A Snapshot and The Scoop: An Indulgence

Is it really a trip to the Buena Vista area in Colorado without a stop at the St. Elmo ghost town and a visit with a bunch of adorable furry friends? (The answer is no, btw.) Torrey and I had cut our mountain climbing short by a day and found ourselves with free time to indulge. We began with a visit to St. Elmo, a ghost town on the slopes of Mount Princeton where mining operations once created a booming industry. When the railroad moved away from the area and the mining dried up, the town was abandoned by all but a dedicated few, who have worked hard over the years to preserve their little corner of Colorado history. The town has few permanent residents, aside from the three species of squirrels that live near a pile of old railroad ties at the town center. I've written about these cuties before, and I'll continue to write about them every time we visit. #sorrynotsorry

TROT Virtual Race #1: Brazos Bend 50K

Self-sufficient. I hadn't exactly intended to run this particular race. I hadn't been planning on running it even before COVID-19 and quarantine and social distancing hit us all. I had been signed up to volunteer at an aid station for the race at Brazo's Bend State Park down by Houston, my preferred place to see gators, but when the race directors cancelled every race from late February through May my volunteering was cancelled as well. Then they rolled out the virtual options for the cancelled races, offering the same distances, bibs, shirts, and medals a participant would receive during the in-person race, with the slight adjustment of letting each person run when they can, where they can. I was sold.

Running a virtual race versus an in-person race is pretty much the same thing: you put one foot in front of the other and run the distance you signed up for in what is hopefully a decent amount of time. There are a few significant differences though, as I discovered during my first TROT (Trail Racing Over Texas) Virtual Run. First and foremost, you don't have the social aspect of the race when you're doing it on your own. In this case that's the whole point, but I found myself missing the other runners and race volunteers, all of whom would normally be ready with an encouraging word and a heap of snacks at the aid stations. The aid stations were another thing I sorely missed; instead of having a table full of a variety of foods, electrolytes, and water refills, I was responsible for my own fuel during my run, carried my own water, and otherwise had to take care of myself. Sure, I could have planned my course so that I did loops or laps that took me back to my car every 5-10 miles so that I could refuel there and not carry so much, but I don't yet have the will-power to keep going when I could easily call it quits, get in my car, and go home. During a virtual race, you are also responsible for planning your own route. While there are advantages to that (hello flat trails and no elevation gain!) there are also disadvantages in the form of poor planning or just plain boring routes. Again, I could have planned my route to take me past my car somewhat frequently, but I didn't want to risk giving up. Instead, I planned a route that would take me 13+ miles away from my car, essentially forcing me to complete the distance so long as I didn't turn around before I hit the end of the trail.

While I would have preferred to run the race on the originally intended course at Brazo's Bend, I think I did rather well for myself considering I changed plans about half a dozen times. When I signed up for this race I had hoped to run it at my local state park, so that I could be close to home and because I already know the trails there. That idea was dashed when Texas closed all the state parks in response to the virus, because apparently people here (and everywhere, really) can't follow instructions to social distance. I toyed with the idea of running on the roads around my house, but I get horrible shin splints when I run on concrete and really didn't want to suffer that much. Then I hoped to run the race on a national recreation trail about an hour south of my house, in the heart of one of four national forests here in Texas, but further digging the night before I wanted to run led to the discovery that most of the 20 mile trail is closed for one reason or another. Finally, I decided to run a trail I've hiked a few times in the past, when breaking my own personal distance records in previous years: Turkey Creek Trail at Big Thicket National Preserve.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting myself into for this run. I'd hiked Turkey Creek Trail before, knew it was flat, if somewhat boggy in places, and it was roughly 20 miles from end to end. Hurricane Harvey wrecked havoc on the preserve and surrounding area, though, and did enough damage to the south end of the trail that they had to close it until repairs can be made. This left me with just about 14 miles to work with, running out and back, plus adding another four miles somewhere to hit that 50k mark, or 31.1 miles. I could do it. And I was bringing Ghost, too.

Ghost has found his purpose in life ever since I started running with him. He's a giant baby and hates water and heights, but if I take him out for a run he forgets everything except keeping pace with (or leading) me. We arrived at the northern trailhead for Turkey Creek just before 8am on a cloudy, cool April morning, and set out right after loading up with food and water. Ghost has his own backpack, which allows him to carry his own snacks, water, and bowl, and gives me a break from carrying extra weight. I have my own hydration vest - a gift from Torrey - that is more than sufficient to carry water, sweet and salty snacks, a rain jacket, and other little things that I would otherwise find at an aid station table. I'm generally adamant about being self-sufficient (probably a trait from backpacking and my Type A personality) and while I would have liked to ditch the weight of so many bottles of water and instead filled up at aid stations, I had no issue in relying on myself to provide what I needed. Covered in bug spray and satisfied we had everything we needed, we began.

I am not, and never will be, a fast runner. I am much more invested in distance, in pushing myself as far as I can go, in the mental battle that takes place between the logical part of me that screams what the fuck do you think you're doing, you can't go that far, and the tiny but much louder part of me that crosses her arms, raises her eyebrows, and snaps back yes, I can. I am perfectly happy with a 12, 13, or 14 minute mile. Hell, 12 minute miles are fast for me. I am just fine with power hiking when I need a break. And so I am okay with the fact that Ghost and I started out great with 12 minute miles, then eventually slowed to 16 minute miles, with a few 20 minute miles sprinkled in when I slowed down to eat a bag of M&Ms and a handful of pretzles at miles 5, 15, and 25. And those two 10-minute breaks I took at miles 10 and 20 to change my socks, eat half a Kind bar and a pickle spear, and dig out another water bottle from the bottom of my pack? No big deal.

I took the social distancing orders to heart on this race, and only saw three other human beings during the entire 31 miles, and all of them were at the trailhead as I was finishing up. On the trail itself, other than a plethora of bugs, I saw two other living creatures: a young coyote who we surprised as we rounded a bend in the trail, whom I locked eyes with before it turned tail and fled up the path before disappearing in the brush, and a copperhead snake (yes, one of the venomous ones here in Texas) whom Ghost stepped right over before I even saw it stretched across the trail, whom didn't even move as I gave a dramatic gasp and jump away from it, yanking Ghost by the leash. Neither the coyote nor the snake bothered us, and we went on our way though I was decidedly more vigilant after seeing the copperhead. I had been in a headspace that's almost a trance, the meditation state that I fall into during long runs where I'm just aware enough to keep to the trail but also removed enough to not notice how my muscles ache, how my toes are sore, how my heartbeat throbs in my fingers. After the little reminder that there are things in the woods that could send my day into a downward spiral of awfulness I was a little more aware of my surroundings, and definitely kept my eyes on the trail both in front of myself and in front of Ghost.

We reached the beginning of the trail and my car at mile 27, right around seven hours after setting out. After a quick refill of water bottles and a purging of empty ones, reapplying bug spray because the mosquitoes were swarming after the repellent wore off after twenty miles and Ghost and I were being eaten alive, plus ditching Ghost's pack, we ran back to the trail. I needed to hit 31.1 miles to reach a 50k distance, and so needed to run out and back just a couple of miles. I was in no danger of quitting, despite being near my car; I was only four miles from finishing this, I felt great, and Ghost was happy to be without his pack. We were good! It's almost stupid to admit, but the only concern I had was my phone battery dying. I used my phone to track my distance and time, and if it died on me before I finished I wasn't sure if it would record my run or if it would be lost. I ran my fastest four miles at the very end of the race, desperate for my phone battery to last. I had 10% charge, and watched that number drop at an alarming rate during the last mile. I all but sprinted it, huffing and puffing through a stitch in my side and burning calf muscles, Ghost loping alongside me with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic as I ran circles around the tiny trailhead parking lot, trying to hit the last two tenths of a mile that would push me firmly over to my 50k distance. When I saw my distance numbers roll over I practically sobbed with relief, sprinting over to my car to plug my phone in while also hitting "finish" and "save workout" on the running app.

Only once I was sure that my phone was charging and my run was saved did I allow myself a little happy dance for completing my second 50K ever, my fourth race total. I showered Ghost with love and treats, so incredibly proud of him for not only finishing his first 50K distance but leading me for the entire way. He never once dragged behind, never once showed any sort of wish to slow down or stop. There were even times when he would pull insistently on the leash, clearly wanting to go faster, and it is probably because of him that I managed to shave 12 minutes off my time for that distance, finishing this 50K race in 7 hours 46 minutes. We will definitely be running a 50K together again, and it just so happens that I'm signed up for two more virtual races of that distance, with plans to sign up for four more once registration opens next month. While I might not have originally intended to run the Brazos Bend 50, and although I missed some of the things that come with a supported in-person race, virtual racing has definitely grown on me, and I'm absolutely sure Ghost enjoys it too.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Shooting Wildife

I had so much fun spotting and following this herd of Desert Bighorn Sheep during my visit to Valley of Fire State Park. Myself and another pair of guys followed the herd by car at first, then when they got closer we pulled over and pulled out our cameras, planting ourselves on the side of the road and watching them graze, wander, and head-butt for a good twenty or so minutes. Although it was bright and sunny out, the wind was blustery and by the time the herd moved off down the valley I was shivering, teeth chattering as I bid the other photographers goodbye. It's always fun to get good shots of animals doing what they naturally do - from the safety of a proper distance and a zoom lens.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Kaleidoscope, An East Coast Epic Story

Other than monarchs, I have never seen butterflies congregate in groups like the one pictured above until I visited Great Smoky Mountains National Park this last summer. Some kind of swallowtail, the beautiful black and blue wings of this butterfly caught my eye as they fluttered slowly while resting in the grass near several pull-outs in the park. I can hardly be blamed for thinking of fairy circles and little dances, though this photo was taken mid-morning instead of at midnight. I took far too many pictures of these groups of butterflies (called a kaleidoscope!) during the short time I spent at the park, but I am definitely not sorry.

East Coast Epic: The Park of My Dreams

Euphoric. If I could designate a national park it would include miles and miles of curvy, winding roads with mountain views and forests that go on forever. I'd add a dash of history and a liberal sprinkling of wildlife. Of course, there would be hundreds of miles of hiking trails, so many that it would take a lifetime to complete them all, and I would make sure they were all connected so a visitor could pick their trail and length depending on how much they wanted to tackle. I'd make sure there were front country developed campgrounds and a healthy amount of backcountry campsites available for all camper skill sets, and maybe even a lodge because you never know where you might want to stay. Doesn't this park sound amazing? It turns out I don't have to designate anything, because Shenandoah National Park already exists.

Considering it's a part of the national parks system, Shenandoah has been on my list of places to see ASAP, but it's a bit of a drive for me to get there and so requires more than just a whim to go. My East Coast Epic seemed like the perfect opportunity to hit it up, and it was the very first park I planned to see when sitting down to map out a route a couple days before I left. Same as Niagara, I did minimal research about the park, merely confirming plenty of campgrounds and how to get there, so I really wasn't prepared for the sheer awesomeness that is a park dedicated to scenic drives. The park encompasses over a hundred miles of meandering mountain road that trails along an elevated ridge of the Blue Mountains, often the tallest peaks in the area. Expanding into the surrounding forests, a hundred-mile section of the Appalachian National Scenic Trail parallels the road and serves as a jumping point for (relatively) shorter hikes throughout the park. These shorter hikes take visitors to rocky overlooks and towering waterfalls, often starting right from overlooks along the road.

Apparently I visited during prime season, as a million wildflowers were in bloom in every clearing and meadow, with monarchs floating on every breeze. I spent most of an afternoon driving the park road, taking it easy at the park's 35 mph speed limit and enjoying life with my windows down. I got out to hike once that afternoon, strapping on my hiking shoes and hitting a trail that followed the AT to a junction, where I turned off to a rocky overlook called Stony Man. From there I headed to Big Meadows Campground and got myself a site for the night, complete with a bear locker and all. I looked, oh boy did I look, but I missed out on bears in the park and was so disappointed! Next time I'll see one!

I had no plans (theme. of. the. trip.) that evening, so once I set up camp I made my way on foot from the campground to Dark Hollow Falls. I connected my campsite to the Story of the Forest Trail, crossed the park road, and made my way down the Dark Hollow Falls Trail to the falls themselves. And what a set of waterfalls! It's been a while since I've hiked to a good set of forest falls, and these did not disappoint. 70 feet tall, water cascades down a series of rocky outcrops as the Rose River flows down the Blue Mountains. You can get right up to the base of the falls on the trail, close enough to feel the mist as the river plunges into its pool to continue on its way, and I more than enjoyed the spray as I rested at the foot of the falls.

I had quite a cute little encounter on my way back to camp as the sun set over the forest: skunks! Three little kits foraged right off the trail next to a stream, and I spent way longer than necessary taking pictures and videos of the cuties along with a few other hikers. We were never threatened by them, and one of them was brave enough to get quite close to us, though we backed up whenever it approached. They were absolutely adorable, and I was beside myself seeing them on the trail.

I finished my drive the next morning, making a point to stop at every single overlook along the park road. I was still in my wrist brace at this point, and though I didn't want to risk falling on a strenuous hike I was itching to get on a trail. I made plenty of notes about which trails I'd hike (all of them) the next time I visit, and spent a great deal of time unsuccessfully looking for bears every chance I got. The Blue Ridge Parkway extends from the park's southern border, though I was disappointed I wouldn't get to drive it this summer it is one of those iconic scenic drives that I will make sure to do within the next few years. This time, though, I was headed to a cave and wanted to be there early enough to snag a campsite. I left Shenandoah behind with the promise to myself and that park that I'd be back.

East Coast Epic: Island Escape

Gladdened. Nobody wants to go to the beach when it's storming, but I wasn't there for the beach. Well, not just for the beach. I made my way from New York down to Assateague Island National Seashore on the Maryland/Virginia coast, bound and determined to visit ever since I began following their social media accounts. You see, Assateague hosts a population of wild horses, and even though I don't consider myself a horse person these particular ones captured my attention and practically demanded to be seen. It was storming when I reached the visitor center, and continued to storm as I crossed the bay bridge onto the island proper, where I was immediately greeted by a group of horses standing on the side of the road in the downpour. I found the campground and waited out the rain in my car, pouring over the island map and noting which trails I wanted to explore. The roads are minimal on the island unless you have a vehicle that can handle driving on sand, so I was confined to the paved portions and wherever I could reach by foot. Which wasn't looking like anywhere with the storm still rolling through.

Eventually the rain lightened enough for me to make my way to the oceanside beach, where I was pelted with rain drops and sea spray but didn't give a shit because I was staring at the ocean. The Atlantic Ocean, which I couldn't help but note the fact that I was supposed to be staring at the Pacific Ocean, perhaps right that minute, if things had gone the way I thought my summer was going to go. Instead I was alone on the other side of the country, and couldn't find it in me to be upset about that fact. I watched the clouds roil above me and the ocean churn beyond the beach and all I felt was a giddy happiness that can only come from being right where I wanted to be.

Eventually the rain parted and the clouds lifted and glorious sunshine filled the sky, but I wouldn't have cared if it had kept raining all day. I was on a barrier island on the Atlantic Ocean, I'd already seen horses and knew I'd be seeing more, and I had a dry car to sleep in if I couldn't set my tent up. I had no care and no worries. I began exploring the island trails, first walking along a boardwalk on the bay side of the island, suspended above the brackish wetlands while watching blue crabs scuttle among the reeds. Then I wandered toward the center of the island where loblolly pines tolerate salty conditions to form forests that shelter horses, deer, and other wildlife. From there I traversed the sea dunes, that first line of defense between the ocean and the rest of the island.

I spent a lot of time at the beach, driving to different areas and walking as far as I wanted. It was almost chilly after the storm, the sky still partly cloudy and the threat of more rain on the horizon. I saw horses almost everywhere I went, though none as close in the campground where I eventually pitched my tent among damp grasses. The horses on Assateague are wild, and I had no desire to get within any sort of distance of them, happily observing them from my car while watching some not-so-smart people approach way too closely. It was recommended all over the island to treat the horses like you would a bear, which was advice I wholeheartedly embraced. I really didn't want to be bitten or kicked, especially considering I was still sporting my wrist brace.

Evening on the island settled softly, and there wasn't a drop of rain overnight. I woke before dawn, which is pretty usual on my travels, and made my way to the ocean to catch the sunrise. I was surprised to see quite a few people milling around, though whether they were still enjoying themselves from the night before or were up early like myself it was impossible to tell, and it didn't matter. I wasn't there for them. I pointed my lens to the east and waited for the sun.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Living on Cacti

Did you know there are birds out there whose whole lives revolve around cacti? Take the Gila Woodpecker, pictured above, for example. This little bird nests inside cavities in saguaro cacti, they eat the bugs that live on and near saguaros, they raise their fledglings and learn to fly off of saguaros. Can you see in the photo how this little one is perching on the top of the cacti? How freakin' neat is that!? While I was busy snapping photos of these birds in the early morning sun at Saguaro National Park near Tucson, AZ, Hoodoo was busy watching them intently with the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. Don't worry, he was on leash and I would never let him hurt a bird, but it was kind of adorable to watch. My adventure kitten being a real cat! He wouldn't have gotten too far, though, we were absolutely surrounded by cacti of all kinds. What a great defense mechanism, huh?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Find the Gator

A recent weekend spent down along the Gulf Coast of Texas yielded more than even I had hoped when planning my get-away. The first stop of the day was Brazos Bend, my go-to place for alligators. These living dinosaurs live in the park year-round, as they do in most of east and south Texas, but heading there in the winter when the plant life has died back a bit makes the gators even easier to see. I saw eleven gators on this trip, including a huge one out of the water just off the trail. I had both Hoodoo and Callie with me, but I kept them in my arms while skirting the edges of the lakes and sloughs, not at all interested in losing one of my babies to a hungry gator. While I am absolutely positive there were way more than eleven gators who could see me, their camouflage and general lack of movement made them less than easy to find. A little thrill of excitement shot through me every time I managed to spot one, looking more for their angular head or their serrated tail than anything else.

Leave me a comment and tell me if you see the gator in the photo above! I have several more photos of gators that are hidden even better!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Good Luck or Bad Luck - BEAR!

Another year, another week adventuring in Colorado with Torrey, and another BEAR!! This time around the bear in question was in an established campground, attempting to get into the dumpster. Torrey saw him first as he ran across the campground road in front of us (we were in the car, driving around to find a suitable campsite) and pointed him out to me. We stopped not to far from where he was trying to get into the site's bear box, which is pictured above. When he was unsuccessful he sniffed around the site, but when he got close to a tent I honked my car horn and he ran off. After we found the camp host and reported our sighting, showing him the videos and pictures we took, the campsite's occupant came to find us. The older lady only had her dog with her, and at the time of the bear's visit she was asleep in her tent - like, the same tent the bear had been sniffing around. She thanked us for scaring it off, and we chatted a bit more, with her debating whether or not to sleep in her car that night. We never found out if she slept in her car or not, but I can tell you one thing: Torrey and I sure did! We didn't even bother setting up the tent that night, prefering to stay in the safety of a hard-sided vehicle. We had no more sightings of the bear, and actually slept great while in our car. I doubt we would have slept as soundly if we'd been in our tent... That being said, I still think we're incredibly lucky to have seen a bear in the mountains for two years in a row!

Grand Teton Part 2: Death Canyon

Demanding. Starting our second day in the backcountry with an argument was probably not the way to do things. Alisha and I had driven to the trailhead for our second night's camp at Death Canyon in Grand Teton National Park a little later in the morning than either of us really liked, and Alisha was trying to convince me to forgo camping that night in favor of not running into the thunderstorms that were sure to build. I was obstinate, even to the point of telling her I would go alone and she could camp wherever she liked, as long as she was back to pick me up the next morning. We were in the Tetons, damn it, and it rains in the mountains. We'd been wet before, we survived, it would be ok to get a little wet this time too. I ended up winning, although not without hearing her grumble about it for a long while afterwards.

Unfortunatley, I began wishing I wasn't so stubborn about halfway up our hike to the camping area. The trail was not nice, one continuously strenuous stretch of exposed loose rock along a mountain side under a sun that beat down and forced us to stop in the shade at every chance. We passed other hikers, some of whom showed obvious signs of altitude sickness, and determinedly forged ahead all while silently (on my part) wishing we were done. It wasn't until we turned onto the camping spur that the clouds began to build, and with the first rumbles of thunder and drops of rain came my sister's glare. We hurried along, trying our best to make noise so we'd give any bears nearby a warning that we were there so as not to surprise any on the trail. Then it began to rain, though we were under enough tree cover that the light rain only gently dripped down on us. Until it rained harder. And harder. And began to hail. At that point I'm pretty sure my sister was so mad at me she would have spit fire if she were physically capable of doing so, and I suggested dinner right there on the trail, sheltering under a thick bough of evergreen limbs, because what else could we do? We couldn't move in the hail, and didn't particularly want to move in the rain if we could avoid it, so hey, let's eat.

We made dinner right in the middle of a muddy trail, and I did my best to make the most out of the situation and not wish for the warm and dry interior of my car. We got pretty lucky and as the rain eased when we finished eating, and we made our way forward as quickly as we could, eager to get the tent up at the first suitable site. Once again, though, my stubbornness won out and we passed by a few sites that were either too exposed to the weather, or tucked so deep into the forest that we'd be eaten alive by mosquitoes the second we stopped. I really wanted to make it to the far end of the camp area where other hikers had promised good views, but the skies continued to threaten us with buckets of rain, so we picked a site on the edge of a small meadow where we would be protected by trees but open enough to help keep the bugs down. We set up quickly and all but dived into the tent when we felt more sprinkles falling from the sky, calling it a night way earlier than we normally would have in an attempt to forget about the hike.

I woke up to a whispered "do you hear that?" Now, anyone who's camped with me knows I sleep like a log and pretty much need to be directly spoken to or shaken awake if you want my attention. I was drifting in the dreamy state between slumber and wakefullness when I swore I heard a clock ticking. It took me a little bit too long to realize I was deep in the backcountry forests of the Tetons, and there were definitely no analog clocks ticking anywhere nearby. Alisha and I lay still, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, when I remembered with a jolt and a curse that we had been warned by another hiker of the porcupines that had an affinity for hiking gear in the area. I grabbed my headlamp and directed the beam out my side of the tent, only to watch one of my trekking poles get slowly dragged out of sight into the darkess. You know that scene in every monster movie where a person gets pulled out of sight to the sound of crunching bones by an unseen monster? Yeah, if I hadn't known it was a porcupine stealing my trekking pole I would have been terrified out of my mind. As it was, I ripped open my tent door and grabbed at my pole, unleashing a viscious stream of colorful and imaginative curses at the culprit. Pole rescued, Lisha and I tucked our sets deep under the tent and settled back down, giggling hysterically and feeling far better about the camping trip than we had all day. I was once again on the verge of dreaming bliss when I felt myself rocking gently, a snuffling noise that I couldn't pinpoint in my ear. I asked Alisha if she was moving, and she responded negative. It took me a second longer to realize my poles were slowly sliding out from under me, resulting in my body moving as it was repositioned. I bolted upright, ripped open my tent door for the second time in an hour, and snapped my headlamp on, finding myself facing a very confused porcupine who had my pole in its little paws and my wrist strap between its teeth. We stared at each other for an eternity, before it promptly dropped my pole, turned tail, and waddled away.

We pulled our trekking poles inside the tent after our second encounter, but the determined little bugger wouldn't take the hint. It kept us up for the better part of two hours - two hours - with its snuffling and scrapping and general inspection of our camp. I was worried it would start gnawing on my tent fabric, and kept telling Lisha to help me kick the sides of the tent, hoping to scare it off. Eventually it wandered off and didn't return, though in the morning an inspection of our site produced a number of quills stuck into my tent doors and scuffs in the dirt around us. We left the site in high spirits, giggling about the porcupine antics and happy to be heading down the mountain. A storm blowing in behind us hurried our progress until we were nearly jogging down the mountain, taking cover from the rain as best we could while still moving forward. When the rain let up and the clouds began to lift, morning in the Tetons was something to behold and I found myself grateful for insisting on making the hike in the first place, despite the weather. The rest of our hike was thankfully animal-encounter free, and we made good enough time to reach our car before noon. We were only a few days into our week-long adventure and it had already proven to be a jam-packed trip. I couldn't wait to see what else the week had in store for us.

Grand Teton Part 1: Cascade Canyon

Undaunted. How are you supposed to feel when you're finally hiking (and not just hiking, but backpacking) in a place you've dream about hiking ever since you first visited more than ten years previous? I wasn't entirely sure, but astounded awe seemed like a good place to start when my sister and I finally hit the trail on this year's visit to Grand Teton National Park in northwestern Wyoming. Like many places in the West, my sister and I had visited Grand Teton on one of our two-week long summer family vacations years ago, and we were determined to go back and see it anew with adult eyes. This time, our itinerary included a two night, three day backpacking loop through the rugged Tetons backcountry, and I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to it. As we checked in at the wilderness office, however, we were informed that avalanche risk along our intended route was high, and unless we had the proper equipment to deal with it we were advised to make alternate plans. After a brief discussion Lisha and I amended our hike, still planning camping two nights but making both nights out-and-back instead of a loop. Neither of us have the gear or experience to deal with much more than ankle-deep snow, and we didn't really want to test ourselves and end up needing a rescue. We're crazy, but not stupid.

It was with high spirits that we hit the trail, though it wasn't long before we were huffing and puffing with exertion and altitude. We slogged along slowly, but it wasn't a bad thing; the scenery of the Tetons is something that deserves to be appreciated at your own pace. We eventually made it the four or so miles up to South Fork Cascade Canyon and set up camp at the first unoccupied sight, settling down to nap the afternoon away. I know I drifted off, but have no idea how long I was out before voices woke me up and I found Alisha chatting with another hiker who was asking if they could set up somewhat close by. We had no problem with it (safety in numbers, and we were in a highly populated bear habitat) and ended up making friends with the couple. Ben and Beth live out east, and Ben turned out to be a teacher, so he and Lisha chatted away over dinner as we watched evening settle in around us while Beth and I held our own conversations. Not too long before sunset we bid each other goodnight.

Our wishes for an uneventful slumber were somewhat put out by a thunderstorm that echoed through our canyon in the early hours of the next morning, Lisha and I lying in bed watching the flashes of lightning illuminate the canvas above us as we waited for the rain. We were relieved when the storm moved up canyon without dumping on us, though we continued to hear thunder bouncing off the mountain sides as I slipped back into sleep. We were up before the sun that morning, climbing out of the tent when there was enough light to see and breaking down camp. We needed to make good time in order to reach the next camp that night, so we weren't in the mood to linger overlong. To our surprise Ben and Beth were up too, and we ended up leaving camp together after figuring it'd be safer to move through the dawn with a bigger group of people. You have no idea how happy I was to have them with us when Alisha spotted the first moose, a cow and her baby, next to the creek not too far off trail. It wasn't until a little while later, when I almost walked right into Alisha after she abruptly stopped with no warning, that I became incredibly grateful for the two of them. A cow moose had bedded down just off to the side of our trail, and there was absolutely no way we would be able to continue on trail past her. We approached slowly, tightly pressed together in an attempt to make us less of a target, but she stood up quickly and we dashed for cover behind a large boulder. We were there, trapped behind that boulder, for a good ten or fifteen minutes, with Ben and I keeping watch on either side of the boulder, trying to keep her in view. The moose didn't seem all too bothered by us unless we were in her path, and as long as we kept the boulder between us and her she left us alone to graze. The problem was, there was no cover between us and the trail and if we wanted to make it around her we were going to have to run for it. We waited until she moved down towards us, hopefully far enough that if she decided to charge us as we made for the trail we'd have a head start, before we made a break for it, crashing through the small meadow and through to the safety of trees, running full out down the trail until we put enough distance between our group and her.

Of course, when we stopped to pant for breath and congratulate ourselves on getting away without incident, I realized I'd dropped a water bottle and my tripod in our mad dash for safety. If it were just the bottle I would have left it for someone else to have, but that tripod was expensive and I wasn't about to give it up that easily. I eased back toward the meadow, Ben following behind to keep watch while Alisha and Beth waited down trail. I didn't see the moose, thankfully, and darted out from the cover of the forest to where we'd gotten back on trail. I found my stuff right on the edge of the trail, meaning I wouldn't have to go searching through the long grass and waste time, grabbed it, and ran back, looking over my shoulder convinced an angry moose was about to charge me. She didn't, and Ben and I returned to Alisha and Beth triumphant.

We were still exclaiming over our escape from the moose when Alisha once again brought us up short as she spotted another animal at a curve in the trail ahead of us. All four of us were keyed up, and it didn't take much to convince us that the huge humped brown back we saw belonged to a grizzly bear. That is, at least, until we saw the gigantic rack of antlers and realized that the huge humped brown back actually belonged to an enormous bull moose. Still nothing to lift your nose at, bull moose can be ferociously territorial, especially if there were females around, and we didn't exactly thrill to the idea of testing our luck a third time that morning. As we watched, another group of hikers passed by the bull with no incident, and by the time they reached us we were willing to give it a shot. He ended up being further off trail than it initially looked, but we still quickly and cautiously passed by while keeping wary eyes on his grazing rear. That he was facing away from us gave me enough courage to snap a few pictures of him as I had with the cow before we continued on our way. The rest of the hike passed uneventfully, and we said goodbye to Beth and Ben at the parking lot. There's nothing quite like making it through an eventful hike with strangers to bring you together, and this has become one of my favorite hikes of the past several years. Ben and Beth, thank you for being awesome and I hope you're doing well!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Dancing with Cranes

Have you ever come across somthing, either reading or hearing about it, especially something you didn't know about or hadn't thought about in a long time, then all of a sudden find yourself looking at it? This happened to me on a springtime visit to Nebraska. I had just been reading an article about the Sandhill Crane migration that cuts through the middle of the state, and then the next day I found myself unintentionally in the midst of thousands of the birds! I'm not sure if it was irony or dumb luck, or a combination, but my dad and I spent a good 45 minutes driving backroads, bird watching. Regardless, it was super neat to witness and brought back fond childhood memories of visiting the migration with my family. Fun stuff!

14'er #2: Quandary Peak

Rushed. Our day began in the type of darkness that can only be found beneath low, heavy rain clouds and thick evergreen forests. I don't even remember what time our alarms went off - I blocked out the clock and moved on autopilot as we broke camp and drove through a sleepy Breckenridge toward the trailhead to our second 14'er in as many days. When our car was the first to the lot, however, my bravado failed me as I tried to peer through the night to locate the trail, instead opting to nap a little while longer as we waited for dawn and (admittedly) more people. What is it about the forest at night that forces the little girl who's afraid of the dark to the front and center of the decision-making part of my mind? Torrey and I didn't have to wait long, however, before the lot began to fill and we finally felt safe enough in the crowd of peak-baggers to venture out into the pre-dawn forest, still shrouded in shadows of the night. Hoodoo took up what was to become his customary spot resting on my right shoulder, watching the world awaken around us as we began the day's ascent. Despite the toll Pikes took on us the day before we set a good pace, eating up the distance to treeline before the sun had risen above the mountains around us, though we couldn't see it; the skies had been weeping on our drive to the trailhead, and still threatened to do so even as they lightened to a dull grey.

Of course, it was above treeline, with no cover available, that it began to drizzle, then rain hard enough for us to pull out the rain gear and for me to zip Hoodoo up inside my jacket to keep dry. And then it started to hail, tiny little pellets that stung our faces. And the hail turned to sleet. Then snow. Somehow, though, we pushed on while keeping an eye to the skies - while the wet wasn't appreciated it was a storm we were worried about, being caught with no shelter when thunder begins to rumble. We did manage to get slightly distracted when we spotted a trio of mountain goats on the trail above us, heading our way. We scrambled off the trail as quickly as we could, putting as much distance between us and their path as the slick rocks and our own stumbling footsteps could get, though it still wasn't really enough considering they had a kid with them. As they drew closer we gave up on distance and just held still, trying to make like statues unworthy of notice. Clicking statues, as it turns out, due to my camera being attached to my fingers like an extension of flesh and blood. They passed further down trail with no incident, and we continued on our way with a new spring in our step from the cute encounter. I don't think Hoodoo even registered their presence, tucked into the front of my jacket as he was, huddled into my abdomen to avoid the rain/hail/sleet/snow and wind. Too bad, he probably would have had something to say about it (the kitten has something to say about everything).

It was also above treeline that we began to play in the clouds. When it wasn't rain/hail/sleet/snowing, the clouds swirled around us, obscuring first the path ahead, then behind, and sometimes isolating us on an island of granite in a soft, grey world. Rivers of clouds filled the mountain canyon beside the trail, flowing like the glaciers that had once carved their names into the rock. It was around that time that we got a good view of Quandary's summit, theoretically not that far from where we stood, though it would take some scrambling on slick granite to reach it. We slowed down considerably the closer we got, taking care with our footing on loose rocks and trying to keep the wind from knocking us over. Eventually though, after what at the time felt like forever but in reality would turn out to be our quickest ascent of the week, we summited our second 14'er and were graced by a brief moment of sunshine at the top.

I probably should have realized before we reached it, but I really had no desire to linger at the summit. In my defense I'd only ever been to the top of Pikes Peak, and usually reached the top via a vehicle, then had a warm summit house to shelter within if I got cold. I quickly learned on Quandary that Pikes Peak is an anomaly, not the norm for a 14'er summit. As soon as we summitted I wanted to turn around and go right back down to at least treeline, if not below. I wanted out of the wind. I practically forced myself to sit behind a rock wall built by others seeking a respite, choking down a handful of almonds and some water while I persuaded Hoodoo to come out of my jacket and explore a little bit. He, of course, didn't seem phased by the wind or the chill, hopping over the rocky summit like he was born into it, gaining himself coo's and excited whispers from fellow hikers who had never seen a cat on a mountain before. Before long, however, my fingers were frozen and both Torrey and I were ready to be done. We'd summitted, we'd met our goal, we just had to make it back to the car and call it a day.

It was on the way down, still above treeline, when it began to thunder. We sped up, already flying down the mountain so much faster than when we'd been going the opposite direction, and when a particularly long and loud peal echoed off the mountains around us we broke into a run, dashing for the safety of trees. I could feel Hoodoo bouncing indignantly against my chest and crossed my arms to keep him in place, earning me a disgruntled, if muffled, meow in response. It was either squish him, or trust him to hold on, and at the pace I was going if he'd slipped I would have run right over him before I could have stopped myself. So he got squished, at least until we made it back to treeline. He immediately clawed his way up my collar and settled himself on my shoulder, digging his claws in to the fabric of my jacket any time he felt me attempt to shift him. The storm that had been threatening us seemed to stall, and the sun even made a watery appearance for our last half mile on the mountain. Even with the weather Quandary treated us so much better than Pikes, and I'd be happy to make that summit again some day. Ya know, after we finsh the other 14'ers first.

Read about the first 14'er here:
Pikes Peak

Interested in learning more about Hoodoo? Read about how I got him and chose him as my adventure partner here.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Ravens

I love ravens; they're wicked smart, mischievous, and down right hilarious. Their antics crack me up, like these two preening each other on a chilly summer morning in Yellowstone National Park. They and another pair were hanging around the boardwalk near Old Faithful Geyser, and I entertained myself by watching them while waiting for the eruption. Alisha and I had arrived nearly an hour early and had the area nearly to ourselves and the birds, who made no secret of the fact that they owned the place. They chased each other all over, cawing and croaking and otherwise disrupting the still and silent morning air. I wasn't smart and had only worn flip flops, capris, and a tank top covered with a light jacket, and the temperature was hovering somewhere around 45f, so I was freezing my poor toes off. I'm eternally grateful to these ravens for helping me keep my mind off my feet!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Close Encounters of the Armadillo Kind

A get away to South Llano River State Park in southwest Texas came with a cute little visitor in the form of a curious armadillo. I hadn't been at camp long after hiking a mile and a half from the trailhead to one of the five primitive sites in the park, and had thrown my gear all over the place as I set up for the night. One second I had my back to my picnic table, the next I turned around and found myself five feet from an armadillo who had come to investigate my stuff. Of course, I reached for my camera and managed to snap a few pictures of my visitor before it wandered off into the bushes, but I could hear it rustling around my camp for the rest of the night, and when I woke up in the morning there were freshly dug holes all around my tent. I hope it had a successful foraging night!