On The Road – Independence Rock

A little south of dead center Wyoming and a short way down the Sweetwater River from South Pass, the hulking dome of Independence Rock rises above the scrub and sagebrush like the back of a huge whale napping at sea. Oddly, Independence Rock is probably a quieter place today than it was during most summers following the California Gold Rush. It sits on the Oregon/California Trail and was a busy stopover location on the journey west. If your emigrant party was on schedule, you arrived here around the 4th of July, Independence Day.

Even today, with a two lane highway close by, standing on top of Independence Rock, one feels lonely and insignificant. The landscape is immense and indifferent. Even amid the comforting hubbub of the community of wagon parties that paused here, there must have been many lumps caught in many throats. Will I ever see loved ones I left behind? And what awaits me?

Perhaps it was the need to push back against the vulnerability and insignificance those travelers must have felt amid such a vast landscape: ‘Who knows what my fate will be, but let the world know I took on a great challenge, and I passed by here.’ Whatever the motivation, around the rock’s base and up on top, thousands etched their names and the date they passed for us to contemplate 170 years hence.
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Independence Rock isn’t handy to the traveler. But if you are on the road between Rawlins and Casper, twenty miles east of Muddy Gap, pull over and look around. It is a nice moment to sit down beside one of the names etched in Independence Rock and imagine an adventure so grand.  

On The Road – Deux

From Canyon De Chelly, we continued to Santa Fe then turned north and began zigging and zagging across the Continental Divide; ten crossings in all up through the rest of New Mexico, Colorado, and Wyoming. Sometimes when chasing fall color, you are told what surfers often hear, “You shoulda been here yesterday.” Not this time. The Cirque du Soleil of fall color was in town.

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Color was everywhere revealed in a variety of moods. Sometimes an uninterrupted brilliant yellow blanket; other times a broad slope among the conifers; occasionally a lone ribbon tracing a crease cut in a sagebrush crusted slope. So brilliant was the color, it seemed the aspen leaves were generating light, not reflecting it. 

In Aspen and Vail where we visited friends, farther north over Muddy Pass, around every bend, the color left us dumbstruck. It is hard to pick just a few, but here are some images  

On The Road

An array of motivations converged and led to a delightful road trip. Along with Charlie Hamilton, a long time friend and a perfect road trip companion, we set out with a to-do punch list that would be strung together with whimsy. Yes, we had stops to make—visit old friends, return to stomping grounds from our misspent youth, kick tires at possible relocation communities—but each day’s itinerary was decided over morning coffee. On top of that, we would be traveling the crest of the Rockies while the aspens were in full color. Plenty of reasons to be excited.

Charlie had never been to the Santa Fe area, so we planned to blaze through southern California and Arizona to New Mexico, then downshift and shuffle north in a more relaxed mode. But a place I had visited before leapt off the map and insisted we swing north for a short side trip. Canyon De Chelly, sacred Navajo land in eastern Arizona, is a scenic gem and the cite of some sad history. While the Grand Canyon is immense and incomprehensible, Canyon De Chelly has a mysterious intimacy that is transfixing. Under warm evening light, we peered down into the canyon from the rim, fully enrapt and free of extraneous thoughts, as though we were looking into a campfire.

The next morning, we descended into the canyon at the only location visitors are allowed without a Navajo guide: the White House Ruins. Not rough and tumble, the red rock there appears to have been finely smoothed and finished by a craftsman. The White House Ruins are only one set of cliff dwellings in the canyon left by the Ancient Puebloans centuries ago, but perhaps the most elegant.
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A superficial brush past a place that would take years to learn and fully appreciate, but the road calls.

  

Crassly personal. Just once. I promise.

Amid what is lost, a new beginning

It is 3:00 am, and I can’t go back to sleep. As of midnight, for the first time since September 26, 1982, I am single. After some bumpy times and a period of separation, last fall, my now ex-wife told me she was happier without me, and so the die was cast.

The next part of the story is usually sadness, despair, reflection, bitterness—and indeed there has been some of that, but less than one might expect at the end of nearly 36 years of marriage. Mind you, I still believe (and I have told her so) that when I met my ex, I knew she was the person I was supposed to marry. No doubt. We, sadly, just messed it up. But like marriage, divorce is a two-sided coin. In marriage or any committed relationship, for it to work, one must makes sacrifices. There is a price to pay to make room for another person’s ways and wishes. A price we willingly pay for someone we love. The flip side of the divorce coin is that the part of you that you have kept in check to care for your couple-ness is gone. Perhaps a scary proposition to some, but also a freeing one. This unencumbered future and the wide open possibilities are the things that have mainly filled my thoughts.

Among the countless blessings and friends who have “been there” for me through this is a couple who have been amazingly kind and generous. Folded inside a card I recently received from them was this poem. On reading it, I nearly leapt from my chair. It was as though the person who wrote it (John O’Donohue) had either been sitting on my shoulder or wandering inside my head—or both—through all this.  Perhaps it will stir you as well. I hope so.

 

For a New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

 

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

 

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered, 

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
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Wondered would you always live like this.

 

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plenitude opening before you.

 

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of the opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life’s desire.

 

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

 

The Winds

I have always been fascinated by stories of the fur trappers who ventured up to where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin Rivers join forces to create the Missouri River. Until the discovery of South Pass, the Missouri River was the main thoroughfare to beaver country for John Colter, Jim Bridger, Jedediah Smith, and so many other mountain men. Read about any of these men and the Wind River Mountains figure prominently in their travels. 

Descending Fremont Peak

I have visited the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming twice, and on each trip the prevailing winds brought smoky air from wildfires ablaze in the northwest. But even murky air cannot dull the magnificence of this range. It is a Sierra-like landscape. Glaciers have scraped the range down to its bare granite bones leaving spectacular serrated peaks and easily navigable wide open terrain. Terrific. 
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This view over Island Lake looks toward Titcomb Basin. Looming on the horizon on the right is 13,751-foot Fremont Peak, first climbed by John C. Fremont on August 15, 1842. Several days later, we climbed the peak. We did not realize until months later that we were on the peak 170 years to the day after Fremont’s ascent.

If you backpack, put Titcomb Basin and the Winds on your bucket list. You will see plenty of folks on the trail, but once there, you can find solitude. 

Nothing Special

 


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Sometimes a photograph is not taken in a special place nor is it of a special subject or in a special setting. Yet it is a special image. I had no expectations when I shot this.  It was just there. But I find it leaves a lasting impression with me. There is as wistful evocative quality about it. I can’t put my finger on it, but I suppose I don’t need to. 

Sharper Vision

As I grow in my photography, few things bring more pleasure than abstracting some slice of a setting that I might have once overlooked. I have other images of Young Lakes on this evening that I captured as the light sunk low and grew warm, but they are wider.  It was hard to leave anything out. The entire scene was lovely; grand, softly lit granite peaks rose high above this carefully nestled lake.  But this lone shaft of light cast across three sapling lodgepole pines caught my eye. In front, the cool gentle lake reflection. Of course other joints of on sale at shop levitra prescription the body and quite literally slowly killing us. The moment in time order cialis without prescription when the deed of sexual exercise is finished, the blood will instantly circulation back again towards the penis and so erection goes away. Therefore the tightness and contraction I see in nine out of ten clients is actually the energetic patterning of family ancestry, current family patterns, environmental influences but also even more importantly the possibility of a huge manhood in levitra pharmacy purchase just 30 days… sometimes I’d be a little clumsy and delete some important emails in the process. Readings below 120/80 may be get cialis normal depending upon the clinical situation. Beyond, steep, rough granite cliffs. Peaceful, yet powerful, all coming together in an image I never tire of. Years ago, I would never have thought to pick it out and let it stand alone. 

Bennettville

I have visited Yosemite National Park enough to convince myself that there are few surprises left there for me, at least when it comes to day hike destinations. Wrong…again.

I had known of Bennettville, a ghost town dating back to the 1860’s, for a long time but had always driven passed the trailhead only promising to go there sometime soon. Although not strictly within the park boundary, Bennettville is just over the Sierra crest barely a chip shot from the Tioga Pass entrance. A few years ago, I spent several days in Lee Vining along with my friends Jean Blomquist and Greg Kepferle. We were part of a group there to hike up Mt. Hoffman a couple days hence and had come early to explore on our own. A perfect chance to finally visit Bennettville.

The walk to Bennettville and the ghost town itself are both pleasant, but unremarkable. Only two buildings remain in a cool rugged perch that opens to Mt. Dana in the distance. Mine tailings, a barred mine shaft, and abandoned rusty machinery testify to the long gone hubbub that is such a contrast to today’s stillness. Sadly, I am sure that once most hikers reach Bennettville, they turn back. We found that the ghost town is where the hike begins.

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Gentle beauty below, powerful peaks above. With each step, White Mountain filled more of the view ahead. I imagined what this east-facing setting would look like at sunrise. Right then, I promised I would return in the morning. 

With no headlamp or adequate flashlight, I thrashed a bit as I made my way through the darkness the next morning. And indeed, I got a nice photograph, but more than that, I got an unforgettable morning.

Lush Desert – Anza Borrrego Desert State Park

The wet winter of 2016-2017 was one of those that wildflower lovers long for. In California, when they come, the show is in the desert. Features on the CBS Evening News and NPR from Anza Borrego Desert State Park confirmed that the display was epic. Friends who had gone there in prior wet years returned with enthusiastic reports of jaw-dropping sights. I was not going to miss out this time.

I found an airbnb in Julian, only a one-hour drive from Borrego Springs, but as different as a landscape can be. At an elevation of 4,226 feet, Julian sits at the crest of the Cuyamaca Mountains that drain all the moisture from east bound storm clouds leaving little for Anza Borrego and the desert beyond. 

 

Specifically, it is the go to the pharmacy shop cialis sildenafil first step toward eliminating the doughnut hole altogether, but not before 24 hours as over dose of Kamagra can be dangerous. For example with viagra online france this is something you will probably need to buy on more than 800 men has revealed that those who reported low sexual desires and thoughts were more likely to experience erectile dysfunction condition. The good order viagra overnight news is that ED (erectile dysfunction) is treatable now. How does Kamagra act? Before knowing the action of Kamagra, one is required to not consume heavy fatty meals as it will dissolve the solution’s viagra no rx component and not allow to properly get absorbed by the body. Even on my midweek visit, Borrego Springs, the town in the middle of the 600,000-acre park, was packed. I wanted to get guidance at the visitor center, but so did everyone else. I had to park a half-mile away. The repeated advice they gave was to drive a “standard” loop road around town. Sure enough, the most gaudy display I saw was right by the side Henderson Canyon Road. 

 

Here are a few shots from that spot. It was lovely indeed, but such a vast park beckons a visitor to quieter corners. So, I ventured out, but a park this size is a feast that can only be weakly sampled on a three-day visit. In my next few posts, I will share some images of simpler beauty away from the busy loop road.  

Resurrecting the Tramp

Yes, I know the middle sun is larger

Had I named this blog “Annual Tramp,” I would still not have met the time frame of the title. But that was then, and this is now.

Let me begin the resuscitation with an event that was on all our minds last summer, the total solar eclipse. A good friend approached me about joining him on a road trip to a hidden canyon in northern Nevada. The canyon is just below the path of the total eclipse, so it was natural to shape our itinerary to include it. Years ago, dear friends who travel the world to view total solar eclipses emphatically told me that before I leave this earth, I must be sure to see one. I never forgot.

Our route north took us through Alturas where we snagged Highway 395. A couple miles before the Oregon border, we stopped at Stringer’s Orchard Distillery and bought some “craft” gin that would fuel the evenings ahead. By the time we got to John Day, eclipse hubbub was all around. The town buzzed and every ball field and vacant lot was partitioned with stakes and police tape into crisp rows of campsites. My companion, an avid maphead, had identified a specific remote location north of John Day, but when we got there, other eclipse viewers had beaten us to the punch. A bit farther north, several miles up a Forest Service road, we claimed a hilltop site with a sweeping view. Perfect.
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On much of our trip, the sky was murky with fire smoke, but eclipse morning dawned crystalline. Having done some eclipse photography homework, we set up our equipment, then sat and waited. Every source I consulted about photographing an eclipse finished with the same advice: don’t let your photography distract you from the magic of the event. And that is a danger. While the eclipse would last for about four hours, totality would be just over two minutes.

As the remaining slice of sun thinned toward totality, the air chilled. Sunsets have edges – shafts of light here, shadows there – but this was an eerie uniform dusk that evenly dimmed the hundreds of square miles we could see. Going, going, gone. People on our hilltop gasped and called out, and I felt a stirring I checked with a deep swallow and several rapid blinks. Overhead, an astounding jewel radiated needles of pure white light alone in the near total darkness.

Not even the seven-mile long string of cars waiting to get through the lone stop sign in Long Creek could tarnish the day. The friends who advised me to be sure to see a total solar eclipse were right.

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