The newspaper’s front-page headline read: “Irresponsible Dad to Blame for Tragedy.” 

Fortunately, the headline was only in my mind’s eye.  I was leading my wife, daughter, and son along a trailless, steep slope.   The surface was slick with fresh snow and hailstones. We were amidst heavy rain and sleet.  Clouds of mist rolled through the adjacent canyon obscuring visibility.   

We were navigating the steep, trailless Roell Creek drainage in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains.   I should have known better; this was the second time.    

Mary and my first trip in the San Juans, accompanied by our mild-mannered friend Dave, had occurred twenty-one years earlier.  While Mary and I lived in Tucson, backpacking friends had described Colorado’s San Juans as the Holy Grail of mountains.  We had climbed peaks in Southern Arizona, but the highest was Mt Graham’s 10,724-feet, an elevation not much higher than some San Juan trailheads.   

Dave, Mary, and I hiked to 11,620 feet at Moon Lake in the Weminuche Wilderness Area, Colorado’s largest at 500,000 acres.  We were greeted by thunder, lightning, high winds, and a downpour.  I was running about frantically, looking for a camping spot.  We lived in Southern Arizona. We were not accustomed to this.  I pointed down by the lake.  Weather, fatigue, and hail led Dave to uncharacteristically snarl at me.  “That spot is sleazy as hell,” (the only four-letter word I heard from him during five years of acquaintance.)   

Our sleeping bags and clothing were wet by the time our tiny pup tents were erected.  Our tent flapped against our bodies.  We were miserable.  Welcome to the San Juans!    

Our sour moods and anxiety shifted to enchantment when the clouds lifted.  Slopes of talus intermixed with willow rose to snow-covered ridges.  Sun-yellow dogtooth violets surrounded our tent.  Magenta split-leaf painted cup flourished along the lakeside. Swampy areas showcased pink elephantella and creamy marsh marigolds.  My outlook improved even more in the morning when I found the lake full of hungry brook trout.  I caught enough for breakfast.   

After a layover day with intermittent inclement weather, we hiked an off-trail route over an unnamed pass and arrived at Flint Lakes under threatening skies.  We were wary, but the next day dawned still, clear, and blue.  The fishing was good.  I caught my first cutthroats. 

I was enthralled and proud.   After four nights in the wilderness, we considered ourselves experts.  We perused our map and guidebook to select the next challenge.  Dave and I noticed two lakes, only a few miles from the unnamed pass we had just traversed.  Their names were Hidden and Lost.  I wonder if it would have made a difference if they had popular names such as Bear Lake and Blue Lake.  I suspect it would have.   Anyway, we were intrigued, particularly because our guidebook (Gebhardt p71*) called them nearly inaccessible. Wouldn’t it be great to go there someday, we said.   

Later in Tucson, I described our trip to a friend who had once lived in Durango, close to the trailhead we had used to enter the Weminuche.  This friend had worked at an outdoor gear store and said a co-worker had once been to those lakes. That was 1976. I did not forget the conversation. 

Mary and I returned to the San Juans the following year—a year of severe drought. It was early June—usually too early for high country access.   Again, we achieved Moon Lake, caught fish, and even watched “ice out.”   We climbed the pass again, which we named Half Moon for a nearby tarn, and scrambled up nearby false summits—our first sojourns above 13,000 feet.  Our trip was enlivened by my “blowing up” one of those early canister stoves causing our sixth anniversary dinner to be not just freeze-dried, but cold! 

Amazingly, without any expectation or pre-conceived attempt to do so, we moved to Western Colorado later that year.  The following spring, on a long weekend, Mary and I hiked up Vallecito Creek to near Chicago Basin.  I followed the trail farther to view the confluence with Roell Creek. Lost Lake is up there, I thought, while also noting a steep, wild, and impenetrable canyon.  But more backpacking had to wait.   Pregnancies and children came next. 

More than forty-five years later, reviewing my journals, I tallied that our San Juan excursions included seven backpack trips of four-six nights, at least as many of two-three nights, and frequent day trips or overnighters for climbing seven 14,000 feet peaks and as many for climbing summits exceeding 13,000 such as the spectacular Rio Grande Pyramid (13,821) and the remote Mt. Oso (13,684).  There were also various nights in motels or cabins in Telluride, Ouray, Silverton, and Lake City used as base camps for hiking or cross-country skiing.  

How fortunate we have been to live within two to three hours of this magnificent range!  When hiking in the Pyrenees near the French/Spanish border, we found ourselves looking at the rock and sky and saying, this is like the San Juans. We said the same when we hiked in Denali National Park in Alaska and in Spain’s Picos de Europa.   

When I think of the San Juans, my first thoughts are of talus rising into the sky; meltwater rumbling underneath.  I see dark cliffs, wet and shining. The sky above and behind massive peaks is tumultuous with various shades of gray and blue punctuated by patches of white as the clouds prowl among the summits as if planning when and where to unleash the next bout of riotous weather. 

Once it rained so much the trail alternated between being a rivulet and a series of deep pools.  Marble-sized hail fell and clumped together, as if each pool held a glob of floating gray refuse.  

Another time, two inches of hail flattened our tent.  We endured so much rain on that trip, I reviewed our tents and clothing (by then we owned the best high-altitude equipment money could buy, not including four-season gear), and remarked, even the best gear fails in three-days. 

And there was wind–worse on fourteeners.  At times, we were so battered that the rustling and whacking of our jackets was deafening.   

Nonetheless, I love the sight of lightning and the rumble of thunder while being so close to the sky.  I was fishing one afternoon at Lost Lake.  I felt safe in the sheltered basin as storm clouds swirled on the surrounding cliffs.  I was watching the ridge above as I reeled in a spinner.  Suddenly, a jagged bolt of lightning erupted from a cloud and struck the rocky surface.  Simultaneous with the tremendous clap of power, a wisp of dust and smoke arose from the assaulted stone.   

Besides the weather, I think of wildlife. We learned to appreciate the echoing whistle of yellow-bellied marmots and the strange awnnk of pikas, their mouths full of grasses as they scurried on and within boulder fields.  

One evening, after climbing San Luis Peak and Organ Mountain, our 360-degree view revealed three separate large elk herds.  Later that August night, we heard thumping.  I peeked out carefully and a snow-shoe hare scampered back and forth through our camp.  Now and then it stood still and stamped its feet.  The thumping continued until we emerged from the tent and began preparing breakfast.  Then, a curious fawn walked into our camp and began sniffing our gear.  We named it Bambi, of course, until we realized hunting season was approaching. We banged pots and waved our arms, trying to instill sufficient fear of humans.   

And there were birds!  We saw White-tailed Ptarmigan each time we ascended Half Moon Pass.   The nearly endemic-to-Colorado Brown-capped Rosy Finch was common, that is, if we were high enough that we might also see American Pipits performing distraction displays to keep us from finding their eggs tucked under a rock.   

A Boreal Owl perched overhead one night at Kilpacker Basin.  Hiking out from the Three Apostles, after climbing the easier two, I was delighted with how common were Wilson’s Warblers and Fox Sparrows.  My favorites though, are White-Crowned Sparrows.  I appreciate the radiant ivory of their summer stripes, but mostly, I love their songs.  They sang constantly throughout three rainy days at Lost Lake. It was a sound so cheerful and stirring amid the mist and clouds that I could not help but feel fortunate to be there, no matter what the weather.  

ICE LAKE BASIN

A favorite location was Ice Lake Basin, now a sad story.  We completed a reconnaissance overnight backpack with my sister in 1984 followed by a trip with our children, then seven and nine, four years later.  On that trip, I deserted the family for an afternoon and bushwhacked to Island Lake.   

Visitors to Ice Lake usually hiked to Fuller Lake and the high thirteeners on its skyline, but I had seen Island Lake on the map.  It was in the opposite direction, and apparently trailless.  When I arrived, so many trout were rising it looked like a rainstorm. The tiny lake, with its small rocky island, was exquisite.  I wrote in my journal; the opposite side of the lake was purple with showy daisies and yellow with composites as these colors perforated the green carpet of grass that flowed up the mountainsides to the talus and cliffs above.  The next morning, I hiked over early and caught fat rainbows for breakfast.   

(Island Lake, before discovery, 1990.)

We returned the following year for what proved to be a too early trip, too much snow.  We managed to reach Ice Lake, but it was still frozen, not visible under the snow.  Although dazzled by a pair of mountain bluebirds fluttering among emerging rocks; their azure blue stunning against the gleaming white, we had to descend to the basin below to find a campsite.   

We set up the tents in a sheltered location just in time to be pounded by rain, hail, thunder, and lightning.  When the storm ceased, we emerged into a beautiful, although damp, evening.  Typically, I disdain fires in the wilderness, but that night we had a delightful time sitting with our children as we dried out, warmed up, and watched the darkness fall.   

The hike out was memorable for the sturdiness of our children and their appreciation of the beauty: solitary fiery yellow alpine buttercups in open patches amidst the lingering snow, Parry’s primrose beginning to flash dayglo pink; the stalks having only one or two flowers with most buds yet to open. 

We absorbed all of it: the powerful waterfalls in the canyon below, the slopes all around flocked with a fresh, frosty coating, the aspens just beginning to color; the yellow of the new growth more reminiscent of fall than spring.  A male Wilson’s warbler flashed yellow and black amongst the fuzzy buds of willows—no leaves yet.  We watched a flock of pine siskins forage on a steep hillside as if tiny rocks had come alive. An American pipit rose, spread its wings, and launched down the mountainside.  White-crowned sparrows with their spring-bright heads sang everywhere. Four chipmunks raced and chased through the meadow—as if the grass itself was moving. High above, snow, mist and rain circled amongst the peaks.   

Once we descended below timberline, beautiful clumps of pink-red shooting stars lined the trail.  These are usually spent by the time of hiking season. We had never seen so many. I wrote: The kids did great. I still see them in their rain suits with their dripping packs. They appeared burdened and wet—and happy!   

Four years later, we returned.  No one else was camped at Ice or Island Lake, but the latter had been discovered: copious fish carcasses and bones, shoreline overly trodden and newly eroded, discarded fish line and other camping detritus.  No fish were rising and I did not catch any.   

It was twenty-four years before I returned to Ice Lake.  I was invited on my granddaughter Zia’s first backpacking trip.  Ann, feeling nostalgic, wanted her daughter’s first trip to kindle a childhood memory like hers. The change was unsettling.  I stopped counting the number of people on the trail when I passed one hundred.  Two men were packing holsters with sidearms.   

At Ice Lake, we were fortunate to find a campsite.  Unlike many high-altitude lakes, Ice Lake has room for multiple camps, even though the presence of two groups prevents any privacy.  By late afternoon, the area was crammed with fourteen separate parties.  Near dark, two more backpackers appeared.  Where would they camp? I was shocked to watch them bushwhack through the vegetation on the lake’s trailless far side.  They beat down and cut willows to pitch their tent.  I was appalled, but worse was to come the next day. 

We decided to have lunch at Island Lake.  There is now a beat-down, wide, trail.  No surprise there.  I counted nineteen hikers ahead of us within a quarter mile of steep slope. Once we reached the lake, there were so many visitors, we opted to sit amidst the talus on the far side even though we had to hop rock-to-rock to prevent wet feet. We sat on boulders, spread out our lunch, and heard and then saw the drone someone was flying.  The Ice Lake Basin I had shown my children was gone.   

Most of the hikers were much younger than me—especially my granddaughter.  What did they think? Did they have a sense of discovery like mine decades earlier?  The phenomenon that each succeeding generation believes they are discoverers or believe “it has always been this way,” even though the experience has deteriorated, has been labeled generational amnesia.  Due to the short lives of most humans, our species does a poor job comprehending the long-term.  Old curmudgeons like me are needed to tell them how it was.   

It was marvelous!  The memories become a torrent in my mind.  Such as the time we hiked up East Ute Creek, spent three nights with the Rio Grande Pyramid and La Ventana (the Window) on the skyline, and saw no one else, only elk!  The kids performed a skit and sang camp songs.  We tried to climb the Pyramid but, within five hundred feet of the summit, were chased off by an approaching storm.  

We returned a year later (1991), approaching from the other side, via Weminuche Pass.  It was dry. I hiked uphill looking for water. A mistake.  All I found was a stagnant pool replete with elk droppings.  It was now too late to hike to the clear streams below camp. We filtered, boiled, and added iodine, realizing how bizarre that some of the worst water we have ever used was from high in the San Juans.  

The next day, we easily scrambled up the big boulders to the summit.  The peak’s isolation yielded the magnificent view we expected.  But then I was to recall a comment from Gephardt’s book, that the Rio Grande Pyramid seemed to collect severe weather.  Immense black clouds were emanating from the surrounding valleys.  We descended to our camp and endured a heavy downpour.  

Typically, rain stops by early evening.  We waited but it kept raining. Mercifully, the rain ceased as the sun was setting.   Climbing from our tents we beheld a vividly colored rainbow rising behind a rocky 12,000 feet ridge.  The ridge itself was pinkish orange in the alpenglow.  The rainbow seemed to grow from it and vault into the sky.

When I awoke in the morning, I walked a short distance from camp to view the broad valley below Weminuche Pass.   It was fairyland.  A curtain of mist was blowing up the valley hanging above the vegetation in a wispy, curling band that climbed a few tens of feet into the sky.  Each blade of grass and willow tip below the gossamer ribbon was coated with a film of water that sparkled as if diamond coated.  Boggy locations were distinct as they emitted their own traces of mist and fog into the sun-filled morning.  It was breathtaking.  I ran for the rest of the family but, by the time we returned, the temperature and sun angle had changed. The effect was gone, but the memory persists.  This is why I go backpacking, I thought. 

CLIMBING FOURTEENERS

Unfortunately, backpacking in the San Juans also taught me about altitude sickness. My first session was on Mt Sneffels.   I blamed my nausea and slight headache on having slept poorly.   I climbed from Blue Lakes Pass rather than use the standard Yankee Boy Basin approach.   There was no one else on the steep and loose route.   Cliffs and blind turns were frequent, but I continued to find footprints, or I would have turned back.  At last, I reached a solid ridge with the peak about 250-feet above. Despite copious exposure, the four feet wide ridge was solid with great foot and handholds.  

From the summit, I viewed rainstorms in all directions, and a lot of people.  I lingered for about 10 minutes.  

Instead of descending slowly on talus, I glissaded on my backside down snowfields. Just above Blue Lake Pass I slid about two hundred yards.  My speed increased dangerously but I was able to shift my boots more on edge and slowed down without tumbling.  Trembling, I stood up. To my mortification, the back of my pants was in tatters and my wallet somewhere upslope.  (Two years later, another hiker found its chewed up remains and mailed it to me!)

While descending from Mt Sneffels the nausea and headache vanished, and I forgot about them until two years later when I became sick on Wilson Peak.  Perhaps it was because I was again above 12,000 feet or because I had climbed the last part anxiously while Mary waited below, having tired of the talus.  

My head was throbbing when I reached the top, but the surprise was realizing that I had forgotten to eat lunch and found my canteens still full.  My mouth and throat were so dry, I was unable to speak.  

We had already set up a camp near an old hotel at 12,500 feet. (Those miners were tough!).  A horrible night ensued.  Rain and wind whipped the tent while I was tormented by a severe headache and queasiness.  Whenever I would doze, I dreamed of the peak looming malevolently overhead while I slid downward on talus about to tumble over a cliff.  I wrote, I felt so bad, I wished I had!

We packed in the twilight and were hiking by 6AM.  Remarkably, as soon as we descended a couple of thousand feet, I recovered completely.  After breakfast at a cafe in Ridgeway, I had a fine day.  

That is how I learned about diamox for altitude sickness, which I used to significant effect when we climbed Sunshine and Redcloud, Ann and Adam’s first fourteeners.  From Sunshine Peak we had a typical San Juan view: mountains marched into the distance in all directions. It seemed like we were walking on the roof of the world; the view only marred by the violent wind.  I felt great although we were dismayed to find a small bulldozer tearing up the trailside creek as someone performed due diligence on an old mining claim.  We discussed Edward Abbey and his book The Monkey Wrench Gang, and discovered on our return, that monkey-wrenchers had been there in the night—smashing windows and cutting hoses.  

Our next mountain was nearby Handies Peak, an easy hike, with what one author called the best view in the San Juans.  Initially, the hike passes aquamarine Sloan Lake, nestled under the imposing American Crags.  On top, gazing southeast, the Rio Grande Pyramid dominates the skyline.  As one makes a pirouette, there are the Needles and Grenadiers deep in the Weminuche, then Fuller Peak, Golden Horn, and Pilot Knob toward Silverton followed by Mt Sneffels near Ouray. To the North are Wetterhorn and Uncompahgre.  Redcloud and Sunshine are in the foreground. 

My favorite fourteener experience was when Mary and I climbed Uncompahgre Peak on a rare, still, and cloudless day. There is a 700-foot sheer cliff on one side, yet room for a football game on top.  All around we could see other peaks we had climbed: Wilson Peak, Redcloud, Sunshine, Handies, and, as always, the Rio Grande Pyramid.    We saw no one else the entire day, which enticed us to have extra fun at 14,000 feet.  Is that possible anymore without creating a show for voyeurs?  We remained for three hours, not the 10 or 15 minutes one usually has because of threatening weather and the number of people arriving.   

I wanted to climb all of Colorado’s fourteeners but lost my passion for them on El Diente; the most difficult any of us attempted.  Adam and I started from Kilpacker Basin.  El Diente, as much of the San Juans, consists of rotten rock. At 13,500 feet, Adam hoisted himself onto a slab.  It began to slide.  We leaped out of the way, but both of us received a glancing blow.  As we limped off the peak, I realized I had led us off the route.  We were ~500 feet below the summit, but as we were to learn later, on the wrong side.  We slowly worked our way six hundred feet lower before snow started flying.   We completed our descent in mist and fog, never having seen the summit.  

Determined, we returned a year later.  With the previous experience and new intelligence from successful climbers, we attained the ridge below the summit—in heavy fog. We knew there was eight hundred feet of exposure but could only see ten-fifteen feet before the world disappeared into a wall of mist.  We moved carefully, stopping at each cairn long enough to see the next one.  It was eerie.  Mist swirled at our feet.  We knew the exposure would be thrilling, but we never saw it.  

The cairns ceased at a small saddle.  We ascended, but it was a false summit.  We backed down, climbed up the other side, and found ourselves on top.  How did we know?  There was a summit register.  There was no view.  The mist changed to steady rain.  Luckily, it was not an electrical storm.  

After a few minutes of peering hopefully into the thick grayness—we might have been on a rainy seashore rather than a mountaintop—we carefully descended.  For more than an hour, I observed that a slip or an unexpected loose rock would have caused a long, painful tumble.  We could check off El Diente as having been climbed but we had not even enjoyed a view. Though we climbed other peaks, that was the experience when I lost my desire to climb lots of them.  I decided canyons, especially the Grand Canyon, were safer and less crowded, but that is another story.

LOST LAKE

But what of the fabled Lost Lake? In 1992, with Ann and Adam still pre-teens, we accomplished an ambitious multi-day, springtime, backpack in the Grand Canyon.  The trip had gone so well, that the goal of Hidden and Lost Lakes returned to prominence. I planned for the following August.   

We now lived north of the trailhead we used for our earliest trips to the San Juans.  It would take a day to drive around to the southern access we had used previously.  Unfortunately, the closer, northern access, from the town of Silverton, required driving roads famous for jeep trips that attract travelers from all over the world.   Our only car was a Nissan Stanza, a tiny, boxy, powerless station wagon with back doors that slid rather than swung open.  As the trip would prove, however, it had two positive attributes, good clearance, and a small wheelbase.   

The closest access was the road from Silverton to Creede.  From Silverton, we would have to drive over Stony Pass (12,492 feet).  The road description in 1992 was like today: High clearance, 4WD, and off-road vehicles are highly recommended for summiting Stony Pass. The road contains sometimes challenging terrain and can become very narrow in parts.

If we entered from the Creede side, which was a longer access drive, we would encounter Timber Hill. Friends told me our car would never negotiate this notoriously rocky and steep section.  I decided to try Stony Pass.  At the top, the car spun out, lacking the power to negotiate a final, steep turn.  I backed up as far as possible and made a run at it—same result.  I tried again. Ditto.  Last chance.  I had the family disembark and remove the four backpacks.  Five hundred pounds made the difference, with wheels spinning and rocks flying, I reached the top.   I noticed the temperature gauge was alarmingly high, but it is all downhill from here, I concluded.  

We reloaded, drove over the pass, and were faced immediately with a longer and steeper downhill turn on the other side.  I knew we could never ascend Stony Pass from that side.  There was no choice now but to continue to the trailhead at the abandoned mining area of Beartown.  We would do the hike and worry about Timber Hill in a week.

First, however, we had to cross Pole Creek.  It was not running particularly high, but we did not have a particularly adequate vehicle.  I inspected the creek.  We had no choice but to go for it. With water splashing along the running boards and up into the engine, we made it across.   We drove as far as possible on the Beartown road and parked our little Stanza next to a cadre of Jeeps, Scouts, and Broncos.  I looked at my watch. We had driven about twenty miles in two and a half hours.   

We were not at the trailhead. After walking the jeep road for a while, I spied a good trail heading the right direction.  After climbing three or four hundred feet, the trail disappeared into a patch of willows.  We could find no sign of Hunchback Pass; our hike’s first landmark.
Maps indicated the trail had to be directly south, so compass in hand, I led us through the willows and intersected what I thought was the correct trail.  It was not.   We were further south than I expected.  Instead of the Vallecito Creek Trail, we had encountered the Continental Drive trail and were going the wrong way.  After correcting the error, we camped at Clark Lake, miles from where we had expected to be. 

The next day, we completed the lengthy hike to Rock Lake passing West and Middle Ute Lakes with distant views of the Rio Grande Pyramid and the Window.  At Rock Lake, the mountains greeted us with thunder.  We retraced our steps slightly to camp in a flat sheltered area.  

From Rock Lake’s shore, our self-proclaimed Half-Moon Pass and Peters Peak (13,122 feet) frame the view to the south/southwest.  The Roell Creek drainage with access to Lost and Hidden Lakes is obscured.  Distantly, to the Northeast, the skyline is dominated by the diamond shape of the Rio Grande Pyramid.  I crawled into my sleeping bag with anticipation, Tomorrow! Lost Lake!  In the morning, we methodically approached the hike one section at a time.  Mary and I were exultant at Half Moon Pass, having returned to this remote location after 15 years.  We viewed Moon Lake far below, where we had camped in 1976 and 77.  That was to be our alternate destination if we found the route to Hidden and Lost too difficult. There must have been fifteen tents—a boy scout troop, perhaps. But we could see an achievable saddle between Mt Oso and Peters Peak. The Roell Creek drainage was just beyond.

(Saddle separating Roell and Rock Creek Drainages.)

After taking photos, we departed the cairned route and aimed for the saddle.  There appeared to be a deep ravine in between, but no, once we approached, we easily traversed a shallow drainage until we beheld the rocky saddle above.  We observed that with care, we could mostly ascend from one grassy spot to another.  Two parts done!  Well, let’s see what’s on the other side! 

We peered down the Roell Creek drainage.  These lakes are tough, I thought.  We had just climbed from a campsite at 11,800 feet to a pass at 12,800. Then we descended five hundred feet and reclimbed to a saddle at 12,500.  The route below was steep and rocky, but there were willows and grass patches in between.

What was discouraging was how far we had to descend.  Lost Lake was on our left, as was a towering cliff.  Next to the cliff was talus.  A steep, tree-covered slope was apparent at 11,400 feet.   Mary avoids talus; hence, the latter was our choice. We descended, as did the clouds.  

We all noticed a different ambience on the other side of the pass. It was pristine.  No trail. No cairns.  No one had removed lower branches from trees for campfires.  It was primeval.  

We climbed hand-over-hand, tree-to-tree, up the steep slope.  It leveled out. There was a stream rushing through a wet meadow.  We continued. Suddenly, over one more slight rise: Lost Lake! I hugged Mary and we shed tears as fifteen years dreaming about this lake washed away.  So many times, I wondered while taking care of small children and during our sojourn in Missouri, would we even backpack at all, much less this?

Yet, it was raining. We set up our tents and climbed inside.  I impatiently listened to the rain. It was not intense.  I have waited fifteen years to come here, I thought. I am not spending it in the tent. I donned raingear and accompanied by Adam, went fishing. Those cutthroats hit everything, including an old, hammered spoon I had owned for twenty years and had never caught a fish.  While we fished, hail fell straight down, creating a vertical splash as if the lake’s surface was covered with thousands of silver springs.   Eventually, the sun broke through.  The mirrored surfaces of the granite peaks glistened in the sunshine.   

We had a wonderful time, but the weather never cleared, not the rest of that day, nor the next when we worked our way across a mile of talus to view bigger and likely deeper Hidden Lake.  Wind and hail abbreviated our visit.   

That evening, I told Mary I hoped to catch and eat fish before we left in the morning, but if the weather were threatening, we would leave quickly. She said, I hope it is an easy decision. 

At first light, we could not see the peaks around us.  The clouds lifted momentarily. Now we could see.  Snow!   We knew the trailless passes we had to climb over would be wet and slick.   We were fearful of climbing so high.  We decided to bushwhack down Roell creek.  

We had to descend three thousand feet in less than 2 miles.  It meant slogging through soggy woods interspersed with wet, slick boulder fields while it rained and hailed.   There was quite a lot of deadfall, but the biggest problem was how slippery it was. We stumbled numerous times.  I wrote later of Mary and her hatred for boulder fields and talus: Mary slowed the rest of us but really—how many women in their mid-forties did I know that could have done this?  She did great-just slow and careful. 

After four hours we reached the valley bottom where we encountered a swamp.  We had to wade and though the rain had stopped; we were now even wetter than before.    Of course, the rain started again once we intersected the Vallecito Creek Trail.  It rained so hard; we gave up trying to ford creeks and just sloshed through them.  Mary wanted to hike out, but I did not think we could make it by dark and I did not want to cross 12,500-foot Hunchback pass in stormy weather.

We stopped at Stormy Gulch, started a fire, and dried out.  The kids sang camp songs, and we roasted socks. The next morning was bright and clear, and we routinely hiked to our car.   As we approached, Ann said, oh, look there’s a marmot,” as one dashed away from under the vehicle.  I thought this odd, but not troubling until I tried to start the car.  I had plenty of battery, but the engine would not start.  I peered underneath.  I smelled gas but could not see leaking fuel.   I asked Mary to try and start the car while I looked underneath.  Gas spewed from the supply hose.  Several inches of it were chewed.  It was not reparable.

I learned later marmots chewing hoses and other undercar parts was common. According to the National Wildlife Foundation: No one knows why they do it.  It could be that they are trying to supplement their diets–after weaning in early summer–with the crusty mineral deposits often found on engine parts.

We were stymied.  Miles from a paved road.  I looked at the torn hose and suddenly thought of our water filter.  It had eight to ten inches of plastic hose. Could I use it for a splice?  Remarkably, it was a perfect fit.  I started the car.  I was concerned because I had used all the tubing.  How long would that piece of hose last?  

Timber Hill was as steep and rocky as advertised, but our little car’s high clearance and small wheelbase saved us.  By going slowly and carefully, I could maneuver around the big rocks and steep holes.  I did little but ride the clutch and brake as we rolled downward.  

It was amusing to see the incredulous faces of the riders and drivers as they passed us going uphill.  It was Sunday afternoon in the middle of the tourist season. I must admit to feelings of superiority as we passed Texans (I presumed, if they were in rentals) in their Jeep Wagoneers, Ford Broncos, and Chevy Blazers.  

It was late afternoon when we emerged onto pavement. I had planned to stop for a replacement hose but where on late Sunday afternoon?   Nothing was open. We drove non-stop, straight home. We pulled into our driveway and unloaded the packs.  Afterwards, the car would not start when I attempted to put it in the garage.  The little plastic hose from the water purification kit had finally disintegrated.   

We returned to Lost Lake five years later in 1997.  I now owned an authentic 4wd vehicle and could drive to and park at the correct trailhead.  This time we used the Vallecito Creek Trail and were able to hike to Rock Lake the first day and enjoy the entire hike.   The trail is mostly under 10,000 feet. It was exciting to hike among so many peaks exceeding 13,000 feet and then view Sunlight and Windom which exceed 14,000 feet. 

Rock Lake is attained via a four-mile ascent from the Vallecito Creek trail.  As the trail climbs, the view to the right is of a gray cliff-face.  Water rushes down at one point from the Annie Lakes, a name we enjoyed because of our daughter.  The broad visage of Buffalo Peak looms over the ascent.

We endured hard rain in the early evening but woke to a clear morning.  I again marveled at being on Half Moon Pass, thinking of that first time, now twenty years previous.  As before, we avoided the talus approach to the lake and used the steep descent into Roell Creek valley.  (The next two times I journeyed to Lost Lake, we climbed the talus and found it solid and faster.) By the time we arrived, it was raining and as my journal noted, it just kept raining.   Fishing was interesting—time after time, the fish lazily followed our lures, but there were no strikes.  Once, there was a brief flash of sunlight and suddenly all three of us had a fish.

The rain continued.  Lost Lake is at 12,000 feet.  Because of the difficult access, an early season trip is impossible because of snow, and by the time the snow melts, it is the rainy season.  I had planned to climb Mt Oso but gave up the idea because of the weather.  We could stand only so much tent time and often went out in the rain. There is a promontory that hangs over the valley and gives a wonderful view of the ragged skyline to the west—Sunlight, Windom, and others.  One evening was beautiful as the clouds cleared and the peaks were bathed in Alpen glow.   

We had planned to stay a fourth day, but everything was so wet, we decided to leave.  Our plan was to fish for breakfast while Mary packed up camp.  We planned to return to Rock Lake and depart through the Ute Lakes country, spending the last night at Middle Ute Lake. 

About 1AM it began to rain and rain and rain harder.  The inundation did not slow until after 5. At about seven, I unzipped the tent to a depressing sight.  The fog was so thick, we could not see ten feet.  Our gear was soaked.  Our spare clothing had gotten wet through the packs.  Even though our camping spot was on higher ground, it was now a bog.  Through it all, White-crowned Sparrows continued to sing.  I will always associate their cheerful songs with the beauty and sogginess of Lost Lake. There dee de de du dee up and down the scale just continued.   

We had been determined to avoid Roell creek, but once we descended from the lake, the deluge began anew.  Everyone agreed going higher with possible snow on the exposed passes was a bad idea.  With a heavy feeling of déjà vu, we fashioned walking sticks and began to descend the Roell Creek drainage again. 

I did not want to subject Mary to the talus-laden rocky ridge top we had traversed the first time. The deep green shown by the topographic map for the slopes of the canyon deceived me into believing they were uniformly tree-covered.   Traversing a forest with deadfall would be difficult, but I reasoned that we would avoid the boulder fields that had slowed us so much the first time.

There were trees—here and there.  Mostly though, I had led us on to loose talus on steep slopes, with occasional exposed cliffs—much worse terrain than the previous time.   We slipped frequently, but no one fell.  We could not see far enough ahead to select the best route.  The steep hillsides were one thing, but we had to cross ravines where all the rock was unstable.  We had been above this the last time we departed Lost Lake. Because we had accessed the slopes while lower in the drainage, attaining the ridge top would have entailed a steep climb up loose talus. No one wanted to do that, so we continued to traverse slowly, never walking on level terrain, as the hail, rain and sleet continued.  This is when I began seeing in my mind’s eye newspaper headlines about my family’s tragedy.   

Finally, we achieved a downward incline heading west.  Finally, each foot could be at the same elevation as we traveled.  What a relief!  Later, I wrote in my journal: no matter what the weather, if I go back, I’m never descending Roell creek valley again.  We still had to wade thigh deep through beaver ponds, but at least the danger of falling was past.  

Six hours after we started, we collapsed at the first flat area we found once we intersected the Vallecito Creek Trail.   We built a fire as the weather cleared.  We had two mostly dry sleeping bags and one mostly dry tent; the larger one that had been shared by Ann and Adam. We spread out anything partially dry for a ground cloth, and the four of us huddled together sharing the two dry bags as blankets. 

The next morning, we had ten miles to hike to the car.  We had been unable to start early because of fatigue and wet gear.  We hiked slowly.  There were occasional memorable views.   The clouds blended into the peaks, never lifting completely, giving the appearance that the rocky summits kept rising as if they were 20,000 feet high not 13,000.  

It rained all day, but we were able to cross Hunchback Pass in drizzle and mist rather than thunder and lightning.  On top of the pass dark skies closed in.  We skipped a planned stop for cooking supper and hurried to the car. 

At our vehicle, I was relieved to see no signs of a marmot.  We drove out of Beartown and arrived at Pole Creek where a couple was waiting with an ancient International Scout. With all the rain, the creek was roaring.  I would have turned around if we had been alone.  The couple thought the same.  They had not wanted to ford the raging creek without help nearby.   They had a rope with which the driver believed we could pull out a drowned vehicle.  After explaining, they jumped in the rusty old Scout, splashed deeply, and chugged out the other side in a cloud of steam.  

The driver stopped and threw up the hood. He yelled back he had bent his fan blade.  I learned later that as I was yelling back and forth with him, my family, after seeing how the Scout had fared, had agreed, I would never try it.  I was already on my way when they began screaming. For a second or two it was easy and then the front end plunged into a trough. There was a frightening moment as water splashed over the hood and on to the windshield. 

But I could feel the rear wheels push the front ones from the hole and then the front wheels pulled us out. We had made it!  Steam was everywhere. Water was inside our vehicle, but we had no damage.  Not so for the poor folks in the Scout—their bent fan blade had punctured their radiator.  The leak was slow. They had extra water containers and said we should go ahead. They were confident they could slowly make it to Silverton.   

We arrived in Silverton about 8:30. Starving, we entered a restaurant. The kids were embarrassed by our condition. I had no other clothes or shoes, but no one said anything, and we ate heartily.   We arrived home after midnight.  I wrote later: It is hard to close the book on a trip like that. Was it fun? Was it an ordeal? Would I do it again? It was wonderful to be in the mountains and be able to succeed. But, next time, I want sunshine!”  

I returned twice more. The next year, I returned with Adam and one of his swim team members.  Adam’s friend, although in good condition, was not accustomed to backpacking. He struggled and did not appreciate being watched over by the Guardian (13,617 feet), the rest of the Needles, the beautiful little cascade falling from the Annie Lakes or the beauty of Peters Peak. 

(View from the Vallecito Creek Trail.)

At Rock Lake, we learned the trip would not be without incident. Due to confusion with gear having been lent and re-packed, I did not have my tent.  The three of us had to cram into the small tent the boys had planned to share.  The only way we could fit was with six-foot-three 200-pound Adam in the middle.  He slept soundly but tossed and turned relentlessly. It was a long night.  Why did I not sleep outside? It was raining! 

In the morning, we headed up the now familiar pass with all the customary sights: Rio Grande Pyramid, the Window, then Moon Lake and all the mountains beyond. This time we scrambled up and over the talus without descending below tree line and saved an hour or more attaining the lake.

(Half-moon Pass with Rio Grande Pyramid in the far distance.)

Unlike his friend, Adam stayed with me stride for stride, never complaining. At the lake, I lifted his pack and could not believe it.  He had carried the tent, their food and nearly all their gear just to stop his friend from complaining.  What a powerful son I have, I thought. 

Fishing was lousy this time and frustratingly, it began to rain in the early evening. The boys retreated to the tent to read.  Not wanting to cram into the tent, I tried to find places under vegetation to read and keep dry.  Ironically, I was reading Van Dyke’s classic The Grand Canyon of the Colorado.  Reading about hot and dry country did not help.  I became too wet and had to join the boys inside.   

It was another long night, but the morning was bright and clear.  I wanted Mt Oso.  I took breakfast bars, homemade logan bread, and started early.  I had seen a crack on the southeast side of the basin that accessed a definite chute leading up to Mt Oso’s southeast ridge—the proper route according to my thirteeners guidebook.   

As I climbed, I was reminded of the adage: A rolling stone gathers no moss—or lichen either.  None of the rocks I was climbing on had lichen—they were constantly, albeit slowly, on the move.  I would perch on a boulder or slab large enough not to slide with my weight added.  Then I would look for another and sprint spider-like over smaller and lighter rocks until reaching the next one large enough to hold me. I would catch my breath and repeat.  

As I continued upward, the route consisted of one-foot-diameter- sized rocks at the angle of repose. I crawled, slipped, stood up, slipped, walked, and slipped.  It was the longest stretch of talus I have ever done where the rocks were comparable size, and the angle of the slope did not deviate.  I was relieved to reach the summit ridge.

The ridge dropped off shear on the east and I realized I had been viewing Oso’s profile when I had been at Moon Lake.  Although steeper, the ridge’s foot and handholds were solid, and I scrambled to the top in minutes.  The summit was about twenty-five feet long and two-to-four feet wide.    

I enjoyed the beautiful morning from the top for more than an hour.  The view encompassed the vast meadows of the Ute creek country backed up by La Ventana and the Rio Grande Pyramid.  There were the usual familiar peaks for me to pick out: Sneffels, Redcliff, Uncompahgre, and El Diente. I love this country!

The descent was slow.  I was constantly bracing, often relying on the friction of the seat of my pants.   The chute to Lost Lake basin was treacherous.  I could hear water running under as I slid, sat, and walked down.  It had taken slightly more than two hours for the climb and an hour and a half for the descent.  I had climbed Mt Oso! —something I had thought of since 1977 and had missed on two previous trips to Lost Lake.  I was exhilarated.

The weather remained fine.  (We were due!) I was able to sleep under the stars at 12,000 feet. With continued clear weather, we could return the way we came.

As we bypassed the Lost Lake drainage on the talus and worked our way down to Roell creek.  I realized attaining the pass over to the Rock creek drainage was formidable.  Our choice to depart via Roell creek on those other trips was not unreasonable.  In retrospect, the bad choice was to depart on such harsh weather days.  We should have simply hunkered down.

After dropping into the Flint Lakes’ drainage, we stopped for lunch.  I wrote of the view: a dark gray rain cloud is hanging over Half Moon Pass.  Immaculate white clouds are billowing behind, shimmering in the sun. Below lies Rock Lake, its rippling, sun-dappled surface appears as if paved with diamonds.  Mt Oso and Peters Peak stand to the near west with the Needles extending to the far west. Turning the other way, I gaze at La Ventana and the Pyramid. The way the clouds and light play all around is mesmerizing.

The trail, however, was awful, badly braided and chest deep in places.  It was not full of water now, but water erosion was the probable reason there were so many parallel trails. How bad will this be when Adam is my age? I thought.  I suspect it will be a wide, barren, muddy slope.  Our walk to West Ute Lake was a long one, but fish were rising, and we soon caught several.  I slept outside again, but howling winds contributed to a long night.  

Fifteen years later, I made my last trip to Lost Lake.  I was sixty-four and recognized that my time for such trips was dwindling.  My companions were Adam and my son-in-law Ryan.  I enjoyed not being in charge. Let the two strong young men lead!  The weather was pleasant.  On our first evening, a Bald Eagle soared over the ridge above and with a sudden dive, plunged into the lake for a fish.

(My last view of Lost Lake.)

On our final afternoon, we hiked to Hidden Lake. Were there fish?  We had never had the opportunity to find out.  I quickly had a strike, but the fish threw the hook.  Meanwhile, Ryan caught the brightest orange trout I have seen.   It had almost no fins—apparently, they were worn off against the rocks.  The fish was ancient.   How long since Hidden Lake had been stocked? How often did anyone catch a fish from it? Hidden Lake does not have an outlet stream for spawning; this fish appeared prehistoric.   That evening, Ryan expertly cleaned and baked the fish on a bed of coals.  I have eaten many trout, none more flavorful.

*Gebhardt, Dennis. A backpacking guide to the Weminuche Wilderness in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. Basin Reproduction and Printing Company. April 1976

He was as obese a human as I have ever seen.  His “belly slab” extended well below his waist, as well as several feet in front. 

He was wearing a dark blue speedo. 

I took the photo anyway. 

Later, as I viewed my record of the man’s physique, my thoughts, initially of humor, progressed to compassion.  What a dreadful burden for the poor man! Yet, there he was sunbathing on the beach in Matala, Crete.  Nearby were topless beauties that I did not dare photograph, as well as many other bodies somewhere in between. 

I wanted the photo, not because of the obese man but because of the sloppily hand-lettered slogan on the wall above. There, in big blue letters, someone had written: WELCOME TO MATALA, GEORGE.  Below that, it said, TODAY IS LIFE.  TOMORROW NEVER COME.  Thanks to photoshop, that photograph, sans the obese man and the greeting to George, is on my wall.  

TODAY IS LIFE. TOMORROW NEVER COME. 

Isn’t that just another way of proclaiming the value of mindfulness, living in the present moment?  I try to do so and have always found it difficult.  I learned on this trip; it is easier for me to be present when surrounded by many scantily clad young women.  Could hedonism be the true path to mindfulness and enlightenment?  I doubt it.  As one of my favorite writers, Joseph Wood Krutch noted, “faster music and stronger wine pay diminishing returns.”

Mary and I were fortunate to visit Greece, twice within a period of three years.   

I have said many times, I cannot believe we have not been back.  We loved everything. 

Homer’s “wine-dark sea,” although lacking the diversity, is as beautifully clear as waters of the Caribbean and Hawaii.  As in those places, Greece is striking for the contrasts of ancient and modern, devout, and profane, but the divergences here are startling, the juxtapositions more likely to shock.   That fat man, the nudity, the natural beauty of the sea and cliffs, the history of violence, the antiquity— the totality of it all moved me.

And we loved the food!  Bread baking is one of my hobbies.  Greeks invented bread. The many bakeries were all different; each having their own wonderful rustic varieties. On Mykonos, the proprietress told us the starter was 80 years old and the oven had been used for at least two centuries.   

The other food tradition is freshness.  Menus showed little variety, but the fruit, vegetables and seafood were fresh from the garden and the sea.  I also enjoyed the after-meal tradition of a shot of Raki—a firewater made from fermenting what is left over after harvesting the grapes.

Something that separates Greece from any other area we have traveled is that a portion of our second trip included my dad and stepmother.   Adult children traveling with their parents is not unusual, but I struggle to find the words to convey how unusual it was in this instance.  

My own mother died young from breast cancer.  Dad had a small shoe store.  Vacations were non-existent.  Their plan, my mom had told me, was to sell out while they had a lot of time to do things such as travel.  I lived and worked a thousand miles away.  I could only imagine the day-after-day ordeal of radiation and chemotherapy and the drugs used to counter the side effects.   It was three years of relentless, painful, and ineffectual treatment.  

Once, mom showed me a wad of bills in her bedroom drawer.  They had to keep at least a thousand dollars so she could be admitted when they had to make emergency trips to a St Louis Hospital.  They had no health insurance.  Fortunately, in the 1970s, catastrophic health care costs could be borne by people as thrifty as they were.  

Mary and I often thought of the thwarted travel plans of my parents.  We were determined not to wait.  Just in case! Indeed, we were 50 on our first trip to Greece, the same age as when my mom died.  

Subsequently, Dad married his own Mary, known as “Dad’s Mary,” not to be confused with my wife, “Nic’s Mary.” Highland was small.  Although Dad and Mary had not closely socialized in their original marriages, they had many mutual friends and Mary and my mother had known of each other their entire lives.  

Dad’s Mary had suffered the horror of watching her husband die of ALS.  On rare occasions, she would speak of some aspect of those horrible days.  For an extended period, she was unable to have more than two hours rest because she had to arise and clear Charlie’s airway.  

Dad was Roman Catholic and Mary attended a Congregational church.  A priest and a minister jointly officiated their marriage service.  One of them stated how both had enjoyed the richness of previous marriage.  Indeed, they had, but they also shared the common experience of watching their partner suffer a prolonged and painful death.  Both needed a companion.  

Once they married, the only thing a few on our side of the family lamented was that Dad’s Mary did not want to travel. She was so reticent about going anywhere that when they married, we marveled at the preposterously low number of miles on her car.  How did they end up going to Greece with us? 

I was passing near my hometown on business travel and had stopped for a short visit.   We were sitting at the dinner table.  I remarked about our recent trip to Greece. Surprisingly, Mary said, I love Greece!  She re-counted that while Charlie was dying, she sometimes had a few hours during the day when others cared for him.  She habitually went to the library and looked at books about Greece as an escape.  It was the only thing that kept me going. 

I probably would have bet our house that my casual, unconsidered response would not meet with assent.  Would you go to Greece if Mary and I took you and Dad?  She nodded vigorously.  Dad jumped in, Would you really?  In a heartbeat! she said.  I called my wife and said, we are going to Greece.  That was the second trip.

On our first, we were accompanied by well-traveled friends and considered it a 30th anniversary celebration.  Mary and I had already traveled numerous times to Mexico and Central America, but this trip would address my wife’s dream of travel to Europe; her first planned trip having been precluded by our marriage.  

Initially, we visited Athens for the Acropolis and the museum.  Some famous features disappoint.  Not these!  We have amazing technology, but I wonder whether we will leave anything for future generations that can rival the ability of the ancient Greeks to construct such edifices and create such art. 

I lament that “being educated” no longer requires the classics, which to me include the stories of Ancient Greece and Rome.  I was fortunate that a mentor suggested I read Bullfinch’s Age of Fable when I was in my early teens.  In college, literature classes still required the Odyssey and the Iliad.  I had read these as a teenager and been so enthralled, I read Virgil’s Aeneid and the plays of Aristophanes.  We call these “ancient myths,” but they are not so different than what many believe today, as described so aptly in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey.  The ancients understood the human ethos.  Studying them is studying us.  We should do both.

Lit up by an orangish glow, the Acropolis at night is magnificent, especially coupled with the realization of how many generations it has inspired.  We could see it from the room in our small hotel.  We could also see and hear a discotheque positioned just below.  

Surrounding the Acropolis is a mixture of modern-day curio shops adjacent to ancient columns and structures.  Private dwellings are interspersed; some utilizing ancient walls.  How often do the residents think about their ancestors who have sat where they now sit?

And sitting is something locals do.  They sit with iced coffee for hours.  I would notice a group as we passed by on our way to one of the sights.  An hour later, when we returned, they were still there.  Did they have jobs?  At least I quickly recognized this was the “way,” in Greece.  Unlike my dad, who never accepted it.

This custom of sitting for lengthy periods both before and after meals was something that required acclimation.  Dad routinely insulted waitstaff by demanding menus and the check and change.  

Poor Dad found many things strange.  Our first hotel had an unusual elevator, tiny, with doors that had to be opened and closed manually.  I sent Dad up with some suitcases with instructions to send the elevator back to me.   After waiting too long, I ran upstairs and found Dad pushing buttons bewildered that the elevator would not move. What happened? I asked.  Well, it stopped, but it wouldn’t let me off.  I wanted ‘off’ so that’s the button I pushed, but I had to pull the doors open myself.

Unfortunately, our visit with Dad and Mary was at the time of the US invasion of Iraq and a year before the Olympics. Not only was the US unpopular but many Greeks felt the expense of the Olympics was unconscionable with so many unmet domestic needs.  The streets of Athens were full of construction rubble and heavy equipment.  All the temporary walls and construction fences provided ample space for graffiti denouncing the US and President George W. Bush.  

As we walked to the Acropolis with Dad and Mary, we encountered a middle-aged woman sweeping her home, the back wall of which was ancient.  Immediately, in broken English, she remonstrated us and the US for the war.  She wanted to know why we could not be like the rest of the world and work for peace.  We could only shrug and apologize.  Later, we were reminded in several shops that not only the war, but climate change was our fault.  I decided we should say we were from Windsor, Ontario.  Being only 2 miles from Detroit, it was something we could easily pretend.

We received another earful the next day on our drive to the airport, which required extra time because strikers blocked the highway.  The cab driver let us know that Americans only cared about money and that the Iraq War’s only purpose was to enrich multinational corporations and to control the oil supply.  

Many of my fellow citizens believe in “American Exceptionalism,” and as Reagan said, that America is, and always will be, a shining city on a hill.  That sounds nice, but any traveler who meets with regular people in other countries, knows it is not true.  Anyway, no one ever actually threatened us, but we were all bothered, especially Dad’s Mary.  

Later at Frangokastello on Crete, our rooms were adjacent to a tavern.  We had been conspicuous that afternoon and evening. During an uncharacteristic cold rainstorm, we had played euchre, my hometown’s traditional pastime, at one of the tables and then stayed for dinner.  The late-night din, which included some angry shouting, carried into the parking lot.  Mary believed it was directed at us. That was unlikely. Besides, by then we had told everyone we were Canadian.

Our walk to the Acropolis with Dad and Mary took forty-five minutes because Dad asked for frequent rests.   He was nonplussed that his Mary was finding it easy.  He had always insisted his frequent golfing habit was good exercise.  I suggested that the cart and the ubiquitous six-pack probably did not help his cardiovascular condition.  Because we were arriving later than expected, I noticed something strange.  Where were the tour buses and milling crowds?  Then we saw the sign. A strike had been proclaimed.  No one was working!  No one was going to ascend the Acropolis today. My Mary and I were devastated.  This was THE place!  We thought it was the most important site to visit. Dad and Mary seemed fine.  I was incredulous.  The trip had been planned for nearly a year. We were flying to Crete the next day.  

There was nothing to do but visit the Odeon of Herod, Hadrian’s Arch, and the rock where the apostle Paul preached.  There was also time for Dad and I to sit and talk while the Marys shopped.  We had a great day.  The next day, with the assistance of a special early breakfast provided by our hotel, and the hiring of a taxi, we managed to squeeze in a sufficient tour of the Acropolis before leaving for the airport.

On our first trip, we timed our Athens sightseeing to see the famous changing of the guard.  I am not going to describe the ceremony; it is easy to view on YouTube.  A Greek soldier who receives the high honor of being one of these guardsmen is obliged to wear an outfit I can only describe as silly, pom-poms on the shoes, white tights, and a little white skirt, etc. (Look it up!). Then they perform a high-stepping walk, often showing flashes of their undergarments. Not being much for pomp and circumstance, it reminded me of Monty Python’s “Ministry of Silly Walks.” (You can look that up too!).  In between changes, the guards must stand motionless to be stared at, teased, and photographed by tourists.  It is one of those “must-see” events that is “must-see” only because it is “must-see!”

That first trip included several islands: first Mykonos, then Santorini and finally Crete.  The reason for Mykonos was not for its reputation as a party island, but because it is the gateway for visiting the nearby islet of Delos.  Delos was prominent in Greek mythology as the birthplace of the gods Apollo and Artemis.  From 478 to 454 BCE, Delos was the Treasury of The Delian League–an association of several hundred city-states dominated by Athens.

Delos is nothing but a rock, but it once had 30,000 inhabitants, an incredible number considering the need to water and provision so many people on a barren island. Not only were they watered and fed but the mosaics and statuary are magnificent, ranging from much larger-than-life lions to giant phalluses.  Who had time for so much sculpture?  How could ancient society afford it?  

As I admired it, perhaps, my scientific training was an aid.  Too few people grasp the enormity of time.  Probably I do not either, not really, but who would not be affected by caressing a 2900-year-old intricate carving in stone.   I thought, all this work, all this time.  It felt sacrilegious that all over Greece were remnants of carvings, and columns and buildings, piled, wasting away in the sun, wind, and rain.  I wanted to find a tarp and protect it.  

I have never felt a connection or passion for medieval times, not even as they evolved into the renaissance.  Maybe it is the idea of the dark ages or the religious conflicts which originated in those days and continue to poison our world, but I am captivated by ancient times, rather, I am amazed.

Much of Mykonos itself was overrun with tourists, but here again, were the incongruities so typical of Greece. The old town is a warren of narrow, curved alleys and sidewalks, seemingly a maze built to test human instead of rat intelligence. It was!  It was constructed this way to make it difficult for pirates to invade.  But now, many of the small caverns in the warren hold high-end boutiques selling jewelry or low-end tourist detritus.  Yet here too, was the two-century old bakery and the beauty of the Mediterranean.

Our hotel looked over a small beach and bay.  Cliffs on the opposite side were attended by numerous Barn Swallows and occasionally Yellow-Legged Gulls.  The clear water glistened and beckoned. I had my snorkeling equipment.  I knew the water was cold, but why not? 

The approach to the water was through the beach and a multitude of sunbathers.  I was briefly distracted.  I thought, The Greeks appreciated beauty.  Inspecting the statuary and marveling at the accurate depiction of the human body is expected.  Why not enjoy authenticity?  She was dark-haired and dark-complected, slim hips, wearing nothing but a thong.  She was lying on her stomach leaning on her elbows talking to some young men.  Her bare breasts were just big enough and perfectly firm.  Her legs were apart, one bent up at the knee.  The thong was both loose and askew.  My glance of appreciation required less time than it did to describe it.  I love Greece!

I braced myself for the cold entry but soon warmed to the beauty of the clear water and occasional sea life.  Species were few.  The creatures were small, but viewing nature is always interesting.   I watched a well-camouflaged fish moving along the sandy bottom.  It had retractable white barbels—a Striped Red Mullet (Mullus surmuletus).  The sudden appearance of the ivory appendages was shocking. Why the color contrast?   Were they white for a reason?  Or maybe they are white because they are usually hidden, and their color is of no consequence?  

I followed as the fish gently stirred up the bottom with those barbels, doubtlessly finding small creatures to ingest.  Another fish, which I did not identify, snaked along casually ingesting the sand.  Then, like a cloud being emitted from its mouth, the sand was expelled in a white puff, the fish no doubt retaining organisms it could use as food.  

I snorkeled at every opportunity, usually seeing the same species, but once, at Frangokastello on Crete, I spied a flying gurnard (Dactylopterus volitans)—a fish with the appearance of a square toad that suddenly sprouts wings.  

Sadly, wild nature in Greece, is mostly extirpated.  Most of the landscape has been eaten to stubs by goats.  Hiking in the gorges, the most common plant was oleander.  Although native, it reminded me of old neighborhoods and abandoned lots in Southern Arizona.  Songbirds were rare.  I remembered the tradition throughout most of Europe of consuming them; likely that was also a Greek practice.  

My most pleasurable natural sightings were the numerous swifts and swallows. I watched nesting Crag Martins fly in and out of seaside caves now shading picnicking revelers.  I considered how those birds and their ancestors have been witness to many human generations and so much change.  No doubt, the Mycenaeans used these caves 2500 years ago and prehistoric man before that.  Crag Martins raised their young here as the Greek civilization attained its apex and fell to the Romans whose empire eventually retracted leaving the seas for the Venetians in the 1400s.  The martins still sail about as multi-million-dollar yachts and thousand-passenger cruise ships pass by.  What will they see in another century?  

I also appreciated the swallows and swifts, especially the latter, in the cities.  The traditional tile roofs, in use here for millennia, provide unlimited nesting and roosting locations.  It was a delight to sit on a rooftop in Chania, Crete, at sunset, the sky full of chirping swifts, filling their bellies before a night’s rest. Is this an instance where humans, by providing so much nesting and roosting, may have enhanced the natural population? 

From Mykonos, we traveled by sea to Santorini, using a high-speed catamaran to Naxos, and from there, riding one of the big slow ferries for the remainder—the best way to arrive at Santorini.  The island is a caldera; a remnant from a massive explosion that occurred in 1625 BCE. Arriving below the great cliffs as the slow ferry chugged along was ideal for appreciating the island’s natural beauty as well as the human impact. The relatively soft volcanic rock serves as a substrate for human occupation.  Much of the cliff face was inhabited. Habitations and buildings on top spill over the sides.  To me, from a distance, it had the appearance of guano.

Our own room was a small cave carved from the volcanic ash.  We had to duck to enter, duck to get in bathroom.  There was no view.  It would have been unacceptable except our friends had the room above us, complete with a large deck that we shared.

Fira, Santorini’s major town, resides in the middle of the caldera’s arc.  Oia, the other major town, could be seen to the north. The island’s lowlands are at the other end of the curve in the south.  Across the water to the west was the remnant of the other large arc of the caldera with a still smoking Néa Kaméni (new burnt island) in between.

Because of its beauty and reputation for shopping, especially for jewelry, the island can be quite crowded.    I wondered, who buys all this jewelry?  Frivolous man! But Santorini is more than the view and the shopping.  There are beautiful beaches.  I have been to several other so-called “red beaches,” but Santorini’s is, perhaps, the reddest because here the eruptions and earthquakes exposed soft, iron rich rock.  

Besides the beaches, there are ancient ruins, well-preserved because they were enveloped by the eruption.  Unlike Pompeii, there are no human remains at the buried city of Akrotiri.  Apparently, the residents recognized what was about to occur and fled, an event thought by some to have led to the legend of the lost city of Atlantis.  

Akrotiri was a Minoan settlement dating from the 5th millennium BCE, inhabited until 1625 BCE when the eruption occurred.  Left behind were spectacular palaces and gorgeous frescoes; two of the most famous being the “Boxing boys,” and “The Fisherman,” a reproduction of which hangs in our home.

After dinner, I watched nightfall from the caldera’s cliffside wall as the others went for a walk.  Next to me was a chapel.  With most travel, there is incongruity of religious symbols and their opposite, but in Greece, the contrast is more striking than anywhere.   Chapels are found on almost every property in the countryside.  They are tucked away on many busy streets.  Next to this one was a shop that specialized in reproductions of ancient sexual symbols and activities.  

Earlier that day, we walked through the old city to see the local museum.  The scenic walk passes through a series of archways where I photographed an orthodox priest in traditional garb.  What must he think, living in such a place? A place where excess consumption is the island’s livelihood.  Besides that, are all the shops with sexually oriented cards, calendars, and books.  His parishioners live off the hordes that come and buy jewelry and go to nudist beaches.  I suppose they just don’t think about it. I tried the door to the small chapel.  It was locked, fitting perhaps.

Back at the wall, I looked about, and I saw cats: slinking in the weeds, ascending the church steps, climbing over the wall onto a nearby balcony.  Greece is full of stray cats. One could think they were the Mediterranean equivalent to sacred cows.  

Finally, the descent of darkness was complete.  Such a contrast from the morning’s brilliance when the sea was a deep sapphire blue, and the white-washed and blue-trimmed buildings reflected soft yellow as illuminated by the sunrise.  Despite all the touristy affectations, Santorini has one of the most spectacular settings on earth.

After visiting Akrotiri, we ascended steep and narrow switchbacks to the top of the caldera to visit ancient Thera.  I again marveled at the industry of people who would supply a complex so difficult to reach. The city was founded by Dorian colonists sometime around the 9th century BCE, although there is evidence of occupation before 2000 BCE.  Here, the wind howled.  The vegetation leaned windward indicating that high winds were the norm.  At least residents would never have tired of the view.

I continued to search for wildlife, as with most of Santorini, there was little but House Sparrows. One small group of trees led me to exclaim I have found the Santorini National Forest.

We descended to a small fishing village.  At first, I thought there were no tourists, but as I examined the crevices and small caves for birds or sea life on our walking descent, I encountered a topless sunbather.  For lunch, I ate dogfish, later learning it was a small shark (Scyliorhinus canicular).  Having no bones, the tasty, but slightly cartilaginous flesh became chewier as the meat approached the back support.  We had ice cream for dessert, purchased from a woman in traditional dress, different from the clerks in the main towns who mostly wore impossibly tight pants with thong underwear.

Both of our trips ended in Crete; the only island we visited with Dad and Mary.  Both times, I was delighted to escape the din and crowding of Athens. The sights there are worth it, but I had enough city.

On our first visit, we spent a night in Iraklion. I was not impressed. Here I saw some of the few wild mammals I saw in Greece, rats and mice running in the streets. 

Being more traditional than the mainland, the contrasts were more dramatic.  We had selected a small outdoor taverna for dinner.  As we sat at our table, a large, new Mercedes arrived.  The parents and children that emerged were wearing expensive, fancy clothing and conspicuous jewelry.  And then, there was the old crone, the matriarch.  She wore the traditional black.  The family treated her with great deference as they entered and selected a table.  

I guessed the old woman was approximately eighty years old.  What had she seen, I thought.  Crete was renowned for its fierce resistance during World War II, followed by a barbarous German occupation.  She would have been a young woman then.  How much violence had she witnessed?  On our second trip, we drove the curvy road to Sougia passing through several picturesque villages with shrines to the WWII dead.  More than half of the inhabitants had been executed in several.  Many of the villages never regained their pre-war population.  We stopped in one and bought lemonade from a jovial old woman dressed in black.  She must remember.  Now, we understood why the Greeks were so anti-war and angry at the US about Iraq.

Noteworthy at Chania’s Naval Museum were the descriptions of German wartime atrocities.  Most of the visitors were Germans.  When we flew out of Chania, we noticed on the airport “board” 14 of 18 flights were direct to Germany and ours to Athens was mostly Germans Did the parents of these tourists commit these heinous acts? We asked a local about it.  He said, the Germans always say they or their parents were at the Russian front. That way there does not have to be a conversation.

Back to my thoughts of the old woman in Iraklion.  The Germans expected to take Crete in a day or two because there were no soldiers, just women, children, and old men.  Instead, they were greeted by farmwives with pitchforks.  They would stab paratroopers as they landed.   Was she one of them? The conquest took three weeks and the loss of elite German paratroopers so great, that Hitler forbade their large-scale use in future campaigns.

My Dad was enthralled with the story of the 10,000 GIs who were evacuated through the Imbros gorge.   Dad’s Mary had a sense of what that must have been like. Those poor frightened boys, she said.  For our part, we sat at the gorge’s overlook and enjoyed a traditional Sfakian Pie—a local delicacy consisting of cheese inside a fried dough, dusted with powdered sugar and served with honey.

Although Iraklion was dirty and sad, the museum and nearby ruins at Knossos are replete with magnificent art, such as the snake goddess, impressive tools such as saws and daggers. The architecture at Knossos included vast cisterns for gathering water; the Minoans were masters of their age.

From Iraklion, we drove to Southern Crete, our quick answer for what is your favorite region in Greece?  On both trips, our initial destination was Matala. The first time we were shocked at the crowd, but it was Sunday. The day-tripper buses soon departed, and all was quiet.  

Again, contrasts!  The cliff adjacent to the principal beach is full of small caves carved and used by the Romans or Early Christians as tombs.  In the 60s and 70s, however, they were inhabited by “hippies,” until kicked out by the church and military.  Now with camping prohibited, and, in truth, a little “shabby,” Matala was our kind of beach—not high end, but with enough amenities to be comfortable. Besides, there was that sign, reminding me, TOMORROW NEVER COME.

Over the hill, was Crete’s eclectic Red Beach.  Set in a small cove, there was evidence of those who lived there in the 60s and 70s.  There were modern carvings of a full-length mermaid, an octopus, finely detailed fish, and more.  There were also nudists.  Nearly everyone was nude including families. I spied a topless mom in a tiny thong throwing a frisbee with her teenage sons.  That was a little much.  Walking back, I saw a Pied Wheatear, black and white with a white rump.  Supposedly, the word “wheatear” is a corruption of the original common English name (white arse!).  

Both times in Matala, we ate at the restaurant Mystical View—an exception to my rule that great views indicate high prices and mediocre food.   We were above the town although we could see it and the beaches below.  We could also see far to the west, down along the coast.  We savored our wine and food as the sun set into the Mediterranean.  And the food? I have a love/hate relationship with seafood. I am reluctant to say it is my favorite because I complain about it so often, but when very fresh, there is nothing better.  Here I had thick, flavorful, sea bream, so fresh it might have been one of those I had seen snorkeling that afternoon.  

When we arrived with Dad and Mary on our second visit, we were excited to partake of the view and food once again at restaurant Mystical View.  There, chalked on a sign, was a note that the special was pasta with fresh mussels.  I love fresh mussels, but with pasta, not so much.  Typically, you are served a plate of spaghetti with something like a half-dozen mussels. Not worth it, in my estimation.  I ordered red snapper and all three of the others ordered the special.  I felt smug when dinner was served.  There were three plates of spaghetti, containing 4 or 5 mussels each.  I told you so, I said, just as the waiter returned with three large bowls heaped with mussels.   Fortunately, it was an enormous amount of food that was freely shared. I ate all the mussels I could. (Why have we never returned to Greece?)

We dedicated the entire next day to ruins and museums beginning with the ancient Minoan city of Phaistos, inhabited from 4000 BCE.  The Minoans were a Bronze Age civilization dating to 3500 BCE, with complex urban civilization beginning around 2000 BCE, and then declining from c. 1450 BCE until it ended around 1100 BCE.  The Phaestos ruins viewed the Messara plain cultivated for 4000 years.

We went to Gortys for the church of St. Titus, where Titus (of Paul’s letter fame) was supposedly murdered.  Here there are Roman ruins, Gortys being the first Roman Capital of Crete.  Under Roman rule the Code of Gortys  was chiseled into the wall, the first code of Greek civil law, considered to be the greatest contribution of Classical Crete to world culture.

From Gortys, on a tip from a local we met in Matala, we stopped to see the Museum of Cretan Ethnology in Vori.  The photographs were frightening. The various displays revealed Cretan eyes burning with ferocious intensity.  Little wonder they fought the Germans with such fury.

It was late, past time for lunch.  There were no signs indicating a restaurant, but there were tables in the small square.  We sat down.  A young man emerged from an ancient building.  We ordered Greek salads that took so long we speculated they were waiting for the vegetables to ripen. Finally, we were served a wonderful salad of tomatoes, feta, and the best tasting olive oil ever, plus great bread.  As we left, the waiter handed Dad four oranges.

Continuing across Southern Crete one passes through the mountain village of Spili. We were so intrigued on the first trip that we planned a night there with Dad and Mary.  The proprietors of the small hotel brought out marmalade and candied orange peel, and treated us like old friends.  While Dad and Mary rested, my Mary and I walked into town and enjoyed local yogurt, honey, and walnuts. We ate by the lion heads—a 14th century construction of the Venetians, consisting of twenty or more lion’s heads spouting water from a spring.  Nearby was a table of elderly men, dressed in traditional farmer’s clothing. Several were flipping worry beads.  If there was a downside to staying in Spili, it was that sleeping late was made impossible by the cacophony of crowing roosters, bawling goats, and the tinkling bells of livestock.  This felt like authentic Greece.

The following morning, we visited the Moni Prevali Monastery. Situated on a high cliffside, the landscape was reminiscent of Northern California.  I thought of the line drawings of wild ocean waves and wind-sheared pines that usually accompany the poetry of Robinson Jeffers.   Signs here again reminded us of how resistant the locals were to invaders.

Dad was enthralled by the beauty of the monastery, the intricate carved wood everywhere, the long-bearded monks, old chalices, and vestments.  He asked me if it was Catholic? I did not explain the history, better for him to not be aware of the enmity between the churches and the reason for their schism.  

Continuing, we made what we expected to be a brief stop at Vamos, because there was a waterway, supposedly good for viewing birds. There was an open table with food on it near where we parked.  A chef showed us a meter-long Amberjack and asked if we wanted to try it.  He thought we were part of a small tour that was arriving.  We were welcomed.  The fish was cleaned and cooked for our inspection with lemon and onions. It was served with “healthful mountain greens” (like radicchio and arugula). Dessert was mascarpone cheese with marmalade and raki.

On both trips we stopped at Frangokastello, where there is a well-preserved Venetian Fort.  Frangokastello had only one place to stay but it was located on a wonderful beach.  The restaurant/tavern had the usual excellent food, this time fish we selected in the kitchen, accompanied by fresh potatoes fried in local olive oil–best fries ever!  During dinner, the owner sat with us. He had lived in both New York City and Galveston, Texas.  He had gone to the US to learn the construction skills to build this combination hotel/restaurant/tavern.  Now, he was lamenting the lack of visitors, blaming it on climate change.   Summer is not the same anymore, he said.  It is too cool and cloudy. The tourists are not coming.  I noticed he was a chain smoker.  On our second visit, he was emaciated and coughing non-stop, appearing as if he did not have much longer to live.  

From Frangokastello, we drove to Chania with a stop at Rethymnon to see a 17th century mosque.  I marveled at the large dome. How did they construct it?  Adjacent was a small chapel where donations were made and wishes granted.  My wish was to return after we had been married 60 years.  That time is approaching.  Now my wish is to continue to have the ability, although I suspect we may have higher priorities.  

In Chania we walked in the old Venetian quarter. The streets were too narrow for vehicles; the buildings were very old.  I spied an elderly lady dressed all in black hanging wash on her balcony.  She beamed when I asked if I could take her photo.  After I took the photo and waved my thanks, she blew me a kiss. 

That first time in Chania, we could not find a place to stay and were directed to a semi-rural, small hotel, with big rooms, and a nice pool.   (We were fortunate to be directed there, because the large comfortable rooms were a refuge when I was struck down by food poisoning on our second trip.) The proprietor suggested we eat at the nearby Taberna Irena, where instead of a menu, we were invited by the matron to come see.  We followed her into the kitchen to inspect what was available and select what we wanted.  The eggplant (aubergine) stuffed with spinach dish I chose was genuinely a home-cooked meal.   

The second time we visited Chania, we reserved rooms well ahead of our trip.  Our hotel was a repurposed 14th century Venetian mansion in an area where cars were prohibited.  Dragging the luggage over the cobblestones was onerous, but the experience was worth the trouble.  

The building was labyrinthine with floors and hallways of different lengths and levels.  Our room overlooked the noisy harbor.  We enjoyed the rooftop view with a bottle of Cretan wine as the plethora of swallows and swifts filled their bellies before roosting for the evening.  Although we suffered the bother of disco music until 4:30AM, we could view the history in the architecture: new and old, Turkish, and Venetian. 

After dinner, we stopped at a traditional taverna.  The owner/greeter wore traditional leather garb including large boots. The occupants, who appeared to be locals, were singing loudly, and had already had too much to drink.  Soon they were dancing. We were invited.  Only Dad declined.  We had arms around each other’s waists. The dance was a skip, then a hop while putting one foot over the other and changing position.  We had a lot of fun and when we tired, one of the men bought everyone a shot of raki.

After delivering Dad and Mary to the airport in the morning, we drove to Sougia.  Following the advice of a young lady from our Chania hotel, we headed “down by the rocks,” and lounged on the beach.  It was private, quiet, and beautiful.  We had a wonderful dinner that apparently caused the awful bout of food poisoning I recounted elsewhere (See: The First Time and More: Learning to be Travelers).  After I recovered in Chania, we returned and a day later transferred to the top of Samara Gorge, which at 20k is Europe’s longest. 

The hike begins with a series of wooden stairs which drop hikers to the bottom of the gorge.  Later, by looking over the beach at the hike’s end and the number of boats which arrived to transport everyone to Sougia, I estimated six hundred hikers.  That was a lot of hikers so I was shocked to read later that there can be up to 3000(!).   

Some of the Germans were noteworthy.  Many were not in shape for such a hike.  They would be florid-faced, red-skinned from the sun, puffing stolidly along but would not stop. Their eyes were ahead or down on the trail, seemingly thinking one foot in front of the other, one more step.  One would never see so many Americans as overweight and flabby hiking more than ten miles. 

Many had inadequate footwear: flipflops, sandals or too light canvas shoes but they would never step aside. The trail was narrow, and the sections where passing was easy were few.  We were frustrated walking slowly behind.  We would watch ahead for a wide space and quickly run past.  None of them ever flinched or slowed down. 

Back at Sougia, we ate at a different restaurant.  I felt fine, sad we had to leave, sad about the lost day.  We had one more morning at the beach. I spent the last fifteen or so minutes simply twirling in the clear water, looking at the rocks, soaking in the beauty–telling myself I had to imprint the view, the ambience, permanently in my mind.  

TODAY IS LIFE. TOMORROW NEVER COME!

Merida has the finest Roman ruins in Spain. It is also has fine restaurants. One serves Cherry Gazpacho with a dollop of Olive Oil Ice Cream.  This dish also contains pork—not surprising in a locale renowned for Iberian Ham, which requires acorn-fed, free-ranging hogs.  The soup was so delicious Mary and I ate at the same restaurant two of our three evenings in Merida.

As friends asked about our trip, we found ourselves always describing the gazpacho.  Yet, we had other excellent dining especially seafood and once, a spectacular mushroom risotto served on the street at lunch.   But mostly we described the gazpacho because it was rare and different. We assumed others would never have heard of it.   

Of course, for me, there was something else about Merida.  The city has the longest surviving ancient bridge with a span of 755 meters.  Better yet, the span crosses some wetlands harboring a species of the rail family—the Western Swamphen.  When I wasn’t enjoying great meals or touring the ancient Roman Coliseum, Circus, and Temple of Diana, I walked out to the bridge and peered into the swamp.  Eventually, I was rewarded with a great view of a Western Swamphen and chick.   I wondered if the ancient Romans noticed them.

I enjoy seeking out rare and difficult-to-find birds, many of which reside in wetlands.  Some of these are celebrated in a book on my shelf entitled: Rare and Elusive Birds of North America, by William Burt.  Most of the profiles in this book are about rails, sometimes called crakes.

My desire to study rails supports a frequent comment from my brother that “there’s a nut for everything.”  Rails have been called mice with feathers.  It would be more accurate to call them swamp-mice with feathers because wetlands are their primary habitat.   In addition, they are reluctant to fly, relying on “rail-roads,” that is, trails and tunnels within the thick vegetation. 

My first encounter was with a Black Rail on Galveston Island, Texas in 1980.  I had a business trip to Houston.  Knowing the Texas coast was a birding hotspot, I brought my backpacking tent in an extra suitcase.  It seems remarkable today; I was able to drive down on a spring weekend and easily find a camping spot in the state park. 

I was armed with a A Birder’s Guide to the Texas Coast, one of a series of guides to famous birding areas.  In the days before ebird and the internet, these so-called “Lane-guides” (James A. Lane was a co-author) were highly prized for their specific directions to prime birding locations.  After a windy and rainy night, I was walking toward a marsh and encountered an elderly couple with a large parabolic receiver for recording bird calls. Once recorded, the call could be played back in hopes of enticing the bird to show itself. 

The couple appeared friendly, so I approached. “A Black Rail!” one of them said softly.  At this phase of my birding life, I knew rails as a photo in a book.  They were not species I expected to see or even try to see.  After whispering introductions, I learned that the bird responding from the marsh was both rare and more rarely seen.

By today’s standards, our birding etiquette was cringeworthy—too much playback.  Today, birders are satisfied with a well-documented hearing or recording but we tried hard to spy the bird.  The lady of the pair had a glimpse of the bird’s face, but her husband and I never saw anything although we were within three feet of the rail for 20-30 minutes before giving up. 

Subsequently, the couple told me how lucky I was to have experienced a Black Rail.  Further, they informed me that last night’s wind and rain was the reason they had driven two hours to the coast. That storm had been what was known locally as a “Norther.”  What made it so important is that a wind blowing from the north in late March or early April is in the face of oncoming spring migrants crossing the Gulf of Mexico.  These birds, weary already, work extra hard to make landfall and often pitch into the first tree or shrub they can find.  This being a coastal plain, the few trees might harbor a dozen or more birds.  Although it immediately made sense, this phenomenon had been unknown to me.  “You have to go to the Old House,” they said.  They had already checked small nearby trees before being distracted by the resident Black Rail.

The “Old House,” where an owner had planted shrubs and trees before abandoning, was amazing.  In the same small tree were an Orchard Oriole, a Prothonotary Warbler, a Great Crested Flycatcher, a White-eyed Vireo, a Tennessee Warbler and a Kentucky Warbler.  In the shrubs underneath were a Worm-Eating Warbler and a Swainson’s Warbler. My new friends seemed happier for me than I was.  I did not understand until later what a treasure trove of sightings this was.  Indeed, Swainson’s Warblers as well as Black Rails are profiled in that same book about “Rare and Elusive Birds.”  Seeing one perched in the open was truly fortunate.  Seven of those species were “lifers,” birds I had never seen before, and they were all associated with a single small tree, less than ten feet in diameter. 

That previous night’s heavy rain had filled all the ditches and marshlands such that other birds had been forced to higher ground.  Hence, I spied another rail later that day—the less-reclusive and larger Clapper Rail.  My life with rails had begun!

According to Wikipedia, there are more than 150 species in this family that includes the more-easily seen coots and gallinules.  Twelve from this family are already extinct and others are on the brink of vanishing.  I have seen thirty.  The Black Rail, although not formally protected at the federal level, is threatened or a “species of concern” in most of the states in which it is found. 

It is no wonder. In my work life, I found that many contaminant dumps, landfills, and random disposal areas were in wetlands.   Furthermore, for most of US history, wetlands were so little valued that draining them was referred to as “reclamation.”

Fortunately, the value of wetlands is now recognized.  Coastal wetlands mitigate storm surge thereby limiting hurricane damage.   Interior wetlands are important buffers and sinks for contaminants in industrial and agriculture discharges.  One source suggests that the value of wetlands exceeds $3 billion dollars annually.  I have not reviewed the details of that estimate, but I wonder if it adequately accounts for the recreational value from waterfowl rearing, hunting, and birdwatching. 

Our attack on wetlands has been so relentless that birders are usually intimately familiar with local sewage ponds and landfills because those are where remnant populations of marsh-dwellers can find a place to survive.    Continuing today is a constant battle regarding the definition of a wetland.   A weak definition is desired by developers because federal laws require mitigation.  Climate change exaggerates this problem because historic wetlands are drying up, further squeezing the remaining homelands for rails and their allies.

That day in 1980 remains important to me because it opened my eyes to another window into nature.  I read extensively about these birds and have considered them to be primary quarry in my subsequent travels.   I have been lucky enough to have found others.

My most memorable encounters have occurred in Costa Rica.  There was, for example, the day I set out to find a White-throated Crake.  My wife and I were staying at the Las Cruces Biological Station (aka Wilson Botanical Garden) near San Vito.  We did not have a car, so I hired a taxi driver to take me to the “swamp near the airport,” which was reputed to harbor the crake. 

I asked the taxi driver to pick me up after two hours, but noticed he simply turned off the engine and planned to wait.  My directions said to stop at a house adjacent to the small airstrip and ask for permission.  The inhabitants smiled and waved me on.  Minutes later, I was ankle deep in gluey mud.  I backed up to dry ground and surveyed the area.  It looked too wet for passage and with the thickness of the vegetation and darkness of the water, I had no idea how deep it might be. 

I spied a fence about 100 meters away and thought I would try there.  Surely, if posts were in the ground, there would be an area I could walk.  Being careful, I trusted tussocks of vegetation held in place by the wire and inched my way into the marsh.   After about ten meters, I was satisfied I was far enough and played the call of the White-throated Crake.  There was an immediate response.

It is worth noting that rails are not songsters.  One of my sources describes the vocalization of White-throated Crakes as an abrupt, explosive descending trill or churr.  My own description is a rapid dry rattle.  Another example is the description for the Paint-billed Crake.  As described in Birds of the World: “Song a long, gradually accelerating series of up to 36 staccato somewhat yelping kjek notes. Occasionally followed by 3–4 short churring notes which fall in pitch, the last being a 3-second flat trill. Also, frog-like, guttural, buzzy, single notes rendered qurrrk and auuk and a mellow soft purring. Alarm a sharp twack.”  In other words, I am nutty enough to spend hours in insect-ridden swamps listening for kjek, qurrk, auk and twack.   Reading that sentence makes me reconsider my sanity and confirms my brother’s statement about a “nut for everything.”  (Why do I think he always means me when he says it?) 

Anyway, the San Vito airstrip White-throated Crake answered and was nearby.  As with my Black Rail encounter, it often is not difficult to be near a rail—it is the seeing of them that is a challenge.  In this case, I was determined. Again, I confess to overuse of playback.  In my defense, this was twenty-five years ago. Most birders are judicious these days regarding disturbing the birds they are trying to see.

I had an old-fashioned tape player. I would play the call, then hit rewind, find the call, and play it again. It was awkward and inconvenient.  I had the tape recorder in one hand, and I was both playing the call and trying not to drop the player in the marsh.  I had binoculars and an expensive camera about my neck, also needing to stay dry.  My footing was precarious.  I am glad no one was filming my fumbling efforts to use my equipment and remain balanced.

Repeatedly, I played the call, and the bird would answer so close I could not imagine why I could not see it.  I continued to shift about. Eventually, I realized the vegetation was so thick that the bird was underneath. I was not heavy enough to compress the thick mat of marshy vegetation to disrupt the rail’s passageways.   My next thought was to move slightly away in hopes that the bird would again approach the call.  I reached out with one foot—seemed solid—then the other—also seemed solid.  I slowly edged away.  Once settled, now about three meters from where the crake had been underneath, I shifted my weight to play the call but lost my balance and barely avoided falling.

Everything below me was sinking and wobbling. I was teetering on top of floating vegetation!  It was thick enough to bear my weight, but this section had separated from the rest of the heavy mat.  I was flailing — throwing around my arms and legs to stay up.  It was like balancing on a six-foot diameter piece of floating plywood.  I did not last long.   I slid into the marsh reflexively raising my arms to hold my electronics and optics above the water…but now I was waist deep in water and muck.  

Waves of emotions hit me—frustration and embarrassment foremost.  I looked to see if anyone was watching.  No one was visible at the nearby house and the taxi driver was too far away.  Quickly, discomfort seeped in along with the water.  It was hot. I was in full sun on a hot afternoon.  Half of me was ensconced in wet and sticky water and mud.  Although well-covered in repellent, insects were swarming. A few were crawling on me.   I was done. “The crake wins,” I thought.

I carefully shuffled my feet and slowly inched toward higher ground. I was fortunate to emerge without stumbling.  I slogged defeated, dripping, and smelly back to the taxi.  It was an old car so maybe the driver did not mind, but my wife did when I returned to our room.  The old tennis shoes I was wearing went to the outside trash, myself, and my other clothing to the shower to remedy as best I could.  I decided I would never see a White-throated Crake.

This was early in my Costa Rican birding experiences, and I have since, seen White-throated Crakes eleven times.   They are so common, that any birder spending enough time will finally spy one walking in the open and that eventually happened. 

In fact, on a recent trip (June 2022), I saw White-throated Crakes so easily, we were annoyed because we were after the much rarer Paint-billed and Gray-breasted Crakes.  Eventually, we saw the other two.   What is different today?  In a word…Bluetooth.   Also necessary is knowing the right person.  

With all my years of experience in Cost Rica I have made many friends among the excellent guiding community.  One of these, Daniel, lives not too far from the Panamanian border.   Sadly, this area is devastated by oil palm plantations* and rice fields.   Plowing, ditching and drainage have eliminated most of the swamplands.   The oil palm areas are dark, pesticide-laden monocultures.   Rice fields, while monocultures, at least must remain wet and still provide habitat.  Adjacent ditches and strips between these fields remain rich with marsh species.   

Daniel has an impressive ability to hear and triangulate on the various frog and insect like calls emitted by the resident crakes.  Residing nearby, he has learned where the remaining local crakes live.   I wanted to see a Paint-billed Crake.

The online resource Birds of the World refers to them as “a mysterious bird, even for a rail, a family full of mysterious species.  Nowhere easy to find…status unclear in Central America, could be accidental, migrant, or rare resident, perhaps overlooked.” Paint-billed Crakes and another rare, nearly identical species are the only members of their genus.

Besides the mystery of their status, unlike most others of their family, Paint-billed Crakes are handsome. They are mostly indigo blue with bright orange legs.  Their bright beaks are red at the base and bright yellow green at the tip.  A few months previously, I was successful having one respond to its call, but much like the White-throated Crake experience, I could not see one.  

I met up with Daniel early one morning.  This was our second outing.  On the first, some months earlier we had tried and failed to hear or see a Yellow-breasted Crake.  We had tried hard.  It is difficult for both birder and guide when such a quest fails.  Daniel had been regularly finding the bird, quite rare in this part of the country. Yet, that evening, it would not cooperate.   Daniel knew I had made an unpleasant drive over poorly marked unpaved roads and would have to return after dark.   I began thinking what a nice afternoon and evening it would have been at the beach.  I considered myself stupid for abandoning my wife for six or seven hours and complicating our dinner plans.  Instead of a relaxing evening I had a harrowing return drive almost colliding with a couple of bike riders on the obscure, dusty back roads.   I certainly did not blame Daniel, but we had parted feeling exasperated.   

Now I was back, and we had heard Paint-billed Crakes in two locations, far out in the swamp.  Daniel shrugged and said something like, “the only way to see one would be to go in there with them.”  I responded, “Let’s go.”  He looked up, surprised. “Really?”  “I’m prepared,” I said.  I had worn a pair of old canvas shoes that I could abandon if necessary.  I had a walking stick for balance.  

Daniel removed his shoes and waded in barefoot.  I followed, our feet slurping and slipping as we moved along.   This was a shallow swamp.  A misstep would not cause a plunge into deep water, but a mucky face plant was still probable. More likely was to lose a shoe in the sticky muck.

After a few minutes, Daniel pointed to a small, narrow ditch dug by one of the big tires of the rice field tractors after having been mired and then digging itself out.  Here is where Bluetooth came in.   Daniel set a small speaker on one side of the ditch, and we positioned ourselves to have an unobstructed view if an approaching crake crossed to find its presumed rival.

It was easy.   These crakes are rarely disturbed.  Hence, they respond readily.   Birding groups do not try for them because it would be impossible for more than two or three people to be in position to see.   Being in the swamp amidst them, even I could hear the crakes.  Two approached and within minutes I had obtained great binocular views.   The lighting angle, the narrow ditch and rapidly running crakes precluded photography but I was, as they say, “a happy camper.”

Driving back, I asked Daniel about Gray-breasted Crakes.  These are detected by their calls now and then, but this species is the rail most difficult to see in Costa Rica.  Detections, most of which are “heard-only birds,” number less than 1000 according to the ebird online database.  In contrast, White-throated Crake detections are nearly 15,000. I had asked other guides about them.  They rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Daniel simply said they were “really hard.”  The fact that he had not shut off the idea, however, clung in my brain.

Back in his part of the country on a family trip six months later, I contacted Daniel.  “What about trying for a Gray-breasted Crake?” I asked.  “We can try,” he responded.

I do not know which part was luck, skill, or prior scouting/preparedness, but a Gray-breasted Crake responded at the first location we tried.   My son in law, Ryan, was accompanying us.  We had borrowed rubber knee boots.  There was also a wide bare spot in the mud for good viewing and the sun was behind us.   Daniel placed the speaker about ten foot distant and across the open space from where the crake had responded.  We did not have to wait long.   The crake did not dash across but sauntered.  I obtained great photos.  This crake is a close cousin of the Black Rail I had listened to so many years ago in Texas; the primary difference being lime green on the lower mandible as opposed to the bill of the Black Rail which is black.  

This had happened so fast, I suggested we try again for a Paint billed crake.   Maybe Ryan could see one. Maybe I could obtain a photo.  Initially, we tried near where we had seen them six months ago. No luck.  We drove to another location nearby.   We waded into the shallow marsh.  Here, we had success. A Paint-billed Crake was calling.  We set up as before–the speaker in an excellent location for viewing the bird. We spied movement.  Here it came. But!  It was a White-throated Crake.   Three times the same or another White-throated Crake came into view—the only times I have been disappointed to see a crake.  At last, two Paint-billed Crakes arrived. 

After three or four brief appearances as they jumped over the bare area, one moved stealthily through the reeds.  The yellow and orange-red beak reminded me of Easter’s candy corn.  The large orange-red feet matched the beak and the color of Cherry Gazpacho!

*Palm Oil is responsible for a tremendous loss of habitat throughout the world. Its production also exacerbates climate change and causes other environmental damage. Here is a site where you can learn how to minimize your own usage of palm oil products: https://rspo.org/

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