The Road Trip Day 8: Where Angels Land
At 5:27 a.m., some yahoo's car alarm went off. After tossing and turning, I gave up and got dressed. It was a great excuse to get an earlier…
Zion National Park, Utah
May 14, 2015
At 5:27 a.m., some yahoo's car alarm went off.
After tossing and turning, I gave up and got dressed. It was a great excuse to get an earlier start than previously planned.
I shimmied on my clothes and hopped out of the tent. Much to my surprise, I found clear skies. The three of us assembled our day packs and filled up water bottles. Last night, we decided to climb Angels Landing, easily one of the most iconic Zion attractions. The Grotto Trailhead was only a 20-minute drive away.
At 8 a.m., in the cool of morning, we began our five mile hike.
Basically a 500 foot fall on either side with only a narrow rock path to stand on. Oh boy!
1,500 feet, up, up, up. We climbed.
I wonder how old this tree is. I wonder how many people have touched it. It must see some amazing sunrises.
I enjoyed my time up at the summit. It was just past 9 a.m. and it seemed clear we had beaten the majority of other hikers for the day. We shared the view with only four other people.
Angels Landing looking into Hidden Canyon.
It was grand.
After thoroughly enjoying the view, it was time to descend. I snapped a few more photos, applied some sunscreen, and we carefully climbed back down.
If you've done the hike, you certainly remember the chain-rope sections.
15 years ago on a family vacation, my dad and I, along with two other family friends did the same Angels Landing hike. I was stunned to find out how much I remembered from my last trip. My hometown barely looks the same, but each sharp switchback and twisting tree seems to be right were I saw it last.
Carter finds an alternate trail.
One of the 21 switchbacks on Walter's Wiggles.
Refrigerator Canyon was completely in shadow when we set off. On the way down however, the canyon floor was bathed in sunlight. It was a magnificent sight to behold.
The Great White Throne, Deertrap, Mountain of the Sun, Bridge Mountain, and The Watchman as seen from above Refrigerator Canyon.
As soon as we got back to camp, it began drizzling. Snacks, cribbage board, and Bluetooth speaker in hand, we retreated to the tents and lounged away the remainder of our afternoon.
We walked to town and searched for dinner options; no one was in the mood to cook. Nothing jumped out at anyone, so we settled on some quaint and kitsch diner which was cheap and quiet.
Back at camp, we had a small fire and passed the whiskey bottle around. We chatted until bedtime arrived.
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The Road Trip Day 9: Alien Landscape
I awoke at 7 a.m. sharp, rain began falling at 7:02 a.m. Packing up in a light sprinkle is rarely enjoyable, but it was something we had to do. At least…
Bryce Canyon + Capitol Reef National Parks, Utah
May 15, 2015
I awoke at 7 a.m. sharp, rain began falling at 7:02 a.m.
Packing up in a light sprinkle is rarely enjoyable, but it was something we had to do. At least we got clear skies for yesterday's hike.
Today's drive was one of the longer ones; we boogied to get camp broken down, car packed and refueled, and road snacks restocked.
We waved goodbye to Zion.
Click here to view this in Google Street View.
Light rain suddenly turned to flurries of snow. The storm we had narrowly been avoiding finally caught up to us.
Along the way we stopped at Bryce Canyon. The visitor's center was packed due to the crummy weather. We took a quick visit to the rim, but you couldn't see a single hoodoo; it was completely socked in. Carter got his sticker all the same.
A very limited and snowy view of Bryce Canyon from the Rim trail.
We pressed on.
A pretty common view along State Route 12.
Head of the Rocks Overlook, Utah.
Looks like we skirted the storm.
The scenery was sublime. State Route 12 might be my favorite road in the US—certainly top three.
We started to get ahead of the storm. Another pull-off caught our attention. “Head of the Rocks Overlook”, proclaimed a small sign. Massive, angry clouds traveled West.
We were headed East.
Caleb made a feline friend during brunch.
The Smith's family friend has a restaurant we were told could not be missed, so we skipped breakfast to save time and not spoil our appetites.
Hell's Backbone Grill had a charming rustic vibe. We looked over the menu and didn't take long. Caleb got French toast, Carter got a quesadilla, and I got shirred eggs with several cups of coffee.
It was pure heaven for our travel-addled bodies.
Quite the brunch spread at Hell's Backbone Grill.
We said our thank-yous and got back on the road once again. Capitol Reef was on our way to Moab; we couldn't resist a short stop at the visitor's center.
Carter's sticker-window is running out of real estate.
Chimney Rock and Mummy Cliff as seen from Utah State Route 24.
Tonight, we are staying at a cheap RV and campground spot in Moab. Hour after hour, our vehicular spaceship zoomed through the alien landscape.
We arrived at the River Oasis RV Park in Moab. Apparently, it has free WiFi, but I had trouble loading Google. Dinner was beef stroganoff with several additional cloves of garlic.
Tomorrow's plan is Arches.
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The Road Trip Day 10: A Million Square Miles
It was another drizzly, rainy morning. Having showered last night, we had no further obligations or desires to stay another night at the 'majestic' River Oasis RV park…
Arches National Park + Dead Horse Point State Park, Utah
May 16, 2015
It was another drizzly, rainy morning.
Having showered last night, we had no further obligations or desires to stay another night at the 'majestic' River Oasis RV park, so once more, we packed our belongings in the rain. It wasn't bothersome, hell, it rained less than yesterday.
On our way into the park, we stopped for fuel and snacks. I got another Frappucino, easily my fourth during this trip.
My day-bag practically packs itself now. We were ready to go in less than 30 minutes.
A pair of hikers taking a break along Delicate Arch Trail.
Delicate Arch is is in the middle of the park and it made sense to beat the possible crowds. After a short drive into the park, we got out of the car and onto a trail.
It looked just like the postcards.
Pine Tree Arch.
Tunnel Arch.
We also went to Pine Tree Arch, Tunnel Arch, and Landscape Arch. The park didn't seem the least bit crowded. Plus, the rain and clouds had started to clear, leaving us with some gorgeous views.
We spent the second half of our day at Dead Horse Point State Park.
Upon arriving at the parking lot, I promptly got out and rummaged through our swampy ice chest. Tailgate down, I made tuna salad; complete with celery, garlic, and capers. A small roadside-cafe van was selling lunch items, but most importantly, fresh espresso. I was beyond stoked.
I got my iced Americano and considered the day worthwhile.
The three of us munched under the shade of an awning. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool.
Refreshed, we walked up a small hill to check out the acclaimed overlook.
La Sal Mountains as seen from Dead Horse Point lookout.
I was genuinely stunned.
The three of us stared slack-jawed for quite some time.
We drove back into town and checked into the Lazy Lizard Hostel. Everyone was enamored with the place. After unpacking, we immediately booked a second night. It was that cool.
Showered, and with fresh clothes (not even previously worn), we went out for dinner at the Moab Brewery. It had rave reviews and a solid line every time we had driven by earlier. I had a patty melt with Swiss and mushrooms which was complimented well by an orange hef.
Back at the hostel, we continued our cribbage saga. There's no use in fibbing; I got demolished. It didn't matter, we laughed the entire game.
It kept me from remembering—only three days remain.
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The Road Trip Day 11: Fractal Canyons
I woke up on the floor earlier than I wanted to; I neglected to close the blinds. Light streamed into our tiny room. Not long after…
Canyonlands National Park, Utah
May 17, 2015
I woke up on the floor earlier than I wanted to; I neglected to close the blinds. Light streamed into our tiny room.
Not long after, my fellow compatriots were up and moving. Our plan was to check out Canyonlands National Park and word from our mutual friends told us to visit the southern half.
Needles District Visitor Center looked like a mirage from the distance. Why was there any structure built there? For the last 75 miles, this was the only man-made thing I saw other than the highway.
The nice park ranger said we would have a hard time passing up the Slickrock Foot trail. We parked the car and hopped out.
Caleb Jennings before his morning Gatorade.
Sprawling fractal canyons as far as I could see. Where were we? When? How? We schwacked over rocks, shrubs, and cyanobacteria. Apparently they're one of the oldest things on our planet.
We got hungry for lunch and aimed for the car. Our ice chest, beginning to take on some odor, had tuna salad fixings from yesterday.
Everything wrapped in tortillas tastes great.
Click here to view this in Google Street View.
There were a few short trail loops on the way out of the park; Roadside Ruin and Cave Spring. Both lived up to their names. For nearly half a mile we walked under eroded boulders. Moss and delicate ferns sprouted from the damp, weeping rocks.
Cleome lutea, or yellow beeplant.
A typical scene at Canyonlands.
We were surrounded by the oddest of tableaux.
Parched and tired, and with snacks no longer carrying their weight, we drove back into Moab. The brewery pulled us in. Beer and gelato was just the kind of refreshing treat we needed.
Back at the hostel, we took turns showering and checking the internet. I scrolled to see if I had any emails or if there were any dumb internet videos.
There were.
We tried to keep strong and remain frugal for dinner; dehydrated didn't sound delicious. It didn't work. We ordered a chicken-pesto pizza from a local shop. And garlic knots.
Also, I think Carter is cheating at cribbage. You can only get so many 16-point hands...
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The Road Trip Day 12: The Magnitude of Time
I was kinda bummed to wave goodbye to the Lazy Lizard Hostel. I had a sense that other guests before me felt the same way…
Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado
May 18, 2015
I was kinda bummed to wave goodbye to the Lazy Lizard Hostel. I had a sense that other guests before me felt the same way. With the last remaining arm-load of gear, we turned in the keys to the front desk and piled in the car.
Carter's friend highly recommended a brunch stop at the Wake and Bake Cafe. I had huevos rancheros in a buckwheat crepe. Pretty decent, could have used more salsa.
Today's drive was long, we covered at least 300 miles. We planned for a long stop at Mesa Verde National Park which was on the way.
The park entrance was quite mysterious.
Slowly, we gained in altitude. At some points the road hugged an escarpment; where were we going? We saw the visitors center and things began to make sense. With requisite stickers purchased we headed down a short trail to see the Spruce Tree House.
Spruce Tree House looks like one hell of a place to throw a party.
For nearly two weeks we had been getting accustomed to stunning landscapes and gorgeous vistas throughout America's southwest. It was odd, to say the least, to find myself viewing a small collection of ruins. Dare I say I was bored?
The best part was seeing how those people set up their establishment. It looked quite secluded and safe; if I stumbled on that 1,000 years ago, I would have set up shop.
We still had a lot of ground to cover.
Mountains and clouds somewhere in Durango, Colorado.
After an unmemorable stop at Subway, we arrived at a Super 8 motel in Alamosa; a far departure from last night's homey accommodations. It had a roof and Carter's dad covered our stay, though. I have to remember to write him a thank-you card.
Finishing the whiskey was a bittersweet moment. However, pegging for a win is an unfair highlight of my entire trip.
One more day left.
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The Road Trip Day 13: Surge Flow
Like most hotels, I had a rough night getting used to the cantankerous air conditioning unit switching on and off. Our neighbors had a housewarming party…
Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve, Colorado
May 19, 2015
Like most hotels, I had a rough night getting used to the cantankerous air conditioning unit switching on and off. Our neighbors had a housewarming party, it seemed.
The three of us, rubbing sleep from our eyes, went to the lobby for 'continental breakfast' which had a predictably limited selection. I cobbled together a peanut butter and butter toast-sandwich with a few cups of Styrofoam coffee. Under the television blaring a morning FOX program, we quietly finalized our plans.
We arrived at the Great Sand Dunes parking lot at 8:30 a.m.; everything was freshly wet from a night of rain.
Wet sand dunes are a different experience altogether.
Just beyond the parking lot in front of the dunes, a wide, pulsating river obstructed a clear path. Nearly a football field of ankle-deep water lay between us and the dunes; a surge flow. There didn't look to be any way around but through. We took of our shoes and socks and stashed them at the bank.
The water was beyond cold. Polar plunges, dares from high school friends, the Atlantic, every cold water event I had previously paled in comparison until today. The cold water lost its novelty immediately. Only shin-deep a few steps in and I found it difficult to breathe. I can't imagine falling through an iced-over lake.
We started to walk around and the sky kept getting darker. After another 10 minutes we bailed for the car, and a moment after crossing the frigid river once more, it began to pour. I had to towel off before getting into the car.
After nearly two weeks of being on the road, we made it safely to Eagle Nest. Tom aggressively shook my hand, like always; Vicky hugged me deeply, like always; Will did both, like always. The McKinney's cabin is beyond special, it feels so good to be back here once more—I am so lucky.
Everyone took a shady seat under one of the huge Ponderosas in the front yard. We shared stories from our journey and pet the many lounging dogs.
The Road Trip may have come to an end, but the start of summer is upon us.
Tomorrow. It begins.
You can't scratch Moonlight, really. He's got so much fur, your fingers get lost or caught.
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European Family Vacation Extravaganza, pt. 2
Towards the end of the 2017 summer the Kernes family took a vacation around Europe. Part 2 takes place during a 10-day cruise around the Mediterranean.
Family Vacation
Family Vacation 2017 - pt. 2
Towards the end of the 2017 summer the Kernes family took a vacation around Europe. Part 2 takes place during a 10-day cruise around the Mediterranean.
Steven, Amy, Justin, and Adam on the island of Santorini, Greece.
Messina, Italy
Saturday, September 2
My day started on the helipad as our ship pulled into the port of Messina. Blinded by early morning light, I tipped back my complimentary mimosa and went to get breakfast. Our tour was through the towns of Taormina and Castelmola, both of which are on the island of Sicily. There was an infamous and picturesque active volcano, Mt. Etna, but it was so hazy, the view from 20 miles away was almost unintelligible. Apparently there's a ski resort on the Southeast face. Bucket list: shred a volcano. The bus driver navigated through narrow stone streets and around petite compacts. If our tour guide had claimed he was a stunt driver on the weekdays, I would have believed her. Castelmola seemed to be straight out of a fairy tale; it was incredible. I stood on some ruins and looked out over the sea, trying to imagine what it would have been like to see invading ships coming for 'my land'. We walked through colorful alleyways constructed hundreds of years ago. Lunch was a real treat—authentic Sicilian pizza. The four of us split three 'zas with a unique highlight being a prosciutto, honey, walnut, and Parmesan pie.
Hang glider over Piazza S.Antonio in Castelmola, Italy.
Valletta, Malta
Sunday, September 3
I bagged another new country today; Malta, just south of Sicily by a couple hundred miles. Our port was in Valletta and we took a ferry to neighboring city, Birgu; one of the many peninsulas on the island. We were scheduled for a informative golf cart tour around the city. Dad was handed the keys and we all given some instruction. Navigating new streets with an entirely different alphabet was little tricky—especially on the right hand side of the road. We all took turns driving and getting out whenever we pleased. It was a great way to see part of this country. Adam found a small stand selling beer by on of the quays. The water was littered with million dollar yachts.
Stone archways in Birgu.
A worn down wooden door.
Maltese locals swimming in The Grand Harbour.
Quiet alleyway in Birgu.
Mykonos, Greece
Tuesday, September 5
Yesterday, we spent a day at sea. I slept late, ate way too much food, and lounged deck-side all afternoon. It left me unprepared for the additional hour gained crossing into another time zone. A small ferry transported us to the main port of Mykonos, Chora to the locals. A city entirely in white engulfed by clear blue waters and sky. It was pushing 100 degrees so Adam and I kept our eyes peeled for places selling beer. Not five minutes of walking around and we were rewarded with a local stout. Greek beer: check. We navigated through stark-white alleyways to find some windmills just off-shore. The entire time, I had my eye on the sea. There weren't many places to access a “beach” but we found a small swath of waterfront with some tourists sunning themselves. I dipped my feet into the Aegean Sea. It felt like the Pacific, but warmer. Expected. Still fun. Adam and I got another beer for the ferry ride back to our ship.
Little Venice, or Mikri Venetia.
Rhodes, Greece
Wednesday, September 6
Today has to have been the hottest day of our entire trip. We disembarked and made our way down the pier. It was easily over 100 degrees on the cobblestone streets. Despite being in a new country, once again, I couldn't help but feel tired and worn-out. Is it possible to vacation too hard? Adam and I split off from Mom and Dad and decided to drink away yesterday's hangover in the shade of a quiet bistro. After cooling down, we took a stroll around the Palace of the Grand Master. Around, because we were unwilling to pay admission fees. We made friends with a chill pigeon and found half of a nude mannequin with an impeccable style.
Mannequin with a raw sense of style.
One of the many fortifications of Rhodes.
Santorini, Greece
Thursday, September 7
Our entire trip, I had been anticipating today—Santorini. We took a ferry ashore, and the entire ride over, stared up at cliffs of desolate volcanic rock. The family opted to take three-minute gondola ride to the top, leaving us in the town of Fira. With hiking shoes laced and water bottles filled, we set off to Oia, a large iconic town at the north end of the main island. A leisurely walk through a quaint town quickly became a strenuous hike out on the exposed island. At nearly seven miles, I was impressed to find Mom and her recently replaced hip keeping up with us boys. Finally, we got to Oia and searched for lunch. Dad picked a restaurant called 218°; the name having to do with an expansive tableside view. We had grilled octopus, fried feta, phyllo-wrapped cheese pockets, Kalamata olives; all dipped in refreshing tzatziki. It's getting hard to distinguish favorite meals. Worn out and full, we caught a charter bus back to Fira. The line for the gondola seemed to be about an hour long. Adam and I decided to ditch the wait, grab a beer, and hike down a steep and slick cobblestone burro path to the waterfront. Ma and Pa beat us back to the ship by 15 minutes, but there is always spare time to scratch some burro ears.
Steve hikes up to see the church of Panagia.
Adam taking the path less traveled to Oia.
Almost at the North end of Santorini. The town of Oia is on the right, island Thirasia on the left.
Typical landscape found in the semi-arid climate of Santorini.
Lunch spread in Oia. Hard to tell if the food or view was better.
Athens, Greece
Friday, September 8
It's the last leg of our trip; we only make port once more before our flight back stateside. Today we had a tour of Athens with only two other couples. At 8AM, our small group made haste for the Acropolis. This was good for two reasons; the day was only going to get hotter and the crowds larger. Five years after a four-year art degree, seeing the Parthenon in person was fulfilling to say the least. After admiring the views, we hopped back in our tour van and headed for The National Archaeological Museum. Apparently, the French President was touring Athens this week as well; traffic was crazy. In the museum, whilst staring at ancient pottery, the President's wife quickly made her way through the same exhibit, flanked by security. Our tour guide didn't seem the least bit phased. We had a much needed lunch break, then it was back sightseeing. We saw the changing of the guard at the Hellenic Parliament; the Panathenaic Stadium, which is made entirely of marble; the Temple of Hephaestus; and ended with the Temple of Olympian Zeus. As we sailed away, we got easily the best sunset of our entire trip. A gorgeous sendoff.
Admiring the Parthenon on a hot summer's day in Athens.
Tourists and locals taking in the Temple of Olympian Zeus.
Looking through the Temple of Hephaestus.
Mediterranean sunsets look better out at sea.
Naples, Italy
Sunday, September 10
Today was our last port city and it couldn't have been nicer in Naples. For the first half of the day, we were scheduled to hike up Mt. Vesuvius. About 3,000 feet of elevation change was no big deal for us avid outdoors people. However, fat tourists abounded. My ego felt great after a quick jump, skip, and hop to the top of the caldera. Views of the Napoli coast were stunning. For the second half of the day, we were scheduled for a tour of Pompeii. For hours, we walked through piles of rubble and partially standing walls. It was hard to follow our guide along and imagine what had once magnificently stood there. Back in town, we 'accidentally' stumbled into a limoncello store. There were three different free samples. It was a sweet sendoff to a sweet trip.
Adam on the trail up to Vesuvius.
The tail end of Italy, where it becomes a 'boot'.
Miss the first half?
European Family Vacation Extravaganza, pt. 1
Towards the end of the 2017 summer, the Kernes family took a vacation around Europe. Part 1 takes place in Florence and Rome Italy.
Family Vacation
Family Vacation 2017 - pt. 1
Towards the end of the 2017 summer, the Kernes family took a vacation around Europe. Part 1 takes place in Florence and Rome Italy.
Steven, Amy, Justin, and Adam on the island of Santorini, Greece.
Florence, Italy
Sunday, August 27
Yesterday, after 20 hours of monotonous travel, the entire Kernes family arrived in Florence, Italy. A glorious and full night of sleep helped erode a sizable amount of jet-lag. Breakfast was a buffet with far too many croissants at the hotel, then it was off to see the Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze. Of course, the goal was to see "David". It looked better than the slides from art history class. A bonus was a tapestry made in the 14th century which was easily over six feet long. The level of detail was intense and hard to comprehend. On the way out of the museum, I spied a few electrical boxes with some clever street art. 'Scubadore Dali' was my favorite. Lunch was a ham and Fontina panini with a glass of red just a few blocks away from the Galleria. After, we took an electric bike tour of Florence. The sun was setting while we were effortlessly propelled up the hilly streets. Our tour ended with an aperitivo at La Prosciutteria; creamy peppered-Gorgonzola and kalamata tapenade served on fluffy, fresh bread. More red wine. Satisfied, Mom and Dad bid us goodnight and hailed a cab. Adam and I decided to explore and find more food. After walking around for a few hours, we found ourselves across the street from our hotel. A small carnival which had live music, old couples dancing, and cheap food drew us in.
The usual crowd around Michelangelo's "David".
Close up from the tapestry "Coronation of the Virgin", by Jacopo Cambi.
Various works by Blub L'arte sa nuotare.
Biking along the Arno.
Monday, August 28
Our tour of Il Duomo di Firenze, or those looking for more of a mouthful, Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, was first on the day's agenda. Had a quick shower and hotel buffet before our 9AM tour time. Having walked around for a whole day yesterday it wasn't any secret where we were headed. We arrived, met our guide, received our earpieces, and started our three-hour walking tour of the Duomo. For 445 years, this was the largest dome in the world, and today, it is still the largest masonry dome. It was hard to comprehend a project of this magnitude during the age in which it was constructed. After the tour, we had an opportunity to climb to the top. Adam and I were the last two people for the day—we narrowly made it past the velvet rope! From the top was a panoramic view of Florence as well as the Basilica di Santa Croce. We climbed down. By then it was well into the hottest part of the day. Coffee gelato helped to cool us down. Lunch was a sandwich place, I' Girone De' Ghiotti, who's infamous line we spotted wrapping around the block yesterday. It was well worth the wait. Adam and I split a 5 euro bottle of wine and we all walked back to the hotel to power nap. Three-course dinner at a vineyard complete with wine pairings and ample mosquitoes. That was the only complaint we struggled to find.
Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore from across the Arno river.
Light streaming into Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore.
Basilica di Santa Croce seen from atop Il Duomo.
"In accordance with...the criminal code, whomever defaces or soils property of historic or artistic interest by any means, including but not limited to indelible pen, shall be punished by detention of up to one year, or by fine of up to two million lire."
Adam carries the 5 euro wine.
Tuesday, August 29
Rome, Italy
Wednesday, August 30
Upon waking, it was easy to tell it was going to be a hot day. Breakfast options were slim and expensive so the family decided to chance it and head out early. Today's tour was of the Colosseum; we banked on finding street vendors around the area. Our patience was rewarded with a three euro caprese-style panini. The tour was extremely thorough and went on a little longer than expected. We were left tuckered out having walked around in the 95 degree sun all morning. Everyone decided it was a good time to go back to the hotel for a siesta. Dinner was a planned event that was unfortunately canceled an hour before we were supposed to go. Dad scrambled and did some intense Google searching. We ended up at Osteria 44 which turned out to be my favorite dining experience of the vacation so far. Sergio, our waiter, made the whole night even better with his dry wit and excellent recommendations. We all shared several dishes. Ravioli with shrimp and asparagus, as well as a classic carbonara were our entrees. Osso buco with roasted potatoes and green beans, and sea bass with some sort of spicy creamed spinach were our secondi . Everything was an 11/10. As a family, we wined, dined, and laughed for the whole two hours—a rarity. Dad didn't stop there. It just so happened the highest rated gelateria was a small detour on our walk home. I went with my usual selection of coffee.
Colosseum exterior cross section.
Colosseum interior.
A street in Rome.
Thursday, August 31
Today we had a tour of the Vatican City State. We decided to play on yesterday's luck and leave early in search of breakfast. Once again, we scored and found a quaint cafe. I had a smoked salmon sandwich with arugula and tomato, crust neatly removed, and a cappuccino. The coffee was a transformative experience; more so than coffee usually is. We finished and met up with our tour group outside the city walls. “Customs” was pretty easy. We were through the line in minutes. Unfortunately, we also walked through the expansive museums far too quickly. There was easily enough art to look at for several weeks. Our tour guide seemed to know this as well and tried to cram in as much as possible. The size and grandeur was hard to process. Gold, frescoes, multi-colored marble patterns, statues, every square inch was adorned and bespoke with a level of ostentation I didn't even know was possible. And then we went to Saint Peter's Basilica. For a second, I forgot how hot and humid it had been. The Sistine Chapel was an absolute zoo. Hundreds of people, ourselves included, had their necks cranked upward at the magnificent ceiling. My neck was sore. Our tour ended and we decided to wait out the hottest part of the day in our hotel rooms. At 3PM, we were scheduled for a more relaxing golf cart tour of Rome. We puttered past the Colosseum, Circus Maximus, and the Parthenon. We were dropped off at Saltimbocca for dinner. Meal highlight was a smoked provola and speck pizza. And you best believe we stopped for gelato on our way home.
Vatican artworks and frescos. Most importantly far right; "The School of Athens", by Raphael.
Busy crosswalk at the Colosseum.
Businessman texting outside the Colosseum.
A view across the Circus Maximus.
Sunlight against a brick wall at Giardino degli Aranci (The Orange Garden).
Saint Peter's Basilica as seen through Il Buco Della Serratura (keyhole).
Late-afternoon sunlight in the Pantheon.
Wait, there's more!
Summer 100: #1-10
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...
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.
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?
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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: #21-30
After checking out the South side of camp, we about-face and head back to the cabin. Jessica decides to stay while I continue alone to go check on our water tank. Before I start...
Summer 100: #21-30
21/100
After checking out the South side of camp, we about-face and head back to the cabin. Jessica decides to stay while I continue alone to go check on our water tank. Before I start the small assent up the Northern hill, I look past the pair of Ponderosas which serve as sentinels to one of our smoking areas. The ground is covered in large hailstones, a heavy fog clings to the damp coldness near the surface. I exhale deeply and see the ghost of my breath hang before me. The stillness is deafening, interrupted only by the punctuation of drips falling from distant leaves. An unfamiliar June.
22/100
Beetles, moths, wasps, hornets, crickets, spiders, and flies, insects abound at Zastrow. Having electric lights definitely gives away our location, broadcasting beams of false hope to any bugs looking to seek shelter inside our rooms. I quickly learned to leave my lights off and my door closed during dusk, or else suffer through a night of inhaling gnats. Unidentified cicadas can be heard buzzing alongside the river bank during the heat of the day. The large rainstorm which drove back the bugs for a few days has since departed; clear skies are in the forecast.
23/100
The sun begins to set, marking the end to our first full nine-day work week in the backcountry. Already, we have begun experiencing what it means to live and and work under the same roof; not the easiest task, especially for such a young staff. My mind wanders as I bus dinner's dishes, thinking about how meal-time is going to work when campers start spending the night. I gaze out the kitchen window and see a gargantuan creature bobbing his head furiously, each stride gaining on the cabin. As the lumbering beast nears, I quickly realize Carter has come to visit for the night, complete with boombox! After a disproportionate high-five, we power through evening chores, put the staff to bed, and start heading up the road. We reach a clearing I remember finding in the daylight and plop down and discuss our summers as they have progressed. We talk about our staff, cute girls, challenges we are scared of, everything while we remain blanketed under our metaphor. Blissfully, we chat away the moonless night. Already so much has happened, yet we have only just begun.
24/100
It is extremely convenient and exclusive to be so close to another camp. Abreu is just over a mile away to the West and I decide to take a half-day to walk over and visit our neighboring camp. I have already been at camp for nine days and have another three to go before I can take some days off. I definitely need to give my staff a breather for the evening. The afternoon is cool from last night's heavy rainfall and though I don't require a break during the brief hike, I take one anyways under the shade of a particularly large scrub oak. Like most rocks here, the ones surrounding me are covered in lichen, these being a brilliant shade of chartreuse. I stand up, convincing my inner demons once again my visit is a hangout and not a sabbatical starting after week one.
25/100
Completely new program is not a common occurrence on the Ranch, especially one which features motorized vehicles in the outdoors. The ATV program has been extremely controversial both for its perceived “recklessness” and for slightly non-Kosher LNT practices. I take the short hike up to the site, the 2-mile course has already been scouted out and rough-cut in the last few weeks. Currently, a wood chipper team and their beast devour the remains from the demo team's labor, lost beyond the tree line. I arrive at the middle of the meadow and face Northwest, pausing at the proposed location for the training course. Nearly the entire 214 square miles of the Ranch sprawls out in front of me, a complete view obstructed by the stunning Sangre de Cristos. It's hard to believe they conceal 315 miles of trails, double if roads are accounted for. The fervor and sheer volume of hate and outrage the Ranch has been receiving about the program is staggering. How can so many people form such harsh, uninformed opinions? I chuckle to myself, remembering we don't have the quads yet, nor any information on when the first course will be conducted. Some people must be compelled to hear the sound of their own dissenting voice.
26/100
Conservation is one of the many departments backcountry staff have the pleasure of working with at Philmont. One of the specialty teams involves a group of guys who are solely dedicated to chipping and mulching, this year; Work Crew Whiskey. Armed with mechanized teeth and elbow grease, our destructive quartet has been preparing the ATV course for the last few days. Up just slightly after dawn, they try to work in the limited cool of the morning, returning only for a brief shade and water break during lunch. In the evenings however, they usually join us for dinner, fajita night being no exception. In they walk, clothes reeking of tree sap which thankfully masks the smell of hard manual labor. We share stories and tortillas, reminiscing about prior summers while winged insects bounce off the screen door late into the evening.
27/100
Up until now, we have only had participants pass through our camp during the morning, none have been overnight guests. This is unique to our camp in that we only host campers on their last night in the backcountry. Ten days ago, the first crews hit the trail which means tomorrow our first crews will be asking us where they can set up their tents. I am suddenly reminded of two things. First, I have been at camp entirely too long. Second, I will be leaving my staff, alone, by themselves, for the first time, for three days. I sigh deeply and try not to over-analyze; a walk feels like a great idea. I slip out and slip into my usual rhythm and so does my mind, easing with each step I put between me and the cabin. Another species of cacti appear to be flowering, “escobaria vivipara”, the nature book later reveals, “a wide range of habitats, from Mexico all the way north to Canada“. It is less than two inches wide and sports a brilliant fuchsia flower. If it can thrive, so can I, and so can they.
28/100
I am positively wracked with cabin-fever, but finally, my days off have arrived. I start to boil water for my morning carafe of coffee and begin cleaning the cabin with my staff. They seem quieter than usual, perhaps I am broadcasting my apprehensions on my face. I snarf down my usual peanut-buttered white toast with honey and head down to the main cabin to finish packing and go over some final details with Jimmy, who I am leaving in charge for my first three day leave of absence. We raise the flags, New Mexico's red and yellowbrightly glow in the blinding sun. I remind Jimmy about the fickle water pump and listening to the radio with keen vigilance. I couldn't be more confident he will know what to do with our first crews having worked at several other camps before. I retreat to my room, stuff my sleeping bag, wrangle and secure my camera gear, and apply generous amounts of sunscreen to my extremities. I have us all reconvene at the sundial for a 30 second pep rally. With my emotions set to “convincing/empathetic”, I tell them I know they will do a fantastic job upholding my expectations operating camp; William Wallace would have been proud of my delivery. I strap on my pack and loudly announce my departure to the entire camp. Two other Camp Directors have come to rescue me and we quickly disappear into the dense wilderness; freedom has arrived.
29/100
The plan is to make an expedient detour through base camp, stopping only for cold beverages and a quick trip to the lockers. Less than 15 minutes later, we are back on the road looking for the rocky and dusty turnoff, our lifeline to escape. Our exit arrives and we veer onto a dirt highway, the vehicle's basic suspension bangs and rattles sickeningly. Thankfully, the road ends and we pile out, strapping on boots and packs, disappearing quickly into the wilderness once again. Up and up, switchback after switchback, we climb. My thighs are screaming and the map confirms today's afternoon hike is nearly all uphill. I stumble over another crest, chest heaving and searching for oxygen. I turn my gaze upon the ground and spot a douglas fir seedling seemingly sprouting out of a rock. I chuckle to myself. A little uphill never killed anyone.
30/100
The ascent continues until we triumphantly reach the top of the mesa - a nearly silent victory - our wheezing disturbs the sound of the wind blowing through the grasses. We take a quick breather in the shade to confirm our bearings and ETA for camp this evening; at least another hour of hiking is ahead of us. The grumbling in my stomach reminds me that I need more than only toast for breakfast on hiking days. I take another sip of water and notice a large boulder nestled behind some pines. The smooth yet jutted surface has whorls like truffles, ranging in color from roast chestnut to raw cashew. It dawns on me that I have an “emergency” bag of trail-mix stashed deep in my pack. After a few handfuls we press on, the heat of the day still upon us, thankfully mottled through tall forest limbs. I think about kicking my boots off and lazily swaying on the porch swing and my pace quickens. Or maybe it was the M&M's.
Summer 100: #31-40
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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: #51-60
Setting off into cool morning air, our day's journey begins as we walk down the road's narrow, furrowed lanes. I am quite familiar with this particular...
Summer 100: #51-60
51/100
Setting off into cool morning air, our day's journey begins as we walk down the road's narrow, furrowed lanes. I am quite familiar with this particular road, having hiked it many times throughout my years spent on the Ranch, but I have never witnessed it like this before. Fog is a rare treat during the summer months and I struggle to contain my excitement. Looming pines glare down upon us, their boughs and trunks disappear into gray murkiness. Dense, moist silence amplifies the babbling Rayado and crunching gravel beneath our boots. Each crest and fork holds the possibility of an entirely new landscape. I sense our destination is getting close, but in this light, how can I really be sure?
52/100
Continuing along the hazy highway, my mind drifts and quickly I find myself obsessing about tomorrow's conclave. Throughout the summer, there are two mandatory all-day meetings Camp Directors and Backcountry Managers attend, our first one is tomorrow. Undeniably I am destined for hard plastic and cold florescence. Less than thrilled, I set my sights on celebrating Independence Day the day after, surely this will keep me motivated. I trudge onward, not even having reached Phillips Junction and already I have flipped my decision on accepting a ride; yesterday's water-bottle incident continues to teach my tendons new lessons. Hydrate, or, well...
53/100
I take another swig from my Dr. Pepper and Wild Turkey, excusing myself from one of today's many barrel races; yesterday's meeting feels like a hallucination. Opting out of unsavory and crowded bathrooms, I wander past our parked cars and into the adjacent school's baseball field. Styrofoam cups and tumble weeds collect in overgrown dugouts, this dugout being no different. Hot, noon-day sun beats down upon me, occasionally interrupted for a gentle, warm breeze which floats through the rodeo grounds. Fourth of July is shaping up to be a spectacular day!
54/100
After a quick detour through the food booth, I make my way back to my uncomfortably angular bleacher seat, chili dog in hand. Pickle-flavored sunflower seeds and kettle corn flow freely while our section cheers during the ensuing cattle roping event. Yips of “c'mon now!” and loud whistles emanate from the grandstands. Evening plans are quickly and effortlessly hashed out; the annual fireworks show over Eagle Nest Lake is a crowd favorite and not to be missed. And there's always the bar on way home. Blissfully, we chat away our afternoon in shade from the awnings, occasionally glancing up at the massive blue expanse. Who needs a beach?
55/100
The vast majority of backcountry staff are busy at their respective camps, however, plenty of staff who work from basecamp have a flexible afternoon and can attend the rodeo. Next to me is Jamie, an old friend who has continuously worked in Health Lodge, now called Infirmary due to some important legislature. I remember back to 2011, she was fortunately at camp and helped administer first aid to my index finger when I stupidly sliced it wide open with my pocket knife. In 2012, we both sat front row at the very same rodeo and snapped photos of the Mutton Busting event. Last year, she visited camp frequently to shoot guns, bake cookies in our wood-burner, and transport altitude sickness cases. This year, a group of us have plans to see a show at Red Rocks, an experience which has been on my checklist for quiet some time. I look around, stories and anecdotes of people I know unfold before me like a virtual pop-up book. Standing, we applaud the rider who just took a nasty fall; Jamie looks relieved to be off-duty.
56/100
I begin to take notice of some of the locals and realize my wardrobe is woefully ill-prepared. Shiny belt buckles and alligator shoes equally compliment coordinated pearl snaps and Stetson's. Grizzled, weather-beaten cowboys sit between cheering and supportive rodeo moms; young teens can be spotted canoodling in the extremities of the bleachers while fifth and sixth graders rope and wrestle each other in front of the grandstands. The Maverick Club Rodeo has been ongoing for over 90 years and it looks as though the entire town is here to show their support.
57/100
I sink my rear into the footwell of the bleachers, back resting against the rigid metal seating; it has always felt more comfortable to sit this way. Reaching for my empty beverage after already having tested its lack of fullness several times, I realize my afternoon has blown by, similar to the clouds which we had all watched earlier. Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the event. Pounding hooves and powerful whinnies can be made out over the chatting crowd and rambunctious children. And if I concentrate, even a whistling lasso or two can be heard.
58/100
Helping to bridge the gap between Backcountry and Ranger departments are Ranger Trainers, or RT. They have numerous responsibilities, but being a Liaison for a camp is a universally agreed upon perk of the job. I have known Stuart for a few summers and this year he is our Liaison. Whether in uniform or not, high-waisted shorts and Chacos seem to be a personal requirement. Taking advantage of Zastrow's accessibility, he has visited a few times; checking in with our staff and always making a point to discuss photography and cameras.
59/100
We park our car on the shoulder of a familiar mountain road and gather our blankets and jackets during waning moments of dusk. A winding trail of car lights slowly descend into Eagle Nest; one of the few places to see a fireworks show. Munching on chips and Twizzlers, we joke and laugh the remaining light away. A solitary flash and distant bang alerts us to the show's arrival. Two years ago, I remember seeing the fireworks explode directly over the water; its receded bank a visual testament of continued drought. Bruce Springsteen crackles over a distant cell phone speaker. Conditions may change, but the ritual is still just as familiar as it ever was.
60/100
Already another week has elapsed at Zastrow. Program has been functioning smoothly, only one day of rain has soured dutch oven cobbler-cooking. Our greatly anticipated National Inspection team was here yesterday; nothing of demerit stood out which we took for success. I even managed to squeeze in a concert at Red Rocks last night to celebrate, thanks in part to my flexible staff. Camp is momentarily empty during part of our evening program and I take advantage of this brief silence to appreciate the “blood-moon”. Its radiant orange hues slowly turn to a familiar bright yellow, as if ingesting all available light while it ascends. I transport myself to last night's saga, remembering it even watched over us while we were “collapsing and screaming at the moon”.
Summer 100: #61-70
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
About the Blog
Justin Kernes is a photographer and writer who thrives in the great outdoors.
From 2010-2017, he worked in the backcountry at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico.
In 2018 “Tiny Slice” successfully thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail.
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Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers day 111, Goat Rocks and my 30th birthday.