Back in the Saddle Again

The Yellowstone park concession company involved in this tale of woe shall remain blameless. So, certainly, shall its employees. But it was a taste of hell.

We recently made one of our long trips to Greater Yellowstone. In order that I should not seem like a complete crank, I agreed to go with the rest of the family on the Roosevelt cookout. Roosevelt is a small village in the north part of the park, a place of open sagebrush valleys and, often, burning sun. For many years, whatever company runs the hotel concession has hauled big groups of tourists out into the near backcountry at Roosevelt, by horseback and horse-drawn wagon, for a dinner of steaks and other Western fare. It is one of the most popular and well-loved activities in the park.

We arrived at dusty Roosevelt just in time; I had spent a good portion of my park career working here, so I knew the place well. Jen signed us in and paid. The paperwork in a place like this is normally an odd mixture of cowboy lingo and deadly serious legalese: "Howdy, recreational client!" I watched as a string of tourists on horseback sauntered in, the wranglers riding ahead with some panache. The sight of those wranglers, perfectly at ease on a galloping horse, made me feel, briefly, as if I had missed something all my life--but they were born to this stuff, by and large. The wranglers were the same as ever, especially the female wranglers, attractive in a countrified way, sometimes a scary countrified way: Texas countrified, not Vermont countrified.

We of the tourist mass were not born to this stuff. We sat down in the amphitheater dedicated to this purpose (how many of us? a hundred fifty, maybe?), and listened to an hour of instructions and warnings obviously required by the company attorneys. I had been through it before, and this lecture has always been the greatest hurdle for me. As happens to me sometimes in the park, I had not eaten in about twenty-four hours. Imagine a restaurant that requires an hour-long lecture on etiquette before dinner, then spends an hour escorting you to your table. Imagine enduring this while hungry, in the pounding sun. Our lecturer was the cowboy singer who would sing to us when we arrived at the cookout, a Texan of retirement age who, as usually happens, made us like him in spite of the circumstances. He also told stories about grizzly bears "sixty yards away" from the cookout, a measurement he had confidence in because he was able to visualize a football field. I dismissed the possibility out of hand, still used to a 1990s Yellowstone in which the grizzlies were not as plentiful as they are today.

At last, the lecture ended ("Yee haw and saddle up, minors and consenting adults!"). We clambered into the wagons and rolled in a deliberate manner to the far end of the valley. We were in the hands of a driver and a tour guide, and the driver helped out with the lecture on the park that accompanies a ride like this. The driver did a good job, especially since he had to deliver his part of the lecture in between yelling "Gee!" and "Haw!" at the horses, a pair of monstrous Belgians. "Gee" means "Turn right," and "Haw" means "Turn left." Honestly, I never knew those had anything to do with direction. I thought that was just something you yelled.

The valley is a lovely place, a narrow sagebrush flat surrounded by low, forested ridges that gave an oddly homey feel. It was once a lake; one can easily see the benches around the valley that mark the former lake levels. Up and down our route, the bison and the antelope played. We reached the outdoor kitchen and tables, and the cooks, who had preceded us, were soon serving. The singer, released from his duties as a safety and liability officer, took his guitar, stood on some logs, and sang ancient, inoffensive country favorites like "Happy Trails" in a mellow voice that grew on you.

The dinner is all-you-can-eat, and I took them at their word, consuming about three full meals. While I labored over my second steak, there was a great commotion. I looked up to see, from my seat, a grizzly approaching. I did not bother to get up, mostly because I could not quite believe it. He was perhaps not full grown--a subadult, the biologists would say, and he did seem oddly adolescent, uncertain whether he belonged here. Still, his sides rippled formidably with the silver that gave the species its name. He approached within, yes, sixty yards, then made a long circle around the cookout area, finally leaving to the west on one of the riding trails. All those cooking smells pooling in that valley must drive the bears to the edge of dementia.

Lewis and Dustin were happy. Jen was happy too. Lewis was playing in the little creek that flowed between the outdoor kitchen and the tables. A girl approached me, maybe seven years old. "Excuse me," she said to me in the most earnest tone, "but I believe you are not supposed to come in contact with the water. It has diseases in it."

"Oh, thank you," I said. "What kind of diseases?"

"Something to do with the kidneys." She reminded me of Holly Hunter in the old movie Broadcast News. I was charmed.

Then everything went to hell. As we buckaroos mounted up for the long return trip (a mile it is, maybe--one could walk it in a third of the time), Lewis, who was then three and a half, decided he did not like where he was sitting. He went into a tantrum. He screamed without pause, thrashing on the floor like a boated shark, for the entire return trip. I thought of picking him up, stepping off the wagon, and strolling back to the corral--we would have beat them--but who knows how many regulations I would be violating? And so we sat, stuck.

I was stuck in more ways than one. Because I spent so much time working in parks, I cannot stand causing trouble. It's not just Yellowstone; I feel this way during every service-sector transaction I ever undergo. I find it impossible to mess up a hotel room, even when the management has done something to irritate me. Except for the linen and towels, I sometimes leave the room cleaner than I found it. I also bus my own dishes in a restaurant, making a little pyramid of tableware on my dish. It is painful. Worse, I hate being regarded by the insiders as a tourist, which is what we looked like at that moment. Here was precisely the kind of annoyance park employees tell stories about ("You won't believe what happened today").

But it was more than that. This whole affair was what we can call a "packaged experience." I have been avoiding this sort of thing all my adult life. Why? Is it just because I was an English major, and so can be expected to shun anything that is corporate or bourgeois or has the air of Disney about it? I had forced myself to get over that sort of youthful rebelliousness, although I will never be able to wear Mickey Mouse ears with a straight face. Now, I saw that there were a few good reasons left to rebel. The packaged experience is also one in which you are trapped. No matter what happens, you are stuck with the plan you have paid for.

Lewis screamed and screamed and screamed. At the end of the trip, we were required to wait for the wranglers to emplace footstools--the work again of the attorneys--and help us down like arthritics. I hissed at them and carried the still-screaming Lewis to the car like a sack of potatoes.

Lewis screamed on the way home. The plentiful snow on distant peaks lit up red, like a corny motel painting. He screamed at home. He went to bed, and he screamed in his sleep, then got up, screamed, and finally passed out close to midnight. He had never done anything quite like this. It was as if he was saving it up until the perfect moment to strike.

Think Red Baron

July 29th was our fifth anniversary, and we wanted to do something really special to celebrate the day. We’ve done helicopter rides, we’ve summitted Denali in a small bush plane, oxygen masks and all, we’ve been dog sledding on a glacier, we’ve been horseback riding, we often ride rollercoasters, and we’re getting married in a hot air balloon. Erin has even been skydiving. One thing that we’ve often seen advertised, but had yet to do, is take a ride in a biplane. Think Snoopy. Think the Red Baron. Yeah, that seems special, right? What could go wrong?

We showed up for a romantic sunset biplane ride over Martha’s Vineyard and got strapped in. Something feels fundamentally wrong about sitting in front of your pilot. Maybe that should have been Erin’s first clue that this would not be her dream come true anniversary celebration.

We put on our leather caps (yeah, because those will protect our skulls, right?) with the cool goggles connected to them, and they pulled the seatbelt tight. All was secure, and before we knew it, we were off!

Taking off in a flight on a grass runway is interesting. In fact, the Katama Airfield, where we got our biplane flight, is one of the last remaining grass airports in the country. There may be a reason for that.

Begee was instantly in heaven, laughing and smiling in that weird way that he does even on rollercoasters when everyone else is screaming, while Erin was instantly terrified, clinging to Begee for dear life. That was not the reaction she expected.

There’s something fundamentally wrong about feeling the air on your face while in a plane. That’s two strikes.

Our pilot, Mike, flew us over South Beach, out over Katama Bay looking for great white sharks (think “Jaws”) – luckily (or not) we didn’t see any because the water was too choppy. We went up and over Chappaquiddick Island, where we got our first glimpse of the Cape Poge Lighthouse. We zoomed up and down, all around, to meet the other biplane, and Erin’s fingernails dug deeper into Begee’s poor arm. He was still giggling and enjoying every second, not even minding that he couldn’t see the pilot or the fact that there was nothing but a leather cap between his head and the sky. Unfortunately, Begee wasn’t able to take as many pictures as he might have liked, as there was no way Erin was letting go of his arm.

Mike had asked before we got in the plane if we would like to do some fun stunt stuff – rolls and dives and the like – for free. He’d throw it in there for us. This is an experience people usually pay extra for. “We’ll see when we get up there,” Erin said. “Sure, sure,” Mike said. “Most people calm down once they’re airborne. They see how stable biplanes really are.” Erin has never been in the category “most people.”

“You alright there, Erin?” He kept asking over the headset radio. He was sitting behind us, but still could tell how terrified she was. Was it that obvious? Maybe it was the fact that with every right turn, she turned as far left as possible without leaning out of the plane. Maybe it was the fact that her head never left the forward-facing position. Maybe he could just smell the fear.

We flew over David Letterman’s house, Meg Ryan’s house (who we later saw at the grocery store – Meg, if you read this, you’re too skinny for your lips!), the “Jaws” and Ted Kennedy bridges, the beautiful coastline all around the island, and the resort where we’re working this summer. Mike even slowed down and turned back a little so Erin could take a picture of the resort, but that meant she had to move her head from the forward-facing position to one facing directly to the ground below, so no picture was to be taken. Oh well. We’ve seen the resort. We know what it looks like.

We flew low over the ocean. Begee especially enjoyed this feeling. Erin especially did not.

Once we circled in for landing, Begee became the sad one and Erin the happy one. She was never so happy as to see a grass runway! Begee was sad the flight was over so soon and wanted to do more, especially the loop-de-loops. Erin just wanted to kiss the ground.

Once we got out, we couldn’t wipe the smiles from our faces – Begee because of the amazing and exhilarating flight, and Erin because it was over. Mike said, “Look how happy she is to be on the ground again!” and then discussed with us how to conquer such a fear of flying in a biplane. He said Erin was by far his most terrified passenger. Great – what an accomplishment. He offered to take us up again when Erin is ready. “You’ll know when you’re ready,” he said.

As we write this entry almost a month after, she’s still not ready.

Begee, however, is anxiously awaiting his second flight, leather helmet, cool goggles, and all.

Mountain Musings

My last blog was written around the time I departed Thailand, so these first couple of paragraphs are an abridged chronological catch-up.
After brief visits with family and friends in the States, I spent two months working at Yellowstone National Park. That was followed by a month hiking in the Sierra's, and two days ago I arrived in China.

This blog was written in the Beijing airport, and is being sent from a hotel in Urumxi, the capital of the Xinjiang Autonomous Region. The content is not about China, however (that'll come next time). This entry is the consolidation of scribblings from my time in the Sierra's. So if at times the use of present-tense makes it sound like I'm still hiking, don't be misled. The article's rough draft material came from the California mountains, but the finished product (like so many other products) was MADE IN CHINA.

With every wilderness experience there is a continual dance from the mundane "survival" mode (soggy beloging on a rainy morning that need to be packed, charred pots that need to be washed, chapped lips, cat-holes in the woods, stiff stinky socks) to the "sacred" (singing, dancing, praying, panoramic views, a special place, panther tracks) and back to survival again (cold feet, protecting food, blisters, shelter). Every moment is an integration of being a human of culture, lugging a 50-pound backpack up and down hills, with being wild and at home, frolicking in a swift river like a beaver. -Renee Soulee, "Wilderness Ecopsychology"

This article is mostly concerned with the mundane, but don't get the wrong idea. So fresh from my wilderness experience, I feel my words inadequate to describe the depth of the sacred. But it was there.

The John Muir Trail is approximately 220 miles, and runs between Yosemite Valley and Mount Whitney in the California Sierra's. This is the fourth time that I've hiked this route, although the last time was in 1987. The first time I was only 14, and that stretches back time even further.

The trail has changed some since then, but not considerably. There are more people now, and more regulations. For example, now hikers are required to pack out their used toilet paper. Fortunately, extended time in Thailand has given me alternative methods. "Toilet paper? I don't need no stinkin' toilet paper." Emphasis on stinking.

There are more flies on the trail also, maybe the result of more dung from horse and mule trains. It's a bit disconcerting, but these flies who thrive on waste and filth won't go within inches of my bare feet. I guess it's a good thing I'm not sharing a tent this trip.

Anyway, enough elucidation about elimination. Scat, scat.

Another development on the trail has been the emergence of the 'go-lite backpacker,' hikers who have made a science of minimizing the pounds and ounces of their packs. The plus side to that, of course, is the pleasure of a lighter backpack. A downside is that the minimal food they carry forces them to rush very quickly from point A to B.

This is all well and good, for there are many different ways to walk through these mountains. However, there is a sub-species of the go-lite hiker whom I personally find a bit tiresome. This is the go-lite fanatic, who not only believes that his way is best, but that it would be better for you as well. Within minutes of meeting them on the trail they have informed you of the weight they started with, how much they're carrying now, and what their pack will weigh tomorrow. In the same breath they recite the distance they covered so far today, and how long the trip will take them in total. But most irritating, is that while they are offering this unsolicited information, they are also sadly and superiorly eying my own bulging backpack. They may give lip service to nature's beauty, but 'stop and smell the pine trees' just isn't a part of their philosophy.

On the other end of the spectrum, at least for this trip, lies my own inclinations. My typical day begins with an early wake-up, and then lying comfortably in my tent until it gets warmer. I close my eyes and recapture my dreams, maybe read a bit... When I actually emerge from the tent I leisurely make breakast and begin breaking down my camp. Then I wander on through some of the most enjoyable scenery on the planet, ready to encounter whatever flora, fauna and interesting hikers present themselves. Why hurry? Where am I going? This is it, right here and right now. I hike slowly, with plenty of stops. When the time feels right I find a sweet spot, set up my tent and make dinner. Sometimes I endulge with a small campfire to accompany my nightly hot chocolate. The stars appear and create my canopy, and in the morning the cycle begins again.

But for the most part, go-lite hikers not withstanding, the people I meet on the trail are great. One family has taken a year off from their normal lives and after South America, Europe and South East Asia, are capping things off by hiking the John Muir Trail. A wonderful family, finding a wonderful way to live.

I was enjoying my meandering pace so much, that with two weeks left I restudied my maps. If I exited the trail at Kersarge Pass, I could slow my pace down to 6 or 7 miles a day. This would allow me time for side-trips and layovers.

Maybe if I hadn't done the trail before, I'd be more gung ho to reach its ending point. As it is, I have no trophy to bag, no hiking partner to negotiate with, and no life crisis to solve. I am simply, as Bill Bryson might say, out for a walk in the woods. Ah, have I convinced myself? Yes, I have. Keersarge Pass it is.

I also have the time while hiking to think of numerous things, both weighty and trivial. For example, I calculate that at this point in my life I have had 59 jobs. If I count the year that I did magic shows and temp jobs across America, the total raises to 91 (boy, that was a year for the W-2 forms). For all that employment you'd think that I'd have a small fortune by now.

I'm also seeing alot of ghosts as I hike. Not tangible scarey ones, but the friendly memories of past times on and near this trail. There's even the ghost of a 14-year-old boy, on his first geographical steps into adulthood and independence.

The body's doing ok. No blisters, which is either a tribute to better boot technology or my increased knowledge of foot care. I had an earache for a few days, which led to sudden occurences of vertigo (an unfortunate affliction when crossing logs and mountain passes). But I stuck a piece of cotton in my ear, and both the pain and dizziness abated. A lost filling causd me some nerve pain, but I was able to address that with a temporary filling mixture. How many go-lite hikers carry temporary filling mixture? Ha!

As with most long hikes, I began this one out of shape. By the time I finish, I will be be in perfect condition to begin a hike. Then begins the gradual physical decline until my next wilderness sojourn.

Of course, I'm getting older now. Maybe I'll take this renewed body and maintain it. Maybe I'll eat more nutritiously and incorporate an exercise regime. Yeah, maybe I'll do that. Probably not.

Inspite of increased conditioning, the uphill still gets me at times. Mountain passes are like some people. They can be beautiful and still be bitches.

The mountains are tamer now then when I was 14. To a city-raised kid, the John Muir Trail was a path through remote wilderness. Now I'm familiar with mountains, and I've wandered through areas much more remote. The beauty is still here, but at times it seem like some of the magic has departed.

But at other times, if my mind and spirit are in the right space, all the magic comes rushing back and I realize that it's my consciousness, not the mountains, which determines my experience.

The capacity to experience the natural world as sacred is one of the ordinary privileges of being human. It is our birthright. We need only transcend the limits of human-centered thinking. Beyond these limits lies the wild - the far boundaries of home. -Elizabet Roberts, "The Soul Unearthed"

I took two books with me on this trip; some quotations of John Muir and the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Muir felt that it was his duty to entice others into the wilderness. He considered himself unable to depict the beauty and majesty with words, and could only urge people to come, come, experience it for themselves.

I agree, and as previously noted have foregone the attempt to describe the beauty and spirit of this hike. As a treasured friend once told me in a sublime moment, "words suck."

As to our Nation's founding documents, I urge you to read them for yourself. But first, wash your mind out with metaphysical soap. Use whichever process you employ for that; fasting, meditation, ritualized cognition... Try to reach that open awareness that Suzuki Roshi called 'beginner's mind.' And when your mind is unfilled enough to truly listen, take a read through our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution.

It seems as though we have strayed so far from our original premise in this Country.....

But this is not the time for negative thoughts, at least not for me. I will turn off my light, look at the stars, and fall into a peaceful sleep, protected by the spirit and presence of these mountains that surround me.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. -John Muir

PHOTO OF JOHN MUIR (or me)

TAKEN BY ANSEL ADAMS (or me)