Yesterday I was in Flagstaff longer than I usually am. Mainly because I wanted to be able to park at my house and that meant waiting for the repavement stuff to dry. If ever you wondered where your recovery dollars are going, allow me to answer: you're repaving all the roads at Grand Canyon National Park! There are chips and loose gravel all over the place here, wreaking havoc on my poor car and all the confused tourists who can't figure out where the lanes should be.
Last week, there was even a car wreck on a main road where a man died. Could gravel be the culprit? I'm sure it played a part, it's kind of like driving on ice because loose rock pulls at your wheels. God help you if you go over 30 and don't have 4WD.
In brighter news, my back is nearly healed! I've been having issues with this whole "there's no skin on my entire back" thing, but thanks to two bottles of neosporin, it seems to be getting a little better. It still feels tight, but there's no pain like there was last week. Let this be a brutal life lesson: sunscreen is your best friend! Even if you don't think you need it, the excess grossness of it is still far better than laying on your stomach praying like hell your skin peels off soon.
I think I'm still getting some residual side effects of the sun poisoning: for one, I can't sleep at night anymore. I'm tired all morning but at night, it doesn't matter if my eyes are so heavy they refuse to open--I just can't seem to drift off. The other is this migraine that won't go away. I'll be ok for a few days and then BAM, out of nowhere, I get this massive nausea-inducing, room-spinning, world-hating headache that resists 800 mg of ibuprofin.
This week just kind of sucks in general, so why not a skull-busting brain bruiser on top of it?
I was walking out of the Safeway in Flag--my last stop before heading back to the canyon--and the sun was already on its way down on the horizon. A breeze kicked up (it is noticeably cooler here), and it officially smelled like autumn. For a minute I let myself pretend that I was walking out of the walmart in State College. So used to this smell being associated with new classes, friends and tailgates, I could easily pretend I was holding bags of chips and dip for this weekend's opening football game. I'd get in my car, drive home, call up my friends and we'd hit the bars. The bars are always hoppin syllabus week.
Of course, then I got into my car, took one look up at the mountains casting a shadow down on Flagstaff and realized that there'd be no bars tonight. No friends. No tailgating out on my deck (like there has been the past three years). No, tonight I'd go home, cook some dinner, read a little bit and hope I actually got some sleep. Seriously, I could carry the contents of my purse under my eyes at this point.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Great Outdoors
After spending four more days down a trail in August heat, I can finally take no more. I have a sunburn so horrendous, clothing has become an issue. I've never experienced pain like this before. I can't sleep at night because my entire back is in pain.
This is what you get for wearing a tank top out to Bright Angel Trail.
So there I sat for two days, 1.5 miles down, doing interview work. And then another two without shade, without ample sunscreen, without any clue that my skin was burning off. I blame my Texan childhood that allows me to adapt to heat to the point I don't realize I'm literally baking in the sun. I don't even sweat here!
People kept coming up and asking me if I was doing homework. Why, yes. I'm sitting on a rock over a cliff face with 500 feet of falling below, in a Penn State hat (we're in Arizona, people, look at a map), in direct sunlight doing homework. Because all kids from East Coast schools love to pick out rocky perches at the Grand Canyon at which to do some good old-fashioned homework.
It got to the point of misery that I considered pushing the next jackass to come along and make a snide remark at me over the tinier ledge--just a fall of 15 feet or so. People all think they're so clever. If you're doing tedious work, sunburn searing your skin (even though you've covered up this time), exhausted beyond belief, and in general uncomfortable (you try perching out of the way of hikers and mules for six hours!), the last thing you want is a one-liner and a smirk.
The second day out there I was both up and down wind of some very fresh mule shit baking in the sunlight.
My job is extremely glamourous.
The best news is that now I've collected the majority of data I needed for my project, and thinking about that just lifts a huge weight off my shoulders. The tedious part is almost done (I have to enter and analyze two more days) and then all that remains is some field work I can move around for, and cleaning/writing up what I've found.
In other news, I've officially been inducted as Wilderness Woman. Why, you ask? Because, as all backcountry people can tell you, I've hit my final landmark that I'm in the know of the outdoorsy.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have officially done my business in the woods. Not in a portapotty. In nature. I have finally crossed that threshold of "I'm not afraid to be in the wilderness, 'cause I can handle myself!" Elevation change? Check. Hiking etiquette? Check. Proper equipment? Check. Trail savvy? Check. Going a while sans civilization? Check. Forgoing a shower for rolling in a river? Double check.
Doing my business out-of-doors and not caring? Check.
This is what you get for wearing a tank top out to Bright Angel Trail.
So there I sat for two days, 1.5 miles down, doing interview work. And then another two without shade, without ample sunscreen, without any clue that my skin was burning off. I blame my Texan childhood that allows me to adapt to heat to the point I don't realize I'm literally baking in the sun. I don't even sweat here!
People kept coming up and asking me if I was doing homework. Why, yes. I'm sitting on a rock over a cliff face with 500 feet of falling below, in a Penn State hat (we're in Arizona, people, look at a map), in direct sunlight doing homework. Because all kids from East Coast schools love to pick out rocky perches at the Grand Canyon at which to do some good old-fashioned homework.
It got to the point of misery that I considered pushing the next jackass to come along and make a snide remark at me over the tinier ledge--just a fall of 15 feet or so. People all think they're so clever. If you're doing tedious work, sunburn searing your skin (even though you've covered up this time), exhausted beyond belief, and in general uncomfortable (you try perching out of the way of hikers and mules for six hours!), the last thing you want is a one-liner and a smirk.
The second day out there I was both up and down wind of some very fresh mule shit baking in the sunlight.
My job is extremely glamourous.
The best news is that now I've collected the majority of data I needed for my project, and thinking about that just lifts a huge weight off my shoulders. The tedious part is almost done (I have to enter and analyze two more days) and then all that remains is some field work I can move around for, and cleaning/writing up what I've found.
In other news, I've officially been inducted as Wilderness Woman. Why, you ask? Because, as all backcountry people can tell you, I've hit my final landmark that I'm in the know of the outdoorsy.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have officially done my business in the woods. Not in a portapotty. In nature. I have finally crossed that threshold of "I'm not afraid to be in the wilderness, 'cause I can handle myself!" Elevation change? Check. Hiking etiquette? Check. Proper equipment? Check. Trail savvy? Check. Going a while sans civilization? Check. Forgoing a shower for rolling in a river? Double check.
Doing my business out-of-doors and not caring? Check.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Why Hiking At 1PM Is An Overall Bad Idea
Last night I suffered a headache so bad that this morning my brain actually feels like it's been bruised.
Apparently, even if you survive hiking out of the canyon at the hottest part of the day (barely), you'll still suffer for it later. When I climbed out yesterday, my skin was so hot I could double as a radiator. So I found myself a nice, covered bus stop and laid on the bench for about half an hour.
Later when I got home, I was still burning up so I took a cold shower and stretched out on the couch for a few hours. The sun paired with that hike completely sapped me of all my energy. You don't think that could happen, as most of us have spent more than a few hours in the sun. Just not on a strenuous hike where you gain 1,131 feet of elevation in about a mile and a half to 7,000 feet (at the trailhead).
Now I understand why people get so sick (and die) hiking that trail. I finally experienced that heat and have to say I never, ever, want to again. Ever.
Apparently, even if you survive hiking out of the canyon at the hottest part of the day (barely), you'll still suffer for it later. When I climbed out yesterday, my skin was so hot I could double as a radiator. So I found myself a nice, covered bus stop and laid on the bench for about half an hour.
Later when I got home, I was still burning up so I took a cold shower and stretched out on the couch for a few hours. The sun paired with that hike completely sapped me of all my energy. You don't think that could happen, as most of us have spent more than a few hours in the sun. Just not on a strenuous hike where you gain 1,131 feet of elevation in about a mile and a half to 7,000 feet (at the trailhead).
Now I understand why people get so sick (and die) hiking that trail. I finally experienced that heat and have to say I never, ever, want to again. Ever.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
'Cause Places Like This Don't Exist
I finally took a trip down to Sedona, after much urging from the roommate. I couldn't see what the big deal was about this place: it's further down 17 than I usually go, the roads are so dangerous (speed limit is 75 here on windy mountain roads), and the trails are so out of the way. But I still had to see for myself what Sedona had to offer, and found myself dumbstruck.
I opted, for fun, to take 89A instead of the straight-shot I-17 down through the heart of Sedona. I plugged it into my GPS and went on my way. As I'm driving I notice that it looks like the GPS has an error: the route is literally a scribble. I thought, oh hell, it's probably confused.
No. No it was not. Have you ever gone 10 mph on a national highway and still felt unsafe? Cause I have. It was a 2000 foot descent through red rock curves. It was, without a doubt, what those crazy mouse rides at amusement parks were modeled after. I can't imagine anyone in an SUV taking that road without rolling. So I finally zoomed in on my GPS to keep ahead of the ridiculous blind turns.
The closer I got to Sedona, the more amazed I became. Huge red rock structures line the road and dot the skyline: daunting mountains shaped into odd silhouettes against an orange desert. All around are little pull offs: a cafe here, cottages there, clear creeks running down below. The homes on the red bluffs next to the road are some of the most beautiful homes I've ever seen: wood and glass, three levels, and terraces big enough to host a Hollywood party.
I passed Slide Rock State Park... which has a natural water chute you slide in. Google it and be amazed!
Sedona itself is exactly what you would expect of an old west town, but it's been done up with a modern artistic motif. Sure the buildings are an orange adobe-style, but the stores are so various and appealing I almost stopped. I didn't though, because I was on a mission. A mission that took me another hour of driving, half of it on the roughest backroads I've ever encountered in my life. The forest service doesn't exactly "maintain" them like you would think.
I drove half an hour in the desert on a dirt and rock road, bouncing until I wanted to vomit, without seeing another person or car. I pulled down FR 215 and came to a parking lot five miles in. Keep in mind the vast desert nothingness around me at the time.
I had done it; I'd found my trail!
Walking out in this canopy of desert/forest, you don't really know what to expect. You can just barely see the mountains towering above you as you stroll through the dense floor below.
The trail is literally just this path on the plateau. No shade, no water, just hot sand below you turning your shoes and socks orange and the sun overhead. I'd heard that there was water somewhere, but after twenty minutes I was wondering where I could find some to roll around in. I could hear children playing somewhere below the path, but couldn't place the distance or elevation.
As I continued, the path changed. I think I descended some and the path brought me to red rock and bluffs. I'd never seen cliff walls like this before. like some ancient civilization had piled them on top of each other ages ago. To add to this mystical feeling, there were these yellow butterflies all over the place, hundreds of them swirling around me as I picked my way along the rock bluff.
I finally came to a place where I thought I heard water rushing and realized, that yes, I finally get to test my water-fording skills! The water was so clear and clean I could see the moss-covered rocks that separated me from the other side. So I slipped off my hiking shoes and socks and put on my old flip flops I used for crew. Carefully holding my hiking shoes above the water, I promptly stepped in and slipped, falling face-first into the stream.
Attempt number two was not much better. This time I made it about halfway before slipping and filling my hiking shoes with water.
Attempt three I just went barefoot and pushed through. I never realized how exhausting crossing a stream could be. I was winded on the other side. I had to do this a total of four times.
There was something so amazing about the red bluffs, the clear streams and the total quiet of this trail. Down where the water is was like being in some Jurassic Park movie--a place so beautiful, so removed from human destruction that it couldn't possibly be real. I couldn't really be there, walking along bluffs being surrounded by butterflies, because this was not a movie. This was real life. I half-felt like I was walking along Mayan ruins and could come across dinos taking a sip out of the stream at any time.
After hiking out back up to the flat path, the heat became intense. With no shade and a heavy pack loaded with water and food, I made the command decision to turn around, find that stream, and roll in it. I probably had walked about two miles into the wilderness, so walking back to find the stream became brutal. I had seen a watering hole about a mile into my hike and wanted to get there, so when I found the stream, I'd take my time walking across, but knew I was going to cannonball into the deeper one once I found it.
I wish I could have taken some more pictures of the streams and what it looked like from the center with the red rock to one side, but I was tired and I didn't want to risk the slip.
I finally got to that watering hole and it felt like I was swimming for the very first time. The water was crisp--not cool, not cold--crisp like the first autumn morning when you can smell fall in the air, like as a friend of mine once said "waking up thirsty in the middle of the night and having a glass with ice in it and a Sierra Mist right there...", meaning that moment that carbonated coolness hits your parched mouth and you feel an overwhelming sense of equilibrium returning to you. That's what this water felt like to me.
I had to tear myself away from the water and return on my hike far sooner than I'd have liked to, but I had to get back on the road and I knew my sunscreen was essentially gone from sweat and stream at that point.
One day, I'll have to go back to that place. The place where for the first time in my life, I felt like I had found the adventure and destination I'd always been looking for.
I opted, for fun, to take 89A instead of the straight-shot I-17 down through the heart of Sedona. I plugged it into my GPS and went on my way. As I'm driving I notice that it looks like the GPS has an error: the route is literally a scribble. I thought, oh hell, it's probably confused.
No. No it was not. Have you ever gone 10 mph on a national highway and still felt unsafe? Cause I have. It was a 2000 foot descent through red rock curves. It was, without a doubt, what those crazy mouse rides at amusement parks were modeled after. I can't imagine anyone in an SUV taking that road without rolling. So I finally zoomed in on my GPS to keep ahead of the ridiculous blind turns.
The closer I got to Sedona, the more amazed I became. Huge red rock structures line the road and dot the skyline: daunting mountains shaped into odd silhouettes against an orange desert. All around are little pull offs: a cafe here, cottages there, clear creeks running down below. The homes on the red bluffs next to the road are some of the most beautiful homes I've ever seen: wood and glass, three levels, and terraces big enough to host a Hollywood party.
I passed Slide Rock State Park... which has a natural water chute you slide in. Google it and be amazed!
Sedona itself is exactly what you would expect of an old west town, but it's been done up with a modern artistic motif. Sure the buildings are an orange adobe-style, but the stores are so various and appealing I almost stopped. I didn't though, because I was on a mission. A mission that took me another hour of driving, half of it on the roughest backroads I've ever encountered in my life. The forest service doesn't exactly "maintain" them like you would think.
I drove half an hour in the desert on a dirt and rock road, bouncing until I wanted to vomit, without seeing another person or car. I pulled down FR 215 and came to a parking lot five miles in. Keep in mind the vast desert nothingness around me at the time.
I had done it; I'd found my trail!
Walking out in this canopy of desert/forest, you don't really know what to expect. You can just barely see the mountains towering above you as you stroll through the dense floor below.
The trail is literally just this path on the plateau. No shade, no water, just hot sand below you turning your shoes and socks orange and the sun overhead. I'd heard that there was water somewhere, but after twenty minutes I was wondering where I could find some to roll around in. I could hear children playing somewhere below the path, but couldn't place the distance or elevation.
As I continued, the path changed. I think I descended some and the path brought me to red rock and bluffs. I'd never seen cliff walls like this before. like some ancient civilization had piled them on top of each other ages ago. To add to this mystical feeling, there were these yellow butterflies all over the place, hundreds of them swirling around me as I picked my way along the rock bluff.
I finally came to a place where I thought I heard water rushing and realized, that yes, I finally get to test my water-fording skills! The water was so clear and clean I could see the moss-covered rocks that separated me from the other side. So I slipped off my hiking shoes and socks and put on my old flip flops I used for crew. Carefully holding my hiking shoes above the water, I promptly stepped in and slipped, falling face-first into the stream.
Attempt number two was not much better. This time I made it about halfway before slipping and filling my hiking shoes with water.
Attempt three I just went barefoot and pushed through. I never realized how exhausting crossing a stream could be. I was winded on the other side. I had to do this a total of four times.
There was something so amazing about the red bluffs, the clear streams and the total quiet of this trail. Down where the water is was like being in some Jurassic Park movie--a place so beautiful, so removed from human destruction that it couldn't possibly be real. I couldn't really be there, walking along bluffs being surrounded by butterflies, because this was not a movie. This was real life. I half-felt like I was walking along Mayan ruins and could come across dinos taking a sip out of the stream at any time.
After hiking out back up to the flat path, the heat became intense. With no shade and a heavy pack loaded with water and food, I made the command decision to turn around, find that stream, and roll in it. I probably had walked about two miles into the wilderness, so walking back to find the stream became brutal. I had seen a watering hole about a mile into my hike and wanted to get there, so when I found the stream, I'd take my time walking across, but knew I was going to cannonball into the deeper one once I found it.
I wish I could have taken some more pictures of the streams and what it looked like from the center with the red rock to one side, but I was tired and I didn't want to risk the slip.
I finally got to that watering hole and it felt like I was swimming for the very first time. The water was crisp--not cool, not cold--crisp like the first autumn morning when you can smell fall in the air, like as a friend of mine once said "waking up thirsty in the middle of the night and having a glass with ice in it and a Sierra Mist right there...", meaning that moment that carbonated coolness hits your parched mouth and you feel an overwhelming sense of equilibrium returning to you. That's what this water felt like to me.
I had to tear myself away from the water and return on my hike far sooner than I'd have liked to, but I had to get back on the road and I knew my sunscreen was essentially gone from sweat and stream at that point.
One day, I'll have to go back to that place. The place where for the first time in my life, I felt like I had found the adventure and destination I'd always been looking for.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Best Burn Of The Summer
Here it is... from walking the rim in an attempt to rehab my knee (didn't work).
You see, sunscreen would have been a good idea, but I don't layer it like I should because I'm allergic to it. So instead I had to suffer through the burn and laughter of my roommate when she saw it. As you can tell, I was wearing the chest strap to my pack.
It's much, much darker in person because in general, I am quite pale. Three guesses where the chest buckle & excess band was located.
Also, you can see where my backpack straps sat on my shoulders.
Ahh, awkward tanlines. It must still be summer.
You see, sunscreen would have been a good idea, but I don't layer it like I should because I'm allergic to it. So instead I had to suffer through the burn and laughter of my roommate when she saw it. As you can tell, I was wearing the chest strap to my pack.
It's much, much darker in person because in general, I am quite pale. Three guesses where the chest buckle & excess band was located.
Also, you can see where my backpack straps sat on my shoulders.
Ahh, awkward tanlines. It must still be summer.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Like Another Life
I was laying in bed last night thinking about how this place feels like home to me now. I had thought it was going to be so hard to leave behind my college existence and become an "adult." It had taken me hours to officially leave my college apartment, thinking I would never again feel a place as homey to me as this.
But the Grand Canyon is home now. How strange is that to say? I know all the roads, the good places to hike to avoid tourists, how to get in and out without waiting in line at the gates. When I drive here, it's second-nature now. No more maps, no more anxiety about finding where I'm going.
Of course, at my other home(s), you rarely hear about French tourists falling off the edge of your backyard and needing rangers to repel down to get you. Which was exactly what happened to an 18-year-old French boy who was taking pictures too close to the ledge. He's in the hospital with neck, wrist and other injuries. Was that picture really worth it?
It happens all the time here. People go "oh hey, lets go right up to the edge of this massively giant hole in the ground... whoops!" It's for this reason I never leave the trail... for anything. Ever. I think because the distance down (a vertical mile) is so great, people can't wrap their brains around what it means to stand on the edge... or fall. There are some places you can fall anywhere from 200 feet to oh, 2,000 feet. That's about two Eiffel towers stacked on top of each other.
Would you like to fall the distance of the Empire State Building? All 1,472 feet of it? No? Try telling that to the tourists who stand on the edge of The Abyss and pose for awkward pictures. I'd rather have still good, acceptable pictures behind a railing and you know, live, than tempt fate by crawling out on the ledge.
And I don't think people understand what the rangers here go through trying to save people who do stupid things. They have to put their own lives on the line and dangle above that huge drop to come and get you. Or be fixed on a rope tied to a helicopter. Or run up a trail in the heat of summer to carry you out.
Some people who collapse are in very, very poor physical condition and end up having to be carried somewhere--even up and out. Imagine trying to help carry a 200-lb woman in a basket up a narrow and extremely steep, crowded trail with 100 degree heat baring down on you. Cause that is what these people do.
But the Grand Canyon is home now. How strange is that to say? I know all the roads, the good places to hike to avoid tourists, how to get in and out without waiting in line at the gates. When I drive here, it's second-nature now. No more maps, no more anxiety about finding where I'm going.
Of course, at my other home(s), you rarely hear about French tourists falling off the edge of your backyard and needing rangers to repel down to get you. Which was exactly what happened to an 18-year-old French boy who was taking pictures too close to the ledge. He's in the hospital with neck, wrist and other injuries. Was that picture really worth it?
It happens all the time here. People go "oh hey, lets go right up to the edge of this massively giant hole in the ground... whoops!" It's for this reason I never leave the trail... for anything. Ever. I think because the distance down (a vertical mile) is so great, people can't wrap their brains around what it means to stand on the edge... or fall. There are some places you can fall anywhere from 200 feet to oh, 2,000 feet. That's about two Eiffel towers stacked on top of each other.
Would you like to fall the distance of the Empire State Building? All 1,472 feet of it? No? Try telling that to the tourists who stand on the edge of The Abyss and pose for awkward pictures. I'd rather have still good, acceptable pictures behind a railing and you know, live, than tempt fate by crawling out on the ledge.
And I don't think people understand what the rangers here go through trying to save people who do stupid things. They have to put their own lives on the line and dangle above that huge drop to come and get you. Or be fixed on a rope tied to a helicopter. Or run up a trail in the heat of summer to carry you out.
Some people who collapse are in very, very poor physical condition and end up having to be carried somewhere--even up and out. Imagine trying to help carry a 200-lb woman in a basket up a narrow and extremely steep, crowded trail with 100 degree heat baring down on you. Cause that is what these people do.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Back Down The Rabbit Hole
Taking Mondays and Wednesdays off is possibly the best idea I've had since I've been here. For one, I don't waste time sitting in my office doing nothing anymore, I am actually out being busy and I love it. Plus I don't burn out as easily because I work four days on, one day off, one (office day) on, one off.
This week I decided to go down South Kaibab Trail to do my study. I would have had to go there eventually, but because I injured (or reinjured) my knee, I had no choice. There's nowhere you can stop on Bright Angel that isn't a mile and a half or more down. It's too hot to sit anywhere along that trail.
So I arrived at South Kaibab, went to go set up and was promptly kicked out by trail crew. They're working on the first set of switchbacks, aka about half a mile of trail and 200 feet of elevation change. I now had to make a choice, I could hike down on a bum knee and sit out all day half a mile down trail, or I could abandon my study until I was better.
Naturally, I hiked down the switchbacks. The crew was stopping traffic on the trail every ten minutes or so for fifteen to twenty minutes of waiting, so attempting to do my interviews meant a lot of diffusing first. I let people complain to me--even though, I, like them, have been burdened by this construction. It didn't seem to matter to people, all they wanted to do was catch the bus.
The first day wasn't so terrible--I just kept looking up the switchbacks and thinking to myself, "yeah, this is going to hurt." For the five or so hours I was down there, the thought of having to climb out never left my mind. I just took is slowly up the trail and didn't care who I was stopping up. I don't get why people are in such a hurry, I really don't. You're just going to kill yourself running up this trail and see that it's only going to take five minutes to get on a bus back to the visitor's center.
I really just don't get people sometimes.
For instance, there was a Chinese woman who knew minimal English. When she reached the trail stopping point, she was babbling, incoherent, shaking, and was no longer sweating. It took all of one second for me and the other volunteer from trail crew (whose job it was to stop traffic down below the switchbacks) to realize this woman had some sort of heat-related illness.
It was about 1:00 in direct sunlight, and I'd seen her hike down at 11:00. I asked her when the last time she had anything to eat or drink was, and with her limited abilities, she just pointed up. As in, she took a swig from the water fountain up top--two hours ago. I made her sit down in the shade, got my extra bottle of water I always carry and forced it to her. I didn't have anything salty, but then again, I hadn't planned on being down there for so long either (thanks to lack of knowing TC was out there).
She sat on a rock, her hands shaking, and I could hear the triathlete couple behind me talking. I caught "they must have stopped her right in time," and "she doesn't look good." It didn't help the situation that we were essentially cut off down below where everyone else was, I'd forgotten my radio (read: didn't plan to be there), and had an onlooking crowd of twelve people.
When the trail opened, I did my best to make her stay sitting in the shade so one of us could go get someone with a radio to call it in. She babbled at me in Chinese, hugged me, and flew up the trail. We did all that we were able to do.
The second day was better--I was over the feeling of anger I had towards trail crew (for the most part). I just don't like being treated like some kind of idiot and being talked down to like I was the day before. I had seriously stood and been lectured at for fifteen minutes like I was five years old. I really didn't appreciate that, on top of the knee, and I really did not want to go back a second day.
I've been noticing that because I'm a VIP here (volunteer-in-park), people treat me like I'm some kind of deficient. People also ask me what high school I go to. Because I look 16, right? I never really say anything to anyone, but it really bothers me how some full-timers will treat volunteers--I mean, hell, this isn't my JOB. I don't get a SALARY like they do. I'm doing this on a living stipend! How about a "thanks" or a "welcome!"?
The only thing worse than going back is to not go back, so I sucked it up and went back down the trail. Where I was promptly stalked by a squirrel. It locked eyes on my pack at 9:00 and didn't leave me alone all day.
It's creepy how they sit behind rocks, lean back on two legs, and look at you from just over the rock.
This week I decided to go down South Kaibab Trail to do my study. I would have had to go there eventually, but because I injured (or reinjured) my knee, I had no choice. There's nowhere you can stop on Bright Angel that isn't a mile and a half or more down. It's too hot to sit anywhere along that trail.
So I arrived at South Kaibab, went to go set up and was promptly kicked out by trail crew. They're working on the first set of switchbacks, aka about half a mile of trail and 200 feet of elevation change. I now had to make a choice, I could hike down on a bum knee and sit out all day half a mile down trail, or I could abandon my study until I was better.
Naturally, I hiked down the switchbacks. The crew was stopping traffic on the trail every ten minutes or so for fifteen to twenty minutes of waiting, so attempting to do my interviews meant a lot of diffusing first. I let people complain to me--even though, I, like them, have been burdened by this construction. It didn't seem to matter to people, all they wanted to do was catch the bus.
The first day wasn't so terrible--I just kept looking up the switchbacks and thinking to myself, "yeah, this is going to hurt." For the five or so hours I was down there, the thought of having to climb out never left my mind. I just took is slowly up the trail and didn't care who I was stopping up. I don't get why people are in such a hurry, I really don't. You're just going to kill yourself running up this trail and see that it's only going to take five minutes to get on a bus back to the visitor's center.
I really just don't get people sometimes.
For instance, there was a Chinese woman who knew minimal English. When she reached the trail stopping point, she was babbling, incoherent, shaking, and was no longer sweating. It took all of one second for me and the other volunteer from trail crew (whose job it was to stop traffic down below the switchbacks) to realize this woman had some sort of heat-related illness.
It was about 1:00 in direct sunlight, and I'd seen her hike down at 11:00. I asked her when the last time she had anything to eat or drink was, and with her limited abilities, she just pointed up. As in, she took a swig from the water fountain up top--two hours ago. I made her sit down in the shade, got my extra bottle of water I always carry and forced it to her. I didn't have anything salty, but then again, I hadn't planned on being down there for so long either (thanks to lack of knowing TC was out there).
She sat on a rock, her hands shaking, and I could hear the triathlete couple behind me talking. I caught "they must have stopped her right in time," and "she doesn't look good." It didn't help the situation that we were essentially cut off down below where everyone else was, I'd forgotten my radio (read: didn't plan to be there), and had an onlooking crowd of twelve people.
When the trail opened, I did my best to make her stay sitting in the shade so one of us could go get someone with a radio to call it in. She babbled at me in Chinese, hugged me, and flew up the trail. We did all that we were able to do.
The second day was better--I was over the feeling of anger I had towards trail crew (for the most part). I just don't like being treated like some kind of idiot and being talked down to like I was the day before. I had seriously stood and been lectured at for fifteen minutes like I was five years old. I really didn't appreciate that, on top of the knee, and I really did not want to go back a second day.
I've been noticing that because I'm a VIP here (volunteer-in-park), people treat me like I'm some kind of deficient. People also ask me what high school I go to. Because I look 16, right? I never really say anything to anyone, but it really bothers me how some full-timers will treat volunteers--I mean, hell, this isn't my JOB. I don't get a SALARY like they do. I'm doing this on a living stipend! How about a "thanks" or a "welcome!"?
The only thing worse than going back is to not go back, so I sucked it up and went back down the trail. Where I was promptly stalked by a squirrel. It locked eyes on my pack at 9:00 and didn't leave me alone all day.
It's creepy how they sit behind rocks, lean back on two legs, and look at you from just over the rock.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Rule #1 of Canyon Life
Always check everything for bugs. Everything. I'm talking shoes, sheets, towels, clothes and toilet paper. Yes, I did say toilet paper.
It's easy to remember that while I do live in a residential area, this area happens to be located in a forest about a mile from the rim of the Grand Canyon. We have streetlights, paved driveways (sometimes) and backyards, but I'm pretty sure in other residential areas (read: suburbs) you really worry less about elk getting trapped in your fenced-in yard, breaking out your windows and trying to kill you when you go to get it out.
Or about coyotes getting your dogs because you left them outside.
Or scorpions hanging out in your underwear because you didn't shut the drawer all the way.
My personal favorite is this morning. Usually, I check everything compulsively because there are bugs all over the place. It's just the way it is when your house is built in the wilds. I check my sheets, my socks, my towels, my clothes, and then my plates and bowls.
On the way down to the kitchen this morning, in bare feet, I stepped on a moth that had decided to die in the middle of a step down from my room. I got to the dishwasher and opened it up to reveal a very dark, very black and very fast spider hanging out around my bowls. I guess he decided he needed a sprucing up with the rinse cycle. How this guy survived that is beyond me, I just let him dart away (and probably crawl back into a mug of mine).
After breakfast, I went back up to my bathroom, flicked an ant off the toilet seat, looked around the rim and bowl for other creepy crawlers (What is my toilet bowl to them? The community pool.) I grabbed a roll of my toilet paper and proceeded to check that for bugs as well, finding one right on the top. He too got flicked into the wall.
I was all ready to go, clean new white socks (why do I buy white anyways, they always turn orange from dust/dirt after I wear them out) on, I opted for my running shoes because they have support in them and my knee has been killing me lately. Hiking shoes are great for walking in steep, rocky environments--not so good for supporting knees, though. As I slipped in my left foot, I felt something down by my toes, which I wiggled around to figure out what it was.
I took off my shoe and turned it over in that childlike "crap-*shake*-I've-*shake*-got-*shake*-another rock-*shake*" way of removing anything from one's shoes. Out drops a big, ugly beetle. That I had just killed and squished (in my white socks) with my toes.
It's easy to remember that while I do live in a residential area, this area happens to be located in a forest about a mile from the rim of the Grand Canyon. We have streetlights, paved driveways (sometimes) and backyards, but I'm pretty sure in other residential areas (read: suburbs) you really worry less about elk getting trapped in your fenced-in yard, breaking out your windows and trying to kill you when you go to get it out.
Or about coyotes getting your dogs because you left them outside.
Or scorpions hanging out in your underwear because you didn't shut the drawer all the way.
My personal favorite is this morning. Usually, I check everything compulsively because there are bugs all over the place. It's just the way it is when your house is built in the wilds. I check my sheets, my socks, my towels, my clothes, and then my plates and bowls.
On the way down to the kitchen this morning, in bare feet, I stepped on a moth that had decided to die in the middle of a step down from my room. I got to the dishwasher and opened it up to reveal a very dark, very black and very fast spider hanging out around my bowls. I guess he decided he needed a sprucing up with the rinse cycle. How this guy survived that is beyond me, I just let him dart away (and probably crawl back into a mug of mine).
After breakfast, I went back up to my bathroom, flicked an ant off the toilet seat, looked around the rim and bowl for other creepy crawlers (What is my toilet bowl to them? The community pool.) I grabbed a roll of my toilet paper and proceeded to check that for bugs as well, finding one right on the top. He too got flicked into the wall.
I was all ready to go, clean new white socks (why do I buy white anyways, they always turn orange from dust/dirt after I wear them out) on, I opted for my running shoes because they have support in them and my knee has been killing me lately. Hiking shoes are great for walking in steep, rocky environments--not so good for supporting knees, though. As I slipped in my left foot, I felt something down by my toes, which I wiggled around to figure out what it was.
I took off my shoe and turned it over in that childlike "crap-*shake*-I've-*shake*-got-*shake*-another rock-*shake*" way of removing anything from one's shoes. Out drops a big, ugly beetle. That I had just killed and squished (in my white socks) with my toes.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
With Your Head In The Clouds
For about the fortieth time this week, I wish I knew how to operate the safety van's lights. Was it because I was driving at night or early morning? Good guess, but no. Extreme rain? Only at moments. Fog? Well, sort of.
I was driving through clouds. This week I got to witness something very strange and apparently, not as rare as I thought it was.
A few days ago on my commute out to Hermit's Rest, I noticed what I took to be steam or smoke coming out of the canyon. It was a strange sight to be right next to the rim but see nothing but white vastness. As I drove further out to my destination, I noticed that there was far too much dense whiteness in the canyon for it to be smoke (that would have been one hell of a massive wildfire), also steam doesn't look or move like that.
What was happening is what's known as inverted clouds. It's this strange and supernatural-feeling phenomenon where clouds are formed and trapped deep in the canyon and along the rims. I've been living, walking, driving, thinking, hiking and eating in the clouds for days now.
(there is a trail--and drop--here)
All of this is all ok, seeing as how rapidly it cools off inside of a cloud and how the cover blocks those pesky sun-burning rays. The downside to this is that it rains. All. The. Time. After spending four days in it, I'm soggy, muddy and miserable for the most part. Everything I own is damp and my shoes are coated in thick, canyon mud. Canyon mud is not like regular mud. For one, it's orange. Also, it's stickier and more like cement than normal mud.
The clouds are cool, but make driving on a two-lane road winding around the western part of the South Rim without knowledge of car headlights just a little bit nerve-wracking. Lets add in to this bikers, without lights or vests, foreigners who walk in the middle of the road and not the trail for some reason, critters that weigh up to about half a ton, buses carrying more tourists out on a schedule, and numerous tourists who somehow got the code to the gates and are now rubbernecking it through the dense and barely-visible cloud.
I kept trying to stop and take pictures on my way back, but the clouds envelope you here pretty fast and make taking pictures a complicated task. I did manage to get a picture of people standing in the clouds, in case you ever wondered what that looks like (above).
The clouds are strange in that they get sucked upwards out of the canyon when they hit rim (thus my driving problem). They move so quickly you can stand there and visibly see them get ripped into the atmosphere, like a huge, white waterfall in reverse.
Here's a video of the clouds being sucked out (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKXbcC7JDeg)
I was driving through clouds. This week I got to witness something very strange and apparently, not as rare as I thought it was.
A few days ago on my commute out to Hermit's Rest, I noticed what I took to be steam or smoke coming out of the canyon. It was a strange sight to be right next to the rim but see nothing but white vastness. As I drove further out to my destination, I noticed that there was far too much dense whiteness in the canyon for it to be smoke (that would have been one hell of a massive wildfire), also steam doesn't look or move like that.
What was happening is what's known as inverted clouds. It's this strange and supernatural-feeling phenomenon where clouds are formed and trapped deep in the canyon and along the rims. I've been living, walking, driving, thinking, hiking and eating in the clouds for days now.
(there is a trail--and drop--here)
All of this is all ok, seeing as how rapidly it cools off inside of a cloud and how the cover blocks those pesky sun-burning rays. The downside to this is that it rains. All. The. Time. After spending four days in it, I'm soggy, muddy and miserable for the most part. Everything I own is damp and my shoes are coated in thick, canyon mud. Canyon mud is not like regular mud. For one, it's orange. Also, it's stickier and more like cement than normal mud.
The clouds are cool, but make driving on a two-lane road winding around the western part of the South Rim without knowledge of car headlights just a little bit nerve-wracking. Lets add in to this bikers, without lights or vests, foreigners who walk in the middle of the road and not the trail for some reason, critters that weigh up to about half a ton, buses carrying more tourists out on a schedule, and numerous tourists who somehow got the code to the gates and are now rubbernecking it through the dense and barely-visible cloud.
I kept trying to stop and take pictures on my way back, but the clouds envelope you here pretty fast and make taking pictures a complicated task. I did manage to get a picture of people standing in the clouds, in case you ever wondered what that looks like (above).
The clouds are strange in that they get sucked upwards out of the canyon when they hit rim (thus my driving problem). They move so quickly you can stand there and visibly see them get ripped into the atmosphere, like a huge, white waterfall in reverse.
Here's a video of the clouds being sucked out (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKXbcC7JDeg)
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