The Return

The final leg of my trip east begins in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, my mother's hometown. Unlike my mother and five other siblings, my Aunt Peg never never left Johnstown. Even so, she was the linchpin of the family. She died in 2008 but I still have cousins Gretchen James and Michael Seifert there whom I had not seen in years. My visit was also an opportunity to prepare for the trip west. On the way to Johnstown from Virginia I stopped for an afternoon at Antietam National Battlefield and a full day in Cumberland, Maryland with Pamela McCormick, a friend from my days on the Rez.

Thursday June 16 is overcast, wet and occasionally foggy as I snake my way northwest out of Johnstown early and into the hills of western Pennsylvania. I make a long detour around a massive, stand-still traffic jam on the PA turnpike and finally cross into Ohio on toll roads I-76 and I-80. Weather is on-and-off rainy much of the day. Once through Cleveland my route follows US 2 along the Lake Erie coast from Lorain to Maumee Bay State Park.

The park is very high end. In addition to the usual camping, hiking and other outdoor activities on the Lake Erie shore, park facilities include a resort lodge and golf course. The camping pads are all paved. I find a site with good vegetation between other sites and mine and settle in for a relaxed evening after a long day's drive.

Next morning I check out a few of the park's features before setting out through Toledo and into southeast Michigan following US 223 through the countryside. Breakfast is in Blissfield before passing through Cement City about 10 miles south of Jackson where I pick up I-94 to turn west. Day is sunny and hot. Turning north at Kalamazoo I finally get away from freeway traffic in Ostego where I follow Michigan Routes 89 and 40 and US 31 to Muskegon. It's a Friday afternoon and plenty of traffic is on the road, large sections of which are under construction. Traffic in Muskegon is heavy and it seems like forever getting to my friends' place.

My friends, Jill Farkas and Scott Majetich, are also acquaintances from my Rez days. They both taught in Window Rock schools. Jill was also a photographer and one of the regulars with me in the Thursday night open darkroom at UNM Gallup. They are retired and living in Jill's hometown. My time with them is a whirlwind. Friday evening starts with dinner followed by a small neighborhood gathering and an event at Hackley Park downtown where two family members are performing in a local band and end at a bar where one of those family members is playing a set with another musician. Saturday is equally busy—farmers' market, kayaking on Lake Muskegon, dinner, lighthouse tour and back to the late night bar. 

 

Sunset in Muskegon

Sunday morning I headi north on US 31. North of Manistee I cut over to Michigan 22 following Michigan's west coast and stopping at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore for a short visit. Turning east from Sleeping Bear, I head to Traverse City and continue on to Petoskey State Park on Little Traverse Bay. I'm very tired by the time I pull in.

Monday morning dawns windy with the threat of thunder storms. I manage a quick breakfast in camp and am ready to roll when the first storm hits. Continuing north, I soon reach the suspension bridge over Mackinac Straights. With a carrier on top of the camper shell, my truck is a high profile vehicle so I am required to cross in a convoy behind a pilot vehicle with the tractor-trailers and RV's. The wind is blowing hard. Any harder and the white caps would be breaking over rather than against the causeway. Gulls can hover in one place by simply riding the current.

On the Upper Peninsula now, I follow US 2 along the northern shore of Lake Michigan. After a late breakfast in Naubinway I turn north on Michigan 77 at Blarney Park heading to Pictured Rocks National Lake Shore on Lake Superior at Grand Marais. The visitor center there is not open (as in for the season, it appears) so I follow County Road H 58 through the park to the Upper Hurricane River Campground which is largely empty at mid-day. I claim a space and head down to the lake shore where the lower campground looks pretty full.

At the shore, I hike out to the Au Sable Lighthouse along what is essentially a closed road. Interpretive signs provide information about shipwrecks and lures me down to the shore where I am supposed to find the skeleton of one wreak. I don't find the skeleton. I'm too busy making sure not to fall The route at shoreline is rocky and I wish I was wearing stiffer footwear. The rocks end soon enough and I find a route up the sandy bluff to the lighthouse. After walking around the site and reading the exhibits, I head back along the road.

 

Au Sable Lighthouse

The day has been especially windy and even though my campsite is well up from the shore I can hear the roar of the surf. Weather here is decidedly cooler than farther south. Muskegon was hot. Tonight on the Summer Solstice I am dressed for warmth.

Tuesday morning I continue along H 58 through the park, much of which I recall as forest with the occasional lakeshore access. I make a few stops along the way but reach my planned stop by noon even after spending time in Munising to take care of some chores. I decide to push on following Route 28 through Marquette and a countryside dotted with lakes and rivers. The day ends at Curry Park Municipal Campground in Ironwood, Michigan. The feel of trip is changing--I decided against a second night on Lake Superior because it was 10 miles out of my way. I'm beginning to feel like I need to start making miles toward home rather than wandering so I end up camping in the middle of town. Hardly pristine but shaded and reasonably quiet despite traffic on US 2.

Breakfast the next morning is in a nearby restaurant, one of the benefits of camping in town. Two miles out of Ironwood on US 2 I cross into Wisconsin and zip across the northern part of the state to Duluth, Minnesota. Leaving Duluth I mistakenly follow US 2 north instead of taking a somewhat more southerly route west across Minnesota. I discover my error in time to follow Minnesota Routes 200 and 34 through a less populated area. I cross the Mississippi River at Jacobson. The river is substantial even this far north but not as wide as it will become. I pass Leech Lake which is also home to the Leech Lake Indian Reservation. Late Dinner in Park Rapids is surprisingly inventive and good. The day ends at Buffalo River State Park which includes and adjoins “one of the finest and largest prairie tracts in Minnesota.” The park is very pleasant and relaxing. 

 

Mississippi River at Jacobson, Minnesota

The next day begins my long miles of interstate driving. I pick up I-94 in Fargo, North Dakota shortly after leaving Buffalo River. The Fargo-Moorehead Visitors Center has the wood chipper from “Fargo” on display. The day is hot. North Dakota from the interstate is pleasantly pretty and definitely not flat. The topography is rolling and looks soft to me. Occasionally, I can see what seems like forever—green, verdant undulating fields stretching out before me. Above, a great blue sky encompasses this infinity. Climbing out of the Missouri River basin west of Bismark the terrain becomes more rugged, but even here subdued. No rocky outcroppings. No sharp peaks.

The day ends at an extended stay motel in Dickinson, North Dakota. The motel is housing for workers in the North Dakota oil boom. It has a full refrigerator, stove top, and a full size sink. I'm not in for an extended stay but this is all convenient for freezing water bottles for my cooler and washing dishes after a week on the road.

Friday morning I discover that I left my gas cap on the pump when I filled up in Jamestown yesterday. I find an auto parts store nearby for a replacement, grab a breakfast burrito at Taco Bell and blast off for Theodore Roosevelt National Park about 30 miles away. My plan is to arrive as last night's campers are pulling out. It's a Friday in June at a national park so the campground will fill fast in the afternoon.

The drive to the park goes quickly and I am in the campground by 11:00. It's about half-full. I select a site that appears to have the best shade on this very hot day and sign up for two nights. After a quick lunch, I head out to explore the 36 mile scenic loop drive. I'm slathered in sunscreen, have lots of ice water in the cooler. The park is part of the North Dakota Badlands/Little Missouri National Grassland. The park is cut by the Little Missouri River and peaks rise about 1,000 to 1,500 feet above its wide floodplain. Eroded sandstone cliffs underlain by harder rock create, isolated peaks and hoodoos. Between the heights are extensive areas of open range, the sparse vegetation standing out in green contrast against the gray-brown earth. Tributary streams create their own open ranges. I am surprised to see water flowing in any of the tributaries in this heat.

By the time I complete the scenic loop I am totally wiped out by the heat so I bail into the visitor center to watch the orientation video in a cool, dark theater. My campsite has a little but not much shade when I return. I cook dinner in the heat, hunkering in a sliver of shade afforded by a tree trunk. The heat breaks as the sun heads toward the horizon around 8:00 pm. After dark, I watch lightning flashes light up the southern sky.

Saturday morning is cool and pleasant. I lounge in the shade until the sun climbs higher before heading out to the park's north unit 85 miles away via I-94 and US 85. The wind is blowing fiercely hard from the west and keeping the truck steady in the cross wind is difficult. The day is much cooler than yesterday. The topography is much the same as what I saw yesterday except the elevations are higher and includes much grassland. A bit of rain falls but not for long. Back in camp the dinner challenge is keeping things from blowing away. After dark I spot Jupiter and Mars in the night sky. I also see bats circulating in the evening sky. They look fairly large, with maybe a 12 inch wingspan. 

 

Little Missouri River in Theodore Roosevelt NP

Next morning I soon cross into Montana. After breakfast at the Paradise Café in Wibaux I begin the 700 plus mile drive across the Big Sky State. The day is hot and traffic is heavy on this summer Sunday, especially after I-94 merges into I-90 at Billings. The landscape gradually morphs from badlands to rolling terrain where the freeway follows the Yellowstone River. I pull off at Big Timber, Montana and turn south on Route 298 looking for a national forest campground. It's farther than I expected but I finally find the Falls Creek campground about 30 miles south. It's a fairly primitive site in a steep canyon and charges no fee. The sites are walk-in so I am camping in the parking area to sleep in the truck. Even in the truck I can hear the music of water falling over rocks as I fall asleep. Sometime during the night I look out the window to see the most brilliant dark sky of the trip, a seemingly infinite array of stars splayed out against a black dome..

On the final Monday of the trip I roll into Big Timber for breakfast and begin another long driving day. I finally leave the Yellowstone River at Livingston and push on through Bozeman and Butte. After Butte, I get off the freeway to follow Montana Route 1 to through Anaconda to Drummond. Back on the freeway I am now following the Clark Fork River which parallels the road all the way to Superior where I will stop for the night. It's a damn big river that I've never heard of. I make a quick stop at the Nine Mile Remount Depot, a working Forest Service ranch in Hudson, Montana. Back on the freeway I find dinner in Superior before heading south to the Trout Creek national forest campground. The campground is in a poor state of repair but it's everything I need at the end of a hot day.

The night is surprisingly cold after the day's head. I started out sleeping in my light summer bag but switched to my down bag sometime during the night. Morning is the coldest I felt since the first days of trip in Yellowstone National Park in late April. I pack and roll out quickly for breakfast in Superior. The day's drive is a short one to my cousin Kathy Bonner-Walsh's place in Nine Mile Falls northwest of Spokane. I am almost home now.

I take a zero day at Kathy's and take time to catch up with family news with her and husband Mike. Their place fronts on Long Lake and I get out on Kathy's kayak both evenings to enjoy the quiet and watch ospreys soaring overhead and occasionally diving for food. The stopover also gives me a chance to wash the truck and remove the vast collection of splattered insects that I've accumulated since April.

On Thursday June 30, I roll out of Nine Mile Falls through Spokane and on to I-90. This is a familiar drive. I've done it numerous times but it feels different on this day. I have something like 8,000 plus miles behind me. I've seen many friends and familiar places while also seeing and experiencing new places. All of those friends and places come to mind as I make my way across a very hot eastern Washington. Crossing the Cascades at Snoqualmie Pass brings me into very familiar territory. I-5 traffic is heavy but not yet at rush hour congestion so I make good time.

Exiting the freeway on to Pacific Avenue in Olympia, everything looks the same but somehow feels different after two months. I pull into the parking space at my apartment and by the time I get out of the truck Maggie is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

I am home.

Heading West

I wrote about all of the experiences and friends I encountered on my trip to Virginia but did not include any account of my travels out and back. Here's that story.

My trip east began around 11:30 am on Tuesday, April 26. I left Olympia following familiar routes: I-5 to WA 18 to I-90. As always, I-90 was busy and the descent east from Snoqualmie Pass is still under construction. I was glad to reach the exit for WA 26 which put me on a low traffic two lane highway that would take me across The Palouse, Washington's rolling green agricultural southeast. The late afternoon light accentuated the dramatic topography as I made my way to US 195 and south to Lewiston, Idaho. From there I followed US 12 along the Clearwater River to my cousins Andy and Phil Foster's place in Kamiah, Idaho. The sun was already below the ridge as I drove up river, the soft light easing me through the last miles of a 400 mile day.

Next morning I took my time getting on the road, pulling out around 10:00 am after joining Andy and Phil in feeding their horses. Leaving town I spotted a bald eagle flying off with a catch from a nearby stream. Minutes later a large bird (a grouse, maybe) popped out of the tree line on a curve and glanced off my windshield, taking my driver's side wiper blade with it. When I turned around and returned to the spot I found the shattered remains of my wiper blade but no bird. I replaced the blade in Kamiah and set out again.

Destination this second day was Hagerman, Idaho. Sky was overcast with occasional showers. Not far south of Kamiah, I stopped at Nez Perce National Historic Site which commemorates one of the battles in the tribe's resistance to white settlement. The site offers a dramatic view of of a broad valley tucked among rolling foothills. Farther south, US 95 snakes alongside the Salmon River and the Little Salmon River. By late afternoon I was on I-84 at Fruitland and blasted the final 100 miles or so to Hagerman, arriving around 7:30. By this time I was in the Mountain time zone and had lost an hour due to the change, something I would encounter two more times as I headed east.

 

View from Nez Perce

Hagerman is about 90 miles east of Boise and is where cousin Tom Angel parks his travel trailer when not working or exploring elsewhere. After two long driving days, I was ready for a day off. I slept in the Red Truck parked by the trailer. We spent time talking and catching up. Tom took me out to see some fossil hoof prints in the Malad River gorge and later to Hagermen Fossil Beds National Monument where we had a commanding view of a wide bend in the reservoir behind one of the Snake River dams.

Day Four was Friday and time for my dash to Yellowstone National Park. Madison Campground was opening for the season and I wanted to be sure to snag a campsite. I didn't think a 278 site would fill up on what was an overcast day with rain and possible snow in the forecast. Even so, I always like getting in earlier rather than later. Left Hagerman around 10:00 and motored east on I-84 and I-86 until turning northeast on I-15 at Pocatello before exiting on US 20 to West Yellowstone, Montana. Expecting that the evening might be inclement in camp, I figured I'd find a local restaurant for dinner so I wouldn't have to fix food in the rain. Much of US 20 was limited access and once it became less restricted food choices were few. I grabbed a something resembling a Philly cheese-steak in Ashton.

Approaching the Montana border I could see snow on the mountain tops and drove through the occasional light rain shower. At the park I found Madison campground wonderfully less than full. Snow began falling just as I got in so I set up in mixed rain and snow. I got the truck leveled and gear stowed for the night without getting too wet. During a lull in the precipitation I made tea to go with my evening snack.

Saturday dawned cold with a dusting of snow on much of the landscape and the Red Truck. After breakfast I headed south through Lower, Middle and Upper Geyser Basins, an otherworldly excursion. The landforms around the geysers, mud pots, fumeroles and other ways that hot water and steam erupt from the earth differ dramatically from the adjacent lands. Much of the park is granite mountains and open meadows coursed by strong running streams. And then—Bam!--in the middle of this very traditional western landscape steam is rising everywhere, water is spurting and mineral deposits create bizarre patterns. My route took me to Old Faithful and the visitor center there. I joined the crowd for the 12:48 pm eruption which came off pretty much right on time. The road farther south is still closed for the season, as are most other roads and many of the facilities at Old Faithful. Tourists, though, were not in short supply. Parking lots were less than half full but plenty of people, including many foreign tourists, were taking advantage of what is open. Bison were out,mostly in the distant meadows.

 

 Wierdness in Yellowstone

My last day in Yellowstone took me up the road to Mammoth Hot Springs. On this day the bison were up close and in the road. I slowly followed the cars ahead of me and maneuvered my truck through the herd. At one point I could look out my window and see a bison eyeball more or less at eye-level. I could not see it but I sensed that the bison's massive hump was as tall as my truck. Mammoth Hot Springs are indeed mammoth. The steps in front of the post office are flanked by stone bears. I drove out the Lamar Valley Road a few miles and took in the more expansive views there.

By now it was 1:00 and time to get moving. I exited the park at Gardner, Montana, fueled up in Livingston, followed I-90 through Billings and ended up in Ranchester, Wyoming where I found the Ranchester Western Motel, an older L-shaped motel that advertised a continental breakfast and wi-fi. I'd hoped to make Rawlings was tired. Turned out to be a bargain at $55. Food in Ranchester was no bargain and limited. Still, I was hungry and got food that didn't make me ill. Options would have been better in Billings but I wasn't hungry then. I think I got a burger and fries. I was the only lodger at the Ranchester Western that night

Getting back into Wyoming on Sunday after Yellowstone put me in good position to reach Devil's tower on Monday. The continental breakfast was mostly cereal, toast, fruit and Fox news but it got me started until I found a good breakfast about 50 miles down the road. Traffic was light and Wyoming Public Radio came in reasonably well. I enjoyed hearing their very contemporary singer-songwriter music programming on a Monday morning as I cruised along the freeway to the exit for Devils Tower National Monument at Moorcroft. I reached the monument around 1:30 which allowed time to explore.

The campground is located along the Belle Fourche River was open for the second day of the season (one loop, that is) and largely empty when I arrived. It never filled even half full. Cottonwoods along the river and in the campground were just starting to put out new leaves but still mostly bare. The basalt formation that is Devils Tower was clearly visible from everywhere in the campground. A trail to the base of the Tower took me through a prairie dog town whose inhabitants stood at the top of their burrows, watched me pass by and make sounds which I assume mean something to them. The clear, moonless night gave me my first complete look at the still-early spring sky. 

 

Devils Tower

The following morning I drove up to the visitor center and hiked the trail around the base of the Tower. Devils Tower is the the first National Monument established by the United States (Theodore Roosevelt, 1906). Cool morning air and shade made for a pleasant walk before another long day of driving. On this day I would begin shamelessly bagging states I had never visited before. South Dakota was the first. I followed I-90 to breakfast in Whitewood, then on to Badlands National Park, passing through on the scenic drive. I stopped at the pull outs and gawked but it was a quick drive-through on a hot day that did not encourage much rambling. After a late afternoon dinner in Murdo, I turned south on US 83 heading for Valentine, Nebraska. I'd never been to Nebraska or Iowa and wasn't about to miss this opportunity to bag these two states.

Valentine advertised on its website camping at the city park which made it a good stopping place after a long day. Directions to the park were not obvious on the drive into town but the first person I asked told me how to get there. The park is down a short hill by a stream. It did not have designated campsites. I backed into a level spot by a picnic table like another camper, filled out a registration envelope, paid my five dollars and was in for the night. The sound of flowing water lulled me to sleep.

Morning was chilly. The still-bare trees and weak early sun looked like winter. I was up and out early, following US 20 across green and rolling farmland. This early in spring, many of the fields were being prepared for planting. Several of the small towns I passed through offered camping in their city parks. Got a ticket after a state trooper clocked me at 73 passing a semi truck in a 60 zone. The actual citation was for improper passing (I did not signal) and a warning for speeding. He noted my Veterans For Peace bumper sticker and thanked me for my service. Not long after the citation I crossed into Iowa. My planned destination was Fort Dodge but I decided to push farther on and ended up in a Howard Johnson's in Waterloo.

Now it's Thursday, my 10^th day on the road. I am all cleaned up and civilized-looking for my arrival in Winnetka, Illinois for a zero day at the home of Tony Hodson and his wife Karen Jones. I served with Tony in Vietnam and have kept in touch ever since. Before Winnetka I have another 90 miles of Iowa and northern Illinois. I cross the Mississippi at Dubuque and follow US 20 to Galena, hometown of Ulysses Grant where I stopp to pay my respects. The local visitor center is all-things US Grant—lots of memorabilia and history. Across the river and up the hill is the house that grateful hometown citizens built for him that he never really lived in.

Somewhere after Valentine I must have crossed into spring because Illinois looks like a well-advanced eastern spring to me. Trees are leafed out, not fully, but enough to demonstrate new growth. Certainly more evident than two days ago in Valentine. Temperatures are warmer. Rural Illinois is a pleasant drive. Beginning in Rockford, though, I'm back on I-90—the Jane Addams Parkway—heading toward Chicago in heavy traffic, paying tolls along the way. I make my way on to the Tri-State Tollway and into Winnetka.

My zero day turns into two zero days. The company is good, the accommodations pleasant and an extra day of not driving appeals to me very much. The extra day also means that I will be looking for a campsite on a Sunday evening rather than Saturday when more people might be doing the same. We filled the time with conversation, food, the occasional walk and watching the Cubs on TV. Over the course of two days Tony and I compare memories of our year in Vietnam. We remembered many of the same events and people. Some of those events and people we remember differently. Some things only one of us remember.

Early on a Sunday morning I roll out of Winnetka, through downtown Chicago and into Indiana and Ohio. It's a day of mostly interstate driving under overcast skies and occasional showers. Traffic's not bad but it's steady. I miss the wide-open freeways in Wyoming and South Dakota. I cross into the eastern time zone, losing another hour in the process. In Chillicothe I find Great Seal State Park which is about five miles northeast of town in a rural neighborhood. The park is largely empty. A group of adults and children are picnicking under a ramada but the park is otherwise empty—no one else is camping. I set up and wait out a rain shower before preparing dinner. The ramada group departs leaving the park entirely to me. Sweet.

 

Camp at Great Seal

The last day of the outbound trip starts out rainy and wet. I pack up quickly and find breakfast in town under a roof before setting out on US 35 though southeast Ohio and into West Virginia. In Nitro, West Virginia I pick up I-64, my final route into Virginia. Along the way, I stop at the New River Gorge National Scenic River in West Virginia for a long lunch break before the final push. 

 

 New River Gorge

Traffic is very heavy with big trucks in both lanes when I-64 joins up with I-81 in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley. After about 30 miles I'm able to get onto US 340 to Waynesboro and US 250 which  take me into Nelson County. I arrive a Peyton and Carol's place around 5:30 pm.

Setting my brake and looking at a place I've visited many times before, I can't believe that I actually drove from Olympia, Washington to the middle of Nelson County, Virginia. It seems like an enormous undertaking yet here I just did exactly that. By myself. And had fun. I've been mostly on my own the past two weeks I am looking forward to company. I can decompress now.  I don't have to drive anymore.

postscript

The three of us went out to dinner shortly after I arrived. Sitting on the seat of Carol's car I felt a bump on the back of my thigh and thought “engorged tick” and thought it odd that I had not noticed it before. At the men's room of the restaurant, I confirmed that it was a fat tick. I pulled it out along with a chunk of skin but it left an ugly wound. Next morning I went to a local medical clinic and ended up with a 10 day supply of antibiotics.

Welcome to Virginia.

Back

From late April to the beginning of July I was on the road driving from Olympia to Virginia and other points east.  Between the hustle of the trip and erratic internet access, I found little time or opportunity to post here.  I wrote each day in my journal but none of those thoughts made it online, so they don't truly exist in today's world.  Now that I am home, some of those thoughts are likely to show up here.  I guess I could post on Facebook but that medium doesn't seem to be the right place for extended thought and commentary.  That leaves this humble blog as my best bet.  Blogwhore that I am, I will, of course, link here from the Book of Faces

My trip's purpose was to spend some extended time with my long-time friend Peyton and see other friends and family in in between.  This would be the second longest time spent in in Virginia since moving away 34 years ago.  I was in Virginia for six weeks hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2002 but most of that time was spent on the trail.  This time around the whole point of the trip was to see and spend time with people I've been close to throughout my entire adult life. 

That I did despite Peyton suffering a stroke about a month before I departed.  By the time I arrived, he regained most of his lost capabilities but was still weak.  We did not canoe the James River as originally planned but kept ourselves occupied.  I did a lot of just hanging out at his peaceful rural nine acres in Nelson County, walked the wooded property, read the Washington Post actual newspaper (which is much better than it's website), hiked on the Blue Ridge Railroad Trail (which Peyton helped build), hauled trash, cleaned out a drainage ditch, and pet dogs.  During my time there, my brother came up from Atlanta with an extra bike for me and we did a couple of nice rides in the Shenandoah Valley.  One day in June Peyton and I spent the day handing out cold beer, soda and water along with various sugar and fat-laden treats to Appalachian Trail hikers where the trail crosses Virginia Route 56.

So as not to be an extended house guest, I made forays to Richmond and other parts of Virginia, enjoying the company and hospitality of other good friends.  Richmond in 2016 is very different from the city I left in 1982.  The James River Park system is much expanded with access to Belle Isle.  Warehouses and shuttered factories are becoming condominums and craft breweries or distilleries.  One friend who was colleague and a frequent hiking partner has a house on the Mattaponi River northest of Richmond and hosted a cook-out attended by many of my former colleagues.  Most are retired.  At least one's still working.  We've all changed a lot over the years. We were much younger when I left Richmond.

Even the Civil War battlefields have changed.  The Park Service has acquired new acreage to protect more of the sites and the interpretation is much more inclusive (i.e., African-Americans and Union perspectives in addition to what had always been Confederate-centric.  The National Battlefield Visitor Center is located on the site and remaining buildings of the Tredegar Iron Works which served as the primary iron and artillery production facility for the Confederacy.  When I went to that site in the late 70's, I found it completely overgrown and fenced off.  These days the site is very accessible and busy.  It even includes a statue of Lincoln and his son.

Along with friends from work I also caught up with friends from the Old Dominion Appalachian Trail Club in Richmond.  We hiked along the James River floodwall where we watched ospreys circling above the swift-moving water and saw the restored canal locks at Rocketts Landing.  Like the Tredegar, the locks were not part of anything Richmond paid attention to.  One of the friends I saw was the leader of my first club hike (where I met three of the friends I visited on this trip).  He was 58 then and could outhike any of us 30-somethings.  These days he's 94 and still going, although more slowly.  Another friend is in his early 80's and has completed most of a cross country walk.  He plans to finish next year.

Not all of the hiking club friends were in Richmond.  I traveled to Harrisonburg, Virginia, met two others and we headed to a third hiker's place in Sugar Knob, West Virginia.  We spent a fine evening talking and just taking in the solitude.  The following day we did a short hike to the High Knob fire tower and along the ridge before calling it quits in the rain.  Heading back to Nelson County I followed Skyline Drive through Shenandoah Park to Rockfish Gap where I picked up the Blue Ridge Parkway and followed it to Reids Gap, one my most special places.

Two weeks later I joined one of those friends on an Appalachian Trail work trip.  She maintains a section of the trail in Shenandoah National Park.  She, a club member who came down from the DC suburbs, another woman and I spent about three hours weed-whacking and mowing sections of the trail on a hot, humid day followed by a picnic lunch in the shade and another three hours of conversation.

In late May, I spent two days camping at Elizabeth Furnace Recreation Area west of Front Royal, Virginia.  The recreation area is located in Fort Valley which bisects northern end of the Massanutten Mountain.  I first hiked and camped there in the summer of 1972 after returning from Vietnam.   The valley was secluded, mostly farm and pasture along Passage Creek and national forest on the slopes and ridgelines.  It was a welcome refuge then and I was pleased to see that the valley has changed little since then.  I saw a new house here and there and what had been a crossroad in the valley now has only one business, altough the buildings remain.  I hiked a short distance on the Signal Knob Trail but spent much of the time just watching the light filter through the trees and listening to the creek flow.

 There's more to this story--the trip out, the trip back, the week between leaving Virginia and finally heading home--but this is probably enough for now.  I'll leave those stories for another post.

One item goes without saying but I will say thank you to all the friends who shared their homes and time with me.   Our time together was the whole point of the trip and reminds me that I am a very lucky man.

The Zion Death March

Thirty years ago I just about bought the farm in Zion National Park.  Here's the story.

A challenging four-day loop in Zion National Park, that’s what we planned.  A challenging loop with a near fatal fall for me, borderline hypothermia and sheer exhaustion for us all is what we got.  We ended alive and thankful, all too aware of what a close call it was.  The years since have not diminished that memory.

Setting out on a pretty summer Thursday in late June 1985, Randy, Greg, Gary and I are prepared to scramble and even swim part of our route down Kolob Canyon, a narrow side canyon that feeds into the South Fork of the Virgin River.  Then we walk down the river to the park road.  About 25 miles total, all sheer-walled narrow canyon.  , No place to be during thunderstorms or high water.  That’s why we’re here in June; the water is lowest and chance of thunderstorms is low.  Most people hike the Zion Narrows via a more accessible route from the east.  We are taking the route less traveled.  We’ve been hiking Arizona and the southwest together for the past few years as members of the Central Arizona Backpackers Association and know each others capability well.  We’re pretty confident that we’re ready for this trip. 

The first day’s walk is nothing surprising for anyone who’s hiked in canyon country.   We follow the West Rim trail straight up a thousand feet from the Virgin River.  The climb is steep, offering ever more grand views into the dark and deep narrow gorge we will exit three days from now.  A side trail takes us out to Angel's Landing, an isolated knob high above the river.  The trail is a knife edge with a chain railing that provides welcome support for me.  The drop off on either side is precipitous and long.  At the landing I can peer straight down at the river far below.  Back on the West Rim Trail, we are actually on pavement for the first two miles--the ultimate tourist trail.  A ranger passes by on a three wheeler.  Vistas from the rim are grand:  intriguing and unusually shaped rock stretches off to the horizon.  We camp early after a hard 12 mile day.

Friday begins in the wonderful coolness of early morning but turns tricky early on.  We can’t find the route into Kolob Canyon.  The ranger at the station above the canyon isn’t much help.  That’s typical of the Park Service response to our inquiries on this trip.  The rangers at the backcountry office weren’t much help either.  They told us only that hiking in Kolob Canyon is not recommended but take 75 feet of rope if you go.  We have the rope.  The rangers had no information about water levels but we know from the route description that water is lowest in late June.  We think know the score.

Using dead reckoning, map, compass and, we drop into one drainage and thrash our way through brush to a 100 foot sheer drop.  It looks climbable but we rope up to be safe.  One by one we climb down to a ledge on belay.  Off belay, Gary finds a route to a flat area without rope.  I follow but pick a slightly different route that looks a bit easier.  I edge my way cautiously down.  My toehold breaks.  I slide down the rock wall, digging with my hands trying to slow my fall.  I don't slow.  The canyon edge looms ahead.  No time to think.  I drop over the edge with panicked, “Oh shit!”  And just when I know that I am about to die, I land on brush and timber wedged into a narrow defile a few feet below the edge.  Rock and debris continue to fall as I scramble off the brush to a rock a ledge.  I am terrified.  Fuck.  I should be dead or maimed now. 

Gary is first to the rim to see what became of me and it tell him that I’m okay but don’t want to move unless I am roped up.  That takes a while as Randy and Greg are still making their way down the first wall.  Once they are down and I am secured to a rope, I easily scramble out, shaken and scared.  I lay back to regain my composure.

For all of the drama and sphincter-puckering fear encountered, it turns out that this is not the correct route.  We climb back up the wall and find a rest spot.  I debate whether to continue.  My fall left me banged up and shaken but not seriously injured.  My partners offer to walk back the way we came. I regain my composure and decide to continue.  I don't really want to walk back on the West Rim.  We try another route.  The right one this time.  We chimney down a rock chute.  My back and hips are sore from the fall but I make the descent with little trouble.  We can hear Kolob Creek below us but encounter another drop.  We're hungry and tired; the day is late so we make camp.  It's been a long, long day.  Tomorrow will be better, walking a slot canyon with swims around a couple waterfalls.  Maybe even fun.  For better or worse, the only way out for us now is down the canyon.

Saturday we reach Kolob Creek and find lots of water, far more than we expected.  Instead, it looks like we'll be in water far more than we planned.  We pick our way along the banks and encounter lots of brush that makes for slow going.  I wish I had an internal frame pack--my external frame snags on everything.  Now we're in the creek.  The water is cold and the creekbed is rocky.  Damn, this is fucked.  We come to our first waterfall.  We toss our packs (with gear thoroughly encased in plastic) over and jump behind them.  I plunge into the water but cannot float with my heavy boots and parka filling with water.  I call to Gary for help and he pushes my pack over to me.  I grab on for life and make the shore, wet and cold.  Little sun filters into this narrow canyon to warm us.  We keep our warmth by eating and burning energy as we pick our way down Kolob Canyon.  We've got to make it to the Virgin River by nightfall; camping in a narrow canyon like this is very risky, even in good weather. 

At the second waterfall we are looking at 50 or more feet of sheer-walled canyon with water sluicing through it after we negotiate the fall’s 20 foot plunge.  Greg comments dryly, “Shouldn’t we be hearing 'Dueling Banjos' about now?"  Laughter breaks the tension and we set about negotiating the waterfall.  We lower Greg over the fall on the rope.  He lunges out on his backpack, paddling and kicking furiously as he tries to break free of the roiling water at the base of the fall.  Then he's gone.  He reappears in a second attempt as futile as the first.  Undertow!  We hoist him back up and rethink our approach. 

Some previous hiker anchored a D ring to the rock at the top of the waterfall.  Someone in our group--not me--knows how to rig the rope on the D ring so we can retrieve it.  We tie other end of the rope to Gary's pack and heave over the undertow.  The pack floats down the narrows where it snags on rocks at the narrows' end.  We tug on the rope and find it snug.  Gary lowers himself through the waterfall and begins pulling himself down the narrows.  Randy, Greg ad I pull the rope taut so he can keep his head above water.  He reaches his pack, wraps the rope around his waist and stretches it tight over the narrows. 

I'm first to follow.  Wearing gloves, I put my weight on the rope, expecting to drop into the water like Gary.  Instead, I find myself suspended above the maelstrom and quickly haul myself hand over hand through the narrows to shallow water.  What a ride!  I would never have thought myself up to it.  Amazing what necessity will do.  Greg and Randy send the rest of our packs down the rope using carabiners.  I retrieve the packs and then the others follow.  We retrieve the rope, having rigged it so cleverly.  We're wet and cold.  We fire up the stoves and drink hot water.

That was the last of the two expected jump and swims but we're still in water from here on, picking our way around rocks and debris.  The water is ankle to waist deep.  And cold.  The day is getting late and we have no idea how far till we reach the Virgin River.  Only hope is to keep pushing on.  But we can't.  We're hungry and light is fading.  No choice but to camp and hope.  We find a spit of sand large enough to the four of us and fall into place.  Despite the all the water today, our gear is dry.  We eat and crawl into our bags uneasily.  I'm close enough to the stream that a drop of water occasionally splashes into my face, making me think rain.  I can't see the sky so I don't know what the weather will be like.  I sleep fitfully despite physical and mental exhaustion.  During the night Greg drills a hole in his big toenail to relieve the pressure of a blood blister from a banged up toe.

Sunday morning we are battered, tired and almost out of food.  Yesterday's effort consumed much of what we had.  I begin the day with a freeze dried omelet, a granola bar and a Slim Jim.  Not much fuel for what will be a long day's walk.  Gary has a bagel and some gorp as we leave camp so he seems well supplied by comparison.  We reach the North Fork of the Virgin River after a short hike.  Thank god!  Now just 8 more miles to the entrance to the narrows and the end of our route.  No waterfalls on this leg but water is high in places, much higher than in Kolob, with chest deep wades and a few swims.  Bottom rocks are much slicker here so footing is tough.  I fall a lot; each time getting up is more difficult.  I eat the last of my food around mid morning.  Greg drinks the last of his maple syrup.  The day is long and hard.  Will it never end?  The narrows are starkly beautiful:  dark, sheer walls rising a thousand feet or more overhead.  Little sunlight reaches us as we pass through.  I can appreciate the beauty of this place but what I really just want to get out of here. 

After a few hours wading, swimming and falling, I see two guys sunbathing on a large rock in the middle of the river.  Tourists!  We can't be far.  But the tourists were ambitious and the remaining distance is farther than we think.  Time drags.  Energy is low.  My body is battered, beaten and banged.  My legs have been flayed by a million thorns, brambles and branches.  I look thoroughly flogged.  Moving is an effort but I have no choice.  I manage somehow.  We are all hungry and tired.  We use our remaining strength to plod on and encourage each other.  More people!  A ranger followed by a TV camera asks if we saw a Girl Scout troop upstream.  I think of all the places where this group of six-footers had to wade and swim and hope those Girl Scouts are holed up somewhere or went out the way they came in. 

Finally we are nearing the end.  The canyon opens up and is crowded with people enjoying the water on this bright, sunny day.  We pass by like specters from another dimension.  We are, shivering in our parkas and straining to walk.  I am far removed from these happy frolickers in their bikinis with air mattresses, children and video cameras.  All I can think about is pain and the difficulty of taking each step.  I am beginning to warm up in the sun but feel like I will never be really warm again.  We reach the end of the trail and collapse.  Randy hitchhikes back to the truck.  We are out!  I am alive. 

After the hike, I am laid up for about a week, moving with great difficulty.  That’s when the enormity of it all hits me.  By all rights I should be dead.  Surviving that fall was sheer luck.  And the desperate route down Kolob Canyon could have easily killed any of us from hypothermia.  The fact that I am alive to ponder all of this is no relief from the shock and fear.  The following weeks are very sobering. 

Sometime later I hear from Greg.  Looking at map during the hike we all noticed that upstream from the point where we dropped into Kolob Canyon was Kolob Reservoir.  Greg managed to track down the dam operator to inquire about water releases around the time we were in the canyon.  We had expected about 5 to 7 cubic feet per.  Greg learned from the operator that releases had been increased to around 35 cfs just prior to our hike, which explains why we encountered so much water.  Had we known about that—the backcountry office never said anything about water releases—our plans would likely have changed; our pre-hike information warned about the danger of hiking in the canyon during periods of high water.  I like to think we were sufficiently smart to act on that information.  As it was, we were very lucky.  Sure, we brought a certain amount of skill to the whole affair but luck was surely with us.

Later hikers were not so lucky.  In July 1993 a group of 13 teenagers and three adults rappelled into Kolob Canyon and encountered high water.  The two most experienced leaders died shortly after entering the canyon as they tried to get past a plunge pool.  That would be the first waterfall we encountered not long after we reached the creek on Day Three.  The surviving adult did not attempt to go forward and huddled with the hungry, cold teens in a small alcove beneath a cliff to await rescue, which came five days later.  A story in the Salt Lake Tribune reported that the water flow was 28 cfs.  Once again I was reminded my good fortune eight years earlier.

Okefenokee in Real Time

Even this far south, at the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge in almost-Florida southeast Georgia, the temperature is in the low 30’s.  Much better than the sub-freezing Atlanta snowmageddon we passed through to get here but still cold for sitting in an aluminum canoe on a foggy morning at Stephen C. Foster State Park.  Maggie is in the bow.  My brother Neil and long-time friend Peyton are alongside us.  I try to remember how to steer a canoe. 

We make our way out a short canal to an open, wide channel of the Suwannee River.  I practice paddling and steering from the stern, figuring out how to coordinate with Maggie paddling from the bow.  Our route is a simple: follow the Red Trail 9 miles up the Middle Fork of the Suwanee River to Big Water Lake (an interesting term for describing an interior feature of a very large swamp which also has prairies), camp on the platform there Friday night, return on the Red Trail, paddle 2 miles past the state park channel on the Suwannee to camp on land at Mixons Hammock Saturday and return to Stephen C. Foster park on Sunday. 

The trail turns north into a narrow channel that follows the Middle Fork of the Suwanee.  The cypress trees are close in as we pick our way around brush and debris here and there.  Everywhere I look is water, yet vegetation is so dense that it almost seems like land.  White herons are everywhere.  Some blue herons and snowy egrets, too.  We reach the rest stop at Minnies Lake after after two-and-a-half hours.  We’re paddling about a mile-and-a-half per hour against some current and occasional headwind.  Steady but not fast.

The sun comes out as we leave Minnies Lake.  With just over five miles to go, we should be in 4:30-5:00 at the latest.  More birds, this time a pileated woodpecker and cormorants.  No alligators sited, though.  We pass Milepost 22 and soon spot a trail sign that says “Shelter” with an arrow pointing in the direction we are headed.  Camp will be soon.  I’m ready.  My butt is sore and my arms are tired from paddling.  Besides we only have about an hour or so of light to make camp and dinner.  I’m ready to be in now.

But no shelter comes into view.  We keep paddling, looking hard for signs of a man-made structure.  Passing Milepost 21, I begin to get that uneasy feeling I had hiking when I thought I might have missed a turnoff to a shelter.  In this swamp, there’s no alternative—no land to camp on if we don’t find the shelter.  The thought of sleeping in the boats chills me in more ways than one.  I paddle with determination.  After another 20 or so anxious minutes, the platform comes into view, much to everyone’s relief. 

We land and begin making camp.  The platform has a vault toilet and a sloped roof over about half of the space.  Peyton’s tent is at the far end in the open.  Neil’s in the middle under the roof.  Maggie and I are on the opposite end in the open.    We are using a rental tent and must figure out how to set it up.  It’s a free standing REI Half Dome with a fly that works best staked in four directions.  I manage to stake the vestibules on each side wedging the stakes between the platform planks.  Dinner is fast.  A few stories, some discussion about the difference between actual trail miles and map mileage (probably due to the recent relocation of the shelter), hot chocolate and to bed.  Sky is partly cloudy but open enough to see Jupiter rising in the east.

A rain shower begins after midnight.  One or two more follow.  Owls hoot in the wee hours.  At first light the platform is wet but no rain is falling.  All around I see swamp enveloped in fog, dark waters dissolving into mist and sky.  This is one of those epiphany moments when I am both in wonder of the experience and the good fortune in life that brought me here.  Yesterday’s long paddle is fully justified in this moment. 

Another shower during breakfast but it ends quickly and we are able to pack up dry.  We bail the boats using my tent sponge in lieu of the more traditional car wash sponge which we don’t have.  We’re on the water by 10:00, expecting rain.  Maggie and I are first out and spot an alligator lying in the tall grass on the far side of the channel.  Occasional patches of fog hover on the water.

Although we are following yesterday’s route, its reverse is every bit as challenging and interesting.  Despite expectations, no rain falls.  The current is with us—nice for cruising down an open straight stretch, not as nice when cautiously trying to thread a canoe under brush and around logs.  I think I have mastered the basics of paddling and steering a canoe but it’s still awkward at times.  Fewer birds are out this morning it seems.  We spot a red tailed hawk perched high when it calls out as we approach.  It watches us as we pass under and away from it.  Woodpeckers drum back and forth.

Lunch is on the platform at Minnies Lake.  Across the channel a white heron is methodically hunting in the tall grass.  A solo kayaker passes by heading north and returns shortly.  He’s the first person we’ve seen in over 24 hours.  Peyton loans me his kayak paddle to try out.  The technique is different but I quickly understand how it allows for steering without the loss of momentum that comes with the steering movements of a single paddle.  I understand that but in a few tight spots I wish I had a single paddle.  Back on the Suwannee, I can crank out easily with the kayak paddle.  We encounter a flotilla of Boy Scouts, not all of whom fully control their canoes.  Signs point toward the Suwannee River Sill and Cravens Hammock. 

Not seeing Mixons Hammock among the destinations leaves us a bit uneasy after last night’s extra distance.  We know we’re heading in the right direction and keep paddling.  We pass a vulture tree—a cluster of trees, actually, with 40 to 50 vultures roosting.  Another sign points the route the Sill and Cravens Hammock through a narrow channel.  Since it’s the only option we follow it and after a few twists and turns we spot a sign for Mixons Hammock on a cable suspended across the entry to the dock. 

No shelter here—just a dock with toilet and a short boardwalk to solid ground.  The campsite has a fire ring and some marginal sites.  It’s surrounded by skinny trees supporting a moss-draped canopy.  The underbrush has a lot of the low palm plant that is so prevalent in this part of the country.  Maggie and I fully stake out the tent and rainfly.  The tent leaked a bit last night at the head and foot because water got between the ground cloth and tent floor.  Dinner is a more leisurely than last night.  Peyton gets a fire started but it never gets going strong due to the wet wood.  Still the smoke keeps the few mosquitoes at bay.  I make pesto tortellini for all.  The two day old crescent moon hangs low in the western at the end of twilight. We’re up a bit later tonight but it’s still an early evening

Sunday morning is foggy and wet.  Tent didn’t leak but there’s much condensation inside the rainfly and lots of moisture on the exterior.  I’m happy that I’m not sleeping in this tent tonight. 

Heading out, fog lies low on the water in places.  Neil and Peyton are far enough ahead that their wake is not evident---we have glass-smooth water ahead.  We pass the vulture tree.  Vultures are roosting and flying on both sides of the channel.  A few fly overhead.  Maggie spots an alligator.  This one is mostly submerged—only its eyes, nostrils and a bit of tail are visible above water.

Soon we reach the channel leading back to Stephen C. Foster State Park.  We pull in before noon.  Neil and I grab a quick shower at the campground.  Now it’s time to find some food that someone else will cook while we sit at a table.  Then back to Atlanta.