The second part of an adventure climb in the Wind River Range
So, back to our climb. We’d envisioned what the scramble up to the rope-up spot and to a lesser extent the first pitch would be like and were mentally prepared for both of those. But things above that point were increasingly fuzzy, although we were confident that it would all become clearer once we got that far. Better not to confuse the issue, we’d determined.
The various names that are attached to places are intriguing. Some that are acquired are obvious, since they either reflect some sort of location characteristic or simply commemorate an individual who was important to the place. But, others not quite so. Regardless of how or why, the names all tell a story in a few short words—some less straight-forward than others, but each worthy of knowing. Here’s a few such stories that I’ve heard. Listen, and maybe you will, too………………..
Winter camping and cross country skiing in Glacier National Park.
It was mostly naivety that got the three of us to where we were to begin with. That and my Ford pickup. A thousand or so miles of driving had taken us from Texas and up into Montana’s Glacier National Park, where we planned to live out our dreams of winter camping and cross country skiing. Since it was January, we had the place pretty much to ourselves, except for the two Park Rangers manning the Polebridge Ranger Station (where we entered the park) and the plethora of wildlife still out and about, such as elk and Gray Wolves.
For whatever reason, we ended up in Potosi’, Bolivia on that particular part of our vacation and were looking for interesting things to do and ended up selecting the “mine tour” option. The city is “quite a ways” south of La Paz, sits at around 13,400 feet (making it one of the highest cities in the world) and is completely dominated by the mountain, Cerro Potosi’, which has been mined regularly for silver, since back in the days of the Spanish heyday.
“You’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are.”
At that point, we were probably some 20 miles from the last little outpost of a town we’d been through, but were theoretically about to come to another. Jerry had the best maps of the area available loaded onto his gps, but it only told us where we were in relation to the relatively paltry data it was loaded with. The realization that we might actually be the first people ever out in that part of Copper Canyon trying to figure out and quantify where the hell things went, among other things, left me with the feeling of simply being overwhelmed. The old adage of, “garbage in, garbage out” came to mind and was soon followed by the vision of a web page that simply said “no data available”. I was momentarily despondent as I looked at the convergence of three trails, all of which seemed to head up toward the top of a wrong ridge. Just as we were each desperately searching for any sort of clues about it all, I was saved, once again, by the quote- “you’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are”.
Canoeing and rafting down the Rio Grande through Boquillas Canyon.
The third time I floated the Rio Grande River through Boquillas Canyon, things went smoothly. Since that was my first time to lead an actual group into the backcountry, that seemingly simple fact, was an especially good thing. There were twelve of us on that particular trip, paddling two per aluminum canoe. We made the 33 mile float down the Rio Grande over the course of three days, with two nights spent camping along the way, had only one simple “getting knocked out of the canoe” situation and a straightforward shuttle at the end. Mostly, all we had to do was read the current, soak up sun, gaze out at the mighty Sierra del Carmen rising above us off to the southeast in Mexico and ponder the magnificence and complexities of the monstrous cliff walls which engulfed us much of the time, making us all feel mighty small. Continue reading “Boquillas Canyon”
A tree catches fire in the Colorado backcountry at a particularly inopportune time.
Lightning streaked across the sky and was followed instantly by an explosion of thunder, telling me that the thunderstorm was somewhere right above us. It was unsettling, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. I didn’t see any sort of flash hit the ground, but had to wonder if there was one up there, wherever it was that lightning came from, that had one of our names 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 Tarryalls needed it. A real downpour might put an end to the Hayman Fire as well as whatever it was that was burning up above us on the mountainside. Continue reading “Fire in the Tarryalls”