Spring Schedule to date...lists satisfy my mild OCD

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Phoenix, AZ ()
Telluride, CO ()
Fruita, CO ()
Moab, UT ()
Boise, ID ()
Yellowstone NP ()
Tetons NP ( )
Jackson, WY ( )
Badlands NP ( )
Bemidji, MN ( )

Endangered Sherpa Hamsters...

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Also know as the American Pika is verging on extinction according to backcountry.com who got their information from outhere.freedomblogging.com who got their info from the US Fish and Wildlife Service. So essentially I am ripping this off from three different sources. With that said, I have adored the Pika for years. This little half prairie dog, half hamster, half ground hog that dots the mountains of the American and Canadian west is simply freakin adorable. Sadly, however, global warming is going to mercilessly slaughter every last adorable and likely delicious Pika. So the next time you idle your car for 30 minutes to warm it before your five minute drive to the asshole factory where no one recycles and all the lightbulbs are totally 90's regular old fashioned inefficient bulbs just remember that you personally kill 14 of these happy little hamster monsters. And just because of you I won't get the chance to gig one of these guys and roast him over a backcountry camp fire...bastard.

That hissing sound when your knife penetrates the torso...(Part 2)

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As promised, the second installment of our epic tale of frog murder.

As the sun sank slowly below the horizon, and with only one confirmed frog kill, I was beginning to wonder how successful out overnight foray was going to be. I sat on the ground chowing down on some tamale pie and chili that C had brought along, and watched G assemble our weapons for the rest of the evening. The encroaching darkness meant that C's .22 was nearly useless, but I was assured that there would be many more kills that night. What G was putting together were three gigs. These gigs were essentially 6 ft long steel rods topped off with a nice little 15350 picture to the right. At the non-business end of each gig was a loop of elastic PVC tubing which could be hooked around the users top hand in order to add an extra level of thrust and accuracy.
After digesting the gastrointestinal bomb C had supplied for dinner we suited up in waders, strapped on headlamps and headed for the edges of LMT. I watched closely as C and G employed various tactics in attempts to sneak up on the weary bullfrogs. The general method included a mix of creeping along the gravely banks, wading cautiously through the shallows, and intermittently shining the bright beams of the headlamps along the bank and edges of the pond. After observing for a bit, I slowly crept into a shallow bay along one end of the tank and began what would prove to be a frustrating and invigoration game of cat and mouse...or human in waders and over sized invasive habitat destroying bullfrog. After about a half and hour of attempting various methods, I managed to catch the glimmer of a set of frog eyes about a foot from the edge of the tank. Holding my light steadily on the frog in order to keep it frozen, I waded cautiously in its direction and began to aim my gig and apply tension to the PVC tubing. With the frog still frozen by the glaring beam of my headlamp and the three pronged tip of my gig just inched from his beady little eyes, I let the tension release and the gig struck the frog with surprising force. After holding the frog pinned against the bottom of the pond for a few moments, with one prong thoroughly through its back and the other two pressed against its sides, I flipped the frog kabob onto the bank. Before it could make an escape, yes they are that resilient, I grabbed its hind legs and fumbled for my the knife strapped to my waders. I pulled the knife from its sheath and plunged the blade into the frog approximately where its shoulders were...if frogs have shoulders...but you get the idea. I slowly slide the knife from one side of its back to the other, slicing into its spine and releasing a strange hissing sound. The sound was a strange mix of what may have been a last gasp for breath and pockets of air inside its torso. It was a sounds I would become quite familiar with as the night continued.
After another 45 minutes or so, and with 5 kills between us, we packed up and headed out to another tank. This tank was about a 20 minute drive, and a 30 minute walk, and would turn out to be the motherload of bullfrogs. 25 yards from its banks our lights cast out across the pond, and were reflected by countless sets of golden iridescent frog eyes. For the next two hours we would stalk slowly along the edges and banks of the ponds. From time to time we would pause, turn our lights off, and stand utterly still hopeing to lure the spooked frogs back to the surface. These periods of silence would often last 15 or 20 minutes, punctuated by the occasionally hoot of an owl, the distant howl of a coyote, or the low hum of a border patrol helicopter.
When we eventually called it a night was had a garbage bag full of about 25 frogs ready to be dissected and discarded the next day.
I have been in some odd places and situations, but this nears the top of the list...kneeling on the bank of a stock tank, deep in the mountains, cutting into the back of a bullfrog, listening to the hissing sound as I split its spine, while border patrol helicopters circle overhead and the border wall itself twinkled in the distant valley.

Hail storms, gallons of poop, and broken derailers...

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Spent five days in CO/UT working the Bikerpelli tour on the Kokopelli mountain bike trail. It was an epic four days doing logistical support for 90 riders as they rode the 142 miles from Fruita, CO to Moab, UT. Try to imagine sending 90 riders off in the AM, meeting them for lunch as the stagger in over the course of 4 or 5 hours, then meeting them for dinner...doesn't sound too difficult eh? And truly it wasn't, but only for the near perfected system designed over the years by the tour director.
Not sure where really to begin with this one, so I will try to pick out the juicy...and often smelly details. The event itself was a tour, not an event. The distinction here simply being that our focus was on group support and less on individual attention. This meant that there was no on trail support, just bike repair areas at the aid station at lunch and at camp in the evening. While the riders were on trail we spent our time driving the riders gear, our gear, and often several riders in two full size budget rental box trucks and a fifteen passenger van. There are photos to come, but just to paint a picture these roads were often four wheel drive only and one included 22 creek crossings.
At lunch, in addition to a bike repair area, we setup several tables with a nice make your own sandwich lunch spread, put out a variety of camp chairs, and generally attended to the condition of the riders trickling into the station. The evening was another matter. The goal was to arrive to camp an hour or so before the riders at which point we unloaded 90 large duffels, and 90 camp chairs, before setting up our gear in preparation for cooking that nights dinner. In addition to the tables, stoves, food etc. needed for cooking, we were also charged with setting up toilets. 90 people is by no means my definition of a low impact backcountry group, but in an attempt to minimize the footprint we setup 5 toilet areas. These were a relatively simple system of "bathroom doors," signs staggered some 50 yards from the actual toilet areas, followed by a trail of orange flags leading to the toilet. The toilets themselves were generic 10 gallon buckets, with plastic snap-on toilet seats. Next to each toilet was another bucket of kitty litter. After using the bathroom, the user was supposed to cover his/her product with a scoop full of kitty litter. Although far from preventing all odor, the system worked relatively well. Picking out scenic and private spots for the toilets became something of a challenge and was even entertaining. Picking up the toilets in the morning was a much less pleasant process...carting around 10 buckets of human waste is 100% as unpleasant as it sounds.
During the day I filled multiple rolls, but was spent most of my time driving what we referred to as the "SAG" wagon. This was a 15 passenger van available at breakfast and lunch for riders wishing the skip the next segment of trail. Occasionally the van was used to shuttle riders from the lunch spot passed a portion of the afternoons ride. On our last day we shuttled riders passed a 6 mile sections of uphill pavement to the trail head of the next section. I managed to drop off one load of riders...in 40 degree temperatures and heavy hail...before the afternoon ride was called. Those eight riders, ranging in age from 22 to 52, sat in the van at the trail head for about 20 minutes before communally peer pressuring each other into going for it. As one rider relayed to me later "even after you left we circled on our bikes at the trail head, waiting for someone to chicken out or take the plunge. After about 30 minutes one of the other riders let out a loud "fuck it!" and tore off into a dark muddy unknown." About 6 hours later those eight riders trickled into our evening camp, coated head to toe, tire to tire in mud.
Included are a few pictures from the journey. Unfortunately I was only able to snap a few quick shots with my iphone, but one of my epic 8 muddy riders has promised to send some of his along.