Missing Out On Baby Moose Photos

Last spring while willow bashing, we hiked into a pair of newborn moose calves.

It was scary since a mother moose can be dangerous in her protective state and we didn’t initially see her.

We abandoned our push for the summit and hightailed it back the way we came.

The mother was 100 metres away on a ridge, running back and forth, frantic.

Meanwhile, one calf staggered off to hide under a stunted spruce tree while its twin on the cutest wobbly legs began stumbling towards us, bleating a most mournful cry.

At this point my chest hurt for the thumping of my heart.

Only once we backtracked and put considerable distance between the calves and us, the twin rejoined its sibling beneath the spruce and the mother calmed.

This spring I went for a trail run and stumbled upon a moose tucked in a deep thicket. I spotted her only when she woofed at me. I responded by running out of the woods. I’m not sure if she had a calf but I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

I always try to give wildlife their space and never approach them. I don’t try to get a photo before retreating. That’s why I don’t have many awesome photos from these encounters.

All I can do is write a blog post about it.

 

 

 

What’s In The Pack??

“What the eff is in this?”

Anyone who has accidentally picked up my daypack will ask me this.

It’s only a 33L @osprey pack, so in no way should it weigh 25+ pounds.

I hike every day and I always carry my ridiculously heavy daypack. Even if I am just strolling around the neighbourhood, I take my pack.

What’s inside is not gear, hiking essentials or snacks. None of those. I have Nalgenes filled of water and as many hardcover books as I can stuff inside.

Why?

Because I don’t go to the gym.

Instead of the gym I carry a backpack full of books everywhere I go. I also wear my pack to do squats, lunges and any other exercise that allows me to wear it.

What is better training for backpacking season than wearing as much as possible a full backpack? Yeah, I lift free weights as well but I always carry my pack.

At some point life will return to ‘normal’ and when it does, I plan to shoulder my pack and head into the Yukon backcountry. And I’ll be grateful for all the hard slogs I’ve been doing with an overkill heavy pack.

 

An Ode To The Northern Wood

It was a bluebird day.

+1C.

There was no need for long johns or puffy jackets. Or toques. Or mitts.

We had no destination in mind, only to saunter the day inside the boreal woods.

Our eyes strained against the glare of sunlight on snow. We cursed forgetting sunglasses.

We were excited for the fresh snowfall.

Sure, it’s tougher hiking but fresh snow makes new wildlife tracks crisp. And there were so many out in the woods beyond our cabin: moose, mule deer, grouse, red squirrel, chipmunk, mouse (unknown species), wolf, coyote, red fox, lynx.

We traced the path of grouse and snowshoe hare wandering from rosehip bush to rosehip bush, seeking berries still lingering. We admired lynx tracks meandering through a poplar grove, envious of their snowshoe paws keeping them afloat in the deep snow.

The fresh snowfall revealed a wolf came out of the woods and crossed the frozen lake to circle a beaver lodge before trotting over to investigate the length of the beaver dam.

A red squirrel’s hole opening into the subnivean zone intrigued me. I long to know how it would be to travel between earth and snow.

We also watched black-capped chickadees peeling bark away in search of grub, listened to a three-toed woodpecker rapping on a tree.

We found several muskrat pushups.

And the first pussy willows of spring.

The balsam poplars are beginning to bud. I pinched a bud and then gave it a sniff. Inside a poplar bud is the familiar scent of spring. When the leaves finally begin to burst forth the winds will be thick with the familiar scent.

The same can be said for pasture sage. But that plant is still only melting out from under the snow. We have to wait a little while yet before she emerges.

We are also eager to find the first of the prairie crocuses. To see the first black-bellied plover of spring.

My happiness lies in a quiet, slow, simple life nestled in nature.

The stillness of the woods still draped in winter and mountains I’ve come to know slowly over twenty years this is home. Not some structure with four walls but this sense of belonging to a landscape. I don’t need much for a place to lay my head as long as I can step out the front door and into the wild.

Undoubtedly, I am fortunate to be spending these days in a cabin in the Yukon woods. My neighbours are arctic ground squirrels and the mule deer. Trails splinter off in all directions behind our home, trails leading to lakes, to hilltops and mountain peaks where wolves and coyotes, lynx and moose roam.

Our Two-Week Self-Isolation Cabin On The Tagish River

We might not have running water in our cabin but we have plenty of books and podcasts. The crib board has seen quite a bit of use. And we’ve got tunes.

The alcohol won’t stretch out the entire 14 days but the oatmeal cookies will see us through.

We’ve got vegan sausages cooking on the fire, plus tequila for sipping and marshmallows for dessert.

Internet is a fifteen-minute walk away so we are very much living in the moment, in the boreal forest of southern Yukon.

The river flows outside our window, mountains loom beyond. We do not tire of the views as light and shadows shift each moment. No moment is alike. Hopes for glimpses of the northern lights make every midnight run to the outhouse hopeful, despite -20C temperatures.

I cherish this simple life. This quiet time. Sure, I’d rather be backpacking but I have my health and a warm place to shelter. I am lucky.

The Yukon makes it easy to self-isolate. It’s easy to stay at home when its -20C outside.

Below are some observations and thoughts from our days spent in isolation.

Today in the neighbourhood, March 26

A family of four river otters are playing on the ice. A pair of common mergansers are fishing nearby. A pair of ravens are collecting sticks for a nest. A flock of common redpolls are providing the evening’s music. And just as I write this, twenty male common goldeneyes arrive, a single male bufflehead among them.

We must stay away from our human friends but we are still in the company of old friends, the red squirrels, the grey jays, the American dippers.

I have always been able to entertain myself and delight in the subtleties of the outside world. I don’t always need to be hiking, paddling, skiing to enjoy the outdoors. Simply sitting outside is enough for my soul.

Today in the neighbourhood, March 30

Watched a coyote trotting across the frozen river, skirting the open leads, making two trumpeter swans swimming around nervous. And there were ravens having sips of fine Tagish River water, collecting twigs for nests and croaking at us for no apparent reason as they fly by. To live in the northern woods is to be in the company of the wise, curious, mischievous raven. A small herd of eight woodland caribou are feeding in the woods near our cabin, just a fifteen-minute walk down a wooded trail. I adore caribou. Seeing them always makes me smile.

Self-isolation, despite not having Internet or television, in the Yukon is no trial for us when wilderness exists outside the front door.

Today in the neighbourhood, April 7

Today is our last day in self-isolation, our last day at our friends cabin in Tagish. It makes us sad to leave. It’s been delightful to watch spring slowly move in, to watch the migrating birds return, to observe the local wildlife. Today on our hike we ran into the caribou again. We kept our distance so as not to disturb them. We also came across a female moose who seemed fairly unconcerned by our presence. She just continued feeding in the willow thicket. Woodpeckers were rapping on trees and the white-winged crossbills, common redpolls and black-capped chickadees were singing up a storm in the woods.

I will miss the sunrises and watching life along the river. I may have been in isolation but I was not alone. The fourteen days went by too swiftly.

 

The COVID-19 Mad Dash Home

The hiking and camping in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument had been chilly, rainy but sublime. That’s canyon country. Sublime, regardless of the weather. We hiked canyons, neoprene socks keeping us warm in swollen creeks. We read books by campfire. Scrambled up slickrock overlooking the desert. Sniffed the sage. Photographed the Henry Mountains. Star gazed. Fell asleep to coyotes howling. We frolicked, sauntered and skipped. Napped.

After those blissful two weeks of camping and hiking in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument we rolled into Bluff. The town was quiet. Quieter than usual. We drove to the visitor centre very much closed. I turned on my phone, a message from my sister waiting. She was wondering where we were and if we knew what was happening. She suggested we come back to Canada as the impact of COVID-19 was growing, and growing swiftly.

Southern Utah was closing and Moab and Bluff was urging travelers to stay away. We live in the Yukon, full of small, isolated communities so we understood their concerns.

Obviously, we didn’t want leave. Spring had just arrived. We were headed for Bears Ears and Cedar Mesa, to spend a few weeks camping and hiking there. It’s one of our favourite places in Utah. Temperatures were reaching +20C. How could we leave now?

We sat in the parking lot of the Bluff visitor centre, googling COVID-19 and listening to NPR. It didn’t take long to understand the situation we had just driven into. There was only one responsible option.

We filled our water jugs in Bluff and headed North, stopping in Moab only for gas.

The drive from Bluff, Utah to Tagish, Yukon is nearly 4500 kilometres. There is a lot of splendid wilderness and it was achingly difficult to drive by it all without exploring, without even stopping. We drove past a few wildlife refuges, several national forests, a couple national parks. It seemed so blasphemous not to visit. John and I don’t like to drive more than 100-200 kilometres a day when we’re traveling. Now we were driving 800km a day.

And if the mad dash back to the Canadian border with a looming pandemic wasn’t worrying enough, we were camped in a national forest just outside Salt Lake City when the 5.7 earthquake hit. We were listening to a podcast about the locusts in Africa when the truck started shuddering. Fortunately, we are somewhat accustomed to earthquakes living in the North. We laughed at the sense of an imploding world. What else could we do? Locusts, a pandemic, an earthquake. We got up, cooked up some oatmeal, made coffee and continue North.

On top of the great distances we were driving, we were traveling on Interstates since they are most direct. 130km/hr speed limits, however, seem excessive at the best of times and in times of a pandemic, seem absolutely outrageous. Now was not the time to get into an accident. But pandemic or not, earthquake or not, people were going, and going as fast as they could.

We played a lot of Neil Diamond to soothe our agitated souls. Our 4-Runner has her original tape deck so we pick up tapes in thrift stores. Neil Diamond and Brian Adams have been with us for six years and we still haven’t tired of them. A few weeks before going into GSENM I bought ABBA, Gordon Lightfoot and Anne Murray.

The day we returned in the Yukon we stopped at Little Atlin Lake, to stretch our legs, finally able to relax. A raven flew overhead, croaked at us. A lynx strolled by, weaving among the poplars.

We were home.

And we were happy, even if we arrived at the beginning of an unseasonal cold snap that would end up lasting the two weeks we would be self-isolating in a cabin.

Don’t Listen To ‘Influencers’

I was sitting in a coffee shop browsing the web recently, sitting out a deluge. I came across an “influencer’s” blog which rated Capitol Reef National Park as the least interesting of Utah’s 5 national parks.

She’s mad and not to be listened to. Clearly, she has not taken a deep dive into the park to unearth the magic of this place.

Too many people are blindly following others instead of discovering their own backcountry magic. So many people are going outside only to recreate the same, wrought, posed instagram pictures.

Capitol Reef is stark and magical, full of intrigue. There are a lot of great hiking trails and a lot of backcountry routes, canyons to explore, even peaks to scale. It is not boring. Don’t listen to influencers. Just because they might have a hundred thousand followers doesn’t mean they know what they’re talking about.

While I’m ranting, I’m also tired of seeing ‘Must See’ articles in magazines and blogs. When I see them I make a point to remember not to visit them. That’s where all the people will be.

Instead of focusing on what other say are ‘must see’, seek your own adventure.

The bus outside Denali National Park where Chris McCandless died is a great example. It’s become a pilgrimage for so many and I’m perplexed as to why. I am as intrigued by his story as everyone else but I don’t know why people flock to the bus. Why not find our own adventure, following the calling of our own souls, instead of following the footsteps of someone who became famous because he died?

I have purposefully posted a generic could-be-anywhere-in-Utah photo instead of posting pictures of Capitol Reef’s wild and weird landscape because exploring and discovering is what going outside should be about.

IMG_5008

Sauntering In The River

It is quite delicious, the Paria River.

At times the canyon constricts so the walls are a mere one-metre apart.

Canyon walls loom 800 feet.

And the river is the trail.

In February, the Paria is cold thanks to the ice still lingering in the shadows of the canyon. We came prepared, with 3mm thick neoprene socks and two puffy jackets each. Where the sun fell down to the canyon floor we were warm. Where shadows fell we were chilled and nearly shivering. After only an hour of hiking in the river our feet fell numb but still we hiked on, deeper into the canyon. Once inside Paria Canyon, it’s hard to ever want to leave her sensual belly.

Despite February being cold it is a marvellous time to visit. For the days we spent camping and hiking in the Paria, we were alone. And the quiet solitude of the canyon was worth the toe-numbing cold.

Hypnotized By Buckskin

A 28-kilometre jaunt through the world’s longest slot canyon was almost too much beauty to bear.

There is so much shadow and light playing between the canyon walls, colours of red and orange and yellow that would make you believe you’re tripping.

But there is so much more.

There are petroglyphs of bighorn sheep.

And bits of dead animals scattered on the canyon floor, from birds of prey perching high up on the canyon walls and dropping their leftovers – jackrabbit legs, cottontail rabbit tails, the feathers of songbirds, perhaps even the wings of other raptors.

The silence inside was also delicious. Even a soft whisper echoed loud so for much of the day we hiked in silence, relishing it. That silence is missing in our everyday lives. And we need that silence to hear our inner voice.

The hoof prints and poo of a wayward cow deep in the belly of the slot canyon had us a bit perplexed. Was it lost or simply seeking out a water hole? The tracks made me uneasy. I know what to do when I meet a grizzly on the tundra but what do you do when you meet a cow in a canyon barely a metre wide?

Perhaps most remarkably, beyond the Wire Pass and Buckskin confluence, we were the only humans in the belly of Buckskin, despite its beauty and well-known status.

California Condors

We spent four wondrous days sitting on cliffs above the Colorado River, the pink Vermillion Cliffs behind, watching California condors.

Now, if you don’t know how amazing this is, let me explain.

In the 1980s, there were only 22 California condors left in the wild.

Twenty-two.

That’s it.

People have been fighting to bring them back from the edge of extinction and now approximately 300 exist in the wild. 100 of them are found in the Colorado River corridor.

These birds are magnificent, with 9.5 foot wingspans, a lifespan of 60 years. Their bald heads and necks allow them to feast away on carcasses without messing feathers. I could go on.

They’re existence is still very tenuous. I am so grateful to those who have fought and worked for these birds. It would be a sad, lonely place without condors in the sky.

I am delighted beyond expressing having had the opportunity to spend so many days watching 22 individuals go about their lives – including some mating displays.

DSC_3212

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑