You know it's cold when...
A) Ice boogers form on your moustache.
B) You'd wash up, but the gerry can is frozen, and so is the soap. So is the stove fuel. So are your fingers. You decide germs aren't so bad.
C) You wake up in the middle of the night spooning your buddy. Awkward as it seems, you don't move.
D) Your GPS, cell phone, headlamp, and iPod all seem to simultaneously freeze to death.
E) All of the above.
For those of you who live in places where temperatures drop to the point of electronic failure, or where every liquid literally turns to blocks of solid ice, please forgive my whinging. I am a native Southern Californian, and frankly more used to the idea of 105ºF than 5ºF. This was certainly an education for me.
We had heard that there are petroglyphs, deep carvings of Bighorn Sheep and people left by native tribes hundreds of years ago, near this encampment which adjoined a functioning well called Sheep Spring. We didn't find any petroglyphs, but the view was spectacular nonetheless.
The 'wheeling wasn't too bad, either. This is Goler Gulch, on the way to Sheep Spring. Recent storm activity has some of these washes dug away pretty gnarly.
Cracks that were once a foot or so deep have become chasms. This particular beauty doesn't look deep, until you realize that the picture was taken by a 6' tall guy standing in the crack itself. My front diff is at his eye level. It makes the driving interesting, and it sure does keep the faint of heart out.
One particular spur off of a well-travelled "EP" road, which should have taken five minutes at the most, ended up an ordeal of spinning tires and butt-crack sweat. The way down was somewhat easy; a skinny, steep series of waterfalls down a boulder-studded ravine that was doable with a little help from Mr. Gravity. At the bottom, my stomach sank when I realized there was a prospecting operation taking up the entire road. It didn't matter anyway, as the friendly prospectors were happy to show me the chasm on the other side of their dig that would sink a Unimog. We had to turn back. My friend Andy, a perennially jovial goofball who usually serves as photographer, served as white-knuckle window spotter and chanter of "Oh s***, oh s***, oh s***..." If I hadn't have been crapping myself, I'd have asked him to take a picture.
Our base of operations was Indian Camp, a well-placed hideout in the El Paso Mountains that feels like a second home. Even though the temps got down to the single digits, the rock outcroppings, rock walls, and fire pit helped keep out the cold. 'Course, the regular nips of bourbon probably didn't hurt any either.
A bird's eye view of our Base of Operations, with Marlin Camp 9 and Twenty Gauge within close reach. Not that we've ever needed them. I feel safer here than in my own living room...
"Oh, so that's what they mean by 'Purple Mountains Majesty'..." A quick five-minute hike straight up gives a spectacular view at sundown of the valley below, and Randsburg Mine in the distance. A few cheers of whiskey, a quick cigar, and it's back down the mountain before your fingers turn into frozen hot dogs.
See you on the trails.
A) Ice boogers form on your moustache.
B) You'd wash up, but the gerry can is frozen, and so is the soap. So is the stove fuel. So are your fingers. You decide germs aren't so bad.
C) You wake up in the middle of the night spooning your buddy. Awkward as it seems, you don't move.
D) Your GPS, cell phone, headlamp, and iPod all seem to simultaneously freeze to death.
E) All of the above.
For those of you who live in places where temperatures drop to the point of electronic failure, or where every liquid literally turns to blocks of solid ice, please forgive my whinging. I am a native Southern Californian, and frankly more used to the idea of 105ºF than 5ºF. This was certainly an education for me.
We had heard that there are petroglyphs, deep carvings of Bighorn Sheep and people left by native tribes hundreds of years ago, near this encampment which adjoined a functioning well called Sheep Spring. We didn't find any petroglyphs, but the view was spectacular nonetheless.
The 'wheeling wasn't too bad, either. This is Goler Gulch, on the way to Sheep Spring. Recent storm activity has some of these washes dug away pretty gnarly.
Cracks that were once a foot or so deep have become chasms. This particular beauty doesn't look deep, until you realize that the picture was taken by a 6' tall guy standing in the crack itself. My front diff is at his eye level. It makes the driving interesting, and it sure does keep the faint of heart out.
One particular spur off of a well-travelled "EP" road, which should have taken five minutes at the most, ended up an ordeal of spinning tires and butt-crack sweat. The way down was somewhat easy; a skinny, steep series of waterfalls down a boulder-studded ravine that was doable with a little help from Mr. Gravity. At the bottom, my stomach sank when I realized there was a prospecting operation taking up the entire road. It didn't matter anyway, as the friendly prospectors were happy to show me the chasm on the other side of their dig that would sink a Unimog. We had to turn back. My friend Andy, a perennially jovial goofball who usually serves as photographer, served as white-knuckle window spotter and chanter of "Oh s***, oh s***, oh s***..." If I hadn't have been crapping myself, I'd have asked him to take a picture.
Our base of operations was Indian Camp, a well-placed hideout in the El Paso Mountains that feels like a second home. Even though the temps got down to the single digits, the rock outcroppings, rock walls, and fire pit helped keep out the cold. 'Course, the regular nips of bourbon probably didn't hurt any either.
A bird's eye view of our Base of Operations, with Marlin Camp 9 and Twenty Gauge within close reach. Not that we've ever needed them. I feel safer here than in my own living room...
"Oh, so that's what they mean by 'Purple Mountains Majesty'..." A quick five-minute hike straight up gives a spectacular view at sundown of the valley below, and Randsburg Mine in the distance. A few cheers of whiskey, a quick cigar, and it's back down the mountain before your fingers turn into frozen hot dogs.
See you on the trails.
I like the series cabin
