Of the thirteen holidays my office grants each year, Columbus Day is likely the most random and welcome of them all. Matt was not so fortunate. He took a precious vacation day, and we enjoyed a three day weekend during the Sierra fall color show featuring some of nature’s most colorful actors – Aspens.
We gave the backpacks a break and opted for some laid-back car camping at Kirkwood Lake, just across from our favorite winter ski destination. Since this was the last weekend the campground was open, we nearly had the place to ourselves. There were a few cars in the lot though, and a walk to the waters edge revealed secluded cabins accessible only by boat. We were green with envy. Something tells us these are not the kind of properties that show up online with the MLS! By the way, if you’re selling, we’re interested.

The Great Sierra Spirit granted us bluebird skies and crisp temperatures – perfect for photographing the aspens which coated the Carson Pass area with rich color. And it didn’t take long for us to discover that we were not alone. Hope Valley was teeming with sightseers eager to get that perfect shot. In fact, the sheer number of tourists and parallel parked vehicles along the roadside reminded us of last year’s visit to Yellowstone! The most memorable members of the crowd included a full motorcycle gang, complete with beards, braids, and bunches of black leather.

The crowds were hefty, but Sorenson’s Resort just past the junction of highways 88 and 89 resembled a shopping mall parking lot during the Holidays. The crowds flock for a reason. It seemed to be the epicenter of the fall color phenomenon. Imagining a more picturesque setting for wandering among the Technicolor trees would be difficult. The individual cabins nestle in aspen groves, complete with front porches adorned with Adirondack chairs, meandering creeks, and piles of firewood. Looking around yielded the very definition of cozy.

While appreciating the aspens was easy, we discovered photographing them was not. Books should be written on this subject. How can something so beautiful in person look so lifeless and cheesy in a photo? We tried backlighting, front lighting, wide angles, macros – you name it. While a few photos make us proud, most we’d like to disown. I wonder if our fellow tourists experienced the same issues… or, maybe we’re just aspiring perfectionists.

Regardless, walking through the flutter and whisper of changing aspen leaves far outweighs a snapshot any day. Mark your calendars for next year, and get thee to the Sierra in early October. You will not be disappointed, and you will likely be in good company.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in October, 2006 (or thereabouts).

Selecting a weekend backpacking destination in Northern California in mid-June is a tricky task. Elevation too high? Snow. Elevation too low? Scorching. At the beginning of the year we penciled in a “Northern Sierra” outing for this particular weekend and I wasn’t quite ready to give up on our goal despite the lingering snow at approximately 5,000 ft. After a bit of research and some phone calls we found a location that was just right: Feather Falls.

Technically, Feather Falls is not an overnight trip; Matt wasn’t even sure this was really in the Sierra (it is, barely). Ask the good folks at Plumas National Forest ranger station and they’ll tell you no backcountry camping is allowed since much of the land near the falls is privately owned. However, we did some prior web research that suggested poaching was a viable option and we decided to chance it with the knowledge we may need to turn our five mile trek in to a nine mile round tripper with oversized “day packs”.

Opting for the clockwise route, the hike in offered more visual variety than expected. On the way, we passed several large granite rocks with mortar holes used by the Maidu Indians to grind acorns, and we discovered Frey Creek is a popular spring hang-out for lady bugs in Northern California. The lower section was a bona fide rain forest, complete with rich fern ground cover and waterfalls. Higher up, the terrain became drier and more exposed; Manzanita flanked the path and watching for rattlesnakes felt necessary.

We could hear the main attraction of this trail well before we could see it. Although not well known, 640 ft. tall Feather Falls is said to be one of the tallest waterfalls in the Lower 48, although there is some controversy on this subject. (For more information on misconceptions about the largest falls in the US check out this interesting website.) The winding and sometimes hard-to-follow trail leads up then down to a viewing platform. The platform is roughly halfway up the height of the falls and provided us with front row seats to Feather River’s roaring spill.

After baking on the exposed overlook for lunch and photos, we continued uphill and followed the trail along the river’s edge. Just a short way from the falls we found a few well established campsites that were likely too snug to the water’s edge for a by-the-book backpacker, but a brief push forward yielded no other options. So, despite the signs noting Private Land, we decided to chance it and agree to make up our zero impact infraction by packing out the excessive trash deposited in the area. Our private / public land concerns were put to rest when an old timer rolled in noting that he had camped in our spot for the last 30 years. We, uh… didn’t offer to move and after having the same luck we encountered further up the trail, he returned to set up camp near the other established sites.

If you did the math earlier you probably noticed this hike wasn’t exactly an Ironman training session. Since the trip was relatively short on mileage and elevation gain, we matched our camp activity level to the same leisurely pace. Napping, reading, and hanging out together occupied our weekend and provided a peaceful escape from our frazzled weekday lives. We returned home feeling refreshed and pleasantly surprised that Feather Falls offered more than we expected.

Next time we’ll go in summer proper and aim for a higher elevation in the Bucks Lake Wilderness for a slightly more demanding weekend in the Range of Light’s northern reaches.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in June, 2006 (or thereabouts).

When our friends Eric and Jen announced their destination wedding in Tuscany, we grabbed my college art history books, a fresh stack of Post-its, and went to work on our Italy trip itinerary. We were thrilled to be included in their special day. So were twenty of our closest friends, and we spent the first week all together in a seventeenth century villa. The following week was spent seeking out the art and architecture we had only been able to appreciate from the stacks of books in our living room.

This was supposed to be a plush “front country” trip for a couple of seasoned backpackers, but adventure found us minutes off the plane in a Pisa rental car lot. Our wagon was a stick (we had reserved an automatic), it was pitch black outside, and the directions to the villa soon had us lost in a maze of nameless Tuscan dirt roads. Although the dashboard sported a warning in English, “Driving on Unpaved Roads Prohibited”, Matt and I did our best Bo and Luke impressions as we flew around rutted corners and left dust clouds to settle under the stars. Our midnight arrival was straight out of The Amazing Race. Our friends and their family were nothing short of shocked that we had managed to find them. We were rewarded with the first, of what would be countless, glasses of vino consumed during our stay and a hike up eighty steps to our lofty bedroom.

Tuscany looks just like the pictures on wine bottle labels. Bullet shaped Cypress trees outline hilly paths to hilltop villas perched like little terracotta crowns. We were a bit drunk on the vista, but managed to grab our cameras and stagger out the door nearly every morning. The first day we traveled by car, boat, train, and trail winding through the five coastal villages of Cinque Terra. We discovered the best pesto we’ve tasted to date in small café on a hill in the third village, Corniglia. I was immediately thankful the dress I brought for the wedding was stretchy and would forgive the gastronomic tour this vacation was turning into. The following days were spent touring Florence, Volterra, and San Gimignano. Each night we returned home hungry and wander down the path to our poolside family-style dinners. We even made our own wood fired pizzas one night and our friend Jeff demonstrated his mad pizza tossing skills to our Italian hosts.

This was supposed to be a plush front country trip for a couple of seasoned backpackers, but adventure found us minutes off the plane in a Pisa rental car lot.

Eric and Jen were married in San Gimignano on May 4th within the frescoed walls of Dante’s Hall. Their wedding was an epic day capped with a Tuscan sunset, dancing, and loads of romance. Oh, and a ridiculous amount of mozzarella. A few days after their ceremony, we said goodbye to our friends only to see them a few hours later at the Pisa train station. We all scrambled to make alternate plans during a rail strike and Matt and I battled our way onto a crowded bus destined for Florence.

Exploring Firenze was like walking through the projection screen of an art history presentation. Matt patiently listened to my excited narratives about how Brunelleschi developed the Duomo’s design and history of the Baptistery doors. We were both speechless though as we stood wide eyed in front of Galileo’s telescopes and an original Antonio Stradivarius viola. Could more history and beauty possibly be squeezed in any other city’s limits? We doubt it. Each corner in Florence was a photo ready to be captured and we wandered between sights armed with cameras. One afternoon we walked to Piazza Michelangelo determined to find high ground and take home pictures of the entire cityscape. We waited out a thunderstorm hoping for good light, but returned to our shoebox sized room with soaking clothes and a case of the shivers instead. Fortunately, the food and wine of Florence equal the quality of the art. Just a few glasses of Chianti were all we needed to warm up and savor the moment.

Soon we were in a first class rail car destined for Rome. We shaved some Euros from our trip by staying in a “BB” that was really just a second bedroom in a neatly decorated apartment. Breakfast took the form of vouchers for the corner café. From our neighborhood digs we delighted in the familiar sights including the Coliseum, Pantheon, and Sistine Chapel. We also discovered some lesser known places like San Clemente. The tunnels below this basilica revealed at least four layers of structures dating back at least 2000 years. We used to think the 50’s era strip malls in South Lake Tahoe looked “old”, but a walk through Ancient Rome quickly recalibrated the word for this pair of suburban-raised kids.

A more contemporary tour completed our time in the capital city. We lounged on the same Spanish Steps where Audrey Hepburn played a rogue princess in Roman Holiday and nursed a couple of Cokes. It proved the perfect spot to join in one of Italy’s favorite pastimes – people watching. From here, we strolled down Via Condotti, the Rodeo Drive of Rome, and I lusted after $400 pairs of sunglasses and designer clothes. This type of city stroll also led us by some tasty eateries. If your biggest challenge in a day is saving room for gelato, you are living “la vita dolce”. Matt always managed to make room for Stracciatella and I never missed a chance to order the cioccolata e cocco combo. It was a good thing we walked at least 15 miles during our short stay. But spending so much time on the noisy streets had us ready for some down time. We found it several hours north in Italy’s Lake District.

Gaze at a map of Lake Como for a while, and you’ll start to see the shape of a woman standing with two long legs. They call the affluent town of Bellagio “The Pearl”. I don’t think I have to describe where it’s located. We stayed near the phantom lady’s lower back in a gem called Bellano. Having crashed in relative dives during our travels we classed it up our last few nights in a two-room suite with a balcony overlooking the water. Between the down linens and incredible view, it’s a wonder we ever made it outside. But we had to eat. One evening our hosts made reservations in the neighboring town of Varrenna and we dined in a restaurant with only four tables. The wine menu had five pages. Bellisimo.

Sadly, like all vacations, this one had an end. Something about the jobs that help pay for them… We did salvage a day in Sienna before heading home though. Our time there felt a bit like knocking back the last drops of a cocktail before being kicked out of the VIP lounge. But we’re crafty coyotes and we’ll figure a way back in someday. We were already planning our next Italian itinerary on the flight home. And we’re making allowances that next time we’ll likely have some little ones in tow.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2006 (or thereabouts).

Living in the Bay Area has some serious perks and driving less than an hour to backpack at Point Reyes National Seashore is just one of many. We go so often, it’s almost like camping in our backyard. At least I imagine camping in a backyard would feel that comfortable; since living in San Francisco usually means squeezing into a one-bedroom with no balcony, let alone a yard. Okay, the perks still leave room for improvement. But, it’s this familiarity with our location that prompted a weekend trot in the woods with loads of brand spankin’ (read: untested) new gear.

We recently invested in a batch of new ultra lightweight equipment, including packs, sleeping bags, and boots for Matt. Just a few miles with sub 20lb packs will make anyone realize why the ultra light movement is a booming business for outdoor retailers. Without the burn of heavy gear, we were in no hurry to reach the end of our journey. The trails into Glen Camp were lined with masses of Forget-me-nots and we took our time drinking in the weekend. Eventually the trail gave way to a meadow chock full of the little, lavender lovelies and we made ourselves at home on a hillside site.

We assembled our new Tarptent exactly one time before our overnight in Glen Camp. Actually, we mostly just watched as Henry Shires, Tarptent’s founder, demonstrated the various ways to put it up using trekking poles in his front yard. Now how is that for customer service? Fortunately, Matt had been a good student and figured out a way to place the tent despite our quirky shaped campsite. We enjoyed a breezy night in the Squall II cuddled in new down bags. It didn’t feel quite as sturdy as the Sierra Designs Omega we’ve been calling home for the past six years, but at only 33 ounces, it’s certainly a joy to tote around. Our night in Glen Camp proved pleasant, but when compared to the views and privacy of the other backcountry campgrounds in the park, we’ll likely opt for one of the other camps for our next overnight trip.

Sunday morning we decided on an alternate route back to the Bear Valley Visitor Center via Steward Horse Camp. I’m not sure if it was the wandering heard of deer I was photographing or the poor signage, but somehow we managed to get a little sideways and accidentally wandered into the Vedanta Society Olema Retreat. Anytime you’re able to get navigation help from a friendly monk in orange robes, you know you’re on track for an interesting weekend. He helped us find the Rift Zone Trail that travels through the Society’s property and we enjoyed the route’s solitude and wildlife back to our car. Point Reyes may feel like our backyard, but it still offers new adventures for seasoned visitors.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in April, 2006 (or thereabouts).

I received some sideways glances after telling my city coworkers we planned to spend our hard earned vacation days road tripping to Utah. “Really?” “Really.” Exploring the dry playas of Death Valley, navigating the rushing waters of the Zion Virgin River Narrows, and hiking under the towering spires of Bryce Canyon make affairs of the cube seem downright comical.

The adventure began with a race through Yosemite to a favorite spot nestled between the Sierra’s eastern base and Mono Lake. Tioga Toomey’s, a rare combination of fine dining and gas station, offered us yet another outstanding alfresco meal. After dinner we navigated the now very familiar back roads to Crooked Meadow and settled into our first night on the road. Full tummies, starry skies, and the silence of Mono Basin – it was starting to feel like a vacation.

Manzanar

On our south-bound tour of Hwy 395, we paid a visit to Manzanar, a WWII Japanese internment camp and National Historic Site in Owens Valley. Although not much is left of the camp itself, two structures solemnly stand against a dramatic Eastern Sierra backdrop. A new museum was recently built within the original high school gymnasium and we were blown away by its quality. My nerves tingled while experiencing the eerily familiar rhetoric that “justified” the trampling of American civil rights in the name of wartime national security. A lonely white monument now stands in the cemetery and is dedicated to the Japanese Americans who died on these grounds. Manzanar isn’t necessarily a vacation “upper” but definitely worth the visit to absorb a sobering piece of American history.

Death Valley

Back in the trusty Subaru, we continued down Hwy 395, and within two hours had the highest and lowest points within the lower 48 states in view. Mt. Whitney towers a proud 14,495 ft. and Bad Water, Death Valley sinks -282 ft. with less than 150 miles between them.

Not surprisingly, camping in Death Valley around early September is a warm affair. Overnight lows in the mid 80s did little to temper the 100+ daytime temperatures. Fortunately, I developed my appreciation for dry, desert climates while living in Reno for a year and familiarized myself with the phrase “Well, at least it’s a dry heat”. Frankly, that doesn’t mean shit when the hot, gusty Bad Water winds make you question the choice of vacationing inside a convection oven. Even though the heat was intense, the aptly-named Furnace Creek campground offered excellent shade beneath Mesquite trees and a surprisingly comfortable duff bed. The desert further embraced us that night with a shocking number of stars and the serenade of howling coyotes just a few hundred feet from our tent. The evening was intense and magical.

The next morning we rose in the dark to capture the sun’s first rays fall on Zabriskie Point, but we were not alone. There must be something about the American Southwest that Europeans adore, because that morning we were surrounded by a gamut of Euro tourists. We were even joined by a French motorcycle gang complete with Harleys, leather, and fringe. The noticeable absence of English reminded us once again National Parks are not just us, but for the world to enjoy. After we all held hands and joined in rounds of “I’d like to teach the world to sing,” we recycled our Coke cans and zoomed onto another national err… treasure – Pahrump, Nevada.

Oddly, the international tourist scene did not follow us into the Nevada gem known as Pahrump. With many of its citizens looking like extras from Deliverance, we determined a five minute stop was longer than safely recommended and rocketed eastward. In no time, we left the billboards peddling brothels and plastic surgery behind and glimpsed the red outlines of Utah’s famous landmarks.

Zion – The Virgin River Narrows

I was completely unprepared for the grandeur of Zion National Park and no other backpacking trip has stirred my adrenaline like our hike through the Virgin River Narrows. There are two methods of hiking this area. The first option is to day hike up the river from the Temple of Sinawava into the opening between the narrow canyon walls. The second option requires taking a shuttle to the headwaters outside the park and hiking down the river and out the day hiker’s entrance. This 16-mile trail is mostly under water and between narrow 1000+ ft. vertical walls that are at times a mere 15ft. apart. Hikers accept the hazards of traveling with full packs, on a surface they can’t see, and the lurking danger of flash floods along a route with no exit. It just doesn’t seem like a safe place to go for a walk, but that’s exactly what people travel from all over the world to do and we had just arrived.

It was a crisp September morning, and the fine folks from the Zion Adventure Company had just dropped us off at Chamberlain’s Ranch – the trailhead for hiking the Virgin River Narrows from the top down. The head waters seemed gentle enough – only a few inches deep and couple feet wide. It was hard to imagine the “minimum four mandatory swims” we had heard about due to the unusually wet year. We knew we were going to get wet and the terrain would be rough, but both Matt and I decided against renting canyoneering shoes. I wore my hiking boots, Matt chose his trail runners. Both of us had carefully wrapped all of the items in our packs in tightly bound trash compactor bags and left the “expensive” cameras back in the car.

As we traveled downstream, the sandstone walls grew above us until only a narrow slice of azure sky could be seen nearly 80 stories above. The head waters also grew. As tributaries joined in, the creek swelled to a small river with a surprisingly swift and cold current. Matt and I developed a zigzag technique of crossing the river in search for areas offering steadier footing. Plant a trekking pole, follow with a foot, repeat. Full packs and rowdy terrain made for slow but steady progress.

Experiencing a slot canyon from the inside is a thrill. Over time, the water creates honeycomb pockets in the sandstone and the formations left behind are fascinating. Smooth vertical walls twisted above us and glowed with warm reflected light we had only seen on covers of adventure magazines. It felt like we were in the belly of some living creature, as if we had been swallowed and were slowly hiking our way out through the numbing waters to its mouth.

As we got the hang of navigating the “trail”, nature threw us some curve balls including thigh-high water and log jams, complete with cascading white water. Navigating solutions to each of these challenges was mentally and physically demanding. By the time we reached camp, our knees and ankles were screaming for a break and we felt sorry for the few folks that decided to take on the full length of the Narrows as a “day hike”. Campsite No. 8 proved to be king among kings in the world of backcountry homesteads; it included an actual cavern for our tent. And, since the Narrows let in so little moon light, we enjoyed the blackest night we could remember in the backcountry that evening.

Day two in the water brought some new excitement to my mental scrapbook of backpacking. Faced with a deep, serpentine segment, Matt and I tried to circumnavigate the obstacle by climbing over a large boulder. We met an unfortunate dead end and Matt backed out and prepared for our first swim. My detour was interrupted when I slipped and suddenly felt the rush of cold water spilling over my head. Since my waist belt had not been fastened, my pack floated to the surface and I was stuck underneath with arms looped through the straps. I panicked when I couldn’t touch the bottom and was being pushed forward into the large boulder. With a few fluid moves, I kicked both feet towards the boulder to halt my forward movement and shoved my trekking pole down. “Thank God!” – It reached the bottom and I could hold myself still long enough to slide out from under my pack with my free hand. I maneuvered my way to the sandbar with Matt and took some nervous deep breaths.

Already soaking wet, we placed our packs in front of us and swam the serpent. It was deep and the current was kinder than my earlier submersion. It felt like riding a gentle animal. Our packs were surprisingly buoyant and in just a few minutes we were on solid land again with water-laden gear. Our items were dry, but the nylon acted like a bucket. We were forced to carry a portion of the river with us each time we needed to swim. Fortunately, these other swims got easier with time and no other sections induced the same level of fear I had experienced earlier.

Spotting the first group of day-hikers whom had started at the bottom was an encouraging moment. Our finish line was finally approaching. The air became warmer and our hearts lighter knowing we could focus more on the amazing features of the canyon and less on our personal safety. “Wall Street” was an especially amazing section where the river banks completely disappeared and the water spanned between the towering walls like pavement between skyscrapers. All too soon the sunlight swallowed the darkness and we passed barefoot tourists playing at the Temple’s mouth. We had finally completed this unusual hike and were ready for some solid land, flip flops, and a few well deserved beers.

Zion – The West Rim Trail

After spending only one night recovering from our slot canyon adventure in the Virgin River Narrows, we were ready to tackle the plateaus. We rose early for Round Two of our backpacking tour of Zion National Park and hopped into another Zion Adventure Company shuttle to the trailhead.

We began our hike on top of the sweeping Kolob Terrace at Lava Point and enjoyed the freedom of walking on a dry path bordered by pines and aspens. As we approached the edge of the terrace we were treated to some fantastic views of the Great West Canyon, rivaled only by the views of Zion Canyon from our campsite. The surrounding plateaus resembled isolated islands from our perch. They were separated from one another by canyon walls of red-orange rock streaked with layers of geological history. When the sun set that evening, these walls created a brilliant display of color against a cool sky. The bird’s eye view seemed worlds away from the black Narrows night spent in the cave, yet the camp sites were less than six miles from one another.

The next morning, our trail took a nose dive and plummeted nearly 3000 ft. to the bottom of Zion Canyon. Our knees and ankles were still wobbly from the Narrows, but the vistas served as excellent distractions. In particular, the first glimpse of Angel’s Landing stopped us in our tracks.

Before we even left San Francisco, Matt had been singing the praises of the hike up Angel’s Landing – a short detour from our current route. From above, this monolith resembled a paper-thin tropical fish ready to swim into the center of Zion Canyon. By hiking along the spine of the narrow rock slab, hikers can reach the top and capture a once in a lifetime view of the valley floor. Matt was aware of my issue with heights and knew coaxing me into this side trip was going to take some work. He started with an irresistible grin and explained even though the sheer walls rise 1700 ft. above the valley floor, there would be safety cables. Images of Half Dome anyone? We dropped our packs, put both hands on the chain cables, and walked against the vertical sandstone face. I only lasted a few hundred feet. Grin or no grin, my adrenaline quota had been maxed on this particular trip and I was a shaking mess. Matt pushed on and I checked out his photos later. Amazing, yes, but some places are just more fun to enjoy from the comfort of a sofa.

Bryce Canyon

Having backpacked the highs and lows of Zion, we were ready to explore another national park on our tour of Utah. We headed northeast and skidded into Bryce Canyon ready for some low-key car camping.

Ebenezer Bryce, an early Mormon settler for whom the park is named, described the amphitheater behind his ranch as, “A hell of a place to lose a cow”. Stand at one of the many overlooks and it’s easy to understand the “bad day at work” this scenario could create for a rancher in a place like Bryce Canyon. Collections of sherbet toned spires called “Hoodoos” give rise to redwood scaled stone forests below. The towers took over 10 million years to develop and seem close to toppling over at any moment. We decided to get a closer look and hiked down to the base to discover much of the canyon in orange filtered light.

Although colorful during the day, we discovered the real magic of Bryce begins at night. The air quality in this park is among the best in the world due to Bryce’s elevation and distance from developed land, and this set the stage for some world-class star gazing. We took advantage of an offer we received from a park ranger to look through a large telescope at the canyon’s edge after dark. A full moon had risen and we studied the topography for one area not currently on our backpacking wish list. Later that night, we grabbed our cameras and headed into the canyon for some moon-lit night photography.

Staying warm during Matt’s long exposures was tough since I just wanted to sit still and enjoy our last night of vacation doing nothing. Instead, I wandered the trails to stay warm and felt the presence of something alive around me even though we were the only two people around at 2am. Earlier in the day I had read Paiute tales describing the hoodoos as the Legend People turned to stone by the Great Coyote. I imagined the towers taking on supernatural expressions under the moon light before my imagination got the best of me and I hurried back to Matt. We sat quietly together and waited for the last click indicating the shutter had closed on his final exposure. City life was just around the corner and we wanted to drink in every minute of silence we could before returning home.

Headed Home

While ten days may seem like a long time on the road, we barely scratched the surface uncovering Utah’s wild side. With any luck we’ll be packing up the Suby again soon and headed east for places like Arches, Canyon Lands, and the countless other parks that couldn’t be stuffed into our first tour. Until then, our photos will have to suffice as a reminder of what waits for us when we return.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in September, 2005 (or thereabouts).

Springtime in the young Pritchard family is becoming the season for a solid butt kicking at Henry Coe State Park. Preparing for a year of backpacking just isn’t complete anymore without a visit to this local slice of rugged backcountry early in the calendar. This year’s trip was our third time at Coe and we came prepared for the challenge… well mostly.

On a beautiful sunny morning in mid April, Matt and I took the now familiar road that climbs from Hwy 101 into the hinterland that lies between the Central Valley and the Morgan Hill area. This is the gateway to an adventure we feel is best experienced in the spring, when the park is bursting with life.

The friendly Park Ranger at Headquarters painted an irresistible picture of Upper Camp, (“Oh, you’ll love it! Its nestled right by the water and is so quiet and beautiful!”) We began our hike up the Monument Trail towards our evening’s luxury accommodations. The trail afforded great views to the west and was covered in bright poppies announcing the arrival of the long awaited warm weather after a very wet and publicized California winter.

Our hike to camp included pine trees (Jody’s favorite!) at the top of the aptly named Pine Ridge and a selection of wildflowers too large to list (we don’t know their names anyway). We met up with Hobbs Road and, like most dirt roads in Coe Park, it went one of two directions that Coe roads go: straight up and straight down. When we bottomed out at Frog Lake, we took a breather and noticed a very odd shaped oak tree – check out the picture below.

We climbed back up to the top of Middle Ridge using Hobbs Road, but we noticed some mountain bikers taking a trail through the lush woods and were a bit envious. We checked the map and decided to take Frog Lake Trail back down the next day. On our way down the backside of Middle Ridge we saw ten, yes TEN smooshed lizards on the road spread over the course of two miles. We have no idea how they met their demise, but it was interesting to wonder.

At the bottom of the ravine we could hear the Middle Fork of Coyote Creek churning and knew we were near. Although what we saw was a giant thicket of poison oak with a sign in front of it, “Upper Camp & Mexican Flat” and an arrow pointed directly at the mess. Matt and I glanced at each other, shrugged, and proceeded through very carefully using our trekking poles to push the plants out of reach. We made it through and found our campground labeled on a secluded grassy knoll questionably close to the water. You’ve got to be pretty salty to keep going to Mexican Flat – the trail isn’t easy to track and is blanketed by the poisonous stuff.

Some folks think we have adventurous hobbies, but truth to be told, my very favorite backcountry activity is napping. Curling up with in a fresh breeze after a tough hike and a long work week is a FABULOUS way to spend a Saturday afternoon. This time, we got a little carried away and it was nearly dark by the time we got up to cook dinner. Since Matt found a couple ticks crawling around on his legs in the afternoon we also did a very careful tick search on one another prior to hitting the sack for the night.

NOTE: Despite our careful efforts, I did find a tick nestled in on my hip while showering when we got home. Matt removed it for me using a pair of tweezers and some righteous pulling – those little guys can hang on with their barbs! Even though lime disease is not common here and the tick was on for less than 24 hours and not engorged, we did call the doctor to check in for advice. Everything turned out fine, although the spot still itches occasionally even 6 weeks later, and I’ve got a little round scar.

The next morning, before we headed down Frog Creek Trail, we encountered the unexpected as we stopped for a snack. A lone hiker who had passed us earlier and was headed back towards the trailhead paused and asked, “Excuse me, are you Matt and Jody?” We looked at one another with a mutual understanding that this hiker had been sent to find us and deliver terrible news about a looming family crisis. “I recognize you from your website.”

Dumbfounded. I wanted to double over in laughter. Were we now Bay Area hiking celebrities? The hiker introduced himself as Matt and mentioned he visited sierrasoul occasionally and appreciated the info we posted. It is very cool to find out that people other than ma & pa check it out – but what are the chances of being sighted on the trail!? Thanks Matt, continued happy trails to you!

We chuckled for awhile as we continued the trek home on my now favorite path in Henry Coe State Park. Flat Frog Trail begins at the Little Fork of Coyote Creek between the Middle Ridge and Pine Ridge and is a truly enjoyable hike. Unlike most trails in the park, it climbs gently, and is shaded much of the way. Between the lush grasses, chirping birds, and multitudes of flowers, we were really enjoying ourselves and felt the peace Mother Nature shares in her Sunday church.

This trip was different than two prior visits to Coe. I was far from the tears of last year having taken extra precautions to hydrate well and add a little flavor packet to the creek water. I think we were both in better shape, and, well, the hike was a helluva lot shorter. So that helps.

We may have chosen a moderate route this year, but we’ve made big plans for the next trip. We’re calling it the Triple Crown of Henry Coe: A hike that covers the three major ridge lines of the park’s Western Zone. Check the Adventure Log in spring of 2006 and make sure we’re not full of bunk… we probably are, but we’d like to prove you wrong.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2005 (or thereabouts).

This year’s Memorial Day Weekend adventure wasn’t quite as monumental as last year’s engagement story, but having said our I do’s, and enjoyed a week’s worth of beach bliss in Belize, Matt and I were ready to tackle our first backpacking trip as “The Pritchards.”

Exercising our patented ‘Three Day Weekend Alpine Start’, we beat the Friday traffic mayhem and left Saturday around 2AM, bound for Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park – about 45 minutes north of Eureka. By 7am we were napping in the parking lot and waiting for our friendly park ranger to take care of permits and fees.

The National Park Service and the California Department of Parks and Recreation co-manage a group of parks that contain 45% of California’s remaining redwood old-growth trees. But here’s a jaw dropper: Only 4% of the redwood old-growth trees from 1850 still exist in the state. That’s right, 96% were logged to support post Gold Rush progress. Fortunately, due to some forward thinking environmentalists during the turn of the century, efforts began to save what was left. Although logging continued in much of this area up to the 1960’s and 70’s, Washington has set aside these parcels to be enjoyed by generations to come.

After coming to and getting our papers in order, we were off and up the Miner’s Ridge Trail headed for the coastal backcountry camp by the same name. Walking in a redwood forest has a calming effect that is difficult to describe. It reminds me of wrapping up in a thick blanket to close out the sounds of the world. Our footsteps were barely audible as we tread on the deep cushion of composting organic material. Only our clearly-out-of-shape wind sucking could be heard through the stillness of the morning as we worked our way up to the ridge. (That whole wedding thing really bit into our conditioning this year.) The air was damp and cool, and everywhere we looked, foliage had intertwined with its neighbor, each dependant on the other for survival. This would be a great place to come if you have some serious thinking to do.

As it was, all I could think of is, “Wow – I can’t believe we’re married!” over and over again. The ridge slowly dropped as we approached the Pacific Ocean and the distant roar of waves crashing into shore began drowning out my thoughts.

Occasionally there are campgrounds that make you wonder why people drop hundreds of dollars on a room with an ocean view. Miner’s Ridge is one of them. Between the shade, space, picnic table, and knockout view of the Pacific, you have to wonder if there is any better way to spend $3? After setting up camp, Matt and I walked down to the warm sand and proceeded to catch up on the Z’s we missed the night before.

Occasionally there are campgrounds that make you wonder why people drop hundreds of dollars on a room with an ocean view. Miner’s Ridge is one of them.

The next day we hiked north on the Coastal Trail and discovered Fern Canyon. Stepping into this green jewel is like walking through a prehistoric portal. In fact, this space hosted the film crews of Jurassic Park, although it’s hard to imagine anyone in Hollywood having a clue of its remote whereabouts. The small canyon features a narrow, winding creek bed with 50ft. fern lined walls. High above, towering redwoods allow only filtered light through the foliage and back to the shallow water. The various intensities of green and lushness of the ferns are absolutely memorizing. This park has a not-so-subtle way of hinting how delicate it is and makes you feel very small.

As we wound north, the muddy trail grabbed at our boots and we were reminded that Spring was enjoying her stay. We came upon an earthy, barefoot group of early twenty somethings who recommended we lose our boots before trying to cross the last meadow to the Ossagon Creek campground. Dodging unforeseen obstacles below the tall grass while mud squished through our toes wasn’t our idea of fun, so we kept our boots on and picked our way trying to keep the damage to a minimum and met up on dry land.

The second night’s accommodations weren’t nearly as luxurious as Miner’s Ridge. Since the campground was below the dune, we didn’t have a view, our picnic table was a catapulting death trap, and the pit toilet was more than a little scary. Times like these, it’s better to go without and enjoy what nature provides – not what tax cuts can’t maintain. We admired the soft grassy bed we would have for the night and enjoyed another afternoon of napping on the beach and watching the local residents: sea lions, crabs, and pelicans.

During our midnight drive, Matt mentioned to me he had never seen an elk before. I had read that Prairie Creek was home to a few hundred Roosevelt Elk, but didn’t have the heart to wake him up as we passed a herd grazing in the early dawn mist. However, while cooking dinner that night, I glanced at Matt and saw his jaw drop and his eyes fix on a young buck who had decided to come and check out what was on the menu. As he walked towards us, we had the split thought of how close is too close. We fumbled for our cameras to capture the photo op staring right at us munching on a mouthful of grass.

We packed up early in the morning and headed home. Again, the lack of conditioning thing came and kicked us square in the ass. The hike back to the car was long and to cap it all off, we had not packed enough food for this portion of our trip. Hungry and exhausted, we followed a portion of the trail that appeared to be a very old road of some kind. Then we saw them.

Colossal gray stumps huddled on the east side of the ridge bellowed a dark note in California’s history. The solitude and silence made us feel as though we were walking on sacred burial ground for these 2000 year old giants. Covered in ferns, cobwebs, and debris, we estimated the last loggers left this old-growth grove with all they could carry about 50 years ago. The ‘road’ was nothing more than a wide, rugged trail and it was hard to imagine how they hauled out portions of these trees that were at least 10-15ft. in diameter. Touched, and determined, we continued.

We reached the car before noon and treated our empty tummies to a healthy dose of pizza and beer in Eureka. While we were able to beat the traffic on the way out – there was just no getting around it on the way back. We took turns at the wheel and were able to glide on home just before dark. Another packed three day weekend was chalked up on the board, but the first of many as husband and wife.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2004 (or thereabouts).

We knew our trip would be nothing less than an adventure as we stood in line at the American Airlines ticket counter at SFO. It was 5:00 AM and both of us had our eyes glued to the display case housing the ‘forbidden’ items. Our exact stove and fuel bottles were smirking at us from the other side of the Plexiglass; their twins carefully nestled in our packs. We knew there was a chance these items could be trouble, but we had done our research with the airline and FAA, thoroughly removed all fuel from them, labeled the items, and decided to let the sleeping cookware stay where it was, hoping to see it when we unpacked at the tip of South America.

After 1 1/2 years of planning we were finally on our way to Patagonia. Cookware or not.

Our travels took us on 5 flights through 6 airports: SF to LA to Lima to Santiago to Puerto Mont to Punta Arenas for a total of 20 hours in the air. If you thought American planes were cramped, consider checking out Lan Chile for some real fun. The cool colored fabrics and New Age meditation type music might help some people relax, but poor Matt was wedged between his seat and the one in front like an NBA player in a child’s desk at back-to-school night. At least the in-seat DVD players helped take our mind off the cramped quarters and the stewardess’ incessant, “Permiso!” as they attempted to thrust full meals in front of us every 2 hours. “Honestly, no tenemos hambre!”

If the design of the Punta Arenas airport was any indication of the type of weather we were about to encounter… we were in for it. This building looked like it could survive in Antarctica. Hell, throw in an earthquake too – it would still stand strong with its 3 whole gates. A quick check in baggage claim to see the stove and fuel bottles still in our packs (whew!), we hopped into a cab and headed for town.

Punta Arenas sits on the Straits of Magellan (yeah as in the first guy to sail around the world in 1520) and is the oldest and largest city in Patagonia (about the size of Salem, OR). After settling into our hotel, we went out to paint the town and promptly discovered the local cocktail of choice: the Pisco Sour. A cross between a margarita and the Brazilian caipirinha housed in a champagne flute, this is a tasty way to start a vacation. We were also able to pick up bus tickets to our next destination and cruised the main street for dinner along with our escorts; nomadic bands of stray dogs looking for the same thing. Check out this site if you have time…they’ve even been given names!

For $15 the amenities included a bed and a door and some sheets that had a funny aroma…

The next morning we embarked on the first of many bus rides to Puerto Natales. On the way, we were amused to see the bus stop and watch salty ranch hands get off in the middle of nowhere, hop over a fence, and start running across a field headed for some house we couldn’t see on the horizon. This is sheep ranching land and it didn’t take long to figure out why the area is known for its wool, after seeing an infinite number of these creatures grazing in the open green.

Puerto Natales is surrounded by snow capped mountains, water, and fishing boats, and one can’t help but think this must be what Alaska looks like. As the gateway to 2 of the most popular parks in Patagonia, this town is packed with trekkers all looking alike in their hiking boots, packs, and Goretex. We all might as well have been wearing bumper stickers on our foreheads screaming “TOURIST” – there’s just no blending in with the locals with that kind of gear. The stray dogs (they have them here too) also knew these folks were their best candidates for handouts and followed us all about town.

We decided to save a little money that night and settled in at Hospedaje Laury after looking into 5 different hotels at $90 a night. For $15 the amenities included a bed and a door and some sheets that had a funny aroma… but the couple was friendly and patient with our limited Spanish. At 7AM we boarded a bus full of fellow TOURISTS from all over the world and were finally headed into Torres del Paine (pronounced Pie-nee) a mere 4 days after leaving home. I will never complain about the 4 hour drive to Yosemite again.

Torres del Paine National Park

A few things became crystal clear about pack traveling when the bus dropped us off at Lago Pehoe for our boat ride to the other side:

• Always have your pack ready to walk with from the bus. (We had a duffle bag of things that would need to be strapped to the outside of our packs.)
• Don’t just have your rain cover on your pack, TIE it on.
• The full zip rain pants are worth every penny over the half zip version.

It wasn’t just raining when we got off the bus, it was a solid flow of water coming from a giant bucket in the sky, angled by a jet wind. And we were attempting to fuss with our gear. As Matt likes to say, “Like a monkey f*#$ing a football.” It was that awkward of a moment and this land had already humbled us with its crazy weather. We couldn’t stop glancing at each other and giggling… just what had we gotten ourselves into?

The term Paine means “pale blue” in Tehuelche (language of the original natives) and describes the color of the many lakes and rivers in this region. As we traveled across the water in a catamaran, we were stunned by the color of Lago Pehoe: a milky blue green color that you would expect to find in a paint collection by Martha Stewart. Minerals delivered by glaciers and suspended in the water create the color and our pictures just don’t do it justice. After an hour spent staring at the water and recouping inside the vessel, it was time to go back outside.

We stepped off the boat and received a baptism of Patagonian proportions. “Blessed be the rain, and the wind, and the Holy Shit it’s snowing sideways!”

For the first 20 minutes we were convinced that when people asked us what Patagonia looked like, we would have to say, “The inside of my hood.” As we hiked up the trail leading to Lago Grey we could see a white wall of snow barreling down the canyon ahead of us. We literally counted the seconds until the wave came crashing with its stinging sleet in our faces. But eventually things let up and we had to start shedding layers to accommodate the sunshine.

Once we reached the ridgeline we were treated to our first sightings of real, live icebergs. These were giant chunks of floating ice that had calved off of Glacier Grey (our destination) and had floated to the far end of the steel colored lake. The trail leading to the glacier was not the well-maintained path we’re used to in the Sierra. In many cases we were climbing down waterfalls and using ropes to keep our balance on the steep slopes. I was traveling slowly with my knee injury from October, but Matt had hit ‘the zone’ and machined forward towards camp pounding his knees on the final downhill stretch. I struggled behind, tired now, and thirsty.

The Wet Campground (Campamento Grey) Nights 1 & 2

By the time we reached the sandy campground, and rushed to get the tent up in the rain, it was clear that Matt was in trouble. His left knee was in worse shape than mine now and all he could do was lie in the tent and try to let his body heal itself. We were in a group campground next to the water’s edge and a mere 30 minute walk from the glacier. I went about getting the necessities in order and walked to the lake to find an ice spattered shore (hmm we could ice both of our knees tonight…) and began to pump water for dinner. After the third pump of nothing, a cascade of black gruel splashed into the container. I was speechless… hadn’t we dealt with enough today? Was it the new replacement filter or the silt infused water? I was exhausted and near the edge of losing it. “One thing at a time,” I told myself, “find a different water source and get dinner ready.” My fingers were frozen from pumping (I did find a different source) and it took a solid 5 minutes to get the stove lit in the damp, chilly air. That night we ate two dinners and were relieved to finally snuggle into bed.

We stepped off the boat and received a baptism of Patagonian proportions. Blessed be the rain, and the wind, and the…Holy Shit it’s snowing sideways!

The next morning we packed all of our gear up to head back to Pehoe. Just before we took down the tent, Matt’s knee said, “Uh it ain’t gonna happen today Buddy.” This would be the first of our two rest days in the park and the beginning of our mission to set the world’s slowest record for the completion of the ‘W’ shaped circuit around the Paine massif. Most groups finish the trek in 4-6 days… we took 8.

After we unpacked, the penetrating cold started to sink in and Matt and I headed to the Refugio (a mountain style hut at the campground where you can make reservations for indoor accommodations) for a hot drink to warm up. The smell inside was a combination of incense, smelly socks, and wood smoke… but it was warm and we were happy to be there. The wood floor was scarred from years of use and people were playing cards, chess, and reading books on the benches. After listening in on conversations in English and Spanish, we headed back to the tent to nap and read the day away.

The next day was Thanksgiving and I was first out of the tent to see an iceberg the size of a greyhound bus floating by camp. It was on its way somewhere and we were too. Matt powered through and we headed back on the same trail we came in on, this time with tremendous wind gusts at our back that threatened to topple us both over. At one point I crouched down, afraid to walk because it would mean having only one foot on the ground. The nylon I was wearing roared like a jet engine around me and I huddled in place to keep from falling. The wind was so strong that it whipped up sections of water from a small lake on our hike and we were able to take some snap shots. Check ’em out below.

The Windy Campground (Campamento Pehoe) Night 3

Back at the beautiful blue lake where we started, the wind became our next obstacle to contend with while trying to put up the tent. Each campground seemed to have it’s own personality, and this one was windblown. For this reason, a community cooking room had been established so that people could prepare and eat their meals in peace. This campground also had ‘hot as home’ showers and it had been 4 nights since I had washed my hair. This was the most delicious shower I have ever taken.

While I was in the shower, Matt had discovered the local ‘vino in a box’ El Gato Negro at the small, adjacent Amalcen (store) to accompany our Thanksgiving dinner of lasagna, mashed potatoes, and homemade biscuits. That night we met a cast of characters that we would continue to bump into along the rest of the trip and share stories with about our experiences on the trail. Rob was from Colorado and was the only other American to share in our holiday… but we made sure to share with all regardless of nationality and gained popularity with the fellow Germans and other foreigners with our chocolate bars, vino, and surprisingly successful fried cinnamon biscuit venture. Matty’s culinary talents don’t end at home folks. That night was full of great stories, hearty laughs, and new friends… truly Thanksgiving as it was meant to be, regardless of where we were.

The wind had died a bit by morning and we were treated to a whole different weather pattern in the park on our next section of trail. It was a warm and balmy day with spring around every corner. We saw multitudes of wild flowers, butterflies, birds, and lush areas with flowing streams and green grass. Imagine a mountain fresh scent laundry commercial minus the clothesline.This little hike was surprisingly tiring for me considering the short distance (too much vino from the night before??) and I was thankful but fearful of the rickety suspension bridge that crossed the river into our next campground. I remember thinking, “I wish this trail bridge was in my Dad’s territory…don’t look down, don’t look down”

Continued in Part 2

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in November, 2003 (or thereabouts).