Moving to Hawaii

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) 

Winter digs

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.

Snow!

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??   

On top of the world

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.

The power of water

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...