August 28, 2008: Kodiak, Alaska

While growing up on Kodiak it seemed like there was nothing to do. The scenery failed to impress, the wildlife was standard issue, and exploring the WW II bunkers was positively boring (there's only so much concrete one can look at). Occasionally something moderately interesting became crammed in the rocks on some beach after a good storm, but when the novelty wore off after a few minutes, what else was there to do? Look at flowers? Exactly my point.

Perhaps it is because I have been gone for more or less 15 years, but things seem far more interesting these days. It's exciting to watch someone catch their first fish,

It may be a spawning humpy, but it was still Diana's first fish!:

the beaches look pretty in the rain, and fresh bear tracks in the mud add an extra shot of adrenaline more effective than coffee to my morning run.
I thought I had seen and done most things in Kodiak. But the locals are inventive and new technology has fostered new hobbies. I couldn't believe it when my mom told me that a family friend was snorkeling with some regularity. Snorkeling? That's only done in Hawaii or some place within spitting distance of the equator. Needless to say, the water surrounding Kodiak Island tends to be a few degrees colder than tropical locales condusive to snorkeling. I was aware of a couple of hardy souls that surfed in the area, but surfers are a rabid bunch that would paddle behind an icebreaker in the Arctic if they thought they could ride the wake. Besides, surfing by definition requires staying on top of the water in contrast to snorkeling which involves intentional, full-body submersion. Wetsuits only keep one warm for so long and don't do anything for the face. Try putting your head in icewater and see how long it is before you get a headache. Snorkeling in the Gulf of Alaska ranked right up there with pitching a tent next to a fresh bear kill -- insane.

Enter the new and improved drysuit. The last drysuit I had worn was during a summer job working for Alaska Fish and Game counting fish. We wore them in glacier fed rivers to clean weirs (a structure we would build across rivers that prevented the salmon from swimming upstream until we opened gates to count them) of debris and they were terrible. It was like wearing a couple layers of Tyvek that would tear as soon as a person came within 10 feet of anything sharp. We called them wetsuits because we would be soaked within minutes of flopping in the water. That was the Dinosaur Age of drysuits.

Today's drysuits are impressive testaments to technology and human determination to stay comfortable in water temperatures that would send walruses south for the winter. When I tried on my rental drysuit at a local dive shop, I was surprised to find it was almost comfortable and looked like it could withstand a couple swipes by a bear (or, more appropriately, withstand a shark attack -- sharks, especially salmon sharks, are appearing with greater frequency as Alaska water temperatures rise). The real test for me was would my fingers, toes, and face stay warm?

We arrived at our chosen beach on a classic damp Kodiak day, suited up, and jumped in.

Not exactly Hawaii conditions:I knew it was going to be different from snorkeling in the tropics, but I didn't realize how different. I had fished for halibut and thrown out a subsistence crab pot or two on the waters around Kodiak, but sitting in a boat on the surface of the ocean I might as well have been 3,000 miles away from the scene happening below me. The waters are cloudy in the summer because they are literally teeming with life. Tiny life. Plankton and algae and mini bits of other organic matter swirled in the currents and I suddenly realized why these waters are so productive. All this life in miniature supported all other life in the ocean; it's the base of the food chain, and it is one massive base.

Not everything is in miniature, however. Mats of monocrhomatic seaweed swayed gracefully with the gentle swells, while bright red and orange starfish slowly stalked even slower prey. Rocks and boulders were covered in irregular patches of salmon pink algae across which sea urchins marched like small porcupines. In contrast with tropical fish, many fish here tend to be camouflaged, requiring sharp eyes to discern their forms among the rocks or sand. I might not even have noticed the large school of needlefish swimming nearby -- so perfectly did they blend in with the color of the water -- until they swiftly changed course, flashing me with a shimmering curtain of silver.

I was enjoying myself so much I didn't notice that I was warm. All of me. Fingers, toes, and face included. And I stayed that way the entire time. The drysuit was a marvel and I felt like I could have stayed in the water all day. Except for the minor drawback that I couldn't just pee in the drysuit like I could in a wetsuit. Well, I guess technically I could, but my clothes would be rather stinky and I didn't really want to go down that path. Despite that small detail, it really was a blast to be facedown in the chilly waters of the Gulf of Alaska looking for crab to pick up for dinner. Trust me when I say that snorkeling is not just for the tropics anymore.

Happy snorkelers L to R: Diana, me, and John

August 6, 2008: Blake Island, Washington

Diana and I traded the cramped quarters of the tent for the slightly less cramped quarters of a sailboat upon our return to Seattle from The Enchantments. Her parents had invited us to join them on an overnight sailing excursion to Blake Island and we jumped at the opportunity.

Which one is the jib again?
Located mere miles from downtown Seattle in the Puget Sound, Blake Island is a state park that can only be reached by boat.

Sailboats at anchor on the back side of the island:Allegedly the birthplace of Chief Seattle, it was clearcut like everything else in the region, then used by smugglers and rumrunners before a wealthy real estate financier, William Trimble, bought the island and turned it into a private estate. Trimble intended to eventually give it to Seattle as a municipal park, but when Trimble's wife died, the family abandoned the island and the plan. After decades of neglect, local government bought Blake Island and Washington State turned it into a park in 1959.

Today there is a small marina that charges a nominal daily fee to dock, about 12 miles of hiking trails on the island, and dynamite views of downtown Seattle. The idyllic setting is spoiled only by a tourist attraction known as Tillicum Village. It's actually not that bad. Tourists are ferried from Seattle to eat "traditional" Northwest Coast Indian food, watch some traditional dancing, and buy some ethno-tat (aka traditional art/weaving/etc). It's kind of like the Northwest version of the Hawaiian luau. The set-up is pretty localized, however, and it's only from the marina that a person sees the tourists. On the plus side, there is a little shack associated with the village that sells ice cream.

Staying overnight at the marina was peaceful. The scent of barbecues wafted along on the gentle ocean breeze and everyone watched the lights of Seattle twinkle to life as the sun set. I was ensconced in a little congenial community. Sitting in a boat rocking gently on the water, lulled by waves lapping softly against the bow, promotes a sense of peace and well-being that is contagious, I guess. It was easy to fantasize about setting sail, encircling the world with the web of our wake, and spending hundreds of future nights in similar places, sharing tales and tips with other vagabond sailors.

August 3, 2008: The Enchantments, Washington

Imagine a prototypical alpine wilderness with lakes so clear they appear transparent and reflect the calendar-worthy mountains in near perfect mirror images. Now watch the sunset accent the land in orange and rose hues after a day of satisfying hiking on scenic trails and breathe in the crisp, still air as it becomes heavy with the scent of pine. Now sprinkle a few mountain goats calmly wandering through your campsite mere feet from you as you sit by your tent cooking oatmeal for breakfast, or, if you happened to bring your rod, perhaps a trout you caught from the lake 20 steps away. Dare even to imagine that there is not another human being in sight. A place where even the pit toilets are sparkling clean and feature tremendous views. View from the above pit toilet:Can such a place be real? Why yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is real, and it's called The Enchantments.

I knew nothing about The Enchantments. I've never read about the place, never seen pictures of the place, never even knew it existed. Completely off my radar. I was stopping in the Seattle area after my reintegration-to-the-States time in Nevada, and Diana suggested immediately heading to the other side of the Cascades to go camping at a park called The Enchantments. I was, in a word, reluctant. As if I hadn't seen enough of the inside of a tent during the previous year. Plus it was The Enchantments with a capital "T" like one too many indie bands that preface their band name with "The." I'm generally against that. But after a few gushing phrases from Diana who had hiked through the area once years earlier with a friend, I caved.

Then I asked what the catch was.

"Weeeelllll," Diana drawled, drawing in a big breath before launching into her explanation, "we'll have to drive up the night before or maybe leave like 2 a.m.and sleep out in front of the ranger station well not if we leave at like 2 in the morning but we want to be there early to put our name in for the draw for unclaimed tickets because it is first-come first-served." Say what? Tickets? I waited for her to catch her breath and continue. "The rangers only allow around 15 people up there per day depending on group size at any one time and you have to enter a lottery for tickets in March in which only about a third of the people get tickets but," she drew a breath, "they have a daily drawing for no-shows."

Let's see, a five hour drive, sleep deprivation, plus the chance to take part in a drawing with no guarantee of getting tickets. Now I really wanted to go. Seriously, I did. It suddenly had all the makings of a potentially great random adventure instead of merely throwing the tent in the car and parking at the trailhead.

After a full day of Seattle sightseeing, dinner with one set of friends, then drinks with another set of friends, we set off at 10:30 p.m. -- too late for a full night of sleep and too early for showing up right before the drawing. We drove until we got tired, then snuck into a campground and slept for a couple hours before continuing on our way. We arrived, groggy and cotton-mouthed, at 5:30 a.m, 2 hours and 15 minutes before the scheduled drawing. There was already another car waiting.

Cars of fleece clad sporting types continued to arrive as the minutes ticked by. Competition was looking fierce. We played guess-the-people-with-the-new-gear, while I wistfully looked at my own travel-stained trousers which had seen me through three continents.

The ranger appeared at 7:30 to lay the ground rules and talk about encounters with mountain goats. She told everyone it was important to urinate on rocks, preferably in a crack, otherwise the mountain goats would destroy the fragile alpine fauna with their hooves pawing to get to the urine which they licked up for minerals. I had some trouble rectifying my image of cute, fluffy, white mountain goats frolicking along pristine mountain cliffs

with this new image of scavenging mountain goats with a urine fetish -- greasy coats stained yellow, of course. I decided it was all rather silly, anyway, because I doubted I would see one. Maybe through binoculars, but they rarely allow a person to get close enough for a photo with a decent zoom lens.

I put the matter out of my head because at precisely 7:45 a.m. the ranger began to pull names out of the hat and the assembled Goretex-ed group of hopefuls shifted anxiously. The first slip belonged to a couple (blast!) and the second slip belonged to a group of four (crap!). The crowd let out a collective sigh of defeat as the ranger proclaimed that no more names would be drawn. But then, wonder of all wonders, another ranger rushed out the front door and announced that there had been a cancellation. One more slip would be drawn! The dispersing crowd quickly recoalesced, hopeful once more. "Alright now, don't rush me when I draw this name," cautioned the ranger with a wry smile as she pulled out...Diana's name! Woo-hoo! More quality time in a tent!

While others immediately jumped in their vehicles and sped straight to the trailhead, Diana and I celebrated our good fortune by going to breakfast. Then we had to buy food for four days of camping. I was not about to have a pack weighted down with canned food like our last camping trip on Mt. Mulanje. Thankfully, we were back in the land of slick packaging and discovered supermarkets now sold both tuna and pasta sauce in handy, lightweight packets. Some things had changed for the better while I was overseas!

We stuffed our packs with our provisions and camping gear at the trailhead and finally set off close to noon. With few exceptions, alpine starts never seem to work out for us. Turns out I needed that breakfast because the trail climbs constantly for a grueling 4,100 feet to Snow Lake where the scenery really starts, then keeps climbing. Because of our late start, we decided to camp on the shore of Snow Lake and continue to the upper basin the next day. I slept like a log.

Snow Lake:
The nice thing about having several days in The Enchantments is that it allows one time to be leisurely. It is possible to dayhike into the upper basin (even from the trailhead if a person is feeling masochistic), but the scenery is worth taking the time to enjoy. Granite mountains like Prusik Peak tend to get the most attention, though every mountain seems to have its own reflecting lake.

Little Annapurna:
We ambled along, taking pictures of flowers and the scenery, exchanging pleasantries with the occasional dayhiking group. I soon started to wonder if I needed to change my prescription, though, because with alarming frequency breathless hikers started asking if I had seen the mountain goats that were just around the corner, in the patch of trees over there, or that really amazing one that was standing right by the lake. I began to develop a complex. Why was everyone seeing mountain goats but me? Was there an airborne hallucinogen at upper elevations? Was I giving off some type of goat-be-gone phermone? I stopped smiling at the other hikers in hopes that they would shut up about their stupid mountain goat sightings. hmph.

I was standing on a rock investigating yet another picture angle for Prusik Peak when I caught motion out of the corner of my right eye. It didn't appear big so I kept peering through my viewfinder, preoccupied with the light on the peak. The movement started again and was irritatingly just outside of my vision to identify whether it was a small, benign animal or a hulking, malice-filled bear. Whatever it was, it wasn't moving fast, so I continued to concentrate on the peak because I didn't want to miss the instant of perfect light. But there was that movement again. And now it is definitely closer and starting to break my concentration and I finally gave up and looked to my right and nearly fell off the rock. Standing there, mere inches from my foot, was a mountain goat staring up at me quizically.
"Diana," I hissed, trying not to scare the mountain goat. She was busy taking pictures off to my left. "Diana!" I repeated, slightly louder as the goat cocked his head at me.

I winced as she answered "What?" Her voice sounded like a jet engine to me and I was sure the goat was going to bolt. "There's a mountain goat RIGHT HERE!" I stage whispered as I slowly, ever so slowly, lowered my lens to take a picture of the cute little fellow. I prayed the sound of the shutter wouldn't scare the little guy. It was unbelievable. There was a mountain goat right in front of me! Staring at me! Chewing his cud and burping! How cute!

I quickly snapped off a few shots without composing the picture, just wanting to get some proof that there had been a mountain goat RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! My excitement might seem strange since this goat was about 1/60th the height of a giraffe, 1/3,000th the mass of an elephant, and, unlike a lion, had no sharp teeth. But, as opposed to those animals, I've only seen mountain goats from afar (in two countries, no less) and nowhere even close enough to contemplate taking a photo. This was special. Besides, I was pretty sure we had bonded. Then he farted softly, turned, and walked away from me. Maybe we hadn't bonded after all, but now he was walking RIGHT TOWARD DIANA!
You get the idea. I continued to be giddy as a schoolgirl even after the mountain goat nonchalantly wandered off. I was sure none of the other hikers had been that close to one of these beautiful creatures. It was amazing. It was unique. It was hyperbole to new heights!

Setting up camp took forever because there were mountain goats coming out of the woodwork looking magestic or just waiting to be anthropomorphized. It was goats, goats, and more goats.I couldn't walk without tripping over one and it took a couple of hours for the novelty to wear off. Rather abruptly, as it were. Precisely when they started trying to nibble on my tent. Why is it that animals are always attracted to my tents? I keep food and cooking gear far away from my tent and there's no St. Francis of Assisi halo over my head as far as I can tell. I just don't understand.

Me, not so happy with the mountain goats after they started showing an interest in my tent.

Although I went to sleep with a still generally positive feeling toward mountain goats, the next morning changed my view of them forever.

Through the mesh tent ceiling I could tell it was going to be another glorious day in The Enchantments -- fluffy clouds drifted silently across a robin egg blue sky and the air was crisp but not biting. I unzipped the tent to go answer nature's call and involuntarily let out a gasp at the sight of eight little black eyes staring at me. Four mountain goats were hovering right outside my tent door, eyes fixed directly on me. I looked at them, they looked at me. A bird chirped off in the distance. Pine needles whispered in the slight breeze. I blinked first. Cautiously, I continued my exit from the tent while the mountain goats followed me with their eyes. Not their heads, mind you, just their eyes. I moved right, their eyes moved right. I moved left, their eyes moved left. It was a little creepy.

The standoff might have continued indefinitely, but my bladder was now sending increasingly urgent messages to my brain that I could no longer ignore. I stood and three mountain goat heads tilted up, maintaining eye contact. The other goat seemed to be fixated on my crotch. Weird. Remembering the ranger's advice, I set off toward some rocks to urinate and the goats parted to let me pass, then closed ranks and trailed along behind me. I stopped on my chosen rock -- relatively flat with a few cracks -- and started to unzip my pants. The goats formed a semi-circle in front of me. Eight eyes peered directly at my crotch. I froze. It was too much, I couldn't go being watched in such an expectant manner. Four tiny mountain goats were giving me stage fright.

Stage fright or no, my bladder would not be denied and nature took over. The goats immediately erupted into a frenzy of scrambling hooves and slashing horns in an effort to lick up my urine. My jaw dropped as I watched these formerly adorable creatures shove each other out of the way to get their licks in. Several other mountain goats came running, tried to get in on the action, and a full-on brawl erupted. I backed away slowly.

The aftermath:


I found it rather difficult to take photos of the mountain goats after that. Thankfully, there was plenty of scenery to distract me. I'm sure I confused more than one dayhiker with my reluctance to discuss mountain goat encounters and utter lack of enthusiasm at taking goat photos. It was so, so, distasteful, really, that I'm still considering therapy.

Parting shot:

July 30, 2008: Spring Creek, Nevada

If the balloon ride wasn't cool enough, I also got to witness one of the better lightning storms I've seen in recent memory. It was a pitch black evening and the lightning was attracted to some (very) low hills behind my sister's house. I aimed my camera in the general direction on a long exposure, hoped it was in focus, and prayed for the best. When the storm moved directly into my sister's backyard, I wasn't so excited... Here's some of the shots:

I had really only been to this part of the world for the holidays and was determined to investigate the nearby Ruby Mountains a little now that it was summer. Though not particularly high -- the peaks are in the 10-11,000 foot range --there are no foothills and they rise an additional 5-6,000 feet above the surrounding area.

View of Rubies from my sister's backyard:While the rest of the region is sun-baked brown, this narrow band of mountains hides trees, green grass, accessible alpine lakes, some decent rock climbing according to the sporting goods store owner I spoke to (about 100 routes currently up. I couldn't find anyone to climb with while I was there, but I did do some bouldering and the rock quality is quite good.), and even a few small glaciers hiding out.

Multi-pitch potential:

So my sister and I rousted the dogs out, and took them for a little stroll over one of the passes. It was a completely different world from the sagebrush lowlands with leftover snow, pretty little lakes, and an abundance of wildflowers thriving at over 10,000 feet.

Someday I would like to take a little time and hike the length of the Rubies. They are only about 12 miles wide and 70 miles in length, although it would be possible to add another 20 miles by incorporating the adjoining East Humboldt range to the south. It could be rather spectacular, actually, to do it in winter with a randonee set-up and ski some of the peaks (there is heli-skiing in the Rubies). That may just warrant a little more investigation...