With the smoke and the fire and the stars at night

Up again in the morning bright

With nothing but road and sky in sight

And nothing to do but go...

—old hobo poem

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Where You Been?

This little guy/gal came for a visit one morning.

I've never understood people who talk a lot, being somewhat of an introvert myself, but also because it seems like you already know all that stuff you're saying to others. So generally, I feel that it's best to let them talk and tell you something different. You might learn a few things you didn't know.

Not too long after, this guy/gal showed up.

It's been awhile since I posted—around six months—and as I sit drinking my morning coffee, it seems really quiet here in Western Colorado, and I'm wondering where you've all been. I know where I've been, but that seems rather mundane in comparison to some of the places and things you've all been doing. (I do hope to rectify that in the near future with another trip into what the early Spaniards called the "Northern Mystery," AKA the Northern Rockies and Canada.)

Rowdy found it all rather interesting, but since bears make me nervous, we decided to leave Colorado and head south.

To stave off the winter blues, I've been busy outfitting myself for another trip, and my car is now moski proof (or so I hope). I ordered a custom screen for the back window, so no more getting wound up in mosquito netting while trying to drape it across the back window. I've also jury rigged some "moski socks," which are giant socks made of netting that fit over my two front windows. You open the door and set them across the door frame then close the door, allowing you to open and close your side windows at will and not worry about bugs. (If you think I'm being a bit paranoid about all this, just read this.) 

Saying goodbye to the fall colors near Glenwood Springs, Colorado

I also bought a nice fold-up mattress and a few other items that would make car-camping easier, like this little tent that goes off the back door.

We actually first headed west, camping in the Big Empty north of Green River, Utah. I waved, wanting to stop the train and ask everyone where they were going, but the engineer just honked.

Anyway, here are a few photos to kind of catch up on what I've been doing. Let me know where you've been and what adventures have found you, and I hope a few find me in the days to come.

We did some exploring around the big country south of Price, Utah. Lots of neat stuff and no people anywhere.
With views like this.

We then headed over to Moab country and camped near Klondike Bluffs.

Out in the middle of nowhere and yet everywhere.

When I started seeing people, I fled further south, hanging around near the tiny town of Gunlock. The Virgin River is between the shrubs in the foreground and the cottonwoods. Not much water, and it's hard to believe it's actually carried houses away not far downriver in St. George. Parts of Utah are in a historic drought almost as bad as California's, and some towns, such as East Carbon/Sunnyside, have severe water restrictions (no outside watering of any kind, not even your trees or garden). 

Just enough water to get wet and then take a nice sand bath, Weezee's favorite.

Off to Snow Canyon near St. George for awhile. This served as a basecamp while I explored...

The remote and wonderful Arizona Strip...

The fascinating Beaver Dam Mountains (more to the eye than one might guess)...
The Beaver Dam Mountains near St. George, Utah

With no maps (I like to actually explore, not just drive around), I wondered where this went and was a bit hesitant to find out, as it was a late afternoon in November. It turned out to be a fun drive, eventually turning into a one-lane and somewhat rough road that circled through the mountains and into the Paiute Reservation.

And of course, I had to visit beautiful Zion.

Finally, I headed back to Colorado, trying to outrun a big storm. Late evening, heading into a campground in the Tusher Mountains near Richfield, Utah, with no idea what I would find. 
Dawn revealed these cool palisades and hoodoos. There was nary a soul around, and I'll never forget the stars that clear night, hanging in the sky like crystals, so big you could almost touch them and burn your fingertips. And it was cold, dropping to 20 degrees.
Sunset over the Big Empty. After returning to my temporary base camp in Colorado, I sold my trailer, deciding it was keeping me from getting into the real back country. I'll tent camp for awhile, then maybe get a truck and camper. I hope to head out next week for parts unknown, following whatever wandering star I happen to notice in the sky.

So, enough of my rambling (I already knew all this stuff)—just what the heck have you been up to?

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Giving it My Best Shot

If you've ever camped, you know the feeling: It's getting late, the fire's burning low, you and your friends have pretty much talked each other out and you all now just sit there, watching the last glowing embers, relaxed under a vault of bright stars that look like you could reach up and touch them. 

It's time to go to bed, but you're reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire and the rare moment of sheer contentment (or maybe you've just had too much wine and aren't sure you can walk that far). In some ways, it's the apex of camping and a moment when one can almost feel a direct link with our early hunter-gatherer ancestors who lived this way every day. 

I've been camping in the desert with two very special friends, and though we didn't have a fire, we did share some great conversation. But when one of my friends asked if I were content, I had to answer no, in spite of the moment's ambiance. 

"There's always another book out there, waiting to be written," was my reply.

Rowdy says he'd be content if he just had more catnip.

I'm now back in Colorado for a couple of days and will soon return for a more extended desert stay, and my friend's question keeps coming back to me: "Are you content?" It seems to match well with another question I've been asked, "What are you running from, and what are you running to?"

I don't have any answers, but I do think that, in general, we're about as happy as we make up our minds to be. Our mindsets are the result of many factors, all the way from how we're taught to view the world as children to refusing to change because we're more comfortable with the devil we know. 

For me, true contentment comes with sitting in a camp chair watching the dogs sleep and thinking of nothing except where our next camp will be or what's for dinner. Maybe that's getting pretty elemental in the grand scheme of things, but so be it. I make no claims to being a great thinker, or even any kind of thinker. 

And so, with that, I think I'm going to go on back out there and see how long I can be content before making myself unhappy again. I'm going to give it my best shot and really try for it. I have nothing to lose, and everything to gain, but there's no stress or expectations. It will all equal out, and I have no reason to not be content, as I have everything I need.

Callie's pretty content to watch birds out the window, though she'd be even more content to catch them.
And, as part of my new goal to do absolutely nothing but be content, I won't be blogging for awhile. I think it's a fine enough goal, one that might even rid me of my cultural expectations of accomplishing something and doing something with my life, as if it's a big piece of Playdough to be molded and shaped into something significant. 

But actually, if you think in geologic time, it doesn't really matter if I write a book or cook a hotdog or watch the clouds or sleep or contemplate my existence.

So, if you see someone in the outback who looks very content, it might just be me—I may even decide to just stay out there. 

Happy trails and may you find your own path to contentment.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

A Few Mellow Days at Washtub Camp

Washtub Camp—smack dab in the middle of blooming matchweed with lots of antelope. The Wasatch Plateau is in the distance.

I never stay in campgrounds, which means I need a system for referring to various camps, since I can’t just say something like “Sasquatch Provincial Park” (which really does exist and is up near Chilliwack, British Columbia).

The system I use to come up with names is probably similar to the one the old-timers used—name your camp after something unique there. That makes it easy to remember.

And so thus was born Washtub Camp, named after an old washtub I found in a nearby draw, a tub probably from the 1950s and not too effective any more, given the number of bullet holes in it (maybe some old-timer's statement about baths). 

My time there was perfect—no bugs, no people, no internet, but plenty of coyotes and stars and antelope and time to think about nothing. (And no bears nor Sasquatch, which can be distracting when one's trying to think about nothing.)

This isn't at Washtub, but is instead up Gordon Creek near Price. Joe was there in 1921, and these white rocks can be seen for miles and miles.

This is a Toreva block, which is the result of a type of landslide where the lower layers are softer than the overlying layers. This results in rockfalls that twist and turn away from the parent cliff, which in this case is above and to the left (where a groove can be seen). Toreva blocks are great for geologists as the layers are still intact, showing what's above, which sometimes isn't above anymore and thereby hard to determine. This block is not far from "Joe 1921."

A zoomed-out photo of the Toreva block.

Where exactly is Washtub? Well, that’s part of the problem of my naming system, all I can tell you is it’s somewhere southeast of Price, Utah, and there’s an old washtub down in a nearby draw. 

In other words, it's hard to tell people where you camped. But I think that the best part of my kind of camping is the exploration that goes with finding a good camp, and I sure wouldn’t want to deny you that fun.

Anyway, I’m now back in Colorado for a few days or even weeks. I find that this time of year being in a house makes me feel claustrophobic, so I'm going to head out again as soon as I get over a bad cold I caught. 

Balanced Rock near Helper, which is near Price. If you have a good monitor and even better eyes, you can see the American flag on top. How did it get there? Local rumor has it that patriotic space aliens did it, however that works.

Layers of Castle Gate Sandstone near Helper. The namesake for this formation is just around the corner, a huge gate of sandstone, though one half of the gate was blasted away to make the highway fit. If you know the ways of Butch Cassidy, Castle Gate might ring a bell, as it was the location of one of his big railroad heists. Butch and I have that one thing in common—we both like(d) trains—though his reasons differed from mine.

Looking towards Cedar Mountain from Washtub Camp. This is the type locality for the Cedar Mesa Sandstone, home of many big dino finds (both big finds and big dinos). Rabbitbrush and matchweed in bloom give the landscape the colors of a desert autumn.

Cranes flying above camp, on their way to wherever cranes go.

A subtle but glowing sunset. Mt. Elliot is the highest peak in this section of the Bookcliffs.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

The Ice House Cafe

Some people watch TV in their free time, some walk the dog or cook or even play tiddly winks. What do I do? As little as possible...except when I get the urge to write, then all bets are off.

So, here's another in the Bud Shumway Mystery Series, Number 6 to be exact, and I hope you enjoy it. It's called The Ice House Cafe. Print and audio versions will soon also be available.

When ex-sheriff  Bud Shumway and his wife, Wilma Jean, decide to vacation in a scenic Colorado town near Aspen, they never guess they’ll soon be immersed in solving the murder of a famous country-western singer. And even though Bud’s bumbling replacement, Sheriff Howie, is far away over in the small town of Green River, Utah, he still manages to play havoc with everyone’s peace of mind when his sheriff’s vehicle is stolen and he finds out he’s on the wanted list of Utah’s FBI.

Set in the historic Ice House Cafe in the village of Redstone, also known as the Ruby of the Rockies, this mystery will have you mystified and on edge as you follow Bud through the mysterious shadows of the Redstone Castle, dodging ghosts, half-wild hound dogs, bears, an eccentric waitress, and a suspicious silver miner, all while rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, as he tries to figure out why everyone thinks Wilma Jean’s a zombie.

Add an ice-cream truck that plays the theme from the Godfather, a cryptic diary, man-eating quicksand, enigmatic infrasound, and a giant marble icicle, as well as Bud’s skill at lock picking, and you’ll soon see why Bud wishes he’d never seen the town of Redstone, much less the Ice House Cafe.

In any case, you’ll find out who really killed the famous singer, Calico Callie, and it may not be who you think. 

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Ah, Canada...

(Note: These photos aren't in any particular order, going north or south or anything like that, for if I were to get that organized, I would need to find a map to figure out where I was in Canada and it's too much trouble, plus I kind of like the blurry mental images I have of the country as a composite, as they kind of match the blurry mindset I was in from a sinus infection caused by all the wildfire smoke, one I'm still kind of in and that makes me want to write non-stop run-on sentences—and sleep a lot.)

One thing about traveling without a map is you never know what's going to come up, and you also sometimes end up seeing places you really didn't intend to see. 

This can add a few dollars to your gas budget, but it's usually well worth it. But, since we're talking about Canada, I should say it adds a few loonies to the budget, not dollars, which reminds me of a story...

Another trip, a couple of years back, I'd been in Canada for awhile and never yet seen any Canadian currency. That was because I was paying for everything in American dollars, which Canadians are usually happy to take, since the exchange rate isn't in their favor. (It's currently .92, so .92 of a Canadian dollar = one American dollar, meaning they effectively make eight cents every time you hand them a bill and don't get change. And if that doesn't make sense, it's not you, but my sinus infection.)

I was in Drumheller, northeast a bit of Calgary, when I decided it was time for a real shower. (I'd been boondocking with a hoard of mosquitoes that followed me all over Alberta.) I stopped at a big RV park and asked if I could shower and was told sure, it's three loonies.

"What's a loonie?" I asked in cinema-star-quality Ignorant American fashion.

The proprietor just shook his head, asked for three dollars, and gave me three coins in exchange—loonies. And should you ever need to know, a "toonie" is a coin worth two loonies.

(This trip, knowing better, I stopped in Kalispell, Montana at a bank and got some Canadian cash.)

Anyway, I haven't been blogging much, as the closest internet's not very close, and I also broke my camera. But I did manage to get a few photos while in Canada that I'll share, but I broke my camera around Prince George and haven't yet fixed/replaced it. And I still have comments disabled, as I seem to be on every spam list in the universe (1,000 spam comments in a week). I do value your comments and miss them, but the spammers have won for now. More later...

Oh, and I almost forgot. I applied to camp host in Alberta or B.C. next summer and the response was very favorable, so we'll see...

Sometimes Canada is considerate enough to post maps by the road for those of us who travel without such. I took several of the routes on the above map in an attempt to see the lay of the land, adding a few loonies to my gas expenditures. I was somewhere on British Columbia's Fishing Highway when I took this photo. It was beautiful (the country, not the sign), but I'm still not real sure where exactly it was, in spite of the note saying "You Are Here." But then, the roads were a bit squiggly...
Every time I saw one of these, I thought of Al Bossance. I was soon caught in the same addiction he has (along with most of the Western world, that is, coffee), though maybe worse, because if I couldn't find a Tim Horton's in whichever town I was currently in, I would actually stop and ask, something I rarely do. I spent a half-hour driving around the town of Jasper, looking for a Tim Horton's I'd been told was there, only to find I hadn't noticed it because it wasn't a drive through. Note to other travelers: the Tim Horton's in Jasper is NOT a good representative of the others, as it's too bombarded by tourists to do a good job. The line was about 30 people deep when I was there.

Evening in Banff National Park, Alberta. The park was crowded, and I ended up sleeping in my car in a parking lot, more worried about bears than rangers. Saw neither. Was on the Icefields Highway by 6 a.m. and saw almost no one else. I did see a few bears, including one cub. In the meantime, back home in Colorado there was a momma bear and her two cubs hanging out in my back yard. (Word must've gotten out I wanted to see some bears.)

Mt. Robson, Canada's highest peak at 12,972 feet. This is actually lower than Mt. Sopris, which I can see out my window in Colorado and isn't considered anything spectacular by Colorado standards. But Robson has a prominence of 9,281 feet, which dwarfs most of the mountains in the Colorado Rockies for rise from base and makes it a sight to behold, looking like it was dropped from the sky.

Somewhere in the Canadian Rockies, probably Jasper National Park. The Rockies are sedimentary and have many twisted and tilted layers, as seen in the photo below.

Part of the region around the Columbian Glacial Fields in Jasper National Park. I'm glad I don't have to shovel the snow off that roof.

I like simple signs like this, as they make life easy. Just go left or right, nothing more, nothing less.

Part of the Columbian Glacial Fields. The photo below shows what's below the bottom of the above photo. The waterfalls were truly immense.

Since I love trains, I had to hang around the rail yards in Jasper. Easy to do since they're right downtown. I would've hopped one if I could've figured out how to get the dogs on board.

Fireweed near Prince George

I really like the way Canada does their mountain signs. They point upwards to the peak itself, not just in the general direction.
This is kind of hard to make out, but it was too stuffy to sleep in my car with the back closed, yet there were too many moskies with it open, so I conjured up this moskie net across the back, held over the open window with bungee cords and duct tape. Worked great.

The smoke started when I hit Missoula, Montana, and continued all the way to Prince George. I counted the number of fires in the U.S. and B.C. and estimated over 600,000 acres were burning to the west of me, all the smoke floating my way, it seemed. This was taken near Lac La Hache Provincial Park in B.C., where my little Blue Heeler, Cassie, and I sat up late listening to the loons. I've heard them in Montana, but this one was distant and at first we thought it was a wolf. It and its mate woke us at 4 a.m. on the lake right below our camp.

A lake along B.C.'s Fishing Highway

The best parts of the trip for me were when I could find some little logging road like this and get into the backcountry. British Columbia is a wild and beautiful place.

I took this for my little cat, Rowdy. It's in Missoula.

Somewhere near Salmon, Idaho

The Canadians have some real long-legged skiers.