'Tis the Season

The summer harvest is drawing to a close and I'm feeling mighty pleased with myself for being so 'green.' I don't mean jealous, either. What I do mean is 'green' in all the trendy ways - urban gardening, energy conservation, healthy eating, and exercising. Instead of getting in my car to drive to the grocery store for some potato chips, I jumped on my bike and pedaled the 4 miles to my little garden oasis, where I picked 20 tomatoes, three 3-foot long zucchini, and a grocery bag full of swiss chard, basil, and other herbs and lettuces. Getting all of the delicious food home without being smashed or cut was the tricky part. I loaded the tomatoes at the bottom of my pack, put the greens on top, and strapped the zucchini on the outside, where it could hang over my shoulder and hit me in the face on my ride up a steep hill. It was the Vermont version of a French baguette.

Next on the Agenda: Morocco

I always like to have a trip to look forward to; in fact, I think I'm outdoing even myself with the next one coming up in November: MOROCCO!

It's been ten years since I found myself with 4 complete strangers taking the ferry across the Mediterranean from Algeciras, Spain, to Tangier, Morocco. My college friend and I had had an explosive parting of ways in Madrid a few days earlier, and I'd reached the sea town of Algeciras feeling lonely and stranded. My hopes of touching the African continent were dashed without a travel companion. I was 23 and this was my first time out of the country, and while I had the courage to backpack around Europe alone, I knew that Morocco required a buddy.

The beauty of hostels is that there is a self-selecting group of social, adventurous travelers on the cheap, like I was right after college. I quickly made friends with two Canadian girls, who agreed to go to Morocco with me. We picked up two more young travelers while on the ferry, and the five of us spent the next week experiencing one exotic adventure after the next.

We got suckered into a carpet shop in Tanger, where I acquired my obsession with mint tea but managed to not engage in a bartering contest for a berber wedding burka. We paid the monkey and snake charmers, had the henna done on our hands, and ate delicious kebabs in Marrakech. Somehow, we even found our way to Ouarzazate, where we were passed by dozens of bikers competing in the Eco-Challenge. I thought I would freeze to death one night, high in the Atlas Mountains, where we decided to camp and all I had was my little silk sheet that I used in the hostels to avoid being devoured by the bed bugs.

I had an amazing time in Morocco. It was there that I saw true poverty for the first time. I felt like I was living inside of a 3-D National Geographic Magazine, complete with exotic sounds, overwhelmingly sweet and pungently sour smells, and a history so rich I could not comprehend.

I always knew I'd go back to Morocco, the next time with some more money and sophistication. I didn't have to think twice when my friend Jen called a few months ago with the idea. We'll spend some time in the major cities, but the highlight will be a three day trek up 14,000 foot Mount Toubkal in the High Atlas Mountains. Jen, who has done everything from the Ironman to weekend 50 milers, will be the perfect adventure buddy. She's so fit, in fact, that even I may have a hard time keeping up with her. I better start training!

You can follow my trip to Morocco in November by reading the blog and checking the real time Google Maps produced by SPOT.

Urban Outdoor Woes

I've been back in DC two weeks now, and I was in desperate need of my outdoor fix. I headed straight for the Billy Goat Trail, the best little outdoor challenge nearby. Hiking along the rocky outcroppings next to the Potomac River is one of my favorite ways to combine being outside with my balance and agility training.

About 1/4 of a mile up the C&O canal from Angler's Inn my friend and I came to a section that was fenced off. Not a problem, we just dropped into the dry canal - we were in the outdoors, afterall. The breach was impressive, and it was clear that the combination of water and erosion had had their way with the poor historic trail. We walked the creek bed up and around the roped off area until we could scramble 4 feet back up to the trail.

We had a great time on the Billy Goat and made our way back toward the parking lot where we were abruptly confronted by a Park Ranger telling us that we had to backtrack 1/2 a mile to a bridge, cross over to the Berma Road, then walk the 1/2 mile - or risk being given a $500 citation. I did not receive this directive well, as you can imagine, and I suggested a few alternatives. Could I walk the dry creek bed? NO. Could I cross the creek bed and hike the hill up to the road on the other side? NO. Would she personally escort us through the dry creek bed to the other side? NO.

I could see that I would get nowhere with this line of questioning so I was forced to oblige, much to my great annoyance. This IS the outdoors, right? It's a sad thing that the NPS so afraid of lawsuits that they can't even allow me to have the right to scrape my knee or sprain an ankle while I'm outside of all places. This wasn't the Lincoln Monument, or even the White House, yet I was being treated like a potential land terrorist.

Come on, NPS, in spite of our urban locale, let's remember why we come to the outdoors in the first place! It's a sense of adventure, of being alive that we want! I realize this wasn't backcountry, but surely it is possible to keep us safe within Federal bounds without being so unreasonable. I wonder what my readers think.

Parting Shots

So long for now, Utah!

Day 5: This is Why They Call it the Backcountry

The only thing worse than setting up camp in a rainstorm is breaking camp in a rainstorm. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to have made it through the night, but waking up to heavy rain did nothing to quiet my concern about our upcoming hike out of the canyon.

We took our time eating granola and berries under the shelter of our tarp, but once we finished it was time to move. The packs were loaded and on our backs and we were on our way by 9 am as planned. I could tell that the river had come up and inch or two, and the water was more turbid (from sediment being washed down) than it had been the last few days. It reminded me of the bad joke, "You know why they call her the Virgin River? Because you never get to see her bottom," referring to the muddy color of the river when it floods.

The 20 yards of river were no problem for us. We entered the tiny narrow canyon that led to our exit and it's clear trickle had now become a small steady flow of iron-colored run-off from the tall cliffs above. I picked up the pace. This was no place to be if water levels came up.

Words cannot describe the sights we beheld that morning and there are no images because our cameras were wrapped in plastic and packed under protective layers of our packs. The narrow opened into a giant alcove. The first tier above ground level, which formed a dryfall last week, had matured into a full-fledged waterfall. Waterfalls cascaded over high cliff faces streaked in colors of black and deep red. The rain continued to fall. Each of us took a mental image and locked it away safe somewhere in the recesses of our mind, to reflect upon some other time when we long for the freedom and the struggle that were ours that morning.

Our ascent began with a climb out that was just over one full body length high. We made the first of five people trains, taking off our packs to hoist them to the person above, in order to avoid succumbing to the inertia of the extra weight that would pull us backward or get stuck between narrow chimney walls. The rain proved to be our best ally. The steep sand and scree slopes now provided safer foot holds that actually stuck rather than sliding out from under the foot.

Welcome to the backcountry. There is no trail. There are no ropes. There is no other way out. Mentally and physically, Sol's Adventurous guests had to come to terms with the truth of their current situation.

Everyone had their own unique experience on the climb out that day, and I am content to leave the telling of the thrilling details to those who should rightfully tell it - my guests in the wilderness, Amie, Bobby, Fritz and Kathleen. You can read their accounts by clicking on the yellow "comments" icon below.

I'll close by saying that I couldn't be more proud of the group. I watched them overcome fears, push through fatigue, smile through the rain, and pull together as a team. The backcountry isn't for everyone; but these four people became and always will be part of the backcountry after this experience. They will return to the world changed human beings. Thanks, team for trusting me with the chance to share this with you. I look forward to seeing you on another venture!

- Melanie

Day 4: A Day of Rest - Almost

Today was Saturday, and predictions of Sunday afternoon thunderstorms were weighing heavily on my mind. I decided to stage our last night of camping as close to the exit route as possible; if the rains came in early, at least we could make it off the river and onto higher ground before a flash flood could hit. My plan would be to hike a few miles downstream from last nights camp, drop our packs at the nearest suitable campsite, and spend the rest of the day unloaded - exploring Poverty Wash, downstream to the logjam that had me "dreaming of dynamite" earlier this summer, and if we were really lucky, even further to the infamous Powell Plaque and Zion border.

We made great time and found a bench less than 50 yards from our exit canyon. It couldn't get any easier than this! Hummus and tuna and my last snack pack pudding pie for lunch hit the spot (I'd even included miniature graham cracker pie crusts, how's that for 5 star backcountry cuisine?). We set off downstream, camera's in hand and happy to be free of our heavy packs.

Amie and Bobby took SPOT (my newest and coolest piece of techie gear - our friends and family were tracking us via Google Maps the entire trip - www.findmespot.com) and set off at break-neck pace to see how far they could get while Fritz, Kathleen, and I decided to hang back and give Fritz the opportunity to work his magic with his camera.

It was around 2:30 when I noticed the sun disappear and saw the dark cover of clouds start to roll over. I kept my eye on them for a little while until I could no longer ignore the fact that it was going to rain, and it was going to rain hard. The question was, how long did I have?

Sensing my hair begin to stand on edge, Fritz and Kathleen turned around to head back upstream and I set off to find Amie and Bobby, hoping that they had not gone beyond a point of no return. Their turn around time was 4:30, but the sky was getting darker. I felt a few sprinkles. I began to run. Running a river isn't easy; but it is fun. If you know what you're crazy, anyway.

I caught up with Amie and Bobby at the infamous log jam and I was delighted to see that it's growth had been stunted since last year. (Nobody took dynamite to it though...very disappointing. What about a fire? That would do the trick!). Despite the oncoming storm, I had to take a moment to pay proper homage to this obstacle that I've watched terrorize people for the last 9 years. It gets to everyone, whether it's a fear of heights, a swim in the deep pool behind, or in my case last year, climbing up a virtual waterfall of what looks like linkin logs (you youngins might have to hit Wikipedia for that one).

Things got interesting on our way back to camp. I was determined to keep my cool and spoke in my calmest tone, but the breathless pace with which I was marching Amie and Bobby back upstream had to give away my concern for our safety. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, and as we walked around a bend a howling wind nearly blew the hats off our heads. I felt sprinkles once again. I'm sure Amie and Bobby did not know that they were capable of such a pace, but they were fantastic river partners. Not only could they have outpaced me if they'd wanted to, but on their faces I saw the thrill-seeking smiles I've seen on many a crazy friend's face when things get exciting. Inner-city kid and ballerina turned adventure seekers that day, and I wish their friends could see those smiles on the Google Map.

I suppose the proper ending to this day would be a freight-train wall of water crashing toward us as we nimbly leapt aside and watched. But it didn't happen. And neither did the rain, it turned out. Which was too bad, after all, considering the outstanding rain shelters we built. ("You won't need a rainfly," I'd told Fritz the night before we left). Amie's dancing prowess and expertise in knots combined with Bobby's sheer strength and balance to rig a bombproof shelter for the three of us to sleep under. Meanwhile, next door Fritz and Kathleen had made a cozy cottage out of tent and tarp.

Day 3: Lost Guides and Cow Pies

The cameras were out like paparazzi today as we encountered one mind boggling overhang after another. We got lucky, ran into fewer patches of quicksand, and settled into a nice rhythm and flow of river walking.

We rolled in to our sleeping quarters around 5 pm, hungry and getting tired. It wasn't the Ritz Carlton of Mineral Gulch that we'd had the night before, mind you, with it's 11,000 year old petroglyphs, four sets of narrows, and perfectly groomed sandy beach with a clear view of the Milky Way above; but it was a nice high bench, sheltered from freak flash floods, and once we moved the giant cow pies to set up camp it was quickly upgraded to a Knight's Inn (insert the name of your favorite small town motel here).

Soon after we claimed our sleeping spots I decided to wander off with my GPS unit and top maps in hand, in search of higher ground where I could pinpoint our location and have a moment of silence to plan the next day's route. I scrambled my way up a little knoll and found my perch in the sun, where I guess I got a little too comfortable and was gone longer than I thought. I ran into a concerned and forlorn Bobby on my way down, who had just had his first experience being alone and 'cliffed-out' in the backcountry. I think this picture of Bobby captured the moment pretty well.

Day 2: Quicksand and River Walking

Technically speaking, the first several miles of the hike are not too challenging. What does exist of the Virgin River is underground at this point, creating a compact and flat dry river bed. Occasionally we would opt to follow the 4 wheel drive road instead, which would take us up small sand dunes to benches covered with wild flowers and desert sage. The easy terrain gave us time to adapt to the extra weight we were now carrying.

Eventually the river appeared, and as we worked our way further downstream, spring inflows combined to create a respectable stream of cool, clear water. It was around this point that we began to encounter quicksand. "Quicksand!" the person at the front would yell out. Already sucked-in above the ankles and sinking further still, it was too late for this poor altruistic soul. But at least they could warn the others. Or call for help, depending on your interpretation of the distress call.

I don't think any of the five of us escaped the death grip of quicksand at one point or another, including myself. At one point, in water already nearing the level of my upper thigh, with my pack resting not much higher and a deep pool of water to my left, I took one step and felt the water-logged quicksand suction around my foot and attempt to engulf my entire leg. I faked a smile and warned everyone else to hop out onto the bank to avoid this patch. Then I clung to the exposed root system of a tamarisk lining the bank and spent the next 10 minutes dragging myself out.

I would have felt like a mocking voyeur had I taken pictures of everyone in their moment of distress in the quicksand. What kind of guide would I be? Especially Kathleen, whose steady river legs were seemingly attacked by the stuff around every corner. But as I stood by and watched tiny Amie nearly disappear into a giant vat, right next to a pool that would have buried her up to her neck -and she still wasn't crying - I couldn't resist. I pulled out the camera and took this shot.

Then there is the shot of Fritz lunging under the fallen tree with 50 pounds on his back (However much that beast weighed, I forget. He was older than all of us, but left no piece of gear behind), whose dedication and trust in his creative trainers BOTHSU and balance board training during the last few months finally was tested. AND proven, I might add.

Day 1: Parunuweap Pre-Party

You all saw my prize rattlesnake in an earlier post, but the reconnaisance for this trip wasn't all fun and games. Here's the real story of the pre-Parunuweap scouting trip.

It began around 7 am, when Lindy and I hit the road and left Orem to make the 5 hour drive to Kanab, Utah. We got to Kanab ahead of schedule so we found a church pavilion that offered some shade from the 100 degree heat. There we ate cornish hens, licked our fingers, and laid down on the shady benches to take a quick nap. It would be the most peaceful rest I'd have for over a week.

We showed up at the doorstep of Cathy Church, both the beauty and the brains behind Roads End Scenic Jeep Tours, and sat down to look at our maps. Four hours, countless backroad miles, and a rattlesnake tail later, we pulled up at last to the so-called "parking lot" on the Elephant Gap road, a sandy clearing in the junipers that looked down into a deep and nameless side canyon of the East Fork of the Virgin River.

Lindy and I had two hours to find our way down the steep scree and slickrock slope that entered the narrow, 1/2 mile, poison-ivy-lined offshoot that led to the mainstem. Two hours to find my exit route and climb back out to make it to the Jeep before dark. No, we didn't have headlamps. Or flashlights. So we did what any responsible hiking guide with deadlines, hired and borrowed help would do: we bolted.

We made our way into the canyon without incident. Lindy got her first peak at the canyon as the sun went down over the high cliffs, casting fantastical colors of orange on the already shadowed canyon overhangs. It was a short look, though, because as soon as I marked the trailhead we were on our way back up, racing the clock to find hand and footholds before it was too late, making our way across unmarked slickrock before the last glimmer of dusk was gone and we found ourselves stranded in the dark.

Turns out the threat of dark makes for good motivation when two women are in the desert alone. The return trip, just under two miles, and 1,000 vertical feet, took us 45 minutes to complete. Good time. One week later, this time early in the morning, in the pouring rain with four clients under my care, it would take 4 hours...

Sol's Red Rock Backpacker Trip ROCKED

What does one say after an encounter with the wild like we experienced in Parunuweap last week? The excitement alone makes everyday life feel mundane, the spectrum of canyon reds fades all the green of the city to colorless. I feel like I'm coming off of a high.

I think everyone will agree that we found the adventure we were seeking. The trip as a whole was a success, the synopsis of which could be told in one fluid story; but in-between the lines are any number of sub-chapters - miniature moments of survival in their own right - and it's here that I want to begin.

Read along as I post a Parunuweap survival story a day for the next five days, with Sol's Adventurers adding their commentary, stories, and pictures. You can add your own comments and survival stories by clicking in the comment section below.

Day 5: Return to Civilization

What a shame! It's always an anticlimactic return to the pavement. Sure, after 4 days of backpacking my hair has turned to dreads and I notice that people don't want to stand too close to me (must be my natural aroma). But I feel ALIVE! I have found strength I didn't know I had. I encountered a spirituality only found in the desert. This red dirt seems to course through my veins and welcome me as one of it's own. As it should: a fourth generation Utahn, I am one of it's own.

Last year, as I stood high on the canyon walls above the river before our exit hike I thought about the successful trip we had just had. We had entered the canyon only days after a major flood event left massive piles of driftwood and vats of quicksand in it's wake. Weather predictions showed a 3 day window of opportunity to take our trip before the next thunderstorm would arrive. We went for it, and came out not only unscathed, but enlightened to our own power.

I felt as the natives must have, standing high on my perch that day. As I uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the river I thought I heard a faint "you're welcome" on the wind. I knew I had the approval of this canyon I've come to love over the past 8 years, and I knew I'd be back, this time with another groups of Sol Adventurers who are ready to test themselves, ready to connect not only with the land but with themselves and the others in a way they never have before.

Stay tuned to the blog over the next few weeks as this year's Sol Adventurers, Amie, Bobby, Fritz, Kathleen, and Lindy add their own experience to the blog.