Trek to Kosciuszko

5/17/14       

        When Janet and I discussed attendance of the 2014 Rotary International Convention in Sydney, Australia, Mt. Kosciuszko came to mind. Kosi has taken up space in my climber's mind for years, and a trip to Australia would afford me opportunity to go there. A climb, well maybe a hike, or more rightly a stroll, according to what I knew of it, still the highest point on the Aussie Continent.

        Primate and I bid Janet goodbye in the hotel room in Jindabyne.

        “I'll be back as soon as I can,” I told Janet.

        The sky, filled with clouds, portended a grey day, gloomy, a taste of winter's approach. Would Primate and I get drenched in cold rain?

        Primate steered the car up the road towards the Kosciuszko National Park gate.

        “I hope the gate's open and we won't have a problem or be delayed getting to Charlotte's Pass,” I told Primate. Although I looked forward to this climb for some time, I wanted to get up and off, fast. Something gave me the creeps, maybe hiking in unknown country in cold wind made me uneasy. I wasn't sure.

        “Watch out,” I said to Primate.

        He hit the brakes.

        Kangaroos or wallabies, we couldn't tell the difference, (two off to the side and one on the road) hopped away as we blasted the horn and slowed almost to a stop.

        Several minutes after 8 AM, the uniformed female attendant took our AUS $16.00 entrance fee at the gate. “One day?” she asked.

        “One day,” I confirmed. “A quick hike up and out.” Figured she knew I meant the Kosi Summit.

        She wished us well.

        “Next stop, Charlotte Pass, Primate.”

        “K.”

        We passed Smiggin Holes, Perisher, Spencer's Creek and Charlotte Village, all well developed ski areas as we gained elevation and proceeded southward on the dead-end road. Except for parked vehicles the places appeared closed.

        No one in sight, although six vehicles claimed parking space on the edge of the road at Charlotte Pass.

Primate pulled the rental car to the side of the road, we bundled up with the clothing and warm gear we'd brought, expected to warm up after a few minutes of hiking.

        Posted signs forbade vehicular use on the well-maintained gravelled service road.

        Low clouds hurried along not far above me. I wondered about following the trail in a white out, but pushed aside those fears with other thoughts.

        How hard would it be to follow a service road in a whiteout, anyway?

        Gravel crunched underfoot. Chilled wind blasted us.

        I couldn't tell you how cold, but know I'll never forget it.

        “How fast?” Primate said.

        “I guess about 60 miles an hour,” I said. Imagined the wind howled, Turn around.

        But Primate and I had places to go, things to see. Didn't know what we'd encounter.

        Overcast sky and milky white wisps of clouds hid the distant ridges, we faced into the gusting winds and started up the service road.

        Stunted, tough sturdy, trees grew closer to the ground here. Several hundred yards down the road, our views of the higher ground ahead opened as the trees thinned in numbers, until they gave way to short scrub and before us lay a valley. Tundra, felt cold enough.

        Off to our right, a white-water stream, drew a line through the middle of the bowl, headed northward, some half-mile down hill from the road.

        Primate and I debated.

        “Should we go that way?” I said.

        “Go shortest way,” Primate said. “Too cold here.”

        I considered the possibility of wading a cold, fast running stream. “Let's do the short route.” We knew the summit lay out there somewhere, 9 kilometers away by service road. That seemed plenty to do in a quick hike.

        “Another step,” I told Primate. “Keep a steady pace. Watch the clouds. Try to memorize the view and not think about the distance ahead. Enter a hiker's trance state.”

        The road, almost straight, led us south, on a slight downhill slope, towards the center of the bowl, I estimated four kilometers across and eight long. Where the road curved westward and at the lowest point, two concrete bridges provided dry passage over stream branches. Signs read, SNOWY RIVER.

        A rock structure, hut I assumed, stood on a ridge another kilometer ahead, provided us incentive to keep our pace.

        “Let's stop and check out the hut,” I said.

        “K,” Primate said. “Need to pee.”

        Out of the worst of the wind, Primate and I rested on rock by the hut, took sips of water and prepared to continue our trudge headlong into blasts of cold air.

        “Ready?” I said a couple minutes later.

        “Pee first,” Primate said, stood up, positioned his back to the hut and facing away from the swirling wind that whipped around the hut.

        I felt proud Primate didn't me to remind him not to pee into the wind.

“Better,” he said.

        As we walked away I read the posted sign, SEAMAN'S HUT, named for a bloke who froze in a blizzard nearby.

Seaman's hut

        “Not a pretty way to go,” I said.

        Around a bend, past an outcrop of rocks, we leaned into the wind, determined to continue. Clouds rushed by around us, carried along by the wind, over a nearby ridge, down slope, across the small valley, up slope again, hurried to somewhere else.

        I watched, listened for signs of rain. Occasional breaks in the white mist allowed visual proof of higher ground ahead, although thick cloud obscured the highest terrain. A short patch of snow lay across the road.

        Where a saddle lay ahead, another structure, concrete, flat roof, built close to the surrounding ground, not for emergency shelter, appeared suited for vehicles. We slowed to study the situation. A sign indicated rest rooms available. Nearby, a bike rack and sign, NO BICYCLES BEYOND THIS POINT. No windows noticeable. Doors shut. Quiet. No one else present. Shut tight as a green pine cone.

    Rawson Pass

        Signs posted the direction towards Kosciouzsko Summit, 1.4 kilometers, and down hill                                                         towards Tredboe ski lift, that trail a shorter but steeper route to the summit, I'd ruled that out.

        “Getting close. Not much farther,” I said.

        The path narrowed, half the width of the road. Built with a plastic grating, clearly well traveled and intended to accommodate heavy foot-traffic.

        Up, up. The path curved left, followed a gentle slope around a steeper mound of rock.

        More gusts of cold wind reminded me of our vulnerability, if the weather turned bad. Clouds closed around and obscured our views, then opened to offer glimpses of the surrounding terrain.

        My spirit lifted when breaks in the cloud allowed hints of sunlit valleys, lower to the east. And the path continued a spiral left and up.

Cloud Cover Across Kosi

        The rocky slope levelled, and even though I knew the summit to be nearby, I came upon the summit plaque as in an instant. Not there yet, not there yet ... then there within the span of one breath, one step, one thought.

Summit Markers

        “Done. We're here,” I said.

        “Yea,” Primate said.

        By the stone cairn, not to be missed, we struggled to stand erect in the stiff wind. For good measure stood on several rocks to satisfy ourselves we'd gotten to the highest, natural spot on the mountain.

Selfie

        I remembered to check my watch. “10:37,” I said. “About two hours from the car,” by my reckoning.

        Several quick photos commemorated our presence, then we sought a short rest out of the worst of the wind by the plaque.

        Clouds still hampered our views.

        “You can't have everything,” I said to console Primate. At least it hasn't rained, I thought. “Let's get going.”

        As we made our way down the path, larger openings in the clouds teased us with clear vistas. I suspected the clouds would clear away in several hours, but the cold, uninviting wind and knowledge of our 9 kilometer return hike to Charlotte Pass, as well as Janet's wait in Jindabyne, spurred us on.

        A photo here and there of quick glimpses of greens, reds and yellows beyond would have to suffice. Time to head home, towards the conveniences of warmth, sheltered from cold wind.

        Nearer the saddle, where the trail to Thredboe headed down, we passed several couples on their travel upwards. At Seaman's Hut, we paused to look inside and met several others on their way up. The hut, well stocked with firewood and sturdy furnishings, could act as a great hiking lodge, but it's builders intended that it be used for emergencies only.

        I said to one of the other hikers, “If you'd asked me earlier this morning, I'd have told you hell had frozen over.” And except in the hut, I considered hell hadn't thawed out, yet.

        The trail out, typical of all hikes, stretched before us. Knees and ankles ached with every step. The wind continued on its relentless rush, but, at our backs now, if anything, helped us along.

        Satisfied of our achievement, I nevertheless felt a loss. A goal achieved is a goal no longer anticipated.

Towards Kosi Near Charlotte Pass

        Long looks back and photos of the summit, now sometimes visible, as well as long glances around the basin of the headwaters of the Snowy River would have to suffice, to remind me on that day, that place, the stark beauty, the solitude, remind me of why we go to high places.

        At the car we removed our warm clothing, noticed the time, near 12:30 PM. Two hours up, two hours down, in hindsight a short time.

        We headed back to Jindabyne straight away, surprised Janet at the motel room, “You're back awfully early,” she said when she opened the door.

        “Yeah, well, not much of a hike,” I said. But I hadn't wanted to pass up that opportunity.

6/3/14     

        Primate and I touched the ocean at Bondi Beach, a suburb of Sydney. Not the low point of Australia as I first assumed, that distinction belongs to Lake Eyre, fifteen meters below sea level. Oh, well.

        High points - one; low points - zero.

Black, Last High

10/16/13       

        Up at o-dark-thirty, Janet, my wife, Primate and I, climbed into a cab for a ride to catch an early shuttle bus to LAX. Bad news late last night of the cancellation of our flight from Santa Barbara and that the next available flight would be tomorrow about noon, forced a hasty revision of plans.

         Symptoms of my cold of several days seemed less severe, my disposition improved as a result, but an unnatural early morning beginning to our travel reminded me of the last minute change in our itinerary, and lodged in my mind like a splinter under a finger nail.
       
          "A bad mark for American Airlines," I'd said to the airlines rep on the phone.

          "I'll avoid them whenever possible in the future," I said to Janet after the call.

           All the while Primate swore under his breath.

           For me the airlines and TSA sucked all the fun out of air travel. Nowadays, I focus more on how to navigate the gauntlet.

           "Black Mountain, last one, here we come," I said to Primate.

           "Yea, Black Mountain, Black Mountain," he said.

           Since the moment I considered finishing my highpoints in Kentucky, some eight months ago, I maintained a low profile, somewhat out of fear and superstition, I guess, that someone would beat me to that distinction.

           Now, just several days away, I believe I may yet end up with that recognition, but I keep my fingers crossed. Nothing like the disappointment of someone cutting in line in front of me at the last possible second.

          "Rain forecast for Saturday," Janet said, reminded me again that crappy weather might not make my finish so comfortable or pleasant.

          "We'll see," I said. How bad could it get, I wondered?


10/19/13      

        An inauspicious start in the rain from Louisville, after my brother and his wife, Verlon and Theresa, cancelled on the trip, and then nephew and wife, Chris and Jodi bowed out, too. Janet, Primate and I headed east towards Lexington, on our way towards the eastern most part of Kentucky's southern border, where Virginia, Tennessee and Kentucky touch.
         
        We escaped the rain, then the overcast thinned. Scattered trees showed the beginning signs of fall, where reds and yellows dotted the forested hills.

        Closer to the highpoint, roads narrowed to two lanes. HARLAN COUNTY, the sign read.

        "Do you feel Justified?" I said to Janet.

        She chuckled, knew I referred to the TV program by that name and set in Harlan County.

        Curled, brown leaves pushed by wind, scooted across the road, like rodents on their hurried way.

        Two hundred fifty miles of steady driving got us to the curvy mountain grades leading to Black Mountain. Sunlight broke through the thinned cloud cover in random patches along the road.

        My disposition improved. "Looking good," I said to Primate.

        The last turnoff to Black Mountain looked better than I expected and rain seemed unlikely at that moment. The rental car handled the road with ease, remnants of pavement visible along the way. Fall colors, more intense in the higher elevation, and enhanced by beams of direct sunlight, encouraged us onward.

        About a mile in, at a wide, level spot, a narrower graveled road off to the left, led up and towards a cluster of towers.

        "That must be it," I said. "Let's park here."

        "Yea," Primate said.

        The three of us walked the last hundred yards to the level top shared by several buildings and towers. A plaque off to one edge commemorated the development of this spot with communications equipment.

        Under a steel tower about centered on the clearing which appeared to be the natural highpoint, I located a brass marker, somewhat hidden in tall grass.

Primate Celebrates, But At The Wrong Marker

        We took pictures, returned to the plaque some seventy feet away.

        A grouping of flat stones, creating a mound near the plaque, caught my attention.

        "Better check that outcrop of rock," I said to Primate.

        Another brass marker, centered amongst the stones, showed an elevation. I leaned in for a better look.

Black Mountain Elevation Marker

        "This is it," I said to Primate. "This is the elevation marker," I said louder to Janet. "Four thousand, one hundred thirty nine, point two four seven feet."

        We took several additional pictures.

Janet And Connard With Highpoint
Marker In Background

        The cold wind gusted.

        "Ready?" Janet said. She started towards the car.

        "Let's go," I said to Primate. We hurried along to catch up with Janet.

        "That's what most of the highpoints are like," I said to Janet. "Drive hours to a highpoint, take a few photos, then drive a bunch of hours to the next one."

        But this time, my quest completed with all fifty state highpoints achieved, and Washington D.C. thrown in for good measure, no others awaited me.

        "Now we can start our vacation," Janet said. She meant she could participate in our travel plans at this point forward. I knew she felt glad to get this Kentucky highpoint thing done.

         

        At Antietam Civil War Battlefield we watched a demonstration of cannon fire. Primate considered it a one-gun salute to our highpoint achievement.

Corey’s Calendar

7/14/13        

        Primate and I pulled away from home at 10:15AM. Scattered clouds didn’t prevent the sun from heating the interior of the car immediately.
        We conserved fuel, drove without air conditioning.
        We knew we had a long way to go, didn’t look forward to the drive, but spurred by the goal of reaching the summit of Mt. Elbert in Colorado, which we missed this last May due to avalanche conditions, we steeled ourselves.
        Traffic moved at the speed limit though moderate to heavy along I-15 to Las Vegas. Windows-down provided air circulation, but didn’t help relieve the heat.
        “How hot?” Primate wondered.
        A glance at the car’s thermometer reading, “One hundred seven degrees,” I said, somewhere near Las Vegas. “We’ll turn on the air conditioner a while.”
        Utah’s high green valleys provided a relief from the monotony of bare rock and parched scrub of southern Nevada and Arizona’s northwest corner.
        We arrived in Joseph, UT approximately 7PM, local time, to camp at Flying U Country Store.
        “Drive, drive, drive,” Primate complained.
        “Yes, today we came 600 miles. Tomorrow will be shorter, about 435 miles.”
        Our sleeping bag and bug cover laid out for the night, we hoped for good weather. Hunger sated by a can of chili, washed down with cold beer, we sat in a slight breeze and marveled over the absence of bugs.
        “Drink whiskey in Leadville?” Primate asked.
        “Yes, if Two Guns Distillery is open,” I said. “I’m looking forward to that, anyway.”
        A quick rinse in the shower washed off our sweat and cooled us.
        Except when interrupted by dog barks and the whine of truck tires on the paved highway, I imagined the green-leafed trees whispering to us, their leaves still and edged with golden light from a nearby street lamp.
        “No bugs, that’s nice,” I said.



7/15/13        

        More clouds shaded us from the sun as we entered Colorado, passed Rifle, Silt, then No Name and the highway threaded through Glenwood Canyon.
        “Pretty,” Primate said.
       “Yeah, hard to put into words.”
        We turned off I-70 towards Leadville, the two-lane road climbed through canyons and high lush valleys to Tennessee Pass at 10,424 feet, then descended into Leadville, where we arrived at noon.

        A pull on Two Guns Distillery’s door told us the place wasn’t open and the posted sign indicated the door would remain locked until 5PM.
        “Let’s wait in town for Two Guns to open. We don’t need to be at the trailhead early,” I told Primate.
        The ranger at the forest station answered several questions. “Weather forecast iffy, thunderstorms possible off and on. Rain always possible, likely today in Leadville, likely on Elbert tomorrow afternoon.”
        Would a weather window develop to allow us to summit?
        We knew we shouldn’t be on the mountain during any storms, the risk of lightening strike would be too great. But twenty percent chance tomorrow morning sounded like good odds to us.
        “How are the mosquitoes?” I asked.
        “Heavy in some places,” the ranger said, “moderate in others.” He mentioned several place names I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t care to press him for clarification.
        “We’ll go for it tomorrow if the weather looks good when we wake up, Primate.” I said.
        A search through the car trunk yielded no repellent. “Let’s see if we can buy some,” I suggested.
         We drove around town, took a walk, looked for mosquito repellent. Found a few items barely passable, but we didn’t want to risk a confrontation with a hungry mob of bloodsuckers.
         Rain started at 2:15PM, along with thunder and lightening.
         “No problem in the car here in town,” I reassured Primate. “Let it pour and hope it passes soon.”
         The rain poured off and on. I made a lunch sandwich for us.
         Near 5PM the rain slacked again. Perhaps over? The clouds threatened to dump more water. We ducked inside Two Guns.
         “A shot of Wild West Whiskey, please,” I said to the young female bartender.
         Primate whispered, "Shot of whiskey, Barkeep."
         “We don’t have any to serve today,” she said.
         Although a printed list offered numerous mixed drinks with whiskey or moonshine, I opted for a straight drink of the only other hard stuff available.
         “Then, let me have a shot of shine,” I said.
         “Good,” Primate said.
         “Yeah,” I said. Acquired taste I mused.
         We spied a cabinet display of Wild West Whiskey, so I asked, “Are you selling those bottles?”
         “No,” the bartender said. She conferred with a male colleague.
         Moments later, he said, “I can make up a bottle for you.”
         “We’ll take it home,” I told Primate.
         Threat of rain, maybe heavy, maybe thunder and lightening, I decided to try sleeping in the car.
         We took a short walk before nightfall. Along the stream nearby we met Craig, near his camp, talked about hiking Elbert.
         “I may get up early to hike it,” he said.
         “Why not start early?” I said. “I may do that, too.” The more I thought about that, the better that idea sounded.



7/16/13        

        Sleeping in the car?
        Pathetic. My first attempt, I discovered it wasn’t comfortable. Tossed, turned, felt the hard back of the rear seat I’d put down. Legs into the trunk worked well as long I lay flat on my back, but I couldn’t turn. Cramped and contorted, I remained anxious about rain.
        Awake at 2:30AM. No sign of rain.
        “May as well get dressed and go for it,” I said.
        By 4AM we pulled into the parking lot at the North Trail for Mount Elbert, joined three other vehicles. All quiet.
        With a slight overcast we started up the dark trail. Stopped at the sign of the first trail junction.
        “Which way?” I said.
        “No guess,” Primate responded.
        From the sound we knew another vehicle parked in the lot. The beam of a flashlight poked through the dark, quiet, and hazy air, moved up, down, side to side, someone searched their way up the trail.
        “Someone’s coming. Let’s wait for them. Make sure we go the right way,” I said.
        “Good morning,” I said as the stranger drew near. “Which way?” I asked.
        He seemed pretty sure of the correct direction, so I said, “Mind if we tag along?” Primate and I followed him, used his light to conserve our batteries.
        Fog grew thick as we gained elevation. A trail junction with a sign to Mount Elbert pointed us the right way.
        The forest engulfed in thick fog, our flashlight beam as a searchlight to keep us on the trail.
        “I’ve gotten lost in fog before,” our hiker friend said.
        The quiet stillness reminded me, “You know, I haven’t heard any birds since I got here yesterday evening.”
        “They’re around,” my hiking companion said.
        With several stops to rest, remove a layer of clothing or drink water, we moved upward and through the forest.
        Within minutes of turning off his light, “I’m going to rest here. Don’t let me slow you down,” my companion said.
        “That’s okay, it doesn’t hurt for me to slow down a little.” Primate and I proceeded.
        “We shouldn’t squander any time in good weather,” I told Primate.
        The trees thinned near a ridge. The fog dissipated. The sun appeared.
       Within three hundred yards we passed tree line. Vistas opened to us of green grass-covered slopes towards the summit somewhere ahead and fog-filled valleys below.

        “No clouds above,” I said. “That’s good news.”
        The trail turned and worked its way up to the highest point within sight.
        “The summit?” Primate said.
        “Probably not. Don’t get your hopes up,” I answered. “I’ve been fooled too many times before by ‘false summits.’”
        One step, two steps, followed by a short break.
        “Keep going, steady but as fast as you can do this,” I said. “Each step gets us closer. As long as the weather holds several more hours, we’ll make the summit.
        Plod, plod. The trail grew steeper, through larger rock, then leveled slightly up grassier slope, to another bump on the ridge line.
        “Get to the next one. Each one closer.”
        Two hikers passed us, separated by several minutes.
        The second hiker, older than the first, said when he passed me, “Damn, that kid is good.”
        “Yeah, he’s like the Everyready battery bunny, he just keeps on going,” I said.
        Sweat soaked my hat, dripped from the hair on the back of my head, required me to wipe my forehead to keep my eyes clear. My t-shirt remained soaked where my day pack prevented air circulation to my back.
        The two hikers ahead drew away, disappeared over the hill.
        “You can do this, Primate.”
        Although tired, legs weak, ankles and knees saying stop, we plodded on.
        A curved ridge came into view. The slope dropped steeply on the west.

       “Can’t be much farther, now.”
       Clouds formed, moved over distant peaks, dissipated. Fog sat in the valleys.
       I felt relieved to see a hiker holding a flag. Several wind breaks, large enough to pitch tents, lay grouped around.
       “Must be the summit, 14,433 feet,” I told Primate.
       “Good morning,” I said to the lone occupant of the summit as Primate and I walked up.
       We chatted a while, I discovered he’d hiked the south trail and that the two hikers ahead of Primate and I had continued down the south trail. I checked my cell phone for the time, 8:45AM, left messages for my wife.
       No official sign, just a piece of paper in plastic sheath.

Primate Examines Summit Sign.

       “I’m surprised there’s no summit marker,” I said.
       “Somebody probably stole it,” the other hiker said.
       “I don’t see a summit register either.”
       “I haven’t seen one.”
       Primate and I took several photos to record my forty-ninth state highpoint.
       Three young male hikers arrived, joked.
       Primate and I ate part of our lunch sandwich. The chilly wind required extra clothing to stay comfortable.
       The fresh crowd took pictures. One posed modestly with a Frisbee, “My calendar photo,” he said.
       “July?” I joked. Got a shot of him, too.

Cory's Calendar Photo

       “Well, guys, we’re starting the long hike out,” I announced. I knew the distance to be 4.5 miles to the car with about 4,383 feet elevation loss. Figured my legs and knees would raise hell for this hike, even though I wore knee braces. My legs and knees usually bitched and screamed on previous hikes like this. And besides, I faced a long drive home.
       Fog in valleys dissipated as I descended to tree line.
       As I expected legs and knees complained about the downhill grade. My flat-footed steps plopped onto the trail. We arrived at the car near 10:30AM.
       A quick removal of knee braces and change of shoes and we started our long drive home. We would encounter every town, turn in the road, geologic formation in reverse.
       I welcomed the sedentary activity of driving, as the sharper ache in my knees and legs settled to a dull throb and then general soreness.
     The weather looked problematic for a sleep out at the Flying U Country Store in Joseph, UT.
     “What’s the weather forecast here for tonight?” I said to the male attendant in the store.
     “You’re in Utah. The weather is unpredictable. It could snow in the next minute. The weather forecast on TV calls for thunderstorms,” he said. “I just saw it.” He changed the TV channel. “There it is.”
      The picture didn’t look pretty.
      “Thanks,” I said.
      Sleeping without a tent, not a good option. Putting up the tent, a pain in the ass. Decided to drive farther and get a motel for a good night’s sleep. Primate and I needed one.
      Beaver, the next biggest town, the best bet to find something inexpensive, seemed ideal, so we drove on and got a room there.



7/17/13        

        We felt refreshed and unhurried, although started our drive at an early hour, showered and our success celebrated with a beer the night before.
        We passed Browse, UT. The temperature rose as we descended through Arizona and into Nevada. We passed the turn-off for Ute, NV. The temperature continued to rise. Near North Las Vegas the car’s thermometer read 101 degrees. We welcomed the developing cloud cover, which reduced heat from the sun.
        We sweltered during the long, boring drive towards Victorville, CA on I-15. Traffic moved along and we contented ourselves with the notion that every mile shortened our remaining journey.
         Home at 4PM, not tired, but our body unsteady, shaking like an earthquake, we made our way from the car to the shower and then to a seat for a good rest.
         Satisfied, we’d driven 2044 miles, hiked our forty-nine state highpoint and done so in four days with minimal expense.
         One highpoint to go.

Mojave Desert

5/17/13         

        Following our lengthy visit last night with Ron, a permanent resident of the RV Park, we managed to rise early. The mobile homes around us remained quiet.

        "Damn," Dr. Bobo said, after I returned from a toilet sojourn with Primate. "The left front tire's almost flat."

        We heard the fat lady sing, but the left front tire was flat, searched for a tire store where Dr. Bobo purchased two front tires, considered ourselves lucky the tire lasted until we got to Vegas and not given up on the gravel road to or from the dry wash of AR-UT yesterday.

        A six-hour drive ahead, we left Vegas behind at 11:30AM, began our crossing of the Mojave Desert, bound for the promise land and home.

        By late afternoon we arrived at my house, a 372-mile drive, covered 8,377 miles over twenty-two days, visited twenty-two states.

        Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

        Dr. Bobo, done with fifty high points and fifty low points, said, "I might do the tri-points (where three states meet)."

        What's next for Primate and me? With forty-nine low points and forty-eight high points achieved, I will focus on completion of both high points and low points. Janet, my wife, already informed of my plan to return to climb Mt. Elbert, suggested she join me on that trip.

        We'll keep you “posted.”

Wet Point, Dry Point

5/16/13         

        Lethargic, I arose a little after Dr. Bobo, accompanied Primate to the toilet, washed hands and face, noticed puffy bags under my eyes. "Damn, getting old, Primate," I said, added, "Need to trim my eyebrows." Always thought Andy Rooney should've trimmed his.

        Camp struck, a cup of coffee for me and muffin secured for Primate, we headed towards the Nevada low point on the Colorado river south of Laughlin, about forty miles away.

        A brief search for a path down the steep bank and through small trees and brush, led us to the cobble stones in the wide channel of the Colorado River, a long oasis through the desert. I pictured the Colorado River bed a dry, dusty gully at the Arizona low point and Mexican border.

        Photos, of course, recorded our presence, for posterity, Nevada's low point at 479 feet.

Connard Touches NV Low Point.

        A turn northward headed us towards Utah's low point, our last objective on this trip.

        "It's all over, except for the photo finish," I told Primate.

         The wide valleys of Nevada, with distant views of rugged mountains all around, felt expansive. The temperature climbed, everything began its daily bake in the sun. Mirages of water on the road ahead accentuated the thirsty climate.
       
         Las Vegas stood bright in the sun, casino capital of the world, a man-made aberration in the middle of hell on earth, testament to man's will over nature.

         Northeast of Vegas a sparse forest of billboards, each with its own solar panel, lined the road. Haze in the air gave distant mountains a ghostly look. I enjoyed the views in air-conditioned, reclining passenger seat style.

         Closer to Mesquite the road ascended to a higher plateau. Scrub brush and fruit-laden cacti carpeted the valley floor in green. The road descended again, where the vegetation clung to the browns, oranges and reds of rock and loose soil.

         The gravel road west towards the dry wash of our destination low point remained passable, allowed us access to flowing water, a trickle of a stream.

         We walked up the dry wash towards Utah, a warm breeze gusted at our backs. Loose dry sand slowed our advance along the tracks of All-Terrain-Vehicles we followed along the west side of the wash.

         "This is like walking through snow," Dr. Bobo said.

         "From the arctic yesterday to blowing sand (of the desert)," I said.

         The wash widened. A row of green cottonwood trees grew along the east edge of the wash.

         "Looks lower over there," I said.

         We angled a little to our right.

         "I see the fence," Dr. Bobo said, referred to the Utah-Arizona border.
 
         We went east along the fence looking for the lowest spot, touched under the barbed wire several places to cover all the bases, took photos at the one we judged lowest, considered that the official low point of 2,180 feet for Utah.

Connard Reaches Into UT For Low Point.

         "One and two-thirds miles to the car," Dr. Bobo said.

         Head-on into the gusting wind, we trekked down the wash through loose sand, mixed with stones. "About half the strength of yesterday," I said to Primate. My head down to avoid sand in my face, I looked at smooth-edged stones in my path, noted characteristics of some, that red one small, a scattered group purple ones of different shades, a flat tan one next to a volcanic black round one.

         We drove south, debated, searched and decided to overnight camp in Vegas. A shower and good meal at the Sahara Saloon capped a dusty finish to our high and lows on this trip.

         We added a hot, dry 379 miles to the odometer today.
       
         Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

Windy

5/15/13         

        Awake and up at daybreak, we broke camp, enjoyed breakfast as we drove to the trailhead parking lot. The sky looked promising, no clouds above.

        The clear trail beckoned us upward, when we left the car at 7 A.M.

        Into the first stand of trees, "This is a good place to find a stick," I said, searched and found a good specimen. Picked it up, hefted it. "Yep, this one will do, Primate."

        "I don't want one. It's too heavy to carry," Dr. Bobo said.

        "I don't mind carrying one," I replied.

        Our steady pace slowed when crusted, frozen snow covered the trail.

        Dr. Bobo swore when he slipped, "Damn it."

        The wind howled through the forest.

        We escaped the shadows of the trees into morning sun light near the pass. Our dispositions improved.

        Cold wind increased in strength at the pass. A short break in a wind shadow gave us opportunity to view the summit.

        "There it is," Dr. Bobo pointed.

        Humphreys Peak, one mile away, according to trail maps, looked rugged from our vantage. I hoped the trail didn't run along the ridge.

        Dr. Bobo encouraged me, "Go ahead," and followed.

        Another hiker, covered head-to-toe with gear, except his face, and holding two ski poles, leaned against rocks at the side of the trail. "I turned around. The wind is blowing a hundred miles an hour up there. I didn't think I could make it. I wouldn't do it, if I were you."

        "I'll give it a shot," I said, proceeded, glad the trail ran didn't run along the top of the ridge.

        I judged the wind speed to be sixty, maybe seventy mph. "That hiker must be exaggerating," I said to Primate.

        Near the summit, in a shallow pass filled with snow, the wind speed found an unimpeded route over the mountain. Unencumbered, the wind blasted me full-force. Everything loose flapped, windbreaker, hat. Mixed with the howl of the wind, I could hardly hear myself think. I wondered if my gear would blow away. I wondered if I would blow away. Bent, walking stick for balance, I avoided the snow, as much as possible, left the trail and proceeded on the rocks.

        "Can't turn around, so close. As long as I can move towards the summit, keep going," I told Primate.

        Although the wind didn't offer relief, my courage increased with each step nearer the top.

        I hunkered behind a rock wall windbreak at the summit, 12,633 feet elevation, gathered myself, readied my camera for quick photos, signed the register. I lost sight with Dr. Bobo some time ago and wasn't sure if he continued or stopped, decided not to linger on the summit.

AZ High Point.

        At the shallow pass I watched Dr. Bobo advance several seconds on the snow trail on hands and knees towards the summit and me.

        The steady, cold wind howled, brought images to mind of men in Antarctica.
       

Dr. Bobo Slides Along the
Trail From Humphreys Peak.

          Dr. Bobo met me again on the other side of the shallow pass and we descended together to a wind shadow, ate our lunch sandwiches, talked about our ordeal.

          "Somewhere between seventy and a hundred miles per hour. Hard to judge," Dr. Bobo said.

          I concurred, "Close to eighty, maybe a hundred." I imagined my arm out the window of a moving vehicle, my only gauge.

        Our hike down, a slog of 3.5 miles from the ridge pass, proved easy, the snow on the trail, softened by the sun, gave way under our steps.

        Back at the car after our six-hour, we remove unnecessary gear, boots, windbreakers, hats, drove to Flagstaff.

         "I'm ready for a beer," I said.

         "I'm ready for several," Dr. Bobo replied.

         Samples of local-brewed beer at the Beaver Street Brewery, followed by a plate lunch and a pint of Stout, celebrated our climb of Humphreys Peak, the last high point of our trip.

         We headed west towards Kingman, a good stop on the way to our next destination, one of the last two low points on our trip.

         Evening temperatures and a dry, warm breeze in Kingman, without mosquitoes or other unwanted pests, allowed us hastle-free, pleasant shots of cherry brandy at our KOA campsite table.

         Today's mileage - 176 miles.

         Low points - eighteen; high points - fifteen.

Tombaugh’s Telescope

5/14/13         

        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.

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.