Minds are Like Books
I’m not a hunter and I never will be. My appreciation for the majesty of wild beings is too profound, the thought of pulling a trigger to take down a creature for the sport of it just doesn’t compute in my brain or ethos. I do, however, understand the need for conservation and the value of dinner. Still, I couldn’t do it. When I buy dinner meat at the grocery store, it’s already dead, I didn’t have to watch life seep from its body as a direct result of my action. So, when I struck up a conversation with a young hunting couple from Nevada, I surprised myself by being intrigued.
We were in Custer State Park in South Dakota. It’s been a favorite park of mine since I was a teenager, oozing pastoral beauty teeming with free-roaming antelope and big horn sheep, buffalo, prairie dogs, and wild burros. My sentimental favorite is the buffalo. I had an accidental close-up meeting with a buffalo in the 1970s when, after jogging part way back to camp, I sat down on a guard rail to catch my breath. I hadn’t seen the buffalo ruminating just behind me. As a kid I was a bit out to lunch but still, you’d think I’d notice something as big as a buffalo less than an arm’s length away. He stared calmly at me, his jaw munching in a slow counterclockwise direction, bits of grass and debris dangling. Positively non-plussed. I took off at a pace not seen since. So based on his or her kindness that day, the buffalo is my prized species.
I’ve visited Custer several times over the decades, and I never knew …I never knew they allowed hunting in the park. Wait, wait…it’s only eight a year- it’s not a free for all- but the thought…Well. My first thought? “If I see that happen, I’m going to be scarred for life.” Fortunately, (because you know I went directly to a ranger to set me straight,) the hunting is done in a private part of the park where people like me aren’t allowed. The park does not supplement the food for any of the buffalo, so it’s necessary to keep the herd to about a thousand. They round-up and auction off most of the residual herd to ranchers. The eight hunting tags are issued via lottery.
I’ve visited Custer several times over the decades, and I never knew …I never knew they allowed hunting in the park. Wait, wait…it’s only eight a year- it’s not a free for all- but the thought…Well. My first thought? “If I see that happen, Iallowed. The park does not supplement the food for any of the buffalo, so it’s necessary to keep the herd to about a thousand. They round-up and auction off most of the residual herd to ranchers. The eight hunting tags are issued via lottery.
But back to my hunting couple…Travis and Ashley.
Travis has been putting his name into the lottery for fifteen years. This year, his twelve year old was issued her first hunting tag and had already come home with a bull elk. Their freezer was full. When Travis got the notification that he’d been selected for the buffalo hunt at Custer, he knew chances were slim the opportunity would come around again in his lifetime. So, he and Ashley drove out. And bought a few more chest freezers.
They left the campground early in the morning and shot their buffalo by nine. The rest of their day was spent elbow deep in blood and entrails harvesting about six hundred pounds of meat, the hide, and the head (for the taxidermist.) Mind you, they weren’t big people, he was about five foot eight and a hundred and fifty pounds. She was maybe five foot four and a hundred pounds with her boots on. Like gnats on a rhinoceros.
Travis and Ashley, and their kids hunt for their food and use the hide for coats and clothing. They’ve traveled to Africa and Hawaii to hunt. While in Africa, they donated half of their kill to the villagers They’re teaching their kids about hunting, all aspects of it. They field dress their kill themselves rather than sending it out for processing. It lets them connect better with the animal, the act, and the food. They’re serious and respectful hunters. Prior to meeting them, I would have felt the phrase ‘respectful hunter’ was an oxymoron. But, minds are like books, they only work when they’re open.
White Sands National Park
I’d been here before, White Sands National Park in New Mexico, in the middle of the day. The bright light erased the contours of most everything and the dunes were awash in people sledding and scrambling up and down sandy piles of gypsum. I could envision the photo I wanted but clearly that was not going to be the day. Our four-month journey across the country was coming to an end because of commitments back home in Rhode Island. We had to press on East later that day. And this journey was really a once-in-a-lifetime event; or so I thought. I put White Sands back on the proverbial bucket list.
Three months later an opportunity presented itself and I snatched it. I left my husband at home for work, repacked our van-with a lot less ‘stuff’- and hit the road with my sister, Kimberly, and my two dogs, Simon and Sampson. We got to White Sands in the evening but too late to enter the park. We planned to get up early- White Sands opens at 7 am- and get the equivalent of a skiers’ first tracks. The dunes are constantly shifting and blowing moving as much as thirty-eight feet in a year so each morning the canvas has been wiped clean, the dunes have cut new, crisp edges and the only fresh prints are those left by the critters who call this place home.
We thought we were the first ones in at seven, but it turned out the military beat us there. White Sands is also a Missile Range Test Center used by the Army, Navy and Air Force for testing, research and training. They were packing up and heading out. Kimberly and I and my pups (this is one of the few National Parks where dogs, on leash, are allowed on all the trails) struck out for some further reaches. No one else was around. Like all good aging preppy-hippie rebels, I may have blurred my interpretation of the rules a smidge. I left the leashes on the dogs but let the leashes go. (If you have never seen your dog smile, bring them here and have a go but don’t tell anyone I told you.) While they were bounding down steep and deep inclines then loping back up in slow motion, I focused my lenses elsewhere. The light continued to change, shadowing and illuminating crests, hollows and ripples in the still, noiseless morning. This morning ~ pure joy.
Custer State Park ~ South Dakota
2014
It’s been decades since I've visited Custer State Park in South Dakota. For many reasons it has remained a favorite memory from our family trip circa 1974.
Back then a park ranger told my father that the big horn sheep were particularly fond of Hershey chocolate bars. As luck would have it so was my dad so we had plenty of enticing snacks to offer the sheep when they came visiting. Looking back I am surprised that a ranger would share this now taboo information but at the time I was elated. And they did come visiting- every evening. Our stash of Hershey bars saved for them was soon depleted. Afterwards we would drive the wildlife loop to see the buffalo, wild burros, prong-horned antelope, prairie dogs and search for the elusive mountain goats. Although we got out of the camper for photo ops with many of the animals, the buffalo were off limits. Everywhere signs cautioned, "Buffalo are dangerous. Do not approach."
One afternoon, my sister Marnee and I struck out on a fishing excursion and, as was common, we traipsed fairly far afield. As the younger sibling I was elected to run back and tell mom and dad where we were. Cell phones were not an option then. I stopped to rest on a guardrail. When I regained my breath enough to look around I saw, standing little more than an arm’s length away, a buffalo ruminating. To describe him as enormous would be an understatement. He was calm and entirely unfazed. I was not. My mind raced with flashbacks of a dozen Buffalo are Dangerous signs. My feet fairly skimmed the ground as I made like an Olympic sprinter to the nearest building, a restroom. It was locked.
My father loved to tell this story. From the campsite my parents could see nothing but my winged feet below the half-wall entrance to the bathroom. He was a great storyteller, and his version included many ribbings; “We’d never seen her move so fast” and “If we told her once we told her a thousand times not to wait so long to use the bathroom.” My father has been gone for over forty years, and still, the memory is vivid. It’s just this longing for lost days, or era maybe. As I reflect, it’s a reminder to be present. And to always-always-remain hopeful for the days to come.
The chance to visit Custer again is a gift; I am anxious to see ‘my’ buffalo. Recognition of campgrounds, roads and fishing creeks is quick and the big horn sheep are right where we left them so many years ago. Alas, we have no Hershey bars.
We are assigned a campsite in Blue Bell and in short order have ourselves fully operational. Our efficiency is a far cry from our first campground incompetence in Joshua Tree so many weeks ago. We’re a bit smug and impressed with our seasoned selves. As parks go, this has all the amenities; abundant space, beautiful sites, running water and flush toilets, hot (free and clean) showers, electrical outlets, potable water spigots and roving animals. The bathroom is even heated. Last year at this time they had over three feet of snow on the ground so a little thing like heat in the restrooms is clutch.
As recommended by the host in the visitor’s center we tour the wildlife dirt road loop that few visitors travel. This 71,000 acre free-roam sanctuary is teeming with wildlife at nearly every turn. I climb onto the roof of the Element for a better vantage. It’s amazing what a little shift in perspective can afford. I can see over rises where extended herds graze and beyond the tall grasses where antelope have bedded down. Baby buffalo nurse. Big horn sheep cluster together and watch us, their curiosity intense. Prairie dog colonies expand and are awash in activity of sentry-like purpose. Burros approach, muzzle at my dangling, booted feet. It’s magical. Exquisite. How fortunate we are.
Behind our campsite is a trail head. There is plenty of firewood and it’s easily collected. I take the dogs with me and they are happy to have some off-leash time. I do worry about run-ins with other creatures but rely on their having some common sense. Though Spud runs off for an extended solo jaunt, he returns. When I get back there is word among campers that a mountain lion is nearby. My faith in the dogs is not unfounded.
Night falls. The fire roars. The backgammon board is retired for the evening. We sit, stare into the flames, reflect on our past weeks. Sigh.
Redwood National Park
California
Three hulking Roosevelt Elk in the Redwood Forest grazed undeterred by the people who had stopped their cars to photograph them. We had driven into the park late in the afternoon and it was another in a long succession of cold and rainy days-note to self; November is the rainy season in the upper Northwest. The elk were very close to the road but behind a split-rail fence. It made it appear as if they were corralled and not free roaming. A minute or so later the first of the three casually stepped over the four-foot fence, followed thereafter by the other two. (Roosevelt Elk are the largest in the elk family.) I noticed one had a broken antler. They meandered off into the adjacent field and continued to graze.
Between the railing, the road and the cars, the photo I wanted wasn’t happening. My vision is to showcase their majesty in their wild and free habitat…those elements were not working. We continued to our campsite which was behind the field and below a slight embankment. It smelled heavenly of pine, and redwood trees towered gloriously on the meadow’s edges. Suddenly the wet, miserable weather took on a better slant.
Each day we explored the different areas of the forest and each evening the three bachelors, as I came to refer them, were grazing nearby. It was the only area in the park where we saw any elk. On our last morning, I strolled up the knoll and stopped short. Just in front of me were the three elk. The misty fog was hanging low in the trees, the road was obscured, and the light was diffuse. I backed down the hill to the van to grab my camera. Our dogs were tied up and, from the bottom of the hill. the elk weren’t visible. I felt confident that the dogs would be quiet and content waiting with my husband. I crept back up the hill to find that the bachelors had moved closer. There’s no posing an elk; heads down grazing with their butt to me, neck craned around to the side, standing too close or too far apart. It was a waiting game. I looked back and could see the dogs were getting restless but not barking. What can I say? They’re momma’s boys. I returned my focus to the bachelors. One had moved away from the others a bit but was still head down. The fog was thick enough to wash out his features. I waited. Then one of the dogs barked. I cringed. But the lone elk picked up his head and looked in my direction. Click. Click. Click.
On the Road on the Lewis and Clark Trail
We altered our plans just before leaving New England on our van/ camping excursion; instead of going south we decided to head west fast and furiously to beat the snow, cold and subsequent closures of some of the National Parks. We weren’t particularly successful as both Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks were inaccessible. However, we were fortunate to connect with some high school friends- crazy to me that when you get to be a certain age you can drop in on friends, or in some instances acquaintances, and have a blast reconnecting.
We left one such acquaintance (now a treasured friend,) in Idaho to travel up through the Sawtooth Mountains at his suggestion. The snow had been falling for several hours. It was an unforgettable road in, not only it’s beauty, but in its harrowing hairpin turns, inclines and descents on slippery terrain. And this was our first experience driving our self-converted Sprinter in winter conditions.
The Sawtooth Mountains gave way to Lolo Pass, part of the Lewis and Clark trail. We crossed into Montana and realized we hadn’t seen anything yet. The plowing that is done in Montana is negligible, some might say non-existent. The Idaho roads suddenly looked pretty tame. Luckily, when we reached the summit in Montana, we crossed back into Idaho for the descent. The delineation between the state lines from snow, ice and slush to black pavement was remarkable.
The snowfall subsided with the elevation, and we found ourselves in clear, dry and sunny albeit cold, conditions. Deserving of a break, we pulled over into a large pull off along the Lochsa River. It was still, and flawlessly reflecting a story of progress.
I was fourteen and my sister Marnee was sixteen the first time I visited Yosemite National Park. She and I hiked up to mirror lake to explore. Yes, we were alone. Our parents were back at the campsite enjoying a reprieve from the pair of teenage girls they’d been dragging across the country for nearly six weeks. There were no other people venturing to the lake then, it was 1975; a time when the parks were relatively obscure.
It was April and the snows had been melting into the lake below the mountains for some time.
As all good sisters are wont to do, we challenged each other to jump off of the rock protruding out into the lake and swim to the other side. We didn’t know about hypothermia, we didn’t consider what creatures might be lurking beneath the surface, we didn’t consider danger of any sort.
We took the plunge, gasped for air as our chests seized from the cold and swam as fast as our frozen limbs would allow.
Bedraggled, wet and shivering we returned to camp. Our parents were entirely unfazed. Ah, the good old days and running amuck.
I’ve returned to Yosemite three times since, most recently in December of 2021. I’ve tried each time to capture the memory and it’s virgin purity. There are more people now, the sandy banks often adorned in picnicking couples and young kids (with their parents) skipping stones and trying to run amuck.
It took an early rise and a little dose of courage- bears may have been in hibernation but it was unseasonably warm, and one never knows-to traipse back up to the lake and capture the essence of pure, clean childhood fun.
2015
When he was twenty-three, my son Robert moved to San Diego, California. I was heartbroken and proud at the same time; he was so far from the east coast, but he was making his dream a reality. I bided my time non too patiently and went to visit about six months later.
We provisioned the day I flew in in what we hoped was a sufficient manner. It did require a few bigger purchases including a lantern, cooler and backpack. A case of half-gallon water jugs, ingredients for trail mix, instant coffee, boxed milk, oatmeal, and the ever-appreciated PB and J fixings, a few dinner meats and we were good to go. We also raided Robert fridge for vegetables and fruit and visited local thrift stores for a lightweight pot and camp chairs.
We left San Diego and 70 plus degree weather to head north to the Sequoias. Traveling on Route 5 up to and through LA was stupidly tedious. Then again, with no deadline or agenda there was no reason to be agitated. At least that was the mantra playing in my head.
We arrived late to Sequoia National Park; dusk had a good hold on the day’s light. Most of the camp sites were occupied and we walked through scraps of snow with a flashlight in hopes of finding something open. One other family faced the same predicament.
We set up camp using a tent I bought Robert before he moved west but which hadn’t yet been used. For a dry, hot climate it would probably be sufficient but for the still sub-freezing temps of the Sequoia nights in April we learned quickly it was inadequate. The sides were only screened-in and the rain fly didn’t completely cover those essentially open sides. Near 1:00 am I awoke and could not get back to sleep. My jaw clenched in frozen disgust and my body was racked by unstoppable shaking. Robert sounded like he was sleeping soundly. I tried in vain to get warm.
He awoke and asked, “Are you warm enough?”
“I’m freezing my ass off and was thinking of getting in the car to warm up.”
“Thank God." he said. “Me too but I didn’t want to be the one to say so.”
We dragged our bedding out of the tent and hoofed it to his car, cranked the heat and slept fitfully. In bear country, sleeping in the car is a big no-no. I get it if you’ve got food and other bear bait in your car but because everything was securely stowed in the bear box at the site I hoped we’d be okay. I know bears can tear through a car like a cat through tissue paper but how is a car less safe than a few deniers of tent nylon?
We snuck back into camp early hoping no one noticed our epic failure as campers.
We were one night down and one to go with no option to upgrade equipment. We were an hour from either park entrance and hadn’t yet seen any of the park.
We packed a few PB and J’s, water bottles and oranges and hit the trail. Shortly into the hike a family coming down told us they had seen bears. They didn’t seem particularly impressed, but it kicked up the intrigue for Robert and I several notches. Although we kept a sharp eye out and asked other hikers if they had seen the bears, we saw no signs.
We walked marveling at the sequoias, down along the riverbanks, small waterfalls and over smoothly eroded granite shelves. Eventually the terrain gave way to a steeper incline, the path narrowed and sounds of the falls increased. The 1.7-mile hike up afforded an impressive proximity to the crashing falls and the pools below where a few people fished, lunched or just enjoyed the vista.
As is typically the case our hike down was quicker.... that is until we saw a bear cub walking just below a rock ledge ahead of us. We quieted. Watched. Looked for the mother bear who was apt to be close by. A few steps more and there she was with a second cub. I steadied the camera.
The mother started walking towards us looking directly at Robert. Granted she was still quite far away but bears are quick.
He raised his arms and said, “Okay, mom, you can start backing up now.”
I fiddled with the focus.
“Back up mom.” Waving his arms, standing tiptoed.
As I walked backwards, I continued trying for composition and clarity through the viewfinder, the perfect shot inevitable.
“MOM! Back up. NOW” his command was broaching alarm.
I glanced up over the lens, the shot lost as my pace backwards increased. She broke her eye lock with Robert and meandered toward a felled tree where she logged on for some food to share with her cubs; her interest in us entirely gone. Apparently, I am one of those idiots you read about who forgets common sense in the face of something important....like a photo opportunity. Several other hikers joined us clamoring for pictures and just enjoying the rarity of the moment as the three bears harvested food from the surrounding dead wood before settling in for a nap.
In all, we watched from a respectable distance for close to an hour a bear family in its natural habitat. Spectacular. Priceless. And as it should be even if I didn’t get the shot.
Valley of the Gods
Once you’re on the road and settled into van life, it’s easy to discern the fly-by-night travelers from the sage and seasoned. And from them, secret nuggets can be gleaned - but only if they think you’re worthy.
We met Hogan on the coast of California. We’d found free overnight camping on the beach and were walking the dogs. Signage made it clear that dogs were not permitted off-leash and that patrols came by often to enforce the rule. Hogan walked in our direction, his dog running wildly free. Turns out he was a local and his evening ritual was met regularly with patrol confrontations. But they aways let him go with little more than a shake of the head and a “Oh, it’s you again Hogan. You know your dog is supposed to be leashed.” We let our dogs off leash and hung out with this guy; always love an in. Hogan, a wealthy vintage road-tripper who regaled us with stories for over an hour, was the one who told us about Valley of the Gods.
As New Englanders, BLM lands are novel. The Bureau of Land Management manages public lands for recreation, conservation and commercial use. In the west, this includes dispersed camping; free off-grid (no amenities like electricity or water) camping. Valley of the Gods is one such place. A seventeen-mile dirt road loops through the 360,000 acres with several pullouts for car camping. To say it is spectacular or breathtaking is shortchanging the mini monument valley. Red dirt and monoliths, impossible desert flowers, ravines and mesas, cattle and their cowboys and the obscurity of place make it inimitable.
Lee and I drove cautiously following a recent rain. A few gullies were full of water but shallow enough to traverse without issue. I picked up a brochure at the entrance so we could try to identify the named monoliths - seven sailors, rooster butte, lady in the bath, setting hen butte, battleship butte among others -as we drove. Naturally we found the best possible campsite. The van lurched and wobbled up the incline to a relatively level mesa where we set up camp. Can you imagine having 360,000 acres to yourself? The dogs were in heaven.
We’d been set up for a few hours, explored a bit and watched the light change the scenery before us. We sat in our camp chairs on the shady side of the van bestowing names on nearby monoliths- Bart Simpson, Coiffed Poodle.
“What’s that noise?” I asked Lee. “Sounds like something is on in the van.”
We checked it out, nothing.
About a half an hour later I heard the sound again. Both dogs lay at our feet, so it wasn’t them getting into any trouble, though it’s always a possibility. Lee got up again and walked around the van.
“Come check this out,” he called.
In the distance we could make out several cows and a man on horseback. Nearby were three dogs. The dogs skirted the cattle, trotting to and fro ushering them through the gate the cowboy had opened from his horseback perch. The cattle meandered through the fence followed by the dogs, and then the cowboy. Our dogs looked on.
The cowboy and his dogs sauntered along for about fifteen minutes. When he seemed satisfied with the cattle’s trajectory, he turned around, dogs at his side, and went back through the gate leaving the cows to graze the sparse vegetation. For two days we watched the cattle partake slowly of the desertscape. We never saw the cowboy or his dogs again.
Antelope Canyon ~ Page, AZ
(Slot Canyons)
Antelope Canyon has been high on my list of places to see for several years. I’d heard about Antelope Canyon from a German couple while we were dining in Bodie, California in 2014. At the time I anticipated beautiful canyon walls to climb up into, and sandy floors. Little did I know the canyons were underground.
Most people know it as home to Lake Powell, but Page, Arizona is known for its slot canyons, too. Seven years after first hearing about it, I was finally able to drive West to Antelope Canyon. I booked tickets for a tour in February of 2022.
The only way to get into these slot canyons is with a guide as all the slot canyons are on private Native American land. We arrived early so we could get our tickets and have a few minutes to let the dogs out. The website was very clear about the tours leaving on-time and if you are late, you’re out of luck. At least for that tour. As we were getting the dogs settled back in the van (AC running), my phone rang. It was the tour guide company asking if we were still going. The group had already left. We slammed the door and took off running for the entry. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a runner. Add in some clunky camera equipment and, well, it’s not pretty but I was NOT going to miss this opportunity. The group had indeed left but we could still see them. The gate keeper very kindly let us catch up (which required more running…*pant*, *pant*…) How we had squandered our early arrival time is beyond me, but we managed to salvage the day. After profuse apologizing to the guide and the other participants, we joined the group. Sheepishly and at the back. This may not seem relevant to the story but bear with me.
Anyone who goes places with a photographer knows that it takes at least twice the time of normal tourists to see a place. We’re particular always watching the light, composing the view, debating angles and shadows. There are several tour groups allowed through so timing must be adhered to. And I’m hanging back (we’re particular and we don’t like to be rushed) waiting for people to get out of my shot. From behind me I can hear the next tour group in the distance. Ahead of me, I hear our guide calling for me to catch up. With my camera poised, I click feverishly every two steps hoping I can react fast enough to compose a worthy photo. The dialogue in my head is combative: “hurry up, forget getting the best shot, stop being a bratty tourist and just go,” versus “but you don’t understand, this is my only chance, I’ve waited years for this, I won’t be in the way of the other group, and I can catch up with ours no problem.” Then...”Oh, wait, maybe this is the shot.”