Wandering through Time and Place

Category: Outdoor Adventures

• Life on the Trent and Mersey Canal… A Narrow Boat Tour in England

  Posted at 5:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Nov 23rd
  

  A pilot’s perspective on a 65 foot long, 6 feet wide, 16 ton narrow boat.

  This is my final post introducing new readers to they type of stories they can find on my blog. This tale takes you off to England and a journey on a narrow boat tour of the Trent and Mersey Canal. As I note below, this was my first experience at piloting a 65-foot long, 6-foot wide, 16-ton vehicle. If you would like to learn more about this adventure, go here:  https://wandering-through-time-and-place.com/2018/01/02/  I hope you’ve enjoyed this trip back through history. I guarantee that it is just a small taste of what you can expect to find on these pages. Next week, I will continue my PCT series and likely start working in a few Mexico posts. 

   

  I never imagined (even in my wildest dreams) that I would someday pilot a 65-foot long, 6-foot wide, 16-ton vehicle. But that’s what I ended up doing last week.

  Peggy and I, along with her sister Jane Hagedorn and her husband Jim, did a seven-day narrow boat tour on the Trent and Mersey Canal out of Long Eaton, England. If Long Eaton doesn’t ring a bell, think Robin Hood. Nottingham is nearby.

  The prince of thieves was one of my all time childhood heroes. I knew the location of Sherwood Forest long before I knew the location of London.

  

  Jane and Jim stand in front of the Sawley Marina office. Note Robin Hood on the right!

  Jim and I had pilot duty. Our job was to stand in the back with tiller in hand hoping that the boat would go where we wanted. This included not running into other canal boats, avoiding overhanging trees and mudflats, navigating under watch-your-head, boat-wide bridges, surviving locks and learning the delicate art of mooring our not so delicate craft.

  

  Is our narrow boat narrow enough and low enough… is the question.

  

  I park the boat kitty corner in a lock. Maneuvering back and forth is necessary to keep the boat positioned.

  

  Two boats in a lock at once. Jim is up to the challenge.

  Peggy and Jane were in charge of locks plus a certain amount of backseat driving. For example, they would point out boats coming toward us that we had been worrying about for five minutes.

  Lock duty was not easy. Heavy cranking was involved in opening and closing the paddles that let water into or out of the lock. Full body strength was required to open and close the gates. The women quickly became lockmasters and I am sure wowed the English males with their prowess. (Honey, can I have one of those?)

  

  Jane cranks open a paddle to let water out of the lock.

  

  Peggy demonstrates the importance of ‘butt’ power in opening a gate.

  Other chores included muscling the 16-ton boat into shore and filling the craft with water. Getting from the aft to the bow of the boat for work or pleasure involved maneuvering along a narrow gunnel.

  

  Jim muscles the boat into shore.

  

  Peggy hangs over the edge while filling the boat with water.

  

  Jane walks the gunnel.

  Upon arrival at Sawley Marina we were provided with two hours of training for our adventure. That was it. Afterwards we were turned loose with the 16-ton barge for on-the-job training.

  Canals are found throughout England. Once upon a time they were vital to the nation’s economy as transportation corridors. Reflecting the good taste of the Brits, beer was one of the major items transported over the Trent and Mersey.

  Now the canals are mainly used for recreational boating… primarily by brightly colored, cleverly named, narrow boats. We also talked with a number of people who live on their boats year around.

  

  Owners work hard to give their boats individual personalities as is demonstrated here by the Molly Rose. Bright colors, flowers and names such as Belly Button and Simmerdown add to the character.

  

  Boats were found wherever mooring was good. (And a pub convenient.)

  Although we came uncomfortably close to hitting a couple of boats (give or take five inches), banged into the shore several times during mooring (as expected) and grounded the boat three times (Jim won 2 to 1), the adventure was quite enjoyable.

  

  “Mudflat” Jim grounded the boat. I work hard to pole it off.

  Picturesque countryside, abundant bird life, and attractive villages entertained us along the way.  Pubs served surprisingly good food and even better ale. I worked hard to sample all of the local brews. Even Peggy developed a taste for dark beer.

  

  There was much beauty along the way as this tranquil scene shows.

  

  Peggy loved the brightly colored flowers that were found in both fields and towns.

  

  And I have always had a weakness for reflection shots…

  

  Bird life was abundant along the canal. We took photos of this nesting swan coming and going.

  

  This Mallard Hen was one of many with babies. They would wait for our boat to pass and then swim along behind us. I wasn’t sure whether they were taking advantage of food we stirred up or drafting, like bicyclists do.

  

  We always found colorful pubs with excellent English beer and good food.

  

  Several small towns along the way provided an interesting contrast to the rural areas.

  Accommodations on the boat were quite comfortable. There was sleeping for six, a gallery and two bathrooms.  Jane and Jim’s beds were a wee bit narrow, however… make that body wide, and one of the bathrooms required a shoehorn for entry.

  

  Jane’s narrow bed…

  You learn a lot about each other on a small boat. For example, Jim likes coke and peanut butter toast for breakfast. The only exception was when he substituted a mixture of orange juice and beer for his coke.

  Jane believes it is totally uncivilized to use paper towels at meals, period. Those who know Jane will understand this. She began to ‘borrow’ napkins from the pubs. Peggy, in order to keep her sister from a life of crime, started neatly folding our paper towels to look like napkins.

  I didn’t ask Jane and Jim what they learned about us…

  Time slowed down on the boat. It had to considering out top speed was three miles per hour. We arrived at Burton on the Trent and turned around to return to Sawley Marina. Scotland and dead ancestors were waiting.

  

  A final view of life on the Trent and Mersey Canal.

  Posted in Outdoor Adventures, Wandering The World | Tagged Burton on the Trent, English Ale, Long Eaton, mallard hen, Narrow Boat, operating canal locks, pubs, Robin Hood, Sawley Marina, swan, Trent and Mercey Canal

• The Beaver’s Revenge… Backpacking the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming.

  Posted at 5:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Nov 21st

  This is number 5 in my series of posts introducing new readers to the wide variety of topics they will find on my posts. Here, I relate a solo backpacking trip I took into the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. It is one of the few posts I have done without photos, but it was a fun/funny trip that I think is worth featuring. There are a number of backpacking adventures scattered throughout my blog, including my trip down the PCT that has been providing material for the past several months.

  Having educated myself on the misbehavior mountain men (last blog), I returned to Pinedale and prepared for my own expedition. A week of backpacking alone is good for the soul.

  I intended to drive up into the Wind River Mountains, go past Fremont Lake and then backpack south through the Bridger Wilderness. A series of small mountain lakes were calling to me.

  Where I ended up 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.

  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 unchartered 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.

  Several 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 the 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. The beaver 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 weird. 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.” (This is like the bear rubbing it’s back against a tree I described in my Mt. Lassen post a couple of weeks ago.)

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

  “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. Kit Carson 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 I from enjoying our solitude. I continued my wandering, lost ways for another week.

  Next Blog: Out of the wilderness and back to Burning Man. A city of 45,000 is built and dismantled in the remote Black Rock Desert of Nevada… in one week.

   

  HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

  Posted in Memoirs, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged backpacking, backpacking alone, beaver, beaver hut, beaver scent pile, Bridger Wilderness, Fremont lake, Mountain Men, nude sunbathing, Pinedale Wyoming, Unite States Forest Service, Wind River Mountains

• The Natchez Trace: A Bicyclist’s Paradise… The 10,000 Mile North American Bicycle Tour

  Posted at 5:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Nov 19th
  

  I don’t think there is a place along the Natchez Trace that isn’t beautiful. I traveled on it for 370 miles of its 450 mile length.

  This is my fourth post introducing new followers to the type of tales they can find in my blog. Way back in 1989, I did a solo 10,000 mile bicycle tour of North America. While the journey predated blogging, Peggy and I retraced my route three years ago. Traveling out of California, we crossed the US following a southern route, went up the east coast into Canada, headed back west through Canada to Minnesota, and then finished our tour following a northern route back to California. This is a chance to visit much of North America and hear tales about my bike trek. Want more: Here’s a post from Canada. Scroll forward or backward for the rest of the story:  https://wandering-through-time-and-place.com/2016/09/28/

  A large, yellow mutt came wagging his way into my camp. I’d unpacked my gear, set up my tent, and taken off my shoes and socks. My toes were celebrating their freedom.

  “Well hello big fellow,” I said to the dog, glad for the company. He sat down beside me and worked his head under my hand, demanding that I scratch behind his ears. Then I was required to pet the rest of him. I had just worked my way down to his tail when he rolled over and insisted on equal treatment for his tummy.

  I provided an initial scratch but my coffee water had started boiling. “Priorities,” I told him, “the petting zoo is closed.” Apparently this meant it was play time. He leapt up, grabbed one of my socks, and bounced off about 15 feet.  “Hey! Bring that back,” I urged. Fat chance. He put the sock down, backed off a couple of feet, and started barking.

  I finished pouring the hot water into my coffee filter and got up, tiredly, to retrieve my sock. It had been an 80-mile day and I really didn’t want to play ‘chase the dog around the yard.’ I pretended that I didn’t care, that I wasn’t going for the sock, and that I was terribly interested in a large bullfrog that had taken up residence in the swimming pool. The pool hadn’t been cleaned since the previous summer. It made a great pond.

  The dog didn’t buy it. He dashed in, grabbed the sock and ran off across the yard. “Okay, you win,” I declared while picking up a stick. “How about a game of chase the stick?” The dog cocked his head and increased his wags per second. I tossed the stick and off he dashed, leaving my sock behind. I quickly bare-footed it across the lawn and grabbed my sock.

  “Ha, ha, Mr. Dog,” I called after him while waving the sock about enticingly. To compensate my new friend for his loss, I played tug-of-war with the stick. We growled at each other appropriately, all in good fun.

  It was early to bed. I had completed my trip from Alexandria by biking through the city of Natchez and was now camped about a mile from the beginning of the Natchez Trace.  I was eager to get up the next morning and start my 370-mile journey up the fabled Parkway through Mississippi and Alabama into Tennessee. As I zipped up my tent, the big yellow mutt did three dog turns outside the door and plopped down, making me wonder where his home was. I was hardly in a position to adopt a pet. Besides, he was well fed and wearing a dog tag.

  My last memory before going to sleep was of the bullfrog singing to his lady-love. “Chug-a-rum, chug-a-rum, chug-a-rum.”

  

  Peggy and I drove through Natchez on a Sunday morning and pretty much had the historic section of the downtown to ourselves.

  

  This historic building in Natchez came with an attractive balcony.

  

  The colors captured my attention here.

  

  Old lamp posts adorn the historic part of Natchez.

  

  The city is known for its antebellum mansions.

  

  St. Mary’s Catholic Church was busy with its Sunday service so I didn’t go inside.

  

  It was quite impressive from the outside, however.

  Natchez has an interesting history. Once the site of a major Native American village, its initial contact with Europeans goes all the way back to Hernando de Soto in the mid 1500s. He wandered through the area searching for gold to steal, the primary occupation of Spanish Conquistadores. By the 1700s the French had entered the area followed by the British, the Spanish again, and finally, in 1795, the Americans. Native groups in the region included the Natchez, Chickasaw, Yazoo, Cherokee, and Creek, as well as the Choctaw further to the north.

  As for the Natchez Trace, its beginning goes back 10,000 years and was probably tied to buffalo travelling along ridges doing buffalo things. Since these broad, heavy animals make good trails (think of them as early day bulldozers), Native Americans were soon using the routes for trade and travel between large communities.

  The next stage in the Trace’s evolution was brought about by river trade in the late 1700s and early 1800s. Kaintucks, boatmen from the Ohio and Mississippi River Valleys, loaded flatboats with merchandise and paddled downstream to Natchez or New Orleans where they made handsome profits for their goods. The challenge was that you don’t row a boat up the mighty Mississippi. The boatmen had to hike or ride horses home. They sold their boats as lumber and made their way back to Nashville via the Natchez Trace

  It was an adventure. There is a reason why the Trace became known as The Devil’s Backbone. It was crawling with highway men eager to separate the Kaintucks from their newly earned wealth. And that assumes that they could even get their money out of Natchez where cheap whiskey cost a fortune, hot love was based on cold cash, and cut-throats came by the bushel.

  The development of steamboats in the 1820s changed things dramatically. These boats with their large, steam-driven paddle wheels could travel upriver. Boatman no longer had to hike or ride horses back to Nashville while fighting off thieves.  Gradually, people stopped using the Trace and it faded from memory.  But not totally.

  In 1903, the Mississippi chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution took on a project of placing markers along the original route. In 1918 the precursor to the Natchez Trace Association was created with the rallying cry of “Pave the Trace!” Work on the Parkway was started in 1937 and in 1938 it became a unit of the National Park system.

  When I rode my bike out of Natchez in the spring of 1989, the Trace was mainly complete and had become something of a bicyclists’ paradise. (Today it is considered one of the top ten bike rides in America.)   To start with, there was no commercial traffic. No 18 wheelers would be whizzing by me. Nor were there any commercial properties or billboards, just lots of beautiful woods and small farms. Campgrounds and restrooms were located conveniently along the way.  Frequent rest stops featured local history. I was free to ride along and enjoy the scenery.

  But I did have two responsibilities. The first was to persuade the large, yellow mutt that he wasn’t going with me. It started with a discussion in camp that I thought he had understood. Where I was going was dangerous for doggies. It was dangerous enough for me. About a mile from camp I chanced to look back, there he was, about 50 yards back. I stopped and waited for him to catch up, all a waggle. “No!” I said forcefully. “You cannot go. Go Home!” The tail stopped wagging. Two sad brown eyes accused me of horrendous deeds. Ever so slowly, he turned around and started back, tail between his legs. I felt terrible.

  The second chore was more pleasant— rescuing baby turtles. Bunches were migrating across the Trace outside of Natchez. Each time I came on a crowd, I would stop, climb off my bike, and give the little tykes a lift across the pavement. I knew that there would be more coming along behind but I must have transported at least a hundred,undoubtedly saving them from being run over.

  Following are several photos of the Trace from Natchez to Jackson, Mississippi that I took during the route review Peggy and I did this past spring.  In my next blog we will make a slight detour to the town of Philadelphia, Mississippi where a good friend lives and then head up the Trace to Tupelo and visit with Elvis.

  

  Views along the Trace were constantly changing from being forested to open.

  

  Pine trees became common around Jackson, Mississippi.

  

  Rich farmlands border some of the Trace.

  

  There are a number of barns.

  

  These trees were just beginning to leaf out. I enjoyed the silhouettes they created.

  

  Numerous exhibits featuring the history of the Trace provide interesting breaks along the way.

  

  A number of the stops, like this one, include original sections of the trail.

  

  The Park has also rebuilt traditional fences similar to ones that the pioneers who lived along the Trace would have built.

  

  A final view of the Trace for today. Many more will be included in my next three blogs.

   

   

  Posted in Memoirs, National Parks, On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged adventure travel, Bicycling in Mississippi, Bicycling the Natchez Trace, Natchez Mississippi, Natchez Trace, North America Bike Tour, photography, travel, writing

• Kayaking among the Orcas/Killer Whales of British Columbia…

  Posted at 5:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Nov 11th
  

  Our sea kayaks wait patiently for us as we have lunch in a cove off of Johnstone Strait.

  This is the first of my series of ‘oldies’ I am reposting from my archives to give new followers a taste of what they can expect to find on my blog. Peggy  and I made a trip to Vancouver Island, British Columbia in 2014 to go kayaking among the orca whales. The next post in the series can be found here:  https://wandering-through-time-and-place.com/2014/10/30/

  I was nervous as we drove into the town of Port McNeill on the northeast shore of Vancouver Island in August. Peggy and I had signed up for a six-day sea kayak tour out of Telegraph Cove with Sea Kayak Adventures.We would be searching for orcas, which are also known as killer whales—as our son Tony, the Alaska Coast Guard pilot, reminded us. A little Jaws music, perhaps?

  

  This orca skeleton was on display at the Whale Interpretive Center in Telegraph Grove. I named him Smiley and addressed him as sir.

  “Okay, Curt, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” was bouncing around in my skull like a kangaroo on steroids. It’s a question I ask myself often.

  I wasn’t nervous about the whales, however. I’ve spent my life communing with nature. Besides, these particular giants are gentle, relatively speaking; they get fat off the salmon in Johnstone Strait. They don’t need to eat people. But sea kayaking would be a first for me. The old dog had to learn new tricks, and that is always a reason to get excitable. Fortunately, Peggy and I had played around a fair amount with inflatable kayaks. We had even ventured out on challenging multi-day lake trips into remote areas such as Prince Albert National Park in Saskatchewan and Voyageurs National Park in Minnesota. So how hard could it be?

  

  Aren’t I pretty? No? Maybe I wasn’t meant to wear a skirt. This skirt is designed to fit snugly over the cockpit of the kayak and keep out the water.  It’s so snug that you really have to stretch it to fit, which isn’t easy— particularly around the back. My skirt and I had several discussions while I was learning how to make it behave. It learned new words. Ask Peggy. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

  I confess I was more nervous about the idea of being on a tour. I am not much of a tour group person. This is a strange statement coming from someone who spent over a quarter of a century leading backpacking and bicycle fundraising treks for the American Lung Association. But the truth is— I am an independent cuss. I like to go where I want to go and stop when I want to stop. On an organized tour, I would be expected, even required, to adhere to the group schedule and itinerary. This isn’t a complaint. It has to be that way on group outings. Common sense and liability demand it.

  And then there were the people. We’d be living closely with these folks for six days under potentially trying conditions. What would our guides be like? How about our fellow tour group members? Would we get along well? Would they be strange— even stranger than I am?

  

  “Could I interest you in a cracker?” The tour promo promised good food, but it failed to mention the presentation. This is Nick from New Brunswick, one of our three group leaders. Note the sprig artfully shoved into the cheese.

  

  Quy, another of our guides, is a gentle soul who in his other life works as a computer geek in Vancouver. So what is he doing with this knife?

  

  Julia, our third guide and assigned trip leader, hails from Germany and is quite charming. She may use Quy’s knife on me for this photo of her toes, but I couldn’t help myself. And no, I don’t have a foot fetish. My fascination with her toes was that they could run over anything, including  rocks. The last time I had feet that tough, I was ten years old.

  

  And how about our fellow travelers? David is a psychologist out of LA. How much stranger can you get than creating this mustache? Well maybe someone who kisses fish…

  

  “But he was so beautiful,” Lindy told me. He was dinner, Lindy. Dinner.

  Regardless of how nervous I felt, the trip was simply too much of an opportunity to pass up. Like how could I not go on a sea kayaking adventure out among the orcas in beautiful British Columbia? As for Peggy, she is always up for adventure. When our friends Edie and David from Anchorage, Alaska called and asked if we would be interested in going, we gave a resounding yes. It turned out to be great decision. The guides, our fellow tour group members, and the incredible views were delightful. Even the orcas cooperated.

  Today marks the beginning of my series on the trip. I’ll start by exploring the quaint town of Port McNeill. In my next post, we will climb in our kayaks and push-off from Telegraph Cove. The orcas are waiting. Let the adventure begin.

  

  While the main source of employment for the people of Port McNeill is the timber industry, the town also has a charming harbor. Note the yacht in the background. It had its own helicopter.

  

  In case anyone was wondering. I loved this guy’s sense of humor.

  

  Peggy, David and Edie pose in front of a dolphin statue that faces the harbor. Edie went to high school with Peggy in Ohio and runs a tax accounting firm in Anchorage. David is an Alaskan bush pilot who works on the North Slope, and is a published poet.

  

  You are looking at Port McNeill’s pride and joy: the worlds largest burl. Can you imagine this thing growing on a tree? (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

  

  Tourism is also an important industry for Port McNeill. Wicked Campers caught my attention. The company provides inexpensive travel vans and its raucous brand of  advertising in a number of countries.

  

  We were also amused by Port McNeill’s unique way of fund-raising where bras are decorated and then auctioned off. Which of the following three would you choose?

  

  Given the ears, I am thinking Minnie Mouse was the inspiration.

  

  Bat woman? Great eyes.

  

  Dream catcher? Ouch. This one would leave an impression.

  

  The flower shop that featured the bras was closed so I couldn’t get inside to photo more of the entries. I did capture this petunia on the outside, however.

  

  Mist in the trees. A final photo to whet your appetite. Let the adventure begin.

  Posted in Outdoor Adventures, Wandering The World | Tagged bras for the cause, Killer Whales, Orcas, photography, Port McNeill, Sea Kayak Adventures, sea kayaking in British Columbia, travel adventure, Vancouver Island, Whale Interpretive Center, wicked campers, worlds largest burl, writing

• Growl! Mmmm. Me Like Carpenter Ants… Bears along the PCT in Mt. Lassen National Park

  Posted at 4:39 pm by Curt Mekemson

  Nov 2nd

  

  I began seeing a lot of bear sign as I hiked along the Pacific Crest Trail through Mt. Lassen National Park. There were the usual large piles of poop and trees had the tell-tale claw marks of bears chatting with other bears. The trees also provided bears with a great back rub. The effort helps remove winter coats and I’m pretty sure feels as good as it does to us when we get out back rubbed or scratched. It also provides the opportunity to leave a scent mark behind, a sort of personal wilderness want ad. “Large male seeks one night stand with attractive female. Don’t expect me to stick around and help raise the kids. In fact, I might eat them.” Doesn’t seem like the ideal qualities you would want in a mate, but it seems to work.

  I also found a number of rotting logs torn apart along the trail. Black bears have a real taste for carpenter ants. “Sweet meat,” like my students of long ago in West Africa used to say about termites. And maybe carpenter ants are sweet. While they are known for tunneling through wood with all the enthusiasm of a chainsaw, they don’t actually eat the wood. They are dairy farmers. They raise and milk aphids for the sugary honey-dew they secrete by stroking them with their antennae.  “Come on sweetie, give it up.” Naturally they eat other things, like dead insects. They will surround the bug, suck out its juices and then return to their nest with full tummies to share. I read that they sometimes carry the head with them. (I can see them marching in and placing it at the feet of the queen. I wonder if they have a trophy room.) Like other ants, they inevitably find the shortest path back to their nest and mark the path with pheromones which other ants can follow. Big bugs can attract lots of ants, which means more pheromones, which means more ants. It can become quite the mob scene.

  

  

  

  

  But back to the bears. I dearly wanted to see a bear tearing into a carpenter ant nest.  I didn’t even see a bear. Peggy who was driving around the park and checking out hiking trails while I was making my way along the PCT, had much more luck. She not only saw a mom and her cubs, she saw them ripping into a carpenter ant nest and took photos. When the bear and her cubs finished their meal, and started walking toward her, she made a rapid retreat to our small RV! Smart woman.

  

  

  

  

  

  When it comes to food, a black bear is an Omnivore’s omnivore,an opportunistic eater that consumes everything from insects to plants to carrion to any fresh meat it catches— although the latter rarely includes humans. As one of my trekking friends used to say, “If bears wanted to eat people, they’d move into towns where there are lots of people to eat.”  Bears, like other members of the animal kingdom, have learned that puny humans are nasty animals with a penchant for killing; they are best to be avoided. They have developed a taste for human food, however. Trash cans are a frequent target. We know. Our property in Southern Oregon backs up to a million acres of national forest. There are lots of bears. Once, one attacked the heavy Weber grill that lives on our back porch and turned it over.  As it came crashing down, my daughter, who was sleeping in the bedroom next to the porch, screamed,“Curtis!” It’s an appeal for help I’d heard before. Bears are also fond of backpacker’s food.

  They would occasionally drop by our camp for a bite when I was leading hundred-mile backpack trips up and down the Sierra’s in the 70s, 80s and 90s, especially when I was any where in the vicinity of Yosemite. It wasn’t unusual for a trekker to yell my name on his or her first sighting of a bear up close. I spent a lot of time teaching people how to chase bears out of camp and hang their food in trees so the bears wouldn’t get it. We weren’t always successful.  The food bag is supposed to be at least 12 feet up in the air and 9 feet out from the tree hanging from a limb that is just large enough to hold your food. Otherwise, Mom might send her kids up to crawl out the limb and chew through the rope. One food bag is counterbalanced with another food bag and no ropes are left dangling. Bears are smart and I am convinced that they have a university near Yosemite where they teach their cubs how to outsmart backpackers.

  Today, there are bear canisters that are made of heavy duty plastic or carbon that are theoretically bear proof. They are tested by filling them with strong smelling goodies and tossing them into the cage of a hungry bear that has developed a taste for backpacking food. If the canister survives for an hour, it is given the seal of approval. Now days, when you backpack through Yosemite National Park or down the John Muir Trail, you are required to carry one. Just recently, the same policy was adopted for Mt. Lassen National Park. So, I was carrying one.

  The good news about canisters is that they work. Bears are broken of the habit of eating backpackers’ food and go back to eating much healthier food, like maggots and ants. Backpackers are given the peace of mind of knowing that they will be able to make breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day. The bad news is that the canisters are heavy and awkward. They add two to four pounds of weight and are hard to fit into a pack along with other essential equipment. While the folks in charge of protecting our wildlands and their inhabitants would like to see backpackers use canisters all the time, it won’t happen until these problems are addressed.

  NEXT POST on hiking the Pacific Crest Trail through Mt. Lassen National Park: When the mountain blew its top, there is more to manzanita than scary roots, and a gorgeous lake struts its stuff.

  Posted in MisAdventures, National Parks, On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged Adventure Travel Blog, bears eating ants, bears eating carpenter ants, bears in Mt. Lassen National Park, food bears eat, hiking the PCT through Lassen National Park, Mt. Lassen National Park, travel blog, writing

• Mt. Lassen National Park— A Spooky Kind of Place along the PCT… Happy Halloween

  Posted at 5:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Oct 27th

  

  I hardly imagined that backpacking through Mt. Lassen National Park on my hike down the Pacific Coast Trail this summer would provide me with inspiration for my annual Halloween post— but I had never had an up-close-and-personal encounter with manzanita roots. Trail crews, rerouting the PCT as it approached the Park from the north, had dug up the roots and left them beside the path. 

  I often include photos of faces from nature in my blog. And most of these are a bit on the strange side. (“Like you,” I am sure my wife Peggy would point out.) Maybe. My imagination works overtime when I am out in the woods and I can’t resist pulling out my camera when I spot eyes staring back at me from trees, rocks and clouds. They appeal to the animist in me. Plus they are an excuse to stop on long, tough hiking days.

  In addition to the roots, I’ve included a couple of other photos from Lassen with Halloween potential and a few other ‘faces’ from my three month backpack trip. Some of these I have included before. Enjoy!
  

  

  

  

  

  Dead trees are also mood setters for Halloween and horror movies. Here are a couple of many I captured in Lassen.

  

  

  And to conclude today’s post for Halloween, a few photos from other faces along the trail, some of which I have included before.

  

  

  

  HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM PEGGY AND ME.

  Next Post: Back to hiking through Lassen National Park on the PCT. 

  Posted in National Parks, On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged adventure travel, Hiking on the PCT at 75, photography, travel blog, writing

• Backpacking up Mountains in 100 Degree Plus Weather from Castle Crags to Burney Falls on the PCT

  Posted at 8:33 pm by Curt Mekemson

  Oct 16th

  

  The Pacific Crest Trail from Castle Crags to Burney Falls is known for being hot in the summer. I was hoping to avoid such weather. No such luck. At least it waited until my last three days to break 100 F (37.7 C). Then it became a scorcher. Many through-hikers chose to hike early in the morning and late in the evening, hiding out during the hot part of the day. But I trudged on. I needed full days to make it out when I told Peggy I would. Following are a few photos from the trail. 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Posted in On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged Burney Falls, Hiking on the PCT at 75, McCloud River, photography, travel adventure, travel blog

• On Being Exhausted… Hiking along the PCT at 75 between Castle Crags and Burney Falls

  Posted at 1:25 pm by Curt Mekemson

  Oct 12th

  

  Although I am now off the trail and happily settled into our home in Southern Oregon, I have several more posts to put up on my backpack trip this summer. Today, I am covering the first half of my trip between Castle Crags and Burney Falls.
  

  Peggy waved goodbye to me as I started up the PCT east of Castle Crags. I had spent two days in the Dunsmuir area happily stuffing myself and it was time for me to hit the trail again. She was less nervous than she had been in the beginning when her 75-year old husband disappeared into the woods for a week. “If you don’t come out on time, I am coming in after you,” she had declared ferociously. But each time, I had hiked out more or less when and where I said I would after backpacking 70-100 miles. Still…

  I knew I had a significant climb ahead. I’d dropped several thousand feet coming down from the Trinity Alps to Interstate 5 and now I had to regain altitude. I also knew that there was limited water along the way, which is par for the course on the PCT. The trail was shaded and well-graded, however, so I started off at a decent pace. I met a fellow out walking a big shaggy dog that wagged his tale vociferously at me and then a number of through hikers hurrying north toward Canada. Or maybe they were hurrying for the good food, cold beer and hot showers that Dunsmuir promised. I suspected the latter.

  At one point, I found a number of pinecones beside the trail that had been carefully organized to spell out 1500. Curiosity brought out my camera, and then I realized that the 1500 represented the number of miles that the PCTers had hiked from the Mexican Border. I would have been arranging pinecones too! The hikers were a couple of hundred miles past the half way point. It was all downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill from here on. You get the point. Which brings me back to my own uphill climb.

  

  

  After about three hours, I began to run low on energy. This wasn’t surprising considering my age, but it seemed to come sooner and go deeper than usual. It was like I had been hit by the proverbial ton of bricks and I was carrying them all in my backpack. I shifted into granny gear and dug into my mental reserves. “Ok, left leg, move! Good job.” It helped for a while, but Squaw Creek was still several miles away.  I loaded up with five liters of water at Bear Creek. I certainly didn’t need the extra 11 pounds, but a vision of dry-camping on top of the Girard Ridge had insidiously inserted itself into my brain. My map showed that an old, abandoned road provided a flat space.

  Eventually I arrived and futzed around for an hour finding the best campsite, setting up my camp, and cooking my dinner. I am not the fastest person in the woods when it comes to camp chores, and being exhausted didn’t help. I’ve already told the story of falling asleep when I was cooking dinner. It was scary. My super-hot, MSR propane stove could have turned the kindling dry forest into a conflagration within minutes had I knocked it over. Three major forest fires that happened afterwards in July and August within 50 miles of where I was camped highlighted the potential danger. They ended up burning over 300,000 acres, and one, the Carr Fire, was one of the worst in California history. I would breathe its smoke for weeks.

  I vowed to go to bed as soon as I had done my dishes, reviewed my photos from the day, and completed my journal. But first I had to find a tree, a big one. Nature demanded it. This required getting up, a fact my body was not happy about. It had settled into not-moving. I rolled over onto my knees and pushed up with my arms, glad that no one was around to witness the effort. I wandered through a campsite I had rejected and followed a trail up the hill behind it to find the perfect place for my business. Location, location, location as they say in the real estate business. I like guaranteed privacy and a view. Walking back, I was surprised to discover that a through-hiker had settled into my rejected campsite, unpacked, set up his tent and was boiling water for dinner. “How in the heck did he do this?” I declared to myself. I would have been lucky to unpack in the same amount of time. But, in fairness to myself, I had taken longer than normal up on the hill.

  I had found my ‘perfect place’ and dug my cat hole only to discover I was 10 feet away from the trail. Not good. A bird’s eye view of Curt’s naked butt does not meet my definition of privacy. So, whining a bit, I went in search of another location. This time I found a slight hill with a good view. I was unbuckling my belt when a thought crossed my mind. My ‘hill’ was a mound about six feet long and three feet across. It bore a striking resemblance to a grave! Now, I am not overly suspicious, but pooping on a dead person’s home almost guarantees a haunting, a spectral visit in the dark night, if such things exist. And I had met a couple of ghosts in my life. There was no whining this time. Faster than a ghoul can say boo, I had apologized and was 50 yards away digging another hole.

  My next day wasn’t much different than the first. My reserves were so low I didn’t bounce back. I still struggled with the uphills and ended up dry camping again. The third day, I added struggling with the flats and downhills as well. I got up early with thoughts of making up for lost time. It wasn’t to be. I arrived at Ash Creek camp on the McCloud River around 10 a.m. and decided that was it for the day. Hiking farther involved a ten-mile climb. It’s a good thing Peggy wasn’t around. I might have bailed for the week. Fortunately, my 22-hour layover provided enough time for my body to recover. I managed the 10-mile uphill climb to Deer Springs in good shape and even stayed awake through dinner! But my dawdling meant that I had 45 miles to hike in the next three days. That’s a story for my next post. Here are photos from my first four days. Enjoy. Tired or not, there was still a lot of beauty along the route.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  NEXT POST: I finish my journey to Burney Falls where Peggy has been hanging out taking photos of the falls and bribing through-hikers with food and beer to carry messages to me. 

  Posted in On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged Burney Falls, Castle Crags, photography, travel blog, writing

• The Desolation Wilderness: Hiking on the PCT at 75

  Posted at 8:00 am by Curt Mekemson

  Oct 2nd

  

  I ran my first Sierra Trek through the Desolation Wilderness in 1975. The year before, I had created a nine-day, hundred-mile backpack trip as a fundraiser for the American Lung Association in Sacramento. With high hopes of not losing anybody, I had chosen a route across the Sierra Nevada Mountains that was used for a popular horse-endurance race from Squaw Valley to the foothill town of Auburn. Known as the Tevis Cup Trail, it was well marked with yellow ribbons and horse poop.

  While the route had been easy to follow, we had been faced with struggling up and down steep canyon trails in 100 degree plus weather (37.7 C) in the Sierra Nevada foothills.  I’d vowed to keep future trips higher in the mountains. My 1975 adventure had zigzagged through the Granite Chief and Desolation Wilderness areas, occasionally touching on what would become the finalized PCT.

  When my plan to take my 13-year-old grandson into some of the more remote sections the Desolation Wilderness was cut short by his sprained ankle, I revised my plan and backpacked from Donner Pass to Echo Summit. I’ve already done posts on the Donner Summit through the Granite Chief Wilderness. Today’s photo essay will focus on Desolation.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  As most of you are aware, the world famous traveling Bone has been ‘hiking’ with me on this journey. (He rides comfortably in a pouch and urges me to hike faster when I am making my way up steep mountains.) After coming out at Echo Lake, Peggy joined me on a day hike to take Bone back to his origin where my friend Tom Lovering and I found him south of Highway 50 in 1977 beside what is now the PCT. He has been traveling the world ever since.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  NEXT POST: Lyla the Dog… NEXT BACKPACKING POST: The trail between Castle Crags State Park and Burney Falls.

  Posted in On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged Desolation Wilderness, Hiking on the PCT at 75, Lake Aloha, photography, travel blog, Velma Lakes

• Winding Down the Journey… Hiking on the PCT at 75

  Posted at 11:43 am by Curt Mekemson

  Sep 16th

  

  Some trail names are really obvious. Take Big Red, for example. Peggy and I met him in the Three Sisters Wilderness of Oregon.

   

  Big Red from San Diego towered over my 5’11” height, putting him somewhere up in the stratosphere. Peggy and I met him along the PCT in the Three Sisters Wilderness area of Oregon. He had been hiking for 2,000 miles. “This is my first and last through hike,” he informed us. “There are times,” he explained, “when I camp on a beautiful lake and would love to stay there. But I can’t. I have to keep moving. I have to get in my 25 miles for the day.” Otherwise, he might not be able to finish the trail before winter storms hit northern Washington.

  There is something close to heroic about completing the 2600 miles of the PCT in a year. Sacrifices have to be made— like not enjoying the incredible beauty of the trail as much as you might like. Red had also made another sacrifice.  His walking sticks were encased in balsa wood that he had planned to carve. But it wasn’t to be. “I’m just too tired at night,” he told us.

  

  Big Red posed for a photo with me, making me feel small.

  I understood both sentiments all too well. It’s just hard. At 75, I found hiking 15 miles a day exhausting. In fact, the day and a half breaks I had planned between segments of the trail to allow my body time to recover weren’t long enough. I realized this as I made my way up the humongous hill leaving Interstate 5 going south. I was fine for the first three hours. After that, it was all I could do force one foot in front of the other. I had just completed hiking 100 miles from Etna Summit to Castle Crags and my body was threatening to go on strike. I loaded up on water and decided to dry camp when I reached the top instead of hiking on to the next source. I was cooking dinner on my ultralight propane stove when I found myself nodding off, unable to keep my eyes open. Not good! Can you imagine how dangerous that was given the bone-dry condition of the forests? Three massive forest fires this summer within 50 miles of where I was camping have proved the point.

  The thought of creating a life-threatening fire that would burn tens of thousands of acres if my small stove was accidentally knocked over woke me up like a bucket of ice water. It also forced me to rethink my schedule. I would reduce the number of miles I was traveling each day and increase the number of layover days I would take between hiking segments of the trail. If I didn’t make my 1,000-mile goal, so be it. There was another factor as well. I really did want to enjoy the beautiful lakes, and mountains, and trees, and flowers and rocks and streams. That had been my reason for returning to the wilderness again and again throughout my life. And it was my reason for being out there at 75.

  Fires and smoke continued to be a reality of my hike, as it has been for all PCT hikers this year. I jumped from northern California to Central California and back to Northern California in an unsuccessful search of clear skies. As my journey wound down, I had a decision to make. Would I head toward Yosemite and the John Muir Trail or would I go elsewhere? There really wasn’t time to finish the JMT and I had hiked it several times over the years, so I opted for the Three Sisters Wilderness of Oregon. I’d never been there plus Peggy would be able to backpack with me. We would finish our adventure as we had started it, backpacking together in Oregon. It was a great decision. The area is drop dead beautiful.

  

  Mt. Washington, Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Hood as seen from the Three Sisters Wilderness, which features another three volcanoes of the Cascade chain in Oregon.

  I came off the trail last week with close to 700 miles behind me. It has been an incredible experience and I will continue to post blogs on it for the next month. Plus, I’ll start writing the book that will tie this summer’s adventure together with several other backpacking experiences I have had over the years.

  Today, I will continue with my trip between Donner Pass and Echo Summit that I started to blog about last week with an exploration of the Granite Chief Wilderness behind Squaw Valley.

  

  My grandson Ethan and I started our journey through the Granite Chief Wilderness with a trip up the Squaw Valley tram. Squaw Valley was the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. I used this same tram system when I began my first 100 mile backpack trip in 1974.

  

  The ride provides great views of the granite that forms the backbone of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. Once again, smoke from Northern California forest fires filled the air, promising to obscure our views and poison our lungs. Fortunately, the smoke was limited and we even experienced some ‘clear’ days.

  

  Peggy took this photo of Ethan and me at the end of the tram ride, ready to tackle our first mountain.

  

  Our goal for the day was a short hike over to Little Needle Peak and Lake, both shown here. The lake is a mile or so off the PCT on a little used trail that we had to search for. I’ve camped on the lake several times over the years.

  

  Another reflection shot. Ethan and I were camped in the trees to the right.

  

  Bear scat and other bear sign was everywhere! I wondered if our food would survive. A black bear had ripped open this dead tree to go after the carpenter ants inside. Ethan and I were intrigued by the labyrinth the ants had carved out of the tree. It was worthy of a fantasy novel, or a Greek myth.

  

  This caterpillar had tethered itself to the same tree and was making a cocoon. The claw marks above and beside the caterpillar were left behind by the bear.

  

  The PCT drops into a canyon going south from Squaw Valley. A month earlier, this field of mule ears would have been yellow with flowers. But now they were drying out, predicting the coming fall.

  

  As the PCT returned to crest and climbed above the Five Lakes Basin behind Alpine Meadows Ski Resort, Ethan and I  continued down the canyon and followed Five Lakes Creek down to Diamond Crossing. Whiskey Creek Camp greeted us a quarter of a mile after we left the trail. Starting in the early 1900s, the camp had served as a resupply point for Basque sheep herders who were running flocks in the area.

  

  Ethan provides perspective on the height of the door in the cabin. I explained to him that the horseshoe above the door was for good luck.

  

  Fresh bread, baked in this oven, was on the resupply list for the Basque Sheepherders.

  

  The PCT is like a freeway working its way from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon and Washington. In comparison, most other trails are like country roads. The route along Five Lakes Creek would qualify as a rarely used dirt road— my kind of trail! This late summer meadow had turned to California gold. The Sierra thistles in the foreground were going to seed.

  

  As was this Sierra thistle.

  

  Backlit by the sun.

  

  The seeds are disbursed. Another year in the life of a Sierra thistle is over.

  

  One challenge of hiking in August in the Sierras is that water sources dry up. This can become a real problem along the PCT, which is noted for its lack of water to begin with.

  

  Fortunately, more water can be found hiking among creeks and lakes at lower elevations. Welcome water greeted us at Bear Pen Creek. (I’ve always wondered about the name.)

  

  A close up.

  

  Less water does make for easier stream crossings. The rocks here provided our bridge across Five Lakes Creek.

  

  An old tree blaze on a downed snag would have been used to mark the trail in earlier times.

  

  Bark had grown over this blaze, which is very rare.

  

  A ‘whirlpool’ of wood caught my eye.

  

  Leaving Diamond Crossing, we followed Powderhorn Creek for four miles as it made its way up a very steep canyon toward Barker Meadows where we would rejoin the PCT. I think we counted two switchbacks on the whole trail. It was definitely not the well-graded PCT!

  

  A basalt cliff entertained us along the way. I was teasing Ethan about having to climb it.

  

  The hexagonal basalt columns are similar to Devil’s Postpile. These columns are formed when thick layers of flowing basalt cool slowly.

  

  Photographing goldenrod also offered a break from the hard climb. It was one of the few flowers we found in bloom.

  

  Ethan celebrated when we reached the top.

  

  While I found other interesting rocks to photograph. I thought the outcrop looked a bit like a Scotty dog.

  

  A couple of days later I found one in the clouds!

  

  Back on the PCT, we found more flowers in a spring area. Ethan urged me to take his photo next to the monkshood. “My mom likes purple,” he explained. (Tasha has lots of purple clothes.)

  

  When we reached Richardson Lake the next day, Ethan’s foot was beginning to hurt. Apparently, he had a minor sprain.

  

  Leaving the lake, it hurt more. A few more miles down the trail, we decided that hiking out seemed to be the best decision. We returned to the lake and followed a jeep trail that would take us down to Lake Tahoe.

  

  We were fortunate to flag down a group of jeepers. It turns out they were from Motor Trend Magazine and were filming a TV special on taking a stock 1970s jeep and a stock pickup truck over the Rubicon Trail, one of the toughest jeep roads in the world, made famous by the annual Jeepers Jamboree. Bruce, who generously provided us with a ride, told us that it had taken a full day just to go three miles!

  

  Ethan displays the ankle that I had bandaged. Not a bad job, I thought.

  

  Reunited with his mom, Tasha, his little brother, Cody, and Peggy, the family hangs out above Lake Tahoe’s Emerald Bay.

  NEXT POST: I’ll focus on Desolation Wilderness and Peggy and I will take Bone back to where Tom Lovering and I discovered him in 1974!

   

  Posted in MisAdventures, On the Road US, Outdoor Adventures | Tagged adventure travel, Granite Chief Wilderness, Hiking the PCT at 75, Motor Trend magazine, photography, travel blog, writing

• Bush Devil Ate Sam

  

  The Bush Devil Ate Sam is an important record and a serious story, yet told easily, and with delightful humor. This is one of the most satisfying books I have ever read, because it entertained me thoroughly AND made me feel better informed. —Hilary Custance Green: British Author... Click on the image to learn more about my book, the Bush Devil Ate Sam, and find out where it can be ordered.

• Special Thanks to Word Press for featuring my blog and to my readers and followers. You are all appreciated.

  
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