All of the other things

My tenure at the park is over, but there remain a few photos of interesting things.


I don't have much to say about these, except for the rattlesnake. But I shall caption them.

A nighthawk.

A ponderosa pine. Ponderosa pines have a silhouette that is itself a classic icon of the west. They can be recognized by their rounded tops.

A damselfly. Damselflies are similar to dragonflies, but are slimmer, and fold their wings onto their backs when they rest.

The Yampa River after the big storm we had while rafting. The storm turned the waters reddish-brown beyond a certain point at which the reddish Phosphoria Formation, above the pale Weber Sandstone, was washing down the cliffs into the river. Here the water behind the sandbar is its original yellow color, the water beyond it more reddish, which color it remained for several hours.

Many ranches have posts over the entrance with various horses, cowboys, bulls, etc. upon them. This one near the park was a little more creative.

DP rides a captive brontosaurus.

A news item in Vernal.

The mineralogy book that my field partner found in the middle of nowhere, in a crevice in some rocks far from any trail. It had a name and a number. However, the number didn't have the right amount of digits to be a phone number. And I can't imagine why anyone would put their SSN in a mineralogy book.

Old juniper wood.

A flower. Obviously.

This cabin is on one of the county roads that allow access to the east end of the park. The sign reads: "$1,000 REWARD for information leading to the CONVICTION of anyone STEALING, MOLESTING or POACHING [illegible] or PROPERTY [illegible]."

My hat, and some scenery.

A worked point (i.e., Indian artifact) I found in the field.

My field partner at work.

A storm beyond the housing area.

Students and volunteers on the University of Utah team doing research in the park pause in trying to remember the Seven Dwarves to catch a Sharpie, here suspended in mid-flight.

DP in a slotty portion of what was generally a non-slot canyon.

Investigating the nicest track site we found. The prominent trackway stretching from foreground to background was made by a small mammal-like reptile walking up a dune 200 million years ago.

Not The Rattlesnake, but a rattlesnake we walked right past before realizing it was there, a foot from our feet.

Fantasy Canyon, south of the park.

Also Fantasy Canyon.

Sunset from Fantasy Canyon.

Flaming Gorge, north of the park.

Flaming Gorge Dam.

A sign below Flaming Gorge Dam that practically invites you to read it the wrong way.

There were many signs here.

Cross-bedding in sandstone.

The moon rises over Blue Mountain. As seen from the housing area.

Some trees on the Ruple Point Trail.

A picture of me at Moonstone Arch outside the park, taken by a co-worker.

And me hiking back from a day of field work.

And me in front of the wall of bones at the visitor's center that will reopen this October.

I scale the stegosaurus model outside my office. For no good reason.

Also for no good reason.

Oh, yes, back to the beginning of the summer, when I was trying to get the frisbee off the roof with a grappling hook made of two pairs of salad tongs.

We take the pledge to become Junior Paleontologists.

Our album cover. Actually, this is the team I worked with for part of the summer.

Second album cover.

Third album cover. Obviously, this is after we fired our drummer.

My goofy field partner Keegan at the wall of bone.

We pose in some shots for my supervisor's blog.

I look up at the reverse image of some footprints.

Our evil supervisor watches over us as we slave to dust off a fossil trackway.

Me and femur.

Now, The Rattlesnake. My field partner and I were hiking through a wash on our way back from a hard day of field work when he told me I just stepped on something. I looked around. This is what I had just stepped on.

It was a baby midget faded rattlesnake eating a lizard. The rattlesnake did not do anything; it just sat there.

We watched it for a bit.

"It can't bite us," I said. "It has a giant lizard stuffed in its mouth. We can touch it. This could be the only time we're ever able to touch a rattlesnake."

I touched it. It sat there. After several minutes of gathering up his courage, my field partner touched it, wincingly.

Immediately after he withdrew his hand, the rattlesnake spat the lizard out with lightning speed and slithered away, keeping its head turned to watch us, shaking its not-quite-a-rattle-yet tail, to coil in some grass a couple feet away.

Okay, so it totally could have bitten us. One of the stupider things I've ever done. Still, we survived!

Dedicated to the god of electronics

The backpacking trip. I'd been planning this trip in the park's wilderness all summer, which for me usually involves a lot of staring at maps, trying to imagine where would be the best place to go, how long it would take, how much water I'd need to bring. I had been thinking about this thing for three months. And I was pretty sure I was going to do it--pretty sure because my potential backpacking partner and I had only discussed the trip once, in a half-assed way, more than three months ago, and I generally consider it to be asking a lot of any human being to have them save a date and then drive six hours to meet you when the original conversation lasted barely a minute. But Kris was there.

We were going to be hiking into a mostly trailless area that included two tributary canyons of the Yampa River and the Yampa itself. I had been assured that the tributary canyons had been hiked by many others and that they contained no drop-offs too steep to navigate. I thought we would probably hike six miles the first afternoon.

But quite early we came to a series of large cliffs below us, twenty to sixty feet each, with no apparent way down into the rest of the canyon. No safe way, I should say. We might, from a distance, see a possible way down one drop, but have no clue how to get down from the ledge the first path might lead us to. We scouted for an hour in the August sun, climbing all over the rocks on the cliff edges, before finding what appeared to be a safe way down that would take us back and forth across the cliffs in a series of smaller drops.

Above, one of the sections of cliff to be navigated. (Once you get to the lower cliff, how do you get off it?)

We did not mean to take any risks. The only difficult part of this route was a drop of about four feet that we couldn't make with our big backpacks on, so we took them off and dropped them the four feet, then hopped down after them.

When I dropped my pack it hit the rock hard, and a small black thing flew off it and bounced off the edge of the next drop, which was about 10 feet away from us. As it was flying through the air I realized it was my camera. I waited for what seemed too long to hear it land and then Kris and I both heard a noise that was way too loud. It sounded like the camera had connected with solid rock at about 100 miles per hour.

At this time I must mention that my phone had jumped out of my pocket in the wilderness a few days before, and after an hour of searching had departed empty-handed, despondent and connectionless in the Middle of Nowhere, Utah, and unhappy to discover that T-Mobile will not ship to PO boxes. Now my camera had decided it would rather throw itself off a cliff than live with me any longer.

It took us a while to get down to the bottom of that cliff, and then another while to find the camera. It was beneath a big rock that I assumed it had hit. I opened the case and saw that the camera was not dented. I turned it on and it turned on. I took a picture with it.

Kris, on the hunt.

MY CAMERA survived a 60 foot fall, landed on a rock, and still took pictures. I have since discovered that it now can't be changed from the auto setting, but still. It reminds me of the pen I lost in the Wyoming wilderness one summer and then found more than a year later when I was fossil-hunting in the area. Did it still write? YES.

Here is me below the cliff, which was 50 or 60 feet high.

We wandered down the canyon for another hour or so before stopping for the night. It was very quiet, no hint of civilization anywhere.

The sun setting on the canyon walls

The next day, while hiking toward the Yampa, Kris and I discussed the merits of hiking in trailless areas. I generally prefer hiking where there's no trail... at least, I do in the West, where there's less vegetation... because it keeps your mind so busy trying to figure out how to get where you want to go. There is much less boredom, and also less pain, as I don't notice my feet hurting. But it certainly wasn't easy. We whacked many bushes, and had to squeeze through crevices in the rock, or make jumps difficult to make with 30 pounds of pack on. Or both of the latter, at the same time. At one point I was held with my feet dangling in the air by my pack which was still wedged between the rocks above and behind me.

Kris squeezes through a crevice

But this was real wilderness. We saw many elk antlers, including these, still attached to the skull:

The canyon walls towered above us.

Finally we made it to the Yampa River. We needed to proceed downstream to the next tributary canyon, where we would climb out, but the river (which, you may recall, was much swollen this year with snowmelt and Spring rains) had not dropped as much as it usually does by August and was bordered by steep cliffs instead of rocky beaches. We needed to find a way up onto the tops of the cliffs in order to get safely downstream. Another hour of scouting in the rain provided a path.

Up on the cliff, looking down at the river

Kris, unable to resist, pushes against the rock on the edge of the cliff. It won't budge.

Here is a shot of the bend in the Yampa where we camped that night. I had expected to see rafters on the river, but we never saw a soul, on the water or off it. I assume that no trips had been planned because often, by this time of year, the river is too low to run.

We took a little hike up into a massive alcove in the cliffs over the river. I turned back to take a shot of some of the terrain we'd just crossed:
For a sense of scale, look for Kris in this shot, reclining above the sheer drop. Click for detail:


By the time we set up camp, the sun decided to come out, and it was everything you might ask for, warm and breezy and quiet and lovely, and with good food too:

Fresh sauteed squash and zucchini with basil and parmesan. On the beach, no less. Again, not a soul in sight. That night the full moon came up, first turning the high rock faces across the river white for an hour before it finally appeared above the cliffs over our heads.

The next morning we took a dip and lounged around in our hammocks before making the short hike up and out to the car.

Once on top, we paused for some photos of where we'd been...

And, of course, of ourselves--

and Kris drove the six hours back to Denver--she had to get back, you know, she had to get up the next morning and drive another three hours to a whitewater rafting trip--and I spent one more night at the park, a stormy night in which a pint of dust blew into my tent, and the next day went hunting for plant fossils with some of the park staff.

We found many things. Here are a couple of the better items I found. A leaf:

Fossil insect. Click for detail.


On the way back, I noticed that something very special was about to happen to my car, and took a picture!

Unfortunately, I was a split second too late. So now I have a picture of my odometer with 111,112 miles on it.

I am getting settled back in Denver now, but there will be more posts to come!

Weekend adventures

A couple weekends ago, I went to Park City, Utah, to visit a friend from URI who was doing her master's thesis research in the area. There were balloons.
Her field area was quite different from mine. It was about 5,000 feet higher, for one; also a bit cooler.
She was there to study how the rocks making up the mountains had affected the way the glaciers had sculpted out the valleys, when there were glaciers. Here, she and a fellow student use a tool for testing concrete hardness to measure the hardness of the rocks. It had a piston that slammed against the rock.

I wanted to use it to test the hardness of my thighs, after hiking all summer, but they were afraid I was going to break my leg.

I also visited Park City itself, which is an extremely wealthy-looking ski resort town.
I was surrounded by all the things I couldn't get in Vernal, like gourmet food, and in my deprivation and weakness spent a little more than I had intended to.

The following week we found some 200 million year old scorpion tracks, the first we have seen. They look a lot like the scorpion tracks on my (modern-day) track identification card... though they may be difficult to see in the picture, as the light was not very good for photographing them.


Me in the field!
That ichthyosaur I found earlier in the summer... a team doing research in the park who had a permit to collect on BLM returned to it, and found many more bones, dozens of pieces. Here some of them are applying a consolidant to bone fragments that have been excavated, while others search for more bones that have weathered out and rolled down the hill:


Then, this past weekend, a visit from a dear friend!

DP and I had many fine hikes and discovered many interesting things in the wilds of Utah, such as this:
At the last park I worked at, one of the rules for field work was "No matter how far you are from civilization, you will always find some discarded can or bottle." Well, here were dozens of them, in the middle of nowhere. Along with some boot heels. The rule is true, though. If you are ever hiking in the backcountry you can test it for yourself.

A mountain lion print. Somewhat disconcertingly, these prints were only seen on our path during the hike out; they hadn't been there on the hike in. No sight of the lion though.

I will be wrapping up here next week, and I'm not sure I'll have time for another entry then, but there are still many more photos and stories!