Each and All: Hiking with Transcendentalist Math

Osprey Falls

Yellowstone National Park

9.2-miles round trip, strenuous
Long ago and far away from the Bunsen Peak Trailhead, Ralph Waldo Emerson poetically opined: All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone.  We love the hike to Osprey Falls, but pinpointing specific reasons for that fondness is difficult.  It’s a classic example of the sum being greater than the parts—of adding two plus two and magically getting five. 
  
Not that the “components” aren’t special, but what is remarkable is how they build upon one another to provide a classic Yellowstone hiking experience.  This is particularly so on a crisp, sun-splashed morning under the big (almost) Montana sky before crowds hit the trail.  An early start is essential.  We will cover nine-plus miles of variably challenging terrain, and a mid-afternoon return under a penetrating August sun can be draining.  The trail is actually an abandoned dirt and gravel service road for the initial 3.2 miles, a mostly flat route with only occasional tree cover obscuring otherwise wide open sightlines across scrub grass and meadow. 

Big (Almost) Montana Sky and the Gallatins.

And the views are stunning: Bunsen Peak rises immediately to the north of the trail, and unobstructed views of Electric Peak and the remainder of the Gallatin Range are available throughout the trek.  If we are successful with an early start, we may spot bison and elk on the adjacent range, browsing and grazing before retreating from mid-day heat.  A number of ponds, rife with waterfowl, are present near the trailhead; they will offer a nice penultimate respite on the return.

Sheepeater Canyon and the Gardiner River.

In due course, there is a preview of our destination: a bend in the road and a negligible climb provide an overlook of the Gardiner River entrenched in Sheepeater Canyon.  Although the falls are not yet visible, we get a sense for the different terrain ahead and for the looming descent into the canyon as the service road yields to the Osprey Falls Trail. 

Navigating the Switchbacks.

A .6-mile skirt along the rim tapers to a series of steep but not particularly hazardous switchbacks that deliver us to the base of the falls.  The occasional toppled tree and rock scree only enhance this .8 mile downward segment—along with the intensifying roar of the cascade and the atmospheric cooling of nearing water.  Trail’s end brings a jumble of rock outcroppings, collapsed from enveloping chasm walls.  They invite us to sit, to rest, and to take in the 150-foot cascade, the river, and the inner canyon that surround us and saturate our senses:

Micro-Scenery: Harebell.

The falls can be approached and accessed by scrambling across a steep slope, although our experience has been that the primary reward of doing this is a less impressive view of the falls.  The more subtle features of this place, such as wildflowers and other vegetation nurtured by mist from the cascade, can be appreciated and fully enjoyed from a spot on the canyon floor.

Mist-Fed Garden on the Canyon Floor.

Exercising Caution.

We are almost always less motivated for the return leg of an out-and-back-hike.  This is particularly true here because of the steep climb out of the canyon.  But thereafter, a comfortable pace and rhythm can be achieved over the increasingly level right-of-way with ever-modulating views of the Gallatins providing inspiration for the effort.

It is during one of these returns from Osprey Falls that we experience a quintessential Yellowstone moment.  Not ten minutes after grumbling mildly about another failure to sight the trail’s namesake Osprey—either in flight or nesting in the canyon—we receive a breathtaking wayside rebuke. Approaching a copse of immature pine trees, we hear—we feel, almost—a sudden rush of beating wings, as the magnificent brown-and-grayish raptor approaches and passes at eye level, talons deployed, in pursuit of unseen prey.  Once more we think of Emerson: Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; — Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

On Dirt and Gravel Return Road, Yielding to the Perfect Whole.

Perhaps that’s why we love this place: while we struggle to evaluate discrete parts, to measure unconnected moments, we know that the aggregate experience will be something new, something unforgettable, something inspiring.

A Shining Example of Paranormal Hiking Activity

Estes Cone

Rocky Mountain National Park

6.1-miles round trip, moderate

Places are like people: some shine and some don’t. The sun is shining, and the Longs Peak trailhead is bustling with activity this mid-August morning.  The parking area is approaching overflow: we have a ranger on scene, and a gaggle of hikers are milling about with varying intent and purpose.  On this day, our stated intent and purpose is Estes Cone, a distinctively-eroded mountain on the east side of the park.  To that end, we lace up our boots, gather our gear, and get under way.  We climb immediately and steadily for approximately a half mile before coming to a cleft in the trail.  Straight would take us to Longs Peak and Chasm Lake; we turn sharply north toward Estes Cone.  The wide, sun-dappled path begins an amiable, give-a-little, take-a-little ascent through a potpourri of lodgepole and other pine that limit the view but invigorate the air.

The Stanley Hotel.

We woke this morning at the Stanley Hotel in nearby Estes Park.  Commissioned in the early twentieth-century by Freelan Oscar Stanley of steam-engine motor carriage fame, the rambling neo-Georgian landmark has welcomed all manner of outdoor celebrants and celebrities over the years: John Philip Sousa, Theodore Roosevelt, the Emperor and Empress of Japan, and the Unsinkable Molly Brown, to name a few.  
Many swear that the hotel is haunted, that there is paranormal partying in the grand ballroom and that the ghost of Flora Stanley tickles the ivories when no live piano music is available.  A few supernatural nights in Room 217 inspired Stephen King to write The Shining, a 1977 psychological horror classic, which in turn inspired the 1990 big-screen classic starring Jack Nicholson as psychological horror Jack Torrance.  But we digress.

At the Eugenia Mine Site.

Back on the trail, the moderate climb levels out near a stream at the 1.4-mile mark, delivering us to the Eugenia Mine, a forsaken excavation that, according to National Park Service signage, produced more dreams than gold.  Roaming the site, we find remnants of a log cabin, a rusted boiler, and yellow tailings along the creek, haunting residue of a turn-of-the-century gold boom gone bust.

Remnants of the Eugenia Mine.

Room 402 Closet.

The Stanley Hotel, by the way, is chock-full of turn-of-the-century haunting historical residue.  We are checked into Room 402, a charming enough assignment: a sitting room and a bedroom with vintage lighting and dormer windows, a bathroom with tub shower and diminutive pedestal sink.  Various sources tell us that the oddly-shaped bedroom closet is locked and dead-bolted with good reason.  Apparently and apparitionally, a bald ghost answering to the name Lord Dunraven rattles the door knob in the dark of night, impolitely hovers over the bed, filches jewelry, and periodically gets fresh with female guests.  

Sweet Dreams.

We’ve experienced none of that; however, someone—or something—has rifled through travel papers on the bedroom desk, scattering receipts, brochures, and trail maps across the jacquard-carpeted floor.  And someone—or something—has placed two empty wine glasses in the corner of our sitting room when no living, breathing resident of Room 402 has been drinking wine.  And someone—or something— has been making late-night groaning and whooshing sounds on the closet side of the room.  It’s the wind, we tell ourselves, or inattentive room service, or ancient mechanical exertions from the nearby gilded-elevator shaft.  But still....

Rock Scree on Estes Cone.

Steeper and steeper: more rocks, more climbing, more rocks.  Most of the trail’s elevation gain comes in the final mile.  Cairns mark the way, but they become difficult to spot—and inconsequential to our progress—as we pick our way across a series of increasingly rocky switchbacks on the southwest slope of the cone. At some point we call upon hands to help feet move us up this mountain.  We remind ourselves that variability makes the hike—that all flat or all climb would make for a tedious 6.1-mile round trip walk in the wild.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy:

 

After a slapstick scramble across the penultimate jumble of scree, we rest on an outcrop just beneath the bare rock summit.  
The eleven-thousand-feet-and-change elevation affords (literally) breathtaking panoramic views of Longs Peak, the Continental Divide, and the Estes Park area. 

After the Climb, Enjoying a View of Longs Peak.

A View from Estes Cone.

Now Playing on Channel 42.

That evening, safely returned to Room 402, we snack and watch The Shining as it loops continuously on hotel Channel  42.  We reflect upon the day’s climb and Estes Cone, declaring it a shining hike and a shining destination indeed.  And then it’s lights out: we dive into bed, curl up under the crisp white covers, waiting for sleep—and perhaps Lord Dunraven—to come.

Lost Landscape Garden, Flooded Mountain Temple

Rancheria Falls

Yosemite National Park

13-miles round trip, moderate

What if I told you that you could take a zipline tour of breathtaking Hetch Hetchy Valley in Yosemite National Park.  Is that something you might be interested in?  In a sense, you can do just that.  Not literally: ziplines would violate some central canon of National Park Service dogma (that somehow acquiesced to a commercial airport at the foot of the Grand Tetons, another blog post altogether).  But figuratively, the trail to Rancheria Falls zips around the north shore of Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, past a series of waterfalls and through a weathered granite wonderland.  

Hetch Hetchy Valley, Early 1900s, USGS Photo.

Unlike strenuous climbing entailed when visiting many of the spectacular attractions of neighboring Yosemite Valley, the Hetch Hetchy experience is brought to you without the inconvenience of significant elevation change, thanks to generous "contributions" from the thirsty city of San Francisco and the folks who dammed and diverted the waters of the Tuolumne River early in the 20^th century.

View from the Trail: Granite, Reservoir, and Lupine.

The rub, of course, is that we can no longer view Hetch Hetchy in its pristine condition.  Once thought to rival Yosemite Valley in beauty and grandeur, the former valley floor now lies submerged behind O’Shaughnessy Dam, the starting point of the hike.  Even so, the views of Kolana Rock and the valley that open up across the lower end of the reservoir are breathtaking.  After crossing the dam from the trailhead on the south side, you pass through a tunnel bored through the granite valley wall and continue on an old service road.  The path soon narrows, occasionally exposing hikers to steep falloffs and the reservoir below.

The big-ticket attractions of the hike, we suppose, are the waterfalls.  There are three named cascades: Tueeulala, Wapama and Rancheria, in succession. If you visit during heavy snowmelt in the Spring, you are certain to see more.  Less magnificent, for example, than Yosemite Falls, the waterfalls of Hetch Hetchy are nonetheless impressive in height, power, and volume of water flow.  It is impossible to view them and not wonder how they might have appeared from the former valley floor.

Yellow-Eyed Salamander.

There are plenty of other reasons to visit.  If you like granite, it is underfoot, overhead, and everywhere you look.  Evidence of glaciation is also striking, both on a macro- (U-shaped valley) and micro- (abrasion and striation of native granite) level.  Wildflowers are abundant during Spring and Summer.  Wildlife is as well, particularly if you avoid heavy trail traffic that is common during summer months.  The camping area at Rancheria Falls is a magnet for black bear; Stellar’s Jays and Western Grey Squirrels are almost always present on the trail.  If you are fortunate, you may even spot a Yellow-eyed Salamander trailside.
 

Mother Black Bear and Cub at Rancheria Falls.

In truth, we wouldn't be interested in a zipline tour of Hetch Hetchy Valley.  The 13-mile round trip hike to Rancheria Falls provides a more traditional and less frenetic Sierra Nevada experience.  Thought-provoking, too: if you would like further information about ongoing efforts to restore the valley, a place John Muir declared "a grand landscape garden, one of Nature's rarest and most precious mountain temples," to its authentic un-dammed state, visit Restore Hetch Hetchy.

Time and Again: A Hike for All Seasons

West Fork of Oak Creek Canyon

Coconino National Forest

6-miles round trip, easy

Before we begin, a cursory nod to tin can tourism. The drive to the West Fork trailhead is unfailingly part of this adventure: a provider of perspective and a precursor to the wonderment of the hike.  State Route 89A between Flagstaff and Sedona passes through the heart of Oak Creek Canyon and offers ten-plus miles of hairpin turns, white-knuckle grades, and jaw-dropping scenery before the tin can pulls into the parking area and feet touch the trail. 

Red Rock and Ice, 2012.

Late December, 2012: We are standing at the first crossing of Oak Creek, considering how to safely—and dryly—traverse the stream.  At the risk of sounding repetitive in an echoing gorge... we’ve been here before, been here before, been here before.  Over the years and through the seasons, various permutations of our group have hiked the West Fork: in springtime, summer, and early autumn, on cloudy days and sunny days, in warm temperatures and cool temperatures, with high water and low water.  On this day—one of the final days of 2012—the sky is clear, the air is cold, and Oak Creek is running frigid, frozen over in spots. So it’s a bit of déjà vu, but our collective memory is now laced with ice and cloaked in white.

To reach this first crossing, we have passed through the remains of an earlier day: an abandoned orchard, rich with the promise of untended fruit on spring hikes, craggy and forlorn on this winter visit.  Architectural fragments of Mayhew's Lodge, built in 1926 and destroyed by fire in 1980, line the trail.  Legend tells us that the resort was patronized by the likes of Zane Grey, Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Walt Disney, and President Herbert Hoover.

Moon Window, Mayhew's Lodge Ruins, December 2012.

Invariably we pause here, pondering previous visitors and surveying a toppled stone fireplace, crumbling pillars, a small cave used for storage.  For most of the year, the ruins are practically obscured by capricious, untamed foliage.  On this December hike, however, they are snow-dusted and austere, almost ethereal.  A moon window mounted in a stone wall frames the landscape, conferring a contemplative mood upon the hike.

Oak Creek Turn-Around, Spring 2004.

After the ruins, the trail bears right and begins its ramble up Oak Creek Canyon.  Springtime, summer, early autumn: it is a leisurely stroll, with little elevation change, ample shade in warmer months, and transcendent sandstone cliffs towering over every step of the sandy trail.  The path is clear for the first three miles, intermittently crossing Oak Creek as it ripples along the canyon floor, occasionally asking hikers to make tactical use of river stones or to splash-step in shallow water.  

Beyond the customary turn-around, the canyon walls close in upon Oak Creek, and we've surmised the journey requires more frequent boulder-hopping, wading and, dare we say, swimming as it vanishes into the Secret Mountain/Red Rocks Wilderness.
    

Crossing Oak Creek, December 2012.

The trail, then, is familiar, the setting and scenery like cherished friends; and yet, winter introduces remarkable variation to the canyon-scape.  The hike becomes a story of interplay between snow and sandstone, a dialogue of quiet deliberation, with recurring questions of what water-darkened rocks to trust, which fallen logs to test, whether iced-over stretches of creek will support three hikers, two hikers, one hiker at a time... or none at all.  Accidental slips or slides into the creek mean something different in December than they do in April, May, or early September: a soaking and somewhat refreshing inconvenience in mild weather turns suddenly and soddenly into a bone-chilling disruption to the winter hike. 

Oak Creek, December 2012.

In the end, December teaches us something about perspective, about considering the view from the opposite shore.  At the final crossing of Oak Creek— a perplexing and precarious traverse on the outbound hike—the best way to proceed becomes clearer and consequently less precarious.  Single file, we cross a frozen-solid span tucked around a downstream bend and are safely across Oak Creek for the last time this day.  

Oak Creek Canyon, Late Summer 1999.

Returning to the trailhead, we encounter a cheerful young couple looking notionally, if not physically, prepared for the hike.  The man is pushing a baby (also cheerful) in a stroller.  We’ll never know how many crossings, if any, the cheerful group with the stroller complete, but—having experienced the West Fork of Oak Creek across the years and in different seasons—we understand, at least, the motivation.  The hike is new again every time we skirt the ruins and enter the canyon.

The Helmet, the Sphinx, the Existential Question

The Helmet and the Sphinx
Madison Range, Montana
11.5-miles round trip, strenuous
"What the f--- are we doing here?"  Those words pierced the brisk morning air, and the gratuitous profanity (after all, isn't profanity almost always unnecessary?) only served to heighten the intensity of the moment.  Certain facts seemed clear.  The kill appeared to be fresh, no more than a few days old.  We were several miles from the trailhead.  And we had not encountered anyone on the trail that morning.  This was no sidewalk stroll with hundreds of candy-ass national park visitors.  We were a bit... out there.

Beyond that, we could only speculate.  Yes, there had been bear scat-- plenty of it at times.  A few tracks as well, although our ability to distinguish grizzly from black bear was limited.  Frankly, some of the tracks appeared to be mountain lion, but we took no solace from that observation.  After all, that predator stalks you before moving in for the kill.  We wouldn't even have to do something stupid or piss him off to end up as a meal.  

But we hadn't actually seen a grizzly-- just a few live elk to complement the rotting carcass and collection of clean-picked bones arrayed on the trail before us.  And the hike to the Helmet and the Sphinx had been breathtaking.  We appreciated the stark contrast between the redrock face of the Helmet and the azure of the cloudless Montana sky.  We reveled in the absolute solitude of the forest, silence broken only by an occasional bird call or the light breeze rippling through pine.  We marveled at the vibrant beauty of a solitary outcrop of Indian Paintbrush struggling to survive on a spartan rock face.  All of this: and then, the carcass.
 

Recognizing that we had already hiked more than half the distance of the 11.5-mile trail, we pressed forward, paralleling the Middle Fork of Bear Creek most of the way back to the trailhead.  We plan to return someday, but on this day the feeling of relief upon exiting a heavily-wooded section of the trail to sweeping views of a grassy meadow-- and the trailhead-- was palpable. Every step of the journey to the Helmet and Sphinx provided affirmation of precisely what we were doing there-- experiencing the grandeur and uncertainty of nature at it undiluted finest.  Reminders that we don't always sit at the top of the food chain and control our destinies, like spontaneous outbursts of profanity, only served to intensify the experience.  

One Singularly Sensational Geothermal Feature

Lone Star Geyser Trail

Yellowstone National Park
5-miles round trip, easy

Lone Star is a great big cone-shaped geyser situated a few miles southeast of wildly popular Old Faithful and the consequently wildly populated Upper Geyser Basin in Yellowstone National Park.  The geyser's reliable eruption pattern and its secluded-yet-accessible location make it one of our favorite Yellowstone day-hike destinations.

The Firehole River.

The trail to hard-working Lone Star follows an old service road, passing through sun-dappled meadow and shady stands of lodgepole pine, meandering along the Firehole River, one of the park’s wonderfully-monikered water features.  It’s a remarkably flat two-and-a-half-mile walk from the trailhead near Kepler Cascades to Lone Star Basin: that makes it a remarkably flat five-mile round trip, does it not?

We’ve walked the trail several times, and when we’ve packed sufficient patience—along with tasty and diverting snacks—Lone Star has unfailingly delivered an impressive and photogenic geothermal show for all in attendance.  Happily, there are no benches, no boardwalks, no cordoned-off viewing areas at Lone Star Basin.  Upon arrival, we find a comfortable log or rock-with-a-view, kick back, pass the apples, crack open the Peanut Butter M and M’s, and wait for the show to begin.  While we wait, it also makes sense to check the trail register for information regarding recent eruptions.  We, in turn, will dutifully record activity that we observe. Before two of our Lone Star trips, we checked in at Old Faithful Visitors Center to glean estimated eruption times for the geyser: sometimes there is information available, sometimes not.

Lone Star Doing Its Geyser Thing.

With or without documentation from headquarters, Our Favorite Geyser erupts at three hour intervals, give or take, and serves up approximately thirty minutes of geothermal glory when it gets going.  After considerable huffing and puffing and spitting and spewing and bubbling and boiling, Lone Star reaches heights of thirty-five to forty feet during its primary eruption.  It passes through several stages of discharge, but when the Big One happens, we know it. 
  

At Lone Star Geyser Basin.

On the return journey, we inevitably encounter a procession of inquisitive outbound hikers.  They pepper us with questions, with variable intensity and persistence: How much further to the geyser?  What did you see?  What will we see?  When did you see it?  When will we see it?  Did you see any bears?  (This final interrogation is, in our experience, the most recurrent question on Yellowstone trails, including the culinary trail through the Canyon Lodge Cafeteria).  Polishing off the remaining Peanut Butter M and M’s and savoring the shimmering loveliness of the Firehole, we respond according to mood and whim, with varying degrees of helpfulness, complacency, or agitation-- but always with appreciation for a worthwhile walk in Wonderland.