After Storms

There was a quiet as I drove to town. Something in the noise of the last three days of storms had confused my thinking. I had to stop and get a picture of what the snow storms had done to the mountains. More important to me, I think, is that the blues I had been feeling from slate skies was leaving as the blueness of the heavens appeared. I could hear the quietness of the scene even from the city.

I have hiked most of the canyons along this range. I've never been to the top. In the back of my head I have that as a goal this next spring or summer. Up one of these canyons is a nice waterfall. It's a popular hike in the spring as snowmelt flies off the mountain testing its wings against gravity. Right now its a frozen trickle sleeping under a covering of ice. If summer comes quick echoes of shattering glass will fill the daytime air. If summer sneaks into the canyon the soft sound of distant rivers will grow with the heat. Those concerts are a couple months away but it's fun to dream of having tickets and getting a good seat.

After taking the picture, I pulled my truck into a parking lot and maneuvered it so that the sun was coming through the side window, warm on my face. I wanted to feel heat. I started to read a book and enjoy the light. I'm not sure how long I had dozed off, but was awakened with a pain in my neck. My chin burried in my chest. Strangely, the book was still in my hands and opened to the page I had been reading. I start the truck and decide to drive over to Ogden River.

I like to check the winter water flows in the Ogden River. The canyon section below Pineview Dam can run quite low. The gradient of the canyon, the plunge pools, and the introduction of warm water from hot springs in some sections keep the river from icing up too much. As is normal, the flows are low. I see a couple of brown trout nosing around picking midge pupae from just under the surface. Their slow and deliberate movement ever so gently disturbes the water and takes the mirrored meniscus from realism to impressionism.

I have a hard time seeing color during the winter. I see brown, black, shades of gray and tan, olive hues and some blue in refected sky and transparent snow. I dream of trout. They can add the colors: butter yellow, orange, and red.

Plunge pools mix air, movement, and sound. Water with little motion in long, slow runs suddenly drops and migrates through boulders and rocks, churning with life before mellowing into the next section of quiet flow.

When the trout are still, the reflecting lines of tree trunks reconnect and angle out over the water reaching for the bank and disappearing into the snow and landscape.

There is a feeling of peace that comes to me. Year after year of inspection, I find that nothing really changes here only with the seasons. Come spring and summer shades of green will appear. I have learned to appreciate that color. It's beauty and significance has been added to my life, hopefully to never leave.

Follow the Heart

Dark comes early evening, late Fall, in Utah's west desert. I didn't care. I needed to get away. I took a dirt road leading into the sunset. The western vista was nothing but tints and shades of plum and pomegranate. The longer I drive, the darker the shades.

I have to clear my mind. Heading into remoteness one of my ways to do it. You could say I was running from issues, but I was taking them with me, and looking for a place to bury them; a place where no one else would find them--a place with few footprints.

I turn left at a fork in the road and take the lower road along a volcanic outcropping. The broken rock blacker than dusk. Soon, the sky and rock will blend and become one. I turn off the main dirt road onto a very poor turnout and follow the rocky base of an old railroad grade for several hundred yards. I park and immediately hike up the ridge and into some rolling hills.

The sun is just below the horizon but still casting long shadows of sage and rabbitbrush like long arms with hundreds of reaching fingers. I walk with a quick pace dodging the fingers as they try to grasp my ankles. Ahead, I see a set of rocks that invite me to sit, think, and listen. I angle up the side of a sloping hill, reach the rocks, and sit down.

Now what? Dig a hole? Bury my heart? Listen? I decide to listen. Coyotes howl and yip, organizing for the evening hunt, or more likely, notifying the packs of my intrusion. Surround sound at its best. I've heard this yipping and howling often, but I am never able to determine how many coyotes are involved. It always sounds like hundreds. I read once, that after a coyote howls, he is unable to howl again for some time. If this is true, then there really are hundreds of coyotes around me. Eventually, all the singing stops, and all that remains is silence. Stillness.

From my rock seat, I look around and realize I can't see distance anymore. I see blackness. I'm out far enough that there is no ambiant light. No city light pollution. No moon. Dark!

I stand and try to see a landmark. Just as I knew would happen, the sky and rock have mixed together. Which way did I walk from the truck? How far have I walked? This doesn't happen to me. I am lost! All the things I have learned were running through my head. Did I leave a detailed trip plan at home? No. Did I bring the minimum amount of survival gear? No. It was just a drive and a hike to get away. I had nothing but a pocketknife. What good is a pocketknife in this situation? All I need to do is locate my truck and get out of this black landscape.

What have I learned about traveling in wild places? What have I learned to do when lost? I remember the number one survival tool is the mind. Remain positive! No need to panic. The truck is out there. I couldn't have hiked that far. Relax. Stop. That's it stop. Now think.

There's the Big Dipper. Follow the two stars on the bottom of the dipper out in a line until it hits a bright star. There it is, Polaris, the North Star. That direction is north. So what? I have no clue from which direction I came. North is meaningless. Or is it? Let's see. I know I hiked uphill facing the setting sun, that would be west. I know that the area I'm in is approximately forty-one degrees north latitude so if I was walking toward the setting sun I must have walked from the north--so the North Star is helpful. Stay calm.
I remember I drove along an old railroad grade for a few hundred yards. All I have to do is walk down the hill until I hit the railroad grade and then follow it northward until I see the truck.

I reach into my pocket to make sure I still have my keys. I pull them out and remember that my key ring is a single LED mini-flashlight. Added security. It's light isn't much, but surprisingly bright in a very dark desert. The light improves calmness and slows adrenaline.

I come off the hill and find the railraod grade. Angling toward the North Star I head down the grade. It seems I walked much farther than I remember. I pause to question my direstion. Surely, I did not hike this far. Think again. Follow your mind or follow your heart? I dislike that question. That question is one of my most difficult. Think! Thinking has to do with the brain. Something doesn't feel right. Feeling has to do with the heart. I've already done the thinking. Follow the heart. Heart says, keep going in the direction I'm going. I do and find the truck.

I get into the truck, drive out to the main dirt road, and head out of the desert. It's a little over two hours drive. As I finally get out of the sage flats and up over the last small range of mountains, I can see thirty or forty miles into the distance, the gleaming lights all along the Wasatch Front. My mind now clear--I'm heading home.

Winter Reading List

I have a few books I picked up at the public library to help me get through the longer nights of winter: The Maytrees, and The living, by Annie Dillard, River Walking, by Kathleen Dean Moore, and Where the Rain Children Sleep, by Michael Engelhard.

I have a habit of starting a book and often never finishing it. The book has to really grab me and make me think or I lose interest fast. I still struggle with fiction but trying to be better at reading it, thus the first two book of fiction by Dillard. Each of the mentioned books have nature as a theme. If I find anything interesting I'll let you know.

Winter Notes from Montana by Rick Bass

I bought and read Winter Notes from Montana, by Rick Bass several years back. With winter coming to the intermountain area, I decide to read it again. I like some of the stuff Bass writes and this read is okay. It's written in a journal format. Bass, a writer, and his girlfriend Elizabeth, an artist, have migrated around looking for the perfect place to settle and pursue their interests. They end up in an area near Yaak, Montana by the Canadian and Idaho border. It is a remote place, hard to get to; a place with no electricity. The perfect place for a hermit or hermits. I guess you can still be a hermit and live in a place with other hermits?

This little book is different. Some of it I don't enjoy, even though I plod along reading every word. I find that I am trying to feel what Rick and Elizabeth are feeling. I search the words for a deep meaning and follow the description of the most menial of activities such as cutting, splitting, and stacking wood. I am searching the words for the same thing they were searching: a meaning in life outside normal social posturings.

The past couple of years I have been questioning my ventures into the woods and my lone adventures up my favorite rivers, streams and creeks. Early in my life, I had the dream of living in a small, remote town. I considered a hermit like life. But I also knew that I liked the company of females and finding a gal that would live that kind of secluded existence would be almost impossible. I was already finding it difficult to find one that would put up with the need I had to wander for a whole day at a time. I did eventually find such a woman and it has been wonderful. She lets me spend a lot of evenings and Saturdays in the places I want to be. She has made me the envy of my male neighbors. They stand in their yards and scratch their heads, or at least tip their heads to me, as I drive off for a summer's evening of dry fly fishing while they navigate a lawnmower.

As I have been reading, this statement by Bass jumped out at me: "I'm suppose to be a hermit, but what a half-assed hermit I'm turning into: running away to the woods in order to discover that I love people, friends."

The reason this statement jumped out at me, is because the timing of reading it. It never really stood out to me years ago when I first read the book. This time, however, it really stood out. I have been "feeling" a need to connect with people this past year in a way that is new to me. So to read that Bass, a person who was seeking a more solitary lifestyle, would discover this need to love people and friends, early in his adventure to get away, is interesting to me.

A co-worker of mine used to tell me that humans are social animals. He tried to explain that we need the interaction in order to remain whole. I tried to take the opposite view and explain why, but never could explain it in a worthy manner. It's hard to explain feelings. I'm going to try.

While I still enjoy a certain amount of solitude, especially when I fly fish, I am finding that having someone along on "some" adventures can actually add to the pleasure and give me someone to analyze the experience with. It can give me someone I can look in the eyes and notice that theirs are as wide open as mine, or that their breathing is quick, or that they just took one big breath too, because of the thrill of the experience or because of the shared vista. Like I said, feelings are hard to explain.

I guess the bottom line to all of this, is that I hope to share more of my wanderings, my hikes, my fly fishing, my other "adventures" with those I love--family and friends. Hopefully, some of them will want to go with me, but if not, I know that I can always go alone, and that means no matter what, I'll be in good company.

Winter Solstice

My alarm went off at 6:00 AM. I listened to the news for a minute and then the weather report. I rolled over and thought to myself, "winters here." One winter, I ran in the cold. This winter I have decided to hit the gym or run on a treadmill. Breathing in the cold air makes me cough. I don't like it.

I've been running all summer and became addicted to it. I run for several reasons. I run to keep fit. I run to think. I run to calm my mind. I run because I can. I was running 3.5 miles every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and most Saturdays unless I had some other outing planned on the weekend. Then I went nuts. I started to run 3.5 miles every morning except Sunday. And then I started running 3.5 in the evening too for a total of 7 miles per day. On the evenings I didn't run, I would ride my mountain bike. I would put in 10 to 20 miles a night including some hill work. Like I mentioned I was going nuts. I was running in the summer heat. Some evenings the temperature was 90 plus and I would run. I actually loved it. The sweat dripping into my eyes and burning. I couldn't see. I wiped it away as best I could and then would look for a yard with sprinklers. I would run into the sprinklers and wash the sweat and salt from my body and then run again. Eventually, I started to wear a sweatband and it helped keep most of the salt out of my eyes. I was overdoing it and started to have a problem in my left leg something called the IT band. I had to stop for two weeks to heal and now I have cut back to 3.5 miles every other day. I want to maintain that through the winter.

I'm not a winter person. I get cabin fever. It seems every year it comes earlier. I'm already dreaming of summer. I wouldn't mind winter so much if I had a nice warm place to hole up where I could just write, paint, draw, and tie trout flies. But since I have other responsibilities, I have to travel out into the cold, white, but mostly grayness of winter.

In the past I have tried to trick my mind as a way to get through the cold months. I look forward to the winter solstice. I watch the calendar and wait for December 21st. The winter solstice is the shortest day of the year. It is the day the sun is farthest to the south of my location. It means the sun will start to move to the north and as it progresses to the north the days get longer and eventually warmer. The long, cold nights are on their way out. I can't wait!

I'm going to try to enjoy the winter more this year. I have a few days planned to go after mountain whitefish. They are not as lethargic as trout in the winter and will give me some much needed fly fishing pleasure. I used to go after them with my brother. Cold, winter afternoons all bundled up and standing in the river, laughing, smiling and knowing that we were the two toughest, and smartest, and best looking men in the world. Man, I miss those days!

I've got some other ideas I want to try to help me make it through the winter. It seems long all ready and it's just beginning. Five weeks to the winter solstice and I'll be fine!

SEVEN MILES TO SOLITUDE

Daddy Stump was already on Antelope Island when Fielding Garr was commisioned by Brigham Young to build a house and manage the Church's cattle ranch there in the fall of 1848. Daddy Stump had it right. The old mountain man had a crude cabin made of juniper wood and a dirt roof at the base of one of the steep canyons on the west side of the island. No one knows how long he had been there, but he was living in complete solitude at the time. Daddy Stump's solitude was interupted with the beginning of the ranching and Stump actually helped in driving cattle to the island for the Garrs.

Daddy Stump left the island sometime around 1855 for a remote corner of Cache Valley and then mysteriously disappeared. Not much more is known about him. Whether Daddy Stump was his real name, or exactly where his cabin was built on the island, and where he ended up, or what happened to him in Cache Valley is not known. Daddy Stump Ridge a long, high ridge on Antelope Island bears his name, a reminder of a man and his solitude. It was this solitude that I sought when I drove the seven miles across the causeway and entered the landscape of the island.

The island's bison dotted the landscape in several areas. I was careful to keep my distance as they are very wild even though accustomed to human visitors.The day was dark and gray with low overcast skies sometimes covering Frary Peak, the final destination of my hike. Frary Peak at 6,596 feet above sea level provides great vistas of Great Salt Lake, Wasatch Front, other islands, and mountain ranges west of the island as far as Nevada.From Buffalo Point, I gazed out over White Rock Bay at Fray Peak and mentally prepared for my lone expedition to the summit.I left the trailhead and started up the first incline. I hiked fast. I felt good. I had energy and wanted to burn it from my system. Heartbeats quickened and pounded hard in my chest. Adeneline motivated my legs into a steady motion and my thoughts turned to a summer of running an biking that now made my spirit grateful for the training. As I entered a boulder strewn field, I looked back and noticed Dooly knob backdropped by slate stratus clouds blocking the Wasatch Mountains and Ogden City from view.I continued to hike and gained in elevation. Remnant early snow, and a cool breeze reminded me that fall would soon give way to winter.Part of the trail is tough. There are sections where I run. I had trails like this in mind when I bought the orange trail running shoes. They are light, yet sturdy. I like to run in them. I punished my feet, my legs, my knees, my back, and my brain. October, the month for hauntings, witches, and axe murderers. They don't scare me. That's not why I'm hiking and trail running. Okay, maybe the hauntings give reason to run. I hiked to Frary Peak as fast as I could. By adding the running, I can leave the hauntings at the lower elevation; down by the salt water where nothing can live except brine shrimp and flies. From the peak I can see. I wish the trail didn't close at dusk. I wish I could stay past dark. At night I could see the glow of  sparkling city lights all along the Wasatch Front. I saw a glimpse of this when I stayed on Fremont Island at night. The view of the lights is rewarding. It put me in place. The realization of so much human activity within the narrow band of land between lake and mountains. It made me notice the quiet, stillness and sometimes eeryiness of solitude. Thoughts of disappearing like the banished grave robber, Jean Baptiste--the exile of Fremont Island, and ghost upon the Great Salt Lake brine can start new hauntings. Baptiste's ghost has been seem walking along these salty shores. If you stay overnight in the campgrounds listen for the footsteps and mournful whispers.At the summit someone built a rock altar of sorts, or maybe it was a stone throne for the king of the hill to rest and take in the extended view of his kingdom.I am always amazed on my lone trips. As the sun set into the western mountains, I turned to view the highlighted Wasatch Front and saw someone against the rocks watching me. I could see no features in his face, no definition in his outfit or gear that would give me hint of who he was. He just stood there against the rocks and stared at me as I stared at him. I wanted to say, "Who are you?" I didn't. I wanted to respect the silence of the day. I had not spoken verbally. In my mind I had had numerous conversations. The thought occurred to tell the stranger of the excitement of the day; the things I had seen, the feelings I had felt. But as I stood there looking at him, I had the feeling that he already knew.

FALL COLOR LOGAN CANYON

WELCOME

Welcome to my new blog. Instead of publishing non-fly fishing related topics on my Troutseeker blog, I decided to post them here. OUT THERE, is usually where I am found--or in most instances where I go to not be found. This blog will be dedicated to the other outdoor pursuits I enjoy. I will be posting about hiking, mountain biking, canoeing, kayaking, running, wandering and wondering about nature and the outdoors. This will be the place I come after an outing or when I just want to muse or dream about the serenity and beauty I find in the natural world. Since I live in the Intermountain West, most of the posts will have to do with this area. You will find me in the mountains, deserts, and places between. As my header sub-title says, I hope to make this "a place of wistful inquiries and dreams."