Slice of Life

I need to get my towel from the line. (Starts waking)
I will be passing by the kitchen, so, I should take this dirty plate. (Turns back starts to pick up the plate)
I do not have a shirt on and should present in public with modesty. (Turns to the bed, pick up shirt, starts putting shirt on. Catches a glimpse of a water bottle in the corner of his eye.)
I have not had much water today. I should drink some. (Halfway through putting the shirt on he  drinks a bottle of water. Finishes putting the shirt on. Takes plate and the now empty bottle to the kitchen. Cleans the plate. Refills the bottle. Returns to the room and finishes packing...without the  towel.)

The Tourist Trap

I was told I had purchased a small boat tour with a maximum of 20 people. Upon handing in the ticket I found it to be a large boat with 50+ other tourists hoping to enjoy a relaxing jaunt around the islands. I liked that there was room to spread out.
Our first stop was at another tourist pick-up where 50+ more got on.

I spot a plack that sais the maximum capacity is 80.  We are now well iver 100.
People are sitting in the aisles, on the stairs, on each other.
We bounce and weave through the water for an hour and a half. I do not know how many people threw up, but many could not make it to the side in time.
We pull into a "small fishing village" that resembles more of a strip-mall. There is a resort, a few restaurants, and endless stalls of souvenirs. An ice cream cone costs 5euros. A small 500ml water...also 5euros. That is it.  The sidewalk abruptly ends on one side and becomes the road out of town on the other.
After an hour of standing watching the crew spray down the deck, we reboarded and headed out for another hour and a half of a puke dodging, sweat fest.
We docked for lunch at what was advertised as a "traditional Croatian meal in an old village".
However, the village is on the other side of a high barbed-wire fence sepparating the well maintained greenery and ancient rock homes from the hundreds of tourists off four boats now. There is a tented seating area for maybe 200 and a makshift outdoor kitchen.
We ate first: grilled fish and french fries. Then we were rushed off to the beach so the other half could eat.
The beach was about 40m long and maybe 3m deep. The water was a nice reprieve, save for the constant cloud of engine exhaust that hung at the surface.
I swam out past the boats which prompted many loud yells and whistles that doing so was not permitted.
On the beach I found my towel covered in sand and my water bottle gone. Luckily, my bag was being watched. I sat down and was immediately covered in sand by people shaking their towels off to leave.
I did the same and we all reboarded. The final hour on the water can only be describbed as test. The one toilet stopped working and was now overflowing from the fluidity of bowl movements brought on by our undercooked meal. Stomachs so recently filled were now being eptied in every direction. And each time someone moved to escape the spatter their sweat would soak those around them.
Back on dry land I made a promise to myself: I would never again take part any anything touristy.

Why I Hike

I enjoy hiking.
That statement may seem a bit commonplaced, so I will define it further.

When I follow a path, I find myself only seeing that path...spotting the markers...letting the path lead me.

When I hike off-trail I see the trees, the under brush, the wildlife. I'm able to hear insects or the wind and to know from which direction their sound is comming.
I can see the deer paths.  I can since the elevation change. To see striations in stones...ripples in water.
Every step I take is my decision of right or left, forward or back.  It is my decision of weather I'm going the right way,
Do I want to find an easy rout? The most direct rout? Do I want to investigate a more adventurous path?

I do not hike to get from point A to point B.
I do not hike to put a check mark on a page in a book.
I hike because I enjoy it.

I Hate This Place

The women of Laos get to do everything. They cook, they clean, they raise the kids, they work, they do the home repairs, they are all bike mechanics. Meanwhile, the men are relegated to doing nothing but fishing and drinking beer.
I'm sitting now in my personal, hand made, bamboo cabana watching the sun set over the Mecong River. It's hot. I guess I could step into my airconditioned bungalow, lay on the king-size bed, and watch it from there, but then I probably won't be waited on when I need another drink. I really do want a photo of this scene, but the ripples on the water obscure what would otherwise be a clear reflection of the clouds as they grow a deeper heu of red. Oh well. Some other time.
And this food? WTH?? If I wanted to eat noodles I would have gone to Italy!  I ordered a steak and they give me this Outback sluf!? I was expecting Ruth's Chris. They just don't understand the needs of travelers. And you'd think they could at least make a proper drink!?! There is way too much gin in this martini.
I hate this place!!

Airborne

Some days are better than others. There are people around the world who will go to sleep tonight on a concrete floor. Some will not have eaten. Some will be dealing with medical conditions. 
I may not be able to save the world, but I can assist in that endeavor. And maybe, through my efforts, one person will sleep better.

And so, on this cold Saturday morning, Brian and I are driving toward downtown Raleigh to take part in a community wood chop. The firewood we make will be taken to people's homes who are too poor to afford it or too frail to split their own. With an axe, a maul, and 3lb wedge in the back seat, we sped off into the sunrise.

Another reason I was excited to be out was that I had just recently purchased my first car. At 22.5ft (6.8m) long, 6.5ft (2m) wide, and made of solid sheet metal the '71 Plymouth Furry II was refered to by many as a tank. But such a moniker is inappropriate since it was actually larger than the US-made T92.
On the rolling hills of Creedmore Road, once you passed 75mph, it would sway from side to side and up and down. Maneuvering this beast was not unlike that of a boat. And so on this morning my grin was particularly cheesy as we made our way to Hillsborough Street.

Past the NCSU bell tower. Through a few yellow lights. A sharp right then left. Morgan widened to three lanes, one-way. The last time I had been on this road I lost my stomach while going over the bridge above the railroad track. 
My eyes focused further ahead to the light at West Street. It had just turned green. I checked the mirror for cars that may be following too close. No one. 
"Hey, Brian. Check this out."
I gave my boat a little more gas. We went up the gentle side of the bridge and dropped quickly off the other; both of us felling the split secound loss of gravity. 
"Wooo!" Brian exclaimed.
I managed only a laugh-mixed, "Yeah!"
At the bottom of the dip, the g-forces brought our butts deeper into the leather bench seat. 

The notion of putting my seatbelt on crossed my mind, but I thought it better to wait until we had come to a safe stop.
My eyes reconnected with the light which was still green. My foot reconnected with the gas peddle which was still pressed low.
A shinny black car pulled out from a parking spot on the left; not into our lane, though. He stayed in his. Another was just making the right hand turn from West onto Morgan; again staying in his right-most lane. The path down the middle was clear as far as I could see and the green light at Harrington gave me the right-of-way.
We went under the light at West. 
Something in that moment lightened my mind and relaxed my hands. On a given weekday you'd be lucky to make it two blocks without having to stop at a light or wait for crossing traffic to clear. On this day the sun shown bright. The sky a deep, cold blue. Narry a pigeon to give reason or warning as we were fast approaching the other two vehicles and the intersection with Harrington.
We went under the light.

South Harrington was reconstructed some years prior with a water main running directly under it. The line was raised higher than most others, on account of a large chunk of granite that the contractors decided not to remove: It's shallow depth requiring a more severe curvature to the road above. The resulting marvel of engineering meant the street we were to cross was cambered a good foot and a half above the one we were on.
We hit the abrupt incline at probably 60mph.
With a thounderous roar of metal scrapping on concrete; shocks put to their full test; the Furry took flight.
Brian had been preparring to point out that I was exceeding a safe speed; his attention having been drawn to the rear-end of the Chevy Nova in the lane to our right and its trunk tied to the bumper with a bungee cord.
He turned his head, his gaze fixed on the trunk; then the roof with its worn away paint spots. Then the front windshield; doubting that anyone had ever seen their Wolfpack bobblehead on the dashboard from that perspective.

My hands gripped tight enough to damage my fingers against the hard spikes of the ergonomic wheel. The black Porsche 911 Turbo I had, for a brief moment, longed to own, dissapeared below my window.
I could see a discarded cup from Circle-K rolling under a parked car: A car I should not be able to see. And then it hit me, "very soon I WILL own that Porsche...or at least what is left of it."
With another Earth shattering, spark filled crash the Furry landed...bottomed out...lifted up again...then settled into its familiar, gentle oscillation.
I found the wherewithal to hit the breaks,  though using both feet might have been a bit aggressive. We slid half a block stopping with a jolt just on the white line of Dawson Street. My hands sore from their grip. Brian's eyes wide, his face white.
The two neighboring cars pulled slowely beside us. Each driver seeming to want to coment, perhaps even to ask if we were ok, but then again probably wanting more to find the nearest car wash and laundromat.
The light turned green. Unsure the car wasn't in pieces, I slowely pressed the gas. We inched forward.
A few blocks, without comment, without a sound, we pulled into the parking lot. Got out. Collected the tools. And then, with a renewed since of purpose we began to breath.

Bettering the World

Bettering the World

By Nathaniel Swearingen

The convoy of taxis progressed slowly down a brilliant white gravel drive lined on either side by stately oak trees; towering sentinels which had stood guard over this farm since their infancy hundreds of years ago.  We past perfectly manicured rolling fields, majestic horses, gardens, ponds, the occasional barn, and at least three spotless John Deer tractors.  “It’s good to be King”, I mused.  We encircled the main parking area complete with Ferrari, horse stables, and a fountain which would have been right at home in an Italian Piazza.
Our host was a glass maker.   His father had been the same as was his father before him and so on.  He was very proud of the craftsmanship.  His home was equally a part of the family.  In its heyday it had all the modern conveniences of archer battlements, a draw bridge, moat, and toilets cantilevered off the high exterior walls so as to allow ones excrement to drop into the water below.   I used to envision this as how airplane toilets worked.  They flushed with such force that your waste would be obliterated into millions of particles shot out the back of the craft.  An unsuspecting jogger far below might feel a drop and run his fingers through his hair. Giving them a sniff his face would scrunch, eyes blink, and he would say to himself, “Oh. Yeah.  I live in Toledo.”  And go about his day. By the time of our arrival modern plumbing and electric had been added, but without the slightest detraction form the original esthetic beauty that was, for one man, his castle.
Though informal, this was not just the coming together of people, but of ideologies.  We represented the light at the end of a Cold tunnel.  Dignity, professionalism, “Bettering the world: one person at a time”: this was our purpose.  All of that would change.

***

In the summer of 1989 the 2 world superpowers finally found a way to end what had become known as the Cold War.  “Soldiers” across the globe had been conscripted through 3^rd party Warlords. Men who spoke neither Russian nor English had taken sides, fought, and died in the name of defending Communism or Democracy. But far more often they simply defended themselves against their neighbors who had been similarly equipped by the other side.  Back home, in the minutia of everyday life, it would have been difficult to tell the difference between Moscow and Washington.  Every occupation, no matter how mundane or magnanimous, lay somewhere along an endless “ladder”: every job-holder working their way to the top.  But the “top” was just an illusion. Ladder rungs were inevitably replaced with strings of the marionettists.  
One of the biggest casualties which came from ending the Cold War was that of intellectual knowledge.  Some would argue at the same time that such a thing became a prized commodity.  In November of ‘89 the most tangible representation of that era also saw its end when Mikhail Gorbachev announced the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. While sections were dispersed to museums around the world, political figures, business leaders, and scientific giants who remained loyal to the Soviet Union uprooted and moved to the Mother Land.  In the wake of such a sudden leadership vacuum people who could trace their ancestry back thousands of years found themselves, for the first time, Free.  Free from political propaganda.  Free from providing for the Central Government first…family second.  Free from the hierarchy of a need-to-know based business machine.
There was, however, one glaring problem with this Freedom:  No one knew how to fill those upper-level jobs.  Few even knew what those positions were.  This was the climate in which I found myself after whirlwind introductions and last minute name-tag changes when I took the opportunity to join a group from my home town on a trip to Wraclow Poland.  To further map this time in history, Lech Walesa—the first non-Communist President of Poland or any other Eastern European country—had yet to be elected.  My fellow Delegates were pillars of the community:  Our Mayor, State and local Representatives, architects and contractors from both residential and commercial sectors.  There were communication experts including those who ran newspapers, radio and Television stations as well as the people who actually made those systems work on a daily basis.  And then there was me:  An 18 year old wild-eyed Southern Boy whose biggest contribution to society had been that I had not gotten anyone pregnant.  
On our first day in Wraclow we met an elderly gentleman who made sewer pipes.  His father did the same as did his father before him and so on.  He was very proud of the craftsmanship:  All lengths and diameters and all manner of material.  Some looking as though they had been made years ago.  Some shinny and new.  In fact, it became all too obvious that he and his small shop had continued to produce the items most commonly requested by the central Polish government.  However, there was no more central Polish government.  There were no renewed contracts.  There were no sewers being repaired or constructed…anywhere.  And what had until recently been a large neighboring goat farm now resembled more of an expansive oddly designed graveyard.  We had Civil Engineers to work with such companies.
The hotel had been selected for us mostly from the shiny pamphlet brought back by one of our Crew from a previous trip a few years prior. It advertised “Phones and water in every room”.  We checked in. I laid down.  Thought I’d call my mother.  No dial tone.  Got up to use the bathroom only to find the seat heavily wrapped in cellophane.  I had played that trick on friends a few times, but the Poles evidently hadn’t figured out you had to stretch it tight to make it all but invisible.  Turns out, the wrap was no joke.  The plumbing had issues.  And since there was no one to fix it (in a town of over 1 million people) the best they could manage was having one operable toilet and shower per floor.  Our construction and design people had their work cut out for them.

***

As the sun began to set we were summoned to a “house” just outside of town for an informal meet and greet.  Our line of taxis were given the royal treatment with police escort and others stopping traffic at every intersection.  After a brief tour of the house we were directed to the Grand Dining Room finely appointed with tapestries, sculptures, chandeliers, and enough silver utensils to fund a coup.  My focus, though, was drawn to the immense wooden dining table:  Simple and elegant, dwarfing even the room itself.  At nearly eight inches in depth, long arching cracks had been expanding imperceptibly over any one year, but after hundreds, one could lose his spoon if he were not careful.  Nestled beneath and surly hune from the same tree were thirty chairs fit for royalty; the seats and arm rests wrapped with the finest silk and all the buttons made of gold.  There has only been one other occasion when I have sat at a table of its equal.  Of course, then, I had not been invited to sit.  Just as I had, however, I was escorted OUT of the Biltmore House.
Taking my place I began running my fingers across the grain.  It showed its age.  History lay before me:  The deeper the grooves, the darker the stains, the older the party. Kings, Princesses, Jacks of all trades had graced this place.  In one moment I could feel their stories flowing through me.  In the next, I was terrified for not knowing what mark I would leave for future generations to recollect.
The din of idle chatter within the Great Hall was silenced by the ringing of a crystal clear bell.  Our Host stood and addressed his guests.  A brief history of his family and home was recited while servants began setting the table with trays of simple meats, cheese, and bread.  They also brought to each of us a matching hand-crafted glass bell.  “It has been the tradition of my family for generations that at such gatherings as this we try to complete the Toast Circle. And so, I offer you Poland’s finest.”  No doubt the staff had seen this play out many times before.  Right on cue they placed before us bottles of Polish Potato Vodka.  Thirty 5^th’s in all and more cases stacked at each end of the room.  “I thank each of you for looking beyond yourselves, beyond your country…seeing that we are all here together on this Earth.  And together great things are possible. ZA PIĘKNE PANIE!”  We filled and raised our shot glasses shouting “cheers”!
For the next hour or so we got to know those around us.  We took turns telling stories of past adventures, patting ourselves on the back for assisting people and communities around the world, but never failing to insert the notion that this trip was of upmost importance.  A bell would ring. Noise would diminish. A toast would be made.  Laughter would ensue.  The food was scarcely enough to satisfy a mouse, but the liquor never stopped flowing.  As soon as one bottle was upended another was set in its place.  My green label was replaced with red.  Brief excursions to the Caribbean became magnanimous attempts to combat poverty.  Knowing how to change a lightbulb lead to an offer of rewiring a building.  Half of the Circle had been completed when our Mayor stood, mistakenly tapping a knife on a glass rather than using his bell.  As if the sign had been made, the lady to my right gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs and lifted her bell open-end up.  I filled it with blue label then filled my own.  We downed our three-shot toast and carried on.  A vacation to Paris was described on par with the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.  An internship with the local paper became a column in the New York Times.
Rolling waves of laughter gave way to people actually rolling onto the floor.  At one point I was asked what the lyrics, “I put the A to the K and my hand shook all day” meant.  It is more than a little awkward to describe the action of firing an AK-47 to someone whose family and friends had died at the hand of one.  My only hope is that they do not remember that part of the evening.  Another bell… Another three-shoots.  I had not consumed this much alcohol since my days as an altar boy in the Episcopal Church.
Lights flickered.  Walls moved.  People were contorted in impossible ways.  I stared at my reflection in a silver plate for an hour…or a second.  She was once an elderly lady, now fantastically young, and began playing suggestively with her bell.  A gentleman’s’ tie landed on my plate--a shoe on the bread.  As the first of the party began to show their low constitution the wait staff kindly directed us down the stairs and into the back courtyard.  
A bon fire was lit. Chocolate and marshmallows. Hotdogs and skewers.  And, of course, more vodka.  Two of my brethren tore open the hotdogs and began reliving their past lives as Knights.  The fire cast a giant silhouette of their sword fight on the castle wall. Each hoping to avoid, above all, the dreaded wet-weeny-to-the-face that would surely be used against them in the next election cycle.  Others began testing their bravery by jumping over the bonfire.  Two made it cleanly; the third did not.  His feet kicked the top two-thirds of burning logs and sent them sprawling across the lawn.  Sparks flew in every direction.  Onlookers cheered and applauded.  It seemed a wonderful display of color to the over inebriated crowd.  What he had not immediately noticed was that our intrepid hero had fallen on top of those logs.  How excited he seemed as he leapt off the ground shrieking with joy.  “If only he had jumped that high the first time”, I thought.  His stop, drop, and roll were replaced with jump, scream, and run as his adoring fans patted him on the back…and chest…and arms…and legs...and head.
We played a game of Cowboy marksmanship, throwing discarded bottles into the air trying to hit them with rocks; succeeding moslty at hitting each other.  Anyone who mellowed to the point of sitting sleepily in a chair was rudely awaken to find his shoe strings tied together or the chair itself tied to his waste.  Behind every tree, behind every bush we challenged each other to who could empty the most out of our mouths, or bladders, or both at the same time.  The giant piss-stained pant suit of our State Representative seemed to faze no one. None of us would bother repacking that night’s outfit for the return flight home.  Knee stains from grass could be washed out, but not those left by sticky, burning marshmallows we had thrown at one another.
I did not leave a mark on the table, but as we were driven home I did leave a trail of Poland’s finest along the road at every stop light.

"Rain"

She set out from her seaside home to clear her mind from the day's haul. So focussed on being in her kayak, alone and away, she had not given a thought to wearing anything more than an old one-piece her favorite cap, and a fadded life vest. The water was calm and the air warm. The aquaculture boats were in. The ferry would not be back for a few hours. It was just her and the cold, comforting waters of the Bay of Fundy.

Passing Stanley Beach, the porch light flickered on at the The Compass Rose. Around the warf. She was happy to have been chosen as one of the crew to work Jerry's boat this season. He only brought on competant fishermen: no first-timers from St. John who can't keep on their feet or pick them up when the traps are being tossed. By the ferry terminal a wry smile appeared on her face along with a slow shake of her head. "Why did I agree to strip the lines from the ferry props this weekend?" She mused, then laughed. "'Cause I'm the only one on this island right now with a dry suit."

Bev is the kind of person you can count on. And at one time or another, everyone on the island has. Doesn't matter the situation or the task. If all you needed was a fill-in she'd probably laugh at you for wasting your time asking. But if the job needed to be done, and needed to be right, the list was short and her name was always on top.
The light from Swallow Tail Lighthouse caught her eye as she rounded the rocks to Pettes Cove. Echos rolled across the water from two boys catching crabs along the beach. The tide here is so dramatic. One wave will spill over a boulder and the next will be half a meter below.
"Probably Jane's kids." She thought. "I need to remember to ask Mrs. Barlow if they turned in their homework I assigned while she was out. And they'll probably claim it got wet."

The water rose gently as a wave passed underneath. On the backside the boat hit a rock jolting her into the moment. She paddled a bit away from the cliff without much concern. She knew every boulder well enough to navigate by the stars.
"That one isn't a rock." She thought jokingly as a seal surfaced just five meters away. Then another and two more ahead. The curving fish pens here make for easy meals..."so long as Dan isn't protecting them with his father's Cooey."
Around the point she stared out to the East. Beyond the horizon was Nova Scotia and the town of Bigsby. There she had been offered a job on-share for the season, but that meant living away from Grand Manan. If she were going to do that she'd rather be further away. Much further. 
"I need to check flight schedules again for Cuba. And ask Maria if they have found an apartment."

The long shadows cast on the water by the high cliffs of North Head fadded as the sun disappeared to the West. The stars were out in full force now; millions of dots undimmed on account of the new moon. There were no other lights around, save for a few fishing boats in the distance and the regular interval of Swallow Tail Lighthouse from behind.

In the darkness she watched her paddle move; churning the bioluminescence. Sparks scattering under water. She dipped the other end in and stired the fire. She sat back and smiled. So peacefull. So beautiful. The boat genty swayed. Waves lapped on rocks at the bottom of the cliff. 
Looking up she could barely find the constillations for the brightness of all the accompanying stars. She recounted a conversation with her host family in South Korea. How they'd sat in wounder and amazement at her description of the Heavens as she knew them at home.

Subtle drops of water could be heard in the distance. A small wave of rain overtook the boat. That sudden chill made her sit up strait and paddle a few strokes.
Another wave of rain passed and she decided it was time to head back. But something seemed amiss. There were no clouds. Why was it raining? How?
Just then she could hear a wave of pelting rain approaching out of the darkness. It enveloped her and seemed to stall. She would surely be freezing by the time she made it home. All around were tiny specs of light from the agitated water.

But wait? Her head and shoulders were not getting wet.
Those drops are too big to be rain.
Though it was dark, she could just see the small fish jumping from the water and landing on her boat. She was surrounded by thousands of herring jumping out of the water. A school that seemed to find safety around and on her.
She laugh out loud. "This is crazy" as one nearly slipped down her suit.
A chill ran down her spine. Hairs stood on end. "This is not good."
When the herring run it's usually because something is chasing them. Something large.
If its a shark, that's ok. They are aware of their surroundings and will avoid her.
If it's a whale...
She began paddling with growing concern.
But what seemed a safe direction at first was taking her closer to the rocks. At any moment a wave could lower her onto one and tip her into the freezing water.
The herring dispersed and for a moment all was silent. The light from Swallowtail passed lighting the cliff face; a bit too near now.
She stopped...unsure which direction to go.
Without warning came the abrupt expulsion of air from a blowhole. She was showered. A single moment in time being both terrified and exhilarated.
She should move away. But hitting the whale with the paddle could cause it to move suddenly. Being so large, any movement would sink her.
The light came round again. Another moment. A split second: of both time and space. Burned in her mind forever. The whale had risen and turned slightly on its side. An eye as big as the blade of her paddle staired at her from not two meters away. And then darkness.
She sat. Motionless. Smiling. Fearing. Waiting. Time stood still.
The light came round again. The whale was gone. No sound. No movement upon the water.
Had she been that close to such a magnificent creature? Had she seen what she thought she saw? Only the stars had paid witness to the moment. She sat lost in the dream.
"There is no place in earth I'd rather be."
She began paddling home; judging the distance from the cliff each time a light allowed.
Not a care in the world. 

Traveler's Toast

This one is for all those who love the open road. The truck driving man. The package delivery girl. The cyclist. The runner. The roammer. The wanderer. The intrepid traveler.

May your views be plentiful.

Your roads be smooth

Your mugs be full.

And your heart beat fast.

Cobras

When searching for a place off the beaten path, you know you have found it when your host suggests not taking the path the the left "because of all the cobras".

I might have been more concerned were it not for having just finished my traditional Lao breakfast of Oreos and grain alcohol.

And so, unable to feel my feet, I set them in motion...to the left.

Le Ocean

Today I embark on what, I hope, will be the last leg of a journey that began 35 years ago during a 5th grade geography class. It was then that I first posed a question that has eluded me since: The answer to which is finally close at hand.

Why do people from a land-locked nation refer to themselves as Le Ocean?

How To Enjoy The Outdoors

How to enjoy the Outdoors:

Step 1.  Go!

Step 2a (for Normal peoole).  Get a map.  Look at map.  Take map with you.  Tell someone where you are going.  Know if you will be on trails of roads.  Know if the path is marked.  Know the distance between intersections or places of interest.  Know the total distance and and estimated time.  Take food and water.  Take a flashlight. Wear layers for unpredictable weather.

Step 2b (for adventurous people):  Ignore Step 2a.  Refer back to Step 1.

Costa Rica and Panama: 2014

Costs Rica, Parts 1 & 2: 2014

Part 1

When researching Costa Rica one notion had become abundantly clear...Do not go into San Jose! So, of course, I went. I wanted to see what all the hubbub was about. I timed my arrival to coinside with the Festival of Lights. Unfortunately, my photos did not capture the scene adaquitly. 

Standing in Parque LA Mèrced directly across from the Movistar booth and their insanely loud PA system...trying to identify the lattinafide Christmass carols being performed by various marching bands...admiring the craftsmanship of floats made as much from lights as paper mache...trying to catch the swag being thrown into the crowd while dodging hundreds of screaming kids, dogs, dog shit, and plates of food tossed on the ground...wearing a backpack...NOT wearing a Santa or NBA hat...and being the only Gringo in sight.

I've been here for all of 1 hour and I am on total sensory overload. You need to include San Jose when you visit Costa Rica . 

Then again, after 3 days, my thoughts changed. If you do not have a specific reason to be in San Jose, you will not find one while you are here.

Tucked away from all the noise and pollution of the big city in the South East corner of the country is the small, vibrant town of Puerto Viejo.  No matter were you stay, you will be drawn toward activities from surfing to horse trekking to finding something dry to wear.  The later being the most challenging. I stayed halfway between PV and the Manzanillo Rain Forest in a backpackers called Walaba.

Taking a walk on the beach has never been more relaxing and exhilarating! For 8K I saw only 2 people: a couple from Toronto who moved here 11 years ago to make free-diving spear guns. Every step was paradise.  You round a bend in the beach only to change your mind again..."Ok, now THIS is the spot I want to return to tomorrow." 

I continued along the beach well beyond the end of the road and the entrance to Manzanillo. Deciding to venture into the rain forest, I began maplessly negotiating a maze of unmarked pathes until I ended up at a farm house. Just as my mind began to play banjo music a voice called out from within, "Hey, Man. Howzit goin'"?

Antonio and I talked for over an hour about his farm and the plants he is very proud of. All maner of fruit trees, a garden for vegetables, medicinal plants...  Like an island utopia.  Then he mentioned that he rarely gets visitors; especially from the way I came. "You are a long way from home."

I smiled. "No. Yo estoy con naturalez. Estoy en casa."

Costa  Rica 

Pt. 2

In Costa Rica, all roads lead to San Jose. Rather...you must drive first to SJ before continuing on to another part of the country.  I am not one to backtrack when traveling, so I found another option; South, into Panama.

First up was Bocas del Toro: an archipelago of mangrove islands similar to the Florida Keys. While the party in Bocas town may not rival that of Duval Street, there is an endless offering of pristine beaches, scuba diving, kayaking, and mood-setting substances.

From time to time I am confronted with a particular genetic abnormality of mine. I enjoy being able to breath! I also prefer cold weather over hot. And so I left the island paradise undiscovered and found solace at a higher ellivation: Boquete. A small mountain town tucked into a narrow valley 30min from David. 

My original notion of this trip was to spend 3 weeks in Costa Rica. Plan B into Panama was to be a 3-day transition from carribbean to pacific. A week or more has passed and I'm still in Boquete! Sloth is not just a jungle creature...it is a way of life.

That is not entirely accurate.  Yes, my time here has included many hours undisturbed in a hammock or people watching in Central Park. But I also managed to partake of several tourist activities. There are many trails for hiking; most easily walkable solo. However, because of an unfortunate incident earlier this year involving 2 unprepared girls from Holland, park rangers at trail heads may deny entrance without a guide. 

Stay at Mamallena Backpackers and they will set you up with whatever you need. There is a mimi-canyon, rafting in Armistead NP, hot springs, waterfalls. Rent a bike and knock the rust off your legs. Or hike the crown jewel of it all...Volcan Baru. From its treeless, 12,000ft (3,400m) peak the intrepid adventurer finds a new perspective on life: above civilization, above other mountins, above the clouds. On a clear day you can see both the Carribbean and Pacific coasts at the same time. What a way to spend Christmas!

Norway: 2014

Exploration Norway – May, 2014

Part 1

Picture Charleston, SC:  Cobblestone streets, colorful, historic architecture, a town holding fast to its traditional roots.  Picture Seattle, WA: Steep streets, rainy climate, and access to some of the nations’ best outdoor recreation.  Now Boulder, CO, with its abundance of hiking trails and cycling paths; a city designed more for people than cars.  Put them all together and you have an idea of what Bergen, Norway is like.  Situated on the…brisk…waters of the North Sea only a few latitudes below the Arctic Circle, winters here can be cold, dark, and wet.  From late May, however, the town comes alive.  Festivals and holidays follow one another to form an almost seamless celebratory atmosphere.

   

It’s a random Tuesday.  I’m strolling through one of the many parks.  It’s 6:00 in the evening.  “Evening” is a relative term, though, as the sun will not set for another 5hrs--and the sky will not turn completely dark for several months.   The smell of lit charcoal permeates the air.  Every blade of grass is covered with a towel or blanket.  Hundreds…thousands of people are throwing footballs, kicking futbols, playing instruments, swimming, playing with their dogs and cooking all manner of meats on portable, disposable grills. I ask a guy what it’s all about. “The sun is out”, he replies, in perfect English.  “No, seriously.  Is it a holiday today?  Will there be fireworks?”  He laughs.  “No.  This is what we do whenever the sun is out.”  Which, unfortunately, is not that often.  Today it is clear and warm:  probably 75*F.  This is how you do it!  Then I instructed him on how to throw a tight spiral while doing my best Manning impersonation.  I hit “Welker” on a fade rout and he manages some fancy footwork to avoid all the hot coals and bikini-clad fans.

The next day I walked into the hills.  Other than tourists taking the tram to a nice overlook called Floyen, my expectation was that I’d be alone.  Blamanen Mt. Is a tough walk from the city center at first, but provides a panorama of Bergen, the Sea, and snow-capped mountains to the East.  I quickly find, however, that when outdoors in Norway one is never alone.  Tucked back into the hills there is even a coffee shop!  That and hundreds of people hiking, biking, grilling, etc.  I met Bogdan and Solveig who put it this way:  Norwegians are generally nice, but the higher you go the nicer they get.  Those you meet on the top of a mountain treat you like a longtime friend.

Back in town I stopped at the Fish Market for a bite when I notice a timer on the counter.  “What’s this for”, I inquire?  “Freshness” was the response.  Norway does happen to be one of the--if not THE--most expensive country in the world.  One reason is freshness of the food.  Laid out before me were simple sandwiches of shrimp, salmon and other assorted seafood.  Every 90min what has not been sold has to be thrown away!  Then they make all new.  Check the timer.  Come back when it hits 0:00.  And have them slice the sushi-grade salmon right there in front of you!  OMFG!!  I ate ‘til my wallet couldn’t take any more. 

 

I spent several days urban hiking through Bergen, then moved on to the town of Odda.  The Fjords await!

“The world is not in your books and maps.  It’s out there.” --Gandalf

Norway

Part 2

Do you enjoy roller coasters?  Do you like dizzying heights?  Do you enjoy putting your life in someone else’s hands?  Then you should try riding a bus in Norway!  Such a dramatic landscape makes for a hair-raising journey.  Between Bergen and Odda there are no less than 20 tunnels.  One moment you are overlooking a fjord and the next its pitch black.  Add to that that the rout takes you on a ferry and under a glacier…”Getting there” is truly an experience unto itself.

The port city of Bergen was the start of 2 weeks exploring Norway.  My next stop was Odda:  A small, blue-collar town separating Lake Sandvinvatnet and the Sorfjorden branch of Hardangerfjord.  Ok, that was a mouthful.  Essentially, it’s in the middle of nowhere.  However, if you enjoy the out-of-doors and being on the edge, this town is in the center of it all.  Close proximity to Norway’s largest water fall, walks that take you past numerous others, and some serious off-road cycling.  There is climbing and rappelling, skiing, boating, even zip-lines and a bungee jump!  But the main attraction is the hiking.  As with many other parts of Norway, Odda has applied for World Heritage status.  Definitely a town that will be on more maps in the future.

 

My first day I decided to stroll up a hill named Rossnoss starting just out the front door of the Trolltunga Hotel to get the view.  Three hours latter--every step taking me higher--I was rewarded with far more.  Were it not for a gentle bend in the fjord and lake, I could see their full extent North and South.  The vast, brilliant, white expanse of Buarbreen Glacier to the West.  Waist deep snow that I trudged through for the last kilometer behind.  Oh, yeah.  And 1000m of nothing but air between my feet and the water below.  If you take this hike, or any really, do not forget the sunscreen!  You know.  ‘Cause you’re so much closer to the sun!  But it is Norway…in the middle of the week…in the middle of the day.  While at home such a spot would have me equally as far from another human, here I had a chat with a local who was out for his daily exercise.  I was even congratulated—or was it laughed at?—for making the climb without snow shoes.  Then he switched out to his skies and glided elegantly down the mountain.

For my next adventure I took a walk to Buarbreen Glacier…the long way.  As with most hikes here, this one began alongside a water fall.  While most tourists take the road to within a Km or 2 of the glacier, this rout was to lead me around a mountain and past 4 lakes; each one progressively more frozen over.  I should mention that Norway has perhaps the worlds’ best marked trail system.  The ever-present red “T”’s mean you cannot get lost.  Well, that is unless the snow is so deep those markings are covered.  My survival instincts kicked in and I made a concerted effort to stay away from the water lest my footing should fail and I slip in.  I spotted red markers and followed the path: up.  Have you ever had that feeling?  The feeling of, “Oh Sh$t.  I went the wrong way.”  To the East and North the mountain stopped abruptly and I could just see through the clouds the towering escarpment of Rossnoss.  To the West Buarbreen was hidden.  Behind…well…that’s where I came from.  Can’t go that way ;)  Standing atop the only stone high enough to not be fully covered with snow, something occurred to me:  I was alone.  Luckily, it began to rain.

Rain is good.  It makes the snow more compactable.  Rather than stepping through, your steps compress it meaning you do not sink as deep.  My goal lay to the West, so that is where I went; blazing my own trail.  Listening for water under the snow.  Don’t step there.  Staying away from trees.  Snow can gather on the roots and hide awkward footing.  Looking out for larger rocks.  Snow drift will collect on the downhill side.  It may look flat but can often be several feet/meters deep.  At the edge of another lake I could just make out a “T” along its bank.  Thank you Luther E. Smith and Troop 601!!  I wondered how cold the water was.  Dipped my finger in to check.  A few minutes later, after regaining feeling in my hand, I decided it was definitely wet-suit legal.

The path followed along the East side of a river/waterfall, but, again, disappeared.  I was already 7 hours into a 4 hour hike.  Turning back did not appeal to me.  There was no way across the river.  Down…straight down…was the only way.  I’ll spare you the boaring details and just say that in my youth I loved climbing trees.  The best part was climbing one high enough to bend it over and transfer to another, then climb that one back down.  So, I had some experience to draw on.  Back in the cozy confines of my hotel I recounted my adventure with the staff.  “I decided to go down here”, showing them on a map.  “But, you can’t go that way”.  “That is the way I went…straight down to the river.”  “But it’s straight down?  You can’t go that way.” 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

People have asked, “Why Norway?”  I saw a photograph.  It was of a large rock that jutted out over a lake some 700m high.  I was immediately entranced.  Sitting on that ledge became one of three goals for the trip.  The other 2 were in the same region…and roughly the same idea:  A rock way up in the air.  This one is known as Trolltunga: the Troll’s Tongue.  One of the longer day-hikes near Odda, but something you should do if you have the opportunity.  The walk begins with a few steps up an old railway.  I counted 2538.  The next 11km passes breathtaking scenery that itself is worth the effort.  If you want to avoid the snow, July to September are the better months.  But be forewarned, the rest of the world is finding out about places like this and the path can be absolutely chock-a-block!

I met Shan, from China, at the Hotel and we walked together.  Always a good idea to not walk alone ;).  The weather here in May is unpredictable.  For us, the day could not have been better.  Though there was snow, I was in shorts and t-shirt the entire time.  99% of the walk was through snow so it was easy to follow the well-worn path.  On our return, however, that path crossed what will soon be a lake.  Halfway across, our feet were sinking up to shins in slush.  I advised all others from that point on to go around.  The water.  The mountains.  The sky.  The rock.  Enchanting.  If ley lines and vortexes exist, surly one passes through here. 

On the other side of the Hardangerfjord is a town named Voss.  It claims to be the adrenaline capitol of Norway.  Odda is quickly making its own case for that title.  Then again, the people of Norway and those who visit are all about being out amongst nature.  Which is to say, you could probably throw a dart at a map and find an adventure of your own to rival that which I have submitted here.

Norway

Part 3

Hydro, Geothermal, Wind…Perhaps not the words that come to mind when you think of Norway.  However, this country has consistently ranked at the top of the list for renewable energy.  Actually all of Scandinavia is leading the world:  Sweden, Denmark, Norway and I’ll lump in Finland and Iceland as well.  A bit of an oxymoron then that Norway is also the world’s 6th largest producer and 3rd largest exported of oil.  The city of Stavanger is Europe’s energy center and the town has benefited richly from its offshore deposits.  This also why I ran into more Americans in my one day here than the rest of the trip put together.

My adventures in Norway began in the picturesque city of Bergen.  Next there was Odda with its burgeoning outdoor recreations.  My last stop took me briefly through Stavanger and on to the most touristted spot in all of Norway: Pulpit Rock.  If you enjoy cycling and do not want to test your legs on steep mountains, Stavanger is a very bike friendly town.  They even raised a bike path above one of the major roadway roundabouts.  

Before I put this trip together I researched things to do in Norway.  Preikestolen, or Pulpit Rock, in particular kept popping up.  Located on the north side of Lysefjorden fjord, a short ferry ride from Stavanger--thanks for the ride Dan!--is an outcropping of stone.  Like something of an alien heli-pad, its top is almost perfectly square, flat, and only 25m x 25m.  From the water 600m below, you can see that the monolith angles out from the rest of the cliff wall.  I stayed at the DNT (Norwegian Trekking Association) Lodge at the start of the path.  If you have not hiked much be forewarned; the trail may be easy to follow, but it is not easy.  Start to finish you are on a stone path that would make the Incas laugh, but still makes the Gringos cry.  Along the way I met Yvette.  This is one place you will not want to be completely alone.  No selfie camera shot can do justice to the awesomeness of the view and the drama of one’s feet hanging over the edge.

Far to the East—well, far by hiking standards—there is another DNT Lodge and another high rock:  Kjerag.  This was the 3rd of my hoped-for goals.  Sadly, tourist season begins in June and even in mid-May the road was closed:  snowed in.  Even if you are from a place that gets “a lot” of snow, this is ridiculous!  So, that one did not pan out.  “Two outta three aint bad.”  I spent a few nights near Preikestolen.  There is a lake and several other trails to explore.  I think I walked them all.  You can even take a trail down to the fjord.  It was here I decided to get my feet wet.  And you know what they say, “When in Norway…”  No wet-suit on hand so I wore my birthday suit.  I’m still in recovery.

Let me give you some insight as to my accommodations on this journey.  Hostels.  Bunkhouses.  Dorm rooms.  The Ritz it is not.  But these are the places you meet people.  What’s a better ice-breaker than you and the guy from India taking turns hitting the Slovakian with a pillow to keep him from snoring?  And the food isn’t as bad as you might think.  Two large, tender pieces of veal with potatoes, carrots, beets, string beans, corn, onions, mushrooms, collie flower, all in an artichoke pure.  Paired perfectly with Casa Maria Sauvignon Blanc.  My view through a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the lake as the clouds slowly turn the mountains to a solid wall of tranquil grey.   Why did I leave?

“Every dreamer knows that it is entirely possible to be homesick for a place you've never been to, perhaps more homesick than for familiar ground.”—Random Traveler

Peru: 2013

Peru

Nov 2013

There is a whole world out there to be discovered.  No time like the present to start exploring!

On the advice of friends and family that have been to Peru previously, I decided to experience the land of the Inca for myself.  The focus of this adventure was to walk part of the Inca Trail and see Machu Picchu.  Entrance and transportation permits are strictly regulated so it is advisable to make reservations months in advance.  The tour package I purchased also included hotel stays, tours, and ground/air transportation within Peru.  In hind sight, I recommend purchasing only the admission and transportation to/from Machu Picchu in advance.  You will spend less money and have a more flexible schedule by arranging the rest of your journey separately.  I stayed 3 nights in Lima, 3 nights in Cusco, 3 nights on the trail, 2 more in Cusco, and 2 more in Lima.  Depending on how much you enjoy City Life, and to some extent the company you are keeping, I recommend spending most of your time in Cusco or its surroundings rather than in Lima.  Over the next few years, Peru is planning to build an international airport close to Cusco, so you may be able to skip the city altogether.

My first introduction to Lima was a harrowing taxi ride from the airport to my B&B.  While Peru is, for the most part, a 3rd-world country, its largest city is not all that dissimilar to other major metropolitan areas around the world.  Looking out the window I could swear I was on Queens Boulevard racing toward NYC; mammoth potholes and all.  The radio blaring an unbroken melody of rock hits from the 80’s.  All time-changed to match an overdubbed, monotonous techno beat.  There was serious consideration for tipping the driver extra in hopes that future passengers may have the luxury of padding in the seats.  But another bottle of cheap cologne was a more likely result.

A brief search on Lonely Planet’s ThornTree introduced me to Casa Ana.  A Backpacker’s B&B just on the outskirts of the city center.  Yes, I could have stayed at the Sheraton a few blocks away for $250USD, but $15USD was more my pace.  For that modest rate I had my own room, a shared bath, breakfast, and farm animals.  Chris Robinson once penned the phrase, “The Rooster crows at the break of dawn.”  Bull Sh#$.  The rooster crows all firkin’ night long!!  I see a siesta in the near future.

  

But I am experiencing the journey of a lifetime.  Slapped on my street shoes and started out.  Lima was founded in 1535.  Its more touristed buildings and cathedrals date to the 1600’s.  However, earthquakes were not kind to Spanish architecture and many of the building as you see them today really only date from the past century or so.  Still, their intricate carvings and 3-dimentional design are worth visiting.  Lima has dedicated itself to a cleansing of its streets akin to the changes you’d find in Time Square or Falls Park.  Gone are the street vendors, contraband markets, and undesirable elements (aka you are less likely to be knifed).  In their place is just about every American restaurant and European clothing store you can think of.  In some quarters it’s actually difficult not to eat as if at the Haywood Mall.  Although it is worth noting that one can get a free line of cocaine by patronizing a house of ill repute.  “Undesirable element” is a loose term.

One thing that did strike me about the design of Peruvian Capitalism are the singular purpose buildings.  I strolled into what I thought was a mall only to see cubical after cubical of print shops.  These are not your FedEx/Kinko’s.  Each one is only maybe 5ft by 10ft.  Row after row of nothing but printing and the occasional printer fixit shop.  On level 2…more of the same.  And 3 and 4.  It seemed an endless factory producing menus, advertisements, and business cards.  Similar buildings or blocks around town contained the totality of sunglasses for sale, or pocket books, luggage, or drug stores.  And don’t think that you’ll find a small backpack or book bag in a luggage quarter; they have their own location…somewhere in the city.  It all seemed to me an extent of socialism that would make Marx and Lenin roll over in their graves.

I stepped out to refresh my ink-filled lungs with a deep inhale of car exhaust and ran into Danquis Peolso:  a 50ish native of Peru who wants to be a tour guide but does not know enough English.  He is convinced the nicest people in America are from Philly.  We struck up a conversation and he offered to show me around the city.  Behind Jr. de la Union, Lima’s shopping district, you will find ladies of the night…or day…or late mid early morning.  90sol for 2 hr.  More for red hair or blond.  “Over here used to be my favorite one but it’s now a Radio Shack.  I show you the Meet Market”.  Pigs heads, cow heads, entrails of all sorts dangling from hooks.  “Take siesta out back here.  30sol for massage…more for good time”.  Back toward the Plaza San Martin… “This one used to have the Chicas Malor, big butt women.  Now it’s a restaurant.  Let’s eat here”! 

 

The ceviche was incredible:  Shrimp, crab, oyster, calamari, clam, fish, corn, sweet potato, all in a lemon sauce.  Toss in a couple Pisco Sours (alcohol drink of choice) and a bottle of Inca Kola…you’d pay upwards of $75 for this meal in the US.  It cost me only 40sol.  At 2.7 to 1 that’s around $15USD.  “Where are you going from here”, he asked.  “Cusco and on to the Inca Trail”.  “OH!  You have to do the Sexy Woman!”  All I could picture was a large Tasmanian woman named Rosie.  This is going to be a long trip. 

To be continued…

Peru

Nov 2013

Part 2

Recently, I traveled to Peru.  My original goal was only to hike the Inca Trail and see Machu Picchu.  However, I found so much more at every turn.  “The Inca Trail” is typically referencing a small segment terminating at Machu Picchu.  At the Empire’s height, though, there were thousands of miles of Trail stretching from Columbia to Chili.  The hub of that empire was a city in Peru named Cusco.  Today, there are numerous segments all over Western South America that can be hiked with varying degrees of regulation and available support.  While most people may relate to the Incas through the photos of the citadel known as Machu Picchu, there are hundreds of other structures that can be explored; some larger than MP.  It is believed that we have re-discovered less than half of what has been swallowed by the Andean jungle.  All this to say, if you seek adventure along the order of the opening seen of “Indiana Jones”, you can find it here!

The city of Cusco was the starting point for exploration, but also a must-see in itself.  At more than 11,000ft above sea level, one needs to take the possibility of altitude sickness seriously.  If you desire a more gradual ascent to such heights know that, while only 300miles from Lima, the drive takes approximately 20 hours.  And if you are a crazy Dutchman named Rob Winjnbergen, you ride a bike…for the fun of it!  

Cusco has a bit of everything:  Spanish cathedrals, original Inca walls, excellent food, and more tourist/travel offices than people.  If you have partaken of a bit too much Chicha, step into Paddy's Irish Pub.  It's good to switch it up a bit!  There is an enormous amount of history in-town, most with visual accompaniment.  Way back when, the Spanish invaders thought it would be a good idea to raze the city of Cusco and build a new city in its place.  However, the Inca-constructed buildings proved to be too difficult to destroy so they decided to build on top of them.  In 1650 an earthquake leveled almost every building in the city.  Not a single Inca stone moved out of place!  

Near Cusco are numerous historical sites within what is called the Sacred Valley.  Some of the most stunning examples of Inca architecture are here and you will want to explore this region thoroughly.  The closest Inca ruins to Cusco are in a temple complex that sits atop a hill overlooking the city: Sacsayhuaman.  Pronounced Saxywoman.  I’m feeling better about my conversation with Danquis!  Here you will find the best examples of fitted or “molded” stone walls.  No one really knows how they did it, but the walls are built without mortar.  The boulders have been shaped to fit together perfectly regardless of their angles or curvature.  Ancient Alien Theorists suggest that the technologies to mold stone and negate gravity were given to the Inca by otherworldly beings.  But the truth was lost during the haphazard destruction of their empire by the Spanish.

Another marvel of engineering are the terraces.  The Andes present a majestic and imposing landscape.  But through the use of stepped terraces, level ground was created for growing crops, building roads, supporting homes, and selling postcards.  All of the large Inca sights contain fountains and irrigation systems.  These are spring fed and, at least as far as anyone knows, they have never run dry; even through decade-long droughts.  Suffice it to say, the Incas had an understanding of nature that surpasses our efforts today.  Spend some time at Ollantaytambo, Patallacta, or Moray and allow your mind to be blown!

Back in Cusco, I popped into one of the numerous pizza joints around town.  Even went a few blocks away from the main square in hopes of finding “local” cuisine.  The guy who owns the place is from Greenville, SC!!  Yes, the world is much smaller than it seems.  Though, I did have to remind him that blue cheese is no substitute for mozzarella!!

To Be Continue...

Peru

Part 3

There is something magical about exploration and discovery.  No photographs, no lyrics, no prose can accurately and completely describe what the eyes, ears, nose, perceive or that 6th sense of belonging one gets while walking on such hallowed ground as this foot path constructed by the Inca.

My introduction to Peru had been very informative.  There were tour guides and brochures, posters, books, web sites.  I spoke with travel offices, tourists, locals.  I packed and repacked for all the known obstacles that might confront me while taking this short walk in the woods.  I honestly had begun to feel so over prepared that the Inca Trail experience seemed old hat.  

There I found myself.  Alone and surrounded.  Solid stone under foot.  Solid fog hiding the depth of the chasm before me.  A snow covered peak appeared in the distance.  Standing just on 14,000 feet the chill is unavoidable.  But there is a calmness that invites you to linger. 

One does not hike the Inca Trail; you experience it.  In fact, an Inca descendant-turned-porter for unprepared Gringos recently ran the same 4-day rout in 3:45.  Should you take the opportunity to visit Peru, do not simply go from point A to B.  Rather, stop, look, listen.  Immerse yourself in the energy that exudes from each stone.  

Hiking this portion of the trail is closer to the Bright Angle in The Grand Canyon than the Appallachain Trail: at least as it pertains to the number of people walking with you.  If you have not been to the Grand Canyon, I do recommend it, but be forewarned that you are more likely to trip on another hiker’s heels than on a rock.  Just pretend you are a mule and take it nose to tail!  Those who have given the AT a go, however, are often the only ones on that section…or entire mountain for that matter.  This being the most accessible portion of Inca Trail, there will be other people around you.  My excursion was in the shoulder season.  January to March it rains and there are frequent closures.  June to September the skies are clear and the temperature can drop well below even my comfort level.  November has a chance of rain, but I was in shorts and a t-shirt the entire time.  

My prearranged package deal turned out to be a very unique situation.  A guide is required for every 8 people: 9 tourists = 2 guides.  Two porters for every 3-4 people depending on the extravagance you desire.  I fully anticipated walking and camping with between 15 and 30 people.  However, at km 82--the start of the hike--I was told that there was no group; I was going solo!  It was just me, 2 porters and my guide, Virhilio Heredia.  Turns out two girls from Argentina (Amit and Maru) also had a guide to themselves.  So, the 5 of us set out into the wild.  But there were plenty of other tour agencies represented.  In all, each day there were approximately 75 tourists walking the same portion of trail: not including porters.  But that's not nearly as crowded as the hundreds the winter months see.  This set up turned out to afford me exactly what I was looking for.  I could chat with any number of English speakers.  Or try my hand at Spanish, Japanese, German…almost any language, really.  But mostly I wanted to spend time without conversation.  To see ruins without the distraction of bright reds and yellows and blues of modern athletic wear.  To sit atop a cliff and listen to the churning waters of the Urubamba below: one of the feeder rivers for the Amazon some 1,000 miles North.  And, of course, to have a captive audience in my guide that I could ask any question which came to mind, like, what is the average air speed of a Swallow?

And so it went for 3 days.  Long walks, exploring ruins, taking in the vastness of the landscape, roughing it with our personal cooks and dining tent and silverware…ok,  I probably ate and slept better there than at home!!  The sun shone bright then the next moment you were standing in clouds so thick you could not see your hand.  And the stairs!  Oh, the endless stairs!!  Note to self: in preparation next time, find a gym with a revolving stair climber and walk on it for 5 hours strait!  Following the advice of our guides, we put days 3 and 4 together to end at Aqua Calientes that evening.  That’s the town at the base of Machu Picchu.  The idea being that we would return to MP the following morning much earlier (i.e. before the crowds) than if we had stayed with the itinerary.  

Before I left on this trip I read a book called "Turn Right At Machu Picchu".  I highly recommend it!  The author gives abundant verse to the words of Hiram Bingham; the American archeologist who re-discovered Machu Picchu in 1911.  The other half of the book is a modern day Inca Trail experience much like my own.  For as informative as my guide was, having read about what I would see allowed me to not fret about missing a step or some important spot.  Machu Picchu may be a “ruin” but the INC (Peruvian Historical Preservation Society) keeps it so nice it looks as if people still live there.  The entire complex can be walked in less than an hour, but if you stop to take photos or hear about the history, your circumnavigation would take 2-4 hours.  I stayed for 8!  There are far too many details to go into for this brief summary.  Suffice it to say that, should you have the opportunity to visit Peru, you will want to spend as much time here as you can.  

Across the ages empires have come and gone.  Some have left us evidence of construction, mathematical, astronomical, or spiritual understanding.  Sitting on Mt. Machu Picchu taking it all in as but a piece of a much larger puzzle, one thing is clear, “You cannot finish the Inca Trail and not know that this was the endpoint of a pilgrimage.”  --Johan Reinhard

Before I knew it, I was back in Cusco already planning the return trip.  Many Inca Trail sections are mapped but not touristed.  While sorting the details may be cumbersome, it is possible to hike today as Bingham had 100 years ago: machete in hand.  Perhaps Vilcabamba to Machu Picchu will happen for me in the not too distant future.  You are always welcome to join, of course!

Sunglasses

The one aspect of being in a tourist area that I dislike the most are the unrelenting hawkers...their absolute refusal to take "No" for an answer.

I had been riding a bike and walking through temples for 12 hours. This is the 4th such day. In the face of thousands of offers to buy stuff I have maintained my composure. Always with a smile. Occasionally trying not to make eye contact.
"You want T-shirt? You want jacket?"
It's 100*F (35C)!! No, I do not need more layers of clothing.
"You want painting? You want magnet? You buy from me?"
"You want carving? You buy postcard?"
The sun is getting low. The lines are still long. One last stop...

Hawker: "Sir! You buy from me scarf?"
Me:  "No thank you."
"You buy from me two scarf I give you good price."
"No. I do not want a scarf."
"You buy from me one scarf one dollar, two scarf two dollar?"
"No." This time with a noticeable bit of agitation in my voice.
"You buy three scarf only three dollar."
Unable to refrain from displaying my level of frustration..."NO!! I don't need a freakin' scarf!"
"You buy one scarf for your mother?"
I paused. Turned my head to the right. Made deep eye contact and said coldly,  "She's dead."
A brief silence passed and I continued on.  As did she.
"You buy two scarf one for your sister one for your girlfriend."
I stopped. Leaned, nay loomed, over her. And with an icy, emotionless delivery said, "They are dead, too. They are all dead. I killed them. Then I came to Cambodia to keep from going to jail."

(10 seconds of pin-dropping silence. The two of us locked in a blinkless stair.)

"You buy from me hat and sunglasses?"

Slovenia: May - June, 2017

When I was in grade school, History class mentioned Eastern Europe...I think. For the most part, though, there seemed to be a line running between the two Germany's to Italy, separating the named counties of the West from those nondescript areas in the East.
Much has changed over the years. For one, Yugoslavia no longer exists. In its place are 6 independent countries: Slovenia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, and Serbia.  I began my exploration of this part of the world in Slovenia.

Slovenia is wedged between Italy, Austria, Hungary, and Croatia. It is small. 500x smaller than Canada! Or, slightly smaller than New Jersey. It's the kind of place most travelers overlook in favor of Venician canals, the Alps, the Danube, or Mediteranean islands. But realize that all of these places are only a day-trip away.

From the ocean to the mountains. From ancient to midevil to modern. From wine to hops to prekmurska gibanica. One does not have to travel far to enjoy something different...something unique...every day.

My course, thus far, has taken me from the seaside town of Koper all the way (3 hours away) to Lendava. Then zig-zagging back again through the rolling hills of the East.

Brightly colored homes. Manicured lawns. Flowers in every window. Long, winding roads. Ubiquitous cycling lanes. Outdoor seating for every restaurant. Public ride-share! And quite possibly the friendliest people in the world!!

The summation of what it means to be Slovenian can be found in the heart of their capital, Ljubljana. Their most prominent historical figure eternalized by a bronze statue in the Three Bridges square is the poet France Prešeren. Not a conqueror. Not a warrior. Not a politician. They believe that poetry and music have contributed more to the country and its people than any leader or ruler.

Ljubljana, Slovenia: June, 2017

In Southeastern Europe there is a castle standing tall above a city. Raised from the tower, caught high in the breeze, flies a white and green flag. White for peace among people. Green for respecting nature. Its' dragon crest invoking tales of ancient heros overcoming all odds.

This is Ljubljana (Lu-bee-ana). A city rarely named among the "must-see" places of Europe, but time and again making its mark on the world. In 2016 it was named the Greenest City in Europe! (http://www.greenljubljana.com/)
You can add to that the Cleanest City in Europe; that I have visited anyway.

The architect Jože Plečnik envisioned a place where people would gather. Ideas would be shared. Knowledge would be the essence of the city. And so, his bridges and buildings lure one to not just visit Ljubljana, but to experience it. You can also tell alot about a city by the types of shops that are most prolific. Here, there are more bookshops than anything else...including ice cream stands!

Since 2007 the city center has been closed to vehicle traffic. In their absence are thousands of bikes. Many who travel within Slovenia do so by bicycle. And it is small enough to see it all on two wheels. If you are so inclined, I highly recommend www.nomad2000.com. For short term needs, the city offers bike stations all over the place. And, true to its Green roots, your first hour rental any day, every day is free! Perhaps this is a nod to the fact that the oldest wheel ever unearthed was found here.

It is not bohemian. It's Street Art meets Dr. Seuss in the small block of Metalkova. Or step into the otherworldly experience of the repurposed ROG Bike Factory where artists of all mediums are free to experiment, toss aside, reimmagine, and create their hearts desire.

Romance, gallantry, art, architecture, music, food, spirits, sports...all without crowds of tourists, heavy traffic, or overt "western" influence. Not yet, anyway.
Ljubljana. Not just another capital city. A crossroad between then and now.

My Place

There is a place.
Filled with life. Devoid of it.
Far away. A walk out the door.
A perspective. On life. On self. On necessity.

For me, that place is on top of a mountain.
No particular mountain. Any will suffice.
It is where I long to be. It is where I feel welcome.
It is safe. Yet can be treacherous.
It is wide open. Yet requires careful steps.
It allows me to breath. Yet takes my breath away.
It is anywhere. It is everywhere.
It is home.

Take a walk. Sit a while. Swim in that lake. Stand under that falls. Climb those boulders.
Watch the birds. Listen to the wind.
Breathe. Smile. Laugh. Live.

One Bourbon...

So I stop in this Louisville bar you know people
A place called Diamond Pub & Billiards

I go in, I ring my coat,
I call the bartender
Said look man, come down here,
He got down there
So what you want?

One bourbon, one bourbon, and one bourbon

Well I ain't seen my baby
Since I don't know when
I've been drinking bourbon, bourbon
An' more bourbon
Gonna get high man I'm gonna get loose
Need me a triple shot of that juice
Gonna get drunk so my bike be swervin'

I want one bourbon,
One bourbon and one bourbon...

Candy

Pula, Croatia has presented something new: Candy stores! Not a market or grocery or convenience store: these are the kinds of places that sell fudge and assorted chocolates. Every manner of gummy, salty, soury, sugary goodness that children of all ages enjoy.
What Pula is lacking, however, are comfortable and shaded places to sit. Where another town may have a park for such relaxations, here you will find some of the most well preserved Roman ruins. Arches, temples, roads, and the Amphatheatre u Puli which is second only to the Collosium in Rome; and in some regards even better. Be forewarned, these are also the gathering places for hordes of tourists.
On this particular day I chose to wear my bathing suit and a shirt that should have been washed several days ago. I thought it more appropriate than ruining another one from the unstoppable self-drenching I will receive in this  unaccustomed to heat.
I could not see for the sweat in my eyes, so against the advisement of my home host I jumped into the harbor. Refreshing though the water was, there was some displeasure in realizing the "harbor" is only one-third water. A third is an oil-gas mixture from all the boats and cargo ships. And the other third are sunken treasures of trash and rusting, discarded industrial parts.
My shorts quickly found a jagged edge and split in two.
I treaded around for another minute before exiting. Though I was out of the water I could feel it layered on my skin like plastic wrap. Nope. Nope. It was actually a piece of plastic stuck to my back. And my 5-day o'clock shadow felt all the more heavy while holding the weight of LSFO lubricant.
I gathered my belongings and spotted a rare empty park bench in Park Franje Josipa I.

And so there I found myself; the shaggy haired, unshaven, sweaty, dirty old man sitting at the edge of a playground holding a bag of candy.

Croatia: June - July, 2017

I am often asked how I choose to visit a country or particular place within. The simplest answer is that I have not been there...yet. More accurately, though, my choices are derived from photographs or other traveler's accounts of a place.
On a small scale, where I will end up tomorrow is usually the result of a conversation with someone I met today. But the greater reality is that where I will end up an hour from now is the result of some whim I decided to follow an hour ago.

Welcome to Croatia! The land of blue-green waterfalls, well preserved midevil towns, "Kings Landing", 1000 islands, and 100000000 tourists.
Croatia has realized that tourism means money. As such, the infrastructure for visitors is unmatched. With so many accommodation and eating options one starts to wonder if, and then realizes that, few locals live here. Yes, every coastal town could be a movie set. Yes, you and your Honey Bunny can find a romantic hide-away to bring your dreams to life. But "life" is exactly what's missing.

The Istrian Peninsul offered a similar rocky and often cliffy coastline to that found in Slovenia. It is very different from the more popular Dalmation Islands to the South. If you visit several coastal towns the photos you take may blend together, one place separated from another only by a time stamp.

The vegetation of the Plitvicka Lakes and falls is a nice respite from city dwelling. I understood it to be a unique site, however, there are other similar parks in Croatia and Bosnia. And you can swim in those!!
After several hours of nose-to-tail photography, I crossed the road and followed a trail into the forest. 'Twas a nice walk. With no one else in sight. I felt like stepping off the path to boulder hop and see other groves. Took out the map, notted the position of the sun, and decided I could make the road to the East that my hostel was on. Jumping, slipping, sliding, skipping (why not?). Perhaps an hour later I emerged on the road.
That was fun! I felt a relaxing since of satisfaction; of accomplishment. Turning around I saw a sign which I first took as a simple "No Trespassing". Then I saw the words "Landmine area". I didn't need to shit again for three days.

The next day I road a bike through NW Bosnia & Hertzegovina. Turned out that I was staying beside Zeljava Airfield: the last holdout of Yugoslavia. A bullet strewn airplain welcomes the rare visitor.
Stopping my bike amidst the delapedation and abandonment I feel an almost magically induced silence. Not that of unicorns and rainbows, though. Here, no birds chirp. No insects buzz. No breeze ruffles the leaves. A dead silence. One brought about by a war so recently ended that discarded mettle has yet to rust...wood yet to rot.
At the end of the runway I found a demining crew carrying out a similar daily ritual to my yesterday. Although, they had an ambulance on site.

I ended my tour in Kings Landing (aka Dubrovnik). Bigger and more imposing. Many visit if only to walk along the castle walls. My favorite part was swimming below them. Less chance of having to take the Walk of Shame!

Montenogro: July, 2017

Millions of years ago, violent upheavals on the Earth's surface created high mountain ranges and deep gorges. Few places today display the remnants of this tumultuous period as well as Montenegro.

While its Northern neighbor, Croatia boasts small, relatively low islands, Montenegro offers fjords along its coast: Lovcen peek raising 1,750m (5,700ft) straight up from the town of Kotor at ocean level. Or travel inland to see the "liquid mountains" of Durmitor NP.

Though a small country -- about the same size as the Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island block in the US -- it contains the largest lake in all of Europe (Skadar Lake) and the 2nd deepest canyon in the world (the Tara River Gorge). It's also where Novak Djokovic was married: if you are into that sort of thing.

For having, nationally, a dry Mediterranean climate, it is particularly odd that the town of Crkvice receives more anual rainfall than anywhere in Europe: 5000mm (200 inches). That's two times more than Seattle!

Another oddity is that most water sources -- lakes and rivers anyway -- do not have a visible source. The water emerges straight from the mountains. Bifurcation! (I'll spare you from looking that up) Water from rains and melting snow fills the inside of the porous mountains. When the pressure is high enough, the rock cracks and a "random" water fall appears. Hike around the Black Lake in May and June to hear and see this process first hand.

Tourism is just catching on here in Montenegro. People are slowely gravitating to the cooler temps as those on the Northern Balkan coast continue to raise.
So, get here while the prices and the tourist numbers are still low. But give yourself more time. You will not want to leave!!

South Dakota, USA: August, 2017

I live in South Carolina. Or at least I used to. Realistically, I now live in an '04 Nissan Sentra.

I produce racing events: mostly triathlons. Occasionally, this work affords me the opportunity to travel around the USA between events.
Recently, I drove through Kentucky en-rout to Omaha, Nebraska for the USA Triathlon Age Group Nationals: 4000 of some of the best non-pro athletes in the nation and three days of standing in the transition area hurding cats.

When the banners were taken down I headed West to the Sand Hills, Nebraska National Forest, Carhenge, and Fort Robinson. (See a previous post for accompanying photos)

Then, as Bob Seger once said, "I took a bead on the Northern plains and just rolled that power on."

If you ever have the chance to visit South Dakota, do it. Yes, it's a ridiculously long way from anywhere, but trust me, the sights and sounds are unlike anything else.
Mammoth Site in Hot Springs is an on-going archeological dig where more than 60 mammoths have been unearthed!
Custer State Park has 1400 head of buffalo and some crazy rock formations along The Needles Highway. The area is also home to that icon of America, Mt. Rushmore.

Head East and show your metal at Sturgis. Or head North to find the "old west" town of Deadwood.
Deadwood, South Dakota will forever hold a special place in my heart because of Favorite Son, Al Swearingen, whose prose and poetic licencing paved the way for future generations of Swearingens to say whatever the f@#$ they want. And if you don't like it, you can ______ _______ _______ _______ and pray to God that I don't ______ _______ _______ _______ _______ ______ _______ ______.

Moving on...
The Badlands are a small break in the land. The Southern plane is a few hundred feet below its counterpart to the North. But between the two you will find a dizzying aray of colors and shapes along with a maze of rattlesnake strewn trails.

Between there and Canada you will be hard pressed to find a paved road...or even another person for that matter. What I did find were shadows from clouds causing the endless rolling hills to appear to move like waves across a treeless sea of grass; broken only by a singular narrow road; itself undulating off into the distance

But tucked away in the crevasses, there are interesting things to see and do. Endless straight roads with a vast expanse of nothingness to either side inspired one artist to make enormous metal roadside sculptures along the Enchanted Highway. Or you may get lucky to stumble upon one of the strikingly green sunflower farms.
Find your way to Rosevelt National Park in Medora and wonder, as I did...why?

So, if you ever feel that life is moving a bit too fast...that changes are happening without your, or anyone else's, consent...spend time in the Northern Plain States and see the world as it has been for hundreds...thousands of years. Pay witness to the millions of years it took for the rock layers to form. And imagine yourself inside the Total Perspective Vortex.
You just may not want to return home.