PRITCHARD LIFE

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).

A cold wind passes through us as the volcanic gravel underfoot crunches with every step. We are the only people for miles. Standing at the edge of an ancient crater on a moonless night, we can feel the void below us. Beneath a blanket of stars, we pour the champagne and wish the world and each other a Happy New Year.

Our holiday road trip was a last-minute idea. Jody’s office was closed for the holidays and my six-month hiatus from the working world didn’t end until January 3. We had no solid plans for New Years and we were anxious to spend some time outside.

Despite our hopes for a powder-laden romp through the mountains, a nasty, wet storm chased us up and over the Sierra. From Kirkwood to Mono Lake to Mammoth and Bishop; wherever we traveled the rain seemed to follow. Typically, we love winter storms – the bigger the better. Big, funky maelstroms that blow in from the Pacific and pound the Sierra with loads of snow; the stuff epic powder days are made of. Unfortunately, the snow level was hovering around 8,000 feet. When the snow looks like Slurpee and the Gore-Tex is begging for mercy, even the faithful begin looking for alternatives. This is how we found ourselves bouncing down 45 miles of washboard dirt road with a car full of ski equipment, bound for the northern reaches of Death Valley National Park.

We fell in love with Death Valley just six months earlier, on our first trip to the park. On that trip we focused our limited time around the most popular spots in the Furnace Creek area – Badwater, Zabriskie Point, etc. As we traveled along the road from Big Pine, we decided this trip would focus on the northern part of the park. We grabbed a campsite at Mesquite Flat and spend the next three days exploring in earnest.

The highlight of the trip was probably our excursion to Racetrack Playa, a geological oddity buried deep within the park’s interior. The 35-mile dirt road to The Racetrack is littered with hazards: deep ruts, big rocks, and ample washboard. The recommended mode of transport is high-clearance, short-wheelbase, 4-wheel-drive. But once again Jody expertly navigated through the junk, and the Subaru delivered us safely.

Racetrack Playa is a dry lake bed, about two miles long by one mile wide. The perfectly flat surface of the playa is broken up near the northern end by a stretch of craggy rocks, known as The Grandstand. The main attraction, however, lies at the other end of the lake bed, where thousands of rocks have tumbled down the cliffs that rim the edge of the playa. After large storms, the playa can flood, creating a very soft mud. If wind conditions are just right, the rocks will sail along the playa floor, leaving deeply-grooved tracks in their wake. Since nobody has actually observed the phenomenon, theories abound.

Our time at the Racetrack was short but exciting. We spent about an hour walking around and photographing the surreal landscape. Just as we were packing up our cameras, a storm swept through the canyon, delivering wind and hail – reminding us that we could run, but we could not hide. The storm broke up as we drove back to camp and the filtered light made the stands of Joshua Trees and flowering cacti a sight to behold.

The rest of our time in the park was low-key. We toured Scotty’s Castle at night and rang in the New Year on the edge of the Ubehebe Crater. It isn’t often that you find a way to celebrate a spoiled ski trip, but our unplanned trip to Death Valley was a real treat – a special way to spend a short winter break.

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

Immediately following my resignation from IRI, most of my thoughts were consumed with some nerve-wracking questions: How am I going to find a new job? What do I want to do with my life? How will I get health insurance? In general, there was a lot of gut checking, self worth questioning, and general worrying about what was around the bend. I left IRI without another job lined up – acknowledging that some decompression time was in order and a clear head would be necessary to think about my career direction.

I’m actually surprised that it took me as long as it did to realize that I was going to have quite a bit of free time on my hands. It wasn’t long before I decided to spend a few days by myself outside. When I first started backpacking in college, I didn’t know anyone else that was interested – so all my trips were solo affairs. I now refer to these as the pre-Benson years. It had been probably eight years and 20+ trips since I hit the trail by myself. And while I knew I would miss Jody (the greatest wife, trail partner, and bed warmer on God’s green earth), I was actually looking forward to going it alone this time.

Driving through King’s Canyon NP on my way to the Road’s End trailhead, I started to get concerned about the amount of smoke in the air. It hung heavy over the canyon, choking out the views and filtering the morning light into an eerie orange glow. When I arrived at the trailhead, I was relieved to find out that, despite the copious smoke, the fires were rather small and nowhere near my planned route. I grabbed my permit, dialed in my pack and hit the trail as soon as possible; not quite sure how my neglected body was going to respond to a long day on the trail.

Hiking In – Paradise Valley

Starting at 5,000′ amidst the sequoias, the hike up to Paradise Valley was beautiful. With my back to the towering presence of the Sphinx, I slowly climbed along the Kings River, passing Mist Falls en route. Once I reached Lower Paradise Valley, the trail leveled off, but the final three miles to Upper Paradise sure did seem to drag. Once there, I found a nice campsite and promptly met an intrepid soul named Camilla – a teacher from Washington D.C. who used to work at Kings Canyon NP. She too was hiking alone, but her itinerary put mine to shame. While I was taking five or six days to complete the loop, she would do it in four with a large cross-country “short cut” through the interior. That evening I also met Chuck and Paul, a father and son pair from Lake County whom I would hang out with most nights for the rest of the trip.

I was up and on the trail early Wednesday morning. I had been toying with the idea of trying to knock out the hike in four days and this was the best day to swallow a double dose of trail miles. After six or seven miles of hiking, I arrived at Woods Creek Crossing and laid to rest my plans for a four day trip. I just didn’t have it in me to pull off a long day. And why the hell was I in such a hurry? The weight of my pack had been a major frustration from day one. I was accustomed to splitting some of the camp gear with Jody and my efforts to leave some weight at home didn’t seem to have a major effect.

I spent my afternoon soaking in the cool water of Woods Creek and taking naps in my tent. I photographed every detail of the suspension trail bridge for my bridge-engineer father-in-law. I was now camped along the Pacific Crest Trail and John Muir Trail, so hiker traffic was a little higher. I met a collection of salty old hikers that put my knowledge of the Sierra to shame. It seemed they could name every pass, lake, mountain, and trailhead in the High Sierra. It gave me a glimpse of what I would probably be like in another twenty-five years.

On to The Rae Lakes

Thursday morning came early and I was on the trail by 7AM. Despite the short distance, the seven mile hike to Rae Lakes wore me down, much like the day before. I took plenty of breaks along the trail and enjoyed the view as Fin Dome and Painted Lady grew larger in front of me. Crossing the 10,000 foot mark felt good as well, knowing that Friday would be my last day with any climbing. Every morning my pack felt a bit lighter, and I looked forward to a cool soak after each day of hiking. I found a nice campsite along the trail near the Rae Lakes and spent my long afternoon taking photos and trying to guess the route up and over Glen Pass.

The Rae Lakes region is pretty deep – at least a two day hike for an average hiker. I definitely got the sense that I wasn’t close to anywhere, but the regular foot traffic reminded me that I was also in one of the most popular sections of the High Sierra. It’s heartening to see so many like-minded people enjoying the mountains, investing the time and effort to see this area. The Rae Lakes, while crowded, offer a beautiful setting to chill out and soak up the high mountain vibe.

Up and Over Glen Pass

I broke camp early on Friday morning, hoping to get up and over Glen Pass (11,978′) before the sun climbed too high. I paced myself on the hike over the pass, knowing that I should take some time to enjoy the view. The switchbacks up the craggy pass proved challenging, but I topped out before long and spent some time up top soaking it all up – the granite, the glaciers, the lakes – damn the Sierra is beautiful.

I made good time coming down the backside of Glen Pass. I felt strong, and by the time I got to Vidette Meadow I started having more thoughts about finishing up in four days, which would have required a twenty mile day with fifteen hundred feet of climbing and seven thousand feet of descending. The next three miles cured me of that idea as I dropped another fifteen hundred feet over three miles in the blazing sun. By the time I dropped my pack at Junction Meadow, I was quite certain that five days was a much more reasonable goal. I was busted down, broken, and thoroughly dehydrated. I matched my personal best from day 1 of the hike and drank eight liters of water over the course of the day.

One Last Night on the Trail

Before long I was joined in camp by Chuck and Paul, who proved again to be good company. Shortly after setting up camp, we met guy who had just hiked up from Roads End. He worked for Sequoia as a bear technician and was heading to Center Basin to investigate some aggressive bears that had been charging hikers. I was totally interested by this guy’s job, and he explained that most of his time was spent in the front country dealing with bears that pester people around the big campgrounds and picnic areas. In those situations he has a partner and a rifle with rubber bullets. In the backcountry all he has is a can of pepper spray and a slingshot. His plan was to track this bear down and basically haze it until it’s scared of him. I’ve gotta give the guy credit – he’s got balls. He was also testing some prototype bear canisters for Ursack. Over the course of the summer he had already tallied 150+ bear sightings. I, on the other hand, hadn’t seen a bear yet on this hike, which is pretty rare in this part of the Sierra.

Breaking down camp for the last time on Saturday morning, I was eager to complete the hike, but sad that it was all coming to an end. I had really enjoyed myself, but I missed my girl and was anxious to re-acquaint myself with a fresh pair of boxers. Speaking of dirty, I passed my fair share of Fresno locals on the way down that could stand to meet the business end of a bar of soap – “Pool or pond. Pond would be good for you.” (Whoa – cheap shot!) Despite the steep descent, the miles clicked by pretty fast and I was back at my car by noon. I said goodbye to Chuck and Paul and settled in for the long drive back to San Francisco.

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

When in the course of the daily grind, it becomes necessary for one Person to dissolve the Occupational bands which have connected them with a soulless corporation, and to assume among the powers of At-Will-Employment, the separate and equal Station to which the laws of Self-Preservation and of Mental Health entitle them, a decent Professional Courtesy requires that they should offer a minimum of two weeks notice and steadfast work ethic to the end. But not first, without taking a nine day vacation to the mountains of Wyoming.

Wyoming had been on our “must do” list for quite some time. However, quitting my job the day before we left wasn’t part of the original trip plan – nor the financial plan for that matter. But in the immortal words of Joel Goodsen, “Sometimes you just have to say ‘what the fuck’.”

We left San Francisco on Friday afternoon and promptly found ourselves stuck in Sacramento rush-hour traffic – lovely. Is it just me or does Sacramento just keep growing? It seems to stretch pretty much from Davis to Auburn now – solid town the entire way. Auburn brought a reprieve from the traffic and before long we were staring at the bright lights of Reno – or as our friend likes to call it “Las Vegas’ retarded little sister.”

After a quick dinner stop, we keep driving deep into the Nevada desert until we found a flat spot of dirt well off the Interstate that looked cozy enough for a short night’s sleep. Early to rise, we got back on the road and pushed all the way through Nevada and into Salt Lake City for an early lunch. Sad to see my favorite Peruvian restaurant had closed, we settled for tacos next door and got back on the road, making it to Daniel, Wyoming by mid-afternoon.

My good friend Doug is 100% Montanan, but considers himself a de-facto resident of Wyoming just the same. Growing up, his family spent quite a bit of time at their cabin near the Hoback River in Wyoming – about halfway between Pinedale and Jackson. After many years, Jody and I decided to take Doug and his parents up on their offer to use their cabin as a base camp for exploring the mountains of Wyoming – an area they’re happy to call home for five or six months of the year.

We met Doug at Daniel Junction and after some hugs and hellos, we were in his truck headed for Pinedale. After a quick stop by The Great Outdoor Store in Pinedale, we proceeded up to the Elk Heart Park area of the Wind River Mountains. We did a quick day hike, running into snow just a mile or two up the trail. The short hike felt great after nearly seventeen hours of driving. The hike was followed by a delicious steak dinner at the Half Moon Lake Lodge. We followed Doug back to the cabin and made plans for the next day.

Doug was only a couple of months into a new job and wasn’t quite ready to take a week-long vacation. He compromised by coming down from Billings on the two weekends we were there – giving us the week in between to explore the Wind Rivers and Tetons on our own. On Sunday, Doug gave us the dime tour of Teton Village and then on to Yellowstone – a park that hadn’t originally been on our itinerary. Jody and I were both very glad to have made the trip. We got a chance to see Yellowstone Falls, Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, Yellowstone Lake, Fishing Bridge, and more Bison than you can imagine – one of which caused a small traffic jam later in the day. The scenery was spectacular and we saw enough of the park to know we would have to return some day.

The drive back to the cabin that night was long and we got to bed pretty late, but that didn’t stop us from getting an early start on the next day. Our first overnighter was going to take us into the Wind River Mountains – a range of such scale and beauty it is a real surprise how easily they’re overlooked when compared to the more well know Teton Mountains. We stopped in Pinedale Monday morning to grab breakfast and consult the good people at the Pinedale ranger station. Our original plan to see the Big Sandy area was quickly kyboshed when we heard about the lingering snow in the area. Instead, the ranger suggested a trip into the Green River Lakes area, further north. The elevation was lower and the trail conditions were more stable.

The drive to the trailhead was a great chance for a nap – until we hit twenty-two straight miles of dirt road. The scenery was so incredible, that napping would have seemed like a total waste anyways. We started hiking the Highline Trail with no concrete plans on where we would camp, heading south along the Green River until we found a spot that would suit our tastes. We assumed this would probably be four or five miles at least. Captivated by the views and reluctant to put in much effort, the perfect site appeared just two miles down the trail, in a wooded area between the Green Lakes. The first spot we saw was taken by a large group of campers, so we hiked a short distance to another good looking site.

The mosquitoes were in full effect that night, but it didn’t stop us from staying out well past sunset to take pictures of the river and Flattop Mountain. We slept well that night and woke up to another beautiful day. During breakfast, I spotted a cow Moose with her calf a few hundred yards away on the other side of the river. Jody saw this same pair the day before and I was bummed to have missed it, so it was great to have a second chance. As the two of them walked up river towards us, Doug’s advice rang in my ears, “Don’t get anywhere near a Mama Moose and her calf – that’s just as dangerous as a bear and cub.” OK – super. The closer they got, the more I tried to convince myself that everything was cool. By the time she was directly across the river from us, Jody and I were moving up river fast, trying to put some distance between us. I never thought she would cross the river with a calf so young, but sure enough they jumped in, made their way across, and proceeded to walk right through the middle of our campsite. From a safe distance, we waited a good fifteen minutes before carefully making our way back to camp. No moose in sight – good. We finished breakfast, packed up for a day hike, and got back on the trail.

A hike up the Porcupine Creek Falls Trail afforded us some elevated views of the river valley where we were camped. The swollen creek also gave us an opportunity to practice our stream-crossing technique. Moving through ice-cold, knee-deep water takes some practice. On our return hike, we noticed the sky was closing up and decided to a make a hasty retreat back to the tent, not wanting to get caught in afternoon thunderstorms. Within 30 seconds of jumping into our tent, the sky let loose with a thunder and lightning storm like none we’ve experienced first hand. The rain poured down hard and we resigned ourselves to our favorite backcountry activity – taking a nap.

A different kind of thunder woke us with a start – the sound of thundering hooves pounding through our campsite. A couple of deep snorts announced the return of Mama Moose, who seemed upset we were still around. The lightning and rain kept on and I got to thinking that I’m perfectly comfortable negotiating one mortal threat at a time. But when two arrive at once, I’m a bit out of sorts. The best solution seemed obvious – keep sleeping until one threat goes away. A half hour later, the rain had stopped, and I emerged from the tent pleased to see no pissed off moose. Nonetheless, we took the hint and quickly moved camp back up the trail to the now empty site we had seen the day before. No sooner did we finish dinner than the lightning and rain returned full force and we decided yet again that the best offense is a good defense – we retired for the evening to the comforts of our tent – chalking up our second day in the Wind Rivers as an exciting one. It is occasions like these that give you pause and some perspective. It makes you realize just how insignificant some things are – like a job as a professional data monkey for a market research behemoth. Did I really care that I was going to be unemployed in two weeks? Not really – at least I hadn’t been trampled by a moose or struck by lighting. To quote another wise sage, Ice Cube, “I didn’t even have to use my A.K. – I gotta say it was a good day.” Indeed, Mr. Cube, indeed.

…Doug’s advice rang in my ears, Don’t get anywhere near a Mama Moose and her calf…

Wednesday morning came early after twelve to fourteen hours of sleep in the previous twenty four. We ate breakfast, broke camp, and made the short hike back to the trailhead, constantly turning around to catch one more glimpse of the serpentine river and the monolith of Flattop Mountain, standing sentinel over the area. After a huge lunch at the Wrangler Café in Pinedale, we made our way back to the cabin. Peter, Doug’s dad, had arrived earlier in the day and was a generous host, offering warm showers and a chance to relax before our next journey into the mountains. We had a great dinner of Elk backstraps, Spaghetti Bolognese, green salad and some tasty red wine. After dinner, Jody and I sorted out our gear and got ready for a pre-dawn start the next day.

On Thursday, Jody once again proved herself the most understanding wife on the planet as she woke with me at 3:30 AM for the ninety minute drive to Schwabacher’s Landing – the ideal spot for sunrise photos of the Grand Teton. I had read about the place a few months earlier and was determined to catch the good light while we were there. I felt like we were racing the sun as we drove through Jackson and proceeded north through Grand Teton National Park. We parked at the end of the Schwabacher’s Landing road and moved quickly up stream to a beaver pond that provides a perfect reflection of what many call the most photogenic mountains in the U.S.A. The twenty foot stretch of beach was already crowded with four of five photographers by the time we arrived, but people made room and we had made it in time for the light. We spent the next forty five minutes peeling off photo after photo of the Tetons as the light danced across the sky and the craggy peaks. The crew on hand that morning was a fun cross section of photographers. Amateurs and pros alike, we saw everything from large format view cameras, to Hasselblads, to Digital SLRs and a few folks (Jody included) with point and shoots. It was a fun way to start the morning and we were done before 7 AM.

Contemplating our next move for the day, we decided to take it easy (once again) and car camp for the next two nights at Jenny Lake. We justified this by acknowledging that the snow level was still too low to permit the full loop trips we had been considering. After checking into the Jenny Lake campground, we set out for a long dayhike around Jenny Lake and String Lake, taking a short side trip up to Inspiration Point, which is well worth the effort.

The next morning, we woke up without any definite plans for the day. Since Jody had laid out our schedule for the previous day, I took the lead and decided to head for Teton Village. I’ve always been hopeful that I’d have a chance to ski at Jackson Hole one day and this trip just cemented the idea. After a walking tour of the shops and restaurants around Teton Village, we coughed up nineteen dollars a piece for a ride to the top of the mountain in the Jackson Hole tram – an icon in the world of skiing and one that, sadly, will be retired at the end of the 2006 season. I positioned myself carefully in the tram car so that I would get a bird’s eye view of Corbet’s Couloir – one of the most infamous ski runs in North America. The view didn’t disappoint and I was once again amazed by the balls it must take to air ten to fifteen feet onto a 45+ degree pitch of snow with rock walls on either side. Unfortunately, the trail down to Corbet’s was closed, so we couldn’t get an up close look. But the other views from the top were quite incredible. We only did a short bit of hiking up top, but took advantage of the bird’s eye view and spent the entire time planning future backpacking trips that would take us deep into the Teton backcountry.

After lunch, we swung through a village ski shop that had a daily showing of Teton Gravity Research movies. We had the “theatre” to ourselves and enjoyed a screening of The Tribe. After the movie, we raced back to the park and met up with some old friends of Jody’s for dinner at Colter Bay. We enjoyed a nice campfire back at our site before retiring for the night – content that we had seen a slice of the Tetons, but aching to come back for more.

On Saturday morning, after a short drive back to the cabin, we met up with Doug and his family one more time and loaded all of our gear back into the car – an embarrassingly large pile of stuff we had toted along for the trip. After saying our goodbyes, we headed back down the dirt roads of Hoback Ranches one last time before turning south and starting our long drive home.

We pushed long and hard through the desert of Utah and Nevada before crashing late on Saturday night at what could only be described as the shittiest campsite on God’s green earth. Our little slice of hell was sandwiched in between Intestate 80 (less than 100 feet away) and a very active train track (less than 50 feet away). It was just close enough to Reno to get sketched out every time we heard something that sounded like footsteps nearby. I’m not sure how long I actually slept that night, but I was only lying down for about four and half hours before Jody and I noticed the break of dawn and got the hell out of there.

Our poorly rested bodies bounced back to life after a delicious breakfast at South Side Café – one of Jody’s old haunts from her Reno days. After a brief tour of her old neighborhood, we were back on the road – barreling down 395. It was Sunday, July 3rd and Jody’s whole family was convening at the cabin in Twain Harte for the holiday weekend. Our goal was to get there by Sunday afternoon so we could get in as much time with them as possible before heading home the next day.

We spent most of Sunday and Monday doing what the Salsig clan does at Twain Harte – chilling out on the huge deck, reading books and newspapers, and enjoying the occasional frosty beverage. By the time we left on Monday night, we were ready to get home and enjoy our comfy bed. We both had to be at work in the morning, but for once I didn’t dread the BART ride into Oakland – knowing I would only have to take that train nine more times before my gig was up. The trip to Wyoming had been a smashing success and we felt spoiled for the other mountains of the world. A return trip to Wyoming is inevitable and we look forward to spending more time in these incredible mountains – so full of life and beauty.

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

Our return to the Lost Coast was four years in the making. Ever since our inaugural trip to the area in July of 2001, we’ve been trying to find the time to make our way back. We held onto great memories of empty beaches, curious wildlife, and breathtaking sunsets. During the first trip, we only explored a short section of the trail, opting for a low-key weekend at the beach. This time around, we aimed to see what other treasures this remote section of coastline held, as we hiked the 25-mile northern section of the Lost Coast Trail.

With a bit more planning and four more years of experience under our belts, this trip was off to a great start by the time we took our first steps down the trail. We had Thursday and Friday off of work and got a jump start on the drive by staying Wednesday night at Scott and Jena’s in Rohnert Park. On Thursday morning, we enjoyed a low-key drive north on 101 before heading west for the sleepy town of Shelter Cove. This is actually where we planned to end our hike. A few weeks earlier, we had scheduled a shuttle to drive us to the northern trailhead where we would start our hike.

Roxanne, our chauffeur, was right on time and talked our ears off all the way to the trailhead – about 45 minutes to the north. She handed us a tide table, told us to be careful and bid us farewell as we adjusted our packs and got ready for a mellow first day of hiking. The sky was clear and a gentle breeze invited us toward the beach. Our destination was only three miles away – the Punta Gorda Lighthouse. When we visited in 2001, this area was our home for two nights and we wanted a chance to reminisce. Also, the Punta Gorda Lighthouse offers some pretty great photo opportunities under the right conditions (unfortunately, the incredible light we saw on our first trip didn’t make a repeat performance this time). While Jody napped, I got myself re-acquainted with the area, photographing some very cooperative seals and sea lions.

We planned our hiking to be heavy on the second and third days, allowing for ample drive time on our first and last days. These long hikes had to be timed just right to cooperate with the tides. The northern section of the Lost Coast Trail has three “intertidal” sections – areas that are literally under water during high tide. We passed the first of these spots (Windy Point) on our first day. The other two intertidal sections are considerably longer at 3 to 4 miles a stretch and we planned to deal with one each on our second and third days. After leaving the lighthouse on Friday morning, the trail meandered along the bluffs to a point above Sea Lion Gulch – the beginning of our intertidal zone. Realizing we’d arrived well before high tide, we dropped our packs and sunned ourselves for an hour or two before heading down to the beach where the trail continued.

Better than half of the Lost Coast Trail isn’t actually a trail at all. It is more of a suggested route, tracing a path down long stretches of rocky and sandy beaches. The feeling is incredible as you hike a stone’s throw from the pounding breakers, listening to the distinctive barks of the sea lions, smelling the fresh sea air. The downside is the tempo of your travel. Rocky, sandy beaches make for slow hiking, but it’s really hard to complain considering the setting. We eased into a slow and steady pace and after several hours and a few tricky stream crossings, we arrived at Kinsey Creek – our second campsite.

For a second night we were spoiled with a righteous site on the bluffs overlooking the beach – close to stream water and knee-deep in gorgeous wildflowers. About an hour before sunset, the clear skies yielded to ominous, dark-grey clouds that rolled in from the south like a band of misfits. Despite a drop in temperature and some stiff winds, the storm had more bark than bite and we never saw a drop of rain that second night.

Jody isn’t known for her acute sense of balance, and stream crossings are usually an opportunity for both worry and high comedy.

We enjoyed a lazy morning on Saturday, taking our time to break camp so we could hit the intertidal section well after high tide. Early in the day, we came across another swift stream crossing. This one was precariously bridged by a narrow, wet log that sat a good four or five feet above the water. I made my way across and turned around to keep an eye on Jody, hoping she would motor across it without psyching herself out. Jody isn’t known for her acute sense of balance, and stream crossings are usually an opportunity for both worry and high comedy. After surveying multiple options, she approached the log and began an ill-advised side shuffle walk across the slick surface. After four or five steps, she wobbled a bit and instinctively crouched down. As if in slow motion, she lowered herself, tipped to one side and gravity took over. She toppled off the log and landed square on her backpack in the stream. Scrambling to her feet, she got back to dry land, swallowed her pride, and straddled the log as she shuffled herself to the other side (the hiking equivalent of the underhand free throw). Despite her little dip into the drink, she was mostly dry, thanks to her pack, which took the brunt of the hit.

Even with the best of intentions, we hit the intertidal section pretty early in the outgoing tide cycle. This wasn’t a problem for the most part – we just had to hike a little higher on the beach to avoid getting wet. But every once in a while, we’d come to a point where the rocks jutted too far into the water and staying dry involved watching, waiting, and then running like hell (see pictures below). This added a bit more excitement to the hike.

The trail eventually headed back to the bluffs above the beach and opened up to the aptly named Big Flat. The narrow trail grew into an arrow-straight, grassy road marked by three distinctive tire tracks. It wasn’t long before we realized this wasn’t a road, so much as it was a landing strip for small planes. Several private cabins dot the Lost Coast Trail and the means for reaching them are extremely limited. This was the coolest solution we had seen yet and we envied the people that had their own fly-in cabin on the most remote section of coastline in California.

After another deep stream crossing at Big Flat Creek, we stumbled across another surprise – a pair of surfers at Miller Flat. I had read that the area attracted hearty surfers willing to hike nearly 8 miles from Shelter Cove, but we hadn’t expected to see anyone out there. I wished we had seen them hiking in with full packs and surfboards strapped to their backs. Gitchell Creek and our final campsite arrived before long and we set up our tent on a patch of beach surrounded by some really good “sitting logs”. Another amazing sunset got me thinking about how spoiled we had become over the past three days – empty trails, beautiful campsites, abundant wildlife, clear skies, and more wildflowers than we had ever seen – at times, literally paving the trail in ribbons of yellow and orange.

A bit of rain moved in overnight and lingered in the morning. By the time we started hiking, the skies had cleared and four miles of black, sandy beach lie ahead of us – leading the way to Shelter Cove. Stream crossings had become second nature as we splashed through knee deep water without giving it a second thought. The parking lot at Black Sands beach was a welcome sight for tired bones. We dropped our packs by the car, celebrated with a long, smelly hug and settled in for a long drive home – content that we had seen the Lost Coast Trail in all of her splendor and glory.

Click here for a printable guide to hiking the Lost Coast Trail

Google Maps Link (trailhead)

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in July, 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).