Rendezvous in Utah

It all began with a flurry of emails in March. A couple of my long-time friends, Kevin and Rick, were planning a road trip to Utah’s red-rock country. Ten days, they were figuring. Did I wish to join them? Hell yes! How could I turn down an opportunity to reunite with old pals? Many moons ago—during what my daughters call the Paleozoic Era—I was in the thick with these guys.

I first met Kevin in 1982 through a mutual friend who played guitar in a SoCal rock band called Urban Sprawl (which is where I learned to mix a sound board, but that’s another story). Kevin was their drummer and we got along famously from day one. He and I were just getting into alpine skiing at the time, and we pushed each other on the slopes rigorously through the Eighties, both of us becoming rabid ski addicts. I met Rick through Kevin soon after. They had been schoolmates since junior high, growing up in Seattle. And while Kev and I thought we had become damn good skiers, Rick was at a higher level. He was an expert. Many a good times were had in the mountains. But in 1989, Rick up and moved to Sun Valley, Idaho, and the following year, Kev migrated to Northern California. I would see Kev maybe once a year after that, mostly quick meets for beer and dinner to catch up. I saw Rick much less often. In fact, the last time I saw him was seventeen years ago when we climbed the Finger of Fate in Idaho’s Sawtooth Range. Which goes to show how time flies.

Hiking and mountain-biking were on Kev and Rick’s Utah agenda, which sounded grand to me. The rendezvous was set for Zion National Park, which would tentatively become Base Camp for the first half of their trip. After that, I would head for home while they continued east to Canyonlands National Park and then up to Moab. I offered to enhance the Zion adventure to include an ascent of Lady Mountain, and being hardy adventurers, they were up for it. Also joining us from Idaho was Patrick, a good college buddy of Kevin’s who I’d never met but, over the years, had heard much about. It would indeed be a Gathering of Eagles—aged and wise eagles, mind you—though one of Kevin’s kids punned it a Gathering of Geezers, but don’t get me started. Young whippersnappers.

Days before departure, emails were flying back and forth as to who was bringing what. It certainly looked like there would be plenty of food and alcohol. From that aspect, the trip was shaping up nicely. All that remained was for me to pack the van.

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APRIL 18th – 
Monday morning, Terry leaves for work. I kiss her goodbye and then throw the last of the gear into the van and hit the road myself. I’m all set; everything is stowed away; tunes on the stereo. Destination: Zion. 

But I’m only twenty miles from home before a car pulls up in the lane next to me and the driver is frantically pointing to the back of my van, his facial expression saying “You better pull over NOW, you got a problem.” I got a problem alright: smoke is streaming from the left rear wheel. Crap! I pull off the freeway. Smells like burning brakes. NEW brakes, I might add—we had them replaced just a few days ago! Are the brake shoes not seated properly? Or maybe the emergency brake is stuck? After inspecting the E-brake and crawling under the van to assess any damage, I surmise that the problem has gone away, at least for now. So I forge on, up and over Cajon Pass, stopping to check the rear end every 10-15 miles. By the time I pass through Victorville, I feel a sense of relief: the sticky-brake issue has not returned. So I’m off to Zion as planned. However, as a precaution, I won’t be using the E-brake on this trip. 

When I roll into Zion Canyon, late-afternoon shadows reach into every nook and bay of this enchanted realm. I never grow tired of gazing up at these big sandstone walls. Of the 25 National Parks that I have visited, Zion is one of my favorites, right up there with Yosemite. As for the National Park Service, it is celebrating its 100th birthday this year. Happy centennial, NPS.

Nothing tops a fine day better than a happy-hour back at camp. These are my dear amigos:
(L-R), Rick, Kevin and Patrick. We had a lot of catching up to do around the campfire that
first night. It was just like old times. 

Mule deer graze beside to our campsite each evening. It seemed like their dinner schedule was the same as ours.  

APRIL 20th –
My alarm goes off at 6:30, but I'm in no mood to crawl out of my sleeping bag. A strong wind had blown most of the night, buffeting the van and scattering camp chairs and other loose articles left outside on the picnic table. I had heard them all clatter away, one by one. Now it’s dawn and the wind is still blowing with gusto. My mind is made up: there will be no Lady Mountain today.

We had spent yesterday cycling up-canyon to the Zion Lodge, and then hiking up to the base of Lady Mountain to locate the start of the secret trail and elusive moki steps that grant access through the first cliff band. We eventually found them. And today, we were planning to return and make the full ascent. But not in this big wind. Is a storm rolling in?

Nobody stirs in camp for 30 long minutes. Then Kevin is rapping on my van door, and soon he and Patrick are inside with me to escape the wind. I brew some coffee. They’re not deflated when I recommend we scuttle the Lady Mountain bid: we can try again tomorrow. Today we can check out the mountain-biking on Gooseberry Mesa. We run it by Rick. It’s a go. 

Since it’s cold and blustery, the decision is made to drive into Springdale for breakfast. We all climb into Kevin’s car. As we’re leaving the campground, Rick points to the side of the road and calls for Kevin to stop. 

“Isn’t that our wash tub?” he says. 

Yep. Sure is. As I was saying, it was windy last night.  

Kevin romps down Windmill Trail on Gooseberry Mesa. Located above the town of Rockville,
this area has grown into a prime destination for mountain-bikers. We had snagged a trail map
in Springdale and linked up three of the trails (Windmill, Bowls & Ledges and North Rim) that
would get us out to a vista point on the northwest corner of the mesa. It was challenging
terrain with a dash of black diamond on Bowls & Ledges.

Breathtaking vistas abound along North Rim where, for the most part, the trail rambles along the rim of the mesa. Rick (left) was riding his vintage Trek Y33, the very first carbon-frame mountain bike that went into production in the mid-90s. A classic. And he was crushing the singletracks with it. 

There are good views of Zion NP as you snake through Gooseberry Mesa's undulating maze 
of sagebrush and junipers. 

The dauntless pathfinders at work. Most of the trail junctions were poorly marked, so considerable debate ensued as to which way to go. Should we take the left fork, the right, or middle fork? Patrick’s approach garnered the best results. He used the Strava app on his cell phone to pinpoint our location, and then interpreted that to a point on our trail map. Patrick the Navigator, he was.

On a 20-year-old bike, Rick still reigned supreme on the highly technical stuff. Patrick was pretty adept, too. (These Idaho dudes are good riders.)  I had one dispute with a juniper tree about halfway through the ride. I was cranking hard up through a difficult turn when I got a little wide and brushed against the tree. I figured I could just lean forward and knock past it and be on my way. But no. Concealed in the foliage was the tip of a nasty snag that bounced off the right side of my helmet, glanced across my cheekbone and slammed into my shoulder, bringing me to a stop. But hey—I didn’t fall off my bike. However, I did see a few stars, and my shoulder hurt like hell and the snag tore a hole in my favorite bike jersey, and then, icing on the cake, I felt blood trickling down my right cheek. Lovely. What can you do, other than mop it up and keep riding?  (photo by Kev)

When I informed Terry about the biking mishap, she insisted I take a selfie and send it to her. With Doug & Bri’s wedding just around the corner, she harbored fears that I was going to look like Scarface at the ceremony. I held off, however, until after we paid a visit to the coin showers in Springdale. Blood and grime wouldn’t help my cause. The cut was about two inches long and didn’t look that bad after I cleaned it up. It was my shoulder that was bruised and grungy. But that wouldn’t show in the wedding photos. Lucky Pierre, that’s me.

APRIL 21st –
Today it’s Lady Mountain or bust. Though the wind blew again last night, it wasn’t as severe, and if the trend holds, it will die off before noon—at least that’s what we’re banking on. My right shoulder is bruised and tender from yesterday’s jousting match with the juniper tree. We plan to catch the 7:30 tram up to Zion Lodge. It is going to be a long day. 

The morning is cool and breezy when we start up the Emerald Pool Trail. We’ll only be on it for a quarter mile before veering off to scramble straight up the remnants of the old Lady Mountain Trail—which is more of a “route” than a “trail.” It meanders up through the sheer cliff bands of the canyon for 2,600 vertical feet, all the way to the lofty summit of Lady Mountain. The Park Service did a good job of erasing it from existence back in the ‘60s. But it’s still there if you know where to look. Terry and I took a crack at it seven years ago, but turned back late in the day. We had underestimated the time required for the ascent, as it encompasses more climbing and scrambling than hiking. Hence I was getting an earlier start on this bid.  (photo by Kev)

Moki steps, carved into the sandstone by the Anasazis, lead the way up the first cliff band. A thousand years ago, Native Americans were climbing this route to gain access to the canyon rim. All three of my comrades wanted a roped belay up this exposed section.  (photo by Kev)

There are two short, technical pitches on the route. Here I’m belaying Rick up the second one, called The Corner, rated 5.6. From this point on, it’s a thousand feet of third-class scrambling with airy exposure at times.  (photo by Kev)  

Spring is in full bloom, even high on the canyon walls.  (photo by Kev)

Rick savors the view from what would become our “high point,” over 2,000 feet above the
canyon floor. Comparing our elevation to the opposite side of the canyon, I know we’re close
to the top: just a few hundred feet to go. But Patrick has fallen out, hunkered down on a
ledge several hundred feet below us. And now we've reached our agreed “turn-around"
time. Summit fever seeps in. The mountaineer in me screams “Go for it!” It is within reach,
but I don’t feel comfortable splitting the party up further, especially this late in the day. So I
pull the plug and turn us around, trying not to dwell on the fact that this is the second time
I’ve had to retreat from this climb.   

All the terrain we scaled up today must now be down-climbed. Carefully. There are big drop-offs everywhere.  (photo by Kev)

This is the other technical pitch, called The Chimney (5.4). After lowering my partners, I rappeled down it.  (photo by Kev) 

Close to the bottom now.

Back at the Zion Lodge, we dropped by the restaurant for a post-climb beer. However, they
wouldn’t serve us alcohol unless we were staying to eat dinner. Huh? So we sat out on the
lawn instead and enjoyed this incredible view. Utah has the most sublime scenery—and the
dumbest laws. 

APRIL 22nd –
No alarm clocks this morning, but everyone is up and about before the sun peeks into the canyon. Everyone looks a little stiff from yesterday’s Lady Mountain endeavor. More so, my ego is bruised from yet another failed attempt at bagging that elusive summit. Quite humbling.  

Today’s objective is Antelope Canyon, a sandstone slot that is 125 miles to the southeast near Page, Arizona. Navajo country. Rick will ride with me, while Kevin and Patrick follow in Kev’s car. The adventure continues.

Kevin arranged the tour of Upper Antelope Canyon, an incredible slot canyon located in the Navajo Nation, just outside of Page. Our guide was Irene and she was awesome, a real sweetheart. I took my good Nikon SLR along, and when she saw me struggling on how to set it up for low-light conditions, she said “Here, let me see that.” She then took my camera and changed several settings before handing it back. She had it wired! She even made me show her each photo afterwards to make sure I got it right. And if I got it right, I’d get a pat on the back. Man, talk about pressure.  (photo by Kev)

The slot in Upper Antelope Canyon is 120 feet deep and around 700 feet long. The Navajo call it Tsé bighánílíní, which translates to “The place where water runs through rocks.” For tens of thousands of years, flash floods have roared through here, the silt-laden water scouring the walls into exotic shapes.

An ancient legend holds that the fertility deity, Kokopelli, would sit deep in the chasm to
play his flutes, using the canyon's ethereal acoustics to lure women inside. 

Upper and Lower Antelope are the most photographed slot canyons in the world. Renowned
photographer, Peter Lik, snapped a black and white image in the Upper not long ago, and
last year, it sold for $6.5 million. But alas, our mystic tour was coming to an end and we
thanked Irene graciously for her impeccable guiding. Soon we were back on the road, Kevin,
Rick and Patrick heading back to Zion. As for me, I drove south, aiming for home by way of
Flagstaff.  

APRIL 23rd –
The first thing I do this morning is text “Happy Birthday!”to Allie. She’s 26 years old today. Man. Is that possible?  

The big winds are back, blowing through Flagstaff under sunny skies. I’ve got a 7-hour drive ahead of me to get home. But first, before I hit the road, I plan to sample some of the singletracks here in town. There's a lot of mountain-biking done around here.  

Flagstaff is nestled in a forest at 7,000 feet, and many of the trailheads are right in town. How cool is that?

It’s rock and roll time.

I rode the Walnut Canyon segment of the Flagstaff Loop Trail. No big grades or obstacles,
just a fast-flowing trail through the forest. Loads of fun. It was this very spot where a half
dozen elk hurtled across the trail in front of me. But by the time I slammed on the brakes
and pulled my camera out, they were across the meadow and into the trees. 

Before heading back to the van, I stopped to kick back and savor the moment. It was bright and sunny, not a sound but the wind sighing through the treetops. The last few days have been quite a journey, from riding atop Gooseberry Mesa, to scaling canyon walls in Zion, to exploring the depths of Antelope Canyon, to taking a spin here in Flagstaff. But by far the best part of the trip was time spent with my old amigos, hanging out around the campfire or dinner table and reminiscing old times. Days like that are priceless.

To see all the photos from this trip, click here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157668392577636

Down Tucson Way

This year for Terry’s spring break, we headed out to Tucson to bask in Arizona sunshine—although the sun had to share some of that time with chill winds, ominous clouds and a few sprinkles. But that was okay. We were just thrilled to finally be back on a road trip in the van. (It has been two years!) Springtime in the Sonoran Desert, that’s what we were seeking. Nonetheless, it was sporadic showers that greeted us Monday morning as we departed home, breaking into patchy blue skies over San Gorgonio Pass, and then blustery winds all the way into Arizona as I careened into a storm front with both hands on the wheel.

First stop: Tombstone.

Nightfall in Tombstone. After checking into the Larian Hotel, we strolled down the quiet streets
on weathered boardwalks. We had dinner here in the Longhorn. It’s one of the original
downtown buildings (1878-79?) and was a lively establishment called the Bucket of Blood
Saloon back in the town's heyday. U.S. Marshal, Virgil Earp, was shot from the second floor 
in an ambush, two months after the OK Corral confrontation. 

A visit to Tombstone would not be complete without tossing back a few at the Crystal Palace Saloon, which is directly across the street from the old Bucket of Blood Saloon. The Crystal Palace was a swanky place in the 1880s, serving fresh oysters and seafood shipped in by rail from Baja California. It also carried the choicest brands of European wines and liquors and Cuban cigars. Naturally, gambling and live music were also part of the action each night, along with the occasional fracas with pistols and knives. Things have quieted down a lot since then. But like the antique sign states in the saloon's front window: “SERVING GOOD WHISKEY & TOLERABLE WATER”. I’ll drink to that.

Strong winds buffet the streets of Tombstone in the morning, kicking up dust and the occasional tumbleweed. Today, the town only has around 1,400 residents. But 125 years ago, the population was over ten times larger. This was the biggest mining operation in the Arizona Territory, extracting a massive amount of silver that would be worth over $8 billion today.    

Marshal Virgil Earp scans the street from the doorway of the Crystal Palace. Each day, actors dress to portray the Earp brothers, Doc Holliday and nefarious members of the Cowboys. It is these legendary characters who draw the tourists into town. I chewed the fat with Marshal Earp for a spell. Cool dude. 

The Earp brothers and Doc Holliday fire away during a re-enactment of the iconic, 1881 gunfight at the OK Corral. The shoot-out was at close range and lasted only 30 seconds. And when the smoke cleared, three members of the Cowboys gang, Tom and Frank McLaury, along with Billy Clanton, lay dead in a dirt lot. Virgil Earp took a bullet in the calf; Morgan Earp and Holliday were only grazed; Wyatt Earp, not a scratch. 

Frank McLaury goes down in a volley of lead. Well, not actually lead, as they’re all firing blanks—except for that little “incident” in 2015 when one of the actors forgot to change out the live ammo from his vintage Colt. He shot one of the other actors, who was then airlifted to the ER in Tucson, and another bullet ricocheted off a wall, grazing a tourist on the neck (they gave her a t-shirt that said “I survived the OK Corral Gunfight”). Hey, sometimes shit happens. 

The victims of the OK Corral shootout are interned in simple plots on Boot Hill at the edge of town, where occasional visitors still decorate their graves with flowers. Outlaws in the eyes of some, they still garnered respect and sympathy from many folks in town, especially those who despised the Yankee Republican industrialists who owned most of the mines and banks and appointed the lawmen. The funeral for Clanton and the two McLaury brothers was the largest ever attended in Tombstone.

You gotta love those Arizona sunsets. From Tombstone, we drove to Catalina State Park,
just north of Tucson in the Oro Valley, where the majestic Santa Catalina Mountains would
be our venue for the next two days.

The view of the Catalinas from our campsite was spectacular. This is Table Mountain. There are some long routes on those walls, five to six pitches long. But the approach looks heinous.

Terry is all smiles at the start of the ride up to Mount Lemmon. It’s the premier hill climb of the Southwest, starting in a desert environ of saguaros and blossoming Palo Verde trees, ending high in the mountains among towering ponderosas. This would be Ter’s acid test: her first strenuous ride—strenuous anything, for that matter—since her knee surgery last summer. Take it slow and easy, that was the goal.    

The Mt. Lemmon road is a steady grind up a 5-6 percent grade for 25 winding miles, gaining
a total of 6,000 feet in elevation. We just took it one mile at a time, finding a pace that we
could keep for the long haul. That worked out to around 6-7 mph for us. It seemed like a
good clip: a speed where we could feel a sense of accomplishment—until two riders blew by
us like we were standing still. Jeez. Young whippersnappers.    

Here’s a late-afternoon selfie of us either grimacing because our butts are sore, or smiling because this was our turn-around point. We climbed 2,800 feet before calling it a day. As for Ter’s knee: it was sore, but performed impeccably (kudos to her fitness trainer, Candace).  

Now it was time for the fun part: Streaking down the mountain! 

What took over two hours to crank up, took 24 minutes to go down. I hit 44 mph on one
stretch before having to brake hard for a hairpin curve. (Love the disc brakes on the new
Domane!) Our average speed down was close to 30 mph. It was a rush with a large dose of
incredible scenery.  

Terry makes coffee in the morning. Now it might look like I’m just loafing here, but it’s not so. (I don’t care what my wife tells you.)  No. I am planning out the day’s adventure, delving over a trail map of Catalina State Park. It’s a daunting job, planning.

Today’s hike takes us up a rugged trail into Romero Canyon, where saguaros stand tall and
regal in a desert festooned in spring bloom, the air vibrating with the hushed drone of bees
and hummingbirds.

The cactus flowers were just starting to blossom.

We lost the trail in a couple places where it crossed the creek. However, our trailblazer,
Barry the Norman, got us back on track.

The Romero Pools. Nice spot for a lunch break.

Terry descends the Romero Canyon Trail at the end of the day. The Santa Catalina
Mountains are incredibly beautiful. 

You gotta love the van life, relaxing after dinner with glasses of fine Irish whiskey, listening to the coyotes yip and howl. It felt good to be out on a road trip again. But the best part of all is that Terry’s knee appears to be completely healed, and she now has the green light to pursue all activities. Yep, I’ll drink to that, pour me another one. 

To see all the photos from this trip, click here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157667661522772/with/26686696602/