Climbing The Talus

          The sound of the tent zipper woke me as I tiresomely checked my watch, 4:45 am.  Time to get out of this warm cocoon and out into the foggy mist that surrounded our campsite.  The oatmeal was a bit cold, but it didn't seem to matter to me.  Such a minor thing as I knew that attempting to summit this mountain would be much more unpleasant than a cold breakfast.  We were at Warner Lake basecamp 9,345 ft. up in the La Sal Mountains.  The anticipation was overwhelming as I stared up at the snow-capped monster, gradually getting closer and closer.  The climb took a nice start with loose talus the majority of the way up which beat up everyones quads and knees.  Once we took a food break and rehydrated, it was time to push on to the false summit through the fir-aspen and pine-oak.  Only 250 yards split the difference between the group and the top of this colossal mountain; oh yeah and a great deal of summit fever.  Once atop, I felt it to be appropriate to call the woman that I missed most, Mom.  Nothing seemed to matter to me while standing at 11,642 ft. with a great group of people.  For once I was content with life.  Satisfaction.  My first real taste of what mountaineering was, was finally here.  Little did I know the fun part was still awaiting.  For approximately a quarter mile I slid down the crusty snow and ice mixture to the talus that I dreaded.  The bloody shins were just a small reminder that I was still alive and well.  As we traipsed back through the prairie I could vaguely make out my hammock hanging between the quaking aspens that lined our campsite.  We made it.

The Arches

          If you were to ask me what Arches National Park was a year ago I wouldn't have known what to say besides a tourist attraction that lures in the wealthy, ignorant doctors and lawyers which is somewhere out in the inhospitable desert -- a place where nothing but the buzzards and lizards live and the cactus grow tall and mighty.  Now, almost six months later, I can tell you that this so called "desert" is more than just its stereotypical label.  It doesn't surpass its hostile tag by any means, but it does exceed the critics beliefs in my world.  The deserts diversity is intriguing to me and continues to interest me, even when I'm 1,700 miles away from it, living in rural Western New York.  The Arches shot up from the bright sand and towered over the junipers and cottonwoods that shaded the cryptobiotic soil.  Magnificence is the only word that I can think of that is semi-close to describing these massive concrete sandstone formations.  After taking in the breathtaking views of these rocks, and snapping over 200 pictures, it was time to move on to another part of my journey; never forgetting the Arches and the history that they hold under each layer of sand.

Desert Dust

          I never knew what the desert sun felt like until I stepped out of the air conditioned van in Moab, Utah with my group of friends and felt it firsthand.  Standing outside of Poison Spider Bicycles with my rented bike and a hydration bladder full of the finest well water west of the Mississippi, I was ready to explore the slick rock across the Colorado River and past Arches National Park.  We arrived at M.O.A.B. Brand Trails and rode the red sand and slick rock double and single-track trails for the next couple hours.  After having a sandwich out of the van a few of us settled on riding the Old Highway blacktop back to Moab.  The majority of the ride was downhill which was totally alright with us as the warm wind flapped my shirt, making a loud whipping noise that only the lizards and I could hear.  Once back in Moab we dropped the bikes off and thanked the staff at PSB for their services and friendliness in allowing us to have an unforgettable experience mountain biking through Abbey's country.  Until next time, I will reminisce on the culture and lifestyles of the wild, wild west.