You have to respect Chris Davenport’s ingenuity and creativity, as a skier and a businessman. He went from downhill skiing, to extreme skiing championships, to being a ski fi lm star, to skiing all of Colorado’s 14ers in a single year, and somehow along the way, has not had to hang it up and get a “real” job to feed his kids. With “Australis,” he’s made it clear that the job of being Chris Davenport is maybe just keeping us excited about whatever he dreams up next. In late 2009, Davenport gathered up a couple friends (pro skier couple Stian Hagen and Andrea Binning) and a fi lm crew, got on a boat named “Australis” and headed to the Antarctic Peninsula for some ski mountaineering. I’ll tell you, I enjoyed the crap out of this movie, with the disclaimer that I’m a sucker for any ski movie not involving dudes getting dropped off via helicopter. The footage of Davenport, Hagen and Binning carving turns on slopes that end in the deep blue Antarctic Ocean will probably make you want to shut your TV off and get out there yourself, even if you’re used to seeing a lodge at the bottom of your ski hills, as most of us are. The fi lm will be touring a few locations in the Mountain West in December and January. $24.95. www.antarcticskiodyssey.com
I know it’s ski season, not climbing season, but this is my favorite book to come across my desk ever since I started doing this column. And climbers need something to read in the off-season. Boulder climbing legend and desert tower connoisseur Steve “Crusher” Bartlett has put together a masterpiece: The history of tower climbing on the Colorado Plateau, with archival photos and essays collected in one 352-page volume. Beginning with John Otto’s 1911 ascent of Colorado National Monument and continuing through present day, Crusher captures the adventure of the early days of desert exploration, and the balls it took to go for it in pre-guidebook days. Photos and essays from the fi rst ascensionists bring to life the tales of Spider Rock, the Totem Pole and Cleopatra’s Needle, the “Three Best” towers, all now illegal to climb because of their location on Navajo Nation land. Legendary climbers like Layton Kor, Fred Beckey, Eric Bjornstad, Harvey Carter, Lou Dawson, Huntley Ingalls, Steve Roper, John Sherman, Ed Webster and others share the tales of battle on other sandstone icons: Castleton Tower, Standing Rock, The Titan — maybe you get the point. This book is Crusher’s labor of love and gift to climbing geeks, and if you’re not a climbing geek, this book might make you one. $49.95. www.sharpendbooks.com
The guys at Powderwhore are defi nitely not taking themselves too seriously with their sixth telemark fi lm, “TeleVision.” In the fi rst 10 minutes, a scraggly skier asks during a parody commercial for TeleMatch.com, “Does your wardrobe consist of plaid, tiedye and corduroy? Are you sick of going to fancy restaurants and granola’s not even on the menu? Do you have a job? Nice. I hate working. Do parallel turns turn you off? If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, come meet guys like me at TeleMatch.com.” Later, an ad for “Brogaine” promises: “It gives you the hair and attitude you need to shred the gnar.” Skier Megan Michelson is spliced into an episode of “America’s Next Top Model,” and gets grilled by the judges. Skier Jake Sakson gives us a tour of his ambulance-turned-ski-bum-van-slash-apartment in an episode of “Powderwhore Cribs.” And in between all the laughs, there is some great footage of tele skiers ripping in the mountains of Haines, Alaska, the Chugach Range and the Wasatch Mountains (sometimes next to their bootpacking tracks) and in the terrain park. There’s even a segment of crashes, some epic, some just awkward, human moments, which keep the fi lm down to earth — although you still won’t walk away from this movie thinking you can ski the same lines the cast members do. $27. www.powderwhore.com
My buddy Pedro winked in my direction, smirked a mierda-eating grin and nodded his noggin Bobblehead-on-speed-style when I en- tered the Burro Borracho Cantina and Lucha Libre Emporium. “Well, I did it,” he said almost smugly as I approached. Despite every pre-purchase protestation I could muster, Pedro had just spent 242 hard-earned dollars for what he considered the ultimate Christmas present for his latest l’amour: a romantic two-person, early-morning champagne hot-air balloon ride outside Albuquerque. I shook my head so vigorously, I lost several gold crowns.
I had forewarned Pedro about the psychic, to say nothing of physical, perils of ballooning. It mattered not one whit to him that I spoke from intense personal ex- perience on this subject. Pedro’s mind was made up. His current lady-friend, Darlene, had commented almost abstractly (and certainly drunkenly) the week before about how it would be nice for once to do something that did not involve sitting hour after hour on the exact same barstools they always sat on in the Burro Borracho. Not one to miss something as obvious as an impending case of significant-other-based boredom, Pedro immediately suggested that they embark then and there upon what must have seemed to him at that Happy Hour juncture like a National-Geographic-documentary-level journey to the unexplored hinterlands: “We could go sit over in the booth,” he said, expectantly. I’m not sure whether his sweetie’s exasperated groan was based more upon the fact that the Burro’s lone booth — upholstered in the finest of beer-stained, sticky (don’t ask, don’t tell), tattered naugahyde, was located next to the doorless entrance to the single most unsavory men’s room in the entire history of skanky watering holes, or whether it was more general in nature. I suspect the latter. Either way, at the exact moment the final air molecules of a theatrical sigh that lasted well over 15 minutes passed the final molecules of Darlene’s globbed-on bright- red lipstick, the local news came on the Burro’s 1957 scratchy black-and-white, aluminum-foil-antennaed, yard-sale-procured TV that sometimes gets one channel and sometimes gets no channels. And that one channel was running a happy-go-lucky feature segment on the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, which is so famous in New Mexico that many of the state’s license plates boast an image that looks like a flimsy air-filled cloth sack falling like a rock out of the sky. “Look,” Darlene said, pointing toward the flickering screen. “Maybe we could do something like that!” At first, Pedro thought Darlene was pointing toward the famous old Corona beer poster with the three provoca- tive, bathing-suit-attired nubile young ladies. “Sure,” he said, “but where are we gonna get two other women?” he asked. “Maybe your nieces!” “No, asshole,” Darlene snarled. “On the TV.” By the time Pedro managed to focus his one good eye on the TV, the local news had cut away to coverage of a high-speed chase in Tucson involving about 40 cop cars, three helicopters, a SWAT team and, eventually, a pair of mean-looking homies being handcuffed and hauled away. This really confused the livin’ shit out of Pedro. “You want to engage in a high-speed chase with police and get arrested in front of a TV camera crew?” he slurred toward Darlene. “Cool.” At that point, Darlene egressed the premises in a snit. “What just happened?” Pedro asked. “She wants you to take her ballooning,” I yelled over the din. I have lived more than half a century, and never once I have seen a visage so befuddled. It took me almost two hours to de-intertwine the Corona-poster/police-chase/bal- loon fiesta cognitive dissonance transpiring between Pedro’s pointy ears. I finally, exasperatedly, made him understand that Darlene had casually mentioned some- thing about wanting to go floating up into the sky like the Wizard leaving Oz.
“Damn! I’ve been wondering what to get her for Christmas!” Pedro said, his face brightening in the dingy light of the Burro Borracho.
This is what I then laid on Pedro vis-à-vis my color- ful, though modest ballooning resume: I have been up in a hot-air balloon twice, which is exactly two times too many, as far as I am concerned. Both times, I stressed to Pedro, took place shortly before Christmas, a cosmic coincidence worth his studied consideration. The first time, I was on assignment for a justifiably long-defunct alternative alternative weekly in Denver. The publisher, a drunken reprobate of monstrous proportions, had found himself (not exactly for the first or last time) downtown at Soapy Smith’s, trolling for some hapless soul to buy him a beverage. His victim that night ended up being, of all the people on the planet, the owner of a local commercial hot-air ballooning outfit, and the publisher said he knew just the person to go up with him into what ended up being the stratosphere, the idea be- ing 1) that we would run a lengthy blowjob story about the his operation in our paper (which, truth be told (something we rarely did) was read by all of about two people) and 2) that in and of itself was reason enough to expect the balloon guy to buy the publisher a slew of drinks that night at Soapy Smith’s.
“Good news,” the bleary-eyed publisher told me the next morning. “I signed you up for a balloon trip,” which, at the time, I hoped against hope didn’t mean what I though it meant, that, rather, it might have something to do with dropping acid and being the live entertain- ment at a children’s birthday soirée. No such luck. I do not exactly suffer from aviophobia, the same way I do not exactly suffer from claustrophobia. Still, the same way I have always been mighty, mighty happy when I emerge from a small, windowless jail cell, I have always been mighty, mighty happy when the plane safe- ly touches down. Never once in my life have I gone up into any sort of aircraft unless there was palpable good reason — usually getting to a place otherwise not easily accessible via non-aerial modes of transport. The notion of voluntarily going up in a hot-air balloon for no other purpose save going up in a hot-air balloon flat-out did not, and still does not, compute.
But, being a professional and all, I showed up at the appointed time, which was literally just as a stunningly beauteous dawn broke upon the Great Plains southeast of Denver. Since it was mid-December, it was a bit on the nippy side, which apparently is optimum for ascension, as cold air is more dense than hot air, and, for reasons that escape me, that physical reality helps the balloon get off the ground and make its way heavenward, until it’s just this little dot that lucky people sitting in their living rooms, sipping hot coffee, can barely see. I would be joining a young (paying) couple that had just tied the knot and were looking upon this journey into the here- after, er, sky, as some sort of marital consummation. The ballooning outfitter my publisher had met at Soapy Smith’s was also the pilot. He was affable enough and evoked a sense of confidence, and, truth be told, once we passed the moon and started making our way toward the outer Solar System, I calmed down a bit and started enjoying the expansive, albeit frigid, view of the Front Range. “Where we headed?” I, being on the journalistic clock and all, queried. “Don’t know,” the pilot responded. “What do you mean?” I squeaked. “I can use the burners to make us go up and down,” he said, “and I have a pretty good eye for where the wind is, but, for the most part, I have absolutely no control over the balloon. We go where Mother Nature takes us.” Ain’t that interesting?
After seeming decades aloft, it was finally and thank-godfully time to descend. The just-married couple was cuddling and cooing, the pilot was pointing out various mountains and I was sur- prisingly casually leaning against one of the basket up- rights. Suddenly, the pilot went frantic. He yelled at the top of his lungs for all hands to hold on tight. We were apparently going through some sort of high-speed me- teorological anomaly taking place like 50 feet above the very ground I oh-so-much wanted to be standing safely upon. “I’M NOT KIDDING!!!! HOLD ON TIGHT!!!! AAAAHHHH!!!!” the now-frenzied pilot screamed. I wrapped both arms around the support, very much like Tom Hanks did in ”Cast Away” when his plane was going down (I don’t know about you, but I started paying a lot more attention to those pre-flight safety briefings after watching that movie), and I instantly became a convert to at least seven religions. Seconds later, we crashed into Planet Earth at both a 45-degree angle and at a very uncomfortable rate of speed, and we spent the next almost 400 feet (I paced it off later) getting dragged by the still-partially-inflated balloon, which was now acting like a fully unfurled spinnaker, the muddy turf zooming by just below my contorted face (yes, of course, it was my side of the basket that was closest to the ground). A couple times, just for grins, the balloon pulled the basket back up into the air, just so we could smack down hard and get dragged toward Castle Rock yet again. By the time we finally stopped, the new wife was crying, and the new husband, whose visions of a nookie-laden night were dissipating before his very eyes, was trying mightily, but unsuccessfully, to console her. That marriage was destined for doom.
After I wrote the blowjob story for the justifiably long-defunct Denver alternative alternative weekly, I vowed to never ever even ponder the notion of setting foot in a hot-air balloon, which, you would think, would be a fairly easy oath to uphold. Well …
The very next year, the editor of a big, glossy outdoor magazine calls me up and asks if I would like to go to the southernmost Appalachians to pen a piece about this outfitter who offers what he advertises as “Adventure Orgies,” wherein clients are taken on a different type of NON-AERIAL recreational pursuit every day for a week (whitewater rafting, climbing, horseback-riding, hiking and, I shit you not, wild-boar hunting and mako-shark fishing). Being the starving writer I was, I said sure. It was once again the very week before Christmas when I landed at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. The plan was for the outfitter, a splendid hom- bre I’ll call Bill Smith, to pick me up, take me to the closest bar, where I would conduct a formal interview over many pitchers of suds, and then drive me to his mountain cabin for the night. The next morning, we were set to go rafting on the famed Chattooga, the very river where some of the whitewater scenes from “Deliverance” were filmed. Verily, one of my raft mates ended up being none other than Billy Redden, who por- trayed the banjo-picking boy in “Deliverance,” though, I learned later, he had not really played the banjo in that region/culture-defining movie; rather, the national eight-year-old banjo champion had slipped his hands through Billy Redden’s coat sleeves and picked the notes that film made famous while Billy Redden stood there with his arms tied to his sides.)
“I’ve got great news,” Bill Smith told me as we were driving out of the airport. “I’ve managed to squeeze in one more adventure for you! A buddy of mine has a hot-air balloon, and he’s free this afternoon!” Yey!
The first thing I noticed about the man who was go- ing to take me up into the muggy Georgia air was that he seemed crazy as batshit from the get- go. Something about the way he cackled like a crow at his own bad jokes and the way he kept furtively rubbing his hands together, like he was trying to get some- thing nasty off. Because Georgia was ex- periencing an unseasonably warm late fall, there was not enough in the way of vertical-lift-inducing death molecules in the air for Bill Smith, the crazy-as-batshit pilot and yours truly to all go up together. Just as I was about to volunteer to drive the chase car, Bill Smith patted me on the back and, with a bemused gleam in his eye, wished me not bon voyage, but, rather good luck. So, it was just me and the crazy-as-batshit pilot, and, before I could calculate a plan for changing professions, I was airborne, with noth- ing between me and the ground save a wicker basket, some thin balloon mate- rial and one crazy-as-batshit pilot, who, it turned out, thought the best way to amuse his guest was to buzz as many gi- ant Southern hardwood trees as possible while saying things like, “Bet we can take some branches off the next one.” And here I am, holding on for dear life, feeling like Sigourney Weaver in “Aliens,” like, all I had to do was stay back on Earth, and I wouldn’t be here getting chased by deadly, drooling carnivorous creatures yet again. And, of course, just like my fi rst time up in a hot-air balloon, we came down hard — hard enough that I bit my tongue almost clean in two. Then we tipped over so violently that my nose literally hit the dirt. Then, the wind caught the balloon and we got dragged through a field for a couple hundred feet. And that was the best part. Matter of fact, some hours later, just after we were released by several local Southern redneck police offi cers straight out of bubba central casting, I looked back with fondness upon the those relatively pleas- ant moments when we hit the ground with a back-breaking thud and my nose was smacked into the dirt so hard, I had to breathe through my mouth, which was fi lled-to-brimming with spit-laced tongue-wound blood.
What happened was this: The fi eld that we thudded down in was home to endless vistas of waist-high dry grass. When we tipped over, the fl amethrow- ers that are part and parcel of every hot- air balloon caught the grass on fi re and that fi re spread fast, far and wide, right before my very eyes. The crazy-as-batshit pilot started freaking and yelling for me to exit the basket and stomp the fi re out. I tried mightily to do just that, but the only thing I managed to do was gouge a seven-inch-long wound into my shin, which dragged on one of the wing nuts holding the basket to the balloon frame. Finally, through no fault of my own, I found myself ejected and lying dazed on my back in a north Georgia fi eld that was pretty much by this point totally ablaze. There would be no stomping this fi re out. The only option was to get up and run, except for the fact that we had a big balloon to deal with. Thing is, it damned sure wasn’t my balloon. Screw the bal- loon, and defi nitely screw the crazy-as- batshit balloon pilot. Just as I was get- ting ready to high-tail it into the woods, a pick-up truck came careening toward us, and, before it came to a complete stop, two very agitated, overall-wearing, large African-American men jumped out and pointed, yes, their double-barrel shot- guns directly at the crazy-as-batshit bal- loon pilot and, more importantly, poor, innocent me.
“Y’all ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I was told in no uncertain terms by my per- sonal grammar-challenged gun-bearer as I started eyeballing a potential escape route toward the closest clump of trees, and as those famous banjo notes from “Deliverance” started playing in my head. “We done already called the poe-leece.” I began mentally rehearsing squealing like a pig.
So, we stood there, hands up, like we were bring robbed by banditos in an old Western movie, until the poe-leece and the fi re dee-partment arrived about 20 minutes later, sirens blaring. It took more than an hour to douse the fl ames, during which time the two shotgun- bearing African-American men, the poe-leece, several fi refi ghters and the crazy-as-batshit balloon pilot realized that they all knew someone who knew someone else somewhere sometime. If memory serves, there were several more “y’alls,” a few “all y’alls” and maybe even a reference to hominy grits with red-eye gravy. Basically, a meandering, drawl- laden verbal journey through Southern social inbreeding that resulted in the crazy-as-batshit balloon pilot eating a modest-sized bucket of shit and prom- ising to make a sizeable donation to the local poe-leece retirement/drinking fund. We were let go and I, bloody bit tongue, gashed shin and smelling like smoke clear down to my skivvies, was left with Bill Smith to continue upon my adven- ture orgy.
Despite the fact that I had related all this to Pedro, he felt more compelled than ever to go forth and procure that $242 romantic two-person, early-morn- ing champagne hot-air balloon ride out- side Albuquerque. It dawned on me later that all of the mishaps I had described, Pedro considered to be plusses. I real- ized that, once he fi nally took Darlene up into the stratosphere, he would be dis- appointed if he did not get to experience a crash landing, setting a fi eld on fi re and having shotguns leveled at him. I wished him all the best.
A few days later, Pedro called. Darlene had left him, and he asked, “You want to go ballooning with me, bro? I already got the tickets. After all, this was your idea. Merry Christmas, amigo!”
To read the entire unabridged versions of various “Smoke Signals,” as well as a whole lot of other inane bullshit, go to mjohnfayhee.com.
Arguably the greatest American contribution to Christmas is the story of Santa Claus arriving on the Eve in a sleigh hitched to a team of flying reindeer, known round the English-speaking world and beyond. Across Europe in December, “Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer” is heard in the mix of background music in shopping malls, and Christmas decorations often feature Saint Nicholas in a reindeer-drawn sleigh.
The story of that story begins on December 23, 1823 with “A Visit from St. Nicholas”, a poem in the Troy, NY, Sentinel, published anonymously but generally attributed to theologian and poet Clemet Clarke Moore. Though now seldom read in full, we all know the storyline of the man of the house, who is awakened on Christmas Eve by a sleigh drawn by eight reindeer landing on the roof. And likewise we know the lyrics of the enduring song, “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, about a ninth reindeer with a luminous proboscis, first recorded by singing cowboy Gene Autry in 1949, based on a poem written in 1939 by Robert L. May for a children’s Christmas book published by mail-order retailer Montgomery Ward.
Today, the American story of Santa and his reindeer is as ubiquitous at Christmastime as is the tradition of decorating evergreen trees, first observed in sixteenth-century Germany. And, as history suggests, its roots are as European as those of the Christmas tree. The first known illustrated description of reindeer pulling sleds is in the travelogue “Opera Lapponia” by Johan Scheffer, a professor at the University of Uppsala in Sweden, first published in Latin in 1674 and later in English translation in 1704. That book includes a woodcut depicting a single reindeer pulling a pulk, the boat-like sled used by the Sami, for centuries the nomads of the north (“Lapp” is derogatory). Only one reindeer is shown, as, unlike other draft animals, reindeer are unwilling to cooperate with each other in teams. Like other literary figures of his time, poet Moore may have read extracts of Scheffer’s book, but not seen the illustrated original.
He certainly must have been familiar with the native North American modes of winter transport, first documented a century before Scheffer wrote. In 1576- 78, English privateer Martin Frobisher undertook three voyages to the New World, in part to search for a Northwest Passage. He didn’t find the Northwest Passage, but he is most remembered for claiming the Arctic for England and for keeping a meticulous log of his voyages, published in 1675 in Latin, with the title “Historia Navigationis.” The frontispiece of that book depicting native life shows a dog pulling a boat-like sled. Later, in 1833, German explorer Maximilian zu Wied- Neuwield ventured up the Missouri River to Fort Clark, where he painted a watercolor of a native traveling on a toboggan pulled by three dogs. Other accounts of life among the Inuit of the time include descriptions of the komatik, a sled on two runners about four inches wide, pulled by one or more dogs. Clearly, among the natives of North America, sleds were pulled by dogs, single or in teams. Moreover, as reported by Frenchborn Canadian explorer Pierre Esprit Radisson in 1665, caribou, a native word, was the name of the animal known in Europe as the reindeer, and caribou were game, not draft animals.
Apparently poet Moore combined the anecdote of the reindeer-drawn sled, about which he had only read, with the details of dogsleds with which he undoubtedly was familiar. So with poetic license, flying reindeer indeed might be hitched in teams, as were real sled dogs. Likewise, artists who drew Santa’s airborne sleigh most likely modeled it after the horse-drawn sleighs of the mid-nineteenth century. So, an airborne sleigh might well resemble a passenger sleigh with thin runners adequate to support it on rooftop snows.
Moore’s choice of the word reindeer may have helped perpetuate the story. Not only is reindeer a more-romantic word than caribou, but it’s been in English longer, since 893, when King Alfred the Great wrote down tales he heard from Othere of Hålogaland, including “rein”, the Norwegian name of the animal. That became the source-word in most European languages. The mere mention of a rein-word now connotes happenings in the far north, where Santa is said to have his workshop, at some undefined place. The mythical location of the workshop at the North Pole clearly is impractical, particularly for the elves working in its distribution center. In the Nordic countries where reindeer still roam, several towns claim the workshop. Most enterprising is the city of Rovaniemi at the Arctic Circle in Finland. About six miles north of the city, there is a Santa Claus Village and theme park, fittingly just two miles from the Rovaniemi Airport.
M. Michael Brady lives in a suburb of Oslo and takes his vacations in France. By education, he’s a natural scientist. His Dateline: Europe column appears monthly in the Gazette.
Arizona State Route 85 runs 130 miles from Buckeye to the Mexico border near Lukeville. There’s not much there for those 130 miles — a large (very large) military base and a few small towns dedicated to the sales of Mexican Auto Insurance — and that’s the whole damn point. I spent two hours on that road, speedometer hugging 75 and the radio tuned to anything that would reach my antenna. As I finally rolled in to my campsite at the 330,000-acre Organ Pipe National Monument, the headlights of my rented sky-blue compact caught the eyes of a young coyote, who would, over the course of my stay, take three shits on my stove, angry that I wasn’t leaving any food out for him.
The saguaros stood proud under the moon and the cactus wrens yelled from atop their chollas while I put up my tent and made black bean soup with a can of green chiles.
When done with dinner, I put some hot water and whiskey into a small tin cup, walked a few hundred yards into the desert, sat down and started humming a song I had written a few years ago after reading Edward Abbey’s “Winter In The Organ Pipes,” a chapter from the “Cactus Country” edition of Time-Life’s Wilderness Series:
“I’ll meet you in the Organ Pipe All alone on a winter’s night You’ll say, “Come home.” I’ll stay. You won’t.”
The next morning, after driving into Lukeville and buying a plastic gallon of water and a few lemons to join my evening hot water and whiskey, I hiked to the top of Arch Canyon, a short trail that leads to a difficult scramble up to a small red arch. The views from the top of the arch, and from almost anywhere in the desert, are endless. Organ pipes, saguaros and ocotillos run for miles and miles in the dry winter wind, perfectly placed in the sand, soaking in the sun all day.
I had wanted to come to this place for a long time, and now that I was there, sitting on a rocky, red throne a few thousand feet above sea level, king of all the desert life that was hiding from the cold, I felt the way I always hope to feel when I go camping: small and insignificant. I walked back down the trail as a young couple from Tucson were slowly walking up. We gave each other a quick hello and a series of forced smiles before I got back to my car.
There’s no backcountry camping in Organ Pipe. Too many drug smugglers and illegal immigrants crossing the border. The monument’s visitor center is named after Kris Eggle, a ranger who was shot and killed a few years ago while tracking members of a Mexican drug cartel that was fleeing Mexico after a string of murders. Sure, staying at a group campsite is a bummer, but this place isn’t Yosemite. The campsite is small, in the middle of nowhere and dead silent for most of the day. You can hear the pack rats scattering around your tent at night and the coyotes howling from the hills. And, hell, without that campsite, I wouldn’t have met Richard.
Before my second hike that same day, I was standing at the trailhead, eating an apple smeared in almond butter, trying to figure out how far I should go before the sun was going to go down. I decided on a short hike, an easy 4.6-mile round trip to Victoria Mines, an old silver mine located in the southern part of the park. I heard a deep voice call out “HI THERE!” behind me, and turned to find an old, skinny, bearded Pete- Seeger-looking man, wearing a beige baseball cap to cover up his bald head.
“Going to the mines?” he asked.
“I am, yes.”
“Ah great, so am I!”
The hike to Victoria mines was beautiful. Sure, the shape of a saguaro can leave a little less to the imagination than a cloud, but some of those things look so funny, so distorted, that you have to stop to admire them, to think of what went right and what went wrong on their journey toward the Arizona sky. Richard and I hiked the entire way together, talking non-stop for several hours (he’s in his 70s and walked painfully slow), while kicking around quartz and naming plants. When we got to the mines, we drank water and ate a bag of pepitas, then took pictures of each other with the Sonoran Desert at our backs. Ravens flew above as the sky started turning crimson, and as we headed back to camp, Richard stopped, pointed to a large ocotillo and quietly whispered to himself, “The Devil’s Walking Stick.”
For the last seven years, Richard had been living in his van, chasing the sunny weather, while admiring our country’s great public lands. He was one of the nicest men I had ever met and I would spend the rest of my trip with him, eating meals together, going on more hikes and telling each other who the hell we were and why the hell we were both sleeping in the desert. We agreed that anyone who came so far out of their way to spend time in such a barren and unforgiving land, a land that most have never heard of, would surely share some type of bond, some type of understanding.
When it was time for me to leave Arizona and fly up to San Francisco, Richard and I exchanged email addresses. He would be staying at Organ Pipe for another two weeks, then making his way east to Big Bend National Park, his favorite place to go camping. We shook hands and agreed we’d someday meet in the Middle Of Nowhere again, but this time in Texas.
Jeff Thrope lives in the great barren wilderness of Brooklyn, NY, and spends most of his time writing an outdoor blog called Cold Splinters. Jeff owns every issue of the Mountain Gazette that Edward Abbey was published in.