Joys of June

Fleeting moments of summer-spring, we seek eagerly

Walks in woods walked before yet new again.

Aspens white glowing gold in Setting sun
And rising moon
Reflecting
On reflections
And sunny faced grumpy old men.
Briefly here
Then gone, in a flutter of butterfly’s wings
The joys of June.

Of Bridges and Bears Ears

Water, wind, rock and sand – carving, looping, curving, intertwining, sculpting bridges and canyons.

We move over, under and through – through narrow or gaping openings, though rock doorways, and through time.

Our friends Cornelia and Steffen, and their camping gear, traveled many miles from Germany to meet us.

We camp and explore in the greater area of the Bears Ears National Monument – an ancient timeless place, thought protected but now threatened.

Our friends are natural desert rats, leaping into the adventure with curiosity and zest. Soon they can discern constructed stone walls from natural rock faces. And spot hidden ancestral puebloan markings among cracks on shadowy cliffs.

Another day, we descend to the base of enormous Sipapu Bridge – 220 feet high and spanning 268 feet.

From the canyon rim, we watch turkey vultures’ distant swirls. As they draw closer, black specks take form. Above us, it seems the swoosh of their wings is the sound of the setting sun.

Wearing backpacks, on foot under sun and stars, Dave and I move deeper through the desert canyons. We want to know these places seemingly so far from home, yet once home to people of the past.

We linger days among canyon and cliffs, sweating in midday heat, and slumbering in night’s coolth.

Our discoveries of secret hidden ruins seemed like the world’s first. We ponder riddles of how they were built so high on precipitous cliffs.

There are memories of the past in hand and footprints marking walls, rocks touched till they wore smooth, broken sherds and flakes from tools.

We admire detail and craftsmanship – openings that may be door or window each adorned in a different way.

We revel in simplicity of landscape and our daily life. Away from bothersome beeps, only birdsong, insect buzzes or owl hoots call our attention, though we itch from no-see-ums, bothersome biters.

There is realness and presence in the heat of the day. It is bright, harsh, and unremitting, until a tall rock or tree lends its welcome cooling shadow.

When in rare places, water seeps or springs from canyon walls, we rejoice in moist magical greenness. Precious jewels nestled within dry desert red.

We celebrate scarce desert pools. Singular in their unlikeliness, they bring life, bees and butterflies.

Desert creatures – snakes and lizards move lazily still waking from their winter spell.

Spring has so many meanings in the desert – a spring of water, spring bringing new growth, spring in our steps and that of the deer, mormon tea in flower and bright yellow holly in bloom.

As comb approaches canyon, life giving water becomes more plentiful, and wall art abounds. Our walking with daypacks is easier too.

When its time to turn for home, we pause at the iconic Fisher Towers. We watch the ever changing light and the passing of day to night.

Of Comb and Canyon

Two years passed since our last desert encounter, yet our fourth meeting in this land of comb and canyon feels fresh as the first. Here boundaries between natural and manmade blur. Cut by water, worn by wind, canyon corridors provide for people movement too. Sand solidified, crumbled, muddied, hardened, cracked, returns to sand, leaving fanciful formations. Side canyons beckon scrambles over freshly fallen rock. We sense geologic motion, gain grand perspectives. From our camp beneath tall ponderosa pines, sunrise dawns beyond rock spires, coloring sky. Another form of sun, etched on rock wall. We try to understand on our terms, but what were theirs, mysterious people past, people of the ground, and of the place. Beyond the canyons, stretch expansive sagebrush meadows with moody, moving spring skies of gray greens and blues. Evidence of ancestors draw us back into the folds and wrinkles of these part solid sand dunes. We look in at impossibly perched places looking out over centuries. Weathered and worn, stone becomes shelter, protects from wind and rain. Where have we been, where are we going? We look, and know we go where others went so many years before. Through trough and over crest, they traveled then, we travel now. From high, we follow spreads of wrinkles and waves, a land map of rock, to be read like ancient patterns inscribed on cave walls.

Dark Canyon Wilderness

Dark Canyon Wilderness stretches expansively. It drops you deep. Twisting and turning, the canyons peel away layers of human hecticness. They open and reveal that primal place where a single note resounds like a symphony.img_1387
Moving through space, this is a journey in time. Descending from the mesa tops, footsteps touch rock shelves holding memories of their ages. From high on Cedar Mesa sandstone down to layered limestone of the canyon floor, colors of compacted grains of sand or frenetic forms of frozen corral beds speak to me in different tongues.img_1432
Remote and seldom visited by people, this canyon wilderness offers close company to me. It is alive with other creatures. Tracks criss-cross the sandy trail; big hoof prints, tiny paw prints, delicate claws. I smell a deep musky animal scent among the aromatic sage. In the quiet, a distant rockfall booms, perhaps bighorn sheep on the cliff walls. Later I hear a gentle shudder of hoofs pushing off from the ground – a few deer pronging across the landscape.img_1492
Home to the animals, it is still a different environment to me. I seek water and shelter along my walk. And in this desert, any certainty I have about the presence of water is its uncertainty. In upper Woodenshoe Canyon, a wide sand and cobble creek bed flows dry, though intermittent thickets of willow, reed and grasses tell of water just below. Further downcanyon, in the layered shale and limestone bedding, small still pools appear. Though seemingly dry, the desert rock can be a reservoir for water. I watch the cliff walls carefully until a string of verdant green leaves and dark streaks speak of a flowing seep. I share it with a tiny brown and red spotty frog. Drips from ledges and mosses trickle into my collecting vessels placed below.img_1449
Making camp is a ritual of place finding and place making. The first night, a mounded cedar mesa sandstone formation beckons. With rolling rocks flat enough to perch on, it offers broad vistas to the ridges and mesas of my canyon home. I choose a sandy bed next to a protective warm rock face below, and run up and down the rock to welcome first the stars and then the morning light, watching colors change in the sky.img_1433
My second night, I camp at the confluence in a stand of Juniper where others have stayed before. As my fire turns to embers, I feel the first wet drops of the night. Not long after, rain is pounding down on my tent, the sky alive with loud thunder and vivid lightening. I think it rains all night. When I climb out my tent by first light there is no longer water falling from the sky, but it glistens brightly on the spiny needles, shiny rocks and mud red earth around me.img_1406
I wander out and up. As I climb higher, the sound of gurgling, trickling, running water seems to surround me. I search for the source and see the once dry river bed alive with flowing red liquid. I witness the miracle of water in the desert. img_1407
I linger to allow my tent to dry and engage in the changes in life on this land. And then I resume my journey. For the moment, the landscape of large ponderosa pines with their red brown striated bark, bushy green needles and big beautiful presence is above me. My landscape is that of juniper and pinyon flats, to me remniscent of the African savannah with its low acacia trees. The yellow-white puffy blooms of rabbitbrush and sagebrush taller than my head, illuminate the deep green leafed, brown-earthed landscape.img_1484
At first in Dark Canyon, my landscape was bordered by bold red topped mesas with slopes clad in evergreen. As I move upcanyon, the more arid landscape emerges in raw forms of rock castles, bold buttresses, slender spires, towers, arches, and alcoves. They are not only myriads of forms, but rainbows of colors including purple, maroon, crimson, orange, cream, ochre, yellow, buff and peach. The rock landscape is undulating and punctuated. I see exclamation points, deep holes of periods, and laughing commas in the landscape.img_1456
I am becoming more at one with my surrounds. I feel leaves fluttering as they cling and let go of their branch hold, dancing to the canyon floor, playing with the wind. They crackle as I step on them. I pick up a faded yellow-brown sprig and tuck it into my pack straps, I want to be part of this leafy place too. A bird nonchalantly flies by and settles on a small tree just in front of me. At night, red bunny eyes look at me curiously in the dark, as I at him.img_1436
It’s the season of falling leaves when days and nights are equal. Aware that the earth wears shades of gray, I thrill as my body’s senses engage anew. This shimmering sky of wonder is like a fireworks display suspended in time, and a path to see beyond. Stars cycling describe earth turning. I see lit cliffs from a rising moon and dark hillsides in its shadow. And somehow, where edge of earth meets sky, it always seems a little brighter. Animals greet night too, for some it’s time to go out. Coyote calls as the first star twinkles in the just dark enough sky. Later deep in the night there are more howls and calls, and I think I hear a delicate elk cry.

A shooting star on an impossible mission blazes by, and then another and another light the sky. One comes so close I hear the whoosh. Where are they going so quickly? And how many more fly silently by, unseen?img_1437
An owl hoots just before the morning light. And the sun rises to birdsong. I read changing light magic on the mesas.img_1440
Water is a gift. Camping close to a quiet spring, I feel at home with the birds, crickets and frogs who also choose this place. The water is clear and cool nestled against a stepped limestone edge on one side and waving willows on the other. It feels good to rest in the present moment.

With pack on back, I’m on the move again. As I approach the intersection of Dark and Peavine canyons, a sturdy arch catches my eye. Beyond, more exotic forms sculpted in red-colored rock lure me to continue further up Dark Canyon. While the trail was a double track here, filled with water from recent rains it appeared as a creek.img_1457
This place holds human-made history, an old cabin, barn, a broken cart. But I prefer the solitude of nearby Horse Pasture Canyon. The intimate space is edged with brilliantly painted rock walls defining a grassy meadow. I set up camp on the cusp of the flats, at the base of a bent oak covered hillside. img_1475
It’s a pretty scene with the fascinating rock formations and subtle hues of browns, rusts and golds in the brush. I enjoyed the play among curvaceous branches, delicate leaves and firm rock.img_1506
Morning explorations yield the discovery of a narrow rock bridge followed by a climb into a large high alcove. Nestled way back is a tiny granary. As I gaze over the landscape from the ledge, I realize that the granary is fully in view from my tent – only I’d considered it a small rounded rock! How much more there is than we ever know.img_1509
In time, this eager outward exploration turns inward. I feel urging home. I return to the intersection and start up Peavine Canyon. Walking on a double track doesn’t have the sense of adventure of the narrow trail, nor as close connectedness to nature around me. I am glad when I regain the winding trail upcanyon. img_1508
Stands of stark white barked aspen trees stand out among dark green firs, punctuated with pinkish sandstone monoliths. The grassy pastures look inviting but are eaten short by cows(ugh). Light is fading. My last night’s camp has a perfect table rock. It is rectangular, attractively patterned with a flattish top, and located next to a friendly aspen tree with branches inviting hanging gear. My headlamp no longer working, I eat dinner by tea-candle light, then use my different senses to locate things and pack away. How well our bodies manage when allowed.img_1515On the sixth day of my trek, I thank the canyons for their expansiveness, diversity, peace and companionship. I pass the wilderness boundary sign and return to my car, hiking the last few miles on a dirt road where an elegant flock of turkeys seemingly greets me.
Perhaps I came a little closer to being a beast.

Lucky Chance Circuit, Sitka AK

img_6a Backpacking the Lucky Chance Circuit was lucky for us in so many ways – we were blessed with sunny Sitka weather, and helped by skippers and their boats transporting us over water to the trailhead.
img_1 A great group of friends was keen to go exploring, and fortunate to be successful in route finding through the wild SE Alaskan landscape (with the help of technology)!
img_2 At times making our way through the leafy forest felt more like gymnastics (with a backpack) than hiking, as we twisted and turned over and under stumps, and dodged fiesty devils club thorns.
img_4 We emerged out of the spruce/hemlock/cedar forest, onto an open muskeg populated with artfully sculpted trees with views of our dynamic destination ahead.
img_5 After pausing at Pinto Lake, a tantalizing ridge urged us to continue up.
img_6 Nearing the high point, we clambered over rocky outcrops.
img_8 Our reward was the perfect ridge-top campsite. Looking east over Silver Bay we saw twinkling Sitka lights in the distance.
img_8 Views to the east encompassed epic mountain masses, bearing reminders of glacial times passed.
img_9 Awed by ever changing light, our cameras were barely put away, before again being pulled out. A paradox of Lucky Chance is its troubled gold-mining history. Yet we experienced great richness, awed by brilliant sunset light, and later the yellow-green glow of a northern aurora.
img_11 In the morning we awoke to be floating above a white puffy blanket, with protruding peaks like baby birds’ beaks.
img_12 A curious early mountain goat peered at us from above, we’d also sighted bear and deer.
img_13 Gently the mist lifted. The mountain lakes were bathed in morning light.
img_16 The highest peak on Baranof Island is 5390, named for its elevation in feet.
img_17 Dipping and rising summits extended as far as we could see. At our feet, tiny alpine plants formed delicate tapestries of similar intricacy.
img_14 Our adventuresome group glowed in this alpine setting, a lucky chance to be in this place at this time, together.
img_15 Colors of the water-land-scape were astounding: brilliant blues and verdant greens.
img_18 Continuing our cirque, we wished to prolong our time up high, transcending present and past.
img_19 The sun rose strongly in the sky as we gazed towards our descent, including remnants from the mining era of the late 1800’s to early 1900’s.
img_0723 Next day back home, I woke to a misty morning. The veiled mountains held many more mysteries to be unfurled.
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