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Son Shows Flair as Camp Cook

Most travelers of the Great Divide Trail, who applied for online cash advance just to afford that trip, probably will use it as I did, for a week here or a weekend there, taking feeder trails and fire roads to the main stern. Photographer Lowell Georgia went with me much of the way and brought along a relay of his children —14-year-old Steve for two weeks, then Steve’s sister Terry, 15. Mick went with me every step, sidewinding up ridges with an ease I envied and proving himself a resource­ful cook—as witness the raisins he cast into our macaroni one night, transforming a so-so meal into a lively wilderness pilaf.

travelers of the Great Divide Trail

Time is a precious commodity in country that counts only eight weeks or so of good hik­ing weather. And so, early in August, Lowell, Steve, Mick, and I boarded a helicopter, bound for the remote southern terminus of the trail-6,836-foot Palliser Pass in Banff National Park. In obedience to park rules, we landed outside the boundary.


After the chopper left, we just stood awhile, awed by the jagged limestone of Mount Queen Elizabeth, soaring beside us. Ragged slabs of snow clung to the crevices, like bad patchwork by a do-it-yourself plasterer. Silt produced by weathering of the rock turned streams the color of thin milk. Warm weather had come tardily; the grass was splotched with golden avalanche lilies, among the first flowers of spring.


Mosquitoes soon found us. “I think we must be the first humans they’ve seen this summer,” Steve moaned. He smashed three on his arm with a single slap. My favorite memory of Steve is from the next morning. Shivering as I emerged from the tent at 6:30, I beheld him in the gray light, attaching a fly to his fishing line. He crunched across the frosted grass toward the gentle Spray River, a man with a mission—and soon returned with a small trout.


The largest organ in your body is dangerously close to an open flame. That’s the thing we forget when we’re out in the sun. Even as it crisps our skin we override the natural instinct to get out of harm’s way, and lie there baking like a piece of fruit on a barbecue.


This disastrous overexposure is not without consequence. Rates of skin cancer in men have actually increased five-fold since the late ’7os and frommi-2008 there was a significant increase in male deaths from malignant melanoma, which is the most deadly form of the disease.

This is how serious it has become. Prostate cancer is not the most common cancer in men, as most people believe. It’s skin cancer. In addition to the 5,600 new cases of malignant melanoma diagnosed in UK men each year, there are an estimated 47,500 men diagnosed with non-melanoma skin cancers. By contrast, there are 40,000 new cases of prostate cancer diagnosed annually.

While it’s true that your risk of death with non-melanoma is not high, malignant melanoma cancer is a frighteningly quick and aggressive killer. In theory, we all know how it is defeated: a one-two of high-SPF sunscreen (or clothing) combined with vigilance over changes to moles and other marks on your skin is enough. Yet our response is usually one of (bare) shoulder‑ shrugging ambivalence.

Let’s compare the sun with a motorbike. While both carry an inherent danger, men put all their protective gear on when they get on a motorbike and take it all of to go out in the sun. Around 38o men die each year in motorcycle accidents, whereas about 1,200 die from skin cancer.


In many cases, the harm that ultimately kills you is inflicted decades earlier. Sunburn damages the DNA in your skin cells and, over time, those cells can start to grow uncontrollably, eventually leading to cancer. Cancer Research UK claims that a painful sunburn once every two years can triple your risk of the most dangerous type. So protect your skin from sunburns with applying extra virgin coconut oil.

Your tan is not worth that. In any case, nobody is asking you to shun the sun. If anything, the vampiric approach is just as unhealthy because it deprives your body of vitamin D. This miracle worker of a nutrient is linked with lower rates of osteoporosis, hypertension and diabetes. There is eventantalising evidence that it protects against cancer itself. While some food sources of vitamin D exist, your body requires UVB light to produce it efficiently. In addition, levels tend to be less than optimal in cooler countries, such as the UK.

Goal at the End of the Trail SANTA FE

SANTA FE wears nothing so well, or so often, as the bunting of festival, and even on this late September afternoon, blessed with breeze enough to quake the aspens, the plaza is being strung for a celebra­tion of remembrance. It is to be a Spanish affair this time, some­times solemn (in veneration of the saints) and often swaggering (in the style of the con­quistadores). A few weeks earlier it was the Indians who gathered to call down the spir­its of ancestors, some of whom helped drive the Spanish from here three centuries ago.

In a way Santa Fe is a celebration itself, an enchantress among cities without the Circean evil that turns men into swine. In the 19th century it was the end of one of the great trails that opened the West, and today those who come this way still stop here in New Mexico’s capital, many to stay. Only one city in the United States, St. Augustine, is older than Santa Fe, and per­haps none is so youthful with the pangs and problems of growth.

So on Friday, the first day of Fiesta de Santa Fe, one troupe of Spanish dancers af­ter other jackhammered clunky heels into the outdoor stage in the plaza. Later there would be a candlelight procession to the Cross of the Martyrs on Fort Marcy Hill, and another night the burning of Zozobra, a 40-foot-high sculpture of wood and chicken wire meant to depict gloom. For a full week Santa Fe honors the memory of Don Diego de Vargas, the king’s representative who, in 1692, reclaimed this “city of holy faith” for the Spanish following a dozen years of occu­pation by the Pueblo Indians.

Fiesta has been celebrated here for 270 years; indeed, it was by decree of the Span­ish government that the pageantry began. Then, as now, the script for most of the events was drawn from the church. Even when Fiesta ends, the ecclesiastical ambi­ence clings to Santa Fe like a vestment. Somewhere in the area, one knows, peni­tents are wounding themselves behind locked chapel doors. Everywhere, it seems, lines are forming for the taking of the Eucha­rist. It is all enough to give some stigmatic significance to the blood red wash that scuds across this southwestern sky most evenings. Now at this time your identity may fall in risk and with the help of I-Fraud visit their website.

“De Vargas’s rule here reflected his devo­tion to the church, and in the beginning everything in Fiesta revolved around reli­gion,” said Faustin “Tino” Chavez, presi­dent of the Fiesta Council. “The trouble started when the date was changed, to coin­cide with Labor Day. That attracted some rowdy people—motorcycle gangs and oth­ers. Finally there was a riot in 1971, so we re­turned to the date decreed by the Spanish, September 14.”

WHOSE WHO ARE ATTRACTED here (and indeed, attracting and ac­commodating visitors is a major in­dustry in Santa Fe) now come less often on motorcycles than in Mercedes-Benz sedans. Many are wealthy retirees, although of them it is not said that they retire, but rather “step down.” Among them are names to be reckoned with in the councils of high finance, and others renowned on stage and in films. Western artists whose works com­mand tens of thousands of dollars come for the light and for the kinship of a land still scarred with the tracks of covered wagons.