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Jun 6, 2005
I think realization is setting in to the fact I can't quite do what I used to do.
My son and one of his buddies (who's like a 2nd son) asked me to go fishing with them yesterday. They wanted to go to an area I've always wanted to fish. The put in point is only about 10 minutes from the house. So, we take Derek's jeep to the spot, gather our gear and head off into the forest.
About 5 minutes own the trail we turn left and head straight down the mountain some 2500 feet to the canyon bottom and the stream running between the sheer cliff walls. On the way down we had to traverse the slipping forest composted floor under the canopy of pine trees & up to 10 foot tall poison oak that was everywhere. At times sliding in the compost as if we were on sleds.
Once down to the stream the fishing was great. Water was a litle high due to the snow-fall run off after an exceptional winter this year. We had to forge the stream 3 times as we fished by stripping down to our skivies, and believe me we were talking in higher tones after those crossings. And my son states, Man, I'm glad to see I can still do this at 30 years old". I just snickered & his buddy says, "Don't forget the 53 year old who's sittin' next to ya!" What a a laugh we had at that one.
Later that day it was time to head out. Not so much out as up, and up, and up. Straight up for 2500 feet at a 20% grade the same way we came down. It took 4 hours to go a mile and a half. at one spot about 1/2 way up I hooked myself with a treble hook attached to the fishing rod I was carring. My son's friend & me had to remove it with a hemostat & my Leatherman tool. My poor son was sittin' in the dirt watching me pass the pointy barbed end of that fishing hook through the other side of my finger so I could snip off the barb & pass it on through. What I get for not taking the lure off & breaking down the rod before we started up. Oh, there's that word again, UP ! Every time I asked My son's buddy, our friend, which way do we go now he'd just look straight up the mountain & say, "That way,.... UP!" I hate that word today.
Yep, up & up from streamside at around 960 foot elevation to the start point of 2500 foot elevation, mostly at a 20% grade or better. Nothing but belly-crawling near the end of the climb in that type of compost that just slides under foot. You know, 2 steps forward, 20 feet backsliding. Probably did twice the distance because of all the backwards less the forwards. Your face so close to the ground you could taste the dirt. I almost didn't make it all the way up for at the last 1500 feet before flat ground my legs gave out. I've never experienced that type of burning & cramping in the upper interior thighs like that. At one point, I was thinking to my self how were we going to get a medivac chopper in here to fly me out. But, after intake of the last of the water we were carrying I stumbled like a 90 year old shuffling my feet behind the other guys to flat ground and out of the forest to the Jeep. I’m Moter-vatin' today like I need a walker and an open-backed, butt flying in the breeze, hospital gown. Sheesh!
Of course, once we got into the ice chest for gatorade, water, and a beer my son discovered he'd lost his ignition key. Luckily, I had my 2 meter handi-talki and contacted another HAM on I-5 near San Francisco about 150 miles away who was kind enough to call my wife to pick us up. 15 minutes later were back at the house and my son had to have his Jeep towed home this morning, as it was the only key he possesed. Had we not contacted another HAM operator to get a ride my son woulda been walking, while I was re-hydrating.
So far, none of us have poison oak just a few tick bites between the 3 of us. All in all, it was an experience I won't forget and glad I did once. It won't happen again. Next trip is three weeks from now when we all head to fly fish 5 different rivers in Montana, but we will be in the driftboat...no climbing. Wonder what adventurous stories we'll have from there.
Posted at 10:27 am by dochendrickson
Oct 6, 2004
Myself and several of my friends took a trip to Garner State Park in the Hill country of Texas. We biked and swam and hiked and had a generally good-ole time. We then decided to hike up the main mountain of the park,"Old Baldy".
After much fun and a bit of strenuous hiking (because we never really cared too much for trails) we finally reached the summit and the largecliff face on the western side. My friend decided to
see how far he could throw a bottle cap off of thecliff face, so he threw it and lo and behold the
bottle cap flew right back in his face. So we figured out that the updraft from the cliff face made it darn
near impossible to throw anything light off of the mountain, so my friend throws his cap off the cliff
and it flies back so far that it almost flies over the other side of the mountain, but it got stuck in a tree
so he was saved and that hat has had quite an adventure.
-David Wise
Posted at 10:02 am by dochendrickson
Jul 9, 2004
It was a dark and relatively stormy night. It had been raining earlier, and now there was thunder in the distance. The fire had long since been put out, and the only light came from the nearly-full moon above us. Even the crickets had stopped chirping, and everything was silent... Until a scream split the night air in two. I stumbled out of my tent, getting my feet tangled in my sleeping bag as I tried to orient myself. The screaming continued, although I could now understand the words.
"There's a bat in my tent!" I finally managed to get my feet untangled, although I had already fallen over two times in the process, and was now covered in mud. This made my progress difficult, and it took me perhaps five minutes to reach my friend's tent, where the screaming was still going on. I pulled open the tent flap, and she rushed past me. I peered into the tent, seeing nothing that would cause screaming, and certainly not seeing a bat. I wondered why my friend had not opened the tent and left herself, and then I felt something on my hand. I froze, afraid to look down, but I finally gathered the courage to move my hand.
Unfortunately, the bat that had been exploring my hand was clinging to my arm, and it was not pleased with my sudden motion. It decided to bite my index finger, causing me to yelp in pain and backpedal feriously. Unfortunately for me, we had decided to camp near a small creek, which had overflown with rain. Due to the combonation of the wet mud on my shoes and the slippery plants near the creek's edge, I feel into the water, the bat falling with me. Instinct caused me to hold the bat tightly, and it struggled furiously, scratching my hands.
I felt somebody grap the back of the sweatshirt I had been sleeping in, and my friend pulled me out of the river, causing me to drop the bat. We watched as it was swept away, and my softspot for animals, caused me to go after it. I managed to reach an old wooden bridge before the bat was swept under it, and rescued the poor creature, which decided to reward my heroism with more biting, although these were not as well aimed and missed. We took the bat to the wildlife center nearby, since it had gotten sick.
That ended our camping trip, even though we had two more days planned.
(Side Notes:
1. My friend has never gone camping again.
2. Rabies shots are not fun.
3. I still have the scars on my finger from being bitten.)
Chocolate Ramen
Needed:
One Package of Plain Ramen
Hot Chocolate Mix, Any Flavor
Two Cups Milk
Directions:
Heat the milk until it is hot. Place the ramen in the milk and allow it to soften, stirring once it is seperated. Pour in hot chocolate mix to flavor, stir, and eat.
***Disillusion***
Posted at 11:19 am by dochendrickson
Jun 4, 2004
Did you hear the story my son told me about last Memorial weekend ? Here's what he said.
" Duke my dog and me were flyfishing the stream above Talbot campground. It had been a great morning walk catching beautifuI 15 inch Rainbow Trout from the cold clear creek water. I decided it was time to take a break, sat down against a boulder with Duke laying next to me and opened my canteen for a drink of water for the two of us & Power bar for me as some extra energy.
After the drink and a bite of the Power bar I stood up to look over the boulder I was resting against just as a bear looked over the boulder from the opposite side. Probably no more than three feet was between our faces." Derek held his hands apart to reveal the size of the bears head from eartip to eartip & estimated it's weight at around 400 pounds of California Black bear.
"Dad it was huge! I started yelling & flailing my arms just about the time Duke realized the bear was there, too.
The bear went scooting downhill with Duke bark, bark, barking behind him. But, Duke didn't go very far . He probably figured out what he was chasing."
I asked Derek if he checked his shorts after that. He said, "No, but I thought about it".
I think I'll type up this story for the cookbook & include a recipe called "Big Bad Bear brownies".
Derek was supposed to fish there again the next day but didn't go
***Doc'***
Posted at 01:13 pm by dochendrickson
May 10, 2004
On this mid-summer June day we had traveled four hours north from the Sacramento Valley region after months of training to reach this destination, set up camp and venture on a thirty three mile open bow white-water canoe trek through the Trinity Alps.
At this time of year, the weather could be brutally hot even in the seemingly cool serenity of the northern California Sierra Madre Mountains where the winter snowfall had long since melted and the run-off had made an explosive transition from thousands of feet elevation down to the Pacific Ocean.
As four teams in two man canoes, we had trained just for this excursion on other rivers such as the American near Sacramento and the Russian river close to Healdsburg. Specifically, many training sessions were exercised on the middle fork of the American River that had swift, cold water emanating out of the dam from the bottom of Folsom Lake and included Class I & II rapids. The drop at the San Juan rapids had been particularly crucial to our understanding of water flows and performance of many paddle maneuvers, some life saving in nature which would prove fruitful at what was to come next after our short shoreline respite.
We had not only researched and physically trained for months but outfitted ourselves with a multitude of safety equipment. This type of gear included items such as body fitted personal flotation devices, gloves to ward against blisters and assist better gripping of canoe paddles, high impact Styrofoam lined helmets, and river shoes that would not only allow gripping the canoe floor and walking on a rocky river bottom but also allow water to wick away to help in keeping our feet dry over an extended time period. Also, packed were waterproof dry bags to contain gear, food, clothing, and non-watertight essentials. Tied to the fore and aft thwarts were bagged and coiled weighted nylon rope safety throw lines for quick retrieval of a crew member in the event he was ejected out of the craft.
The team had completed fifteen miles down-river on relatively flat water which made for a lot of paddling and sweating under the open sunny, bluebird skies, and afternoon heat had taken toll on our energy reserves. It was time for a welcome break prior to negotiating the next river bend so we put ashore at a sand bar to the right hand side of the river. After taking a stretch, drinking some water, eating some beef jerky, and downing a cordial beer among us celebrating the previous fifteen mile accomplishment it was time to push on toward the next seventeen miles of our trek. Further formulation plans of our progress were discussed during the momentary shoreline break we had just taken. And, the first part of that plan was to continue into the downstream bend of the river coming up next. The topography of that river bend did not allow for a view due to the inaccessibility to the top of the steep canyon walls. So, we were unable to actually see what was in front of us. But, we could most certainly hear what was coming.
Break time was over and what was to come next would truly test our months of previous training and experience.
My brother Mark and I would lead the onslaught into the next part of our watery adventure. The two of us physically suited for this advance. He, six foot five and 250 pounds took the canoe’s stern position. While I rode the bow seat of the seventeen foot Coleman Ram-x vessel at six foot one and a half inches, 185 pounds. At times, not only did we two exhibit similar body movements and mechanics, we shared a seemingly unspoken telecommunication that would be very handy when outspoken word or signaling body inflection was impossible due to the conditions. We re-boarded and pushed off.
Quickly we determined our canoe had reached the point of no return when we felt the river current snatch us up like an aircraft carrier’s catapult. The water was still flat and crystal clear but the speed had changed as if it was being vacuumed up at the other end. Another slight turn right and not only were we able to see what we had been hearing but we were immediately engulfed by the river’s torrent. And, we both thought to ourselves, “We’re gonna die”!
What we encountered was a quarter mile stretch of a class five or six rapid filled with water commonly termed as “White haystacks”. For, the water in this section was churning like your families pasta pot boiling on the stove and resembling hundreds of rounded farm haystacks. Only these haystacks consisted of frothing white water moving in all directions as the river dropped at a thirteen degree declination, and oxygen both highly agitated by the current and canyon geography, namely rock walls and boulders. This all descended to a smooth clear water pool some 2000 feet downstream of our position.
The two of us had anticipated the blindly approaching rapid and positioned ourselves securely, or so we thought, down on our knees, seats to our lower backs, paddles laid horizontally across the gunnels for support and ready for use. Mark, left handed with his paddle blade pointed left and me right handed with the blade to the canoe’s right were balanced to stroke for stability. At least, we thought we would remain stable but it was an alley fight. Even though there was a wide open blue bird sky above us we couldn’t see it. For, it was like being sucked into a culvert. The canyon walls closed in further and the rapids noise dramatically increased. Now that we were smack dab in the middle of the conflagration there was no visibility other than frothing water, air and noise, to all sides above and below. In fact, it was as if we were essentially canoeing under water. As we had trained, we dug our paddles into the haystack tops and pulled forward to maintain an upright status. Mark was to later tell me that at one point other than the haystacks momentarily the only thing he could see was a small portion of the top of my red safety helmet with water gushing out of the vent holes. And, once he caught a glimpse of me when the entire bow was exposed skyward, as he trailed obediently behind buoyantly popping over a boulder like a cork. Imagine riding out of a rodeo chute on a mad bucking Brahma bull without the aid of a rope hand tether as you attempt to complete your tumultuous ride to the buzzer while digging into the air with a canoe paddle.........
to be continued
**** Doc' **** Posted at 04:54 pm by dochendrickson
Apr 18, 2004
Back at Still creek a few years later, my wife and I took our three children camping over the Fourth of July weekend. Work was piling up at my job, and this would be my only chance to get away for the summer. We arrived on Thursday to fine weather, set up camp, and went to our sleeping bags. Around 2:00 in the morning we woke up to rain outside, standing water in the corners of the tent. I got up, retrieved a shovel from the car, dug a ditch to drain the water, and moved the kids into the dry spots of the tent. The next day was cold and wet, and we heard that it was snowing 50 feet above us in elevation. We found no dry firewood, so we had nothing to keep warm. Having no tarps to keep ourselves dry we packed up and went home. The next day was sunny. We took our sleeping bags to the laundry mat, and watching the TV in the corner, we saw the weather report saying that the weather was also fine at Government Camp, and that it would be for the rest of the weekend. The Fourth of July is a magic day in Oregon; before it is wet; after it is dry.
***Alfred***
Posted at 04:25 pm by dochendrickson
One cannot say that they had an unhappy childhood without having those listening immediately roll their eyes and turn away, or at least mildly tune their attentions elsewhere, a situation I've never quite understood. However, this story is more about my escape from that unhappiness, my freedom, even for a short time, than it is about that unhappiness itself, and so I hope that those who read will bear with any mention that I make of that unhappiness in due course.
I was raised in a military family, but eventually my father retired and placed us on a small farm in rural Oklahoma, where I spent most of the years that I can really remember of my childhood. I loved the sunshine, the trees, the wind..and especially the animals that the farm brought. Cats were my special favorites, but there were dogs and cows, a pig at one point, and chickens too, including one particular Silver Grey Dorking Rooster that I became so attached to I considered him a pet.
On the pond we had geese and ducks and fish inside it, including a catfish large enough and bold enough to taste toes, though he never did any harm. My brother and I would take friends swimming in the pond and use him to scare them by dropping small chumks of chicken liver while we swam to entice him to where we were. One boy ran so fast that he left his shirt in the water and we didn't find it until several summers later when the pond nearly dried up and we dug in the mud on the sides and came up with it.
My favorite thing though was to walk through the woods with the animals once my father came home from work and would start to yell. I would slip out the back door while he and my brother bellowed back and forth at each other and make my way out onto the cow paths that criss-crossed through the woods. Some of our friendlier barn cats would always follow, as well as the three legged collie, Beau, and on occassion Buttercup, the cow that was convinced she was a dog.
They were my first audience as an actress, the first to ever see me perform Shakespeare, that set, out in the woods where the caves formed a nice stage, with an overhanging roof of moss as my curtains and long sticks to be my swords as I MacDuff killed myself as MacBeth, or stirred the bubbling cauldron of the open stream as all three witches at once.
Later, as I branched out and started to read more of my mother's books I found my favorite of all Shakespeare's plays, and then I would play Robin Goodfellow, and the cats were fairies, and good natured Buttercup would be Bottom, since the head of a cow was close enough to be an ass in my view. I always loved the parts of the fair folk more than those of the humans and there in the woods, alone but for the animals I could play them over and over again without being reprimanded for not quite having lines right, or for skipping over what I couldn't understand at as young an age as I was.
And now, years later, I'm an English major..a poetry writer, and still as fond as ever of the Bard. I use him still as an escape, and think back fondly on my mossy cave where I performed for animals, my favorite escape as a child.
***Mesa*** Posted at 11:52 am by dochendrickson
Almost 20 years ago, my five-year-old son John, and I were camping at Still Creek Campground on the old Barlow Road, the overland pass of the Oregon Trail, near Government Camp. John needed to get something out of the trunk of our ’66 Rambler, so he asked me for the keys. I gave them to him and he went off to the car. Several hours later we discovered he had locked the keys in the trunk. It was the only set I had with me. A while later the camp host walked past our site and when we told him our situation he pulled out his ring of keys and offered to try them. After trying 15 or so keys, the last key on his ring opened the trunk. It was the key to the outhouse toilet paper dispenser.
***Alfred*** Posted at 10:39 am by dochendrickson
Apr 15, 2004
I spent many years, as a child, on snow mobile treks with my family. There were six of us girls riding, so my step-dad spent most of his "relaxing" weekends fixing and maintaining the snowmobiles. Needless to say, I didn't have to spend any of my time paying attention to the actual operation of the sleds.
30 years later.
About 3 years ago, my significant other, Steve, began snow mobiling with some of his friends. He bought a new snowmobile and quickly became obsessed. He soon decided that this was not something he wanted to continue to just do with his buddies, so I was asked to join him. Steve went out and bought a brand new sled. It was his pride and joy. I would ride his "almost-new" old one.
The first day we ventured out, we thought we would take a nice easy ride just to get me used to being back on the trails. The day was gorgeous and sunny, so we took off without a lot of thought to safety. I.e. tow ropes, emergency kits, etc.
I rode to the top of the trail and we sat and enjoyed the sunshine. This is where the story gets ugly.
Steve offered to let me ride his new baby (snowmobile). We took off down the trail. After about 1/2 mile or so I smelled an odor that was strangely familiar. It smelled like brakes getting hot. I knew I didn't have my hand on the brake, so I couldn't figure it out. I tried to get Steve's attention, but he was out in front and it took him a bit to turn around and see that I had stopped.
By the time I stopped, there were flames coming out of the engine compartment!!! My boot and snow-suit were melted.
We quickly opened the hood and assessed the situation.
Apparently, snowmobiles have an emergency brake. Now- in my defense, I NEVER remember our childhood snowmobiles having e-brakes. But they do. And Steve had put his on.
The brake had caught fire, igniting most of the engine compartment and we had no visible means with which to put the fire out. Now you might be saying to yourself at this point "Weren't they in the snow?"
Yes, we were, but no amount of snow would put this stubborn fire out. We packed it and we packed it, but it just kept burning. (Apparently oil will do that?)
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only 10 minutes, another rider came along with a fire extinguisher. He put the fire out. Having no tow rope, we relied on this young man to loan us one and we were able to tow the charcoaled metal off the mountain.
Steve, thinking the damage was minimal attempted to repair it the following weekend. It quickly became apparent that is was a job for the professionals. When the shop called us with the estimate they had an interesting tidbit for us. The fire had caused a pin hole in the gas tank. Had the fire gone on much longer we would have had a very dangerous situation!!!! A few thousand dollars later (Thank God for insurance) the sled was just like new.
Needless to say the first thing I do now before any trip is check every sled for safety equipment and make sure the F(**(*(*en emergency brake is OFF!!!!!
***Christie*** Posted at 09:15 pm by dochendrickson
Apr 13, 2004
It was the middle of June on Lake Michigan. The subtle warmth from the sun in the empty blue sky shone brilliantly on the water, creating the reflection of a night sky complete with stars on its dark surface. I sat in my tiny yellow kayak listening to the crescendo of waves as they crashed upon the shore.
I looked to the horizon beyond the unmarked path on which I was about to embark. Nothing but a hazy blur existed where the sky and water embraced. Before the sun could rise too high above that line, I pushed the paddle I held deep into the pebbly sand and forced the boat out into the uncharted waves with delicate ease.
As my one passenger vessel slowly floated away from its sandy port, I pulled the paddle to my ribs and let nature take me on its course. Since the lake had no tracks for me to follow, and the only footprints I made quickly dissolved into ripples like quick sand, I was soon lost in an endless liquid space.
With every swish of the aluminum blades through the resistant water, I observed the way my body flowed with the rise and fall of the lakes breath. Several yards to my left, a single drake weightlessly floated in the same rhythm I possessed.
Beyond the duck, a seagull swooped lazily in the equally lethargic wind. Its bone white feathers provided the only relief to the cloudless sky, creating a nearly invisible reflection on the gently rolling water. So far from shore, I could imagine the bird’s breakfast was keeping pace with me, swimming in the shade of the kayak, where the gull was too timid to approach.
Smiling half in pity, half disdain for the hungry bird, I averted my eyes to an oasis of reeds standing at attention in the morning blaze. I pushed my arms into the handles of the single oar and drew closer to the commune of straw like soldiers.
When the hull of my craft first brushed the walls of the sanctuary of dry grass, a frigid tingle seized my body, as though the reeds had been electrically charged. The odd sensation passed as unexpectedly as it had come, and was soon a memoir whose purpose was to be forgotten.
Slicing through the shallow jungle of cattails, observing the heavy quiet that hung in the thick air, I thought of the cacophony of activity that I knew was occurring all around and beneath me. As my eyes teased select quills of grass, my body went numb. My peripheral vision was demanding the attention of my brain. I cocked my head away from the sight my eyes were so desperate to see in an attempt to hear the mute thing I was blind to.
Less than twenty feet to my left, a sandhill crane rigidly stood, mimicking the posture of the bars he hid behind. His bright rust colored crown confirmed his stature as ruler of the floating continent I had invaded. Staring into the yellow eyes of that great bird, I realized his belief that he owned me; I sensed no fear from the bird.
The magnitude of the moment overwhelmed me, as I knew how rare and shy these endangered birds were. I was afraid to blink, to breathe; and my lungs ached for the air molded around me. Taking a chance, I purposefully inflated my chest with the precious oxygen, and held it there until a flutter of white exploded before me.
I heaved with disappointment as the magnificent creature flew away; wondering what had caused his sudden departure. It was only then that I noticed my listless hand hanging in the water, and my paddle floating next to it, ripples still small from the splash it had made when I'd dropped it.
A signal that I'd had enough, I made a sorrowful decision to head back to shore. I plucked the paddle from the pristine water, and pushed the craft away from the maze of reeds and started back. It was only with extreme angst that I bid farewell.
The water was as smooth as I had left it, and the sun was higher and bolder now. I had since ignited the lakes' surface with an ethereal white flame, and the brilliance of it nearly blinded me. I squinted my eyes in defense against the sun's almighty fury, and dug deeper with my paddle into the liquid inferno, moving faster into the relief of the gentle breeze.
As I sailed through the waves, I recalled with satisfaction the journey I had made. Every flap of a wing, or swish of a tail, I matched with each stroke of my paddle. I couldn't help but feel immense pride in the pit of my stomach from the accomplishment I had made.
This sudden implosion of emotion fertilized my will, feeding the tender muscles in my arms. The pain in my hibernating triceps had subsided, and I was feeling invincible. I soon lost myself in my thoughts, dreaming with my eyes wide open, yet completely unaware, and my arms continued their methodical sweeping of the lake.
The scraping tremors of pebbles on the floor of the kayak startled me from my haze. The rocking motion of the surf gently coaxed me out of my lingering daze, and I gingerly hoisted myself from my seat. I swung my hips to the side and let my wrinkled feet dust the surface of the shore. Finally, I put my weight on the soles of my feet and lightly walked onto the sandy beach. I noticed how the sand caressed my toes and how the smooth stones molded to the arches in my feet. They seemed to do the same for the kayak, accommodating it when I led it further up onto the sand.
Satisfied that my vessel was out of the greedy reach of the hungry tide, I settled on a dry spot of sand, and sat down, lotus style. Then I carefully reached into my back pocket, feeling for the slip of paper that had been my companion for the past several weeks. When my fingers skimmed the edge of the folded sheet, I pulled it to my lap and deliberately unfolded it.
Scanning over the words written there in familiar ink, smudged slightly from my left handed font, I came upon one single word that, at the moment, meant the world to me. I pulled a pencil stump from shirt breast pocket, and held it poised above the paper.
Finally, below the words "Eat Es Cargo" and above "See a Broadway Play," was the word "kayak." In the margin to the left of it, I put a dark X.
I smiled in satisfaction, and refolded the slip of paper. Then I stood up, replacing the sheet to my back pocket, and brushed the sand and various debris from my clothes. I couldn't wait to get home and retell my tale of what I'd done: I'd crossed off yet another thing from my list of things to do before I died.
"Natalie"
Posted at 12:47 pm by dochendrickson
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