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.

Summer 100: #61-70

Summer 100: #61-70

61/100

I sit down at my cluttered desk after showering by lantern; it had been a few days since my last. Paperwork, letters, camera gear, shards of information constantly migrate on its surface, always in some state of disarray. I organize it in the mornings, but by nightfall, my hard work has seemingly been negated. I invert my headlamp into my water bottle and distance myself from the oil lantern. Although each room is fully-equipped with electric lights, a blessing and a curse, I find the constant thunking of moths against florescent tubes rather irritating. Under a bluish glow, I attempt to pen a few more letters, finally finding myself starting to relax. My days off are just around the corner once again; I make a mental note to make more notes for my staff during my leave. Already, two moths have invaded and drown in my bottle; perhaps it's time to go to sleep.    

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62/100

Efficiently, I pack my backpack and bolt for Jimmy's car only after thanking him profusely for its use. Although driving will save me roughly 25 miles, my slapdash and incomplete plan involves a fair amount of hiking during “danger hour”; monsoon season is currently in full-swing, especially during late afternoon. I make decent time on paved highway and carefully roll through a few miles of washboard road. Cloudy skies above me don't look promising, but regardless, I park at Ponil's parking lot and start walking. Miraculously the weather holds as I arrive at Pueblano, and as if on schedule, so does the downpour, washing away any desire I had to continue onward. I decide to spend the night, fortunately I know a few of the staffers. Sam and I worked in the same vicinity last summer, our paths crossed a few times. He shows me the work which went into cleaning their once musty and dusty tie shack; it looks great.

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63/100

Set in 1914, Pueblano is one of two logging camps which offers spar-pole climbing, something which I still have yet to do. Although the rain has passed and clear skies prevail, perhaps there will be better weather next time- typical New Mexico. Jacob and I catch up on how our summer's are panning out. For the last few seasons, he worked in the Ranger Department and we chat about the transition to Backcountry. Everything seems to be going well, despite mid-summer cabin-fever. Loggerball, like baseball in reverse, is just about to start; staff are infamous for having an untarnished record against campers. He tries to recruit me for their evening game, but earlier, I had strategically offered to cook dinner for camp. Definitely a spectator sport.

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64/100

Beneath my head the floor rumbles, a familiar sound of clamoring boots jolts me awake. A quick glance out a dusty screened window tells me dawn on my first full day has already broken. Three...two...one...a half...counting down silently, I force myself to sit up and begin packing; my daily schedule manifests with each piece of gear stowed away. Nearly finished, I scrounge around, finding my usual provision of strawberry Pop Tarts. I venture outside to warm my bones in the sun and begin aggressively hydrating. Along the river bank, tall grass droops under the weight of morning dew. Another gorgeous day, huzzah. 

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65/100

My last bite of breakfast disappears as I venture towards the staff tents to begin lacing up my boots. I find Patrick doing the same, getting ready to relieve a fellow staffer from early spar-poles; today was his rotation to sleep in. My staff have asked for a similar schedule despite already having one of the latest wake-up times for a backcountry camp. The South Ponil Creek quietly hums in the background while we sip our coffee. Strapping on my pack, I stow my cup and bid the magnanimous musical men farewell before quickly cross-referencing my map. I have not taken this trail - I am not going to get stuck in the rain.

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66/100

Although not steep, the trail steadily gains altitude. Up, up, up, I feel as though I should be nearing my destination. My silent prayers seemingly answered, the trail crests and before it sprawls a familiar looking meadow. Miranda's trade tent is a distant white speck, dwarfed by the foothills of Mt. Baldy. I summited the 12,441' peak in 2012 and take a moment to lean against a rock, attempting to absorb some of the grandeur. A knot of excitement forms in my stomach as I reminisce over the difficulties and stupid choices which went into climbing Baldy, or for that matter any mountain. I remember my unlikely hiking buddies and how we randomly met. I remember not bringing enough food or water I remember trying to outrun dark and ominous storm clouds while quickly plunge-stepping down loose boulders. I think would do it again. Maybe next year. Maybe.

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67/100

Large, puffy clouds float East high above the expansive meadow; it seems as though today's afternoon storm has passed by. A few other visiting staff and I sit and talk inside the dimly lit cabin, calmly enjoying our lack of responsibilities and current emergencies. After a hearty meal of stew and fresh baked bread, the evening's activities are ready to commence. Everyone makes their way down into the meadow as the sun begins to dip below the contour line. Three teams are efficiently split up while rules are briefly discussed. Five bases are pointed out and home rock is flipped to determine first team up to bat. When the rock drops, madness ensues; let the games begin! I may not have been able to keep all of the rules straight, but one thing remained clear from their game-ending chant: neighboring camps who request meat products better not be harboring any vegetarians.

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68/100

Sunrise happens much too early at Miranda. I fumble dumbly, finding my wristwatch under a sock; the time reads 6:24. It's supposed to be my day off. I awake inside the cabin to find a few people already sweeping and convince myself to begin dressing. As I begin to pack, I remember making plans with Carter to hike today. First, I decide to investigate a large grove of aspens along their meadow while the low morning light illuminates the pale trunks. Wild flowers, large saplings, fallen trees, everything is drenched in dew, even my pants and spare pair of shoes. Up ahead, I hear him chuckling and pointing to his monstrous custom moccasins, a muzzle-loader over one shoulder. “Totally worth it”, he proclaims; a sentiment I slowly find myself agreeing with on many different levels.

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69/100

The learning curve for throwing a 'hawk firmly into your target is steeper than expected and staff spend a fair amount of time sharpening the ever-dulling blades. Frequently inside the cabin, a rough scraping noise emits from rusty files being drawn across tomahawk heads. I find Nick at the dining table utilizing a spare fifteen minutes to stay ahead on maintaining program supplies. For mountain men, everything seems to be about preparation. A well-oiled gun, sharp tomahawk, sturdy shoes, each item needs to be in top shape for tracking down big game. I see a crew awaiting instruction from the porch; he doesn't hesitate in sticking his first throw.  

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70/100

Each consecutive summer I work, I recognize fewer and fewer staff who started the same year I did. I remember the day I met Karl; it was the last week of summer and he had been transferred to our camp, helping us prepare to close down. Now, down at the end of their long and greasy table, I see him unfolding a small swatch of cloth and gesturing for me to join him. I sit down opposite of him and notice a few stacks of numberless cards, dried meat, and a rather large tomahawk. He quickly glosses over the rules; there's a twinkle in his eye. I have always known Karl to be a bit mischievous. I cautiously decide to play along.

Karl Hubbard Miranda Philmont Scout Ranch Cimarron New Mexico.