David Lavender...a Connection

When I first walked into Lavender Canyon and began to find out who it was named for (and later found differently) I certainly didn't know I would discover that David Lavender and I had a connection of sorts. It's an interesting story.

In One Man's West Lavender has a chapter called High-Altitude Athletics. He spins numerous yarns about our beloved mountains, but one in particular left me thunderstruck. Lavender begins:

There was the time when three of us back-packed into the head of Titcomb gorge in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. We left timber line far behind, slogging along a stream milky with the floured rock discharged by the glaciers. The gorge was hung with a necklace of tiny sapphire lakes shimmering in cups of solid rock. Patches of moss were springy underfoot from snow just gone; draft blossoms of forget-me-not, primrose, king's-crown, and gentian, unable to exist in these rigorous climes as single plants formed societies of solid color. Bibs of white circled the peaks. Rank after rank, tier after tier. Thumbs and fingers and fists all pointing skyward. A dazzling world of swift, sharp lines and crystal light.

He goes on to describe the climb and near the end he identified the peak: Twin Peaks; which, because they were the first ascenders, they named. He never said who the other men where, but when I read Twin peaks my memory was taken back to 1991 and I was suddenly sure I had seen his name before and in his own hand.

Ross and I always kept a climbing journal and we've traded possession of the little worn green book a number of times. Currently, he was the keeper. I sent him an email and asked him to call me that night with the book in hand. He did, I read him the story, he let out a yell at the sound of Twin Peaks. He too had remembered. He looked up the day and we had a great time remembering the climb.

In 1991 my buddy and I climbed Gannet in the Wind Rivers walking from Gypsum Creek west of Green River Lakes to do so. We came out in Elkhart Park - a journey of about 60 miles through some pretty rough country; much of it trailless. After we climbed Gannet, we came back down on the west side of the divide and broke camp and headed for Titcomb Basin on the east of the divide via a peak that was almost never climbed - Twins Peak. On it was the original summit register (something I had never seen nor have ever heard of since that time, and I think a rare and interesting document) and the first name on the list was D. Lavender. The date of our climb was 13 August 1991 and the date Lavender listed was 10 August 1930. The three climbers were Lavender, Dudley Smith, and Bucknell. Three days later on 13 August 1930 Lavender climbed the peak again with Forrest Greenfield and Kendrick - the same day we were on the summit, but 61 years later. I recall a note they left calling Twins a"miserable summit". With the exception of a few early climbers around that 1930 date; including Petzolt and Koven (killed on Denali), no one climbed the peak again until late in the 1950's.

Lavender closed out his story of Twins with a story of suffering, but he said this first of that day.

Sitting in such a spot, hugging your knees, you can sense as a tangible thing the hurtling sweep of the earth on its orbit. The very vastness of the pattern stabs you to the heart. But it is not humility. Man would not aspire; he would not be laying his bold chains on every cosmic force he can reach were he only meek. The insignificance some persons profess to feel on seeing a natural wonder which more determined men, given motive, could sail over, tunnel under, or fly around is to me incomprehensible-a hang-over, perhaps, of the oriental fatalism that early tinged our religion. Why not a healthier pride-without arrogance-in being able to muster the courage to see and touch and share the fringes of creation, knowing that if we work well others can share still more?

The photos that day only have Ross on the summit, thus this is Twins looking north-west with my friend on the summit. The next picture is of me, but the previous day having climbed Gannet.(note the wool shirt and wool pants - it really doesn't seem that long ago!)

The Desert and the Anasazi - Lavender Canyon

The cliffs and mesas on the Colorado Plateau are a unique place with unique qualities. The red walls peel away memory – the memory of other places, of other times, and even the memory of self until all that is left is this space – this red cathedral and the thousands of years it whispers of in a thundering, but empty and still crescendo. The cliffs rise as memories fade.

Although I have not wandered in these canyons for almost a year, the intervening time is stolen – filtered in the sands - lost. That year fades like a single drop of sweat on hot Navajo Sandstone until even the feeling of memory is lost. Now, this place, this time is all I have; all I know; and all I desire - a jealous lover whose beauty bares no wayward glance and whose caress steals the heart – forever. It is also best to pay attention to this lover in the heat of summer or she will have her vengeance.


I have journeyed here again to find the anasazi, to wander in the beauty of the desert, and to lose myself; to let sun bleach my soul, to filter it through the hot sand and to have the ancients return it to me cleansed and clear. They have walked here until decades are measured in moments — they know the paths, the secret places, and the beginning and end of a footstep and the sum of a life. Perhaps the solitude here is part of the revelation - the serenity drives a kind of relentless introspection.

I lean heavy against the red escarpment as if to push it away like great Atlas or Hercules - palms outstretched, fingers pointed toward the sky, back bent, head bowed. The moments slip and I think about these things. The week lies ahead. Eventually, I pull away and stand erect. The moisture of my palm prints, much like the painted palm prints of the Anasazi, traces the outlines my hand. Another journey begins -discovery in many forms awaits.



Lavender Canyon lies between Bridger Jack Mesa and Salt Creek Canyon on the south side of Canyonlands National Park. I wished to explore the upper and deeper part of the canyon because of its proximity to Salt Creek Canyon. Tammi and I had been backpacking down Salt Creek a couple of years back and were surprised by the number of ruins and gliffs. Salt Creek has the largest ruin outside of Mesa Verde (Big Ruin) and is home to such famous pictographs as All American Man and the Four Faces.

Lavender Canyon was named after David Lavender. Twice nominated for a Pulitzer prize this rancher and all-around western man; who was mostly a hard scrabble cowboy, put his mark on western history and literature. Near Durango, as a young man, he worked a silver mine and on his stepfather's cattle ranch as a cowboy, helping with all the work until a drought and the Depression forced the ranch's closure. Near to my heart he was also an avid mountaineer. Among other things, he was a Princeton grad. He later became a dedicated conservationist. He realized the west he knew was dying and the result of this realization was his most well-read book which was published in 1943, "One Man's West". The book is in reprint by Bison Books and out in a new edition with notes and added material by David Lavender's son, David G. Lavender.

Armed with a permit you can drive into Lavender Canyon from Canyonlands, but that approach is best for uninitiated and untested. It is best approached from the most south-southwestern side of Bridger Jack Mesa. The 4x4 road that leads north around the west side of Bridger Jack makes for an easy passage, but it is a bit narrow. I don't know the name of the Mesa the road sits on (it is unnamed on the topo), but the camping on the Mesa is fine. Let's call it Little Bridger Jack Mesa. The mesa burned quite some time ago, so the top is mostly grass and offers easy going. I found the reason for the fire on the way back up. There is an old uranium mine just off the cliff on the southwest corner. It looks like the miner's camp was the source of the fire.

The way down off Little Bridger Jack is hard and the way up even harder, but it does make a good day's walk. You can also get down Dry Fork Canyon - I walked around to look off the side and the way is quite easy. The north end of Little Bridger Jack looks passable on the topo, but the lower wall can not be breached without a rope.

Lavender Canyon is deep and the walls consistently vertical. The first picture shows the central part of the canyon - about 1000 foot from the mesa top to the creek at the bottom. There are ruins in the canyon and some looking around will reward a good search; however, the wild parts of the canyon are pristine and the wildflowers were wonderful - Shooting Star, Pestemon, Desert Indian Paintbrush, coreopsis, and plenty of blooming cactus.

In a side canyon I found fresh cougar track, the rear paw measuring just over 4" wide. He was a big boy and I was weary coming back at dusk that evening. A few deer tracks and a bit of water gave up the reason for his night's vigil. (I've looked at this picture a few times and sometimes get the illusion that the print is "pushed up", not in to the soil - if you get that look again) There were few signs of the usual leftovers of Anasazi habitation in the canyon itself. Although the Anasazi did live here I suspect the times were shorter and the water and game scarcer. I saw no gliffs except at the ruins; however, there are more than likely some around. The wall are generally dead vertical too - there simply aren't many building sites.



As soon as I got near the lower parts of the canyons the deer flies began to attack in hordes. I nearly went crazy slapping and swatting and Deet didn't make any difference whatsoever. I eventually put on pants and the incessant biting stopped - the horde just swarmed my legs. I seldom wear pants in the desert, but from now on in June I think I will always wear them. The gnats and no-see-ems were no fun either. I'm still itching a week later.

Besides the canyon itself there is another reason to visit; Cleft Arch. Cleft arch is a graceful and massive arch, thick and even, wide and tall. It juts into the the canyon and demands a visit. I approached it from the south and begin to friction the lower steep slaps and faced climbed the remainder. It can be free climbed, but it took me some time to work it out and I am a fairly experienced climber (the face: friction -5.9, face - 5.7/8). I recommend the northern side as it provides only a steep walk. Begin up thru the narrow slot when you first see the northern side of the arch. Of interest is the arch itself - its name becomes apparent once inside. It is now actually two arches joined together by a narrow, but very deep cleft no more than 1/2" wide. Lying on the hot sand blue sky is visible thru the vertical shaft, which must be 30 or more feet thick.


I walked and explored throughout the day and in the afternoon periodically sought some shade as I began to overheat. The canyon become hotter and the little thermometer on my pack strap soon slipped to 110 degrees. The afternoon, the sand, the ceders, the cactus, and the terrain turned against me. I had gone too far, climbed too much and still had much of the mesa to ascend to get to camp. I ran out of water and I had started with 200 oz - more than 1-1/2 gal. The setting sun gave me respite from the heat and I struggled slowly up the last 700 foot of Little Bridger Jack Mesa, through the cliff bands, and made my way toward camp. I had suffered a good bit in the end, but the day was worth the effort. The thirteen-hour exploration had left its mark and tomorrow I would drive to Beef Basin. Here's how David Lavender said it:

"Fortunately God gave man a poor memory for physical discomfort. The active ingredients which made the hurt so brutal at the moment lose their keen edge in retrospect: we are able to look back on them with certain detachment and even make them subject matter of our dearest conversation pieces."

These canyons don't yield their beauty easily - especially in late June and the home of the Anasazi is seldom hospitable. Discovery is never easy - any kind of discovery.

Correction! I had read that Lavender Canyon was named for David Lavender, but according to a much better source, David G. Lavender (the writers grandson), Lavender Canyon is named for Ed Lavender (David Lavender's step-father). Apparently, Ed used to drive cattle he bought from Ed Scorup ( the then owner of the Dugout Ranch on Indian Creek now just outside Canyonlands National Park). See page 328 of the new edition of "One Man's West". Anyway, I'll keep the post - surely Ed would approve of his son's fame.

Ishi

I was in a used bookstore in Gunnison not too long ago and found a book I've been interested in reading for a while. Published in 1961, the book is a fascinating account that terminates a part of western history with a viscerally and debilitatingly sad ending.

In August 1911 an emaciated Indian stumbled out of the Neolithic world near Mill Creek on the Mt. Lassen (in his language - Waganupa) foothills and into the brilliant lights of the twentieth century. Save from an old covered wagon cloth that he wore over his shoulders like a poncho, he had no modern object. He spoke no English, not a word. In fact, he had never had any contact with any white man whatsoever. (Except for some tragic contacts that we'll delve into later.)

He was the last wild Indian.

Ishi's life is one of tragedy and sadness and his story - more than any bloody massacre, more than Sand Creek, more than the Trail of Tears, and more than the gut wrenching emotion behind Chief Joseph's last lament; "I will fight no more forever" - shows us who we were and what we did. He was the Mohicans, he was the Apache, he was the Nez Perce, and he was the Blackfeet, but more tragically so. For the Yana, (Ishi's people) are unknown - they were quite simply exterminated until only one remained - Ishi.

The Yana had lived in about a 2000 sq. mile area around Mt. Lassen for about 2- or 3000-years. This number is surmised from the glottochronology. In an area smaller than Rhode Island they had lived so long that four separate dialects from the Hokan had developed - some not intelligible to other. Of interest is that the Yana language was sex-differentiated; that is, that the men spoke a different language to the woman than to each other. For example, the word grizzly bear, t'en'ta spoken by the males was t'et in the female language. The woman no doubt knew the male language, but did not speak it as the men spoke in the female language to the women.

When Ishi was born in about 1862 the Yani had already been hunted for many years and the southern group (the Yahi), Ishi's band, was thought extinct. The white men had killed or enslaved many thousands of Yani. However, a small family group had survived which included Ishi's mother and sister. This small, terrified group, unbelievably, had remained hidden for almost forty-years. Until, that is, a small group of men stumbled upon their hidden camp. Ishi's mother was left behind because of age and infirmary. The rest scattered. Even with the sick women present the men took all the food and tools. They left nothing. Ishi never saw his sister again and assumed she was killed; however, she most likely starved or was killed by wild animals. Without food and stores Ishi's mother died. Ishi morned his mother and now he was alone. The last Yahi - the last pure Indian.

He lived in this state until he walked out in 1911.

His story is told here in shortened version. Google Ishi - there's a lot of stuff out there and it's worth reading.

Ishi in Two Worlds - A Biography of the Last Wild Indian in North America, Theodora Kroeber

Comb Ridge - Post Four, Comb Wash Thoughts

Link to satellite map

I woke up in the shadow of the ancient ones, their leaves still in the dark early morning air. Orion to the east stood on the back of Comb Ridge. I wondered by what name the Anasazi knew him by. They were gifted astrological observers cleverly noting the sumer and winter solstices and other celestial events. Surely, they awoke and knew how much longer they could slumber by his position in their carefully framed windows. They would have associated him with winter, just as we do. He would have told them their grainaries should be full.

Near here, not 30 meters distance, they lived in a pit house or kiva - cool in summer, warm in winter. The perfect abode for this place. Generations had refined its design, made elegant chimneys, perfected the placement of the firepit, its fireback, and the drafts needed to retain the heat and keep the fire small. I imagined them in this place, in these trees, fetching water; checking beans, corn, and squash, waking up...

I drove south to climb Comb Ridge and return north through Butler Wash, not because I was done with Comb Wash. I have only started. But, before I leave, a little history.

The Hayden Survey (1874-1876) published the first map depicting the geographic, archaeological and geological features of southeastern Utah, including key archaeological sites on “Epson Creek,” now known as Comb Wash. Those of you who read my blog have heard me over and over again comment on camping where the Hayden Survey once camped. I once again crossed their path.

Later, the Mormons would make a little history here. The Mormon Trail intersects with Comb Wash Road and the trail still climbs upward toward Ceder Mesa through something called the twist. A Mormon delegation of settlers established the trail in 1880 and a six-week trip turned into a six-month over-winter trip full of unimaginable hardships. Seeing the country and imagining a wagon train attempting to cross it is a sobering thought indeed. Their full story has a bit of suffering. Here's a short version of the journey.

One other historical event of note happened in Comb Wash. William Posey, chief of a small tribe of Paiutes that roamed southeastern Utah at the turn of the century, was mortally wounded in 1923 by a posse in the Comb Wash area, hid there, and then died. He was apparently a bid of a bad guy, but of course the Indians were treated terribly. Posey was the last "hostile" Indian killed in the United States. His grave is in the canyon somewhere, but it was at least dug up twice just after he died. It is an interesting bit of history. Find it here.

With my coffee, in this stillness, surrounded by the red rocks, the cottonwoods, and the sand all of this history is timeless. Posey still hides in his cave bleeding and dying. Corn, planted in clumps greets the new day, Anasazi turkeys fly down from their night's roost, and the Mormon settlers greet a new day of suffering.

The heat gathered and I loaded up the truck.

Comb Ridge - Post Three, Fish Creek

The name Fish Creek implies water and indeed the creek does have water, but it does not flow in the traditional sense. However, there is enough water that most of the pools aren't stagnant, but are refreshed by seep and infrequent rains from the the creek's large drainage lying west toward Ceder Mesa. The water courses down through miles of sand and bedrock, collects, and feeds life for miles around. I saw raptors come to drink here in the evening and the prints of deer and coyote coming and going. In the wash I also saw bear scat - perhaps he was not an infrequent visitor. The accumulated pools are numerous and shallow, collecting in some areas, but absent in most others. And no, I didn't see any fish.

There is one other element to the water in the canyon. It brings life, but sometimes it kills. The evidence is written in the narrows; high water marks more than eight foot high, twisted piles of debris, massive rocks heaved against broken piles of chaos. As it rises, fed by the many, many square miles of exposed sandstone the torrent seeks nothing, but destroys everything in its path; especially, if that path is narrowed or restricted.

The canyon is dotted with ruins and seems to contain many eras of settlements. Only general inferences can be drawn without the archeologist's work, but there are clearly many kinds of structures and styles. Where the canyon joins Comb Wash there is a pit house; considered one of the earliest structures. There are many types of cliff dwellings, some clearly not intended for any kind of defense whatsoever. The two-hundred-fifty-year period subsequent to A.D. 900 is known as Pueblo II and seems the best fit for many of these ruins. But, there was one that was so clearly intended for defense or warfare I have never seen its equal. High on the mesa, up on a mushroom rock, unapproachable, and unreachable to me was a ruin. I have included it a picture of it here. It took a tremendous amount of work to get the material in place. It is a very defensible position, but I question its utility as you could be penned there with no escape. It is quite a sight, high up on the mesa silhouetted against the cloudless sky. I wasn't even sure it was a ruin at first - it seemed too improbable. If it was built for defense it is hard to imagine the fear the inhabitants lived in. Was it for the woman and children? Whatever the reason, this wash was last inhabited about 1250.

Some of the masonry is rather rough and some structures are built very skillfully. Generations lived here - the span is almost unbelievable; about 2000 years. It may have been sporadic and discontinuous, but not so much as we might imagine with our rather insignificant 250-year history. In one ruin a large flat rock used to grind grain (matate) worn with years and years of use was recycled; raised on its side and incorporated as part of a new structure.

It was a good day and an interesting place to visit. Even more interesting because there is nothing fantastic, nothing to bring the masses. It is the ordinary, the everyday - a place where 1000 years seem near history, uncelebrated, unphotographed - quiet and unassuming. That is the true magic of the place. And the hand prints outlined on the walls, their souls long departed, still mark the place with their work and the stones they set. We could only hope to leave a mark 1000 years later so those who passed wondered at the sight.

The Shell Bead

Beef Basin spread open like a book in the early morning light. The higher buttes lit up even more orange than usual, while the sage flats still retained a hint of inky blackness. A bit of chill still hung in the desert air. Numerous canyons feed onto the flats and choosing one to explore was as simple as following your feet. I had read that this place held promise for ruins and I was here searching for the Anasazi. After dinner, the night before, in the fading light I slowly walked around my campsite and began to find pottery shards; white with black woven designs, pinched, some colorless, and some quite large. I knew this place would indeed be special.

At just over 6000 feet this is high desert - the sun rays hot, boiling the summer and in winter the air bare and chilling. There was no one else here and no soul within at least 50 miles - maybe more. I was alone and I could experience this place through silence and solitude, much as those that lived did over 800 years ago. When the Anasazi last lived in these bright canyons Genghis Khan was marauding across the steppes of Mongolia, Europe was in the dark ages, and most men still lived not unlike the Anasazi, perhaps worse.

The Anasazi are not an ethnicity so much as a culture. We identify their building and their artifacts, but we know little about the people. Their disappearance during the 13th century is one of the great mysteries of American history and archeology. Their habitations go back for over 500 years and then vanish as they near the middle ages. There are many theories, but no agreement as to why.

One of the least understood facts for those who have not been to the Colorado Plateau is how expansive the ruins are. Everywhere I've been there are ruins. It is as if their civilization created a mighty extended city for hundreds and hundreds of miles. They seemingly lived everywhere and inhabited every corner. But, equally, one must understand that the Anasazi abandoned their settlements moving on to different lands; sometimes moving back into a place that had been left hundreds of years before, following the water and the desert shapes that tied them to their unknown mythology.

The Abajo mountains, to the south and east of Beef Basin, are the supposed location of some of the last remnants of the Anasazi. Whatever forced them to scatter brought them to this place. Where I was the canyon opens up into beef basin there is a small stream and a small ruin. It looks small and poorly built, but of extreme age. The streams in this country are mere dribbles appearing and disappearing - dependent upon the depth of the sand overlying the bedrock. This dribble ran into Beef Basin for about 50 yards and disappeared beneath the sage in a grassy green final breath.

One of the reasons I was here was to discover the water and how far I might wander in the future. Did the intermittent springs shown on the maps flow? How much country could I cover in one day? I knew how much I needed - about 3 liters during the day (or about 100 oz). The temperatures climbed to about 100 during the heat of the day with the ground temperatures being about 120. I wore a long-sleeved desert shirt, a wide brimmed hat and shorts and could climb and travel quickly throughout the greater part of the day mostly unaffected by the heat.

I believe my bones remember my youth. I was born into this world in the Mojave Desert and as a young boy played out in the heat in one of the hottest places in the continent. And, although I never fully connected the dots until recently, I have always loved the heat - a hot car, the full rays of the hot sun, or now; the baked quality of the desert at noon.

The canyon was neither deep nor wide, surrounded on each side by small, rough and broken sandstone cliffs varying between 20 and 60 feet capped by a gradually rising plateau on which grew pinion pine, juniper, and low-growing sage, but on which mostly plain, dry and cracked white clay soil lies giving way in places to swaths of loose sand. Sometimes, this upper plateau was capped by solid sandstone mounds, steeply sided, and devoid of vegetation, rising hundreds of feet above the pinion pine. The stream came and went in patches of green, life swirling around the nectar then ending in the dust and the heat.

What I had sought surprised me stopping me in my tracks, but it was far away and I was unsure of what I saw. I was accustomed to seeing cliff dwellings, but to see a tower rising out of the pinion was new to me. I raised my glasses and in excitement started in a run.

The canyon forked; the west side of the west fork was broken down, the cliff disappearing into a steep slope. At that place about 80 feet above the floor of the canyon stood an ancient tower. I approached, not up the obvious slope, but from small, deep "V" cut, directly to the north. I wanted to be secret, to surprise the stones, to walk up not as a tourist, but as a user.

The tower was not a single tower, but the tallest remaining tower left in a habitation of about 20 similar structures. What remained was about two stories tall and completely circular with a diameter of about 14 feet gradually decreasing in diameter going up at an angle of about 4 or 5 degrees. Each other structure was built against each other structure, not unlike mud dabber nests. To get into any one you had to travel through several low doorways. The construction was not tight and mortared, but well fit and loose. At one time the entire inside was plastered - small finger prints were visible still pressed into the dried mud; however, most of this covering had long since worn away. Two square structures occupied part of the small, flat area. I assumed them to be older, but partially rebuilt at some point.

I could see the Anasazi, baked by the sun, small of stature, rough-hewed, and smiling walking down to the intermittent stream, pot in hand - ducking out of the coolness of the narrow doorways, sitting on the same stone upon which I now sat. I saw what they saw. Looking up and down the canyon I wondered.

I spent some time in this quiet place and at last I squatted in the shadow of the tower collecting my pack and drinking in the coolness before I stepped back into the heat. I scanned the loose earth around me - shards here and there, juniper seeds - some black with age and some still deep purple. Something smooth, something different caught my eye, a glint of a brilliant white thin edge. I moved the dirt aside with my finger and a polished shell with a hole in the center came into view. It was about half the size of the tip of my small finger - 2 or 3 cm wide, tiny, thin, convex, and finely crafted. It was easy to see that is was once worn as part of a necklace. Perhaps with purple juniper berries and quills; perhaps with other beads and stones. I did not know, but it was lost over 800 years ago and now found its way into my hand!

I wondered if its end was violent, or accidental. Was it torn away or lovingly sought after? Did it represent love? Was its ending written in blood?

I was on BLM land and sites such as this are routinely robbed. I knew I had to take the bead, but I didn't know where. I put it in a tiny pocket on my upper sleeve seemly reserved for such small items. I carried it throughout what would become a magical day - a day the Anasazi mystified and delighted me - a day I walked in their shadow. My footprints that day, the smell, and the sun are driven into my memory; indelible and enduring, until I too go the way of the Anasazi.

Several days later I returned to Moab. Having been to the NPS HQ there to collect a permit for going into Salt Creek Canyon - a canyon full of cliff dwellings, I knew its location. I asked for the chief archaeologist and was soon shown into a small office with maps and file drawers scattered around the room. I showed her my treasure and she was quite surprised. I got a good scolding for removing the object, but I explained it wasn't located in the park, but in BLM land. She couldn't accept the treasure, but directed me to the BLM office.

Again, I found the Chief Archaeologist. This time, however, I did not get a cold greeting. She was thrilled I saved the bead and I gave her the exact coordinates of its final resting place. She carefully wrote down the information and copied my map. Before leaving I asked her to tell me what she knew about it.

She said it was a very special find because the bead was from an olivella shell. She explained, archaeologists often infer paths of past culture contact by sourcing artifacts. Marine shells have been used as indicators of culture contact across long distances. Modern geographical ranges of marine mollusks are virtually identical to the ranges that occurred in the recent past, and this allows archaeologists to determine the coast of origin of sea-shell artifacts recovered from inland sites. Unless there is evidence that the geographic range of an animal has changed, we can safely assume that current ranges are the same as those in the past. This shell was traded across the west from the coast of modern California! Rather all at once, or over time, no one can tell, but either way a fact not missed by the imagination. Goods were flowing back and forth across great distances 400 years before Europeans discovered the "new world" and I had held some of those goods and took it on perhaps its last journey.

I will go back to the Basin. I could spend an entire summer there, in the heat, wandering the canyons, climbing the cliffs, and searching for the soul of the past. The vastness and beauty filling my being with the unknown and the unknowable.

Day Eight - Yellowstone

The first thing we did is head down to the Boiling River swimming hole for a dip; much of the intent being to get clean again, even if only for a little while. Wow, what a great swimming hole! A large boiling creek flows out next to the Yellowstone River then runs down into the cold water at various places along the bank. The boiling water is too hot to stand, but mixed with the cold water the overall experience is not unlike going from a sauna to snow and back again - it is awesome. We must have "swam" for an hour. Don't miss this if you're near North Yellowstone.

A quick breakfast and a walk around Mammoth Hot Springs finished out this area of Yellowstone. The main attraction at Mammoth Hot Springs is the terraces; however, we waited to see them until last. Heat, water, limestone, and rock fracture combine to create the terraces. Travertine is deposited as white rock, however the microorganisms and living bacteria create beautiful shades of oranges, pinks, yellows, greens, and browns. The Mammoth Hot springs are constantly changing. As formations grow, water is forced to flow in different directions creating a vast complex of tiers varying from white to dull gray. The Terraces, first described by the 1871 Hayden Survey (the same survey to stay at Steamboat Mountain - see day one), were given the name of White Mountain Hot Spring, even though they were well known and named before then. Obviously, the name didn't stick. The pictures aren't too great, but the overall effect and size of the terraces is really quite a sight. They cover a massive area just above town. By far, they are the largest in terms of size, in Yellowstone.

Our destination for the day was getting to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone heading toward the east along the Yellowstone River. Once again, it was a race to see everything, yet still get a campsite. North Yellowstone is a bit more mountainous with large, open parks and less burned areas and few geothermal features. It actually reminded me of the Winds River Mountains a bit. On one pull off we saw a large petrified tree which was still standing, the usual bison, great flowers, and, finally, the big kahuna - a grizzly. But, this wasn't just a plain grizzly, this was a mother with two cubs. She was sleeping and the cubs were somewhat sluggish, but it was great to see. We would come back to the same meadow later in the afternoon for the big show, but for now on to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone to get a camp site and see the area. We did get a camp site although the sign said the campground was full. Yellowstone Falls was close.

The Canyon is simply amazing and very unique. I haven't seen anything quite like it. We drove around and saw it from every vantage point and took every trail up and down. The pictures tell half the story, but it is one of those sites that must be experienced in person. There are actually two falls in the canyon: the upper falls falls just over 100 feet, but the lower falls over 300. It is beleived that Jim Bridger was the first to see the falls in 1846. The falls were named in 1869, and in 1871 the Hayden Party explored, photographed, and painted the falls. Moran was the artist and the painting of the falls and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone is perhaps his most famous painting as it was shown to congress and helped establish the Park. The painting is quite faithful to the real thing - color being the most surprising. The reds and yellows are truly spectacular.

After we exhausted every vista in the area Tammi suggested we go see if the grizzly was still there. We did, and she was. What a treat. We watched her and the cubs for about two hours - nursing, playing, fighting, and goofing around while mother dug for roots. We spent most of the time next to a biologist who knew everything about bears. His wife did detailed studies on the elk populations and the effect the wolves were having. The grizzlies have been aided by wolf kills too as they are mostly scavengers. He pointed out where the bears winter, what they eat, how far they ranged, how old the cubs were, and a million other interesting things. How often do you get to watch grizzlies and cubs while having a personnel guide? It was like a nature program, but you were there. We were, by the way, very close. I could have hit them with a well thrown rock - that's close!

We finally left and headed back camp. Another terrific day - the Boiling River, Mammoth Hot Springs, grizzlies, and The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

Longs Peak

(Blog Note: the vacation posts have been once again interrupted for, well, another a small vacation - I'm still working on them though!)

Named after Major Stephen Long, who explored the area in the 1820's, Longs Peak rises to 14,259 feet (4,346 meters) above sea level. Ross (who is a very good friend of almost 30 years) and his wife Leigh, along with Tammi and I, set out to climb it at the end of a several day visit. (Ross and Leigh live in Green Bay at about 594 feet above sea level) It was a real pleasure to see them again and I'm very thankful they made the drive.

As with any fourteener, an early start is required. We got up at 2:30 and left at 3:00 arriving at the trailhead (9,400 feet) at 5:00. It was a little later than I had planned. Upon signing in at the trailhead, I counted 175 people signed in ahead of us that weekday morning . It is an incredibly popular climb. A recent article noted that, "In the summer of 2002, the latest year for which figures are available, an average of 300 people departed the Longs Peak trailhead on weekdays and 675 on weekends." The park service is working on the problem.

The route to the keyhole is a mostly easy trail that works its way up through the treeline from the east and then circumnavigates the mountain to the north. The keyhole lies on the north ridge. At the start, I tried to get us off quickly, as there is always a short adjustment period, but the elevation was too much. Ross and Leigh had been walking a lot in Wisconsin, but it just isn't the same - it was also Leigh's first "climb", and as such everything is unexpected and a little harder. It is a rocky, steep trail. Ross & I have climbed together hundreds of times, and indeed, we had tried to climb Longs on January first one year, but were quite literally blown off by a winter storm. It was the first time I have seen a mountaineering tent flattened by the wind - just like a pancake, ceiling on floor with Ross and I being the trimmings.

I can't resist a small historical note: The first known explorer to climb Longs was John Wesley Powell in 1868. The name-sake of Lake Powell - explorer of the Colorado River and much, much more. His fascinating life is portrayed in the book, "A River Running West: The Life of John Wesley Powell". It is a great read and a unique American life spanning from the civil war (were he lost his arm) to the establishment of the USGS (by Powell) to the halls of congress; who even at that time failed to do the right thing because of political chicanery and stupidity. Water rights being a low water mark.

I don't know the route Powell used and I don't believe there is a description, but he climbed it from the west (camped near modern Granby Lake - a reservoir build in the 40's for the front range. An area first explored by Jim Bridger who found nearby Berthoud Pass in July of 1861.) so I suspect he used the slabs on the last section of the regular route - the route we were using. But he did some amazing one-armed climbs along the Colorado River cliffs during his explorations, so based on that, he may have climbed something harder.

Once the trail ends, the boulder field begins. For those who have never been in the mountains, the boulder fields are almost beyond imagination. In this case, a picture is worth a thousand words. The small beehive building in the picture was built as a memorial and shelter in the 40's for a woman named Agnes and the man who died trying to save her. Once we made it to the keyhole I think Leigh was seriously considering turning around, but she continued on. It is always hard to judge if it is good to push someone or not. I know people always look back and seldom regret having been pushed, but if someone is really tired pushing them can be dangerous too. There is never a right answer and I never know which way to go, but on she went.

I must say the route along the back of the mountain is stressful to the novice. There is some big exposure, which in, and of it self, can fatigue the body. Being tense is a main ingredient in the recipe of, "I'm wasted, let's go back". The route traverses the steep west flank of the mountain for about half-a-mile. It is relatively safe, but exposed, rough, and scary to those unaccustomed to height. Once across, the route goes up a broken down and rock strewn coulier. It is steep, nasty, and loose; and about 1000 feet tall ending in a narrow rock ledge that traverses the south face. The ledge is sometimes about 4 feet wide and isn't for those afraid of heights, to put it mildly. By this time Leigh had pushed herself beyond that for which she was capable, and we still had to return to the car! So, we turned around about 300 feet from the summit with weather threatening. It was about 11:00. She should be very proud of both her preparation and the outcome. Maybe some other year. I feel our late start attributed to the lateness of the morning too and that was my fault.

The return to the keyhole is no easier than the trip in and I know everyone was relieved to finally hit a trail. We booked down the trail at a good clip arriving at the car after 11 hours of hiking and climbing. We motored to Boulder and ate like little piggies with Ross buying dinner for all. I hope fun was had by all. For me, the weather, the company, the views, and the flowers were impeccable.

longs peak

Day Seven - Yellowstone

We got up fairly early and drove north to Mammoth only stopping a few times. We had already explored much of the road north anyway. We got a campsite close to town at the NPS area and went back in town for breakfast. What a great little town. Mammoth was really the first facility in YNP and has a long and interesting history. The town was first an early army facility and clearly shows those roots. It was, in fact, the first facility in YNP - first called Fort Yellowstone.

For the decade after 1872 when Yellowstone National Park was established, the park was under serious threat from those who would exploit, rather than protect, its resources. Poachers killed animals. Souvenir hunters broke large pieces off the geysers and hot springs. Developers set up camps for tourists, along with bath and laundry facilities at hot springs. Civilian superintendents were hired to preserve and protect this land from 1872 through 1886. The good intentions of these early administrators, however, were no match for their lack of experience, funds and manpower. Word got back to Congress that the park was in trouble and legislators refused to appropriate any funds for the park's administration in 1886.

The Army came to the rescue and in 1886 men from Company M, First United States Cavalry, Fort Custer, Montana Territory under Captain Moses Harris came to Yellowstone to begin what would be more than 30 years of military presence in Yellowstone.The first buildings of Fort Yellowstone were finished by late 1891. As more troops were needed, more buildings were constructed: officers' quarters, guard house, headquarters, barracks for enlisted men, stables for their horses and non-commissioned officers' quarters. In 1909, Scottish masons began constructing sandstone buildings here - among them the Albright Visitor Center (then the Bachelor Officers' Quarters) and the administration building (then a two-troop barracks for 200 men). The Chapel, the final building constructed during the Army's tenure, was also constructed of native sandstone. The stone from these buildings was obtained from a local quarry between the Gardner River and the Mammoth Campground.

The Army did much more than provide a police service. They built roads which still exist today and those roads are the first roads in the country build to a specification. The square building was the engineer's office.

The town is a nice little place, but we were keen on a hike . On the way there we saw a small brown bear. Still looking for the big grizzly! There was a trail leading to Albright Peak close to town so we set out for that. It was a hot day and a somewhat long hike, but we had a good time. One of the highlights of the day was running into a male blue grouse in a bit a mood to show off. He put on an awesome show and we frequently got within several feet of him to see it. Check out the pics on this guy in the slide show. He has these orange-yellow eye patches that make him look angry all the time - they have issues.

We also found a nice set of elk antlers. Their size on Bridger quickly illustrates the actual size of an elk. This is a big set.

Other than that it was a fairly uneventful hike. We finished and drove out of the park a short distance to Gardiner seeing another ungulate to add to the list - mountain sheep. (actually, Bridger did keep a running list of all the animals we saw - it became quite a list) It is one of the roughest towns I've ever seen, but we had good pizza. On the way back we spied a swimming hole/hot spring which we intended to hit up first thing in the morning. I must mention the massive north gate. It's quite a structure and a very large stone embedded in the top states, "FOR THE BENEFIT AND ENJOYMENT OF THE PEOPLE", and we were!

Day Two

The day started early in our little green glen in the Red Desert. In 1877 the Hayden Expedition passed through this area, noting Steamboat Mountain's aspen grove and clear, flowing springs and they seemed ever the same as 140 years ago. Upon packing the car we headed south off of Steamboat Mountain and directly west over the divide yet again. This was the 4th crossing. We were headed to the largest of the dunes; Killpecker Sand Dunes, so Bridger could see them.

On the way we were surprised by a few of the resident elk. These elk are not the same herd that was noted by hunters back in the nineteenth century. Settlement and hunting wiped out most of those animals by the 1940s, when the Wyoming Game and Fish Department transplanted 86 elk from the Jackson area to the vicinity of Boar's Tusk and the Killpecker dunes. Wildlife managers hoped the elk would migrate back and forth from the Jackson area, as they had historically, which would reduce the necessity for feeding them through the winter at the National Elk Refuge, but they stayed on and are now part of the landscape. Some additional elk do migrate down from the southern end of the Winds to winter on the high plains near Oregon Buttes - we camped there on our last trip up to Pinedale. The Oregon Buttes retain the name given to them by the passing settlers bound for Oregon and California, but the trail itself is off some distance to the north.

Killpecker dunes move during the winter covering up drifting snow blown by the howling winds thus creating a natural refrigerator which releases moisture during the summer creating little ponds around the bottom of the dunes. Dune beetles and various rodent tracks suggest quite an active ecosystem. I'm sure larger predators inhabit the night as the desert is home to many unique species. We played on the dunes for about an hour and headed toward the boars tusk.

The boars tusk is a volcanic neck; a remnant of a volcano that erupted, slowed, plugged itself up, and then eroded so that all that remains is just the central tube. While we explored the cone made of tuff and basalt the resident hawks scolded us for approaching their lofty home. This desert is home to the highest raptor densities in the country. I had hoped to find some petroglyphs located nearby on White Mountain, but we were unsuccessful. Now, off north to Names Rock via the Oregon Trail and the Green River.

Bridger, as most everyone knows, is named for Jim Bridger, one of the most famous trappers and explorers of the early west. There is quite a bit around Wyoming named in honor of him. The largest being Bridger-Teton National Forest. He traipsed around these parts quite a bit and he signed his name in rock near modern day Labarge. I wanted Bridger to see it. We headed west across the high desert and met up with the Oregon Trail. As a matter of fact, Jim Bridger is credited with establishing the Wyoming section trail for the Mormons. We passed by the spot near the Little Sandy that, in 1847, Jim Bridger met Brigham Young to discuss the route to Salt Lake. Bridger, according to legend, offered $1000 for the first bushel of corn grown in Salt Lake as he discouraged the entire venture.

The book "Wagons West", by Frank McLynn, paints the clearest picture of the struggle these early settlers faced. Manifest Destiny pushed these men and woman to great extremes and it can be appreciated no better than while standing in the very tracks of the wagons, feeling the heat, smelling the sage, and feeling the wind blow from the far away buttes days and days away. The push into the unknown was an extreme act and the price was suffering, suffering, and more suffering. This picture is near modern day Farson, some distance before crossing the Green very near Simpson's Hollow where, in 1857 the Mormons burned 52 Army supply wagons to keep them from reaching Salt Lake. The plan was successful and the Army never reached the settlement - a peaceful solution was found.

On the way to Names Rock we stopped along side the Green flowing through the high desert. There are many fossils located in this area, but we simply didn't have time to stop and throughly explore the area, which of course being Wyoming is rather large. I think we were about 80 miles from the Boars Tusk. There is a large wild life refuge located around this area and between that the water there are a lot of animals. We continued on the Names Rock and then on to Pinedale. Our first stop was the Mountain Man Museum; quite a little gem, dedicated to the mountain man and the early west. Jim Bridger's rifle is here and Bridger really wanted to see that. We bummed around town, looked up an old Friend, and ate out at Fremont Lake. Fremont Lake is the second largest lake in Wyoming as well as one of the deepest lakes (600 feet) in the United States. Pleistocene glaciers of the Bull Lake and Pindale glacial periods carved out the valleys in this area and deposited terminal moraines that dammed the mountain waters. Fremont, New Fork, Half Moon, Boulder, and Willow Lakes all formed in such a manner. The massive glacial moraines surrounding Fremont Lake are classic examples of moraines formed by alpine glaciation. This moraine is visible in the right hand side of this picture of the lake. I will write about the Bull Lake and Pinedale glacial periods when we visit Yellowstone.

We spent the night at Soda Lake, but driving out there we saw several fox cubs and we watch them for quite some time. The ticks were the worst I have ever seen, but the view wasn't too bad - double click to see it best. Tomorrow, Jackson Hole.

Day One - The Red Desert

Well, I haven’t posted in a few days because we’ve been on vacation! So, I thought I would post as if we were on vacation. There simply wasn’t any internet for most of the vacation - Wyoming is known for its wide open spaces, not its internet access.

Day One –
We drove out of Denver headed north and west toward the Red Desert, the Great Divide Basin in south-western Wyoming. The Red Desert is an interesting and difficult place. It sits at the southern end of the Wind River Mountains at an average elevation of about 7000 feet composed of about 2.5 million acres, or 18,000 square miles. The continental divide separates into an eastern and western leg creating a basin from which no water escapes – not that there’s much to escape anyway. Geologically, it is an upraised and uplifted plateau worn down so that the oldest rocks in the US are now located at the surface. The largest active sand dune system in North America meanders across the Great Divide from the Jack Morrow Hills Study area to the Ferris Dunes, a distance of approximately 90 miles. Summer daytime temperatures bake the sand and clay soil, and in the winter zero is a warm day and thirty below is common. The wind rages day and night, day in – day out across the stunted sage. Before modern times it was uncrossable except on the north side hard up against the Winds. There, the Oregon Trail, the Overland Trail, the Cherokee Trail, the Mormon Pioneer Trail and the Pony Express Trail ran, and the land gave up its dust. The price to pay was rough terrain and the land still bares the wagon tracks. Such legendary figures as Chief Washakie and Jim Bridger hunted here, outlaws such as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid hid from the law here, and mountain men Jedediah Smith, Kit Carson and others explored the Red Desert before the West was settled. Pronghorn are the main large animal (50,000 use the greater Red Desert area), but there are wild horses and a herd of desert elk. The only herd of its kind any where in the world. We saw them headed across the sage, south toward Table Rock.

The twenty-first century has drilled most of the basin for oil and wells dot the central basin; however, there are still areas of wonder and of history. I was part of early oil boom there in 1980 driving an oil tanker to keep the rigs running. It was there, in May 1980, that I saw the sun go down twice! I was driving west about 80 miles from the road and evening came and it got dark quickly- night descended. I thought nothing of it. After some time, the sun “rose” bright and red like a morning sunrise. It set again shortly there after. I found out after I got home that night Mt. Saint Helens had erupted. The sun had been blotted out and then peeked out from underneath the ash to then actually set.

We drove toward Steamboat mountain, across the alkali flats, through the dunes, and around the buttes, hunted fossils, and visited the tri-territory site. The plaque there says this:

This site, where the Continental Divide crosses the 42 degree parallel, North Latitude, was first claimed by Spain through the presumptive right of early discoveries and explorations. The area was also a part of Acadia, granted in 1603 by Henry IV of France, and part of New England as granted to the Plymouth Colony by James I, transferred to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1629. In 1682, LaSalle claimed for France the whole basin of the Mississippi River (thus including the northeastern portion of this site).

France ceded its claim to Spain in 1762 but regained them in 1800 and sold the region of “Louisiana” to the United States in 1803.

Great Britain claimed the western portion of the site in 1792 and the United States laid formal claims in 1818 until the 42 parallel was accepted as the boundary between United States and Spain in 1819. Mexico, after gaining independence from Spain in 1821, reconfirmed the boundary lines. In 1824, Great Britain relinquished her claim to the area of the Columbia River basin, reaffirming this action by the Treaty of 1846 establishing the right of the United States to the “Oregon Country.” On July 4, 1848, the cession of territory by Mexico was proclaimed giving to the United States the undisputed right to all of Wyoming.

We spent the night in the shade of Steamboat mountain among aspen, and springs, deer, and tall grass. I suppose there aren't any trees in some directions for more than 175 miles, but it was a wonderful oasis. On top of Steamboat the weather is so grim, even the paintbrush (which I have seen grow anywhere) are stunted and small. The quiet is astounding, there is a complete absence of any lights - any direction. It is open country - about as open as it gets. I love it there. Someday I want to spend many weeks there. Tomorrow, we explore some of the neat stuff.