Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Dogs are not allowed in the backcountry of National Parks.  Dogs negatively affect the wildlife, even when they are leashed.  Canine fecal matter carries a number of diseases and parasites, which may be passed on to wildlife.  Most dogs are not good hikers: their paws become lacerated and since they sweat through their feet, it is easy for them to overheat. 

However, there are those who cannot bear being away from their fuzzy loved one for the length of a hike in the wilderness, so they bring them along.  Even where it is prohibited.  How, you may ask?  Just say it is a service dog.

Bingo.  No one may question the service dog ploy.  Websites selling service dog vests, collars, and even bandanas, brag, “Take your dog anywhere”.  Then they sanctimoniously add that they sincerely hope that no one is gaming the system by registering a service dog which is not in fact a service dog. 

Right.

A true service dog is trained.  They do not go off leash, ever, and said leash is not retractable.  They do not bark at children, or anyone else.  They do not sit on their owners’ lap in the restaurant and eat from the plate. 

A therapy dog doesn't need to be trained.  It doesn’t even need a doctor’s note. 

Public entities, such as Park Rangers, may ask if the person is disabled and if this is the service dog.  They may not ask the manner of the disability.

The person may be asked what major life task the animal is trained to perform.  Websites warn that one should have the answer memorized so “it flows smoothly”.  Duplicitous?  Nah. 

No paperwork required.  This is on the honor system.  Period.  ADA is not pleased.  They are concerned that the rights of those with disabilities will be undermined by those who simply want their Fido along everywhere they go and are willing to lie to achieve their ends.

There is no really good way to address this on the trail.  One is allowed to ask, compassionately, what the dog is trained to react to and what, as a caring professional, one should do upon that occasion.  This evokes a blank stare from those who have not rehearsed their smooth response.  One can, if one is in a snarky mood and out of uniform, mention that liars go to Hell.

This is becoming enough of a problem that some states are passing laws penalizing passing one’s dog off as a service dog.  Grand Canyon National Park requires a special permit.  Yellowstone requires a special permit, and therapy dogs are prohibited in the backcountry (they have bears and wolves, after all). A Park is allowed to close an area to service animals if it is determined that the animal poses a threat to the health or safety of people or wildlife. 

So what is the harm if the dog is well behaved?  Surely rotten children do more damage to the wilderness.  After all, dogs don’t spray paint their name on the rocks.  So at what point does one decide that this is a law we will ignore, and this is a law we will obey? 

Permit required for overnight camping?  I’m a good person: I won’t need no stinkin’ permit.  No campfires? I’ll build a small fire – no harm, no foul.  Carry out my trash?  But I’m so tired!  The question becomes: are you an ethical person, or are you not?


My son tells me that Wiccans don’t need revenge: we have Karma.  I myself would hesitate to brag to all and sundry that I need a service dog when I in fact do not.  Fate might take a hand and mutter, “You want a service dog?  I’ll give you a reason for a service dog, and see how you like it”. 

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

The Coconino Sandstone at Grand Canyon is many things to many people.

To the hiker it means he/she is almost at the top.  To the artist it is a graceful sweep of sculptured stone.  To the geologist it evokes the trade winds blowing across Aeolian dunes 265 million years ago. To the graffiti punk it is a blank canvas.

Robert Frost said “something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”   Some people there are who cannot love an unsullied monolith without wanting to sully it.

Unfortunately it is easy to scratch names, drawings, and/or dates into sandstone.  Fortunately most of the time it is easy to erase same using water, a scrub brush, elbow grease, and some occasional blue language.  For those media which are not easily removed, such as paint or marker, I must rely on Park Rangers who have more powerful tools at their disposal.  Rock-colored mastic to cover the panel, or actually excising part of the rock. 

It is the policy of the Park Service to remove such vandalism within 24 hours.  Unmolested graffiti invites others to leave their mark.  Also it is ugly. 

College students write their team names or fraternity letters. Names and dates are ubiquitous.  Quite a lot of hearts, also male genitalia. Occasionally Bible verses.    One Halloween I erased ghost drawings from a fossil footprint panel. 

Some pieces of art are so elaborate one wonders how the vandal was not caught in the act.  One gentleman composed a 200-word eulogy for his late wife at Ooh Aah Point.  Some foreign visitors executed a four-foot by six-foot Swiss Flag.

When confronted, vandals will often claim that the place is so beautiful, they want to be able to bring their grandchildren back and show their descendants where they had been.  Ever heard of selfies? 

If they leave a last name, phone number, or hash tag, I turn them in to Law Enforcement.  Otherwise I take comfort in my son’s advice: Wiccans don’t need revenge, we have Karma.

It is a common fantasy amongst my acquaintances to catch one of these clowns in the act.  We have shared elaborate scenarios of revenge, from scratching a name on their car to writing “Hayduke lives!” across their shirt. 

I have caught people in the act.  Small children I admonish:  This is a National Park and it is not fair to spoil it for other people.  Adults I advise that it is obvious they don’t hike much, because experienced hikers know better. 

Recently I came across a young tween who was industriously drawing on a flat rock.  Her responsible adults had wandered off to a nearby viewpoint. 

I produced my squirt bottle and brush, erased the offending intaglio and advised her that graffiti is not only illegal but unsightly and rude.  Then I continued on my way.

Upon my return, she had reproduced the drawing on the same rock. 
Next time I dislocate her little thumbs. 



Sunday, September 20, 2015


Six.
That is the number of times I’ve hiked out of a slot canyon early because it started to rain. Once when I was leading a well-advertised Sierra Club to promote Wilderness.  We had hiked in four miles to the start of the narrows, set up camp, it started to rain, and I hiked everyone back out.  Flack?  Just a bit.
I also turn around a half hour from the summit if there is lightning in the distance.  This earns me great distain from those who soldier on and return to share their selfies with their hair standing on end and sparks dancing along their pack frames.
         Oh, yeah, they get away with it.  Usually.  They go in -- and out -- of the slot canyon in the rain.  They climb in the lightning.  It works.  Except when it doesn’t.
Sometimes the flood does come.  Sometimes the lightning does strike.  Then it is said, “they were doing what they loved”.  I am not sure the last thing that would go through my mind; “well it was fun until now”. 
         In point of fact, I have been in situations where I really, truly thought I might not make it.  Did I think, “Oh, I am in the Grand Canyon, in a blizzard, the trail is under three feet of snow, I have lost feeling in my feet, but this is where I totally want to be”?  No, I was pretty much thinking “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home” and clicking my heels together. 
         I read a lot of mountaineering books, because summiting an 8,000 meter peak is right up there on my never-going-to-happen list.  When Things Go Terribly Wrong the survivors who write the memoirs do not wax poetic about how wonderful it is to freeze to death. They write, “Stay awake, keep moving the toes, why the hell didn’t I turn around at 1:00 like I said I would?” 
         Usually if one is in extreme circumstances, it is not pleasant.  Climbers trapped on K2 in the Death Zone.  Canyoneers being flushed by a six-foot wall of water.  XC skiers shivering the night away at 10,000 feet around a piddley survival fire (been there).  Not fun. 
         That said, I rarely pass on a trip because the weather is not forecast to be perfect.  I have had a wonderful time crouched under an overhang watching a flood sweep by, safely below me, while rockslides crash down on either side.  I have gloried in a rainbow during a brief break in the clouds.  I have felt empowered and capable when I forged my way through fresh fallen snow on an unmarked route that no one else could find.  I have also sat inside, watching a goose-drownder of a storm wipe out the back yard thinking, “I’m glad I’m not leading a tour today”.  Then I fix another cup of cocoa and bake cookies.
         I recently had The Talk with my son about end-of-life decisions.  I told him when the time comes, he does not have to spend a death vigil at my bedside in the hospice.  His answer: “I’m not worried about that.  You’re going to clock out on the trail.” 
         And when that happens I may, indeed, be thinking, “well, I’d rather be here than anyplace else.”
        



Monday, September 7, 2015

         I forget exactly what the argument was about.  There have been so many!  But I do remember that someone accused me, or something I was doing, as being “not feminine”.  To which my rejoinder was: I am female, so anything I do is feminine. 
         He (and I do remember it was a he) muttered, “That’s not true”.  I ignored him loftily and keeping doing whatever it was that had offended.
         This was in the 60’s.  Women were just realizing that they were being treated differently than men.  When I started university at U of A, women were not allowed to wear pants on campus before four in the afternoon.  We had dorm hours, and if we checked out of the dorm overnight, we had to send a card to our parents in a timely fashion, such that they would KNOW that we were not planning to spend the night in the dorm.
         I remember one Friday when I was in a bad place, and I told the dorm matron that I was checking myself out to go home for the weekend. Oh, I was told, that is not possible, because if we send a card home stating that you are checking out of the dorm now, you will be there before the card arrives.
         “But,” I protested, “If I get there before the card, my mother will know where I am anyway.”  The matron didn't want to let me go, but I remember that I just stood there until she did.  I am good at just standing until the other person gives in.  The queen of passive-aggressive they called me, back in the day. 
         Imagine a guy putting up with any of that.  Imagine a woman putting up with that today. 
         I transferred to NAU (not because of the dorm rules: they were much the same at NAU) and it was announced that an Honor Dorm would be established in which young ladies with a high grade point average would be allowed to check out a key to the dorm and let themselves in and out, just as if they were men.  Or responsible human beings, or something.  Anyhow, I was in the Honor Dorm before you could say 3. 5 grade average.  I guess women who studied could be trusted not to get pregnant.  Of course, the prevailing idea seemed to be that women could not get pregnant before 10 PM. 
         The NAU Hiking Club required the parents of their female members to sign an agreement that they knew that their offspring would be spending the night off-campus, in the company of young men, possibly (gasp) WITHOUT a chaperone!  I recall hiking to Rainbow Bridge one weekend, and we actually had two chaperones: a male and a female faculty member.  The woman, upon hearing that several of us were camped just around the corner, charged up and made the women move our gear to where she was camped.  After all, we were with men, unchaperoned, and her role that weekend was to protect our virtue. 
         She did not last long.  In fact, we almost never had a faculty member along on overnights.  Dr. Hunt, I recall, was a good Mormon and would not hike on Sunday, and believed that none of us should either. Dr. Butchart hiked with his select few who had been carefully vetted to be sure they could keep up with him.  Dr. Wendstrand rarely accompanied us, but I remember him being jovial and easy going.  He certainly didn’t move the young ladies out of reach of those slavering young men. 
         We had boyfriend and girlfriend couples, but mostly we moved as a group.  At the end of a fifteen-mile off-trail trek, everyone was too tired to slaver anyway. 
         But back to being feminine.  We gals were backpackers.  We carried our own packs, we hiked our own trails, and we didn’t want any special favors.  A few of us with strong, macho boyfriends  had our packs carried out the last mile or so.  Or had said boyfriends carry some of the weight, but these women didn’t really last long. They weren’t SERIOUS enough. 
         Often on the first few day hikes of the year a strapping young male would carry his girlfriend’s lunch and water. I would warn her to grab a water bottle and some food, because she wasn’t going to see him all day.  She would giggle and ignore me.  He would then rush off to stay with the lead group, leaving her bereft and behind.  Also hungry and thirsty.  But she couldn’t say I hadn’t warned her.
         One of the reasons I liked the Hiking Club was because I was not expected to be a Girl.  I wasn’t very good at being a Girl.  I didn’t, and still don’t, wear makeup.  I didn’t, and still don’t, play dumb.  I like math, I like computer programming. I may be helpless about some things, but not because I am ”supposed to”.  
         In the Hiking Club I had found a peer group.  All I had to do to belong was to walk all day without complaining (much), carry my own weight, and not hold everyone back too badly.  And I guess it is not “feminine” to keep up with the guys.  Or be as strong as they are.  Or as smart.  As I say, I don't remember exactly what I was doing to invite the crack about being unfeminine, but it was probably something along those lines.  
         There are women backpackers. They tend to go with groups of other women.  And groups of women are loads of fun, seriously. Or with their boyfriends.  Not so much by themselves. 
Of course, men tend to go with groups of men.  Not so much fun.  Men alone only talk about sports and politics. 
Nowadays there are backpacks made for women (wider in the hips, shorter in the torso).  There are sleeping bags for women (wider in the hips, shorter, and more loft for more warmth).  Boots for women with narrower lasts.  Clothing for women cut for a womanly shape. 
         It seems to be fashionable these days for young women to say they are not feminists.  I don’t know to what they refer. Do they want to be told they can’t wear pants in public before 4 PM?  Do they want to be held hostage in their dorm rooms or apartments because they can’t be trusted out on their own after 10 PM?  Do they want to be told they can’t major in Anthropology because they can’t go on field trips without a female chaperone, and yes, women were told this at U of A in the 1960’s and 70’s.  That they can’t major in Forestry, because they can’t attend Forestry Camp for the same reason?  And yes, women at NAU were told this until Susan Varin became the first woman to graduate in Forestry.    And Becky Cooper the first woman to attend Graduate School in Forestry. 
Do they want to be told that backpacking is unfeminine?  Or running marathons?  Or Ironmen competitions?  (Ironpersons?) It wasn't that long ago that a women had to enter the Boston Marathon as a man.
Or maybe we can just agree that anything a woman does is feminine.  Which is the argument I had lo, those many years ago.