A Walk Thru NeverLand by Dyana Carmella

My review of Dyana Carmella's A Walk Thru NeverLand, her memoir of thru-hiking the Pacific Northwest Trail, Montana to the Washington coast. Up now at Splice Today!

 

 

Glacier Grey

 "Glacier Grey" originally appeared in Green Theory & Praxis, Issue 12, Volume 1, April 2019. Pdf format, page 39. Now here for easy access!

The end of the world is cold. And windy. No trees, just rock, boulders and shale. Patches of snow and sandy pebbles hitting my face. My plastic poncho supposed to be a windbreaker, but has really just turned into a big sail. I have to stop in big sudden gusts blowing down from El Paso Garner, Garner Pass, 'El Paso' for short. No trail, basically we're just heading up. With the altitude, I rest every twenty meters, bent over almost to the ground. A man recently died trying to hike over this point.

A huge gust hits, blowing me over and back. I twist mid-air somehow and land on my hands and knees, dragged, poncho choking my neck and flapping in my face.

Up ahead somewhere, I hope, are my two Australian companions, named, amazingly, Tristan and Hamish. They've been traveling in South America for about two months, basically trekking, camping out, The Inca Trail in Peru and Macchu Pichu, getting ripped off by police in Lima. Neither has picked up much español, so I've been useful, for once in my life, as a translator back in Puerto Natales where we met in one of the hospedajes. They accepted my presence matter o' factly and invited me along on an eight-day trek around the park, doing 'The Circuit,' a big loop in el Parque Nacional Los Torres del Paine. I'd only been thinking of an overnighter, have never done more than that, but said yes immediately. Amazing how that can change your life. We've seen the Torres, the Towers, huge skyscraper-like mountains, a climbers paradise, along with 'small' glaciers and glacial lakes filled with large chunks of floating blue ice.

I just graduated, barely, in December with a degree in creative writing, and the only story I could imagine for myself is working at a Border's bookstore the rest of my life. Nothing made sense except to revise completely, to leave, to go visit Chile, the homeland of Pablo Neruda. Why do trees hide the splendor of their roots? Maybe a last gasp, a last reward, a poem, before I join Real Life and grow up and be serious and stuff. So, from minimal savings I bought the ticket and walked through that gate in the Detroit Metro airport, expecting someone to say, Hey, you can't do that. Which is kind of what school had been like. But, no one did. And in Santiago, despite all the beautiful women, my instinct had been to get the hell out of there too, out into wilderness. My guidebook showed Los Torres del Paine, a United Nations Heritage Site, at the southern tip of the continent, of the world.

The Australians haven't laughed at me, at least not for any of that. They seem to be giving me the benefit of the doubt that I know what I'm doing, despite the fact that I'm in cut-off shorts, a Mötorhead t-shirt, and Converse High-tops. They do like to make fun of the States, and other Americans ('Why do American tourists dress like children?') which I am more than happy to encourage. Plus they're fellow Monty Python fans, quoting classic lines like 'She turned me into a newt' with much better British accents than mine. I had half-thought I might drop out earlier, and without them I surely would have. They've been teaching me, even just by example, how to properly trek. Things like planning out meals, reading a topographical (topo) map, and just drinking water straight off the glaciers, no need for iodine or filters (but cold). Also showing me how to tighten the waist belt on my mochila to get most of the weight on my hips, so my shoulders aren't screaming. Which makes my hip bones scream. But it's a good pain! Other things I've learned on my own, the hard way, like if you use a tarp, never put it under the tent. It should go on the ground inside, otherwise it actually catches runoff from the tent and funnels it into a puddle right underneath and you wake up the next morning with your butt in a puddle. Fortunately, neither of them are the gung-ho type that get up at five in the morning. Nope, we all crawl out at 9:30.

We had all wondered if I'd be warm enough, with no heavy jacket, just a rain shell, and I have been fine up to this point. Walking with a forty-pound backpack tends to warm one up. I've had it for a year and took it on a summer study-abroad in Mexico, but never really used it for a backpack. But here I am, mochilando, the first few days in low hills, snow-covered mountains in the background. Chile and the whole west coast of South America are like someone took the west coast of North America and flipped it over, and we're in the Alaska-looking part, though I'm Darwin, observing longer thinner dandelions, flower heads smaller, evolved differently down here. And with at least one completely new animal: the guanaco, related to llamas, same long neck and wooly fur, which browses in the grass like deer, but also jumps around on rocks like mountain goats, and has the same kind of hooves. Herds of them, or single ones just appearing over my head on a boulder, staring at me. Judging me.

Learning too the rhythm of trekking, of backpacking, of mochilando, aware of what's around me but processing thoughts and emotions, of girls, friends, girlfriends, jobs, school, life. They just flow on by, nothing I can do about them, all that is far away, nothing to get on with except the next step. And when I get tired of thinking (though you never do, really) I just come out of the trance and look at the mountains which have been there forever. My problems nothing, a speck of sand on the side of a mountain.

During this trip, people have thought I'm Canadian or Argentinean, which is fine by me, I'm kind of ashamed to be an American after seeing many US oil companies in Chile, and knowing about our government's involvement in the coup which overthrow Salvador Allende, a democratically-elected (though Communist and therefore automatically bad) president, who Pablo Neruda supported. One would almost start to think America was out to invade everywhere because of oil. But on one break, Hamish remarks, —Well, you're certainly the quietest American I've met. Most go on and on, gabbing away.

Which I'm proud of. But we do talk. Hamish the free spirit type. Long black hair and a beard which he's been growing since he'd arrived in South America. One of the skinniest people I've ever met, and I'm pretty scrawny. I don't know how he hikes so far and fast with those chicken legs. He's still going to college, but I get the impression it's an on/off kind of thing. His girlfriend is an exotic dancer, which I would think would be both exotic and nerve-wracking while away on another continent for two months, but seems neither to him.

Tristan the more serious and quieter of the two. Long Elvis side-burns and the shortest hair of the three of us. In graduate school for psychology, he's going into clinical psychology to actually, like, help people. What a concept. But he still indulges his love of travel. He's seeing a beautiful young woman too, and keeps a picture of her in his passport so when a customs official wants to check his papers, her picture falls out and the guy forgets about hassling him. This actually happened at least once, I guess.

This whole trek I've still been expecting someone to jump out from behind a boulder and pull a Monty Python on me: 'Right! Stop that! You're being much too silly!' But thanks to Tristan and Hamish I've been starting to feel a little normal. Or, not alone in my silliness.

I rise, staggering, my poncho now just a cape, both hands on the ground, wondering if I'm about to be blown off the mountain. More sand in my face, trudging, long bloody slice in my left knee: the mountain has claimed a blood sacrifice.

And then I'm not walking uphill anymore, facing a vast sea of ice, grey and blue and cold. Glacier Grey. Beyond it, surrounding it, the Andes Mountains. We've been hiking through mountains the whole time, but these are MOUNTAINS. Tall vast dense hunks of planet with ice and snow on top, in huge CLOUDS. And I'm looking across at them. The end of the world. Nothing can be beyond those clouds. This is where reality creates itself. And is destroyed.

The wind doubles. The end of the world isn't going to let us live.

My Australian companions are having a grand ole time, of course. When I catch up, they're sitting behind a boulder, grinning away. As I collapse next to him, Hamish says, —That's more like it. I was beginning to get worried this would be a lark.

Tris grinning too. — Isn't this great? I got blown over on my back. Good thing I landed on my pack. Gawd, I never expected a view like that!

I cower in a ball, my poncho ripped to shreds, knowing I'm going to die, either right there, by being blown off back down the mountain, or else when we go into all that ice and cold and cloud. Those are the real Andes over there and I am shamed and unprepared, desecrating a holy place.

They take pictures.

Tristan turns to me: —We're thinking about walking a little bit further then stopping for lunch.

—Great! Let's get the hell out of here!

I run, shooting down the slope, expecting snow and ice any moment. If I'm going to die, it won't be crawling. Tris and Hamish come behind, jumping into the wind, laughing.

And, the wind lessens. Still strong, but only in a cold way now. And, instead of snow and ice, a field of thick green moss appears, covering over all the rocks. Far below, a forest of reasonable-looking non-snowy pine trees. Maybe we aren't going to die after all. I take big spongy leaps down, unable to stop staring at that huge GLACIER. We find another little protected nook behind a big boulder. Tris loans me a sweater, and we sit on mossy rocks with the best view in the world. Glacier Grey just like its name, with huge blue cracks and fissures. I'm looking down a long ways, those cracks must be canyons. I get a chill, imagining falling into one, lost in blue ice caves, the glacier moving and crushing me like nothing, which I am.

None of us speak for a while, none of us stop staring.

—You guys, I gotta confess, I was scared up there.

Tristan grins. —Yeah I noticed. You wanted to leave right quick.

—We just saw the face of God.

Hamish gives me his most pseudo-aristocratic Australian-snob look. —Bah. Rubbish. Someone's been watching too much Hollywood tripe. Or should I say Holy-wood? That wind wasn't a bit over a hundred kilometers an hour. Oh, sorry, divide by eight, multiply by five to get whatever the US is still using. It was a stroll. A doddle, if you will. If you Americans don't have some fortitude, who will want to be policed, watchdogged, big-sticked, or new-ordered by you? You could learn a bit from us Crocodile Dundee types, you could.

I break out a huge chocolate bar I've been saving, filled with mint cream, the most wonderful candy bar I have ever eaten.

 

Holy Water

"Holy Water" appeared in the anthology ON FOOT: Essays on Hiking in the Grand Canyon from Vishnu Temple Press.

Loose rock/stones on North Bass Trail, with soft dry dirt underneath, but not too steep. Down under the North Rim, away from the ponderosas, out in the hot Arizona sun, through thick manzanita, Gambel oak, scrub oak, locust (my old spiny enemy!) and the start of the pinyon/juniper tree mix, switch-backing into White Canyon proper, I stop and listen: Running water! A stream off to the left! I wasn’t sure I’d be blessed at the beginning of the trip and so have loaded up with six quarts in my pack, enough to (maybe) get me through the first day and a half. Which it’s about time to sample. And—that was quick—my first stupid mistake of the trip manifests: the four Arrowhead bottles of ‘spring water’ I bought back in Kanab are not just spring water. No, I open one and it bubbles and fizzles out.

Aghast, I check the label. Oh. Oops. 'Sparkling' spring water. I’m not a fan of tonic water unless it's in a gin and tonic, and I could still drink it but, well, here I am at real spring water right off the mountain. Meaning I'm dumping this sugary stuff right now. I know, I know, I hope Mother Earth forgives me. Who knows what kind of mutation I’m creating here, some two-headed lizard or something, which could be waiting for me five days from now when I come back. But I do it.

Hopefully this is my only big mistake. I usually have one every trip, but my consolation in this case is to sample the water of White Creek right now: Just scooping my hands into the water and raising it to my mouth. Cool, clean, deliciously pure. Or purely delicious. A wonderful treat after expecting basically arid desertness, and I’m tempted to lighten my load and just drink as I go, but who knows? Better to play things safe here in the Grand Canyon. I refill the bottles.

The trail parallels the creek down into the drainage bottom, shrubbery and small cottonwoods as well as a few brave ponderosas providing shade over boulders and rocks, and then climbs up onto red dirt PJ flats. And though some uphill is required to do this, walking on the trail is actually faster than jumping boulder to boulder. Weather today: mostly clear blue sky, with some high welcome Simpsons clouds. Birds: goldfinch, chickadees, and a big hawk circling above, not even flapping, just riding the hot air up and up. And flowers, still, at the end of May: reds, yellows, whites. Lunch break, check the map, and based on the fact that I am now at the Red Wall Descent (unmistakable because of the straight up and down red walls) I’ve only gone 3.5 miles! I re-check, using a big landmark, Emerald Point, up on the Rim, directly across. Lining up the map, yes, I appear to be where I think I am. That can't be right. Hike all day, downhill, to only go 3.5 miles?? Time and Space seem to have no meaning down here. That means no Shinumo Creek tonight, which I’d thought a possibility, or maybe just a hope, because of its perennial water.

The Red Wall, always the narrowest section of the side canyons. One misstep and I could go crashing down over the side! But, after some almosts, I’m down in the creek bed again, though water seems to have vanished, drizzled down underground. A few nice flat sandy open areas though, and HUGE red rock walls rising up, with a HUGE natural sandstone shell echoing even normal voice levels 200 yards away. A cathedral. In shade too—a relief from the hike over the hot flats, though still warm. Big contrast to last night up at Swamp Point where I froze my butt off!

Packless, I explore upstream, and find more blessed running water: just a trickle, but with some sandstone pools big enough to strip down and throw water on the ole corpse. Then kneeling, cupping and raising the hands. Feeling ghosts of others who have done the same here. Drinking water as a tradition. Drinking water as a spiritual experience. Quenched, at least temporarily, I sit in a last remaining sunny spot, naked, communing with dragonflies and butterflies, plus some fat black bumblebees.

Back in camp, feasting on Triscuit cracker-wafers, with Tillamook Monterey Jack cheese, working away at a huge chunk I've brought. Even cheese and crackers becomes a spiritual experience down here. Backpacking as spiritual practice. And for dessert, Fig Newtons! I’m stuffed, though it’s not really that much food. Weird how while backpacking I exert way more energy than at home, but eat less and feel better.

But the thirst. Drinking water all day and still this thirst. Gulping it down from my bottle. My urine was clear last time I checked, so not dehydrated yet. Out here even just laying on my sleeping bag is dehydrating. The air cooling some, but not too much. Sunlight reflecting on the clouds. A bumblebee buzzes by. Birds chirping, three different kinds at least. Crickets, spring peeper frogs, and....goats? No, frogs, bigger ones, farther upstream, echoing off the sandstone amphitheater. A frog chorus. Going to be a wonderful star night, if I can stay awake. And my friends the bats come out, flipping around. I doze off for a little bit but wake with darker sky and bright half-moon, cold, putting on my long underwear and zipping up my bag. Perfect—warm, but with cool night air on my face.

The next morning, after donning my pack, and in keeping with my tradition of thanking wonderful camp sites, I raise my hands to heart in prayer position, and bow deep at the waist, then turn and hike down between the narrow red walls. And I'd thought that there would be no more water until Shinumo Creek, but White Creek starts back up! Yes, with even a flat sandstone rock area and a dripping waterfall! Opportunities in life like this cannot be ignored—I must stop and stand under it! I de-pack and de-shirt, sticking my head into the drip. The water just slightly cool, not quite brisk. Goosebumply. A minor miracle. I raise my face, open my mouth, and gulp as much as I can.

This, alas, turns out to be the last of White Creek, as the path comes out of the Red Wall narrows and onto the Tonto Platform. Flatter ground, following the now-dry creek bed. It's hot. And dry. Ugh. Cactus, mostly prickly-pear, some even blooming, but also hedgehog, spiny green penises. And another old enemy: cat claw! Arizona: where everything wants to bite, poke or scratch you. But around lunchtime, another miracle: a small shady rock ledge. Thirty-degree difference in temperature under here! Feeling very lizard-like, I lunch and doze. Then more hot desert hiking, though soon heading downhill again, another steep descent, switchbacking over dark brown shale, and—finally!—a glimpse of Shinumo Creek! Glorious snaky shiny moving water in the desert. Coming down into the main campsite next to it, I drop my pack in the shade and get in on my hands and knees, like an animal, dunking my head and gulping cool clear water.

Plenty of time, the sun still up, and the campsite still in full-on sun. Packless and light, I head upstream into the narrow side canyon on a small trail, wanting a nap more than anything, sun-groggy, but once I'm walking, curiosity takes over. The trail becomes more like a game trail, and actually ends after maybe a mile. A determined person could bushwhack farther, but this section of creek is deep enough to be considered a swim hole, so I'm determined to get naked and swim. In the desert, if there is a swim hole, one has a moral obligation. And lo, it is good. Refreshing and lovely, though once I find a nice rock ledge to sit on, keeping my feet in the water, my lower pale body in the sun, getting some air and sun on the man parts, I immediately start to doze, listening to water burble.

Back at camp, I set up near the creek, and dine on more cheese and crackers, dreaming of the decadence of river runners carrying coolers and coolers of iced foodstuffs, barbequing steaks and veggie burgers and drinking lots of cold beer. With plenty of sunlight still available, I’m tired, wanting to sleep really, but go down and do my best imitation of a crane, standing knee-high in the water and observing small fish jumping out, catching mosquito-looking bugs hovering over the water. One brave fish actually throwing itself onto a rock, trying to catch flies sipping at the stream edge. Plus, a stillwater pool of tadpoles, not moving much, just floating, maybe feeling the changes coming on, the appendages starting to grow. One big one hanging out at the edge, facing the dirt, as if hearing the call to crawl out of the slime. That's how I felt in high school.

Back in camp, air mercifully cooling down, sky deep blue, wispy pink cloud lines, then dark. Fat moon already glowing. Rapids both up and downstream. And here come the bats! I lie naked on my sleeping bag watching planets and stars appear. Sky clear, no clouds. A light down-canyon breeze, warmer than the cool air settling in the creek bed. And more frogs! Another spring peeper choir to sing along with the crickets. What's missing is coyotes. Would be nice to hear them singing too. And wolves!

Morning sun almost over a nearby butte, which makes me think I must have slept a long time, but no, only six o’clock. Time flows differently here in the Canyon. Sad to leave Shinumo Creek and its good water. Not sure if I’ll be near it down at the Colorado or not. I can always filter river water, but I'd prefer this pure creek soma. Not quite goodbye, though. First, some creek crossings which, earlier in the year, with snowmelt off the North Rim, could even get sketchy-dangerous. Even now, a wrong step, a slippery slip, could put me face down with a heavy pack on, so I stay mindful.

And, even though I’m expecting it, I’m still surprised to come on Bass Camp, maybe because I was expecting some kind of structure, a shack or something. In fact, it's a cave-ish area under a big north-facing perpetually-shaded overhang. This Bass guy was one of the big (white) explorers back in the day, and owned a ranch over on the South Rim (which the Bass family still owns and runs), and had guests and customers over to this side, for hunting, and maybe just as the first tourists. This 'camp' still includes a collection of old tools—an axe head, three different pick heads, a stove, some pry bars, plus a bunch of glass fragments from really old bottles, all laid out on some benches. The hard thing to believe, although the guide books say so, is that Bass had an orchard here, with apple, peach, and fig trees, whereas all that's here now is some mesquite and cat claw, on sand. Can peach trees grow in hot desert sand? But how amazing would it be to sink my teeth into a nice juicy peach right now?

This is the last place to fill up my bottle and dunk my head before the push for the Colorado. And the sun is a hot bastard. I dunk my t-shirt and floppy hat in the water, as well as my head, for some evaporation action as I continue on the trail, which soon splits: The path-most-traveled heading up and over a pass to, supposedly, sandy beaches. I'm sorely tempted to just stay on the path-less-traveled following the Shinumo, but I’ve heard rumors of women in bikinis on those beaches. That is, the possibility was mentioned, and it has become a Great Promise. Maybe I’ll even encounter one of those all-women groups. Good odds! Surely one would want to rebel against all that women's empowerment energy and invite a scruffy backpacker dude into her tent. And anyways, why couldn't that be empowering?

But first, up 700 feet—a good dry run for the hike out, and yeah, it's hot, and yeah, it's uphill, but in fact after a half hour, lo! Thar be the mighty Colorado down below! A shiny, wide, deep green strip curling through red-brown and black rock, two sets of mild rapids visible, and glimpses of white sandy beaches (so it's true!), with a flotilla of rafts even gathering above the top rapids! I descend, switchbacking through shale, watching them take the whitewater one by one. Lordy, that looks so much more fun than hiking in the desert with forty pounds on my back right now.

At the bottom, another fork: One way going down to the main, bigger beach right below, where the rafters usually camp, but there’s another smaller beach just below the top rapids, and I love the idea of a beach of one’s own, though that lowers the chances of being invited for dinner and beers by bikinied vixens. Sigh. I hike the extra mile upstream, and find a little trail that weaves down onto a beach, with bonus little shady cliff overhangs. I drop pack and shed clothes asap, heading to my baptism. By the way, that sand is blazing hot! No stopping now, though! I get on a rock bluff, the water clear and deep below, and dive.

Holymotherofgod it's COLD! My appendages, all five of them, throbbing. But I swim! Not too far out: the strong fast current a wee bit scary. Would be really cool (and dangerous) to go all the way to the other shore, but that's just not possible here. These little beach areas are hemmed in by tall rock ledges, especially on the south side.

I reach the shore and pull myself out of the depths, out of the water, and rise, naked, reborn. This is it, the holy land. Cliff walls and mountains rising up all around. The wide green Colorado, rapids and clear sky. The enormity of this Canyon, and this River that carved it, and the Time it took. Hallelujah!

Huaraches on Table Mountain

The feets in Luna Sandals, which actually, and finally, blew out, after a long life of marathons and GC trips. A good last trip for the old huaraches, up on Table Mountain, in the Columbia Gorge. Photo by Alex.

On Foot: Grand Canyon Backpacking Stories—the cover

My essay "Holy Water" will appear in the anthology featured below. I'm excited. This is the cover, book out later this summer. I'll keep you informed!

But don't buy it because of my essay—buy it for the huge variety of great Grand Canyon stories in this book. I wish we could get all the writers in this book in a room together!

Wild by Cheryl Stayed

This book lives up to the hype. It's great.