I was sure this Grand Canyon story was finished. We had covered the Rim Trail from end to end, had stunning sunrise and sunset views, and witnessed an awesome rainbow display. Surely we'd seen it all. Our plan was to exit early in the morning and move on to our next destination.
Mother Nature had other plans for us. Depositing an inch or two of wet snow overnight, she provided an entirely new view of the canyon. Could this really be the same place we were cycling in 70 degree temperatures just a couple days earlier?
We made slow progress out of the park, as we stopped at every pullout to check out the view. Although the snow lay in thick layers on the trees surrounding the canyon, there was none down below.
Eventually the sun came out and shadows played across the canyon.
We were in no hurry. As long as the canyon morphed and changed in front of us, we were happy to linger. It was a long, snowy farewell to the Grand Canyon.
We did two things right on this visit to Grand Canyon National Park. The combination of the two allowed us to avoid crowds and have easy access to all the best vantage points.
The first is coming in March. This is shoulder season in the park, with many of the amenities just opening up for the season and service just gearing up for the upcoming crowds. There are plenty of people here, and at times the parking lots have been full. Lines for the shuttle buses exist, but it appears most riders get on the first bus that arrives. Restaurants are busy, but it hasn't been hard to get in. All we can think is “What must it be like in the height of the summer?” We are die hard off-season travelers. It has certainly paid off this time.
The second is bringing our bicycles. There are greenways throughout the park, enabling us to walk or cycle just about anywhere we want. We haven't set foot on a shuttle bus, and don't have to worry about car traffic.
A few portions of the Rim Trail are open to bicycles. We made sure to ride those. In addition, the road from Grand Canyon Village to Hermit's Rest at the western end of the Rim Trail just closed to cars on March 1. Shuttle buses own the road, but bikes are allowed. We covered that over the course of a sunny, warm afternoon, with frequent stops for the views.
This is definitely our type of tourism. We get to see the Grand Canyon on our own terms.
“Let's go rainbow hunting!” That was Rich. We were holed up in our modest motel room, waiting out the first rain of our trip. He had visions of photographing a beautiful rainbow arching over the Grand Canyon. I was skeptical. Rich has overly-optimistic tendencies. But it beat sitting in the room, so I took the bait.
Arriving at our favorite spot at Yavapai Point during a lull from the rain, the sun was glowing on the canyon formations while ominous clouds gathered overhead. Rich was quick to point out that while blue sky days are pretty, the more interesting shots come with unusual weather conditions.
Weather indeed was headed our way. The dark clouds behind us advanced with rumbles of thunder. Rain began crossing the canyon. While we were still dry, it was consuming the scene in front of us.
Raindrops and lightning ultimately sent us fleeing for cover and safety. Retreating into the nearby Geology Museum, we watched from dry environs. Then suddenly, there it was. Just like Rich thought it would be. A rainbow!
Returning outside, we watched as the rainbow extended in length. Where it would normally reach the ground, the rainbow continued to arc into the depths of the canyon. Spreading faintly across the entire sky, it completed well more than a half circle. Not only that, but a faint twin developed to its left.
The other spectators echoed our excitement over this amazing phenomenon. We all knew we were witnessing something rare and special. We stayed on watching as the rainbow began to shrink. As the sun disappeared. As the storm grew closer again.
Soon it was obvious. It was time to run for the car. The Grand Canyon was under siege, and so were we. But for once I was glad I was swayed by Rich's instincts. Rainbow hunting indeed.
It's taken me 62 years to get to the Grand Canyon, and now I'm wondering why it took so long. Seeing it for the first time as we cycled along the South Rim, I was naturally awed by its vast expanse, the colors of the strata, its depth and the unearthly rock formations. Each turn gave us a different perspective, new views to behold. But it paled in comparison to what happened when the sun worked its magic on the canyon.
Near sunset, we toted our cameras and tripods to the overlook at Yavapai Point. It was already crowded with people, both photographers and those there just to bask in the view. Although most had already staked out their spots, we had no trouble finding a good vantage point as we planned to shoot in the opposite direction. While the sun performed its light tricks in the sky producing brilliant orange and red hues, to us the real display was on the canyon rocks. The further the sun sank the greater the glow on the peaks before us. That was the real show.
Morning brought a repeat performance. We returned to the same spot, first selecting an East facing view to watch the sun come up. It was more beautiful to watch than what I could capture with my camera. As soon as it crested the horizon, we skedaddled to another position to look West. As the sun advanced in the sky, increasing sections of the canyon were illuminated.
When the light began to wane, I set out on another tour of the canyon. What better place for my morning run than along the paved Rim Trail? Covering five miles out and then back again, I had beautiful views to spur me on. Both the 7,000 foot elevation and some steep sections of trail took their toll, but I had the perfect excuse to stop and catch my breath while snapping photos along the way. I can't think of many more picturesque runs I have done in my life.
We haven't even been here a full day yet, and already I think we have seen the best the Grand Canyon has to offer. The rest will be pure gravy.
It’s a pretty audacious claim. But we were due to travel during the migration season and Kearney, Nebraska was not far from our route south. Rich the birder was naturally interested. And I was assured by others that even I would find it fascinating. How could we resist?
Over 80% of the world’s sandhill crane population funnels through Nebraska then fans out to the northern breeding grounds in Canada, Alaska and Siberia. They stop along the Platte River for several weeks to rest and build up their body fat before continuing their journey. At the Audubon Center in the Rowe Sanctuary, they report that the count for March exceeds 460,000 cranes to date.
The cranes spend the day feeding in farm fields throughout the flat countryside. It is at dawn and dusk that they fly between the fields and the river, filling the sky with clouds of birds grouping and regrouping in ever changing clusters and V-formations. It is a noisy process, as their cries fill the air in a roughly melodious symphony. Seeing the birds without hearing them is only half the experience.
Our first attempt to witness this aerial display is at dusk. I pile on my vest over more fleece, top it with a down jacket and add Gore cycling gloves, wool socks and hiking boots. Walking out to an old railroad bridge over the Platte River we find it already populated with other heavily clad birders sporting binoculars and cameras with lenses of unbelievable proportion. I stop between the metal side walls that shield me from the bitter wind while Rich goes out to claim a prime photography spot in the wide open span of the bridge.
The sun is low in the sky, lending a pink and red glow to the low hanging clouds. We wait for the birds to fly in front of the sunset and come in for a landing on the river. But they don’t. Clusters of cranes fly overhead, and there are undulating swarms in the distance. All heading to a more attractive spot downstream. A lot of good-natured bantering goes on among those of us huddled on the bridge, taking the lack of luck in stride as the birds pass us by. Then one by one the birders peal off. Tomorrow will be another opportunity.
Believe it or not, I am the one who insists we try again at sunrise. Rich is disheartened by the dreary sky, but what is the point of being here without seeing the sandhill cranes I argue. By the time we work our way toward the river, we can see huge numbers of cranes already in flight. Situated on a dirt road adjacent to farm fields with brown remnants of crops, the birds come to us. They fly in from all directions, swooping and swirling. Sometimes they settle in the field momentarily then rise again in great volumes. Flocks of birds crisscross in the sky traveling in opposite directions, only to have one group do an about face and follow the others. The crowded acrobatics over our heads are all the more amazing for the lack of collisions that would seem inevitable; the cranes have their ballet down to perfection. And of course, it is all accompanied by honking overhead.
I leave the bird photography to Rich’s superior skills. His video best captures the experience.
Meanwhile my lens is trained on the photographer to lend the personal view.
By the time the action dies down we can say we’ve seen the sandhill crane phenomenon. This time it truly lends credibility to the world capital claim.
We’ve been all over the map – literally. The idea is to get out of town during “muck season” and do some traveling. Each time we bring up Google maps, we come up with a new destination. But we finally landed on the SouthWest – Santa Fe and the south rim of the Grand Canyon it will be.
It feels good to to dig out my cycling gear. Although Rich has been out on his bike several times in the last month, I have yet to put foot to pedal. But my bike has been in for a much needed tune-up, and many dollars later I am assured that it is back in top notch condition. Just wheeling it around I get excited about riding it again.
Between the mountains and the desert, there will be a wide range of temperatures. To a Northlander, it all looks balmy. But my practical side dictates that I still bring my warmest cycling jacket, my Gore Tex booties and heavy gloves. It always feels colder whizzing along on a bike. No sense in getting chilled.
My extensive packing list details exactly what I need for a bike tour, and I know where everything fits into my panniers. The only problem is that this time I’m packing a suitcase. We’re cycling, yes, but only day jaunts. This is actually a road trip. By car.
The expansiveness of the space available to me invites excess. Surely I can fit another outfit in my suitcase. There should be plenty of room to throw in an extra pair of shoes. I see no reason why I can’t bring my laptop. I can’t decide which jacket is better, so I’ll just bring both. Rich won’t need much room, will he?
I’m a little nervous about the car ride. The undeniably perfect part of bike touring is getting exercise while traveling. Not so being a passenger. Knitting doesn’t burn many calories. And the scenery races by so quickly. It’s going to require a mental adjustment.
Once bike touring was foreign to me. Now I can’t imagine travel any other way. We’re off touring again but our bikes are only an accessory on the back of the car. What a novel thought.
The lighthouse easily dominates our existence, well beyond our duties as light-keepers. We have the luxury of time to observe it under constantly changing conditions. Its personality varies as much from minute to minute as it does between days. Camping … Continue reading →
Five layers of clothing. And a buff around my neck. Wool socks, a ski hat and winter gloves. All topped with a heavy down jacket. It’s my daily attire. Just enough to keep me warm.
I stand in the Crisp Point Lighthouse Visitor Center manning the gift shop. With temperatures in the 40s the cement walls are welcome shelter, but lacking any heat source the building does nothing to aid my cause. Gentle shivers involuntarily rack my frame as I strive to maintain body heat. I fear I’m losing the battle. But I am determined to muster on.
Visitors regard us with a mix of incredulity and awe. “That your tent out there?” they ask as they shiver in sympathy. They too are outfitted in winter gear. I answer with a grin and a touch of macho pride, “Yes, and it’s the warmest place around.” They are mighty grateful we are here, keeping the lighthouse open for them. And honestly, we are happy to do it.
We quickly learn to manage. Nothing generates heat like exercise. So I escape for an energetic run each afternoon and relish shedding hat and gloves as I go. I return with enough residual heat to handle a cold sponge bath. Rich follows suit riding the sand on a fat tire bike.
A hot meal goes a long way, warming our innards. Followed by a blazing campfire, evenings are quite comfortable. Crawling into my down sleeping bag at night I feel the warmth immediately radiating around my body. My little cocoon keeps me toasty all night long, nestled into the soft sand. I wasn’t kidding about the tent.
With fresh reserves of heat I’m primed for sunrise. I feel impervious to the wind and cool air as I search out the best vantage points for the morning light show, followed by a brisk walk down the beach. This is my favorite time of day here. Even in October.
By the end of our five days we are coping well. More than that, really. Continue to love it here. I miss the warm days when I could sit on the beach and write, or nestle up on the lighthouse cat walk to read. But it’s still a privilege to claim this remote beauty as home for a spell. Good thing. We’ve signed up to return next October. To chill out.
Fall leaves have been a tease this year. Throughout September and the early part of October we cycled through upper and lower Michigan amid scattered fall colors. Leaves were just beginning to turn, surrounded by their green neighbors. Isolated pockets of color delighted us. But it was only a hint of what was yet to come.
That was actually a blessing for us. We deliberately planned to miss peak leaf season due to the tourists it attracts. We had no desire to cycle crowded roads or fight for motel rooms populated by leaf peepers. So we took pleasure in seeing the mild nascent display.
Returning home to the Northland, it was no surprise that the leaves were past peak. Color remained, but many trees were already bare. So we expected nothing more when we drove through the UP to Crisp Point Lighthouse. Nature had a gift for us this time, and we traveled a shoreline of brilliance. Trees at their finest blanketed the countryside and adorned the lakefront. Stopping at the overlook in Munising provided a fine view in the late afternoon sunlight.
The road into Crisp Point Lighthouse is notorious for being rough. Its 18 miles of dirt road is susceptible to potholes, washouts and bumps. You have to really want to see the lighthouse to make the trip. This fall the area saw unending rainfall, resulting in flooding on the road. We encountered numerous puddles that stretched the full width of the road, daring us to cross. Navigating them tentatively at first, we gained confidence with each one and ultimately plowed right through.
For everything that road delivered in adventure it compensated with beauty. By the time I went for a run in the afternoon, the pools had become reflecting ponds and the colors popped against a deep blue sky.
Catching the colors against the lighthouse required patience and the right angle. But the chase was half the fun.
My autumn is now complete. I found fall colors after all. Where I least expected them.
Spending days on end on a bicycle has a way of holding the outside world at bay. For five weeks, on our Liberation Cycling Tour, our possessions consisted of the limited clothing and a couple of electronic devices in our panniers. Food choices were constrained by what was on the menu at local diners. We didn’t ride in a car, watch TV or listen to the radio. We remained blissfully out of range of the antics of the upcoming Presidential election.
Returning home has reopened a wealth of choice. A closet full of clothes present themselves each morning, requiring a decision on what to wear. I can smother my home made toast with natural peanut butter as I savor my favorite morning coffee. My car easily transports an array of fresh fruits and vegetables, and I have all the tools I need for preparing them to my liking. I still don’t watch TV and only dial in to MPR on my car radio.
My body is most grateful to rest in the same familiar bed each night. Sleep patterns begin to resettle into normal again. My feet relish the expansiveness of ordinary shoes. I get the haircut I have been craving. The eyebrows I have ignored are waxed into submission once again.
First on my priority list for re-entry is seeing family. Hugging those I love. Then connecting with friends. Coffees, dinners and conversations follow. I re-engage with writing and begin a new story assignment.
Oh, it does feel good to return to civilization. But it is an ephemeral phase. A tease. A fleeting moment. We are off again.
This time it’s the car we pack. It is stuffed to the gills with camping gear, food and warm clothes. Feeling flush with space, we bring a larger tent, thicker sleep mats and our own pillows. Car camping brings unfettered luxury.
It’s time for our annual 5-day stint as lightkeepers at Crisp Point Lighthouse. For the third year in a row, we are returning to man the visitor center and welcome all who come to see this remote light and walk its pristine beach.
Our keeper’s campsite for one comes with no electricity, drinking water, cell service or internet access. If we felt removed from normal life while on our bikes, this is truly off the grid. We are able to enjoy the solar power in the visitor center by day, and the flash of the lighthouse by night. Beyond that, silence reigns. Our only connection with the world beyond our 18 mile rustic dirt road will be the visitors who make their way here.
It was nice while it lasted. That brief brush with civilization was enough of a taste to want more. For now that will have to wait, for a worthy purpose. It will be all the sweeter in a week, when I expect to indulge in a good healthy dose of home life. With all its comforts.
Superior Footprints 