Midair Collision

Reading Time: 2 minutes

I was hoping that a Victoria Secret’s model with a fetish for lost cause middle age men heading to South America would occupy the middle seat. I ended up sitting next to a giant of a man, pinning me against the armrest and window for the duration of a four hour flight, my body pressed to the curved wall of the fuselage.

He is a former professional basketball player in B leagues around the world, now training his three time gold medal winning, Olympic-aspiring, WNBA-hopeful, daughter to play at the elite level, We talk about his career and all the unusual places he played. The conversation wanes. He knows that I am squashed and uncomfortable. He offers me a granola bar that he has unstashed from his carry on. I politely decline.

He turns his attention to the digital collection on his iPhone. In my cramped position, I don’t have the option of averting my attention. I watch picture after picture of his family, of his grandson, of his daughter shooting baskets, of family gatherings, as he scrolls through the photos and videos, chuckling and smiling as he pauses at each one. On and on he scrolls through what must be years worth of digital memorabilia.

I can’t help but think of all the pictures on my iPhone: mushrooms, white boards, trails, plants, winemaking projects, woodworking projects, and the occasional dog. Surprisingly, he pauses at a picture on his iPhone of the constellation Orion. Finally, a shared experience, an intersection, something that we might both have on our iPhones, we share a common interest in nature.

He promptly deletes the photo and scrolls on. He offers me a mint.

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Sublime

Reading Time: 3 minutes

I pause, spot a good foothold, set my hiking pole, DSC_0300fix my foot on the spot, and lift myself up the next rocky stair. I’ve been stair climbing for the last forty five minutes for nearly a kilometer, not switchbacks mind you, but uneven makeshift boulder stairs, ascending past the red and yellow and green and orange lenga beech forests, past the underachieving lenga beech shrubs that hide dripping little brooks of ice melt, onto slippery boot packed snow passing the tree line, and into a debris field of broken grey rocks like god accidentally dropped a mountain that splattered like a broken dish. I’ve shed my hat, gloves, neck cover and a couple of shirts on this thousand foot ascent, still heating up as the air cools with altitude.

I see the spires over the debris; I know I am close to my reward. The path levels cutting in front of some large boulders following the contour of the mountain. I feel the distant slope of the mountain on the other side of the valley following me as I move along the high trail, the same way the moon follows your car on the road at night. DSC_0291The trail cuts left, through a doorway of two boulders, past a position marker that tells me latitude, longitude, and altitude and finally out into an opening. I made it! My ascent is complete. I raise my hiking poles over my head pumping in exultation.

As I walk towards the green silty waters of the lagoon gazing across the lagoon to the steep embankment on its far shore, to a patch of snow on the shoulders of the embankment, and on up to the top of the three spires, I am overwhelmed by the jaw-dropping beauty and immenseness of this place, pausing for a moment, my eyes moistening ever so slightly.

My mind reflexively reviews the photographic possibilities and I quickly move to the spot where I want to shoot from. The wind relaxes for a moment; the water, smooth. The tops of the spires are visible with just wisps of clouds at their summits, the more ominous clouds visible in the background ready to obscure my shot. DSC_0269I don’t waste anytime getting the shots. I compose shots of the lagoon with its reflections and the spires in the background. I think it is a beautiful composition, a photographer’s dream.

But this place is too big. I can’t capture the feeling on a photo. I close my eyes and try to picture the scene before me in my mind’s eye. It is still too big for that.  You have to see it for yourself. I hear the cascading of an avalanche, the sound rumbling down the embankment and over the lagoon. The sound is too big. You have to hear it for yourself.

How easy I could have missed this hike! I only found out about it eavesdropping on a conversation the night before. I overheard the words “premier hike of the park” and jumped to my feet to find out about it. I couldn’t resist this hike, even knowing that this would be a solo effort, that I would have to be on the trail at the crack of dawn, to complete it.

I hope that I have taken some pictures that hint at the magnificence of this place. Pictures cannot capture it but I offer them as an invitation to those that appreciate such things, because there is no way my camera can bring it back to you. I hope you accept the invitation, that the skies are clear for you and your footing sure should you undertake this pilgrimage, to this very special place.

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P.S. The described hike is the Mirador del Torres, at Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile.

Photo Hunting for Big Game

Reading Time: 2 minutes

I hunker down far from the trail behind a jagged black rock that I have chosen as much for protection as for position holding onto the base of the camera tripod riding out a strong gust of wind that lifts the water off the cascades of the stream, numbing my fingers and clouding my lens. The draft of wind and mist pass, I ease my grip on the tripod, wipe off the water droplets from my lens, and busy myself setting up for the next shot.

Our quarry, our big game trophy, the prize I would hang proudly on my wall, this chill morning, as the darkness of the evening slowly lifts, the stars fade, and the sun tries to make its grand entrance, is to catch the orange-pink reflections off of the “Torres del Paine” and pink hues of the surrounding shroud of clouds, with the cascading river serving as the foreground element, in this dramatic composition that is the lion, the elephant, the water buffalo of the hunt, on this photographic safari.

All elements of the composition have to come together, to catch big game, the perfect picture. Too many clouds would obscure the mountain and the morning sun preventing illumination of the face of the monolith and spires in front of us. No clouds or too few clouds would omit a key element of drama. The hunter must be as impeccable as nature. Droplets on the lens would splotch the image. Strong winds shaking the mount could blur the image. Wrong exposure, wrong filter, bad timing, failure to clean the lens, wrong lens, battery out of power, memory card full, inattention to changing conditions could spoil the hunt.

Nature delivers, the clouds do not obscure the peaks nor block the sun at the horizon, the sheer face of the monolithic peaks illuminate. I fire off shot after shot, setting the timer, waiting for the gusts of wind to pass, taking care to wipe the lens, changing exposures methodically so each image will have a slightly different amount of light. The spectacle only lasts about ten or fifteen minutes. The mountain face returns to its granitic colors, the sun rises well above the horizon, and the big game turns from lion to a hyena, an elephant to a gazelle, a water buffalo to a warthog. The hunt is over for this morning, there is nothing to do now but retreat from my off the trail outpost, and hunt for photographic game more subtle and subdued, looking for the extraordinary in the more ordinary.

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Moment of Zen

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Standing on a ledge overlooking the silty shore of Lago del Pato, watching the rippled surface as ghostly wind shadows race across its surface gusting into my face ruffling my hair,

trying to shake me from my attention,

looking to its opposite shore at the bright primary palette of green, yellow, orange, and red quilted lenga forest,

that turns up into the maroon skirts of topless mountains,

following the line to the aquamarine fractured ice of a glacier receding into the cut that it has carved for itself,

my eyes walking up the jagged edges to snowy shoulders and long icy runs, to the sheer face of Fitz Roy too steep to hold snow,

a monolithic stake driven up from underneath the ground breaking through the skin of the earth towards space,

the sheer walls of Fitz Roy topped with a wig of a dark grey cloud that it refuses to surrender to the gusting winds,

that looks down in satisfaction to all that I take a moment to see.

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Snap! Fishing for footage.

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Like a patient fisherman watching his line in the water, I scan the forward wall of the glacier, my fishing rod a D3200 Nikon camera, my quarry a calving glacier. In the afternoon sun, I’ve shed my jacket, one layer in my three layers of shirts, my hat and gloves; I hope the glacier will shed some of its turquoise ice to the silty green lake water below. My fishing rod at the ready, tuned to a setting of 1000, a fast shutter speed to catch the ice falling and the subsequent mini-tidal wave of water.

In the distance, I hear the thundering crash, some ice has calved out of sight, just around the corner. I can see a splash, the water dips and rises. My time will come soon. I resume my vigilant watch of the sheer face of the glacier taking time to admire the distant snow capped craggy peaks, the dimpled surface of the glacier enclosed by the maroon lenga forrest-skirted mountains.

I hear some cracking and crashing close by. I hurriedly raise my camera hoping to catch the plunge into the water. The initial crash is just a precursor.

Snap! As the ice cracks.
Snap! As the ice separates from the wall.
Snap! As the block starts its plunge.
Snap! As the block slides downward into the green water.
Snap! As the block just peeks out over its spray.
Snap! As the spray of water gushes from the wall.
Snap! As the drowning block hollows out the water.
Snap! As the returning water geysers into the sky.
Snap! As the spray fans away from the point of entry.
Snap! As the spray collapses back to the water.
Snap! As the water crater expands.
Snap! As the water crater center refills.

I pause but hear more cracking. The first calving has weakened the ice’s purchase on the wall next to it. It starts to crack! I can’t be this lucky!

Snap! As the wall begins to crumbles.
Snap! As the ice tears away from the glacier.
Snap! As the blocks of ice start their plunge.
Snap! As the water explodes from the base.
Snap! As the water reaches out into the lake.
Snap! As the mound of water and spray starts to collapse.
Snap! As the water rushing to fill the hole geysers into the air.
Snap! As the geyser stretches over a hundred feet into the air.
Snap! As the spray starts to fall back.
Snap! As the wave tsunami’s away from its center.
Snap! As the water and spray come back to meet each other.
Snap! As the water and spray flatten.
Snap! As the aftershocks of the undulating water spread out.

I feel the deep crashing sound viscerally in my gut but I am far enough away to feel awe instead of fear. I’ve caught my quarry, two huge fish with one bait, my camera drops in front of me as I survey the after effects of the event and check the blueness of the freshly exposed glacial ice. I watch the ripples of water doppler away,  the concentric waves move out into the reflection of the sun on the lake, sparkling like diamond studded bracelets. I catch my breath. Wow! I fix my grasp on the camera lens and wait, my gaze again moving up and down the long horizontal wall of the face of the glacier.

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The Final Trek

Reading Time: < 1 minute

I fight off the urge to end the trip by just barreling down a freeway to get home as quickly as possible. We continue our trek south to 29 Palms, through Joshua tree, with its prehistoric looking rock formations, by the Salton sea, through Anza Borrego desert and finally home, 750 miles later in three days, still wearing the same clothes I started in having gone to two National Parks, a National Preserve, a National Monument, a Sea, and a state park, two nights under the stars in some of the most rugged and remote areas one can find in California. I can only sum up the trip as “We saw a lot of shit and I better take a shower soon because I am starting to smell like a lot of shit”. DSC_0188_Lizard

Amboy Crater

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Water and good hiking shoes recommended. I looked everywhere. No where is it approved for motorcycle boots, long underwear (under motorcycle pants of course), and not so much as a drop of water. Same sign, different day. I’m still wearing the same clothes I started the trip in and the same boots and the same long underwear. The long underwear makes perfect sense, riding in the morning chill when it is 40 or 50 something out. Not such a great idea at 80 degrees in the middle of the day on a hot dusty trail but it is somewhat inconvenient to strip down in the middle of a parking lot. I’ve seen the Amboy crater on the map and always wondered about it. But it is so far out of the way and always on the path to nowhere, so I’ve never stopped by to check it out. It is this black cylindrical charcoal heap in the middle of a huge expanse of flatness marked by a dry lake and a distant perimeter of mountains.

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From the rim of the crater, I think it should actually be called a caldera, since it is the remnants of a volcano that was active as recently as ten thousand years ago. There are a few heroic plants that grow out of the black rock. Not too far away is the town of Amboy, a vestigial town that once served as a stop on historic route 66 marked only by Roy’s diner who sells overpriced $5 a gallon gas and wears a gun on his hip as he serves me my cup of coffee.

Singing Dunes

Reading Time: 3 minutes

The sign says “Water and good hiking shoes recommended.” I looked everywhere. No where is it approved for motorcycle boots, long underwear (under my motorcycle pants of course), and not so much as a drop of water. But that is how I hiked the 600 foot Kelso dunes. The hike up is a trudge. Two steps forward, one step back, the thighs burning, and the heart working hard. I opt for the circuitous trail that traverses the face to the saddle point, and then up along the ridge line. Chris opts for a frontal assault the shortest, steepest route. At the top, I take a picture of Chris still fifty feet off the summit making sure he knows I am there in a deliberate attempt to break his spirit.

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The view from the top is fantastic looking out over the Mojave desert. Cameras just don’t capture big sky, the feeling of being up on top, surveying the land, that feel of distance and space. Of course, it doesn’t stop me from trying. Curiously, I pick up a stray cell tower, that delivers a number of text messages, the nearest civilization fifty miles in any direction. I also take a survey of the area near the dirt road we came in on. I can see a group of trees that look like a perfect spot to make camp for the night. The ninety minute walk up is a thirty minute walk back. I run down the steep part of the hill that Chris came up, taking twenty foot strides running down, covering the distance that Chris just came up on hands and knees in a couple of seconds, the grains of sand avalanching with each foot fall, the grains rubbing together making a high pitched singing sound as the sand slides down the hill. Water awaits back at the trailhead and while my motorcycle boots might not be optimal hiking boots, they keep the sand out and I think are snake bite resistant. Luckily, I don’t have the opportunity to test that hypothesis.

 

We find our campsite that we picked up from our summit search, a primitive campground under some tamarisk trees, the surrounding land dotted with white poppies and creosote bushes. DSC_0257_PoppyClusterThe high altitude makes for a much colder night than below sea level campground of Death Valley. Brooke has taken all the food north to San Francisco, so Chris and I dine on the Ramun noodles and each drink a bottle of wine, the only food we can fit in our saddlebags, admiring the intensity of the starlight in the clear night sky and taking on such topics as abuse of electronics and the value of DIY and how far we are from anything like civilization. Just as we are about to call it a night, three van loads of UCSC students camping on their spring break pull in, and in the dark, setup their camp, destroying our short-lived illusion of solitude. But they settle in quickly, I am not sure if they even know we are here.

Disney Land

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Another kid walks by with a Disney t-shirt. An air-conditioned tour bus is parked in the lot. Spring always brings people to the desert but with all the news stories of the once in a decade bloom, Death Valley is actually crowded, at least for Death Valley.DSC_0156_Purple Flowers dot the landscape, but I wouldn’t use the word carpet the landscape, we probably missed the peak of the once in a decade bloom, flowers already seeding the sands for their next decade festival.

With a limited amount of time, we do the Disney tour of Death Valley. Death Valley has a number of attractions, no wait a minute, Disney has attractions, Death Valley has features. Our first feature is Badwater. A sign some two hundred feet over head on the hill shows us where Sea Level is. The salt basin in Death Valley is immense stretching over some two hundred square miles. At Badwater, you can walk out onto the salt flats. Chris braves the dirt and trampling feet to sample the saltiness of the salt and is not disappointed. Imaginative photographers stage pictures, people jumping in the air, head stands, attractive women doing photo shoots. I take a copycat of Brooke and Max jumping in the air.

Our next stop is the natural arch. The washboard road rattles Brooke’s car as Brooke debates the wisdom of the mile and half off-road adventure in her city car. The Natural arch is a mile hike in a fairly wide slot canyon. The adventurous climber can work their way to the top of the arch.

The artist drive is a one way paved road that winds through badlands, wending its way through the steep canyon walls. The artist palette is a rainbow of mineral colors including titanium and magnesium but the sign informs that the green is not copper.

The Borax Works pays homage to the brief Borax industry. 20 mule teams hauled the Borax out of Death Valley to the nearest railroad some hundred miles away. Not surprisingly, the industry only lasted for five years but its existence lives on in the off-the-shelf 20 mule team borax packages that you can buy in many grocery stores.

Salt Creek harbors the pup fish, a species of fish that lives its year of life surviving frigid cold waters in nights of winter and 100 degree water temperatures in the summer. DSC_0186_PupUpCloseThese hardy species have adapted themselves as the salt lake in Death Valley evaporated giving way to the salt flats we already visited. The trail is a boardwalk that thoughtfully keeps the foot traffic up and off the salt marsh that these fish need to survive.

Last stop is the mesquite dunes. Nobody wants to hike the mile out to the dunes, so we settle for some pictures. DSC_0199_BrookeAnd this is where we part ways, Max, Brooke, and Ian off to Northern California, Brooke wanting to get back on Saturday, so she has a day of off. Chris and I head South, our only plan is to avoid the freeway on the way back.

Night Flight

Reading Time: 3 minutes

A couple of hours ago, we all sat on a tarp playing cards, eating our hot dogs, and drinking some beer under my LED camp-lights and the light of a full moon in the somewhat dismal Sunset campground that is more like a tailgate at a football game than a real campground with a gravely parking lot, neighbors on either side of us, and campers running their generators.

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Now, the temperature is perfect for sleeping under the stars but the wind has picked up and is really starting to gust. Max and I sleep on a tarp on the outside of the tent even though I’ve pitched the tent and literally nailed it into the ground with my rusty nails that are about the size of railroad spikes.  I don’t think twice about securing the empty tent or someone else’s tent I saw tumbleweeding down the road earlier.

I mind the strong moonlight more than the wind and place my riding jacket over my head. The wind gets worse gusting to thirty miles an hour, maybe more. I can hear all the tents flapping violently in the wind. A blast of wind rips by. I hear what sounds like something sliding over the rocks. I remove the jacket from my head in time to see the tent slide, flip over, and then once the wind grabs the water proof bottom, the tent lifts into the air, clearing Chris’s tent, flying like one of those cows you see caught in a tornado in the movies or like the makeshift sail in “Castaway” that finally leaves the raft in a violent storm.

I jump up and give chase in my underwear, my bare feet ignoring the uneven gravel in the heat of the chase. Max secures my inflatable mattress, sleeping bag, and pillow as they try to chase after me.

The tent cuts perpendicular over the road and then over a couple of campers before landing and rolling coming to a stop about hundred feet away having just narrowly missed four different groups of unsuspecting sleeping campers. Where have the nine inch nails gone as the tent flew? I have grisly images in my head of the nails sticking out of the forehead of one of the hapless campers I just ran over.

Max and I aren’t the only ones sleeping under the stars. Amazingly, the tent has held together. Back at the campsite, I disassemble the tent and hold it down with heavy objects like our cooler, equipment bin and rocks. In the morning, I will discover that top pole is bent about 45 degrees at the tip. All the equipment I left in the tent including my very expensive camera was dumped out when the tent first turned over and didn’t go along for the flight. My wallet and keys are still in the stuff bag I secured them in. Max and I move our tarp and sleeping bags behind Brooke’s car the wind still gusting. I manage to get plenty of sleep. In the morning, the fifty mile view of Death Valley of yesterday has turned into the haze of sand hanging in the sky like a fog bank over the ocean. Both Max and Brooke say they didn’t sleep a wink. Aside from my midnight run, the perfect temperature and the wind help me get a very good night sleep.