A Tale of a Tail from UT-OH!… Backpacking into the Grand Canyon

June 12, 2026June 7, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 3 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts from the past 15 years that will eventually make it into the book I am blogging: UT-OH!.

I was working in Alaska in 1986 when I decided to give myself a present for my 43rd Birthday, a six-month escape to the wilderness. I resigned my job, said my goodbyes, sold or gave away anything that wouldn’t fit in the bed my Ford Ranger, and dashed down the Alaska Highway to California. I stopped in Sacramento just long enough to turn down two job offers, see my dad, and visit with friends before zipping off to the Grand Canyon for a backpacking trip.

Looking down from Lipan Point at the start of the Tanner Trail. The sharp bend in the Colorado River… far away, is where I am heading. (The photos in this post are from a later trip down the trail that I made with Peggy.)

My first day at the Canyon was devoted to preparing for my hike into the Canyon. Seventeen years of backpacking in all kinds of terrain and climate had taught me that there was no such thing as being too careful. I approach compulsive when it comes to backpacking alone. Had I resupplied my first aid kit? Was my stove still working? Did I have adequate fuel? Did I have my flashlight, signaling mirror, whistle, compass and maps? Did I have enough but not too much food, water, clothes, reading material, etc. etc. etc?

Safety, comfort and even entertainment are important but weight is always an issue.

Having satisfied myself that I could survive seven to nine days in the Canyon, I headed off to the backcountry permit office. The more environmentally inclined within the Park Service are seriously into minimizing impact and promoting safety. Requiring wilderness use permits is their primary tool in achieving these goals.

I patiently waited behind six other would-be canyon explorers and had memorized the minimum impact lecture by the time my turn was up. The ranger frowned when I mentioned the Tanner Trail.

“The trail is poorly maintained, rarely used, 10-12 miles long and arduous, and may be washed out in places” she cautioned strongly.

“And that,” I replied, “is exactly what I want.” I was especially enamored with the ‘rarely used’ part. I had no desire to share my experience with dozens of other people, much less armies of cantankerous mules that leave lakes of fowl smelling pee on the trail. If I had to face a particularly tough physical challenge and be extra careful to avoid a tumble into the Canyon, it was a price I was happily willing to pay.

At 8:30 the next morning my pudgy, pasty white body was having an animated discussion with my mind over the wisdom of my decision. I had started my day by splurging for breakfast at the elegant El Tovar Hotel and then driven out to Lipan Point.

I was now poised to begin my descent into the Canyon. It looked like a long way down. I gritted my teeth and banned any insidious second thoughts.

They came rushing back as I struggled to hoist my 60 plus pound pack. It was filled with seven days of food, extra water and all of my equipment. I had cursed the day before as I struggled to find room for everything. Now I was cursing I hadn’t left half of it behind.

The steep trail seemed to disappear under my feet as I began my journey and descended through millions of years of earth history. About a half of mile down it disappeared for real, having been washed away by winter rains. “I told you so,” my body whispered loudly as I mentally and physically hugged the side of the canyon and tentatively made my way around the washout.

Steep drop offs are a common factor in all trails leading into the Grand Canyon. The first trails were created by Native Americans. Later miners, rustlers, and entrepreneurs interested in promoting tourism would enhance the original trails and create new ones.

I am not sure when my legs started shaking. Given the stair-step nature of the trail and the extra weight of the pack, my downhill muscles weren’t having a lot of fun. Fortunately, Mother Nature provided a reprieve.

The erosive forces of wind and water that have sculpted the mesas and canyon lands of the Southwest are more challenged by some types of rocks than others. Somewhere between two and three miles down I came upon the gentle lower slopes of the Escalante and Cardenas Buttes, which allowed me to lollygag along and enjoy the scenery.

I escaped from the sun beneath the shadow of a large rock to drink some of my precious water, nibble on trail food and take a brief nap. It would have made a good place to camp, others had obviously taken advantage of shade and flat surface, but the Colorado River was calling.

Ignoring the ever-increasing screams of my disgruntled body parts, I headed on. At mile five or so my idyllic stroll came to a dramatic halt as the trail dropped out of sight down what is known as the Red Wall. (It received this imaginative name because it is red and looks like a wall. The red comes from iron dissolved in water that runs down from the rocks above. Think rust.) Some fifty million years, or 625,000 Curtis life spans, shallow seas had patiently worked to deposit the lime that makes up its 500-foot sheer cliff. It is one of the most distinctive features of the Grand Canyon.

Photos of Vista Encantata in the Grand Canyon by Curt and Peggy Mekemson — The Red Wall, seen across the canyon here, is a prominent land mark and geological feature of the Grand Canyon

My trail guide recommended I store water before heading down so I could retrieve it when I was dying of thirst on the way out. I could see where people had scratched out exposed campsites as a place to stop for the night. The accommodations weren’t much but the view was spectacular.

The rest of the five-mile/five month journey was something of a blur. (It was closer to five hours but time was moving very slowly.) I do remember a blooming prickly pear cactus. I grumbled at it for looking so cheerful.

I was too tired to fully appreciate the beauty of the inner Canyon.

My lack of appreciation included a cheerful cactus flower.

Looking back up the trail provided a perspective on how far I had come. The small, needle-like structure on the rim (right) is Desert View Tower.

I also remember a long, gravelly slope toward the bottom. My downhill muscles had totally given out and the only way I could get down was to sidestep. I cackled insanely when I finally reached the bottom.

Setting up camp that night was simple. I threw out my ground cloth, Thermarest mattress, and sleeping bag on a sandy beach. Then I stumbled down to the river’s edge and retrieved a bucket of reddish-brown Colorado River water, which appeared to be two parts liquid and one part mud. I should have waited for the mud to settle. Instead I used up a year of my water filter’s life to provide a quart of potable water.

Sitting beside the muddy Colorado River.

My old yellow bucket, a veteran of dozens of backpacking adventures.

All I had left to do was take care of my food. Since people camped here frequently, the local critters would see me as a huge neon billboard that blinked ‘Eat at Curt’s.’ Not seeing a convenient limb within three feet, I buried my food bag in the sand next to me. Theoretically, anything digging it up would wake me. Just the top was peeking out so I could find it in the morning.

As the sun went down, so did I. Faster than I could fall asleep, I heard myself snoring. I was brought back to full consciousness by the pitter-patter of tiny feet crossing over the top of me. A mouse was worrying the top of my food bag and going for the peanuts I had placed there to cover my more serious food.

“Hey Mousy,” I yelled, “Get away from my food!” My small companion of the night dashed back over me as if I were no more than a noisy obstacle between dinner and home. I was drifting off again when I once more felt the little feet. “The heck with it,” I thought in my semi-comatose state. How many peanuts could the mouse eat anyway?

The river water I had consumed the night before pulled me from my sleep. Predawn light bathed the Canyon in a gentle glow. I lay in my sleeping bag for several minutes and admired the vastness and beauty of my temporary home. The Canyon rim, my truck and the hordes of tourists were far away, existing in another world.

My thoughts turned to my visitor of the previous evening. Out of curiosity, I reached over for my food and extracted the bag of peanuts. A neat little hole had been chewed through the plastic but it appeared that most of my peanuts were present and accounted for. The small contribution had been well worth my solid sleep.

I then looked over to the right to see if I could spot where the mouse had carried its treasure. Something on the edge of my ground cloth caught my eye. It was three inches long, grey, round and fuzzy.

It was Mousy’s tail!

Something had sat on the edge of my sleeping bag during the night and dined on peanut stuffed mouse. Thoughts of a coyote, or worse, using my ground cloth as a dinner table jolted the primitive parts of my brain. Had I had hackles, they would have been standing at attention ready for action.

I ate a peanut in honor of Mousy’s memory and tossed a few over near his house in case he had left behind a family to feed. I also figured that the peanuts would serve as an offering to whatever Canyon spirits had sent the night predator on its way.

I had my instant oatmeal, dried apricots and coffee breakfast, packed up, and prepared to hike up the river to the Little Colorado. It wasn’t to be. My legs went on strike! Ut-Oh! I hiked about 50 yards, found an ideal location that provided shade and a river view, and set up camp. I happily spent the day watching rafters fighting the rapids while I read a good book and tanked up on water. Over the following five days I explored the canyon, became less pudgy, and gained a tan. I hiked out in three hours, half the time it had taken me to hike in.

The view from camp looking across the Colorado River and up.

Monday’s post: I encounter a radical group of killers and kidnappers out practicing with automatic weapons on a remote mountain road. This story gets a capital UT-OH!

Tales from UT-OH: The Cow Elk Slammed on Her Brakes… Ten Feet in Front of Me!

June 10, 2026June 9, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 3 Comments

Today’s post follows my adventure with the beaver in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. I drove south down into NewMexico for a backpacking trip into the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico next to the Cliff Dwellings National Monument in southern New Mexico.

Peggy photographed this herd of elk near the Redwoods.

I thought I was prepared for everything when I started my backpack trip into the Gila Wilderness. Little did I know…

My pack was loaded with a week’s worth of food and six topographic maps, more than enough to let me wander wherever I wanted and hopefully avoid getting lost. I had started off up the West Fork of the Gila River in the Cliff Dwellings National Monument, but soon came across a trail jogging out of the canyon to the right.

Looks good to me, I thought to myself and started climbing. I was determined that wherever I went for the week would be based on random decisions. So much of my wilderness experience had involved leading groups or scouting out potential routes for organized trips that the sense of abandon felt delicious.

Consequently, years later, it isn’t exactly clear to me where I went. I was more than happy to hike 4 to 5 miles in one direction and then 6 or 7 in another. The only thing I tried to avoid was backtracking. I do remember wandering through Woodland Park and Lilly Park as well as climbing in and out of several canyons.

Southern New Mexico is UFO Country, so I had brought along two science fiction books for evening and early morning entertainment. I was also carrying my usual field ID book and one serious read, Aldo Leopold’s “Sand Country Almanac.” Leopold had been responsible for the creation of the Gila Wilderness in 1924, making it the first specifically designated wilderness area in the United States, and, I might add, the world. People who love wild country and understand its intrinsic value owe a great debt to the man for his vision. I had read the book before but reading it again in the Gila Wilderness added a special significance. I declared a layover day so I could savor it all at once. I was camped on a small stream located in a minor canyon and hadn’t seen a soul for four days. It was the perfect setting for getting lost in a book.

At some time in the early afternoon, a loud “Woooeee” shattered the silence.

Big Bird, I thought to myself. Big Bird on steroids. Aldo Leopold would have been up in a flash to discover the source. Of course, he would have had his rifle with him. He was quite the hunter. As usual, my only weapon was a three-inch pocketknife. Still, the mountain man in me demanded I get off my lazy tail and go exploring. I grabbed my binoculars and climbed out of the canyon. I was greeted by a broad, flat expanse of Ponderosa Pines but no Big Bird. “Woooeee,” I heard receding into the distance. I put on my stalking cap and begin to sneak through the forest.

“Woooeee!” Big Bird shouted behind me. I whirled around only to catch a glimpse of something disappearing behind a bush. Big Bird it wasn’t. Nor was it the ghost of Geronimo, whose territory I was wandering through. It looked suspiciously like a cow elk that had morphed from stalkee to stalker. I wasn’t sure that I liked my new role but decided to play along.

“Woooeee,” I called out and jumped behind a Ponderosa.

“Woooeee,” I heard a delayed three minutes later. I stepped into the open to discover that my female companion had come out from behind her bush and was staring intently at my tree.

“Woooeee,” I shouted at her as she once again disappeared. We had a game. A cow elk was wooing me.

Years earlier I had discovered that much of the higher animal kingdom is quite curious about humans that don’t act like humans. I once had a similar experience to my elk chat with a coyote on the American River Parkway in Sacramento. First I would hide and then he would hide. Finally, out of frustration, the coyote plopped down in the middle of the trail, raised its head, and began howling. I plopped down in the trail as well, raised my head and joined him. We had quite the discussion.

The elk and I continued our game for about 15 minutes when I changed the rules. I sat down in plain sight with my back against the tree. Instead of hiding, she stood watching me for several minutes. I could tell the wheels were grinding away in her mind.

Suddenly she charged. I didn’t move from my seat but my adrenalin cranked up several notches. She was all of 10 feet away when she slammed on her brakes, lowered her head, stared me in the eye, and woooeeed again. Half fascinated and half frightened, I didn’t budge. Several hundred pounds of frustrated female were looming over me. I had zero doubt that she could kick the stuffing out of me. She held my gaze, snorted in disgust, shook her head, and trotted off.

While smaller than the bull elk, there is nothing puny about the females. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Whatever conversation we had been having was over. I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to camp. My first chore was to get out my guidebook. Female elk, it noted, can become rather aggressive and dangerous in the spring when they have calves. I’d been both ignorant and lucky.

After dinner, I went for my evening walk following an animal path that ambled along beside the creek. I heard a snort and looked up. Five elk were standing on the canyon rim staring down at me. The old girl had recruited some buddies to check out the weird human. Unfortunately, this time I knew enough to be worried. I was an intruder in their territory, a possible threat to their precious babies.

My worry level turned to panic when all five came charging down the canyon wall. One moose had been scary; now I had the whole damn thundering herd! Running was out of the question. Think, Curtis, went dashing through my brain. The only thing I could dredge up was something I had fantasized I might do if charged by a grizzly bear in the wilds of Alaska. I started jumping up and down, scratching my armpits, pounding on my chest, and screaming ooh, ooh, ooh! It worked for great apes, why not me.

For the second time that day, I heard the screeching of elk brakes. This time there was no standing and staring, however. The herd turned as one and charged back over the canyon rim, disappearing into the night. Somewhat satisfied with myself, I returned to camp and the security of my tent.

I wandered around for another two days, keeping an eye out for UFO’s, steering clear of cow elk, and visiting sites where this or that pioneer had been killed by Apaches. The pioneers also did a pretty good job of killing off each other, not to mention the Indians. With my food running low, I finally ceased my wandering ways and hiked back to the National Monument.

NEXT BLOG: I finish my series on three of the backpack trips after my return from Alaska by going back to my first one: Backpacking into the Grand Canyon. After barely surviving my trip into the canyon, an unknown creature visits me in the night and dines on the edge of my sleeping bag.

Peggy and I are now at the site of Ancient Olympia on the Peloponnesian Peninsula where the Olympics were born in 776 BCE.. The large column is part of the Temple of Zeus completed in 456 BCE. The column was rebuilt for the Summer Olympics hosted by Greece in 2004.

Peggy uses her walking stick to demonstrate how javelins were thrown at the Ancient Olympics in Greece. Women, however, were not allowed into the games. An exception was made if you were the daughter of the gods. I had my suspicions…

SaveSave

UT-OH Tales: The Beaver’s Revenge

June 8, 2026June 6, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Today’s post is about a solo backpacking trip I took in 1986 into the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. After three years of intense work in Alaska, I was taking six months off to go on solo adventures throughout the West. Several involved backpacking trips. This week, I am going to feature trips into the Wind River Mountains, the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico, and the Grand Canyon of Arizona. All involved worthy Ut-Oh experiences. A beaver stars in today’s tale.

‘Busy as a beaver’ was once a common description of someone trying to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Beavers are known for their industrious ways. Peggy and I took this photo on one of our trips up and down the Alaska Highway. A colony of beavers had dammed this creek to create a pond for their home, which you can see out in the background.

The adventure started at the small town of Pinedale, Wyoming where Mountain Men once gathered for their version of a spring fling. After a winter of living alone in one room cabins covered in snow while they trapped beaver, it was time to sell the pelts they had collected and party! Think rotgut whiskey, Virginia tobacco and women. It was a wild time. One report I read had men playing poker on a deadman’s chest. Another talked of a rabid wolf that wandered into the event and bit several people before someone shot it.

From Pinedale I drove up into the mountains above the town to Fremont Lake. A trailhead to a small lake looked promising. Whether I arrived at the lake or a different one is open to debate.

To start with, I was traveling with a United States Forest Service map instead of my usual detailed topographic maps. Contour lines on topographic maps provide a preview of the route ahead and help identify prominent landmarks. You can then use the landmarks to make compass sightings and determine your location. (Today’s hikers just use their GPS. It wasn’t an option then.) Forest service maps are more oriented toward road travel. Still, my map would have been adequate except for the snow.

Whatever trail I was following quickly disappeared. Normally, I would have searched around and found it. Tree blazes, rock cairns, and patches of clear ground all help. This time I didn’t care.

I was a make-believe mountain man exploring uncharted territory in search of beaver. My route would be the one of least resistance. I did use my compass to maintain a general direction. There is a significant difference between being sort of lost and hopelessly lost.

A couple of hours later I discovered a lovely small lake free of ice and snow. I set up camp and went for a quick dip to rinse off the day’s grime. I can guarantee it was quick because the lake’s water had been snow a few hours earlier.

Warm sun and my Thermarest air mattress enticed me into taking advantage of my splendid isolation for a tad of nude sunbathing. I had drifted into a nap when a young couple walked into camp.

The woman’s surprised “Oh!” woke me up.

“Hi, how are you doing,” I said to their disappearing backs as they quickly made their way around to the opposite shore to set up camp out of sight. So much for splendid isolation…

I decided to go exploring. My camp was nestled up against the south side of a peninsula and my first action was to hike across it. Much to my delight, a beaver hut was located on the small inlet. Even more intriguing, Mother Nature had provided a tempting bridge of rocks out to the well-built stick house.

Never having stood on top of a beaver’s home, I decided why not.

The inhabitant was not pleased. He shot out of his underwater door and surfaced about ten feet out, whipping around to glare at the strange intruder roosting on top of his house. Appearing disgruntled, he paddled off around the peninsula toward my camp.

“Aha,” I fantasized, “he is going to go stand on top of my tent to show me what it is like to have someone perch on your house.” I quietly made my way over the peninsula to check out my theory.

The beaver was indeed near my tent but he was busily munching away on tender young willow shoots. A mid-afternoon snack, it seems, was more important than revenge. I strolled back to camp, retrieved a book and settled in so I could read and keep a watchful eye on my gnawing neighbor. Thirty minutes later he had made his way 20 yards down the edge of the lake and embarked on a strange project.

I watched him dive under the water and resurface with his front paws full of mud he had scooped up from the bottom of the lake. He made his way on to shore and carefully sculpted the mud into a mound.

That’s when things got really interesting. He peed on his pile.

As I watched him dive into the water for more mud, it suddenly dawned on me he was creating a scent pile, a personal want ad of the woods: “Strong young beaver with prominent buck teeth and great smelling pee seeks beaverette for long-term relationship.”

Either that or his mound served as a no trespassing sign for the competition. Maybe both.

“This,” I thought, “I have to see up close.” Using the young willows for cover, I got down on my hands and knees and carefully worked my way toward the beaver over the cold, soggy ground. The mountain men would have been proud of me. I was proud of me.

Naturally, right at this time, the young couple chose to reappear.

They couldn’t see the beaver. All they could see was the guy who had been nude an hour earlier down on his hands and knees crawling through the willows in the general direction of their camp. I waved and pointed at the beaver but they had already disappeared.

Fifteen minutes later they had packed up their gear and were hightailing it home. It was the fasted job of breaking camp I’ve ever witnessed. It would have been interesting to hear the story they told their friends about the wild, and possibly deranged, man in the mountains. I suspect they spent their next vacation on the crowded beaches of Hawaii. I admit to feeling a tinge of guilt. One of my goals in life is to encourage folks to enjoy the wilderness, not frighten them off.

None of this stopped the beaver and me from enjoying our solitude. I continued my wandering, lost ways for another week.

Several beavers were at work at the Alaska Highway pond. This one was pushing a tree trunk to add to the dam. I watched him stop and nibble on the trunk, eating while he worked.

NEXT POST: Backpacking in the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico, I am charged by a herd of elk! But first, I had a long discussion with a cow elk.

Elk are large animals. When several decide to charge you at once, it’s an UT-OH! moment for sure. I took this photo at Pt. Reyes National Seashore. Unlike the elk I encountered in New Mexico, these guys were merely curious. Dealing with people was a daily, ho-hum, occurrence for them.

My first backpacking trip wasn’t in the Wind Rivers or Gila River, it was hiking into the Grand Canyon. It’s UT-OH! is the tale of a tail. And surviving.

There are several ways to explore the Grand Canyon. Over the years, I’ve tried most of them. My first trip in was by mule in the late 60s. I’m second from the top in this photo with a dark, plaid shirt and sunglasses. I could barely walk afterwards. The physical challenge was nothing in comparison to my solo backpack trip down in 1986. The great beauty of the Canyon, fascinating geology and close to mystical setting easily made up for difficulty, however.

Tales from UT-OH! The Ten Questions People Most Frequently Ask Bone… The Interview

June 3, 2026June 2, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

Bone has been in many tough situations in his life; he can handle tough questions. Here he rests on top of a saguaro cactus in Arizona looking for ICE agents. His lack of official papers, or even a birth certificate, can cause problems at times. –Curt

Q: Do you really talk? We’re speaking ethics here, Bone. Blogging is about transparency. That means honesty.

A. Are you crazy? Have you ever heard a bone talk? Of course I don’t talk. I just think out loud.

Q: Curt sometimes refers to you as he. Does this mean you are a male bone?

A. No. He makes assumptions, lots of them. He was showing me to a biologist at a writers’ conference in San Francisco and she suggested I have my DNA tested. “Just cut a small chip off of it,” she said nonchalantly. “You can determine its sex and breed.”

“Just cut a small chip off of it!” Outrageous! I am not some it to have chips cut out of. Besides, I lead a rich fantasy life and have no desire to know whether I am male or female. Call me she, he, or Bone, but never it.

Um, I think Bone is definitely a male. –Curt

Q: You have traveled all over the world and met thousands of people. How do they usually react to you?

A. With befuddlement. You should have seen the look on the face of the customs agent in New Zealand who tried to seize me as ‘animal matter.’ But emotions run the gamut. There was a Japanese man who got off a tour bus at Yellowstone National Park and wanted to hold me for good luck. Soon there were 40 other Japanese handing me around, oohing, and taking photos. I was thrilled. On the opposite side, I know a woman who refuses to touch me, like I have cooties. “I don’t know where Bone has been,” she states primly. Not surprisingly, there is also jealousy. “I want to be you and travel the world,” a good friend in Sacramento told me.

Some people act like I have cooties. This woman almost dropped me and then washed her hands! –Bone

Peggy and Curt’s niece, Christina, on the other hand, show the proper way to treat me. —Bone

Q: What is your favorite thing to do?

A. Visit graveyards; there are lots of old bones there. My favorite grave is Smokey Bear’s in Capitan, New Mexico. I once stood on his tombstone for ten minutes trying to communicate but all I could get was something about ‘growling and a prowling and a sniffing the air.’ A close second is the grave of Calamity Jane in Deadwood, South Dakota. What a woman! These are difficult choices, though, when you toss in the likes of Hemingway, Daniel Boone and Billy the Kid. On the light side I once visited Ben and Jerry’s graveyard of discarded ice cream flavors in Vermont. My spookiest experience was a visit to the Capela dos Ossos, the Chapel of Bones, in Evora, Portugal, where an estimated 5,000 corpses were dug up to decorate the walls of the chapel. Those folks definitely have a skeleton in their closet, lots of them. The skulls kept whispering, “Join us, Bone.” I ran.

Bone has a special fondness for unusual graves. Here he hangs out with Billy the Kid in New Mexico. Has he been in a gunfight? Are those bloodstains on his vest? -Curt

The camera broke when Curt tried to take a photo in the Chapel of Bones but here is my all time favorite sculpture at Burning Man, the Bone Tree. -Bone

BTW, I married the lovely Bonetta at Burning Man in 2013. -Bone

Q: So, what’s your second most favorite?

A. Too hard; I am a dilettante dabbler, but here are a few.

Wandering, of course, anywhere and everywhere and by all modes: bikes, kayaks, rafts, skis, backpacks, sailboats, planes, helicopters, trains, cars, RVs, etc. I’ve been to all 50 states in the US and to over 50 countries worldwide.
Visiting wild, remote and beautiful natural areas. I started life wandering the Sierra Nevada Mountains, John Muir’s Range of Light. I’ve been to the majority of National Parks.
Seeking out the strange such as ghosts and aliens (I’ve been to Roswell four times and Area 51 once).
Attending unique events like Burning Man.
Meeting weird people.

Bone backpacking on the John Muir Trail. -Curt

Bone, Curt and Tom Lovering at 10th and R Street Fox and Goose Restaurant in Sacramento. Tom owned the Alpine West backpacking and wilderness specialty store at this location when he and Curt discovered Bone in 1977. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Q: Tom Lovering and Curt ‘discovered’ you in 1977 when backpacking south of Lake Tahoe. You have wandered extensively with both. Which do you like best?

A. Eeyore, the jackass who can’t keep track of his tail. We’re traveling companions and he saved me from being strung up and buried on Boothill in Tombstone, Arizona. I’d robbed a bank, cheated at cards and hung out with women of questionable character. (This is what I mean by having a rich fantasy life. It’s also known as evasion.)

I was in deep trouble in Tombstone. Wyatt Earp had arrested me for robbing a bank and Doc Holiday was checking me for weapons. -Bone

My life as Bone was in serious jeopardy. -Bone

Odds were I was going to end up on Boothill, along with Billy Clanton. -Bone

But then, the ever brave Eeyore came to my rescue! I hopped on his back and we went riding off into the sunset while leaping over large rocks.

Q: Which of your journeys has been most memorable?

A. I would have to say traveling the length of Africa in the back of a truck from the Sahara Desert in the north to Cape Town in the south with Tom. Almost falling off the back of a riverboat into a piranha infested section of the Amazon River would have to be a close second. I was perched on the back railing doing a photo shoot with Peggy. And then, of course, there was the 10,000-mile bike trip with Curt in 1989 and hiking 750 miles down the Pacific Crest Trail with him to celebrate his 75th Birthday in 2018.

Bone on photo shoot barely escapes falling off the edge into the piranha infested waters of the Amazon. “I was falling off when Curt leapt across the boat and grabbed me.”

I was much smarter when I rafted down the Colorado. I wore a life jacket! -Bone

That didn’t protect me from pirates. The dreaded pirate Steve held a knife to my throat and demanded to know where I buried my treasure. -Bone

Q: You are often seen scrambling over rocks in remote sections of the Southwestern United States. What’s that all about?

A. I’ve developed a fondness for Native American rock art. It resonates with my bone-like nature. It’s also another excuse to go wandering around in the outdoors. Plus, some of those places might be haunted and it is a great place to look for UFOs. A number of petroglyphs look amazingly like aliens. Finally, wandering in the desert is known to be good for the soul. Ask the Prophets of yore.

How can this guy and his strange dog not be aliens? -Curt

Q: Ah, being a born-again bone, do you have any insights into the great unknown?

A. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Q: Finally, and this may be a little sensitive, but do you always run around naked?

A. What kind of a question is that? Do you think I am uncivilized? For shame. I am the epitome of haute couture! A bow and arrow toting, card-carrying NRA member in Montana has designed and made me two leather vests. What’s more, a 90 plus year old woman in Kansas going on 20 with a crush on Johnny Depp and a room devoted to the Egyptian gods, has made me a kilt and several other outfits. Face it; I am hot stuff, clothed or naked. I may take up a modeling career.

Rod Hilton fashions a new leather vest for bone. — My Bahamian/Canadian friend makes me a new vest in the wilds of Montana. –Bone

Bone, wearing his newly made kilt, fights off a ferocious sea monster in a scene straight out of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’ –Curt

Next post I’ll do a wrap on the many places Bone has been in his 49 years of wandering the world.

Bone, feeling a little low, in Death Valley National Park. It is one of the numerous stops he made with Curt on his 10,000 mile bicycle ride through the US and Canada.

Peggy and I are presently in the Greek city of Nafplio on the Peloponnesian Pininsula. On our way down from Athens yesterday, we stopped at several Ancient Greek sites, one of which was Mycenae (where Helen of Troy originally came from). I was going to show you the gate to the city until Peggy pointed out this kitten on the trail up to it.

Dog Stew, Smelly Feet, a Rattlesnake and Hypothermia… The Story of How Bone Was Found: Part IV

June 1, 2026May 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. Initially, I decided to put the blog on hold, but I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today’s post completes the tale of how Tom Lovering and I found a bone in the Sierra Nevada Montain Range and he/it began his transition to being Bone.

Bone has been wandering the world for close to 50 years. Given his nature, it is only natural that he would end up at Burning Man (14 times).

It was a pleasant hike down to Carson Pass on Highway 88 and relatively dry since we were on a south-facing slope.

Kit Carson came through here in February of 1844 along with John C. Fremont. It wasn’t pleasant then. The snow was deep and food was limited. They ended up dining off of their horses, mules and the camp dog. The dog apparently went quite well with pea soup. Later, the trail they discovered would become a major entry point for the 49ers and run through the foothill town of Diamond Springs where I was raised.

Frog Lake was a short jaunt off of the Tahoe-Yosemite/PCT near Carson Pass.

There was nary a bar, restaurant or gas station near the Pass so we hiked on another three miles to Lake Winnemucca. Rain was threatening and I set up my tube tent, a large sheet of plastic shaped into a round tunnel. It wasn’t particularly sturdy, but it was light and dry.

Tom, on the other hand, was carrying a luxurious three-season tent. He stacked the women in head to toe and ended up smelling April’s feet all night. I suspect he rubbed them, as well.

The next day was all downhill: down to Fourth of July Lake, down to Summit City Canyon, and down Summit City Creek to Camp Irene on the Mokelumne River. After dropping 4000 feet in 14 miles, I found myself bone tired again. Camp Irene provided an attractive campsite but turned out to be rattlesnake country. We kept a careful eye out but I missed one when I went out to utilize nature’s restroom.

I had discovered the perfect toilet spot, dug my cat hole and was baring my behind when one buzzed at me. It’s amazing how fast you can pull up your pants. I was lucky the snake didn’t bite me on the butt. It had crawled into the hole. We avoided a fate neither of us would have wanted!

I grabbed a stick and chased him away with a couple of sharp prods for good measure. He was lucky I was something of a nature boy. Otherwise he would have been smashed. The next time I did any serious bathroom duty was when I was parked on a flush toilet at Lake Alpine.

Backpacking out of Camp Irene is a challenge. The 4000 feet we dropped the day before in 14 miles we were now expected to re-climb in five. Low clouds filled the canyon. It wasn’t raining but it was cold and damp. Somewhere in the mist a male grouse made its familiar ‘whump, whump, whump’ sound, working to attract a female companion. I empathized. Dripping wet Buck Bush grabbed at our legs.

To stay warm and dry we broke out our rain gear. Lynn moved from being cold and miserable to shivering and not caring. She was on the edge of hypothermia, a very dangerous state. The body loses its ability to maintain warmth and the rational mind ceases to function. Coordination spirals downward. It is very easy to die.

Tom and I acted quickly. I fired up my Svea stove and Tom had Lynn stand over it wearing her cagoule, a dress like poncho. We positioned the stove carefully. While this wasn’t a solution to hypothermia one found in survival guides, it worked. (The recommended solution is to break out your sleeping bag and crawl in naked with the victim.) Within minutes, Lynn was ready to tackle the rest of the mountain.

Hypothermia can strike fast but it can also be quickly cured… assuming of course you catch it in time. Tom was next.

“Curt,” he called plaintively from off in the brush where he had gone to pee. I rushed over and begin laughing. He had managed the first half of his chore but couldn’t zip his pants up. His mind was working fine but his coordination had gone south. He was all thumbs. I called Lynn over to help as I returned to the trail chuckling. There are some chores a trek leader doesn’t need to handle.

We hiked the rest of the way into Alpine Lake without undo difficulty. Since our ride wasn’t coming until the next day, we rented a one-room cabin to share. Rain poured down outside as we relived our adventures and made up tall tales way into the night. Our journey was winding down, but it wasn’t over.

I was shaking the dirt out of my pack at home when the bone fell out. Apparently I had been carrying it all the way from Winnemucca Lake. “Darn Lovering,” I thought to myself, “I am going to get even.” I decided to keep the bone. There would be an opportunity on a future trip to slip it back into Tom’s pack. I would have revenge!

And that’s it, the story of Bone’s discovery. It started like so many things in our lives often do, as a non-event. Bone didn’t come up as a subject during our night in the cabin. Naked jumping ladies, lost trails, swollen rivers, gorgeous country, rattlesnakes, the physical challenge, hypothermia and even the upside-down map were the stories of legend, not a small, insignificant bone that came from who knows what.

But time has the power to rewrite history. When Tom opened his suitcase in France at the beginning of a two-year exploration of Asia, Africa and Europe, he found a surprise, Bone. I had my revenge. When I moved to Alaska and was unpacking my boxes, who should fall out but Bone. The tales go on and on…

Next: Bone answers 10 questions people frequently ask him.

Bone on a 20 day raft trip down the Colorado River in 2010 through the Grand Canyon. He travelled with his own PFD. Here he is floating on the Little Colorado River.

Peggy and I are back in Athens. This morning we are heading down to Nafplio on the Peloponnesian Peninsula. This is a photo of the Parthenon that Peggy took when we were here last week.

Tales from UT-OH!: Bone Is Found… Part 4

May 29, 2026May 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Today, I am continuing the story of how Bone was found. Bone was just plain bone when I found him in a field of Corn Lilies.

A final view of Lake Aloha. Pyramid Peak, where Tom was married, is the far peak on the left. I took this photo during my PCT Trek.

I was up early the next morning and eager to hit the trail. My body was starting to adjust and feel good. More importantly, the resort at Echo Lake was calling. A quick breakfast and we were off.

I took the lead with Tom following and Terry trailing. Soon we had climbed out of Lake Aloha, passed Margery Lake and worked our way across Haypress Meadows where cattlemen once harvested grass for winter feed.

As we began our descent into Echo Lake, I left my companions and the Desolation Wilderness behind. The vision of cold beer and a hamburger drove me on. Lynn and April were supposed to rejoin us at the Echo Lake Resort.

There was a decision to make when I reached Echo Lake. I could continue to follow the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail around the upper and lower lakes or I could call the Lodge from a phone located at the end of Upper Lake. It would send a boat taxi to pick me up for five bucks. The trail was hot, dusty, and filled with day hikers. And I was ready to take a break from backpacking. I made the call.

A half hour later, the throbbing of the motorboat’s engine caught my attention as the boat worked its way up the lake. Soon it arrived, coughing slightly. The boat slowed and bumped into the pier. My ‘taxi driver’ was a 16-year old plus teenager who had managed to snag a great summer job.

“Hop on,” he told me. An elderly couple was along for the ride. I nodded at them. I was halfway between the boat and the pier when I heard a commotion.

“Over here, Curt,” a familiar voice shouted. I looked up. A few yards away alders hid another pier. Two very attractive and very naked women were jumping up and down to get my attention.

They succeeded.

It was April and Lynn. They had come over on an earlier boat and were working in a little sunbathing while waiting for us. The young boatman and the old man were all eyes. The elderly woman looked thoroughly irritated and glared at all of us, especially her husband.

“Uh, I think I’ll stay here,” I told my driver.

“Can I stay too?” he asked and grinned at me. The elderly man wisely stayed silent.

I joined the girls as the boat coughed its way back toward the resort. Tom showed up soon afterwards. We were waiting for Terry when the ranger showed up.

“There has been a complaint about naked women jumping up and down over here,” he told us.

“Boy, I wish I would have seen them,” Tom responded. I am not sure the ranger bought our story but he wandered off in search of other criminals.

The same boatman picked us up and told me that the first thing the elderly woman did when she got back was to complain loud and long about the perverted people across the lake. She even cornered a ranger. My new young friend speculated that the ranger came looking for us as an excuse to escape. “Or maybe he wanted to see the naked ladies,” I noted.

The resort at Echo Lake, the dream of many a backpacker out on the trail. This photo is from my trek down the PCT.

We made it to the resort ourselves and celebrated our brief return to civilization with a hamburger and a cold beer (or was it more). My system complained about the third as we hiked on across Highway 50 and up to Benwood Meadow where we stopped for the night, some 34 miles from Meeks Bay.

Our fourth day started out as a typical backpack day. We climbed. It was gentle at first and then became more serious. Once again snow-covered large segments of the trail. We spread out and searched for tree blazes. I scrambled over a particularly steep section and found myself in a high meadow.

Something half buried in a field of young corn lilies caught my eye. A few days earlier it would have been covered with snow. Curiosity led me to detour through the still soggy ground. Mud sucked at my boots. My treasure turned out to be a disappointing, short, squat bone. Gnaw marks suggested it had been part of someone’s feast. I was about to toss it when a devious thought popped into my mind.

My wife, Peggy, and I took Bone back to the area where he was found. The snow was gone and the Corn Lillies large. He decided to take a nap. Or maybe he was sunbathing— naked.

“Trash,” I hollered at Tom and held up the bone. We had a game where if one person found a piece of trash, the other person had to carry it. But first you had to catch the other person.

Tom sprinted down the trail with me in pursuit. Unfortunately, we had made it over the mountain and our route ranged from flat to downhill. Tom was very fast. We had traveled two miles and were almost to Showers Lake before he stopped, concerned about leaving our companions behind. Very reluctantly, he took the bone and stuffed it in his pack.

“How can you classify a bone as trash,” he whined. I figured Tom would toss his new travelling companion as soon as I was out of sight.

Next: Dog stew, smelly feet and hypothermia.

Peggy and I are staying on the Greek Island of Tinos. As this photo from the charming town of Pyrgos suggests, there aren’t many tourists here. It’s the reason we chose the Island! There are, however…

A Jay By Any Other Name, Is Still a Jay… Plus Seven Other Fun and Interesting Birds of Costa Rica

April 20, 2026April 25, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 20 Comments

We heard its screech before we saw it. “Jay,” I announced to Peggy. Its call is unmistakeable unless it is modified because of its situation. Or mood. At our property in Oregon, I even heard them make the sound of a hawk— to amuse themselves, I’m sure. It scares the heck out of other birds and small mammals. Their personality, intelligence, and possible warped sense of humor, makes them one of my all time favorite birds.

These handsome birds with their Groucho Marx eyebrows are known as a Brown Jays (*Psilorhinus morio*). Their range reaches from the Rio Grande Valley in southern Texas to northwestern Panama. The white under-belly on this one marks it is a member of the southern subspecies. As for their diet, they are omnivorous: Insects, lizards, fruit: It’s all good. They were regular visitors to the bird feeding table in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal and happily downed the fruit of the day, whatever it was. But do they eat chicken? We had to travel to Monteverde, Costa Rica to answer this question.

We were in Monteverde when I spotted a Brown Jay carrying nest building materials. I grabbed my camera and went hunting. This one was actually wearing an identification band. The birds work together to build a nest. The female then sits on the eggs until they are ready to hatch. The male feeds her during the process. Offspring from a previous season will sometimes help in the feeding of the chicks, but they transfer the food to mom and dad for the actual process. I couldn’t find the nest, but I noted something else about this Jay beyond its band.

It had found the bone of a discarded chicken leg and was pecking the marrow out of it. As I noted, they’re omnivorous. The one-eyed look was fun.

A Clay-Colored Thrush, (*Turdus grayi*) or Yigüirro, as they are known in Costa Rica, is the national bird of the country. The bird originally gained its popularity in the country’s folklore by singing a beautiful song just before the beginning of rainy season. The natives thought that the yigüirro brought the welcome and necessary rain. Actually, the male who sang the song, wasn’t trying to bring the rainy season. He was busily courting a female before the rainy season started. It’s when they mate, build nests and raise families. But it makes a great story and the male still has a beautiful song.

It appears that this Thrush has caught a worm that wasn’t interested in being swallowed. As we watched it hop around on the lawn searching for such delicacies, we were reminded of its cousin, the Robin. Thrushes share a lot in common. I doubt you would find a Robin following a foraging mass of army ants to feast on the insects that are fleeing to escape, however, which is what the Clay-Colored Thrushes do. I immediately thought of the army ants that invaded my house when I was living in West Africa. We discovered their attack when numerous small bugs came hopping, running, and crawling under our screen door in an effort to escape. The Thrush would have been quite happy to scarf them up. I’m sure the Robin would have as well. But it might not have had the Thrush’s sense to fly off before the ants arrive. We saw a mouse make that mistake. It was his last. Not wanting to end up like the mouse, we went to war. I’ll tell the story in *UT-OH!*.

Here a Clay Colored Thrush and a Palm Tanager check each other out. It’s likely that they are having a discussion over who gets the fruit. Alternatively, I like to think that the thrush is saying, “Wow! You are really beautiful.”

A fluffed up view of the palm tanager. They often nest and hang out in palm trees, which is how they get their names.

Another dining table discussion? Here, a Buff-Throated Saltator is checking out an appropriately named Scarlet-Rumped Tanager. These, along with several other of the smaller birds I am featuring here, often flock together for feeding purposes. (Safety in numbers?) The Tanager is chowing down on a bite of pineapple. It’s hard to find a more easily identified bird than this Scarlet-Rumped Tanager (*Ramphocelus passerinii*), unless you are looking for the female of the species.

I was surprised when my bird ID app, Merlin, told me that these were Scarlet Rumped Tanagers. I double and then triple checked it! The name for when the male and female birds of the same species look so dramatically different, btw, is sexual dimorphism.

I like this head-on photo of the female Scarlet Rumped Tanager.

A Buff-throated Saltator (Saltator maximus) gives me the look. Originally classified with cardinals and grosbeaks (given its beak), recent DNA research has shown that they are instead related to Tanagers. I like the soft look of the feathers.

This frontal view gives the reason for the Buff-throated Saltator’s name.

The long view! The head of the Saltator looked metallic in this photo.

It was nest building time for the Blue and White Swallow (*Pygochelidon cyanoleuca*) of Monteverde. I’d watched this one pick up and reject several small straws until it arrived at this large piece that it flew away with. I’m always impressed with their streamlined look. It serves them well when they are practicing their insect-catching aerobatics in the air. Peggy and I enjoyed watching them whiz about from our porch in the evening.

They would often land, and possibly had a nest on the roof beam above the porch. The bright evening sky gave their blue a black look. We weren’t sure whether it was chirping at us or its fellow flyers.

I’ll conclude my collection today with the Muscuvy duck (*Cairina moschata*) that has both feral and domesticated versions. The duck was first domesticated in the tropical Americas during preColumbian times. You’ve may have seen the domesticated version, like this one, swimming around in park ponds. If so, you probably haven’t forgotten it.

Head shot! That’s it for today. On Wednesday I’ll be featuring Earth Day. It’s worth saving. Our survival— as well as that of numerous other plants and animals— depends up on it.

One would think that the Giant Saguaro cacti of the Sonoran Desert would welcome Global Warming with open arms, but the truth is, it is one of numerous species that are threatened today. The increased drought and extreme heat of global warming prevent seedling survival, cause structural collapse of adult plants, and encourage wildfires capable of wiping out wide swaths of these majestic plants.

Another species threatened by Global Warming is the Eastern Box Turtle. The increasing heat disrupts their reproductive cycles and sex ratios. Once found often, they are now rarely seen. Peggy found this one crawling down our driveway yesterday, heading toward the traffic clogged highway that runs in front of our apartment. She saved it, at least temporarily, by taking it down to the creek that flows through the property and turning it loose, far from the road.

She set it down and away it zoomed (with zoom defined in turtle speed).

Hello Deer: I Won’t Say We Were Part of the Herd, But It Was Close… Focus on a Deer’s Life Cycle

January 12, 2026January 11, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 31 Comments

Today’s post on deer is part of our focus series where I make use of our extensive photo library to feature a single subject. From 2011 to 2021 we lived in Southern Oregon up in the mountains about 30 miles west of Ashland on five acres that backed up to a million acres of national forest. There were many things that we loved about the property. The deer herd that insisted on calling it home was a big one!

I walked out my door one June day and found this fawn napping next to our doorstep. It was wedged in between the step, a chair, my walking stick, and a natural wood shelf we used for our shoes. One eye was checking me out but it obviously wasn’t worried about my presence. In its short life, it had determined that I was harmless and might indeed be helpful. Mom wasn’t worrying either. She was out browsing (eating) while her baby was sleeping. Our house and yard served as a safety zone for the herd and the cement porch was apparently the safest place in the yard, considering how often it was used as a day bed. Hunters weren’t allowed on our property and natural predators of the deer such as bears and cougars tended to avoid it— for the most part.

This was the first time we saw this youngster. Mom was performing some hygiene with her tongue while the baby ate. Grooming is common among deer and is one way they maintain close ties. We’ve watched adult deer simultaneously groom each other.

Fawns on our property were normally born in April or May, hidden away by the doe, and sternly instructed to stay put and not move when she was away eating for the first 2-3 weeks. The spots they are born with serve as natural camouflage making the fawns extremely difficult to see. They are also scentless when born, making them impossible to smell.

We did come upon a newborn fawn once. The mother had blown it and given birth right in the middle of our driveway. We were returning from town and sat for 30 minutes as the doe urged the baby to get up. Its twin was already off to the side. Finally the youngster stood on wobbling legs and managed to totter off to the side. I kicked myself very hard for not having my camera.

If this buck appears nervous, it’s for good cause. A few minutes earlier we had watched junior walk under him, see danglies, and assume they were udders. Reaching up, it had chomped down. Deer are noted for their prodigious ability to leap, jumping over fences as high as 5-6 feet. I swear this guy cleared 10! Apparently, the baby was coming back for more. The buck ran away. The small size of the fawn signifies how young it is. They grow fast. The buck’s antlers are still growing and are in velvet. More on that shortly.

Does brought their fawns by to meet us shortly after they had grown out of the ‘hide the baby’ stage. Or at least it seemed that way. Anyway, they trailed along with mom. At 3-4 weeks, they could easily keep up with her and even run fast enough to get away from many predators. They would dash madly around in our yard playing. Not sure whether baby is smelling its feet or scratching an itch. The ears on the doe are almost as big as its head! Deer have extremely sharp hearing and constantly move their ears to detect sounds that might suggest danger. I actually watched one with its ears pointed in two different directions.

Hello. The deer in the west are black tail deer as opposed to the white tail deer found in the east and the south. One sign of a black tail deer is its dark forehead.

The fawn from above and its twin walking across our deck. Speaking of the deck, it was right next to our bedroom and we could hear deer (and bears) when they crossed it at night. Once we heard a loud thump followed by two quieter thumps immediately afterward. I went out and checked the tracks in our yard the next morning. It was a deer that had made the loud bump as it landed on and cleared the deck in one leap. It was a cougar right behind in hot pursuit.

One of the reasons the deer were frequent visitors was that they considered our bird bath their watering hole, especially in the summer. The section of Southern Oregon we lived in has a Mediterranean Climate and is very dry in the summer. The nearest water was down the hill, across the road, and down to the Applegate River. I’m sure that the deer thought ‘why bother.’ The challenge was that two thirsty adult deer would come close to emptying the bird bath. Other deer, birds, squirrels, foxes, etc that used the watering hole were out of luck until I refilled it.

Hey, save us some water. We don’t drink much.

What is it that you guys don’t get about ***bird*** bath!

Who? Us? Note the antlers on the buck in the background. There’s a reason why yearlings are know as spikes.

My solution to the water hole problem was to add a five gallon paint bucket filled with water. It was a welcome addition. How welcome?

Well, baby climbing over Mom to get to it is an example. The laid back ears suggest that Mom wasn’t particularly happy with being used as an obstacle course.

No smelling this time. The fawn is scratching an itch. Flies, fleas and ticks all hassle the deer. Again, I enjoyed the three leg acrobatics. Now note the next photo…

One of the fawn’s responsibilities is to learn what is and isn’t edible. It watches what Mom eats and also smells her breath. Lavender isn’t on the deer menu. We grew lots. It took us a few years to figure out what plants the deer wouldn’t eat and plant accordingly. In the meantime, Peggy would rush out and lecture the deer. It was quite humorous, for me and the deer.

This young buck, who had leapt over our Gabion cage wall, climbed over the cement blocks, and worked its way past the lavender, stopped to listen to Peggy’s lecture before leaping up the cliff to gobble down the plants and flowers it loved to eat.

The real treat was acorns. Squirrels, turkeys, woodpeckers, Stellar jays, and bears seemed to agree.

Remember how I said the fawns grow up quickly. Check out the legs. Also note that the fawn’s spots are disappearing.

By fall the spots have totally disappeared. The young deer will hang out with their mom through the winter until she gives birth to her new fawn in the spring. Mom then chases them away. They aren’t happy about it and often continue to stay nearby for a while longer—at a safe distance. The young doe will become part of the herd that Mom, Grandma, and possibly Great Grandma oversee.

The herd of does browsing in our back yard…

The young buck, Spike, here growing his first set of antlers, will slip off to join the boys.

And now to the bucks. They lose their antlers in January and February and begin to grow new ones in March and April. A soft, hairy skin known as velvet covers the new antlers providing them with the blood and nerves necessary for bone growth. Aren’t the legs impressive?

The antlers will continue to grow until they have reached the size of the previous year and then grow larger, dividing into more points.

Bucks are judged by the size of their racks and the number of points on one side. A deer with two points is a forked horn, with three, a three pointer, and so on. The first year the deer grows spikes. Second year is normally a forked horn. Third year 3 and 4 pointers. Five pointers plus grow in the fourth year and beyond.

A three point buck without velvet. “Did somebody say apple?”

This big boy in velvet is a five-pointer. The back antlers are split but can’t be seen in this picture.

Two bucks displaying a forest of antlers! We thought this was a fun photo. Come August-September the antlers have completed their growth and the bucks scrape off their velvet on anything available, normally a tree or bush. It’s time to get in fighting form. One year we arrived home and found a buck using our hammock to scrape off his velvet. I chased him off but it was too late. The hammock was torn to sheds.

By November and December it’s time to decide who gets the girls.This is a contest that the bigger buck normally wins. Size is often enough to decide the outcome without a contest.These two three pointers have been checking each other out. The one on the left is larger and has a bigger rack, but…

They go at it, head to head and antler to antler.

The biggest buck shoved the smaller buck around. I worried about their eyes.

And then they separated without either being harmed. The big fellow seems to be saying, “You want more of me?” The smaller guy had had enough, however. He vacated the scene. For a day or so, the three pointer chased does around our yard, happily making the rounds and rutting away— until a bigger buck came off the mountain. After the rutting season is completed is when the bucks lose their antlers and a new year begins.

As you have probably figured out, this doe and her twins were the stars of our blog. She was usually somewhere nearby and was the first to bring her fawns by. Always curious about what we were doing, she often stared in our window. Here she is looking though our screen door.

Our house was surrounded by windows providing excellent views of everything happening outside. I had the best seat, however. I turned my writing chair around in our library and could watch all of the action in our backyard. We considered it a great privilege that the deer herd allowed us to share in its daily and yearly life. Here, Mom taking a snooze on our back porch, was about four feet away. That’s it for the day. Next up:

On Friday I will do the intro to the my memoir: UT-OH. I am blogging one chapter at a time. I am quite excited about the book and have already written 22 chapters. Please join me.

Rattlesnakes… Lots of Them: Eek!

August 8, 2025August 7, 2025 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

The eastern diamondback rattlesnake has been known to grow almost eight feet long.

I’ve have been to Albuquerque, New Mexico several times over the years. One place that I always wanted to go but never managed to was the American International Rattlesnake Museum. They have one of the largest collections of live rattlesnakes in the world. Could it be that whoever I was traveling with didn’t share my enthusiasm?

Peggy, however, is game for almost anything and snake images almost always show up among the petroglyphs that fascinate her so much. So off we went to the museum two weeks ago.

Peggy even bought a rattlesnake T-shirt from the museum. Is there a message here?

That I have a certain ‘fondness’ for rattlesnakes isn’t news to my blog followers. I’ve had numerous encounters with them over the years and have written about several. I’ve even been known to get down on my stomach when they are crawling toward me so I can get better head shots. (Peggy gets a little ouchy about that.) I suspect my attitude would be considerably different if I’d ever been bitten by one. Rattlesnake bites can be deadly, or at a minimum, extremely painful. It’s not something one wants to test.

Fortunately, rattlesnakes come with an early warning system. They rattle. The rattles are made up of keratin, that’s the same thing your fingernails are made of. When irritated, the snake vibrates its tail, knocking its rattles together. It makes a very distinctive sound, one you never forget, one guaranteed to shoot your heart rate up faster that a skyrocket on the 4^th of July.

Each time a rattlesnake sheds its skin in grows a new rattle. This makes up for ones it has lost. The bigger the snake the bigger the rattle.

The Ancestral Puebloans included a rattle on this petroglyph of a rattlesnake in Petroglyph National Monument, Albuquerque. It’s probably a coyote or a dog beneath the rattler, obviously not worried.

A rattlesnake you see coiled up, rattling its tail, and ready to strike is worrisome, to put it mildly. It’s not a problem, however— as long as you stay clear of its strike zone, which can range from half to two thirds of its body length. For a six foot snake (which is a very big snake), that would be from 3 to 4 feet. If you want to check this out, use a long stick. I have. (Don’t try this at home, kids.)

One you can hear but can’t see is a quantum leap scarier. I stepped on a dead log once ‘that started to rattle’ and found myself an olympic winning 15 feet down the trail before my mind registered snake. There is some evidence that our fear of snakes is instinctive. For example, have you ever come close to stepping on one you didn’t see in advance. Did you find yourself thinking, “snake, maybe I should be concerned.”

Odds are your reaction was more like this guy from another petroglyph at Petroglyph National Monument. Eek!

When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa, I had a cat named Rasputin that proved the hypothesis about fear of snakes. I discovered if I took the old fashioned spring off my back door and rolled it toward him, he would leap 6 feet into the air and land on our couch or other piece of furniture well out of reach from the deadly ’snake.’ Being scientifically oriented, I did it 3 or 4 times just to make sure.

On the other hand, back in California I had a basset hound named Socrates that seemed to counter the theory. I was hiking with him one day at Folsom Lake near Sacramento when I noticed him walk out on to a granite ledge and start sniffing down into the cracks. Suddenly he began barking like the baying hound he was: Loud. Simultaneously, the rock became alive with rattles. Socrates had discovered a rattlesnake den. They can get big, big like in a hundred snakes. Some have even been found with a thousand. Talk about an Indiana Jones’ nightmare…

It was for me, as well. “Socrates, come here!” I demanded. And then again. And again. Each time louder and more desperate. All, to no avail. He just kept barking louder. Damn, that dog could be stubborn. Finally, there was nothing I could do but walk out on the buzzing rock, grab him by the collar, and bodily drag him off. I was lucky I didn’t pee my pants. Had I not immediately put his leash on and pulled him away, he would have gone right back to barking up a storm at the irritated, poisonous serpents.

Here are a few facts on rattlers:

There are between 32 and 45 species of rattlesnakes, many of which live in the Southwest where Peggy and I just spent five months wandering around outside. They can range in size from 15-24 inches like the pigmy rattlesnake of the South up to close to 8 feet like the eastern diamond back. Peggy’s brother John and his wife Frances found one of these monsters in their backyard in Texas.
They are superb predators. While lacking an outer ear that would allow them to hear their prey, they have an inner ear that allows them to sense the vibrations of a prey’s movements. Vertical pupils aid in depth perception for strikes and pits on the side of their faces serve as heat detectors which allow rattlers to see their prey in pitch dark situations. Being members of the pit viper family they have large, sharp, hollow fangs that are designed to deliver venom. The fangs fold back against the rattlesnake’s mouth when not in use.
And finally, here’s a long word for you to impress your friends with: ovoviviparous. It means the rattlesnake mommy hatches her eggs inside of her body and her babies are born alive, ready for action as soon as they can bite their way out of the protective sack they are born in.

And now for a few of the photos we took at the museum.

The museum had a book of Gahan Wilson cartoons on snakes.

One way to recognize a rattlesnake, beside the obvious rattles, is by the distinctive shape of its head, which it shares with other pit vipers.

Plus a couple of snakes that weren’t rattlers, but we were fascinated by their colors.

And this striking green snake which, as I remember, was a python. (Don’t quote me.)

And finally, Peggy and I in front of the museum, which is located in the historic section of Albuquerque. Not sure why they chose the skull and string of peppers instead of a rattlesnake but they are symbols of New Mexico. Next up, we will conclude our posts on Canyon de Chelly National Monument.

The Marble Mountain Wilderness: Magnificent Views Up Close and Far Away… Part 2

July 14, 2025July 14, 2025 / Curt Mekemson / 19 Comments

This is view of Mt. Shasta from the Marble Mountains Wilderness. My 750 mile trek down the PCT gave me northern views of the mountain, western views and and southern views. This was one of the best. Given its mystical/magical look, it’s hardly surprising that tales of beings like Bigfoot, Lemurians, and Lizard people are associated with it. The local Native American Modoc Tribe, whose legends include Bigfoot sightings around the mountain, refer to him as Matah Kagmi, meaning *keepers of the woods.*I like it. The Lemurians are a New Age creation connected to highly advanced lost continent of beings that live under the mountain. As for Lizard People, think aliens and UFOs.

As part of our series about protecting national parks, monuments and other public lands, I’ve been reading news releases from the directors appointed by President Trump who oversee these areas. It’s not a task I would wish on anyone. It isn’t surprising that the directors all support the president’s objective of significantly reducing many public lands in size and opening up others for profit making operations. That’s why they were appointed.

The news releases are full of statements designed to hide their real purpose. Here’s an example:

“President Trump promised to break the permitting logjam, and he is delivering,” said Energy Secretary Chris Wright. “America can and will build big things again, but we must cut the red tape that has brought American energy innovation to a standstill and end this era of permitting paralysis. These reforms replace outdated rules with clear deadlines, restore agency authority, and put us back on the path to energy dominance, job creation, and commonsense action. Build, baby, build!”

Let’s did a little deeper. By ‘permitting logjam’ and ‘red tape’ and ‘outdated rules,’ he means rules that have been developed to protect our air and water quality, save rare and endangered species from extinction, and maintain areas of great beauty and/or cultural significance that the majority of Americans support protecting. The Administration’s perspective is that these rules get in the way of progress. Who needs clean air or water. “Build, baby, build!”

And how about American energy innovation and dominance? Obviously, he’s not talking about solar, wind and water power. We’ve been moving ahead quickly in the development of clean energy. The Trump Administration is actively discouraging this progress. Incentives designed to encourage their use have been cut. His passion is for coal, gas and oil, all three of which are nonrenewable resources and have been prime factors in the development of global warming that has been having such devastating impacts on the US and the world. The Texas floods of this past week are but one of a multitude of examples.

Several countries in the world have now reached the point where 80-100% of their energy needs are supplied by renewable clean energy. I’d argue that they are the ones achieving energy dominance, one that will last long beyond our nonrenewable resources and is vital to our battle against global warming.

On another subject, it’s interesting that right-wing Republicans played an important role in blocking the administration’s plans to sell off millions of acres of public lands in the West. Here’s what Christopher Rufo, a culture warrior and leading supporter of Trump in in the state of Washington had to say:

“Pre-2016, you’d have the small government argument against a kind of federal domination over the land, but Trump and MAGA is a nationalist movement,” he said. “I think many conservatives are now reassessing these questions, and many of us in the West understand that part of a great nation is the preservation of its natural beauty.” There is hope.

The Marble Mountain Wilderness, the subject of this post, is an example of this beauty.