Delirious Ramblings

Lunch Among the Bristlecones

Bristlecone Pine Snag, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, December 2011

Back in mid-December of 2011 I climbed up to the west summit of Fremont Peak to visit with the Rocky Mountain Bristlecones. It was a beautiful day, I was just beginning to feel strong on the snowshoes again, and it felt great to be up there in the wilderness. I ate my sandwich among the ancient trees and listened to the raucous calls of Clarks Nutcrackers down in the Inner Basin. Later, as I turned to leave I snapped the above photograph. It turned out to be one of the better ones of my 2011-2012 snowshoeing season. The craggy old tree seems to be pointing to something off the left side of the frame, perhaps something that has been gone for a half dozen centuries, something only it remembers.

While I was up there I noticed that someone had worked over one of the dead bristlecones with a saw of some kind. It had a slice of wood cut from its trunk and a couple limbs showed clear evidence of cutting. There have been several dendrochronology studies done over the years using the bristlecones on the Peaks so it was probably an old research site. At least I hope it was a research site... It would be a damned shame for someone to damage one of those old methuselahs for something as short term as firewood or pure maliciousness.

In more recent news, I picked up a new camera the other day courtesy of the IRS: a Canon PowerShot G12. It's another point-n-shoot, although it does have a larger form factor than my current camera. I agonized over making the jump to a DSLR, but as much as I would like one I just couldn't justify the expense and added weight of those big cameras.  I don't have a camera case for the G12 yet so I haven't taken it on any walks in the woods (I won't make that particular mistake again.) In my limited testing the G12 seems to take much sharper pictures than the SX210 IS that's been driving me nuts lately, so I think the G12 was a good purchase. Once I learn more about the G12's personality I'll start hiking with it and I guess we'll see how it does.

Escaping the Four Walls

Flatland Snowshoeing, Coconino National Forest, March 2012

The four walls of my apartment closed in on me yesterday and I ended up padding around the second and third-growth forest south of Flagstaff. It felt a little strange to be out on the snowshoes and not be constantly checking slope angles and looking for safe routes through high altitude fir and spruce. Sunday's storm had a lot of moisture in it and the snow blanketing the landscape was not only deep but also very dense. When the clouds began to break up and the sun got to it the snow turned to peanut butter, making for difficult snowshoeing. In some ways it was just as hard going as it is up on the Peaks where it's colder but much steeper.

I suppose with the forecasted highs in the upper fifties for the rest of the week the snow won't last long down here in town. I'm really glad we got this storm as I was starting to get very worried about the coming fire season. This late-winter dump of moisture-heavy snow probably saved our bacon. Obviously we'll need more precipitation before the pre-monsoon dry period sets in, but this is a really good start.  Supposedly we're back into "normal" snowfall range for this time of year.

Snow Snail

Snow Snail, San Francisco Peaks, Coconino National Forest, February 2012

When I was snowshoeing around Doyle Peak and the Inner Basin last weekend I spotted this snow snail coming down the uphill side of the waterline road. Snow snails form when the snow on a steep slope warms rapidly and a snowball starts to roll slowly down the hill. Because the snow is sticky the snail can grow quite large. This one was about eighteen inches in diameter.

 

Snow Snail, San Francisco Peaks, Coconino National Forest, February 2012

In avalanche terrain snow snails are a sign of a wet and potentially unstable snowpack, generally occurring when temperatures spike upwards. They don't always mean the snowpack is dangerous but they are definitely a warning signal backcountry travelers should be aware of. I'm super cautious (maybe overly so) and when I see snow snails occurring where an avalanche could run I treat them as a "no go" sign and find another route or even turn back.

The dark object at the center of this snail was an aspen leaf, but I doubt that it was the leaf that started the snail rolling down the hill. Usually a bit of snow or ice will drop from a tree branch and get things rolling. Sometimes -- and these are the creepiest ones -- you can't tell what got them going, like they just started rolling of their own volition.

Hunting for Shortcuts

Snowstorm, San Francisco Peaks, Coconino National Forest, February 2012

I spent the morning looking for shortcuts into the wilderness, trying to find a route up into the steeps of crazy-ass ol' Doyle Peak that didn't involve a five mile approach hike. I found one, but boy, it's a doozy. Like most really good shortcuts it has all the makings of trouble: A mile of bushwhacking through burned forest, trespassing on private land, several boulder and log-filled erosion channels deep enough to swallow a house, and a steep climb up a couple of severely damaged roads that haven't seen a truck in half a century or more.

The reward for running this punishing gauntlet was a half frozen bean and cheese burrito rummaged out of my pack, high wind, and the cold sting of blowing snow. Yes, it was a good shortcut. The best.

Return to Fremont Peak

Fremont Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, February 2012

Here's another view of Fremont Peak, this time from the flip side of the winter solstice. Observant Delirious Ramblings readers may recall that I took almost the exact same shot back in late October 2011. There was a bit less snow then.

Fremont is a lonely mountain in winter and I'm very happy that I got to see this side of her. Not many people do. This picture was taken near the middle of a twelve mile outing, about half of which was in snowshoes on unbroken trail. If the snow had been any deeper or softer I wouldn't have made it as far as I did. I suspect that I am nearing the limits of what a snowshoer can reasonably expect to accomplish in the backcountry on a single-day outing. The other day I caught myself eyeing winter-grade sleeping bags at an outdoors store; a worrying development I'm sure...

The Voice of Jack Smith Spring

The Voice of Jack Smith Spring, Coconino National Forest, February 2012

When I was snowshoeing around the Inner Basin the other day I stopped near Jack Smith spring to record some audio of a small stream gurgling and splashing its way through rocks and ice. I placed my recorder down in the channel on a small telescoping tripod mere inches above the water. Between jet intrusions the recorder's stereo microphones captured the stream's polyphonic voice as it bubbled and babbled its age-old story of slumbering mountain peaks and deep winter snows. I stood nearby trying not to shiver in the lingering cold, thinking about the water slowly percolating its way through porous lava rock and forest detritus, imagining the subterranean wonders it might've seen on its journey from the snowfields above.

Below is (hopefully) an embedded MP3 player so you can hear a four minute segment of the flowing water. A downloadable 6MB MP3 file is also available if you want to listen to it on your ipod or other audio device. If you listen closely through headphones you can hear at least two layers of gurgling and splashing cycling back and forth, the harmonics merging and stacking atop one another in complex ways. It's kind of relaxing and helps one to understand how dynamic and active free flowing water can be.

The Voice of Jack Smith Spring

If you've ever hiked the Inner Basin of the San Francisco Peaks you probably know the place I was standing: it's where the Inner Basin trail meets the waterline road, a mile or so above Lockett Meadow. Tucked into the trees there are several green sheds and an outhouse toilet that used to be full of shy black widow spiders that would watch nervously from the gloomy corners while you did your business. The buildings are presumably associated with the extensive water wells and pipelines that slurp water out of the Inner Basin watershed and funnel it 17 miles down the mountain into the Flagstaff water system. I won't go into what happens to it after that, although it would appear that some of it may soon be finding its way back up the mountain - albeit a little worse for wear - and sprayed out as artificial snow at the Arizona Snowbowl.

 

Icy Stream, Coconino National Forest, February 2012

According to my topo map Jack Smith spring is actually a few hundred yards up the drainage from where I recorded the audio. The gurgling and splashing water you hear in the MP3 issues from a large diameter pipe that comes down the hill out of the woods and is likely carrying water from the spring to the cluster of buildings. Although it's possible that it's just some other unnamed spring that the Forest Service wanted left free-flowing for hikers and wildlife to use. I'll go out on a limb and say the water comes from Jack Smith spring, but it doesn't really matter: most of the springs up there are imprisoned inside concrete spring boxes and metal pipe and everything mingles together these days.

Jack Smith spring has a somewhat interesting history, which I'll probably post about in a few days.

At the Bristlecone Wall

The Bristlecone Wall, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, January 2012

When I finally reached the thin green line of prostrated bristlecone pines on Agassiz Peak the trees presented me with a choice: If I blundered my way through their ranks and up the summit ridge I would be allowed to stand atop the mountain with only ravens and the blue air above. But the price of that rocky pinacle would be very high: the sound of those trees' ancient limbs cracking and snapping under my weight, of seeing my bootprints pressed carelessly into the cindery alpine tundra. Or... I could willingly abort my climb there at the base of the bristlecone wall, cede victory to the Kachinas, and descend with my wilderness ethics intact, leaving those shining Methuselahs undisturbed in their high and hostile abode.

I'd always thought I would do the right thing when faced with the choice between their well-being and the bragging rights for bagging Arizona's second highest point, but until you are actually there, staring up at those fragile and vulnerable trees after something like 3,800 vertical feet of difficult climbing with only a few hundred more to go, well... you don't really know, do you? Summit fever can afflict the best of us, make us do things we wouldn't normally do.

I looked up at the great pyramid of stone above me, imagined what the view down into the Inner Basin would look like from the top, how the thin breeze blowing along the summit ridge would feel ... and I let it all slip away. I turned back. For their sake I would not walk upon the summit that day.

I had passed the test.

Busted Aspen

Busted Aspen, Fremont Peak, December 2011

The past few winters have not been kind to the aspen growing at the upper limits of the aspen band on the San Francisco Peaks. Heavy snow and ice combined with high winds have seriously damaged many of the mature trees, leaving busted and broken trunks standing against the sky like telephone poles. In many places impossible deadfalls of shattered trees block all passage, forcing backcountry travelers to retreat around them to find another route.

I'm not sure what to make of this. On one hand I'm tempted to think it's related to climate change because as the climate warms storms are predicted to become more intense. And we've certainly had some very powerful snow and wind events the past few years. It makes sense that those trees growing at the limits of the species' range would see the first tangible effects. But on the other hand this damage may simply be a sign that these aspen have grown old and large enough to be vulnerable to storm damage. Perhaps this is an entirely normal thing. In any case it's a helluva thing to see.

Fremont Peak Snowshoeing

We got some more snow this weekend in Flagstaff so I decided to make another attempt at Fremont Saddle on the snowshoes. It was seven degrees Fahrenheit when I left my apartment at 6am and was undoubtedly several degrees colder when I parked at Freidlein Prairie road and started hiking through the woods towards Fremont Peak. Every time I removed my gloves to take a photograph my fingers immediately began to go numb.

 

Agassiz Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, December 2011

There is a big aspen grove on the lower end of Freidlein Prairie and I stopped there to take some pictures of the light working its way down the face of Agassiz Peak. There must've been some decent wind blowing up high as you could see snow drifting from the top of the mountain into the Inner Basin. I'm sure the eastern face of Agassiz is getting pretty wind loaded. I hope the backcountry skiers take it easy over there, as the crusty ice from the previous couple of storms will now be a base layer for the snow we received this weekend.

 

Agassiz Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, December 2011

I didn't make it to Fremont Saddle as I'd planned. I ended up turning back around 10,800 feet when the series of clearings I'd been following abruptly ended at a dense wall of bristlecone pines. Looking at Google Earth tonight it looks to have only been a couple hundred feet through until the next series of openings, but my legs were getting pretty tired by that point. I ate my lunch while listening to Mountain Chickadees and Clark's Nutcrackers and enjoyed the fantastic view of Flagstaff and parts south. I'm glad I turned around where I did, as I was totally beat when I finally got back to my truck parked at snowbowl road some 3,000 vertical feet below. This was my first "real" outing on the shoes for the season so I'm not too suprised that I didn't reach the saddle.

 

Agassiz Peak from Fremont Peak, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, December 2011

The above picture was taken a few hundred feet below my turnaround point. The ridge I was ascending on Fremont is heavily treed so it was difficult to get an unobstructed view of Agassiz. I was hoping to get a clear photo of the Monte Vista avalanche chute where a snowboarder was killed back in 1995, but the trees kept getting in the way. You can just make out the slide path beyond the large dead tree on the right side of the photo. I suspect that the only way to get a good view of the chute is from far away (boring), directly underneath it (scary) or from the west summit of Fremont (slightly less scary). Both of the later two options seem risky for a solo snowshoer so that could be one picture I may never get.

Shades of Gray

Trees and Fog, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, November 2011

Despite the rainy, gloomy weather I force myself out of the house and onto the Peaks. As the sun rises invisible behind gray clouds I explore the south face of the mountain, hoping to find a path that will grant snowshoe access to the high steeps of Agassiz and Fremont peaks. Instead I discover a plethora of strange, pathless routes leading into the deep folds and wrinkles of the mountain, all of them filled with gray, drifting shapes and wandering ghosts.

 

Trees and Fog, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, November 2011

Surrounded by thick forest and fog I glance back and see a figure standing motionless in the trees below me, just beyond the edge of the mist. I raise my hand in greeting, wondering who it could be this far up on the mountain. The fog retreats and the figure morphs into a log.

Ah, the mountain is playing tricks with my imagination. Sometimes she does that.

 

Trees and Fog, Kachina Peaks Wilderness, November 2011

I stop near 10,000 feet, having found the path I was looking for into the upper reaches. My legs, unused to climbing in snow, inform me that I should turn back. I can hear the mournful wail of the wind high above and a part of me yearns to continue on, to test the limits of my early season endurance, to walk among the bristlecones. For a long moment I stand there in the gently falling snow, listening to the sound of the mountain breathing. Finally I turn and descend, heading back to my truck parked far below.