Ashley Guberman, Open Musings

Kristen and I went on a hike this weekend in the Olympic mountains. The original plan was to try to go to the summit of Mt. Olympus, which is about 7900 feet, but the avalanche risk was too high. So instead, we followed most of the same route, and went towards "Hoh lake".

Friday night we took the ferry over Puget sound to the Olympic peninsula, drove into a town called Sequim (pronounced Squim) and stayed at a hotel. Saturday morning we finished the drive and started on the trail about 10:30a. The trail goes all along the Hoh river, through an incredibly dense temperate rain forest. We were fortunate enough to have really great weather and fantastic views all around. Our campsite was just over 10 miles into the trail.

The second day (Sunday), we left our camp set up where it was, and hiked with lighter packs for about 5 miles up hill towards the mountain lake. However, we hit snow-pack, and that slowed us down. This was low-angle snow, so avalanche risk was not an issue (greater than 30 and less than 60 is the risk zone). I had brought my mountaineering boots (the ones that accept crampons) thinking we’d climb Olympus. Since we changed that plan back at the car, and these boots are VERY heavy and hard to walk in off of snow, I left them behind and just took my running shoes. (Mountaineering boots are almost like ski-boots, except the ankle moves a little more). Anyway, running shoes were not the best for the snow. We had some plastic bags, and I put them between my socks and shoes, and we kept going.

We had to stop when we got just below a huge water fall and a difficult creek crossing. We were about 1/2 mile from the lake, and probably ‘could’ have made it, but it was getting latter in the day, and falling in would have compromised our margin of safety far too much. So we turned around at about the 5-mile mark on this hike and went back to camp.

We got back to camp just as it was starting to rain. We threw up a tarp so we would have something to cook under, since it’s not a good idea to cook in a tent when there are bears around. We even saw one of the foot prints on our hike, and the print was well bigger than my outstretched hand.

At camp, we cooked dinner on the camp stove, and I put my shoes next to the it as I cooked. I could hear Dad’s voice in my head as I looked at these rag-tag, mud-laden, seam-busted, leather-ripped running shoes, and he was saying "You know, this would be a great time for one of those unfortunate sneaker fires I keep warning you about…" But they dried out reasonably well, and we had a nice dinner of bean stew.

Monday, we woke up to a torrential downpour, broken periodically with bits of hail. Motivation to get out of the warm tent to cook and pack was difficult, except that we still had the 10 miles to hike just to get back to the car. I got out and fetched our food from the ‘bear wires’ about 30 yards away and started making hot water for oatmeal and coco, while Kristen started packing up the stuff inside the tent. After breakfast, we took everything out of the tent and put it under the tarp so that I could collapse the wet tent and stuff it into my backpack (yuck). 

I was thinking for a moment what my folks would do in that place. 
a) find a hotel
b) call a cab
c) they would never go that far into a rain forest in the first place.
OK, so it’s option C, but they would also miss out on the shear beauty and splendor of one of God’s many finer creations.

All over the place, there were trees covered in with an incredibly dense canopy of moss. Nearly every surface you could see in all directions was covered with something in various shades of green. Here and there, trees had fallen to the ground and were being rapidly consumed and re-used as other plants and animals re-used all available resources to perpetuate their own cycle of life. There were trees on the ground that were many times wider than I am tall.

So we packed everything we came with back into our packs, and began our return trip to the car. With all the rain from the night before, the trail had become a near continuous mud-pit. On the bright side, it meant that the walk back looked completely different, and was less like back-tracking. At one point, we came to another stream crossing, and Kristen laughed and said "Look at this stream… we’ve walked through mud deeper than that!" so we just kept going.

At one point on our hike we even heard a distant tree fall in the forest. I can’t answer whether a tree that falls when nobody is around makes a noise or not, but if people ARE around, I can testify that it most definitely makes a noise akin to thunder.

As we walked, the weather was continually changing from momentary periods of bright sunshine, to downpours, to hail, and back to sunshine again, all within 10 minutes, and repeating over and over again. There was one spot along the river where we could see across the river to the steep mountains on the other side. They were covered with an incredibly deep shade of green and had clouds scattered about rising out from the ground, climbing up the slope back to the sky like the Phoenix rising from the ashes.

Eventually, we made it back to the car, plenty tired, and plenty dirty. We had hiked about 30 miles over the weekend. We shed the outer, dirt-laden layer from our bodies, threw all the gear into the back of the car, washed up a bit in the rest rooms at the ranger station, and headed out on the road, destined for the first place we found that made pizza.

Copyright 2001, Ashley Guberman

1/26/98, Monday Night.
Bright Angel Camp, Bottom of the Grand Canyon

Oh, to ache in every muscle, so much so that any movement at all produces a peculiar, involuntary groaning noise, much like father used to make. Reaching for an object involves a grunt. Something more complex like bending over to pick something up involves a near symphony of noises, as though each muscle and joint felt an undeniable need to voice its disapproval for doing anything other than succumbing to gravity in a somewhat controlled fall onto the ground, where at they could at last all be still.

And of course, when that wish is finally granted in the form of climbing into my sleeping bag, those same muscles and bones let loose with a sigh of relief. It takes five, maybe even ten deep breaths just to get enough air to let loose with enough ahh… And it is indeed well deserved.

I got a very leisurely start this morning, having stayed at a lodge last night. I slept until 10AM, got breakfast, back-country permits, packed my backpack, and hit the trail head just before 2PM. To hell with "Alpine" starts — I’m here on vacation.

The canyon has several peculiar qualities to it. One of which is that from the top, there’s not a damn thing that makes it stand out at all. But approach the rim at one of the overlooks and the sheer grandeur of this place is overwhelming. I took a few photos, but knew intrinsically that no photo could do this place justice.

The upper part of the trail, at 7,260’ was covered with ice, making travel quite difficult. Much to my chagrin, the only true indication of the likelihood of slipping on the ice was the amount of mule droppings one could hit upon falling. Fortunately, that part only lasted about 1/4 mile. After that, the trail became more walkable, though it was indeed rather steep, filled with one switch back after another.

All along the decent, the rock would change from one formation to another as I traveled through older and older periods in geologic time. There were signs along the way indicating the Devonian, Algonquian, pre-Cambrian, and other periods, but I mostly notice that the color of my boots kept changing as the soil transitioned between periods.

In about 4 1/2 hours, I’d managed to walk 6.4 miles, descending 4,860 feet, and crossing 6 million years of geology.

So it’s no wonder that I’m tired. But when I finally arrived at Bright Angel camp, there were other things to do, despite my desire to simply go to bed. There were the chores of cooking, making camp, eating, and cleaning up which needed to be done. So with more care and dedication than I typically spend at home, I made spaghetti with green peppers, tofu, tomatoes, and two cups of hot cocoa.

While eating by candle-lantern, I noticed this peculiar set of ears across the picnic table from me. They looked like they belonged to a cat at first, until this tiny paw reached up, followed by a tiny face and eyes more like an overgrown hamster. I turned on my headlight in time to scare it away before it absconded with my muffins. It had a long, slender body, and a big puffy gray tail with black rings on it. I later learned it was a "Ringtail," which I had never seen before.

* * *

1/27/98 Tuesday Morning
Bright Angel Camp, Bottom of the Grand Canyon

By morning, I’m well rested, but could easily sleep in until noon, were it not for the need to use the restroom. Slowly, begrudgingly, I exit the warmth and comfort of my cocoon-like sleeping bag, pound my feet into cold, stiff boots, take one step forward, and land on my face.

My feet and calves are not at all happy about what I did to them last night, and they just wanted to make sure I knew about it before I did anything like that again. They probably don’t know about the uphill part yet, and I’m not going to tell them.

For now, I’m sitting at a picnic table across from a gently babbling brook that feeds into the Colorado river. There’s about 30 yards of grass, shrubs, and small trees on either shore before the land takes a sharp turn upwards towards the sky in what is literally a mile of vastly spread out vertical rock. But from most any part of the canyon, it only looks to be a few hundred feet high.

It’s like for an ant standing at the base of a wedding cake, seeing only the ledge of the first layer. Once crested, there’s still another layer that was not visible from below. Except that here in the canyon, I am the ant, there are more layers than I can remember, and they range anywhere from 200 to 1500 feet high.

It’s difficult to imagine that this vast macrocosm of the canyon could have been deposited as a sea-bed, then carved away by something as simple and soothing as the stream now before me and others like it which join the Colorado river. It’s a question of scale — from the towering rim, the river can barely even be seen. It is but a tiny trickle running through the channels between these vast walls. How could the walls themselves have been carved by something so very far away?

Except that it has not always been as it is now. Those placards I passed along my hike to the canyon’s belly "explained" the milestones and the history of the canyon’s formation, but it is an explanation by man. To examine, analyze, explain, and compress centuries, if not eons of history into a few mere signs along the descent is absurd.

The geologic layers on the canyon walls are as the rings on a tree — those rings are not the tree itself, but mere markers of its history of life. So too are the layers of this canyon markers of the life history of this part of the planet.

* * *

1/27/98 8:30PM Tuesday Evening
Ribbon Falls

There are few things more intrinsically satisfying than partaking of a reward for something well deserved. Lying down at the end of a long day is one such thing. Today’s hike brought me 6.4 miles up along Bright Angel Creek, gaining 2.600’ in the process. Following the water course, my grade was much more shallow, and the life along the way more abundant.

My original destination was another 1.3 miles further down the trail, but I decided to pitch camp here by ribbon Falls instead, because at 5:30PM I was already pretty tired and loosing daylight. So because of my location, I had to find a spot that met all the usual criteria for a campsite, but also was reasonably hard to see, should a ranger come by in the morning before I’m out of here.

There was a lovely rock and sand spot, beneath an overhang, around a corner from another rock outcropping, just 30 yards from the sign that said "Day use only." Knowing that part of my responsibility is also to know my limits and take care of myself, that spot is now home for the evening.

My legs were pretty stiff this morning when I got up, and they’re good and sore now. Knowing that tomorrow I go back the same 6.4 miles I came today, then have to go up the 4,860’ the day after that, I’m concerned that my last day to get out of the canyon may take 8-12 hours of grueling uphill push.

Then a demonic voice in my mind calls out "Yes! You must push on! Further! Harder! You’re on vacation, remember? When will be the next time you have another opportunity to torture yourself like this? Pain is weakness leaving the body. Now quit whining and enjoy yourself. This is fun!"

Well, the hiking is fun. Knowing I’m a completely self contained unit is satisfying. The scenery is spectacular. The weather is near perfect. The stars at night are incredible. But the pain I could do without.

Bounded by one candle power, my immediate world is indeed full of splendor. To my side lay my empty boots. Old and worn, they are like trusted friends, for over the years we’ve done a great many miles together. Surrounding my body is a combination of goose feathers and nylon, protecting me from the evenings cold. Over my head is an arch of rock, forming an amphitheater with room enough just for one. Twenty and forty feet away are small trees and shrubs illuminated by my candle, but casting no shadow, for beyond them is nothing but black emptiness.

Off in the distance, the sound of water rushing downhill to the sea can be heard. There are many sounds hidden within the water, all blending together, yet still distinct. There is the sound of the waterfall around the corner as it tumbles over a 50’ drop; there is the steady and constant rush over small obstacles and bends as it passes not far from my feet; and there is the sound of this small tributary as it joins up with the larger stream just out of sight.

And overhead are the stars — my own private planetarium. Orion is directly in front of me, with such clarity that the whole constellation can be seen, not just the belt and sword. Equally clear, to the left is his dog, Canus Major. And to the right, Taurus and the Pleiades.

* * *

1/28/98 3:20PM Wednesday Afternoon
Bright Angel Camp

Having awakened several times during the night, my first sight was that each time I opened my eyes, the sky had changed, sliding all the constellations off to the right a little each time. Then finally, I woke to see the stars slowly fade out of sight against the brightening skyline, and the edges and contours of the canyon walls come into focus again. Being awake for the transition, it was clear that the stars were still out there, continuing their circumferential journey around the pole-star, only masked by the dawning glory of another day.

I made myself breakfast and packed my belongings into my backpack. While doing so, I heard a chopper coming up through the canyon. It stopped briefly over my campsite, but by that time it was no longer clear that I was there all night. My first thought was that they take the regulations pretty seriously here! But the chopper continued on, and was really only there to drop off some workers and equipment to fix a water-line break.

By early afternoon, I had made it back to Bright Angel camp, and still had plenty of daylight left, so I took the opportunity to have the mandatory Mac and Cheese dinner. All camping trips greater than two nights long are required to have this at least once, otherwise the nature gods get angry and give you rain, harsh winds, or the runs. Take your pick. Anyway, it’s quick, easy, tastes good, but it’s a mess to clean up. So the extra light came in handy.

I was actually thinking of heading out towards Indian Garden Campground after eating, to get a head start for tomorrow’s journey. All I had to do was stand up to realize that was simply not going to happen. I’ll go to bed early tonight, with hopes of an early start tomorrow morning. So far, I have yet to hit the trail by 9:30AM. Tomorrow, I really need to be walking by 8AM to make sure I’m out of the canyon before dark. I’m giving myself 10 hours to get out, and may very well need all of it.

It’s not pleasant to be amidst all this beauty and have my mind focusing on fears that tomorrow is going to be a long, difficult, painful day of nothing but uphill climbing.

* * *

1/29/98 Thursday Afternoon
Bright Angel Camp

I now have a new found appreciation for watching toddlers try to walk. The basic problem is that their legs simply won’t do what they are told. So as I waddled along the camp trail to the restroom, it occurred to me that that was exactly how I must have looked. I can imagine being pulled over for a random DUI check and being asked to walk a straight line, and failing miserably.

However, most of the pain was gone this morning other than my calves. Whether it was acclimatization or senselessness, I could not tell. Some stretching took care of the calves, and I was ready to head up and out of this thing.

Though I saw the same canyon on my way down, it was all the more impressive on the way up since I had to work so much harder to get there. I basically gave up trying to figure just how much further it was — each plateau only giving rise to the next one in what seemed an ongoing series of ledges without end.

First thing in the morning, I had looked at my bag of remaining food, and could only see it as fuel, not as something tasty to eat. And of course, my choice of what to eat from that bag has always been guided by one principle: eat the heavy things first. Just the other night I was asking myself "How can this thing still be so damn heavy?" The answer, of course, is that it takes a lot of fuel to get out of here: 3 packs of oatmeal, 2 hot cocoas, 1/4 pound of peanut butter, 2 apples, a power bar, two tomatoes, two English muffins loaded with jelly, a hunk of cheese, and a handful of crackers. And when finally out, I was ready for dinner.

The trip out took me 6 1/2 hours, including rest stops. As with the rest of this trip, there were very few other people, save for the campground and the 2 miles near the top. In fact, just as sea-gulls are a sign to sailors that land is not too far away, running into those pitiful excuses for hikers known as "day trippers" let me know I was getting close to the top. Unfortunately, the last 1.5 miles gains 1,500’ of elevation, the grade is steeper, the air colder and windier, and of course there’s the fact that just when I need it most, mother nature decides to make the air a little thinner and to start dumping snow on me. Not just the whole Southern rim, I’m sure — this snow is meant for me personally.

The real Irony is looking forward to the extra difficulties I know I’ll run into, because I know the worse it gets, the closer I am to the egress. So when I finally reached the shit-laden ice field, I knew I was home free! Just 1/4 of this and I’m out of here!

So as I’m walking oh so gingerly, I have this flashback to Kung Fu, where Master Po asks Grasshopper to walk barefoot across a floor covered with rice paper without tearing it. Po says when you can do this, it will be time to leave. Except that my challenge is far less spiritual. All I have to do is go up an ice-covered hill with a 50 pound pack without falling and sliding downhill through the manure. Cain got plenty of time to practice. I, however, had no desire to do this more than once.

So I finally got to the top, and there’s this couple in their late 40’s getting ready to go down at around 3PM, with street shoes, and these tiny day packs. I overhear one of them mention just making to Phantom Lodge by dark, so I asked them "You do have a water filtration device, right?" No, they say. The lodge has water. "Not since this morning it doesn’t. Water main broke." So they turn around and leave. Gee… no point inn going down then, is there? Day trippers — completely unprepared.

 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Friday, November 28, 1997

I have discovered the ultimate meaning of life: it is to stay warm and dry. Actually, staying dry is a lost cause, but it serves to occupy time while one fights for the larger goal of staying warm.

Now, under ordinary circumstances, this is not such a big deal. One simply goes inside, or grabs the nearest towel. But these are all byproducts of modern society. When out in the woods, one is in closer contact with the elements, and learns what’s really important.

But perhaps I should back up to the beginning. This trip was supposed to have several purposes. For one, it was my annual solo camping trip. For another, I had planned to take all the papers from my divorce, and ceremoniously burn them on a mountain top to symbolically let go of their weight and burden on my life.

I left Seattle Wednesday night, with the intention of parking near the trail head and starting up Thursday morning – Thanksgiving day. However, at some point I crossed the snow-line, and driving became a little difficult. I went into the trunk to pull out my chains, only to discover that they were not there. OK, Plan B: keep going until there’s a place wide enough to turn around.

Unfortunately, that was another mile down the road, and by that time I had become firmly entrenched in the snow, necessitating attempts to extricate myself in the rain. After about 30 minutes, I remembered that I had all the food and clothing I needed for a 3 day camping trip, so I simply spent my first night here in the car. If anyone came along and I was blocking their way, then they could give me a hand getting out of there.

By morning, the rain had changed to snow, and I was desperately missing the days when I drove a 4-runner instead of my Nissan Sentra. Just as I feared, things didn’t look any better in the daylight than they had at night. I pushed and shoved as best I could, but I was most definitely stuck. I did, however, have my ice-axe with me in the trunk. It has an adz about two inches wide, and that would have to be my shovel. Not the most ideal of tools, but it was better than using my hands. Also, since it was Thanksgiving day, I knew that if I didn’t do something on my own, I could end up being there a while.

The fact that my front tires had next to zero tread did not help. I made a mental note: get new tires. So as I was busy digging trenches to drive through, and lining them with sticks, I could not help but remember that I’d been in this predicament before. Except that last time it was in the middle of summer in the Utah Salt flats in a rental car. Eventually, I managed to get myself turned around and pointed South down the mountain again. I went just below the snow line, parked, and figured I’d just walk that part back up to the trail head.

So as I got my pack all loaded up and started walking back up the hill, the weight of that 16 pound mass of papers hit me right away. I began to see what a good analogy that sack was to my former marriage. First off, it was heavy and did not contribute much to the journey. It provided a slight amount of warmth because the day-pack it was in covered my front side, but ultimately it just made me work harder. My spouse had never shared my enthusiasm for the outdoors, nor even gone on a trip with me. So this sack saw more of the woods and my dedication to ideals than the mariage ever did. And of course, there would be the fact that by letting go of the emotional baggage symbolized in that sack by burning it, I would be 16 pounds physically lighter too.

My backpack was already 50 pounds, so the extra 16 brought my weight to baggage ratio well beyond the customary 20%. Tightening the analogy, it had a definite impact on my speed, as my progress up the mountain was dismal.

When the snow got deeper, weight became more of a problem since I kept sinking in the snow to my knees, and it was hard to see over the front pack. So I came to a stream crossing, and decided that there was no merit in letting that sack drag me down any further. I found a suitable rock, and planned to burn them on the spot to lighten my load. Except that all that paper takes a good while to burn. I was struck by the amount of attention it took to keep feeding that fire, and how much energy was given off in its destruction. Amazing. After about an hour, I’d only gone through about ¾ of it, and realized that I was loosing daylight. So I threw the remaining 4 pounds in my backpack, and kept going up the mountain.

My goal was to go the 3.2 miles to West Caddy Ridge, then about another mile down the other side to camp at a gap. However, I still kept falling in the snow up to about my knees, and progress was slow and arduous. As 4:00, then 4:30 rolled around, as best I could tell, I was still about 2 hours from the ridge at this pace. It was beginning to get dark, and had been raining the entire time. I decided that this was as good a place to pitch my tent as any.

But that’s when I realized that I didn’t have my tent with me. I must have left it on the back seat of my car when I pulled my sleeping bag out the night before. This was not a pretty sight. I was wet, it was getting dark, the snow was soft and mushy, and I had no tent. Better think fast, because it’s going to be one long night.

So I found a grove of pine trees, which are known to cover large holes in the snow around their base. I deliberately plunged in, making an indentation all the way up to my waste. Then, climbing out, I did it again, and again, until I had stomped out an area big enough for my bivy sack. The hole I had made was now protected from the wind on one side by my snow wall, and on the others by the trees. The down-side was that being under the trees meant a near constant dripping of water, even if the rain should let up.

So I inflated my therma-rest mattress, threw it and my sleeping bag inside of my bivy sack, and stared at the contraption dumb-founded. That’s it? That’s going to be my home for the evening? Sure its small and light weight, but it was supposed to be a heat supplement for my summer solo tent, not my sole provider of shelter and warmth. I thought of the many days I’d spent outside in the elements with a tent no more than 6’x4’ wide, and realized that comparably, those were days of sheer luxury. It’s amazing what reality can do for one’s sense of perspective.

I thought about starting my stove for dinner, but became acutely aware of how cold I had become now that my level of physical exertion had dropped. I gathered everything so that I could reach it from the opening in my bivy-sac, stripped off my wet cloths and climbed in. The bivy sack is just barely bigger than my sleeping bag, with two short poles by the head to keep the nylon off my face and make it easier to breath Basically, it’s the ultimate in a full-body condom – thick enough to keep the elements out, but thin enough to feel the rain above and snow below.

After a short while inside my goose-down bag, my shivering stopped, and I could turn my attention back to food. Cooking was definitely out – too much effort, and I’d have to get out of my bag. So I rummaged around inside my food sack, and pulled in whatever looked good. Umm, yes! Honey roasted cashew nuts – light weight, covered in sugar and salt, and loaded with fat. Just what I needed right now. I ate them one at a time in rapid succession, trying not to spill any inside my sleeping bag. Oh, they were so good!

More rummaging revealed some dried apricots. I snarfed down six of those, followed by a pop-tart chaser, washed it all down with some Gukenade, then it was time for bed. But not until after "Now I lay me down to sleep…" You know, that one never seemed quite so poignant as it did this time. It was about 6pm, dark, cold, raining, and I was inside of a pile of nylon and goose feathers, hoping I wouldn’t freeze before sunrise the next morning. I had the distinct feeling it would be a long night.

I woke up again around midnight, munched on a bagel and cheese, then went back to bed. At 2am, I had to go to the bathroom, and did not want to leave the comfort of my cocoon. Even though it didn’t take long, in the time it took me to go 5 feet from my sack and relieve myself, I had gone from toasty warm to freezing cold, to shaking violently.

Around 7am, I woke again, knowing I had survived the night. Except that it was now pouring rain, and I could not muster the motivation to get out of my bag, put on cold, wet rain gear, stuff everything into my pack and head back to the car. Never mind my planned 17 mile route – if it took me almost all day to go this far, perhaps this was a trip better done in the spring.

Fortunately, if my mind lacked the motivation to get out of my sleeping bag, my bladder did not. So I carefully thought out what to do and in what order to maximize my efficiency in getting into warm cloths and packing up. By rapidly stuffing everything I could into my compression sack, I was able to cinch it all together and into my pack in almost no time.

With gravity on my side, the trip back down the mountain should have been easier than the way up. However, most of my steps sent me plunging through the snow up to my waist. Oh how I longed for the trip up where I only fell in to my knees! But eventually, I did make it back to the road, and continued my hike down to where I was parked.

My plan was to just open my trunk, throw everything in the back, and head home. So imagine my surprise when I opened my trunk to find everything in there soaking wet. I don’t know how water got in there, but it did. At that point, I didn’t care, so I just splashed my pack into the middle of it, closed the trunk, and headed for the drivers seat. Again, more water. I opened the door and was promptly greeted by a brief but distinct waterfall as it washed the mud off from the tops of my boots. The window had only been opened about 1 millimeter, but that was all it took. Somehow, my seat was dry, but the floor well was a veritable swimming pool.

I tried to ignore it, but the splashing at my feet was just too distracting. So I went back into the trunk and got my cooking pot, and began to bail the water out of my car. I can honestly say that there was more water in my car than has ever been inside my Kayak, and something was definitely awry.

But at least I was headed home, and I was warm.

And that last 4 pound of paper? I can safely say that it’s just garbage now.

 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman