Contemplating Fire

It is the third time in four days that a single raindrop has fallen on my skin, a reminder of why I am here, sitting in the shade of a living ponderosa pine, in the Jemez Mountains in Bandelier National Monument. I am a lookout, a sky watcher, praying for rain in a landscape of dried grass and shriveled flowers. This land is dusty, dry, parched, splitting at the seams, splattered black with ashen trunks and scorched limbs.  I wonder what on earth is providing sustenance for hummingbirds? The air is thick, acrid and stings my lungs with each life giving breath. What movie-set have I stumbled onto? I want rain.  

The ponderosa pine providing my comfort has a laminated 8 1/2 by 11 sign stapled to its bark. The irony of the message stands out like bold letters printed on a huge signboard, “Area Closed” Due to extreme fire danger. All Bandelier trails and backcountry are closed to entry. Effective 8:00 am June24th.”

The morning the sign was posted I hiked to the top of Cerro Grande, making sure people were compliant with the message. They were. People stayed away, keeping the forest safe from accidental ignition. The closure would be lifted when monsoons arrived. Briefly refraining from hiking in this tinderbox landscape was a relatively minor inconvenience compared to the major inconvenience of inadvertently introducing catastrophic fire to an already stressed ecosystem.

In the weeks prior to the the closure, I hiked in steeped walled canyons, along broad mesas, up peaks and across meadows in Bandelier National Monument.  With each twist in the trail and open vista, I became reacquainted with a landscape first introduced to me on a cross-country road trip many years ago. It was back then that I thumbed the pages of a tattered southwest hiking guide and stumbled upon a place called Bandelier National Monument. The hiking sounded good and I was eager to explore.

I was captivated by the landscape of Bandelier on that first visit.  The afternoon of my arrival I hiked out of Frijoles Canyon and roamed the mesa top until I reached the breath of a canyon called Alamo. I sat under a large pinon tree, along the edge of canyon, devouring pine seeds. It was a banner year for pinon seed production. I got my fill. Someday I will return, I mused, my eyes bathed in a palette of sienna, pink, ochre, buckskin, green and blue shading the canyon, sky, mesa and mountains.

In August of 1997, I returned to Bandelier and stayed, my love affair with color, light and beauty continues fourteen years later and strengthens with each step placed upon this land. I share my passion for this sacred ground while giving tours and programs, as an interpretive ranger, to countless people from all over the world.

Over the years, I have observed a changing climate and landscape within Bandelier.  During the first summer of my arrival rain fell and the verdant land became irresistible to those who sip nectar. Broadtailed and black-chinned hummingbirds zipped from blossom to blossom lapping up sweetness. In subsequent years, summers arrived with record-breaking heat and diminished rainfall.

Weather graphs now illustrate the hottest and driest summers on record and winters lacking significant snowfall. Pinon and ponderosa pines fail without moisture. Native bark and twig beetles thrive on the weakened trees eating away what little life is left.  Only pinon skeletons remain, leaving juniper to shoulder the burden of green in a land of terra cotta cliffs.

I grieve the loss of the pines and pinon jays that followed suit.  Intellectually, I know weather patterns cycle, climates change and land rebounds. But this cycle is different, its scope broader, its effect strengthened by the impact of our behavior. I am in-part responsible for the loss of that which I love. This is a lot to shoulder.

I continue to watch the sky. Through the haze of smoke, I see expanding blue.  The threat of rain recedes with the afternoon. I am stationed at the headwaters of Frijoles Creek ready to alert workers in the canyon near Headquarters of precipitation. I take my post seriously.  The Visitor Center and Frijoles Canyon has been closed to the public for three weeks.  Rain has become a threat.

A small storm can drop enough moisture to cause a flash flood. There is nothing to hold back the water. The land above headquarters is charred. There is no vegetation to keep the soil in place. Rainfall will bring logs and mud and ash slurry crashing down Frijoles Creek in the wake of the Las Conchas fire.

On the blustery afternoon of June 26^th. at approximately one o’clock, a tree fell on a powerline near a private ranch in the Jemez Mountains along state road 4 igniting a blaze, exploding into a funnel of wind and flames, blasting upwards and out, rapidly devouring all in its path.

On Sunday, June 26^th, I shared a lazy day with a friend in Santa Fe. At 3 pm we stepped out of the house, our arms laden with sliced watermelon and cold beverages, treats to share at an afternoon party. “Hey I think the Pacheco Canyon fire blew up, the air is so smoky.” It took a few moments to get our bearings and realize this fire was new. This fire was different. My friend exclaimed, “ I think Bandelier is on fire.” “No, I think it is a bit west of the Monument” “Are you sure?  I think we should drive up and get your things.” I live, or should I say lived in the historic district of Frijoles Canyon near Park Headquarters. “No I don’t think we need to drive up. Someone from the Park will call if there is a problem.” Two and a half hours later I got that call. “Have you heard, we are officially evacuated.”  “What?”

That evening some friends and I grabbed a few important things from my cabin. It was not until we were driving out of the Park did I see the gravity of the situation. Orange flames mixed with a black and purple sky. Already bruised I thought. Maybe an hour or two before headquarters is gone. ”This is crazy. Lets get out of here.” It was hard to sleep that night wondering how life would be changed in the morning. Two of my co-workers had already lost their homes that afternoon to the fast and furious fire that would become the largest in New Mexico history. How much of Bandelier would be gone by sunrise?

When all was done, over 20,000 acres of Bandelier’s 33,000 acres were affected by the Las Conchas fire. Some areas scorched to mineral soil and other areas lightly burned. Owing to the heroic efforts of Bandelier’s firefighters, the historic district stands, but not without threat.

Three out of fifteen miles of Frijoles Canyon, not consumed by flames, is now vulnerable to flash floods. A week after the fire ignited a decision was made to close the historic district. Bandelier employees were ousted from their offices and for others, like me, their homes; ousted from the canyon we love. Bridges have been removed, barriers and sand bags have been placed; Headquarters is at the mercy of rain. I sit patiently waiting for rain to return this brown land back to green.

Full length:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mju9oYwI36c&feature=youtu.be

closeup of the vortex:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMJOeVF7eQg

Where Dinosaurs Roamed

Tuesday May 17, 2011

The day before I left Bandelier I happily wore shorts while tackling last minute chores. The following day arrived with the chaotic weather of high altitude spring. I packed my car while shivering in biting wind and swirling snow. Ugh, it is May and I just want to be warm! Determined to find the sun, I pointed my car toward summer. I knew Southeast Utah would be compliant with warmth strong enough to penetrate sandstone.

In Utah, I  hiked through canyons, around arches, fins and up and over huge slabs of red and buff colored sand, cemented hard with time.  I gazed into the eyes of a ram and into the brilliance of paintbrush sparking fire in sage. I hiked until my muscles grew weary and my heart content to be in a place of silence so intense that it became hard to imagine the quality of sound.

 Friends urged me north. “When are you coming? We can’t wait to see you.” “I will be along in a day or two, I just want to do a few more hikes.”   My response was lame, not good enough. Carrie and Paul were persistent.  “You can hike up here.” Our friendship was cemented with the glue of more than three intense years of academic study. We were students of Asian medicine. We spent full days in the classroom, studied and stressed over exams, vacationed together, called each other to say, “Turn on your TV, quick, the Twin Towers are going down in flames.” Our friendship was rock solid.

Each time they called, I told them “just one more hike” and then I would head north. Reluctant to leave the comfort of my tent nestled among pinyons on the sun-drenched mesa, I was “dig my heels in the sand” unwilling to travel north into a latitude of winter. There was one more call. It came as I arrived at Grandview trailhead, “Hey it’s us, we thought maybe you would come up today and surprise us.” There will always be plenty of opportunity for a another red rock hike.  Carrie and Paul beckoned. Their love was hard to resist. I got into the Honda started the ignition and traveled the road north.

They fed me well when I arrived; spinach salad with tomato, onion and avocado, cooked broccoli, sautéed breaded eggplant with spaghetti and marinara, all made fresh, a delight, after a week of simple travel food. We shared stories before a night of dreams. At daybreak, they left for Lander  leaving me behind in the company of swallows.

The latitude kept its promise, I woke to falling snow mixing in a shower of rain.  Now, I sit snug on a leather couch looking out toward red rock hills draped in juniper at Cedar Springs Marina in Flaming Gorge Recreation Area.This boat is cozy, a home complete with an electric fireplace, a  perfect place to wait out a spring storm. 

 The reservoir straddles state lines on a route to nowhere. The marina, tucked in a southern arm stretches down into northeastern Utah. I drove up and over a mountain to get here. Along the way road signs informed of crocodile teeth found in the area, the presence of dinosaur tracks, rock that suggests the presence of oil, marine fossils and of the sea itself. With each mile I journeyed back into geologic time.

Today, alone, I float on top of clear lake water, home to record size trout. I have come here for respite, a time out, to rest my weary body, content to muse about reptilian-like creatures that grew larger than me. I wonder what or whose tracks lay buried under this water that has inched up these canyon walls with the damming of this portion of the Green River. The afternoon drizzle is a good excuse to sit still. Each time the sky begins to clear I think that I should dash out, explore, take pictures and find a trail to hike. I know before the day is through I will do this but for now I contemplate time on a boat.

 

 I have sailed, kayaked, cruised, ran a skiff and paddled canoes, but this watercraft is different. It is not merely transportation. This boat is a nest, a floating home.  Once I was aboard a vessel that carried lots of gear and biologists. The kind of boat where you sleep in a bare bones berth queasy from ocean swells and then at dawn you are asked to gather your things. Unwittingly, before you are truly awake your pile of gear is dumped into a zodiac, where it lays besides your feet as a stiff breeze rudely wakes you into the reality of life on a windswept barren island in the Gulf of Alaska, because that is where you are headed. The kind of place where your tent can barely withstand gale force winds as you cling each night to your survival suit for a pillow hoping no tsunami will find it’s way to your new beach-front property. Why would anyone endure such circumstance? To study storm petrels. Petrels are a small sea bird that spends their entire day feeding at sea on small fish. In the evening they return to land to incubate or feed their young.

In March 1989, I was finishing up my last few months as an environmental educator at a center in New Jersey when I heard the news that the Exxon Valdez split its hull, hemorrhaging gallons of crude oil into pristine Prince William Sound. Black death spread for miles with the tide suffocating the life out of the northern sea.  I did not understand how this event would impact my life. Just weeks after the spill, I accepted a position with the Marine Maritime Refuge in Homer, Alaska.  I headed north to montitor seabirds in Katchemak Bay and on the Barren Islands. The spill changed the focus of my work.

The petrels were vulnerable. They fed far out at sea increasing the likelihood of ingesting species coated with crude oil. Oil in their bellies and oily feathers would mean death to the petrels. But the Barren Islands were so far from Prince William Sound, surely these birds would be okay.

After setting up camp on East Amatuli I walked the shoreline idly dragging a piece of driftwood. What I saw horrified. Oil rose in the sand where the driftwood scraped the surface of the beach. If the oil reached the island it surely reached the petrel’s feeding grounds. How could we know for sure?

My study partner and I set out to find the petrel burrows. We would collect the stomach contents of the birds. We took turns reaching into the burrows in the early morning before the birds returned to sea to feed. We would gently feel for eggs or an adult. We would grasp the adult firmly in our hands and quickly pull it from the burrow poised and ready to collect the stomach contents as the bird regurgitated in defense. Agitated, the petrel would hurl an oily bright orange fishy smelling liquid into a strategically placed plastic bag. Labeled and sealed these bags were sent off be checked for oil to be used as evidence in a government lawsuit against Exxon. This proved to be odd but gratifying work. After two weeks on the island I welcomed the return of the boat that made me want to puke.

Carrie likened her boat to a floating hotel room. Not quite. When I think of a floating hotel I think cruise ship. No, this boat is definitely a small and cozy, home away from home, moored not far, by way of modern travel, from where oil oozes deep in the earth and dinosaurs roamed.

Bidding 2010 a Sweet Farewell

 The thrill of Autumn was a trip to Hawaii.  The islands  offered stunning beaches, clear water, lava rock (lots!) and an abundance of papayas.

Papayas at Hilo Market

Papayas became my favorite island indulgence. My quest for this fruit became an obsession. I ate papaya for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Aside from "Braking for Papaya," at every local fruit stand, snorkeling was a favorite activity. I grew up in New Jersey where I spent many blistering summer days along the coast. Splashing in salt water is familiar but sucking air through a plastic tube is weird, maybe even a bit scary. Body surfing is what you do in Jersey, not snorkeling.

The first couple times in the water with mask and breathing tube made me a bit nervous. Even though I know how to swim, the ocean and its depth prompts an irrational fear of being dragged out to sea and drowned. This fear, however, does not keep me out of the water and it certainly did not keep me from snorkeling.

Mostly, I snorkeled along shallow reefs observing an extraordinary array of shapes and colors belonging to fish. If you seek amazement stick your head underwater. I prefered to snorkel at a place called Two-Step, named for the stair like formation of lava that allowed snorkelers to climb in and out of the sea. Spinner dolphins like to rest in this area at night before spending their day near Captain Cook Monument.

No dolphins materialized during my first visit to Two-Step. Therefore, one visit to Two Step would not be enough. On my second visit, shortly after staking claim to an area of lava rock large enough to place my gear, I saw a large group of dolphins swimming offshore. The distance between the dolphins and me was beyond my comfort zone. I settled on the rough black rock, a bit disappointed, and pulled out some lunch and began to eat. After awhile I noticed a small group, perhaps five or so swimmers, in the area where the dolphins had been seen. Maybe I could do it, swim that far into the sea.


With snorkel and mask adjusted I slid into the ocean and began to swim, popping my head out of the water periodically to locate the other snorkelers who were also in quest of dolphins. Along the way, colors sparkled on the backs of fish as sunlight penetrated the reef.

Without warning the shelf gave way, I was far from the two tiered rock that offered an easy to return to my unfinished lunch. As hard as I tried I could not see the bottom.  As the water deepened  my heart rate quickened and I kicked harder and faster to match the adrenaline surging through my limbs. I popped my head out of the water looking for the swimmers. They looked like dots on the watery horizon.  I started to question what I was doing. A voice in my head ranted, "you are too far from shore, you should not be out here" and  then in the stillness of my gray blue world shapes emerged from below.  Disoriented, I stared deeper into my underwater world.  Gray forms morphed into dolphins. I saw a mother and her child and others. I swam faster, pumped my fins furiously to stay in sync to what appeared to be a dream, until suddenly, dolphins surrounded me. I swam close enough to touch the gray sleek bodies that effortlessly moved beside me. I did it. I left the safety of the land and entered the domain of dolphins.  

Two days later I looked into the massive mouths of manta rays as they rolled over exposing their underbellies in a quest to gulp down plankton. These creatures are massive and swim with grace. My eyes, as wide as a child’s on Santa’s lap, watched the manta’s feed until my skin chilled in the night. 

The islands are abundant with gifts. While hiking under the thick canopy of Kauai’s Napali Coast, I bent over to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from tree growing along the trail. I split the fruit open and immediately smelled the fragrance of Kauai. The sweetness of guava exploded on my tongue. Reaching for another, I knew I could live here; content to bear witness to water caressing the ample land.

Napali Coast, Kauai

  

I bought an ukulele in Hawaii. I have been practicing chords as the days grow short into winter. With each strum I can taste coconut, papaya and guava and see electric blue, flashy red, bright orange, yellow and iridescent green sunlight, shimmering on the backs of fish.

I am thankful for my travels and equally grateful to spend time in northern New Mexico. These past weeks have been a grand time for late night adventure. The other night I awoke in early morning dressed for cold and stumbled groggy into darkness with a pocket full of wishes, eager to see Geminids streaking through the pitch-black New Mexico sky. That was just days before a fresh foot of snow surprised us all in this La Nina winter. Recently I stood witness, in the silence of Frijoles Canyon, as the December full moon disappeared in shadow on solstice. Earlier that evening I snowshoed in the same full moonlight.

2010 has given me many gifts, the greatest being gratitude for the here and now. I never lose sight of the richness and beauty that each day offers. I am thankful for it all.

North Shore -Oahu

     

      

California Dreaming

April 17 – May 5
My plan was to spend a week visiting my friend Vickie, explore wine country and the coast before turning the car towards Santa Fe. Ever since the conception of this trip I felt compelled to be in the presence of the sea and redwood forest. Two untimely auto accidents resulting in a five-month delay could not, would not, prevent a desire so strong and a pull so convincing, to be here. Finally I had arrived, without reservation, but in celebration of each mile and minute.

Vickie had plans to attend a dinner dance at the Sausalito Yacht Club that evening and invited me to tag along. Why not? After all I had come here to spend time with Vickie and I would be near the water. The “yacht” turned out to be funky old barge decorated by Christmas lights, nets and lots of pictures of captains and such. After dinner the band set up and began to play, the dancing started. I had eaten my fill, made lots of small talk but did not feel compelled to dance, at least not yet. The water beckoned. I made my way through the crowd out onto the bow. The evening air felt cool on my warm desert-brown skin. Finally after months I was at the coast. Why was the pull to be here so strong? Why did it take so long?

A woman with a smile as wide and inviting as the Cheshire cat approached. She said she lived in Sonoma County and often came to these dances with her friends. In turn I told her how serendipity bought me here tonight and of my desire to explore the area. In just that moment on a barge in Sausalito I had met my tour guide for the next two weeks. Janine told me she had taken several extended road trips in the past few years exploring the American west. She had traveled with family or friends and was surprised to learn that I was doing it solo. I explained that the purpose of my trip was both to enjoy the beauty of the landscape while completely immersing myself in the present. “It has been a challenging year and this is my way of finding my center.”

The trip provided time for introspection. I was on the road to discover where my path would next lead. I had just received a job offer from a park in northeastern Washington state and had to decide in the next few days whether to return home to New Mexico or fly the coop. I pondered how my life would be affected by my decision. I realize there are never wrong answers, but only choices, each leading down a different path. Perhaps all paths converge. More than likely I am hapless in my belief that I can control my destiny. Maybe I am taking life and all my decision making too seriously? Whatever the truth, I still had to make a decision about the job offer.

I did make a decision about the job. After talking at length to my prospective boss I decided his offer sounded perfect. He expected my decision the following morning. I had time to mull things over. That evening I decided to go to Washington. I would call first thing in the morning. Morning came and I was perplexed. A voice deep inside said,” Stay put.” But why? The voice was clear, “Go back to New Mexico.” I did not understand. I made the call. To the surprise of both my prospective employer and myself I declined the offer. He was startled, “You would be perfect for the position.” I thought so too. But I trusted something so deep in side that I can only know it as truth.

With my course charted, I began to play. Armstrong Woods, Jenner Beach, Point Reyes, Muir Woods, Mount Tamalpais, Stinson Beach, Sugarloaf Ridge, Bodega Bay, Shell Beach, kayaking on the Russian River, wine tasting. I immersed myself in tall trees, salt water, and cabernet, cleansing my mind of one year's worth of accumulated clutter and nonsensical chatter. I felt light, free and present. I found a little bit of heaven in the headlands at Mendocino watching oystercatchers flutter above their claimed rock as waves splashed an imaginary threat. There were flowers, clouds, sunshine, rainbows and Janine's winsome smile to brighten each moment tumbling like the waves into the next.

May 7  Home
There is an abalone shell adorning the mantle in my cabin. It serves as a touchstone reminding me that all is perfect. It was plucked from the sea during my odyssey to the California coast. I no longer question the timing of my walkabout. My journey taught me to trust. I have come to embrace what is presented even when I don’t understand 'why' or 'how'.  My trust led me to joy. A joy that was always present but needed dusting off.  Through the grace of the sea, mountains and desert I have been reminded to embrace the Now.

Leaving Death Valley/Sequoia Kings Canyon

April 15 - 16

Leaving Death Valley
It was another beautiful morning. I was early to rise with anticipation of what this day would offer. I wanted to cover a fair amount of miles, set up my next camp in daylight and  still be able to play on the sand dunes in Death Valley this morning. I wanted it all and why not? The dunes were magnificent in the early morning light. I was not a stranger to large amounts of sand piled high in one spot. I grew up on the east coast and loved to play at the beach whenever possible even if that meant sitting in traffic to and from the coast on any given weekend day in summer. The hot and sticky drives on humid days were worth their weight in sand, the sand lining my ear canals, the sand under my nails, between my toes, stuck to my eyelids, crunching between my teeth and matted to my scalp. Yes, there is nothing like a day at the beach. But this was different. For one thing it was spring and there was little traffic and I was a very long way from the coast.

 The day promised to be hot but the morning air was still comfortable as I made my way out onto the sprawling dunes. Light and shadow allowed contours large and small to be visible in a mosaic of patterns sculpted by wind. The sand between my toes was soft and I really did not mind if it tagged along on my journey to the Sierras. As I marched or perhaps sauntered in the softness of curved sand I glanced back from time to time to see how far I had traveled. It is the luxury of sand dunes to leave an obvious route creating an ease in knowing from where you had come. Footsteps winding to and fro, up and down and sometimes around an occasional shrub that managed to get a foothold on life in this wacky environment. Mine were not the only tracks in the sand. There were trails of tiny feet and tails and others still in the shape of a repeating letter s created by a creature having no feet at all. Each of us, parading in this uncommon land with the common desire to stay whole in the night, feed our bellies and move on. Unlike the snakes and smallest mammals, I took photographs of flowers blooming lovely in this harsh but wildly beautiful landscape. My friends, who left these tracks, may beg to differ with my concept of harsh, perhaps they would argue that the humid, densely populated environment of my youth, qualifies, as harsh.

Kern River Valley
I drove into the unknown ready for any surprise that lay around the bend. The road out of  Death Valley led to desolate highway before winding up past some Joshua Trees eventually gaining enough elevation to cool the air and grow pines. As quick as I went up, I went down into the green winding hills along the Kern River. I jammed on the brakes when I saw the sign for the Audubon Center. It would be a good opportunity to stretch my legs and indulge in the sounds and pleasures of spring birdsong. I strolled for only a short time along the path before witnessing species in their mating plumage. I was alone on the trail with the exception of one other binocular clad individual. I offered up pleasantries as we passed along route and he offered the truth in return, “ Every day that is spent birding is a good day” and so I smiled knowing that I belonged to a fraternity of nerds.

Sequoia Kings Canyon
When making my excursion back to Santa Fe a week or so earlier I ditched my snowshoes. A taste of spring left little desire to be bundled up in winter clothing. Anywhere there might be the possibility of cold nights or days seemed daunting. This of course was irrational, as I had not spent one uncomfortable night in my tent, even when temperatures dipped into the twenties. I had seen an extended forecast for Sequoia Kings Canyon and knew it would not be flip-flop weather, yet the lure of the Park was irresistible.

I would enter the Park from the south entrance near Three Rivers and felt comfort in the fact that I would be able to sleep below three thousand feet. It was sunny and warm in the valley. I drove along a road lined with orange groves. The scent in the air was ridiculously sweet and intoxicating. Pushing hard against a desire to stop the car, get out and be held captive by citrus blossoms, I reluctantly kept my foot pressed upon the accelerator pedal. I was almost to the Park entrance. In the distance I could see the mountains. The scenery was lovelier with each mile. I traveled through roadsides blanketed with oaks and flowers. When I arrived at the Park, the Visitor Use Assistant, a.k.a. fee collector, noticed my Bandelier National Monument parking sticker and asked if I was “Park Service”. “Yes.” Apparently thrilled by another “parkie” she suggested which campground I might enjoy and offered up sights not top be missed. I took her advice on both and was not disappointed. I doubt there is anything in Sequoia Kings Canyon that could disappoint.

The campground was  green and damp from earlier rain. As soon as I exited my car I encountered a notice to immediately put all food and fragrant items in the supplied bear box. I complied not wishing to have my car doors and windows peeled away by some marauding black bear with an acquired taste for human food. After stuffing myself and then the bear box with food I sauntered in the last light of the day. The trail followed an endorphin-laden creek rushing, tumbling, gushing and swerving around rocks and shore. The water was clear and cold. The bank decorated with flowers. It was spring and I was in the foothills of the Sierras.

April 16
 I awoke with great anticipation and a heart filled with joy. I broke camp early, eager to see large trees gracing the backs of mountains. The air was cool and grew cooler as I drove higher in elevation. It did not take long before I reached snow and lots of it! The sight made me especially grateful for my snow free campsite. The snow was deep! I know this from the direct experience of post holing along the fair weather trails leading to some of the most magnificent forms of life to adorn the planet. There they were, the sequoias, surrounding me, and towering above. I was alone with the trees. I dashed through the forest as best I could, stumbling in snow, with admiration for the age and stature of giants.

I drove from grove to grove chilled and delighted. I pulled into a parking area that led to some of the largest trees. I walked across the parking lot to take some pictures. The memory card filled with the first click of the shutter. I had another card and began to run back to the car to find it. A couple just arriving yelled out “are you running to stay warm?” I turned and smiled, “ No, I am running because I can’t contain my enthusiasm for all this beauty.” I was giddy, absolutely giddy with delight. Before driving out of the Park I explored everywhere that the early season would allow.

I was saddened to leave the beauty of the trees but I had many more miles to travel before resting my head upon a soft pillow in Napa. I wound down out of the mountains from the northern entrance and once again began to smell citrus blossoms. This time I hit my brakes coming to a halt in front of a fruit stand where a burst of  orange sugar collided with my tongue. These were the biggest and sweetest oranges I had ever tasted. These oranges were a remedy to my camp food cuisine.

I  bought very little in the way of souvenirs or luxury items on my sojourn but now I eagerly reached for my wallet grabbed for cash and happily received a jumbo bag of fruit that would provide many happy California memories. A voice disturbing my reverie was directed my way. A gentleman standing beside me, wanting to make conversation asked where I was from. “Santa Fe.”  He lit up hearing  my response and told me about is love for the “City Different.” Once upon a time he had been a truck driver and spent many happy hours in the city of adobe, strung with ristras and bathed in blue skies. I understood his fondness for my home. Santa Fe is a city like no other but I was currently fixated on fruit not mariachi bands. I sampled a plump raisin and immediately reached for more money. “ I will take a bag please.” Sweet, plump organic raisins, yum! Having more interest in fruit than conversation my kindred Santa Fean spirit got into his car and drove away. “Aw, he is just lonely since his wife died, comes hanging around here almost every day.”

“Oh”, I said to the tall brown skinned man adorning a large straw hat, cowboy boots and turquoise bracelet, who just pocketed my allowance. Judging from the looks of that bracelet I had a hunch the fruit vendor had also spent some time in New Mexico. “You want a beer?” “What?” “A beer, don’t tell me you don’t drink.” I had heard correctly, the man I would come to know as Frank had just offered me a beer. I looked at my watch, it was just after noon and I had not eaten much since traveling down from the snow-clad mountains. “ I have to drive.” “I am heading to Napa.” “ One beer won’t hurt you, you will be in Napa by dinner time.” “ Sure, thanks.” “Let me just put the fruit in the car.”

When I returned to the fruit stand I did not see Frank. “Over here,” he hollered. Frank was squatting in the shade under an old wooden stand behind his truck. I drank my midday meal squatting in the shade beside him. He told me how he had met his wife, and how he hoped his son might eventually marry the sweet young woman that lived with her mother in Albuquerque. He told me the story of how he acquired his New Mexican bracelet. I listened and smiled. I don’t normally stop on the side of the road to drink beer with strangers, but by the time I had taken my last sip, I was hard pressed to call Frank a stranger. Breaking bread together, or in this case fruit and beer, is what makes the world go round.

Onward to Death Valley

April 12  - though am April 15
Death Valley

The feeling here is vastly different from the Grand Canyon. The pastels and depths of the Canyon draw you in, into the womb from where all life emerges. Here in this land of basin and range you are spit out whole, full grown, tough as the rock under your feet, yet a bit fragile like the blossoms beside your boot.

I spent three days exploring this landscape, sliding down sand dunes, running my hands over salt crystal formations and slinking up, over and around rock. With the days, hours and minutes my skin began to take on the colors of the hills. Skin and stone, flesh and matter, blending brown, somewhere below the level of the sea.

Astound, astonish or if forced to use a phrase, “take my breath away” would best describe my recent travels to Death Valley. I had no preconceived notion of this landscape with exception of sun baked. And yes it was a little bit warm, and sometimes a little bit chilly, but mostly it was just right.  Temperature was dictated by whether I was above or below sea level, enveloped within winding rock walls or negotiating high elevation scoliotic ridge tops.

Death Valley is big, varied and delightful.  Rock hard sienna, ochre, umber, white, black and brown splash bold in texture and wildness across a landscape steeped in a history of gold, copper, mineral salts, and the ability to amaze. My timing to the region was near perfect. This promises to be a good wildflower year and the blooms had just begun. There were fields of gold composites, mixed with miniature petals of blue, purple, pink, and white accenting hillsides and low lands. There was enough color to make you giddy, dance, sing and be grateful to be in this world.

I struck up a conversation with a custodian who had just finished his morning rounds of cleaning the toilet at the Gold Canyon trailhead. Frank Graves was one of those Park Service employees who had found a place he liked and stayed a long time. Frank had better stories and knowledge of Death Valley than many Park Ranger Interpreters that come and go with the season.  Frank took off his rubber gloves, tossed them aside and rustled around in his truck to find his park map. He enthusiastically showed me how to get to all the most remarkable places in his opinion.  Then Frank folded up his map and asked if I am a Star Wars fan?  "Uh, yeah."  I figured yes was answer Frank preferred to hear. Frank said, “Well then turn around and look over there”.  He pointed to the trailhead were I had began a hike some hours before.  He described a scene with Luke Skywalker and R2D2 that had been filmed at this very location and asked if I remembered it? I did not dare mention that I once sat through the second Star Wars film for the second time and only half way through realized that I had seen it a first time. Me and Frank, Luke and R2D2 traveling through time and space, rock and flowers.

Lake Mead
My nights in Death Valley were very comfortable and restful quite unlike my previous stop over at Lake Mead. Quiet hours in most campgrounds don’t start until 10:00 pm.  On most nights I have already gotten in a few hours of sleep before curfew, my night at Lake Mead was no exception.

The neighboring RV was already generating annoying sounds that for sanity's sake I thought best to imagine as a purring cat, a very large cat,  as I slipped into my tent for the evening. I read for a bit and then weary eyed I shut off the lantern and rolled over into dreamland.

I heard something rustling outside my tent. Groggy and semi torpid I forced myself to listen. Was I dreaming?  Whoever made the sound was small. I pondered my location. Maybe it is just a lizard?  After my less than complete inventory of  animals inhabiting Lake Mead I drifted back to sleep.  Minutes later I awoke to rustling. This lizard needs to find another campsite.

Becoming more alert I remembered the lizard that kerplunked from the window ledge onto my leg while asleep in my cabin at home. My body sprung alert like a bolt of lightening upon impact. I was not thinking lizard.  I  immediately recalled a co-worker’s story of a mouse falling through the lattillas of her ceiling. Flying mice are one of my secret animal fears.  My co-worker recounted how the mouse had landed on her head and tiny delicate feet scurried across her face. Gross! Somehow sleeping with a lizard trumps a mouse. Don’t ask me why? I have no rational explanation.  With the aid of a flashlight I frantically searched and swiftly grabbed the intruder and promptly put the offender outdoors. Eventually my heart rate returned to normal and I was able to return to sleep.

I rolled onto by stomach and propped myself up on my elbows and listened. The sound came from my right.   Quickly, I lifted up clothes, books, and  my pillow. Nothing, I found nothing. Ugh, I am too tired for this nonsense. I considered going back to sleep. Yea right ! I imagined a herd of lizards or cockroaches marching across my face.

 Perhaps if opened the tent door whatever was plaguing my imagination would just get up and leave on its own accord.  I put on my headlamp, unzipped door and waited. I had to keep a sharp eye on the door to make certain no stealthy intruders would enter before my unwanted guest left. I waited and watched. This is ridiculous I could be sleeping...  just then a dark shape caught my attention as it climbed up and over the tent door. I swung my dimming light in the direction of my mystery guest just in time too see the back end of a mouse run full speed into the night. A mouse?! How could a mouse have gotten into my tent?  Ah, I remembered, in my haste, I accidentally left the tent door open when taking a walk earlier in the evening. With the mystery and problem solved I could rest. Comfy and cozy I drifted back to sleep.

A small sound woke me from my slumber. Maybe the mouse is hanging around the tent?  I listened. The sound was coming from inside. No way!  Again I opened the door and waited.  A shadowy figure slipped up, over and out the door. Another mouse! This seemed a bit ridiculous. But at least now it was over. It was time for sleep.

Again I awoke to rustling. Maybe I have been on the road too long and I  am imagining ghouls in the shape of mice? Maybe this is payback for all the mice I trapped in my cabin last fall. Again I opened the tent door and within moments watched a mouse scurry inches from my face, climb up, over and out the door. Please no more…. I drifted to sleep thinking about my friend Mike, a wildland firefighter, who upon breaking camp after ten days found a mouse squished under his sleeping pad. At the time I thought to myself only a boy would roll onto a mouse and sleep on it for a week. Tonight I feel rather uncertain about gender implication and question what I might find when breaking camp come morning. Ah sweet dreams, Theresa.

Canyons

4/3/10 – 4/11/10

It seems like forever since I left Tucson.  Yet it was   only week ago that I was hiking up Wasson Peak in Saguaro National Monument enjoying the profusion of California poppies blanketing the hillside.

After my trek up Wasson Peak, I joined Tina and her grandson Pancho for a walk around the Desert Museum. Pancho is a sweet, kind and inquisitive six year old. We had a great  time watching hummingbirds, snakes, bugs, bobcats, and mountain lions.  His joy in observing the animals was contagious. Thanks Pancho. That evening Tina cooked a wonderful meal. The next day I had to make an unanticipated trip back to Santa Fe to take care of some business.

 I made the best of my back track. A hike in the mountains and a soak at Ten Thousand Waves soothed the miles of travel.  The most amusing part of my journey home came when filling up my gas tank at a station along I25.   An Iowa farmer at the next pump sized up my Honda Fit and said, “I bet you get good gas mileage.” Yes, I do. And then without missing a beat he asked, “You a New Mexico kid?” I smiled wide and replied without missing a beat, “Yes.”  I guess he did not hear  “Bruce Sprinsteen” blaring from the satellite radio when I pulled up. New Mexico kid?  "Kid"?  Heck no, I am a “Jersey Girl”!!!

I have since submersed myself in canyons,  Canyon de Chelly and the Grand Canyon to be specific. Canyon de Chelly National Monument is located on the Navajo nation in northwest Arizona. It is a fairly unique Park Service unit in that some Navajo families still reside in the canyon grazing their sheep. In addition to Navajo culture, ancestral Pueblo people once made their homes in the cliffs and farmed the canyon bottom. The presence and history of native culture in a stunning landscape is what Canyon de Chelly is all about. On my walk to White House Ruins (Ancestral Pueblo cliff dwellings) I met a young Navajo artist who painted images on pieces of local sandstone. He told me his grandmother still lives in the canyon and runs a Tracking School. He told me people from all over, he specifically mentioned New York, sign up to attend classes and walk barefoot in the sandy washes throughout canyon bottom tracking animals. I asked if he had had learned this skill from his grandmother. He replied, “No, I don’t want to get thorns stuck in my feet.”  I suppose that pleasure is reserved for New Yorkers. I am glad I come from the other side of the river….

I met many other interesting people while exploring. Most notable was Gilbert Jumbo, a local Navajo man, who invited himself into my campsite to take pictures of trees. Gilbert is a painter who attended art school in Santa Fe. He uses the pictures he takes at the canyon for inspiration for his work. I was not sure what was different about "my trees" compared to all the other cottonwoods in the campground but my trees led Gilbert to me. We spoke for quite some time. Gilbert told me that he taught at a private school in Maryland for six months. I asked how he liked that? He replied, “The food is so different out there.” “They eat so much sea food.”  He had a relative send him out some green chili stew and fry bread mix. Who could blame him?

After explorations and contemplations in Canyon de Chelly I made my way west through the Navajo and Hopi Reservations to the Grand Canyon. Like Canyon De Chelly the Grand Canyon also has a rich cultural history. But the experience of place is vastly different.  The Grand Canyon draws you seductively to her edge and beckons you to look at her beauty and when you do, something happens. For a moment you feel strange and then you realize you are looking into the soul of all humanity, all that ever was and all that will ever be. You try to grasp what is happening. You can’t. You take a photograph and exclaim of beauty and then you step back forever changed. That my friend, is the Grand Canyon.

I have spent the past several days hiking in the Canyon. Today I saw California Condors flying above the rim as I began my hike on the Bright Angel. Three condors soaring on the thermals with ease. Magnificent. If only I could hike the depths of this canyon with such ease. The people most graced with ease while hiking in the Grand Canyon were the children. They have no preconceived notion of what the hike will be like. They are not worried about whether it will be too steep, too long, too difficult or too anything that removes them from the present. Nor are the children trying to prove anything. The kids, alert to their surroundings, are experiencing the joy in nature.

While walking up the trail I passed a father holding his young son’s hand, slowly leading him up the switchbacks. God bless the father for his patience, and cheers to the boy who did not complain about  the steepness or heat. Ahead on the trail I came upon the boy’s older sister who was maybe seven. She was waving a stick in her hand like a magic wand commanding all the rock to turn to candy.  Rock candy, how marvelous, enough to satisfy the biggest sweet tooth!  And marvel I did at all the sweetness around me exhibited in the song of a bird, the wisp of a cloud, the color of stone, and in the delight of hikers. This is place of old stone, a deep gash into the heart of earth, immense in size, the envy of every artist’s palette,  it is a place for all humanity to open their hearts to the wonder of all that is, while experiencing all the grace that there could ever be.  It is a grand canyon.