Road Trip 2012 Part 2: Onto the Navajo Nation

7/19/12: Early departure, a two hundred mile day ahead.  I’d planned to transit northeast to Monument Valley and view the mesas and buttes.  Hesitation; I’d talked to a lot of tourists who had been or were going there.  It sounded crowded, and I worried about finding a quiet place to camp.  It would likely be hazy.  During my post North Kaibab siesta, I decided to divert to Navajo National Monument.  It was on the way to Monument Valley, with interesting cliff dwellings and hikes. 

So north from the Kaibab campsite, fuel and weak coffee in Jacob Lake.  East and downhill off the East Kaibab Monocline.  I’d woken to overcast skies; better for driving, also cut the haze.  Around a curve, and there were the Vermillion Cliffs, across House Rock Valley.  I was loosing elevation but going upsection into younger rocks.  Farewell to the Paleozoic for a while; here was newer stratigraphy to comprehend.  The Vermillion Cliffs delimit the southern edge of the Paria Plateau, another step in the Grand Staircase.  The Paria dips to the north; it’s famous for the numerous slot canyons that slice it up in Utah.  Sigh, maybe on some other trip.

Vermillion Cliffs, Arizona

The road ran along the base of the Cliffs; lovely exposures of Moenkopi, Chinle and Moenave Formations in purple, lavender, and many shades of red.  The colors reflect terrestrial origins; Triassic streams and their brethren.  Echoes of the movements of North America; the rising mountains to the (current) west, a gradual drying with drift away from the equator.  But cliffs mean recycling; I passed fully house-sized blocks of Moenave (I think), fallen from the heights. 

This trip has felt different than my last several jaunts, domestic or international.  My interior seems more settled, less troubled.  I feel less relief at leaving the normal behind; not more internal continuity, but less roiled.  Transitions seem to be proximate causes for this; different work, different martial art, different sports.  I may just be more deeply fatigued, given endurance racing and an intense job.  No worries, I’ll take smoother and more even as long as it lasts. 

Northwest and a hairpin over the Colorado River at Marble Canyon.  South to Bitter Springs, now with the Echo Cliffs to the east.  Through Antelope Pass, another step up the Staircase into the Navajo Sandstone: Jurassic sand dunes.  The same stuff all over the Plateau and a bit beyond: truly an erg in the Saharan style.

Clearer and hotter as Trixy and I headed into Page, the home of the infamous Glen Canyon Dam and Navajo Generation Station.  This coal-fired complex is climate alteration in action (not that I had much moral superiority, burning hydrocarbons as I rode past).  While Page has a great new school complex and lots of churches, it is also the spawn of Lake Powell (the death of Glen Canyon) and its attendant recreation: large powered watercraft.  Nonetheless, it did have fuel.  And a Walmart, which was avoided.

I punched further east across a rolling Navajo Sandstone surface; remnant fossil dunes protruding through drifts of sand – modern dune – likely eroded from them.  This was the Navajo Nation; an area about the size of West Virginia that’s home to about 200,000 Navajo (and Hopi on their lands near the core of the Nation).  Access to the land is proscribed without invitation, other than towns, parks, and tourist facilities.  And the through roads: first world arteries through the Nation.  Passing among a different culture at high speed gave me vague echoes of past third world experiences.  The Navajo have been pastoralists for the past few centuries; family ranches dotted the landscape; sheep, cattle, horses and at least one goat dotted the plains.  The randomness of both reminded me of the high veldt of South Africa; maybe the rolling landscape as well.  This raised comparisons to Australia.  The Aboriginals seem to cluster in their settlements, rather than this spreading out; perhaps this reflects the hunter-gatherer culture.  Both cultures have been deeply abused by European immigrants; both have recovered somewhat, at least partially through art.  Here in Navajoland, art takes the form of jewelry, rock painting weaving, and pottery.  I am sure these forms have traditional uses, but they are also a great income source, if the density of curio tables at every tourist stop is an indication. 

Outside of Kaibeto on Route 98, Trixy rolled over 100,000 miles.  I’ll buy her a new air filter in Farmington to celebrate.  Kaibeto, hmmm.  I’d been crossing the Kaibito Plateau (more Navajo Sandstone), but this place name and others – Comb Wash, Black Mesa – kept tweaking my memory.  Running northeast on Highway 180, the origin finally came to me; this is the territory of The Monkey Wrench Gang.  This novel by Ed Abbey documents the exploits of a quartet of characters who are sick of the desecration of the Southwest by development; their ultimate goal is to blow up Glen Canyon Dam.  The narrative’s sense of place, humor, and outrageous exploits were an inspiration to me and many others to explore the Southwest.  I passed a coal train and the conveyor belt from the Black Mesa coal mine that are both blown up in the book.  Eerily, though I had not seen these machines before, they looked just like my mental imagery from my readings.  I smiled.

The Navajo National Monument turnoff.  Nine miles through the Nation, slowing for cattle and horses on the road.  The campground was rustic and largely empty; excellent.  I picked a site in the most remote corner, and set up my tent, just in time for the afternoon monsoon.  As I wrote earlier, it was largely an overcast day; this foreshadowed a long afternoon storm.  I sat in Trixy and read, napped, and wrote.

Rainbow and monsoon, Navajo National Monument, AZ

Eventually, a break in the weather; time for a hike to view Betatakin ruins at Tsegi Point.  Betatakin is a 11th Century settlement.  The 150 or so Ancestral Puebloans who lived here farmed along the stream bottoms in the miles around the site.  It was occupied for less than 100 years; like the rest of this culture, the reasons behind this are lost.  I was interested to learn that the Zuni and Hopi at minimum are the builder’s descendants.  Betatakin and Keet Seel, the other accessible ruin in the Monument, are still used for ceremonial purposes.

I shadowed a French family along the paved trail.  Everyone I met here was either French or American.  Do the French favor American archeology?  I’ve read that Germans have fondness for travelling the remnants of Route 66.  I didn’t ask. 

The trail terraced along the rim of Tsegi Canyon, eventually to the overlook.  I looked out.  A number of erosional alcoves formed recessed amphitheatres in the sandstone; they reminded me of similar features in the Wittenoom Formation in Australia.  Some of the latter showed signs of transient Aboriginal use; charcoal and petroglyphs.  Betatakin was a very different level of habitation.  It sat in the deepest amphitheatre, subtle in the afternoon post-monsoonal shadow.  Its structures were dark tan like the rock, striking in their humanness – people lived here – but also seeming a right blend with the environment.  I took pictures, glad I’d lugged my telephoto the mile from the campground.  More details popped out as I contemplated; it was much bigger than at first glance.  I’d been ambivalent about going on a ranger-guided hike (the only way to have access) to Betatakin the next morning; this convinced me to sign up.

7/20/12 - 8:15 am: I met the ranger and four other hikers – all women - for the five mile roundtrip.  We followed a trail built by Civilian Conservation Corps for archeological research – I’d love to know the full story of the personalities behind this.  Like early paleontology in the Western US, it sounds like the first round of archeology was dominated by a few strong individuals.  They got the basic work done; like paleontology, it’s now being refined and updated with new work and techniques.  For example I learned later at Aztec National Monument that the local pottery, based on mass spectrometer analysis, contained traces of cacao.  So the Ancient Pubeloans were in contact with groups in Mexico.  No other way to know this. 

I was glad for the CCC work as I made the lovely 1000 foot drop through the Navajo Sandstone, especially after the ranger pointed out the crack that the Puebloans used to ascend.  Before the descent I had spent ten minutes staring up Long Canyon; Navajos hid from Kit Carson’s pogrom along this through going stream; the Puebloans farmed there.  The hike had frequent pauses as the ranger, a Navajo, told us about medicinal plants and human history (a little geology too).  Good stuff; calibrated properly for the audience.  I was touched when the ranger’s personality came out.  She recited the historical facts well, but when talking about Navajo culture (her mother is an herbalist, her grandfather was a medicine man) her face would animate and her language would switch to a mix of 20-something American and Navajo dialects, e.g., “like, my family’s had this outfit (ranch) for years” with interrogative on the final word. 

View up Long Canyon, Navajo NM, Arizona

We came to Betatakin after a sweaty final mile along a sandy drift; probably wind and stream formed.  The upper part of Tsegi Canyon is also a bit of relict Pleistocene forest.  In contrast to the sage-dominated landscape we’d hiked through, this area had dense growth of Gambel oak, Douglas Fir, aspens, and many other regionally unusual plants, including poison ivy.  We hiked through a microforest, pretty cool.  I presume that the orientation of this canyon plus sufficient water, have allowed this biota to hang on. 

Up close, in its alcove, Betatakin looked both solid and ephermal.  People built this by hand 600 years ago.  They are gone save in various legends, but the place has persisted.  Betatakin originally had ~120 rooms, but now has about 90; via a post-habitation landslide.  While we had a good view, it wasn’t possible to actually enter the ruins.  The structures are fragile, and plenty of loose rock is still available should gravity become interested.  I felt privileged to be close.  The tour concluded with a look at a variety of pictographs.  Allowed to hike out on my own, i.e., fast, I decided to visit more Puebloan ruins on this trip.  I’ve been hooked.  I’ll have to come back here for the Keet Seel ruins; that’s a 17 mile return hike.  

Betatakin Ruin, Navajo NM, Arizona

A final stop at the VC for a book on archeology and I was off.  So to Monument Valley or not?  The haze looked thin, so I made the turn at Kayenta and raced the 22 miles up Route 163, passing pickups and mobile homes, being passed by American muscle cars.  An abundance of the latter seemed to be driven by Europeans; an Americana part of the holiday I assume, though I can’t imagine stuffing a family of four into a Mustang for a thousand miles.  Monument Valley was heralded by Agaltha Butte; one of a series of peaks that define a series of north-south dikes of mafic igneous rock, often encasing forlorn chunks of De Chelly Sandstone.  

Monument Valley Tribal Park –the point of access - was everything I expected.  It was a genuine tourist trap, and rightly so; the Monument Valley landscape is world class.  However, the development is the moral equivalent of a casino in that it draws a large part of the tourist population and is basically a mint for the Navajo Nation, between the entrance fees, hotel (fantastic at sunrise I bet), restaurant, gift shop, tours, and museum.  Alas, for my purposes, the haze was present, and it was very much way too crowded.  I did not want to subject Trixy to the long bumpy dirt road among the buttes and mesas.  I took the obligatory pictures and headed south towards Canyon de Chelly.

Monument Valley, Arizona

Southwest on Tribal Route 59 through even more valleys defined by even more steps in the Grand Staircase.  This analogy was beginning to fail me as I travelled further on the Colorado Plateau.  There are so many broad upwards and downwarps that the “steps” run every which way.  For example, heading to Canyon de Chelly, I was going back downsection into the Paleozoic, sort of violating the analogy.  Like most good geology, the model rarely survives contact with reality. 

I was getting tired; Monument Valley was over 100 degrees; now, at 5 pm, the temperature was holding at 90.  Trixy and I intersected Rt. 191 at Many Farms (not visible, just lots of kids on skateboards).  This was the turn south to Chinle, the Navajo town adjacent to Canyon de Chelly, where I’d booked a hotel room: time to get clean.  I thought, an easy 20 minutes.  Road work turned this into more than an hour.  I got to Chinle on metabolic fumes.  Checked in, I ran to my room to make sure the bathroom functioned in all its capacities.  A long shower, a run (in the gym; it was still 90 and monsoonal outdoors), another shower, some laundry, and sleep. 

7/21/12:  Awake at 4:30.  Why?  I had no idea.  Maybe my internal clock was finally set to be up and coherent for early morning photography.  Problem: early morning here seemed to be around 6:30.  Canyon de Chelly is another National Monument, but the canyon floor remains actively occupied and farmed by Navajo family.  Tourists are limited to rim views, one hike, and guided tours.  I aimed to do the first two.  I like this accommodation of traditional use with tourism; it seems like a compromise that provides both traditional and appropriate visitor access. 

Trixy and went out the South Rim Drive.  I was excited; I was actually up and out early enough.  I when to the Spider Rock overlook: the iconic view of Canyon de Chelly.  No one was there – cool.  I went to the overlook.  The Canyon was both hazy and 100% backlit.  Bugger.  Still, this is what nature provided, so I took pictures, and studied the gorge as I worked my way back to the hotel. 

A massive amount of carbs and a carafe of marginal coffee later complements of the hotel breakfast bar, Trixy and I retraced our route along the South Rim Drive.  The light was much better now, even with the sun relatively high and lower contrast. 

Canyon de Chelly was genuinely beautiful.  All the accolades in my guidebooks were unequivocally well deserved.  In contrast to the Grand Canyon, with its many cliffs and intervening ledges, here there was the rim, a vertical cliff of sandstone, and a flat valley floor.  The Canyon deepened upstream, becoming more striking with depth.  The bottom lands were dotted with Navajo dwellings, and cultivated fields.  The colors of these features, joined to the sheer walls of the canyon, were lovely.  OK, I liked the bits where erosion had highlighted the fossil sand dunes as well.  It’s been the most moving site so far on this trip.  I can’t believe it took me 32 years to get here.

Spider Rock, Canyon de Chelly National Park, AZ, during the afternoon monsoon.

Canyon de Chelly National Park, AZ

The walls and floor of Canyon de Chelly are peppered with dozens of Puebloan ruins.  Only one is available to tourists; White House Ruin trail on the Canyon floor.  After Navajo National Monument, I had to go see it.  So did at least 100 other visitors.  A 700 foot drop, again shadowing any number of French families.  Signs at the bottom reminded visitors not to photograph Navajo dwellings.  This did not apply to looking at the Navajo crafts for sale at the many tables set up along the trail.  I didn’t.  White House Ruin, named for one vaguely gray-white structure, was tucked into a niche at the base of a sheer cliff.  In contrast to Betatakin, It looked like this cavity had been eroded by stream action rather than landslides.

White House Ruin, Canyon de Chelly National Park, Arizona

Egress from Canyon de Chelly via the North Rim Drive.  I was getting a little tired, and the views, while continuing to be heart-stopping, were beginning to blur.  A T-junction and south on Tribal Route 12.  I was in the Navajo backcountry.  The road was pretty beat up, but still in good nick by California standards.  I passed many settlements: Wheatfields, Upper Wheatfields, Navajo, Fort Defiance.  As I zoned out I had time to collate my drive through cultural observations: 1) there’s an age gradient in Navajo dress, from traditional in the elders (western wear on the men, long dresses on the women) to urban in the youth.  2) Everyone seemed to drive American made (or badged) vehicles.  3) Navajos like to play in the water and fish, based on the crowd at Red Lake. 

I stopped for fluids in Window Rock, the capitol of the Navajo Nation.  I was the only non-native in the store.  No worries, good to feel the dissociation.  Now east on Route 264 to Gallup and New Mexico.  I began to see other Caucasians.  Many were driving foreign cars. 

My destination was the Bisti Wilderness Area (more new geology) north of Crownpoint.  Gallup provided a salad, fluids for Trixy and me, and a near lethal dose of overwhelming urban crowdedness.  I fled east on I-40 over the Continental Divide; this continued the agony as I tried to stay alert at the speed limit of 75 mph.  It was after 6, and I was fading quickly.  Finally off the motocross and north on Route 371, back through Mesozoic sandstone cliffs onto a higher undulating plain of shaly rocks.  Back onto the Nation.  A few differences from Arizona; lots of graffiti on road signs, many undefaced, hand lettered signs for substance abuse recovery programs.

The drive across the plain provided frightening views of the evening’s monsoon: rainfall and lightening in every quadrant of the compass.  Crownpoint came and went; where the hell was this place?  I was still in the Navajo Nation; I knew that much from the vehicles. 

Finally, the BLM sign to Bisti appeared.  It did not agree with my atlas.  I cast around and decided that my atlas wrong and should be burned.  I took the turn; three miles of gravel, finally a trail head.  

Road Trip 2012 Part One: Exfoliation: Home to Grand Canyon

7/14/12: My vacation began at about 7:20 PM on Saturday night.  I was lined up with about 1600 other people at the start line of the Davis MOOnlight Half Marathon.  It was hot and clear; I was tired from a day of final trip preparations.  Also impatient; the race was starting late.  Finally, a countdown, and we headed out.  One hour and about 55 minutes, 13.1 miles, and many, many turns later, I crossed the finish with a good sprint.  I was satisfied with my time given the heat and crowded trails.  My running companions finished; we staggered around the rapidly cooling Davis night, hydrating, eating, stretching, and debriefing our runs.  Home and a final night in my bed. 

MOOnlight Half Marathon medal and recovery items

 7/15/12: A deep stiff sleep, enough to get Trixy packed up and get on the road.  East across the Great Valley to Manteca, then southeast towards Bakersfield.  The day heated rapidly.  The Great Valley is underlain by a thick pile of marine sedimentary rock – muds and sandy landslide deposits - shed from the volcanoes that once capped the granites of the Sierra Nevada.  Today’s Andes Mountains are a pretty good analogue.  These marine rocks are covered by a veneer of yet more sediments – largely terrestrial - shed from today’s Sierra Nevada and its associated halo of metamorphic rocks.  None of this was visible; only the road and numerous towns – Turlock, Merced, Madera, Fresno, Kingsburg, Visalia, Tulare, Earlimart, separated by numerous fields and orchards.  The air was heavy; I felt like I was at the bottom of the Great Valley when it was marine.  I kept drinking water laced with enough coffee to keep me functional.

Finally, Bakersfield; the south end of the Sierra finally looming out of the haze.  Time to turn east and over Tehachapi Pass.  Trixy climbed out of the Valley, transecting us over the southern Sierra tip.  Great Valley sediments, granodiorites (sensu lato), metamorphic rocks, and granite all in various states of deformation sped by in the outcrops.  Tehachapi was bigger than in memory; a Home Depot looming over the road.  Downhill into Cameron Canyon, and suddenly I was in the Mojave: high desert and the western margin of the Basin and Range Province.  Goodbye to the Sierra and anything resembling normal tectonics, i.e., what I’d dare explain to my classes.  Joshua trees dotted the landscape.  The road turned northeast for a while along the Garlock Fault, which offsets the south end of the Sierra Nevada., giving it a sort of geographic tail which extends out to the southwest.  I’d noticed this anomaly in college, and learned the Garlock’s origin at least twice in grad school, but forgotten it each time.  Oh well, the current interpretation is probably different anyway.

East again, past Mojave town (no sign of weird airplanes in the 100 degree heat) and Edwards Air Force Base (ditto) to Barstow, my first stop.  I was beat from the road, the heat, and the half marathon.  It was hard to think, much less pull my tired body out of Trixy.  I forced myself to indulge in a cheap motel to ensure recovery for the rest of the journey.  But gawd, I was in Barstow.  The nexus of I-15 and I-40 was necessary for tomorrow’s travel, but Main Street was full of tired people on the way to somewhere else: like me.  I could not feel a reason to be here.  Frustrating, uncomfortable, no sense of the place.  Nothing to do but sleep and move on tomorrow.

7/16/12: Awake at 6, up and off for a quick look at the Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow.  I’d come across this geological attraction in a general travel guide; it sounded photogenic.  So a good 45 minutes post sunrise, I turned onto Fossil Cliff Road, bathing Trixy in dust for the first time this summer.  This being America and a BLM-managed site, the Rainbow Basin was largely a driving loop.  Fine, I wanted to move on soon.  I stopped and hiked up a very narrow drainage that cut through deeply eroded and highly deformed muds and silts.  More ignorance.  I don’t know the origin of the Rainbow Basin strata, but they certainly predate the current extent of the Basin and Range.  The drainage was also full of sand, pebbles, and boulders of at least three kinds of granite and a black volcanic rock.  Where did they come from?  I diligently took pictures; the early light was stunning in places as it highlighted the sharply cut rocks.  But not an inspiring landscape; the pale olive, gray and pink rocks felt too washed out; not the spectrum I was expecting.  Maybe I was just tired from the road.

Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow, CA

Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow, CA

Escape from Barstow, across the high desert northeast towards Las Vegas.  I-15: I was still in the Basin and Range, which I’ve written about before, but this southwestern part of the province unsettled me.  It wasn’t pretty.  The landscape looked shattered, worn out, abused.  The mountains here are relatively broad and low in elevation, and buried deeper in fringing sediments, creating a gentler terrain; isolated smashed-looking peaks poking up through the alluvial fans.  I speculated to myself that this reflects the bedrock geology – lots of easily weathered metamorphic and volcanic rocks – and a longer period of extension- the Basin and Range is older here.  The colors were washed out, dull greens, buffs, and grays.  The topography was erratic; there was little apparent pattern to the orientation of mountains and valleys.  Again, I speculated that this reflected weirdness in the geology.  Whatever the varied causes, I was uncomfortable here, even at 70 mph.

Disquiet was a fine introduction to entering Nevada and soon passing through Las Vegas, which has always felt very profane to me.  A quick fuel stop in the smog, and I headed further northeast towards Utah.  At about the Rt. 95 junction, the Basin and Range began to feel familiar.  Why?  I looked at the exposures – oh, the ranges were now held up by limestones, the diced up remnants of the western margin of North America: Paleozoic reefs.  Limestone erodes slowly in deserts, so this made steeper, more dramatic ranges.  They were more linear too; maybe some fundamental change in the bedrock.  All this felt more rational; I could see and track any number of sedimentary layers.  I could relax. 

Fifteen minutes through Arizona, and into Utah.  The Virgin River appeared to the right of the freeway; wow it was deep orange brown; there must have been a lot of monsoon upstream.  I-15 headed up the Virgin River Gorge; this cut transected the eastern edge of the Basin and Range, and exited onto the Colorado Plateau, where I’ll spend the next ten days or so.  Like so much of the other geology of the Western United States, the Colorado Plateau is weird; it’s a thick sequence of Phanerozoic and Precambrian sedimentary rocks which sit on an amalgamation of older metamorphic and igneous basement.  That’s not weird; this basically describes the geology of much of North America.  What’s strange is that the Plateau – encompassing the Four Corners region, has risen more or less upwards over a mile, without much faulting or folding.  The Phanerozoic stratigraphy dips gently to the north (more or less) forming the Grand Staircase – the progressively exposure of younger rocks from south to north from Grand Canyon, Zion, Bryce Canyon, through to Cedar Breaks.  Now this is rational geology; a layer cake on a gross scale, but a lot of interesting variety. 

The Virgin River Gorge was stunning.  Besides being narrow, it exposed the effects of the normal faults that cut the western edge of the Plateau; big slices of rock sliding off to the west, becoming Basin and Range.  I managed to stay on the road.  Also nice to say hello to the strata of the Grand Canyon.

Fatigue was setting in; the slightly cooler temperatures (I was now at about 4000 feet) helped a bit.  St. George, Utah, and a relieved adios to I-15; time to turn southeast to the North Rim of Grand Canyon.  Hurricane, Canyon City, Fredonia; the small towns of the Arizona Strip.  I passed the turn off to Toroweap, in the Western Grand Canyon.  52 miles of dirt to the Rim; a spot where recent volcanoes once dammed the ancestral Colorado.  I badly want to go to Toroweap, besides the geology, it sounds barren, unpopulated, and scenic.  But not in Trixy, who would loose vital underparts; a field vehicle would be nice. 

The road climbed the spine of the East Kaibab Monocline towards Jacob Lake.  The East Kaibab Monocline?  The Colorado Plateau is far from flat; besides the erosion generating the Grand Staircase, it’s gently warped into to a series of higher and lower areas; the East Kaibab is one of the former.

Higher, 6000 feet, 7000 feet.  Finally the turn south and the run to the Canyon.  I had a camping spot in mind in the National Forest north of the National Park, which I’d used in 2008.  The road transited a number of meadows; scant wildflowers gave them a slight color: nice touch.  I found my turn, and went onto gravel.  Thank god the bedrock here is limestone; not much dust.  I found the campsite; empty.  I climbed out of Trixy, stretched, picked out a tent site, and then the afternoon monsoon started.  45 minutes of lightening, hail, thunder, and rain later, I climbed out of Trixy, stretched, and realized the ground was too soaked to contemplate making camp.  So I went for a long walk in the forest.

Eventually, camp, dinner, and the warmth of my sleeping bag.  I’d driven about 870 miles in two days.  This was intense and exhausting.  Hopefully it was transition time, leaving the normal behind and getting into journey mode.

7/17-19:  I camped at this spot for three nights.  Being familiar, I knew it would be a good place to transition from home and drive mode into a slower, observant frame.  At about 8000 feet, it was also right for altitude acclimation. 

If you know me you know that the Grand Canyon is as close as I have to a spiritual center anywhere on this planet.  The developmental and experiential reasons for this are many; it’s something I feel in my core.  While my connections have been deepest when I am below the Rim, I knew this trip needed to start with touching base here.  So I got up the first morning, tweaked my camp, and drove the final twenty miles to the Canyon.  I parked and walked through Grand Canyon Lodge, scoring a relatively strong cup of coffee, out to Bright Angel Point.

The Canyon was still there.  I was still here.  I sat at the point and watched the light change for an hour.  The air was very hazy; the San Francisco Peaks were visible but without much detail, 60 miles away.  I am not sure if this unclarity was from the regrettably ambient pollution from California, Mexico, copper smelters and coal power plants in Arizona or the severe drought conditions much of the Four Corners have been experiencing for the last couple years.  Oh well, I did not need pristine conditions, although it was a bit harder to sense the scale of the gorge due to the decreased contrast.  Home is home.

The Eastern Grand Canyon, from Point Imperial.  Note the haze!

The next two days passed in a succession of drives, hikes, and contemplations.  I went to Point Imperial and contemplated the eastern Canyon for an hour, then repeated at Cape Royal.  The awful light for photography freed me to simply look and see details: jointing patterns in the Coconino Sandstone and the Supai Group, the almost regular vertical ribbing below the Palisades of the Desert.  Both of these viewpoints are on the tourist route, for good reason, so at no point was I alone.  This was as expected and not annoying.  I heard the usual global spectrum of languages.  If the English speakers are any guide, most conversations fell into four categories: 1) geographic or geologic interpretations (usually wrong – reversing north and south was common), 2) efforts to cajole whiny children or adults into at least looking at the view, 3) passive aggressive spousal conversations, and 4) genuine appreciation of the Canyon.  I imply no judgment in listing these; it’s possible that the element of sublime rapture was missing as neither location was a “first viewing” and much driving on windy roads was involved in getting to them. 

Dawn patrol; I was on the trail to Cape Final well before sunrise.  I’d scouted this hike previously, and figured I could manage two miles in the predawn light on an unknown trail.  I got to the Cape, and it was – hazy.  I wasn’t surprised.  However, a new Rim view, so I sat and watched it for a long time.  Peering into the Canyon was unsatisfying, so I went to the North Kaibab Trail and descended.  The North Kaibab goes to the Colorado (5500 feet lower) in fourteen miles.  I aimed to drop to the Supai Group; two miles plus and and 2000 feet.  Getting down was good; the haze was defeated by short range photography.  Excellent; if I was seeing, I was shedding the extraneous masses of home, work, and routine.  I even talked to other hikers and a ranger. 

At Cape Final, looking towards the South Rim

Detail of Coconino Sandstone, North Kaibab Trail.

Final contemplation of a hazy sunset at Bright Angel Point; time to move on.

Brahma and Zoroaster Temples from Bright Angel Point, North Rim, Grand Canyon, AZ

Work Road Trip to the Sierra National Forest

Work Road Trip to the Sierra National Forest

It's unfortunate when you are the designated photographer for a field trip to the Sierra Nevada.  Here are a few early images. 

Granite Textures, Mono Hot Springs

San Joaquin River in HDR, Mono Hot Springs

Yet more San Joaquin River in HDR, Mono Hot Springs

San Joaquin River near Mono Hot Springs

Granite at dawn, San Joaquin River , Mono Hot Springs

San Joaquin River Reflections, Mono Hot Springs

Mile High Vista, Sierra Vista Skyway, Sierra National Forest

Mile High Vista at night, Sierra Vista Skyway, Sierra National Forest
OK, it was humid and windy, but had to post.

One of "The Balls", Sierra Vista Skyway, Sierra National Forest

   

Merry New Year 2012

Another year, a few more pictures.  Many changes during this last orbital cycle.  Key to my the imagery below, I spend less time looking through the lenses because I started running marathons.

Two pieces of evidence:
 

A few medals

Four pairs of worn out shoes - about 1040 miles, 10% races

But I did get outside a few times:

Diablo Foothills Regional Park, January 2011

Kehoe Beach, Pt. Reyes, February 2011

Alvord Hot Springs and Steens Mountain, Oregon, July 2011

Alvord Hot Springs, Oregon, July 2011

Wildflowers, Steens Mountain, Oregon, July 2011

Painted Hills, John Day National Monument, Oregon, July 2011

Painted Hills, John Day National Monument, Oregon, July 2011

Crockett Hills Regional Park, November 2011

Endurance

The first five and a half miles are comfortable. My legs warm up and my breathing evens. Checking my pace and upper body relaxation. I recite affirmations: ten times minimum. I unencumber distracting thoughts and ideas and focus on the run. It all feels quite pleasant. Presently, fatigue begins. A report from below, usually from my legs. I continue.

Prehistory

1973: At thirteen, I stood five feet tall and weighed 112 pounds. I was required to run an 880 – roughly half a mile - during a seventh grade gym class. It was horrible; I was fully intimidated by circling the track so many times. I finished, feeling shamefully slow. This experience reinforced a distaste for sports. I lacked natural coordination, so I’d avoided playing games since kindergarten. I now added a dread of future track and field classes.

1975: At fifteen, I was six foot two and weighted 125. I had stretched, beginning acquisition of my lean adult form. I played the trumpet. To improve my wind, I began to run. My father started too. We both took advantage of the mid 1970s jogging boom. Nike and other firms had launched; it became easy to get good running shoes. I still miss my first pair of Adidas blue runners, though I shutter to remember how little support they had. I worked out a series of three to four mile loops through my neighborhood. Running was pleasurable, other than the very frosty winter mornings. I ran early, enjoying the solitude and time to observe the streets before they woke up.

1978: High school ended: college began. I discovered that the intensity of academics eased with regular physical action. So I continued to run: the gym in the cold of Ohio winter, outdoors when the air warmed up. I continued to run in solitutde. I had a girlfriend who was on the track team. She told me about their long training runs. The town was surrounded by a gridwork of roads which separated farmland into a square mile gridwork. A number of four plus mile runs were thus possible. So on a spring day I decided to try a loop. I set out from the gym. I was now six foot five, 157 pounds. Four miles seemed impossibly far. Turning the first corner, I left town. Hey, this was interesting. I had never seen the countryside. I ran north; a stiff headwind from Lake Erie greeted me. I turned east; the headwind continued. I continued to enjoy the landscape. Back into town, almost done. The gym: done, I felt exuberant.

1983: After graduation, I worked in Washington DC. I began to run longer distances; the challenges of my job were released by 30 plus laps around my high school track. This was also validation. As I ran on a frigid moonless night, I thought, damn it, when I was in school I was afraid about sports, but now I am doing just fine.

1985: Graduate school in California and subsequent life in the San Francisco Bay area forced changes in routine. I travelled for research. Running became episodic; six months, two years, one year. Much of this was triggered by my serious study of Aikido. Developing a martial arts body contradicted serious running.

2007: I had begun consistent strength training at a gym as recovery from a knife accident (in the kitchen, not the dojo). Pushing iron was accompanied by cardio: I learned the variety of elliptical machines, stationary bikes, and treadmills on offer. I ran infrequently; the ellipticals were more of a workout. I now maintained a stable weight of 176 pounds, and added a new metric: 10.1% body fat.

Motivation

2010: After 30 years of Aikido, I began to study qi gong and tai chi chuan. As this training began to teach me concepts that Aikido would not, I declared a dojo sabbatical. A friend at the gym said that it would be fun to run in the annual Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco. This event crosses the city; 2011 would be the 100^th anniversary. I signed up.

Without Aikido, time and energy were available. I thought, I’ve always wanted to run a marathon. I’d heard of the marathon in 4^th grade, when I read about Pheidippides’s run in Greece after the Battle of Marathon. I had not realized that it was a modern road race until seeing Frank Shorter win the Olympic Marathon in 1972. Was now the time? I was fifty. I researched races. Well, the San Francisco Marathon was in July. It was October. This seemed sufficiently far away in time and convenient in space. I signed up.

Mind

When I registered for the San Francisco Marathon, my inventory of races was a dozen or events of 10k or longer distance. My experiences on these were mixed; I was sometimes undertrained, sometimes intimidated by running in a race, sometimes bad cramping. So I didn’t want to race on the marathon; I wanted to run and see if I could finish.

I consulted with a friend in the sport psychology department at work. I’d helped them get a lot of grant funding, so she was glad to help. She recommended a book that covered the mental aspects of training and competition. Although designed for triathletes, it addressed the issues I’d face as an endurance runner. Part-time scholar that I am, I read it completely. I quickly realized that mentally, I was in pretty good shape. Sure, I could skip working on mental issues related to competition, but in terms of other potential barriers, I was good. I like myself and have built confidence in my mental toughness and physical ability. We also discussed using imagery and “positive self-talk” while running. This seemed interesting. I immediately thought of my sister, a cancer survivor. I could easily imagine running the marathon for her; the pink ribbon would be a symbol.

I read more about running a first marathon. It became clear that competition was optional. Almost everything I read encouraged first-timers to run to finish, not achieve a certain time. This validated. I could just run my run, and not worry about competition.

By mile fifteen, my feet and legs are at maximum soreness. An undifferentiated broad distress throughout my muscles, tendons, and fascia. I’ve drunk enough water and electrolyte and swallowed enough gel that my system has energy, but all of me below the waist hurts.

Plan

More research yielded a training schedule. There were plenty to choose from. I eliminated options that required extensive record keeping and/or seemed to be aimed at competitive runners. I liked the basic method that the schedules shared; a gradual increase in mileage, especially the LSR, the weekly Long Slow Run. At peak, the longest would be 20 miles. This seemed far.

My Sundays thus became dedicated to progressively longer LSRs. I live near the junction of several trail networks, so I was able to plan and achieve my distances without crossing streets or dodging traffic. I enjoyed the early morning starts that the LSRs required, before the heat of the day. The trails were empty, save for other runners and packs of cyclists. The population gradually swelled with time, as more people went for morning walks/runs/rides/skates/motion on other contraptions.

I’d set an LSR pace goal of 10 minutes per mile. This is slower than I naturally run, so I timed myself against the mile markers on the trail. This was hard when my mind got fuzzy, due to heat or exhaustion. I then discovered a smartphone GPS app that tracked average pace, split times, calories burned, and other ephemera. Much easier than using a watch, once I got the volume set low enough to not startle myself or other trail users.

The LSRs were hard. Each one pushed me further mentally and physically. I always finished; this persistence built confidence. It was great to get back to my house, shed my wet clothes, swallow my recovery drink, down a couple energy bars, and stretch thoroughly. I learned to be careful in my routine; if I got on the floor to stretch before I’d recovered enough, I was too tired to get back up. I had to crawl to the bathroom more than once. Actually, the hardest part was the day after the LSR, when I woke both decrepit and tired. No amount of stretching and nutrition seemed to thwart this. Then I read about ice baths: a 10-15 minute soak right after an LSR. I tried it: agony. Then, the next morning – huh, I was tired, but moved with ease. I was instantly converted.

Food

I tired over the weeks of training. It was harder to accomplish tasks at home and the office. I was fatigued and unmotivated at the gym. These sensations were familiar from intense Aikido training periods. I knew a solution was to eat more, but eat what? I’d gotten a book on endurance sports nutrition. I read it in a week, learning the basics of physiology and metabolism for marathoning and other long duration sports. Complex carbohydrates and protein were good. Fat was ok: I’d burn it on the LSRs and the marathon itself. This examination was also a basic check-in on my diet, which I knew was pretty healthy and balanced. My research was confirmation: I just had to eat more! Based on calculations from the book, I needed 4.000 calories a day, in a specific ratio of protein to carbohydrates to fat. Trying to eat this much was more intimidating than ice bathing. However, once I upped my diet, basically eating four meals a day, my energy returned. It was a delicate balance; whenever my intake dropped or went off balance, my performance decreased. It was fun to be able to eat pretty much anything, knowing that I would burn it one way or another.

Feet

One Sunday morning in April, I did an eight mile LSR, an out and back along the Contra Costa Canal. This was not my longest run to date, but was pretty close. When I got home, my feet felt strange: not painful, not sore, just sensitive, centered on the ball and big toe of both feet. It was more intense on my left foot. Something had happened. I hadn’t gone particularly fast; maybe I’d let myself relax and speed up from my intended LSR pace. I’d also been experimenting with a less pronounced heel strike, trying a more rolling contact with the ground. These new foot feelings persisted. The sensations moved around, and began to resemble the faint burning feeling I associate with nerve pain. I researched runner’s foot pain on the internet; nothing seemed to fit my symptoms.

I worried. Were my feet damaged? The sensation and tenderness were not the pain I associate with injury. I took a week off and cross-trained; the sensations decreased. My next long Sunday run brought them back. What to do? I had to run.

I visited family In Maryland, and ran a half marathon in Philadelphia. My feet were not a problem; the sensations faded as the race progressed. This seemed to be evidence that I was not incurring serious damage. My anxiety lingered.

I went to my favorite running store and had my stride analyzed. This suggested a solution. I tried on several pairs of shoes, eventually choosing a pair of Sauconys. I’ve been wearing the same type of Asics since 2000; the latest incarnation, which I’d just switched into my shoe rotation, lacked sufficient forefoot support. The Sauconys relieved my foot sensations. More internet investigation turned up a diagnosis: metatarsalgia, i.e., lack of forefoot support causing nerve sensitivity. Ball of foot inserts were a suggested fix. I ordered a pair. It felt funny to run with a blob under the ball of my foot, but it seemed to help.

The sensations came and went throughout the weeks. Icing my feet after every workout helped too.

Racing

I had not run a timed race in several years. As training for the marathon, I participated in three events: the Western Pacific 10k in Fremont, the ~12k Bay to Breakers in San Francisco, and the Oddyssey Half Marathon in Philadelphia (13.1 miles, 21k). Besides getting me medals and t-shirts, I learned a number of things from these races. First, I get distracted easily by looking at scenery and activity that’s not on the course. I actually got lost on the Western Pacific and ran a couple extra kilometers on the marathon course. Oh well.  Second, running with others did not bother me as much as in the past. By focusing on my pace, form, and inner race, I was fine. Third, none of these events were hard; my training was working.

At mile nineteen, I’m getting stupid. I plod. Not gonna stop. Can’t think straight, can’t do the math to figure my splits. I bull onward, not much more to get done and home.

 Gel, Water, Electrolyte, Beer

July 31^st, 4:18 am, I was in my car en route to The San Francisco Marathon. I had been flummoxed to discover that there was no viable mass transit. Well, driving was an opportunity to focus. Parked, peed, my sore left adductor coated in warming cream, and in the Wave 7 Corral, I began to run around 6:24, in the pre-dawn light. Along the Embarcadero, up and down through Ft. Mason and another flat stretch along the Marina. My first experience was frustration – the corral was packed, and my pace was slowed by the crowd. Most of the others were doing the First Half Marathon: only around 5,800 of the 24,000 participants were doing the full. Note to other runners one: don’t stop to fuss with electronics in the middle of the course. Well, this is the way of races. Note to self: start further towards the front of the corral next time.

Mile 3. Mile 4. The SF Marathon attracted a very diverse group. Based on gear, I saw participants from Canada, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Brazil, England, Ireland, France, Italy, Iran, India, Malaysia, Indonesia, China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. Also plenty of domestic jerseys from races all over the States. In my part of the crowd, people of all shapes, ages, and sizes.

I felt pretty good at Mile 5, ascending the grade to the Golden Gate. At daybreak, the weather was about ideal; overcast, upper 50s. I’d picked the right layers. Across the bridge, more crowded lanes, more pulses of slow runners. Note to other runners two: if you are going to walk and talk, don’t do it in the middle of the course. I started passing clots of slower runners, jinking along the edge of the course.

Running the bridge was FUN. Looking towards Marin, then making the loop and running back towards the city was when it hit me – I’m actually doing the SF Marathon.

The usual body feelings arrived and joined my sore adductor: feet, legs, and a sudden ache in my left knee. A bit late at Mile 8 or so, but in time for the long climb up through the Presidio and the downhill along Baker’s Beach. Note to other runners three: thank you for getting off the course to take pictures of Land’s End. Focus and continue, the only impact of tiredness being spilling sticky electrolyte drink on myself at the next water stop. Inevitable.

Left and more up and down through the Sunset District. Waving to spectators, high-fiving a course monitor or two (members of Harley-Davidson clubs, all in their leathers). Persisting telling my legs and feet that they were strong, healthy, and relaxed. Mile 11, Mile 12, Mile 13. Into Golden Gate Park. A sharp right turn; the First Half Marathon crowd turned left. Ah, a suddenly tranquil uncrowded course, as I wound a long downhill and its uphill payback. Time to really check in with my body and mind: pace, pain, presence of mind.

I’d actually been talking about this with my qi gong teacher earlier in the week. I’ve experienced dropping my qi – running from a centered place – pretty regularly. I can engender it with proper attention. He reminded me of the other part of the equation: raising awareness, being present in the surrounding environment. Now, when I dropped into this mode, it was a nice moment of smelling the eucalypts, watching the motion of other runners around me, and feeling the sensations in my body; aches but also aerobic comfort, and general ease in motion. More evidence that training worked.

We joined the Second Half Marathon crowd for a lap around Stow Lake; back to a dense course population. Near the polo fields an unofficial beer stop had been set up; I downed a couple ounces for the heck of it; gotta be some reasonable combination of carbos, electrolytes, and pain killer. Up JFK Drive and left onto Haight. Here was another moment of wow I’m doing this, as I ran the rises and falls of Haight-Asbury. Mile 17, Mile 18. Beginning to feel the deep tiredness throughout my body. I’d eaten well in the taper period before the race, and certainly downed enough gel so far; some of it was on my face and shirt. I’d been sweating consistently, but drinking too. This was the accumulated fatigue of repeated motion for almost four hours. No need to stop. Mile 19. Body now getting numb; aches and sorenesses dulled away.

Down Guerrero, the last major decline. Using my downhill stride to recapture some time and energy. Mile 20, Mile 21. Almost to the flats by the Bay, a left hand dog leg and a wildly cheering mob of – cheerleaders? I dunno, but they were all young, female, fit, and enthusiastically loud. This cheer station really helped me. It came at the only point when I thought - do I have to keep running? The crowd on the course had thinned out: a lot of people walking now, especially on the hills. With a push from this group, I resisted my loss of focus and kept running. Around the east rim of the baseball stadium, past a series of DJs: loud pumping music amused me and told me to keep moving. The Bay Bridge loomed closer. I knew I had to go under it to the finish, but my focus now was just on moving, staying with my pace. Mile 25. I inventoried: I had enough juice left to kick it up. I ran the last 1.2 miles in under eight minutes.

Through the finish line and into a chute to get my finisher’s medal. Pushing the buttons on my watch and GPS. My time was just over 4 hours, 28 minutes. I was tired, close to incoherent, but happy. 

July 2011 Road Trip VII: Salem to Humbug Mountain to Stafford to Walnut Creek

Sleeping on Bruce and Daisy’s back deck was surprisingly comfortable. Quieter than Eugene, and the wood of the deck no harder than the ground.

Time for the southerly run towards home. Sarah had several nights before she had to fly home. She wanted to see the Oregon coast and the redwoods. So west from Salem on Rt. 22, following the Salmon River to Lincoln City and Rt 101.

Two nights on the road. I drove; Sarah has foot issues that would have made the winding coastal highway unfun. Plus I like this kind of active driving, sensing the other vehicles and their relative speeds, while attending to the passing scenery (natural and human). Given that this run was a distance of over 700 miles, it’s a bit fuzzy.

We developed a quick pattern: drive, stop at a promising ocean vista, peruse and photograph, and repeat until exhaustion, the right camping opportunity and/or sunset occur. Any number of coastal towns rolled by: Lincoln City, Depoe Bay, Otter Rock, Newport, Sea Rock, Waldport. Most of these, along 101 at least, seemed focused on tourism. No worries, only a few hours from Portland/Salem/Corvallis/ Eugene: most of Oregon’s population. Each town seemed to repeat the same pattern of businesses: drive-thru espresso, used book store, Mexican restaurant, and an art gallery (trending from glass to myrtlewood to redwood with proximity to the equator). This became our litmus for a place being real.

The coast was consistently dramatic. The compression along this convergent plate boundary has shaped the western edge or Oregon into steep mountains, composed of a mish-mash of rocks – lava, metamorphics, deep-sea sediments (based on my scant observations). The Pacific Ocean continually works away at this stuff. Given that a lot of the rocks are pretty hard, the coastline features dramatic cliffs, sea stacks, arches, and other intensely scenic features. They were lovely even in the flat midday light. Working with dual intuitions, we stopped at viewpoints that sounded right: Boiler Bay, Devils Punchbowl, Natural Bridges. The air was cool and wet, and abrupt change to my body after the desert. Strange to wear layers of clothing.

Further south, Reedsport, Lakeside, North Bend, Coos Bay, Bandon, and the tourism density began to decline. Fewer cars, more trucks on the roads. Through Port Oxford, coming on late afternoon, time to camp. Humbug Mountain State Park appealed. Well, the campground was right by 101 (a narrow canyon made this necessary) and full of Americans, but it was a short walk to the beach. We took one of the last spots and set up.

Dinner, a wander to the beach for a fully worthy brilliant sunset. Strong breeze: I was pretty sandblasted around the ankles by the time darkness emerged. Back to the campground; the family next door had thankfully taken the whistle away from the little boy. Eight hours of oblivion.

Misty dawn, actual dew on my gear. No worries. South and further south. The one part of the coast which had intrigued me during my pre-trip research was this southern bit; especially the Samuel Boardman Scenic Corridor: thirty plus miles of relatively undeveloped coastline. But fog and diffuse morning light masked its beauty, or maybe this was the dullness of too much time in Trixy. We progressed. Gold Beach, giving in to the urge to visit a used book store, I discovered that there was Pirate Festival in Brookings, the next (and last) town in Oregon on 101.

Aaargh, matey. The festival was a great lunch stop. Small with a lot of pirates who seemed to be wearing modified Renaissance Fair clothing. No worries. Good on Brookings for doing something so fun. Sorry to miss the cannon demonstration.

Back into California, 101 cutting inland towards Arcata and Eureka. Redwoods sensu lato as destination. It was a summer weekend, so I figured that most parks would be full. A stop at the VC in Eureka confirmed this. So we drove, with an appropriate pause at Trees of Mystery. Evening approached. My gazetteer indicated campgrounds in many of the small towns dotting 101. We eventually ended the day at the Stafford RV Park, in Scotia. Pleasantly funky, a mixture of permanent trailer residences and passers through. Adjacent to both the Eel River and 101. We were the only campers until a Japanese cyclist showed up at dusk. He was glad to learn where the water faucet was, and to understand about the incipient high mosquito density. Nice to camp under 100 year old redwood saplings, my last night out, alas.

A final morning. Not ready to go home, but ready to be there. I’d had enough of driving, and the San Francisco Marathon was only eight days away. Sarah and I redwooded, proceeding down The Avenue of the Giants with appropriate photo stops, which provided to be short, given the continuing mosquito density. Haw, one item I had not packed was insect repellent.

The damp coastal valleys now trended NNW-SSE; we were in terrain controlled by the San Andreas Fault System. Good bye to dominantly compressional tectonics, hello to dominant lateral shear. This is the geology of home, so after my time on the road, it felt strangely right. I guess I’ve lived in California long enough.

Eventually cutting inland and drier, tall trees giving way to grasses, oaks, and fairly quickly, vineyards. We paused for lunch at Saracina Vineyards. Sarah was iso a bottle of decent wine for her husband, so before eating we the caves. This being distal Napa, the tasting room and warehouse had been excavated out of a hill. I haven’t been to a winery since 1996. I knew that wine culture had exploded since then, but the financial impact of this was not apparent to me till seeing Saracina. Besides the caves, the winery per se was all brand new: very modern buildings; the plants, furniture and other accessories all pretty top shelf. And all this at a place that produces 4,000 cases a year? The other piece of evidence was the language the pourer used; varietals and adjectives that were totally new to me. Smile, nod and taste, not a problem mate. I picked out the syrah that seemed to have the most interesting nose and bouquet for my bro-in-law.

Having finished my 4 ounces of wine for July, it was time for the final two hours falling south. 101 widened, narrowed, transitioned from vineyard to exurb to suburb to city. The San Rafael Bridge, San Pablo Dam Road, Rt. 24, and home. 

July 2011 Road Trip VI: Eugene to Salem

Morning under the apple tree, time to run again. I also ran in the summer of too much chemistry (actually I really enjoyed classes), so I retraced some familiar routes. Mild dissociation: while the geography of streets was the same, so many of the houses had changed. An abundance of Sunset magazine influenced flower-rich yards, different shops on Friendly Avenue. I listened, but felt no echoes of myself at 20. A quick 3.9 miles, back to the apple tree.

A long morning in Eugene. A cousin’s second birthday party. He liked the balloons. Planning with my sister: my aunt was to be busy with medical stuff, so we were free to proceed out of Eugene. I wanted to visit my friends Bruce and Daisy in Salem.

I know Bruce and Daisy from my Aikido San Leandro. They moved to Salem oh, seven years ago, and have settled in well. We had a lovely visit. It was fun to see their house, be inspired by their gardening, and meet Ollie, their Jack Russell terrier. Ollie provided my dog fix for the rest of the year. Once he had calmed (on the JR scale) to something slower than a furry growling blur, I had a great time throwing his toys and basically playing dog for a while.

Bruce teaches Aikido in Salem. He invited me to train and teach a class. I was initially unsure about participating. I’m on sabbatical from Aikido at present; my path currently lies with the subtle powerful energies of qi gong and tai chi quan. My intuition said to go. I had a great time. Bruce has good students. It was smooth and rewarding to mildly integrate my internal current practices into training and teaching. 

July 2011 Road Trip V: Painted Hills to Eugene

Dawn and back to the Painted Hills. Breakfast in the empty day use area: overcast and windy, but that’s what oatmeal, protein powder, and a banana are for. Dull light at the sites of the previous evening’s display, so I proceeded to a trailhead that I knew would get me close to a small cluster of the Painted Hills. Up close, texture is as prominent as color; the clays that compose the Hills have a “popcorn” texture caused by irregular absorption of water, subsequent expansion, and erosion. Good to photograph, especially when I could contrast multiple hues at the same time.

I did not know where today was to end. I had a general plan to rendezvous with my sister Sarah in Portland today or tomorrow. She flew out from Maryland to visit family, meet me, and drive back to California. I knew she’d arrived safely at PDX a couple days previously. But, here in the Oregon outback, mobile phone reception was dicey at best. I decided that I’d better head west, iso a zone of communication from which I could either bolt all the way to Portland or hide out for longer in the woods.

So a commute commenced: north on Rt. 19 from Mitchell to Fossil, west from Fossil to Clarno and Antelope on Rt. 218. Trixy and I wound over many passes, down innumerable stream drainages, and through many variations of farmland, forest, and sagebrush. I paused in each town; no mobile reception, no messages, no luck with outgoing calls or texts. Each of these little towns intrigued me. Here were communities that have persisted, that felt authentic and real. Alas, no time for other than such fleeting impressions.

Over a ridge west of Antelope, and the Cascade volcanic arc spread out before me. Mt. Hood just north of west, Mt. Adams to the north in Washington, and further south, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington, and the Three Sisters. I faced a choice. I could drive west northwest, touching the south flank of Mt.Hood: the slow, scenic route. Or I could go north to The Dalles and west up the Columbia River Gorge. Fast and populated. Still no phone contact. Intuition pointed me to The Dalles route. Thus down a long hot ridge and across the Deschutes River on Rt. 197 through Maupin, Tygh Valley, and Dufur. A dog leg west, onto Interstate 80. The Gorge scenic at 75 mph.

Distal Portland. My sister was staying with one of our aunts. I knew her place was on the west side of the Willamette River. I wondered around, finally parking west of downtown. On the phone: contact. I was only seven or so blocks from her place.

My intuition had been right. The salient reason for this trip and rendezvous is the major illness of another aunt who lives in Eugene. Sarah had made contact with her; today was the best window for us to visit. So south to Eugene, meeting yet another aunt and an uncle for dinner, then a good visit. I am sorry if this is confusing, my Oregon family is large and complex.

Nighttime in Eugene; we found space to sleep at my aunt’s old house in south Eugene. I’d lived here in 1980, spending the summer buried in chemistry at the University of Oregon. I did not want to break my trend of camping, so I spread out my bivy under the apple tree in the backyard.