One of the perks of being an active Ham in the community is getting to work some fun assignments. Among the several groups I volunteer with is TERT. We basically sit up on the mountain on weekends during the summer and help folks that get themselves into trouble. [You wouldn't believe how many people think sliding down the rock-strewn snow-field found on the back (north) side of Mt. Timpanogos is good idea. Talk about "road rash!" Well, rock rash, anyway.]
Each weekend we have a group of about a half-dozen TERT members who hike up and camp near the basin below the summit. They’re there to help folks who are up on the mountain. We have two trail-heads stations, Aspen Grove and Timpooneke (tim-poo-NEE-kee). We help the folks on the way up, and on the way down.
Many of those up at High Camp are amateur radio operators, many are medically trained (EMTs, First Responders, we even have an ER doctor on the team), and many are both. We also have rock-climbers and runners to round out the skill sets. The radio operators at Trail-head are support for High Camp, responsible for communications with the Sheriff’s Office (in case SAR has to be called out, or to call for emergency helicopter extraction), to apprise hikers of conditions on the mountain, and gently suggest that they might want to take more water, clothing, etc. before setting out.
I usually man Timpooneke Trail-head on my weekends. I find myself saying things like
“The weather up high is pretty bad today; do you have jackets you could take with?”
“Those flip-flops don’t look like they would be very comfortable crossing the scree fields; do you have better footwear?”
“There isn’t any drinkable water on the trail; you might want to take more [than that half-empty 16-oz bottle] with you.”
“Well, our 9-am weather report from the summit this morning was ‘horizontal rain, with wind-chill to 30° Fahrenheit’ …” [that was the real weather report from my last weekend] “…so you might not want to go very high in your tank-top, shorts, and sandals.”
“Are you planning on hiking very far today? Your three year-old looks study enough to make it to Scout Falls—a little over a mile up the trail—but it gets pretty steep after that.”
“Oh, really; just in from California? Today? And you’d like to summit? Well, OK then. The summit is at 11,749 ft so let me give you a couple of pointers about altitude sickness and what the symptoms are. …”
“Hydrate or die!”
I was on duty a couple of weekends ago (17.-19.Jul.2007). We had some good storms roll in; lots of thunder and lightning early Saturday, heavy rain with high winds, and the like. (There’s a saying we have on TERT, “If you don’t like the weather on the mountain, just wait twenty minutes; it will be something completely different.”)
Anyway, I spent most of the day watching cold, tired, soggy hikers come down off the mountain. (Did I mention a popular thing for the students from the local university to do is start up around 0100h [yes, 1:00 a.m., as in one-hour-after-midnight] so they can be at the Summit for sunrise. I think it’s supposed to be romantic to take your significant other. It gives you a common—sometimes traumatic—experience to share. I guess.
By early afternoon, most of the sodden hikers and soggy campers had made it down. I had brought a spy novel up to read, and was making good progress, as there were few folks to talk to. [It also helped that this 290 page novel only had about 150 pages worth of material. It was spread as thin as a Junior High School report: double spaced with large margins; each chapter number thingy was on a page by itself.] I had spent most of the day in the Trail-Head shack—a little six-foot square deal with a couple of antennas on top, and windows to look out and watch folks on the trail. The rain had let up and it was turning into quite a nice day.
I was sitting in the doorway reading when I felt something on my shoe; it was a brazen little chipmunk looking for something to nibble. He came by several times all afternoon, so I would toss him a few sunflower seeds; he would nibble for a minute or three, and then disappear for an hour or so.
It was during these breaks that I had the most unusual encounter I’ve ever had with wildlife—and the point of this entry, for which I’ve made you work so hard.
During one of the quiet moments, one of the hummingbirds that had been zipping past trail-head on and off all day long came for a visit. He flitted about the doorway, about an arm’s length away. He was in no hurry, and gave the impression of just sight-seeing. He was so calm about it that I gently raised my arm to see if he would lite. He hovered near, maybe two inches above my palm, buzzed over to the other side once more, then took his leave.
A little later I was standing in the shack, leaning against the door jamb. Suddenly, another hummingbird buzzed up and stopped about five inches from my nose. Just hovered there, nose to nose, staring at me for what seemed like a hummingbird eternity. It was probably only a second, maybe a second and a half, but for a hummingbird?! That’s a very long time. He buzzed from side to side, looked me square in each eye a couple of times, as though sizing me up, and then blitzed off. The whole thing lasted probably ten seconds, but it was a very surreal encounter.
Near the end of the afternoon, I think one of this friends was a little liquored up on nectar or something and came blazing in aimed right at my left eyeball! I ducked to the side, just as he came arrowing in, and he zipped around inside the shack, having himself a good look around. I stepped into the shack, up against the wall, and helped him find his way back out.
I wish I could have gotten photos of any of these little dare-devils, but the only camera I had was my cellphone. Since there is virtually no coverage, you don’t leave your phone turned on, because it drains the battery trying to find a cell tower to link to.
So, brazen chipmunks and cheeky hummingbirds. A “loverly” weekend all around.
