Outdoor Research Verticulture » Harry House http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com Get Stoked! Outdoor Research Verticulture Wed, 08 Feb 2012 01:23:11 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 The Burning Fire: Paddling Mongolia http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/09/the-burning-fire-paddling-mongolia/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/09/the-burning-fire-paddling-mongolia/#comments Mon, 19 Sep 2011 19:21:11 +0000 Harry House http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=7224 Last summer, Harry returned to Alaska to successfully paddle the Aniakchak river a year after an unexpected storm threatened the lives of his party thwarting their first attempt. This season, he took his pack raft to deeper wilderness, exploring rivers of Mongolia not found on a map. There were no websites listing water levels to consult. And no Coast Guard to turn to should conditions turn for the worse. And as he shares below, “Sometimes, with high reward, comes high risk…”

Tsogo heading to the Ghengis homeland

It is said that Genghis Khan was born grasping a blood clot in his fist.  In Mongolian lore, this is rumored to portend exceptional leadership potential.  Taking the cue, the great Khan ran with it, and founded the greatest empire the world has ever known, before or since.  According to ‘The Secret History of the Mongols’, Genghis died around 1227, though there are various accounts of exactly how that took place.  According to custom, in respect to his station in life, he was buried in a location likely near his birthplace.  It would have been in an unmarked tomb, replete with oodles of precious items and maybe even a sacrificial person or two to keep him company for the long term.  One of the world’s great unsolved mysteries is in fact exactly where he was laid to rest.  Not to be easily determined; partly because great efforts were made to cover the evidence.  It also didn’t hurt that most everyone associated with his final passage were said to have been promptly dispatched of to ensure their continued silence on the matter.

I pondered these and other thoughts as our party rode into the heart of the Khan Khentii Strictly Prohibited Area in Northern Mongolia.  We were headed for the remote upper reaches of the Yestii River, which coincidentally is one of several possible locations of the beginning and end of Genghis Kahn’s career.  I’ve always been a sucker for people who ‘get stuff done,’ but you really had to hand it to Genghis. ‘That must have taken a lot of energy,’ I thought.

Our own plans were a bit more modest.  Not having much time to plan my trip to Mongolia beyond ‘paddle something’, I had relied on Ernst von Waldenfels from Mongolia Canoeing to lay out some options.  When he suggested horse packing into an exploratory with a young Mongolian partner (who had no significant paddling experience), I bit like a pit bull.  The plan, as it evolved, was to pack into the Yestii with Banzragch and some horsemen, put together the folding canoe, then run the river to where it joined with the Chuluut River.  At that point, we would join up with Ernst and some of his Australian clients on their commercial trip, and we would continue on together into the Yeroo River and beyond.  Ernst’s friend Daka, from Happy Mongolia, would arrange for the horsemen.  At least one of them had been to the upper Yestii before, and they were all pretty pumped up to go there.  Banzragch was working on his English.  They said he could swim, which apparently is a rarity in these parts.  There was no way to ascertain the water levels ahead of time, but supposedly it had ‘been raining in June.’

‘This is going to be awesome,’ I thought.  ‘What could possibly go wrong?’  Well…

When I look back on it all, a compendium of events and emotions flash across my conscious.  This is how I remember my journeys; as a small subset of the total experience.  I’m not sure why that is – perhaps I just don’t have room for more.  In the long term, they become the essence of ‘the trip’, because that’s all that’s left in the end.  I would guess that anyone who ‘expeditions’ into the outdoors probably has similar recollections, in the same jumbled manner.  It becomes the essence of what they take from their experience, and forms the basis of whatever lessons they may have learned.  It becomes ‘their story.’

This is mine…

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  • The more difficult it gets, the more Bata enjoys it.  Come to think of it, it almost seems like the horses felt the same way.  Stuck in mud up to their chests, loaded down with gear, they never gave up.  They just powered through it and stood there dripping, ready for more.  They, too, were ‘on an adventure.’

  • Just because Otgon doesn’t speak English, doesn’t mean he can’t figure out how to put a canoe together faster than you.  Not bad for someone who’s never seen a canoe before.

    • There are times when an extra six inches of water would have come in mighty handy.
    • I’m still not sure if Banzragch can swim, but I do know he is not afraid of spending countless hours wading down rapids, or trying to understand what stroke I need him to do before we crash into a rock.
    • It’s a rare and wonderful feeling to spend time descending a crystal clear river with no plastic or aluminum traces on the tops of any of the rocks.  It helps to keep that in mind as you’re banging your knees into underwater rocks and gingerly extracting your foot from yet another entrapment.
    • It’s amazing how much abuse an eighteen-year old can put themselves through, and think nothing of it.
    • It’s really important to learn the Mongolian words for ‘backwards’ and ‘fast’.
    • Sometimes, with high reward, comes high risk.
    • Eighteen year olds don’t like waiting in camp for days with nothing to do.
    • In the outdoors, if you tell someone you will do something, you better do it.  Time will come when they are going to count on you doing so.
    • No matter how experienced you are, it is always possible to catch the tip of your canoe on a rock at just the wrong time and place; especially when there are hundreds of rocks to deal with every day.  If that happens, it doesn’t take much water pressure to turn your canoe into a permanent plastic rock wrapper.  Depending on exactly where this takes place, there can be repercussions.
    • Guys who grow up on stations in the Australian outback are really tough.  It takes a lot to break them down.  For instance, walking sixty kilometers along a river bank through the brush, swamps, and talus slopes with marginal footwear wouldn’t do it.
    • It’s kind of fun hanging out with guys who could be in underwear ads.
    • There’s a reason someone invented spray covers.
    • I’m not sure how effective pointed spears would be in fending off grizzly bears, but I do know that if it makes you feel good, you should go for it.
    • There are various ways to challenge yourself while paddling.  One way is to chuck yourself off of a gigantic waterfall, hoping for the best.  Another is to put two canoes’ gear into one, lay a 220 pound cowboy on top of the pile, and see if you can make your way down an endless series of rapids without destroying your boat.
    • There is no better time to break out the last of your chocolate than when it’s cold, rainy, and folks are border-line hypothermic.
    • Mongolia is changing fast, for better and worse.  ‘Ninja miners’ are a term for Mongolian nomads who have turned to ‘illegally’ mining gold in various remote river valleys as a way to enhance their income.  Folks have various opinions on this new phenomenon, but for my part, I’m just glad I didn’t choose to paddle down one of them.

     

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    There were times when I’m guessing Ernst was questioning the merit of leading trips into some of the more challenging locales of Mongolia; especially while repeatedly abusing his body as he led his troupe onwards.  He came to appreciate my stash of Ibuprofen.  Despite it all, I could sense in the end he craved the challenge.  He got it.  His final message to me:  ‘It was a fantastic journey.  And you are right; it is exactly the kind of journey that I love (although I might be getting a bit old.)  Would love to hear your stories again in the dripping rain.’

    


    As for me, I spent quite a bit of time stumbling and bumbling down the river, dancing at the behest of the hornets, or impaling myself on yet another protruding stick.  The rain ran down my glasses once right at the top of a rapid, and I couldn’t see with them or without them as we dropped down into the fray.  That was nice.  Challenge is all relative, and I’ve learned it doesn’t take as much to ring the bells as I get older.  On more than one occasion, like the time I found myself doing the James Brown splits trying to keep control of the canoe and not get swept into the drink,  I thought to myself, ‘maybe next vacation I should do something a bit more laid back.’  In fact, it became a recurring theme.  This trip was taking a ‘lot of energy.’

    Then came the day when the rapids finally receded, and we had two glorious days floating through pristine landscapes; in Mongolia.  The sun came out, the birds sang, and every stroke was a joy.  You could feel the sense of pride welling up, of what we had done and experienced together as a team.

    And it was at that moment, during that final passage, that I felt it once again; the ember of desire to explore – to see what is around the next bend, no matter the physical price to be paid to make it so.  Each in our own way, we have that; the burning fire to try something new; to test ourselves and our team.  Without it, our lives are less full and perhaps less rewarding.  This is my story, and your story, too.

    I imagine that someday, maybe soon, we will no longer be able to force ourselves down a riverbed or over a hill, regardless of how many young, strong partners there are in tow.  We’ll no longer be able to make the key ferry, portage the giant pack across the swamp, or actually be more help than hindrance to our partners.  Never again will we have the feeling of drifting down the paradisiacal outflow at the end of yet another ill-advised run and attendant physical punishment that came with it.  In short, we’ll be all done, and our fire will have burned out.

    Yes, there is no doubt that at some point that time will come…

    Just not quite yet.

    ]]>     http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/09/the-burning-fire-paddling-mongolia/feed/ 0     Going Beyond Ourselves http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/07/going-beyond-ourselves/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/07/going-beyond-ourselves/#comments Wed, 13 Jul 2011 01:04:05 +0000 Harry House http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=6857 I had never been in a prison before.

    It was night out, and I walked with the guard through the wired gates in the yard under the yellow glare of the lights to reach the austere auditorium. It was there, in a sparse room with plastic chairs, the inmates, including my friend, came to see me speak of an ‘adventure.’ At least that’s how it started out. Before long, however, it evolved into everyone talking about their own dreams – of things they hoped to do someday. And guess what; no one wanted to climb a mountain or explore a canyon. They wanted to run a marathon, to talk to their brother again, to ride a motorcycle across America. They wanted to do these things not just a little, but a lot. I envied them that.

    After two hours, a voice from a balcony above us informed everyone it was time to head back to our respective homes. So many people coming up, hands outstretched, thanking me. And later, from the inmates and the guards: “I especially appreciated the connection you made with your audience.” “The men truly appreciated your taking the time to come and speak. I have heard many comments already this morning from the men.” The experience went from one of trepidation and minor inconvenience to high gratification.

    Since then, I’ve contemplated what makes us feel that way – rewarded. Is it just plain having fun? Or is it having dreams, and acting on them for better or worse? For many years, I’ve voted ‘yes’ to the vision quest thing. I would guess that many others would as well. A less obvious question is what is the kernel of our dreams? Or do we just come up with this stuff out of nowhere?

    It seems so often, it is actually the actions of others that are in fact the roots of our dreams. By dint of their life work, their mannerisms and style, or some pinnacle of achievement, they lead us on. We may think, for example, it was our hearing about an unclimbed ascent that first ignited a flame, but was it really just our awareness that others have climbed such peaks that laid the foundation of our hopes and goals?

    Packrafting the Aniakchak

    When I review my own list of those I most admire, or have been inspired by, it’s all over the map: Sally Ride for exploring space and other uncharted territory; my grandfather for his consistent humility and appreciation of simple things; my parents for always placing our needs ahead of theirs. Being an outdoors-sort, of course there is a long list of explorers and ‘adventurers’, especially from days-gone-by. They have all shaped and motivated my goals and perspectives, and have made my life richer than it would have been otherwise.

     

    Imagine living a life that is not only fun, but rewarding. After all, fun is transitory, but gratification endures. Fun is great, but how can we all get some of that other stuff? Consider that certainly one of the most satisfying rewards is the knowledge that you have inspired others to chase their dreams… What then is the secret sauce that would make that happen? Is it some particular action? Is there some sure-fire pattern of behavior or scale of achievement that consistently resonates with others?

    I don’t have the answer to that, but I do know one thing: For my part, the people who most inspired me weren’t trying to.

    This summer, Harry and a friend will be paddling through little-explored waters of Mongolia. With plans as tightly dialed as possible, there are still many “unexpected’s” to come; maps are unreliable and resources limited. Keep an eye out for a report from Harry on the expedition and his discoveries when he returns in August.

    ]]>     http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/07/going-beyond-ourselves/feed/ 0     Return to Paradise http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/08/return-to-paradise/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/08/return-to-paradise/#comments Thu, 26 Aug 2010 18:24:00 +0000 Harry House http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=4324

    The route for our Aniakchak-Meshik loop in July 2010. Google Earth.

    One year later, we stood again on the crater’s rim, looking down into the depths of our emotions.

    This time, sunlight played across the entire caldera, revealing formations and undulations we had never seen during our previous encounter. For the first time, we could see the entire majestic panorama before us; like a reward of some sort. “Welcome back”, the wind whispered. Shyly: “Did you miss us?”

    “Did we miss the volcano?” I’m not sure any of us had thought of it like that. A strong desire to ‘finish the trip’ took hold within days in each of us the year before. The hard way – again. Stubborn –determined… stupid? But Miss It?

    “Yes”, we replied – “we missed you.”

    Down the same slope of cinders we plunged, approaching new fields of snowpack glaring back at us in the sun. As we rested at the bottom, seven caribou sashayed past while we snacked. Rising again, we headed across the landscape toward the lake. We knew the way. By evening, we were putting our camp down within two feet of where it was when the storm hit the year before. A stronger camp – tighter, but with escape routes planned, like a wildebeest at a waterhole.

    At our feet, still in the ground, stuck a stake from the year before. I used it.

    Our camp at the base of Vent Mountain near Surprise Lake. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

    We spent the next three days exploring the caldera floor and features, ‘looking for gear’ as an excuse. The Park Service had found one of our sleeping bags earlier, and we stumbled onto a paddle. Not much else – except for all the geomorphic treasures hidden by space and time. “I’ve never seen something that looked like that before”, I would ponder. “Be careful where you step”, we would say to each other. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be”, I would muse. I felt like we were doing time in nature’s funhouse.

    Lest we forget where we were, the volcano soon reverted to form – hitting us with wind and rain, shutting down visibility and preventing any visitors from dropping in on us from above. Outdoor Research had ensured we were prepared for it all – as long as we kept their provisions in-hand. For those days, the funhouse gave access in spurts, but protected us as well, like new friends. “See”, she said, “I can be nice when I want to be.”

    As we traversed the landscape, we at times came across our path from the storm. “This is where I got picked up and blown through the air!” Megi exclaimed. “This pond looks different now – I can actually see it!” “Here’s where Tom ran for the gear.”

    When we came to the ‘emergency camp’, where we had spent the night in the storm, people became quiet, unsure of what to say or do. We found a few stakes buried in the grass; took a ‘group photo’. We climbed up to the ridge where the Coast Guard had dropped in with the Jayhawk, and stood on the spot where they put down. “Other people will stand here someday,” I thought. “They may camp here, or have a snack. They will take in the view, and maybe remember it for the rest of their lives.” I looked down towards the emergency bivouac, reflecting. “But we will emotionally own this patch of ground until we die.”

    It was misty and cold the day we ran the volcano.

    As we slipped through the Gates and out of its embrace, the volcano shut down behind us. “Go”, she prodded us, “it’s time for you to go.” And so we did. In heavily loaded Pakrafts, we ran. We ran for closure and redemption, and a promise to the Coast Guard. We ran because we are paddlers, and that’s what we do. We ran for each other. But mostly, we ran for the sheer joy of descending a pristine river that comes out of a volcano in the middle of nowhere.

    


    For miles, the river sped through tundra and spilled over rocks and ledges without pause. I put my foot through the bottom of my raft on a sharp rock. I ran the next drop with it hanging out the bottom like the Flintstones driving in their car, up to my hips in water. No matter. Megi and Tom patched the boat, and we continued down to where the river paused the next day.

    In our plans, we had hoped to complete a giant circle back to where we began, via a second river to the southwest. With some regret, we collapsed our boats and left the river behind, our last connection to the interior of the volcano. From now on, we ran under the shadow of the volcano as we wrapped around its base, but were no longer part of its hidden secrets.

    Tracks at Meshik Lake. Photo:Harry House

    A day later we found ourselves re-inflating our rafts next to a muddy bank, about to put in what looked like an irrigation ditch next to a lake. Three Red Salmon swirled in the stagnant water at our feet. “You know what that means”, said Tom. “Bears”, I nodded. An hour later, a side stream came in, and the ditch turned into a clear, narrow stream hurriedly winding over gravel bars and high banks. The salmon ran in thick schools from shore to shore. At every turn, we envisioned startling a sow and her cub, fish-in-mouth, not amused. We ‘sang out’ for two days running.

    And bears there were; a gauntlet of them; each one behaving in their own manner. Running away, running towards us and standing to look, not running at all, but slinking back into the brush. One, having jumped out of the river at seeing us, thought better of it, jumped back in to grab a particularly nice fish in his mouth, and then hopped back up onto the bank again to watch us slide past while he dined.

    The weather worsened as we descended the river towards the Bering Sea. Though we were only a few miles from the volcano, we caught only occasional glimpses of it to remind us where we were. Unsure of the wisdom of taking the rafts all the way out to the ocean and down the coast, we elected to pull off the river a few miles from the mouth and portage back to our starting point. Looking back on it, logistically, that was probably a mistake.

    On the trail back to Port Heiden. Photo:Harry House

    The next two days entailed a lot of swamp-walking, with occasional slivers of relatively hard ground to follow. The packs were still too heavy for conditions, the price we paid for combining a river trip with an extended backpack journey. As a friend told me once, when experiencing the consequences of a questionable course of action in the outdoors, we were “out here to get some EXERCISE!”

    Two weeks after we departed, we stood again on our point of embarkation. Our bodies had paid the price. When we got back into town, we asked a helpful fellow we had met the year before if he thought we were going to make it this time. He smiled, dodged the question, and said “we were just discussing yesterday that you were about due back today…”

    The next day, we boarded a plane back to Anchorage and homeward, back to our normal lives and routines. Airborne, we looked out the windows to the south, towards the volcano, but it was veiled in angry clouds, as usual. Just as well – to remember it like that. Each of us knew what lay concealed in that curtain of mist, both the physical wonders and our own memories.

    We also knew we would likely never return.

    In 2009, Harry, Megi, and Tom attempted to run the Aniakchak but their adventure quickly turned into an epic after their camp was destroyed in a storm that hurled 80mph winds through the crater. A dangerously cold night spent in only bivy shelters – their sleeping bags having been blown away – and a rescue by the Coast Guard quickly brought their journey to an end. Read the original story here.  Congrats Harry, Megi, and Tom on a successful and slightly less epic run this summer!

    ]]>     http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/08/return-to-paradise/feed/ 0     The Gates of Paradise http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/07/the-gates-of-paradise/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/07/the-gates-of-paradise/#comments Tue, 13 Jul 2010 00:05:01 +0000 Harry House http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=3753

    Harry descends from the rim of the Aniakchak caldera

    Megi, Tom, and I stood on the gray ash and rock rim of the volcano, looking down into the mist.  As we waited, we dropped our overloaded packs into the wet dust at our feet. The same wind that was chilling our sweat was also whipping the fog into eddies in the chasm below. Swirling.  Spinning. Slowly lifting; higher and higher. Watching.

    And then, we saw it.

    Down in front, a perfectly circular vent of sand-like ash hundreds of feet high. A child’s dream playscape, for Tonka Trucks, pails and shovels, or simply rolling their bodies in. Looking a bit higher, the entire caldera revealed itself. Snowfields. Lava fields frozen in motion; slick black or covered with moss. Undulating. Sliced with meltwater rivlets and gulleys. Stretching beyond, six miles, a horizontal sliver of blue against the other rim – the lake. The entrance to the Gates.  And just like that, it was gone. But we had seen enough…a memory snapshot.

    We knew we had a clear descent to the floor of the crater. A thousand foot plunge through a repose of course black sand. Energized, we shouldered our packs, and descended into the haze.  Against our instincts, slowly, carefully, respecting the weight on our backs pressing down with each step into the slanted ramp. By the time the slope leveled off onto the flats, our thighs were burning. No matter. We had entered a new world; a self-centered ecosystem that played by its own rules, permitted to do so by surrounding walls thousands of feet high in all directions. Though we had miles to go before our lake camp that evening, we all felt a sense of exhilaration and attainment. For the next few days, this would be our playground to explore. We felt free, like ‘adventurers’, if there is such a thing anymore. In the sequence of our plans, we had just completed a ‘crux move.’ Our visions were all forward looking; to the caldera, the Gates, and the rivers beyond. If we had taken a moment to reflect, we would have realized we were also potentially trapped.

    For the next two days, we climbed lookouts, bathed in hot springs, and paddled the lake. An immense brown bear ambled by our camp the first evening, heading across the flats until the low white cloud engulfed him. If he hit the wall on the other side, would he bounce back into us?

    One morning, I walked alone to the outlet of the lake, where the river formed and made its way to the singular cut in the side of the bowl; the Gates. I came to the point where it made its break through the gap; a low flat terrace covered with colored lupine, with the river sliding quietly past to my left. Downstream, the river boiled through a set of rock teeth. To my right, a small tributary that sourced from under a lava flow added its weight to the river’s momentum on its way to the Pacific. I stood entranced for a long time. The day after tomorrow, we would begin our descent through the Gates. I had dreamed of this spot, of that moment, for a quarter century.  “There’s this volcano; it has a lake in it, and a whitewater stream pours out of it to the ocean:  Run the volcano.” That either resonates with someone, or it doesn’t. It can’t be explained. If it does, it’s impossible to be disappointed with the reality once you’re there. What I didn’t expect was how stunning it all was; how perfect the point of egress. For me, it was a misty paradise.

    


    The next morning, before our final hike, I said to Tom and Megi, “I’d like to say that at this point we’re home free, but I know better than to ever say that, so I won’t.” Prophetic. We packed extra gear and food, and set off on our last excursion in our hidden world. Our route took us to the other side of the crater and around a large vent mountain. What we didn’t know was that the largest storm of the summer was approaching the volcano.

    It started slowly, building over a period of a couple hours, at our point of maximum distance from camp. By the time we started angling back, it was in full force. An hour from camp, gusts were picking up handfuls of gravel and driving them into our backs. After one particularly heavy blast, I told Tom, “If a gust like that hit our camp, it’s gone.” Tom began to run towards camp across the hardpan flats. He disappeared in the driving rain and fog. As Megi and I neared camp, we could make out Tom waterbugging about the area, and then sprint downwind across the tarmac. I knew at that moment we had problems.

    When we arrived in ‘camp’, it became immediately obvious how serious the situation was. The shelter had been flattened and was in disrepair; the bivi sacks, sleeping pads, and sleeping bags were gone. All of the clothing was wet, as were we. Megi took off after Tom and disappeared into the mist. We had a little over an hour until dark. I gathered together what was left of the camp, bunched it downwind of a soil berm, and started moving towards the others.

    Most of us who recreate in the outdoors never come close to death; not really. Or maybe some of us do, but are too unaware to realize it at the time. How many of us wonder, “If I ever was in such a situation, how would I react? How would my partners react?”

    I don’t have to wonder anymore.

    As I walked through the storm, I felt almost disembodied from the reality of the situation. While none of us were “professional outdoorsmen/women”, or better yet, natives living in the wild, we certainly had enough experience to fully realize the implications of our predicament. It’s not that we didn’t have good gear. For example, Tom, the gear nut, had suggested we all go with the Outdoor Research Advanced Bivi Sack, which he considered the best of the best. Which was all fine and good, until it goes blowing across the caldera like a drunken weather balloon. I continued to simultaneously act and detachedly observe. It was almost like an academic study; “so this is how people perish in the outdoors…by increments.”

    Ahead, I saw Tom hand Megi an armful of gear, but before she could get back to me, she dropped to the ground to keep it from blowing away. There was a lot of scampering and long running, at least by Tom. Some of us did their best to act calm. Others concentrated on persevering. Search for a new camp, away from the Gates. Miraculously, and probably fortuitously, all three bivi sacks were recovered and a few other things. Insulation? What’s that?  Darkness fell, and we burrowed into a makeshift nest as time ran out. I remember green parachute cloth between my face and a cold, wet piece of lava; the feeling of chilling, wind-driven rain racing over the tops of our bodies. But mostly, I remember a voice in the dark stating: “Actually, I’m not sure we are ok.”

    Tom looking out over the valley on the hike in to the Aniakchak crater

    We later learned winds were clocked on the volcano at 80 mph, but I suspect they were higher near the Gates. No big deal, unless you’ve lost your toys in the rain.

    Morning broke, and we spread out looking for gear and trying to improve the situation. We found one parachute chord. Critically, one of the boats was missing. The storm dropped some, but was still running hard. Someone asked me in my experience, how long storms like this last up here, and I said “three days.” (It lasted five.) We examined our options, considered the risks, and made our decision.

    We triggered the emergency beacon late that morning, so whoever might come would have plenty of daylight to work with. A couple hours later, a Coast Guard C-130 out of Kodiak began overflying the volcano. Then we heard a Jayhawk helicopter thwupping through the Gates a hundred feet off the deck, cross the lake (lights flashing), and drop down into the wind on a nearby ridge, power on. “That took some balls”, I thought. In minutes, we were barreling down the river and out of the caldera.

    Surreal. Grateful. Embarrassed. Stunned.

    The captain told us we had left the best contingency plan they’d ever seen. Said it wasn’t our fault (of course it was.) Park Service said the same thing the next day. Nice of them all, but we knew better. A series of small mistakes normally don’t matter, but they do when you’re five miles from camp in a blowout. How lucky to have the U.S. Coast Guard watching your back, at least once.

    So what does one do when your dreams are crushed by the winds of fate? You’ve had your memory, and given it your best shot after all. In this modern world, that’s about as good as it gets in any event. At the end of the day, there’s always another mountain to climb; always another river to run, by yourself or someone else. Who really cares what would have happened to us on the other side of the Gates? Who cares if we ever stand again on that terrace of flowers, boat in hand, about to complete a youthful dream? Who cares?

    We care.

    Run the volcano.

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