The names of places……
The various names that are attached to places are intriguing. Some are obvious since they either reflect a physical characteristic or commemorate an individual of importance. But, others not quite so. Many place names tell a story in a few short words—some less straightforward 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 a bit of naivety that got the three of us there- that and my Ford pickup. A thousand or so miles of driving took us from Texas to Montana’s Glacier National Park, where we planned to live out our dreams of winter camping and cross-country skiing. We had the place pretty much to ourselves when we arrived, probably because it was January. We were alone when we pulled in, except for the two park rangers operating the Polebridge Ranger Station (where we entered the park) and the plethora of wildlife still out and about.
Exploring the Cerro Rico mine.
For whatever reason, my wife, Lori, and I ended up in Potosi, Bolivia, on that particular part of our vacation. After considering various things to do around the city, we ended up selecting the “mine tour” option. The city is over 200 miles south of the capital city of La Paz. At 13,400 feet of elevation, it’s one of the world’s highest cities. And, as we came to find out, it’s dominated by Cerro Rico, a big mountain which has been mined regularly for silver ever since the days when the Spaniards were the rulers.
“You’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are.”
By this point, we were some 20 miles from the last little outpost of a town that we’d been through. But theoretically, at least, we were about to come to another. Jerry had the best available maps of the area loaded onto his GPS. But it only told us where we were relative to whatever data it was loaded with. The adage, “garbage in, garbage out,” came to mind and was soon followed by the vision of a web page that simply said, “no data available.”
Interesting events late at night during a 24 Hour mountain bike race.
Things got progressively weirder as the Utah mountain bike race, known as the 24 Hours of Moab, continued. It was an event where riders, in teams ranging in size from individuals to up to 8, rode as many laps as possible within 24 hours. I was doing it solo, which among other things, created some intriguing late-night moments. At some point in the middle of the night, two tandem bikes with riders dressed as frogs rode in from a direction that had nothing to do with the racecourse. During the previous lap, I’d been concerned when another racer didn’t correctly yield the trail on a long climb. But by the time the frog thing happened, things like that were no longer bothering me. I was just pleased that the frogs were stopped and waiting off to the side of the trail for me to pass before continuing. From that moment on, as I rode up toward the crest of that hill each time, I kept looking for the frog riders and continued to be concerned that they might be riding the same section of trail as I was. I hoped that if so, they’d at least be going in the same counterclockwise direction as everyone else.
Adventure perspectives.
Night Hike, Mt Borah in Idaho
Tuna Surprise was a pleasant-sounding way to describe our supper entrée. We camped that evening on the lower slopes of Idaho’s highest peak, 12,662-foot Mt. Borah, ready to do a night ascent. I reasoned that ascending in the dark was a good way to make an otherwise arduous and steep summit climb less mentally tricky and more enjoyable. We were able to drive right up to our embarking point. And thus, we had the luxury of using whatever sort of bulky, non-trail food we wanted, along with a large propane burner. The plan was to have a good, filling, and early evening meal, followed by a few hours of sleep and then a projected five or six-hour ascent that would begin at midnight.
Chris Green was self-selected to prepare the supper while the others readied their climbing packs and got their sleeping area in order. The pre-ascent meal he chose to prepare appeared to meet the criteria for what we needed it to be— ample, nutritious, and filling. But, of course, the assumption was that it would also be relatively tasty.
And so, he got his ingredients together and went to work. First, he opened and placed a large can of tuna into a mixing bowl, combined that with some crumbled-up Cheese Nip crackers, and added some water. Then, he seasoned it with a lot of salt and pepper, mixed the concoction up into a mush, and finally put it on the burner. Since everyone was beginning to starve by that point, he cranked up the heat. And miraculously, it was ready to serve after only a few minutes.
I assembled the group, and within moments everyone was digging in. I waited around for my serving until the end. After loading my plate, I began eating. I immediately noticed hints of burn in my portion. But, I rationalized that since I was scraping the bottom of the pot, I’d most likely gotten something the others hadn’t.
After filling our stomachs, we crawled into our sleeping bags and mostly went to sleep. We awoke just after midnight and, per the plan, were soon on the trail. Somehow, our group of teenage mountain climbers got themselves pulled together within only minutes of being rousted. A few minutes later, we began walking up a path lit by headlamps and bundled up in fleece and wool against the nighttime chill. There were initial moans and groans, but I figured they mostly had to do with the late night/early morning hour. As it turned out, my assumption wasn’t all that correct.
It wasn’t long after we started that I began to feel a little queasy in the gut. But within only a short distance, I began to feel downright unsettled in the stomach. Most of the group did not throw up within those first few minutes. But it quickly became apparent that the personal discomfort I was experiencing was prevalent, in one form or another, throughout the group. And based on the burned fish taste I had, I also promptly concluded that the stomach situation likely had something to do with our supper.
At least the special meal did one positive thing for us as we walked. It was a distraction from the steepness, climbing-related pain, and tedium we were experiencing. As we broke out of the trees a thousand feet below the summit, an almost moonless and brilliant Milky Way-filled sky along with the outlines of several surrounding mountains. After our few hours of walking, our stomach pains were either gone away or in full retreat. The discomfort had likely been absorbed by the body or whatever happens with things like that. By the time we neared the moonlit summit, our thoughts had shifted. We were no longer preoccupied with the pains of our meal but were instead relishing the wonders of a whole wild world that surrounded us.
Even though we were nearing the top, I knew that significant rock scrambling across a section known as “Chicken out Ridge” remained. Since I’d read how Borah is also considered one of the more technically difficult “state high points,” the two facts weighed heavily on my mind. But for the moment, we all walked and climbed in an immediate world illuminated by headlamps and an even broader one brightened by the Northern Lights.
There was no chickening out as we reached the steeper exposed areas. Finally, we made it up to the summit, just as the first light of the alpine morning was beginning to show. After handshakes, photos, and a moment to soak it all in, we gathered our gear and were back down to our starting point before the sun had even begun to heat up the day. Our stomach distress was long gone by that point, but what we’d seen and felt on the mountaintop had become permanent. That’s when the difference in short-term pain and long-term gain became clearly entrenched in my mind.
Farnum Peak & the Adventure Race
The Outpost Wilderness Adventure “Adventure Race” was what the name implies. More specifically, it was a competition between teams of 4 or 5 teenagers, leading and managing themselves without intervention from any adult guide or leader as they undertook various adventure activities. Those activities often included rock climbing, fly fishing, mountain biking, and always a healthy dose of general outdoor and navigation skills. By design, it was a multiday event. Typically, at least one night of adventuring out in the wild was involved. As with most races, the primary goal was to be the first to finish. And since a team would not be permitted to move from one event or activity to the next unless the entire team was together, the concept of group, leadership, and teamwork was fundamental. Actual adventure guides/leaders followed each group but were there only to intervene in the event of an emergency or if the team got entirely off track. So, in effect, the team members were the decision-makers and the ones calling the shots. With that as a prerequisite, I set off with another staff person, both of us as adventure guide followers.
The race began at midnight. The way it worked was that none of the team members knew what each stage involved or where it went until the start of that particular stage. All they knew was that they would be traveling out in the backcountry and should prepare for the possibility of using a wide variety of listed activities.
I learned from previous OWA adventure races to tone things down somewhat and thus make it more doable for the participants. To that end, I set up a route for this particular one that began in an uncomplicated fashion but would become less so as things progressed. It called for the groups to start by climbing to the summits of several non-technical nearby peaks. Then, the plan was for each team to ascend them in a sequence that would put them into an adventure race mindset after beginning on comfortable home terrain. Whether or not it worked out that way remains to be seen.
After the official start, the team I was following got its instructions and was quickly out the door of the main camp lodge. The teenage group moved with such confidence that I decided they must’ve discussed and come up with a solid plan right off the bat.
The first summit/point they were supposed to reach was the top of nearby Farnum Peak. Farnum is a thickly forested mountain that rises to just below treeline and, at 11,377 feet, is over 2000′ feet above the camp. While it’s not a technically challenging peak to climb, the visibility due to its thickly forested slopes is limited. So getting to the top of it even in broad daylight is a route-finding nightmare. I’d been up to its summit several times before and knew the difficulties involved. But, on the other hand, it was a familiar sight. And reaching its summit was theoretically simple enough since all that needed to be done was hike to its base and just go up.
The team I was following confidently headed out the door and immediately walked straight toward Farnum. My first thought was of the satisfaction I felt that they were going in the right direction.
The night was calm, uncommonly warm, and a full moon made for excellent race conditions. Unfortunately, as we walked, fog began to develop. I’d never seen significant fog in the area, so I was not initially concerned that it would get very thick. But within a few minutes, it had done just that and limited our visibility to about 10 feet. And by that time, we’d only just gotten to the mountain’s base.
“That’ll confuse things,” I concluded. It was a new and unexpected wrench thrown into the mix. At that point, I was still more or less certain of our location, although not so sure if any of the team members had any clue. But even with the fog, they somehow continued going the right way. So even though I wasn’t so sure that they knew where they were, I was amazed by the fact that they kept doing the right things. And since it was without any input from either me or the other guide, I was perplexed.
The light from our headlamps seemed to bounce off of the ground-level clouds. However, there was still just enough surrounding detail visible for the team to continue to pick their way up through the trees. In the early part of the ascent, I felt like we were at least “close enough” to being on the right track. But after we’d been going up for about 15 minutes, the team began veering off in a direction I was sure was incorrect. I said nothing and was even somewhat pleased to see that they appeared unable to get up to the first point without my help. I was confident that getting off course would eventually happen, and the fog helped that occur. I’d come to grips with the fact that we were all in for a long night just wandering around in the forest, going nowhere. So, I kept following along, amused by what I assumed were their obvious route-finding mistakes.
After a lot of aimless bumbling around, the team stopped to take a break. As we all stood there in the middle of the night fog, initially, there was a good bit of huffing and puffing, snack eating, and water gulping. But once that all calmed down, discussion about various race and route strategies erupted throughout the group. I just listened. My doubts about their assumptions and methodology again crept into my thoughts. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut as they concocted a plan that would supposedly get them to the top ahead of the other teams.
Within minutes, they were packed up and back on the move. As we continued, I didn’t doubt that we were going uphill, but I felt like we were continuing to veer from the actual summit route. The other guide (Dave) and I stayed at the back, following and chattering between us about how off track and fouled up it was all getting. Then, after more than an hour of going uphill, I noted that the forest continued to be the combination of massive Firs and Spruces that predominated all over the lower Farnum slopes. That, combined with the size of the trees, indicated that we were still far below the summit ridge, which affirmed my suspicions about us being off track. But then abruptly, Bristlecone Pines started entering into the mix. On previous ascents, I’d noted how those gnarly and scraggly trees dominated the forest up near the top, where extreme winter winds pounded the ridges of the Puma Hills.
Interestingly, I hadn’t seen any lower down on the mountain on my previous trips, which was where I thought we were at that moment. Then, just as I began trying to figure out the Bristlecone mystery, the trees and vegetation began to get noticeably smaller, and the grade started leveling out. At that point, I realized that we were walking up onto the summit. In my mind, we weren’t even supposed to be close to the top. The terrain features had me confused. But I looked around at the team members and noted that they had no doubts and were where they planned to be.
As we got to the top, I recognized the rock cap of the Farnum summit, and whatever doubts I still had went away. We scrambled up onto the actual summit. Once on top, we stepped out of the fog and into a clear middle of the night. It was a world that we’d already forgotten. A spectacular full moon blocked out all but the brightest of stars. Closer to us, it not only lit up the granite summit slabs but also the faces of the five teenagers looking out at peak after peak sticking up out of the blanket of fog. The moonlight illuminated the tops of the clouds creating a seemingly impregnable barrier between where we stood and where we’d just come from. The massive ridges, slopes, and the main summit of Pike’s Peak were visible, some 75 miles away. We picked out the mountains we knew—Bison, McCurdy, North Tarryall, and Badger and guessed about many others. There was a moment of silent wonder as we all tried to comprehend what we saw. I wanted to say something but realized that any words I spoke would only be less profound than our view.
After a few moments, someone in the group found the written instructions for the next race stage in Farnum’s summit register jar. He pulled out the wadded-up piece of paper on which they were written and read aloud what it said. Then, he took out a map, opened it up, and spread it on the ground. The team huddled around it, made a plan, and in another instant, we were all stepping back down into the fog. No one in the group, including me, knew what mysteries or amazing sights awaited us inside the cloud. But we moved quickly and confidently, eager to see what it might be. That experience taught me to embrace the fog and relish the mysteries it often hides.
Adventurers weather a violent storm near the Continental Divide in the Wind River Range.
It’d been a long day. But by mid-afternoon, our group of teenagers was finally up on the spine of Wyoming’s Wind River Range and walking along the Continental Divide. The “Divide” is an imaginary line along the crest of the continent, which in the case of North America, separates the Pacific and Atlantic watersheds. When a drop of rain or snow falls anywhere along it, the water inevitably ends up in one or the other of the oceans. On multiple occasions, I straddled the line while it was raining, watched the drops roll down my raingear onto the ground, and tried to envision their long journey to the ocean.
A group of backpackers attempts to climb Lizard Head and learns the true meaning of climbing.
Lizard Head is a prominent peak just north and east of the famous, long, and breathtakingly majestic line of mountains, ridges, and spires in Wyoming’s Wind River Range, known as the Cirque of the Towers. On one particular Outpost Wilderness Adventure trip, we backpacked with two groups of 7 via different routes up to Bear Lake. The lake is on the east side of Lizard Head and was the location for our backcountry base camp. Once there, we set up two close but separate campsites, each located between the lake and the mountain. The plan was to use each as a base for exploring and adventuring in the area. Since it was during the Fourth of July holiday, we knew that there’d be many people in the general area, but few would venture into that particular neck of the woods. And, as a special Fourth of July treat, we brought along freeze-dried hamburger patties, a cutting-edge item back in the ’80s.
An interesting turn of events while mountain biking some Copper Canyon singletrack.
Afterward, we began to call it the Trail of Death.
For the longest time, Batopilas, Mexico, was connected to the small town of Cerro Colorado, by just a little bit of dirt road and seven or so miles of trail, just barely wide enough for local burro traffic. Then, a few years back, that same dirt road was bulldozed into the little Copper Canyon town. Most of the old trail was “improved” for vehicle use, although the last mile was left untouched where the road took an easier route.
While the road extension did make it possible to drive vehicles into and out of Cerro Colorado, it made hiking or mountain biking into the dusty outpost significantly less appealing. For years, riding bikes out there and back had been a good day trip for many of our OWA groups. We’d ride out from our hotel in Batopilas after breakfast. Then, we’d enjoy a pleasant mountain bike ride or hike on a mix of single and double track and arrive in Cerro just in time for lunch. Once there, we’d have a typical rural Mexican lunch prepared by one of the local ladies and served in her home. It made for an interesting and fun day trip.
Things started smoothly on this particular trip, and the ride to “Cerro” went like clockwork. From Batopilas, we first followed the trail along the old aqueduct, eventually joined up with the dirt road, and then followed it to the shortcut/old trail for the final approach to our destination. We ultimately rejoined the road near Cerro just a bit before it became “Main Street,” and at that point, “things” started to get a little off-kilter.
Just as we rode up a slight rise and entered the town outskirts, a herd of pigs blocked our intended path. Our organized entrance into town instantly became more of a confusing mess. We closed ranks and pulled it back together when we rode up and stopped outside the tidy casa where lunch awaited. Senora Perez waited with a serving spoon and dishrag in hand, just as the radio in the nearby store began blurting out the high noon chiming. At least we’re still on time, I concluded.
After leaning our bikes against her fence, we went inside the house and had an enjoyable meal. Life was good and simple, or so we thought, as we finished our meal, got back up on our bikes for the ride back, and began the return, ready for whatever might come our way. Or so we thought.
We took the shortcut/old trail again as it forked off from the road just outside town. Just past the intersection, the dirt path lazily skirted a pasture for a few hundred yards. And then, it began to narrow and weave its way through the various shallow desert-like gullies (or arroyos as they call them down there). The arroyos progressively steepened and eventually became small canyons, which forced the five-foot-wide pathway to defy reason and cling to the rock, part of the way up the canyon wall. That whole rocky section is a pure marvel, and more than once, I’d pondered how it seemed to be carved into the solid rock cliff. In a short time and distance, the riding went from relaxed and casual to something more on the tricky and challenging end of the spectrum.
Since I knew the route, I rode out in front. Our group of 11 continued to spread further and further apart. And by the time we reached a particularly exposed section of cliff trail, we were all separated by 20 or 30 yards.
The riding was enjoyable and exciting as we rode out onto the rocky part. Then, a few hundred feet into the steepest and most exposed section, I rounded a curve, rode up and then over a small rock hump, and finally into a more mellow and predictable stretch.
As I entered the more moderate section, I allowed my mind to wander and, for some reason, began mentally re-riding the rocky curve and hump. I hadn’t paid much attention to that specific rock or turn before, but something about it on this particular ride caused it to stick in my mind. Finally, about 200 yards past it, I rolled to a stop and looked back at it across the canyon. From my vantage point, I could see how the whole curve complex seemed to jut out of the cliff. And then, as I watched, the entire thing became almost magically highlighted by a beam of intense sunshine. Right then, one of the group members, Rich, came around the corner, rode up onto the top of the rock, and then crashed and fell off the cliff.
It was just that simple and straightforward. Initially, I was paralyzed and gazed motionlessly back at the curve. My biggest fears were confirmed as I heard his bike crashing and bouncing its way down the cliff and come to a suddenly silent and abrupt stop at the bottom. How, why, and don’t were words that came to mind, and my world went into slow motion as I let my bike fall onto the trail and began running back to where he had once been. I had no idea about what to do in that sort of situation but felt the need to go and do something. I glanced back at the rock one more time before taking off and saw the trail, rocks, and distant mountains filling in the background, but no Rich. The sight of what wasn’t there caused a rush of adrenaline to begin free flowing into my head. But then, after I’d only gone a short distance, from seemingly out of nowhere, he just reappeared, climbing up onto the cliff edge of the trail. Like his falling off, it was a seemingly simple and straightforward occurrence. I was excited, confused, and intrigued by the situation all at the same time. But I could see him across the way, standing by the rock in question, and apparently in the flesh.
I kept my eyes on him as I continued heading his way. And then I watched as he just brushed himself off and began talking and gesturing to other nearby group members. If I let him out of my sight, I thought he might disappear again, and I certainly didn’t want that. So, I just kept looking at him as I moved.
It would be an understatement to say that I was overwhelmed. I can likely speak for everyone else who witnessed the event by saying they were as well. It’s not that often that you watch someone fall off of a cliff and then reappear. Things like that are something we all remember.
When I got to Rich, he recounted what’d happened. He’d ridden onto the rock, lost his balance, and fell to the cliff-side. I can only imagine that he’s still reliving that moment of whatever goes through your mind as you’re falling toward certain death. In his case, he fell onto a sizable ledge some eight feet below the trail. Somehow, he came unclipped from his pedals, untangled from his bike, and stuck on a flattish spot while his bike bounced down to the bottom.
After hearing his story, my first thought was that eight feet is a long way to fall, but I quickly concluded that eight is way better than a hundred. He was bruised, scratched, and dirty but had very much survived. I had difficulty coming up with something relevant to say. Then, after only a few minutes, a local Tarahumara man appeared right in front of us with something pertinent to show us. He had the damaged bike in hand and recounted how he’d seen the whole event unfold from down below. He told us how he was walking along the creek when he heard a noise, looked up, and saw Rich fall onto the ledge while the bike went down to the bottom. He had gone over, picked it up, and was now bringing it back.
Eventually, it was time to ride on. Everyone, except for Rich, was particularly careful about how and where they got up onto their bikes. A few riders hadn’t even gotten to the rocky curve when the fall occurred and opted to walk their bikes through that entire section. Rich walked back to Batopilas, and while it’s true that his bike was messed up, I don’t think he would’ve ridden anyway.
As the trail turned into the road and the route became less dramatic, I had time for reflection. There’d been a lot that had happened in those few minutes at the rocky curve. I tried figuratively putting myself into Rich’s shoes but was unable and decided to ponder it later. And so, I then focused on trying to comprehend what the Tarahumara must’ve thought. I couldn’t resolve that either. Finally, I looked down at the ground, which kept relentlessly disappearing ahead of my front wheel and just rode. As I rode onto wider and less technical terrain, I concluded that some things are beyond my comprehension. And in those cases, I should just keep moving.
Backpackers learn the importance of avoiding high tide due to the realities of sharks and crocodiles in the area.
Hiking on the beach sounded like fun. I pictured us walking barefoot on the sand and carrying light packs. In my vision, there were palapas off to one side and multiple limbo contests happening on the other. In reality, a gentle sea breeze played with our full heads of hair and kept the temperature within the perfect zone. The surf perpetually crashed onto what seemed an endless white sand beach. And the waves showered us with refreshing breaths of ocean air as we walked into the heart of Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula.
But that’s not exactly how it happened. Instead, it was more like this:
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