Super Scary Camping Story - Halloween 2019

I gotta spooky camping story from this summer that fits well with the Halloween holiday this week, and it goes like thissss:

The boy and I were out roaming and hiking along the banks of the Rio before dusk - admiring the massive cottonwoods, complaining about the thickets of willows and tamarisk, marveling at the swooping bats (go bats!). Later we were trying to skip rocks when a large splashing sound in the water caught me unaware, visibly flinching at the sound. Surprised because I hadn't seen any campers in this area, no cars at the pull-in, i'd thought we were alone. Then another loud splash from somewhere around the bend of the river. Definitely not a fish or a bird, this was a very large rock splashing into the river and I didn't care for the unease of this unusual interruption.

We go back to camp, eat our sandwiches and chocolate treats, tell stories, settle into the tent and pore over our books. Kid soon falls asleep. I'm dozing off at some point and then *WHAPASH* the splashing once again. It's dark now and I haven't heard any voices, no music, there's no light in the canyon from a fire. Who in the hell is out there and are they here on our side of the river or the far bank? I don't like having neighbors when camping, in general people are not to be trusted. Thinking maybe I imagined the last splash I then hear it again more clearly this time. Who throws rocks into the river at night? Large rocks. We couldn't hardly find proper skipping rocks on the sandy bank during our walking adventure. Dawns on me just then that a simpler explanation could be a beaver - on the Rio though? Has to be, maybe the guy is setup on one of the side-stream meanders and is just out in the current knocking his tail about. By god I'm a John Muir backcountry genius!

Relief. Beavers are cool, yahoos out lurking in the dark of night are not. I'm lying at ground level in the tent staring into the darkness of our campsite to identify these imaginary rock hurlers and literally right as I solve this first upsetting night-sound there appears in my vision something more unsettling. A silent specter skitters through our campsite - I can barely make it out, it makes no sound - I'm imagining this, my eyes not quite adjusted to the dark after earlier damping my headlamp. No, there's something out there, a black shadow of a thing. Long upright neck, peculiar head, the size of a small dog but seems to move like a crab or scorpion. Just hold up now what in John Muir's madness am I LOOKING AT!? I'm propped on one elbow, neck craning and eyes locked to the foreground just beyond the thin nylon mesh of the tent. Alien-spider-heartattack noiselessly flits back and forth outside the tent, my anxiety races toward panic, then it steps past a cloud-dimmed patch of moon light - the extended neck and odd head, it's a tail. Vaguely visible stripe runs along it. Not an alien river scorpion (holy hell that was confusing and frightening) however skunk is not an improvement on the less-than-great spectrum of possible campsite horrors.

I'm now certain this trip will end in magnificent misery. Skunk is sniffing our packs and food bag, it's going to chew through it all, destroy our gear, likely nose its way to the tent and spray us down before all is done. How through the many strange and rapid plot twists did we get to this ordinary but soon to be epic horror show? 

Skunk leaves the packs and wanders toward the tent, toward me. The animal was a comfortable 12-15 feet away, this distance now closed to 3ft. Like watching a fool casually play with a gun and no avenue for escape, unpleasantly unreal that it's going to go down like this. Skunk then silently trots to the kid's side of the tent, noses up close, inches from the sleeping six year-old who surely will wake in fright and trigger this DEFCON-1 shitstorm.

Then - this haunting menace, this ghostly apparition of unwelcome terror - turns uninterested, and vanishes abruptly into the brush and darkness of the surrounding forest.

....Happy Hallows Eve....



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Overnight in Canyon Country Without a Tent

Rain clouds above Grand Junction 

I'm going to tell an old story of mine that comes to mind in random ways from time to time. The story is of a camping trip out near Grand Junction, CO, over a decade ago. I'd flown out from Pittsburgh where the wife and I were in full degree-pursuit mode, to join a few rowdy old friends in a float down the Westwater portion of the Colorado river.

I remember being unusually excited to be back in Colorado and drank waaaay too much on our three days on the river. Or maybe only just enough depending on one's perspective. One guy had converted the handle and motor of a chainsaw so as to attach a blender for margaritas. There was much fun had with this. On day two we spotted a dead calf floating in the water which set off a mad paddle-race between the two boats, a roaring frenzy of booze fueled mayhem to claim first rights to the floater. One oarsman was gamely trying to lasso the soggy fatality with a tie-rope. Somebody won and afterward we floated along cheering and taking grizzly photos of ourselves with the bloated little guy, his sad cow tongue lolling out of his mouth in all of them. Smelled like rotting death.

All told an out-sized level of fun was had as is the nature of most river trips, though pointedly none of these bright episodes carried the memory that remained over the years. After our days on the river I had the boys drop me off in the Junction where I'd planned to rent a bicycle and trek out into the trails outside of town for two days of solo camping. Figured I could find a way to the airport to catch my flight back east a few days later though that is its own fraught story of adventure that Colin loved to hear re-told in subsequent years.

Bike camping went well. Found the trailhead, found a campsite, stashed my gear, then got right down to the basics of riding and exploring for the better part of two days, stopping occasionally to read in the shade of a rock and sip on cold beers from my bottomless pack. The holy trinity.

My campsite was set away from the trails. I didn't want anyone to come along and decide to take my stuff while i was off exploring, particularly since everything I had with me was needed. No spare items were packed not even a tent since we shared one along the river. For this reason I also chose my campsite because there was a sliver of a rock shelter there in the form of a very tight space under a ledge. This was not an alcove or a cave but a patio sized capstone of desert rock with most of the underlying layer of sediment eroded away. The plan wasn't to actually sleep in there, only that it was insurance and peace of mind if weather were to blow in. On the second night weather did blow in.

Clouds arrived, then the the wind, then the evening darkness, and finally intermittent rain showers. Time to wedge myself into the claustrophobic peace-of-mind shelter. I found that I could lie in there with space between my body and the rock above but I couldn't roll over. It was not comfortable but it was dry. Entombed. The wind was howling and some of the more ferocious gusts would sometimes startle me awake. To my right there was a small gap in the rock that allowed a portrait view out to the shadows of trees and rock and occasional starlight above, and I stared out and thought of things and let my mind wander freely as I'd done for several days. And then I casually observed that with large wind bursts the capstone above would sway and teeter in a slow and incredulous fashion.

Initially this didn't fuel much alarm. I'd been on a couple dozen desert trips in my life, this one alone was on day five. Rocks don't just fall over out in the canyons and this one wasn't going to either. This rock in particular was keeping me dry. But nothing about this was normal and as I drifted in and out of sleep my wandering thoughts contorted and grew dark with the many unhappy things that could happen if the stone were to give way. Nobody on the planet knew where to find me. Unlikely anyone that happened along the trail would hear me and I'd only seen a handful of people in two days time anyhow. Maybe I could dig out, how long would that take? What if my arm was pinned? Before long I'd fallen deeply asleep until at some point I'd grown uncomfortable and rolled over. I woke with my shoulder wedged against the rock, remembered where I was and why I was there, and was very suddenly chilled by the horror of it all.

'jesus... don't touch the f'n slab for chrissake. Be calm, everything is just fine, go back to sleep, seriously though don't touch the rock in any unnecessary way'.

Later it happens again. It takes far longer this time to walk back the panic. The wind is really thrashing the trees and whipping sand at this point and I'm not getting much rest. I am disturbed. I'm having trouble reasoning with myself because my thinking is trending toward the irrational. Paranoia rises and falls in racing thought. I manage sleep once more, then toss and hit the stone with my shoulder for a third time - all remaining self-control comes undone. I go mad. Scrambling from the space and crying out in blind terror I'm certain that I've tempted fate a minute too long and will be crushed in this final moment of delayed hubris.

Breathing. Darkness. Wind.

Nothing happens. Nothing will happen. Nothing has changed in the camp in two days time and it's entirely likely that nothing had changed in this small area in the last several centuries. In the brief span of 2-3 otherwise ordinary and unremarkable hours, nothingness somehow begets madness.

From thirty feet away I sat with my back against a large block of crimson rock and stare at the shadows and trees and the rock shelter. Calm now but making an effort to breath evenly, collecting my nerves. Sleeping-bag pulled up to my chest. Eyes blink with fatigue, staring. Wind driven raindrops rap and drum, slowly dampening both hair and shoulder. I try to talk myself into settling back into the shelter, out from the rain.


Related Posts:
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What It's Like to be a Parent - With Helpful Comparison to New Orleans Party

Important Dad skill: Crossing creeks with both coffee and kid

I traveled down to New Orleans recently for some wedding festivities. The friends and I brought the ruckus, rolling the celebrations out late over two nights, even high-stepping our own cocktail fueled street parade through the French Quarter complete with marching band and police escort. We went big even by our own historical standards, by accountants' standards we would have been off the charts. Straight up partied our asses off, committed fully to the task at hand. Flawless execution. The 7,000+ ft drop in altitude for myself only provided an even larger tank of fuel then normal to burn through.
Now, on my return home, not even one full week later I’m out on an evening mtb ride with a friend (also an accountant I should add). It is hot as holy hell. No wind or breeze to speak of, I’m literally thanking my good judgment for filling two water bottles before heading out of the house (usually take just one). I’m sweating sheets during the ride and this requires me to stop on several occasions to clear my eyes because I’m blinded. We are not even in the hills - no climbing, just zipping around Galisteo and pedaling madly up/down the southern stretches of the Rail Trail in Eldorado. We grab a beer after the ride and I’m definitely more filthy than average because I'm annoyingly conscious that my entire upper body is coated in a film of sweat and dust and I feel it when I move, minor actions like talking and smiling and swiveling my head. Thirty minutes later I pull into the house just in time for the 3yr old's bedtime so I walk in the door and directly into his room where I sit with him until he’s asleep. We both fall asleep of course - me in the rocking chair, layered in sweat and dust baked in by sun, he in his nearly outgrown toddler's bed. I was at the office all day and was spent. I wake up super early a.m. and on autopilot drag my broken old-man body out of that freaking chair and sleepwalk straight into the shower because I literally feel several degrees worse at this moment than I did on either of the late unsteady mornings in New Orleans the week before.
I feel that this story very elegantly illustrates what it’s like to be a parent and I wanted to share my pain with other people. Being a parent is super-fun though there's lots of discomfort and confusion and small humiliations of unusually high frequency and the occasional absence of beds or any type of necessary self-planning.
P.S. New Orleans is a riot and you should go there.
Related Posts:
- Adventure on the Winsor Trail (Sep 2014)
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Snorkeling Adventures in Grasshopper Canyon

Colors at dawn - Grasshopper Canyon

As of Saturday morning we’d received no snow for several weeks so I went out running in the canyons along Rowe Mesa, figuring they’d soon be snowed in for the season. Been trying to piece together a trail loop(s) out there on-and-off during the year. Explored a nifty new route along the east canyon rim (h/t Georges Malley) then dropped back into Grasshopper Canyon on the return. Was feeling pretty good about myself and my orientation skills and the beauty of the morning, I was maybe even a little bit euphoric as I bounded down canyon splashing through the creek. The thought surfaced for a moment that this feeling is often a big bright red-flag of crushed expectation, on par with false-summits when in the mountains. Of further concern was a troubling observation - I’d parked at the mouth of the canyon where there was a well defined trail, but no sign of trail existed along the section I was navigating. Maybe people don’t hike up this far? Maybe there be dragons?

Pinon and the sunrise

The canyon narrows dramatically before long and I stop to take photos of a few serene waterfalls. Hasn’t become obvious to me just yet, but wait for it...waaait for it...aaand the canyon is blocked by a cascade into a large pool. There are no hike-arounds. Bare rock climbs to more than 200ft on both sides. The easiest route by far is to just down-climb into the pool and wade out the other side however I really didn’t want to do this. It’s 7:45am, cold but not freezing, I’m not certain how far I am from the truck but to retrace my steps would be six difficult miles and I really didn’t want to do that, not least because I don’t carry water with me on shorter outings. The idea then was to scramble down the rock chute and avoid getting hurt while jumping into the pool. Cellphone under my stocking cap at this point I slide/hop into the water and discover the pool not to be waist deep but neck deep. I actually choke on a bit of creek water but my system is in cold shock and my only reaction is to frantically wade to the exit. Now out of the water I remain in shock because I’m completely soaked, and completely freezing, and standing at the bottom of a canyon near Rowe Mesa on a December morning before the sun has lifted above ridgeline. This is a below average situation.

The upper cascades

It’s a good thing I’m out running and (maybe) a good thing I’m alone and not responsible for dragging someone else through this alarming misfortune. A few hundred meters down-trail there’s another less dramatic looking pool to wade through. Disappointment arrives as I soon find the depth is again more than chest-deep. I bark my shin on an awkwardly placed log as I kick to the exit. Alright then, I’m now soaked and freezing for a second time and slightly horrified that there may be more swimming before I’m done (mercifully not so).

I make it to the truck before compounding my problems with the embarrassment of being seen by other hikers. Getting wet isn’t a big deal, however being frozen without the certainty of knowing where you are invites a small amount of panic.

Side canyon falls and foreshadowing

These unplanned moments of panic are often fascinating. You’re zipping along in a security-bubble and in a ‘blink’ everything within view suddenly harbors potential existential challenges. The shadows shift, the smallest change in conditions at this moment may create serious vulnerability, (rolled ankle plus wet & freezing would be bad, slip and fall bad, encounter with wildlife really bad). It’s a fleeting and mostly-safe peek of what waits on the other side of the line between the beauty of nature and its steely indifference. Make it back to the truck and these types of interludes seem to always make the beer taste better. Cheers then, to always making it back to the truck.

Related Posts:

 - Adventure on the Winsor Trail

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When an Awesome Run gets Awesomer

Visiting and running in Boulder this last weekend. Memories from my days as a student are now more than a decade past and my internal map of the area trail system is incoherent. A wonderful side-effect of such haziness is to run unfamiliar trail sections then round a bend or exit a grove of trees to a marvelous and long forgotten viewpoint. Like greeting an old friend - over and over and over again. It's an enlightened experience, especially when you're also running with an old friend.

Our Sunday long run routed up and over and through until we made a quick change in direction and cut to a little known thru-trail in a residential area. At the bottom of the hill, setup right off the footpath, were two guys dolled up in red cocktail dresses and makeup, unloading three coolers of ice and Pabst beer from a truck. It was like the day couldn't have been a more perfect day, than this. Beaming, I laugh and call out through a maniac's grin, 'we've been looking everywhere for you!'

At this, the red-dress guys frown and look confused. They were expecting a group of runners in matching red dresses to come through, but we dropped in from the opposite direction, outfit in regular dirtbag attire plus mud-caked shoes and ankles. Little of this made sense to them at that moment. In contrast and in an apex of irony, their presence made clear and absolute sense to me along with my fading memories of life in Boulder in my 20's. The badassness of hitting an inadvertent beer stop during a long run ranks quite high. To be fair, it's most likely an act of God. I may have even said this out loud, in which one red-dress guy blinked slowly and indifferently in response. Then we remembered there was an incredible amount of beer sitting at our feet and we laughed and laughed. One celebratory PBR and several hi-fives later and we were clipping down the path again, stepping briefly to the side as an impressive fleet of on-coming runners feted in red dresses stormed right on by.

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Nambe Creek - TR 160

Getting dirty

Got out for a nice backcountry excursion up in the Pecos Wilderness several months ago as the fall season rolled to a close. A long night reading by lamplight, followed by a beer-breakfast, followed by a long morning run in the montanas; The holy trinity. Thought it'd be fun to share here with photos and such.

The run starts from Aspen Ranch following Upper Borrego (TR150) over to the Nambe watershed, then up the creek (TR160) toward the high peaks. Saw a deer, an eagle, some cows, a hunter out looking for grouse, and even a couple of grouse (run little fellas!). Hadn't been out on these trails for a few years so I was excited for the adventure and new exploration.

Borrego at Rio en Medio

Into the burn area on Borrego. Notice the creek bed with several feet of silt, tree trunks snapped in two.

Just to confirm what I already knew, the Rio Nambe is still recovering from the massive Pacheco Canyon Fire (human caused) that burned through these parts a few years back. It will be recovering for some time. Pretty effing amazing what a fire can do. The area is spectacularly wrecked, even the trail is only just barely there along parts of the creek bed. It's gone entirely in other spots, decent route-finding skills are essential. Lots of downed trees and obstacles. In fact, I'd credit the summer herd of cattle up there for preserving any type of trail/passage at all. I often curse those damned cows, but there they were doing nice things for me. Nicely played cows. I smile uneasily and slow-clap your efforts. *clap....*clap....

Nambe creek at Borrego. Heavily channeled but not destroyed.

Upper Borrego junction, with burn scar tree trunks

Absolute ruin and moonscape up valley

Massive channeling of the creek bed

One of many widow makers still rocking in the breeze

Initial plans were to follow a route that included a climb up to La Vega and the Puerto Nambe saddle but slow-going through the Borrego fire wasteland forced my hand into bailing out and up at Nambe Trail (TR403). This is the dreaded Elevator Shaft. No, I would not recommend this route to others unless descending. Two miles, 2,000ft, ~45min - I suffered in silence but it was a crusher.

Side canyon from a north fork of the creek, scoured down to bedrock

A bit higher the 'trail' tunnels through new aspen saplings 

Junction with trail 403 up to Winsor (charcoaled). The immediate forecast: PAIN

The Elevator Shaft

Topped out on Upper Winsor (TR254). The faint whiff of cow crap down in the Nambe morphed into a faint whiff of dog crap up on the Winsor-Baldy freeway. Motored past a parade of at least two dozen hikers and their dogs over the one mile section descending down to the ski area and Rio en Medio Trail (TR163). I nodded and offered a good morning to all of them. It was a good morning by God, freaking beautiful up there.

Caught a few odd looks most likely because I happened to be running in jeans. The running shorts somehow didn't make it into the truck the night before. Fortunately shorts aren't required running equipment. Running shoes and beer are - and I sure as shit didn't overlook either of those. Interestingly, the extra leg-cover spared me a significant amount of lashing and thorn swipes from the overgrowth and off-trail running in the Nambe. So, best day ever to forget shorts. Sometimes you win some, and sometimes you win some. A very memorable morning.

Junction at Winsor and Rio en Medio, below the Ski area

Rio en Medio falls restore balance after the apocalypto nihilism of Nambe

Distance:  10mi
Max Elev:  10,800ft
Net Climbing:  2,500ft
Time:  2hr 42min

Related Posts:
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Adventure on the Winsor Trail

Winsor Meadows

Had an interesting outing on the mountain bike this summer. Up at the crack of dawn with the plan of motoring up Winsor for the first time this year. Arrived at the Chamisa trailhead, rockin’ some Aerosmith (great band or best band?)*, when it became clear that a key piece of equipment didn't make the trip - my mtb shoes. Generally speaking, this wouldn't be a huge deal if I had been wearing shoes of some other type, however this was not the case. No, I had left the house wearing flip-flops for some strange reason. Effin’ flip-flops. FLIP-FLOPPPSSS!! [KAHHHNN!!] Desperation and denial stabbed at my mind: Can there be any imagined scenario in which Aerosmith wears flip-flops? No. fuck no. Not one. Well, there’s a lesson there. 

This is how this works - I have a sleeping 2yr old at home, so I have a short window at the break of dawn to run/ride/(ski sometimes) or, with searing remorse and regret I can rollover and go back to sleep. This being the case, driving back into town to get my shoes meant no long workout and probably no ride till the following weekend. An hour of running would have to replace cycling the Winsor as option A, and my mind that day was not calibrated toward running it was geared-up for cruising in the mountains on the summer’s first ride along the creek up the Winsor. 

So this happened…  >>>

There is literally a skull on my sock and a bell on my handlebars

Can’t possibly be the first time this has ever happened to someone heading out for a ride, am I right? This must happen all the time! How do folks generally resolve this kind of problem do you suppose? I reasoned that they probably just hope for the best, ignore the discomfort of missing gear, and ride - very carefully keeping an eye on toe-crushing rocks and tree branches. A very real danger that I'd simply never considered since it would otherwise be reckless to ride Chamisa/Winsor in open-toed shoes. (Sidenote: I have biked around at a party shoeless before. This is such a bad idea. I cannot caution strenuously enough how this should not be tried). 

Below Pacheco Canyon

Back to the current shady cycling story...Aside from potentially seriously injuring myself, my secondary concern was the possible embarrassment of seeing people see me riding along like a jagger in socks and flip-flops. Not a real danger, I calculated. Nobody’s going to be out this early on the middle stretches of Winsor. Wrong. I saw 23 people that morning [KAHHHNN!!]. 15 cyclists, 6 hikers including a woman who stopped me to ask if there was water up-trail for her dog, and 2 runners. I’m certain of this figure because I counted each one, my face screwed-up in a sideways cringe of awkwardness at each addition. 

It all worked out for me in the end, although I couldn't handle the steep climbing that leads up to NORSKI. I did see two ptarmigan (grouse) in one section, got too excited then veered off trail crashing into some bushes. There were also a few slips in technical sections where I pedaled out of my flop and had to avoid the pedal-whip-into-the-shin hazard. A very acceptable level of harm, all things considered. And it all makes for a good story as well as an important takeaway to share with others - that a cavalier attitude toward footwear has the potential to ruin your entire week. You’re welcome.

Old crossing at Bear Wallow, now much improved

Guerrilla-built drop above Pacheco. Since removed by the NFS

Firecracker penstemon

* I kid, i kid. Zeppelin will always be the best band, Halen a distant second.

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