Spotted Dog Ranch

Movin' on Down the Line...

2011-12-25T20:32:00.011-07:00

It's hard to believe that it's been nearly three years since I started this blog. It's been fun, but now it's time to move on down the line, as I'm going to be riding the symbolic rail and won't have access to the internet. I'm planning on spending the next year camping in Alaska and points between here and there.

Best wishes to you all. I've decided to leave the blog up and perhaps I can add to it occasionally, although I'm not sure if I'll be able to or not. In the meantime, don't forget who you are, who you want to be, and where you once were heading before you got sidetracked, if you did.

Sing with me, sing for the years
Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears
Sing with me, if its just for today
Maybe tomorrow the good lord will take you away.

Dream on, dream on
Dream until your dreams come true...

The Slickrock Cafe

2011-12-10T09:12:00.006-07:00

Sunset in paradise

I've been really busy and no internet, so no posting. I finally have my new book ready for anyone who's interested (Amazon). If you're a Nook fan (Barnes and Noble), it should be there any moment. I'm also preparing a print version, which will be available on Amazon.com in about a week.

The setting of my new book.

Here's the book description:

The crusty owner of a local rock shop has been killed in Utah’s wildlands, and ex-sheriff Bud Shumway has been asked to return to his hometown to solve the crime. He reluctantly agrees, never suspecting the case involves an old childhood friend and a pair of mysterious Incan skeletons known as the Malachites.

Set at the Slickrock Cafe, deep in the sandstone fins and domes of southeast Utah, this mystery will have you laughing, scared to death, and wondering when the mysterious Black Beast will strike again. Add in a motorcycle gang, Bud’s bumbling deputy Howie, a deputy sheriff who writes mysteries, a cantankerous rancher, and a cryptic Peruvian with his llamas, and there’s never a dull moment.

In any case, you’ll find out who the Malachites really are, and they’re sure not a tribe in the Old Testament.

This is book #2 in the Bud Shumway Mystery Series. You’ll also enjoy book #1, “The Ghost Rock Cafe.”

The cover is a photo I took up at the setting of the book, the slickrock above Moab, Utah.

I haven't been out much, as I also had to do a huge geology project on Alaska's North Slope for my graduate class. Now that everything's done, I should get back to my regular routine as Professor Emeritus at Slacker University.

This photo kind of reminds me of an impressionistic landscape painting.

Another Coyote Kind of Day

2011-11-26T20:52:00.012-07:00

I haven't been posting much as I've been busy writing another book, The Slickrock Cafe, another mystery starring rural Sheriff Bud Shumway. If you've read my other mystery, The Ghost Rock Cafe, you'll be familiar with him. I finally finished it a few days ago and hope to have it available soon. Lots of fun.

In the meantime, I took a break on Thanksgiving and went up into the slickrock, my favorite place, to just hike with the dogs and enjoy doing nothing, my favorite pastime.

We wandered around a bit, then up a wide wash that was kind of down in the bottom of the countryside (where washes tend to be). I sat down on a small ledge, and the dogs were up behind me about 10 feet, higher on the ledge.

I turned around to check on them, and instead of four, there were five! I caught a glimpse of #5, and it didn't quite seem right...it was a coyote! Kind of sitting right by the dogs. They looked surprised but accepting.

I don't think it had noticed me when it came up or smelled my scent, because it looked as surprised as I was. It took off at a trot, and Spanky and Cassie decided that would be a good opportunity to count coup (brave dogs that they are, wait until its back is turned), so they growled and chased it a bit.

It went over on a nearby fin and curled up and lay down, watching us, but unconcerned.

At that time, I decided maybe I'd misconstrued what I'd seen and it was someone's lost dog. Maybe I'd better get another look. I began walking towards it, whereupon it came trotting right over, stopping a mere 30 feet away.

Yup, a coyote. I called to it, but it didn't want to come any closer. The coyotes in this area are in a non-hunting zone, so they get pretty tame. I've even had them visit my tent when out camping.

Anyway, it made me realize all I have to be thankful for—coyotes, dogs, a bluebird sky, and slickrock. What more could one want?

Oh, and we did have a nice dinner later.

I hope your Thanksgiving was a good one for you, too.

Looking Up

2011-11-12T11:43:00.011-07:00

Yesterday, I was out in the slickrock, down below a huge fin, when I looked up, and instead of the normal blue sky, it was almost purple. The photos I took showed the same thing, and no, I didn't have a polarizing filter on the camera.

Looking down towards the side a bit.

And even further down.

As you look more towards the zenith, into the deep sky, the atmosphere is thinner, and you see less light bouncing around on water molecules, so the sky looks darker. The more you angle towards the horizon, the thicker the atmosphere. Thus the deep red glows we often see at sunset.

This made me think of how sometimes I see things and yet don't understand the why behind it, leading to misinterpretation. It seems to be something we all do, and we tend to trust our senses maybe more than we should. There have been numerous studies showing we don't always hear or see what's really there—our brains often lead us astray—for example, that shadow that looks like a Bigfoot but is really just a tree.

I do know that, like all humans, I also tend to imagine things that aren't there, and that's one reason why I like having dogs around—for some reason, they don't have overactive imaginations like we humans. But then, they have better senses of smell and hearing than we do, and thus rely on them more than sight, which is our primary sense. So if I think I hear something, I just watch them. When they also react, I know it's not just me.

Of course, they also react at things I know aren't harmful, like the mailman and the pizza delivery guy. And being taller than them helps, too, as I can see things they can't, like that herd of cattle they bring every fall through the Sand Flats, outrunning the high-country snows. That's always a good thing to see coming.

And that reminds me of a time I was camped in the Uintah Mountains in NE Utah. I woke up early, got out of my tent and stretched, then noticed a big herd of sheep coming my way at a fast trot. I barely had time to grab my gear and jump into my car before they were there, flowing around the car like water.

That's one way to wake up fast, and there's also no question as to whether or not your senses are fooling you.

The Authority

2011-11-11T08:24:00.004-07:00

A new camera (but couldn't see through it) and a beautiful day combined to show what we do every day, proving that some things are maybe better left undone.

Here comes the authority from Chinle Miller on Vimeo.

Pillar of Fire

2011-11-10T17:45:00.004-07:00

No, it's not lens aberration. It really looked this way with the naked eye (except the bit of aberration around the sun itself).

I was out in the desert the other day, just hanging around, when a story from the Bible popped into my mind—that of the Israelites following a pillar of fire.

I've seen these pillars of fire a number of times, but that evening was the first time I had my camera handy. Funny thing about them is they always say to go west. When I try to follow them they just peter out and it gradually gets dark.

Maybe I'm just not moving fast enough, which seems to be the case in general these days, as I'm writing another book. It will soon be done and I can get back to living in the real world—well, as much as I ever do, anyway.

This new book is called "The Slick Rock Cafe." It's a lot of fun, and a sequel to my other mystery, "The Ghost Rock Cafe." I'm also taking some graduate level geology classes, so I'm not out and about as much as I'd like.

But that will all change, as the new year comes around and I resume my professorship at Slacker University, where when people ask, "What do you do?" the proper answer is, "As little as possible."

A Blast from the Past

2011-11-04T09:56:00.004-06:00

Here's a blast from the past (1961) for all you aging Boomers and also for those who didn't get the chance to watch TV when it was really good. (As an aside, note that the host, Garry Moore, was required to smoke during the show by the sponsor (Winston) and later came down with throat cancer and died from emphysema.)

Occupy the Desert

2011-10-30T13:31:00.008-06:00

I'm generally a political atheist, but on November 2, this coming Wednesday, I plan to join the General Strike in support of the Occupy Wall Street Movement. I'm not going to do any work, nor am I going to buy anything.

Since I don't think I'll even notice the difference (yet alone anyone else notice), I think I'll take it one step further and not consume anything except a little bit of food—which means no driving, which I will for sure notice, since I like to get out every day, now that I've found cheap winter quarters and am no longer camping.

In addition, I'm going to take my mega-riches (about $200) out of my corporate bank and put it under my mattress—as soon as I can figure out how to do that without having to buy a mattress (I'm still using my camping cot). Maybe a dog bed could substitute.

I dropped out of the system years ago (as much as I could, anyway)—I think the first step is to not want to own anything, especially not a house.

Once you get over wanting things, you feel better, and you realize that freedom is more desirable than any object. As the wise old Buddha supposedly said, "Attachment is the root of all misery" (or something like that).

So, on Wednesday, I'm going to stage my own protest against corporate greed and government corruption by having my own protest. I'll call it Occupy the Desert. You're welcome to join me, but I have to get out there on Tuesday, since I'm not going to drive on Wednesday, so plan ahead.

In the meantime, have a happy Halloween. I'm going to dress up as the Ghost of the Middle Class.

A Patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government. —Ed Abbey

Wandering through Time

2011-10-25T14:06:00.002-06:00

Crossing the San Rafael Swell

Geology has always fascinated me. I recently found a newspaper article my mom kept where I placed second in the 5th grade science fair for a display on fluorescent minerals. My family spent many weekends rockhounding, and we had a big pile of cool rocks down by the garage, so I guess it's in my blood.

Living out West where you can actually see what's under and around you (very little vegetation) also helps. And when you're outside a lot wandering around, you learn to recognize things, even though you may not actually know what they are—geologic formations, in my case.

This may have been a huge barrier island in the interior of the sea.

So, to continue describing the field trip of last weekend, after leaving the Book Cliffs, we drove to the San Rafael Swell, a landform I've spent many many moons wandering and exploring.

The San Rafael is actually a huge anticline, a result of forces during the Laramide Orogeny some 60 or so million years ago, which was the causative force behind many of this part of the country's uplifted landforms. But we weren't looking at that, we were instead looking at the results of a huge inland sea, the Western Interior Seaway, which covered the area some 100 million years ago.

As we stopped and looked at various formations, our professor discussed how to tell what was going on—whether or not the sea was moving further inland (transgressing) or moving out (regressing) as the sea levels changed.

Dakota Formation meets Cedar Mountain Formation—here, the sea was moving inward as sea levels rose.

It's mind boggling what geologists know, and as I learn more and more, I have immense respect for the body of work that's behind the science.

And it's kind of funny how what one knows layers our perceptions of things. Understanding how the planet works really opens your eyes to a new reality, a fascinating world, which reminds me of the morning not too long ago when I was coming into my geology class and an administrator asked me about what was on the broadcast screen. He looked puzzled and asked why we were talking about religious stuff in a geology class.

I laughed and gave him a quick explanation of what the word transgression meant in this context, whereupon he looked relieved.

Nice thing about geology is you're usually a good distance from any church cause you're already in heaven.

Here Cedar Mountain Formation meets the Morrison Formation, land of dinosaur bones. There's a huge unconformity here, layers of missing time.

Our field trip ended at the eastern base of the Swell, where everyone else headed back north and I headed into the twilight, back to my own territory—although when you study geology, it seems the whole planet becomes your territory.

It Should be Illegal...

2011-10-22T19:56:00.010-06:00

The Bookcliffs at the mouth of Nine Mile Canyon

Roadside geology—standing across the road from an ancient river channel.

It should be illegal to have this much fun. OK, it's cliche, but true.

I went on a geology field trip yesterday, and I not only learned a lot (and drove everyone crazy with my questions), but I had more fun than I've had for a long time. I'm taking a graduate-level class in sequence stratigraphy. This doesn't mean I know enough to be in the class, just that the prof was kind enough to encourage me to take it.

In front of the ancient channel.

There were only four of us who made it (out of nine students in the class), and two of the four were geology profs. Not a bad learning ratio!

Anyway, there's nothing like a field trip to really see what's going on. We spent the entire morning in the Bookcliffs of Nine Mile Canyon, an area I'd been in a number of times before, but to look at its famous rock art, not its geology. (If you've read some of my earlier posts, you'll recall the Slasher of Nine Mile Canyon.)

Note the abrupt contact between the upper sandstone and the underlying mudstones, indicative of an ancient channel.

We spent some time looking at an ancient river channel, and I realized I'd seen lots of these and didn't know what I was looking at. You may have, too. I learned the indicators that tell you it's an ancient river, some of which are heavier clasts (rocks) at the bottom of the channel grading into finer sediments at the top (just like in today's rivers), and an abrupt contact at its base. River channels are also easy to spot in that they're usually not very wide, so you can walk to either side. We also could see cross-bedding, which told us which way the river was flowing.

We looked at a lot of other stuff, too, which I may write more on later, as we also visited the San Rafael Swell, but I need to go and look at some seismic data for my homework and see if I have a clue of what's going on.

An example of slickensides, grooves in the rocks caused by fault movement.

Impatiently Patient

2011-10-18T12:13:00.007-06:00

When you think about it, life is really just a series of experiences on a day-by-day basis. We get caught up in thinking about the future and past, but it's all kind of like a big wave on the ocean—no matter what, it just keeps rolling on, moment by moment.

And those moments are filled with things we enjoy and things we don't so much. As the wave rolls along, I have a tendency to be totally impatient about some things and very very patient about others (as I'm sure most of us are). If it's something that's a necessity, I just want to get it done. But if it's something I want to do, I can put up with all kinds of irritants.

Things that don't wait around:

the weather...

Cassie...

and rapids.

For example, I have a tendency to not backup my photos. It would only take a few minutes if I were to do it each time I downloaded a new batch, but I hate doing it. I'd rather be fiddling around, like checking out the local weather on the internet. Consequently, I wait until it's a real chore, maybe with thousands of photos, before I panic and get to it.

I waited and waited and was about to give up when the clouds suddenly opened and revealed new snow on the La Sals—then quickly covered everything back up like a big fluffy comforter.

Maybe this is human nature, I don't know. Maybe it's called procrastination and has all kinds of psychological theories behind it, but I think (in my case anyway) it's just laziness and denial (it won't crash...).

I'm also not much of a cook, as it's just a means to an end for me, I'm not into the process. When I'm hungry, I just want to eat. I generally have the time to cook, but not the will. Rather than be prime bait for fast-food joints, I try to eat things that are easy to fix and give instant gratification, like salads—or cheese and crackers, which are even faster—or better yet, milkshakes.

But I can patiently wait around for hours for a chance at a good photo. Go figure.

I waited quite awhile for the moon to get itself comfortably situated on what I call Teapot Rock, out of Moab.

A Truth Stranger than Fiction

2011-10-07T18:06:00.009-06:00

Seeking shade on a hot day, we found this small stand of cottonwoods north of Moab, not enough trees to even call a grove. In an act of generosity, the guy who leases the land next to the trees created an artificial dam around them and was watering them.

The oasis wasn't much, but was enough, and that's all one needs, is enough. In a vast hot desert, enough can often be hard to come by. I noticed we weren't the only ones enjoying the small oasis.

This dragonfly would let only smaller ones share its limb.

I hadn't been privy to dragonfly behavior before, but after sitting there in the shade and studying them for a long while, I felt I learned a bit. Like many other creatures, they seemed a bit territorial, even though such territories usually consisted of only a small tree limb.

The Moab tailings train passes in the background, seemingly unnoticed by the small creatures.

The dragonflies would sit on a limb and defend it against all takers, then after awhile, they would fly to another limb and repeat. I began to think they weren't so much defending a specific territory as defending their solitude or personal space.

Their lives seemed stunningly simple. Fly around and find something to eat (an insect smaller than them), then sit awhile, defend limb, then repeat. I kind of admired their simplicity, though wouldn't personally want to have their diet.

In some ways, their lives resembled mine—drive into town and find something to eat, sit awhile, defend camp (move if someone camps too close), and repeat—at least that's what it might look like to a dragonfly.

Do dragonflies ever dream of being train engineers? Or vice versa?

After a few hours, evening started coming on and things cooled down enough we could go find a camp spot, so we left. We camped about a half mile from the trees, back in the dinosaur-bone lands, and were later visited by bats zipping around in the evening sky.

I hoped they weren't eating dragonflies, but suspected they would eat anything that their radar detected was small enough. This was verified when I heard a "ping" and looked just in time to see a bat bounce off the end of my car antenna, apparently unhurt—time to refine the radar system, my friend. Since I never listen to the radio, I now keep the antenna down, for the bats' sake.

Do dragonflies dream?

Raven Patrol

2011-09-30T08:58:00.010-06:00

Ravens are a most noble creature, says Quoth.

After hearing about the raven gangstas, Spanky and Weezee decide it's time to show those birds a thing or two. After all, birds are just dinosaur relects (chickens actually carry remnant dinosaur DNA)—and so what if they're descendants of the Utahraptor—canines are superior, having been personally selected by humans to be their masters (if you don't believe that, let me ask, who pays the bills?).

So, we head out to the desert, where we come upon Quoth and Broken Feather, who, being dinosaur relects, naturally see us a a food source, though they've evolved from stomping and killing to begging for dog biscuits, which I find much more palatable.

The birds sit in a tree, high above any dog interference, and plot their day's dog biscuit rescue. Of course, it all depends on where the biscuits land and how far away the dogs are—but you have to plot the flight trajectories and all that, if you want to be successful.

They go for the biscuits...

And the dogs go for them.

They taunt the dogs from above...

(Note Spanky's head at the bottom of the photo.)

The dogs try to climb the tree...

(Note the craw stuffed full.)

...until finally, the birds tire of it all and fly to another tree, the dogs chasing them. This goes on until the dogs, superior intellects that they are, are close to exhaustion—and then the birds have all the goodies to themselves.

They do the bird equivalent of a high five.

So...which species would Darwin say was best adapted?

Sea gull in Salt Lake City

Skinny Fish Creek

2011-09-28T09:08:00.008-06:00

On my recent visit to Trappers Lake (see previous post), I noticed a lot of streams on the way up, more so than most Colorado high-country roads, and because of the rains, they were running full.

Trappers Lake is in the Colorado Flat Tops, a rugged wilderness area very popular during hunting season (turning our multiple-use lands into single use). I once did a solo mountain-bike trip across Colorado's Uncompahgre Plateau during hunting season, and even though I was draped in as much blaze orange as a person can wear, I still felt like it was a crazy thing to do. The looks on the faces of most of the hunters I met agreed.

I think I was in a "reclaim multiple-use mode," but it was a futile effort, although I enjoyed the autumn ride (when not worrying about being shot). I found my greatest risk was from getting run over by the wild turkeys I spooked (they're large birds).

Patiently waiting in the rain...

It was the start of bow-hunting season during my Trappers Lake visit, and outfitting is big business in the Meeker area. And of course, being a non-hunter and animal lover, it was bound to put a damper on my impression of the little town.

The bucolic little town of Meeker, Colorado—until hunting season, that is.

My aunt and uncle lived in Meeker when I was young, and I would go spend a week or two with them every summer. I liked Meeker back then, and I'm sure it was just as redneck as it is now, if not more.

The cliffs between Meeker and Craig where the Jeep committed suicide—or was it murder?

I recall my aunt telling the story of how my uncle, who worked for the Meeker power company, was out surveying a new electrical line, along with a couple of other guys, one who was driving a Jeep. They were standing on the cliffs in the photo above when the Jeep rolled off, turning into a heap of metal below. One of the guys had forgot to put it in gear.

An old homestead cabin on the edge of Meeker

This one's a bit fancier (also near Meeker).

Anyway, I kind of got into stopping at all the little creeks on the way down the road from the lake, and the dogs enjoyed the roily water, when it was safe to get in, which wasn't often.

Ghost trees in the cold rain

Everything was going smooth until we came upon the above. An outfitter was trying to get his huge stock trailer onto a small steep road and had blocked the main road. He finally was able to pull up enough to let cars go by. As far as I know, he's still sitting there. (The trailer is at least three times as long as shown in the photo.)

Autumn was in the air.

I suspect this creek's name has something to do with a horse picket line.

And my favorite...

Trappers Lake

2011-09-26T08:17:00.007-06:00

The road to Trappers Lake on a rainy day.

Sometimes one needs a break from camping. I know that probably sounds ironic to those of you who never get to camp, but it's true. You want a hot shower, to be able to sleep at night without the coyotes coming around and waking you up, and a warm bed when the night breezes start to get chilly.

Last of the summer flowers in the high country

Not having much in way of barterable assets, I needed someplace cheap. After some searching for such a place on the internet, I decided to rent a small cabin up the North Fork of the White River above Meeker, Colorado. Part of the plan was to go to Trappers Lake, which I'd heard of since I was a kid but had never visited.

My first memory of the lake was tied in with our neighbor, Old Man Warfield. I'm sure he had a first name, but we just called him Old Man Warfield—of course, not to his face, then he was Mr. Warfield.

Old Man Warfield had a long white beard and we figured he was about the age of Noah, if not older. He had lost his license to drinking, so he would drive in a big circle around his property. He would really get his old car going, and we kids would watch in amazement as he barely made the corners. My dad said Old Man Warfield had once worked with Henry Ford.

Trappers Lake in mist. Lots of snags from previous fires.

My mom would send us over to his place every Sunday with a big plate of Sunday dinner and the invite to go to church with us. Old Man Warfield always told us he went to church every chance he got, but his church was Trappers Lake. When he could get a ride up there, he was in heaven. He loved Trappers Lake.

The back trail from the lake

I left the desert and made it to the cabin and decided to visit the lake the next day. When I woke, it was raining, but I went anyway. It was a wet and soggy day, in the 30s, and it felt like snow, but I finally got to visit Mr. Warfield's paradise.

The road to heaven...

I guess his idea of heaven and mine are different, as I prefer to be dry and warm. But even in the mist and fog and snags, it was a beautiful place.

And a surprise, a stunning red fox.

Raven Gangstas

2011-09-24T07:42:00.010-06:00

I was talking about ravens with one of the guys who works at the Sand Flats Recreation Area above Moab, and it seems the area's been discovered by a gang of young ravens. They hang out and wait for you to leave your vehicle, then they mess around with it.

Close-up of the first photo showing the young gangstas in action. Do you know these birds?

Sometimes, if one of the really bad ones gets involved, they even vandalize things. They've been known to peck at the windshield wipers and poke holes in anything left exposed, like camping gear in the back of pickups.

I wonder if they would have the nerve to vandalize this?

I had noticed ravens hanging around, especially in pickups, but had no idea what was going on. I suspect this is not the work of the native birds, but rather a bunch that's come down from the city.

If you recognize any of these guys, please call your local LEOs.

Speaking of bad ass...

(And if you think this is bad, a Canadian reader left the following comment:

Grizzly said...

I recently had a friend have nearly $20,000 of damages done to his fabric covered airplane when he left it a strip while fishing for a few days and the ravens pecked it full of holes. He had to use duct tape to get home!)

Afraid of Nothing in White River Country

2011-09-18T11:28:00.004-06:00

I've somehow found myself in a rustic cabin on the North Fork of the White River near Meeker, Colorado for a few days. The cabin I'm in sits right on the river and has that charm of years past—knotty pine walls, hardwood floors—all under huge cottonwoods and with frequent wildlife visitors. It was built by the Eleanor and F.D. Roosevelt family in years past.

There's no cell or internet service, so I'm writing this from the town of Craig, where I'll have lunch with a friend today. I hope to have some interesting posts when I get back to the desert. Until then, I'd like to share one of the coolest poems ever, by Mary Oliver.

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Coyote Happiness

2011-09-10T20:05:00.014-06:00

If you look almost exactly in the center of this photo, you'll see the coyote howling—it had quite a repertoire. Click on the photo to enlarge.

Quoth and Broken Feather discuss everyday bird stuff...

...and the secret location of stolen dog biscuits in a tete a tete.

Sometimes, no matter how well you're doing, life can seem extraordinarily difficult. This difficulty may come in the form of actual physical hardships or in other less visible forms, such as emotional and mental trials. It seems that life is constantly testing your commitment to it.

For me, lately, it's been difficult camping. I know that some of you live for the times you can get out, but when you're out all the time and really have no way to do climate control, it can get hard—it seems it's always too hot or too cold or too windy or too something. Even a full moon, in all its beauty, can be hard, as you have nothing to buffer you from an all-night light and accompanying insomnia.

But then, sometimes, in the midst of it all, you have times of complete and indescribable sublimity.

A few days ago, I decided to go to the Sand Flats, above Moab, for a few nights, as the place was totally deserted, and a big rain was coming in, making my favorite place north of town impassible. Plus, I like to hang out with my raven friends, Quoth and Broken Feather, even though they always wake me up early, wanting breakfast.

The first couple of nights were nice and quiet (and rainy), but the third day, some mountain bikers from Boulder, Colorado came in and set up their camp right next to mine.

Slickrock fins after a good rain

I prefer solitude, so the next day I broke camp, heading back north of town, hoping I could get into my usual spot. I knew it would be iffy, as there had been plenty of rain, and there's a big sandy wash to cross, plus sticky bentonite clay everywhere. I did manage to get in, much to my delight, but I was very tired by the time I got there. It wasn't just a physical fatigue, but an overall malaise. Autumn in the air made me feel unprepared and worried.

I leaned against the truck for a bit as the dogs explored around, then the evening suddenly took on perfection, and it continued on into the night, a feeling of pure delight. I can't really even describe it.

Cassie looks for old forgotten biscuits from last time we camped here, but the ravens stole them.

A coyote stood on the hill above us some 200 or so feet away and began yipping and singing songs I've never heard before. Some people call them song dogs, and for good reason. My dogs weren't so sure what to think, and they sat quietly by me.

There's something about true wildness that commands respect and contemplation, an admiration of creatures able to make a living out in the harsh desert. The little wild dog sang for a good 20 minutes, as I set up my tent, then it faded into the night. I watched it for a long time through my binoculars before it got too dark.

But it wasn't gone for long. As darkness fell, it started up again, only even closer, and it was accompanied by a whole pack of buddies, all singing along. I've heard this pack many times out there before, but never so close. Since my tent zipper is broken, I was kind of worried about the dogs getting out during the night, so I didn't want to encourage visitors—so I turned on the car lights and the pack disappeared. I did hear them again in the middle of the night, but not as close.

I don't know why, but I felt like I had been a part of something very special—well, I do know why—because it was very special.

I'm in town just for a day and am heading back out tomorrow for a few weeks, so posting may be sporadic. Until then, may your evenings be filled with coyote song, and may someday the song dogs teach us the words, as we have a lot to learn from them.

I'll take a raven at the end of the rainbow over a pot of gold any day.

Out and About

2011-09-07T16:21:00.010-06:00

Shadscale in autumn colors, near Canyonlands National Park

I'm kind of stuck in the outback and unable to post much lately. I've been laying low around a waterhole, trying to hide from the heat, and I discovered it's a secret dragonfly hangout, so hopefully I'll have some cool photos soon.

Dragonflies are very strange and exotic creatures to this desert rat, and I've discovered I have a lot to learn from them, especially when it comes to the fine art of hanging out. More soon...

Alberta canola fields in late August bloom

Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower. —Albert Camus

Feels like Fall

2011-08-28T14:25:00.003-06:00

Old Highway 6&50 east of Green River, pretty much abandoned by everything except potholes

I was hanging around in the Mancos badlands near Green River, Utah, when it just happened all of a sudden—I got up, stretched, had some coffee, and noticed that autumn was in the air. Not really unexpected, but it seemed kind of a bit early.

Old underpass on old highway under old railroad

I can't describe it, but I felt a bit exhilarated. Autumn's my favorite time of year—it's such a great time for photography—and yet, it also brings a poignant distant longing with it—maybe for a real home with a real heater and a way to bake homemade bread and make hot soups.

And maybe that exhilaration was really more the realization that it's going to get cold and tenting won't work much longer.

In any case, change is coming...and partly in the form of a package from Goal Zero, which will allow me to go solar with my laptop and work anywhere I want. More on that when it arrives...

Strike While Hot

2011-08-26T19:45:00.011-06:00

Angular unconformity in Capitol Reef National Park

I was driving down Highway 24 in Capitol Reef National Park when I noticed what geologists call an angular unconformity, where layers of rock were deposited, then tilted, then another horizontal layer deposited on top of that, with layers in between eroded away. (I know that's a long-winded description, but it's not important, so bear with me.)

Closer-up photo. The horizontal pink bed at the cliff top is a Pleistocene terrace. The tilted beds beneath it (the deeper red on top of the gray) are Carmel Formation. 165 million years of sedimentation are missing between the younger horizontal layers on top (the Pleistocene) and the older tilted layers below it (Carmel).

I later arrived at my brother's house in Colorado, where he proceeded to show me a photo of the exact same unconformity in a book he was reading, not knowing I had just been there myself and taken my own photos a few hours before.

We laughed about this, then decided to go do some shopping (which we both hate). I laughed as we were driving home, saying he had hit the jackpot, as he'd had better luck than usual finding what he needed.

He opened the label on his new daypack and it was the "Jackpot" model.

Brushy Basin (Morrison Formation) near Capitol Reef

We laughed about this also, then got home and had some dinner as a storm hit.

Later, as he got ready to take his dog outside for a bit, I said, "Be careful, don't get hit by lightning." I had barely got the words out when a huge clap of thunder rocked the house.

My brother was no longer laughing.

He looked at me and said, "Maybe you should go buy a lottery ticket."

I thought about it. I never buy lottery tickets (there's no lottery in Utah), but I think that would probably be the quickest way there is to end a winning streak (of pure coincidences).

A quiet sunset over Boulder Mountain near Torrey, Utah. The sun setting is pretty much never a coincidence.

Torrey Sucks, Tell Your Friends

2011-08-22T04:32:00.000-06:00

Pastoral landscape in a back yard in Torrey

I was up in Jackson, Wyoming once when I saw the bumper sticker, Jackson Sucks, Tell Your Friends. I found this an amusing and somewhat transparent way to try to keep a nice spot all to yourself, a pretty much helpless cause at that point for Jackson.

But maybe not so for Torrey, Utah.

Wingate, Chinle, and Moenkopi formations just out of town

Even though Torrey is near a national park and on the way to more, it seems to have escaped the incessant and irritating tourism that many other park towns have. I won't mention any names, but one that comes to mind is near Arches and Canyonlands and starts with an M.

This rock shop sign seems a bit out of place in Torrey, for some reason...

Not that Torrey is anything like it used to be, but the scale of ruin here seems a bit less. There are a number of out-of-place expensive homes that reek of wealthy outsiders, but for the most part, Torrey still has lots of charm. There are still a number of historic beautiful homes (that may now be inhabited by wealthy outsiders, but somehow that feels different).

The town is really small and has few of the amenities that a town like Moab has, which I think helps keep the more urban souls at bay, as they really can't imagine life without a morning latte (and yes, Torrey has lattes, but don't tell your friends).

Yes, this mare and her foal are town residents.

But Torrey pretty much closes shop in the winter, and its remoteness also keeps the less intrepid from coming. It's not a quick weekend trip like Moab is for many. And Torrey has a limited number of businesses and therefore can't extract much tax-wise to feed the ever hungry maws of local tourism councils.

Gathering wood, with no idea what they're going to do with it.

Looking towards Thousand Lake Mountain above Torrey

The town is actually paradise (except in winter), but don't tell anyone. In fact, I should be shot for even posting this, but I don't have that many readers, so consider it a secret between you and me, and if your friends ask, tell them Torrey sucks—if you have to mention it at all.

A cheap way to advertise...even though this sign's not going anywhere with that flat tire.

Buffalo under Moenkopi cliffs near Torrey

The Zion Curtain

2011-08-20T13:28:00.012-06:00

Beautiful old stone house in Teasdale, Utah

While in Torrey, Utah for a bit, I decided to drive up the road and visit some of the little towns of this part of south-central Utah, as it had been awhile. Torrey is a resort town, being close to Capitol Reef National Park, so isn't all that typical of the little historic towns in the region.

Teasdale

The first town out of Torrey to the west is the even tinier town of Teasdale, which has also been a bit overrun by artists, retirees, and parkees, so maybe isn't all that typical either. I'm not actually sure what typical means in this case, but I take it to be having more of the old historic pioneer Mormon stock living and working there. (More on Torrey in another post.)

Old house in Loa

Once past Teasdale (which is actually off the main highway), one enters the small town of Bicknell. I remembered a grocery store at the edge of town, but it's long gone. I had my hopes up for some good fruit, but instead had to go all the way to Loa, passing through the tiny town of Lyman on the way. I later found some really good fruit on a friend's trees in Torrey—heritage apples, peaches, and apricots, probably all planted by the original pioneers there.

Old granary on the way into Bicknell

In Loa

Once you leave the Teasdale region, the scenery changes dramatically as you leave the world of Triassic and Jurassic redrock and enter the world of more recent volcanic uplifts. It's a somewhat bleak topography that doesn't attract tourists. Ranching seems to be the major economic force here—and I do mean force, if you're a varmit or native plant.

If you're in a hurry, you might not want to get your car repaired here.

Same place...

Bicknell

Loa is the larger of all these towns, and the residents of everywhere else have to travel there to get groceries, which isn't all that great of a scenario in the winter, unless you own the store in Loa. If my memory serves me, the town got its name from some Mormons who had recently come from Hawaii—whether as native Hawaiians or missionaries, I don't recall. The mountains around the region are a bit reminiscent of Mauna Loa (minus the wonderful foliage and fruit of Hawaii).

I didn't stay long. Many cultural differences are all in the mind, but these little Mormon towns were built as part of a religious paradigm I'm not a part of (nor wish to be). So, I turned around and headed back to my own culture and religion—that of the Church of the Holy Redrock.

Making Do With More

2011-08-17T19:56:00.008-06:00

Sometimes, when your destination is unknown, you have to make do with the concept that somehow, somewhere, control over your life has slipped away and you've become a vagabond, a gypsy.

This wasn't necessarily how you planned things long ago when you went to college and got educated and bought a house and had a steady job. You never dreamed you'd become a road warrior, nor did you necessarily want to be one. (But isn't control just an illusion anyway?)

On the road to Hanksville, Utah. Summerville Formation in the foreground, and the massive San Rafael Reef in the background (Navajo on top of red Entrada). There's dino bones in the Summerville.

Entrada Formation

Sometimes, this realization hits hard, especially when you have no idea where your bed will be that particular night. But you've been there before, and you always find a place, even if it's somewhere you've never been before.

How to make do with less—just pave the center and paint it all fresh and voila, all set to go.

The interesting thing behind all this is that, even though almost all you own is in your car, you really are making do with not less, but more. It's an idea that takes awhile to really embrace, but it's true.

Bull Mountain in the Henry Mountains near Hanksville

The "more" has to do with the richness your life takes on—a richness of new places and people and things you never imagined existed.

The Henry Mountains, classic laccoliths

But I will admit that the ups and downs sometimes get a bit trying (especially regarding setting up camp).

Factory Butte, near the newly discovered Hanksville-Burpee Dinosaur Quarry

Beautiful candy-cane stripes of Morrison Formation near Capitol Reef National Park

I spent some time in Capitol Reef a few years back, working on a hiking guide for the park, but I really didn't plan to go there when I left Moab a few days ago. It seems like I needed to restock my supply of "more," and it's a good place to do that, so here I am. (I avoid the park because of the dogs, but the landscape around it is just as spectacular.)

Finally, the domes of Cap Reef come into sight...

Here's the journey:

A Simple Gift

2011-08-14T06:10:00.003-06:00

Quoth and Broken Feather watch as a dragonfly cruises by (to the right of the birds).

Back home again, I go check on my raven buddies, Quoth and Broken Feather, to see what they've been up to while we've been gone.

"Nothing much new," they tell me, "except it's been hot."

"You ravens are built for the heat," I reply, "with your big wings that carry you to the nearby creeks."

Teapot Rock in a brewing storm

Just then, I hear the crack of lightning and notice huge ominous clouds coming in from the mountains. "It's going to cool off," I tell them, but they're gone.

Ominous clouds overhead

The rain comes in fast and is short but terrific, and as soon as it stops, the ravens are back on a nearby rock, shaking and preening their wet feathers. This is a process that takes way longer than I would've guessed, as they sit there for some time, grooming one another.

Weezee lying in a pothole after the rain, enjoying the cool water.

Look! A rainbow!

Quoth seems to be more interested in preening himself than Broken Feather. He shakes and walks around and then preens some more.

I watch his antics, then am a bit amazed to see a tiny feather come floating down, and then a full-on feather drifts down the rocks towards me. It's a gift! I've never had a raven feather, and one from Quoth is very special.

Rainbow over Coffeepot Peak

I take them and carefully examine them—the quills are surrounded by tiny plumes of white raven down. I carefully tuck them into an envelope (from Macy's, an offer for a credit card to buy stuff there, and what the heck is Macy's?).

I'm not much for beliefs that things are much more than what they appear to be, but for some reason, this seems like a very special gift, though probably an accidental one.

We hang around camp, then enjoy a spectacular sunset, after a very nice dinner of freeze-dried stew and French bread and cheese. I get to eat a bit of the stew, and the birds and dogs get the rest.

I set up my tent and throw out a bunch of dog biscuits for the coyotes, who serenade us several times during the night in appreciation.

The Thin Space of Existence

2011-08-12T09:31:00.001-06:00

Scofield Reservoir, Utah

I was recently talking to someone who used the term "thin spaces" to define those places where we go to find things that aren't often available in our lives, such as beauty and peace. I liked the term, and was thinking about it when crossing over Soldier Summit on my way to Salt Lake City the other day.

I decided it was time to visit the little coal-mining town of Scofield, which is located just off the highway a few miles from the top of Soldier Summit. I'd seen the sign many times, but never been there. It seemed like the term "thin space" applied to the opportunity to go see it, as I was typically in a hurry when crossing the mountain, but now had the time.

Scofield is now a recreation area, with a number of new homes and fancy "cabins" that line the lake, where people from Salt Lake and nearby communities go to get away from it all.

I'm not sure when the dam was built, but it's resulted in a large reservoir. I was kind of surprised at the lack of trees, but it's probably in a rainshadow or for some reason doesn't get much rain, although I know it gets a lot of snow in the winter.

I drove around the town for a bit, wondering about the lives of those who lived here when the buildings were new and something to be proud of. At one time, Scofield was home to over 2,000 people.

Coal mining had shaped the town, which was founded in 1879, and it also ended that thin space of existence for many when, in 1900, a huge mining accident near the nearby town of Winter Quarters took the lives of 199 men, many who lived in Scofield.

107 women were left without husbands, and 268 children were left fatherless. But the mine reopened and operated for another 30 years after that. Scofield began to die after the 1920s when coal-mining activity dwindled.

I then took a back road into the little railroad town of Helper, just in time to watch the Price River flashflood from rains in the high country.

Soon after, I was on my way to Durango, Colorado, and stopped near a field of sunflowers to let everyone out for a bit. The dogs loved it, and it seemed very peaceful and quiet there in that not-so-thin space of yellow flowers and distant mountains.

It was a perfect place to contemplate the thin space of our short lives and exult in the beauty around us.

A Paradoxical Time in Paradox

2011-08-09T07:36:00.003-06:00

I recently had the opportunity to spend some time in Paradox, Colorado, a place a lot of Coloradoans don't even know exists. It's way down in the southwest part of the state, almost to the Utah state line, about an hour from Moab.

Sunset on the cliffs of the Paradox Valley

Like Moab, Paradox sits in a collapsed salt anticline. It gets its name from the paradox that the river (the Dolores) flows across the valley, not through it, like most rivers do. The valley, which is about 25 miles long and five wide, was not formed by the river, but by the collapse of the underlying salts as they were eaten away by gradual erosion.

The valley has a Wild West history, and its remoteness added to the tough characters it attracted. It's managed to keep its Western heritage better than most places, partly because of its remoteness.

Like Bigfoot, the Paradox deer are naturally blurry.

The house I stayed in was surrounded by beautiful trees and swifts that lived in the eaves and ate some of the numerous mosquitoes. Very unusual incessant rains had created a big moskie hatch, as well as devastating the hay crops.

The old historic Bedrock Store, now closed

The next morning, I drove around the tiny settlement of Bedrock, near where I stayed, recalling a river trip long ago down the Dolores that ended at the takeout near the store, although it was open then. (I write of that river trip in my book, Desert Rats.)

The Bedrock Post Office, scheduled for closure

I then headed back to civilization, following the River Road, a mostly one lane dirt road that follows the Dolores River through a beautiful deep redrock canyon. I had one eye on the road and one on the skies, as a massive thunderstorm was brewing. I've been in that country before when huge waterfalls coursed down the canyon walls, and I wanted to get up and out before the threat of flashflooding became the real deal.

I managed to get out and back onto the highway, admiring the tenacity and insanity of the human critter as illustrated by the remnants of a hanging flume near where the two roads meet.

As I came out on the main highway by Uravan, water literally fell from the sky. I was caught beneath huge cliffs and above more huge cliffs on a narrow road with rain so heavy I couldn't see where to drive. When waterfalls from the cliffs above me started pounding the hood of my car, I bid sanity farewell and drove madly until I was away from the cliffs, then pulled over and watched the lightning strike next to me several times.

It was a day full of the paradox of great water in such a remote desert land.

Old doghole uranium mine near Uravan

Home is Where the Heart Is

2011-08-08T01:27:00.004-06:00

Leaving one's childhood home has a poignant feel to it, but if you're going home, I mean truly home, there's also the expectation of going back to where one's heart lies—one's true home, wherever that may be.

Old railroad water tank near Oak Creek, Colorado

One can live anywhere, but I've found it generally better to be where your heart lies. Too many of us go to our true homes only on vacation, then yearn the rest of the year to be there, pining a bit now and then, or maybe even pining away. We put our lives on hold until we can retire and move there, or even just until the next vacation. Life slips away.

Typical Colorado oldtime cattle ranch under the Flattops. Note the absence of copper roof, white fence, and caretaker's house for winters spent in Florida. No fancy SUV in the drive, either.

Volcanic plug near Phippsburg, Colorado

The tiny town of Phippsburg was and still is a railroad town. At any given time, several engines will be chugging on the rails, sometimes in motion and sometimes waiting...for what, I don't know—maybe life to pass them by.

My route home took me through Phippsburg. How can such a little forgotten place have such good associations? I used to ride my bike here a lot, as mentioned in an earlier blog. Nothing has changed that I can tell, and the trains still come and go.

The Black Dog Saloon in Phippsburg. I wonder if they let dogs in for an ale or two on hot days—or maybe they practice reverse discrimination and only let black ones in.

My home—the landscape above Moab, Utah

Almost Wyoming

2011-08-06T10:40:00.001-06:00

Bee boxes near Craig—and yes, lots of bees.

I spent a lot of my childhood in or near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, but I was born in the desert town of Craig, just down the road some 45 miles to the west. Craig is high desert and gets the cold winters Steamboat gets without as much snow. I recall it getting down to -45 degrees one winter when I was young. And of course, like most of the kids there, I had a horse and had to break ice in the water tank every morning and evening for her.

Coming into Craig from the west.

I have lots of family in Craig, as my grandparents on both sides homesteaded the region. Some have ranches, and I spent a lot of time hanging around with my ranching cousins. We had some pretty interesting adventures and were allowed to run like wild animals most of the time.

Even though we see lots of antelope in Utah, the dogs are always ready to see another.

Bears Ears Peak near Craig, land of big vistas, wheat and sheep ranches, and coal mines.

Highway 40, called the "Victory Highway" at the end of WWII, is just another lonesome highway where it passes through western Moffat County.

Craig should have been in Wyoming, as it's more like a Wyoming town topographically—the area has open sweeping vistas with few trees, lots of interesting rock formations, rattlesnakes, wild horses, pronghorn antelope—and plenty of wild country. It's only about 40 miles to the Wyoming state line. And Utah's Zion Curtain isn't far to the west. We spent many a summer afternoon in the canyons near Dinosaur National Monument—I think this is where I get my love of Utah's canyons.

Moffat County, where Craig lies, is the second biggest county in Colorado, and Craig is the county seat. The county has 4,750.94 square miles and about 15,000 people. Do the math, and you'll see why I'm allergic to cities.

Typical Moffat County landscape

Anyway, I managed to spend several days visiting Craig and seeing some old friends while staying in Steamboat. I was tempted to stay, but as the song says, "Winter's coming on, and our good times are all gone." I'll be back another time.

F.M. Light signs have dotted Northwest Colorado for many years. The store was founded in the early 1900s and is still an icon of Steamboat Springs.

A Farewell to the Northlands

2011-08-04T10:09:00.002-06:00

Steamboat Springs has trains, which Cassie loves (to bark at).

In some ways, it was hard to leave the North Country—I have so many childhood memories there, and they're pretty much good ones. But in order to live one's life, you sometimes have to let it go. If I were to try to stay and relive another era, well, we've all met people like that, haven't we?

One of the more unusual mail boxes I've seen.

But there was one place I really wanted to go before heading back southwest to Utah—Hahn's Peak. This area was truly special, as my family had spent a number of summer days and nights there camping and fishing. So, I took off up the little windy road to the tiny village of Clark, which I'd visited a few years back, but on bicycle.

Signs of global warming: beetle killed pines

Yellow Mule's Ears were everywhere.

I don't recall how many miles it is to Clark from Steamboat Springs, but I think around 17. It's a beautiful drive up the Elk River Valley, then one passes the little town and is soon near Hahn's Peak.

Cassie in her latest fashion statement, a kids' t-shirt.

We stopped and got out and basked in the sweetness of wildflowers everywhere. Cassie had fun running around in the flowers in her t-shirt. She was bit by another dog and had to have stitches, and the shirt kept her from licking or scratching them.

That other dog was Weezee. I have no idea what the fight was about, but Weezee seemed sorry afterwards and even tried to lick the wound. The vet said that was how Blue Heelers sometimes settle their differences. I guess they're honest with each other, but it was a sorry tale, one I hope never happens again. In the meantime, Cassie got lots of attention in her fashionable duds and the stitches were soon removed.

Looking towards the Mt. Zirkle Wilderness

We could now see the peak, and what a sight it was. I've climbed its slopes, fished its waters, camped at its feet, and admired its beauty throughout my childhood. We even had a bear come ambling through our camp once. This was years before it was discovered by others—we Northwest Coloradoans had our own private paradise here.

But it's OK, we can share. It's too beautiful not to.

And so, with this final salute to the Northlands of my youth, I headed south.

Snow in July

2011-08-02T16:45:00.005-06:00

This plaque says something about Lithia Hot Springs (has lots of lithium), but I wasn't able to read it because lightning was popping everywhere and I was afraid to get out of my car.

While still in Steamboat Springs, I wandered around a bit looking at the numerous hot springs, seeing if they were the same as when I was a kid. Of course, the springs hadn't changed, though the space around them had some (more touristy). The area has over 150 mineral springs, and it also has occasional small earthquakes, which I'm sure are related facts. I was treated to a small earthquake while there, although I didn't know it until I read the morning paper.

Cotton ready to fly.

I've been in the Colorado high country in July when it snowed, but what I saw in Steamboat that July day was much more to my liking than the cold stuff. It seems that conditions were perfect for the narrow-leaf cottonwoods to let fly with their many seeds, and I was treated to a beautiful display of "snow" in summer.

The day wound down to a perfect sunset, It was my last day there, and I would soon be headed to warmer climes. I knew I would miss the cool air and reminders of a very special childhood, but it was time to move on.

Slip Sliding Away...

2011-07-19T11:41:00.011-06:00

The Yampa at Steamboat, still setting flow records

We humans are an interesting species (at least to ourselves). Like most mammals, we like to play. But, having opposable thumbs and big brains gives us a bit of an edge on the many ways we can come up with to entertain ourselves.

As proof, I give you...tubing. (And I know the photos don't seem to go with the discussion, but bear with me.)

A classic barchan dune in White Sands National Monument, New Mexico.

About ten years ago, I was in Steamboat Springs, Colorado (where I happen to be as of this writing), and I decided to try out the popular sport of tubing the Yampa River. I grew up on the shores of the Yampa, but where I lived, the river was too deep for playing in, unless you were a good swimmer. About all I did was wade in it a bit.

So, that was my first time tubing the Yampa, because here in Steamboat, the waters are usually so shallow you can literally stand up and maybe be up to your knees in it. About the riskiest thing about tubing the Yampa here is coming out with holes in the bottom of whatever it is you're wearing. For a non-swimmer like me, it was perfect, and I had a great time.

Unlike last time I was here, this summer has been a bad one for the businesses in Steamboat that rent inner tubes. The sheriff has shut down the Yampa to tubers, as it's too high and fast. About the only ones on it are commercial rafters and kayakers.

If you grew up in New Mexico near White Sands, you might have a different take on tubing. You can rent or buy sleds and tubes from the park headquarters. It's too bad everyone can't head down there—but it would probably be a bit too hot. So, I guess it's back to wading in the Yampa until the waters go down.

White Sands seen in the hazy distance while dropping down from the mountains to the east.

Accidentally Crazy

2011-07-17T07:41:00.007-06:00

The Yampa River, flowing through Steamboat Springs at record levels.

It's been awhile since the Fourth of July, but it will be hard to forget this year's display in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The event was heavily touted by the tourism people as being the best in Colorado, but I admit to having been a bit skeptical about that claim, especially after having seen the ones at Ouray, Aspen, and Telluride, which are pretty impressive. But some had bought the hype, as the town hosted an extra 30,000 people for the event, so I was told by a local.

Ouray features a long stretch of lighted Jeeps coming down off Red Mountain Pass above the town, and Telluride has one of the most stunning settings ever for fireworks, which light up the huge peaks above the town and echo forever. And the one I saw at Aspen was from the vantage of having somewhat illegally hiked up the mountain right under the launch point—I'll never forget having huge chunks of lighted cardboard and debris falling around and on me.

So, I had a bit of the show me attitude about Steamboat's display. Since I was staying right smack below Howelsen Hill, where they shoot them from, I decided I might be wise to take the dogs some distance away to watch the fireworks, especially since they were already showing signs of distress from the small poppers around the neighborhood.

The old Steamboat rail station.

So, off we went about three miles away, where I could see the fireworks but the dogs couldn't really hear them. I parked by a county road and waited. While sitting there in the dark, something walked by the car, really upsetting the dogs. My guess is either a raccoon or a really short Bigfoot.

It started off like most fireworks displays, but quickly ramped up. Picture the typical grand finale of a show, then multiply it by three—no, maybe five—and you'll have the show that night. I was impressed. But I was also surprised at how short it was, a mere 11 minutes, according to the next day's paper.

Then the truth came out. Some of the fireworks had accidentally set off others until it was a crazy wild display of everything going off pretty much at once. I was told that it was so crazy that some of the locals called to tell them it was too much, to shut it down. Of course, this wasn't as planned, and there was no way to shut it down.

So, I would have to say that the fireworks display at Steamboat wins best of show, at least so far. But only accidentally.

On Dirigiblephobia and Balloon Rodeos

2011-07-13T16:04:00.013-06:00

Moki, in the throes of dirigiblephobia

I know that dirigiblephobia technically isn't the same as balloonphobia, but it sounds more dignified, so, for Moki's sake, we'll call it by the more serious-sounding name. Where this condition came from, I have no idea, but one day, while camping north of Moab, a hot-air balloon came over, and Moki disappeared.

The first aerial ski jump in the United States, at Howelsen Hill, Steamboat Springs, Colorado

Near Howelson Hill was Steamboat's original red-light district, now a pleasant neighborhood.

Where the real rodeos are held in Steamboat Springs, at the base of Howelsen Hill. It was a big deal to go to the annual fair here when I was a kid.

I had no idea Moki was afraid of balloons until then. Australian Shepherd-Blue Heeler mixes are usually known as being pretty level-headed working dog types, so it was unexpected. Working dogs are the best for sticking around, they're very territorial. After looking for her for a couple of hours, I found her sitting behind a small sand dune about 100 feet from camp that I'd overlooked, thinking she could hear me and would surely come back if that close. Maybe she was making a point.

This balloon barely skimmed the rooftop on its way down.

Maybe this balloon's owners live here and sat down on the back deck, I don't know.

Ever since then, all I have to do is say the word balloon and she looks up to the sky, scared. I might add that she's also afraid of rotating cement trucks and has generalized this fear to all round trucks (which she always barks at), but not square ones. I think we humans have bred too much...well, I'm not sure what to call it...into these working dogs (the word intelligence doesn't quite work, but I think it is a related thing).

This is the old barn that featured Billy Kidd skiing down the roof wearing a cowboy hat and Western attire when Steamboat first started marketing itself. I personally liked the poster that made the rounds featuring a fallen gondola on a Mt. Werner slope that simply said, Ski Steamboat. I'm sure the ski area didn't like it so much, though.

Another old barn on Mt. Werner. Some of the street names for the million-dollar homes made my day, like Barn View.

So, here we are in Steamboat Springs, Colorado early one cloudy morning when I notice Moki's terrified of something she can see out the back, which I can't see. She's looking up, so I immediately know what it has to be.

Ahead are more, in all shapes and colors and sizes and degrees of up and down. It's the Balloon Rodeo—Moki's worst nightmare.

Thinking I might clue her in to what these weird noisy things really are and thereby cure her, I drove right into the action and park the car. We sat there for some time, Moki's ears forward. I have no idea if it worked or not, but I suspect not.

The other dogs were curious, but didn't seem to have a lot of empathy for Moki's fears. They soon got bored and went to sleep, leaving Moki to survive all on her own.

But that's what phobias are all about— irrational fears. Kind of like my own city-phobia, I guess, though I really don't think it's irrational.

Old Haunts

2011-07-12T07:29:00.010-06:00

Under the Flattop Mountains near Yampa

I spent the first 15 years of my life in northwest Colorado, where my great-grandparents were early homesteaders. I returned there when I was 20, spending a year in the little town of Yampa, which is near the headwaters of the Yampa River.

If you drive around that area, you'll see a lot of roads and businesses with the name bear, the result of people once calling the Yampa River the Bear River. When I was growing up, I was told that Yampa was Ute for bear—but it's not, it's Ute for a type of edible tuber that grows in the valley and was a major food source for the Utes there. But the misnomer is now firmly entrenched in the valley's nameplaces.

I spent most of my year in Yampa in the backcountry, working as a land surveyor, and I got to know the area pretty well. It's a beautiful place, although the winters can be fierce and very snowy—thus the lush green vegetation, which is quite a change from the deserts I frequent.

Yampa is the visual definition of the word bucolic, a small town that some people would call a village. You can easily walk about anywhere in town, and everyone knows everyone, which can be good and bad.

The Flattops, still bearing a lot of snow for mid-July

The Flattop Mountains rise behind the town, although you really can't see them from the town itself because of nearby hills. They're wild, and hiking there provides true solitude. The region is capped with volcanic flows, and Finger Rock, a volcanic plug not far from town, is a testament to that fiery era.

Finger Rock

I hadn't been to this area for many years, but it seemed like it had only been a short time ago. I remembered living there as if it had been yesterday—walking daily to the post office with my little calico cat, Calamity Jane, following along on the quiet dirt streets. I would also take off on my bicycle and ride for miles on the backroads, sometimes ending up in the nearby towns of Oak Creek or Phippsburg. I had bought that bike in Steamboat Springs one day on a whim and had to ride it the 30 miles home, as I'd hitched a ride into town with a friend and had no other way to get back.

I recalled driving once to Stillwater Lake above town, the headwaters of the Yampa, when my old Dodge pickup gave up the ghost. I'd paid a mere $400 for it and was sad to see it die, but later investigation under the hood revealed it was only a bad sparkplug, so I happily drove it for some time after that.

Downtown Yampa

I was pleasantly surprised to see that Yampa really hadn't changed all that much, which is unusual for most Colorado towns, especially those near ski areas. I'm not nostalgic by nature, so I drove around just long enough to see how the town had fared, then left, heading on down the road to the ski town of Steamboat Springs.

A ranch similar to the one where I spent many great days riding horses when I was a kid.

Sleeping Giant Mountain in the distance

As I neared Steamboat, I decided to take the back way in and swung onto a dirt road that circled Emerald Mountain and came into town from the west. I could see Sleeping Giant Mountain in the distance, with its puzzle that I've tried to solve since I was a kid—which end is the head? I think it's the right-hand end, but it could be the left, if the giant were sleeping downhill...

After my year in Yampa, I moved to Grand Junction, Colorado, then from there returned to college at Colorado State. But I'll always remember my year in that sleepy little town.

A closer view of the flanks of Sleeping Giant (the mountain in the foreground)

Spelunking on the Run

2011-06-22T16:33:00.023-06:00

I think most cavers would say their explorations are of the slow, steady kind—climbing around in the dark through big and little holes doesn't usually lend itself to speed. But my memories of Carlsbad Caverns aren't at all like being in a typical cave, they're more like madly driving down the road, trying to see as much as possible in a short time.

I've never been one to like caves, even though I've done some caving. I tend towards claustrophobia, and I'm always happy when the adventure is over. Not the makings of a true spelunker, I know.

I had it on good authority that Carlsbad Caverns were well worth the drive and that my life would be incomplete if I managed to die without seeing them, so I decided to go ahead and check them out, even though I prefer to be above ground.

I won't bore you with the statistics, but let's just say the place is huge. And the word huge doesn't really capture the dimensions of the caverns, it's more like mind-blogglingly big. And that's just the main cavern, the rest of the caves go on and on into maybe infinity, as cavers keep finding new rooms.

The whole area, called the Permian Basin, was once a huge sea, and the nearby Guadalupe Mountains were a huge coral reef. The entire Carlsbad area is karst limestone, riddled with caves and sinkholes and other cool stuff.

I had read the webpage for the caverns and knew if one had their dogs in the car and it reached 70 degrees, they would be fined—which is a good policy, as it preserves the lives of our furry friends. And it gets hot down in that part of the country. I also saw that they had a kennel, and at $5 a head, it seemed pretty reasonable. So, I planned on boarding the dogs for a few hours while I enjoyed the caverns at a relaxing and leisurely pace.

It was not to be.

I can't say I liked the town of Carlsbad much. It seemed kind of depressing in a strip-town way. But once I got out towards the caverns, things picked up, as the flora became more abundant and interesting. The Mohave Desert has never been one of my favorite paces, but I do know that's partly because I haven't taken the time to really look at it.

(I actually did get a pretty good look at it on this trip, as it was blowing into my eyes most of the time. The winds were terrible, and I actually watched a big semi truck's rear wheels lift into the air. I also came upon a truck that had just blown over. I was glad I wasn't pulling a trailer, as most everyone who was had pulled over to wait the storm out. It blew like that the entire time I was down there, so entering the caverns was a nice respite.)

The winds were so bad that this coal train was probably half-empty by the time it got to its destination. That's actual coal blowing out, not smoke or dust.

Anyway, I got to the park buildings, having already talked to the kennel manager, feeling like I had everything all set to finally see Carlsbad Caverns. I was about as excited as someone who doesn't really like caves could be.

I pulled up to the kennels and went inside to take a look. The place was small, and cages were stacked on top of each other three or maybe four high, each filled with dogs of all ages and sizes and breeds. And they all looked wretched, there's no other word to describe them. Like somehow they'd been catapulted from lives of happiness—hanging out the RV window and barking at everyone going by—into prison. Some were even moaning. I knew their average stay wasn't long, but they didn't know that.

I went back outside to get some fresh air, of which there was plenty, hurtling past me at 60 m.p.h. I couldn't do it, I couldn't stick my dogs into those cages. I went back and looked at my car thermometer—68 degrees. It would surely top 70, the point of no return for a ticket, before I could get in and out of the caverns. What to do?

I went back in and talked a bit to someone in the kennel. He told me that, since the wind was blowing, if it were him, he might leave the dogs, windows down, with lots of water, and hoof it into the caverns. He assured me no one would do anything unless someone complained to a ranger, and the wind would keep everything cool if I didn't stay in there too long. It was early March, so it wasn't expected to get very hot that day.

I knew the dogs would just sleep, so I decided to give it a try. It was that or go home, not having seen the one thing I'd been told I had to see before I died. But then again, maybe not seeing it would ensure I never died.

I angled the car out of the sun, rolled the windows down, put out lots of water, and ran for the caverns.

The Lion's Tail

I ran all the way into the building, then chafed at how slow the elevator was, ran through the concession area, then through the caverns, which is over a mile long, jogging around the paved path that winds in and out of the most incredible formations imaginable.

I was fast, and I got lots of photos, mostly of things I don't recall seeing.

Limestone in the park

I was in there less than an hour, and when I got back out, the dogs were all asleep in the nice cool car.

I actually enjoyed the backcountry drive that winds through the park more than the caverns, maybe because I didn't have to jog through it. I never saw another soul out there, and the dogs were happy to hang their heads out the window and well, just be happy.

The backcountry drive starts at the park buildings and winds around for 10 miles.

They had no idea what was beneath their feet.

An Alien Kind of Place

2011-06-16T12:51:00.005-06:00

I grew up in a large extended family, and it seems like most of that extended family had an interest in the night sky, probably the result of living in a remote area where the stars could be seen in their true glory (Northwest Colorado).

We spent a lot of time outside, and that included at night, as camping was our favorite family activity (nothing much else to do). I grew up around campfires hearing the adults talk about what might be "out there"—from other galaxies to little green men—I heard it all. Some of the family had telescopes, and we would get these out and look at the rings of Saturn or the bands of Jupiter. And there were plenty of good stories about UFOs, called flying saucers by the grown-ups.

For example, two of my uncles had once come upon a huge black box-like thing sitting on the highway way out by the Colorado-Utah state line, and when they came closer, it suddenly lifted itself silently into the sky. They swore this was a true story.

I recall being in another uncle's yard in Meeker, Colorado, looking through his telescope at something that seemed to rotate high in the sky and change colors. It was stationary, and we all had no idea what it could possibly be. It was there many hours and didn't move with the night sky. I was about 14.

Another time, during his short one-year stint on the police force (he soon quit and went into electronics), my dad was part of a group of law-enforcement officers who tracked a UFO from central Utah into the Denver region, each watching as it zoomed across their part of the sky, and then calling the sheriff's offices in the next county. That one made national news.

So, when I came through Roswell, New Mexico a couple of months ago, I decided to stop at the UFO Museum there, just for old times' sake, to relive some of the good old days of UFO watching with my aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings out under the night sky of Northwestern Colorado.

I walked in the front door and looked around a bit, then had to leave, as I then realized it was a bit too sensational for my tastes. I did buy a cup with the newspaper article embossed on it announcing that aliens had crashed near Roswell back in whenever it supposedly was.

I guess I prefer the "real" thing. It seems to lose something when you're not out under a blanket of stars, marveling at the immensity of the universe, of which we're each just one very tiny part. I've never felt uncomfortable camping alone under the night sky, so maybe I don't worry too much about what's out there.

I'm not sure if I believe in aliens or not, but if they're smart, they'll stay away from UFO museums.