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An Ugly Pit Viper Drops by for a Visit… Let’s go backpacking: Part 2

/ Curt Mekemson / 51 Comments

I heard a noise and looked up. A Diamondback Rattlesnake had come to visit.

 

Today’s post finds me out on a backpacking trip I went on last week. Friday’s post introduced the trip and took me off into the woods by myself.

 

I decided to remain camping where I was and go day hiking. That way I could explore the surrounding area early in the morning and late in the afternoon, while hiding out under a shade tree during the hottest part of the day. I had a number to choose from including incense cedars, ponderosa pines, white firs, and lodgepole pines. There was even a large sugar pine in the neighborhood with its 18-inch-long cones.

The Sugar Pine.

Staying in the shade involved moving as the sun made its way across the sky. This was a good thing; it forced me to get up every so often.

I create a very comfortable nest for myself in the woods, the type I can snuggle down in and read a good book, or write, or prepare a quick snack, meal or cup of coffee. My ‘kitchen’ is always on my right; my ‘living room’ and ‘office’ on the left. The Therm-a-Rest mattress converts to a chair and my backpack forms a great back rest. Everything is easily reachable from where I sit. Moving’s a bit of a bother (grin). It involves two trips and about five minutes to transfer everything. I quickly establish which trees provide the best shade and breeze for the time of the day.

Here’s my home away from home in the woods. Everything I need from entertainment and food to water and mosquito repellent is conveniently located. My clothes bag in the front rests behind my knees and adds comfort. My journal is resting on my chair.

I was in my five o’clock spot under a lodgepole pine when a movement caught my eye. I looked up from my Baldacci book and saw a Diamondback Rattlesnake slithering toward my tree through the pine needles. An ugly pit viper had dropped by for a visit! Keeping a close eye on my guest, I quickly pulled out my camera. The Diamondback kept coming. When it was about 10 feet away I said, “Ahem, Ms. Snake, do you see me? Do you even have a clue I am here?” (It might have been a male, but how in the heck do you tell the sex of a snake? I looked it up, actually, since I knew you would want to know. Male snakes have a couple of tiny penises under the skin inside their cloacal opening (vent under their tail.) You shove a snake probe up there. It goes up farther for a male than a female. Now you are an expert. I don’t think my snake would have cooperated.)

Ms. Snake came to visit me when I was sitting under one of the Lodgepole pines behind my tent.

The rattlesnake was close to four feet long and had ten rattles which suggested she was around five-years old. Note the triangular-shaped head that is typical of pit vipers.

She stopped abruptly as her neck and head rose into the air. Out came a forked tongue. Her spade shaped, pit viper head and yellow-slit eyes pointed in my direction, checking me out, fangs poised for action. Who or what had invaded her territory? Was I food or foe? Heat seeking facial pits that work something like infrared detectors determined that I was too big to eat and might be trouble. So, she started slipping off to the right. Naturally I had to get up and follow. (This is where Peggy normally urges me to do something else, anything else, but she wasn’t along.)

She raised her head and checked me out.

I walked a respectful few feet behind. You never want to get within striking distance. The Diamondback is responsible for the majority of snake bites in the US and its toxin loaded injection can be fatal. The snake kept twisting her head back Linda Blair-like, watching me. Her rattles were pointed up, ready to explode into the loud buzzing sound rattlers are famed and named for. Twice she almost coiled. I could have forced the issue— it makes for a great photo-op. A timely prod with a stick would have had her coiling and buzzing in a flash. But I figured she wasn’t bothering me so I wouldn’t bother her. At least not much. Finally, she slipped off into some brush and waved goodbye with her tail. I wished her good hunting. I think I heard something like “fat, juicy mouse.”

Her rattles were pointed up in the air, ready to start buzzing. The circles on the tail and diamond shapes above them identified the rattlesnake as a Diamondback. The pinecones are from a Lodgepole Pine.

While I wasn’t particularly bothered by the visit, I did move to a different shade tree on the other side of camp. Had Ms. Snake returned, she would have slipped up behind me. I was also more careful about watching where I stepped! Immediately afterwards, I called Peggy and related the story. She laughed. She knows my ways. Or maybe she was laughing from relief that I hadn’t been bitten.

Speaking of ‘my ways,’ one was that I would never carry a cell phone while backpacking. It was more or less written in granite. I go to the woods for tranquility, not the hustle, stress, incessant noise and constant connectedness of modern society. And nothing represents that more than cell phones. And yet, here I was with cell phone in hand. There was even a decent signal from a cell tower on I-80. My decision to break with my long-standing tradition was something of a compromise for my wife. Not many 74-year-olds go wandering off by themselves backpacking. In fact, the number of people who backpack alone at any age is limited to a relatively few adventuresome souls. Peggy is 100% supportive of my backpacking, even when I ramble off alone. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t concerned. My checking in on a daily basis— and being able to check in, if needed, in an emergency— helped allay her worries.

Cell phone service isn’t a given in the wilderness, however, especially in the US where profitability plays an important role in determining where service is offered.  So, I went one step further. I picked up an emergency Gen 3 GPS tracking device named Spot. It’s kind of like Spot, the family dog of Dick and Jane repute, or Lassie, if you will, able to track me down when necessary. But all I have to do with the Gen 3 is hit an SOS button and it immediately sends out a message to local rescue groups that gives my exact location and the fact that I am in a dire emergency situation. Help’s supposed to be on the way within the hour.

There were other steps I took as well— carrying trekking poles, for example. They cut down on wear and tear on the knees and add a degree of balance. More importantly, I did everything I could, minus eliminating my creature comforts, to reduce weight. Modern equipment makes a huge difference. When I first started packing in the late 60s, my pack for a week trip was normally in the neighborhood of 55-60 pounds. By the 90s it was 45-50 pounds. Now it is down to 35-40 pounds.

This is a photo of what I was carrying on my trip. Everything is organized in bags. So there is a kitchen bag, a bathroom bag, a ten essentials bag, etc. Each bag has its place in my pack which is organized for access and weight distribution.

Here’s my stove ready for packing, which will give you an idea on how compact and light backpacking gear is today.

Everything I carry is designed to reduce weight. A plastic spoon, bowl and cup are my dishes. I’ve been carrying the insulated cup for over 40 years. Once it was lost beneath 20 feet of snow. I found it when the snow melted.

Here’s another example of going light. This is my neckerchief, handkerchief, and topographic map. It also serves as an air conditioner! On a hot day, I dip it in a stream and wrap it around my neck.

There is great beauty in the wilderness, if you are willing to slow down and look around. It ranges from expansive vistas down to plants, rocks, and wildlife.  Following are some more photos that reflect what I saw this past week. Enjoy.

Fordyce Creek was a half mile away from where I was camped and filled with snowmelt. The hiking bridge provided a way across the otherwise unfordable creek.

I captured this photo from the bridge. One of the challenges of backpacking early in the season is the amount of water flowing in the streams. Great caution is required when no bridges are available, which is usually the case in the Sierras. It is best to cross early in the morning before the sun begins to melt the snow.

The broken side-boards on the bridge made me wonder about its overall condition!

Thunderheads provided a dramatic backdrop but threatened a thunder and lightning storm. All of my gear was packed away in my tent, just in case.

These circling clouds would have made me think ‘tornado’ had I been in the Midwest or South. BTW… all I had was a few drops of rain with no thunder or lightning.

A small reflection lake was located a hundred yards from my camp. It came with its own water snake. The snake didn’t cooperate for a photo shoot, however.

I’ll close today’s post with this photo that provides a perspective on the size of the lake. Glaciers once worked their way through this portion of the Sierras, carving hundreds of such lakes from small to large.

NEXT POST: Native American rock art at Lava Beds National Monument in Northern California that dates back over 4000 years.

 

Goatsuckers in the Night… Let’s Go Backpacking! Part 1

/ Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

Putting a pack on my back makes me happy. It means I am heading out for another wilderness adventure. This gorgeous Incense Cedar graced my camp and became the subject of many photos. Incense Cedars are normally found around the 4-5 thousand foot level in the northern Sierras.

 

I’ve been out on a solo backpack trip this past week at the 5000-foot level in the Sierra Nevada Mountains north of Interstate 80, about half way between Sacramento and Reno. Peggy drove me up from Sacramento where she was spending time with her 96-year-old mother.

 

I first started backpacking 48 years ago. Peggy caught this photo as I was prepared to head out on last Sunday.

It was time. Peggy took out her camera for a couple of photos, I shouldered my backpack, waved goodbye, and headed down the jeep road that led to Eagle Lakes. Since it was Sunday, most of the four-wheel enthusiasts were coming out, joyously running their vehicles up and over treacherous rock piles and though waist-deep mud holes. It’s not my thing, but I admire the people who are passionate about the sport. I was raised in El Dorado County, California, home to the granddaddy of all four-wheeling events, the Jeepers Jamboree. Mark Smith created the event in 1953 and it is still going strong.

Does this look like a road to you? It’s the type of challenge that gets a four-wheeler’s heart racing— one they dream of and are long after telling tales about.

I placed my trekking pole on the road to provide a perspective. Yes, jeepers drive over this! As for the dark stain you see, think oil pan…

A series of four-wheel clubs help maintain this road and the camping areas. Most of these groups have a fairly strong wilderness ethic. I thought that the Madhatters was the most entertaining name.

They even carry out their poop!

My goal wasn’t to hike the jeep road, however. It was to hike beyond the jeep road and beyond the numerous four-wheelers who were out for a weekend drive or camping trip. Actually, it wasn’t hard. All I needed to do was to travel a couple of miles past where the jeep road ended. Whereas, four-wheeling isn’t my sport, hiking and backpacking aren’t sports for most four-wheelers. I found a delightful spot and only saw four people while I was there: two hikers and two mountain bikers. One of the hikers, a good Christian fellow, even stopped to bless me… and Peggy… and our children… and our grandchildren… and any pets we happened to own. I was beginning to wonder if he would ever stop, but finally, he ran out of breath. I quickly thanked him and he happily went on his way— his job done.

I didn’t travel particularly far, but it was an adventure for me. I wanted to see how my ‘senior’ body would handle the trip. I’ve been backpacking for 48 years and have several thousand trail miles behind me from the tundra to the tropics, so it isn’t like I’m inexperienced. Mentally, I was ready to go. More than ready. But would the knees, and the hips, and the back, and miscellaneous other body parts agree? Well, I am here to report that they whined a bit. In fact, they whined a lot. They always do on the first outing of the year. But they also knew that whining alone wouldn’t get them back to the easy chair they love so much. I hiked along at 2 to 2 ½ miles per hour, which is a good pace for backpacking in the mountains, and eventually, they shut up.

I was one tired puppy when I found a place to camp, however. I unpacked, set up my kitchen, cooked my gourmet dinner (i.e. boiled water and poured it onto freeze-dried food), put up my tent, and anxiously waited for the sun to go down. I was ready to climb into my sleeping bag. Unfortunately, the longest day in the year (for those of us who live north of the Equator) was only a day away, and the sun didn’t want to cooperate. It lingered until 9:00. There was ample time for the ants, and flies, and mosquitoes, and several other biting bugs to enjoy the fortuitous feast that had arrived in their tiny corner of the universe. And feast they did, apparently giving me an allergic reaction. I sneezed and sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. My nose ran so fast that I had to put on my running shoes to catch up. I was still sneezing when the sun miraculously went down and I crawled into my tent, removing three large ants who had missed out on dinner.

I amused myself while waiting for the sun to set by wandering around taking photos. This was the pond I camped next to.

Lily pads came close to covering the water. This shot reminded me of the work done by the Impressionist painters. Monet would have had his brush out.

Old Man Mountain loomed above me, a reminder that much of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range is composed of granite.

This was my view looking up when I arrived and cooked dinner.

The same view later. It was just about bed time!

I walked out to check out the sunset…

And enjoyed the reflection in the pond.

There was no climbing into my sleeping bag, however. It was too damned hot. When Peggy and I had left Sacramento for our 60-mile drive into the mountains, the thermometer was pushing 109 degrees. It was cooler in the Sierras, but still in the 90s. Hiking in the heat was part of the reason I was so bushed. And now, along with the incessant sneezing, it was keeping me awake. I laid there in my altogether on top of my Therm-a-Rest mattress, took an antihistamine, and waited. Finally, things calmed and cooled down. I began to doze off. That’s when the other shoe dropped. The thousand frogs (slight exaggeration) that lived in the shallow lake next to where I was camping began to croak, all at once. I’d just managed to tune them out when the Goatsucker flew over.

Goatsucker? Was I beginning to lose it? Not exactly. For those of you who aren’t card carrying members of the Audubon Society, goatsuckers are members of a fairly large, noisy family of night birds. Whip-poor-wills are an example. My particular nemesis wasn’t a Whip-poor-will with its mournful all-night jabber, though, it was a Nighthawk, who had his own unique way of making noise. You can tell they are in the neighborhood when you hear their distinct “peent, peent” calls, but that’s only the beginning. In order to win their lady-love’s favor, the males climb high into the sky, close their wings and dive bomb the objects of their affection. Just as they reach the females, they open their wings. The wind rushing through their primary feathers makes a loud bloop sound. The bigger the boy, the louder the bloop. Apparently, it turns the girls on.

As to how the family obtained the name goatsucker, there’s an interesting story that goes way back in time to Europe. It starts with the fact that the birds have tiny beaks that open up to huge mouths they use for catching insects. In Europe, they liked to hang about around smelly goats at night that attracted lots of bugs. But the Europeans believed that the birds had a more nefarious purpose in mind. They believed that they were using their large mouths to grab hold of the nanny goats’ teats and suck them dry. Here’s what Pliny, the Roman Elder, had to say about them in 71 CE. (1601 CE interpretation.)

The Caprimulgi (so called of milking goats) are like the bigger kind of Owsels. They bee night-theeves; for all the day long they see not. Their manner is to come into the goat-pens, and to the goats udders presently they goe, and suck the milke at their teats. And looke what udder is so milked, it giveth no more milke, but misliketh and falleth away afterwards, and the goats become blind withall.

They were bad birds indeed. Not only did they steal nanny’s milk; her teats fell off and she went blind as well. Anyway, with this thought in mind I eventually fell asleep to the sounds of nature: croak, croak, peent, peent, BLOOP!

In my walk-about after dinner, I discovered that the Incense Cedar I featured at the top of the post was actually two trees. Fire, possibly set by lightning, had burned out the space between the twins.

I shot up the trunks for a different perspective.

I’ll conclude today’s post with a picture of the twin cedars being caught in the early morning sun the next day.

NEXT POST: Let’s go backpacking: Part 2… An ugly pit viper comes slithering into my kitchen.

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Playing Dodge Ball with Bounding Boulders on Big Sur’s Iconic Highway 1

/ Curt Mekemson / 45 Comments

Waves crash against the shore along Big Sur’s picturesque coast.

It was raining hard and our view of the Pacific Ocean was limited to pretty much nothing. We were working our way north through Big Sur country along California’s iconic Highway 1 perched on a cliff high above the Pacific Ocean. An orange Cal-Tran’s (the California Department of Transportation) sign warned us to be prepared to stop. And we were. You pay attention to such things when you are driving on a wet, narrow, curvy road with the threat of an all-to-brief flying lesson.

“There’s the flagger,” Peggy warned, and I slowed down from turtle to snail pace. No one else was in line so I stopped at where he was standing. He signaled for me to lower my window. I expected him to tell us that the road was one-lane ahead. Closures are to be expected on Highway 1 during the winter. Either the downhill side is sliding into the ocean or the uphill side is covered with rocks and dirt. This time it was different.

Lane closures are to be expected along California’s coastal Highway 1 north and south of San Francisco.

“We have a spotter just up the road,” he told me. “He’s watching for rocks bounding down the cliff.” I looked ahead and saw the spotter 100 feet ahead. “As soon as he is sure nothing is crashing down, we’ll give you the go ahead to cross the area. Don’t stop.” Don’t stop? Talk about unnecessary advice. A rousing game of dodge ball with bounding boulders has never appealed to me. I was just sorry I couldn’t race through at 100 miles an hour. So were Quivera the van and Peggy. I made my way across at a nervous 30 while Peggy looked up the cliff for rocks— mentally forcing them to stay put while floor-boarding the gas pedal in her imagination. I’m pretty sure her right foot was cramped afterward.

Landslides along Highway 1 are frequent during the wet months. The nature of the rocks and soil in the area, frequent California earthquakes, and ocean waves crashing against the cliffs all contribute. When water from rain or springs is added to the equation as a lubricant, portions of the hillsides go tumbling into the ocean far too often. Highway 1 through Big Sur has been closed over 55 times since it was carved out of the cliffs in 1937. The heavy rains this past season have made for one of the worst years ever.

Crashing waves are responsible for some of the Pacific Ocean’s most scenic views, but they can also undercut cliffs leading to landslide danger. Note the lone fisherman with a red coat perched on the rock trying to catch fish in the pounding surf.

I had planned to drive down the Big Sur coast from Carmel to Hearst Castle on my recent trip to the Central Coast but the road was blocked 20 miles down the road. The rains had caused the Pfeiffer Canyon Bridge to crack and it couldn’t be repaired. Cal Trans was forced to knock it down. The transportation department estimates the bridge can be rebuilt by September. A landslide was also blocking the road further on. Businesses along the highway were suffering. The normal thousands of visitors had slowed to a trickle. One resort had even turned to flying in guests by helicopter.

And it was about to get worst.

On Saturday, May 20, four weeks ago and one week after I had left the area, over one million tons of rock went sliding into the ocean just north of Gorda, about 60 miles south of Carmel/Monterrey. It’s in the same area where Peggy and I had played dodge rock a few years earlier. Locals are calling it the Mother of all Landslides. One third of a mile along Highway 1 is now covered by 65 feet of dirt and rock and there are 13 acres of new shore front property. Someone (with apparently too much time on his hands) has estimated that 800 Olympic sized pools could be filled with the dirt.

Who knows how long it will take to clear the area, but Cal-Trans is working away. Keeping the road open is a priority, regardless of time and expense. Highway 1 is regarded as one of the most scenic highways in the world. And I heartily concur. In addition to driving the road many times and camping out along the ocean, I have also bicycled it, which was an incredible experience.

A scenic view along Highway 1 in Big Sur.

The area’s renowned beauty has also served as a prime attraction to writers, artists and counter-culture types. One was Henry Miller, who has a memorial museum located just south of the now defunct Pfeiffer Canyon Bridge. Miller moved to the area in 1944 while his semi-biographical books, The Tropic of Cancer and The Topic of Capricorn, were still banned in the US for obscenity. I had managed to pick up copies and read them in the early 60s, before either they, or I, were yet legal. I don’t remember anything about the sex, but I do remember Miller’s incredible power of observation and description. It totally transported me to another world. (The museum has been temporarily relocated to the Barnyard Shopping Center in Carmel.)

If you keep driving south on Highway 1 another 20 miles or so below the Miller museum, you come to Esalen, known worldwide as a center for the human potential movement and new age thinking. The shotgun-toting writer, Hunter S. Thomson, served as a caretaker for the Big Sur Hot Springs before it became Esalen. At the time, the old hotel on the property was occupied by a Pentecostal group while the hot springs were normally filled with gay men from San Francisco. (It’s difficult to imagine Thomson, the Pentecostals and San Francisco gays in close proximity during the late 50s.)

Michael Murphy and his friend Richard Price leased the land from Michael’s grandmother in 1962 with the idea of creating a center for non-traditional studies free from the restraints of academia. Encouraged by Alan Watts, Aldous Huxley, and Gregory Bateson, they founded Esalen. Workshops on encounter groups, sensory awakening, and gestalt awareness were soon being offered. The faculty was close to a who’s who of the human potential movement. Included among the luminaries were Joseph Campbell, Abraham Maslow, Arnold Toynbee, Ansel Adams, Buckminster Fuller, Timothy Leary, Linus Pauling, Carl Rogers, BF Skinner, and Fritz Perls.  I was amused at how many of these people have written books that I’ve read over the years, which I guess says something about me.

While my trip down the coast wasn’t to be, I did drive the few miles I could and captured enough photos to provide a feel for Big Sur country— but the dramatic, thousand-foot cliffs you find further south along the coast are absent. Those will have to wait for another trip. Maybe I’ll take a class at Esalen and re-up my New Age credentials. (grin)

Big Sur is noted for its classic bridges that were built during the Great Depression of the 1930’s as a means of putting people to work. This is the Garrapta Creek Bridge built in 1931.

Another of the Big Sur bridges I photographed on my trip.

And a third. Bright colors at the base caught my attention.

Even these classic reminders of another era can’t escape graffiti.

Numerous flowers, such as this Milk Thistle decorate the roadsides in Big Sur.

The Milk Thistle gets its name from the white sap that flows through its veins.

This beauty belongs to an Ice Plant, which is actually an invasive species.

I assumed that this was a morning-glory.

Another shot.

No trip to Big Sur is complete without visiting the beach, assuming you can get to it.

Crashing waves are a given. Hear the roar! Feel the spray!

Each wave has its own personality, which varies per second.

Crashing over rocks adds another element of beauty and drama.

An old-time black and white rendition.

Another perspective.

And another.

Impressive rocks always catch my attention.

I’ll conclude today with this blue-gray shaded granitic rock that contrasted sharply with the gold-colored sedimentary rocks beyond it.

NEXT BLOG: Join me as I encounter Patty Hearst, a.k.a. Tanya, and her kidnappers/comrades, the 1970s terrorist group known as the Symbionese Liberation Army, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

I’ll be out backpacking by myself for several days, which means I will be totally away from any internet connections. I did pick up a Spot Gen 3 Satellite GPS messenger at REI yesterday, however. If I break a leg, I can hit the SOS button and shoot out a message to local emergency responders with my exact location. Peggy worried enough about me when I went off traipsing in the wilderness by myself when I was a brash young man of 60. Now I am an older, more mature fellow of 74, she worries even more.

 

Just too Cute to Ignore… When Fawns Come to Visit

/ Curt Mekemson / 44 Comments

Missy, a Black Tail Deer, brought by her baby for a visit yesterday. The kid was all legs and just a few days old. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I had intended to put up a blog on Big Sur today, but then one of the does that hangs out on our property decided to bring by her fawn for a visit yesterday evening. It was just too cute to ignore and Peggy quickly grabbed her camera. So Big Sur can wait until later in the week! I’ve also taken several photos of the local deer herd over the past few weeks and one very bad squirrel, so I am adding them to the post. It has been a while since I’ve featured anything on the zoo we normally call our yard. Enjoy…

Missy and her baby. The kid’s older sister was there too and joined in the grooming, which is something I hadn’t seen before. Normally does drive off their kids from the previous year when they have a new baby. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Wait up Mom! (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Our five acres on the Upper Applegate River in Southern Oregon at times resembles a zoo as I’ve already noted. A deer herd, foxes, coyotes, skunks, raccoons, possums and squirrels make their home here. Earlier this week, our neighbor reported that a momma bear with two cubs was making the rounds. We quickly put bungee cords on our garbage cans!

My writing chair looks out on our backyard, which can be hazardous to the writing process. I glanced out the window the other day and a whole herd of deer had settled in for a nap.

We call this guy Little Buck. I think he is commenting on the lack of apples. He’s another of Missy’s children. Actually, he was born two years ago. Missy had driven him and his sister off last year when she had a fawn. When the fawn had an unfortunate encounter with a car, Missy re-adopted her children.

Another shot of Little Buck. His antlers are still in velvet. Bucks lose their velvet in late summer in preparation for mating season debates over who gets the girl. Little Buck will likely be a spike with no points on his antlers this year, which will leave him out of the competition.

This fellow is obviously on his way to becoming at least a ‘forked horn’ with two points. The bucks usually join together in a guys’ club until mating season. Little Buck, who is something of a momma’s boy, still hangs out with Missy and his sister.

I took this photo of Missy in our backyard a few weeks ago before she had her fawn. She is maybe 15 feet away from where I write and often keeps me company along with Little Buck and Sis.

There are lots of gray squirrels who live up in the trees and ground squirrels who live in burrows on our property. And they all love birdseed! If you accuse them of stealing it, however, they all deny they have been anywhere near the bird feeder. They claim things like executive privilege, or say they can’t remember, or plead the fifth, or argue that the information is classified. I have a T-shirt I like to wear that reflects their behavior.

Birdseed? What birdseed?

A close-up. The cheeks are an absolute give-away.

Three days ago I caught a culprit with the goods up on the railing of our deck. He still denied any knowledge of bird seed even though sunflower seed shells were scattered all over the railing. When I pointed this out to him, he, um… well, wait and see for yourself.

I looked out our bedroom window and spotted a ground squirrel eating what looked a lot like bird seed.

When I pointed out that he was surrounded by empty sunflower seed shells he claimed they proved nothing.

When I suggested he was lying, he spit out a shell and gave me an internationally recognized salute! Check out his right paw.

Just in case I didn’t get it!

That’s it for today. (grin) On Friday, I’ll be back with the post on Big Sur.

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From Baker Beach to the Black Rock Desert… The Fiery Journey of Burning Man’s Man

/ Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

The Man at Burning Man burns in 2012. A few remaining fireworks fall from the sky.

 

One of the first things I do at Burning Man each year is head out to the Playa to visit the Man. It’s a way of paying homage. Given that the annual event in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada wouldn’t exist without the Man and his appointment with fire, my ‘pilgrimage’ seems appropriate. Here’s what I wrote a few years back on Burning Man’s beginnings in San Francisco:

A striking sight of the Golden Gate Bridge dominates the view from Baker Beach in San Francisco. It’s a romantic spot, a popular place to get married. Folks also get naked; it’s a nude beach. It was here that Larry Harvey and his friend Jerry James decided to host a bonfire in honor of the summer solstice in 1986. As to why they chose a nine-foot wooden effigy of a man (and his dog) to burn, Harvey remains mysteriously mum. Whatever the reason, it was out of the flames that Burning Man was born. Larry and his friends had such a great time they vowed to come back the next year with a bigger Man.

By 1990 the Man had grown to 40 feet tall and word of mouth had guaranteed that a sizable crowd was present for the solstice bonfire on Baker Beach. It wasn’t to be. Golden Gate Park police had decided that burning the Man posed a fire hazard to the Park and City. A single Park Ranger rolled in on a motorbike and said no go. You can’t be too careful, right? Fires were raging across Southern California.

The Man was taken apart and returned to the vacant lot he called home. The people who had come to watch the burn were angry. This might have marked the end of Burning Man, except for a bit of synchronicity. The Man had caught the attention of a group in San Francisco known as the Cacophony Society, an organization that specialized in outrageous pranks and strange outings known as zone trips. Several of its members, including co-founder John Law, suggested to Larry that the place to burn the Man was in the remote Black Rock Desert of Northern Nevada. It would make an ideal zone trip— far out in the language of the 60’s. A Ryder Truck was rented for the Labor Day weekend and stuffed with the man plus personal gear. Cars were loaded with people and some 80-100 Burners headed off into the desert. A tradition was born.

Today’s Burning Man is tame in comparison to the early years on the Playa. In the beginning, people camped wherever and drove when, where, and as fast as they wanted. Admission was free, open to anyone who wanted to make the drive up (primarily people from the Bay Area). At times, the event took on the guise of a shooting gallery. Running in and out of fire became a sport, particularly popular to those who were drunk or drugged out of their minds. Once again, Burning Man could have easily ended, but Larry and the others who founded the event had a broader vision and the event evolved, instead. By the late 90s, rules had been developed to make the event safer. Elements of its art, environmental, social and spiritual culture had begun to develop. When I first arrived in 2004, Burning Man had more or less become the event it is now, minus 35,000 people.

This year, 32 years after the first Man first burned on Baker Beach, some 70,000 people from the US and around the world will make the journey into the desert for the week-plus of craziness starting on August 27th and ending September 3. On Saturday evening, September 2, most of these Burners will make their way out onto the Playa and form a huge circle around the Man. The majority will either walk or bike, but many will also journey out in mutant vehicles that form their own large circle where they blast out music and fire. As night settles in, hundreds of fire dancers will perform their fiery art in the center of the circle followed by a solemn procession to set the man on fire, which also kicks off a massive fireworks display. Sometimes the Man burns quickly as he has been prepped to do, other times it seems to go on and on. Regardless, almost everyone stays until the sculpture comes crashing down, creating one of those moments of silence, which is so rare at Burning Man, followed by a very loud celebration.

It’s impossible to get the full sense of the event without being there, but photos help. I will start with several pictures I have taken of the Man over the years and then move on to the burn.

The Man begins his week located at the center of the Playa. While his look remains more or less the same, his base changes each year depending on the theme for the year. I took this photo in 2006.

In 2007, the Man burned twice— the first time in the early hours of the morning by a rogue Burner. I had actually missed the act of vandalism by only a half hour. Note the Phoenix on the face, like the mythological bird, he was able to rise again.

BMORG, the Burning Man organization was able to put together another Man in San Francisco and get him back to the desert in time for his Saturday burn. Here, he is being placed on his pedestal, still headless. (Photo by our friend Ken Lake.)

One of my favorite bases was this one from 2009.

In 2010, the Man came with gargoyles, like a European cathedral. In this photo they are still working on the base. It isn’t unusual for finishing touches to be added at the beginning of the week. The steps up to the fourth level provided Burners with an opportunity to look out over Black Rock City, the Playa and the surrounding mountains.

One of the gargoyles I photographed when I reached the top.

Three main roads lead out from Black Rock City to the Man. This one was from Center Camp. Lanterns are hung from the poles at night. The 2012 base was one of the largest.

A close up.

What the structure inside the base of the 2012 Man looked like. No nails were used in putting it together.

A flying saucer provided the base in 2013.

The Man’s head had been altered to have an alien appearance..

The man was fleshed out, so to speak, in 2014. The Temple, lit up by the sun, can be seen through the Man’s legs. Each year, Center Camp, the Man and the Temple are lined up.

Part of Burning Man’s appeal is the magnificent mountains of the Black Rock Desert that surround the event.

I liked this shot of the 2014 Man’s face lit up by the sun.

The 2015 Man was perched on top of a maze covered with side-show circus posters reflecting the year’s theme.

And now we come to the 2015 Man being prepped for Burn Night. It’s Saturday. The art work has been removed and the firewood piled high. Entrance into the area has been closed off.

On burn night almost everyone in Black Rock City gathers around the Man. The Man on top of its flying saucer base in 2013 is looking even more ET-like. Lighting has been added to help create the effect.

Fireworks and arms raised means the Man is about to burn!

The 2014 Man goes up in flames. (Photo by Don Green.)

This shot of the base of the 2012 Man captured the intensity of the fire well. You can almost feel the heat!

The Man is standing on his ‘last legs’ here. He and his flying saucer teeter on the edge of falling into the fire.

Burners celebrate as the Man falls. Mutant vehicles provide prime seating for the event.

The morning after: Burners use glowing embers from the night’s Burn to roast a lamb. Life goes on. The Man will rise again the next year.

This completes my series on Burning Man for now. I may do a couple more posts before I head off to Black Rock City again on August 26. In September and October I’ll post the results of my 2017 adventure!

NEXT POSTS:

Big Sur with its iconic bridges, beautiful coastline, and a bit of history.

I encounter a 70s terrorist group in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

A new series: The fascinating, ancient rock art of the Western United States.

 

Lost in a Sierra Snow Storm… When the Stakes Are Survival

/ Curt Mekemson / 35 Comments

There is beauty in freshly fallen snow, but there can also be danger. Avalanches, hypothermia and getting lost are three frightening possibilities. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

 

This is the second of three stories about  my years of hunting and fishing during my 20s. I wrote about escaping from a massive lightning storm in my last post. This time I am going to write about another hazard of wilderness travel: getting caught in a snow storm. Once again, I was out hunting with my friends Bob and Hunt, along with another friend we had grown up with in Diamond Springs, Phil Dunlop. As usual, I was enjoying the excuse to be out in the woods. Deer season had come down to its last weekend…

Pushing the season to its limit meant risking bad weather. We were hunting north of Highway 50 in El Dorado National Forest about 30 miles west of Lake Tahoe one Saturday afternoon in late October when the snowflakes started drifting lazily out of the sky.

It wasn’t much to worry about; we zipped up our coats and continued hunting. If anything, the gently falling snow added an enjoyable element to the trip. But it kept snowing and the flakes became more serious. After a couple of hours there were six inches of the white stuff on the ground and my tracks were beginning to disappear. I decided it was time to make a judicious retreat to the T-bone steaks that were waiting for us back at the jeep. I soon ran into Hunt who was walking with Phil.

“Have you seen Bob?” I asked. He and I had parted an hour earlier at the edge of a large thicket of brush where Bob had been convinced he would jump an evasive buck.

“I haven’t seen him since it started to snow,” was Hunt’s reply. Phil hadn’t see him since lunch. Normally we wouldn’t have been overly concerned; we were used to traipsing around through the woods on our own. But evening was coming, the temperature was dropping, and the snow was continuing to accumulate.

“Maybe Bob has more sense than we do and has already returned to the jeep,” Phil suggested. That seemed logical so we made the short 15-minute walk back to it. No Bob.

“This is getting worrisome guys,” I said in a definitely worried tone. It wasn’t like Bob to be late for dinner. “Let’s go back to where I saw him last and see if we can find his tracks.” The advantage of snow is that it leaves a trail even a city slicker can follow, assuming that it hasn’t already covered the tracks. Even then there is usually a remnant of dimples in the snow.

These turkey tracks show how clear tracks can be in the snow.

Unfortunately, no tracks or convincing trail-like dimples were to be found. I did spot the tracks of a very large deer, but they disappeared at the edge of the thicket.

“It looks like the buck stops here,” I said to Phil and elicited a weak groan. I suggested we split up and look around.

“We need to meet back here in 30 minutes,” I urged. “Don’t go far and pay attention to where you are going. It is getting close to dark and the last thing we need is a second person missing. If you come across Bob’s tracks, fire your rifle and we will join you.” My degree of concern was reflected in my bossiness. Normally we were a very democratic, almost anarchical group.

Ten minutes later I had made my way to the other side of the thicket and found nothing. Neither had I heard any rifle shots announcing neither Hunt nor Phil had success. Discouraged, I turned around to rejoin my fellow searchers. It was then I spotted tracks leading out of the thicket. Up went my Winchester and I fired off a shot.

“Bang!” the sound of another rifle being fired resounded from the direction Bob’s track had headed. I quickly levered in another bullet and fired again. There was no response. I did hear Phil and Hunt making their way through the brush toward me, though. They sounded like a pair of large bears. We held another council. Once again, we decided to split up.

Phil would return to the road where the jeep was parked and flag down a car. His job was to get a message through to the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department that Bob was missing. Hunt would cut back through the thicket and wait on the jeep trail where the thicket began in case Bob made his way back there. He’d fire his rifle if Bob appeared. I was going to follow Bob’s tracks until dark to see if I couldn’t catch up with him. There was only about 30 minutes of daylight left so the odds were slim. My concern was that Bob had somehow injured himself and was stranded, or that he had become disoriented and become lost.

Following the tracks was a challenge. They would be clear for a few yards and then disappear under the snow. It was continuing to fall and beginning to drift, whipped on by a strong breeze. Each time I lost the tracks I would work forward in a zigzag pattern until I found them again. It didn’t help that Bob was tending to wander or that I was tired from a full day of tramping over mountains avoiding deer. Dusk was rapidly approaching when I came across another set of tracks that crossed the trail I was following. They were fresher, and they were also Bob’s! I yelled but the only response was the silence of the snow filled woods. It seemed to me that Bob was beginning to follow the classic lost person syndrome of wandering in circles.

I wanted to go on, needed to go on, but knew that the decision would be the wrong one. Dark had arrived to reduce an already limited visibility. I was tired, close to exhaustion, and cold. Hypothermia was a real threat. Ever so reluctantly I turned around and begin to make my way back toward Hunt, leaving Bob behind to face whatever fate the dark and snow and cold had in store for him.

The realization of how tired I was really hit me when I came to a downed tree and couldn’t persuade my leg to step over. We had quite the discussion. I reached down, grabbed my pants cuff and gave the reluctant appendage a boost. Hunt was waiting where we agreed and I filled him in on my findings as we made way back to the jeep through the ever-deepening snow.

Phil had had more luck. The vehicle he flagged down had a CB Radio and the driver was able to contact the Sheriff’s office. A team with snowmobiles would be at our jeep at first light, prepared for a full search and rescue operation. Bob, who was manager of Placerville’s newspaper, The Mountain Democrat, was well-known and liked in the community. We knew we would have lots of support in our search.

There wasn’t anything else we could do. We were too tired to set up the tent so we climbed in the jeep, grabbed a bite to eat, downed a Bud, and prepared for a long night. Hunt got the front seat—it was his jeep— and Phil and I shared the back. It was beyond uncomfortable and even exhaustion couldn’t drive me to sleep. Somewhere around two I finally managed to doze off only to be awakened at 5:30 by Hunt’s cussing about how damn cold it was. And it was. Our sleeping bags hadn’t kept us warm and the doors had frozen shut. We had to kick them open. We soon had our Coleman lantern blasting out light and our Coleman stove cooking up a mass of bacon, eggs and potatoes. We were expecting a long day and knew we would need whatever energy the food could supply. The storm had passed, leaving an absolutely clear sky filled with a million twinkling stars.

The Sheriff’s team arrived just as the sun was climbing above the Crystal Range of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, exactly on time. Introductions were made, snowmobiles unloaded and we filled the team in on our efforts of the previous day. The deputy sheriff in charge asked me to climb onto the back of his snowmobile and take them to the point where I had left Bob’s tracks the night before. It was to be my first ever snowmobile ride; except it wasn’t.

Just as the search team was firing up their engines, a wraithlike figure wearing a plastic poncho came slowly hiking up the hill toward the jeep. He looked like a bad guy out of an early Clint Eastwood western. It was Bob. As soon as the sun provided a hint of dawn, he had managed to orient himself and start walking back toward the jeep. Yes, he was freezing, but he was alive. We knew just how alive he was when he demanded his share of breakfast. As we cooked up another mass of bacon and eggs (fortunately we hadn’t eaten everything), Bob told us his story.

He had become disoriented after coming out of the thicket and headed off in the direction he thought would take him back to the jeep. It didn’t. He fired his rifle several times to get our attention but the sound of shots is fairly common in the forest during hunting season. We just assumed a deer hunter had gotten lucky. Bob continued wandering and eventually came across his own tracks. That was when he seriously began to worry.

Knowing he was lost and knowing night was coming on, he gathered wood for a fire. The wood was wet and refused to start burning. Bob’s lighter ran out of fuel but he still had a few matches. He took his lighter apart, placing the innards under the wet wood and used his last matches to light it. The good news was that the fire started. The bad news was that the wind and snow put it out almost immediately. It was some time during this process that I had fired my rifle and Bob had used his last shot to respond. Out of options, he had dug out a packrat’s nest to provide shelter and prepared for the longest night in his life. He had survived in lodging that made Hunt’s ancient jeep seem like a five-star hotel.

“I even fell asleep once or twice,” Bob managed to get out around a mouthful of eggs.

Of course, the Mountain Democrat ran a major story on Bob and he had to take considerable ribbing in Placerville over the next several months. It was a small price to pay considering the alternatives. That Christmas Bob received several compasses for gifts. It was years before he had tolerance for any temperature below 70.

I took this photo out my front door of our home in Oregon. And then went back inside…

NEXT BLOGS:

The Man: It’s time in my Burning Man series to visit the Man— and witness Black Rock City’s premier ceremony, the Saturday night burn.

Big Sur: Noted for being one of the most beautiful coastal areas in the world, my visit is limited by massive landslides.

Patty: My friends and I were on a preseason scouting trip for trout streams in the Sierras when a white van roared around us, lost control, and ended up in a snow bank. We were about to encounter Patty Hearst and one of the scariest terrorist groups of the 70s: The Symbionese Liberation Army.

A Fangorn Forest and a Really Weird Rock… Pt. Lobos Part II

/ Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments

This sandstone  at Pt. Lobos has worn away to expose the concretions that were created in it millions of years ago. It gets my vote as a really weird rock.

I’ve become used to the idea that concretions can lead to some strange rocks. Several years ago, for example, Peggy and I had wandered about as far south on the Southern Island of New Zealand as you can go and had come across the rocks shown below. Bone, who is about four inches tall, perched on top of the rocks to provide perspective. These large boulders, known as the Moeraki Boulders, are concretions formed from Paleocene mudstone.

Peggy and I found this mudstone concretion in New Zealand on a South Island beach. Bone, who likes strange things, provides perspective.

Another of the New Zealand concretions and Bone.

Up until I found the sandstone concretions on Pt. Lobos three weeks ago, I was sure that New Zealand would win the prize for really weird rocks. Now I am not so sure. For some murky reason, according to geologists, these concretions form as lumps in sand and grow in concentric rings cemented together as the sand turns to rock. The weathering of the rocks at Pt. Lobos exposes a cross-section of the concretion, which is what you see in the photo at the top of the post. Like the rocks in New Zealand, I found them almost alien.

The concretions are found on the South Shore of Pt. Lobos, which is considerably different from the North Shore that I featured in my last blog on California’s Central Coast. Sedimentary rocks of the Carmelo formation replace the granitic rocks and the terrain is more accommodating to roads and parking lots. Consequently, there are a lot more visitors. While I had mainly hiked alone before, a number of people now joined me along the trail. I preferred the ‘splendid isolation,’ but my hiking companions in no way detracted from the beauty of the area.

Carmelo sandstone on the South Beach of Pt. Lobos replaces the granitic rocks on the North Shore. Like the granite, it is moving northward along the San Andreas Fault. This rock has been folded upward by geological forces. The distant land is part of Big Sur.

I found this large chunk of sandstone attractive.

The Sea Lion Trail along the South Beach included a face. The pebbly rock is a form of conglomerate. Cormorants gather down on the point.

Looking down into one of the coves along South Beach.

As might be expected, given that it was spring, the trail around Pt. Lobos was filled with flowers. Having ‘borrowed’ Peggy’s camera since she was playing grandmother in North Carolina, I was able to get up close and personal with several of them.

Monkey flowers.

California Poppies.

Asters.

Wild Hollyhocks.

Miner’s Lettuce. It goes great in a salad, as the early 49ers discovered.

Lupine.

Indian Paint Brush.

Blue Eyed Grass.

And a rose, by any other name, is still a rose— even a wild rose.

My final view of the ocean from Pt. Lobos was looking south at the Big Sur Coastline, which is where we will travel next on my posts about the Central California Coast. The buildings you see on the left are located in Carmel Highlands. I once stood on one of the rocky outcrops and watched a whale breach just off the shore. The Highlands Inn, a fine old hotel hidden up in the trees, offers fine views of the ocean. I’ve eaten in the restaurant a few times but never stayed there. I could fly to Europe for the cost of a one night stay: $600 to $900. I said goodbye to the coast and hiked back toward the entrance station. Along the way, I met a tree that belonged in Tolkien’s Fangorn Forest. It leaned over the trail and watched me as I passed.

Beach at Carmel Highlands.

I thought these tree limbs were reaching out to grab me. And then I noticed the eyes. I looked around hoping to find Treebeard.

Instead I found this bench with its carving of a Pelican and important reminder. I thought it was an appropriate ending to my hike through Pt. Lobos Nature Preserve.

Next Posts: Lost in a snow storm, Big Sur, and the Man at Burning Man.

Special Note: For those of you who follow Bone’s wandering ways, he has traveled up to northern Oregon and will be out having adventures with Crystal Truelove at Conscious Engagement. Not sure all of what he will be involved in (you never know with Bone), but I think he will be attending a gathering of Cherokees. Last I saw of him he was perched on a beehive at Crystals.

So, You Want to Become a Billionaire… Maybe You Should Go to Burning Man

/ Curt Mekemson / 39 Comments

Burning Man appeals to a wide range of ages and these young women with their floppy ears are on the lower end of the spectrum. Children are rare at the event. Only 1.3% of participants are under 20.

 

I’ve been perusing the 2016 Burning Man census. The organization makes a serious effort to know who comes to Black Rock City each year and I am always curious about the results. Today I will share some of the data. It may surprise you. I will also post photos that Don Green and I took of Burners who attended the 2015 event. (I didn’t make it last year.) In addition to providing a small sample of participants, the pictures demonstrate another aspect of Burning Man’s creativity: costumes.

Costumes are an important part of individual creativity at Burning Man. Captain Jack, for example, looked a lot like Johnny Depp. Maybe he was. Hollywood has discovered Burning Man. (Photo by Don Green.)

Before starting, however, I want to summarize a news story that NBC ran in February. It’s relevant.

In 2001 Google was searching for a new CEO. While Larry Page and Sergey Brin had taken Google to dizzying heights in five years, its board had decided that the 20-something entrepreneurs needed an older, more steady hand around to help run the ever-growing company. A massive search had been undertaken using a variety of metrics ranging from education, to experience, to the ability to crack MENSA-like brain tests— all to no avail. As Brin would tell the press, “Larry and I managed to alienate fifty of the top executives in Silicon Valley.”

There were mountains of talent available in the Valley, but Google needed a special mix that could bring an element of discipline to the company without reigning in the genius and unique approach to work that are the secrets to its success.

My son-in-law, Clay, works for Google in Charlotte, North Carolina and I’ve been to his office. The visit provided an insight into how Google works. All employees, regardless of position, share a common space where both individual contribution and group participation are encouraged and inspired. Creative ideas and problems are thrown into the hopper and anyone with suggestions from throughout the Google world is invited to participate, from the newest employee up to Larry and Sergey. There is a constant flow of action and reaction. It seems like a recipe for chaos; instead, it has proven to be a key to the company’s ongoing success.

When Clay returned to his office after a trip he had made just before Christmas, he found that every object on his desk, including his computer screen, had been wrapped in Christmas paper. It’s the type of hijinks you can expect at Google, where play is taken seriously.

The challenge that Larry and Sergey faced was finding someone who fit in. They decided that desperate measures were necessary to finalize their decision. When they discovered that one of their top candidates, Eric Schmidt, a Berkeley PhD computer scientist from Sun Microsystems had been to Burning Man, they modified their rankings to bring him back in for another interview. Here’s the thing: Brin and Page loved the creative, communal chaos of the event. Their office building in Silicon Valley was filled with photos of employees who had been to Black Rock City and were decked out in Burner costumes doing Burner things, like twirling fire. Each year, Google provided a free shuttle from the Bay Area to its participants who wanted to go. Google’s first Google Doodle was a stick figure of the Man, the symbol for Burning Man.

Page and Brin were a mere two years away from leaving their Stanford dorm room and founding Google when they headed off to the Nevada desert for their first trip to Burning Man in 1998. To let people know that they were out of the office and had gone to the event, they put the stick figure of the Man behind the company’s name, thus creating their first Google Doodle.

They liked what Schmidt had to say and decided to give him the acid test: they would take him to Burning Man with them and see how he reacted. How would he handle the heat, the noise, the dust, and the 24/7 activity? Would he fit in and become part of the team? Would he go with the flow and contribute? Or would he withdraw into himself? The rest, as they say, is history. Eric passed the test and became CEO of Goggle. The company at the time was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $100 million. In 2011, when Larry resumed his role as CEO, the company was worth around $40 billion.  Today, Larry and Sergey are listed among the world’s richest people. And Schmidt? He, too, has become a billionaire. Not bad for a group of Burners.

So, what about the rest of us, the ones who don’t qualify as the one percent of one percenters.

The majority of folks who attend Burning Man aren’t exactly poor. In 2016, the average income for all participants was $60,000. 29.5% had an income of between $50,000 and $100,000 while 24% made between $100,000 and $300,000. 3.4% made over $300,000, up from 2.3% in 2013. The education level and age of Burners reflects the income. 74% had a bachelor’s degree or higher. The median age was 34. Only 1.3% of Burners were under 20 while 32% were over 39.

 

It isn’t unusual at all to find people in their 50s and 60s, and even 70s, attending Burning Man. (Photo by Don Green.)

This fellow had been around long enough to grow a fine set of horns.

39% of the participants in 2016 were virgin Burners, first timers. Only 13% have been more than 8 times, which, at 10 times, happens to be the category I fit in. Not sure what that makes me. Maybe my synapses are covered in Playa dust; I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve certainly had enough up my nose and in my eyes and ears.

Men outnumber women by 56.8% to 41.4%, leaving a couple of percentage points for ‘other.’ I was amused that the census listed its gender figures under current gender— like it might change at any moment. Ethnicity-wise, close to 80% are white. 20% 0f Burners come from countries other than the US. Within the US, 48.5% of the participants came from California, which isn’t particularly surprising given its proximity and population size. It is a bit more curious that the number two state was New York with over 8%, given that New York City is some 2700 miles from Black Rock City via Interstate 80.

Men outnumber women but it isn’t really obvious at Burning Man. This Burner’s costume was his tattoos.

I discovered this woman with her smile writing at the Center Camp Cafe, an activity that I like to pursue. It is fun to sit there and watch the world flow by while making an occasional note.

This man intrigued me. Although my photo wasn’t as clear as I like, I couldn’t resist including him with my galley of Burners.

My sense is that the diversity of people attending Burning Man has been increasing, but it has been a slow process. (Photo by Don Green.)

The most interesting figures to me are those that relate why people decide to run off to the desert and play in the dirt for a week. Participants were asked to check the reason or reasons they came to Burning Man from a prepared list. I was pleased to see that my reason— wanting to see and experience the art—was marked by 62.5% of the participants, the highest percentage received. Next up was to be with friends or to share an experience with like-minded people. 44% said they wanted to experience freedom and play. Considering you can wander wherever and do whatever— assuming you aren’t doing any harm to another person or the environment— that’s a lot of freedom! Go ahead and parade around naked if that has been your deepest desire forever. You’ll have company. 28% wanted to escape the world for a week. (That number may go up significantly this year.) Contrary to what many people think about Burning Man, only 3.7% said they came to consume intoxicants. But then, would you claim that if it were your reason? 21.6 % mentioned spirituality among their reasons for attending. I discussed the spiritual factor in my post on Burning Man’s temples. While only 6.1% of Burners marked that they belonged to a specific religion, 46.5% in 2016 claimed they were spiritual.

Enjoying and appreciating art is a major reason why people go to Burning Man. Creating art is another reason. This man was standing next to a dragon sculpture he had made out of recycled and repurposed materials.

People also come to watch and participate in performance art. Hula Hoops have always been popular at the event, as is fire twirling.

The opportunity to share the Burning Man experience with friends is one of the top reasons people give for going to the event. (Photo by Don Green.)

Couples are common.

These folks were just down from where we camped and were busily giving away oranges. They told me that they had a large orange tree in their back yard in Southern California that they harvested each year just before coming to Burning Man.

This skinny pair was glad to pose for both Don and me.

Over 20% of Burners listed that they attended Burning Man seeking a spiritual experience. A visit to the Temple at any time of the day or night confirms this.

Enough on figures! If you’ve managed to make it this far, congratulations. On the other hand, if you want to learn more, check out the 2016 Burning Man Census data here. My thanks to the Burning Man volunteers who worked so hard to gather and analyze this data.

A few more photos of the people of Burning Man.

Costumes are important, and expected at Burning Man. Some photographers will go to any extreme to get pictures. Wait, is that a whip?!

One of my favorites. This man works for Burning Man’s Department of Public Works and helps build the city.

Dapper.

Cute smile.

Green feather.

And how could you resist this smile? He gave me a CD from his band.

NEXT BLOG: Back to Pt. Lobos on the Central California Coast.

 

 

When Lightning Strikes… Tales of Wilderness Survival

/ Curt Mekemson / 38 Comments

Towering cumulus clouds are beautiful and lightning storms are exciting, but they can also be dangerous and deadly. Numerous forest fires are created by lightning strikes each year and there are approximately 50 lighting caused fatalities annually in the US alone.

 

When you have spent as much time as I have wandering in the woods, there are bound to be situations that qualify as more tenuous, or scarier than others. I’ve already written about some of these, like the time I woke up in the middle of the night with a bear standing on me. Over the next few weeks I am going to relate other incidents on my Wednesday posts— assuming I haven’t disappeared into the wilderness again, which is always a strong possibility.

I’ll start by going back in time with my first three stories, back to when I was still shooting things. My first tale is about being caught in a lightning storm. The second relates to being lost in a snow storm. The third is about encountering Patty Hearst, aka Tanya, and her gun-toting SLA buddies on an early season fishing expedition in the Sierras. Let’s get started…

 

I grew up in the country where hunting and fishing were common. So, it isn’t surprising that I returned to the sports in the 70s. Actually, desperation drove me to the action. It isn’t that I was particularly enamored with catching or killing things. The meat I got from the local butcher tasted much better than anything I could shoot out in the woods. Freshly caught fish are good for breakfast, particularly when backpacking food is the option, but the process of gutting, cooking and cleaning up detracts seriously from the experience, especially when your objective is to get out on the trail. My general philosophy is live and let live unless necessity intervenes. Starvation qualifies, as does discouraging some large creature with big teeth and sharp claws that regards me as dinner.

No, my desperation had to do with my need to escape into the woods on a regular basis. I think of it as going home. It’s what led me to create the Trek program for the American Lung Association, and it’s what led me back to the hunting and fishing.

I am not sure whether I recruited my old friends from elementary and high school days (Bob Bray, Hunt Warner and Chuck Lewis) to go on expeditions or that they recruited me, but it wasn’t very long after I returned to Sacramento that the value of trout season and deer season became apparent: Fishing in the spring and hunting in the fall extended serious outdoor time by another four months. And then there was bonding, the old tribal ritual of going off into the woods with your friends on adventures. Generous allotments of beer consumed around the campfire helped.

Normally our trips involved little more than lots of good exercise and an occasional hangover. I enthusiastically joined in the efforts to entice fish with a Panther Martin lure, but usually avoided shooting anything. Killing a deer meant dragging it back to camp, hanging it up by the feet, gutting it, and skinning it— all of which was much more work than it was worth from my perspective, not to mention the deer’s. I had enough of that helping my friends. Occasionally I would shoot near a buck that was foolish enough to appear in my sights. I figured it was my job to remind him he was only a leap away from the stew pot.

The truth is, deer don’t have to worry about me— and they know it. This buck in one of many that stop by our house to visit.

I photographed this doe yesterday as she rested between flower pots in our back yard. The last couple of weeks, five or six have been hanging out around our house trimming the grass, eating Peggy’s rosebush, and sleeping in the shade.

On three occasions our expeditions became a little more adventuresome than we had bargained for. The first involved a much too close encounter with lightning.

Bob, Hunt and I were deer hunting north of Interstate 80 in the Tahoe National Forest on a high ridge. As usual, we were spread out, the theory being we might jump a deer and send it blundering into another member of our party. Usually bucks are too clever for this ploy. They send their does out into the line of fire while they sneak out the back door. This was apparently one of those days, thankfully. The car was at least two miles away down in a steep canyon. We’d be forever dragging a deer to it. I was wandering along, blissfully thinking of absolutely nothing when the distant sound of thunder caught my attention.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a huge, dark, cumulus cloud had appeared and was ominously working its way in our direction. I sat down on an old white fir stump and watched as it turned a ridge north of us into a battle zone of thunder and lighting. Having a front row seat was highly entertaining and, as it turned out, extremely foolish. Ten minutes later the storm hit our ridge. I was literally surrounded; Blinding flashes were instantly followed by ear-splitting booms. There was no counting 1000-1, 1000-2 to see how far away the lightning was. (Seven seconds is a mile.) It was right there. Pieces of tree were flying through the air and my hair was standing on end with electricity— or maybe it was fright. I was as frightened as I have ever been in my life. I knew I had to get off the ridge, and quickly.

I don’t exactly remember my run down the mountain but I do believe I broke some kind of world record for the two-mile dash. As did Bob and Hunt. We quickly climbed inside the truck to relative safety and called it a day. An ambulance met us as we were leaving. We read in the paper the next day that a hunter had decided to hide out under a tall Jeffrey Pine. Lightning had struck the tree and killed him. It could have been any of us.

Next Blogs: 1) Back to Burning Man; 2) Pt. Lobos Part II; 3) Wilderness survival: It was a dark and stormy night.

 

I’d Almost Swear that Harbor Seals Smile… Pt. Lobos Part I

/ Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

I don’t know if this could be classified as a smile, but I would certainly call it a look of pure contentment!

 

I hadn’t expected to be hiking in the Sierra Nevada Mountains when I visited Pt. Lobos just south of Carmel on the Central California coast two weeks ago, but that’s what geologists claim. They say the same thing about Pt. Reyes National Seashore north of San Francisco, another favorite hangout of mine. We can blame crashing oceanic and continental plates, and the ever-restless San Andreas Fault, which is responsible for much of California’s earthquake history. Millions of years ago, according to geologists, the Pacific Plate broke off a section of the southern Sierra Nevada Range from the North American Plate and has been carrying it northward along the coast ever since.

I became something of a believer when I ran into granite on the North Shore of the nature preserve. When I think granite, I usually think of the Sierras.

I found this granite outcrop along the North Shore Trail.

And this large granitic island with its colony of cormorants just off the north shore.

I started my Pt. Lobos adventure at the entrance station and hiked over to Whaler’s Cove, which is on the North Shore. Once upon a time there had been a station for hunting whales here. From about 1850 to 1880, men would go out in small boats to harpoon whales and then bring them into the cove for processing. Mainly, they were interested in killing the whales to obtain oil for lanterns. A large Grey Whale produces close to a thousand gallons. Kerosene eliminated that industry, which was fortunate for the whales. A small museum in the cove tells about the whale hunting and other human activities at Pt. Lobos.

This small museum located at Whaler’s Cove once housed whalers.

I found this whale bone carving of the Carmel Mission inside…

And surprisingly, an old deep sea diver’s suit.

Just outside the museum I found a pair of information signs. One featured this carved representation of the prevailing northwest winds that the area experiences in the spring and summer.

And a Monterey Cypress on the other.

What fascinated me most about Whaler Cove were the harbor seals, however. There were a number along the shore: lazing in the bay, rolling around in the sand, and sun bathing on the shore. There was even a mom nursing her pup.  My camera and I were quite busy.

Here is another shot of the Harbor Seal I featured at the top of the post. This time the seal’s eyes are open. The water provided a magnifying effect to make the already plump seal appear even rounder.

This seal was coming out of the water…

And this one was ecstatically rolling back and forth, apparently using the sand for a good scratch.

I caught a pup lined up for breakfast!

It was when I left the cove and hiked up the ridge behind it on the North Shore Trail that I started noticing the granite— not to mention all sorts of other things. There were moss-covered trees, cormorants building nests, lots of gorgeous wildflowers, and several impressive Monterey Cypress trees.

Hiking up the ridge on the North Shore Trail gave me this view back across Whaler’s Cove toward the coastal hills above Carmel. The small, white building seen on the hill is the Carmelite Monastery.

An old trail sign told me I was not lost. The total hike took me around three hours but about an hour of that was devoted to photography.

A group of cormorants was nesting on Guillemot Island, the large granite island I featured earlier.

This fellow was busily gathering nesting materials. I watched as he carried it over to his lady-love.

Flowers were everywhere. I will feature some closeups on my next blog about Pt. Lobos.

I came upon this ghostly, moss-covered tree…

And several dramatic views of Monterey Cypress.

The most impressive, however, was the cypress named Old Veteran.

I’ll conclude today’s post with a view of Old Veteran from the other side. Next Monday I’ll feature the south side of Pt. Lobos, which is surprisingly different.

Next Blog: Lost in a snowstorm with survival at stake. I return to my outdoor adventure series.