Tabasco

4/30/13      

        "Pee," Primate insisted.
                 
         I put Primate off as long as possible before I escorted him to the toilet. Birdcalls punctuated our trek there and back. I figured the time about 5:30 A.M. Not ready to remain upright for the day, I lay on my sleeping bag, listened to the chorus of birdcalls, cursed the humidity.
 
          Dr. Bobo roused. "What time is it?"

           "Oh, about 6:45," I guessed, turned out about 15 minutes off.

            Up, packed, with a store-bought cup of coffee and half a raisin bagel topped with peanut butter, we're ready to head east.

             Texas, with more Texas to go before Louisiana. Exits passed. We tracked their numbers.

             "That's how far it is across Texas," Dr. Bobo said. He referred to the exit markers on the highway, "They second as mile markers."

             "Yeah, and we didn't cross Texas in a straight line," I said.

              We left Texas after Exit 880.

              Evidence of swamp country appeared. Long-legged birds waded in patches of water scattered across flat terrain. Thick stands of trees, full with leaves, some covered with creeping vines, others draped with moss, created walls of green along the roadway. Thick haze and an overcast sky obliterated dimension above, hid the sun.

              We made good time to our next stop, Avery Island, where Tabasco sauce is born. Gasoline prices dropped to $3.14 per gallon.

              Onward to New Orleans we passed under cells of heavy rain. Cauliflower clouds darkened. We watched for signs of a tornado, saw none.

              Hurricane or Bloody Mary in hand, we dodged heavy rain in the French Quarter for two hours before we headed to Lake Pontchartrain. Stood in two different spots to alleviate any challenge to our cause, one spot at an underpass and one on a golf course, both minus eight feet, for LA's low point.

              Stopped to camp outside Biloxi, MS and ate dinner at the Half Shell Oyster House. The seafood gumbo tasted delicious.

              Another 443 miles logged.

              Low points - five; high points - one.

The Gulf

4/29/13      

        We woke to a dry morning, cool temperature with light breeze, unlike the windier, wetter conditions of yesterday evening's thunderstorm.
         
         "Sore throat," Primate said, screwed his face, swallowed hard.
         
          "You'll feel better soon. We'll get you some Fisherman's Friend lozenges later, if you need something for the rawness," I said.
         
           Shallow puddles lingered from yesterday evening's deluge, scattered in the low spots on street pavement and RV park gravel.  While the horizon changed from vibrant orange-red to pale blue, we broke down the tent, re-stowed gear in the car, made quick visits to the toilet. Cats from nearby mobile homes and permanent RVs perused their breakfast prospects around our open car, smelled the possibilities, assessed their risks and chances for a food score.
         
           We left the cats to find food elsewhere, drove to the Sonic car-side service restaurant in Fort Stockton, for our own breakfast, then headed east across the expanse of Texas towards the Gulf Coast, a long day's drive.

            We collided with a thunderstorm head-on in Houston, kept going east, then south to High Island where we walked out beyond the higher reach of in-coming waves for our photos of the TX low point.

Dr. Bobo Runs From TX Low Point.

            About two hours daylight remained, so we stopped at East Lucas RV Park in Beaumont, TX for the night.

            The idea of local food and approaching evening made Primate's stomach gurgle. "Hungry," he said.

            My mouth watered. Crabs? Crawfish? Steak? Floyd's served a great seafood platter and Bloody Mary.

            We covered 664 miles, stopped just short of the Louisiana border.
         
            Low points - three; high points - one.

Mexican Border

4/26/13        

        We packed Dr. Bobo's car. The allure of adventure called. Highpoints and lowpoints beckoned us from beyond the horizon.

     
        "Ready," Primate said.
     
        "Let's wait for Janet's return from exercise class so I can say goodbye to her, then we'll go" I said.
     
        “Nine-o-five," Dr. Bobo said, "marked that as our start time. The odometer read... 126,438 miles."
     
        I wondered what we would encounter. Thunderstorms? Tornadoes? Floods? High temperatures? Almost for sure across the deserts. Snow? Yes, on Colorado's highpoint, Mount Elbert. We didn't how deep or how well packed on the trail. Mosquitoes? Indigenous everywhere, except the deserts.
     
         "Settle in," I told Primate.
     
         Our destination for the day, Arizona's low point where the Colorado River crosses into Mexico, lay some eight hours away with steady driving. We had lots of time to think, talk, plan, sightsee. Time, the currency of long-distance travel, the opportunity for companionship and solitude amongst company with a friend, allows my mind to wander. Except where traffic slowed us, the drone of the car's engine created the ever-present white noise of our travel. The car, our time-travel machine, wedged us through three-dimensional space, propelled us towards the future.
     
         By 4:00PM, after winding our way past Yuma, we stared at the fifteen-foot border fence between San Luis, AR. and Mexico that prevented us from reaching Arizona's true low point in the middle of the dry Colorado River bed about one hundred yards beyond the fence.
     
         "This'll have to do," Dr. Bobo said.

     
        A border patrol vehicle headed our way. "Get my picture before the border patrol agent gets here," Dr. Bobo said. Were we in for an interrogation? We posed for quick photos, waited for the patrol vehicle to arrive before we departed. No need to incite a chase. A two-minute conversation satisfied the border agent.
     
        First low point done, we focused on our camp stop for the night.
     
        Gila Bend came and went. How much farther before sunset? Tucson, too far.
     
        Midway across the Sonora Desert National Monument on I-10 we pulled off to investigate an RV park, but Dr. Bobo connected to a friend in Tucson by phone.
      

         I encouraged Dr. Bobo, "It doesn't matter, if we get to Tucson late. We don't have to cook dinner or set up camp."
     
        Onward to Tucson, arrived 8 P.M. Spent the night with Patty. Odometer indicated we traveled 687 miles.
   
        Low points - one; high point - zero.
       

4/27/13        

        Patty treated us to a Mexican breakfast. (Thanks for your hospitality, Patty.)
         
        8:50AM: Our next stop -- Guadalupe Mountains National Park in Texas. Within an hour the sun warmed us inside the car. We moved across the desert, interlopers in the comfort of reclining seats and air-conditioning, rubber-necked at the scrub brush, the mountains, the man-made structures out of place in the barren, hot landscape. Why would anyone live here? Build here?
       
         East on our minds. East.
       
         We entered Mountain Standard Time Zone.
       
          Crossed the Rio Grande. No longer grand, it didn't look like a river. Looked more like a flood-control drainage ditch, a few shallow patches of water scattered over the flat bed.
       
          El Paso came and went. Across wasteland, Wheeler Peak appeared, a ghost in the distance.
       
          We made a brief stop in Cornuda to buy crushed ice for the cooler, arrived in the Pine Springs campground to get the last open spot at 5 P.M. Central Standard Time. Rested, waited for the air to cool before setting up sleeping bags and cooking our dinner of canned chili and instant rice.
       
          We logged 418 miles today.


4/28/13    

         "Hey, it's light," I repeated to wake Dr. Bobo. The horizon glowed orange.
         
         We rolled up sleeping pads, carried our gear to the car.
       
         "Poop, soon," Primate said, stood by the car with crossed legs.
       
          "Hold on a little longer, we'll stop on our way to the trailhead," I said.
         
           Daypacks stuffed with several liters of water each, raincoats, some snack tid-pits, half a lunch sandwich each that Dr. Bobo prepared last night and breakfast we headed to the trailhead. Primate used the toilet nearby and exited the facility when the sun cleared the horizon by two disks.
         
           "Ready for breakfast?" I divided the raisin bagel with peanut butter between us, breakfast-on-the-trail.
       
           I checked my thermometer. "Sixty three degrees."
         
           As the sun climbed we grew hot and wet from perspiration. Felt more like eighty degrees. Low scrub vegetation provided no shade.
       
           We stopped for a short rests when the mountain offered shade and worked our way up the trail in a steady fashion to Guadalupe Peak, 8,749 feet, in two hours, forty-five minutes, a 4.2 mile climb of 2,950 feet.

Connard Atop Guadalupe Peak.

       
           A few photos to mark our presence and we headed down.
         
           "Hey, look, clouds." Dr. Bobo pointed.
       
           Clouds accumulated above the canyon where we headed, grew thicker, darker.
         
           "Could rain," I said.
       
           A few drops fell, easier at first, then more, big and cold. Things began to get wet. We put on our raincoats, glad we'd carried them.
         
           The wind blew harder. The rain fell heavier. We heard thunder. Soft hail pelted us.
       
           We left the campground in rain, but soon found sunshine again on our way to Carlsbad Caverns, thirty miles away.
         
           Dr. Bobo told the ranger, who checked our entrance ticket for the caverns, "We climbed Guadalupe Peak this morning."
          

         "Didn't get enough?" the ranger said.

Dr. Bobo Ready For Carlsbad Caverns.

         
          When we finished the self-guided tour of the caverns, my knees and ankles ached.
         
           But we had miles to go before we slept, so pushed on for New Mexico low point where the Pecos River terminates to become the Red Bluff Reservoir.
           
           With Dr. Bobo's GPS device we walked down a gravel road, discovered the lake's water level low, found a spot along the muddy bank and touched the water for New Mexico's low point.

Primate Touches NM Low Point.

        Where to camp?
           
        "Pecos looks like the best place. We'll run out of light, if we go any farther," Dr. Bobo said.
            

        I had no success finding a suitable campground on the Internet before we arrived in town, so Dr. Bobo stopped next to a replica building of "The Jersey Lilly," Judge Roy Bean's courthouse. While Dr. Bobo searched for a campground, I looked at Robert Allison's two tombstones. A GENTLEMAN GUNFIGTHER on one and HE NEVER KILLED A MAN THAT DID NOT NEED KILLING on the other.
         

Gunslinger "Clay"

            Unable to find a suitable place in Pecos, we headed on to Fort Stockton.
           
            Low points - two; high points - one.

Winnemucca

7/11/12         

        Winnemucca proved to be an ideal place to spend the night. We slept in sleeping bags without the tent. The dry air with cool overnight temperatures felt like air conditioning. Insects did not bother us.

        An early start put us on the road west before 7AM. Light traffic allowed Primate to keep us at the speed limit and we arrived at Dr. Bobo's home at 1:30PM without problem.

        After an afternoon's rest and a night's sleep, Primate and I will head home tomorrow.

        Our trip successful, we completed our pre-trip goals, plus went to the Illinois high point, took only twenty-six days, and covered 12,083 miles.

        We'll cover the southern tier of the US next year to complete the "fifty high points" and "fifty low points." Well, almost ... Primate and I will have to travel to Alaska to touch the ocean there as its low point. Also, we will have done the high point and low point of DC. 

        Primate and I plan to upload some photos of our trip upon our return home. Keep in mind that Primate is still evolving. We made some editing changes to correct spelling, punctuation and arithmetic to our previous postings, and may make additional editing changes later, but none of these will effect the meaning or substance of the content.

Gunslinger Territory

7/7/12         

        Dr. Bobo stood next to the picnic table where Christopher stirred bacon on an aluminum pan in preparation of our breakfast. "I checked the temperature awhile ago. Before sun up it was already eighty degrees," Dr. Bobo observed.

        "I believe it," I said. In spite of the high temperature, everything felt clammy from the humidity.

         Primate guided the car away from the campground within 30 minutes, and within another 30 minutes we walked through the open gate and down the long, gravel road towards the Illinois high point. The private road gained 125 feet as we traversed the 1.2 miles alongside cultivated fields on the lower levels, then through woods nearer the summit of Charles Mound at 1,235 feet.

Christopher & Dr. Bobo On IL High Point

        We moved on. There was no time to waste.

        Back in the car, while Primate drove, Dr. Bobo consulted maps and road directions to our next point.

        Christopher consulted his cell phone for texts and e-mails. "I've got to go home. Can you drop me at an airport? I just got word my roommate is screwing up. My neighbor says, 'He's gotta go.' If I don't deal with it I could get evicted."

        "We're going right by Dubuque Airport," Dr. Bobo said.

        Christopher learned flights from Dubuque were expensive, so declined to fly from there. "Six hundred dollars, that's too much."

        "We can drop you at Omaha, but it will be late today. Maybe, Kansas City, Missouri, just 30 miles out of our way?" Dr. Bobo offered. Dr. Bobo and I already discussed this and considered it no inconvenience to our plans. Primate considered the extra distance trivial.

        We headed south past Davenport and Moline.

        I heard Dr. Bobo say, "It's 94 degrees."

        In my peripheral vision I saw him looking to the side of the road and glanced over to see for myself. A digital bank sign flashed the time of 10:30AM. As I looked it flashed the temperature of 94 degrees. That made me feel even hotter.

        We continued south to the odd tip of Iowa. We parked and crossed over the chain that dangled a sign that suggested NO TRESSPASSING and walked about one-quarter mile to the muddy bank of the confluence of the Des Moines and Mississippi Rivers, then considered we were at the low point of Iowa.

        We drove west towards the Kansas City airport through the oppressive heat, the sun occasionally blocked by clouds. As we neared Kansas City, MO, bank signs showed temperatures of 106 and 104 degrees. We dropped Chris at the airport and said our goodbyes at 4:15PM.

        Primate drove us north through Missouri, back into Iowa, then west into Nebraska, then turned south again following Dr. Bobo's directions.

        We came to an open gate at a levee before the road south entered Kansas.

        "I didn't expect that to be open. It was locked when I looked at it on Google," Dr. Bobo said.

        Primate turned left onto the levee and maneuvered us down the dusty, vegetated path almost to the river. We bushwhacked the remaining 100 feet to the bank, and scrambled down to the muddy, flat edge of the Missouri River.

        Dr. Bobo determined the border with Kansas with his GPS device and we called that low point of Nebraska. "Good, I don't think I could have hiked this."

Primate Rests At the NB Low Point.

        Several photos ensued and we high-tailed it off the levee to reduce the odds of getting locked behind the gate.

        North beckoned again. The temperature seemed to be less stiffling once we drank cold water at a rest stop. We found a campground late afternoon so had plenty of time to relax.

        "The temperature should drop tomorrow," we were told by one of the managers of the campground.

        The breezes increased to a steady wind and brought welcomed relief from the heat. A shower with a cool-down helped improve my disposition.

       I offered to share my beer with Dr. Bobo. Primate didn't care. Canned chili and instant rice, flavored with spicy peppers, and a half-a-beer chaser went down well.

       We covered another 657 miles today. Low points - twenty six; high points - twenty.

7/8/12         

        The clear sky, and mild temperature, bode for a more pleasant day. We continued north. Iowa farmland flattened. Hills, seen in the distance to either side of the road, provided me some relief to the flatness.

        Near Sibley, Iowa, before the border with Minnesota, we came to Hawkeye Point, 1,670 feet, located on private farmland. Primate stopped the car in front of the signs and plaque and with a 50-foot walk we stood and took photos at Iowa's high point.

        Northward, we proceeded up the western side of Minnesota, alongside the border with North Dakota. The sun shone bright in a near cloudless sky, but the temperature was, at least, more bearable than yesterday.

        Primate wanted a break from driving, so Dr. Bobo consented to take a turn. "It's 86 degrees," Dr. Bobo yelled as we neared Dawson. The car clock read 2:45PM.

        We targeted South Dakota next, crossed the border to Big Stone Lake, where we ate sandwiches for lunch, then commemorated touching the lake's edge for another low point.

        We headed west. Rolling hills replaced flatter terrain, birds congregated around lakes by the roadside, and the crops gradually shifted from corn to wheat.

        I couldn't live in a place like this, it's too isolated.

        Dr. Bobo found us a possible campsite near Pierre. An easy tent setup, then late dinner at a restaurant, got us to bed about mid-night.

        Low points - twenty seven; high points - twenty one. The odometer today topped 676 miles.

7/9/12         

        Dr. Bobo's footsteps on the gravel pad of our campsite prompted me out of the tent at 6AM. We packed up in the cool air, sans mosquitoes, and drove away for an early morning start.

        Mount Rushmore beckoned.

Primate Ponders How He Would Look As Part of Rushmore.

        Our route led us past it, so we stopped to marvel awhile, then we moved on to Custer State Park for our next goal.

        I felt fatigued from my first step. Doubts about doing the three-mile hike to the high point of South Dakota plagued me, in spite of the breeze and mild temperature. Within a short period perspiration covered my face, even though the trail climbed gradually, but I began to gather energy and my doubts waned as I advanced.

        Dr. Bobo looked at his GPS device. "It's only one mile from here, as the crow flies. The elevation gain from the parking lot is 1,100 feet, but the trail gains and loses elevation along the way, making the truer gain about 1,600 feet." The trail requires three miles of travel to the South Dakota high point from the parking lot, however. "This is my favorite hike," he added.

        "Yes, I agree this trail is better, you don't have to fight your way around boulders, like the ones on Katahdin and Mt. Marcy," I said.

        At the summit of Harney Peak, 7,242 feet, we examined the defunct hotel and ate our lunch sandwiches.

Primate Stands At The Highest Natural Point Of Narney Peak.

        Onward south, out of the Black Hills, into Nebraska, and over rolling hills where cattle grazed. This felt even more desolate and isolated than yesterday.

        As we neared the southwest corner of Nebraska, near the tri-corner with Wyoming and Colorado, we took gravel roads, alternating between south and west directions to work our way to the high point, referred to by the property owner as Panorama Point, 5,424 feet. The setting sun colored the distant clouds and provided an enhanced backdrop for our photos.

Dr. Bobo On NB High Point.

Primate Touches NB High Point.

        Dr. Bobo and I discussed the possibility of adding the high and low points of Colorado to this trip while Primate drove us back to the civilization of Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, careful to avoid animals on the road at dusk.

        BEEP, BEEP! The antelope standing by the roadside turned away and fled.

        We found a campsite, a fast food restaurant for dinner, concluded we should postpone Colorado until next year, and went to bed late again.

        Low points - twenty seven; high points - twenty three. The odometer recorded another 527 miles.

7/10/12         

        I stirred to a quiet surrounding. Dr. Bobo's sleeping bag was not in the tent and the sun hung about two hands above the horizon, one hour for each hand is a good estimation. I figured it was about 9AM. The warm air in the tent also prompted me to get up.

        "Good morning," I said to Dr. Bobo. "How long have you been up?"

        "About two hours."

        "You could have woke me up," I said.

        "I figure you wanted to sleep," he responded.

        Primate put us on the highway and set the cruise control at the speed limit. The weather good, the road uncongested, we started the long count down of miles to home.

        Dr. Bobo took a nap. Primate steered the car along our way. I wandered around in my storage closet of stories of the old West, triggered by names on highway signs as we went - Cheyenne, Laramie, Medicine Bow, and the Platte River.

        Gunslingers rode on horseback across these plains, traded shots with adversaries, drank whiskey in saloons in little towns scattered all over. Pioneers walked alongside and rode in wagons searching for a better life. Miners hurried to other places in a fever pitch. Indians pondered how to deal with the encroachment of white men. Cattlemen came and fenced off the open land.

        The highway led us over higher terrain. I pointed out an elevation marker to Dr. Bobo. "Eighty two fifty nine. The road's been climbed since we started this morning."

        This country seems even more desolated than that of yesterday, drier, less inviting, more open and exposed to the scorching sun and cold blasts of winter winds. I wouldn't want to life here, either.

        The mile markers counted down towards zero, signifying the border with Utah.

        Primate inquired, "You drive, Dr. Bobo?"

        "Sure."

        During stretches of highway between small towns, I saw few houses, but no cattle. Dried grasses and small shrubs provided color contrast to the exposed soil and rock, but offered no reassurance of my survival here, if I were left to fend for myself. Glad to be whisked along at high speed, I hoped my conveyance of passage through here would not fail me.

        Dr. Bobo consented to drive. He drove us through the remainder of Wyoming, then Utah, past the Great Salt Lake and across the salt flats, and then into Nevada. We stopped at Winnemucca for the night.

        We logged another 823 miles today.

Moline

7/6/12         

        We rejoiced this morning over bacon and scrambled eggs a’ la Christopher, and still broke camp at the reasonable hour of 8:30AM. 

        Primate got behind the wheel already aware we wouldn't get to a high point or low point today. Tomorrow, we plan to do our next high point in Illinois and access to it is restricted by the owner to daylight hours of the first full weekend in June, July and August each year. Our timing couldn't be better.

        We were glad to be leaving the high humidity at camp, but as we drove past cultivated farms of northern Indiana in the sun, the temperature rose. In spite of blowing air through fully opened windows, we baked in the heat before noon, and we still had many miles to go.

        We skirted around South Bend, glanced off Chicago, and headed straight for Moline. The temperature continued to rise.

        Christopher researched the weather forecast on the web. "It's ninety-eight degrees in Dubuque already and it's supposed to get to one-hundred-two this afternoon."

        Of course, that's where we were headed, so we followed a road around downtown Moline, crossed the Mississippi and took a right turn north to Dubuque.

        A stop at an Iowa Visitor's Center just across the river allowed us to break up the monotony of our journey, but more importantly gain refuge indoors and drinks of cold water from a fountain.

        By mid-afternoon we identified and arrived at a good campsite near tomorrow's goal, and to beat the heat went into Galena to have a late lunch or early dinner at Durty Gurt's Burger Joynt.

        "It's a meal in itself," Dr. Bobo said when his Bloody Mary was served.

        "That's the best Bloody Mary I've ever had," I told Christopher and Dr. Bobo, after I drank a good portion of my first, and I meant it. Garnished with a long, thin sausage, a slice of pickle, and an olive, and flavored with horseradish, I considered it perfect. Primate wanted another so I ordered a second with my entree of frog-legs.

        By the end of our meal we were stuffed.

        "We haven't been eating much, my stomach must have shrunk," Dr. Bobo observed after eating his half-pound burger.

        Christopher collected a good portion of his meal in a "to go" box for later.

        We hung out in a brewery, had a cold drink, watched portions of several sporting events on their TV's, while we waited for the sun to drop, as well as the temperature, before returning to our campsite. Strategies to remain cool occupied us for the remainder of the evening.

        We logged 426 miles today, mostly across Indiana and Illinois, and a small portion going north through Iowa.

        Low points - twenty four; high points - nineteen.

Arctic Alpine Zone?

7/4/12         

        Rain insured that everything was wet during the night. An early break from camp promised a parking spot at the Adirondack Loj trail head to Mt. Marcy. An overcast sky with an early start meant we packed our gear wet.

        "Heavy showers and isolated thunderstorms after 2PM," Christopher reported, after checking a website forecast.

        The parking lot, with only a few dozen cars, has a capacity for two hundred vehicles, according to Dr. Bobo, but, "If you don't get a spot, there's no other place to park."

        "How long is the trail?" Christopher asked on our drive there.

        "Seven point two miles, one way," Dr. Bobo said.

        I wasn't looking forward to this hike. Primate was ready.

        The trail started down within one quarter mile. "I don't like this," I said. "Going down here means we'll be coming up at the end of our hike."

        The trail soon climbed up and around a hill. The tree-shaded path blocked views except in our immediate vicinity. Glances upward between the foliage proved the sky remained overcast. No breeze amongst the sheltering trees, along with the high humidity, soon made our trek a walk in a sauna. Perspiration soaked our shirts, then dripped off our noses. I removed my hat and constantly wiped my face and head with my hand in an attempt to avoid sweat in my eyes. My glasses fogged over.

        The trail steepened and shared the way with a stream bed, dry at the moment, or nearly so.

        We separated as we climbed. Christopher, the fastest, went on ahead. For awhile I kept up with Dr. Bobo, but lagged behind as we proceeded up the mountain. Fatigue, along with gravity, conspired to hold me back, but I reminded myself, according to Tensing Norgay's advice to Edmond Hillary on Everest, "Slow means success."

        Stream bed and trail parted. The trail eased. We congregated at a junction on a ridge where three other hikers had stopped. One hiker, familiar with the trail, said, "It goes down here, not very far, then goes up. It gets steep on bare rock, straight up." He used one hand to indicate the slope, then added, "Well, not that steep."

        A few moments rest and we set off again, separating immediately in our previous order. The sun broke through clouds occasionally and short breezes provided brief periods of cooling. Trail over and around boulders transitioned to walking up bare rock face. The rock faces grew steeper while the trees grew shorter. A sign, "Entering an artic alpine zone," extolled hikers to stay off the "fragile" vegetation.

        How much steeper can this get?

        The sight of others coming down and of cairns piled on rounded slopes provided encouragement.     Clouds thinned, the sun broke through.

        Take a breather, and then push a little higher.

        As the rock above diminished, as the view of surrounding mountains and forests increased, and as the breeze intensified to strong sustained wind, I grew encouraged. And finally at 5,344 feet the mountain topped out and I stood at the summit, the highest point in New York.

        We all commiserated on our struggle uphill, a climb of 3,200 feet from the parking lot, posed for photos and snacked on our lunch sandwiches. Primate played in a puddle and wanted to take a nap.

        Dr. Bobo said, "I guess we'd better get going. I'm surprised it hasn't rained."

        "I'm ready," Christopher said.

        "Yea, I wouldn't want to climb down these rocks when they're wet. I imagine they'd be slippery," as I shouldered my day pack.

        Christopher started ahead. Dr. Bobo and I headed down together. Step after step seemed torture. I knew what I faced going down, over seven miles worth. Slowly, one step, one slip, one stumble at a time, we retraced our earlier travel. Breezes stirred the air; intermittent sun reduced the humidity while some clouds shaded the forest canopy to keep it cooler; my leg muscles and joints fought an on-going battle against gravity. And I felt it.

        Dr. Bobo and I joked, half seriously, or was it, we complained, half joking?

        "How much longer does this river bed go on?" I didn't expect Dr. Bobo to have the answer.

        "You just have to put in the distance," he responded. "Man, I thought this would level out by now," he said.

         How much farther? "I think somebody saw a stream coming down the mountain and said, 'Let's go up it.' How about some switchbacks?" I complained.

         We came to a trail junction with a sign, "Adirondack Loj .9 miles."

         "I can do that, piece of cake," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Less than one mile. Less ... than one mile." I wanted to reassure myself I could make it. My legs begged to differ. Time seemed to slow, distance seemed to stretch.

         We passed a family with two young children. There's hope.

         Plod, plod. I see the parking lot. It's all over but the after-pain, the soreness and aching, the stiffness, the grunting, and the slow shuffling gait that others, who watch me, dismiss or pay no attention, while I know what I have earned through my suffering.

         Christopher approached the car. "I forgot. I left my wallet in the car and I was looking at the ice cream and cold drinks in the shop, and saying, 'Oh, I wish I had some money.'"

         We took a few minutes to collect our wits, drink water, and buy a cold drink in the shop before we drove away, towards a distant campsite, as yet undetermined.

         Dr. Bobo looked at Primate. "How far do you want to drive?"

         "Just before dark."

         Christopher and Dr. Bobo found a suitable campground for the evening.

         We set up camp, encouraged by the owner's words, "We're not expecting rain tonight." However, we did need to fight off the local mosquito population.

         Low points - twenty three ; high points - nineteen. The odometer said we did another 115 miles today.

7/5/12          

        A clear sky and dry gear welcomed us to a new day.

        Primate drove us out of the Adirondack State Park, headed us west towards Watertown. We looked for a grocery to resupply our staples, as well as morning coffee and pastry. From Watertown the "toll road" provided a fast transit across New York, although it took us some time to cover the distance, but the road cut through forests, and so provided an ample view of trees in summer foliage. We passed through Syracuse, then Buffalo, before we nipped the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania on our way past Cleveland and through Toledo, Ohio, then briefly into Michigan to touch water of Lake Erie at an obscure and defunct marina where we considered that the low point of Michigan.

        We back tracked into Toledo, headed west across the flat, then gently rolling terrain, of northern Ohio farmlands on rural roads, where the traffic thinned and the towns grew less populated.

        "Drive, drive, drive, drive," Primate complained. But Dr. Bobo shared some of the driving and I didn't feel rushed.

        We found suitable camping near the western edge of Ohio, just twelve miles from the Indiana border.

        The humidity and temperature, both high, prompted me to say, as I looked at trees across the pond near our campsite at the Funny Farm, "The haze, from the high humidity, reminds me we're in the mid-west, land of tornadoes."

        Low points - twenty-four; high points - nineteen. Our odometer read an additional 628 miles.