The Spring

There are few things as basic and satisfying as dipping your cupped hands into the water bubbling from a spring, capturing a small amount of it, lifting it to your mouth and drinking.

My friend Therese and I go for a slow hike in the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Slow in that it’s not a ten-or-fourteen-mile-to-some-high-summit-in-a-day kind of hike. It’s more of a meander, time and miles are unimportant, we get out our cameras and look and listen, take pictures and hang out. We’ve been to this place on the mountain where the water bubbles up, but that was months ago and when we come upon it now I am taken by surprise. In all my travels in the woods, I know of only three other springs. They are very special places, and encountering one is always cause for celebration.

 “Look! The spring!” I exclaim. This essential of life, here, in its most natural, unadulterated form. Water pouring forth, on and on and on. Who knows where this water’s been or how long it’s been underground - could be thousands of years. I completely forget my manners, peel off my pack, and barge right in. Kneeling into the little place, I scoop up mouthful after mouthful. My hands begin to ache with the cold. Finally I look up, drops of water falling from my chin, and there’s Therese standing on a nearby rock, watching me. “Oh! This is delicious!” I say. “Tastes like the Earth… pure… stone…” Therese smiles and nods. “…would you like some?” I ask. (Duh.)

“Yes,” she says. I make way and Therese nestles in and takes a drink. “Delicious!” she says, adding, “it’s sweet!” And we trade places a few times and then fill our bottles and enjoy. We agree, this is the real thing, and visit awhile with this place. Water from the spring trickles down the slope through moss covered rocks to a nearby brook. Sunlight filters through the trees. It’s quite cool in this little glade so a patch of sun to sit in is welcome.

Granted, most of the water we drink has acquired a load of impurities by the time it gets in our glass, so the dozens of ways we purify it exist for good reason. But as we add layer upon layer of complexity to what is simple, for all we gain, there are things, perhaps less tangible which become distant or lost. Out of the built-in connections we have to an ancient past, the simple things in life, if we allow them, touch us deeply. When we encounter and partake of them, the taste is sweet, it is sublime.

Gordon Bunker

Upper Crossing

Adventure is a cultivated frame of mind.

It is a cold grey winter morning, it will be a day to hike. I get in the car not knowing where I will go, but by the end of the driveway from my home in Santa Fe, The Upper Crossing of Frijoles Canyon in Bandelier is my destination. It’s been too long since I last visited the place. The Ponderosa Pine forest on the north rim of the canyon is open enough you can see into it, and walking through it, begin to wonder what lurks behind the tall still boles. The rolling landscape is covered in a thick carpet of needles, the crowns of foliage float above. It is magical.

Today the land is covered with snow and I am the only person here. A set of snowshoe tracks follow the trail, but they were put down before the most recent snowfall. It is silent and even the most delicate grasses poking through the snow stand perfectly still. Hiking toward the canyon it is easy to think eyes are watching me. On other hikes around the upper canyon, there’s been such a profusion of mountain lion scat on the trail, it’s taken considerable concentration to avoid stepping in it. According to a ranger some years back, five individuals were known in the area. Thick icy clouds with indistinct edges lazily float by. It is 25 degrees F.

From the rim, looking into the canyon it is immediately apparent the forest below was burned in last summer’s fire. All that remains of the trees is an army of black sticks, standing stark against the snow. With foliage gone, the land is laid bare, the brown rock of the north slope I’m hiking, and snow cover on the south slope. Picking my way down among jagged outcrops and perches of rock, again, I feel eyes on me. Coming around a switchback I disturb a flock of Juncos, puffy little ground feeders, they burst into flight, fifty or so little wings putter against the air. It is a delightful sound. They don’t go far; I walk by and once I pass they come right back. This must be a good place for seeds.

Frijoles Creek is flowing. The sight and sound of running water is rare in the high desert, and worth savoring. The water tumbles along to the Rio Grande and on to the far away Gulf of Mexico, it makes a multitude of sounds which together form a chorus. I stand and listen. This hike is as much about stopping as moving.

Ascending the steep south slope is a workout. In places the trail is only a ten or twelve inch wide cut, the footing is marginal and the thought of a fall keeps me moving with care. About half way to the rim there is a place the wind has swept clear, with a bare rock, it is the best place I find to sit. There is a commanding view, both up and down canyon, so I stop to have lunch. It starts to snow, first a few lonely flakes drift by, then a few more, it remains a light shower. The flakes wobble and tilt on the slightest movements of air as they fall to earth. Taken as a whole it is mesmerizing to watch. When I pull my sandwich from the bag, the bright green edges of leaf lettuce sticking out strike my vision as a brilliance in this world of white and black, grey and brown. I think of the story my friend Jim told, when after having spent a week in a world of grey on the Artic ice cap, he joined a group of locals on a seal hunt. They killed a seal, and for Jim, having been deprived of color for so long, the rich crimson blood flowing onto the ice as they gutted it was shocking to him. Simply the intensity of the color, it moved him to tears.

Looking into the slopes of the canyon and the rock outcrops I let my eyes rest on no particular detail in hopes of detecting movement. I sit and eat and watch. It is one of my life long desires to see a mountain lion. But not today; except for falling snow it is completely still. In short time a chill sets into me, my hands begin to hurt, and I decide to get moving. Cold is a curious sensation, one that’s good to get used to, to be at peace with in the wilds in winter. Once moving however, warmth comes quickly and it is a relief.

At the creek, again I stop to listen but only for a moment. I continue, but in a few steps, hesitate and return to the creek. The sound is too beautiful to rush. I stand and listen and there are voices, sweet singsong warbles. But only a few moments of stillness are enough for the cold to creep into me so I leave. Three steps away from the creek the singing is lost. I remember a campsite by a waterfall on the Moose River in the backwoods of Maine. Two days of the voices in that water nearly drove us mad. It continues to snow as I hike out of the canyon. On the relatively bare north slope I pick up a sweet spicy scent, just like sweet fern. But there are no ferns. Perhaps it is the burnt Ponderosa, or something else. It is a lovely, fleeting smell.

Out of the canyon and onto the mesa the snowfall intensifies, visibility drops, my world is limited to the immediate surroundings, ethereal ghosts of Ponderosas drift in and out of sight. Suddenly a small opening in the clouds lets the sun through. The falling snow glitters brilliant. The clouds close again and all shifts back to dull monochrome. The movement of the flakes again mesmerizes.

Gordon Bunker

The Corkscrew

Everything it seems, is made in China. As consumers in the USA we’ve brought this upon ourselves. The rub however, is if you’re in need of something, anything, and you’d like to buy one made somewhere other than China, you will find there simply is no such thing. So what do you do?

Most recently I’ve been on the hunt for a corkscrew. Went to the local wine shop and to my surprise, unlike their wines, what they had was cheap; didn’t even get to the country of manufacture. Went to the grocery store, cheap and from China. Went to the trendy grocery store. What they had was cheap, from China, in jazzy packaging and overpriced. Did not go to the kitchen boutique. From past experience, what they have is generally of high quality, but buyer be ware - top shelf brands do not necessarily mean made in Germany any more. Whatever the country or origin, what the kitchen boutique has is way over the top. Does anyone need a $118.95 plus tax corkscrew? This is not the realm of need; it is want.

So I went to the source of everything: Amazon. There, I found what appeared to be exactly what I was looking for. The Ghidini levatappi 3 usi, a simple, inexpensive and quality made waiter’s style corkscrew. Customers reviewing it raved about this little gem. And it’s red, so naturally I ordered one.

Allow me to digress. I once owned a Ducati 900SS Special Production motorcycle. Without question it was Italian, it was equal parts genius and madness, and it was red. “Arrest me” red. I speak from experience, no… make that experiences.

A few days ago my corkscrew arrived all in good order, just as advertised. And much, MUCH, to my delight, it’s made in Italy. How about that! It pleases me to no end there’s a manufacturer in Italy producing corkscrews. That is so right. Probably directly across the street from the Ducati factory, which would explain a few things.

Meanwhile, my sister sent me an email to the effect she would be in town and let’s get together for dinner. I responded in the affirmative. The last time we conjured up a plan like this, rather than go out I volunteered let’s have a pizza at my place. That is, I would make pizza. All from scratch, with all the right stuff; and many were the murmurings of gastronomic delight from the gathered diners. So it tickled me when this time, as her plans came into focus I got another email from her: “I'm kind of thinking make a pizza at your place and hang out?”

My reply: “Great minds think in the same way.” I did not harass her for failing to mention who was going to do the cooking. She came over and I made pizza. To wash it down, and fittingly it was the first bottle I opened with the new corkscrew, we had a Chianti. I am pleased to report the corkscrew works like a charm, and the pizza and the wine both got rave reviews.

Grazie Ghidini, for making products and employing people in your own country, maybe even your own town. I hope you keep it this way. And, grazie per una bella cavaturaccioli!

Gordon Bunker

Home Sweet Home

One of the best parts of being a writer is interviewing people and getting to know them.

While working on the Winter Camping assignment for Local Flavor, such was the case with Ash Campbell. Right away I knew he was a kindred spirit. Like me, from the rock ribbed hills of New Hampshire, Ash is an outdoor enthusiast and mountaineer, and his work experiences are wide and varied. And it turns out, he knows a lot about building snow shelters… a skill set you just don’t run into every day.

From my childhood, I recall every winter a neighbor would invite all the kids in the area for a day of building an igloo in his yard. It must have been pandemonium with all the excited young’uns running around, but we always accomplished the task. The big treat was crowding into the snug dome at the end of the day and having hot chocolate. So, when I learn Ash hosts snow shelter building events in the nearby Sangre de Cristo Mountains, I am itching to participate.

The plan is to meet Ash in town on Wednesday at 7:30 in the morning, which means getting up at 5:00, ugh, a tall order in itself. One other fellow, Eric, shows up. Three is Ash’s minimum crew. Thank you Eric for being there. It is shaping up to be a beautiful, mild and calm day, so we pile into Ash’s 4WD and head for the mountains. On the way, we three discuss winter mountaineering topics, snow as a building material, etc., and Ash speaks with great enthusiasm about the snow saws he has. With this, I know he and I are on the same wavelength. Having designed and built furniture in one of my past chapters, I know the importance of having the right tool for the job, and the pleasure in using a good one. We are on the trail at 8:40 and have the place to ourselves. It’s nice to get an early start.

About a half hour’s hike in, we are on the perimeter of an alpine meadow, where days before, Ash created a quarry. This is a place where he has tamped down the snow with snowshoes causing it to harden into a solid, albeit as we will learn, a fragile one. From this quarry Ash will cut blocks with one of the saws. After scoping out the type and size of shelter we will build, we easily fall into a pattern of work. Ash cuts blocks, I lug them to the shelter site, and Eric places them in a circle. The construction bears resemblance to brick laying, except it is more organic and the materials list is 100% snow. Eric calls it, “the ultimate green construction.” Some of the blocks are cut into wedges for the gaps in the circular courses. Loose snow is then brushed by hand - we’re all wearing waterproof mittens - into the remaining chinks between blocks and wedges. Eventually all the snow will bind, giving the dome considerable strength. Course by course, the blocks are inset a few inches and up they go. Eric is working from the inside of the structure and before we know it only his head and shoulders are visible. He comments it feels as though he’s inside a birthday cake, if only he could jump out, “Surprise!”

I cut an opening for the entrance and we build something of a portico over it. We then trim protruding edges from the blocks here and there to even up the shape of the structure and for the first time in the day, I go inside to trim interior edges. Sunlight shining on the outside gives the interior a diffuse white glow and it is remarkably snug and quiet. Ash comments outside temps can hover near zero (Fahrenheit) and inside, stay around thirty above. Indeed, snug. Snugger than any tent, and stronger. These domes are able to withstand loads from snowfall that would collapse a tent.

When like souls gather to share a task, a special camaraderie forms. The three of us are happy in our work, and we have thoughtful conversation on a broad range of subjects. Ash says, “As a species we’ve been around for what, three million years. And we men have been building shelters. What we’re doing here goes very deep.” The level of satisfaction we express as we stand back and admire our work supports this. Ash, Eric and I had never met before this experience and from it we feel a bond of friendship, itself a great thing. The shelter, in it’s protected spot off in the woods, will likely stand for months and it is there for all to use and enjoy.

Gordon Bunker

For information on YangFang snow saws, go to: http://snowsaw.com/index.html

For a free Winter Camping Field Guide covering snow shelter building, etc., by Ash, et al, go to: http://lamountaineers.org/zDWNLOAD.html

Getting The Story...

“Winter camping can mean check the pantry in the motorhome for rum and cinnamon sticks, and head south for the weekend. Or it can mean put your gear in your pack, lash on the snowshoes and head for the mountains.”

I hope you’ll have a look at the article “Winter Camping,” by yours truly in the December issue of Local Flavor Magazine, available locally in northern New Mexico or online, here.

Keep warm!

Gordon Bunker

Morning Minutia

Make a pot of tea. Check email, respond to email. Check the weather forecast, rain and snow are coming. Put up the kitchen shades and look at the sky. Tea has steeped, pour a cup. Check election results and thank goodness for four more years of intelligent leadership. Take butter out of refrigerator to soften. No email from Amazon that the order has shipped. Check status. Status is “Shipping Soon.” Soon is a relative term. Give the cat a rub. Give R a kiss and a squeeze and wish her a good day. And drive carefully. Pour another cup of tea, make toast. Put rest of shades up while eating toast. Drink a glass of milk, eat an apple. Take a shower. Floss teeth. Brush teeth. Take multivitamin. Get dressed. Do dishes. Start a load of laundry. Step into garage and wish car and motorcycle a good morning (in German). Remove cat hair and other detritus from black fleece with sticky roller. Whoever invented the sticky roller was thinking. Look at list of things to do. Three interviews. Check out the lineup of Kindles. Look at them all! Too many choices lead to confusion so I’ll stick with books. Make note to drive a Nissan Leaf. To write about. Check local dealer inventory. No Leafs. Or Leaves? Take laundry from washer. Put shirts in the dryer for a few minutes. Spread the rest out on the drying rack. Pull shirts from dryer and put on hangers. Make another cup of tea. Email arrives from Amazon, order has shipped and should be here Friday. Good. Give the cat another rub. Stare at blinking cursor.

All the while the notion the next Great American Novel is in me, gnaws at me. Oh yeah, greatness. But I have no idea what the heck to say, so I occupy / distract myself with the minutia. And hope the words come. Another morning is going by. This is how it is being a writer. How all the great books got written is a mystery to me. It is one weird line of work.

Gordon Bunker