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| The following stories first appeared in Jim's newsletter, Wild Wind. |
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On the Way Out
A Canyon Country Adenture
The Value of a Musical Instrument
Yellowstone to the Yukon
Montana's Mountains of the Heart
Along the Pacific Crest Trail
Northwest Montana
The Nevada Trek
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The swallows are already swooping and diving in the canyon when I awake. The rain from the night before is long gone, but the smell of wet slickrock fills the air. The overhang I’ve slept under has provided a cozy shelter from the storm. I watch the swallows from the comfort of my sleeping bag, hating to move as if it might shatter the peace of the stillness I find myself in. Somewhere a canyon wren’s trill spirals down the sandstone walls.
This is my last morning out. It has been a short trip. For six days I’ve been wandering Cheesebox Canyon and exploring its nooks and crannies. It’s a place I’ve been meaning to come back to for several years. After the past few days, I know I’ll return once again. It’s a wild place, part of the vast White Canyon roadless area which many concerned citizens have been trying to protect through passage of America's Redrock Wilderness Act. The solitude has been wonderful, the scenery incredibly beautiful, and the feeling one of complete awe.
The hiking has been difficult with a full pack. In fact, sometimes it was more climbing, leaping, stretching than it was just walking. But I needed that. After a serious back injury last summer and not being able to backpack, I was excited to put the pack on and feel good about it.
But now it is time to head out. I rouse myself out of the sleeping bag and fix a quick breakfast. In no time I’m shouldering the pack and walking a ledge above a sharp narrows. In minutes I come to the junction with White Canyon. The pack must be lowered by rope down a small cliff, and then I follow with an easy downclimb. In the rocky wash of White Canyon I turn downstream and follow its smooth, streaked walls.
On a previous trip Leslie and I had walked nearly the entire length of this canyon as part of a 5-week loop hike with a couple other canyon systems. It’s easy walking and the silence is soothing. My footsteps are the only sound, crunching lightly in the sand or scraping across the bedrock ledges. I poke along and after just a few bends in the canyon find myself wondering about the ledges overhead. They look like a likely place for shelter, a place that may have been used hundreds of years ago. I’m in no hurry so I decide to take a look.
Stashing the pack, I find some good toeholds and climb up the wall to one ledge, and then another above it. After a couple more pitches I’m on the level I want to explore. It’s easy to walk the sandstone ledge now and several minutes later I’m under a protective overhang. The remains of a rock pithouse excite me. And then bits of pottery, some painted, and chips of rock that have been worked. I was right. This was someone’s shelter hundreds of years ago. On the back wall are rosy displays of cliff art left by the resident artist. I sit down. My mind flies back to another age.
Eventually, I check out another higher ledge and follow it around a bend in the canyon. I find a hidden spring with some more rock chips nearby and enjoy poking around the secret nooks that never see footprints anymore. The climb down is always more difficult for me, so I find an easier spot and soon have retrieved the pack.
Another bend or two of the canyon and I’m studying a high notch with a natural bridge, actually more of a hole in the wall. It looks like I might be able to make my way up to this hole in the rock. I should give it a try anyway.
After leaving the pack this time, I must crawl under a pile of gigantic room-sized boulders before scrambling up a jumble of rockfall. It doesn’t take too long before I’m under the overhang where the hole is. I find that there is a beautiful pool of water directly beneath the hole reflecting the smooth walls of the keyhole above it. Fifty feet below me is another one. It’s cool in the shade of the rock ledge and I could stay here forever, but then I notice that I could probably climb up into the hole.
I pull myself up the smooth, sculptured walls into big swirls of stone. Deep tubs of water lie in the bottoms of some of these swirls, but I’m able to climb around or jump across. Soon I pop out in a little bay. I think I’m in paradise. Just above me is a hanging garden dripping water onto the slickrock. A shady overhang provides good shelter. The view is spectacular. I don’t find signs of the old ones here, but I can’t help but think they visited this unique spot.
Much later, I make my way down White Canyon to the old trail coming down from the canyon rim. It’s the hot part of the day so I find a shady spot, take a soak in one of the canyon’s pools, and hang out until the day begins to cool. When the sun starts to sink over the rim, I will climb up the trail and sleep on the slickrock overlooking this favorite canyon. It will be a good place to say thank-you for the last several days.
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A Canyon Country Adventure - May, 2000
The slot canyon we're following gets narrower and narrower. The walls here, still shaded from the blazing sun, are cool to the touch. The air smells of rock and sand. The gusty wind is just a memory. Here the air is still. The only sound is the crunch of our footsteps, the scrape of boot on rock.
We round a bend and the canyon ends; or at least our route does. If water flowed here this would be a waterfall. And a spectacular one at that. Now I look up at the slickrock pour-off envious of the canyon wren, longing for wings. I could get up another 20 feet, but beyond that it is impassable.
Leslie starts up a route way off to the left, and I follow. We climb just a short way before deciding against it. Then it's back down the narrow canyon, back into the sun, back onto the broad bench where we left the packs. We heft our gear and start down the wash, heading for the main canyon.
The water has been high in the canyon we head toward. The fording has been difficult early in the day. Afternoons see the water level going down. We've stayed up on the benchland all morning, paralleling the canyon and avoiding the high water. Walking on the slickrock has been a dream, but now I worry that if we don't drop back into the canyon soon, we won't be able to do so further south.
We decide to follow a likely looking side canyon back down to the creek. It's a good choice. Lots of interesting swirls and tubs of rock. It narrows and drops. The last pitch to the canyon floor is another pour-off, but we climb down a deep seam of rock off to the side of it. We're back on the canyon floor.
Our goal for today is the confluence of two well-known canyons. We set off and in no time find ourselves facing a ford of the rushing stream. The water is fast and powerful. We struggle across, walk a short way, and are forced by the narrow canyon to cross again. This spot looks deeper and more difficult. The canyon being as closed in as it is doesn't offer any alternatives.
Starting across, my feet feel their way through the muddy water. A sturdy stick braces my wire tight body against the rushing current. It's a tough ford, and I'm almost across. I tell Leslie to wait; that I'll come back for her pack, but before I can put down my backpack she starts into the racing stream. I'm trying to get up the opposite bank when I hear her. She's in a spot where she can't go forward or back. She's just straining to keep from getting washed away. In slow motion I watch her try to go back. Her feet are swept away. Down she goes. With my pack still on, I jump in and struggle toward her. She is slammed against a big boulder on one side while I grab her arm on the opposite side. We struggle into the bank, wet and scared. That was close.
Time for a lunch break. Maybe the water level will go down a bit more. We find a big old ponderosa, one of the few we've seen, and kick back for a lunch of leisure. It's a neat spot. When we move on the water has indeed dropped another inch or two, but storm clouds are building. This canyon won't be a good place to be in a rainstorm.
We know we're close to the junction of the two canyons, only a mile or two, but the travel is very slow. Each crossing (and there are many) takes much time and careful consideration. As we descend the canyon the walls draw closer together funneling the water into a much narrower streambed. It gets deeper and faster. Each ford is an adventure of its own. This hike is getting interesting.
Finally we come to a much narrower spot. I start in but the water is very deep. Retreating to the entry point, I take off my pack and balance it atop my head. I try it again as the water gets well up to my neck. My feet bounce off the bottom, the current carries me along, and I'm across. Tossing the pack up the bank, I turn back to my small wife. "You'll have to swim. Let me get your pack."
I struggle back across, retrieve Leslie's pack and paddle across. She comes in and is like a little leaf caught in the current. Away she goes. She reaches for me. I stretch out and barely catch her hand, swinging her into the shore. We're across. Now what?
Fifty yards later we see that we've gotten as far as we can. We're only a couple hundred yards from the confluence of the two canyons, but the canyon here narrows so there are no banks to walk upon. Only the rushing muddy water remains. Not our choice for travel right now. Luckily there is a break in the canyon wall right here and steps have been cut into the solid rock by the old ones. They save us.
We climb up the slick rock and find a flat spot against a rock wall. It is a perfect spot to finish a rather exciting day. The wind dies and we do our camp chores in the stillness of the canyon. It is a holy place this evening. It has given us beauty. It has given us joy and fear. It has given us a look at each other and ourselves. It has given us reason to celebrate this life and this story we've been blessed with. Later, the rain comes and the water rises once again.
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The Value of a Musical Instrument
The following was taken from Jim's original unpublished manuscript, "Walkin' With the Wild Wind," the tale of a trip in 1990. It has since been published and this story remains in the final edition of the book but not in this exact form.
I'm off the trail now, making my way past Painted and Cataract Lakes. The mountain's reflections shimmer only slightly in the mirror of the lake's faces. The silence is total. I'm tempted to stop for the night at Cataract, but this strange mood has spooked me. I'm nervous about the route I've planned. Better push on into the next basin to see how it looks.
A couple hours later, and one scary boulder field behind me, I camp on the edge of a wooded bench next to a wide rock outcropping. From atop the smooth rock I can see into the basin. The walls look steep and snow covered. They scare me. There's no way I'll get up them with a full pack. A pass directly south of me looks possible. Maybe. But it'll take me miles off my route and no telling what the other side of it will be like. I go about my camp chores, pausing every few minutes to glance up the basin at the snow and cliffs. My anxiety is building. I don't like climbing on snow.
1982 - Utah
The morning atop Tipanogos comes slowly, dragging rosy hues over the peaks to the east and spilling gray across the desert to the west. It's been a long night. Cold, with wind blasting nonstop here on the 11,750 foot summit. I haven't slept very well. The climb yesterday without an ice ax was nerve wracking. This morning I must face the descent.
Earlier this morning I was pelted by snow. It's still cold and I linger long in the coziness of my bag, putting off for as long as I can, the dreaded descent. After a short breakfast I pack up and walk down the narrow ridge. I'm feeling better until I get to where I must drop off the east side. (I guess I shouldn't use that phrase, "drop off".) Gee, it looks steeper than it did yesterday. Maybe I should try a different route. I pull off the pack and look at the map for the ninety-seventh time. Yep, this is it. This is where I should go down. Yikes!
The map goes back in the pack. Stella (my worn, beat up, case- less guitar) is strapped down tighter on the back of the backpack. The pack is hoisted up, and its straps tightened, too. I grab my walking stick, give it a shake of assurance, and step hesitantly onto the ice.
Not too bad. I try another. The snow is rock hard. I'm kicking my steps, but only getting an inch or so in. Below me the ice slides down 40 yards and drops abruptly off into hundred foot cliffs. One mistake and I can lose it all. My knees feel weak. I can put my elbow out and bump the side of the hill. Too steep, but if I can just make it across to where the cliffs peter out, not even a quarter mile away, I'll be OK.
I kick a step, go a step or two, stop, catch my breath, and then try another step. It's slow. It's terrifying. It's crazy! What am I doing here?! But I can't go back now; turning around on the sheer slope would be impossible. Kick. Step. Stop.
I'm trying not to look down. I'm trying to picture myself safely in the snow-filled basin below. My legs feel like rubber. I kick and step again. Not enough grip. My foot isn't holding! I'm slipping! I'm falling!
I'm sliding with my face to the mountain. I can't see the cliffs below me getting closer with every inch. But I can feel them just as clear as can be. My feet can't catch an edge. I kick them ,but the ice is too hard. Fingers claw at the sandpaper surface, skin ripping off with every inch. I'm not slowing down. In fact, I'm picking up speed, sliding steadily toward the cliffs. I'm trying to stop. Nothing's working! I'm a goner.
I roll onto my back to see what I'm going to hit when I fly off into space. The edge of the drop is ten feet below , racing toward me. I'm going to go over! And then, ..... all is still. I'm stopped.
I'm not dead. In fact, I'm still above the cliff. I'm dangling like a puppet from my pack straps, facing the world, the cliffs, the deadly drop into the basin. For a moment I just hang there. I'm still breathing. I'm alive! But what happened?
Hesitant to move, I tilt my head slowly, craning my neck in a manner to see, but not move the pack. Stella! My guitar! The old beater is lashed snugly onto the back of my pack without a case, with the neck pointed down. The neck of the guitar has gouged deep into the icy crust, sticking like an ice ax and lodging me firmly to the ice field in a spot five feet above the edge of the drop off. Soaked with sweat, and with pounding heart, I sigh and settle back. I need to think about this.
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