This week started with another unbelievable photo opportunity. Dale picked me up in the morning and I rode around with him for a few hours before he dropped me off at a trail head.
We are now at the midst of a 2 week break in hunting season. We just finished bow and muzzle loader seasons- those are sporting hunts with hard core dedicated hunters who drive from all around the country to spend a couple of weekends dressed up in camo early in the morning waiting for a bull elk to stroll by them so they can get a clear shot to the heart- cause you usually don't get a second shot with a bow or a muzzle loader. These guys tend to get drunk on whiskey in the evenings. The next hunt coming up is the all American favorite rifle season when all kind of characters will drive from all around the country to walk around the woods (not too far from their pickup) with a loaded rifle in one hand and a beer can in the other. Occasionally they will fire multiple shots into the thick of the woods because something that was bigger than a squirl moved there. Of course, since alcohol is involved, there is always the problem of "open container" so the forest dirt roads become one long stretch of small crushed aluminum Budweiser advertisements. Their new slogan should be: "Bud-light, trashing our forests the American way...".
Even though we are a quiet 2 week period between the seasons, there is still a need for hunting patrol. The Valles Caldera, that borders both park and forest, has it's own hunting seasons going on, and the hunters are walking around the forest, looking for good spots for when the hunt begins (You'd be amazed at how serious some of these guys get about the whole thing). Right now they should only be armed with binoculars, but they all have their arsenal in back window of their pickups and some of them get what is known as Elk fever- once they spot one of those trophy bulls- a red curtain falls in front of them and everything else goes out the window- hunting seasons, park boundaries, permits... they just grab the rifle and start firing away. All of this is to explain why, during a brake in the hunting season, I was waiting for dale to pick me up in the park parking lot at 6:20 am, literally the crack of dawn, with my week's supply stacked snug in my backpack. The first thing we did was drive along the highway to all the different pullouts that the hunters usually park in. We even drove out to the Caldera and checked out a couple of pullouts there, because they were easy to access the park from. This is when we saw this morning image. The morning rays shining onto the Caldera over the road that leads to the park.
With this beautiful sky we drove down one of the dirt roads for a bit, parked the car, and headed up Scooter peak. Dale had spent the better part of the day before in that area, because a surveyor that was working there had reported hearing shots. The obvious assumption was poaching- but neither Dale or Brian couldn't find anything. So the day after we headed up to see if we could spot any unusual bird activity. Poachers don't usually take the whole animal- especially if it's as big as an Elk. Even if they are hunting for meat they usually gut and carve the animal on the spot- leaving a lot of food for the birds, but in most cases these guys are trophy-hunting so they take the head and, maybe, the back strips and leave the rest behind. So no-matter who is doing the hunting, if you come around a day later, the birds have had enough time to gather around whatever leftovers there are, and you can either see the flock or hear the chatter, and that's what we were looking for. We ended up finding nothing, but it was a pretty nice hour to be up on scooter- sun rising and a chilly morning breeze.
After we got down, Dale drove me to the Dome TH. That's the closest TH to the cabin and I've used the trail that goes down from there a few time before (especially when the backpack I was carrying was more on the heavy side). This time, however, we picked a different route for me to drop down along. There used to be a trail that went down from that TH, through national forest land and connected to the park boundary right where Capulin canyon comes into the park. My cabin is in Capulin and it would just be a matter of hiking down along the canyon once I got to the boundary. That forest trail got badly damaged after two major fires (96', 2000'). Burned trees have fallen on it and some of the switchbacks had been washed away in the floods that followed the fires. So for the past 6-7 years, that trail has been abandoned. Last year the rangers did see forest service trail crews working on the trail, and a new sign was installed at the TH, but the work was never finished. Apparently inter-agency communications aren't working so well, because the guys at the park have not been able to get an answer from anyone in the forest regarding what exactly was the plan for this trail. So, in the mean-time, the Bandelier backcountry ranger (that's me) was sent down to see how far along they have come with clearing the trail, and what exactly is the condition of it, all the way down to the park boundary. It's a good idea to be able to tell hikers what to expect, and maybe even put a warning sign at the park boundary, if the trail is in really bad shape, for people headed out of the park. I was eager to check it out because if the trail was in good condition, IT would be the shortest way in and out of from the cabin. The trail was in pretty good condition all the way to the rim of the canyon. When I started down the switchbacks it was obvious that the trail crews have not come this far, but it was still just a matter of stepping over fallen trunks and pushing through overgrowth that needed to be cut back. The lower I dropped into the canyon, the worse it got, though. Parts of the trail have been washed away or totally covered by piles of fallen trees that had pushed one-another down. The challenge wasn't about walking the trail, it was about finding the trail. I've done off trail hiking in these canyons before, and wasn't worried about getting lost(you're in a canyon, headed down canyon...), but I was trying to avoid it for the sake of being able to report about the whole length of the trail. About three quarters of the way down I did make an interesting discovery.
I've told you about the phone lines that ran along the trees (See entry September 12 2007). You can still see the ceramic insulators nailed to trees along the canyon. Here, on the way down, I found the leftovers of a split in the line, and pieces of the copper wire. It's no big archaeological finding, but it was neat to come across. My little finding came with a loss. From that point on, I couldn't find the trail anymore. It's almost like it led to that point where the phone lines split- and that's it. So, I had to go back to the old bushwhacking for the rest of the way down. Once I got to the creek at the bottom of the canyon it was a 15 minute hike to the park boundary, where I met up with the park trail the leads to my cabin.

That night Gumas was supposed to come out to the cabin. He had asked me to help out with collecting data from erosion bridges on one of the mesas. His partner, Caroline, had hurt her knee and wasn't able to go on any long hikes anymore. I got the cabin at around 2pm and had some time to do my school work. I was going to wait for Gumas to start making dinner. I got all of my reading done, and even finished the questions at the end of the chapter and Gumas was a no-show. It was getting late and dusky at this point so put the water up and started cooking beans (that takes about 2 hour anyway), and still, no Gumas in sight. Right when I was about to get on the radio and call him to see what was going on I heard voices approaching and Gumas showed up. And he brought Joel along. And Joel brought a bottle of whiskey. That was a pleasant surprise. Apparently Caroline, the wounded partner, was supposed to drive them to the TH, and she was late. Very very late. They had no problems hiking down, it was just a difficulty getting started. Along side the bottle of whiskey they also brought tortellini and sauce, summer-sausage, yellow cheese and cream cheese and other bits and pieces of nutrition. It was easy for me to forgive their delay. I already had the beans going and between the hot dogs that i added to them, and the pasta, we had quite a pile of food. It was a hefty amount- but it stood no chance in the face of the three of us, and we each even had a can of "fruit cocktail" for desert. Between dinner and the card game that followed- the bottle of whiskey stood less chance than the food, and the only reason I still have the bottle standing in the cabin, with a thin layer of liquid in the bottom, is because Joel didn't want to have to hike back with it. I think this is a good place to tell you about an interesting, almost alarming, anatomical phenomena that I have noticed out here. I don't know if it's the thin air, or some ancient Indian spirit that drifts around on these mesas... but something is emptying the inside of my leg. Now, I know, most of you are sitting there right now trying to imagine how that is surgically possible, and some of you are just getting flashbacks from the last horror movie that you've have seen, but I mean it. I've developed a hollow leg. There is no other explanation to the amounts of food I've been able to consume- in one sitting or along a 24 hour period. This isn't hunger. Hunger can't keep up with this. It's just that whenever I stop whatever I'm doing (including if what I'm doing is eating a hefty meal) and take a moment to enjoy the scenery, or take a breath of fresh mountain air, the first thought that comes to mind is "hmm... I could eat right now". I could be washing the pot that was full of noddles just 20 minutes ago, the fry pan that housed 6 hot dogs and the bowl that now holds nothing but a few licked streaks and the scent of the pile beans that used to live in it, and a warm fuzzy feeling comes along- "If there was anymore, right now, I'd kill it too..." my body seems to be saying.
Judging by what we did to that poor pile of food, and the bottle of whiskey, and the canned fruit, I suspect that Joel and Gumas suffer from the same condition, though perhaps not to the same degree. I should ask them. There could be an important medical discovery here.

We were sitting outside and watching the stars when the rain came to signal us it was time to do the dishes, but considering that three people make a cabin pretty warm and cozy, we rolled into our cots and went to sleep very much on the content side.
The next morning we woke up, had an impressive breakfast (not as impressive as dinner, but enough to crowd the table), washed it down with coffee that was dark and thick enough to make a horse shoe float in it (this one isn't mine. I stole it from Joel) and set out. We were headed down Capulin, almost all the way to the river and then we were going to head up one of the mesas- where the erosion bridges were, along an old Indian trail. We had a long day ahead of us so I set a lively pace. The rain that had fallen the night before was hanging on the grass and leaves along the trail and by the time we made our first stop at Painted Cave, about 6 kilometers down the canyon, we were pretty wet from the knees down. (Thanks to the great treatment my shoes have been getting, my feet stayed dry- in case any of you were worried) The sun hadn't come up enough at that point to heat up the canyon so we made it a short shivering stop and pressed on.

Out of the three of us, Joel is the newest addition to the park, and he has done the least hiking in the backcountry. He really got a kick out of climbing the old Indian trail. You cant see it from a distance, and really, you are still climbing the same steep cliffy slope. It's just that most of the loose little rocks have been cleared out of the way and in some places you can still put your foot down on a ledge that was once a carved stair. It helps you get to the top of the mesa without tripping over loose rocks and scraping your hands. We had twelve sites to record on that mesa and four more sites across a steep dry canyon.
An erosion bridge is just two pegs stuck in the ground, leveled in height. We hiked in with a long level with ten holes along the length of it, in fixed intervals. The level is set between the two pegs and an aluminum arrow-pole is put through the holes, one at a time. Then, the distance from level to the ground is measured along the pole. As these measurements have been taken once a year for the past 15 years, you can get an idea of how much the soil between the two pegs has eroded over time. We also had to take soil samples at each site and record information like the slope and direction of the wash and the depth of the layer of soil. Between the three of us it didn't take much time to take the readings and write them down. The problem was the soil samples. You're all thinking of a test tube. So was I. Gumas pulled out large Ziploc bags and made Joel fill them up with about 2-3 pounds of dirt. One bag doesn't sound bad, but we had 16 sites in total. that's quite a bit of dirt. Since I wasn't hiking out with them that day, there was no point in me carrying the samples. I helped as much as I could by carrying the level and much of the water, but they were still heavier than I was and were going to get heavier before the day ended.
We had lunch when we finished the first mesa and crossed the canyon to the last four sites. This time there was no Indian trail to help us out so it was more of a roll down, and a carefull pathfinding job up. We took turns scouting for next steady spot to step on.
When all the measurements were taken and Gumas and Joel's packs were all loaded up with the dirt that was needed back in the labs we headed for the nearest trail and started our long hike up along the mesa. Not before Gumas made a new friend.

When we reached the junction where I was to leave them, we stopped to rest. Gumas and I engaged in a debate about bachelor recipes (hollow leg, remember?). Food that did not make friends or even associate with words like "aroma", "saute ", "marinade" or "simmer", but was more likely to be graded by phrases like- "quick", "tons of it", and the ultimate-"a drunk monkey could do it". Joel didn't contribute his educated opinion to our conversation. He was not happy about his load of dirt and his backpack was not fitted well. knowing he had about three hours still ahead of him, I'm sure didn't help.

It only took me about 45 minutes to make it back to the cabin and start working on dinner. It took another three hours from when my eyes started watering from chopping the first onion until I heard them on the radio reporting they were back at HQ. Looking at the leftover whiskey I had, I took a moment to think nice, fond thoughts about them both. The sky was totally clear that night, and a chill moved in. This was the first time it got really cold. The next morning, when I headed out, I could get away with wearing a short sleeve shirt because I was sweating up the steep trail to Turkey Springs, but I had to put my work gloves on because the dry chilled air was biting my fingertips. I had been out that way several times before, and I like that part of the park. This time I was trying to find a cliff with petroglifs that Dale had told me about. I got to Turkey Springs, went down the canyon, and up to the ruins of San Miguel Pueblo. Then I went down a small wash on the other side, that was supposed to end at a cliff over another canyon. The rock art was supposed to be on the side of that wash at that cliff, but I couldn't find anything. I kept on walking along that ledge and enjoyed the view- but still no rock art. I figured I was on the wrong ledge, so I took off my pack, tied a rope to it and climbed onto the ledge above me, pulling my pack up under me. After all that effort- no petroglifs. Then it was just the long hike home. A disappointing day for backcountry ranger Limon.

There had been two big fallen trees that I had had my eye on for quite some time blocking the trail at lower Capulin. They seemed too big for one man to tackle so I kept them for when someone else would be out at the cabin with me. I thought I'd have Gumas and Joel for another night- but they hiked out with their dirt filled packs. So for a grand finale for this stint I decided to take them on. I packed my long saw, an axe and a couple of plastic wedges and cleared my schedule for the day. I was prepared to spend the whole day out there chopping away, if that's what it took. It didn't.

It took a lot of work. I huffed and I puffed and my arms and back were already aching by the time I got done with the first one, but each cut took me about half an hour- and I had four. Two for each tree.
So at the end of it, when I got back to the cabin I had all of the afternoon to write down my home work assignment nice and neet and get it ready to be sent overseas. I got quite a bit done. Is the pen mightier than the axe after all?

I hiked out on monday. I only met one hiker on my way out and she was on a day hike. I got back to the visitor center and found it was packed with visitors and low on staff. Culombus day. I had no idea. I borrowed one of the abandoned park vehicles and went grocerie shopping and bought a whole chicken, a large aluminum pan and box of rock salt (Kosher salt). Any of you who know where this is going also know that I showed Gumas the undesputid all time champion of bachelor recepies- Chicken and Salt in the oven. Six people ate well that night, and licked their fingers. Sure, Gumas had salmon and potatos going too, but it was only the chicken that was torn to pieces and eaten as finger food without cutlury or plates. A hole chicken... Oh and this isn't a guy thing- two women were part of this band of savages.