Category: Being Prepared

Ron’s Big Adventure

(NOTE: This is for Ron Duke, who rode off down the South Fork of the Guadalupe River near Hunt, Texas early on the morning of July 4, 2025 in his kayak. As far as I know, he was last seen nearing the Gulf of Mexico. Wherever you are, Ron, may you  R.I.P)

Ron

Conventional wisdom says
That Ron Duke didn’t survive
The massive flood of ’25.

But he’s never been one to let convention
Get in his way.

Through the years
He was often heard to say:

“The best time to kayak this river
Is when it’s flooding.”

This may be what actually happened:

In the dark of the morning
On the Fourth of July of ‘25,
Ron was startled awake by pounding rain.
The sound was music to his ears once he put his hearing aids in.
Back in ’87, he’d stayed in bed and listened to that same song,
For a little too long.
And that’d been a mistake.
So this time around, he had a new plan.

With the help of a rush of adrenaline,
He crabwalked himself out of bed,
And made his way down the outdoor leaning stairway,
Of his house on stilts.
Then, he walked across the road,
To his combination
Kayak/canoe/outdoor gear/chainsaw/mountain bike/woodstove/water advocacy shop.

With the water coming his way,
And no time to waste,
He made a try at haste.
He moved, not dragged, a kayak to the parking lot,
Grabbed a paddle, put on his old life jacket,
Got his thermos of Community Coffee,
A box of coffee cake that he’d fairly recently purchased at Walmart,
A new pack of Marlboro’s,
And the unread July issue of the Geographic.
Then, he climbed into the boat
Just as the water set him afloat.

And so,

He rode the rising South Fork
In his kayak toward the Gulf.
Through the cypress
And the cedars,
Past the boulders
And the bluffs.

Lightning flashing,
Thunder rumbling
Sweet smell of raindrops in the air.

He didn’t hurry,
No need to worry.
‘Cause he was on a river,
And headed home.

———————————————————-

Audio Version:

Out the Door

 

Soaking it all in

Adventure calls,
An hour awaits.
What will I see?
What are my fates?

So, I walk through the doorway
And into the woods.
With no trail to walk on,
I follow the coulds.

Right off the bat,
Post Oaks and vines,
Along with some Greenbriers,
Mix with the pines.

At first, I feel limits
To where I can go.
Then push through a tangle,
And go with the flow.

Once out of the thicket,
A meadow appears.
A grazing deer stops,
And perks up its ears.

Though free of confinement,
I stop in my tracks,
Eager to see,
Just how it reacts.

Despite my quiet efforts,
It scampers away.
Just why that happened,
I simply can’t say.

So, I move on ahead,
Across open terrain.
The ground would’ve been solid,
Except for the rain.

My boots become wet
And the dirt turns to mud.
My feet are soon covered
With masses of crud.

I turn to my right
Toward higher ground.
I’m hoping for dryness,
But none can be found.

After walking 5 minutes,
I top a small rise.
Then suddenly before me,
–a pleasant surprise.

A field of wild Raspberries,
Is blocking my route.
And I can see by their color,
That they’re ripe without doubt.

I fill up on berries,
Then emerge near a creek.
I follow the bank,
A dry crossing, I seek.

Around a curve in the creek,
A log bridges the stream.
I get halfway across
Then it breaks, and I scream.

Into the water,
I fall with a thud.
It’s not all that deep,
But there’s plenty of mud.

I move on across,
Then, climb out at the shore.
I’m nasty and wet,
And cold to the core.

Glad to be out,
I sit down on a log.
And that’s when I’m greeted,
By a sick-looking dog.

I look for its owner,
But no one is near.
That the poor pooch is hungry,
Seems to be clear.

I give it my snack,
And it eats it up quick.
Then it chews on some grass,
And picks up a stick.

It sits down beside me
And we both shut our eyes.
But are soon startled to action
By shrieking and cries.

Something’s distressed
I quickly conclude.
We run toward the noise,
And arrive at a feud.

Two birds are fighting
Over a morsel of food.
I stop in my tracks,
But the dog can’t be subdued.

It goes in on attack
But the prey easily escape.
The dog feasts on the morsel
Which puts an end to the scrape.

I get back to my walk
And the dog follows my lead.
But I have no clue where I am,
I’m lost I concede.

I was full of questions.
Should I go right?
Turn to the left?
Or just go where I might?

But then I look up,
And there in the trees
My cabin awaits
Which puts me at ease.

How did I get back here?
I wonder in vain.
I almost turned back,
Have I gone insane?

We walk to the cabin
I don’t know where I’ve been.
But I’m glad to be back
And I’ll take the win.

I ponder the pooch,
The berries, and creek.
The mud, and the cold,
The adventures I seek.

Whether it’s for minutes
Or days without end.
I cherish those moments,
That lead ‘round a bend.

Audio Version:

Light at the End of the Tunnel

 

The afternoon rain nourished the ground,
But left your fingers cold, wet, and numb.
Your hands feel like blocks of wood.
The situation is miserable,
But a hot cup of coffee awaits.

It was only a riffle,
But the canoe turned over anyway,
And all of your stuff is soaked.
There’s a warm and stiff breeze,
So just pull over to the bank,
Unpack your gear, set it out,
And let the wind work its drying magic.

The snow has gotten into your boots,
And your socks are sopping wet.
Your toes are beginning to ache
And lose feeling.
But the cabin is nearby,
And you’ll soon have your bare feet
Propped up on a chair and warming in front of the wood stove.

The early morning rain shower
Was unfortunate, timing-wise.
The tent fly is completely saturated
And it’s time to pack up and leave.
So just stuff it in the bag as is.
Soon enough, you’ll have it spread out
And drying under a blaring sun.

The conditions are brutal above treeline,
But that’s where you are.
High winds are blowing the snow
Directly into your face,
Stinging, burning, and limiting what you can see.
But the calm of the refugio
Is only a few minutes away.

Somehow, you got the tent set up in the rain,
Before the full force
Of the storm arrived.
Now it’s really coming down.
But” glory be!” –you’re warm and dry
Inside the tent and zipped up in your sleeping bag

There’s no moon, and the night is incredibly dark.
You’ve put on all the clothes you have
But are still cold.
You bundle up in your sleeping bag
As much as you can, but your shivering is out of control.
Then, you remember
That dawn is coming,
And tomorrow is supposed to be hot and sunny.

Your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere.
You’re alone, it’s late-night, and you’re
Distressed by the thought of all the things you don’t have.
But then, you realize what you do have,
Which includes no pressing schedule
And a pleasantly warm night ahead.
And so, you recline the seat,
Close your eyes, and relax yourself to sleep.

The thunder and lightning are especially terrifying
From your up-close position under the tree.
Thankfully, you got your raingear on
Before the thunderstorm unleashed its torrent.
It begins to rain hard,
But the time between thunder and lightning
Is beginning to lengthen,
And you know that means the storm is moving away.

Rest comes easier,
When you know there is,
Light at the end of the tunnel.

Anchoring the Tent

 

Wildfire in the Tarryalls

The Hayman Fire Smoke Plume from the Base Camp Lodge

Lightning streaked across the sky and was followed instantly by an explosion of thunder, telling me that the thunderstorm was somewhere right above. It was unsettling, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t see a lightning flash hit the ground but wondered if there was one up there that had one of our names written on it. The wind kept blowing relentlessly, and the constant gusting made the whole situation seem all the more chaotic. But, where’s the rain, I thought? The Tarryall Mountains needed it. A real downpour might put an end to both the Hayman Fire (Colorado’s largest wildfire ever, up to that point), and the smaller thing that was visibly burning on the nearby mountainside.

Continue reading “Wildfire in the Tarryalls”

Crevasses on the Ruth

 

The Vastness of a Glacier

Since I outweighed Quentin by 60 or so pounds, I was confident I could hold him if he were to break through the ice and fall into a crevasse.

Continue reading “Crevasses on the Ruth”

Naked Backpacking

 

Backpacking

We were backpacking on the Big Island of Hawaii along the Mulawai Trail. The first night out, we camped in Waipio Canyon. Then, the next day we headed toward Waimanu Canyon and stopped for the night to camp on a rustic camping platform provided by the state’s Division of Forestry and Wildlife. The shelter was conveniently located on a mountaintop within a day’s walking distance of the trailhead and was a welcome sight after our long and hot climb through the jungle and up the Z Switchbacks. We reached the elevated platform in the middle of the afternoon, and since there was still plenty of daylight left and we were all physically drained, everyone picked a spot and stretched out on the shaded and relatively clean plywood for a quick nap. As I dozed off, I thought contentedly of gentle breezes, juicy Lilikoi fruit, and thick clouds. Josh and I were the guides for the group of 8 teenage boys, a fact that would eventually come into play. But for the moment, we all just slept.

Continue reading “Naked Backpacking”

Fishhook in the Eye

 

Backcountry Fishing

Thankfully, we only got a few miles up the Wind River Range’s Middle Fork Trail, before we stopped and set up our first night’s camp. As it turned out, the whole treble hook situation would’ve been way more complicated had we gone further into the backcountry on that first day.

Continue reading “Fishhook in the Eye”

Jake Fowler, The Major

mountain landscape
The Mountains

“It were a good adventure,”
He said as he sat,
Then he straightened the snakeskin,
That banded his hat.

He guzzled a jar of whiskey,
But spilled some on his coat.
His manner was sure,
Though he drank like a goat.

The outside was gray,
And the tavern was cold.
Except near the stove,
Where the story was told.

There was a moment of silence,
As he stared into the gloom.
Then, he started the story,
His words filling the room.

“These days, most of us is livin’ here in Kentucky.

We knowed each other from Big Bone Lick,
Where we wandered and hunted by day,
Then come here in the evenin’,
To drink and have a say.

We weren’t none of us borned here.

We ain’t the settling down type.
But’d just ended up here in the East Bend,
After decidin’ our days of roamin’
Might finally’a seen their end.

After years a trappin’ Beaver,
Livin’ rough, and scoutin’ new.
We’d done trapped out the Bone Lick,
So, the coop we thought to flew.

So, we decided to spend our days what’s left
Roamin’ wild with those we knowed.
To head out west and to a place
Where none of us had ever goed.

And since we was so inclined, that’s what we did.

It were true we had our beaver dreams,
And thoughts of riches colored gold.
But it were mostly cause we wanted free,
And to forget that we was old.

They was 20 of us,
Trappers and hunters all.
Some was Indeans, some was Frenchmen,
Some was short, and others tall.

Some was black, some was white,
Some was big, and others small.
But all was hardened by the land,
And I did trust ‘em, one and all.

So, we cross’t the river at Rabbit Hash, and the journey then commenced.

It were the fall of 1821,
When we struck out on our own.
Headin’ west toward old Santa Fe,
Crossin’ country still unknown.

They was times we rode our horses,
On beaten trails of dirt and rock.
But they was times we walked for miles afoot.
And got too tired to talk.

We follered cricks and rivers,
The Verdigris, the Arkansaw, and others with no name.
And after weeks of hills and meadows,
To the mountains we done came.

Our days was filt with movin’,
Huntin’ game, and lookin’ west.
Then we stopped beneath the Spanish Peaks,
To set a camp and rest.

I’d never seen such.

We’d heard tales of lotsa mountains,
Full of beaver, elk, and deer.
Way out yonder ‘crosst the prairie,
Many miles away from here.

From far away the mountains seemed
To be a wall of rock and ice.
But once up close we was pleased to see.
It were country mighty nice.

They was glades and hollers
Cricks, and trees.
Elk and bear,
And lotsa honey bees.

Eventially, we cross’t the mountains
And come to Taos then Sante Fe.
Up to then, they wasn’t many folks,
As we moved along our way.

Except we run’t acrosst some Spaniards
Traded with Ietans, Cheyennes, and Arapahos.
Was guarded by the Kioways,
And had to worry with some Crows.

They was a fandango for us in Santa Fe,
We drank our fill and had a feast.
Then we turned around and headed back
To all awaitin’ in the east.

We headed back with a good bit of meat,
Not many pelts, but lots of tales.
Of scary faces, unfound places,
And all manner of travails.

After 18 months of livin’ wild,
We cross’t the river and was home.
Brim full of life, despite the strife,
And with no more mind to roam.

Yessir, it were a good adventure.”

———————————————-

The story finished, he sat back in his chair,
And silence filled the room.
He took a deep breath, then let out a laugh,
As sunshine broke the gloom.

Audio Version:

The Colorado Mountains

The Broken Window

Hostal Templo del Sol, Isla del Sol

I stutter-stepped, planted my left foot, and exploded past the 9-year-old defender to his right, and took the open shot. I hooked it hard and missed– at least the goal part. The ball did hit one of the dining room windows in the small combination Isla del Sol house and hotel and shattered it into more pieces than I wanted to count. The game stopped, and we all stood, frozen in place as we tried to determine the next move. Our goalkeeper’s mother had been outside earlier, scolding the kids about being careful to not break anything. And so, I was prepared for her wrath, although not clear about whether or not I’d be lumped in with the other soccer players since I was probably older than her.

Continue reading “The Broken Window”

To Be a Wuss

Crossing Pinto Park Pass

Rico, or “Tarzan” as he  preferred to be called, hadn’t felt very strong since lunch. His backpack seemed exceedingly heavy, and the big uphill into Pinto Park was yet to come. He’d never been a complainer before and was intent on not becoming one right then. The feeling was new to him, and he wanted to figure out what was going on, so he could keep moving ahead in his accustomed dominant and carefree fashion. Perhaps, he reasoned, his weakness problem had something to do with the creek water he drank at lunch.

He recalled the Strep he had back during the winter and began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t that. But since there was no sore throat, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. “No, this is something different,” he decided.

Continue reading “To Be a Wuss”