Light Risk: A Study in Personal Responsibility

The Crash Test Librarian shared this article with me recently.  We discussed related issues, and I felt like it made sense to express the gist of that conversation here.  It’s relevant and timely coming on the heels of my big solo Grand Trip 

The article from earlier this month reports that the Grand County, Colorado search and rescue teams made the hard decision to leave the body of mountain runner Vincent Pane on Arikaree Peak where he had fallen to his death.  The author goes on to delve into the phenomenon of what he calls “light-and-quick” athletes trying to claim FKT on the L.A. Freeway traverse of Indian Peaks in Colorado as well as looking into the broader interest in such activities.

Pane had fallen—not on the L.A. Freeway route, but still traversing to the summit of Arikaree—and ended up in steep and unstable terrain, making recovery extremely dangerous for even the (presumably) highly trained search and rescue teams in the area.    

Storms rolling over Indian Peaks from Shoshoni

As I read the article I couldn’t help relate it to my own recent experience on Cloud Peak.  I was alone and in a remote area.  I was hyper-cognizant to my precarious situation.  One point the author made was that many of the light-and-quick folks go with little more than a water bottle and are not prepared for worst case scenarios. 

I went very light on Cloud Peak considering the situation.  I took a water filter and extra bladder, snacks for the day, a puffy jacket in addition to layers, and a headlamp.  My strategy was not to improve my speed as a primary effect, but simply to ensure my chances of success by preserving my precious fifty-year-old energy.  I knew any unnecessary and excess weight would sap my strength quicker, but I was also distinctly aware I was trading lighter weight for lighter security. 

My choices on that climb were complex, and some more intuitive than explicit.  If something and had happened on the mountain I hoped I would at least be able to return to camp where I had enough food, a good water source, and ample shelter.  It was close to a relatively well-travelled trail where aid would be slow but accessible.  That wasn’t my full emergency plan, but it was a factor in my planning.  Obviously, things can happen which would prevent me returning to camp, but for less serious incidents that was a distinct option.

To me, what is more important than what I carry in my backpack is what I carry in my head.  It’s experience and judgement that truly protect you.  The only thing I lack in that arena is confidence at times, but I know I know what to do in an emergency, or that I’ll figure it out.  As far as what would happen if I were to fall hundreds of feet down a cliff and die…I don’t worry about that.  I had left a detailed itinerary with my parents, with my daughter, and in my car which included expected times in and out of places where I had no cell service.  I researched the appropriate points of contact for each jurisdiction I was in and included a detailed description of my vehicle, my camping gear, and myself.  I made sure to carry my ID when I left camp.  There’s not much else you can do in case of a fatal mistake.  But like I said, I wasn’t concerned with fatal mistakes other than to do my best to avoid them.

My recent solo scramble to the top of Haystack Rock

Looking down the exposed and rounded
4th class section I had to downclimb

More than once, I considered the old adage: if you carry bivy gear you’ll end up bivying.  I was very cautious, not trying to break any records (or bones) and even still I knew my situation was precarious.  In the end my decision to go light was a strategy to balance the known with the unknown.

While on the climb I did consider the consequences of my decisions and any potential mistakes or incidents.  I typically make a point not to use the word “accident.”  I believe that word represents an unreal concept.  Most people consider accidents as something unavoidable and out of their control, but I believe that our choices lead us to every outcome.  I could have decided not to go to Cloud Peak and avoided any risk in that realm. 

I considered what a rescue or recovery of my person would entail.  I considered the impact to local SAR.  To my family.  To myself.  Despite exploring the graphical nature of those images in my head I pushed on through walls of doubt and fear to overcome the obstacle in front of me.

This article awakened many of those thoughts.  They weren’t new thoughts to me even on Cloud Peak.  These are things I’ve pondered my whole life.  Cloud Peak was really my biggest adventure.  I’d put myself farther from comfort and safety than I had at any other point in my life.

Falling from the summit of Cloud Peak was not an option

In considering the article, there was a strong sense of search and rescue members feeling as if the phenomenon of mountain runners was putting a strain on their resources.  I see that in the Red River Gorge as well.  Here it’s less glamourous and more often just day hikers who have gotten themselves into supposed trouble, but the impacts are similar.

My theory on this is that technology, and specifically internet capable smart phones, have lowered the barriers to entry for all outdoor activities.  Knowledge that would have taken years to develop prior to the internet is now available instantaneously to anyone minus the experience that goes with natural attainment.  People who would have never had the courage to venture into the woods are now tromping all around letting whatever outdoor app they downloaded direct them to overlooks, waterfalls, and alpine rock climbs without the critical problem-solving skills they need to keep themselves out of unreasonable danger.

Social media compounds this problem by luring people with the promise of dopamine hits to places that historically would have remained obscure and relatively unknown.  Geotagging and instantaneous feedback on logistical queries further accelerates the mutually assured destruction of the amateur recreationalist as well as the landscape they flock to.  

And then we consider the public perception of the Pane case.  Our movies and TV shows romanticize never leaving anyone behind.  The cold hard truth of human existence is that for thousands of years individuals have disappeared and decomposed without a trace.  It’s only in modern times that we exert absurd volumes of resources to rescue the hopeless and recover the unsavable.  I love the meme that mentions how much money the US has spent to save Matt Damon’s characters in three different movies (Saving Private Ryan, The Martian, and Interstellar).  It’s an interesting point to consider: if a lone human were stranded on Mars, what would be the justification for expending billions of dollars to save them?

Should Vincent Pane’s body rest in peace on the mountain he fell from?  Mount Everest is a giant icy tomb for many mountaineers.  Recovery of fallen climbers in the death zone is beyond difficult.  I agree with the principle that search and rescue operations should not endanger the rescuers.  There is always an element of risk, but when the likelihood of harm becomes overwhelming it’s time to make the hard decisions.

What worries me is that these kinds of things will end up causing more restrictions in the outdoors.  Public perception will be that these people (any outdoor enthusiasts) need to be saved from themselves.  It’s possible as a culture we’ll end up moving to a point where waivers are required everywhere, and you might have the option to waive the right to rescue if you choose to go beyond certain boundaries.

These stories can become high profile new items in our perpetual craving for excitement in the palms of our hands.  People get worked up when they hear a dead body can’t be recovered.  Some will rail against the adventurer for daring to impose on others while the flip side is people will complain government and land managers aren’t doing enough to prevent/promote such endeavors.

The best path to adventure truly is the old way: learning from a mentor or at least through a slow progression of trial and error, and not leaping fully formed from the trailhead into the unknown wilderness abyss.  I know the idea of the Boy Scouts is controversial these days, but the underlying purpose of such organizations was to educate young people in life and the outdoors, and it provided a structured and rich point of entry into many activities including rock climbing, paddling, hiking and even mountaineering. 

Not to be a blatant Luddite, but as a society we need to foster more hands-on learning overseen by those experienced in the outdoors.  We need to prepare people to thrive in the outdoors and be self-reliant, to not depend on technology for their confidence or their safety.  I’m not proposing an aesthetic choice, but truly a choice which will prevent a lot of the problems that are growing in the outdoor recreation realm every day.

My opinion is that this instantaneous access we have to information is crippling us.  As the Crash Test Librarian succinctly stated: “We totally lost the plot with the internet.”  There is a vast digital library of knowledge on the out there, but you have to plow through layers and layers of every stupid thing scratched on the digital bathroom stalls of the web since the dawn of our collective consciousness when Al Gore flipped the switch and turned it all on.

My attitude toward risk in the mountains (or elsewhere) is that I would rather live the life I want and face the potential of dying in harsh environments over laying on the couch pining for that life.  The world is big and terrible and amazing, and I want to see as much of it as I can while I’m here.  If I were to die in the mountains, I don’t see that as a tragedy.  It’s better to die happy, doing what you love, than wasting away unfulfilled or being killed by the machinery of society for less reason. 

Life is dangerous.  We aren’t immortal.  I could die on my way home from work.  I could die in my bed at night.  Life is short and fragile and precious—even more reason to live fully and accept the outcome of your own decisions.

As an addendum to the original post, I do want to clarify that I believe strongly in personal responsibility.  People need to take on outdoor adventures with full knowledge of their own capabilities and be willing to make hard choices themselves.  Do I sit out overnight and wait until daylight to find my way out, or do I call for SAR because I don't want to sit scared? 

I'm not saying I would never call Search and Rescue on my own behalf.  What I am saying is that I make every effort to not need SAR in the first place.  And I would do my best to self-rescue if I got into trouble.  Once I sprained my ankle hiking.  I was a mile from my car, and while not the worst sprain I've had, it was painful, and I had difficulty walking on it.  As I lurched and stumbled through the woods, I pondered who I could call to come lend a shoulder to help me get out.  In the end, I decided by the time someone could get to me I could also get myself out however uncomfortable and painful that might have been.  If I had broken my ankle or leg, I'm certain I would have made a different choice.  

That's not the only or first time I sprained an ankle while alone in the woods.  The first time was more dire in a sense.  I was trailrunning a few years ago on a steep and loose downhill and violently rolled my ankle.  I was about half a mile from my car with no cell service, no one knew where I was, and it was just before dusk in February.  I had to hobble out and drive my stick shift car home.  

Both instances have given me more awareness of the importance of letting someone know where I am and to be more careful with my own body when out alone.  They have also helped me delve more into my own beliefs on personal responsibility and consequence, and I stand by the things I've said. 

Shedding My Velvet

This past year I’ve made strides away from the traumas of my past.  However, right up until I left for The Grand Trip I was struggling with my demons, both past and future.  Let me say up front that I have no illusions that my troubles are all behind me.  I do feel different after the trip.  I was changed in the Bighorns.  I was changing every step of the way from Pine Mountain in July until I set foot at the summit of Cloud Peak.  It was a long journey, but it was much needed and very productive.

My plan was to answer some questions for myself while I was on my big solo road trip/mountaineering vacation.  The questions were based out of things I had been reading and writing myself.  The fulcrum point for developing the questions was this quote that I found that I think is from Regina Brett.  I don’t know her work, but she is an author and columnist.  I just found the quote and it struck home.  The quote is this:

…don’t try to reclaim your youth and go back to what you were, try to fully be the person you fantasized you’d be now.

I saw it not too long before I left for the trip, and it instantly resonated and changed my thought patterns.  I have spent my whole life fantasizing about what I want to be down the road.  And while that in itself isn’t the healthiest outlook to have, it is important to distinguish between what you want for yourself that you envision will make you fulfilled and happy, and where you came from that fostered the need for those daydreams.  Why would you try to get back to a place where you were always looking to the future?  And once you find yourself in that future?  Unfulfilled and regretful?  It only makes sense to look at the dreams and hopes you had for yourself and try to become that than to look back and try to relive a time or age you were trying to escape.

I came up with a three-pronged plan for myself for the trip.  I would ask and answer:

• Who was I before all my trauma?
• Who am I now?
• Who do I want to be going forward?

In some ways those questions seemed too elementary to be helpful, but it would turn out they were exactly what I needed to focus on. I mulled over the first question.  The idea of reclaiming my youth spans a few epochs of my life.  I am deeply nostalgic for the Eighties.  But no one wants to reclaim their middle school years.  High school was even more grotesque to me even though I am kind of stuck in that era of music.  But then in my early twenties I became a rock climber and discovered a deep love for the outdoors that had always been in me and a strong desire to travel and find new and exciting experiences.  I was somewhat naïve and inexperienced in life, but I had such an insatiable curiosity and a passion for exploration that it set the tone for the rest of my life.  From an early age I rejected the mundane.  I sought out new and novel experiences.  I was creative with my time and found little opportunities for adventure all the time.  

Therein lies the answer to the first question: I was insatiably curious, and I had a passion for outdoor adventures that drove me.  That person wanted to live an extraordinary life that was not filled with suburban accoutrements and punching a time clock.  He did not want to be tied to a desk or cooped up inside.  In fact, he wanted to be a guide. And after he was a guide for a few years and settled down into a “big boy job” he thought he’d gotten to live his dream and that should be enough.  But it didn’t change his heart.  I used to say Twenty-year-old Chris would have punched Forty-year-old Chris in the mouth.  Fifty-year-old Chris carried the youthful version of himself to the summit of Cloud Peak and released him there.  That’s where he would have wanted to dwell anyway.  He is no longer a threat to the dental work my parents paid for all those years ago.  Now, Fifty-year-old Chris and Forty-year-old Chris still have some stuff to work through.

I know who I was.  And I know that that person didn’t know who he would be at fifty—he could barely fathom being thirty or forty—but I know the things he didn’t want from life.  He didn’t want to make widgets.  He didn’t want to jockey a cash register.  He didn’t want to watch sitcoms and go to little league games.  He wanted to ride his bike to work.  He wanted to be under the sun as much as possible.  He wanted to dwell in wild places and find peace and quiet away from the Taos Hum of capitalism. 

That’s not who I became.  I let myself be boiled like a frog—incrementally giving in to the pressures of modern American culture.  By the time my marriage of nearly nineteen years ended I had given up on my hopes and dreams and wishes.  I had stopped believing my life would ever change enough for me to be the person I had fantasized about being.  I was perpetually depressed and occasionally suicidal.  And my efforts to escape the mundane only resulted in more heartbreak and despair.  I was cooked.

I’ve been divorced five and a half years.  While I believed being single might be the end to my traumas, what actually happened was they seemed to mound up on top of me and threatened to crush the last glimmer of life out of me.  I lost my good job before the divorce.  I quit the replacement job in the middle of Covid because…well, Covid.  I struggled with trying to start a mowing business but just lost money on the endeavor.  I had a stint as a rock-climbing guide again, and while it was what I desperately needed, there were some problems there and a lack of work in general. I broke rocks at Muir Valley and met two great guys that became good friends.  And then I found an unlikely professional position with my hometown.  None of those jobs were enough for me to thrive. I simply survived for five and a half years.  At times I worried I would lose everything.  At times I didn’t care.

Last January I developed a nearly debilitating social anxiety stemming from my job working with the public.  I was able to go to work and hide in my office, but beyond that I found I could barely get off the couch to take care of myself, much less my kids.  After five years I had not healed.  I was not doing well.

I went on an intense journey of self-care.  I bought a steam tent, a cold plunge tub, and a workout bench for my house.  I began reading deeply into Eastern philosophy, particularly Taoism, and I started taking time each morning to stretch, work out, and read.  I was hiking more.  I was making lists and scheming again.  I knew it was time to take back control of my own life and stop letting outside factors persistently derail me.  

I can’t say I’m a master at self-healing and that what I’ve done has been the best and most efficient path back to life, but what I can say is that after nine months I have made some significant progress on my own.  I have already started to make big changes which are already having an impact on my confidence and my mood.  I finally got a more reliable car (fingers crossed).  I have a new job; a much better job paying significantly more than I’ve ever made.  I’ve worked hard for a long time to earn that.  While it isn’t the exact career path I would prefer for myself, it will more assuredly put me on better financial footing and help me to fortify my future against calamity.  I think it will also fulfill some of my deeper needs related to self-confidence.

The next phase of my healing and strengthening will involve a therapist.  I’m going to need help.  However, I feel that my confidence is growing, and I am beginning to feel my strength again.  Who I am is in flux now.  Who I have been up until the end of this summer was someone who felt broken and small, someone who felt like all his passion and energy were spent, someone who had lost hope and had forgotten his dreams.  

That’s not who I want to be.  I’m fifty years old, not dead.  I’m relatively healthy for a man my age.  My mind is still sharp.  I’m a good person who treats people as well as he can.  I’m good at the things I set my mind to.  I have a lot of love in my heart.  There’s no reason I can’t have the life I want.  I’ve said for a long time that I have simple desires.  I don’t want or need an expensive house or car.  I don’t need expensive toys or gadgets to be fulfilled and happy.  I don’t need fame or notoriety to feel good about myself.  I love who I am at my core.  I’ve just been smashed down in the mud so long it’s hard to see anything but mud even in myself.

I don’t want to be ashamed of who I am.  Yes, I have ADHD.  Yes, I am an introvert.  Yes, I may be borderline autistic.  Yes, I am highly intelligent.  Yes, I have a lot of energy and passion.  Yes, I have a lot of life experience.  Yes, I have hurt people.  Yes, I often make mistakes and forget things.  Yes, I am impulsive, and it causes problems for myself and others. 

I know I’m a good person.  I want what’s best for everyone around me.  I want to help people to the best of my ability in whatever capacity I can.  I try not to be greedy.  I try not to be rude.  I’m laid back and adapt to whatever situation I’m in.  I try not to impose on people.

Here are some other things I have read this summer that have influenced my thinking up to and during The Grand Trip:

How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?

~ Doc Luben

In order to love who you are, you cannot hate the experiences that shaped you.

~ Andrea Dykstra

Let yourself be drawn by the stronger pull of that which you truly love.

~ Rumi

Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.  Follow the path that is no path, follow your bliss.

~ Joseph Campbell

You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place?

Just this: what is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above.  One climbs, one sees.  One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen.  There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up.

When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.

~ Rene Daumal

Maybe the journey isn’t about becoming anything.  Maybe it's about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.

~ Paulo Coelho

And finally, this one, which I do not know who said it:

Decide what kind of life you really want…and then say no to everything that isn’t that.

The kind of life I want is the kind of life I’ve been trying to have since I was that young man dreaming about a future.  I want everyday adventures.  I want to see as much of the world as I can.  I don’t want to fade away in a Netflix coma as my midsection spills over onto the floor.  I want to create light and art in my photography and writing.  I want to play music less badly.  I want to stand on as many summits as I possibly can while I’m able.

Then I also want to cast off regret and grief over lost time and opportunity.  I want to dwell more in the moment and less in the past and future.  I don’t want to pass up opportunities to be outside in the sun for being lazy indoors.  I’ve lost too much time in my life to things I didn’t really want.  I’ve lost too many opportunities in my life to unreasonable fears.  As a good friend often says: life is short and fragile.  We have no guarantee of anything beyond the moment we’re living in.  It’s foolish to squander a single second of life on things you don’t want.  Admittedly we all have to make compromises in order to live a life, but when it comes to free choice, we only have ourselves to blame if we choose against our hearts.

ADDENDUM: I'm definitely finding my confidence.  This trip was perhaps the best boost to it I could have had.  The timing was definitely right, though it would have been great to have had this experience much earlier in my life.  I'll take it without regret or bitterness.  It was a beautiful moment in my life.

I'm shedding my velvet as Jack White sings.  And I'm leaving the guilt and shame and despair I've carried behind me.  I feel like I outran it somewhere on the road last week.  It just couldn't keep up with my mad pace to bag new high points and racing toward this new chapter of my life.  You see, this trip wasn't the only new thing in my life.  I'm starting a new job in October.  While it may take up a little more of my time than I would like, it will make me more financially stable and will better provide for my future than where I have been up to this point. I desperately need that.  But it will also challenge me in good ways.  And I think it will boost my confidence even higher than it's ever been.  I've started therapy again.  I'm worker harder to take care of my health both physical and mental.  I'm listening when people tell me good things about myself. 

I've been trying to finish this previous chapter of my life for a long time.  I knew the next chapter holds amazing things, but I had to get through these last pages.  This trip was the turn of the page I had been anticipating for longer than I am comfortable saying.

The Grand Trip: Part II

ACROSS THE ROOF OF THE COUNTRY

My next stop was White Butte, North Dakota.  I had never been to North Dakota, so it was the only new state for me on the trip.  And White Butte is remote enough it’s just not on the way to anywhere else.  The route there goes up through the infamous Sturgis, South Dakota.  I wasn’t terribly impressed.  Beyond Sturgis the landscape changes from the Black Hills to farmland and grassland.

I pushed north, alternating between my punk playlists, the old Ricky Gervais podcasts, and the Craig Johnson audiobook. That was the general soundtrack for my entire trip.  There was a lot of Lagwagon, Streetlight Manifesto, The Ramones, and various random non-punk songs blaring from my phone mounted to the dash.

 As I approached White Butte the rise in the land became apparent.  The surrounding grasslands were rolling but mostly flat.  There were chalky hillsides jutting out of the plains, and I knew that had to be my destination. There was very little in the area except a few seemingly abandoned farmhouses.  The road comes in from the north to a nice little developed trailhead with a professional-looking trail extending away into a cleft in the chalky dirt pile.

There were some interesting chunks of rock laying around along the trail, and the hike was pleasant despite the 90° temps and the bright sun.  I shed my t-shirt and went in only my shorts and my old trail running vest with a water bottle, my keys, and my cell phone.  I thoroughly enjoyed the hike up the butte to the grassy plateau on top.  About the time I got on top the wind picked up and clouds obscured the sun, but there was little promise of moisture, and the heat was only eased by the wind itself.  I stayed longer than I normally would have, just enjoying the solitude and the views.  Eventually I started down, and I felt so good I wanted to run the fine trail.  I refrained.  White Butte is the high point in North Dakota at 3,506’.

After I left White Butte, I knew I had a hard push north and east to get as close to my next destination: Eagle Mountain.  The high point is way up in the northeastern tip of Minnesota within Boundary Waters Canoe Area, near the North Shore of Lake Superior and hardly fifty miles from the Canadian Border.  What concerned me was the seven mile out-and-back hike.  It didn’t seem to involve much elevation gain, but the distance and the time it would take felt like a ding in the itinerary.  Or at least an unknown factor.

I made it to Osage, Minnesota late on Wednesday the 11^th, and after coming up bust at a couple of hotels opted to spend the night in the Walmart parking lot.  I was able to get a few hours of decent sleep.  I got up around dawn and moved on toward Eagle Mountain.  I was excited to see more of Minnesota, as I had only previously skirted through the south edge of it in 2020 with dad going to visit Hawkeye Point in Iowa.

I easily found the trailhead way back in the forest.  It’s well-developed and signed, and I quickly skipped off into the wood with my minimalist rig.  Cell service was thin, but the trail was wide.  I saw a few people, but not a lot, and reached the summit in good time, passing pretty Whale Lake along the way, and finally coming to a great overlook below the summit with a gorgeous view off to the south. 

I tagged and bagged the summit, not spending too much time there and returned to the car with an absolutely empty belly.  I’d not eaten in a good long while—sometime the day before.  Along the Voyageur Highway I found the Coho Café and Bakery in Tofte.  I got one of the best club sandwiches I’ve ever had and a mind-blowing piece of tiramisu.  It was good fuel for the push on to Timm’s Hill in Wisconsin.  Eagle Mountain is the state high point of Minnesota at 2,230’.

Seeing as there are no interstates in Minnesota, Wisconsin or the UP of Michigan it was a frantic, slow crawl through pretty farmland to Timm’s Hill.  On the drive between points my friend Mark from Montana called (the infamous Crash Test Librarian), and we chatted and caught up.  He talked to me while I roamed around in the woods looking for the high point and driving through the public area until I found the appropriate parking area and wandered up to the observation tower at the top.  I felt like a jerk yammering on my phone while I hiked—I only saw two people—but I hadn’t really talked to anyone in days, and it was great to catch up with Mark.  It was nearly sunset when I got to the top of the tower and enjoyed a colorful view high above the trees.  Timm’s Hill is the high point of Wisconsin at 1,951’.

I decided I would drive as far as I could once again, hoping to either find a hotel or campground or some suitable place to sleep in the Jeep.  The problem was I had moved out of the wide-open West into the more populated Midwest.  I eased into Rhinelander after dark, but not too late.  I had visited Rhinelander with my grandparents when I was kid on a trip that encircled Lake Michigan.  We’ve got some distant relatives there.  Nothing looked familiar, but the Comfort Inn looked inviting, so I got a room and slept hard that night.  Well, once the motorcyclists got parked and stopped idling outside my window at 11:00pm.

The end of the trip was beginning to materialize far off on the horizon.  That was Thursday the 12^th.  I had the state high point of Michigan and then I’d begin the long trek south toward home, picking up Campbell Hill in Ohio along the way.  I hoped to have enough time to visit a beach along Lake Superior, and truthfully, I had plenty of time, but once I began the long slide home, I didn’t want to get held up trying to find places to eat and places to sleep. I was hoping to be home sometime Saturday. 

However, the most challenging leg of the long journey was ahead of me.  I would not have expected it from the high point of Michigan.

I woke up in Rhinelander on Friday the 13^th.  When I left the hotel, I put Mt. Arvon in Google Maps.  So far on the trip I had just plugged in the pre-saved points.  Sometime over the past year I had gone through and plugged in a lot of state high points for easier reference in case I found myself nearby.  I did that with the understanding I should do additional research on each point before setting out to visit them. Up to that point I had just been winging it, with no further study of any of my destinations, and it had worked out beautifully in my favor.

I watched the miles count down.  And finally, I was making one of the last turns mapped by the AI/GPS.  There was a small blue sign on the edge of the paved road as I turned onto gravel.  I raced along, gaining elevation, throwing up a roostertail of dust.  And then suddenly Siri announced, “You have arrived.”  I had not, in fact, arrived.  I was next to a gated road fading off into the woods.  I could see a high ridge off to the south that was much higher than I was and kind of far away.  I kicked out of the track I had in Google Maps to find the right one only to discover I had zero cell service.  Zilch. Simple, I would drive back to the paved road and look it up.  Except there was no service at the paved road either.  I looked over at the Mt. Arvon sign and it pointed east along the paved road, not up the gravel road.  Stupid old bum eyes.

I headed east and kept checking to see if I had picked up service and scanning the side of the road for more signs.  Soon enough I saw another blue sign and turned in.  Another gravel road.  I continued south until I saw another sign.  And some yellow arrow signs.  I passed a house there, and then most definitely moved into a wilder area, crisscrossed with logging roads in a labyrinth of man-made lines going to and fro.

I went on, following the arrow signs upward winding through the woods, and hoping for more blue signs for confirmation.  I didn’t get that until I was much deeper into the Huron “Mountains.”  After a steeper section I finally reached a small turnaround that serves as the trailhead for Mount Arvon.  I got out and hiked the short loop to a viewpoint and then back to the picnic area that encompasses the highest point. I signed the book, took my photos, and returned to the Jeep.  Surprisingly, I had decent cell service at the summit.  I plugged in my next destination: Grand Marais Public Beach, and the app plotted a course.  Hallelujah!  Mount Arvon is the state high point in Michigan at 1,979'.

Once again, my belly was empty.  I’d only eaten some continental eggs at the hotel, and I’d burned through them a long time before.  The app was taking me out to the east and not back north the way I’d come in, but I figured if that got me to food and gas quicker, I was all for it.  So, I went deeper into the crevasse and didn’t realize I was going to be touching the void.

I went down and down and down, winding through the logging roads, never seeming to get any closer to civilization.  Every time I got a peek through the trees, I just saw more trees.  It was like Mirkwood.  After an agonizingly long time my dash dinged, and I looked down.  My low tire light had come on.  I drove a little farther until I found a good spot to stop and got out. I looked at all four tires, but all four looked okay.  I thought maybe the rough road had rattled the sensor loose.  And I knew it was possible I had picked up a nail or screw or some other piece of junk and had a slow leak.  I also knew the best thing to do at that point was to keep moving until I couldn’t.  I was a long way from any kind of help with no cell service.  I had food and water and shelter, but that would be small comfort if I had to start walking to find help.

On I went, barely slowing and actually speeding up as the road improved to a smoother gravel surface.  On and on and on I went.  Finally, the gravel changed to pavement.  The pavement passed through recreational areas, but no services appeared.  There was no traffic.  On and on and on. Finally, I started to get a little service.  Finally, structures started to appear along the road.  I was coming hot into Marquette.

When I got good service, I put in a gas station.  I beelined for the nearest one, hoping for an air pump.  I pulled in with the distinct feeling of something wrong with the Jeep.  I jumped out only to find the driver's side rear tire was flat.  And had been for a little bit.  I had apparently driven through the neighborhood with it flat.  A teenage kid walked up and told me the air machine didn’t work.  Then he tried to offer advice like I could drive two blocks down to another gas station.  Or I could put on my spare.  I thanked him and set about changing the tire.  Once that was accomplished, I plugged in tire repair shops and found one a mile away.  Off I went on my nine-year-old donut.  It had never been put on the Jeep.

The guy at the first tire center recommended the second as he was by himself and had a full day booked.  I explained to the guy in the second shop that the guy in the first shop recommended I check with him and that I was on my way home to Kentucky from a trip and needed the tire repaired or replaced.  He asked if I could leave it.  When I said I couldn’t he said that was the best he could do.  That he was waiting on a 2:00 appointment that was five minutes late and I could wait around and see if they could work me in.  I asked if there was anyone else he would recommend and he pointed back across the street to the first guy.  “Or Walmart,” he added.  Fine.  Walmart.  It was a mile away, so I headed there.

They got me right in.  They couldn’t repair the tire.  And because the Jeep is AWD and the tires on it had decent treadwear they couldn’t sell me just one.  I had anticipated this and accepted it.  I hadn’t wanted to buy a set of tires on the trip, it’s a heck of a terrible souvenir, but I had little choice.  The guys at the Marquette Walmart tire center got me out in an hour and a half barely, and I was back on my way.  All told I only lost two and a half or three hours at the most, and I was gunning for Grand Marais Beach.  I paused in Munising to eat and got some pretty great local pizza before running along a little bit further to a nice public beach about half an hour before sunset.  The water was so clear, and there were all kinds of cool rocks.  I took my time and tried to enjoy walking along the beach and looking at rocks.  I wanted to get in the water—it felt great—but I didn’t want to drive and sleep wet and sandy that night and there wasn’t a good place to change in the parking lot.  I just waded and watched as the sun sank.

Climbing into the Jeep I knew I was truly on the final leg of the trip as I drove away from the greatest Lake.  I was determined to drive as far as I could.  It was eleven hours from home.  I knew there was no way I could drive through the night, and there was really no reason to.  I just needed to go as far as I could to cut down on the driving the next day (Saturday).

I traversed the UP in the dark and marveled at the half-moon reflecting off Lake Michigan as I approached the straits ahead.  Once again, the Chaney grandfolk had taken me on a trip to Canada when I was but a wee tyke (okay, maybe 10 or 12 years old, but i was skinny back then) and we crossed Mackinac and then went on to Sault Ste. Marie where we boarded a train that took us three hundred miles north to Hearst where we stayed the night and returned the next day.  Mackinac was one of the standout memories of that trip.  While it may not have been that on this particular trip, it was stunning lit up over the straits in the clear darkness. 

I stayed in the quietest and darkest rest area I’ve ever seen along I-75 south of Mackinac.  I slept hard and longer than I expected.  But before daylight I was pushing south again.  I swung by Campbell Hill, Ohio.  Rural Ohio is pretty except for all the Trump/Vance signs.  Campbell Hill is a weird high point.  You drive through a school parking lot, and then squeeze int between some buildings at what I believe is a radar array.  It was under construction—which is fitting for the Ohio high point—and I didn’t linger.  Campbell Hill is the state high point of Ohio at 1,549’.

I had just shy of four hours of driving left.  I was determined not to stop unless I absolutely had to.  I got gas, and I ate between Dayton and Cincinnati, and then I set the cruise and drove on.  I drove and drove and drove.  And then finally I was home.  I’d driven 4,450 miles in nine days.  I’d visited six new state high points bringing my total to twenty-three.  I’d visited one new state (North Dakota) bringing my total to forty-four US states visited.  And I had summited a new Thirteener and had a life changing experience.

What I didn’t describe in these trip reports is the soul searching, and active healing, and auto-therapy I did as I drove, and hiked, and adventured.  I found answers I needed to find.  I found answers I didn’t know I needed to find.  I had some great revelations.  I left some old baggage behind.  I laid some demons to rest.  I mapped out new paths.  I decided some things that needed to be decided. 

It was the trip of a lifetime.  It was the trip I had been trying to take for a lifetime.  It was the trip that I pined for in good times and bad.  That I did it alone, and that it went so well despite my trials in the mountains of Michigan is testament to my own capabilities, my own resourcefulness, my own vision and strength.  And I needed to see and feel those things.  I had lost my way along time ago.  I had lost my confidence and my spark.

I found them out there. 

The Grand Trip: Part I

WESTERN SWING

My last post was about my ascent of Cloud Peak in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming.  That two-day trip was part of a bigger solo road trip covering eleven states over nine days.  For this post I want to do a summary of the entire trip.  I won’t bore you with too many details but suffice it to say there were lots of details and it was the trip of a lifetime.

I left Kentucky on September 6^th and drove north to the Apple River Canyon State Park In northern Illinoising.  I slept in the hatch of my Jeep Compass that night.  That was a big part of my lodging plan for the trip.  I discovered at 5’9” I am slightly too tall to fully stretch out in the hatch and had to sleep with my feet on the console between the front seats.  But the logistical faux pax aside, my sleeping and storage arrangements worked fairly well.  I think I could refine my road tripping setup in the Jeep to be more efficient, but I’m hoping by the next time I take on an adventure of that magnitude I’ll have a better vehicle for it.

The reason I timed my trip when I did was because the high point in Illinoising is only open to the public four weekends a year as it’s on private land near a private residence.  This year, September 7 & 8 were the last dates it was open until June of 2025.

I woke up Saturday the 7^th and drove from the campground at Apple River Canyon to the parking area at Charles Mound in the mountainous region of northwestern Illinoising.  I got there just after dawn and there were already three cars parked in the small space.  I jumped out and began hiking briskly against the cool morning air toward the forested hillock away off yonder. 

It’s a pretty hike, and the summit is a nice area within view of the owners’ house.  I passed two couples coming out, and a few minutes after I got to the summit another couple showed up.  We ended up hiking out together and chatting.  The husband is a longtime UPS employee, and I’ve spend my fair share of time slinging boxes.  We parted ways back at the road and I turned the nose of my Jeep west.  Charles Mound is the high point of Illinoising at 1,235’.

It was a hard push across Iowa and South Dakota all day Saturday.  I got into the Black Hills after dark and slid into a parking space at the Old Baldy Mountain Trailhead near Mount Rushmore where I slept until just before dawn. I woke up raring to go.  I had wanted to camp in the Badlands, but I also wanted to be as close to the Cloud Peak trailhead as I could get when I woke up on Sunday morning.

I rolled into Buffalo, Wyoming right at 10:00am.  I was hoping to get breakfast somewhere in town before heading into the Bighorns, and I was greatly and pleasantly surprised to find there is a real Busy Bee Café in downtown Buffalo.  The town is where the fictional town of Durant is set in the Longmire novels by Craig Johnson on which the Netflix show is based.  I’m a huge fan of the show and the books.

With an amazing omelet and sides in my belly, washed down with coffee and a couple glasses of water, I pushed the Jeep on toward West Tensleep Lake Trailhead.  I was hoping to keep going on my good time so I would have enough daylight to march in as far as I could and get camp setup.  Even that far into the trip I was still a bit nervous about going into the Bighorns alone.  What if I rolled an ankle?  What if a bear tried to eat me?  What if I died of old age?  It’s those fears and others that have thwarted me from the things I’ve wanted my whole life.  Once I was old and mature enough to push beyond those thoughts I was married and had kids and the opportunity windows closed.

And yet there I was, standing next to my car with my new, lightweight backpack filled with all the right gear, and food, and I locked the car door and started hiking north toward Cloud Peak far off above the West Tensleep Creek headwaters.

Sunday was a hot day.  I was dressed in shorts and cotton t-shirt (cotton DOES NOT kill if you know what you’re doing) and I plodded under the relatively light weight of my gear.

I won’t go into the details of my Cloud Peak ascent since I’ve already recounted that here, but the hike in was mostly mellow, if a little bit hot, and I passed several other groups of people hiking out.  It was Sunday afternoon after all.  

I got to Mistymoon Lake in the mid-afternoon, but I wanted to push on a little higher to reduce the distance on my climb the next day, so I went on to the crest of the divide between Mistymoon Lake/West Tensleep Creek and Paint Rock Creek to the north. I found a great little spot on a broad flat spot behind a tree-covered hill that faced Cloud Peak.  I had no choice but to set up my tent with the door facing my main objective.  I made dinner at a picturesque spot a few hundred feet away and sat eating while watching the light change over the mountains.  It was pleasantly warm—not too much—and the evening was peaceful and serene.

I cleaned up dinner, stripped off my smelly clothes, and stowed everything in my food bag.  Due to a paucity of suitable trees for hanging I dangled my food bag over a fifty-foot cliff and hiked naked back to my tent.  I considered dipping in the decent sized tarn near the tent where I got water to ease the soreness in my muscles, but I had forgotten a towel and only had my clean clothes for the ascent to dry off with.  Instead, I crawled in the still balmy tent and rested until dusk.  I got dressed and climbed out to watch the sunset glow bathe the high west face of Cloud Peak and the stars come out over the Bighorns.

It was still and quiet and even though I knew there were a small collection of tents scattered around within a mile or so of where I was camped, I saw nor heard anyone from my sheltered spot.

I went to bed and tossed and turned until late.  When it was full dark I felt the urge to empty my bladder, so I once again slipped on shoes and exited the tent.  I was shocked to see the intense brightness of the Milky Way as a brilliant banner splitting the sky overhead.  There seemed to be zero light pollution where I was, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky except that mountain looming in shadow in front of me.

The next day was spent climbing, descending, and subsequently retreating from Cloud Peak as I described in my previous post.  I exited the mountains that evening after the sun went down and drove back to Buffalo where I found a nice hotel room.  I was so keyed up from the climb I couldn’t fall asleep.  Sometime around midnight I was finally able to stop looking at the photos and writing in my journal long enough to fall asleep.  I assumed I would sleep like the dead—it had been a few nights since I’d gotten solid night’s sleep—but I woke up at 4:00 am which is 6:00 am in my home time zone and close to my usual time for waking up.  I was also finally able to text and let my family and friends know I had made it out of the Bighorns and was back to the relative safety of civilization and once I got started telling the story I was doing so across a handful of text threads.

While hiking out of Cloud Peak I modified my plans for the rest of the trip.  What ensued was my original and first plan for the trip, but I soon modified it to include a jaunt out to the Tetons after summiting Cloud Peak to also bag the Middle & South Tetons or alternately Disappointment Peak and Teewinot before continuing with nabbing as many northern state high points as I could while roving back toward home.  The experience of summiting Cloud Peak—and fighting through my fear and doubt—felt like it was the crowning achievement of the trip.  While I could probably have succeeded in summiting a couple Tetons, I was afraid that would weigh down the rest of the trip and put me behind schedule.  But if I dropped the Teton add-on leg from the trip, I would bank some extra time and allow myself to fully enjoy the rest of the trip without absolutely wrecking my body.  It seemed a prudent choice, and for the first time I felt confident about bailing on a mountain objective.  That choice wasn’t out of fear or apprehension, but realistically so I could better enjoy myself afterward.

With the extra time I decided I would swing back through the Black Hills and then the Badlands which I had missed on the trip out and hated that I drove through both in the dark.  I took my time Tuesday morning doing some laundry in the hotel, repacking my stuff and cleaning up the Jeep, stretching for the first time in days, and finally—as my clothes dried—soaking in the hotel’s hot tub and stretching some more.

I left the hotel and drove back into Buffalo for a second breakfast at the Busy Bee Café.  I eagerly ordered the Longmire Breakfast from my seat by the front windows.  It’s comprised of eggs, a 6 oz. flat iron steak, potatoes O’brien, and a huge buttermilk biscuit.  I added a side of gravy because Walt always serves his inmates a breakfast of biscuits and gravy from the Busy Bee in the books.  Or at least in The Cold Dish, which I had been listening to on audiobook on the trip.  I’d already read the actual book, but I wanted to revisit it, because one of the climaxes of the book takes place in the Bighorns and down West Tensleep Creek where I had backpacked in.  It was an incredible meal, and I hate that it’ll be a while before I can have it again.  I reluctantly pulled out of Buffalo and headed east toward the Black Hills.

The Longmire Breakfast

In 2020, when I took the road trip out west with my dad one of the side trips was to bag Black Elk Peak in the Black Hills.  It’s the high point of South Dakota and still my favorite state highpoint to boot.  One of the attractions along that nine-mile hike is a short scramble to the top of Little Devil’s Tower.  It’s a feature that only resembles its namesake in rough shape from the north.  But it’s still a cool point.  I figured the three mile out-and-back hike to Little Devil’s Tower would keep me from stiffening up too much after my considerable Cloud Peak effort.  And that it did.

I took my time and enjoyed the hike.  Once there, I explored around the base of the summit block, then scrambled/soloed up a 150’ exposed slab to gain the top.  It felt like maybe a 5.2 or 5.3 climb but felt secure all the way.  Then I eased down the standard approach and explored around some more following a brilliant dike of rose quartz across a big hump of rock a few hundred feet until it disappeared into the matrix.   

Winding through the Needles area on the drive out I saw parallels to my tourist-oriented frustrations in my home of the Red River Gorge, even down to a Nada Tunnel-esque experience at the Needles’ Eye Tunnel.  I called The Bean while I drove through the Needles and chatted with her, checking on how her week had gone and telling her next summer I was definitely bringing her and her brother out west.  I felt terrible I had taken yet another big trip and left them behind.  But I also acknowledged to myself that maybe I’d gotten this mountain bug out of my system enough to focus on showing them some of the wonders of the West before going solo again.

Hallowed bouldering ground: The Thimble

Needles' Eye Tunnel (aka Nada's Eye Tunnel)

I eased into the Badlands a little before dusk and bought an annual National Parks pass.  I fully intend to use it, too.  I drove along the escarpment and tried to get some photos as the sun set, but I wasn’t terribly happy with them. As it got too dark to keep taking photos sooner rather than later, I turned back and made my way to the Sage Creek Campground.  I pulled into a spot and arranged the Jeep for sleeping.  It got dark and quiet pretty quick, and I tried to get some rest.  After a little bit I woke up and looked out to another insanely beautiful night sky.  I crawled out of the Jeep and set up my camera on a small army surplus tripod I found a few months ago and got a few pics of the Milky Way.  I regretted I didn’t do the same near Cloud Peak, as there was too much light pollution near the Badlands.  They turned out okay, but I also realized I need a wider-angle lens to better capture the night sky that way.  I got back in the car and slept until just before dawn.

When I woke, I realized if I got going, I could get some early morning photos of the formations in the Badlands and that motivated me to roll out of the campground before anyone else.  I felt conspicuous because I am not usually the loud guy in the campground and growl under my breath at everyone else.  I tried really hard to be quiet, I promise I did!

The drive across the top of the Badlands and then down to the lower tier was fantastic.  I did stop and take photos.  Got some closeups (from the car with a zoom lens) of bison.  Even with the extra time and no pressure to move on, I still felt pressure to move on.  One of these days I’m going to have to go to South Dakota and just stay between the Badlands and the Black Hills for a week.  I absolutely love that area.

I made my way out and back to Wall Drug for breakfast.  I’d stopped in before going into the Badlands the night before and had a bison burger and fries with a piece of apple pie.  For breakfast I got eggs and biscuits and gravy (I know!) and a coffee to go.  I was dragging sleepy-eyed a little bit and needed some bean juice (as my friend Tony would say) to get me on down the road.

Continued in Part II: Across the Roof of the Country