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

Zion Canyon Country

Winter Water

Its the first week of a summer long adventure and we've just left Zion. Snow was heavy this spring in the mountain southwest and the rivers there were running high – clearly not conducive to exploring and rappelling the regions wild canyon watercourses. Though the handful of canyons we were able to explore left us dumbfounded by the beauty of this red rock desert landscape. Its a landscape so completely created by the course of water carving through sandstone on its way from the high desert to the Colorado river the irony is not lost on us. We cannot explore the place fully, purely because the regular forces that created the massive steep-walled canyons are at work at present.

At first entry to Zion National Park we were excited and ready to put some new canyoneering gear to the test. We choose a canyon with a short drainage, supposedly little water, and an easy approach. Easy approach means: park the car at the end trailhead, hitchhike with the tourists scurrying around the park like ants, hike an hour or two straight up exposed slickrock, backcountry navigate to the canyon head. Easy. Turns out the most likely people to pick up hitchhikers these days (even those clearly not running from the law) are French tourists roaming around Utah with a full-size van they bought when they landed. I think our French friends picked us up from the roadside of the wildwest simply for the stories back home – but we got a ride and were soon gaining elevation and perspective of the massive Zion landscape unfolding below us.

Spry Canyon is mellow to an experienced canyoneer (which we are aspiring to be), but to the armchair adventurer it may sound a little extreme. The entrance to the canyon is guarded by loose and exposed sandstone ledges that empty into a narrow defile chalked with brush. This side canyon pours out into a wide and wild-looking bowl surrounded by towers. All the while the geology has mixed up and swirled all the colors of rock to give the place an otherworldly sense. After traversing the bowl and dodging catci we came to a small stream pouring over the slickrock and ending in a wispy fall of maybe 40 meters (130ft). Just a glimmer of water apparently reached the pool below, the rest was sun dried or blown away. We locate two bolts and some webbing, uncoil our ropes and prepare the rappel. The ropes fall through the water then splash and tangle into a smaller pothole halfway down the falls. I clip into the ropes, check the system, and slide the near-vertical watercourse towards the chilling shadows below. “Now we're canyoneering,” we say.

Honestly, after that first big drop in Spry the rest of the canyon seemed to go by in a blink of the eye. The next morning we were ready for more deep Zion. We got what we were looking for, as spring conditions meant melting snow and deep and cold water in the traderoute canyons of Pine Creek and Starfish. I will pass by the chance here to soapbox about how the National Park reamed us, charging us $10 per canyon, thus $20 for a day of technical permits, while the hoards scramble freely amongst every day hike and viewpoint in the park. But my digression on the state of park management in the 21st century will have to wait for another blog entry. A second ride through the Zion tunnel puts us atop Pine Creek, clearly Zion's most accessible technical canyon.

When you see snow at the top of the drainage your just about ready to swim through its OK to be nervous. Despite our wetsuits and neoprene booties the many long, dark pools in the deepest recesses of central Pine Creek Canyon turned out to be debilitatingly cold. Be reminded though: once you start on your way down and pull that rope down to you while your treading water in an iceberg pool your on your way – no u-turn. While the cool water and cloudy conditions made Pine Creek kinda a freeze fest, we found it hard to get caught up in our own discomfort. Spinning down a free-hanging rope though water-carved red walled sandstone amphitheaters vertically hiking past hanging gardens and natural arches it's easy to say to yourself, “I'll be in the sun soon, even though I can't feel my hands, this is beyond fun and way too beautiful to worry.”

Photos: 1)Michelle gets us a ride through the tunnel 2)climbing from Upper Pine Creek to find Spry Canyon 3) Egypt 3 mile-long slot 4)special thanks to our 5.10 canyoneering shoes 5)the final rappel into the wild sandstone alcove of Pine Creek

I am back from China, back from behind the "Golden Shield" and thus reunited with IanOutThere at BlogSpot.

Soon! look for upcoming stories and adventures from my last three months in Yangshuo, China.

Until then look at the updates on my China photoblog at:

http://penglaiadventures.com/index.php

While in China IanOutThere will be published by an unfiltered domain. Find it at:

naturalistsnw.com/blog

Continued to be challenged by the Chinese internet filters and thus still unable to post pictures to either here or facebook.
China is amazing though, and regardless of the limited incoming news the outgoing adventures are limitless.
Much climbing amongst the towers still, despite the cold, we ride rickety bikes out of the town and into the wild villages.
i

Amazing. China has blocked Facebook. We're all going into withdrawls!

It's very very cold in Yangshuo China.

Waiting to climb.

Penglai Adventures Photoblog

West Ridge
of Columbia Peak (7172ft)

Solo, in-a-day

Yesterday was a long, rewarding day in the Cascades. After a summer of working in the mountains but not really being in them I got motivated and headed out the Mountain Loop highway. The night before I had thumbed through the Beckey guide and settled on Columbia Peak, a “monarch in the Monte Cristo region.” The mountain was indeed striking and foreboding from many perspectives though the summit was accessible by an amazing scrambling route.

I got an embarrassingly late start from Seattle for such a mighty endeavor. My arrival at the trailhead was far from ambitious but I made it up mountain biking the first 4.5 miles to the abandoned mining town of Monte Cristo. Though I had to carry my bike across a wide log bridge and through a couple wash outs I passed a handful of hikers on the approach. This got me excited for a long day and with each over-ladden day hiker I rolled by I got more fire-up about my ultra-light packing job and the bright blue sky overhead. It was gonna be a good day in the mountains.

At Monte Cristo (creepy and interesting at the same time) the road ends and the switchbacks begin. I left my bike and plowed up the steep trail, happy with my choice to go light and solo into this beautiful place. At Silver Lake the route gains a ridge and the views become immediately spectacular. The trail peters out, the trees shrink, the Twin Lakes glisten below, and then the mountain comes into full view. Columbia Peak is a massive chunk of granite with an outstanding mile long south ridge. I sat down in a field of exploding blueberries and was immediately intimated by the mountains huge, expansive faces and precipitous ridges. My route to the summit was not at all apparent.

It was already afternoon and the sun has hot and intense. The sky was entirely clear and there were no signs any afternoon thundercloud activity. The ridge leveled out and I found that with a light pack trail running was reasonably fun – I made up lots of time and realized the summit was still within reach. At 1:30, just three hours after leaving the car, I stood at the base of a small snow field and granite step that would mark the beginning of the technical, exposed sections of the West Ridge. It was lose but climbable and once I lost in the intricacies of the ridge time seemed to stop. There was continued exposure but the climbing felt solid, the weather was almost too nice, and the views only continued to improve.

About an hour later, I reach a high exposed ledge covered with new snow from an early storm over the weekend. Here the West Ridge met a gully dividing the North Face and there was a lot of exposure. The traverse was complicated by the layer of new snow and poor rock quality. I collected my self, kicked some steps across the white stuff and scrambled up the wet and spooky summit pyramid. I was blown away when I looked at my camera and found my summit time to be well under 5 hours. I took lots of pictures of the view, ate a bagel and cheese and chocolate, and nervously began to gingerly downclimb through the snowy ledges and loose sections. It wasn't as bad as I remembered going up and I was soon enough cowering in the shade of a huge boulder at the base of the heathered ridge.

Water had not been a problem on the ascent but sun exposure was. I had forgot my sun hat and was now feeling the combined effects of intense alpine sun and a long day. I drank liters and liters of water but was no able to shake a bad headache. My return hike along the ridge and down to town was uncomfortable but not unbearable. I passed a high school girl in flip-flops about 2 rough miles up from Monte Cristo, were'd she come from? I figured she was more hardcore than me.

I thanked the mountain gods I had a bike waiting from me at the base of the switchbacks. It felt so good to effortlessly cruise down from the mountain meadow without using a muscle as my feet and quads recovered.

There was just a sliver of sun lighting up the peaks of the highest mountains when I returned to the car. I was tired, really tired, and hungry. So hungry I stopped and got pizza from 7-11. It was gross; which means it was really gross because, again, I was really hungry. It was still a good day and the Gatorade made my headache go away. Now, thinking more clearly, I figured I had just found one of my favorite Cascades scrambling routes; West Ridge of Columbia Peak.

It all started when Mark and I decided we should take Betty the big blue van to Sunrise (Mount Rainier NP) for our resupply mission to friends on the Wonderland Trail. We got a late start because the interweb clearly said it was nasty up there. We figured we'd save ourselves from the mid-day deluge by walking out to Sunrise camp in the afternoon; just in time for Krista, Eve, and Julie to be finishing off their long day. It was a good call. The views that we had were fantastic.

I wouldn't say we got snowed on so much as that we got slushed on. It was mighty cold in the Cascades this weekend and cheers goes out to those who may have also enjoyed amazing Labor Day weather. Note to self: if you're ever on the Wonderland Trail and it says it's gonna snow at 6500'; bail.

I went back to try and find the weather report I read on weather.gov mid-way through the weekend. It was a special advisory. It said something to the effect that the upcoming “cold and wet storm” would be especially hazardous for those in the “mountain back country.” It was like Barrack Obama himself warning of impeding doom in the Cascades for Labor Day.

We brought a lot of important things to Sunrise Camp, the girls seemed happy about it: 2 bags of salad, fresh bread, Odwalla (which was later used as a mixer), Rogue and Rainier Beer, artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes, chocolate cake. Funny how the 4 day ration that Krista laboriously home-dehydrated took up as about much space as our 1 dinner? I was really sad that they weren't able to put their ration to work for them (those food bags don't pack themselves, ya' know). None-the-less they were still smiling.

Dear Black Diamond,

I don't much like the Firstlight tent you generously sold to me. I think I could have found a better tent in the children's toy section of ShopKo. I can't tell if the fabric is suppose to attract or repel water. Funny, cause my Mirage tent is the best tent I've ever owned. What gives?

Ianoutthere

We did a lot of pointing out the clear parts in the sky. There were indeed many, especially early in the evening when we got a nearly complete look at the stars and the temperature dropped to probably around freezing. The weather came in from so many different directions – the mountain still loomed above and made itself known.

I've been dreaming about this lake ever since we accidently found ourselves atop

Vesper Peak

(North Cascades, WA)

Photo: Mark Bir

It's summer in Seattle, which means I have about two free minutes each day to get hours of things done. Hence IanOutThere has fallen by the wayside as my job with BOLD Mountain School, side projects, and personal climbing take precedence. I can't believe we're over halfway through the summer and that soon enough I'll be back in Nalifornia.

I had to take this breathe to publish a few photos from my personal climbing trips this summer. They have been infrequent but Pinnacle Peak (with its fantastic views of Rainer) and the East face of Chair Peak (with alpine style loose 5.2 face climbing and endless rappels) were both great days in the mountains. More ahead, sometime.

May 27th was a perfect day to be aiming for the summit of Middle Sister.

The snow was firm all the way to the summit. Good thing - we hiked in it all day.

At about 9000ft, at a high saddle we put on our crampons and left the packs and skis behind.The conditions and view were both amazing. Anne' loved the steep,
dense snow high on the NW flank.
We spent very little time on the summit. The snow was softening quick, the mountain was trying to melt from beneath our feet, and the corn snow was just waiting to be skiied.

Where is IanOutThere???

I'm getting alot of questions like this lately so...

photos and stories will be up soon, when I have more than, literally 1 minute.

May's itinerary has been huge, with big trips to Zion, the Sierra, Yosemite, Petit's wedding in Shasta, and Bend.

Look for a trip report and photos of climbing Middle Sister soon!

til then

i

Another Spring Season at NAL

And what a great one it was. I should have known when I started off with two amazing weeks at snowy Montecito Sequoia Lodge I was in for a great spring in Southern California. 

In the Sierra during late February we had two groups of fun kids out on program but somehow most of the work has been overshadowed by the blissful weekends in between (isn't that always the case). We did nothing more than play in the snow – adult style. We built snow caves, slacklined in a dug out trench, and then had a paintball war which ended in tromping through deep snow under darkening skies. We made a snow sculpture of the St. Louis Arch and then warmed up with draft Sierras by the fireplace. We used some dead dinosaurs and skied the hell out of Dinosaur Bowl and lapped a trackless powder field under cold, blue skies. I was having so much fun my car getting broken into and towed barely phased me. By the time we drove out of the snow and into the Kern River Valley the only reminder of my misfortune was the many music-less hours of driving.

We took a detour, on the way to Ventura, up the Kern River and found the wildflowers in full bloom. We discovered a new, secret little hot springs called Pyramid that I had driven past many times before. There was a big jump across a cold river to get there. We spent fun days and nights camped along the Kern, singing around the campfire, and enjoying Remington hot spring (one of the finest and most well-built in the region). PC meeting came around in Ventura and we almost forgot to go. Luckily we did though because merry-making and flag football with your best friends is not something to be missed. Turns out.

After the meeting of the season, where you get to see everyone together at least once, it was time to head out into the wilds and enjoy Pinnacles in the spring. Wildflowers, great temps, a few lowly condors, and some bold climbing were on the menu. Days past and there were great small trips that have now become a blur. We made a trip to Yosemite to sneak in some days of granite (beautiful) and then happily took a break from it all while glamping at ElCapitan's luxury campland. I had to cook for 150 people too, but again, I remember mostly the amazing BBQ and beach jam we had at Refugio State Beach post program. The rangers kept reminding us we can only have 8 people in our campsite, little did they know we needed a 15 foot box truck to carry all the beer and burgers for 8 people. After chilling beachside for a week it was back up to Pinnacles for a great small trip where we cooked gourmet food, whipped heavy cream with a slotted spoon, and ate a curry named Vermont (your guess is as good as mine). On the last day of Pinnacles we took the public climbing, for free, as an outreach to the Park Service – there were many characters and it made me happy that I work with children mostly.

The season was nearing the middle by this point and in classic NAL style I had no work but I did have a place to camp and eat for free so I headed there. It was called Natural History training and it was in the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. On the way I went to the San Diego Zoo with my friend Michelle; her favorite animal was the Muir cat (named in memory of John Muir I guess?), I liked the gorillas. It was great to see my cousins' two new youngsters, Teddy the dog, and my aunt and uncle in SD. Later that week we met Feder in Pacific Beach for 'act like a frat boy' night. Anyways, in Anza we hiked to a cool oasis of palms and a impressive overlook. We learned some things too, from our peers, and my brain got bigger. Of course it may have shrunken' back from all the toxic air I inhaled by exploring the Salton Sea – but I think there was a net gain.

After the sea, and PB, and NHT we took the cube truck on a tour of the Mexican border. No, we did not cross into Mexico with an unmarked box truck, we only toured the fence line that separates us from them or them from us or the fence the Bush built. It was freezing cold in Jacumba when we stopped for Mexican food and watched Super Bad for the second time in a week. I practiced my backing-up on narrow dirt roads with an overloaded truck skills, and we ended up at Walter's Camp last in the evening. The mosquitos had gone to bed and someone had left an old wahing machine tank under the tamarisk for us to build a fire in. Two weeks on the river went by fast (for more stories from the desert lands read the previous entry: The River). 

I remember a big scorpion, an open mike night better than most I've seen at real venues thanks to a bunch of talented seniors from Hollywood, getting up at 3:45am – twice, a windstorm with gusts to 45 MPH, lots of breakfast burritos from Filiberto's, cooking 245 veggie burgers, and plumes of dust a mile long as I navigated the big white box through miles of desert nothingness listening to Tom Petty and dreaming about another breakfast burrito.

It been a good season and as I round it all off once-again glamping on the Santa Barbara coast I am already dreaming about coasting past bighorn on cold ripples below the Hoover Dam. 24 hours of work left until I start back up in Seattle June 1 and I already can't wait to see Nalifornia again.

i

Photos: 1) Wildflowers in Kern River Canyon 2)Shooting stars on the Pinnacles High Peaks trail 3) The southern Sierra from Montecito 4)Muir cat at the SD zoo 4) NAL camp at Pinnacles 5)Colorado River sunset

  G r a n i t e

El Capitan has a way of reaching out over Yosemite Valley and commanding attention. A star in a cast of soaring granite towers and thundering waterfalls El Cap belittles the rest of the magnificent features seen from the valley floor and draws all eyes north and up. Said to be largest continuous wall of granite in the world, certainly in North America, El Capitan holds a special place in the mind's eye of all who have stood in it's shadow. To climbers it is the holy grail, the icing on the cake, the stuff dreams are made of, the light at the end of the tunnel, the end goal, the reason they moved to Yosemite and lived on beans and hid from the rangers for months, the Captain, the shit.

I have never climbed El Cap. I may, I may not. But it's pure existence continues to egg me on as a climber. Every time I visit Yosemite it is a slap in the face saying, “ keep climbing, go travel the world over chasing stone, but I'll be right here – waiting.”

I am in Yosemite in the spring – my favorite time. There are still patches of snow hiding in the shadows. There is road construction everywhere. Curry Village is littered with down trees and the paths are all mud. Tourists still somehow find a way to block the road to rubber-neck from car windows but they disappear in the evenings leaving the valley floor to welcome spring without much fanfare. Camp 4, Yosemite's cheap walk-in campground and home to dirtbag climbers and misanthropes since climbing's conception, is all but deserted. A few brave European couples, some recession struck families trying to save a buck, and some die hard boulderers have staked claims in the first few sites. It is mid-week and rain is forecasted for the weekend – we know we are lucky, for in just a few weeks the spring break hoards will begin pouring in hoping to catch warm weather. 

We are happily camped out under a dark green and awaking forest, amongst boulders still cold to the touch, and burning wood wet and smokey. The sky is clear and melting from deep blue to starry black. Climbing was good today. We, once again, touched the famed Yosemite granite. Polished beautifully by glacial ice and speckling in the late-afternoon equinox sun we were alone on a high buttress overlooking it all. The granite cracks were warmed from the sun but the shadows mixed with the waterfall wind to make it cold to standby belaying. After so many months of climbing comfortable limestone stalactites (Asia) and uncomfortable volcanic edges (Smith) this granite, stark, ominous, and exposed, felt real. Climbing in Yosemite is elemental. Your hands and arms ache from the movement, your mind puts together the pieces to protect the moves, and your body understands the commitment. This granite is what moved the climbing ethos forward and I am once again reminded why and how.

On the third day we wake to drizzle on the tent fly. Within the first hours of the morning the storm is upon us and heavy rain puddles on the hard packed floor of Camp 4.  There will be no climbing today. The weekend welcomes the rain and disheartened faces repack. I am not disheartened though - two days is all I needed to be reminded. I only needed a quick trip between spring showers to remember. Granite is 

Run for the Hills
Chasing Winter Into The Sierra

There is a lot of road between Bend and Grant Grove Visitor Center at the northern terminus of Sequoia National Park. After hours of lodgepole lined south-trending Highway 97 I got my first glimpse of Mount Shasta welcoming me to California. At the town of Weed 97 melts into Interstate 5 and begins a steady drop into the mighty Central Valley. I could name the towns I passed through but it is more fitting for them to remain nameless. The Central Valley, for all its worth as a agricultural hotbed feeding the nation, has little worth for the traveler looking for scenery and wildlands. My favorite thing to do here is drive, fast and efficiently, all the while keeping my eye on the mountainous prize at the end of the mind-numbing concrete dreamland.

At Fresno I stop for gas and beer. I can see the Sierra crest now, lit up orange from the setting sun and hemmed by darkening forests. 180 is the Highway number now and it makes a circuitous easterly line across the oak woodland and up into the rugged Sierra foothills. I am approaching one of the last explored regions of lower 48. The highest peaks in the Sierra, many over 13,000 feet, are out ahead of me, far ahead of the beam of my headlights but magnetic and making themselves known in the dusk.

In the summer tourists from around the world flock here to stand humbly below regal giant Sequoias. They head straight for the General Sherman Tree, maybe see a black bear leap across the road in front of the family SUV, buy a couple “Squeeze Me S'More” T-shirts, and return to the sun-scorched valley below. In the winter, many roads are closed and those open require escorts along the narrow, snow-carved pathways. The tourist crowd is notably different in the winter. We all share the desire to meet the forest under the cover of snow, to slide into the woods rather than plod, and are chasing (whether knowingly or not) the comfortable loneliness that is held in the winter wilds.

In the morning it's another blue sky day in the Southern Sierras. It's the type of winter day that every snow bum greets with mixed emotions. When one is happily stuck for the weekend at 7500 feet at a comfortable and secluded mountain lodge (http://www.montecitosequoia.com) its hard not to grin as the sun begins to warm the firs and soften the snow, yet snow is what we want. Snow is why we bought skis in the first place – melting snow is fun but fresh snow is divine. Each evening I read the weather with contempt as I yearn for the 'storm of the season' to be predicted, yet each morning I happily apply sunscreen and squint at the brightness. Somewhere along the way I mistakenly taught myself I only like skiing powdery, fresh snow. Though, after some careful research (the methodology I will have to explain later) I find that all snow, when placed at an angle, punctuated by mighty old-growth California red fir and Jeffery pine, and ringed by granite domes and spires is pure enjoyment. Always.

• This article first published by On The Go-go

Photos: 1)Alok gains Baldy Ridge 2)Shasta with the camera held out the window at 60MPH 3)The view from home - this week 4) The crew loving the employee built snowcave

Bend, Adventure, and Why Elephants Are Good Painters

It has been just week since I returned from my Asian dream world. Seattle for a day and then snowy Central Oregon has been a welcome slow dose of America to comfort my landing in the western world. I thought I would miss the jungle warmth, the unrefreshing temperature of the sea, or the pleasure of enjoying the evening with shorts and a T-shirt. In short, I thought I may miss the climate.

Turns out its very much the opposite. I am happy to be back in cold and snow, to drive on icy roads, to have powder thrown into my face and down my jacket. I am happy to remember that tired feeling that can only be accomplished on a winter day. Instead I miss my Thai friends and Thai food. I miss the relaxed pace and complete flexibility of being on my own adventure in a place where new experiences are too easy to come by. I miss Thailand, Laos, and China because it was new -always adventure – I like adventure.

But here's the caveat. Bend is far from new, it is essentially old, when it comes to my experiences in adventure here. I have done this or that before, but my lifelong memories have not rendered the activities of the past week null. In fact having life knowledge in this place allows me to better plan my day, it allows me to track down the good snow or know when Smith is gonna be warm enough. I can pick an idea out of the blue and know it'll be a good one or network with old friends that have a finger on the pulse of the place.

Place is the canvas for the adventure but the mission, for me, is far from complete without the right team. This transition back home, which admittedly I was slightly worried for my sanity before my plane touched down, has be smooth and mentally comfortable because although the place is homely it is not stagnant nor deserted. I was fortunate, it seems like a lot of my friends are actually moving to my hometown. Even better (for me) they don't have jobs! So I got two days of resort tele-ripping with Quinn and Adam, a fantastic warm day at Smith with Wally, old-fashioned Valentine's Day sledding with Tyler and friends, and modern sledding (read Ski Doo 800) with the Harveys. Pretty good for a weeks work.

So here's what I've put together. The adventure equation is more complicated than I thought maybe. You pick a canvas (turns out its not the most important part, but don't go buy a cheap one from a back alley) start to mark out (maybe with pencil) what your product will be, and then go to town. The more good people involved hypothetically the prettier it'll be (there is a breaking point in life and analogy). Last time in Thailand I saw an elephant paint a picture of red and black flowers with its trunk. The massive animal did much better than I could have done. And its true two elephants could paint more flowers and usually came out with a nicer painting. Not so true for all the elephants. They couldn't even line up at one painting – they were much too big.

Photos:  1)Squeezed into Josh's beast on the way to Paulina.  2)The Harvey fleet.

Tonsai Remembered

Being back in Bend doesn't mean I'm out of stories to tell about my Asian adventure.  In fact I can't get many images from my trip out of my mind.  Most of them are the days I was saying to my self 'now this is classic Thailand.' I was usually holding  by fingers to a bright orange wall of limestone looking out over the sea and watching the boats coming and going.  

My favorite days were when we were up high and thus getting a light breeze to whip away the stifling jungle heat. Many days were spent climbing and hiking through the vines and eating Thai food with tall Beer Changs to follow. There were many more days looking out into the jungle from the bungalow deck, watching the monkeys throw things, waiting for this or that to 'go into the shade' so we could dare to climb it.  We relaxed in phychadelic bars lit up with colored lights set in bamboo, hammocks hung at every junction.  We ate out for every meal everyday, what else is there to do. The resturanturers became our friends and suggested special dishes upon our arrival. 

We bought beer from 13 year old boys, unlike in the US, its always cheaper to buy from the little guy. I discovered BBQ beef thai salad and mango sticky rice. My bungalow had a tin roof that drummed me awake everyday as the jungle animals, lizards, squirrels, rodents, birds played their own assymetrical rhythm. After climbing we would head for the sandy iddyllic beaches and bounce around in the ocean, washing the sweat from our faces, and watch the sun go down in a smooth firey drip. It was hard to not be merry.

 I almost died trying to slackline from razor rock island to jungly gray island above the sea.  But somehow after we all realized I was indeed not dead, and escaped with meager scratches and a bruised foot, we laughed and laughed. The thought of paradise did not mix with such immediatedly dangerous events - laughing was all our brains could do to put it into perspective. Some of us woke up in the middle of the night and found our stomachs very upset with us - ' felt like I was gonna die,' I overheard. Yet in the morning we were all still smiling and laughing. What else was there to do - expect embrace the fact that 'everyday is exceptional.' Tonsai is so full of so much just try not having fun. Try. I dare you.

Photos: 1) Sunset bathes crags. 2)Climbing natties unite: Andrew, me, Sunshine, Liz

Also: Szu-Ting has more Yangshuo, China climbing stories and beta up at littlepo.com