Day 3 - Pale Pastures to Emerald Mountains

                I awoke to a slam: the type of sound you feel move your gut. I looked over to Corey’s bed and found him as startled as I was. The clock showed well past four AM. Corey asked if I had any idea what the noise was. I was clueless and groggily told him so. We were both temporarily worried, but were too tired to really care. I hope no one was hurt due to our apathy. Normally, adrenaline keeps me up for hours, but I was far too tired to stay up and investigate. Besides, there were numerous people in the rooms around us and I was sure that one of them would call the front desk and complain. Anyway, the room wasn’t on fire and there wasn’t a mushroom cloud outside the window, so there really wasn’t anything that was going to keep me awake any longer. Another night of interrupted rest was par for the course at that point.

The morning was much more pleasant. The wind present on the previous day had mellowed. I wanted to make a dash for the continental breakfast, but Corey had no interest in stale half-muffins and bad coffee. I am not one to say no to a free breakfast, so I protested. Corey offered to buy me breakfast if we could get on the road. I obliged Corey’s request; and as it turns out, he was spot on. I do not think the Travelodge-Elko spread would have been as satisfying that morning as a good cup of coffee was. We were on the road again.

Corey was, and surely still is, a great friend to travel with. I did not count the hours, but I imagine we split the driving about equally. Normally, I would drive the whole way as I feel it passes the time faster, but we were both exhausted; so it was prudent and necessary for us to drive in shifts while the passenger took intermittent naps.

Largest piece of driftwood ever found - Redwood

The drive from Elko, up until just outside of Bend, was mundane and boring. We were surrounded by rolling plains and small rounded mountains. Normally I would find the terrain quite pleasing, but after days of the same, I was tired of the scenery. I thought it quite interesting how quickly my brain adapted to its surroundings. I immediately understood the cliché sentiment that the grass is always greener on the other side. When it comes to the Cascade Range in Oregon, the grass actually IS greener on the other side. The East side of the Cascades is arid and dry; the West: a temperate rainforest. Henry later explained that moisture coming off of the Pacific Ocean moves inland, but is held up by the prominence of the Cascades; creating a situation where it may be raining and cool on the West side, while it is a hundred degrees on the East side. I am a huge fan of strange weather and Oregon definitely fell into that category.

After roughly eight hours, we reached the southern limits of Bend. Bend is widely considered the outdoor sports Mecca of America (Vancouver holds a similar status in Canada.) Bend is within minutes of great snow on Mount Bachelor, famous rock-climbing in Smith Rock State Park, rivers perfect for Kayaking and fly-fishing, and critically acclaimed single-track Mountain Biking. For the avid outdoorsman, there is arguably no better place to live in the entire world. I would estimate the number of roof racks on vehicles at near ninety-percent. Corey and I felt at home immediately. Within the first five minutes of entering city limits, we both agreed that we would move to Bend in a heartbeat given the opportunity.

Planker Sandwiches

We looked for a place to eat on Yelp and found a highly rated (and cheap) establishment on Main Street named Planker sandwiches. Planker was the best sandwich joint I have ever found. For ten dollars each, we both got a sandwich and an accompanying Pabst Blue Ribbon. Corey had a Cuban sandwich playfully named the pork belly. I was in the mood for a slightly lighter meal and ordered the Tuna salad sandwich. Our sandwiches arrived at the table and at first glance, it appeared that I had made the better choice. The tuna was served on a scratch-baked Brioche roll that was wonderfully sweet and pleasant. Corey’s pork belly looked flattened like a grilled cheese and was a foot long. It resembled a building material more than a sandwich, but I saw where the name Planker Sandwiches came from. Corey took one bite and a look appeared on his face like he had just met the love of his life. He offered me a bite and after I tasted it, I am sure that I had the same reaction. The combination of mustard, cheese, and caramelized pork was far more than I expected from any sandwich that resembled a 1x4 piece of lumber. It was perfect. We had only a few minutes to eat if we were to make the last tour at the Deschutes Brewery.

                When we stepped back out onto Main, a light rain fell that more resembled mist than the Texas thunderstorms I was used to. After I had shoveled down what felt like a half pound of sandwich, the rain was pleasant on my meat-fevered forehead. We fell back into the car and drove five minutes over to the brewery.

Corey and I arrived at the Deschutes Brewery with fifteen minutes to spare before the last tour departed. It was just enough time to have our four complimentary samples and chat with one of the tasting room employees. There are few things I enjoy talking about more than beer; especially with people who consider themselves hopheads like me.

A call to start the tour rang out and we were handed badges. An energetic and knowledgeable woman escorted us outside. She pointed out the new tanks that were being installed on the roof at that time. We walked into the old brew house and she told us how the beer was made. I had toured breweries before, so I found the generalities of beer making somewhat boring. Deschutes had a twist in store for us though. We entered the employee break room and were shown the “employee bathroom,” which was actually a small closet filled with taps of the various beers brewed just feet away. Each employee has a designated mug and is welcome to enjoy a cold one after their shift. Our guide also pointed out the snack station, which is manned by a gourmet chef that sells fresh, locally sourced meals to the employees at lunch time. Deschutes’ tour had a wonderful addition that I had not seen before. We were given samples of the dark and light malted barley used for the various beers. Also, there was a jar of dried hops passed around. Each of us took a flower and rubbed it between our hands until it disintegrated. Corey and I both sniffed our palms for hours afterwards. I thought I was in heaven with the smell of the fresh hop oil left on my hands, but then, our guide opened up the pearly gates for hop-lovers: the hop storage room. I stuck my head in and was immersed in the most wonderful smell. I asked our guide how much it would cost me to put a cot in the corner of the hop fridge. She told me that if they decided to rent out the room, there was already a waiting list. The rest of the tour took us through the brew house and over the bottling line. Deschutes runs the type of operation that should be the envy of most any brewer. I highly suggest that anyone who finds themselves in Bend go and see it firsthand. Corey purchased a sampler case after the tour and I grabbed three bottles of my favorite Imperial IPA (Hop Henge Experimental IPA was the name for those who are curious,) and we were off once again towards Henry and Kristin’s home in Amity, Oregon.

Brewhouse

Fermenting tanks

The area north of Bend is covered in tall firs, conifers, and other various trees that don’t grow naturally in Texas. Corey demanded we stop at the next tiny espresso stand we saw on the side of the road. I thought his request somewhat ridiculous, but at the time, I had not experienced how awesome roadside coffee stands in the Pacific Northwest really were. Our cute barista made fun of the way I said Nevada (Neh-vah-dah, which I still think is correct) and quickly dispensed two espresso shots for each of us. I will say, once again, Corey was right (don’t get too used to that admission Corey, you won’t hear it often.) Espresso stands dot the North the way food trucks dot the more trendy parts of the South. You won’t go more than two blocks in any Oregon city without seeing an espresso stand. After I tasted what they had to offer, I saw why.

The Deschutes National Forest surrounded us when we left the town of Sisters. If nothing else, we had successfully made it to the emerald forests of central Oregon. Unfortunately, clouds surrounded all but the base of Mount Bachelor, Three Fingered Jack, and Mount Jefferson (something that I would deal with through the rest of my time in the Pacific Northwest.) Despite the unavailable mountains, the forest around us was new terrain and was as interesting as any I had yet laid eyes on. After a few miles of descending elevation, we drove through a burnt portion of the forest. Most people think that forest fires are preventable tragedies. In actuality, fires are a very important part of the forest eco-system. The branchless trees around the road were filled in by smaller growth and told me that the area had likely been part of a controlled burn.

Deschutes National Forest - Burnt Portion

A river ran to the left of the road. It was a swifter body of water than any we had yet encountered. The proximity of mountains and their melting snow to the river probably was a major factor in the river’s current. We passed a dam and Detroit Lake opened up on our left. It was a medium sized lake surrounded on all sides by steep banks covered in firs. It was the most stunning lake I had ever seen. Corey remarked that we must return to the lake at a later time to do some exploring. I agreed and we drove on.

We were only hours from Amity. The thought of spending consecutive days in the same state thrilled me. I pushed the pedal down and climbed the last pass that stood between us and the end of the first leg of the trip. Life was good.

Day 2 - Chasing Angels

“Getting to the top is optional

 Getting down is mandatory” 

-Ed Viesturs

                The morning light came much earlier than I had hoped. Due to final exams and the following celebration, I had not enjoyed a full night’s rest in over two weeks. I rolled out of bed and dragged myself into the shower. The high water pressure in the hotel was incredibly soothing on my road-weary body. I felt the time spent staring down the dividing line weigh down my eyelids. Sleep grabbed hold of me and before long I drifted into a dream underneath the massaging jets of the Travelodge shower. I awoke a few minutes later to Corey's knocks on the bathroom door to remind me that we had only a few minutes to catch the first shuttle bus into Zion Canyon: an observation that would turn out to be much more significant than I anticipated at the time.

                Corey and I arrived at the visitor’s center at 6:45 AM. The sun peaked into the canyon and illuminated the park in a way that truly showcased the colors of the sandstone walls that gave Zion its allure. We caught the first bus with only minutes to spare. A recorded audio-tour of the lower canyon played softly over the bus’s loudspeaker. A man's voice told the story of Zion’s geological formation, its discovery, and its eventual designation as a National Park. Zion, we were told, meant sanctuary. I felt the name appropriate given the sheltered nature of the canyon, and its effect of distracting me from how long it took us to get there from Texas.

                Five other hikers of various ages and national origins piled out of the bus and headed across the street to the trailhead for Angels Landing. There was a young Indian couple, an older American gentleman, and an eighty-something-year-old man named Jan (yohn). Jan yodeled in Italian, but based on his accent and his bright-orange-colored-felt Australian cowboy hat, I assumed he was Dutch. We marched ahead of the party and started up the hike’s first major climb in altitude. Long switchbacks worked their way up the canyon wall and offered stunning views of the Virgin River, which foreshadowed what the overlook above was like.

Long switchbacks

                The morning air was cold and made our ascent of the first switchbacks a frigid endeavor. We hiked into Refrigerator Canyon, a name given for how chilly it remains - even when the rest of the canyon is scorching hot. We moved quickly across a flat section of trail that gave us a reprieve from the hike’s unforgiving switchbacks. After just five minutes, we were launched back up the canyon wall on the first of Walter’s Wiggles. Walter’s Wiggles is a series of twenty-one short and steep switchbacks. The engineering marvel was named for Walter Ruesch: the park ranger who created the trail to Angels Landing in the mid 1920s. We had gained roughly eight-hundred feet and hiked nearly two miles in forty-five minutes. We heard voices above us when we reached the bottom of the Wiggles. A wily older couple had set out earlier than the first shuttle in order to reach the top first. Unfortunately for them, they vastly underestimated how quickly younger hikers, like Corey and I, could cover ground. We flew up the two-hundred and fifty vertical feet of the Wiggles switchbacks and caught the couple at Scouts Landing, an overlook that offered views out onto Big Bend below. Our first glimpse of the rock-fin that made the last climb to Angels Landing appeared to our right.

Bottom of Walter's Wiggles

                Our goal was simple: be the first people to ascend Angels Landing that morning. I had seen pictures of the hike online where the ridge was covered with hikers. We had no interest in sharing the tranquility of the canyon with others that morning. The older couple wished us luck and we were off. We moved swiftly, but safety was of high importance. Since 2004, there had been six recorded deaths of those who fell from the ridge that made up the last stretch up to Angels Landing. After we finished our ascent, I opined that those deaths were either the result of recklessness, or being caught in the wrong place during a rain storm. There was no excuse for simply falling by accident, given the convenient safety-chain that hugged the interior portion of the ridge. Corey did not use the chain once during his ascent up the rock-fin, and missed no opportunity to remind me of that fact throughout the rest of the day. Our steps were deliberate and balanced when we crossed the aptly named, Steps of Faith, a part of the ridge where just one yard to the left or right would lead to a fourteen-hundred foot fall and certain death. After some slightly vertical climbing, we reached the top. The end, though it had been in sight for quite some time, finally evened with us in altitude.

Steps of Faith

                We climbed the last steps up to the Landing. I wished to let out a victorious yell, but I was far too out of breath. After I stopped coughing, my jaw dropped. Every direction I looked there were images as beautiful as any I had ever seen. I took a moment to burn the canyon views into my memory. I thought to myself that if there were angels, they certainly hung around the overlook that carried their name.

Fat Chipmunk that lives at 1400 feet above the canyon floor

                Swallows who nest on the exposed rock face buzzed our heads. They flew high above us then dove within feet of our heads. The whoosh of the birds that flew by told Corey and I that we were on the swallow’s home turf. Chipmunks scurried about and were skittish at first, but soon posed for my camera in an obvious attempt to get some of my Clif bar. I did not oblige them. One should never feed animals in the wild. Judging by how plump the chipmunks were, I assumed many people did not follow that rule.

                Corey and I sat on the overlook and snapped shots of the canyon for twenty whole minutes before the groups behind us made it to the top. Soon after the Indian couple finished the climb, Jan’s yodeling became audible. Jan warned to stay away from the edge and told us that he was headed back down already. We asked why he did not want to spend more time on the landing. He replied that his latest ascent marked the forty-eighth time he had made the hike. Jan was over eighty years old and confidently stated that he would surely make the hike a fiftieth time before he checked out. He turned around and headed back down so as to avoid dealing with the uphill traffic that increased in the mid-morning hours.

Above Scout's Overlook

More technical portion of the climb

                Corey and I took some more photos and meditated a bit near a stack of rocks. After nearly an hour above the canyons, we turned and headed back down the rock fin. I generally have found the hike down from high places to be more unnerving than the hike up, but that was not the case in Zion. The hike up had been so strenuous that I gladly welcomed a downhill trek. Back at Scout’s Lookout, a park ranger told a group of people facts about the canyon’s Condors and Swallows, which we were familiar with from our time at the top of the trail. We passed, what I believe, was about two-hundred hikers on our way back down the canyon. Corey and I agreed that we made the right decision to finish the hike before it was crowded. I could not imagine that we would have enjoyed the experience nearly as much had we been forced to share it with such a large group of people.

Walters Wiggles from the top

                After descending Walter’s Wiggles, we hiked back down the long switchbacks and reached the banks of the Virgin River on the canyon floor. Corey waded into the river and snapped some shots of Angels Landing in the water’s reflection. We walked back to the bus-stop and boarded the shuttle back to the visitor’s center. It was nearly noon. We had completed the five mile round-trip which climbed fourteen-hundred feet in just under four hours. Had we turned around immediately at the top, we could have made the trip in three. My legs ached and my stomach growled. We left Zion and stopped at a nearby burger joint.

Trees can grow anywhere it seems

                We had already spent more energy that morning than most do in a day, but we had a long trip ahead of us. With that notion in mind, we started the eight hour drive to Elko: a mining-town in Nevada’s high-country that was our day-two destination.

                Corey and I had no idea that Nevada’s north-eastern territory was covered with stunning mountains and wide valleys. We took a bit longer route that drove through a national wildlife preserve that lay in the foothills of a long, but not very tall mountain range. We saw one pronghorn antelope. A modest sighting considering how many run across the plains of New Mexico and Texas. The detour turned out to be fruitful though. As we drove toward a mountain range, a full-sized Golden Eagle left his perch next to the road and rose into the air. The raptor looked majestic in flight. The eagle flew high quickly and flattened out, likely in search of food.

One of the last sections of climb

                An hour later, we pulled into Elko and checked into the hotel. Elko is a place largely untouched by changes in architectural style since the 1960s. Large blinking casino lights and old neon hotel signs lined the main street that our hotel sat by. I was glad I decided not to book a room at a local casino, which appeared to be the same as it was in the days of the rat-pack. The town looked slightly run-down and the casino was no different. Our hotel was more like a dorm than anything, but it was just for the night, and we were simple travelers that needed little more than a roof and a couple of beds.

                That evening, we had dinner at the Stray Dog Pub. The pizza was good and the bartender was friendly. We made conversation with the bartender as Corey and I looked over pictures from that morning. It was hard for us to believe that just thirteen hours earlier we started the Angels Landing hike. It felt much more like it happened some time ago, or that it was all just a dream. I sipped my ale, rubbed my sore right leg, and looked forward to what the next day had in store.

               

Day 1

Day 1

“For an occurrence to become an adventure,

it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it”
-Jean-Paul Sartre

It was nearly six AM when the initial signs of dawn appeared. The smell of feed-lot hung heavy in the air outside of Clovis New Mexico as I said goodbye to Texas. It would be three months before I would make the return trip home.

A small time later, the sun’s first rays raced across the Llano Estacado, quickly erasing any lead Corey and I had built up in the hours since we left Lubbock. I have always wondered what drove men to speed to their destination with such haste. After years of travel, I believe it is a desire to control time that pushes us to get where we are going as quickly as possible. There is no force more unyielding than time; and yet by speeding down the highway we feel as if we are somehow saving it.

Out of the driver’s side window, I saw a pronghorn antelope leap a fence and gracefully bound towards the horizon. The antelope has no concept of time: she is only concerned with the next rain that will fill the draws and playa lakes where she quenches her thirst. I felt a connection to the antelope and contemplated the journey at hand.

The adventure we had embarked on was to take us from Texas to Oregon. After staying a few days with our friend Henry, I would drop Corey at the airport in Portland and make my way to Seattle for job training. From there, I would head east towards the Continental Divide and Glacier County Montana. I liked to think that our trip was, in a loose way, similar to journeys made by map-makers and fur-traders of centuries past. I believed Corey felt the same way; though he had not expressly stated as much.

                It was high-noon when we reached the borders of Navajo country. The area near the New Mexico-Arizona border was filled with white mesas, red sandstone escarpments, and pink rolling hills peppered with Yucca in bloom. The distant figure of Ship Rock butte came into view and served as a striking reminder of how foreign the great American west was to me.

                We made our way into Arizona and traveled parallel to Monument Valley, a relatively flat area with many tall buttes and pointed remnants of towering sand dunes that occupied the land millions of years ago. I looked over the landscape and easily understood how the Indians came to find god in that place. There are few things more spiritual than to stand in awe of nature and yet the same experience also has the effect of making one feel entirely insignificant.

                An hour went by as the highway meandered through collections of rocks and buttes that all surely had been given names by the Navajo. After jokingly saying “are we there yet,” three smokestacks came into our purview: a sure sign that we had reached our first stop of the trip. A canyon opened up on our right and Lake Powell lay directly in front of us. We passed the Navajo power station that had been a beacon for us and turned onto a dirt Indian road. I pushed the pedal down which caused dirt and rocks to kick up from behind the tires. After nearly twelve straight hours of driving we had made it to Lower Antelope Canyon.

                The upper and lower Antelope canyons outside of Powell Arizona are slot canyons created by whipping wind and the rise and fall of water in Lake Powell, combined with millions of years of nature’s determination. The canyons are very protected and require a guide to tour them. Corey and I paid our twenty-six dollars to a Navajo man and took our place with the other travelers underneath an awning. A call came out: “all for the three o’clock tour follow me.”

We were entirely unaware that portions of Arizona were either on Pacific Time, or did not observe daylight savings time. Either way, we had arrived an hour earlier than anticipated: a revelation that annoyed Corey since we had skipped stopping by Four Corners National Monument in order to make the last tour at the slot canyon. We had a quick laugh about the situation just before our guide began to point out dinosaur tracks left near the entrance to Lower Antelope Canyon. I didn't really see the tracks, though I nodded approvingly to our guide and took a picture anyway.

We reached the entrance to the slot canyon. It was a slit in the ground so small in comparison to the surrounding country that it was as if a great force had sliced the earth’s crust with a mighty sword. I envisioned that the first person to discover the top entrance of the canyon was someone who simply tripped over it hiking near the lake.

Canyon Corey

Canyon Entrance

One by one our party descended into the slot canyon and posed for pictures just inside the entrance. Our guide spoke at length about the forces that had shaped the canyon over millions of years. I barely heard her over the constant clicking of my camera’s shutter. The sandstone in the canyon had been carved out in such a way that there was not more than a fifteen-foot gap between the top of the canyon walls at any one point; while at the bottom, the walls either formed a trough, or opened wide to form majestic rooms of red and orange rock with sand covering the floor. The walls of the canyon were not uniform; they were made up of swirling lines of sandstone that looked as smooth as flowing silk, yet felt as rough as sandstone’s name would suggest. Our tour climbed down a rather large ladder to push deeper into the canyon and it was there that we saw the arch room.

Walls in Lower Antelope Canyon

The arch room was the grandest part of the slot canyon. It allowed for a photo opportunity of a lifetime underneath a large flat sandstone arch that appeared to be a truss between the two walls of the canyon. After posing for a picture, I went back to snapping photos of every flowing sand surface in the canyon. Shortly thereafter, Corey and I had tired of the tour. It was time to get back on the road.

Arch Room

After we took a break for lunch in Powell, we got back to pounding pavement and headed north into Utah. Our next

stop: Zion.

It took us a couple of hours to make it to Kanab Utah. Even Kanab’s gas station had a better view out of its front door than the vast majority of businesses in the country. We passed the Coral Pink Sand Dunes on our way out of town. The dunes were tall and appeared to be dipped in dye, as that color did not appear natural on sand. The car climbed up switchbacks until we went over the pass and saw a golf course ahead on our left, signaling that the entrance to Zion was just around the bend.

We turned left on the Zion Scenic Byway and blew past a closed entrance booth to the park. From the entrance until we would leave the canyon, every view was worthy of being immortalized by a master painter. We entered a tunnel carved out of the rock. Every hundred yards or so in the mile long tunnel, an opening in the wall showed that the wall of the tunnel was the same cliff wall that we would gawk at momentarily. As we came out of the tunnel and descended to the river bottom, the red sandstone cliffs stood over a thousand feet high just above our heads. Corey and I parked the car and I hurriedly set up my tripod in an attempt to catch the last signs of sunset in the canyon. The sun dipped behind the canyon wall and we got back in the car, which was something I dreaded wholeheartedly after having spent fourteen hours on the road.

Canyon Wall - Zion

Next, we stopped at a restaurant in the shadow of Zion canyon to grab a beer. Apparently, in Utah you have to order food to be legally allowed to purchase any alcohol. The beer they do serve is nearly half the strength of its counterpart from any other state. We begrudgingly drank our watered down porters and snacked on a surprisingly good guacamole. Half an hour later, we were at the hotel. I hauled my valuables upstairs and said goodnight to day one of the adventure. It had been a long day, but we made it to Zion. We made it to sanctuary from the road.