Lake Powell

Lake Powell is one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. I rented a boat for the 4th of July and Kristi and I piled our dogs and camping gear in it and we drove that thing up to Dangling Rope, over to Rainbow bridge. It was here that my Nikon gave up the ghost. I thought I could wrap it in a plastic bag and swim up a cool slot canyon. Nope. It got wet through the plasctic bag. Once I got it back on the boat I pulled the batteries, and could smell that it was fried. Never to turn on again.

Arches & Moab

We were having an extremely warm, dry spring. It was perfect weather to go to Moab. The intent was mostly to go mountain biking, but as usual I brought the camera. We also did a quick tour of part of Arches NP. No, we didn't get to Delicate Arch, or Mesa Arch, just some lesser known arches. As a matter of fact I can't seem to remember the names of most of them. We've got Kristi on her bike, and my dog Max with his backpack, and some arches. Some were taken on bike rides, others hikes. We had to cross some railroad tracks to get to Elephant arch, and found a scene where the cliffs were carved out, and the tracks... disappearing. Moab is definately a place to return to. There is just so much going on than what you can do during spring break.

John Muir Trail

Photography and hiking have always gone hand in hand with me. It was very exciting when I got my first digital camera, a Nikon Coolpix 2000. It meant that I didn't have to deal with carrying, loading, and developing the film, or deal with archiving the pictures and negatives. I've lost a lot of photos, simply because I did not keep well enough track of them. The Nikon was a decent enough camera, during a time when 35mm film still reigned supreme in quality. Truth is, I've sold photos from every camera I've owned, so the adage 'It's not the camera it's the photographer' rings true. Kristi and I have caught some what of a 'epic hiking bug' between the Na Pali Coast, Havasupai, and Paria Canyon trips. Since we had so much experience under our belts, we thought we could handle the logistics of the John Muir trail. My good friend from college, Rich Hoffman, is quite a bit older than me. He returned to college in his forties, graduated and moved to Klammath Falls, OR. He got a teaching job there in Theatre at the high school. He was an adamant backpacker from way back, which is why we got along so well. We missed our trips to West Fork of the Oak Creek Canyon together, and frequently talked about rendezvousing somewhere in the middle ground in California. Yosemite was a natural selection, mainly because I had not been there, and he was excited to return there. Kristi and I had devised a plan to do somewhat of a shuttle-rendezvous with Rich. We were to start from Mammouth Lakes and hike to Yosemite, meet, ascend Half Dome, and he would drive us around back to Mammouth Lakes when we were done. We were ready to go, made reservations for the trail at the Inyo National Forest ranger station, and set up a time and exit point on the trail to meet Rich. Since we were going to be in the wilderness, there would be no way to contact us. We were continuing on faith that we would have a ride at the end. The first day of the journey was driving from Flagstaff to Bishop, in our little Ford Escort sedan. I remember how hot it was crossing the desert, the A/C barely keeping up, even with the car's tinted windows. We arrived at a campground between Bishop and Mammouth Lakes. It had a creek along side of it that was just rushing with water. It was early July and the Sierras had a record winter for snowfall. We had heard that the trail was still snow-packed, and as a precaution brought our snowshoes, with hopes that we wouldn't have to carry them. We still had some loose ends to tie up, as we didn't have bear canisters, which were required to hike anywhere in the Sierras. The plan was to go into Mammouth Lakes buy some canisters, and ask around at the sports stores what the trail conditions were. Finding the canisters was no problem, finding trail conditions proved to be more difficult. The owner of the store knew that there was a whole lot of snow up there, but couldn't tell us how deep, or how hard the snow would be. He hadn't known anybody that had hiked it that year, mainly because of the heavy snow that still lingered. He warned us about the sun-cups, and not to eat or drink the red snow. Evidently the sun melts the snow at different speeds, making fields of parabolic cups. There would be some red dust that blows from the desert and lands on the snow, which supposedly carries a bacteria that could be harmful. It also causes early snow-melt, not able to reflect the sun's rays, which wasn't an issue this year. Our reservation for the trail was to start the next day, so we hung around town looking at maps, and asking more questions. Originally we wanted to start the hike from Agnew Meadows trail head, but were concerned that if we started there we would need to cover more ground so we could meet Rich at the rendezvous point. Since the trail conditions were still unknown we decided to modify our starting point to Reds Meadow, five miles closer to our destination. It was fairly easy to make the decision, since we discovered that there was a shuttle from Mammouth Ski Resort to a number of trail heads along the John Muir Trail. We spent the night close to town, ready to get to the Ranger Station when they opened at 8. We hardly got any sleep due to the excitement, and were ready to go by 6 the next morning. Since we were so early, we went to a local diner for breakfast, then lined up at the Ranger Station waiting for them to open so we could get our hiking permits. The Ranger wasn't too keen on changing our starting point, since they gauge the permits by how many people enter each specific trail head each day. He changed it for us (since there were hardly anybody daft enough to hike the trail with such snowy conditions) with a bit of bureaucratic finger wagging. Anyway we got our permit to start from Red's Meadow, drove up to the Mammouth ski resort, parked the car, got our shuttle passes to the trail head. The old school bus filled with people, and we loaded our packs in the back third of the bus. It lumbered slowly down the road into the canyon to the trail head, where we disembarked, and immediately became swarmed with mosquitoes. We hastily applied our 100% Deet and picked up the pace as if we could get away from the bugs. Red's Meadow was a little less than a meadow, and a little more a soggy marsh, a beautiful marsh, though. Wild flowers, reeds, and cattails adorned the field, back-dropped with the snow capped peaks. The trail soon began to gain elevation, and we began high-stepping up giant granite steps leaving the first of many lakes behind. A couple of does froze at the sight of us, just a few hundred feet away. Without a lot of time to stop, we kept heading toward Garnet lake, our first camping spot for the trip. So far there was very little snow, and we were wondering if we should have packed our snow shoes or not. The more we ascended the more snow we came across. The trail was still pretty clear cut, and only once did we loose the trail and our bearings. Just as we were approaching the pass we were left with a choice to go left or right. Since there were no footprints to follow we made a calculated guess to go left, and we were right. So far we were headed up the south-side of a large basin, the side facing the sun. Once we made it to the top of the hill we could see the beautiful Garnet lake with Ritter and Banner peaks towering above the water. It took our breath away. Once we regained consciousness we looked down, and kept looking down- for the trail. It was completely obscured by a field of snow and ice. We had to proceed to the far side of the lake to camp on a little patch of grass. The snow and ice was still 3 feet thick- but the coolest part was that portions were hollow, where running water had carved caves, crevasses, and under ice creeks. Occasionally we post-holed through, but over-all the ice was solid, and we didn't bother with the snow shoes. We skipped over some boulders at the headwaters to Rush creek, and made it to the other side of the lake, where the snow had melted revealing some flat patches of grass to camp on. The lake was so crystal clear you could see dozens of feet right to the bottom. The water looked so inviting we threw off our boots and poked our tired dogs into the water, brrrr. There will be no bathing in that water. We made dinner, and discussed the trail conditions. We both drifted off to sleep wondering how much snow covered the rest of the trail, and how long it would take us to stay the course. We awoke the next morning to flat water on the lake, perfect photographic conditions. At the time I had not studied the works of master photographers Ansel Adams, or Galen Rowell. I was vaguely familiar with their work, but did not have the chance to really study them. I knew that this was their terra cognita, but was not consciously trying to emulate them. It wasn't until years later that I realized I had photographed the same subjects with the same fresh eyes and wonder that they had. To this I feel a sort of bond with those pioneers of photography, knowing the value and magnitude of trying to capture the wonders of nature. I'm not saying that my work can compare to theirs in anyway. I just realized that we were all drawn to the beautiful and picturesque High Sierras, at different times, with different reasons, eyes, and lenses. We packed up and headed to Thousand Island lake, without any real issue with snow. We took some more photos, and could see some people fishing, the first people we've seen so far. The trail continued up and down some valleys, and we camped the night next to a creek. The next morning we made the push for Donahue pass, continued up the mountain, through some run-off water falls and toward the pass. The trail here is just beautiful, green grass, large boulders, marmots, and the Minarets as the backdrop. There were a couple of groups camped here, and if I had known the area better I would have loved to have camped there. The views were far and wide. We continued up toward the pass. The trail was spotty, but the goal firmly in sight. We had lunch at the top, sitting on a giant granite boulder surrounded by wild flowers. We could see the trail appear below the ice cap, and the sun-cupped snow field. Until this point we hadn't actually needed the snow shoes we brought, but thought they might be useful spanning the snow cups on the way down. So we strapped them on and down. The snowshoes were helpful in that it made the sun cups like steps, gently easing us down the ice field. We picked up the trail and continued down. The melting snow gained momentum and flowed over the trail in many spots. Eventually the trail was starting to cross bigger and bigger creeks. One such creek had stepping stones crossing it. Kristi made it across, but - SPLASH- I was facing down in freezing water, backpack on. Kristi became a little alarmed seeing me face down in water, thinking that the backpack was keeping me under, but I quickly gained composure and lumbered to shore. My first concern was my camera. Tucked away in my non-water proof camera bag, it was only slightly damp. I quickly removed the batteries and memory card and dried it off, as well as rung out my socks. We sat there for a half an hour in the sunlight, reassembled the camera, turned it on, and BAM. We were back in business. We arrived at a pretty glacial pool, another prime camping spot. The plan was to continue to a bridge lower in elevation, so we bid adeu and turned back to the trail. We were faced with another crossing. This time it was about waist deep. We took off our packs and carried them overhead to the other side. We did make it down to the wooden bridge a bit lower, but were a little dis-enchanted with the spot. It was pretty by normal standards, but another mile and half back the spot we passed up was just too georgeous to ignore. We made the decision to return, since it was early enough in the day. We spent the night there, not complaining at all that we had to make the river crossing two more times, Brr. The next morning was the day we were to meet Rich. Since we went back a little way, it was now by far the farthest we had to hike in one day. It amounted to a twelve mile day, but fortunately it was all down hill meandering along the small river through a lush green valley. At lunch we took a dip, and headed to Tuolumne Meadows. It was getting to be around four o'clock and we were about a mile away from the trailhead in Yosemite when "Bork!" It was the cry of the Farquar hiking society, an elite society of hikers known only to Rich. I returned the hail "Bork!" And he responded "I have beer!" He held up some canned Guiness, as if it were the holy grail. We knelt down and gave thanks, then consumed the beverages. Our next stop was to secure a campsite at the campground at Tuolumne Meadows. We then walked down to the commissary and got a couple of chicken sandwiches, just before they closed. The rest of the evening we sat down and surveyed the trail system in Yosemite, and devised a loop going up Clouds Rest and on to Half Dome, then back to the car. There was a bit of excitement when some rangers came barreling through the camp in four wheel drive golf carts chasing and shouting "Go on Bear, go on Bear." Evidently a bear was in the site next door, and had grabbed a bag of candy from thier picnic table. It was thier job to shag the bear back to the forest. Sorry, Yogi. The next day we started up the back side of Clouds Rest, and made it to the top, pitched camp and celebrated with another round of Guiness. Some other hikers passed by, and marveled at the sight of backpackers drinking beer. Soon other hikers came by to witness the event. The word had spread, and we became the talk of the park, attracting campers like flies to honey. Alas, we only had enough beer for our immediate party, and had to turn away the thirsty masses. (They really did ask if we had extras.) The next day was to be gruelling. We had to travel down the front of Cloud's Rest, then on to Half Dome. The down was a killer, and steeper than any trail to date. By the time we got to the camp spot at the bottom our shins were burnt. We still had two miles to go before we got to the base of Half Dome, and Rich bowed out. He decided to stay at camp. Kristi and I weren't about to pass up the once in a lifetime opportunity. Standing at the base of half dome looking up at the wire ladder was a bit overwhelming. We were already exhausted from the hike, but anxious to get to the top. The park kindly leaves a pile of gloves at the base, which you have to pick through. We slowly climbed the cable rungs of the ladder, mindful that any mis-step could be the last one. We got to the top to find we were the only ones there, possibly because there was a storm brewing not to far away. There was a sign at the bottom explaining that lightning has struck the top of Half Dome every month out of the year, and that even storms miles away can produce lightning there. Needless to say we took our photos gave each other hugs, and lingered no longer. After climbing down, we returned to camp, made dinner and slept like babies. The next morning we bathed in a nearby creek, hardly awknowledging the small tame deer meandering through camp. This was our last day with Rich, and once we returned to the car we hung out for the last of the Guiness left inside the cooler. He drove us back to Mammouth Ski resort, and handed us the entrance pass for Yosemite, so we could return the next day and visit Yosemite Valley. Once we drove through the valley, took the obligatory tourist shots, we headed back home, stopping at a Mammouth Motel 6 for the last night. Hiking the JMT was definately an epic trip. If I get a chance to do it again, I might start at Mount Whitney and end at Donahue pass or Tuolumne Meadows. Although Yosemite is beautiful, nothing beats the lakes and peaks of the High Sierras. Oh, and a perfectly timed Guiness.

Grand Canyon's Havasupai: The Trouble with Paradise

A helicopter announced its arrival, echoing a thunderous cacophony I could feel in my chest. It landed in one of the abandoned fields, pumping dust throughout the canyon. Plastic bags skittered across the ground and caught in the jagged fencing. The door slid open and a half-dozen children emerged, decked out in pinks and purples all with Mickey Mouse ears on and little child size suitcases.

“Where did you guys go?” My girl friend, Kristi, inquired one of the little girls.

“Disneyland!” She said with a giddy smile.

“It’s a small world after all,” our mutual friend from New Jersey quipped.

This was the greeting upon our arrival at Supai, a small village at the bottom of Cataract Canyon, a tributary to the Grand Canyon. Only accessible from trail or helicopter, it is the capital of the Havasupai Indian Reservation. One of the most remote cities in the US, Supai still receives its mail by mule, and the Havasu ‘Baaja or “the people of the blue-green waters,” are the stewards of the world renowned series of travertine waterfalls. Travel articles chronicle the Havasupai Reservation as being a Shangri-la, a garden of Eden, and a paradise, with beautiful falls, and a rustic village, complete with it’s own indigenous culture; a natural amusement park for the adventurous enthusiast.

It was my third time visiting the rustic and ruggedly beautiful waterfalls. I backpacked here twice in the early 1990s, while still in high school. The trail was how I remembered it, eight miles of sinking deeper and farther into geologic time. Beginning at Hualapai Hilltop, the trail offered long views of stratified plateaus stretching across the horizon. It wound and switch-backed, meandering through the dry, dusty riverbed. Hawks circled above, riding the thermals, as the canyon walls closed in.

I noticed things had changed as we approached the tiny village. We passed broken down tractors, and emaciated horses teetering on thin frail legs. Plastic water bottles, and empty beer cans began to accumulate the closer we got. Our first glimpse of Supai revealed weather beaten government tract homes with broken windows and large flags of Bob Marley covering the openings. Rusted farm implements, and empty water troughs populated make shift corrals. Satellite dishes adorned each roof.

We lumbered into the town center, comprised of a few dilapidated buildings contrasting against some modern ones. The general store and the chapter house were old and used. Across the dusty ‘street’ the restaurant was buzzing with tourists speaking a myriad of languages lounging on the large wooden veranda eating hamburgers and fries. At the end of the road stood the new and modern school and a motel-style hotel, ironic since there were no roads or cars. The first two times here we had to get our permits from the general store, but now they had a new air conditioned tourist office, complete with a fresh water fish tank, and polished flagstone flooring.

“Do you have a reservation?” The clerk lisped in an uncharacteristically feminine manner.

“No, I tried…” I was interrupted by a pinch from Kristi. “No.”

“Well we are pretty booked, but I think we have some camping spaces closer to Mooney falls. That will be twenty dollars per person per night. Cash or charge?”

“Cash.” I tried to make a reservation. The web site said they were booked, but I knew from experience they probably would not make us turn around and go home, especially if I had cash. So we went anyway.

We were awarded our permits, not more than a tag with a wire, which we affixed to our backpacks. It was two miles to the campground, and another mile to Mooney Falls. We lifted our packs and continued down the sandy trail, followed by a small pack of bloated rez mutts, hoping for a spare scrap or morsel. A plump dark man sitting on a chair in front of the chapter house glared at us as we left town. The feeling of hospitality began to diminish. We continued cautiously, wondering if the Havasupai was loosing its battle against modernity.

· · ·

The Havasupai have been nomads on this land for the last 800 years. Their territory spanned from Indian Gardens in the Grand Canyon to Havasu Canyon and the surrounding areas. They hunted in the winter and fall on the plateaus, and spent the summer and spring months farming in the canyons. In 1882 the US government upon dedication of the Grand Canyon National Park, evicted the Havasupai from their ancestral lands. The 518-acre Havasupai Indian Reservation was formed and the people were confined at the bottom of the remote canyon for the next 93 years. The internment lead to an increased reliance on farming for survival, and more recently and almost exclusively, tourism for revenue. In 1975 the US government did award the tribe with 185,000 acres of the surrounding area, but remains largely unused.

· · ·

A short distance from Supai, Navajo Falls cascades down what looks like a staircase from a height of seventy feet. There were a few vantage points from which to take photos, and we visited every one. A mile down the steep dusty trail is the next, and most photographed falls, Havasu. The water makes its way over a calcium carbonate spout at the top, and crashes into a giant blue-green pool at the bottom. The high mineral content, combined with leaves and branches, gather at the edge of the pool to create natural travertine terraces. The terraces stack into each other making little separate pools each one lower and smaller than the last. Tourists were frolicking in the water, and lying in their own travertine tubs. The giant falls surrounded by even bigger cliffs made us feel lowly. Awed by the natural beauty, we lingered until the sun left only shadows high on the canyon walls.

Heading toward the campground, we entered the gate. I cast a glance at the man passed out amid empty bottles of malt liquor, asleep at his post. If he was the only one checking permits, we could have left our money at home, I thought.

The clerk was right. They looked packed. Most people camped as close to Havasu falls as they could get. Large Boy Scout groups took any and all open spaces. We wound our way through the tents, tables, and coolers, nodding at passing teenagers. Shrieks and squeals emanated from groups of kids busy at horseplay. Not the respite from society that most backpacking trips offer.

About a mile from the campground gate we finally found a spot, a few hundred yards from the end. The creek flowed along side of camp, and we were far enough away from the large groups, that we were satisfied with our locale. We were lulled to a state of wonder by the thundering water. Surrounded by cliffs hundreds of feet high, we camped near the abrupt end to the trail. The earth appeared to have ended here at Mooney Falls. The creek suddenly freefalls down the sheer 200-foot drop to the canyon bottom. We gazed down into the darkening shadows and reeled from vertigo.

We spent the remainder of the evening in camp, cooking dinner and visiting the overflowing ‘facilities.’ Our choices to get back to nature consisted of full outhouses, or the equally full off the beaten path bush. Even deviating a few feet from the trail revealed a nest of toilet paper and flies. I wondered what the twenty dollars per person per night went to. If it wasn’t spent protecting the canyon from waste, what was it spent on? I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

· · ·

Will the natural world will end up just an ill maintained tourist attraction, a Disneyland for outdoor enthusiasts? Will it be a place for insensitive people to fly in, take photos, eat fast food, and leave trash and feces? The wonders of the world will be reduced to an amusement park. There was no stopping it. If the native ‘stewards’ were powerless against the tourist dollar, how can anyone be? Lost are the days of hunting or farming. The fields lay abandoned, and littered with Doritos packages. TVs blare mesmerizing mindless satellite television through broken windows. Tribal members are now ticket takers, hotel clerks, ice cream vendors or mule train conductors, catering to your need for adventure. A culture sequestered in Adventureland, welcome to the future of America.

It didn’t use to be like that. I had been there once before the great flood, then once after. The fields were plowed, and grew squash, corn and melons. The Havasupai smiled more and vegetation overgrew the trail, people had room to breathe. The facilities were rustic, but not overflowing, and you could drink the water straight from the spigot screwed into the canyon wall. The feeling of the immediacy of society seemed hundreds of miles away.

In the fifties, the tribe had the opportunity to accelerate their entrance to western society by building a road to the falls. They declined the chance to be like Grand Canyon Village, host to millions of visitors per year. Their canyon and way of life could not withstand the hoards of people and the influx of human waste. Only about 20,000 visit per year, but they still struggle with maintaining their culture and striking a balance between nature and tourism.

The Havasupai are trying to hold on to their culture. They teach their language and customs to their children, boasting a 100% fluency in Pai, the principal source of their cohesion. Some children who go away to boarding school for high school, return after years of city life, their language and identity tugging at their heart-strings. There are even talks about building their own high school on their newly acquired lands, at the top of the canyon.

But, it is human nature to want the best of both worlds. Conveniences like electricity, refrigeration, running water and entertainment are hard to fight. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to enjoy the same privileges as any American? There is a trade off for embracing Western culture. Drugs and violence are influencing the children. They’re turning to victimizing the tourists with petty theft, harassment, and just recently, murder.

The Havasupai are not strangers to death. Life in the canyon has always been precarious. Heavy rainfall brings not only flash flood danger, but, the peril of falling rocks. There are many news stories of falling boulders and breaking tree limbs landing on unsuspecting sleeping campers in their tents. Many have left the canyon on stretchers attached to the helicopter. But the most recent and disturbing death was that of Japanese tourist Tomomi Hanamure by Randy Wesogame, stabbing her multiple times in a crystal meth induced frenzy. Her body left bleeding, riddled with stab wounds floating in the beautiful blue-green water.

This story reads like many modern news stories, one you might see on a typical day in any major city. This isn’t a typical modern city, but the sleepy stronghold for a small 500 member tribe fighting day in and day out to preserve its culture and heritage. Tribal spiritual leaders blamed the “dark spirit” and had sweat lodge ceremonies to purge the evil spirits from the canyon.

After hearing this story, the sinking feeling returned. It wasn’t an evil spirit that is to blame; it is me, my culture, my people, my government, my tourist money, and my drugs. All those things together inundated this innocent culture, confined to a reservation. The murder was the predictable result of an increasingly dysfunctional society, imposing itself on an imprisoned indigenous tribe at a microcosmic level. Nobody informed them that there would be a trade off to accepting Western Culture. With all the wonderful conveniences they also had to accept its dysfunctions.

· · ·

Later the next evening, after supper, Kristi and I were sitting next to the fire. We just had the most incredible day. We climbed down the cliff face of Mooney Falls to the last of the series of falls; Beaver falls. It was a day-long obstacle course. There were rope swings, ladders and under water caverns that we visited. We swam, hiked and relaxed in fields of ferns and vines.

It had been hours since we had seen our best friend. We started to be concerned. Then she appeared from the shadows into the flickering firelight. Her face was dirty, bleeding and scraped. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“I am so stupid!” she remarked.

“What happened?” I asked, alarmed by the look on her face. She broke down and bawled.

“I was hiking around by myself,” she started off between sobs, “ From a distance, I thought I saw a little boy go into a mine shaft. It was dusk and I didn’t have a flashlight, but I decided to investigate. I entered the shaft despite the warning sign posted.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I went into the shaft, and I couldn’t see a thing. I slowly made my way inside, then suddenly the floor gave out from under me and I went down head-first. I was upside down sliding further and further, until I scraped and grabbed the wall and was able to stop myself. I had to crawl out backwards and upside down. I could have died. I am so stupid!” She broke down again and sobbed some more. We all agreed that was stupid.

“What about the little boy?” Kristi asked.

“There was no little boy!” She said. “I’m not sure what I saw or why I went into that mine shaft in the dark!”

· · ·

Some force inspired Lindsay to do something completely without reason. Maybe it was the ‘dark spirit,’ maybe not. I wish we could blame the negative forces that plague society, and this remote canyon, on evil spirits, because it is easier than blaming our selves.

Society is falling into a mineshaft. Knowing the dangers and the pitfalls, we still continue deeper and deeper in to the cavern. Trash, drugs, alcohol, greed and apathy are all the dysfunctional failures of dominant society. When put in a microcosm, Shangri – La becomes hell, and we have to shake our heads harder and harder to see the beauty that still exists in this world.

We left the Havasupai changed. Although glad to be alive, our hearts hung heavy on the long hot dusty hike out. By trying to escape life and our daily hustle and bustle, we hiked to a world struggling with what we were leaving behind. The absence of a road to Supai village wasn’t enough to keep out that evil proverbial carrot, and I felt the burden of being, a least partially, the cause of it. A plaque at the entrance of Disneyland reads: “You leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy.” No, this was nothing like Disneyland, but we had entered a world stuck between yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy. That’s the trouble with paradise. It’s fantasy. It doesn’t really exist. The Havasupai are a socio-indicator of the health of society. If a culture so linked to nature and the earth struggle to survive, how can we? If we are not more careful with those beautiful places and cultures, they will only exist as an amusement park attraction.

Buckskin Gulch/ Paria Canyon

Our next epic hike was to Paria Canyon and the slot canyon Buckskin Gulch. Over the border into Utah from Arizona, just after Big Water is a little ranger station on the left. If you plan on doing anything including day hiking in the area you must get a permit at the ranger station. Not only do they have to monitor the amount of backpackers that enter the canyon, they have to educate you on water sources, flash floods, and packing out your waste. All your waste. They give you a special plastic bag with a seal and some odor control inside that you have to use to go potty in. And pack it out. Our plan was to hike in Buckskin Gulch and down to the confluence of the Paria river, then back up the river to the ranger station called White House. The only problem was the enterance to the gulch was five miles up the road, and another five miles down a dirt road. If we were going to hike out to the ranger station we had to find our way to the trail head. Our plan was to hitch hike. We arrived at the ranger station before they opened, got our permit and hung aroung until another tourist asked for a permit for Buckskin Gulch. After a couple of tries we found an older couple with room to spare in the back of thier one ton dually pickup. Kristi and I piled our packs in the back of the truck and hopped in.

The dirt road was pretty rough, and the dually with it's stiff suspension jolted us around for the five mile dirt road. The deal was we had to get there early enough so we could get to the confluence before dark, being that there was no real place to camp in the gulch. As it was there were only a hand full of camping spots to be had that weren't wet. It was twelve miles to the first camping sand bar through wet sand and boulders. We knew the situation, and when we incountered another couple we knew we had to pass them and hustle to the first available spot before they did. The slot canyon was really spooky. It continued straight up for a couple of hundred feet, and rarely did we see the light of day. There were animals at the bottom that had fallen and died, which we had to walk over. One buck had fallen and broken all his horns and twisted his neck. At times we had to remove our packs to squeeze through the narrow passage way. Other times we had to lower our packs down ropes to get to the bottom of huge rock falls. Finally after twelve miles of hiking through soft sand we arrived at the first available camping spot, only large enough for a couple of people. We crashed about that time, and fumbled trying to cook dinner. Just about the time we were cooking the other couple came along, and we could tell they were exhausted too. Thier dissapointment to find the next camping spot about a half mile away must have been tough. Not to mention it was getting dark. We packed up early and headed toward the confluence. We came upon the couple after a few hundred feet around the corner on a little dry spot in the canyon. I guess they couldn't go any farther. At the confluence, the Paria river picked up more moisture and filled the canyon with a shallow amount of water.

This made for some interesting hiking with the occasional quick sand pools. If you were to incounter the quick sand by yourself and were foolish enough to get into it, there would be a real concern of getting back out agian. Not that you would sink down below your head, but the more struggling you did the deeper you got, and the harder it would be to free yourself. If you had another person with you it wouldn't take much to get out. We played in the quick sand for a while, at least for the experience. We planned to hike down the Paria for the next couple of days. Armed with a map of the natural springs, we found large sand bars to camp close by. The river opened up the farther away from the confluence that we hiked. Some people hike the whole river, but we chose to day hike about half of it and then back up stream to the ranger station, mostly for the ease of vehicle shuttling or hitchhiking. We found some broken down water pumps along the river, but mostly the canyon continued opening up, and the sand got drier. The most interesting was the slot canyons, so we camped nearby the next two nights, and hiked back out up the river back to the ranger station. On the way out we found some trash that other campers left, an old bag of salmon. Our conscience got the best of us and we packed it out. I strapped it to the back of the pack with our potty bag, and had the pleasure of smelling fish and poo for the remainder of the day. Our spirits were high, though and we made the best of it. We even coined a song: "Fish and poo and vinegar, fish and poo and vinegar, pepper pepper pepper salt..."

Oak Creek Spire

I'm a big fan of Startrail photography, and a bigger fan of interesting rock formations. Finding an interesting way to combine the two was my goal for this image. My first foray to Sedona a couple of years ago created, to date, some of my favorite images. They sold well at the Vora Financial gallery, but there were, however, some issues in the process that I needed to iron out. The biggest issue was mainly getting an interval programmable timer.
I spotted this spire from miles away, and wanted to find a way to get up close with the intent of making a star trail composition. Kristi and I hiked about three miles in and cross-countr-ied to a top of a hill. The area is just inside the Coconino National Forest, so fortunately overnight camping would be allowed. We returned with our backpacks, and set up camp on the hill, a few feet from this vantage point. It turned out to be a magical evening from sunset to dawn, the views were spectacular, and the stars vivid. One direction we had views of Cathedral Rock, Courthouse Butte, and Castle Rock. We packed up our backpacks with food, water, wine, and gear and headed out late in the afternoon. The full heat of the day was still present, but we only had a short distance to hike. We set up camp with plenty of light left in the day. It gave us time to pick the perfect spot, and solidify the perfect vantage point to set the tripod. Once the sun started to set, I began taking various images while Kristi made dinner.Although not part of the original plan I was able to grab some interesting images of Cathedral rock, during and right after sunset. I was satisfied at that point to eat dinner and wait for dusk. Before it got too dark I set up my tripod and composed the star trail image of Oak Creek Spire. I took some preliminary high ISO shots (3200), to calculate what shutter speed I might be using. This ended up to be a bit of a trial and error, because the sky kept getting darker. My initial calculations left the shutter open about three and a half minutes, at ISO 100. This was not enough to get the results I needed. The star trails weren't long or bright enough, and the rock face was just a silhouette. It was okay, because my intent was to blend in a well exposed image of the spire. I doubled the shutter speed to seven minutes, which gave me the correct exposure for the rock face. The next hour or so I fussed around with the interval remote timer trying to program it. The directions were a complete folly, as they must have been loosely translated from Chinese, or Japanese, complete with typos (e.g. see for sec., and other serious grammatical errors) rendering them all but useless. I settled on ten five minute exposures for the actual startrails at ISO 100. The rest of the process was all done in Adobe photoshop. Here was my work flow: Import Raw images into Apple Aperture for initial review. Then export the 10 startrail images as 16 bit Tiffs to a predetermined folder, titled "Oak Creek Spire Startrails." The next step was achieved with the help of Dr. Browns scripts for Photoshop called "Stack-a-Matic." This is a free script that basically automates the stacking process. It takes the images and stacks them in layers, then blends them, and ultimately turns them into a smart object where you can flatten them and make a single image. The script can only be started from Adobe bridge, hence the need for the dedicated folder that I exported the Tiffs to. I highlighted all ten images and went to the tools menu, chose "Stack-a-Matic" and ran the script. I used the "maximum" value for the blending, and forced the image to 16 bit mode. After flattening the image I saved it as a new copy to the same folder. I then opened the image of the correctly exposed spire, used the magic wand to trace the rock formation. I created a new layer in the startrail image, and option-dragged the rock formation to the new layer, aligning it over the silhouette. From there I did some final adjustments, and imported it back to Aperture so I can export it to the web. BAM! With the correct tools, and careful planning, what began as a potential vision was realized and executed. Below was the gear used for this image:

Pentax K-5, Vivitar Komine 28mm f2.0 Close Focus Wide Angle: A01 ( for those legacy lens collectors) Programmable interval timer, tripod.

The Na Pali Coast

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Most photgraphic adventures probably don't start out with a story about a woman, but this one will. I met Kristi at Theatrikos Theatre Company in Flagstaff, where she was working as the box office manager. I had been volunteering there for many years before, and had recently returned from a four year hiatus. After graduating from NAU school of performing arts, I had to get a job in the real world, but I missed the theatre. I met the executive director of the Theatrikos at the Zane Gray Ballroom, a bar upstairs in the Weatherford Hotel in downtown Flagstaff. We immediately hit it off, and shortly after I became the resident sound designer.
I was cast in some plays, and became heavily involved in a rennovation project in the basement, building much needed dressing rooms. Kristi Long wanted to help build. My Dad, Johnathan, Kristi and I worked toghether for a few months. I began to notice and appreciate Kristi for her qualities, and attractiveness. Shortly after I was elected President of the Board of Directors, and became even more heavily involved in the theatre. A mutual freind, Sara Brecht, at some point thought we would make a great couple and decided to play matchmaker. She said to me; "I think Kristi likes you. You should ask her out." She said to Kristi; "I think he likes you, you should go out with him." Well, I did, and she did. We both dated a couple of months and (here it comes) she invited me to go with her to Hawaii to meet up with her brother. She warned me the major part of the trip would be hiking the Na Pali Coast's Kalalau Trail.
I was no stranger to backpacking, as I was a Boy Scout, and kept backpacking through college with my good friend Rich Hoffman. Even though we bought the plane tickets at separate times, we managed to get the same flight out of Phoenix. I was able to sit next to her on the flight by trading seats with another passenger, saying to them we were on our honeymoon. He he. We arrived in Honalulu, and had to switch carriers to get to the island of Kauaii.Somehow Kristi had a first class seat on this empty plane, so she got to sit in the front row and drink free alcohol. I had to sit directly behind her and be content to eat dry peanuts. We met up with her brother at thier dad's time share, and went out for Chinese food with a Hawaiian twist (ala pork and pineapple) for dinner. I realize this is turning out to be a memorir, but with out content, there really is no blog. Plus it's always nice to have something to look back and read about what I did ten years ago. Anyway we packed up our backpacks, rented some snorkeling gear (which we never did use on the hike) and set out in the rental car to the trail head. If you have never been to Kauaii, you wouldn't know that on this island the road doesnt circumnavigate the island. The road ends abruptly at the trail head, since the terrain becomes increasingly rough. By rough I mean it is reduced to giant steep hills that differ hundreds of feet in elevation, right along the coast line.
It's these hills that make it most interesting both for the hiker and photographer. The parking lot was not more than a grassy field populated by homeless chickens. Yes chickens. Aparently the chickens have escaped their barnyard due to the many hurricanes that hit the island, setting them free. The hike began as most hikes, and we made it to Ke'e beach (2 mi) without much trouble. The beach is a popular day hike for most tourists, and once you've left the beach they begin to thin out. Plus the trail immediately switch backs up about 800 feet. We kept hiking for four more miles through the jungle. We pitched camp at what we called the "Mosquito Camp," and had dinner. I think the mosquitos had more to eat than we did. The next day, the weather dried out a bit, and we were blessed with sweeping views up the coastline. The trail continued up and down, along cliff faces, and through valleys. The video I made does a better job conveying the harrowing trail looming over the crashing surf than I can describe: We spent the next couple of days at Kalalau beach, exploring the various waterfalls, and camping
We went in the winter, during the highest surf and strongest riptide season, so we didn't get much snorkeling in. Actually we didn't get any snorkeling in. We packed the kit we rented in and out, for nothing. At least the camera and video camera were put to good use. I'm all for stripping down and bathing in large pools, or sitting in hotsprings, but I wouldn't consider my self a nudist. There were nudists there that refused to compromise thier tan by wearing so much as a hat. We called him naked man. He was friendly, and hairless, and very tan. He apparently had no problem interacting with other campers, and was perfectly comfortable ingaging in conversation. I guess if he was comfortable, we would have to be comfortable. You know the type. There is always a naked man at these far reaching locales. I have yet to see a naked woman with such brazen conviction. Anyway we had to start heading back. Kristi's brother Kevin, and his girlfriend Chrissy had a little more time and stayed a few more nights, but we moved on. The return trip ended the first night at a camp we called "Cliff Camp." We had a choice of camping on a flat spot right on the edge of a cliff. There were some other campers close by at an adjoining cliff camp spot. We started to pitch our tent, then the heavens opened and began a deluge. We could see the cloudless sky and blue water just a few hundred feet off shore, but the rain comes from inland and swirls down off the mountain tops drenching to just off the shoreline. We quickly struck camp and headed for the protection of the jungle.

The canopy only gave us a few minutes to get the tent up and tarp over the tent before it flowed like tiny creeks on the ground. We cooked dinner under the tarp that we made into a make shift vestibule. Even though it was raining it never really cooled off. Damp and tired we fell asleep with the rain pounding the top of the tent. About midnight we heard some rustling of pots and pans outside. A half an hour later we heard it again, then some scuffling inside the tent. Just about that time Kristi woke up with a giant rat scampering on top of her and over me. We were all shocked, rat included. We zipped up the tent after that. The rest of the trip was relatively dry. Some other interesting event that happened on the trail was when we saw drips of blood. We followed the blood trail for a half an hour and thought somebody was in bad shape. We came upon a girl who was crying and holding her nose. We asked if she needed help, and what happened. Apparently she slipped and landed nose first on a yucca spine, which went up her nose and peirced her sinus lining. Yikes. Not much first aid we could render there. She just asked us if we saw her friends to let them know she'd be delayed. We finished the remainder of the hike, took some photos at the end and continued back to the hotel high on life. This was our first epic hike together and quickly we became closely bonded. This was ten years ago in November of 2000. We were to have many more adventures and many more critters in the tent. Shortly after this trip I got a digital camera, and my 35mm gear went into hiding for a while.