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.
        


Thursday, September 3, 2015

         This is a holy place.
         It is the Place of Emergence for the Hopi, the Peaceful People.  It is here whereby they arrived in the Fourth World and were told by Maasaw to travel to the four corners of the earth.  When they were done they were to remain in the Center.  And there they endure on Hopi Mesas.
         It is the place of Emergence for the Zuni.  They traveled to this world via Ribbon Falls, and several times a year they return to pay their respects to the spirits.  The story of their migration is written on the rock walls. 
         It is the gateway to the next world for the Paiute.  The spirits of their departed inhabit the narrows of Deer Creek.
         It is the home, spiritual and physical, of the Havasupai.  The Canyon’s big horn sheep are the guardians of their tribe.  Mysterious beings lurk on ledges, intent on protecting the environs within.  It is important to pause upon entering the depths to reassure these beings that one comes with respect and gratitude. 
         There are reports of susceptible visitors who faint upon first seeing the Canyon.  Back the day tourists described it as “awe-full” in the original sense of the word.  
         So what does it mean, exactly, when a hiker emerges from the depths and declaims: “I just crossed rim to rim in 11 hours!”  How does it affect the spirituality when sports aficionados scrawl, “Boomers suck!” on the sandstone walls?  Does it offend when those travelers who have bought into the single-use water bottle swindle finish off their half pint of distilled angel tears, tie the bottle into an adorable little knot, and leave it under a rock? 
         Well, yes, it kind of does.
         Full disclosure: I have gone rim to rim in a day.  It was in October, and it took from dawn to dusk, so it was probably about 12 hours.  However, I did not go out the usual route.  We hiked out the Old Bright Angel Trail, which is longer than the North Kaibab and non-maintained to boot.  This was not my idea: the young man who drove my car to the North Rim decided to take the rougher route down, and I decided it would be prudent to hike out the route which actually led to my ride back.
         I also have been known to race people out.  Particularly those who cut the switchbacks, mostly so I can toss off a clever and cutting remark when I pass them.  Usually something about cheating. 
         I do not, howsoever, write on the rocks.  In point of fact, I carry a bottle of water and scrub brush so I can eradicate those attempts at immortality.  And woe be unto those who include their phone number, their place of business, or their hash tag.  I have the email for Park Dispatch, and I am not afraid to use it. 
         Nor do I indulge in one-use bottled water, and if I did, I would carry the empties out. 
         I respect the Canyon.  I value it.  I won’t be conceited enough to claim to commune with the rock spirits, but I have been known to whisper a word of thanks if the weather holds, or if I get the campsite I wanted.  I do not value those who do not share my values. 
         Admittedly, running rim to rim is not necessarily a sacrilege.  Though I must agree with the staffer at Phantom Ranch who asks plaintively, “would they run through the Louvre?”  If there were tee shirts awarded, yes, they probably would.  But leaving their trash?  Yes, that is sacrilege.  Eschewing the outhouse because the line is too long and they don’t want to lose time?  Yes, also gross.  Knocking little old people and children out of the way?  Rude and risky.  Grandma or Grandpa might be walking with a strapping young relative who takes umbrage at such treatment of the elders of the tribe. 
         Everyone with any respect for the land agrees that graffiti is beyond the pale.  Would they appreciate it if upon returning home they discovered their place of domicile covered with spray painted tags? One guesses not. 
         But pity them, I am told, for their ignorance.  Pity is difficult to justify when four thousand year old rock art is defaced with “I heart Grand Canyon”. 
         If these people tried to scale the walls in the Sistine Chapel, would it be said that they acted out of ignorance?  If they tried to write their names on the altar in St. Peter’s?  If they left their empty water bottles under the pews in their local church.  Of course, maybe they do. It is so much trouble to carry the empty bottles to the trash.
         I overheard a woman at Phantom Ranch saying, “did you hear, they want to put a gondola down into the Ranch”.  Being naturally nosy I interjected, “No they want to build a gondola at the Little Colorado Confluence.”
         “Oh, well, if it’s way over there…”
         I couldn't let that one go by either.  “Listen, the Confluence is sacred to a half dozen Native American Tribes.’’ Blank look.   “What if someone wanted to put a climbing wall in St. Patrick’s Cathedral?”
         Her face took an expression of absolute horror.  “Did you hear that?  Someone is putting a climbing wall up St. Patrick’s Cathedral!”

         Sigh.