Eight Miles in the Mid-day, Mid-June Desert Heat: The Wave and Part Two of a Desert Adventure

The red rock deserts of the Colorado Plateau and the surrounding parts of the American Southwest are among my favorite places on Earth for their stark natural beauty. Prior to this June, I'd never visited them during the heat of the summer, but when I finally won a permit to visit mystical, whimsical Wave, I loaded up on warm-weather gear and hopped a plane to Page, Arizona, for a relaxing eight miles of hiking in the baking desert sun.

The Wave is an area of Navajo sandstone slickrock exhibiting striking striations and ridges that resemble pulled taffy, located in northern Arizona in the Coyote Buttes North Wilderness Area. Much of the distinctive ridges in the sandstone are eolian in nature--that is, they were formed by differential deposition of wind-carried sediment during the Jurassic age up to 200 million years ago as large dunes drifted across the desert--and though not visible in the Wave itself, there are preserved dinosaur footprints within the Coyote Buttes from that same famous age.

Hiking to the Wave requires a special permit from the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), something I'd been trying fruitlessly to obtain for six months. Though said permits are not particularly expensive--$7 at the time of this writing--they are limited to 10 per day online and 10 more per day offered in-person, both via a lottery system.  Demand is such that during peak seasons (spring and fall), applicants' odds of winning a permit via the online lottery are less than 10% for a given month according to the BLM.

Bird's eye swirls near the Wave

Let me stop for a moment and provide a little background information on the permit process, because if you're considering a trip to the Wave, you absolutely have to have a permit (unless you enjoy risking a fine and federal prosecution for trespassing!).  The two paths to a permit work similarly:

First, applications can be made online three months in advance, with a $5 application fee--and note that said fee does not apply toward the cost of the permit (should you win one), is not refundable, and cannot be rolled over to the following month's lottery when you inevitably fail to win a permit. Consider that $5 a gift to protect the Wave, because that's what the BLM will use the funds for. Prospective hikers select three preferred dates within the lottery month, then sit back and wait for the drawing to be held on the first of the following month (so an application made in December is for April, and the drawing will be held on January 1st). I'm not 100% sure that the days selected make a difference, but since the BLM does show how many people have applied for a given day, I suspect that selections do matter: hence, avoiding weekends and holidays will give you a better chance to win. When I checked the November drawing calendar at the time of this writing, several days had nearly 200 people trying to get one of those 10 permits, but a few days had only 30 or so (odds of 1/3 instead of 1/20).

Second, there are 10 additional permits per day available on a walk-in basis the day before a prospective hike. Applications must be made at the Grand Staircase-Escalante visitor's center in Kanab, UT, between 8:30 and 9:00 am (and keep in mind that Utah does observe daylight saving's time, unlike its neighbor Arizona). Here's the catch: winners drawn are groups of up to six people, verses individual winners, and there can be dozens of applications made on a given morning. Good luck!

Crossing the sandy "old road" near the start of the Wave hike

Because of the challenges of getting a permit coupled with the expense and time involved in reaching it (the nearest major airport is in Las Vegas, several hours away; flights to tiny Page, Arizona, or to St. George, Utah, are significantly pricier), I intentionally padded my schedule with an extra day on either end of the trip: one on the way to Arizona in case of flight delays, and one after my permit's date in case inclement weather forced a rain check or a go at the walk-in lottery. (Note: the BLM is doing away with the rain check system later this year, so if House Rock Valley Road is closed due to weather conditions, you'll just have to try the walk-in lottery.) I made the most of the extra time with a full day of hiking in the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument and a visit to Antelope Canyon--though in retrospect, hiking between 16 and 20 miles the day before the Wave (including quite an adventure getting back from Yellow Rock) wasn't the best idea.

A lot of people object to this difficult and frustrating permit process, and I can understand their displeasure that public land would be restricted from public access. However, not only is the wave a delicate formation which could not stand up to the kind of traffic seen at, say, Arches or Zion National Park, but it is actually a fairly compact site: even with the current limit of 20 hikers a day in place, it can feel a bit cramped and crowded at the peak light of the day. Thus I completely agree with and support the BLM's policy. Take heart: you will eventually win a permit if you persevere and are flexible with your schedule, and then you, too, can enjoy being one of the very few people to have seen the Wave in person.

Back in the saddle again--looking down from a saddle crossed on the way to the Wave

Assuming you do win a permit like I finally did--and let me say, June was not my first choice given the temperatures involved!--once you make payment, the BLM sends you the permit itself (and a little bit of wire to run through its grommet and attach to your backpack or self), a parking pass (the Wire Pass trailhead would otherwise require a $5 fee, even for America the Beautiful pass holders), several cautions on the dangers of heat in the desert, and a little brochure which lays out the path to the Wave, with both photographs of landmarks as well as GPS waypoints. Since there is no formal trail to the Wave, this brochure is absolutely essential; in the past, up to 20% of hikers failed to locate the Wave! Take the BLM's directions, a good map, a compass, and a GPS, or else follow fellow hikers to avoid getting lost in the largely-unmarked wilderness between you and the Wave.

I'm going to hop on another soapbox for a moment. The BLM recommends you carry at least a full gallon of water on the hike; to the average dayhiker, this may sound excessive, but given the best time to visit the Wave is midday, and that it's going to be hot and dry no matter what time of year you visit, I would err on the side of caution and bring as much more water as you can carry. Two full gallons (that's about 7.5 liters) would not be out of the question if you can manage to load that much up and carry it comfortably. By the end of my hike, I was rationing my water--walk a tenth of a mile, take a sip, then walk again--and would have done much better had I had another two liters or so with me at the time. It's a long hike of about three miles each way, plus any exploration done around the Wave itself. Food is something else to bring along; I had trail mix and some assorted snacks with me but still ended up absolutely famished by the end of the hike, and hunger pangs are not pleasant piled on top of thirst and the heat.

I realized after my hike that this slickrock slope is the same one seen in the cover photo for Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country, a useful guide for many great hikes on the Colorado Plateau

And yes, it is hot in June in the Utah and Arizona desert! My first choice would have been to do the Wave hike in early March, but as I mentioned before, I'd been trying for a permit for over six months before finally winning one for June. With air temperatures over 100, direct sun falling overhead, and hot sandstone baking underfoot, that means dressing appropriately: I wore a lightweight convertible trail shirt--sleeves down on the hike out to protect me from the sun, then rolled up for the hot hike back--and cotton convertible hiking pants (same operational orders as the shirt), both light-colored to reflect the sun. A hat is a must, preferably one which combines breathable, wicking fabric with a wide brim and ear and neck flaps to give added protection from the sun. Sunscreen is another necessity, as are a good pair of sunglasses; for much of the hike, even if you're not being bombarded from above (and if you go in midday, you will be), the sun reflects off the rock and sand to burn you from below. Finally, I suggest an evaporative cooling neck wrap (or two!) to help keep your body just a degree or two cooler in the brutal desert sun.

The hike begins at the Wire Pass trailhead, located some 8.5 miles south of US 89 from a turnoff near mile marker 26 in Utah. This can be an easy turn to miss, particularly if coming from Page to the east, as it's located just past a sharp turn in the highway. House Rock Valley Road is typically fairly rough, frequently washboarded, and possibly rutted out--much worse in condition than is the Cottonwood Canyon Road through the Grand Staircase--and should be driven only by high-clearance vehicles if there's been any recent rainfall. The road is the main reason hikers would need a rain check for the Wave, as it can be impassible in rare wet weather. At the Wire Pass trailhead, there are restrooms but no water available--so definitely make sure to have plenty more water in your car for your return. There's also a trail register which you must sign and in which you must record your permit number; don't forget to sign out after the hike so that rangers don't have to go looking for you.

Twin buttes and colorful crossbedding in the Navajo sandstone

Hiking boots really aren't necessary for the trip, though the BLM recommends them to avoid a twisted ankle. Here's the deal, though: you don't want to walk around inside the Wave itself with hiking boots, as you could easily damage the beautiful formation you've come to see. That means either carrying a pair of sneakers with you (on top of that camera gear and the gallons of water you'll need), or else just wearing lightweight trail shoes for the whole hike and being careful. There are really only a couple of sections of slickrock slopes you'll traverse where extra ankle support comes in handy (less if you stick closely to the BLM's outlined route), and at that, high-top tennis shoes would probably be okay. My low-rise trail shoes were absolutely fine except for one stretch where I'd gotten off-course on the hike back and descended a steeper slickrock slope than necessary.

Terrain below the entrance to the Wave

The hike to the Wave is about three miles one-way, with portions in a deep sandy wash (ugh) and a few cross-country stretches of sandy terrain leading to slickrock for the final mile or so. Because of my late night the evening before and my aching legs after adventures in Grand Staircase-Escsalante (note to self: do not hike over a dozen miles the day before attempting the Wave), I skipped a dawn hike into the Wire Pass Narrows and showed up at the trailhead around 9:30 am Arizona time. The best light on the Wave itself is from mid-day through early afternoon, with parts of the main formation in shadows up until about 12:30pm during the peak of summer, so it's not unreasonable to leave the parking area as late as half past ten--though I will say that much of the slickrock traversed prior to the Wave itself would be best photographed in the early morning "golden hour" light not long past sunrise.

Fortunately though the hike is three miles across the arid terrain, there isn't a lot of up-and-down to it, with only 350 feet or so of elevation gain in crossing a couple of buttes and ascending to the entrance to the Wave; the hike itself is a good bit easier than the one to the summit of Yellow Rock, for example. Patches of sand, particularly the first stretch of Coyote Wash and the "old road" leading up from it, are the worst challenges encountered. Just follow the BLM instructions. I ended up getting a bit turned around on the final stretch of the route (between "Point 6" on the BLM's map and the entrance to the Wave) and followed the slickrock slopes to the west without descending and crossing an intermittent stream bed at its widest point--thinking that by so doing I could avoid some trekking in steep sand--but this diversion leads to a point marked "Sand Cove" on USGS maps of the area, which though photogenic in its own right is separated from the Wave by a steep canyon whose eastern side is not climbable by hikers.

A nice bit of (fleeting) shade at the Wave

As I got closer to the Wave itself, the slickrock around began to show evidence of the striations which make the Wave such a special place, as well as undergoing a color shift from oranges and yellows to more reds as expected in the Navajo sandstone layer with white features blended in and showing through, giving the terrain a melted ice cream appearance.

When I first arrived at the Wave--after backtracking from Sand Cove to cross the dry stream bed and ascend to the entrance--there were perhaps six or seven other hikers present. The Wave is very popular with European hikers, having been "discovered" in a couple of German nature films and coffee-table books in the early 1990s, and indeed the majority of my fellow visitors sprachen Deutsch. One gentleman had hiked all the way in with a medium-format camera--truly the gear of a serious photographer given its cost and bulk.

I took a break in the shade cast by the Wave's eastern rim while waiting for some of the other hikers to disperse and give me a clear photo opportunity. Sitting there and sipping from a bottle of Gatorade, I refilled my belt pack water bottles and crushed the now-empty plastic bottles to take up less room in my pack, had a snack, removed the legs from my hiking pants (ceding sun protection for coolness), replenished my sunscreen, and read for about thirty minutes as the sun slowly climbed over the Wave and eroded away my little patch of cool shelter.

Hikers enjoying the view of the Wave from above

As I mentioned previously in lauding the BLM's 20-hiker-a-day limit, the Wave is a fairly compact site for all the hiking required to reach it. During the peak time to visit (midday), that can mean waiting out several other visitors before getting the site to oneself, or getting a photo composition which doesn't include another human being. Still, the vast majority of these hikers are here to admire and bask in the wonder of Nature that is the Wave--presumably the same reason you are!--and there's time to share. Enjoy the rewards of those three miles through the desert before facing just as long a trek back.

Striations and crossbedding in the main corridor of the Wave

According to my copy of Hiking the Southwest's Geology: Four Corners Region, the Wave's petrified dunes formed when they occupied a desert along the west coast of what is today North America during the Jurassic age, as prevailing winds drove vast layers of sand across the area in what would now be an east-to-west direction. Beneath hundreds of feet of accumulated sand, minerals in the water that seeped through the dunes gave the formations their striking coloration, and deformation of the still-wet dunes before they set into layers of sedimentary rock created the Wave's unique whirls and twisted striations. Plate tectonics carried this dinosaur-age desert inland, and erosion carved down through the rock to expose the ancient dunes again.

Worn out as I was from the prior day's adventures and the three miles to the Wave, I still managed the energy to explore the immediate vicinity and take in the Wave's beauty from several different perspectives. Photographer Laurent Martres gives a good overview of several of the nearby sights in his Photographing the Southwest vol. 2: Arizona, including the "north saddle" and its view of the North Teepees off in the distance and the "Second Wave," a more yellow-and-orange formation adjacent to and slightly above the main Wave.

Martres is quite right in suggesting that photographers will want to take advantage of every focal length in their pack and try out many different angles; I made extensive use of my wide-angle Canon 10-22mm for more-traditional landscape shots encompassing the Wave and its surroundings, of course, and I really worked my walkabout Canon 24-104mm f4L lens heavily as well at both its wide and telephoto ends. If I'd not opted to leave it behind due to the extra weight, I think I'd have even found good use for my big 300mm birding lens--though for interesting closeups of geological features more than for the usual wildlife images. The only living animals I encountered aside from fellow hikers were a couple of swallows and many different lizards, the latter of which were typically quite approachable and not necessitating a long lens at all.

Leaving the Wave

Originally, I'd considered staying well into the late afternoon or perhaps sunset, but ran into the problem of water: after all that climbing and hiking around the Wave, I was down to a bit less than half the water I set out with at a hair under two liters and only then into the hottest part of the afternoon. Perhaps had I a bit less camera gear on my back and another gallon of water with me, or maybe a portable sunshade of some sort which I could rest beneath for a few hours, I'd have stuck around.

The North Teepees seen from above the Wave. Martres describes a hike to the teepees themselves, but I was wiped out and had to save that one for another time!

Deciding that I would inevitably make another visit to this magical place--one which I could share with my wife Beth, I hoped--I set off for the return to my car and the long drive back to civilization and a big, delicious beer or two along with something to eat that wasn't made from dried oats and raisins.  The BLM instruction brochure actually lists a series of landmarks and waypoints for the return trip as well, and I wish I'd followed them rather than figuring I could just set my GPS to backtrack along my approach route--because as the BLM says on their "Point 9" description, traveling uphill to the west or downhill to the east from their suggested route will "only cause delays in your return." Yes, the BLM is correct indeed, as I ended up crossing the Twin Buttes on the wrong side (to the west), which presented me with a very steep slickrock descent followed by a longer-than-necessary walk through a wash filled with deep sand and only further wore me out on an already-long, hot day of hiking.

I did manage to visit one of the locations Martres describes in his book--quite by accident with the detour I took!--from which artist Michael Fatali captured his "The Bone Yard"--but was not there in the best light of the day (I'd opt for early morning or late evening). Well, that's yet another reason to pay the Wave a return visit.

Leaping lizards!

Fortunately, I was less than a mile away from the car as the crow flies, because I had really started to run low on water and had to start rationing myself to one or two sips held in my mouth at a time, rather than indulging in the long gulps I wanted to take but which would have wiped out my two remaining water bottles in short order. I worked out a system of walking a tenth of a mile, then stopping to take another couple of sips. I even managed to find a couple of small patches of shade along the route back to rest up and cool down, but wow, it was brutally, incredibly hot out in the desert that afternoon!

That last half a mile along the deep sand of Coyote Wash was some of the hardest hiking I've ever done and had my dogs barking and me completely out of water for about the last quarter of a mile or so. When I got back to the car, I checked my GPS trip odometer and found that my hike had encompassed a total of a bit more than eight miles in the desert sun. After signing out at the trail register, I sat down, cranked up the air conditioning, and proceeded to chug a liter of hot Gatorade followed by a half gallon of water, topped off my bottles, and started back up the bumpy drive along House Rock Valley Road for US 89 and eventually the town of Kanab.  I'd had another adventure and seen another one of the hidden wonders of our natural world, had paid a pilgrimage to a spot every serious landscape or nature photographer must, but by then, I was really happy to be heading for civilization.

Until the next time my yen for travel and nature strikes, of course.

Chateau Papillon Birding Update: Scarlet Tanager for Bird #62

It's been ridiculously hot and humid so far this summer in the Washington, D.C., area, so much so that we haven't spent as much time out in the yard as we'd like.  It's just no fun sitting out by the pond when the heat index is well into triple digits and the breeze, if not completely nonexistent, fails to do anything but send a few gnats and mosquitoes your way.  Earlier this week, though, braving the sauna yielded a new bird for our home list: the Scarlet Tanager.

In the wake of serious derecho storms and their 80 mile-per-hour winds, we lost power for several days, and thus I adopted a ritual of several daily trips out to refuel and tend to our generator--all that stood between us and total collapse of civilization (okay, so I engage in a bit of hyperbole now and again). During one of those service visits and the now-uncharacteristic silence as the roar of the generator's engine died away in preparation for topping off its gasoline, I heard a birdsong new to our back yard and immediately started thinking tanager, whereupon I scanned the trees above until I spotted a red with rather too much orange to be the common Northern Cardinal we see all year 'round, then spied out the black wings and excitedly ran inside to grab my camera and Beth so she, too, could enjoy our 62nd backyard avian species.

In addition to the Scarlet Tanager as our most recent addition, since my last post on birding at Chateau Papillon we have added several more birds--unfortunately few of which I got a photo of. Last fall, Beth and I saw a kinglet (probably a Ruby-crowned Kinglet) in the crepe myrtle between our front yard and our neighbor's yard.  Earlier that same season, I spotted a male Palm Warbler in the back yard and even got a few (poor-quality) photos, and I identified by ear a Northern Parula during the same timeframe. Subsequently, this spring, I identified by ear a Blue-grey Gnatcatcher--a long-expected visitor to Chateau Papillon and one I hope to get a chance to photograph the next time it passes through.  We've also at last had several Red-winged Blackbirds visit, and I know I'm forgetting at least a couple of other new species given my naturalist's speadsheet for our home currently lists 62 birds as compared to the 54 present when I listed the Red-breasted Nuthatch back in the fall of 2010--well, one of these days I'll post a full updated list (probably around the time I finish our plant census).

Yellow Rock in the Grand Staircase: Part One of a Desert Hiking Adventure

For several years now, I've been making trips to the red rock deserts of the American Southwest, sometimes with my wife Beth, and sometimes on my own.  During that time, I've had many hiking adventures.  Eight and a half miles at 8,000 feet of elevation really put our lungs to the test in Fairyland Canyon.  Hiking along the rim of the Island in the Sky at Canyonlands National Park and descending hundreds of feet into the Bryce amphitheater, I realized I had gotten over any fear of heights I'd once had.  On a January visit to Delicate Arch, I may have been the last human to leave the park, inching my way across compacted ice in the twilight.  But certainly one of the biggest "adventures" unfolded during my recent trip up Yellow Rock in the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

I first learned about Yellow Rock from Laurent Martres' fantastic guide, Photographing the Southwest, which has been my go-to volume for both excursions planned and spontaneous in the gorgeous country of the Colorado Plateau.  Martres refers to Yellow Rock with such adjectives as "simply awesome" and "an exhilarating experience," and the several photos in his book only further sell it as a great afternoon in the region.  He also gives the warning that the beginning of the hike involves a steep 45-degree incline along loose, rocky terrain (remember, you'll be descending this hill in the dark) and that it is "preferable" to have a partner along, which after my adventure I can only second most enthusiastically.

Yellow Rock is located within the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, which encompasses nearly two million acres of land in southern Utah.  Bill Clinton created this largest of our national monuments in 1996 to no little degree of controversy under the authority granted him by the Antiquities Act; the law (dating to Teddy Roosevelt's tenure at the turn of the 20th century) allows the President to set aside public land and protect it without requiring the congressional involvement needed for designating an area a national park.

Without diverging onto too much of a tangent (or getting onto too much of a soapbox), many people are surprised to learn that public land owned by the citizens of the United States as a whole can still be used by and for the profit of private industry, including such destructive activities as mining and timbering--and even can be transferred to private ownership for far below its true value under anachronistic laws originally designed to encourage the exploration and settlement of the American west.  Though originally intended to protect Native American artifacts from tomb-robbers, from its passage presidents have used the power to create national monuments under the Antiquities Act to bulwark natural wonders as well.  Because of the powerful financial and political interests involved in Congress, obtaining the protection of national park status can be difficult, particularly when lobbyists pressure congressmen against each and every attempt to conserve lands which the companies those lobbyists represent would like to pilfer.  Teddy Roosevelt used that power to enshrine Devil's Tower in Wyoming as well as the Petrified Forest and the Grand Canyon in Arizona; subsequent Presidents have protected lands throughout the country--much to the ire of the industries which would like to make use of the resources on public land and the congressmen whose pockets they line.  Many national monuments eventually do become national parks, too (once Congress accepts the fact they're not going to be able to turn the land over to mining interests!).

Beth and I had planned to visit and make the trek up to Yellow Rock back in October of 2010 on a trip that took us to Bryce Canyon, but unfortunately, we encountered rare October rains which closed off the primary access road into the Grand Staircase-Escalante.  Cottonwood Canyon Road traverses the monument from north to south, connecting Scenic Byway 12 in Cannondale, Utah (near Bryce Canyon and Kodachrome Basin State Park) with US 89 between Page, Arizona, and Kanab, Utah; Beth and I unfortunately found a big "road closed due to inclement weather" barricade at its southern end that fall, and ever since then, that trip into the Grand Staircase had been nagging at the back of my mind.

View of the Cockscomb Fault; Cottonwood Canyon Road is visible as the slender strip in the lower-center of the photo to the left of one of the Cockscomb's ridges.

Though most guidebooks I've read claim the graded clay and dirt road is generally navigable by passenger cars when the weather is good, I can say from experience that I wouldn't attempt Cottonwood Canyon Road without a four wheel drive, high-clearance vehicle; it's just too rough for cars or casual drivers--not to mention that a 4WD is absolutely essential for many of the side roads within the monument which you won't want to miss.  The roads are washboarded in some places, and slick with deep sand in a few others.


Also take note: absolutely do not under any circumstances, no matter what 4x4 vehicle you drive (unless it has tank treads), attempt Cottonwood Canyon Road during or after heavy rains; the dust-atop-clay surface will become completely unnavigable, and chances are you will get stuck, have to hike out, and pay mega-bucks for a tow once the road conditions finally improve.  A few other road tips: take plenty of water with you and a shovel (in case you get mired in sand or mud), as well as a tow strap in case you need or can offer assistance to others along the road.

Yellow Rock as viewed from the peak of Brigham Plain Road, just across the Cockscomb Fault.

Because the other sights on my itinerary were all in northern Arizona or just across into Utah, and because I stayed in Page, Arizona, and Kanab, Utah, I chose to tackle the drive to Yellow Rock from the southern end of Cottonwood Canyon Road.  It's a bit more than 14 miles from US 89 to the Lower Hackberry Canyon parking area which is used to access Yellow Rock.

Shortly before the parking area (which is on the left when traveling north on Cottonwood Canyon Road), you pass a turnoff for Brigham Plains Road (BLM 430) on the right.  A short detour onto BLM 430 takes you up a series of steep switchbacks to a vantage point overlooking the Cockscomb almost directly across from Yellow Rock (see photo, above) along with several other geological features in the area including one of seven of "Mollie's Nipples" named in Utah.  This is not a drive for the faint-hearted or those with a fear of heights; the switchbacks ascend nearly a thousand feet in a short distance, and there are few places to pull aside or turn around if you happen to encounter someone else coming the other direction.  I undertook this excursion with the full knowledge that Beth wasn't with me and wouldn't have ever consented to the drive were she in the car--so when we return to visit the area together, I won't get the chance to drive it again.

One quick note about Brigham Plains Road: even though it is shown on the BLM's Grand Staircase-Escalante brochure's map, do not under any circumstances attempt to drive its full length.  Looking at the map, you might think it could serve as a shortcut to/from the vicinity of the Wahweap Hoodoos (where it joins with BLM 431), but you would be mistaken.  The gentleman from whom I rented my Jeep--himself a veteran driver who had spent his entire life in the rocky deserts of Utah--crossed-out BLM 430 on my map with the caution that he had very nearly lost his vehicle over the side when the shoulder gave way along a particularly narrow stretch.  Likewise, Martres in Photographing the Southwest Vol. 1 strongly advises drivers turn back at the apex viewpoint and that the road quickly deteriorates beyond that point--and for me, ascending the switchbacks (and then descending on the return) was quite white-knuckle enough!

Once parked at the Lower Hackberry Canyon area off of Cottonwood Canyon Road, take a few minutes to double-check your gear.  Plenty of water is a must, particularly in the summer, as the hike up to Yellow Rock is quite steep in places and will tire out the average hiker quickly; likewise, I found an evaporative cooling neck wrap quite handy.  Since Yellow Rock is best in the late afternoon and at sunset, chances are you'll be descending in the twilight and darkness--so bring a working flashlight, and unlike me (more on this later), double-check that the batteries are in good shape.  Bring a map, a compass, and a GPS.  Wear sturdy hiking boots with good ankle support--a necessity for the descent as well as handy when clambering across the "sea of slickrock" or Yellow Rock itself.  Don't forget to sign the trail register so that rangers will know to look for you if you get lost or injured on the trail.  Carry a whistle in case you need to call for help.

Did I mention that flashlight?

The hike begins with a short walk down Cottonwood Wash--sandy terrain that is not exactly welcome after the strenuous hike back, but thankfully only 300-400 yards in length.  Look for a side canyon leading to the west (off to the right-hand side of the wash), located approximately at 37°15.240 N 111°54.789 W if you're using a GPS.  Though this side canyon may not look any less steep than the surrounding terrain--with a 45-degree ascent--it does have a relatively-stable path (marked intermittently with cairns) to the top.  The terrain is very loose dirt, rock, and sand, so unless you want to continuously slide back down the hill, stick to the marked path.  I wish I'd taken a few more photos of this otherwise-unremarkable side canyon, but you'll have to just take my word for it: the ascent is rough and involves no small bit of scrambling.

Yes, I climbed up this slope: looking down from near the top of the side canyon ascent to the base of Yellow Rock.

Let me add that I am not at the moment in the best shape of my life, and this hike in the 90-plus degree desert sun was not exactly easy.  I am well-accustomed to scrambling on loose ground when hiking as well as clambering up steep hills (I grew up in West Virginia, after all), but between living near sea level today (the  Yellow Rock hike takes place at nearly 5000 feet of elevation) and quite simply being out of shape, I had to stop several times going up the side canyon to catch my breath.

After crossing the saddle atop the side canyon, there are several interesting groups of hoodoos and other rock formations visible, such as the one above which I see as a beagle or dachshund baying at the moon, and which a coworker interpreted as a turtle's head.  If using a GPS, mark this point on your map for the return, and at any rate, memorize the formations next to the saddle (which look like a tall set of horns or perhaps a fork).

Crossing from the side canyon rim to the base of Yellow Rock itself isn't much of a routefinding challenge, nor a particularly difficult hike.  Once at the base of Yellow Rock, though, you'll begin to appreciate the scale of the sandstone dome before you.  It doesn't look that large from across Cottonwood Wash--just a bare patch of sandstone amidst the desert scrub--but in the barren landscape, sizes are deceptive.  Martres refers to the "sea of slickrock," and his description is quite apropos, though in this particular case the seas are rather high.  Waves of rock wrap around, in places cross-bedded like the scales of a snake, in others laid out like ropy, long snakes themselves.

Slickrock snakes on Yellow Rock

I visited near the peak of summer (about a week before the solstice), and timed my hike to arrive at the peak about two hours before sunset.  Martres indicates in his text that the sea of slickrock falls into shadows "about an hour" before sunset, and I'd suggest arriving perhaps three full hours or more ahead of time to fully be able to hike and enjoy the vast expanse of sandstone around Yellow Rock.  As a photographer or simply a nature enthusiast, you'll definitely find a wide variety of terrain, texture, and colors to satisfy, with only so much time to see them.


Once I finally reached the summit of Yellow Rock, I do have to say I found the entire experience somewhat anti-climatic.  Yes, it's a fantastic view--but there are better in the southwest.  Yes, the colors in the late-afternoon sun are stunning--but so are they at many other locations throughout the Colorado Plateau.  I think had I had a bit better skies, my opinions would be different: imagine some clouds hanging over the horizon, filling up the air with the anticipation of a real gully-washer of a storm as the energy builds and the clouds stack atop themselves into one massive anvil-shaped thunderhead.  I'm not saying the hike wasn't worth it--don't get me wrong--just that perhaps I had built it up in my mind as the sort of existential experience that is seeing Bryce Canyon's hoodoos for the first time, or watching the sun set at Delicate Arch, or rise over the Maroon Bells amidst aspens in their full fall-color glory.  I don't think Yellow Rock is that kind of experience, though perhaps my adventure on the hike back is coloring my view somewhat jade.



At any rate, I explored the top of Yellow Rock and took plenty of photos (see the lead-in image for this post as an example of the light about 15 minutes before sunset, casting the rock a stunningly-deep orange-red near the north-western side of Yellow Rock).  I read a good portion of a book, enjoyed a snack and rehydrated.  Then I packed up my gear and headed back down.

Ascending the slopes of Yellow Rock

Remember that saddle and rock formation you crossed at the top of the steep side canyon?  I hope you do, because you need to descend by the exact same route.  That's where my adventure really began, for although I had not only taken a photo of that "fork-like" formation and marked its coordinates in my GPS, it's quite easy to get turned around atop Yellow Rock and its vast slickrock expanse.  As I carefully descended the rock slopes, I sighted my objective by eye and by GPS compass bearing (n.b.: make sure your GPS compass is properly calibrated!) and set off out of the wilds.


Given the rolling terrain and large patches of sandy or cryptobiotic soil (the latter of which should not be walked upon, as the delicate crust is easily damaged and can take decades to recover), it wasn't as simple as just walking in a straight line toward the saddle.  Several times, I'd top a small ridge to find an impassably-steep slope on the opposite side, then have to backtrack and navigate around, then take another bearing and descend, then climb the next ridge.  I realized when my objective didn't get any closer that my compass wasn't functioning properly; even with the many detours I took, I should have made some progress.

Reviewing my GPS track log, I discovered that I had diverged several hundred yards to the right of my original course; after recalibrating my compass (fortunately easily done in the field!), I took stock of my situation.  Here's where things got interesting.  It was by then growing increasingly dark, and I had yet to start the descent back down the steep side canyon.  I'd worked my way around to the wrong side of the saddle (with the proper descent off to my left on the opposite side of the tall, fork-shaped rock formation), and due to the terrain, couldn't easily get to the correct side.  My navigational mistake meant I'd have to backtrack quite a bit: I couldn't just walk along the ridge to the saddle itself due to several obstacles (the tall, fork-shaped rock formation; several trees; steep slopes), and wasn't exactly thrilled at the notion of backtracking and descending to the sea of slickrock, crossing several more sandy beds, then ascending the ridge again.

"It's just over that hill!"  Oh, no, it's not, unless you mean a sheer drop to the wash below...

I tried several shortcuts which from where I stood looked promising but which inevitably failed to pan out--usually ending at the brink of a 200 - 300 foot descent down a 70-degree talus and scree-covered slope.  In retrospect studying my topo map in detail (I had deleted my GPS track log by then in disgust--I do wish I'd kept it now, though), I ended up attempting the descent into the side canyon from its top, head-on, when I should have wrapped around it to the side slightly.  This put me on much steeper ground, and with the light failing and my legs worn out from over 20 miles of hiking throughout the day, I was not in a happy place.

Descending along the southern slopes of Yellow Rock

Now, I've done plenty of hikes in the dark before and on terrain just as challenging as that of the Yellow Rock descent.  A couple of years ago, I visited Delicate Arch for sunset in January and had to inch along sheets of compacted ice and snow crusting the slickrock for a 600-foot descent without crampons or ice spikes of any sort on my hiking boots (n.b. slide-on traction spikes are a worthwhile investment! I couldn't have done Bryce Canyon this past January without them.).  I have hiked out of pitch-black woods on animal trails in the rain.  But when I pulled out my flashlight and discovered its batteries were just about kaput, I was not pleased at all.  I was at least several hundred yards off course and facing some incredibly treacherous footing.  Martres' words of warning started glaring down at me in recrimination: "The potential is there to hurt yourself or twist an ankle, especially during the descent. It is preferable to do this hike with a partner."  (I was actually rather glad not to have Beth along--worrying about my wife slipping and taking a tumble down several hundred feet of slope isn't something I needed when I had to concentrate on where to put each footstep.)

Indeed, I took a couple of spills myself during the descent when seemingly-solid footing gave way--once or twice I slid a good 15-20 feet before coming to a stop, giving myself the worst (and possibly first) skinned knees and shins since I'd been twelve years old or so.  If I didn't have such strong ankles and flexible tendons and ligaments (and very good hiking boots), I suspect I'd have come away with a broken or at the very least badly-sprained ankle several times.

During one tumble, I managed to plow one of my cameras into the gritty soil, and later on that evening at my hotel when preparing my gear for the next day, I discovered a deep chip on the lens's UV filter--well, that's what the filter is there for; better to damage a $70 filter than a $1200 lens!  I'd packed away one of my cameras already, but in the arid terrain, I didn't want to disassemble the other and contaminate the sensor with dust--a mistake I rued considerably when on a 50-degree slope on the descent I did decide it would be easier just to clean the sensor than risk critical damage. You try removing a heavy pack, keeping it from tumbling down into a desert canyon, and keeping your own balance in the dark... not fun.

Can I say this again?  Make sure your flashlight batteries are in good shape before undertaking this hike!

On one particularly nasty side, I discovered I'd ripped the necklace I always wear.  Given half the pendant on it was hand-made by someone who no longer makes jewelry, I wasn't pleased and was kicking myself for not having removed it for the tricky descent (and stowed both cameras, and re-attached the zip-off legs to my hiking pants to save my skinned knees, and ... well, it was a bit of a moment of recriminations, okay?).  To this day, I cannot believe that I managed to find both parts of the pendant, in the dark, on the side of a rocky slope where I'd plowed ankle-deep into the dirt.  I promptly stowed the necklace, pendants, and my wedding ring in a sealed pocket, then said the equivalent of a couple of Hail Marys to the Invisible Pink Unicorn in thanks, and amazingly found myself at long last back on the proper trail.  I'd only spent the past forty minutes in the dark sliding my way down about 300 feet of vertical drop, and I was thankful to finally see a cairn along the path.

Back in Cottonwood Wash, I still had to find my car--which I'd cleverly parked in the shade of a particularly-large cottonwood tree but now, under the worthless light of my ever-dimming flashlight, I spent another twenty minutes hunting out.  I'd marked my car's location on the GPS, but in the descent, my compass had gotten tweaked again, and I trudged a tenth of a mile in the wrong direction through the deep sand before realizing the error (I should have zoomed in more, and relied on the track log instead of the compass, I suppose).  When I finally did get to my car, I could barely get my boots off to pour out all the accumulated sand and pebbles and other grit that had accumulated inside them; my feet had rather swelled during the day's marathon of hiking.  But I was back, and I only had fourteen miles of rough dirt roads and another forty of highway ahead to reach the hotel, lick my wounds, hit the sack, and then get back up and tackle another day of hiking and photographic adventures.

And you thought nature photographers led a glamorous life, didn't you?

Fall Foliage 1500 Miles from Home: Aspens in Aspen (With a Tangent on HDR imagery)

There are certain places which every photographer must visit in his or her lifetime, and certainly Colorado's Maroon Bells at sunrise is high atop that list--even more so during fall foliage season.  Indeed, there those who make the high alpine lake shore near Aspen an annual pilgrimage, to the point that the Maroon Bells are characterized by some as the most photographed scene in North America.

The Maroon Bells about 15 minutes before dawn

After a long several weeks at work with nary a moment for any interesting photography (working with the government come the end of the fiscal year always makes for busy times!), I needed a break.  The red rock country of the Colorado Plateau did have its siren call in my ear, and I might have headed out to revisit my favorite place on Earth, Bryce Canyon.  Yet with October here and its palette of fall colors that come but once a year, I decided to see something I had not before and booked a flight to Aspen, hoping to catch the aspens at their peak of brilliant yellow even as the Front Range of the Rockies picked up the beginnings of their wintry white cloaks.

Fall comes earlier to the high mountains of Colorado than it does to the Piedmont and coastal plane of Virginia where the majority of the trees are still largely green--according to my trusty copy of Laurent Martres' Photographing the Southwest, the peak of fall color typically arrives in the last week of September to the first few days of October--but I couldn't get away from work any earlier than the Columbus Day holiday weekend.  Fall colors are notoriously fickle, too, depending on factors from the amount of summer rainfall and temperatures leading up to the fall to wind and rain once the leaves turn.

Despite predictions of a later-than-usual peak for the area, I saw plenty of completely bare patches standing along the slopes as I flew over the Front Range from Denver--alongside many still-green stands of aspens, indicating a combination of less-than-optimal summer conditions and winds which had stripped bare many of the trees which had already changed colors (I'd seen the wind forecast a day before my trip--which didn't leave me very happy).  No matter: there's always something to photograph in Colorado!

I started my day in Aspen with a drive up to nearby Marble, a tiny community with only one paved road (and that recently-enough done that Tabitha, my GPS, kept trying to steer me off onto alternate routes).  A lot of the names of Colorado's towns reflect the state's mining history--Telluride, Agate, Leadville, Gypsum, to name a few--and Marble follows that tradition well as it is named for its marble quarry, from which material used in D.C.'s Lincoln Memorial came.  At the far end of town, CR3 turns into a dirt road with a warning sign that there is no winter maintenance and that only 4x4 vehicles are permitted beyond that point: good thing I rented one (and no, please don't tell the rental company, who I know forbids offroading).  This is the beginning of the road to the Crystal Mill, one of Colorado's many treasures and a perfect late afternoon photo shoot location.

Lizard Lake, approximately halfway between Marble and the Crystal Mill

Martres describes the 5.5 mile trip from Marble to the Crystal Mill as a rough but "non-technical" drive--but then, he's comparing it to some of the really challenging routes in the desert southwest.  Although I have some experience with offroading--having driven Jeep trails in the Anza-Borrego Desert among other routes--and have owned a SUV for years, I have to say that the average Joe won't want to tackle the drive to Crystal Mill and should hire a driver and vehicle in Marble.  Most of CR3 beyond Marble is incredibly rocky and demands a high-clearance vehicle with large, tough tires and deep wheel wells, and the vast majority of the route is a single lane which often includes a steep drop-off to the Crystal River far below.  I put my Chevy Tahoe into first gear and full-time four wheel drive and still felt the 45-minute drive worthy of the white knuckles I sure had.  There are stretches where it's tough to see far ahead as you top over a rise, and you dare not come to a full stop for fear of sliding on the loose rocks that continually make the ride a jouncing rollercoaster experience.  You will meet other vehicles, and chances are one or the other of you may even need to back up to find a place wide enough for the other to get by.

The Crystal Mill is worth the drive (or ride, if you're not up to wrangling your own SUV there).  Dating to 1892, the structure stands on a promontory overlooking the Crystal River and is surrounded by aspens which at their fall color peak are gorgeous to behold.  I've seen a few beautiful old mills in the Appalachians, to be sure, but those don't have quite the dramatic background of snow-capped Rockies as does the Crystal Mill.  The mill actually was a power station which provided compressed air for silver mining activities in the surrounding area.

My only complaint was that I managed to get only thirty seconds or so of sun on the mill; the skies had gone to a solid, dreary white during the drive up from Aspen and offered only the occasional gap of blue through the dense cloud cover.  That made my work as a photographer significantly more challenging; nothing makes an image more lackluster than the low contrast of grey, boring skies.  So I set up for a HDR (high dynamic range) shot, taking several bracketed exposures which I intended later to combine in Photoshop into one image which rendered the full detail of the scene and which would allow me to expose for all the rich color of the mill itself while still getting some density to the sky.

Techie side note: HDR can work well for images with significant difference between the bright (or highlight) and dark (or shadow) areas; camera sensors only capture a few "stops" (with each stop representing twice the brightness or darkness of the adjacent one) of light from highlight to shadow--typically anywhere from 5 to 10 stops--whereas the human eye sees a range of up to 15 stops.  Couple that with the fact that our eyes and brains constantly adjust to whatever we're focused on in a very dynamic process which effectively allows us to take in an even broader range of light and dark in a way a single, static image cannot, and you see the problem which HDR is designed to address.

Above, I took three separate exposures, each one full stop in difference than the next.  Given I'd set my exposure compensation to underexpose the shot by a third of a stop (to try to avoid losing the highlights on the water or in the skies), that gave me photos at -1 1/3, -1/3, and +2/3 exposure across a range of two full stops (and thus expand my camera's dynamic range by an extra two stops as well).  I won't bore you with the details of how I processed the HDR image itself as there are many more in-depth explanations available via Google.

See the skies I had to work with? Clouds are good, but images need open patches of sky, too!

The drive back out was just as rough as the drive in had been, with the sole benefit of not meeting any oncoming traffic.  I stayed in Glenwood Springs, a community right off of Interstate 70 and about an hour to an hour and a half's drive northwest of Aspen proper--where I could get a hotel room for under $100 a night instead of paying through the nose with Aspen's high-end boutique rates.  Still being one eastern time made an early bedtime more effective (a good thing as the drive to the Maroon Bells plus needing to be there well before dawn meant a very early morning).

Even though CO82 has a HOV lane (M-F starting at 6:00am) as you near Aspen, traffic was pretty light on my drive down to the White River National Forest and the Maroon Bells.  I figured even with the fall foliage a bit past its peak, a holiday weekend in autumn would find the place packed for the sunrise, yet as I pulled into the Maroon Lake parking lot at approximately 5:50am, there was only one other vehicle present.  Yes, it was bitterly cold: I'd used the Aspen forecast in determining clothes to bring, not thinking that the Maroon Bells were 2000 feet higher up in elevation than the town, and even layered, 18 degrees is darn chilly!  (Side note: arm warmers, designed for cyclists, are a great invention.)

Sunrise may not have been until around 7:15am--and it was completely dark when I arrived--but the skies began lightening not long after 6:00am, so I headed out into the elements and up to the lake shore to set up my tripod and await the magical experience of a Maroon Bells dawn.  (See the photo leading off this blog entry for the scenery I contemplated, my fingers and toes freezing, for about an hour before the sun's first rays struck the peaks.)

On a perfect morning, there will be a few clouds in the sky and absolutely no wind--the slightest breeze will set ripples across the lake and spoil that stunning reflection.  I must say, the morning of October 10 was very nearly perfect!  This really helped make up for the fact that the aspens nearest the lake shore in the shot's foreground had completely shed their leaves.

A graduated neutral density filter will work wonders here, as the first rays of the sun on the Maroon Bells (particularly with any snowfall on the peaks) will create significantly more contrast across the scene than any camera sensor or film can capture.  I went with a 3-stop filter (meaning the lightest areas of the filter let through around eight times as much light as the darkest), and even stacked a second 2-stop graduated filter in front of it for a few shots.  As with the pre-dawn shots I took and the Crystal Mill, bracketed exposures with an HDR image in mind aren't a bad idea, either.  Do note that the first golden rays will strike the peaks about 10 minutes after "scheduled" sunrise (according to the time in my GPS' almanac).

After the best moments of sunrise, it's at least an hour and a half to two hours before the sun will have crept high enough over the peaks behind and to the photographer's left to evenly illuminate the trees surrounding the lake.  I spent about half that time in my car, warming back up from the bitter cold (and cursing having only brought thin cycling gloves) while I transferred photos to my laptop, then set out along the the Crater Lake trail, which climbs above the far shore of Maroon Lake.

The trail to Crater Lake offers some great views of aspen thickets, showing off the skeletal, white trunks, and at the right time of year their brilliant yellow fall foliage.  It's not a particularly rough or difficult trail, and at under two miles one-way from the parking area isn't an all-day affair, either.  Nonetheless, even though I knew I wasn't in the same shape I had been last fall when Beth and I tackled the brutal Fairyland Canyon hike at Bryce (alongside about 20 miles of trails in and about Zion), I had to stop and catch my breath repeatedly on the ascent.  I kept giving myself a hard time--after all, I'd done Delicate Arch earlier this year on a solid sheet of ice--until I consulted the altimeter on my hand-held GPS (Tabbycita, she's named, for her big sister in my car): the hike rises over 1000 feet in the first mile to mile and a quarter, and a large portion of the hike is over 10,000 feet above sea level!  My blood is simply too thin for that sort of exertion that early in the morning.

There is a fantastic view well worth the hike not quite a mile into the route, looking back down at Maroon Lake from one of the few clearings in the aspens.  If you ever attempt this trail and feel like turning back, make sure to force yourself onward until you do make that viewpoint.

Looking down on Maroon Lake

Stop and spend a few minutes catching your breath, because from there the terrain crossed several shaded switchbacks which anytime outside the middle of summer are likely to be packed with a layer of ice.  Crampons would be a good idea in the backpack of a hiker following the Boy Scout motto, and I honestly felt the going more difficult and slick than Delicate Arch had been back in January.

Crater Lake

Crater Lake itself is a so-so sight in my opinion given the rigors of the hike to reach it, but it does offer a much closer look at the Maroon Bells than the classic shots down along the shores of Maroon Lake.  Would-be mountaineers are advised by signs not to attempt climbing the "deadly Bells" without proper preparation and experience, citing dozens of deaths by even otherwise-experienced climbers annually.

The good thing about the hike back down--besides the fact that it's downhill almost the entire way!--is that you can encourage (or have a chuckle at) all the mid-morning hikers huffing and puffing their way up the path who stop to ask you if it's "much farther" or worth the hike.

By the time I got back to the shores of Maroon Lake at nearly noon, the sun had indeed illuminated the entire basin around the lake.  Unfortunately, between several mallards and a bit of a breeze spoiling any reflections, the pre-dawn clouds having moved on and left behind totally-blue skies, and several dozen tourists posing for quick shots against the majestic backdrop, there wasn't any real chance of capturing a good image, so I set off to Aspen in search of a bite to eat.

Aspen can be very crowded, particularly during ski season as well as the peak of summer and fall foliage, but I found it surprisingly laid-back for a holiday and even found free-for-the-day parking near the city's pedestrian core.  Almost all of the restaurants along the core do seem to be dinner-only establishments, but I found a real gem in the Red Onion, which purports to be the town's oldest restaurant and bar and which dates like the Crystal Mill to 1892 and the area's silver boom.  I enjoyed a pint of local pale ale and one of the best seared ahi tuna salads I've eaten, with the tuna cooked absolutely perfectly (raw inside with a thin layer seared but not blackened) and just the right amount of lemon vinaigrette (most restaurants go way overboard with dressing!).

As I know Beth would never willingly ride out the route to the Crystal Mill and not sure I'd have such an appropriate 4x4 rental the next time in the area anyway, I decided I'd better tackle the punishing drive again while the skies were sunny and take a mulligan on the prior day's overcast grey blanket, rather than spending any time in the many quaint shops of downtown Aspen (with signs proclaiming such encouraging notes as: "Be prepared to spend money!").

The drive out to the Crystal Mill was no less punishing than it had been the prior day--at the end of it, I actually had to crank the Tahoe's full-sized spare back up as it had worked itself nearly loose from beneath the car during the trip--but I did get some fantastic color and light on the mill as my reward.  I also met a young artist hard at work capturing the scene in a painting--certainly the scene is one well-suited to artistic inspiration.  Even with the superior light of my repeat visit, I actually liked the HDR image I made the day before better, though.

I had planned to hit the Maroon Bells for a second morning before flying home on Tuesday, putting to work what I'd learned on my first day there, but when I headed out of the Hampton Inn in Glenwood Springs at a quarter to five, it was raining, and the forecast for the Aspen area was hardly any different.  As I drove down CO82, I did watch the skies closely for any sign of the clouds breaking up--remember, some clouds are a good thing in photographs--but with a repeat of Sunday afternoon's gloomy skies and cloud cover which would stop the pink alpenglow and sunrise's magic cold, I decided to put my frequent flier status on United to work and catch earlier flights home.

Will I make the Maroon Bells an annual pilgrimage as do so many other nature photographers?  Well, it was indeed spectacular and something I'd see again, though there are so many other destinations and sights calling...  Well, next time Beth needs to come along, so perhaps in a year or two, I'll find the shores of Maroon Lake in my travels again.

Keeping the Old Forester Going: DIY Belt Replacement

Earlier this year, I started doing a lot of the maintenance on my car myself--more out of a sense of, "if you want it done right, you've got to do it yourself," than necessarily to save a few dollars, though the latter is nice, too, given the typical mechanic charges more than double what I make per hour.  One of the first tasks I tackled was flushing the power steering system, which solved a multitude of problems--but eight months later the steering started acting up again, this time with an audible squeak I hoped was only the pump drive belt and not the pump itself going bad.

Drive belt cover removed to show the power steering
 & alternator belt (left) and air conditioner belt (right)

I've got nearly 90,000 miles on my 2004 Forester XT, and though I've been pretty good with the upkeep, it's nonetheless eight years old.  The steering system had really started to squeak when I first started the car, and the steering wheel had started vibrating again along with the car idling a bit rough at times like it had before I flushed the fluid (don't get me started on how Jiffy Lube had put the wrong fluid in--yeah, I know Dexron III is labeled as transmission fluid and not steering fluid, but that's what Subaru designed the car to take and that's what should be used!).  Replacing the pump would set me back around $150-$400 in parts, depending on whether I went with the OEM or an aftermarket pump, so I figured I'd first try replacing the belt and flushing the fluid again.

I don't believe drive belts are supposed to look quite like this...

The existing drive belt definitely needed to be replaced: as you can see in the photo above, it had split along the length of the belt into three sections, and was starting to fray along one of the strands as well.  I'm actually a bit surprised my battery held a charge, given the same belt drives the alternator and obviously  wasn't working very well, as it was slipping and squeaking a good bit.  The fact the belt is hidden away beneath a cover is no reason I shouldn't have caught this sooner (nor an excuse Jiffy Lube shouldn't have noticed it during one of their services).

Getting the right replacement belt was harder than the replacement itself.  My understanding from much consultation with the Internet tubes is that the generic aftermarket belts from auto parts stores don't quite fit right compared to the OEM ones, and unlike most parts debates across Subaru forums, almost everyone agrees on that point.  I drive right past a Subaru dealership on the way to work, so figured I'd stop in and that their service department would have something like that in stock, but alas, they "were at the warehouse," already closed for the day--and come Monday, the same tech greeted me with the same line he'd given me a few days before: "Oh, I've got some bad news on those belts... they're at the warehouse."  Yep, closed for the day again, too.

The delay pushed back the repair until after I got back from a trip to Vegas with my sister (that's a long story involving a skinny ginger git from Harry Potter and worthy of its own blog post).  Facing a commute to the office with a seriously-deteriorated belt, I decided to tackle the job before going into work.

Under the hood with the belt cover still in place

For the 2004 Forester XT, the accessory drive belts are located beneath a plastic safety cover (pictured above, foreground).  This comes off with the removal of two bolts--have a ratchet with metric sizes on hand, and you'll have no problems getting it off and out of the way.

Bolts which need to be loosened to remove the power steering & alternator drive belt (red circles)

Even split and as worn as my belt was, it had plenty of tension and wasn't about to slip right off.  I could have cut it--the existing belt wasn't exactly in great shape anyway--but given the new belt installation requires getting things loosened up, there's no avoiding releasing the belt tension.  There are three bolts for the power steering and alternator drive belt (which are mirrored for the air conditioner compressor drive belt); I've circled them in red in the photo above.  The two leftmost bolts are called out in the service manual and serve to tension the belts--to adjust, first loosen the bottom bolt a few turns, as it locks the entire assembly in place, then turn the top bolt to move the alternator up or down and thus increase or decrease the belt tension accordingly.

Before you get too far and wonder why the belt doesn't seem to be getting any looser, here's something my service manual neglected to include: notice the third bolt (center right, above)?  You have to loosen it as well so that the alternator can pivot as you adjust the long bolt on the left; a half turn or two is all it should take.  I had to really lower the alternator to be able to get the old belt out and the new one in, running that long bolt nearly all the way out.

While you've got the power steering and alternator belt out of the way, you should go ahead and replace the air conditioner belt, too, as belts tend to show similar wear, and you can't get to the a/c belt without first removing the power steering one.  The tensioner is similar to the one for the power steering and is located just to the left of the air conditioner compressor (the thing with the big pulley on the right of the image above).

Once the new belts are in place, just reverse the process you used to loosen the components and relieve the belt tension in the first place.  The belts should be tightened until they displace about a quarter of an inch under firm pressure, something you can measure by putting a straightedge between the pulleys and then pushing the belt down with one finger while measuring the distance it moves down with a small ruler (easier said than done).  Don't forget to tighten the bolt which allowed the alternator and compressor to pivot down.

I did the change-out in about 10 minutes before going to work one morning, so it should be easy for anyone to accomplish.  No special tools are required--just a socket wrench--and the parts aren't particularly expensive (both belts together set me back around $25 from a local Subaru dealership).  Replacing the belts eliminated my car's squeak, smoothed out the steering system, and should be good for another 90,000 miles or so.

Birthday Browsing in Barcelona

Normally, my birthdays are spent at home, with a cake fresh out of the oven and perhaps some steaks hot off the grill, but this year--turning 29 for the 8th time--I got to enjoy the annual celebration whilst abroad.

Beth and I had had a couple of days to get our bearings in Barcelona, with Beth dusting off her Spanish and me trying to absorb some of the local Catalan.  We'd walked La Rambla, enjoyed each afternoon and evening sitting out on a patio or courtyard somewhere with a glass of cava, a mug of cervesa, and a fair bit of vina blanca.  We'd learned the shortcut to the Metro from our hotel and could navigate the mass transit system like locals (well, almost).  But like so much else of our trip, I'd decided just to play my birthday by ear, with only a rough idea as to what I wanted to do.

After a nice continental breakfast at the hotel, we set out for a bit of shopping.  Beth wanted to track down some Mothers' Day gifts, and I'd seen a photo of a hat shop in one of the many travel guides we consulted prior to the trip which gave me an idea of how to answer Beth's question: "What do you want for your birthday?"  Yes, Sombrereria Obach is something of a tourist staple, but it's also quaint enough that I just had to stop in and see what new headwear I could find.  I ended up with a floppy cotton hat which I can roll up and stick in my pocket and which is a bit smaller than the fedora I often travel in.  Prices at the shop reflected its location just off the big tourist drag (at €55, it's one of the more expensive hats I own), but hey, it was my birthday after all!

Beth shows off her scarf from Barcelona

After a bit more shopping with stops at a scarf shop--where I exchanged the gift favor and got Beth the fashion accessory that seems a necessity amongst Barcelona natives, namely, a frilly scarf--we hopped a train to nearby Montserrat... a topic for a later blog; all I'll say for now is that Mussolini would be proud of the punctuality of the Spanish train system.

Thanks to Barcelona's latitude--somewhere between NYC and Boston despite having a much more Mediterranean climate--even in early May sunset didn't come until 8:30pm or later, leaving us plenty of time to head out on the town for a birthday dinner after getting back from Montserrat.  (Side note: On the train ride back, we shared seats for part of the trip with a woman traveling with her cat in her lap; I cannot believe how calm and laid-back the kitty was on public transportation!)  Beth had been after me to pick a good place to eat, and I spent most the train ride flipping back and forth through the Barcelona city guides we had on hand to try to narrow down our selection.

Let me stop for a moment and point out that Barcelona is considered one of the world's top gastronomic destinations, with the broader metropolitan region claiming what is rated by many critics to be the planet's number-one eatery (ahead of Keller's "French Laundry" and "Per Se" in the US and several Paris restaurants) in El Bulli.  Unfortunately, with Chef Ferran Adrià deciding to close this July, reservations are completely unavailable at El Bulli--but fear not; there are still plenty of fantastic places to grab a bite in Cataluyna.

I ended up picking a little hole-in-the-wall called "Bar Seco" on the hillside of the El Poble Sec neighborhood leading up Montjuïc based on a description in one of our travel guides--as I wanted something not too loud, not too crowded, not requiring reservations (as it was already after 6:00pm!), and which offered a genuine, local experience.  It's not too far from the nearest Metro (Paral-Lel on the L2 and L3 lines), though I will say the neighborhood was certainly more residential than some of the more urban environs we'd spent the past couple of days getting to know.

Bar Seco, street view

Bar Seco became one of the highlights of our trip!  The self-described alimentació (which Google helpfully translates as meaning "feeding" in Catalan) is indeed something of a hole-in-the-wall, with a small set of bar seating supplemented by perhaps four tables for two and in-season about the same amount of terrace tables outside.  The proprietors are proponents of the "slow food" movement, which is a sort of antithesis of our American notion of McDonald's-style fast food joints: slow food emphasizes local ingredients and flavors.  Bar Seco does that throughout their menu and their (non-dry) bar selections.

For a change from all the Cava and other vina we'd enjoyed on our trip so far, Beth and I opted for local cervezas (beer), with the unappetizingly-named "Glops"--an unfiltered dark ale--as our favorite winning out over a Montserrat brewski.  We went with the recommendation of our server on our choice of tapas, with some absolutely fantastic patatas bravas (I apologize for not recalling the local distinction of same--other than that they were the best we had the entire trip) and vegetarian-friendly sandwich fare for Beth (a bocadillo made with local cheese and fruit, along with the best veggie-burger I've ever eaten).

Though not a full dinner spread, we nonetheless filled our bellies.  For the first year in many, I didn't have a cake fresh from a box (some traditions win out over the fully made-from-scratch cooking that generally goes on at Chateau Papillon), and given our scheduled early morning departure to Andalucía, we didn't try to catch a spot of gelato on our way back to the hotel.  Nonetheless, it had been quite a good birthday indeed.