Eyegasms

There is some serious geological shit going down in this part of the world!  And I use the continuous present tense intentionally because, although what we see today is billions of years old, changes are still taking place.  I have heard and read lots of proper names and terms for these phenomena but have already forgotten most of them.  I believe the photos below speak for themselves and tell the spectacular tales of the incredible forces of compression, evaporation, and erosion by water and wind. 

There is an eyegasm around every curve and over each crest of the road…if I stopped to gawk at them all, I’d never get anywhere.  There are national parks showcasing them that beckon on every other corner, but I must resist.  So I drive and drive and drive through this awesomazing landscape, experiencing paroxysms of visual pleasure over and over and over until, at the end of the day, I am spent.  

"Grand" does not do it justice...

...nor do any number of photos, but here you go:

Princess Anastacia has returned to civilization

We have confirmed yet again that wilderness camping does not suit us.  Our constitution does best in an environment containing freshwater showers and flush toilets.  HRH is not amused by sand in every nook, cranny, crevice, and orifice, as well as in the molars.  The princess prefers to have a roof overhead when it rains, a door on the lavatory, and ice in her cocktails. 

But seriously, our week down in the Grand Canyon was EPIC: whitewater rafting, paddling, hiking that included scrambling and exposure, and forming a tribe with some amazing folks in a setting of indescribable grandeur -- I rocked it all (and one fellow passenger even called me "Queen of the Colorado") and actually wish I were still on the river.  More details and many photos will follow but today I gotta hit the road and begin my drive through the gorgeous state of Utah. 

Gettin' my kicks on Route 66

The iconic transnational highway US 66 passes right through the town of Flagstaff, Arizona, where I’ve come for the start of my Grand Canyon expedition. 

Route 66, colloquially known as the Main Street of America or the Mother Road, was one of the original highways in the country, established in 1926 but not completely paved until 1938. It originally ran from Chicago through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before ending in Santa Monica, California, covering a total of 2,448 miles (3,940 km).

Route 66 served as a major path for those who migrated west, especially during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, and it supported the economies of the communities through which the road passed. People doing business along the route became prosperous due to the growing popularity of the highway, and they suffered greatly when the road was officially decommissioned in1985, after it had been replaced in its entirety by the Interstate Highway System.  (revised from Wikipedia)

  

I have a couple of days to kill so I follow the road, now a busy 4-lane with just a few vestiges of bygone days (motels, diners), into thriving downtown Flagstaff.  Here the 19^th-century two-story red brick buildings house vegan cafés; shops selling dream catchers, turquoise jewelry, Navajo blankets, wind chimes, crystals; and outdoor gear outfitters à gogo.  I come upon tables with red umbrellas emblazoned with “illy” and savor a proper double espresso.  After wandering the whole steamy afternoon, I decide to have a cold golden ale from one of the local microbreweries and, on the heels of two weeks of sobriety, the first beer goes straight to my head....

By now I am long over jet lag, acclimated to altitude, and well rested, but I’m still nervous about the demands of the week-long trip down in the canyon.  It’s gonna be damn HOT.  It’s gonna be DRY.  Or it could be MONSOON with tons of COLD RAIN.  There are the creepy-crawlies that I REALLY detest: snakes, scorpions, spiders.  And I fear I’m not nearly fit enough for the LONG, STEEP 8-mile (13-km) hike UP on the last day; I’m imagining a group of 30-year-old triathletes scrambling up the trail like billy goats and ME bringing up the rear hours later. 
Yikes! Bartender, another round! 

Remote is not that thing on the coffee table

I saw this t-shirt at the farmers’ market in downtown Helena – don’t you love it?  So let me tell you what remote is:

Remote is three flights and then a 4-wheel-drive truck ride to the end of the unpaved road.

Remote is no locked doors.

Remote is 380,800 square kilometers (147,040 square miles) for just over a million friendly folks. That’s almost 10 times as big as Switzerland with 1/8 as many residents. Montana is 48^th in population density (of 50 states).  

Remote is seeing a galaxy full of stars in the night sky.

Remote is hiking trails with no signposts, no distance or direction indicators; trails that peter out in a tangle of undergrowth and resume faintly beyond a couple of fallen trees and patches of goldenrod.   

Remote is strolling through a stand of aspens on the way to the bathhouse and coming upon a doe and her two fawns munching peacefully on the leaves. 

Remote is hearing the trout splash as they snap at the bugs in the pond. 

Remote is the absence of city cacophony: no sounds of planes, trains, sirens, horns or jackhammers. 

Remote is having to climb to the peak of a surrounding mountain to get any cell phone reception. But who wants that? 

The Wild Life

Yurt: a portable dwelling of nomadic Mongolian tribes traditionally constructed of a wooden latticework covered by animal skins.  

The yurt above, true to the classic design but draped with canvas and furnished with a mattress and boxspring, is my abode for these two weeks at Feathered Pipe Ranch.  And check out its name!

It sits at the top of a hill at 5,000 feet (1500+ meters) abutting on a million acres of Rocky Mountain national forest.  It’s got no running water, no electricity, no heat, no Internet connection.  I’ve bear-proofed it (removing all food and sweet-scented lotions) but the moths are impossible to keep out.  There are reportedly also moose, mountain lions, coyotes, bats, packrats, and skunks roaming the area. The temps at night plummet to around 10 degrees C (50 F) and even with three thick wool blankets, I need my fleece cap and hiking socks to keep warm. 

And I’m here in remote western Montana voluntarily?  Yes, and it’s awesome – it’s overnight summer camp for grownups!  There are the usual dirt trails through the woods, the rickety dock on the pond, the canoes with splintered oars, the smell of pine needles and clacking of cicadas permeating the air.  We are called to organic meals by the blowing of a conch and eat together at round communal tables in the dining hall.  We soak up the sun in Adirondack chairs on the lawn or doze in the hammocks hung between aspen trees. Those of us in the yurts, tipis and tents share a cedar bathhouse where we keep our toiletries in cubbyholes and have to take turns showering. Ok, the hot tub and sauna are probably not common features at camps for youngsters, and we are not making lanyards or potholders, but otherwise it all feels familiar and comforting and fun.   The only thing missing so far is s’mores around the campfire....