Aligning With Nature

Sulfurous geyser clouds steamed over the fresh snow-covered boardwalk. With chilly high elevation winds pushing us along we discovered a small backpacking chair clipped to a stuffed day pack on the walkway. Up ahead, a couple hundred yards, we could see a bundled form standing overlooking one of Yellowstone’s many geysers. We continued on and passed him. Why the vigilance?

The next day we returned to the boardwalk. Once more we found the silent sentinel. This time he was bundled and sitting on his small chair next to a geyser titled Grand. We paused and then dared to ask what he was doing.

“We saw your pack and chair yesterday. Are you a photographer or researcher?” 

“No,” he answered.  “I love to watch geysers and have only seventeen days to sit out here and observe them.”

His name is Corbin and he is the first geyser geek I have ever met. We peppered  him with questions. He gushed about the timing, the personalities and the sequences of what he called the “gauntlet of geysers.”

At one point we apologized for asking so many questions but he shushed our guilt away and assured us that he enjoyed sharing what he knew. And he knew a lot. I really doubt than any of the staff at the National Park Service Visitor Center at Old Faithful knows as much as Corbin.

He shared that he has has harbored a 19-year passion for  geysers.  Oh, and Corbin is 18 years old. With a wry smile, he told us that his parents met as college students during a summer of working at Old Faithful Lodge in Yellowstone National Park. Corbin was conceived in the neighborhood of thermals. Sounds hot.

“I’ve been coming here from my home in Denver every year since I was eleven,” he shared. “This is the first time I have come alone to focus for over two weeks on observations and submitting data.” Nodding at a sudden burp of steam, he added, “Besides, watching the geysers in winter is far more dramatic. The steaming water hits the cold air making for an explosive looking event. And there are way, way fewer tourists out on the boardwalk.”

Staring at the roiling cauldron, Corbin calmly noted, “There, the thermal pool around the geyser is filling slightly.” 

He was amazingly dexterous with his bare thumbs typing the observations and time into his mobile phone. He also carried a radio for transmitting observations back to someone at the Visitor’s Center next to Old Faithful. 

Corbin closely watched the Grand geyser and informed us that this geyser would be erupting within the next hour and a half. “This geyser erupts every 6-8 hours.  Each eruption can last ten to twelve minutes.”

“Old Faithful is the signature glacier in the park and get all the press. But no geyser in the world can send an eruption as high as Grand. It can sometimes reach 200 feet in the sky.”

With that tease, we tugged our parkas tighter and hunkered down in the cold to wait.  Some of the smaller nearby pools looked inviting to slip into for a warming soak. Not a good idea.

In the late fall of 2016, a 23 year-old man was visiting Yellowstone with his sister. They both thought it would be fun to “hot pot” with a warm soak. They left the boardwalk and were in a prohibited area. It is against the law to vandalize or go into the hot springs. The brother stretched to test the water with his fingers and ended up falling into the thermal pool. His sister, unable to pull him out and without phone connection, had to run for help.  The rescuers hurried back but found her brother had died. It was late in the day and they could not get his body out so decided to return the following day with more resources.  The next morning all they found was his wallet and a pair of flip flops. The acidic, boiling hot water had dissolved him.

Yellowstone’s hot springs have injured or killed more people than any other natural feature, including falling and wild animal encounters such as bison or bears.

While we waited, I asked, “Are you pursuing studies that involve geysers?”

“I’m a freshman at the Colorado School of Mines, majoring in Petroleum Engineering. That way I can study seismic activity.  I want to get a job where I can make a lot of money in a few years and then kick back and pursue my real dream of seismic mapping the fractured bedrock of thermal areas.”  

“So any thoughts when the next “big one” is going to explode?” I asked. Corbin smiled and said, “Well if you believe the conspiracy theories, rather than the science, it could blow any day. But I tend to agree with the seismologists and other experts. It’s likely that the great-great grandparents of your great-great grandchildren will never see it.”

And yet, I have to admit I felt a wee bit like I was walking on broken glass knowing that super-heated molten rock or magma roiled less than two and a half miles beneath my feet.

Suddenly Corbin matter-of-factly declared, “See that vent just to the left of Grand’s steam? That’s called “Turban” and Turban is starting to show signs of erupting.”  

“How soon will Grand erupt?”I asked.

Assessing the thermal pool rising and Turban hissing, Corbin confidently answered, “Now .  . . and Now.” With his second “now,” Grand sent a loud, noisy plume of steam high into the sky. 

Corbin radioed in the eruption time and began typing observations on his phone. For several minutes we watched spellbound as the geyser surged like a steamy fountain of fireworks. And Turban, Grand’s little sidekick, shot its own thermal celebration.

Ten minutes later, the eruption subsided. Corbin folded up his small chair and donned his daypack. He wanted to catch the eruption of Daisy Geyser and Riverside Geyser before he headed to his cabin for an afternoon nap. He was planning to return to the steaming landscape to resume his vigil in the evening. 

I found myself inspired by Corbin. Rarely do I encounter such unfettered passion. I wondered what percentage of humans follow their calling? Is it a luxury to have the time to channel so much of your energy into a passion? 

Joseph Campbell was a noted 20th century thinker, mythologist and author. His advice to people is to “follow your bliss.” 

It’s safe to say that Corbin is following his bliss. . . .and hiss.

I was sitting in a deer stand 16 feet off the ground. It was November and I had my recurve bow with its quiver of arrows in my lap. Waiting for a deer to pass by in range gives me time to look over this woods from my perch and ponder change. 

A jagged, snapped trunk sits directly in front of me. Tattered, tangled and torn trees remind me of the August blow that resulted in whole trees swaying and crashing down. 

The night of that storm we donned headlamps when the power went out.  When the winds became more fierce we headed to the basement.

The following morning unveiled the storm’s power. We found many mature oaks, red maples and black cherry trees violently snapped, twisted or simply levered to the ground. Luckily our house remained unscathed. For days, we and our neighbors ran chain saws to unblock driveways and clean yards. 

I heard neighbors and others talk about the “mess” and “destruction” left in the wake of the storm. But is this tattered woods a scene of carnage?

Now, months later, sitting quietly in the woods gives me ample time to consider this beautiful mess in front of me. I am amazed at how the complexion of the woods can change in a matter of minutes. It’s easy to see that this woods is now morphing into a different type of woods. 

For the past few years, oak wilt has whittled away some of the big oaks. In their absence more red maples and a scattering of small white pines are showing up. I continue to pull buckthorn, but this invasive alien perseveres beyond my feeble attempts to hold it in check.

I wonder what this woods is becoming.  

I simply need to accept that unless humans come in and eliminate the woods through cutting, excavating and chemical warfare, the woods will always be some sort of woods, even long after I disappear.  How many times over the last 10,000 years the landscape here has been severely altered by weather events?

How many forests, woods and thickets have emerged, grown, died and melded back into the earth through the miracle of decomposition right here?

How many forests lie underneath my footsteps? Here the only constant is change. Always has been and always will be.

If I was to “clean up this mess,” I would be removing one of the critical cogs in this native ecosystem.  To remove a windfall tree would be taking away the very nutrients that allowed this piece of woods to thrive. Decomposition allows the recycling of nutrients. 

I am reminded of a wise passage written by the late Aldo Leopold in his book: A Sand County Almanac. If I were the “Czar of Well Being,” I would require all North Americans to read Leopold’s classic.

Leopold wrote, ‘To keep every cog and wheel of the machine of life turning, we need the whole intricate machinery of nature, and not just a few selected parts.” 

This means that to preserve the integrity of a natural environment we need to protect all of its components, the cogs and wheels, and not just the ones we find useful or pleasing. We need to shift our perspectives of what is beautiful. 

We are only now learning of the complicated and necessary braiding together of microbes, worms, insects, bacteria and more that contribute to soil health. And soil health is directly related to our own health. 

Torn limbs and fallen trees contribute as cover, habitat and food for seen and unseen life. A messy woods is far more rich in species diversity than a tidy, “cleaned up” woods. It’s similar to the richness of the unkempt, scruffy, flower-strewn lawn compared to the sterile, monotonous lawn that folks work so hard and spend obscene amounts of money to maintain. 

With another hour remaining before sunset, I heard a rustle and spotted a doe emerging from a tangle where the canopies of two fallen oak trees had crashed together.  She snuffled briefly in the leaf litter, likely finding acorns to chew. Not far behind her, a fine, mature buck followed. His attention was not on acorns but rather on her. Slowly, she kept coming towards me, trolling the buck behind her. 

How I killed that buck is another story. In securing the venison, I am  included among the countless species of life forms that are nourished by these glorious ruins of a woods.

Be sure you are right, then go ahead.

-Daniel Boone–

“Shall we go for a walk?” 

I hadn’t heard that invitation from Nels since we both hiked a one-hundred mile section of the Arizona Trail last March.

And so with barely a month of planning and making the necessary reservations, we decided it was time for an autumn hike on the 37.5 mile Pukaskwa National Park, Coastal Hiking Trail on the north shore of Lake Superior in Ontario. 

We were fully aware that the trail was rated “Difficult” and that the elevation roller coastered up and down.

The park requires an orientation for this trail. Due to the fall park hours being curtailed, the orientation was done over the phone. After a cordial greeting, the employee, who now had all our registration information in front of him, including our senior citizen ages, hesitantly said,“You two have given yourselves a rather aggressive itinerary.” 

He went on to repeatedly remind me that if we were not at North Swallow River after four days we needed to turn back or they would send out search and rescue folks. “Use your trail sense.” 

Nels and I are no longer young men, having camped, canoed, hunted, and fished together for over six decades. But we are very fortunate to have our health and each other for support. I like to think that in those passing of years we have embraced common sense in what we can and cannot do.

Our moods matched the gray skies when we began the fall hike fully adorned in rain gear. Rain or not, we had four days to get to our turnaround point so there was no waiting for sunshine. 

Luckily the shower stopped in the first hour or so but the trail was slippery in places. Even though I had hiked this section more than 25 years ago, I had forgotten the ups and downs and the rugged nature of the trail. 

For all the wisdom we have gathered through the years, you would think that we would learn that we shouldn’t put in our longest mileage day on the first day; especially with less-than-ideal weather conditions and when our packs are heaviest. 

As we crossed the high suspension bridge over the roiling White River, we met three guys heading in the direction we had just come. They were at least ten years younger than us. During our brief chat, they soberly shared, “Be very careful. You have the toughest part of the trail ahead of you. There are some technical sections. Some involve climbing almost vertically. And there are fields of boulders.”

That night, after setting up our tarp and laying out our bags, we relaxed by the serene shore of Lake Superior. No other people, boats or even aircraft pimpled the setting. No distant highway traffic noises, just the quiet lap of a stilled giant lake. 

Shortly after supper, we decided to hit the sack. And thus began one of the worst camping nights I’ve ever experienced. 

The unseasonably warm fall had yet to yield a killing frost so the mosquitos were still very ambitious. 

In the past when we have hiked sections of the Lake Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota, we have done it in late September and early October. We have always used an open tarp as our shelter as it is easy to set up, protects us and our gear from the weather and is lightweight to carry.

But on this mild and slightly humid night, there was absolutely no escaping the bugs. For hours we retreated deep into our bags for relief, only to emerge gasping and growling from our self-imposed saunas.  We were living, ill-tempered cafeterias for the skeeters. 

Our only recourse was to curse. Loudly and repeatedly. Finally I must have fallen asleep because I woke up, glanced over for the lump of Nels. He wasn’t there. I looked closer. Was his husk of a body all that remained after his blood was drained? 

I sat up in the dark and realized he had escaped to the sand beach where there was no underbrush to harbor mosquitoes. Here, any slight breeze might help get some bug-free sleep. I grabbed my sleeping bag and pad and hauled it to the beach. I plunked down near Nels and we both managed to get a bit of needed sleep.

At first gray light, I heard Nels say, “Andy, it’s misting.” So we both emerged and grabbed all our stuff and returned to the tarp.

Breakfast included a coming-to-Jesus talk. With a poor night of sleep and the more rugged stretch of trail ahead of us, we had to weigh the wisdom of trying to maintain  our “aggressive itinerary.”

We know each other well. And we both knew that we did not want this to be a forced march.

We could continue on or we might simply turn around and hike back to the car. We decided to give it one more night with the hopes that the weather would cool down and we could orient the tarp into any breeze to help discourage the mosquitoes. 

With the plan in hand and breakfast in our bellies, Nels mumbled, “Let’s go for a walk.”

The second night was mosquito-free and we slept well. It was during our second trail breakfast that we pushed our egos aside and decided to change our trip to a more enjoyable pace. We would not go to North Swallow River. 

The slower pace allowed us to forage among the profusion of fall fungi. The boletes and honey mushrooms we harvested augmented our dehydrated meals. We were able to stop and consider various stories left in the tracks of otter, shorebirds and moose. 

We paused to listen to the high pitched whispers of golden crowned kinglets. And even a male ruffed grouse seemed to command attention as he strutted his stuff for us.  

For seven more mornings and nearly thirty-one miles of hiking, Nels predictably queried, “Shall we go for a walk?” 

And best of all there was no Search and Rescue crew involved.

In a raucous world swirling with disinformation, ringtones, screen time, polls, screaming, cursing, grousing, finger pointing, inflated egos, election projections and slumping jack-o-lanterns, I find diversion necessary. 

One enjoyable way is to take some quiet time up in a November oak tree. Ironically, the practice of of becoming one with a sturdy oak tree from 15- 20 feet off the ground with my bow and arrow, helps ground me. 

Here in my sylvan bully pulpit I am the Master and Commander of this rather small platform that I have hung on the tree. Once my safety harness is fastened and I’m settled in the predawn graying of the morning, I generally smile like I did when I was thirteen and my father ushered me into my first deer hunting tree. It’s so good to be here.

My focus here, in the nearby faraway, is not on today’s election day. Instead it’s aimed at the possibility of spying and maybe killing a passing deer. 

Ironically I am bombarded by all sorts of distractions while hunting.

Squirrels commonly steal my focus.  Oh so many squirrels! Today there was a feisty red squirrel wrestling with its treasure of a cob of corn discovered from a nearby picked cornfield. 

And suddenly the focus is diverted by trumpeter swans, passing overhead, softly bugling their morning chatter. 

Then there was the disturbance made by a reddish-hued fox sparrow raking and rustling the fallen leaves with its long toes. A scrounged seed was the prize to help  fuel this stout sparrow on its southward passage.  

The most lingering of distractions were the scores of crows that filtered into the bare oak canopy just east from my arboreal hide. They were mostly quiet with only an occasional caw. Most of the vocalizing were subdued short bursts of clicks, clacks and rattles. What were they communicating to each other?

Watching these corvids finally drift away, almost buoyantly. in their seemingly carefree flight, I silently thanked them for grabbing my attention and presenting me with questions. 

Less than a half hour later, with the midday approaching, I found myself wondering how that red squirrels prize of field corn might taste if I gnawed on it?

The rain began to fall and soon I was reminded of the wise words of a late Yukon friend who often declared, “Any fool can be uncomfortable.” 

Prodded by a growing hunger and a now dampened enthusiasm, I climbed down and headed northwest, the same direction as the crows, back to our house.

As I approached the house I could see smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney and I felt a gratitude in knowing that Nancy had a lively fire burning in the kitchen. And there would be coffee, and a lunch of scrambled eggs with spuds, kale and onions.

Soon I was sitting down in front of the fire and I asked, “Nancy what is keeping your attention on this election day?” 

Casually she answered, “Oh I’m going to make a skirt out of bra cups today.”*

“Of course you are.”

Like I said, my attention is constantly hijacked.

Like every day, this day demanded attention and to think that it is barely noon. 

* An explanation might be useful here. Miss Nancy is embracing her enhanced role of being an artist and  has been selected to exhibit her visual art called Skirting the Issues It is a collection of creations that poignantly portray various topical issues in our society. The show will be in the fall of 2025 at the Hallberg Art Center in Wyoming, Minnesota.

“Come and get it!” Ma Kettle

It was a morning to remember. No wind. A sunrise climbing through the pines with elegant purpose, like royalty entering the court of a new day.  I was in a canoe creating my own mirror image.  And all too quickly I had a nice walleye and a good eater pike on the fish stringer. The pair was easily enough for a feast of fish for supper.

Then I spotted the floating corpse.

I paddled closer. It was a walleye, larger than the one on my stringer. Its snow-white belly shone like a beacon.

I leaned over and hefted it out of the water to assess its freshness. Rigor mortis was setting in so I slipped it back into the water. I nodded a “lucky you” to the lone herring gull standing at attention on a rocky outcropping in the lake.

By the time I paddled the hundred yards back to our campsite, Nancy was up. She was pleased that my visit to the fish market had been successful. 

While we settled on the rocks with our morning coffee and breakfast, the belly-up fish drifted closer in the day’s first breeze.  

By now an adult bald eagle had been attracted to the possible fish meal. It perched high in a white pine a couple of hundred yards from us. Neither the gull nor the eagle seemed willing to take the initiative to claim the fish.

Transfixed by the promise of drama, we stayed still and quiet. 

Suddenly the gull launched into the air. It passed over the fish, flying a hundred yards beyond the prize before it banked and returned to its rock.

The scavenging skills of both the eagle and the gull far surpass their hunting skills. Minutes passed with no action. What were they waiting for?

I glanced over at the fish, now floating only ten yards off our shore. A shadow appeared beneath the carcass and a snapping turtle eased into view.

I marveled at how this ancient reptile had honed in on the prize by sniffing fish-tainted molecules of fresh death. How far away could it pick up the bouquet of demise?

I edged closer to the water for a better view of the turtle. Obviously I was not discreet enough because the water swirled as the turtle hurried to the depths.

I returned uphill to settle with my cup of coffee and wait. And wait. None of the scavengers were willing to make the move towards the fish.

Nancy and I puzzled over the inaction. We sat for two hours watching and waiting for a move on the floating walleye. How could any scavenger show such restraint? I would think that most wildlife feel a constant gnaw of hunger and with such an easy offering why not seize the moment?

Finally, with the sun almost overhead, the eagle swooped in, extended its talons and grabbed the fish. It labored slightly as it flew with its prize and landed a couple hundred yards away on a point of bare bedrock. 

The gull seemed nonplussed. And no sign of the turtle. 

Turns out that the turtle, unseen to us, was already moving stealthily towards my stringer of fish that I had clasped to a shaded shoreline bush. In late afternoon, I walked down to fillet the pair of fish for our supper. It was then that I discovered that we had a walleye and a half of a pike.

Was it a turtle’s revenge? Or simply a public fish market open to anyone?

“A friend is one soul abiding in two bodies.” — Aristotle

As the breeze drifted our canoe towards a small rock island, I noticed an unlikely grove, a trio of white cedars growing impossibly out of the isle.  As we got closer, I stopped paying attention to the tip of my fishing rod. I was drawn to the miracle of trees growing out of a barren, whale-shaped rock backlit by a hazy sunset.

The huddle of trees was no taller than the length of our canoe, yet the girth of the co-joined cedars was thicker than my waist. Walleyes be damned, at least for a few minutes. I reeled in my jig and we paddled to the edge of this most ancient garden for a closer look.

For roughly 10,000 years this small island of solid rock has felt the wrath and wash  of the seesaw of seasons. Water expands when it freezes, so a minute fracture will expand into a larger and larger crack over time. This fissure of fertility catches any organic material that drifts or falls into it. Such a fracture exists on this rounded rock. It was the anchor point for these pals. 

The crack, about eight inches wide, zig-zagged below the cedars. Here the tree roots were thickest and wedged tightly into the dirt-filled crack. It was no wonder these trees were unshakeable from this mostly barren outcrop.

This example is not all that unique in canoe country. There are many rock outcroppings on water bodies that host a small collection of trees and other flora. It always amazes me that nicks, cracks and pockets on the rock can become the most humble of vessels to collect dust, dead leaves, conifer needles, dead insects and even gull or otter feces.  Miraculously, grasses, trees and blooming flowers like harebell, pale corydalis, ox-eye daisy can take root in these most humble and scant of seed beds.  In the case of this pair of cedars, two seeds washed in and managed to take hold.

Lichens are my favorite beacons that illuminate the bare rocks. I am partial to the dazzling common orange lichen. This nitrophilous (nitrogen-loving)  lichen, often called a sunburst lichen (Xanthoria sp.)is often found on exposed boulders, especially where gulls or raptors perch and defecate. I prefer the descriptive name that some Innuit in the far north use: sunian anak or “excrement of the sun.” A perfect name. 

Judging by the size and stature of the stoic grove of trees anchored here they have known good times and tough times. Shearing wind, snow and ice crystals have limited the height of these island-bound trees. Instead of growing high, their energies were put into the thick trunks that have allowed the two cedar pals to form a common base. The thick exposed roots encircle each other like a muscular python. I can’t help but think this strategy of entangled tree bases is a partnered act in solidity. 

I wondered if the roots, with their hairlike rootlets were both absorbing nutrients and sharing communications. Several years ago, I was mesmorized by Suzanne Simard, Professor of Forest Ecology at the University of British Columbia and author of the highly acclaimed book Finding the Mother Tree:Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest. She was a speaker at the annual Nobel Conference at Gustavus Adolphus College. Her work has pioneered the relatively new arena of plant communication and intelligence. Through her technical and innovative research she has discovered that some trees share their excess carbon and nitrogen through the mycorrhizal network. In other words, trees can actually take care of their own kind in ways that increase their survival. 

We drifted away to resume the quest for walleyes. But it was hard to concentrate as the sun dropped into the jagged  spruce and pine horizon line. I kept glancing over at the embracing cedars in the waning golden light. I wanted to engage in their communication and listen to rustling tales of past seasons. What have the psalms of summer silence taught them? And how did those frigid northwest winds hone their inner toughness?  

I left those questions to simmer. We paddled quietly back in the twilight to our campsite with an empty stringer. I glanced back to acknowledge the mid lake monument of pals. 

 “Hold tight friends, don’t let that love knot loosen its hold.”

Water is the defining aspect of life in the Sonoran Desert. It is the primary limiting factor in determining who lives and who dies. The masters of water management are the cacti.

Being a Minnesota boy, I am not familiar with such aridity. At home, I am usually within eyesight of a lake, pond, river, stream or wetland of some type.

On our third day of backpacking in the desert, Nels and I were running out of water. We found ourselves taking measured sips to fool our bodies into thinking we were just fine. Walking past a tall saguaro cactus, a master of water management, I wondered if there was a way to tap into the thick, spiked stem to draw some of its abundant stored water. 

Nels and I assessed our maps and felt confident that we could cover the eight miles to the next reliable water source. The sky was cloudless and the sun was pouring it on.

We dropped into a draw and found a shallow bathtub-sized seep of water blanketed in green algae.  The sinuous, tiny flow was short-lived as it disappeared into the ground. Cattle tracks caverned the edge and cow pies littered the area. This looked to be a popular watering hole. 

We pushed the scum aside to reveal three inches of clear water above the mucky bottom. We filled our water bottles with careful scoops of this precious fluid.  Nels dropped a water purification tablet into each bottle to render bacteria or other ‘ickies” harmless after half an hour of mixing. Our mood brightened.

We trekked beneath scores of saguaro that reached more than 30 feet tall. Most of these would weigh 3-5 tons. Some can grow to 80 feet tall and live 200 years.

These towering desert residents grow very slowly in their first eight years of life; usually less than two inches. Their survival depends on their germinating under a tree or shrub that shades them from temperature and moisture extremes.

In most plants the leaf is the food factory where photosynthesis takes place. The trouble with leaves in the desert is that their surface area allows too much evaporation. Saguaro conserve water in several ways: grow no leaves, photosynthesize through their stem that is covered with a thick and waxy skin, protect their stores of water by a covering of sharp spines to keep critters away, grow thick stems that are grooved to direct moisture from brief rainfalls down to the base and the shallow, widespread roots. 

On our last day, we broke camp before the sun climbed over the ridge. We picked our way down the creek bed through a jumble of rocks. 

By late morning, the descent took us through the last expanse of saguaro with their frozen waves of upraised arms. 

In the distance we could see the endpoint of our trek; the impossible blue waters of Roosevelt Lake, the world’s largest artificial lake created in 1906.  

The dam that birthed the reservoir was constructed after area ranchers and farmers sought a water storage system that would sustain them during dry years. It also generates 36 megawatts of electricity per year; enough to power approximately 36,000 households.

Human settlement of Central Arizona, with its large-scale irrigation and agricultural development, would not have been possible without Roosevelt Lake. 

But as human population growth continues to climb in the Arizona deserts, combined with the reality of climate change, there is a greater pressure on water usage of the Colorado River and fossil water drawn from aquifers. (According to a 2023 Arizona Water Department more groundwater has been allocated in the next hundred years than is present in the aquifers.)

Hiking down towards the distant lake, I glanced back and nodded a thanks to the saguaro and desert.  With the incredible human growth rate and pressures on water usage in this region, I wondered if these slopes of cacti were lifting their arms in surrender.

The saguaro, with its ancient blueprint to thrive under arid conditions, would make a good model for water conservation. They have figured out the water thing all on their own.

Some people escape to remote areas to get away from the scrum of society, to go incognito or off the radar entirely. And if they happen to be backpacking on one of the longer routes such as the Appalachian Trail, the Arizona Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail they might be walking for weeks or months. In recent years it has become the norm to shed your civilized, birth name and take on what is called a “trail name.”  

Trail names have become a fun part of the backpacking culture that can allow hikers to connect. For some, the trail titles become an identity shift, a form of escapism if you will.  The new name can signify starting over, stepping away from any baggage or escaping the routine of life.

No matter your gender, your occupation or lack of one, your hometown status, your physical abilities, the girth of your wallet or stock portfolio, the trail name is an identity that might render fantastical or whimsical powers to your self.

Early in our backpacking venture on the Arizona Trail, friend Nels and I came across our first weather-proof trail register. We lifted the rusted steel cover and discovered a ledger. Hikers sign in with the date of their passing, and whether or not they are a thru-hiker (one that is hiking the entire length of the trail in one season). They add their trail names, birth names or both. Leaving both names is a good idea. If trouble arises it is easier for people to locate which section of trail you are on. They might not have a clue of any association to your outside world identity if you sign only your trail name. We chuckled when we saw that “Sloop” and “Putt-putt” had signed in recently.

We headed down the trail after signing in with the nicknames we have called each other for scores of years: “Nels” and “Andy.” We reflected about the small town nicknames we lived with when we were kids. Many, like ours, were simply a a shortened version of last names. Some were simply intials like “BJ.” More imaginative, and not necessarily flattering, were others like Gooey, Pickle, Mouse, Gasser, Fig, Flakey, Punch, Buffer and so many more.

How does one acquire a trail name? Just as your birth name was given to you by your parents, your trail name is generally assigned by someone else. 

At first, Nels and I felt a little too old for such silly titles, but as the silent miles passed we found ourselves contemplating proper trail names. I wondered about Elder, Yonder, Poppa T-Bone (a playful name that my son-in-law knighted me with). How about Gulch Grinder? Or more apt, Gulch Shuffler? Is it too clever to go with D.Lite? Maybe Pathos. 

Or do I simply hijack the name that early North American explorer Pierre-Esprit Radisson was given by the indigenous he lived and traveled with: “Iron Legs.”

Day after day and mile after mile I considered a proper name for Nels. As a kid, he was briefly known as “Weasel” for his quickness (which served him well in high school basketball where he earned a college scholarship).

During one of our long climbs, I suggested he be known as “IthinkIcan” with a nod to the folktale The Little Engine That Could.

One day Nels took a tumble on the skittery rocks and skinned his knee. As we watched the shallow wound redden, I noted that over the course of our 65-year history of being buddies, it seemed he always had scabbed knees and shins. 

“Scabby would be a good trail name for you,” I declared.

His wrinkled nose, showing his lack of enthusiasm. 

One late afternoon we settled into our camp. I draped my silk sleeping bag liner over a bush. Unbeknownst to me this was the thorny catclaw bush. The sheer fabric was entangled in half a dozen places. I was trying to gather up the liner while freeing it from the short, curved thorns and it wasn’t going well.

 Suddenly a hiker came by on the trail only ten yards from us. “Hi,” Nels called, “Are you thru-hiking?”

The hiker lowered his pack and pulled out a water bottle. “I’m doing it all. I left the Mexican border three weeks ago.” He took a long swig of water before asking, “You two got trail names?”

We paused, almost awkwardly, before sharing, “Nels and Andy.”

With a broad smile he said “Right on! I’m Timber.”

It turns out he was christened by an old homeless guy in northern California known as Bucket (a former gold prospector). Over a shared campfire and a beer, the old man declared the younger right then and there as “Timber” and it stuck. It seemed perfect for his strong physique.

For 20 minutes, I continued my futile efforts of disentangling the liner and my skin from the cursed catclaw. Timber and Nels both chuckled at my predicament. I tried to remain calm and focussed but it was not easy when there was the distraction of company. 

Timber swung his backpack up. He hoped to get in another mile or two to meet his average of 20 miles per day. All I could manage was a head nod. A friendly farewell wave was impossible with my contorted arms still painfully ensnared.

Timber crossed the dried creek bed and was soon out of sight. Finally, I freed the liner and myself.  

“I’m a marked man!” I wailed as I inspected the thin bloody scratches on my arm and hand.

Nels giggled, then declared, “Catclaw! That’s your trail name!”

I wasn’t sure I liked the unwritten rule of trail names that you have to accept the name that someone titles you. 

The next morning, under a paint-smeared sky, I hoisted my pack and began to walk and muttered to myself, “Catclaw. Really? Catclaw.”

With any luck, Nels, I mean Scabby, and I will be hiking another hundred-mile section of the Arizona Trail next year.  Perhaps Catclaw won’t make that trip. There is another unwritten rule is that you can change your trail name with a new hike.

“Miles and miles of miles and miles.”

– 18th century itinerant evangelist, John Wesley 

Cinching our backpack hip belts and picking up our hiking poles, we paused to let the weight settle on our bodies. The morning desert sky was cloudless and the scraggly peaks were backlit by the coming sun.

And as he has done on every backpacking trip together, Nels declared, “Let’s take a walk.” 

He wears gloves on this morning and I only wish I had dug mine out of the bowels of my pack. Frost seems odd in the Sonoran desert of Arizona. But two mornings found us shaking a hard frost from the tent. We were on day four of our ninety-mile journey on the 800-mile Arizona Trail that runs the length of Arizona from Mexico to Utah.

Before we began the hike, an Arizona friend of Nels, a retired Iowa farmer, expressed to him his concern for our choice of outings. “You know,” he said, “you two aren’t youngsters anymore.”

His concern is legitimate. Why hike any of this rugged Arizona Trail? My simple answer is, “Because I can.” I am fortunate to have a body that works relatively well.

With daylight coming coming on we break camp quickly and begin the walk to warm up. A flock of Gambrel’s quail flush off to our left. Down in a cactus thicket a canyon wren bubbles its Sunday morning hymn. Banter between us is irregular and usually brief. As usual, as is our practice in backpacking together, we will save extended conversation for breakfast. And that won’t happen until we put in an hour two of hiking.

After our trailside breakfast and energized by coffee, we hoist and settle into our packs again. We return to the quiet rhythm of walking. The sun tirelessly climbs higher behind us. Soon, the skinny trail becomes more of an uphill walk and then the pitches become more severe with switchbacks traversing the ascent.

My uphill strides become shorter and more measured. I stare at the trail in front of my feet to avoid loose rocks. This is unforgiving country and a careless misstep would change the nature of this trek so we focus and pay attention.

The sun sears down on us.  I feel the sweat roll off my nose. I have discovered an earworm on this morning as I repeatedly mumble his opening line from Bob Dylan’s song, All Along the Watchtower: “There must be some way outta here.”

I concentrate on the precise cadence of my footsteps on the small, fractured rocks. The beat of my feet against the small stones sounds like snare drums. It is mesmerizing but soon that percussive beat is joined by a wind instrument: my loud breathing. The whoosh of my breathing is like the measured breaks of ocean waves running up on a beach.

I pay attention to my own monotonous soliloquy. “Crunch . . . crunch. . . heavy exhalation . . . deep inhale . . .crunch. . . crunch. . .heavy exhalation. . .deep inhale. . . crunch. . . crunch. . . repeat and repeat. 

Like the tiny lizards that scurry across the trail and vanish in the rubble, our conversations likewise disappear.  We celebrate the climb with pauses in  rugs of shade provided by a boulder or mesquite tree. These breaks allow our breathing and heart rates to settle. We wipe our brows as we mentally measure how much of a climb remains.  And equally important we celebrate the gift of desert water as we swig judiciously from our water bottles.

Shade and water are key elements to our comfort. If you wait to drink water only when you are thirsty you are too late. Drinking water frequently to stave off dehydration is an essential part of the day.   

These short rests allow us to turn around and settle our gaze on the surrounding jagged mountains and cactus-stitched ridges. 

This wilderness is foreign country to me. Most of my wilderness experience is of a boreal or sub-arctic nature. I am a Minnesota boy who plays in forests, rivers and lakes.   

Paradoxically, I always feel a level of joy when I experience the twin stimulants of physical exertion and remoteness.  Here, I feel so very much alive and I celebrate a body that works. I rejoice and taste the communion of gratitude and overwhelming humility. 

We lift our packs and resume our mute climb. Soon we renew the rhythm of crunch. . .crunch. . .exhale. . . inhale. . .crunch. . .crunch. 

Wild country, encountered under our own power, strips away the extraneous. Life is rendered to the most basic elements out here. Pretentiousness cannot exist. 

Freedom in the wilderness reigns like no other place I’ve known. And even though we have no physical or cyber means of connecting with humankind out here, we both find more comfort here than amongst the chew of civilization.

At midday we reached our top, 4,200 feet higher than where we broke camp at dawn. From our vista I look back feeling the satisfaction of perseverance amid the blanketing silence.

One absolute in life is that life itself is terminal. And so while my legs, lungs and heart still work well together, I’ll continue my forays into the backcountry. Partnering with Nels, luck, and good health we will explore another 100 miles of this skinny and rocky trail next year.

Because I can.

Crunch. . .crunch. . .exhale. . . inhale. . .crunch. . .crunch.

Over twenty-five years ago I received a short, hand-written note from a lovely lady I had met at a bird-banding event a few days earlier. I  perked up when I read her last sentence. “It will be pleasure when our paths next cross.” I reread it at least half a dozen times and then pondered it before reading it again.

As I had been divorced for three years, I was interested but had no idea of the status of this woman, named Nancy. Was she single? Partnered? Maybe she was cloistered. . . caught her on a day off from the monastery.

Even though emails were quickly becoming the societal norm, I chose to respond to her letter with a scribed letter of my own and soon we were pen pals. Over the course of a few weeks, going to the mail box was an enthusiastically anticipated endeavor, not unlike unwrapping a Christmas gift. We learned much about each other and we both discovered that we liked words.

Finally I asked her out on a somewhat non-conventional date. I took the chance and invited her to join me on a plant collecting outing on our family farm followed by lunch at my place. This was not collecting live plants but instead collecting foliage and flowers to put in my plant press. She curiously accepted and we strolled among the various species of June wildflowers. 

The following week I sent her another hand-written letter thanking her for joining me and it included a single dried blossom of a wild rose. She still has that now-tattered wild rose and together we have a fairly thick packet of hand-written letters. And, I might add, a diverse collection of dried flora.

This week we will be celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and it only seems appropriate to sit down today and write Nancy a “map letter.” The scorched corner is a touch to illustrate my heated love.

Map letters are special as they are typically fairly serious communiques about traveling through the trails of life. My children, now all parents themselves, have periodically received an appropriately timed map letter and I look forward to someday mailing such letters to my grandchildren.

At least a quarter of a century ago I had spied a stack of old topo maps in a dumpster and I unashamedly climbed in to retrieve them. Such is my love for maps. The sheets of stationary used in my map letters are cut from these old topographic maps.

When I reflect on the art and practice of writing a hand-written letter, no other person has been more of an influence than a dear late friend and work colleague, Charlie Johnson. Charlie was a dyed-in-the-wool artist and romantic. And I might add he was an ardent plant collector as well. He shunned computers and sneer at the idea of ever sending a cursed email.

Charlie being very fond of the famed Montana artist, Charlie Russel, might have been inspired by Russel’s practice of sending letters to friends that were augmented with watercolor scenes embellishing the pages. Today these are worth thousands of dollars. 

When we lived periodically in the Yukon Territory, Charlie would send me a couple of letters  from his Alaska residence each month. Often on the back of the envelope he would scribble one of his axioms: “One hand-written letter is worth 10,000 emails.”

I could almost hear his accusatory snarl. So with visions of my second grade teacher watching me practice my cursive writing, I practiced being a better letter writer. Over the years, we could have filled a herbarium with all the pressed botanical finds that we shared with each other.

He continually reminded me of the need to write letters. . . especially to him. So one day I decided to up my game and render Charlie into a flabbergasted friend. I had hired a local guy who sawed lumber to mill me a bunch of Sitka spruce for some renovations on our log abode. A thin scrap of spruce measuring roughly 10″x18″x1/8″ thick lay in the sawdust beneath the saw’s blade. I asked if I could take it and the miller said “Of course.” I had just secured my writing paper.

Using a black sharpie and a yellow highlighting pen, I artfully wrote and illustrated my note to Charlie. It was brief, bold and full of braggadocio. Slowly, I printed the following:

His Majesty Charlie,

I figured that this sheet of Sitka spruce is not only unusual, like you, but it pretty much blows away those cute little letters you mail to me.

To fully decipher this Sitka script you need to close your eyes and rarely run your finger tips over the fuzzy surface, study the clear grain and you will journey up the once tall, limbless trunk. Ahh. . . .but its the ragged edges I love best. For it’s at the edges of mountain cliffs, wild rivers, grizz boundaries and creative outburst that send my heart into overdrive. 

And don’t forget . . .you are one fortunate man. 

Love Tom

I tucked the Sitka note in in between two sheets of cardboard and sealed it with stout tape. The postal worker at the Whitehorse post office measured, weighed, gave a cringing twist to his face  and said, “This will cost you $25 dollars to mail to Alaska.” I paused and gulped. Of course a man has to do what he must and I nodded as I fished out the pretty Canadian cash. L

Charlie was humbled and nearly rendered speechless. However, he took on the challenge and later, for my birthday card, he chose a tanned front leg of a wolf to mail me with his brief, inflammatory greeting inked on the tanned side of the foreleg.

I could go on with each passing year of each of us trying to one-up the other in letter writing. But I have to say one of my letters might have set the gold standard. I intentionally stained the letter with spilled coffee, smeared mud on the totally wrinkled envelope and then shot a .30 caliber bullet through it and hand delivered to him in Utah by a local, scruffy muleskinner.

In penning a letter, there is no option of cutting and pasting or deleting to start over unless you want to start with a fresh piece of paper. Scratched out words are fine in informal shares. There is something more authentic to a hand-written letter. The ink, the scribbling cursive or bold printing become brief songs of original art.

Someone actually took the time to sit down and scroll you a personal message. I’m always surprised at the positive, heart warming feedback I get from friends or acquaintances with whom I have shared such a letter.

A handwritten letter is not ephemeral and is more of a keepsake than an email. That’s why I have a special folder labeled “Charlie letters” or “Kurt letters” and even one with “miscellaneous letters.”

But none of these treasured letters hold a candle to the shared pages mailed between my bride and me. I’m hoping we continue to be ardent pen pals.