Almost ready to go

Mike and I have been out in Solomons now for almost a week, taking care of a million details to get the boat ready for our trip down to Savannah. On Wednesday, I picked up Kurt, with the original idea of departing on Thursday, which was yesterday. But we are still here, partly because of the final boat work being done by the Spring Cove Boatyard people but mostly because of the weather, which has sucked. The tail-end of Tropical Storm Lee has been lingering here for the last five days, alternating between light sprinkles and tremendous thunderstorms.

Today is the final day for work on the boat. Don, the boatyard manager, and Chas, his mechanic, are installing some hatch hardware and fine tuning the standing rigging. We were able to get the sails rigged yesterday during a lull in the rain, so we're pretty close to being ready to go.

I wrote the first two paragraphs of this post earlier today. Since then, we have completed a sea trial with Chas, just out into the mouth of the Patuxent River, where it meets up with Chesapeake Bay, to run the new engine through its paces and calibrate the autopilot. Chas also gave us an engine maintenance orientation and showed us how the pump-out for the waste system works.

Now it looks as though we will be ready to set sail at around ten o'clock tomorrow, Saturday. On Don's advice, we will be sailing through the day and overnight to Norfolk, skipping our earlier planned stop in Deltaville. This will help us make up for one of the days we are behind schedule. I hope to meet my old friend Keith and his wife Patti for breakfast there before we push on for the ICW.

Good night, Irene!

Whispering Jesse survived Hurricane Irene without damage. The eye of the storm passed within fifty miles of Spring Cove Marina, with high winds and plenty of rain, but the storm surge rose only to the level of the piers. Two trees were blown down, and one damaged a truck, but according to Lindsay at the marina, who I called on Sunday morning, there was no other damage. Of course, now Hurricane Katia is looming out in the Atlantic gathering strength for a push westward and northward, hopefully more northward than westward so it doesn't interfere with our upcoming sailing trip from Solomons, Maryland to Savannah, Georgia.

I spoke with Steve from Creative Canvas today about the final work he is doing on the dodger and bimini. He said he had been over at the boat and had taken some photos with his camera phone to give me an idea of how everything was coming together. They are a little blurry, but I think they give a more complete picture of the boat than the launching and mast stepping photos I posted earlier:

Steve's photos are meant to show how the dodger, bimini and other canvas are looking. Here is a view of the nearly finished bimini--there will be a mesh sunshade off the back--and the dodger's frame. Note the nice canvas covers over the port hatches. Also, the boom, which was not installed in the earlier photos, is in place now.

A view of the dodger frame from the cockpit, with ropes holding it in place to give an idea of how it will be positioned when the canvas is in place. Note all the new running rigging and the new traveler.

A view of the cabin top and decks looking aft, with Steve's canvas hatch covers in place. Note the new standing rigging, the new chainplates, the new whisker pole on the mast, and the new lifelines.

A view further aft showing the view slot between the dodger and the bimini. Steve has it designed for easy viewing over the dodger while standing and through the dodger's windshield while sitting.

Crewmember Mike and I fly out on Saturday, and Kurt flies out next Wednesday. There is still a long list of things that need to be done and items that need to be bought before we are ready to set sail on Thursday, September 8. I'm hoping we can find time for a quick sea trial. Don, the boatyard manager, emailed me this afternoon that he and Chas are going to take the boat out tomorrow to test the new engine. The sails are not back yet from Quantum Sails or I'm sure they would be testing those as well.

Whispering Jesse has been launched!

Whispering Jesse was launched this past Tuesday. The boat had been out of the water for over a year, undergoing an extensive refit project that is finally nearing completion. Don, the boatyard manager at Spring Cove Marina, emailed me last week that they had fixed the damage to the keel and rudder and that they were about to apply bottom paint in anticipation of the launch. It was difficult for me to imagine until I received photos from John Simonton, my friend who lives on his boat at the marina. Here are his photos with explanatory captions, and don't forget to click them for full-size views:

Whispering Jesse in the paint shed with her newly applied name and hailing port. Thank you, Marty! The old bottom paint was an uneven light green. The new bottom paint is black and makes the boat look like a large sleek whale.

A final shot of Whispering Jesse at rest on her supports in the paint shed.

The Travelift and slings are in place for the move out of the paint shed and into the water.

Touching up the bottom paint out in the boatyard. Note the nicely cleaned-up folding two-blade propeller and shaft. Thank you, Chas!

Applying bottom paint to the bare spots where the supports pressed against the hull. The launch ramp that the Travelift travels down is visible in the background.

Whispering Jesse is in the water! Note the nicely cleaned-up manual windlass. Thanks again, Chas! And also the new Plexiglas on the foredeck hatch. Thanks, Don!

A shot of the cockpit showing the new engine panel protected by a sheet of Plexiglas. Thanks yet again, Chas!

Don, in the red tee-shirt, and his crew move the mast into place. The paint shed is visible in the background.

The mast in the process of being stepped. I'm guessing Don is down below moving the bottom end into position.

Don and crew attaching the new shrouds to the new chainplates. Thanks, Collin! Note the Valiant 42, Vespers, in the background.

The mast and shrouds are in place, but the boom and the new lifelines still need to be installed. According to Don, Whispering Jesse will stay in this safe slip until Hurricane Irene has passed, which should happen sometime on Sunday. We're hoping it doesn't become necessary to haul out again so soon after launch. Keep your fingers crossed!

John promised more photos when I get out there next week. Thank you, John!

Rough Canyon Falls hike

It has been a hot summer here in Grand Junction, but the thermometer didn't get up to triple digits until Wednesday. With the temperatures only in the mid-nineties and the humidity near zero, it has been reasonably comfortable to take long weekend hikes with Scout provided there was some shade and I carried plenty of ice cubes and water in my CamelBak.

This past weekend, Scout and I drove over to the Bangs Canyon area off Little Park Road, just a few miles from home, and hiked about two miles to Rough Canyon Falls, an intermittent waterfall in a pristine sandstone canyon. There are two ways to get to the falls from the Bangs Canyon parking lot, and we had tried the more scenic Rough Canyon route a couple of weekends earlier without success. There had been a fair amount of rain, and the scoured floor of the canyon had held it in muddy pools that required skirting around the edges over some difficult boulders, at least for me. Scout waded and swam through many of the pools, but I didn't want to risk a fall on the slippery bottoms. We finally reached a point where I would need to scramble down a steep pitch using both hands and feet, and I decided we should turn around. Scout might have made it down, but he wouldn't have made it back up.

As we backtracked, I noticed one of those brown fiberglass stake signs. I hadn't seen it earlier because we had been on a different track of the braided trail. It warned against defacing the site, which I took to mean that there was something worth seeing along the short spur leading away from the sign. Sure enough, on a sandstone face beneath a huge overhang, there were some impressive petroglyphs of humanoid characters and a design of circles that reminded me of the map petroglyph in Hidden Valley, south of Moab. Of course, against the wishes of the sign, there was graffiti all around the petroglyphs. I don't understand why people can't just leave well enough alone.

That day, we could have continued back to the trailhead and taken the easier canyon rim route to the falls, but we opted to continue up the canyon past the turnoff to the parking lot and do the Mica Mine hike instead. Nan and I had done it once a few years ago with Charlie and later learned that we had turned around before reaching the actual mine, thinking that the large piles of mica tailings we spotted were the mine's remnants. I wanted to see what we had missed, and we still had plenty of water, so off we went. The trail was really just an old jeep road that the miners had painstakingly forged through the canyon. It was easy hiking and there was plenty of shade. Within a half-hour, we had passed the tailings and reached the actual mine, which is more of a large, excavated cave. There were still plenty of mica extrusions covering the walls, and I wondered if the miners had been trying to extract it in certain-sized plates, because there were fingernail-sized pieces of mica covering the ground all around the mine. I put a piece in my pocket, took photos of Scout, and then hiked out.

The rim route to Rough Canyon Falls, which doubles as a four-wheel drive slickrock road, delivered us to the falls without difficulty this past hot and sunny Sunday. Scout and I got a late start, and there was little shade, so we were happy for a slight breeze and a downhill course. I had hiked to the falls with Scout a couple of years ago because I had heard that there were petroglyphs and moqui steps to be seen, but we had seen only the falls themselves, though we carefully searched the area around the top of the falls, which were not flowing that day. I had mentioned this hike to Kelly, my guitar instructor, and he had said that there were indeed petroglyphs and moqui steps at the falls; we must have missed them somehow.

I tried to remember exactly where Kelly had said the sights were located as we hiked the two miles to the falls, but I couldn't. He had made their location sound so obvious, I figured we would find them easily. Well, I was wrong. The rim route dumps hikers at a spur that takes them to the top of the falls, just like the canyon route does. Scout and I searched that area thoroughly without finding anything noteworthy except for some nice muddy pools for Scout to cool off in. We worked our way down as far as we could, to the place where two old cottonwood trunks are wedged together in the narrow slot of the falls, and figured that if there were going to be any moqui steps, this is where they would be, going up the walls next to the falls. But they weren't there and the falls weren't flowing. We backtracked, looking for a way to get down to the very bottom of the falls, but it was a sheer twenty-foot drop all along the lower rim. There is a way to get down there by continuing along the rim route to where it crosses the creek bed and then hiking up the creek bed to the falls, but that was almost another mile of hiking and we were running low on water.

We slogged back up to the trailhead in the afternoon heat, Scout seeking shade and drinking from my CamelBak. I was thinking that the petroglyphs and moqui steps must be on the lower walls that we couldn't see from that lower rim. Maybe we'll get a cool, early morning start this coming weekend and see if we can't finally find them. I have a guitar lesson on Friday, so I'll try to get more exact directions from Kelly. Third try's the charm!

What is fair?

This blog post is in response to a comment I received about my reposting of "Tax the Rich!", from the March 11, 2011 edition of the Madison, Wisconsin newspaper, The Capital Times:

First of all, let's address what is not fair. It is not fair that Americans working full-time, minimum-wage jobs are living in poverty. The current federal minimum wage, unchanged since July of 2009, is $7.25 per hour. Figuring a forty-hour work week, that works out to $15,080 per year. The current poverty level for a family of four, as defined by the government, is $22,350 in annual income. In single-parent households, where the single parent works full time, or in households with children too young to attend school, where one parent must stay home to provide childcare while the other works full time, the shortfall is $7270, almost a third less than the annual poverty level income.

Obviously, there are families out there making these situations work somehow, and there are individuals working minimum-wage jobs who live with their parents or with roommates to make ends meet, which leads us to one of the biggest problems of the working poor: housing. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, "In 2007, the median monthly housing cost (rent, utilities, and garbage and trash collection) for renter occupied homes was $755." This is 40.54 percent of the annual poverty level income and leaves just $1107.50 per month for all other expenses.

Remember, we are working with gross income figures here, not after-tax figures. It has become popular in conservative politics to point out that about fifty percent of Americans paid no taxes at all last year. This incomplete truth elicits indignation from those who imagine that others are not paying their fair share, but the whole truth is that many of those fifty percent do not make enough money to even qualify to pay income taxes. They may have taxes deducted from their paychecks, but they'll get the money back when they file their 1040EZ forms with the IRS.

Some believe the current progressive income tax system is unfair and that it should be replaced with a flat tax of anywhere from a 10 percent "tithing" to as much as 35 percent. Imagine that your minimum-wage annual income was reduced by $2235 to $7822 for income taxes. Try reworking the housing and expense figures above with these flat-tax amounts subtracted. Now imagine trying to survive on what is left. Is it fair?

Fairness depends on how you think about things. I know people who believe in their hearts that everyone gets what they deserve, that everyone is the sum of their life's decisions. My beliefs are not so black and white. People do not deserve to be poor any more than they deserve to be rich. Life simply works out better for some than for others. And some seem to have forgotten that we are all in this together.

What is fair? A living wage, for starters. The minimum wage needs to be raised to a level that allows all workers to meet their basic material needs, not to live with the fear that they are just an accident or a health crisis away from bankruptcy and homelessness. If this means that the prices of the goods produced by minimum-wage workers will go up, then so be it. I started working when the minimum wage was $3.25 per hour, $4.00 per hour less than it is now, and we have managed to absorb the difference. We'll do it again. And there's a side benefit: If the minimum wage is raised high enough, then the working poor can become tax payers, which benefits their self-esteem and our national budget.

The income tax system? It needs to be kept progressive, but the rates need to accelerate much more quickly than they do now, to at least the levels where they were before the Bush tax cuts, if not much more. "Trickle down" economics has not accomplished anything but to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. The rich do not spend their tax savings to benefit the broad consumer economy; they put them into investments that benefit only the few.

I have owned small businesses that employed as many as four people at a time. I know from experience that tax increases do not kill jobs. Lack of demand is what kills jobs. No customers, no need for employees. The reason our unemployment rate is stuck above nine percent is because a large percentage of the people have no money to spend. Benefiting the few at the expense of the many is selfish and short sighted. We know how to fix the economy. We just need to level the playing field, because we all deserve at least a chance at a decent life. That would be fair.

So here's the plan...

All the work on our 1980 Valiant 40, Whispering Jesse, must be leading up to something, right? Well, it is. We're getting the boat ready to sail away from Spring Cove Marina in Solomons, Maryland, where it has been undergoing a refit since I purchased it near Baltimore in May of last year and sailed it down Chesapeake Bay with my friend Kevin Harrison. The boat's new home will be in Savannah, Georgia, in the Delegal Creek Marina, at the southern end of Skidaway Island's golf course community, The Landings, where my parents have a vacation home.

The major projects--new engine, new rigging and chainplates, new portlights, new head, new canvas and everything else--are finishing up now. Don, the boatyard manager, expects to float the boat next week after the rudder and keel are repaired and the bottom is repainted. Collin, from Chesapeake Rigging, will come out and install the new standing and running rigging and the new lifelines. Then it's just a matter of getting the cleaned and mended sails back from Clarke at Quantum Sails and the new dodger and bimini, plus all the new interior cushions, installed by Steve at Creative Canvas before the boat will be ready for a test sail.

Unfortunately, I think that first post-refit sail may happen without me. I'm sure Don and his mechanic Chas will want to put the new engine through its paces right away and make sure everything is watertight. And Collin will want to test out his new rigging. I'm fine with that if it means that everything will be ready to go when I get out there on Saturday, September 3, with my friend Mike. He and I will have plenty of details to attend to, including picking up another friend, Kurt, at the airport in D.C. before the three of us set sail on Thursday, September 8.

The plan, as I have it figured in my mind and on Google Maps, calls for us to spend the first day sailing down to Deltaville, Virginia. It's only about sixty miles down the Chesapeake, so if we get a late start, we should still be arriving in daylight. The first day on the water will be a good introduction for Mike and Kurt in how the boat's systems work and how it handles under sail.

The next day, we will continue down the Chesapeake to Norfolk's Waterside Marina and spend the night there. This will be the end of our sailing and the beginning of our motoring for a few days as we pick up the Intracoastal Waterway and navigate its canals and bridges. Along the ICW, we will spend nights in Coinjock, Bellhaven and Morehead City, North Carolina. From there, we will leave the ICW for open-water sailing along the coast, with stops in Southport, North Carolina and Georgetown, South Carolina.

Originally, I had planned to make Charleston the final stop before our arrival in Savannah, but there are complications. I spoke with Jimmy at the Delegal Creek Marina, and he said that high tide for our arrival day on Friday, September 16, will be just before noon, with a two-hour window on either side. That doesn't give us enough time to sail from Charleston, so I'm thinking we will need to sail a longer distance the day before our arrival and try to make it to Seabrook Island, or even as far as Hilton Head Island.

There will be plenty of opportunities during the two weeks of preparation and sailing for things to go wrong, but I've given us only one extra day to deal with any contingencies because of work schedules. We all have tickets to fly out of Savannah on Sunday afternoon, September 18, which could be cutting it close. With any luck, we will be sailing in to Delegal Creek Marina as scheduled, before the tide goes out, and meeting my relieved parents at the dock.

Nan's first encounter with Whispering Jesse

Nan and I were out in Solomons, Maryland for a long weekend last week to check the progress with the refit project on Whispering Jesse. Though we have owned the boat for over a year, it was the first time that Nan had ever seen it, and I was nervous about what she would think. Fortunately, the boatyard's mechanic, Chaz, had heard that it would be my wife's first look, and he took the time to clean up some of the mess that I saw when I was last out there over Memorial Day weekend. It paid off. Nan was favorably impressed when we entered the paint shed on Friday morning. She carefully climbed up the ladder and then down into the cabin to check on accommodations. When I asked what she thought, she said the boat definitely had potential. I took that as a good sign and showed her the berths, the head, the galley, the nav station and everything else, including the newly repainted engine room and the new stainless steel portlights. We couldn't spend too much time down below because it was like a sauna down there. In fact, the weather all weekend was like a sauna. I've never experienced that level of heat and humidity before.

We had purchased a Zodiac inflatable dinghy at Washington Marina in D.C. the evening before, and Kevin from the boatyard helped me move it out of the rental car and into the shed. Then Nan helped me haul all the sails off the boat and we were off to see Clarke at Quantum Sails to see if they could be cleaned and mended as necessary. I haven't heard back yet, but I'm hoping for good news because new sails are not in the budget. Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped by Creative Canvas Design to see if we could talk with Steve, the owner, about the dodger and bimini he is making for the boat and to show Nan the interior cushions he has already made. He wasn't there, and his seamstress didn't want us going upstairs to see the cushions, so we wrote Steve a quick message and left.

Back at the boatyard, we took a look at the new engine, a remanufactured 50-horsepower Perkins 4-108, which was sitting in the garage next to the paint shed. Chaz walked in and introduced himself to us. I commented about the improved condition of the boat and he said that he had cleaned it up. When I thanked him, he smiled and said, "Hey, I have a wife, too!" He walked with us into the paint shed to show us a problem with the JRC radar antenna, which is called a radome. At some point, the antenna's pole had been left in its hinged position and rain had collected inside, corroding the sensors. Chaz said it was ruined and that I should see if I could find a replacement on the Internet. He also showed us how he had cleaned up the folding two-blade propeller. He said he didn't recommend replacing it with a new Max Prop because the shaft had been tapered to fit the existing propeller and would need to be replaced for a new one.

Nan and I next went over to the local West Marine to check out boat accessories. I looked at expensive fenders while Nan looked at discounted sandals. For the heck of it, I wandered over to the electronics area and struck up a conversation with sales associate Bob S. about radar, chart plotters, AIS and radomes. He told me that all that equipment is matched by the manufacturers and that it would not be possible for me to replace the JRC radome with a new Garmin one, for instance, if I couldn't find a replacement online. When I asked how much a complete rig would be, he estimated it at about $6000, plus installation. So that isn't going to happen anytime soon.

Back at the boatyard once more, Nan and I met with Don, the boatyard manager, to discuss the timeline for finishing up the refit and what remained to be done. In addition to the current projects, we agreed that the bottom needs to be repainted, the manual toilet needs to be rebuilt, the stove problem needs to be fixed and the electrical system needs a good going-over. Don didn't think any of this would delay getting the boat into the water, getting the mast stepped and getting all the new standing and running rigging in place before I return on September 3. That's when my friend Mike Young and I will be arriving to get the boat into final shape for a September 8 departure for Savannah, Georgia. Another friend, Kurt Beereboom, will be flying in on September 7 to join us. There will be much more about our plans for this sailing adventure in future posts.

During our forays around the boatyard, Nan and I ran into John Simonton, who has been living on his boat at the marina, and chatted with him briefly in the cool of the marina's upstairs lounge. He mentioned that he was thinking of sailing south to Charleston for the winter, and I told him my crew and I would be sailing that way in early September. He said he would give it some thought and let me know if he would consider forming a two-boat flotilla for the trip.

Before we headed out to Solomons, I ordered sets of vinyl letters from BoatU.S. that spell out "Whispering Jesse" and "Savannah, Georgia", our boat's name and hailing port. I had intended to apply them myself while we were out there, but Don talked me out of it. He said they had a person on staff, Marty, who used to own a sign company and could probably do a much better job of it--aligned straight and without any bubbles--so I entrusted the letters to Marty's capable hands. We'll need to plan some kind of a christening party at some point before we sail away in September.

The Snowball Fight

     It may be just the way that everything seemed larger when I was younger, but I remember that it used to snow a lot more than it does now. Where we lived, a few miles west of Lake Michigan, it would start to snow right after Thanksgiving, and there would be snow on the ground until St. Patrick’s Day. During the holidays, there would be two feet or more in the front yard.
     As with the size of things, time seemed more drawn out then. Christmas breaks seemed almost endless, especially as I approached my teen years. With the excitement of Christmas Day behind us and the New Year looming, we would counter the boredom of being cooped up inside by going out to play in the snow. The proximity of Lake Michigan kept the climate humid and contributed to what we called the “packing” quality of the snow. It was excellent for making snowballs, and we obliged it by making and throwing snowballs all winter long. We would throw snowballs at each other, at street signs, and at passing cars and buses. We would make a game out of seeing how many times we could hit a bus as it passed, with extra points awarded for getting a snowball through an open window.
     On one of those Christmas break days, in 1970, I was wandering around the neighborhood with my friend John from across the street. It had snowed heavily the night before and there were at least three feet of heavy, wet snow on the ground. I knew it was wet and heavy because I had already shoveled it off our driveway and sidewalks. Up the street, John and I noticed that our friend Dave, who lived next to John, and another neighborhood kid, Robbie, were dragging Christmas trees toward us. This was back when everybody had live trees, which would dry out and become fire hazards if they were not taken down right after Christmas. It was the city’s practice to collect the trees from people’s curbs and mulch them into fertilizer, which they would then sell back to the people. It helped to ease the guilt over wasting all those evergreen trees.
     Dave and Robbie had decided they would have some fun with the Christmas trees before they were collected. They were dragging every tree in the neighborhood into Dave’s front yard. When we asked them why, Robbie said they were going to use them to build a fort, like a giant teepee made of trees. John and I thought this was the most ridiculous thing we had ever heard and said so. Robbie’s pale face turned crimson but I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. John was something of a bully in those days and he saw an opening. He walked over to the few trees that were leaning together and shoved them over. Now there was no question that Robbie was angry. He sputtered that we should leave him alone and seemed to be on the verge of crying. Dave looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to order us out of his yard. John kicked at the trees and teased Robbie: “What are you going to do about it, you cry baby?” This infuriated Robbie, and he started moving toward John through the deep snow, like he was going to try to hit him or wrestle him to the ground. John laughed mockingly as he dodged out of Robbie’s grasp. I had been packing a snowball during this entire exchange and it was now as hard as a rock. When Robbie made another lunge for John, I threw it with all my might. The snowball hit Robbie squarely in the back of the head with a sickening crack. He went facedown into the snow like he had been shot. He didn’t move for several seconds, and I worried that he was badly injured or possibly dead. But then he emitted a horrible wailing sound and struggled to his hands and knees. I was so relieved to see that I hadn’t killed him that I started laughing uncontrollably.
     Robbie got to his feet and turned to face me. He was covered in snow. It was melting off his bright red face and mixing with tears as he cried hysterically. I tried to sympathize with how much his head must have been hurting, but it didn’t stop my idiot laughing. Robbie lumbered toward me, and I was sure he intended to kill me. I backed away through the deep snow and then turned to run across the street to the safety of home. But Robbie was a big kid, and he had rage working for him. He caught me in my front yard and tackled me into the snow. Before I could struggle away, he sat on my back and shoved my face violently into the snow. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get away but I couldn’t move. My vision was fading and I could feel myself losing consciousness. Adrenaline took over and my body did a super push-up, throwing Robbie off my back and bringing me back to my feet. Robbie looked astonished as I turned to face him, my arm fully cocked. He never saw the roundhouse punch that hit him squarely in the temple. Again, he went down like he had been shot, this time on his back. I stood over him, my hand on fire, not believing what had just happened. Robbie lay on his back, blubbering and in obvious pain, his arms and legs spread like he was making snow angels.
     I was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of shame at what I had done and turned to walk away. I went quietly into my house and downstairs to the basement rec room. I sat in the dark replaying the fight in my mind and trying to wish it away. The phone rang and I could feel the blood drain out of my body. I heard footsteps approaching upstairs. My mother stopped at the top of the stairs and said, “Are you down there? Robbie’s mother is on the phone, and she is very unhappy. What did you do?” I didn’t answer her right away. How could I explain that in the short time I had been outside playing in the snow, I had almost killed a person and then almost been killed by that same person? I opened my mouth to say something but heard her steps retreating back to the phone. I sat in the dark and watched the light fade from the day.

Liberty Cap hike

On Sunday, in keeping with the spirit of Independence Day, I hiked the Liberty Cap trail with Rich, Wes and Rita, who were also on Saturday's rafting trip. It was only my third time on the trail, mostly because it is inside the boundary of the Colorado National Monument and dogs are not allowed. If I'm going to go for a hike, I want to take my dog Scout with me, so I normally hike outside the Monument.

One of the reasons I wanted to do the hike, even though it meant leaving Scout with Nan at home, is because I see the Liberty Cap every morning from my bedroom window and because it involves some unusual terrain. Near the top, there is a series of switchbacks up narrow sandstone ledges, which has caused me to refer to the trail as "the miniature golf course of hiking trails." It's like taking a regular hiking trail and compressing it down to its most basic elements.

The four of us got off to a fairly early start, leaving the trailhead off Wildwood Drive before 9:30. The temperature was already in the mid-80s, so I was glad I had my CamelBak full of ice and water and not just a water bottle. The distance to the top is two miles and we made it up there in about 40 minutes, stopping along the way to drink water, take photos and admire the view.

When we reached the top of the trail and were standing next to the Liberty Cap, which is a giant, impressive-looking petrified sand dune, I mentioned that some people take the hike to its natural conclusion and climb up the Cap itself. Wes and Rich immediately started trying to figure out how that could be done. The Cap is shaped like a breast, or like a rounded, lopsided cone, and the trail ends at the steeper side of it, which would be a dangerous free climb. So we all worked our way around to the less steep side to see if there was an easier way up. While Rita watched, Rich and Wes tested some foot and handholds, and I went back around to read the Liberty Cap's sign, which for some reason is a good 75 yards from the Cap. Screwed to the main sign was a smaller one that warned people not to attempt the Ladder Route up the Cap due to damage to the rock and rungs. This was news to me, that there was a named route up the Cap and that it had permanent rungs.

As I started to walk back to meet the others, Wes called my name and I looked up to see him standing on top of the Cap. He had discovered the Ladder Route on his own and risked the climb. When I caught up with Rita and Rich, they were on the back side of the Cap, on the other side of a big crack I had never jumped over before, and they were watching Wes carefully pick his way back down. I could see why the route was supposed to be closed, because there was only one rung left, it was more like a bent rod, and it was at least ten feet up. Wes had shoved his fingers into the holes in the sandstone left by the missing rungs and kicked his way up. Now he was using Rich's shoulders for footholds as he climbed back down. We took more photos, admired the views one last time and then made a hasty retreat as the biting gnats were making it uncomfortable to stand still and there was no wind to keep them away.

Happy Independence Day!

Whitewater rafting over the Fourth of July

I had so much fun whitewater rafting a couple of years ago with my friend Kurt Beereboom (Rafting the Colorado River) that when our friends and neighbors Rich and Diane Heintz proposed taking a rafting trip down Glenwood Canyon, I definitely wanted to be included. My enthusiasm must have been infectious because I managed to talk Nan into it, too. By this past Saturday morning, we were a group of eight: the Heintzes, Diane's daughter Bree and son Wes, Wes's girlfriend Rita, our friend and neighbor Mim, and Nan and me. We all met up at the Whitewater Rafting facility in Glenwood Springs and after a brief orientation, piled into a school bus with about 30 other rafters for a ride up to Carbondale. Apparently, the Colorado River is running dangerously high right now through Glenwood Canyon, with all the runoff from last season's record snowfall, so we would be doing a "three-fer" instead: the Crystal, Roaring Fork and Colorado rivers, for a total of about 18 miles.

I didn't know what to expect when we shoved off from the banks of the Crystal, but the water around my ankles sure was cold. Our guide Matt had us dig our canoe paddles in with gusto as we surged below the County Road 108 bridge and into the first set of rapids. Holy crap, I thought, as the raft disappeared into a big hole in the water and launched out the other end, thoroughly soaking Wes and me at the bow. After the shock of the cold water, all I could think was, Woohoo! We surged through subsequent holes at weird angles that had everybody else soaked and laughing.

The Crystal soon fed into the Roaring Fork, which was living up to its name and really moving. Matt had us dip our hands into the water to see that it was slightly warmer than before. Ever so slightly. We cruised through riffles, watching the bald eagles and herons that nest along the river and admiring the beautiful houses along the river that we could never see from the roads above.

We noticed a girl in one of the other rafts sitting on the bow and asked Matt what she was up to. He said she was "riding the bull" and he asked for volunteers from our group. Rich climbed up front and had the ride of a lifetime through the next set of rapids. Then it was Wes's turn and finally Rita's. After that, the river settled down again, and we started to wonder if that was it for the excitement. It was not. The river saved the best for last, and we were all thoroughly soaked again.

A little ways on, the Roaring Fork joined up with the Colorado River, which felt immense and heavy. The water was slightly greener and ever so slightly warmer, and it smelled lightly of dead fish. A few hundred yards later, we were at Whitewater Rafting world headquarters again. We pulled the raft out, handed in our paddles and wandered up the bank to the parking lot to retrieve towels and dry clothes from our cars. After changing, we met up in the photo room to see the photos Matt had told us would be waiting. Nobody remembered seeing any photographers on any of the banks or bridges, but whoever it was sure took some great shots. Mim purchased the photo CD, which is where the images in this blog post are from, and we headed out for an early dinner and some well-deserved beers at the Glenwood Brew Pub.

If you've never tried whitewater rafting, you don't know what you're missing. I used to think it was no big deal, but now I'm a convert. It's a blast!