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Straight into the abyss

Map? Check. Compass? Check. GPS? Check and double-check; so just call me a belt 'n' suspenders kind of guy. Trekking plan? Check. First-aid kit? Check. Clean underwear? This is a wilderness trip, Pilgrim; tough it out.
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Map? Check. Compass? Check. GPS? Check and double-check; so just call me a belt 'n' suspenders kind of guy. Trekking plan? Check. First-aid kit? Check. Clean underwear? This is a wilderness trip, Pilgrim; tough it out.

On an early camping foray into the Pecos Wilderness in northern New Mexico I learned several valuable lessons. This being one of my first backpacking, non-Boy Scout or car camping trips, I did what any impoverished student would do; I scrambled around the house looking for things that would be useful and allow me to avoid any additional expense.

Since I needed something to cook in, I grabbed a medium-size cast iron skillet. How very cowboy. I grabbed a full-size ironstone plate, gotta have something to eat off. And, because I had a prof who took sadistic pleasure in grilling unprepared students, I tossed a four-pound constitutional law book into my pack for some tiresome campfire reading. I think you can see where this is headed.

Somewhere north of 12,000 feet, on a rocky trail far steeper than the angle of repose, doing the old two-steps-forward-gasp-for-air dance, I gave serious thought to dropping Con Law. But it was a required course. A few steps and gasps further along the trail, I was ready to breach the "take only pictures, leave only footprints" ethic and plant the cast iron skillet handle-first into the ground like a cairn warning other hikers about the stupidity that preceded them. Sometime that evening I dropped the ironstone plate from shear exhaustion; it broke, I buried the pieces and ate out of the skillet for the rest of the trip.

I had learned the second rule of wilderness travel: pack light. The first rule of wilderness travel? I learned that two days later.

Standing atop a grassy plateau, drinking in the autumnal beauty of blazing aspens and low angle light, my hiking partner and I surveyed the terrain, consulted our map - a non-topo, Park Service brochure - and contemplated what lay ahead. Our best reckoning suggested we still had 12 miles to trek. Six downhill on tight switchbacks to the Pecos River, six uphill on equally tight switchbacks to the trailhead.

The problem was, we could practically see the trailhead from where we stood. It was maybe a mile and a half as the crow flies. There were, of course, two problems: we weren't crows and the river, which we had to cross, was about 1,500 feet below us. I think you can see where this is headed as well.

"We don't need no stinkin' trail," I believe were the last civil words we muttered for the rest of the day... or at least until well after dark when we stumbled into the first open bar and said, "Quick, gimme a cold beer. Then just kill me."

Rule number one of wilderness travel? Never, never, never use the words "bushwhack" or "shortcut" in any sentence describing the route you're about to take.

What would have been an uncomfortable three-hour hike turned into a six or seven hour survival slog. The downhill half went, unsurprisingly, fast. The uphill part was when I first gained insight into why some people just lie down and die when things seem hopeless.

It wasn't the last time I ever left a trail in hopes of shaving time and effort off a hike. Ironically, it wasn't the last time I ever regretted the decision to leave a trail in hopes of shaving time and effort off a hike. Some lessons need to be learned and relearned. But for the most part, when heading into new territory, I make a plan, carry a map and stick to the plan no matter how loudly the siren song of shortcuts tempts me.

That being said, I have found it necessary to deviate from the best laid plan more than once. The first time was when a flash flood washed out the trail, leaving a crumbly mini-gorge bearing all the characteristics of a dryland crevasse. Had I stuck blindly to my plan, I'd have tried to cross the wash. On the uphill side was, well, uphill. On the downhill side was a thousand feet of oblivion. I deviated uphill to where the gorgette began. It only made sense, eh?

That was the third rule of wilderness travel: plans are plans and sometimes, reality trumps planning and you'd better be prepared to improvise.

That's the rule that seems to have eluded our fearless leaders here in Tiny Town.

I know what you're thinking. You thought the rules they'd forgotten were the Tom Peters, Ben Franklin rules about minding your knitting and watching pennies, letting dollars take care of themselves. True, they've forgotten those as well but don't hold your breath waiting for someone to step up and take - demand - responsibility for 28 years of neglecting to collect water usage charges. There's no such thing as "responsibility" around muni hall, only automatic pay raises. Of course, the water thing does raise an interesting question about why an administration so hell-bent on instituting user pay is also reluctant to embrace metering water but both God and the devil are in the details.

It is almost a given at this point that the mayor, when asked why he's spending money like there's a limitless supply - there is as long as he can milk the property tax cow - or asked why he's doing something that seems to piss off everyone in town, will answer with some variation of "it's the vision enshrined in Whistler 2020."

Whistler 2020 is a grand planning document. We know that because it's won numerous awards, as we are so quick to point out. But it's a plan, people. It's a roadmap to where we'd like to go. And like every plan, every roadmap, those two pesky Latin words, ceteris paribus , are the operative modifier. " With all other factors remaining the same! "

Some of the factors that have changed since the Whistler 2020 planning process include a global economic recession, the monetary sinkhole of the Olympics, a global flu pandemic that'll join peoples' aversion to visiting a resort holding the Olympics and make next season seem like the year no one comes, and changes to the provincial tax rules that have left a gaping hole in the town's finances.

So why are we following the plan with no deviation and no acknowledgement that the trail has been washed out ahead of us? Why are we spending a million bucks we obviously don't have to green up Meadow Park when we're crying about a $3 million budget shortfall? Why are we staffing up muni jobs when the words "hiring freeze" were tossed around so casually last fall? Why are we exploring every way to gouge those who can least afford it when we're not even collecting revenue for services provided?

What the hell kind of plan is that?