I woke up this morning and opened up my tent and rain-fly to see snow. . . or least it appeared to be.
This was my first experience with sleet. The tent melted any ice and the tree above dripped plenty of water onto the bivouac. It certainly is a 3-season tent, though with the sleeping bag rolled up under where the rain-fly covers, it is a fine day shelter while I leave. I have already spent a week and a half in Provo, Utah, and I'm beginning to enter the harder weather. This morning, with rain just 500 feet below, I figured it was time to move before the rain line creeped up the mountainside. One of my socks was slightly moist and this was more than enough to make my trip from the campsite to the temple hasty and tingly-numb in the toes. All-in-all, I love this weather. Yesterday early evening, I saw the snow up on the elevation line adjacent to Rock Canyon opening. Most would shudder at the idea of camping at 5200 feet while below at 4600 the ground was draining rain from the day, but I looked up at that fresh powder and thought, "delicious," confident -- and later confirmed -- that the snow line would creep well into the valley come night time and leave me cozy and dry.
Flash back to right before I got here. We (me and my rideshare. He provided the vehicle) left Cadiz, KY at 9:30am and I took a nap (barely) in the back seats outside of Kansas. My partner woke me up to switch after remarking that the road was hypnotizing him. I began to drive, and began experiencing what caused him to surrender the wheel. I felt the certain madness of this very straight road. We headed due west for hundreds of miles. The road had one purpose and one purpose only: to plunge us straight into the mountains. I felt like we were journeying into the belly of some beast, being impelled incessantly, impetuously, onward. And this was no mere dramatization. Driving over Denver, Ft. Collins, and Vail in the dead of night with single digit temperatures was more than challening. We drove into Eagle, CO at 4am, both getting a bit tired, took an hour break and drove the rest of the way. I balled that truck all the way down the mountain to Utah floor. High desert. Passed another continental divide, and I brushed it off with no emotional cost. It was just beyond that point, east of the CO/UT border when that vagabond feeling came to me. I looked over the desert morning, yellow and teeming and realized finally and for all that I have no home anymore. I look forward to feeling that more often in the coming year. I looked at all the canyon water realizing that in a few weeks when I began my bicycle touring that this is all the water that I (with iodine tablets) would be drinking.
My plan (if no ride is secured) is to ride from Provo, Utah to Mojave, CA, and continue bicycling into Tehachapi, spend a few days in Alpine Forest, and then ride down the grade to Bakersfield, San Luis Obispo, Lompoc, then Oxnard. Riding between SLO and Oxnard will be breath-takingly brown and tan and black. The best part about this: I may not even need my bivouac
This was my first experience with sleet. The tent melted any ice and the tree above dripped plenty of water onto the bivouac. It certainly is a 3-season tent, though with the sleeping bag rolled up under where the rain-fly covers, it is a fine day shelter while I leave. I have already spent a week and a half in Provo, Utah, and I'm beginning to enter the harder weather. This morning, with rain just 500 feet below, I figured it was time to move before the rain line creeped up the mountainside. One of my socks was slightly moist and this was more than enough to make my trip from the campsite to the temple hasty and tingly-numb in the toes. All-in-all, I love this weather. Yesterday early evening, I saw the snow up on the elevation line adjacent to Rock Canyon opening. Most would shudder at the idea of camping at 5200 feet while below at 4600 the ground was draining rain from the day, but I looked up at that fresh powder and thought, "delicious," confident -- and later confirmed -- that the snow line would creep well into the valley come night time and leave me cozy and dry.
Flash back to right before I got here. We (me and my rideshare. He provided the vehicle) left Cadiz, KY at 9:30am and I took a nap (barely) in the back seats outside of Kansas. My partner woke me up to switch after remarking that the road was hypnotizing him. I began to drive, and began experiencing what caused him to surrender the wheel. I felt the certain madness of this very straight road. We headed due west for hundreds of miles. The road had one purpose and one purpose only: to plunge us straight into the mountains. I felt like we were journeying into the belly of some beast, being impelled incessantly, impetuously, onward. And this was no mere dramatization. Driving over Denver, Ft. Collins, and Vail in the dead of night with single digit temperatures was more than challening. We drove into Eagle, CO at 4am, both getting a bit tired, took an hour break and drove the rest of the way. I balled that truck all the way down the mountain to Utah floor. High desert. Passed another continental divide, and I brushed it off with no emotional cost. It was just beyond that point, east of the CO/UT border when that vagabond feeling came to me. I looked over the desert morning, yellow and teeming and realized finally and for all that I have no home anymore. I look forward to feeling that more often in the coming year. I looked at all the canyon water realizing that in a few weeks when I began my bicycle touring that this is all the water that I (with iodine tablets) would be drinking.
My plan (if no ride is secured) is to ride from Provo, Utah to Mojave, CA, and continue bicycling into Tehachapi, spend a few days in Alpine Forest, and then ride down the grade to Bakersfield, San Luis Obispo, Lompoc, then Oxnard. Riding between SLO and Oxnard will be breath-takingly brown and tan and black. The best part about this: I may not even need my bivouac
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