Returning to Standing Indian

I knew exactly where I wanted to go for my first trip in the southeast. Standing Indian Mountain in the Southern Nantahala Wilderness of North Carolina offers outstanding views and the botanical diversity can’t be beat. At least that's how I'd remembered it when I'd left here in 2014.

In particular, a favorite place of mine is a particular tunnel of purple rhododendron on the eastern slope of the mountain. In my memory, I can envision the gently curving twisting trunks supporting a riot of deep purple blossoms. To walk through is to be enveloped by beauty.

Heavy rains fell during the long drive to the trailhead. It has rained every single day since I’ve been back East, so this was nothing new.

A roaring Kinsey Creek overflowing its banks.

The rain persisted as I started up the Kimsey Creek Trail. The whole trail had been transformed into a stream.

Drenched.

I sloshed through the water, often up to my ankles but sometimes higher. Waves of rain pounded down, alternating with heavier, drenching rain as I joined the Appalachian Trail at the ridge.

Some parts were deeper.

I’d been up this trail many times, but this is not how I remembered it. What shocked me at the summit of Standing Indian was not that there was no view, but that the heath shrubs were scorched by fire. What had happened since I’d been here last in 2014?

No view, no flowers.

A check of the weather indicated more thunderstorms on the way. An alert revealed that subtropical storm Alberto was passing through. That explained everything!

I hurried off the summit, still anticipating the purple rhododendron grove.

Instead I found blackened trunks of the rhododendrons and the bare branches. Fire had killed this grove. How could I not have known this? I was totally shaken and flooded by waves of homesickness, not for any place in particular, but rather for a sense of belonging. It felt like I was utterly alone. What was I doing out here anyway, shivering in the horrible rain, far away from everyone I have ever loved?

Turns out a fire raged through here in 2016.

Just as I was sinking deeper into a self-pity party, four soaking wet hikers came up the trail. They’d been unable to cross a raging river ford up ahead. Other hikers were camped down at the gap, waiting for the water levels to fall.  Did I have any cell service to call a shuttle to pick them up to give them a ride into town?

Part of me wanted to go see if I could find a way across, but then I caught the eyes of a father and looked at his limping daughter. Automatically, I offered all four of them rides to whereever they needed to go.

I’d remembered the hike down the Lower Ridge Trail as taking only two hours. But it took us nearly four, with much slipping and sliding.

The young daughter spotted two salamendars! How cool!

As we hiked, we traded stories and helped each other over downed trees. It reminded me about everything I love about the Appalachian Trail— how quickly friendships are made, how people from different walks of life can come together. Hiking as a group and helping each other out was uplifting and gave me that sense of belonging that I needed to find.
Amazingly, we squeezed all five of us plus backpacks into my tiny car! Not the trip I'd expected, but exactly what I needed.

Making it all fit!

Pecos Wilderness

I didn’t realize how much New Mexico deserves its nickname, the “Land of Entrapment.”

I got trapped in New Mexico. After backpacking around the San Pedro Parks Wilderness, a week was spent around Los Alamos.

Next, I met up with Jan for four days in the Pecos Wilderness. A truly enchanting place full of high alpine lakes and ridgewalking to take your breath away.

Lake Katherine, still partly covered in ice.

On the ridge above Lake Katherine.

Sharing this trip with Jan was bittersweet. My new job in Georgia is (potentially) for a whole year and I doubt I’ll be able to convince Jan to come out to the east. So this trip felt like the last trip we will have together for a while. I sure will miss hiking with my dear friend.

Pecos Baldy Lake

If you ask Jan about our trip, she’d inevitable give you a slightly different story as to the difficulty of the terrain. But the thing about Jan is she always stays in good spirits even when the going gets tough.

Jan postholing.

I'm sure this is the last blowdown, Jan. (Photo by Jan)

Not sure why we are going descending so much when we are wanting to get to the summit. But maybe that had something to do with our total elevation change of the day being so high.

Going cross-country when the switchbacks are covered in snow.

More upward.

Finally to the fabulous ridgewalking.

Plenty of time was also taken for dancing along the ridges. (Photo by Jan)

One of the best things about hiking with Jan is that she helps me make good decisions. Like when to go swimming.

Half unfrozen means it's still swimmable!

"Why did I do that?"

More swimming in a different lake. This one was warmer.

One evening we made camp by early afternoon. Jan said she'd stay and "watch camp" while I hiked an extra six miles to the lake for a bonus evening swim.

When bighorn sheep were spotted on the far slope, we settled in and ended up watching them for over an hour. Sometimes they’d run and frolic, sometimes a few more would appear and then disappear. I love that Jan doesn’t mind simply sitting and watching, to not be in any kind of hurry. To gaze about and watch the clouds drift by.

Watching bighorn sheep

More resting, further down near the wilderness boundary.

Iris starting to bloom.

Goodbye, Pecos. Goodbye, Jan. I know I'll see you later.

Playing in the Park

Two and a half weeks between leaving my job in Utah and starting a new job in Georgia provided time for a New Mexico jaunt.

Meadows with flowing streams. 

Less than 24 hours after teaching my last field trip, Jan and I set out for two nights in the San Pedro Parks Wilderness. A place I’d visited once before for a Leave No Trace Trainer course back in 2012. The "parks" are open grassy areas. No swingsets or monkey bars though. Just quiet expansiveness.

Joining the CDT for a while.

Gentle terrain greeted us. Much of the area is above 10,000 feet but it wasn't steep. A perfect a transition into vacation mode. The busyness of packing up and saying goodbye had me wound up. Mentally, I was still double-checking my work to-do lists. I was reeling from separating from my friends, coworkers, and students. Why must I always feel such deep emotion upon moving?

Butterfly friends.

We climbed to a few so-called high points shown on the map. This one even had a cairn marking it, even though it’s just a little hill. Still, it was fun to stand about on top of something.

Marking some sort of high point.

Easy hiking meant the mind was free to wander. I kept thinking about my students. I never imagined they would mean so much to me. One first grader at the beginning of the year would throw himself down on the ground and refuse to move and make me want to quit. He motivated me to be a better teacher. I learned how to listen to him and give him more challenging assignments. Eventually, he’d run up to me to give me hugs and say, “Your favorite student is here!” My last day, he was scheduled for another (more fun) club with another teacher. Yet, he insisted on joining my tutoring group. It was hard to hold back my tears. I still am blown away that I would find a way to connect with young people that at first seemed so out of reach. Working with kids was not something I ever expected to do with my life, but I am grateful that I found this experience and it has changed me. Will my new job feel as meaningful? Will it be as challenging and heart-wrenching and make me feel so alive?

Rain and grauple finally shook me from my introspective mood.

Bit of mud.

 Jan and I huddled up our first night in her tent to discuss our route.

We wanted to hike a giant figure 8 route through the wilderness. However, when we got to our supposed junction the morning of the second day, we couldn't find the connecting trail. Finally, we found the decrepit sign for our intended trail, but it turned out to be completely unmaintained and obliterated. We walked up and down the slope, searching for any sign a trail. Nothing. At. All. Should we go cross-country? Should we turn around, retrace our steps, and take the known way back?

“Let’s give cross-country a try for 5 minutes,” said Jan.

Nine hours later, we emerged onto another trail. A full day of route-finding had us exhausted but also exhilerated. We'd seen no cut-logs or recognizable trail tread. Instead, we'd made our own way.

What we did most of our second day... what I call gymnastics. Sort of like playing on a jungle gym.

A part that had more rock hopping.

It wasn't all uphill.

But the part that was uphill was steep and had the most downed trees. Of course.

Venturing into the hole in the rock.

Which turned out to be a cave with a stream flowing through it.

Is it graffiti or a historical inscription if it is from the 1930's and written with beautiful penmanship?

Discovering a hidden cave and finding signatures on trees from the 1930’s made it all worthwhile for me. Plus, I love the full mind-body engagement of navigating pick-up-sticks for hours on end. It feels like playing on the jungle gym with my students during recess. When everything else slips away, and there is nothing but the here and now. Which is all that is needed.

Goodbye for now, La Sals

One last backpacking trip to the La Sal Mountains before I leave Utah for my a new job in Georgia. I worry that it is perhaps too snowy, but I have to at least try to venture up inside my beloved mountains.

Grey and wintry from the start.

 At least I can get to the trailhead. But not a car in sight on the way up.  Perhaps there is a reason that everyone has flocked to the canyons around Moab, where spring is in full force and sun warms the redrock. Up here is a different world.
 

Above 9000 feet, the snow is thick. A road has been packed down which makes for easier travel. Still, several miles trudging uphill takes me longer than I expect. Blasted by icy wind, getting colder as I rise above 10,000 feet, I start to have doubts about heading up any higher.

Instead, I take a turn down a familiar canyon, one I know I will be able to navigate.
 

No human footprints up here. Just animal tracks. The air is sweet with pine. Snow crunches underfoot. Mostly, I can follow the place where the trail is hidden beneath the snow. Other times, I wander around calling "Trail, where are you?" into the wind.

Last fall, Jan and I climbed this peak. But I decide today is not a day for it given the wind and ominous skies.

The steep part where I clutch my poles tightly and don't look down.

Finally, the snow gives way to soft ground. I make my way down to the same spot where I spent my last night in the La Sals at the end of my last season here, back in May of 2017. I was only gone for the summer, then I found my way back again in the fall. If I camp here again, maybe I will make a tradition of returning too.

Not much sunset. But still, glad to be here.

 A ravine provides partial shelter from the battering winds. My hammock is a cocoon of warmth.



Morning brings clearing skies.
 


It's heartbreaking to leave this place that I've grown to love so much. My hope is that this is not goodbye forever, just so long for now.

A little teary-eyes.

I remind myself that I'm not going to an entirely new place this time. I lived in Georgia from 2008-2014. I hope to reconnect with old friends and explore some of the incredible places in the southern Appalachians. I'm just going to one of my other homes for a while.

Bluebells remind me to be hopeful.