Fear of Farbluzhet...

When I was a little "boychick," the Sambur Homebody family would hit the open road every now and then. Our vehicle was usually a used Chevy in suspicious condition. (We even owned a Corvair!)  I would take my place in the front between Sid and Clara. My older brothers watched the Bronx go by from the backseat. 

We would be cruising around when Clara would pipe up, "OY! We are Farbluzhet!" This is the Yiddish word for hopelessly lost. Sid would then get the "I'm nervous, very nervous" look combined with his worried expression. Those weren't happy moments in the Sambur Chevy. So I grew up thinking getting Farbluzhet should be avoided and feared at the same time. 

Now I hike in wilderness areas and alone most of the time. I take a large scale Trails Illustrated map, and often times a vague notion of what lies ahead. I also carry a fear of getting lost in my backpack too.The worst thing about becoming "disoriented" is how it would screw up my Happy Hour schedule. 

On my recent three day, 30 plus miles backpack trip in the Maroon Bells Wilderness, my fear of pulling a disappearing act was more pronounced than normal. I heard from reliable sources (a Wilderness Ranger) that a segment of my itinerary was dicey. The official U.S. Forest Service handout acknowledged the trail was "lightly used and steep." The insider info I pulled out of the Ranger was this, "When you get over the pass, take a hard right. Aim for the bottom of the bowl." Pretty vague. Right? 

I asked him, "Can't I just follow the creek drainage to the intersecting trail?"

His no-nonsense response, "No! Unless you can swim waterfalls." Not so much.

So I hit the trail early to buy myself more time to get lost and found. The hike up the pass was so easy a Caveman could do it. (good line, GEICO.)  At the top, I saw a large bowl below me and faint routes wandering off at odd angles from that point. I chose the way "hardest right." I quickly realized my choice was an elk thoroughfare. There were hardly any signs of Homo Sapiens. However, those elk must have been civil engineers as there meanderings followed the ridge's contours. Strong work until an elk labor dispute caused the construction project to come to a halt. At that point I began to imagine seeing trails at the bottom of the bowl. I gingerly made my way down. Nope! It was those nasty trail mirages. I hiked this way and that generally going downhill. It took my about half a mile before I found a genuine cairn. Like a bloodhound on a scent, I began to follow. I might have howled even. The trail crapped out often, but I stay focused. 

It took many hours of beating the bush to arrive at a more user friendly trail. I really like that one since it took me back to Barley the Van and a date with Happy Hour.

My point to all this? Don't get farbluzhet. You might get Sid's "I'm nervous, very nervous" worried look. It will upset your kids too. 

Stay Found,

Jeff

I'm no Gambler

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run

"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers

Yesterday, I left Carbondale with the idea of summiting nearby Mount Sopris. (12,965 feet). With a  70% chance of thunder-boomers and lightning as the forecast, I was more than a bit concerned. However, after my usual two pots of java for breakfast, I was feeling game on. 

As I made my way through the green ecozones, all was fine. The sun was shining, the wind was gentle and temperature was set for cotton instead of fleece. Perfect. By the time I got above tree line, conditions began to change. 

To the east of me, the valleys of the Maroon Bells/Snowmass Wilderness were beginning to fill with cloudy and wet stuff. I felt a few drops of moisture myself. It wasn't my sweat either. With half an Empire State Building of uphill ahead of me, I made a decision. It was time to head down. 

Despite Sopris' minuscule size compared to its neighbors, it's an extremely steep endeavor. The mountain's flank is composed of rock slabs strewn about in a haphazard state. The odds are "flip a coin" whether the unforgiving surface slides or not. The descent is tedious and slow. There is no quick exit off of Sopris. 

One can always second guess a hiking decision. Would I have been able to complete the climb safely? Possibly.

Did I make it back alive for another Happy Hour? Definitely. 

I made the right choice. Sopris is not going anywhere. 

Please try and make the Right Choice when you are in Wild Places. 

That's not my handwriting in the last photo. 

Hiking with a Viking...

I met Paul the Pilot (AKA Paul the Polly-Anna), on a long ago Ride the Rockies Bicycle Tour. He rode an antiquated Schwinn Le Tour bicycle. His metal steed was clunky, unresponsive and oppressively massive. Paul is a large, lean, headstrong, "Type A" Scandanavian. He muscled his bike up the passes, laughing at the Bike Nazis he left in his wake. He's a tough dude. 

I mentioned the newer, lighter bikes that were available in stores called Bicycle Shops. His answer, "This bike is fine. Why buy another one?" 

You know the saying, "You can always tell a Scandanavian, you just can't tell them much."

Now Paul is gainfully unemployed, recently divorced and taking the same heavy handed approach to backpacking. 

On our three-day, 28 mile journey in the Maroon Bells/Snowmass Wilderness of Colorado, Paul's concession to lightweight gear was leaving his Grand Piano behind and settling for a Baby Grand instead. Out of his Mount Everest Expedition pack came a pound of raisins, a heavy two person tent, (for himself), a container of liquid coffee creamer, a spice rack, a large plastic 7-11 coffee mug and other extraneous add-ons. I was surprised there was no portable sauna. I feared placing my puny backpack next to his. It might have eaten it. 

Now is a good time to mention, the hiking loop contains four passes over 12,000 feet too. 

So...just like that bicycle tour from so long ago, Paul employed brute strength to make his way up the passes. He still managed to leave most younger, better equipped hikers in his wake.The one and only reason I was ahead of him was my mini backpack was half the Wells Fargo Bank vault weight of his backpack. He's still a tough dude.

Then again, what can one expect from a region who brought the world such notable Bad-Asses as Eric the Red, Roald Amundsen and Fridtjof Nansen. I hear they eat lutefisk too. That's fish soaked in lye. 

At least our hiking conditions were to Paul's liking. Cold, wet, damp, cloudy and plenty of white death (snow) to traverse. Perfect for the newest Scandanavian Bad-Ass. 

This Cold Weenie survived the ordeal. In fact, a wonderful time was had by all. 

Cheers from Carbondale, Colorado,

Jeff