Breezy

5/13/13         

        The crisp air at our roadside campsite encouraged decisive moves. Camp struck, we drove to the trailhead, dropped packs at a locked gate on the gravel road Dr. Bobo used several years ago and according to the directions we consulted. Dr. Bobo drove the car to the parking area some two miles down the road, while Primate and I proceeded up the gravel road with Dr. Bobo's daypack.

        I realized I forgot breakfast and lunch, which we'd stored in the cooler overnight, after Dr. Bobo drove away, tried to call him, but his cell phone was off.

        About one and a half miles up the road, near another locked gate, an SUV sped by on a connecting gravel road headed downhill. I waited for Dr. Bobo.

        I watched Dr, Bobo approach with sandwiches in hand. "I'm glad you remembered to bring those," I said, "I have some food along to snack on, but it would've been a hungry day. Can you believe that road?"

        "That road may have been here when I was here last, but I followed the same directions in the guidebook and don't remember it."

        On up the road another two miles we came to the ski area parking lot, our intended parking spot. One car occupied the lot.

        "We could have driven here," I said, knew it too late to safe us any hiking distance.

        Snow, the surface thawed and refrozen numerous times, crunched under our boots. We followed the blue-dot trail signs, spray-painted on the conifers towards Williams Lake.
         
        The peak trail turned at Williams Lake, steeper up the flank of the mountain. Discouraged at the amount of snow, the trail buried, we followed old tracks and blue dots through the evergreen forest. Where the trail came to a gully with views of the up slope, we studied the patches of snow on the thirty-degree slopes. Doubts of our success emerged. Staying on the trail impossible, due to snow cover, and the snow crust slippery in places and soft, slushy in others, we debated.
           
        Dr. Bobo said, "I'm having a hard time with this. I'm getting tired easily, but I'm okay when stop a few moments."

        "Stop?" Primate said.

        A more direct line up the slope over exposed rock and grass towards a ridge saddle appeared the easiest route, the steep slope would require more of a strenuous climb than hike, but minimize snow travel.

        "We have all day, no rush, except if bad weather develops. Let's just take a beeline over the rock and grass," I said, more motivated to achieve the summit than Dr. Bobo, who's done Wheeler Peak.

        "You go on ahead. You need to get to the summit, I don't," Dr. Bobo said. "I'll follow."

        My effort reminded me of Denali, of Katadin, Whitney, many of my other climbs. Several steps up, a rest for several breaths, check up slope for the next best steps, avoid thoughts of failure, check for cloud formation above to judge a change in weather conditions. My adopted mountain mantra, Tinseng Norgay's words to Edmond Hillary on Everest, came to mind, "Slow means success."

        I experienced a familiar climbing illusion - an objective appears far away, closer but still far away, then suddenly, as if by surprise, within easy reach. I crossed the exposed trail, continued my bee-line towards the ridge saddle. What was the point of following the trail?

        Relieved to reach the flatter ridge trail, I felt reassured I'd succeed. Probably succeed, if good weather held. The clouds looked okay, the breeze stiffened. I quickened my pace, approached a high point on the ridge within a half-mile, saw a square cairn of cement and stone.

        Could that be the summit?

        A bronze plaque on the cairn at 13,161 feet read, WHEELER PEAK.

Connard On Wheeler Summit.

        I took several photos to record my effort, started down without delay, no need to linger, always the possibility of an onset of bad weather.

        Back down the ridge trail, I met Dr. Bobo on his way up. "I'm going on up," he said.

        "I'll wait for you here," I said. "I'll find a soft place to sit my butt."

        "Sit," Primate said. "Tired."

        Dr. Bobo voice echoed off the mountainside, "Woo hoo."

        When Dr. Bobo rejoined me, we refueled on our sandwiches, hydrated, recuperated and mentally prepared for our down climb.

        Slow, we snaked down on clear trail, then followed our direct path towards the gully to gear I'd left behind.

        Out of danger of possible lightening strikes, into forest with partial cover from rain, our thoughts turned towards the car, each step that carried us there. We focused on the slushy snow of late morning, worked to avoid a slip or post-holing up to our knees, or higher. Sore knees and tired feet turned the hike into a chore.

        Dr. Bobo's called to me from behind.

        I answered, concluded he'd gotten off trail.

        "I'll be there in a minute," he said. Moments later, "Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
       
        I waited.

        "I must've post-holed ten times," he said, when he caught up.
 
        Onto gravel road again, we hiked faster, until we reached the lower locked gate. Dr. Bobo proceeded to the car while I stayed with our gear.

        Down the road, by the clear-running stream, a celebratory bottle of Dead Guy's Ale, a Rogue River, Oregon brewed beer, helped dampen our aches before we headed south towards Alburquerque, past arts and crafts shops of Taos, along the Rio Grande, the afternoon traffic of Santa Fe, and stopped for the night in Bernalillo.

        A well-earned and excellent southwestern style dinner at the Ancient Spirits Bar and Grille prepared us for an early turn to bed.

        We drove 644 miles today.

        Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.

Avalanche Conditions

5/12/13.        

        The storm to the southwest at sunset passed us by. The cloud cover dissipated and conditions remained dry over night.

        We arose with the sun, packed up, drove north, fueled by a half cinnamon-raisin bagel each topped with peanut butter.

        Flat land changed to gentle hills and red-breasted pheasants foraged along the road. The clear sky and full sun promised good weather.

        According to guide directions we worked our way to Haigler, Nebraska, turned onto gravel roads, drove across a small corner of Kansas to the Yuma County, CO line, walked through low grasses and dehydrated tumble weeds to the Arikaree River.

        "River?" Primate said.

        A muddy water hole lay within thirty feet of Dr. Bobo's GPS location, the water level in the hole lower than the ground where Dr. Bobo stood with GPS. The aroma of cow dung filled the air. Hoof prints surrounded the hole.

        "That's lower," I said.

Connard at CO Low Point.

        Quick touches of the water with our shoes, we posed for photos, figured we bested the official Colorado low point elevation of 3,315 feet.

        A gobbler repeated his call within the sparse woods of the dry river bottom. Thoughts of Thanksgivings past came to mind. Unable to spot him, I concluded he wanted to remain hidden.

        As we drove away, "We'll be back at the paved road by 8 A.M.", Dr. Bobo said.

        Our next destination led us west and south, across Colorado.

        "I think we go by Buffalo Bill's grave. We could stop, if you want," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Let's stop there and have lunch," I replied later.

          Eastern Colorado, similar to Kansas, where flat alternated with gentle rolling hills, gave way to mountains abruptly, as if begrudged. Several snow-capped peaks came into view through the haze, grew into a chain across the horizon.

           Past Denver we followed road signs to Lookout Mountain, viewed Cody's grave and took photos, before we made sandwiches at a nearby picnic area.

Dr. Bobo At Buffalo Bill's Final Resting Place.

           The Rocky Mountains began in earnest after several miles, the roadway snaked up and down over passes. The white of snow contrasted with the green of conifers and the brown, yellow, grey tones of exposed rock faces.

           Snow covered the ground on both sides of the road, four-to-five feet deep, on the road that climbed to Leadville.

          We cruised the main street in Leadville, looked for mountaineering equipment rental stores, found none, read the posted reports at the closed Ranger Station. Discovered some roads and campgrounds closed, in particular the ones associated with Mount Elbert, Colorado's high point. The young lady at the Information Center downtown Leadville gave us bad news.

           Dr. Bobo preceded me inside, informed the attendant of our intentions to climb Mount Elbert.

           "I wouldn't even try it. There's avalanche conditions and several people have been rescued," she said.

           "I'll just have to come back," I said.

           Primate said, "Crap."

           Back in the car we debated options.

           "Are you willing to give up on Elbert?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Reluctant and dissappointed, "Yeah," I said. "I'll have to make plans to come back later. Probably, fly to Denver, rent a car and spend a few days here."

           "How long to the next point?" Dr. Bobo asked.

           "Four and a half hours," I said.

           "We could make that today. Want to?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Why not? "Sure," I said.

           We stopped off at the Two Guns Distillery, talked with the distiller. We each sampled a shot of shine, cleared out of Leadville, at 10,152 feet elevation, well before sunset. The scenic ride south helped soothe my disappointment, but didn't alleviate it.

            Long stretches of road took us south straight away. Scattered showers fell across the wide, flat valley before us. The few drops of rain we encountered evaporated from the windshield within the minute.

           Dead trees stood solitary watch across the valley, bare limbs stark against the sky. Those trees still living exhibited only hints of green from a distance.

           "The trees here don't look very happy," I said.

           South of the border, in New Mexico, scrub brush replaced trees. Rolling hills replaced flat land.

            "We're making good time," Dr. Bobo said.

            The road turned eastward. The sun at our backs, we looked at the snow in the mountains ahead of us, expected Wheeler Peak to be there, somewhere.

            "There's snow up there, too," Dr. Bobo said.

            We looked at Taos, Taos Pueblo, Arroyo Seco and Valdez spread out before us in the distance, passed a collection of futuristic, eco-friendly homes with curved surfaces and odd artistic features, some partially buried.

            A campsite selected on the road near our destination trailhead, we set camp, cooked a dinner of canned-chili and instant rice, avoided alcohol drinks, made breakfast and lunch in preparation for an early start on our ascent.

            Our mileage today totaled 644 miles.

            Low points - eighteen; high points- thirteen.

Gobblers Knob

5/11/13         

        We breakfasted on peanut butter on roll and drove to the high point trailhead. The sun warmed us through a clear sky with hints of cloud cover. The stiff, chilled breeze cooled us during our steady, fast-paced hike on the dirt and gravel road towards the summit. The 4.3-mile trail ambled to the strenuous grade, starting at the base of the mesa, then ambled again across the top of Black Mesa for the last mile to the obelisk marker, at 4,972.97 feet.

Primate Touches OK High Point.

        A few photos marked our presence before we started to the car.

        Four miles never seemed longer.

        We built our usual lunch sandwiches at Cottonwood Campground, headed for parts north of Gobblers Knob in Colorado. From Lamar we zigzagged more north than east, across the flat Kansas-like part of Colorado, flat, dry, open space, with more cattle than people, towards the Kansas high point.

         

Lamar, CO.

          Flat land changed to gentle hills.

          We traveled gravel roads the last few miles to the Kansas high point, Mount Sunflower at 4,039 feet, walked around the fenced enclosure and looked at what appeared to be a grave marker, and the unique metal artwork.

Primate Checks for Mail on KS High Point.

          We posed for several photos and off we went.

        More gravel roads northward took us to pavement.

        Late afternoon upon us, we discussed and determined the campground in Goodland allowed us the most civilized rest for the night.

        "What are the mosquitoes like now?" I asked the friendly lady attendant when we checked in.

        "There are no mosquitoes this time of year," she said.
           
        The ample time before sunset to set up the tent, shower, enjoy a local meal, re-supply our groceries, felt luxurious. The sky cleared of clouds and a cool, light breeze blew as songbirds serenaded us.

        Our mileage today totaled 295.

        Low points - seventeen; high points - thirteen.

Flat

5/10/13         

        The weather channel on TV provided us encouragement before we packed gear into the car. The sky looked promising, a thin high overcast with a few cotton-clouds allowed the sun to warm my skin.

        We pulled away from the motel in search of a breakfast for me. Dr. Bobo skipped the opportunity while I enjoyed a fresh, home-style donut washed down by a cup of coffee.

        We looked to the horizon north and west.

        "The report this morning is a lot better than what I got from the Internet last night," Dr. Bobo said.

        "I don't see a bad cloud in the sky," I said, wondered what we'd encounter nearer the Rocky Mountains.

        Flat and gentle rolling hills spread to the horizon in every direction over grassy fields cordoned off by rows of trees or fences. Light traffic shared the smooth two-lane roads with us on our journey to Coffeeville, Kansas.

        Vinita, Nowata, Opossum Creek flew by. Primate listened to the whine of our car tires, paid attention to passing semi-trucks, WOOSH!

        WELCOME TO KANSAS indicated we were close to our next low point. We searched for the owner of the property on the east bank of the Verdigris River without success. The west side approach looked to be an easy amble across a flat, untended field with an open gate. We chose the field on the west side.

        Shallow standing water in low spots across the field, and spots of soft mud, necessitated we pay attention. A narrow band of trees with moderate undergrowth about twenty yards from the bank slowed us.

        "Poison," Primate said.

        "That looks like poison ivy," I told Dr. Bobo, worked my way around and through suspicious looking plants.

        The muddy bank required our care to descend and a well-positioned tree and fallen branch at water's edge helped us prevent an unwanted swim. We each touched the river with one foot for a photo at the Kansas low point on the Verdigris River at 679 feet.
     

Connard  Avoids Falling Into KS Low Point.

        To wash off possible poison ivy residue, I rinsed my arms with puddle water in the field, and again with soap at the car. Good enough? We'll see.

        We continued towards Wichita, through Wichita, left Wichita behind. Pavement stretched ahead, cobbler-crust flat, light green and dark green fields flanked both sides. Blue sky, white clouds, warm sun above, the road stretched ahead. Highway overpasses allowed us panoramic views. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the Oklahoma panhandle and our next high point.

        "Flat, flat ... flat, flat, flat." Primate interrupted his boredom with an adopted mantra.
           
        The road stretched ahead. The air grew thicker with haze. The clouds spread wider, shielded more of the land from the sun. Rays of faint milky sunlight touched the earth in the distance ahead and we crossed the Cimarron National Grassland.

        "This still looks like a dust bowl," Dr. Bobo said.

        No mountains to see, no waters to fish, small towns separated by miles of flat, dry, scrubland, connected by straight roads with little traffic. I couldn't imagine living here in the 1930s. I couldn't imagine living here now. We couldn't arrive at our campsite for tonight soon enough.

        We chose a tent site in Cottonwood Campground within Black Mesa State Park, an idyllic setting to daydream of the old west and American Plains Indians, retreated into the car to escape the cold wind and eat our meal of canned-chili with instant rice and spicy peppers in peace. An after dinner appertif of cherry brandy highlighted a near encounter with a group of eight deer that browsed past us.

        We covered 559 miles today.

        Low points - seventeen; high points - eleven.

Y City?

5/9/13          

        Fortified with waffles, cold cereal and coffee, we pulled out from the TraveLodge under an overcast sky, a light sprinkle on the windshield, and turned north towards southeastern Oklahoma.

         I calculated our progress, twenty-five out of thirty-six points, two-thirds the way home, making excellent headway. We'll see how excellent when we get to the toughest hikes on our trip in Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona.
         
          "After today, we'll be moving west," Dr. Bobo said.

           I checked our route guide. Yep, after today we travel greater distances between points, a hallmark of the expansive western US.

           We drove northward, left Louisiana, cut across the northeastern tip of Texas into Arkansas, through enough rain for the wipers to clean the windshield, northward to Cerrogordo, where we headed west to the Oklahoma border. A gravel road led us north again towards the Little River. The last 200 hundred feet required a bushwhack through brambles to a sand bar at the OK low point of 289 feet.

Dr. Bobo at OK Low Point.

            We headed farther east into the heart of Arkansas, towards another high point. Thick clouds blanketed the sky, held onto whatever moisture they contained. Y City, Needmore, Ione led us towards Magazine, near our next destination. The color green dominated our views. Abundant trees and grasses flourished in full growth, contrasted by patches of yellow, an occasional house with a manicured lawn, a barn or a failed business. Lifestyles appeared unhurried, rural, tuned to weather and seasons of planting and hunting, with commerce stretched along a curvy, hilly two-lane road for miles, little pearls of economy and social interaction on a paved string.

            The cloud layer thinned, puffy clouds hung in a baby-blue sky, shadows developed.

           Parked in the designated spot, we hiked the four-tenths mile to Signal Hill, the high point of Arkansas, on Magazine Mountain, 2753 feet, on the wide, gravel path. The light, cool breeze, under overcast sky, alleviated our need to steep in our own sweat.

           Down the trail towards the car, Primate said, "Hungry."

          Sandwiches, made from my leftovers of fish from Ralph and Kacoo's in Shreveport the night before, accentuated our view of Arkansas countryside from the picnic area near the summit. Persistent, small flies pestered us in a swarm, created the only negative aspect of our lunch break. Chilled beer helped keep the world in balance.

          Reminded of Horace Greeley's words, "Go west, young man," we descended from the mountain with Kansas on our minds, made our way to I-40 W.

          "Oklahoma," Dr. Bobo said when we crossed the border.

          "Bye, Arkansauce," Primate said.

           I realized I might never see Arkansas again. My first visit could be my last, no foreseeable reason to return.

          "We should look for places to stay mid-way to Kansas," Dr. Bobo said.

           A search on Dr. Bobo's laptop, map consultations and phone calls yielded no campgrounds. I got a suggestion to camp by a lake.

           "I found a campground in a state park just off Muskogee," I said.

           We veered off course, towards more state park camping opportunities. Clouds grew darker, haze thickened in the air, a drizzle became rain.

           "I hate setting up a tent in the rain," I said.

           "Let's get a motel room," Dr. Bobo suggested.

           We settled on an EconoLodge in Pryor for the night, covered 475 miles today.

           Low points - sixteen; high points- eleven.

Ready . . . Float

5/8/13          

        Clear sky and warmth from the sun encouraged us out of the tent. Chunky peanut butter spread over half a cinnamon-raisin bagel constituted our breakfast before we packed our gear into the car and went in search of Tennessee's low point from the Mississippi side of the border.

         We referred to Dr. Bobo's computer program of downloaded local topography and GPS device to find our way to the river levee south of the border. A gate blocked the access road onto the levee, so we walked the gravel road on the levee three-quarters mile north towards Tennessee.
         
          "The border's about here," Dr. Bobo said.

          Several small yellow posts stood next to the levee road about thirty feet beyond.

          "I bet that's the official border right there." I walked closer for a better look, saw no distinguishing information on them.

          "Let's head west to the water," Dr. Bobo said. He pushed through the tall, wet grass down the levee's slope, towards the woods sixty feet away.

          We threaded our way west through the woods until we came to water, then turned north.

          "We're too far south," Dr. Bobo proclaimed.

          TROMP, TROMP. I avoided suspicious looking plants, believed some to be poison ivy. Mosquitoes hovered. I slapped one on my arm.

          "Well, this is good enough," Dr. Bobo said. "Touch the water here."

Primate Looks for TN Low Point.

           We took photos, Dr. Bobo marked our position with his GPS device, we called that the TN low point, official elevation of 178 feet.

           An employee of the Mississippi-Yazoo River Levee District -- "Bobby," he later told us -- greeted me on the levee road, offered us a ride to our car and provided us history of the levee system. He said, "The recent water level came two-thirds the way to the top of the levee."

           South, we headed, past the casinos of Tunic, past Alligator, past Boyle, before we veered west towards Arkansas.
       
           Previous low points a problem due to flooding on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, we held low expectations of reaching the low point of Arkansas on the Ouachita River.

          "We'll see what it looks like," Dr. Bobo said.

          Our final approach on gravel road proved no problem. What about the last mile and a half on foot?

          We set out doubtful, but willing to go as far as the water would allow, bushwhacked through light underbrush in woods. The soil proved firm under the leaf litter, the mud neither sticky nor deep.
Not only did we reach the Arkansas border with Louisiana at the Ouachita River, the gentle, sloped bank allowed us to touch water without mishap and without use of Dr. Bobo's rope he carried. We got our photos, tromped our way back to the car, surprised and thankful of our good fortune with the water level.

 

Connard at AR Low Point.

Ready to Float.

         On to Louisiana's high point.
   
         Mt. Driskell required our sweat equity to reach the 535-foot summit, nine-tenths mile from our parked car in the cool air, but we walked the gravel and dirt-packed road at a rapid pace. More photos.
         
         We proceeded to Shreveport, where we could have long, hot showers in a motel room and enjoy LA seafood.

          Distance driven today totaled 440 miles. Distance hiked included 2.5 miles around, through brush, mosquitoes and mud.

          Low points - fifteen; high points - ten.

Popcorn Sutton’s Whiskey

5/7/13         

        I escorted Primate to a nature's toilet several times in the night, noticed during our last outing a clear sky and stars shining.

        A lazy, dry morning, we pulled out of the quiet campground at 8:30, soon after crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri.

        Gentle-rolling forested hills beckoned us onward, the greenery bright in full sun in a puffy-cottoned cloudy sky. A Bald Eagle took flight when we approached, abandoned road kill aside the road.

        "Birdie," Primate said.

         Surprised that the bird wasn't a buzzard,  "A Bald Eagle," I said. "I didn't know they ate road kill. Thought they preferred fresh kill."

         "They're known to scavenge," Dr. Bobo replied.

         The warm spring air welcomed us at the trailhead parking lot for Missouri's highest point, Taum Sauk Mountain. At the start of the level, paved two-tenths mile long walkway to the summit, I spooked a tortoise.

         "Turtle." Primate pointed.

          Dried leaves on the ground rustled as the tortoise rushed away from us.

         "He' coming down from his ascent yesterday," Dr. Bobo said.

         The summit, at 1775 feet, lay in open woods, marked with a plaque by the rock outcrop and a pleasant spring day in the woods.

          South-southeast we drove, zigzagged to the MO low point, wondered how close we'd get to the official low point, crossed Locust Creek Ditch, then Mud Slough Ditch. They weren't flooded, a good sign. At the MO-AR border we headed west towards the Saint Francis River, on a dirt road, crossed over the dirt levee, stopped when floodwater blocked our advance.

Primate Gets to the MO Low Point.

          "The border low point is about one-third mile away, "Dr. Bobo said.

          We took photos at the water's edge to mark our accomplishment.

          We stopped at an Information Center in Arkansas. Dr. Bobo talked with two friendly older women about camping brochures.

           "Help yourselves to coffee and cookies," one of them said.

           Primate wanted to sample the offerings, helped himself to three different type cookies and a cup of coffee, sat down in a rocking chair for a rest.

           "We have some bologna and crackers in the back, if you're hungry," the same friendly women said.

           "No thanks," I said.

            We headed to the car, our next stop Memphis, TN, and a supply of Popcorn Sutton's Whiskey in a Mason jar.

            A supply of likker secured, we discussed options regarding camping and access to the TN low point. We searched for a route from the TN side of the border, explored campground possibilities.

           "Let's camp in Memphis tonight and drive to the low point tomorrow," Dr. Bobo said.

            The route to our campground of choice took us along Elvis Presley Boulevard.

           "Oh, there's Graceland," I said.

           Dr. Bobo bowed in homage. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

           "Now that I know where it is, I don't have to come back," I said.

           We settled into a tent site down the street about a quarter-mile from Elvis' home.

           Today's mileage totaled 395.

           Low points - thirteen; high points - nine.