Ruthie and I decide whether to hike farther down on Bright Angel Trail.

The Grand Canyon-Part II

Park ranger Stephanie was standing nearby. Pointing at the ribbon of greenery below atop the plateau, we told her we were thinking about hiking down to it.

She said, “That’s the next rest area, Indian Gardens, but it’s farther than it looks. It’s three and a half miles, so you’d be adding seven miles roundtrip just getting back to where we’re standing.”

           The deep green ribbon in the center doesn’t look very far off, but it is.

 Seeing our questioning looks, Stephanie glanced up at the noonday sun beating down and then fed us a knowing smile. “It’s late. If I were you I’d pass on it today.”

We trusted her expertise, but after she left we did our usual routine with never knowing when to stop. I said, “Jeez, I hate to quit. There’s still a lot to see down here!”

Ruthie nodded, “Let’s go…”-pinching her thumb and forefinger almost together- “…just a teensy bit further!” And fine, but unlike when heading for mountain tops, wherever we stopped on this trail we’d still have the tougher part; heading back up.

After another downward stretch we quit kidding ourselves and plunked down in the cooling shade, what there was of it, beneath a lone, gnarled juniper evergreen. Munching our trail mix, we inhaled our little tree’s piney fragrance. Taking in the magnificence of everything around us, we had the best place on the planet for a picnic.

                            OK, not much of a “shade” tree, but it was all ours.

Taking a slower pace on the trek back up, we often halted to rest sore leg muscles and swig plenty of water. We each carried three bottles-worth and we’d eventually use most of it. But other than feeling a little fatigued we were still good to go.

At now well past noon lots of people were on this upper part. Noticing my UWSP (University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point) t-shirt in passing, one young woman yelled, “I’m from Poynette and love UW! On Wisconsin!”

During our next break we met another couple our age, David and Margaret. They told us they’d had enough of a good thing when reaching the Rest House. Seeing us heading up, they’d decided to join us. With them keeping us fun company we toiled upward and took frequent rest breaks to catch our breaths and massage aching muscles.

During one of these stops a fit looking thirties-something guy toting a large backpack and on his way down stopped briefly to chat, or maybe to brag. When we told him how far we had gone, he was dismissive. “Oh? Well, I’ve gone all the way to the bottom and back…in one day!”  After wishing us well, he took off.

 In sizing him up I had to admit he did have the physique of someone who could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Then he began jogging!  

Glaring down at him, Ruthie drew herself up with hands on hips and harrumphed, “Well! What a big deal you are!” The rest of us fell down laughing.

On top we bid farewell to David and Margaret and lingered at the overlook. We were letting it seep in, the tremendous lift with feeling aching muscles combined with the thrill of completing one of our toughest trail hikes at such a wondrous place.

Ravenously hungry and in no mood for more trail mix we bee-lined for the Visitors Center’s restaurant and devoured whatever we were served. Between bites we tossed it back and forth, not only the grandeur of this place, but how fascinating the less spectacular things had been; the many varieties of plants and wildlife inhabiting each succeeding level of the canyon, the fossils many millions of years old we’d reached out and touched, and all the other people we’d met sharing our pure enjoyment with just being here.

Over coffee I added with utter determination, “And sweetie when we do come back, no fooling around! We’ll hike all the way to the bottom and back!”

She laughed, “I’m for that, dear! But not just in one day like that showoff, OK?”

Here’s another travel-piece excerpt that includes fossil hunting and what a place to do it!

                                    The Grand Canyon-Part I

I had never been to the Grand Canyon but Ruthie had. Except-it had been long ago and she’d only looked down at it from the overlook to snap photos. So, here we were at the South Rim as Ruthie, ever the photographer, tried to capture its overall immensity.            

She put down the camera. “Even with our wide lens, I can’t capture it all!”

On our left was the Bright Angel Trail. Gripping her hiking poles, she added, “It’s also lots deeper than I remembered!”                                                                 

            While not sissies with hiking, we saw that this twisting trail was edged by sheer rock walls plunging straight down for thousands of feet. Plus, the cold, blustery mid-May wind was buffeting our jackets and nearly blowing off our hats. Others were getting off the shuttle buses to mill around at the overlook just long enough to take quick snapshots. Next they were all beating hasty retreats into the warm visitor center for nice hot breakfasts. Briefly, we were tempted to do likewise. Not on your life. Irresistibly drawn by the spectacular scene below, we pushed off with our hiking poles and started down.

            Walking downhill was easy but as low-elevation Wisconsinites we weren’t used to the altitude. Stopped to catch our breaths I gasped, “What’s the elevation, I wonder?”

A nearby pair of veteran hiker guys heard me. Feeding me a smug little smile, one yanked out a GPS unit and announced loud enough for anyone within fifty feet to hear, “Our present elevation is exactly 6550 feet!”

As we continued down, Ruthie shushed me as I muttered, “Showing off his GPS like that, what a jerk!” Thinking about it, I added, “Maybe we could get one?”

 Our “Ooo’s” and “Ahh’s” were non-stop as we wound down through the rock formations. Better, the bright sun was enhancing them in living Technicolor. Our shoulders virtually brushed the Coconino Formation, a layer of white and tan sandstone nearly two-hundred feet thick. Ruthie pointedly photographed the next layer, a formation of Hermit Shale painted in gorgeous deep reds. Scattered atop its downward-slanting slopes in striking contrast were gigantic bright white blocks of the Coconino tumbled down from above.

By now hundreds of feet below the rim the temperature was warm enough to shed our jackets and gloves. Compared to the winter conditions topside, it was summer here.

A young woman who had been following right on our heels joined us when we stopped to examine some walnut-sized fossils sticking out of a boulder. Having already peeked at our guide booklet, I had read about these fossils. Not above showing off my newly gained expertise at Mill Creek Canyon, either, I proclaimed, “Aha! These are brachiopods!” Unimpressed, Ruthie just rolled her eyes.

After snapping close-up photos of the fossils, the young woman poured it out in a rush. “Hi! I’m Nao Ko from Japan! I only get one week off a year from the Tokyo bank where I work! So, I flew to Los Angeles and zoomed over here to see the Grand Canyon! We have nothing like it at home! I only have time to go a little farther! Goodbye!” After throwing us a cheery wave, she hurried down ahead of us on her impossible mission with trying to see it all in a day.

At the two-mile point we reached the Rest House, a log hut built atop a gigantic boulder jutting out from the canyon wall. After using the john and refilling our water bottles we peered over the balcony rail at the trail below. What we could see of it meandered downward until dropping out of sight over the edge of a broad plateau. More than a thousand feet below this was the bottom of the canyon. Down there we could barely make out the Colorado River, a tiny gray thread winding between the massive canyon walls. Should we head down closer toward it? 

Find out whether we did in Part II.

            For Ruthie and me the title says it all.

                                    Loving the City of Light

            It was after dark in Paris with Ruthie, me, and hundreds of others enjoying a night-time picnic on the grass near the Eiffel Tower. Thousands of lights strung on its immense structure was a brilliant array sweeping a thousand feet high toward the stars.

            Snapping photos like crazy, Ruthie exclaimed, “So gorgeous! I can’t believe the size of it!” Indeed, this place isn’t called The City of Light for nothing.

            Earlier this morning was day-three of the five we’d spend here. We had crossed the Pont Neuf Bridge spanning the Seine River and started toward what many claimed was the world’s most wondrous boulevard, the Champs-Elysees. Except…we stopped dead in our tracks to stare at a gigantic 3500-hundred year-old Egyptian Obelisk. Had this not grabbed us, the scene in front of it would have; a gorgeous young model in a white wedding gown posing for a camera crew.

           

            Ruthie laughed, “Are we in the world’s fashion capital or what!”

            The largest of our greatest cities had done nothing to prepare us for the sheer magnificence of the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. Starting from the mighty Arch of Triumph a mile away and stretching toward us on both sides were cafes, cinemas, and luxury stores beyond count. Lined along its whole length by ornate lampposts and tall chestnut trees, it provided plenty of benches on which to collapse after all the shopping.

            Speaking of which, my all-out shopper spouse tugged me toward an ATM. “Come on, dear, we’ll need more Euros!”

            After merely window shopping at stores like Louis Vuitton and Loreal we were in sticker shock. So we ducked into one not so upscale but who’d refused to be left out- McDonald’s, who else? The day had grown hot and we carried our coffees to a bench that was shaded. Having talked for years about seeing Paris, we were two kids who’d magically arrived (with the help of free air tickets from our kids) in Toyland.

            Trying to take it all in, Ruthie said wonderingly, “Pinch me-I’m dreaming!”

            I pointed at the Arch now close-by. “Me, too…and climbing up that huge thing will give us something else to dream about! Let’s do it!”  

            Its lift was out of order, so we actually did climb the two-hundred stairs to the top. Originally commissioned by Napoleon and standing 162 feet above the Champs it gave us a splendid view of the ancient heart of the city. High above its far edge the modern day skyscrapers seemed intruders.

            Ruthie shook her head. “With two days left, seeing it all is impossible!”

            We did our best and on our last night in Paris we did what was possible; toss the budget and splurge on the most haute cuisine on the menu. A short walk from our rental place, the restaurant was smack in the middle of the Rue Cler Market, one of travel expert Rick Steves’ favorite spots.

            Now it was ours’, too, and how could it not? Restricted to pedestrians the Market keeps calling us, tourists and locals alike, to come back and be part of all that goes on. A riot of colors, sounds, and smells, its bustling stores and vendors’ stalls offer everything from bakery goods and trinkets to fresh produce, meats, and a huge variety of cheeses and wines. Somehow it also squeezes in a few quaint eateries like ours.

            We drank in the wonderful ambience; the neighborliness of the French couple at the next table, Edith Piaf’s tuneful rendition of “La Vie En Rose” playing in the background, and perfect strangers strolling by who smiled at us- “Bon soir!” (Good evening!)-and we back at them, “Bon soir!” So much for that old saw the French are rude and unfriendly.

            Her fork of elegantly prepared poisson (fish) halfway to her mouth, Ruthie beamed, “Nothing against you honey, but…I love Paris!”

            Walking away from our place the next day, we looked back.

            I said, “I’m already homesick!”

            Ruthie smiled, “Well dear, we’ll save our nickels and dimes, and then…” She added (like Arnold) “…we’ll be back!”   

            

           

           

             

           

           

             

            Let’s visit a place that’s off the well-worn tourist path.                     

                                                Dinosaur Trail in Utah

            Bound for the Grand Canyon in Arizona, we crossed into Utah out of Colorado and hung a left. Heading south, Ruthie and I were open to see other sights on the way.  Stopping in at the first visitor’s center we came to, we asked attendant Helen if there were any interesting places around here for us to visit.

            Her face lit up. “We just opened another part of our state park at Mill Creek Canyon. The rock formations are beautiful but the new part has dinosaur fossils and we love showing them off! Interested?”

            Whenever we hike we’re nuts for looking at pretty rocks and especially ones which bear fossils. Nodding eagerly, we told her sure.

            “Good! A little ways south you’ll see mile marker # 142. Turn right and follow the dirt road for a couple miles. This’ll take you right to the dinosaurs…” Pausing, she eyed our sneakers. “…but wear your hiking shoes!”

            Within the hour and wearing our well worn boots we stood at the trailhead above Mill Creek Canyon. As Helen promised, the late morning sun was lighting up its sheer walls in gorgeous yellows and reds. To the left a pair of sandstone columns towered before the canyon’s far wall like giant golden spikes. There was only one other car here and its owners were getting ready to leave. There was no one else in sight.

            I said, “Sweetie, if this was in Wisconsin it’d be mobbed by now. We might be among the first ones who’ve ever been here!”

            She pointed at the ground. “See these mountain bike tracks? Those people are first ones to find any place.” True. You’d find their tracks in the deepest, darkest jungle.

            Directly below was a dry wash and along its half-mile length were signs explaining the exposed fossils. I was leaned over the edge. “Let’s head down!”

            She laughed, “We’d better…before you fall down there! You’re as bad as our grandkids with dinosaurs!”

            Posted at the start of the trail, the first sign said that the ground we walked on was the Morrison Formation, a mix of shale and sandstone made of sediments laid down one hundred-fifty million years ago. The strata had once been the bottom and shoreline of an ancient sea. The next sign pointed up at a large reddish-brown fossil clearly exposed in the cream-colored rock.

            A kid seeing his favorite toy in a store, I yelled, “Look at that! It’s a leg bone!”

            Ruthie read me the sign; “This is the femur of an Allosaurus, a carnivorous monster forty feet long and tall as a house.” She shook her head. “Imagine! These huge, scary things were actually stomping around right here where we are!” Excited as me, she kept the camera busy from here on.

            Shortly we came to a large boulder which if seen from the side, looked an awful lot like a dinosaur’s head. And no it wasn’t a fossil, but just the way it was shaped. Inspired, I started crushing my blue neckerchief into a ball.

            She groaned, “No, don’t tell me! You’re making…?”

            I finished, “…it’s eye! That boulder even has a socket in the right place to fit it!”

            “Fine dear, but be careful going up!”

            “Yeah-yeah, but get some good shots! When our grandsons see it they’ll flip!” They did and so do I whenever it pops up as a screen saver.

                                                See what I mean?

            Anyway, we followed from one marker to the next as they pointed out other prehistoric species, along with a petrified tree. By the time we were done, our untrained eyes had been taught how to spot well-hidden fossils so well, we felt like real Indiana Jones types with searching them out. What fun!

                                    

            Hi all, and enough for awhile with far-off places. Here’s a piece about our own back yard, so to speak. Plus, you folks get to read it before it’s published by the Rapids Tribune a couple Fridays (or Saturdays?) from now. Enjoy!

                                    Winter Is Fun-For Penguins

            Our snowplow pal Roberta had just finished our road and the driveways of we few who live here year-round on Roche A Cri Lake. She does a great job and saves me tons of shoveling. Meantime I cleaned the snow off our rooftop disc to get our back TV signal. Three days ago (for the second time this January) Ruthie and I poured boiling-salted water down the shower drain for an hour to thaw the ice blocking the pipe to our septic tank. Did the same with the drain from the washing machine yesterday and finally freed it up after a week of not doing our laundry. I also used the long-handled snow rake to pull a foot of snow off our roof so it wouldn’t collapse under the weight.

            My wife, a total nut for cross-country skiing, and I-who am not-are now looking out our picture window. Ruthie gushes, “All this new snow looks so lovely out there!”

            A winter-hater, I mutter, “Yeah…for polar bears and penguins.” More loudly I ask, “What about so-and-so wintering in Florida? As our very dearest, most precious friends, wouldn’t they like us to come down and visit-right now?”    

            Ruthie feeds me her little smirk. “They are our friends, dear, but don’t go over-board, OK? Anyway, my skis are waxed and ready. How about if we get yours out? Skiing on this gorgeous new snow will be fun!”

            And yes I, too, have skis but I hide them behind the old two-by-fours in the basement. Suddenly, I reach behind and clutch my back. “Ouch! Jeez, sweetie, I’d like to, but…I must’ve sprained something while shoveling!” I blurt out a few more ouches so she’ll know I’m in terrible pain.

            Unimpressed, she does that smirk thing again. “Some stretching will fix you right up. Come on, get your skis from behind those 2x4’s and we’ll be off!”

            “You found them?”

             She says (Jeez, I hate that smirk!)…“Sure, two weeks ago! I applied new wax so they’d be ready! Then I put them back so you’d know where they are!”

            I try…”You know-we’re about out with our pellet stove! I need to go to town and pick up more bags pretty quick! So we don’t run out!”

            “Dear, we still have enough bags to last ‘til May!”

            I think fast. “Maybe but with these crazy cold spells you never know! I should haul another twenty or so bags into the basement-to be safe!”

            But she’s faster. “Gosh, those bags are…what? Forty pounds each?”

            “Yeah, they’re heavy. I’d be awhile getting them downstairs.”

            Clasping her hands, she does a hosanna toward the ceiling. “It’s a miracle! His back…is healed!”

            Twenty minutes later we’re out front and on our skis. Bundled up in three layers and wearing heavy gloves, my knit cap is pulled down past my ears and I’ve wrapped a long woolen scarf twice around my face. With nothing showing but my eyes, my groans are muffled. “Brr! I’m freezing to death!”

            Dressed in trim Spandex ski pants, light-weight jacket, and jaunty Nordic ski cap, she smiles, “Wearing all that stuff, you’ll be plenty warm in a few minutes! Let’s go!”

            We push off and soon we’re skiing through the woods. She’s breaking trail through the fresh powder and I’m following in her tracks and trying to keep up. Opening my jacket and undoing my scarf, I feel my thermals already getting sweaty. I gasp, “Whew! Sweetie, that weather guy screwed up when he said twelve above for the high! It feels like fifty!”

            She laughs over her shoulder, “Honey, by the time we reach Arkdale…and you buy us lunch…you’ll be sweating like its July!”

            Admittedly, it is pretty out here and I’m doing better than OK, but all the way to Arkdale? Hmm-I hope we have some very dear and precious friends over there…that can drive us back home!

                        

A Hot Time at Yellowstone

                                   

            Cold weather is still killing us, so let’s go where it’s really-really warm, OK? Or hot, actually.

            Yellowstone National Park’s geyser Old Faithful is one of the most treasured and heavily visited natural wonders in the nation. But Ruthie and I had never seen it, so while driving toward Montana we cut off on one of our larger detours and went there.

            When we arrived at the visitor center the attendant grinned hugely, “Get ready to see the most spectacular geyser in the world! It’s due to erupt at exactly 11:09…just a few minutes from now!”

            As we headed for the observation area, I laughed off the attendant’s remark. “She said…”exactly”? Like a train schedule? Come on!” Having studied geology, I knew better. I thought.

            Less skeptical, Ruthie shushed me with a laugh of her own. “Well, Geology Boy, you never know. You might be surprised this time.”

            We quickly joined the sizable crowd of spectators at the handrail and stared expectantly at the broad mound of mineral deposits hundreds of feet away. Out there the geyser was still only venting up little puffs of steam. Those around us were getting restless. Someone beat me to the punch, grousing impatiently, “Well, is it going to blow or what!?”

            All of a sudden I thought those puffs were speeding up. “Ruthie, you set with the camera!?”       

            She was peering through the viewfinder. “I’m focusing, dear! I… OH!!”      

            The geyser jetted skyward and as it shot ever higher we all broke out in cheers! After gaping at it, I glanced at my watch and saw…it was right on-time!

            When it subsided we were pumped up enough to drive to another viewing area, Midpoint Geyser Basin. Here, visitors get a close-up look at steaming fumaroles of the non-erupting variety, mini-geysers spouting only as high as your head, and aquamarine pools simmering at near boiling. Following the boardwalk, we were struck by the mineral deposit’s array of colors, a painter’s palate of iridescent yellows, oranges, and reds.

Standing behind the guardrail amid the acrid reek of sulfur, we peered down into a deep pool of steaming water. A gorgeous phosphorescent blue-green, it tempted us to reach down and touch it. A sign explained we were seeing vividly colored microorganisms which thrive in these super heated pools. Another sign, one of many in intervals all along the boardwalk cautioned visitors: “Do not touch the water! Serious injury could result!”

So help us, a guy walking past and clutching his hand gave us a pained pout and whined, “When I reached in, I got burned!”

As we continued around, the gusty wind made us hold onto our hats. Others had not, as seen by all the head gear scattered out beyond the walkway. Park workers used long extension poles to gather up the litter. Meantime, signs warned, “Under no circumstances must one leave the boardwalk to retrieve personal items!”  As if the hot springs all around weren’t explanation enough, the sign said the mineral crust was so thin in places that people could break through into scalding-hot pools. We winced at thinking of lobsters tossed into boiling pots.

We stopped to look into a dark hole in whose depths was a whitish, frothy stew of bubbly boiling water. When it suddenly vented up, we yelled-“Whoa!” and jumped back. Barely higher than us, the geyser quickly subsided to resume its bubbling. Keeping our distance, we watched until it soon shot up again and quickly retreated. We laughed at ourselves for being so jumpy about something so small.

We had nearly circled the walkway when, inspired by her inner artist, Ruthie stopped for some final close-ups of another steaming pool. Clicking away, she enthused, “See? At this angle the water color is sapphire?” Shuffling sideways, she went on, “But over here it shifts to deep green!” Click-click!  True, the wide variety of color schemes here seemed to change as you looked at them.                                                    

Not to brag, but all our travels had convinced me that I was one adventurous guy. Yet, I was getting jittery about the mighty dynamics at work all around us. My old studies had taught that huge hot zones of molten magma were seething and churning this instant directly beneath our feet. In fact, the entire Yellowstone basin was a vast caldera left 600,000 years ago after a super volcano had erupted. Worse, all these venting geysers and steaming pools said it was still very, very active. The people at the Yellowstone Volcanic Observatory had assured that this place was not going to blow itself up anytime soon.

I thought-Swell, but what if…? “Sweetie, this place really is stunning, but let’s hit the road for Montana, OK?” Over there, at least, the parks wouldn’t explode.         

We left thinking we’d return someday to see more of this wondrous place. We had sure experienced some heatedly exciting moments. But if we did come back, I’d keep a quick escape route in mind.

    

Travel Adventures;Tuscany

Fellow frozen Wisconsinites, you ready for a travel tale? About someplace warm?

Ruthie and I had just gotten off the train at Vernazza, one of five small fishing villages strung in an arc along Italy’s Mediterranean coast. Known as Cinque Terra the towns are built into the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. They’re connected by a small rail line tunneling through the cliffs and also by trails we-two hiking nuts aimed to take on during our three day visit.

                It was mid-October, the off season for tourists, and this promised plenty of places to stay. Hoping so, we started downhill toward the heart of town, our eyes peeled for signs saying “Camera” (Room).  A tiny elderly woman suddenly singled us out of the crowd. Introducing herself as Mrs. Nerino, she pointed at our suitcases and nodded she had a room available. We shrugged-Why not?

                As she started leading us through a dark passageway I hesitated. A sign at the station warned to be wary of panhandlers, pick-pockets, and the like. My overly vivid imagination told me this passageway was perfect for being robbed by this woman’s henchmen. Only half kidding I said so to Ruthie.

                She laughed, “Dear, she’s tiny and ninety years old! We need a room!”

                Emerging at the town’s piazza (central square), we crossed to a four story building at the other side.  Mrs. Nerino hurried us up three flights of stairs with no stopping, while chattering Italian the whole time. Her English-speaking son met us on the third floor and showed us the only unoccupied room. Spotlessly clean and fully furnished, it even had, unlike some, its own bathroom. He opened the tall window shutters to show us the view.

                To the right of our building the beautiful blue-green waters of the Med lapped the shore of a white sandy beach. Directly below on the piazza were brightly colored canopies for outside cafes and at the far side a jetty formed a wide walkway lined with shops. Moored to the jetty, small fishing boats rocked gently at anchor.

                Mrs. Nerino asked expectantly, “You like?”

                I tried my kindergarten Italian- “Va bene, Ma-ma mia!”

                Ruthie whispered, “Dear, you told her-This is good…Mom!”

                Wrapping me up in a hug, Mrs. Nerino exclaimed, “Ah, mi filio! (my son!)” . She had just adopted us and talk about luck! From here on she would steer us toward restaurants serving the finest meals and to shops with the best items for the lowest prices.

                Ages ago all the villages had built stone watchtowers at the water’s edge for protection from marauding pirates. Atop Vernazza’s tallest tower was an open air eatery that served delicious, fresh caught seafood. We enjoyed our first dinner up there as the sun set over the gorgeous Med rolling in on long, slow swells.

                The next day we hiked a trail through rock-terraced vineyards and olive groves clinging precariously to the steep hillsides. It was warm this time of year and we deeply inhaled the sweet fragrances from the profusion of wildflowers and spices like sage, rosemary, and thyme.

                We met fellow hikers Anna and Eric, a young couple from Austin, Texas. When we told them where we lived, Anna laughed, “Roche A Cri Lake? We spend two weeks each year at a camp ground only a few miles north of you!”

On reaching Monterossa, the northernmost of the five villages we cooled off by splashing around in the Med’s crystal-clear waters. Afterward we broke out food from our packs and had a sunny day picnic on the beach.

                The morning after our last full day here we were sipping our espressos at an outside table of a bakery at the train station. Knowing us from our other visits, the owner grinningly presented a tray of marvelous French-silk pastries.  “You cannot get-a on the train without tasting these!”

                Vernazza had offered so much charm, not to mention the stunning scenery and beautiful weather, that we were this close to extending our stay.  But other parts of Tuscany were calling us. Besides, if we did drop in here again before heading home to Wisconsin, our other mom would put us up again, wouldn’t she?