Place

Last week we had a record low for that date: 47 degrees, I don't remember the specific date. Today we had a record high for this day, 98 degrees. It's 72 degrees right now and I'm having trouble sleeping because it's too warm. Guess I've adapted.

We had a good weekend. I managed to can a half dozen jars each of peach salsa and crabapple jelly, and a dozen jars of tomato salsa. That's twenty pounds of tomatoes. Can you believe it takes that many pounds of tomatoes to make 12 jars of salsa? Each tomato had to be skinned, cored and seeded. And that's not all, of course. Being salsa, there was a mountain of jalapenos, half a dozen onions, a bunch of cilantro and a few other things in there too. We also made two crabapple pies which, I must say, came out absolutely perfect. We gave one to some friends.

That was Saturday.

This morning, after a sunrise hike, we cleaned the kitchen. Despite our best efforts, there was jelly on the walls, juices, seeds and bits of vegetable matter on the floor and on nearly every surface of the kitchen. There were dishes to be washed, counter tops to be wiped, dish towels to be washed. After that we pretty much took the rest of the day off.

We made an afternoon trip into Denver, just because we rarely go and I think it's good to have a reminder every now and then why we don't live there ("there" meaning "the big city," not Denver specifically which, by big city standards, is actually quite nice.)

We rounded out the evening reading at home. Right now I'm reading A Place of my Own by Michael Pollan. He's the author of some of my favorite food-centric books: The Omnivore's Dilemma, In Defense of Food, The Botany of Desire. A Place of My Own was his first, and deals with a very different topic. It was his quest to build a small, private room in the wooded area behind his house where he could read, write and work. The picture on the cover is what first grabbed my attention. It's a cold blue photo of a tiny warm house in the snow right around sunset, his completed masterpiece. You can see a wall of books through the warm glow of the window. The photo drew me in immediately because it reminded me of my fantasy cabin in the woods: a dark, snowy landscape, cold, beautiful, forbidding, with a cozy, inviting home nestled in the middle of it radiating light and life. See the book here.

The guy is a writer/editor, not a carpenter. In fact he's really not handy at all, as he admits many times. Yet it was his quest not just to have a place of his own, but to build it himself. It's comforting for me to know that I'm not the first or the only person to have the thoughts and desires I do. I'm not the only person who wants - needs - to have a safe, comfortable place of my own removed if only temporarily from the things of everyday life, or who worries about the environmental impact of my actions or who finds joy in discovering new things about myself and the world in my journey to satiate my sometimes inexplicable desires.

Pollan quotes Thoreau a lot. I know Thoreau is not universally loved, and Pollan even made a few remarks about Thoreau's sometimes self-serving or Earth-mother type views of nature. But, as is nearly always the case, one's point of view changes dramatically when one actually walks just a little in someone else's shoes. Pollan was reminded of this on more than one occasion. It was really interesting to see how Pollan moved from dismissing some of Thoreau's words as self-serving to understanding what the man actually meant. Trying something new has a wonderful way of giving one new perspective. I find I've done some of this in recent years myself. Isn't it amazing what age and experience can teach you? The older I get the more I realize how little I know. People are so quick to dismiss or judge the actions or thoughts of others, but who are you to do that? Who am I to do that? How many times in my life have I been so sure I was right only to find out (or worse, to come to the conclusion sometime later) that I was completely wrong - or at the very least, that I was basing my opinion on a woefully incomplete picture? It's a good idea to step inside other people's homes and see the world through their windows now and then.

I also read through another book this weekend. It's a book by the US Forest Service about camp cooking. It's first a foremost a recipe book for cooking in a dutch oven over a campfire, created from 100 years of journals, articles, papers and interviews with Forest Service employees. Secondarily it's a brief glimpse into the life of a Forest Service employee, particularly between 1900 and about 1970. There are samples of letters, statements and interviews as well as a few stories, photographs and some cowboy poetry interspersed among the recipes. Was life really simpler in 1950 or 1900? Probably not. Maybe. I don't know, I wasn't around. I guess it depends on your criteria for what constitutes a simple life. And at any rate, a "simple" life and a "hard" life are not the same things, and needn't have anything to do with one another. But for whatever reason, reading the stories of those old timers just takes me away to fantasy land. Maybe their lives were simpler, in my mind, because they lived and worked in the great outdoors. Sure, they only earned $7/day, but they lived at a time when they didn't have to consider life without medical insurance, cell phones, computers or a car payment. By and large these things either didn't exist in the first place or weren't options for the vast majority of the population anyway. A lot of the Forest Service men had a saddle horse, a pack horse, a dutch oven, a gun, a tent or a teepee and not much else. But they liked it. Actually, they loved it from the accounts I read. They ate the non-perishables the Forest Service provided and supplemented that with wild game and plants. There was no social networking, no daily commute, no techno-gadgets, no reality TV, no TPS reports, no management meetings under the searing hum of florescent lights in a sea of cubes. There were no arbitrary work deadlines, no false sense of urgency, no hordes of strangers living all around you, no college students wearing their pants around their ankles and sunglasses so big they cover half the face, no people standing around ignoring each other because they've all got their faces buried in their iPhones. Sounds pretty simple to me. The work was hard, often dangerous. But the thing is these guys loved it. And they weren't all the grizzly mountain man type either. They just had a passion for a simple life, living close to nature, being under the stars and in the wide open spaces, and for doing work they honestly believed in that had physical, visible, tangible results.

Maybe I romanticize that life too much. But how will I know unless I walk a mile in their shoes?

Searching

Last week/weekend was our annual backpacking trip to Capitol Peak. We (there were eight people in our party) were gone 5 days, and returned last night around midnight.

Base camp was just below 12,000 feet, in the wooded area in the photo above. It's literally on the edge of the alpine tundra, just meters from the limit of where trees can grow. It takes the better part of a day to hike in.

The weather is always unpredictable in the mountains, and the higher you go the more extreme it can get in a hurry. We experienced baking sun, a hail storm, violent winds and freezing temperatures. And that was just the first day. The second day started with sunshine and blue skies, so after breakfast we hiked up above the tree line to the saddle to make trail repairs. At noon, black clouds sprang up from the far side of Capitol Peak and within ten minutes we were running back down a 40 degree incline through a vicious lightning storm, complete with hail and pouring rain, to the relative safety of base camp. We counted 35 lightning strikes around us in the time it took to run down. In an hour it was sunny again, but then the wind started. We had sustained winds of over 40 mph, punctuated by regular gusts much more powerful, which lasted day and night for two days. The last couple of days were gorgeous and sunny, with daytime temps in the 60's and nights below freezing.

Despite this, we had a good time. The company was great, and camp was, all things considered, comfortable. We had great food, a nice warm camp fire, and clear mountain streams running on all sides of us. Deer, marmots, chipmunks and gray jays were our constant companions. And the scenery, well, it's really indescribable, like something from a dream. You can't imagine the world can really be so beautiful.

I'm leaving out so many details, but there are a few interesting or quirky things worth mentioning. For instance, we found a dead cow on the way up. Ranchers lease the land (it's owned by the forest service) and they unleash their cows to get fat by trampling and destroying pristine alpine meadows. We don't know how that particular cow died, but the next day hikers told us they had seen a bear munching on the carcass. When we saw it it didn't have a mark on it. It's highly unlikely the bear had anything to do with the cow's death, but they are opportunistic feeders and are roaming the area looking for an easy meal. We were extra careful to hang all of our food and trash high in the trees at night and while away from camp during the day.

Had I seen the bear it would certainly have been the highlight of the trip. But the best part for me is always the cowboys. Every year we hire an outfitter to pack tools in for us. We backpack our own clothes, tents, food, etc., but the sledgehammers, picks and other tools and a few common base camp necessities are packed in on a string of mules lead by a cowboy on a horse.

This year our cowboy was Aaron. He was a taut twenty-something with a slow western accent, piercing glance, cowboy hat, boots, chaps, the whole nine yards. He was born on a Pennsylvania farm but moved out west when he came of age to learn how to be a packer. I'm sure there are a lot of dirty details I don't know about the job, but the fantasy of living on a mountain ranch and having city folk pay you good money to pack them into the woods is kinda nice. I mean, he only has to see us twice per visit: once to get our money and put all our stuff on the mules, and once again as he passes us on his way down. Five days later it's just the reverse. In between he's riding alone through a gorgeous wilderness and never even has to break a sweat. A horse with two stubborn mules loaded with gear can get up and back in the time it takes us just to get up. I'm not suggesting his job is easy, not in the least. Last year, for example, one of the horses slipped on an unusually snowy slope and rolled down to the switchback below with all our tools and gear on its back. Fortunately neither man nor beast was injured. I'm aware that the job comes with certain hazards and isn't all romance. No job is. But sometimes I wonder which is really the less desirable prospect: being crushed by your horse on a mountain slope or crushed in a car accident on the interstate. Somehow the car accident just seems like the more wasteful tragedy.

I've been reading the blog of this old packer in the Idaho Rockies. His accounts are beautiful, terrifying, alluring. They're full of his adventures, decades of them. They're heavily peppered with tips too: what can happen and what to do or what not to do, what others have done and the consequences of their actions or inactions. It's easy to imagine him writing in a leather bound journal next to a camp fire in the forested mountains of frontier America.

Anyhow, today I was back at work - back at my desk clicking away on the glowing box that puts virtual green in my checking account so that I can spend a couple weeks a year getting out into the world.

I really don't mean to rag on civilization or technology. I freely admit it was very nice taking a hot shower last night and sleeping in my big, soft bed with fresh cotton sheets instead of lying on cold hard ground. Instead of a freezing, howling wind there was just a cool breeze through open windows. Instead of bears sniffing me through ten microns of nylon sheeting in the wee hours of the morning, there was just the predictable stillness of home. Good things, to be sure. Yet all I could think about all day was being back out there, somewhere in the wilderness with my horses, a warm campfire, and a hot meal bubbling in a cast iron dutch oven. Somewhere in the mountains is my cabin; simple, warm and comfortable. It bridges the gap between the soft civilized world and raw nature. It allows me to live deliberately, carefully walking the line between two extremes.

I wonder what Aaron did today.

Steamboat Springs

I'm a lot more prone to sudden road trips these days than ever before in my life.

Saturday morning after the farmer's market, we were putting away the produce when I said, "Grab the tent. Let's go to Steamboat."

And off we went.

North Central Colorado was one of the last regions of the state we had never set foot in. I had always heard the area around Steamboat is one of the last vestiges of the old west, with sprawling old-tyme ranches and lots of green summer grass, thanks to the nearly 350 inches of annual snowfall. (Yes, that's right; nearly 30 feet of snow each year.) It's late July so we didn't see any snow (except on distant mountain peaks) but I was able to verify first hand the accounts of those ranches. When I make my millions, I think I'm going to Steamboat.

There is a lot of geothermal activity in the area of Steamboat Springs, which produces a lot of hot springs. One such spring, the so-called Steamboat spring, gurgled and steamed like the vessel it is named for. It was, naturally, blasted into oblivion during railroad construction in the early 20th century. (I'm reminded of the most apt description of suburbia I've ever heard: SUBURBIA: WHERE THE TREES ARE BULLDOZED AND THE STREETS ARE NAMED AFTER THEM.)

Still, plenty of other springs remain. If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend stopping by Strawberry Park to soak in the hot springs. It is absolutely gorgeous. Unlike many other springs that have been tapped for a buck, this one was, at least, very tastefully done. The springs flow in steamy cascades down to a number of man-made pools, all built of natural stone from the mountain. The waters are clear and not chemically treated, and the bottom of the pools are natural stone and sand. There is also a cold water stream running through the whole thing, and the waters mix in various pools so guests have the option of soaking in a range of water temperatures. It's all very natural and outdoorsy, and there are massage therapists, teepees for changing, deer grazing in the grassy areas, a sort of outdoor sauna, and the whole thing is clothing optional after dark. We'll definitely be back.

We also had the best BBQ I've yet had outside of Texas. We also hit a few shops, hiked the breathtaking Fish Creek Falls, camped in Routt National Forest, and discovered Winona's, a breakfast place whose cinnamon rolls have been featured in numerous gourmet magazines. I can confirm they're as delicious as they're touted to be. (I'm sorry Upper Crust Bakery of Austin, your famous cinnamon rolls have fallen to a distant second place.)

On the way home we had a particularly nice surprise when we spotted three bull moose, two of which were enormous, grazing just off the road. I could only get two of them in one snapshot.

As I write this, there is a perfect double rainbow stretching from horizon to horizon. A cool front is coming through and the high tomorrow is only supposed to be around 70 degrees. The smell of warm cherry pie is wafting from the kitchen, mixing with the damp smell of a cool afternoon rainstorm. I never want to take for granted all the simple, unexpected pleasures that make life really sweet. I am so grateful.

Moab: Part II

Why do men like to pee outside?

We've got an IT guy at work whose originally from a small town in Texas. He's handsome in that rugged, educated Texas redneck sort of way. I was surprised when I learned he was in IT, and even more so when I learned he specialized in Macs. We hit it off right away.

Today he was in my office installing some software and, as usual, he wanted to talk trucks. I've got a big one, and he likes that. We also talked a little about growing up, and our similar desires for expansive property with room for horses, views of mountains, and plenty of peace and quiet. He was telling me with a twinkle in his eye about the cabin he's renting up in the mountains and the eight acres it sits on, when he says, "Man I've never peed outside so much in my life, not even in Texas!"

Yeah, that was my reaction too. Except then I remembered that I always prefer the outdoors to plumbing myself. Why is that? Come to think of it, I've known a lot of guys who seem to lean that way as well, though I can't say I've ever had a specific conversation about it. Well, maybe once or twice.

At any rate, this is a perfect lead into another Moab topic I wanted to touch on. Not peeing outdoors, but living for a time almost completely disconnected from the modern world. I long for this. I need this even if I can only get it in the form of short camping trips throughout the year. Moab was such a trip. And even though it rained every single night, it was perfect. Even Gerard, who is prone to frequent insomnia, slept like a baby every night we camped. There's something about being in the unspoiled wilderness, disconnected from city lights, pollution, the noise of traffic and people.

The first night we camped near Canyonlands National Park. We set up camp on a flat rocky surface just a few hundred yards from thousand-foot precipice. The view was spectacular, but I can't describe how good it felt to get naked under the wide open sky and splash the day's dust off with some cool water. Or the joy of sitting around a flickering camp fire eating a hot meal. Or the soothing sensation of being in a warm, dry sleeping bag while rain patters on the tent throughout the night. Or waking up to the smell of bacon drifting in the damp morning air and then watching the sun come up on an endless landscape. It was heaven.

Several times while hiking we came across ruins left behind from the Anasazi. Some were dwellings, and some were granaries, small stone storage rooms built along rocky overhangs for storing seeds and food. Some still contained long dried squashes and seeds which these farmers/hunters/gatherers put away for leaner times. All were at least 800 years old. We'd look at them, then sit by them in silence looking out across the canyons. What were these people like? I tried to imagine the hands that put those stones in place almost a millennium ago. I tried to imagine what they talked about, what their lives were like, how they scratched a living out of this beautiful but merciless environment.

Experts say there is more food in a desert like this than there is in an alpine forest like we have in the higher elevations here in Colorado. You just have to know where to look. I pondered the fact that I could tell you how to use a computer to figure out the best place to put a wind turbine, but I had no idea how to find food and water though it was all around me. It bugged me. Technology can be brought down by a single terrorist act or natural "disaster" but we still have to eat. It bugs me to be so dependent on "the system" for my most basic needs, though I must say I think I'm doing better than most.

I'm not trying to say that a stone age life is necessarily superior. I realize the problems they must have faced. I don't live with the reality that any day my food stores for the year could be plundered by a passing nomadic tribe of spear wielding hostiles, and that there's no Whole Foods from which to restock. Civilization has its benefits. But I can't help yearning for some of the simpler aspects of a life uncomplicated by all the stuff and all the people we have today.