We have broken the 130 year record now for days without precipitation.  As I was coming out the South Kaibab today, little white things were dotting the trail, and I thought, "What's blowing down from the trees?  Oh!  Snow!".

Haven't been on the trail in Two Weeks!  We have been babying Brad's calf and just walking the Rim Trail. Which is like 200 percent more than most Americans do, but still.  Made it to the breccia pipe before his calf started stiffening up.  Those water bars are deadly.

Snow at last! Snow at last!

Saw NO ONE for like an hour and a half.  I was hoping not to see anyone until Cedar Ridge on the way out, and thus break our record, but an over-achieving lady hiker met us at the Supai  footprints.  Oh, well.  

I know people mean well when they say, "Oh, you're almost out!".  Like, yeah, I can see the rim?  And they don't know, the little darlings, that every single other hiker we have met that day has told us we are almost out.  Sometimes they say that when we are not.  A mule wrangler once told me at Two Mile Corner that I was "almost out".  I answered, "Well, if I left from the River, I am almost out.  If I left from Indian Garden, I am halfway out.  If I left from Three Mile, which in fact I did, I am one third of the way out."  That got me One Of Those Looks.  

Sometimes someone will say, "You're almost there."  Then I can respond, "According to Buddha, I am there."  

Once trudging out with a group of ladies, a gentleman stood to the side for us (uphill has the right of way!), and as we passed he enthused, "You ladies look radiant!"

Much better than "you're almost out".  

I got one!

Many are those who, as have I, dealt with graffiti on the Canyon rocks who mutter, "Just once, ONCE, I'd like to catch one of these bozos in the act."  Well, Brad and I were on our morning constitutional up the West Rim Trail, and I got one!

I had just picked up some toilet paper (nasty!  And, by the way, the West Rim Drive is open to cars now, so all you had to do was carry the stuff back to your vehicle, or (what a thought) to the trash can 100 feet away).

So on my way to said trash can, I espied a young male busily leaving his mark on one of the rocks bordering the parking area.  Since my hands were full of stuff I was anxious to get out of my hands, as I passed I said, loudly, "Please don't write on the rocks.  It is ugly, and it is rude."  His mother looked up from her perusal of an information sign and yelled, "What do you think you're doing?"  So he didn't get in trouble with the Rangers, but his mom is almost as good.

The Grand Canyon Post Office is a mile and a half from the apartment, and I walk over to check the mail every day when I am not working.  I listen to books on my ipod, but as I pass through the Village, I don't put the earbuds in.  I like to listen to the people.

Sometimes I can be of help.  I rescued a couple today who were driving around in circles looking for the Bright Angel Lodge.  Sometimes I can answer questions.  I pointed out the Great Unconformity to two ladies who had just left a ranger program which mentioned same.  So I showed them how to find it and explained the significance.  "Oh, thank you," they enthused. "Do you happen to know, has anyone ever been there?"  Yeah, me, two days ago.

Sometimes I have to remind people, tactfully, that writing on the rocks is discouraged. That throwing rocks is discouraged even more.  That making a paper airplane out of your Grand Canyon Guide and throwing it off the edge could be hazardous to your health.

But sometimes I just like to listen to what they say when they first look over the edge.  Some of them are blase.  It looks too flat.  Or it isn't as colorful as the pictures.  Most of them are excited.  It's so big!  It's so colorful!  So massive!  So awesome.  Ginormous! Old tourist books describe people fainting or falling to their knees, but I haven't seen that.  Must be all this insensitivity resulting from exposure to mass media.

One woman asked me where the River was, and I told her at the bottom: it just can't be seen from the Village.

"Well, how did it get down there?"

"Strangest thing.  One day it was up on the Rim, and the next day it had just slipped down inside."

I suppose my most recent favorite was a young man who strolled up to the barrier with his young lady.  He shook his head in dismay.  "Man," quoth he, "They have a serious erosion problem here."

We had tried six times to get to the White Rim Trail in Canyonlands.  Once it was snowing: not a good thing for riding in Chinle clay.  A couple of times there was a family crisis.  Once the last part of the trail at Horsethief was washed out.  The June we finally managed to get onto the trail, Potato Bottom was flooded and we could not do the whole loop, so we rode to Hogback and out.

June 2013, the fates finally aligned.  The permit came through.  No one was in the hospital.  The road was not flooded.  We even had a designated driver to haul the supplies and the water (no water for the 100 mile route).

So Brad and Coop rode down the Shafer Trail a couple of thousand feet.  The "trail" is a dirt road.  Good enough for a high clearance car, but rough enough and steep enough that 4X4 is recommended. I walked maybe a third of it.

The Shafer Trail, no place to skid off the road.

I do love rocks.  The White Rim is all rocks.  Most of the ride is along the Permian White Rim Sandstone on a massive shelf just above the drop-off down to the Green River.  There is approximately one tree along the 100 mile trail.  

So it was hot.  Moving on a bike, one makes a breeze, but stopping is always hot.  The breeze is also dehydrating, which is an issue.  First night's camp at Airport was open but scenic.  I was on my way back from the outhouse when I heard a funny noise.  It sounded almost familiar, but not quite right.  I stopped to look carefully and found that I had just stepped over a pigmy rattlesnake. It was totally torqued off, so I didn't get a good picture.  Our Grand Canyon rattlers are much more mellow.  Coop had a nice freak-out.  "If you hadn't told me I would be blissfully ignorant!"

Second night was at the White Crack. This is THE premier campsite on the entire route.  There is only one group allowed, and it is at the end of a long isthmus of sandstone surrounded by cliffs.  We got a great sunset, and enough of a breeze to keep the gnats at bay.  Lots of worked shards of rock scattered about.  It is possible that this was a ceremonial area in which to work on rock tools.  It certainly wasn't a convenient area to work on rock tools.

White Crack

Now, I love the desert.  I was born and raised in the desert.  One thing I really love about the desert is that there are no bugs.  Canyonlands is a desert, and every time I have visited there have been bugs.  Gnats or deer flies or biting black flies.  Some seasons the bugs are so bad that mountain bikers talk about riding with one hand and swatting frantically with the other.  I am told that the area is not that buggy, that I just hit it at the wrong time, but, in any case, there were bugs.

We wanted to camp at Candlestick the next night, but it was full so we had a longer ride on day three.  We passed through Candlestick and it was exposed and hot and dry with no shade.  Sometimes things do happen for the best.  Rode all the way down to Potato Bottom right next to the Green River.

Coop decided he would swim, so we thrashed our way through the invasive Tamarisks until we reached the water.  Which was about 6 feet down a sheer bank.  Nothing loath, Coop and Brad took off upstream to find a place they could get in.  They did manage to find a muddy bank, but by the time they struggled in and out of the mud, they weren't very clean or refreshed.

Along the next day's route there is a site called Fort Bottom.  Brad and I decided that we would check it out that evening, so we drove up Hardscrabble Hill.  Part of the way, anyhow.  These roads are narrow and steep and there is no place to turn around or pull over.  We finally parked at a "wide" spot and walked the rest of the way.

The site is on a little peninsula of land in a gooseneck of the Green River.  It is approached by a trail which descends, then ascends, then crosses a dramatic causeway of sandstone stepping stones on top of hoo doos. It is thought that it might have been ceremonial.  The approach would suggest so to me.  We had to rush to beat the sunset.  We hadn't brought flashlights, because it was only a short three mile hike.  That has gotten me into trouble before.  "Oh, it's only a short hike.  We don't need a flashlight/map/lunch".  That's before we parked the truck and walked another two or so.  We were told upon our return that we missed the onslaught of ravenous riparian insects.

Causeway to Fort Bottom Ruin

Up and over Hardscrabble hill and then along the Green River.  We were supposed to spend a night at Taylor, which would set us us to hike to Upheaval Dome, but we were all pretty tired of setting up camp early afternoon and then sitting in what little shade we could find, waiting for the bugs to go away and the sun to go down, which in June was not until about ten at night.  This is why Arizona does not go on Daylight Savings Time.  When we reached the turnoff for Taylor, Coop just kept riding, and we tacitly agreed.

What goes down must come up, and we climbed back out of the trail back onto the plateau.  I managed to ride all the way up Horsethief with only a few stops when I fell off the bike from riding too slowly.  Coop and Brad wanted to ride all the way back to the car, about 12 miles.  We were going on a long bike trip in a few weeks, so I tried to ride as well.  They, of course, were far out of sight.  I kept saying, "Okay, up this hill and then it is downhill the rest of the way.  Well, that wasn't the top, so up the next hill.  Well, that wasn't it either..."  I kept this up for about an hour and called it quits.  I flagged down the truck to ride in style.  As it turned out, there was no top to the hill.  It went uphill all the way to the highway.

The road was narrow enough that we carried two-way radios so we could signal to our driver if another vehicle was coming up or down. Uphill has the right of way, but that does no good if you meet another car that is halfway down a hill with no place to turn around or pull over.  Most drivers were gracious and understanding.  One pair of dirt bikers, when I told them that they would have to wait at the top of the Hogback, snarled,  "What's the issue?"  "Well, our Yukon is about halfway up the hill."  "So?"
"So you won't both fit, and believe me, between a Yukon and a dirt bike, you are going to lose the argument."

The Yukon tops out the Hogback: no room for dirt bikes

So I did like it.  If I went again, it would be in spring or fall when the weather is a little more forgiving. And maybe no bugs.  But I've heard that in spring, the winds can blow gale force for a week.

One thing I couldn't get used to was no hiking off the road.  I fully understand.  The area is all cryptobiotic soil.  One does not bust the crust.  But it would be nice to be able to wander a bit.

This summer we went on our first ever full supported and catered mountain bike ride.  The food, the water, the groover, our gear, all rode in a truck and we only had to ride our bikes.  One hundred miles.  Telluride to Moab.

Now, I am a strong hiker.  I can climb out the 3,800 vertical feet on South Kaibab in three and a half hours.  Three, if I am trying to show up my kid. On a bike, not as fast.  Not slow.  And I can pedal all day long. But not as fast as the Colorado racers who were vying to see who could get into camp first every day.  Nor the people who had just finished the Ride the Rockies.

So I rode alone.  A lot.  Almost all day, in fact.  Pedaling madly along dirt roads, figuring that if the lead group were going to change routes, they would, in fact, wait for me.  Which, of course, they did.

The truck was behind me.  When Mr. Guide was driving it was RIGHT behind me.  Revving its engine.  When Ms. Guide was driving it was discretely out of sight.  Now and again the truck would ask permission to pass so as to get ahead and prepare lunch or set up camp, and I graciously agreed.  Then the guide not driving that day would drop behind and ride with me.

And I would say, pathetically, "I am a really strong hiker.  Honest! I could beat most of these people out of the Canyon were I back in my own territory."

And they would smile blandly and reply "Oh, you're doing great!"

Okay, I work taking people on hikes in the Grand Canyon.  I am paid to say things like that. That is MY line!  So I know YOU are being PAID to smile blandly and encourage me.

I understand that I was probably doing very well indeed compared to some of the riders they get.  In fact one gentleman backed out of the trip, asking for a shuttle to bear him away on day three.

Nor does it help that I don't like riding downhill.  Especially fast.  Especially on dirt roads with loose gravel, loose sand, sharp turns, and 2,000 foot drop-offs.  (Of course once we rode through the herd of incontinent cows, the sand attained a nostalgic quality.)  

Suffice it to say that I feel more kinship with my plodding hikers now.  I actually do say, "you're doing great" and mean it.  I take people in for their first backpack ever.  So, they take approximately twice as long to get out as I do, and yes, they are doing great.  But now I will understand when they don't necessarily believe me when I tell them so.

Riding down into Gateway:  I walked this part.

On the Uncompadre Plateau

Last night's camp above Moab

Fires were banned in Grand Canyon in 1972.  Of course, we still built them.  For a while.  We always figured that the only people who cooked on stoves were those too incompetent to cook on a fire.

When I got my first stove, a wee little Svea, I put my pot on and proceeded to set up camp.  That is how one cooks on a fire:  put the pot on the fire, do everything else, and by the time camp is set up, the water is hot.  On the stove, my water boiled over.  Almost instantly.

Okay, so cooking on a stove was not so bad.  But we still HAD to have a fire every night.  Even though the Canyon is a desert and sadly lacking in wood.  And what wood there is is very slow growing and thus does not replenish readily.  I recall Indian Garden and Bright Angel Campgrounds as totally devoid of life.  No grass, no twigs, no bushes, bark stripped from trees, because we HAD to have a fire. And so did everyone else.

More than 30 years ago, I was hiking on an alpine mountain with one other companion.  We found a campsite at tree line, open, airy, unspoilt.  Thought I: if we build a fire, the only wood around is this lovely krumholtz.  There will be a scar on this minute alpine plant life.  The campground will no longer be pristine.  So I asked my friend if he minded if we did not build a fire, and he agreed. That is the last time I even considered building a campfire.

Back in the day, when I routinely led hikes for my local Sierra Club Chapter, I would tell my participants up front that we would not have campfires.  In the Superstition Wilderness, where we usually hiked then, the Forest Service requested that visitors to build fires, and I didn't see why the Sierra Club, of all people, should gainsay them.  One hiker ate dried food, uncooked, for four days because he was by-god determined to cook on a fire, and I was just as by-goddess determined that he would not.  I offered him my stove, but he would cook on a fire nor nothing.  He is still not speaking to me.

It is, of course, possible to build a leave no trace fire.  It is a pain in the neck.  Better by far to cook on a stove and use the ambiance of a candle in the evening.  As for keeping warm, I have spent a night around a survival fire at 10,000 feet in 40 feet of snow.  I don't recommend it.  I would have been infinitely better off had I packed my down parka.  And breathing smoke?  Please.  Another evening in the Holy Cross Wilderness I was all set up in camp with a lovely view of the countryside below, and the party below me built a fire which filled the whole valley with smoke.

I have carried a good dozen bags of fire debris out of Grand Canyon.  An illegal fire leaves a scar on the land, scars on the rocks, and bags and bags of charcoal and ash.  Usually there is unburnt trash in said ash.  Also, the casual visitor may think, "Oh!  If they built a fire, so can I!"  So we schelp down garbage bags and carry it out.  Every time I walk across Mormon Flat on the South Kaibab I note with pleasure that the scar from the last fire I carried out is indiscernible to the human eye.  Or at least to mine.

Fires are old school. They are, like, so fifties!  Most of us have the most up-to-the-minute hiking gear we can afford, so why cling to this Neanderthal notion that fires keep the Smilodon away?

On one car camping trip, a friend groused for a week about no campfires.  Then she finally admitted: "You know, when you are not hunting for wood, and tending the fire, and babying the fire, there is an awful lot of time left to do other things."

Indeed.

Proof that trash thrown into a fire ring will magicaly vanish.  Not.

FIre at Deer Creek started by uneducated person burning TP

Bright Angel Campground in the 60's: no vegetation.

Tried to get to Skeleton today, but Brad's calf started acting up badly.  One little session on the wobble board... So rather than risk a bad injury we turned around at Cedar.

Cedar Ridge (3 miles RT, 1,000 feet) was our regular workout when we first moved up to the South Rim.  Skelton (6 miles RT,2,000 feet) was a long day.  Now Skeleton is the regular, and Panorama (10 miles, 3,500 feet) is the long day.  I told Brad if we keep this up, Pano will be our regular workout and we'll have to go to Ribbon Falls for a long day.

As one ages, one is told to work out regularly.  However, work out too hard, and injuries result.  Don't work out at all, and even walking across the room can trigger an injury.  Bitch, bitch, bitch.

I gave up running over thirty years ago when I pulled my calf.  I had warmed up and stretched and everything.  Then for the next ten years, about once a year that stupid calf would pull again, probably indicating that I had allowed it to heal up short.  Once in Kanab Canyon, which is an intriguing place to be hiking with a sore calf.  Anyhow, hasn't happened for over twenty years now, so it is probably gone.  But I still don't run.  Walk fast, but don't run.  Sounds like the name of a song.  Or a Dr.Who Episode:  "Don't blink.  Blink and you're dead.  They are faster than you can believe.  Don't turn your back.  Don't look away.  And don't blink.  Good luck."

And to get back to one of my pet peeves, why do people think that cigarette butts will biodegrade?  Or more likely, why don't they think at all?  I met a kid starting down who was smoking, and I said, "I hope you are carrying that butt back out".  When he laughed, I said, "I am perfectly serious".  Am also perfectly sure the next time I head down I'll find his butt(s).  Maybe vapes will be better.  Or maybe they have a  plastic insert that will be worse.  Let's just ban smokers from the Park.  No, I'm not prejudiced.

Goodness. this is out of date.  I suppose if one is too busy to update one's blog, that is a good thing.
Anyhow, in June we FINALLY did the White Rim on mountain bikes.  Fifth time is the charm.  I liked the east part best, because I am queer for rocks.  Then we took off on a supported ride from Telluride to Moab.  100 miles.  Went to Colorado to mess around Pagosa Springs, right in the middle of a huge forest fire.  Bopped on up to Buena Vista to climb Mt. Yale, then back to the Canyon to lead the North Rim Sampler class for GCFI.

In June we had rain.  Rain and floods.  The Bright Angel Trail flooded out, so I thought, ah ha, the mules can't get down to Phantom Ranch.  So I called and got the cabin with the double bed.  Really cool washouts all along the trail, too.

September did the five day hike into Supai for GCFI.  Two injuries: a broken toe and a sprained ankle.  People, people, people.  Supai is a Grandmother hike.  Fortunately the Supai run a helicopter service for $80.  Though the hikers beat the copter out, hee, hee.

In October I was SUPPOSED  to lead a six-day geology rim to rim, but the Government shut down (thanks, Tea Party) so all we could do for two weeks was bike and walk the rim.  The elk in the Park seemed to think they had finally managed to chase everyone out.  When we met them on the Rim Trail, they would charge us.  A 2,000 pound bull elk, his harem of ladies, and me on the rim side of the trail.  Interesting.  The day the Park opened again, I called Phantom Ranch and got the cabin with the double bed again, figuring that the mule riders had all been canceled.  I love living on the Rim.

Christmas we hiked to Phantom Ranch with Robbie and Renata, Brian, Rachael and their two bitsies.  One three years old, one one year old.  Boy, that brings back memories.  Robbie would scream until he fell asleep, and I would hike as fast as possible until he woke up and demanded, "OUT!"  Christmas dinner at the Ranch is always fun, though.  Two weeks after we went back to the Ranch for my birthday and hiked to Ribbon Falls on the layover.  No one there but us.

Robbie, Renata and me at the Tipoff.

As usual we have been doing our regular down-to-Skeleton and out hike at least twice a week.  Six miles round trip and 2,000 feet.  Over Christmas we hiked to Plateau Point for our long workout.  While we were sitting there (three other people) my phone rang.  Major social faux pas.   I walked out of hearing to answer, and someone had driven up to visit as a surprise.  "We are at Mather Point! Where are you?"  Plateau Point.  "Oh, how far away is that?"  About two hours.  So we missed those visitors.

Today we started for Panorama Point, but Brad's calf started tightening up.  He tried working on the wobble board at the gym, and the calf didn't like it.  So we turned around at the Breccia Pipe.  Why is it when I do something really long, like the Tonto Loop, no one asks where I've been?  But when I do a lousy five mile round trip, everyone asks, "Did you go to the bottom?"  Well, yeah, just not today.

We hiked to Panorama two weeks ago, and just before we topped out two young men asked us where we went, so we said, about ten miles and 3,500 feet.  How long did it take?  Five hours.  Oh, so we can do that.  Well, it is now one o'clock, and it gets dark at five... They waved us off and kept going, thinking, I am sure, "Oh, we will be faster than those two old fogies".  I should have hiked back down at dusk and sold them some flashlights.

Last weekend we ran into a couple on the first switchback who asked, "Does this trail go anywhere, or do you have to turn around and come back out?"  I still can't figure out a good response to that one.

Ribbon Falls on my birthday.