Douglas Freed 9/13/22 Douglas Freed 9/13/22

Vestal Basin Redux

It was a trip during which youthful and adolescent bonds of friendship were further forged into unbreakable, lifelong ties that show little or no wear and tear after 45 years.

Memories still vivid after 45 years.

Words and pictures by Doug Freed

Vestal Peak 1977. From left to right, Kurt Lankford, Doug Freed, Dan Stone (seated), Glen Ruckhaus, Brian Litz and Brad Stone on the summit of Vestal Peak, 1977.

Glen Ruckhaus arrived in Vestal Basin about one week later than the rest of us back in mid-August, 1977. He announced that Elvis Presley had died. I can’t speak for the others on the trip, but I didn’t believe him.

Just one month shy of 45 years later, I stood in Vestal Basin looking up at iconic Wham Ridge remembering the news of Elvis Presley’s death and the rest of a two-week climbing trip that stands out in my memory as an important coming of age trip for a group of 17- and 18-year-olds. It was a trip during which youthful and adolescent bonds of friendship were further forged into unbreakable, lifelong ties that show little or no wear and tear after 45 years. In at least one case, a new friend joined the group, and 45 years later is practically a family member.

What makes memories from a trip endure over the decades, while memories from so many other trips have jumbled and emulsified into a cluttered collage of laughably inaccurate reminiscences?

The people? The place? The weather? The time of life? All of that, and I think a sense of life’s opportunity and the knowing we were at square one in what we all expected to be charmed and successful adult lives. Upon returning to Denver at the end of the trip, we would, within a day or two, become college men and women. For this group of privileged young people, we could feel our independence and sense our imagined bright futures. It was all there for the taking, and this trip was a celebration of the foregone conclusion that the members of this group would find their groove and make a mark, or at the very least enjoy well-furnished and sheltered lives.

I remember many distinct vignettes from this trip in a clear-eyed fashion not generally experienced when thinking about long-ago adventures. Other trip memories of the era are so badly mangled by time, I feel certain accurate trip narratives are now laughably out of reach. But this trip is different. I recently talked with two friends on the trip and like me, they mostly enjoyed clear memories of Vestal Basin, 1977.

We were so calorie starved at the end of the two-week trip (this is a guess; none of us can remember the exact length of this trip), we saved bacon grease from breakfast so we could dip our bread in it at lunch.

It rained for most of the first week. Dan Stone and I had elected to forego tents in favor of a large tarp. The tarp at least gave the camp-bound climbing group a place to convene while waiting out the storms, but it’s effectiveness at keeping us dry was limited. After days of dampness, I executed a terrible mean move on my best friend, Kurt Lankford, and his girlfriend, Lisa Jones. I piled my wet self in their dry tent, rendering their tent no longer dry. Lisa, allow me to offer a 45-year-late apology.

Dan brought along a book of Edgar Allen Poe stories. We took turns under the tarp making theatrical reading of The Tell Tale Heart to kill the time.

Tim K., a friend of mine from high school that did not know anybody else on the trip, had insufficient gear, especially his sleeping bag. We taught him to heat rocks in the fire, wrap them in clothes and put them in his sleeping bag when going to bed. It worked. He called the hot rocks his little buddies.

After days of mud and rain and cold, Dan built a frame of willow branches for the tarp and we made a sauna by splashing water on hot rocks. It worked magnificently. It warmed us and cleaned us, and had the added bonus of making girls and boys take off their clothes. This is a coming of age trip, right? But no, there was no heat generated by anything other than hot rocks. This was a group who routinely went skinny dipping in high mountain lakes and streams to A) get more clean and less stinky and B) prove our nordic toughness. Losing clothes was never more than that, to the chagrin of some, I suppose.

Once the weather cleared, we were able to climb Arrow, Vestal and the Trinities, but afternoon monsoon-driven storms continued to add excitement and drama to some of the climbs, especially in the form of lightening. Dan remembered one climb on which he and I and most of the girls were chased from the summit by lightening. We down-climbed quickly to a point where we figured we were low enough to be relatively safe. We hunkered in, sitting on packs and trying to keep the soles of our boots on the rocks (does that even help?). We felt like we were low enough to be out of critical danger until a lightening bolt slammed in to the mountain below us. When the A-team climbers returned to camp from their day’s adventure, the girls somehow gave credit to Dan and I for keeping them safe in the lightening. Nothing could hardly be farther from the truth, but we did not protest much.

Craig Gaskill showed up several days later than the rest of us. I had never met this fellow who, along with Kurt Lankford, already enjoyed legendary climber status. Tall and gangly, and maybe a little shy and awkward, he ignited a grease bomb one night as we huddled around the campfire. Despite nearly blowing our faces off with flaming grease, he taught us a trick we still use to delight and annoy our fellow campers. A few weeks later, Craig and I found ourselves moving in to the same dorm at CU. The rest, as they say, is history.

Little consideration was given to backpack weight. We made two trips in to the basin just to get all the food in to the base camp. Those packs were brutally heavy. While we made one nod to weight by bringing along textured vegetable protein, we also packed canned hams, boxes of mashed potatoes mix, cheesecake mix, Wylers lemonade mix and bacon, among hundreds of pounds of other food, much of it in cans. I can’t remember if we had a watermelon on this trip or not, but we often did on trips — and opened them with our ice axes. This is not to mention climbing equipment, which was not ultra-light in those days. Having a pack so heavy one needed help to put it on, was not unusual, and, in contrast to today’s ultra-light mania, was a badge of honor.

We cooked all that food exclusively on an open fire. Everybody always knew what needed to be done and did it. We did not have elaborate camp chore duty schedules. We washed our blackened pots and pans in the stream and did not leave a dirty camp that I can remember. Nobody in those days worried about bears. They had been nearly eradicated in the 1970s and it would be another twenty years before they started making a comeback.

This being an official Colorado Mountain Club Denver Junior outing, we had an adult sponsor. It was Polly, Craig’s older sister, who couldn’t have been more than 21 or 22. I do not remember her playing much of a role in our decision making, but I am sure we tested her with our puerile antics.

We rode the Durango-Silverton train from Silverton to Elk Park to start and end our trip. I remember the cost being a token $1 or $2. Dan thinks it was more like $7. Craig guessed $6, but said he would believe it if somebody said it was under $6. Whatever the meager cost, the railroad back then seemed to give backpackers somewhat special treatment. We could sit either in the baggage car with the pack, or in one of the open air cars. Today it’s $48.50 for the short one-way ride from Elk Park to Silverton, plus $5 for your backpack. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about double what we paid. In 1977 we feared missing the train. We all remember running down the trail with packs on to make sure we made it. None of us wanted to hike up the switchbacks to the top of Molas Pass.

If you haven’t hiked the trail from Elk Creek to Vestal Basin, you are missing out on an absurdly steep climber’s trail that was not built by the Forest Service, but rather developed socially by the boots of thousands of climbers. Today, with beetle-kill downed timber everywhere and no Forest Service maintenance, the already difficult trail is taking on another dimension.

So there I was, 45 years later, standing in the middle of Vestal Basin in the rain, which seemed appropriate. The difference was my modern rain gear was bullet proof and my light-weight tent was keeping everything mostly dry except for condensation. Being one who tends to look forward rather than back, I was surprised at the flood of memories. Several of the friends on that trip are still friends. Dan and Craig and Kurt’s wife, Karla, are practically family. Kurt died of a sudden heart attack in 2002. I still miss him and still carry some of his ashes in my backpack, daypack or dry box on every trip I make. He was there with me, as always, as the memories flooded back.

This time I was there with Brian and his 17-year-old son Clay. I had, more or less, invited myself on this father-son trip with the idea that climbing Wham Ridge again after 45 years would be tons of fun. But everything is different now. I am no longer enthusiastic about exposure. Never a great climber, I have certainly gotten progressively and notably much worse. And most importantly, I no longer enjoy putting myself in those kinds of positions. Older and perhaps even slightly more sagacious, I can say no, which I did to climbing Wham Ridge again. It seemed right for the father and son to make the climb.

Brian, Clay and I for years have shared outdoor adventures, but I felt that Vestal Basin was working its magic once again. The bonds we share are stronger today than they were before Vestal Basin.

While Brian and Clay climbed, I spent the day looking for our camp of yore and hiking up to Vestal Lake and on up towards the end of the valley. As for the camp, I convinced myself I had found it, but I could have been wrong, and probably was.

The hike up the valley was maddening. Willows now clog portions of Vestal Basin and pose a decided impediment to the hiker. Route-finding skills are needed just to make it through and around stands of willows. None of us remember the willows being an issue 45 years ago. I can only wonder what changes to the ecosystem are responsible. Fewer elk? Or perhaps faulty memory?

Most likely it’s faulty memory. But faulty or not, these memories are precious.

Wham Ridge and two of the Trinities of the Grenadier Range.

Modern equipment kept the 2022 rains at bay.

Douglas Freed 6/28/22 Douglas Freed 6/28/22

A Canyon of Varied Character

“Dawn opened my eyes to what seemed the strangest and most wonderful place in the world. Paria Creek watered this secluded and desert bound spot.” —Zane Grey

Words and pictures by Doug Freed

Lora Chiehowsky and Kim Craig at the confluence of Buckskin Canyon, coming in from the left, and Paria Canyon. The confluence is at the heart of the narrows section of Paria Canyon.

Archaeologists believe ancient civilizations used Paria Canyon as a travel route between what is now southern Utah and norther Arizona.

What a great commute.

Paria Canyon is a 38-mile walk through a stunning canyon with a varied character as the creek winds from southern Utah to Lee’s Ferry at the mouth of Marble Canyon. The headwaters of Paria Creek reach all the way north to Bryce Canyon National Park, but most hikers hikers don’t start until near the state line where the canyon narrows as it flows through an upthrust known as the Paria Plateau.

Paria Canyon is a rare treat for desert hikers as the creek flows year-round. The flow of the creek fluctuates between dangerous flash floods to ankle-deep. Flash floods are a real and present threat. The drainage of Paria Creek is so large a thunderstorm 50 miles away near Bryce Canyon can cause flooding in the canyon. Hikers are well advised to pay attention and be prepared to seek higher ground. In most places in the canyon seeking higher ground is a simple matter, but between miles three and 15 where the walls narrow to not much wider than the creek itself, avoiding high water might be difficult. Flash floods may also leave the canyon muddy, which will make the hiking more difficult.

This trip starts four months prior to putting on a backpack with sitting in front of a computer trying to get a permit. Permits are doled out on a first-come, first-serve basis four months in advance. Hikers in the canyon are limited to 20 per day and group size is limited to 10. Most complete the 38-mile trip from White House campground to Lees Ferry in four or five days.

The hiking is relatively benign. It’s all slightly downhill (for groups traveling south to Lees Ferry) with no climbs. Mostly it’s walking over sand, some packed and hard, some wet, some dry and soft. Wear some sort of water shoe or old sneaker or running shoe as all hikers will end up walking through the water many, many times each day. Modern water shoes make for good hikers in Paria, but an old-school trick is to wear an old pair of running shoes, and just throw them away in the Lees Ferry dumpster at the end of the trip. They won’t be worth keeping after 38 miles of sand and water.

Even though feet will be wet all day, it’s best to wear thick hiking socks. The sand will fill shoes (and socks) and the thick socks will assist in keeping the blisters at bay. Pay attention to the blister issue as a blister on the first day of the trip will soak in wet, bacteria-rich conditions the rest of the trip.

If making this trip a through-hike, a car shuttle is needed, and it is long enough to make arriving a day early worthwhile. What was once a one-way trip of maybe an hour from the Paria Canyon ranger state to Lees Ferry is now 114 miles one way due to a large landslide that has closed U.S. Highway 89 south out of Page, Ariz. This round trip of 228 miles will kill most of a day, particularly if you take the time to walk across the old Navajo Bridge and watch the California condor hang out beneath the bridge, or linger a bit watching boatmen rig their rafts at Lees Ferry for a run down the Grand Canyon.

An alternate route via House Rock Road west of Paria Canyon is a highly scenic road that offers the chance to make short day hikes into Buckskin or Wire Pass Canyons. This dirt road is impassable if wet and when dry will severely test the suspension of your vehicle. Four-wheel-drive isn’t necessary, but a little clearance is helpful. Each route to Lees Ferry will take about the same amount of time.

Some Paria Canyon visitors choose to skip the car shuttle and make a down and back visit. We also saw a group that was making the trip from Lees Ferry up canyon to White House Campground.

With the shuttle completed, the next step is checking in at the Paria Canyon BLM ranger station to pick up the permit and get updates on conditions and regulations. This is where you will be given a couple of “wag bags.” It is now mandatory to transport out of the canyon your own human waste, and the “wag bags” are what you need to do it. While this practice may seem unsavory at best, it has left the canyon once again with a wilderness feel. As one ranger put it, prior to the human waste rule, “the camping areas had reached the point nobody would want to camp there.”

Most hikers spend the night before their trip at White House Campground, which also serves as the trailhead. Of the groups at the camp we talked to, one group had arranged for a shuttle to the top of famed Paria side canyon Buckskin Gulch for a trip down Buckskin and up the Paria back to the campground. Another group planned a four day trip of two days down Paria and two days back up. Ours was the only group to make the through hike to Lees Ferry and from conversations it appear the long shuttle was a determining factor for the other groups.

It is difficult to imagine what is to come when the hike starts. The prevailing geologic formation is a slender bit of Page Sandstone and the walking is through wide-open desert. With each step, however, the canyon narrows. As the Navajo sandstone formation begins to show, the walls draw closer. By mile four it’s The Narrows where the walls pinch in to slightly wider than the creek. Now, rather than the walls narrowing, they grow higher and higher as the creek cuts deeper and deeper into the plateau.

On my most recent trip, the river was present for the first few miles, then disappeared, only to reappear at the confluence of Buckskin Gulch at mile seven. On a long-ago previous trip, we were forced to swim a substantial lake that had formed in the narrows when Buckskin flooded and dammed the creek.

The hiking through The Narrows is pleasant – firm, wet sand and shade make for ideal conditions. At Buckskin, the creek is barely a trickle. It will grow with each step. By mile 10, it is a full-fledged creek where it reaches the first of three reliable springs and a camp. The camps in The Narrows are small but idyllic. High enough to get out of the wet sand and away from high water danger, but very close to the creek and the spring. The high, close walls make for lots of shade.

We camped at mile ten the first night, which is the site of the first reliable spring. Paria Creek was running clear, however, so the spring really wasn’t necessary. At times, the creek is very muddy, which would quickly clog a water filter. In fact, it is Paria Creek that often turns the Colorado to its famous chocolate milk color after it runs clear for about eight miles below Lake Powell. Archaeologist believe the word Paria may be an archaic Paiute word for muddy-tasting water. At mile 12 is another reliable spring called Big Spring that has a strong flow and a nice camp nearby.

The canyon begins to widen a bit even as it grows deeper. The creek begins to build nice river bottoms full of stunning green willows that contrast nicely with the red canyon walls and the bright blue sky. The walking is through loose sand and in and out of the water to cross the creek many times a day. The miles slip by quickly. We aimed for mile 22 for a second camp because of a spring called Shower Spring that sounded very alluring. The camp was terrific, but the spring was surrounded by a thick stand of willows and while somewhat shower worthy, was somewhat inconvenient. The willow stand also made Shower Spring very easy to miss. There is only one more reliable spring in the canyon below this point at mile 25.

Below mile 22 the character of the canyon changes again. This time it’s the forces of entropy that keep it interesting. Hundreds of large rocks have fallen from the cliff faces and rolled to the creek. The hiking now is more back and forth, up and down route picking through the rocks littering the bottom of the canyon. Far from difficult, the hiking in this section is fun and interesting. Along with the rocks that have tumbled off the walls, sand dunes have formed high in the canyon.

Enjoy this section because as the canyon widens further, the hike takes on the feel of true desert hike. The trail leaves the creek for extended sections of hot slogging through loose, deep sand. The canyon remains stunning, but the cool waters of Paria Creek are sorely missed. The trail will cross the creek just enough to make it a truly welcome respite. Camping in the lower section of canyon is wide open.

Watch for rock art in this lower section where several nice panels can be found on rocks near the trail – proof that ancient civilizations used this canyon as a throughway.

By now, the high cliffs of Marble Canyon and the Vermillion Cliffs around Lees Ferry become visible, then the inevitable signs of civilizations – fences, power poles, signs. Then the cars and the parking lot, a most unwelcome sight. We did not linger on the asphalt, taking only the time to throw away the “wag bags” and my shoes. We loaded up and bee-lined back to White House Campground to retrieve our other vehicles. The trailhead was a welcome site. Time allowing, we would have done it all over again.