Geocaching Revisited

Hunting for hidden treasures.

Back in 2005, I discovered geocaching, an outdoor activity where people use a GPS to find hidden containers of trinkets. I wrote about my thoughts on the topic — and some big plans that never came to fruition — in some detail here. Because part of the game is to pull something out of a cache and replace it with something else, I started gathering items to share. Among these were some “travel bugs,” which are basically serial numbered tags you can affix to an item so it can be tracked. The tracking is mostly done on the Geocaching.com Web site. That’s also were you can find a list of geocaches just about anywhere in the U.S.

And that’s the interesting thing: these things are everywhere. Did you drive more than 10 miles to work today? I bet you passed at least a dozen of them within 3 miles of your car. There’s one a block from my house in Wickenburg and one 4/10 of a mile from my RV here in Quincy. As this map shows, they’re all over the place:

Geocaches Near Me
My RV is just about dead-center in this map. The little box and question mark icons indicate geocaches in the area. The smiley face icon is a geocache I found that I logged.

For some reason, I find the proliferation of these little boxes of hidden “treasure” fascinating. It emphasizes how big the world really is. It also reminds me a bit of a walk my husband, Mike, and I had along the rim of the Grand Canyon once. We got off the beaten path and walked right along the rim, far from where the tourists wander. We happened to stop for a rest on a rock outcropping. And there, tucked under an overhang with a beautiful view of the canyon, was an urn of cremated remains. How long had it been hidden there? We didn’t know. It was like an uncharted geocache. Seems like a good final resting place to me.

Geocaches are hidden. They’re tucked away in painted coffee cans, sealed lengths of black PVC pipe, and plastic Tylenol bottles. In the old days, ammo cans were popular, but I think the value of these has prevented their widespread use — too likely to be stolen if found. (I bought 3 nice-sized ammo cans from a seller in Beatty, NV some years back to create my own geocaches; I still have them.) Caches are hidden in bushes, under rocks, and among the remains of pioneer trash heaps. You’re not likely to stumble upon any of them by accident. You have to look for them. And even with GPS coordinates, they’re not always easy to find.

For some reason, I brought my bag of geocache goodies along with me on my trip to Washington this year. I guess I thought I’d try it again. I didn’t think much of it until the other day when a Twitter friend, @PlagiarismToday, started tweeting about his weekend geocaching activities. It got me thinking about it. I pulled out my bag and took a look inside it. I had a GPS with me, and an Internet connection to get information about local caches, so I had everything I needed to try again.

So I went out yesterday to search for three caches. I found three, but not the original three I’d set out to find.

  • Ryann’s Hide was the first cache I’d hunted for in over 5 years. Although I’m using a newer GPS (a Garmin GPSMap 60c) than I did in 2005, I soon realized that precision was something that needed patience. As I walked, the GPS would guide me, but I quickly overshot the location. Seems that the GPS could not keep up with my movement. I needed to slow down and let the signals catch up. Zooming in on the map gave me ever-increasing detail. Standing still, gave me ever-increasing precision. Once I caught on, I was able to zero in on the location. The cache was alongside a two-track road that led down a hill to a fishing spot. The road was closed to unauthorized vehicles. It started on the edge of an orchard and curved down into a very pleasant wooded area. (I think I need to explore further down that trail.) The container was a painted coffee can with a plastic lid. I pulled out a plastic car and replaced it with a tiny stuffed teddy bear. I entered my Geocaching.com user name in the log book, closed everything back up, and replaced it exactly where I’d found it. Success!
  • Quincy Valley Rest Area II was a bit easier to find — once I got on the correct side of the rest area fence. It was a nicely made cache container consisting of a short length of black PVC pipe with a screw-top on one end. Inside was a baggie with the logbook, some plastic dinosaurs, and a very nice shell. I took the shell and replaced it with an emery board with advertising for a nudist colony on it. (I really don’t remember where I got such a thing, but it is pretty funny — and clean.) I logged my visit and closed it all back up. Success!
  • West Bar Overlook is the one I really wanted to find. It’s located on Babcock Bench, high above one of the orchards I dried several times this summer. The entry on Geocaching.com provided lots of photos and information about the geologic significance of the spot. I’d brought along my camera, planning to get some shots from its perfect vantage point. Unfortunately, the two-track access road that appeared to link the cache area with pavement was inaccessible. Not only was there a locked gate across the road, but there were lots of tall weeds making the start of the trail a bit questionable for someone wearing shorts during snake and tick season. I’ll either try again next spring, before the weeds grow so tall or possibly try to visit via helicopter. I already scouted the power lines in the area. So this was a failure.
  • Rust Everywhere was my consolation prize. I’d already imported its GPS coordinates into my GPS, so I knew approximately where it was. But because I hadn’t planned to look for it, I didn’t have the details — like a basic description of what it looked like. Having a location but no description makes things a bit tougher. Patience and perseverance paid off, though. The cache was a label-less Tylenol bottle hidden well among rocks. I pulled out a kid’s hair clip and replaced it with a computer chip, logged my visit, and put it back. Success!

In all, it was a nice way to spend the afternoon. I was at it for about two hours and it got me out and about. To onlookers, I must have looked pretty silly, walking around while studying a GPS. But I got to find a neat place — that wooded trail — and get some exercise and fresh air. I hope to do more tomorrow.

I also think that it would be a great family or small group activity. A way to combine socialization with exercise. Working together to complete a challenging task.

I do have a geocaching project lined up. I’m going to release one of my travel bugs into the wild with the mission of traveling down to New Orleans, LA. That’s where @PlagiarismToday lives and does his geocaching. He, in turn, is going to send one my way. We’ll see which one completes its mission first.

I’ll likely blog about the progress here.

Wickenburg to Seattle by Helicopter: Day 2

Page, AZ to Bryce Canyon, UT.

I’d flown to Lake Powell on Thursday afternoon so I could be ready for a photo flight at 6 AM on Friday.

I spent the night at the Holiday Inn Express in Page. I’d been there before and when I was there this time, I remembered why I hadn’t been back: the damn walls are paper thin. My room was at the far end of the hall, adjacent to a back entrance. The ice machine was in a corridor there, up against my wall. Not only did I hear the sound of people filling their coolers at 3 AM, but I heard the sound of the machine filling with water and the damn motor running. Add the guy upstairs walking at odd hours and you can figure out why I didn’t get much sleep.

But at 5:30 AM, I was at the airport, preflighting the helicopter. At 6 AM, I met my client and flew him and his wife around the lake for 1.3 hours. When he canceled his afternoon flight due to the unseasonably cold weather, I found myself done for the day at 8 AM — a full 12 hours before I expected.

I went back to the helicopter, put the door on, and tied down the blades. Then I headed back to the hotel. I was expecting the weather to deteriorate, so I didn’t see any point to staying in Page. After all, I lived there for two months back in 2008 so it wasn’t exactly a tourist destination for me. I started thinking about heading north, but wasn’t anxious to spend the night in Salt Lake City. Then I considered flying as far as Bryce Canyon, which was on the way and less than an hour flight. I worked the phone and the Web via my iPad. A while later, I had reservations for a cabin at Bryce Canyon Lodge and a rental car at Bryce Canyon Airport.

I packed up and checked out. I had some second thoughts when I stepped outside and saw what a beautiful day it had become, but my room at Bryce was expensive and non-refundable. I was committed.

Wahweap MarinaI was airborne by 10 AM.

I flew northwest at first, eager to check out the new resort that was built not far from Big Water, UT. I’d heard a lot of buzz about it and had actually met someone who worked there the night before at Blue Buddha. From the air, it didn’t look like much, tucked away against some sandstone cliffs. I still don’t understand what all the hoopla is about.

After flying over, I dropped down low and turned north toward Wahweap Creek. I crossed Highway 89 just east of Big Water and dropped down even lower, into the creek bed. I knew the area well. There were no wires and no homes. I great spot for some low-level canyon flying on a beautiful day with minimal winds.

I followed the course of the creek — which was mostly dry, of course — northwest, passing the famous Wahweap Hoodoos at low level. (You can see a video of one of my canyon flights here.) Then I continued up the canyon, beyond where I’d ever flown before. It twisted and turned, rising gently into the flat-topped mesas beyond it. My GPS had Bryce Canyon punched in, so when it appeared the canyon was taking me too far off course, I pulled back gently on the cyclic and began climbing out. I needed a 2000-foot climb to clear the mountains around me. That put me over some typical high-desert terrain with lots of rocks and scrubby trees. In the distance, I could see more mountains — and weather.

I didn’t realize it then, but weather would haunt me for the entire flight from Wickenburg to Seattle.

Sedimentary Rock RidgesI was now squarely in the middle of my middle-of-nowhere route from Page to Bryce Canyon. There were absolutely no signs of civilization below me or anywhere within sight. Instead, an ever-changing terrain revealed itself below me. Hills and mesas were cut deeply by canyons of exposed red rock. Sedimentary rock thrust up from the ground at odd angles, forming layered ridge lines that stretched for miles. Ancient sand dunes turned to rock stood revealed by the erosive forces of wind and rain over millions of years.

Ancient Sand DunesThe view seemed to change every five minutes, revealing wonder after wonder. I wanted to detour and explore. I wished more than ever that I’d installed my helicopter’s nose camera before departing Wickenburg the day before.

As I look at these hastily snapped photos now, while writing this blog post, I realize how truly amazing the terrain in the desert southwest is. I’m spoiled — I see this kind of stuff all the time. While dramatic rock formations still amaze me, I can compare each of these photos to a similar scene somewhere else I’ve flown. The tilted ridge line repeats itself over and over north of the San Juan River in southeastern Utah, not far from Mexican Hat. The solidified sand dunes can also be found near the Glen Canyon dam, atop the Paria Plateau near The Wave, and throughout Capital Reef National Park.

Discovering amazing new formations while flying from point to point is a treat. But it makes me sad that I do these flights alone. I can’t seem to sell folks on the wonder of flight through this area. They’d rather spend their money being one of thousands on a cruise ship or fry on the beach at an all-inclusive resort than experience a unique, once-in-a-lifetime journey through the southwest, 500 feet above the ground in a helicopter. These photos hint at what they’re missing.

But I digress.

As I flew, the clouds thickened. I saw the same signs of rain or snow in the clouds ahead of me. I was heading right for the weather. Tuned into Bryce’s common traffic advisory frequency (CTAF), I heard a charter plane make a call for landing. Still 20 miles out, I asked the pilot what the conditions were. She reported that there was weather to the west of the airport but visibility at the airport was still good. I checked my power settings to make sure I was getting my best speed. I was moving at 110 knots airspeed with a slight tailwind. I wanted to be on the ground before the weather moved in. There were no airports between me and Bryce.

Near Bryce CanyonI finally began seeing signs of civilization: paved roads, ranches, towns. There were plenty of red rock cliffs and hoodoos with roads — paved and unpaved — winding around them. Funny how people go to National Parks to see the sights when the same sights — or better ones — can be found right down the road.

I climbed with the terrain and was finally able to pick up Bryce Airport’s (KBCE) AWOS frequency. Winds 8 MPH gusting to 15, good visibility. But I could see a storm moving in from the west and wondered whether it would beat me to the airport. I looked at my GPS anxiously; I was only 4 miles out and still couldn’t see the airport. But then I spotted the big old hangar and zeroed in on my landing zone on the ramp. I made my radio calls, crossed the approach end of the runway, and landed in a T-spot.

You can see my approximate route on SkyVector by clicking here.

I shut down, gathered my things together, tied down the blades, and locked up. Then I went into the terminal to place a fuel order and arrange to get my rental car.

I’d spend the rest of the day exploring Bryce Canyon National Park on horseback and by car. But that’s another story.

Hoodoo Run (by Helicopter)

Low-level, high speed run down a Utah canyon lined with hoodoos.

Hoodoos — in case you’re not familiar with the term — are pillars of stone shaped by wind and rain over long periods of time. The most famous hoodoos in the U.S. are the ones at Bryce Canyon. They’re red rock columns on the edge of a crescent-shaped cliff. (Bryce Canyon isn’t technically a canyon at all.)

But there are other hoodoos in other places out west — including up the Wahweap Creek near Lake Powell.

While doing this weekend’s video work, we paid the Wahweap Hoodoos a visit. They were a lot lower and closer to the ground than I thought and will probably not make it into our final video production. The rocks in this video are just a few hoodoo-like structures in the area. I flew past them with my POV.1 camera fastened to the helicopter’s nose. Although the footage appears to be in slow motion, it’s not. I was moving at roughly 90 knots for most of the run.

Enjoy.

Sedona Sky Ranch

One of Sedona’s little secrets.

When we have out-of-town guests, we sometimes take them to the usual tourist spots in Arizona. (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve taken people to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.) This past week, Mike’s mother has been in town. And over the weekend, we took her to Sedona for an overnight stay.

Sedona is a beautiful place. It has also become a bit of a tourist trap. “Uptown” Sedona is full off gift shops and counters for booking tours. Its sidewalks are roamed by people trying to get you to come see their timeshare opportunities. (I never could understand the attraction of timeshares.) If you’re looking for a t-shirt or a piece of Indian jewelry or some junky souvenir of red rock country, this is the place to come.

Uptown Sedona is right at the mouth of Oak Creek Canyon, a beautiful spot with a year-round creek, shady trees, and towering cliffs. A drive up through the canyon is the nicest way to reach Flagstaff, especially in the fall when the leaves on the trees along the creek are changing color.

So right before you reach the beauty of Oak Creek Canyon, you have to drive through the most touristy cluster of shops in Arizona. The same shops that block the views of some of the incredible red rocks that people have supposedly come to Sedona to see.

To be fair, Sedona’s local government has enacted certain zoning laws that require new construction to blend in with the environment. That’s why you’ll see a lot of reddish buildings. It’s also one of the few places I’ve seen dozens of homes painted a dark sage green–to match the scrubby desert pine trees that grow in the area. Unfortunately, those laws were not passed before Uptown Sedona was developed, so most of that area is pretty ugly.

We planned to spend the night in Sedona and needed a place to stay. We wanted to stay at a nice place–the last time we’d taken his mother on a trip in Arizona, we’d stayed at a weird place down near Tubac that had been built on top of an old missle silo. (I can’t make this stuff up.) Mike surfed the Web and came up with a place that included the word “Spa” in its name. The pictures looked good, but it was supposedly in West Sedona. I was worried that it would be too far away from the things his mom wanted to see–primarily shops–or tucked away in some back corner without any views. So I suggested a place where I knew there were good views: Sedona Sky Ranch.

Sedona Sky Ranch is Sedona’s airport motel. And that’s why so few people consider it as a place to stay. I consider it one of Sedona’s little secrets.

Sedona Airport is on a mesa just south of town. For those of you who didn’t pay attention during geology lessons in school, a mesa is a flat-topped mountain. There are a lot of them in Arizona and the rest of the southwest. Sedona’s airport sits on one of them. (The St. George, UT and Bagdad, AZ airports also sit on mesas.) It’s kind of neat because as you approach the runway in a plane, it’s a lot like landing on an aircraft carrier.

Sedona Sky Ranch is on the northwest side of the mesa, walking distance from the airport’s little terminal. It sits on the edge of the mesa and has about a dozen rooms that look right out over the town. And the red rocks beyond it.

View from Sedona Sky RanchWe’d reserved two Red Rock View rooms for the night. The rooms included 2 queen beds, a deck overlooking the views, and a kitchenette with a small fridge, microwave, and sink. And a bathroom, of course. Not what I’d call luxurious, but certainly very comfortable. And the views! At about 500 feet above the town, we didn’t have to look at any ugly commercial buildings. Sedona’s famous red rocks were right there. The photo here shows the view from our deck. The rock formation in the left center is called the Coffee Pot. (Think percolator.)

Mike and I shared a bottle of wine on the deck while the sun dropped down on the horizon, making the red rocks even redder. (Mike’s mom watched television in her room.) In the overlook parking area, which was a few hundred yards away, a native American musician played the drum and flute while tourists looked on. The sun set, the flute stopped abruptly, and the tourists got into their cars to go down to their hotels far below us. The full moon rose above the buttes in the east.

The next morning, when we checked out, we made reservations for October. We chose the cabin next door, which is slightly larger that our room, has a larger deck, and a slightly better view. We’ll drive up in the Jeep with Jack the Dog (they allow pets) and spend a few days exploring the back roads of the area while the autumn leaf show is in progress.

It’ll be a nice escape.

Oh, and that “spa” Mike found online? It was on the main road in West Sedona, right next to the Safeway shopping center. How’s that for atmosphere?

Red Mountain

We “walk inside a mountain” near Flagstaff.

We spent Memorial Day weekend — or what was left of it after my Biltmore Apple Store gig — at our place on Howard Mesa. We bought 40 acres up there, fenced it in a few years ago, and added a septic system two years ago. This year, we’re adding a small, one-room cabin.

Howrd MesaHoward Mesa was beautiful. Or maybe I should say that it was more beautiful than usual. The grass was knee-high and green and the seed tops swayed with the wind. The San Francisco Peaks were still snow-covered, off in the distance. Best of all, we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves — as usual.

We spent Sunday doing odd jobs and relaxing around the camper. We went out for dinner that night in a restaurant in Parks, about 35 miles from our place. The place, called Rack and Bull, had probably been set up as a moderate-to-high priced dining experience that featured wild game, lamb, and ribs. It had since succumbed to the need to attract a wider range of clientele. The menu wasn’t anything special and they offered pizza. But the decor was very nice, the service was excellent, the food was good, and the value for the dollar was right on target. Why can’t we have a few places like that in Wickenburg? Heck, Parks must have a fraction of the population. But let’s not go there.

On Sunday, after a nice long walk, we decided to hop in the truck and take 180 toward Flagstaff. The idea was to take the aerial tram at the Snowbowl to the top of the peak. But I had a booklet called 99 Things to Do in Northern Arizona and it suggested a few more interesting things (as well as many far less interesting things). The one I was thinking about was headed “Walk Into a Mountain.” It appeared that northwest of Flag was a mountain that had collapsed long ago, forming a natural amphitheater filled with interesting rock formations, trees, and not much else. The booklet compared its formations to the hoodoos at Bryce Canyon. Sounded interesting to me.

We saw the place on the right side of the road before we saw the promised signs for it. I’ve been up and down that road over 20 times and various times of the day and night and I can’t recall ever seeing that mountain. But there it was, red mountain, looking exactly as the description promised.

We pulled into a parking lot that had about six other vehicles in it. Jack the dog was with us, but there weren’t any NO DOGS or DOGS ON LEASH signs, so I stuck his leash in my pocket and let him run loose. He’s very well behaved on the trail — better than Spot ever was — and he absolutely loves hiking with us. He runs ahead, chases rabbits, then comes tearing back to us, only to take off in another direction. He probably runs four times the distrance we walk, but that’s okay. He’s younger and in better shape. Mike took a bottle of water, which he hung on his belt loop with a bungee cord. (How’s that for high-tech hiking equipment?) Then we started the 1-1/2 mile hike to the opening in the mountain.

At Red MountainThe trail, which was wide enough for hikers, bikers (the pedal kind, that is), or horseback riders, was smooth and covered with crushed red cinders. In places, it was heavily eroded, but not enough to make walking a problem. That was a good thing, because I hadn’t brought hiking shoes. I was wearing my red Keds and that’s probably the only kind of surface I could have walked 3 miles on. The trail climbed gently most of the way. It wound through the trees, then dropped into a smooth-bottomed wash and climbed toward the mountain in that. Soon, we were in a canyon with slopes of dark grey volcanic gravel on either side of us. It was fine stuff, like the red cinders we walked on. There were a few interesting formations right at the mountain’s entrance. Beyond them, we could see the red hoodoos inside the mountain.

Inside Red MountainIt appears to me that Red Mountain had once been a plain old mountain. Volcanic activity on one side had caused black lava to spew out of the ground. This undermined the mountain, causing a slide that took out about 1/3 of the mountain side. The result was the amphitheater the booklet told us about. Of course, this is all conjecture based on what it looked like. There was no interpretive sign in the parking area or elsewhere and no ranger to explain what we were seeing. I could have it completely wrong.

Inside Red MountainThere are two ways into the mountain, both of which were described in the book. At the head of the wash we’d been following, someone had built a neat rock dam. A ladder climbed the six or eight feet up to the top of the dam where silt had backed up, raising the ground to the top of the dam. That’s how we went. Jack took the ladder like a champ. The other way was to climb up over a gray cinders covered slope. That’s probably the only way you could get in with a horse. (I know my horse doesn’t climb ladders.) Our way was easier. Inside the mountain’s amphitheater was exactly as the booklet had described. Lots of rock formations made of red sandstone carved by wind and water, with a bunch of dark gray formations just to make things interesting. We walked up to the head of the canyon, passing a family having lunch with their dogs. One dog, a Corgi, came yapping out after us, followed by a dog that looked like a mix of every dog breed in the world. Jack had some sniffing with them, then followed us.

We rested in the shade for a while, taking in the view. I took a few photos. The sun was high and the light was harsh. But it certainly did remind me of Bryce Canyon. After exploring the area for a while, we headed back out the way we’d come. Jack was unbelievable on the ladder, taking it just like one of the Lassie actors. The return hike seemed longer, but it was almost all downhill. There was enough shade to make it a comfortable walk, even in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Back in Wickenburg, it was in the 90s; up in the mountains near Flag, it was in the 70s. It was the same, strong sun — some people argue that it’s stronger at altitude because you’re closer to it (I can’t make this stuff up) — but the cool mountain air made it pleasant.

Jack at Red MountainI took this photo of Jack as we neared the parking area. It’s the new desktop picture on my laptop. That’s the San Francisco Peaks in the background; you can see Jack running on the trail, tongue hanging out, on the left.

From here, we headed over to the Snowbowl, where we took the 7-mile road up to the lift. We had lunch at the restaurant there while Jack the Dog rested in the car. We didn’t take the lift because 1) it was open-air, 2) it was windy, and 3) it was 25°F with the wind chill at the top. Instead, we sat and enjoyed lunch on the outdoor patio, watching people climb aboard the lift and watching other people climb off, shedding blankets and rubbing the warmth back into their bodies. We’ll return in the hottest part of the summer, take the lift up, and hike back down. It’s an elevation change of 2,000 feet (9,500 to 11,500) and I’m sure it’ll get my blood flowing.

As for Red Mountain, I’d like to return one day with my good camera and a picnic lunch. It’s the kind of place where a photographer can spend the day, moving from place to place to capture the formations with just the right light.