Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Fat Cat, aka 'the Doom Direct'.

I had a funny idea a few months ago: Colorado and Utah are at the low (we hope) ebb of a 10-year drought cycle, meaning our trails are dessicated and our rivers low.

Thinking proactively, it occurred to me that this would be an *ideal* time to use fatbikes to access Cataract Canyon, taking advantage of the low flows therein to float it with packrafts.

Last weekend that's exactly what we did.  The idea may have been mine, but the route was pure Doom, and we wouldn't have had half the laughs we did without Moe in the picture.

We rode from Cathedral Butte down to Bobby's Hole, stashing the bikes and hiking Cross Canyon past dark on the first night.

Second day we hiked upriver to Brown Betty rapids, putting in just below them in the interest of expediency: They didn't look hard or even that much fun, and we wanted all the daylight we could salvage for the bigger rapids to come later in the day.

Third day we hiked straight up from the river (~2000' in the first mile) and followed Imperial Canyon back to intersect our outbound route.  Back to the bikes early PM, then we rode 'til sunset to close the loop.

On the ride in we had semi-hardpacked conditions, making me think the fatbikes were overkill.  But while we were hiking and floating there must have been lots of jeep/atv traffic through the Needles, because on our homeward ride the sand was deep and dry enough to warrant plump tires.  In short, they were neither necessary nor superfluous: They were simply convenient.

Krampus would be the ideal year-round steed for trips in this area.

The river was at ~4100cfs when we ran it.  If I were to do this trip again (ASAP!) I'd not bother hiking upriver from Cross Canyon.  I'd put in right there and use the surplus time to take a nap, take more pics, lap some of the bigger rapids, or maybe even roll the whole loop in 2 days.  Except if the water was higher, then Brown Betty might be worth it.

Here's Moe's take on the trip:

Tender ears alert--if profanity ain't your thing, mute that ^ one through the float!!

Finally, in Moe's vid he showed my blown attempt at sneaking Big Drop 3.  Here's my take on *that* moment:

Several important lessons learned there.  Ahem.

Incredible 3-day trip that I'll certainly be repeating.  Thanks boys.



Thursday, October 25, 2012

The River of Return.

I've had the pleasure of traveling with many accomplished athletes through the years, but there are so many more whose names I've heard and read yet never gotten to meet.

Forrest McCarthy is one of the latter. Last month he invited me to join a small group on an incredible trip in Idaho.

 First, he drew me in with this:
I propose a challenge to the century old idea that paddling is a one-way event in the Frank Church—River of No Return Wilderness.
Intrigued, I dug into the details:
Starting near the confluence of the Middle and Main Forks of the Salmon, we descend through the heart of the wilderness to the confluence with the South Fork. From there, two days of hiking will lead to Big Creek, a tributary of the Middle Fork of the Salmon. Many miles of paddling on Big Creek and the Middle Fork will return us to where we started. 
Grinning, I did a heap of mapwork and some internet sleuthing before concluding (sans grin) that maybe the whitewater on this loop was just a wee bit over my inexperienced head.

Then a funny thing happened: the Alpackettes sent a prototype boat for me to get some time in and give feedback on.  I can't divulge specifics (soon!) but parts of this boat, both subtle and dramatic, are truly revolutionary in this little niche of outdoor geekdom.  I took it on an overnighter of the Gunny Gorge and realized that it had instantly upped my skill level, even and especially with a multi-day load.

With that I started looking harder at what Forrest had dubbed the River of Return, and realized that late summer low flows were probably going to be challenging but doable for me in this new boat.

The draw to see this region went back years, maybe even decades.  The exclusion of bicycles from Wilderness (<-capital W) means that I'd skirted the edges of this massive roadless region but never been able to poke my head in and look around.  And "just" hiking through held little appeal: I'll become a hiker about the same time that I take up golf--when my body is too broken and/or fragile to ride.  

When I tell people that packrafts have changed my life, I think few understand the literal sincerity of that statement.  This trip is an excellent example: Owning a little boat and some light bike/backpacking gear has made the exploration of Wilderness suddenly appealing.  Then along comes someone like Forrest with a unique and well-researched plan and how can you say no?

I couldn't.

Putting in to the Main Salmon on a chilly, eerie morning at Cache Bar.

Jim Harris, storyteller.

Forrest McCarthy, visionary and route architect.

Local rodent at Poor Creek campsite.

The smoke ebbed and flowed daily, even hourly.

"Cheeky buggers" award goes to the USFS, whom had the stones to demand that we pack out the ashes from our cook fires despite being surrounded by half a million acres of scorched earth.


Heading up to run the lower, funner bits of the South Fork.

Earning it: The big hike up and over Horse Heaven Ridge.

The trail was well maintained and easy to follow, courtesy of groups like this.

Hard to think of fire as anything other than a natural part of this landscape.

Sunset from ~9,000'.

I'm still unsure if we were seeing fall colors or drought ravaged vegetation--there were equal arguments for both.

Our high point atop Chicken Peak, just barely above the smoke.

First glimpse of Big Creek: "Too thin to put in".

At Monumental Bar the water seemed high enough to float. Just. We bumped and banged and dragged from here on down.  Here Andrew McLean feathers the line.

Ooooo. Next time?

The last 3-4 miles of Big Creek constricted into a rollicking fun class III+ to IV- gorge with countless boat-scoutable plop and drop moves. Had we any more water to prevent the upper butt dragging we might have had too much flow in the gorge. Didn't really get any stills of this, but plenty of it in the video.

Out into the Middle Fork.  Forrest and Jim.

Jim, scouting and shooting.

Classic Middle Fork scenery. Tom Turiano at right.

Forrest and Andrew, Main Salmon just below the confluence.

Jim Harris, Cramer Rapid, Main Salmon.

Taking out at the put-in: Cache Bar, Main Salmon.

Blue = floatin', red = walkin'.

This trip couldn't have happened without the skills and knowledge (and willingness to share them) of Forrest McCarthy, Tom Turiano, Moe Witschard, Jim Harris, and Andrew McLean.  Thanks for having me along.

I'm also indebted to all of the fine folks that collectively make up Alpacka Raft.  Their lifelong dedication to building innovative and durable tools for backcountry exploration is unmatched.

A big thanks to the gang at Hyperlite Mountain Gear.  This was my first trip using a Windrider 3400, and the unique blend of volume, attention to detail, versatility, and all-day comfort mean that it has instantly become my go-to overnight pack.

Stills and handheld shot on a Canon S100, POV came from a SportsVue 360.

Thanks also to Kokatat for effecting a quick repair and turnaround on my drysuit--I would have been uncomfortable, at best, without it.  

Lastly, thanks to Peter Mitchell for creating on short notice what the others on this trip referred to as 'a scalpel' or 'a ninja paddle' to keep my bike-beaten hands and wrists functional if not happy throughout.  Probably the best $$$ I've spent this year.

Thanks to you for checkin' in.


Thursday, October 11, 2012

The color of now.

But not necessarily the color of leaves.

Instead I mean the polished black of canyon walls, tire marks on slickrock, bottoms of boats ghost surfing in rapids.  Or the hue of that intermediate space between the fringe of your campfire and what lies beyond.

The white of pounding water, cloud tops, or bared (as in laughter!) teeth.

The blue of a bruise, of the spaces between flittering leaves, of a mood.

The burnt sienna of navajo sandstone, of the spots on a spawning male brookie.  Or the top of Fang's head.  

The gold of dormant grasses refracting low angle light.  Of the tops of aspen trees seen from above, from a higher ridge.  Of Greg's monstrous "day" pack.

The red of sangre dripping from skinned knees and elbows, or slain game.  Of poison ivy, or cheeks flushed with exertion.

The green of rainbow trout seen through 6' of gin clear water, of mosses clinging to polished granite, of growth in your riding pack bladder.  Of leaves and grasses not yet turned.

The infinite greys of lengthening shadows, silhouettes, cloud bottoms at midday.  The grey that means sun-warmed boulders to nap upon.

The blur of the collective whole as we race to embrace this most alive time of year.