My Midsummer Stonerfest Retreat…

OK, so the name isn’t the Carbondale Stonerfest, it’s the Carbondale 52nd Mountain Fair. 

Stonerfest is my nickname for the yearly celebration of old Hippies, aspiring new ones and everyday people. There’s even families. Plus! All varieties of music. (From Grudge to Gospel). It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an all-inclusive event.

The price of entry? Free. Nada. Zilch. 

The Stonerfest happens on the last weekend of July. By this time, I’m in need of a three day hiking break. My legs are worn, scabbed over and feel like anchors. The long weekend is 72 hours of under indulgence of exercise combined with an overindulgence of unhealthy food choices, an OD of IPAs, lots of people watching and a few chewable gummies for good measure. 

It’s also my time to mingle with Carbondale’s Endless Honeymooners Martha and Jim Jim. A twosome I’ve known for over a quarter of a century. They are gregarious “more the merrier” types. An unstated goal of theirs is to meet and greet every human on our planet. I believe they’re half way there. (In other words, they are just like me only different.) 

Typically I arrive early Friday afternoon. Since I have an “in” with the JJ Mart RV Park owners I set up in their driveway. It’s definitely a five star urban campground. Free WIFI, an electrical plug in, free bicycle rental, hot showers and kitchen privileges. The campsite fee? 1.5 cases of IPAs which Jim Jim and Martha say isn’t necessary, but I insist upon because it’s the right thing to do. (Never take advantage of peoples generosity. It’s very un-mensch like).

The Stonerfest launches at 4ish Friday afternoon. (Give or take multiple minutes), with a Native American blessing. Brevity wasn’t part of this benediction and somehow my mind drifted. (Could have been the IPA and half a gummy). 

Then my favorite part of the Stonerfest. The very primal citizens drum circle! This hour long sweaty performance reminds me of that old Todd Rundgren song. “I don’t wanna work, I just want to bang on the drum all day.” Personally, as far the music scene goes, the rest of the weekend seems anticlimactic. After a greasy slice of pizza and a few more IPAs, my performance came to an abrupt curtain call.

I woke predawn on Saturday drank lots of coffee, had a BIGLY veggie and egg omelette to prep for my volunteer Peace Patrol gig. It’s a dirty job but someone has to imitate Barney Fife at Woodstock. Might as well be me. (And others). The orientation meeting informed us of the few  attendee constraints. Most of it was common sense rules. No glass, (protect those barefooted Hippies), no dogs, (so those barefooted Hippies don’t step in dog poop), no outside alcohol and no weapons.

A newbie Peace Patrol volunteer needed clarification on the weapons ban. “What if someone arrives with a 9mm and a AR-15 and claims they are “Service armaments”? You know there’s Americans who feel naked without a weapon.” 

The volunteer coordinator thought this over for a minute. “If they can show “Service armament” paperwork from their Gun Shop or the NRA, I guess we’ll make exceptions. Just be sure to say “Have a Happy Mountain Fair!” 

This is sort of the vibe of Stonerfest. Don’t ruffle any feathers.

I assumed by position at a main gate playing Walmart greeter with a Barbie themed pink  Peace Patrol T-shirt. It’s an easy gig. The only incident I encountered were the two pierced, tattooed women attempting to sneak a “service cat” in.

 

What’s next? Service gerbils?

By 11:30 my replacement Peace Patrol officers came by. I gave them a report and passed the baton of peace patrol authority to them. Whew! I needed a break. This past July was the hottest worldwide month in recorded history. (Source NASA).I returned to the JJ Mart RV Park for some shade, a shower and some reading time.

Before sunset (after a few IPAs and half a gummy) I was ready to Mountain Fair once again. 

For me, the Festival isn’t about the music (although every now and then I’ll tap my toes) it’s about the people watching. I’ll hang on the outskirts like a voyeur looking through a window of humanity. True entertainment. When the crowd fills the outskirts, it’s time for me to fly. (It’s not fun being 5’4” and feeling lost in the sauce.)

By Sunday am, I was back to my early shift Peace Patrol gig. With the wails of Gospel singers in the background, I said “Good Morning!” to many families. The partiers would arrive later. By 11:30 I was done. 

Martha then went on duty at another gate. I removed my pink Peace Patrol shirt, donned a loose tank top and joined her. It was a total undercover assignment in case she needed muscle and backup. Martha knew EVERYONE coming through so we chatted in between her acquaintances.

By 1:00ish, it was time for me to do a heat retreat. I headed back and prepared Sanctuary One for my reentry back to Sambini’s Summer of Hiking and Camping. 

Later on I made a half hearted return to the festival after a few IPAs. (sans gummies though). 

Just as I was about to call it, I received a Martha text. “We’re at Beerworks! Come join us for dinner!”

My reply. “On my way!”

By this time our conversations degenerated into a Cheech and Chong skit. It was that kind of weekend. After hugs, those Honeymooners headed to the festival. I returned to their quiet neighborhood.

By 6ish on Monday I was gone. Here’s where I went.

As always, the Stonerfest never disappoints. Yet, I’m always ready to get back to the wild places of Colorado.

I’m already booked into the JJ Mart RV Park for 2024.

Thx Martha and Jim Jim for being such great hosts. It’s always a pleasure.

Cheers

Jeff

Chapter Two: As I Ponder the Paucity of

Pikas

Last summer I was on a campout with long time buddy Brad. In the morning he and his truck headed downhill toward promising trout waters.  I headed uphill to add intel to my expanding Rolodex of San Juan Mountains knowledge. There was a trail in need of a checkout. 

The monsoons had arrived. The air was chillingly damp. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to rain as much as when. I made my way up the trail balancing on slimy rocks and roots. Above tree line I glanced at acres and acres of talus slopes intermixed with grassy vegetation. I began to smile. Pika Country. 

Sure enough, I heard the squeaks and shrieks of the little fur balls before I saw them. Then I began counting. From 11,800 feet to the top of the 12,400 pass and back. I spotted approximately 50 pikas. It was the highest concentration of Ochotona Princeps I saw in the summer of 2022.

On my way down the rains came, the temperature plummeted and the wind kicked up. I donned layers of fleece, a wool cap and a pancho. Once back in Sanctuary One, I cranked the heat up en route back to camp.

Brad was already warm and toasty in his camper. He stated the obvious, “Turned out to be a pretty miserable day of weather, didn’t it?”

“Yes! But I saw about 50 pikas!” I was practically glowing.

Needless to say a 2023 personal goal was to return to that concentrated stretch of Pika Country. 

But first I’ll backtrack. I notice weather. The western winter of 22/23 was abnormally cold with an inordinate amount of white stuff in the mountains. My least favorite season seemed to drag on for five months. Spring was cool and cloudy. There wasn’t much melting in the high country until mid June. (For comparison shopping, normally I’m camping and hiking snow-free above 11,000 feet  easily by June). 

I guessed it would be a late start for the pikas to harvest grasses, cure them in piles and tuck them into their dens for the future winter of 23/24. (Pikas don’t hibernate like slacker Marmots do.) 

Then a climatic shifting insult . Record setting heat in the Southwest for the month of July. Pikas wilt above 78 degrees. 

With all this in mind, I was wondering on what I might find. After slip sliding across a steep snow bank which quite frankly scared the shit out of me, I was in the pika paradise of 2022. There  I was met by a silent summer. I slowed down and glanced for those scampering furry guys. I counted only eight to the top of the pass. 

There I met a young family who has ascended from the western side of the pass. After small talk, I asked the matriarch, “Did you folks notice any pikas?”

“We saw two.” 

I then relayed my sad story of how many I had seen the previous summer. 

She took it all in and remarked, “You definitely have a passion for pikas!”

I looked up at her and replied, “Depending on the news cycle, I’d say I like pikas a lot more than people at times.” 

I began my descent all the while keeping an eye out for any pika motion. Instead I came across a young woman and her skittish unleashed dog. 

More small talk. I then innocently asked, “Does your dog chase wildlife?” 

“She does but she doesn’t hurt them.”

“Well honestly, chasing the marmots and pikas are hurting them. The long winter and hot summer has probably  stressed them. They don’t have the energy to be playthings for your pet.”

My comment went over like a turd floating in a community pool. Somehow I doubt we’ll be exchanging Hanukkah cards this year.

At the terminus of Pika Country, I saddled up to Pika number fourteen. We were making interspecies eye to eye contact. 

For those who read “As I Ponder the Paucity of Pikas” Chapter One, you may recall one of my few talents (besides hiking and drinking IPAs) is being a “pika whisperer.” I began the conversation.

Here’s Chapter One:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/07/as-i-ponder-paucity.html

“How’s it goin’?”

“OY! Jeffy! Not so good. Pikas didn’t intend to become a climate change indicator species. (Source National Park Service) You have to be mshuge (crazy in Yiddish) and schmucks (fools) to would live at high altitude, low oxygen, short growing season, cold and fur ruffling windy places. Pikas never aspired to be the Earth’s canary in the coal mine. We just evolved this way!

We thought climate change only happened to the lower attitude species. Flooding, wildfires, hurricanes, tornadoes and heat waves wasn’t our concern.  Way up here, we thought we were immune to the affects of a planet going off kilter. OY! Were we wrong!”

I then interjected, “Yes, I can see in my unscientific survey, this colony took a hit. I’m bummed. Seeing you guys brings me joy. I don’t want you little furry underdogs going the route of the Dodo birds, Tasmanian Devils or Passenger Pigeons. What can I do to help?”

“Jeffy! We know you are a FOP (Friend of the Pikas) and thanks for chewing out that woman with the over-caffeinated mongrel. We’re in survival mode. We don’t need the extra tsrus (troubles) to be hounded by canines. 

“Here’s what you can do. Keep writing pika posts. Maybe a few readers will take notice and become “Woke” that climate change is real. It’s here. Everyday, Earth gets closer to the tipping point of no return. From our high country perspective, the future stinks like spoiled Gefilte Fish.”

There was a short lapse in the dialogue. Then the  fist sized fur ball looked up and said, “OY! Where’s my manners. I’m Izzy.  You can tell your readers to vote responsibly too” 

Listen to Izzy.

Vote responsibly. (Not for a Party whose platform is trying to make LGBTQ lives miserable) 

Cheers

Jeff

Now I Get It.

In my rookie month (August 2019) of residing in Durango, Colorado I was on the fast track of exploring my new neighborhood. I headed up nearby Kennebec Pass knowing Barley the Van (this was before my purchase of Sanctuary One) wouldn’t make it to the top. 

I juddered along as far as possible, parked then hoisted my backpack and started hiking uphill. 

Sitting above the Mighty La Plata River at 11,683 feet is Kennebec Pass (which offers up some of Colorado’s best views.) It’s also part of the 567 mile Colorado Trail linking Denver to Durango. After two hours of sweat labor I earned the Pass. Why not mosey up the Colorado Trail toward Denver? So that’s what I did. Of course it was all quite beautiful with a bouquet of wildflowers augmenting the rugged La Plata mountains. Once I crested Indian Ridge, I knew it was time to head down. Kennebec Pass is a dead end road. Knowing this I decided to hitch back down to Barley the Van sparing my arthritic knees a round of aspirin. 

I noticed a gentleman accompanied by two octogenarians women. They just finished their scenic picnic lunch. I asked politely if they had any spare room in their Toyota Tundra. The gentleman said “Sure! But I hope you’re not in a rush.” I wasn’t so I piled in.

As we bounced our way down, every once in awhile a duet from the back would exclaim, “Stop the truck! There’s wildflowers here.” So the nice gentleman pulled over. Out (very slowly) the women would emerge. They’d wander over to the wildflower display, take photos and discuss the particular arrangement. They were in the zone. When this particular spot had satiated them, we moved down. That was until the next, “Stop the truck!”

Now almost four years later, I get it. I’m not as spry as I once was. I’ve lost a few quick steps on the uphill. I’m well aware I might be close to the two minute warning of my active life. I’m noticing my surroundings more with the notion of “how many years can I keep doing this?” Recently I’ve been  looking at hikes and campouts in a new light. 

I’m collecting data now  as I wander around the incredible Four Corners region, Is there a clean, quiet US Forest Service, BLM or National Park campground nearby? If not how are the “boon docking” options (free dispersed campsites on Public Lands) OK? Is there sufficient sunlight for my solar panels to charge the batteries? (Very important consideration for keeping my IPAs cold ) Lastly, are there gentle amble hikes instead of brutal calf burners? 

In other words I’m creating a future game plan. All these thoughts are geared toward extending my outdoor career. I know by now whatever befalls me, my passions lie in being outside (except in winter and inclement weather!) After all how difficult will it be to cook a few meals, pack plenty of IPAs and books and go? 

And yes, I will “Stop the truck!” whenever I come across a particularly beautiful  display of wildflowers.

Cheers,

Please don’t  forget to stop your truck, just so nobody is tailgating you.