A speck of gold in the edge of our pan

Dear First Day of Monsoon,
Thanks.

The locals call it the day of the first monsoon. I am reminded of the fragile watering holes we have visited and take solace in their being revived and refreshed. The last months have been nothing short of very hot and dry, and so, when the rains came they were even more welcomed. We had little warning that today would be the day Tucson would leave the clutches of the oppressive dry heat. My favorite swimming holes have been waiting for months now too – evaporating and desiccating as the muck grows on their shores. In the morning the desert and it's inhabits were giddy with the sight of the cumulus nimbus.

The clouds grew high in the sky and then darkened. We saw it coming, but were still caught in the streets as the massive drops fell and sizzled on the concrete. Months of dust and heat were immediately washed from the city. Shop keepers and bar tenders left their posts to stand in the doorway to smell and feel the temperature drop. Lighting was all around, thunderously loud, and movie-like in it's intensity. The winds came and pruned the palms and streets turned into rivers.

The rain didn't stop abruptly as it came. It lingered on, clouds shrouding the city's mountainous backdrop. The cacti greened and expanded, the dusty trails darkened and compacted, and rivulets became rivers. The water that fell onto the landscape collected itself, it amassed as water has always done upon the land – trickles meeting with other trickles, those trickles finding yet another, then that creek continuing along dry arroyos until meeting yet another, and soon enough the wash was full and raging.

I knew where they water was going. I have been to these places, these hidden places, where water has gathered and stood strong against the desert heat. Deep in granite canyons, lined with impervious rock, and protected by shadows, there are pools that persist. These places are simple but special, they are infrequent and alone. When we find them we are miners with finally a speck of gold in the edge of our pan. Eureka!

Today these places, beat down by the constant desert sun, and gasping not for air but for water, have been rejuvenated.  

Photos: 1) Araviapa Creek, 2)secret Galiuro waterfall, 3)Deejay Birch getting air into a hidden pool deep in the Blue Mountains

Exploring Sonora

Wilderness found

Rarely do I visit a place that gives new meanings to words themselves. Not often do any of us explore a landscape that brings new perspective to concepts previously planted squarely in one's mind. Matter of fact, there are very few places left on this Earth that can truly remind our presently over-electrified minds what wilderness really is. I will call this place Sonora, and I have just returned.

Don't worry about how to get there. Don't go searching all over the Internet for things to do while you're there. Don't busy yourself with maps and menus and matrices, for it is unlikely that any of those things will mean much once you are there. There are directions to this place – though I will not recount them here. And there are further specific place names and road numbers that may help in travel, but that is neither the goal or intent of this essay. Sonora can be found west and then south when traveling from Tucson – 'nuff said.

When we got to our camp in Sonora we were welcomed by our friend Keith, who has essentially taken up an artist in residence at the wild place. Having become infatuated with the wild desert landscape and intricate ecology of sonora and having already explored from his month-long basecamp Keith was a great guide and companion for exploration. We lost ourselves in rivers of lava and wondered through layers of wildflowers as Keith handily expanded upon the subtle ecology and history of the volcanic dreamscape.

Within minutes of stepping from the car we were engulfed by the desert. Ocotillo in full leaf and bloom rose wildly on all sides, hemmed in by black basalt towers and domes. Craters and remnants of craters splashed with winter color created a lunar-like viewscapes to the west, while swirling desert playa dropped away to the east. In every direction was wilderness for as far as the eye could see.

At night, beside the hot mesquite fire, we ate meat from the coals. The desert was quiet and cold and the sky was lit with limitless stars. The dry air made the guitar chords resound brightly and they bounced off the lava backdrop that formed our protected camp. It was the three of us, two dogs, and 200 square miles of desert.

On day two we learned about the craters by walking their long, elegant rims. Rarely is one afforded the privilege of a hike that describes a perfect circle, ending where you began without a step backward. On colorado we found a perfect nature-built trail of rock benches and steps. We weaved through indescribable formations of eroded tuff mixed with colored lava pours and chunky conglomerates. The geology of the place was confusing to the eye and mind, though it was impossible to not make an attempt to make sense of it. I wanted to capture the place with photos that I could share later. I wanted a way to prove that what I was seeing did indeed exist.

We repeated another circle hike in the afternoon, traversing a wide crater rim a mile in diameter. Elegante was dark and ominous, its tone more subdued and somber than colorado had been earlier in the morning. This crater held a secret. Its floor appeared entirely inaccessible, being rimmed with loose basalt cliffs for 360 degrees. Looking into the crater floor was like looking into a time and place before mankind, it was a place before footprints and before trails and before our impacts have scarred a place.

As the sun settled and turned the sky to red we were at the edge of elegante with our backs to the crater floor and our gaze turned west toward the mighty shield volcano that built the place on which we stood. It would have been quite a show, watching the unfolding of this grand volcanic place. Just as the desert itself was morphing, my mind's definition of wilderness was being rearranged. Sonora, in the last moment of the day's sunlight, was unfolding the definition of wild before me.

The sun set, the moon rose. We were still just three humans and two dogs alone in the desert.

Places

Places.

 Place. 

   Placed.

Places are best defined by the places nearby.

Our place, in a wild corner of the desert southwest, is more a conglomeration of all the places that we visit throughout our local adventures.

Oracle is a quiet cluster of homes nestled in a high oak-laden canyon at the foot of a mighty granite ridge. Oracle, to us, is also Cochise Stronghold, The Homestead, Peppersauce Canyon, Mt. Lemmon, the Ironwood Desert and all the other places that are just a days drive away.

Our place is a wild collection of towering granite walls, endless catus gardens, limitless sunsets, mystical native forests, remote crags, and desert vistas. Its just a small slice of a very big space . With each adventure we cut off a bigger slice of our place – and in this place its hard not to have another spoonful.

We've placed ourselves in this desert. 

Oracle, Arizona

Bonnie Lake and Fairytale Island

Why Be Inside

With nearly all the Northwest rivers nearing flood stage it's a good time to get out and explore some lakes. For our last adventure we headed out to Turnbull Wildlife Refuge, a wild section of lakes, sloughs, and puddles that get lost on the map. Overshadowed by the mountains and dense forest to the north this slightly random area southwest of Spokane really surprised us with its rugged terrain and one-of-a-kind island camping. Thanks to Paddle Routes of the Inland Northwest we found our way into Bonnie Lake for the night and were happy we did.

The route to Bonnie is unconventional. The gravel roads that lead you their wind aimlessly through miles of plowed fields. It feels more like your on your way to the Corn Maze rather than a cliff-lined lake. The boat launch is in a place called hole in the ground. It is a slough. Boats coming down from the lake look they are paddling through a dry meadow. The parking is limited, the access rough, and a small handful of unlucky fisherman were the only one we shared it with.

We paddled against the very slight current, through handfuls of songbirds and cattails as the basalt canyon narrowed to meet the lake's outlet. We passed a fascinating and seemingly very rare basalt rock arch. Tucked into a defile cross canyon was a wild waterfall cascading from the plateau. All around us were rims of basalt capped with stately pines. The scenery went from meadow to cliffs in maybe a mile of paddling.

All the while the birds singing loudly and the greening grass beneath the wide-spaced pines contributed to the park-like atmosphere. We paddle into the lake and reach a small spit. The lake opened up to us and further north we could see an island, looking out of place and stuck in its location clogging the lake channel between high cliffs. The sun was setting and we hugged the east shore to take it the last warmth of the day.

Reaching the fairy-tale island we discovered some well used camps. We lit a fire using old fence parts I gathered at the put-in. We drank, ate, and were merry. Osprey and bald eagles visited our island home. The stars were bright, it was a warm night, the fisherman had long gone back down the slough to their trucks. It was easy to forget were maybe an hour from home. With the wildness of the place it was easy to forgot that Spokane was just an hour over the hills. 

The oil baron

The oil baron never gives up. He's always out there looking for black gold.

Mountain biking Spokane

It's been about a month since the mountain biking season began here in Spokane. With the ski resorts closed for weeks and the spring rain keeping the dust down the miles and miles of Spokane singletrack has been in prime condition. Yet, on any weekday ride I'm likely to see less than a handful of other riders and more likely to be rewarded to riverside trail, old-growth groves, and fantastic views.

While far from a local source on the trail system here, I have been riding tons lately in Spokane, I wanted to share a couple fantastic mountain biking areas. For you locals, and those spring road-trippers I wanna run down some areas I've been loving getting lost in. Spokane's most surprising recreation resource in the massive trail system along the Spokane River. The riding is fast and smooth, intricate, and endless.

Current conditions for Spokane single track mountain bike trails: May 7^{th, 2011.}

Riverside State Park

The mighty maze of well ridden single-track at Riverside is nothing short of perfect right now. These soils are well drained and I've yet to find any trail with substantial amounts of mud. Most trails are just fantastic packed surface or otherwise lightly coated with pine needle mulch. Many downed trees have been cleared in the last two weeks. Flowers are out and the forest is alive and colorful. Deep Creek is running strong and the trail in the creek corridor in gonna get you wet. Ticks are out as well, as the last couple of rides came back with these nasty little beasts. Favorite trail heads: 7-mile junction, Sontag Park.

High Drive

High Drive is exposed and faces south, so I'm sure this place was rideable before I starting riding it in mid-April. This place is warm when the suns out, dress for the summer and not the cool of spring. There are a few muddy trails, but they are mostly confined to the low areas down by the golf course, and the fantastic traverse trails are in great shape. There has clearly been  a lot of work put into this built-on-the-side-of-a-cliff area and any rider will hold these outstanding trail builders in high regard. I have a feeling its important to get to these sun-beaten trails before they loosen up as the summer goes on. There are people here, so weekends are not a good bet for faster riders.

Liberty Lake

Liberty Lake's Mica Peak trail system is awesome right now as all the creeks are in full pour and the marshes and backwaters are full of water and thus wildlife. The steep trail connecting the old-growth cedar grove and the BoyScout cabin is washed out in places but goes if your descending and don't mind a carry or three. Most of the single track in the nw corner of the park are heavily mudded and beat to shit by horses. The double-track throughout is full of muddy holes, and over-run by streams. There is meltwater coming from everywhere and thus you're gonna get wet on these trails right now. Snow was encountered just beyond the BoyScout cabin on May 5^th. The waterfalls are fantastic right now.

Beacon Hill / Sekani

So many well-maintained trails. All of them so rideable. This is the place I haven't hit as much as liked. What I did ride was not muddy and just about perfect. Lots of riders in Sekani means the trails are super mountain-bike friendly, if not also real confusing. There are tons of good looking dirt jumps built at the park that I'm afraid of.

Priest Lake

We went up here at the end of May and got pretty shutdown. At the north end of the lake it is full-on snow with slednecks at the parking lots. Lower down at the river and visitor center parking the trails are still not cleared with many down trees and snow patches.

Bring out the canoe

Bring out the canoe; it's time to go climbing

My car, The Subaru, will not die. So we're trying to use is as hard as we can just for sake of it. Last week we strapped a 17' Grumman to the vintage Yakima rack and drove straight into the wind for two hours. While I did smell burning oil the car seemed unaffected and happy to make the trip.

We were headed for a boat-access granite crag in the heart of Washington. With winter weather in the mountains heading to the Columbia Highlands was our only choice, and with the climbing guide swearing it was granite we just had to check this place out. The road was closed for construction when we got there so we rallied through the sand and grass and launched by carrying along an airport fence. I took a picture of the Gazetteer because we were now attemptimg a "new approach."

Three trips from the car and we were ready to launch. To who ever invented dry bags with backpack straps: I hope you own your own island by now.

Banks Lake was deserted. We saw maybe four fishing boats from afar over the three days we were there. The weather was spotty but rarely did we have a problem with the winds

After feeling are way towards this "granite pennnisula" we found our way into a narrow passage with noisy Canada geese and sandy beaches. I couldn't help think how nice the place would be when it's warm out. There appeared to be lots of climbing to be had in this unnamed corridor but we couldn't find sign of any route development. Nearing the end of the day, we choose to milk the last heat from the sun and make camp. We'd have to find said peninsula tomorrow.

We were lost in a complex mess of granite domes and spits rising unnaturally out of the water. Banks Lake was never a lake, it was filled as part of the Grand Coulee Dam project. Looking at a map you begin to understand 'they flooded the Grand Coulee!'.

We paddled the next morning into an idyllic cove littered with spring flowers and ringed with clean granite outcrops. It did exist. The clouds were swirling around, all dark and nasty. We got one pitch in and they let loose. What more can one ask for of the first climb of the season.

After cowering under a small tarp for hours in 40 degree rain we saw a little break of to the southwest. Then the sun came out in force and we headed for the summit of what the book calls a pinninsula but I am hoping to call something else. Whatever the case it was the tallest granite outcrop sitting above a long inlet called Old Devil's Lake. From there south we had great views of the basalt outcrop call Steamboat. (That's what white people call it anyways, I'm sure this magical island has a native name).

We had found the 'sandy beach camp' and the 'tall white granite face' - no thanks to the maps found within Central Washington Climbs - and also found a wide-selection of freshly bolted granite sport routes just minutes from the lakeside. With the binocs we scoped many mixed lines up the prow of what I believe is Post Modern Wall. With further route development potential and lots of good looking multi-pitch routes we will sure be back to this nice little cove camp - whatever you call it.

Photos: 1)Yes, Michelle did load the canoe all by herself. 2-5) The scenes of Banks Lake

 below)The map photo we used throughout the trip.

Snowmelt makes me dream rivers

Scoured by warm wind and rain the winters snows are melting fast in the mountains around Spokane. In the St. Joe to the east the roads are nothing but mud. In the Selkirks to the north the transition to rain was slow and the highest elevation sit covered in classic snowy cement. Well, this week the snowpack will begin to fill the rivers and streams with meltwater, the sun will come out, and waterways will come alive. There is definitely still snow to ski but I find my mind dreaming up adventures in warmer wild places. Choppy deep green lakes and azure wave trains are just around the seasonal corner – I can feel it.

We'll take a journey similar to that of each water molecule. Leaving the tops of the mountains for the river filled bottom lands and ending up lazyly floating around a lake, blocked by any downstream progress by dams like Albeni and Post Falls. Of course we're lucky enough to be able to easily hop around dams and over entire mountain ranges, clearly our mobility is enough to make any H2O jealous.

The historic and varied waterways that weave through this collection of inland NW ranges are now the top of the map pile. The Pend Oreille and the Coeur 'd Alene are massive drainages that sit east and northeast of Spokane and the sheer amount of water out there beckons summer exploration. Our early spring recon has begun though the drastic dreary weather has kept us scoping rivers from the shore and planning routes the old fashioned way: using maps gleaned from small town bookstores.

The most local rivers are just a start with the most beckoning terrain being further east in Montana. The Yellowstone and the Missouri traverse nearly the entirety of the state, and the sheer density of smaller navigable streams is incomparable to the drier regions we've been exploring for the past years. All in all the canoe is hoping to get a lot of use this summer.

So get on the phone, give a call, and let's plan a trip onto these wild rivers.

I don't care what anybody says. I love snow. 

I'm biased though. Horribly biased, and its getting worse. I think it would be hard for someone to convince me otherwise.

I don't care if it makes driving a nightmare, or that I have to wake up early and shovel off the car. I don't mind when powder drifts into my jacket. Or even when trees drop pillows onto my head. The inconvenience is just a reminder of how fleeting the moment is.

I've been spending a lot of time in the snow. Good snow. Hidden away in the St. Joe Mountains of Northern Idaho thePeak Adventures crew, led by guide and owner Ryan Stanley, have been skiing new lines off a many unnamed ridge. Every run is in fresh high mountain snow. We a fortunate that, by sheer luck of topography, our snow has been protected from the sun and wind. Every track laid down is marking yet another first decent. The eraser comes quick though, as the next storm is already there. 

http://www.youtube.com/user/PeakAdventures1#p/a/u/0/l2OFbZDtHBc

I'll let the video tell the true tale. 

IanOutThere

Adventures pour from the hills like cold honey. We are no longer living in the desert and we are surely no longer pedaling our way through another rice paddy. The gray skies on the Inland Northwest rarely give way to warm sun or night sky. Our Kansas has long been the wild west and the exotic continent of Asia and we are definitely no longer there.

But the adventures do come and we happily greet them, with more respect than we did before, knowing our meeting could be fleeting. When the fickle weather picks a side, we're out. Winter rain is stifling, but winter storms are welcome. So are the moments of blue ski sun, those that remind me of red rock and long Mojave days.

In the time between, we plan. Maps, guides, forgotten information buried deep in the web, our own wintery drives to scout for upcoming climbs and floats – these are the reminders of time before Netflix and baseboards and the convenient neighborhood grocers.

Sherman Pass is the highest plowed road in Washington. We go there, to 5,500 feet, to find something exotic, to be reconnected with the many foreign landscapes that pepper our memories. There is a front-end loader in the parking lot, we skin up and ski the power-line swath cut over the pass, the sunset is colorful, log trucks continuously grumble by, the Forest Service bathroom is shoveled out, and apparently it costs $21 to park. We spend the night in the Sno-park lot, huddled low around a fire melting into the snowy dirt lot. If anyone were to show up so late in the lot we would surely look primitive to them – we're getting closer.

The next morning the clear sky gives way to gray and the snow warms to goo. We skin along a well-groomed trail further into the wild land. There has been a big fire on the flanks of Sherman Peak and the logging history is not clearly evident. There are views into the Okanagon and the Selkirks. The log truck's compression brakes echo across the entire valley and the warm snow sticks to our skis and slows us to a crawl. We turn a wide open corner into a small saddle. Snow Peak looms wild and beckons to be skiied. We find an igloo, likely built not long ago, near a well-signed junction and eat lunch out of the wind. We are Eskimos in Kansas.

These are the telemark ski  leashes I've been building. I still have materials for a bunch more so if you need leashes, get a hold of me. Friends of IanOutThere get a discount!

Here. Now.

Winter met us in Spokane. It was cold, then colder. The mountain got a great start and we skied pow the first week of December. Then it got warm and stayed cloudy. The snow melted and the streets dried out. I went on a bike ride. I thought Spokane might have a secret cloud cover that never went away.

Then the sun came out. We went to the river. No one was there because it was cold. The trails were melted out and there were great blue heron and mallard ducks and beavers.

The swinging bridge above the rapids was sitting in a sliver of winter sun. It was warm and shiny and smelled like old railroad ties. You could feel the cold air coming off the river and mixing awkwardly with the sun warmed pines. Back in the tress, leaving the river, we dodged puddles of black ice, and it was bitter cold. The sun had gone down.

The end of an era

Now that I'm settling for the winter I can take the time and look back through last seasons photos. IanOutThere came to an end as fast as our free-time summer when work at Naturalists At Large came crashing in from all sides. After a final last hurrah in the Tetons with Alok we made a 18 hour push from Jackson to Ventura to start our fall season. The photos from the season at NAL sum it all up... too busy for much more than work. Looks like I didn't even take my camera out for almost 5 weeks according to the date stamps.

My driving schedule was huge and so were the trips. I spent countless hours on the highway, alone in the cab of a box truck. I made a classic tour of California, including all the regular NAL haunts: Joshua Tree, Mono Lake, Point Reyes, Yuma and the Colorado River, all the while with Ventura in between. The state just seems to get bigger and bigger as the years go by.

I was happy to be part of the core crew on two of NAL's biggest, most logistically insane trips of the year. Highlights include 80 pounds of meatballs, on the river under only stars, and rally-driving overloaded box trucks through the sand. Let's just say supporting 300 people down a wild desert river is not a simple task.

So happy to have explored so many corners of California. The wild west is still wild.

IanOutThere

Cle elum, Bend, Jackson Hole, Utah, Vegas, Ventura, Point Reyes, Tilden Park, Oakland farmer's market, Ventura,Bishop, Levitt Meadows High Sierra, Mono Lake, Berkely

Why don't I blog about work. probably because I'm too busy driving.

i

Back in the Washington Cascades

I've been telling people this: Those Washington Cascades are nothing like ours in Oregon. Yup, the volcanoes are there but the exploded remnants up north are bigger and more glaciated. Squeezed in from all directions throughout those big volcanoes are endless ranges coming from all directions. The approaches are wild with waterfalls and the mountains shoot up into every view. From the dense valleys to the icy summits its a long way up and the trailmakers' favorite tool is the switchback... and once your in the mountains there's granite and andesite and snow and ice to keep one busy for a lifetime.

Well, all this still holds true, and there's more. Yesterday we made a one-day ascent of Mount Daniel's 7,899 foot East Peak. It was our first notable journey into the Central Cascades this summer and we were quickly reminded of the sheer size of the range.

We climbed from 3:30am to the reach the peak by 10am. During the dark hours of the morning we climbed through pitch black forest to reach still ponds reflecting the morning clouds. Mount Stuart and the entire Enchantments sat to the east and we watched them fend off an early morning advance of desert cloud cover to leave us with a fantastic clear route to the summit.

Unfortunately the summer heat was immediately upon is and the snowfields turned to guck at once. We rushed up through the heat to beat the encroaching mountain melt-down. We climbed straight through the morning to make sure we could descend the steep snow before the sun had its full impact. The day was wild and hot and long and gave us a complete view of the many ranges laid out before us.

The Cascades, in their entirety, are all well within striking distance from Harvey Basecamp and from our Mt Daniel summit we saw we had a lot of work to do. I wished to be able to point of the names of each and every peak near and far, and for that, we must climb and explore across the range. Sometimes the only way to pick out and name the mountains in the distance is to have climbed them before. So, ...off we go.

Photos: 1)The view south from Daniel's southeast ridge showing Rainier and Spade and Opal Lakes, 2)Michelle at the summit 3)up the steepest of the snow gullies 4)Mt Daniel East peak and our route

Middle Sister is surely my favorite peak in the Oregon Cascades. Last weekend, the classic central sister made for a good day in Bend's local range. Eric, Tyler, and I had finally got our shit together, our schedules aligned and we made a midnight rendezvouz in Redmond. The drive through the night is a great part of these adventures, and from when we left Redmond at 3am we past not a single sole on the way to the Pole Creek trailhead.

With record hot temperatures forecasted for the day I was a little worried about the snow stability as the day warmed up. And indeed after returning home we heard of a late afternoon rescue on Hood the previous day. Somehow there are still mountaineers out there that don't understand the dangerous nature of a melting sno-cone. I had set in my head a 'summit-by' time for 11am. Knowing the steep snow step midway on the north ridge may pose a problem after a few hours at these temps we had move along before the inevitable melt-off began.

And move along we did. Stopping briefly and infrequently and keeping our eye on the prize as we blasted up the steep and forested east flanks of Middle Sister. The sun came out abruptly and everything was immediately hot. This was going to be a test of endurance in these temperatures. It reminded me of the Arizona desert – only with the added reflectivity of the snowfileds. Higher onto the mountain a slight breezed picked up and at the col I tossed on my shell and good my helmet and ice axe ready for action. We had very short food supplies between us – we ate the last of the pretzls and fruit snacks (I will pass by the story illuminating how this happen). We happily found the steep snowfield step well travelled with good steps kicked in and now starting to melt into rotten snow. The pitch was short and deposited us on the north shoulder which then relented in steepness, cross another low-angle snowfield, and plopped us onto the small summit.

Views in all directions. A little bit of whining a rejoicing. A sip of water and enjoying the summit breeze. Then reverse down the continually softening snow step and back to the col, which is now seeming like grand central station with a roped party descending, two couples ascending and a few solo hikers departing to the west. I attribute it to the general increase in recreators in Bend lately – the trailheads and notable backcountry areas are clearly seeing increased use (not to mention the Search and Rescue seeing a lot more boneheads lost in the reasonably straightforward Three Sisters Wilderness).

Once off the solar-oven snow fields and down through the thankfully shaded forests we reached the catchtrail heading back north to Pole Creek. The temperatures low on this west flank under scant lodgepole trees were truly opressive. I can recall no other time in Central Oregon where I have felt so blasted by heat and sun – my only comparison to this afternoon come from adventures in Mojave and Colorado desert lands. There is heat that can not be escaped, dry wind that sucks the moisture from your pores, and shade to thin to help. Our final trail miles were as all final trails mountaineering-in-day trips should be: brutal, hot, and way longer than they seemed going in. What a great trip!

An exploration

An intense month of exploration in Southern Utah's canyon country has come to end. Back in the comfort of the casual Central Oregon landscape I am almost finding time to reflect on the very wild places we have been recently. We explored, I believe, the heart and soul of the mighty Colorado Plateau. We navigated into the most intricate of slickrock mesas and defiles. We descended canyons, made wild by the extreme nature of their terrain and later traversed every two-wheel drive road we could in search of the most open land.

Finally, we made ourselves psuedo-locals in the culturally bizarre small towns of Springdale, Escalante, and Page. The region is completely one-of-a-kind and beautiful, but most importantly, it is still wilderness. It has fought back against the spread of humankind and won. Its rivers have been tamed and exploited and cities continue to expand their tentacle but the harsh life this wilderness promises has helped maintain a wildness in the place.

When we first arrived in Zion on May 15^th the rivers were high and flowing thick with red sand. The desert sun was still tempered by the spring rains and everywhere was exploding with wildflowers. We counted up to fifteen different species in bloom on one trip into the Escalante. The winds were present too. We had read about the tortuous May winds of the desert in a couple of guidebooks but nothing could have prepared us. The desert is an exposed place and a strong wind just adds to the desolation and intensity of the landscape. There was no help from vegetation so you had to turn to the geology for reprieve. It is a rare day when reading the wind on the landscape in needed for your daily comfort and survival. Finding a spot out of the wind does not to prove to be as easy as finding a spot out of the sun for example – having the telltale sign of shade as your guide. With wind it is more subtle, you hike across a wide sand-blown valley to an alcove that looks great and its the windiest place out there. Where there is less wind, the sand drops out of the heavy air and onto you and into your eyes. There is no escaping the wind.

By June the desert was feeling regular again. It was hot, but not unbearable, there were flowers, but only those guarded by canyon walls, and clear, spring-fed streams replaced silty torrents. It was the quality and nature of the watercourses and the water within them that changed the most for us. The amount of silt carried in the creeks seemed to change the colors of the whole canyon. First torrential snow-fed maroon cream, then blue glacier-like pools and iridescent falls, then crystal clear mirror-like pools that reflected the ripples into magical orbs. The combinations of colors and light are infinite in a water-filled desert canyon. After a month of day-to-day experiences within these rare, remote canyons the seasonal variations that changed the entire nature the of the beast became apparent. In Escalante, where water is harder to come by than in Zion, the wildflowers and shrubs seemed to respond to the intensifying summer on a daily basis, tightening up their skins almost before your eyes. Every component of the desert wilderness is invariably teased or shaped by the Earth's most precious resource. Its hard not to notice the immediate and ancient role of running water in the landscapes' creation. We were there too, following its courses downwards towards the all-encompassing Colorado and learning about the coming and going of the land.

Photos: 1)The Waterpocket Fold 2)Descending into Deer Creek, Escalante, 3)Buckskin Gulch, Paria River 4)All the rocks of the desert end up in the ocean

The dragon came from Escalante. He, or she, lived in a grand slot canyon that entered into the heart of the mighty river. In times past the mighty river flowed strong and thick into the even mightier Colorado. Nowadays it was summer, and 2010, and the once formidiable Escalante now trickled into the cold and narrow lake arm that swallowed it without notice.

In the canyon that he, or she, now resides in, is a Grand Cathedral. The alcove holds a spring and large boulders that have fallen from above. It is surrounded on all sides by towering red walls. The walls fortify and protect dark arches that make up the roof of the alcove. These ledges, dark and wet, make good homes for dragons.

After the rivers ran still and the mightiest Colorado backed up behind the dams the dragon found he, or she, no longer gained the satisfaction from cursing through the long river canyon from sea to mountain crest as he, or she, did when the water flowed strong. With wings wide he, or she, would bank from wall to mighty wall and follow the boisterous froth in its entirety, which was reportedly an easy feat for a dragon. Once the heavy waters stilled, parts of mountains dropped from them to the bottom of the not-so-mighty ponds, and with the settlement came that of the dragon. Clear, cool water now seeped from the bottom edge of the concrete spring and filled the former channel with sharp jumpy water – no place for a dragon regardless.

Its easy to see why he, or she, would pick such a place to settle. The slot would be a good place to hold up for the remaining long life of a dragon. The tourists aren't much of a bother and, for a dragon, the climate in surprisingly mild. The sun there is strong and reassuring and the ferns have many day to day usefulnesses. The canyon is named on maps but the name can not be said here. The dragon wouldn't like it published. He, or she, has asked nicely, and considering all that he, or she, has been through.

We are in Egpyt

If Zion is adventurous, then Escalante is wild. Escalante Grand-Staircase National Monument was designated with a signature by President Clinton and with that penstroke almost 2 million acres of the most wild country in the nation was set aside to be managed by the BLM. The land has changed little under its new federal designation, though now it has been discovered by adventurers. It is a limitless maze of red and cream sandstone canyons and gulches, slot canyons, 1oo-mile dirt roads, primitive campsites, pictographs and pytroglyphs, springs, creeks, and swimmin' holes. The silty Escalante River is the backbone of the region, collecting the 1,000 year old trickling springs and alpine creeks pouring off the 10,000 foot Aquarius Plateau and delivering them all to the backwaters of the Colorado River forming Lake Powell.

We find ourselves again in the land shaped by the Colorado River. After working for so long canoeing great sections of the lower Colorado River, we feel happily connected to all the water flowing on this grand plateau. For we have seen it further towards the sea and know its future place on the land.

The Escalante is a river, but it is also a place. Though it's not an ordinary place. In the Escalante distance has a way of expanding, water is precious, and the energies of cultures past permeate the land. It's the sort of place you top off your rank and fill up the water jugs before heading out into it. Regular maps will lead to being hot and lost. Compasses become important again. I see it as a wild land, long explored by wild people. 1st the Pueblo and Anazazi, then the Navajo, then the hearty (and most likely crazy as all hell) Mormom pioneers, and now us. Hmm?

We've been driving on rough dirt roads for hours now – haven't seen a soul. We are headed for a desert slickrock bench named Egypt. There we will look for the aptly named Egypt slots. They are a collection on sinuous, miles long slot canyons dropping abruptly south into Twentyfive Mile Wash. We imagine them as damp, shady recesses offering cool routes through the Earth with nary a glimpse at the sky.

We get out of the car again under a hot desert sun. I move rocks, fill holes, get down like a golfer reading the break of the putting green. This is a rough road, it has been rough for hours, and Egypt doesn't seem to be getting any closer. We decide to go for it. The mini-van claws at the gravel and slickrocks. I marvel at its strength in this desert blast-furnace, the engineers back in Japan surely never imagine their Honda Odyssey in these conditions. No one would ever imagine anyone or anything in these conditions. These conditions, this place, can can not be planned for or a machine built for. This wilderness road with not a structure in sight attest to that. We are in Eygpt.

That night we burn a bright, smokeless fire of bone-dry juniper. From our lonely site the desert vista is long, yet there is not another fire or electric light to see. The fire reduces to a smolder and the starlit desert is all ours.

In the morning we pack our bags for the unknown, all the while pounding water and feeling dehydrated. We start down the road, continuing where we left off by van the evening before. A small Toyota truck comes around the corner and it is a weird reminder that other people still inhabit plant Earth. They stop and we climb into the bed of the truck. The road is surprisingly rougher still and we flop around in the back of the truck as its tears at the rubber-smeared slickrock trail. We are in Egypt.

We stand atop the 3rd slot counted from west to east. The landscape below us is another world. Slickrock rules the eye. The sandstone has been swirled and pressed by forces past, then eroded by the sensual yet unforgiving hand of water. There is little vegetation and its hard to focus because of the depth and distance in one frame.

The slot is cool and narrow and dark. The bottom is sand and mud, but the walls are hard and sometimes smooth and sometimes rough. We turn sideways , dragging our backpacks behind us. Michele is having a blast because her shoulders fit through almost every squeeze straight-on. I turn to the side and suck in my stomach. The sandstone is all around us – it is comforting but unnerving at the same time. Water has indeed carved this place; best not to think about the how's and when'snow.

We are blinded and melted as we are spit from the bottom of the slot. There are murky, tannic pools of water that we purify and drink. We are in the desert wilderness. The Toyota truck is long gone, our van (thankfully full of gas and water) is 2000 feet up the slickrock that forms our backdrop.

There are no trails in Egypt. There are no bushes or trees to warrant them. You can walk anywhere. A good map and a compass tells you where to walk. We take a bearing and follow it blindly (like in a snowstorm) up and across the tan, and peach, and maroon ramps of rock. It is afternoon and the sun is at its fullest potential. We weave through patches of cacti and sand; we marvel at our posistion on the land. We begin to call it: open desert. Because that's what it is. No water, no trails, no shade, no people, no informative brochures, no shuttle buses running on propane and bureaucracy. Nope. We are just walking on a bearing of 285 degree NW in open desert. We are in Egypt.

Photos: 1)Michelle plots the course for the day. Egpyt 3 below 2)They don't call it Grand Gulch for nothing 3)hiking slickrock 4)Wildflowers everywhere this spring 5)Native rock art along the Escalante River 6)I'm not really stuck, but I could be, Egpyt 3