Dueling roosters called to a new day, encouraged my exit from the tent at sunrise to a clear sky and a cool temperature. We drove south, after I acquired a cup of Starbuck coffee, through moderate commute traffic of Alburquerque, then west towards Flagstaff.
Views across rolling hills covered with small conifers, dried grasses and scrub brush, of red-brown cliffs of mesas, reminded me of the Old West of movie and music. The spirits of Indians rode horses across the land, camped, drew petroglyphs on rock walls. The spirits of gunslingers and cowboys bedded for cold nights near a fire, rode across the dry landscape seeking fame and fortune.
We crossed the Western Continental Divide at 7,275 feet.
Flagstaff dead ahead, distant peaks came into view through the haze.
"That's probably it." Dr. Bobo broke my concentration on writing. "The peak is on the left."
I looked out at two tall peaks, mountain twins. "Yeah," I said, the sun overhead, the highway straight as the flight of an Indian's arrow or a gunslinger's bullet. "Looks like the south flank is clear of snow." A good sign.
"Interested in stopping at Meteor Crater?" Dr. Bobo asked.
"Naw, been there, done that."
The high plains desert generated a surreal landscape, a stark contrast to those of Illinois, Louisiana and Virginia.
Our early arrival in Flagstaff gave us time to search for mountaineer gear stores to inquire about conditions on Humphreys Peak. We asked at two different stores, got two different answers, the second more to our liking. We concluded we would attempt Humphreys without crampons or ice axes.
"Interested in going to the Lowell Observatory?" Dr. Bobo said. "That's where Clyde Tombaugh discovered Pluto."
Primate perked up. "Telescopes?"
"Sure, we got time," I said, not able to pass up an astronomy related adventure.
A late lunch consumed at a public park down the hill after our tour of Lowell Observatory, we headed north out of Flagstaff towards the trailhead, found a suitable designated campsite in the national forest and settled in for the night.
Dry pine branches, cones and needles, gathered from the ground, burned in the fire started with litter from Primate's rat's nest, past campground literature, used plastic ice bags, odds and ends of scrap with no food. I allowed Primate to collect the trash, believed his carpet of debris provided some buffer for Dr Bobo's floor mat.
We built lunch sandwiches for our climb and spread chunky peanut butter on cinnamon-raisin bagel for our pre-climb breakfast, cooked our instant rice, heated a can of chili, added spicy peppers, ate as we watched the fire. A small, solitary bird, agile, quiet and stealthy, worked around our campsite for morsels of food, moved on. The air cooled, dusk turned to night, the partial moon cast shadows of trees through the woods.
We anticipated mosquitoes that never appeared, consumed all our collected wood. Watched the glow of stirred embers grow fainter.
"I'm going to turn in," Dr. Bobo said.
"Yep, me too. It's time," I said, escorted Primate to a nearby tree.
We logged 388 miles today.
Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.
Views across rolling hills covered with small conifers, dried grasses and scrub brush, of red-brown cliffs of mesas, reminded me of the Old West of movie and music. The spirits of Indians rode horses across the land, camped, drew petroglyphs on rock walls. The spirits of gunslingers and cowboys bedded for cold nights near a fire, rode across the dry landscape seeking fame and fortune.
We crossed the Western Continental Divide at 7,275 feet.
Flagstaff dead ahead, distant peaks came into view through the haze.
"That's probably it." Dr. Bobo broke my concentration on writing. "The peak is on the left."
I looked out at two tall peaks, mountain twins. "Yeah," I said, the sun overhead, the highway straight as the flight of an Indian's arrow or a gunslinger's bullet. "Looks like the south flank is clear of snow." A good sign.
"Interested in stopping at Meteor Crater?" Dr. Bobo asked.
"Naw, been there, done that."
The high plains desert generated a surreal landscape, a stark contrast to those of Illinois, Louisiana and Virginia.
Our early arrival in Flagstaff gave us time to search for mountaineer gear stores to inquire about conditions on Humphreys Peak. We asked at two different stores, got two different answers, the second more to our liking. We concluded we would attempt Humphreys without crampons or ice axes.
"Interested in going to the Lowell Observatory?" Dr. Bobo said. "That's where Clyde Tombaugh discovered Pluto."
Primate perked up. "Telescopes?"
"Sure, we got time," I said, not able to pass up an astronomy related adventure.
 |
| Pluto Discovered With This Telescope. |
A late lunch consumed at a public park down the hill after our tour of Lowell Observatory, we headed north out of Flagstaff towards the trailhead, found a suitable designated campsite in the national forest and settled in for the night.
Dry pine branches, cones and needles, gathered from the ground, burned in the fire started with litter from Primate's rat's nest, past campground literature, used plastic ice bags, odds and ends of scrap with no food. I allowed Primate to collect the trash, believed his carpet of debris provided some buffer for Dr Bobo's floor mat.
We built lunch sandwiches for our climb and spread chunky peanut butter on cinnamon-raisin bagel for our pre-climb breakfast, cooked our instant rice, heated a can of chili, added spicy peppers, ate as we watched the fire. A small, solitary bird, agile, quiet and stealthy, worked around our campsite for morsels of food, moved on. The air cooled, dusk turned to night, the partial moon cast shadows of trees through the woods.
We anticipated mosquitoes that never appeared, consumed all our collected wood. Watched the glow of stirred embers grow fainter.
"I'm going to turn in," Dr. Bobo said.
"Yep, me too. It's time," I said, escorted Primate to a nearby tree.
We logged 388 miles today.
Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.
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