“The Future Ain’t What...

it used to be.”

Yogi Berra

In the early 80’s...

I encumbered myself with an overloaded backpack and headed into the Maroon Bells Wilderness. It was midweek. There was a just a smattering of vehicles at the trailhead parking lot I shouldered my pack and set off on a narrow trail past Maroon Bell Lake. I was starting out on the now famous Four Pass Loop. 

The Four Pass loop is a 27 mile, 8,115’ elevation gain jaunt over a quartet of  12,000’ plus saddles. It’s gorgeous, glorious and a great work out. 

In the 80’s it was virtually devoid of humans.  At that time the trail required a sharp eye not to go missing.  My! my! how all that’s changed. 

What’s never changed is my love for this hike. Through the years, I’ve lapped this route six times. Each time the trail was more rutted and worn down. Each time there were more encounters with Homo Sapiens. It was noticeable but not annoying.

This year, I had time on my hands, a great forecast and a desire to visit my old friend once again. I arrived around 7 am on a Tuesday. There were Ubers  and Taxis ahead of me. They were disgorging backpackers with the latest REI gear and apparel at the trailhead. The parking lot was full. I backtracked down the valley and left Barley the Van at the Aspen Highlands ski area. ( $70 for three nights ). I took a bus up ( $8 round trip ). The driver was an “American Idol” wannabe. He warbled two off key songs. There was a prominent tip jar adjacent to the driver’s seat. I would have paid him to shut up. The bus was three-quarters full. The vibe was more DisneyLand than Wilderness. 

When the bus dropped us off, I bolted up the trail. In half mile there was a mandatory self-registration kiosk for backpackers. By the time, I filled in the blanks about twenty people slid by me. Many were being guided up to the top of West Maroon Pass. I caught them when they were taking a time out. The guide smirked at me and said, “Well, there’s plenty of wildflowers on the other side of the pass!” I smirked back, “Are there more flowers than people?” His answer  ? “Maybe!”

After passing droves of humans, I glanced down from the 12,490’ summit. On an indistinct mini-ridge line, I spotted my campsite for the night. As of that moment, it was vacant. I headed down to claim my turf. 

I set up camp, hauled up liters of water from a trickle of a creek and went into relaxation mode. As I turned the pages of a paperback, I noticed a steady stream of backpackers drawn toward my campsite. It was similar to a crowd of obese people eyeing an all-you-can-eat buffet, except the backpackers were leaner. The homeless veered off once they realized, the site was occupied. I never saw any wander too far away. I suppose they found a tiny bit of flat property nearby. I estimated I had fifteen neighbors within a tenth of a mile radius from my prime real estate. Fortunately, they were out of sight and quiet. 

I hightailed it early the next morning while my neighbors slept in. The cool air was thick with the scent and pollen from a gaudy display of wildflowers. I took photos between sneezes. I have hay fever, but I wasn’t complaining about the “Damn flowers!” 

I had Frigid Air Pass (12,405’) to myself. The views of the Maroon Bells were obscured by the hazy smoke of a nearby fire. I took a few minutes to savor the lonesomeness before heading down. I was on a mission to score a campsite with a neighborly waterfall. The morning was getting old as backpackers headed up Frigid Air Pass from the counterclockwise direction. There were Boy Scout Troops, Church groups and coveys of male retirees sporting ubiquitous gray beards. Every now and then (rarely) I spotted a solitary soul. I counted over 60 campers before I found my camp. 

Once again, this early bird claimed the Sotheby’s Real Estate deal of the month. A flat worn down pad with a fire ring and a few logs and soft rocks to sit upon. An unobstructed view of the waterfall was steps away. Unfortunately, so was a large communal latrine. I shot photos of the waterfall but none of the latrine. 

After setting up camp, hauling water and snacking; I donned my flip-flops and took a mosey down the trail. I found a creek side seat and watched trout go about their daily routine. A few hours swam by and I returned to camp. OY! I had five neighbors in three tents within eyesight. Luckily, they were pleasant neighbors who respected our distances. There were five billion black flies who were extremely unpleasant neighbors too. After dinner I sought fly free refuge in my tent. 

I broke camp early. The loop’s  toughest climb to Trail Rider Pass (12,415’) was waiting for me. As usual, I had a game plan. I lusted for a true wilderness experience. I reckoned I wasn’t the sole sociable hermit hiker in the World. Surely there would be a single-tent sized plot of land prior to the KOA-like campground at Snowmass Lake. 

The climb came and went. The Forest Service had apparently upgraded the old straight-up-a-gulch approach to the pass. It was still hard but hiker friendlier. (On the old trail, one could practically touch the rocks and dirt ahead of you. That’s steep.) 

I dawdled on the pass enjoying the views, the warmth and three giddy young women from Alaska. One asked me “Why don’t you move to Alaska?” I blurted out an answer, “Too much winter and too many people with too many guns.” They didn’t disagree. 

I started my descent on the lookout for a solitary campsite above Snowmass Lake. About half-mile and 400’ above the Lake, I noticed a social trail curling up above the main trail. I wandered up it. YES! There it was. A beat down bare spot large enough for one tiny tent. Mine! 

But! What’s a campsite without running water? Well, its  sort of like a breakfast burrito without green chili. Worthless. I dropped my load and ambled  downhill on a rudimentary path. Eureka! A miserly-looking snowfield was melting above at the rate of one spilled IPA/minute. With a little bit of Bureau of Reclamation engineering I was able to fill all my personal reservoirs. Now, I had all the essentials of home.

After making camp, I chilled out adjacent to the main trail. From my perch I achieved a better view of my surroundings. Besides taking in the lake, the mountains and the scree fields, I counted over fifty-five hikers in my impromptu census. Most looked weary and physically thumped. Many didn’t even notice me, even though I was a mere twenty feet from where they slowly trod. At 6 pm, I spoke to two young dudes working their way downhill. I nostalgically related about how uncrowded the hike was in the 80’s. They told me about the Four Pass Loop’s prominence on Google. (I checked. They weren’t handing me Fake News). As a goodbye, one of them said, “We’re sorry for making the hike so crowded! We wish we saw it in the 80’s too!” I smiled and thanked them just the same. 

Before retiring to my tent, I did a lap around my campsite in my “invisible Emperor’s Suit.” Why? Because I could! I had my best night of sleep at that solitary camp.

The next morning, I was revved after a two Clif Bar breakfast washed down with two shots of Starbucks instant. I flew up to the top of Buckskin Pass, with lustful thoughts of real food, a hot shower and clean clothes. I passed an odd assortment of backpackers. One youngster was wearing bedroom slippers while carrying a tent in his hands. I won’t get into the blue Jean and cotton sock wearing crowd, (with heavyweight boots). I topped out, enjoyed the long distance views and snacked with the handful of calories I had left. 

Down I went stepping aside for the multitudes of backpackers and trail runners heading up. 

Yes, the Four Pass Loop is a BUSY place. 

According to the US Forest Service estimates, visits to Maroon Lake and the surrounding area surged to a record 320,500 in 2017, up about 12 percent from summer of 2016. 

Many were carrying backpacks. 

Alas, it is time for this beauty to join the ranks of “The Enchantments,”(Washington) the “Wave”  (Utah) and Rocky Mountain National Park. I’m writing this with a feeling of angst. The Four Pass Loop cries out for a permit system. The number of backpackers/day/trailhead must be limited.

The US Forest Service needs to do this to save the place I love. 

From the start of a 2.5 month North by Northwest then South road trip,

Cheers,

Jeff

Clara’s Fountain.

Well over a decade ago, I was on my yearly  pilgrimage to see my father in Delray Beach, FL. Of course, I went in the wintertime. There I would enjoy the Sunshine’s State feel good warmth and get to listen to Sid (my Dad) perform his stream of conscience monologue. I’d chime in with an occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yep” and once in awhile, “That’s right.” 

Once he was between subject matters, so I interjected. “Do you have any photos of Mom? I have none.” He refocused and said, “Yes! I have box loads.” That energetic little man was now on a mission. He dove into his two walk in closets which were piled high with “stuff.” My father was no minimalist. Out came a few tattered cardboard boxes. “Here! Go through these and pick out the ones you want. I have plenty.” So like a good son, I did what he told me to do. 

Those boxes contained the Sambur family history in its visual form. I started choosing Mom containing photos. One particular black and white caught my full attention. It was a fuzzy photo of Mom sitting primly on the edge of a fountain. Her beguiling smile was still prevalent. I had a deja vu,  I’ve been to that fountain. I just couldn’t place its exact spot. 

I kept rifling through the photos. I extracted loads of them. When I was satiated, I looked up at Sid and asked, “Is it OK for me to take this many?” His reply was sage like. “Take! Take!! A boy needs pictures of his Mother.” 

For me, this was one of Sid’s most generous acts.

Fast forward to the early 2000’s. I was visiting NYC and my nephew Keith and his soon to be wife Courtney. We’d go out each night and take in the City’s famous bars and bistros. (I was able to stay up later in those days). In the morning my hosts would go off to work. I’d fortify myself with many Starbucks and head out for long walks up and down the avenues. My turnaround point was always Central Park. A place (besides Yankee Stadium) which meant so much to me while growing up in the Big Apple. 

As usual, I was wandering around the Park with no specific destination. Then, I found it. Clara’s Fountain! I let out a BIGLY smile that would make Mom proud of her youngest boychik. (Young man in Yiddish) I sat approximately in the same spot where Mom once perched. There I’d think about her and I’d miss her once again. That tiny woman made such an impact on me in the seventeen years she was involved in my life. She taught me (in a subtle way) the art of nurturing. She’s the reason I’ll offer you food and drink just by showing up at my home or camper. She made me a Jewish Mother in a man’s body! 

Now, no visit to NYC is complete without a pilgrimage to Clara’s Fountain. 

Thanks Mom for making me a better person. I only wish you were around a lot longer. You were the best. 

Cheers to all the great Moms in the World.

Jeff 

PS The fountain’s real name is Bethesda Fountain.

She Left Me...

just when I needed her most!

I’ve  been reprimanded occasionally to “Get Lost!” Most of the time this cliche is said figuratively. (I think) Unfortunately there’s been times I’ve taken this expression quite literally,

In late August of 2019, I did get lost on Snow Mesa in southwest Colorado. Of course, I wrote about this mishap. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/08/at-least-i-didnt-have-to-cut-off.html

In this blog, I took full responsibility for my screwup. I was careless and not paying attention. (Remember, I write the World’s most honest blog!). Later on, I reached out to readers for suggestions on trail and GPS apps for my I Phone. I stated that I’m a tech Neanderthal. The app needed to be simple like me. 

Many fellow hikers responded. I took the advice of a techie buddy who described the trail minder as “easy peasy.” I purchased the “G” app. No longer would I find myself being a true wandering, wondering-where-I-am Jew. 

I practiced using the app. An arrow shaped like a Star of David (only joking!) was me. I’d walk away from the dotted trail line and the arrow would move away. If I returned to the dotted line so did the arrow. Magic! All I have to do is make sure I stayed on the straight and arrow! 

Recently, I was hiking in the Maze. It’s the most remote district in Canyonlands National Park. It takes a millennium to get there on a terribly tough 4x4 route. If poop happens the Cavalry won’t be miraculously arriving in the nick of time. One would have to be patient if an emergency occurred. (Like getting lost)  

No bueno.  

I headed out on the Confluence Trail near the Dollhouse campsites. I followed the obvious trail and cairns. No biggie. I’d be out gazing at the Green River’s meeting with the Colorado in a flash of time. Towards the rivers, the trail got wonky. The cairns went this way and that. I walked toward the end of a rock outcrop and saw the Green River, but no meet up of western waters. I pulled out my I Phone and dialed in the “G” app. I was off the dotted line. Oh well, it’s was getting hot so I’ll headed back. After a quick lunch under the shade of a juniper, I checked my app once again. Spot on. I began walking. I noticed a tree stump with a colorful rock on top. I plowed on. About a half hour later, I had a deja vu. A twin of the post with the colorful rock on top was in my sight once again. I was walking in circles. Out came the app. Nothing! I became invisible. I was stealth without wanting to be. 

I took a deep breath. OK. Don’t panic. Remember you’ve crawled into burning buildings. You kept your cool in those stressful times. The  feeling of calm lasted about 30 seconds. I looked at the app again. No arrow. 

“NOOOO! This wasn’t supposed to happen! This is not funny. I paid for your services! This is no way to treat a customer. You left me in my time of need!” All the above happened while I was pounding the sand with my fists. 

I relaxed and eventually shut off the I Phone in an effort to reboot the app. (In reality I felt like booting the phone.) Nothing. No arrow. My battery power was at about 52%. 

OK. I’m still on a trail. It goes somewhere. Look around. The Dollhouse is distinct. Head that way.  So that’s what I did. In time I saw a familiar dead branch propped up along a climb for handholds. I saw an old cigar shaped coyote turd. I was going in the right direction. Still I hustled along, just in case. It was only when I saw a rectangular arch that I knew for sure I was on the right track. I checked my app. The arrow was back. Too little too late! A 9 mile hike turned out to be 12.5 miles.

My point is this. Don’t count on technology. One still needs to pay attention to where the trail turns and your surroundings. It’s not a good idea to just shut the brain down while using a navigational tool to get you in and out of places. Glitches happen! 

I’ve learned my lesson...again.

Last photo: A collared lizard was willing to share its meal with me while I was pummeling the sand. I said “No Thank You. I still have a few Clif Bars left and a liter of water.” 

Stay safe!

Jeff

Post Pandemic Dreams.

Post Pandemic Dreams...

The readers speak! You may recall I reached out for input on what’s on your post pandemic bucket list. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/04/its-time-for.html

The post received over 200 hits, but I guess many of you are the strong silent type and camera shy too.

Here’s the results. I interspersed the quotes with pretty photos from Canyonlands National Park. (Returning to our National Parks was BIGLY on my post pandemic bucket list.) 

I want to do this, sans mask. His name is Lewis and he was born Febr. 6, 2021.

I want to sit at a table, at any bar with a patio, with you and talk.

I want to go to Florence, to see my friends, who live there.

A road trip to WA to see other friends would be the best.

But most of all I want to see people's smiles and get a few hugs.

Hi Jeff! Great blog posting today. I also got my second Moderna shot on March 30th and am thus looking eagerly to April 13. I felt crappy the next morning and needed to sleep. Got up again at 1:00 p.m. and gradually felt better and better. Since one of my big passions is hiking and backpacking and I often do that solo, that has not been impacted much by COVID. That said, I do look forward to feeling more carefree on the trail and at campgrounds when interacting with others. 

Looking forward to a motorcycle ride to eat some steamed Cheasapeak Bay Blue Crabs...

Hugs, baseball games and concerts. Traveling in and out of the country!

we are back in green Iowa with smiles abundant in supply.  it is so nice to gather in small groups and enjoy a beer or 3. This thursday i will be be able to do my volunteer work at the information center.  real people.  but, i will still wear a mask.

As usual, entertaining and informative. My main post-Covid plan is to see family again. I have a plan in the works to visit family on the west coast including my son. It may take awhile longer to visit my daughter and grandson in Thailand.

In the meantime here’s to sharing more IPA moments.

Here is what I am looking forward to doing once things get back to normal, in no particular order:

1. Dance at the Caribou Room
2. Ride a bus, train & plane
3. Hug my grown children
4. Hiking vacation in Norway
5. In person book group meetings
6. Dinner parties
7. Going out in public without a mask, seeing people's smiles and chatting without a mask
8. In person government meetings
9. Yoga at the studio
10. Eating indoors at a restaurant

Seeing the world again. Volunteering in a foreign land. Seeing my friends in the usa and welcoming visitors to NZ 

Looking forward to vacations, concerts, and socializing downtown on main street.

To say I am forever grateful for the dedication of our safety by our incredibly wonderful and brilliant scientists is such an understatement. For me, I long to see (in person) family, friends, full faces, smiles, dinner and party gatherings, blue water, white sand, happy hours, the inside of restaurants and airplanes, frequent empty gas tank levels, more smiles, concerts, festivals, Broncos, Rockies, Rangers and Longhorn games, the brilliant color of people's clothing in crowded stadiums and even more and more smiles!!! "These are a few of my favorite things..." Bring them all on! I am ready!!! 

I will do the Inca Trail in Peru. We booked the trip for 2020 and hope that we can do it in 2022.

Cheers Jeff

I’m a Stumpy.

I know what you’re thinking. “Well, Jeff you are excessively short and somewhat stocky. Tell us something we don’t know!” 

Guilty as charged.

Sure I’m that, but I’m referring to being a graduate of the College of Environmental Sciences and Forestry at Syracuse University. Our NY State University Forestry School occupied a tiny niche on the massive Syracuse University campus. Those rich kids at SU referred to us as “Stumpies.” We couldn’t do much about the name calling since there were too many of them and not many of us. 

The Forestry School was a mish-mash of styles, personalities  and educational opportunities. Students could earn a degree to Forest Engineering, Forest Zoology, Landscape Architecture, Paper Science and Resources Management. I received a BS in Resources Management which was the generic Forestry degree for those who would rather drink beer, cut classes and go to concerts than spend time studying. (I’m smarter now than I was then.) However, this doesn’t mean I don’t care about Environmental Sciences and Forestry. I do! I’m a self proclaimed tree hugger. In fact, I went so far as to have a mural of a deciduous tree painted on my dormitory wall. (BTW. The last name of the artist was Forrester. We are still friends on Facebook.)

Fast forward past graduation and my first haircut in four years. In 1978 that degree in Forestry was my one-way ticket out West. The reason? I found employment with the US Forest Service. 

OK, by now you’re getting my point. I love trees and the places they grow and not grow. In other words open Public Spaces! 

In December of 2019, the San Juan Mountain Association newsletter contained a blurb concerning the local US Forest Service District’s program for “gifting” seedlings. Interested parties (like me) could buy a potentially fully grown tree at $2/seedling. Gretchen the Forester would then send the lucky recipients a certificate stating so many seedlings would be planted in their honor. I sort of went wild and gifted seedlings for a green future to my nephew’s children and a multitude of my friends birthdays. I even bought seedlings for an avid birder. I told her, the trees would provide future flocks with a place to roost. 

BUT! This touchy feel good moment wasn’t done yet. Gretchen informed me, I could volunteer to plant them in April 2020. Then along came Covid and like everything else the event was cancelled. That’s the bad news. The good news was the planting event was rescheduled in commemoration of Earth Day 2021. I signed on right away.

It was a chilly, dreary morning when dozens of forester wannabes ascended to the Hermosa Creek campground. Our goal was to stick 900 Ponderosa Pine and Douglas Fir seedlings into the ground. The site chosen was at the infamous 416 Fire of 2018. I used the term infamous because most likely a Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge train ignited the 54,000 acre flaming mess with an errant coal spark. The D&SNG denied culpability. The US Forest Service thought otherwise. The Feds are seeking 25 million in damages.The lawsuit is still moseying through the courts. 

Enough fire history, back to planting. 

Event Coordinator Amanda from Mountain Studies Institute thanked us all for being there. She made introductions and laid out the very reasonable ground rules. Gretchen the Forester was on hand for a quick teach in planting seedlings. It involved a menacing looking tool called a hoedad. 

With little fanfare we grabbed a satchel of seedlings and a heavy hoedad. Up the trail we went fanning out over the burnt out matchstick forest. I chose to work alone. I wanted to spend some quiet quality time with my green children before abandoning them to the elements. With each planting I made the sign of the Star of David over the little one. Then for good measure I added “Live Long and Prosper.” 

With each hole I dug, I thought about the people I bought these seedlings for.

I also thought how my final remains (placed on Handies Peak) will have scattered in all cardinal directions before this seedling achieved cordwood size. I’m OK with that. 

After all 900 seedlings were in their new homes, the volunteers and staff scattered too.

A few hours later Amanda reached out to all.

“Thanks for all your hard work and for braving the weather! We really got lucky that it didn’t snow on us very much and there was practically no wind! The storm really dumped almost immediately after we got out of there, watering all of our little trees! 

Sincerely thank you for being a part of this truly awesome community event!”

Plant a tree. It’s good for your soul.

Cheers!

Jeff

It’s time for....

Covid Confessions!

I’ve blogged about the Pandemic Crisis since it’s inception. I never called it the Chinese Virus, or pretend it just wasn’t there. As usual I was excessively honest. There weren’t many Polly Anna posts.

Collectively I’ve named these musings my Covid Chronicles. I’d like to think a few were poignant, some sad and one or two were funny. I went out of my way to tell it like it is. When I wrote about my feelings of isolation, loneliness and spasms of depression, some concerned readers asked me, “Are you OK?” My answer was the same, “I’m hanging in there. I’m just writing what so many others are thinking. This sucks.” 

Recently, the New York Times reached out to its readers for their accounts of this universal malaise. The one’s  I read were also poignant, sad and funny. For instance: the young man who stared at a wall for over an hour before blinking himself back to the here and now. 

The New York Times provided me with an idea. Why not ask folks what’s on their post-pandemic bucket list? In other words, what’s one of the first things you will do when the Scientist Eggheads tell the World it’s safe to come outside and play? (Without a mask!)

I’ll start this off with a couple of my planned events:

A) To be sitting inside a bar while taking in a MLB post season game. I’d be jawing with strangers whom the only commonality we share is our mutual love of America’s Pastime. There will be a lot of story-telling and good natured ribbing. 

B) Attending an outdoor Brew Fest or concert where I’d settle in on the outskirts of the action. This is my preferred position of comfort for someone like me who isn’t into crowds, yet loves to People Watch.

C) The long awaited hugs from friends and acquaintances whom I haven’t touched in over a year. 

All the above are my wishful thinking dreams. The US and the World still have a long way to go before achieving Herd Immunity. As of this posting, 21% of America’s population are fully inoculated. 34% have one jab onboard. 

Yet, there is a looming wall of vaccine hesitancy (a pleasant way of saying anti-vaxxers)  on our horizon. Of course, the division lines run along political and racial issues. (Doesn’t everything these days?). A significant percentage of Republicans state they will not get the vaccine. The numbers range from 40%-50%  based on the polls. Many Blacks and Latinos aren’t  excited about boarding the vaccine train either. Their issues might be based on mistrust of White Folks. (Who can blame them?)

Personally, I believe it’s an established fact germs and viruses cause a world of hurt for humanity. Vaccines and antibiotics provide a tool to combat these ills. However, I’m aware the US is now a country of contrarians. Therefore I won’t bother to change anyone’s minds. Only time and Darwinism will prove who is right and who is wrong.

BTW. I received my second dose of Moderna on March 30th. I feel fine and relieved. I now stand a better chance of not transmitting or contracting the nasty

So back to the audience participation part of this post! Please write to the most unholy Rabbi Sambini what your post pandemic desires are. I’ll collect them and create another blog with your thoughts. All participants will remain anonymous. If you’d like, include a photo. There’s no need for the pix to be a selfie either. 

For those folks who really know me, text your thoughts.

For others, post a comment at the end of this blog.

Finally if all else fails, contact me at: 

Jeffsambur@gmail.com

(I promise not to try to make you an Amway distributor) 

You’ve been hearing from me for a long time. I’d like to hear from you.

Stay safe, sane and healthy,

I’m so looking forward to a few hugs.

Cheers,

Jeff

FYI. Here was my most popular Covid post. Probably because so many folks could relate to what I was saying.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/12/whats-your-covid-number.html

The Coldest Campout in the World!

Would be the way I’d describe my latest four night trip to Canyonlands National Park. I’m aware my lead in for this blog might be a wee bit kosher Blarney (but just a bisel). 

The reason I know its Fake News is because I’ve read about the coldest, most miserable, hardcore campout in the world. Ever. The memoir was appropriately named “The Worst Journey in the World.” It was written in 1922 by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. (I wish I had a pen name like that.) His journey was a side note to Robert Falcon Scott’s ill-fated race to the South Pole. (BTW Scott and four others lost the race and their lives.)

 Mr. C-G’s adventure classic is his account of an Antarctic icy cross country trek to rip-off  Emperor Penguin eggs The omelette theft was all done in the name of science. I’m sure they didn’t call it stealing for that reason. Maybe you are thinking, well that’s not so bad. Tourists pay big bucks to see Emperor Penguins in the wild. Here’s the kicker. Apsley and company performed the frigid mosey during an Antarctic winter. Nothing but dark, Mach 3 winds and nearly absolute Kelvin cold. (-459 F). This strikes me as both suicidal and insane. They somehow survived. Barely. 

OK. So my recent attitude adjustment wasn’t that extreme, but it WAS cold in Canyonlands! The Arctic north winds hardly abated. On my hikes I wore fleece on top of fleece topped by down. Plus a wool beanie, leg warmers and gloves. My clothes alone doubled my body weight. I ran the furnace in Sanctuary Too all night long when I discovered it was 34 degrees inside the camper. Taking an outside Solar Shower? Fahgettaboudit! I settled for inside sponge baths with the furnace blasting away. 

I finally realized my 5800’ campsite was too high and exposed. I decided upon an altitude adjustment. I descended towards the Green River at 4100’. Ahh! That made all the difference, plus the sun coming out of hiding and the wind taking a TV timeout. On that lovely afternoon/evening, I read outside and partook of Happy Hour. Now that’s my kind of camping! 

Jeff. If it were that chilly, why didn’t you just drive the 3.5 hours back to your Durango townhouse with its fireplace and unlimited hot water? Why? Because I’d rather hang out in Canyonlands National Park with its dry mud-free trails, it’s multicolored rock formations and scenic vistas while awaiting vaccine number two. That’s why.

Besides, I’m into the exploring mode with my new Macho Truck for a Macho Guy like me, who happens to keep a clean house, cooks, smiles at babies and takes photos of pretty flowers. Yep! I’m macho, alright. Gggggrrrrr!

Canyonlands, the Grand Canyon, Great Sand Dunes, Death Valley, the Eastern Sierra and the San Juan Mountains are a few of my happy places. I’ll endure some hardships for experiencing  their beauty. Especially when I have access to a furnace, cold IPAs and books to read. 

I had it heaps easier than Apsley Cherry-Garrard did on his worst journey in the World.

Enjoy your journey no matter where it takes you. 

Gentle reminder. Please get your Covid vaccinations.

Cheers

Jeff

Last Photo. I was joking about cooking. That’s a kosher for Passover Asian Fusion