Pictures and Approximately One Thousand Words: Favorite Outdoor Moments, 2014

Pancake Hike: A foot-plus of February frozen stuff transforms local trekking grounds at Loantaka Brook Reservation into an aerobic wintry wonderland. After several hours and several miles passed punching through ice and high-stepping across snowy terrain, we return home, hanging soggy outerwear and socks to dry. Ravenous, we feast upon a towering stack of  pancakes slathered in butter and dripping with maple syrup.    

Kitchell Pond, Loantaka Brook Reservation.

Desert Treasure: In late March, Catalina State Park, a five-thousand-acre-plus tract north of Tucson, provides more than a handful of happy hiking moments.  The park’s eclectic trail system leads us to prehistoric and historic archaeological ruins, spectacular macro-views of the Sonoran Desert and Santa Catalina Mountains and equally spectacular micro-views of desert and riparian flora and fauna. And this: a needlessly awkward descent on polished rock to a series of sublime natural pools.

Sonoran Desert, Santa Catalina Mountains.

Clockwise Hike: The Bog Springs/Kent Springs Loop Trail in Madera Canyon, south of Tucson, takes us up a drainage to idyllic Bog Springs, across an oak, juniper, and pinyon pine-covered slope of Mt. Wrightson, and on to a riparian garden at Kent Spring.  Having heeded guide book admonitions to hike clockwise, thus making Kent Spring Road a steep, rugged-but-manageable penultimate descent, we are somewhat surprised to encounter two (mature female) hikers moving counter-clockwise on the trail, thus making Kent Spring Road a steep, rugged-barely-manageable initial ascent. The (mature female) hikers are wearing khaki shorts, bold floral-print blouses, and big floppy hats.  And they have questions: Is there potable water at the springs?  No.  Is Bog Springs just ahead?  No. Do we think they can complete the loop hike and return to Tucson in an hour for an early dinner date?  No!  Oh.  My. Goodness. 

Clockwise Hiking, Madera Canyon.

Sublime Destination: After wending our way along the Middle Fork of Taylor Creek in the remote and consequently less congested Kolub Canyons Section of Zion NP, we find Double Arch Alcove at trail’s end.  Late afternoon light, flame-coral rock, and spring-green vegetation conspire to create a luminous photogenic moment.

Double Arch Alcove, Zion National Park.

Déjà Vu, Indeed: We revisit a four mile round-trip hike to Spectra and Rampart Points at Cedar Breaks National Monument.  The trail skirts the rim of a stunning rock amphitheater, excellent views improved by gnarled grandeur of Bristlecone Pine and fickle steel-gray skies. Our New-Jersey-Elevation-200-Feet Lungs soon remind us that we are hiking at 10,000-Plus-Utah-Feet. And the breeze is picking up.  Rarefied air and threatening weather prompt nostalgic reenactment of a favorite moment from a previous visit. Once upon a hiking time, our vigilant, imaginative young son urgently suggested we “go low” during a pop-up thunderstorm: that we shelter in a naturally-occurring drainage on the rim, a steeply pitched culvert that would likely fill with angry water and discharge the family unit off the precipice... into stunning orange-red rock oblivion below. 

Stroll Down Memory Lane, Cedar Breaks NM.

Rise and Shine: We emerge from rustic lodge room at Bryce Canyon National Park and move through charcoal darkness to Sunrise Point. Predictably, a crowd is congregating at the railed overlook, and so we settle comfortably on a propitiously-placed log a few hundred feet removed from the official viewing area.  The show begins with a subdued rosy hint from the east, gathering heat and intensity before erupting into an extravagant display of color and light playing upon the expanse of hoodoos, spires, and tectonically confused rock arrayed before us. 

Sunrise at Bryce Canyon.

Rock of Ages: The view from Widforss Point on the Grand Canyon’s North Rim is splendid, enthralling. But even as we gape at geologic achievement on a panoramic scale, our attention is drawn to Kaibab Limestone beneath our feet, where an incredible 250 million-year-old story unfolds. It seems that we have parked our well-worn hiking boots on the accumulated detritus of a warm, shallow inland sea! Behold the crinoids: small white disk-shaped fragments, fossilized remains of ocean-going bottom-dwellers, impossibly embedded on this lofty canyon overlook.  

What We Saw at Widforss Point, Grand Canyon NP.

Hoofing It Up: We are eastbound on the Zion-Mt. Carmel Highway, travelling a man-made marvel of bridges, culverts, and retaining walls through a breathtaking natural landscape of terraces, canyons, and rocky ramparts. We are just past the Zion Tunnel when, what to our wandering eyes should appear, but a ungulate cavalcade of goats, clickety-clacking across the pavement and up the roadside rockface. Tin can tourist moment?  Yes.  But these are great goats! 

Great Goat Crossing, Zion National Park.

A Trail Less-Travelled: In late August, we take a hike in the Kolub Terrace Section of Zion National Park.  Our mostly level path meanders down an abandoned recreational vehicle road, across sun-drenched meadow, and through shade-dappled pine forest, jogging left and right and left again to Lava Point, a perfectly fine place to enjoy views of Zion’s Northgate Peaks and North Guardian Angel.  As we perch atop jumbled volcanic boulders and gaze upon striking, striated, steeply-faced, bleach-white sandstone formations before us, conversation quickly progresses from “Look over there” to “I wonder what it’s like over there” to “Let’s go over there.”  And before one can say “Ranger rescue might be required,” we have abandoned our perfectly fine place and are picking our way across one of the striking, striated, steeply-faced, bleach-white sandstone formations.  Unnecessarily harrowing. Visually stimulating. 

 Off-Trail at Northgate Peaks, Zion National Park.

Twilight of the Tarantulas: An early evening stroll to Lower Emerald Pool in Zion Canyon turns into something a bit hairy-scary with multiple unanticipated tarantula encounters. The pathway is creeping and crawling with these misunderstood, mostly-nocturnal creatures—most likely males cruising for female procreative companionship.  We later learn that a male fortunate enough to find a receptive female may well be consumed by said female in the post-connubial afterglow.  Go figure.

Zion Canyon Afterglow.

Mr. Bee says,"Another year in the hiking books... Happy Trails in 2015!"

Up from Paradise: Adventuring on Big Tahoma

Paradise to Camp Muir

Mt. Rainier National Park, WA

9 miles round-trip, strenuous

On this fine August morning circa 2002, we don’t dwell on the fact that our objective is the loftiest non-technical point in the state of Washington—and it’s best we have no way of knowing that Backpacker magazine will one day include the trek from Paradise to Camp Muir in its Ten Most Dangerous Hikes in America. 

Instead, we’re looking up, up, up at the massive stratovolcano some call Big Tahoma, contemplating a trip halfway-to-the-top, anticipating a hybrid hike/climb to Camp Muir that will undoubtedly give us an exhilarating lungful of the air up there.  Once charmingly known as Cloud Camp, the staging point for climbers and destination for day hikers was renamed for naturalist John Muir after his 1888 summit expedition. 

Of all the fire mountains which like beacons... once blazed along the Pacific Coast, Mt. Rainier is the noblest.  ~John Muir

Paradise Meadow.

As is our custom, we travel lightly: hats and sunscreen, layers on top, shorts(!) and sturdy boots, availing ourselves of trekking poles, carrying adequate food and water, apprising ourselves of route and weather information.  A minimalist approach, yes, but a realistic one.  We are prepared to stop and/or turn around if the going gets rough on the south face of this 14,410-foot Cascade peak.

Subalpine Meadow and Creek.

We embark from Paradise on the Skyline Trail.  The first two miles pass innocuously enough, on paved trail and then on well-worn rocky path. We meander across restored subalpine meadow—purple lupine, magenta paintbrush, and yellow cinquefoil nodding in the morning breeze, hoary marmots signaling our passage through their fragile ecosystem home with simultaneously endearing and irritating toot-shrieking calls.  

Past the idyllic drainage of Pebble Creek, the way becomes more challenging, traversing rock outcroppings and snow patches until the transition is complete.  We have moved from a world of wildflowers and whistle pigs into a startling realm of snow, mountain, and sky.

Making Progress on the Snowfield.

And so the climb begins.  Step by snowbound step, we scale two-plus miles and 2800 vertical feet across Muir Snowfield.  We keep a steady pace, progressing ever-upward, pausing occasionally to rest and reconnoiter on craggy basalt islands adrift in a mounded sea of snow.  Above eight thousand feet, the rate of ascent moderates: cold comfort, as the air is rarifying, and there remains plenty of white stuff above.

On Muir Snowfield.

On this blue-sky morning, the route is clear and crevasse-free.  Many have observed that Rainier produces its own weather: storm systems roll off the Pacific, enveloping Big Tahoma in blinding fog and big snow, limiting visibility, transforming the snowfield into a winter-washed wasteland.  A land without landmarks exposes disoriented hikers and climbers to peril on adjacent glaciers. 

Today... so far, so good.  We keep eyes trained on those empty blue skies.

Approaching Camp Muir.

Step, step, step, pause.  Step, step, step, pause.  Legs and lungs pose the increasingly persistent question: Are we there yet?  Indeed, the final stretch—several hundred footfalls up several hundred vertical feet—are the most psychologically and physically challenging of the  climb.  Those.  Buildings.  Look.  So.  Close.  Step, step, step, pause.  Finally, we step, step, step off the snowfield and onto the rocky reprieve of Camp Muir, 4600 vertical feet above Paradise.

At Camp Muir.

The camp, elevation 10,080 feet, rests impressively, implausibly, on a saddle between the Nisqually and Cowlitz Glaciers.  Two rustic stone structures dominate the suspended hamlet: one, a public shelter accommodating climbers on a first-come, first-served basis; the other, a bunkhouse quartering a professional guide company.  Clusters of orange, yellow, green, and blue tents splash nylon color across a landscape delimited by rock and snow.  It is very quiet here.  Climbers move about, attending to pre-summit preparations. Fellow day hikers mill about, speaking in muted tones and snapping photographs.   We settle on a rock ledge, enjoy the snacks we carried, and take it all in.

Clouds and Cascades: View from Camp Muir.

It’s an extraordinary sensory experience, hanging out on the side of a snow-covered stratovolcano.  Periodically, we hear distant-or-not-so-distant rumblings of melting ice and snow, moving breccia and basalt, tumbling downward to settle in a new place.  In those moments, it seems like Big Tahoma is alive and kicking.  We look to the now blue-but-cloud-scuttled sky and then to the terrestrial panorama.  Beyond the serrated Tatoosh Range, Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Hood congregate on an inexpressibly lovely horizon, a veritable Who’s Who of Cascade peaks.  Closer, on this mountain, impressive glaciers sweep away from the camp; Gilbralter and Cathedral Rocks and Little Tahoma loom above us.

Momentarily Dignified and Upright on the Descent.

Back to the Meadow.

Step, step, step, slide.  Step, step, step, long slide.  Step.  Very long slide.  The descent from Camp Muir to Paradise presents challenges of its own. Afternoon sun has tempered the snow—it’s not too soft, not too icy—and we settle on something vaguely resembling the classic glissade, an often comical, knee-burning attempt to control rate of descent.  Gravity is our friend, and we’re soon delivered to the land of gurgling mountain creeks, nodding wildflowers, and whistling hoary marmots.

Noble Rainier, Making Its Own Weather.

When John Muir returned to more firma terra after his 1888 summit, he campaigned to establish Mt. Rainier as a national park and confided to his wife, I didn’t mean to climb it, but got carried away. We understand his enthusiasm.  We did in fact mean to climb halfway up and step-slide halfway down Big Tahoma, and we are similarly carried away, adventuring on the mountain Theodore Roosevelt called our noblest landmark.

Wherefore Art Thou, Romero Pools?

Romero Pools

Catalina SP, Tucson, Arizona

5.6 miles round-trip, moderate

With apologies to the Bard of Avon, the Wherefore Question is asked and answered here, in the foothills of the Santa Catalinas.  We find plenty of reasons to praise this out-and-back hike: panoramic views, fanciful rock formations, sublime water features, display of desert flora, and a positive effort/reward ratio along the trail. 
 

Embarking from the trailhead on an already-warm spring morning, we straightaway traverse broad-and-sandy Sutherland Wash.  The park brochure informs us that we might just get our feet wet in seasonal flow: we don’t today and, chances are, you won’t either.  It’s dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage (As You Like It, Act II. Scene VII) on this tract of state park land.

Cholla Cactus, Catalina State Park.

It's Dry Here.

Happily, the Where Question is also asked and answered here.  Clear and abundant signage directs us toward Romero Canyon at every fork or junction in the trail.  After a short-and-steep opening hill, the first mile is easy-going: a well-defined path traverses desert floor to Montrose Pools.  The park brochure informs us that these pools are usually dry.  Indeed, they are dry as hay today (Macbeth, Act I. Scene III) and they’ll probably be dry on your hike, too.

Past Montrose Pools, we begin a more precipitous, one-point-eight mile ascent across the exposed northern face of Montrose Canyon.  The sun, arching ever-higher in the sky, follows our progress and warms the air as we move along increasingly rugged trail. 

Climbing, Climbing, Climbing on the Romero Canyon Trail.

Let us seek out some desolate shade (Macbeth, Act IV. Scene III).  Sorry, Shakespeare, desolate shade is one thing that’s lacking here.  We pause periodically, not only to hydrate, but also to appreciate panoramic Oro Valley unfolding behind us.  The view is impressive—despite insidious encroachment of Tucson commercial and residential sprawl on desert landscape.  But soft!  What light through yonder Walmart breaks?

Enjoying the View, Romero Canyon Trail.

After climbing, climbing, and climbing some more, we reach a ridge between Montrose and Romero Canyons.  Tracing the ridgeline, giving a little and taking a little in elevation, we hear a distant waterfall and spot it from a natural overlook.  And suddenly, with late-morning light splashing across the craggy igneous rock face, the once-distant Catalina Mountains seem quite close, almost palpable.

Flora, Romero Canyon Trail.

In time, we descend from the ridge, dropping to Romero Pools, an idyllic hollow of sheltering trees, shimmering stream catchments, and tumbling waterfalls on the canyon bottom. The park brochure informs us that this water flows seasonally.  It is flowing energetically today, and it’s pleasing to think that we chose a good season to visit.

The Other One of Us.

Caution!  Water-polished rock is slippery when wet and sort-of-slippery when not wet.  After agile scrambling (one of us) and inelegant inching (the other one of us), we settle on a waterfront ledge for rest and refreshment.  No cakes and ale (Twelfth Night, Act II. Scene III), but we partake of crackers and water as riparian butterflies flitter about.  The ambient temperature invites some to dangle feet (our party) and others to strip down and dip body parts (another party) in the pools.

Testing the Waters, Romero Pools.

Beyond the pools, unmaintained wilderness trail ascends up the canyon four-point-four miles through landscape ravaged by a 2003 forest fire.  Romero Pass sounds like a destination for another day.

Above the Pools.

Commencing Return Hike.

Another day, another day.  And so, Shakespeare, here’s our single complaint about the day.  On our return hike, we encounter plenty of outbound hikers, including a loud foursome with a large, rambunctious, unleashed dog named Mike. This, despite clear and abundant signage stating that the trail is closed to bicycles and dogs beyond Montrose Pools.  While we understand that every dog will have his day (Hamlet, Act V. Scene I), Mike should not be having his day in direct violation of Desert Bighorn Sheep Management Area regulations.

Hohokam Ruins.

In the early evening, we take a short walk along the Romero Ruins Trail, reflecting upon remnants of a Hohokam village circa 500-1500AD and the toppled remains of a nineteenth-century ranch built by Tucson native Francisco Romero.  The sun begins to settle on the western horizon, saturating Catalina State Park in rosy-orangy-golden glow.  The Where is wonderful and the Wherefore is abundantly clear.

Day's End, Catalina State Park.