Summer 100: #31-40

Summer 100: #31-40

31/100

Our road winds to an end and, from across the meadow, I spot a familiar quaint cabin. Nestled at the foot of the tree line in a spacious meadow, Urraca is one of 35 staffed backcountry camps on the Ranch, offering a challenge course and infamous evening campfire. We reach the cabin and packs are quickly dropped, boots are extracted, swings are swung, and cookies are eaten. My sweaty clothes attempt to dry while I swing back and forth. I notice their Camp Director, Jake, heading for the campfire ring, the sun beginning to set over the mesa. He epitomizes camp-staff spirit, wearing garish sweaters and responding to silly questions in equally silly voices, his positive attitude is force to be reckoned with. The show begins and I grab a seat in the front row with my back to the fire warming my still slightly damp shirt. Seems the sweater thing is practical too.

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32/100

The show comes to a close and the scouts pack up and head back to their campsites, for many of these weary traveler's bedtimes have been surpassed. For the staff, however, the night is young and quiet. I grab my jacket and head over to the storage shack where the rest of the staff has started to convene out in front. Cookies and cigarettes are being passed around in some sort of ironic attempt to negate the copious clean air and constant exercise. Silently, we scan the sky, searching for shooting stars and satellites. The milky way beams down upon us; a Cheshire Cat grin. A warm glow emanates from the local town of Cimarron, we are less than three miles away from civilization. I crunch on some stale cookies and recall I was helping raise the flags earlier today. A distant memory becoming rewritten by time and miles.

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33/100

The air and ground have gone cold, drugging us with slumber. Most of the staff have decided to turn in for the night, some still buzzing back and forth between the cabin and their tents, caught in bedtime ritual. The last light disappears behind a canvas flap and the three of us remaining take out our sleeping bags and make our way to the cabin to bed down for the evening. My tried and true plan of borrowing a pad has backfired due to the amount of guests; not an inch of free foam for miles. Painfully, I lay my bony waist and shoulders on the wooden floor. Suddenly, I am not sleepy anymore and I sense the other two aren't going to sleep for a while either. Beyond the tin roof, stars deftly streak by while we feverishly talk about camp politics and future positions. Running out of steam, the calm of sleep beings to wash over me and my comrades. I attempt to reflect on my first free day as I feel my eyelids droop with insurmountable weight.

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34/100

I wake feeling far more refreshed than I had anticipated. The sun has just barely risen over the mesa, compelling me to start packing my gear. A quick breakfast of strawberry Pop-Tarts warmed in cowboy coffee is scarfed down before we bolt. Our goal is to make it back to basecamp before 8:15 A.M., before the select few vehicles departing into different regions of the backcountry leave the dock and are gone for the day. Boots on, we smoothly and efficiently sail down yesterday's struggle, stopping only to shed warmer outer layers. I notice a caterpillar rapidly inching through the unprotected dirt, long wiry tufts wildly sprouting all over his miniature body. I smirk and figure we are ahead of schedule for early birds. The trail starts to become wider and flatter as we press onward. We are getting close.

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35/100

The four of us make it back to our parked cars in record time, still on-target to intercept the suburbans in basecamp. I make it to the dock and join up with some other recreating staffers who are planning on bumming a ride which loops through the camps in 'central country', the middle of the Ranch. I find out the driver for today's run is Stephen, one of four Backcountry Managers. He is one of my superiors and thankfully aggressively friendly. I jump at the open spare seat, knowing the ride will be nothing short of an experience. The doors slam, low gear is engaged, and we take off like Indy's Jeep, bumping, rattling, and crashing through narrow and winding dirt roads while popular 90's Disney soundtrack songs are played at eleven. I find myself sitting next to the CD of French Henry; Corey , a man with an intensity which marathons and ice hockey cannot satisfy. I poke my head and arms out of the window and enjoy the cool mountain air rushing over me. This certainly beats hiking up steep hills.

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36/100

Having made all but one delivery, the nearly empty suburban crashes toward our last camp on the schedule; Crater Lake. Nestled between Fowler Mesa and Trail Peak lies this hospitable logging camp set in the early 1900's. I met up with John to see how the summer was treating him. From the cabin we survey the lake, it is nearly the fullest it has been in three years; hopefully an indication the subsiding drought. The air is cool from the altitude, the warm sun bursts through patches in the dense puffy clouds. Although our meeting is brief, his casual demeanor tells me everything is going well. I make a mental note to pass along the positive sentiment to the CD who will most likely be at the bar tonight along with everyone else. The suburban's few passengers and I climb in and continue back towards basecamp, our excursion close to ending. It's looking like I might even have some time to take a shower today.

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37/100

The breaking sun hits my tent wall waking me instantly. Begrudgingly, I throw on my uniform and shuffle off towards the dining hall. I walk in, politely turning down familiar warm gruel from the kind and chipper staffers, making a beeline for the fresh fruit cart. I sit down at a table with a few people I recognize and hear them calmly talking about their plans for the day. Discussions of “a real breakfast, Taos, and The Gorge” pique my curiosity, and I inquire about any open seats. Fortunately there are a few and we plan to reconvene in just little over half an hour. I quickly bus my dishes, retreating to my tent to change into my civvies and grab my essentials. Wallet and sunglasses, jacket and camera, my pre-flight check is completed and I exit my tent once again. While en route to the parking lot, I spy a few white poppies sunning themselves. Not being a morning person, my last full free day has thankfully started off well.

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38/100

Bellies full of huevos rancheros and sopapillas, we leave the greasy spoon and pile back into the minivan. Our next stop is Earthships Taos, completely sustainable and eco-friendly homes intended to minimize if not eliminate man's dependence on local utilities and fossil fuels. We pay the admittance fee and take a very short self-guided tour through the magnificent structure made for the public. Most of the science and intriguing machinery which keeps the place running is kept behind closed doors with polite “Staff Only” signs. We exit and find a few houses in various stages of being built and put on our best impressions of “politely-curious tourists” to sneak a bit closer. Rammed-earth walls dense with balding tires and aluminum cans stacked in haphazard patterns seem to be the building material of choice in most of the structures. Trash sits in neatly organized piles waiting to have its purpose recognized. 

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39/100

The gang continues to inspect the roof and my attention drifts to the horizon and its contours. Walking down the steep embankment of tamped dirt, I wander out past the parked cars and trash collection heaps. The western face of Wheeler Peak distantly looms while dust devils errantly spiral into a vast cloud-covered sky. Grasshoppers loudly crack and snap, drunkenly flying from one bush to another. A warm breeze flows through my damp button up, nudging me and the group back into our van. Chatter about “The Gorge” continues to build; thankfully our next stop shall put an end to my curiosity.

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40/100

A massive bridge spans a gaping chasm as the sun shimmers and glints in a muddy ribbon of water far below us. I feel very silly when I realize we are at the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge. Parking the car, we venture out onto the magnificent steel and concrete arch. Suddenly, I become acutely aware at the lack of substantial railing between stable ground and dangerous void. My palms immediately begin sweating. Knowing that I am safe, I sit down, hang my head and feet between the bars and try to erase the bridge from my mind. Thousands upon thousands of years of evolution is responsible for the dryness in my mouth and the queasiness in my stomach. I remind myself of the simple fact I have never been scared of heights, but my subconscious isn't fooled. It seems my fear is rooted in the nothingness.

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.