It had been windy and sort of cold all night. I spent the morning draped in my down quilt, editing the Hackberry Canyon video.
It was still very windy when I finished, and I just didn’t want to deal with it. Not good hiking weather—at least for me. Not even good tall vehicle driving weather.
I found other things to do within the confines of the Rolling Steel Tent. Who says approximately 325 cubic feet is too small to live in?
I had planned on camping in a meadow, with large cottonwood trees, next to Mammoth Creek, just outside Hatch, Utah. This place.
Part way into a couple of recent hikes, where the footing got dicey or the grade got steep, or both, I started wondering if I’d committed to more than I could handle. Should I keep going or turn around here? Is this trail only for those younger people I see scampering up sand hills and hopping rock to rock? Are the people who rated these trails barely old enough to drink?
But then I’ll see fellow old farts coming the other way. I don’t know how far they went, but it’s farther than where I am at the moment. And I see people who look like the farthest they’d ever walked before was from the sofa to the fridge and back. If they can do it, so can I. So I press on. And feel better about myself because I did.
What happens when I hike nearly every day? And shoot a lot of video? And take a lot of photos? And plan the next hike? I get behind on things.
Since my last post about the short walk up on Kolob Terrace I’ve hiked Wire Pass and some of Buckskin Gulch, did the quick Toadstools hike (because, what the heck, the trailhead was right on the highway), and hiked some of Lower Hackberry Canyon.
So here are some sample photos. Videos are in the works.
Here’s a tip if you want to boondock near Zion National Park and also escape the heat and see some incredible views. From the village of Virgin, drive up Kolob Terrace Road, through a couple of corners of Zion National Park, to the end at Kolob Reservoir.
There’s free dry camping along the shore. You won’t be alone, but they’re mostly quiet anglers. The water was low when I was there, creating more room for camping.
UPDATE: Camping at Kolob Reservoir is now restricted.
After a peaceful night I was heading back to civilization and a cell signal when I decided to pull into one of the trailheads. I hadn’t researched these trails but I knew most of them were of the more serious type, some requiring rappelling and wading, along with more strength and endurance than a 69-year-old novice like me.
But I decided to walk a little way to learn what the deal was and flex my legs. The path was easy and mostly flat for the first half mile of lightly wooded terrain. I turned around when the trail dropped into a gorge. Back at the trailhead, people who looked like models in Outdoor magazine were loading packs with ropes and wetsuits. Yeah, not my thing. Besides, I learned later I should’ve had a permit.
Monday I climbed approximately fifty feet by way of a series of paved switchback ramps. About a third of the way along it became drudgery.
Wednesday I climbed approximately fifty feet up into a geologic formation by way of a vague foot path through sand, gravel, rocks, and boulders. It was fun the entire way.
I had to find and navigate the route—onto this rock… around that bush… across this sketchy gravel patch… squeeze between this boulder and the cliff face… boost myself onto that ledge… side step along here… find a foothold there… It was steeper and more difficult than Monday’s ramp, but it was mentally and physically engaging. It was a little test, not a chore.
We know repetitive stress can mess us up physically. But repetition can also mess up our minds. Doing the same thing over and over and over—whether difficult or easy—numbs the brain. Dumbs the brain. Makes us robotic—sometimes to the point we don’t realize we’ve become meat-based Roombas. We only know there’s a lot of drudgery. And an endless supply of dust bunnies. Such were my fifties.
Then my sixties arrived, along with awareness and a craving for change. Better late than never. No more trudging up the ramp of respectability and expectability to… what? More of the same?
I jumped the railing and scrambled away.
The western two-and-a-half miles of the Historic Railroad Hiking Trail is in Lake Mead National Recreation Area. It’s a gradual uphill grade from the trailhead. The eastern mile and a half, starting shortly after the fifth tunnel, is in Bureau of Reclamation property. (The Bureau of Reclamation runs Hoover Dam.) It descends much more steeply, including a section of paved switchbacks that end at the top level of the parking deck. From there you can take an elevator to/from the level of the dam.
Some percentage of hikers turn around after the tunnels. I considered it, but then decided real hikers would go all the way to the dam. So I did, even though I had been there before.
I wasn’t dying, but the balls of my feet weren’t happy. They must have been on loan from a whiney baby-man. And my left knee had started sending the first faint signals that it was 69 years old and that the human knee is kind of a lame design. (pun intended) My usual purposeful hiking stride had deteriorated into more of a lopsided shuffle. And I had two more miles to go. Luckily the compassionate Park Service had placed benches every so often where we old farts can literally take a load off, and gaze at Lake Mead. Under the noon sun. But with a nice sweat-evaporating breeze.
This throws a monkey wrench into my hiking plans. Do any of you have rapid blister recovery tips?
UPDATE: I punctured the blisters with a sterilized needle, applied an antiseptic, and covered them with moleskin. I can walk fairly comfortably. However, my hip muscles tightened up overnight. Ergh. Aging.
Friday I drove from Mimbres to Yuma, across the width of Arizona (plus the New Mexico part). Saturday I crossed the border to Los Algodones to get some medications, then spent the rest of the day running around Yuma, doing errands and restocking supplies. Sunday I drove from Yuma to Lake Mead—almost the full height of Arizona. Four states, two countries, nearly 800 miles.
There are a couple of hikes in the area I want to do. One involves tunnels, the other might have waterfalls. There are also hikes in Valley of Fire State Park and on the way there. Then it’s up to Utah. At least, that’s the plan.
For a couple of days I had considered continuing west from Yuma, all the way to the Pacific. I miss the ocean. But I got thinking about the hassles of trying to stealth camp in San Diego, even though Scott, of Static Campervan, assured me the attitude had loosened up considerably there. Maybe it’s a result of the pandemic. But when I woke up Sunday I was certain I wanted to go north. So here I am.
Back on April 25th I wrote:
The past couple of weeks I’ve been jonesing to go hiking in southern Utah. Mmmmm, red rocks… ruins… slot canyons… I’ve been watching the videos and checking the trail maps. But it would not be cool to ditch Lou.
Lou came to me and said I shouldn’t feel obligated to hang around, that he appreciated me being there but that he could take care of himself. I should go have some fun.
Hmmmmmm…
Part of me resisted his offer. Part of me was already down the road. I want to be a good friend and stay. He wants to be a good friend and encouraged me to go.
I thought on it for a few days. What’s the right thing?
He has caring neighbors, Pat and Margene. His longtime friend, Linda will be coming from Oregon. Our friends Scott and Lara will be visiting. Lou wouldn’t be alone.
Okay. I’d go wander. At least for a while.
Lou said that when I entered the hospital in Tucson for the tracheotomy prior to cancer treatment he thought he’d never see me again. When we hugged goodbye this morning I said, “I hope this isn’t the last time I see you.” I added, “If you need me, I’ll come right back, no matter how far away I am.”
But about a hundred miles along it started feeling wrong.
So here I am again, stopped for the night, replaying the same internal arguments and self-critiques. What if I go for just a couple of weeks instead of the whole summer? Yeah, that feels better. I’ll sleep on it.
UPDATE: Lou emailed me after reading this post:
Al, please don't feel bad about what you are doing, it's ok. I know you will be around if I need you. Have some fun.
To which I replied:
You're not the boss of me. I'll feel bad if I want to. :D
It’s that time again. Maybe even past that time. I had the bed out of the Rolling Steel Tent in September of 2019. I did only cursory cleaning at the time because my main goal was lowering the bed.
The last time I did big time cleaning was way back in December of 2016, in San Felipe. Wow, has it been that long since I was in Baja for more than a hop over the border to get eyeglasses, medications, and shrimp tacos? I guess that means pleasant memories stay fresher in the mind.
I’ve been watching even more videos from Matt’s Off Road Recovery. In one of them he explains how even though many experts say you shouldn’t use the ball of a tow hitch to yank out a stuck vehicle, sometimes it’s the best way.
That’s especially true for things like cars, minivans and crossovers. Matt says anything on those rigs you can hook onto is weaker than a tow ball would be, and presents a greater chance of damage to the suspension and body panels.
Now, the Rolling Steel Tent has a nice beefy truck chassis to hook onto. But if I’m ever foolish enough to bury the van floor-deep in sand or mud, it could be helpful to have an easily accessible tow point.
So, do I spend the money for something I hope I never need? Would having the ability to help someone end up with me getting stuck too? Should I be extra cautious and, besides avoiding snow and ice, just never drive off pavement again? Maybe the first step is to stop watching off road recovery videos.