Summer 100: #1-10

Summer 100: #1-10

1/100

The drive East; it begins. From cities, to suburbs, from backwater, to nowhere, over and over again. The fully-loaded suburban hurtles down the highway at 80mph, power lines racing off towards the horizon. Plans are made and futures are speculated upon. Miles tick away and beverages tip empty. And so, it begins.

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2/100

A denim-ed viking sits atop his throaty, snarling beast, surveying the great desert lands. A toothy grimace falls out from his sun-worn face as he stares at me through the tempered, tinted glass. He guns the throttle, backfiring loudly, but sputters on ahead of our vehicle. Have any exceptional encounters from your car?

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3/100

The vehicle pulls over for a much needed pit stop. Turning down offers for venison-jerky from the cloistered townies, I continue to wander away from the main road, looking for the abandoned shack which had caught my eye from the car. It smelled strongly of “Do Not Enter”. Ever see something from the car window that you just must explore further?

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4/100

Bending down to the moistened earth, I gazed over the leathery remains. The flesh has been daintily picked away from the bone, no doubt with help from the beetles which scurried into the fur the moment my shadow crossed them. This wonderful specimen was waiting for us in the driveway at the cabin in Eagle's Nest; welcome back to the woods, kids. Ever see any cool carrion?

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5/100

The rocks here, are alive. Several types of pale blue and bright orange lichen engulf the surface of the weathered stone. They share remarkable similarities to sea coral. The blood starts to pool in my ears from invertedly staring at the ground for such a time. I start to imagine the sea floor thriving with life. Fish swimming around in dense clusters, the tide swaying to and fro, the crushing pressure of the water. I stand up and the blood starts to drain from my skull; seems I still haven't acclimated yet.

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6/100

The smell of fresh rain and body odor waft through the sunny streets of Taos. Quaint shops sell their tchotchkes to the thriving tourists. The town is an odd mixture of rustic Southwest and vintage urban grunge, even the barred windows have a little design flare. Sunglasses on and iced Americano in-hand, I try to disguise myself from the busking hippies and gentrified window shoppers.

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7/100

The stores' diverse wares range from leather crafts and books to eco-friendly kitchen tools and precious gemstones. We wander through the narrow streets and back alleys digesting the afternoon's fare of green chile burgers and beer. There is an inaudible apprehension in the air; the crowds are days away from pouring into the quiet ski resort town. Summer has arrived.

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8/100

On the way back home from Taos, we take a detour and stop by the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Center to take a moment and sit on the benches. Thankfully, there have been a few days of intermittent precipitation, which is unusual this time of year. The dark and heavy clouds have been lingering throughout the day. Looking out upon the sweeping and vast valley, the grass appears greener. Finally, after four years of brown, a little green starts to return.

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9/100

The Chase Ranch, founded in 1867 by Manly and Theresa Chase, was home for the pivotal ranching family of Cimarron, New Mexico. They raised sheep, cattle, and planted apple trees which are still growing and producing fruit to this day. Gretchen Sammis, the last living decedent of the Chase's, owned and operated the ranch for the last 58 years. In August of 2012, she passed away and the land was entrusted to Philmont. Today, during the second day of Camp Director training, we got to tour the majority of the house and grounds which had recently opened to the public. There was an eerie silence throughout the spacious but cluttered home; four generations of history under one roof left a distinct and curious smell lingering in the air. I meandered out to the courtyard and garage area, the day's teachings absorbing into me. Note to self: find cattle skulls for O'Keeffe devotionals and decorative purposes.

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10/100

One of the last places at the Chase Ranch we visited for the day was the pen and barn area. The fences, which once held back hundreds upon hundreds of heads of cattle, now, are my last source of protection between one beastly bovine and my trampled demise. She incessantly mooed at the entire group until we departed. We come to learn her calf had been sold a few weeks ago – the will of the West. Someone important yells and we head back to the school bus, load up, and take off for home. The raucous bus vibrations send me into a nap-haze as our seemingly endless training schedule unfolds in my mind.

Summer 100: #11-20

Summer 100: #11-20

11/100

The week waned and finally Camp Director training came to a close, its sparse but impactful lessons far too fresh in our naïve brains. Looking to celebrate on our last full free-day for several weeks, we hastily threw on civvies, piled into the minivan, and barreled down highway 64 towards ever-popular Taos. The twisting mountain road snaked ahead of and behind me for miles. We rounded a corner and a sweeping view of Mt. Baldy reveals a fresh coat of snow from last night's storm atop its usually stark 12,441' peak; an unfamiliar sight. Our gasoline-powered DJ booth sped onward. The traffic sign seems to be more omen than warning. 

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12/100

Exiting the winding mountainous road from Angel Fire, we descend into Taos valley, stopping at everyone's favorite pizza joint for some much needed lunch. We chatter and joke, anxious for our Program Counselors who will be arriving tomorrow en masse, bringing with them the start of a second full week of training. First aid training, astronomy training, ATV training, our waitress asks for my order and I am pulled back into the conversation. A warm and quenching summer breeze floats lazily through the cottonwoods, cooling my damp forehead. Our afternoon's grub arrives – pizza, pesto, porter – perfection.

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13/100

With a forceful yank, I relieve my sweaty skull from the confines of my glossy black full-face helmet. Our first four hours of ATV training is proving exceptionally challenging and the unyielding sun's rays are not making our lessons any easier. Lunch break arrives and we start the long retreat back to the Dining Hall. My breathable pants *zip-zip* against my ankles while my camera collides with my kidney in-step. A small scurrying raisin/creature grabs my attention. I stooped down to discover this little guy trying to seek refuge from my lumbering shadow. He crawled into the dense grass and proceeded emulate “pebble” with great results. Gingerly with a twig, I coaxed him from his grassy enclosure. Exposed, he froze, most likely admiring his own reflection in my lens two inches away, granting me a few moments for a portrait session. The meatball sub had a hard time matching my level of satisfaction for nailing the shot.

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14/100

I feel myself start spiraling into a pit of paperwork, angst, and laundry. It is far too late to be awake. The omnipresent sodium vapor lights bathe everything in a sickly shade of orange. Jittery, I decide to check on the stars and go for a walk to calm my nerves. So far, it seems 75% of the time I look up at the sky, there are clouds, tonight being no different. Distant light from the small town of Springer feebly beams back towards the cosmos. I shuffle back towards the confines of my tent and try to forget about the lack of time and the abundance of paperwork which lies ahead of me.

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15/100

The low, scraping afternoon sun begins to set after our second full day of ATV training; only two more days remain before we earn our instructor status. My staff this year mostly consist of first years, my buddy Jimmy being the exception, who worked with me for a few weeks back in 2011 because of the fire closures. Reunited, we are stoked to spend the summer with each other and deliver awesome program. Having someone who understands you and anticipates your next move is a valuable asset to have. As Jimmy and I walk back to the mess hall, we joke about the coming summer. "We're gonna kill it", he says. I agree. Bring it on.

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16/100

In a blur, the second training week passes and we find ourselves loading up the suburbans with our worldly possessions en route to Zastrow, our home for this summer. We arrive and I hop out of the vehicle and survey my vast new land; there is much to explore. For now, we must unpack and clean. Everything. After a few hours tackling the kitchen, I take a water-in\water-out break. On my way to find a rock, my eye catches the glimmer of a winged bug. He was sitting nonchalantly in the middle of the path; something didn't feel quite right. I reach for a stick, the tried and true method, and give it the gentlest of pokes. Slowly, he wiggles his limbs. I timidly pick up the stoned bug with the stick and transport him to greener and safer pastures for a little rest. I retreat to do my business and when I return, he is no longer there. Making friends on day one. 

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17/100

I grab one of my staff, Gordon, and we leave on a small two mile hike to set up our Geocaching course. Although several days have passed since our arrival, the newness of camp has yet to wear off. The diversity of the flora at Zastrow is some of the most unique I have seen across the entire Ranch. We finish hiding a cache and our course leads us to a vista overlooking our entire home. We admire the view for a minute and head down the gully into a shaded patch of old pines. The ground is dense and sponge-like with compacted and decaying needles. I see a branch with a rotted out knot and notice a Gambel oak leaf nestled comfortably inside; something about it seems oddly poetic. I set a waypoint in the GPS. I must return.  

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18/100

Break-time ends and we leave the grove of trees. Our GPS units take us back out into the open, back out under the sun. The scenery begins changing again as we find ourselves scrambling up the side of an arid rocky hill. The pines and cottonwoods are gone, replaced by creosote bushes and rocky mountain juniper. The hill is very steep now and I turn my attention to the ground. A cactus! Not just one, but dozens of petite, ankle-sized cacti hide all around. Some species are even flowering. I make a mental note to warn all future Croc-wearers who wish to complete the course. Forests and deserts, what next?

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19/100

The sun and temperature have both reached their peaks as we finish hiding the tenth and final cache and start our return trip back to the cabin. In a small wash, I notice a bit of blue winking back at me amid the coarse gravel. Crispy like thin jerky, I find an expired Sagebrush lizard who's once brilliant azure stripes have now quickly begun losing their luster under the harsh light. I stand back up and brush the impacted grit from my fleshy kneecaps and jog to catch up with Gordon. A lone cloud lazily drifts by in the late afternoon heat. Hopefully it brings company.

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20/100

A dark and ominous gray has been swirling above camp for the last few hours. I put a few paces between me and the cabin, drinking in my surroundings. There's a coolness to the air and the wind has started to shift directions, as evidenced by the flagpoles. Down the road I notice a few visiting staff hiking-in to visit. Their timing appeared to be perfect; there's definitely a storm a brewin'. Our warning is over and a few drops begin hitting me on my scalp. The New Mexico rain is cold, bringing with it hailstones which increase in size before our eyes. The thunderous assault on the tin roof is deafening as the hailstones reach the size of Brussels sprouts. Tree limbs crack and fall under the unrelenting force, a river of water is now surging through our road. As suddenly as it came, the skies finally cease and we race out from under the safety of our porch. My province has been covered in stunning white - limited edition. Jessica and I quickly hurry to the bridge, anxious to see what camp looks like on the other side. The Rayado has grown nearly half a foot during the intense 15 minute storm.

Summer 100: #41-50

Summer 100: #41-50

41/100

Gusty winds whip at my hair while passing trucks rattle and shake the concrete walkway. Grey enameled railing tells and incomplete story, marred by graffiti, glib aphorisms, and poignant memorials; it becomes increasingly obvious the bridge has had a history with suicide. Firmly, I grab the waist-high railing and peer over the edge, it looks to be over 500 feet. I immediately remember a time when I dove off a mere 15-foot cliff into moving water. Time took forever. I notice my friends taking their own moments of reflection and angst. Thankfully, the herds of geriatric tourists clutter at the edge of the bridge's span, their fears granting us an unadulterated experience of the abyss.

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42/100

Large cumulonimbus clouds heavy with rain have been forming all day. Looming, they begin to overtake the sun; the red gorge walls cease casting harsh shadows, giving us an entirely new view. I spot a distant shopping cart camouflaged among the rocks and remember the nearest grocery store must be over ten miles away. Nearly a two hour drive from camp and with rain imminent, we decide to leave early and enjoy the scenic route home. Before heading for the car, I stop and take in the grandeur a final time, planting myself at the vertical intersection of river and bridge. A modern-day solution for a stream crossing. The wind begins to gust and the temperature drops another five degrees; time to go. 

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43/100

Our winding descent back to basecamp flies by, the late afternoon sun lights up the valley. The journey ends and we pull up to the dirt parking lot and try to find an open space in a sea of dusty second-hands. We meet up with some more friends who are in the process of making dinner plans. A few more people begin trickle in while a few others toss a Frisbee back and forth. Sean, the Camp Director of Whiteman Vega, mumbles something about “later”, as he tinkers inside his currently non-operational leviathan truck. Car trouble is always a hassle, but when the nearest parts shop is an 80 mile round-trip away, fixing things becomes a headache. The sun has begun to set and I know he won't be too far behind us. 

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44/100

Jumping in the cars once again, we venture into Cimarron for another meal out; a new barbecue joint has recently opened up in town. We cruise, windows down, along the four-mile straight stretch of road, it is the main access in and out of the Ranch. Wind loudly whips through my hair and ears while setting sun-rays bathe the car and mountains in warmth. Nicole, the Camp Director at Fish Camp, has graciously volunteered to be our sober driver for the evening, a favor and chore any good staffer will reciprocate. Surprisingly, in our numerous years of shared tenure, this is the first time we have hung out socially. I suddenly realize the car is full of people who fit the same description. Most of us have to be at back at our respective camps the following afternoon. However tonight, we celebrate; our camps haven't burned down...yet. 

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45/100

We pull up along the familiar stretch of town in search of this new barbecue joint aptly referred to as “Smokehouse”. Quickly spotting it, I can't help but notice this is the third restaurant in five years to occupy the same space. Still, my hopes remain high. We park, place our orders, and wander out to the patio to wait and relax. The food and mosquitoes begin to arrive. Paperwork is bemoaned. Sauces are ranked. Days-off recounted. We finish and all give each other a knowing and silent nod; it is time for the bar. All satisfied to have found another eatery, we exit. Looking up, I notice the store adjacent to where we parked, Buffalo Nickel, bares a sign with their painted name and date, 1909. The mortar and stone have definitely seen more than three restaurant changes. 

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46/100

Plopping down atop the small table kept on the porch, I scan my hot and dusty territory. Camp operations functioned smoothly during my leave of absence, however, a few staff members haven't been getting along entirely well. Their recent flare-up has given me a unique challenge to sort out and I take some time to process. A small scout with legs black from sweat and dirt quietly rummages through the swap box, a receptacle for trading unopened and unused food. Camp is unusually calm for such a warm afternoon, perhaps crews destined for us have decided to take an extended lunch break. Noticing a small scurrying dot on the long concrete slab, I swat away buzzing flies and get down to examine close-up; eight eyes stare back at me. Although not yet large enough to tackle our overwhelming fly problem, I sweep my new friend to safety. Fortunately, my code only allows me to kill things which have wings and legs with a value greater than two.

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47/100

I awake to the clamoring sounds of departing crews on our porch. Their combined excitement, boots, and brotherhood before 7 a.m. are far too raucous without sufficient waking up. Postponing my coffee ritual, I quickly throw on my whiffy 4-day-old shirt and tattered Arborwears and take off for the quiet ATV course. Unexpectedly, the entire landscape is overcast, gray with moisture. Heavy, cool air clings to my jacket while dew sparkles and glints; nature's chandelier. Every leaf, flower, and blade of grass is covered in damp stillness. The silence I so desperately crave has finally greeted me. Good morning. 

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48/100

Finishing my walk, I pause at the fence line to catch my breath before descending into camp. I glance at my watch; everyone should be awake and functioning, but past experiences tell me I need to double-check. The newness of camp has definitely started to wear off, June gloom is upon me. I make my way back towards the cabin and try to work out a few more ideas to help my staff get along better. Coach, chef, cheerleader, counselor; these are some of the many job requirements I find myself needing on a daily basis. Entering the kitchen, I notice a few staff members absent. Grabbing an apron, I offer eggs to those who are hungry. It's time for a change.

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49/100

Crews come and go as does cloudy mornings and rainy afternoons. It seems like I blinked and July has arrived, the last six days have been long and similar. Last week's moth-in-ear-canal and today's first ATV crew are major events my mind strings together in some sort of surreal movie storyboard. Our two ATV Specialists, John and Jimmy, grab as many chest protectors as they can and prepare to head up to the course in order to instruct our first group who just arrived. I know they are as nervous as I am, but I reassure them today is going to be a fun test to prove what they already know. They disappear past the bridge and I return to a half-dozen new crews and unfilled forms which need my attention. I wish I could debrief them about how the course went, but my meeting on the 4th has forced me to leave camp a day earlier than I had planned. Eight miles of steady uphill lie ahead of me, monsoon season has just arrived and getting caught in a storm is not ideal. Camp remained intact during my last set of days and I know the same will be true for this set. My staff have started to become more confident and I don't think it's my imagination.

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50/100

Once again, I am awoken by overly zealous scouters. I lie swaddled in my sleeping bag, fearing to move my limbs. In my haste to leave camp yesterday, I neglected to bring any water or snacks. Today, I should be a veritable Tin Man. Fish Camp's double hung windows emit a dim blueish glow and I sit up to have a look outside. It's completely socked in! Slowly, I get up and dress myself and wander into the kitchen and attempt to find something to eat. Nicole confirms our departure time, the goal is to head into basecamp via Phillips Junction to meet up with a few other CD's. I decide to take a walk around camp to try and warm up my aching bones; the weather is far too inviting and mysterious to hitch a ride back to base. I walk along the Rayado, in between aspen and yarrow, my knees and back begin to loosen. The stillness is invigorating.