Dry Canyon

Speaking of cold and snow—which I've done recently—some people seem not to mind either of them.  I made this picture of VSO after a two mile slog up Dry Canyon in 15F temps.  Maybe I need to have her break the trail, she seems to be enjoying herself too much.

Not Just Cold

It is currently cold in southern Utah.  But it is not just cold.  (By which I mean it is not "only" cold.)  It is also snowy.  We nearly missed Christmas dinner because I didn't want to drive through a blizzard.  The blizzard quit with thirty minutes to spare, but it still took two hours to dig the car out of the yard.  (Not the car in this picture, that one is too nice for us, even if it is in the snow bank.)

Another Cold Snap

We sometimes joke about placing items that we'd like to keep from freezing into the refrigerator.  The fridge—set at 44F—can sometimes be warmer than the kitchen itself.  We actually made this joke late last week when Reader Three was in the house.  (Sorry R3.)  Well.  It wasn't funny this morning:  When I reached in for the half and half, I felt a wash of warm air spill out of the fridge.  I wondered if I should keep the door open to heat the house.  With the outdoor thermometer standing at minus three, the interior temperature was quite a bit south of 40F.  Anyway.  Instead of crawling into the fridge, I opened both burners on the gas heater in the kitchen, and went to the living room to start the stove.  By the time the sun got to work, most of the house was at least 50F.  Good enough.

Solstice

Unusually for southern Utah, the sky has been stubbornly overcast for three or four days.  One of those days—yesterday—was the winter solstice.  It was gloomy.  While I was working down a ridge by The Gap, I was pelted by rain.  Kind of depressing.  It made the lake—the LSL—look like a real lake, though.  And, on my way back to town, in the middle of the PV, the sun slanted through between the gloom and the ground.  It was a remarkably colorful shaft of light, making everything in the landscape beautiful.  It was, on the other hand, almost more depressing than the gloom.  It was one of those moments when, if you're paying attention, you realize that you are on the outside looking in, and that you haven't been invited to the planning meeting.

Bridging It

VSO has been on a bit of a fitness binge.  She has been reading a book that teaches you how to feel younger.  Mostly, it turns out, you feel younger by getting off your arse.  Not that she's ever been a couch potato, but she has been recently inspired to put a few extra miles under her belt.  So, she's been hitting the trail with me a little bit.  Which is kind of fun.  We've been logging some miles in the snow.

We wanted to ski in Center Creek, but couldn't get across the water.  So later this afternoon we went up there and I dragged a couple of old studs to the creek for a bridge.  No one else had been over, so I broke trail to the upper meadow and we had the whole place to ourselves.  When we got back, VSO was still kind of complaining about wanting to be fit.  I told her, "Hey, I don't think there are very many women in this town who could, or would, do what you were doing this evening (or men, for that matter).  I don't think you are very far away from being fit."

Breaking Trail

On Tuesday I went out by myself.  It turned into a wallow.  At one point, I measured 28 inches of unconsolidated snow.  I broke trail going up; and I broke trail going down; and it was the same trail.  Yesterday I went out with VSO.  As we started up the canyon here came a man from the old country.  With his wife, or girlfriend.  "Good timing," I said.  "You broke trail for us."  "Ja."  He smiled.  I kept expecting him to say, "We escaped the Nazis by skiing over the Alps."  But he only said, "Have a good evening."  With a strong accent.  I don't know?  Italian?  Austrian?  In any case, there is nothing better than climbing in a track made by someone who knows how to ski.  I was in heaven.  I continued to imagine the conversation:  "We carried schnitzel and reisling; sleeping in unguarded huts; fleeing to Switzerland; and then to America; where I started the ski school at Telluride."  Maybe I was imagining a talk with Alf Engen or someone.  About a mile up, though, it stopped.  Oh well.  So much for my daydream.  I was back to breaking my own trail.  Our own trail.  With VSO packing it behind me, it was going to be good for going home.  We went to the gate at Five Mile, turned around there.  VSO leading the way down.  I was the fourth set of skis on that track.  Kick glide kick glide.

Missing: 19,000 Gallons

According to the USGS, the average person uses from 80 to 100 gallons of water per day.  For a household of three, then, the Homestead would be expected to meter between 7,400 to 9,300 gallons/month.  Our actual average—from August through October 2014—was 3,000 gallons/month (or 32 gallons per person per day).  I don't know?  Maybe we are not very clean.

Well, something has changed.  From the end of October through yesterday afternoon, we had metered 19,000 gallons.  Holy schmoly.  We must be really clean now.  Unfortunately for the soap companies, I still only shower once a week.  So where is the water going?  I wish I knew.  There are obvious answers:  1.  We left a tap on.  2.  We have a big leak.  But I can find no evidence of either problem.

Now I am checking the water meter every other day.  In the 55 hour period from Wednesday morning to Friday afternoon, we used 200 gallons.  That is a rate of 2,976 gallons/month.  Bingo.  That is what I would expect based on our August through October consumption.  So, I guess the problem fixed itself.  But, where did all the water go?

Buck Deer

When I got home from work on Tuesday, there was a four-point buck in the orchard.  It was nearly dark and difficult to see where it was headed, but I chased it briefly.  It hit the fence and bounced off, allowing me to zero in.  Seeing the light beyond the chain link gate, it turned and ran for the street.  The gate was, however, closed and the deer bounced again, losing its footing.  This time I was right behind it and grabbed some firewood to throw.  It was, as I said, dark, and I don't have a very good arm, so I'm not sure I even hit it.  But, it didn't get up.  I figured it was stunned and would stagger away eventually, so I went in the house.  In the morning, there it was, stone cold.  I don't really know what killed it.  Theories abound.  One of my colleagues focused on the firewood and praised my rather prehistoric ability to thump my prey.  Others, knowing my short-temper and unfriendly demeanor, felt that I had scared the poor thing to death.  My brother-in-law guessed that it somehow broke its neck when it hit the gate.  That seems like the most plausible explanation.

Christmas Tree

For the past couple of years, the Homestead's Christmas tree has been a white fir.  They are common in the local canyons and can generally be gathered quickly.  This year, however, VSO was singing the praises of subalpine fir, so we took the highway to Brian Head—I knew we wouldn't find it below 9,000 feet.  There, on the National Forest, across from the ski area, we found hundreds of subalpine fir trees.  They have a more spire-like architecture than do white fir, but we cut a couple of good ones.

Atop the Castle

There is a landmark near our house.  It is called the Vermillion Castle.  It is, as the name implies, a towering pile of steep, red rock.  There is a trail—the Vermillion Castle Trail—but it mostly winds around in the foothills.  There is really no way to the top.

At least, I didn't think so.  I was scrambling around yesterday.  At the top of a long rocky slope I found a little ledge I could climb.  I traversed it and popped out onto another rock fall.  At the top of that, I found a little saddle.  Around a hoodoo at the end of the saddle and then there was a little snow slope that went directly to the final wall, a sheer block of rock at the top.  Under the block there was a corner.  I got around the corner and onto another snow field.  Up.  Another little saddle and a couple of blocks.  Up the blocks.  Bam.  Sky above me.

It was kind of late because, when you're that close to the top, you don't stop climbing.  I turned around at 5:30.  The sun was down and it was getting dusky.  I skittered down snow slopes and jumped from ledges.  It took 25 minutes but I made it to the Chev by full dark.  Eleven hundred vertical feet.

Walking to Dillon

There has been some recent talk in the pages of this newspaper about walking.  I like to wander around and see things in the backcountry.  Which can require some walking.  When VSO and I scrambled down off this ridge and picked up EDO for the hike back to the Chev earlier today, it was my fifty-second backcountry mile for November 2015.

When I started thinking about this—last December—I'd racked-up 78 miles of backcountry travel in one month.  Now that November is over, I guess I've got a 12 month total:  In the year from December 2014 through November 2015, I walked 571 miles in the backcountry, a 47.5 mile monthly average, or about a mile and a half per day.

If I put it all together, I could walk from my house to approximately Dillon, Montana, give or take ten miles.  Of course, it might require another year to get home, but I've always kind of liked Dillon.

Pictographs and Granaries

VSO has a good friend—a native of Escalante—who has spent a lot of time scrambling around in the canyons—places like North Creek and Main Canyon.  Over the years he has spotted dozens and dozens (hundreds?) of aboriginal artifacts.  When we lived there, everyone called them Moquis.  Wallace Stegner says that Moqui is a corruption of Hopi.  Which means it is probably the same people group as what we've also been calling Anasazi.  Of course, none of that is correct anymore.  I believe that the proper term is "ancestral puebloan."

In any case, we went over there yesterday to see some of the finds.  We banged around with a couple of VSO's friends in the canyons for a couple of hours.  Most of the observations were by binocular because there was too much climbing and scrambling involved to see each one.  Plus, the weather refused to cooperate:  It was cold, blustery, and snowy for most of four or five hours.  We did spend a minute climbing up to this little granary (below).  It looks just like an eye, doesn't it?

When we were done hunting for masonry, we stopped at the Slot Canyons Inn so VSO could drop off a couple of paintings.  While we waited, EDO made two very good friends.  To see her with her friends, click here.

The Sharp End

When I retired from climbing, I cut my rope in half.  I put one piece in the shed to use for chores and the other I put under the seat in the truck.  While both have come in handy over the past decade, the one in the Chev has played a critical role in a number of, well, rescues.  I know that I have told this story before.  In fact, one of my readers has pointed out that it has become tiresome.  So.  I'll keep it short.

This time it was a sort of mountain man:  Camo coat, wool cap, jeans, boots, beard, and dangling cigarette.  He said that he'd left the lights on and needed a jump.  We tried it, but there was nothing.  After 15 minutes the starter wouldn't even tick.  It had been 17F the night before and the sun was dropping behind the horizon.  I was beginning to feel the cold and didn't want to leave him out there.  Was there someone he could call?  (He had, of course, a smart phone.)  Well, he said, there were a few people he could try, but he wasn't sure.

So, I offered him the climbing rope.  He took me up on it.  I don't actually know that much about climbing ropes, but I have certainly learned that they make a good tow strap.  I towed the guy from Kane Springs to the TA truck-stop.  It probably wasn't ten miles, but it was close.  And most of it was gravel.  I tried to make a picture of the adventure, but didn't get much.  You can almost see him back there—I guess I was on lead and he was my belay.  Har.

PV Album

Usually, when I go out to look around, I end up on the Markagunt.  Which is to say, the Colorado Plateau.  But, sometimes, I'll change directions and head for the Great Basin.  Which is to say, I'll find a place to get off the road in the Parowan Valley.  A couple of days ago, I drove out and scrambled up a little way.  It was cloudy and the wind was cold.  Yesterday, I couldn't find a way to drive to the hill I wanted to climb, so I marched for a mile across the plain.  It was sunny and the wind was cold.  The scenery doesn't look much like southern Utah, and is more like Nevada.  It can, nevertheless, be picturesque.  Click the link for a sample.

The Ultimate Drive By Shooting

I probably shouldn't tell this story.  Someone will think I'm being condescending, or contemptuous.  And, perhaps I am.  But this just seems so egregious.

Everyone can agree that Americans are not walkers.  Right?  I mean, if you can go by motor, you will (go by motor).  Even if it is only half a block.  My own rule of thumb is two tenths of a mile—about 1,000 feet.  Ninety five percent of Americans will walk not one step further than that.  And, in southern Utah, where I live, my rule of thumb also applies to National Parks, of which there are not a few.  Which is fine, because in most places you can drive to the overlook, walk a few hundred feet, and get the view of Disneyland that you came for.

Anyway, we were at Point Imperial on the North Rim the other day.  We parked at the first spot on the horseshoe.  Which is to say that the view point features a paved loop with parking spaces forming a horseshoe at the top half of the loop.  The entire horseshoe is probably 200 or 300 feet in diameter and we parked at the very first slot on the right after entering the horseshoe.  We went out and walked down the rim for a while.  I don't know, a mile?  Forty or fifty minutes, an hour?  When we got back, we dropped a couple of items at the Chev and then walked up the horseshoe towards the main overlook.  At just that moment a big black new pick up truck—a diesel—roared into the horseshoe.  Texas.  The truck was from Texas.  The driver turned to the right and parked approximately near the Chev.  The guy slumped out.  A mammoth guy.  Texas-sized.  He left the truck running.  Rat a tat a tat.  He slouched up to the sidewalk and over to the rim.  He lifted the digital camera.  Kacheek.  Kacheek.  Fired a couple of rounds at the amusement park.  Turned.  Shuffled back to the truck, squeezed in, put it in reverse, mashed on the pedal.  A cloud of black exhaust.  Now forward.  100 feet.  One fifty.  To the apex of the horseshoe.  Into another parking spot.  Dragged himself out of the truck.  Left it running.  Shuffled to the overlook.  Raised the camera.  Kacheek.

I am not making this up.  I stood there and watched this.  I mean.  I stood out of the way.  God forbid you're in the way of these effers.  They'd run you down soon as look at you.  Now we can't even park at the overlook and shuffle our fat asses from one view to the next?  We have to drive?  One hundred feet?  I guess I'd better change my rule of thumb.  (Honestly, it makes me want to cry.  And, I'm not making that up either.)

Making Fire

This week, we were burning.  Or, trying to, anyway.  The thing about burning:  No one wants to do it when it is hot and windy.  But it doesn't work very well when it is cold and still either.  On the day I made these pictures it was 51F.  Sure, we killed a little common juniper in the sunshine, but overall it was hard to get it going.  When the diesel was gone, the fire was out.  There must be a better way.

Like I Said

Right place; right time.  This is where I was this afternoon.  Another good one.  In my opinion.

Backlighting

I went out—just for thirty minutes or so—to put a mile on the legs.  Well.  You know how that goes.  About three miles into it, I was 800 or 1000 feet above the Chev when I noticed this single aspen in the distance glowing in the sun.  I was shooting directly into the glare.  Not a good way to get an image.  But I really like the way this one came out.  You can see my target at center right.  It is pretty blurry.  But.  Even without it.  I like the picture.  And.  As anybody who carries a camera knows:  Good pictures are a matter of luck, of being in the right place at the right time.

North Rim

We've had a warm, sunny autumn, with no freezing weather.  Late last week there was rain in the forecast, but it didn't seem like it would amount to anything.  So, early this week, we went out to the North Rim.  We arrived in a bit of a downpour, but the rain took a break to let us set up the camper and make dinner.  It rained all night, though, and, in the morning, the sun had just a brief opportunity to poke through between the horizon and the storm.  Fortunately, by mid-morning, it had broken up enough to let us have a view.

Sweet Home

Before, to paraphrase Wallace Stegner, the freeway split and ruined this valley, there was the highway.  The old highway, the highway that you took from Salt Lake to Cedar City and St. George (and Mesquite and Vegas).  Highway 91.  Some segments of it still exist, and I used it today.  I stopped just outside Summit and wandered around in the sagebrush for an hour while the breeze blew.  On the way back to the Chev I noticed this little old homestead, dug into a bank beneath a couple of juniper trees (cedar trees to the locals).  It has just about all you could want—though it is currently missing a roof.  It is hard to imagine giving it up for a plastic box in town.

Where Is This Going?

One question you always have to ask is, "Where is this going?"  What will this piece of ground look like in 10 years, or 20, or 100, or 200?  The best way to be certain that you got the correct answer would, of course, be to return to the location in 20 years, or 200.  But, for most of us, that will not be possible.  So, what else can we do?  One thing that I try to do is to look at a different piece of ground nearby that is 20 years ahead of where I am standing.  In other words, this place where I am standing is going to look—in 20 years—like that place over there does today.  As an example, the picture above is from today; the picture below is from 20 years from now.  What is the answer?  Manzanita.  Which is fine, but human patience is required if forests are desired.

Arikota

I was driving around on the plateau last week.  I was mostly disoriented.  When I entered this little valley (pictured above) it reminded me of South Dakota (pictured below).  Which was really disorienting because when I'd started the drive, I was in Arizona.  Anyway, while Arizona is plainly a long way from South Dakota, there are some strong similarities between the Kaibab and the Black Hills.  They both grow ponderosa pine in great quantities.  And aspen, too.  Their spruces, on the other hand, are different colors—mostly blue on the Kaibab and white in the Hills.

The Points

With their dendritic drainage patterns, the plateaus of the Arizona strip feature many "points."  These are the ridge tops and elevated flats that have not yet eroded and which continue to stand between the canyons.  I went to the confluence of Snake Gulch and Kanab Creek on Wednesday to observe an operation designed to test mountain sheep for pneumonia.  The landing zone was atop Gunsight Point (above).  On Thursday, I gave a brief presentation to a group of students from the Hopi Tribe.  The site was downstream from Snake Gulch and to the east of Kanab Creek at a place called Locust Point (below).  Whatever else can be said about them, the points provide scenic views.

Getting Into the Light

VSO is painting in Escalante this weekend.  I'm the one at home for a change.  At least, I'm near home.  I was working my way back from the rim over Ashdown Gorge this afternoon when she called me on the cell.  She was about to go up the road to the Little Desert to give it another try, but had been painting all day and was tired and hot.  "It's too bad," I said.  "We're just getting into the light."  This was what I meant.

Biggest One I've Seen

I was out thrashing around on the plateau today and I found this Douglas fir.  It was still alive and pushing 60 inches.  I looked on the Arizona State Forestry website for the champion, but Douglas fir wasn't listed.  I haven't seen one this big in Arizona, so I'm going to call mine the champion.  Of course, the national champion for Rocky Mountain Douglas fir has supposedly been located in Montana.  They've recorded it at 223 inches, which blows my mind.  On the coast they've got one that is supposed to be 599.  Is that even possible?  I'll have to see it to believe it I guess.

Trying to Understand

I don't really get it with the UTVs.  They mostly can't go anywhere your truck can't go, certainly not anywhere a jeep can't go, but they're no where near as comfortable or useful.  First of all they sound like a lawn mower.  Is that fun?  Buzzing around sitting on a lawn mower engine.  I mean, I understand the thrill of revving your big engine, but these aren't big engines, do people really get a thrill from revving around with a lawn mower engine?  Then there are the go-cart wheels and uncomfortable seats.  You feel the roughness of every pebble, and each big bump throws your shoulder against your neighbor.  But the worst of it has got to be the dust.  I understand that it is wonderful to be motoring around in the woods without any windows or doors, but if you aren't the lead dog you're going to be absolutely enveloped in dust.  I was out for a few minutes yesterday, and witnessed a big rally just a-lawn-mowering-it up Center Creek.  I made it out of the side-canyon and into the Chev before the worst of it, so I was able to watch from inside the truck with the windows up.  The second guy, and gal, and whoever else was in there, had to wear goggles and a mask.  By the seventh or eighth UTV, I could barely see the occupants, but from what I could tell, they were swathed from head to toe against the dust storm—hooded, masked, and goggled like Rommel's 15th Panzer Division.  In general I think these things can be had for less than $20,000, so I know you're not paying very much to eat dust on your lawn mower.  I guess I'm starting to talk myself into it.

August Album

Usually my season doesn't start until September.  Mid-May to mid-September are generally indoor months for me.  I try not to go out much during that period.  My outdoor season doesn't usually start until sometime after Labor Day.  I was, however, looking around a little at this past month, August 2015.  I ended up walking almost 49 miles in the back-country, and I saw a few good places.  I made a little album.

Yesterday's Bristlecone

I was out yesterday looking around.  It was too hot to hike or anything.  But when I got to the base of this little ridge, I went up anyway.  There was some nice old limber and Douglas fir on the way, and at the top, a bristlecone forest.  I know.  I'm always posting about bristlecone.  But, it's funny, the stuff follows me around.  This one came with a view to the east, a view of a storm building over the Monument.

Bear Valley

I was in Bear Valley the other day.  It is well known for its role as a link in the Old Spanish Trail.  It is not difficult to see why traders from Santa Fe liked it:  It is a good place to recruit the stock after several long weeks on the hoof.  I started wondering what Fray Escalante thought when he got there, so I went to look at his journal.  Unfortunately, the Fathers never saw Bear Valley.  When they got to modern day Scipio, they turned west and made their way to approximately the modern town of Delta, where they turned south again.  To reach Bear Valley from Scipio would have required that they continue south along the Sevier, with the Pavant to the west.

Five Hundred

I'll be the first to admit that greatness is not merely a matter of output, of sheer numbers.  Surely there have been prolific writers and voluminous publishers who have never been nominated for journalism's highest prizes.  So, I don't mean to say that this post—number 500—qualifies Rural Ways for the Pulitzer.  But, it is a fitting time—a rare milestone—to reflect on the quality of this newspaper. 

While the nomination of Rural Ways has not yet been submitted to the prize board, we feel that it is worth reviewing some of the standards set by Joseph Pulitzer.  To start with a couple of technical details, the Pulitzer committee will only consider newspapers that publish at least weekly and that adhere to "the highest journalistic principles."  Check and check.  Beyond that, the committee is looking for "original reporting, good writing, and visual storytelling."  Bingo.  Bingo.  Bingo.  I mean, talk about original:  This newspaper was the first to break the story of can trash in the Parowan Valley.  A story, I might add, that less courageous reporters have yet to take up.  As for good writing, there has been all that stuff about pine trees with Latin names and junk that should leave no doubt about the care and precision with which editors attack pieces filled with flabby useless details that make for long boring and incoherent stories about stuff that nobody would want to read about or anything.  Finally, the visual storytelling at Rural Ways is unmatched anywhere:  Where else can you go to find unique, hard-hitting images of fields and forests, but especially forests?  The visual story told by this post alone should be enough to put us on the short list.

All that being said, and in the interests of journalistic integrity, I should probably point out that the prize is not a sure thing.  Perhaps the biggest question mark involves the issue of how the jury views organizations with a small circulation.  While the number of early subscribers to Rural Ways quickly doubled, and then doubled again, to a confirmed audience of four, the numbers have subsequently tailed off, and the current readership may have fallen back to its core group of one.  As I say, and despite meeting all the other qualifications, it is hard to know what the Pulitzer committee will think of an organization boasting of a readership and a writership composed of the same individual.

 

Big Springs

I've written elsewhere about the era of Forest Service guard stations, and I won't say it all again, but along with serving as the homes and cabins of forest guards or district rangers, some facilities evolved into field stations or work centers.  Last week I was eating brats grilled by a colleague at the Big Springs "Administrative Center," which likely means that it is a place for administrators to conduct administration.  Actually, I don't know what it means, but, as one of the only locations on the Kaibab Plateau with a year-round water source, it has seen centuries of human use.  Many of the old cabins at Big Springs—while still in use by summer research and fire fighting crews—are on the National Register of Historic Places.  A few of them have even been turned into rental units, where members of the public can go for a vacation in the pines, although, to my way of thinking, and as you can see from the picture, the place is just too damned crowded to be restful.

NoGo

The northern goshawk (Accipiter gentilis) is a wide-ranging forest raptor, with habitat throughout the northern hemisphere—Europe, Asia, North America.  Despite its wide range, it is generally considered a sensitive species, with some concern about potential population declines due to loss of habitat.  For that reason, much forest management in northern goshawk (NoGo) habitat over the past several decades has focused on habitat maintenance and improvement.  Some of the best NoGo habitat in North America is found on the Kaibab Plateau in northern Arizona.  I was working there this week, collecting data in a ponderosa pine stand.  At one of my plots, and, as if on cue, I was visited by a local resident.  It squawked at me for 10 or 15 minutes until I went away.

Back to the Pavant

A couple of weeks ago I was in Red Canyon sampling from (mostly) dead bristlecone.  Yesterday I was asked to return.  There was a wildfire working its way up out of Newt Canyon and the incident command wanted to hold it on the ridge above Red Canyon.  They wanted the crews to cut fire line from the road to Beehive Peak, but didn't want them to cut these relatively unique "old growth" trees.  So, I went out with a colleague and flagged bristlecone from Willow Creek Road to the Beehive.

A Little Surprise

In the ski town of Brian Head, Utah, there are two hotels:  The Grand Lodge and the Cedar Breaks Lodge.  They are near each other, just up the road, I don't know, a tenth of a mile?  Between them there is a dense copse of aspen and subalpine fir.  And I mean dense.  A thicket.  You can't even see into the woods.  Yesterday EDO and I were walking between the two hotels.  (We were on the road, defending ourselves on the shoulder, because, this being America, there is no way to walk between motels—even if you can see one from the other.  If you don't want to be run over, you'd better drive.)  As we went, I noticed that the thicket wasn't quite as thick.  Pretty soon I could see a little opening, a path or an old road going up into the woods.  I told EDO that we should try the "short-cut."  She treated my suggestion with derision.  She seems to be under the impression that my "short-cuts" can sometimes turn into something more properly termed a "death-march."  In any case, we went up into the suddenly brightening woods.  We popped out into a little meadow.  With a pond.  And ducks.  There between the hotels.  In the woods.  Invisible from the road.  Invisible from the lodge.  Surrounded by aspen.  And grass.  A little pothole.  A little surprise.  The kind of thing that sort of makes my day.

The Pros

Most of my work this month has been in live ponderosa pine on the Kaibab Plateau.  On Friday, though, I was back in Utah, in the Pavant Range, sampling from among the dead and the down.  A couple of colleagues are building a climate chronology for southern Utah using dead wood, and I invited myself to help with data collection.  Being, as I have mentioned, a very amateur dendrochronologist, it was good for me to spend a day with the pros.  I learned a lot.

First, while live trees are useful for telling us about the past 100 years, the dead can tell us about the past 1000 years.  We did collect cores from large, live ponderosa in the canyon, but the real hunt was for material that had been dead for 500 years.  This was a surprise to me.  I knew that wood decay rates were slow on arid, south-facing, mid-elevation slopes, but I didn't think they were that slow.  In fact, they are:  Because of the architecture of these trees and their location in rocky canyons, they can often wind up dead, but suspended above the ground by a thick lower branch wedged against a rock.  There the stems can remain, essentially forever, without decaying.

The second thing that is really useful to the professionals is to sample from trees that can live a long time.  If you have a sample that has been dead for 500 years, but before that it was alive for 1000 years, then you have information from 1500 years ago.  Everybody knows what lives a thousand years, right?  Yep.  Great basin bristlecone.  Actually, many long-lived, and slow growing species are found in these arid south-facing canyons.  We sampled from Douglas fir (pictured), ponderosa pine, pinyon pine, and rocky mountain juniper, but the holy grail was bristlecone.

Which brings us to the question:  If you are sampling from a long-dead, gray stob lying on a rock, how do you know what species it is?  It is a good question, but I found that—like anything—the more you work with dead wood, the more obvious it becomes.  Tree architecture is one clue, sometimes there is a very old flake of bark, or maybe a deformity that is unique to a particular species, but eventually you start to recognize species by the cross section alone:  By the color, by the weight, and, especially, by the smell.

K. Knowlton Little

It's funny where you find these.  At least, it is to me.  This one is just outside the power line right of way southwest of Jacob Lake, Arizona.  The tree is still alive.  Just barely.  But, again, it makes for an old aspen.  It had to be big enough for the carving in 1917, which means it must have been there for 30 to 50 years already.  Ninety-eight years later, it is still standing.  I found the carving on July 16th, so I was about three weeks too late to celebrate the anniversary.  I should probably make a list of these so I can visit them on important milestones, like when they turn one hundred.  Anyway, I'm thinking the carver had three names, but I'm not sure because I can't make out the vertical carving.

Big Sky Country

One thing that I've really noticed at the trailer farm, now that I live there, is that the sky is huge.  At The Homestead, we have a nice southern Utah sky.  But it isn't necessarily all that big.  There are the hills, the plateaus, the mountains, the trees, the houses, the buildings.  Each of them contributes framing to a sky that is present, but not omnipresent.  On the Arizona strip, aside from scattered double-wides and the buttes, as A.B. Gurthrie has it, "swimming clear a hundred miles away," there is nothing to break up the sky.  When you go out in the morning, or, in the case of these pictures, on the evening of a storm, the sky is visible from flat horizon to flat horizon.  It makes up half your world.