Sub-zero temperatures, my reward in December of 1989. Seven years in the making. I had finally earned the required credits to graduate from UW-Stevens Point with a B.S. in Wildlife Management. I was ready to venture into the real world. My '70 Ford truck was packed, loose ends tied, and with a turn of the key I would be on my way. Parked outside and without a block heater, multiple attempts failed to turn the frozen engine and I could only hang my head in disbelief. Looking at my watch I realized I could still make the last bus out of town - I just wanted to leave and close this chapter, I could return for my vehicle and belongings later.
Once home, finalizing preparations were being realized as we were to spend the holidays in Arizona. I would soon realize a 100-degree temperature swing. The frozen truck incident aside, my fresh start was going well. While in Arizona I had lined up an interview with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I showed on time, dressed accordingly for what I thought was the protocol for such an event. I met my interviewer, and suddenly felt quite overdressed. My pressed pants, shirt, and tie did not compare to his casual knit sweater and sandals. It went well, and I was hired. Only a couple of weeks removed from graduation, I was already, and unknowingly, learning how to climb mountains. A mountain in the virtual sense is simply an obstacle to navigate on the way to a final goal.
Upon returning home from our holiday I retrieved my truck without effort as the positive temperatures promoted a normal startup. Back home, I had little time to repack for the journey back to Arizona. Preparations and planning were completed in short order and for the next six months I would be camping in the Arizona Sonoran Desert studying nesting bald eagles.
A midwestern boy departs for the Southwestern desert. Naive? Somewhat, yes, but it was an exciting adventure to experience and discover all that came before me. First impressions were of the night and day temperature swings in the desert. Think desert and hot and dry comes to mind; not the chill of the night that was quite real. Real enough to collect enough frost one morning to make a cup of hot chocolate.
I remember how exciting this time was for me, learning through living. Studying eagles involved observation and gaining access to do so required climbing and hiking. Unlike the gentle rolling hills of Green County, the desert was harsh. The naive midwestern boy was introduced to many evolutionary protective qualities of the environment. Scarcity of water made plants very protective. Thorns on some, needles on many others. Cacti of all kinds, tall, short, beautiful blooms, and all with nasty needles. One particular menace of interest was the "jumping" Cholla. Lesson learned the hard way here as the "jumping" nickname comes when these kiwi-sized chunks of cacti covered in needles snag your clothing and jump into your calf muscle. They are not removed as easily. The fauna has evolved into an ornery and protective lot of critters: poisonous centipedes, Gila monsters, scorpions and the ever-favorite rattlesnake.
Offsetting these unpleasant meetings were the grand memories abundant on many of the hikes. One in particular led me up a small canyon. It narrowed and geographically excluded any cattle from grazing the scarce forage. A strange sight prevailed as within this narrow gulch appeared a carpet of lush grass. An overhanging cliff provided a comfortable spot out of the sunshine. As I watered myself and sat back, I realized another oddity in this garden solitude: silence. There was no wind, no insects buzzing, or noise interference of any kind. It was truly the first time I had ever experienced pure silence.
My tour of the Sonoran Desert ended early in June as the thermometer hit 113 degrees, I still find it hard to believe life at that temperature. I returned to Wisconsin for a couple of weeks prior to the next mountain adventure that would take me to Wyoming as a Peregrine Falcon Hack Site attendant.
This assignment was located in a mountain scape closer to the preconceived notions in my mind. It was also without as many of the harsh amenities that the Sonoran Desert afforded. The smell of pine on a hot summer day, I hope you have had a chance to enjoy this simple pleasure.
The crew from the Peregrine Fund was there to guide us up the mountain to our chosen hack site. We departed without fanfare, hiking along a talus slope with an angle of repose approaching 45 degrees. I considered myself physically fit but our veteran guides provided serious doubt to my belief; effortless was their climb up the mountain, this in contrast to my labored gait. We did reach our destination but not before three-quarters of an hour had passed. Wow, that was work.
Our hack box was a 4-by-4-by-8 box on a 200-foot cliff, one side enclosed with a metal bars so the birds could see out from their new home. We deposited the five peregrine chicks in this enclosure, left a meal of quail for them, and departed back to camp. This job would require daily treks up the mountain to feed and observe them. Hindsight has provided the realization that this was the best job of my life. It took me weeks to properly learn how to climb a mountain, but what once took 45 minutes was reduced to a 22-minute climb. Slow and steady, persistent and without stops - this is how you climb mountains.
Climbing a mountain ultimately provides reward - the peak; and many a peak I did achieve.
I can still vividly recall one day with such a reward; it was atop the mountain this day that helped reinforce the need to enjoy not only the destination, but the journey.
I was sitting watching our peregrines on the edge of the mountain, a 200-foot drop before me. A cloud system rolled in, and I became enveloped in a blanket of fog.
With little sound, a cool white, moist air peacefully flowed up the mountainside, covering all views and providing nothing to watch except for my mind. I sat there looking into myself, when before me a Golden Eagle broke through the fog; she followed the cliff's edge and floated past my mind's eye. She was so close, I reached out to touch her, and my mind questioned the reality of the moment. Then, she was gone. But not the memory. My thoughts drifted with the fog and convinced my legs to follow; this led me toward the mountain's peak. I ascended, ever so carefully, as I feared disturbing the silence. I came upon another resting spot and sat. My mind and I listened, but we heard nothing. A mountain chickadee did break through the silence, its chirping muffled by the fog and I wondered if it was calling out for its mate.
My mind continued to scan through the haze; at my feet a bee was clinging to a flower. How docile he moved; was it the weather or a moment of truce in a short life? Only time knows, and we didn't bother to ask. My mind wandered more, and again my feet followed. Meandering like a lazy river, I came upon a blue grouse, also lost amidst the fog. We watched, my mind and I, as the grouse slowly crisscrossed the mountain side until the fog engulfed him. He too is gone now, but not the memory. My mind further engulfed me and I realized we were both lost. Only a trek back to the peak would find my way again. Nothing had changed, the peak was enshrouded in white, still, and I walked on.
The most surreal moment I have experienced.
I still embrace those memories and it has been a pleasure to share some of them with you. We all have our own mountains to climb and I wish you well on your journey.
- Louis Armstrong is the mayor of Monroe. His column appears monthly on Saturdays in the Monroe Times. He can be reached at mayor@cityofmonroe.org.
Once home, finalizing preparations were being realized as we were to spend the holidays in Arizona. I would soon realize a 100-degree temperature swing. The frozen truck incident aside, my fresh start was going well. While in Arizona I had lined up an interview with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I showed on time, dressed accordingly for what I thought was the protocol for such an event. I met my interviewer, and suddenly felt quite overdressed. My pressed pants, shirt, and tie did not compare to his casual knit sweater and sandals. It went well, and I was hired. Only a couple of weeks removed from graduation, I was already, and unknowingly, learning how to climb mountains. A mountain in the virtual sense is simply an obstacle to navigate on the way to a final goal.
Upon returning home from our holiday I retrieved my truck without effort as the positive temperatures promoted a normal startup. Back home, I had little time to repack for the journey back to Arizona. Preparations and planning were completed in short order and for the next six months I would be camping in the Arizona Sonoran Desert studying nesting bald eagles.
A midwestern boy departs for the Southwestern desert. Naive? Somewhat, yes, but it was an exciting adventure to experience and discover all that came before me. First impressions were of the night and day temperature swings in the desert. Think desert and hot and dry comes to mind; not the chill of the night that was quite real. Real enough to collect enough frost one morning to make a cup of hot chocolate.
I remember how exciting this time was for me, learning through living. Studying eagles involved observation and gaining access to do so required climbing and hiking. Unlike the gentle rolling hills of Green County, the desert was harsh. The naive midwestern boy was introduced to many evolutionary protective qualities of the environment. Scarcity of water made plants very protective. Thorns on some, needles on many others. Cacti of all kinds, tall, short, beautiful blooms, and all with nasty needles. One particular menace of interest was the "jumping" Cholla. Lesson learned the hard way here as the "jumping" nickname comes when these kiwi-sized chunks of cacti covered in needles snag your clothing and jump into your calf muscle. They are not removed as easily. The fauna has evolved into an ornery and protective lot of critters: poisonous centipedes, Gila monsters, scorpions and the ever-favorite rattlesnake.
Offsetting these unpleasant meetings were the grand memories abundant on many of the hikes. One in particular led me up a small canyon. It narrowed and geographically excluded any cattle from grazing the scarce forage. A strange sight prevailed as within this narrow gulch appeared a carpet of lush grass. An overhanging cliff provided a comfortable spot out of the sunshine. As I watered myself and sat back, I realized another oddity in this garden solitude: silence. There was no wind, no insects buzzing, or noise interference of any kind. It was truly the first time I had ever experienced pure silence.
My tour of the Sonoran Desert ended early in June as the thermometer hit 113 degrees, I still find it hard to believe life at that temperature. I returned to Wisconsin for a couple of weeks prior to the next mountain adventure that would take me to Wyoming as a Peregrine Falcon Hack Site attendant.
This assignment was located in a mountain scape closer to the preconceived notions in my mind. It was also without as many of the harsh amenities that the Sonoran Desert afforded. The smell of pine on a hot summer day, I hope you have had a chance to enjoy this simple pleasure.
The crew from the Peregrine Fund was there to guide us up the mountain to our chosen hack site. We departed without fanfare, hiking along a talus slope with an angle of repose approaching 45 degrees. I considered myself physically fit but our veteran guides provided serious doubt to my belief; effortless was their climb up the mountain, this in contrast to my labored gait. We did reach our destination but not before three-quarters of an hour had passed. Wow, that was work.
Our hack box was a 4-by-4-by-8 box on a 200-foot cliff, one side enclosed with a metal bars so the birds could see out from their new home. We deposited the five peregrine chicks in this enclosure, left a meal of quail for them, and departed back to camp. This job would require daily treks up the mountain to feed and observe them. Hindsight has provided the realization that this was the best job of my life. It took me weeks to properly learn how to climb a mountain, but what once took 45 minutes was reduced to a 22-minute climb. Slow and steady, persistent and without stops - this is how you climb mountains.
Climbing a mountain ultimately provides reward - the peak; and many a peak I did achieve.
I can still vividly recall one day with such a reward; it was atop the mountain this day that helped reinforce the need to enjoy not only the destination, but the journey.
I was sitting watching our peregrines on the edge of the mountain, a 200-foot drop before me. A cloud system rolled in, and I became enveloped in a blanket of fog.
With little sound, a cool white, moist air peacefully flowed up the mountainside, covering all views and providing nothing to watch except for my mind. I sat there looking into myself, when before me a Golden Eagle broke through the fog; she followed the cliff's edge and floated past my mind's eye. She was so close, I reached out to touch her, and my mind questioned the reality of the moment. Then, she was gone. But not the memory. My thoughts drifted with the fog and convinced my legs to follow; this led me toward the mountain's peak. I ascended, ever so carefully, as I feared disturbing the silence. I came upon another resting spot and sat. My mind and I listened, but we heard nothing. A mountain chickadee did break through the silence, its chirping muffled by the fog and I wondered if it was calling out for its mate.
My mind continued to scan through the haze; at my feet a bee was clinging to a flower. How docile he moved; was it the weather or a moment of truce in a short life? Only time knows, and we didn't bother to ask. My mind wandered more, and again my feet followed. Meandering like a lazy river, I came upon a blue grouse, also lost amidst the fog. We watched, my mind and I, as the grouse slowly crisscrossed the mountain side until the fog engulfed him. He too is gone now, but not the memory. My mind further engulfed me and I realized we were both lost. Only a trek back to the peak would find my way again. Nothing had changed, the peak was enshrouded in white, still, and I walked on.
The most surreal moment I have experienced.
I still embrace those memories and it has been a pleasure to share some of them with you. We all have our own mountains to climb and I wish you well on your journey.
- Louis Armstrong is the mayor of Monroe. His column appears monthly on Saturdays in the Monroe Times. He can be reached at mayor@cityofmonroe.org.
