Bob's Mountain Blog

GEORGIAN BAY KAYAKING

2011-08-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

DAYS 3 & 4 – “Beyond Lonely” Georgian Bay Spirit of Adventure Tour 2011
PHOTOS http://tinyurl.com/GBphotos-4thAlbum

MORNING GLORY
Because we were able to sleep in our tents without a rainfly to block the light and our view of the sky, I awoke to see the beautiful pallet of color that the sun painted the morning sky before the life-giving orb was actually visible. It was 4:30, and clouds were being illuminated and “coloured” (we were in Canada) from below, as the earth slowly rotated to begin another cycle of light.
I wiped the sleep from my eyes, found my glasses and camera, unzipped the tent, and crawled out onto the wooden deck. My friends were still sleeping, or pretending so, in order to delay the inevitable. While sitting on the edge of the platform, I had an excellent view of the polychrome scene unfolding before me. With my “good camera”, I snapped away, capturing images with varied compositions of shore, tree, water, and sky. As the sun rose, so too did my friends. The crumbling concrete dock down the beach provided stark silhouettes to complement the natural elements. Soon, the first direct rays of light peeked above the horizon; it was the perfect sunrise (not that I’ve seen all that many of them). As if driven by an unseen power, I continued to take pictures as the sun gradually moved higher into the sky. Rich, warm colors faded from the underside of the clouds as the morning moved onward. I was finished with my artistic expression, and it was time to eat and begin packing for another great day on the bay.

JOIN THE CLUB
One more walk around the relics of the former inhabitants of the Lonely Island lighthouse complex (first occupied in 1870), and it was time to move our kayaks to the water and fill the hatches with gear. We bid a very fond farewell to historic Lonely Island and moved beyond it to see what the next islands would reveal. In the distance, we could see 2 or 3 small boats, the most we had seen all weekend. Six miles to the west was Club Island, with its central “harbor”, said to be an attractive place for sailboats to anchor for the night. Another couple hours of paddling on calm seas beneath cloudy skies brought us to that island. The smaller boats had moved on, and a large sailboat with a raft in tow was the only boat in sight. It was moored near the island’s little harbor, actually just a shallow lagoon, or pond. What looked like a huge boulder from farther away was actually a very tall pile of rocks excavated from the island and left near the water’s edge. The sailboat headed north as we approached, and we took a break on the stony shore. Like all the other places, nobody lived on Club Island, and there were no signs that buildings ever existed there. Soon, we left and made our way south along the shoreline. The tip of Club Island was a narrow point that extended into Georgian Bay, and continued much farther as a shallow, rocky shoal. We finally rounded that end of the island and set our sights in the next isle, Fitzwilliam, where we planned to camp that night.

NAME CALLING
An additional 7 miles of paddling in light chop brought us to Fitzwilliam Island, the largest by far of any island we visited on this tour. It was named for Royal Navy Captain William Fitzwilliam Owen, who, in 1815, was the first to chart Georgian Bay. Captain Owen called it “Lake Manitoulin”, an English version of the Ojibway Indian name “Spirit Lake” (Owen Sound is also named for him). Royal Navy Captain Henry Bayfield, who made more detailed charts of the bay, renamed it in 1822 after King George IV. His charts are the basis of those in use today.

PAVING THE WAY
The location of our final campsite was uncertain, since little information was available about suitable places to seek shelter on this grand island. With a circumference of about 22 miles, it is just a little smaller than an island in the Niagara River near my home between Buffalo and Niagara Falls, named “Grand Island”. We aimed for the northern tip of the big island, and landed for another break to stretch our legs and have look about. I had hoped to find a place to camp about half-way down the shoreline, near a protrusion called McCarthy Point. Before we paddled that far, we saw an interesting area of rock shelves that stuck out dramatically from the dense cedar forest that covered most of the island. As I paddled closer to one of the more fascinating areas, my friends told me it looked like a great place to camp. That suited me, and we landed on a coarse, gravely place with layers of rock shelves conveniently rising above it. I likened it to a castle because of the grand layered rocks rising up to the trees, but Joe called it “the amphitheater”, for the overall shape of the rock formation. We made camp in the amphitheater; no giant spiders, no 100-year-old lighthouses, just majestic natural beauty. There were broad, very flat sections of rock with many places on which to pitch a tent, and more flat areas were just 2 feet higher on another layer of the sedimentary rock. My chart identified that part of Fitzwilliam Island as “Pavement Point”, a very appropriate term. We unloaded the 3 kayaks and walked all around to choose our tent sites. When our scouting was done, we set up camp. Joe filled his filter bag with water, hung it from a cedar branch, and fired up his stove. Meals were an important part of our day, because once we stopped and set up the tents, all that was left to do was eat, drink, look at the water, and maybe read a little. I walked around for a while, exploring the shoreline while taking pictures. Once the sun was low, biting flies came out and we retreated into the tents.

FITZWILLIAM DAWN
After a good night’s sleep, I awoke to the pre-dawn sky with its warm and beautiful colours. It was our final morning of wilderness camping on Georgian Bay, with another great sunrise and more great photo opportunities. As I captured image after image of the sunrise, Joe and Patti also got up, joining me to revel in the day’s early beauty. Like the previous days, we took our time packing, eating breakfast, loading the kayaks, and soaking up the wild, watery beauty of the bay.

HAPPY HOPPING
We would have to paddle approximately 20 miles to reach Tobermory and Joe’s car at Dunks Bay, but we knew it would take only 7 or 8 hours, so we had plenty of time. I charted a course that would allow us to island-hop our way back, reducing the open water crossing to a series of shorter paddles of 5 miles or less. Our first hop took us to James Island, a quarter-mile long island inhabited by birds; lots of birds. We found a spot near shore where the gulls, terns, and cormorants weren’t, and took a short rest. The island gradually cedes its land into the bay with wide, shallow shoals, particularly at the western end. Next, we paddled to the end of Lucas Island, a smaller, 640-yard long piece of rock that was more on our path back to port. As we approached, it looked like 3 tents were set up near the shore. Closer inspection revealed 3 large boulders with patches of yellowish lichen growing on top. After another short break, we headed for Cove Island Light, less than 5 miles to the south. The water kept its consistent half-meter wave height that we had grown used to, and we landed near the lighthouse on wide, flat shelves inside a tiny pocket cove. No sightseeing this time, and we were soon making our final crossing to Tobermory.

MECHANICAL FAILURE
We had nearly paddled the full length of Cove Island when Patti said one of her foot pedals came off. Since the pedal controls the rudder, she also lost that control. I told her she would have to finish the trip without use of a rudder, but that comment was not enthusiastically received. Conveniently, there was a good landing place on North Otter Island, and we stopped to make repairs. Turned out that one fastener for the foot pedal assembly had been off for a while, perhaps weeks, so when the second nut fell off, the entire bracket came loose. We managed to get one fastener back on, restoring use of the pedal and rudder to help control the boat in the wind.

BEACHED
The final 5 miles were the most difficult of our long journey, due to a stiff off-shore wind that created larger waves and a headwind that battled us until we entered Dunks Bay. The beach where we launched 3 days before was a sweet sight. We eased our kayaks onto the sand among wading adults and splashing children who were fascinated by our boats. The car was still there, intact, and no parking tickets. After 66 miles and nearly 21 hours of paddling at an average moving speed of just over 3mph on Georgian Bay, it was good to be back in town.

WRAP-UP
My idea of a fun kayak trip is to see lots of interesting things and pile on the miles. I appreciate Patti and Joe’s willingness to follow me and venture out of their comfort zone in order to venture so many miles onto one of North America’s premier sea kayaking destinations – Georgian Bay. On this trip, we covered a lot of water and paddled out to some islands that very few people ever see, let alone land or camp on. If you haven’t already done so, be sure to read the other 3 parts of my trip report for this adventure: “Introduction and Background”, “DAY 1 - Preparation, Launching, and Camp”, and “DAY 2 - Halfway to Lonely”. Each report has a link to an album of photos that illustrates that day’s paddling and camping. This tour of the islands signifies my ultimate Georgian Bay kayak trip because of the miles and the fact that guide books don’t cover these remote islands Anything else we do up there will be either a repeat of some segment of this trip, or something that is commonly done by other paddlers along the eastern shore of the bay. I don’t know if I can top this trip, but you can be sure I’ll try! – Bob VH

PS: Thanks to the Chicago Area Sea Kayakers Association (CASKA) for their trip reports that provided the only information available anywhere that described some of these islands. I hope my own trip reports will add to the information base about these beautiful, remote locations.

Kayak trip DAY 2 – “Halfway to Lonely”

2011-07-29T10:45:00.000-07:00

DAY 2 – “Halfway to Lonely” – Georgian Bay - July 2011
PHOTOS: http://tinyurl.com/DAY2-TR-HALFMOONandLONELY

Bob’s “Spirit of Adventure Tour” 2011
Following our wildlife encounter on Bears Rump Island, I was ready to leave the isle of giant arachnids and get started on our second day of paddling. It was going to a big day for us – more than 20 miles across open water with only one small island to offer a place to rest. To save time, before we emerged from our tents in the morning, we started packing up our sleeping gear. Once we all had something to eat (oatmeal, etc.), we packed up our remaining things, carried the kayaks to the water’s edge, loaded the hatches, and prepared for a big day of paddling. My stated goal of rising early and being on the water by 6 A.M. each day fell to the reality of sleeping past sunrise, eating a good breakfast, and taking the time to enjoy the beauty of our surroundings. We launched at 9 O’clock.

HALFMOON
I took a compass bearing from the chart and made visual contact with Halfmoon Island, 10 miles away across the deep water of the great bay. Like the first day, we had just a little wind and mostly calm water for this long crossing. The marine weather forecast was good, with the only rain, wind, or fog being generated off the main land mass across the bay near Killarney Provincial Park, some 50 miles to the east. Waves were about “a half-meter”, as the Canadian NOAA weather forecast put it, and were quite manageable. At our normal cruising speed of just over 3 MPH, we expected to reach tiny Halfmoon Island in 3 hours, the mid-way point of our day’s goal on the north side of the much larger Lonely Island. From 10 miles away, Halfmoon resembled a distant city skyline, with trees forming an irregular outline against the horizon. While doing my research, I read discussions by paddlers and sailors wondering how far away you could see an island with only 12 feet of elevation above the water. People spouted formulas that took into account the island’s height, how tall the trees might be, and the distance of the paddler’s eyes above the water while seated in a kayak. The concern was whether somebody in a kayak could see an island that small from 10 miles away, or if one would have to navigate by compass or GPS alone. I was prepared to do either, but we had no problem establishing visual contact on the horizon, and we simply aimed for it.

SLOW GOING
We all quickly learned a paddler’s perspective of what an island looks like from 5 miles away, and how long it takes to paddle those final 2 miles when it looks like you’re almost there. Because I had the only GPS receiver, I had the advantage (or disadvantage) of knowing how fast we paddled, how far we had traveled, and how much farther we still had to go. We aimed for the right side of Halfmoon and paddled into the bay that was formed by the narrow crescent shape of the apparently misnamed island.

Halfmoon Island landing report (YOUTUBE): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ay4FWJlo2CE&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL

GET OFF MY ISLAND
Dozens of terns flew over the highest crest of the stony ridges, while others were on the rocks, as if nesting. A few tall cottonwood trees dominated the skyline. One of the sleek, black-capped birds flew toward us, as if deployed by the avian residents to look us over and warn us away. We landed on a flat rock shelf in shallow, algae-filled water, as far away from any birds as we could get. We made our way across wet, slippery, weathered rocks, to a flat, pavement-like shelf where it was apparent that a small cabin of some sort once stood. While we sipped water and snacked, a few of the terns continued to protest our presence by flying overhead and emitting a scream that sounded very much like “GET OFF MY ISLAND, GET OFF MY ISLAND!”, while large fish spawned in the shallow water nearby.

FIRST RECORDED VISIT BY A PADDLER!
I’m sure that hundreds of fishermen and pleasure boaters in powered or sail craft have been to Halfmoon Island, and maybe even a Voyageur or two came this far back in the fur-trading days, but in all of my research, the only mention I found in any website or book (trip reports or comments by kayakers, sailors, etc.) of paddling to Halfmoon Island was by 2 men who planned that route but didn’t go, and another man who planned a trip around the bay a couple years ago, but had to cancel. We planned. We went. We conquered. I am claiming THE FIRST DOCUMENTED LANDING ON HALFMOON ISLAND IN MODERN TIMES BY ANYONE IN A HUMAN-POWERED PADDLE CRAFT. Significant, if not newsworthy.

In honor of the occasion, I performed a little sea shanty that I thought up as we paddled, sung to the tune of Andy Williams’ “Moon River”
YOUTUBE video link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkwI5193BA0

That probably makes this the “First recorded visit by a paddler”, as well. Entertaining, if not good.

LONELY PADDLE
After about 30 minutes of rest, we accommodated our host’s request, and got off their island. We slipped back into our boats and paddled out of the lagoon, while the terns continued to scold us until were a safe distance away from their home. I reset my GPS to “go to” the north shore of Lonely Island, another 12 miles away. Weather continued to favor us, with little wind, a mostly sunny sky, and half-meter waves. After another 3 hours, we approached the southern tip of Lonely Island and paddled to the right, up the eastern shore. After an hour more of paddling, we could see the lighthouse high above the water on a hill that overlooked the rocky beach. We landed on the rounded stones that occupied a wide expanse of shoreline, or “beach”, as we all began to explore. The lighthouse on the hill and its companion building are the only structures remaining from the complex of wood-frame houses that once stood near the shore and concrete dock. Now, all that remains is concrete pads and the overgrown sidewalks that once linked all of the buildings.

"WOODEN" YOU RATHER SLEEP ON THE DECK?
As I walked around, Joe and Patti determined that the concrete pad by the dock and haul-out slip would make a suitable campsite. My research showed that there was a wooden deck somewhere, and I eventually found it. Apparently, the people who lived there and tended to the lighthouse prior to its automation in 1987 had made things comfortable by constructing a deck on the stony beach, complete with cedar trees all around the edge (most of the buildings were destroyed in 1995). The deck, approximately 10’x15’, was originally built around a large cedar tree, now merely a stump to be used as a table. The small trees planted around the perimeter had grown large enough to shade the entire deck under an aromatic canopy of green, making the deck area resemble an oasis in the otherwise barren, rocky ground. A sod-filled walkway led from the deck to a low, arched footbridge made of small cedar logs that was more ornamental than functional. Like most of the islands around there, a thick cedar forest covered most of the land, providing ample building materials for the residents. We decided that a shady wooden deck was more hospitable than a concrete slab, so we set up camp below the old cedars.

UPHILL BATTLE
Further exploration led us back over the quaint footbridge and up a very wide, rolling path through the forest that paralleled a set of power cables laid on the ground – perhaps from generators that used to be situated on the empty slabs. The path climbed up a gentle grade that obviously served the former residents as a promenade connecting the lower buildings with the beacon on the hill. Just below the lighthouse, the hill steepened and thick vegetation blocked our path. Pushing through the shrubs would have been a sweaty, uphill bushwhack, and the thought of disturbing more large spiders and rattlesnakes made the prospect of reaching the top very unappealing. We turned back. (Note: Once we had returned home, further research showed that the automatic light is now serviced by helicopter, and there is a helipad on the hill). With the only access to the top now abandoned and unmaintained, it would be quite an effort to reach top, with minimal benefit. We walked back down and explored the wooded area at the edge of the beach. Joe found the graves of 2 pets, dogs I think. I knew about them; the beloved pets were in a tiny 2-grave cemetery that was fenced in by low pickets, and marked by wooded signs bearing the animals’ names, as well as their years of birth and death. That put a human touch on the abandoned homestead, and made us realize that people and their pets lived their lives on that remote island. Joe brought a large water filtration bag, and he hung it from a tree so the gravity-feed system would let us fill our water bottles without pumping. Once he fired up his stove, we boiled water for “cooking” (rehydrating). As the sun dipped toward the horizon, biting flies came out. It was time for bed. With another good weather forecast overnight, we did without the tent’s rainfly. The wide expanse of our mostly screen-mesh shelter kept the bugs out and let the grand views in. The near perfect east-west orientation of the island’s north shore afforded us a very unique vantage point. In the evening, we watched the sunset from our deck, and in the morning, we could see the sunrise; all without leaving our tents. Another great campsite. Next up: Day 3 & 4 trip report with a final wrap-up, and more photos.

Georgian Bay Kayak Trip - July 2011

2011-07-24T09:23:00.000-07:00

Day #1 PHOTOS:
http://tinyurl.com/DayOne-GeorgianBayJuly2011

DAY 1 - Preparation, Launching, and Camp - Bob’s “Spirit of Adventure Tour 2011”
The plan was to launch our kayaks in Tobermory and paddle out onto the deep waters of Georgian Bay while we island-hopped for 4 to 5 days, camping on islands of various sizes and covering about 65 miles. The reality of it is that we did exactly that, except we had to improvise on our first night‘s campsite. In previous years, the 6 campsites on Flowerpot Island were “first come - first served”. You would walk up to the harbormaster or the cruise line ticket booth and pay for a campsite; some books, literature, and websites still proclaim that fact. With the recent construction of a National Park Visitor Center in town, campsites now can be reserved in advance at that center, or on line. The harbormaster told us to go to the ticket booth, and the ticket booth attendant told us to go to the visitor center where we were informed that a man had reserved ALL 6 campsites because he was going to be proposing to his girlfriend that weekend. I propose that letting one person reserve 6 campsites is not fair. We wouldn’t be camping on Flowerpot Island ($9.50 per person per day to camp on a primitive site), so we were forced to save $28.50 (plus GST & PST) and camp for free somewhere else. If you’ve ever gone camping r paddling in Ontario, you know that nothing is free there because there are fees to walk, visit, launch a kayak, take out a kayak, park, and camp anywhere….. unless you do it the way we did. We parked for free, and because all the islands were uninhabited and very remote, we also camped for free all 3 nights.

I’d been planning this trip for a year - since I completed a 30 mile 1-way trip across the mouth of the bay last July. Planning pays off! We drove to a narrow strip of public access beach on Dunks Bay where Joe could park his car for 3 or 4 nights without getting a ticket. I checked all the signage, and there was no restriction on the time we could leave a car there, so game on! Joe, Patti, and I began shuttling all of our gear between the car and the sandy beach, and finally carried our 3 sea kayaks to the water, squeezing the boats into a small public area of the beach that was also occupied by many other people using the beach for more traditional purposes, such as laying on towels, swimming, and building sand castles. We crammed all of our camping gear and food into the hatches, and without ceremony, we were on the water and began paddling. I zeroed the trip computer settings on my GPS receiver and made certain that I had a waypoint set for the beach.

A few days earlier, I sat in front of my desktop computer with “Google Earth” on screen and transferred the coordinates of all the islands into my handheld GPS unit, so we could aim for an island even if we couldn’t see it - a cautionary step in case of fog or other weather conditions that could obscure our visual points of reference. Last year, the water was so calm and flat, that it was almost boring; I hoped for similar conditions for Joe. My buddy Joe was on his first-ever trip on big water. We would have several open water crossings between islands that were 5 to 10 miles each, and rough water could make it interesting. Patti has paddled extensively on the Niagara River, with several near-shore trips on lakes Erie and Ontario as well, and has previously paddled on Georgian Bay.

We had enough experience among us that I wasn’t too worried about this large step I was taking by more than doubling the mileage of last year’s outing. As for safety, we all are experienced paddlers and know what can happen in a kayak, so the wearing of life jackets is a normal part of our paddling attire. Inexperienced people who don’t know enough about the sport are the ones who often opt to not wear a life jacket. By my mandate, as well as common sense, we all wore neoprene shirts (wet suit tops) in case if accidental immersion in the cold Great Lakes water. The rest of our clothing consisted of quick-dry shorts, water shoes, wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and plenty of sunscreen. I neglected to use lip balm with some sort of sun protection factor, and I regretted that (Note to self: use a high SPF sunscreen when paddling in the sun for 4 days!). We all carried a whistle, light, throw rope, and paddle float, and Patti also carried a tow line in case one of us became incapacitated and couldn’t paddle (illness, shoulder, arm, or hand injury, etc.). In addition to all of that, I carried aerial flares, signal flag, strobe light, small air horn, handheld VHF radio, a SPOT satellite rescue message device, and a navigation chart of the section of Georgian Bay we were in, sealed in a waterproof chart case. All of that was either on deck or in the cockpit behind my seat. Being the expedition photographer, I also carried 3 cameras; one in a waterproof case stowed with my gear, one in a waterproof case on deck, and a small waterproof Kodak “PlaySport” video camera attached to a little flexible tripod where I could reach it on the deck in front of me. I also transmitted a twice daily “I’m OK” message from my satellite device that relayed an e-mail to select people with a link to a map that showed my exact location. That same device could also send a “Please send help” message or a “911” (send the chopper!) message. My main source of help would have been the waterproof handheld VHF radio I bought recently. With that, I could listen to NOAA weather reports, status reports from the Coast Guard or other boaters about navigation hazards, and could also contact nearby boaters or the Tobermory Coast Guard station in case we needed immediate assistance. They call me the “Safety Nazi”. I do a lot of things that prompt people to say I’m crazy and take too many risks, but I minimize risk by planning, preparation, and by carrying the right gear. I wasn’t worried.

Back to paddling - We paddled from Dunks Bay into the big open waters of Georgian Bay and began our adventure. Joe had never been up there before, so I decided to detour over to Flowerpot Island to let Joe get a close view of the 2 sea stacks that give the island its name. Later, I learned that we were supposed to pay a fee to land there and walk around. We paddled up onto a rock shelf and pulled the boats farther up while we walked around (see photos of the “flowerpots“). I’d been there several times before, so I just hung back and took pictures. After our exploration break, we headed to the next island, Bears Rump, about 5 miles from shore, where we hoped to find a suitable place to camp. We had paddled nearly all the way around the rocky shoreline when we spotted a good landing zone and flat rock shelf that would hold our tents. We hauled our gear onto the shelf, carried the boats up and mostly out of sight behind the rocks (free camping is illegal), and attached our cockpit covers. Before we carried Patti’s kayak up from the water, I picked up a rock to get it out of the way, and standing where the rock had been was the BIGGEST SPIDER I HAVE EVER SEEN (other than in a zoo or in my cousin Louie’s bedroom)!!! I’m glad that I had a complete change of clothes with me. The spider growled and snapped at me (perhaps a slight exaggeration)… the spider just stood there silently while I screamed like a little girl (not as exaggerated). It was 3 to 4 inches across, and I later identified it as a Wolf Spider, which can have a body over 1 inch long and a leg spread of 4 inches. We set up our tents and made sure the screen doors were always zipped shut. Once the boats were stowed and tents set up, it was time to eat. Joe had his stove ready and we boiled water - that’s as close as cooking as I get. The island was covered with a thick cedar forest. Between the density of the vegetation and the size of the spiders, further exploration was not possible.

We laid our wet clothes across the rocks, watched the sun set, and zipped ourselves into our tents. Biting flies, gnats, and mosquitoes buzzed about, while giant mutant spiders lurked unseen. Since the weather forecast for the weekend was all good, we didn’t use the rain fly on our tents, allowing for good air flow all night, and good sleeping once it cooled down. In the morning, Patti told us she had heard a woodpecker in the distance; all I did was sleep. We rose in the dawn’s early light and had breakfast-with-a-view.
While we were loading our boats, Patti noticed that one of the island’s inhabitants had been busy overnight and left something attached to her neoprene top. At first I said it was a cocoon, but quickly realized that it was an egg sack - spider eggs, and Mama Spider was still close by on the shirt! Luckily for me, it was a smaller (1” across) spider. I assisted the spider’s exit and scraped off the egg sack; a web-encased bundle of bright red eggs (ick). Time to move on.

Georgian Bay Kayak Trip - Part 1

2011-07-21T18:28:00.001-07:00

Introduction and Background - Bob’s “Spirit of Adventure Tour 2011”

In the 1980’s, I began driving up to Ontario’s Bruce Peninsula with my friend, Olaf, every June to photograph the wide variety of orchids that grow in that unique geographic climate zone - a long and relatively narrow peninsula jutting into the center of a Great Lake. To the west, Lake Huron caresses the land via beautiful, wide, sandy beaches, while Georgian Bay’s deep waters crash onto the eastern shore’s rocky cliffs formed by the Niagara Escarpment. Most of the clear waters of Georgian Bay are 100 to 300 feet deep, but the bay is over 500 feet deep near shore not too far south of Tobermory.

Georgian Bay offers some of the finest and most scenic sea kayaking on the continent, with over 30,000 rocky islands along its shores. Most of those are along the eastern coastline, but the islands between Tobermory and Manitoulin Island are very remote and offer a challenge to paddlers because of their distance from shore. In 2006, I bought my first kayak, and have been paddling the deep waters near Tobermory for 4 years.

Tobermory is a small, scenic, former commercial fishing village now known mostly for tourism. It draws not only paddlers, but photographers and naturalists come to see the small wild orchids that grow in the area. Scuba divers come to dive in the clean, clear waters and view some of the 26 documented shipwrecks that are scattered along the bottom of the surrounding area in Canada’s only underwater park, “Fathom Five National Marine Park”. Other visitors drive up Highway 6 to catch the huge 365-foot long ferry, the “MS Chi-Cheemaun” that can take cars, trucks, and passengers to Manitoulin Island, which connects with mainland Ontario west of Sudbury.

The kayak trips I’ve done on Georgian Bay have been progressively farther and more difficult each year. Way back in 1991, I drove up with 3 co-workers for an overnight camping trip. They went scuba diving (I actually donned scuba gear and dived to 40 feet - briefly), and also brought my canoe. My paddling experience on that trip consisted of an hour or so of canoeing in the harbor. Fast-forward to 2008 when I kayaked all the way out to Flowerpot Island, a full 4 miles from town. The next year, some friends and I ventured out a bit farther and paddled around Flowerpot Island, out to the Cove Island lighthouse, around that large island, and back to town (finishing in 3 to 4-foot swells) to complete a 20-mile round-trip. Last year saw us doing an overnight 1-way 30 mile kayak trip to South Baymouth on Manitoulin Island, a route that paralleled the path of the big ferry (we returned via the ferry). That brings me to this year’s great adventure - a planned island-hopping excursion of approximately 60 miles that would have us visit several small uninhabited islands, and included multiple open water crossings of up to 10 miles. I’ll write this trip report and post my story & photos one day at a time. Visit this site again tomorrow to read about “Day 1”.

PHOTOS: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2332357832474.2138314.1355629679&l=a9cc8a5a3d&type=1

Captive Wolves in Alaska - a sad state

2011-05-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

Just back from 10 days in Alaska (May 2011). One stop I made was a place in the town of Palmer ( north of Anchorage) called “Wolf Country USA”. It’s a tourist attraction with the premise that people can see wolves close up. The exterior of the building was a bit run-down, and featured a gift shop as the only entrance. The large gift shop sold various articles that featured wolves – most notable to me were the decoupage images of wolves varnished onto wooden plaques. I hadn’t seen decoupage since 1980, so it was a shout-out to the past. The store reeked of something – perhaps dog food, moose meat, or maybe it was wolf dung. I don’t know what produced that pungent odor, but it didn’t help my appetite any. The owner of the business, Werner Shuster, a man of perhaps 80 years of age, enthusiastically led us into the fenced area that housed 20 or more wolves, or wolf-hybrids as he called them. He noted that “there is no such thing as a pure wolf”. I entered the gate with my camera ready to snap many photos of the majestic animals in their home that featured snow-covered mountains in the distant background. What I observed shocked me, depressed me, and I immediately put my camera away in its case because I didn’t want to remember what I saw (later, I managed to take 2 photos of the wolves).

Each animal wore a collar attached to a heavy chain approximately 10 or 12 feet long, and attached to a tall pipe in the center of the barren piece of purgatory in which they lived, giving each wolf a space with a diameter of 20 to 24-feet in which to “roam”. Not quite what the sign out front depicted. Each wolf was separated from the neighboring animal by several feet of open space, and they are unable to physically interact. Their website features carefully cropped images that don’t show the chains, or the raw skin under their collars, or the nature of their demeaning existence. The animals’ constant running in circles for their entire lifetime (up to 20 years), has worn away all vegetation, and some of the wolves had excavated underground dens in the hard soil. Technically, I suppose, there is no visible animal cruelty, since each animal has shelter and water, and seems to be well-fed. Some of the water bowls had a green scum growing, but we were assured that algae “is the best thing for them”, and he “never has any veterinary bills”. I was not surprised that care by a veterinarian was not in his budget. He also told us that he gets moose meat, and each wolf is fed weekly. The owner threw dog treats to each wolf as he proudly passed by each of them; bragging about “His movie stars” and telling us they would all be dead if he hadn’t saved them by confining them safely away from the natural world. I wonder if he would like to be confined to a small room in a house for his entire life if it meant he would live longer.

Born free, live free.

Born in “Wolf Country USA”, never see actual wolf country, or run, or do anything else that is natural for wolves (except howl on command).

It was disgusting, and I have left a message on their website telling them as much. I wondered to myself if they ever get exercised. They do not. He did say that the animals get loose 2 or 3 times…. a year…. when the chain breaks. Some of the animals get conjugal visits so their offspring can be sold to buyers across the world. Local sales of his product had dropped off because it’s illegal to possess or sell wolves or wolf hybrids, and the State of Alaska is trying to enforce that law, but the definition of “wolf” is a bit unclear. Mating the wolves, according to Mr. Shuster, consists of putting them on chains that are just long enough for the animals to reach each other, but short enough to not get tangled. I left feeling ashamed that my admission fee had contributed to the ongoing cruel isolation and exploitation of these “wild” animals.

The above is my opinion based on direct observation. I have included links to the official website and to another site that provides more information about this situation. If you do an Internet search for “Wolf Country USA”, other sites will come to your attention, including sites that are attempting to end this deplorable situation. - RVH

http://www.wolfcountryusa.com/WCUSA5.htm

http://www.pets.ca/forum/archive/index.php/t-873.html

"Moving"

2011-01-20T10:10:00.000-08:00

Old family home held a lifetime of memories

It was my home for more than 20 years. A grand old house with seven huge poplar trees casting shade across the yard, and frontage on the water that included an old boathouse. My father bought it in 1946 after he came home from World War II, because he was the eldest son and had the responsibility to provide for the rest of his family. His parents, younger brothers and sister lived there while my parents, my older brother and I lived in an upper flat in North Tonawanda.
In 1954, when my aunts and uncles had moved away, my father and his brothers modified it into a two-family home. My grandparents stayed, living in the apartment upstairs. My grandfather died there in the late ’50s and was “laid out” in the parlor downstairs.
We took family trips to the Adirondacks, and had a homemade trailer in the yard to haul our gear. In the 1960s, my father demolished the old garage out back and built a new two-car garage by himself, including mixing and pouring all of the concrete.
My brother, Jim, and I grew up sharing a room until my father built another bedroom where the dining room had been. We got our milk from Papke-Moll Dairy across the street, and our groceries from Kraemer’s corner store a block away.
I was home from school on a sad day in November 1963 when President John F. Kennedy was shot, and I watched the moon landing in 1969 in the comfort of our living room. My younger cousins and I often played cards with my grandmother and watched “Lawrence Welk” with her on TV. My brother and I walked to Delaware School, the junior high and the “new” high school.
Jim and I moved out and got married in the ’70s, while my grandmother remained in the house until 1977. She’s been gone more than 30 years, but my father never rented the upstairs. The space was used mostly for storage, but he kept her bedroom intact with all of the original furniture. My brother would stay up there when he came home for his annual visits from the West Coast.
My mother did volunteer work, including many years of involvement with the Girl Scouts, and she had mementos of her work all around the house. Mom passed away seven years ago, and my father kept all of her clothes, books and other favorite things pretty much where she left them. He died this past summer after being in poor health for two years.
We had so many memories in that house. I knew that parting with three generations’ worth of accumulation would be difficult, and because I am the one who remained in town, the dreaded responsibility of clearing out the house fell on me. I gave the family heirlooms to my aunt and cousins, and had an estate sale to clear out as much of the good usable things as possible.
An old friend removed the remaining possessions for me, assuring me that as much as possible would be donated, recycled, sold or otherwise reused — the rest would go out to the curb. It’s much easier when you don’t have an attachment to — everything.
I hadn’t been inside the house for a few weeks and stopped by recently. It’s empty. Upstairs, downstairs, basement. Nothing. No furniture. No appliances in the kitchen or tools in the garage, no books or beds, no dishes in the cupboard, no clothes in the closets or pictures on the walls. It’s all a memory now. After 64 years, it’s just a house.

http://www.buffalonews.com/editorial-page/from-our-readers/my-view/article296256.ece

Moving

2010-11-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

It was my home. My father bought it in 1946, after he came home from the war. His parents, brothers, and sisters lived there until about 1953. My Grandparents stayed, living in an apartment upstairs; my Grandfather died there in the late 50s and was ‘laid out’ in the parlor. My brother and I grew up there, and walked to Delaware School, the Junior High, and the “new“ High School. Jim and I moved out and got married in the 70s, and my Grandmother remained living there until 1977. She’s been gone over 30 years, but my father never rented the upstairs. The space was used mostly for storage, but he kept her bedroom fairly intact with all the original furniture; my brother would stay there when he came home for his annual visits. Mom passed away 7 years ago, and my father kept all her clothes and other things where she left them. He died this past Summer. So many memories. I gave some things away to my family, and had an estate sale to clear out as much of the usable things as possible. An old high school friend removed and disposed of the remaining possessions for me; it’s much easier when you don‘t have an attachment to… everything. I hadn’t been inside the house for a couple weeks and stopped by tonight. It’s empty. Upstairs, downstairs, basement. Nothing. No furniture, no appliances or tools, no beds…..no clothes in the closets or pictures on the walls. It’s all a memory now. After 64 years, it’s just a house.

Adirondack "Ice-in" Canoe Trip

2009-11-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

"On a warm November night, would you offer your ear to the loon….? "

Saranac “Ice-In” Paddle Trip Nov. 13-15, 2009
an Adirondack Mountain Club outing

Way back in “Ought-seven”, I paddled onto the Adirondack’s Middle Saranac Lake in mid-November and camped for 2 nights. That year, it was very cold with some snow on the ground, but there was no ice when I launched. The trip was inspired by an article I read in “Boundary Waters Journal”, the magazine of Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, in which some men sought out the exact weekend in which the lakes would freeze, then took a long canoe trip in Minnesota lake country. Those paddlers found themselves deep into the wilderness when they HEARD the lake freezing and had to start out late at night to avoid getting trapped by ice too thick to paddle on, and too thin to walk on. I wasn’t going to do quite that, but 2 years ago, I did have to use my “bail-out” route and carry all my gear over a half-mile trail instead of paddling up the then-frozen creek I used for access to Middle Saranac Lake.

Fast-forward to 2009. In September, while considering outings I might lead for the Adirondack Mountain Club, I decided to reprise that trip, but wanted to share the fun. I announced a mid-November “Ice-In” paddle trip, and Joe R. jumped on board enthusiastically. A couple weeks later, Manon P. and Bill T. joined up, and we had a good-sized group going (all the better to break ice with, my dear…). The focus would be on paddling and eating, with the latter taking the lead if we had too much ice. I monitored weather forecasts for the Tupper Lake-Saranac Lake area, with AccuWeather and NOAA disagreeing on overnight low temps, because a warm air mass was slowly moving north into Adirondack lake country. Overnight lows in the teens would be enough to form some ice, but daytime highs in the 40s and even 50s, would likely melt that each day. Our weekend forecast was for rain and unseasonably warm temperatures - quite different than I had expected and hoped for. Just 3 days before our trip, Joe’s brother-in-law, Magilla (Buffalo firefighter, actor, and Great Lakes surfer), passed away, so Joe’s family duties required him to remain in western New York.

Early Friday morning, after a much-needed stop at one of our local Tim Horton’s, three of us hit the road under clear skies, arriving at the South Creek launch site on Route 3 in early afternoon. We were quite pleased (at least I was) to see ice across most of the creek, with pockets of open water interspersed along the way. We checked the thickness of the ice by tossing rocks onto it, and the rocks bounced off. Then we poked at it with our feet and were able to break though, so we decided that we would proceed with our plan to paddle down the creek to the lake. The weather forecast indicated warmer temps and rain for the weekend, so no more ice would be forming anywhere… we hoped! We unpacked the cars and dropped our boats into the water to begin loading. Manon had her Bell Yellowstone solo canoe, Bill had a beautiful “stripper” Adirondack guideboat that he built himself, and I had my red Wenonah Solitude solo canoe.
Moments before we arrived at the launch, a lady had pulled up in her vehicle and began setting up an easel to draw or paint that scene. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the artist took a group picture for us as we stood proudly by our boats with the all the optimism that a moment like that is capable of having. We finished loading and set out onto the hard surface of the creek. Bill took the lead and crunched his way forward, breaking a path through the ice for Manon and me with his sturdy wooden boat and long wooden double-bladed paddle. We still had to punch through the ice in order to put our paddles into the water, but it wasn’t hard to do - it was actually fun! When we reached the lake, there was no ice at all and paddling was easy. Once out of the narrow creek, Bill turned his boat around and began using his wooden oars to row across the lake. We heard a loon, seemingly welcoming us onto it’s lake. Based on several previous trips on Middle Saranac Lake, I had chosen a lean-to on the far eastern shore as our destination. Site #63 is a small, beautifully situated lean-to that I had camped in back in the late 90s when I did a 7-day solo trip through that part of the Adirondacks. We cruised off-shore and found our site by the bull rushes at the point where the Saranac River flows out of Middle Saranac Lake. It was just as I had remembered it - a nice lean-to, beautiful open woods, a high forest canopy, and a large rock on the shore where I had watched a sunset turn into a dark starry night many years ago. I think Manon and Bill liked the site as much as I did, and we began carrying gear into the shelter. The first order of business was to string up a cover to protect the picnic table, so I set up my big green tarp. Because the weather forecast predicted freezing rain at night, I also hung a small tarp in front of the lean-to to keep out wind-blown rain and wind, and to provide a space where we could huddle around the small propane heater that I brought (it turned out that the weather was milder than predicted, and we never used the heater). We each took control of a different aspect of our camp, and soon, we had a kitchen set up and enough wood for a small fire (branches gathered in the woods), ready for a match. Curiously, 2 large, seemingly healthy trees (1 to 1 ½-foot diameter) that had stood immediately behind the lean-to, had been cut down and sawn into 2-foot logs that were stacked on site. Bill walked to an adjacent site and saw a similar curious pile of logs. It seems like such a travesty to mow down those trees merely for firewood. Later, we would stop on an island campsite and see more cut and stacked trees. I found that to be disturbing, but welcome an explanation and justification of the practice.
That night, we had hearty soup (actually an accidental combo of soup and chili), followed by brownies and biscuits that Manon and Bill baked in a reflector oven. Bill hung a bear bag, Manon had her big canoe barrel, and I had my Ursack and Bear Vault food canister stashed in the trees up the hill behind the lean-to. The temperature was warm enough, so we all sat close to the fire that night, eating, drinking, telling tales, and looking up at the billions and billions of stars that twinkled above in the clear night sky.

When we woke up Saturday morning, it was a beautiful day - warm (for November), cloudy, but no rain. We boiled water and had our breakfast - Manon made “Cowboy coffee”. A power boat sped past and went between the colored navigation buoys and into the river. Just as we were gathering our gear to begin paddling, a light rain began. The rain stayed with us all day, except for one short interval. We paddled down the Saranac River and soon were approaching the upper lock. In summer, the lock is staffed by college students who operate it for all the passing boaters and paddlers. In November, it’s a fun do-it-yourself lock; large signs tell you exactly what to do. We could have carried or dragged our boats 100 feet to the lower river surface, but we wanted the fun of operating a lock. Manon and Bill worked the levers and pushed the gates closed, then opened the lower gates after the water level evened out. It took only a minute or two for the lock to adjust for the 2-foot difference. We walked our boats out of the lock and stepped back in. Continuing down the river, we soon entered a wide section, then passed through a narrows by a vacant lean-to, and were finally on Lower Saranac Lake. Bill saw a deer on the shore. Our objective Saturday was just to paddle and do some sightseeing, so we headed north along the shore into Boot Bay. There were small power boats (fishing boats) at 3 or 4 campsites, and as we paddled/rowed past one of the sites, we heard someone let out a loud “whoop!” immediately followed by a gun shot. Not wanting to discover whether that gunplay was recreational or a warning to us, we kept on going, got away from the hunters, and regained our tranquility while floating past the many islands that dot the lake. We worked our way around and between the islands as a light rain continued to fall. Small air bubbles dotted the surface of the lake, but the rain didn’t bother us. About half-way down the lake, we made a grand turn toward the south shore and headed back to the river. I made sure we passed by Bluff Island with its 30-foot high cliffs that are great for jumping or diving, if you are so inclined. None of us wanted to go for a swim, so we kept moving. When we approached the narrows again, we took a break in the vacant lean-to. After resting, we paddled and rowed back up the river. A large bird flew overhead, and we realized that it was a Bald Eagle. Immediately after the fly-over, the rain stopped! …. for about 5 minutes, then resumed, creating little bubbles all across the surface of the water. We walked our boats into the lock, locked through again, and arrived at camp with a couple hours of daylight remaining. Dinner that night would feature little potatoes that Jane bought for me to share. Anything resembling cooking is a big deal for me, but I safely boiled the little spuds, drained the water, added butter, salt, and pepper, and it was good! Of course, we combined that with other food we each had, and made a great meal of it. The light rain stopped, Bill built another small campfire, and we enjoyed that while I finished off the remaining beer that I had brought along. I slept well.

By morning, the rain was gone. Mild temperatures remained, along with a heavy overcast that filled the sky with brooding clouds. When we got up Sunday, we were so full from our good supper that none of us was particularly interested in breakfast. After slowly and reluctantly breaking camp and packing all our gear, we loaded the boats and launched off the sandy beach that was covered by thick piles of wind-blown pine needles. Bill led the way as Manon and I paddled in single file. Just before we entered the ice-less South Creek, one of the loons gave us a final tremolo serenade, providing the perfect end to the perfect Adirondack weekend.
　
Photos http://bit.ly/ADK-MiddleSaranacNov09

(Note: The opening line is a paraphrase from Meatloaf’s classic song, “ You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth”.)

A Dozen Eggs and a Buck

2009-11-02T18:48:00.000-08:00

Webshots album: http://bit.ly/StrawIslandCleanUp09

Strawberry Island Clean-up Nov. 2, 2009
I was off today, the weather was ideal, and I wanted to paddle. We decided to do a clean-up on Strawberry Island (in the upper Niagara River near Buffalo, NY), since my Monday paddlers and I visit that scenic location often from May through October. Jim and Jinny were not available, but Patti Z. showed up at the Town of Tonawanda boat ramps at the foot of Sheridan, near Aqua Lane. We came prepared with gloves and trash bags, and I also brought an iron rake. The river was beautiful, calm, and flat, as we paddled out of the small “harbor” and into the current of the Niagara. There was one fishing boat on the water when we made the crossing. A large flock of small gulls (about the size of the Common Tern) were feeding on a school of small fish. I didn’t recognize the species of gull, and they were much smaller than the Herring Gulls and Ring-Billed Gulls that are commonly seen there (I think they were migrating Black-headed Gulls) . We landed on the outer strip of sandy beach on the eastern (Tonawanda) side of the island and prepared to gather trash. Patti took off walking along the shore while I waded into the milkweed pods and brambles of the interior. Unlike last spring, there were no animals to be seen anywhere on the island, except for a couple Canada Geese sitting on the northern shore. While picking up all sorts of rubbish, I also saw several goose eggs laying unattended on the ground, apparently abandoned when the embryos failed to develop earlier this year. After an hour or more, we came back out with nearly full bags of various items. I also sported many briars all over my clothing. We left most of what we had gathered by the boats and moved in the other direction, onto the broader, flatter, more open section between the river and the lagoon. There were a few flat trampled spots that had obviously been used by waterfowl hunters, as evidenced by the concentrated trash, including spent shotgun shells and beer cans. By the time we had walked all over that section, we had already been on the island for over 2 hours. We loaded the trash bags into and onto our kayaks and paddled upstream, around the wavy point, and took out again on “Goose Poop Beach”, the broad sandy beach that faces upstream toward Buffalo. In contrast to where we had just spent so much time, this beach was nearly litter-free. Obviously, there had been a beach clean-up there in the last month or 2, and we had to look hard to find a few pieces of glass in the sand. Moving into the trees and away from the beach, Patti found a few beer cans, and I picked up an old rusted charcoal grill. That area was refreshingly clean, so we soon moved on again. We paddled around the next point and cruised the shore, going downstream. When we reached the open end of the lagoon, we split up and paddled the inner shoreline of the island. Once again, I found the littered site of a duck blind, and got out to clean that up. We met again at the far inner end of the lagoon on what I’ll now call “Beer Bottle Beach”, another thin strip of sand that had broken glass everywhere - in and out of the water. We spent at least another half-hour there picking up glass, and Patti also picked up a large iron hinge and a railroad spike. We also saw a few very large freshwater clam shells in the water. By then, we had walked almost the whole island, and I was getting tired. My trash bag had grown to a huge size, and was held onto my kayak by laying the rake handle across it with a bungee cord to hold it down. We paddled back down river and across to the boat ramps. Just as we were approaching the ramps, I looked to my left, did a double-take, and saw a large deer with a really nice set of antlers. He was standing behind a chain link fence and looking out at the water. I snapped a couple pictures of the big buck, then he walked back along the fence line, as if trying to find his way back out of the enclosure he somehow got himself into. Patti called the SPCA, and they were going to alert the landowner to open a gate so the deer might find his way out again (“Out of the frying pan and into the fire”). I dumped all the trash in, and next to, a town trash tote, and we were finally finished. After about 4 hours of clean-up, Strawberry Island was a nicer place to be.

Black-Headed Gulls http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black-headed_Gull

Left on the island: about a dozen unbroken goose eggs
WHAT WE PICKED UP:
3 beach towels and a t-shirt
A huge iron hinge
RR spike
plastic bait tub
beer bottles - broken and whole
assorted cans, mostly beer
Shotgun shells- hulls and lots of wads
shell white insert thingies
Lots of styrofoam - pieces and cups
bits of lumber (not trees or branches)
bottle caps
a big Christmas Tree Store bag
Styrofoam worm container
Syringe
Plastic water bottles, pop bottles
Rubber ball
Plastic toy shovel (for a sandbox)
Rusty TV tray-style charcoal cooker
a bobber
and a child’s flip-flop

Grand Canyon Backpack Trip

2009-06-08T19:12:00.001-07:00

Bob & Brian's Most Excellent Vacation May 15-17, 2009

In the above short clip, Brian describes our hike...

PHOTOS: http://tinyurl.com/BobsGrandCanyonPics09

PART 1:
Backpacking on the Tonto Trail;
A Traumatic Grand Canyon Adventure

The Trauma.
Many things raced through my mind while I was laying on the hospital bed in the Grand Canyon Village Clinic. Foremost among those thoughts was how my wife and daughter would take the news that I had died there. It felt like every muscle in my body was twitching uncontrollably; the doctor called it “tremors”. My heart is a muscle, too… right? I had vomited a few times on the way to the clinic. The staff struggled to get a needle into my arm without the vessel collapsing. Up to six staff members stood around me, including the park Ranger they pulled in off the street who was good at getting needles into injured Grand Canyon hikers. I heard words like “organ damage” and “helicopter transport”. Although it was difficult for me to speak, I told my hiking companion, Brian, what to tell Jane and Genna after I passed away, and I felt fortunate to have that opportunity for a few last words. Brian reassured me, but I hyperventilated with fear. The Ranger managed to get an IV into my arm and began a saline drip - both for hydration and to restore the electrolytes that I had lost over the course of hiking 3 days and 28 miles in the heat of the Grand Canyon. This has a happy ending, so perhaps I should back up a bit…
Background.
Sometime last fall, my kayak touring buddy, Brian, asked me if I’d like to do a hike with him in the Grand Canyon. It really didn’t take too much persuasion for me to agree. I expected to finish my Winter 46 in March (**see footnote), and thought hiking in the desert heat would be an interesting way to celebrate that accomplishment. The fact that I had never been to the Grand Canyon piqued my fascination with the trip. We chose a window of April or May, in order to avoid the hot summer temperatures that routinely soar above 100 degrees Fahrenheit below the canyon rims. Later, my daughter told us that she would be receiving her Masters Degree from San Diego State University in May, and wanted Jane and me to be there for the event. Once we were informed of the graduation date, Brian and I were able to plan backwards and set our hiking schedule in order for me to combine the 2 trips. We would hike the weekend before Memorial Day; the tail end of our chosen window to avoid a hot hike.
Preparation.
In the 9 years that I’ve been hiking and backpacking, I had already acquired most of what I would need for the camping aspect of the trip - but I didn’t have a 1-man tent. We both opted to purchase ultralight solo tents, and settled on matching Big Agnes Fly Creek UL1 shelters weighing about 2 pounds each. Previously, I had obtained a Spot Satellite Messenger that I could also use on other solo or remote trips I had planned. With no dependable cell phone reception, the Spot’s ability to send a distress signal (in addition to an “I’m OK” signal) to one of many satellites orbiting the earth provided an additional means of calling for rescue in the event of an accident or life-threatening situation. Brian and I would fly out a week ahead of Jane. After the hike, I would drop Brian at the airport, then drive to Southern California to see my brother Jim, and later meet my wife and daughter in San Diego for the main event. It was to be a very memorable vacation, to be sure.
The Grand Plan.
Big trips like that are rare for me, so everything about it was special. Brian and I flew into Phoenix on Thursday May 14. While in the air, we discussed alternatives to our original plan, which was to descend over 4 miles from the South Rim (trailhead elevation 7260ft.) down the hot, dry (no shade) South Kaibob trail to the junction known as “The Tipoff” (approx 4000 ft.), then hike about 18 miles on the hot, dry (no shade) Tonto trail, and finally ascend back to the South Rim via the very steep, hot, and dry Grandview trail (upper TH elevation 7399ft.), for a “Grand” total of 28.5 miles. In summer, when the trail is even hotter and water sources are not dependable, our specific itinerary is described by the Frommer’s guide book as “especially dangerous” - we were hoping for cooler temps and sufficient water sources. The only water that Rangers told us we could depend on was at the middle and far end of our hike on the Tonto, at Grapevine Creek and Cottonwood Creek. Until then, creeks and springs could very well be dry in this unseasonably warm season. Fun wow. Other options included rim-to-rim-to rim (South to North and back again) in 2 days (plenty of water). The 20 miles of accumulated uphill didn’t particularly appeal to me, nor did the 10,000+ feet of elevation gain over a period of just 36 hours or so. We settled on trying to complete our original Tonto trek in 2 days, in order to provide an extra day for a drive up to Zion or Bryce National Park in Utah. Upon landing in the stifling desert heat of Phoenix, we picked up our rental car (a nice, keyless, Volvo V70 wagon), and headed North. Brian had visited the Grand Canyon with his family last year, so he served as my guide. We stopped in Flagstaff to check out one of the many outfitters there, and I bought a new map that offered much better trail detail than the National Geographic map that we used while dreaming and planning for this adventure. I recommend that canyon hikers carry the Sky Terrain Grand Canyon Trail Map by Kent Schulte. After the backpack trip, I hoped to hike up Humphrey’s Peak, the high point of Arizona at 12,600+ feet above sea level. While packing my bag, I had to leave out my snowshoes, but managed to fit my crampons into the duffel. We were informed by the store staff that, because of the higher than normal temps recently, most of the snow was gone from the peak, and climbers would not need even snowshoes to summit that mountain. We continued our journey toward the trailhead. Immediately after we arrived in Grand Canyon Village, we headed to the overlook at Yavapai Point for my first ever glimpse of the Grand Canyon. When I was close to the rim, I did the “look at your feet as you approach the railing” thing, and raised my gaze to see a slightly hazy view of the grandeur that awaited us the next day. I must admit that, as a member of a camera club for more than 3 decades, I had seen countless wonderful images of the canyon - mostly with better atmospheric conditions, and combined with the fantastic scenery I have enjoyed so many times on Adirondack summits, I wasn’t as impressed as perhaps I should have been. Nevertheless, I shot numerous photos of the view while we were there. My opinion of the canyon would change when I got a look at it from within.
Canyon.
We did a little shopping (food, Gatorade, etc.), had a good spaghetti w/meat sauce dinner (actual meatballs cost 60 cents extra for each) in the village cafeteria, consumed a couple beers strictly for hydration purposes, then hit the sack in the Maswik Lodge. Brian had been concerned about riding the 5AM shuttle bus to our trailhead at South Kaibab, because he didn’t want to hike with a bunch of other people. I assured him that even if there were others there, we would all soon spread out on the trail, so I politely told him, in a most friendly way, to “get over it”. We drove to the Backcountry Office in time to board one of the 5AM South Kaibob shuttle buses that was transporting a crowd of hikers to “our” trailhead! We had managed to choose the day that the North Rim opened for the season, so an entire bus full of rim-to-rim once a year hikers was there. Great timing. Once at the trailhead, the crowd dissipated while we took photos and finished our preparations. After the mandatory hero pictures on the top (now referred to as “before” photos), Brian and I stepped onto the first of many switchbacks on the South KaiBOB. In addition to our cameras and tents, we each carried a pair of trekking poles, cold food (no stove), a water filter pump, iodine tablets for water purification, powdered Gatorade or Camelback Electrolyte tabs, a lightweight sleeping bag, ground pad, some extra clothing, 2 gallons of water each, and sundry items. I also carried the Spot satellite rescue device and a GPS receiver. The 2 gallons of water we each carried was divided among various containers, including a hydration system (w/hose and bite valve), flexible Platypus bottles, and 32-ounce Pepsi bottles or Nalgene containers. Everything, including our ground pads and tents, fit inside our packs. As promised, the bus load of hikers spread out on the trail, allowing us all to have our personal space on the descent. The switchbacks were fascinating to view from above as we made our way down. Hiking in the Grand Canyon is essentially the opposite of climbing a mountain; the easy part comes first, and returning to the trailhead is much more difficult. The saying goes something like: “a mountain will turn back the weaker hikers, while the canyon keeps them”. Many plants were in colorful bloom, and I captured images of them. We were told that mule trains were discontinued from the S. Kaibob, but we did see one string of six mules carrying supplies and/or trash up from Phantom Ranch. As a photographer, I had a great time grabbing pics of the spectacular scenery with my little Canon camera (8MP Powershot A720IS) as we walked ever deeper into the canyon. As our elevation decreased, the flora gradually changed from Piñon Pine, Juniper, and larger shrubs and flowering plants, to cactus and other smaller desert plants Our chosen route was to hike from the South Rim down South Kaibob to the Tonto trail, which can be followed for approximately 70 miles along the shelf known as the Tonto Platform. From the Kaibob/Tonto junction, the Kaibob trail continues down to river level near Phantom Ranch. After crossing a bridge over the Colorado, it becomes the North Kaibob trail and climbs 14 additional miles to the North Rim at over 8200 feet. Every hiker except us was bound for the river, Phantom Ranch, or the North Rim, and we did not see any other backpackers - just day hikers. When we reached our jumping off point at a place called “The Tipoff” (there is an emergency telephone there), we descended a little farther to catch a glimpse of the moving water in the Colorado River far below. We climbed back up to the junction, and once we diverged from the main South Kaibob “highway” (sort of like the popular Van Hoevenberg trail to Marcy Dam in the Adirondacks), we were totally alone in solitary (binary?) bliss on the Tonto trail. That would be the last trail sign we saw until reaching the base of the Grandview trail on our way out, still 18 miles away in the scorching heat of the inner Grand Canyon.
Adventure.
Pancake prickly pear cactus is quite common on the Tonto platform; we also saw a few barrel cacti. The succulent Agave (Grand Canyon Century Plant) dotted the dry landscape as we followed the unmarked, but very apparent dusty path below the high buttes that dominated the terrain. Many of the Agave plants had produced a once-in-their-lifetime seed stalk, a 3 to 4-inch diameter woody appendage that grew up to 14 feet high from the center of the spiny clustered leaves, and had seed pods hanging from the upper part of the remarkably tall stem. This unusual plant would accompany us most of our hike, along with large patches of flowering prickly pear and the ever present 2-foot tall and 3-foot wide blackbrush, a small-leafed tumbleweed type of shrub uniformly spaced out about 4 feet apart across the entire surface of the plateau. The Tonto trail seemed to follow contour lines and maintain a steady elevation of approximately 3800 feet throughout the day, with the exception of where the trail crossed side drainages bound for the Colorado River that coursed some 1500 feet further below. As Brian and I walked along the Tonto platform, we were both aware that conditions could force us to radically change our plan and retreat. If we could not find water by day’s end, we would be forced to backtrack to the South Kaibob trail and descend to the river before climbing out of the canyon via the same route we had entered. That was not an attractive option. We continued our easterly walk on the Tonto. As the sun rose higher into the blue sky, the temperature climbed as well. Brian wore an altimeter that also indicated temperature, and by early afternoon it reached 104F; we were in the midst of an early heat wave. Extremely low humidity meant that as we perspired, it evaporated just as quickly. Salt-stained shirts provided a clue to our body’s reaction to the heat. We had begun hiking at 6:30AM, dismissing a ranger’s advice to avoid the peak heat (10-4pm), in order to cover more miles. He had suggested we start our trip in the late afternoon, and we finally conceded to the soaring temps by taking an early afternoon siesta break in the shadow of a large overhanging rock - really a slab of sedimentary stone that had shifted into that position. We reclined in the relatively cool shade and napped. Our siesta lasted 3 hours, and by then, we were ready to re-enter the 100+ degree heat to continue our hike. We wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts for comfort, with wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and sunscreen providing protection from the sun’s rays. A light, steady breeze made the intense heat bearable - even pleasant much of the time. We walked, sipped water, and snacked lightly. Cremation Creek was the first major side drainage of our trip, and we looked into the deep ravine that it had formed over eons of erosion. We knew that the trail would not directly cross that obstacle, and instead we would have to follow it on a detour toward the canyon wall until the creek bed rose to a manageable level. Our Sky Terrain trail map labeled trail sections with an “E” for easy, “M” for moderate, “D” represented difficult areas, and more difficult terrain was labeled as “DD”. As I learned with Adirondack trail guides and their ratings, “difficult” is a subjective term. The flat section of trail we had been hiking was labeled as moderate, though I considered it easy. We would now see what 2 consecutive sections of “DD” would be like. Getting around the gorge required us to walk upstream, although that term seems to be inappropriate for a dry wash. Soon, the path descended a rugged section to the dry bottom, then climbed steeply up again over the rough, rocky trail. There was no water in Cremation Creek, and we weren’t surprised. This “Doubly Difficult” section would be considered just another part of the trail in the “What’s a switchback?” Adirondack Mountains that I enjoy so much. Next came a crossing of Boulder Creek that was quite easy. The name was appropriate, and it also failed to offer water.
Water!
We had been told the spring at Lone Tree Creek was a seasonal, undependable water source. Optimism dominated, as both of us still hoped to reach Grapevine Creek by day’s end - sort of a midway point in the hike. Lone Tree Creek was not as eroded as Cremation Creek, so with just a little more walking back toward the South Rim, we finally approached the main rut of Lone Tree Creek. Although there was no hint of a creek there, there was a very small, shallow, pool of water. This water was also occupied by a couple dozen polliwogs that seemed to be enjoying what would be our trip-saving water source. Brian dubbed this liquid refreshment “Polly Water” or “Tad-2-Oh”. We pumped and refilled our bottles back to our 2-gallon capacity. We knew then that if we hadn’t found water there, the 2 quarts we each had remaining would not have been sufficient to backpack another 10 miles or more to Grapevine Creek in 100+ degree desert heat. In the Adirondacks, 2 quarts would probably be enough to walk 12 miles on level ground (if you can find any level ground there), even in summer, but things are quite different in the desert. Shadows grew longer, and we realized that our high hopes of doing the 28-mile traverse as a one nighter were unrealistic - you might say “high and dry“, for we were far from reaching the mid-point of our hike. We walked back out closer to the center of the canyon and chose a flat place to make camp before the sun set across the sprawling canyon. Despite a grand plan, our progress on Day 1 was only the descent into the canyon followed by an additional 6 miles or so of walking along the Tonto.
Camp.
It gets dark quickly in the Grand Canyon, and the trail is very difficult to see by headlamp. We worked fast to locate a spot that was flat enough, and far enough away from the cacti and the scratchy blackbrush shrubs to set up our ultralight and frightfully thin silicon-nylon solo tents. I’m glad that we chose to carry separate solo shelters, because finding a spot large enough to accommodate even a small 2-person tent would have been near-impossible in the short span of time we had between deciding to stop, and the arrival of the canyon night. Although we each carried a rain fly, we left those in our packs. My original excuse for carrying a fly on this canyon trip was, as I told Brian, “Do you really want to see that mountain lion sniffing your tent during the night?!”. We set up our Big Agnes shelters as a means to separate us from any creepy-crawlies that might be in the area; we also scanned the ground for red ants before putting up our tents. After reading about all the canyon creatures that might want to take our food, I had purchased an Ursack - a white tough-as-nails bag made of “bulletproof” fabric to leave our food in overnight. All of our combined dry food fit into my Ursack, then I cinched it tightly closed, tied some kind of knot in the drawstring, and secured the loose ends to a large rock to discourage smaller critters from dragging it off somewhere. As far as I know, nothing found or messed with our food while left on the desert floor overnight. No lions, ringtails, lizards, or even an ant seemed to notice. Our packs, water, and boots went inside the tents with us, and we found that the Dry Creek UL1 solo shelters provided enough room for us and all our belongings. I chose to carry a ThermaRest Z-Lite foam pad, and Brian had a new Big Agnes air mattress. My pad was lightweight but bulky, and Brian’s mattress was light, packed small, but required that he blow into the mattress for manual inflation. For a while, we just lay there, looking up at the starry starry night. We managed to see a satellite cruise past, one tiny meteorite dashed across the sky, and lots of high-altitude aircraft flew nearly overhead. It was very still and quiet, and we both slept just fine, with no big cats interrupting our rest. In order to beat the heat, we got up before sunrise. The combo altimeter/alarm clock was set for about 4:30AM, but we got up early enough. Breaking camp was quick and easy, and we were able to hit the dusty trail in pleasant darkness well before the sun peeked over the rim. Our goal for Day 2 was updated to reach Cottonwood Creek, in order to be primed for the big climb out of the canyon on our third and final day. Early on in our second day in the canyon, we came upon a broad flat open space that would have made an ideal camp for us. Huge patches of prickly pear cacti spread out across the smooth ground, and a covering of moss made a perfect cushion. We figured that the flat ground tended to hold water a little longer, allowing moss to get established as well as for the cacti to expand to the largest size we would see in 3 days. Later, the trail meandered over to the very edge of the platform, providing a spectacular look down into Granite Gorge and a long stretch of the Colorado known as Grapevine Rapids. A friend of mine will be rafting past that point in July as he floats and paddles from Lees Landing to the base of the Bright Angel trail near Phantom Ranch, and I would be sending that photo to him as a preview of what he’d be enjoying. We walked off trail to get closer to the edge - the near vertical 1500-foot walls sending thrills, if not chills, down my spine.
Grapevine Creek.
It was late morning when we approached Grapevine Creek, and we were stunned at the width and extreme depth of that side canyon that looked so unassuming on the map. Vertical walls plunged up to seven hundred feet straight down to a thin ribbon of water, and the trail kept a respectable distance from the edge. In order to travel about a half-mile east, we would have to walk over 2 miles up the edge of Grapevine Gorge, cross the creek, then walk back out again - a detour of about 5 miles to get around the tributary! As we walked farther toward the canyon wall, another, smaller ravine diverted us again and we were actually walking back toward the South Kaibob for a while until we crossed the secondary drainage. Unlike Lone Tree Creek, this part of the Tonto trail was rated only “D”, and was quite easy. I figure the “D” part was more mental - the proximity to the creek’s rim and subsequent risk of falling into the side canyon. The walk back to the headwall of Grapevine Creek was easy enough, just long. We again found that the spring was occupied by diminutive swimmers (“Wog-2-Oh!”), and topped off our water supply from the puddles that were only slightly larger than the previous day’s water source. While we sat in the “cool” shade by the puddles, we were surprised to see a man walk down and sit in the shade of one of the small trees - the only person we had seen since leaving the South Kaibob Trail the previous day. Brian spoke with him at length, while I pumped water from a spot farther down the slope. I had found my own tadpole inhabited puddle with the thinnest of little streams running into it. We learned that “Jim” was a Grand Canyon enthusiast, and had visited the canyon some 40 times, much as I have traveled to the Adirondacks, only I’ve been to Northern New York more times than that! Jim, perhaps in his 60’s, hiked down the Grandview Trail and was going to spend one night at Grapevine Creek before ascending to the South Rim via that same route. Because he knew the area well and was to spend only one night, he carried little in his day pack. Jim knew the spring was dependable, so he carried minimal water and no shelter. He told Brian that he has an occasional hiking companion who refuses to camp sans tent since being stung by a scorpion, so I felt justified in having carried a 2-pound tent for our 2-night trip. Because I am a much slower hiker, I got up and headed out on the trail in advance of my companion, as Brian lingered at the creek with the silver-haired lone hiker.
Ho-leee…..!!!
On the way out to the main part of the plateau, the trail had to skirt yet another side canyon. This one was fairly short, but what it lacked in length was more than made up for in depth. I marveled at the perfectly vertical walls that suddenly plunged 200 or 300 feet below me to the bottom; the scale there is so massive that I found it difficult to estimate distance. For me, this was the solitary “tight cheeks” portion of our 3-day journey. The narrow gravel trail was the only flat spot as the surface sloped down sharply from Lyell Butte. Below the 2-foot wide path, the ground fell at a sharp angle, perhaps 30 linear feet, before abruptly falling hundreds of feet straight down the side canyon . There was only small vegetation there, providing scant hope of a self-arrest in the event of a fall. One misstep there would very likely would bring your trip, and your life, to a sudden and very traumatic end. Using both trekking poles and taking only small, careful steps, I slowly made my way to the head wall, turned the corner, and walked along the other side of the short gorge. If I wanted to look around, I stopped in a place next to a rock. Only after determining that I had secure footing would I look back across the void. I kept looking for Brian, both from concern, and hoping he would come along to provide a human figure on the other side, so if I took a picture, there would be some sort of scale to show the narrow width and extreme depth of that part of the trail. I hiked out without getting the photo, but the memory of the brief but spectacularly extreme exposure there is embedded in my brain, even more so than the overall views of the Grand Canyon itself. I loved it!
Final Night on the Tonto.
Later in the afternoon, we came across a large slab of rock that tilted out and provided some nice shade, resembling an Adirondack landmark near Johns Book named “Slant Rock”, and we took a 2-hour siesta there before continuing our walk. After covering about 12 very satisfying miles on Day 2, it was again time to find a flat place to camp. We soon found an area with a minimum of large rocks, cleared away the bigger stones, and laid out our ground cloths. My site was close to a tall cluster of prickly pear, so I worked carefully while setting up Big Agnes. As I put the poles into the grommets and tied a guy line to a rock, I made the classic desert mistake - I backed into a cactus. Ouch! I told my dear hiking partner about my problem, and where my problem was located, but he refused to come to my aid. I pulled all the larger spines out of my pants, then dropped trou in order to access the other 15 or so smaller needles that protruded from my posterior. Satisfied that I was spineless, I re-panted and continued the work of preparing for my last night in America’s most famous canyon. My appetite had long since left me, as it often does in the midst of heat and strenuous activity, but I ate some cashews and dried cranberries. Again, I tied the food bag to a rock and stashed it under the lower pads of the large cactus that had only recently warned me to keep away. Not wanting the moment to pass too quickly, I laid awake for a while and gazed amazed at the star-filled sky above, wishing I had more time to spend there. I knew I was slightly dehydrated when I crawled into my 40-degree bag, but I would drink in the morning. We slept well.
Day 3.
We had camped near a spring that is very close to Cottonwood Creek, so soon after we resumed hiking, we found ourselves in the shade of its namesake trees, the largest trees we had seen since leaving the South Rim 2 days before. Even though we had only the 3500-foot ascent remaining, we refilled our water bottles at Cottonwood, figuring we could always dump water, but there wouldn’t be another source of water until we completed our hike up and out. In mountain hiking, the walk out and down is the easy part. In leaving this canyon, we would have to climb from an altitude of about 4000 feet to the top of the South Rim, 7399 feet above sea level. Again, I started out ahead of Brian and felt good as the long ascent began. Part way up, the climb would take us to the top of Horseshoe Mesa, the location of the long abandoned Last Chance Mine, claimed in 1890 for its valuable copper and abandoned in 1907. Just before reaching the mine, we noticed a large hole in the ground, about 6 or 8 feet across, just off the left side of trail. Brian walked over to look, and realized he was standing on the edge of a seemingly bottomless hole that went straight down. He carefully stepped away, and we walked a little farther to find a large trash heap of old, rusty, empty food cans that are apparently now considered historical relics. On the flat top of the mesa, we found more relics, including pick axes, some kind of large iron pump, a pry bar, and the ruins of a stone house. There was also a tailings pile, and a shallow cave carved out of the hill near the ruins. Today, Horseshoe Mesa is home to a small campground. A steep descent down the other side of the mesa would lead to Page Spring, but we were finished with “down” for a while. I missed seeing it, but Brian noticed a dead rattlesnake next to the trail near the mine. Shortly after resuming the climb, I heard a quiet, raspy sound just behind me. Brian asked me if I heard it, and I said “yes, I heard the rattle”. He was able to snap a few photos of a Grand Canyon Rattlesnake that had issued me an audible warning before retreating back into the rocks. Luckily for me and many other hikers, the local rattlesnakes are even more reluctant to strike than your average Diamondback, and prefer to avoid the conflict. Other than numerous small dark lizards, that was the only reptile we saw on our weekend trip inside the canyon. In fact, the only fauna that we did see was those lizards, a few birds, and many small red ants… unless you count those six mules on the South Kaibob.
With some difficulty…
Once again, I fell behind Brian as we made our way up the trail and over a long section comprised of large cobblestones; part of the man-made trail that initially provided access to the mining operation many years ago. My partner offered to lighten my load, but I insisted on hiking out with all of my own gear, and without help (that would come later). At around 6700 feet elevation, I began to feel more tired and my arm and leg muscles began to spasm. In the shade of a large tree, I took a long break, drank some water and consumed a Cliff Bar. Soon, I felt well enough to continue the climb and found Brian where he had waited for me to catch up. With renewed energy, we completed the ascent, pausing on that last stone stair before stepping up together for a simultaneous finish among the crowds of tourists milling all around. I felt good… for about 2 minutes, then the muscular twitching came back with a vengeance. I was able to take some photos from the overlook and of the information boards at the trailhead, and we posed for pictures as a tourist captured our “after” photos. It was when I headed over to a portable restroom that things started to deteriorate at a greater rate. When I passed a couple who were stopped in their red Jeep Wrangler with the convertible top down, the lady took one look at me and immediately handed me her open water bottle. “Here”, she said, “take it!”. I took it, and another bottle that she offered. Because of the trembling, I needed both hands to hold the bottle in order to drink. I didn’t feel dehydrated, but the water was refreshing just the same. Because the park shuttle does not come all the way out to Grandview, we expected to hitch hike back to the village. I had predicted that we’d get a lift within the first 10 cars that saw us. With great effort, I stuck out my thumb, as did Brian. One or 2 vehicles had passed us when I noticed a small RV backing out of a parking space. “Motor home!”, I shouted. Thumbs out, and we had a ride. A very nice couple from Northern Utah were seated in their Mercedes-made RV, and offered to take us all the way to the Village and our car. They provided us with more water, but I was unable to hold the bottle. My concerned friend dumped the bottle into my MSR hydration bladder, and I sipped as we drove. When they told me there was an elk outside, I said, with some difficulty, that I couldn’t turn around to look; that’s when Brain became even more worried. As I sat there trembling, Brian asked if I’d like to go to the clinic; I wanted only to lie down on the grass in the shade and eat something. The friendly Utah couple dropped us off at the backcountry office, and I managed to get into our car. Somewhere on the way to the restaurant, I said that maybe we should go to the clinic instead. Although there are signs at intersections in the small village that direct visitors to the clinic, once you turn, you seem to be on your own again, with no further indicators as to where exactly that is. After much driving around, we stopped to ask directions and finally approached the driveway to the Grand Canyon Clinic. Just before we turned into the approach, I shouted, “Stop, I’m going to be sick!”. I nearly had the door open (rental car) when most of the water I had just consumed came back out the same way it had entered. My stomach convulsed 3 more times before we got to the building, expelling just water. My friend, who had refused to assist my cactus butt the night before, was being very attentive now. While Brian ran inside, a clinic employee sitting out front on a break asked if I would need a wheelchair. I told her, “probably”. They wheeled me into the exam room and got me up onto a bed. Now the fun part began.
“Tell them good-bye and…”
As I lay there all a-quiver, a nurse attempted to stick a needle into my arm. In spite of the water I drank all day long and on the way there, I was apparently dehydrated, although I’m sure that I’ve been more dehydrated during a long day of hiking in the Adirondacks. Now, when someone is dehydrated, a good vein is hard to find. Each time a needle was inserted into my arm, the vein collapsed. The trembling in my arms and legs was as bad as ever, and nobody could get an IV started. To put it as a grand understatement, I was getting worried. In a moment of levity, I asked them if they had ever done this before, and they laughed. I gazed up at the ceiling fixture and told them, “I can see a bright light…” (I don’t know if they got that one). None of the clinic’s staff had managed to get a much needed IV started. Then another man walked in - a park Ranger who just happened to be stopping by the clinic - and he was good at finding veins. After many failed attempts by the health care pros, the lone Ranger came and saved the day (my Hero!). The IV began a slow drip of saline, but the trembling spasms continued unabated; I didn’t feel any better. I heard them say things like “possible organ damage”, and was told that I was going to be transported to Flagstaff in a helicopter. In spite of their reassurances, I hyperventilated with fear. I really thought I was going to die there in the clinic, and I gave Brian a message for my wife and daughter in that event. Brian also reassured me, but the tremors continued. The clinic doctor told me I had “Hyponatremia”, caused by the depletion of my body’s electrolytes. I know I drank enough water, but as a result of losing my appetite over the course of 3 hot days on the Tonto trail, all the salts now resided in my shirt. The saline drip would very slowly replace the lost electrolyte, and I just had to wait for the long process. I felt a bit better when I was informed that I didn’t need a chopper, and I would go to the Flagstaff Medical Center via ambulance. I also learned that multiple trauma victims was the norm on any given day in the Grand Canyon, and I was asked if I minded sharing the ambulance with a lady who had gashed her forearm down in the canyon while in the midst of a North-to-South Rim traverse. We both agreed to share, and we were on our way.
Happy Ending.
The Ranger drove off into the sunset, and I got a scenic view of the highway all the way to Flagstaff. Joining us in the Medical Center’s trauma unit was a man who was sightseeing while he walked a canyon trail, and consequently fell 60 feet. This resulted in a leg fracture, so maybe he got the chopper ride. Just another day at the Grand Canyon for the staff! The tremors continued as the saline dripped ever so slowly into my arm. By then, I figured that I was going to live at least until the next stupid thing I do, but I still couldn’t walk without a lot of help. I anticipated an overnight hospital stay, and Brian expected to cancel his flight scheduled the next morning out of Phoenix. By 10:30PM or so, I started to feel pretty damn good, and the nurse asked me if I was hungry. I said “yes!”, and wolfed down a turkey sandwich. When my saline level got up to around normal, it was like they had flipped a switch. I could talk and walk, and actually felt like going for a hike. I was discharged around 11:30 that night, and we headed for a much delayed celebration. Our post-hike spaghetti dinner (with meat sauce) had to be postponed, but Brian had quite optimistically purchased a pair of 22 ounce bottles of brew for us; “Arrogant Bastard” and “Sierra Nevada” ale; I had the Arrogant ale. That night, we toasted to much more than just a completed hike; it was great to be alive, and we were back on schedule.
The Main Event.
The next morning, May 18, I drove to Phoenix and dropped my good friend off at the airport for his return flight. In order to avoid doing something stupid too soon after this traumatic adventure, I canceled my plan to climb Arizona’s 12,600 foot high Humphrey’s Peak the following day… “re-calculating“……. and instead decided to drive up to Utah. That trip included a solo tour of Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks. After that, I drove into Nevada and camped among the red rocks of The Valley of Fire near Las Vegas, followed by a quick side trip over Hoover Dam, then through the desert to visit my brother in Yucca Valley, a town near California’s Joshua Tree N.P..
Finally, on May 21, I drove to San Diego to rendezvous with my wife, Jane. She flew in that day so we could attend our daughter Genevieve’s commencement ceremony, where she would receive her Master’s Degree in Social Work from San Diego State University. I really would have been in trouble if I’d missed that! Until next time, thanks for reading about my exploits, and remember to eat! - Algonquin Bob

Notes:
Our map of choice for most trails in the Grand Canyon: the Sky Terrain Grand Canyon Trail Map by Kent Schulte.

I am not an obsessed ultralight hiker, so I can't supply a complete list of exactly what I carried and how many grams everything weighed. However, if you want to know more about the gear or food I carried and used (or didn't use), I'd be happy to elaborate. adkpaddles.bvh@gmail.com

Of course, after experiencing HYPONATREMIA, I researched it on line and learned all about the cause and cures... too late for me, but perhaps helpful to you. The best info that I found so far is from a document on the Grand Canyon River Guides web site http://www.gcrg.org/gcrg.htm Prevention is emphasized. Don't allow yourself to become dehydrated or malnourished. Drink and eat frequently, even though your appetite is suppressed from heat and exertion. You must eat and drink! Gatorade alone is insufficient to replenish all the electrolytes you can lose through perspiration over the course of time while hiking in desert conditions. You must eat, and those healthy power bars won't do the trick – eat salty snacks (crackers, pretzels, etc.) - even junk food. You need calories and sodium in these strenuous conditions! Read the complete article at http://www.gcrg.org/bqr/14-1/hypo.html

** The “Winter 46” refers to a list of peaks in northern New York State’s Adirondack Mountains. A hiker who cumulatively climbs all 46 Adirondack “High Peaks” (over 4000 feet) during calendar Winter earns the distinction of being a “Winter 46er”. There are currently less than 450 winter hikers/climbers who have registered as having accomplished that feat in the past 50 years of record keeping. www.adk46r.org

Next up: June 18-21 - a classic Adirondack canoe trip; the Low’s Lake-Oswegatchie River Traverse

Yahoo circling the drain

2009-06-07T06:52:00.001-07:00

After 2 years of planning the replacement for its Yahoo 360 blog service, Yahoo announced that all support for 360 will end in July. Yahoo has opted to close a site that offered many creative options in favor of a "me too" Facebook rip-off that is cumbersome to use and ugly to look at. I will be moving all of my original blog material to this Google blog page, and will update the appearance of this page as I learn more about how it works. Stay tuned! - Bob

Sara Makes a Phone Call

2008-12-07T08:27:00.000-08:00

It's snowy outside and I'm bored, so I wrote this fictional, and possibly humerous, account of a telephone call...

Hello, President-Elect Obama? This is Governor Palin. Is it OK if I call ya' Barack? Sure, I'm invitin' you and Joe there to come on up here to the great State of Alaska to do some huntin'. Because there's no roads up here, we do all our shootin' from airplanes, and it's a lot safer that way too, so those darn bears can't get ya' when yer not lookin', right? And if ya' shoot somethin', I'll have Todd here ride over on his snow machine. He'll cut it up and do all of that huntin ' and guttin' stuff, and he'll bring it on out for ya'. What's that? You'll have to get back to me? OK... can you put Michelle on the phone then? Hi, Michelle? Yeah, this is Sara...... Palin....... Sara Palin......... P-A-L-I-N...... Yeah, the one that ran there for Vice President against Joe... yeah...... B-I-D-E-N. OK then, never mind... I'll get back to ya'...

2008-11-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

French River Trip Report - September 20-21, 2008
http://tinyurl.com/FrenchRiverSat3
Because this paddle trip was originally planned for September 2007, I was very much looking forward to kayaking on Ontario’s French River this August. As the date neared, my paddle partner had to again postpone our trip due to business commitments, and nearly cancelled when the stock market crashed just days before our trip in September. Still, my paddle buddy Brian managed to get away for our long anticipated kayak trip, but it had to be reduced in length from our original plan of 2 nights.
This is the story of…
Brian and Bob’s Great 30-Hour Adventure on the French River.
That’s right; we drove 300+ miles, paddled down the river to camp for one night, then paddled out and drove home. A 5 ½ hour drive up north to spend less than 30 hours on the river. You do what you can, eh? The weekend began at 4AM Saturday morning when I picked up Brian in a nearby Buffalo, NY suburb. After driving through Toronto, we continued north on Highway 400, which eventually turns into Hwy. 69 along the shores of Georgian Bay. Sometime in the recent past, the Province of Ontario made the French River area into a Provincial Park, which pretty much means only that they can collect over $8 per night per person for the privilege of camping up there somewhere on a rock. They don’t even provide a parking area or launch site. We had to park ($10 per calendar day) and launch ($8 per kayak or canoe) at a little gold mine of a marina called Hartley Bay. At least all of those parking and paddling fees made my wallet lighter for the carries! The marina obligingly offers “free valet” parking, which means they park your car after you unload, keep your keys while you’re out paddling (more weight savings) and give you your car back when you paddle out to pay the launch and parking fees for however long your were in there. Oh, and Ontario is also building and blasting through bedrock to construct a massive thruway sized 4-lane limited access divided highway along side of the seemingly ample Hwy. 69, which takes the occasional traveler to the great metropolis of… I’m not sure where… maybe Perry Sound or Sudbury!? It’s hard to believe that summer traffic could justify a project of this magnitude. Up there, projects like that are not called “pork” - it’s called “back bacon”, and you can have it either in the form of a huge, expensive, possibly unnecessary thoroughfare, or as a $1 add-on to your *Harvey’s Angus burger. I prefer the latter, and with poutine, please.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Back_bacon
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poutine
We loaded and launched our touring kayaks from the low dock (again, $8 each for that privilege), and headed out onto the river under cloudy skies and with the knowledge that a thunder storm was predicted for mid-day. Brian was the navigator by virtue of having the only map. There are many channels and islands all around the French River region, so following a particular course was challenging. Summer cottages are numerous there. Sometimes we would paddle for while in what seemed like wilderness, then we would come to a junction with an inn or several cottages all around us. There are a couple places where major channels cross, creating a giant intersection of waterways and private properties, and that allowed us to determine our location. We initially had a problem converting miles per hour and kilometers, while trying to estimate our speed in order to guess how long it would take us to paddle a certain distance. We arrived at the first major water intersection much sooner than we expected, causing us to doubt that we were actually that far along. Later, we measured our speed using my GPS receiver, and determined that we cruise at 4 to 4 ½ MPH, which converts to about 7 KPH. That explains how we covered the initial 3 KM in only 25 minutes.
After making our left turn at the big junction, we paddled along the relatively narrow channels toward Georgian Bay. The frequency of buildings lessened as we paddled closer to the outlet. Unlike most rivers that carve their own path out of the rock and soil on their way to the sea, the French River is a maze that seems to have been carved out of solid rock by the glaciers that also passed over much of New York State several thousand years ago. The French River’s source is the outlet of big Lake Nipissing to the northeast. There is very little soil to be seen anywhere along the river - mostly rocks and boulders. Even on the islands, the topsoil seems to be just a couple inches deep, and the trees are holding on only by spreading their root systems out across the rock surface and grabbing cracks in the surface.
We kayaked toward our first and only portage of the day. Just before reaching that point, I saw a large animal swimming in the river. I called out to Brian, who was close behind - “Moose in the water!”. As the animal turned to go back to shore, I noticed that the antlers were definitely not moose-like and changed my identification call to that of an Elk. I managed to get off a couple shots with my camera before the large animal reached shore http://tinyurl.com/ElkEmerging . That’s when I made the definite ID that it was a bull Elk, and I snapped off one more photo as he stepped out of the river. We had our first unique wildlife sighting, and had been paddling for only a couple hours.
Soon, we slid onto shore and began our short carry around a good-sized Class 2 rapids http://tinyurl.com/FrenchRapids1 . After unloading our gear and doing the carry, I saw another very short Class 1 rapids ahead. We put-in and first paddled to the bottom of the larger rapids that we had just bypassed, then one by one, Brian and I did the easy run down the second set. I spent most of my effort just steering and trying not to get turned around. It was fun. As we paddled down the rocky river channels, Brian monitored the map and looked for interesting parallel channels for us to explore.
As the day progressed into late afternoon, we finally approached the mouth of the river where it emptied into Georgian Bay among countless closely spaced rocky barrier islands of all sizes. The wind was blowing down the river and out onto the great Canadian bay as we began to seek a place to camp for our one-nighter. Unlike campsites in Algonquin Provincial Park that are indicated by very large orange signs, campsites along the French are marked only by small round discs on a tree. I never did actually see one of those markers, but the map indicated we must have passed many. One barrier island that we steered toward turned out to be occupied, as indicated by a canoe near shore. Brian got out at another spot and scouted for a flat place to put our tents, but had no success. The day was just beginning to fade into early evening when we paddled across the choppy water to another island. I got out and walked around a while before finding the only flat spot on the island. It was a soft patch of ground beneath a couple pine trees, surrounded by low brush and rocks, adjacent to a small stand of trees, and just big enough to pitch our 2 small tents. It would be our home for the night.
We both paddled around to a closer take-out spot, emptied our kayaks, dragged them up onto shore, and secured them to a tree. The wind was blowing steadily and pulling our body heat with it, so I tied a tarp across one end of our flat spot to provide a windbreak. That made a big difference as we set up the tents and began the business of making it comfortable for our short stay. The view was of other nearby islands http://tinyurl.com/CampView2 , and reminded me of a painting by a member of Canada’s famous **“Group of Seven” artists. The open water of Georgian Bay was still a couple more barrier islands away from us. We boiled water and had our dinner while Brian discovered cell phone reception and called home. We soaked in the great view and recounted everything we had seen that day, with the highlights being the Elk, the small rapids, and the satisfaction of knowing we had paddled 10 miles and made it out to Georgian Bay. After the previous night of almost no sleep, and our big day of driving and paddling, we settled down to rest before doing it in reverse order the next day.
Normally, I have a trip philosophy that the last day “belongs to the road”, so I don’t dawdle on driving days. Since we were there only one night, we treated the morning more as if we would be there for a second night, and took our time in order to “grab all the gusto” that we could muster in our brief time there. We slept as long as we needed to, and woke up without the aid of an alarm or the need to be up by a certain time. Day 2 dawned clear, wind-free, and consequently a bit warmer. Lucky for us, the cold inland temperatures were buffered by the warmer Georgia Bay water, and it never got below 50F on our island that night - much warmer than the frosty mainland temps.
After dipping lake water to boil for our breakfast of oatmeal, we began the melancholy task of breaking camp. We were in the midst of a rocky, water-filled maze, had a general idea of where we were, but didn’t know exactly where our route out would be. Brian had charted us a course that formed a big loop so we would have minimal backtracking and maximum new scenery to enjoy. There were some navigation symbols on rocks and nearby islands, so we took an educated guess and started paddling back up a different channel. Brian described the shape of our intended channel, and we dutifully followed the map, hoping we were on track. As Brian described what our goal might look like, I began to recognize those features around us. We were definitely paddling in the proper direction, and soon after that, I saw a dock at the end of the channel. We had managed to find the portage on our first try. The small wooden dock was linked to a boardwalk that had an old rusty 4-wheeled cart on it, also called a tram. We were again lucky that the tram was already at our end of the carry. Although the ancient cart had one or more split tires, the inner tubes still had enough air to carry a load. We hauled the fully loaded boats up onto the dock and began to conspire as to how to load the wagon. It was decided that we would put both loaded boats on at the same time and tie them into place with the thin line I used for my tarp. As I tied the lightweight cord around the kayaks, we remarked how much easier it would be if we had a couple cam straps. After I was about finished, Brian realized that he had 2 cam straps in his boat, “just in case”. Those 1-inch cam straps made the load much more secure for the not-so-long walk up the little hill to the other end of the wooden tramway that led to the inlet of Bass Lake, another part of the French River network. Mid-way through the portage, we saw a couple old wooden cottages built on the rocks close to the path. Seemingly abandoned, the small cabins might see occasional use in the summer, as they are sometimes used by weary travelers who decide to stay there for a night; we did not go inside. Just as we came to the end of our walk, we saw a couple canoes approach. They, too, were lucky enough to have the tram waiting for them at the right end of the carry. We slid our boats down the rocks to the water’s edge and were once again on our way. http://tinyurl.com/BassLakeTram1
Brian was always looking for an alternate and more interesting way get “there”, and one of those side tracks led us to what looked like a dead end channel. I was ready to turn back, but he insisted we continue, because “according to the map…”. Even when I told him that we were headed into an stand of small maple trees, he wanted to continue. I should note that water levels were high that weekend, with no high water lines visible on shore anywhere, so we were paddling during a high water period. We forged ahead into the grove, paddling and pushing our way through the trees, and forcing our boats over the muck in about 6 inches of “water”. At last, we emerged from the trees and now had only to paddle through very tall grass - it would have made a great video, with the bow of the kayaks splitting the thick grass as we blindly paddled through a marsh. As I approached a dead end, Brian called me back to take another path, and we emerged into the main channel again.
Different and interesting was the theme of our weekend. Soon after we entered open water again, while I was in the lead, I saw another animal swimming across a narrow river channel; I called out to Brian just before it climbed onto the rocks. I didn’t get a good look at it then, but Brian thought it was a coyote. As the animal swam and hopped across 2 more narrow parts of the river, I was able to observe it emerging from the water both times - it was, as we learned later, a timber wolf.
Soon, we were on the final leg of our trip, and some of the scenery became familiar once again. In short time, we were at the end of the final channel and at Hartley Bay - our paddling was done. As we unloaded our kayaks, the friendly staff offered to get my car, and collected their launch and parking fees. There was a officer of the Interior there who told us there probably aren’t any coyotes in the area, and that we had seen a wolf. I had no photos of the wolf, but everyone was very interested to see my images of the bull Elk. We learned that the Elk herd is very small, and sightings are few. Our lucky weekend was nearly over, but the wildlife sightings continued. While driving on the dirt access road that took us back to the main highway, a red fox crossed in front of us. It paused in the middle of the road to look at us as we looked at him, then continued on its way. That left us with just 300 miles or so to drive on Sunday. Earlier that day, Brian and I had both agreed that, even though we were there for only one night, it definitely was a “2 Thumbs Up” weekend!

Complete Photo Album http://tinyurl.com/FrenchSept2008
References
*Harvey’s Angus burger
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwS0WnyqXhg
http://www.harveys.ca/eng/index.php

** Group of Seven
http://www.answers.com/topic/georgian-bay
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/G/groupseven/varley_georgian.jpg.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Group_of_Seven_(artists)

107 Years Ago Today...

2008-09-14T07:55:00.000-07:00

I have become an aficionado of these circumstances, and a bit of an expert I might say…

When President William McKinley was shot in 1901 by a would-be assassin, the President was visiting the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York. McKinley was treated in Buffalo, and Vice President Theodore Roosevelt traveled to be at the President’s side. Because McKinley didn’t seem to be in danger, Roosevelt’s presence seemed unnecessary, and he was urged to leave Buffalo.

Roosevelt then resumed his vacation, traveling to Newcomb in New York’s mountainous Adirondack region, and staying at the Tahawus Club with his family. On September 13, 1901, the Vice President and several others in his group climbed Mount Marcy, and were having lunch after descending the high peak a short distance to the shore of Lake Tear of the Clouds, the highest pond source of the Hudson River. A forest ranger approached the group at the small lake with news that the President’s health had deteriorated. Roosevelt and the others returned to their camp and were again informed late that night that McKinley was near death, and the Vice President was summoned to Buffalo immediately.

Roosevelt accompanied a driver in a horse-drawn wagon (buckboard), and in the darkness of that Adirondack night they made their way over perilous roads toward the train station in North Creek. When they arrived at the station, Roosevelt was informed that William McKinley had died. Somewhere on that "rough ride", at 2:15 A.M. September 14, 1901, near Newcomb, Theodore Roosevelt had become President of the United States.

Roosevelt boarded a private rail car and traveled overnight by rail to Buffalo. In Buffalo, McKinley’s close friend wanted Roosevelt to be sworn-in at his house, but Roosevelt instead chose to take the oath of office at the home of his own friend, Ansley Wilcox. The Wilcox Mansion still stands today on Delaware Ave., and is a National Historic Site.

PS: An interesting side note -
The doctor who attended to McKinley treated him with all the usual standards of the time. Nevertheless, the President succumbed to a complication that now is considered quite treatable - an infection. It has been said that a second doctor who would have been McKinley’s primary care physician, had he not been out of town when the shooting happened, would have treated McKinley a bit differently. That doctor had been practicing a new technique that treated patients in such a way as to prevent the common infection - that man’s name, the medical director of the Pan-American Exposition, was Dr. Roswell Park, namesake for Buffalo's famous Roswell Park Cancer Institute.

http://library.buffalo.edu/libraries/exhibits/panam/hsl/rpbiog.html
http://www.nps.gov/thri/historyculture/index.htm

(As president, Roosevelt hated the nickname Teddy, but the public loved it and the name endured.)

Adirondack High Peak Hike: Mount Marcy - Panther Gorge - Mount Haystack

2008-09-13T17:54:00.000-07:00

June 26-27, 2008 - Marcy & Haystack Mountains

In ‘06, I solo hiked the Adirondacks' Great Range from Route 73 to Haystack and back out to the Garden, over a course of 3 days. Last year, I set out with a young coworker to repeat that hike, but we began with Lower Wolfjaw via Johns Brook. Turns out that his enthusiasm greatly exceeded his determination… we quit after just one peak. That was quite unsatisfying. For the past year, I’ve been looking forward to my “annual” Great Range hike, and once again chose to go solo. I again chose late June, in order to take advantage of the long days that we enjoy this time of year.

Over the winter, I bought a new, larger pack, and am now able to carry all of my lightweight weekend gear inside the pack, including an extra large foam pad, sleeping bag, and bear canister. With my “full pack” still weighing in under 30 pounds, including food and water, I felt ready to go. My Day 1 itinerary called for hiking from the Keene Valley trailhead known as "The Garden" to Mount Marcy, then down to Four Corners and into Panther Gorge.

After work Wednesday, I finished packing, grabbed 2 hours of sleep, and hit the Buffalo section of I-90 at 2 AM. At around 3AM, I hit a raccoon. At around 6AM, I nearly hit a deer, but we both escaped that trauma. Finally, at about 9AM, after driving through occasional light rain for hours, my old Honda pulled into the Garden parking lot. I paid my money to the envelope slot and readied my gear. It was 10 o’clock when I began my walk along Johns Brook (in the rain), and seemed to make good time as I broke the long day into physical, and more importantly, mental sections.

First comes the Southside Trail junction, then the first lean-to, the second lean-to, followed by a long section of forest that concludes with a downhill to the trail register near the interior outpost. I signed in and walked over to inspect the new suspension bridge over Johns Brook. It’s a nice wooden deck bridge supported by (a pair of?) cables. The approach to the bridge had not yet been completed, requiring some climbing and high-stepping to access the new structure. The grassy meadow by the ranger cabin is a nice contrast to the miles of forest that you walk through to get there. Sun-loving wildflowers grow within the tall grass, and you might see a snake or a deer enjoying the open areas as well. Getting back to business, I donned my pack and headed up the brook toward JBL and a refill of my water bottle (in the rain).

My next goal was the Bushnell Falls lean-to. Before reaching the side trail to the falls, I was passed by several young men wearing simple clothes and straw hats. I had intended to visit the falls that I hadn’t seen since my second ever High Peak hike up to Haystack in ‘02, but the voices down the hill meant that others were enjoying those falls, so I continued onward. Like Terri (Tmax), I chose to split right at Bushnell Falls and hike up the Hopkins Trail toward Mount Marcy. I’d never hiked that particular section of trail, and just wanted to see it. The trail is obviously lightly used, and was quite closed in at times. The smells of Hemlock, and Balsam permeated the air, as did the beautiful melodies of song birds. I had a great time hiking up that trail….. until it flattened out near the top. The flat section that leads to the Van Hoevenberg trail is quite wet; boggy you might say, but the pleasant trail leading up to it more than compensates. Besides, the distance to Marcy is virtually the same either way you go.

Continuing along the very familiar trail, I soon found myself on the “floating” planks that guide one through the Marcy marsh. I scrambled up the steep rocks that guard the top of New York, remembering how difficult that same section was in February one year, when I lent my crampons to a young man I was hiking with while I made my way up with just snowshoes. The open summit was refreshingly cool and windy, allowing me to once again don my rain shell. The cloud I was standing in precluded any views, but I have my memories of a brilliant April day three years ago to sustain me. The state mile-high point was all mine that day, but I didn’t linger. Working my way down the south face, I followed the cairns that guide you down to tree line and to the sometimes steep path where I fell last November and smacked my noggin on the slick rock. I remember that, too!

Soon enough, I reached the trail junction at the small clearing known as Four Corners, where a lean-to once stood (years ago, there was also a stone shelter on Marcy’s summit). That junction is where I again ventured onto new (for me) ground. Panther Gorge has been calling me for the past year or so, and this would be my day to see it. The descent into the “gorge” was much easier than I’d imagined, although I must admit that I didn’t review the guide book’s descriptions for this part of the hike. I found the trail to be easy to moderate through a pleasant open woods with occasional views of Haystack and Marcy. By the time I reached the lower junction, it was dark enough that I needed to wear my headlamp. Since my ADK/National Geo. map indicated the lean-to was 3/10 of a mile farther, I kept walking. I continued walking in the dark even after the sound of the brook faded (lean-tos are always near a good water source).

After more than 30 minutes, I turned back. This time, I scanned the dark ground looking for side trails. When I was nearly back at the same lower junction, I found the path to the lean-to. It was just 100 feet from the junction, and I had walked over an hour in the dark for nothing!
Never… trust… maps… The shelter was mine alone that night. I refilled my water bottles, drank, ate a couple of the lentil burritos that Jane had made at my request, and hit the sack (I’d forgone a stove and pot in favor of all cold food). I had hiked all day on just 2 hours of sleep the night before, so that sleeping bag was more welcome than usual.

photos http://tinyurl.com/marcyhaystack

Though the sun lit the morning sky at 5 A.M., I slept until 8. After stuffing 2 more lentil burritos down my throat, I began my climb up “the steepest trail in the Adirondacks”. This is what I’d been looking forward to - “the steepest trail in the Adirondacks”, complete with guide book warnings of dangerous ledges that you should never attempt with a full pack! The trail started out quite moderate, then steepened considerably as it gained altitude on the south side of the Haystack massif. The path was not covered by large boulders, like some of the other Adirondack High Peaks. This trail had several pitches of smooth, steep slabs to walk or climb up, like part of Algonquin Peak or the Ore Bed Brook trail, but it was “business as usual” for the Adirondacks. After not too long or too much effort, and after just one fall resulting in a scraped elbow, the bare rock, green lichen-covered summit cone of Haystack Mountain was in view. That trail was not any steeper or tougher than many other mountain trails…. I was so disappointed!

As I emerged from tree line onto the open summit cone, the black flies converged. A light rain fell, moistening the little beasts that clung to my arms. That gave me a good reason to don my rain shell, which had the added benefit of keeping some of the little black devils at bay. I soon stepped up onto the small summit rock and absorbed the incredible views of Mount Marcy’s steep slopes as they plunged deeply into Panther Gorge. With a few photos snapped, including the usual “Hero Shot” (self portrait on the summit), I continued down the other side of the mountain toward the Little Haystack col. Just as I began my descent, I heard the low rumble of thunder. Great, and me with my pair of adjustable length lightning rods in hand!

Just seconds after the rumble, both of my feet slipped out from under me and I came crashing down onto my backpack and left elbow. Ow. I took an anatomical inventory, climbed back to my feet, and continued. A minute or so after that, I stumbled, took a few quick uncontrolled steps, and once again came crashing down onto my back… and left elbow. Censored!

I remained on the ground a little longer that time, but other than a very bruised elbow, I was still all right. I had lost confidence in my footing, and very carefully climbed down the remaining distance into the saddle between Haystack and it’s little namesake. As I began the short walk across the col, a lone female hiker approached and asked what I was hiking that day. When I told her, she said, “are you Bob?”. It was Terri (“TMax“). She was doing a similar hike, but via a different route. I asked her if she had heard my cry as I took that second fall moments before, but luckily she’d missed it. After falling 3 times and hearing thunder while on a high summit (and feeling my age), I had decided not to continue over the remaining peaks of the Great Range - I would hike out to my car. We continued in opposite directions as I passed through the col and climbed steeply up the rocky cone of Little Haystack. I looked around, taking photos and mental notes, because I need to climb this peak again next winter if I want to complete my quest for “Winter 46er” status.

After walking over the rocky puddle-covered summit of Little Haystack, I descended to the main Range Trail, climbed up over a big hump, and began my final 9-mile descent to the “Garden” parking lot. Slant Rock, Bushnell Falls, Johns Brook Lodge, a lean-to, another lean-to, fading light, more thunder, and finally the parking lot. I’d made it out before dark. Car, food, water, a soft seat! Another Great Range attempt in the books… and this old guy is quite satisfied this time around. - A

__________________Remembering Buffalo's Tim Russert 1950-2008

Paddling Georgian Bay

2008-08-26T21:19:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I drove up to a little town called Tobermory. It's about a 5-hour drive from Buffalo, and is NW of Hamilton, Ontario, on the tip of the Bruce Peninsula that separates Lake Huron from Georgian Bay. Over the past 20 years or so, I've been up there atleast 6 times, mostly on photography trips to capture the unique assortment of orchids and other beautiful flowers that are found there, as well as to enjoy the beauty of the landscape.

My photos: http://tinyurl.com/bobTobermory08Album1

Georgian Bay's rocky coast, and Lake Huron's sandy shores provide a stunning setting for vacationers, as well as those of us with cameras, boats, or scuba gear. It's an incredibly beautiful place where I have taken rides on the glass-bottom tour boats to see the old shipwrecks, and I've trailered my own power boat up there to cruise the big water.
http://tinyurl.com/Tobermory-BrucePeninsula1 http://www.tobermory.org/index.html

I sold my "stink boat" a several years ago, now have a sea kayak, and am considering offering an ADK paddle outing to Tobermory next summer. I wanted to check it out from a paddler's perspective and "see" how the big water paddling is on those great lakes. It's amazing. I'll let anyone who is interested peruse the links, and gander at my photos from last weekend. If you would like more information about the Bruce, you need only to contact me and I'll be glad to elaborate.

If you wish to paddle there, I recommend you have at least a 14-foot kayak, spare paddle, proper cold-water paddling attire (neoprene), navigation light for night travel (just in case -don't ask…), be able to paddle at a brisk pace into, or with, wind and waves for 2 hours at a time, be comfortable and experienced on big water (great lakes or ocean) up to 2 miles from shore, own the proper gear and be able to self-rescue in waves and assist others (no roll necessary), be able to land and launch in waves (mild surf) on rocky shores, have navigation skills needed to be able to find your way back to your starting point from miles away (map & compass skills, and GPS savvy).

These are just a few things to think about if you want to paddle on big water anywhere. It seems like a lot of stuff to think about, but paddling up on Georgian Bay is worth the bother. Tobermory is one place that is so beautiful, and so close, that all kayakers should visit it at least once! Paddle on.
http://www.blueheronco.com/Boats/bhv/home.htm
http://www.blueheronco.com/Boats/bhv/blue_heron_v_cruise.htm
http://www.blueheronco.com/Boats/bhv/Imagehome.htm