Hiking Remote Utah's Desert

"People from all over the world come to hike this area because it's a challenge.  It's jagged rocks, it's sheer cliffs, it's sliding sandstone, juniper and sagebrush.  That's the kind of terrain.  It's not easy and not something an inexperienced person should ever consider."  Becki Bronson, Garfield County sheriff spokesperson

It sounds, in short, formidable.  As though anyone intending to breach the fastness of the uninviting landscape should be fully confident in skills, and well versed in wilderness survival.  The area, in fact, is used primarily by wilderness schools to teach survival skills.  In recent days the prevailing temperatures had reached and risen beyond 37.8-degrees Centigrade.

And this was the very venue that was chosen by a young man identified as autistic, to launch a personal adventure from.  He decided he would make the long, lonely trek across the remote Escalante Desert of southern Utah from Boulder, Utah, to Page, Arizona.  William Martin LaFever, 28, set out to complete about 145 kilometres, and managed to go as far as 65 kilometres, when he was found beside the Escalante River, completely debilitated.

He had set out with his dog and with supplies and with the determination to embark and succeed on this adventure.  He had spoken with his father around June 6 to explain he had hitchhiked with his dog to Boulder, Utah with the intention to set out on the long hike.  He had found his money trickled away, and, he told his father, some of his gear had been stolen.  His father planned to wire money to Page, Arizona, but his son didn't call back.

He ended up wandering alone, telling those who finally rescued him that his dog had run off.  His food had run out, and he dug up roots and caught river frogs to keep himself alive.  It isn't known precisely how long he was on his own and stranded, but the estimate is roughly three weeks.  He was officially reported missing about a month after having spoken with his father. 

"Considering the lack of foresight that went into his trip, he did some remarkable things to keep himself alive.  He was emaciated and he couldn't walk and he couldn't crawl.  He said he has been in that spot three or four days", Reuters was briefed by Utah Highway Patrol helicopter pilot Shane Oldfield.

A Garfield County deputy had a hunch that resulted from a search-and-rescue training class he had attended where those in attendance were informed that people with autism were often drawn to water.  Ray Gardner proposed a fly-over of the river, as a result.  And that was when the missing man was spotted, and finally rescued from his long ordeal.

Sad Irony

Reputedly a kind and decent man who rose from obscurity to found an empire and a fortune, and a generous man whose modest upbringing and background stimulated him to become a philanthropist. The picture of an individual whose values the world could use more of. He lived a life of personal enterprise and obvious pride, and of empathy for the well-being of others. Surely, if there were an all-seeing Spirit, this man's graciousness in life would be acknowledged.

Unless that omniscient Spirit of whom much has been speculated and written, but of whom no actual presence can be identified other than in peoples' minds and thoughts at times of great personal stress, has a very peculiar sense of humour. In which the Spirit, perhaps out of a sense of boredom occasionally indulges. A grim kind of humour, to say the least. Visiting upon the most unlikely of creatures misery and misfortune.

Not the evil and the ill-doers among humankind necessarily, but those who aspire to present themselves in the image of the Spirit itself. And so Jimi Heselden, wealthy proprietor of the Segway corporation - not the mobile device's inventor, but one who purchased the invention and its manufactory - has perished by the very inventive two-wheeled device which he took ownership of.

Becoming, in the circumstances of his untimely and regretful death, a symbol of how even the most innocent of devices can somehow contrive to present as potentially dangerous. Mr. Heselden perhaps leaned too far forward on his device, propelling it in haste, without adequately scrutinizing the terrain he was transversing.

The community foundations in his native northern England will remember him as a kindly patron, giving millions to charity to help disadvantaged children and the elderly. His unfortunate death, tumbling off the edge of a cliff into the seas below will also be remembered.

And the mobility device which had been the subject of such clever advertising prior to its unveiling will perhaps undergo some safety modifications and potential customers will be cautioned to be aware of their surroundings before embarking upon heedless pleasure jaunts.

Mr. Heselden, Requiescat in Pace.

Recognition Due

It never fails to amaze most ordinary mortals that there are those among us whose steely resolve to explore, discover, expose themselves to danger - and meet adversarial conditions in a manner we could never even imagine ourselves engaged with - continue to pursue their dreams. What's more, they're doing these things at an increasingly young age. A young woman barely into her teens insists she is experienced enough as a sailor to set out on her own high seas adventure, and is supported by her parents, but withheld by authorities.

And here is a young Australian woman, all of 16 years of age and experience, who has undertaken an amazing sea voyage that has kept her for seven months on a voyage none of us would care to experience. In her 200 days on the high seas, on her own, with the intention of setting a record as the youngest person yet to sail solo around the world, she has tackled the unimaginable in ferocious weather conditions and violent seas, and survived.

The previous record-holder is a young man who at the age of 18, in 1993, circumnavigated the globe, and he too is an Australian. There is that about Australians, living on an island in the middle of where many Europeans and North Americans might consider to be 'nowhere', that seems to prepare them to meet severe conditions in their adventures that so appeal to them, and surmount all difficulties in the process.

Which, it would most certainly appear, is what this 16 year-old young woman, Jessica Watson, has managed to do for herself. Doughtily determining that she would set out on a voyage of her own, unassisted, and without making port anywhere on her way to fulfilling her final accomplishment - to sail around the world. This is what she has done, this is her accomplishment.

And this is a remarkable feat of personal vision, courage and expert seamanship second to none. She sailed tens of thousands of nautical miles in her determined assault on a record set by another young Australian, to sail around the world. In her own time, her own way, by her own calculations and strength of character.

"Jessica has sailed the most challenging and treacherous oceans of the world, passing the four capes (Cape Horn, Cape Agulhas, Cape Leeuwin and the South East Cape of Tasmania) and crossed the Equator twice"...so reads the description of her endeavours on her website, www.jessicawatson.com.au.

This is an astonishing accomplishment no one can take from her. Yet, her critics claim her voyage does not quite qualify for official status. She has not, it was claimed by Rob Kothe, editor of Sail-World, sailed far enough, nor sailed the course approved by the World Speed Sailing Record Council.

On the other hand, as her manager Andrew Fraser claims, "She has sailed around the world, non-stop, solo, unassisted and when she completes the voyage, she will be the youngest to have done that."

Bravo, Jessica Watson!

Autumn Visit

Finally a relaxation of the bitter cold, the incessant wind, the damp atmosphere, the sudden rainfalls. This day recalled the early days of fall, presenting us with a brief reprieve from the inexorable push toward winter. A lovely clear sky, with wisps of fragmented, airy clouds. Last night's temperature that had plunged to minus-8-degrees gained mightily by early afternoon, to plus-8. After our ravine walk, plodding through the muck of trails frozen overnight and released to mud by mid-morning, we set out for a family visit.

It's been entirely too long since we've been face-to-face with our granddaughter and her mother. Multiple-daily telephone conversations and emails somehow suffice, but don't quite make the grade. We require the warmth and contentment and reassurance of flesh-to-flesh contact. It's a lengthy road trip, made even more so by road work halting traffic for prolonged periods of time.

But eventually, we made it, rolled into the long driveway of our daughter's 1864 log schoolhouse, transformed over the years into a fair-sized house with its own attached summer cottage, all looking out over a sizeable wetland, beyond which lies her five acres of Canadian shield, with meadows and forest, and all the wildlife that can be seen of a day. Birds of every description, small furry creatures, and larger; deer too, at her apple trees.

Long gone now the songbirds and the hummingbirds, but bluejays, chickadees, and a varied succession of woodpeckers drop faithfully back to deplete her feeders. It's amazing how much a thirteen-year-old can change in the space of a few weeks. Her height, her contours, her attitude, all undergo profound alterations. She's accustomed to having her photographs taken by her grandmother, but of late shy of them.

"I hate photos of me!" she protests, as I counter-protest that I cannot possibly leave without a few photographs of our only grandchild. "All right. If you must, if you so insist", she gracelessly succumbs to my endearments and my coaxing, still refusing to pose. As though I want anything posed, in any event. And I am well satisfied with only a few photographs; they will do, very nicely, to fulfill my need.

We've unloaded all the items we brought along, and she proclaims herself to be willing enough to wear the new down-filled winter jacket, hooded, in bright white, to augment the one her mother has bought for this winter's wear. I prevaricated when she asked whether it had 'feathers' in it, since she always says down-filled jackets look 'fat'. And I assured her that the 'fur' trim was not genuine, but faux fur, so that too was all right.

Inside the front door, in the long, glassed-in foyer with all its warmth from the sun, some of the menagerie who inhabit the house alongside our daughter and granddaughter, are happily flaked out, absorbing the warm rays. The always-cold chihuahua cuddles with the obliging Australian shepherd who mothers it happily, licking its fur, and offering the smaller dog its own considerable body warmth.

When we depart to begin the return journey, it is late afternoon, the sun has been overtaken by a sky-full of conjoined and humped cloud formations, allowing the bright light of the soon-to-set sun to illuminate their whipped-cream formations. Farmed fields of corn, desiccated, not yet harvested, are a warm glowing gold, reflecting the sun. Silos glint silver in the sun. Plowed fields whose orderly rows are accentuated in gold hues, winter-prepared.

We see high overhead, one line after another of geese, heading out, off the cornfields and their day's languid rest on the Ottawa River. Not to be outdone, formless networks of crows lift off their tree-mast perches and flap the darkening sky. A red glow rests on shrubs and trees, naked of their leaves, but proud of this new flame that temporarily lights their presence.

16 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Heavily overcast again, when we left in the morning. Packing mostly accomplished the night before. No rush to leave, although there was plenty of last-minute activity, mostly Irving loading up the car, as I ensured we'd forgotten nothing and prepared our separate Thermos containers of tea and coffee, and put together our 'brunch'; egg salad sandwiches for him, peanut butter and pear jam for me. Bananas and nectarines completed the movable feast.

A moderate wind in evidence, to shift around the clouds. Not enough force there in the wind to nudge the car as we'd experienced a week earlier. We passed the gas station, convenience store where we would stop each morning to pick up the Boston Globe. Traffic light, as it would be, until we'd gain the outskirts of Montreal.

The highways we take, inter-state, between New Hampshire and Vermont, are wide, smooth and bereft of significant use. The wide panoramic views we enjoy are breathtakingly spectacular. The encircling mountain heights, the deep forested green marching up hillsides, mist rising sporadically from valleys below. Clouds shifting, changing shape as they billow and spread, a dark layer above lighter wafting below present their own striking heavenly panorama.

Hawks, and turkey vultures crest effortlessly, gliding on the upper-air currents. Crows relentlessly beset by angry blackbirds, desperately attempt to evade their significantly smaller tormentors, fuelled by the pique of territoriality.

On the medians luxuriant patches of bright purple, pink, and mauve lupines thrive. Along with the white of daisies, sun-bright buttercups. Startling-pink clover, orange and also yellow hawkweed complete nature's late-spring conceit.

We pass small towns, with their community fairgrounds, their churches and gas stations popping up here and there along the way, asserting humanity's need to bisect nature's landscape with grey ribbons of concrete. Farms march up gently sloped hillsides, their orderly planted fields and silos beside old barns setting the stage for cattle grazing contentedly in fields as we slip by.

When we reached the border we were met by a Canada Border agent whose demeanor was professional without indulging in the kind of obnoxious officiousness we're assaulted by through the affected mannerisms of U.S. agents. The list that Irving always remembers to painstakingly compile, with receipts appended detailing our purchases never fails to expedite our passage. He was, after all, a customs agent himself, back in the misty time of his early employment with the federal government.

And, in a peculiar reversal of weather, the sky was increasingly devoid of clouds, blue appearing with astonishing rapidity, reflecting our experience precisely one week earlier when massive rainfall dissolved into calm overcast as we crossed into the States. Oddly, on our return home neighbours informed us that the entire week of our absence was marked by inordinately cool weather, but dry, with ample sun. While we had experienced day after day in the White Mountains, of incessant rain.

The rest stop we used just over the Stanstead border crossing was every bit as welcome, as well tended and accoutered for the comfort of travellers as its Vermont counterpart. The sole exception being Quebec does not see the necessity of extending the courtesy of English translations, in contrast to Vermont's efforts on behalf of travellers.

15 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Serendipitous sighting; a young doe, complacently foraging beside the road, close to the thrusting waters of the Mad River. Must have been a yearling. Small, muscular, graceful, tawny and busily lunching. The surrounding mountains well draped in a low cloud cover, white shades of mist relentlessly rising as the forest aspirates its excess of rain. Rain fell in a delicately light drizzle.

Earlier, on the highway in the Franconia Notch, the panorama of the surrounding mountains, the puffed clouds, ragged and darker now and again presented an ethereality of mountain heights nudging the atmosphere we call sky. At the elevation of the Notch, and the provocation of peaks needling moisture-laden cloud formations, the inevitable resulted. No mere cloudbursts here, but a relentlessly steady rain. Grey skies, grey atmosphere. Swirling fog patches obscuring the mountainsides. There would be no clearing opportunity, that much was clear.

Last night's heavy rain that had lifted to grey overcast by mid-day elsewhere in the Waterville Valley translated to aquarium conditions at the Notch. Forget a hike there, alas. We proposed, nature unheedingly disposed. Nothing, however, lost in the transaction. The spectacular landscapes and breathtaking views simply enhanced in another way, seen through a different lens, one that, oddly, magnified rather than detracted.

We drove, of necessity, back to where we had left a lighter sky of hovering, not yet provoked, rain. Purple lupines, pink and mauve phlox, and white daisies poked their bold colours through the dull light. A dun-hued hawk flew across the face of the forest. Yellow, and bright orange hawkweed interspersed with yarrow insisted on notice.

On the trail our boots squelched through the sodden leaf mass. Lichen glowed silvery on beech trunks and branches. Beds of extravagant mosses luxuriate in this incessant damp they thrive in. Grey-green mosses like miniature ferns pack the trunk of a venerable maple, its heavily ridged bark a foil for the brilliantly-positioned moss-ferns.

A thunderstorm of raging waters descends the mountainside in the rioting creek, stridently draining the mountain of fresh-fallen rain, night after night. The creek drains the heights, sending an unending volley of cascading water down slopes, slapping and hurtling on boulders, sending spray up, frothing the surface, assertively tumbling, roaring its celebration of life's unending cycle.

We hike uphill, boots slipping on drenched tree roots, pale yellow shale bits scattering as we slip upward. A white-throat sings a paean to the day, its long trill of exuberant joy infusing our sensibilities with a deeper insight of all we survey, with a quiet sense of privilege to be there in this place, at this time. Every green living thing glistens and gleams, colours intensified, from the glare-white of birch trunks, to the emerald of ferns.

14 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

In a clearing of an otherwise heavily-forested area, three wild turkeys. They are large, dark, cumbersomely awkward fowl, no grace about these birds, but it is pleasing to see them, complacent in their environment, heedless of passing traffic, nearby. This is the third time in several days we've seen small flocks of turkeys, in various parts of the Waterville Valley. Nice to know they're around in respectable numbers. All such sightings are pleasing; in all our years travelling and hiking in the area we've rarely seen much in the way of wildlife. Last year's sighting of a young black bear was a first in over thirty years of sporadic weeks' hiking in the area.

It's also nice to see the small grey donkeys in their enclosure; domesticated animals have their place in our bestiary of appreciative appearances. They are stationed on a small plot of cleared land beside their owners' rustic home. Not quite the same as encountering the presence of animals in the wild, existing on their own inherited capabilities in their natural environment, but appreciated, nonetheless.

Viewing them satisfies a primitive need, an assurance we're scarcely aware of. It's exciting to see airborne vultures, hawks, great blue herons, coasting the prevailing winds. The vultures are not so attractive up close, on a highway, pecking at road-kill carcasses, to be sure. But they have their place in nature's scheme, the ultimate recycling scheme. Even chipmunks, scurrying about their business gathering nuts and seeds, and red squirrels, in these woods, scolding our presence on their territory, gives us great pleasure.

This has been a week destined to deliver us one day after another of extraordinary weather events. In sheer rain volume alone, extraordinary. But the weather can turn on a dime - or in any event, on nature's whim and consent - and a day heavy with rain following hard on a night of wildly pounding rain and brutal winds, can often eventuate into an afternoon confused with the sudden appearance of blue gaps in the banks of clouds. Then, the damp, cool atmosphere speedily morphs into a warm, muggy one, heated by the resolutely emerging sun.

And so it was that we were enabled to pull over, haul hiking boots and raingear out of the car trunk and set off for a too-brief foray into a forested mountain trail. The ground steaming where errant sun rays penetrated the canopy to focus on drenched detritus. Black flies eager to dine out on our tender flesh. We are drawn off the trail to approach closer to the mountain stream, its distant chatter transformed to a thunderous roar as the creek hurtled itself foaming and thrashing over boulders stream throughout its downward path.

Lush mosses luxuriate in this perfect atmosphere coddling their needs. the mosses often resembling infinitesimally tiny forests, sending up minuscule blooms. Lilies of the valley are profligate in their belled splendour in their miniature world on the forest floor. Ferns plume the understory. Dogwoods reach beyond the floor to ineffectually emulate the hemlock and spruce. The curling exfoliation of giant yellow birches host silver lichen. The night's wind and rain have brought down stubborn, long-dead tree limbs, now littering the underbrush, the trail; shelf-fungi dislodged, bereft of their host, deprived of purpose.

A thrush sings sweetly within the near depths of the dripping forest. Generations of forest compost miraculously absorbed these moisture-laden days of unrelenting rain, making the trails soft and moist, not mushy, underfoot. Our olfactory senses are overtaken by the sublime fragrance of some forest emanation. Smells like luscious ripe berries, like some goddess of nature's kitchen rendering strawberries, raspberries, blackberries into a splendid, jammy spread.

Our little dogs, happy and excited to finally be released from the confines of the car, rush about sniffing, snuffling, pawing, nibbling fresh strands of grass. Has it begun raining again, we wonder, or is that just the wind shaking the rain-excess from the trees overhead?

13 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Sun, and more sun, heating up the atmosphere, promising a rain-free day. Some high, white billowing clouds innocent of intent beyond enhancing the beauty of the blue sky. In the mountains, however, one can never tell. Best to pack some minimal rain gear.

It's a Saturday and Welch-Dickey a popular destination. Sunday is forecasted for heavy rain, beginning Saturday night. All-day Sunday rain, no mere occasional cloudbursts. And Monday? Rain. Make trail while the sun shines. So we did. The parking lot held more vehicles than we normally see, but was nowhere near as full as we have seen it in the past on a week-end.

The circuit, up Welch, over the coll to Dickey, then down Dickey and out through the forest can be done in an average time of 3-1/2 hours for the young and the fit. Which we used to do handily, with the children, coming in well under time. That was then. In the last few years it has taken us between 4-1/2 to 5 hours to do the circuit. Mostly my pace, having to stop often, needing to take the ascent slowly.

Riley too is slow. Like me. Unlike my husband, whose stamina, energy level and lung capacity does not yet reflect our chronological age of 72. Or Button, still nimble and active, at 16. As a team, we do very well, however.

At the trailhead, which rises rapidly, we turn to the right, to ascend toward Welch. The fork to the left rises through the extravagantly-treed forest, up to Dickey. Dickey is taller by several hundred fee than Welch. We have, in the past, climbed from left to right, but prefer the right-to-left circuit. At the inception, several hundred yards on, one must cross the mountain stream where the interrupted trail carries on. This year the stream is rampant, full from the week's rain, rushing with a roar of triumph over normally-dry rocks that sit in the stream over which one fords to the opposite side.

We picked little Riley up, knowing he would be fearful of the wildly onrushing water, but figured that normally-intrepid, water-loving Button would manage on her own. Wrong. Not that she did not make the attempt. When Irving first, carrying Riley, made it across, then me, we looked back to witness Button in distress. She had slipped sideways off the largest of the rocks, and the swollen stream was washing her rear legs relentlessly into the stream while she kept attempting to haul herself back onto the rock where her two front paws still held firm. It was a losing battle.

We both turned back, but I was in the lead, reached her and scooped her up in my arms, her body drenched. Good thing she likes water. Good thing the ambient temperature was nudging 65 degrees. She was fine, recovered her aplomb, her independent spirit undaunted. Shook herself, then pitched forward into the continued ascent. We strode uphill alongside the stream, its sound filling the air, flushing down the mountain side. Lots of photographic material there; the occasional small waterfall, when the sound became magnified and frantically beat the air.

The understory of ferns, dogwood and moose maple. And seedlings of hemlock, spruce, pine and fir. blue beech, pock-marked and filled in with moss. Beech trunks, favoured by black bear cubs, leaving the patterns of their clawed ascents on the indelible-marked smooth, grey bark. There are old gnarled, lichen-clad oak, and again, bafflingly, we observe the presence of acorns on the ground. Hear red squirrels bitterly scolding from their posts. And woodland thrushes, singing throughout the forest.

The trail is tortured by old tree roots, increasingly exposed. Some with deadly, foot-grabbing loops for the unwary. In some areas, yellow sand is exposed, sharp tiny bits of gravel, crushed underfoot. Rocks and cut old tree trunks wrestled into place along the trail to form notional 'stairs'. The area is so sodden, rich black muck stands on the trail, so we sink into its gooey presence. Riley, an apricot toy, suddenly acquires fashionable black boots. Button, a black miniature poodle, does not mind the cooling effect of the wet, dark muck in her paws.

We see woodland violets here and there, bright purple. And a richness of wood sorrel, with fiery red tiny berries. Chickadees call from the woods beyond. And we catch sight of a pair of flycatchers, lovely little birds, as beautiful as the chickadees and their symbiotic nuthatches. The dogwoods are past their bloom oddly, the fruit beginning to form. Time has felled huge old yellow birches, resting on the forest floor. Which time also will transform to rotted humus, to further enrich the growing medium.

We are shielded from the sun by the generous canopy of the forest. Mosquitoes and black flies evidence themselves; still they are a minimal nuisance, more for their irritating presence than stinging/biting intent. There presents a series of small switchbacks over rain- and creek-fed tributaries. National Forest volunteers have obviously been working tirelessly to increase the numbers of trail ditches whereby the rain excess can be runnelled off, to spare the trails from further erosion.

We attempt, as much as possible, to avoid the worst depths of muck, not always with success; there is so much of it. A passing group of young hikers is dismayed at the morass. One young woman remarks tartly that the trail is anything but neat and tidy as she and her companions tread nimbly onward. We, sturdily and slowly, wend our way upward, by-passing protuberant roots, slippery logs. As we gained height we moved closer to the stream, and then away from its vicinity again, the sounds of its furious gurgling absorbed by the forest, receding, fading. Then we could hear chickadees again calling from the forest interior.

Soon there were no longer still scenes of dappled sunlight on the monochromatic green screen, as clouds overtook the blue. White, light and all-encompassing, high winds shoving them along, glimpsed now and again as we stopped to rest, to muster our energies to continue. This push to achieve merely the height of the overlook after all, represented only the first one-quarter of the entire circuit. One we had used to complete expeditiously, invigorated by the process, not fatigued by it, as we felt now.

On the other hand, it is invigorating for us to be there, in that environment, to share the pleasure of the venture, to point out to one another our delight in discovering and rediscovering all those elements of nature and endless guises and surprises that so enrapture us and keep us captive to the pursuit. So we plod on, as gracefully as we are able, then rest, then proceed again. This time, however, having agreed that we will aspire no further than to mount to the overlook. We will leave the balance of that adventure now to younger generations.

By the time we had gained three-quarters of the way our physical equilibrium was well restored. We felt good, confident, glad to be there. The remaining 25% of the uphill advance seemed - and now I recalled from memory - an extraordinary physical challenge. But we and the dogs soon reached the flat granite shelf with its branched-off areas of protected alpine growth, signage urging climbers and trekkers to avoid stepping on the fragile botanical specimens.

A superb photo-taking opportunity. Although I had indeed been taking photos intermittently throughout our ascent. Hunkering down to capture the tiny perfect white flowers of an alpine plant, only to be confronted with a warning on my camera's screen. I had overtaken the storage capacity of my camera. My enthusiasm for indiscriminate photo-taking, entranced and enraptured by all of nature's manifestations and ample presentations too extravagant for the capacity of my indefatigable camera. In steps my Sir Galahad to rescue the day, as is his wont.

With his camera in hand, and mine securely in backpack storage, I snapped away. Sky, cloud formations, mountain backdrop, forest, Ladies slippers, Turkey vultures, boulders. Everything was grist for the mill of the camera. Memory is fine, but it cannot and will not faithfully store still replications of what the brain receives through the eyes of our souls. Cameras, and photographs, are great assists. And useful display totems. Security deposit systems for treasured scenes prompting memory.

We approach the cliff edge, acknowledge the presence of hikers resting before embarking on the real treat of their day's jaunt. There are many, stippling the granite ledge, on the cusp of the edge. Two vultures rise between the vastness of the valley below, in its verdant lushness, the mountains above and beyond. The birds drift apart on their hunting foray; rise and effortlessly ride the wind above the chasm, their wide-winged pinions distinct, their coasting pleasure obvious, recognized, almost felt, by those absorbed in watching them.

Button and Riley are eager to ingratiate themselves with those engrossed in having their packed lunch. Those who encourage them to draw near, those who delight in their presence, who enthuse at the small dogs' rugged resolve to close the distance between the trailhead and the stone ledge, between earth and sky. As we do.

12 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Huge billowing white clouds formed the lower story, the more elevated clouds rent and ripped, (darker grey-white), by the prevailing winds. Roughly 25% of the sky turning clear and blue. A welcome contrast to the wind and rain earlier in the day. Seemed the forecast of rain events, thunderstorms, might be suspended. Where the sun shone, however briefly, the heat was palpable, after the week's cool temperatures.

Rain started early evening, yesterday. It was torrential overnight, thrashing the cottage roof, its windows. It continued well into the morning. We hardly anticipated a clearing sky. Nature disposes her whims with no consultations, surprise being the key element in her relationship with all growing things. Let alone all sentient beings. Which we conceitedly believe we qualify as.

We barely dared hope for a break to enable us to venture on a short hike with our little dogs, before hauling them on hours of physical inactivity, driving to satisfy our cravings to prowl Antique Alley. Red-winged blackbirds in the marsh, among the reeds. Trees in the forest dripped ceaselessly. Where yesterday the forest floor had been relatively dry, it was now beyond sodden, the undergrowth drenched, the trails mush.

A preternatural light infused the area, closed in by ambient trees and their green canopy, dripping excess. No blue sky here, but the closed environment of a deep forest. Greens enhanced by the wet, the dim yet oddly translucent light. The mountain stream roared its ravening haste over rocks and downed trees, frothing its frantic away down the ravined chasm. Deep and cool, the water's onrush.

We stop often to take photographs, unwilling to commit to memory what we know we will forget in the preciously intriguing details. Unwilling to hurry ourselves along this living landscape, this passionate arras describing nature's elements of wind and rain urging growing things to exceed even their own expectations.

A tiny, delicate, red-capped chipping sparrow, exquisitely perfect, turns its attention to the tree-felled bits littering the trail. An equally exquisite chipmunk, oblivious of our presence speeds about, as though electrified by the bizarre splendour of its enhanced environment. Sighting up the stream where a waterfall of splurging waters cascade over immense rocks, a fine mist rises lazily, enveloping the distance in its moist embrace.

Bright, freshly insouciant, the ferns, white-starred bunchberry, elegant white, but mostly pink-hued orchids. Everywhere we look, fresh beauty presents itself, demanding notice, our deepest admiration. We vie with one another for favoured photographic opportunities, snap one memorable scene of perfection after another. Our little companions discover a new world of beckoning scents.

We linger, unwilling to wrench ourselves from one vibrant picture-arresting scene to another. The threatened rain-and-thunderstorm events do not occur. The huge granite outcroppings, the stern cliffs above the roiling stream, glisten darkly brown, mahogany, black. Furred extravagantly with grey lichens, soft-green mosses.

We congratulate ourselves on our good fortune, our exposure to these facets of organic, inorganic opportunism, taking advantage wherever possible, of elemental survival. Transcending that bare necessity toward the luxury of buoyant showiness, arrogant entitlement, the glories of achievement, benevolently sharing with us their grand purpose. We tingle with gratitude, with a sense of very real privilege.

Later, as we proceed toward the concluding events of our afternoon, we have opportunity to witness what locals are capable of adding to nature's bounty of beauty. A serene small lake encircled by cottages, speed boats at rest, lapping at the edges of the lake. An old red, rusted jeep transformed to a garden planter, its soil-filled body bright with pink petunias, spilling over its tired old sides.

Then, the antidote, passing a swampy pond. There, the graceful awkwardness of a Great blue Heron, moving about, turning its head, attuned to the possibilities of the pond producing edible treasures. The scene rescuing the remains of the day. Clouds swiftly reasserting their presence, darkening the sky once more.

11 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Slightly milder, heavily overcast, low, fast-moving clouds under higher, lighter-coloured cloud formations. The forecast calls for showers, chance of isolated thunderstorms. Until three p.m., when rain could present. Not quite the weather forecast one would wish for, to enable hiking in the mountains, but precisely what one should anticipate would occur, in the mountains.

We'd take the chance, we decided, packing rain gear into our backpack. Bought our White Mountain National Forest pass for the week at the local information kiosk near a gas station off the highway and set off for Smarts Brook. to do the circuit and risk the weather. We could see the twin peaks of Welch-Dickey, clouds obscuring the taller of the two. May try out on a more assured weather-day. May not, however, get beyond the lookout, on the way up to Welch.

Hawkweed, yellow mostly, some bright orange, along with daisies, lupin, dogwood and honeysuckle provide bright splashes of colour against the wooded backdrop of hardwoods and conifers. We were struck by the proliferation of blow-downs. Must have had a hard winter and early spring.

Some huge old yellow birch and hemlock that had fallen across the trail had just recently, from the fresh evidence of bright sawdust littering the trail, been removed, reminding us of the mini-hurricane-force winds that had done like damage to our ravine trees, this early spring. The trail surprisingly dry, generations of detritus soaking up the redundant rainfall of the last several days.

The mountain stream gushed over the rocks, the substrate gravel of the creek bed, roaring as we came abreast of its white-water course over granite obstacles. Button and Riley excited, sniffing everywhere. We're fairly convinced they recognize where we are; recall our previous years' forays here. There is no wind. There are mosquitoes, but we're well covered, long pants, long-sleeved shirts.

We forge ahead, passing familiar landmarks. Familiar, yet still surprising, the beauty of the landscape fresh each time we see it. The towering granite cliffs, moisture-sodden with flume and ground water seeping down its height, coloured in shades of grey, brown, striations of black, on brick-red granite. Luscious mosses grow luxuriantly, lavishly on the granite, tree trunks, sides of the trail, and long-fallen old tree trunks Lichens cling to the sides of trees. Hemlock saplings crowd the underbrush.

Among the oak, birches and maples grow moose maple, the smaller they are, the larger their leaves. But dogwood is king here, present everywhere one looks, the understory under study. Although the trilliums have long since flowered, the size of some of the plants is amazing. Lilies of the valley grow everywhere here on the forest floor, the damp appealing to them.

Straw lilies also, and first among our favourites, Ladies slippers, their bright pink balloon flowers held on long green stalks; eye-catching, even in the dim light of the overcast day. Where we see clusters of Ladies slippers, we take especial pains to ensure we've taken sufficient photographs.

It's a fairly long hike. We take our time. The varied aspect of the circuit, starting beside the brook, leaving it for a pine-covered flat on a height that then descends into a canopy-darkened forest where the trail rises, then descends repeatedly, exposing us to a variety of landscapes, trees and undergrowth.

We see large showy yellow Admirals and white fluttery moths, an annoyed middling-sized garter snake, holding its ground, unwilling to move at our intrusive presence. Northern thrushes sing beautifully, far off in the woods. There are patches of purple violets, great swathes of bunchberry in flower. Ferns too have sent out their peculiar flowering stalks.

A few patches of blue sky appear through the curtain of leaves. Sunlight momentarily brightens the trail ahead in luminous stripes. Wild strawberries are abloom with bright white flowers. And blackberries, as well. Areas of the trail are deep in muck, and we carefully bypass. In some areas thick chunks of helpful bridges have been installed.

There are granite rocks cast by some long-gone rockfall, close by the trail surfeit with moss, lichens, ferns and pine seedlings. Huge old carcasses of giant trees slowly moulder, twisted as though in an agony of decay. Peering into the dim interior one sees trees of huge dimension clothed in thick mossy layers. On the ground, on earth hummocks, lavish layers of bright yellow moss, resembling minuscule ferns.

The day stretches before us as we plod the trails. There will be no rain to wrench us from this nature's perfection.

10 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Heavily clouded skies, but beginning to break up. Saw an eastern Kingbird return time and again to a copse of trees, just outside the cottage kitchen window. All the surrounding trees were dripping, as a result of the heavy overnight rain. The weather forecast, however, gave us reason to hope that rain would hold off until late in the day, giving us the opportunity to try for a hike nearby.

Set off wearing light jackets, backpack holding rain gear. The Sky quite a bit lighter; we had the feeling we would be leaving the possibility of sun behind, but we'd decided on climbing the eastern Rattlesnake. We'd heard on the forecast that sun might be expected by the week-end; precisely when that popular climb would be packed with climbers, mostly from the Boston area.

On our drive, we saw daisies, hawk weed, lilac, rhododendron and phlox, their cheerful textures and colours animating the landscape. The highway was still drying out, with heavy mist rising from the forested hillsides. This was a pleasant, undemanding drive, unlike yesterday's through pounding rain. Once again, we saw vultures flying over the forested areas, slipping by.

We were able, this year, to take advantage of the new parking lot, far more conveniently located, not now necessitating a dash across the highway; much appreciated. We'd forgotten to get our permit but don't need it here in any event. Made a deposit in the donations box for trail upkeep.

Looks as though we may be in for a few casual sprinkles. Found it cool enough to wear our rain jackets, in any event.

Plenty of fresh green ferns, interspersed with lilies-of-the-valley. Hemlock seedlings abound. Huge old oaks, blasted-out venerable trunks. Occasional pink Ladies-slippers in view. Acorns litter the ground. In June?

The trail proceeds fairly steeply at points, with stone steps, braided tree roots, squared timbers fashioning steps; encumbering rather than assisting progress. We forge on, Button an old hand at this mountain hiking, Riley less so, still on his learning curve. Finding his way by speedily scoping out the ascending trail areas most resistant to the efforts of his short legs pumping steadily on.

Unlike Button, springier, slimmer, long-legged. We too try to take the ways of least resistance which means whenever possible, by-passing the 'helpful' stairs, noting as we do, that many others before us have done likewise; the narrow trails beside the laboriously-placed steps a testament to the obvious.

We're feeling pretty good. Slept well, ate breakfast like the reasonable glutton that we are, dogs-inclusive. Stop briefly, when particularly enraptured by the scene ahead, to snap photographs. Each of us with individual cameras, acquired over the years. When I download them at home I'll file them under 'his' and 'hers' folders. Also obvious, since his will hold photos of me, and mine of him.

Half-way up, an encounter. A white-haired couple in shorts and tee-shirts, each wielding double hiking staffs; only he fully-bearded, however. We stop. Talk. they're from Framingham. both still working, but in the summer reserve Tuesdays and Thursdays for 'time off'. So they can get out and hike in solitary comfort, beating the crowds. We know just how that is. We compare our climbing experiences in the mountains, with them.

Lafayette, Mousilaki, Little Haystack, Clinton, Eisenhower among them. Steep challenges of the past, long simmering, not quite forgotten. When we were young, comparatively speaking, and our children, now mature adults, younger still. We've over a decade of age on these two we're chatting with. But you'd never know it. Speaking objectively, naturally.

Mosquitoes are assaulting them. They've used citronella and it's worn off. We dare not offer our commercial brand 'Off" with DEET, although because we're fully garbed, arms and legs protected, we're not wearing any. I'm engaged with her, he's engaged with her husband, animatedly. The dogs, patient to a fault, wait uncomplainingly, begin to wander tentatively into the woods. We call them back, then part, calling friendly appreciation back.

Soon, we look behind us, alerted by Riley to see a young man and woman, jogging slowly up the trail, she in front. Hardly breaking a sweat, it seems, though they're dressed for the cold temperatures, unlike the previous two. I call after them as they pass that they should be aware what they're doing is simply not possible. (There's signage on Lafayette, a difficult climb, that some hardy soul was able to run up and down in record time.) Simply not possible; for us, at any rate.

Not much longer before we reach the top. There to offer water to the dogs, which they disdain. (Offer them treats, and that's another thing altogether.) And to look out over Big Squam Lake. Despite the heavy cloud cover, good views. Over to the right, the mountains are veiled in low clouds. To the left, we get a good view down the lake and beyond.

We never linger long at a peak. Decide to descent. We've other things to do with the day. Note, on our way down, a bright orange, perfect little newt. Reminds me that thirty years earlier we'd seen a similar little creature, when we were doing this with our children. Thrushes trill in the forest as we begin to emerge.

9 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Heavy, relentless rain pelted us from the moment we left Ottawa, on to the traffic nightmare of Montreal, until we crossed the border at Stanstead into the United States. Miracle of miracles, not only did the rain stop, but we were greeted by an open lane and a rarity in our experience, a mild-mannered, even friendly U.S. Homeland Security agent.

At the Vermont rest stop the grass was sodden, the air cool and brisk, fine for a short relief walk with Button and Riley, our seasoned little travellers. Pleasant to be out of the car; short-cropped grass, nice specimen trees - crabapple, oak - mountains in the background. In one tree, a flock of some twenty tiny cedar waxwings.

Back on the road, daisies and lupins in the medians, traffic light, scenery bucolic and lovely.
Mist rising steadily from the forested valleys between the mountains. Orderly little towns, steepled churches, picture-perfect and prosperous farms, typically Vermont. Everything drenched, bright green. Nature run amok with its verdant summer excess.

At Franconia Notch, breathtaking vistas, despite lack of distance, the mountains close on the highway, fog closing in, suddenly clearing to mist. Clouds roiling and rolling by. The wind emphatically rocks the car. It briskly lifts white-white layers of boiling mist off the valley floor, through the thickets of trees, up the mountain slopes, masking the noble heights.

Rolling down the car window we hear the wind shrieking, a dishevelled banshee, the thick, ragged-dark clouds above the mountain peaks casually draping over the mountains, meeting and joining the rolling mist. We hurtle, spellbound, subdued by the fearful grandeur, through the Notch to our destination.

We're late, later than normal. Held back by the rain earlier in our drive, pounding so vehemently, voluminously through the atmosphere, visibility at a low ebb. Wind thrashing us so thoroughly that huge, fat drops of water pinged and bounced on the hood of the car, streamed over the windshields, the wipers furiously struggling to cope.

And this struggle had us of necessity driving slower, more slowly and carefully, particularly transiting Montreal, its traffic rush, the innumerable trucks, tractor-trailers, delivery vans reminding us indelibly of just where we were. Of course any time of day or night in Montreal on its major thoroughfares is 'crush-hour'.

As a result we used more fuel than usual, battling the wind, the rain, traffic conditions and time. All those elements conspiring to convince us this was not a well-considered plan. This mostly of the moment, and in hindsight, since plans are made well in advance of any possible knowledge of adverse weather conditions far into the future.

Once the ferocity of the rain abated we even caught the occasional errant glimpse of a determined sun exercising its brief will to pierce the steamy armour of the clouds. And there, a vulture, riding the crest of those high winds, its pinioned wings spread wide, body comfortably exulting in its element.