2023-05-20

DEPRESSION HATES A MOVING TARGET

The foot falls it the gravel in a regular interval... I hear rock moving on rock as the base of my foot hits the trail tread. This is my normal 5K/10K run, the South Fork Snoqualmie, run from my place in Riverbend in to town and back. Some days it is longer, some days it is shorter.. Mertz was my inspiration a few years back to wake up pre-dawn and make this trip. She got me through 6 months of being incarcerated due to a DUI... Realisticly I had given up to the dark horse of depression, mother passed away and the loss of a lover that I still haven't reconcided with today. Yet the foot falls kept falling, that sounds with the breath... That is what kept me going... 

Advance to today, 3 years later... I am in the Mountaineers, climbinmg and scrambling. There is a glory in the mountains that I cannot fully describe.. I am surrounded with people, that I feel NORMAL with... Our singular focus on finding routes up mountains and pushing ourselves... And yet, "Depression hates a moving target!"... Today I bailed on a climb of Mt Rainier (Mother Tahoma) up to Camp Muir and then practice on the Ingrams Icefall.. I just could not move... I knew I needed to camp at the trailhead the night before, I felt the depression setting in.. Iroic after spending a day teaching others to climb, but out of the blue, I could not face the world... IT has been my struggle most of my life...

In general, I live alone.. I do not want to... I have been with 4 incdredible women, and yet this has been the consistant problem... Depression, Isolation, and Immobilization.... I have worked the program, been to conselors and tried medication... I the end, it is always acceptance... Very Buddhist ultimatelty.... I am brought back by solo trips in the mountains and quiet time by rivers... This is my mantra... I will always have this struggle, i am not delusionary to think that it will go away, but as I walk this path in life, I want ti to get better. To navigate better with through this.. It is like a 4 week cycle.. And today, it comes when I was to climb Rainier... The mountain will be there another day, and my team is good... I respect each and everyone of them... But for now, I just sit back in my yard and find solace... Peace and comfort come with time... 

WA 44.1 -- Granite Mtn, thoughts along a Cascade Classic

    A break in the fall rains finds me on the trail like an old friend. Weaving through the lower Western Hemlock forest, pushing myself past the masses in their weekend hike to common destinations like Pratt and Ollalie Lakes. Myself, the mountain is what draws me, elevation to gain and a view into the inner recesses of the Alpine Lake Wilderness. But really it is the act of hiking that really has me keeping pace this morning. A spiritual block has been building lately as I work through my sobriety and program. Moments of question and doubt if I am on the right path. That old sense of restlessness and irritability as ego wants to take hold and defend against what I perceive as other people's judgement and options. Yet I know deep inside that these are only illusions, constructs of my own mind trying to take hold of my path. It is here, on the trail, that my footfalls bring me back to reality and connection. It has always been this way, and dare I say the on consistent part of my spiritual practice. In times of doubt, find a steep trail and begin to ascend. 

    I break off the main Pratt Trail and the trail gets real, here others join me and I keep pushing myself to keep pace. It seems that I will not be the only one making the pilgramage on a rare sunny day to the top of Granite-shan. I always liked that the suffix to denote a mountain either in Japanese or Chinese is that of a person. Long ago I felt like there are certain Mountains that are like old sages, they have a lesson to teach one if you are willing to listen and do the work. Each has a different temperament based on the topography and ecology. Here the hemlock forest eventually give way to the open alpine zone that then is topped with a scree of granite boulders. It seems that what ever struggle that was working it's way on a repeated loop is spent by the time I make it to the boulder field. At that point it is just my breath, unconscious movement through the field and the skies above. I become in union with the mountain and movement across its flanks. This is when I feel in union with the spirit/tao/gaia... Some reasons the line, "I am Gaios to your Gaia... You are Gaia to my Gaios..." repeats in my mind to the rhythm of my breath and movements. It is confirmation that I am in the center of my spiritual practices when I am hiking a mountain, river or canyon.

    There are others on the trail. I am grateful to see them there, truly. It is that same feeling of common worship and fellowship that comes when one walks into a great cathedral or a music hall. I do not know each individual, but we are all in pursuit of the same thing, "To the Top, to the Mountain..." Each person has a different take on the scene that surrounds. Many are chatting away with partners, catching up on their lives and thoughts from near Puget Sound. Yet all are drawn to nature and this practice, something that gives me connection and hope. I tend to shy away from wilderness elitism, the idea that we are escaping to nature to be alone, and the masses block connection. I am reminded that 20 steps off any trail, and one can find those connected moments, where the sound of the wind takes up a new tone. If one truly wishes to find those moments, pick any rainy or stormy day, and Nature caring not of the whim and pursuits of man will give your solitude..

    Arising to the top, there is that familiar feeling... Gazing out at the view of ridgeline after ridgeline running north and south. Of great white watchtowers of the Cascade Volcanic Peaks... Klashan, Da'Kooba, Tahoma and Klicktat.. These are the great teachers and for my practice, the temple mounts. Like Jewish and Muslims drawn to Jerusalem to a specific place which holds that spiritual center of though. These mountains have the same draw to me. 

    Lately, I have been following the story of a Henro (pilgram) walking the 88 Temples on Shikoku Island in Japan. Walking 750 miles from temple to temple, chanting the same Sutra at each and following a observed set of rituals at each. Slowly a transformation occurs in him in this practice. The Heart Sutra become a rhythmic cadence in his meditation and walking. Though many days of hardship and euphoria, a middle way begins to emerge with greater clarity. This is the act of practice, similar with mountain hiking and long thru-hikes. His story and my experience today reminds me of faith and dedication in practice. How sometimes in doubt or trouble times, all you need is a trail or a walk and a sutra to center yourself upon, even if it is as simple as ".. I am humble and grateful for this day." That is the core of a spiritual life, not some high ideals or impressive memorization of text. We are all Henro (pilgrams) on this world, catching moments of beauty along the way... 

    Descending from the peak top, I see many others on the same path today. I reflect about where I have been lately, my disconnection and now with connection revived what I can do to reach out to others who have been affected by my restlessness and irritability. I feel spiritually recharged and ready to do the work of the day back down in the Valley I call home and the Emerald City by the Sound. The day was exactly what I needed to be...

BQ1 – Bear's Quest

The miles seem to click off as I round the corners on Hwy 202. Today is the 5^th day of my Cycle commute and the ride seems to be easier with my new touring bike. I lay into the peddles over the small rising hill, only having to click down one sprocket. At the end of the day, I will have put in 230 miles this week (48-52 miles per day). Gaining ever closer to the end goal of 1000 miles over the Month of May. It is the Cycle Commute Month, sponsored by Group Health and Cascade Bicycle Club. Last year I made 750 miles.

But there is another reason that I am doing this. I many ways, this is a 30 day Challenge to myself that goes hand-in-hand with “Bear's Quest” for a Sober life. In the last year I have noted that alcohol has began to consume many parts of my life. Using it as a way to channel the way I felt from a sense of loss that had always been there. I would crawl into the bottle, leaving what I thought my were my troubles behind. Over the long road, they only have gotten worse. Loosing connections with people, failing relationships and overall decline of my standards of living.

The reality call was a DUI, that canceled my Alaska Trip/Job. An action that I truly regret placing myself in and those that I may have injured and affected in life. Now bounded to not drive for 90 days or more, I have chosen to focus on a human-powered lifestyle and rebirth of my spirit. I owe a debt to society for my choices and I am grateful that this wake-up call has occurred. In the end, I wear a amulet of Thunderbird carrying Whale to his new ocean as a daily reminder of promises made. So peddle I go...

From the dawn of the sun across the valley floor, to the jeweled lights of stars on my commute back. Each mile seems to make the soul settle more into the journey ahead. Yet one days light is not the last, there are many more to come, yet each to cherish.  In this case I will focus my time on Bear's Quest for recovery via cycling.. Seems to best way to change my stars, by being inspired by landscape, movement and reflection...

– Ridgewalker

AKV 1 - Call to Alaska

For the last few years, since leaving New Zealand I have lived in among the Rain Forest and Sounds of the Pacific Northwest. Done my best to make a life of it, worked the ski slopes, the waters as an instructor and outfitted many who headed off on distant adventures. I tried to lay down my wanderlust and find me a lass to settle down with. I worked the Tree Farm of my professors, and even made peace with my mother. But all along, something didn't seem right, something missing. Driving me more and more towards a crazy edge. Locked in the civilized world of fear and responsibility, I paced back and forth like a rat, tending my field and working the familure trails.

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes

On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated -- so:

"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges --

"Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and wating for you. Go!"

The haunting words of Kippling that I once read over the kitchen at Camp Parsons Lodge. The words that had always sat deeply seeded within. Driving me through years of staff, following me along the Cascade Crest, and then to distant shores of the South Island. Here as I tried to make what all others seem to strive for work... The words spoke again, reminding me what I had seen before...

I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by 'em;

I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;

I remember they were fancy -- for I threw a stone to try 'em.

"Something lost behind the Ranges" was the only word they spoke.

As time drew on, I became more and more distant. Unfullfilled by what the grounds from the Cascades to the Puget Sound had to bring me. Somehow I knew where this voice was leading me. Summers spent along Coastal fiordlands and Yukon tundra. A vitality that one cannot purely explain with words or picture, but can only be gained by sitting before it and breathing it in. So with a snap decision, I decide to make my way north, proded on by the weight of a heavy heart.

But at last the country altered -- White Man's country past disputing --

Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind --

There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting.

Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find.

Now that transition begins, as days come closer and closer. Snow still grips the Port that the next 6 months will be my home. I plan to bike, paddle and scramble the lands that surround. Gather myself for the coming journey and the cycle ride back down. But deep within, as I say my goodbyes, and will be back again, somehow I know that I will only then be passing by. For this life I have lived has not bore any fruit that I have not turned cold and the trail calls my back again. And the road as I have learned keeps going without end.

I do not know where my feet lead me, or when my travels will end this time. But I know that my life is best lived simple and in motion driven my by own energy within. I know that when I come to rest once again, I will find myself older and hopefully wiser, maybe even at peace within... For now Alaska calls, a place that has always lured me time and again...

Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre?

Have I kept one single nugget -- (barring samples)? No, not I!

Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker.

But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy.

-- Words from The Explorer by Rudyard Kippling (as written above Meany Lodge, Camp Parsons)

A Responce To A Friend's Email

What forces are at the core of a mountain addiction?

It starts with that first time that you reach the base of their slopes... Gazing up it seems an impossible distance to climb, reaching into the clouds that guard the heavens you once reached out for as a boy. Then you begin your ascent working and cranking through the lower growths, crossing creeks and stream. Each muscle feeling it's strain as it is stretched and worked into new form, like metal against Gimil's hammer. Soon you are tuned and your pace quickens.

Flow of the Mountain world works from lower mixed forest to hemlock stands and clearing to the gnarled alpine scrub, clinging on against the torrent of passing winds and rain. Bare rock stands witness before the lacing snows like fingers grasp you up ever climbing chutes. Hiking becomes a full body battle with the spirits that lay there. Whips of the heavens speed past as you ever climb higher. Snow become rock and boot and hand meld to them like they were always meant to climb higher... 

Soon the bottom disappears into a great void of exposure for the first time. Looking back, you feel a surging within the heart. You question not how you will descend, only that forward is where some seed inside is commanding you onward to go. Scrambling over rock and tarn, you make the exposed rock ridgeline. There like following a razors edge, an abyss descending on both sides, the staircase of granite boulders only gives you one option. Ascendance!

Soon, you reach the head wall of the great cloud bank. Winds kick up at this boundary edge, and your jacket is flapping about your arms and chest. yet in minutes you charge above it, with clouds moving so quickly, blue begins to pierce though and make up the whole of the great horizons... 

Clinging on to Black Twisted rock of, you gaze out to see towers rising from this great sea. Below as the sun begins to set, you know are the great huddled masses, moving from one place to the next, working circles again and again until they cannot see out of the trench they have etched. Yet you are among the great towers reaching up pointed towards the heavens. Catching that last fading light which few see, the electric rose of the Alpenglow with snowbanners trailing. Silence but the of the soul reached within, only the high whistle of the wind around your jacket hood.

And there on the horizon, another lures you in, with untold beauty of form and route. You wonder deep inside what this view looks like from her slopes. And there she has you, like an ice cold siren... And you know that there is nothing to stop this now, while a low voice echos solemn words

Something hidden.  Go and find it.  Go and look behind the Ranges--

Something lost behind the Ranges.  Lost and waiting for you.  Go!

-- Ridgewalker

PNW 2 - Glacier Peak Wild - High Pass Traverse

Short Info

Hikers - Ladybird & Ridgewalker

6 days, 63 miles (1/2 RTM Route of Glacier Peak)

2 Wilderness, 2 National Forests

(Glacier Peak Wild, Henry M. Jackson Wild)

(Mt Baker-Snoqualmie NF, Wenatchee NF)

Route Map

Journey Photos

Full Trip Narrative

Wilderness is a beautiful thing... It is like that secret lover that sits in the back of your thoughts always luring you in.... Once tempted by this siren, hearing her sweet melody played out along the high ridgelines, you feel compelled to follow lost trails deeper into her realm... 

What began as a 3 day trip up into the Glacier Peak Wild then to return to Kayak the Sound, turned into an epic 6 day, cross-country/overgrown route. With initial hopes of completing the RTM (Round-the-Mountain) Path of this wild Volcano at 110 miles. We kept on track, with only cut up legs, dislocated knee and a scaled foot keeping us from completing our charge. Even at the moment of decision to exit the route, the siren's call was hard to resist... For now this rest of this route still remains in the column of "unfinished business".

Through the range, the mountaineering skills, route-finding skills, river-fording skills and first aid skills all came into play. I would call this section of Glacier Peak Wild, "The land of Forgotten Trails". What really amounted to Mountaineering boot-paths accessing Traverses and High Routes, leading our eyes up towards rock and ice routes. Each day picking through lines off possible discovery for future trips when we had rope, crampons and axe. Wandering the large U shaped glacial valley of Napeequa, where very few souls descend it's steep slopes to enjoy lush meadows. 

Our only encounters with others in this place was a party of 3 mountaineers, who walked around us, eyeing our UL packs in bewilderment, searching for our Axe and Traction for the coming glacier crossing. Plugging us for info (beta) on the route we had traveled, and rattling off a healthy list of High Routes that surrounded us. In essence, schooling us about the land before we were crossing... For Ladybird and I, this was exactly what we were looking for out of this trip. A taste of a corner of this Remote North Cascades Wilderness...

Day 1 - N Fork Sauk to Mackinaw Shelter (8 mi)

Leaving our car from N Fork Trailhead at around 4pm, I found my thru-hiker legs right were I left them, on the trail. Powering through ancient groves of Cedar and Hemlock, rounding valley floor bends through miles at a good solid 3 mph pace. Fading light of day, bring darkness to the moss covered floor we arrived at Mackinaw shelter to make first camp. An old shell of a building there is a haunted sense to this forest that brought thoughts of other travelers who had past this way towards the coming highcountry meadows. Feeling good of our 2.5 hr progress up the valley, it was here that the RTM Route began to be seriously discussed as a possible choice for this week of travel. Miles were added up, routes choosen and rationing of our 3-4 days of food for a 6-7 day journey began.

Day 2 - Mackinaw Shelter to Thunder Cr Camp/White River Route (15 mi)

Morning found us refreshed and ready to stomp... After coffee, we were soon ascending the switchbacks out of the N Fork Sauk towards the Pacific Crest Trail Jct on the Alpine Mdws above us. With each switchback the variety of Alpine flora began to define themselves. From the early whites of Pearly-Everlasting, to deep reds of Indian Paintbrush, to finally the vibrant indigo of high alpine Lupine. At the Jct of the PCT at White Pass (a place both of us had visited on our thru-hikes), the decision to go clockwise on the Crest or challenge ourselves with the hardest section first came to question. For our part, the Crest Trail was know territory, so we decided to make for the "unknown route first"... 

Wandering through glorious miles of Alpine Meadow below the view of Glacier, Ten Peak Ridge and Indian Head we came to the trail jct at White Pass. It was decided, that rather then continuing to head down to Indian Pass and the horse-trail there we would take a look into the White River Valley and see what the trail there had to offer. We believed it worth the extra 6 miles shaved off our journey to be worth a little brush... We looked so happy at that junction, completely oblivious to the hard fought reality of our chosen course. As a warning, within 100 feet we lost the trail... Should have realize this and returned... But instead, route-finding skills in play we found what amounted to a series of game paths from meadow to water down the side of this slope till the first ford of the White.

Form here, I could detail each hard fought mile... But needless to say, it can be explained with the need to keep going forward regardless of the fact that we could not find the trail through slide alder tunnels, twisted log blow-downs, repeated river fords, leg-ripping thickets, and bewildering disorienting fire scars... Recently, I picked up a Rating Guide to Brushwacking. This route would rate somewhere between a BA3 (chainsaw) and BA4 (agent orange) level... If only we had atleast brought the BA1 (machete), that might have kept the moment of the full round the mountain...

By the end of the day, we came to Thunder Cr Camp. Ladybird, had made a slight dislocation of the knee, that would grow in the days to come and I had a brused calf from falling from a log. Our legs had been cut to shreds, and blood trailed from each like they had been attacked with a cheese grader. Later I would add a scaled right foot to the list of injuries as the pot of boiling tea water feel from my hand. But, both in high Spirits at the adventure we had found, with views abounding we decided to press on with the RTM.

Day 3 Thunder Cr Camp - Napeequa River Camp (15 mi)

Morning arose and roused us out of camp, with 3 miles left of the White River Route, we pushed our way though thickets again. But soon, we meet the Boulder Pass Trail Jct. Here the trail revived itself back into a High Hunt Horse Route, with easy traversing grade to ascend without need to thrash ourselves. At the jct, the fabled PCT Detour Signs pointed the route directly into the tree... Ladybird and I hypothesis that it we ran at the tree, like a page from Harry Potter we would emerge at the Jct of the PCT at Miner's Creek... Ahhh! If that were only the case. 

Ascention of Boulder Pass was a relief, and soon we gained views out towards Davis Peak, Saul Mtn and Cirque of Three Towers above us. Alpine Meadows graced themselves again, going through the White-Red-Purple alternations of elevation gained. New towards the top were the Positilla (Western Anemone), what I called the Tina Turner Plant with it's mop-top seedlings. There were a few places where the peaks that lay before me seemed familure, realizing that after years of studying Vol 2 of the Cascade Alpine Guide (by Fred Beckey), I had seen these mtns cast in B&W with route-lines erupting from there base. Yet the grand view was yet to come.

From the crest of Boulder Pass, the full view of the tight glacier valley of Napeequa lay before us. It is hard to completely describe this place. A drop of 3000' below, a long meadow with a meandering glacial-fed river, complete with braided channels and till sandbars emerged. All attempts at capturing this scene with photo failed to give the sense of depth that was before us. Across the valley Napeequa Wall glistened with the days light, hints of mica and schist capturing and refracting back gave a dazzling sense. North the valley wove up towards hanging glaciers and ice-caped peaks. It was a PNW Shangarla...

With swirling switchbacks descending from the pass, near overlapping to a prominent meadow, we felt confident about our path of descent. Yet arriving at a Horse camp below the pass, the injuries of the day before began to weave there pain. Ladybird's knee showed bruising and my foot began to swell in my boot. Loosing the trail to brush soon after the horse camp, we descended towards the Napeequa on undulating veggie clogged trail-tread. We made the valley floor, a little destroyed, but pushed on through the meadows and slide alders to set up for our next days ascent of High Pass. Yet the miles made up this valley were all in awe, with passing of two towering cascades from hanging glacial valleys above.

Day 4 - Napeequa River Camp - Buck Cr/Chiwawa R. Camp (15 mi)

A chill kept us bundled up that night. Winds out of the high glacial cirques blew down the valley, bringing a touch of frost to our sleep. Morning was late as we waited for the sun to arc over the high vaulted walls. Realizing that our journey was a day behind our projected destination, our primary focus was to make it over High Pass to Buck Cr Pass. Our route info was scattered, from passing info I remembered from hikers years before and brief lines from Beckey's commentary of this region. We left camp, with only a hit of a route before us...

With in minutes we were again off trail and pushing through a sea of slide alders... Knowing UP was our direction, we decided to follow the tunnels created by water paths through the brush. With many climbing moves as the path steepened, and heavy use of veggie belays, we pushed up 1500' vertical feet in 2 hrs.. Hard fought, but well worth it, we emerged a little higher then we expected and had to weave our way down to the snow-fields below. 

Once out the valley ascending to High Pass was before us. Towers lined the side, each holding rivers of ice. The feel of remoteness abounded, and we hopped from snow-field to rock ribbons. Direct lines of ascent keep us climbing, with the marmot's whistle greeting us at each turn. Funneling us up through rock bands and cascading waters we found the final bench of High Pass. Here Rock and Ice was all that abounded, having left the realm of green far below. Bundling against cold and wind, sat pondering which of the three "doors" through the rocky crown was our pass. Having convinced ourselves it was the one to the right, we began ascent only to see a trio of climbers emerge to the left... 

Changing course we traversed three snow-fields and meet up with this band of Mountaineers. Jovially they greeted us atop High Pass. Each equipped with Ice Axe, Crampons and Helmet, they rounded us and eyed our packs for what we had for the coming descent. One named, "Big Steve", began to as I said before school us on the myriad of High Routes. His excitement was infectious, and we caught the bug. Soon maps were out, and fingers pointing, weaving through the peaks, and glaciers that lay before us. We would have spent all day there plugging him for more tales of high routes, but the rest of his party getting cold decided to push on, leaving him trailing to catch up. 

Looking forward we saw our "crux move" of the trip. A 60 degree slope of snow, with a 500' run-out far below leading to the ice-choked Triad Lk 1000' below. The party before had left a step-kicked path across the 100' ft exposure. But without Ice-axe or microspikes, the crossing was unnerving. Remaining focused placing one-sure-step after another, the crossing was made. At one moment I had slipped, but a sure pole placement kept me from the rock-bounding doom that would follow below. A vitality is felt in such moments, making the crux movement across alpine paths. Watching Ladybird follow with the confidence of a NOLS Instructor, I knew I was in good company. We took in the crossing, then made our way through the rest of the pass down to the meadows at Buck Creek.

Taking in all that had happened the last 4 days, we struggled with the decision to pack-out, leaving the RTM Route behind. In reality, we had passed through what we sought to see, and all that lay before us was know trail from year before. But still the allure of those wild trails can even sometimes make you forget the pain you are in... In the end, we decided to make our way down Buck Cr and the coming hitch and hike up and over back to N Fork Sauk TH. 

We pushed far that night to stage ourselves for the upcoming transit. Figuring a two day hitch, we rested 1.5 miles from Trinity TH at the end of Chiwawa Rd. Sleep came quickly that evening, tired and spent...

Day 5 - Buck Cr/Chiwawa R. Camp to Sloan/Cadet Cr Camp (14 mi)

Morning brought luke-warm coffee due to the failing Iso-Pro canister. Note to self... bring two, or just plan for seven days in the first place... We pounded out the last 1.5 miles and watch our 1st possible hitch drive out of the parking lot. It would be 2.5 hrs of road walking and 5 miles walked down the Chiwawa Rd before we finally found a driver heading our way. The first hitch was Yoko and her lab Maya. Having just completed the Spider Mdws - Lyman Lks Traverse, this hiker gave us our longest ride. Covering the distance over Stevens Pass to Skykomish and the end of paved road up the Beckler River. Being a fellow hiker, the ride was a constant trade of hikes and alpine routes, giving each "best of" lists and choice backcountry meals... 

She dropped us off on a little dusty road, headed towards the N Fork Skykomish River. We had decided on this route, as to make the full hitch around would leave us in the realm of the suburbs, were every thru-hikers know is the "Black Hole of Hitches". So we again needed to with hobbling legs make our way across yet another Wilderness, this time the Henry M. Jackson. To our surprise, it was not but 4 mins before we were in the back of a pick-up truck of loggers, speeding up towards Beckler Pass. Peaks sailed past us as we talked about all that had happened, enjoying the lure to return to explore the peaks passed. 

At Beckler Pass, it was like a relay hand off of Hitches, from one to another. This time a local with two Greyhounds named Harley and Echo. Watching there excitement as we neared our destination, charged us and as we two desired to get back into those highcountry Meadows.

The drop off was quick and we again were on trail. 

Following Quartz Creek trail up towards Curry Gap, we passed through an old growth valley of tall cedars and glowing moss. Creeks fell in cascades into emerald pools just trailside. Fern grottoes graced the path, and soon a meadow below the ice capped Kyes Mtn emerged. This was the back-side of the Monte Cristo Peaks, heart of the Henry M. Jackson Wild, and gateway to Bald Eagle and Cady Meadows. There was a special sense to that place as we rose towards the Gap. 

At the final meadow a lone tree of many arms held the junction signs, below N Fork Sauk TH and the end of journey. We lagged our pace and slowly enjoyed the towers of Cadet Pk and Sloan Mtn before us. A beautiful deep forest evening... 

Sauntering down the trail soon we left the wilderness unexpectedly, following a miners road turned loggers access. The evidence of past clearcuts were apparent and a shock to the system. At Sloan Creek we made camp, in a grove of ancient Cedars, but the echos of the saw still reverberated from the moving waters. A fire cooked our food and warmed us, seeming to bring a close to our circuit. 

Day 6 - Sloan/Cadet Cr Camp to N Fork Sauk TH (3 mi)

The rest of this road walk was spent recapping our journey. Already plans were being made for the next trip into the Cascades. While we did not complete the RTM Route of Glacier Peak, the spell of High Places has sparked a fire deep in our hearts. For when a journey comes to an en for a wilderness traveler, they know that they will return soon, for there very nature feels revitalized by the presence of these high places... 

For they are truly our home....

"When I look to these mountains, 

my eyes draw up to heaven, 

where the earth and the sky meet. 

My life it leads, is in between, 

with a spirit that guides me forward.

Humble eyes I look on to their beauty, 

Gifted as it seems with their presence,

Knowing the wisdom they hold..." 

-- Yamabushi Prayer

PS 1 - Solo Kayaking

Puget Sound -- Vashon Is Circumnavigation (53 miles)

A rhythm builds with each stroke... The blade enters the deep waters surface with ease, slicing the surface, just slightly tilted like a cupped hand of a swimmer. Catching the momentum of the passing water, it glides from the bow of my reach, to a beam of my midship. My body following with the flow of water almost braced against it in one spot, I face it till finally a release and a long gliding pause. The other blade comes down on the port side, and the pattern is repeated. There is a tempo to 4 knots. I seems to maintain it through a beat of an internal clock, with a 2 knot tide shutting me past the repeating points. This is one of the motions of a kayak passage. It fondly reminds me of the rhythm of hiking 3 miles per hour over the contours of the Pacific Mountain Ranges. It reminds me of that internal beat one hears on a long trip.

Lately, I have been taking to solo paddling... This has come after paddling with co-workers, instructors, peers and friends. Somehow there is a peace and gratification to the solo paddle, one which grows with each trip. I came into paddling with one main long goal, to return to Alaska. But through it recently, after facing judgement and competition from my working peers, personalities and expectation of the normal crew, there is a peace to just going it alone. One is faced with the elements as they stand, which one's own mind seem to be alone on the water with itself to tend with. This has became my mediation, this has become a refuge. 

Each trip so far has been a surge of choice, Maury, Vashon and now my plans for Bainbridge Island. With nine totaling the challenge, it seems less about completing a list, but what each teaches me as I progress. The first was an out right challenge. Having only paddled 3-7 miles, the 20+ mile circumnav took me to another point. With a capsize in mid channel, and a confident re-entry, it paved the way to push on. The calm of Quatermaster Bay and the haul over the Portage back to the Sound, nothing could seem more natural... This was exactly what I needed to be doing.

Recently, at the end of two days with the crew, I took to the unfinished business of the main part of Vashon Island. Leaving Wingehaven Marine Camp, I headed south waving to my friends and determined to make the rounds about this island. Two points, keeping Three Tree to my port, I found myself at the same Portage that I had found myself a week before... Entering Quartermaster Bay, I made the rounds, with Jellyfish appearing with each stroke. Facing an opposing tide, and a little bit of the wind, the trek through Dockton faced a different character. But as I passed Pinner Point, I knew that I was out to round a new corner, with Gig Harbor in View. 

There is nothing more sobering then 3 foot high confused waves... Unlike 5 foot rollers with a regular period, it is more akind to riding a mechanical bull while having a few in you. In your mind, you keep saying to yourself... High Brace, loose hipflicks, low brace, paddle... This sequence keeps occurring in rapid succession, due to the successive sea walls. I think to my peers, that questioned my abilities, pushing me out and as I slowly rounded the point, I knew quite well, that experience is the best teacher... This was just good plain FUN!

At Dalco, I rounded and began to shuttle up the likes of Colvos Passage. Starting with 3 foot rollers, I gained the momentum I needed. After that is was a clear shot to Lisabeula Camp. Passing point, cape and coves, Raven, Eagle and Heron followed me. I saw Porpose and Seal along the way, making Bear's Passage a welcome one. Somehow, there alone in the channel, I was in the company of friends with these spirits. A inner charge seemed to grow in me, and a contentment that I have not felt since returning from New Zealand. This was my new way of Travels...

At Lisabeula, I pulled upon shore, a quiet camp, I watched as the sun lit up the sky in a brillance of sunset, and Mt Anderson rose from behind Olalla Bay, reminding me of distant Ice Caves once visited on her slopes. Heron entered my camp that night, as well as the curious Raven.. These were the friends a solo kayaker keeps... Watching there activities, I began to see a new perspective, that of life at Tide Line...

I awoke early the next day, desiring to find out what the Waters had to teach me.. Colvos Passage passed to quickly for my taste, and soon I was on the Sound making for Alki. My eyes lead north towards Bainbridge, but it was truely the distant Whidbey and the Archipelligo that traverses this wild coast that lured me. As I rounded there at Alki, I knew after 4 days I had found my home, there on the sea... Echos of Stan raced through my mind, and flashes of that passage north incited my mind. Here was my new trail, and I knew I had to prepare for what lay ahead... 

Somehow, all that has happened in the last year didn't seem to matter much, just that quiet rhythm of the paddle blade, and the long gaze north towards the horizon... Deep inside, my soul knows these adventures will be solo... But it does not matter much, as it seemed that I had returned home...

-- Ridgewalker

BC 2 -- Road to Transition

BC 2 -- Road to Transition

The drive took me about 5 ½ hrs, weaving my way up along the Columbia River and then on to the Okanogan River. With each turn, new rock formations came out along the rivers edge. Exposed as it would seem by the relentless sawing action of these rivers. The Columbia makes it's turn as it flows around the edge of the Grand Ronde flood basalts. This great mass covers most of central Washington and makes it's mark. As the road weaves along the deep canyon formed by a crack in this rock shield, there is flood basalts on one side, and the core of a mirco-continent (aka. terrane) on the other. Here the sharp contrast of twisted and tortured rocks that have been slammed against the continent show through. Large dikes, pink and orange rock, layers that seem to fold on top of themselves, all with in the vantage of a passing truck bound for the north. Again and again, I stop to collect rocks and photos. Reminding myself that I will take the time to go and read through the Geologic Maps of this area and gain some insight into what I find just beyond the pavement.

I arrive in Omak, a place that spells of the American West with every painted sign and frontage building. Somehow the Wells Fargo Bank seems to be as I would have expected when it was a stage line to the Cariboo Gold Fields in the North. In the park besides the bank is a farmers market, where the local orchards and Indian farmers of the Colville Reservation show what is in harvest. There is nothing quiet like fresh veggies to stir fry and create with the accent of sesame or olive oil. I pick up a few peppers, onions, bok choy and carrots, knowing that soon I will have a garden to pick from full of every type of pepper and cucumber that one could dream of. This is one advantage of a farmer that has a passion for eating well. In the end, if you can cook, you will eat well too...

Back on the road and heading north, I make it to the Border. It is a curious thing, the closer you get to the 49th Parallel, the more desolate the towns seem. Here away from the hearts of Urban America, it seems that somehow we give up at times. Yet as I cross over into Canada, Oosyoos bounds with life as verdant as if I was in Wenatchee. This is Canada's warm vacation spot. If you think of the Snow Birds of Washington, this is where the Canadian version come to flock. Vineyards, lakeside condos, orchards and golf courses. In someways not what I typically look forward to when I vacation, but the lakes good veggies, local butchers and European bakeries. For one with a love of food there is much to be had here. The first thing to catch my eye is an Indian restaurant, with most of the signs reading Dahwahl and Punjab. This fact that such a high South Asian population living in this valley can only mean one thing... Authentic Indian Food! Remembering places other travelers have told me about, I began to understand the differences compared with the burger stand of Oroville, USA.

The CBC Radio speaks to me with that curious accent, something that I have never been able to quiet put my finger on. It is the classic rounded vowels that seem to give a warm tone to the announcers voice. A piece about the Haida Gwaii Culinary Co-Op, gives tales of pickers of chantrelles and shituki mushrooms on this rain-swept island. Pickers heading out to their favored spots, secret only to the knowledge passed down from generations of Haida Indians, who use this Hunter/Gatherer culture still as a way of life in the face of modernity. The local buyer talks of how they have been able to reach a fair price for their workers, and as all seasoned merchants, entices the listener with the sounds of recipes to saute, bake and craft a meal out of each of the varieties the find on their island. To me hearing stories like this from parts of the province brings me into the present of where I am. Somehow a new view from one held just a few hours earlier.

The rain begins to pour down as I round one out of Oliver. Working my way into the slow lane to allow the hectic busy people get home, I spot a hitch-hiker on the side of the road. Seeing the storm that is yet to come down the way through the valley, I pull off to get him out of the squall. It takes him a minute to realize that I pulled over and with a run, he jumps in to the car...

“Where you headed?”
“As far as you can take me...”
“Well I am off to Kelowna, will that take you closer?”
“I would have been good with anywhere out of this rain, but I am off to Kamloops to find something new. And so Kelowna will be great!”

I turn the heater on and offer him a towel, fighting to keep the windows from fogging up. Idol chat of the weather opens him up to tell me of a recent fight with his woman. Seeing that there was no resolution he decided to hitch back to his old home up North. I say little, but allow him to talk. He brings up that God always taught him never to let things get too bad before you make something new for yourself. Without close or bag, he decided to take to the road and see what he might be able to find. I find that his conversation bridges much to the struggles that he had been going through but a good sense of optimism is part of his tone.

We all have those moments, when things hit the breaking point. Whether we like it or not they are part of being human. Conflict seems to always stem from misunderstandings that plague our inability to really share what we feel. They also come from not accepting the world for what it is and fighting it on every front. It seemed as though he had come onto a little of both. Yet these were things that he knew, and seemed determined not to take him down. Talking of the need for Faith to guide him, he talked as we passed Pentictin and moved up along the shore road of Okanogan Lake. I thought to my own pass, when the load of the world came upon me so heavy, that to move on anywhere down the road seemed the best option to keep from exploding. I mentioned that each life has suffering, and to not accept that was a false view point. He agreed and soon talked about how he would change things with his woman.

Some how by the time we reached the Hostel at Kelowna, I thought he was in better spirits then when we had left Oliver. He hopped out and waved goodbye and soon was inside the Hostel's Lobby. Later that evening, a reading in my meditation devotional brought it home. It spoke about reverence and the power of potential. That it was the moment of choice when an ocean of ink sits on a brush. The paper below is still clean as when the page had been first turned. It was at that moment that we still the hand and take a moment to breath, reflect and clear one's thoughts. From there reverence springs, after which the brush begins to make forms with the drop and movement of the hand. But in that moment of transition, taking in the place that we are before beginning is a source of power and insight. So as I pulled into the driveway in Kelowna, I realized I had arrived for the next few weeks to a welcome experience.

WA Harvest 1 - Wenatchee Valley Dreams

There has always been this blurred memory qrunning through my mind that somehow fits now. When I was in high school, there was a deep sense within to roam. Setting out with tires along the highway, the groves in the pavement setting a beat pulling one forward. It was with those trips that I remember one of the first memories of the Wenatchee Valley. It was evening, and I was weaving myself down out of Blewett Pass. As I passed Ingalls Creek, I began to pass orchard after orchard. Trees extending up the hillside carpeting the valley in atheir foliage everending. As the sunset was setting the hillside aglow, I watched as silent figures walked with bag and ladder in hand, moving along the road back to home. Pilling into cars and following us on our journey east. Somehow, I always thought to myself what it must be to work among these trees all day, enclosed by their boughs and harvesting the fruits of a summers labor. It was my young romantic dream to travel and learn more of these people.

A French Canadian woman gave me the first taste of this life a few years ago. Myself, I remember that first orchard with love. Somehow my dreams and description of the pickets life always flow back to those days. An old Hungarian, riding his tractor from picker to picker. Talking politics, economics, and most important food. Wine seemed always to be on hand. And at the end of the day, we all came together and talked of our travels and where our next great leap would be. After this lt week, I have come to find this was indeed a special place and time. Yet the act of picking is indeed the same, with much of the same pleasures.

To reach up into the tree and a take hold of a pear is to make a connection with production and source. I feel part of the flow of food rather then just a rote consumer. To know where your food comes from, and to give it the care needed, is a special act of meditation. While picking all day the trees and rows blur. Bins fall unto bins, and soon, you just become one with the act. Like those silent wary figures that I seen years before, each evening comes with a sort of worn feel, yet it is different then those given from city work. To feel a sense of physical connection to what gives you your livelihood, there is a gratification in the fatigue of the arms and back. For these hands grasped... For these arm reached... For these legs supported... And these eyes did gaze over countless rows. It is enough to gain just a slice of the larger picture with each day... This is part of why I love picking fruit.

This year I have taken on another into the fields. Teaching her how to pick, carry her bag, set her ladder and work around the tree. She seems to have taken to it like I did my first time. At the end of the day craving once more to pick the fruit and be among the trees leafy arms. I believe that once a person gains knowledge, they must begin to give it away. Knowledge is someone not to be kept close and secret, but like good experiences shared with one another. Here was my opportunity to give back the gift that Line had given me two years ago. One of the secret joys of a Vagabond. To take the work and to become part of it, in that moment...

At the end of the day, the Bartlett Pears completed, we drive the long lines of orchards. looking at the pears and apples as the run by, calling them out and noting their ripeness, d'Anjous, Galas, Golden Delicious, Pink Ladys.... bins lining the rows, and finding the orchard owners. at each stop, we ask about his crop and when he thinks the next harvest will come. Each is like a proud father, nurturing their harvest, and speaking with pride of the size and color of his crop. In the end we wait, till later in the week when the rains and the sun will play their magic and bring the sugars to full richness in each pome... Then we will pick again... But for now, to enjoy a river afternoon of Wenatchee Valley Fall...

-- Ridgewalker

CB 1 -- At Camp's Silent End

I sit besides the lake as the sound of bull frogs seem to echo its surrounding theater. The mist off of the bog seems to rise with the evenings light, and the deeper sound of silence settles into this place I have called home for the summer. A loon sets its path over the trees flying over me for a moment and then disappearing on his southbound path. Gone the sounds of laughter of the youth that filled these places. Now as Camp fades towards peaceful times, I am filled with memories so thick you can only reach out with both hands to clear them away.

There is something about this place that takes you in fully. There is no in-between, you are apart of everything that abounds. It fills your spirit, your days and brings a smile that resonates deep within, when the tidings are kept good through the years. For those outside of this, I have been absent and missing. But as all things in life, there is a season, and after 9 weeks the camp comes to a close. People head off in their own direction, and those who remain behind are left with these parting moments and subtle turns. And like the silence that fills the camp, Charlie now roams with his spirit full in each moment.

Soo many faces have passed before me recently. Far to many to count, and a few I will never forget. Camp is a nexus for many, a place to live life for a week as we all wish to live it through the other days we are not here, as a community. Watching parents and youth enjoy each moment makes you feel connected to a larger scope that is not just about the day to day life. This is the place when life comes alive. After all Re-Creation is about bringing yourself into a present state of being.

So I sit and remember. Dream of the next year to come, and know that as my life flows, so too will this. Fall in my backcountry season, and the mountains do call. The snow will soon fly and I will find myself working their slopes. But for now, the last fading rays of summer fill my heart and I hope to catch their light to keep my fire burning thought those lone wintry night. Till next summer comes once again, and this forest below Mt Pilchuck is filled with laughter again...

Seek the Pipe and Heed it's Challenge....
Brinkley!

SEA 2 -- Northern Belle

SEA 2 – Northern Belle

There is a solemn tone today at port. A few boats ready their lines, pack on the last of their goods to go north and head out to the Locks. Family members wishing each other off, men casting off for adventure and a living, while women, children and lovers remain behind. The sound of grinders on Steel and hammers resonate within the harbor, taking off a season of rust from the Steel Seiners that will soon make their way out. Yet there is a fleet already plying the waters of SE and SC Alaska, chasing the Herring returning for the season to spawn. This is the prized fish, gaining up to $1000 per ton, just to gain the roe for delicacies in the Far East. Yet this is dangerous days on the Sea, for the churning of storms out of the Gulf of Alaska, swirl, bringing their cold blast occasionally to NW Homeports. These storms create waves that are the likes of large freight trains. Rolling through the dark waters, combining with some to make calm flats, and then releasing to great 4 story towers threatening to toss a boat. It is these waters that claimed a Herring Tender this week, one in which I knew the captain and the crew well.

I heared about the sinking, from a friend in Ketchikan that forward me a Seattle Times link. He forwards me news from the Fleet every-so-often, but as I read through the names began to ring a bell. Such like Northern Belle, Robert and Baxter the dog. As I read through, I remembered standing along the North Dock of Ballard Terminal Talking to Rob, about the coming Herring Season, still trying to decide if the money and the opportunity was good enough to head up for another Season on his boat. With things proceeding here in Seattle, I decided to remain behind, and shook his hand before he left to go pickup his load along the Duwamish. I had not heard from him till now, and this time to hear that his boat was capsized and down off of Cordova. Reading those words took me back to the open bays of Dixon Entrance, and a roller of a wave that about took the Pacific Queen while I was at watch.

Last summer I gained the highest respect for the Sea. For she is the last great wilderness. As man seems to advance himself in technology, he claims control of so many things of nature. He brings oasis to the desert, roads to the sky, clam to wild rivers, and builds his temples to his might in the cities. Having cast out the gods from the Pantheon and replaced it with consumption and technology, there is a certain disregard in the day to day life of the power mother nature still holds. Yet, it is still on waters that all this technology many help you, but ultimately you are still at the power of Neptune's whim.

When you sit in a boat, and begin to take your course across the open sea, you are still bound to all she will give you. Your eyes keep to the horizon, as you are pitched about at 45 degree angles. Quartering each wave, to commit the boat to a smother roll rather then a dramatic chop that threatens to break the keel in two. There is no way around it, and at 7-9 knots an hour depending on the tide, you are sure to endure this for hours. No place to run, no place to hide, just you and your watchful eye, looking out for that roller to try and quarter to make it not your last. For the most part, you get used to the small ones, but you never get used to the ones that come up from behind while you are off your guard.

I read over the list of reasons the boat went down. Too much weight, unstablized load, bad seas, and what not... I suppose those here in the comfort of the city life will cite this as just a greedy captain risking his crew. Or want to enact more regulation to keep people from getting hurt. But they will then go on with their lives, and worry whether the Batista forgot to add sprinkles to their Mocha. Somehow I still feel connected with the life at see and the men who ply the waters. There is something vital to that life, and one who has not been on the waters cannot know it's allure. The sea is deadly and you cannot order a nice day. What is one day a good sizable load, the otherday can be a problem. The men of the sea are always pushed to produce more, and more, it is part of the allure.

Did the captain take on too much? Maybe? But every run across the Gulf of Alaska is a roll of the dice, for her waters are some of the most treacherous there are. Once you make your way out of Icy Straights, and round Cape Spencer, the wild game begins. Some will take their chance and head on a direct bearing for Seward across the Gulf. Others will follow the coast finding refuge from the waves every so often at Lituya, Yakatat and Prince William Sound. Between these places, the highest mountains send their glaciers down to the Sea and a mass of ice the size of Connecticut gives no safe harbor for about a day. Yet each bay, cove and harbor are marked, with names such as Graves Cove, Calm Bay, and Cape Caution. Speaking to the dangers of heading out upon these waves.

Having heard the news I talk with Paul and his brother about Robert, for a day we thought that he was the lost man of the boat, as they only talked about the Captain. We remembered how much a miserable cuss the man was, but a fine fisherman and a man lost for his heart to the Sea. It began to question all that I felt was vital. And the news that he had spent time putting a life vest on his dog Baxter, the stupidest mutt you ever seen, seemed fitting. I reminisced watching him jump into the frigid waters Seymour Canal, to save the dumb mutt that missed the boat while jumping from the Northern Belle to the Pacific Queen. And yet today, I found that the news was mistaken and that it was one of his crew that died. Should that change the way I thought of it all? I don't know? For certain, my heart goes out to the mans family, and yet those you ply those waters know if you do it long enough. If the seasons stretch on to years, one of these days the cold icy waters of Alaska will be your grave.

It is with these thoughts that I talk to the fisherman preparing for the coming Salmon Season here in Seattle. They have seen one of their own go down, and it will not be the last. The sea for all her dangers and risks, has a spell that weaves into these men that a common city habitat could never know. For life while simple seems to make more sense out among the tides and the waves of Mother Natures hand. A place for those who need to feel the visceral qualities of life first hand must go. And yet somehow I find myself remaining behind. Watching those seiners follow north...

SEA - 1 Bear and Raven Steal Fire

Long ago when the earth was new. It was a time of silent darkness,
when there was no light to illuminate across the land at the shores of
the Salish Sea. The people lived at the tide-line of Wy'luge, a great
body of water snaking it's way through the inlets and bays between the
two great mountains. They had lived there many long years, after the
great ice flows had retreated back to the land of the Wind. Huddled in
their lodges, covered with blankets of deer and goat who roamed the
forests. They sat in darkness waiting for the dawn to raise. For
there was no light of fire to illuminate their faces in the night, and
no heat to keep their lodges warm.

The people had remembered brighter days, when it seemed the sunlight
would go on for all time. Yet a darkness had settled into Wy'luge.
Both the sun and fire had been stolen by a great Siskiutl, (split two
headed sea-serpent) that lived at the mouth of the River. The people
of Wy'luge had grown too fat on their prosperity in times before,
taking little care of the world that surrounded them. They had
forgotten how to carve cedar canoes to go out to the waters to fish,
for the salmon came right to their lodges along the rivers edge. So
one day while all of the sententials of the clans were off in play at
a great potlatch, the Siskuitl had taken the Sun right out of the sky
and stolen the fire from their unprotected longhouse. This is how the
dark days came to the people due to their own carelessness. For they
had polluted their waters, and forgot to teach their young the old
ways. The Siskuitl began to eat all the salmon coming near the river,
thus no Salmon went beyond here to the place where the longhouses
stood. Since the people could not go out on the Sea, the grew very
hungry and week, eating only roots and sweat sap, without the strength
of the Meat of the Salmon Spirits.

In those days, the spirits of the world roamed and lived among the
people of the Salish Sea. They would change form to look like man,
during the evenings, but would return to the forest to take on their
wild form during the day. There was two that lived in a village near
the edge of a small river that flowed from the mountains near Tahoma.
These were Raven and Bear. Raven and Bear had been friends for a long
time, since they had been young. Since there was no day, they rarely
took their wild forms, and so began to lose spirits and only longed
for the earlier days of the sun. They both saw a suffering in people,
while some would not see it themselves. Knowing how they came to this,
they set out to the Sea to take the sun and the fire back from the
Siskiutl.

Bear and Raven knew that the Siskuitl could not take his fire out of
the box, in his home at the mouth of the river. Yet Siskiutl, loved
the taste of salmon smoked upon a cedar fire. He would lash is great
tail about in the deep waters of Wy'luge to create storms and winds
that would force the people of the Salish Sea into their Longhouses.
It was then that he would head to the Sandy beach there at the mouth
of the river, and smoke his salmon without worry of anyone noticing
him. So one such night as the winters came to the mountains about
Wy'luge, Siskiutl whipped his tail in a frenzy and created such a
storm. When wave after wave of rain and wind swept the people back to
their lodges, he emerged towards the fire-pits that lined the shore.

Bear and Raven waited at the edge of forests, changing into wild form
and watching for their moment when the Siskiutl was finished smoking
his salmon, lost in the joy of eating each juicy piece. At that
moment, Bear bolted out and put his great paw on the Serpant's tail,
keeping him from protecting the fire, while Raven Swept down and
grabbed an ember of fire from the still burning coals. Clutching them
in his craw, he flew higher, while his great white feathers were
turning to black as the smoke was fanned into flame. Burning his claws
hard black, he could not stand to carry the ember any more and dropped
it in the smoke hole of the Salish People's Longhouse. Thus giving
back fire to the people.

Mean while Bear struggled to keep hold of the Serpants Tale and the
great Siskiutl return to the Sea near a point of land called Alki. In
his furry, he tipped over the box containing the Sun, casting it out
along the shore, turning the sand to rocky stone at the waters edge.
Bear, seeing his moment reached out and threw the sun up in the sky,
bring light to the land once more. Yet the fire of the sun, also
singed his fir black, except for his brown muzzle that still had
salmon grease covering it.

Dawn rose across the waters of Wy'luge and the Salish Sea. The rains
of the Serpent, Siskiutl diminished and the people began to come out
of their longhouses, to see the new light.

Bear crept back in the forests. Only to come out and watch the people
from a distance in their wild form, while he began to relearn the old
ways that had long been lost in those dark days. Raven remained flying
about the people, always the trickster in their midst, watching that
the people were learning those old ways as well..

-- Adapted from a Salishan Tale

-- Jorj

NZ 5 - Motatapu Track

The trail sometimes is long and hard, but in this land of silence and
open space, where the ridgelines seem to hum with the constant sound
of the wind curving over the rocky crests, there is a peacefulness to
it all. Something warms the spirit in those hours walking in the heart
of the Central Otago. The clouds break every so often looking deep
into the Range Aspiring, where recent snows have fell highlighting the
rocky faces. Indeed a beautiful place, even if the trail seems
tortuous...

There is something very particular about Kiwi Trails. Unless you are
on a Great Walk, they truly do not believe in building them apart to
the boot beaten paths that extend in each direction. Orange poles
along ridgelines are the most favored places. You would be hard
pressed to find a switchback in this country. Lucky in the
Tussocklands that surround, I can create my own. But most often I
revert to attacking the mountain as it was meant to, straight up! It
is less a sense of some masculine definitive of mountain travel, and
more just the nature of understanding that this is the only clear way
up the mountains. So slowly, I put in the Potential Energy of raising
myself above the valley floor, knowing Kinetics will play out on the
otherside to the descent.

Over Christmas I found myself hunkered down in Highland Hut. There
surrounded by the rising mass of the Stack Range behind me. Rain rolls
in cloud after cloud. Coffee pot empties itself as I read through the
hut Register, and work writing my thoughts of the past year. The place
has a hunting feel that seems to resound like a low tone, bring the
sense closer to the touch. The name of the basin is apply named, as I
feel that when I look out over the burn I'll see a Scotsman walking
steadily towards the cabin. The words seem to flow from the pen,
filling the page. It is a relaxed day that flow by before I descend
out of these mountains once again.

I realizes that there is something inspiring about Trails. They offer
a place for the thoughts of a person to play out. A place to connect
with the surrounding landscape and to gain a little piece of a vital
life. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. From the valley
meander, to the high alpine route. Enough for an afternoon, or a trail
to play out over the days till your footfalls become the beat of your
soul. Like cathedrals, they are places to come to, yet it is in their
passage that they inspire. Sometimes like the Motatapu, they can
challenge a man towards a breaking point. Other times such as the
Wilkins, they just feed into the hearts delight. It is important that
they exist, in whatever form. For they are a resource of true
re-creation to people everywhere. I find myself best when along their
winding path. And yet only hope to bring a slice back to share.

The end of the track, leads through some Lupine, fields and fields.
Following the course of the Arrow River. It is here, that almost like
a grand Gardner, I feel nature play it's best show. From reds and
pinks, to the familiar purple and blue. It is no secret that no matter
where you go, there is a sense of the alpine when you see it's stands
besides the rivers banks. To say that they have been a warm comfort in
the last month to see, would be an understatement. But along the
Motatapu, they are in shear full glory. A place that will live in my
mind for a long time.

-- Ridgewalker (Jorj

NZ 4 - Karamea River Way

NZ 4  - Karamea River Way

It has been three days since leaving the Tablelands. Following down into the river systems of Kahurgari NP, deeper and deeper with each turn. The tramping has become a rythmn; mud, roots, rock and ford. Following marker after marker, on to the next waypoint and to the hut at the end of the night. The rain everpresent, sometimes a fine mist others a heavy pelting. Steam rises from this tramper, as constant motion seems the best option to keeping warm till reaching the far distant Hut. The track is but a rough boot beaten track, believing that the best way to ascend heights is direct, with little regard for switchbacks. Roots become your friend as you hual yourself over river terrace, rocky faces and mountain passes. 

The inner santucary of the Tasman Range is a rainforest on the level of the mighty Hoh, Queets and Quinault. And yet through it all there is a comfort in this place, almost like home. Ferns, lichen and mosses of uncomporable diversity abound in these valleys, leading the eye in every turn. The botanist in me screams for a good field guide to explore this Beech Tree rainforest. And yet I just travel and take it all in, flashing the camera through many images of rock, moss and fern. Trying to catch that moment of beauty best kept within that space. But some reason I still try. 

The Kea and Weka keeping me company with their songs amoung the sound of falling water in all direction. Rushing ribbon in cascades roaring over limestone cliffs and of small springs, coursing through boulders covered in deep green moss. I stop often to look into deep limestone canyons that are bridged by small steel cable bridges swaying with each step. Always it seems a robin looking down the trail following my progress down the deep gorges. They have became my companions, for other then birds there is little native creatures about. Perhaps they are all waiting out the storm, like the hords of other trampers. 

For over 7 days I only saw but one soul, A DOC worker minding his patrol cabin. Looking at me curiously, through the torrential rains falling from the edge of his porch. Had he never seen the likes of a true NW'ner? If we waited for the rain to stop falling, we would never reach those upper gorges in full splender. But then again, this is how I enjoy my backcountry splender. Solitude, allowing the chorus of nature to play without the competition of human dialog, just the sound of falling foot-falls across the muddy trail.  

One evening I cut out early, to take in a rare sunset. It played across the limestone walls above the river floor. At the confluence of the Lesile and Karamea River, 40 miles from the nearest trailhead, I sit along gravel banks. Watching the flow of two rivers joining as they seem to glide across their gravel banks. Innocent they glide, as a distant roar of the grand gorge travels in the air from just around the bend. A feeling of being in-deep come to the tips of my senses. I warm myself over a crackling fire, watching the light fade from the canyons floor, painting the high country tops with hints of the suns distant blaze. A hush, flowing over the country, with two blue ducks travelling above me down the rivers edge...

Could anyone ever desire a more beautiul place to roam in natures down pour? I can imagine not... But tommorrow I will push on down the rivers course, towards the Tasman Sea...

NZ 3 - Kahuragi NP - Loch Peel

NZ 3 - Kahuragi NP - Loch Peel

I make my way slowly up Cobb Ridge a few 100 meters at a time. Barren but for knee high bunch grass, I follow the carnes along the ridge, which appear and dissappear with each cloud bank. At times gale force winds damn near bring me to my knees, as I make the ridgeline. Rain seems to blow so alhard, that it stings the face and bounces of my rain jacket. There is a love/hate to conditions in the mountains.

At the moment, I'm in a bit of missary about it. Mother nature is what she is, bitter sweet rains and then moments of pure joy with a passing sun break. With tr breaks I seem to try and find my sun, checking for the next carne and allowing the surrounding Mountians to bee seen through cloud breaks, gainin my brearing before the clouds bank in again. It now occurs to me, that I should have brought rain pants. But with all things sometimes you have to learn the nature of a place through trial and error.

I crest over to a gap in the ridgeline. Like a frieght train the wind roars throught twin limestone rock faces. down below is the trail post, and the route down to Loch Peel. I say that, because the Tablelands of the Upper Takaka Valley look like what I would imagine the Highlands of Scotland would be like. Barren rock piles of mountains, with long green and cold hills leading down to narrow lakes nesseled within the oaks and knarled birch, sculped by centuries of winds out of the tops of the island. It is no wonder the few Kiwis that I have meet along the way, have had ancestors from the Highlands.

I take the jucntion and look down into the Valley of the Peel. The winds are a little more sheltered here, as Peel Mtn sits like a thorn at the head of the valley, cutting the clouds like a knife. Blue sky bounces in and out of existance. Lost in lookin up, I fail to notice the grand valley before me. Droping 500m the barren snow grass gripping the sides along the rocky cliffs. As the sun passed through the valley and over the Loch's bench, an arching bow of color spang forth across the valley floor. The sides were cradled with the white lace of waterfalls descending into the lost river below.

I stood there gathering the sight, which slowly fades as the break in the clouds passed by. The force of winds reminded me I was yet to Balloon Hut, and Loch Peel still lay before me. Yet the light on the landscape was playing it's magic like old Celtic lore upon me. Again the rainbow appeared before me, leadig my eyes across the valley, yet tromping forward to Loch Peel. Over the scree of rock descending from the Tableland heights, I bounded along. Coming bench at which the waters edge stood. There the winds moving across the snow grass seem to pulse like wild rapids, giving the whole scene a sense of movement.

This place was alive with spirit and nature. Indeed a place to pay homage to mother natures beauty, even if her furry sometimes can bring a man to his knees. Content with the specticle after a log lingering look, I took back to a trampers long line across the open ridges and on to Balloon Hut, to find the warmth of a wood stove and a hot kettle of tea.

As Basho once said along the mountains of Japan, "Homeless I wander, in the company of Nature..."

Indeed she is a great teacher...


Along the backcountry mile,
Ridgewalker (Jorj)

NZ 2 - Tale of the Totara Twins (Edited)

NZ 2 - Legend of the Totara Twins (Edited)

While sitting over tea on a rainy Tuesday evening in Roebuck hut, the fire place crackling away of dried beech limbs, an old tramper told me a tale that I thought my Yamabushi bretherin would enjoy. It was a tale told to him by his father while at Aspiring Hut deep in the Southern Alps.

Coming in from a stormy day about Mt Cook, a lone tramper looking to get warm came to a hut put up by the Mountain Guides that had closed up for the season. He found that the door was unlocked, as was the custom in the Huts of New Zealand. Opening the door he found that the fire had already been going and the warmth had brought him relief. Figuring that the other soul had popped out to find the Lue, even as the winds blasted down the ridgelines to a frightful roar. He believed that they would be around shortly. 

Taking off his soaken clothing and hanging it on to the line, right down to his scivys, figureing a bloke would make no mind, he hovered around the woodstove warming his frigid bones. 

As the night got on, and still no sign of the hut's taker, he began a stew of mtn golosch and tea, making sure to leave enough for his mate should he be getting on. The wind was frightful, battering the old cabin with tossing blows. Each time the wind seem to knock at the door, the weary traveller, kept looking out to see if a man staggered toward the cabin. With ice about the rocks and a full squall tearing from the sky, he did not dare to venture out. But a peek to find the good hearted friend who had lit the fire.

Hours went by, and soon the traveller fell into a lucid state of sleep, catching only moments of wakeful gaze toward the hut door. He half expected it to breech open, with then grizzed figure of a mountain man frozen clean through the bone. Somewhere he dirfted off to the sound of the warm crackle of the belly pot wood stove.

Like a song of a woman, half in a daze he awoke to the haunting sound. Looking around he throught it would be half mad to believe, such as the storm bellowed outside... Again, this time accompinied by another in harmony coming like sweet song just outside the door... It had been a long time since he had heard those sounds, as most of the mining camps were all men those days. And since he had left England had he heard such fair sounds, but two... Must be the wind about the cables singing those emchanting high notes.

In the stillness between gusts, their song came again. So beautiful, he could hardly believe that he was still awake. But the sights and smell of the hut reminded him that indeed he was. So he figured he would take but a peep outside, just to check his curiousity... It would not hurt... Since he arrived at the cabin to a fire... Maybe it was true... Maybe the souls were calling out for help.

Reaching for the door, the nobb felt cold, and hinges squelled against the weight of each blast. How could two women ever be outside in this toss... He almost felt ashamed to look, never giving in before to such lapse in reason. But curiousity, like a fickled kid inside pulled him to open that hut door...

Raising his head to looks out, he saw a sight he would nearly had believe. But two beautiful women, of strong beauty, standing toward the tracks edge with brown flowing hair and a knee length red dress, leather mountain boots to hilt. Their hair weaving with each blow, and their eyes looking deeply out towards his.

He felt beside himself, Stunned at the sight. Had no other dream then but what he saw before him been as lovely. Yet it made no sense to him. He hauler'd out to them to come into the hut with the warm fire and get out of the cold. Yet they seem to just walk slowly backwards down the trail. Gazing out towards him singing thier haunting song.

Frustrated, he motioned again, telling them of the hot tea and warm fire. But still they only stood just before the end of the track, waving him forward. Each howl of the wind seemed to get stronger, and he knew he could not hold the door much longer, but did not wish to see them go.

Somehow he stepped out the door to reach for them to pull one in. Streching his harm while bracing against each gust, he leaned a little further. Soon only his leg holdin the door open.

As he looked up to see where they were, one of the twins in her flowing knew high red dress was before him, her brown hair whirling about his head as he was  but face to face. Her hands reaching out to him and her lips and words luring him in a language of orgins unknown. With a daze of sight only know by men long left without the pleasue of a womans touch, he reached out to grab her about the waist, hoping to bring her in... 

With such close grap his leg left the brace of the door, the man caught in the spell took a step out into the cold. From inside the cabin, the door slammed shut, leaving the scene of the warm crackiling fire and steaming tea kettle upon the silence. Time flowed from that moment, before the muffled gust of the wind on the cabin walls began to flow again...

It lasted for a few minutes... Till there came a rapping in the hut door. The turning of the cold nob and sqweel of the hinges against the force of the wind, seen a haggered man slip through with a sudden sight.

Looking up, this time, a weary traveller wondering what good souls had left a lit fire for him this long tiring night... He had been many hours from the base camp Seeing a pack and tea, he figured the other would be along soon, so rising to his feet began to make himself at home in this mountain pass hut deep within the Southern Alps Range...

As the rain and wind howled outside our hut, and the fire crackled as a few more branches where added to stoke the coals, I looked out the small window into a sea of clouds. A faint high note could be heard into the night... And once, just once did I believe that I saw a flash of a woman in a red dress just beyond the tracks edge. But that is just the wishful thoughts of a man deep in his mountains lured on by the spell of lucid dreams...