Happy New Year! …and enjoy the blue moon if you can see it tonight. We are blanketed cozily with high clouds, that are ever lowering and thickening, and by tonight it is supposed to snow. But we saw it last night, and it was huge and beautiful, rising smoothly just beyond Indian Profile rock and ascending into the sky that began light, before turning a deep cerrelean blue, to then darken into a night pricked with diamonds.
The cold snap that left us without power from the pelton wheel finally ended, and alas, we are still here, not basking in the golden sunlight of a breezy Hawaian evening. But even so, things are looking up considerably. The temperatures have been much more seasonable, rising well above freezing during the days, and hitting five or ten at night. The river has thawed considerably, and stopped making the pained squealing and groaning sounds that seemed more tortured animal than frozen water. Although the smaller creek running beside the cabin remains frozen solid across, and all attempts to re-start the Pelton wheel have failed. (Isaac spent an entire morning chopping the foot-thick ice off of the intake trough in the creek, attempting to get water flowing again to the power house: to no avail). But all in all, the warmer temps have been good, and now we are just hoping for a little snow to push some wildlife down from the higher elevations.
The Wednesday mail plane before Christmas, actually arrived on Thursday because they couldn’t fit in all their stops. But when it arrived, it brought a full sack of letters and cards and packages from friends and family, a true Santa’s sack from the sky.
Christmas came and went in a fun flurry of decorating the cabin, hauling in the top of a Doug Fir and twining it with lights, baking, making ice luminaries and wreaths, Skyping family at home, and cooking venison roast over a bonfire. The day was capped off with a lovely hike upriver, looking for tracks on the skim of snow left behind by a minor weather sneeze. We found mountain lion tracks and otter slides, saw a full curl bighorn sheep ram, and admired the aquamarine color of the river flowing over ice formations. But when we returned home, we found one of the mules (Bat, as in Dingbat) laying uncomfortably on her side, looking restless and sick. We suspected colic, and hoping for a mild bout, began walking her for half hour spells, and then letting her rest. By nightfall she was not looking much better, still laying down the instant you let her off the lead, and not interested in water, even freshly warmed. A sick mule is a scarier prospect when the vet is a plane ride away, and its Christmas day… But by 10:30 pm, we went down to check on her one last time, and she was standing, looking much happier. She drank nearly a full bucket of warm water, and seemed perkier. We went to bed relieved, and by morning she was one hundred percent. Phewwww…
So I am ready to move to Hawaii. Actually, to be less demanding, any tropical island would do. The next blog will be written from a breezy hammock, swinging gently beneath whispering palm trees, with a warming sun kissing my limbs, and perhaps a rum punch sitting within reach.
It’s been sub-zero here lately. Sub-zero, or really anywhere remotely close to zero, are not the kinds of temperatures in which I want to spend much time. Yes, we’re still at Taylor Ranch, and yes I should be thankful for that. I am thankful for that. But honestly, I’d rather not be here at all. Actually, to be truly honest, Isaac is not even here right now. And I am absolutely not blaming him for that. We agreed it was a good idea. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wanted to do this.
Isaac took a job (a “real” filming job) for a couple weeks. He is in Africa. He will return in a week. I’m pretty sure it is hot where he is now. In case you sense a little envy in my words, there is. In fact, there is a lot of envy. Although when he left I distinctly remember feeling sorry for him that he had to sit on a plane for so long just to get there. Now I think I’d sit on a plane for three days if that’s what it took.
Before you go feeling too sorry for me (although a little wouldn’t hurt), I have to say that I got a bit of a break as well. I went to Delaware for Thanksgiving to visit my family. And to steal some words from a friend in McCall, when I asked how his trip home for thanksgiving had been, “it was wonderful, isn’t it always?”. And so I came back refreshed, ready to go back into the wilderness with new eyes, invigorated spirit, and endless enthusiasm. The doubt started to creep in when my plane landed in Boise in a snowstorm, and I walked to our car parked at a friends house a mile away, and by the time I got there my cheeks felt as if they were made of blow glass, and if anyone had gently flicked them they would burst into a million pieces and fall tinkling to the ground at my feet. And that was Boise. Boise is supposed to be in a “banana belt” of sorts. My ass.
By the time I had driven to McCall that night, floundered my way to the yurt in the dark, unlocked the door with a screwdriver, and was attempting to start a fire, I was thinking about frostbite. The temperature was -3, and would drop to -15 before the night was over. It took me a half hour to start a fire (we had left the woodbox empty, and kindling had to be chopped, the butane lighter wouldn’t even try to light, and I struggled with regular wooden matches). Then I realized the propane lanterns we use in the yurt also wouldn’t light, I guess because the propane was too cold? Never before experienced that, but it sure seemed that way as they wouldn’t light for 2 hours until the yurt had come up to a more reasonable temperature. But why am I complaining about the yurt? I would give my left leg to be in the yurt right now. Once it comes up to temperature it is downright cozy.
But after a day layover in town, I jumped on the mail plane and headed back out to Taylor Ranch, dragging my feet a little knowing what was in store, and wishing with all my mind that weather would come in and we wouldn’t be able to fly. But the weather was sunny (don’t get the wrong impression, that just meant it was light out, because there wasn’t an ounce of warmth to be had from the giant fiery planet). And the good part of my conscience knew I had to get out there to help the caretaker who was there in my absence. This was her first time caretaking Taylor Ranch in winter, and that can be a daunting task for anyone. Not that I had much know-how to bring her, but it’s just nicer with two people. Two people to kick the generator when it won’t start (which seems to be every time you go to start it), two people to sob and cry when everything is freezing up around you, nothing is working as it should, and Jim’s voice over the Skype waves just isn’t convincing enough, two people to invoke the powers of the god-of-all-generators to please let the damn thing start so we can have just a little power, just enough to call Jim and say “help!”, two people to heat water to pour into trash bags to sit under the generator engine until it is warm enough to try again.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that it has been a trying few days. All the water systems are now shut off. We are using the generator (when it will start) morning and night to charge the main batteries, and then are very frugal with using anything that requires power. We are getting water from Pioneer Creek which runs by the ranch, but is now running under a good 15 inches of solid ice, and requires safety glasses and an ax every time you need to fill a bucket. We see the sun for only a few hours every day, between noon and three, and the rest of the time we are in hoar-frosted relative darkness, in the shadows of the canyon walls. Don’t you want to come visit??
Just this morning I made the grand mistake of using the toilet in the cabin where I am sleeping. This is normal practice, I thought. We simply flush by pouring a bucket of fresh drawn creek water down the gullet. But noooooooo. Not today. This morning when I poured the flush bucket, instead of disappearing nicely down the hatch, the contents rose over the top of the toilet bowl and spilled all over the bathroom floor, to turn almost instantaneously to ice. The thing was frozen solid, an important fact which I had not noticed before making use of it. I proceeded to spend the rest of the day attempting to un-freeze the toilet, by many different methods. The one that finally worked was to bring up a small radiator and place it right next to the toilet for hours (all after struggling for more hours to get the generator running to first fill the batteries so I would have enough power to run the radiator…. Ya see what I mean? Let me tell you, it was a truly fun experience.
I think I’d better cut myself off for the day. No more writing until I have a better attitude. Because this truly is a special place. (And you can take that any way you want to)
We arrived at Taylor Ranch today, or tonight rather, after hiking 35 miles down Big Creek. The whole journey took three days: three fairly easy, wonderful days of hiking through a season we thought we had left behind. Back at the Lookout, a line of storms left the mountain crowned in snow, and us dreaming of lower ground.
The process of moving off the mountain was no easy task. We had been situated up there weeks ago with the help of a pack string. They came up to haul down all the gear from the fire lookout who had been stationed at Sheepeater for the summer season. The mules brought us a few very heavy tubs of food and gear which we had packed back in McCall, to get us through the month or so that we intended to stay at the lookout. As it turned out, we didn't stay our full month, and therefore had a few more leftovers than intended.
Pulling off the mountain involved several heavily laden trips with backpacks crammed to the gills, odd boxes and tubs lashed to the outsides. Isaac took the brunt of the loads, even taking an extra trip in order to help me save my already sore feet. We were ferrying the gear to Chamberlain, which meant a 26 mile round trip and a few thousand feet of elevation.
Needless to say, we were very happy to finally have all our gear stacked in the "warehouse" at Chamberlain, awaiting a plane to take it to Taylor Ranch. On the 21st of October, we too were awaiting that plane, which would take us to Big Creek where we where meeting up with Shane, our friend and mentor for the project, who was coming out to hike with us down the river to Taylor Ranch, do some brainstorming, and help with filming.
Everything went nearly as planned (amazing in itself...) and the next day the three of us were hiking down the trail along Big Creek, which was in various stages of donning its fall wardrobe. It was a real treat to see cottonwoods and aspens, red-osier dogwoods and vine maples all congregated along the river corridor, decorating our trail with splashes of color and the smell and feel of fall. The weather cooperated, and remained cool but not cold, sprinkling us only a couple times with hints of rain. It was refreshing to be walking new trails, and we got to see some beautiful places along the way: the sweeping bend of Coxey Hole, with its rocky pillars and a deep pool in the elbow of the river the color of jade, suggesting a wonderful summer swimming spot, and the awe-inspiring cave at the mouth of the aptly named Cave Creek.
After dark on the third day of hiking, we arrived at Taylor Ranch, crossing their bridge over Big Creek to enter the 65 acre oasis tucked into the bottom of the steep-sided canyon. Taylor Ranch is a field research station for the University of Idaho, and along with resident scientists (and our friends) Jim and Holly Akenson, they have allowed us to call the place our winter base. Its location is perfect, being smack in the middle of winter range for a whole variety of wildlife, and we look forwards to an active winter season.
It's been snowing for two days and nights straight. It went from an incredibly long and lovely Indian summer, straight into what feels like mid-winter. This glass box of the lookout is encased in ice and snow. Metal I-beams shrouded with hoar-frost is about the coldest sight I've ever seen. Most of the snow is blowing horizontally across the mountaintop, but 4-5 inches of it have managed to grab hold and coat the rocks. We haven't been able to see beyond the scraggy trees at the base of our rocky perch for days...
Isaac is out walking to Hand Cabins, searching for tracks to see what, if anything, has been lurking about in this inclement weather. It's probably a smart thing to do, he'll certainly feel better for having gotten out, snowing or not. I, however, am having terrible difficulty ripping myself away from the wood stove and this tiny glass box on top of the mountain. I'm not a cold person. I like heat. A mountaintop in the middle of falls first blizzard is about the coldest place I can think of.
And we plan to stay here until the middle of November??
We woke up this morning in Sheepeater Lookout for the first time. The mountaintop was swirled in cloud, the wind still blowing (had been all night), and we were very very glad to have a roof over our heads, and a wood stove to feed. It would have been miserable weather down in the valley in our makeshift tent fly propped up with sticks.
The fire lookout for the season (Jim) just left, and although we wanted to make it to the mountaintop before he left to talk with him and visit, we were unable to convince our legs to carry us all that way. By the time we were walking through Red Top Meadows it was already heading into late afternoon. Knowing we wouldn't make it to the lookout by nightfall, we slowed and took our time up the valley, stopping to film some scenics as the sun sank low over the ridges, turning the desolate and burned valley gilded and mystical. We followed wolf, coyote, and bear tracks up the dusty trail to the Fish Lake cut-off, where we decided to camp for the night, saving the heavy climbing for a fresh day. We had a lovely night under a black velvet blanket heavy with diamonds. The skies are slowly changing to their fall cloaks: the Big Dipper laying low over the ridges, and Orion stalking the heavens as the night turns to early morning.
Now awaiting our resupply by pack string. After the resupply up at the lookout, we will head off the mountaintop to go on a long walk-about, making a giant circle to try to run into and talk to some hunters and outfitters in the area and see what experiences they are having. So far, this year's hunting season has been characterized by unseasonably hot temperatures, and very little elk activity. I have been enjoying the persistent Indian Summer, but I can understand the frustration of hunters, sweating all over mountains looking for elk that remain hidden.
Today I had a major case of the sad and lonelies. It stemmed partly from trying to get started again, settling back into the flow, and partly from simply being unsure of what we were doing, what our goal was, and why. All those big, vague questions that sneak up and tag you when you're not totally balanced and sure of yourself.
Lately, it seems we've been doing a lot of sitting around and waiting to do things we don't really want to do (like interviewing hunters) or things we just aren't getting to do (like filming much wildlife). At the moment I can't even begin to think of what our story is, and the more I think about it the less I want to make a film at all.
I went for a walk to clear my head. My goal was simply to find drinkable water. We are camped beside Chamberlain Creek, but it is too big to make us comfortable drinking straight out of, and being that our water filter is laying somewhere in the back of our truck over 30 miles away, finding drinkable water has become fairly important. I set out on what ended up being a fairly lengthy hike: this country always ends up bigger than it looks. Hours later, I had all but given up the search, and was on my way back to camp, when I stumbled across none other than a perfect spring. It burbled out of the ground only 50 yards above the valley flats, in a lush little glade, looking to me like the fountain of youth. I drank from it, of course, and returned to camp to retrieve our water jugs. It may not have brought me the gift of youth, but it sure lifted my mood!
Later in the evening, as I again fell into a dark mood, I sat and meditated by a tiny waterfall in Chamberlain Creek, and again felt better. The healing power of water at work...
We again find ourselves back in the wilderness, after nearly a months absence. We are slowly coming to terms with the fact that we will not spend a fully un-broken year in the wilds, but that fact has definitely taken its toll on our attitudes. It would help if we could truly capture the comical qualities this adventure has taken on, but lately it seems we have only focused on the messy jumble it has created.
This morning we were in Big Creek, having driven the long and bouncy 80 miles of road to get there, rushing around to get our gear together so it could be ferried to Chamberlain on the mail plane. We, too, jumped the plane instead of hiking the nearly 30 miles, in order to be there for the start of hunting season. Now we find ourselves at Chamberlain, sadly missing our tent poles, water filter, and sound tripod, three fairly important items that got misplaced in the morning shuffle and failed to make it onto the plane. For a while we considered hiking the 60 miles round trip back to retrieve them, and finally (thankfully) discarded the idea because we were unable to agree on who would make the hike, and who would stay to film. Either one of us would have been lamed by the excessive miles. So we jerry-rigged (jury-rigged? I've never been sure which is correct) the tent, using just the fly and some artistically placed branches, and are crossing our fingers for decent weather that will not tax the less-than-perfect result.
It always seems to be a gathering of ups and downs getting back into the flow of this journey after having spent some time away. This time was no different, but now we are looking forward to a much longer stretch of un-broken wilderness time. Isaac is currently hiking somewhere between here (Chamberlain) and Moose Jaw Meadows. I went part way with him, but decided I didn't really feel like hiking till midnight (we left at 5:00 pm), so I turned around and am now cozily tucked in my sleeping bag about to fall asleep under this barely stable tent canopy. Hiking back alone I went through the typical mental struggles that seem to accompany transition time, wondering why we were even trying so hard to make this film and what the point was. But now, pleasantly tired and warm, everything has a rosier glow. I feel as calm and happy as I have all day.
Isaac has returned from his filming foray into the Canadian coastal wilds, and we are again preparing to head out to the wilderness. Hunting season begins on September 15th, at least in the wilderness. This year that date is especially significant because wolves have joined the hunted species. We are trying to get out there for opening day to be able to talk with some hunters and hear their perspectives on this historic event. It will also be interesting to experience if or how quickly the wolves behavior may change in relation to the new open season.
Here in McCall the weather has begun to turn towards fall, and people have begun to eye us strangely when we splash into the lake for a swim, as the temperatures have been dropping rapidly. As we prepare to leave town this time, the task seems a little more serious as we intend to be out for about a month solid and after that, only through town perhaps one more time before heading into the mountains for the entire winter. Things that seemed so unimportant during the hot summer months (warm winter sleeping bags, good down coats) have suddenly been topping the list of things to check into and get ordered/donated/shipped. Our winter tent, the homemade teepee job that has spent the last few months balled up and zipped into a duffel bag in a dark corner of our storage shed, needs to come out into the light, be set up and measured for new poles to help it hold its shape in snow/sleet/or rain storms. These are all things that seemed so far away only weeks ago, but now are coming into sharp focus as we realize the nearness of the first snows that will cut off our retreat routes back to town.
But this is all exciting. Again, we are happy to be heading out; looking forward to the simplicity of hiking purely to get from one place to another, of thinking of little more than which routes to take where we will be most likely to stumble across wildlife... These things always sound intriguing after a few busy days of repacking, organizing, and planning, even if we will have to take a few extra layers of clothing to compensate for the new chill in the air.
We have been trying on various sizes of down clothing: parkas, bib pants, and even booties. Now this may not seem like such a bad task, until you realize that the yurt and deck which we consider our summer living space, can easily reach temperatures upwards of 90 degrees even in September. Then the task becomes a bit more daunting. All the down gear might seem like overkill, but we have to remember that when filming, you spend so much time simply sitting still, waiting, being quiet and trying to melt into the landscape, none of which allows for vigorous arm swinging or jumping jacks to keep your body warm. Sitting for long hours in single digit or negative temperatures can really chill down the body, so we are preparing by compiling mountains of the types of clothing that require stuffsacks bigger than those for our current sleeping bags. How are we going to fit all this into our backpacks? Well, we're not exactly sure yet. One dilemma at a time, right?
Quite unusual for summertime in Idaho, the last three days have been dominated by hard soaking rains. That soaking includes us and all our gear, and has left us feeling rather soggy, and scrambling to keep the important things dry (sleeping bags and camera gear, mainly).
After spending all week searching for the elusive wolves of the Chamberlain valley, with no more luck than a few howls in the night, and one brief sighting in Moose Jaw Meadow, we took a last-ditch reconnaissance hike up to Fish and Sheepeater Lakes, high above the Chamberlain Valley. While up there, we decided to keep on going to Sheepeater Lookout, where I had spent my summer as the lookout last year, to say hi to the current resident, Jim.
We were soaked from head to toe from the long hike up, and Jim invited us inside where we spent a warm hour by the woodstove sharing stories, lunch, and favorite books. Drenched again on the way down, and no closer to finding anything wolf, we decided to prepare for hiking out the next day. It was time to move on, as we felt we’d shot enough salmon spawning to do an entire documentary on them alone, and the wolves were more likely vacationing in Hawaii by now.
When we reached camp, we packed the “fly out” gear and hiked down to Chamberlain airstrip one more time, returning back to camp again after dark, thoroughly wiped from nearly 30 miles of hiking that day. Hot curried lentil stew for dinner warmed our tummies, and then it was into the tent for a blissful sleep to the constant pattering of another night of hard rain.
I am now writing in my journal, wrapped in my down sleeping bag and tucked in the tent at the next nights camp, trying to stay warm. I braved sitting outside hoping for a glimpse of thin evening sunlight to warm me before succumbing to the chill and diving into the tent and my bag. Isaac is walking around with the camera looking for an evening scenic. I can’t quite believe that it is August, and something like 40 degrees outside.
Today we hiked a little over halfway back to Big Creek. We’re again on Mosquito Ridge, this time with blissfully few mosquitoes! The morning was wet and soggy as usual, but the afternoon allowed us patchy glimpses of that burning planet we’d all but forgotten about. Our socks, smelling and looking more like soggy, long-dead rodents, are now hanging to dry on our backpacks. However, I fear that by morning they will be frozen, rather than dried.
I’m writing this from our very own deck, at home, in McCall. Isaac is in British Columbia filming grizzly bears and salmon for an eclectic British film crew making a TV series about predators. We decided it would be an OK time to take a break, and it did offer real money, and real exposure. I am, quite happily, holding down the fort in McCall… enjoying this town in summertime: farmers markets, the lake, biking everywhere, our home and all its wonderful half-finished projects, and logging. Logging footage, that is, not trees. Endless logging. Logging every day, and for so long that I feel like my eyeballs will never quite be the same again.
We live in such an amazing town. Today, simply in the time it took to bike home from the grocery store (about ten minutes), I encountered three separate things that made me smile. First, two women walking along the road talking about Sharlie. Sharlie is our lake monster; our Loch Ness. As I pedaled up they were deep in conversation and this is the bit I overheard:
“I saw these great big ripples, making this ‘v’ formation… but there were no boats, nothing in the near vicinity!” woman one.
“Sharlie.” Woman two, with total confidence, “Don’t worry, she’s a friendly serpent.”
“Oh that’s good. Yeah, I mean there was nothing out there…”
And I passed by, pedaling on to soon meet a man, standing in the middle of the street, barefoot and wearing nothing more than boxer shorts. As I pedaled up I squinted into the slanting evening sunlight, trying to ascertain what was going on. A few cars where lined up on his other side, and he held out his arms as if directing traffic. I squeezed my brakes, just as I noticed a deer, and a young fawn crossing the road about 20 feet in front of me. As they exited the road, and the man walked off to the side towards his house, and the cars began rolling again, I stood up on my pedals and pressed by.
“Just want to make sure they get across safely!” He said to me as I passed.
I smiled and pedaled on, only about fifty yards down the road to find a cowboy, wearing chaps, cowboy hat, spurs, the whole deal, riding his horse across the town bridge. I slowed, worried my bike would spook his horse, and passed, smiling and waving as I pedaled towards home. What a wacky place.
I woke this morning to a strange clanking sound out the back window of the yurt. Sitting up, bleary-eyed in bed, I saw a murky black form in the early dawn light out by our woodshed. I knew exactly what was going on. Leaping out of bed, I raced out the door and around the corner of the yurt (wait a minute, yurts don’t have corners… sorry, around the side) and hollered at the good-sized black bear that was rooting around in our compost pile. Then I realized I should have grabbed the camera and set it up to roll some footage… but the camera was way out in the truck… The bear merely glanced at me with absolutely no worry whatsoever, and ambled slowly off into the woods.
Ah, McCall…
Isaac returns on September 4th, and we will be heading back out soon after. Sorry for the long delay in blogs!
It feels like we’ve been filming nothing but people lately. The high school trail crew working on the terrible trail we hiked in on, the meeting at Stonebreaker Ranch, pilots flying in to Chamberlain airstrip and their ideas on wilderness… So when we hiked up the valley to Red Top Meadows, about 7 miles from Chamberlain airstrip, we were excited to get back to the wildlife aspect. There is a large area filled with mineral licks and wallows, where we had seen lots of wolf sign on our way in, and which naturally attracts wildlife anyway.
We found a great camp spot on a bluff over looking a secret meadow, beautiful and unusually lush for the otherwise burned valley. Chamberlain Creek meanders in lazy S’s under the bluff where we set up our tent, and large salmon splash regularly in the riffles, at the height of their spawning. We had no idea there were so many fish that came up this creek, and were pleasantly surprised to find them not skittish to filming. The first night we arrived, I walked down to the creek to filter water. Squatting on a gravel bar, I looked out into the clear water and suddenly saw, less than four feet away, a three foot long dark red fish, wagging gracefully in the current. A salmon, a little scuffed and travel weary, but there non-the-less, over 900 miles from the ocean where its journey had begun. If only they could tell stories…
The salmon kind of remind me of river monsters, or eels on a very elegant and un-eely kind of way. Something about their dark glistening backs, arched as they surge up a riffle, or arced in a sliding turn to slip back downstream. They are like one big muscle with a few fins attached here and there.
The first day after we arrived at Red Top Meadows, we had a sunny day, with good salmon filming, washing cloths, swimming in the creek, and basking on the sandy bars while our laundry dried. The day ended with a beautiful sunset over the meadow full of grasses, turning burgundy at their tops (Red Top Meadow?). But that was the last we saw of the sun. The next morning the light failed early as storm clouds marched in. Isaac spent some time getting grumpy in the tent trying to program our radios (monumental task), and I took a walk down the trail after the first rainstorm had passed, just looking for berries and stretching my legs.
Around midday we filmed some more salmon, and also a bear who happened along the bank, attracted by the splashing of the fish. I had seen it coming, and hissed to Isaac who was focused on the salmon “bear!”. He swung the camera around we both sat transfixed, hoping with all our might that it would go down the bank and begin fishing for salmon, which would have been a great filming opportunity. Instead it kept ambling straight towards us, focused intently on the fish. As it neared and neared and neared, I suddenly realized that Isaac would much rather film the bear from ten feet away, than worry about his wife, over which the bear would stumble before it got to the camera and Isaac. When it was about 20 feet away, I could hold it in not longer and hissed again, “are we ok?!”
At which point, of course, the bear saw us and galloped away. Then I felt silly, of course we were ok, the bear was interested in the fish, and afraid of us. It was just an instinct that welled up, as happens sometimes with animals I am not familiar with.
Just in the few days we watched the salmon, I noticed a huge change in the fish. They slowly lost their distinctive markings and bright colors. They became marred by blotches and nicks all over their fins. There is a creeping black shadow on the females, that began on their bellies and is creeping up the sides of their long bodies, and white fleshy gashes all over the males from scraping on rocks and increasingly competitive battles with each other. Their bodies are literally rotting away. It is such a fascinating life. They are born in fresh water, live their lives in salt water in the ocean, and then return one last time to fresh water to spawn. But the second they swim into the fresh water of rivers and streams, their bodies begin to slowly decompose. By the time they reach their birth streams, they spawn and then die a few days later. It’s amazing to watch.
We reached the Chamberlain Airstrip sometime in the afternoon and it suddenly seemed there was tons to do. The Forest Service had flown in a re-supply for us a few days earlier, along with about 75 pounds of camera gear (so we didn’t have to carry it all in, we couldn’t have, we were already at our limits!) We retrieved those boxes from the “warehouse” (one of the old buildings at the guard station), and made ourselves a nice meal of pesto rice-pasta, and ate while soaking our sore feet in the cool creek that runs by the station. It was time to make plans for what to do next.
It just so happened that we had converged on Chamberlain about the same time as a group of Forest Service and Fish and Game Bigwigs who were having a meeting on the neighboring Stonebreaker Ranch (just over the hill from Chamberlain), about certain issues involving monitoring wolves in the wilderness. Though we have no intentions of making a “talking heads” type of film, we thought this opportunity, to run into these people talking about those particular issues, right smack in the middle of the wilderness, was just too good to pass up.
The next couple days were spent walking back and forth from Chamberlain, where we were camped, to Stonebreaker, where we were generously given ample time to talk with everyone there, as well as invited to stay for various meals (a huge treat in the middle of the wilderness!). This all happened after a brief, initial meeting where we let ourselves onto the property through an open gate, and were eyed rather coolly by the caretakers (as, we later found out, they were rushing to get dinner ready for the soon returning meeting participants) and told, on our inquirey, that, yes, there was a meeting going on, but, no, it was certainly not public. As soon as we had explained what we were up to, our project, and that we had already met with some of these people, the environment warmed up considerably.
Though they would not let us film anything, the issues were too sensitive, they were very gracious and willing to talk freely with us. The last day we left Stonebreaker, they plied us with all their leftover food (apples, potatoes, onions, bread, melons) and, most unusual of all, a sourdough starter. What were we going to do with a sourdough starter while backpacking around the wilderness? We still have no idea… but we’re still trying to work it out. The story goes something like this. At lunch on the first day, we had been fed sandwiches on homemade sourdough bread, which was commented on by several people, including me. The proud bread-maker mentioned that it was from a starter he had in the family for 25 years, and would divide and give away if anyone was interested, he had more at home. My ears perked up, but I also realized the difficulty of keeping a starter going while hiking around the backcountry for a year. However, the next night, after we had stayed for dinner and everyone was in an especially congenial mood due to generously poured gin and tonics, a good fire pit, and the end of the meetings, the bread maker (Dennis) managed to persuade me into taking some starter, exclaiming that it would be no problem at all to backpack with. He then persuaded us into taking not only the starter, in a rather large jar, but also a ten pound bag of flour (to feed it with of course!) and a jug of maple syrup (to pour over the flapjacks we would make the next morning for ourselves and the trail crew staying also at Chamberlain)…
We laughed our way back to our camp at Chamberlain, me proudly clutching my new acquisition (which we named “Denny” so we’d always remember who gave it to us), and trying to figure out the logistics of backpacking with something only slightly less needy than an infant, or so it seemed. To make a long story short, Denny had a rough first day. As Isaac and I scouted for wolf sign and where to go next, Denny fended for himself alone back at camp, slightly less than successfully. We returned to find a bold squirrel (who hopefully had a tummy ache by then) had knocked over the loosely-lidded jar, spilling more than half Denny’s bulk all over the ground cloth of our tent. We managed to save a little bit, fed him some more flour and fresh creek water, but were unable to make pancakes for the trail crew, and instead pacified them with a big skillet of potatoes and onions and zuccini. We left them with the excess flour and the syrup, as they would be out there all summer and certainly could use it. I think we’ll have to find a caretaker for Denny until we return for good in the spring of next year…
We spend the first half of the day re-charging batteries, spreading out our impressive array of flexible solar panels and hooking up trickle chargers and the camera batteries. The two of us lay around re-charging our own personal batteries, reading in the tent (to avoid the mosquitoes) and enjoying the view. Around mid-day we packed up camp and continued on, eventually branching off the ridge and heading down into a burned area called “Cow Corrals” on our map, which was so filled with blooming Bear Grass among the burned trunks that it looked like an entire city of miniature people carrying white orb lanterns silently through the woods.
We took a break among the quiet masses and munched a snack of homemade fruit leather (strawberry-banana-date, quite delicious!), before taking the left fork of the new trail that would guide us down into the Chamberlain Valley. The going became fairly lush as we descended, along a nicely graded trail through filtered sunlight. But as we slowly walked lower, the bugs worsened, biting our sweaty skin with more and more vigor. As the afternoon grew long the trail also worsened. I began to swish through bug swatters pretty fast, swatting with more and more frenzy back and forth over my shoulders until the branch was limp-leafed, and then leafless and I’d have to hurry to find a new replacement.
As we began to have to bush-whack around large sections of the trail that were impassible with fallen timber, the mosquitoes had become a satanic orchestra with a badly tuned string section. Scrambling through underbrush littered heavily with large fallen trunks and broken branches, and sprinkled freely with unseen holes and boggy areas, is not the easiest of tasks with a heavy pack throwing off your already shaky balance. Together with the frenzied swatting and the symphonic hell, it all added up to a fairly crazed mindset.
We crossed the creek three times and began looking for a tent sight for the night. It was difficult to even see straight enough to find a site. We were hot, tired, and quickly going insane. We each had our own personal swarm of bugs around us, drilling our arms and shoulders, and so many mosquito bodies smashed in our hair it felt like gravel to run a hand through it.
Finally finding a suitable spot to put up our tent, we whipped on fleeces and pants over our sweaty limbs, put the ten up as fast as we could, and went to fill our water containers. We both plunged stinging bodies into the icy cold water and enjoyed a few moments of frigid, mosquito-free bliss. Then it was back to the tent where we dove in, not to emerge until morning.
This morning we parked our gear-laden truck near Pueblo Summit at the head of Big Creek, close to the trailhead for Mosquito Ridge. Yes, you read that right: Mosquito Ridge. Although, at the time, that particular vernacular had not fully sunk into my blissfully ignorant brain. We had already been out for a few days in the area, around the town of Edwardsburg (population 25 in summer, 0 in winter).
But now we are finally back on the real trail, the roadless trail, the trail you can only get to by your own power… or if you’re lucky, the power of four-legged helpers. We are free again of civilization, for better or for worse, and marching only to the tick of the sun rising and setting, the weather, and the wolves. It feels good to be back out, though it is a bit of a shock to our bodies as we shouldered heavy packs (Isaac’s weighed 95 lbs.!!) and waddled up the trail.
It is a long and steady grind up to Mosquito Ridge, and you might ask, “why would one want to go to a place called ‘Mosquito Ridge’ anyhow?” and it would be a perfectly valid question. We were already being sucked free of blood as we packed up our gear at the truck, ate the last hardboiled eggs, and picked willow branches to swish at our shoulders as we walked. But for some reason, it did not sink in for me, until we were well on our way, well beyond the point of turning back.
We decided we would simply go as slow as we needed to in order to be careful with our bodies, soft from almost two weeks in the front country. However, we soon realized that the ratio of flesh losing blood to mosquitoes, to the flesh not loosing blood to mosquitoes, was directly related to how fast you could walk… So it was a constant battle to walk slowly and gently for our legs, and to keep up enough momentum to have a few less whiners swirling the air around our ears. Mosquito Ridge was our route. Not to be changed now. Besides, it was the most direct way into the Chamberlain basin, our destination.
Once we got up onto the ridge, the mosquitoes got worse, making it hard to even stop and take a rest. We learned to have our wind-proof fleece jackets at the ready, so as soon as we stopped, no matter how sweaty and hot we were ( and we were hot and sweaty for sure!) we would whip them on and enjoy a few minutes where at least our arms and shoulders and backs were off limits to the insatiable appetites of those most annoying of insects.
We camped that night at a beautiful spot. Though “beautiful” refers specifically to the view, and not the physical circumstances. We were on a high ridge, a nice grassy meadow with trees falling away in every direction and an endless vista of gentle mountain ridges overlapping each other like a paper Mache sculpture. The meadow was dotted with the last of the Lupines and Indian Paintbrush. Mosquito Springs sprang up less than fifty meters away, where we sucked up cool, clear, delicious water in gulping slurps, bathed, and filled all our water containers. But that is where the “beautiful” ends. The air was filled with the thickest mosquitoes I had seen to date (very quickly to be over-ridden by where we camped the second night, but at this point I was still oblivious). Besides the fact that we had to cook dinner while inside our tent, sticking just our arms out to tend the stove, saving as much skin as possible from the voracious bugs, it was lovely.
We watched the last of the pink sunlight fade from the mountain ridges around us from the blissfully peaceful inside of our mesh tent. Smiling up at the coating of hungry insects sticking their proboscises through the netting and finding nothing. We slept the sleep of the very tired…
The remote camera seemed like a good idea in the beginning. We could simply set it up on a trail (or a likely stream crossing, or a wolf den area), leave it alone for a while, and come back to wonderful wildlife footage unhindered by our presence. Wolf pups would tumble and play in front of it, whole packs would come trotting down trails right over it, elk would cross rivers within its frame, bears would fight over carcasses completely unaware of its presence. Right.
So far, in our year and a half of owning the thing, we have been successful exactly once. Yes, you read that correctly: one time. It was spring of last year, and we set the thing up outside a wolf den and miraculously (though we were only vaguely aware of this fact at the time) filmed three wolf pups, two black and one gray, playing and running around outside the den hole. It was great. But those were the last animals we ever filmed with the thing, excluding the occasional bird or insect.
Mostly we have since filmed an entire library's worth of waving grasses, fluttering leaves, and patches of bare ground, heated by the sun and therefore giving off invisible signals to our camera's remote sensor to film, film, and film some more.
It has alternately become a source of extreme frustration, and (less frequently) humor, as we struggle to find the perfect settings so the contraption will capture animals (preferably the larger-than-bird types) and not simply heated, waving leaves.
Just a week ago we found an elk carcass, freshly killed, on the edge of a stream near the town of Stanley where we had gone to check-in. Rubbing our hands together in anticipation, we excitedly set up the remote camera, carefully placing its infrared sensor and combing the scene for mischievous grasses that could wave their fronds and set off our camera unnecessarily. We had high hopes of wolves or bears coming in to dine: the thing was barely touched, only one hind leg gone when we found it. We even found a set of wolf tracks nearby, and knew they would no doubt be back soon for the rest. And if they weren't, then a bear would surely smell the decay and B-line in to eat and snooze intermittently until the carcass was done.
Two days later we returned, sneaking the camera out of its weatherproof housing, and retreating a distance to watch our amazing footage. Forty-five, minute-long clips later we had seen nothing more than, yep, you guessed it, grass dancing in the wind around a quickly rotting elk body. Beautiful.
Only minorly fazed, we re-set the camera, left it over-night, and re-checked. This time, not only did we get no animals, but midway through the blank footage, the carcass simply disappeared. Not slowly, as if it had been eaten by unseen carnivores, but quite suddenly. One clip it was there, laying pungently in the afternoon sun, and the next it was nowhere to be seen. We stared at each other in disbelief. How could an object the size of an adult elk, move (at least we assumed that it did not vaporize) out of frame, without our ever-so-sensitive sensors (which seem to love the minute movements of grass tips) turning on the camera?
The only possibility was that the confiscation had happened during the sizzling mid-day hours when we had set the camera to not record, as it would look terrible, and we (wrongly) assumed that our target animals generally lay low during that period. As well as, this carcass was near a road and we thought cars passing during the day would keep them shy. Apparently we were wrong on all counts.
We will keep trying, but our patience in waning. If we ever do film anything else with it, it will surely be cause for celebration. We did find the carcass again, about twenty yards away and nearly gone (all that remains now is one single upper foreleg, and a bunch of bones and hide. We also found wolf hair at the scene. But apparently our camera did not think it was noteworthy enough to open its one eye and record.
We will learn?
A couple days later:
Yahoo! Success! We returned to pick up the camera just yesterday morning, before heading back to McCall for a few days of needed truck repairs (another story entirely), to find we had actually recorded wolves at the scene! Amazing...
We approached the site, thinking nothing had changed. The carcass remained virtually the same as it had been when we left it a few days prior. There was perhaps a tiny bit of the last remaining segment of meat on the foreleg, missing, but it was so little it could have easily been bird pickings. After our last bought of failures, we were in the mindset of simply picking up the camera, and tossing the hours of footage of waving grasses that were surely recorded.
Back on the road and heading home, I sat in the passengers seat, mindlessly rewinding through the clips as Isaac drove, watching little more than the sun shifting position over the fly-ridden elk ribcage, when all of a sudden, there in the corner of the screen, was a huge wolf head. I stopped and let the camera play forward in disbelief.
"I think I just saw a wolf head?" I said cautiously to Isaac.
"What?" All disbelief.
There is was, staring straight at the camera from about five feet away. Then it was gone, and then it re-appeared and walked carefully over to the ribcage, glancing around nervously before grabbing onto the foreleg and giving a good tug at the meat.
"We did it!" I yelped, "It's a wolf!"
Isaac swerved to the side of the road and peered over my shoulder. We watched another wolf enter the frame and circle around, more nervous than the first. It was broad daylight, eight-fifteen in the morning, in fact. The wolves were both nice looking and healthy, and both wearing GPS collars, which had us scratching our heads. They clearly were not from either of the packs we had suspected would be in that area.
That was it. It was about three minutes of footage. But it was enough. We were (are) hooked, totally ready to continue blithely onwards with the remote camera. We drove on towards home, planning all the set-ups we wanted to try next. We were in the game again...
