When worlds collide

Toward the end of Day 2 in White Canyon - so far south you can almost smell Arizona and so deep in the desert that those invasive plants that plague the Colorado Plateau (tamarisk and Russian olive) still haven't found their way in - Chris walked back down the trail to tell us he saw bear tracks.

"Uh huh," I said, my voice probably wavering between disbelief and indifference.

"I said bear tracks, not deer tracks," Chris said.

I shrugged. "So?"

Chris just chuckled. "Um...." Above us, sheer sandstone cliffs cut out the sky, stark blue against a red rock streaked in slate black varnish. Cottonwood trees dripped in spring greens I have probably already missed seeing in Alaska, and I realized then how far from home we really were. Me and the bear.

I dropped my pack and hobble sticks and stumbled up a side canyon, where my friends were already following the well-laid footprints. I struggled to keep up with the group but found myself slipping further behind. Their echoing voices faded up the canyon until I was alone with the silence, tracing the steps of a ghost bear in the sand, and losing my concentration to the mystery of it all. The canyon twisted and narrowed, casting the wash in shadow, threatening yet another dead end, and still the bear moved on.

It's been an interesting experience to come together in this place - together as a group of old and new friends now spread between all corners of the continent; together as Alaskan and black bear in the Utah desert. Such strange collisions could only happen in a space so wide open it closes in all the empty spaces, a place so beautiful it bleeds light, where time moves like the waves in a river - constantly curling back toward the past.

I had a great vacation despite a nearly continuous struggle with an uncooperative body. I'm back in Salt Lake City today after driving between the hours of 10 p.m. and 3 a.m., all hopped up on gallons of Diet Pepsi (which is my excuse for still being awake and also for this strange post.) I owe my sore knee to some misguided mountain biking and unintended canyoneering, but I owe the great vacation to old friends, open spaces, and a little black bear that must have been a long way from home.


To be continued ...

Finally going to the desert

I'm just killing some time while Geoff takes a shower after his latest double-digit-mile run and protein shake breakfast. I just rolled out of bed about an hour ago. Yeah, I'm becoming a blob.

My knee feels pretty good after three days of absolute inactivity. Probably a good thing, because I'm going to absolutely thrash it in the next five days. Carrying my 35-pound pack down the stairs yesterday reminded me just how grinding it's going to be hoisting that thing down to the bottom of Natural Bridges National Monument. At least I have until Monday to worry about that.

In the meantime, I am mentally preparing for mounting a mountain bike for the first time since February. I am borrowing a friend's bike for Sunday's ride. She is 4 inches shorter than I am. I don't remember what kind of bike it is. Something in the $400 range. I fixed the tires for her when I was out here last November, and she told me yesterday that she hasn't ridden it since. Whatever happens, it's going to be an adventure.

So it seems every time I come to Utah, I bring Alaska weather with me. Last week, it climbed above 80 degrees in Salt Lake. Yesterday, it rained all day and here on the benches of the Wasatch Mountains, dropped pretty close to freezing last night. Brrr. We were going to hike a slot canyon in the San Rafael Swell called Black Box. But because we'd rather not die of hypothermia in the desert (Black Box involves a stretch of over-your-head swimming) or drown in a flash flood, we're probably going to nix that. Just as well, too, I guess. I hate prolonging the inactivity, but I think it's doing me some good.

I realized this morning that because I lost my good camera with the real memory card, I only have the ability to take 20 pictures this week. I guess I'll have to make them good ones. Secretly, I'm hoping it falls into a slot canyon so I'll have no choice but to buy myself a new one. But the most likely scenario is that I'm going to hobble back to the airport next week with a throbbing knee, second-rate pictures, and the same war-torn digital camera that I've had since 2002.

Have a good weekend, all. I'll post the blurry-photo, over-dramatized flash-flood report when I return.

P.S. Nykole, I can't get my e-mail to work. But if you see this, I'd love to meet up Friday. I'll get in touch with you next week.

Travel day

So 20,000 Alaska Airlines miles will get you a free 8-hour flight from Juneau to Salt Lake with only three stops. That's a bargain at twice the price.

I am mainly posting today because I can't get over that landing strip in Sitka (top photo.) It's just a narrow spit of sand with some rough pavement on top. Starts in the sea. Ends in the sea. Sea to every side. No room for a pilot to yawn or a plane to slightly stall. I know landing strips can be so much worse, but you don't usually see someone trying to land a 737 on them. I am terrified of flying anyway, and when I say I am terrified of flying, I mean I am terrified of the taking off and landing part ... at normal airports, airports built on actual land. Let me just say that after a long, bike-less hiatus, it was kinda nice to be back on endorphins today. Oi.

It was another beautiful day for flying, though. I didn't get good pictures because the window was dirty. The plane looked and sounded like something purchased at a discount airline repo auction; I swear I saw bolts peeling off the wing. Again, Oi.

Now I am in Salt Lake City. As much as I come back, it is always strange to be back. I am a different person here. I feel like an observer who has just stumbled back after an extended bathroom break, waving a broken remote control at a life I left behind. But it is easy to get sucked into the swirl of images. The plot is easy to pick up, the characters all too familiar. And it's amazing how quickly Alaska becomes the broken storyline. It's been 12 hours, maybe 13. The time change always throws me off. Not that it matters, though. I will move through here as if I never left, and return as though it were all a dream.