It Is GRAND, and a New Policy

Although Zion promised to be warmer, we chose the Grand Canyon. The temps would be about the same as the Paria, and warmer in the canyon. We’ve been to Zion quite a few times in recent years, and we haven’t been to the Grand Canyon since my birthday in 2000. At that time, we hiked down to the Cedar Ridge on the Kaibab Trail. A puny 1123 ft decent. We were back at the moto lodge by noon. And the ‘cowboy’ bartender started feeding me White Russians. The next day was rough.

We roll into the park with time to pick a nice spot to photograph the moonrise. With all of our time outdoors, we were in tune to these things, and the moon is now full. Wilson pulls out one of his “by my calculations” and picks an overlook. The road to that overlook is bus access only, so we will jump on the bikes. Uh oh. Flat tire. We start walking up the road. OK, we need to walk quickly to make it on time. I spend the brisk 1.25 mile walk wondering why he couldn’t pick one of the dozens of other pull outs right off the road. Nonetheless, here is the result. We scan the only park campground that is open. There are plenty of sites, but it is already past dusk. We figured a motel was likely tonight, and the temps are dropping quickly. Besides, I need a shower. The afternoons have been too short to get in our camp showers. We’ll be better set up to succeed hiking in the canyon if we get a room. We settle in to our comfort, and Curt is busy on the computer. After checking the weather, he announces a ‘new policy’. We are campers, but there is no shame in sleeping indoors when temps are in the 20’s, the hotels are only $60 more than a campsite, and only 3 highway miles away. We add another night and hope to make it to the inner gorge tomorrow.

The hike was great. I was happy to see stimulus $ at work on the trail. The maintanence crew was using McClouds, but they didn’t have a LFD or a blaster, like my crew. I thanked them for their work. Millions of people will enjoy the trail for decades the way they are rebuilding it.

We quickly negotiated the first 1123 foot decent to Cedar Ridge in just under 40 minutes. Our next destination, Skeleton Point, is down there in the shadows, with the Inner Gorge running through the bottom of the tree. We reached Skeleton Point, another 1200 feet down, an hour later. Now it was decision time, we had a nice perch on a rock over looking the river . . . should we continue down to the inner gorge, or relax here and face just a 2300 ascent ? We both felt like our tanks were full, so we headed down to the inner gorge, another 1000 feet below. We're headed to the plateau just above my PB&J sandwich.

The day hikers were thinning out, it was us and some German guy in white sneakers and jeans. We reached Tipoff, found another nice rock ledge, and enjoyed lunch (my final Italian meat sandwich) and tried to take in the scene without thinking of the 3300 ascent that awaited us.

I was jealous of the hikers who continued down the trail, all were staying at the Phantom Ranch, a great option if you can plan your stay 23 months in advance. When we started the Kaibab trail, there were hundreds of people slogging up and down, the further we went, the less people we saw. After the German guy sped past while we ate lunch, we were nearly alone. It was still 4 hours until dark, and the trail was deserted except for us, a lone Ranger, and a group of folks who looked like they would be challenged to reach the bottom before next week. It was kind of spooky on the way up, the shadows lengthening, the rim seemingly out of reach, and no people for the final two hours. Curt divided the ascent into three stints, and we just focused on keeping the feet moving between each stop. Ipod’s helped, as did the warm temps. We based our return plan on the setting sun, and were rewarded by catching up to the warm sunlight, and keeping the shadows a comfortable and consistent 300 feet below us. Surprisingly, the 5 mile ascent took almost exactly the same amount of time as the descent, 3 hours and change. We were both thrilled to have tripled our distance from our last Grand Canyon foray, and figured we could have done the Rim to River if we had started earlier in the day. Perhaps, we will take that one on next March during Spring Training, or we could plan like normal people and spend the night at the bottom.

Obviously, Grand Canyon is spectacular. However, the gateway town of Tusuyan left much to be desired. I knew the food was going to be crappy, as was most of the service. I kept wondering what the overseas visitors were thinking of the crappy breakfast buffet, and piss poor dining options. Is this the best we can do? Both Tusuyan and Ruby’s Inn (Bryce) should take note of Moab (Arches, Canyonlands) and Springdale (Zion). Those gateway towns have become destinations in their own right.

After having spent several hours in the Canyon, and witnessing 2 dazzling sunsets, we decide that and another day of riding bikes along the Rim would be nice, but repetitive. Thus, we decide to head out the following day and stick to the Colorado River theme by camping on Lake Mead or Lake Mojave before heading to Las Vegas so Wilson can pay for the trip by crushing the Cup.

Good idea by us, poor execution by the National Park Service. Apparently, campers are not welcome in these parts. Our first stop was Lake Mojave, just below Hoover Dam, a wonderful oasis in Black Canyon. Perfect for boaters, but no camping allowed. Across the desert we went, this time to Temple Bar on Lake Mead, no camping allowed anywhere except the official campground which happened to be under construction. We took this as a sign, and looked to the western sky, was that another astounding sunset, or was that the light display from the newly built Trump Tower in Vegas? We are officially out of the bush. There will be no pics from Vegas, unless of course, I hit 3 straight 00’s on the roulette wheel, or Wilson cashes an IRS trifecta. We’ll recap the weekend and the overall trip on the way home! Good luck to us.

The Chili Incident at the Paria

This trip is our 6th into Utah for this type of fun and games, and for the first time, we camped in exactly the same place when had in a previous trip. Our first visit to the Paria was 3 years ago, both of us remembered exploring the valley quite extensively before setting camp by Juniper just under the white cliffs. We liked it then, no reason to reinvent the wheel.
After being cooped up in hotels and on guided tours, we took advantage of good afternoon weather to get in a quick hike into Buckskin Gulch.

Our first night on the Paria was a bit reminiscent of the reasons we left the bush in the first place . . . cold and windy. Wilson talked me into packing snow pants because he had designs on skiing somewhere on this trip, that hasn’t happened yet, but those pants were the key to staying warm that night as we experienced mid 20’s and frozen water in the morning. Cooking, however, was a completely different story. Our first attempt was at Chili and grilled cheese. With the wind blowing hard, the coleman stove is just okay, so Wilson decided to give the chili a head start on the edge of the fire. With my stomach growling, and my mouth vocalizing that fact, Wilson stepped up the pace, putting the chili on a bed of coals. He bragged about his prowess in cooking cans on pea combine engines, and claimed the fire would just speed up the process. A few minutes later, both us were fussing with the tent when we heard a rather loud explosion. The chili had blown it’s pull top lid. The collateral damage was impressive, the entire contents were blown throughout camp, with chill bits making over 20 feet to the bikes. We didn’t find the lid until the final day, 37 feet from the campfire.

One of the reasons we like the Paria is the tremendous color pallete you can see from the valley floor. The valley was inhabited until 1930, then Hollywood discovered it in the 60’s, with The Outlaw Josey Wales being the last film in 1976.

On our previous visit, we wanted to hike Hackberry Canyon, a 400 foot slot canyon about 2 miles from our campsite as a bird flies. But as we all know, Curt and Amy can’t fly, so we are faced with two choices . . . walk across the weirdest muddy alkaline soil plain I have ever seen (for one mile), then walk down the Paria River through a box canyon (another mile), then walk up the Cottonwood wash until we find the gravel road (another mile), and then finally 2 miles of the Cottonwood road to the mouth of Hackberry Canyon. We tried that 3 years ago, and had no time or energy to explore the canyon. We chose the second option this time, a 33 mile (each way) drive to get to the same place. In hindsight, riding bikes to the Paria, then down the River to the gravel road may have been the best option. Nonetheless, we had ample time to explore the Hackberry, negotiating the entire slot portion then finding a nice lunch spot near an abandoned cabin in a broad valley.

Night #2 was a bit more pleasant, no wind, but it still cold, but not chilly enough to keep us from cooking up spicy Italian sausage and making a big vat of spaghetti.

Our second full day at the Paria left us with two choices . . . we had a pass to the South Coyote Buttes area, but after yesterday’s bone jarring drive, we both concurred that 17 miles down another non-maintained road was not our idea of a good time. (apparently there is an argument between Kane County, Utah and the BLM about the roads, a federal judge has intervened, but Kane County has chosen to read the decision one way, while the BLM reads it another way).

So . . . we settled on option two, which did not even require the use of the FJ . . . a bike ride, a river crossing, then up a narrow century old cattle trail to the slick rock mesas between the Paria and the Hackberry. What’s the last thing you would expect to run into on this hike ? I know that a real live cattle drive was not on our radar. As slow has that herd appeared to be, they kept gaining on us, we finally admitted defeat, climbed some rocks and watched them pass.
This hike happened on a Sunday, how do I know that when the actual day of the week just disappears when camping in the bush ? I knew it was Sunday, because the Old Man was mysteriously hiking with one arm outstretched and holding a device. What could this be ? His portable satellite radio of course, carefully held so it always had good exposure to the southern sky so that he wouldn’t miss a play from either the Seahawks-Cowboys and the Vikings-Packers game. This pic is from after the hike, note he still listening to football, and one of those empties is mine.
Last time we camped here, we had an unexpected visitor, a BLM ranger stopped by the make sure we a permit and offer advice as to the area, and don’t you know it, at about the same exact time of day (when we’re enjoying our coffee) we got another visit from a ranger. In all the many days I’ve spent on other BLM land in Utah, I have never even seen a ranger, much less had one stop by and say hello.

Another good meal and chilly night awaited us. We’ve finalized our closing plans . . . Las Vegas for the Breeder’s Cup, but that still leaves us with 3 days and nights . . . we’re undecided between Zion and the Grand Canyon. We’ll decid during morning coffee just after our patented 9:30am sunrise. We just love to find camps spots with gigantic mesas to the east.

Snoab

High winds and cooling temps in Hite forced us indoors for a break. We made good use of our time in Durango, but now 8-16 inches of snow has been forecast, so we’ve decided to move west to Moab. We checked into another Best Western, and quickly headed out of town to a slick rock area for some riding before dark and/or snow set in. With temps in the low 40’s, I chose to stay in the car and read while the Old Man got in a solid one hour ride. After returning to town, we updated the blog until we got hungry, then bundled up for the 50 yard walk to a favorite Italian place in Moab, only to find it closed for a Halloween Party on October 27. We settled for some decent Baja style Mexican food and called it night early without even stopping by one of the wild and crazy Utah bars.

We woke to snow on Wednesday morning, and decided this would be perfect weather to attack the Fiery Furnace in Arches N.P. We packed our lunch and all the warm clothes we had and headed out early. A quick stop at the Arches visitor center resulted in 2 passes for the 2:00 tour of the Furnace. The nice lady said this had been the first day in six months that there was same day passes available. With a few hours to kill, we headed into Canyonlands N.P. This park is located above Moab on a mesa between the Colorado and Green Rivers, and I emphasize the word “above”. It was a balmy 42 in Moab, but only 28 degrees at the Islands in the Sky. We bundled up and hit the rim trail.
Once again, we found ourselves saddled with a “guided tour” instead of exploring on our own at the Fiery Furnace. The visitor center doesn’t advertise the self guided permits, they lead you to believe that the guided tour is the only way you can access the Furnace. This part of Arches is a series of vertical fins about 100-200 feet tall with narrow pathways in between. Some of those trails lead to another trail, while others are dead ends via a canyon wall or a cliff. In hindsight, a guide was nice but not necessary, but once again we had an engaging park employee who seemed genuinely interested in educating us about the fragile and adaptive desert environment. No pics from here to post, my camera made the trip into the Furnace.

We felt satisfied, snow flurries throughout the day and we managed to stay warm and see something new. With the October 27 behind us, the Italian place was open for regular business. Curt got the whole bar in an uproar when he asked for the World Series, it turns out they couldn’t find FOX and once Curt asked, the more obnoxious patrons chose to carry the torch kind in a loud manner until the hostess was able to locate the game.

After 2 nights in Moab, we’re antsy to get back into the bush. We check out Thursday morning and head south to Page, Arizona and drive through a storm that only northwesterners can appreciate . . . the sun poking through the clouds for 20 minutes, snow falling, and more snow drifting actross the road.
In spite of the bad weather, the drive was quite entertaining. The route takes you through Monument Valley, which we happened to hit with good skies and patches of snow on the Mesas. Page felt like Baja when we arrived to 58 degrees in the late afternoon. With temps forecast in the 20’s that night, the bush will wait one more day, thus we checked into our favorite moto lodge and paid the princely sum of 62 dollars with breakfast included. Then the Old Man left the complex instead of going to the room. Apparently, he learned from my reluctance to visit the Golden Spike or the Powell Museum and chose not to disclose our location until we arrived at Glen Canyon Dam (just one mile down the road). Six dollars later and we were the proud holders of two passes to the 4:00 Dam tour. Out we went, onto the top of the dam and then a long elevator ride to the bottom. Curt spent too much time looking at the turbines, I have fears that he is going to try and generate power on his own. We finished the night with a joke that doesn’t seem to get old. . . we dined at the Dam Bar, I had Dam Barbecue, Curt had Dam Chicken Fried Steak, we had a few Dam Beers, (all real names on the menu) we a Dam decent time. Tomorrow, we head to the Dam Paria River, set of that Dam fine movie, The Outlaw Josey Wales.

Mesa Verde

After 8 straight nights of camping and 7 consecutive days in the desert, we chose a change of pace. After finishing the second half of the loneliest highway, we continued eastbound into southwest Colorado. Cortez was closer to Mesa Verde, and the friendly guy at the Colorado Welcome Center encouraged us to stay there, but Cortez looked like a wind swept plain, so we continued east and set up shop in Durango.

We suspected Durango would be like Bend, Oregon. We were right, just add a few more mountains and you have it. I am the designated negotiator for hotels, and I was able to secure a decent rate at a nice Best Western in downtown. First order of business . . .showers to cleanse the sand from the previous night’s storm. There was literally a pool of orange water in the shower after each of us washed our hair. There are several brew pubs in Durgano, and with MLB and NFL on tv, we checked out the local culture.

Mesa Verde National Park was our reason for venturing into this part of the Four Corners Area, and it didn’t disappoint. These ruins were built about 750 years ago and were only inhabited for less than a century.

We had a pretty funny guide for the tour of the Cliff Palace. He was like a drill sergeant, arriving at the lookout, pacing around with his hands folded, waiting until the group settled down before speaking. We don’t normally sign up for guided tours, but in this case we had to, if we wanted access to the Cliff Palace. It felt like I was back in Anthropology/Archeology class, but it was quite interesting to learn how the Pueblos lived and built these dwellings. I kept comparing it with Macchu Picchu in my mind. They are roughly from the same time. However, the Pueblo had a much smaller population, and harsher environment.

It was amazing how many structures had been built in the canyons of Mesa Verde. Cliff Palace gets all the pub, but every where you looked there were smaller villages and random buildings in several nooks and crannies.

For some reason, we both enjoyed the sunny 50 degree weather at 7000 feet. I think it had something the due with the fact we weren't going to be sleeping outdoors when the temps dropped below freezing.

The weather was beginning to haunt us again, albeit from the safety of a hotel room. The forecast showed two important things . . . snow followed by cold temps. We accepted the fact that 2-3 more nights of hotel were in our future. Where to next? Telluride was dismissed due to heavy snow, Canyons de Chelly was a no go due to the weather, ditto for Sante Fe and Taos. We chose to return to old stomping grounds and cross a few more items off the list. Moab was only 2.5 hours back up the road, and the forecast was calling for a manageable amount of snow.

Hite

Utah 95 is a lonely highway. . . 120 miles long and exactly one building. We drove the stretch from Hanksville to the Colorado River then headed downstream to Hite. We were not sure what to expect, but hoped to camp on the river. The Hite marina has been ‘abandoned’ due to the drop in lake level.

We were pleasantly surprised to find picnic tables, pit toilets, seventy degree temps, and a small store that was open 4 hours a day. We set up camp, and relaxed – well, I did. Wilson was busy hooking up his electrical system, building a stand for his light, bike maintainance, etc. etc. The one thing he didn’t have to do was gather firewood. There was a endless supply of quick burning driftwood. It didn’t burn very long, but it took quickly and it was cheap and easy. We called it fast food wood.

The next morning we headed off to hike the nearby Dark Canyon. We get our usual late start. We ‘sorta’ get lost finding the trailhead. The roads are plentiful and unmarked. It is several miles further on a dirt trail than we had read, resulting in noon arrival at the trailhead. The hike is described as two miles on the ridge, and then a deep decent into the canyon - dropping 1123 feet in a mile, with route finding necessary. We’re getting pretty good at route finding, and we’ve got our poles, so I feel ok about it.

The 2 miles is more like 3.2 – thanks to gps. We finally get to the edge, and I can really only see the first few steps down the large boulder field. Here’s a view of the boulder field from the approach trail.
I want to believe I can do this and put my head down and go. It’s one harrowing drop after another. I scrape my legs brushing by the rocks, and skin my knee on another, with blood dripping, my stress level is increasing, and I dread the return trip up just as much as the decent. The more I think about it, the more I realize that by the time I get down, I will have to turn around and go right back up. As Yogi says, “It gets late early here”. This is torture for no reward.
I call it. “Stop. Take a picture. I am done.” I would have loved to spend some time exploring the river canyon, but that wouldn’t happen this day. We have a sandwich and claw our way back up the rockslide. NOT my favorite kind of hiking. If I had known this is what the decent looked like, I may not have been optimistic about my chances of success. We look forward to burgers and another relaxed night at camp.
Back at Lake Powell, we can see a squall line to the north. No worries for us, it’s off in the distance and Pat Brown read the crystal clear calm skies forecast to us the day before. Curt builds a big fire - a huge bed of fast food coals. Just as we finish eating by the fire, there is a shift in the wind, and it’s dark now so we can’t really see the cause of this shift. Thus, we leisurely secure a few things, and then suddenly the wind starts to pick up. I look back and our chairs have blown over – almost into the fire. I struggle to get them folded, but we still look at this as a harmless challenge. Then the huge sustained winds hit. Still we kind of laugh it off . . . each us is rummaging around putting stuff away with a beer in our hands. Then we both notice the fire, what was a nice beacon on a dark night, has turned into a 100 foot streak of flying embers, with all of those hot little things headed right at our tent. . . .beers are dropped, Curt runs to get the water for the fire and I run for the tent, only to discover a slight issue, it’s bowed over sideways with more broken poles. No more giggling and laughing, we are in serious trouble if we want to sleep in an upright tent tonight. While Curt douses the fire, I grab the tent poles and hold them while I lean into the wind. At this point, I’m doubtful of the tent surviving.

I set in to hold the tent while Curt secures everything else. I am using my body weight to hold the tent up. Sand is pummeling me. I have to keep my eyes closed. I figure I can endure for a half hour or so. I approach it as a “Survivor” immunity challenge. A few long minutes later, my gallant knight comes to the rescue riding his FJ over piles of driftwood. He parks it right in front of the tent. Just then, the unrelenting sand begins to swirl around me – my personal tornado. I am ready to quit, so Curt takes a shift holding the tent. Things are not looking good for us. We keep calm, and together come up with a plan. We attempt to reinforce the fractured pole with a 2nd pole. Curt manages to string it through without taking down the tent and duct tapes them together. It worked. We completed the FJ wind barrier with the coolers and water jugs.

The wind subsided to a steady gust, and I was delighted at our recovery. The interior tent had a new color though, the same color as the sand that ringed Lake Powell. In this case, the wind helped us, it was quite easy to simply hold up our sleeping gear once piece at a time and let the sand just waft away in the breeze. All and all, we survived the night, but more wind on the following morning convinced us it was time to head east . . . Mesa Verde awaits.

72 hours with no human contact

We woke to brilliant blue skies and no signs of rain, but were still a bit cautious of entering a large slot canyon after a recent rain storm. Thus, we spent our first full day exploring the area and preparing for our descent into the Muddy Chute. We spent the morning doing recon on the river, deciding how far we could ride bikes and choosing footware for the many river crossing that lay ahead. I might actually be getting better on my mountain bike, Curt bamboozled me into riding up and down a river draw, and then later around this huge butte. All and all, I succeeded and only used a few bad words, and was left with minimal bruising.
With beautiful weather, we able to take full advantage of all that car camping allows. We camped under a lone tree on the sun baked red clay.
The solar shower heated river water that we filtered, at the base of the tree is our latest invention, “Curt’s electrical system”, a marine battery lights our camp at night, powers our sound system, recharges the ipod and of course makes it possible for us to listen to baseball games on satellite radio. Now, if we could just find a plug in coffee pot that uses less than 400 watts.

Curt was pretty excited to find all the old mining gear and was quite sure that he and Paul could find a use for this old engine, if he could just figure out a way to get it back to Seattle.
Night two on the Muddy River taught us another important desert canyon weather lesson . . . the wind doesn’t die down after dusk, it picks up, then dies down about two hours later. We struggled to cook and eat during the wind, only to see it disappear once the dishes were clean.

Day 3 in the Swell was the time for us the tackle the Muddy Chute. The actual Chute started about 4 miles downstream from our camp. After a slow start, we managed to pick up a trail, crossed the river several times until the river itself became the trail as the canyon walls closed to the river’s edge. We were actually well prepared for river walking, but not so much for river swimming in the shaded canyon. Eventually, the pools got so deep we could no longer touch the bottom with our ski poles. Who needs those fancy trekking poles when you got a closet full of ski poles? We debated swimming across the first big pool, but then reminded ourselves of the water temp and the air temp in the canyon and utter isolation we felt. We hadn’t see a soul since leaving Goblin, and we took the safe route and chose not to put ourselves in danger in a situation where rescue was not even a remote possibility. All the Chute pics are on my camera, and of course, I left the cable to upload them in Seattle.

On our final night, we built a big fire, waited out the wind and cooked an enjoyable meal under clear calm skies.
The San Rafael Swell was great, but I’m ready for a warm-up. Lake Powell is only about 100 miles away. Let’s see here, drop down about 3000 feet, that should add about 15 degrees to the temps. I can’t imagine the weather being a problem down there. We re-supplied our water at Goblin Valley and food in Hanksville, and finally saw another human after 3 days in the bush.

Did you look both ways for an airplane ?

After 2 nights in Goblin Valley, we planned to head just a few miles away into the San Rafael Swell and camp at Temple Mt., but then changed our minds and decided to set up camp closer to the Muddy Chute. Both entrances to the chute were about 40 miles away, we decided to check out the downstream entrance first to see if it was suitable for camping. The scenery was spectacular, the approach road weaved between the mesas and descended down towards the Muddy River.

Note, I said the road descended “towards” the river, it didn’t quite make it to the canyon floor, and ended just beyond an active runway on a wind blown bench with an assortment of old mining gear, leaving us about 300 feet above the river. There was an old 4x4 trail to the bottom, the sign said “closed”, but who was going to stop us out here anyways ? The 15% grade with a sheer cliff on one side accomplished that quite easily. We decided to head back to the upstream entrance, to try and find a better place. Upon leaving, Curt did stop the FJ and made a conscience effort to look both ways before crossing the runway.

Out of the canyon we went, only to re-enter the same canyon 16 miles upstream, and we found yet another abandoned uranium mine, this one still had several conveyor systems attached to the cliffs, and we found ourselves on a very picturesque canyon floor, complete with our own private arch.

Did anyone notice the gathering clouds in the distance of the first photo ? We had been keeping an eye on them, but with canyon walls to our west blocking our view and stopping our sunlight, we were not exactly sure what to expect. The aforementioned busy camper made no haste in setting up camp, getting all the bins out and covered with a tarp to create what we started calling “the bin burrito”. He even managed to cover the wood with another tarp. With the camp secure and the tent set up, we hunkered down in the FJ for 2 hours while the skies unleashed hail, rain, and wind upon us.

Curt threatened to take the FJ for a spin during the rain, until I reminded him the nearest town was 70 miles away. Finally the skies cleared and we set about the business of cooking dinner and enjoying a warm fire. All the while, something didn’t feel right, it was as if our legs suddenly got weaker, then we realized that each of us was packing around 15 pounds of red rock clay on our shoes.

Two Tarps and a Roll of Duct Tape, and I feel Like a Queen.

We “wake” in the morning to survey the damage. Nothing notable except the tent. We start with the first of Curt’s list of six possible fixes, and luckily the spare poles from the old tent were approximately the same length. With the major obstacle remedied, the day was free to go hiking. We picked the Wild Horse Canyon to Bell Canyon loop. With a rough start to the day, Muddy Creek will have to wait.

That's me on the left side of the wash as we head into Bell Canyon. I am so glad we did this hike!

I dig slot canyons. This is the best one yet.

We manage to conquer to boulder falls without drawing blood.

We cover the 8 miles in 4 hours and beat the busload of AARP hikers who went the opposite direction. Damn, we’re good.

We get back to camp in the late afternoon and the wind is still howling relentlessly. By now, the exposed full cans of adult beverage have visible sand blasting marks and my face feels the same. Dust has penetrated the tent walls and our bedding is ridiculously dusty. If only the tent pole hadn’t fit; I would be in a motel in Moab…

Curt’s mind starts working (more later on the ‘busy’ camper). The campsites come equipped with an aluminum shelter for shade. Two sides are metal screens. We both contribute to this ingenious plan . . .Curt wants to replicate the grove of trees on his Grandparents farm to block the wind by using our two tarps for the same effect, and I offer the final piece of the puzzle . . . Duct Tape. We could use our tarps and tape to build a wind shelter. Thirty minutes later I have a perfect cubby hole to hunker down for a pleasant – ok, bearable – evening. Curt wins backgammon and we actually cook a meal during the howling winds. Unfortunately, the 32$ guy quits and moves to a hotel before he has to endure a night of listening to our flapping tarps. I felt like a queen with this contraption. Thankfully, Curt was able to harness the metallurgy power of the shelter to make his satellite radio work in spite of the red rocks to our south and I got to enjoy the full 13 innings of that Yankees win, or did the Angels win, it was all white noise, but I kind of like the lady analyst on the Yankees radio feed. We plan to move deeper into the Rafael Swell area tomorrow.

Chapter 2 . . . October 2009 . . . $32 guy and the melon lady:

We’ve embarked on another journey to points yet unknown. After spending the night with family near Umapine, Oregon, we headed straight down the all too familiar I-84 towards Salt Lake City. Or so we thought, we planned to camp at Antelope Island on the lake, but a late start from Curt’s brother’s ranch left us with darkness descending 200 miles short of our destination. We chose the Three Island Crossing State Park, a locale made famous by the Oregon Trail. We both wondered why the Oregonians chose to cross here, when they would have to repeat the same feat a hundred miles up the river. The next day, more of I-84, and the most desolate and boring stretch of interstate (Burley, Idaho to Ogden, Utah). . . Curt chose to listen to BBC’s coverage of the F1 Brazilian Grand Prix, I immediately went to the ipod and headphones. There was some good news though, I was able to stave off Curt’s desire to visit the Golden Spike Monument once again. I know that one of these times I will give in, but not this one.

We quickly discover faulty equipment. The new “5 day” beverage cooler has a faulty seal. We make a beeline for the Salt Lake REI. Glad we’re members since we don’t have a receipt. They look up our purchases for the year, and apparently, we never paid for the cooler in the first place. Sales clerk error. She used the cooler to pack our purchases and never scanned it. So, we finally purchased our cooler, and last minute supplies and hustled to Goblin Valley State Park, UT before sunset.

Fortunately, there were a few sites available. We carefully reviewed the ‘reserved dates’ marked on the posts and selected the best spot from the ones remaining. We set the tent, unloaded our bins, and started to build a fire. Just after dusk, a pickup pulled up in the spot next to us. The gentleman explained that he had reserved the spot we were in earlier that day – he PAID for it. He and Curt had an unfriendly exchange about putting the reserved tag on the post – but the long and the short of it was that we had to move to another site. Campers can appreciate what a pain this is! Later, we realized that they were not even going to occupy the site. He spent the $16 fee twice to buy some extra space. The arrogance of the $32 guy was not sitting well with us. I began to imagine the perfect passive aggressive retaliation. I wish I could let it go…

The next day, the $32 guy’s lady came over with a Green River melon as a peace offering. I will attempt to let it go. We certainly enjoyed the melon for breakfast the next day. However, first we had to endure a tough night.

The winds began REALLY gusting. We woke – with everyone else in the tent area – to double check everything in the huge winds. Curt lost his balance in the dark and wind, and grabbed for the tent pole. Unfortunately, it snapped. The tent was flapping wildly in the gusting winds. I announced, “I’m leaving the tent”, Curt responded, “Where are you going to go?” I chose the front seat of the car, while Curt remained in the loud and collapsing tent. With the nearest real town about 150 miles away, Curt spent his night trying to figure out how to fix the tent, meanwhile, I slept like a lady in the middle seat of a transatlantic red eye to Turkey. And we haven’t even started our vacation yet.

Central America

Hola, blognation.

Sorry for the delay in posting. Somehow the experiences of the past weeks are not what you are accostomed to reading on this blog, so I decided it is not for the world wide web.

My adventures are resuming, and I am currently in the DFW international terminal, bound for San Jose, Costa Rica. I will be meeting up with my dearest lifelong friend, Amy Parish, and her partner, Brian. We are going whitewater rafting tomorrow, where we have a slim chance of sighting a black panther. Regardless, the scenery should be stunning, and I've read that we will go thru 52 named rapids on our journey. VERY EXCITING to me.

I believe we should have decent internet access in Puerto Viejo, so I will attempt to post updates regularly for the next week. I look forward to learning of the Pura Vida that the Costa Ricans are so proud of for the next 9 days.

Until then, safe travels to all.

Wilsons, Bend, and Baja Bound

Life has not slowed down since we got home from Europe. We had a couple of days to recoup and prepare for the Wilson family holiday gathering. I fear we have unleashed a beast in our 'amazing race' style treasure hunt. It seems that the Wilsons, or as they have been recently been called, The Bush League Tribe, are quite competitive. What was designed to foster vigorous chatter, or smack talk, has quickly progressed to something that might strike a nasty chord in the family harmony. After a contested finish, resulting in a playoff round, Jared and Jonathan were named champions for the second consecutive time. In the end, I think a good time was had by all. At the very least, it gives us something to debate for the next year. Ultimately, it was nice to get the gang together and build some great memories.

After a day of quiet, I decided to ride along with Curt to his game in Corvallis. I caught a matinee while he worked, and that night we were going to drive to Bend. I should have known we were in for trouble. After the game, every guy in the truck was getting a call from his wife at home (Portland) warning him of the snow storm that had started. Curt assured me we were going to 'outrun' it because we were headed east, not north. Uh, OK honey.

It wasn't until we were 30 minutes into the drive that Wilson sheepishly admitted that this road might be like that steep, twisty, windy MF'er that we had to take to Yosemite. There were no other cars on the road. They're smart. It was a complete white out. And for the first time, the FJ failed us. The windshield wipers were freezing up. We had to stop every ten minutes to flick off the ice. Luckily, I have learned patience - and Curt is a good driver - and we made it to Bend safely. We checked into the McMenimans Hotel, and enjoyed a couple of pops in the fireside bar. Let the record reflect that we did 'outrun' part of the storm. Once we crossed the pass, the snow stopped, by the time we unloaded the car, it was a blizzard in Bend.

We enjoyed out stay in Bend. We went cross country skiing, had a soak in the fancy hotel soaking pool, went to MY favorite brewery (whoo hoo Deschutes).

But, we must get home. I need to pack for my trip to Cabo, and the weather is threatening.

Home again. But only for a day. Tomorrow I go to Cabo with Susie and company. How is it that after all of this, this time I feel like I am in for something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT?