The Agony of Defeat

 

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Double-barrel buckshot)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
~Loser, Beck

In the foothills overlooking what is sometime hyped as the American Riviera, there’s a pyramidal-shaped sandstone peak that dares you to climb it. Back in the olden days, the locals apparently referred this peak as Cathedral Peak and its loftier neighbor to the northwest Cathedral Rock. Then, the U.S. Board of Geological Names rechristened Cathedral Peak as Arlington Peak and Cathedral Rock became the new Cathedral Peak. The “Arlington” nomenclature purportedly originated from staff at the luxurious Arlington Hotel who called the various peaks in the vicinity the Arlington Crags. 

A few years ago, I took up the gauntlet that Arlington had dismissively hurled at my feet and made an attempt at its summit. I failed. I took the standard route up the southeast ridge by way of Mission Canyon, veering right on a faint use path immediately after crossing the creek and then clawing my way up to gain the ridge. Once there, I followed the route along the ridgeline as it wound its way around, over, under, and through the blocky sandstone for which Arlington is known. It was a warm winter day and I eventually bonked somewhere around the 2,500’ contour. Frustrated and tired, I sat on a gigantic boulder and salved my wounded ego with a warm beer. The magnificent views to Santa Barbara and the Channel Islands ended up being my participation trophy (which, in the grand scheme of things, really isn’t a bad participation trophy). 

That failed attempt has been an itch in need of scratching ever since. That itchiness flared up again this past weekend as I was thinking about options for getting out into the hills before the next round of drenching started. The weather was perfect for another attempt, so I decided that I’d drive to Santa Barbara to take care of some unfinished mountaineering business. 

Although I arrived late morning, cars were lining the street for almost a mile from the trailhead proper. I continued driving in hopes of scoring a spot closer up to avoid adding dreary road mileage to my day. I must have been living right that morning because as I approached road’s end without promise, someone pulled out leaving a spot for me right in the front row. I quickly took advantage, pulled on my boots, and started up the Tunnel Trail which initially is a deteriorating asphalt road. As I began to climb, I was astonished at the number of people I encountered both coming out and on their way in. Flowing water from the recent rains was bound to be big draw, but the Covid/Instagram-fueled assault on the outdoors continues unabated. 

A short distance up the road, the path splits and the asphalt turns to dirt. The right fork follows the Tunnel Trail to the Mission Crags and the Rock Garden; the left fork parallels Mission Creek to the junction with the trail leading to Inspiration Point. I followed the left branch into the canyon where I rock-hopped the creek which held a nice flow. On the adjacent side of the creek, I tacked hard right following an informal, yet well-beaten use path that climbs to Arlington’s southeast ridge. 

This is where the work really starts. The climb to the ridge is steep and physically demanding. It has also become deeply eroded and braided as a consequence of intense use. The various route options seemingly all get you to the same spot on the ridge, but as you’re ascending, you can never be quite certain that you’re on the “right” braid. To assist with navigation, someone has painted a series of white dots on the sandstone that is common here. Sometimes you see them, sometimes you lose them. Those damned dots are both a blessing and a curse.   

On the ridge, things level off for a bit and the views to the coast really open up nicely. Here you get to do a fair amount of scrambling over sandstone features as the path switches back and forth between the north and south side of the ridge. It’s a fun and entertaining alternative to ordinary hiking, but I wished that I had brought a pair of gloves along. The sandstone is unsurprisingly like, well sandpaper, and by the end of the day my hands were raw from the constant contact. 

I was making decent progress for an old guy until right around the 2,800’ level where the pitch steepens before the final summit push. As the route switched over again to the south side, there was a white dot painted on a rock just above a white arrow pointing to the left. From the looks of things, folks had been going left at this spot so I followed suit. Not long after that, I found myself at the base of a rocky wall in a steep chute with no white dots. The only way forward was up the rock face which was probably 20 feet high with a couple of class 3 moves. I felt fairly confident about my ability to scamper up, but getting back down was another matter altogether. Being solo, I didn’t think it wise to give it a go, so I back-tracked to the arrow to see if I had missed something. There I saw the last white dot but no real alternative to the route I had already followed.

Frustrated once again, but recognizing that discretion is the better part of summiting, I decided to turn back. If the price for achieving Arlington was notoriety for being the dumb ass that had to be rescued, I wanted no part of that. I’ve made enough poor decision in my life. I don’t need to compound that at this stage. 

On the way down, my dogs were barking so I stopped for a snack and a cold malt and grain beverage I had stowed in my pack for just such an emergency. As I sat on a rocky outcrop enjoying the panoramic sight of the Santa Barbara coastline, I almost forgot what a loser I was. But I was quickly reminded of that as soon as I started moving again when I missed a white dot and ended up sliding down a steep, overgrown drainage. After descending that drainage further than was really advisable, and realizing the potential peril of continuing, I crab-crawled back up to the ridge where I relocated the track marked by multiple and obvious white dots that mocked my embarrassing lack of awareness. 

On the ride home, I assessed the situation. I’ve attempted Arlington two times now and both times I’ve failed. I don’t need to experience strike three to know when I’ve been vanquished. Some things are just not meant to be. And for under-achievers like me, summiting Arlington by the southeast ridge is apparently just one of those things. If I ever get there, it’s going to have to be top down by way of La Cumbre Peak.  

I know, I know. Soy un perdedor. I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?

Scorpions and Potatoes - East Santa Cruz Island

The Captain announced that the seas would be choppy that day as we crossed the channel from the mainland to Santa Cruz Island, a place 25 miles off the coast that the native Chumash called Limuw. If you were prone to sea-sickness, the crew advised that the rear deck of the boat was the most stable place to be. Locking yourself in the only bathroom on board was not only ineffective, but it would make things worse as there was no sight-line to the horizon. Plus it was rude to your fellow passengers. Don’t do it. Barf bags would be provided to anyone who found themselves in significant gastric distress. 

Out of the harbor just past the breakwater, the northwest swells hit and passengers squealed as the boat chugged to the crest of one swell and then dropped into the trough of the next. Those standing starboard or on the bow were forced to retreat into the cabin to avoid being subjected to continuous spritzing while those on the upper deck maintained watch for dolphins and migrating cetaceans. As the seaworthy vessel tossed and rolled in the turbulent ocean currents, I thought of the grit and courage of the Chumash who once rowed across these same cold waters in tomols hewed by hand from redwood and pine.  

For about an hour or so we plied the continuous surge until the pier at Scorpion anchorage came into view. Here, the sea faded from a deep midnight blue to a translucent turquois dotted by the dark green kelp forests that proliferate in these protected waters. It was a kaleidoscopic orgy for the eyes. I was feeling a bit oogy from the trip as the engines died and we moored against the newly-renovated pier, so appreciated getting my landlubber’s feet back onto terra firma. 

It isn’t quite clear how or why the anchorage and the historic ranch here were named “Scorpion.” The National Park Service speculates that the designation could refer to either the shape of the valley or the fact that small scorpions are present. Either way, the name certainly isn’t native. Long before Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo arrived in 1542, the Chumash called this place Swaxil. It was the largest of 10 Chumash villages scattered around the island that was home to approximately 1,200 native people. Xaxas (pronounced “hä’ häs”), located at what is now known as Prisoners Harbor, was the second largest village on the island. In total, there are an estimated 3,000 prehistoric native sites on the island ranging from small ephemeral camps to formal villages. But that is all that remains of the original inhabitants. The last of the Chumash islanders were either killed by disease or forced from their ancestral lands by European colonization.

A trip to this island used to be a family tradition. When the kids were young, we’d make the journey with them every New Year’s Day while the rest of the world slept off its hangover. Now visits are more sporadic although there really is no objectively good reason for that. Maybe it’s because from the coast, the islands only exist in a distant, dream-like haze. You can see them sitting on the horizon, but you never quite know whether they’re real or just apparitions. So they end up as nothing but familiar backdrop to the vast blue oceanscape, easy to look past when you’re immersed in everyday living. 

Off the boat and on the pier, we were all corralled by a Park Service docent for a mandatory briefing. One lady tried to sneak by without stopping to receive instructions, but the ever-vigilant docent barked her back into place. Most of what we were forced to listen to was common sense stuff that we’d heard multiple times previously. Don’t trample the native vegetation. Stay on the established trails. It’s a federal crime to take anything from or disturb midden sites. There’s potable water on the island, but not food. Carry out your trash. You’d think folks wouldn’t need to be told any of this, but there’s always that one guy who was either raised by animals or who just doesn’t give a shit. So the obvious needs to be repeated out loud to everyone just to make sure that this one dumb asshole hears it even though he still won’t abide.

When the lecture was finished, everyone scattered like fifth graders freed from school for the summer. We got out in front of the mad rush and started up the easy service road leading to Cavern Point. We typically go the other direction toward Montañon Ridge and Smuggler’s Cove, but opted for the north-side views this trip. About half-mile up the road, near the intersection with the North Bluff Trail, things started to get sloppy due to the recent rains. We looked at the path leading to Cavern Point, but declined the invitation. The footpath leading to the point was a muddy, mucky mess. 

Instead, we headed west along with North Bluff Trail, a relatively level path that parallels the escarpment for a couple of miles out to Potato Harbor. It was a blue bird day and the views north and west were satisfying. If you’re a plant nerd, the flora on the bluff was also quite interesting. We noticed Giant Coreopsis (aka Truffula Trees) on the cliff edges that had emerged from summer dormancy to show off its finest spring greenery. We also saw plump Live-Forevers (Dudleya), Lemonade Berry, and a few other native and non-natives that all looked quite robust and healthy. We kept eyes out for the endemic Island Jay and Island Fox, but got skunked. 

The closer we got to Potato Harbor, the sloppier the path (now a road) became. To avoid the slippery mud, folks were walking the edges and trampling the vegetation. This is how paths widen and erode. We refused to play that game and defiantly trudged along right in the middle of the road, allowing the gooey, sticky mud to accumulate on the soles of our shoes like heavy pancakes. Unsurprisingly, no one else followed our lead. If they understood the point we were trying to make, they didn’t’ care. Principle must always take a back seat to clean shoes, especially when hiking.  

A good deal of mud later, we arrived at the overlook for Potato Harbor, so named for its tuber-like shape. Over the cliffs here, you look right down into the aquamarine waters of the isolated harbor. You can also see a good portion of the western side of the island which is owned by the Nature Conservancy and thus off-limits to us commoners. Given the destructive and exploitative history of the place, that’s probably not a bad thing ultimately.

There are several bare patches of diatomaceous soil near the overlook. Diatomaceous earth is bright-white, chalky, sedimentary rock derived from single cell organisms made of silica called diatoms. When dissolved in water and recrystallized, diatomaceous earth forms a hard glass-like substance called chert. The native Chumash mined chert to make arrowheads, drill bits, and scraping tools. They also used it to bore holes in Olivella snail shells to create beads for trade. The abundance of chert on eastern Santa Cruz Island explains the several sites that archeologists have described as Chumash “bead factories.”

We grabbed a seat in the cherty dirt and had a snack while listening to the ocean raging against the island’s north shore. Several other folks were doing the same. When we were finished, we started back to Scorpion anchorage along the same route we used coming out, but dropped down to the campground by way of the trail adjacent to the service road. The campground was very nice and smelled of cool menthol from the grove of non-native Blue Gum Eucalyptus that was planted here as a windbreak back during the ranching era. Then it was a short stroll to the pebbly beach where we lounged around waiting for the boat ride back across the channel. 

Back on the boat, the crew opened up the snack bar and I contemplated a can of beer to smooth out the ride back, but decided against it. I didn’t feel like getting gouged for a can of weak, shitty beer only to be left more sleepy than I was already. When we pulled into Ventura Harbor, I noticed that the boat had a single tap handle from none other than Island Brewing Company and I immediately regretted my prior decision. Beer from Island Brewing is always worth the price you pay both in dollars and effect. So I guess I’ll just have to make another trip across the channel in the near future to have an Islands beer on my way back from the islands.

Gentiles on the Rim: a Goosefest Post-Mortem

 The Negroes in the forest brightly feathered

They are saying "forget the night
Live with us in forests of azure
Out here on the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned, immaculate.
~The WASP, Jim Morrison

We were desert mystics, my friends and I,
the kind who read maps as others read their holy books.
~How it Was, Edward Abbey

We camped on the rim of the mesa high above the hamlet of Apple Valley and the road east. On the near horizon, Smithsonian Butte rose abruptly from the desert floor like Babel's famed tower. To the north, the spectacular sandstone walls of Zion stood sentinel over the muddy Virgin River as it wends its way south to the confluence with the once-mighty Colorado. In 1869, where these waters meet, Maj. John Wesely Powell and his men emerged from a treacherous float trip through the uncharted chasm of the Grand Canyon. Back then, this was the land of the Shivwits band of the Paiute tribe. Now it is Promised Land where the saints gather. What the Mormons call New Canaan. 

Here we gathered too, although we could never be mistaken for saints. In fact most of us might be appropriately branded by the local faithful as "gentiles." I wasn't always a gentile. Through baptism, and perhaps descent, I was once, according to LDS lore, a member in good standing of one of the 12 tribes of Israel. I no longer recall which tribe specifically, but when I was a child, I received a patriarchal blessing from a holy man that revealed that important piece of genealogical trivia. Over time, however, through both choice and apostasy, I became persona non grata in the house of Israel. So I can no longer remember that critical piece of soul-preserving information.    

We were in the midst of what is euphemistically known as an Indian Summer. A periodic phenomenon when summer clings to power and refuses to cede authority to the fall. As night approached, and the heavens began to darken, a full moon replaced the warm sun that was dipping below the distant line where earth and sky merge. This particular lunar event is what they call the Hunter's Moon, a nod to both the season of slaughter and the impending winter. But it wasn't cold yet. It was quite pleasant. And there was fire anyway. There is always fire on these outings. There is something familiar and ancient and mystical about it. Even necessary. Something embedded in the intra-cellular sequences of adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine that conjures another time and reminds you that you were here 1000 years ago, staring into the flames with your tribesmen.   

The dogs had been here at some stage in the past too. It was programmed into their DNA. These weren't animals that you'd typically see dressed in matching sweaters and being carted around the grocery store in a purse. But they weren't seasoned outdoor dogs either. These canines were accustomed to a relative soft and comfortable life on the sofa. And yet, out here on the mesa, surrounded by pinyon and juniper and the howling of their coyote brethren, they instinctively settled into the natural rhythm of the place. They answered the call of the wild. The desert does that to a soul regardless of genus or species.

When the fire was nothing but bright orange embers and the conversation finally waned, we retreated to the camp spots we had each claimed as our own. I had selected a perfectly flat spot near the rim with unencumbered views to infinity and beyond. My compatriots sheltered in tents in the interstitial spaces between the ancient junipers. I too considered a tent. I even brought one along on the assumption that it would be used. But a tent only affords protection against rain, bugs, and an over-active imagination. The few millimeters of nylon that separates you from the outside won't help much if wild creatures decide to pay a visit. Even if you psychologically believe otherwise. And of course a tent impedes your ability to view the brilliant white moon, the glittering constellations, the dazzling array of visible celestial bodies, and the ethereal Milky Way. It also prevents you from seeing any nocturnal visitors whose aim is to maul you. I like to see the heavens when I camp. And I want to stare into the eyes of what is about to have me for dinner. The knowing is preferable to the not knowing. Even if the end result is the same. So I abandoned the tent in favor of a simple mat in the open and lay beneath Orion the Hunter while hoping to avoid his tragic, Scorpius-induced fate. 

The next couple of days and nights were perfect and gorgeous. We explored, hiked, biked, ate, drank, laughed, cursed like foul-mouthed sailors, bullshitted each other, recalled fallen compatriots, and generally relived our glory days. When it was over, I was sad it was done. As you might surmise, Goosefest isn't really about white-knuckled adventure. Even if we were still capable of that sort of thing. Instead, it's more about reconnecting with old friends, sharing stories, enjoying meals cooked out of doors, and communing with nature. Of course I like adventure as much as the next guy, but I'm already looking toward the fourth installment of this now semi-annual desert outing.

Coffee and Kearsarge

 Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.

~Jack Kerouac

It is the experiences, the great triumphant joy of living to the fullest extent

 in which real meaning is found. God it's great to be alive!

~Alexander Supertramp aka Christopher McCandless

I tended to the campfire as the sun dipped behind Owens Peak and the shadows moved cat-like across the valley floor. The only fragments of day were the pink and purple that stained the Inyo Mountains to the east. It really wasn't quite campfire weather yet. The night was warm and the hour still early, but fire is obligatory on outings like this. The radiating warmth, the alluring scent of burning pine, the snap-crackle-pop of combustion, the hypnotizing dance of the flame. There's something primal and ancient and ritualistic about it all. A vestigial connection to ancestors and the past. 

Late September is high season in the Sierra so we'd driven up earlier in the day to ensure that we'd have a decent camp spot. Up the El Camino Sierra and across the high desert, through Pearsonville, Coso, Dunmovin, Grant, Olancha, Cartago, and all the other bleak little outposts littered with sun-bleached single-wides, dilapidated buildings, and junky automobiles slowly disintegrating in the scorching heat. This is the land of stolen water and murdered dreams. What Marc Reisner called the "Cadillac Desert."

Our weekend objective was Kearsarge Pass out of Onion Valley. If we were feeling frisky, we might give Mt. Gould a go once at the pass. Kearsarge Pass and its namesake peak were named after the Union battleship USS Kearsarge. In June of 1864, the Kearsarge destroyed the CSS Alabama, a Confederate cruiser that sunk 64 American merchant ships in the Atlantic. The nearby Alabama Hills were named by Confederate sympathizers after the Alabama. Local Unionists then named the pass and peak after the Kearsarge as a kind of "fuck you!" in response. 

We got a bit of a late start Saturday morning because we lollygagged around camp too long. The start then got delayed further when we made a mandatory stop for caffeine. Lone Pine has a cute independent coffee house called the Lone Star Bistro, but we didn't go there. The last time I visited, the older guy behind the counter (who I surmise was the owner) was kind of a surly wiener. When he asked me what I wanted, I jokingly told him in my worst Anglo-Spanish that I wanted coffee - enormous, gigante, grande! He got triggered by the word "grande" and barked back at me "this isn't Starbucks!" before begrudgingly getting me a "large." So on this trip we went to McDonald's where the dick factor is much lower and the coffee better. 

It's a curious thing. Lone Pine is a small, rural place. It really isn't self-sustaining. It relies on "big city" tourists for survival. Or at least to bolster the local economy. And yet, several establishments there appear to revile the tourist hand that feeds them. Jake's Saloon is such a place. Right next to the Lone Star Bistro, Jake's recently had a sign posted over the bar warning "No Hipsters! Don't be coming in here with your hairy faces, your vegan diet, your tiny feet & your sawdust bedding." Maybe they were kidding. Maybe they weren't. I don't really care. I don't patronize Jake's. Not because I consider myself a hipster. At my age, literally no one would make that mistake. I don't patronize Jake's because the last time I went there it was unbearably hot and the bartender reminded me of the pawn shop keeper in Pulp Fiction. And then there was the large Confederate flag hanging prominently over the bar. 150 plus years and counting and the scourge of the Confederacy is still with us. So, local rednecks only at Jake's I guess. 

Leaving Lone Pine, we drove north to Independence where the road to Onion Valley leads west following a gash in the mountains where Independence Creek spills out onto the arid plain. Along the way, we passed the Manzanar National Historic Site where the United States forcibly relocated and then detained Japanese-Americans during World War II. With the stunning backdrop of the Sierra crest, Manzanar is austere and starkly beautiful. We could have done Americans of Japanese descent worse. But it is a prison nonetheless. The old guard towers sitting along 395 attest to that.   

Onion Valley Road, which begins in Independence as Market Street, is an impressive bit of engineering and road-building. As you climb away from town and begin to gain elevation, you can't help but wonder who it was that first ascended the canyon and established the route that thousands now follow. That same thought pops into my mind whenever I drive up to Horseshoe Meadows, the Whitney Portal, Glacier Lodge, and all the other roads that breach the mountainous bulwark that protects the inner sanctum of the range. In the case of Kearsarge, the first ascent up Independence Creek was probably by natives following game trails. But apparently the first documented crossing of Kearsarge Pass was accomplished in 1864 by eleven prospectors looking to strike it rich.  

At the trailhead, we found the parking lot jammed to capacity. The Kearsarge Pass Trail has always been a popular route, but not this popular. A sign of the times I suppose. So we parked along the road and started up, following a conga-line of about 18 hikers on a group outing. Over the course of the day, we would play leap-frog with this group as we passed them and then they passed us until we all finally arrived at the pass 5 miles later at about the same time. 

It's been a dry few years in the Sierra, but Independence Creek was coursing, presumably still being fed by what remains of the glacier that sits beneath impressive University Peak. That glacier, along with snow-melt, also nourishes the chain of stunning lakes that stud the basin. The trail climbs right out of the parking lot to the first of these lakes, Little Pothole, where you get a very brief respite before the climb resumes. Comparatively speaking, Little Pothole is the ugly step-sister of the other lakes. It is diminutive and decidedly unpretentious. But it is also infused with minerals from glacial melt that makes it gleam a brilliant aquamarine.  

Further up trail, after a number of switch-backs and past the rock garden, is pretty Gilbert Lake. There's a big, flat granite boulder on the west side of the lake immediately trailside that I'm pretty certain is a mandatory stop for everyone hiking the trail. The boulder sits above blue Gilbert and affords a perfect Instagramable photo-op. Being the social media influencers that we are (or at least, imagine ourselves to be), we stopped briefly for some pictures that would instantly make everyone covet our perfect, adventurous life and hate there own. Then it was a short stroll to languid Flower Lake where nice campsites dot the eastern shore. This is the jumping off point if you plan on visiting the Matlock Lakes to the south. 

We, of course, continued up the main trail that proceeds to climb to tree-line with additional urgency. Along the way, we passed sapphire-hued Heart Lake and Big Pothole Lake, both of which sit well below the trail at this point. Despite that, both of these lakes are reachable. And I spied a couple of perfect tent sites on Heart's eastern shore. Further reconnaissance required. Big Pothole on the other hand, sits in a barren, exposed depression surrounded by nothing but boulders and scree. Pitching a tent here really doesn't look feasible or enjoyable.

We were in the home stretch now. Right at tree-line. 11,200 feet. We could now plainly see the pass ahead, but stopped briefly on a big old slab of granite for water and snacks before the final push. It's easy to forget to eat at altitude. At least it is for me. I have no appetite when I'm up high. Even foods that I normally love are unappealing. So I too often don't eat enough while I'm in the Sierra. Same with hydration. With all the lakes, gurgling streams, trees, and peaks, it's easy to get lulled into the false sense that you're not actually traipsing through what amounts to a humongous food dehydrator. The environment here is harsh. If you don't take in enough water, the intense aridity, solar radiation, and wind will punish you without remorse.

Moving again, we followed the final segment of trail as it made a couple of big, lazy switchbacks across the scree slope of Mt. Gould's south face before topping out at the pass at 11,760 feet. From this aerie, you have panoramic views of the ragged Kearsarge Pinnacles and the cerulean Kearsarge Lakes, both of which sit in Kings Canyon National Park.

We found an available spot on a rocky prominence that afforded grand views of both sides of the divide and sat amongst the crowd to take it all in. In any other circumstance, I'd probably be annoyed. I'm a bit of a misanthrope and don't appreciate other impinging on "my" space and solitude. I come to the mountains to get away from folks, not to be with them. But the mountains change people. It infects them with what Kim Stanley Robinson described in a recent Backpacker Magazine article as "crazy love." It's the mystical feeling of pure freedom and boundless joy one has when in the mountains or on the trail. Anyone who hasn't experienced it probably won't understand, but it's almost religious in nature. I realize that sounds hyperbolic, but you see it manifest in people you encounter on the trail. Everyone you come across is happy, friendly, engaging, and helpful. Like you, they are all elated to be out. Nature has unbridled them. It has stripped away the heavy encumbrances put upon them by the rules, regulations, expectations, and responsibilities of the culture. So you get to see folks in their pure, original, blissful state. You can't get that at the local shopping mall.

From the pass, the route to Mt. Gould takes you immediately north up a steep Class 2 scree field to the summit. We briefly considered making an attempt, but decided against it as the hour was later than we had anticipated. So we retraced our steps to Onion Valley where the madding crowds in the parking area had dissipated somewhat. It was then a relatively quick drive back to our camp in the Alabama Hills for one more precious night of crackling fire, black skies, and brilliant stars.

Prologue: Goosefest and the Prophet of Stoke

 

It's better to burn out than it is to rust.

~My, my, hey, hey (Into the Black), Neil Young

You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave,

find your eternity in each moment.

Fools stand on their island of opportunities

and look toward another land.

There is no other land; there is no other life than this.

~Henry David Thoreau

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favorite day," said Pooh.

Winnie the Pooh, A.A. Milne

Preface to the Prologue - A Goose is Born

In the southwest corner of southern Utah, just east of the town of Hurricane, there's a sandstone plateau sandwiched between Utah State Route 9 and Utah State Route 59. The former parallels the Virgin River and takes you to the entrance to Zion National Park at Springdale. The latter tracks southeast and routes you through the polygamist enclaves of Hildale and Colorado City on the Arizona border. The island-in-the-sky sitting in the middle, which bears the moniker Gooseberry Mesa, occupies land managed by the Bureau of Land Management, and has become a mecca of sorts for the mountain-biking set. The famed Red Bull Rampage is held on the north side of the mesa annually.

In early 2021, when Covid was having its own rampage, my old pal Buzz and I decided to connect for a bit of camping under the stars. We figured even with the unending doom and gloom of the pandemic, we could pretty much stave off the rona if we were outdoors. Since my friend is in Salt Lake City and I'm in Southern California, we settled on Gooseberry Mesa as a sort of mid-point. But geography wasn't the sole determining factor. Amenities, or the lack thereof, was also important. And "The Goose" has (or doesn't have as the case may be) what we were looking for: no hassles, no authoritarian rangers, no fees, rudimentary yet acceptable bathroom facilities, grand views, big skies, good weather, campfires, and lots of open space for recreating. Perfecto!

So in April, we joined up on the mesa for a few days and nights of fraternity, outdoor indulgence, and general degeneracy. You know, all the standard stuff: biking, exploring, corn-holing, drinking, playing with fire, shooting the shit, and stuffing ourselves with epicurean delights. My daughter and a couple of our other old buddies from the past joined us and we all had a swell old time. When there was a lull in the action, Buzz kept us entertained with his humorous anecdotes, folksy mannerisms, and impersonations of famous rock-n-roll guitarists. Once the final day of the trip arrived, we had such a good time we committed to do it again the following spring. And thus, Goosefest was birthed. 

A Gathering of the Tribe

Wildsouthland and Progeny

Gray Hairs

Corn-holing on the Mesa with Dan-o

The Prophet of Stoke

Buzzard and I go back four-plus decades. We were both skiers in high school. Later in college we worked together at the Sports Stocker in Trolley Square tuning and waxing other people's skis. I never knew Buzz by any name other than Buzz and was convinced that is what his parents christened him. My wife called bullshit on that a couple of years ago and directly asked him his real name to which he replied "Brett." Then she gave me the knowing look. I was both stunned and deflated. I had never asked him the question before mainly because I had no reason to question what I otherwise knew to be true. And it never dawned on me that his name could be anything else. For 40 years I held fast to the belief that the name on his birth certificate, baptismal certificate, high school diploma, passport, and driver's license was "Buzz." And contradictory evidence aside, I'm not about abandon that fervent belief now. I'm digging in. Old fantasies die hard I suppose. 

The endearing thing about Buzzard is his sunny, gushing enthusiasm. He gets stoked about everything. Especially if it involves outdoor activities. Camping? Oh, fuck yeah! Biking? Let's get it! Skiing? Hells yeah Dude! New propane stove? Woohoo, score!!! Stone IPA in a 19.2 oz. can? Totally stoked! His reservoir of enthusiasm is deep. It's refreshing and infectious. It's not in my nature, but I find myself getting totally amped about rather ordinary things when I'm hanging out with the Prophet of Stoke.

He's also a well of wisdom. On our most recent Goosefest, we were sitting around the campfire talking about age because Buzz's birthday was right around the corner. The big 6-0. Entrance to the Golden Years. Buzz told us that every time he turns another year older, he let's go of some baggage that he's been carrying around with him. Just let's it go. Figures as he ages, he doesn't need that shit dragging him down any longer. I'd really never thought of that. I don't tend to hold onto the past. Or at least I don't think I do. From my perspective, the past is dead. No need to continually re-live it. As Tom Petty crooned, "it's time to move on, it's time to get going." I don't want or need dead grass not growing under my feet. Still, I've taken the teachings of Buzz to heart and now consciously try to let things just wash over me and then disappear down the drain. I don't always succeed, but I'm trying.

Church Services - Buzzard at the Pulpit

The Prophet Dispensing Advice to his Disciples

Goosefest 2 - Snow and Tequila

A year after the inaugural Goosefest, we returned to the scene of the crime. Some of the prior participants dropped off for this one, but we picked up the O.G. aka Super Dave to fill the gap. Buzz went down the night before we arrived to secure a site as the mesa has become quite popular and finding a good place to camp can be a challenge, even in early season. Fortunately, as Buzz was out scouring the area the following morning, he crossed paths with a group that was moving out of a very spacious site right on the rim. So as they moved out, Buzzard moved in and we were set for the weekend.

Sitting right on the rim has its advantages. The most obvious is the sublime views you get from the plateau's edge. Staring out over southern Utah's tablelands from on high really is the locus classicus of redrock desert camping. But the mesa's edge also has the breeze. That's great if your a raptor that likes to soar on thermals. It's also great when its warm as that breeze takes the hot edge off. But when its cool, the wind doesn't do anything but just makes it colder. 

And on this trip, unlike our first outing, it was cool and the weather unsettled. The desert can be fickle this time of year so I suppose it's to be expected even though we didn't expect it. But we were reminded of this the first afternoon when it snowed. Or maybe it was hail. Or sleet, whatever that is. To be honest, it was hard to tell exactly because what fell from the dark sky was kind of a mongrel form of precipitation. But regardless of its meteorological definition, we weren't prepared for it. So when the frozen pellets began dropping from the sky, we all dashed to our cars to take refuge while the storm pelted our camp. When it was finally over and safe to come outside to play again, we found the ground littered with white stuff. The snow/hail/sleet wasn't particularly wet and it didn't last long, but the warmth really never returned. It was chilly the rest of the time. 

But if the worst that can be said about your camp outing is that was it was a tad cool, how bad can it really be? So despite the less than optimal temps and occasional downpour, we still busied ourselves with riding and hiking and exploring and all manner of the typical camping whatnot. The task was made easier (or maybe harder) by the bottle of tequila that D brought along to lubricate our activities and sedate our souls. Later on while sitting around the fire, we sampled peach cobbler that Buzz cobbled together in a dutch oven. 

After the Storm

Mas Tequila

Burning Ring of Fire

Strawberry Canyon

Old Guys

October is Coming and the Goose(fest) is Getting Fatter

On the last day, we decided that an annual trip probably wasn't sufficient to scratch the itch. At our age, you have to get as much in as you can as many times as you can. Because there are no guarantees in this life. One day you're here, the next day it's done. That's happening with concerning frequency now in my demographic. People I grew up and went to school with are starting to drop. Out of the blue and into the black. It's sobering. So we decided to double our efforts and make the trip a bi-annual thing: one trip in the late spring, another in the early fall. I haven't had the chance to see these boys much over the years on account of geography, work, kids, life. So Goosefest is a fun platform to do just that. It's a reunion masquerading as a camping trip. 

Goosefest 3, the next installation of the Goose, will happen on October 6-9. A post-mortem will probably be forthcoming, but may have names changed to protect the innocent.