“You’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are.”
At this point, we were some 20 miles from the last little outpost of a town 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 the data it was loaded with. The adage “garbage in, garbage out” came to mind, and soon after, the vision of a web page that 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 single individuals 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 to see the frogs 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 lap, I kept looking for the frog riders and continued to be concerned they might be riding the same section of trail as I was. I could only hope 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 is a pleasant-sounding way to describe our supper entrée. We were camped that evening on the lower slopes of Idaho’s highest peak, 12,662-foot Mt. Borah, in preparation for a night ascent of the mountain. I reasoned that going up in the dark was a good way to make an otherwise arduous and steep summit climb less emotionally demanding and more enjoyable. Earlier that afternoon, we drove our bus right up to the climb’s embarkation point and set up camp in a mostly open field where the mountain began, and the Idaho plains ended. Because we drove the bus almost to the campsite, we had the luxury of using whatever bulky, non-trail food we wanted, along with a large propane burner to prepare it. The plan was to have a good, filling, early-evening meal, followed by a few hours of sleep, then a projected five- or six-hour ascent that would begin at midnight.
Chris Brown self-selected to prepare the supper while the others readied their climbing packs and got the sleeping area in order. The pre-ascent meal he chose to prepare appeared to meet the criteria we needed—ample, nutritious, and filling. But, of course, the assumption was that it would also be tasty.
And so, the cook got his ingredients together and went to work. First, he opened a large can of tuna, placed it in a mixing bowl, crumbled some Cheese Nip crackers into it, and added water. Then he seasoned it with a lot of salt and pepper, mixed it 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 within a few minutes.
I assembled the group, and everyone was soon digging in. I waited until the end for my serving. After loading my plate, I began eating and 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 fell asleep. We awoke just after midnight and, as planned, were soon on the trail. Somehow, our group of teenage mountain climbers got pulled together within only minutes of being rousted. A few minutes later, we began walking up a path lit by our headlamps. Initially, there were 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 same 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 the sky along with the outlines of several surrounding mountains. After a few hours of walking, our stomach pains eased. The body apparently absorbed the discomfort or whatever happens to things like that. By the time we neared the dimly 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 challenging “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 at our starting point before the sun had even begun to warm 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 between 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, who led and managed themselves without any adult guidance or leadership 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 multi-day event. Typically, the contest included a variety of adventure activities and at least one night spent in the wilds. As with most races, the primary goal was to finish first. And since a team could not move from one event or activity to the next unless the entire team was together, the concepts of group, leadership, and teamwork were 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 following one of the teams, along with another staff person, both of us as “guide support.”
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 they completed a stage and found/read the instructions for the next. Going into the event, all they knew was that they’d be traveling out into the backcountry and should prepare for the possibility of performing a wide variety of activities.
Our leaders had learned from previous OWA adventure races to tone things down somewhat to make it more doable for the participants. To that end, I set up this route to begin relatively straightforward and become more complicated as the event progressed. This particular race called for the groups to start by summiting several nearby non-technical peaks. The plan was for each team to ascend them in a sequence that would put them into an adventure-race mindset after starting 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, and without me even being aware.
The first summit they were supposed to reach was that of nearby Farnum Peak. Farnum is a thickly forested mountain that rises to just below the tree line and, at 11,377 feet, is over 2000 feet above the camp/starting point. While it’s not technically challenging to climb, visibility on its thickly forested slopes is problematic. 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 a group needed to do was hike to its base and keep going up.
The team I was following 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 shone; the combination made for excellent race conditions. Unfortunately, as we walked, fog began to develop. I’d never seen significant fog in the area, so wasn’t initially concerned that it would get very thick. But within a few minutes, it had done just that, limiting our visibility to about 10 feet. And by that time, we’d only just gotten to the mountain’s base.
“This’ll confuse things,” I concluded. It was a new and unexpected wrench thrown into the mix. At that point, I was personally still more or less certain of our location, though not so sure whether any of the team members had a clue. But even with the fog, they somehow continued going the right way. So, even though it wasn’t clear they knew where they were, they amazingly 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 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 in a direction that seemed wrong. I held my tongue and was even somewhat pleased to see that they appeared unable to reach the first point without any help. I was confident they would eventually get off course, and the fog seemed to be helping. I’d come to grips with the fact that all of us were in for a long night of just wandering around in the forest, going nowhere. So, I kept following along, amused by what I assumed to be obvious route-finding mistakes.
After a lot of what seemed like 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.
Within minutes, they were packed up and back on the move. As we continued, there was no doubt we were going uphill, but it seemed we were still veering from the actual summit route. The other guide (Dave) and I stayed at the back, chattering about how off-track and fouled up it was all becoming. 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 I expected to see all over the lower Farnum slopes. That, combined with the size of the trees, indicated to me that we were still far below the summit ridge. More confirmation to me that we were off track. But then abruptly, Bristlecone Pines started entering the tree mix. On previous ascents, I’d noted how those gnarly and scraggly trees dominated the Farnum Peak summit area.
I’d never seen any Bristlecones lower down on the mountain before, and that’s where I thought we were. I was confused by the situation. Just then, the trees began to become noticeably stunted, and the grade leveled out. At that point, I realized we were walking up to the summit, which is right at the tree line, where trees get smaller and ultimately stop growing. In my mind, we weren’t supposed to be anywhere close to the top. The terrain features had confused me. But I looked around at the team members and noted that they had no doubts about the situation 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 disappeared. We scrambled up onto the actual summit. Once on top, we stepped out of the fog and into a clear middle of the night sky. It was a world 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, and spread it out on the ground. The team huddled around, 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. And I learned that sometimes, I’m just wrong.
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 that, in 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 of the other oceans. On multiple occasions, I’d straddled the line while it was raining, watching raindrops roll down my raingear onto the ground and envisioning 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 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 served as 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 figured there’d be a lot of 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 to eat, a cutting-edge item back in the ’80s.
An interesting turn of events while mountain biking some Copper Canyon singletrack.
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 all the way into that little Copper Canyon town. At that point, most of the old trail had been “improved” for vehicle use, but the last mile remained untouched, where the road took a more direct route.
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. A gentle sea breeze tousled 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:
Resbaloso, which is a Spanish word meaning slippery in English, is “that” word and also the name given to an infamous trail descent into the town of Creel.
Just seeing the word Resbaloso, much less speaking or hearing it, gives me an adrenaline rush. It’s a Spanish word that translates to “slippery” in English and is the name given to an infamous trail descent into the town of Creel, Mexico.
Canoeing and rafting down the Rio Grande through Boquillas Canyon.
The third time I floated the Rio Grande River through Boquillas Canyon, things went smoother than they had on the first two. That fact was especially significant since it was my first time leading a group into the backcountry. On that third trip, our group of twelve included ten teenage boys, and we paddled two per aluminum canoe.
An interesting adventure trip down into the Oriente of Ecuador.
Omain
One main road snakes its way down into Ecuador’s Oriente, or Amazon Basin, from the highlands, and that’s how our bus went. We left the mountain town of Banos in the late afternoon and began descending immediately. A massive cliff loomed just outside the bus windows. The sight of it only added fuel to the worry-fire that had ignited when we saw the murals in the Banos church depicting angels rescuing vehicles falling off cliffs. Soon after the bus began moving, we noted that the local passengers were leaning into the hillside at regular intervals and wondered what that was all about. Then, one of our group members looked out their window and saw little more than hundreds of feet of thin air separating our bus from the river far below. At that point, we realized everyone was leaning into the hillside to keep the bus on the road.
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