Backcountry, Part II

The screen of the tent is zipped but the vestibule is open. There’s very little likelihood of rain and if I wake in the night I like to look out, see what’s happening in the dark world. Tonight, the landscape is still and monochrome, bathed in silver moonlight. And it is cold, I put on my fleece hat and snug the hood of my sleeping bag.

The first grey light of dawn seeps into the canyon and birds start to chirp and sing. I check my watch, the glowing blue-green face, the man-made-ness of the color, is jarring in the dimness. It’s only a little past six, too early to get up. Today will be an easy day exploring the canyon and there’s no rush. It’s much too warm in my sleeping bag and much too cold outside so I roll over and go back to sleep. An hour or so later a muffled voice slips out of Kathleen and Tom’s tent, they’re stirring. So ok… no more lazing about. I unzip my bag and am greeted by a rush of frigid air. Quickly I put on every layer of insulation I have, which is not enough, and then put on my boots, which like me, are stiff and cold. Crawling out of the tent is a job for the contortionist. I straighten up, feeling an assortment of creaks and cricks, this waking up process has gotten off to much too fast a start, so for a moment I stand there, stretch, and look around.

Years ago, a friend had a plumb bob hanging in her bathroom window. This seemed a curious thing so I asked what it was there for. She replied it was an aid to getting her bearings in the morning. Without fail, the string indicated plumb. After this, she said, everything else would fall into place. Right now, standing in the cold grey light among boulders and tangled low cedar thicket, I wish for a plumb bob.

We convene at the table rock, all a little bleary, chilled, and wishing for more warm clothing. Good thing it’s calm. Tom fires up the stove, hot coffee and tea can’t come quick enough. Soon we cradle steaming cups in our cold hands. We take sips, each a great comfort. Kathleen and Tom move right into making oatmeal. I have flatbread with peanut butter, a hard boiled egg, cheese, and trail mix. The sun is taking a long time to rise over the canyon’s edge. We watch the line between sun and shade slowly work its way down the west wall.

I go to the stream to wash my face. Alone, squatting at the water’s edge, I dip my hands into the cold water and bring some to my face, close my eyes and splash it on. Ice cubes! Now I am fully awake! It is with my eyes closed and still crouched so close to the water I become fully aware of the sounds the stream makes, the sounds I hear in my right ear are distinctly different from the left. This is not simply the sound of flowing water, these are the sounds of upstream and downstream. Squatting here, I listen and meditate on this, and smile, this could be a Zen koan in the making. Flowing water in the desert. Like each wildflower blossom it is a remarkable effort of Nature. As I remain here for some minutes, savoring this experience, the sun crests the canyon and in an instant is shining fully on my back. Oh, the heat of our star soaking into me. Sun! The world, the feeling of being in it all changes with warmth.

On this hike, and especially now in Capulin Canyon, I am kept company by a gentle but pervasive feeling of déjà vu. In fact, I have been here before, but so long ago none of it is recognizable from memory. I was a kid in college at the time and being here made lasting impressions. The reasons to live here are many, but memories of the stars at night and the deep quiet, these are what led me to eventually move to New Mexico. From that hike I still have USGS topo maps and a Sierra cup. As now, I carried these things in this place all those years ago. And so, a few memories and these small artifacts are all that remain of a distant past.

We leave the campsite and head down canyon in the direction of Painted Cave. Thin cloud cover moves in and we get a few drops of rain, not enough to even think about putting on rain gear. The old topos show small open squares denoting archeological sites, and for this area, they’re all over the place. We hike the western slope and find a pueblo ruin, a faint reminder of what was once a thriving community. We quietly walk among mounds and remnants of stone walls. Flakes of obsidian and chert, and potsherds litter the ground. Nature, ever so slowly erases the touches of man. This ruin is well on its way to being simply a remote and quiet place. I find some small comfort in this, that some day what we are doing to the planet may be quietly swept away and the land will again plainly be the land. No more fences, roads, mega-interchanges, urban sprawl, no more strip malls, or international airports. No more Super Walmarts or Amazon fulfillment centers. What a relief.

Kathleen and Tom and I have done these sorts of hikes before where the focus is not on the miles but exploring a place. We become very kid-like, getting excited about and comparing cool rocks that we find, challenging one another to walk fallen tree balance beams, and goofing around in general. Tom is up ahead and calls out, “Over here, check this out!” I hike in his direction around a hillside, and just over the ridgeline am greeted with an entire slope carpeted in blooming flocks with higher stemmed thistles floating above; a world in shades of lavender. White mariposa lilies appear here and there. In the bright diffuse light, I wish for my old view camera and tripod, and a team of pack mules to carry it all. For now though, the Nikon point and shoot will have to suffice.

We continue down canyon. On other hikes in Bandelier we’ve found stakes, steel or aluminum bars with numbers stamped in them, hammered in the ground, which we think indicate historical sites. Tom has a particularly keen eye for them, but this morning he and Kathleen cruise by one which I happen to spot. “Whoa!” We regroup and check it out. A few feet from the stake we find what could almost be a crude headstone with “NM2” carved in it. Perhaps it is a headstone, or an early highway marker? Hard to tell. And then I spot a metate, sitting on the ground under some brush. I kneel down and rub my hand over the worn surface, smooth and gently curved, and it feels good, warm from the sun. If only it could speak of all the times it was used and by what souls, the thoughts thought and words spoken or kept, as the grains ground to meal. There’s a good chance the metate has been sitting in this spot for five hundred years. And likely it is now sitting in that same spot as I buzz around in the circles of life, as I write these words.

We are almost directly across the canyon from Painted Cave. Looking up, it looms in the rock wall. From this distance we get perspective on the setting and those many pictographs, which like the metate, have simply been here all this time. Some of the images are familiar but their meanings are a mystery. A few of the pictures are markedly different causing us to speculate whether or not they’ve been recently added.

I had pictures of the cave from my previous hike here. Had. Some years ago, digging through the attic and finding a large cardboard box of old photos, I started to get into them. Too many old ghosts came flying out. Old photos like old memories, too many of them are only troubling. Somewhat impulsively I put the whole thing in the trash and they are gone. Now I reflect on my action with some regret, it would be interesting to look at those pictures to see what, if anything, has changed in thirty-six years. There’s a saying those who forget the past are bound to repeat it in the future. However, lugging it around, whether in cardboard boxes or in one’s heart, while innately human, is still a burden.

We cross the canyon to explore around the cave, which itself is inaccessible - to us, at least. Obviously the ancestral people found a way via natural and carved hand and foot holds, but looking at it now… not for us. We sit in one of the lower caves and have lunch and gaze across the canyon. This is a sublimely beautiful place. A place to call home.

We hike at a leisurely pace back to the campsite, finding other smaller caves with pictographs along the way. Cloud cover is building and we hear low and distant rumbles of thunder. Just as we get to camp it starts to rain, and rain hard. We dive for our tents, it is a downpour that turns into a slushy mix of hail and snow. Tents are remarkable, the one I have - the whole kit - weighs less than three pounds and yet it is snug and secure. I love tents. Stretched out on my sleeping bag, peering outside and wondering how long the storm will last, as quickly as it comes it leaves and the sun breaks through. We crawl out into the open, trees are dripping, the air is fresh and clean, and we gather at the table rock.

Between the chill and that we’re all feeling afternoon logyiness, the notion of hot tea appeals to everyone. It’s the right time, we could have high tea, alas, for the fact we do not have any crumpets. Kathleen and Tom break out jazzy snack bars, trail mix for me is as good as it gets. Pecking around in the bag of almonds and cranberries and what all, I realize I’m getting a wee bit tired of trail mix. Note to self: next hike, bring crumpets for a proper high tea. Or jazzy snack bars. It’s been a relaxed and relaxing day, the sips of tea hit the spot, and we share our thoughts on the places seen and little discoveries made. I suggest wouldn’t it be wonderful to come in here and camp for three or four days. Really hang out, read a good book. It’s an attractive idea.

And wouldn’t we know it, it’s time for dinner. Yeah! Tonight it will be mac and cheese and chicken. Amazing what a day of fresh air will do for your appetite and when it comes to dinner we do not hold back. The packets of freeze-dried mac and cheese are each supposed to be two portions. We use three of them. And the two packets of pre-cooked chicken we throw in add up to nearly a pound. So there’s plenty, and when we’re finished, not a crumb is to be seen.

We take a walk up canyon. The rock walls tighten, we’re in cold, deep shade and it feels good to be moving. The freshly eroded stream banks are some eight feet tall in places, all tumbled river rock and sand. Darkness settles on this canyon world, towering ponderosa surround us, a lone canyon wren sings.

Gordon Bunker

Backcountry, Part I

We are on the mesa between Frijoles and Lummis Canyons in Bandelier National Monument, two hours into a three day hike, walking at a brisk clip toward The Rio Grande. Tom is in the lead, next Kathleen, and I am bringing up the rear. There’s about thirty feet between each of us. Kathleen turns around and speaks to me and I look up. I don’t register what she says, but I see Tom beyond her, jumping and falling to the left. Under his fully loaded pack he crashes into the low scrub, twigs and dust flash up. My first thought is he’s turned an ankle, but he yells, “Snake!” And then I hear the rattle.

But where is it? Nor is it known if the beast has its fangs buried into one of Tom’s legs. The furious buzzing comes from the right, Kathleen and I dash toward Tom as he collects himself and gets up. To everyone’s relief, he did not get bitten. Tom then points to the snake, apparently it’s just off the trail. Still I do not see it, its camouflage is so effective. Then, yes, there it is, and my eyes go wide. I’ve had a number of close encounters with rattlers, but never one this big. It’s a diamondback; I never see it stretched out so cannot speak about its length, but I do get a good view of its girth. It is about five inches. Hold your hands in front of you and make a fat oval with your thumbs and forefingers that’s about five inches across. Yes Margaret, that’s a big snake.

Tom gets out his camera. I speak to him in my little used, reserved for special occasions, most stern voice, “Tom. Do not go any closer to the snake.” The reason I know not to do this? Well, years ago I disturbed a rattler one evening while out for a walk and happened to have my camera. I’d given it a wide berth, but decided to maybe get a few steps closer for a picture. The snake had been quite gracious up to this point, but in a instant it coiled and was ready to strike. This was now serious business. Slinking away while apologizing profusely for my obvious blunder, it seemed like a good idea to make note to self for future reference: Do not go any closer to the snake.

Kathleen suggests in a similar tone, “Tom, use the zoom. That’ll be good enough.” Now Tom is a common-sense guy, but at times like this it’s maybe ok to just reaffirm this a little bit. He does not move an inch closer. Kathleen ribs me later about my stern tone, I guess it came to her as a surprise I even had one. Tom however, is bleeding. We let our heart rates slow, and check him out. Luckily his wounds are superficial, in need of a little cleaning up and that’s about it.

Welcome to the backcountry. The further a person walks, the deeper a person goes.

At the mesa’s edge we are greeted with sweeping views of the rio, the banks are lush with the youthful greens of spring, this powerful river winding through the desert, el agua, es vida. We are treated to slopes covered in wildflowers. Entire hillsides, purple; others, yellow or white. Wild plants flowering in this environment, what a momentous thing, taking so much of the plant’s energy, and of course crucial to their continuation. We stop at Kiva House for a bit of shade and to have some lunch. This pueblo ruin is situated on a bluff with a commanding view of the river. The indigenous peoples sure knew how to pick a spot.

We continue along the escarpment roughly paralleling the river, then up and over another mesa. As forecast, a wind picks up. Each time we are hit with a gust - some are potent enough to nearly knock us off our feet - I think about the connection between winds and spirits. Of what might these gusts portend? Could they be warnings… or welcomes? I do not know, but the wonderment, the feelings are strong. This place, being out here… something inside of me is opening up. I’ve felt this many times in Bandelier, it is mysterious.

Hiking into Capulin Canyon, we’ve been on the trail for nine miles and we’re feeling it. Well, Kathleen and I are. Tom continues his stride, and we joke with him about being The Energizer Bunny. Like all the canyons in this area, Capulin got a good washing out in the flooding last fall. The trail is indistinct - partly from the flooding, partly from lack of use - and comes and goes. We are hiking in brush and rocks, prime rattlesnake habitat. Maybe I’m still a little… um, rattled. We visit Painted Cave, one of the gems of Bandelier, but keep it brief knowing we’ll return tomorrow.

Capulin is known to have a continuously flowing stream, which in large part is why we chose it as our destination. But arriving here, all we see is dry sand streambed. And I do mean dry. It is full-sun hot, windy, and not a drop of water is in sight. We share our concerns and discuss our options and continue up canyon, and hope. As we hike, Tom digs his toe into the sand and a few inches below the surface there is dampness, a very good sign. If push comes to shove, we could dig a pit and hope some water would accumulate. Then we see patches of dampness on the surface and bright green algae (some parts are edible, I’m told)… and then it goes away. And then a trickle, and further along more of a trickle.

Wind screams up canyon as we hike the streambed wash. At least it’s at our backs. Walking in soft sand takes considerable extra effort, and blowing sand swirls around us, but compared to the mostly non-existent trail through dense brush this is the path of least resistance. The canyon narrows and we head for a stand of ponderosa pine and the shelter it promises. In this wildness, the heat and wind, I turn to Kathleen and say, “Even though I’m exhausted, even though all of me hurts, I’m still having a great time.”

Kathleen, the eternal optimist, says in reply, “I’m glad to hear that,” and nothing more. Hang in there kid. Indeed, we all reach a point. This country can test your mettle, and we’re all looking forward to getting these packs off our backs and calling it a day.

The trickle of water turns into a bona fide stream which raises our spirits. The ponderosas stand on a slightly elevated shelf, it’s grassy, the trees provide great protection and the stream is only a stroll away. Camp! Oh, sweet heavenly camp! We nose around and pick spots to pitch our tents and set to it. In less than an hour we are comfortably ensconced around a boulder next to Kathleen and Tom’s tent site. It has a relatively flat top so we name it “the table rock.” Tom finds a big black glassy chunk of obsidian and decorates the table with it. Our water bottles are now full and we snack on hard salami and trail mix. And we’re all looking forward to dinner, the main course this evening: black bean & chicken burritos.

Tom is our executive chef. He pulls “the stove” from a tiny carry sack and holds it up for me to examine. In packed form, the thing is barely larger than a walnut. “That’s the stove?” I ask. He grins, unfolding it like a transformer toy and screws it onto the top of a fuel cylinder. And there it is, a little burner with a regulator and little supports for a pot, in other words, a stove. Amazing. Must be a NASA spin-off, and a lot more impressive than Tang. He fires up the little baby and puts some water on to boil. The sun is on its way down and pretty quick, being in the canyon, we will be in shade. As our star dips, so does the wind (a good thing), and so does the temperature (a not so good thing). Rather, the temp does not dip, it falls like a stone, so hot food is going to hit the spot. We stir all various things into the pot of now boiling water and let it sit. Patience is a virtue… a hard thing to come by at the moment, waiting for dinner when we’re famished and cold. Kathleen packed in fresh tortillas, and in a few minutes we are totally chowing down, we are happy campers.

Now (belch), where is the cheesecake? Just kidding, there is no cheesecake, but there is chocolate. Ah… the end of the day, we’re here, safe and sound in this most beautiful place and we have chocolate. So say yes to chocolate, and enjoy the good life.

We loiter a bit after dinner, sharing a few stories, but even though it’s only 7:30, with bellies full and the temp going down, with eleven miles carrying full packs through snake infested (slight exaggeration) desert behind us… there’ll be no singing ‘round the campfire. We are fading fast. Whooped. QED.

After wishing one another a good night, there is the sound of tent zippers zipping. Having spent nearly all my childhood summers living in a tent (Ok, shameless self-promotion here: please go to Amazon and buy a copy of “Summers In A Tent,” thank you very much.), this sound touches a feeling of “welcome home” in me like no other. And right now, being inside my little tent and slipping into my down bag, zipping it up snug against the cold, feels sooo good. Night descends upon the canyon like a long, relaxed, exhale. I lay awake, recounting my great good fortune to be with dear friends, in this moment and place.

Sister moon comes up, casting lazily drifting shadows of tree branches and foliage across the glowing canopy of the tent. There is no wind, a deep quiet as comforting as my sleeping bag wraps around me, only to be pierced by the sounds of jet aircraft, madly slicing the night sky to faraway places people must get to. Oh, what we bring upon ourselves.

Nonetheless I fall fast, fast asleep.

Gordon Bunker

Bread Making

A few days ago the KitchenAid mixer arrived all gleaming, and with it my visions of great golden loaves are one step closer to becoming reality. Rather than dive into using a new machine and a whole new aspect of cooking at once, I eased into it by making a gingerbread cake. Nothing to it, the machine mixed the batter in a snap. Then, faced with what to do with a whole gingerbread cake, and at the same time not wanting to see the Michelin Man take my svelte place in the mirror, I had fun giving pieces to friends. The looks on their faces after giving the gingerbread a good sniff, the smiles, the ooo’s and the ahh’s. What could be better?

But I have raisin toast on the brain.

Saturday comes around, and I’ve intentionally kept my calendar open. This will be the day of bread making, the day to put the new machine, and my aptitude for this new venture to the test. I choose an “Easy Whole Wheat Bread” recipe from the web (actually half whole wheat and half bread flour). It strikes appealing notes starting with the easy part, and moving on to including honey and buttermilk in the ingredients. Throw in some raisins and what do we have here? Voila! We have raisin bread. I hope.

With a mug of tea and the instructions for the mixer, I sit down and start reading. Well, I skip over the “IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS.” Purely the realm of fear-mongers, by now it’s pretty obvious to not use a mixer while standing in the shower. After acquainting myself with the basics I move onto the good part: “Bread Making Tips,” and learn among other handy pointers that the recipe I’m using, in terms of the number of cups of flour is just within the machine’s capacity. Good. No sense dilly-dallying around, we’re going to find out what this baby’s made of.

While the yeast is swimming around in a bowl of warm water, and getting all excited over a pinch of sugar, I start measuring and mixing and fiddling around. So far so good, the mixer seems to handle it. When I get to adding the last of the flour however, it is indeed at its capacity. Having spent a lot of time around machinery, I know the sounds it makes working at the limit and have learned exceeding those limits leads to only one thing. Trouble. Making a rahr-rahr-rahr sound, the mixer slowly kneads the dough. After about five minutes, all the while keeping a close eye on things, I end up with a thick, light brown ball speckled with raisins, clinging to the dough hook. The mass seems oddly alive.

With a tea towel draped over the bowl, I place it on the countertop where the sun streams in a nearby window. It’s time to let the yeasts feast, and no different than the rest of us, they like being warm. Imagine, billions of single cell funguses are in there, having a fine time of it, munching to their little heart’s contents and producing CO2. And lo and behold, as advertised, in about an hour the ball of dough has doubled in size. I’ve created a monstah! The best part of cooking is you get to play with your food. So I punch it down, fool around with it and shape pieces into the waiting bread pans.

But the yeasts are not hampered in the slightest by my stout punching. They rise again. This time, in a hurry. The oven is heating… now, perhaps a little late in the game I check a reference on high altitude baking. It suggests using less yeast to slow the rising. Oops. Checking back on the dough, it’s about to leap out of the pans, so in the oven with them. I set the timer and wait patiently. Sort of… Peering in the oven window, a transformation slowly takes place. These are no longer blobs of dough, these are loaves of bread, the staff of life. There is a connection here, by however fine a thread, to something ancient.

The loaves, golden as my vision, come out of the oven. They didn’t explode or collapse or burn. Turning them out of the pans onto a cooling rack I wonder, “but will they be good?”

I step out to check the mail, and coming back inside, oh… the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread greets me. Heavenly. In an instant I remember walking in my family home, it would have been on a cold day that my mother did some baking, and while she didn’t often bake bread, when she did, coming in the door full of fresh air and being greeted by those smells… It is a feeling of being home that has no equal, and walking into my place now, these feelings come back in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Whether the bread is cool enough to cut or not, I get out the bread knife and make a slice. Steam rises from it, no need for toasting. I slather it with butter and munch, and discover there’s something better than homemade raisin toast. It’s homemade raisin bread, still hot from the oven, sliced and slathered with butter. I devour two thick slices before I know what happens.

Gordon Bunker