The story begins months ago with a certain spark igniting between we two parties who will write the words that follow, both separately and together (yeah, right!) New Years this year meant a new perspective and lots of airline tickets, both domestic and international. But we digress. July was the month of real change, the month that Darlene's stint as a resident of New York City drew to a close and, along with her trans-continental travelling companion, Kate, hit the open road in the Montero, color of dull gold. It was a lovely trip with heat and lightning, Badlands and Indians, and, of course, the Sturgis Rally! Finally, after thousands of miles we arrived in Portland. Whew!

The job/ life in Oregon/ what am I doing with my life? search was on as well as the long awaited chance to see west coast family and friends on a regular basis.

Days were a mixture of errands and phone calls and morning goodbyes and evening hellos to Tim who maintained the day job of the household, diligently working away on multiple projects for mulitple managers week after week, bookended with trips to the wilderness, even Canada! Sanity was maintained as the summer wained and still no one had decided that they needed to pay Darlene to be on their company team.

It was a sunny afternoon, but Darlene was feeling a little less than shiny, reading an article in the New York Times when the phone rang. "Hello?" "Hi." It was Tim. "Hi. Uh, I have some news." "Yeah?" "I just got laid off. Can you come pick me up?" Hello, nelly! Suddenly we were the no income household. Huh. Deep thoughts. Contemplation. Opportunity? Yes! In these moments was hatched this project: a trip, a journal, a chance to stretch our creative muscles and see what we could see, experience what we might, and discover what we don't know or might not be ready to admit.

The adventure begins on the couch, toes wet with the first dip into the html pool - the chill up the spine... whooo! Snap, snap, tap, tap, it's true! We, too, have a webpage. (Double click on a pic and BAM! it's larger!) Thank you, Joseph, for the handcrafty html-ing.
Camera batteries charging, we have begun.

The car is packed. LUPe will do us PROUD! Many thanks to dearest brother Willie for his wrenches, sockets, and advice. For our plants, which we leave behind for a short while, we thank the watering hands of Dave and Roger for keeping the green green. Nevada...are you out there?

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After whipping the web page into shape and sending out our first mailing; after nourishing our stomachs and stocking the car at natures; after filling up with gas and retrieving the things we forgot (Roberta, the ever inspiring 'Eames Primer'); we finally hit the road. It was 3pm Pacific Standard Time. The sky was beautiful blue with puffy clouds. The glint off glass winked "Goodbye for now, Fair Travellers!"

Out I-84 we went, manuevering through traffic with a minimum of impedement. Soon into the Columbia Gorge­the sun now glinting off wind surfer sails and paragliding kites. Before long our minds were set to drifting as the horizon became ever wider. With the wind blowing at our tails, we seemed pushed along on our much anticipated journey. We made a quick pit stop in Pendleton (as in Round-Up), picked up some first aid kit replenishments at Albertsons (no apostrophe), swapped drivers, and then headed south on 395 into the night.

Suddenly, Darlene's cell phone was ringing... "Hello?" "Hi, mom." The road was curvy (as in "S"). Darlene was forced to pass the phone over to Tim, relegated to the vicarious experiece while navigating the ups and downs of successive mountain passes. Needless to say, conversation was kept short. The lack of traffic made the going a bit easier, though. There's nothing more draining than the constant glare of headlights when travelling by night. Above us we could see stars blinking in droves. The moon was slightly more than a sliver. We definitely were missing the "scenic" from the "scenic corridor". Passing through John Day found us tired, so we aimed LUPe for the Strawberry Mountains where we eventually located a campsite to ourselves. Soon we were zipped into our down coccoons in search of warmth and slumber. The cold threatened though. Dar was forced to put on her Michelin Man-pants, wool booties, and an extra layer up top. Tim pulled the drawstring tight, closing his cocoon. Finally... sleep.

Today, the sun has been out, the sky clear, the temperature low. We're both having to adjust to the realities of our now desert climate. Morning was oatmeal and coffee and the siphoning of icey stream water while in full winter regalia. Dar took a few photos with gloves on. Soon, we had repacked the car and were headed towards Burns. Burns turned out to be a cute little town complete with bustling espresso shop. The kind of place where the local high school team puts up four by six foot billboards warning you "This here's Highlander Country" on your way into town. Dar finds out from the "barista", "Think they said it got down to fourteen last night." Whaoo! Looks like Michelin-Man's the way to go.

Afternoon's been mostly long and flat as we snake past mountain ranges: Riddle Mountain, Saddle Butte, Shepard Mountain and, of course, the Steens Mountains. Dar and I trade turns at the wheel, although, you could just about tie the steering wheel in place with a brick on the gas peddle and do just as good. We've got the inverter plugged in for the first time which providing power to all our gadgets: cell phone, computer, digital camera - I swear we feel outfitted like a spacelab.

The towns, outside of the large interstate metropolis like Elko, are clusters of manufactured homes that pop off the ground as if dropped by helicopters, the cars and occassional tree are the only thing lending a sense of permanence to their placement. Trees, did we say? They are few and far between giving weight to the notion that the summers must be brutal.

Sunset happens directly behind us as we head east along I-80 turning roadsigns into glaring rectangles, their information burned by the sun. Blue fades to purple then to black as we pull into the parking lot of Dos Amigos, the social epicenter of Elko, Nevada on this Friday night and our source for a hot meal. It wasn't the best, but it beat cooking along the road from the back of the car. Onward we roll, turning south at Wells onto State Highway 93.

Jackrabbit! Bounding underneath the tremendous sky edged by the shadow of mountain tops, fleeing from the whir of trucks along the Great Basin Highway headed for his sagebrush home. Nighttime computing in the passenger lab seat brings a whole new atmosphere to the cab of the car, one that is somewhat hostile for the driver, but manageable in light of our higer aim, the compilation of information for you, the voracious Logbook reader. The air is crisp, the lights of McGill and Ely visible at 20 miles across these high desert plains.

We decide to check into a motel somewhere in Ely and to make the most of a telephone. Our final choice is the Rustic Inn, a place reminiscent of the Flintstones. The owner a cute little old woman with sparkling eyes, a kind voice, and teeth as crooked as can be. Key in hand, we unpack the vital goods from the car and head into number 26. Shag carpet, wood paneling, and a picture of kids crossing the ocean by sailboat above the bed. Lovely. Where's the phone? Whoooops...a slight snafu to sleep on. Goodnight.

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After waking in our wonderful wood paneled confines, we put some finishing touches on some computer work, pack up, and prepare to hit the road. In the parking lot, we meet Renee - one of the two humble owners of the Rustic Inn (19 years total). She is short with a face forever shaped by the sharp angular sun and the harsh Nevada winds. Her eyes are a joyful squint. Renee tells us to "stay happy, stay healthy," and soon offers to take a picture for us. She is fascinated by the digital camera but concerned she might "shake too much." She has a kind way of speaking and before long we've struck up a conversation ranging from adhock Rustic Inn "ragas" to speech recognition software to the means for our road trip. By way of "aloha" (that wonderful word that means both hello and goodbye) we ask to take her picture with us. Though she thought of herself as terribly unphotogenic, I'm sure most will agree she is the sum of sweetness.

The air is definitely dry, although the sky is partly overcast, as we make our way southeast towards Zion. We take pleasure in the sparse moments making our way over mountain passes as we so often let the hum of the road dull us into stupifying stares. Some might say "mouthbreathers?"

We arrive late in the evening at the Kolob Canyons area of Zion National Park. The visitor's center has closed, but the gate remains open. We decide to take a quick preview drive up the eight mile Kolob Canyons road before settling on simply sleeping inside the park. Within minutes of the setting sun we were making our haphazard campsite a few hundred yards from the Taylor Creek trailhead. Quickly staking out the tent, we begin cooking our dinner by headlamp and candle lantern (thank you, Herald!) - a wonderful concoction of mostly dehydrated split pea mix with added onions and carrots, "saveur extraordinaire."

The moon is waxing and the stars are fading to background as we finally settle into our bags. Zip. Zip. Sleep... well, mostly. By morning, Dar's sleeping mat has been identified as needing replacement.

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Zion! Red cliff walls, slick rock peaks, pinyon and juniper and cottonwood. The aspen spires of yellow. The prickly pear and sage clumps. They are all here and in the grace of day!

Of course, our initial relaxing moments of realization - that we are finally here and without much driving left to do - soon transition into breaking camp fast and making our entrance "official." Goods shuttled to the car, we drive the short distance to the visitors center and purchase our National Parks Pass (good for one year) and our backcountry permit. The Park Ranger behind the counter (a twenties-something seasonal employee?) hands us our packet with pass, tags for our backpacks, and as it later turns out, a very secluded and spacious campsite assignment. Thank you Ranger!

In the parking lot, well, not far from it, we dine on a breakfast of muesli and coffee. From our picnic bench we watch two Park Service employees begin their day. Equal parts gossip and manual labor. They cross our path in front of our table with their wheelbarrow saying the requisite "hello" and then going about their business. They are gathering what now must be "firewood" from yesterday's trimmings. And, of course, they are gossiping.

After our meal, we catch Roberta reading up on the history of the place. We then take one of the silliest photos ever of ourselves at the entrance sign, and with much anticipation, head back up the Kolob Canyons road to the Lee Pass trailhead, our point of entry.

While contemplating our three-day hiking trip ahead of us, while feeling the warmth of sun on our skin as we had not felt in days, while in simply another parking lot, we selected our food rations from our "horde" of bulk foods, energy bars, assorted raw vegetables, etc. We stuffed sleeping bags, sorted clothing, filled water bottles. And soon, with packs hefted on our backs we were headed down the canyon's rocky, dusty path. The sun was now high above the surrounding canyon walls. We are glad it's October - the scream of heat a little more tolerable.

Our path would wind it's way past prickly pear at our ankles, juniper slightly over our heads, and eventually - as we descended lower within the system of drainages, ditches, and washes - past cottonwood trees, often alive with trembling green leaves and as many times dead, dried to silver snarls of branches silhouetted against the sky. This wash (the Timber Creek wash), alive with its cottonwoods, red ant hills, native grasses and surly sage would take us along it's dry banks four nearly four miles before dropping us into the La Verkin Creek system where upstream we would eventually find our campsite.

La Verkin Creek proves lush with the simultaneous lull and rush of flowing water. The vegetation shifts dramatically. Aspens now tower above us. The seasons last remnants of common paintbrush, flowering sage, and utah yucca. The reeds and rushes are now taller, thicker and often adjacent quicksand. We hike maybe a mile up La Verkin Creek, then yield to the lure of a slanted slab of sandstone near the friendly murmur of water. We snack for awhile and let the perspiration turn to vapor from our backs. Soon refreshed, we continue on. Over the ever crumbling red earth, over the occasional arroyo and plateau, over... always anticipating the next campsite numeral. Although without wristwatches, we seem equally propelled to plot the course of time. The next numeral a momentary flash like that of a setting sun, or the cresting of a wave, or the next successive day booting up the computer terminal, or the empty space between words.

Finally, "11." Our shoulders let out an almost audible proclamation of joy. Our feet scamper without required thought across the creek to our oasis flinging themselves free of poldding boots and hot socks. Within minutes, the tent had been expertly erected and "kitchen" prepared. We now settled into our modest campsite a few feet from and overlooking La Verkin Creek with an afternoon reading from our visitor-center-fresh copy of Edward Abbey's 'Desert Solitaire.' As the sun arcs further westward, as the canyon walls begin to glow, seemingly from within - a broad palette of burnt ochres, oranges, and chimney reds - Abbey's tales while working for the National Parks are captivating and closely related to our own landscape.

It wouldn't be 'til after an evening perusal of nearby peaks and a minor amount of dinner prep, that Dar would "discover" our actual campsite. Nestled amongst the most awesome twisting of trunks and branches and fingers of cottonwood trees we thusfar had seen, was the perfect tent site (utterly flat and mildly protected) with adjacent table and stools haphazardly erected from neighboring sandstone. With tent rolled like a "taco," sleeping gear inside, we exchanged campsites in one bold effort. Voila! Instant camp.

The chill sets in as twilight slowly fades and we begin the culinary preparation of lentils and rice with turmeric, onion, garlic, carrot, thyme, and cilantro. Soup by starlight, dessert and tea, and Edward Abbey.

From dear campspot 11 our eplorations found us at the base of Kolob Arch, in the narrows of Beartrap Canyon, and admist the aspens and cottonwoods of LaVerkin and Willis Creeks.

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Well reseted, laundry washed and dried, we ventured to the Visitor's Center of Zion's main canyon. Shuttled up the canyon spine, we hopped off at several trailheads and explored the Emerald Pools, the Grotto, Weeping Rock, Hidden Canyon, the Temple of Sinawava, and the entrance to the Narrows. Breathtaking.

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We turn in, headed for the ever popular and populated sight-seeing destination - the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Traffic less intense this October than in times of the summer crush, but present nonetheless. The sun lowers towards the horizon, the temperature following close behind as we park at the first rim destination: Desert View. Herein sits the Watchtower, designed by Mary Colter and decorated on the interior with Hopi murals and thick with the scent of incense; cedar, pinyon, juniper, the scents of the desert. We head for the edge, people rushing to and fro, cameras jostling for a bit of the river around the smiling face and the framed torso. Hurry! Get your spot.

The bookstore/ information hut provides us with all the necessary news: weather (improving), campground (right next door and definitely not full), trail suggestions, a winning little guidebook, and the all-important "stamp-me-please" passport to the National Parks.

Having soaked up a bit more of the sights, a campsite hunting we go, spot 44 catching our eye. Tent up, we stride through the modest trees, sage, and rocks towards a piece of the rim for a final glimpse as the sun sets leaving room for the moon. Wasabi noodles lacking punch powered the planning of the next day's hike, the foray into folds of rock, the dip into the depths of the canyon. With a vague plan in mind, we burrow in the down, do a little computer work, and sleep.

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The route unfolds: our path will commence at the South Kaibab Trailhead, reached by shuttle bus, head down about four-point-five miles to meet the Tonto Trail, traverse the canyon's plateau level for roughly four to four-point-five miles, meet up with the ever-popular Bright Angel Trail at Indian Gardens and take this back up the four-point-five miles to the top.

Camp broken down, bodies nourished, we are on then off the shuttle bus and striding toward the starting point with several other similarly outfitted day-hikers. The subtle desire to be first on the trail lengthening our steps. Smiling, we re-adjust to single file and head in, start down.

The trail is deep, to say the least. Millions of shoes, boots, and hooves leaving more than a mark. Although this trail is described as "corridor," meaning well maintained, it proves more challenging in ways than the soon-to-be-discovered "wilderness" grade of the Tonto Trail's modest, less traveled, pebbled way. It's all downhill. Adrenaline pumping, people everywhere, coming up, going down, two groups of mules, a pack-string following with their goods. It's a highway out there in the ruts, the scent of sweat and urine at switchbacks hangs thick in the air; perhaps the canyon's toll for traversing its stupendous space.

At the one-point-five mile point, we pose, snap a shot, chat with a charming couple from California, veteran National Park enthusiasts, and press on. At three miles, we drink, snack, and press on again. By the time we reach the Tonto Trail junction, the crowd has thinned considerably. Several fellow hikers have taken their break and are heard lugging their packs back onto their backs preparing to continue their way down the remaining miles towards the bottom - their campsite for the night. Few are crazy enough to follow us on our route. Our trip is barely under way.

Suddenly, we are alone on the trail. We meet only two or three other people on this four-point-five mile stretch. Removing the chatter and buzz of others, the threat of mule trains' stifling odors, our senses are freed to select and succumb to the colors, the sounds, and the scents of the plateau's offerings: sagebrush tinted purple by the rocky soil from which it grows. Seafoam green shards of soft rock layered like a topographic model. Lush trees and grass springing from the rare water touched canyon. The slots of side canyons' water cut walls falling to our right as we round bend after bend quietly, footsteps pressing on toward the next junction.

Afternoon is well on the way towards evening as we reach Indian Garden and its bounty of drinking water. Whooo... it feels good to sit down and take off the boots. Plans for a lunch turn to "just-get-me-some-food" as we sit upon the wooden benches and watch other groups come in for water, for a break on their route (choices include up or down). Behind us, a skinny doe and fawn poke around in the dried leaves and we wonder, why not go for the grass? Curious.

Plateau Point. To go or not to go, that becomes the question. An additional three miles. Insane. But it says "Not to be missed." Umm, well... okay! We're off. It proves to be incredible as promised, an overlook that finally reveals the river, its twists, its swiftness, and a group of rafters. It is our first glimpse from within the canyon. We watch six yellow rafts, the size of dots, navigate a stretch of the legendary rapids and even at this considerable distance the power of water over rock is palpable. Amazing.

Deep breath, snap shots, the turn of feet, and we start off on the final stretch, the six miles up and out of the canyon. It is ten minutes to five.

Passing through Indian Garden, the camping area (roofed, it should be noted) is alive with tents pitched, lanterns lit, and dinner discussions about the day's bodily trial by trail filling the air. To relax is not our lot. Onward.

Climbing out is a continuous press up and over the step-like logs that cross the rut. We chat about childhood memories and school days gone by as means of distraction from thoughts of distance. As we pass the sign of the three mile mark, the sun is relatively set. By two miles we must squint to see the sign's message, but we continue on at a steady pace, passing others here and there, some with flashlights, others enjoying a moment at a corner. We say hello and keep moving on.

Although the moon is full, the walls we seem to be scaling block its light from our path. The mile and a half marker feels like a gift. Almost there.

Our steps are slowing, but in our silence we know we will eventually make it out, back onto the rim, back with the others. With about a quarter mile to go, the moonlight finds us. The light is shocking, bright. Wow. Passing through a large arch, light ahead, we sense the final pull, the final bend so we pause to bid adieu to the canyon and its starry moonlit silence, suppressing the surge of relief at having made it to the top. Sixteen-point-four miles. All in a day's journey.

The first step from trail to sidewalk is startling. Street lamps, couples fresh from dinner at the nearby Bright Angel Lodge, the passing of busses thirty yards away - it feels like another planet, one that we had, for some hours, left behind. Stunned, we move towards the light of the lodge to get our bearings, to find our way back to where we began. Waiting for the shuttle bus, the night is suddenly chilly. Whirring through the night, through the darkness of the park's other destinations, we are returned to the car. It's easy to spot, the only one in the lot.

Ahh, the car. Twenty-five miles back to Desert View, back to spot 44, the warmth of corn chowder filling our bellies and escorting us towards sleep, sweet sleep.

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Betatakin and Keet Seel were closed for the season, the overlook our only glimpse, but it was worth the trip just the same - another stamp in the Passport! Ruins, ruins everywhere, the road into Chaco Canyon ranking right up there with the worst we have ever seen. Future visitors beware: there is much rattling in your future. The ensuing silence in incredible.

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Churches, paintings, folk art and delicious food with lightning in the morning sky at 7000 feet above the ocean level.

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Admist the pines beset by beetles, under the watchful eye of darling white Grendel, within the warmth of the walls handbuilt by Ivan, we explored and participated in the culture of Taos.

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We headed north towards Colorado with a few surprises along the way, like sand at the base of snow-covered mountains...Who knew?

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We arrived just ahead of the snowstorm, not knowing of the inches of flakes that would fall and lend a white brightness to our visit with many friends.

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Parties, parting, and partaking in animal entertainment, we did it all before leaving the epicenter of life that is Boulder.

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Can you feel the chill coming from your screen. Wind whipping, snow sprinkled lightly on the ground, the chill penetrated the walls of the car making the heater a blessing as we passed the cattle and the pronghorns between the sparse pockets of population in this, the sparsest of the lower forty-eight states.

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Pool halls, Denny's, mining monuments, and rain drops on windshields, we made it across the interstate numbered ninety, over Snoqualmie Pass, with just a hint of snow, down, into the traffic snarled arms of Seattle.

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Homeward bound, yes we are, homeward bound.

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For those with a keen interest in maps.

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