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So there is a dirty rumor that there is extensive video footage of this past Summer's adventure. This is 100% valid, but still dirty. Honestly, I have not even begun to look through this footage. So for now, here is a teaser of some of the best footage...or the worst...seriously I have no idea...it's pretty much the first few minutes of footage I found...there...you happy now?
Lightening So Bright it Hurts My Eyes
Day 3 in the eerie, prehistoric backcountry of the Eagle Cap Wilderness. In the heart of the Wallowa Whitman National Forest in Northeastern, OR, Eagle Cap is relatively remote, and seems to have escaped the bump in popularity seen in many comparable western mountain regions. On a day of hiking in Eagle Cap you can easily find yourself dwarfed by old growth pine forests, sweating through temperate rainforest, wind burned along alpine ridges, and trying to keep your feet dry in knee deep snow. Eagle Cap has everything; everything except lots of other people. So actually, forget everything I just told you. That place is really boring, there is no TV and certainly not internet and you really should never ever go there.
So, day 3 in Eagle Cap, our group of 2 leaders and 10 campers huffed it the approximately 10 miles from North Minam Meadows to Swamp Lake (about 2,000ft higher). This hike has a taste of everything I described above. I have a pretty big head, and at one point during this hike a toad the size of my head casually plopped itself down on the trail in front of us, stared us down, licked its lips (do toads have lips?) and then casually plodded off down the other side of the trail.
We arrived at Swamp Lake around 3pm, and quickly set up camp in anticipation of impending wet weather from clouds that had been threatening all day. Swamp lake is surrounded on all sides by some of the highest peaks in Eagle Cap, and directly framed along one edge by 30 foot high cliffs. This was early July, and there was still a lot of snow at elevation, making our site selection a little more difficult. Eventually we erected our tents
perched atop the cliff lined side of the lake, one of the only dry spots. -->At about 8pm that night the clouds, that had only been threatening until that time, broke open upon our camp. Hunkered in our tents we fell asleep listening to the rain testing the water proofness of our little shelters. The sound of the rain was periodically drowned out by booming claps of thunder, as a major system passed over us.
Around 1am I was startled from my sleep, not by the thunder, which had long since become part of the background chorus of the night, but by a nigh on blinding light. The same light had roused my co-leader, Jagger, from his beauty rest. The two of us sat upright in our sleeping bags at opposite ends of the tent, silently listening to the rain, and the thunder, and bracing ourselves for the next bright flash. During a summer in the backcountry the tent becomes our office, our bed, and our refuge from the never ending questions of inquisitive 15 year olds. That night, the millimeter thin walls were a fortress.
After a few moments of sitting in silent wonder, I cautiously unzipped our tent door. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness it was quickly evident that the storm was no longer passing over us; we were in the thunder head.
My head fill with concerns that bounced around my noggin and fought each other for the front of the line.
How much longer? Campers? Lightening position? Flooding? Sasquatch? What do thunderheads taste like?
Hopefully not long. Sleeping, or awake and frightened. Pretty useless at this point. A few damp tents never hurt anyone. Definitely real. Somewhat mildewy.
Inside of a thunderhead there was little we could do. It was a helpless, but relieving feeling. Whatever happened, was going to happen, and we could only sit back and watch mother nature at her finest.
Around 4am the storm began to subside. The flashes began to dim, the thunder seemed to move away, and the pelting sound of rain on our tent fly began to ease. I took this easement as a chance to leave the confines of our tent to empty my bladder. Unzipping the tent door I slipped my sandals on, and stepped outside...into blinding whiteness. The rain had not really passed, but had turned to snow in the cool air left in the wake of the thunderstorm. I stood there in my underwear, sandals, and wool hat, frozen by the beauty...and the cold. After a few moments I realized that I was not the only one who had taken the opportunity as a bathroom break. Three of my campers stood outside their tent, frozen in awe as I.
It was one of those moments that I will never forget. It was a moment of pure beauty and power, one of those moments that many of us, who spend half our lives in tents, live for.
39 Days + 1 Lower Ballfield
On day 3 you notice how bad the van smells. On day 13 you can't really smell it anymore. On day 30 you still can't smell it, but other people sure can. That smell is what happens when 9 males spend 39 days together in a 15 passenger van. To be fair, only about 14 of those days were actually spent in the van, but when 7 of those 9 males are 15 year olds...well...the smell tends to build quickly.
Its a smell I've become used to over 120 days of tripping during the past 3 summers. This summers trip was, like all others, an adventure. Unfortunately, this summers trip was also probably the smoothest...which means less crazy stories for me to share. But here's my shot at the top ten list from this summer. Stories to come soon...if I feel like it...which I probably will sometime around Thanksgiving.
1. Waking up in a thunderhead, peeing in a snow storm in the Eagle Cap Wilderness of Oregon.
2. Backcountry horseshoes in Eagle Cap Wilderness
3. Informing the leaders of a group of Canadian Girls Scouts with whom we shared a group campsite that their girls had some late night male visitors from town.
4. Epic thunderstorm on the drive into the Badlands on night one.
5. Swimming at the foot of a glacier in Berg Lake of Mt. Robson Provincial Park, B.C.
6. ...well that 5 for now...the next five to come soon...feel free to suggest your own if you were on trip with me this summer...
Its a smell I've become used to over 120 days of tripping during the past 3 summers. This summers trip was, like all others, an adventure. Unfortunately, this summers trip was also probably the smoothest...which means less crazy stories for me to share. But here's my shot at the top ten list from this summer. Stories to come soon...if I feel like it...which I probably will sometime around Thanksgiving.
1. Waking up in a thunderhead, peeing in a snow storm in the Eagle Cap Wilderness of Oregon.
2. Backcountry horseshoes in Eagle Cap Wilderness
3. Informing the leaders of a group of Canadian Girls Scouts with whom we shared a group campsite that their girls had some late night male visitors from town.
4. Epic thunderstorm on the drive into the Badlands on night one.
5. Swimming at the foot of a glacier in Berg Lake of Mt. Robson Provincial Park, B.C.
6. ...well that 5 for now...the next five to come soon...feel free to suggest your own if you were on trip with me this summer...
Not Dead Yet
Once again I have utterly failed to update the blog with any regularity. Fortunately that means that I have lots of good, scandalous, and odd things to write about. Plus, with the economy continuing its delightful free fall I'll have plenty of time...in between updating my resume...to fill the gaps between May 8th and August whatever day it is.
Spring Schedule to date...lists satisfy my mild OCD
Phoenix, AZ (
)
Telluride, CO ()
Fruita, CO ()
Moab, UT ()
Boise, ID ()
Yellowstone NP ()
Tetons NP ( )
Jackson, WY ()
Badlands NP ( )
Bemidji, MN ( )
)Telluride, CO (
)Fruita, CO (
)Moab, UT (
)Boise, ID (
)Yellowstone NP (
)Tetons NP (
)Jackson, WY (
)Badlands NP (
)Bemidji, MN (
)
Endangered Sherpa Hamsters...
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)
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.
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