Adventure Journal

Leatham Hollow via Millville Canyon

2009-09-02T22:20:00.006-06:00

The recent grading and excavation of Millville Canyon's road has made accessible a new world of recreational opportunities for those not owning an AtV or Hummer H1. Access to the top of Leatham Hollow is easily had, and if familar with the area one can even get to Providence Canyon, Mount Logan, or even back down into Logan Canyon's system of trails and roadways.

The transportation improvement happened very quietly and was likely born of economic purpose--a timber harvest or perhaps a fiscal year end attempt to dump surplus funds. Since being made privy to the new access I have made several trips to the top for various reasons. Jeremy B. and I spent a few good hours hiking the hillside the day before his fathers funeral. Shortly after that I explored, on my mountain bike, a game trail we had spotted in the distance. The end of the trail overlooked the valley from a paragliding launch that Jared S., Randy L. and I used to frequent. Approaching this familiar place from a completely different angle, geographically connected several separate memories, closing a strange loop in my mind.

August Storm, White Pine Lake

2009-08-20T21:47:00.008-06:00

Minutes after exiting the truck a low flying helicopter skimmed the trees and landed out-of-site on a nearby ridge. A troubled teenage girl, topped with green dyed hair, had been missing with her wolf-mix pup for nearly a week already, and my friends and I assumed the chopper was part of the resumed search. At first the girl's disappearance seemed intentional, but enough time has now passed that no one is laughing it off as someone trying to find themselves.

After a short detour it became apparent that the helicopter and small crew were not searching for the missing wanderer, but rather putting out a small lightning caused timber fire.

As we hiked from Tony Grove to White Pine I kept expecting to see the missing girl in the distance, scampering from one stand of trees to another, hoping to be seen in an indefinite way.

At dark, Jerod pointed out several constellations and asterisms which he learned about in a previous life as an astronomer. I favored a simple combination of stars which make up what he referred to as an "olde timey coat hanger". This particular asterism is located along the path of The Summer Triangle. While kinking our necks towards the heavens we also witnessed an Iridium Flare, a phenomena which occurs when certain communication satellites reflect an intense amount of sunlight on the very spot you happen to be standing. Those wishing to witness an Iridium Flare can search the web for a schedule of this predictable event.

Morning rode in quickly on the tail of my Ambien CR. Intense rain created a pleasant, yet deafening static on the crisp tent walls. Snow formed in the air around us but was only permitted to stick several hundred feet higher.

The storm broke and we hiked out, my eyes still scanning the meadows for signs of the missing girl. It goes without saying that we had an incredible time.

Providence Cave; as Claustrophobic as I Remembered

2009-08-02T22:03:00.009-06:00

It had been a few years since I have scurried around like an over-sized rodent, so I rounded up a couple friends and we tramped through dense mountainous underbrush for an hour looking for Providence Cave--a hole in the ground that boasts a moderate level of popularity with those who like spikes in their claustrophobia intake.

Normally I could have hiked directly to the site, but we thought it would be a good idea to bring a GPS unit--since the area is quite woodsy. Unfortunately the coordinates for the cave, courtesy of a Google search, were apparently only accurate enough to lead one to the correct county.

Once in the cave the usual straw-drawing to see who would plunge feet first into the storm drain sized chasm (locally known as castration rock and the birth canal) ensued.

Eventually the three of us, all on the other side of the constriction, giggled like little girls and wrote our names in the air with flashlights. Ryan is going to practice writing his name backwards at home before we venture out again.

Vernal, Utah: Pork Chops, Mountain Bikes, and Dinosaurs

2009-07-27T20:54:00.010-06:00

Nothing fuels a full day of mountain biking like a breakfast consisting of a gravy covered pork chop, two eggs, dutch oven potatoes, and a side of flap jacks. The laid back country folk in Vernal, UT are starting to get used to sweaty mountain bike tourists invading their mom-and-pop diners, cleated shoes clicking with every step.

Recently, Bike Magazine ran an article proposing that Vernal may be the next Moab, and since then, a local told us visitors from all over the county have been brapping the Vernal trails. The naming convention for most of the rides oddly revolves around a bovine and dairy theme. During our short visit, Jerod and I biked Can You Moo and Got Milk.

Two nights of accommodations were kindly provided by the lawn at a local Church, and a lively city park. Let's see you pull that off in Moab!

Vernal is definitely a winner, and I can feel her trails calling me back already.

Green Canyon Single Track

2009-07-24T09:56:00.004-06:00

When it comes to accommodating thrill seekers with a quick-access mountain bike adrenaline fix, Green Canyon has really got things together lately.

Just a few minutes from downtown Logan, Green Canyon dishes out flowing single track that rivals most trails in the Cache Valley area. RJ and I went for a quick ride during lunch break and pitted our skills at this little dirt jump section.

What the video doesn't show is the first three times I attempted this and went into the trees... and the one time I had to completely ditch the bike.

Attention Steelhead: Do not fear.

2009-06-14T19:47:00.006-06:00

Last month I spent a few days presenting Juniper's rugged field computers to NOAA in Seattle, WA. Jeremy and Becca live just outside of town and so we hooked up for some fun.

We had killer food in town, spent a night or two at their house, then Jeremy and I graced the river for an epic 12 hour day of fishing for Steelhead. That is pretty much "end of story". Zero fish caught. At the end of the day my arm was sore, but my attitude wasn't. We would have been right back out their the next day if permitted.

Sovereign Trail Base Camp, Moab

2009-06-14T19:29:00.004-06:00

I wish I had some crazy mountain bike pics to post, but luckily I spent more time behind the handle bars than I did behind the shutter.

We did manage to bag the best camping spot in all of Moab: a secluded box canyon of giant red rock boulders, far enough from town that it is free and often vacant. Braaap'd Porcupine Rim Trail, Slick Rock, and Bartlet Wash (a new favorite). A fun reunion of old friends made complete by a dinner at Pasta J's.

Smoked Kokanee Salmon A la Bell Pepper

2009-02-22T18:12:00.008-07:00

I have never felt more like Martha Stewart than I do right now. I will let the photo do most of the talking, but let me say this: Everything tastes better smoked.

For Christmas I was given a smoker, and here you can see me putting it to good use. Smoked Kokanee salmon mixed with wild-herb rice and tomatoes, then carefully stuffed into bell peppers. The stuffed peppers are then smoked for about an hour. Right now I am killing time while the peppers in the linked photo finish smoking.

This winter has been some of the best Kokanee salmon fishing I have experienced. I am embarrassed to even say how many I have caught. It is hard not to be greedy with what are arguably the best tasting fish to have ever graced the earth (cell phone pics).

Leatham Hollow Ski, Blacksmith Fork

2009-01-31T17:30:00.005-07:00

Lefthand Fork has some potentially good, short approach, backcountry skiing. This, of course, is entirely dependent on the quantity of snow at its relatively low elevation (6,000 ft). This morning I skied Leatham Hollow, Lefty's first major canyon running to the west.

The snow, though weeks old, was surprisingly untracked. There was sign of coyote and deer, but I seemed to be the only person to have ventured up there for a while. Besides the serenity and unseasonable weather, the only other thing worth mentioning was the periodic crash of thawing and falling rocks from the massive cliffs to the north. Everything about the trip felt like spring. It is still January.

Adventure Lunch

2008-12-31T16:40:00.003-07:00

Once or twice a week I attempt to muster enough determination to do something one normally would not do, when only presented with an hour of free time. Mountain biking, skiing, hiking, fishing, hunting are all qualifed activities of choice. These mini-outings sometimes feel like they require more preparation than they are worth, but over time they add up to a lengthy blur of good times. Today’s ski near Green Canyon was especially excellent.

Just south of the mouth of Green Canyon I parked and donned my 2002 Black Diamond Mira telemark skis. I only mention the brand and date because I recently read a review for this model, which dated back to the year they were released. The review made them sound like they exhibited revolutionary design technologies from the future that would never be surpassed. This of course was not true, and now just a few years later they look like hippy skis of the past.

In the picture you can see that my ascent was not lengthy, but still not a bad ski outing for a lunch outing. The descent probably held less than 30 turns, but ask anyone who skis backcountry and they will agree that the reward of hiked turns stomps a full day at the resort.

At the top of the picture I also marked the paraglider launch Jared S. and I did (c. 2002), before he moved to NY. Between the time that Jared and I launched, the wind switched catabatic and my legs and feet skirted the treetops as I struggled to gain relative altitude. Not the scariest flight I had on this face, but close. Though we were not the very first to paraglide in Cache Valley, we still felt like pioneers since there were only a few wings in the valley and numerous previously unflown peaks. Our paragliding mentor, Randy Liggett, did not join us on the flight and has now moved. Paragliding has increased in popularity now that my wing is sold and I am not looking for someone to hike to the top of the mountains with. At the time it was a difficult sport for which to find flying companions.

Traversing the Bullion Divide, Wasatch Range

2008-12-29T18:00:00.003-07:00

Once again I have procrastinated documenting an epic day, long enough that once-rich memories have condensed themselves down to a solitary word: Incredible. Several months ago I would have had no problem conveying minute details of breath taking views, panoramic vistas, and the triumph over bodily fatigue. Now that winters chill has erased critical details of last summers activities I have only photographs and sparse details to share.

The Bullion Divide is a classic Wasatch ridge-run which starts above Alta ski resort and crosses the summits of several of Utah’s eleven-thousand foot peaks. This summer my friend Jared S. took interest in summiting all the Wasatch 11’ers and invited me to join. My schedule did not permit completing the 16 summits, but I managed to climb five, with Jared and some friends, on a Saturday in early August:

Sugarloaf Pk, 11051 ft
Mt Baldy, 11068 ft
Hidden Pk, 10992 ft
American Fork Twin Pks, 11489 ft
Red Top, 11380
Red Baldy, 11171 ft

The route spanned 10+ miles and took nearly a full day. We took our time and celebrated each summit with sliced Gouda cheese. It was nice to catch up with Jared and share some laughs. There were some pretty sketchy areas that will not be forgotten. The chute on the east side of Red Baldy was a very bad idea. There was a 75 yard section of extremely steep terrain that we took turns ascending, while the others hunkered down to avoid toppling boulders. A mountaineering helmet would have been cool.

Note: When approaching Red Baldy from Red Top side, do not be tempted to take the false trail around the east side of Red Baldy’s summit. We learned the hard way that despite how it looks, it is much safer to summit via the predominantly north face. The east side offered loose rocks and dangerous Class IV exposure.

Ostler Lake, Uinta National Forest, UT

2008-10-17T10:20:00.007-06:00

It was Rebecca's decision to stick with the plan. Five months pregnant, and barely two-days-recovered from a medical scare that sent her via ambulance to the hospital, we piled our backpacking gear in the car and headed to the High Uinta Wilderness with Lee and Amy. Three days into our trip a pending storm was scheduled to arrive and deposit 2008's first significant snow fall. Our plan was to enjoy the good weather at Ostler Lake and to then descend below 10,000 ft before the snow arrived.

I am straining to remember details of the trip. The last few months have been jam packed with activity, both work and leisure.

Detours included, the hike to the Lake was approximately eight miles, and included one major wrong turn. The year before, on the way to Amethyst Lake, Lee, Gary, and I had rode (horses) right past Ostler but had not made the short detour to see it. Ostler is amazingly secluded and scenic--I now favor it above Amethyst. Really it would be difficult to go wrong with any destination in the Uintas. During the two days we spent at Ostler we caught trout for our meals and bathed in the teeth-cracking cold waters. As planned, on day three we descended to Christmas Meadows and set up camp in pelting rain. The ladies played cards in the tent, while Lee and I drenched ourselves trying to fish and cook our remaining food. If I remember correctly, it was a delicious Hawaiian chicken dish and some kind of berry cobbler that I handed through the door of the tent to our weather sheltered wives. The rain was torrential all night, and as predicted the next morning the mountains were blanketed with white snow 500 ft higher than our camp. A descent any later would have been an unwelcome struggle.

It is really a shame I did not document this trip earlier. After returning to Logan I had a lasting impression that it was one of my favorite excursions ever, however my zeal for writing about it is waning. Our friends Lee and Amy had just sold their house in preparation to move to Alaska. It kind of felt like the last big hoorah, but now several months have passed and they are still in town. With luck they will stay.

Hyrum Dam Trolling

2008-10-15T21:36:00.004-06:00

I am going to do you a favor and not ramble on-and-on about how poorly trout fishing has been treating me this year. I simply want to post this picture and say that although I am maintaining a somewhat stoic and reserved look in the attached image, I am really jumping up and down inside like a four year old at Disney Land.

Mountain Biking and Bull Riding, Potential Biathalon?

2008-09-07T17:30:00.000-06:00

While a thousand highly-motivated road bikers, including my friend Jason, struggle into tight fitting spandex attire in anticipation for Lotoja (the longest USCF sanctioned one day bike race, which happens to start here in Logan, Utah), I lay in bed wondering if I should have pancakes or French toast for breakfast. By the time I roll out of bed and opt for the French toast, my spandex clad biking brethren have probably already logged the first 30 miles of a 200+ mile day. Not wanting to feel completely useless on a two wheeler I head to Richard's Hollow, Blacksmith Fork, Utah for some mountain biking and fresh air.

Richard's is a fun ride with plenty of uphill to earn your keep, and downhill technical sections to remind you of your limitations. My recent technique when things get technical is to go limp, trust my suspension, keep at least one eye open, and bomb through the thick of it. Far from graceful, to onlookers this repertoire of maneuvers would resemble a bull in a china shop. Luckily, on this particular day, there were no onlookers, only herds of cattle--including an angry bull that wanted to make me his china shop (see photo). When I ripped around a blind corner and caught first glimpse of the angry beast, the distance from "Ye-ha, biking sure is fun!" to "Did I just get trampled, and are all my limbs still attached?" was approximately 10 bike lengths. To understand that snorting sounds and hoof stamping are indicators of angry bovine tendencies farming experience is not needed. After checking my pockets and finding that I was without my red matador's cape, I promptly abandoned my bike and scampered up the hill side. "Take that!" I yelled as I heaved rocks at the bull who was looking as though he may harass my abandoned mountain bike. Apparently he did not want any trouble after all and kept moving.

Richard's Hollow is a 14.5 mile mountain bike ride with 2500 feet of vertical gain and the same amount of descent. Less livestock and dirt bikers would make it a little more enjoyable for hiking and mountain biking. There is a lot of water to cross, even this late in the year (September). Enjoy.

Aron Ralston, SUWA Slide Show

2008-09-05T20:53:00.007-06:00

Last night Jared S. and I sat in a small University of Utah auditorium with approximately 100 others and listened to Aron Ralston recount his incredible survival story that left him with no choice but to shatter and amputate his own arm. After six days of being trapped by a dislodged chock stone an epiphany provided him the solution for escape.

Earlier this summer I read Aron Ralston's book "Between a Rock and a Hard Place". I had been searching the library's mountaineering section hoping to learn something new, and there it was. A similarity I share with Aron is my passion for the outdoors and a frequent theme of adventuring alone. However, I must say that my adventures pale in comparison to the accomplishments and follies he has experienced in the outdoors. I am not going to rehash the contents of his book and details of his story. The book is readily available for those who wish to read it. What I will say is that I was very inspired, both by his passion for the outdoors and by the value that he placed on his relationships with family and friends. While trapped in the canyon he used a digital camcorder to record his goodbyes and regrets. It really made me think of what is important in my life, and contemplate what I can do to show more gratitude to those I care about. Much of his book and his speech focused on this topic.

The presentation was sponsored by the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance. There was a push to get people involved in the organization and fight to protect Utah's rich geology and wilderness. The proceeds of the event and the book sale were donated to the groups efforts. Aron has been very noble in using his incidental fame to raise awareness and funds for environmental issues.

After the riveting story I shook Aron's remaining hand and had him sign my copy of his book. The entire experience was very moving.

Gulkana River Float Trip, Alaska 2008

2008-09-03T21:25:00.023-06:00

Gate D1. Out the airport terminal window to my left a TSA agent lazily gives a visual scan to the bottom of the aircraft I am soon to board. His calm mannerisms tell me he has not found anything shady taped to the bottom of the aircraft. (sigh of relief). To my right I am enjoying a fantastic display of people watching, rivaled only by county fairs and demolition derby crowds. In approximately five hours I will have departed the familiarity of the lower 48 to experience Alaska for the first time.

Ship Creek
I have been in Alaska for less than 24 hours. During low tide I hooked into a 30+ lb Chinook (King) salmon two blocks from the hotel. Locals cheered and scampered to my side with gaping nets. Fortunately for the fish, it escaped the hooks clench and left my psyche shaken for the better part of the day. Had I hooked onto a deer running at full speed I don't think the feeling would have been much different.

Alex
I met Troy H. at a forestry show in 2008, a USDA Forest Service ecologist and aspiring bison hunter. Now, several months later, the bison has been harvested and I am lined up to raft the Gulkana River for three days with his friend Alex. Alex, whom I had never met, picks me up in Anchorage and we go to his apt to plan our float trip. There I meet his girlfriend Mellissa, two cats, and two black labs. The living room is furnished with a pair of huge sea kayaks and a structure Alex built from used pallets—the cats call this home. Mellisa tells me about the projects she is working on at an environmental consulting firm, as she sews button holes on an impressive shirt she has tailored. They are both very friendly and I quickly feel at home with one of their large white cats snuggled on my lap. We will float the river two days from now when my work obligations are complete.

Seward
I awake to the sun and check my watch—2 am. The sun has already made its brief dip below the horizon. I have been averaging a meager four hours of sleep per night and groan at the early awakening. Later that morning I meet the other conference attendees at the train station for a tour to Seward, Alaska, and a boat ride in the bay. This was an unexpected perk of the conference. My primary focus while in Alaska is the Association of Consulting Foresters Annual Conference. Most of the attendees are small business owners and consultants who attend the conference all day, while their families enjoy planned activities and pseudo local dishes. I spend most of the tour hanging out with Peter and Tim from ESRI. We have a good time joking around about subjects that occasionally touch on conference related topics. I attended the trip with low expectations, assuming that the tour will be nothing more than a booze cruise with souvenir stops along the way. To my surprise it turns out to be an amazingly good time with stellar views and wildlife sightings. The highlight of the excursion takes place when a humpback whale swims directly at the boat, makes a last second dive and reappears on the other side. I am no more than 20 feet way. We also see orcas, sea lion, porpoise, seal, black bear, and various sea birds.

Into the Wild
The conference is now over and I wait above Anchorage's Alaskan Railroad building for Alex to pick me up. We make some last minute preparations and head for the interior. The Glen Allen Highway is much like one would expect: remote, vast, and scenic. My mind becomes desensitized to the awe of Alaska's grandeur as we pass several dozen majestic peaks. After five hours of winding highway, we decided to camp in the village of Glenn Allen. On the surface it appears to be a one road town, complete with enough churches to convert Ozzy Osborne, yet too small of a population to fill a movie theater. We sleep on the lawn of a public works facility and my dreams are both blessed and plagued by mind-conjured trophy fishing and intermittent bear attacks.

Paxon Lake to Sourdough Campground
It is morning. We eat breakfast. This will be my last meal that does not consist of fish mixed with something. By now I have spent enough time with Alex that I can tell we are much alike. Our personalities mesh well, we were born the same year, both laugh and joke about nearly everything, and expect nothing more than a lifetime of adventure. Alex grew up in a small Midwestern town (population 900) and exudes a relaxed rural persona. He has degree in forestry and is going to be studying to become a teacher in the near future. His current job at a kayak and rafting shop has scored us the use of a 14 ft raft.

With the raft in the water we travel a few miles to the outlet of Paxon Lake. Our only form of road transportation, the borrowed truck, disappears into the distance. This decision will leave us 50 miles down stream, and without vehicle, three intense days later. Alex assures me that hitch hiking in Alaska is as simple as hailing a cab in New York City. However, it is my plane that will not wait should complications prevent us from arriving at the Anchorage airport on time. The timeline allows for little error.

From the very beginning the fishing is phenomenal. I score two large lake trout as we troll across Paxon. As we transition from lake to river we begin catching rainbow trout, arctic grayling, and mountain whitefish. This success will continue for 3 days. Despite the fact that the sun still seems to be at full tilt, the first night has arrived. We have been rafting for approximately eight hours. Our pre-trip calculations would have us at around one-third of the way to the bottom. Alex consults the GPS for the first time and his face displays a puzzled look. It feels like we have traveled countless miles but the digital map reveals that we have made minimal progress. It does not even appear as if the GPS has drawn a line yet. In the larger scheme of things we are still right next to Paxon Lake. Instantly my mind jumps back to my first solo business trip when I ran down the airport jet-way to see the doors closed and my plane backing away. Luckily a bold airport attendant was kind enough to bang on the side of the jet and they opened the door.

A rough calculation tells us that if we row down stream for nearly 20 hours per day I will make my red-eye flight early Sunday morning. Our arrangement for the next two days consists of one of us rowing, one of us fishing, and both of us sleeping for a few hours per night. Amazingly we never really experience tiredness as hours of river slowly pass below the boat. When it is all over we will have rafted nearly 55 miles, caught at least a hundred fish, and rowed enough raft to be bumped from novice to semi-pro.

Besides a vicious section of Class III+ rapids most of the river is fairly benign. The books recommend that anyone less than an expert portage the Class III+ area. The size of our raft did not allow us a choice so without reluctance we went for it. Plus, Alex works the rental shop so we are about as close to expert as it gets—I assure myself. The most treacherous part of the rapids offers three route choices: dangerous, more dangerous, and really dangerous. We inadvertently choose "really dangerous" and luckily come out high-fiving each other. It was truly an incredible rush to have all our gear lashed tightly to the boat, be in the middle of nowhere, and shoot some serious rapids with little experience—much more intense than experiences I have had on the big waters of the Snake River.

The first indication of our take-out point (Sourdough Campground) is the massive Alaskan Pipeline arcing high above the Gulkana River. It does not look big enough that a tractor trailer could drive down it, like I have heard, but it is still an impressive piece of engineering. The last stretch of river is bitter sweet and when our boat hits shore three amazing days have slipped away. My mind, fogged with sleep deprivation, can not segment the period of time on the river into separate days. The lack of darkness has a strange effect on my internal clock and the float becomes a surreal memory. Viewing pictures taken during the journey strangely remind me that the events truly took place. Alex begins to dissect the raft as I head to the road with high hopes to hitch back to Paxon Lake where the truck patiently waits. Despite our timely arrival at Sourdough the clock still allows little room for error. Sourdough is approximately five hours from Anchorage and my flight leaves tonight.

After an hour and a half of unsuccessful hitch hiking I begin to worry. My outstretched thumb, having failed me on a dozen or so passing cars, instinctively becomes an outstretched hand with palm facing straight out. The same gesture a cop would use to halt traffic. It works. An interesting fellow on his way to Fairbanks cheerfully gives me transport to the Paxon Lake turn-off and the plan is back in motion. After a mile long jog to the parking lot and nearly an hour drive back to Sourdough, I pick up Alex who has been sleeping beside our neatly arranged gear and disassembled raft. With the highlight of the trip in the rearview we drive the same Glenn Allen Highway back to Anchorage in the opposite direction. It is almost as if the experience is rewinding as I see the same landmarks in reverse order. That night Alex drops me off at the airport and I say good bye to a new friend. It will take a week before I adjust to the normal cycle of day and night and begin to realize how lucky I am to have been hooked up with this trip by Troy and Alex.

Conclusion
As I sit in Logan, Utah, weeks after the trip, I still have to look at photographs to believe any of it really happened. It was an experience I am very grateful for. I am confident that this rafting trip will remain in my top five adventures for the duration of my life.

Backyard Pump Track, Logan Utah

2008-08-25T23:00:00.007-06:00

A year ago I went completely berserk and shoveled a lifetimes worth of dirt in three weeks. Literally, every waking moment that I was not at work I could be found, like a mad man, in the backyard, throwing enough dirt to cover ten years worth of mafia mischief. What made me think this was a good idea: www.leelikesbikes.com

I purchased Lee's book on building backyard pump tracks. It was well worth the nominal fee. The book, as well as crazy videos of stale backyards turned biking wonderlands, lured me into the two wheeled dream. It was a total blast while it lasted. The pump track only saw one good season of riding and is now missed by all who railed her berms, rollers, and jumps. Bennett (Jason's son) will probably miss the track more than anyone. He could hardly believe I would tear it down to prep for a boring lawn. Sorry Bennett.

Photo Cred: Ross L.

Chevy S10 Field Test

2008-08-13T10:50:00.003-06:00

Even on its best day, when the sun, moon, and stars are lined up for perfect gravitational pull, my truck should not be allowed anywhere near a boat ramp at Porcupine Reservoir. Even with a new set of tires and a fresh coat of Rhino-lining on the ramp you would still be better off launching a trailered boat by hand. I have not looked under the hood of my truck lately but I am pretty sure the engine says Briggs and Stratton, and can be hot-swapped with the engine on most riding lawn mowers. The allure of fishing once again triggered an override on my common sense gene.

My park brake occasionally sticks, which has led me to forget about its existence. Putting the vehicle in gear has satisfied my occasional urge to park on precariously steep terrain. For good measure I normally throw a rock or two behind the tires. You know, in case the wind decides to pick up.

After a successful morning of Kokanee fishing at Porcupine dam I parked the boat on the shore and backed the trailer into the water. I had a large rock standing-by to serve as a wheel-block. After putting the truck into gear and stepping out to place the rock/wheel-block behind the rear tire, the truck popped out of gear and dove into the water faster than a naked man running from a swarm of hornets. Not wanting to miss out on the summer swimming fun, I also dove into the water, fumbled for the door handle, jumped into the truck and slammed on the break. For what seemed like several minutes I pushed the brake into the floor of the truck with enough force that afterwards I double checked to make sure it wasn’t bent. My left hand, almost instinctively, rolled down my window to provide an escape route if full submersion took place. The sound of gurgling water gave me an audible signal that I was about to experience something very bad. Then everything went static. The world around me held still for a brief moment and the truck stopped. I was breathing air! And I could see the hood of the truck, high and dry.

In the moments that followed two trucks tried to pull me out and were shamefully rejected. Maybe in my intense fear I forgot to let off the brake when they started pulling? Eventually the tow strap snapped. After strategically placing rocks behind all the tires, including a brief swim to place rocks behind the back tires, some nice Michigan transplants drove me into Avon and I borrowed a chain from a local farmhouse. When I arrived back at the truck, it was already on the shore, ready for boat loading. When I asked the campers in the area who pulled me out, they replied “What do you mean. You weren’t here?” The crowd was large enough that some of the watchers figured the owner of the submerged truck was hiding in the bandstands somewhere. Apparently some diesel wielding teenagers in a Dodge Ram saw the challenge and pulled me out with the greatest of ease. I am regretful that they received no thanks. Hopefully people at least offered a clap or two.

The most embarrassing part of the whole story is yet to come. After trailering the boat I could not get the truck to drive up the steep grade of the ramp. The truck was still trying to purge all the water out of the exhaust, and could not even muster up the energy to spin the tires in the loose dirt. With the greatest of humility I latched the borrowed chain onto both my truck and a red minivan. I was then pulled to safety.

Mission Beach, San Diego

2008-08-10T20:59:00.005-06:00

I enjoy public transportation in big cities, but for some reason do not consider it a viable option in my own home town. In large cities the entertainment value gained from people watching is very high and is usually worth the fare on its own--even if you have nowhere particular to go. The opposite is true in Logan, UT where ninety-five percent of the riders are homogeneous group from one of two cultures, both headed to WalMart.

In San Diego and other large cities, there are literally dozens of cultures riding public transportation--also probably headed to WalMart. If you were to shake the contents of a San Diego trolley into a glass jar (poke holes in the lid first) you would find a very culturally diverse mixture of persons from different walks of life. While on the bus I did a short scientific study and determined that no one culture was better than another at sliding wrinkly dollar bills into the bus payment console. We are all terrible at it. One guy held up the bus so long that other buses began to pile up behind us at the same stop.

The purpose of my visit to San Diego was for the ESRI User Conference. When my daily conference duties where through I would cruise the city with my co-workers, and sometimes solo. Ignacio and I rented surfboards at Mission Beach and had a good time getting pounded by shore break. Statistically speaking, I think I swallowed approximately 1.5 gallons of sea water per 5 feet of surfing. I got up on the board several times, so do the math--that is a lot of water.

A different night I went down to Mission Beach by myself and walked around. I took a few pictures. None of the normal pictures struck my interest, but I liked a couple of the atypical shots.

I also need say something about the Mexican Food in San Diego: Excellent.

Wellsville Range Solo Camp

2008-07-26T20:39:00.016-06:00

The setting sun has elongated my shadow into something unfamiliar. It is beyond the shadow you would expect from a tall man, and something more alien. As I walk, it effortlessly floats across trail, sage brush, and late blooming wild flowers. It follows me silently and unwearied as I breath heavily with each stride. I have ascended nearly 3,500 vertical feet and still have 1,000 to go. My destination is Box Elder Peak, the highest point on Northern Utah's Wellsville Mountain Range (9,372 feet).

The Wellsville Range is one of the narrowest and steepest ranges in the country. The base averages a mere five miles wide while jutting nearly a vertical mile into the sky. The area is classified as Wilderness and enjoys protection from overgrazing which once devastated the hillside. This year's long winter has delayed the scorch of summer and I enjoy green fields and picturesque meadows of wildflowers along the trail.

At the beginning of the hike I leave my vehicle on the shoulder of Highway 89 and walk alone through the thick canopy of lower Rattle Snake Canyon. This section of trail is heavily shaded and resembles nothing one might expect in Utah. The scene could easily pass as being semi-tropical. The over-story is thick and broadcasts only small patches of light that swirl on the ground cover as the wind touches the canopy above. Vines and huge ferns cover the ground in every direction, a banana plant would not look out of place. The shade of this tropical paradise is short lived as the trail ascends above the treeline and the ground becomes infested with less hospitable plant life. Sagebrush and other prickly vegetation commit to scrubbing flesh of my bare legs. I withstand the torture as long as I can before digging a pair of long pants from my pack. It is over 90 degrees Fahrenheit and the decision is not easily received.

The weather service has promised me lightning-free skies so my plan is to camp alone on the highest summit. I enjoy solo camping for a few reasons. The lack of conversation clears my mind and allows me to remember that I am a part of something bigger than my daily routines. The fear of physical injury, improbable animal attack, and looming darkness remind me that I am alive and fragile. Lastly, I have always been good at entertaining myself and don't let a lack of company stop me from experiencing life. I do enjoy sharing experiences with others, but sometimes it is easier to plan around a single schedule, especially on short notice. Everyone is very busy with what life deals them.

I have packed minimally: No pad, no tent, no excessive liquids, minimal food, sleeping bag, a light jacket. I think back to last years Wellsville trip and my knees begin to shake under the remembered load they endured. The pack was a hefty 50+ lbs, comprised mostly of 11 liters of water. This time, though tired, there is a spring in my step as I grace the summit. The sun is now gone and I quickly scan the surrounding 50 yards for a suitable spot to sleep. After determining that there is not a single body sized patch of stoneless terra firma on the entire mountain I decide to curl up adjacent to the cairn that majestically declares the high point of Box Elder Peak.

Wind howls the entire night and will not cease until I climb off the summit the following day. Its company is welcome and keeps the healthy mosquito population at bay (I did curse it once when my empty sleeping bag was nearly blown off the mountain in the middle of the night). Morning comes quickly and I enjoy the sunrise. It is unfortunate that those who live in Cache Valley do not experience an actual sunrise. Living in the shadows of tall mountain peaks rob us of that experience, which makes this moment even more stunning.

After meeting a few hikers and doing some exploring of surrounding peaks I descend to my vehicle and feel renewed. The Rattle Snake Canyon trail is a must-do for those who live in the area. A very small percentage of those who live here ever climb the very mountains that make Cache Valley such a cool place. The trail is moderate/difficult, 4.4 miles long, over 4k feet of vertical gain, and at a walking pace (with a few short breaks) can be tackled in a little over 3 hours.

Willard Bay, Wife, Wipers

2008-07-26T19:43:00.005-06:00

7-25-08. If I would have had a ski I would have abandoned fishing for the day and tried to get up behind the Jon boat. Willard was glassy and there were hardly any ski boats out. Willard definitely has a split personality. One day you will be buckling your life jacket up so fast you get blisters, and the next it will be as calm as a backyard pond.

I spent the day fishing with my favorite fishing partner and best friend. The fishing started out slow, but we finally managed to find the fish and left with a limit of Wipers. We don't get out together as much as we did before children came into our lives, but in a few years we will have raised a small fishing crew and we can all go out together.

Lake Powell Air Ambulance

2008-07-11T20:30:00.009-06:00

In 1996 I purchased the North Face backpack that I still use today. That was twelve years ago, and I have not had a good reason to replace it, except for the fact that it is a once-popular purple color that I no longer like. The purchase of the pack was spurred by a backpacking trip that I never attended. My friends had a great time without me hiking the scenic Wind River Range and catching record numbers of fish--or so I am told. Me, I was laying in bed for several weeks... broken ribs, a torn spleen, bruised kidneys, and endless hours of daytime TV to watch.

In ninety-six my drivers license was still fresh-off-the-press. I had received marginal training to operate an automobile equipped with seat belts, roll cage, and other safety features. Apparently this also qualified me to race up and down Lake Powell's narrow slot canyons, cousins Andrew and Jeremy tailgating my every move, on Yamaha 750 wave runners. It was a high-powered game of tag that only high schoolers would appreciate.

I awoke to the burn of water entering my nasal passages. I was unconscious just long enough to fly through the air in a display that would have made the Wright brothers envious. My limp body bobbed up and down in the settling waves of the accident. The other wave runner, which was once a perfectly safe 5 feet behind me and traveling 45 mph, did not see that I had abruptly stopped. The nose of their wave runner ramped off the running board of mine, and hit me squarely in the chest.

Jeremy and Andrew pulled me to the shore and carefully removed my life jacket. There was a 12 inch wide black spot on my chest that was rapidly swelling with bodily fluids. I thought I would die. I asked my cousins to smash my head in with a large rock and put me out of my misery. That was probably the adrenaline or endorphins talking. Looking back, I am glad they didn't comply.

The adults of the group were notified of my condition and they decided to transport me back to Bull Frog Marina on the houseboat (the choppiness of the water did not allow them to transport me in the ski boat). They laid me on a bed in a tiny closet-like room and off we went at a speedy 3 mph. Occasionally younger cousins would peek through the cracked door to see me vomiting and shaking in the fetal position. The adrenaline had worn off and the house boat ride became one of my life's darkest moments. By houseboat we were at least a half day from the marina, and the Tylenol just didn't seem to take the edge off the massive internal trauma.

At Bull Frog they had an ambulance waiting at the dock to transport me 1/2 block to a modest medical center. The center was qualified to administer band-aids and children's cough syrup--anything more serious than that requires air evacuation to a larger hospital.

The $10k life-flight helicopter ride was very scenic. I love Southern Utah. I think I even saw a mountain once when they rolled me onto my side to give me a shot in the butt. I was disappointed that pilot did not offer to have me unstrapped from the stretcher and let me sit up front for a while. Final destination Price, UT.

My parents were not with us at Powell, so when they heard the news they flew down to Price in a small airplane to see what I had done to myself. After a few days of observation, several full body scans, catheters, and morphine injections, the doctor determined that my damaged spleen and kidneys had not leaked a lethal amount of toxins into my system; I was sent home. Three weeks at home in bed watching reruns of Lassie was good for me. I have been very grateful for a healthy ambulatory body ever since.

One of my biggest disappointments, relating to my missing the Wind River trip, was that I would not get to use the new backpack. Luckily, over the past 12 years that same backpack has seen a lot of trips, and is probably satisfied with its life as a piece of camping equipment.

Willard Bay Wipers, and Two Pole Permits

2008-07-11T19:50:00.007-06:00

A two pole permit seems like a bargain at less than $20. When I purchased my first one, I envisioned myself gracefully reeling in 2 fish at a time, one in each hand, catching my limit twice as fast, and having a good excuse to purchase an extra rod for every type of fishing I do.

The reality is that it can be extremely difficult to manage two poles. I often find myself wishing I had a fishing caddy. You know, like the identity-less guy that follows pro-golfers around handing them clubs and beverages. Mine would be handing me salty snacks and reeling in my second pole so that it doesn't tangle itself in the prop while I fight a fish on rod number one.

Anyway, despite some serious pole management issues that I had today at Willard, I managed to catch my limit of Wipers. The largest one taped in at a modest 18in. I have had some really unlucky days on Willard lately so I kept everything; man, woman, and child. It was revenge fishing at its finest.

Green Canyon Single Track; Hang Gliders Not Welcome

2008-06-26T11:05:00.008-06:00

Photo courtesy of Jason L.

Over the last couple years Green Canyon (North Logan, UT) has become a very good mountain bike ride. In the past there was a short single track section followed by a long, dusty road. Then if you made it to the top and were feeling like a mountain bike riding hero you could ride another fairly short section of heavily overgrown single track until you hit wilderness area. Random thought: There used to be a sign that said something about bikes and hang gliders not being allowed in the wilderness area. Needless to say, I never saw any groups of disappoint hang gliders returning to the parking lot.

The road descent has all the ingredients for mayhem and disaster; loose gravel, drunken Bronco drivers, and blind turns. I have even seen a handful of rattle snakes sunbathing in the patchy light. Despite the danger, I usually feel the need to abandon my sense of self-preservation and rip the turns as fast as I can, especially towards the end of the season when I am more comfortable and reckless on the bike. Last year I laid the bike down on the road while in the highest gear, pinned. I slid several dozen feet and literally tore the shirt off my back. No major injuries, beyond road rash.

Things are getting much better in Green Canyon for cyclists (hikers as well I suppose). A certain biker’s misfortune with an oncoming automobile has spurred some sweet trail development. I don’t know the percentage, but a huge portion of the canyon can now be enjoyed single-track style. They have done a really good job of making the single track fun and shady. Jason and I rode it yesterday morning before work. The newest section is still a little rough, but it is obvious that once the trail matures it will be a really smooth ride.

I also rode Juniper Trail last week. My ankle has been recovering from a mild sprain and so clipping out of the pedal was unbearable. One time I could tell I was tipping over, but chose to hit the ground, over twisting my ankle to clip out or the pedal. Had there been any spectators they would have enjoyed a good laugh. I am sure it looked like an intentional 2 mph crash. Later that night I returned to the Wood Camp area to try some solo camping. I did not leave Logan until after dark. I hiked for maybe a mile and set up my pad and sleeping bag. It was so uncomfortable. After an hour I moved to a new place, also uncomfortable. Sometime during the wee morning hours I awoke and decided that I should hike out in the dark. Confession: I stopped for some fast food on the way home. Not exactly a hard-core adventure.

Memorial Day Storm, Willard Bay

2008-06-12T10:54:00.003-06:00

It is amazing how the hope of catching fish can deactivate the part of my brain that is responsible for avoiding danger. By mid-morning I had fish in the boat and my brain had focused all bandwidth on catching more fish.

Looking back, I can hardly believe how relaxed, and seemingly unaware of the surrounding storm I was. If you have ever been in a 10 foot jon boat you know that they are designed for little more than picnic weather. At the height of the storm I counted one other boat on the water; a fully enclosed 25-30 footer. I tried to tag somewhat close in case I found myself in need of assistance. I won't go into the details of the inches-of-rain-per-minute, or exaggerate about the waves that were crashing over the transom. But I will say that the scariest part was when the front of the jon would crest the top of a wave and slap down in the trough. I was certain I was going to have rivets popping out, which would have put an end to an exciting day of fishing.

Early Spring

2008-05-08T22:20:00.004-06:00

I have not felt like writing lately and I am not sure why. Much has happened, but life has been chaotic and I have not afforded myself to write down its events. Even now I am tempted to gloss over the last few months by simply saying that I have been having a good time at work, have had some great trips to both Tahoe and Seattle, have had many fishing adventures, and recently spent a weekend biking in Moab with Leroy.

I look forward to the months ahead. A long winter is finally subsiding and I have many plans. I am hoping to do a couple backpacking trips, maybe hit Moab another time before the summer heat, and take my family camping. I feel no urgent need to promise a rekindled effort to be more diligent at documenting my events. When my life is too busy to stop and write down what I have been doing with my time, I consider it successful. I have absolutely no memories of recent boredom, and have not resorted to picking up the habit of television.

Late Winter Happenings

2008-03-29T18:10:00.007-06:00

My lack of recent posting is not an indication that nothing has been going on. In fact quite the opposite is true. Besides the usual fishing outings, I have been camping in the desert with my family (30 degrees F, brr!), exploring the Delta, UT sand dunes, roaming around downtown Seattle, WA near Pike's Place Market, and just today trying very hard to not sink my jon boat on Willard Bay in high wind, whitecaps, and hail.

This morning at 6am (still dark) Lee and I loaded up the jon boat and headed to Willard to try for Wipers. Had I not been thinking of fishing for a solid week the 40 mph wind and near freezing temperatures would have kept me home. Before we left I told Lee it would be one-for-the-blogs, and it definitely was. Unfortunately we can't seem to coordinate a camera between the two of us. We launched the boat into the storm, and for the first time in my life I put on a life jacket and buckled it up before even setting out.

We made it to the North end of the bay and after having waves spray us in the face for 30 minutes we decided we should park it for a while and see if the wind would subside. It didn't. The longer we sat there, the more my desire to catch a wiper made the waves seem smaller and smaller. We headed back out and soon, with the wind at our backs, we were surfing the 12 foot boat like a Hawaiian outrigger on the crest of the waves. It was a good thrill for awhile, but after a near capsizing or two we treacherously navigated back to the marina. Not surprisingly my truck & trailer was the only one in the lot.

I have attached a couple pictures from the dunes and downtown Seattle. To see more of my photography go to www.earlphoto.com.

Snowville, Utah; D300

2008-02-16T17:25:00.005-07:00

I have been doing portrait photography in Logan, UT for the last couple years. I would prefer to just shoot fine art, but portraiture clients are easier to find. My whole objective has been to shoot enough portraiture to afford professional grade camera gear so I can shoot the types of photos I like. It has worked out nicely. Eventually I hope to get a large enough portfolio of fine art and landscape work that I can drop the portraiture and focus on selling prints. The attached pictures are some I shot this week in Snowville, UT. I was shooting a Nikon D300. The camera is capable of amazing color, better than the naked eye. To see a larger versions either click on the photos or go to my flickr portfolio.

I took the day off work and drove to Snowville, UT in the dark on Friday morning. The main reason I was going was to enjoy the desolateness. I went alone. The temperature was around 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I skied 5 miles, shot a lot of bullets, shot a few pictures, and had a very nice day.

Midnight Ice Fishing

2008-01-28T20:51:00.000-07:00

One of the only things that will keep me out late into the night, happens to be one of the only things that will get me out of bed early in the morning (willingly). This is fishing. And this is something my mind clings to ferociously. The fishing where I live may not be tremendous when compared to other regions, however it brings me closer to the natural world, makes me feel alive and part of something bigger than myself.

Certain times of the year there is not much else I can think of besides fishing. My mind hyper-focuses on certain subjects like this constantly. Right now, in the middle of the winter it happens to be on fishing, next it will be mountain biking in the spring, more fishing in the dog days of summer, hunting and camping in the fall, and finally back to fishing. If I keep this blog going for a few years this pattern will be very apparent.

My hobbies are very seasonal. I rarely have free time enough to allow them to overlap much. Some parts of the year I try to juggle 2 hobbies and quickly realize how much work fun really is. Many people I associate with seem to think recreation is too much work, and trade their time for a life of watching television. It makes me sad, but I understand. After all, nearly all the pastimes I have grown to love have extreme discomforts associated with them.

FYI: To the 3 other people who are also so addicted to fishing that you brave subzero in the middle of the night, here is a tip. A double-mantle lantern on snow shoveled ice congregates trout like moths lined up at the zapper... sometimes (check local ordinances before attempting).

Kokanee through the Ice

2008-01-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

A year ago I didn’t even know for sure what a Kokanee Salmon was. Now, all in the name of chasing these landlocked salmon, I have practically forsaken my fly rod and abandoned my go-to fishing holes. I averaged 2-3 trips per week last year trolling for Kokanee. Now it is time to catch them through the ice.

My parent’s neighbor W.D. has been fishing for them as long as I have been alive. He graciously taught me his tricks of the trade which shortened my learning curve significantly. Today was the first time I have caught them ice fishing. I got pretty lucky and landed 5 with 2 of them being caught simultaneously on one hook set. Some friends of mine did pretty good also. Between us we landed 11 salmon and 2 large browns.

Millville Elk and Achilles Frostbite

2008-01-04T19:52:00.000-07:00

I stomped in place for over an hour trying to keep warm. The snow pack below me gave a little with each step leaving me standing in a 3 foot deep hole. The sleeves of my jacket were completely frozen and bending them at the elbow seemed like a serious task. The temperature was around zero and despite having been on the mountain for nearly 10 hours my core was still relatively warm. It was my feet I was beginning to worry about. I had not felt much sensation from the lower extremities for a couple hours. I could tell my socks were wet, and even though they were an expensive wool blend they had succumbed to the constant beating of winters drum. I carved myself a bench in the snow and sat. The right foot felt like it was nearest deaths door so I chipped the ice away from the laces and began untying. Pealing the wet sock away from my numb foot revealed bluing toes that refused to move.

I grasped them in my relatively warm hands and slowly heated them up a few degrees. Meanwhile my discarded wet sock began to freeze to my pant leg. Looking to my left I could see the cow elk I had killed with Chad’s Browning .308. It lay, half gutted, in a ravine atop the Millville face 3k feet above the valley floor. I contemplated baring both feet and putting them inside the warm animal but quickly decided otherwise. The conditions were not quite bad enough to start pulling tricks from the Donner Party’s playbook.

Lee and Phil C., both neighbors of mine, were hiking up the draw to my aid. After shooting the elk I called them to help haul the large animal (two weeks previous I had helped Phil with his in a much more pleasant weather condition). I had grossly underestimated the amount of time it would take them to reach me. Several feet of fresh powder, steep terrain, mixed with winter illness, slowed them down to a crawl.

The elk took 2 bullets in the vitals without even frowning. The third shot broke both front legs and sent the large elk tumbling down the incline in an avalanche of powder. It was spectacular. I closed the 250 yard gap and finished the task. She had come to rest in a 5+ acre grove of maple shrub. I knew I needed to get her to the bottom of the ravine, so for the next hour I tugged on a rope and maneuvered the elk through a maze of thick undergrowth. At the bottom of the ravine I made an attempted at field dressing the animal but quickly realized that I didn’t really know what I was doing. Most of the cutting was complete, and it was cold enough outside, so I decided it could wait until backup arrived.

I could finally hear voices through the trees. It was Lee and Phil. Though we are all neighbors they met for the first time on the mountain as they hiked towards me. They arrived at dark. Phil, looking like he had worked at a slaughter house for decades, whipped out a knife and dove into the elk up to his shoulders. With a few slashes and one big heave he had the elk completely gutted in a few short minutes. I was very grateful he came because I was getting cold enough that my brain could not figure out a way to position the elk to where I could gut it on my own, plus Lee was quite sick and inexperienced in the matter.

In less than 2 hours we had the elk off the mountain and in the back of another neighbor’s (Brian M.) pickup. Today the magnificent animal is hanging in my garage, and I am thankful for its sacrifice on my family’s behalf.

Upon returning home from the hunt I discovered that I had frostbite on both Achilles tendons. One spot is quite severe but should heal if I can avoid infection. I also have two toes that have been numb for over a week. The doctor said that feeling should eventually return. Gators and quality boots are on the top of my shopping list.

Epic Day of Unproductiveness

2007-12-01T21:30:00.000-07:00

Look familiar? Yeah, its the dog from Nintendo's Duck Hunt. What kind of dog is this anyway? It certainly does not resemble any water dog suitable for retrieving ducks. If I remember correctly he didn't do much besides laugh at my poor arcade-style hunting skills. When you suffered from a particularly bad round of shooting the dog would pop up and make a hissy laughing sound. My actual hunting skills were so poor today that I was expecting the Duck Hunt dog to any second pop out of the cattails and have a good laugh.

The problem was not that my shooting was inaccurate, but virtually nonexistent. My family was out of town so I had a full day of no responsibilities. I started at first light by setting up a flock of duck/geese decoys, sat motionless till 11am, cleaned up the decoys, hiked 3000 vertical feet in search of a cow elk, returned to the marsh, set up the decoys again, drove home empty handed in the dark. I admit this sounds terribly boring. The strange thing is that I had a really good time. I found some new potential fishing spots, saw a big 4 point buck, had a fox sneak past me, enjoyed some alone time, and got A LOT of exercise. I guess Duck Hunt dog can take his laugh and shove-it.

Keep’n it Weird, Portland, OR

2007-11-02T10:43:00.000-06:00

My days have been filled with tradeshow haps at the Society of American Foresters Annual Convention. Each night after the show, and usually a fantastic dinner, I have been venturing into the city to explore and take photos. It is usually late at night so the lighting has been a fun challenge.

The first night I spent with my cousin Jeremy. We have been friends since childhood and so it was good to spend some time with him. Because he moved to the Seattle area we don’t get to see much of each other, except at the occasional family function. We went to dinner at a Pizza/Pub called Dantes. The entire establishment is lit by roughly a dozen candles and the music so loud you could not have a conversation. Suddenly the music stops. A senior man in a suit rises to the stage and starts talking about communicating with the “other side” and all kinds of strange mystical subjects. Just when it starts to get old and I am reaching for my coat to leave, he invites a man named Soriah to the stage. He is introduced as a throat singer that has studied with Native American Shamans and Tuvan Monks. I had never heard throat singing so I thought it worth our while to stick around for a few more minutes. The singing began and my jaw hit the floor. It was the strangest sound I have ever heard from a human. He could sing multiple notes simultaneously and harmonize with himself. The lowest bass line seemed octaves below the lowest singing I had heard up until that point.

On another occasion while roaming the streets solo I met Bradley and Hanah. I was taking photos of MAX, Portland’s transit system. Hanah approached me and wanted to see what I was doing. I showed her the pictures I was taking and we had a conversation about art and photography. She had a friend named Bradley who took a minute to warm up. They were both homeless. I gathered that they had set out as travelers/runaways and had become somewhat stuck in the street life. Hanah is allowed to sleep in the shelters because of her age and gender. Bradley sleeps on the streets trying to avoid the more seasoned homeless that are in a constant dangerous state of heroin use. It was fun to talk to them. They both had some ambitions and I hope they rise out of their current situation. I took a few pictures of them. The lighting was very dim and all but one shot of Bradley turned out blurry. I will post it with this blog.

Back-Road Rage in Logan, Utah

2007-11-02T09:02:00.001-06:00

While at work I park my truck on the road instead of in the parking lot. When I am towing my boat this is necessary, other days I just do it out of habit. My truck is usually facing west, and when I leave instead of hanging a U-turn and going east to the main road I head west for a block and take some back roads south. The back roads are very narrow, bumpy, and prone to create large plumes of dust if you travel much over 25 mph. Yesterday while heading south there was a large white truck coming towards me at a very high speed.

The road is really only wide enough for 1 car so I pulled way over and slowed down. As the truck and its trailing cloud of dust blasted past me I yelled “SLOW DOWN!” in combination with the best angry face I could muster. It must have been a good face because his reaction was substantial. He completely stopped his truck, got out and pointed 2 birdy fingers to the sky. It looked like he was then trying to wave me back for an afternoon scrap-session. I declined and kept going. Hurt that I had rejected his offer to duke-it-out in the middle of the road, he decided to pursue things further. He hoped back in the truck and instead of doing a 10 point turn-about on the narrow road, he threw it in reverse and came screaming after me. After about a block he was able to flip the truck around. I was several blocks ahead at this time but could see exactly what he was doing because the rural area allows for good unobstructed visibility. I headed towards town thinking I could just take a few turns and shake him. Unfortunately my 4-cylinder S10 pickup is not capable of any crafty maneuvers or excessive speeds, resulting in him catching up to me after about 3 miles. It was to his advantage that he was completely ignoring stop signs and speed limits or I would have lost him no problem. Once I hit main street he pulled up along side of me, shaking his fists and mouthing angry words. I must say that the words were falling upon deaf ears since both our windows were up. My lip reading skills are minimal but I think he said something about ordering a pizza. It could have been a foreign language for all I know. I held my phone up and acted like I was calling the cops. He backed off immediately and turned onto a side road.

Anyway, I am now very paranoid that one of these days while I am sitting in my comfortable office, truck parked on the street, he will be outside slashing my tires and making jewelry out of my hood ornament. I am guessing, based on our isolated location, that he works in at one of the businesses right next door to us. Maybe I will look under my truck after work for a car bomb, or at least grit my teeth in anticipation as I turn the key ignition.

on Ducks and Decoys

2007-10-28T09:21:00.000-06:00

A few years ago my cousin Chad and I hiked out to a private pond on the north end of Cache Valley. It was my first time setting up with decoys and perhaps his hundredth. I had no idea that the next hour of events would cause me to purchase a boat, incessantly blow on a call while driving around town, listen to tapes of ducks quacking and geese honking, and alter the course of every fall and winter for years to come.

What happened was was not unusual. In fact it was just a typical day of duck hunting. However, there were several things that captivated my attention and have not let my mind rest from thinking about hunting ducks. We had only been set up for a few minutes when Chad spotted a medium flock of birds hundreds of yards away. I was amazed that not only could he distinguish that they were waterfowl, but also that they were ducks and not geese. With a little experience I have learned to do the same. He blew on the call (not as easy as it sounds) and the flock of birds simultaneously turned and started heading towards our location. That was the moment when I knew that I had duck hunting coursing through my veins.

Something else that struck me was the scenery. Admittedly, sloshing around in knee deep marsh water is generally not the first activity that comes to mind when people think of getting out of town and into the wild, but it is one of mine. During the first and last moments of daylight the reeds and mountains reflecting off glassy water are amazing. The lighting and scenery is so perfect that even a cheap set of plastic decoys look awe inspiring.

Inclement weather is welcome, and there is something to be said for the discomfort it can cause. In moderate doses it keeps one young and alive. Plus a good showing of nasty weather seems to bring more birds. My feeling is that if it were a comfortable sport it would be much more crowed. There are very few fair weather duck hunters and the few that there are don't create much of a presence after the opening day. On days that you think you will have have the place to your self (i.e. bad weather, deer hunt opener, pheasant hunt opener, holidays) you still get the same die-hards launching boats hours before morning light. I appreciate seeing that kind of passion.

Since that first day I have learned a lot about the sport and have been able to consistently bring birds down, even on public lands. This season has been a lot of fun so far. We have seen some good success and are going to start targeting geese more heavily. If you hear a goose honk from my car window it is just me practicing.

Autumn Quandary

2007-10-21T19:13:00.000-06:00

Indian summer strikes again with a million things I want to do and not enough time to do them all. The problem with this time of year is that everything seems to happen all at once. The weather is perfect for mountain biking, wild game jostle for position to be hunted, and the fresh water fish begin their feeding frenzy.

I have been focusing most of my free time hunting ducks. Three years ago marks the beginning of this obsession. My cousin Chad took me to a small marshy area in rural Cache Valley and within the first 5 minutes I was hooked. It is nothing short of magic that allows a man blowing through a duck call to lure in flocks of wary fowl.

Something I get a kick out of is returning to the dock after duck hunting and seeing guys with $10k boats, mud busting motors, full boat blinds, 5 dozen deeks, robotic deeks, and expensive auto-loaders, who have shot nothing but bullets. Sometimes a leaky boat, modest spread of deeks, and extraordinary luck are hard to beat. Then again, sometimes it goes the other way too.

It is likely I will squeeze in a few more bike rides and probably a early winter trip to Moab. After my excursion on the Wellsville's I was very ill for a week and got out of the habit of biking and hiking. My fitness level dropped significantly. These next few weeks I am going to make an effort to get into bike shape for Moab.

The attached picture is a duck in the fog. If you listen carefully you can here its wings whistling in the wind.

Amethyst Lake and Horse Jerky

2007-09-26T08:45:00.000-06:00

On the north end of Cache Valley the sediment-heavy Bear River slowly meanders through farm fields on its way to Cutler Dam. The water is relatively warm, brown, and docile. In contrast, on the north end of Christmas Meadows (High Uintas) the crystal clear Bear River gathers water from dozens of springs and alpine lakes forming a pristine mountain stream that happily poses for post-card worthy pictures back-dropped by the majestic Ostler Peak.

It took me a while to figure out that the two rivers were actually one. I have spent many hours navigating the swampy Cache Valley end, but had never given much thought to where the river begins. I only partially made the mental connection when I saw the “Bear River” sign while driving to the trail head of Christmas Meadows. It took a couple more days for the relationship between the two to really sink in, and when it did the Uintas felt much closer to home than before.

My father-in-law Gary invited me to accompany him on a pack trip to Amethyst Lake. The remote waters of the Uintas are known for their fishable qualities and so I excitedly agreed to go. I invited Lee to come with us. The trip starts at the Christmas Meadows trail head and parallels the Bear River for a couple miles. The trail then heads up a long and steep section of trail that tops out at a few grassy meadows and Amethyst Lake. A one way journey to the Lake is slightly less than 6 miles.

In an ideal equestrian world the horses would load themselves, smoothly walk the trail, and unpack everything upon arrival. Reality consists of trying to balance several bags on top of an already skittish animal, throwing your safety to the wind, then holding on with both hands to a small smooth leather knob commonly known as a saddle horn. I sometimes pretend to not like horse riding but really it is very exhilarating. There are very few other activities that can give you an adrenaline rush for several hours in a row. Bandit, the horse assigned to me, was better behaved than the others. He was especially more cooperative than Buster who’s temperament lies somewhere between that of a three legged mule and a fire-branded wild cat.

After completing the first mile and a half of riding Gary’s horse escaped while he was working on the pack horse. It bolted down the trail towards the parking area. Gary told me to go after it. I quickly tried to remember how the horse capturing process is done in the movies. Only extremely unhelpful clips from The Three Amigos came to mind. My horse, without any coaxing, tailed it at an uncomfortable speed for about one half mile, at which point I decided it was in the best interest of my safety to give up. Later Lee and I tracked the horse down on a dirt road far past the parking area. Before the trip concluded several other horse malfunctions occurred, each time making me wonder what horse jerky would taste like.

A Great Horned Owl was hooting in the distance and I began to try and mimic the sound. I had seen this done by a local bird watcher and have tried it myself several times. The owl got closer and closer until it was in the tree next to our tent. It was not bothered by flashlights shining in its face. It hooted and made other strange cat-like noises long after we had gone to bed. The surprising loudness of the owl made me laugh as I drifted to sleep with my iPod playing the soothing sounds of Neil Young.

The brook trout fishing in Amethyst Lake was excellent. Gary caught 3 fish in his first 3 casts. We spent nearly a full day fishing spinners and caught several dozen fish. Some of our most successful lures included: Kastmasters, Jake’s Spin-a-lures, and Super Dupers. The lures became even more deadly when tipped with a piece of scented artificial worm. I also caught one small brook trout on my fly rod, and two by hand, in the stream next to camp.

On the final day we rode the horses out. Besides Gary’s horse falling off the bridge it went quite smoothly. Just after trailering the horses a storm hit the area hard. Although I wished we could stay for a couple more days it was the perfect time to leave. I imagine it may have snowed heavily since the lake is at nearly eleven-thousand feet, and the rain at lower elevations continued for a couple more days. All said, the pack trip was a really good time despite my inexperience with horses. I am going to try to make it back next year and you are more than welcome to join me unless your name is Buster.

GPS Testing Near Mount Hood, OR

2007-09-18T09:49:00.001-06:00

My employment sent me to Portland, Oregon this past week to evaluate an under-canopy GPS receiver with a reseller and the US Forest Service. Spent many hours on a GPS course in the dense forest near Mount Hood.

I had never been to the area, but instantly fell in love with the surroundings. The city is clean and blanketed in trees. The mountains are covered in the most amazing forests and void of annoying underbrush. You can walk virtually unobstructed in the shadows of some of the most impressive trees I've seen. It is easy to see how people could get lost in this type of environment. Around Utah it is easier to climb to the top of a hill and see for several miles.

We drove parallel to the Clackamas River for close to an hour. It looked more fish-able than anything I have wet a line on. I am going to purchase myself a travel fishing rod since I will be traveling more.

The traffic in Portland would make me hesitant to want to live there. Plus the residents pay dearly for the green. It rains everyday for a good portion of the year.

I am including a picture of our product; Archer Field PC. The other picture is of Fredric. He works for the reseller of the GPS receiver and traveled from Montreal with a woman named Stephanie. They were a lot of fun and passionate about their work. I liked that.

3 Days on the Wellsville Range

2007-09-18T09:30:00.000-06:00

I have struggled to write about a recent backpacking trip across the Wellsville range. Not immediately writing about an event allows me to mentally weed-out (forget) some of the unimportant details and focus on the most memorable aspects.

Trouble is, my mind has not left much for me to write about after 3 weeks of delay. Nothing sticks out as being the highlight of the trip, and I hesitate to just ramble on and on about every little thing that happened. I will try and keep it brief.

To get a sense of what the trip was like you can pretty much just look up at the mountain face and imagine you are on top. Incredible view, isn’t it? The price we paid to get to the top is Rattle Snake Canyon--a short but very steep hike (4-5 miles). A pair of heavily starched pants would be a nice accessory to bring on this section of the hike. The trail is over grown with very inhospitable plant life that has a tendency to erode the flesh from bare legs.

Once on the top we (Lee and I) camped for 2 nights in the massive bowl between Box Elder and Wellsville peaks. While descending into the bowl I spooked a huge Golden Eagle that nearly flew right into Lee who was in its escape path. In the bottom of the bowl we found a nice spring that supplemented the eleven liters that I hiked in. I became very ill following the trip and the spring water is still on the list of suspects. I would recommend purifying the water to be safe. Now, 3 weeks later, I am still not back to 100% health. Both nights several large animals closely circumvented our camp to get to the spring. It was slightly unnerving.

Because my pack was already over 50lbs from the water I was packing, I opted to not bring the tent. We camped under heavy tree canopy for 2 nights to avoid the pending rain and also constructed a rudimentary debris hut. No amount of shelter could have saved us from the mosquitoes. They did not seem all that interested in biting. They were more into the psychological torture of hovering centimeters away from your ear and creating high-pitch screams just within the audible-to-humans frequency range.

The hike north across the ridge was amazing. The range is so steep that in places the top ridge is less than a meter across. The wind was constant and made the temperature very comfortable. We hiked out Deep canyon on the 3rd day. I will definitely be going back.

Desert Camping and Wild Equine

2007-08-29T14:37:00.000-06:00

Spend much time in the middle of nowhere and if you are like me you will grow attached. Last year D. Pettit and I spent close to a dozen nights in the desert.

These were normally weekend excursions that began with my wife wanting to visit her parents in Salt Lake City, UT. Deven was living in Payson, about 40 minutes away, so it was a good excuse for us to get together and put some miles between us and civilization. Our most frequent selection of destinations was the Pony Express trail that heads west toward Nevada. We start by driving through 5 Mile pass, then Simpson Springs, and then… I am not sure. Nothing really seemed to have a name past that. We would basically drive as far as a half a tank of gas would get us, find a place to explore, shoot guns, camp, and engage in some entertaining conversation. This year we did not make it out there. Deven moved and got a new job, gas prices went up, and I sought other adventures. I miss the desert.

This area of Utah is the closest thing to “vast” as I have ever experienced. It is very different from other wild places that am more familiar with. Human impact has not quite reached this far and likely never will. Resources are scarce. You may see one or two cars drive past per day on the well maintained dirt roads. Where could they possibly be going? It is so remote that you won’t even see those “No Gas Station for 200 Miles” signs. There is no one to hang the sign, I guess. If you drive to California through Nevada you will see similar landscape, but you really have to get out of your car and explore for quite sometime before you can appreciate the hidden beauty of this type of environment.

We have had many encounters with animals that we would not find in our more temperate climate, wild horses being the most magnificent. We spotted a herd of about 40 horses grazing a mile off the road. The nice thing about the desert is that you can pull off the road and drive pretty much anywhere you can see. A 4-wheel drive vehicle can conquer most obstacles with ease. We drove about a three quarters of a mile in the herd’s direction and stopped the car. The alpha horse decided to come and investigate our presence. I do not know if it was a territorial move or mere curiosity. The rest of the herd followed at a safe distance. I had a new 200mm telephoto lens for my Nikon DSLR and was determined to get some good wildlife shots. I crouched down in some sage brush about 50 yards from our vehicle. What I assume to be the alpha male (mustang?) came astonishingly close to me. It took its time sniffing the wind and nervously approaching in short intervals.

When it was within 60 feet it started stamping its hooves and snorting loudly. Somehow I must have thought the camera would save me, because I was so enthralled with the photographic opportunity that I didn’t even realize the massive animal was challenging my presence. It was simply one of the most amazing wildlife experiences I have had. The fact that there are so many domesticated captive horses made this animal seem all the more free--a paradigm of freedom. It was muscular, lean, and had a commanding presence. Much different than the stout horses you see on vacant lots around town. Its long black hair had formed into wild nappy dreadlocks. If a life of being a horse is for you, emulating this horse would have been a good goal to strive towards.

3 cat fish, 3 am

2007-08-28T10:56:00.000-06:00

I only caught the smaller of the 3 (Channel Cats), but Lee was nice enough to let me pretend that I caught all of them in this picture.

The biggest one was a solid 10 lbs. The bait and location are a closely guarded secret. I will say however that there is no method that we have found to consistently bring the big ones in. It just sometimes happens. Unfortunately the Mud Cats are much more consistent.

Clunker Crit ‘07, Logan, UT

2007-08-27T11:41:00.001-06:00

Last Friday a friend, J. Lambert, invited me to watch a Clunker Crit that he was racing in. It is basically a “fun race” where you race vintage bikes and employ a moderate amount of cheating. The race was during lunch hour so I decided to go. When I arrived he happened to have an extra cruiser and talked me into racing.
Sounded like a good time so I jumped on the ‘64 Schwinn. I thought it would be a couple quick laps of sprinting and then a push and shove finish. Not the case. I was on the starting line when I found out that it was a 30 minute lap race. Everyone took off at a pretty slow pace and it stayed that way for most of the time. In the end the geared bikes excelled and the grand prize was awarded to a guy that rode a little girl’s cruiser. No laps were counted. I won a sweet SDL t-shirt.

100 Yards and Drowning

2007-08-27T10:36:00.000-06:00

Cutler Marsh becomes remarkably loud as day turns to night. Most of the sound is caused by carp splashing and Sandhill cranes with there gargly screeches. There are other less frequent sounds such as ducks flying by night, coyotes howling, and pick-up trucks rolling several times before coming to rest in watery graves.

My neighbor Lee and I have a normal routine for cat fishing that does not involve a boat. However for a change of scenery we thought we would try venturing out in my 12 foot Johnboat. After a couple hours of marginal success we anchored just off the Valley View bridge.

We had been fishing a few minutes at this new location when suddenly a terrible sound roared from the east. It was obviously coming from the road but the lack of an impact sound led me to believe that it was not a car wreck. I remember dismissing the noise as something huge having fallen off the back of a truck. Less than 10 minutes later sirens were on their way. Even standing in the boat we could not get high enough to see over the cattails to what was going on. We continued to wage war against the fish.

45 minutes later we pulled out of the marina and onto the highway. Cars were backed-up well beyond the bridge. When it finally came our turn to rubber neck at the scene, a tow truck was pulling an upside down pickup from the water. The shocker to us was that the accident was just a little more than 100 yards away from where we had been anchored.

A few days passed and the story ran in the local paper. The driver of the truck was drunk and wrecked his vehicle while supposedly trying to perform a u-turn. The truck left the road and was completely immersed in swamp water--except for a few inches. Those few inches were spotted by some passers-by who then jumped into the marsh and saved the drivers life. The drunkard in the truck had been surviving on a small pocket of air in the corner of the trucks cabin. The craziest part of the whole experience for us was the fact that a man was literally drowning so close to our location. We were completely oblivious. Had we been more curious about the noise we would have been first at the scene. We were both grateful to the heroes who save the man. It could have easily had a much different ending, likely leaving us with an odd sense of guilt for not being more aware of our surroundings.

Herald Journal Account:
Man rescued after rolling truck into marsh; officials say alcohol a factor
By Aaron Falk
Conversation in the car bubbled with excitement as the four men headed home
Tuesday just before 10:30 p.m. They had come to Cache Valley for a business seminar and on their way back to Tremonton, talk turned to the money they hoped to make.
Headlights illuminated State Route 30 west of Logan and Kirt, who asked not to be
identified by his full name, knew something was wrong. Something had tipped over, spewing tools and nails, a jacket and cement mix across the highway. Just past the debris, a car had pulled onto the shoulder. Slowly, the men drove up alongside and asked if he needed help.
“It ain’t mine,” the driver said. “There’s somebody in the water.”
Earlier that night, Mark Snarr, 50, had misjudged a U-turn on the two-lane highway,
rolling his vehicle into the marsh below. He was under the influence of alcohol, officials
said. Hurriedly, the men searched their cars for flashlights, but they had none. Their eyes
scanned over the dark marsh that stretched out on either side of the road, and they
saw nothing. Panic started setting in. The 28-year-old Kirt decided to go back and block off traffic. As he drove away from the debris, he saw it. The last six inches of the sinking Ford Ranger peaked out above the water. The truck was upside down, its engine still running and its driver running out of time. Trapped in the blackness, Snarr clawed toward the ceiling of his truck. Upside down and disoriented, he thought he was grasping at freedom. He began to maneuver around the truck and found a small air pocket in the corner of the cab, Utah Highway Patrol Sgt. Rick Mayo said. Kirt called to his friends. They did not think about death or danger as they plunged into the marsh, he said.
“More than anything, we reacted,” he said. “I don’t think we thought. There was somebody in there. We had to help him.”
What Kirt and his friends considered an afterthought, Mayo called “heroics.”
“Whenever somebody is going into the water to try and help someone, they’re putting their own life at risk,” he said. “For a person to risk their life to save another is commendable.”
The four men splashed to the overturned truck, grabbed hold of the nearest side and began to push.
“We were pushing and pushing and pushing,” Kirt said. “It wasn’t going to turn over.” The would-be rescuers considered diving under the water in search of another way to free the man, when they decided to push once more. This time, the car moved and the man poked his head out of the water, gasping for breath. Snarr had only minor injuries from the rollover, according to UHP reports. Had the men not driven past when they did, things would be different, Mayo said. With the front door jammed, Kirt ripped off the molding from the back window and pulled out the glass and then the shaky man.
“I was just so happy,” Kirt said. “I couldn’t stop hugging him. I couldn’t believe it.” Up on the road, the men could see the flashing lights of the approaching patrol vehicles. Troopers took Snarr, who was cited for drunken driving. Kirt knew it was OK to leave. Only an hour before, the men had been chatty and excited as they journeyed back home, but that seemed a long time.
Shocked and soaked from their heroics, the four men drove home mostly in silence.

House of Fire

2007-08-24T21:14:00.000-06:00

Winter 06. Not much you can say when your neighbor's house burns down. They had not moved in yet making the moment slightly less tragic.

The house was 5 lots away from ours. Something about a heater being left on to cure some drywall mud. I was there with my camera before the patrol cars and fire trucks. Total loss.

Nina de la Tierra

2007-08-24T16:18:00.000-06:00

In less than 2 weeks I am backpacking the Wellsville range with my friend Lee. We are trying to get our legs ready by doing a few short and steep hikes. Last night we hiked on the face of Providence canyon. It brought back memories of lugging a 40lb paraglider to the the top of the mountain with J. Stanley. This trail was one of our most reliable launches. Nothing too eventful happened on the hike. We didn't make it to the top because we ran out of daylight. On the way down I spotted a insect on the trail. I had actually seen one of these before, but that did not diminish the strangeness. It looked like a huge ultra-glossy ant, like it had just been dipped in lacquer. Upon further research it turned out to be a Jerusalem Cricket. The picture makes it look much smaller than it really is. If you were in a survival situation this item would probably keep you going to a few more days. Almost 2 inches long I would guess.

Here is the info I found online:
The Jerusalem Cricket is an insect of the Stenopelmatidae family. Its scientific name is Stenopelmatus fuscus. The native Americans called this cricket Woh-tzi-Neh or "Old Bald-Headed Man." In Spanish, it is called "Nina de la Tierra" or "Child of the Earth." Southwestern Indians once feared it, and called it "child of the desert." It is also called "Potato Bug" because it has been found in potato fields feeding on the roots and tubers of the crop. This is confusing as often the Potato Beetle that only feeds on above ground parts of plants is also referred to as the Potato Bug.

…and the Cow Jumped Over the Lumina

2007-08-24T14:53:00.000-06:00

On a Sunday in the early winter of 2006 I was driving with my wife and daughter to our grandparent’s house in Smithfield, UT. The days were short enough that it was completely dark by 7 pm. As you enter Smithfield the speed limit drops from 55 to 40 mph. I gradually made this drop in speed and my peripheral vision caught something strange going on in Lee’s Market Place parking lot. Because of the time and day, the lot was completely void of vehicles which made a nice arena for what was going on in the middle of the lot.

A short, heavy-set woman was face to face with a massive steer. The two seemed to be dancing as they shuffled to the left and then to the right, similar to when you approach someone in the hall and have a difficult time determining how the passing arrangement is going to take place. The animal did not belong to the woman, but like any concerned citizen from a smallish town she felt the need to keep the beast from darting into the highway. Probably fantasizing the entire time about the award she might receive.

I must have wanted a piece of the reward because felt I should stop and help her. Something told me she could not keep the antics up for much longer. I parked my car on the north end of the lot and headed south down the sidewalk trying to position myself as the backup plan if the steer got around her.

The animal bolted with the woman sprinting behind it for a meager 20 feet or so before giving up. I managed to run at the same speed as the animal for a while, both of us traveling parallel to the road. As we neared the south end of the parking lot a large Credit Union blocked the path of the steer, causing it to cut in front of me and run straight into the road.

The next part of this story is where things get weird. If you are familiar with the Chevy Lumina mini-van, and have taken a basic geometry class (or know anything about billiards) then you know that its front end is a nicely angled 45 degree launch ramp. Perfect, if the steer would have been from the blood line of Evil Knievel. However, the fact that the animal easily out ran me was no indication of it ability to participate in such extreme sports as van dodging. It had not taken 5 steps into the highway when a family of four, traveling in a very unstylish Lumina mini-van, smashed into the animal. I could see what was going to happen a few seconds before hand, and I turned my body away from the road thinking the van may send the animal (or parts) in my direction. Luckily I was still watching the event unfold over my right shoulder because to this day it is one of the strangest things I have ever seen.

The steer had escaped from the Smithfield auction which is located a block north of the incident. I did raise a pig once with Reed Ernstrom but my farming skills end there, thus limiting my ability to judge the size of the animal. But I have seen a number of bovine in my life and from that I can confidently estimate that the steer was HUGE! I believe it to be at approximately 10,000 Big Macs worth.

Lift off. The driver of the van had not slowed from highway speeds, and because the cow’s black hide was well camouflaged by night he did not even touch the brakes. From my 30 foot vantage the sound was horrific. Metal bent, glass shattered, and flesh resonated a hollow thud. The 1500 lb animal launched off the aerodynamic van straight up into the air. Due to the shape of the vehicle very little energy was expended on impact sending the steer at least 20 feet high. My brain’s mental video of the event it so weird. The bovine just kept going up and up. It was slowly spinning with its legs stiffly outstretch like a cow mannequin. In retelling this story I have often compared it to a 1500 lb rag-doll. But its stiffness was nothing of the sort. Had it landed on its feet I believe it would have stood there like nothing happened. Reality ended up very different. It landed square on its side all parts of its body hitting the ground simultaneously. The noise was indescribable. I didn’t blink or quiver, just steamed in the cold headlight lit air.

I could hear a great deal of screaming coming from inside the van. The windows were heavily tinted, to the point that when I opened the door I was bracing for a gruesome surprise. Fortunately there were no serious injuries, just a good helping of shock and a painful whip-lashing for everyone.

The mother of the family was screaming hysterically while the paramedics were putting her on the stretcher (neck injuries). I had my arm around her crying 4 year old boy who was shivering on the curb(despite wearing my coat). Seemingly unconcerned about his mothers condition he looked back at the steer lit by the headlight of patrol cars and said “Is the cow going to be alright”?

Boreal Owl Sighting in Utah?

2007-08-23T08:36:00.000-06:00

Who would have thought that bird watching is on its way to becoming a full contact sport. As a youth I had sporadic contact with the Audubon Society, but was somehow shielded from its ruthless competitive nature. A cold day of cross country skiing in Logan Canyon changed all of this. This was the day I traversed into the elusive Boreal Owl.

As a green Boy Scout I sat on the couch of Elaine Watkins poking at dead birds which she had carefully preserved for moments like this. Other facets of being a scout leader did not seem to interest her as much as bird study. Perhaps that is why we seemed to be studying birds every other week. After a generous helping of Ginger Snaps (the only place I have ever eaten these) and cold milk, she would summon from the chest freezer several small glass jars, each carefully preserving one dead bird. To most, the thought of having dead birds in the family food storage seems odd. It is slightly ironic however when I think about the contents of my own freezer (i.e. deer, pork, chicken, ducks, grouse, etc.)--not much different, really. She would teach us about feathers, bones, specie identification, and other birdy facts. Occasionally we would attend the local chapter of the Bridgerland Audubon Society to be wowed with slide shows of someones most recent birding vacation.

It was not apparent to me at the time that all of this was foreshadowing a future birding event that would momentarily cast me into the limelight of the regional birding world. On the morning of January 21, 2006 I was cross country skiing at Card Canyon in the Cache National Forest. The snow was bad and the air cold. Several elk were bedded down on the steep sides of the canyon walls, including a 5 point bull. After exploring the top rim of a side canyon I saw a strange lump in a Juniper tree. The lump was just a few feet off the ground and contrasted against the snow. As I closed the distance it started to look like a strange parasite growing on a branch. Hiking in the snow was not any more pleasant than skiing. Each step I took post-holed, filling my boots up with refreshing shards of ice. What I thought to be a parasite turned out to be a small owl. It was very interesting but I dismissed it as being a common bird that was just exhibiting some uncommon behaviors. The owl was approximately 9 inches tall and had the most amazing yellow eyes. The part that amazed me the most about the bird was that it allowed me to get so close. At times it was within an arms length away. I shot many pictures before it flew to another tree. Several times I had to clap my hands to get it to open its eyes. I returned home.

Later that day I downloaded the pictures to my Mac. I looked up a contact name on the Bridgerland Audubon website and fired off the pic for identification. Very quickly I got an email back dismissing it as a common Saw-Wet owl. I was not expecting it to be something fantastic so I carried on with my day.

An hour later. Emails poured in and the phone rang several times. Birders from all over the state, and even a few from surrounding states, were in desperation trying to contact me. The owl had been positively identified as being a Boreal Owl. A bird common to other parts of the world but extremely rare in Utah. Birders have a complex system of emails, blogs, and newsgroups that nearly instantly alert other birders of anything and everything going on in the birding world. They also keep "life lists" that document every bird that the individual has ever seen. It is very competitive among the most fanatical participants. Birds that are rare seem to score higher and put the birder on an imaginary elevated status amongst birders. If I had a list I could put a check mark next to the Boreal Owl box and be one of 2 people in Utah that have ever seen it.

Birders from as far as 300 miles called me wanting directions to the location of the sighting. I promised a local group of 4-5 people to guide them on skis to the spot the following Monday. A separate group from the Salt Lake area asked if they could join us. I did not view this as a problem because I had not yet been exposed to the ugly side of the sport/hobbie. The locals got restless, and for good reason. The trip was to take place at 1 p.m. on Monday. The outsider birding group kept prying for more information about the location. I, being naive about the situation, gladly gave them what the requested. As soon as they had all the directions needed they called me and abandoned my tour group. They decided they were going to go up there early to "beat the crowds". The local birding group was understandably bothered by this, feeling that the had an inherent as "locals" to be the first to see the empty branch where the owl once perched.

The local birders begged me to take them earlier and that I did. We arrived at the canyon entrance around 11 a.m. to see a few cars sporting the latest Audubon stickers and chickadee mud flaps. After about on half mile of skiing we found the "outsiders" looking in the wrong area. The groups were now merged and at my mercy. Looking back I should have made them recite the birders code of ethics before we continued. After a few awkward handshakes we were on our way to the owl's last know address. The two rivaling groups did not talk much which added the chill of social tension to the already 10 degree air. One of the youngest birders from the rivaling group, with a reputation for being an unethical birder, actually said to me "It is pretty lame that someone who isn't even into birding gets to see something so rare." Classy.

Obviously the bird was not seen again despite hours of looking, over 10 persons worth of man power, and the use of electronic recordings. The story and picture was published in several papers including the local Herald Journal, Salt Lake Tribune, Deseret News, and another paper in Idaho. It was also featured on KUTV 2 News in Salt Lake City. For a few weeks Google could find it on MSNBC News as an AP feed. I receive random phone calls about it for the next few months, then it was over.

Here are a few related links:

http://kutv.com/pets/local_story_029183530.html
http://www.utahbirds.org/BirdnetArchives/2006/2006_01.htm#CACHE
http://wildlife.utah.gov/birdsightings/06-01.php