dirt & dogs

Winter on the Rim

2012-01-30T10:29:00.000-08:00

Photos by Greg

Snow. Wet sand. A little mud. Lots of rock. Lots of scenery. Even a couple of small dogs (one which was too busy to pose for photos). On a trail that hugs the rim over the river. Not a bad way to spend a winter day.

Almond Coconut Cake

2012-01-27T18:36:00.001-08:00

Recipe by Trina
Photos by Greg and Trina

This cake is not just a cake. It's an endeavor, an all-afternoon project. But it's worth the effort if you want the flavors of coconut, almond and chocolate combined in a somewhat outrageous, really delicious, totally indulgent cake that will make people say, "That looks like a Big Mac!"

If you want a tidier cake with the uneven-ness of the layers (and the Big Mac-ness) hidden by all-over frosting -- that IS what frosting is for, after all: glue between layers and spackle to mask problems -- you can frost the sides. I also tried a rectangular version of it that was much more sedate and society-lady-looking:

Whichever way you build it, you're baking two different cakes, making two different frostings, and putting it all together along these lines:

Recipes follow, and pictures showing the process for the rectangular version. If you're making a traditional round cake, follow the recipes. If you're making the rectangular cake, bake both cake recipes in cookie sheets instead of rounds, cutting the baking time down to about 20 - 22 minutes. Cut the finished cakes into quarters (all the same size!) and stack them with layers of ganache and frosting. (When making the rectangular version, you'll actually have enough pieces of cake to make TWO small-ish rectangular cakes -- one to take to the party and one to keep at home!)

Coconut Cake
from Cook's Illustrated

1 large egg
5 large egg whites
3/4 cup cream of coconut
1/4 cup water
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp coconut extract
2 1/4 cups cake flour, sifted
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
3/4 tsp salt
12 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into 12 pieces, softened, but still cool
2 cups packed sweetened shredded coconut

Directions
For the cake: adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and heat oven to 325 degrees. Grease two 9-inch round cake pans with butter and dust with flour. Beat egg whites and whole egg in large measuring cup with a fork to combine. Add cream of coconut, water, vanilla, and coconut extract and beat with fork until thoroughly combined.

Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix on lowest speed to combine, about 30 seconds. With mixer still running on lowest speed, add butter 1 piece at a time, then beat until mixture resembles coarse meal, with butter bits no larger than small peas, 2-2 1/2 minutes.

With the mixer still running, add 1 cup liquid. Increase speed to medium-high and beat until light and fluffy, about 45 seconds. With mixer still running, add remaining 1 cup liquid in steady stream (this should take about 15 seconds). Stop mixer and scrape down bowl with rubber spatula, then beat at medium-high speed to combine, about 15 seconds. (Batter will be thick.)

Divide batter between cake pans and level with offset or rubber spatula. Bake until deep golden brown. Cakes pull away from sides of pans, and toothpick inserted into center of cakes comes out clean, about 30 minutes (rotate cakes after 20 minutes). Do not turn off oven.

While cakes are cooling spread shredded coconut on rimmed baking sheet; toast in oven until coconut is a mix of golden brown and white, about 15-20 minutes, stirring 2 or 3 times. Cool to room temperature.

Almond Cake
modified from this Paul Prudhomme recipe

6 TBSP unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
2 cups almonds, toasted and cuised (new verb meaning processed in the Cuisinart)
1 1/2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1 TBSP ground nutmeg
1 TBSP baking powder
½ cup plus 1 TBSP milk
2 eggs
1 TBSP vanilla extract
1 TBSP almond extract

In large bowl of electric mixer cream the butter and sugar on high speed until very light and fluffy, about 6 to 8 minutes. In a separate bowl sift together the almonds, flour, nutmeg and baking powder. In a third bowl combine the milk, eggs and extracts. Add the flour mixture and milk mixture alternately to the butter mixture, beating on high speed until well blended and scraping the bowl sides between additions.

Spoon batter into 2 greased and lightly floured 8-inch round cake pans
(1 1/2 inches deep). Spread batter so it is slightly lower in the center
(since it peaks in the center during cooking). Bake at 350 degrees F until
a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean, about 40 minutes.
Let cool 10 minutes, then carefully remove from pans and place on a
wire rack; cool thoroughly.

Coconut Buttercream Frosting
from Cook's Illustrated

4 large egg whites
1 cup granulated sugar
pinch of salt
1 pound unsalted butter (4 sticks) cut into 6 pieces, softened, but still cool
1/4 cup cream of coconut
1 tsp coconut extract
1 tsp vanilla extract

Combine whites, sugar, and salt in the bowl of a stand mixer. Set the bowl over a saucepan containing 1 1/2 inches of barely simmering water. Whisk constantly until mixture is opaque and warm to the touch, and registers 120 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, about 2 minutes.

Transfer bowl to the mixer and beat whites on high speed with whisk attachment until barely warm (about 80 degrees) and whites are glossy and sticking, about 7 minutes. Reduce speed to medium high and beat in butter 1 piece at a time. Beat in cream of coconut and coconut and vanilla extracts. Stop mixer and scrape bottom and sides of bowl. Continue beating at medium-high until well combine, about 1 minute.

This buttercream has more liquid in it than most, making it unstable. It'll want to separate. If it does, stir it briskly with a rubber spatula. I found that, even after doing that, it still looked rather like soft cheese, but as long as you can get it to be spread-able, it'll work:

Bittersweet Chocolate Ganache
from Joy of Cooking

3/4 cup heavy cream
8 oz. semi sweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1 TBSP liqueur

Bring cream to a boil in a small saucepan. Remove from heat and add chocolate. Stir until chocolate is melted, then stir in liqueur. Let stand until spreadable.

Measuring, cutting and assembling:

YUM!

Canyon Scramble

2012-01-21T14:06:00.000-08:00

Photos and text by Trina

We're enjoying what promises to be a brief episode of winter this weekend -- what passes for winter around here, anyway. (There were actual snowflakes falling out of the sky for a couple of hours.) The boys and I headed out into it this afternoon, to a popular and well trod area laced with canyons, but once we got there we quickly dove off the trail in search of something a little more "lost" feeling. We found a faint bighorn sheep trail that took us up through the jumble of a tallus slope and along the base of a vertical red wall, scrambling over spall-splatter boulders, hugging cliffs, up a steep, loose drainage and a jagged, stepped cliff -- exactly the kind of terrain where you'd expect to see bighorns scampering about (all we saw were their tracks and poop) -- and finally up onto a high sandstone finger between two canyons.

We got exactly as lost as we wanted to be -- far enough off the beaten path to enjoy some quiet, to be able to just sit, peacefully, surveying a wide open, forested canyon on one side of us, and a narrow, ribboning, red-pinnacled canyon on the other. A little lunch, a little hot tea, a lot of sniffing, a lot of rock-hopping. Finally, we got unlost and returned home to burrow into the warmth of the previously clean laundry pile -- what passes for clean around here, anyway.

I've been trying to find out what these are -- plant seed pods caught up in some spider webbing or the most amazing spider egg sacs in the history of the known universe? They were tucked up under an overhang in the same kind of setting where we frequently see black widow webs and egg sacs. The closest I've come so far is this. And this.

Wrestle Mania: Episode 682

2012-01-20T18:48:00.001-08:00

Photos by Trina

Approximately Springtime

2012-01-16T00:25:00.000-08:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

Our spring-like weather continues. For a few short hours on most days, the sunshine, warmth and predominantly snow-free-ness (on the sunny side of things) allow us to image that it's spring. And why not? It is usually perfectly warm and nice -- uh -- inside our semi-winter clothing. We've been doing a pretty good job of taking time to get out and enjoy the "early spring" hours. Hiking. Biking. Even, gulp, rafting?

Here are some of the pictures that we've been collecting from the past month or so that haven't fit anywhere else. May they inspire you to get out there! Enjoy!

Photo by Mike:

Juneuary

2012-01-07T11:31:00.000-08:00

Words and photos by Greg

As we slid into a new year the weather seemed to have lurched forward into summer. Or something very like it. At least during the middle of the day. Friends rode the rock again under bright skies. Pedals turned. Tires gripped. Silence loomed near gaping cliffs. Texture leapt into focus and cameras clicked.

Time stretched back to a distant past when shallow oceans left layers of sand and mud. To when desert winds blew heaped dunes across dry plains. To pressures that solidified soil into stone. To rains that fell and rivers that wandered flat places then cut deeply into rock. Stone turned into sand again and taken away by water. Water taking sand and leaving canyons. Leaving domes, towers, heaps and walls. Time revealing again the now solid sweep of blowing sand, the rigid riffle of flowing water.

A sunny June day in early January. Friends. Bikes. One single day in a long, long timeline. In a landscape so fascinating it is almost unbelievable.

Rock Shots

2011-12-30T19:29:00.000-08:00

Photos by Greg

There's not much to say that isn't more than fully explained by the photos themselves. A beautiful warm winter's day spent riding rock in the Moab desert with Mike. Snow and cold in the canyon and the shadows, but clear and amazing on top.

For the view from Mike's side of the camera, take a look here.

Up the Mountain

2011-12-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

The "winter" in our valley tends to be one of shallow or no snow... We like riding our bikes, so that doesn't bother us. Still, it is nice that anytime we want to experience the kind of winter that means lots of snow, all we have to do is go up the mountain.

Dirt and Snow and Dogs

2011-12-25T09:06:00.000-08:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

The bit of winter white that had slipped into our valley in the last update didn't last long. Most of the snow melted away in the sunshine. Then another storm came through with a little more snow.

With very little prodding from friends and dogs or my own yearnings, I've managed to slip short rides into these short days. Trails have been dry, moist or snowy. The sky has been cloudy or blue. The air has been cool or cold. And being out there has been good.

To Winter

2011-12-14T11:47:00.000-08:00

Words and photos by Greg

We began flirting with autumn months ago, as mountain meadows wore frosted mornings, as leaves began falling toward gold. Since then, through bright days and cooling nights, the garden has faded, leaves have dropped, peaks have whitened with snow. In our valley, snow has merely brushed past leaving no lasting impression of the season turning toward winter. Until now.

For two mornings now we've woken to snow. Yesterday, barely enough to sweep from the walkways. Today, hardly more in depth, but wet enough to shovel away into small piles, enough to bring welcome moisture to the dry winter garden.

There are days left, yet, until the planet reaches the time and space when our place upon its face will turn no further away, when we'll reach the shortest of our days, when the sun will stand and then tip into winter. But now, with snow clinging to bare branches and clouds of cold grey surrounding the town, if feels like winter is here.

This snow may melt by afternoon. Tomorrow it may be bright and sunny. But today I look backward down the long golden hallway of autumn, remember our harvest, remember mountainsides covered with yellow leaves, remember bright skies with light as warm as honey and dry trails that stretched away behind us. Today I look back. Then turn the corner into winter.

The Eccentric Wheel of the Season

2011-12-11T21:40:00.000-08:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

December lays claim to snowy celebrations. And while heaps of plastic snow pile up in the aisles of stores and inside plastic bubbles in front yards, snow on the ground remains sparse to nonexistent on the nearby cliffs and in the nearby canyons.

We began our own celebrations on the first of the month by sunning our bare feet alongside the trail, tucked into the warmth of a south-facing cliff where we ate a picnic lunch and drank in the view.

The eccentric wheel of the season has rolled out other blue sky days and also cloudy days, warmer days and colder days, and days when beams of sunshine snuck between flurries of snow that skated over the valley floor.

Our dogs are eager to assist in our celebrations, always willing to join us for a romp as we walk under any kind of sky, willing to charge through snow and brush, over rock and bramble, to bring smiles to our faces when the bite of the wind tries to turn us toward home.

And we do turn toward home. Where we celebrate the warmth and comfort of shelter. Where wild dogs become lap dogs. Where our connections to the outside world become windows and sunbeams and laptops and the photos we bring back from our small adventures.

Riding with Sticks

2011-12-06T22:29:00.000-08:00

Q: Why is that man with the sticks on his back riding his bike through the desert?

A: Because the sun is out and it's pleasantly warm. Because it's late November and the trails are dry. Because mountain biking is fun when trails are rough and demanding.

Q: No, I mean, why does he have those sticks on his back?

A: Um… I have no idea.

Greg: It was because an entertaining length of engaging singletrack happens to end at the bottom of a hill where there's a long un-entertaining and non-engaging climb out on a slightly rough road.

Mike and I "just happened" to have our packs full of rafts and our paddles strapped on behind. So instead of riding the long way back up to where we would ride back down toward home, we took a short ride on down to the river and floated our way back to town. Not a bad way to squander the final drachma of what has been a rich November.

However, this afternoon trip may have been -- really this time -- the last of its kind for the season. In the week that's followed (these little adventures have been piling up behind these posts…) the temps have been dropping, until this morning's slipped into the single digits F. My route today took me along the river, and from within the warm embrace of my motor-cubicle, I could see lots of slushy ice clumping on top of the water.

Which could - could - mean that I'm done rafting until spring. Riding? That will probably continue anyway. But floating… I'll take this opportunity to start looking forward to next season.

Mongolia: Aesthetics of Decay

2011-12-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos by Greg

There was a timelessness that crept into my feelings about Mongolia as we pedaled across its wide spaces. A sense that life there has continued to be very much as it has been. That the grass, the horses, sheep, goats and yaks remain. That herders still follow cycles of seasons. That lives both cling to and thrive on traditions that have rolled forward out of a dark past, through waves of glory, through times of obscurity, through hardship and plenty. Through growth and decay.

I saw shadows of decay that led me to believe more deeply in this long continuity. Hide and bone. Wood and straw. These discards of life traced an arc within the cycle. Sun whitened bone becomes dust becomes grass becomes horse becomes bare bone again, bleaching under the sun.

There were shadows, too, of spiritual worlds. Sacred places, high places, peaks and passes were marked with ovoo, heaps of rocks or sticks, perhaps littered with decaying offerings, small bills or coins, trinkets, bones, glass, liquor, and usually fluttering with strips of blue sky silk. These reached upward and backward through time to deep connections with shamanistic worship of those high places and the wide sky. And Buddhist temples, built, perhaps, to house a sense of the eternal, were decaying beautifully.

Many of the more recent ambitions for improving upon the nomadic life are already falling into ruin. Roads and bridges. Rail cars and industrial buildings. The roughly constructed basketball hoops that stand against the dreams of the youth. The plastic, glass and aluminum from the products of better lives lay heaped and decaying, scattered over the steppe. There is a catch. The bones and hides and fat of sheep may rot within the life of a man or woman. But plastic, glass and aluminum will not be turned so quickly. The arc of their decay reaches far into an unknown future.

The country strives to change, to move "forward". There have been and there will be improvements. And there have been and there will be failures. As in my own country, the results of many of those attempts lay crumbling and bleaching under the sun.

Offerings of blue sky silk connect with a long history of shamanism.

Temples I saw were decaying with grace.

Basketball hoops sprouted from many ger camps. This dilapidated one was near an abandoned camp.

Bridges seem necessary only for cars, trucks and motorcycles. Herds and herders do well without for all but the largest rivers.

Industry in Mongolia seems to have arrived in fits and starts. In the country and small towns, I saw much more falling into ruin than productive in any obvious way.

Hot stones filled a lamb carcass as a means of cooking it. The discarded heap will easily return to the earth.

Discards from more modern feasting will linger.

Bikes. Dirt. Dogs.

2011-11-28T21:46:00.000-08:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

It's what we do. Bikes... Dirt... Dogs... Plus watching sunset sessioning on the dirt jumps by Trina's brother Derrell and others... There's been no reason we can discover for not continuing to pack in all the fun we can. And no reason not to try to capture it with our cameras.

Like The Last

2011-11-21T21:09:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos by Greg

It's that time of year again when every ride could be the last. The weather could turn, temperatures could drop, and moisture could turn trails to mud or snow or ice. The golden sunshine of autumn could disappear into grey storms. The season is uncertain.

I try to remember that life itself is uncertain. Can I ever know which ride will be my last? I attempt to ride with eyes open, with senses aware. The color of light. The warmth from sun-warmed stone. The breeze that comes to me and the breeze that comes from me as I flow through the air over textured trails. Shadows of clouds. Crack of dry leaves. The scent of brush and earth from wild dogs who roam the desert, then return to warm my lap. The smile of those who share the ride.

Can each day, as it takes me to places familiar or strange, count for something? Can it count for nothing more than another tic on the tablet of memory. And can that be enough? Memory is never perfect. Memories will fade. And memories are nothing when there is no tomorrow from which to remember.

One last ride of the season. Again. Today. And perhaps tomorrow.

Riding lost singletrack on the Dark Side.

Four-hours of running = smile of satisfaction.

The Mongol Hordes

2011-11-18T10:21:00.000-08:00

Words and photos by Greg

The Mongols are most famous for exploits that took place 800 years ago when the horse-mounted nomads took over most of the world. (Or so I hear. I wasn't there.) The people are justifiably proud of the accomplishments of their forebears, but their connection to those times has grown thin. Today Mongolia seems to be charging forward from centuries of less dramatic history.

The most visible charge of the modern Mongol is that from a grass-and-muscle powered rural lifestyle to an oil-and-gas powered urban economy. Close to half of Mongolia's small population now lives in urban centers. The dominance of animal husbandry is giving way to mining and market economy. Mongolia is at an interesting crossroads in its history. These photos give a sample of the mix of tradition and change that are affecting the people.

Note: If you've missed the previous posts about my mountain biking trip to Mongolia, please see Mongolia by Mountain Bike and Mongolia: Shadows and Light.

Our van driver "Kamakazi" poses in a battle helmet. I'm unsure whether the ancient Mongols would have had less or more reason to smile.

The five traditional herd animals were horses, yaks, sheep, goats and camels.

In Ulaan Baatar today, the common herd is automotive.

For many Mongols, wide open spaces have been traded for the grey Communist angles of the Soviet-inspired city architecture.

Reliable transport in the traditional sense.

A resurgence of Buddhism has followed the change from Communist rule.

We witnessed the pageantry of the Mongolian Honor Guard, here preparing to welcome US vice president Biden whose visit seemed to be based on the possibility of Mongolia storing US nuclear waste.

In the countryside, I saw a mix of horses and motorcycles used for both transport and herding.

The traditional Mongolian nomad's ger (tent) - now with solar panel and satellite dish.

While we camped one evening, this gentleman came strolling across the steppe to our camp towing his son in a toy armored vehicle. He stayed to visit while our mechanic worked on our bikes.

One fine day we came across a local festival. There was no visible "town" of any kind. Just a small collection of gers and a crowd of people and horses. The kind locals invited us to attend, inviting us into the festival tent where we probably broke every social rule as we partook of airag (fermented mare's milk) and an assortment of cheeses and meats.

We watched traditional Mongolian wrestling. The wrestler on the left wears official wresting attire, but this competition allowed any attire. Note the judges who hold competitor's hats. (Unofficial explanation for the open-fronted vests of the official outfit is that it "keeps the women out" of the competition. The men don't want to get hurt.)

We had missed the horse race portion of the festival, but were able to see the awards. Medals, certificates, and milk poured onto the horses.

Towns and Provincial Centers like this one, Tsetserleg, all seemed to feature colorful roofs, high stockade-like fences, and few cars.

Laundry day at the ger.

First day of school in Ulaanbaatar. Opportunities are changing for the youth.

Students socialize in Sukhbaatar Plaza. Urban fashions and cell phones are the accepted norm.

Tourism is growing under the long shadow of Chinggis Khan.

Many of the New Urban Mongols seem to be doing well, but many more are struggling. These ladies sell wares along a busy sidewalk.

I was told that most Mongolians still have ties to the countryside and long-held traditions through relatives. It seems that these ties can only grow thinner as Mongolia moves into the future.

These young horsemen are inheriting a long legacy of pastoral nomadism. At at time when it may be disappearing.

Opportunities, Golden and Otherwise

2011-11-09T23:12:00.000-08:00

by Greg

In the broad sense, the mountain biking season is over. It's chilly and it gets dark early. It can be moist. Snow and ice can clog the trail.

But in reality, it's still been great riding. Our sleeves may get longer and our rides shorter, but we're still out there, riding through cloudy days and golden evenings. Riding and getting caught by rain showers or melting snow, then getting caught by the pernicious local mud that's both slippery to ride through and stickily clings to bikes and shoes like octopus cement.

While most riders seem to have turned their thoughts to other winter activities, our thoughts remain open to the opportunities of great trails, good light, and fine weather (with a chance of mud). We're still out there riding the empty trails, drinking in the scenery, and spinning out the happy miles. Miles that satisfy something inside us in a way that being inside just doesn't.

Or course, after riding we're happy to go home and eat something. Like one of Trina's nut tarts. Chunky, chewy and delicious isn't just for trails.

Buttoning Up

2011-11-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

We've had our first frosts of the season. Late flowers are freezing and wise plants have already made seeds. We've been pulling out the last of the vegetables and storing them away. While some, too far gone, are left to decay and rot, to feed insects and worms and millipedes, to return to the dirt. We'll take the vines down and cover the soil with mulch as we button up the garden for winter.

The kitchen door is closed now. Inside we keep warm with food we've grown, food from local farms, food from far away. Out the window there is snow on the high fringes of the valley. Soon it will creep downward, and the garden will be waiting, hidden beneath the frozen blanket.

Carrots with character.

Doing the hula?

In The Air

2011-10-29T06:22:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and NASA

There's change in the air. Days are getting shorter and cooler. Snow walloped the other side of the state. Our internal clocks have begun to prepare us for winter hibernation. But so far in our neighborhood, it's been nothing but beautiful, colorful, warm and inviting.

We've accepted the invitation and have been out partaking in the rocky local trails, riding with friends who not only sense the change in the air, but get right up there and fly through it. Dirt and dogs. Rocks and socks. Warm honey light. And no better time to enjoy it.

Satellite photo from last week:

This week:(We're in one of those nice, dry, brown areas on the west side...)

For some reason it helps Trina if she holds her head on whenever her brother Derrell rides stunts.

Phoenix Graft: Juniper x Burr Oak

2011-10-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

Text and photos by Trina

As has been said before, the phoenix graft is a quick bonsai technique. So quick that it took a mere 12 months to get past the first step of my first effort at it: two burr oak whips grafted onto a juniper skeleton that I hauled home last December.

The process began even earlier than that, though, with the gathering of acorns last fall. The acorns were then stratified over the winter and planted in March of this year. Today, the seven month old tree-lets (soaking in root stim before transplant)

were given a new home and hopefully a new life, as opposed to a new death, which has been the trend with my efforts at proper bonsai in the past. But this isn't proper bonsai. This is giant bonsai: more soil, more water storage capacity, more chance of survival.

By no means the *right* way to go about making a phoenix graft, this is how I did this one:

Drill holes in the base of the skeleton tree and pound rebar into those holes at angles that will give the skeleton some stability in the soil.

Place the whip/s. In this case, in lieu of carving a channel for the whip, which is what would normally happen at this stage, I'm using a naturally existing groove on the front side

and tucking a second whip into the back side of the skeleton so both trees will wend their way up the skeleton as they grow.

Tie the whip in place. The green tape alone wasn't enough to keep the whip pushed down into the groove, so I padded it with some tree wrap.

The "quick" part being completed, now begins the extremely slow part: waiting for the trees to grow and look like they're one with the skeleton, like the whole shabang is one really ancient tree with just a couple of living veins remaining, still producing green growth. In the meantime, I'll have this horrid little Frankenstein tree with which to frighten my gardener friends.

Hither and Thither

2011-10-21T19:16:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

There must be some kind of excuse for our recent lack-o-posts, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it has to do with regular busy lives compounded by extraordinary autumn weather filled with perfect, sunny days. Maybe we've been distracted by snow replacing colored leaves in the high country. Maybe we've been eating melons from the garden and ramping up our production of comfort food in response to chilly nights. Maybe we've been enjoying late season flowers and hiking hidden canyons that will soon be cold and icy. Our bike rides have taken us into the golden evening light and have brushed into the early darkness and beyond.

In short, it's a glorious season and we've been very busy enjoying it.

Colorful Distraction

2011-09-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

by Greg

Had to slide through the mountains for business on the other side. I have trouble making a beeline anywhere and am apt to become distracted by bright things. "Happened" to have the bike along, so gave in to distraction and took a ride up a steep valley through the colorful leaves.

Bony River

2011-09-25T19:23:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

We wanted to get an early start to our packrafting float, so we woke up with the sun on our last day in the mountains. But since we were camped down in a canyon, that wasn't exactly early or anything. The river burbled nearby as we went through our morning rituals of coffee (for Trina) and breakfast (Leftover Chanterelles-'N-Spinach-'N-Pasta™ from the night before). Then packed up the bags and tent and dogs and set out to scout the river.

It was almost noon when we started scouting, and by the time we were done driving the dirt road that paralleled the river, stopping, looking, pointing, and shaking our heads, it was past lunch time. We did manage to determine that out of four possible miles of river, there was only about one mile that was suitable for the late-season water level and our skills.

We left a bike, drove to the top, ate a snack, then puffed up our rafts, grabbed the dogs (who had been waiting and waiting) and hit the water. Bright and early at almost 2:00.

The river was amazing. Black rock canyon. Beautiful deep green pools connected by a series of tight chutes or shallow riffles. Lots of rocks sticking up like bones to either dodge around or bounce over. We're still new enough to packrafting that we're still learning what we and these little rafts are capable of. And most of what we thought we'd have trouble with wasn't as tough as we thought. The scary chutes were fun! And we only waded a couple places where the water was too shallow to float.

We splashed through fun sections more than once, took photos, shuffled the dogs from boats to shore and back as necessary to keep them out of the scarier sections, and had a picnic lunch before we "finally" made it to the stretch of river we'd decided we weren't going to float. And somehow we'd managed to squander the rest of the afternoon. There was just enough sunshine left in the bottom of the canyon to let us read and nap and warm up after playing in the chilly water. Then the shadows covered the water and we headed home.

We're not going to brag about how it took us all day to packraft one mile. Because we know that it's not the miles, it's the smiles.

Corner Season

2011-09-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

Text by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

Crisp air. Frosty mornings. Bright blue skies. Crystal waters. Turning leaves. Snowy peaks. Warm sunshine. Empty spaces.

There were lots of good reasons to explore a slice of the high country as the tide of summer slid away and the first rustlings of autumn slid into the valleys. No longer summer. Not quite autumn. We rode through ripe meadows. We paddled our little rafts along bony rivers. Dodged rain that fell as snow on the high peaks. Wandered dark forests absorbing warm smells. Explored mountain towns. Spent our evenings by firelight and our nights snug in our tent, listening to the wild bugling of elk.

Green leaves we had passed as we drove into the mountains were turning gold as we drove homeward. The season had turned the corner.

Stick around and there will be more photos and stories from Mongolia. For now, though, we'll continue to digress into more sights and experiences from the present. Enjoy!

If you know what this donkey-ear shaped mushroom is, please tell us!

Our first float took us down the late-season riffles of the upper Rio Grande. Not much water, but enough to float a packraft – with only the occasional bump.

Trails were dry and days were sunny and just warm enough.

"Chanterelles, again?!"

2011-09-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Text by Trina
Photos by Trina and Greg

We were grinding uphill at 10,000 feet of elevation on a rutted dirt road scattered with loose rubbly rock. We had just passed a sign warning,

ROAD ENDS 1 MILE
AT PRIVATE LAND.

I had just posed -- perhaps even squawked -- what might seem like a Zen koan, but wasn't: "Why are we riding up this steep, loose hill to turn around at a private gate?" when a roadside scattering of not rocks, but pale orange lumps caught my eye.

My squawk changed quickly from one of complaint to glee when I confirmed that I was indeed seeing what I thought I was seeing: chanterelles!

Greg seized on the opportunity. "That is why we ride to the end of roads that go nowhere: You never know what you'll find." Touché! And a significant delay of ride as I peeled off my bike every time another orange spot peeked out from the pine needles and lichen. The death climb redeemed, we gathered enough to enjoy fresh, wild chanterelles for dinner and again the next morning for breakfast.

Next evening we found ourselves settling once again in a meadow edged by fir trees with the promising lichen and moss. When a foray for the night's firewood turned up another handful of chanterelles, I knew I had no choice but to forego the long, steep, hard, all-day ride Greg had planned for the next day -- imagine my disappointment! -- and hunt instead.

After sending Greg off on his own the next morning, I gathered up my highly trained truffle hounds and ambled into the deep, dark forest in search of more gold. At day's end, chanterelles were on the menu for two more meals, and when we reached the point where we just couldn't tolerate another fresh, delicate, apricot-y, slightly nutty mushroom, we laid the remainder of them out on the dashboard to dry while we headed off for the next adventure du jour.

Mongolia: Shadows and Light

2011-09-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

by Greg

My travels in Mongolia were not exactly an eco-tour; seven bicycle tourists with seven staff members and three Russian-made four-wheel drive vans. This mode of travel differed from the bicycle touring I've done in the past. But did have plenty in common with road trips that Trina and I take in her truck with our bikes along. Riding, camping, and all the luxuries of, well, camping, carried along in the motor vehicles. With added layers of luxury, like a staff cook and cook's assistant, plus a guide to lead the ride, three drivers for the vans and van repair. And, perhaps most importantly in this case, an English speaking translator and cultural guide.

I've never traveled with a translator and cultural guide before. I have to say I liked it. My usual kind of trip is envisioned as more of a Man-In-Nature sort of adventure. But there have been times in the past when my foolish choices have resulted in a Man-vs-Unknown-Language-and-Culture adventure that overwhelmed the potential Man-In-Nature enjoyment. It really was a good thing to have someone to translate the language, explain cultural perceptions, expound upon geography and history, and to generally shed light on the overall experience.

Once out in the sweeping countryside, I found that the landscape did a pretty good job of shedding light on itself. I hope these photos help illustrate that point.

The capital city of Ulaanbaatar was both surprisingly cosmopolitan and fashionable as well as frantic, convoluted, and seemingly under construction and demolition at the same time.

I'm never particularly comfortable in cities, so it was good to put some distance and perspective (and some trees) between me and the urban squalor.

Riders on the silvery rain-soaked route.

We saw only a small portion of the whole country on our journey so it is inappropriate to generalize. But the rumored treeless expanses weren't quite as treeless as I'd imagined. Pines covered the moist north slopes of many of the mountains, and rivers were often lined with broadleaf trees.

Both cloud shadows and herds of sheep, goats, yaks and horses poured over the mountainsides. Though Mongolia is the least densely populated country in the world and though the views seem limitless, we were rarely out of sight of a ger (tent) or a herdsman.

The weather was generally cool and we were teased by storms, but we only rode during a lengthy downpour on one day.

Scattered along our route were lasting signs of an ancient and little understood bronze age horse culture. Grant explores these stone circles and mounds.

Herdsman and dogs in the growing shadows of evening.

Mongolia by Mountain Bike

2011-09-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

by Greg

I've been away from home for a couple weeks. To what completely justifiable purpose? To ride in an exotic and beautiful place. Mongolia is a mountain bike rider's dreamscape: world's least densely populated country, sweeping landscape, natural beauty, unending trails (though more doubletrack than singletrack) and very little pavement. There are also plentiful portions of history -- warrior horsemen who took over the world -- and an interesting culture -- an abiding nomadic herding tradition -- to add dimension to one's visit. There are also lots of yaks.

Traveling by bike is, as always, an excellent way to bare the senses to the experiences that surround travel. It was an amazing trip and we barely scratched the surface of what is possible to see and do there.

Our group rode and camped through the Khangai Mountains in the center of the country. As eluded to here, my dad was part of the group as were my old friend Grant and his father. Which made it into a family event as well. It is good to be back home to my regular family of Trina and the little dogs (who jumped all over me and dashed though the yard at high speed with the excitement of my return. Er, the dogs did.) But Mongolia is so vast and diverse that there remains a nagging itch to see more of it someday. Perhaps...

For now, I present these few images as an introduction to our small journey.

Schmo-tek Espalier

2011-09-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

Photos and text by Trina

Green gage plum, 6 years old

Same tree with one year's uncontrolled growth, before today's trellis installation and pruning and tying-in of branches

Same tree, a year ago, with just the beginnings of the design tied in place

Espalier is a lovely blend of art and gardening that lends itself quite well to a perfectionist, anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive approach, but I’m here to tell you that you don't have to be an uptight control-freak to be successful at it. Having experimented in the past with letting my vegetable garden be "free-range," letting things grow wherever they chose to seed themselves from the previous year's plants, and discovering that, while it's a sweet idea, it's also a complete mess, with crops being very hard to keep track of and harvest, I now aim more toward the middle of the chaos-to-order spectrum. Orderly enough to be manageable, and yet wild enough to look and feel natural. Rows don't have to be perfectly straight, nor do they have to contain only one variety of plant. It's not a factory; it's a garden.

You can take a similar approach to espalier. It's an art form, yes, so your goal is to control and shape the branches into a pre-determined design, but it's also an organic, living plant you're working with, and it might not sprout a branch exactly where you want one to be in order to achieve the design you had in mind. While you can use tricks like notching the bark just above where you want a branch to come in,

you can also leave room in the process for the tree to speak for itself, room to see what the tree will and won't do, and room to change The Plan when it starts to diverge greatly from The Reality.

Since espalier pruning and tying-in of branches happens in the summer or early fall before the branches harden off and become less malleable, the task of shaping and pruning really amounts to seeing what the tree did in a year's time, and figuring out what you can do with that. Your starting point each summer is a chaos of growth, branches going every which way, mostly in the "wrong" place, and an abundance of leaves making it nearly impossible to see where branches are, and where to even begin. Working with the tree instead of fighting it will make it a little easier and a lot more fun.

Japanese maple, at one year

Same tree at 2 years, before today’s pruning and tying-in

Same tree, after today’s pruning and tying-in

This one still has a long way to go, and the design may have to be changed a bit, both to accommodate what the tree is actually doing, and to correct for some mistakes made by the gardener.

A similarly flexible, informal approach can be taken when it comes to the support framework for espalier. Proper, traditional, rule-following espalier calls for an extensive and expensive system of heavy gauge horizontal wires strung taught with special tension bolts and other highly essential gizmos, either against a fence or wall, or if freestanding, framed in by a serious, sturdy structure. It's nice; it's fancy; it works; but it's unneccessary. I've found that a schmo-tek approach to espalier -- using metal concrete mesh that comes in 4' x 7' sheets and costs about $8 a sheet, installed with very simple hardware -- helps espalier to be that much less daunting, makes it into the kind of project I can bang out myself without needing the help of someone more construction-capable than myself, and I actually like the simple, humble look of it. Once your tree has grown in, the mesh virtually disappears anyway, being covered up by branches and leaves. It'll be the last thing people notice when they're admiring your lovely, artfully designed trees.

The two schmo-tek mesh installation methods I've used successfully, depending on whether the tree is going against a fence or the side of the house (which in my case is stucco) are:

tacking the mesh to the fence with poultry net staples, allowing the space between the horizontal 2x4s and the pickets to serve as the minimum 4" of breathing space your tree needs behind it,

and hanging the mesh from screw hooks screwed into whatever sturdy beam you can find under your eaves, bridging the distance with chain as necessary:

Espalier isn’t easy. You have to know how to recognize (and not cut off) the spurs or branches that will provide the next year’s crop, how to deal with 18 million fruit tree diseases and pests, how to anticipate a tree’s growth habit, how to encourage and discourage individual branch growth, how to tell the difference between a fruit bud and a leaf bud, how to speak in a haughty British accent, and so much more. Taking a less-rigid-than-normal approach to the design aspect is one way I’ve found to make it a little more do-able and a little less daunting. A judicious application of schmo-tek on the technical end is the other.

The one thing you definitely can’t skimp on, though, and probably the most difficult part, is patience.

More espalier photos and notes here

Low and Slow

2011-08-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

Text and photos by Trina

Since the days of the Death Wave, things have changed a bit in this neck of the desert. With the fading of the last pockets of melting snow in the high country, the river has mellowed. Dropped a few inches. Chopped its windows. Installed bouncing hydraulics. The river is low and slow.

Favorite beaches have re-emerged, both sandy and muddy, which record the daily meanderings of killdeer, regular deer, raccoons, rodents, great blue herons, mysterious tunneling and squiggling things.

Islands of rock and willow that were lost in the spring runoff are found again.

This evening we ventured out to a favorite spot, a secret island landscaped with smooth, water-and-sand-polished rocks, an island I frequented much more, well, frequently when I had big water dogs who could comfortably and capably swim out on their own while I waded across a thigh-deep channel to the island. Not so with the little beasts. They don't have the power or natural love of water that a big, beefy Chesapeake does. They needed the "briefcase-assist" for the crossing: they were carried like little doggie briefcases by the handles on their lifejackets, sort of swimming, sort of panicking.

Things improved greatly for the dogs once the river crossing was behind us, their lifejackets were tucked into my pack, and we made our way down the island shoreline to discover that what used to be My Secret Island is now My Secret Islands with an "s," cut in two by a newly carved river channel that was too deep and too fast to cross with little dogs, with me on foot, without my packraft. (Next time..!)

We managed to enjoy ourselves even confined to the new, smaller island, romping, sniffing, rooting around in giant tangles of sticks and dead trees, stacking rocks, watching birds, wandering aimlessly, just sitting, watching everything and nothing until the sun set and washed the river and rocks in rust.

Hunting and Gathering

2011-08-15T20:59:00.000-07:00

Text and photos by Trina

Lest I be accused of exaggerating when I say I killed over 100 squash bugs in the garden this morning, I've put together this handy multiplication table of them:

Need a closer look?

Yes, you'll have noted by now that 10x9 does not equal over 100. This is the 90 I caught. Half again this many (do the math: 45ish) jumped and scrambled to safety or fell to the ground after being squished, cut in half or otherwise mutilated, and for various reasons were not retrieved.

The damage to squash plants is extensive. All the marina di chioggias died early on, long before they even thought about making flowers or fruit; the Amish pie pumkins are heading that direction; and the last remaining kikuza pumpkin is a wash, as every one of its blossoms has withered, I presume due to the stress on the plant caused by the squash bugs:

There are a handful of organic methods for dealing with squash bugs: manually searching for and killing them and their eggs every morning and every evening; planting nicotiana, nasturtium and marigolds to deter them; planting a trap crop (in our case, the marina di chioggias volunteered for this role); spraying with Neem oil... all of which we did, apparently to no avail. In fact, our observation has been that the nasturtium which squash bugs are supposed to fear and loathe -- and which I seeded in dense rows between the squash rows -- have actually been serving as a quite desirable habitat and hiding place. I sent them all to their next incarnation as compost this morning.

The butternuts appear to be the only squash bug resistant variety, in our garden anyway (and perhaps the only variety we should ever try to grow again.) The challenge with those, because we grow them on a vertical trellis, is remembering to get them tied up, or in mesh bags or pantyhose, before they get so heavy that they start to break off from the vine... which is what happened to this one:

~ ~ ~

Would that the mushroom hunting were as productive this year as the squash bug hunting! My "office" affords a view of the nearby mountains where the mushrooms grow when it has rained enough, and every afternoon for the past two weeks I've been watching as great, billowing, cauliflower-y would-be thunderheads brew and... and... and... make no rain.

As a result, the pickins so far this season have been slim, but we've still enjoyed seeing the variety of bizarre and beautiful fungal life forms, edible or not, that do pop up (just not in great quantities) even after just a single day of showers.

A modest (compared to this time last year), early season haul:

If nothing else, the romp in the forest made the dogs happy.

Nothing Special

2011-08-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

by Greg

Nothing special except the usual attempt to look around ourselves, to keep our eyes and minds tuned to the special moments that inhabit our daily lives. Garden. Kitchen. River. Trail.

We've managed to trim our town-style bikerafting setup down to this. Not exactly sleek. Not yet. But good enough for a ride to the river, a quick evening float, and a ride home under the darkening sky.

We haven't been able to figure out what kind of creature these tiny eggs belong to.

We do think these might be unlaid eggs inside one of our nemesis squash bugs. But we're not insect anatomists. Could just be bug guts.

Pinyon Juniper forest fire beyond the cliffs north of town.

Death Wave

2011-08-07T15:08:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina and Mike

Dirty Water and Dogs?

Our local rivers are filled with enough dirt to justly be included in this blog. And silt is not the only thing floating in the water. There's also, well, us.

One fine evening, Trina in her inflatable kayak, Mike and I with bikes on our little packrafts, we floated a stretch of river that became rather wilder than we expected. Trina, in her big boat paddled through the churning waves ahead of us. As I attempted to maneuver through the big waves, I paddled harder than I had expected to, and SNAP! One end of my light-but-not-strong paddle came out of the water minus the blade. Instead of maneuvering, I stared at the stubby end and then smashed into the biggest wave, which smashed into me even harder and flipped the raft over. Mike, just behind, was also fascinated by the stump-end of my paddle waving around in the air. The wave caught him, too, and flipped him over. Both of us and our bikes took a swim and Trina helped fish us out below the rapid.

My one-ended paddle lasted the rest of the float and then snapped off as we were taking out. Trina threw me her paddle from shore and I didn't have to try to beat the water with my stick to make it let me go.

We've been trimming the fat from our float set-up. Here, my raft and life jacket is the little bundle on the rear rack of my bike, with everything else I needed in my pack. Trina's inflatable kayak took up the whole trailer, and the rest of her gear filled her baskets.

But lo, there suddenly appeared in the mail a beacon of smaller-ness in the form of a shiny new packraft that Trina could call her own. Or could have, if Sprocket hadn't claimed it before it was even inflated.

Being flipped over on the rough stretch of river did not urge us toward caution. Rather, we wanted to try it again, to see what we could learn from it. Mike and I headed back one day (without bikes onboard) and Trina, Mike and I headed back another two days. It's a new wave, the product of this spring's high floodwater that changed the river channel and modified something on the bottom. There are two wave trains of seems-like-big-to-us waves. The second set of waves happens where the river hits the bank and takes a sharp bend to the right -- adding reflection waves to the mix. Churning, frothing, and maybe 3-4 feet from trough to crest on the biggest wave. We named it the Death Wave, just to try to bolster ourselves for its challenge.

Photos below tell the story. Lots of splashing. Lots of flipping and swimming. Lots of learning what to do and not do and maybe even a little bit of learning to know which is which. Not obvious in these photos are the streams of other river floaters, most on inner-tubes or dime-store rafts carrying coolers of beer and not wearing life jackets. These people have probably blissfully floated the gentle river in past years and are immediately surprised to find this new rapid in the midst of it. Many end up being flipped by the Death Wave and their many belongings scattered along the gravel bank or floating downstream.

I would like to urge them to use more caution and to know what they are getting into and to be properly equipped. Except that I'm not sure that hitting a rapid of any kind in a blistering old packraft gives me a very high platform from which to speak. My little platform, bouncing along in the waves, does, however, seem to to make me smile.

Mike got smacked in this sequence.

Trina Paddled by Mike's boat which was caught in the hole and ghost surfing.

Walked back up to do it again.

Mike photo of Trina

Bulging in three or four places, but not bursting. More glue!

Mike has been shooting pics and video on a bunch of his and our local floaty adventures. He put together a great video. Take a look!

The Camp at Cannibal Rock

2011-08-02T13:22:00.000-07:00

Photos by Greg and Trina

Dirt. Dogs. Creeks. Critters. Mountains. Mushrooms. And wildflowers, wildflowers, wildflowers. All within easy reach (like a stone's toss or a glance or some pedal strokes) of our camp below the skull-like rock. It was idyllic enough that we couldn't find a reason not to stay for three nights. Enjoy the pics!

Below Cannibal Rock

Mushroom along the trail

Mushroom in the dinner pan

Bikerafting 101

2011-08-01T18:14:00.001-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Mike

There comes a time in every man's life when he wants it all. Fame? Glory? Riches? -- Pshaw! That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the time in a man's life when he wants to ride his bike and float his boat.

Oh sure, I suppose some men want a giant diesel truck and a jet boat. And that may be a similar urge, corrupted by wayward technology and poor self esteem. I myself, however, have always been comfortable in keeping my desires more humble, simple, and cheap --er, affordable. And I will always claim that this tendency resulted from a deeply felt philosophical desire to minimize my impact on the natural environment, to avoid undue complexity in my life, and to "leave a mark" on society that will be easily erased and not cause any lasting damage.

At this, I believe, I have been a success. (There are detractors who will claim that I have simply never gotten my act together, that an awkward personality coupled with a lack of ambition has saddled me with my lowly status. That my great personal success is in reality a complete failure. But what? Sour grapes, I say! Sour grapes!)

Nonetheless, it has indeed been over a dozen years since I unburdened myself of the ownership of a motor vehicle (a.k.a. "car") and decided to "simplify" my life, which I mistakenly assumed required that I A. have at least half-a-dozen bikes at any one time, and B. could not have a boat. --Just because most boats -- even "minimal" boats like kayaks, inflatable kayaks -- "require" a way of dragging them around when they're not in the water. And though I've shared boats, borrowed boats, rented boats, floated on other people's boats, I thought that it was not my destiny to have a boat of my own.

But, ah! Then along comes this new phenomenon ( --that is not really new, but where have I been? I don't know.) called bikerafting. Which, though I'd heard of it, wasn't really made real for me until Mike got one of these tiny, capable inflatable boats and shined a light into the darkness of my boatless-ness. Then he acted as a conduit between me, my low budget, and a heck-of-a-deal on a not-completely-used-up antique packraft. I applied a bit of my own fortitude and a bunch of glue, and Wa La! I became a packrafter!

The next logical step was to become a bikerafter. I inflated my little raft in Trina's yard and used several straps to lash my town bike onto the front. This done, things looked great, and there was no problem floating upon the grass. So onward! I deflated and strapped the raft to the bike and rode off to the river with Mike. The big, wide, flowing mass of water was rather intimidating to me, not knowing if the bike would drag the little boat to the bottom or not. So, with Mike's supervision, I inflated my raft and then strapped my bike to the bow and floated out into a nearby shallow pond, where, indeed, the raft floated with both me and the bike onboard. This was a good sign.

We carried our laden boats the few steps between the pond and the mighty river, and shoved off from shore. Not bad! The little raft was floating happily, if somewhat low in the water. Maneuverability was pretty good. And the river did most of the work. We languidly floated on through town, past bridges and cottonwood trees and sand banks and places where the river bike path had washed into the water during the spring flood.

We landed at a popular boat launch area and smugly assembled our bikes, flattened and loaded our rafts, and rode away. Success! Our little trip through town had officially turned me into bikerafter. And widened my eyes to the true beauty of the concept: no shuttle. The traditional scourge of river rafting is that one has to find a way to get a boat to the top of the run, and have another vehicle at the bottom with which to run back to the top again to pick up the vehicle at the top. But this bikerafting thing... Ride to the top, float down, ride home. Simple. Sweet. Effective.

It's a wonder I didn't think of it myself.

Heat for Mosquitos

2011-07-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

We swapped the heat of the valley for the mosquitos of the mountain. The garden for meadows. Streets for trails. A one-day midsummer change of perspective.

Honey Light

2011-07-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

Photos by Greg and Trina

More shots of summer evening rides when honey sunshine pours across ridges and valleys where trails flow through desert dirt under skies filled with light.

Garden Kaleidoscope

2011-07-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

A whirl of colors, shapes and patterns from the garden.

MotoPhoto

2011-07-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

By Greg

A mix of business and pleasure sent me over the mountains to the other side of the state. I took shots for business. But I also took shots for pleasure. Some of the shots taken during "business hours" were a pleasure, and though they may not end up in a catalog, they challenged my artistic eye and were interesting to shoot.

In The Gardens: Good and Evil

2011-07-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

Text and photos by Greg and Trina

This year's drama in the garden is, unfortunately, the same as last year's drama in the garden: a full scale squash bug infestation.

Squash bug eggs

Nymph

Adult

Having committed to doing our garden organically means that our integrated pest management plan A is to manually hunt the squash bugs in all their stages: adults which are, we have to admit, kinda scary, even to a non-sissy-girl like Trina. Like little armored tanks, they lurk and dart and, when bothered, emit a stench that stays stuck in your nose for a week. They're so quick and elusive that to catch them without damaging the plant they're on, you have to knock them off the leaf -- many people knock them into a bucket of soapy water -- or be really quick and careful with a pair of scissors, catching them with the blades and cutting them in half.

Here, a mostly scissor-severed squash bug. As the damaged bug continued to slowly crawl along, it was immediately set upon by small flies, which climbed onto and inside it's carapace and began to devour the guts. This satisfies us. Not because we have a deranged urge to see bugs eaten alive. But because A. we want to eat squash and dead squash bugs will help, and B. we want to encourage the natural systems around us.

The nearest of those systems to our everyday lives is our garden. It could be argued that a planted garden cannot be defined as "natural". But we are more inclined to feel that humans have a role in the natural cycle of things, and that our plantings are a conscious attempt to encourage healthy interaction between plants, insects, spiders, birds, worms, fungus, bacteria and other critters. Trina has planted many non-food flowers and plants that encourage beneficial pollinators like bees and butterflies. Plants whose seeds provide winter food for birds. Plants that discourage damaging insects. Plants that act as hosts to all kinds of little critters that bring wonder to the garden without hurting our ability to feed ourselves with the produce. The garden soil itself is a living system of microbes and tiny creatures that break down plant matter and add nutrients for the next year's crop.

Our intent, then, is to nurture ourselves and to make room for the myriad interactions and cycles that occur naturally among plants and creatures.

Example: These are squash bug eggs that have been parasitized by a wasp. (See bugguide.net)

If we feel that humans have a role in the natural cycle of things, we also feel that certain human organizations have twisted the role from one of encouragement, guidance and cooperation into a scorched-earth battle. Instead of learning how to better work within natural systems that have been thriving and developing for, oh, millions and millions of years, companies like Monsanto are striving for fascism. Their directive is to allow only their own "superior" crops to survive. To do so they develop poisons that kill plants and insects. They engineer their plants to withstand these poisons. They distort markets to force farmers who want to continue farming to buy their seeds and grown their crops. They own powerful political forces that allow them to obliterate competition. They assert their power to gain more power.

A recent example. [source1 source2] Monsanto and Bayer corporations are the cause of the colony collapse disorder that is killing bees. Their neonicotinoid chemicals sprayed on crops disrupt bee nervous systems. Bees are needed as pollinators of crops many other plants. Their selfish "solution" to dead bees (and other beneficial insects) is not to find new ways to encourage pollinators, but is instead to genetically engineer crops that self-pollinate. No bees. No problem -- for anyone growing patented, corporate-controlled, genetically modified, monopolistic food.

It's the kind of "win-win" solution that looks great on a corporate spread sheet. No more pollinators means everyone must buy their modified seed and profits go up. A wider view, though, suggests that destroying natural pollinators would have massive long-lasting negative effects on, well, most everything. When pollinators die, plants die. Entire ecosystems collapse. This is private-corporate-profit-motivated destruction of a resource held "in common" by all.

Our tiny garden is no match for an entire corporate-political system striving for short-term profits at the expense of long term health of that larger garden of our planet, our communities, our bodies. Yet each day, as we spend time weeding, lacing vines into trellises, pruning, harvesting and snipping squash bugs, we stand on a small bulwark to the rising tide.

More good garden scenes:

Southern magnolia

Ladybug pupa...

...and emerging adult

Birdhouse gourd flower

Happy bucket o' potatoes!

Adventure on the High Seas --er, River

2011-07-17T16:32:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

We floated down a stretch of local river. Two of us and two dogs. Two friends. Scenic. Pleasant. Just a little splashy in spots. Not exactly an Adventure with a capital A. Still, I managed to survive the four hour float IN MY ANTIQUE PACKRAFT.

I had a new inflatable camp mattress for a seat, raising me up somewhat and out of the depths of the boat. And I'd managed to patch it up enough that the depths of the boat weren't nearly as deep as the first test float. All my patchings and repairs worked pretty well. For the first half of the float.

Sure, there was a little sagging as we bobbed along. Wasn't sure if there were some actual holes I'd missed, or if it was just from a general seepage through the old fabric. But it was all very manageable. Until after lunch, when an old patch worked its way loose and air started bubbling out one side. No problem, though. I just leaned over and huffed it back full as we paddled along. Just leaned over every four or five minutes and hyperventilated into the valve. Just leaned over with my hat in the water or with my face -- if there was a wave -- in the water and huffed and puffed it back to buoyancy. No problem!

So we floated our whole run, and I floated my whole run IN MY ANTIQUE PACKRAFT. Which was at least a tiny little bit like Adventure. With a capital A.

Rock and Shadow

2011-07-16T09:17:00.000-07:00

by Greg

Cloudless summer evenings. Sun drops. Air cools. Shadows grow. Wheels spin. Trails wind through towers and boulders. For long moments there is no better place to be.

Ancestral Dirt

2011-07-12T19:23:00.000-07:00

Words and photos by Greg

I had to leave our happy valley for the occasion of a family visit and to do some bidness. Headed off over the mountains to the Dark Side of the state where most of the people congregate and where my direct ancestor, my dad lives.

My dad and I have a trip planned for later this summer. The trip involves days and days of riding dirt. My dad rides. He's ridden for years. It's his fault that I got started messing around with bikes. And though he's training hard for our trip, he hasn't done much dirt riding. Ever. I wanted to get him out onto some trails to get him some more experience.

In honor of the occasion, I finished hacking together a crappy bike made almost entirely from parts I've been scavenging from bike shop trash over the last few years. The result was a completely rideable–if creaky and homely–singlespeed bike. I gave up singlespeed mountain bikes a couple years ago when I realized that "No one cares that you ride a singlespeed" and that it didn't do much to make my knees happy. Still, singlespeeds are simple and easy and tough and I had the parts laying around. I brought the bike along with me with the intent of leaving it in Denver.

Dad had told me that he'd gotten himself a cheap mountain bike. And it turned out that he had. Cheap, I mean. Not much of a mountain bike to an elitist bike snob like I can be. But rideable. In a 1993 low-price kind of way. Fully rigid. Long stem. Canti and U-brakes. Biopace chainrings. All dressed up with a lavender paint job. I, however, with my retro singlespeed frankenbike, didn't have much room to be an elitist bike snob.

Dad and I headed for Green Mountain hoping for some trails that were fun and not too hard. I put him on my bike, hoping a little bit of fork travel would help him. Which left me on his lavender "mountain" bike. We hit the dirt and headed off. The trail was rolling and pretty smooth and flowing. The kind of trail that would make lots of guys wear tight spandex and ride a bike more expensive than they needed in order to impress their buddies. We did not impress anyone in that manner.

Dad was painfully slow on the way out. Climbing he was okay, especially for 75-years-old rockin' a singlespeed. But descending, he was all tense and locked in place and sketching. I gave him some tips: Get behind the saddle on descents. Stand up and let the bike roll over rough stuff. And at first he wasn't getting it and I was clueless as to how to help. But as we rode our out-and-back, some light bulbs went off and he started to put it together. By the time we got back to the trailhead, he was kickin' it. Getting his weight back and getting off the saddle and generally looking like a mountain biker. He even felt the thrill of impressing a passerby on the final descent, when the guy riding up eyeballed dad's singlespeed and his sweet form.

I left my bike in Denver with Dad so he can get some more practice and have some more fun before our trip.

I know: No one cares that you ride a singlespeed. But when my 75-year-old dad rides a singlespeed, I think it's pretty cool.

Dad, spinning away out across the grasslands.

Me, amid the green. (After he left for an appointment and gave me my bike back.)

My Ship Comes In

2011-07-02T10:27:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

A package arrived this week via Mike who got it from a guy in CA who decided he didn't want it after he got it from RD who had it stuffed away for years after pummeling it hard in the wilds of Alaska. (I think it is this raft that features prominently in his book.)

I always knew my ship would come in someday. And I've often suspected it would be out-of-date, heavily used, highly worn, and barely floating. I also suspected that none of this would bother me too much. Hey, a ship is a ship. Right? My ship.

It's a classic Sherpa packraft and came with a small pile of accessories. A lightweight flatwater paddle. A non-functional inflation bag. Spare air plugs. A brand new dry bag. A care-worn life jacket. And two oddly shaped inflatable brown something-or-others that I finally realized were pieces of an old air mattress, and which I believe are to be used as patching fabric.

It also came with numerous patched holes, fixed gashes, and repaired abrasions, as well as several more opportunities to use the (supplied) patching fabric.

For a guy who floats pretty low in the waters of life, these inherent liabilities are not particularly disconcerting. A raft that nearly holds air can probably be fixed until it does hold air. A raft that has a place in the annals of packrafting history would certainly be buoyed by more than mere air anyway. Wouldn't the stories of where it's been, who's used it, and how it has been bequeathed with so many scars and dings be enough to carry me safely across a substance as plebeian as water?

One way to find out.

We headed for a collection of local ponds. Trina and Mike were in Mike's two latest-greatest-pinnacle-of-packrafting technology boats. I left shore in my leaking piece of history, two dogs crowded onto the bow. Trina and Mike paddled away, high and proud. I wallowed behind, happily paddling from the depths of my limp boat, leaning over the tubes now and then to huff more air through the valves and into the bubbling fabric.

I made it to the first portage with no particular problems. (Though Zeek the Jack Russell, who usually won't get into water unprompted, jumped into the pond and swam to shore. I tried not to take it personally.) When we got to the next pond, I topped off my boat and then dropped it at the water's edge. Unfortunately there was a stick poking up at the water's edge. And unfortunately that stick poked right through the fabric of my historic raft. A very large stream of bubbles issued from the hole and half the raft deflated. I decided it would be best if I did not get back in the raft at that time.

I spent the next part of the the evening walking the dogs along the nearby bike path. Then I paddled Trina's boat with the dogs as she swam along in the water. My own raft was was put to use by draping it over the bow of Trina's boat to help protect the newer boat from dog claws -- essentially a tarp, if you want to be cruel about it.

I still have a dream. I dream of packing the little raft on my bike and heading off into the wild world. I dream of riding long days in beautiful places. I dream that my ride will lead me to the edge of a river. There, I will not be stopped. I will load my bike onto the raft and float across the water, moving from one beautiful place to another. I dream of riding for days and days where water cannot stop me.

My dream remains afloat. But until I get some glue, my raft, my ship, does not.

Rising Green

2011-06-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

Word by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

The pale green and the delicate flowering of spring are now gone from the desert valley where we live. But spring in the mountain west is not just a factor of time, but of elevation. Spring rises week by week up plateaus and mountains, painting away the vanishing snow with green.

Rumor has it that much of the high country is still locked away under snow. We made our escape from the desert heat to the middle elevations and found ourselves amid a bounty of blossoms and rolling waves of green. Temperatures were mild, sunshine was bright, breezes were cool. We rode on narrow trails, read books in the shade, and wandered among the flowers.

Circumstances like this suggest to me that the human tendency to be nomadic is something that should not be ignored. Despite lives that lean strongly toward stability, I think it best, when possible, to break away and follow, rising upward with the green.

The dogs became captivated by...

Prey! Large, pointy-hoofed prey. Which they were very disappointed we would not allow them to hunt.

Summer Heat

2011-06-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

Words and photos by Greg

Summer is upon us in all its hot-dry-chapped-sunburned glory. In our valley, the heat pretty much shuts off daytime riding. Early morning is good. But I'll admit to having some trouble with the concept of morning and especially early morning as it relates to riding. Late evening seem more appropriate. Cloudy evenings are better yet.

This is the time of year when the mountains begin to call to us, tempting us upward toward green meadows strewn with flowers, to the shade of pine forests, to cool frothy streams, to the blur of white aspen trunks slipping past us on a narrow trail.

We will give in to those temptations. But for our semi-daily rides, we'll stay close, spinning out our miles on the dust and rock of the local trails as days slip toward twilight.

Oops!

Stepping Sticks

2011-06-29T09:07:00.000-07:00

Words and photos by Greg

The rivers that come together in this town ran high as mountain snow melted in late spring's heat. The water is retreating into its banks now but has left marks of its passing. There are missing riverside walkways and paths. And there are new piles of silt-polished driftwood in places where there weren't any before.

Early this spring we spent some time along the rivers "stick shopping" -- looking for straight-ish driftwood sticks among the tangles of dead and polished trees and branches washed up on the riverbanks. It was a handy way for us to gather a few functional sticks in a manner that didn't commercially cut down forests and which avoided the cost and waste of trimming, packing, and shipping that would be involved if we bought sticks.

We used the sticks to build arbors in the garden for the squash and bean vines to climb. We though this would be a good way vertically maximize our garden's limited space, which would allow us to grow more food. If we grow more food we hope we'll be able to cut down on the cost and waste of fertilizer, pesticides, packaging, and shipping that would be involved if we bought that food.

We're not self-sufficient pioneers wresting our living from the land. The amount of food we'll be able to grow for ourselves this year will be a fraction of the food we'll eat. But with each home-grown bite we'll be taking an important step away from a status quo that we see as increasingly inappropriate.

We'll step away from chemicals that damage the world we live in. We'll step away from a economy that thrives on private profits from common resources. We'll take a step away from leaving our next meal in the hands of an agribusiness empire which has lost sight of the ethical and the humane in a fog of profit and greed.

Our squash and bean vines are just now reaching the lower portions of the arbors. The sticks from the river are helping us take a small step toward changing the way we live our lives. One small step that may become a stumbling walk, which may become a steady stride toward positive change in the world.

Afloat

2011-06-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

Words and photos by Greg

Summer is upon us in our big valley. Long hours of sunlight tempt us to stay outside. There's no snow, no mud, and really, no excuse not to indulge in the local trails. It can be hot, but there's also water to splash in. With sunshine, trails, bikes and boats, we're afloat in options.

Recently, as I was strolling with Trina and the dogs to a nearby pond, I was gratified to see a heap of children piled onto a floating log. Which is something I guess I don't see often enough. There are times when I get a bit befuddled trying to wrap my mind around both the good parts of civilization and the parts where good intentions seem to become twisted enough to cloud what may be one of the main goals of civilization: to promote the enjoyment of life.

I suppose I'd rather think that inside me, despite some rather stuffy tendencies of my own, there's an inner child who would rather be dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and floating on a log in a pond, than to be attired in a designer swim suit floating on a pool toy in a chlorinated pool watched over by a lifeguard. But where the line between those two exists, I'm not sure.

Further befuddlement comes courtesy of Mike, who's new exotic pool toy has me frothing with admiration. His boat/bike set-up allows for the collision of bicycling and floating. It expands the possibilities for traveling through wild country from point A to point B to include a river (for instance) that would otherwise have stopped a cyclist dead (wet and drowned) in his tracks.

His own near-future plans exceed any of my own dreams, and precipitate his current choice of extremely fat tires for sandy beach riding, as well. (Plus clothes and supplies for many days of cold, wet, ice, tundra, brush, bears...) But here's the gist of the game during one of his recent test runs.

Arrive at selected body of water. Remove rolled packraft from handlebar.

Inflate packraft.

Partially disassemble bike.

Attach bike to raft.

Strap remaining gear in place.

Get into water.

Paddle away. (about 20 minutes from arriving, but he'll get faster)

Cross body of water and get out. Reassemble bike and return raft to handlebars. (about 10 minutes). Ride away. (Gear geeks please note that other than the clothes he will be wearing, in these shots he's loaded with everything he'll need for longer than a week of wilderness travel -- sleep kit, food and cooking stuff, and big camera gear. I, ever over-self-laden, stand in awe.)

Back in the 1960s I was told that we would all soon be driving cars that could turn into a boat with the press of a button. That has not happened. But this bike/raft thing should help make up for it.

Trina, the dogs and I inflated her (non super-lightweight) kayak and joined these two packrafters (sans bikes) for a pleasant float down a swollen local river.

Mike nails the big rapid (cough cough) of the day.

Zeek already likes packrafting!

Runoff was high and the banks were full to overflowing. Which meant a little extra paddling along the road after we'd reached the take-out.

Speaking of afloat, due to the swollen local rivers, we've also had the chance to enjoy the water as we've pedaled around town on our evening dog-run rides. The high water has been flowing over the paved paths. Sometimes that has stopped us.

Sometimes it has not.

And, lest our faithful viewers think that this blog no longer has anything to do with mountain biking on actual dirt trails, I offer these recent photos. Okay. Stop reading this and go have fun out there!

Scene of the Grime

2011-06-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

Words and Photos by Greg

Our river trip ended on a windy day that kept getting windier. That night the tent shook as we tried to sleep. By morning the distant scenery had faded away into a sky full of grimy dust.

Normal:

With Grime:

We slunk upward onto the shoulder of the mountains, just below the fringes of snow that draped downward from the white, shining summits. With the wide vistas obscured, our eyes turned toward closer, more accessible scenery. I spent time lurking slowly through a small meadow observing the lives of small creatures and tiny spring flowers.

Beautiful smooth green snake. Unfortunately, squished in the dirt road.

The wind had blown in cooler weather, and we headed back toward drier country the next day. We discovered fossil snails formed in red agate.

A red-legged wasp briefly joined us in truck.

Red-tinged puffs cradled in dry juniper wood.

Red dog running. We returned to a scene where, a year-and-a-half ago, our then-new four-legged friend Sprocket had taken his very first mountain bike ride with us. Then, it was a revelation to see how fast he ran and how much he enjoyed it. We rode the track again. His speed and enthusiasm are no longer new to us. But it's nice to look back and to remember to appreciate his contribution to our little pack.

Labyrinth: Float Photos, part 3

2011-06-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

More photos by Greg

Zeek tried to pretend he was Sprocket by rolling in red dust.

Sprocket tried to pretend he was Zeek by rolling in whitened grass.

Sprocket helped us pull the boats out of the water.

Labyrinth: Float Photos, part 2

2011-06-10T18:11:00.000-07:00

Photos by Trina

Labyrinth: Float Photos, part 1

2011-06-10T17:58:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg

Our six day trip down the river took us eight days. And not because we had any trouble. Just that it was so relaxing and fun and because we stopped to explore all along the way. And because we had plenty of food. (And fuel!)

The river cut deeper and deeper into the canyon. The rock walls rose higher and higher. In the river we only paddled enough to keep from bouncing off the sides. There were side canyons to explore. We hiked up some. Others, we paddled into the calm waters that flooded them, feeling like jungle explorers as the channels narrowed and the trees and bushes crowded over us.

We found interesting rocks. Saw interesting creatures. Scanned the scenery with eyes and binoculars. Listened to the hidden birds that filled the wooded riverside with warble and song. Swam in a warm pool. Saw few other people. Sprawled in the sand with books.

Afternoon rainstorms chilled us. Sun bronzed us. Wind pushed us around. Quiet lulled us. The smell of wet muck bit into our noses. Ravens called out names we did not recognize.

After a few days, Sprocket relaxed and was no longer anxious to swim between our boats to make sure we were both fine. Though he still preferred it if we floated lazily with our boats locked together side-by-side. Which we didn't mind, since it made it easier to share snacks and eat lunch and to chat and nap.

We did happily diddle-dawdle the long days away. The photos probably tell the story best. Enjoy.

Labyrinth: The Fuel Incident

2011-06-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

Adventure comes in many forms, from mild to wild. On a scale of 1 to 10 most of our adventures are way down around the Fun-Not-Harrowing level. We aren't out making new discoveries. We don't boldly go where no one has gone before. We aren't going faster or higher or deeper or further. Only one of us does any pushing of the envelope. (Ha! Inside joke!)

Most of our "adventures" involve us discovering places where we've never been before. Or taking a fresh look at places we've been before or where we go all the time. Or just moving slowly enough through a place with our eyes, ears and noses wide open enough that we "discover" things we wouldn't notice at a faster, less attentive pace.

But there are times, despite our less-than-lofty aspirations, when we manage to get ourselves into a bit of trouble. Usually through the diligent application of our own stupidity. This time the fault was entirely mine. And my foolish neglect spiked the Danger Needle upward from This-Should-Be-Pleasant to That-Could-Be-Inconvenient.

The plan was to float down a river in small boats. Two of us. Two dogs. Two inflatable boats. The river was the type that flowed from a small outpost of civilization into barely inhabited lands, and then wound deeper and deeper into a desert stone canyon where there were no permanent inhabitants. It would be a nice escape from the rigors of the civilization that we like to pretend we can disconnect from.

Nearly 70 river miles. High, fast spring flow. We read that most folks take three or four days. We planned for six. Trina was busier than I was, so I packed all the food. Our boats were small but not tiny. We brought a tent, comfy sleeping bags, books, and plenty of warm clothes to get us through the expected wet chill of the first three days. Food was home-assembled backpacking-type stuff that would cook quickly or was ready-to-eat: small packets of granulated dinner, breakfast oatmeal, and -- most importantly -- Trina's morning coffee.

Since the boat was carrying the weight and not me, I decided to take my ol' highly convenient backpacking stove instead of the super-minimalist aluminum beer can alcohol stove I've been using for most trips lately. We packed everything into dry-bags for the river. And since we planned on camping for a few more days after getting off the river, we threw even more food and supplies into a tub that would stay in the truck.

It was late afternoon before we got to the boat ramp. By the time we had the boats inflated and the gear strapped in, dark stormy clouds were barging into the edge of the sunny sky. We parked the truck where Gil, the paid shuttle driver would pick it up and drive it to the end point of our river journey. Then we pushed off from shore into the wide river. High, swift and cold with spring meltwater. Thick with brown silt, floating branches and logs.

We bobbed in the water, fluttered our paddles, rocked our boats, getting used to the feel of having liquid beneath us. Zeek immediately found the front of Trina's boat, where he flopped down comfortably with his paws nearly in the water. Sprocket, however, was on his first boat trip and he was uncharacteristically anxious. He seemed fine with being in the boat and balancing on our gear bags or on the slippery curves of the inflated gunwales. But he seemed to want to be in whichever boat he wasn't in and spent his time squeaking and staring at the other boat.

The river's broad current carried us under two bridges to where empty beige hills and bluffs stretched away behind the brushy banks of the river. We paddled a little, mostly to keep ourselves away from the overflowing edges and off the drifts of logs and branches piled onto the peak of every island.

The pleasant floating ended as storm clouds boiled upward and over us. A shadow swallowed the sunshine and took the warmth from the air. Wind began to push our boats backwards and we had to paddle to make progress through the choppy water. Luckily we were almost to the first point of interest. We dragged the boats onto a strangely textured bank and lashed them.

The geyser was a man made phenomenon. Cold clear water spurts from a pipe where a test oil well was drilled in the 1930s. We took a look. There were orange terraces of deposited minerals overlaying older white mineral terraces. There was a rusty pipe where the geyser seemed to emerge, but wasn't spurting. Several well-used campsites surrounded the perimeter and a dirt road led away into the desert.

The dogs, happy to be on solid ground, were running rampant in the grey light. The wind shoved us around as we wandered. The river surface held the dark storm clouds in its choppy reflection. Trina studied the sky and said, "Why don't we just camp here?" I looked at the approaching storm. Scanned the wind patterns on the water. Four-and-a-half miles from our put-in. And plenty of time to do whatever we wanted. Why not, indeed?

It was spitting rain by the time we had the tent set up in the shelter of some scraggly tamarisk bushes. Soon we were inside listening to the rain pelt the tent while we read and played scrabble. Some people drove in on the dirt road to see the geyser and left again.

At dinner time we discovered our problem. The rain tapered off and daylight was fading when I got the camp kitchen set up, basically a pan, a stove, and... Um. Uh. "Darling, we may have a bit of a problem here." I had not packed the fuel canisters for the stove. Oops!

Six days ahead of us. No fuel. Getting dark. What to do? Things we knew: The fuel canisters were in the truck, but the truck was upriver and would be driven way downriver in the morning. No phones with us.

Should one of us hike to town? All of us? In the dark? In the morning? Along the river or on the road? If we missed the shuttle driver with our truck, would there be anywhere in the small town to find fuel?

After lots of hashing through possibilities we settled on a plan. We'd just do without the fuel. Why not? Humans have been traveling along rivers and cooking over firewood for tens of thousands of years. Surely we could do the same. It might be awkward, with the river full and no dry driftwood. It might be challenging to get rain-wet sticks to burn. It might be difficult to find safe places for a fire with all the sandbars and beaches underwater, and with stormy, windy weather expected for a couple more days. But what the heck. We had our legal fire pan and everything. No problem. Awkward, but no problem.

And we had a back-up plan. If anyone drove in to the geyser or came past on the river, we'd try to borrow a phone.

We slept snug while bouts of wind and rain rattled and spattered the tent. 5:30 a.m. We heard a motor. I stumbled out of the tent into predawn light. Two people in a skiff motoring past on the far side of the river, heading downstream fast with the current. I waved. They waved back and motored on. Oh.

Half hour later, I stumbled back out. Looked like the same boat coming back upstream and much slower. I waved again. They waved. Okay, time to get serious. I waved two arms over my head, feeling like something of an idiot. Is forgetting one's fuel really an emergency? They pulled to our side of the river. Two young men and a big black and white dog. They were working for the Utah Division of Wildlife, had a cell phone and were happy to help. I called our shuttle driver and woke him up. "The geyser?" he croaked. "I can be there in an hour."

"No, take your time, Gil. There's no hurry as long as we know you're coming." I said. He said he'd bring the truck at 9:00 and we'd get the fuel out of the truck and all would be good. Whoo! I was feeling pretty thrilled about saving us from the "disaster" I'd created. Until I realized that the true disaster was nearly upon us. Trina would not last until 9:00 without coffee.

Oh gol. What to do. The area was picked clean of firewood. There were plenty of scrubby sticks if they weren't too wet from the night's rain. Or... BING! Even though I hadn't brought my beer can alcohol stove, I had thrown in a little 4-ounce bottle of alcohol, thinking disinfectant or back-up or maybe we'd decide for the first time in our lives to get rip roaring drunk. (Would 4-ounces be enough for that?) I searched around (for about 12 seconds) and found someone's discarded beer can, then got to work on it with my knife. About four minutes later, working from memory of the simple can/stoves I'd seen pictures of, I had a stove.

About 4 minutes after that, Trina had boiling water. Not long after that, Trina had coffee. At 9:00, we had canisters of fuel for the "real" stove.

The day. The trip. Officially saved.

Floral Overflow

2011-06-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

by Greg

Rivers are flowing high and filling their banks to the brim. Which made it seem like a good time to slip away from home for a few days to explore one wide streamer of water where it writhed through the desert canyon country. It was (nearly) the world's least X-treme adventure (more on that soon...) The real hard-core adventure happened upon our return, when we found a JUNGLE where we'd left the garden.

We waded in with our machetes, hacking down all weeds from where they were trying to choke the life out of our vegetables. Beneath the mayhem, the veggies were doing fine. Not much to eat out there right now, though we did find some radishes and there are plenty of green onions.

Meanwhile, the rivers aren't the only thing running high and flowing over, Trina's flowers had gone happily wild as well. Waves of bright columbines, soapworts, irises, roses and other luscious blossoms were spilling over every border, pot and wall. Often when it's a jungle out there, it's a good thing.

Wilderness Schmilderness

2011-05-19T13:56:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

Regular perusers of our blog will note that we have a tendency to swing between two poles. On one end, we seem to gravitate toward the homey comfort of Trina's kitchen and garden, often with dogs on our laps. In the other direction, we slip away to where plants and creatures inhabit wild, lonely places.

Each of these is a method of escape in which we try to deny or ignore the whole of civilization at large. Each, a refuge amid the broad peoplescape that confounds us and causes us dismay. A haven from the dark mark that the preponderance of humanity tends to stamp into the face of the earth.

Last weekend we set off (from Trina's homey kitchen) into Wilderness. Despite our interest in avoiding civilization (and denying our tangible connection to it) we rarely visit places that are designated Wilderness with a capital W. Mostly because we like to ride our bicycles and because the capital W disallows our use of bicycles within.

We accept that, in general. We believe there are places where bicycles should not be ridden. There are landscapes too delicate, too easily disturbed. Places where we feel the marks of humanity should be minimized and that any remaining semblance of the ancient natural world should be left as undisturbed as possible.

We loaded our backpacks and headed for Wilderness. Headed out to tread lightly on the land. Headed out with the hope that we would find ourselves on a narrow trail amid a wide, wild landscape. Instead, we found a swath of desert that had been trampled. We found multiple trails braiding through an area where a single trail had been. We found squished cacti and mauled flowers and torn trees. We found ravaged patches of cryptobiotic crust, the hard layer of mixed dirt, fungi and mosses which (they tell us) keep the fragile desert soil from blowing away, which promote the healthy growth of other desert plants, which allow the native animals to thrive in their habitats. We found places where mud had been churned into a barnyard stew and left to dry in the sun. All because cattle had been pushed through and had grazed the area.

We might be to blame. We eat meat. And we've even begun to believe that meat from animals that are free to range instead of being crowded together in factory farms is better for us and our planet. Our irritation at the destruction around us was cause for bile, but also cause for questions.

Is there really anything wild about wilderness in this age of "management"? Was our reaction a fully informed one? Are the soils really delicate? Is something of the future lost when it is damaged today? Is the trampling of cows an important replacement for the trampling of whatever wild beasts used to roam? Were we just reactionary "greenies" with chips on our shoulders and no understanding of the Real World? Why can a "Wilderness" area be ravaged by herd of roaming cattle and off limits to trail-ridden bicycles? If wilderness is so important, was it appropriate for us to be there at all?

We were there. Expecting to immerse ourselves in a wild location. But those expectations had to be modified somewhat. We had to go back to our usual mental games of looking the other way. Of focusing on the good things around us. Of seeing a larger view where the details of damage were more easily ignored. Of paying attention to the small creatures and plants that survived in the cracks between the ravages of civilization and the footprint of our own species' lives and greed.

It's a mental game we play constantly. We had sought a refuge inside the bounds of Wilderness. Very little refuge was found. We did, as we usually do, manage to enjoy the game. Three days. Two nights. Rough trail. Fast flowing creek. Sandstone and granite. But our idea of Wilderness, like the wild canyon where we wandered, was not left undisturbed.

Horsehair Worm!

Canyon "tree" frog.

We Ride

2011-05-11T22:44:00.000-07:00

Photos by Greg and Trina

We ride. And we appreciate where bikes take us, whether town or trail. Some recent photos from recent rides.

Zeek was on restricted activity for a month while he healed from what the vet thought was a (hopefully minor, not requiring surgery) knee injury. For the around town rides that Sprocket desperately needed -- on days we weren't mountain biking -- we were carting Zeek around in a trailer,

or in a panier, rather like the royal prince that he is.

Small Spring Things

2011-05-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

Photos by Greg and Trina

Just a few of the small signs of the season from the garden and the trail.

Garden: ornamental flowers

Garden: fruit blossoms

Garden: last year's sunflowers, this year's frost

Streetside: dead starling

Garden: fruit blossoms after frost

Sidewalk: ants in stars!

Sidewalk: at the center of each star, a torn part of an ant. Ew! Cool!

Trailside: cliff fendlerbush blossoms

Garden: tulip

Trailside: dinosaur bone!

Riverside: goslings!

Trailside: the aromatic fringed gromwell

Desert Rush

2011-05-11T17:15:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

The spring season, like ocean waves, has been rushing in and sweeping out. The snow has vanished, returned, and vanished again. Flowers and fruit trees have blossomed, then frozen. Snow has become rain then sunshine and hot, dry wind. Then back to rain and more snow in the high country.

One hot summer day amid all this spring weather, several days after the most recent snow, Trina, the dogs and I headed off into a corner of the desert. The target: a canyon where cool water cuts through a gash in the dry landscape. We find something satisfying about the rush of chilly wetness in the midst of bare rock and scrubby plateaus. We entertain ourselves by sitting quietly near the burble and flow, letting the water and the world move past us. Or by tromping up or down the water course, finding ways around cliffy corners and past waterfalls.

One might think that the creek's green lushness would be where spring flowers were blooming, but most of the blossoms we saw were from desert adapted plants in the surrounding dry country. We waded and explored and just sat absorbing. Blazing sunshine on winter skin. Cool shade under fresh cottonwood leaves. Icy water splashing into chilly mist. Warm smell of red rock. Small creatures wandering their wide worlds. Bright warbles of birds that stayed hidden from us.

The hot day slid behind a veil of clouds as the evening drove toward darkness and as we drove homeward. By morning the hot summer day was a memory. Cold rain and near-freezing winds blew into the valley as the wave of the season rushed outward again.

Earthdog

2011-05-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

Photos by Trina and Greg

Guess who will be sleeping on Greg's side of the bed tonight.

Local Flow

2011-04-25T20:27:00.000-07:00

Text and photos: Greg

I rode out to the local trails this evening. Stormy clouds were rolling fast and low over the valley. It had rained for much of the weekend, but -- except for a few small puddles -- the trails were dry. Better than dry. They were firm and grippy. Hero dirt, it is often called. Tires grabbed corners without letting go and I dove in and held on, feeling like a hero and grinning like a fool.

Swoop and flow of trail. Whir of wind and tread. Twists of bare trees against the boiling sky. Hard corners of rock. Scent of wild blossoms and a kaleidoscope of pink and white, yellow and red, lavender and green blurring past the edge of vision. Legs pumping, heart pounding, breath racing. Everything coming together until it was not me on a bike. Only a bundle of senses sweeping over the surface of a complex and beautiful world. Lighting the way ahead with the bright beam of a smile.

***

On a brighter springtime evening a few days ago, Mike and I headed out onto the same trails. Our intent, I suppose, was to use our cameras to try to capture that feeling of losing oneself in the flow and sensory overload of the ride. Perhaps ironically, our pace was much slower. We rode and shot, shot and rode. Until evening passed into twilight. My photos below. Check here for Mike's.

AZ: Sedona Vortex

2011-04-25T04:39:00.000-07:00

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

The final installment of our AZ trip recap:

A dome of stars arched over the dome of our tent. A late moon. A crisp morning sunrise. We pack up our last camp of the trip and head from wilder places into the whirl of civilization.

We both have an uneasy relationship with civilization. We're part of it. We know that. But we manage to feel as if we're not connected with it, or at least not responsible for it. As if we wouldn't mind if civilization were to careen onward and leave us behind, bobbing in its dirty wake, waiting for the water to clear and the waves to calm.

So instead of heading pell mell into the strange civilization of Sedona, we stop short, linger near the fringe. We leave the truck in a parking lot where hordes of other tourists lumber from huge buses to gawp at the towers of red rock, cheap cameras snapping away at the parked cars, the surrounding fence, themselves posed in front of what may be, in the distant background, a glorious mountain of stone. We grab our bikes and ride away onto a weaving red snake of a trail that stalks the highway, then slithers away toward the naked red stone.

The trail fulfills our mountain bike desires, with sections of fast swooping curves and packed dirt, shallow stairs of terraced rock, twisted climbs, smooth stone, tight squeezes, small drops, and short, punchy hills. The bright blue of the sky explodes with white clouds and sunshine. The wildness of the ride belies the fact that we're never far from the weary stuff of the city of Sedona, which bleeds into the valleys and oozes onto mountains, overlaying the burst of red rock and soil from the deeper earth with money and arrogance, with "second" homes and commercial inanity.

We turn our eyes instead, toward the juniper and pinyon trees, to the soaring red cliffs, to the narrow band of trail that leads us onward. And turn blind eyes to the scourge of civilization. The same blind eyes that prefer not to see that the truck we arrived in, the roads we arrived on, the food we eat and the bikes we ride all tether us to the civilization we claim to deny.

The very trail, slipping as is does stealthily between the cracks of the more obvious machinery of humanity, is a product of that same machine. If there were no one here to ride, there would be no trail. Or if a trail, a humble and rough one, molded by the hooves of deer, perhaps, not the rollicking roller coaster upon which we now plunge and soar.

The sunshine is warm, but a blue breeze stalks the ridge tops, pulling chill from our sweat. The breeze must also bear dust or pollen from a distant place, for Trina is having a spectacular allergy attack. She is snorting and hacking and repeatedly riding up to me shouting "See? See?" angling her face toward me. I am supposed to look at her in shock and horror at the vast river of snot that is running down her upper lip, dripping free, and coating the trail in a thick layer of mucus and slime. But to me it never looks like much more than a thin bead of moisture below her nose and I repeatedly fail to be impressed, which causes her much disappointment.

Zeek is in the truck enjoying a day of rest. Sprocket might as well not be with us, as he so closely matches the color of the red dirt that we can hardly see him. We ride stone shelves past people lost in meditation or the contemplation of UFOs. We bump up and down rocky staircases. We skim near a swift little river. And swoop and holler along the trail.

Lunch is served trailside overlooking the lifestyles of the rich and famous, backed by desert trees and shrubs, and carpeted -- very thinly -- with a few early spring flowers. The bright day begins to dim behind high, fast-moving clouds. We turn back and enjoy the reverse of our morning ride, now grunting where we had swooped down, and swooping where we had climbed in the morning, still managing to grin despite the miles in our legs.

Back at the truck, we take Zeek for a quick taste of the trail, then load up and head out, fleeing the mayhem that creates a whirling vortex around Sedona. We head toward home, not leaving civilization behind, to be sure. But perhaps slipping stealthliy over long miles through the cracks between the noise and bright glare of our civilization. Heading homeward to where we do our best to find a quiet space where we can keep to our own warm glow.

AZ: Picketpost

2011-04-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

More catch-up photos from our Arizona trip. Our next ride was yet another section of the AZT, this time near the jank-town of Superior. We'd tried to ride the Picketpost section the previous year, but had gotten rained out.

We spent the morning in camp, busily studying bird song, taking sample photos of botanical specimens, and measuring the changing intensity of solar radiation as a thin layer of cloud burned away. Important scientific stuff.

By early afternoon, we'd made it to the trailhead where we boldly charged past the large AZT sign onto a wide jeep road that quickly disintegrated and became a rocky wash with no real trail to follow. The going was tough and we were walking lots of it and I kept thinking, wow, this doesn't seem to be the kind of trail that anyone would be very enthusiastic about. But then an actual trail crossed in front of us and we realized that we'd probably missed the other end of it somewhere.

Once we were on the actual trail, the going got much better. It was a smooth climb that took us around the back side of Picketpost Mountain and headed steadily toward a high ridge. We wound slowly upward through the saguaro scenery, sharp peaks and ridges punching upward in the distance.

Trina and Zeek stopped for a nap in the sunshine while Sprocket and I rambled onward. We made it to where the trail seemed to top out and began to head downward into harsh and beautiful canyons. The view was enticing, but we turned around and headed back to gather up the other two. Then all together we headed back down the way we'd come.

We swooped downward on the curvy trail, grinning and spinning. When we got to where we'd dragged ourselves out of the rocky wash, we turned onto the section of trail we'd missed on the way up. Or... At least we hoped it was the trail that would lead us back to the trailhead.

This section of trail was so fun that, for a while, we didn't really care where it was going. Nice flowing singletrack punctuated with rocky sections that kept us challenged and alert. We were having a great time, but the day was starting to fade. Were we really on the right trail? Were we headed toward the truck? Would we make it before dark? We kept on riding through the golden light beneath the glowing cliffs of the mountain.

There was still daylight left when we popped out at the trailhead, just to one side of where we'd foolishly ridden up the jeep road and into the wash. (The route which was -- foolishly, we thought -- right behind the main AZT trail sign.)

Happily tired and hungry, we loaded bikes and dogs and drove off into the sunset toward civilization, where in the midst of miles and miles of completely generic strip-mall American chain restaurants, we happened to stumble through the doors of a funky dive* that served us some of the best Mexican food we've had. Then we slipped away into the darkness and slid past the glittering hulk of greater Phoenix and back into wilder lands where we slept under bright, crisp stars while coyotes sang lonely songs to a lonely land where we did not feel alone.

*Elvira's Mexican Restaurant in Apache Junction. Go there. It's the kind of place that should be kept alive.

AZ: Sonorascape

2011-04-05T13:57:00.000-07:00

Words and Photos by Greg and Trina

I suppose it's a good sign. Good that we're still catching up on our posts from our trip to Arizona in February. It must mean that we are having plenty of fun in the here and now. But please, allow us to take you back to the day after our La Milagrosa (mis)adventure.

We did another short ride on a section of the AZT near Colossal Cave. Short, yes, and fairly easy. But we were tired enough from the day before that it worked us over pretty good. Still, it was fun to zoom along through the cactus when the trail turned downward.

After the ride, it was time for us to begin our slow way homeward and northward with more fun expected along the way. We spent a couple days of traveling and had a couple campouts where we were happy to relax in the desert and let the flora, fauna colors, shapes and scenery of the Sonora fill our senses.

We had to implement a leash law when we camped in Aravaipa. The beautiful cactus forest was so densely carpeted with cholla and other injurious prickles that the dogs couldn't take two steps without needing cactus spines removed from their pads. We figured they'd benefit from the rest anyway, and based on the amount of dozing that was going on, that seemed to have been the right call.

Red-eyed Phainopepla eating mistletoe berries

A challenging approach to a glorious hillside camp with views so spectacular as to justify the extra effort of getting there... if the thrill of getting partially airborn isn't enough justification in itself.