Category: Backcountry

The Ruth

Three people crossing the Ruth Glacier in Alaska
On the Ruth

I look out the window
Of the three-seat plane,
As we near the landing site
On the Ruth Glacier.

In the Alaska Range.

Not long after take-off, we flew over trees, rivers, and then the lower Glacier.
Now, we’re flying through the Great Gorge
Between startlingly huge mountains
And above a river of ice.
The world is the colors of snow, rock, and sky.

Prominent peaks dominate.
Denali, the great one, is straight ahead but not close.
The Moose’s Tooth is to our right and nearby,
Both imposing but welcoming.

In the Alaska Range.

Suddenly, we break free of the Gorge
And fly into the Ruth Amphitheater.
The venue of venues.

The Cessna turns left
Toward the Mountain House.
We haven’t even landed yet,
But the concert has already begun.

In the Alaska Range.

We’re late, what should we do?
I take a deep breath,
And realize that thankfully we’re not too late,
Because the music never ends.

The sky is clear
And the landing site on the snow is vivid.
The closer we get to the ground,
The more massive and magnificent the peaks become.

In the Alaska Range.

The plane touches down and stops.
I open the door and step
Out onto the Ruth.

Warm in my parka
Overwhelmed by the surroundings.

There are few people, no musical instruments,
No conductor,
And not much of an audience.

But I feel the full force of what I hear,
And am compelled
To whisper to myself where all can hear, “Bravo.”

Audio Version:

In the Glacier Plane

Alpine Summit

Summit of Huayna Potosi, Bolivia

Mountain summit
Rock and ice.
Peaks above
The clouds.

Alpine world
Of wind and cold.
But also warm
And calm.

Ascending always,
Mostly upward.
Climbing, slogging
Pushing, moving.

Ice axe, rope teams,
Crampons, prusik.
Crevasses, glaciers,
Headwalls, ridges.

Confidence and
Proud persistence
Get you to the top.
And once you’re there,
Just look around,
The vision will astound.

Audio Version:

On the Summit

The Trail

Backpacking

Like a ribbon,
That snakes from here,
To there.

Starting,
Then disappearing,
Into thin air.

The path,
The way,
The natural trail.
Where does it lead?

Dirt, sand, gravel, and rocks.
They’re all a combination
Of individual grains
That rest against each other
And connect the first one,
To the last.

It begins,
It ends,
With plenty in between.

Just because
The whole of it
Can’t be seen
All at once, together,
And from start
To finish;
Doesn’t mean
It isn’t going somewhere.

Audio Version:

A Long Bridge

Campfires

Campfire

Tender, kindling, fuel
Dry grass, sticks and logs.
Combined,
Then set afire.

Suddenly, there’s
Light, heat, and movement.
A whole new world
Is born.

A thing to stand around,
A reason to pull up a log and sit,
Something to stare into,
Reach your hands toward,
And turn your back to.
And always,
The smoke follows beauty.

And then,
A tale is told.
Which leads to another
And another.

Flames come and go
They ebb and flow.
Roaring, crackling.
Simmering, and flickering.

Embers, coals.
Constant change.

So much to see,
A lot to hear.
Things to say.
Stare, think, and gaze.

One fire is never like another,
Except that it is.

And once again,
A great story unfolds.

Audio Version:

Seeing the Sunset

Re-finding the Silver Trail- Copper Canyon, Mexico

Hike-a-bike on the Silver Trail

From the mines near Batopilas,
To the bank in Chihuahua.
And then by train,
To El Paso.
Haul the silver,
Hide the gold.

125 miles of trail.
Trains of mules with steel shoes,
Tarahumara’s with none.
Five stations along the way.
Mountains with pines,
Canyons with rocks.
Following the path,
That leads,
To the wagon road,
At Carachic.

A generation of travel,
Stopped by time.
Trees grow,
Meadows change.
The route forgotten,
Except for what,
The mules cut,
Into the rock,
With their hooves.

Forgotten stories linger:
Pilares, El Patron,
La Laja, Los Conchos,
El jefe with the knife,
Teboreachi,
The piano,
Huajochi.

Eventually, the day arrives.
And we go.
60 years later.

Years of talk and wondering,
Turn into action.
How hard could it be?
Mountain bikes, walking, and camping
Many questions asked,
But few answered.
Is this the trail?

We do it backwards- from Carachic.
First to El Ojito, then on south.
Past La Herradurra,
Night with Gabino Flores at Huajochi Station,
Walk through the Arroyo de las Iglesias,
Camp at The Hot Springs,
The next night with support at Pilares Station.

On to Siquerichi.
Cold night at La Laja Station.
Camping near Teboreachic Station.
Past Coyachique,
Then down to the Batopillas River.
From there, it’s ten miles of gravel road,
Finally, we arrive in Batopilas,
And Casa San Miguel.

The trail re-found
Was it ever lost?
Reconnoitered, mapped,
Ridden, walked, photographed,
Written and talked about.

Then,
Like before, the Chabochis
Move on.

But the trail stays.

Audio Version:

Morning Dawns in Huahochic

The Knife-edge Ridge

 

Figuring in out

“If we do make it up to the top of Delirium, there’s a knife-edge ridge we’re gonna have to cross to get over to the Cemetery and then down. It’s only about 100 hundred yards long, but it’s got lots of loose rocks and big drop-offs, so watch out. If the other person on your rope falls, jump quickly to the other side of the ridge. That’ll create a counter-balance and keep both of you from getting pulled down on top of each other. Don’t waste any time thinking about it- just do it.”

Continue reading “The Knife-edge Ridge”

Mystery

 

Going Somewhere

Walking somewhere,
And not knowing why.
To lands unknown,
With limitless sky.

Step into a world
Without any walls.
Possibilities are endless,
Mystery calls.

Climb the mountain,
Because it’s there.
Gaze from the summit,
The feeling’s rare.

Savor the moments,
When discomforts befall,
And you figure it out,
To answer the call.

Consider tomorrow,
Yet today’s cold and wet.
Cause a place warm and dry,
Waits for you yet.

Clear rivers roar onward,
Canyons bleed blue.
Caves shatter darkness,
Colors for you.

It’s always around us,
Wherever we go.
To bolster our moments.
And add to the show.

Audio Version:

Canyons of Blue

Getting There

Nearing The Top

To the top!

Sweat mixed with rain,
Too hot for jacket,
But cold makes for pain.

Take a step forward,
Slide half a step back.
Gentle breeze pulls you onward,
Brutal gust makes you crack.

Stop, rest, breathe.
Sip some water,
Have a cracker,
And then, move on.

If you look up,
The top seems a long distance.
But keep moving forward,
And show your persistence.

The load is heavy,
And it only gets worse,
As the grind gets longer.
So don’t try and converse.

Stop, rest, breathe.
Sip some water,
Have a cracker,
And then, move on.

Each step gets you closer,
Believe it or not.
Rest assured your effort,
Won’t be for naught.

You’re undoubtedly tired,
And perhaps you’re wet.
That your legs are like rubber,
Is a good bet.

More than likely,
Your hands are like bricks,
Your feet have no feeling,
And your arms feel like sticks.

But suddenly, you’re there.

Stop, rest, breathe.
Your goal achieved.
Lookout and remember,
What you’ve received.

Sip some water,
Have a cracker,
And then, move on.

Audio Version:

The Summit

Clearing in the West- A Poem

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Clearing in the West

It’s clearing in the west.

Without a doubt,
It’s brighter over in the west,
Beyond
The far ridge.

The storm is moving on.
The wind has dropped,

But the clouds persist.
And snow is everywhere.
So for now,
Zip up the door
And settle
Back into your bag.

Because it’s clearing in the west.

Just,
Grab the stove,
Clear off a spot.
Find the pot,
Wipe it out.

Set it up,
Make it stable,
Fire the burner,
Add some water,

Ready your cup,
Break out the snacks,
Wait for steam,
And time for tea.

Adjust your seat,
Take off a fleece,
Stretch your legs,
But mind your feet.

It’s getting warmer,
Crack the door,
Forget the gloves,
Pull off the cap.

Ready your drink,
What will it be?
Spiced cider, hot chocolate,
Coffee or tea?

Finally, it boils.
Turn off the stove.
Add the mix.
Pour in the water.
Sip a hot drink.

You can relax
and enjoy the moment.
Because when you unzip the door,
You’ll look out and see

That it’s clearing in the west.

Audio Version:

 

Camp at the end of a bushwhack
A Mountain Campsite

Boquillas Canyon by boat, for the Fourth Time

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Headed Into Boquillas Canyon

The last time I floated the Rio Grande through Boquillas Canyon was in 1979. So, after 40 years, it became time to remind myself of some of the lessons that that 33-mile stretch of river had taught me. And so, I floated it once again.

Continue reading “Boquillas Canyon by boat, for the Fourth Time”