Lightning was striking everywhere, and each time it did, a blindingly bright flash was followed by a deafening crack of thunder. When the weather chaos first started, I’d figured it might be wise to do something about it, but I didn’t. But once the lightning bolts started lighting up individual trees, I sprang into action.
For Jane Ragsdale of Camp Heart O’ the Hills, 1957-2025
I cannot say
That Jane went away,
In the big Flood of ‘25-
Because:
Her smile survives,
I see her sparkling eyes,
The sun is shining brighter,
Good is winning,
Birds are listening,
Things keep improving,
I look before leaping,
People sing more and talk less,
Questions have answers,
Challenges are met without regret,
Foes sit down and discuss,
And life keeps getting better.
Whatever the case,
It’s good to know that her heart will always be home,
Because her home will always be The Heart.
———————————
Audio:
(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)
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.
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Audio Version:
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:
He yelled to us to stop, from out of nowhere, it seemed. It was startling, and one of the last things on my mind, as I led the group of 9 teenage backpackers down the trail, headed back to our Base Camp facility after a week out in the Lost Creek Wilderness. We’d be back in less than an hour except for whatever was about to happen. He was ragged-looking, probably in his 40s, had a Pit Bull by his side, and, thankfully, kept his distance across a dry wash.
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.
Since I outweighed Quentin by 60 or so pounds, I was confident I could hold him if he broke through the ice and fell into a crevasse.
There was no doubt that a bunch of those often-bottomless glacier cracks known as crevasses were running beneath us. But most were hidden from view beneath thin layers of the snow and ice of the Ruth Glacier. The situation had me on edge. Even though probing the route as we moved along was tedious, it was especially imperative since it was June and the surrounding world of ice was thawing rather than freezing. Undoubtedly, a huge crevasse field was hidden below us. But we were hoping to find a relatively safe way across it to get our whole group up onto the ridge above.
Our OWA group was backpacking on the Big Island of Hawaii along the Mulawai Trail. The first night out, we camped in Waipio Canyon. The next day, we headed toward Waimanu Canyon and stopped for the night on a rustic camping platform provided by the state 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 and because we were all physically drained, everyone picked a spot and stretched out on the shaded, relatively clean plywood for a quick nap before setting up camp for the night. As I dozed off, I thought contentedly of gentle breezes, juicy Lilikoi fruit, and thick clouds.
If all went as planned, we’d get to our Wind River Range campsite by late afternoon, which would leave us with plenty of daylight for setting up the tents, organizing gear, and even resting a bit before cooking supper. Our backpacks were heavy, but, being mostly young and fit, we’d already covered 10 of the 15 miles planned for the day by lunch. At just a little after 1 o’clock, we crossed Roaring Fork Creek and stopped on the other side to change out of our river shoes and eat our midday meal of tuna, Bolton Biscuits, and gorp. Among other things, the stop also provided a nice break from the uphill grind we’d been on for the past several hours.
Thankfully, we only got a few miles up the Wind River Range’s Middle Fork Trail before stopping to 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.
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