Tongariro for Christmas

When it finally sunk in Christmas was at large and I was going to be alone for it, I decided to make the most of my situation and seized the opportunity to do the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, one of New Zealands “Great Walks.” On any given summer day more than a thousand people have been known to walk this track, making it more like a cattle trail than a hike. Kiwis with their families and foreigners with access to fewer than two cars limited to the extremely few bus serves running , I realized today might be the best day in summer to walk the track.

Fortune was with me. The weather was set to be fine and a single shuttle was running out of Turangi. The crack of dawn found me pacing eagerly to be on it.

I decided to tack on the Mount Ngauruhoe side trip. Climbing this bitch...

... was no easy task, but it was fun (my interpretation) and I got some great views.

The rest of the crossing was spectacular, with red craters, emerald crater lakes, smoking talus slopes, delicate alpine vegetation, and a final descent through shady bush with a rushing creek. I’m gonna post a million pictures on facebook as is my style, so check that out if you want more imagery.

All in all, a great day.

Merry Christmas

My Juxtaposition

I am staring out over a field of grass. It is two meters in places and I can hardly see over bobbing inflorescence, glinting and golden in the afternoon sun. The sky is huge and blue above me, interrupted occasionally by white, unconcerned clouds. All I can discern of my colleagues is a cowboy hat making its way slowly through the field. It is like a western. I watch the hat's slow progress and can't help but smile because I could be describing Kansas or Missouri or Nebraska, but I am none of these places.

I live in New York City.

Lost in reverie I abandon my stem counting for the moment, and stare at the fabled city. It is like a fairy tale, a gleaming kingdom of white towers. The metropolis is distant, huge, unlike any other place I have lived. I stand on a salt marsh in a bay, but to see the city is to feel the people bustling about, hear the honks and clatter, detect the aroma of a corner restaurant. I am covered in mud and counting stems of Spartina alterniflora, Spartina patens, Distichlis spicata. I smell like marsh - salt water and sulfur and sweat - and I am hoping for a bit of Limonium carolinianum in my plot, it's purple flowers so becoming. But a train ride away is the Met, Central Park, Broadway. Three minutes from my house in one direction is the Atlantic ocean and open beach; a bike ride in the other is an amazing pastry shop, one of the best I've ever been to. What is this place, New York?

Of a sudden the hat disappears and a peal of laughter rings out over the marsh. Someone has accidentally tested their waders, sinking past their knees in mud. The marsh is flooding and we gather our equipment, making for the boat. I am in perfect juxtaposition. I am in urban green space. I am in quiet metropolis. I am questioning everything, unwilling to trust that I am home.

7 Days, 6 National Parks

"You, aah, been hiking?" The woman stares at me from behind the front desk at the inn. I am distracted, staring outside at the thunderstorm brewing.

"huh?"

"I just...get the feeling, I mean, you look like....your hair, is" she circumscribes a vague halo over her head, "crazy."

I turn my attention back to the desk. The woman is middle aged, Asian, strong accent. I get the feeling she is bored with her job, but she is earnest. I smile. As I fill out the information form for a room, I think a bit wistfully on my last 7 days. I have had one of the best weeks of my life.....

"You been hiking alone?" She seems more curious than concerned. I affirm this. I tell her I've been to six national parks in seven days.

There's a long pause. "I just..." she stares at me. "You don't seem crazy-energy-hyper enough, you so calm."

At that, I have to laugh.

****

I finally showered. I was loathe to do it. Gone is that sweet smell of sun, and wind, and salt. That smell of the open. Gone is the desert from my skin and hair, the dust of the Puebloan, the Gunnison River, the Rocky Mountains.

Ahead of me are the plains and finally the East Coast, a very different sort of adventure.

Leaving Utah

I am packing. More or less. I am low energy, easily distracted, and faintly curious to see how all my crap is gonna fit in my car. It all got here, after all, and I've mostly gotten rid of things, so there should be no trouble, but I'm not excited to "play Tetris" (as Mark calls it). Mostly, I am surprised by how fast the time has passed. I feel especially strange about the fleeting relationships that have formed and resolved over the last couple weeks, and who knows what essence will remain. I guess Patrick's strange mood rubbed off on me.

I look forward to the drive, to aimless wondering in national parks, and thousands of miles of open road. I have not seen much of America.

We spent our last weekend together at Capitol Reef National Park. The main event was hiking the Upper Muley Twist, a 14 mile partial loop, offering jaw dropping views of the Waterpocket Fold, and the Henry Mountains sitting on the platuea above.

I experienced one of the most frightening moments in my life this weekend - a thunderstorm in a canyon. It was stupid to be there, but there we were. I listened to incessent thunder come upon us from behind, watched lightening strike across from our sandstone bluff. Scrambling down into the wash, a clap of thunder made me jump, and it began to pour. I watched waterfalls stream off sandstone cliffs and saw how quickly the water began to pool and flow. My heart was beating so loud I don't think I would have been able to hear a flash flood, though I was all ears.

Luckily there was none and I feel almost guilty to report how beautiful the whole thing was. Terrifying, but beautiful.

Revenge of the Lesser Digits

Useful for walking, balancing, climbing, grape smashing, and occasionally hitting computer keys from reclined positions, my toes are nonetheless under-appreciated. Until now.

My weekend was ruined in a great feat (no pun intended) of ironic vengeance. I managed to make it through an exhausting and dangerous week over crumbling sandstone, basalt cliff sides, and criss-crossing of rivers with a host of abrasions and bruises, but no serious injuries. Rejoiced at the final pull of our transect line on Friday and trying to lighten tensions from over-worked field techs, I finished my swathe and waded with enthusiasm into the Virgin River...and tripped on a mud-hidden rock....

The fourth toe on the left measures a mere 40mm, and yet the consequences of a bruised tendon were gargantuan. Walking was unbearable. Out was the run I had planned after work. Out were the semi-technical canyons in Zion planned for the weekend. For all I knew, out was my ability to work.

I spent the weekend moping about in an IBprofun, buddy-taped blur, trying to keep myself distracted by lesser industries. My toe is feeling much better, which is good, but I am bitter at the loss of my second to last weekend in Utah. The experience has given me much thought on the appreciation of digits.

On a serious note though, one of the most important subjects that my mind wondered on this weekend is the nature of friendships in the lifestyle I have chosen. Who I talk to when I'm upset, the nature of friendships from a distance, the nature of acquaintanceship with other transitory folk, the very few people one connects with out of the very many people one meets, and the balance between isolation and independence.

A Good Day

The desert smells amazing.

I jump down from the truck and pause to breath in as deeply as I can. It rained last night, and the desert is remade. The sand is pockmarked, not a single track remains. Every plant is fit to burst and shallow pools of water fill sandstone basins. The Virgin River is running, and running clear.

I swing on my backpack and jump the gate to Area 31. Everything is still and absolute silence pervades. It is as though the entire desert is sleeping in after a late night celebrating. Behind me the sun is a molten orange globe just breaking the horizon and the distant mesas appear purple in the morning atmosphere. Today will be a cool 91F, down right pleasant in my mind after a week at 100F. I adjust the setting on my receiver and drop down over a basalt ledge, looking for critters.

Desert Decorations

We find a lot of random stuff working in the desert everyday. Brochures, plastic bags, half eaten lunches, and shot gun shells to mention just some of the eclectic garbage at large.

(Side note: I have been so lucky not to find any corpses as yet, though I hear one year they found a pile of euthanized dogs from the pound. How's that for depressing? Have your pets spayed or neutered.)

One of the supreme and somewhat abundant desert finds are balloons. Sure, we have your standard rubber balloons, but I mean the big, colorful, obnoxious, metallic, once-helium-filled balloons. Valentine octopus with a heart on each tentacle declaring it's adoration? Got it. St. Patrick's Day mug of foaming beer? Done. It's a boy! You bet.

Balloon finds are rated on a 5 point scale, derived from a weighted consideration of size, color, and originality. Though only given a 3.5 by group vote, I am particularly proud of today's find which I laboriously removed from a creosote some distance off transect. Complete with a bouquet of partially deflated rubber balloons, I wish the class of 2009 good luck in their ventures and thank them for covering our empty living room wall.



The opportunity to spell out "poop" did not go unnoted, you who are giggling.

Reflections on the St. George Farmers Market

Farmers' markets are one of my favorite activity for a quiet Saturday morning. I like the lazy walk through the streets, people watching, and meandering through the crowds. I like the street music and the site of fresh local produce stacked on shaded tables straight off the bed of a pickup truck (...or out of a van). I like the feeling of both community and anonymity.

Today being a quiet Saturday morning (I have been to Salt Lake City, Red Rocks, and the Grand Canyon in the last three weeks and I'm pretty well exhausted), I struck out to find the St. George farmers market, of which I had heard rumors.

The site was pathetic.

I walked the tiny circle of booths once and was about to leave when I thought to myself, If I don't buy anything here, it's the same as if I didn't come. These people are trying to provide something this community clearly is not embracing, and this is a situation in which my money is the best way to support what I believe in. I doubled back on the meager offerings and, in the end, was quite pleased with my find of local organic oranges, fresh peas, cage free eggs, and a moist, delicious loaf of homemade sunflower bread.

With most things I buy in life, the thing is for some purpose and my money is a means to an end. They say consumers have power, but I usually feel as though my money is dropped unnoticed into a black hole. Except at a farmers market. Nothing makes me feel so powerful as a consumer as handing my food dollars directly to the people who produced my food, not to mention connected and knowledgeable about my consumption. This is one of the very few places I feel as though how I choose to spend my money actually makes a difference.




Tips for the farmers market:

* walk the market end to end before making any hasty purchases; this way you have a good idea of what is being sold that week and what the going price is
* bring small bills and change; as the day progresses, farmers may be less able to break your $20
* bring reused plastic bags to put loose or wet produce in; this save farmers from having to provide bags for you

** I usually have a spare dollar or two in my pocket for my favorite street performer

Decisions

Two weeks ago I was contacted by an admissions adviser at Arizona State University who was trying to pare down the priority wait list. As I had not received the fellowship I had been hoping for - the Urban Ecology IGERT - I told her that I, having no funding, thought my name should be removed from that list. She said she understood and that seemed to be that.

I took this all as a sign I should continue on my current nomad path, jumping around from job to job, and make good on my long-time plans of moving to New Zealand. A week and a half passed and I was just starting to feel sure about the next year-or-so when I received an email from admissions at Arizona State. I have been accepted to the Ph.D. program at the School of Sustainability, with the understanding that should I not have luck in coming up with funding for 2009, my acceptance will be defered for Fall of 2010...

The situation is ideal. I still get to work a couple more jobs, live 9 or 10 months in New Zealand, all the while coming up with funding and connections for my doctorate work....

It's too ideal; it makes me nervous, and uncertain. How do I know when I've chosen the right school? I haven't made many connections with researchers, but I've been having difficulty finding someone who does what I am interested in. I didn't even try to get into a more prestigous school...should I have? Prestige doesn't mean much if they don't have a program that's suited to my goals, but after Oregon State, I don't want that question nagging at me. If I'm gonna do it right, this is my opportunity to do so. I've got a lot to think about.

A Recipe for Coconut Cranberry Oatmeal Cookies

I have taken to making cookies every Thursday night as kind of a week-capper. Cookies are a powerful pick-me up in the field and it's a nice treat to have fresh cookies in the car for the inevitable weekend adventure.

For some reason I am loathe to buy oatmeal cookies, but homemade they are my favorite. For those who also <3 homemade oatmeal cookies, I present the following concoction:


Coconut Cranberry Oatmeal Cookies

2 eggs
2 sticks (1/2 C) butter or butter-like substance (I use that "Smart Balance" stuff)
1 C. dark brown sugar
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2 C. whole wheat flour
1 tsp. baking soda
dash salt
2 C. oats
1 7 0z. package shredded coconut
1 C. dried cranberries

*Mix eggs, butter, brown sugar, vanilla
*Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt
*Stir in oats, coconut, and cranberries
*Bake at 350 deg. F for 11 min.
*Makes more cookies than you need

These are soft cookies so I recommend baking them on parchment paper or a baking sheet you don't mind using a metal spatula on.

St. George

St George is a strange little town, pulled between being a modern city (because this is more profitable) and a quiet Mormon enclave. The town tries very hard to attract outdoor enthusiasts and modern professionals, but seems to fail with gusto. Road biking does seem to be popular here, however, and that combined with a just-adequate bike trail system makes me miss biking very much.

Most of St. George is closed by 6 pm and never opens on Sunday, and as you can imagine this precludes a night life. There's certainly a cupcake shop opened curiously late that could pull some decent business if there was a reason to go downtown at all. The only bar in town (literally, The One and Only) serves 3.2% beer and is max-skeez. A strip-mall coffee shop has live music Saturday nights and once a month the city hosts a musician in the park, but provides a stage with seeming disregard for acoustic requirements.

History surfaces in two interesting ways in St. George. First, the streets have never been narrowed from the width required for wagon travel. A standard residential street is adequate for 5 lanes of modern traffic. This makes crossing the road quite intimidating: A car could be 1/4 mile away and I'm wondering if I'm gonna make it.

More interesting, however, are the acequias. On the edges of super-wide streets, are deep drainage paths. For flash floods? I mused when I first saw them. Yet even when it hasn't rained for weeks, water is still running through these cement chutes. In front of many of the houses are simple steel gates....and it didn't click until I saw someone watering their lawn by diverging the water onto their property, flooding their lawn, and then closing it off again. (The entire system is gravity fed and as you can see in the picture, most property sits just below street level to take advantage of this.) Fascinating! A real acequia in use! However, the amount of water we're talking is disgraceful - it's the g*!damn desert - and I have not yet learned what regulations are in effect today...though I am not optimistic there are many.

ZEYE-uhn

Last week's adventures took us to Zion National Park. We hiked up to Angels Landing - a fin of rock sticking straight out into the middle of the canyon - with a trail that sometimes narrows to less than 3 meters, 1000+ foot drops on either side.



Camping on BLM land was absolutely gorgeous, but 4WD required.

Finally got in a little climbing this week up Bluff street by the Chuckwalla trail head. While I do like indoor climbing, having outdoor routes 15 minutes from one's abode is pretty awesome, and I am planning on expanding my gear collection to include a few more rock climbing essentials.

More than Three-Two

The euphoria from Mesquite, Nevada is just fading…like a child in a candy shoppe, I walked around Lee’s Discount Liquor in happy wonder. Just being there made me drunk. I turned bottles of wine reverently, paced the beer cooler, sauntered in a stupor through isles and isles of liquors…

… parched from the desert sun and Utah alcohol policies, the thirsty young scientists find themselves in an oasis called Nevada where they may have at last the stuffs to drown out their hopeful dreams….