The Hiking of Paria Canyon: A Picture Diary

Paria Canyon, considered by just about every "Top Ten" list and publication in the backpacking world to be one of the best hikes in the country. 40 miles through a gorgeous canyon, including multiple crossings of deep, cold water. And hundreds of crossings, it would turn out, of shallow, cold water. It is a "non-technical" canyon hike, meaning it does not require special skills like rapelling. It really just requires common sense, so if you have read previous posts you know we were immediately at a disadvantage. I tried to procure a trail map and/or description, but discovered there was really no such thing, as the activity of the river through the canyon changed the trail drastically year-to-year, even often month-to-month. The basic gist was: Just follow the river. That seemed simple enough, even for us. The "us" on this adventure being Karin and I, who, if SURVIVAL is the one and only standard of measurement, have proven ourselves to be very capable outdoorswomen. Also along on this particular adventure was Karin's dog Riley, who walks around puddles after a rain, but is otherwise very outdoorsy.

 Ah, the beginning! So adventurous, so naive, so excited! SO CLEAN!

Riley says, "Letths go guythe!  I am tho exthited!  Letth hit the trail!" (We decided long ago that Riley has a lisp.)

First mud bath of the trip.  Turns out it is hard to get out of the mud without getting dirtier.

Sorry Riley, you cant walk around this puddle.

And you can't climb that wall!

You're gonna have to swim!

On the second day it started to rain.  The problem with rain inside the canyon is that we don't know how much it is raining outside the canyon, and it is the rain outside the canyon that causes flash floods.  So when it kept raining we climbed to the highest ground we could find and set up camp.  It was way too early to stop for the day, and as a result we hiked about 13 miles a day on the last 2 days.  It stopped raining within the hour, but by then everything was soaked.

Including Riley.

Although we never had trouble navigating the "trail," since there was only one option, the problem with not having a trail description was that we never knew how far along we were on our journey.  On the second day we met some people hiking out, and they kindly gave us their printed trail description.  We were thrilled to finally have some frame of reference.  It turned out to be just about useless.  There were references to things like CRACK 1 and 1ST SPRING.  If during a 40 mile hike through a canyon you can differentiate between CRACK 1 and EVERY OTHER CRACK you are a better hiker than I.  1st, 2nd and 3rd Springs remain a mystery.  At one point we saw water dripping from some moss on a wall.  Was this 1st Spring?

The one and only recognizable reference point in the trail description was this abandoned water pump contraption from the days of yore.  We were so excited to, for one moment, know where we were on the trail!

Another "puddle" to cross.  Karin tests the depth for a crossing.

It was too deep to walk through with our packs on, so we tied them in plastic bags and floated them across.  As you can probably tell by Karin's face, the water is COLD.

Navigation got more difficult as the canyon filled with boulders and deep pools.  It became a matter of boulder hopping across the pools and waterfalls and around the edges.

Days of walking in wet shoes and socks took their toll on Karin's blister-prone feet.

By the fourth day we were losing steam.  We figured we had 12-14 miles left to go and we had gone the same distance the day before.  We thought every bend would bring us out of  the canyon and give us a glimpse of the end, but every turn revealed more of the same.  We were boulder hopping around pools, then hiking up and along ridges to get around the river.  Eventually the terrain opened up and we had to hike cross country while trying to keep an eye on the river, which was meandering all over by this point.

Trying to keep poor exhausted Riley's spirits up.

This is the trail registry that marks the end of the trail (the beginning if you go the other way).  I spotted this sticking out of the ground from several hundred yards away and broke into a dead run, with my pack on, so overcome was I with pure joy and unfathomable relief that the end was in sight.  As we had dragged ourselves the last few miles, not knowing when it would end, Karin and I had been asking, "Why do we do this to ourselves?"  When I saw that registry that marked the end (actually it was another mile to our car) I had my answer.  Without the 40 miles of slogging through the canyon, we would not have felt the pure, unadulterated joy that washed over us when the end came into view.  

After Riley walked 40 miles off-leash, roaming with total freedom for four days, as soon as we pulled out his leash when we reached the main road he went wild with excitement because he was going to go for a walk!

La Zona Viva

It was well after dark in Guatemala City and I was lost and alone. During my two months traveling alone around Central America I had made a concerted effort to avoid arriving in new-particularly potentially dangerous-places after dark. I had been successful, till now. The bus from the border of El Salvador (actually, the last of a series of buses from the border to Guatemala City) had deposited me at its final stop--a gas station somewhere in the sprawling quasi-metropolis of Guatemala City. My goal was to get back to Antigua, where I would spend the last few days of my trip before flying back to The United States. The problem, besides being alone in the dark in Guatemala City, was that I had no idea where I was in relation to where I needed to be. The map I had was of the country, not the city, and even then it was simply a big Guatemala-shaped blob with a few rivers and several big dots marked with the names of significant cities. My strategy of navigation thus far consisted of a lot of wandering, and a lot of asking. I hoisted my pack, made sure my money belt with my passport and credit cards was hidden, and put my ATM card in my bra. I figured it was the safest place for it, figuring if someone found the card inside my bra, I had much bigger problems at that point. My other navigation tactic when lost in big cities is to head toward the most lights and the tallest buildings. So off I went in that direction.

It turned out "that direction" was not as direct as I had hoped. The street I first ventured down dead ended at a freeway overpass, at which point I turned right and found myself heading away from what appeared to be the epicenter, and toward what appeared to be a dark, scary, sparsely populated area of town. I turned right again and was once again heading toward the tall buildings and lights. That's when I stumbled upon a Little Caesars Pizza place. Now, under normal circumstances (as if those exist!) I would never eat at an American chain restaurant while traveling abroad. But, when one finds oneself lost, alone, and scared in Guatemala City, it is truly amazing how much comfort one gets from an order of Crazy Bread consumed in a booth in a well-lit restaurant.

Gradually my surroundings became more attractive, better lit, more populated, and all around more comforting. I began to pass nice modern residences, then restaurants where people were sitting on outdoor patios enjoying meals and drinks. All of this was immensely gratifying. Then, I turned a corner and found myself, suddenly, in LA ZONA VIVA! Seriously, there was a sign that announced the neighborhood was called La Zona Viva. It was a modern development of bars, restaurants and nightclubs in downtown. To the affluent residents of Guatemala City, La Zona Viva was the place people came to eat, drink, dance and socialize. But to a young, lost, scared, lone American backpacker who had been wandering the dark streets of a foreign city for over an hour, it was, literally, "The Living Area," where my fear finally melted away. I wandered the streets for awhile, basking in the liveliness of it all, toying with the idea of pulling out my credit card, getting a room at the Holiday Inn that was not technically in my budget, getting cleaned up and going out to join the festivities. But the budget of a budget traveler is deeply ingrained, especially when that traveler is going back to no home and no job. I had been traveling all day and was tired and dirty, and the fact was I needed a place to sleep and a way to Antigua the next day.

I had in the pocket of my backpack the back page of a "tourist publication" from El Salvador. The back page was full of ads for hostels and hotels in Guatemala City. I had torn it out in case I needed it at some point. Well, now I needed it. I found a hostel that was an $8 taxi ride away. The hostel itself was $12 and included breakfast. It was in a gorgeous private home. I woke up the proprietress, but she had a bed and made me feel welcome.

The next morning over breakfast the proprietress asked about my plans. When I told her I was trying to get to Antigua she said she was driving up there to distribute some advertising, and could take me for the equivalent of about $3. That would normally be a great deal, but I had four days left till I flew home, and just enough cash left to pay for the cheapest hotel in Antigua, just enough food to survive, the cost of transport and guide to climb the nearby volcano, and the ride to the airport. I explained this to her as best I could in my Spanish, and asked for directions to the bus to Antigua. She said it was far and would be a long walk, but gave me general directions. I thanked her profusely and left. I realized fairly quickly that I would have a difficult time navigating my way across multiple zonas of Guatemala City to where the bus was. Within 20 minutes I was back at the hostel, explaining in my broken Spanish that I would take that ride after all. She must have taken pity on me, because when we got to Antigua, she would not take my money! She said she was going there anyway, and I should save my money. That's when I knew I had made the right choice tracking down a budget hostel in the middle of the night instead of checking in to the Holiday Inn.

Nature with a capital "N"

I needed to get away. AWAY. I was craving solo time in the wilderness. John Muir said we should "Break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean." I managed almost in the blink of an eye to finagle four days off from work, and I did not intend to waste them. I did my version of "research"--a couple hours on the internet narrowing down my choices of back country backpacking trips; preferably within a few hours' drive of an airport with decent rental car rates. Kings Canyon National park it is! A mere two hours from the car rental lot of the Fresno airport to the trail head of the acclaimed Rae Lakes Loop. The Rae Lakes Loop is 46 miles--that would be three 15+ mile days, but in addition to solo time in the wilderness I felt in need of a hard-core physical challenge. This trip seemed to hit the wilderness adventure jackpot. As a bonus, it is in the ridiculously active bear country of the high Sierra Nevada mountains, and since I am insanely afraid of bears, I could throw that into the mix. Stunning alpine scenery? Check. Solitude? Check. Intense physical challenge? Check. Physical manifestation of my most overwhelming and nearly debilitating fear in life in the form of Black Bear? CHECK!

I arrived at the Fresno airport around 10pm. I picked up my rental car and drove toward Kings Canyon until I was too tired to go on, then parked in one of the many pull-outs along the road and slept till morning. I had a few things to accomplish before I hit the trail. One was to call my girlfriend (a.k.a. emergency contact) to let her know I had made it and give her a time frame for my embarkation on the trail. Dead cell phone? Check! I had fully charged it right before I flew out the night before, and having done so, and not planning to use it in the park where there was no reception, I did not bring my charger with me.

So, Two, purchase phone card.

Three, buy fuel for my stove. (Despite the prevalence in the backpacker world of the type of stove I use, I have found the availability and procurement of fuel for said stove to be a recurring hiccup in my travels.) There was no place to buy fuel open for business upon my late night arrival in Fresno, and the stores in Kings Canyon had only propane. My compromise was something called "Camp Heat." It was essentially a little can of fuel with a wick, similar to what caterers use to keep troughs of food warm at parties. Very effective for keeping warm food warm. Not so much for getting food warm. The water for my soup the first night never reached the boiling point. The following night I started heating the water early and settled in with a book for the hour it took to bring the water to a boil for my pasta. By the final morning I knew to rise early, start heating water for coffee, then go back to bed.

My make shift stove

First Night's Camp

Fourth, I had to get a permit and rent a requisite bear canister for the trail. Only 25 people per day are allowed to enter the Rae Lakes Trail from each end. Permits can be reserved months in advance (I may never be one of those people), but 25% of daily permits are held back as first-come-first-served (I may always be one of those people). I arrived at the Road's End permit station (so named because it is, literally, the very end of the road) shortly after it opened. As I waited my turn to check availability and hopefully secure a permit, I perused the trail condition update board. It did not bode well. The first thing to catch my eye was the phrase about deep snow covering the trail in the high country (roughly the middle third of the loop). Winter Conditions. Crampons required. Not recommended. Required. Next I saw the comments about the river/creek/stream crossings. Many. Deep. Wide. Fast. Use extreme caution. I had seen the river along the side of the road on the drive up and the fact is, I had never in all my life seen a river like that. It was high and it was fast and it was wild. Every single inch of it. Next I read the part about the trail being very difficult to navigate in parts due to downed trees. That caveat in particular caught my attention because right before I read the trail conditions I had read a posted list of necessities for wilderness hiking. Among the 70% of items on the list that I had forgotten to pack (first aid kit, lighter and/or matches) was a compass.

I talked to the ranger and found out that, yes, there were still 2 permits available and, yes, the trail was presently in very tricky condition. It was largely a matter of what one was prepared for. I was, as usual, prepared for nothing. In the end I decided to hike the 10 miles to Upper Paradise Valley, where I would set up camp, then attempt a day hike from there the next day. I would camp there two nights then hike back. Not the ideal Rae Lakes Loop on which my heart had been set for almost half a day now, but it still hit all my Wilderness Adventure Requirements.

The River Wild. Misty Falls at the 5 mile mark.

It was exactly what I needed. One foot in front of the other on the trail, pack on my shoulders, trekking poles swinging. The scenery was beautiful on a grandiose scale. The solitude didn't come until after Misty Falls at mile five, which tends to separate the day hikers from the backpackers. I stopped for a lunch break shortly before that, on a cliff overhanging yet another waterfall. Right about then I discovered one trick for shaving pack weight: pack an EMPTY bottle of bug spray. It wasn't too much of a problem at that point, but after dark, and the miles hiked in shade, turned out to be a feast for the mosquitos. Much of the second day's hike was spent swatting wildly at my face and arms, which proved to pose a problem as I had trekking poles attached to my wrists.

I set up camp at Upper Paradise, watched deer eating and playing by my campsite, watched the daylight slowly fade over the river, and built an impromptu campfire while I waited the hour and a half for my soup to cook. I slept extremely well; rare for me in bear country, especially alone.

The next morning, after my hour-in-the-making cup of coffee, I scuttled off into the bushes away from my camp to answer nature's call. I had just finished when I heard a noise behind me. Expecting to see another deer, I turned around to find a black bear sauntering by about 50 yards away. As I stood there, pants around my knees, it glanced in my direction, then continued walking. This was my first encounter with a bear while alone in the wilderness. Every time I drop my pants to go to the bathroom in the woods I think--wouldn't this be an inopportune time to encounter a bear. And now, sure enough, my first encounter...pants around my knees. Bear-assed, if you will. In fact, I was more em-bear-assed than scared, if you catch my drift. But I digress. Thank you for bearing with me. Okay, enough, enough.

I secured my odorous belongings in the bear proof canister and set off for my day hike to the John Muir Trail junction. An hour and a half later, after bushwhacking and following three false trails, I finally landed on the real trail, only to completely lose it due to the aforementioned downed trees. I attempted to navigate around the treefall, but it was too severe and continuous to find the trail again. So I aborted the mission, went back and broke camp, and hiked back to Lower Paradise, where I camped for the night. 2o miles (bushwhacking trail-finding excluded) in three days instead of 46 miles in three days left me a good deal of idle time in camp, which I spent reading, journaling, and simply staring at the river and mountains. And, of course, boiling water.

The next morning I got a relatively early start and was back at the trailhead around noon. I felt rejuvenated! I had found, As John Muir (who's namesake trail I never found!) described, a place "where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul." I had also found, as he said, that "In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks." That John Muir was one smart cookie!

DISCLAIMER

My intention upon creating this blog was to begin with my most recent trip, then go all the way back to my very first trip abroad and work my way forward from there. However, life gets in the way. The distance between intention and completion is a long and windy road in my world. Possibly the main factor in my inability to follow through with said planned course of action is that trips keep happening, taking me farther and farther from "The Beginning," leaving me with that much more catching up to do. "Well, gee, I just keep taking all these fun trips in the present that get in the way of me recording the many fun trips of the past," is both an EXTREMELY OBNOXIOUS and completely unacceptable excuse. There is also the fact that many past trips took place before the onset of digital cameras, also an unacceptable excuse; but, let's face it, stories are more fun with pictures!

NO MORE EXCUSES! If at first you don't succeed, lower your expectations!

So my new plan is: JUST POST.

Expect no order. One post may be a trip I took last week. The next may be a trip I took a decade ago. If you read my first three posts you already know: Plans are useless in my world! Why fight it? So...here goes...

The Mighty Redwoods

So I have established that I am not a planner. Which is why you will not see pictures of the giant Redwoods in the Tall Trees grove Karin and I hiked 9 miles under full packs to see. I forgot to charge my camera battery before heading to Redwood State Park last week, and it naturally died around mile 2 of the 9 mile hike that was the highlight of the trip. Having worked 68 hours in the week leading up to this trip, while squeezing in training workouts for my upcoming half-marathon, I found myself waking in a panic 2 1/2 hours before our flight was supposed to leave and throwing things we figured we would need into our packs. No charged camera battery. No pocket knife, since we would now not make the cut-off time to check our bags (my accidental attempts to bring knives through security in the past had been frowned upon). No toilet paper.

One of MANY pictures we took on the way TO the Redwoods.

We flew into San Francisco, where we rented a car and hit the 101 North. Mapquest (which I checked for driving distance to compare with other cities, but of course did not print and bring with me) said the drive would be about 5.5 hours. About 8 hours later, we rolled into Orick, CA. The original "plan" involved arriving at our trailhead around 4:30pm (allowing 6 hours drive time) and hiking the 8 miles in to where we would camp for the night, arriving with just enough time to set up camp and cook dinner before sundown. Since we arrived far too late to hit the trail we opted to reverse the order of the trip, camping at Gold Bluffs Beach Campground the first night, and hitting the trail the next day. At the end of a 6 mile windy rutted dirt road we found (of course) a full campground! So we parked, set up our little camp stove on the beach, and watched the sunset over a dinner of macaroni and cheese.

Then we headed back to Orick where, for the bargain price of $77, we scored a room at The Palm Motel. In the morning we enjoyed biscuits and gravy and omelets at the adjacent Palm Cafe, dining in the company of the owner, 81-year-old Martha. After I locked our key in the room, we also became aquainted with Diane, the housekeeper, who we hunted down, with the help of the maintenance man, to let us into our room.

Cooking macaroni and cheese on the beach.

I am so glad we wasted the battery to get shots like this:)

The Redwood Creek Trail is an 8-mile hike to the Tall Trees Grove, where there is a 1-mile loop hike through the grove (unbeknownst to us, of course). It involves 2 creek crossings, which are usually accomplished via temporary footbridges put in place at the beginning of the summer season. Late rains and high water had prevented the installation of the bridges, which in turn prevented us from having any clue where to actually cross the creek and pick up the trail on the other side. That is when a trail map would have come in handy. Now what do you think the odds are that I had a trail map?

Karin crossing the stream.

Another piece of useful information would have been the fact that the available camping (on the gravel bars) was actually several miles downstream from the grove--thus the best plan would be to set up camp around mile 5, then hike the remaining 4 miles to the grove and back with just a small daypack.

The truth is the lack of planning did not really affect the hike itself--it was great and the scenery was beautiful. The trees were huge and awe-inspiring. You will have to take my word on this, of course.

We decided to extend the trip an extra night to avoid a ridiculously early trail start and mad dash back to San Francisco to make the last flight back to Phoenix. So we decided to drive down Hwy 1 along the coast. One thing we should always plan for automatically is that cold, tired Kari equals Crabby Kari. Crabby Kari does not want to hike another mile and a half to an ocean side campsite after hours of driving and put up the tent only to have to break camp very early the next morning because we are still 4 hours north of San Francisco and our rental car is due back at 10:30am. Crabby Kari wants to stay in a motel that is not at all in her budget. The wise traveler lets Crabby Kari have her way. Admittedly it was not difficult to convince Karin to stay in an adorably charming ocean-front motel with a comfy bed. We got delicious take-out clam chowder and ate it in adirondack chairs overlooking the ocean.

So, after 2 nights in motels on our 3-night "camping" trip, we left bright and early the next morning and hit the road, rolling into the Alamo Rental Car Return area with 6 minutes to spare! You can't plan that kind of adventure!

The last picture we got before the battery died.

And so it begins...

My first trip out of the country was to London. Well, that's where it started. That was the destination on my roundtrip airline ticket. The return date, however, was five months after I left, so where I went from London was anyone's guess. I had a vague idea of traveling overland through Africa, and therefore got all the requisite shots. Having no real idea where I was going, and no desire to do any actual research, I packed for all possible climates.


So it was I found myself in the London Heathrow airport, sagging under 50 pounds of every possible thing I might need for every possible scenario for an unplanned five month trip.
Having never been on foreign soil before, much less alone, and not having made any plans, tentative or otherwise, I realized I had no idea what to do next.

So I promptly sat down and cried.
I had always thought of myself as an adventurer. It was always my plan for life to venture forth into the world and explore and experience. What I am not, is a "details" girl. Where to stay? How to get around? What is the exchange rate? Details. These were not my specialty. They did not interest me. They are like brushing my teeth: I do it twice a day because I enjoy having teeth, I enjoy having the tools to chew my food, but I do not enjoy brushing my teeth. I had worked and saved my money for months; I had gotten some shots and a big fat Africa guidebook and a backpack, and a bunch of inappropriate crap to put in it and a roundtrip ticket from Boston to London with a return date five month hence. Clearly I was prepared. I was a traveler. All that was left was to figure out what a traveler does, exactly.

I thought very seriously about going back to the ticket counter and getting on the next flight to Boston. Seriously, but briefly. Then I wiped my tears, wrangled my ridiculous pack onto my shoulders, and went to a hotel reservation desk. I booked a hostel and bought a ticket for the Tube, and off I went...traveling.

I spent 3 days in London, much of it sleeping, but with enough waking hours interspersed to see what one is expected to see in London. I bought a one way ticket to Cape Town, South Africa. I would travel overland from Cape Town to Nairobi, then fly back to London.

It was a 12 hour flight, dinner and breakfast served on the plane. We flew over Mt. Kilimanjaro. I did not want the flight to end. When we landed, I would have to start all over again in another foreign place. This was TRAVEL, after all.
The plane did land, and I got off of it. Here I was, in South Africa! The beginning of an adventure! I was a traveler!

Except...they wouldn't let me in. A TRAVELER to South Africa cannot enter the country and obtain a visa without a ticket out of South Africa. I had bought a one way ticket. Naturally, I had not looked into visas or immigration laws.

Details... Cape Town, South Africa

The Do-Over

It was that time of year again: Birthday time. Time to plan a somewhat cliched soul-searching, self-reflective, preferably physically challenging trip to celebrate the passing of another year. Time to see if I was getting wiser or just older. Unfortunately, until fairly recently it seemed the answer was: only older. But the past year I had started, finally, to see some progress in the wiser arena as well, and was looking forward to a trip to bask in self-congratulation.

So, where to go? As I considered the possibilities of early April in the Great Outdoors, a memory came to me...

When I was ten years old my fourth-grade class took a camping trip to Death Valley. During that trip we found ourselves at the edge of Ubehebe Crater. Everyone in the class held hands and walked down the very steep trail to the bottom of the crater....Everyone except me. I was too scared, and I stayed, all alone, at the rim of the crater watching everyone else.

In the 22 years since then, I have scuba dived with sharks, skydived, bungee jumped, hiked steep trails up mountains and narrow trails through canyons, faced Grizzlies in Alaska, kayaked all over the western U.S., climbed an active volcano, and generally sought out risk and adventure all over the world. Yet that moment of cowardice on the edge of the abyss of Ubehebe over two decades ago remains cemented in my mind.

I decided that for my 32nd birthday, I would return to Death Valley and have a Do-Over. They say you can't go back again. I say "They" are wrong. I WOULD go back again, back to Ubehebe Crater, my nemesis from the past. I would relive that moment, the moment when my ten-year-old self chose to let fear overrule bravery, and I would do that moment over, as the new, older, wiser, braver me.

So off I went, alone, to Death Valley. I spent two nights there, and on the third morning, I reached the fork in the road marked Ubehebe Crater. More accurately, it was marked: UBEHEBE CRATER, 5 MI.-CLOSED. I guess "They" were right. You really can't go back again. Still, I drove on, hoping the sign was outdated. After a few miles I reached the loop road that led to the actual crater. Both ends of the road were barricaded with signs that said AREA CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION. The road was torn up and at the top of the hill I could see earth-moving equipment quietly and patiently awaiting the arrival of workers. Dejected, and, I admit, damn near tears, I turned my little rental car around and began to drive away. About a mile down the road I had a breakthrough: Running away when the going got tough is what 10-year-old me would do! Well, this was 32-year-old me! And I was going to go back to that closed road, walk around those barricades, and have my Do-Over! So that is what I did. I chose, in all my new-found age and wisdom, to interpret AREA CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION to mean ROAD CLOSED; FOOT TRAFFIC WELCOME! I parked my car on the non-existent shoulder, put on my hiking boots, walked up that torn-up road, and went down that steep trail into Ubehebe Crater. And I must admit, my victory was all the sweeter because I had to work that much harder for it.

My Nemesis. (Sure looked scarier when I was 10)

I don't know when the ME who dives with sharks and skydives and seeks out risk and challenge and adventure came to be. Looking back, I now think it is possible that the ME I have become was born 22 years ago, standing alone on the edge of a vast crater, watching everyone else take on life in the form of a steep, scary trail, and not liking the role of spectator. And I realized as I walked out of Ubehebe crater the day after my 32nd birthday, I was actually celebrating a whole different kind of birth.

Birthday morning hike to Wildrose Peak...

...Celebratory cupcake on top!

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