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Tip o' the Day

We recently discussed avalanche dangers inherent to wintertime travel in western mountain country -- how one should keep an ear cocked for unusual sounds. But maybe the surest way to avoid danger is to avoid slopes prone to avalanches. "Aha! That's rich, Roland," you might say. "But how can I tell?"

One way is to look for avalanche chutes or paths -- scars running down a mountainside, like the marks of giant claws. They're where snow has avalanched before, and where snow ran before, snow will run again. Unfortunately, given a sufficiently steep slope and the proper snow conditions, avalanches can occur where there's no evidence they've ran before. The only real precaution is to avoid slopes steep enough for avalances to occur. Most knowlegeable avalanche forcasters will tell you the cut-off point is slopes of 25-degrees or more.

"That's interesting," you might say. "Can you extrapolate that in terms I can understand?"

Take a circle. Begin at your far right hand point, mark it with a line. Then number around that circle with 360 equidistance marks. Each of those marks represent a degree. If you divide that circle into four equal pieces you will see that one side of that upper right hand slice lies horizontal, the other side vertical. The vertical line is said to be 90 degrees from the level line. Divide that quarter circle once again and you'll see one line is 45-degrees from the level one. One can see then how he can discern the degree of slope at which he's looking.

One other word of caution. Sometimes, avalanches roaring down steep mountainsides will "fan" out at the valley floor, running for a short distance out, even on level terrain.

Once Jane and I were skiing across the ice of a Glacier Park lake. Steep mountains reared up on three sides. It was a bright, windless, sunny day, the temperature well above freezing -- the kind of day that makes you want to live forever. It was a day prone to avalanches, however, and we could hear their deep booms and rumbles as they turned loose from first one mountainside, then another. Occasionally we could even see one swooping down amid flying powder and tumbling ice blocks. We stayed well out on the lake. Then a huge avalanche roared down from a mountainside on our right and we paused, enthralled, to watch.

I knew we were safe enough. Josephine Lake is a good half mile wide and we were well out toward the middle. Then the avalnche's run-out spewed out on the lake ice and we felt the icepack beneath our skis shudder and undulate with the shock!

I looked at Jane and she murmured, "Are you sure we're really safe out here?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Molester", the eyebrows-raising email pseudonym, used by the 13-year-old California boy, Ethan Lester, said, "I just finished reading Lincoln County Crucible. Its hard to find your books out here. Everybody in California just wants to read about stocks or fantasy stuff. I can't stand either. I'd rather read about JETHRO."

He also wrote, "I just got your newsletter that was great I'm going to print it and have my girlfriend read it she'll probably cry (girls huh?), but hey it's Valentine's Day. your cali fan, ethan lester

It wasn't long, however, when Ethan wrote: "women I don't understand them"

Ethan's dismay allowed me to respond:

"Don't be distressed because you cannot understand women -- I've had the same problem all my life, over 50 of those years in the company of the same woman. I'll not pretend to understand her, however, just to love her. You'll be lucky too, lad, if you someday find one whose company you enjoy, who likes to do the kinds of things you like to do, who likes to be with you when you go places and do things, and who you eventually come to realize is your best friend in life.

None of it will happen overnight, however. There'll be arguments, sulks, disgust, distress, tantrums, crying jags -- yours and hers. But if one overlooks the petty stuff, then someday you'll look around and decide, "She's my best friend after all, and I think we'll stick together." That's love. That's growing together into best friendship!

So you see, Ethan I can't understand women either. But I do understand me and I think she understands she. And both of us understand that the two of us together make one helluva team! That's why you'll be lucky indeed if you find, then nourish, then develop, then train her, and accept training from her, and enjoy each other as long as we have.

Don't try to understand them, though. It's wasted effort.

 

 

ALL ABOUT AGE, GIRLS, DOGS AND LOVE

My first thought was rust-colored, then I decided not. On closer observation, his undercoat was cloudy-gray, with dark flanks. The long, rusty tail waved languidly as he stared down at me through brown eyes flecked with interest. I assumed, the way he stared, he thought me fascinating. "Hello, pooch,"I said as I followed my wife on up the trail.

The dog had trotted out on the ledge above us as we trudged by; Jane had not seen him and, truth tell, the dog ignored her to focus on me. Actually our trail switchbacked only a few feet ahead to follow the rock outcrop the dog stood looking down from. "Haven't I seen you before?" I asked of the dog. The tail beat faster and he cocked his head. "Did you have a good hike?" The tail slowed and the head turned in search of his hiking partner. Then he wheeled and disappeared. I trudged on in Jane's wake.

Soon we reached the next level and switchbacked. I heard Jane say something to an oncoming person, then I rounded the corner and spotted a couple of ladies coming down. The rust-colored Heinz-57 swept past Jane and trotted up to nose my leg. I laid a hand on his head and scratched around first one ear, then another (I know all the sweet spots on dogs that need scratching). "So you two are at it again," the first lady said and I turned my attention to the oncoming traffic. The dog stood quietly under my hand, waiting patiently until I could get back to the serious work of pursuing his itches.

Both ladies were young (to me anyway), probably in their thirties. Both were blonde and slender. The dog nudged my knee and I glanced down, then started walking my fingers down his backbone. He writhed in ecstasy. Jane asked, "Did your friend find her dog?" and I knew we'd met at least one of the women somewhere on the trail yesterday --it was yesterday when yet another lady was looking for her dog on this very trail. "Oh yes," the blonde said. "He'd found something dead off the trail and was rolling in it." The rust-colored dog nosed my knee again and I glanced down. The big brown eyes gazed up at me in obvious affection and I couldn't resist searching out the itchy places behind his front forelegs.

It was after we trudged on up the trail that I began mulling over our chance meeting. The trail we hiked is an arduous one, climbing four thousand feet over eight miles. Despite its grind, it's a popular trail, only three miles from town and near residential subdivisions. When we first came to the valley over forty years ago the trail was a seldom-used one; mostly hunters in the fall, an overnight horsebacker or backpacker in the summer. Dayhiking for exercise and/or pleasure was then largely unknown. Now it's different. On an average afternoon, Jane and I can encounter a dozen or two other hikers out for a stroll. Most are, like us, hiking for the exercise, climbing for a mile or two to a series of scenic overlooks, then retracing their tracks back to the trailhead and home. An hour up, a half-hour back. A sustained heart rate of upwards to a hundred and twenty. Cleansed lungs; tired muscles; the noble feeling that we might have extended the end of our lives by another day, week, or month. It's a funny thing, but these days 80 percent of other folks we meet on the trail are women. And well over half -- maybe three-quarters -- are like the two blondes we'd just met: young and fit.

Back forty years ago, women were virtually unknown on this great, convenient, cardio-vascular development path. I pondered. There's no doubt about it, today's upsurge in trail use by all sorts of folks, families included, is a healthy trend. Jane and I are near our three-score-ten and struggling to make it another couple of decades, but many of these young people we're meeting on trails are out apparently because they enjoy wholesome outdoors exercise. How dare they crowd into Jane's and my life-sustaining love!

I returned to the two blondes with the friendly rust-colored dog. Both were so slender and fit they were in racing form. That means reduced curves where I'm wont to expect them. And yes, if I'd not paid so blasted much attention to the dog I'd have noticed more, for each slender young lady was dressed in stylish form-fitting togs: Stocking caps (it was cold) and hiking-hot stretch tights so closely etched they must've been laquered on with a fine-bristled brush. On top, one wore a black polar fleece vest over a light red-sleeved slip-on shirt. The other had on a light yellow and red, broad-striped, slip-on, polyester knit shirt. Later, thinking about them, I suspected each wore a sports bra -- but that's pure speculation.

I do know the leggings of each were tight enough I would've seen dimples in their knees. If only I'd not beem so stricken with their dog --I laughed.

Jane turned around and said, "What?"

I shook my head and said, "Age, my dear. Age. It's all too apparent when I pay more attention to dogs than to their tender young mistresses."

Her brow wrinkled, after all, several minutes had gone by since we met the ladies. Then she smiled. "Put your money on the dogs, dear. They show more affection to a guy like you than do the girls. In your case, age has nothing to do with it."

 

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

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