Terry's World

California Wrights Christmas Letter 2011

2011-12-09T18:35:00.000-08:00

Wrights, Berlacks and Ungers at Homewood Retreat

2011 Christmas Letter, California Wrights

Pictures on picasaweb.google.com/terryw100

We have had another exciting year of exploration, family outings and accomplishment, and health issues. There is a polyp that has grown in my sinus, and neurological complications that have delayed much needed surgery still in progress at this writing.

Our year started with me and Judy on a 3 week trip to the Big Island to sight see and visit friends. We explored all the canyons, beaches and haunts developed over the years, with the addition of a walk on a moving lava flow and a two mile hike in a Lava tube. Next a desert-Benton trip with Judy and Kailen to Saline Valley for President’s day. The whole family reuned in Homewood for a ski vacation with Carolyn’s crew and mine.

After a break in Sonoma County, I met Judy in Las Vegas for a camping/visiting trip across the Colorado Plateau, taking in ruins, canyons, rocks, hikes out to Taos, and return via Canyonlands Maze district, Bryce and Zion.

Next, Judy joined me on a high water trip on the Carson River with Tom Donovan and crew. Then back to a brief visit with sister Cindy and Ronnie and off again to Kate Wolf Folk Music Festival with the popcorn crew. A visit to Benton followed, with the Saline crew at the hot springs and a potato gun shoot out.

Back to Sonoma County, I faced my overweight issue and concentrated on getting more fit and losing weight. I have lost 26 lbs now by counting calories and watching intake, and working out at the gym.

A fun family river trip on the American followed in August, then I headed off to Benton and Burning man. A new camp with friend Canyon, Earth Guardians and a field trip and lecture (250 people) led to a full experience there. Judy joined me in Benton afterwards for the Millpond Music festival, we visited old friends and played in the mountains.

Back in Forestville, I saw an ENT doc and set a surgery date, only to have it cancelled because of neurological complications. I have been here now since late September, sleeping fitfully and seeing doctors of all types, I expect to get the final word on surgery on the 21^st December and be done with this issue early in the new year, this will be a relief.

Heather and crew are flourishing; she is a busy mom and in Law School now, and hobnobbing with the local lawyer set. Shasta and Jevria are active in soccer and are avid readers. Brian is working hard at his bookkeeping business and coaching soccer. Heather has supported me in my medical adventures and has been a great help.

Kailen and Zoe bought a cute house in San Jose, a picture postcard bungalow on the northwest side of town. Kyvi is growing fast, talking up a storm and playing with a great store of creative toys. Kailen is working hard at Google, and Zoe is in graduate school for speech therapy. I saw Kailen give a presentation on google programs at a local high school, he was great and personable. Tom Wrights daughter, Emily visited in the fall en route to look for a job in California.

All our love to you for the new year

Terry terryw100@gmail.com

Bodega Head Panels

2011-12-09T17:02:00.000-08:00

Installed on a ADA compliant trail on Bodega Head, Sonoma County Coast California. These panels show the regional geology and geologic history of state park lands at the south tip of Bodega Head. Check it out.

Bodega Head Panels

2011-07-27T18:57:00.000-07:00

check it out.

Terry and Judy do the Southwest April 2011

2011-06-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

Terry and Judy do the Southwest March April 2011

Pictures on Picasaweb terryw 100

Colorado plateau april 2011

Off in the teeth of the storm to Canyon’s, Grass valley covered with 6” of new wet snow, roads littered with spun out cars, trucks prohibited on I 80, back to the museum; Canyon’s lair watching snowflakes fall.

Great visit, stretched to 3 days when the pass was choked with snow and accidents. I did try one time, but the pace was snail and I turned around and returned for 2 more nights before the hiway was clear. Great lunch in Grass Valley at the café and shopping in Nevada City, canyon gimping along with her tendon torn hiking leg, going slow. Gotta new hand lens from the cousin of dawson, the guy who runs the snarl and we got into an argument about who should be where.

Finally a run over a clear pass to the Wigwam for lunch and down to Benton, the house warm and set up by Win. Nap then work feverishly to get ready for Vegas run to pick up Judy, then head off into the plateau country. A re run of my safari driveabout of spring 02 after retiring; over the high points and old friends of the plateau. And the spectacular scenery of spots accumulated over the years which I want to show Judy. She is in Vegas at her bros house, all smiles and love, and immediately sets about organizing the camper, food etc. for our foray into never never land. Never seen before by her, a real treat for me to guide, and she to cater through 21 days of adventure and exploration.

Off to Flagstaff early, heading for Baronii manse after an audience with old boatman friend Bob Melville, now in a convalescent hospital after a brain-jangling accident; collision on a black ice highway. His wife lost control in front of a truck while he was asleep in the camper. He was the best, my guru boatman on the California rivers, migrated to the Grand Canyon, and now spending his years an invalid. The same smile, tousled hair and quick wit, but hobbled in walk, using a long staff and somewhat unfocused stare. Judy looks at a picture on the wall of the former self; focused, enjoying life, oars in hand doing Upset for the n th time and “is this you?”; Bob “Yes in another time, another life”.

We talk of old times, old friends, river stories, the first stan trip, his appearance in my office 1971, soaking wet, water dripping from his hair and beard and a toothbrush in his pocket. “I need a geologist for an interpretive manual for boatmen on the American, Stanislaus and Tuolumne rivers; I was told you were the one”. My reply; “When do we leave?” led to a career of river geologist, teaching, researching, and enjoying people on the rivers.

We reluctantly take our leave, and pull into Baron’s place, find the key, enter and nap. Cathi comes back late, we visit, go to Thai in a loud restaurant. And crash.

Day 2

Early coffee and bkfst with Cathi and she’s off, and we find the whole foods equivalent in flag, a huge store, I mail taxes, and Judy buys essentials for camping on the road. We finally head to Grand Canyon and spend the day marveling at the view, hiking the south Kaibab trail to the overlook, and checking out museums, visitor center bookstore. Unrecognizable layout, new roads, huge parking lots, new buildings, the “Canyon View” visitor center is 1/2 mile from the canyon with no view at all and no displays. The old geology museum is better, still on the rim. Great views, lotsa people; foreign tongues Shuttle buses everywhere, old roads blocked off, very confusing, we seek solace in isolated overlooks and the trail, remembrances of times past with many students, Willy burning my chair in the fire, old friends and new ghosts of the past.

We secure a campsite in the huge empty campground, I’m pooped, stretch out while Judy rustles up supper of leftover thai. Cold out there, cozy in the camper, heater going, snuggle in bed with generators popping off now and then, drift off to dreamland.

Day 3 Grand Canyon to Lees Ferry

Up slow, we’re on vacation, tour the Bright angel lodge and overlooks, turns out Judy was a Harvey girl, waitress at a toll road restaurant in the 60s, some classic displays of them at the lodge. Fantastic rock fireplace by famous woman architect Julia Morgan and bustling crowds of foreigners buying buying buying. We cruise east along the rim, taking in Lipan point with views of the unconformity and Hance rapid and some boats running Unkar rapid. Hit the tourist hot spots, then the long lonely road to Marble Canyon bridge and the ceremonial pee off the bridge 800’ to the river. On to vermillion cliffs and Quistville, settle in with them, Claire and Pam, old friends, even George shows up, another transplant from Boulder colo. And old boatman. Moki Mac river expeditions, wine and dinner at vc lodge, long stories of river politics, catch up on people of the past. Settle in to the camper in the yard with distant moonlit views of plateaus and cliffs and gods country.

Day 4 Th’ ferry to Mexican Hat

Up late, long prep, miss the putin at the ferry of the gts trip, damn. Oh well, Peggy the ranger is there and Pam, we exchange pleasantries, and then off to page after watching a private trip put in.

On Pam’s recommendation we stop at the Horshoe bend overlook of Glen Canyon, just below the dam. A great peek over the edge to the green Colorado, a few boats plying back and forth, tourboats, Clean striated cliffs of Navajo Sandstone, red streaked with iron stains, setting the surreal scene for the Plateaus. A short hike to clean out the pipes, and we are off for Antelope canyon, only to find you can only do tours there now, and its 31$ per person, the Indians cashing in on their beauty. We pass, and pass the Power plant and coal train immortalized in Monkey Wrench Gang.

Driving across the great empty, hogans dotting the landscape, dirt roads stretching out into Hillerman country, looking for Chee and Leaphorn at the local chapter house, chasing down a murderer. Not far to Monument Valley and we turn in, pay 5$ and enter the red towers and buttes, the Mittens, the W spires, improved dirt road from the last time in 1991 with Heather and Kailen. We drive the loop, and take a lotta pictures, hiking a little and wishing we had more time. The light is low as we leave, I catch a great shot of the left mitten shadow reaching out to the right mitten with the Ansel rocks in the foreground, vertically layered in juxtaposition with horizontal buttes and mesas in the background.

Drive through more empty quarter, over a rise to the valley of the San Juan river and Mexican hat, find the BLM raft putin, no one there, and set up camp, cook a one pot meal in the new DO and kick back next to the river, white noise in the background.

Day 5 to Aztec and Margot

Another lazy morning, but Judy takes time to organize the camper and we are off into Garden of the Gods, a short drive up a fantastic canyon, many spires, a mini Monument Valley. More empty rez, New pickups, hogans with doors facing the rising sun, junked cars lying around.

Teec nos pos trading post pops up and we are sucked into the rug room, most $1000 or more. We find a smallish one for Benton and buy it, and look at the other kachina dolls, and then off on the road. Bypass the 4 corners , now determined to be 2 miles off by gps and over the border into New Mexico. Ship rock is irresistible, even tho the wind is kicking up, we find an approach road and drive to about 1/2 mile from the rock and take some pix with the iphone, so I can post it on the internet.

Into Farmington, eventually find the concert hall for an evening of irish music with Margot and her husband. Very Lively group with the fiddler dancing around the group. We repair to Margot’s house and settle in for 2 days. Bang bang of something in the middle of the night signals the windstorm expected, whistling through the wires, rocking the RVS in the trailer park across the street and dusting everything.

Day 6 Sleep fitfully, and awake early to coffee and cereal. Lazy morning, Sunday, and finally head to the Aztec ruins; Margo was a docent, so we get introduced around and enter the world of the Anasazi, rooms on rooms, all interconnected, Kivas all over, a major community here until 1200 when they all disappeared, migrating south for more water and resources. The grand Kiva is huge, completely restored with stairways, galleries and strange rectangular boxes with no known purpose.

Out into the wind again, then back to nap, and more visiting.

Day 7 White rock and Skip Dunn

Off into the fading wind, still gusty as we head south, a ways to go, we pass Chaco Canyon, more to come at Bandolier and Mesa Verde. Mountains and ridges skimming the caldera south to White rock, easily finding the Dunn residence with iphone mapping. No one around, so we sack out in the sun on the air mattress. “Well, well well, look whos here” I hear Skip’s voice resonate as he walks up. We talk and catch up and settle in. Hedy comes home and Skip heads to a rabble rousing town meeting, he is the original shit stirrer in local politics. We take stock and Hedy suggests a hike in an separate part of Bandolier np and we go up ladders, up over plateaus, along cliff dwellings following ancient paths rocks adorned by petroglyphs of Kokopelli and animals. A great hike not frequented by tourists, path furrowed deep by feet on soft sandstone.

Late dinner with Skip and Hedy, yet another chicken casserole, the national dish of New Mexico. Long conversations about growing up in Wellesley around the corner from each other, great to see old friends; 15 years since I’ve seen Skip.

Day 8 On to Taos

Skip is headed to Oregon with an old car he has restored for a museum there, we all pack and are off early to Bandolier National Monument, 5 miles down the road. More ruins, and a great hike with ladders leading into rooms, petroglyphs, remnants of a large village. Lunch in the parking lot, and off down the road again, Taos bound.

Tourist town, we find Nancy waiting for us at a local motel and she guides us to her Aztec lookout house with chickens, horse, 3 dogs , the whole farm scene.

She is a jolly lady an old friend of Judys, child therapist. She opens wine immediately and we feel at home. We talk of life in Taos, and past experience. Fun times and fade away into the night in the lookout tower.

Day 9

Another relaxed start, finally taking off to see her old house up a canyon, the ski resort (just closed down) and hike to an ice cave. Then across the plateau to the west over the Rio Grande canyon, a big one, and down to Ojo caliente, a hot springs resort in the foothills. I spot Laura’s daughter’s car, and know she is still there; old friend from Sebastopol; we had realized we would be in Taos at the same time at this resort, and there she is, fresh from a massage, with daughters. We visit, soak in different pools and converse in low tones. A woman comes around bearing a sign “Please whisper”. Pools built into the rock cliffs, a big stone veranda dotted with pools, a lithium water drinking fountain to calm you down and finally a wet and dry sauna, the whole works, we are gonna come back here.

Dark storm clouds rollin in from the east, so we hightail it back to Taos, passing some earth houses, weird structures, free form, a way of life out here on the Taos plateau. We return as the first drops fall, and soon a gentle desert rain covers the landscape, still not enuf to obscure a spectacular red sunset. Another evening of good food wine and conversation, background music from Nancy’s son who is a flamenco guitarist, lives in spain and has several Cds out; studied with Andreas Vollevider in Santa Fe, one of the greats. We repair to the lookout bedroom and slumber to the gentle drumming of rain on the roof.

Day 10 Mesa Verde not quite

We have a relaxed parting, and then cruise the square for touristy things, of which there are many, and not many people. Pass the pueblo, tempting to go in, but it looks like a long time deal, so head out to cross the Rio Grande again then over snow lashed mts and north to Colo. Great farmlands, a huge grocery store in the middle of nowhere with friendly ranchers, up to Durango and arrive late at Mesa Verde, to find the campground closed. We head west and find a dirt ranch rd to the north, leading to some logging/firewood roads and a perfect campsite with a view of the buttes of Mesa Verde.

A glass of wine and snacks with a view of the buttes and early bed read by the LED light bar the gripping “girl who played with fire” with a higher body count.

Day 11 Mesa Verde to Castle Valley-Moab Utah

Nice rest, sun up early, still cold, but we are off to higher elevations, climb the Plateau to Mesa Verde and wander with wonder along the paths to the cliff dwellings, multiple kivas, hundreds of rooms, lots of people.. now the week before easter break, and many people are out, screaming kids, schoolbuses, but the dwellings are spectacular. Judy descends into a hole in the ground to find an underground kiva.

Finally tearing ourselves away, a fur piece to moab, and out onto the Delores valley, big farms, prosperous, big winds too have returned, buffeting our small craft, but not a danger. The red rounded rocks of canyonlands start dominating the landscape, fantastic mounds, shapes , caves, a treat to return to, winding through an unworldly collection of spires, goblins, hoodoos and the like.

Moab is madness, Suvs loaded with mt bikes, kayaks, rafting gear, climbing ropes, all the stuff of fun in the wilderness. Richard doesn’t need anything, so we head up the Colorado River road and into Castle Valley. Warmly greeted by old friend Professor Purple, local radio luminary and old friend from the rivers, we settle into a stew and long catchup conversations. We met on the Rogue in the late 70s on an ARTA trip, and have been fast friends ever since.

Long conversations about life past present and future, he might move to Patagonia, Chile to get out of the USA madness.

Sloshing around on the waterbed, we finally settle down for our much needed rest.

Day 12 Arches and the Island in the sky

Up to more deep conversation, plans for the day, cold and windy out, but we take our leave and head out the valley, marveling at expanses of red cliffs, buttes, mesas and plateaus. Definition a butte is not as wide as it is tall; a mesa is wider that high and a plateau is way wider than high. People camping on the river, many mt bikes, hunkered down in the wind and cold.

We get to the entrance of arches, the young ranger says “at least I’ve got a job” Congress was threatening to close down the gummint because the budget was still in the air, that meant that all the parks would close, and we are planning to go to them all. We have alternative entrances planned tho, but not necessary.

Up to the windows for a ramble through the holey scenery, along with a couple hundred others, enjoying the same thing. Great vistas off to the plateaus and short climbs into incredibly beautiful grottos wind whistling through rock gaps, kids running and screaming.

Finished here, too many people, off to Island in the sky, the high plateau north of the the green-colo confluence, spectacular views, few people, a japenese tourist woman wondering “is it all natural?”. Wow does she ever not get it.

We have lunch on the tailgate and head down the Shafer trail, winding 1000 feet to the White rim, with the high plateaus rearing high above us. Now very few people, a rough 4wd rd filters the mobs out. We hike the goosnecks trail out to the cliffs above the Colorado and talk of doing a canoe trip down from Moab or down the Green. Great views of the river, here with broad bottomland and tamerisk covering the banks. Dizzying views straight down to the river and along the white rim add to the mystique of wonderland. I recall a dark and stormy night, burritoed in a tarp with lightening flashing and thunder rolling through the cliff scape, another life long ago.

We head back on the Potash road toward Moab, a long trek to civilization as it is. Moab is raging with holiday crowds, we hit the grocery and I buy a sun shower at gearheads and inquire about old grand canyon friend Bego, get a lead, he’s now head of search and rescue in the local sherrif’s office, I call, but he’s out, busy finding someone, but now I know how to find him.

Well provisioned now, with food for 7 days camping in the outback of Canyonlands and Grand staircase, we head to Richards through a raging snow squall turning the world white for our entertainment. We have another dinner and conversation, plans for the future, and stories of the past adventures. We talk of the Maze, where we are headed now, and the ordeal of the drive in, hopefully we are ready for it, new 4wd Tacoma, 3” lift job, camper, bfg offroad tires, otta do it. W’ed better, this is the ultimate outback, about as far as you can get from civilization anywhere in the lower 48, even the ranger station at Hans Flat 45 miles of dirt from the paved road.

Day 13 Into the Maze

We get an early start, leaving Richards white shock of hair retreating up the driveway. The long road to Green River, check out the john Wesley Powell museum with all the old wooden boats that did the grand in the 30s-60s.. We gas up add 2 4 gallon gas cans, water up, propane up, ready to camp. Now south to the turnoff, sign to ranger station and Hite crossing on lake Powell 104 miles down the line. It’s a slow trip, few people on the road, winding through buttes, valleys fields, somewhere south is Robbers roost where Butch and Sundance used to hang out between jobs.

Finally the Hans Flat ranger station comes in view, and the nice ranger man gives us a permit; we add a day at the second campsite because we can, 3 days at the maze, should be enough. Now another 14 miles of clifftop driving to the Flint trail and the dive into hell, the worst road of them all, major ledges, one lane only and switchbacks down another 1000 feet.

We launch off a couple of major ledges, crawling down and around switchbacks and dive down some of the steepest inclines I’ve ever seen, white knuckling it, Judy silent beside me. We break after backing up and around a particularly sharp bend and take in the vista of cliffs and plateaus stretching out to the horizon. Luck would have it, no oncoming traffic, I keep listening for it, and we land at the pass and dodge left to the Golden stairs road and the Maze.

This is worse than I remember, ledges to diagonal off of, narrow slots, and lots of tirebusting rocks. We go slowly and take our time, descending over a series of steps to a wash, then along another deep canyon and around a ridge, over a really steep ridge, prerunning it, still a big crash from behind tells me the camper is takeing a beating. Now across a flat and finally there is the sign for the camp, over a low ridge and out onto slickrock ledges with the greatest view of any camp I ve ever seen, canyons stretching out for miles, buttes and mesas, Lizard rock, the choclate drops, the wall, stovepipe butte, ekkar butte and the Maze itself, plunging down from the edge of the camp, a sheer cliff and plateau serrated with countless canyons.

Wine and cheese at cliff’s edge, taking in the view, then full meal, Judy the chef putting it on, and sleep soundly, knowing we have made it to nirvanah of canyonlands.

Judy wakes in the night realizing we are totally isolated, far from help if need be, no one for miles. I tell her of the 10 mile exit trail to hans flat, to no effect. The ranger said the only emergency number is on verizon and we are both on att. Oh well.

Day 14, In the maze for days

Up to coffee and spectacular views, the Maze stretched out at our feet, prep with rope, food, water and things to help in case of need. Over the edge of the ledge and down the sloping staircase around the Nuts and Bolts, square towers at the end of the ridge reaching out to the maze central. Scramble down to the white rim, pure sandstone, and across a steep slope to an open slope. I see the rest of the route below, looking more dangerous than I remember, and we settle in to the scene and lunch. I have made the choice to stop here and Judy agrees, no sense in taking a chance with our 68 and 69 year old bodies with no help around.

We revel in the scene, infinite variations of rock slopes, hoodoos, cliffs. And consider ourselves lucky to be in this heavenly place. We will miss the Harvest scene, a 100’ long mural at the base of the cliff around the corner. 1/2 mile away down around the corner of the canyon, but been there done that, and we can see the pictographs in Horseshoe canyon in a couple of days.

Light getting long, etching the serrated ridges and canyons, so we carefully make our way back around the Nuts and Bolts, up over the ledges. I get off track and find myself leading judy up a thin set of ledges, with loose rocks, finally using my pole to pull her up. Her pole clatters to the bottom of the ledge, and I retrack on the real route, neatly marked by broken cairns to retrieve it. Now up the 2 major steps to the rim and a feeling of exhuberence at the spacious view and the slick rock plateau.

In camp the rest of the wine and cheese at the edge of the abyss and drinking in the view as the light levels and a mass of clouds filters a silver sunset. Another Judy catered feast, and an early bed in the snug camper, reading with the led bar over our heads.

Day 15 Layover in the maze.

We do a lazy day, moving camp to #1, just as spectacular and sit for breakfast at the cliffs edge. Some hikers happen by, left early from Hans Flat, headed into the Maze and out to the Doll’s house. We hike along the rim for a while, taking in deep canyons and plateaus, the snowy La Sal mountains in the far distance over by Moab. I putter with the camper, find that the batteries had capsized, and resecured them, didn’t think to check the turnbuckles, big mistake as we found out later.

Another silvery sunset, not looking like predicted rain. Another great meal from Judy’s kitchen. I plink a few tunes and we listen to the stereo and read some more Hillerman. Fade into the darkness of another deep canyon night.

Day 16 Surprise of the camper

Pack up and relish the view and the mystery of the deep canyons. “Is it all natural?” the japenese tourist lady asked, unbelieveable, and true. The ultimate example of geology in action, layering and carving an amazing maze.

We take it easy on the maze road, still very rocky with ledges and fist sized rocks hammering at the rig.

Up on the top of the golden stairs, I am just breathing easy, prepping for the steep climb up the flint trail, when I look in the rear view, and the camper doesn’t look right, too far back. We stop and view the disaster; the camper has come loose, the turnbuckles flattened out and fell off of the rings that hold them to the bottom of the camper. Shoulda checked them back at camp. I had felt several bangs coming down, musta been the camper getting airborne.

We retrieve 3 turnbuckles, no spares like I had in the old rig, oh well, we gotta do something. Judy sticks the flattend hook of the turnbuckle into a hole in the handyman jack and it miraculously bends back to usable shape again. So 3 turnbuckles are better than none, the task turns to repositioning the camper; it is 18” back from the cab of the truck. I think and propose I back into a tree, but Judy doesn’t think that’s a good idea. I think of physics, as Sam Green would say “its just physics Terry”. I think of momentum and see a small hill down the road. I rev the rig up and run over the hill and down the slope and slam on the brakes, we look at the camper and it has moved but some plywood underneath has stopped it, I can’t pry it out. So I do a reverse momentum, slam on the brakes and loosen the plywood, with the camper precariously hanging on the end, but still on the bed. After removing the plywood another run down the hill and a satisfying thump as the camper seats back in place.

I spend the next hour re placing the turnbuckles lying on my side in the camper, cramped, and eventually success. Judy makes sandwiches and reloads the camper while I rest under a pinion. No one comes along, we are on our own out here. Our ingenuity, and boy scout and girl scout training led to finishing the project. I bring out the truckers rope and we make a double loop around the camper and the bed of the truck with a tight truckers hitch with a carabiner to secure it.

We decide not to go up the Flint trail and save the pictographs for another time. Discretion is the better part of valor. Fluid logistics reigns supreme. Head left at the pass now towards Lake Powell across the serrated canyons where the Monkey Wrench gang made their last stand.

Miles and miles of canyons, cliffs, sage, drywashes and fnally out into an open valley. Two maxed out 4 wd jeeps towing trailers are at a junction and I talk with the big guy, they have 2 families, kids etc, headed toward the Dolls House for a weekend of vehicle breaking 4wd fun.

We look up into the canyon to the north and ask whats up there? I dunno a spring on the map, ok, we consult the maps, still 20 miles from the lake so we head up into a paradise of white cliffs of sandstone and a perfect campsite in a cove in cove canyon above the dry wash, far from flash flood reach.

We make camp and hike as the sun sets on the cliffs, rimmed by white cliffs making gargoyles and hoodoos great place. Another great meal and campfire in cowboy country. Clouds gather and Lightening and thunder cut loose as we drift off.

Day 17 to Capitol Reef

Long picturesque drive to pavement, after 130 miles of rock and dirt, storm blowing through, brilliant blue sky and puffy clouds. The lake is very low, and we pass up Hite marina and its houseboat mentality to head north to Hanksville and lunch at a locals joint with betty boop motif. We head east and soon find the turnoff south towards the Burr trail along the raw jagged face of the monocline; Waterpocket fold. It follows a strike valley into the park, only one campground and it is populous so we explore south along the ridge and find a corral with access road I can drive around behind some trees so no rangers can see. We set up and head up the slope to the top of the ridge in 50 yds and a magnificent view of the inner strike valley and white cliffs of Navajo sandstone billowing out like spinnakers in the wind. Great spot, my kind of camp, another great Judy creation dinner and read and settle in for the night.

Day 18 Escalante country and the Burr Trail

Cold weather, clear view of the multifaceted face of the fold, breakfast on the ridge taking in the ambiance of stone and light. We are getting better at packing up and are outta camp early, nice graded dirt road to the Burr trail turnoff. Turns out there is a campsite there, up a dry wash, hidden from the road, other tracks lead there so I mentally mark this spot for a return trip.

We enter the slot canyon on the Burr trail, good road, spectacular cliffs of Navajo ss, straight through them on the road then endless switchbacks up to the highlands, spectacular views, and a cruise to Boulder, the only town up there, and find the Burr trail grill for delicious lunch, reuben sandwich and turkey with local relish, a gem in the wilderness. Wi fi also and a crowd using it and pounding down great food. We find the office of the grand staircase and get a camping permit, and head down to the escalante. The Calf creek camp looks packed, we are approaching easter vacation time and families are swarming to the plateau. Up to the plateau out of Escalante exploring the first well beaten side road to a turnoff and another isolated secluded camp with hoo doos and buttes abounding. We nap, and judy takes a hike with book of animals tracks and trails. I r and r the bicycle and go for a ride across a broad valley, Snowy mountains in the far background.

We collaborate on a pineapple upside down cake in the d.o. and celebrate another great red rock sunset, silver on clouds to the west.

Day 19 Calf Creek falls

Another early start, and we back track to calf creek, 3 mile hike up to the double falls, still in the sun, kids running around screaming, oh well. I snooze and we revel in the sheer rock walls, shadows deepening, rush of water in the desert, search in vain for petros, many people on the trail, some not happy campers.

Back to the rig, fill with pure stream water and head out to Escalante. The store is well-stocked, and we top off the larder, friendly people, out there. I enquire about liquor store and find it buried in a gear/souvenier shop, a couple bottles of wine for the rest of the trip.

Out of town and through valleys with farms and old houses, gas up and water up, finding a hose lying there at an abandoned gas station. We wind over the mts toward the west, through national forest searching out campsites, too much snow, down to the next valley and find a nice place off the road up a dirt/rock track backed up against a line of cliffs. After lowering conciousness with some wine and cheese, another great meal we settle in.

I go out in the dark to check things out and the full moon hits my eye like a big pizza pie, rising between 2 spires of rock hundreds of feet high. I roust Judy out and take a bunch of pictures as we watch the scene in awe of our luck to be here at this time for this event.

Day 20 Bryce canyon

Now we realize that we are nearing the end of our journey, we talk and feel fulfilled, but always ready for more. Pack fast and leave early, we are getting better at this, and head up the road towards Bryce canyon. Really the serrated edge of a plateau, brilliant reds and oranges, hoodoos everywhere, a maze of intricate nooks and crannies and lots of people. It is one of the most popular parks, and the Easter weekend coming up and attendant school vacations are adding to it.

We find the major trail closed due to rockslides, and funnel with the crowd down another, well graded and spectacular views in all directions. Hoodoos, arches, walls horizontally layered and brilliant with oranges and yellows. There is a spaced crowd, all languages, young and old, a baby asleep nodding out in a backpack, tshirts from all parks, heavy metal, all there for the wonder of it all.

I snooze as judy goes down to the queens garden, an amazing laby rinth of slot canyons and ridges, we mosey out with the crowd. A group of Asians insist we take their seats, and one spots my hand lens and identifies me as a geologist, he too from san diego, we have a great conversation about old friends from the dirt patch and end up friends and exchanging cards for future communication in rock land.

Back on the rim, we tour more of the same, the vis center and another out of the way canyon with no one there, wish we had found that one. Just as spectacular as the main canyons but smaller.

Off down the high plateau of life, we follow the road towards Zion, looking for a camp, not finding one on the snowy high plateau. We descend into a narrow canyon, still with the national forest to our right and find a beaten track off into the woods. Immediately a sign presents itself “road closed ahead” a good sign for secluded campsites. Indeed the road has collapsed into a river and is impassable, and a local jesse there with family tells me of a camp back across a bridge downstream. I have spotted it on the way up and we turn in, with a small no trespassing sign in the trees, which we take in stride, cross a flat railroad car bridge over a small stream and find the ideal campsite with the roar of river In our ears. We decide to chance it, Jesse said it was a campsite, and settle In for the night.

I plink the guitar with another chorus of Pancho and Lefty. Cheeze, wine and crackers and another great judy feast and a walk in the woods waiting for the moonrise which never happened until after we were settled in and sound asleep.

Day 21 Zion and Hurricane motel

Last 2 days on the road, we’ll treat ourselves to a motel and clean up for re entry into civilization, but first a leisurely bkfst by the creek, then the usual packing scene. No irate landowners around, so I guess we are ok. Back to pavement again and to the turnoff for Zion NP, passing the camp I used with the Kids in 91. and into the slickrock country; checkerboard mesa deserving a stop. We park at the trail head for the overlook and marvel at all the people. A 1/2 mile walk to the viewpoint is rewarded by spectacular views of pine creek canyon and into Zion canyon. An old couple dodders along, and the man is forcing the woman complaining down the trail. Judy confronts them about elder abuse, and then goes on.

Im ahead at the road and talk to some canyoneers getting roped up for the descent into Pine canyon in dry suits and all kinds of rock climbing equipment, gear to the max. I take their pictures for them and watch as they wend their way under the bridge and down to the nether world below.

We head down the long tunnel into the canyon and find the scene changed completely. Access only by shuttle bus and a huge parking lot packed with cars. People milling about speaking many tongues. We check it out and get on a commute bus crammed with people. Not a fun ride, but we can see the cliffs and waterfalls, between people. We end up at the Narrows, and take the trail-ada paved-along the river to the end. The river is high and closed, I remember hiking up here in 91 and Kailen getting horrible sunburn as he was taking antibiotics to the spectacular narrows.

A 1000 foot hi waterfall attracts my photo sense and I reach for my camera,opening the case only to realize it was upside down and the long lens smacks on the pavement from 3 feet up. Shit, will I ever stop destroying things? Fortunately it looks like the filters are the only casuality, a star of cracks emanating from the impact point.

We hike with a crowd to the end of access,, people have stacked piles of rocks and are busy continuing the practice. We still cant see the narrows from here, but the river is 700 cfs and not feasible to cross. A crowd of boisterous teenagers make the place insufferable for a while, but they pass.

A slow return, marveling at waterfalls and sheer cliffs, and back on the bus, check out the visitors center, all brand new, big pile of bux has gone into handling the crowds.

We cruise main street outside the park a street mall of motels, restaurants and teeming with people and decide to pass on to Hurricane for cheaper lodging which we find for 45$ at Travelodge, and a brew pub with great fish and chips for our last meal.

Day 22, Vegas and beyond

We pull into Dicks place and greet family. He even washes my truck while Judy cleans the camper and I snooze. Great girl scout, minding everything. Another great steak bbq with argentine wine and sleep at last in their snug nest.

The next day Dick wants to take me on a tour of his power plate ponds and some springs, which we do and get a taste of engineering he did before he retired. Great free flowing springs also up the canyon toward the Arrow canyon range, the road blocked off now by the feds.

Another day spent with Dick helping me with the camper tiedowns, replacing the turnbuckle that wouldn’t fit. Then a local family reunion, all ahhing over their smart phones till I whip out the iPhone and they are all impressed.

Next morn im off to Benton for an afternoon of rest, then a day skiing at Mammoth then back to sonoma county in a long days drive.

Seasons greetings 2011

2011-01-30T09:42:00.000-08:00

Zoe, Kyva, Shasta, Heather, Jevria, Kailen and Brian
Terry and Judy Wilder xmas 10

Season’s Greetings from California Wrights

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We have had another eventful year, and thankful for strong family ties, exploration, good health and fun times. I am dividing my time between Forestville and Benton homes and travels to Tulsa and other places to meet up with my love Judy Wilder. We have been to Portland, Oregon, Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, Carson river and just returned from 3 weeks in Hawaii on the big island reveling in tropical explorations. We met up with the eastern family in Frog City including Kailen, Zoe and Kyva and Jim (Zoe’s dad), said farewell to the Camden house, which has now been sold, A reunion with Wally Grover and his family in Lake Sunapee complete with display of restored fire engines segued into a visit to Cindy in Franconia and a return to Greenleaf hut (see my blog for the story).

My big event at Burning Man was lecturing to 350 people on the local geology. The event ended badly with a fire that destroyed my pickup and camper on a desert highway in Nevada. I spent a fun amount of time with insurance claims and buying new stuff, including a new Toyota Tacoma and pop top camper like I had before in time to spend 12 days in Saline Valley over Thanksgiving. .

I also completed the text and illustrations for the new edition of my Tuolumne River guidebook which will be published in April by Riverbooks.

Heather, Brian and clan are flourishing at the Douglas lane house, Brian coaching soccer and doing accounting, and Heather just landed a new job doing legal assisting. Shasta and Jevria are busy happy kids, doing well in school and playing soccer. Kailen is working hard on Google Earth and Zoe is in graduate school working toward a degree in speech pathology. Kyva is walking, talking and doing all the things an almost 2 year old does. All kids love books and learning new things.

We send our greetings to you and wish you a great new year.

Terry, Heather, Kailen, Brian, Shasta, Zoe, Jevria and Kyva.

Terry- Po box 279, Forestville, Ca, 95436

Heather Wise 5490 Douglas Lane, Sebastopol, Ca 95472

Kailen Wright, 1237 Manet Dr. Sunnyvale, Ca. 94087

Emails: terryw100@gmail.com

Kailen.wright@gmail.com

Chaycha@sonic.net

Old Hutman of the mts hikes again

2010-10-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

Old hutman of the mountains hikes again.

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Summit,

MtLafayette1963

this is a trail?? Aug 2010

Franconia Ridge in fog 2010

It sounded like a great idea, a return to my roots in New England from the deserts and mountains of California, new girlfriend in tow, to meet family and relive past triumphs in the huts. And it was in principle, with a few quirks thrown in. The plan to hike to Greenleaf from Lafayette place, spend the night, then cruise the Franconia ridge, down Falling Waters and up to Lonesome to meet sister

Cindy for more nostalgia and good times. Return to the trails of my youth 40 years later.

The memories floated back over the years from 1963, when I spent sterling summer at Lakes with Tom Martin and an eclectic croo, spent a stint as opening hutmaster at the old Lonesome Lake hut, helped close Carter. got fired by George for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong woman, and all the time operating from the family compound behind the church in Franconia.

Because Middlebury started later than most schools, I worked my way into the system by working closing at Carter with Alex MacPhail, an old mountain buddy from Wellesley, meeting George at Lakes on a big closing weekend , injuring my leg and getting a ride with him down the mountain to my car.

I applied the next winter for a hutman position, and got a spot on the construction croo for the next summer 1963. I showed up early and ended up the opening hutmaster at Loch Lone, the old log lodge on the north end of the lake, now disapeared by the magic of the usfs. The others left me there after 2 pack trips, fighting off the black flies and contemplating a pile of food and other supplies. I was just kicking back, anticipating a beer on a gooferless night when 5 people show up with reservations. I had no plan for dinner, but rummaged around in the provisions we had just brought in, found a veal loaf and some veges, made some bread and we were golden.

Rodger Gaboon Field showed up 2 days later to take over, and I cruised back to Franconia, called Pinkham and found they wanted me there tomorrow, oh well, a short break. I fired up the black bastard, my 47 Chevy roadster the next morning and headed east, neatly blocked by a blowout in Crawford notch, but a Parnelli Jones tire change set me on the road again. Entering the old TP a craggy familiar face was lounging in the corner, my old friend Tom Martin, hutmaster at Lakes the year before. He had liked my hard work packing 2 loads, washing dishes on an injured leg, and had requested me to fill a vacant spot on his hut croo for the summer. So I was gonna be a hutman, cool, with all the experiences available there to.

Many adventures and fun times with the Lakes Croo followed. I remember chasing a frozen turkey down the slides in a sleet storm then picking it up and hugging the cold carcass back to the hut, digging the gaboon naked and having a troop of girl scouts suddenly appear, runs down the ammy to Dr Green’s in the black bastard with a ride back up the cog with the booze safely stashed under the coal car. Every evening we had a hoot singing songs of the day, Bob Dylan, Peter Paul and mounds, and old standards….the crowds loved it. Great times with the mountain girls: Kathy Shed, Midge Collins (Ralph), and Barbara Livesy (now Ricker).

But I digress. The return of the Old Hutman of the Mountains, me , Terry Wright, at 67, with Judy from Tulsa, the new girlfriend, on a jaunt to the Huts in 2010. Sister Cindy now lives in a palatial mansion on the old family turf behind the church in Franconia, so we prepped there, borrowing equipment, taking preliminary hikes and reliving the mountain life. We debarked in the teeth of a moderate storm, raining hard all night, and still pittering as we pulled out of the driveway, through town with Bode posters all over, and off up the freeway, only to see a cute black bear wandering across the highway, taking his time, turning slowly and back into the woods in the middle of town. Bears used to be found only in the mountains, but they have discovered human food and bird feeders and are now part time residents of the town.

Summits in clouds, I know its raining up there, but we are outfitted, rain gear, panchos for the packs, good boots, hiking poles, clif bars and my recorder for tunes. We headed up the bridal path, Judy loving the woods especially the stand of white and silver birches along the way. The going was easy as I remembered through the woods, but then we hit the rocks, much steeper than I remember, how did they get horses up here? Fine footing in the granites, coarse crystals grabbing our boots. Then to the dike, here the rock is slick, fine grained from fast cooling of magma, with slopes going every which way and really steep. Plus it started raining, adding to the slick and danger. I have my rock climbing helmet on, and am really careful, being somewhat unstable on balance. I live in fear of falling and breaking a hip, both parents died from that affliction. Judy is game, a rock climber in the past and we work our way up, many people coming down and up, quite a crowd, again not remembering it this way, this rocky or this steep.

Conway Granite left with folded Devonian Littleton fm

We have time, so take it easy, resting frequently, talking to people going by, great conversations of the mountains; the weather, love those new Asolo boots, a construction croo guy sails past, and we have a Limmer conversation.

The Nawtch Aug 2010

Finally we top the last rise, solar panels on the roof and a windmill whistling in the breeze, fog everywhere, still in the clouds. Enter the hut to the usual boisterous crowd, a new refurbished hut, clean boards, big kitchen, great space. We check in, Hilary asking if we’d been in the huts before, I mention I’m an OH and she says, not much has changed. Find a bunk, Judy above and change into dry warm clothes and down for a much deserved nap.

I awake to stirrings in the main room and roll out to explore, to the overlook of Franconia, in and out of the clouds and peek a boo views, not enough to see Cindy’s house, but I know it is visible on a clear day 4 gables pointing skyward to god. The generator is on, and I see the stash of propane tanks through the trees. We used to pack tanks down to Lakes at 120 lbs per, and empty tanks up to the summit 70 lbs per; now its all done by helicopter. It was the last year we could say everything at the hut was packed by manpower, or the donks.

By the hut a gathering is in progress with a hutman giving a tour of the infrastructure, Solar and wind power, no more gaboon, all solid waste packed out, a composting system, and composting toilets make this a green machine. A black pipe on the roof was once a preheater for the hot water system, but the Forest Service has refused its use, for the reason it is an eyesore. Its still there, but not used, strange are the ways of bureaucracy.

We troop inside, and clear the tables for dinner, still family style, no napkins. We sit with a jovial family group, which offers wine and we sip and tell stories of our lives. They are impressed that I was an OH, and I tell a few stories met by enthusiastic response. Ravioli night, the same meal throuout the hut system, the result of some adminstrator trying to cut costs. I remember we had free reign, requisitioning what we wanted and then cooking as creatively as we wanted. The fresh rosmary bread, and veges and cookies for dessert, all delicious. After dinner there are pep talks about pack it in, pack it out, and announcement of a history of the huts meeting with the head hutman. One of our group announces that there is a really old hutman in our midst, and I smile and wave at the applause, surprised at the reaction from all.

I look for signs of the past, and find pictures of Linus Bob Story and Tommy Deans, both old friends from way back. And in the journals, comments from the old days. I sign in the present book “Terry Wright, Lks 1963, FPMandMMS”. Those of you who know, know.

We repair to the bunk and snooze a little then back to the fray, I join the hut history group and tell stories about pack trips, especially the one above mentioned about chasing a frozen turkey down the slides in the teeth of a sleet storm. We were packing in the usual 4 25lb turkeys for the full house on the 4^th of july, when one of mine slipped out of a soggy box, through the ropes and bounced down the trail several hundred feet to the bottom. When I retrieved the gobbler, I grabbed it in my arms and took off down the trail, not wanting to spend the long cold minutes it would take to put it back on the packboard. It must have looked weird to people on the trail, and when I arrived at the hut crys of astonishment echoed from the croo.

The generator off, lights dim then dark, and we found our way back to the bunkroom and settled in for a warm comfortable night after a conjugal kissing session on the narrow bunk.

A boatman’s shanty sung in definite tones by the head hutman shakes me out of the bunk, dressed and groggy headed for the coffee. Another great breakfast, with delicate coffee cake, another hut standard. It is raining out, we hear the heavy drops pounding on the roof. Doesn’t look like a good day to hike, but the weather report says a clearing trend is on the way. The BFD skit is good, two climbers simulating a fall, dressed in climbing gear and using ladles as ice axes. We straighten up and get some good advice from the main hutguy, I am still determined to do the Falling Waters despite my gut knowledge that it is major steep rocky trail.

Off into the fog, not bad with fleeting views of the valleys and the hut as we wend our way like Mallory and Irvine up into the clouds. We reach Lafayette summit and hunker down into the shelter of the old corral. I get down on my knees and propose marriage to Judy, no big surprise, but her reaction is that it would wreck her finances, she would lose her past husbands social security payments and effect her independence. Oh well, we still love each other, geezer love at 67 years, and that’ll stick like superglue.

Off into the fog soup to the Franconia Ridge, and gradual clearing to see great vistas of the notch, the Pemi and a ridge trail longer than I remember. Judy comes around a corner and comes out with “Do you have any string?” I look and her boot sole has become completely separated and is flopping like a flag in the breeze. Never seen that with a Limmer boot. I have given up my old Limmers, hard heavy and painful, for some Asolo mountain boots, great, stiff as a board soles and very comfortable.

I reach into my pocket for the bootlace I found on the floor at the hut, good and stout and make the repair, wrapping it around the ankle like a long thong ski binding. Old instincts still remain, and when I saw the broken lace lying there I thought “moop” the Burning Man concept of matter out of place, I scarfed it up, knowing that there might be a use.

Great views down the steep slopes and ravines into the notch and the Pemi, Owls head rearing its back above a carpet of green. A raw landslide scar on the east side of Lincoln looks new and long, a mute reminder that the hills move, the Willey slide the main example.

The ridge is longer than I remember, and have several map reading mistakes, but people point out the top to the Falling Waters, out there at Haystack. My legs and knees are feeling tentative, not looking forward to the precipitous descent to the notch.

We take the plunge and it is worse than I ever remember. The last time up here was more like 20 years ago, with a body still strong from years of hiking, skiing and being the mountain man.

Descending into the short forest we find a rock climb down, each step a stretch down, searching for a good foothold and hand hold, placing the hiking sticks to balance the high center of gravity. Slippery roots to be watched and always the awareness that a fall might mean a break and a nasty rescue. I remember several fetches of injured hikers and an arduous evac with stokes litter of a 200 pounder. I don’t want to cause that.

I rest frequently, Judy seems to be unstoppable, I’m beginning to think we may have to rethink logistics at the car, my legs and knees are starting to feel like spaghetti. I consult the map and the store map shows no detail at all, and the AMC guide shows a number of switchbacks to the waterfalls. We lump along, wondering where the falls are, finally traversing over to a small retort and Judy talks to some German hikers and comes back with the report it is 5 pm and we are still 2 miles from the highway, and another 1.5 miles to Loch Lone.

Terry takes a break

Try a slow descent over cliffs and rock climbs along the falls; a group of young hikers bounce along and party at the falls, bathing in the torrent from above. At one point I lose it and start a major fall, stopped only by grabbing a stout tree and finding a lucky foot hold. The falls are beautiful, and I recognize the first cascade from the last trip, my high point then in a driving rainstorm.

It’s getting dusky, but beautiful with the sun backlighting the trail and trees, hard to believe I am dragging ass, now resting every 15 minutes. We find some hikers, and try a call on verizon to Cindy, now up at Lonesome, eating dinner, to no avail. Now down the easy road trail, sounds of the highway, finally the bridge and a picture of us after our loop to the ridge. The car finally comes to view and we load up, I painfully lever my self into the drivers seat and we are off to greater glory, back to the Franconia house, to prep for a return to California, Benton house in the high desert, Burning Man (read also Burning Truck).

Terry and Judy, the victors

2589 words

Burning man and burning truck

2010-10-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

The new truck
The Man Burns
The old truck burns

Burning man and burning truck a study in personal disasters.

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I have a history of creating disasters; from running over my laptop with my truck to dropping my sea kayak twice with massive injuries. My Bioenergetic therapist says, “your’re not grounded”, I hear the words, “ bull in a china shop”, and I open the door of the boat car and ding the side of a black Jaguar owned by a very pissed floozy real estate agent. I’ve tried being super careful of my movements and to think ahead to the consequences of actions, but I am an action packed person, and shit happens all the time.

Burning man is an adventure, from the prep, sorting stuff out, loading up my camper and trailer and pickup cab with a large assortment of odds and ends, including camping equipment, party costumes especially the red pimpdaddy coat, food, water ice, and a million other accouterments for a week in the desert. I drive slick up from Benton to the Wigwam, the Indian museum local eatery in Fernley, finding block ice at last. The Safeway in Hawthorne had discontinued block ice, and I had iced up there just last year on my way with cathy on the 3-flat tire entry into burning man. (see previous blog) and made vocal my dissapointment that there were no blocks there. Oh well snafu again, I take it as a bump in the road, always solvable in one way or another. Jason and I learned doing field work and to use fluid logistics to work around any roadblocks. There is always a way to complete the journey or task at hand.

Darkness descends as I join the parade of burners headed to the nirvanah of desert events. Burning man; a week of performance art, exploration, people gawking, all genres of music, art cars up to 200 feet long festooned with lights, decorations and partying people dancing to techno, friends gathering and culminating with the burn, immolation of 200 foot high neon outlined statue of the man, the symbol of freedom from all earthly cares at least for a while. All for the price of survival in the desert and my $300 ticket clutched in my hand.

Trouble strikes first as I pull out of Empire, the last town before Gerlach, with a safe front yard to camp in overnight in Elizabeth’s and Kevin’s front yard. Bright lights beckon in the pitch black desert darkness, suddenly illuminated by the bubble gum machine flashing in the rear view, and I look in vain for a pull off. I signal and find a brushy shoulder and sit and wait for the law to come down on my head. Portly sheriff comes to the window, and I hand him my registration, drivers license, and proof of insurance. “Do you know your lights are out on the rear of the trailer?” he asks in a matter of fact tone cops use. “No, they were working when I left my home, I worked for 2 hours to get them going.” “Well they’re not working now,” I hand him the paperwork and he disappears into the oncoming headlights to do his dirty work.

He appears out of the dark again, “did you know you’re proof of insurance has expired?” oh shit, look at the dates, and sure enough, it’s the one that expired back in December, out of date. “I’m headed to Gerlach and have a friend there who can fix the lights, Kevin, lives on Diablo street”, “That’s ok, I won’t give you a fixit ticket but Ill have to cite you for lack of proof of insurance. You might be able to fax your current proof to the court, talk to the lady at his number” I scramble in vain looking for the correct scrap of paper. He points at the long ticket and has me sign it, and we are off in the parade again. “so near and yet so far” I sigh, defiantly bummed about the interaction, and my stupidity to not have checked the insurance. I had done that at the beginning of the summer, but it was nowhere to be found in my plastic bag of paper. WTF?? SNAFU!

Gerlach is hoppin, Brunos bar and motel full of cop cars, burner vehicles, the Miners club where I spent an evening with the Indian science teacher watching a triple overtime NCAA playoff basketball game last march; people spilling out the doors. I wend my way back to Elizabeth’s, looking for a quiet place to rest the night. No problem finding it but a big truck down the street has a noisy motor going, refrigerator truck for a food concession in a hastily thrown together marketplace for the burner hoard. I get Mitch on the cell, hes packing for Saline, no idea why the lights arnt working, oh well, ill be in the daylight tomorrow, no need to fix now. I tour the encampment, a food stand, and the huge parachute with a big stock of burner necessities, I buy 2 masks, and am armed for the dust storms with my doggles.

Pop the top on the camper and look around, all my accumulated camping traveling stuff here, chairs, portapotty, full kitchen, the refer, and comfortable bed and sleeping bags, all ready for beddy by. I mellow out, have some wine and snug in for the night lulled to sleep through the earplugs by the drone of the refer truck motor.

I’ve spent 10 years working on this arrangement and these things, all designed to make life in even the most remote wilderness a comfortable, well-equipped experience, nothing needed. A few forgotten items, like the insurance proof, but otherwise all set for a week in the desert.

Desert dawn breaks with shafts of god light beaming from holes in clouds, chilly temp, I look for coffee in vain at the village, and brew my own cup, pound down a couple of hard boiled eggs, then batten down the hatches for the trip into the event. I have a list, I check it twice, patrol around the camper and trailer, find all in working order, a promise made to myself after running over my laptop. Tune in the fm to the KBIR, the burning man radio station, and head into the fray.

Traffic moves smoothly into the playa, I pull out of line to take a picture of the sign at entrance, always a hoot and creatively different, and a guy runs out to me yelling “its dangerous out there! Come back tomorrow and get your picture” He must be kidding, or putting on an act, I snap a couple of the sign with the new “Terryproof” camera, an Olympus 8000 tough, advertised to be good to 30 feet underwater and shock proof, just what I need to document the dusty environment. The SLR Nikon can stay in its pelican case dust proof, for only the clearest days. No need to expose that expensive piece of technology and monster lens to the invasive desert environment. At last count I have destroyed 5 cameras during my career to various twists of fate. The canon was wiped out by a huge wave on the Zambezi, and I was very lucky to have a spare Nikon to finish Africa.

Entrance is slow but easy, a far cry from last year; we waited around in the sun for Cathy to get her ticket from will call for 2 hours, then had another flat, destroying a tire on Bob’s trailer. I find an empty gate at the greeters, stop and pick up the map and book and I’m off to find Saline central. At Detroit and 8:15 a huge space opens up with Sherry’s flags, and her car and tent parked lonely in the middle. She’s napping and I knock on her car, out she unfolds all 6 feet and flowing red hair of her, joyous to see me the first person to arrive. Sourdough Sherry, retired nurse from Silver spring Nevada, Saline stalwart, has reserved our spot in the sun for the duration of the event. A quick look around and listen, finds no loud camps nearby and I back in and settle in.

A mild windstorm kicks up, and it doesn’t look like a good time to set up a complete camp, so I bring out the rudiments, a table, the chairs, recliner and my new bombproof chair (well see).

Fun Fun Debbie blows in with Ron and Pete, 3 hours wait in line, hot and dry and immediately set up shade, chairs and settle in. Saline Bat signs set up to tell where we are, and more pack in, Sherry the parking director.

Unfurl the mt bike, another prized possession, dual suspension GT, vintage 1995, but a great playa bike, cow horns turned up for easy riding. No lock, but who needs one? Check headlights and im off.
Time to head out to Earth Guardians, to find Canyon and survey the realm. It’s a new lighter pavilion, bar at the back, displays all around info center and lecturn at the front, now with a sound system, great for my talk. Last year we had 250 people, lets see if we can get more this year. Canyon is decked out in Cowboy kitsch and is busy doing organization for the Hot Springs patrol, I make sure I’m set for Thursday night at the Black Rock camp, and then cruise to her neatly arranged camp with 32 foot trailer and air conditioning blasting.

I nap, we party, and agree to meet at a party for playa info later, drinks, and red are the theme, ill wear the pimpdaddy coat, a red shag number with glistening foil embedded randomly. They’ll love that. Also the Uncle sam hat with natty dreads will top it off. Back at camp, a great thump thump sound system has been set up behind us. I go over and talk to the head guy friendly and remind him of the rules, no big systems in camp areas. He agrees and we part friends

Great success the party, and a monster margarita sends me with a motly crew off into the playa to take in the scene. Fast conversations, with an older lady, 13 years at playa info, great fun experiences.
We are lit, feeling no pain, and out onto the playa to check out the scene. We tour the art cars lined up for inspection, many new ones, mostly ships, 50 feet or so, with lights, sound systems and people partying. Mirror man comes along, Mike Bilbo, the BLM chief interpreter, with a new set of mirrors covering his body like armor. The Tin Man come to life.

We head with the throngs out to the man, he’s looking great on a big high scaffold, outlined in neon a real spectacle. People are lined up climbing a set of stairs underneath and watching the scene. Art cars, blaring techo, costumes, lots a light wire all around, Mike’s looking for a special bar, but doesn’t find it, so Canyon and I head to my camp for mellowness and food. She’s bushed, and I am too, so we return to our camps and bunk down for the night.

up late, fix the sun shade and tarp over the camper, joshing with danee, bob, ffdebbie and a host of others. head off to cyns office to write brian about the ticket.

roam with canyon to the home brew place, free beer, you need a cup tho, we return for that, then do more rambling and find spankys wine bar, great old hits, i get spanked for not having a cup, (mine was full of beer) that hurt! many years from my last spanking

canyon has a meeting, but we agree to meet at playa info for their party, in red, ill wear the pimp daddy coat and top hat with dreads.

i find arcane in his shop, way out on the playa, no elizabeth, so i dunnoo if she goes tot the hotsprings tmw or not. he is deep in grease and a fuel pump, so i mosey to 9th and try to find leopard martini lounge hiddden in the back of someplace . find the deep end, now with a different name, but 500 or so people partying and huge sound system. back home to a quick dinner, and nap then off to the party. again no cup, i have to go back to canyons to fetch. after part of a margarita, i quit and we tour the art cars, all lit up now and belching flame, sitting there stalled by the bureaucracy, a slow down at dew.

we walk to the man and it is beautiful on a 3 story pedestal and much neon many colors. the crowd ebbs and flows and i head to camp, watching a 50 foot crystal of blinking light bulbs in all colors. great show. cruise in, little noise and sleep. at 3 get up and throng are still raging out there a n art car comes by blaring music. oh well back to the bed.
day 2 tuesday

Another day, more clouds and cool, just right for our enjoyment of the playa which we have experienced so hot and windy, downright uncomfortable, but we hardy souls can take it for the rewards in store. I rig the monster sunshade, cutting it in half cause silver bob arrived in the night and is parked next to me, leaking water from his drinking supply. He hit a cattle guard coming into Gerlach at 70 and it popped loose a pipe and we have a mud pond.

We visit, the polish woman’s army arrived during the night, she now split with abalone al, but mom and cousin are there spouting polish and handing out “polish camp burning man” buttons to all. The giving of gifts, one of the mainstays of the bman culture, I have a pocket full of orthoclase feldspar crystals I brought from Benton for trade.
Yesterday at the home brew stand I traded for an IPA. And got some wine and a spanking for not having a cup with me at Spankys wine bar. That hurt.

All the days are melding together, we get up, head out to the playa, and check out the art, then back to Earth Guardians, and Canyons lair, then more exploration. Central camp is always happening. With 3 stages, coffee and a center performance space, people doing hula hoops, which now is an art form, yoga, juggling, plastic balls rolling down arms over backs and then arms again, a new artform.

I check in at the BMIR radio main booth, a cool container. have a great time with the dudes there, recording my blurb for my talk, “be there” all in bman speak.

Back to Canyon’s for a cool nap and then out to the fray. Christine shows up and we talk about going out to the Black Rock, and she’s into it. Canyon is leaving Friday morning for Oregon, and will not be with us. Cathy has stayed in santa Barbara with more pressing things. So I need another person. I will go myself if necessary, but the prospect of getting away from the madness for a night in the silent desert, with the moon coming up late for light.

We spend Wednesday roaming camps, I find Leopard Martini Lounge and have a martin, woha, that was powerful! Stanford prof Elizabeth Miller was there, and her friend, we party, and I snooze back at the camp after joining in on the afternoon cocktail party, sparkplugged by the polish womens army. Donnee has set up with another woman and the whole gang is there, even the Hollanders, juke and kees, great friends.

I look in vain for my pack, I had it on last night, but it is nowhere around, has all my playa gear; doggles, mask, 3L water bladder, first aid etc, a loss. I check the lost and found to no avail. Damn, another disaster. I look in vain also for my power cord for my computer, it is gone too, might have been in the pack. This is a real loss, no way to write every day as I usually do. Damn. This losing shit has gotta stop.

Thurs morning prep for the campout. Christine is coming with which will make it much more interesting. I detach the shade structure and trailer and pack the loose stuff inside to weather the trek across the playa. Back to EG, all is ready for me to give my talk, Canyon has arranged our egress and ingress with a slip of paper for each of us, all we need but our ticket to get back in. I pickup Christine at 3 pm, then to EG for the fashion show, great costumes, Canyon in her cowgirl outfit, raging around being the king or queen pin of the hot spring guardians. We meet the others, and ready escape behind the EG van, going to the playa to distribute more guardians at hot springs.

We cruise into the vast expanse of the playa, 20 miles following confusing tracks, finally finding the right one headed to the Black rock. Two naked women are the guardians we are replacing. Short conversation, and we go on to the playacita, and instantly agree that a site on th e ridge would be ideal, 360 degree huge view mountains and playa all the way to the event site. We settle in, great conversations, great views of the sunset like a great orange across the playa, miles and miles of nothing out there. A lone vehicle heads north up the playa leaving a plume of white dust behind. I heat up the stewp and we devour it, absolutely delish. Washed down with zin.

Darkness falls, I blow off some mortors, and am not into rigging the fire launcher, so we cruise and crash, a faint thump thump from burning man and flashing lights 20 miles away, with the Black rock faintly outlined in the dark. (see photo)

We stir early, coffee, light bkfst, and we are off across the vast plain. We approach the fence, following the same path, and notice 3 trucks converging on us cornering us. After checking our credentials, we are led to the entrance gate, where we wait in line and check in again, and on our way back to the event. Another check for Arcane and Elizabeth at the mechanics outpost to no avail. And back into the fray, with the camping packed in, thousands of people wandering around. I drop my lecture stuff off at canyons and snooze on her bed; she is on her way to Oregon to yet another party for the weekend, back Tuesday oh well, we all have our priorities.

Im moved into canyons trailer, but return the truck to park in the Saline camp, re rig the sunshade and hang there for the rest of the day with forays out to find friends or have another cocktail party with the polish womens army, they are loud and raging, shouting about some wrongdoing. I hang with Tahoe Bob, Sherry, and share a bottle with Kees and Joke, my last one, oh well there is plenty out there. Ride the bike over to EG, snooze, then out onto the playa in the evening, getting really busy out there, art cars galore, now 4 big boat floats, cruising on the playa sea. Lights galore, fire sculptures, Big boom explosions, hoards of people. I walk the play exploring a stage with dances, juggling acts. The thunderdome is raging with people tethered on ropes thwacking each other with boffers, people clinging above on the frame of the dome, packed in on the ground, dust flying, faces grimaced in combat, techno music blaring. Back to the trailer to the AC and read and fall asleep on the soft queen bed of the queen of the desert.

Saturday, big day, I putter around at Saline camp, get bkfst, go back to the trailer and get set for the performance art of geology. I pack them in, 350 at best count, standing room only, and dozens of questions, the publicity worked. Another nap, out amidst a slight windstorm, nothing like previous years, we are blessed with a cool windless time.

Sit in front of EG, watching the crowd, the scene and talking to people, answering more geologic questions. I manage a fart, it comes out wet and I run leaking to the truck and shit is everywhere. Another disaster, this has gotta stop. Clean up in the EG shower in, no one there, great. Chug some Pepto and munch a couple of imodiums and im back in to the fray.

Walk to the burn, the frantic crowd packing around the barriers, I weave around among the art cars, do the complete tour around the circle, 50,000 people making a monster noise, lights, dance thing.

The burn starts after the man’s arms rise with a great fireworks display that goes on and on, then a huge explosion of fire and he starts to burn. A great symbol of the discarding of cares and time of catharsis. I wander around and see all I can see in the crowd and art cars, big sound systems, man what time energy and money goes into this.

Sunday, move out of the trailer, find my bike missing, someone wanted it more than I do, I left it in front of EG, that was a mistake. It was 13 years old, a heavy GT dual suspension bike, with many great memories, shit this disaster/loss thing has gotta stop. Getting the truck, I drive on to the playa to check out the temple, take some pix and inscribe Turtle Jim’s name on the structure to remember that great man.

Back to saline camp, hook up the trailer, try the lights, they work fine, something is fucked up with the wiring. Load up the trailer with camping gear, pack the camper and get everything set for an early morning departure, Tahoe Bob next door leaves at 3 am, so that should wake me up. We repair to the Lift truck for the temple burn with Sherry and Tahoe Bob, George and his son, a great view from far away.

Up at 3am with the roar of T Bobs van engine, fold up the camper check all sides, turn off the propane for safety, and off on the exodus, already a line at the road, but a short wait and im off into the empty quarter. Down the Smoke creek desert dirt road, the road of 3 flats, taking it easily to avoid that. Snooze at the reservoir, then on to the Hot springs, burners there, long soak and conversations about the event. Off down the road toward Pyramid Lake

. I was doing my favorite thing, cruising a scenic road in my 4 wheel drive Toyota Tacoma and pop top camper with trailer in tow thinking of great music over the xm stereo, planning a rib lunch in Sparks, parking the trailer at Mitch’s then with Christine’s support, flying to Tulsa to connube with Judy. A loud explosion from the back of the rig and a view of smoke and flames in the rear view mirror startled me from my reverie of desert scenery. Things went south fast, I jumped out to see the back of the camper and interior engulfed in flames, and no fire extinguisher, a paltry few gallons of water in the cooler and no one around for miles. All I could do is grab important things like the computer, projector, camera, a few clothes, a box with critical stuff: address books, checks, and a few other things. Then things started exploding around the cab, the propane tanks in the back, windows and I backed off. The initial explosion was the windows blowing out with the fire already raging inside. My phones were inside, along with my neck wallet with credit cards and new drivers lisence just replenished after losing my wallet in june. Now here is a real disaster, everything else pales in comparison.

No one around, so I just watch,take some pictures and some notes as to what was inside. Finally a pickup comes down a side road, the ranch kid takes one look and goes back to phone the fire dept, I know it is 30 miles away in Nixon, so have no hope of stopping the inferno. He returns with a crew to make sure a brush fire doesn’t start. Finally the police show up and the fire engine, mostly Indians. They start up the pump, but nothing comes out, a tap on the tank confirms that there is no water in there. The ranch crew has Backpack water sprayers, and they go to work on the brush and a few squirts on the carcass, a shadow of its former self. Oh well I was looking for another truck, looks like ill get one now.

I make a plan, tow the trailer to Christine’s, and stay there until she returns and somehow get id so I can get on the plane in 2 days to go to Tulsa. Finally AAA arrives with a strong woman-man team with a flatbed, after sending a regular tow truck by mistake. They go about the business of dragging the carcass onto the flatbed, cleaning up the site and hitching the trailer up with the original ball, a 1 7/8, I was able to take off the truck, much to their surprise.

We make the long trip to Sparks, slow on the dirt road, then to Christine’s. I talk to Mike, and we agree I’ll stay with him if I can’t get into C’s house. I can’t find the key,so I find a side window open and I’m in. She is still incognito at Burning Man, comes in at 3am, surprised to see me, and she understands and is supportive, helping me get a phone, money, the police report, a plan to get through tsa and onto the plane. Windy has my passport in Sonoma County and emails the image and my birth certificate to me at Christine’s. Mike is going to Truckee anyway to hang a painting, so I ride along get a new license from DMV (nobody there cause their computers were down this morning). I also go to B of A and get a debit card and use a check to put money into that account, have a beer with Mike at the Hilltopper where he has a display of paintings.

Early early Christine and I go to the airport and they except me seeing the birth cert and new license and my sad story backed up by police report and glossy photos, and I’m on the plane to Denver and Tulsa and into Judy’s arms.

How did it happen? They all asked, and I dunno, all I know is I was tooling merrily along the Pyramid lake road, fresh from a Burning Man with several disasters and triumphs, and a soak in the the Smoke Creek valley hot spring when all hell broke loose. Something ignited and caught fire in the back, I had some propane tanks, some strike anywhere matches, and waterproof matches, but we will never know. Mitch fetched the trailer the next day and it still sits at his place in Washoe Heights.

4571 words Copyright Terry Wright 2010

Benton-saline safari: hot springs and dozers

2010-02-23T18:33:00.000-08:00

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Saline valley pres day 2010

I spend a week alone after linda and cathy decided not to come, doing t guide, perfect day wed, ski to wild willys hot spring in sunset.

went to ridgecrest for major toms potluck, good times with saline crowd hang at the cinder cone,
visit sam and plot on the grand canyon trip in 2011.
Prep on Monday work out, food buy, lunch with mark, to town, j calls, comin in tmw,

We party down prep stuff, then watch road warrior on the big screen.

Interminable prep, forgot fireworks, Johnny and I take off at 10 am to bishop, shop vons and then off to big pine and up death valley road, still no snow on, into eureka valley, mud puddles, big rain here, workers on rd grading, up behind the dunes, and spot garbage mike In his big green truck headed to dedecker canyon and the staircase of rock. Mike is there, not sure, until we slide right up, then he builds roads and comes on later. J and I cruise, stop and pics, and talk, grind down on the pass road, dodging and hitting rocks all along the road.

Make camp at checker gulch, no one else around here. we eat turkey and j soaks I cruise in the camper. Sleep. Mike comes down late, and he makes it. Johnny up early, me coffee, then up to upper, Mike talks and we have a good time again.

Check out the lower, get a book, visit lee, no one here either, Mike arrives and shows me his new telescope, made from some lenses and a pop bottle. We banter and talk, just like old times, I am greatly relieved.

Lazy day snooze in the afternoon, mike comes down for dinner, stuck chuck brings his dogs, going berserk, we play guitar into the night. And see the lights coming down from s. pass. They progress to the lake and then stop. Whutzup? A big mystery. We crash without knowing but figuring something stopped them.

J does a foray to lee and finds the nps has been notified a bulldozer is blocking the road at the lake. Shit. We hang and finally a caravan comes in Oregon john leading the pack, he and jeanette are getting married at the lower at 3 pm. With beer tasting after, a gathering of the tribe. So we partake, cute ceremony. They had to move a 2 ton boulder and then dig out the bank so people could get past. Put there sometime between Sunday aft and Monday aft. Johnny is ragin: Who what where why, who coulda? Who woulda? Mebbe miners. Oh well. We are here and dint have to deal.

Another fine evening, playing guitar, fun songs, chuck strumming also, no dogs thank god.

Saturday: perfect blue day, 67 years young; golf game, major bkfst, sausage, bacon, eggs, underdone pancakes. Soak, at upper, good crowd. I repair to camp and bake cake, sleep a bit, then to ball field for text to judy, back in time to warm up meat and salmon for the potluck, great crowd, great party, Christine and long hug remembering turtle jim, friend who died last fall, icon of the valley. Maj tom and Carolyn, finally trail off to bed and tubs.

Sunday ball game another perfect day,I hang out and announce teams, sing anthem, red coat and uncle sam hat, good times. Potluck, huge crowd, good food, remember turtle jim (and at ball game). Crash in inyos truck, and drives me home to rest. Left mug there, search to no avail.

Monday, yet another perfect day, not a cloud, now planning to stay till Friday, then come home to Benton for terrence stamp and bubbly Julie. We pack up for a day trip to the bulldozer and to macevoy canyon across the valley, Mike wants to go too, immediately in pain and whining about his back and loud stereo, which he turns down. We put up with this until the main road, and I switch seats with him, and he is better. NEVER ride in a vehicle with mike again.

Bulldozer scene, huge rock moved by handyman jacks and Flipper pulled with his winch and power wagon. Up to the mouth of snowflake mine canyon on a rough rd, hang, roll rocks and kk and Johnny slide down a trof of slippery talc pieces. Bad road out to n. main rd, but eventually back to the springs to another Terry’s perpetual beans dinner with tritip chunks and Johnny’s potatoes, to sleep early, read new Ludlum book. And fade away.

Tuesday, Kk and inyo pack up after a long morning and I head down to the lower to find Tequila Pete of Maine and Missy, and Skip and Terry from Colorado with great hugs. Pete and Missy were stuck on the s pass in the snow, got turned around, went to Ridgecrest and rented a 4 wd truck, come in over steel pass last night, ready to party. I settle into Colorado camp, skip and Terry, and the ft Collins crowd, Dt carving another face on a root, Skip cooking up a storm, waffle iron at the ready. Timbo gone back to work in Lancaster, 4 years from retirement, but having a good time at boeing. Kk and inyo come by to give goodbyes, and are off to women and babys over steel pass. I do a soak-nap-soak in wizard pool, and news of potluck at skip and terrys, so I prep for that. Visit major tom’s camp, with Carolyn, and buy a beautiful photo of the Inyo front from the wizard pool for my photo bank. We confab about the grand permit, and agree. Potluck steak bbq at skips, with a goodly crowd, record some outrageous conversations; mike lurking in the shadows. Getting ready to leave tmw. Get severely chastised for farting in the general vicinity of Terry. Double shots of tequila going around, I take a nip and head to bed.

Up early with the sun hitting camp at 730 am, another shitty day in paradise, clear as a bell, Johnny makes more salmon scrambled eggs for a grate bkfst. G mike has his and fades off into Lippencott land to escape the valley, headed for a desert survivors hike and campout near niland, socal east desert. J and I prep for hiking and head to the Black mt. Loop trail, rising steadily above the valleys, jets roaring by beneath us, grey darts zooming past the springs. At the music rocks and telephone ridge, I fire up the iPhone and get Judy up from a nap, have a short conversation before being cut off by the poor att reception. Hot up there, I take a snooze and j does also, then he goes long way around, through the canyon, and I kick back, talk to Little Linda, she has been at the house in Benton, leaving already for Kelso, and head back to camp for another snooze, and then upper soak, good conversation with neighbors with starlight camper up the gully. Back to camp, cut up the rest of the meet for a final go at tpbeans, thinking about leaving tmw, but the weather is so perfect the water is hot and friends are still here. What more do you need? Heat up the pot over the fire and Johnny arrives with a bottle of wine and we partake of the juice of the gods. I crash and think this is not a bad way to spend another day, so maybe ill stay.

Up to another clear blubird day,coffee ritual, j makes oatmeal and blubs and we settle in for another day. I write, he rides to the lower to do dishes, he fell off his bike yesterday, with a beer in one hand and hurt his shoulder, and is hurting, not leaving today, and neither am i. Ha ha haaaaaa.

Soak the upper, more new people, old Gif here for 2 weeks with great conversations about desert doins, and people. More tales, Major tom got turned around on south pass, high centered on snow, had to dig out and beat a retreat to Lippencott rd, passing g mike on both the valley road and Lippencott. Skip had eggs bene for all, I missed it, will be there tmw for waffles, he makes great ones. Cruise the camps, no one new that I know, talk to rob and dawn with another poptop next door, and he comes for a visit and a rundown of my camper setup. This takes about an hour and repeats itself every trip. People love talking about campers, comfort and little tricks we have learned. The solar cell is always a hit, and Im playing music on the stereo, charging the computer and batteries all at once. The new deep cycle batt is helping a lot with the depth of charge.

J and I fix another major meal, down a bottle of cab syrah and watch the darkness gather, punctuated by a fingernail moon high above with promise of more to come. Fighter jets rumble by high in the sky, a constant reminder of wars happening. Daytime flybys are deafening, with ears plugged as they scream 200 feet overhead, helmets visible, bristling with armament, bound for where men win glory.

We pack up more wine and treats and debark for evenings activities. No community fires happening, so we enter Pete’s sphere, a group of 10 revelers, playing guitars, partying, passing the lung, drinking tequila and micro brew from ft Collins, colo. They are a great group from all over, Pete and Missy from Maine with DK and Robin, other colo people, us from calif, Dave from bishop, all out for a good time and challenging survival in the deserts of the west. I fade and head for home, reading a bit, then fading off into dreamland with the brays of burros and the crys of coyotes echoing in the canyons.

Up again to a fuzzy day, high clouds, word of weather coming in, but Johnny is gonna hold tight, hes determined to spend 2 weeks here, and has a good start. I m leaving after 9 days, that’s good for me. And James and Julia are planning to arrive tonite in Benton. I putter, put things away slowly, eat more tpbeans now a stoop, and chip away at the job of packing. Finally off, with warm goodbyes with Johnny, my desert compadre.

To the lower for farewells and a skip waffle, 20 to them for food and beer, and to Lee for campground host payment. Now off up the hot dusty road to Steel pass, stopping for pix and pee and vistas, all great. No problems on the staircase, measure width to tell people how tight it is. We have conversations at the dunes about the road, and the road ahead, finally over the pass to Bishop, Vons and home for more fun times.

Copright 2010 Terry Wright 1832 words

Fish Lake Valley incedent

2010-02-01T21:02:00.000-08:00

Fish lake valley hot springs incident.

Another perfect bluebird east Sierra day, sunday, a day for puttering and then time for an excursion into the vast outback of the northern white mts, encircled by white streaked peaks and promise of adventure, people, hot springs, to see god.

But first things need fixing, the bolt on the negative lead on the battery of the venerable 88 tacoma has broken off. I made a special trip to Bert’s garage and fixit shop on the highway north of town. He shambled out from the front seat of his office, the beaten up pickup, with xm radio, where he presides over his kingdom, 3 acres of cars, parts and other junk, to some, to him, history. Banter first, leading into the real reason for my visit, the battery connection. I had jury rigged the ground when the bolt broke with a hose clamp, but I had to take it off every time I jumped Win’s truck, or the landcruiser huddled in the shelter of the old trailer mitch had given me for a bag of weed and gas money to haul it down from Carson city. His verdict was simple, replace the broken bolt with a new one after prying the mess apart, which he started to do with his knife, but stopped in time so I could get home and finish the job myself.

Anyway, I pop the hood, dig around in the tool box and found some bolt packs, ready made from the hardware, selected something that looked the right size and stick it into the hole I had vacated by prying the old bolt loose and send it flying to a snowy grave. The new bolt in place, all set, but I find the hose clamp is still in the loop, so I end up undoing everything and slipping the clamp over all the important parts that belonged there, and refastening the nut, and another nut to the bolt end, securing the ground forever. Cranking down on the screw end, thoughtfully oriented so I could get the screwdriver to it and 2 nuts on the other end made the whole rig bombproof.

Now what? Too good a day to waste, suddenly the whirling entities of fluid logistics packets aligned and said Fish Lake Valley, Mary Ahnger, warm weather , old friends and locals at the hot springs bubbling at 102 degrees, always an adventure. Prep takes a while and im outta there later than I thought: 2:30, but I realize the truck clock has been changed by the absence of battery, look at the iphone, more like 2 pm, now im happy.

Now for Mary, facebook has her number, but no response. I down a bowl of Terrys perpetual stoop, the latest incarnation of a smoked turkey from the freezer and the contents of the frig and bean suppository.
Finally gas up at the corner and head up the hill, Montgomery pass, with the buttress of Mt Montgomery rearing its head to the south streaked with snow gullies like spiderwebs across the bare rock..

Grind up to the pass, over into Nevada and down the grade into no man’s land, a monster wildness of mountains, fans, valleys, time to space out. I take the turn onto 256 into Fish Lake and stop to photograph the glistening ridges in the sun, punctuated by sage poking through the blanket of snow. Drive slowly past a grazing herd of wild horses, looking fat and happy. Mellow out and head into the valley, finding the hot springs road on the left past the mine yard full of equipment. It is 50 mph dirt rd winding into the wilds of desolate desertdom. I hold it down and finally round the corner to see the springs and a trailer, and a gaggle of locals, kids splashing and big guys drinking cheap beer. OK whats this gonna be like? I’ve dealt with locals before, but never this crowd, by reputation a rough bunch, isolated from the real world.

We start talking. “hows the water?” to a bald older dude, tattooed arms blue sunglasses, “just fine, warm as always”. The others turn and sense my presence, I fall into the conversation, beautiful day etc. Younger bald dude talks about the area, I say “didn’t they dig some geothermal wells just over here?”. He sparks “yeah, and I worked on two of them, on the floor, running the prongs that lift the pipe, and the other guy ran the chain, that was dangerous work. We went down 5 miles into the earth,that’s a lotta pipe hauling”. “I’m a geologist, I’ve been on many rigs. “ He grabs my hand in a firm shake, “ya in the day, I was the main man on the rig, Halliburton ran the show”. “We geologists love you guys, you bring the stuff to us we cant see any other way.” We are instant friends. I see that I would be welcome in the tub scene, only kids in there now, with bathing suits on. I had anticipated this and repaired to the pickup and put on my trunks, grabbed my chair and a plastic goblet of wine, and entered the fray.

A big round Indian looking guy with a badly beaten up face, black right eye, lacerations on the left cheek, and very drunk, approaches me, and starts talking. “Are you looking at my face?” shit I’d better be careful, sounds like a volatile dude, and drunk at that. “How can I help looking at your face?” . I grab his shoulder in a friendly gesture and he smiles, just bsing me, oh well, I’m as good a bullshitter as the best of them, a match has been made. “Joe is mine, goodta meetcha”. “Terry is mine, I live over the mountain in Benton” waving at the long ridge of the northern Whites. Nods all around hes a local, “ya we know Benton, go through it on the way to bishop, the nearest big town.”

A large lady with the roughneck, “I’m from Minnesota, visiting, its different up there, down to minus 70, winds from the north, freezing pee before it hits the ground.” “My woman friend lives in Tulsa, she’s in the middle of an ice storm, the whole city is shut down” my rejoinder, it strikes a chord, and stories of cold start flowing back and forth.

We talk about the land, I mention the sump, and theyve all been there. Young baldie starts in " thousands of years ago the natives here used to drive mastadons and other game off those cliffs, main course at a mastadon bbq." "wow" I come back " can you imagine a monster beast bbq with hundreds of starving people around buiding a big fire and roasting it, chopping off steaks as they get done." All think about that and many grins come out. I can visualize with the best of them and they know that.

I descend the newly repaired ladder into the warm tank, and relish the penetrating heat, buffeted by bouncing kids, chattering, but mellow. A boy about 6 jumps in and out in his underpants, and an older girl finally hauls him off.

Another woman is drunk too, with 2 red haired girls, babbling about nonsense. The kids are running around. I complement one on her necklace, and she proudly shows it off, she made it. She asks about my necklaces, and I tell the story of the split twig figurine, 4000 years old evidence of man in the Grand Canyon, and the Alaska killer whale symbol of the Tatshenshini, they are all listening.

Talk turns to birds; several are poking around the edge of the pond. “Mudhens, that’s what they are called they taste like mud, bottom feeders all” Joe pontificates about the birds. “In Minnesota, we have loons” the large woman shakes her body and a cross on a chain bounces on her breasts. “I used to live in Maine” I rejoin”I found out how to cook a loon. The way you cook a loon is to put a loon and a rock in a pot and boil it until you can stick a fork in the rock, then you throw away the loon and eat the rock” to great guffaws all around. I love these people, living on the edge of civilization, on the edge of everything moral, physical and mental.

I check out the latrine, a concrete shithouse, park service type, then change out of my now cold skivvies and return to a monster fire in the making, of railroad ties, black smoke, looks like they are in for the duration. I listen to the fire talk, the women have disappeared into the trailer, and the men are having men talk. Time to take off, sun getting low on the high ridge of the White mountains to the west, streaks of light emanating from puffy clouds, and high cirrus in the west, a portent of things to come weatherwise.

Goodbyes all around, see ya laters and good feelings as I drive off into the sunset, over the pass, thru the bug station, eliza with her goggle dark glasses wishing me a good day, and home to the double wide to sip whiskey accompanied by the fading of the light on the monster view of my White mountains

1446 words, Copyright 2010 Terry Wright.

Hiatus from the default world

2009-11-09T10:32:00.000-08:00

Saline Valley, Another shitty week in Paradise: November 2009

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In reality, things turned out the same, entered the valley in spectacular late afternoon, long shadows, ridges in sun, no incidents, Inyo co. road crew has been hard at work, and the track is smooth. Quick snooze at the North pass, one person goes by, no one on the road through Whiporwill canyons narrows, and out onto the interminably huge fans, nothing on them to give you scale, just a jumble of boulders, gravel and sand, sloping 20 miles to the patch of white that is the dry lake bed of Saline valley. It is called that because of the salt beds in the ancient Pleistocene lake beds. A mining operation in the late 1800's tried to make it profitable, constructing a tramway to haul the product to the high ridge of the inyos, then down to Keeler next to Owens dry lake. The railroad then transported salt to Tonopah, past Benton until it was not profitable, the rr museum at Laws has all the old engines "Slim Princess" and other artifacts of this age of extraction..

To Willow Creek camp with dashed expectations, no sign of Dave, and it looks like no one has been here for a while, brown grass, overgrown paths, oh well, I didn't think he would last here, victim of owners vacillations. A beautiful backhoe is under the trees, and cooking equipment and a funny duck doll lying around. I spent 5 days here in 98 with a field class, their ghosts haunting the buildings and lawn. Steve blew up 2 55 gallon barrels full of Prel, ammonium nitrate and fertilizer, and we felt the concussion wave 1/2 mile away. The same load that blew up the Federal building in Oklahoma City.

On slowly, taking my time, being careful of tires, mindful that I only have one spare, forgot my front rack with 2nd spare. Across the Bat road in the gathering dusk, mindful of the full moonrise impending. It does not disappoint, rising fast over the sawtooth profile of Dry Mountain, more pictures taken, then setting again as I get to the bat monument. I stop and get out to run around and watch it as it rises and sets on the rugged high ridge of Dry mountain. Great fun, we played this game in the Grand Canyon, with great results.

Up the long fan with banked turns, traveling faster now, to the springs, very quiet, i don't recognize any vehicles, or hear any familiar voices, so i roam up the road to my ridge perch and set about setting up camp. mostly throwing everything out of the camper, popping the top and snuggling in for a well-deserved rest.

Drumming and thumping accompany my nap, keeping my mind busy, gotta get out the earplugs, but I drift off anyway. To wake to the full moon shining in my face, moonburn, always with a tshirt handy to cover the eyes.

Mustering a last bit of energy, head for the upper springs, the scene of many great times, but no one there, camps scattered about, one with 2 huge dogs that greet me vociferously. After a low-temp soak, time to head for the barn, checking out camps, mostly quiet, in bed early, daylight savings puts a cloak on the landscape twirly (like a pigs tail).

The dark jagged mountain profiles frame the void and its patch of white the lake, clearly visible in the moonlight. The silence is deafening, not a sound. Then a low rumbling, here come the F-18s playing cat and mouse in the dark, flaming afterburners marking the location of the huge chunks of organized metal screaming through the night.

Morning dawns as the sun tops the ridge to the southeast, one of Dry Mountains many tentacles reaching out to the basin. Slowly rising, set up camp, shade tarp, PV panel to charge the batteries, then time to soak it all in, 360 degrees mountains, the Inyo front 10 miles to the west rising like a picket fence, with the huge recumbent fold in middle ending at McEvoy canyon, gotta do another hike up there this time, many years have passed since the last time.

Time to check out the local population, down to the Lower springs, converse with a knowlegable dude with a great 4 wheel camper, and here is May, with her little dog also looking for information. We tour the setup, this guy is real handy and the interior has megaspace for storage, something my camper sorely lacks. I hear a familiar voice, a thick Maine accent, it has to be Pete, and it is, old friends from times past here. He has driven out across the country, through a blizzard in Denver, with his van loaded with firewood, which was almost confiscated in Benton at the Bug Station. We remake aquatences, with a bouncy lady flitting around, Evelyn, a friend from Maine who met him out here in benton.

More exploration is in order, down Gringo gulch to no avail, hailed by a couple in a tent camper deep in the arrroweed, Charley and Jane who live on the road, and at 2 cabins, one near Tombstone az and another in Olympia washington. we spin long tales of our lives, they are going to get more food tmw, so i ask them to pick up another bottle of wine for me, red of course. I purposefully came with 1 bottle, so i wouldn't drink to a stupor as is my wont.

Back to the crystal pool after a refreshing shower and soak and more people met, off to camp, nap, then a sojurn to the palm spring which is now very hot and watch the sunset on the mts. 360 degrees. Meet the Bishop crew, Frank and LIsa, Heidi and a couple others playing croquet with great glee and shouts.

After conciousness lowering and a glass of wine, head down to Petes camp with promise of partying with the mainiacs. No one home, leave my offering of smoked salmon on the table and my chair certain they will be back. I hear raucous laughter and Maine accent from the sunrise pool, and burst in upon a scene, 10 people in various states of rest in water, at the edge of the pool stories flying and great people. Pete and crew head back to his van, and i stay and am entertained and entertain the rest, folks i havn't met, but of like mind. We get on the trail of Bear attacks, and i tell Cynthia's story of playing dead with her head in the Bears mouth, and losing her arms on a mountaintop in Alaska. She was dropped by a helicopter between a mother and her cubs, major mistake.

Back to Pete's van, unleash the smoked salmon, pay back the Germans, who were pissed at me in Benton for pushing their dog away from me, oh well, all is copescetic and the bouncy lady Evelyn is pushing food on everyone, they discover the salmon and she serves it on saltines, wheat thins and ritz crackers on a sort of taste test with a great performance, chatter chatter she's on something. The fire is lit and wood piled on, way dark now but the glow of the moon gives everything a silver sheen.

Pete and Just Bob play guitars and sing great old songs from rock n roll days, and Bouncy girl talks a blue streak about her life and how glad she is to be here and on and on and on. She is a mother, 2 young kids and has been away for the first time for 3 weeks.

I get tired, its only 8 pm, but I'm off to bed, after a great evening of talk and play, snuggle into my sleeping bag after a long last look at the silver scene of mountains, valleys and ridges of the most beautiful place on earth.

Lazy morning, wake slowly, set up the spare inverter, the main system is not charging up for some reason and i don't have the dvm to check it, another thing forgotten. Write on the blog, then crank up the T guide geology chapter and work hard on that for a while. The sun comes around to the view side (both are view sides now) and i move to the upstream side in a big shadow and continue to whale away at text. Finally read the abstracts about the Nevadaplano and integrate that concept into the text as the prep for the development of present topography.

Burger lunch, then a snooze, its still only 2 pm, so i venture out to the spring, find Just Bob playing guitar and we play and sing for a while, great guitar with new strings, a Hohner, $79 made in

china. Party with him and May for a while, her little dog scurrying around like a rat underfoot. I get a signal from my phone, and check it out, a message from Cathy, but i can't get a signal.

Out to the taildragger strip to call, and am intercepted by Jim in a similar rig, 4 wheel camper and Tundra pickup, we exchange pleasantrys, checking out his rig, and he realizes he met me at one of the Mono hotsprings some years ago, even remembers my name. We think about the day and a hike tmw, and i try to raise Cathy, get her voice mail, get cut off, not a good place for cell phone reception. Back to the Crystal pool, cruise in, to objection of one of the guardians, not showered, a major crime, but there are 3 women monopolizing the shower. The conversation doesn't pan out, so i repair to the sunrise pool, and find a more interesting crowd, talk of predator drones, the war, and bear stories,

Back to Just Bob's and dinner is served, i insinuate myself into the event and we talk about tmw and the hike to the river bed. We devour dinner, chicken and vege stir fry, good gomps. I gotta shit, so I borrow jbs headlamp and head for the shitter, now very dark, the moon not up yet. Emerging from the shit cave, i see two riders approaching (and the wind began to howl), its Charlie and Jan, back from their sojourn to town. They have my wine, a 1.5 liter bottle of cab/shiraz, ok, we hang at their camp, watch the moon rise through the clouds, now 2 days past full. we get 2 moonrises as it flashes through a gap in the clouds, is covered then appears again above. Great show.

Back to jbs camp, people are winding down, but pete is about to unleash some flaming drinks, promise of a show, but I'm off to camp, fire off some roman candles and settle in for the long winters night. The thump of bass at the party across the way with flashing lights looks interesting, but i put in the earplugs and bliss out.

Another day...... write as i watch the mountains come out of their slumber with knife sharp ridges and deep furrow canyons. Amazing that Canyon hiked the whole ridge with group from ds last spring, iron woman, now nursing an arm broken in pursuit of extreme hiking. In and out of canyons for water camps for 9 days on catwalking the highest ridge around, facing Mt Whitney to the west, the Owens valley and down to

Saline on the east.

Puttering, graduallly getting things together for the hike, my heavy Limmer boots, pack with water bladder and suck tube, fix the hiking sticks, some snacks, mentally going over the various routes we can take to the river bed. Down to JBs camp before 9, Jim is there, but he has to get ready, I leave my guitar for string replacement, and kick back. Jim comes by, and a lady, Jude with a big Akita dog, she's interested too. So its coming together, on valley time, herding cats for the big event, they scatter to the 4 winds, and i ready my rig and start heading over to Jim's camper. Here comes Jude, dogless, thank god, but with an empty leash in her hand. The object of her affections has taken off after a coyote, and shes in a tizzy about her getting eaten. She disappears again in search of her Dora, another dog person running her life around her charge.

Rhea, the little German lady comes down naked and hands me a sheet on a Mediteranian deli in Vegas, with all kinds of great stuff, havta check that out next time I'm down there. Maybe with Judy if she visits her family there again.

We agree that cats are being herded, and I'm ready to take off when Jude reappears with dog and we are assembled. Past the other germans, also naked, with a ham radio antenna huge, and have another bantering conversation. Germans love it here, cause all they know weather wise is cold and damp, this is heaven to them.

Across the interminable fan, rough footing, glad for my platform boots, and into the wash, down and around the foot of the lava flows and a long stroll up the granite wash, rougher near the top and there are the river cobbles, we rejoice and marvel at the find, actually found many years ago by Ranger Tim, and explored several times by us on field trips. The perfectly rounded cobbles stand in stark contrast to the modern angular blocks of dark basalt and light granite. An ancient river bed, stretching up the gully with foriegn rock types, from a far away, possible Precambrian source. We reach a perch, watch some F 18s fly below us through the valley and up over the springs. One seems to be headed to the granite slope above for sheer destruction, but at the last second pulls up, guided by terrain sensing radar and blasts over the top of the ridge. These guys are having some fun, getting ready for Afghanistan, blasting the Taliban.

We rest and snack, and Jim and JB head up the gully toward the top of a knoll. I rest more and Jude and I talk of our lives, she a single mom, 62, living in Calaveras county, doing jewlery at vending events, travelling a lot. Her daughter grown, living in Truckee, divorced from a ski patrol/ avalanche guy, an extreme athelete, doing whatever she needs to get by. Jude with a MA in psychology, but not using it, semi retired and enjoying it with Dora, her dog.

There are high cirrus clouds building and soon the wind starts up, buffeting us on the ridges, dust kicking up on the lakebed. I hope i secured camp enough so nothing gets destroyed. Bungies on the tarp lines should save the shade structure, an old Mitch trick. The guys return and we pick out some of the best rounded rocks for display at camp, and start the return trek. We try the upper route, but Jude has bad feet and heads down another gulley, which loops around to our ascending path. Its a long trek back, but eventually we emerge from the wash and can see the lower springs. Back to JB's camp and rest and drink water, rehydrate. the wind swishing the trees above and a roar like a jet coming from the tall palms . The Park service wants to eliminate all non-native species, and if so these palms would come down, shit, i cant believe they would do that, that would be impossible, oh well, rumours have always bounced around and disappeared many times about closing the springs, or the Bat road, so you would have to hike in 8 miles to the springs. Fortunately they all dissipate one by one, but with big brother watching us, we are a thorn in the side of the park, definatly non-conforming to the park service picture of a pristine, untouched paradise. We don't need this, a fight would ensue and maybe civil disobedience.

I repair to the windy hilltop and secure the flapping flag and tarp, and roll in for a winters nap. Still blowing very hard, I fire up the stove and warm up the stewoop, with the smell of smoked turkey permeating the air. I spoon out a pot and carry it down to the lower springs, i enter the sanctuary from the wind and suddenly am hit by a whirlwind, a small lady shouting "Terry, Terry, where have you been?" "Elizabeth, hows things in Gerlach??" "Im having a blast, married a local, and doing all kinds of projects out there, living the bfe life in the Black Rock country". She is an old friend, camp host for Lee 4 years ago during the winter of great snows, we were trapped in the valley for weeks, food running low, both passes closed, people freaking out. I made my way out the Lippencott road easily and almost ran out of gas in an ice storm on the way to Goldfield. Inched over Goldfield summit propelled by the starter motor, not good for the machine, but it did the trick and i coasted in to gas.

The fire is going strong, and various people gather. Pete and JB arrive, then depart to find a new friend with pizza. I end up in the sunrise pool with a goodly crowd, pete got short circuited there, and Evelyn the talkative one, Elizabeth and JB. We have a jolly old time talking about the valley, experiences, yarn spins off to another yarn. A true storytelling fest.

Back to the fire, I offer up the stewoop, and it is devoured with great relish, ooos and ahhhhs, on how the flavors of mape, mango chipotle, smoked turkey and all massaged the taste buds. Another guy with a long handled sandwich cooker gives out samples of his wares. I fetch the guitar and sing some songs, longing to do pancho and lefty once again, and i do. fairly well. my favorite grand canyon tune, born on the river almost 30 years ago.

I don't see any major action going on, everyone wiped out from drinking all day (they had to start early), 4 lobotomy bock beers for lunch. Evelyn is effusive in her praise of my stewoop, saved her life, she was very hungry. Back at JB's camp, i deposit my guitar and chair, and take my leave for the night. All is quiet at the formerly raucous camp across from me, so i settle in, enjoying a good read of yet another LeCarre book, wonderful writer. Slide off into sleep as the wind dies, puffs rattling the camper occasionally, but looking forward to another sterling day in the desert.

Bluebird day, no clouds, perfectly clear air, no w-word, and the vista is incredible. The front of the Inyos is a sheer wall, 10 miles distant, and by now I've explored with my eyes every ravine, canyon, ridge of the 30 mile some length of the range. The dark furrows of gullys accentuated by deep shadow, the diorite and marble swirls miles long mute evidence of orogenies past. I write, watch the world go by and a small bird, a local. grazing for seeds and dropped food bits 3 feet from me. I am just finishing up when i hear the scuffle of footsteps and there is Jude, on a mission to me, "Blueberry pancakes are happenin' at JBs camp, c'mon down". we banter a bit and I gather my goods, a plate and fork and the mape, and we are off across the white hills down to the center of action at the lower springs. The usual suspects are gathered, and Just Bob has ammassed a pile of hotcakes, along with a plate of perfectly done bacon. We sit and visit, and talk about the desert, Pete comes by but he has already eaten, and hunkers down under the big top sun shade that May has set up.

The jets come by for a flashing visit, huge decibles, blocking ears. Patty is there from the bishop people's camp and she waves a towel and flashes her breasts, and Jude follows suit. They love to buzz the camp because women can't reisist showing off, and we can see the helmets of the pilots as they wheel sideways past, a hurtling mass of 20 tons of metal and technology, going faster than sound 200 feet above our heads. Story goes that they have a pilots room in Miramar, where most of these planes come from, walls covered with pictures of naked ladies taken over the springs. what power, I think as I kick back and listen to the rumble and scream of the death machines.

I'm in midmorning nap mode, and lie back in the recliner, letting the bustle of camp break over me like waves caressing the shore. My mind turns to the guitar, and JB fishes out a set of new Martin strings, top notch and I set about the task of replacing my thumpy worn out set. Low energy and short on patience, I solve several problems including a broken new string in the process. It finally comes together, I tune them up and play a bit to make sure it still works. Great sharp sound from the bass strings to support my melody lines, much better.

Now what to do, I hear voices in the bushes and make out Jude and Jim having a long conversation. I push my way past the mesquite trees and there they are, Jude in all her naked glory, well preserved in her early 60s, we talk more, and Jim and I plot an attack on my recalcitrant solar charging system. It seems to be working, but wont hold a charge. He brings over a DVM to loan, and Ill check the system out with that. He can't decide whether to leave today or tomorrow, no storms comin' so why not stay?. Its great to be at one with the environment, to have that as a major player in logistics, so unlike the default world.

I ask Jude about her jewelry and she brings out a cornucopia of glass beaded pendants and earrings to feast on. I pick out a set for Judy, and remind myself that her bday is right after thanks, and we will be at the band b at starved rock. Right for a present of beauty, as befits her and our relationship. Jude will make them up for me and ill send her a check when i get back to Benton.

The sun is high now, not much going on, so I retreat to my hilltop, praising the absence of w-word, settle into nap mode, more jets blasting by, people yelling at them as if they could hear. Sun lower, I check out the solar, and can't find anything wrong. Jim comes by and he performs some magic with the DVM, with the verdict that my old battery is shot, and draining the current from the new battery. We disconnect the old one, things seem to perk up, but now there's very little sunlight left, not enough time to fully charge the system. Oh well, there's always tomorrow left to charge.

To the upper spring for a sunset soak, visiting the Bishop camp, they are feasting on thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings. I help myself to the proffered guacamole, and we talk about the desert, the valley, life on the east side of the Sierra, and all that that involves. Resourcefulness, community bond, a fierce environment, death on the hoof. A 73 year old man went missing a week ago while climbing Whitney, found after a 4 day hunt dead in a ravine, no word on the cause, but this kind of thing happens all the time out here.

Off to the upper, 2 guys talking about family and houses and repairs, not desert talk, I witness the sun setting over the Inyos, shadows spread like dark fingers up and eventually extinguishing the light on Dry mountain, and gone, the end of another day. Enough family talk, not a word to me, so i emerge from the Wizard pool and get set for the evenings entertainment, whatever serendipity brings to the plate.

It is truly a moveable feast here, akin to Hemingways experiences in Paris in the 30s. There is always a new party to go to, long conversations to be had, and friends to be made. Charlie and Jane are precious, their storytelling abilities and unusual experiences a stimulation for the mind. Just Bob's gracious hospitality, Pete's constant hi octane fun, just skimming the surface of the depth of experience here.

I load up and head off to the lower springs, in the bag more smoked salmon, bowl and fork, bottle of wine gettin lower, in my hand the stool with back rest, ready for anything. Pete and Evelyn and the new guy with the big dog are cooking up some pork tenderloin and settling in. A party is in the making at the camp across from me, with a hot bass player and several guitars, I'll hear that happening, so I head down, finding no one at JBs camp, a bunch of unknowns at the crystal pool, so I set off for Charlie and Janes tent trailer down in the arroweed to see whats shakin' them. They are cocooned up playing gin, but always ready for a visit, and i set up inside the tent trailer and we exchange stories of our lives. Charlie built a bunch of spec houses on the sly , made a pile of money so they bought a boat and sailed with 3 teenagers off to Mexico, Panama Canal, through the Caribbean and to Florida. Finally out of money, all went to work for cash per day to buy groceries, and survived for a year that way. Jane got a job in a yogurt shop when the oldest son looking for a job, found the propieter wanted a middle aged housewife. He allowed as how his mom was looking for a job too, and she was hired on the spot.

We emerge to watch the lightening of the sky signaling moon rise, and I head off for higher passages. Pete is still cooking, but is headed to the party by me, so i repair to the manse on wheels and kick back until the bass starts plunking and I can hear guitars following suit. I don the pimpdaddy coat and head over to the fray, a small group around the fire, with the strumming of guitars, JB, the new guy and Mike, the bass player from Mumbo Jumbo,a local rock band in Sacramento. He has a generator going, and is laying out some perfect lines. "great coat, mr pimpdaddy" i get complements all around, and im very warm. The down mountain evening breeze has kicked up and people are getting cold. Amy is being mother hen, bringing out blankets for anyone who needs them.

"Where"s Pete?" is the chorus all at once, he was eating and shoulda been here long ago. Oh well, he's on valley time, and is herding cats, the usual excuse. We watch as the ridge lightens and the moon pokes over the edge. "That moon is severely disabled" someone quips. "No, it is differently abled, gotta be pc." to laughs all around.

A car pulls in and Pete appears to cheers all around, they are old friends from the springs. Evelyn and Elizabeth are there also, along with the new guy. The group rips some good songs, the melodic bass keeping the rhythm, and mellowness starts circulating, laughter and quips flying back and forth. Pete is a sparkplug and the mood elevates. Nutterbutters from May, chocolate covered potato chips from nowhere, a growler of pale ale from Glenwood springs brewery and the final blow: Sobuku, a licorace liqueur , put in a shot glass, fired up with flame, then you put your wet hand over the top, form a seal, lift up the shotglass and drink the liquer through a small hole in your fingers, then take a straw and inhale the last fumes, which are supposed to have opium in them. A very involved process, but a major performance, and to the entertainment of all.

Thats it for me, I pack my kit, say goodbyes, and head off to the hilltop, no w-word at all, perfectly clear night, with the maimed gibbous moon shining the way. Settle in to the rhythm of guitars and bass, read a little of the LeCarre African political novel and then fade away into dreamland.

The new day dawns, softer light on the mts, heralding a high overcast, nothing serious, but blue skys to the north from whence the weather comes. Another perfect day in paradise. I write while watching the lightening of the scene, now with Pat in the foreground, another geologist from UCSB, working as an engineer in LA, great guitarist, we raged last night around the fire. He knows all my friends there, The guys from next door walk by to pleasentries, tubward bound.

I write for couple hours, this and work on the Tuolumne book text, its coming together slowly, integrating the Nevadaplano into the story, new news from the brains of the Caltech crew. A big plate of Terry's perpetual beans with eggs and I'm ready to roam. Down to Just Bob's camp, and Jude the jeweler appears with a small bag and her card in hand. I write a check for 35 smackers and my Judy has a bday present. I hang with JB and others passing through, people leaving now, a steady parade, counter the stream of people coming in, 3 or 4 of them visible at once on the bat road.

Bunch of young macho newbies at the lower, tattoos and atitudes, so I pass through and end up at Charlie and Jane's tent trailer, to long stories of their lives, building houses, now a dual relationship with Olympia Washington and Tombstone Az, with a long trip visiting places like this on the way back and forth, and a shot over to Minnesota to visit their roots. She is part owner of a farm her grandfather homesteaded in 1893, he came from Finland, which was under Russian control at the time, and he had to swear off all allegiance to the Czar in order to homestead. Some life they have. We try the LED bulb in their overhead, but it doesn't work, oh well, they can get one to fit on the web. Back to the springs, inviting Elizabeth, JB et al to a potluck at my place, and repair to the manse on the hill for a well-deserved nap.

Into host mode, heating up the TP Beans, getting out the last of the salmon and the chevre, cutting up the tomatoes, and rearrange the furniture for guests.

Charlie and Jane appear first, and we settle in, watching the wall to wall view as the light fades on the picket fence of the Inyos. Long tales of survival in Minnesota, replanting the pasture with 50k trees donated by the forest service, ice storms with all trees down and 7 days without electricity. They left Minnesota in a 52 chevy and a 2 year old and baby in diapers, drove west for greener pastures, landed in Washington building houses. I respond with flood stories, in 95 when we were flooded in, and kayaked to the store with Kailen and I got interviewed for tv about partying in the flood zone. 4 days without electricity and finally moving out of the house, leaving a drunken cici to wonder what hit her. Swinging with the punches of nature, you have to adapt, there's no way out. Some people do some don't, they move to Florida only to be hit by a hurricane.

Jude and Dora move in and her perspective is insinuated on the pile of words we have created. She is on hiatus from life with her dog, a big Akita, well-behaved, but underfoot no matter what. I hear my name called and a light from the party camp across the road, "the party's over here" "no its over here" i respond, "I'll be over later to rage with you guys. The steady stream of conversation, yells and guitar sounds from the bass tells me they are having a good time.

We finish up our visit with a cheery fire and pancho and lefty, Jude singing along, she knows all these old songs. I repair to the manse, finding the electrical supply happening well or good or whatever. I snooze a bit till the thump of bass drives me partyward, donned in Pimpdaddy coat and Uncle Sam hat to great applause as i appear in the firelight. Its a reunion of the gang, Pete, JBob, pat, elizabeth, evelyn, may, Jude, Amy and a lady with a baby wrapped in a blanket. We sing, eat nutterbutters, may has an inexhaustable supply, and Jude shares hits of Jameson Irish Whiskey with me. I still soft pedaling the alcohol, sleeping better, more energy,

I'll be unstoppable if I can get my heart back in shape. All this walking around camp and hiking must help.

One by one, people fade into the darkness as the severely maimed moon breaks the ridge and is our flashlight home to the snug nest on the hill. I read a bit, but am soon enveloped in the reverie of sleep.

Up with the dawn, etching the lines of erosion on the face of the Inyos, puttering, writing, organizing for departure, not much to do thank goodness, and soon I am off up the fan for a soak at the upper after a visit with the mexican teachers, now ensconced in the hollow below California Hill. Ron and Lydia are old friends from LA, great fun people, and we catch up after several years of passing like ships in the night. They have finished their house in the northland, Shasta area, and Lydia is closing off teaching and getting ready for a life of leisure.

I hang in the Wizard pool with some Mammothites, good stories, good people. Then down to the Bishop folks camp. Frank is on top of his new camper van putting up poles from the teepee. They are headed out today, and Darla is there, my friend sans her husband Bob, they just back from a canoe trip on the Green River in Canyonlands. We catch up, then I ramble back to the camp, finish the packing and fire up the beast for the voyage ahead. All is smooth sailing, except for goodbyes to all those left behind. Off into the wildness of the Bat road, going slowly, caring for my tires, and listening to gregorian chant left over from sunday. Off at noon, on the road again, bound for glory. I take in the views, stop for lunch at the bat road jct, then to Willow Creek, still no sign of life, get some talc for my collection, and off up the long hill. Locate the jct of the Bunker Hill Mine rd on gps, and take some pix of the Lead Canyon anticline, liesurly trip out. At the North Pass the road becomes a freeway, 2 graders sitting there, pausing in thier work of smoothing the road. I step up a notch and soon am topping the hill at the Death Valley road. 4 hours from the springs, a goodly trek, enough to filter out most ordinary souls, thank god.

Down the hill and up the valley to Bishop, no Mark, so I stash his sleeping bag under a tarp on the back poarch, and head to Black Sheep, get the big emails and respond, telling Judy Ill call at 7 or so her time. Von's is milling with all kinds of people, never seen, never seen again types, I hit the road again on the last stretch to Benton. I return Win's call, he is in big brouh haha with the neighbors, he hit Larry's dog which was chasing his car. This after he killed Dolly, Harry’s cripple dog several months ago, again chasing cars. Jim and Velma and He and Larry got into a shouting match over speeding which the dog owners think is the problem and controlling your dog, Win's point which I agree with enthusiastically. The sheriff came to adjudicate, and put a speed sensor up by Harry’s place. Goolsby ranch road dog wars, a microcosm of America, where people think their dog's shit doesn't stink and they should be able to run free, irresponsible to a fault. More grist for the Dog Manifesto mill.

All is well at the ranch, no major changes, and I settle in, drink too much wine, and long talk with Judy, reaffirming our love for each other and sleep feeling rosy and at home again.

Benton crags-wonderment

2009-10-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

Rock grotto-Benton Crags
more pix on picasawebsite

Another blowy day, steady at 30 mph, i coccooned in working on projects, and the time flew. But i hadda get outta dodge, check the mail, see if the people at the cafe are still there, doing their cafe thing. Pulled out about 3, returned ann's new yorker which somehow got put in my box, they just cant get it right down at the po. then out on the road again, on a quest, for who knows what? first the line of aspens up toward the pass on the Benton crossing rd. Few leaves left, but those are glowing in the sun framed in pinons and adding an ethereal note to the landscape. I unleash the nikon d90 on them and get some fine results and collect some to send to judy.

I check out the cliffs east of the road on the way up, and recall there is a road from the top that might lead there. My fantasy is to do a hike from top to bottom thru the granite bosses, cut by fractures which erode out to selective paths, some blocked by pinons, but there always is a way through. It looks spectacular, like the Alabama hills, rounded bosses of granite sliced by furrows of fractures and light aplite dikes.

Out the track above find the road ends just above the maze of boulders. I am drawn to such places, they always harbor surprises, and beautiful sculptures. Head into the puckerbrush, sage and sand with a dusting of fresh snow. I focus on a dike, that reflects the fractures in the bedrock, and snap a few megapixels. It looks like a dropoff down the gully, so i peer over the top and look down 100 feet, not the right path. Scrutinizing the rocks, always on the outlook for petros, i see one, but its modern "HC" in fresh granite. Looking more closely there are other marks, faint but true, in the enigmatic shape of the local petros, by indians long ago. wow, if i can get down there, maybe there will be more, but ill have to find another way.

Breaking out of the gully, I try another route, again a major dropoff, guarded by a spire of granite and snap the scene, glass mt behind it, really cool, i can see this as another in a quiver of local hikes i can treat friends to. Back out and another path opens, a narrow slot between granite cliffs, but it goes, down into the next valley, through some tough trees, and along a snowy slope and into the bottom of the gully. I turn upstream, petro wards, and find a sculpture garden with arching grottos, carved by pleistocene torrents rotating rocks in cavities forming major potholes. This is very cool, I enter the grotto and admire the work of water. It still goes up into another grotto, and there on the wall is a fantastic display of petros, rivers, animals, paths, etched into the back wall. I try some flash pictures, and it looks like i got something , but its dark in there and there are rocks in front of the scene, so not a good place to be ansel adams. tricky light. oh well. i come back several times, try to get up into the shelf across the pond, but chicken out, no one knows im up here and it would be weeks before they found my truck if i couldn't get out on my own. Careful, careful, i keep saying, wishing i had my hiking sticks and helmet.

Back down the gully to the open meadow, and great vistas to glass mt and the valley over precipitous drops, another knickpoint, must be gorgeous with runoff from big rain or snowmelt. Getting late, and colder, i have on gloves, sweater, shell and merrills, not the best footwear, but i am careful. Return in my steps and take in the petros again, the place robert had taken kailen and friends, and ran into some indians having a ceremony, no one here now. Following footsteps in the snow, and back to the truck, a feeling of accomplishment, and joy at being here in paradise of the east sierra, with wonderment at every turn.

Bob Dylan rides again Review of the Greek concert

2009-10-27T10:27:00.000-07:00

Bob Dylan at the Greek 10/10/09

Newport, RI, folk festival, 1963

The two forms exploded out of the crowd, grabbed the doorlatch on my 47 chevy and breathlessly piled in chanting “we gotta go see Dylan”. Margie and Louise, bedecked in Woody Guthrie denim folk attire are on the warpath, we careen through the crowd to the big field and somehow shoehorn into a parking place and we are off at a run to the workshop tent.

OK, Dylan, I’d heard some echos of this new guru through folk circles, even had the first album, and had started singing his early songs. We’d even scoured Washington square for the dude to no avail one dark misty night in NYC, and here we were.

We made a grand entrance..high on our energy, working our way through the crowd, and theres this guy, I check him out. And he checks me out, scraggly beard, tousled hair---check. Stained workshirt with 1/2 smoked pack of Galoises in the pocket ----check. Battered levis, cowboy boots----check. Guitar over one shoulder—check. I look at him and say “whats with the bullwhip?”. He touches the coiled serpent on his shoulder, smiles and says “joanie and I are blowing minds doing bullwhip tricks around the pool at the motel”. “Cool, Bob sounds like fun”. And off we go.

We are blown away, the poetry most of all, and the style…gravelly voice, great guitar in all modes, and unassuming air. “Baby let me follow you down”, “Don’t think twice” “House of the rising sun”, all done in a howling style, immediately adopted by all folkies around. And the world had changed for folk music.

Newport RI folk festival 1965

The multitudes are gathered to hear the famous guru of folk, Dylan is now a superstar, with a mane of hair, followed by a wave of marmidons crossing the field to the workshop. You have to force your way into the crowd and fight for a space, and the poetry flows and the music bites hard into the words, the guitar sings for us all to hear.

We gear up for the evening concert, a big crowd in the football field, packed in to do homage to the new god of folk. But, there is a setup for a rock band, unheard of at Newport, and finally they come out, Paul Butterfield, band and Dylan with a very poor rendition of some songs, out of tune, feedback screeching, people outraged, a wave of booing running through the crowd. I’ve been talking to Pete Seeger, who was seated in front of me with his mom, Ruth Crawford, and he is outraged, jumps up and heads back for the stage. I hear later that he was going to pull the plug on the performance with an axe. Butterfield and Dylan screech some more, and finally quit. Bob comes out and does one song to mollify the crowd, still with boos echoing, and finally bows out, no apology, just an experiment in a new genre that the folkies weren’t ready for.

This set the pattern for his career, and each time we heard a new set of tunes and a new band (most notably The Band), a new page was written in the bible of Dylan. Nashville Skyline with some great country ballads, Slow Train Comin, songs of his Christian phase, Time out of Mind with some uptempo ballads. He continued the poetry, and the captivating presence in concert.

So when we heard about the Greek Theater concert October 10, it was time, I stalked the ticketmaster website and scored 2 tickets in the first public minutes, and was off to the music event of the year.

The Greek was packed, we got there at 5 and stood in line for good seats, which we got no problem, center up 10 rows behind the mixers, huge electronic affairs, studded with computer screens. We prepped for cold, and bundled up, with low back chairs, blankets and partied. The house beer and wine was lousey, so we had a little reserve and mellowed out, watching the people. I wore an Uncle Sam top hat so our late friends could find us. We got an early taste of the band during the sound test from the parking lot, and they were solid, with punching bass lines rumbling our chests

On time, they came on and introduced Dylan as an icon of

American music and master of many styles and genres. A shout went up from the crowd as he entered the stage, dressed in black hat, double breasted black jacket and red scarf, launching into the solid big beat reverberating around the amphitheater.

The playlist was eclectic, (see Bob Dylan website for list and other reviews) with versions of Mama you been on my mind and the Lonesome death of Hattie Carroll with very creative arrangements; interfaces with Highway 61 revisited during which I cried with happiness, Thunder on the mountain and old classics Like a Rolling Stone and finishing with All along the Watchtower. All done in the same style, big beat, up tempo, Dylan,s voice was gravelly and low as always, and occasional snippets of words came out, but I knew most of them and sang along. The faithful in the mosh pit were packed in, and well-behaved, and let out a collective spine chilling scream every time a favorite line came on. The crowd in general was mellow, I thought we were going to have some loud people behind us, but they mellowed out as soon as the music started.

The best part for me was to watch Dylan sing with his body, small movements and twitches, sometimes arms raised, leaning into the music, emphasizing the words with his body, Pushing into the lines sent chills up and down my spine. You can see him playing with the words.

“Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"

Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"

God say, "No." Abe say, "What?"

God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but

The next time you see me comin' you better run"

Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done?"

God says, "Out on Highway 61."

This says it for the poetry, It has always been a creative tour de force, and he can spout out rhymes with amazing words like a fountain. There is a clip in Pennebakers film where he is given 5 words and makes up poetry for 10 minutes, and incredible feat.

The band was solid, Charlie Sexton on lead guitar is top notch and the pedal steel, standup bass, and drums equally talented. They did make a lot of noise, but that’s what its all about in the new Dylan mode. The tour continues across the country, first to LA, then Las Vegas and ends up in Boston Its worth flying to.

for west county gazette 10/23/09

On the blog again

2009-10-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

Twearly, like a pigs tail
Benton 10/27

woke at 3am to a thumping noise; outside at the source, i found the cover to the breaker box thumping in a north wind. very cold, front coming in, secured the lid and back to bed. phone rings at 7 am, like a pigs tail-twearly (too early), not for this neck of the woods, people are up and about 630-7. its Win, my neighbor, telling me to batten down the hatches for the incoming storm, the radio says 3-6" in the valleys, gotta run around now and drain the irrigation system, empty water outta the hoses, and a dozen other things before it gets nasty.....and so it goes.

Clouds over the mts, a quick trip to the cafe for coffee, i forgot it back in soco, gulp it down, wreathed in down jacked, crocheyd hat and 2 different gloves, un leash the load from the pickup, camping equipment piled higher and deeper in the office trailer. Enter the cafe, the door opens for me and its Jackie, smiling, i quip "the doorman, oops the door person" she laughs,the skin cracking around her mouth, great lady. She's off into the storm, coffee served by smiling indian waitress, $1.62 for a big one. I emerge to the vision of a blue puff ball, totally wrapped up, helmet, on a pink bike, its Katy, smiling and laughing to see me, one of my favorite recalcitrant kids here, doesn't do her homework even after i impressed on her that that was her most important job in life.

A silver sliver of light focused by the clouds in front of the sun breaking over the east ridge bathes the hills to the west, accentuating the moonscape of granite boulders, gravelly slopes. the mts behind dark and ominous, roiling around Glass mt, a taste of things to come. (twss).

Contemplate the day ahead of rest, gotta exercise or die, work on the tuol. guidebook and catch up with friends scattered like chaff up and down the eastside. This is a frame of mind, all very aware that nature is in control out here, in spite of long periods of sweet times, do anything any day, now we enter the time of conflict, man vs. nature, creative solutions to life-threatening, or at least uncomfortable events."people out here have to be resourceful" was Judy's observation. I've got 2 chords of wood, hard and soft for warmth and a flick of the switch activates the propane furnace, so i'm set, just some details like the irrigation system, drags from my reverie watching the mts go by, sun on the trees at the top of the vast fan of M. canyon, my viewscape. Lights were coming outta there last night, late, who was up there? an annual trip to the waterfall has to be planned and executed. Ill call some friends to see who might be up for it. Walt Hoffmann retired ranger, or Dancingbears? or even D? too many thoughts, not enough action, gotta get to it. Dylan on the radio spurs me on.

Into the driving snow flurries, comin down over the fan, drain the irrigation, empty the hoses, check the heater in the pump house, gotta check again. Look over Wins handiwork, neatly stacked cord of fir, awaiting their deaths in a blaze of glory. Raked and shoveled area to drain away from the house, trees still kickin some bursting at the seams from the rabbit fence looking like hourglasses. Cover the outside furniture, load the dump run, and so it goes. Ill post this, if you dont wanna hear it lemme know.

fun and games at burning man 2009

2009-09-08T08:29:00.000-07:00

BURNING MAN 2009, A PERSONAL VIEW

photos on picasaweb.google/terryw100/bman09

BURNING MAN, 2009

Its different out here on the playa. it was cool this morning and still, but windy and dusty yesterday on the way in and setting up camp in a crowded corner. we had total of 3 flats on the way in , 2 punctures which i plugged on the spot, and one trailer tire shredded at the gate to the event. i had picked up moondancer, another geezer to give him aride to his camp, and he helped change the tire. cathy, as is her wont, primped and put on her tutu and brought an out rageous cat in the hat hat which i promptly ripped off.

good times with canyon last night, we partied with her desert guardians group, then piled on board a salmon fishing boat mounted on a truck chassis, climbed up about 100' above the ground and toured the site at night. the man is beautiful, with free form waves or mountains around the base and 100' of neon above that perched on a double helix. brightly lit and outrageously decorated art cars, trucks, an articulated bus from england cruised with us. walked back from the temple with canyon, past the man again and over to more fire sculptures, with a line 200 feet long of propane nozzels spouting fire bursts all computer controlled.

Always the thump thump of techno bass gone mad in the background, generaters powering everything. my solar is doing well, so i have all the ions i need fo run my little stereo and charge my computer and run led lights.

had the shitz last night, used my portapottti for the first time. oops cathy and pete just came in, jabbering jabbering, so ill sign off, and write later when i get time. and maybe even put some pix up on picasaweb. love t

things gettin hotter, 98
today, and we are fortunate to have canyon's trailer with ac to hang
out in. i did an ice run this morning, 5 10 lb blox, carried handily
in my old ladys grocery cart, a fold up number, bot at flea mkt in
mina for 5 bucks. wednesday, almost 1/2 way through, my hair is stiff,
and needs washing, tonite, hopefully. problem is what to do with grey
water. silver bob usted to bring a 55 gal drum for that, but he isnt
here this year. i surruptitiously dump our gray on the road, where the
water truck comes by and obliterates any trace of the very uncool
move.

i cant see missing a year of this show, its incredible, the
outpouring of passion and hedonism and artistic talent. we go on an
art tour with the artists tmw morn, hopefull on a big art car bus, or
ride our bikes behind and listen to the narrative on a huge pa system.

great roam last night with cathy on foot, several bar/night clubs are
going full tilt boogie, including one next to our camp. loud thump
thump music. went to a concert in a huge dome with electric bass and
violin playing melodic and strangely woven tunes with a popping drum
machine behind. then to a structure with towers and a set of tracking
lazers on top, so when you walked or danced the lazers would follow
you and play different notes on a big stereo system, all controlled by
a guy at a computer.

moon cast an incandescent glow over the playa, punctuated by green lazers sweeping the dusty air and more art cars belching flame, and blaring techno (one had big rock candy mt on), with crowds of people waving and shouting their glee at being free to party their asses off. We (c and cyn) walked out onto the playa after a party with the earth guardians crowd (eg from now on) and gave the man a through going over, revelling in sweeping free forms of towers built from 2x4s . clouds did a warm air night, people stripped down to the bare essentials. we visited the temple already with many names and keepsakes, pictures, poems etc adorning the jigsaw cut walls, climbed up 3 stories to the top and watched a wedding happen, champagne open, cheers all around. I wonder if its for the duration of the event???

c and cyn head for a monster art car, an articulated bus with platform top spilling over with people, they can only fit 150 on the bus, and im feeling fat legged, so i head to my bike stashed at the man, loc by gps, and tottle on home, stopping at some great installations, a bank of light bulbs 10 feet thick, with 4 colors in each bulb and patterns all controlled by computer. people lying on the ground looking up from underneath.

quiet at camp, the disco is closed for the night, last night they went till midnight.

c wakes up at 9 am, ready to prep for the art tour, it takes an hour to do this, and i putter, fix things, find my sunglasses, charge my camera batts, and off we go, hot, windy, big crowd at the art tour place, so i opt out, hang in the jazz tent for a while, then to cyn, who has been barfing all night long with a migrane. we may not do the black rock tonight after all.

cyn recovered slowly and it is on, we hang with the eg crowd, c goes with the art tour, i do a psa (public service ann.) for the radio, and hand at center camp, big crowd packed in, bumping into each other, many performances in the center ring and at 3 stages.

we snooze, cathy bouncing in and out from various adventures. fire up cyns tundra and drive the dusty, crowded streets to our camp, organize and load up for the night at the black rock playacita. we return to the fashion show, one guy has wings of steel slats that pop open using a co2 cartridge, some outrageous costumes, cyn is in a long prarie dress and pilgrim hat, printed save the earth all over. a true devotee of the earth.

now for the safari onto the playa, we have the radio, the correct forms and our tickets, and we are out of the madding crowd, into the open at last, cyn cruising 40 mph across a perfectly flat white landscape. totally nuts, totally different perspective. we follow a track well beaten up the playa for 15 miles, then branch off to the right toward the black rock, totally visible for 20 miles. It looms up as we approach, and wind our way through the dunes into tthe shelf and there is water (140 deg hot), and an old wagon skeleton, part of the applegate trail. Another burner is there, guarding the hot spring for desert guardians, as part of their role as support for BLM. Talk and talk, a van arrives to take her home, and drops off tracy, another volunteer. she is off in a corner sobbing, very depressed, but canyon cheers her up, and we pile in to the playacita, a perfectly round 1 km playa in the hills above the black rock. we set up camp on the shore, and commence partying, watching the full moon up over the desert mts is spectacular, roaming around the vast flatness of the playa is great , with occasional views of a person for scale. i set up the fire launcher and start popping off fireworks, some mortors hundreds of feet up, and the ball of fire from the launcher gives an apocolyptic effect. we soon fade out, blessed with the silence, no thump thump of bass, no people crowding around, and perfect temperatures.

up with the hot sun, masked by clouds for a while, red sunrise, coffee, hb eggs, and puttering, i play guitar, tracy has a mandolin type instrumnet, and we plink a little. cathy washes her hair, and we pile into the monster truck and are off for the main event. back into the thick of things, everything is dusty now, pepole are dusty. c reviews the sched, and the little black dress (lbd) party is at 5 at spankys wine bar, so we aim for that, cowering , in the ac, until it goes off. oh well. tmw my talk and the man burns.

back to camp and snooze after a cruise on the blm covered wagon art car, with a painted nude, 2 guitarists doing doobie bros and niel young songs. we head home and dark falls, over sleep, 930, and head out to the spaceship launch on the playa. interminable wait, we cruise tthe art cars, watch naked fire dancers, and finally things start happening, a round of ground white explosions segue into huge rocket display with fire coming out of the bottom of the rocket ship, then suddenly a set of blasts from a row of sources with billiowing red, yellow and pink clouds the concussion wave hitting our chests like a sledgehammer. back to cyn camp to get our bikes, then back home to crash, the thump thump thump of the techno beat.

red sun, and coffee, great basin bakery bread, and prep for deep playa. to the temple, post dianes poem, don and lars holbeck passed. deeper we find a garden with columnar joints, and huge ss tables, then to the nest, a eagles nest with comfortable pads. back via the 10 oclock rave domes, pallets made into towers. putter at camp, have long talk with abalone al, and his crew, then prep for the talk. snooze and then off with cathy to the eg pavilion , set up, then people start arrivng, packing in to hear me and my geology presentation. cathy and canyon help with demos of volcanos and subduction. great fun talk, 240 people bilbo counted, and many questions, up to the balcony for a safety meeting, and guiness, and views of the playa fading into fog of blowing dust. a mournful cry of a foghorn echos across the playa. then to canyons for lowering conciousness, more costumes bilbo and darlene, a friend from grass valley. more blowing dust out there, but stilll visibility is good, so we'll do the burn.

lotsa wind yesterday, the burn was late and spectacular, I'll post a description to you soon. breaking camp, plan to leave 5 am after the temple burn which will be watched from a lift truck in our camp complete with balcony, couches, a bar (always a bar). cathy left early, lotsa stuff, i organized the trailer and stuff and all i have to do is throw it in and head out in the morning.

The burn started with a windstorm, packed into cyn's trailer, raging fun, crackling conversation. whoops and shouts, cathy and cyn changing costumes, dancing to classic tunes, wine bottles, champagne popping. we mount the platform and look out into the dark, nothing visible, but the rangers radio is announcing the start of the procession, the fire twirlers will be soon behind. finally we motorvate after interminable costume changes and gathering together of equipment. finally we enter the fray, people on bikes, on foot, art cars, scooters segues, you name it. now a huge wheeled vehicle 50' high roaming along all decorated with flashing lights, neon, video etc.

The density of people increases exponentially as we enter the perimeter, a line of nose to tail art cars 2 miles long, blaring techno, belching fire, people hangng on to platforms for a view above the playa. c and c and i play tag hard to find, several separations, i have them lead and follow, they hold hands to stay togetehr. the twirlers are twirling and a huge flaming dragon enters the mass of seething dancers, with flaming wings flapping. now we look for a spot, the girls want to be up front, and i settle down on my tripod chair to watch the show.

it begins with a spectacular fireworks display, with accompaning blasts , then the man starts spouting sparks from his hands, and soon the whole statue is on fire, now the understructure starts up, people throwing flares into the wooden columns, shoots of flame starting up,then the whole display is enveloped in a monster white billowing explosion the concussion almost knocking us over, leaving the wood flaming, consuming the whole base, that we hung out in and admired as art in the desert. the mans head falls off to a great cheer, but it has a superstructure of steel, and it isnt going anywhere. the vortexes start whirling off downwind. I am tired, but determined to watch the fall of the man, but it isn't happening, so i wend my way past some art cars, one with 3 stories and huge video screen, and a wall of sound, more huge speakers and a gut fluttering bass line.

quiet on the playa, stroll over toward the lightbulb cube and stare at that for a while, great patterns of lights with bulbs changing color constantly.

back to snug nest, just drifting and i hear cathy, "you wimp, its only midnight, get up and party with us" ok, the ladys are back with another bottle of shiraz open, i drink water, enuf for the night. visit some clubs, and now finally they leave me alone to repair.

On 9/6/09, terry wright wrote:
> lotsa wind yesterday, the burn was late and spectacular, ill post a
> description to you soon. breaking camp, plan to leave5 am after the
> temple burn which will be watched from a lift truck in our camp
> complete with balcony, couches, a bar (always a bar). cathy left
> early, lotsa stuff, i organized the trailer and stuff and all i have
> to do is throw it in and head out in the morning.
>

sunday was busy with helping cathy pack and off early, then packing most of the camp myself, the plan to leave at 5 am with too tall sherry, fun fun debbie, pete and tahoe bob. segue over to canyons, tri the internet to no avail, snooze party visit watch the teardown of camp all going into 2 huge containers to be unearthed next year. the wind blows off and and on, we mosy out to central camp, it is crowded, no good music, a n amazing group of individuals and costumes and performance art. now a stroll out onto the playa picked up by an art car for a ride to the man, then back to eg, and fond farewells to cyn, her camp in tatters.

oh i forgot about spankys wine bar saturday afternoon, this was a hot
spot with all kinds of people coming and going on the esplanade. 50
cases of wine in various states of disrepair sitting in the hot sun,
cooled with ice. the name comes from the spankometer, a contraption
where you pulldown your pants, bare butt, to be spanked by a board
that repeatedly thwapped your butt. great sport. good music too, no
techno, a few knopflers, joanie, jazz. great costumes and great
performances with dancing, on the bar and a crowd gathering to
celebrate life.
also deep playa on sat morning early cool, to the temple to post
dianes poem then a great garden with columnar joints and huge rock
tables, and the eagles next high above the playa, snugging in pillows
and watching the world go by.

back to sunday....back to camp and finish packing up, all i gotta do
is turn the key and drive outta there, most stuff in a heap on the
trailer covered with playa dust, gotta find a leaf blower to clean up.
we have a low keytime on the lift truck balcony couch watching the
temple burn, then turn in, sleep soundly until the neighbors fire up
the stereo thump thump. finally at 1 am they calm down, i sleep till
4 30, and make coffee, secure the camper pop top, find the rrear
taillight is out, and not fixable, and finally sherry and i roar off
into the sunrise. a slow procession tot he gate, and out onthe road
smooth sailing to nixon, where i try to get gas to no avail, they are
out. oh well, fume it to the wigwam in fernley, no sign of sherry, a
few other burners are there, 2 recognize me from the talk at bman, and
im tearing into steak and eggs when sherry pulls in, looking hasseled,
nailed for speeding in nixon and pissed. we have a good conversation
about life and plans, she is 15 miles from her house in silver city,
almost home, i contemplate my 3 hour drive to benton and am ready to
hit the road. call heather to relay message i have emerged from the
playa, and debbie and pete pull up, we visit for a short time then im
off on the road again, snoozing several time to stay awake, sail past
mina to montgomery pass, the bug station , the po store and home. to
sleep perchance to dream.

things are low key in benton now, im gonna lie low, maybe do some fishing, clean up the gear after bman and visit around. my friend from tulsa arrives in reno on the 16th and we do the millpond music fest. that weekend, and im back for dr appts on the 24th. ill be around a week, but plan a southland odyssey to a weekend party in lancaster, then to santa barbara to visit cathy in her mansion about to be foreclosed upon, then gunkholing up the coast to a ranch on big sur and friends in monterey and santa cruz, then to the dylan/willie concert at the greek, then home for a while. oh well sieze the moment...

rage on.

16 who dared: Tuolumne River 2009

2009-06-22T15:56:00.000-07:00

16 who dared, tuolumne river 2009

Pictures at
http://picasaweb.google.com/terryw100/

video

Tuolumne 09

complex logistics, but i can handle it, 17 oops 16 (namomis dr wouldnt let her go after surgery) gathered with a mountain of gear , food, kitchen, camp lumped down the rocky putin path. overhung from great party, gathering the night before next to the river. the river is up, 22-2400 cfs and promising higher, strap down, rig to flip, and off on the raging tide. johnny and greg are on board, after tying down the load, greg is backup rower boatman in training, never done class 4, but hes a great guy and capable, just needs experience. just what i need to have him take over on the easier stretches.

good runs, lotsa room with the water, way left at nemesis, never done that before, i just follow bcs red kayak down the slot. sunderlands is huge, monster side curlers coming off the right cliff, i climb high on the left, turn and hit them head on and we plough thru, not the fate of steves trip, one of their boats is upside down in the eddy,
they looking forlorn on the shore, picking up the pieces.

Aside from a surf of ramshead hole, the rest is great fun, lunch at clavey and hike to the fossils, swim in the creek, mellow out. beer and premaid sandwiches fuel us for the clavey drop. it is steep, i hit a vshaped hole and get knocked off my seat, and lose an oar, but the paddlers keep paddlin, keeping me away from the wall, and i see dinosaur rock far away and relax, running the last drops backwards. "all upright, at the bottom of clavey, all ok."

Grays is really big, riverwide hole stops us even tho we are full steam ahead, and i land on johnnys head and crick his neck, hes ok, but that took us by surprise. On down the rio, easy runs at high water, and into camp on the sandy beaches downstream of north fork. set up camp for a day of rest and fun hiking.

Monster ravioli meal, salad, wine, beer, margaritas, 2 pies for dessert with whipped cream. oink. tom is doing his thing, has 6 burners going, 2 tables for prep, one for booze and a king size bbq for the dutch ovens. I rig a fish flag and the led solar lights and we are ready to party. Ben sings some of his great songs, i do a pancho and lefty performance on his guitar, and fade away.

coffee early, im after the fish, hook one on a fly, but he gets off. we prep for the brushy rocky hike and take off up the canyon. dings are happenin, blood shed, i have a gouge on my forearm from rowing clavey, but it stops bleeding fast, just looks bad. we enter the gorge and swim up through the pools to the upper falls, vertical walls up 50 feet on both sides. people hanging out in the sun, the water is cool, canyon goes down to get a wet suit. i hang in the jacuzzi with cathy and we revel in the beauty of it all. bash back down, taking it slowly and carefully to pizza lunch at camp and long snooze, more fishing, still no keepers, and long conversations about important things under a 20x20'tarp blowing in the wind. friends drop in, bcs wife wanda with 3 kayakers, and jeff and adam, sierra mac guides on a field day kayaking, they are going to redo the gps locations of rapids on the cherry creek run for me. i lost the original notebook. always duplicate critical field information.

dinner is an heroic bbq with 2 salmon fillets, 4 tritips, potatoes, salad choch. cake for dessert with whipped cream. more songs, im wiped and crash out, cathy comes to visit and it really hot to do more of this kind of stuff. i fade to drunken fools staggering by me on the way to camp.

great bkfst, fathers day, whoopee. biscuits, gravy, eggs, chicken sausages, more coffee, a beer or two to wash it down. now we get organized, and pack it all up, load it on the boats and off to more glory downstream. a cabin, donkey engine and mining debris occupies us for a while, then the pull of turnback creek, to no avail, the creek is dry, out onto the lake and the tow and the ride up from the bridge for the drivers late, we derig and hang on the beach at moccasin for 3 hours before they show up watching the scene, huge boats, drunk mad people, end of a day with lake people.. Tom has done the money calculation, and its 90$, man what a deal, Marty helped greatly sporting us the shuttle.

Sad farewells, cheers and good feelings all around. we did it, i did it,organized the whole thing and it came together in one coherent whole, everyone working towards the same goal. fun on the river. We run to smoke, my fav restaurant in Jamestown with Canyon and the next order is margaritas and fish tacos, then the long run to santa rosa where johnny takes off for the gfs, ready for it.

1242 words, copyright terry wright 2009

2009-06-16T19:04:00.000-07:00

AT PLAY IN THE RIVERS OF THE LORD

38°46'6.35"N
119°43'20.08"W
Carson river camp Terry

We were drinking wine, eating beans and dreaming of the glory of life, with Rodger my companion on many adventures, curious, toothless, great story teller saying "I've gotta get outta town, theres no work, i owe johnny 500 bucks and i need to feel the rod in my hand and the sharp tug of trophy trout on the other." "How bout a 3 day trip on the carson river? I 've been checking the level and its ok now, but going down fast. we could drive up monday, put in and float down to my camp near the hot springs and fishing hole and spend 2 nights there, a layover, and just hang out. Ive got all the equipment, wed just need a minimal commissary and some food; Ill pay for everything but your booze, if you bring some food." His reaction is immediate: "Im on, I ve gotta get outa town."

OK now for the wrestling around of equipment, sorting out stuff buried in the barn from months of throwing things in there, I unearth Lucy, my 16' avon pro river raft and ready for adventure. I think of all the other heavy things, and praise the lord for deliverence by Rodger, a human bee, bopping around, packing stuff, talking constantly, i show him what needs to go, and he approves. The danger lurks though, 2 people packing, and he not used to river trips, but a real camper and finally we are loaded up and ready to roll monday morning 7 am.

The miles flash by, traffic on the freeway, last food and forgotten stuff stop. "what did we forget?" we talk about it, and come up with a few things. "I know we forgot something, but its too late now, 2 old guys, 65 and 66 at play in the rivers of the lord.

We check out the alternate direct route, mormon emigrant trail, but the tow truck guy doesn't know, his boss says there's still too much snow, so we banter a bit. Tow guy says, "Well if you get stuck up there, im the guy whos gonna come up to tow you out, so please go up the trail, things are kinda slow around here". We laugh and i take in the buzz cut and racing sunglasses,dirty tshirt, ready smile, great sense of humor of the mountain men.I know of what i speak, i are one, lived here in Pollock Pines for a year, and now ensconced in a home in Benton, east sierra high desert.

On over the pass, fast ride, arrive at Markleeville on time, pick out some flies, some beer and on to putin. the river looks ok, about 800 now, but the weather threatening, dark clouds, hints of rain, thunder. surrogate bonnie comes on with two little girls, takes my 50 and writes down all the particulars of our shuttle, out on wednesday afternoon. Interminable packing process, i look for the board for the bottom of the frame to no avail, thats what i forgot, we'll have to improvise, the SNAFU way, slings for the cooler, ill have to stand on the floor, bumping rocks. oh well it could have been a lot worse. I don't find my padl jacket in the truck, so i have no rain parka and no warm jacket, things forgotton are piling up. I find the ikea big tote bag and with 3 cuts have a shoulder and upper body cover waterproofed. Ill just have to make do with the shirts and pants i have to stay warm.

Finally off on the rio, accompanied by rumbling thunder, flashing lightening, rain showers and low water. We make the cut at the bridge and rodger is paddling well, helping out a lot, i couldn't have done it without him. Easy float to the confluence, remembering the fat trout i snagged here with eileen, our first wilderness date. I snooze in pittering rain, rodger explores, but soon we are on our way, getting wetter and colder. Catch up to a family group, men and kids, major fishing gearheads, new equipment, we agree on camps and go on, gathering firewood along the way. Catch up on a major rock at the top of the last rapid, a big fat tan rounded thing, rodger gets out and lifts the raft off of it and we tuck into our little cove and camp.

The tarp lean to set up and camp pitched. rodg gets the fire going and soon we are sipping wine and enjoying being on the river. I snagged a sheepskin cover from the passenger seat of the truck, but it is wet, so that tucks around the fire. we are pooped, darkness comes and the smoking lamp is lit. terrys perpetual bean pot affords us a hearty meal, complete with cooked bison burger for punch. Tales of the river are told, previous trips here, of people and incidents, kailen father and son trips, and a 5 day with cathy and the geology crew. And off into the night, cold in my light sleeping bag, dress for the occasion and break out the silver survival tarp finally warm enough to sleep. Light rain continues, but we are ensconced under a mega leanto tarp.

wake to overcast skys, oh well, life isnt perfect, the sheepskin is dry, so i have another garment. coffee filters and filter holder mysteriously did not get packed, we had it in our hands, 2 many cooks.....but we are in survival mode, doing what we can with what we have, creatively, solving problems as they appear, or not. that is the challenge of all wilderness travel, a melding of knowledge and creativity helping us get along.
i improvise with 2 beer cans, one with holes in the bottom,the other to drain into, still grounds to spit out, darn it, gotta check the list next time. We stalk the wiley trout, rodger gets a 10" i get a 15" and we are happy. Laze around, check out the small hot spring downstream, perfect temp and comfortable pool right above the river. Time to hike, cross the river with padls, then over the hill to find the family in the big pool, i soak in a very hot 112 deg. new pool above. To the lower pool and it is crowded, so i take some pix, one of their dog leaping off the cliff into the river 20 ' below. back to nap, and hang out, fish some more. I stalk the wiley trout and see a big one in the rapid. I am fiddleing with gear when suddenly a huge torpedo fish leaps straight up, a monster, wow, that would be a great catch and release scene, we could never eat all that trout. I make some casts with a big lure to no avail, oh well, theres always tmw.

"Y'know, we could stay another day, we wouldnt have to run tmw, we have plenty of food and beer, and it might upset mitch, who is expecting us wed. night, but it would be cool to hang another day." "I have nothing i have to be back for" rodger agrees and we make it so. Another mellow evening aroundthe fire. rodg has ignited a big pine snag, and it spits flaming drops of pitch and smells wonderful.

still cold in the flimsy sbag, even with the sheepskin over me, but sleep comes later, waking with birds chirping. The camp squirrel makes a pass, beautiful markings, white patches and stripes, ever inquisitive, looking for bits of food.

Clear with puffy clouds, still cool, grounds in the coffee, eggs and beans for bkfst, and off to the fishing hole. The second cast lands right where i want it at the end of the eddy and wham! a huge tug on the line then more, and i have him hooked. careful not to break the line, i bring him in but he fights fiercely
twisting, turning running. I keep the rod tip high, rodger coaches me to bring him into shallow water, but he is a monster with his own agenda, running out and back, then up to the eddy and i coax him back to the shore, bumping and cartwheeling, trying to break the line. finally i get him into the shallows and work him to shore, rodge is all ready to jump in after him, when he makes an unexpected tug and is gone snapping the line. Shit, i throw down my rod, but what a rush just to play with this huge guy. Rodger checks my reel "you didnt have any drag at all! he broke the line because your reel wasnt set right!" oh shit, now i really feel bad, oh well, again the reward is in the play, I just wanted a photo of the big guy before letting him free. now he has to deal with a plug in his jaw, it should slip out or rust out soon tho.

Rodg takes the cell phone and we cross the river to relax fish for me, he is headed to the top of the ridge with mitches phone no. to no avail. we fish from that side, and 3 people appear, looking like fit old time river guides, one complements me on my pro, 1982 avon raft, and we will visit kindrid spirits. First a nap then i cruise to the upper camp for a dump in the shitter, and surprise elly, looking at rocks, she remembers me from the tuolumne celebration, where i blew off a grease bomb and lit up the whole camp. Old time guide, and chris and mike from columbia, old zephyr boatmen, great walks to mariposa lilys and talks of old times.

Mike Whips joins us around the last campfire, beans and a couple beers for dinner, long stories about the rivers and people. Tired in the dark, light off a roman candle for good luck, then to bed in the snug nest.

Cold and clear in the morning, i see my breath. we start packing a breaking down camp. i am wiped and have to nap for a while, then stagger around trying to help rodger, but hes good and knows the routine. Finally loaded up and down the rio, a stop at the waterfall, then through a new rapid, boulder fell from the right cliff sending a shot of water straight up. We catch up to the zephyr crew, rodger fishes and gets a 12 incher, i snooze. down the rio around the bowknot bend, rodg rows me well, then into the lower canyon, fun rapids, hawks and a young eagle being harassed by two small birds flitting across the viewscape.

Takeout, no vehicle, mike and i climb to the upper lot and there they are, ready and waiting. we load up and use the hand truck to get the raft up, mike is a big guy and helps us with the frame and lifting the boat into the back. we take leave of our new friends, and head to gardnerville, stopping for cigs at the smoke shop. i call mitch but hes off somewhere climbing or in saline. we find a great pub and settle in for the la lakers game, pesto, call johnny and everyone is paniced about us, we put it to rest, they gave us 24 hours before calling the search and rescue.

rodger drives into the night and i snooze a bit, home at 1 am, happy and tired.

copyright 2009, Terry Wright

Darwin, the town not the man

2009-05-11T15:19:00.000-07:00

Darwin, the town not the man

Photos on http://picasaweb.google.com/terryw100/Darwin09#

The name resounds with memories, echos of party time , characters, high desert scene, stories of same, hikes to secret mines, 10” crystals of calcite, friends won and lost. Once a year this sleepy little mountain ghost town with 37 full time inhabitants plus 15 dogs erupts with activity, creativity, ceremony, lavish potlucks, and to top it off, a rock n roll band for the ball on Saturday night in the old miners union hall, now dubbed and duly signed “Darwin Dance Hall”. It is now time for spring a ma jig, an annual salute to passage into summer and gathering of the tribe, the Saline plus tribe from near and far. We push our busy schedules aside, pissing off mom, as it is on mother’s day, and prepare for the onslaught.

Kathy Goss, the mayor, is in charge, running around like a mad banshee, doing last minute prep, even Canyon has been here since Sunday, after hiking 9 days along the inyo crest with ds buddies. I plan a stealth approach, but she gets on the horn and allows as how the party has already started, so I step up the pace, determine to leave Wednesday, but its slow getting everything together, im not outta town until noon. Im tired and munching a chicken sandwich high above altamont pass, trucks roaring past, wind generators buzzing on all quarters, and I look to the east, and see tracy, out there, the town, tracy, and my synapses click in and focus on the person there “INYO” I scream at the tops of my lungs and now he’s on the cell, “c’mon down, sure spend the night, use my table, we can party down.” Great, my second son is back from staking claims in Oregon and my plans change immediately. I’ve been sick, tired, harassed and its time to kick back and take care of myself. He lives in a small clabord house, foreclosures left and right, a little weasly dog that won’t let me alone, snuffling and licking, until I get my bark off high frequency generator and he immediately shuts up and cowers in a corner. I take a power nap in the back yard,then Inyo fires up the barby and I start twittering the evenings progress. We get mellow and open a bottle of zin, talking a mile a minute. He is the son of Jason Saleeby , my geology buddy who teaches at cal tech and has a place on big island, named his son Inyo after the mountain range west of Saline valley, east of owens valley, in the paradise of the east sierra.

I’m up early and on the road ragin’ down I5 by 7 am, and nothing can stop me now. At 75 mph the miles tick by, I call Cathy B, now her house is threatened by fire in Santa Barbara, on top of having to sell it because of the real estate crash. Through Wasco to last minute shop, gas up and head out into the mountains up the kern river canyon, snooze at walker pass, down into Indian wells valley, into the wide open spaces. I call Sam, but she had a bad fall a year ago and injured her spine and won’t be coming to Darwin. Now on 395 screaming up the long hill to olancha, last gas, then into the real outback, the sign death valley 65 miles, “No services 85 miles” tells the story of the road ahead,

Top the first hill, suddenly there’s a crowd, Elaine aka Desert Holly s multicolored blue bus sits with the hood up, a crowd gathered around, she’s got some help,so I sail past and on to the j tree forest, where the u2 cover was shot. The tree died because too many people tromped on its roots.

Over the hill and down the straightaway, the town spread out with funky houses, most abandoned, the mine with some new buildings, and finally into town proper, past the wrecked trailers, hulks of cars, truck and other things that don’t go. Alexs stone house looks untended, but then it always does, he’s gotta new life and woman in LA. Stop at the only stop sign in town, spy a gathering on the porch of the dance hall, but head right for my campsite across from the dance hall and center of operations. OOPs theres garbage mans truck right across the street, here we go again.

I hear “Is that Terry Wright?” and Catherine/Canyon appears, not in costume yet, and we greet and meet. Suddenly Mike appears and heads to his truck. “Hi Mike” I greet him, “I’ve gotta get out of here” he growls and fires up his truck. “You don’t have to leave mike! You did the same thing to me in Africa”, He slams the door rolls up the window as I approach and guns it outta there spraying gravel all over. “what was that all about?” Canyon asks, “oh just another mike tiff I introduced him as the man who loves to hate, and that pissed him off, I’m back on his shit list.

Canyon and I catch up and Jim comes over, “were gonna have a potluck at Pierre’s, ill carry your chair up in the pickup, as long as you sit with me and tell me more lies”. OK, time to spring into action, people are headed up the hill to a series of containers, now welded and joined into a house, Pierre’s hideaway. A crowd has gathered, old and new, the bbq is spitting out burgers and hot dogs, I add my smoked steelhead to the mix, crack a beer and I’m in heaven. Mike sneaks in, but seemingly in good humor, talking with everyone in his outrageous way, Laura bell arrives to great fanfare, broke her hip on a camping trip and now barely getting around, I meet her daughter’s husband, from Massachusetts, and we connect on many different levels, skiing Cannon, hiking the Whites. We banter back and forth with everyone, what a great bunch of characters. I have 2 burgers, and some wine and keep a steady chatter with Catherine, jim and kristie, Kathy goss, and whomever else comes by.

The sun is hot, but finally sinks to the west, I search out some old friends, then head down to camp to set up. After concentrated effort and many camping tricks, I’m ensconced in the cot, the poker game is going, and I opt out, canyon has her pouffy springs headpiece on and is dealing, I give her a peck and head for bed.

The wind kicks up sometime during the night and the tarp hung to shade me from moonburn starts flapping voraciously devouring my peace and quiet. Finally I get up and tie it in a bundle, insert the ear plugs and am off to ni ni land.

The bird chirpings wake me at dawn and Jim and Kristie are moving around on the coffee deck, looking like the nectar is in preparation. I stagger over, still groggy from the night before, not much wine, but fleurzapam put me down and I walk in a straight line as possible, collapse in a chair and miraculously my mug appears with milky potion, standard coffeee and bailys irish crème, and things are looking up. The stories fly, Nebraska life from Jim and Kristie who spend about 1/2 time there, and then Benton, my half time residence, adding up to some phenomenal tales.

I route out Canyon, luxuriating in her big tent with fancy rugs, scarfs, costume boxes in the corner, and a separate dressing room for prepping for the show. we, then break for Kathy’s where a great egg/potato/ onion/ pepper feast awaits. Kathy is back and forth like a bee, busy busy with chores, things that have to be done yesterday.. We lounge and talk, phil tells stories of shooting down migs and ducking from the patrols in nam. A bit rough he, that experience changed everyone.

The call goes out for the gravestone placing event, and we caravan down to the cemetery with Michaels stone, concrete, water, hoes and shovels and start to work. A big metal bucket with the upper 6 inches cut off to use as a form, and soon we are the Caltrans crew, mixing the concrete with gravel from the ground, a big load, then placing a crazy quilt of rebar in the hole for support, then pour the concrete. 5 people working, 10 people watching, like Caltrans. It’s getting hot, but we drink fluids and hid under sarongs and watch the men work. Man’s work, concrete mixing, women join in and a tarp covered with ceramics Michael made to be used to decorate the grave.. The stone is placed and secured and ceramic colors all around, we admire the work, fine tune it a little and return to town. Canyon wants to see the costume, so we hang under my sun tarp, open a Mcoy mammoth ale and talk and talk and then a bottle of wine, then camembert, then guitar and song, Canyon brings her mermaid costume, a masterpiece of green with a fish head she sees through the mouth. And long tail, to be held ;off the dirt by a thong. She brings a couple of cold Newcastle ales, Carson who forgot to work comes by and picks a little, has a beer, and finally its nap time and I crash out.

I awake to thoughts of beans, and fire up the outside stove Earl has and on Kristie’s stove the onions and peppers and spice, borrow some mape from jim, add marmalade and strawberry jam and its done. I have to pay attention to the process, but go to Cathy’s for a break and a beer, and run into Ginny, cathys friend from alameda, and she is a trip, we get mellow and get into a mock argument, and connect, what a woman. A legal secretary out of work, and a free spirit.

I make 2 pots of beans and take one to Kathys, hang there with Canyon under the shade of a j tree, and watch the downtown scene. People coming and going, Pierre roars by on his quad, Hal stops by to pay his respects and ask a geology question. We have a grand 2-part potluck, at the dance hall, and kathys. G mike is there and runs when I appear, still paranoid.

After dinner I put my guitar into Jims pickup and tell him to come by and wake me up when he leaves for the bonfire on the upper flats. This works great and I sit there with drums all around, no room for guitar, I play the recorder. A cute blonde next to me turns out to be from bishop and knows carol, win and a host of others, we talk and make contact, another mountain woman, doesn’t ski much, but an avid hiker. We agree to get together sometime.. I’ve had it with the drums and people are leaving, I get a ride with Elaine down the hill, and crash out.

Steve from Lancaster arrived in his big bus drunk and arguing loudly with his girlfriend who didn’t want to be here. He threw a bunch of stuff out on the road, his gf crying in the drivers seat, and he disappeared. Finally Jim finds him under Earls van crashed out, and lectures him on proper behavior, he agrees somehow getting the bus into the parking lot. All is quiet, until all hell breaks loose, more yelling and screaming and crying. Jim finally calms them down with the threat of throwing them out, calling the sheriff (who is due up here any minute on his daily run. I sleep through it, but morning dawns with the whole story.

I can roll over in my cot and see Jim puttering around in the predawn light, with the tops of western mts lit up already. I fumble around, find my cup and head over for the morning coffee klatch. Jim and Kristie smoking, talking, waking up , going over events of the evening before. Steve had disappeared again, only to return quietly about 3 am. We wait for more action but none to come. People join in, the Nebraska friends, they flew into vegas, rented a car and drove thru death valley for the party. Someone comes by with gooey buns and I munch a little.

Appearance a t Kathy’s, check out who has arrived, who is telling stories, phil is there telling war stories again, I leave and find Canyon still asleep and sneak up on her again with a big kiss. I bring her coffee and we hang in the xanadu tent for a while, listening to the town wake up.

I have more camp things to do, the sun shade has been blown around by the wind during the night, so I straighten it out, find a way to post the transect on the side of the barn, a beautiful art piece in itself. A guy comes by, another local and asks about the kayak, and I get to talk about Lars and his life, now gone to cancer, too many people dying, at the end of their life for no obvious reason.

The morning progresses, people come and go, I hang at the dance hall, june is there, my kayak partner from glacier bay, she wouldn’t paddle and I yelled at her, another classic trip. I bring out the group picture, and theres mike with huge long beard, killer cain, now passed from throat cancer, smoker;. Hardware dave, now software davida thanks to a sex change operation in thailand, tom and Carolyn now in Alaska finishing their house. The usual suspects. Friends and fellow travelers, all with the gleam in their eye of adventure, new experience in the outdoors and creators and master story tellers.

The tie dye operation is starting, I watch, hang in the gazebo telling art stories with ginny and sandy, perched above it all, watching a Rambo-style truck, old jeep style with a parasol, covered with costumed people, touring the town over and over, roaring by, the owner of the auto parts store in lone pine. More people arrive, the parking lot looks like an rv park, partying people under shade structures, small and large groups and a constant coming and going at the front of the dance hall. I sit with Jurgen, the german artist, old friend from days past, connection with timbo and Christine of pioneer town, he has painted a monument valley scene over the door in her living room in the old west style house designed by a Disney artist set in the middle of Joshua tree forest with huge boulders of granite, her own national park. I’ll miss the big party, may madness, but make a promise to be there for Halloween next fall.

Jurgen is into taking abandoned buildings in germany and refurbishing them for low cost housing. He painted a 3 d scene door on a garage door and the owner backed into it, it was so real he thought he had plenty of room.

I snooze, building up strength for the evening, Canyon comes by in her creationist outfit, long black dress, and sign “Down with Darwin”, Kathy has a costume on with long braided white hair and helmet with horns and breastplate. She and Canyon are the queens of costume, constantly coming up with something outrageous and new.

“Its time for the fish costumes” Canyon yells to me and I pull on the tyvek suit with the fish painted on it by heather and with glitter, and put feet on the fish kite, mount it on a ski pole and enter the fray. More costumes come out, a guy in furs, hat boots vest and many necklaces, holding a staff with a wooden star on it and a bird perched on the crook. Canyon comes with her green fish head, sequined dress and mermaid tail and we pose for the photographers. The fun begins, music playing dueling pianists in the dance hall raging classical, pop, you name it.,

Derek arrives with the band and they start setting up, with drum noises, and piano, bass and lead guitar warming up with a big sound system. He brings me my tripod chair, left in bishop at a concert a month ago and I am complete again, sitting with Pam of the straight hair, looking good, friend of win and carol, another bishopite, fur man and partner, older craggy woman looking like Georgia okeefe. We get food from the potluck table, my beans a hit again, a full spread with casseroles, meatballs, an a last plate of tritip, a major feed. I m working on a 30$ bottle of zin and give Derek the last hit, I don’t need any more and head for the water jug.

The sun is lowering, and the barriers set up to control the crowd into the dance hall. Bad elements from the outback are kept at bay in the street , setting up chairs and sitting in quads and 4 wds unwilling to pay the 10$ fee to enter, and keeping trouble at a minimum. There used to be tweekers, and tweekettes starting fights and crowding the dance floor, but after most of them died in an auto accident and other unnatural causes, and the control fence things calmed down considerably.

Derek is raging, loud band, old favorites, new costumes coming out, Pierres wife has a gauzy white thing on with lightwire in big scrolls underneath showing through, and a bird like headdress. Canyon is in her fish outfit, sans head, showing off her elegant bony upper body, I feast on the sights and we dance me next to Derek in the red pimpdaddy coat with lights on now, and we hug in joy. I got him the gig, and he’s happy to be playing. A little rough, but loud, I’m with earplugs. Mustang sally rings out, stones, beatles, old standards, everyone loving it. I drop a 20 in the tip jar and mingle with the crowd and watch the action. A guy in camo is ripping it up with crazy steps, Kathy goss enters in a long robe and lit up crown, and it goes on and on. I linger outside with the dispossessed, and see some old friends, dave who survived the tweeker stage, when 3 friends died in a horrific car crash on their way to lone pine high as kites. Now he lives at willow creek mining camp in saline valley, all green, water, swimming pool, I promise to visit around the 4th when its good and hot. I’m already pooped and settle in on the cot with earplugs and drift off to the thumping of crazed dancing.

Another morning, another coffee klatch, people already packing up to leave, jim kristie and I settle in and another spate of long stories, and people coming and going. Jay is ensconced in his spiffy car, with his oxygen feeder hoses, emphysema, and morbidly obese, and diabetes, still smoking and drinking scotch. He asked Jim if he would spread his ashes next year, and Jim replied “ ask me next year”.

People are getting ready for the memorial procession for michael’s service. I putter around and get ready to load and leave. Post a couple of signs for geology talk for jason’s transect which I have posted on the side of a barn behind my camp. People mill around and finally we are off, 30 or so costuemed, drums, my recorder, bagpipes, and led by a pickup with a life sized puppet in the back with articulated arms waving and bowing operated by franchesca from behind. We enter the cemetery scattering dried rose petals from a big bowl Michaels daughter is passing around. We gather in the hippie corner of the cemetery, surrounded by souls from the 1800s and recent tweekers, and all are impressed by our job concrete base for the stone and colored pieces of ceramics embedded from wasted parts of Michaels potter career. Words and prayers and poems, one sung in Sanskrit by his daughter, and she passes the urn and we all spread parts of Michaels dust around the site, and on the surrounding desert. Vials of dust are handed out to be spread in places far away that he loved. He was a true child and force of Darwin, one of the original artists who settled there in the 60s to find solitude and creativity in the desert ghost town.

We head back in Jims truck, Canyon next to me, adjusting a new flowing costume and a busby, marge simpson hair piece 3 feet hi, made of wool top and gopher cages. Man she is something else, major creative force. We settle into pre potluck mode and there is Sam, my old friend from ridgecrest and we party, Carson banters and I catch it on video. I put the call out for the geology talk, and get a few takers, go over the section showing geology from Monterey to amargosa desert and down 130 km with no vertical exaggeration. Beautiful colors and incredible science.

Back to the brunch potluck, fill up on eggs and potatoes and other good stuff, gotta avoid the salt, I try, but can tell some stuff is suspect. Pack up the remainder of camp and head out after goodbyes to all. G Mike has disappeared, but big mike is playing guitar and Canyon comes out for a good by kiss. And I’m off on the road again, call Linda from lone pine with a large vanilla milkshake at mcds, and she’s in big pine and I plan a nap there, which I do, wake up gasping for breath, too much salt, head for Benton via bishop vons, no Sunday la times, all out. Tired, make it to Benton and call judy, she’s gardening in Tulsa, we relax for a while, bantering, she tells a story of spreading her first husbands ashes on the golf course after digging them up with a silver spoon. I tell her of lars and Michael, 2 memorial services in one week, too many people dieing.

I’m wiped but call Eileen and she starts talking about her new tv and her new place, “what’s this about?” “Im moving out to that 55+ complex I told you about, you said you wanted me out by july, so I’m doing it now” Stunned, I thought we had a couple of months left, but its over. Change is good but this is huge, I sleep swearing at myself.

3725 words
Copyright 2009 Terry Wright

2009-05-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

may day celebration gone bad.

The classical hippie gathering at the ranch high in the coastal mountains was dampened by a steady drizzle, but the maypole was up with multicolored strands dropping from the top crowned by sprigs of blue flowers, and people were gathering, a small but hard core crowd, ready to relive old relationships and tell stories of the heyday of the years of love.

I arrive a little late to erect the pole, one of my favorite activities, 30 foot pine sunk into a 4 foot deep hole, jammed in with rocks, shining in the drizzle and filtered sunlight . I brought a full phalanx of tarps, poles, zipties, stakes, clips and we soon had about 200 ft2 of shelter from the storm. the regulars are all there, people who have remained sequestered on the ranch, the remains of a community of about 100 or so who settled here to save the world in the late 60s and 70s.

I visited several times as i had friends out there , gotta tour of the gardens, after delivering some mattrasses hauled out of a house my future ex brother in law had been fixing up. I got to know Jake, the master of ceremonies and owner of this 300 acre piece of wildness, president and ruler pro tem of the tribe, in the 80s after we appeared together in a fashion show benefit for our favorite political party, the west county mafia, we took over the county board of supes and fought the development interests in the 70s. Hes now in his late 60s, and a reknowned artist, and a figure appearing occasionally at bars now overcome by yuppies and post boomers who have taken over the scene out here. We embrace with a great bear hug and catch up on life, still trying to get him out to the east sierra, to my home there and to enjoy the scene, paint my mountain for me, and hang with the local incredible characters of the high desert. See benton blogs for some of that.

The organized chaos of the commune now manifests itself in a few hardy souls left living off grid and out of sight, continuing the tradition. They chose may day all it means politically and spiritually as the annual get together. My daughter and grandkids came out last week with me to die the fabric with jane and george, one of the longest lived remaining couples on site. their kids all grown and flown to more conventional lives, they have a cozy complex of hand built cottages, living space kitchen, lots of books, and a welcoming place to hang and tell stories of incredible happenings now and long ago, one topping the other. the oral tradition is alive and well with these gracious welcoming people. I swapped stories with george, an old berkeleyite who took geology from john verhoogan at cal, and loves my geological tales, he returns fire with long stories, twisting and turning, unexpected connections and an appreciation for the land and the wierd things humans do to it.

People are getting down, a little wine, but not much alcohol, lots of healthy food an occasional mellow whiff, and i unleash the smoked steelhead with the mango chipotle sauce on the crowd, spread out on my rollatable, help set up the rolla cot for people to sit on and settle in to great conversations with old friends as the rain drums on the roof. We dodge drips from holes in the tarps, and find dry spots to set, raymond brings out his accordian, a mandolin, i drag out my guitar and we are singing and playing and everyone is mellowing out, celebrating the event and revelling in memories of the good old days. True hippies with dreads and colorful clothing, swathed in jackets and parkas. tall john, one of the originals is totally dressed in yellow slickers, knee boots and rain hat. he towers over everyone and holds us rapt with stories of old and new times, his place in the desert at a hidden hot spring campground, and greeting old friends with bear hugs. Silent sam appears from the woods totally garbed in rain gear, he doesnt talk, and stays like a ghost on the edge of the clearing, then dissappears back into the dripping pine forest.

Garbage moss is nowhere to be seen, he is in another one of his depressed moods, after being great fun in the desert, but i had introduced him as " the man who loves to hate" to some people, and he's not talked to me since. he has written so many good people off his list, including me for the last year, for behaviour he deems as inappropriate, such as my comment. so again we were best friends at the springs over pres day, partying, him wearing his dicknose and picking up. he was the garbage man here at the ranch during the heyday, organizing the recycling and garbage control. Oh well, he is severely bipolar, and needs to take time off from the scene.

The grandkids shasta and jevria have found friends and are running around in the rain, roasting strawberries over the fire i've set up in the old weber kettle. they think its great to be playing in the rain, and no cries of anguish have come to pass, so all is well.

I spot an apparition, a beautiful young woman in a long white dress, never seen her before and am transfixed, she moves like a dancer. now mellow on a little martini cab and some smokables and high on the conversations with a great group of characters. She drifts in with a net bag and sets it down, brings out a 1/2 gallon of segrams 7 whiskey and a big bottle of 7 up and starts pouring 1:1 into a large canteen. Now theres some alcohol, and i watch as she hits off the canteen and passes it to two guys with her. They are immediately tagged as the postmen, in postal service jacket, one tall with a pith helmet and intense eyes and energy, and another shorter with a wet dark curl of hair in the middle of his forehead, same intensity, and it occurs to me these guys are already stoned, on something and now drinking heavily out of the canteen, which keeps getting empty and full again with great rapidity. I m not the only one who notices, and jake comes over, i tell him what's happening and he says "who are those guys, who invited them??" they are definately not in the mellow groove and getting more intense by the minute as they down big swigs of their deadly concoction.

we talk a little and they are kind of interesting and i get a glass of their drink and it tastes good but goes down very easily and they are gulping it. Jake and i get into the same conversation about when to do the maypole dance we always do. he wants to do it now, a slight break in the weather, but i'm sure more people will show up for the big event. "C'mon jake, we want weather! we have the opportunity to do the dance in a raging rainstorm! We gotta wait a bit". He aceeds and we go on with the music playing, i haul out the recorder and start finding it easy to play along and improvise on the tune line.

Finally raymond breaks into the maypole dance tune on the accordian and we flow out onto the field a goodly crowd now about 40 with kids and oldsters, pre, post and syn boomers all ready to dance and play. They select the brightly colored strips and start the dance, in and out, back and forth, winding around. raymond and i lead the band, joiined by a wooden flute and harmonica, and all is smiles all around. People flash by and i telephoto in on the grandkids, heather and jane and jake and even the white dress lady and the postmen are twirling around the pole, a bit unsteady, and still swigging from the canteen.

We wrap it up with a colorful blaze of strips intertwined up and down the pole, people tie off and we play to the bitter end, till the last strip is tied at the bottom and people standing around loving the feeling of community, rebirth and fun we have just had. I move back to the shelter, it starts to rain harder and we huddle together, more smoked steelhead, and i settle into my throne a few drips spoiling my comfort, but nonetheless content to observe play a few tunes on the recorder and talk with passersby. People are packing up, Heather leaves with her gang, beaming smiling at the experience, and both of us rejoicing at what a great time father and daughter can have together.

The crowd shifts a bit and suddenly the postmen are sitting on the cot talking to me. it starts as a banter filled, interesting conversation going in many directions. Pith helmet (PH) is an actor and does voiceovers, bit parts but i ask him where he lives and he becomes evasive, but keeps up the banter. 64 different places in the last year, he finally says. I say wow, you are on the road, now tuning into my latest project, re reading and writing in kerouac style. "i bet you have some great stories, y'know we otta get together and i could write up some of this stuff and maybe publish it". his body stiffens, "not unless you pay me lots of money" "hey no problem, if it happens, it happens," but he cranks it up a notch " i mean thousands", Uh Oh, i'm losing this guy i say. well worth a try. Holding out my notebook and pen "just write your contact info here and well be in touch", he comes unglued "no you're not gonna rip me off for my stories" he says loudly, people start to turn and look to see what's going on. I say "OK, lets forget it" and get up and outta there, passing by Jake who looks at me with a raised eyebrow "pith helmet is outta control, very drunk" "did he insult you? " "no but he's being really weird, and not reacting to reason." I move off and see that pith helmet has come up to the table unsteadily looking at jake, and the short guy is beside him. "Just chill, just chill" jake says in a firm voice. A volley of outrage comes from the guy, while the little guy plunges his hand into the mac salad and crams it into his mouth losing 1/2 of it on the table and ground. Jake cranks it up a notch "cmon you guys, just chill out, this is getting out of hand". The white lady stumbles onto the scene, and Jake starts wooing her, trying to get her to leave, she can barely stand up, i look down and see the segrams bottle is empty lying on the ground next to the empty 7up bottle, they killed the whole bottle in about an hour and are totally out of control.

I go over to another group with big guys and alert them of the situation "Jake needs some backup for these guys" so we move and form a wall behind him. "You guys better be moving along now"Jake in a matter of fact voice. I grab the heavy screwdriver from the back of the pickup and the long pry bar and set them up so they are visible to pith helmet and friends. Jake looks at me and says "cool it Dean, just cool it let me handle this". I stay put behind him as he tries to reason with these guys to no avail. Jake changes tactics, goes to the woman, and gently wins her over "please, we;ve got to get you out of here, no leave the bottles we care of that, but we've really got to go". She gets led gently off by Jake's charm and the other two follow, not letting up on the intensity. They disappear off up the road, 1 mile hike to their car, and just as tall john and i are relaxing saying "great its over, Jake has taken care of every thiing, now we can party".

Just after he says that, the woman in white appears again with jake and pith helmet in tow. Pith helmet (PH) ranting about needing a ride up to his car, she stumbling around, Jake with a puzzled look on his face, as if to say "i tried, what now"?? I take control, now raging with adrenaline and manic energy. Loudly "All right, you’ve got 5 minutes to get into the back of that red pickup and I’ll drive you up, now move your ass! I don’t have any room in front, my guitar is riding shotgun, so you're riding in back, get down low and hang on, we will be going fast" . PH is up immediately, but white dress is stumbling, jake throws her air mattress and net bag into the back of the pickup. I try to use the big screwdriver to open the tail gate, to no avail, its raining harder now, getting dark and its buried in the boughs of a pine tree. I lead her to a chair and she flops up onto the back and i jump in and take off up the bumpy dirt road at a very dangerous rate of speed. I count the things in my favor: they are drunk, hopefully harmless, but i don't know about ph, and check for the pepper spray tear gas canister, not there where it always is, wtf??, oh well, i got the screw driver if i really need something, left the prybar back there at camp, shit.

I stop and get out at jake's driveway. white dress is lying passed out on top of the job box, and i yell at her to get down. she's not moving, so i grab her by the dress and drag her off the box and hear a resounding thunk as she lands in the bottom of the bed of the pickup. "YOu get down too" i yell at ph, "and hang on for dear life, because if you fly out, you're gonna die". Slam the door, slam the gears into 4 wheel hi range and fly up the road. the big bf goodrich knobbys grab the road and slither a little on the clay soils of the wilson grove formation, i start a drift and determine where the traction is on the center divider and drive with right wheels high on the right bank at a crazy angle. I sing the praises of toyota tacoma engineering staff, bilstein shocks and the extra leaf spring risers in the back and become virtually airborn 1/2 the time off the bumps and ruts and rocks. We make good time, i look back once to make sure they are still there and they seem to be, ghosts in the dark thrashing around to the motion.

i pull into the parking lot, and get out, screwdriver in my hand. white dress gets slowly out, "thanks for the ride," a bit unsteady, but around the corner comes ph, wound up like a clock "im gonna beat the shit outta you" and braces looking at me he is weaving back and forth and i see i have the physical advantage, but don't want to do any damage unless absolutely necessary. I lean against the bed of the pickup and sigh loudly as if bored and say in a quiet voice "I don't think thats a very good idea". He looks at me and backs off a little, I waste no time and run out into the parking lot, yelling "everyone, i need help, this guy says he's gonna beat the shit outta me, come out now, i need witnesses" One lady is walking up to her car, takes one look at the situation, and keeps walking. I see exhaust coming out of a volvo wagon, and hammer on the back window with the screwdriver and rip open the door and yell "get out i need help this guy is gonna beat me up", she is scared, judy i recognize from the party, we had a nice conversation, she gets out, and I start back for the pickup. ph is standing there, weaving, "Hey man its cool, im leaving" "OK, but please sleep in your car for a while before you try to drive, there are other people out there." Jump in the cab, and spin outta there, driving doing deep breathing to calm down, back to jane and george’s and sleep the sleep of the dead. no more adrenaline left. totally manic, mellowness calms me down and i sleep fitfully.through the rainy night.

Copyright 2009 (Dean Moriarity) aka Terry Wright
2851 words

da guida-skiing mammoth

2009-04-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

Da guida-Win-skiing with an open container. 1/22/09

WTF? No answer at cell or home, he must be on his way and his communication systems have taken a dump. I lean on the side of the pickup in the Mill parking lot at Mammoth, looking for a flash of blue truck and talking to my almost 60 year old sister. She is xc skiing in new Hampshire and is awed by my birthday present: 2 boxes of vintage 45s with all the oldies from the 50s we partied to, a healthy dose of elvis, carl perkins, all the classics. We talk, she trying again to get me to come east for her 60th party, but im scheduled up now with gigs in soco, but im thinking of the possibilities.

“great, here come my skiis” I spy the blue pickup 2 dogs poking their faces out of windows fore and aft, and a smiling face, ringo mop of hair, sharp nose of my ski guide, ski surgeon, painting contractor, neighbor and fellow explorer, win lewis. I sign off with cindy, promising to think about the east trip, maybe combine with a night in las vegas to see “love” with Eileen, that would be cool, but my mind now is rigging for the slopes.

We banter as I struggle with my boots, always a pain to put on, and dress for the worst, a storm is coming in, we can see the minarets disappearing already. This is good, no fresh snow for 2.5 weeks, with a high sitting on the face of California, shunting all moisture to the north. Too long this pattern, global warming again. “gotta get one day a week in, at least, I tuned your skiis and the edges should be nice and sharp, you might find yourself catching edges on the tips, so if you do, ill get a file and detune them, but try em out first, your first day on the hill. Well take it easy and build up, snow is hard and fast,but should be soft lower and on southfacing slopes, Oh I forgot to tell you, my dog in the back had an accident, but I wiped most of the dogshit off of your skiis.” Ugh, dogs again, a constant factor of life with my friends, dog people, I have to accept them as friends, but the dogs are free spirits and will shit anywhere.

Win is the guide; He knows the mountain like the back of his hand, when we ski together we have a constant planning banter going on, wheres the good snow? Where was it good last week? Or last year? We talk with a patrol friend and he gives us some tips, and we are off. Win breaks open his first bottle of beer, skiing one handed with an open container, two more sticking out of his belt pack, First thing we do is ski into the woods and hang out. I'm not sure of my reaction to high elevations, major exercise and a replacement pacemaker, and an ejection fraction of 35% in my left ventricle due to congestive heart failure. We yellow the snow, talk a blue streak about the mountains, new job as surgeon general of the Ski Surgeon ski repain/tuning shop on the mountain. Painting contracts are slow in coming, so he’s picked up an old gig at a new place, more experience, late nights in the shop, big bucks.

“ok we’ll head down some groomers then work our way up toward the top. Get you broken in good and slow. I dunno about any steep stuff, it is hard and fast and if you make a mistake, itll be a long fast slide”. I know of what he speaks, several of these slides off of cornice and dave’s have made me conservative. I survived intact, but the danger of breaking a leg, or conking my head is high, and I don’t want to screw up my great joy of exploring the outdoors. We work our way up to face lift, and he sneaks up on a cute patrol, named Terri, hugs her, and we exchange banter and she gives us more tips on where to go for the good snow. I go over the origin of my name: from william h wright iii my mom extracted terry from tertiary for the third, “a Harvard radcliffe union thing, my parents” both gone now, but still living on, indelibly imprinted on my life and actions. We joke and laugh and shes beautiful, perfect mountain woman, we peel off into the open.

The guide is thinking and talking about the routes, the snow, the infinite possibilities. We head down rooster tail, my first dive off this steep run in soft, mushy, south facing snow and we traverse across to the bowls. “we don’t wanna head down dry creek, big boulders there and monster moguls, well traverse over 2 ridges and down the face, much smoother over there!”
I follow as he skiis with poles in one hand beer in the other down the black diamond steeps, me hanging on for dear life and shaking with joy.

A couple runs on chair 5, good hard snow,but the skis are unsteady, getting knocked around by little ridges of snow, but I handle it, and find I don’t have to rest as much, losing 10 lbs and hiking and acclimatizing has set me up for an enjoyable time, less concerned about being worn out after 2 turns. We look back up at dry creek at the moguls, and down come the military, marines from the mountain training base. “I would have gone that way but it looks like they are struggling, it would have been good for the entertainment value” win comments. Wryly.

I think about being back in nh for the big party, my sibs will all be there as will a good crowd of the old gang, and there will be snow on the mts and we could ski together again, if her adult add doesn’t carry her off on some other tangent. Hmm, maybe I can reschedule, ill see what I can do later.

We break at the mill, he stays out side with his personal beer and I get hot chochlate with a shot of coffee for 2$, the price has gone up, have a great conversation with the teller lady, “its starting to come down out there, big flakes”, “ya I go out every once in a while and get excited!” she smiles and dosent seem to upset about the lack of tip. When the hc was 1.50, there were quarters to burn, and tips were better. Sit by the fire and unwind, aching a bit but feeling better,but definitely tired. A couple more runs this afternoon if the weather doesn’t completely flatten the light looks good. Win sits down, burping from his second beer of the day and we banter, look at the possibilities, I mandate another 10 minutes of rest. We banter with a nice older lady with lots of rings and looking like a tiger of a skier, praying for snow.

Dress up and out into the storm, its getting windy and the big flakes are pelting down, raining at the base, but better up high. We traverse the summer road from the top of 23 in flat flat light, and do a couple runs on the back bowls of 14, exploring the woods once more for another hit. Nice smooth groomers and a little crud, highly varied snow conditions, but im handling it. We coast back to base lodge, win on his 3rd beer. We get to the trucks at 3 and finish off with lunch at angels, fish tacos and hot brandy for me. Rob Henderson joins us, old friend of wins and my buddy, and he produces the photograph I bought last spring a great view of setting sun on mountains and flowery meadow in the foreground, perfectly lit. It is beautifully framed and ready to hang. We bid farewell, I flail around vons, forgetting some stuff and remembering others not noted in my list left in the car along with the cloth bags.

Back across the Benton crossing road, talking to mark, who is headed out south to consult on botany, hes in the big projects now,desert solar farms, all needing to know if they are going to molest some endangered species. I am tired, the house is a mess, but I shower an flop out for 2 hours, no nap this afternoon, and wake to wonder where the princess phone has gone off to. It isn’t in all the usual places and the remote fancy phone is acting up, giving me all kinds of weird beeps and messages and being generally useless. Princess is hiding, and I scour the clutter for her, no where to be found, and I need to make/take calls. This is the second mysterious phone disappearance in several months, what is going on? I finally give up after crawling on all fours poking under furniture and looking in all cabinets, and head over to harrys, to borrow their spare phone. Harry is naked, wrapped in a towel talking to his mom, I wait as june shows me the beautiful Indian portraits her sister did, she is a good artist herself, did a great picture of the mountain during my potlatch party, and her daughter is finishing chico state as an art teacher. She retrieves their spare phone, “you gotta have one of these when the power goes out.” “I know, but mine was stolen, or developed legs and walked off and hid somewhere I cant find.”. Back to the ranch and some calls later to line up more takers for Fridays potluck, should be a blast, with new and old locals, wine, food, talk, banter, Alaska slides, and a show of the last year.

I don’t light the fire, its still warm from this morning’s blaze in the wood stove, and read and write and so to bed, tired but satisfied, my demons quenched for the time being, bubbles carrying them off, drifting silently toward the surface of this nice warm pond.

copyright 2009, Terry Wright

why you wear helmets in mine adits.

2009-04-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

hadda mishap yesterday, i was exploring an adit (horizontal mine tunnel) up in the hills looking for an anticline. i found it, but in my excitement, tripped on some rough rocks and did a headfirst dive into razor sharp rocks, punctured my left palm and gotta 4" scalp wound which bled like a stuck pig (no similarity intended)/ luckily i was in good hands with by friend paul, ex cop, and well trained in 1st aid. he drove me to his place on 20 acres off the grid and cleaned up and surveyed the damage. he wanted todrive me to the hospital in bishop (3/4 hr away), but i rested awhile and convinced him i had to go to benton to get my wallet with med cards and my meds list before i went to any hospital.

I checked in with the fire chief, an emt, but he was still at work, and his wife clucked and moaned over me, but also suggested i go to terry and jerrys, shes a nurse. they are friends so i found jerry the ex bronc rider awaiting the immanent return of his wife terry, who is a nurse. She patched me up with some steristrips after cleaning the wounds and giving me more of a haircut than i needed. after agreeing to call after resting for an hour, so i did, and slept most of the evening, finished my book, christopher moores new one "fool" a hysterical takeoff on King Lear from the fools point of view and rested soundly. now contemplating dawn and skiing or resting. hmmmm. either is an option.

kenneyville

2009-03-10T15:00:00.000-07:00

Bill Kenney 3/09

I finally have some time, cindy is somewhere else, and her exploder sits in the drive, ready for a cruise to kenneyville. I rev up on the Easton road, a sign “frost heaves” is very true, and soon I pass the sign to the Robert frost museum, paralleling the ham branch river, running black between random patches of ice and snow. Flash on the time I ran it at high water in the canoe with Derek. “don’t kill my son” were the last words Carolyn gave me. I was the one who swam when we hit a log, just another river trip.

Flash again on the gunfight that took place here, with liko Kenney pulled over, getting into an argument with a cop, and shooting him with a 45 then running over him. Then the crazed ex marine picking up the cops gun and shooting liko in cold blood. The town went crazy over this one, fingers pointing everywhere, and friends shocked. I know the family, and knew liko as a kid running wild, undisciplined, and always in trouble. He was on the road to recovery until this catastrophe.

Im on a quest for old friendship, looking for bill Kenney, archtypical new Hampshire farmer and black sheep of many in the Kenney family. Jack and peg Kenney met skiing and bought an old farm out here 500 acres in the 40s and had a skiers hostel with raging parties back in the early days. Their kids now feud over the land use, a sometimes tennis camp, beefalo ranch and organic garden. Davy grew a field of mellowness, and now bill is the only one left working the land. Mike has a tennis court refinishing business and joe is semi retired, running an antique shop, now mother of the famous ski racer, bode miller, who has just retired from the world cup circuit after winning the cup.

Bill has married a Russian lady, mail order bride, and lives in the cook shack, a log cabin structure back in the woods. I look up the drive and there he is, looking very busy, a Maddox over his shoulder, headed for the carrot patch. Knee boots, coveralls, tattered carhart jacket, craggy face, beard, but piercing eyes, always moving, We greet , old friends, and banter about the weather, the crop of organic carrots hes been growing since august now under an insulating cover of straw. “an old Indian trick, keeps em growing through the winter”. He wacks away with the Maddox and removes a thick layer of rotten hay, digs into black rich earth and red shapes of carrots start to come up. He fishes them out and soon has a good pile. “wow, I never knew about that” “you gotta be tricky out here to survive”, he grins and goes back to work “I can get 1$ apiece for these things in the health food store.” Hmm I wonder how true that is.

He starts in about his farm “ ya, still got them beefalos, did in a big steer last month, another ready to go” dreaming of a cash crop, he has 12 of the beasts, and they eat a lot of hay. “ gonna have a valley full of organic farm here, gotta option on 26 acres in the lowland, great soil, gona be hiring soon, know anyone who needs a job?” “ I know a couple million out there, that need a job, maybe we could start a new town for them”.

He’s at odds with his sibs over how to split up the farm, he wants 5 acres, a minimum lot size, but his sibs are all at his throat, tried arbitration, to no avail, they really don’t like each other. Its coming down to a court hearing in the spring. He may be out of a place to live.

Its quiet and getting cold, the sun setting steel gray in the west, and the smell of fresh earth in the air. He’s headed to the barn to feed the beefalos, and I’m cold, feet wet in my crocs, and not suited to hike down the hill in the deep snow. “ you got no boots,” he observes, “I better be moving on, I stole cindys car, and shell be wondering where it is.”

We part ways, waving as he goes down the road into the gathering dusk, headed for the greater glory of living off the land.

Copyright 2009 terry wright

franconia 2

2009-03-08T12:46:00.001-07:00

Franconia 2 3/09

The day starts with a bang, cindy leaving early in a flurry of activity to secure a prime spot for our bbq lunch on the mountain, pancakes flying low, a new gallon of mape makes the scene to sweeten things up. It is still over cast but warm and sun is promised for afternoon. I pack up ski gear, head for the mt and watch the stream of cars pack ing into cannon parking lot. We ignore the signalers and find cindy parked next tot he bunny slope, booting up, ready to rock n roll. Steve and phil dunn are already on the mt, Kathleen is there from montreal, the troops are gathering. Now we have a group of about 10, kids, sibs old friends, skiing fast, long swoopting carvers on the open slopes.. still haard up top, we can see the ice rink of profile trail glinting high above. I get a senior ticket for 36 and off we go, the rat pack, moving smoothly through the lines, greeting old friends, cindy knows everyone local, and we get a great hit of cannon comaderie. Down to the tram after a false start, and I enter the hallowed ground of my youth, flashing on my first makeout session in a snowbank with terry norton, right in front of her fathers office window. My mouth still hurting from being hit by Malcolm grandy,the bad guy at high school, going up after a basketball. I pushed off and he landed on his back, wind knocked out. It really made kissing interesting, but we orally exchanges precious bodily fluids in a fit of passion, rollijng in the snow.

We try the top, now blasting raggae at the lift station, a guy in natty dreads stands guard. We fly down ravine, playing with the snow along the edges, now soft with rising temps. We follow each other in a line, blowing past the standers and snow plowers. I look around and the mountain is coming out, our mountain, Lafayette, how many times did we top out there, hunkering down in the stone shelter smoking a tobacco pipe while the snow blew by, snug in our tight group shot through with testosterone with mountains, rock climbing, ice climbing skiing a way of life. We cruise down to the parking lot where the briquetts are sizzling dogs and burgers, beers in hand sitting in folding chairs, with the sun breaking through. It is a real scene, kids running around, skiing on one ski, munching dogs, friends dropping by, and the 4 sibs reveling in the reunion. Phil dunn is there too, tall white moustached gent, our neighborhood friend, and Kathleen, cindys tuckermans friend from montreal. She and cindy were at tuck on 4 th of july one year and suddenly Kathleen wasn’t there, she had broken through a snow bridge and was 20 feet down in a crevasse upside down, hanging from her skiis. The patrol extracted her, but not until a great deal of rope arranging and derring do on the part of swampy paris and his crew. So we retell the old tales, reliving the past triumphs and disasters and all taken back to our invincible youth.

We head up the chair, spirits high, me feeling the effects of a nooner beer. Get to the top of the chair and I make the fatal mistake of weight too far back, cant spring up in time and my skiis go sideways and I crash, a resounding thump on my helmet tells me where the chair is hitting. The lift guy is on top of it, and stops the chair from running over me, and a crowd helps me up, shaken, the high destroyed, but ready for more.

Now more top runs, and I opt to return for my nap with steve and Ronnie. Alls set for the party and people arrive , some of the older guard, including dick bennik a class mate of dads at Harvard, and Duncan cullman, old boyfriend from telluride. We rev up with catered munchies, and when the crowd is in full swing, I get tom and we suit me up with the elvis costume, turn the lights on in the pimpdaddy coat and im off down the back stairs, hanging out on the lawn, in the dark until cindy and part of the crowd emerges, and I walk waving my lighted arms, to the great enjoyment of all. Cameras click, cindy and I grind out, “you aint nothing but a hound dog” in gravelly voices, more cameras and people crowd around to feel the coat and cuddle. A great thing that, cathys gift after burning man 3 years ago. And now my staple costume.

We gather for buffet and sitdown dinner at a long table, 21 people and toast cindy, tell tall tales, and have a great meal. Cake ice cream, and good cheer, lots of wine. I sit with Irene and we strike up our old friendship, she still in town, doing body work, and living off the land, skiing as much as possible. We relive old times, old friends and revel in the atmosphere of community.

I tell the story of taking cindy over the headwall the first time, and other stories abound. Even little Carolyn gets in the act and tells a Lapland story. Irene and I repair to the living room and I show the burning man slides and a few more shows. Now people leave, and I cruise to the apt and sleep soundly, rain pounding on the roof.

franconia new hampshire

2009-03-06T17:19:00.000-08:00

Franconia 09

Hectic times, doing taxes, and death, and heading out into the storm to gain the motel la quinta, and park sleep fly accommodations, my flight leaves at 6 am so im taking the easy route. Another adventure back to childhood haunts, family and old friends. Ski cannon, party for cindys 60th, and hang with the north country scenery and crowd.

Kk and I talk and I surface after 2 near accidents in shallow alto, a row of high class stores, restaurants, and the apple store, where kk and zoe, looking hugely pregnant, are perusing the latest in apple ware. We oo and aahhh over a monster computer screen and mac tv wireless setup and head into th e night in search of sustenance. The usual choices, all high class, settle into Vietnamese, very posh, typical silicon valley types, wining and dining. We settle in and choose a pinot by the glass, all wines are 40 or more, with emeritus pinot on the menue for 125. ouch. These friends of mine know how to market.

We have a great chat, and leave with kk and zoe ready prepared and willing to be parents of my next granddaughter. I crash late, rise early 3:40 and do a seamless entry into the world of international travel. Catching my flight to ohare, watching quantum of solace with the bose headphones, and making the transition to the flight to Manchester seamlessly.

Tom isn’t there, and I finally duck out of the cold with a beautiful sunset behind, and there he is, looking for me. We nosh and I sleep on a bench until jostled out of reverie by Carolyn, in from dulles, complete with skiis boots and ready. We rocket off to Franconia thru the night, intense conversations, growing up up here, old trips in the night with blinding snow, freezing rain, where we slid into a snow bank, and watched cars crash into the barrier and spin around us. The notch is clear and they are grooming garys and avalanche, so we have a good day ahead to ski. Cindy greets us with spaghetti and nonstop conversation, I break in every once in a while,, but feel a bit left out. They are intense conversationalists, not leaving a break between stories for me to get my oar in, I crash as the chatter contines, and rest the rest of the dead.

The alarm wakes me right on time for my flight 3:40 am, shit I forgot to turn it off, and then the cell beeps its low battery refrain, up a gain, more ibu and a s pill and im off till 8. awake to cindy opening the garage door below me, and the race is on, nonstop conversations, events, prepping for a day on the slopes, like old times in the cabin. We scrape 1/2 inch of ice off toms car, freezing rain coming down, the mountain in clouds. Andy fixes me up with a great set of salomons and technical boots that fit great and we are off tot he slopes. The usual prep scene, dressing for the day,now raining, and booting up, ready for a typical day on cannon, so many times in our youth we are on auto pilot, still chatting away and planning the logistics for the day.

Im bundled up, the facemask on, new goggles,helmet, new parka ready for anything. Its warm and raining, and we realize our first mistake: sittting on the wet chairlift and soaking our butts. Oh well, a normal day at the coldest worst weather mountain in the east. The snow is soft and groomed, so we find places to turn abundant, and follow like rockets down the narrow trails, all skiing in unison, a thing of beauty, like the old days, for the first time in years. Exhileration explodes in cheers and yodels as we scream down the slopes, taking the inside of the turns on ravine, singing the praises of the master of trail builders, sel Hannah, with hair growing out of his ears, planning and cutting the original trails on cannon.

We hit the top lift and the seats on the chair are glazed with ice, which we melt and make our butts even wetter, still non stop chat, great memories, wonderful family times, all set by dad and mom, we are now continuing a long tradition, only we have had. Into the clouds, flat light and boilerplate ice conditions, like skiing on marbles, but soon I find the snow has been pushed to the sides of the trail, and it great going there, easy turns, keep ing up with the flashing image of cindy, in perfect race form, zinging in front, flying down the mountain. We explore the old haunts and some new ones, little trails no one uses, with good snow, easy turns, few people and great feelings.

Lunch break with sandwiches from home, despite the sign that says no bag lunches at the door, all kinds of people around, loads of kids, still a family mountain. Carolyn is there in a ski class, and we tag a long, but they are ripping the mountain. I notice few snowboarders, and they are very polite, unlike the unruly, disrespectful sort at mammoth. We ski the top again, the doors blaring at the base station for the chair. it has warmed up and no ice on the seats, but still glare polish on the upper part of the trails, but tom has sharpened my edges and im holding firm, even on vast patchs of ice. Cindy and I head down the mountain, leaving tom and Carolyn to their devices, I crash and up and suddenly dinner is ready, early, a full evening ahead, picking up Ronnie, going to a play, I play dead, and write this, hook up the ipod with the doors playing, at peace with the world.

copyright 2009 terry wright

mina boat restaurant

2009-03-06T17:18:00.001-08:00

Mina 2/23/09

The sign says it all, “Nevada: alcohol-legal, gambling-legal, prostitution-legal, lobsters-illegal” . nestled in the wide open valley, a group of dusty houses and shuttered buildings appears, and an anachronism: a large boat, with portholes and a door in the side, and a sign “Desert lobster café-open”. I pull into the parking lot, and a new building appears behind the boat, a wheelchair ramp and a car and beaten up pickup show signs of life.

The usual debris lies around, a blackened washtub upside down on top of a pile of half-burned firewood, with no obvious purpose, but im sure a story lurks somewhere. Enter the swinging door with sign, no credit cards, and look in my wallet, 4 forlorn dollar bills appear, and im in trouble if I want to eat anything. A cheery hello from the back of a neat, new kitchen, and a lol comes up offering food.

Id love something to eat, but have no cash, I just came in from Benton looking for Sam.

You gotta check?

Affirmative.

Is it good?

Yep, but its on a sonoma county bank

That’s ok, whaddya want?

I settle on fish and chips on the recommendation of the lol and a guy starts whipping up my feast.

Im looking for a guy named sam, anyone around here?

Oh ya, hes one street over, give him a call if you want.

I get the number and dial and a voice comes over the wires.

Are you the friend of bert finney in Benton? Im here to buy you lunch.
Ill be right over-the reply
After casing the joint, I look into the boat and behold a veritable museum, complete with display case of revolvers, a sherrifs badge and some articles on the town. Above, perched on a tree limb is a stuffed cougar, and deers heads and antlers protrude from the walls like so many tree limbs. A big table sits there and I re enter the back room and this older guy comes in looking around, for me, it is sam, but not the right sam, but wtf? I invite him to sit down and we talk, in the easy desert way of things important to all. Water supply, weather, the job situation, places to explore, heart problems and on, an easy guy to talk to.

I am still trying to get ahold of the real sam, and the people know him, the big bald guy works for dot, but not his last name, so I call charlotte at the café in Benton and she fills me in sam Compton is the name, so I call him, and get the answering machine, oh well. More coffee and delicate fish and delicious coleslaw, not too sweet as sam had told me, and more conversation.

At least you got to talk to one sam-his parting comment.

I fill in a check for 8.75 including a 1$ tip, and enquire about the lobsters. The story bert told me is that they had a great business growing lobsters here and selling them to the casinos in reno, but the state shut them down for lack of permits and sanitation, and they are now working on getting that operation going again, lobsters in the desert, wow, what a concept.

My eye catches a sign for consulting geologist as I pass down the main drag, and I see what looks like sams truck in front. Hook a u ie and park to barking of dog and two blonde girl kids at the fence. I ask for sam, and they get mom, an older smiling, but suspicious face, she doesn’t have sam there, but her husband is a geologist, consulting in mexico looking for gold, I give her my card and we talk, the kids and dogs milling around.

Im off to hawthorne and on to greater glory with mitch in Carson city, lunch with canyon in auburn, on through the rain to my warm bed in Forestville.

copyright 2009 terry wright

benton-saline pres day 09

2009-02-19T20:40:00.001-08:00

Saline pres day 2009

see picasaweb.google.com/terryw100 for pix

Benton days, cathy for 4, Jason inyo zorka johnnie and rodger for mon night, then ski tues blue skys deep pow, then only inyo, great help, now my second son.

Load up camper, bert in hospital w chf, flown to reno, charlotte taking it in stride. We toil at packing, prepping the camper, organizing shit. Long day. Second spare doesn’t fit, so I leave it, chains are perfect, 2 sets for snow on the n pass., or steel pass? We’ll know when we get there.

Kk arrives 730, good fast trip from sunnyale the landcruiser now in its new home. We party and chow down, and sleep. Frenzy of packing in the morning, but off at 830 to bishop and after a quick shop to big pine, Linda meets us and we head off up the hill.

N pass looks doable, I decide to try it without chains and forge ahead, 4-5 tracks beaten it down, no snow at marble cyn, but 2.5 feet at n pass, sledding down. Meet Kevin fixing cable chains trying to get out, no good, help him turn around, he came in leading johnnie and rodger. Sledding down whipporwill cyn, and out onto the dry fan, the valley spread out for 40 miles before us.

We take mellow breaks, on to willow creek, no dave, into the springs to great greetings from tom “hi there birthday boy” from the crystal pool. Check in with lee and off to find johnnie at checker gulch. Retrieve the bar from the upper springs. On loan from drummer dan. Great place set up barely then to upper in inyos truck for good soak, more people and great sunset. Dinner good, we party, I crash as others go to the lower for songfest.

Up early to yip of coyotes, now im 66, wow, this is gonna be fun. Early coffee (borrow inyos filter holder, forgot mine) and off to sunrise pool to jim Christie, Christine and turtle jim who seem to be a couple, ken and Linda, skip and terry, the usual suspects. I send invites for the potluck tonight, planning the attack. Back to camp to cook the d.o. a pineapple upside down cake, then to snooze, set up big tarp and poptop in raging wind, clouds come in, snooze and the storm blows through, a short storm, “gimme one of those any day” my comment. Set up for party, to upper for a quick soak, the usual suspects are all there, crowded into the wizard pool. Dave gives me bday present: the wizards hat, now I am the new wiz, a petroglyph rock he made, and an elkhorn pipe with mother of pearl plug.

We arrive to find the party started already, more usual suspects, Kenny b, timbo, silver bob and michelle, major tom, a great gang, oops theres garbage mike pulled in, he has his dick nose down in the crotch and we hug and laugh, thank god he’s over his snit. Fire up the barby but that’s gonna take a while, so I fire up the big stove and just lay the turkey and beef on there, smoked to perfection in harry’s coffin smoker in benton.

The banter begins and stories continue, all great storytellers, and strange tales of the valley, the guy with a 2wd d rental exploder who came in without chains, and couldn’t get out s pass, tried lippencott, put holes in the oil pan, blew the engine, and hiked 10 miles to the springs, guided by gps, knocked on lees door at 3 am and he set him up in the nps trailer for the rest of the night. Millers came in (hertz told him to get the vehicle to a paved road, not closed and they would take it from there.) $200/hour later they were towed out and on their way to lalaland. They read the nytimes article on saline and gave it a try, in bad conditions., oh well they learned the hard way, maybe word will get out that its not an easy place to get into.

Feed up, great smoked turkey and tritip, skips beans, other assorted dishes, great conversation, wine, more tequila than needed. Introduce kailen and inyo as my sons. My minions, mymadons or whatever. Inyo is pleased to be the chauffer. They go off into the night to shoot propane bombs, and dave and johnnie and I cruise to the lower, play guitar, sing, leave chair hidden and with a last chorus of pancho and lefty, with Barbara on dobro and chris on mandolin, we fade into the nighttime. Rodger and I put in some fire time and im out. Dog bark at 3 am, coyote bait, back to sleep with 2 bags over me, cold, dawn is clear, and another perfect saline day begins.

Wake slowly, no soak but great sunny morning, no w word, visitors come and go, ken retrieves his chairs, we talk of the desert and events to come. I write and draw a transect of the saline geology, following the pattern of the owens valley one, and put all the geology on one view. snooze and banter and wake again to the call of the golf game, time to head on up with inyo-choffeur, I bring chair, golf club, cooler of beer, and time to party. People have come outta the woodwork, we party on with the best of the best. Sign up, get card, get numbered ball, pencil and saddle up with a team: ken, party favor with a full bottle of Forestville merlot, taking straight shots outta the bottle. Wild man. We spot for the long 3rd hole, then kick off our round. I flub the first shot into the rocky desert pavement, pissed, dump my pack and sunglasses. And run into rough territory, finally get out into the fairway, a narrow gulch, festooned with low desert holly bushes. Another shot and im on the green, putting into the circle of rocks that is the hole. I yell at ken to pick up my pack, and he does, but neglects to note my sunglasses sitting on top and they are lost. I can’t find one lens after my first shot, so I look for a while to no avail, every rock and piece of sand a mosaic, hiding everything.

We play on, party favor is getting fucked up, but he has some good shots, we keep moving, and spotting, giving us a chance to savor the view, the picket fence, snowy heights of the inyos, scanning south to s pass, and hunter mt, and then around to the saddle of steel pass, the saline range and long low slope of the volcanic ridge of black mt. Groups of people scattered all over the fan, rocks and gullys hiding and revealing a sizable crowd of 50 or so golfers on the same course. Many with beers in hand and great costumes, ken has a huge bow tie and shorts and that’s it.

Finally finish up with a couple of good shots, and near miss putts. We crowd around the final hole for the shoot off, two guys at 15 for 5 holes. Pretty good for a bunch of non-golfers. Im a bit wiped, so inyo shuttles me down to camp into another session with garbage man, then incoming jeep with timbo, solvi, Kenny b and Lorenzo, again without pants. We party down and have a great time with some bloody marys, finishing the vodka and eyeing the tequila, saving it for later.

They leave in a flurry of insults and banter, we all take it in stride. I snooze until the return of the gang, kk has hiked peace mt solo, inyo is partying with the santa cruz gang, found his old friend tito from southlake tahoe and we go on and on telling stories and cruising. David comes by with the long white beard. He was at fish lake hot springs when I was giving tours of the sump to the locals in Benton.

Dimming of the day, sun down, rumors of storms coming but it all is clear here, the famous saline valley bubble. Shunting the fronts to the south and north. We revel in our special place, hanging around the fire looking at another evening of social music around the fire. The bluegrass band plays with rodger on bass, and we sing along, banter about, pass the tequila and jagermeister bottles and generally have a good time. I am still tickin after a double nap day, david sits next to me and I play along for a while, try knockin on heavens door, to no avail, and finally fade into the night. Stashing my chair behind the library for the game tmw. Sleep well, dreams of raging storms swirlinig in my head, but wtf? I have no schedule, I can stay a few more days if steele pass gets snowed in.

Up again and attem, laze around camp then head for the lower soaks a good shit in the shitter, festooned with drawings of burros and desert holly. People are going slowly, I soak in the sunrise pool, get good and warm, then head for the noise of timbos voice and camp. We sit around and banter, solvi is there, Lorenzo has finally put pants on, Kenny shows his balls, and terry goes into a long soliloquy about how mens dicks all look the same, and their balls are really different. Lorenzo recalls touch and go harry’s daughter dressed as a nurse and going up to johan at bat and wrapping his dick with elastic tape. To the great entertainment of all. Skip gives a call for omlettes and we troop over, elanor the wiener dog lying in the sun on the sisal rug, terrys mom hanging out sitting on a pillow, timbo, hairy beast that he is, presiding over the crowd. Skip appears in the door of the camper periodically with omlettes for all, with potatoes. He was cook on merchant marine ships and knows how to dish it out.

Over to pay respects to Christine and turtle jim at their camp, nestled in the trees by the burro spring. Nice conversation to catch up with Christine, still raging in pioneertown, and living the good life of a dual patent holder for amgen retired at 55. leave the calendar from hotel congress for jim macey, get a buzz,I take my leave and head back to camp, johnnie takes the d.o. to timbo, and kk and inyo are practicing throwing the softball, I duck as I pass under the line of fire. Fire up the generator and write this, now off to preside over announcements at the ball game in my elvis outfit with top hat.

The parade has started, flags waving, loud music, cheerleaders in skimpy outfits, uniforms of lower springs skins-in red, and upper springs misfits in black uniforms. We get in the mood with banter, greetings of old friends and new, inyo has backed his truck up to the spectator line and we mount chairs on the bed, looking out over the scene. Christine is in her black whip woman outfit, I have my red pimpdaddy coat on and elvis wig, and tyvek jumpsuit. I fire up the waist loudspeaker, and am ready for action.

I get the lists from each coach and with great fanfare take center stage and introduce the players. “And its darrel the gray at shortcock!” comes spilling out, each person with a different characteristic. All characters. The teams assembled, we sing the national anthem, the star strangled banana, with great gusto, I shout “Play ball” and we are off to another mayhem of long shots, short shots, cheers for both sides, the skimpy cheerleaders lurking in the background, no flashing the batters, the audience well-lubricated, great comardarie, like a big quagmire of whirling bodies, costumes, sizzleing balls and always cheering and shouting. Mike the garbage man is there in his dicknose outfit, picking up trash, with a safety vest on that says “business is picking up” on the back. The upper springs springs ahead 10-4, but the lower closes the gap. A ferocious double play happens right in front of us at 3rd base, with one runner caught off base, and forcing another out coming in. great arguments, kicking of dust at each other, all in good clean American fun. At the end the upper has it by 6 points but not after a big comeback from the lower, michelle parades the score in front of us, yelling “more steroids, more steroids”.

The sun is in and out, the air cold and freezing with a slight wind, but enough sun present to keep us from diving for cover. A big storm is coming in tonite, with 10 feet of snow predicted at mammoth, and snow levels to 3000 feet, and people are getting antsy about getting out. We all agree steele pass is the answer, the lowest at 5000 feet, and make plans for the next steps toward leaving. Already a caravan is headed to the south pass, the preferred route.

I snooze then get inyo to give me a ride to the upper for a raging potluck and bonfire and long soak with a crowd in the pool. The santa cruz ravers have found a nice hollow to party in, shielding us from incessant techno beat and their shouts and screams and piddly fireworks. I blow off a couple of mortars in retaliation.

Back to camp on garbage’s tailgate with tom and Carolyn, to find a party happening, newcomers also ariel and steve and her precious dog, guitars out, fire blazing, and good times. I play and sing and Barbara and chris come by and sit in, david brings his guitar and steve the ukelele man holds forth with his special brand of craziness. It is tiresome, tho and im ready for bed, the storm is coming in, we can smell it, wind picking up and I bed down in the disheveled interior of the camper and zone out with earplugs against the din.

Awakened by the pitter patter of raindrops on the roof, and emerge to find the place closed down, no mts visible, fog hanging in the valley and stuff to be organized. Kk and johnnie come out too and start packing for the steele pass exodus. I consider going with them, but after packing, realize that that would be stupid, wet and cold, possible chain action, so they go off up the hill, and I settle in with the gear all packed and ready to go tomorrow.

With the top still up, I’m mobile, free to roam, following in g mikes footsteps. Down to the lower and hang with skip, terry and the crowd there, then off to the sunrise pool for a soak, timbo holding forth and a great crowd of the leftovers, now the real usual suspects. Stories rebound and twist and turn, the banter is excruciatingly funny, and Kenny b gets the banter blue ribbon for outrage.

Head to the upper springs, and find Barbara and chris snuggled in bed in the tp, so I crawl into the sack in the camper and have a great snooze. They make getting up noises and fire up the stove, I bring out my terry wright perpetual beans, now with a big chunk of pork init. They break out leftover gumbo from the potluck and we chow down, watching the clouds and sunlight play on a fairytale scene… huge mountains, snowcapped peaks, vast valleys and always the springs with palms and inviting hot water.

Back to the lower for more soaking and visiting, Dotties birthday party is in full swing, with lenny and rodger singing, presents opened, possibilities for the evening emerge to settle on a potluck with music at ken and lindas camp down in the arroweed. I start out with a snooze parked next to their camp, ken comes out and rousts me, with promise of fun, food and great people. Rodger brings the bass, and lenny plays great old tunes, I gotta learn from him. Rodger has some really funny tunes and we all laugh along, while munching delicious chicken casserole, cheap box wine, and I get the seat of honor in the chaise lounge, with my feet to the fire.

I finally cash it in, retreat to the camp in checker gulch and find that the coyote has found the garbage sack and strewn bits of aluminum foil, cans and paper all over. Must have been delicious to him. Settle in for the evening, snoozing and listening as the breezes flutter the flag like soft waves on a forgotten beach.

Up with the dawning of another perfect saline day. Pick up the moop strewn by the coyote. Packed and ready to go by 8, after goodbyes to old and new friends bump up the road to steele pass following lenny, his first trip over, I catch up and tell him a bit about the route and we agree to keep tabs on each other. A dusting of frosting snow on the pass, but the road is clear, especially the side tilting switchback to the summit. The last chance range is shrouded in clouds, coming and going and I burn some megapixels, wishing I had a decent camera, an slr, lookin at a Nikon d90 for a grand.

We survive the rocky stair steps, with lenny being very careful. I blast right through and return to tell them to take the bikes off the back, they and the bike rack have been hitting bumps and would surely be badly damaged in the steps. On a roll now down to the dunes for lunch in the chair, waving at lenny as he and friend pass by. 3 figures silhuetted high on the dunes billowing like huge waves, etched against the sky with a singular splot of cloud. More mega pixels.

Cruise over the pass into big pine, find linda’s car but no Linda at aleshias, leave a note and head to bishop for buffulo berger and gas and la times then head for the barn. Sleep for 2 hours, then up to a dinner of b burger and an early crash. Im not skiing tomorrow, too wiped, so up early, talk to Christie, but win is sick, hes not skiing today, I kick back and putter, unload the truck, visit charlotte to hear bert is ok, and will be released form the prison-hospital in reno tmw.

The day passes swiftly, and I take a sunset cruise to adobe valley in the landcruiser, refeeling all the familiar quirks of driving this tank , low gear ratios, noise, but the radio works and im back in gear with my old truck, now 25 years and 180,000 miles down the road.

Back to talk to mark, busy as always, may come up Friday night. We talk of the solar developments in the desert, basically total loss of habitat over areas of 45 square miles and more for each project.

Watch constant gardner, not really the thriller the book was, but the projector and sound system work great, giving me a huge image on the ssu screen.

Another early rise, with stimulation and coffee also, Darlene calls and we make a movie date for Friday. Im planning on leaving sometime over the weekend, but no final date yet. Big bkfst and off early to mammoth to ski the perfect day on the mt. Great time with riders, skiers and a run from the summit down unbroken powder slopes. I fall and have a hard time getting up, feeling the elevation, and stick to the groomers.

Back to angels for a great lunch meatloaf sandwich and a beer, set up for the ride back to Benton. I’m tempted to hit the primo hot spring, no one would be there today, but pass on through.

Head across the barren moat of the caldera, and just getting steam up the grade to wildrose summit when the truck feels a bump and gets airborne for a minute, I white knuckle the wheel straight, wtf? Some thing happened, there were no bumps in the road. I get out and look at the front and realize the 60 lbs of steel framework that holds the 2nd spare on the front and the two hi lighter searchlights are not fastened to the carrier on the front any more. Shit, the pin must have vibrated out and the whole thing went under the car at 60 mph. I pick up the pieces, wondering how I could have prevented this destructive event. It looks like there is no damage done to the tires or under carriage, I hate to think what would have happened if the spare tire had been on there. I could have flipped at that speed. Oh well another painful expensive lesson learned, check the pin before you drive.

I see harry working on tarring the cracks in the road and tell him, he is impressed. Roll home, clocks are awry,the cell is 1 hour fast, maybe still on Tucson time, but I thot I had reset it. Out to snooze for 2 hours and on to finish this.

Mark calls and hes coming up tomorrow for potluck, ill just have to make some calls. Oh well.

Copyright 2009, terry wright
3530 words.

benton-saline pres day 09

2009-02-19T20:40:00.000-08:00

Tucson mineral show

2009-02-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

Benton-tucson and a triumphant return to 3 feet of pow.

Pix on picasaweb site

Time flys when yer havin fun, the daze before leaving for Tucson were action packed: ski deep pow with win (see da guida blog), presentation at the local school to katys class, 14 raging testosterone 12 year olds constantly shifting, talking, asking questions, Darcy trying to keep order, one kid gets sent out of the room for saying “crap”, 2 strikes, wonder if they have a 3 strike rule here? Then a return trip to the sump with Darlene, a perfect day, dip in the hot spring, meet an old friend from saline with long white beard, hell be there for pres day.

Now time to shift gears and head to Tucson. Hit the road early, breeze thru bishop on my way to big pine for bkfst at lindas dog/house sitting job site, then down 395 stopping at daves in indepence to an empty house, lotsa work going on, new siding, man they never stop. I am so relieved that I could buy a modular house, plop it down in the center of my 10 acres and not worry too much about it.

Break at Macys to snooze on the bed on the front poarch, hes in Nevada at a cowboy poetry festival in elko. Now up to the Darwin plateau, breaking clouds, warm sun, twisted geology, the Joshua tree that was on the cover of the album U2 made, now with so many people walking around it in time, it is suffering, death by adoration.

Down the winding canyon to Darwin wash and into PSR (Panamint springs resort) for chili lunch and a tour of their photo gallery. Now thru the Heart of Death Valley, great vistas, 70 degrees, several breaks to mellow out and then through the Pahrump sprawl, in 20 years grown without plan into a major population center, mainly retirees, ron leu our old technician lives here, but im on my way to anns and scheduled to arrive at 6 on time.

I do, to great hugs and a fun evening with my old student and her boyfriend, also a geologist, rambling house open suburbs of Las Vegas, far from the crush of the city of lights. She even drives me to the airport in the morning and I slide into the jet, and theres dave storck my friend from the pf (petrified forest) and his cohorts paula and steve, ready to rock and mineral roll. Less than an hour to Tucson, jump in the rental car, a shiny new red mustang, and we are off to Electric park. Dave is after wood to sell in the shop and has some contacts, I am dazzeled by the usual display of 30 or so polished petrified logs, along with dyed geodes, amythist vugs and trilobites. It is a crazy assortment, all out in the open, then into the morocco tents, more old friends of daves, checking and cross checking prices, availability, and making deals worth thousands. Their budget for the trip is 30 grand, that could go along way. We hoof it around acres of tents, knowing this is just the tip of the iceberg of shows. We will do the strip this afternoon, but first lunch at café minuto, great mex joining paula and steve, comparing notes, lists with stuff crossed off, nonstop conversation battle going on about what to by, where to go next and who to see. We have a load of boxes picked up at epark, so we get a pass to the riverfront (aka pueblo) show and drive around back to find steve a paula already hard at it, wheeling and dealing with two work-hippies that smell bad, natty dreads, beads, pierces lips, who expertly unload the stuff onto a pallet, wrap it up ready to ship to the pf. A great system after years of driving a uhaul rental up to soco loaded with 2 tons of product. I tour the morocco collection here, major trilobite display one with fuzzy spikes on top about 2 feet long catches my eye, $5grand, oh well. We tour the amethyst vugs, some 6 feet tall, some citrine, all in the hundreds of dollars, inspect the calcite and quartz secondary minerals poking out of the depths adding stars of white to the background purple. The older guy from the st george utah co. is proud of a slab of amethyst with quartz crystals with drusy quartz covering. He allows as how those were calcite crystals, I whip out the acid and wave it in his face “you mind?” he nods assent and sure enuf, it doesn’t fizz, now he has a new story to tell. Now to tour the big stuff, single quartz crystals 4 feet high, and milled quartz spheres 3 feet in diameter. The prices are staggering and the talk is about how the show will go with the economy in the dumps, there are lots of collectors, but not as many buyers according to one dude, but we are doing our part, piling up the boxes and securing orders to be paid by check. The big boss gets a fax Monday for the checks needed and runs them off and signs them and then fedex overnight to Tucson from soco on tues morning which then a mad dash around the shows to collect the rest of the stuff reserved.

We end up for the superbowl on Sunday at the executive inn suites, every room filled with displays, some junky, some artistically arranged, music. Chris from Benton has just pulled in and is setting up his room, jack a wood friend of daves is down the hall, and we tour a bit. I head across to natures own and find roy packing up a big order for some buyers, “I recognize that vest” he says and we catch up old grand canyon friends and agree to meet at the bar for the super bowl. My heel is really hurting now, a return bout of plantar fasciitis, and I have to walk, in pain. We settle in front of a huge projection tv and the game is on already. I call brian, and he is in town, I give him my 40 and hell be over later. People come by and party, watch the ads in 3d and cheer on the az cards. Steelers first blood looking strong and intercepting on the 1 just before the half. Shit, doesn’t look good for the home team. I introduce roy to dave and they talk, I call b coole on the cell and banter with her for a while totally pissing roy off cause I am loud and should be outside to talk on the phone.

We quaff some ales, I streatch my foot out, hoping the pain will go away, I am intent on the game when I am suddenly grabbed from behind in a big hug, its brian cook, my old friend and student here for another show. He is just in town and stoked for the action, we talk and catch up, he has a booth a t jgx, the top mineral show for his company Natures geometry. We go way back and review lives and watch the deteriorating game. I introduce roy to brian, they hit it off, but roy is disgusted with the game, so we repair to jacks tv, me lighting very smelly farts, drinking beers, eating beans. The game reaches an intense seesaw peak at the end with the steelers winning on lucky catch. Whew, that’s over, we talk more about rocks and life and gather a gang together for a foray to hotel congress for dinner. I am wiped, no nap, at it all day, walking on a painful foot, but we troop to the hotel and have a great meal, great conversations, jack did the tat several years ago and we swap yarns, but he is in high gear, dominating the conversation, motormouthing, and dave is getting pissed. Finally we repair to the motel and I am flopped out immediately. Sleeping the sleep of the dead.

UP early for Sabino canyon trek, Dave raves about this place, so we work our way thru the burbs, mansions on hilltops, sprawl everywhere, down oracle one big strip mall for miles, a few cute old Tucson neighborhoods, but mostly southwest modern. I find a walgreens and get a heel pad for my painful foot, now at every step driving a nail in to my foot. And we have to do some hiking, but on a road after a tram ride to the top of the canyon. We pay at the gate, having forgotten my geezer park pass again, and ride the tram up a narrowing canyon, horizontal stripes of gneiss exposed and tall saguaros towering below high ragged ridges of rock from the base of a core complex formed deep in the earth and then pushed up, ravaged by weathering and erosion in the desert. A great tour guide tells us stories as we climb high into the foothills of mt lemmon. We debark at the top and I limp down the road, taking pictures, nonstop dave talking, all cool stuff. Finally we hop on the tram and are in the red rocket headed to downtown Tucson. Stop at electric park to peruse some more goodies, getting crowded now, 3rd day of the show, hopefully portending of good fortunes all over. Lunch at el minito again, same salad. Great mex. Now out on the strip again, to quartz city, a football field of tables covered with smoky and clear clusters, big little , in flats, 15$ a pound for really beautiful stuff. Dave racks up another pile of boxes, arranges to pick up tmw when the checks arrive. I vow to come back. Wandering off I find a great varietiy of labradorite xtals, I want one, but the right one doesn’t come up. I buy a slice of geode with clear quartz in the middle, with a crystal tree pattern and have a great conversation with a vendor geezer dude, way in to rocks and fossils. I am overwhealmed by now and the afternoon is only half over. I get the call from b coole and she is just arriving from yuma in her van stuffed with textiles and costumes for a SCA gathering next weekend. We find each other by cellphone at the Ramada show and tour that for a while. Im wiped, so we repair to the executive suites and visit jack some more, chris is set up so I check his wares, nice garnets from bishop, great stuff. We trundle north on oracle and find bjs pub, a big place humming with activity and decorated with great paintings and flags. Chow down and then to moteland, Barbara pulls in back and sets up camp, crashing in her van. We listen to the beatles love album for a while and then drift off.

Barbara wants to go to the bead shows, so we are off early, get registered with resale permits and get badged and off we go into the deep bead scene. She reads to me from book Ireland, a great storytelling novel, with a wonderfully flowery prose rendition of the geologic history of Ireland. Great stuff. The dog, lucy (short for Lucifer) is cool, but keeps stretching out the extenda leash around my chair. Now time for the great entrance , Ive seen beads at shows, but never a whole show, and it is truly overwhelming. Barbra says “im goin into work mode, see you in an hour” and shes off wheeling and dealing, and I wander 2 huge tents and get bored fast, everything is the same and is huge, yards of piles of turquoise necklaces, bins of beads, glass everywhere, one table is red with rhodo necklaces piled high with very worried looking people smiling and trying to believe it ok the world economy is going down in flames.

I get tired fast, and the foot is hurting, take a vicodan for relief of the nail in my heel, and head out to the street, finding another stand with the same old shit (sos) as in the strip, but only a couple people around, all vendors. I get into a conversation with a guy who is vending for some aussies, and he has glossopertis, very nice fossils, and I pick one up. “Don’t worry about the marked price, those are 5$ apiece.” I check out the price marked, $20 , ive seen pieces like this at the strip for over 30, so I pull out a 5 and am off to new glory. The temp is up, hot in the February sun, I pay 1.75 for a banana and sit in the shade, cowering in the wind. Call Barbara, and shes almost done, we head for the strip, but Dave calls and wants to meet at Poca Cosa for lunch, hes been raving about this feed for days, so we slide up town, finding a parking space with Barbaras crip sticker. Dave pulls up in the red rocket, loaded down with booty from Electric park. We enter very posh stainless, curved surrounding, lith ballerina waitress seats us, the owner comes by to say hi, we chat about the menu, chalked on a board as the ballerina turns into an actress doing performance art with gustatory delights. I get a cod stew and salad and we dig in, great gomps, Barbara talking non stop about the siege of Leningrad, and how the germans worked to destroy all Russian historical sense, by burning palaces, steal ing art, burning and hacking to death anything they couldn’t carry off. The musem staff saw them coming and put all the precious art they could fit on a big passenger train and filled it with as much fuel as possible and drove east until they ran out of gas, and stayed there through the war out in the steppes. More great stories,, she has been a tour guide in Russia, and looks like a Russian mama, but great storyteller. We wipe out lunch and are off to the strip for one last shot.. I get some quartz clusters, she gets some coprolites (fossil shit), and we tour around finding a great booth with fluorescent minerals display. I note these for canyon, and then limp up the river front, meeting dave, paula, steve and their contact, Sam, who is shipping their stuff to the pf for them.

I ogle the huge trilobites and amethyst vugs for a bit, then purchase a led flashing mineral stand for me and win, and some necklaces for the kids, then off to executive suites for another dose of jack, chris and the shop of brains friend crystal images, huge crystals set in steel and bronze sculptures, buy a garnet from chris, then we order up a pile of margaritas anjeo tequila and get hammered. Its late I’m tired, and craig calls, in Mojave, headed down, ill miss him, but Barbara will be there to show him around. We cruse back to the hotel, im totaled out, but we remember the free barbeque that evening and have a over cooked burger and some juice. Back in the room Barbara has showered, is pissed we didn’t tell her about the bbq, but she isn’t paying anything, well, shes used to living like that, it’s a game and a way of life, so I let it slide. I repack my booty into a box for barabara to take to soco for me and my carryon for thte plane ride, and am off to z land.

Seamless trip to Benton via vegas, ann give me a ride to her place from the airport, and I snooze, eat leftover salmon and hit the road, clear sailing to Benton, 5 hours. Cathy is in bishop and we plot an attack on mammoth tmw with snow swirling in the forecast.

Copyright 2009, terry wright

The Sump Canyon paradise

2009-01-26T10:10:00.000-08:00

The sump with bert 1/24/09

The word has a sound and a meaning that reverberates in my brain, a place, a concept and calls for an exploratory with bert. I hear too much from bert and katy about this place, and darcy the teacher at the local school wants to do a field trip with Katys class in the spring and this sounds ideal. Gotta check it out, another canyon, a bowl of canyons, petrified wood, opals, adventure close by. I gather maps, books, gear, forget the gps and return for that. Bert is game, after looking at maps and discussing the possibilities in the living/party trailer sinking into a soft couch, turning down a beer, that just happens to be sitting there, we forge out into the stormy, in and out day. Clouds, rain coming and going, the mts obscured, snow flurries on the northern basalt plateau, a rainbow, katy points out a double rainbow high in the mists, pot of gold in Montgomery canyon.

Bert brings his cane in case we have to walk, and hoists himself awkwardly in to the passenger seat, struggles with the safety belt and settles into the soft hand of the sheepskin seat cover. We cruise up queen valley, over the pass past the abandoned casino/cathouse and motel and down in to the outback of Nevada and fish lake valley. We pass the sign with an image of a horse, the wild horses of Montgomery pass are legendary, we hung with them above queen saddle last fall, 20 of them, beautiful and well fed, tiny grasses poking up thru the scrub at 10,000 feet. Past the diatomite mine, where berts dad used to work, and over the hill to the south into fish lake. This is a monster valley, a few ranches and a big real estate scam development, 20 ac for 80k, a deal for L.A. retirees, but no power, water, expensive to develop and a gamble.

We cut back on the Tonopah road about a mile and spot the road in, a seldom used track past a gravel pile on the right. I put the red rocket into 4wd and we fall off a steep bank into the wash and cruise on the solid ground into a narrowing canyon with promising glimpses of badlands ahead. The canyon narrows to a slot, with a tower of mudstone with a brilliant white cap on one side and I check it out:

volcanic ash bed, continuous, with small fragments of pumice, a white streak across the landscape ahead. The layers are tilted and eroded into millions of tiny canyons, badlands topograph y, it gets better and better as we go past a used campsite, clean, just a remains of a campfire.

The track goes right up the wash, and turns into cliffs, winding and bumping up over a ledge under an overhang, great little jumpup, the Tacoma handles it easily. Now for more, we find a pile of eroded layers and look closely, hcl fizzes, and I intone, Calcite, in man y forms, small crystals, etched surfaces of bladed forms, mineral heaven, kid heaven. We continue into the natural bowl, the sump, actually 2 different canyons with different aspects, to the left, a dipslope with a zillion little mini canyons, and to the right, a cliff with several slot canyons. I head for the biggest one, cross country, no roads, but the area has been molested by quads and dirt bikers, and is blm land, so no worries about environment. We park, Bert flops out of the car, and immediately stoops down on all fours, coming up with what looks like a weed, but is petrified, I test it on my teeth and sure enough, we got pwood. His has little stubs of branches, and is 4 cm long and less than 1 cm in diameter. I look up stream in the little gulley, and spy a layer with more wood chips in it, a perfect place to show source and deposit of a fossil.

Head up the right gully to a promising slot canyon, and enter, vertical walls soar to 50 m, exposing crossbedded dirty sandstones and I enter the sacred cathedral, and revel deep in the rock. Looking vertically, a jagged piece of sky is framed by dark rock, the path of erosion, must be a 50 m or so waterfall here in the rain.

We keep an eye on the clouds, flurrys obscuring the white mts to the west like cotton wads, we don’t want to be here in a downpour, but that doesn’t look likely at this time of year.

Bert is still crawling around, looking for more treasures, more wood, I pickup a piece and pocket it, no permit needed here. Cross-country back to the track down the wash more pictures of badlands, an angular unconformity with tilted layers under horizontal layer s perfectly exposed example of one of the major principles of geology, mountain building, erosion and exposure of the pages of geological history.

I collect some curious green sandstone, reduced iron, very dirty sands with all kinds of weird stuff in it. Tom and cathy would have a blast with this stuff, all kinds of weird geo stories to be told. This is a perfect field trip spot, Katy was right, and my intuition has paid off again. OK, no problem, a field trip in spring looks like a winner. The kids will really be impressed and can be safely left to wander and observe. I would treat it as a geologic field problem, whats going on the surface? What are the rocks, landforms and their history? I am excited at the prospect of another great place to take people, maybe combine with a trip to the hot springs in Fish lake. Just down the road a piece.

We follow a 4wd track out of the wash to the northwest, onto the shoulder with views into the canyons, and to the high point. Bert slides out and picks up a shiny piece, angular, hard: “Opal, not gem quality, but nonetheless, a crystal. Kids will love this” we have already seen samples the girls have collected, and I determine this is another place we should try to get to, an overview, down the canyons from above, maybe we can do a hike with some from bottom to here and have the cars drive around and meet us. Ill try that one out on Darlene on Thursday.

We cast a wary eye on the weather, but now we are on a dirt superhighway, leading to a relay tower for phone, tv etc at the far end of this ridge, a sparse power line leading out like a silver chain in the low sunlight. The white mts look like they are battling for dear life to emerge from swirling mists, and snow flurries, the sun dancing through the changing scene. We explore around and drive to the east ridge, looking down and seeing fish lake in the distance and the grandeur of the high desert valley stretching into the distance.

Back directly to the paved road, past a silver pickup and camper with a person in sleeping bag snoozing on the ground beside, “I wonder if he’s dead” I say, but the foot of the bag moves, and whatever is in there doesn’t seem in too bad shape. We gain the pavement, back to the main hiway with a blinking red light at the stop sign. I comment, “solar powered, a great thing for out here”. Bert responds with a story about how the hiway dept had discovered a pile of money at the end of the year, and had to spend it on something, or lose it, so now we have blinking red lights, solar powered, at all desert intersections. A good thing, you might miss the stop sign if blind or drunk, which half the people out here are anyways.

Past the diatomite mine, bert points out the old road that branches off to a ghost town back in the hills. His dad used to commute from Benton, and came down this road in the early morning to find an unexpected pile of gravel in the middle, crashing the old Plymouth sedan and busting the radiator in the process. He walked to work andcalled bert for rescue, and he came up in another truck, and sealed up the radiator, filled it with more fluids, and used bailing wire to fasten down the hood and fired her up. H could see that it was still leaking and heat rising as he headed up toward the pass. Pushing it to double nickels (100 mph) he is about to make it when the hood cuts loose and folds itself up over the roof. Bert sees it coming so his head goes out the window, just as the hood ornament, the masts and sails of the boat, penetrate the roof and jam down into the space where his head just was. “Death by hood ornament” is my comment as we marvel at the little weird things that happen, the near misses, in the desert.

Into the blinding setting sun poking with god rays through the cloud cover, down the hill, wave at the lady in the bug station, she recognizes us and doesn’t rip my vehicle apart looking for stray orange. Pull up to the junkyard, katy comes running out, What did you see? Whats up there? She is bubbling with enthusiasm. We do our best to throw a wet blanket over the bouncing girl “theres nothing there, they filled it in, part of a road construction project” she doesn’t believe us, but bert persists: “no really, we cant go back, theres no sump left.” Part of the banter, the way of approaching lifes events humorously, a dry funny off the wall way of relating, and I like that.

Copyright 2009, Terry Wright

benton chronicles january 2009

2009-01-22T10:42:00.000-08:00

Benton 1.19.09

Up early with the lightening of the sky, jagged ridges to the east and blessed quiet. A coyote howl interrupts the still, ripping a gash in the otherwise serene setting. Another perfect east sierra day, empty skies except for the occasional cotton smear of a jet contrail. They are short today showing there is no moisture up here, it hasn’t rained in 2.5 weeks, and people are talking about it. Mammoth has plenty of snow left over from December and will be a great mob scene this weekend, LA ski society moving enmass, prompted by MLK 3 day holiday.

I patrol the realm, moving the hose to another decimated shrunken head of a tree, struggleing against the elements of harsh weather too little water and the voracious hunger of the local rabbit population. Linda and Chris removed all the cylindrical fencing I painstakingly set in place, working for days in sleet and sun, and constant wind, to prevent this smorgasboard of delicacies from the little monsters. Chris said they were not needed, boy was he wrong. Hes a landscaper and a local, and a quiet swiss, rugged features making him look a million years older than his mid 50s, shock of sandy hair, slow drawl. You have to drag conversation out of him, but he has a wealth of knowledge of plants and minerals, a regular at Tucson show. But now the battle of the trees has turned in favor of the elements, and the Arizona cypress I have labored over for 4 years are being beaten down again. I look around at Wins, my neighbors trees tall and strong and wonder what went wrong here.

Alone again, free to roam, my mind doing a do-si do around the possibilities, here I write, then I move the hose, then I get another cup of coffee, now finding the guitar humidifier in the sink where I left it yesterday to soak up the life blood from the tap, to fend off the low humidity that tends to destroy guitars. They crack and become brittle, as I found when I threw Mikes guitar out of the the camper with my usual wild abandon setting up camp at Crooked creek, and wondering what happenend when I opened the soft case and found it split into kindeling from the impact. Shit another destruction derby, Ive done it again, $1000 in damaged goods (broken dogs tail, zorched mixer and scratched cousins car) at Cathys the day before she left for spain for a year. Oh well, if you are going to feast off of my energy, youre gonna have to put up with a few glitches, flaws in crystals always occur, that has destroyed several relationships. I destroy things indiscriminitely mainly because I don’t think ahead about the consequences of my actions and how to prevent them before they happen. Some are a surprise, like the two kayak implosions, one from the roof of the camper, and one by falling from the ceiling of the garage from a broken hook. I obsess about that for a while, and let the bubbles I form in my mind to surround such intrusions in to sanity carry them away upward, away from my conciousness.

Back to business, yester day was filled with settleing in, Linda leaving, zoe the dog bouncing around, chasing rabbits and smiling. She is my old friend from way back in the early days of ssu geology teaching, and cares for me and my house like a mother hen. Now off to a 2-3 month dog sitting job in big pine, wont see much of her, c had blown up at her for cleaning up cat food tins with tootsies treats, licking the cans, with jagged edges for the last bit of moisture. “She was really angry with me for this little thing”, “I had the same experience several times, she is really unbalanced in her thinking, I m glad I don’t have to deal with her shit, mine is enough” I reply. She was the ideal person to hook up with, skiing, hiking, partying , but this aspect, and her narcissistic attachement to her dog were constant questions when would she blow? Put that in a bubble and let it drift off into the heavens, out out damn spot! King lear was obsessed also, im not alone.

To town to check in with the local notables, at the po there is berts mom, getting the mail and gossip from the new post lady. Marie had a stroke and a long stay in the hospital in reno, and may never come back, she is a great old local,full of stories and always glad to see me, a bright spot in the day if I needed one after taking in the viewscape of wall to wall mountains from the deck during my morning pee. “Would you like a ride in my shiny red pickup home?” She looks at me with a smile contorting the deep ridges and valleys of her face into synclines and anticlines, I always call her “young lady” and she likes that. She finishes up the conversation, I mail the fooseball to Shasta with a letter and a picture of me, and we mount the steed, buckle in and are off to the junkyard. I call it that, it really is …3 acres of assorted old cars, trucks, equpment, tires, anything you might throw way. Berts dad started collecting this stuff during the depression and its still here, and he is carrying on the tradition. I recognize a big white pickup full of old tires out front, Sam is in from Mina, he and bert are working on a car that has been parked in the front yard for a year or two, sitting next to a jeep with the hood up and head removed. They are in uniform, dirty torn coveralls, Sams dome shining in the sun, berts gray mane as unruly as an unmade bed, big dirty hands clutching various socket wrenches and talking their way through the task of getting an aging sedan back on the road. We meet and greet, banter starts, I tell of my new pacemaker, they rejoin about fixing the engine so Charlotte could have a new car. She only drives it to the café and back for work and occasional Bishop trips, but it always looks like its on its last legs. Im forever in debt to him for mechanical expertise, no matter what it looks like or how bad the problem is he is like Leonardo da vinci with the situration. I have the defunct modem in my hand, and katy (now grown a couple more inches since fall) runs for Jennifer, who brings out her computer, same as mine, mac book and we plug it in, and still no power, this sucks, I remembered it this time, forgot last time and had to bum computer time from local friends or go to the library with a bunch of kids doing games and email and always cacophony, which I deal as well with as the chicken pox. The kids are bopping around, charlotte is mothering, trying to correct bad behavior, scuffing heels, feet up on chairs, doing homework, they are of age, Katy 12, Jennifer 15, bursting with kid energy and ready to rock and roll.

I return to the truck, and replace the modem and other things, remembering the tequila, I fish it out of the back of the pickup, a 1/2 gallon of cuervo, and present it, my usual Christmas present to these guys, imprinted with “merry merry from terry” in black marker. Berts eyes light up and calls for shot glasses. Charlotte brings them but it is early yet, no one feels like getting hammered just yet but the decks are cleared for the occasion. Work to do, I kick back with Charlotte and we catch up on our lives, bert and sam clanking in the background, well mostly Sam, he seems to have taken over the bulk of the job alternately his big bulk leaning over to sort tools from 3 or 4 tool boxes, and back to the beatenup sedan. . Bert shuffles vehicles, brings a battery from sams truck and I hear the throaty roar of the 47 ford pickup and see a blue flash as he pulls it out onto the hiway to make room for more.

I talk to sam “I was through mina yesterday, and that boat restaurant looks open! Whats the deal?”. “Ya that’s a great place, cheaper and better than the stores frozen burritos, great burgers.The lady is a good cook, great coleslaw, u know, not the sweet kind, most has too much sugar, this is fresh and vinegary, and the burgers are a full 1/4 pound and good and greasy”/ I gag just thinking about the fat and cholesterol hes injesting. But it sounds like a trip, to go there for lunch then on to Berlin-Ichthyasaur park to see the fossils, left in the ground under cover, for all to see. It is past mina a ways into the wilds of central Nevada, but would be a great excursion. The boat is a 50’ cabin cruiser that has been sitting there beside hiwy 95 for many years, and now has come into another life as the center of culinary excellence in the decrepit collection of broken houses and sheds that is mina, an old mining town south of hawthorn on 95 and just 40 minutes from Benton.

1/19

first alone night is lonely, but I have talks on the phone with rob and he has my picture framed and ready to go, a spectacular image of rising sun on granite spires, a picket fence of peaks, from the sierra. I gave him the money last spring after he worked for me for a day, helping bob pave the entrance to the driveway to cover the countys requirement that I have an encroachment permit to connect to their road. They still hold 500$ of mine in escrow for the job. All I have to do is call harrys boss and tell him the job is done, and ill get return.

Now to greet the new day, sun over the mts at 8:15, and getting earlier all the time, thank you sun for your gift of life. Putter around unable to concentrate, obsessing and practicing deep breathing and bubbles carrying away thoughts in a warm clear sea. It helps to visualize, but I get stuck in a thought of bad-assed shit in my past, that I cant do anything about now, but still it gnaws at me, like catch the demon in Practical Demonkeeping, the book I read before sleep catches me unawares.

I do the exercise routine, realize I haven’t eaten and its almost noon, after a tuna sandwich, I snooze briefly and then head off for the ski country, the nearest pass with snow. It hasn’t snowed for 2 weeks up here even so everthing is crusty, icy, and not good for xc, but I gotta try out my new boards, metal edge xc skiis with sidecut and fishscales, warm boots, new poles from black diamond, a xmas gift to me, to replace my battered and outdated gear from the early 90s. turning off the road past wildrose summit I plough through low drifts, crunching like bones in a demons mouth under the fat off road tires with triple sidewalls to fend off anything that might slice. Drive to the end of navigable road and a stretch of white beckons, somewhat continuous, a ribbon of joy leading to the adventure of the ridge above.

The boots and skiis are mounted easily, great to have modern new equipment that works, and head off alternately skimming over frozen shadow protected snow, and deeper sugar, sinking in to my ankles. The wide skiis keep me up tho and I head up the trail. I start to think, what would happen if something fucked up? If I broke a leg and couldn’t make it back to the truck? No one knows im up here, a mile off the road. I determine to get a cell phone that works here so I have at least some backup, and a system to tell people where im going, so they know where to look for the body at least. Well, adventure calls, so I push on, bubbling more obsessive thoughts away and concentrating on the beauty of the high desert forest, pinons studding the white blanket of snow, all smooth and inviting. But the snow is awful, like walking on railroad ties, alternately sliding over frozen and then plowing into deep, and it is a patchwork quilt of dirt and snow, not bad going up, but coming back worries me, sliding downhill with no control, the new bindings and boots will help me turn, but with the narrow trail, bumpy and varied snow conditions, it will be a challenge.

I look ahead at inviting meadows but realize that the snow has melted on the sage bushes so there is no clear path to just take off across country. Stick to the road, interesting contorted tree patterns, Gloria artist forms like in an art gallery. I stop often, breathing hard with the altitude, didn’t check the gps altimeter, but it is at least 7000 feet, and the air is thin, my chf-stricken heart flopping around trying to get the ejection fraction above 35% (normal is 60%), gotta lose weight, strengthen heart muscle, get out there. This is a perfect way to do it combined with discovering new treasure of areas unknown to all but me. After a mile, im thinking of finding out what its going to be like going downhill. I kick around and start gliding, but the snow is grabbing and sliding every few meters, and I end up falling on my butt after trying a turn to slow down. Now to get up, this is like lifting lead weight, and I finally struggle upright, bending one of my new poles in the process. Shit, new equipment, destroyed already, I m at it again. I try some more and make it 100 meters before I fall again. This time kick the skiis off and get up and walk back to the truck, enough of this bulls, I don’t want to hurt myself and end up shivering to death, the sun is shining, I didn’t bring a pack, and no water, no survival stuff, id be fued if something happened and I know that s happens out here all the time and sneaks up on you when least expected.

Back at the truck, I drive to a sunny spot, set up a chair and snack down, hb egg and date bar, more water. The temp is warm so I relax for bit and think about the rest of the plan. I determine to drop by joys place and meet her formally, she is a wildlife biologist, works for blm and has a nice log cabin modular behind the Benton hot springs museum, consisting of old ranching equipment lying around and rusting because rust never sleeps. I see vehicles and pull in slowly. A voice greets me from the yard “Im looking for Joy, are you her?”, “I am” comes the reply and she stands, working with a boy on metal frame for a greenhouse.. introducing myself and struck by the image of fit woman tshirt shorts, bicyclist sunglasses and billed hat and toothy smile. We meet and greet, I help with a mechanical problem and we talk about our lives. Her son is there, computer geek from Berkeley, to help assemble a greenhouse she bot many years a go and has been lying fallow in the yard, not growing anything. Put it to good use. I invite her for Friday night potluck, she seems good for it, doesn’t get out much, must be lonely out here. I hear her ex lives across the street in the marble block house, but is gone a lot putting on pyrotechnics shows. She wants to pump me about geology, but im on my way to pats computer internet connection to catch up on mail and other chores. I show her my macbook, she is a graphic artist also,so we talk about the east sierra cross-section graphic, and agree to look at it . I slide off graciously, she obviously wants to get as much done before dark while the weather is good. Another interesting person tucked away in Benton, boy did I hit the jackpot for people up here, and I am becoming the catalyst to get them together.

Onward to Pat chambers’ modular on 42 acres off the highway south of town, turn past the sign advertising modular homes and lots starting at 299k$, a hastily stenciled notation over the original price of 350, added a year ago as things havnt been moving very fast out here. Thank god, there is a 30 home subdivision in the planning process 1 street over from me, and it is dead in the water also, the bad economy is protecting the land like a gentle glove here. Benton is a little too far out for most people, only 30 minutes at most to bishop, where there is everything, but fortunately few are willing to move that far. The locals and I love it, insulation from the seething mass of outdoor fanatic yuppies with thousands in gear who want a foothold out here in mountain wonderland.

Pat and Helen emigrated from Hawaii, he an artist and she a phd in psychology. I enter their modular weaving through a perfectly laid out stonework fence and grand staircase up to the door. Lots of shouting inside and I come in to find their daughter, her chicano husband and 4 boys of various sizes playing video games and generally bouncing off the walls. Helen sets up her computer for me, has to reboot, uh oh, windows machine, I hate these things, so unintuitive, oh well, at least I can get email. The crowd is eating cake and celebrating pats bday, I pass, and get to task. Nothing earthshaking in news, a few notes about Tucson, where I go in a week for the gem show, and others catching up to me. I download the driver for the modem from robotics, but cant figure out the windows way of putting it on a cd, I left the thumb drive at home, so after fooling around for too long, I give up. The kids have left, quiet reigns, we get mellow and talk of Hawaii, Benton, great stories, weaving back and forth following strings of subject matter weaving an entertaining web. Pat shows a dvd program of pictures of his great grandfather in the western movies, as an Indian, cowboy, all the trappings of the old west.

I move on into the night, remembering I had told cathy id drop by, find the dirt drive and out to the yellow submarine, her house on the lot I had made an offer on in 02. the people were holding out, and didn’t want to sell, and I found this place with 10 acres and that was it. The house is a wreck, stuff, boxes strewn all over the place, no order. She is leaving next week for Michigan, fed up with the lack of opportunity here, and headed for a job a chiropracter in the town she grew up in with her parents. She’s the one who crashed on mothers day drunk in the morning, and came back looking like the bride of Frankenstein, 60 stitches in forehead quite shaken by the affair. I find no one there, room to cluttered room, a frenzy of packing. They must be at terry and gerrys next door at their house, built on the other 4 acre lot I had looked at in 02. I hear noise out side and its cathy, coming to fetch me, “we are partying over at t and js, burritos, bad wine and locals” so I follow and find a great gathering of the neighborhood, with a few kids and chalfanters thrown in. I drink bad wine from a box, and talk to cathy about her transition. She is going to take over a chiropractic practice from a dr she knew in Michigan, who now has a debilitating disease and cant use his hands and body to do the work. She’s upbeat about the change, but her kids look lost, a major change and adaptation for them. Lynn ex Hill is there too, working now at the bug station, she checked me in at the hospital in 02 when I had chf, we have a nice conversation and then she heads off to work the graveyard shift. 1 burrito is delicious and enough, we banter some more with gerry and a young very cowboy lookin dude from chalfant, married to a young teacher from the local school, we exchange stories, and gerry rambles into one of his long monologs about his great grandfather who was in the westerns also, he has seen pats dvd and is impressed. Finally leaving, gentle hugs and back pats all around, firm handshakes from the cowboys, and im off into the night, another day done in beautiful far out Benton. Copyright 2009 terry wright

Copyright 2009, terry wright

more hawaii

2009-01-11T17:31:00.000-08:00

ok to be short, we hadda great thanksgiving with paul and dennis and friend roland, west point grad. and a small gather of locals, next day to the airport to pick up the jeep, and then out to green sand beach, waipio valley, mauna kea, and other points. 2 nights at a funky chicken b and b in hawi with a ditzy lady, but quiet after the planer stopped and the kids turned down the stereo. to hapuna beach on the way home. one last night at mangolay, then the long flight home. arriveing at
shannons late, and next day thru eileens moms place and thru sf and home to forestvillle for the hollerdaze

Hawaii blog 11/28/08

2008-11-30T22:23:00.000-08:00

hawaii chronicles 11/24/08

back again for more of the warm tropic winds, at mangolay, the estate paul and dennis have created from a plot of papaya farms road. well done, open archetecture, no doors inside, all the masks and sculptures from the ridge well placed, steps into the pool (now cool it not being summer) hot tub poised above for action, surrounded by flowers, banana trees, mangos all green with spots of colored orchids in strategic places growing out of crooks in the trees. Eileen and i are ensconced in the guest cottage, inside and outside showers, 3 dogs now playing around and snarling in mock battle. neighbor dogs in a constant barking chorus, singing to each other from across the rain forest. chained up and being very upset about that.

we head out to the end of the road after finding wifi in the parking lot of the pahoa natural food store with the usual gaggle of hippies sitting in front, then to lunch and black sand beach walk at kalapana, the end of the road, a few places spared by the lava flow that came through in 1986, when i first walked on hot lava and peeed into a crack and steam came out. not much beach left, but people have been anticipating it by planting cocos in little rock piles and they have taken hold. The towering steam cloud of lava entering the ocean is miles to the west, we decide to partake at another time.

activities abound, a trip to the hippie beach, nestled in cliffs below the coast road not far away, great waves to play in, people busy hanging out and watching the surf play. a chess game set up on a rock with intent dreadlocks moving ornate wooden pieces. a steep trail down, or a slide down a vine along the face of the cliff, spray bursting from behind rock ledges catching brilliant afternoon sunlight. trim naked bodies all over, taking in the scene, on island time. we time it just right to burst through the smaller waves to mingle off shore with others, delighting in the elevator ride of 6 foot waves. "you should see it with 9 foot waves" paul says. we climb carefully up the trail fulfilled by the fun and motion and people.
the usual kapoho snorkling trip, counting colored fish, looking for turtles, visiting with other tourists, 2 woman rangers from alaska here for a month. next day then a hike to the champagne pool, a mile walk, with 3 turtles to swim with, clear water and a broken/repaired snorkel, needed a new one anyway. the underwater camera works fine until it doesnt work, and i find some water has leaked in. i dry it out and its ok, tg, but i use it again to film a swimming tortise and it is kaput. not another camera down and out, thatll be 3 in three years, oh well.

to the end of the road to the kalapana cafe and great mahi and chips and vanilla milkshakes, and a hot foray to the overlook for the volcano, now plunging into the sea at the east end of the rift, lava covering more of the flow i saw in 1986, with a few new houses dotting the black lava. we wait for the emt to position himself in case we kill ourselves and then a hot walk 1/2 mile to the overlook, still 2 miles down the coast, billowing white clouds up from the shore. pictures for sale show the only way to see the lava is by boat at night, for 150$, so we pass on that one. we pick up a clean-looking hippie woman hitchhiker on her way back from town, and drop her off at the coco commune down the road from mangolay, open the gate, and are greeted again by the dog chorus/greeting committee, happy and excited to have someone to bark at.

back to snooze and kava/wine time and conversation on the deck with dennis and paul. finally now to dinner at the local hot dining
spot, long wait at the bar, we are always late, so we wait. perfect fish, calamari, ono, scallops, balletto pinot a perfect match. great mix of people, natives, tourists, first class service from a friend of paul and dennis' who gives hugs all around.

sunday market is super busy, now covering several acres, we find some nice sarongs and a sarong buckle, which i promptly break, good idea tho. buy some great photos of the eruption with shoots of lava taken from 2 miles away, from the only observation point the cd will let us in on. delightful lady photographer tells of good lenses and many hours sitting with a tripod..to catch the fireworks show.

afternoon we hit the road over the volcano, watching the vog drift towards kona, rounding windswept south point to captain cook and the monaga hotel, old hawaiian style and cheap, great view but the vog is covering everything. we stop at the city of refuge and i dip in for a few minutes to check the fish and coral everywhere while eileen suns on the pahoehoe ledges, looking like they are fluid swirling, frozen in geologic time, here only a few hundred years old.

dinner sorta sucks, but cheep, the wine is awful, but the dining room is busy with all kinds of locals gathered, big tables of big hawaiains, hoeles (us). we see later we shoulda ordered the pork chops, the specialty here. waitresses busily pushing carts of food around and loud conversation everywhere. Morning brings no breakfast place open, so we do macdonalds, and find thier side of eggs quite good and solid , no salt. now to kona boys who clue us in on the kayaking scene at captian cook monument and soon we are on our way down the hill, a double kayak on the roof to the landing, the usual chaotic loading up scene and we are on our way paddling a mile across the bay to the monument, teeming with other kayaks, snorklers and dive cruise boats. The pali looms a thousand feet up on the shore, exposing a layered volcanic stratigraphy the head wall of a monster landslide thousands of years ago that created a tsunami that deposited coral 1000 feet up on dthe tops of adjacent islands. that was a scene, geology in action. and when you look at the bathymetry around the islands, many more areas have had the same treatment, the tsunamis must have reached japan or the us coast. that would be a major disaster today if it hit hilo or any other populated area.

we beach with a host of others, but find a nice pahoehoe ledge to spread out on, fix snorkeling gear and off into the wonderland of fish and coral. this place i have heard is amazing, and it is, with many snorkelers and millions of fish, varieties ive never seen before. i scout the dropoff for a sign of spinner dolphins, who spin as they leap for some unknown reason, maybe ridding themselves of parasites, but to no avail, they are the prize sighting here, but arnt coming out today. we break and snack on smoked ono from the flea market, and ramble the pahoe hoe, finding a forest behind the beach with sandy places for camps if needed. It is hot, with a little breeze but time to snooze, then slide back into the water for more dazzling scenery. i work my way along a long rock ledge,with wolf eels poking their gray fuzzy heads oout of holes and perfect coral mounds spotted with delicate black urchins, careful not to touch, they sting ferociously.

thats it for now, back to the kayak, rig and head on back to the dock surfing the surge, making good time. a big hawaiian helps us out of the boat up a 4' wall and we drag the boat out and on to dock. The big guy tells of railroad tracks in the concrete where they used to bring cattle to the dock, on cars and push them into the water, swimming them out to a boat with a crane to lift them on board.

more help from a young dive guide, very friendly, rigging the boat on top and tying it down, and off up the hill. we pass inspection at kona boys and have a good conversation with them, then to mexican billys restaurant in capn cook for margaritas and big pig sandwich. we battle the headwinds around south point and its cute neat villages and then across the kau desert. eileen notes that the volcano plume is closer and darker, and indeed we see it is in the park, coming from halemaumau crater. arriving at the jagger museum there is a sizable group watching smoke coming out of the crater and a ranger is giving a talk about how this really is an eruption, and we are lucky to see and live through it. he has diagrams and spotting scopes set up. i look at the seismographs in side and they are jiggling away with volcanic tremor. the word is the magma is 300 feet under the surface and coming up. I try to take a picture, but the batteries are shot in my functional camera, so i run back to the car, having my own eruption when i get there. clean up as best i can, and grab the batterys, finding only a couple that work, and back to the gathering dusk, getting a few pictures of the gas cloud before darkness sets in.

back down the hill in time for kava/wine time and the rest of the bbq ono for dinner. now enuf of the blood and guts novels (no country for old men , and a thief of time) starting on the shark dialogs, a saga of an hawaiian family from captain cook, to sleep as the coqui frogs chirp in the background.

the days slip by, now tuesday, a week in hawaii, kicking back, napping, listening to the neighbors dogs barking, the birds calling watching the dog patrol of the property. all is well. we head out finally to the japenese cemetary, it is hot, and beautiful, partially inundated by the 1960 flow, but with some old graves intact. a catchement water system and flowers everywhere, orchids growing out of palms, they are parasites, some planted there in the forks between limbs.

eileen wants to head back,so i icontinue down the governement road,the dirt part, an old road that was used by the king to go from village to village, now party place for the locals with trash everywhere. I find waawaa, the original place paul and dennis were going to build, spectacular waves crashing on black lava cliffs, carls shack still hidden in the woods worshiping the menahunis, he believes they control the land. I have to scramble over 3 heaps of rubble plowed up to deter fisherman entrance, and down to a seat by the sea, major swell and waves erupting all over a miles long landscape. I look for my gps, but it is gone, i hung it from my belt loop , but only half way, and it must have slipped off. i search carefully, retracing my steps to the trail and find it perched in the tall grass, waiting patiently for me.

on down the road, to the subdivision, try to find eileen's place to no avail, then to the internet cafe, a milkshake and major frustration, finding i had somehow replaced this file with one of addresses, shit, i cant do anything right now. return to mangolay to a quick nap and the kava/wine hour, and another great dennis concoction for dinner. to bed to the singing of coqui frogs, getting used to them now, they fade into the background with the barking dogs. mercifully silent now.

lazy morning again wednesday, bkfst on the patio after coffee in bed, papaya and kibbles, slow start, we finally head to town, hit the po for stamps and then down to hpp to the end of the govt road and a hike into the jungles through some fields dotted with orchids. Into the gloaming, wet roots, pahoehoe, rocks, mud, flat trail but not much fun. we find a sign and fence and know we are at the main area for a pocket beach s-beach, owned by local sugar cane magnates, but no obvious place. eileen returns and i forge on along the coast with rolling billows of pahoehoe, and pockets of basalt and coral cobbles which move constantly as i step on them. still no beach ahead as far as i can see so i rest and watch the waves crash at a big native wall. I cut back through the jungle to the govt road, now a narrow path through the jungle floored with rotting palm fronds, roots entwined, think of a set of photos of "Footings" types of problems encountered on hikes and how to deal with footing without falling. a long slog back, constantly watching my feet. a rush behind me alerts for tigers, or something big, but it is a rain squall, very locallized in the jungle startling me that i am not alone. Eileen is at the car andwe head back, snoozing for a few, then more kava/wine time, and another great meal capped off by macademia nut cookies and my video of lava flows set to various acts of music.

check my website for new stuff

2008-11-14T08:42:00.000-08:00

www.terrywrightgeology.com

Tuolumne Guidebook Project

2008-01-12T15:33:00.000-08:00

I am in the process of revising "Rocks and Rapids of the Tuolumne River" guidebook which I first
published in 1983. Rivermaps is going to publish it in a long format with topo map base and text reading from bottom to top along the map. see www.rivermaps.net for examples. I have posted the original text and revisions to the mile by mile guide on this blog for you to comment on. Send comments, revisions, new stories etc to me through this blog or to my email address
teedub@terrywrightgeology.com. lets roll. pax t