Green Man Blog - Adventures

James McKenna and the Mysterious Cave of Flashing Lights

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:21:06 -0700

Photograph by R. Wilkerson

The Black Range is a rugged and remote area of New Mexico’s Gila National Forest that contains deep forest covering mountains ranging to 10,000 feet. It is filled with mysterious spires of reddish colored stone, dark twisting canyons and high passes.

James McKenna was one of the early travelers through this area. As a young man, he had come out to prospect for silver and gold. It wasn’t far from here, around 1884, he nearly met his end at the hands of Apaches.

He was out fishing the streams one day, which he described as full of trout. Afterwards, he returned to his campsite near a cabin owned by the McKenzie brothers. McKenna walked into the middle of an Apache raid.

He discovered his friend and prospecting partner, Baxter, had been shot and killed by Apache Indians. His face and limbs had been mutilated by knives. McKenna himself was surrounded by 30 to 40 Indians, and two of them forced him back up against a tree and held him there. The others resumed their ransacking of the McKenzie cabin, ripping open the mattresses, throwing clothing about, and scattering the flour and other food all about.

The Indian women were gathering a large pile of brush, which McKenna took to mean he was intended to be burned alive. The squaws spit at him and one of them ran a mesquite thorn into his leg.

Fortunately for McKenna, the Indians’ stock of horses was stampeded by what McKenna believed was a grizzly, and in the resulting chaos he was able to run away.

He made his way to safety eventually, but only by saving himself once more by acting crazy when he ran into more Indians. The Indians, according to McKenna, were superstitious about lunatics and usually left them alone.

McKenna rejoined other prospectors and ranchers who had taken refuge, and learned the Apaches had attacked cabins and killed settlers all through the area. Although a loose group of 25 men formed a posse, called a Territorial Militia, to track down the Indians, none was ever caught.

McKenna traveled 100 miles southeast to near Kingston, but there were still sporadic attacks all through the area. Within six months, he lost another partner to Indians. McKenna claimed that for two years after that period of his life he had become so nerve-wracked he couldn’t sleep more than three hours a night, and every sound had him up with a hand around a gun. His hair fell out, and what grew back was white, though, as he said, he was still a young man.

McKenna eventually wrote a book about his prospecting years and therein related one of the strangest tales of the southwest. His travels had taken him to just south of the New Mexico border with Mexico. In a canyon he discovered an Indian cave that had been cleverly concealed with a large rock. The rock was so carefully shaped and placed it easily swung open at a push. Inside the cave was a well twenty feet across that erupted in spray coinciding with flashes of light. These flashes, McKenna said, were so bright inside the dark cave that he could clearly see the bones under his skin. Hundreds of feet into the cave he discovered a dozen skeletons. The air inside the cave was heavy with the odor of sulfur, and he could go no farther.

Years later, he revisited the area and found large boulders had filled in the canyon and the whole mountain landscape covered with volcanic ash. He never found the cave again, and the mystery of the flashing lights and water spray remained unsolved.

Surfing the Giants

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 05:25:00 -0700

Watching the waves is a universal phenomenon. People from all around the word sit and stare out to sea. The ocean is part of our collective unconscious, a force onto itself we cannot escape.

Some brave souls do more than stare, however. They throw themselves out into the curling sea, if not exactly conquering it then at least becoming one with it for a few seconds of grace and fluidity.

The photograph at right is from Maverick’s, a world-famous surfing location in Northern California. It is just north of Half Moon Bay. Waves here can top at 50 feet.

According to popular legend, in 1961 three surfers, Alex Matienzo, Jim Thompson, and Dick Knottmeyer, decided to try the distant waves they saw off Half Moon Bay. With the surfers was a dog named Maverick, who jumped in the water and dog paddled (naturally) out with the surfers.

From that day, the surfers called the break Maverick’s Point, and later just Maverick’s.

In 1975, a surfer named Jeff Clark began to seriously study Maverick’s, and for 15 years he had the break to himself.

But by 1990, Maverick’s was becoming famous, popularized by surfing magazine articles and visits by famous surfers.

The death of legendary big-wave surfer Mark Foo in 1994 at Maverick’s gained worldwide attention, and in 1999 the first big-wave surfing contest was held at Maverick’s. It was won by Peter Mel.

These days, surfers tackle the biggest waves imaginable. They use jet skis to tow themselves into position. After that, the surfers are on their own. This YouTube video, filmed from a helicopter, shows extraordinary footage of a surfer tackling one of nature’s monster waves.

Rowing Down the Coast of Baja

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 03:54:00 -0700

San Felipe is a small town (although it's growing) that is popular with American tourists. Puerticitos is very small, populated with a few American expatriates. In between there isn't a whole lot.

Some time ago I took a trip to Baja and rowed a small boat south from San Felipe to Puerticitos.

The boat was something I designed and built myself. It measured 9.5 feet in length, and had a 3 foot beam. If you are familiar with small boat design you'll notice the semi-dory design and overly-high sides.

After applying a layer of fiberglass cloth, the boat was ready to be painted. I named it, "Day Tripper."

The trip was just over 50 miles and took about a week.

At night I slept in the boat itself. The seat removed so I had room. I had a small sail rigged up, but most times the wind was absent or it blew too hard during the northers they get down there.

My sail was made from a silver tarp, with a double-sided carpet taped edge all around. I carried 14 gallons of water and enough gear and supplies for two weeks in case I got stranded anywhere.

Because the tides are so extreme in upper Baja, I had to time my rowing to fit the outgoing tide. I'd row as the tide went out, and lay up when the tide came in. It was the only way to do it; rowing against the tide was like walking on a treadmill.

Sitting out the incoming tide. When it came back I'd shove out and use the outgoing tide to help get me south.

During idle time I fished. I caught something on every cast, usually small bass.

Once I reached Puerticitos I gave away the boat and most of my gear, and hitch-hiked back to San Felipe. A bus brought me to Tijuana, and from there I crossed the border back home.

Just north of the Puerticitos "harbor."

Someday I want to do a longer trip. If I do, I'll try to remember some of the things I learned from this one:

1) The sun in Baja is brutal. The ability to rig up a sun-shade is crucial.

2) Sleeping on-board is a good idea. On the beach the sand fleas can eat you alive. If the water wasn't rough I slept in the boat a few yards off shore.

3) Have papers. That means a proper Mexican fishing license, a boat import permit, a passport.

4) For safety reasons, I probably wouldn't go alone anymore. And to have someone watching the equipment in case you need to get more supplies is nice.

5) A bigger boat. My 9.5 footer was too small. A larger rowing boat tracks and keeps its way better. It can get choppy in the gulf. I'd probably want at least a 12 or 14 footer.

6) Two sets of oars; a long pair for rowing when the water was like glass in the early morning, and a short pair for rougher conditions in the afternoon.

7) A better sail set, maybe one adapted from sailing kayaks. Easy and quick to set up and strike, and easy to store.

8 A rudder that flips up. Since the boat will be grounded often, and dragged across rocks, a skeg is out of the question. A rudder is necessary for sailing; and locked in, it serves as a skeg that really helps while rowing when it's rougher.

9) Extra keel protection. Notice I put a wide flat keel on my row boat. This really helped protect the bottom.

Half Dome and the Cables

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 04:20:00 -0700

Photograph by Mila Zinkova

It's getting late in the season, and by now the park rangers have probably taken down the stanchions holding the cables on Yosemite's Half Dome.

Climbed by thousands each year, Half-Dome is the iconic image of the Yosemite Valley. It towers high off the mountainside, challenging and calling to all who gaze up at it from the valley floor.

It's quite a hike. A roundtrip, 16 mile trek gains 4,800 feet in elevation, and takes about 10 to 12 hours.

Photograph by David Urban

That's if you are in decent shape. The top of the dome is 8,836 feet high. The air gets a bit thin, and if you aren't in shape, well, good luck.

As for the cables themselves, we noticed a particular trait among the climbers.

Everyone is very, very polite. It's no joke to say that if you slip you will die. Climbers passing each other while going up and down take great care to work together.

It's very do-able; when we were there we noticed kids and people of all ages climbing. You just have to be careful and pay attention. A fear of heights can be tough to overcome, however. Especially coming back down.

You'll need gloves to use the cables; there is a pile of discarded gloves stashed among some rocks at the cable base in case you forget. (We know someone who did, -we heard he writes for some blog called Green Man Blog). The rangers discourage leaving gloves behind, since they have to haul them out every season as trash.

But the view from the top is stunning. People with more nerve than us sit on the edge of the dome and dangle their feet over thousands of feet of nothing. Others with more sense stay back a bit.

It's fantastic all the same.

Border to Border by Bicycle

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 04:47:00 -0700

As bike rides go, it wasn't exactly a world record. But it was fun, and anytime you pedal a couple thousand miles it's something to remember.

Our ride, taken a few years back, was a border to border run from San Diego, CA, to Vancouver, CA. That would be CA as in California and CA as in Canada.

The trip started up the coast as far as San Francisco. The headwinds eventually wore us down, and we headed inland from there. Most bicyclists, we later discovered, travel south down the coast to enjoy the tailwind. We didn't know any better.

But the heart of California was a terrific sight, and through Oregon we found it was legal to ride on the freeways. This was certainly different, and a little scary at times.

We camped on the Rogue River 10 days just for the fun of it. In fact, we camped everywhere. We were completely self-contained; no motels, no cars following with supplies.

Our best day riding was 125 miles; the worst day, in a pouring rain, freezing cold, and enough wind to stall the strongest rider, was 14 miles. That was a day we should have stayed in the tent.

At Port Angeles, Washington, the Black Ball ferry took us across to Victoria, Canada, on Vancouver Island. We visited the lovely Empress Hotel, and slept in the Queen's park. After riding up the east coast of the island, we hopped another ferry to Vancouver. Canadians are some of the friendliest people on Earth, and we were treated like royalty everywhere we went.

The trip ended when one of our group was hit by a car turning left. He was not seriously hurt, but after that it was time to fly back home.

It was six weeks on the road; a lifetime of memories.

A Desert Challenge

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 04:26:00 -0700

This illustration gives some idea of the terrain.

Here’s a challenge for you: a three-day desert scramble. We did this a few years back, traveling 25 miles through the Anza-Borrego desert.

Just head south. No trails, just head south.

We purposely picked a section where no trails existed, preferring to pick our way cross-country the best we could. Our trip started at the intersection of Borrego Springs Rd. and Highway 78, and from there we hiked 2.5 miles to Harper’s Canyon.

Exiting Harper's Canyon, tired. The packs, with all the water, were over 50 lbs.

Somewhere in Harper’s Canyon we camped the first night, then the next morning we hiked up and out of it into Hapaha Flat. The second night we camped near Split Rock. The third day we attempted to cross over the mountains near Whale Peak, but it was not possible.

Early morning in the desert.

So we worked our way east a bit and found another canyon that led us up over the hills and then down the other side. From there we hiked down June Wash another eight miles to County Road S2, and along that to Aqua Caliente campground.

These mountains can be crossed by bearing east a bit and finding a canyon to lead you up and through.

It took three days at a moderate pace, although it can be done in two long days. We carried 3 gallons of water each, and forego the tents to save some weight. The packs, with that amount of water, were heavy enough. Even in moderate weather (January), we drank all the water.

The sunlit hills (center) held a canyon that got us out of the flats and through the mountains.

If Harper’s Canyon, Hapaha Flat, Split Rock, Whale Peak, and June Wash are not familiar names to you, then you’ll need a good map and a compass. And don’t go if you feel uncomfortable off trail. The only essential point is to keep heading south, any way you can, until you hit Route S2, which will lead you to Aqua Caliente campground.

Just keep heading due south, through the canyons, across the flats, and over the mountains. You’ll make it.

The head of June Wash.

Don’t run out of water.

It’s a trek not many have done, but well worth it. It felt like we were the first men to see some of the areas we traversed; although we knew it couldn’t be true, the sheer isolation and lack of any sign of humans made it seem that way.

The Anza-Borrego map, and our approximate 25 mile route. There are several ways to make the trek. This just happens to be how we did it.

One last thing: you’ll meet our little friend, the Cholla cactus ball. Created by the Devil, or a cruel joke by God, the Cholla cactus will do its best to make your life miserable. We spent a few minutes each day using pliers to pull cactus spines from our flesh. Try as you might, the vicious little thug gets you every time when you’re off trail in the desert.

The Man Who Walked Around The World

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:20:00 -0700

Has anybody ever just walked around the world?

Well, yes. Dave Kunst did it back in 1970.

It took over 4 years to complete the 14,500-mile journey, and Dave paid a heavy price for the trip.

It started as a fund-raiser for UNICEF. Dave's brother, John, originally accompanied him. Halfway through the adventure, while in Afghanistan, bandits attacked. The bandits believed that Dave and John were carrying the money collected from the fund-raising trip.

John was shot to death, and Dave was wounded.

After taking four months to recover, Dave continued and eventually finished the walk, becoming the first verified person in history to walk around the world.

He wrote a book, The Man Who Walked Around the World, published by William Morrow in 1979. We read the book years ago, and it’s refreshing for its no-holds-barred descriptions. There’s no spin-doctoring or political correctness with Dave Kunst; he called it as he saw it.

It’s almost impossible to find the book for sale now, but local libraries usually have it.

He still maintains a website detailing the adventure here.

David Kroodsma and the Ride for Climate

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 04:22:00 -0700

David's routes. He started in San Francisco, headed south to the tip of South America, flew back to the states and then did a east to west crossing of America.

We ran across the story of David Kroodsma one day while surfing the net for story ideas. We locked on his site and stayed there for hours. Then we e-mailed him and asked if he'd mind if we did a short article about his trip on the Green Man Blog.

David e-mailed back immediately and said he'd be happy to see something appear, and gave us full permission to use pictures from his site. He also gave us his phone number and said to call anytime.

One of the many secluded campsites David found on his trip. This one was by the Salinas River, California.

Now, we have to elaborate here and explain something. We send out contacts to many people, looking for story ideas or asking for permissions, and most of the time we never hear back. Granted, we know we are not exactly 60 Minutes here, but strictly in a professional sense it makes sense to respond to inquiries (especially when you have taken the time and trouble to publicize something of yours of the web).

What else can you do after getting soaked in a downpour? Take a self-portrait, of course.

So when David promptly e-mailed back and also offered his number to call, we knew we were dealing with somebody real, somebody enthusiastic, somebody passionate about what he is doing.

This is the road south of Puerticitos, Baja California. If you have ever traveled through this area you know how rough and steep these dirt roads can be.

And we like that. David is the type of person, along with the others we have featured on this site, who we want to promote.

David spent a week in Bogota, Columbia. At one point he used his skills to help repair bicycles for the charitable Ciudad Humana Foundation.

What makes David's story interesting and different from most long-distance bicycle touring stories, is that he is a scientist specializing in climate. In his view, more is needed to be done to spread knowledge and awareness about climate issues. To that end, he embarked on a multi-thousand mile bicycling tour.

While in Brazil, David traveled up the Amazon on the Manoel Monteiro II.

He did this on his own, fully self-contained, and traveled all through central and South America, finishing off with an American tour. He gave lectures and talks, wrote articles, was interviewed countless times, and used his trip not only as a grand personal adventure but also as a means to spread knowledge about our climate and related matters.

While crossing the Andes, some sections were roadless and required a guide and a pack horse to to travel through. When it was impossible to roll the bike along, it was strapped to the pack horse.

David has a book coming out soon, titled A 21,000-Mile Ride for the Climate. You can sign up to receive an email notification here.

In the meantime, he has posted the book’s introduction, which appears below:

Crossing over to Lima meant traveling roads like this, 16,000 feet in elevation.

From: A 21,000-Mile Ride for the Climate by David Kroodsma

INTRODUCTION: Tierra del Fuego

Day 503 - March 22, 2007

I hear hooves trotting across wet ground, approaching my tent.

Unzipping the mesh door, I stick my head out as the hooves come to a stop. In the fading light of a cloudy evening, two teenage boys stare down at me from the backs of large brown horses. The boys wear plastic parkas, and moisture beads on their wool hats. "Where do you come from?" the older of the two asks in Argentine Spanish, and I quickly scan their eyes for signs of belligerence or anger, but I see only curiosity and maybe confusion.

I pause and consider their question. I wonder what I look like with my head extended from the tent. I haven't shaved and my hair is tangled and greasy from another day under a bike helmet. Long days in the sun have faded my shirt to pale blue, and I've sewn numerous patches on the tent's mesh door to cover holes. Nearby, my bicycle leans against a log; its decals are peeling and its handlebar tape is frayed.

"California," I say.

"How long have you been traveling?" the older boy asks.

"Seventeen months. I finish tomorrow at the end of this road."

"You biked here ... from California?"

"Yes."

"Are you crazy?"

"Maybe," I say and smile.

"Do you miss your family?" the second boy asks more quietly.

"Sometimes." They stare at me with continued disbelief. I haven't seen my parents or friends in a year and a half. I've missed the weddings of close friends, the birthdays of my niece and nephews, and even the passing of my grandmother. Though Internet cafes offer frequent contact with home, it's not the same as being there. I ask the boys, "Am I okay to camp here?"

"Sure, but be careful of our bulls. They can be aggressive sometimes," the older says.

"What should I do if one attacks?"

"Just hit it on the head with a stick," he says flatly and casually waves his arm as if to hit a bull on the head. "Why are you traveling?" he asks.

I explain briefly, for maybe the thousandth time, that I'm biking across North and South America to raise awareness of global warming and I'm giving presentations about the issue at schools. I tell them that Univision interviewed me for an international broadcast, and they raise their eyebrows. "Do you get paid for this?" the older boy asks.

"No, but it's very cheap to travel by bike," I say, and the boys look surprised again. I then ask what they know about global warming.

"The heating of the earth is a big problem," the older boy says. He then smiles and adds, "But that's all I know." The younger boy then points at the mountains and says, "Our parents say there is less snow in the winter than there used to be."

Their curiosity satisfied, the boys wish me good night and trot away into the forest. I find a suitably sized stick for warding off bulls, lay it by the tent, and return to my sleeping bag for my last night on the road.

My journey was originally motivated by a simple desire to pedal out of my driveway and follow the roads as far south as possible, a desire for the unparalleled freedom offered by a bicycle. As I planned my ride, however, I saw an opportunity. I had studied the science of climate change, first for a master's degree and then in a research laboratory, and I realized that people would take interest when they heard that I was biking to the far end of the world. I understood that I could use the attention I received to increase awareness of global warming.

Latin America was ideal for such a journey. The region stretches from 30 degrees north of the equator to nearly 60 degrees south and boasts the world's driest desert, its largest rainforest, and the longest and second-tallest mountain range. This geographic diversity not only makes for spectacular scenery but also means that nearly every consequence of global warming can be found within the region's borders. Latin America was also a good choice because I had studied Spanish, and because the trip would be inexpensive. Favorable exchange rates meant that, in many countries, I would be able to travel on only a few dollars per day.

I bicycled solo across this region, traveling somewhat like a celebrity-vagabond. News outlets were eager to interview a "bicycling-climate-expert," and I received numerous invitations to stay with people who had seen me in the media. I quickly learned that when I showed people news clippings about my journey, they were more likely to let me sleep in their yard or on their floor. Fire stations would let me stay in their dormitories free of charge, and I began collecting firefighter patches and uniforms. The firefighters, in turn, would call the local news, creating a cycle of generosity among news stations, firehouses, and people in the countryside.

As I traveled, I gave talks at schools and researched how climate change will affect the regions I visited. This research, combined with my journey, had a profound effect on me. When I now think of global warming, I see more than just numbers and data--I see faces with names. Melvin, who lives in Honduras, had his crops destroyed by past storms and his farm will likely fail in a warming world. The family farm of Evarista, a young girl in central Mexico, may struggle to adapt to the droughts of global warming. Sea level rise threatens the home of Roberto's family in Venezuela.

Yet most of the people I met, and especially the poor, had concerns other than climate change. Melvin, who lived in an adobe home without electricity, told me about how he struggled to find employment. Evarista feared not future droughts, but that her family would not be able to afford the bus she takes to middle school. Roberto asked me not about sea level rise, but about the cost of my bicycle. Roberto also wanted to know if houses in the United States were as nice as he had seen on television.

These conversations tore at me; it seems only fair that Melvin, Evarista, and Roberto should be able to achieve a better life. But if they--and the other two billion people who live on less than two dollars a day--do so using current technology, we'll quickly burn through all the world's oil and coal, and everyone will regret the consequences. Although I started my journey asking the question, "How will climate change affect the people of the Americas?" by the end, I found myself asking, "How can the world achieve our standard of living without climate change spiraling out of control?"

Although my ride did not answer this second and most difficult question, I did come to appreciate its importance. My ride did, though, provide many answers for how climate change will affect people throughout the Americas, and I also answered the basic question of whether or not I could bike to the tip of South America.

At first, biking to Tierra del Fuego just seemed impossible, the distance too far. But now I realize that if one dedicates the time and effort and travels just a few miles every day, after enough days, he or she will reach the far end of the world. And, in that answer, perhaps, is an analogy to how we will solve climate change. If we dedicate the time and effort by setting ambitious goals and working toward them every year for the next few decades, we will eventually arrive at the solutions for what once seemed an insurmountable task.

In the morning, I encounter no bulls. After a breakfast of corn flakes and powdered milk, I break camp, load my saddlebags, and start pedaling south along Route J. According to the map, Route J is the southernmost road in the Americas, and it will end at a washed out bridge over the Rio Moat. For a year and half, I've been saying that I'm biking to "the tip of South America," a statement that opened eyes as I traveled and gave me purpose on rainy days, long climbs, or lonely nights. It feels odd, now, to think that I've been biking to a washed out bridge all these months.

A car or small pickup truck passes me every half hour or so, and my wheels bounce over the rocks in the dirt road. The leaves of stunted trees show subtle highlights of red and gold, signaling the approaching autumn, and my now-tattered leg and arm warmers protect me from the cool breeze. I follow Route J until it meets the Beagle Channel, a four-mile-wide waterway separating Tierra del Fuego from the next island to the south, and then turn southeast as the road parallels the water.

The day wears on, and I ride farther from civilization; only two cars pass me all afternoon. When I reach the Rio Moat, a river a mere twenty feet across, I'm surprised to find that a new red steel bridge crosses the water. Nervous with anticipation, I continue.

The road climbs and ends after half a mile at a white, one-story building on a bluff overlooking the choppy waters of the Beagle Channel. Tall antennas protrude from the building's turquoise roof, and three wiry dogs bark over the hum of a generator. The dogs run up to me, but two stop short and wag their tails while the third approaches and sniffs at my saddlebags.

I dismount, walk to the door, lean the bike on its kickstand, and knock to see who lives at the end of the road.

Green Man at San Gorgonio

nospam@example.com (Green Man) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 06:06:00 -0700

The wind-swept peak of San Gorgonio.

San Gorgonio is not for the feint-hearted. Or for the out-of-shape.

As far as heights go, the mountain is not that high at 11,503 ft. Although, it is the highest thing around south of the Sierra Nevadas.

But the trails up are steep. We hiked the Vivian Creek trail, 5600 feet up. Covering that amount of elevation in one day can be challenging.

This is the first part of the Vivian Creek trail: 1000 ft straight up from the creek you see below.

It’s about a 16 mile round trip, and there are campgrounds along the way if you want to break the trip up.

Cold at the summit? You bet. Some other hiker, who happened to be carrying around an anemometer, measured the wind gusts at 55 mph. The peak register box is visible at the top.

That’s how we did it, making it into a two-day adventure instead of slogging the whole thing at once.

If you do decide to do it in one day, it takes about 9-10 hours total.

The summit is wind-blown and can get pretty cold, so be prepared. As we climbed, we worked on our tans, enjoying the warm sun and working up a sweat, but at the summit we put on every piece of clothing we owned.