Meeting people in the backcountry

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markskor
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Post by markskor »

Nope-
That's how it all happened. True story...FYI, I forgot to mention - my 13-year-old kid's name is Bryan.
Mark
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Post by BSquared »

Well, if you say so. The blenders, I believe -- I spend part of my time on a sailboat, and there are lots of hand-powered (and 12-volt powered of course) gizmos most people would never believe. But butane-powered hair curlers?! Why, it's enough to curl your hair! I shall remain skeptical :paranoid: until I see a catalog page...

Terrific story as always, Markskor! :)

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Post by BSquared »

Oh, my God! Well, now I've seen it all. Thanks (I guess...) to Shawn for the URL, and my apologies for being a skeptic, Markskor; the evidence is there for all to see. However, Good Lord willing, may I never get any closer to one of those things than looking at the ad!
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The Changing Bear Philosophies of Yosemite 2/18/2006

As a kid, my earliest recollections of Yosemite, aside from the long car rides just getting there and my numerous times getting car sick in the back of the family station wagon (a new 1962 Olds Delta-88 – metallic sky blue), fond memories recall spending a week at those “whatever they call them” sites found at Housekeeping Camp. Three rickety walls, wooden bunks, frayed manila ropes strung and colored Indian blankets hung, crammed food lockers, family camping en mass along a lazy stretch of the Merced River. As a family vacation – an annual summer ritual, it was paradise; all a middle-class family from L.A. (the San Fernando Valley) with five kids could ever ask for.

Yosemite meant sleeping outside; long lazy days spent splashing in the water, kayaks and inflatable rafts – crammed ice chests, popsicles, and smoky, greasy BBQs. After dinner, little mouths filled, hands washed - just after dark, piling in the back of the car, dad driving the short distance over to the dump – a semi circle of cars, a tourist show – headlights illuminating the pile of accumulated Valley trash, hundreds of eager eyes watching and waiting for the bears to come down. You had to get there early at the Yosemite dump just to find a good parking spot, dad always pondering what was just the right one to see best, it was better than the circus. The bears always came, eventually; sometimes it was mothers with cubs in tow, other times various colored bears alone, their antics seemingly rehearsed, photographed, accepted, scrutinized, and apparently advocated by YNP. Two groups came: the tourists and the official park representatives, (some fur bearing, others in uniform hats); it was the nightly Yosemite bear feed.

Somewhere between puberty and college summer vacation, philosophies changed. In those eight years, no longer was the Valley environment or its 3000-foot walls adequate to captivate the day’s Sierra adventure possibilities; no longer would the park continue to advocate feeding the bears trash, and calling it entertainment for the masses…two changes for the better. 1970 found me squeaking along under my powder-blue Kelty Tioga; Redwing Voyagers, Hank Roberts stove, and cheap down gear the best choices available for a starving UCLA zoology student. Somewhere above Nevada Falls, (the old Little Yosemite Valley campground was still a dream – years away), found us camping – fishing, deep in along the Merced, hanging our food bag high suspended over one branch, and tying the rope off to a tree, another tree further away from under the primitive hang…this is how we were taught back then. The only time I have ever lost hung food to a bear occurred here, that night back along the Merced River, back in the dense pine, something noisy yet unseen attacked our food; I vowed it would never happen again.

The next morning, cautiously searching for the remains of the purloined food bag, and soon finding a trail, the torn shards and discarded nylon among the food wrappers, papers cartons, (and bear slobber), we saw ominous signs - drops of blood. We obviously had not thought that the glass Jiffy peanut butter jar would ever bring critical harm to any bear, if we had, we would have packed something differently; maybe it was time to re-evaluate further our personal wilderness backcountry canons. Forums such as this were unavailable – (computers were slide rules), so… campfire discussions, scouts, trial-and-error, and magazines like “Field and Stream” provided the only available source of required answers. Coincidentally, Yosemite National Park also was undergoing a backcountry bear re-evaluation; soon thick wire cables suspended between chunky trees became prominent overhead and brown painted, metal vaults called Bear Boxes also appeared in some congested camping areas.

Years passed but for me, Yosemite’s charisma still always captivated; a climbing adventure up Snake Dyke (an easy 5.7 Half Dome route) found us that day on the way back down just above Nevada Falls. Together, the two of us sitting on top of a big rock taking a break - smoking some primo Acapulco Gold (or maybe it was Thai stick)… whatever…we were just above the trail, observing all the hikers passing by below. In those days, the powers of Yosemite were not as adamant about not bringing dogs on the trails; it was not uncommon to see Shepherds and Labs running along with their family units, hiking along, making their way up the longer trail towards Nevada Falls before returning the loop. That day, high above the trail… we looked down to see a well-dressed matron with pink hair hiking along with a poodle – a miniature poodle, also with matching pink hair. I remember her not being able to see us above as we laughed aloud at the ridiculous spectacle, obviously the custom die jobs designed to color-coordinate the unlikeliest pair of designer ****.
Unbeknownst to the woman, a small bear also traveled the same path, immediately meeting up with her and the dog, the confrontation occurring just beneath our advantageous but unseen boulder location. Reacting first, the pink dog (on a rhinestone leash) barked out as only a poodle can bark, that high-pitched yapping sound, oppressive to most mortals; the lady also joined in too, calling out in an amazingly similar voice – FIFI, FIFI!...we laughed harder. The bear first appeared unfazed by the entire spectacle; the woman, instead of drawing her pink dog back, away from the bear, safe, allowed it to get even closer, still yapping away, nipping at the bear’s legs, doing what poodles do…generally being obnoxious.

Yosemite’s bears may appear slow, sluggish, and possibly lethargic, much akin to cuddly sleeping giants, but do not let these pre-conceived appearances deceive you; they can get it done and get it done in a hurry when provoked. This bear, maybe 200 pounds tops, slightly cinnamon in color, an ugly bear too, took it all in stride… took all it could handle before reacting. While we watched, it made a kind of saluting motion, coming downward from the vicinity of its ear, catching FIFI across the back of its neck with its nails, just barely grazing it in one amazingly quick motion. The woman’s high-pitched calls – FIFI, FIFI – turned deep and guttural; I can still recall the one unfathomable, low-pitched FIFI called out as the dog’s head physically parted from its body - coming to rest in front of the woman, the leash now flapping free in the wind. My climbing friend sitting next to me, howling and laughing in amazement, fell off the rock.

This story, about meeting significant people in the high country, actually begins years later, around 1990, up at Lower Cathedral Lake, at the drainage end of the lake, beneath the bear cable once suspended there, on a granite point between two gigantic trees. There were about three of four groups of hikers present, me solo as usual, all sharing a community campfire when he came through; it was about dusk. Gary Tenaka, the official resident YNP bear expert, came out of the darkness and dropped his pack next to the fire at my feet. Gary is not a big person, maybe 160 - 175 pounds, slight of build, dark hair, and a mustache, but he has an air about him that suggested someone much bigger – a distinct presence: when he talked, people listened. Gary started talking: above us, maybe twenty feet high up, learned bears were in the process of systematically destroying a half-inch thick, food hanging cable; claw marks indicated they were climbing up the tree, hanging onto and shaking the cables until food bags suspended there fell to the earth below. Gary, along with his personal gear, carried a lot of equipment, bear equipment: today, among all the other personal hiking gear, he had a fancy rifle equipped to fire some sort of tranquillizer dart.

Sitting around the evening’s campfire, Gary informed us about a mother bear and two cubs that were presently making trouble by ransacking the area. He told of reports of nightly raids here, exactly where we were sitting, (peaking our interest) as he further explained his intended evening’s plan. Sometimes, he said, just the act of tranquillizing the bears was enough to discourage them…scare them off; maybe it was the drug, the headache, or maybe just the shock, but he said often bears would leave one area entirely after just meeting one of his well-placed darts. Gary asked us if we wanted to watch, and if so, we had to agree to do exactly what he said and remain calm throughout the entire ordeal; (how anyone could resist this opportunity would be a mystery). We, about eight of us, walked away from the fire, a bit north, up the hill a bit, crouched down in the shadows, and waited in silence. See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25


Shortly, Gary somehow hearing something unheard, indicated for us to hush up, then took careful aim at a moving shadow, and fired a prepared dart into the darkness. A small cry went out, and then a plop; soon we were all gathered around Gary as he examined a bear - close up, looking inside its mouth, seeing the tattooed numbers inside of its lip, and helping Gary secure a green numbered flag to one of its ears. Soon more commotion from out in the darkness, the aforementioned marauding mother and cubs arrived, the mother instantly making a strange howling noise and the two cubs responding immediately by scampering up a convenient tree. Gary took careful aim; soon the mother, then in short order, the two small cubs, first calling out sorrowfully for the mother, then quiet as they fell out of the tree; they joined the original bear, all four bears drugged, fast asleep, lying at our feet. Before the night’s festivities were over, another bear, a yearling – maybe older, came along; Gary carefully loading up still another dart… when all was finished, there were five bears stretched out before us on the slab granite of Lower Cathedral Lake.

It was not so much this once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing five wild bears lying supine before us that stuck with me; instead, it was the casual information gleaned from Gary during the inspection process that struck home. He said (briefly in passing) that the pre-established days of bear storage cables, hanging food, and bear boxes were soon about to be part of Sierra history; these strategies, though effective in the past, were not working and were now actually causing more harm than good. He said that there were approximately 450 bear in the park, about 50 more than should be here for the park’s existing food supply adequately to provide sustenance for all. He said it was we, the backpackers, who were causing the majority of the overpopulation problems; the bears, in well-populated camping areas, were now relying primarily on man’s food supply – poor food storage techniques mainly - and bears were increasingly learning and teaching others how to get to our hung food.

I gave Gary all the usual answers we still use today: I never lose food, I know how properly to hang, I am careful, and I only camp far above the bear’s territory. He just sighed and said he had heard it all before, every time he tried to educate the masses about bears, but regardless, he said that something must be done…sooner than later, or the bear, as we know it, might disappear altogether from the Sierra ranges. He did mention something he heard about, using small portable food tubs, something we all could carry that might work, if they could figure out how to make them light enough…and strong enough. Interesting that back then, fifteen years prior, he was forecasting the changing bear philosophies of Yosemite.

Another solo backpacking saga…by markskor
Last edited by markskor on Wed May 16, 2007 5:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Post by Rosabella »

I sure enjoy you stories, Mark... you should write a book! I'll bet you really keep a campfire entertaining :nod:
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Post by markskor »

Rose...

I am. You are just reading the chapters first.
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Stan: another solo backpacking adventure

Post by markskor »

Stan 2/21/2006

No matter how many in the party, the true dedicated backpacker should allow for chance, romancing the unknown, anticipating the unexpected - always accepting and embracing whatever adventure may come along the way. The trail over Red Peak Pass from Ottoway Lakes, a dreadful penance of small, rounded, mailbox-sized rocks… some pale red in color – others off white, meandering up pathetic switchback-inundated knobs – false summits… a never-ending corridor of talus, and a struggle up from the pristine mountain tarn below. Pausing at the top, waiting for stragglers, the Indian paintbrush, the magnificent view of the distant Clarks, and the azure, island-dotted lake behind, all temporarily made me forget why I – the resident mountain cognoscenti as it were - had consented to join this ragtag assemblage of straight-laced flatlanders on an extended adventure into Yosemite’s most isolated of backcountry arenas.

Backpacking for me, always a singular affair, hours of natural wilderness sounds: waterfalls…Steller’s Jays…classic tunes re-playing endlessly inside my head…these should be the only trail accompaniments to any grand Sierra adventure; instead today, waiting for the three others to summit, momentary silence was at best only a respite… temporary. Standing there alone, basking among magnificent pink, granite-sculpted splendor - top of the world…grand vistas… my serenity all-too-soon disturbed by the increasing staccato of incessant wining - the bickering of barely known companions as they drew nearer. “It is too hot…the mosquitoes are impossible…are we there yet…are you sure this is the right way…cannot we rest for a bit…quit crowding me…I am hungry…we will never get there on time.” This sucked.

Lower Ottoway Lake is a mountain oasis; a verdant covering of lush, green carpet enveloping fresh glacier fed streams, all rushing down to spectacular snow-lined coves…dark hidden holes… a paradise surely made for extended Sierra fishing. There were lunkers there, 2-pounders – easily startled - racing upstream as we forded the rushing rivulets leading down into the lake. Unfortunately, none besides me thought to carry any fishing gear, their carefully pre-planned, pre-sorted, and pre-packaged menus did not allow for fresh caught meat, or for any alteration in plans; and for some still unexplained reason, schedules casually agreed to beforehand did not now allow for an overnight there; we walked right by the lake without stopping – you can’t fix stupid. One can easily rationalize that backpacking with others meant being somewhat democratic, bowing to the will of the majority, and letting others vote to decide when to go and where to stay, but when you add it all up though, to a backpacker like me, it equated to freedom lost, (and you wonder why I backpack solo). See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25

A few other ill-fated trips with unknown or dubious companions invariably turned sour too, somewhere along the way, any differing or conflicting individual agendas that are present – baggage - always produce strife – egocentric power trips - members pulled apart from various directions, alas – often the major cause of shortening the adventure. One trip off the Lyell Fork up to Ireland Lake, the fact that one antagonistic individual owned the stove, another the cooking pot, this preordained arrangement mandated us all staying together miserably, finally abbreviating the trip in order to alleviate the imagined displeasure of the few. I vowed, from these days forward, always to be self-contained, especially if unsure of my companions. I would never again let any rare Sierra opportunity become unfulfilled due to some not serious (or even imagined) conflict originating with one of my hiking cohorts. From here on in, whenever backpacking, if I wanted to stay over anywhere, I always would… invite the possibility – warmly welcoming any spontaneous or intriguing opportunity. Additionally, I decided the disposition of hiking companions should strongly coincide with my own temperament (whatever the hell that means), lengthy conversations beforehand may set up only tentative agendas…firm, but always flexible… realistic but always open invitations to any chance-encounter of High Sierra serendipity or whimsy.

This story actually starts out in a five-star restaurant in Rancho Mirage – a suburb of Palm Springs – an affluent neighborhood, tucked away against the base of the foothills, situated in California’s prestigious Coachella Valley. Wally’s Desert Turtle, a Mecca for the prosperous, my occupation by night that of a captain – putting on airs…heading a 5-man dining team…tableside service… clad in a tuxedo – Armani. It could have been the night of the Gerald Ford party, or maybe it was the evening of the Bill Gates soirée, (they were all pretty much the same, tending to blur together after working there six seasons). Anyway, there I was, impatiently waiting at the bar, intending to pick up a round of after-dinner cordials – Taylor Fladgate vintage port, Grand Mariner Centenaire, Johnny Walker Blue…(that sort of order), when I overheard the bartender – Stan – rambling on to a seated customer about an upcoming hike he was attempting in the next few weeks ahead. Stan stated that he was thinking of doing Mount San Gorgonio via the Vivian Creek Trail. I recall hearing him also mentioning that he would be doing Mount Baldy, as well as the Mount San Jacinto trail (Southern California’s big three) in the upcoming months. It turns out that I had never been to the summit of Mount San Gorgonio - interesting.

I also had never socialized with Stan – other than the normal short and perfunctory co-worker greetings; he was tall and lanky, slightly older (one year), and somewhat dignified, but a pompous ass, aloof, haughty,…perfect for the restaurant job - always open to last minute aberrations, (my kind of potential hiking companion). That night, the hour drawing late and the evening’s guests almost gone home to their country club mansions, I took the opportunity to approach Stan, questioning him about what I had overheard earlier. Stan was a bit of a character: an ex outlaw biker, Harley Davidson riding, long hair braided and tucked beneath his jacket, intelligent, set-in-his-ways, loner of an individual, currently living with his girlfriend and two dogs in Cathedral City, just a few miles distant from my own home. We briefly discussed the Vivian Creek Trail; he said that his plan called for doing the entire trip (up and back) in one long day; I told him he was crazy. I mentioned that while it was indeed possible to do the 16-mile steep and protracted trail (over 5000 feet of elevation gained) in one arduous day, but wouldn’t it be better to stretch it out, make it an overnighter, and enjoy the outing (and any unknowns) a whole lot more. Stan balked initially, stating that he had never actually been backpacking in his life…why…too much work, and he countered with the fact that he did hike quite often – he could do it all in one day - easy. He mentioned that it might be an interesting diversion though; if so, what equipment would he need, how long would it take, and did I have the stamina to keep up with him; he bragged that he was a veritable hiking god on the local desert trails.

In the following weeks, Stan and I often found ourselves nonchalantly discussing the possibilities further – no pressure and no commitments - yet. One day he called early unexpectedly, scheduling that morning a strenuous day hike up to Suicide Rock near Hemet – a real mother of a trail especially under the hot southern sun – perhaps he was seeing if he could break me, or perhaps, just seeing if our hiking styles were in any way compatible for any real adventure. Ready in minutes, it became apparent immediately that our hiking styles clicked; both of us taking short unspoken rest pauses at similar times (when warranted); both of us not chattering incessantly while hiking; our paces similar - coinciding, our basic temperaments laid back – seemingly always in agreement (or maybe just not caring). Afterwards, I told Stan that if he really desired to overnight Gorgonio, I would be happy to show him how, but he first needed a decent backpack, and some gear. He said he could get one; his son had one… as well as a sleeping bag…as well as all other equipment that he might ever need. (Unfortunately, I soon discovered that his son was a car-camper – and he shopped extensively at Wal-mart.) The next week we left early, taking highway 10 - to the cutoff to Forest Falls off highway 38, and then the trailhead to Mount San Gorgonio. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25

The Vivian Creek trail is one long slog, steep, green in spots, mostly brown in others, the trail adequate but not altogether that well maintained – dirty - one long, badly-placed switchback in the middle adding miles while serving no apparent purpose. Stan carried a heavy and ill-fitting Jansport backpack, his son’s… the heavy gear that did not fit inside, he lashed awkwardly to daisy chains on the outside. Throughout it all, we never raced and Stan never complained; we camped overnight at High Creek, summiting the next morning, later that afternoon returning to the truck – the comfortable pace as well as the entire trip a resounding success. The view from the summit was hazy at best, local wild fires contributing to the general lack of visibility: Palm Springs should have been perceptible on the not-so-distant horizon, unfortunately that day – not so much. On the way back home, Stan beamed, boasting to me that now that he was an “experienced” backpacker, he always wanted to do something truly grand – Mount Whitney. Once again, I explained to him that a one-day, scheduled death-march, 22-mile adventure was not my forte, he could do that all by himself, but I would eagerly consider going via the back way – possibly an extended 7-day fishing trip via the Cottonwood Lakes and New Army Pass – Stan just smiled and drove home.

Stan had caught the backpacking bug – big time (sound familiar?); every day at work now – until the remainder of the season in June (Palm Springs closes up and leaves town for the summer), he would proudly boast to anyone who would listen about his latest new acquisition. Gregory Whitney backpack, 800 prime goose down WM overstuffed sleeping bag, Thermarest, TNF tent, Vasque Sundowner boots: you name it – the very best available - $$$ - Stan had to have it . He poured over glossy gear catalogues, made wilderness permit reservations far in advance, reserved a Portal campsite, bought and re-packaged the most expensive of freeze-dried food, even pre-booked a shuttle up to Horseshoe Meadows…this last move enabling us to leave his truck at the Portal, conveniently waiting for us when we returned from the summit. Remarkably, I did not have to do a thing – except of course, pay my fair share. Stan was a bit anal though – steadfastly trying his best to think of all potential contingencies, planning it all out to the smallest detail.

Late June found us at Whitney Portal, camping at site 6, spending the first night acclimatizing before our long-anticipated, extended backpacking excursion. Some highlights - a brief review of Stan’s meticulously, planned-to-the-minute, 7-day, Whitney adventure package: It took us 9 days – two days extra – a bonus from me – (I just couldn’t help myself) until we were able to get back to the truck. We were the first ones over NAP that year – breaking trail over a 50-foot high cornice. I fished almost every night - Goldens; we camped at South Fork Lake, Cottonwoods (unplanned), High Lake, Lower Soldier, Crabtree Meadows, Lower Crabtree (also not planned), Guitar, Trailcamp, and the Dow Villa Hotel (after the beer and the burger at the Portal of course). If you ever get a chance, dine at the Merry-Go-Round restaurant in Lone Pine – excellent blue cheese dressing, superb New York Steaks, freshly made bread, chocolate moose, and a good bottle of red wine – a great way to end any victorious adventure. My backpack – a chili-red Gregory Shasta started out at 47 pounds; Stan carried one pound extra (the Whitney pack weighed 1 pound more) – we never complained once…we even spent a few of the trail nights completely silent, staring at the stars and not saying anything…we didn’t have to…it was glorious.

A few months later, late summer now, right after my moving my family to Sacramento, an 8:00 PM obscene phone call from Stan…it seems he was passing through town with his now trusty backpack, and wanted to further test the merits of my spontaneity theory: perhaps a last-minute unplanned attempt to tackle the Half Dome cables. (We had talked about this on our previous trip as another possible adventure – I may have mentioned in passing that planning was unnecessary, and the outing would indeed be worth the effort.) My pack always ready - the wife said yes…bless her, she really understands me…He picked me up at 9:00…and we were setting up tents in the YPS backpacker campground around midnight.

Stan had never seen Yosemite – my way – and was truly amazed that we could arrive in the park (the rangers often leave the Modesto – highway 120 entrance gate unattended for the night), park in the Curry lot, and camp without spending a dime, and without going through any sordid, pre-made, complex, wilderness reservation process. (I tried to tell him, it is always better just to show up and trust fate.) The next morning (after a hearty but mediocre Curry cafeteria breakfast), we found ourselves at the permit office next to the Ansel Adams Gallery at 10:00, and on the Happy Isles trail - legal (there are always large numbers of available unclaimed “next day only” permits waiting) - by 11:00. Two nights later, we were down, successful, doing pizza and beer and making plans to do Shasta, Rainier - or maybe it was St. Helens – I forget – (It did not really matter much to me) for our next summer’s continuing backpacking menu. I think I had finally found someone who understood my thoughts about backpacking - using only a general plan… serenity, adventure without rigid pressure… just going and seeing whatever was available – and taking whatever developed in stride. Forty percent of the wilderness permits in Yosemite – most of the entire Sierra actually – ascribes to this no reservation policy – few are wise enough to take advantage.

Best laid plans – anticipation of further non-solo adventures with a worthy companion (hard to find a good friend with compatible wilderness values and the required wanderlust)…all is at best short-lived. That winter, Stan, on his way to work in Palm Springs…riding his black, chromed-out, Harley Softail Deuce…a dented pick-up made an inadvertent left turn in front of him. Two weeks later…his right leg amputated at the knee…two years later Stan is still re-learning how to walk. When you invite chance…you have to take all that comes along.

Another Solo Hiking story…by markskor
Last edited by markskor on Wed May 16, 2007 5:50 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Post by Skibum »

Great stories! :D
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Post by Snow Nymph »

Great story! :D Bummer about Stan :(
Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free . . . . Jim Morrison


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