Boreal B[l]og

Amazingly, it wasn’t raining, despite the forecast. It sure was wet in the woods, though, and the two streams that we had put bridges across in the past 16 months were really flowing. The Crew was back at Cloverpatch working on the third bridge. 

I had already done some work here, having carried in my share of tools, planks, and one memorable day figured out how to use a small log as a runner for a 1-2 ton stringer to get it to the bridge site. But the last few times out, I was either relegated to, or had the honor of, being the lead for the work party building the trail to the next and last bridge site, a half mile further. After three days with tread tools there we were now within about 50 feet of the end, maybe a bit more given some rerouting that I thought might be necessary.

But on this wet day, I stayed with the rest of the eight person crew, hiking in, debarking cedar logs that would be used for stringers, posts, supports, and rails, a couple hundred linear feet required. Counting the posts, that comprised about 1000 square feet of bark that needing removal, although I was the only one crazy enough to calculate that.

Additionally, we had rock “cribs” needing filling so stringers and sills, the latter large diameter shorter length logs perpendicular to the crossing stringers, would rest minimizing wetness and rotting. We needed to make a ramp at each end for smooth travel at both ends of the 21 foot long bridge. This entailed more rocks, soil to fill in the spaces, and repeating until we had a smooth ramp.

I used a straight draw knife, sharp 10 inch blade, couple inches wide, beveled, handle at each end. Grabbing each handle, one straddled the log, leaned forward, put the blade under the bark, and pulled towards oneself,  strips of bark peeling off. In the right season, strips could be several feet long, but this time of year two feet was good. We cut down to the cambium, worked our way down the log, and rotated it, continuing. I debarked a 12 and a 25 footer and then took a break collecting rocks, which were plentiful in the Tire Creek area. I had filled the lower two feet of the crib several weeks ago mostly by myself. Now, the rocks needed to go above the sills to support the ramp, to take up volume, each rock removing the need for the equivalent volume of mineral soil.

I was not the strongest. Jeff was carrying rocks I would roll, and in some instances he stopped to talk while carrying. Wow. My legs were good, so I could still do my part by carrying smaller rocks with more trips, taking time from that task to knock some rocks out of a root wad with a shovel. Before I knew it, time for lunch. I was beat. Rock work does that.

After eating, I rolled left and gradually stood, now needing to move rocks to the crib on the other side of the bridge. There were no rock shortages there, the distance shorter, but the weight the same. Most of the crew was about a decade younger than I, although Chris was only a year younger. He may be a little slower the past two years, but so am I; there is nothing wrong with his arm strength.

We didn’t finish, which would require more visits, and hiked out a mile and a half with plenty of uphill. For the first part, in addition to my pack, I carried only a light strap. Easy enough. I caught up with Hal, who had stopped, putting down 20 yards of coiled cable for a no longer needed come-a-long. I was polite, asking if he wanted to trade the cable for my light strap. I expected—and hoped—he would say he was fine.

“Would you? To the top of the next hill?” Crap. He’s serious.

I picked up the cable, coiled, 35 pounds plus. I let my right arm take the weight, and I started up the hill. My hiking speed dropped like a stone, and I went uphill about the same rate I could push one.  But I was going to carry it up the hill, and once I got there, I wasn’t going to relinquish it. I would carry it to the trailhead. 

I did make it. I finally felt useful; perhaps this will be another good year.

I don’t know why I turned around. 

I was looking at a “mess,” term I use for trail blocking organic material: several broken large logs, assorted attached and unattached branches, other greenery, and mud, noting where it was—on the descent to Harper Creek on the South Willamette Trail—and the size.  I must have heard something, despite my removing my hearing aids due to the rain.

A young woman stood about 10 yards from me uphill on the trail. Didn’t see a pack; she wore sneakers, not the best foot gear to hike, especially on a wet day, although I have encountered this before, once in pouring rain where the wearer planned to wear a plastic bag around her feet. I strongly suggested she not hike; she went anyway.

“Is this the Eula Ridge Trail?”

Uh Oh.  She’s going to be unhappy with my answer.  

“No, This is the South Willamette Trail. Eula Ridge is back about a mile. Remember where the trail forked? You went right. You needed to go left.”

About a quarter mile from the trailhead, the trail bifurcated; to the right, a sign on a tree said this was the South Willamette Trail (SWT), 5.1 miles to Hardesty Mountain Trail. Left went up Eula Ridge, which joined Hardesty Mountain Trail near the top of the mountain with the same name. It was a 14 mile loop. The junction was a mile back. She hiked that mile, including a nasty stream crossing, and had to climb over logs in eight different places. I knew that because I had just hiked it, scouting the trail for logs needing removal. At least, she didn’t have to traverse the mess we were at. If there had been fewer blowdowns, I would have been further along the trail when she caught up with me, and she would be further from where she was supposed to have gone.

This was neither time nor place to suggest a map, a compass, or better clothing. Most of us have been guilty of shortfalls in outfitting or taking hikes. I hoped she would learn something today from her mistake. I like maps, and carry a compass, which I almost never use. The times I have used it, however, were important. Next time, maybe she will prepare in advance for the trip. On my trips to areas I haven’t seen for awhile, I usually check a map or CalTopo, and I have good trail memory. 

I have worked the SWT 17 days; I have hiked it and Hardesty at least a dozen other times. I had power brushed the section where we both were now last year. I was wearing a hard hat on a day that promised wind, I had two small saws with me, lunch, water, and a space blanket in my pack.  My wife knew where I had gone and what time I should be done. This woman was hiking alone. I understand that and don’t criticize others who do; solitary hikes are often the best ones I take. Before I left the house, I threw in my golden yellow rain jacket, because it is better than my windbreaker. I ended up wearing it. 

The stream was 4 feet wide, 15 inches deep, flowing fast, which made me stop a bit to think whether it was worth crossing, and if so how I was going to do it. I had gaiters, faced upstream when I crossed—quickly—using my walking stick to triangulate. I had no problem, and while my boots were wet, my feet stayed dry.

I continued, scouting the next mile, stopping at the last log which I knew from the report. I figured out how to log out the trail, with two crews, one from the Eula Ridge side, where I started, the other from Crale Creek Road, where two years ago I found a shortcut to reach the high point on the SWT without a long hike from below. This day, I put a ribbon marker at the user trail leading to the main trail so workers could find it coming from the road. I had a good outing.

I was mildly concerned for the hiker, although not worried. She got well off track on a day where the weather was not forgiving, and which would cost her time and warmth. It bothered me that she missed the easily visible trail sign. Despite my familiarity with the trail, I had a dedicated GPS plus one on my phone, which did have reception. I want to know where I am, my altitude, my closest way out, and the time. Going into the woods should not be taken lightly. I knew the weather forecast and wore a sturdy rain jacket. My rain pants were old but serviceable. I had good boots and gaiters. My taking the time and gear shows respect I have for the country. 

There is a softer side, too. It is not enjoyable to be improperly equipped. I’ve been there and suffered. The SWT and other trails are lovely in spring. Water is everywhere. Violets, Trilliums, and Nuttall’s toothworts were blooming, Pacific Wrens were calling and even a vulture flew overhead. I had a great hike. I’m afraid she did not.

When I got back to the trailhead, I noted the right front tire on her vehicle was significantly low.

Sometimes bad days happen. See you on the trail and I hope not on a bad day.

I hate packing wet, and that night in Indian Gardens, well below the South Rim on Bright Angel Trail, I knew I would be doing just that the following morning. Fortunately, it would only be for the hike out. Unfortunately, the trip out was uphill 3000 feet over 4.5 miles, akin to climbing Hardesty in Oregon or Mt. Wrightston south of Tucson, although on more sandy soil, with mules and people, but no mountain bikes.

My wife and I always stayed in Indian Gardens the last night out on a Canyon backpack. This trip, a cold autumn storm moved in, and our last dinner was eaten under shelter of the eaves of one of the buildings, followed by our quickly retiring to the tent. There were no day hikers in this weather, and I doubted we’d see many on the way out.

I sleep well on a rainy night if I have nowhere to go the next day, but I awoke frequently hearing rain and thought how wet and cold we were going to be. Next morning, we got up and dressed, a real joy when it is dark and raining, trying to keep bare skin away from the tent, packed where we could under the nearby eaves, folded the tent, without my caring how it looked, only that it stay on the pack, headed out and up, wearing layers but not expecting to shed any. The pack the last day was supposed to be light without food and with little water, but it weighed a ton with the wet tent. When I reached the Coconino Sandstone layer, the light brown vertical one, third from the top, the rain switched to snow. I was warm but not excessively so, and kept plodding upward into the Toroweap. Fortunately, our vehicle was parked right at the top of the trail, something one could easily do forty years ago. I reached the top of the trail, Kaibab Limestone, got the keys out, dropped my pack into the trunk…

And was suddenly cold. BRRR. No longer generating heat, I had unevaporated sweat. I knew my wife would be a little while longer, so I immediately headed to a nearby lodge with a fire to stand by it. When I was again warm, I went back out and waited. When she appeared, I took the pack, told her to head to the lodge to get warm, and I would quickly be there.

Packing wet when you aren’t coming out means thinking all day about how you want to get the tent up and have it dry, right now, but you can’t. If it were in the rest of the pack, which for me it often was, then I tried to shield my clothes and sleeping bag from it, not always succeeding. On some multi-day backpacks in Alaska, it would rain for a couple of days straight, the pack was wet, tent wet, and I had one pair of dry socks I saved for night. That meant I put on cold, damp socks in the morning. They were wool; it was bad for only a few minutes. 

I finally got it right with the help of a guide when I was on the Noatak River. I put the pack in the tent overnight and in the morning packed everything without leaving the tent. Then I struck the tent, folded it, put it in a stuff sack, and attached it to the outside of my pack. It didn’t matter whether it rained or whether I was crossing water up to my waist. The tent wasn’t going to get any wetter, and it wasn’t going to get the clothes in the pack wet, either.

See you on the trail. Make sure the coming generations know your tricks.

The rocks seemed like they would never end. I was digging into the lighter brown mineral soil, small rocks kept appearing which we didn’t want on the trail.

The Crew was working in Cloverpatch, five on the third bridge, which now had stringers across Tire Creek, rushing after the  recent rain, seven on the trail to the fourth and last bridge site. The stringers weren’t ready to walk across, so I waded through foot deep water quickly to the other side. My gaiters worked well; I had no sensation of wetness. 

I took the group a quarter mile further to work on the trail that had been flagged to the last bridge, a half mile further. Flagging meant someone had bushwhacked and put small flags on metal rods in the ground, marking a proto-trail, eventually to become a mountain bike trail. To make the actual trail, we had to remove large brush to get access to the ground, then plants so that the tread would be a yard wide, cut out roots and branches with hand saws, loppers, or tread tools, then scrape away organic detritus to the mineral subsoil, pushing the former off the trail. Digging uncovered rocks, some we couldn’t remove, others could be after several minutes, but many smaller ones kept appearing. The week before, eight of us cleared a couple hundred yards. I doubted seven of us today would get nearly that far.

The trail went uphill and side hilled, sometimes constraining the width sub-optimally. We then dug into the hillside, encountering more rocks, more dirt, and more plants.

I had noted rotten logs in the trail under which I was able to work a tread tool to lift parts of them out.  In the logs, I noted long stems of plant life, parallel to the grain. It was one of those new, odd things that I saw before moving on. I was bent over, and sometimes, to be easier on my back, I knelt on the trail to have better ability to use the Rinehart tool to move the organic duff and pick out rocks by hand. 

But I kept seeing rotten logs and roots. Finally, taking a longer, closer look, I saw how the stems had split the log longitudinally with smaller roots intertwined, like capillaries, with the rotten, still wet, wood. Cellulose and lignin are the two most common organic compounds in wood. These are glucose polymers—chains of connected glucose molecules— containing carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. The non-cellulose parts have proteins, built with amino acids, organic acids with an amine group at the alpha-carbon, the one that is not the acid (-COOH ) portion. Glycine, the simplest, is vinegar (CH3COOH) with a methyl hydrogen replaced by an amino (-NH2) group. Twenty different amino acids are found in our proteins, 9 essential or required in our diet. Cells in rotten wood contain potential nutrients: nucleic acids have nitrogen, sulfur, and phosphorus. Other minerals are magnesium, essential for chlorophyll, potassium, and calcium.

Capillary is both a noun and an adjective. Capillary action is the ability of water to rise in a narrow tube due to attraction between the water molecules and the sides of the tube. It is an important way to transport water upwards through the xylem along with transpiration pull from the leaves.

By kneeling on the ground and moving much of it, I learned about the two forms of capillary and how the minerals present were being used to form new organic compounds that will appear in many phyla in both plants and animals in the area.

See you on the trail. Unless you are working trail, please leave no trace.

“Why are you wearing rain pants?”

I wanted to reply, “Why does it matter?” I simply said rain pants kept my legs warm. The questioner looked about 40 years younger. I have been his age; he has not been mine.

I recently hiked, avec pants, 5 miles upstream from Sand Prairie between the Middle Fork and FS 21. It was maybe upper thirties, partly cloudy, the first half mile exposed with a few inches of snow cover in the campground. Briefly, I wondered if I should have brought snowshoes, but soon the trail had only patchy snow, enough in places to slow me but not a problem. 

My feet not surprisingly felt cold, but the rest of me warmed up, although I never did take off my rain jacket. I wasn’t that warm, except for my hands, so I removed my gloves.

I reached FS 21 and decided to hike back on the road. The Sun was close to culmination (due south) and felt good on my back. I hiked a mile then found a sunny spot for lunch. Fifteen minutes later, having had sunlight on my black rain pants, my legs were warm, but when I stood up, I was stiff…and cold.  Lunch time has changed for me the past few years. I am definitely colder and stiffer afterwards and again need to warm up.

My entire relationship with cold has changed, sadly in the direction of less tolerance. I canoe tripped into my late fifties wearing shorts. I swam in September in northern Minnesota even later. Those days are gone. After years of starting cold and letting a hike warm me, my body is telling me to put more on. Three days after the Middle Fork hike, I went up Spencer Butte on a clear 20 degree day. I wore 3 layers above the waist, two below; I had gloves, a hat, a balaclava and the jacket hood up. For the first mile I was cold, especially my fingers, then felt more comfortable, actually removing my gloves, the hood, and partially unzipping my windbreaker. After two miles, I wondered whether I should take it off altogether but decided not to.

On the steps, the Sun was out but the wind cold. The gloves came back on, the windbreaker zipped up, the hood back up. On top, I placed the pack so the pad would get some sun and become warmer. I went behind a rock to sit out of the wind, using a glove between my back and the cold rock. No longer moving, I started to get cold and didn’t see any reason to stay up there. I put the pack, which hadn’t warmed, on, felt the awful sensation of cold sweat on my back, and started down. 

I never got warm. We burn a third the calories descending 10% grades compared to ascending. My gloves, hat, and hood stayed on the whole time. At the bottom, I drove to get coffee, the car’s heater on full. While warmer, I put my hands around the coffee cup. I was tempted to put my fingers in it.

When I got home, considering myself warm, I had lunch, read for awhile, then finally showered. Only then did I realize I was now finally normal.

See you on the trail. Wear what works for you.

I was outside in Tucson one May moonless evening well after sunset, armed with a digital watch, preparing to see if I could do some magic. In the northeast, Pontatoc Ridge stood silent, an oblique black line sloping downward from the lower part of the Santa Catalina Mountains to the east, as if to tell me there was nothing to see. Well, not yet. I looked at the time: one minute to go. The spring stars of Arcturus and Spica were well above the horizon.

I looked again at my watch with my red light, Ten seconds to go, then as I looked towards the ridge, I said aloud, “Four, three, two, one, RISE!” The star Vega suddenly appeared.

Wow, like magic. It wasn’t, of course, but still pretty cool.

I like Vega. It’s bright, high overhead in summer, and in the beautiful constellation Lyra the Harp, which contains a globular cluster M56 and the famous Ring Nebula, M57, a picture of which Trekkies saw on the USS Enterprise. Vega conveniently rose over an sharply defined horizon, rather than the flat horizon, where obstructions, refraction, and thickness of looking through more atmosphere make exact timing difficult.

Two nights earlier, I noted Vega shortly after its rising and decided the following night to look earlier to get the exact time. I did just that. The stars rise about 4 minutes earlier each night or two hours earlier each month. Multiply 2 hours by 12 months, and the cycle begins anew. With the exact time of Vega’s rising, I went out the third night to see if the rising was 3 minutes 56 seconds earlier, a more exact time. It was. May in Arizona often allowed three consecutive clear nights.

The stars rise and set because of the Earth’s rotation, but the Earth, with its tilted axis, revolves about the Sun, which changes where and when the sun rises. The stars are so much further away they are essentially fixed in position, no matter where we are in our orbit. Vega is 1.6 million times further away than the Sun. From one rising to another of Vega—or any other nighttime star—is the 360 degree rotational period of the Earth, the sidereal day. It’s 3 minutes and 56.1 seconds less than our 24 hour solar day, our clock time, 366 sidereal days in a 365 day year.

Do the math: There are 1440 minutes in our solar day. Three minutes 56.1 seconds earlier a day over 366 days is 1440.01 minutes.

Do it yourself: find a star near a building or some other fixed terrestrial reference. Find when it appears or disappears, and prove it does that a little fewer than four minutes earlier each day. Command it to rise, like I did, if you wish.

“Glad to get that off my shoulder,” I said to the trail, the nearby trees, and a woodpecker I could hear but not see.  I put Brad’s chain saw down on the ground by the junction of the Betty Lake Trail and its north spur to the lake. Lunch time.

An hour earlier, Brad and I were a mile further west at the fourth of six logs we had to remove on the Betty Lake Trail, an all season path near Waldo Lake, joining Waldo Lake Road to the 20 mile Jim Weaver Trail that circles the lake. Our first log was head high over the trail and held in a notch of a pair of trees. When the log was cut, it went up like a teeter-totter. You find entertainment where you can when working trail. The current log was 20-22 inches diameter, a straightforward cut. Standing on the opposite side of the log, I noted a rock right about where Brad’s cut was headed. As the cut came lower, I stepped over in front of Brad, waving my hands to get his attention.

“Rock!” I pointed down.

He looked over, gave me a nod, and later we finished the cut with a hand saw, which if it scraped the rock would be no big deal. Saw chains do not like rocks. He told me later he hadn’t seen it. I was in much better position to see it and spoke up as is my job as swamper. Every part of trail work has had a steep learning curve for me, and swamping has perhaps been the most difficult for me.

Swampers, (the verb to swamp) are words for helping someone who is operating equipment deal with carrying it, fuel, clearing space, safety and emergencies. Swampers for power sawyers are a pair of second eyes for obstructions or issues the sawyer might not appreciate, such as overhead dangers, hikers, or movement of nearby logs because of the current cut. The sawyer is concentrating on the cut; the swamper must be watching out for everything else in the surroundings, staying clear yet being aware of the cut’s progress.

Two years back, a log lay across the Vivian Lake Trail a quarter mile from the trailhead. The log, nothing unusual, went uphill 30-40 feet where it disappeared in brush. There, a second log similar size was perpendicular to and lying on it. I wondered whether the second log was a potential problem. Maybe. Maybe not.

The sawyer arrived, and as he planned his cut, I called over: “Note the log on top of this one. It might not do anything, but I want you to be aware of it.” My second pair of eyes was not confident in calling out what logs will do. But now there was a second brain involved.

The sawyer nodded, changed position so he faced me and further away. As he cut through the log over the trail, it dropped. The perpendicular log was suddenly free, started to roll, had a low friction surface, the log we had just dropped, and accelerated, crossing the trail in seconds, going over the edge with a loud crash below.

“Thank you!” 

Brad and I ate lunch at Betty Lake, each of us finding an appropriate spot. I don’t sit on logs when eating but rather the ground, often leaning against a tree. Trail work has two lunch seasons: we had months of the summer one, where I looked for shade. We had just entered winter lunch season, where now I sought out sunlight. I ate, all the while looking out at the 40 acre lake. 

The south shore across from me was a quarter mile away, the west end a similar distance to my right. A few whitecaps were visible, pushed my way by the south wind. The sky over the distant trees was as deep blue as it gets. Somewhere out on the lake, I ate lunch one winter day when I snowshoed in nearly six miles from Highway 58 and sat on a pad in bright sunshine, my black pants absorbing the heat. I then snowshoed back out.

I’ve watched plenty of water from a Navy ship on multiple trans-Pacific crossings, and up close on a hundred canoe trips Up North. Never get tired of looking. 

It’s when I have to move after watching water that has changed. I used to stand right up. I now have a couple of false starts, hear some cracking, and gradually change position. Eventually succeeding, it was time to put the saw back up on my shoulder, make my back unhappy, rejoin the trail, and return to the trailhead.

Smoke started curling out of the hole where I was drilling. The drill hadn’t seemed to work right from the start, requiring my pushing it more than I should have. Finally, my effort produced no further movement but plenty of smoke, so I pulled the drill out, noting removal was easy. 

“Something’s wrong with the drill,” I said.

“Try this one,” Sig gave me another drill. I had no trouble at all.

We were working on the bridge over Salt Creek not far from the falls. The bridge was about 60 feet long with a 45 degree curve on the west side. This bridge construction I worked on more than our first one at Indian Creek along the Middle Fork, where I did necessary grunt work of moving logs and debarking cedars. Here, I cut the rails, drilled holes for the posts and support structures, and using a high noise impact driver to put in the screws and toe nails holding everything together.

We had cut the logs down in the valley, where there was Western redcedar, covered the logs near the road with boughs to hide from poaching until we got a trailer from the Forest Service, then eventually moved 35, minus 3 or 4 that were stolen anyway, into a trailer.  We drove 20 miles up to the falls, where we unloaded them by the parking lot. I moved thirty of them one day a couple hundred yards to the work site, using a dragger Jim had rigged up. Some logs I just put over my shoulder and carried. My step counter showed 7 miles’ hiking that day without ever leaving a circle of 200 yards radius. I worked closely with Jim and Sig, learning about bridge construction during the nine outings I had there.

There was nothing wrong with the drill. It ran just fine. But it was in reverse and I as I pushed it in, the friction became intense enough to ignite the wood. I suspect Sig knew but didn’t want to embarrass me. Before using a drill again, I had discovered the little button that changes gears and turned the drill on briefly to ensure it was turning clockwise. It was a rookie mistake. I later graduated to where I had to figure out how to remove and replace the battery without asking anybody or taking too long.

Bridge work is a team effort.

About a year later, I volunteered in Cottage Grove for Huerta de la Familia, developing the seventh garden in the region for Hispanic families to grow their own food. My first trip there, the group was putting in fence posts, My job was to fill a wheelbarrow with gravel and take it to each of 35 such holes, where the gravel was mixed with the ever present mud to surround the post. There was another outing there recently, and I decided to go, despite the accurately forecasted rain, in full rain gear which I define as wearing enough clothing that one can’t tell if it is raining.

I was first to arrive, low clouds, spitting rain, not getting lost like I had the first time, and as I went out on the plot, Gloria, as she introduced herself, held a Ridgid cordless 18V power drill.

“Hi,” she said. “Do you know how to use this?”

Music to my ears. Oh, indeed I do, Before Salt Creek, I might have asked what it was. Nonchalantly, I said, “Yes, no problem,” as if I had that, a few yellow DeWalts, and a Stihl power brusher 25.2 cc one cylinder motor in my garage next to my Husky saw. Gloria didn’t need to know my past ignorance. It reminded me of being abroad on an overnight flight when the crew needed English speakers to sit by the emergency exit, which happened to have great seats. The flight attendant looked at me, and asked, “Do you speak English?” 

Oh, indeed I do. “Like a native,” I replied, drawing out all the words.

My job in the rain was to remove the multiple screws that held the planks and slats of several elevated garden plots so we could remove them. The job would require removal of upwards of 75 brass PowerPro brass Torx screws, many of which were so tightly bound I had to use the whole drill as a screw driver just to break them loose. I didn’t notice the rain, only my gloves getting progressively wetter. I was one with the Ridgid. I even helped Jean change a bit; all I had to do was vigorously unscrew the chuck.

The job was right up my alley, for all I had to do was to remove screws, so I used reverse the entire time.  Piece of cake.

See you on the trail