. The sun has just lightened the horizon but we are eager to get moving and see some higher ground from the trail ridge road. Yesterday's photo efforts yielded a few jewels, so the pressure is off today for capturing sunrise light.

Lie a theatre's colored flood the high peaks are ignited with orange yellow flares and the dark forest below thaws off it's grey night's cloak and color reemerges from it's overnight den.

Perched on a small knoll just after sunrise at the edge of a large meadow that defines Morain Park we watch as a massive bull elk emerges from the timberline with 20 cows in tow into the grassy valley bottom. Last night's frost still lingers on the tips of the dull green meadow plants and as the low angle orange morning light swings over the ridge it lights up the dew like a million waving sparklers.

Suddenly, the big bull has his head down, shoulders hunched and his bugling snorts take on a noticeably menacing tone. The moisture in his breath condenses in a cloud shooting out from his snout like the exhaust from a steam locomotive. Then he charges. Our binoculars scan ahead for the offending party and like a flash, a coyote breaks cover and darts away. Immediately upon seeing the coyote's retreat. the bull relaxes and resumes his shepard duty over the herd. As the bull relaxes, so does the coyote as he resumes hunting for mice and rabbits at a respectable distance from the elk.

If you plan to come:
This time of year large numbers of elk, broken into small groups can be observed easily in this vast meadow,, with good viewing access spots right from the road or from short hikes. The outboard "C" loop in the Morrain Park campsite are located a bit above the meadow with good oversight. Try to reserve one of these.

Mills Lake

Bugling Elk comes down out of the woods

Blue Gouse

Camp Elk

Ute Indian Grinding rocks in high alpine tundra at 12,000 feet

Never Summer Range

Old homesteading equipment at the headwaters of the Colorado River

September 16 - On to Denver

2011-09-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

East of Topeka, the landscape opens in long languid rolls like a calm open sea. As we travel west, the trees shrink in size and retract from their proximity to the road and the sky vault lifts high supporting the broad canopy of thick clouds covering the heavens. The smaller neat pocket farms are replaced by sprawling expanses of row crops and grains, and once again we can see from north horizon to south, unobscured except for an occasional grain elevator or church steeple off in the distance. In this openness, even a one hundred car train has no place to hide and we can see from one end to another with no obstructions. It is not until we are within 100 miles of the Colorado border that the gently rolling plain takes on the more flat, high desert pancake we are more accustomed to further north in Nebraska and along the Rt. 80 corridor. Flat like a freshly oiled pancake griddle. Flat like the 4th avenue billiard table. Flat like a fresh pie crust stuck to the bread board.

All day we have been laboring under an oppressive and seamless, thick matt of featureless clouds, then all at once, as the road begins the long climb to the mile high plateau of desert scrub east of Denver, the sky opens into deep blue, with a parade of widely spaced billowy nimbus clouds marching north between us and the front range. We are overcome with the openness of it all, after more than a week of rain, and City streets, overarching deciduous trees, dropping sodden foliage from the water logged canopy and humidity stickiness, and twisty roads with a million stop signs, we are back in the BIG, the OPEN, the western states and their grandeur.

The landscape begins to rise, and swell again after over 300 miles of Kansas flats, and windrows have been planted to deflect the snows and weather which sweeps across the open waist of the country. Corn and soy fields have given way to open grasslands, grazed short revealing small mounds of rocks and outcroppings of crumbling ancient seabed. Small groups of cattle, far off in a field, gathered around the water trough, filled by the slowly spinning windmill with fanned arms facing windward. Another mixed herd, closer to the roadway, with scruffy brown coats and white faces, calfs, nursing mightily from the tolerant cows. And the sun, once again piercing cleanly through transparent atmosphere, not slowed and dispersed by humid mist beams happily over our shoulders - on our left- first time from this aspect in over a month. Happily, no billboards mar the scene - making claims, of the tallest pie in America, or the biggest prairie dog in the mid-west, or the cheapest price in town.

Turning south towards New England, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington

2011-09-13T06:36:00.000-07:00

Tugboat Rosebud departs Peck's Marina for the river...

Wooden boardwalk near Charlston Lake, Ontario

Picnic Pavilion on the St. Lawrence River near Mary Island

Water Lilly

Final Pumpkin Island Sunset before we depart for points south...

Lake George between rain storms, just south of the Narrows. This lake is 36 miles long and boarder by the broad tree'd slopes of the eastern Adirondack mountains. The northern half of the lake is all wild with many islands and inviting wooded shores.

Dragon Fly

Rainy day in Essex, a historical ship building town in Connecticut, full of early 1700's houses, still in use. Cobblestone lanes lead down to the waterfront.

George Washington Bridge crosses the Hudson River north of New York City

Ben Franklin makes his point at founder's hall in the Constitution Museum in Philadelphia

Connecticut Coast - Neptune clambers ashore

2011-09-07T07:47:00.000-07:00

Neptune has clambered ashore, shaking his soggy, natty dreads as he clears his eyes to look inland. Our windshield wipers struggle to keep up as we are pummeled with the spray. Driving south and west down the New England coast with salt marsh and harbors to our left, we pass through one small town then the next, each with their quaint saltbox colonial whitewashed wood shaked houses with black, or red, or green window shutters, held open with wrought iron twists. Creeks overflowing, and signs of recent flooding high on the bridge embankments on the larger rivers. The historical towns of Essex and Mystic, where tall wooden warships and nimble whaling boats were crafted from the native pines stays untouched by the clutter and clamor of fast food chains and franchised commercialism, while others have been overrun by Dairy Queens and A&W. The town names every few miles are proclaimed modestly upon entering on plain white placards with founding dates prior to 1750. The squat and firm churches with modest steeples anchor the town common, with crisply painted black wrought iron fences defining the perimeter. The large shading deciduous trees, already turning shades of yellow in anticipation of the true fall reach over the roadways in many places blocking out the sky so we feel we are driving through a green tunnel lined by dry laid stone walls, the blocks of which were meticulously cleared from the surrounding fields by stubby calloused hands two centuries ago. This is as close as it gets to ancient in this part of the country and we constantly remark on the differences here from the wide open spaces of the western states. In one day, we pass from New Hampshire, to Massachusetts, to Connecticut to New York. Remarkable. The key capital cities of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington relatively closely clustered along this small section of sea coast. Compared to LA, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle this part of the country feels like a thimble compared to a barrel in terms of proximity.

Today, the thermometer drops below 60 for the first time in 2 months, and we scramble for socks and shoes. Our calloused. tanned feet feel hot and cramped when stuffed into full shoes for a walk out in the cool rain. We shoo a full flock of geese off the road on our way to camp and feel bad as they waddle a few feet then settled again in the rain - apparently accustomed to campers in this area.

Rain continues to pound away, and our plans for a tour of the Mystic Seaport historical park are thwarted. We settle for a soggy, open, quiet campsite mid-afternoon at the edge of a marsh looking out at the Long Island sound beyond the whispy mist at Hammonasset Beach State Park near Madison Connecticut. Rain drums the skylight and we drift off to the percussion band our van has become in this dripping wailing storm.

Departing Canada

2011-09-02T18:04:00.000-07:00

With a heavy heart we motor away from Pumpkin Island after a very enjoyable two week stay including sailing, canoeing, kayaking, bird watching, fabulous meals, and catching up with my parents, aunt and uncle, and sister Diana (www.dkthreads.com) who overlapped with our visit. The water is a smooth mirror as we putter across the channel heading for Champaign Bay and our patiently awaiting camper, which miraculously has waited for us with four properly inflated tires as we tarried elsewhere. On this morning's paddle we spot a Great Blue Heron, gaggles of cormorants, and then get to watch an Osprey dive out of the sky, submerge from the ferocity of it's downward charge and flap free of the water with a small fish in it's claws. Returning upstream to the back dock through the fast moving water at the narrow spot in Lover's Lane we spot a flying piliated woodpecker, it's red head spot flashing boldly in the dappled light swooping over from Pumpkin to Ash Island.

Packed away are the snorkeling mask and bathing cap, the VHF radio and GPS, the sketchbook and summer novel, the rotting water shoes, which never really dried out during the entire last month of activities, and the waterproof snack box which has been along on all our outings afloat. Left behind is the mildly acrid exhaust of the the two-cycle rowboat motor, puttering away, the fresh sawdust, and motor oil aroma of the shop, and the damp and musky smell of the island's wet places, nursury for bugs and frogs, and fish- supermarket for the patrolling minks. We leave in our wake, the softly lapping sounds and hollow knocks made by the water as it caresses the dock, and the creak and moan of lines as they tug and stretch gently holding the boats back from the river's persistent pull. Past the gulls swalking on Gull Island past the rock cliff painted boldly proclaiming "Weston Island", to the protected harbor at Champaigne Bay - full of mountainous plastic cabin cruisers and ungainly houseboat barges, snuggly docked behind the breakwater. Water lilies, duckweed, and cattails close in at the channel at the back of the Bay, and a small band of ducks flaps noisily away as we nose into the slip and tie off the boat for one last time. We heave the unwieldy duffels up onto the floating dock and into the camper and drive off, not yet wishing to stow away our memories even though we know we must begin the next leg of our journey.

It seems like each place we go we could settle down and stay for months - with the scenery, and fellowship sinking tent pegs into our wandering spirits pounding them ever more firmly into the soil with each day that passes. But, we know with only a month left before we move back to the Donner Summit house we must tear ourselves away from this bucolic setting to begin the long circuit home again.

We are delayed for 30 minutes at US Customs as we wait patiently in line with the other Labor Day vacationers traveling south to the US for the long weekend, and then quickly get off the big interstate and head south east across the Tug Hill Plateau on Route 12 towards Utica. Here the lands rolls lazily and we pass prosperous looking family pocket dairy farms set in a patchwork landscape of woodlots, corn fields and wildflowers. Each farm seems to have the requisite red hay barn, 2-3 blue metal and ceramic silos, well painted farmhouse and collection of equipment sheds. Invariably, on this hazy afternoon, before the rain we see a woman mowing the expansive green lawns surrounding the house on a tired looking lawn tractor, while dust rises near the larger barn with equipment and farm hands milling about on some chore or another.

Rt 12 crosses the State at a diagonal just below the wooded belt of the Adirondacks and along the high points we pass through the largest wind farm ( Tug Hill Wind Power) east of the Mississippi centered around Lowville - a name I well recognize from it's daily mention on North Country Radio's weather report. From the high points of the road we can see the deep green of verdant upstate New York rolling out before us. In Utica, we'll reach the relatively flat waist belt of the State where the Mohawk River, Barge, and Erie canals run connecting the Hudson to the Great Lakes. But for now, we roll up and down the wooded highway looking at farms and slowing though the small towns with permanent yard sales, and all manner of goods shown for sale in the method universally seen in our travels - parked with the best side facing the highway, often with a hand drawn "for sale" sign tacked up, but unnecessary. We roll down and down off the Tug Hill Plateau and the sky haze is ripped away with golden sun rays tearing away edges of the cloud cover, the density of navigation signs and exits increase and then all at once we are just one of a swarm of cars rolling down the New York State Thruway heading east and south for the weekend.

Floating Bridge over Charlston Lake Skinny Inlet:

Charlston Lake lunch stop:

Charlston Lake, Old boardwalk:

David, Eva, and Diane at Charlston Lake:

Downwind sailing with reefed main:

Birh Trees below front deck:

David and sister Diana (www.dkthreads.com):

David and Diane before departing:

Red sun at night...

August 28 - Pumpkin Island, Ospreys, minks, and the edge of a Hurricane

2011-08-28T09:28:00.001-07:00

Last night as the sun sets the water explodes into a fanfare of sparkling diamonds, a dazzling disco ball unfolded and laid smoothly over the undulating surface of the pulsing river. The sky and water's swirled orange colors almost merge as one except for the broken line of weathered pines marking the river's northern shore. The hurricane swirling slowly up the New England coast has spun off wisps of weather, reaching us as early this morning as gusts of wind and gun metal grey sky. The towering white pines and gnarled hemlocks sway mightily up high on the island, but down on the soft needle covered paths winding between front and back docks, the air is calm, but expectant. We inspect the island's fleet of watercraft to insure all are snugged and secure- ready to withstand a blow. The rigging of the sailboat whistles longingly in the strong wind, as the small craft tugs at its mooring lines along the front dock, being blown against the current from an unfamiliar side.

Yesterday as we paddled upstream towards Mulcaster Island, we found the eagle's nesting box abandoned - the birds fledged and off about their life's exploration. Contrary to the Eagles, there are more loons this season than I remember in the past, and we catch sight of one nearby almost daily. As we round the western tip of Owen Island, looking for the narrow slot that splits the Island in two with a quiet, protected and languid stream, just deep enough for small craft to pass, along the edge of the mid-Canadian shipping channel we notice a mink swimming to the point. We stop to watch as the small head leaves a growing V in it's wake until the sleek animal climbs ashore, gives one small shake to free its oiling pelt of loose water, and disappears into the jumbled lichen covered, pink granite rocks forming the island's shore. The river's water is clear, and greenish blue, unlike the tea colored tannin laced waters we experienced north and west of here earlier in the summer. As we float over the shoals and shallower areas, we can easily see 10 feet down to the grasses, and sandy bottom. The white crushed shells of a million zebra mussels form whitish patches in the sand, swirling and pale green as seen through the river's flow.

We paddle slowly back downstream returning across the big water west of Pumpkin Island, to the duet of persistent Osprey whistles. One impressive stark white bird with black eye mask and wingtips sits atop a large tree while a second smaller, darker, and younger bird stands on the edge of the massive coarse nest nearby. The treetop birds whistles non-stop to the nest bound bird, we think urging the adolescent to get out of bed and get on with some fishing perhaps. The nested bird complaining that he just wants fish delivered as he experienced just weeks before.

This river, as massive as the mighty Mississippi drains easily a quarter the continent east and north to the Atlantic, but here past most of the great cities, except for Montreal, still to our east, the water is clean, and clear, and flush with life - the vast and varied birdlife a testament to the abundant fish. The river flow and wind's churn leave little but organic matter upon the variegated shoreline, with little or no plastic or oily sheen evidenced upon thoughtful wandering along the shore even though this same water has passed the shores of the big mid-western cities of Detroit, Chicago, Duluth and others on its way through the Great Lakes. This is a hopeful sign for me, as similar walks along the beach in California invariably turn up vast quantities of debris - even with the powerful flushing of the Pacific Ocean to assist with the plumbing.

Visit to Celia's and a paddle to Lost Channel

2011-08-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

Visit to Celia's house...

Red Bell and Key Limes

Thousand Island Bridge near Lost Channel

More paddling in the St. Lawrence River near Pumpkin Island

2011-08-25T18:58:00.000-07:00

Mink investigates a piece of drainage pipe on the back dock...

Ed and Eva paddling to the International Rift...

Great Blue Heron...

Ed and Eva at a rest stop on a small granite island in the rift...

Kayak sailing in the outlet to Lake of the Isles. We sit back and sail as Ed and Eva paddle to catch up...

More kayak sailing. Ahhhhh.

Paddling in Smuggler's Notch...

From

Video of a Great Blue Heron considering us as we paddle by:

Clear paddling after a stormy day

2011-08-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Lover's Lane departure...

Heading down the lane downstream...

Smuggler's Notch

Visit to Pumpkin Island in the St. Lawrence River

2011-08-21T14:55:00.000-07:00

Le Verendrye Provincial Park, Quebec

2011-08-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

On the third major boating leg of our summer journey we drove 3 hours north of Ottawa to Le Verendrye Provincial Park. This vast watery wilderness is home to moose, beaver, mink, bear, white tailed deer (none of which we saw) and also a high population of loons - many of which we did see and hear. The park is a designated canoe camping destination by the Canadian government, and there are marked campsites carved out of the forest at reasonable intervals. Although one can camp anywhere, the established campsites have a reasonably flat tent site and a primitive privy - usually, 1/2 of a plastic barrel, sitting atop a shallow cat hole with a cover offering a rectangular hole. The woods are dense and dark so no enclosure is really required for the privy. We saw very few other multi-day paddle travelers during our entire stay, but we did encounter a handful of small powered fishing boats out for the day. The power boats are not permitted to use the canoe campsites.

The regular loon sightings were a particular joy to us, as the birds had an entertaining display of behaviors, and their eirie call and response singing was very pleasant indeed and set to tone for this magical natural place.

On our second night out, we shared a campsite with some time traveling voyaguers - adventurous souls out for a three week journey in pure 1850's voyaguer style - -no modern camping equipment, hand made birch bark canoes, fire starting with flint, simple meals of peas, pork fat, and rice, along with campfire bread - bannock - made with local berries if they could be found. These folks relished in the authenticity of their undertaking, wearing hand sewn clothing of natural fibers and hand tanned animal skins. It was indeed entertaining to spend an evening with them, and as they paddled away at first light the next day, we really wondered if they were time travelers or just a dream. Glad I took a few photos. (Here is their leader - Bob Abrahms web site in case any of you are interested in joining him for an expedition...The world's foremost Voyaguer

Here are some photos...

Bob makes a minor repair to the birch bark canoe after it hit a rock today...

Here are his fire starting tools...

Now, back to modern times....

And now, a few short videos...

Here is how the kayak looks sailing as seen by me in the stern cockpit. This was filmed on the French river just northeast of Lake Huron:

Loon calling:

Another Loon:

French River

2011-08-04T06:32:00.000-07:00

July 27 - Voyageur National Park Summary

2011-07-27T16:06:00.000-07:00

Sitting just to the west of Boundary Waters canoe area, and southwest of Quetico Provincial Park in Canada, Voyageurs makes up the third of the triple crown of Boundary Lands interconnected waterways in Northern Minnesota. Voyageurs is unique in that it hosts some massive lakes each with archipelagos of islands giving it a very coastal waterway feel. On some of the lakes, the wind fetch can be up to 15 miles, so the water can be easily frothed into a caldron of confused seas. Like the other two parks, there are seemingly endless miles of shore marshes and quiet coves. Each island has it's own personality from stately and mature to cast-away and still being formed. Here the Canadian granite shield comes to a abrupt end, and along this geological fissure 1,000's of miles long the deep and fertile waters have filled in the voids. People here have a legacy of "resource extraction" dating back to the french trappers and explorers who first raided this area for furs to satisfy a passing fad in Europe of fur hats. Now, most of the furs, both worn and living are few and far between. The National Park Service has created a constellation of primative campsites throughout the park, each sited so it sees no other, and very often only a single campsite has been established in any given cove, bay, island, or point. Even with that, the campsites are spaced at reasonable intervals so one can reach from one to another within a day's paddle. If no "developed" campsite is available, human powered boaters are free to camp wherever they like as long as they follow good "leave no trace" camping, and stay away from any established campsites.

The really special aspect of Voyaguers from my experience is the number of loons. Every day we saw loons in every bay we explored, and each morning and evening we grew to count on a brief serenade by one or more loons singing to one another in their haunting, echoing refrains. After herring so many loons in such a short period, I know now that the loons calls all seem to be somewhat familiar. Family groups use the same sets of calls and responses, where as different family groups use slight variations on this theme. They always seem to seek out places where their calls will reverberate on the surrounding terrain, amplifying their effect and adding additional voices to the call even if there is a single animal calling. Be sure to play the accompanying video once i get it posted to hear two such loons across from our campsite one night. The echo in the video, is actually a distantly different bird about 1/4 mile away.

Another enjoyable experience was making regular sightings of bald eagles. The fishing is good in these lakes, and the eagle's size and number attests to this fact. Again, every day we could count on at least one eagle sighting, if not more. On approaching Lost lake one evening we encountered a pair of eagles working on a huge fish they had acquired on a rock shelve just above the water level. We floated by and watched for quiet some time from very close quarters.

On our last day, while departing the park, we got a fleeting glance of a timber wolf as it bounded across an open field at the edge of the forest. Our local shuttle driver Daryl, who drove us back to our car (which was parked at Kabetogama Lake with a freshly changed flat tire) after finishing our journey at Crane Lake told us he sees far more wolf than moose these days, as the wolfs seem to keep the moose population down.

We were very lucky with the wind and got to paddle most of our traveling days with a tail wind. We experimented one afternoon with the kayak sail, but opted not to fly it while underway due to either the impending thunderstorms (we had collapsed the mast to reduce to potential of being struck), or the high winds.

July 27 - Shores of Lake Superior

2011-07-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

Driving south from the northern Minnesota Pennisula, we pass through Duluth, the largest town we've seen since leaving Reno, and are amazed by the towering elevators and wharf side cranes that stand along the shores of the port area. The main north-south bridge crosses high above the port mouth so drivers get a good view of the whole operation. It's amazing to see these ocean going freighters, moored along long wharfs, here in the heartland of the continent. Once full, this American grain, or corn, or beef, or coal will find it's way to the Atlantic Ocean and distant lands by way of the Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence river. I know in principal this is possible, but after driving for so long from a coast, and knowing I have equally far to go to reach the Atlantic, the impact of these Great Lakes on our economy now bcomes even more clear as they reach so far deep into our heartland.

The humidity climbs as we now drive west though Wisconsin, and we seek some releif at a small City Park on the shores of Lake Superior near the town of Washburn. It as just poured here and the houses all sport deep, lush looking lawns as does the campground. I am more used to dirt and forest in a campground, so being surrounded by playing field like grass in a widely spaced forest of mature trees is a pleasant surprise. Where we are camped the shore of the lake faces east, so we are looking forward to a super sunrise, as the milky sticky sky of this evening swallowed the pale light at day's end with not so much as a hiccup.

July 25th - Site S5 on Sand Point Lake, Minnesota

2011-07-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

Crossing east along the island studded southern shoreline of Namikan Lake in Northern Minnesota, the 15-20 knot tail wind is outing us along nicely. A sloppy sea has stirred up and breaking waves crash over the stern and port side of our delicate craft as we surf down, then crash into the next wave ahead. Even with strong effort on the rudder we are often pushed one way, then the nest as quartering waves shove the stern of the boat about. The boat creaks ad flexes like an old seafaring craft of yore, however ours of made of a space aged sealed cordura rubberized skin stretched over ribs of lexan and a framework of aircraft grade aluminum alloys. The boat is made to flex and we can feel the waves ass beneath the keep and the pulsing water overtakes us. Suddenly - "SNAP" and something does not feel right. I'm thinking in an instant what just parted, thinking of the many frame joints, rivets, an sleeved connections that make up the bones of this kayak, and then as the next wave breaks over the stern it is clear - my starboard rudder control cable has given way and we are rudderless. Pressure on my right peddle does nothing, and peering back briefly I can see the rudder sashaying from side to side of its own free will.

Looking ahead we converse with difficulty over the howl of the wind formulating a strategy. Just one hindered yards ahead is a small island to our port side angry with breaking waves halting it's apparent motion through the chop. We make for the right side of the island, hoping to find a sheltering cove in the lee.

Now, hours later we have reached camp and I write this while perched on a 50 foot granite headland facing west over Grassy Bay and a mile of open water and in the teeth of the wind which has not subsided since our earlier fiasco. I feel like I'm on the prow of a steamship plowing through these borderland waterways. The wind driven water parting to let my rock island pass. But, even with all this apparent motion, the distant shore becomes no closer. Our fears of a crowded waterway are unfounded as this place appears almost deserted. Perhaps the strong wind is keeping people away. We are the only party we've seen traveling by paddled locomotion. The rest seem to be day fisherman or house boaters tucked away into quiet coves. thoughtfully the park service has not sited any small campsites within eye or earshot of the houseboat anchorages.

Returning to our rudderless ordeal earlier in the day, on the les side of the small island we see a spot between two boulders that looks like we could tuck our nose in and be secure enough to investigate the damage and facilitate repairs. While Diane stands knee deep in the lapping water I pop my spray skirt and sea sock and reach in for the rudder control cable. Sure enough, where a button hole end of the cable used to be attached to my control peddles there is nothing but a frayed rough end to the cable heading towards the stern of the craft. I try to cut off the frayed end to see if I can fit it back into the failed brass crimp, and in the process, jam the plier/cutter over the cable not being able to cut further, or release the vice like grasp on the jammed cable. Hmmm. Fortuitous indeed. I had unwittingly created a solid vice that had firm grapes of the cable end. I simply finished the repair by wrapping the handles in duct tape so they could not open and release the cable, and clipped the peddle linkage into the new bulky end of the assembly. Working the peddles back and forth I tested
the repair and found it satisfactory except for the temporary loss of my multi-tool to this critical duty. We button up the hatches and push back off into the frothy tempest.

Navigation is primarily by hand bearing compass and map using the GPS sparingly to save batteries for the critical passes that from a distance often appear to be unbroken shoreline. So far we've made no tactical mistakes, but today as the wind pushes us along at close to 4 knots distances shrink. Just as I reach for the GPS to confirm a bearing before the next big crossing it gives off it's characteristic low battery chime and powers down. There will be no changing of batteries out here today in these conditions so I wipe the spray off the compass eye piece while Diane steadies the boat and we set a course to a two mile distant point across the stacking minefield of the deep bay. The rudder repair holds and in no time we tuck into the lee of the far point and stop for a much deserved stretch at the deserted homesite of some early settler with only the broken foundation and some blooming lillies to show for someone's hard fought effort to tame this exposed point in the northern wilds.

Our course turns here, but the wind holds steady so we call a halt to the day early instead of fighting a powerful headwind and end up at this marvelous perch overlooking Grassy Bay.

July 22 - Namakin Lake - Minnesota

2011-07-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

Woke up to to an amazing loon duet above the sound of strong wind in the treetops. Even though the campsite was still, we could tell from the trees on the nearby point, we would be in for a howl out on the big lake. The wind had clocked 180 degrees and is now coming out of the SE, the direction in which we wish to travel. No gentle push from the wind today, but we are expecting strong resistance, like paddling into the defensive line of a high school football team. Dressing for rain (as the NOAA forecast called for) we break camp and head out the channel to the main body of Kabetogama Lake. Using the many small islands as defensive ends, we skirt from one lee to the next, crabbing across the open water segments as best we can not loosing too much ground. In this way we claw our way upwind. Out in the center of the lake we can see growing whitecaps, with spindrift getting blown off the tops and into the air. This signals to me the wind has hit at least 20 knots. Then the rain begins.

We soldier on enjoying the challenge as waves wash over the deck periodically as they pass by spotting a solo Bald Eagle on one point as we bash by on our way uphill. Navigation is fairly straightforward and I am thankful for not having to pull the GPS out of its protective cover to check our progress. At a few points we become slightly confused when the island shapes become to inconclusive to get a clear fix with the hand bearing compass. But with just a bit more time, the terrain unfolds and clear landmarks evolve just as we are about to halt to extract the electronics. By lunchtime we have achieved our goal for the day (that's what an early start will do). The sky looks like more weather is on the way so we set up quickly after unloading the boat from a rock shelve near the campsite while standing knee deep in the lapping water. With a skin boat like ours, we really can't beach the boat while it is loaded and always enter and exit the boat while it is still fully afloat - albeit in very shallow water so we can step out easily and stand nearby.

We are on a rocky point, with medium sized pines spaced widely over the thin soil. At the edges the thin soil supports blueberry and raspberry plants, but it seems like a dry spring has stunted the development of the fruit - or - a bear has already been here to nibble off the delicacies before we arrive. One side of the point faces out to Namikan Lake which here is over one mile wide. On the other side is a protected lagoon with a dock for larger boats. There is fresh bear scat on the rocks and near the tent site, so we will be watchful around our food tonight and will make good use of the metal box the park has provided to secure our victuals.

The rain has passed, but the grey clouds persist with a 10-15 knot wind. With many layers on, I sip cup after cup of hot water to rehydrate after this morning's workout, and to extend the calm and peacefulness I feel about the place. Well fortified, and cozy, I slip out to the protected back dock and take a nap out of the wind using the step as a pillow. The wind here has many voices with a hiss and a swirl from the canopy and a whoosh during the stronger gusts. As the wind builds in ferocity, the sound resembles a freight train rumble and as the gusts reach their crescendo, the lapping water on the surrounding rocks adds an new accompaniment.

It is hard to imagine this green wilderness transformed into frozen snowy landscape, but the chart we are using to navigate has an equal number of designations for snowmobilers and skiers as it does for boaters. I presume it is quieter now, as the wind carries away the motorized boart sounds before they can reach us her on the point.

The network of interlaced waterways reminds me of the Saint Lawrence Seaway near the 1,000 Islands archipelago with the granite outcroppings of the Canadian Shield punctuating the forest and countless islands with the exception that there is no development here on the islands or the lake's shoreline. The fishing must be good because of all the other boats we have seen are fishing people, mostly out for the day having risen early to get to these fishing grounds by mid-day, with enough time to return again to their vehicles before dusk.

July 21 - Kabetogama Lake Departure and Eagles at Lost Lake

2011-07-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

We awake at daybreak to the lonesome call of a single loon nearby in the small stream that feeds into the lake. We eat quickly, enjoying the our padded seats in the camper for one last mea before heading out into the woods, then wheel the boat down to the water's edge on our handy dandy folding two-wheeled dolly (we've named Dolly). We were all prepped last night so this morning launch would go quickly. As I put finishing touches on the boat stowage, and tie our last few items to the deck, Diane shuttles the camper to the public boat launch at the visitor center nearby where we can leave it parked for free during our voyage. The campground host has generously offered to give her a ride back when we discussed our plans with him last night so by the time she returns everything is ship shape and we are ready to push off. Setting off in light winds heading east, the wind is at our backs, and thankfully light, although moving in this direction, the air feels stifling with no apparent motion. These are strange waters to us and as the dock where we departed from falls quickly away from our stern, the wooded shores ahead and all around seem to take on a certain sameness, and strangeness. There are really no significant landmarks at least according to our usual sensitivities, and we begin to fine tune our awareness, picking off gentle swells and sweeps of the shoreline, and distant points where the subtle color of the wooded shore is the only hint of a point of land sticking out into the water. We pick our way carefully along the coast to stay oriented and then island hop keeping close tabs on the chart. With each passing waypoint identified and confirmed with a compass sighting our confidence grows and concerns of finding a way back are diminished. Our way now is forward, and ultimately 40 miles ahead stitching several big lakes together over the coming week.

The wind continues to build and pushes us ahead along with our paddle strokes at over 3 knots. There are a few number buoys on the chart, but they are too far and small from our perch almost at waterline to use to confirm our route, as getting close enough to confirm a number would take us into bigger water and away from our preferred line of travel.

As we approach our intended campsite tucked away on a protected shore of Lost Lake, down a small channel leading off the main body of Kabetogoma Lake proper, we are greeted by two full grown Bald Eagles - one with a fish in his grasp on a rock shelve just up from the water's edge. They are both easily 24" tall, standing erect, and we get a good look at them as we float by on the gentle breeze. Then, just as we round the last point before the place where the camp should be we spy a pair of loons nearby, who linger confidently as we peer at each other. It seems reluctantly, after sizing us up for appropriate guests to their lost lake, they dive and are gone. By 1:00 pm we are camped, hammock hung, 8 miles from our put-in on a breezy point overlooking our "private" lake. No one else will be camping within eyesight or earshot tonight thanks to the thoughtful planning of the National Park Service who established these small group campsites throughout the park.

We rig the now empty boat for sailing and make two runs across the lake to test out rigging and sail/boat handling characteristics in various wind angles. We practice hoisting and dropping the sail while on the water and secured into our two cockpits sealed with spray skirts, and make note of changes to the rigging which will facilitate this operation more smoothly. Once back at camp when this was completed, we donned swimsuits and dive in to the comfortable water, first getting refreshed, then to practice deep water recoveries - getting back into the boat away from shore after it has capsized. Pulling the boat out into deep water we are both a bit apprehensive of the techniques we'll use. In theory, we know what is required, but in practice, with gear on the deck, and bulky life jackets on, we are not sure how smoothly the operation will go. After a brief discussion of a plan, I stabilize the boat from one side while floating at the waterline and Diane grabs the cockpit combing from the other and with a massive dolphin kick and lunge she is heaved out of the water and face down 1/2 on the deck and still 1/2 in the water. The boat accommodates this odd payload with finesse, it's buoyancy on the gunwales increasing as they become submerged due to the protected inflated "sponsons" that add tension to the final skin stretch over the aluminum framework of our delicate craft. With a few more wiggles, her legs are in the cockpit and amazed she looks down on me still in the water and says "your turn!". Diane stabilizes the boat with a deep brace and I lunge up out of the water and over the opposite side and repeat the beached fish maneuver to settle into the rear cockpit. Wow, it worked just like it was supposed to. We try a few more times, refining our approach so when/if this situation should occur in choppy water and high wind, we can repeat it successfully without too much conversation.

July 21 - Northern Minnesota

2011-07-21T15:09:00.000-07:00

If someone had been watching us from afar yesterday night, they would have been in stitches. Once we made camp in a secluded spot behind a casino in northern Minnesota, right around sunset, we were beset upon by a swarm of mosquitos the likes of which neither of us had ever experienced. We had screens on all the open camper doors and windows, but none the less, these persistent creatures were finding a way inside and filling the thing with swarms. We doggedly destroyed as many as we could catch, thinking we'd get ahead and be able to relax before bed, but despite how diligent we were, the bugs were finding another way in. In frustration, we fired up the cab top A/C and closed all the windows in hopes that would staunch the flow, and indeed, either the lower temperature inside, or the lack of screen edges did succeed in stopping the influx. After another 30 minutes or so, we had killed off the remaining bugs inside but there was no way we would ever be able to sleep with the noisy compressor of the air conditioner spooling up every 10 minutes. After 30 minutes of indecision, we turned off the noisy contraption, kept the windows sealed tight and fell to a troubled sleep, tormented the loud buzzy of bugs just outside the windows. As it returned out this night were the worst bugs we were to experience on our entire journey.

July 20 - Across North Dakota to Central Minnesota

2011-07-20T18:36:00.000-07:00

Departing the badlands this morning, we drive steadily eastward today on the interstate. As we go, the broken landscape of the badlands is replaced by the massive flat cultivated fields of factory farms. Evidence of the recent floods along the Missouri and it's tributaries are all still around, as the highway is barely above water in several low spots, with the temporary sandbagging still in place. The waterways we do cross are swollen and have stretched to consume new banks far upslope from their usual courses.

By the time we reach the mid-point of North Dakota, the land has flattened and I swear you can almost see the curvature of the earth from ground level. With the transposition eastward, the sky has become hazy and yellowish. Gone are the clear blue skies and clearly defined clouds. I suspect the increased humidity, and vast farm productive land has contributed to this change in atmospheric conditions. We are hoping as we drive north and closer to the Canadian border, the air will once again clear.

Not too far into Minnesota, we change course, exit the interstate and veer to the northeast aiming for the border with Canada. Now we are on two lane country roads bordered intimately by cultivated fields of privately waist high corn. Towards the end of the day the farm density has declined and more of the space has been returned to open prairie.

At this point, due to the Minnesota state budget, all the state parks and campgrounds are closed and seeing as this is not a real popular spot for recreation, the camping spots are few and far between. In the end, we settled for an RV spot in the back of an Indian Casino - actually a very nice spot on the edge of a creek, facing the woods. This facility is so out of place here amongst the endless corn fields and open prairie, but surprizingly, the parking lot is jam packed and there is a waiting line at the check in counter for hotel rooms.

July 20 - Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota

2011-07-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

Again yesterday, the temperature hit 100 degrees. We are prompted to keep driving as at least while moving we can operate the cabin air conditioner. Across Montana we drove, following the swollen Yellowstone River. As it moved east, we could see it getting bigger and bigger, even with the draw down for the surrounding farms. At the wide sweeping curves in the water way, there are still large standing waves, something I would think normally by this time of year would be placid turns in a lazy flow. What appears now to be mid-stream, are probably submerged and swamped islands holding fast to one or two sturdy cottonwood trees, the rest of the surrounding grasses and willows lost to the raging waters.

It is easy to be lulled into complacency, and just stare ahead at the two lanes of asphalt ribbon leading off ahead, but as a passenger I have the liberty to see the bigger picture, how the roadway plays only a part of the overall landscape, and how the real dominate feature here is the wide Yellowstone river bottom and flood plain, not the four lane interstate and associated commercial signage clutter which has adopted this relatively wide and flat corridor as its resting place. A mile off to each side, a variegated escarpment climbs and layers of shattered rock are exposed to the elements. Above the escarpment, the plains roll off in a variety of sized hills, some hundreds of feet over the others. In the defiles between bumps, eroded stream beds carve narrow sinuous gorges that all lead down to this wide plain of the Yellowstone River.

No contrails litter the blue sky, but towering thunderheads scuttle by mixed with a high cirrus and a mackerel middle layer of clouds reaching overhead in a continuous dome of sky. This is truly the Big Sky country, with no major mountain ranges obscuring the view for what must be hundreds of miles in all directions. The massive hay cutters and bailers look like toy trucks when seen in the context of these rolling open spaces, with the farmers operating the equipment barely visible, however evident their hand is upon the landscape. The herds of cattle are growing larger, as is the size of the irrigated fields as the plain begins to iron out its folds and to lay down smoothly as we move east.

By early afternoon yesterday we passed into North Dakota as the badlands seem to rise all around us. Now the plain is broken again, this time by undulating rolling hills of ancient rock, some hundreds of feet high, some only 10 feet high. We have left the clarity of the drainage of the Yellowstone and now cross many rivers traveling in confused paths in all directions. On the north sides of these steep defiles stunted juniper cling to the hillsides, where on the south exposed sides only a wild mix of prairie grasses can persist. These lands are the eroded remains of a lifted and folded ancient seabed and stretch from here in North Dakota all the way down to the parched canyons lands that dominate the eastern Rocky Mountainn foothills in many states to our south.

We pull into Theodore Roosevelt National Park around 3:00pm and camp by the wide waterway of the Little Missouri River. Clearly often flooding here has pushed the surviving mature cottonwood trees far from the current river's edge. We are camped in a copse of mature trees, now shedding their namesake puffy cottonball like pollen bundles to the wind like a light snow flurry. White tail deer are dining unfettered between us and the river in the swampy high grass that has been recently watered by these spring floods. One quarter mile away, across the river one of the many badlands hills rise and show us waving fields of tall grasses flowing in the strong wind as if under a clear boundary of water moving first one way, then the next.

In the late afternoon we begin a slow 30 mile scenic drive, which is the most common way people experience this park. We are hoping to see wildlife and grand landscapes as the sun sets. The billowing clouds have begun to pile up and rain is clearly visible as heavy sheets in the distance. It is not long before we come upon a band of wild horses all shaking their heads in a similar fashion we suspect serving to keep flies from their eyes. They have long bangs that hang over their foreheads and faces which they swish back and forth to keep their eyes clear of the nagging insects. There are obvious family groupings as the colored markings on mother, yearly, and new colt show them to be part of the same genetic set. The horses are familiar with slow moving cars so seem unfettered in their pursuit of evening's forage so close to the roadway. We stop for a while to observe then move on.

After not too much longer we come upon a singular massive male bison. Amazing we think and crane our necks to get a better look. Pushing onward we then come upon a recling set of similar animals in the shade of a hillside. Then, around the next corner we are overwhelmed, literally, by a herd of bison of all sizes milling about on both sides of the road and right up the middle. The park guide says there are over 400 animals in the park. We suspect this is at least 1/3 of the overall herd. We are stopped because the animals are blocking the road. The massive males, with shoulder humps as high as six feet and small beaty eyes clearly taking in the surroundings of other animals, cars, and grass opportunities are in control of the movement of the herd. The large males linger behind the bulk of the herd, urging them forward with low guttural grunts that sound like far away thunder or the grinding of large rocks along the bottom of a river in high flow stage. In many cases they stay close to one particular female, keeping the other males from getting close. The calfs linger directly underfoot, sitting often in the slow parade while the yearlings stand off to the side, or follow just behind and are reminded with a showy pawing of the dusty soil or an especially loud snorting vocalization to stand down when they get too close to the dominant males. The herd has selected to move mostly down the roadway up and over this low pass, so we are gifted with the opportunity to watch the group dynamics of this slow parade for almost an hour. Actually, we have no choice, as other park visitors have arrived behind us and block our retreat, and the dusty, clomping, snorting mob of bison block any movement forward. We have a grand perch, high in our front seats to see and watch all the action. The one car in front of us is a small sedan, whose passengers sit well below the eye level of most of the animals. They are intimidated and are often the focus of the driving animals. These beasts place themselves directly in front of the most forward car and stand firm while their family group passes thusly guarded in front of the intruders. Only after well clear of the car does the steaming animal begin to slowly move on, often straight forward to begin the stand-off once again a few paces down the road.

Eveventually, the herd gives way as they fan out to wider pasture, and we move ahead into the awaiting arms of a monstrous thunder and lightening storm ravaging the badlands all around us. The national weather service warns us on the crackly radio of quarter sized hail and strong wind gusts - urging people into places of shelter. We retreat to our sheltered cottonwood campsite on the shores of the Little Misourri river and watch as the heavy rain pelts to windows and skylights. The front passes quickly, and soon we can open all the windows again and let the evening breezes flow through as dinner preparations get underway.

July 18 - Across Montana to Columbus via Rt. 90

2011-07-18T16:38:00.000-07:00

We continue north along the Salmon River until Route 15 hits 43 then we head east and climb over the continental divide from Chief Joseph Pass, into Montana and drop down into "The Big Hole" and the Big Hole River basin. The big hole is truly big - a huge valley easily 50 miles north to south with visible snow capped peaks at end end. The Big Hole River flows to the east here and the road follows it in slow easy banked turns. This route 43 would be a great bike tour destination as there is almost no traffic on the road and the scenery is wide open and glorious. There are many pull outs for river access but there is almost no shoulder - so if you come by bike, bring a "pass me wide to the left" sign and post it on the back of your bike. As we break for lunch on the banks of the river, a blackbird whistles it's tune and a lightly loaded fisherman's dory floats by casting for fish. If the two huge Salmon we saw yesterday pulled from the Salmon river is any guide, the fishing here should be very rewarding.

Shortly after lunch we reach the interstate and leave the river behind. Now it's peddle to the metal for the rest of the afternoon to make some tracks on I90 across the flatter portion of southern Montana. Now the grass covered rolling hills sweep off to the horizon - too hilly for irrigated farming, but fenced and gated for the large herds of grazing beasts. This is the land of the Nez Perz Indians and the Lewis and Clark heritage. I close my eyes and imagine the bison swarming over these grasslands. That does not last long. Actually my mind is set on a root beer float so I am searching the internet for the nearest A&W. Such is the advantage of the interstate highway's cell coverage these days.

Big Hole River...

Truck fire near our campsite...luckily not ours.

July 17 - Alpine Creek and Little Redfish Lake

2011-07-17T12:37:00.001-07:00

We take the morning to hike up the Alpine Creek Canyon from the inlet of Alturas Lake. The wildflowers are all out in bloom, and we want to just keep walking and walking. The snow capped peaks of the Sawtooth wilderness beckon us onward around each bend and rise in the trail, and the songbirds flitting in and out of the willows along the concealed bank of the babbling stream keep a running soundtrack. Once more we debate our long term agenda which is keeping us pushing each day, and consider an alternative plan which would permit us a longer stay here in what is actually the very beginning of our journey. But then, how do we draw the line? I believe we could spend the whole of summer here in the Sawtooth and not have exhausted the recreational opportunities. In the end, while snacking at the edge of an alpine meadow, with scree slope above leading to the jagged peaks, and river below, we agree to turn around and head back to the car and be on our way.

We've decided to make a provisioning stop in Stanley and are surprised by the level of activity in this sleepy primarily unpaved berg. There is a huge arts and crafts show going on, with live music. It seems to have drawn folks in from all over, many with camping rigs. Seeing as we have not a single nook to store any additional materials I forgo the fair and settle for the picnic table outside the quaint clapboard style public library where the wi-fi signal is conveniently available for free. Diane heads off for provisions and the fair, and I work on posting a few articles to the blog and catching up on e-mail. The town's main road is paved but the other side streets are all dirt or gravel. There is a wholesome bakery serving full meals with a full bulletin board of local events. There is an arts guild building, and of course the library as I already mentioned. Next time through here I'll definitely plan on a day at the fair(Mountain Mama Festival), with camping nearby. Diane notes the espresso almond fudge ice cream was especilly good. For planning purposes, consider the 2nd weekend of July for a stop in Stanley.

We push on, following the Salmon river as it flows north on its way to the Columbia. The road and river share a Valley bottom not always much bigger than the two combined, but in other places it broadens to encompass a well kept ranch or farm. Multi-colored rafters and kayakers can be seen bobbing in the current occasionally as we round bends in the road which open up a longer view of the fast moving waterway. Its astoundingly beautiful here and well worth a whole vacation to this one destination.

At dinnertime, we select a small pull-out BLM campsite at Shoup Bridge, ID adjacent to the Salmon River. The flow is high, and our site, not more than 10 feet from the water's edge is protected by a 3 foot berm. I presume this entire campground was created at this turn of the river by many spring floods, and at some point the berm was erected to preserve the land so often inundated each spring.

It's hot, hot, hot. I can't believe it. The air is hot. The wind is hot. The camper is hot and we are weary from travel. With the awning out, we recline in the shade and try not to move, as the last bit of sunlight blasts our way. We are hoping with its setting the sun will release us from this infernal oven the day has become. Who would of thought that at 6,000 feet in the Idaho mountains along the shore of fully flowing mountain river that temperatures would be climbing into the 90's. We sip cold drinks and play the geography/alphabet game, limiting our answers to cold and frozen places in hope that mind over matter will cool our core. In the end as day turns to night and darkness settles the temperature drops and we fall asleep with no sheets or blankets listening to the sounds of the rushing river and the crickets.

July 16 - Alturas Lake, Sawtooth National Recreation Area, Idaho

2011-07-17T12:36:00.001-07:00

July 16 - Alturas Lake, Sawtooth National Recreation Area, Idaho

Today is a shake-down day, and once breakfast is complete, we pack the boat for a day on the water and wheel it down to the water's edge on our nifty two-wheeled cart. What a great little accessory. We paced it off at about 130 yards - the length of many shorter backcountry portages - and it was almost no effort at all. Of course, this was along a campground road. I imagine on a rooted twisty trail with moss covered rocks navigating the heavy wheeled contraption may be an entirely different story.

We check the wind direction and elect to paddle a clockwise circuit around the shore of the entire lake - probably about 7 miles round trip. We bring the mast and sail with high hopes of sailing the downwind leg home. Once away from the campsite, the lake is quiet, and due to the relatively shallow water at this far end of the lake no motorized craft venture this direction. Occasionally we see a silvery fish jump clear out of the water in it's zealous pursuit of prey, but otherwise, there is no sign of life in the water. The surrounding forest is a symphony of songbirds, none of which I recognize, except for the characteristic rat-tat-tat of the woodpeckers. Below the sparse canopy formed by the thin lodgepole pines, the forest floor is bright green with grasses and blooming wildflowers. The blue, purple, and yellow splashes of color look especially bright against the lush green.

We stop about half way around for lunch, and tie up to a shallow bank below a small woodland meadow covered in yellow flowers. There is really no place to bring the boat ashore, so we rig a line from bow and stern to keep the delicate craft off the sticks and roots of the shore. Standing in the cold water to set the lines, my feet cramp, then become numb and now after a few episodes of beaching and launching my body seems to know what to expect from the cold water and shuts my feet off from my nervous system more quickly. We open up the picnic but are quickly forced back off the shore by bugs who do not seem to venture more than a few feet from the woods. Once back on the water we are bug free.

For a while we follow a flock of Common Merganser ducks with their fanciful tuft on the back of their head. The one male with a black head and snow white under plumage was directing the gaggle of females and youngsters this way and that as we floated by, ultimately shepherding them under a big branched snag on the shore where neither our eyes or our boat could follow.

Once we reached the protected lee of the far end of the lake, we beached on a wide stretch of sand and tried to set up the mast and sail. Unfortunately, the mast stepping fittings did not line up and we could not properly step the mast to the keel of the boat- despite much scraping of knuckles and pulling of hair. Such a pity as there was a steady breeze blowing down the lake just in the direction of home. We stowed all the extra gear and headed out into the choppy water, and were quickly happy not to have a sail flying, as the boat, with just our paddles, backs, and hats seemed to have sufficient windage to keep us pulsating along at a steady clip. As white caps were building on the center of the lake, we ducked in behind a small finger of land, and pulled out right near our launch point.

July 15, 2011 - Alturas Lake, Sawtooth National Recreation Area, Idaho

2011-07-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

July 15, 2011 - Alturas Lake, Sawtooth National Recreation Area, Idaho

As we drive north the impact of the distant mountains begins to be obvious as the runoff water from up hill begin to green the otherwise arid landscape. At first, just one farm appeared and then another until the whole countryside has been transformed into a sea of green alfalfa and knee high corn. Active long rows of sprinklers spray hugh fountains into the air that stretch off into the distance leaving behind a waving lushness. As we drive north the flat plain become rolling hills, then wide valleys as the mountain range grows, then clearing off in the distance we see the glistening snowcapped peaks that give the Sawtooth it's name. As we approach Hailey, the working farms begin to give way to bolder and brighter ranches with massive timber ranch gates facing the road proudly displaying the family name and brand. Then all at once we are swooped up into the embrace of a sparkling western town, with fresh paint, cheerful signs and bustling bag carrying foot traffic. Banners span the roadway announcing the summer festivals and we are tempted to stop for refreshment - however, the mountains beckon, and on a Friday night we are fearful of not getting a site, as most here are first come first serve. We discover at a brief stop at the ranger station north Ketchum that there is a "Mountain Mama" festival in Stanley just 50 miles up the road this weekend, so the campsites further north will be packed.

The first big lake we come to is Alturas Lake, about 3 1/2 miles long and we are ready to stop. The Smokey Bear campsite offers just a few open sites, but the camping places are spaced widely apart and we find a perfect spot, not far from the lake's shore, with widely spaced trees and a open view to the east.

Once fortified with a late lunch we set about to the matter at hand - assembling the kayak. We had stowed it multiple pieces in many nooks and crannies, so the first step was to gather all the sacks and parts, and loose aluminum struts into a comprehensible pile. Once that task was accomplished, with diane perched on a camp chair with the instructions, we methodically assembled our wonderful craft. Almost two hours later, we are suited up, life jackets zipped and ready to wheel the boat to the nearby shore. At 87 pounds, it is a trifle heavy for us to carry, so we use a wonderful two-wheeled cart (collapsable of course) to support the bulk of the weight. Happily we stroll over to the beach, tip the boat off the cart and paddle away into the pristine mountain water.

There is a slight breeze coming from the northwest, so we head that direction hoping to get a free ride home on the wind and begin our exploration of the lake's eastern shore. The early evening low angle sun has already formed deep shadows on this side of the lake, but the opposite shore is ablaze with an orange glow. Up high the snowcapped peaks begin to take on a yellowish reflection. No fish are jumping, but we do come upon a 4 point buck grazing at the lake's edge, barely ruffled by our passage he continues to forage as we float right by so close we can see the fine hairs on his still fuzzy antlers, the woody pointed parts still concealed beneath their protective coat. He steps up onto to rock to reach a higher branch and proudly displays his full chest and broad shoulders. By the time I even think of the camera, the moment has passed as we are blown past by the building wind and a fat rain begins to pelt the lake as a front passes overhead. I push hard on the right rudder peddle and we head for camp.

July 14, 2011 - Rye Patch Reservoir, NV to Salmon Falls Creek Reservoir, ID

2011-07-17T12:33:00.000-07:00

July 14, 2011 - Rye Patch Reservoir, NV to Salmon Falls Creek Reservoir, ID

We depart from our eastward progress at Wells, right where the Humboldt Range reaches up to tickle Rt. 80, and after lunch in the shade of an acacia tree, at the town high school football field, across from a fleet of patiently waiting school buses sitting out their summer recess, we head north and begin our climb in elevation into Idaho. Route 93 is a freshly oiled and gravel two laner, so our pace slows from the jangling whine and whistle of the interstate. Hawks and Kestrels hover nearby, awaiting roadkill perhaps, and the parched Nevada valley gives way to a high desert grassland with growing knuckles of foothills as we parallel the Salmon Falls Creek while it carves a deep gorge to our west in its flow northward. South of Twin Falls we pull out at Salmon Falls Creek Reservoir, where a large concrete arching dam, long in the tooth and leaking around it's edges holds back the meandering creek forming a long narrow lake which twists south and around a bend away from our site on the lake shore. Its very quiet here and we feel lucky to have found such a peaceful respite from the roar of the road. During our evening stroll we watched many killdeer stalking near the water's edge for bugs. They seemed not to mind us watching and walked boldly through the grasses very close to the trail.

July 13, 2011 - Oakland to Rye Patch Reservoir, NV

2011-07-17T12:31:00.001-07:00

July 13, 2011 - Oakland to Rye Patch Reservoir, NV

One last look around the totally empty house, a click of the front door key and we're off. All the preparations completed, eyes looking eastward we begin our summer's 7,000 mile journey. We rolled up the entrance ramp to Rt. 13 - our first highway and slammed to a crawl as the traffic was barely moving. It is not a good omen when your GPS entones "Would you like to switch to pedestrian mode" in it's singsong synthetic voice at the beginning of such a long undertaking. However, we soldiered on, and as we shrugged off the deep marine layer of soggy air blocking out the sun, so did we shrug off the crowded highway and by the time we reached Concord we were zipping along close to the limit.

Closing up a home of 20 years involved a lot more than simply packing and storing boxes. With each item we stripped from the walls or the shelves, it's associated memories seemed to hang in the balance. Turning an item over in my hands memories washed over me, and once again the house was full of children's toys underfoot, or the balmy sea breeze was blowing through my hair on a Caribbean beach. Each collected item and some point carefully selected or masterfully crafted by it's creator had somehow grown dull and pale, dissolving into the unremarkable fabric that had become my life. But now, upon reconsideration as we sorted into categories, of bring in camper, bring to Tahoe, store under house, and give away each item seemed to take on a new glow and luster. Those items with no remaining glow seemed destined for the give away pile, but then, sometimes later as I moved things around in a box to more efficiently fill the package it's siren would go off, and I would recall the significance of the moment during which I collected that specimen. Sometimes that led to reclassification, and other times, just a warm melancholy feeling. At times like this I remind myself that I am off on a big adventure and am sure to experience many such special moments in my future.

Looking around the bare walls and empty shelves last night, Diane and I recalled the first day we arrived in this house long long ago, at the beginning our lives together, wondering what lay before us. As time went on, we seemed to collect a vast array of shells, rocks, sticks, and photographs, along with dizzying array of what now seems like disposable technology and toys which at the time were so magic and dear. The moving out process was like a cleansing, a revival as we pulled up anchor from one spot and set sail for a distant horizon.

Driving together hour after hour, we are really the same people as we were before we starting this packing process, but something is different in our perspective and I relish the excitement of it all. So tonight, after a day's drive with just one brief stop at Royal Gorge to drop off a few house plants that they agreed to foster for the summer, we are camped just below the dam in a small, quaint campground right on the shores of the Rye Patch River. We watch the almost full moon rise out of the pink dry hills of central Nevada just as the sun is setting behind us. The swallows skim low and fast along the river's surface to catch the bugs, and a fly fisherman tries his luck from the bank. Occasionally the smoke from a nearby camp fire wafts by, and I strum chords on the mandolin as Diane quietly whistles accompaniment and reviews maps for tomorrows objectives.

July 3, 2011 Oakland to Donner Summit

2011-07-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

July 3, 2011 Oakland to Donner Summit

The camper is packed literally to the gills. We've emptied our Oakland house in preparation of receiving renters, and all the belongings we'll need for the next 12 month are piled into the truck. The boxes reach from the floor almost up to our sleeping bunk, with duffles filling the bathroom. With a bittersweet look over my shoulder I pull out of Grisborne ave and head east - and as Buzz Lightyear would say "to infinity and beyond". The holiday crowd has already departed, so we have the highway to ourselves and as we drive past Benicia a large V shaped flock of Snow Geese fly low across the road and honk to us, saying goodbye and safe travels. I see it as a good omen. By Auburn one hour later,, the pine scent of the Sierras has started to permeate the vehicle and I feel a euphoric peace, as I leave the burdens and anxiety of our City life behind. I did not even realize I had this glaze over my awareness until I feel my gaze clarify with the brightening of the mountain air. While traveling, our chores of daily living take on a new pace and enjoyment, and the long list of tasks for house renovation is long forgotten. There are operational chores to take care of as we roam, but their proportion of our waking energy is far reduced from that which we experience at home in Oakland.

Once in Serene Lakes, we carefully stow all our stuff in one bay of the garage of our new rented house on West Shore Drive, organizing things by how we think the cold concrete floor may effect them over the three month period between now, and when we'll return to actually unpack them into the house above. The snow piles are still deep between houses, and the phone service has yet to be restored after many of the phone lines were damaged in the early April snow monsoons. With a far lighter load, we depart, and head to Sugarbowl for one least day of skiing in this remarkable season.

The morning breaks clear, and warm, and the temperature rapidly climbs from the mid-50's to the 70's. A skeleton crew of patrollers gather at our usual meeting time and discuss how we'll prepare the mountain for this last onslaught of skiers before the long overdue summer recess. With creeks cascading down the middle of some runs, and sink holes opening unexpectently on others, and with some run outs blocked by fallen trees and exposed avalanche debris blocking others, it would be impossible to mark all of the hazards. Instead, the resort opts to have all skiers sign a waiver before boarding the lift advising them of unmarked hazards and to ski conservatively. The snow was great, with a ball bearing consistency. The sun cups were mild on the open slopes, and non-existent on the north facing pitches. The views from the mountaintop were exceptional with newly exposed rock faces present now, where all winter they had been concealed beneath a blanket of snow. As the temperature rose with the sun the snow became sloppier, and by 12:00, the surface was pudding along with the muscles of my legs, unaccustomed to the firm grasp of the rigid boots. Luckily, this is when the resort shut, and shorts clad patrons, in flip flops carried their equipment back to the lot as a final explosion from some avalanche control ordinance sounded to mark the completion of a ski season that had started at Thanksgiving.

Chores done - Time to play!!

2011-07-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

Making plans.....

Making Lists....

Having fun...

Sunset hike Redwood Regional Park - Mt. Diablo in the distance...

Anchored out in Horseshoe Cove, Marin County, CA
(See location of this posting)

Under the Bay Bridge...

Looking towards San Francisco...

Some action in this video...

July 3, 2011 Oakland to Donner Summit

2011-07-06T08:57:00.000-07:00

The camper is packed literally to the gills. We've emptied our Oakland house in preparation of receiving renters, and all the belongings we'll need for the next 12 month are piled into the truck. The boxes reach from the floor almost up to our sleeping bunk, with duffles filling the bathroom. With a bittersweet look over my shoulder I pull out of Grisborne ave and head east - and as Buzz Lightyear would say "to infinity and beyond". The holiday crowd has already departed, so we have the highway to ourselves and as we drive past Benicia a large V shaped flock of Snow Geese fly low across the road and honk to us, saying goodbye and safe travels. I see it as a good omen. By Auburn one hour later,, the pine scent of the Sierras has started to permeate the vehicle and I feel a euphoric peace, as I leave the burdens and anxiety of our City life behind. I did not even realize I had this glaze over my awareness until I feel my gaze clarify with the brightening of the mountain air. While traveling, our chores of daily living take on a new pace and enjoyment, and the long list of tasks for house renovation is long forgotten. There are operational chores to take care of as we roam, but their proportion of our waking energy is far reduced from that which we experience at home in Oakland.

Once in Serene Lakes, we carefully stow all our stuff in one bay of the garage of our new rented house on West Shore Drive, organizing things by how we think the cold concrete floor may effect them over the three month period between now, and when we'll return to actually unpack them into the house above. The snow piles are still deep between houses, and the phone service has yet to be restored after many of the phone lines were damaged in the early April snow monsoons. With a far lighter load, we depart, and head to Sugarbowl for one least day of skiing in this remarkable season.

The morning breaks clear, and warm, and the temperature rapidly climbs from the mid-50's to the 70's. A skeleton crew of patrollers gather at our usual meeting time and discuss how we'll prepare the mountain for this last onslaught of skiers before the long overdue summer recess. With creeks cascading down the middle of some runs, and sink holes opening unexpectently on others, and with some run outs blocked by fallen trees and exposed avalanche debris blocking others, it would be impossible to mark all of the hazards. Instead, the resort opts to have all skiers sign a waiver before boarding the lift advising them of unmarked hazards and to ski conservatively. The snow was great, with a ball bearing consistency. The sun cups were mild on the open slopes, and non-existent on the north facing pitches. The views from the mountaintop were exceptional with newly exposed rock faces present now, where all winter they had been concealed beneath a blanket of snow. As the temperature rose with the sun the snow became sloppier, and by 12:00, the surface was pudding along with the muscles of my legs, unaccustomed to the firm grasp of the rigid boots. Luckily, this is when the resort shut, and shorts clad patrons, in flip flops carried their equipment back to the lot as a final explosion from some avalanche control ordinance sounded to mark the completion of a ski season that had started at Thanksgiving.

Ready to fly the coup again...

2011-06-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

Wow, it has been almost a month since our last blog posting. We've spent almost that entire month preparing our Oakland home to be rented to others, while we depart on our longest journey so far. I'm still scrubbing the errant paint off my hands from repairing and painting all the bedrooms and connecting hallway. For a house built in the 20's with plaster walls on a hillside, you can imagine the number of cracks that needed attention with multiple layers and treatments of patching and sanding. Along with packing all of our belongings into boxes (except for the furniture) and the replacement of 11 windows we managed some heavy duty "spring" cleaning. The garage sale was a good impetuous to gather stuff up and organize it, and we had fun talking with all the neighbors but I'd hardly call it a money maker. I was however pleased to sell many of my photographs and at least that part of the activity was rewarding. We are heading up to Donner summit this long weekend to move our "kit" into storage there for the remainder of the summer, and for me to squeeze in one unbelievable ski patrol day on July 4th at Sugarbowl.

After that, stay tuned as we hit the road for a multiple stop trip including some fun kayak destinations between here and the St. Lawrence River where we hope to explore the watery border region between the US and Canada.

Have a great July 4th holiday!!

Stopped by snowstorm, then on towards home...

2011-05-26T18:47:00.001-07:00

May 26 - Spring Snowstorm Lake Tahoe

Parked on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe for a lunch break yesterday, we watched the whitecaps form and dissolve into sprays of whispy foam as the waves collapsed. A dark cloud cover was blowing in from the southwest and had already obliterated the Desolation Wilderness peaks normally visible from this pull-out. We, on the other hand, were still basking in warm sunlight and for some reason did not care to properly anticipate the consequences of a delay on this side of Donner Summit. I knew that once over the summit, only chores and a return to "normal" life awaited and I for one, was in no rush to close this chapter of our delightful journey.

After a brief stop in Squaw Valley to visit with our friend Judy who resides there full time, we excused ourselves mid-Peru trekking slide show as the snow was beginning to accumulate in the trees and on the ground and we feared that the conditions might impact the Donner Summit crossing. Driving away, leaving dark grey tracks in the unmarred snow, we checked in with CHP and as we suspected, confirmed the fact that Rt. 80 was closed to all except cars with chains or 4 wheel drive. An alternative plan for the evening was in order. With mixed feelings, we contacted our friend Curtis who lives in Donner Memorial State Park to see if we might share a meal and park in his driveway to wait out the storm. Feelings were mixed because we had really been looking forward to the open mic night at Tinker's Station in Soda Springs. As always the gracious host, Curtis welcomed us over and we spent a great night in his and Sara's eclectic kitchen at one end of the mobile home they have anchored permanently tucked into the State Park cooking a pot luck macaroni melt and sharing camping stories along with hopes and dreams for the future. The house is half living space, half recreational equipment storage locker, with kitchen cabinets as easily yielding a ski helmet and goggles as a macaroni strainer. During dinner it stopped snowing but the temperature remained low so contrary to Curtis's prediction, our late spring snow cover remained in place and began to freeze into a more consolidated frosting.

This morning we awoke comfortably, as we had kept the cabin heater set to 50 to preclude the pipes freezing. The skylights and windshield were obstructed by snow. It is unbelievable to see the winter scene outside the camper compared to yesterdays balmy forest. We check with the highway department and confirm the road is open, fire up the groggy turbo diesel, and point our nose west and over the summit.

Late May snowstorm traps us on the east side of Donner Summit for the night...

Yuba River near it's source below Van Norden Meadow...

Fledging Clark's Nutcrackers

2011-05-26T18:46:00.001-07:00

May 25 on to the summit

We are awakened by the raucous calls of a juvenile Clark's Nutcracker with lots of wings fluttering and jostling in the nest we discovered just 50 feet from our campsite. We are trying to figure out what is going on, when suddenly, with much inefficiency, one bird almost falls out of the nest, then flutters a few times and manages to latch on to an adjacent tree's branch. Yelling and squeaking, it is now obvious to us this bird has never been away from his home limb before. A second bird calls from the nest and shortly thereafter drops with a few meek flutters to the forest floor. Now siblings call to one another, one stuck fearful on a strange limb above, the other hopping around on the ground trying to get his or her wings to operate like they imagined they should. The pair continue this dance for an hour as we prepare breakfast and break camp. Now the parent birds fly a few loops over the pair compelling them to become airborne, and scan for threats to their vulnerable family. A Steller's Jay forages a bit too close to the ground hopping juvenile and earns a scolding and low fly over from parent Clark. That appears to be enough of a warning and the Jay moves on.

Brief Movie of the action...

Fledgling Clark Nutcrackers on first foray out of the nest...

Buckeye Hotsprings

2011-05-24T19:34:00.000-07:00

We awaken to a brisk morning camped at the end of the road in Big Pine Canyon. I creep out of bed and check the temperature outside. 35 degrees. As the sun creeps down the steep canyon walls towards our site, we sip steaming mugs of coffee and listen to the playful harmonies of the creek's traveling song. Scrub Jays visit our site in search of yesterday's scraps (there are none and he quickly moves on). North we drive today, up Route 395 with the glorious Sierra crest glistening to our left with a fresh layer of snow up high reflecting the sunshine through the clear desert air of the Owen's valley. The highway is surrounded by sage, but the Sierras rise rapidly to our west with almost no foothills. All the drainage access roads leading to the mountains go no further west than 8 or 9 miles before they terminate at the outlet to some mountain lake. Beyond that,another 1,500' of elevation gain brings you to the snow line around 8,500 feet. On this eastern facing aspect of the range, some open slopes are melted out, but the gullies, and couloirs are still choked with firm snow.

Up past Round Valley, Mammoth, June Lake, Lee Vining, Mono Lake, Virginia Lakes, we drive, finally stopping in Bridgeport to re-provision, check e-mail at the coffee house/bookstore behind the Galen Rowell Art Gallery. After a quick stop by the regional ranger station to check on road closures in the forest, we head up into the forest towards Twin Lakes,turning off on buckeye road, 7 miles from the highway in search of the Buckeye hot springs. This freshly graded dirt road leads up out of the valley scrub, and into a peaceful ponderosa pine forest. After crossing the bridge over Buckeye Creek, take the second right fork and head further up the hill. Stop at the off angle dirt parking area on your right 3/10 of a mile further. From here, we park the camper, grab our daypacks and clamber down the steep hillside leading down to the creek below. Just before the river's edge comes into view, and tucked along the rapids, just below a travertine bulge in the hillside, sits three steaming pools, separated from the stream by simple river rock walls. The water feels like around 106 degrees, and we undress and gingerly test the water. The spring floods scour the pool bottoms pretty throughly each season, and the locals appear to patch and repair the pool walls using river sediment at the beginning of the rubbing cycle. We have the pools all to ourselves this afternoon and it is truly magnificent to ease neck deep in warm water, looking up at the snow capped mountains and being literally at eye level in a rushing Sierra run-off stream. The adjacent rapids create a symphony of percussion, as different size stones are pushed down the mountain in the riverbed. As the water pours over one ledge to the next, and squeezes between tree roots, and over submerged logs, each transition generates a different frequency and tempo, the magical ensemble composing ever changing and mesmerizing river music. The hot water extracts the road strain from my psyche, and the tightness from my muscles. We sit at the edge of the medium warm pool, our feet soothed by the heat, and our skin cooled and tingling from the afternoon breeze flowing downhill with the river. Small birds skitter up stream looking for bugs. Late afternoon clouds begin to gather along the crest, and another bather appears from above. We exchange greetings, then depart to leave him to find his own peace in this magical spot.

This is by far our favorite eastern Sierra natural hot spring. There is plenty of free dry camping in the forest on the way to the spring before you reach the first bridge.

Big Pine

2011-05-24T09:44:00.001-07:00

We are the only campers at the Big Pine Creek National Forest campground, nine miles west of the small town of Big Pine on Rt. 395, in a stand of large of Ponderosa Pines, right at tree line at 7,700 feet along the willow lined banks of Big Pine Creek, which is brimming with spring runoff snowmelt. The sandy soil all around is dry, but barely, and it looks like this year's massive snow pack has just recently retreated to higher elevations. The willows around the creek are just beginning to stand tall and bud. The aspens are just beginning to leaf, but it seems even too early for the first blooming snow flowers to emerge from the pine duff, and crushed granite. The large mature fir trees that surround this idylic spot are widely spaced, and the forest floor is a jumble of medium to large sized pieces of granite separated by a pine duff and small sage plants.

Only a portion of the campground is open, as the larger loop was virtually destroyed by a late spring avalanche. Trees of up to 18" in diameter were snapped at head height, picnic tables, crushed into match sticks, and heavy metal bear boxes, torn from their bolted foundations and tossed down the slope and into the creek. Amazingly, the concrete outhouses seem unscathed. Needless to say, there is a lot of clean up required before these sites will be habitable.

Today we hiked up the canyon, but were stopped by the snow line at around 8,500 feet after just over an hour of travel. Here on the east side of the Sierras, the elevation climbs quickly, and the 11,000 to 13,000 foot peaks of the crest beckon around every turn of the trail. This would be a great trailhead for spring skiing expeditions, as the road gets cleared early, usually mid April, and the trail head at the end of the road is quite high. There is a small family run summer only resort at the end of the road - Glacier Lodge for those needing an ice cream fix, a quick trout from the stocked trout pond, or some rustic cabin accommodations. The phone number is 760-938-2837, and they are on the web at Www.jewelofthesierra.com. There is also Glacier Pack Station near the end of the road 760-938-2538 where you can arrange a fully catered horse supported hiking or pack trip, or drop camp support to the high alpine lakes within one day's hike of the station. From this trail head, there are two primary hiking routes into the John Muir Wilderness, one following the north fork of Big Pine Creek, and the other following the south fork. Both trails rise above treelike quickly, following their respective watersheds through the broken granite terrain, and lead within a few miles to chains of pristine mountain lakes. The north fork has two waterfalls. Returning to camp for some quiet time, we dig out the sweaters and put away the shorts, because as the sun sinks below the ridge line, the temperature plummets back to the 50's. We are glad to have the camper and a comfortable place to get out of the elements.

Red Rocks State Park and Goodall Creek - Eastern Sierra

2011-05-24T09:43:00.000-07:00

The cool katabatic winds are flowing down off the Sierra Crest snowfields this evening, caressing our campsite nestled behind a copse of bushes running along Goodale Creek, north of Independence in the eastern Sierra. The change in temperature is a refreshing change from the hot and desicating winds of the southern California desert we left behind just this morning.

We camped last night at Red Rock Canyon State Park, off Route 14, northwest of Barstow, CA. This very large park is home to a population of desert tortise and contains many tall and colorful eroded rock escarpments dating back to older than the Sierras themselves. Once the sun went down and the temperature moderated, the black tailed rabbits, and cottontail rabbits came out to forrage. We have modified our daily schedule to accomodate the climate, rising early for a sunrise outing, then resting in the shade or driving with the AC on for the hot mid-part of the day, then making another forray out later in the afternoon or early evening. As we serendipitously wind our way back towards home, we are making stops as suits our fancy,or as recommended by fellow travelers.

Today we had an interesting set of experiences at Fossil Falls, 2 miles south of the northbound rest area on 395 just north of where it joins 14, just south of the massive red cinder cone on the east side of the highway. We had just pulled into the parking area at the end of a fairly short and passable dirt road, when a large SUV pulled in, loaded for bear, canoe on the top,towing a 25 foot shimmering airstream trailer. This parking area was way too small for such a rig, and there was no room to turn such a beast around. We kept nibbling our sandwiches, as I was brewing some espresso, and watched the show, wondering how this driver was going to extricate themselves from this predicament. Next thing we heard a sickening scraping sound like aluminum against igneous rock, and the whole assembly came to a halt. The driver got out inspecting the possible damage, walked around in circles for a few minutes, saw us and came over to request our assistance. She asked if we could spot the trailer as she tried to manuever it somehow off the rock she was impaled on, mid-trailer. Having never manuvered such a large trailer before, I was not sure how much help I would be. The most recent and relevant experience I had was managing the snowmobile and utility trailer at Royal Gorge all winter.

We discussed her predicament, and decided the only solution was to BACK the whole thing up the dirt road to a Y 1/10 mile away where there was more room. She had almost no experience driving in reverse with the long trailer attached, so Diane positioned herself towards the back, and I stood about mid-ships, and tried to offer suggestions and direction as the motorized assembly began it's treacherous backwards journey up the dirt hill and around a series of tight turns. After a very promising start, things started going south, and after several failed attempts to correct the situation, we had a jack-knifed rig on a blind sharp curve, on a dirt steeply sloping road, one lane wide. I did my best to use a calm voice and to tell the driver she ws doing fine, but she kept over turning and over compensating. Her confidence was shot and in exasperation, she asked if I could try. Well, what could I do? In did not tell her about my snowmobile trailer resume,but agreed to change positions with her. She hoped out of the drivers seat, and I hoped in and was immediately affectionately licked by a huge black dog who had been concealed in the back seat. I pulled forward, straightening everything out, then slowly began to back up,wracking my brain for any past experience or adventure story I had read which would offer me some insight on how to manage this situation. I remembered reading something about doing everything backwards from what your intuition tells you, so I gave that a try, with Diane spotting the rear, and the owner spotting the blind side. Fighting my urge to turn the wheel one way I experimented with turning it the "wrong" way as the rear began to deviate from the centerline of the narrow road. Sure enough, the trailer obediently revered it's errant path, and curved back off the bank and onto the road. Slowly, ever so slowly we worked our way backwards up the grade and around the curves,with just a few stops to force my brain to stay on task and working backwards, we made it into then"Y". I got out, breathed a sigh of relief, bid our farewell to the frazzled owner who sheepishly informed us she was at the very beginning of her solo trip to Alaska. We wished her safe travels and ran back back to the camper, where we had left all the windows open, valuables out, and coffee simmering in our haste to respond to a call for assistance. Diane quickly informed me she had turned off the coffee before we left abruptly, so disaster was averted.

Desert Palm Oasis - Borrego sighting

2011-05-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

May 20, 2011

It's very quiet this morning. I awake thinking something is amiss, then realize it's just that the wind has stopped blowing. For four days we have been buffeted by the incessent wind, only escaping it deep in a canyon hike, or nesstled securely in the protective fan palm trunks of a desert oasis. I peer out the window at sunrise and see the creososte bushes still and calm, the tall blooming ocotillo stalks, spikes protecting the bright red flowers at the top, standing tall, anad unmoving. This day looks to be a hot one here in the southern desert.

Anza Borrego Desert State Park is a van campers delight. The rules here permit camping anywhere, and the fire ban precludes ugly firepits scattered about. Anywhere we can drive, we can stop and camp. The soil is mostly crushed granite and supports our weight, but then, without warning it can quickly change on these unmarked and undeveloped tracks to sand soft enough even to swollow up an entire wheel up to the axle. We venture along cautiously, leaving the van parked, proceeding on foot as soon as the way looks dodgy. However, at least, this time of year, there are few other campers about and we have our secluded spots all to ourselves. Yesterday, we hiked into the desert palm oasis and saw a roadrunner along the way. This dry wash winds up into the rigged hills, and then amazingly, a stream appears around a bend, with a necklace of green ferns lning its banks. Still further upmcanyon large trunks begin to apear, washed down hill hybsome primoidial floods. The large palm wood trunks seem to last forever in this climate. The going gets a bit tougher as the trail gradient becomes steeper and turns to tallus and boulders, then around a corner, we are presented with a fine oasis of 80 foot fan palms denssly packed into the cleft at the bottom of the steep rocky intersecting slopes. One in the palm cluster, the temperature drops 20 degrees, and the wail of the desert wind is blocked, replaced by the trickle of the stream as it winds downhill right at the footnof the majestic stalks. Birds flit about, making homes up and under the dense palm folliage clinging to the trunks, and in the acachia bushes circling the perimeter down lower.

On our way back down, along the "alternate" trail, we surprize a small herd of borregos, the alpha male tagged and collored, the females and juviniles grazing comfortably nearby. The tagged and largest bighorn sheep kept a watchful eye on us as we stood frozen watching, and protectively moved between us and the herd as they moved as a group across the slope below us.

Once back in town, we stopped off at the town library (behind the mail mall) that conveniently has a wireless internet hub that reaches outside to the shaded benches. While uploading my blog and photos, Diane stopped at the grocery store for provisions, and carried back two soft ice cream cones along with the bulging bags of dry goods. Evreythng is quite close at this central hub of town. On our way out of town, we stopped off at the American Legion Post 852, and used their dump station to drain our tanks ($5), a real value these days. We were tempted to join the three friendly, but somewhat crusty desert rats cozied up to the dark bar at the post, but opted instead to drive west, and into the sunset in search of further adventures.

From Anza Borrego

Anza Borrego Desert State Park

2011-05-19T17:27:00.000-07:00

May 16,2011

After studying the traffic patterns on the Internet, we strike out from Thousand Oaks to cross the LA basin on our way to Anza Borrego Desert State Park. The freeways are like river white water, with obstacles, catch points, and channels of flow through the mash-up of cars, trucks , buses, delivery vans and tractor trailer rigs. The GPS, like a reliable bowman, calls out the maneuvers, directing us to the proper lane and side of the road. Left exits, right exits, forks, turns and straight away lane changes are all anticipated and executed as the electronically synthesized voice interprets it's database of intersecting vectors. 101 to 134 to 210 to 15 to 79 then we were finally released from the multiple-lane frenzy and deposited onto a two lane country road and climbed up and out of the basin over the sage and cactus covered hills to the rolling desert country beyond. One ridge after another we crossed putting the southern californian sprawl far behind. Tall billowing clouds piled up behind us and chased us into the growing desert. The low angle sun now reaching under the storm clouds and illuminating the towering mountains which cradle the valley of Anza Borrego in their lap, we arrive at out first night's camp, boondocking in the Yaqai valley south of Borrego Springs.

The wind has grown boisterous and rocks the camper to and fro, as if we are anchored in an open seaway. Different pitch whistles sing out as the turbocharged storm winds finds its way into the various gaskets, window cracks, and vents that connect our secure cocoon with the outside. The sun sets, lighting up the eastern side of the valley, and turning the towering clouds into a pumpkin colored caldron of bubbling water vapor. No sooner does the sun set, then the full moon rises, orange, and luminescent, seemingly right out of the fold in the valley floor directly adjacent to our secluded stopping place. We make up the bed, put in earplugs to drown out the racket being made by the symphony of wind chimes the outside desert has become and settle in, rocked to sleep by the friendly nudges of unrestrained air rushing from the coast to some low pressure sump to our east.

May 18, 2011

We hiked yesterday to some pictographs, down a broad wash, to some overhanging boulders. The drawings were nothing like I've seen before, with no representation of people, but more geometric designs, perhaps denoting passage of time, or directions to springs. Again, we had the whole drainage to ourselves, and this helped in our emersion into this powerful and foreign place. The soil is crushed granite, and there is no underbrush per se. The plants emerge from the small stones in bunches, each protecting the other from the wind and the sun. This area was seasonally visited several thousand years ago, by traveling bands of native peoples, to gather, dry, and grind Pinion nuts and to gather and prepare agave. Evidence of these encampments is all over, evidenced by grinding stones and charred rock overhangs. We see an occasional bird,but they are always shy, and rapidly depart. Today we were treated to a sighting of a western tanenger, a bright yellow bird with a red cap about the size of a sparrow. We explored a place called "The Slot", which is a very narrow wash, that turns into a mud walled slot canyon, with serpentine walls over 60 feet tall towering above a dry stream bed no wider than our hips. Mid way through we crossed paths with another pair of hikers, the first we have seen during our whole visit here. Tonight we are again boondocking - camped in the bush, not at an established site near a place called Yaqui Well. The wind continues to blow, making the mid-60's temperature feel much colder. The clouds are piled up high in the sky to our west, but they see to evaporate as they move east and overhead.

View pictures so far which appear belwow.

From Anza Borrego

Hike in Santa Monica mountains and visit to Everspring

2011-05-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

Our hosts relaxing by the grotto at Everspring after work. Picture after that is from the Topanga banjo and fiddle competition, an amazing music fair held at Paramount Ranch near Thousand Oaks. Besides the main stage, where pros played between competitors, there was a whole music village to stroll through where ad hoc pick up groups played music on the street corners of the old movie set western town verandas. Booths were set up to sell guitars, banjos, and mandolins as well as straw hats, scarfs, and other folk music paraphernalia.

Wildflowers are all blooming. This is a refreshing change from the snowy confines of Donner Summit where we've spent the whole winter. We are using my brother's house as a base of operations as we explore this coastal region of southern California. The mediteranean climate is almost identical to Marin County near home, and it is easy to imagine ourselves far, far away looking over the uniformly red-tiled roofs and the multi-colored cascading hills rolling off to the distance. The trails here are already dusty and hot but the rugged terrain and tough plants are still enjoyable to ramble through. No single flower is large or showy unless you get real close and study the plants from a few inches away. On see exposed, dry slopes, the waxy leaved plants tend to grow like shrubs, with many blooms per plant. Lizards scurry just ahead of us on the trail, and there seems to be a steady buzzing from the busy pollinator insects in the shadows. At sunset we see a brown bunny cross the trail.

Hike up sandstone peak , the highest mountain in the Santa Monica Mountain Range. There was a thick marine layer on the coast, so we did not see the ocean, but the vistas were still remarkable...

Avoiding Toxic Produce | OnEarth Magazine

2011-05-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

Just a quick reminder of simple things you can do to eat healthier. Sure, it will cost a little more, but isn't your health worth it - think of the extra expenditure on food as an increase to your health insurance premium. Avoiding Toxic Produce | OnEarth Magazine

Last ski day of the season - Creamy cruisers

2011-05-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

Before we dismantle the mountain safety equipment for the season the patrol gets a few hours to ski on the fine spring conditions.

Bogus Basin Storm Tour

2011-04-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

Its been a foggy, snowy/rainy drizzly week and this weekend was no different. Even with precipitation everyday, there is just a slight accumulation of frozen, or not so frozen slush on the snow surface. Even so, once you get away from the roads and the houses, and if properly dressed the backcountry traveling is sublime. Today, with no time pressures I took a pull behind toboggan out to the Bogus Basin Warming hut, climbing up from Ice Lakes Lodge, approximately following the usual groomed ski trail, except that the trail has not been groomed for over three weeks and has been reabsorbed into the continuum of the backcountry by the regular deposits of precipitation and remolding by wind. The snowmobile would never make it this far back in these conditions, so my only choice was to retrieve the propane tank, heater, stove ring, and tea bags by foot - or leave it to good luck that the awakening bears would take no interest in the tea (or molding garbage) and that vandals would bypass the unlocked hut in the muddy months before the kit could be retrieved by 4 wheeler.

On the way up, I followed a very clear and distinguished set of bear tracks - a set that I believe weee left by some sleepy ursine staggering downhill hoping to find some food at lower elevations. As I climbed more that once I crossed bear tracks heading down the Serena Creek Canyon towards the American River. These tracks varied from one day old to several days old, as the snow had already begun to fill them in.

Along with the bear tracks were coyote tracks, and rabbit tracks. The wind was blowing the wet snow/sleet at me the whole way, but I felt happy, and comfortable. The deep snowpack will long be clinging to these mountainsides, but tomorrow I am to depart for Oakland and "The Green" - escaping this infernal drizzle for some tree and flower pollen.

Yesterday, I accomplished a similar chore at another warming hut, but with whimpy nordic skis on, and a fuller toboggan load, the uneven and at times steep terrain became very hard to negotiate with my awkward cargo in these sloppy conditions. Anyone watching would have been in stitches as the sled repeatedly capsized bringing me to a sudden stop. Today the work was going much better, with a differently loaded toboggan, and much sturdier ski equipment, the return trip down the mountain was a breeze, with my heavily burdened, but secure toboggan obediently following close behind my parallel tracks. I did not want the trip down to end, but in short order I was back at the banks of the swollen Serena Creek and back to the parked car awaiting me patiently.

Ski into Bogus Basin to retrieve the warming hut propan tank, heater, and hot plate. No groomer has been up here for weeks so its a quiet tour, breaking trail. Lots of bear and coyote tracks

Tail end of the season...

2011-04-19T09:46:00.001-07:00

The sun was breaking in and out of clouds, but the drizzle has stopped so I venture out and look for some light in the mountain landscape. As I drive towards Donner Summit, the high clouds open up and reveal the fog layer hovering over Donner Lake 1,000 feet below. The snow is saturated with fresh rainwater, and the warm night temperatures are precluding the formation of corn snow. Large soggy blocks of cornice are breaking of up high and the roadside banks are calving like ocean facing glaciers. Snow surface is that of pudding, with weak spots forming over tress, rocks, and old wind scoured ridges that had become submerged by the record breaking snow late spring snow fall.

Clouds still obscure the higher summit peaks, but Donner Peak captures the lower morning light, with the adventurous skiers tracks just barely visible from a few days ago. The abandoned train shed is very obscured - keep in mind the face normally exposed of these sheds shows 16 foot walls as a formidable barrier to skiing down this aspect of the mountain. Now, a quick hop and you've forded the glide crack on the downhill side and on your way down to the lake below.

After checking the time of the sunset, I set out from home, walked one block, put on my skis, and skinned up the ridge between Royal Gorge and Soda Springs, what I call Royal Springs ridge. Here I can see an unobstructed view of e saddle of Donner Summit. The clouds were building again, and a caldron of atmospheric activity was boiling up from the valley to our west. I was hoping for a dramatic sunset with the multi-layered clouds, but as soon as the sun dipped into the moist air near the horizon, it was lights out.

I "ripped hide" - removed my skins, and had a glorious ski down through the buttery spring snow before all light was gone from the sky.

From Royal Springs Ridge at sunset

Leaving Donner Summit

2011-04-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

We packed up and left Donner Summit for the season. I'll actually go back to work some more patrol days through the end of the month, but all our kit is excavated from Serene road, and piled up in the dining room in Oakland.

Departing Serene Road with camper stuffed to the gills. Snow is slowing receding, but still towers over the top of the campier in the driveway...

In our long absence, a small herd of deer (5 total) appear to have taken up afternoon feeding habits in our back yard. I only wish they were a bit more like goats to save me the trouble of weed whacking.

Trailer Hitch Mounted Storage Box fits the folding Kayak

2011-04-13T17:33:00.000-07:00

On moving day, we attached this new nifty hitch mounted storage box to the camper to help get all our stuff off the summit and back to Oakland for the summer. It's just roomy enough to hold the folded and packaged double expedition Feathercraft K-2 sea kayak we'll be traveling with this summer. Installation was a breeze, although the hitch mounting screw/lock assembly that came with the unit conflicts with the trailer lights electrical socket mounted on the hitch. I'll ned to do some work on that. With a $13 connector from NAPA auto parts I was able to connect the male 7 pin (circular configuration) trailer light socket with the 4 in-line round pin connector that came with the storage box. Still working on the how to mount the back-up camera that used to be attached to the license plate, but is now obstructed by the box. Here are some pictures in a slide show format:

Spring skiing after storm with Steven and Jessie

2011-04-04T17:35:00.001-07:00

Watch a brief movie with dialog...

The blizzard has blown out it's fury and we are left with great spring conditions. High temperatures and bright sun sooth my aching muscles and we spend a weekend with family ski touring at Royal Gorge.

White headed woodpecker - female

2011-03-29T14:51:00.000-07:00

From White Headed Woodpecker

Climb up Jakes Peak, and along its North Ridge

2011-03-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

Never a bad view, while resting on the way up Jakes from the DL Bliss State Park winter parking area...

Once on the summit, we toured north along the ridge, with great view to the southwest of Desolaiton Wilderness, and to the east and north of Lake Tahoe. Our route down was in the open chutes just left of center in these photo.

We skied slowly across the ridge, picking our way over wind gullies and enjoying the stupendous weather and scenery in all directions. Amazingly, we saw some small animal tracks right on the ridge, very well preserved in the firm snow.

Looking for the perfect lunch perch, we ascended this roll along the ridge so we could see both ways, and be protected from the wind.

Here is a short (1.5 minute movie) from the top...I wish I had filmed more.

Drive down to the west shore of Lake Tahoe to the DL Bliss State Park parking lot and tour along the north ridge of Jake's Peak. The copious snowpack was wind beaten, and soggy, but the views were amazing.

Storm rages outside - again

2011-03-24T16:13:00.000-07:00

What an eventful day- so far. While seeing our house guests off after breakfast in their Prius (that I had spent an hour excavating) we discovered it had a flat tire and the chains were wrapped tightly around the rim, with a sagging tire stuck in between like a trapped fish. So,
jacked up the car once we dug out the snow down to a firm icy surface and drove the tire down to Truckee in white out conditions to get it fixed.

With repaired, inflated tire (chains still attached) we drove back up the now closed Interstate 80 (Royal Gorge Employee Badge came in handy to get past the CHP roadblock). Luckily Ted had his Android talking GPS enabled cell phone with him as we inched up the unplowed, abandoned interstate by brail. The snow was blowing hard and the snow was so deep, the road signs were all obscured. The phone handily chirped up "your exit is in 100 feet" as we drifted off the main road and found a slight gap in the bank indicating the exit ramp. Once across the train tracks and safely back in the neighborhood we got bogged down in the indistinguishable and impenetrable 4' berm at the base of our driveway. Leaving the car with blinkers on half-way extending into the rapidly vanishing roadway, we returned to the distressed Prius - now once again buried to the hip in fresh snow and drifted in on the diver's side stranded halfway up the driveway. We cleared the snow away from the jack, retrieved the lug nuts and remounted the repaired tire after having to raise the jack as it had melted int the ice during our absence. With the other car forlornly blinking at us from the base of the driveway, we cleared a path back into the carport, dug out the Prius again, and parked it back in the carport - its journey back to the Bay abandoned for the time being. We then returned to the Subaru - blowing snow down the driveway to an ever increasing depth as the side banks of the driveway now tower well over 20 feet - well beyond the reach of the blower's throw. Once a path just wide enough for the Subaru had been excavated in front, we dug all the compressed snow from beneath, and coaxed the mush covered and frosted car off the berm, and back up the narrow path to the top of the driveway.

At last, I imagined a steaming cup of coffee and a rest as a reward after a hard morning's pointless work. We went inside and discovered that a power failure had occurred, and our normally bright and welcoming house was dark, and cold, as all the heating devices require electricity to operate. Diane lit a collection of candles and we contemplated our fate over cold sandwiches and tea. Already 1:00 pm and chances of skiing today are
evaporating rapidly.

We took the guest bedroom linens back out of the laundry hamper and invited our
guests to stay until the storm abates. Another family is expected tomorrow night, but what the hey - the more the merrier.

I climbed the steep stairs to the second floor - and our bedroom, the only room with windows not obstructed by accumulated and drifted snow and went to relax with my iPad and discovered I had sat on my reading glasses since I had worn them last so now I have a pair of monocles instead.

Diane is quilting tropical fish. I wonder why?

Welcome to my world.

North Maggies with Jeff

2011-03-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

Emerald Bay, with North Maggies at the head - photo curtesy Stone Tire in Truckee - (see next post for explanation of why I was at Stone Tire). We skied the south east shoulder and then down the left edge of the big avi chute just above the road...

We drive to the end of the plowed road (Route 89) and break trail to the usual trailhead for North Maggies - having Emerald Bay all to ourselves with plenty of time to study the ski lines off Jakes and Maggies, and to enjoy the view out over Lake Tahoe without being pestered by cars racing bay. You can see the skier on the unplowed road on the right side of the photo above.

After a 4 hour slog up through the deep snow, we enjoy an incredible ski down through the massive Sugar pines and champagne blower snow - using the edge of an old avi chute for a great guide back to the uptrack far below.