Eagle Creek Trail work Aug. 26-28 2020

I began volunteering with Pacific Crest Trail Association and Trailkeepers of Oregon after the Eagle Creek fire. I didn’t keep journals on all the crews, but this is typical of the experience. Because of COVID, this was only my second work crew this year. For the same reason it was limited to volunteers with at least 100 hours of experience (need little supervision or instruction). We camped 3 miles down the trail from the trailhead at Wahtum Lake, then hiked on down 3 more miles where we did brush clearing and tread repair. The next morning we hiked a mile beyond that site to an area in much worse shape, so overgrown in places that it was impossible to see the trail. The picture to the right shows a particularly bad spot In the morning we did both brush clearing and tread repair; in the afternoon I and several others focused on brush clearing to try to make the trail at least passable. From the photos you can see why the trail is still closed to the public – the terrain is very steep, and the trail is pretty dangerous in spots. We made a lot of progress but there’s still another couple days work in my view. Another section, not quite as bad, to the left. Note we are all wearing hard hats – required at all times while in the burn area (risk of falling branches and falling rocks). They’d help against a small branch or small rock, not a lot of good if a big rock or branch (or tree) comes down. Constant alertness is required. When they open it to the public, maybe this year but more likely next year, the falling branch / rock risk will still be there, but I hope they’ll get another crew or two in to finish tread repair and brush clearing. To the left: Shedding my pack, about to start work on a section. The leader marked off 50 foot sections so we could work without violating distancing regulations; when we were about done she would mark off another 9 sections and we all moved down. You see the mask I’m wearing – if another worker came within 10 feet we were supposed to put it on. Notice the “green grubber” tool beside me – weighs about 10 pounds, good for some brush removal as well as for getting the trail in reasonable shape. Below you see the finished section; I’m taking a granola bar break, waiting for the others to finish their sections so we can move down. Notice that we try to leave the trail sloping outward so rain will drain off and not form a stream that erodes our work. Before and after.

Wallowas 2020

Stats: 6 days, 56 miles, 11,400 total elevation gain and loss, average moving speed 2.0 mph. overall (that included some well under 1 mph, uphill picking my way through or around snowfields, and some 3 mph, good trail, not too steep up or down). My initial idea was to enter at West Eagle (bottom on the map), climb over to the pass to Tombstone Lake, (left on the map) descend to the Minam River, cross and hike up to Minam Lake, day-trip to Eagle Cap then return halfway, cross again and hike up Lowrey Gulch and back over the pass (Half of the branch to the right), down past Traverse Lake and Echo Lake (planned campsites underlined; possible additional site halfway to Minam Lake). As often happens with my wilderness plans it didn’t turn out totally as planned. Wednesday I got up at 4 am., breakfast, left at 5:40, arrived at the trail-head at 10:40. By the time I ate lunch, changed clothes, registered, I actually started hiking at 11:40. The lower part of the trail is good, but it crosses Eagle Creek twice, and both are wet-foot wades; I had to change into water shoes each time. The second time, I don’t think I dried my feet well enough or tightened my boot laces enough, because my left heel started feeling like a blister forming. I stopped to look at it – sensitive and red, no blister yet, but I put on a Duck Tape and gauze bandage. Too late; the damage was done and when I checked it that night it was a blister. Another hiker, a woman from LaGrande, was also at Tombstone. She hikes these mountains all the time with her two little dogs. She said there had been a bridge over the Minam but it washed away and she didn’t know if it had been replaced. I thought of the Wallowa River as it flows into Wallowa Lake and realized there was a good chance the Minam would be too dangerous to cross. If so, I would carry my 50 pound pack over 3000 feet down then have to carry it back up again – and the gradient lines on the map were not reassuring about finding campsites there, or for that matter along the stretch of the Minam between there and the lake. That plus the blister on my heel decided me to give up on the Minam, spend two nights at Tombstone, and day-hike as far as my feet seemed happy with. I also felt more beat-up from the 9 mile hike up to the lake than I expected, which left me uncertain about the possibility of a 15 mile day. To be fair to myself, I got less than 6 hours sleep Tuesday night. All of this precipitated thoughts about haste. The forecast predicted 30% chance of thunder-showers, and the clouds provided some spectacular cloud formations and sunsets. Thursday I awoke a little before 5; as I was stretching and thinking about coffee and a granola bar, I heard a few rattles on the tent fly. With a sigh I closed the rain fly and lay back to wait out the “30% showers.” For a few minutes it didn’t sound like much, then it started really raining and kept at it for close to an hour. When it stopped, I had breakfast, put together my lunch etc., and set out. The blister looked ugly but it hadn’t broken. I put together another make-shift bandage with gauze tape and Duck Tape, and when I put it into my hiking boot it didn’t immediately complain. I took that as acquiescence, and went out for another long hike (9.5 miles)with a light pack (lunch and water), down into Elk Creek valley then up to Burger Meadows – the route the LaGrande woman took in, from Catherine Creek Trailhead. I turned around at a tangle of blowdown, where two versions of the trail meet, the one on the map and another – I don’t know which is the current “official” trail; the one I took was pretty good. It led by a spectacular fan-shaped waterfall and underneath a mountain with coronet-like top. As long as I took short, careful steps my heel seemed pretty forgiving. So I decided to hike back over to Echo Lake and spend 2 nights there, with a day hike between; how long a day hike depended on how my heel felt when I got there. The LaGrande lady had made a point of how many fewer people there have been in the area this year; after I returned from my hike three other groups came in looking for a camp-site. When I can find a comfortable place to sit, if my campsite is at or near a really good view, I enjoy just gazing at the view and reflecting, or better yet, letting my mind wander and go almost blank. Mainly because of the humidity, mosquitoes were another problem at Tombstone Lake; I had to spray myself 2 or 3 times in order to make it to sunset. Sunset was worth it – both nights the clouds provided a really good show. The first night the clouds cleared after sunset and I got up again about 10:30 and used the flashlight to walk out to an open area where I could see the comet – surprisingly, I saw it no better, even with binoculars, than in the city. Still, I was glad I had brought the binoculars, even though I only used them for a few minutes (and again to look at Venus a few nights later). I slept better Thursday night, but it still took a couple of hours for my legs to quit cramping and feeling “restless.” Possibly insufficient salt to replace the sweat, although my meal tasted salty enough. Although it threatened a little rain, it never did actually rain after that early morning thundershower (exactly one thunder-clap to make it official). Friday started cloudy, quickly cleared. The hike back up to the pass was uneventful; the snow drifts across the path were hard, not icy, so they didn’t feel dangerous. It was breezy on the pass so I only lingered a short while looking at the view. I was walking with short steps (hence slowly) to keep from making my heel worse, and I enjoyed that pace as much as the more rapid pace I usually use. (Is that a sign of getting old?) I also discovered another difference: When walking fast, I tend to start wondering how much farther it is a mile or more before I actually reach the destination. Walking slower, a couple of times I was surprised to realize I was already there. Interestingly, going slower mitigates the impatience. There’s a moral in there somewhere if I can only find it. I reached Echo lake – Friday night, lots of weekenders had hiked in, none of them at all conscientious about masks or distancing. I managed to find a pleasant campsite well away from the family crowds, and found a bit of water about 2 feet deep with sand instead of mud bottom, where I could take a quick rinsing dip. The weather had turned completely mild; it was a pleasant evening. The sky was totally clear; it was obvious there would be no sunset, and I was still tired, so I crawled into bed as soon as the last light was off the peaks across the lake. I slept reasonably well, somewhat disturbed by dreams precipitated by the blister and how tired I got on the first two days (even though the third day’s hike went well and did not leave me particularly tired), dreams about losing energy and stamina, all that stuff. Saturday. I awoke in a depressive funk, visions of a defeated old age, I should probably just hike out this morning, but maybe a day hike then leave Sunday morning: a downward spiral. Before I even had my coffee made, I caught myself up, and realized I was way over-reacting to my gradual slowing down. I remembered the Clint Eastwood song: “Don’t let the old man in.” Here was the old man, battering at my door like an invading army, and I was about to throw the doors wide open! So – like reversing one of those optical illusions (rabbit – or duck?) – I took a completely different perspective. Life is change, life is endless surprises: some of the surprises are ugly, some are wonderful. Some just are. Blisters and other set-backs happen, and I know how to deal with them. So I decided if my heel would tolerate the hiking boots I would hike over to Bench Canyon pass, where brother Dean and I once camped just below the pass (I think about 15 years ago). There, I would see how my heel feels about it and either hike back to Echo lake, or hike down Bench Canyon and out to Main Eagle – which would leave me the problem of either hitching a ride or walking 2 hours to Two Color Campground, camp over night and another hour or two hike back to my car. I had coffee for only one more morning (having allowed myself 2 cups each of the first two mornings, in the morose belief that I would be out only 4 nights) but otherwise plenty of food. So I firmly told “the old man” to go to hell; he may break in eventually but I’m not going to surrender or go quietly. I put my boots on; my heel didn’t complain. So I packed up tent and gear (now 8 or 10 pounds lighter after eating half of my food) and set off up the mountain – still short steps, not favoring my foot (that always causes other problems) but careful not to aggravate it. Halfway up the pass I started encountering snowdrifts across the trail – still hard and icy. I was able to go around the first couple, then came to one that stretched from way above to way below, only a few yards wide but very steep, ending in a jumble of rocks at the bottom: in brief, very dangerous, a good place to break a leg – or worse. People had made a little trail of footprints across it, ten feet below the trail, but they weren’t nearly deep enough to look safe in the icy conditions. So I decided to scramble up the steep slope to the switchback above – steep, but no worse than bushwhacks I’ve done many times before. My blistered heel wouldn’t like it but the only alternative was to turn back and give up. I was halfway up the scramble when another hiker arrived at the icy snowfield. We exchanged greetings; he agreed with me that it looked dicey, but he chose a slightly different route around the snow patch, just to the top of the snow then across the face of the rock cliff above and on the far side of it. He was younger and faster, and reached the pass ahead of me. We chatted a while – he was pretty sure he and half his family had had Covid (“the worst flu I have ever had” – but it was early in the pandemic and they weren’t able to be tested). His dad is in his 60s and feels like his hiking days are over. I told him my age; he was suitably impressed. He used to be a personal trainer, so knew what I was talking about when I told him about the Tabata exercises I do (during the winter off-season for hiking). He is about to turn 40 and worried about losing his ability to do this stuff and I assured him there is no reason why a man in his shape shouldn’t still be going strong into his 70s or later. As a former personal trainer, surely he knew that already! Below us, we could see snow patches across half the switchbacks all the way down, but this side faces east, and the snow was already soft enough to dig heels into, so pretty safe. He planned to clamber around in the rocks and try to reach the peak, so we parted. I cut the switchback, avoiding the first, steepest, part of the snow field, and started down. I glissaded down several of the less steep snow patches, half gliding (ski-less skiing) and half long steps, then continued along the trail at the end of the snow patches. I had been over this trail with my brother maybe 15 years ago; it did not appear to have been maintained at all since, and I began to wonder if the forest service had abandoned it. After a long stretch that curves along the base of a vertical cliff, I came to a steep slope of packed sand; the trail was apparent only as a faint line across the sand. (It was like this 15 years ago, too. From my own trail work I know that, even if I had a good benching tool and spent 2 hours digging out a new trail, it wouldn’t take a week for the sand to fill it back in.) I wasn’t any too happy about it – if the sand slid under my feet I could end up sliding 25 or 30 feet down into the brush and trees at the bottom; probably wouldn’t get injured… The rule here is to avoid a mini-avalanche – step carefully but lightly; do not hesitate or stop. So I quickly crossed; the sand held firmly, I breathed easily – until I came to a second, similar patch, and crossed it the same way. The photo above shows the sand crossing on the way back, after I and a forest ranger had both crossed once – it looks a little less forbidding with the footsteps across it. Other signs of neglect: many blow-down trees, some quite large. Some are low enough to step over, a few high enough to duck and half-crawl under (allowing for the extra height of the back-pack. Fortunately I never had to take off the pack, slide it under in front as I crawled through, which I’ve had to do before.) Many of the logs were so large that I had to clamber over or, in several cases, climb up around the root-ball to get around them. There were several piles of logs, two or three atop each other; getting over these was like playing on one of those playground jungle gyms – carrying a 45 pound pack (right). In a couple of places, the trail disappeared into tall grass or brush; here my trail-finding skills were called into play. In both cases I correctly guessed the trail must continue in a straight line. (I think all of this is part of what is meant by the word “adventure.”) The most difficult trail-finding adventure happened in the little meadow at the bottom of the first long slope. First, there is lush grass (on soggy marsh). I had crossed this 15 years before, but even without that memory, it was fairly obvious that the trail down must be at the bottom of the slope opposite. But when I reached the creek at the bottom of that slope I found another tangle of blow-down trees; after I had picked my way through, there was no sign of a trail. Here, I supplemented my trail-finding skills with the gps program on my iPhone (cheating – but who’s keeping score?) – it showed the trail 10 yards uphill from me, and there I found it, and headed on down-slope. This part of the trail had more blow-downs, but none of the stacked-up tangles. At the bottom I had to cross another creek, but there are some logs across the creek, which gave me the opportunity to practice my balance (fortunately, there were places to plant my trekking poles on either end; I only had to take two steps without that bit of extra security). The trail up the other side was in a bit better shape, although a combination of horse-shoes (with the weight of a mule or horse on them) and water erosion had created several really unpleasant scrambles, often inside ditches as deep as two feet. Three or four really ugly situations had developed where winter snows bent living firs so the tops cross – and block – the trail (sorry – neglected to take a photo). Two of them I was able to bull my way past (getting pitch all over everything) but one was so dense I had to scramble upslope to get around it. As I had experienced before, walking a bit slower had the effect that I reached the trail up to the pass before I expected and didn’t see it, on the far side of a little creek (I felt pretty silly when I realized that). I kept on walking another mile or so before I checked my gps and realized my mistake. I later realized I was halfway to the next pass, and could easily have gone on, and explored a completely new area. But I turned around and found the trail I wanted. It was built and maintained by an outfitter, a mule-packing outfit, for use by pack strings. It is very steep and really ugly, with lots of sections where the trail is down to bare rock, inside a 2 foot trench (steeper and much worse than the photo above). Fortunately it’s less than a thousand feet up to the pass. Fifteen years ago Dean and I camped in a little meadow below the pass, with a spring-fed brook running through it. This year, the spring was dry; the only water a little melt from the small snow patches. I recalled a nice little lake on the far side of the pass called Arrow Lake, so I hiked the 200 yards over the pass to the lake, where I found a really pleasant little camp site that shows signs of only very occasional use. The lake itself is small and shallow – a large pond, really – but I found a spot a little ways from the level tent site where I could get in and back out from a rock (avoiding the mud) and rinse off the dust and sweat of the trail. On the other side is a beautiful view out across the upper Eagle Creek valley to Jackson Peak and, barely visible, Eagle Lake. Had I chosen to continue to the other pass, I would have been in a good position to drop on down, stay another night at Eagle Lake, then head down to Main Eagle and find my way back to my car as well as I could. I’d say “missed opportunity” except I had such a lovely evening that the alternative couldn’t have been much better. Including the extra mile or two, this day’s hike was 11.5 miles, but I was finally getting my trail legs – I wasn’t particularly tired, and I was able to enjoy the view of the lake, the view of the valley and mountains beyond, and the total solitude. It was totally clear, very few mosquitoes, so I decided to sleep out under the stars. I set up my tent a little ways away in case that a thunderstorm brewed up (very unlikely, but at this altitude – 8200 feet – it is always possible) or in case I got really cold. I crawled into my sleeping bag again at sunset; for some time some frogs kept me awake. One was hoarse and grating, one higher pitched but also grating, and a third one higher pitched and more musical. I’ve never heard any of these sounds before – I am assuming they are different species, although I don’t know for sure. They carried on half the night, but I managed to get to sleep not long after dark (and seeing one shooting star). Every time I awoke during the night, they were still going, though they did slow down as it got colder. It got quite cold; my sleeping bag was barely warm enough, zipped completely up. However, the occasional chill breeze felt very good on my face. My legs were completely over the fatigue-induced twitching and cramping of the first two nights, and I slept well. Sunday. I awoke, as usual, in the early pre-dawn light, happy with my decision to come here but facing a conundrum. I had coffee – and toilet paper – for just this one morning. That argued for walking on down to Main Eagle – only 6 or 8 miles, I could easily be there by noon or earlier, and possibly catch a ride at least to Two Color campground. When Dean and I did this loop, we had to walk back from West Eagle to Two Color, and I don’t think it took more than an hour, so I knew I could do that. But I wasn’t ready to quit yet – I had slept well, was enjoying the high country, wanted to go back for a final night at Echo Lake. So I lay there, waiting for it to warm up enough to get out of my sleeping bag, inventorying in my mind everything in my pack. Food packages: metallized plastic. Everything metal or plastic. Then the (should have been) obvious struck me: my coffee filters are paper. One problem solved. As for a morning without coffee – I could break camp early, hike out, and stop in Union on the way home for a cup of coffee. The other problem solved: I would spend another night in the high country. A word about my current choices of back-packing food. I use some Mountain House freeze-dried food, but most of their best stuff has some wheat in it. Recently I’ve discovered a new brand, Backpacker’s Pantry, that has some really good Asian fusion style food. Both brands come in foil packs: You add a couple of cups of boiling water, stir, let it sit for 20 minutes (30 minutes at 7-8000 feet), eat from the package. I use my pocket knife to cut the package down so I can eat out of it more easily. For breakfast and lunch: some dried fruit and a couple of granola bars. I used to take oatmeal, nuts, and dried cranberries for breakfast but the oatmeal pan and bowl require dishwashing, which requires a second pan to wash dishes in – more weight, and more bulk. I currently use a lightweight internal frame pack that will barely hold the needed clothing plus 6 days’ food as it is. I carry a small light-weight titanium pot, a can of gas and a “pocket rocket” burner that screws onto the top of the gas. I also carry a small grill to cook over a wood fire. I find two rocks shaped so they can sit 5-6 inches apart, with surfaces sufficiently level that the grill can sit squarely on them. I build a small fire between them, using twigs ideally no larger than ¾ inch, most of them more like ¼ to ½ inch. If I have dried moss or pine needles available that makes good kindling; if not I use my pocket knife to make shavings, then build a small, well-ventilated tent of twigs above the kindling. Most of the water out there is probably safe, but there is enough giardia scattered here and there (carried by beaver and other wild mammals as well as by humans – it’s also called “beaver fever”) that I filter it, even the lake water (the top 6-10 inches have been thoroughly sterilized by the UV from the sun – but I worry that the breeze might have stirred up some tainted water from below. I wish someone would develop a light weight test for giardia.) On one of my guided trips they provided a device that really works well, a squeeze bag, holds a pint of water; you squeeze the water through a small, very light filter either into a canteen or suck it directly. Very handy for a quick drink as you pass a small stream, and I discovered it’s no slower for filling a canteen than the bulkier and heavier pumps. I will start carrying another as a backup, in case one of the bags bursts a seam, and that will be my future water treatment plan. By the time I reached the meadow on the way back up toward the Traverse Lake pass, it was getting quite warm and dry, and I knew I’d better have a couple of quarts of water for the long stretch of trail with no springs or creeks. There was a nice dry bit of higher ground next to the creek where I stopped to filter water and have a granola bar. Then I headed back up the hill, past all the tangled piles of blow-down, taking my time, enjoying the woods and the hike. Halfway up I met the only other human I saw since the guy I met at the pass on the way in, a young forest ranger named Ashley, who said she was scouting the trail down to the creek for future maintenance parties. We chatted a while, I told her about the nasty bent firs and suggested sending a small work party up there with hand saws. When I reached the switchbacks 900 feet below the pass it was quite warm and the snow was soft. (The pass is in the center of the photo.) In spite of my efforts, and the mountain goat tracks crossing one of the snow fields I lost the trail at one of the snow patches and ended up taking a long detour through the tumbled scree and snow patches, finally used the gps to find my way back to the actual trail. It slowed me up a bit – took 50 minutes to climb the 900 feet. The altitude – it tops out above 8400 feet – probably contributed to slowing me up. I stopped at the top to rest in the shade and enjoy the view of the lakes, Traverse and Echo, below, and spent a little time looking out toward Eagle Cap in the other direction – but it was too hot in the sun to spend much time on that side. Back down at Echo Lake (the lower of these two; the closer one is Traverse Lake), beginning to feel tired, I noticed the couple who had been camped at one lakeside camp site were gone so I staked that spot out, laid out my tarp and sleeping bag. Then I noticed ants all over the place and decided to put up the screen tent so I wouldn’t have ants crawling all over me at night, getting into my clothes and gear. Once I had camp set up I went down to the lake where a rock afforded easy access to a relatively deep part of the lake – deep enough that I could safely dive in for a quick rinse in the very cold water. I’ve always loved this – a dive in, the sudden shock of cold water on a hot day; as I usually do I swam out 15 or 20 yards, rolled over to get thoroughly wet and get as much as possible of the trail dirt off of me and out of my hair, swam back, toweled off and got into some clean underwear and a clean t-shirt. (I carried them explicitly for the last night or two.) The icy water makes my skin feel really alive, a feeling that lasts the rest of the afternoon. An hour or so later I came back from a short walk along the lake shore to be greeted by another forest ranger, who chatted a while then asked if I had read the back of the registration form – I was camped only about 40 or 50 feet from the water, and you’re supposed to be at least 100 feet back (not easy to do at most mountain lakes, where the ground usually rises quite steeply within much less than 100 feet, but of course I did not argue). He said he wouldn’t make me move and I thanked him. The reason he gave makes sense – campers disturb the surface of the ground, so in a heavy rain more sediment washes into the lake. (On the other hand, people who camp 100 feet back and walk down to look at and swim in the lake also disturb it almost as much. The real problem is: too many people.) I did find one site at the lower end of the lake, a flat bit of packed sand that did not have the usual fire ring, but is well over 100 feet back and would make an excellent site – during the week when all the crowds are absent. I’ll probably camp there if I’m back again during the week. The evening was very quiet and still; the lake totally flat, the mountains mirrored in the surface. I found a couple of different places that were very pleasant to sit on and gaze at the lake, the mountains, the forest. Most of the people had left – there were two other campers, I think two people in one camp, one in another, all of them quiet. Not quite solitude, but close enough. It was fabulous for my last night on the trail. I slept well, woke up about 4:30, got up at 4:45. With no coffee to sit and sip, I just had a granola bar and was on the trail by 5:30, earliest by far I’ve ever got started. If I wasn’t facing a 6 hour drive back home I would have lingered longer even without the coffee, enjoying my last bit of wilderness, but I knew the traffic would be heavy when I got back to Portland, as it turned out to be, and I was glad I had started early. In any event, the calm evening before, and the pleasant silence of the hike out, provided a very nice conclusion to the hike. On the way out, driving along Catherine Creek I saw a short drive into the shrubbery, and pulled into it, stopping a few feet short of the creek. I walked over and saw that a tree had fallen at an angle into the water and someone had built a kind of dam out of a like of rocks, creating a 3 foot deep mini-pool. So I stripped off my clothes, got in, and rinsed as much of the trail dirt as I could off me before drying off and getting into the clean clothes I had brought for the drive home. A cold water bath isn’t for everyday, but it has its charms – especially after a week in the wilderness. Then in Union I stopped at the grocery store for a banana, some cheese and an apple for lunch, and my promised cup of (slightly watery) coffee. Overall. I was pleased to note, after I’d cleaned up and put away some of my gear, that I had no residual muscle soreness or stiffness – as I’ve noticed before, it takes couple of days on the trail to get the body adapted to carrying the pack. I also think the deliberately slower pace, adopted for the sake of the blister on my heel, is better for the rest of my body. I have already faced and accepted that I’m slower than I was 15 years ago – 2 mph on trails I would once have hiked at 3 or 3.5, even slower (as slow as 1 mph) on a crappy trail or steep uphill. But the fact that I didn’t feel impatient to reach the destination on any of these hikes also contributes to my overall satisfaction. I don’t think I will ever plan another hike that includes any days over 12 miles, and I will try to keep each day around 10 miles or less. I also plan to carry at least 2 cups of coffee for each day, and spend a little more time enjoying the morning at each camp site before moving on. I don’t really mind hiking in the heat of the day, and mornings are not to be wasted. I have fended off the “old man” and all the worries about aging again… for now. I know he’ll be

Reflections on hiking 8 18 20

The 3 sisters hike was disappointing – I knew it would be crowded but it was ridiculous. I haven’t really admitted to anyone else but one reason for doing it was to climb Middle Sister – which I did not do. I may go back in September to do just that, or I may not. I could have, first day, but I found myself reluctant to take on the glacier / snow fields. Then I tried again second day, and my eyes burned so badly (from the glare and dry air I think) that I had to give it up. Compared to Wallowas a couple of weeks earlier I found my pack felt much heavier even though it was 5 pounds lighter (that could partly be because the crowds were so demoralizing). Climbing as well as long-distance hiking (more than 3-4 days) may be over for me. It was fun – sort of – but not anywhere near ecstatic, and the constant chatter of other hikers (when I was in camp) was distracting and off-putting. So – the golden age of hiking, especially spontaneous hikes, is probably totally over. I slightly regret giving up the REI Yellowstone hike, but that (like Death Valley and Tetons) will be pretty much a social affair. When / if COVID is over I’ll probably do it, but it isn’t really wilderness. Wilderness is broken, probably beyond repair. It’s not that I need solitude per se – a companion (or max 2 maybe) would still be wilderness. But 100 people around a smallish lake (Camp Lake), even 6 near the tiny, pond-like South Matthew Lake, is not wilderness. And 6-8 people, even wilderness-oriented people, on an REI expedition is not wilderness. Why not just go car camping and save the trouble of a back-pack? National Parks and Forest Service are beginning to impose quotas and advance reservations; they are going to have to, and for some (like Yellowstone and Yosemite) they may need to impose a life-time quota, like they’ve done with Grand Canyon float trips already. An alternative is the Chinese model – scenery with exercise and fresh air, forget wildlife, solitude, adventure in any real sense. For me personally I am realizing the main alternative is memories. Live in my memories of the great trips I’ve had – solo, with Dean and with LaJean in our early days. I don’t know if I’ll do much more climbing. I found my appetite for it was pretty weak. If I really don’t care, why put out the energy? I guess the answer is, because it might supply its own energy, might be re-energizing.