Mountain Chutzpah

fjords to bergen, then oslo and copenhagen

2009-07-21T15:05:00.001-07:00

Bike ride today and dessert from the garden

2009-07-12T14:59:00.000-07:00

Trondheim and around

2009-07-11T16:23:00.000-07:00

Trondheim

2009-07-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

The view from the window: the city is quiet and rather dark. The fjord is pink, reflecting the merciful midnight sunset. I saw the moon rise yellow and solemn for the first time in months. My journal entries the last few days have all noted the fact that the night is dark... how much longer until that is not a novelty?

On the farm

2009-07-11T01:20:00.000-07:00

The trip is winding down and my motivation along with it. Which basically means that on overcast days I don't feel a pull from the mountains to come and hike. But I have filled up my time here nonetheless.

After Kiruna, I took an overnight train south towards Ostersund (and that o has umlauts, but I don't know how to put them on on this computer). The train ride reminded me of my Europe trip with Mckenna and Liza. The bench I slept on that evening was comfortable, but there was no silly session of pretend-to-be-asleep picture taking or any late night giggling. The train personnel knocked on the cabin door at 4.15am to wake me up so I could leave the train at Bracke (again, umlauts on that one). The sky was light, of course, which makes such an earlier transfer more palatable. That night in the train I had dreamed that I pulled back the curtain in the compartment and the sky had actually grown dark, which meant that I could rest easy. I guess the midnight sun has made me a bit uneasy. A bus took me 2 hours east to Ostersund, where I waited for another local bus to Oviken. The landscape around there is farmland, with lakes and forests and some rounded hills. At least I think it is. I finally napped again on that ride. I got out 2km short of Oviken town at Side (and that is pronounced see-deh) where Bertil was waiting for me.

I was lucky to get an invitation to the farm from Bertil Sivertsson because Carolyn and her sister Sarah visited this distant family relation 2 years ago when they were in Europe. So I gave Bertil a call, said I was a friend of Carolyn's, and he said come over anytime. As promised, Bertil and his father Helge had breakfast ready when I got there around 10. We had hard boiled eggs, cheese and crackers, and a big bowl each of yogurt (from the milk carton sized container) with berry jam on it for flavor. Also on the farm (a dairy farm, actually) was Sergei, a teenager from Ukraine who was working 6 months there because of some government initiative between the two countries. Sergei hustled off after breakfast in the big tractor to bring hay to the silo, while Helge took off in a little tractor and Bertil went directly to the silo to help with the loading. Not needing to do any farm work myself, I streched out in a comfy chair on the front lawn, put my feet up, and took a much needed nap.

I woke up to the sound of some kind of bells, the pleasant indication of an ice cream truck pulling up the long dirt driveway. Now that is the way to wake up. You could buy single bars, of course, like at home, but Bertil said this was the first visit of the summer so he bought two big boxes of ice cream bars. Just right for that sunny day, where I even sought out shade because it was so warm (and of course Mom I was worried about being sunburned). As Carolyn had warned, eating on the farm is big, so no sooner than I finished my ice cream it seemed like it was time for coffee. Afternoon coffee, outside again naturally, was not just a take a sip and go affair. We got out strawberry cake and crackers with mesmer (a local dairy product that is a brown sweey whey spread) along with the coffee. Then we ran out of milk. Bertil assures us that only happens once or twice in a year. He said the milk truck had come that morning and so there wasn't any milk. I didn't understand that for a minute because in my mind milk trucks always deliver milk, but then I realized that of course this milk truck picks up the milk produced on the farm. And so we had none. But the rest of the time there were big buckets of it, so I think that made up for it.

Dinner of pickled herring and potatoes came too quickly, but I managed to down a few. After dinner, Bertil, Sergei, and I took the car 1 or 2km to the big lake for a swim. The water temp was around 18C, which is too cold of course, but the sun was just setting (complete with a smudge of a rainbow) and so we jumped in. The water wasn't cold enough to take my breath away so I managed to stay in long enough to get used to it. We were jumping and diving from a pier at least 4 ft above the water, which forced me to be braver than I normally am. After drying off, I joined Sergei back at the house watching I, Robot, a nice end to the evening. Communal meals, a friend to watch a movie with... those are the things I have been missing during this year.

My room was a big one at the front end of the house on the second floor . I fell into bed and slept until Bertil knocked on my door at 10.30 to say that breakfast was ready. Oops. Downstairs, they were all waiting for me to dig into the graham meal porridge. There was a new face at the table, Louise, a 13 year old friend of Bertil's niece. We plopped homemade red currant jam on the porridge before dousing it all in milk (see, I told you milk would show up in generous quantities). The milk was in a jug that Helge kept refilling from a 2 gallon blue bucket on the bottom shelf in the fridge. Louise was full of energy and she decided she wanted to bake, so I appointed myself as her helper (since the recipe was in Swedish) and together we made chocolate cake. That was a good plan because people kept dropping in at the farm. The man with barley in a dump truck. The neighbors for a visit. Bertil's niece Anna. The descendants of the previous owners of the farm over 100 years ago. The usual. The latter stayed for coffee, so we cut the cake into smaller pieces and served it round. Louise and I went to Oviken to pick up key ingrediants like powdered sugar and blue food coloring, then we started to make donuts. This seemed a bit ambitious to me but we were successfull in the end. The first batch we made tiny little donuts, yummy when they were hot out of the oil but Louise realized she forgot one ingrediant... not my fault since of course I couldn't read the Swedish. We made made round too, shaping the dough more generously this time. I busied myself making the frosting in bright shades of blue, purple, and pink. We added sprinkles too. In the end the was a large tray, with some nicely frosted mini donuts that didn't taste so hot, along with the fatter, flakier yummy donuts with the dregs of the frosting slopped on. As I said, a success. I didn't feel too hungry since I was doing quality control all afternoon, but I managed to lick my lips a couple times when watching Chocolat that evening with Louise. I went to sleep tired, with a dash of blue food coloring on my nose, happy with the busy, noisy day.

Louise and I headed down to swim at the lake the next day, packing a big thermos of hot chocolate to take with us. I automatically put on water to boil for the hot choc and Helge and Louise looked at my funny and said they only use milk to make hot chocolate. Of course. The day was sunny but windy. We were protected from the wind by the old building out on the pier. We dove in and out, taking longer to get used to the water this time. The usual jumping pictures were attempted. Louise scared me when she yelled watch out for the fish. Guess I still don't like the idea of little fishies nibbling at my toes. After showers back at the house, I packed up so I could stay the night at Bitte's house before an early morning train to Trondheim. Bitte is one of Bertil's sisters. She had planned out an excellent dinner of grilled meat and potatoes and salad and sauces. By the time the meat got itself grilled, we were all so hungry. While we were eating, the boat pulled up to the dock (the house itself being only 30 ft from the water) and Bitte's husband and his two fishing buddies came back from a week-long fishing trip. I said my goodbyes later that evening and took up my quarters in the hunting and fishing trophy room, where a pull-out couch is.

Morning came way too soon, especially considering I woke up and realize I had forgotten my hiking boots back at Bertil's. Oops. So Bitte said we should all go back to sleep, and figure out all that later. Later, we said goodbye to the fishing troops who were off for a third week of fishing, then Bitte and I checked the train schedules and I called Hanne to let her know I wasn't on that morning train. Bitte drove me back to grab the boots, then stopped at the moose farm so I could go pet the babies. They were tame, so no worries. I fed the young moose long leafy branches then we head over to the big moose, with fuzzy, oily antlers I got to pet too. Bitte treated me to a fish lunch in town before hustling over to the train station for the 4.21 to Trondheim. We made it with 6 minutes to spare, no sweat. I had only 3.5 days in central Sweden with this family, but I felt like I knew quite a few members of the family by then. Rain and then hail pelted the train as I head over the mountains and down into Norway.

Anita's friend Ruth met me at the train station that evening and took me out to an excellent sushi dinner... one cuisine I haven't had at all this year, in fact. It was so comforting to hear her English, the intonations so very American after the years that she spent living there. We took a late evening walk around town. The wooden warehouses-turned restaurants on the waterfront (of which there is a lot) impressed me--this is the first city in Scandinavia I have seen with really interesting, attractive buildings. (But that is me just judging). I am staying at Hanne and Sten's house while I am here. I like the view they have of the city, the river, and the fjord. Just saying the word fjord makes me feel cool, in fact. We've had some cloud and rain since my arrival, but I still count myself as lucky on the weather front.

Kiruna to Kungsleden and back

2009-07-01T06:22:00.000-07:00

6.20 An excellent time so far in Kiruna. Marita met me at the train station. We went out of town for the sunny afternoon to the village where the Ice Hotel stands in the winter. After touring a Sami-art decorated church we had our coffee and buns by the river. I offered my suggestions for Marita's upcoming trip with her kids to California. Actually I was effusive--I love talking about LA, SF, and drives through Yosemite. In the evening I took a walk in the sunshine. 11pm and I needed my sunglasses. Kiruna is far above the arctic circle, so this time of year, there is not even a hint of darkness.

6.21
Rest, finally, and then another sunny day. Marita and I walked by the river in the morning. We looked at the rapids from a bridge until a train was almost upon us and we had to scoot off the tracks. (The conductor gave us a little toot as he passed) In the afternoon, another couchsurfer, Jasmin, came back from her time at a festival. She was interested in hiking too so we followed Marita's suggestions about where to go. We went food shopping late that evening and were ready for the Kungsleden. Well, a section of it anyway.

6.22
(One month left!) Up earlier than I like this morning. A quick yogurt (it comes in milk carton-sized containers) with muesli then Marita took Jasmin and I to the bus station for the bus to Nikkaluokta. This could've been called the hiker's bus route-every person was wearing hiking boots and carried a big pack. We stocked up at a little cafe on one essential we forgot--toilet paper--and then started down the trail towards the snowy mountains. The walk to Kebnekaise Fjellstation was 19km. We were hot right away in the sun, but the mountain streams with cold clean water offered distraction because we could hear them as we approach and know that there was a shady (albiet buggy) spot to rest. We passed, and were passed by, the same people over and over that first day, so we kept greeting them with a smile. Lunch was delicious garlic cream cheese on wheat rolls with fresh tomatoes. We carried a bunch of tomatoes and bell peppers to keep our lunches fresh and exciting. We got to the station around 6. I don't call it a hut because it was so much bigger than that: one of the 4 main tourist stations along the northern section of the Kungsleden trail, each about 1 week's walk apart. There were at least 8 buildings, a proper reception, a shop, a restaurant. I knew we were going to camp but I poked my head inside the main building and was sufficiently impressed by the luxury. We set up camp in the trees above the station along with lots of other tents. Dinner was minestrone soup and pasta with tomato sauce. We read the evening away as the non-campers scurried back and forth from the sauna.

6.23 Up at 9 becaue the tent was so hot. I shivered the first part of the night and pulled on all my layers, then shed them again when the sun hit our tent. (How nice to have a hiking partner, to write our instead of my.) The stove sputtered out a bit and I wondered if it really was breaking yet again. It heated the water enough so we could have our mochas and berry porridge. How easy it was to pack up a tent in dry weather... so different from all of the rainy nights and days in both Scotland and Finland. We left Kebnekaise Fjellstation behind with the now familiar sound of the helicopter humming behind us.
The scenery up here is epic. Like Lord of the Rings, as at least one person says in every country I've hiked this year. Soaring peaks with scattered stripes of snow, roaring rivers carving out the rocky valley. Jasmin has a fast pace on the trail, which I like, but the general hiking speed here is slower than the featureless fells of Finland. The rocky trail demands caution--we are always on narrow wooden boardwalks or negotiating river crossings. As Marita pointed out before we left, how much water there is here! We delighted in constant water bottle fill-ups all morning. The trail was busy for Swedish standards, but not so much for we. We greeted the same hikers as we yo-yoed back and forth up the valley. The wind was blowing strong today but the sun was stronger, so I wore just shorts and a shirt for the second day in a row (another thing I haven't been able to do since Tanzania). Snacks on the trail were dried apricots, Sun-maid (!!) raisins, the last of Jasmin's cookies ("biscuits") from England, and a chocolate bar (Marabou med Daim... possibly the best chocolate I've had all year). We stopped at the Singi hut 14km from Kebnekaise after a second lunch of bread and tomatoes. This was a standard, smaller place. Just 3 buildings total, but all fresh and sharp furnishings inside. We chatted with a Dutch guy, Mikhail, while airing our feet in the shade of the hut, and I invited him to walk with us if he was going north. So we walked together another 6km to a day trip hut, where we could cook our dinner and sit out of the wind. We set up camp across a small river 200ft from the hut. Mikhail lit the stove even though it wasn't cold, just because having a fire makes the hut feel all cozy. I tinkered with the stove, then realized I just hadn't been pressurizing the fuel bottle enough. Great. Tonight's dinner was particularly well-done and filling: mac n cheese and flavored soya mix for protein (looked a bit sketchy, tasted pretty good). Tired and full now, and quite satisfied with my day.

6.24
Up at 9 after fidgiting because of the sun's heat since 8.30. Breakfast was berry oatmeal with extra berry flavor from the berry soup packets I bought in Finland. An excellent combo. Up the valley 3 hours to the next hut. There was another impressive, well-stocked store and friendly wardens who welcomed us there. (The stores are stocked in the winter, when snow-mobiles bring in supplies. On this regular transport, snowmobiles also take out trash and recycling from the huts. There were recycling bins at every hut.) After weighing our packs (Jasmin's was 15k, mine 17k, both felt comfortably light), we heading up the trail just the two of us. There was more and more snow, which was beautiful at first, and so fun to stomp through. But then it was annoying as the wooden boardwalks and then the trail itself remained stubbornly buried under 4ft of snow. The Tjöktja pass was completely covered in snow. We took one long look back (and a ducky photo or two) at the snow-striped valley then continued around the corner to a busy day trip hut for an afternoon snack of noodles. The stove fired up impressively this time... finally. My feet were dry at that point, and Jasmin's soaked through. She made a token effort at drying them inside by the fire but the snow stretched out for more than a kilometer in front of us so there was really no hope for dry feet that had excepted summer trails of dirt. The slog downhill took 1.5 hours. I maintained a positive attitude despite the water bed in my boots because the sun was shining and I wasn't feeling cold. Usually I managed to ste carefully, but the snow gave way at times and I sank into thigh-high drifts. We had to be careful at spots where streams ran underneath the snow... my boot sloshing around in the icy water reminded me of Phil Conners stepping in a similarly unpleasant puddle in Groundhogs Day. Eventually we saw a flag waving above the snow and the Tjöktja hut came into view across the bridge. The warden greeted us latecomers with cups of juice and an intro to her hut. How nice to feel so welcome. We set up our tent a 5 minute walk from the hut by a big H made in rocks for landing helicopters. The sun set on the tent and hut for a half hour so I thought we would be cool in the darkness, but really it was just swinging sideways so the light warmed us again within a half hour. I peeled off my socks and dumped the water out of my boots, removing the insoles and crossing my fingers they would dry overnight

6.25 A silly hope, dry boots, since there was more snow awaiting us, even after we thought we were through. We had a relaxed morning... as usual when I woke up the other campers were long gone. What's the rush though, when the sun shines all night? The sun and the wind was at our backs, which made walking in the valley pleasant. I stuck with long pants for the day, though. The walking was quick after our time in the snow yesterday. We caught up with the Swiss German couple we had seen at the pass and chatted with them for a bit. The Alesjaure hut was over another bouncing bridge... and what a place. We pulled off still soggy socks and went inside. There was a welcoming, open area with benches and tables. We bought a coffee (refill included) for 10kr each and sat and perused the maps (since we didn't have our own) and relaxed. After a break like that, it is hard to get the momentum to head outside to the wind, but we were spurred on by the thought of a good dinner in the day trip hut 2 hours down the trail. What a long 2 hours that was! We spent the first hour talking about food, like favorite meals and what we planned to eat for our arrivals home, but then we got too hungry to continue that conversation and we rushed over ridges in the hopes of seeing a hut sillohuetted against the sky. When we finally did see it, chimney smoke and all, there was still the effort of finding the little trail that led us there. And then it was all full of people. I pulled off wet boots--because we had crossed a river without the help of a bridge or stepping stones-- and made dinner as quickly as possible. We had mashed potatoes as an appetizer, then mushroom pasta with sausages. Excellent. We split the last two squares of chili chocolate (our chocolate rationing had been a bit uneven because of the first few days). We talked in the hut until 9.30 then headed out in the wind and our tent.

6.26 A day of descent. Up even earlier because of the heat (and every time I mention this heat, it is not really much above 20C, it's just that the sun shining through the tent fabric is harsh). There was more usual boardwalk walking over streams and a rocky, dusty descent. Suddenly, everything was green again. Until we walked under the shade of trees, I hadn't even noticed they had been missing for the last 4 days. Lunch was on a big rock overlooking a Yosemite-worthy waterfull (because that is always my point of comparison in the end). A break and chat with the hut guardian at Abiskojaure about motorcycles, Obama, and Schwartzeneggar. His important last question for me: does our governor really have such a strong accent when speaking English or is it exaggerated for the movies. Jasmin and I continued on more slowly, tired now and knowing how few kilometers there were until the end. We took a dip in the cool water of Abiskojaure, but the bugs ate us when we stood still so that wasn't such a long break. Like the night before, we kept hoping to be finished, to come across the campsite (with the toilets and fire pit necessarily attached to it) and sit and eat dinner. Nothing appeared, however. We kept our mouthes shut through the clouds of midges and chose a spot by a big river for dinner. We ate and moved on again, but not for long. There was an even spot of ground off the trail--not exactly a campsite but for sore feet it would do. Camp set up by 6.40 pm then the usual question, ok now what? But I managed to keep myself occupied while Jasmin went to sleep early. An hour of gum popping and humming, then a quick hike down to the river for water, and I was ready to sleep too. Wrote a few letters home in the tent, delighting in the fact that the bugs were all on the outside and unable to get in. Finally, the sun went behind clouds and the tent was cool enough for sleep.

6.27
Yesterday was the real end of the hike. There were only about 3km until the end, until proper bathrooms and a shop with more chocolate awaited. We caught a noon train south to Kiruna. Back home, it seemed. We shopped for food in town, a challenge because the usually sleepy mining town was full of people for the Kiruna festival. We were impatient during the walk out of town to Marita's house, but what a luxury to have showers and clean clothes and email.

Here I have had a few days of relaxing and taking care of chores for my upcoming year in Wisconsin. Now I am off south to a farm near Östersund, and then on to Trondheim in Norway.

Pictures from the Kungsleden, northern Sweden

2009-06-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

Pictures from Oulanka National Park

2009-06-29T13:21:00.000-07:00

Pictures from Urho Kekkonen National Park

2009-06-29T13:06:00.000-07:00

pictures from Karelia

2009-06-29T12:48:00.000-07:00

This first picture is of Koli National Park in Karelia. The rest are also from Karelia, except this next one of me and Viivi on a sunny day in Rovaniemi

Yorkshire Dales (+)

2009-05-31T23:46:00.000-07:00

Looking back... the Great Glen Way

2009-05-28T01:53:00.000-07:00

waaay back actually... this dates in my journal from 27 April

On the shores of some Loch on day 1 of the Great Glen Way. Yesterday I said goodbye to Tony and Craig after walking the 2 miles into Fort William then headed into the ER. The nurse called the national health line who found me an emergency appointment with a dentist to fix that poking wire in my mouth. Later I dropped my bag at a homey old hostel before an improbable shopping session-- I bought exciting things like a new pair of hiking socks and more white gas. Sauteed mushrooms for dinner (and wrote home about it too) because that's what I do these days.

I started my walk this morning at noon after a slow start with a visit to the grocery store and the library. The rain was coming down in freezing sideways sheets. After an hour through little villages along the water, the rain abated to a drizzle and I came to the Caledonian canal. I went past the flight of 8 locks called Neptune's Staircase... no boats were out because of the weather. I heaved down my pack and had a nice chat with the British Waterways man whose job it was to hand-crank a bridge to open and close it for passing boats and traffic. I had walked the 10 miles to Garliochy by 4 which surprised me because I didn't think I had gone that fast... I guess there just weren't many sights to stop and gawk at along the way. There was actually nothing at Garliochy beyond a bridge and a signpost, so I kept walking. The trail led off the towpath by the water to the paved road high above it-the normal marked trail was actually through a forest but a detour sign said falling tree limbs made it dangerous. I listened to the signs. I passed a few streets of houses lined up against the southern shores of the loch but no services at all for hikers... not even B&Bs. After entering the "wild" section of trail (a sign warned me that the next 7 miles would be far from human habitation) I found a bench and fire pit: just the place to set up camp. I heated water for dinner on my struggling sputtering stove (I am too afraid of fire to make a campfire when I am by myself). Now I am all snug in my sleeping bag and the rain has stopped. Maybe the tent will have a chance to dry. I am off to my book again.

Up and off by 9 yesterday. I always want to wake up earlier when I am wild camping because I don't like people passing my tent while I am still sleeping. I walked in the "wild" "isolated" forest until 12. I was only passed by a couple of cars. So much for wilderness. The northern end of the loch had locks on it, and a big docked boat had a bar on it, so I went in for hot tomato soup and friendly conversation with my fellow walkers (it took a minute to order the soup because they didn't readily understand to-may-to as opposed to to-mah-to). Next I went off along the canal and the straight path created by stripping an old railway line. 5 miles of singing later, I came to a swinging bridge and a tea house built just for walkers. An afternoon pot of tea with homemade scones was really an obligatory stop. The trail led between the canal and a river, with boats going up and down the locks in the afternoon sun. I sang loud and obnoxious renditions of Mamma Mia and Wicked and Ragtime to keep me going as I got tired. I got in to Fort Augustus around 6, rounding out mile 32 for two days. 4 English guys pulling their canoe out of the water asked me about camping spots in town. I ended up hanging with them, eating a snack of chips before setting up a cool camp in the grass along the public walk just beyond the locks and before the open water of Loch Ness. It was a calm night, weather wise, and the tarp draped over the canoes and supported by oars was shelter enough. The English guys had a British Waterways key, which meant access to the warm showers in the bathrooms. We stayed up late chatting and eating snacks like crisps and green olives and anything else the guys could find in their bottomless bags. How easy it is to pack big when you get to carry your gear in a canoe rather than on your bag. Later, I found myself a spot under the tarp with my new friends and had a surprisingly warm and comfortable night.

Woke up to their 6.40 alarm. I bought bread and cheese and yogurt for breakfast and lunch snaclks after watching them put out. There was a 7 mile climb in intermittent sunshine to Invermoriston. As always my walk was punctuated most by weather and food... I had a hot chocolate and banana break before another climb and then walks along the forest plantation track high above Loch Ness. Around 3, when the 2 guys I had walked with went down to Altsigh to catch their bus, I calculated that I had about 10 miles left until Drumnadrochit. I didn't really plan... just kept walking. The clear views of the long loch and the villages across the water were the best that afternoon. I took long breaks in the sunshine to scan the water's surface for Nessie but the only tracks were the V streaks left by passing tourist boats. The breaks were a little too long I guess, because I trudged past farms then villages always looking at my watch and my map, wondering how much further. I couldn't camp because I drank up all my water because of the unexpectedly hot afternoon. I had purifying tablets, of course, but there was even any dirty brackish water in sight (yum). So I had to make it to Drum. I walked feeling quite run-down, slamming my walking poles into the ground to take a bit of weight off my aching feet. My energy was so low I couldn't even sing stupid songs to keep me going. I made it to town with fading light just after 8. I found a small independent hostel in Lewiston just before Drumnadrochit after my second 20miles+ day. Tomorrow I will rest here I think-so tired- feet aching.

May 1. I lazed away yesterday with big bowls of cold milk and crunchy cereal and internet and newspaper reading at the library (this was the beginning of the Swine flu scare in Scotland). While in town, I was watching a boys' field hockey match in the park. The boys were about 13. A woman passing by asked if any of them were mine. Emm no.

Walked out of town in the morning past lambing fields then mostly harvested tree plantations. It was a windy day with only pocketfuls of sunshine. I went slowly, deciding not to go all the way to Inverness. Read my book during lunch until my fingers got too cold, then went a little further to a campsite in the heather. Rory welcomed me to his little campsite-- basically cleared out spaces on the bouncy heather moor with 9 year old rowan trees fighting to grow all around me. I could have camped "wild" but figured it was worth the small price to have a toilet, a bonfire, and someone else making me breakfast in the morning. Especially since my stove puttered out completely while I was trying to heat water, which meant I had two packets of plain tuna for dinner. Yum. And then my spork snapped in half while I was trying to eat. Great. But my morale wasn't really down--all this little stuff--all fixable. So I joined Rory at the huge fire to watch heather burn bright orange like coral and to share a few wee drams of whisky. I turned around and around warming myself for hours until the sky was totally dark at 10. Rory pointed out birds' nests and flying bats and told me of his plans to work as a stonemason on the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona--cool.

Inverness hostel. I walked impatiently past farms then in the forest. I passed another girl my age walking by herself in the opposite direction. It turns out she was from Finland (!!!) so I had her write down her email address so I could ask her for trail advice in her home country. I came out of the forest and saw the city from above, but there were still 3 miles to the city center. I liked the last bit of trail, walking on urban-islands on the river just above the city center, because this was a part of Inverness that I didn't know existed when I last was there 2 weeks earlier with Becca. That made me a bit sad too, because I wished Becca had seen those spots. I did rejoice in the fact that when we were there together, the daffodils were in full bloom; now, two weeks later, they are drooping and brown. Mostly the last bit of the walk was challenging because my shoulder hurt and after two weeks of pushing myself my ankle finally pushed back. So I was quite a sight, a vertible boulder of a backpack on my back and limping into a clean modern city. I found a hostel bed and searched around all the outdoor shops in town for a way to repair my stove. Tired and clean, I spent the evening in the hostel reading a book. After only a few hours relaxing indoors, I felt a bit sluggish, like my body knew I should really still be out walking.

FInlandia

2009-05-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

My arrival into the country was smooth-- I didn't get quizzed quite as much as I did upon entering the UK, and there was a bus waiting to wisk me and my ever-bigger backpack into the center of town. Helsinki at 9pm was still light but calm and rather empty, strange since with light outside I expect crowds as well. I was in the UK long enough to forget to appreciate simple Western city characteristics like street names and numbers, but I was nevertheless happy with the clean layout of the city center. I stayed in my hostel and went to bed after a couple of leftover London bananas I had in my backpack for dinner.

After repacking my bag to meet non-airplane standards (this means tent, sleeping pad, tarp, and stove bag all go on the outside, for a more hard-core traveler look... ok also because then the bag isn't as tall), I left it at the hostel and went out to see the city. The morning started out with calm enough weather, overcast skies but still bright enough for a California girl to sport shades. I visited a red brick church with Russian writing and the fish market on the water. (No Carolyn, no whole bony fried fish yet.) The city parks have blooming tulips in a purple hue as the center of the flower planting arrangements... they are in bloom now up here just as they were almost 2 months ago in London. The pounding rain soaked through my hiking pants pretty quickly so I figured that was a good time to go into a museum (I tried to find an outdoor store to go shopping for white gas and new socks but didn't find any in the immediate vicinity). The Ateneum was first, a classic big city art museum with the best of Finnish artists plus a few European highlights. There was a whole floor dedicated to artistic interpretations of traditional Finnish myths. Next up was the modern art museum, for weird videos and light installations. That was it for Helsinki sightseeing for the day.

Helsinki doesn't feel too foreign when I am just walking around on the street. But I noticed right away that I am in a completely new place. How could I have forgotten how easy I had it in Scotland. In the grocery store to get bananas and yogurt for breakfast, many of the food labels were in 3 or 4 languages... english not being one of them. Of course I don't need too much direction to buy yogurt--just look at the package--but when it comes to more advanced purchases like my camping food, I will have to take along a Finnish friend to give me some direction. Simple interactions at the checkout counter silence me. I can say hello in Finnish because it sounds just like hey, but beyond that I only know the words for one, two, three, and beer. So when I go to pay for samiakki, I can only smile and nod at the common courtesies normally exchanged at the counter--I feel guilty because those are the words I ought to learn right away, but I also feel plain old foreign. Little things like ordering a cup of coffee I have to think about and plan in my head whereas in Scotland I could just go right up to the counter without having to repeat kahvi and maito a few times under my breath. Because Finnish is pretty much on a different linguistic tree than the languages I know or pretend to know, I can't even read newspapers and menus and half-understand (unless there is Swedish as well, which is related to German, which I pretend to know... Swedish is the other official language of Finland). The good thing about being in a completely new country is all the food I will have to sample... looking at the pastry shelves and the candy display, there is so much that as of yet I do not recognize. I got on that right away with dinner tonight with my CS host Jenny. She served a baked Karelian rice pastry topped with eggs mixed with cottage cheese and butter. Now it is midnight and finally dark, but I don't feel tired quite yet--I'm still on UK time and the UK light schedule.

2009-05-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Cairngorms Photos

2009-05-18T06:05:00.000-07:00

3rd Quarterly Report

2009-05-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

My introduction to the mountain hut system of Tanzania started on the slopes of Mt. Meru at the Mirikamba Huts. I write huts and not hut because Mirikamba was like a little village in the mountains. There were 7 or 8 buildings clustered around in a small area, all of them solidly built with quality materials that meant no wind would blow in through cracks in the wood. I shared a private room with my friend Alena. There was solar power to let us read in bed at night, flush sit-down toilets, and even soap dispensers by the sinks so we could wash our hands. Luxury, indeed, considering many hotels and homes in cities don't have all of those features. At Mirikamba there was a mess hut complete with cushioned wooden chairs, all brought up invidivually by porters since the construction used no animals in the transport of building materials. The other huts I visited were similar to my first night at Mirikamba. Not all the places I slept on Kilimanjaro were as well preserved, probably because the volume of visitors is much higher, but I still slept in comfort all my nights on the mountain. The guides and porters slept indoors too, in beds on Meru and in huts at least on Kili.

Tanzania proved to be the country with the biggest discrepancies between what the locals and the foreign tourists wanted out of the wilderness. There would be no one climbing the tall mountains, no one living in them, if it were not for the foreigners, it seemed to me. Tanzanians saw the mountain (by which I mean Kilimanjaro, the central focus of hiking in the country) as a place for a job, not a vacation. There were no locals climbing up when I was there, although I know that Tanzanian student groups do make the climb. The only instance of local involvement in the mountains (besides having a paying job there) was in a small village outside of Mtae in the Usambara mountains. A local volunteer ranger protected the little forest I walked from anyone who might try to cut down trees or take branches for firewood. This ranger was protecting his village's piece of the forest and their water supply-- tourists did not really have any place in this purely local affair.

Danger on the trail? Since that was a factor I used to evaluate wilderness in other countries, I will bring up the discussion here. Yes. Absolutely. The obvious danger was the animals. That is whe the Tanzanian park service sent an armed ranger up Mt. Meru with each group. I didn't feel threatened when we passed 10ft from giraffes and water buffalo, but I was a bit nervous. I could see Michael, our ranger, fingering his gun the entire walk--there was a danger there. The quick gains of altitude is dangerous as well as being downright stupid. But the guns and the frequent admonitions to go pole pole, slowly slowly, guard against both the danger of animals and fast altitude gains. At Mirikamba, the tourists were warned not to venture beyond the perimeter of the camp because the armed guards could not be responsible for us out there. I stayed put, not wanting to meet any curious elephants. In that way, the huts themselves made the wilderness a bit less wild, a bit more safe for all of us visitors. A danger of the wilderness that I had not expected was the poaching that my ranger Michael described. Besides protecting tourists from animals, the rangers must go off-trail in national parks and protect the animals from armed and dangerous poachers.

Parks seemed to be set up as money making machines--a wilderness set aside because foreign visits demanded that... the Tanzanians rightfully wanted to make money off of the visits to the mountain. The rules that govern human presence on the mountain are shaped around western influences, and not what the locals might want out of their mountain. My guide on Kili, Philip, told me about the strict laws against taking anything away from the park. The usual take only pictures leave only footprints saying. But once in the park, he picked up rocks and put them in his pocket to take down the mountain. And it was ok to use the plants for medicine, he told me. I reminded him out what he had told me, but Philip shrugged that off saying that there were enough rocks for every visitor to take one. If picking plants is for medicine, that is a reason to shrug off the rules, never mind the western-modeled rules that instruct otherwise. National parks might have had strict regulations, but with a huge country like Tanzania, there were certainly other less-regulated wild landscapes. Michael, my ranger from Meru, explained the rules pertaining to game reserves and game-controlled area, the land that surrounds national parks. Hunting by locals is allowed on a limited basis in these areas.

The idea that Tanzanian wilderness had something to give humans was consistent in my visit to the lower Usambara mountains. There the locals handed me piles of pears freshly picked from the trees, or tomatoes from the fields as they were picking. The idea behind these free hand-offs, as Yassin, my guide explained, was that there was enough for everybody there. I can accept that logic for the Usambara mountains, for now. The number of visitors is only a fraction of what Kili receives. But the idea of taking something that the mountain produces for human consumption is an important one, because the gifts of crunchy pears did not appear because I was a mzungu, a novelty in a small village. The unspoken rule that within the mountains products are free for all even if outside the mountains they are sold is long-standing. It was around before the mzungus were, and therefore is telling of a specifically Tanzanian concept of wilderness unaltered by Western mountaineers shaping national park policies.

One failure during my time in Tanzania was my inability to get a woman's perspective on wilderness. All of the locals I talked to about wilderness were men. They were the ones who had the jobs as armed rangers, as guides, as porters. I did meet and talked to women who were part of the park service, but most of them had desk jobs at the bottom, not up in the mountains. Michael ventured an opinion when I asked him about it: Women do not like coming up into the mountains. They want to stay down in the offices. This seemed like an excuse more than anything else, so I asked a female park ranger when I was back at the bottom of Meru. Did she want to go up and guide tourists on multi-day hikes? No, she told me, aligning herself exactly as Michael had predicted. She preferred to work just for the day and return home at night. I wondered if there was a macho culture surrounding working up in the huts that made it uncomfortable and impratical for women to work up there. Like the excuse the park ranger in Chile gave me for why no women were working at the ranger station in el Cajon del Maipu: men and women would have to share a bathroom, so therefore women really couldn't work there comfortably. This Tanzanian ranger might have had a different view on the danger in the park, from both animals and humans, than her male co-workers, but I don't know the real reasons behind her statement that she would rather not lead hikes like the one I had just finished. My inability to understand how women see the wilderness in Tanzania is not really a personal failure on my part--the tourist industry is set up so that tourists are interacting with men almost all of the time. Actually, this is true for most of where I've walked. There were more male than female hut guardians in Switzerland and Chile, only male guides and porters and cooks in India. I am not quite sure how to overcome this limitation.

A few successes I've had... in Tanzania I managed to plan more quickly with the limited time I had in the country. Because of government regulations, I had to walk with a guide at all times, but I was able to organize my entourage more easily than I could in India. The limitation on my independence, however, was frustrating. I am glad to be in Scotland, where I can control the routes I take, where I sleep, and the food that I eat without worrying as much about safety and getting sick. I was quite proud of the fact that I spoke more Kiswahili than the average tourist, thanks to my Peace Corps Volunteer friend Alena who taught me some key phrases at the beginning of my time in Tanzania. Being able to say how are you (Habari za leo) rather than just the touristy Jambo paved the way for better relationships with guides and porters on the trail. And of course, making it to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro lands in my successes list. My body's response to altitude was not completely in my control, so I can't claim that luck did not play a role in the climb... but I was there, standing among glaciers at almost 20,000ft!

Right now I am well into my 9th month of travel on this 12 month Watson journey. I am almost finished with the Speyside Way national long distance trail, which is the third of its kind I will have completed in the last 3 weeks. That means over 200 miles since Rebecca's visit ended. Yes, I am feeling a bit tired. I love being in Scotland (despite blustery sideways freezing rain days like today) because the discussion of wilderness is everywhere. It is not just about bothies (the Scottish huts I came to see). Scottish Access Code information is posted and readily discussed, and by wild camping on the national long distance trails like the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way, I can see how the Scottish understanding of wilderness on paper plays out in practice.

West Highland Way

2009-04-27T02:36:00.000-07:00

Quite proud of myself, getting the stove to work and everything. I have the easy trails and the beautiful weather to thank for my early success, really. I started the morning by walking Rebecca to the train station (first the wrong one, then the correct one). After a hug, Becca climbed on her train and went off to Edinburgh and the airport and New York and I went off in search of an outdoor equipment store so I could buy white gas (coleman fuel, its called here). Picked up groceries for the first few days of the walk, then hiked the quiet, empty streets of Glaglow to Kelvingrove park, where a trail on the river Kelvin led out of the city to the suburbs along shady banks. My pack was heavy and I wasn't used to the weight. Each time I put the pack down for a break I wanted to lay down and sleep too, since Becca and I had stayed up late the night before. I walked into the center of Milngavie (pronounced Mullguy, though you wouldn't guess that) and passed the obelisk that marks the start of the walk, but headed out of town in the other direction instead for the campsite. I was so glad to arrive. I smiled thinking of people at home while I sunned in the bed of yellow daffodils. I tried to light the stove but it leaked fuel and despite the sunshine my hands were too cold and numb to deftly ease off the piece I thought needed cleaning. I ate plums for dinner, leaving the stove problem for another day, and climbed into my tent. The night was cold and I stayed cold for most of it, usused to sleeping outside after weeks of relative comfort. After 6am the air warmed up and I could sleep.

I woke to bright light at 10am. I packed up as quickly as I could and caught a ride into town at 11 with a camper van. Had milk and hot cross buns and cheese for breakfast then took the obligatory West Highland Way photo with the obelisk. The little park near the town was the start of the trail. I talked to a woman I saw pondering trail signs and we ended up walking together all day. Laryma is German but lives in Glasgow. She told me all about the walks she has done in the areas surrounding Glasglow, like the Campsie hills. We passed (and were passed by) groups of older Scottish people out for a stroll. They liked to comment that I was well-laden. The trail moseyed over gentle hills and farmland, a distillery here, a pub there. We went right past the Beech Tree Inn, with beer garden-like tables buzzing with families enjoying the weekend sunshine. We stopped to enjoy the afternoon and a pint of cider. When I left my pack by the table to go inside to get my drink, I felt such a lightness without the load, like I could skip my way down the path. I heaved it back on my shoulders, though, and said goodbye to Laryma, who took a bus back to Glasgow. The evening was quiet as I walked past farms then country homes to a campsite called Easter Drumquhassle--quite a name. The sun was warm and I set up my tent quicker this time. I took pieces of the stove apart and I guess whatever I did worked because the fuel stopped leaking and I made potato leek soup and veg. cous cous for dinner. Later on, some Belgian boys came to the camp. I chatted with them until almost 9--the sun doesn't set until 8.30 so it is easy to loose track of the time. I went inside my tent to get warm and a noisy smelly group of Scottish men came up to the campsite. As I drifted off to sleep, snatches of conversations from both groups drifted over. I understood the French just fine but didn't get those Scottish accents! Thoughts on wilderness for the day: Laryma said she liked how Scotland was more wild than anywhere on the continent like Germany. The Belgian boys, on the other hand, wished that they had started the walk further on, because the fences and fields were not wilderness at all. For me, I like this farmland hiking if it means having a cold milk at the shop in the morning.

After an earlier morning at Easter Drumquhassle farm, I walked into Drymen where I bought fruit and chocolate milk and used the internet to buy my flights home. The trail took me past farmland and grazing sheep to a climb up Conic Hill, the first actual sweating I did on the trail. There was a slight breeze but the weather being otherwise pleasant, I ate my fruit and and read a book for an hour on top of the hill. From Conic Hill, the trail led alongside the loch--it was busy with older people with small packs and young people with big packs. I stopped at Cashel campsite--it was only 5pm and I could have continued on, but my clothes were all smelly and here was an opportunity to wash them. The afternoon was warm, the lakeside quiet except for water and squawking birds or ducks. My cheeks are pink from the sun. I am feeling good... hips bruised from the pack, random sharp pains in my ankle, and my lower back irritated from the pack too, but all these things feel better with a rest by the water. I feel competitive and want to push on, to see how fast I can do the whole trail, and then I calm down and remember I have time to do it all and that 10 miles a day is certainly respectable.

The rain started this morning so I tried to pack up effeciently to not get anything wet. This means clothes in plastic bags, books, sleeping bag, well-wrapped, and tent covered by the pack rain cover. (I like seeing my collection of plastic bags--some from Gelson's, Swiss supermarkets, and little bookstores in Argentina). I had a hot coffee and fresh from the oven croissant from the camp store and bought bread and meat for lunch. Started off down the road in the rain. The trail cit through local parks, sometimes weaving up hills or back to the road. Had an early lunch when I found a park bench. The pack still feels quite heavy-- I am not strong enough yet. The time on the dirt road through the forest seemed very long and gently but persistently uphill. Following my West Highland Way trail guide, I doubled back on an undulating trail 10minutes to Rowchoish Bothy, a building of stone with a tin roof. It consisted of one large room with a wooden sleeping platform and a fireplace. I read the comment book while I waited out the rain. Most visitors were WHW walkers. Some, however, came with 20 bottles and left them all behind-- the sign of weekenders looking for a good time rather than walkers following the loudly-stressed Code. But hikers after them had cleaned up--the bothy I found was pretty clean. When the rain stopped tapping on the roof I stepped up into the sun. The rest of the day the trail narrowed and continued to weave as close to the water of the loch as it dared. I stopped at 4pm for fish and chips and a water bottle refill at the Inversnaid Hotel. The total price is what I would have spent on a campsite, so I figured it was an allowed luxury. I passed feral goats on the steep trail by the water. They smelled of Campbell's Chicken Noodle combined with soggy socks. The sun was casting long shadows against the mossy cliffs and spring was showing its face on only a few blossoming trees. The path turned rocky -- lots of careful steps around branches and roots. I had to squeeze between rocks and tree trunks a few times to get by with my wide load. I checked the book with the map more frequently as I got tired. One last climb and I saw a cluster of buildings, one with a smoking chimney. What a sense of comfort. The bothy was quiet. There was just one grumpy old man tending the fire who turned around to grunt hello and that was it for conversation for the night. The postings on the wall of the bothy were all about access, public right of way, and proper bothy behavior according to the mountain code. My stuff! There was a hint of orange out on the loch as I went out to brush my teeth. The fire meant it was downright cozy inside. I am quite a bothy fan, especially if someone else deals with lighting the fire.

Up late again (constant theme, I think). I made my scottish oatmeal for breakfast for the first time today. I kind of overestimated how much oatmeal to water I needed so I ended up with a big glop to finish (and wishing I had brown sugar or salt--Callie style-- to flavor it). Said goodbye to the wavering reflection on the loch and wound round on quiet wide tracks to a campsite, where I bought a pint of milk and a chocolate bar for a snack (yes, even though it was still morning). I stopped for a reading break by a nice stream. The trail crossed over the road a couple time-- I was walking under railway tracks too, in tunnels built more for sheep than for walkers with packs. 15 minutes off the WHW to the town of Crianlarich, where a cute cafe on a railway platform served up an all-day breakfast plate. I took another reading break on the trail after this snack because it was half-sunny, but also because I needed to give my back and leg joints a break. Meandered down into Strathfillian, a farm with camping and wooden guest huts, and had a quick internet break because I had been thinking a lot that day about talking with the outside world. I set up my tent 30minutes south of Tydrum alongside the confluence of two rivers. Wild camping is nice and easy, but not growing up with a Scottish sense of right have access, just being there feels slightly wrong, like some authority figure in a uniform will come and tell me to move on. But I can see smoke from distant houses and I can still hear cars and trains passing, so I feel more comfortable about this first night of wild camping.

Today I walked the furthest I ever have in 1 day -- 21 miles-- without ever intending to do so. Woke up quite early, 6.45. The rain, light but persistant the whole night, obligingly stopped in the morning while I was packing up camp. I ate a delicious soft juicy pear and a couple plums for first breakfast then walked the half hour into Tyndrum for second breakfast. Bought a hot chocolate so I could use indoor facilities then went rather unwillingly outside back into the cold. The clouds parted during the 7 miles up and down near the rail line. I met a group of 3 older women and as usual the conversation made the time melt away. Had a snack at Bridge of Orchy then climbed up the mountain for big views on this surprisingly clear day. Stopped at the climbers bar/cafe at Inveroran Hotel (the climbers bar is out back, with separate facilities so as not to force the real hotel guests to intermingle with the walking riffraff). Left at 3.30 for the long stretch over Rannoch Moor figuring I would fit in as much as I could and then stop to camp for the night. The moors were boggy and eerily quiet. I sang a special boggy bog soundtrack-- Show Boat, Avenue Q, and the 4 Seasons. And when I sing very loudly in the middle of the empty lonely Highlands and no one is around to hear me, I can sing remarkably well, hitting the top notes and everything. Hustled over the final ridges and saw the white Kingshouse hotel in the distance and I knew I would make the full 10miles. I trudged in around 7.15 with my legs trembling. I had a drink in the (round the back and separate) climbers bar with my Irish friends to celebrate this successful day. The rain and wind started just as I decided to call it a night, so I was very glad to climb in my tent and think about the day from the comfort of my sleeping bag. The moors had been quiet (well, at least when I stopped belting out Doris Day hits) except for birds and a trickle of water every now and then. I saw deer and lots of black slugs on teh path. I am tired now, but feeling strong and proud.

Big noisy tent bending winds this morning. I realized that changing my day to day hiking outfit from the loose fitting blue turned grey turned sweat brown shirt to 2 long-sleeved tighter fitting ones means that I smell like a boy. Yuck. I went without cooked breakfast this morning so that I could be off quickly. The rain abated but the wind is what made me want to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag and take down camp. The trail led along the highway for a bit, then there was an abrubt right turn and I was climbing up the moor up Devil's staircase. It was only 35 minutes of climbing so I didn't think it quiet warranted such a name. The top was too windy, even with the shelter of the cairns, so I didn't linger. Trudged downhill to Kinlochleven--I was ready to be finished but the road kept winding around... especially frustrating because I could see the village down below. Kinlochleven was an industrial town but is now converted into an outdoor center of sorts, complete with an indoor ice climbing wall, which I had to go and see for myself. No climbs this time, though. I stayed at a campsite near the center, along with all the other guys I passed during the last couple of days. I enjoyed the luxury of buying groceries at a store but the experience was ruined when an unexpectedly crunchy pear snapped the wire I had fixed on my bottom teeth. Slightly miffed, I went to bed with gum stuck on the end of the wire.

When I woke up the next day all the other campers had gone. And it was only 9.15. Attempted eating breakfast but the wire kept poking me in the mouth. There was a short climb out of the valley and I warmed up quickly. Then all of a sudden I looked around and there was no road, just the long track descending before me in the elevated valley. It wasn't too lonely though--a jeep and then 4 motorbikes came whizzing around the corner. I walked and chatted with a Dutch couple, which was fun because they wanted to hear all about me and life in America... and I don't mind talking about myself for hours. After they turned around I continued up and out of a chopped-down forest (all the trees I pass are planted in rows, for the purpose of hack hack chop chopping them down eventually). I stayed in Glen Nevis, about 2miles short of Ft. William, because I could camp there and say goodbye to the hikers I had missed that morning. We had views of Britain's tallest mountain, Ben Nevis, but I was glad I decided against a climb when I saw a rescue helicopter hovering at the peak. Not my style.

In Fort William the next day, I tested out the Scottish health system by trying to get an emergency dentist appointment on a Sunday. It ended up working so now the wire is nicely glued in my mouth and I feel free to eat crunchy pears again.

I am doing the Great Glen Way now, 71 miles total from Fort William to Inverness. I have 18 miles left to go but I will have to find another time to write about that. The weather had been on and off, which means I permanently wet boots and sunburnt cheeks. Oops.

Kilimanjarito

2009-04-20T01:58:00.000-07:00

Day 1 of the Mt. Kilimanjaro climb started at the park gate -- a shaded little office like a carnival ride ticket booth at the start of the path. I started with my guide Philip while my porters waited behind in a line to get the packs they carried weighed. No one was supposed to carry more than 20 kilos, including their own gear. Unlike Meru, however, there weren't weigh stations at any camp, so these porters might have been overloaded after the entrance. Compared with what I had just finished on Meru, the climb of the first day was a gentle stroll in the forest. The highlight was seeing monkeys up close. First, the shiny blue monkeys darting across the trail in front of me, and later, the bushy black and white colobus monkeys leaping between the trees. I followed Philip's example and took the walk slowly in order to get used to the altitude. I felt like Mom could have been behind me, bugging me not to drag my feet in the dirt. The camp was like a little village, made up of lots of A-frame cabins for the tourists and larger ones for the guides and porters. The cabins were divided into two small rooms with four mats each. Since my hike was at the end of the season, just before the long rains, there weren't big crowds at the camp, so I got a room all to myself. Normally, though, those cabins fill up and then hikers take the large loft above the mess hut. During snack time, I talked to the other hikers who were on the same 6-day schedule as me; they were from all over the Western world.
I was up early the next day to see the colors just past sunrise. I watched the camp wake up while waiting for breakfast. The whole Kili walk, breakfast was uggi, a thin cornmeal porridge, a fried egg, and some fruit. I left about 30 minutes before most of the others, so the first 3 hours were very quiet. Trees no longer grew along the trail, just short shrubs. I had views of both Mawenzi, the false peak, and Uhuru, the true peak. Fires started by a careless smoker a few years cleared the views around me, making way for seussical flowers. I made it to Horombo Huts at 12,000ft just before the rains started. I watched rain and then small ice pellets bounce against the ground while I downed hot chocolate and fresh popcorn inside the dining hut.
Climbing up 15 minutes above camp, I watched a quiet sunrise--only me and white-necked ravens hopping amongst the cairns of sunrise rock. Philip and I walked to Zebra rocks (black and white stripes as you might imagine) and then on to the saddle between Kibo and Mawenzi. The point of this rest day was to get a bit more accustomed to the altitude. I didn't feel sick to begin with--this was still lower than I had climbed on Meru, but I was certainly less irritable the second day at Horombo. I shared a Tanzanian lunch with Philip. I am now quite the expert at rolling those balls of ugali (stiff porridge) in my hand and using the play-do ball to scoop up food. I pushed my dinner around that night without eating much--another symptom of altitude sickness, so I sat rather glumly in the dinner hut drinking hot ginger and honey. But then a group of Spaniards on their way down the mountain sat next to me and I forgot myself and my worries and was comforted by their familiar exclamations and accents, their infrequent questions for me. Various guides and porters said hi to me as I started to walk out the door. They all knew my name. Some recognized me from Meru while others I had spoken to during the slow day at the lower huts. I had a step up on Kiswahili from most tourists with what Alena taught me, so I think the guides remembered who I was because I asked Habari za leo instead of just saying Jambo. Then I stopped to talk with my new Slovenian friends Anze and Mirjana before finally leaving the dining room. And so I was rather a reluctant social butterfly that evening even as I had intended to be a recluse and shut myself away to rest and read Allende.
From Horombo I left for the last camp with clear skies. We crossed a ridge and all of a sudden the plant life melted away and all that was left was rocks, arranged in designs and initials by thousands of previous hikers. The walk took five hours even though the distances were short and the path good. I trudged along, not wanting to get sick if I could prevent it. At Kibo I napped away the afternoon like everyone else. Kibo is no village like the other hut sites--there are just a few buildings there, all made of cold stone rather than the more insulating layers of wood. I shared a room with 10 bunks with 6 other hikers (it was 7 until one guy had to be taken down because of AMS). I was irritable and not very hungry at dinner again. I saw that a few other people weren't feeling great, but I was too focused on myself and my pain to notice much. Kibo huts are at 14,500. I felt better when Philip turned on the light in our bunk room and woke the whole lot of us at 11. I drank some tea and packed cookies in my pocket and started the walk at 10 minutes to 12. I threw up early on, after only a half hour of walking. I had been feeling nauseous the whole way until then. People passed me up and I struggled to keep walking. There were groups of people above and below me on the switchbacks. The night was clear and the moon was full. I didn't even need to switch on my headlamp. I could see the lights hovering above me getting further away. I made no progress, it seemed, as the lights below me got closer and closer. I was so tired that I wanted to sit down and sleep right there in the snow. My eyes were unfocused as I trudged upward, kicking my toes (under 3 layers of socks) into the snow. I could barely enjoy the snow sparkling in the moonlight or the midnight brightness of Mawenzi peak. I didn't want to keep walking. I was so tired, so cold. In my head I practiced what I would say to family and friends when I got back and had to say I didn't make the top. My toes hurt from the cold so that running down the mountain and back into my sleeping bag seemed like the only option. It was Philip who kept me going. He rubbed my back my shoulders my arms my chest my head to warm me up and keep me sane and moving. He caught me when my balance gave way and I started to sway sideways whenever I stopped. I was worried about being sick again, wondering why I had ever decided this was a good idea, wondering how I would manage a winter in Wisconsin if I couldn't handle this. I stumbled up to Gillman's point, the last one up there as far as I could see. The light was just starting in the east. After Gillman's I knew I could make the rest, but that didn't energize me much. I tried to eat the cookies I had packed hours earlier in my pocket, but they had all crumbled. Spurred on by the sunrise, the glaciers, but mostly by the guides and other hikers I knew who encouraged me as they passed me on their way down, I threw myself down at the top of the almost 20,000 ft Kilimanjaro at 7.15am. Most of the other hikers that day had already gone down, so the peak was pleasant and calm. I took the requisite rubber ducky photos with the sign announcing my (dubious) success and downed a pineapple energy drink (a nice frozen slushy after the brisk morning stroll). When I started to walk down I lost the burst of energy and good feeling I didn't even know I had had. My head started to hurt, as it should at 19,000 or 18,000 and I couldn't slide down the scree fast enough. I tore off my boots and climbed back into my sleeping bag for an hour of rest before continuing the walk down. I walked back with Anze and Mirjana through the rain to Horombo at a fast pace. That night I wrote in my journal that I had to remember how tough this climb was so that I wouldn't be tempted to climb it again out of some misplaced nostalgia. So there it is. No--I would not recommend climbing Kili. Go to some local, shorter mountains instead. Am I glad I did it? Well... I'm certainly glad to say that I made it to the top. I can't say that I'm proud though - I didn't make the peak because I tried harder, because I was more worthy. My body reacted negatively to altitude, to be sure, but I didn't have to head down the mountain because of it. And all those people who walked back down to Kibo at 4am or 5am without reaching Uhuru... they still climbed the mountain just like I did. This will reassure my mom: the process of climbing to a peak, of having that as the goal of a hike and labeling any height short of the peak a failure is not the way to walk. I want to enjoy the journey, and since I know I cannot help but be swept up in a race to the top, I would rather not participate in such walks in the first place.

sisters in scotland

2009-04-16T14:39:00.000-07:00

Mt. Kilimanjaro Marangu route

2009-04-08T02:20:00.000-07:00

Lushoto, Usambara Mountains

2009-04-08T02:08:00.000-07:00

Mt. Meru write-up

2009-03-07T10:04:00.000-08:00

A few hours on the trail and I knew I was back on track again. We entered Arusha National Park early but had to wait a long time to pay our park fees. The ranger grudgingly accepted our US dollars since we didn’t have a Visa debit card, which is the only other way to pay. All park fees are paid in USD, which was quite a hassle for Alena and I since neither of us had come directly from America. From the first gate, we drove an hour past baboons and buffalo to the second gate, where we paid more fees, this time in Tanzanian shillings for the entry fees of our crew. Michael, our ranger with a gun, came up to us and introduced himself. After a sack lunch, we started—a group of four, Alena, me, Michael the ranger, and Philip our guide. Our walk started on level ground; Michael always had one hand on his gun while we passed the buffalo. As if that wasn’t enough, he started telling us about the times when he had to actually shoot to kill. This time though, they remained calm. Our ascent started through acacias trees that giraffes like so much and past sodom’s apple plants with the little yellow fruit hanging like tree tomatoes. We went pole-pole, slowly-slowly, gaining altitude slowly and stopped for snacks often. When the rain started, we covered up and kept going. The porters all went faster than us but we kept seeing them since they would stop for breaks. I practiced the Kiswahili greetings I learned from Alena.

I had expected a hut, not a small village. There were 8 or 9 buildings up at Mirikamba huts—concrete and with tin roofs, but solidly built, with no gaping holes or rickety doors like the ones I stayed at in India. There were 3 huts for the tourists, 1 dining hut, and various other buildings for cooking, and for the porters, guides, and rangers. The bathrooms were clean (and flush!) and there was even running water in the sinks to wash our hands. At night there were light running off of solar power. If I wondered where all the park fees went to, here was the answer. The dining hall had cushioned wooden chairs—all carried up individually by porters, because they don’t use animals in the park. Michael, our ranger, warned us not to go beyond the buildings in the camp, because there were dangerous animals there. I did not need to be told twice. We cleaned up and sat in the dining hall with Michael listening to his tales of poachers in the park over hot chocolate. I was so excited about wilderness Tanzanian style after my conversation with Michael.

The next day was a four hour climb through lichen-laden forests to the Saddle Huts. The weather was cloudy the whole way, so we had no views, but climbing was quite comfortable. We sang songs for a while, trading Little Mermaid lyrics back and forth. The climb was four hours, including stops for super macro photos of dewy flowers. After hot chocolate at the hut (or set of huts), we climbed pole-pole up to little Meru. The peak was swathed in clouds so we couldn’t quite see where we were going, but the point of the climb was the elevation, not the view (though, certainly, that would have been a nice bonus). I busted out patito the rubber duck, who hadn’t seen much of Tanzania yet and was itching to get out of my pocket. We went to bed early, before 8pm, so that we would be ready to wake up for our summit attempt at 1am.

1am came too soon, naturally. We layered up (I counted 6 layers on top) and downed hot chocolate and cookies for energy. We put on our headlamps and started pole-pole up the mountain. Going to sleep I had high hopes for clear skies, but the Saddle Huts were shrouded in fog. We trudged so slowly up the initial switchbacks that a couple that started later than us passed us up. Despite the slow speed, I warmed up quickly and shed layers. Climbing up, I didn’t feel tired, just robotic. There was little conversation as we were all focusing on making out the trail in front of us. The fog created a new kind of darkness. My LED headlamp could not cut through the dense air that came up around me and hugged me so tight I could not breathe. The darkness was complete. There was no hunt of stars or a moon, no shadow of the mountain we were climbing. For a moment the clouds around us lifted and the heaviness left me as I looked up at the starry sky. When the clouds returned it was not that the stars disappeared but rather that we all disappeared from the world—four solitary figures for whom nothing exists except the four feet of illuminated trail ahead of us. Past Rhino Point the loose dirt of the path shifted under our feet. My guide cautioned me to stay on the center of the path. I didn’t even dare consider the sharp drops that must await the careless climber. We started scrambling across rocks around 3am. I turned my headlamp on high beam, certain that my guide had lost the trail. Tanapa (Tanzanian National Parks) wouldn’t really create a trail where four contact points were necessary to cross at the darkest hour of night. So instead I doubted Philip’s sense of direction, even as I remembered the sign at Momela gate: “Always listen to your guide; he knows more about the mountain than you do” (ok, maybe the sign didn’t boast such a perfect usage of a semi-colon, but that was the general gist). But then, as my headlamp searched for flat ground and the “real” trail, I started to notice the green paint splotches on the rocks. I pointed these out to Alena—they had to be the trail markers. She hadn’t noticed them or had thought they were moss. We agreed that green (rather than some reflective orange or red) had to be the worst possible color choice for the trail markers (although I do concede that brown seems equally problematic). We moved out of the cloud, the darkness lifted, and I could make out the shadow of the false summits up ahead that encouraged me to keep going. I could see a shadow of Kili, clear for the first time since I arrived in Tanzania. The bobbing lights of the other groups ahead of us and the faint glow emanating from Kili’s base spurred us on and up.

At sunrise we were still climbing. We paused for a few moments to enjoy the streaks of color then moved between rocks on the western side of Meru where we were hidden from the sun. There was a layer of frost covering all the rocks and the angel hair vertical ice formations that had impressed me so much on the Dzongri trek in Sikkim made a reappearance here. The last stretch we were behind two other groups and their guides. I thought I could push ahead, get to the top to catch the last colors of sunrise, but the exertion of moving past the group was too much. I stopped, embarrassed and nauseous, as they all passed me up again and summited. I could see the flag fixed at the top and a figure in silhouette against the morning sun, but I just couldn’t go any father. I wanted to just fall asleep right there. After a rest, I pushed on, moving more pole-pole than I thought possible. The nausea disappeared as I pulled myself up to the summit. Alena signed our name in the book kept in a weather safe box by the flag, and in the spirit of the Tanzania hotels that ask us our tribe upon registration, I added: “tribe: University of Puget Sound… go loggers!” We took pictures with the socialist peak sign that announced our success, but the sun now high in the sky caused such a glare that the pictures didn’t really come out. When I was at the top, I whipped out my phone to call home. “We made it to the top, mom, its all downhill from here, so you don’t have to worry.”

We started down in high spirits after a requisite chocolate bar to keep up our energy after 5 hours of hiking. We snapped photos of the trail following the ridge and the ash cone, all invisible on the dark hike up. We captured Kili floating on a down comforter of clouds. My legs shook from the descent—how did we ever climb all of this, I wondered. I was tired, irritable, and hungry. Just after 11am, the tin rooks of Saddle huts were peeking through the shrub. The sight was not as picturesque as a stone cabin with smoking chimney, but I was sure glad to see it. We washed and ate brunch with gusto, especially the chipsi-mayai, the Tanzanian equivalent of tortilla Espanola or switzerland’s rosti. Michael and Philip were keen on ordering a rescue jeep to meet us at Mirikamba huts. They assured us that it was very common for travelers to feign injury so as to avoid walking down the whole way. But as long as we could walk, we would hike.

Porters pointed out elephants, but I could barely see them. More exciting were the colobus monkeys we saw shaking tree branches. I was sure the last section of the trail would be quick, considering the speed with which we ascended, but my exhaustion was complete. The valley finally stretched out before us and I shook off my foul mood to enjoy the view of a winding stream, and water buffalo and giraffes all grazing for dinner. We stuck close to the guy with the gun. The giraffes weren’t very interested in us but posed obligingly. When we came close to the buffalo, Michael said “whatever you do, don’t run.” We stayed right behind him, snapping photos quickly while the buffalo stayed in temper. Nearby warthogs were rummaging around. We crossed the bridge and left our walking safari behind, arriving at Momela gate just before dark. Alena and I unbraided my hair while waiting for our ride back to Arusha town. I fell asleep in the car clutching my certificate of successful ascent of Meru tightly in my hand.

Mt. Meru

2009-03-07T08:44:00.000-08:00

Songea, Tanzania

2009-02-23T03:34:00.000-08:00

I went south from Dar to Songea to meet my friend (and former volleyball teammate) Alena. (Her blog is alena-tanzania.blogspot.com) The bus ride tested my patience much more than the rides I took in South America. I rode a taxi to the bus station at 5.10am to get there by 5.30. I shook off all the guys coming up to meet who thought I should get on their bus, to whatever city it was going to. I loaded up my pack and climbed aboard after the driver scratched out my seat number on my ticket and wrote me a new one. Tanzania is like that. I moved seats twice before the bus left, thankfully sitting down in one by a window. I wrenched it open and went to sleep as the pink on the horizon turned to bright white. I had packed important things like snacks for the day in my bag, so I busted out the first of two peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast (thanks to Tamara for a western luxury product like peanut butter). I was prepared with my pack-lunch but the Tanzanians all bought snacks en route. Young guys hoisted tubs of nuts or corn or soda above their heads and ran alongside the bus whenever we slowed down on the road, their muscles bulging as they tried to keep the tubs balanced. They were aggressive, banging on the windows to get the attention of the passengers. I preferred watching the women dressed in kangas balancing baskets of bananas on their heads. Bathroom stops meant pulling the bus over to the ride of the road and the passengers filing out. Men unzipped right by the road while women ventured a few meters further into the bush. I woke up later and we were entering Mikumi National Park—another thought provoking session on the boundaries of wilderness… doesn’t it break up the protected nature of a national park to have the main highway (ok, road) pass right through the middle? The giraffes and elephants didn’t seem to mind too much. I woke up later and tried to read, but Isabel Allende’s words blurred with the jolts from potholes. I put the book away. A muggy heat surrounded my face and I stretched to open the window again (the guy in front of me had closed it). I didn’t notice when, but he closed it again soon after that. I guess my heat threshold is a bit lower than Tanzanians’. It grew dark and the bus started spewing out passengers at the smaller towns leading up to Songea. We arrived just past 8pm, and I pushed my way off just like a local, refusing to give up my space or let anyone go in front of me. Alena had given me her address in case she wasn’t there, but as I contemplated the challenge of negotiating a taxi ride to Songea Girls Secondary School House #16 for the appropriate 3,000 Tsh, Alena came through the crowd and I knew I was home. I got my backpack (inexplicably soaked on the bottom) from under the bus and walked down the street (mostly paved) back to Alena’s place. The air was pleasantly cool.

Alena lives right on the campus of the school she works at. Her house is one in a block of teacher housing. She has a kitchen, a living area, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. That seems pretty nice to me considering the mud hut image the Peace Corps usually projects. She had cooked rice and peas (Tanzanian style, on her charcoal stove, just like she learned from the neighbors) and had kept it warm while coming to meet me. We ate dinner and stayed up late catching up on almost two years of activity. This naturally led to a discussion of UPS volleyball. The start of the season, without us there… well, it’s still tough. I went to bed in my own room, a blue mosquito net strung over the bed frame to complement the bright blue walls. (And no, not deep sky blue.)

I slept in (what a surprise) and then we went onto campus so I could look around a bit and meet the headmistress. Alena was modest about her Kiswahili skills, but I was suitably impressed with the conversations she had, especially considering my repertoire doesn’t go past Asante sana and poa. The dormitories for the girls who go to school here left the biggest impression. We complained about our Trimble rooms but these girls lived in a long hall of rooms that size, with 2 bunk beds to each room and absolutely no personal space. Trimble doesn’t seem like such a burden after all. I looked at the extensive book collection at Alena’s house (she is the Peace Corps library for the region, really) then we headed into town, just down the street, to explore. I liked the market, the rice and flour and vegetables piled high with everyone aiming to get our attention. Alena did the talking and I just smiled. We bought important supplies like okra and coconut then ducked into a vendor’s shop to escape from the periodic torrential downpours. The sky cleared as fast as it had clouded over and we dried off walking to the post office, the bookshop, and to another vendor to buy more spoons. Two other PCVs (peace corps volunteers—you get the lingo down pretty quickly listening to them talk shop) were staying the night before heading further south so it was a veritable party. I sat on Alena’s coconut chair, two slabs of wood making a little stool with a scalloped blade on the end specifically for shredded coconuts. (This was only Alena consulted with the neighbors on the best way to open the coconut while conserving the water inside; no one had a machete handy to hack it open so a neighbor came by and slammed it down on an edge a few times.) My hands got tired by the time I scraped out almost all the meat and then squeezed it by hand with hot water to make coconut milk. We added that to the okra curry that was bubbling away on the hot charcoal. Dinner was delicious and I knew part of that feeling was knowing how I had contributed (although not with heating up the actual cooking device—playing with fire still scares me). Jenna had just picked up a package from a friend from home that contained double stuffed Oreos, so we gorged on cookies while watching Sigourney Weaver fight Aliens. Movie-watching (and Oreo-eating) is not usually a possibility for the non-urban PCVs, so this was a treat for them. Alena is lucky to have running water and electricity most of the time. I meant to go to bed after that, but read a book until 2am instead. My goals for the short time I have in Songea include making pancakes with Alena and getting my hair braided. Soon we will head up north to Arusha town and climb Mt. Meru. This takes a bit of planning, only because we want to keep the cost down but make sure we have the right kind of ranger to protect us from aggressive wildlife in the park. Alena has PC training starting March 8, so we will have a good 2 weeks together. The bus ride itself will take two days, because the roads aren’t direct or in the best condition. So far I have talked to a few people who have climbed Kili and all have had different stories. The ones I talked to all made it, though some had it tougher than others. The altitude will be a challenge, I know, but mostly, what I hear from them just makes me excited about my time here in Tanzania. I want to fit it all in!

Well, since I finished writing that, I have seen a lot more but I have not visited an internet café. Later today, perhaps. We accomplished the short list of goals I made for my time in Songea. We made both corn cakes and pancakes, as well as bananas soupu, pumpkins leaves in spicy peanut sauce (I ground the peanuts by hand), fresh coconut pineapple juice (again by hand), and the Tanzanian classic uggi (porridge). I consider it a success that Alena has started to refer to the food we make as slop—it’s not an insult to the food, just my funny way of talking. I got my hair braided as well, an uncomfortable four hours sitting on concrete while my head ached from the pinching and pulling. I look suitably wild now, though.

We have had rain every day, so the red clay path outside is always muddy. I bring tracks in the house all the time since I don’t have indoor and outdoor shoes like Alena does. I even wore my Chaco sandals on the hike we took Saturday. For once I woke up really early. I made peanut butter and banana or honey sandwiches for the walk. Our hiking friends slowly started trickling into town according to the schedule of the daladalas (little bus—vans that you take for short distances). One PCV, Dawn, had to leave her place at 4.30am and walk two hours to catch her daladala in order to get here in the morning. The other people who came on the hike were a PCV from a nearby village, five volunteers from a church (2 Italians, 1 American, 1 German, and 1 Austrian), and Alena’s friend named George, a Tanzanian teenager who was going to be our guide for the day. We crammed into a daladala, as always more people fitting inside than you ever thought possible. At the end of the dirt road we all shuffled out and made our way to the base of the mountain through pounding rain. The rain lasted only a few minutes, enough time to get all the plants wet on the mountain side but not long enough to ruin our moods. George picked his way up to an unmarked path in the tall grass. We had to almost crawl up the slippery mud to keep from sliding back down. Mostly I could tell where the path was from where the plants were squashed down to the ground. I accepted the squishy mud in my shoes and the way my pant legs stuck to my skin and climbed on. The mountain wasn’t so tall, in the end. We shared sandwiches and beef jerky from home and other snacks on the top while looking out over Songea town and the houses dotting the green countryside beyond the city. This is the rainy season, so the landscape really was all green. Dawn, who has been here for a few years, assured us that it all turns brown during the dry season. On the way down, through rows of trees not unlike Van Gogh’s spindly cypress of Provence, I was distracted and fell behind the group. After 30 seconds, my friends in front of me disappeared in the tall reeds, and only the bent plants on the ground downhill showed me the way. The trail ended on a road where sticky sweet squashed mangos rotted by thatched-roof huts. We squeezed once more into a daladala and came back into town for a celebratory ice cream.

While my list for Songea is mostly accomplished, Alena’s is a much greater task. Do laundry, clean house, burn trash. We will have to do that together before we leave.

2nd Quarterly Report

2009-02-11T23:34:00.000-08:00

In the last 2.5 months, I hiked in the following areas: La Quebrada de San Lorenzo, Lauca National Park, El Morado NP in Cajon del Maipu, Torres del Paine NP, Chiloé NP, Villarica NP, Huerquehue NP, Puyehue NP, and Nahuel Haupi NP. I am proud of this list, despite its sometimes convoluted trajectory, because it shows the way I took advantage of the freedom of movement that Chile had to offer. I got to visit a variety of parks and protected areas from the far northern desert to windy Patagonia not only because my Watson-style sense of adventure was finely honed but also because Chile was easier to navigate than the last country I hiked in. I could hitch rides with trucks and walk barely marked trails without sacrificing my safety or breaking any rule. And as is appropriate for a Watson project, my visits to huts in Chile complicated my vision of wilderness in surprising ways.

I divide the huts I visited into three categories: 1. The organized, reservable huts that I expected to encounter when I proposed Chile as a country to visit for my project. Most, but not all of these, were veritable systems, with connecting trails that could take 8 days to traverse, like in Torres del Paine and Nahuel Haupi. 2. The second category is shelters and family farms that offer little or no services. These shelters, like the ones in Puyehue and La Quebrada, are usually not reservable. The huts in both categories 1 and 2 are owned and run by private organizations or individuals. 3. The third, surprising category is the CONAF (Chilean park service)-run huts that were all rendered inaccessible, such as in Lauca, Chiloé, and Huerquehue.

Category 1.

The huts of Torres del Paine, large cabins offering welcome relief from the sideways rain and strong winds, are run by a private concessionaire although CONAF does have a cabin or two along the trek for rangers. It is possible--and indeed necessary-- to make reservations in advance through websites or tourist agencies. The refugios are on par with Swiss huts in terms of comfort level, with bunks and sleeping pads, hearty meals, flush toilets, and high prices. The two refugios at the trailheads, one on the shores of a milky-green glacier lake, are kept well-stocked by bus and boat. Horses supply the other huts daily. Because the park is filled to over-capacity for the entire summer season, the huts are almost always full. While the lucky ones (or the planners) sleep inside, the majority of park visitors camp in approved pay-campgrounds near the huts. The places I stayed there had from 40 to well over 100 tents in the forest clearing. The camping crowd was younger, made up of those who didn't want to pay so much to visit the park and those who didn't make reservations. While theoretically these scrubbier campers were allowed in the refugios, in practice the groups remained separate. Campers and day hikers could technically purchase food at the refugios, but at least when I was there, the refugios ran out of food at meal-time and had nothing to sell to people dropping by. Campers had their own bathrooms, their own kiosk to purchase food, and were mostly glad to stay outside and brave the elements. It was a case of elitism on both sides--the warm, well-fed hut sleepers reveled in their comfort while the campers boasted of their purer, more complete understanding of the park after sleeping only inches from the freezing rain.

The Nahuel Haupi huts were more similar to the Swiss huts I've visited because they were run by a local mountain climbing organization. There were even traces of a European connection dating back a century, with huts and natural features bearing Slovakian or German names. The rock. concrete, and wooden refugios of Nahuel Haupi were all supplied by horses. The park was busy, especially on summer weekends, but nowhere near as busy as Torres del Paine, so hikers could find a space in a hut without planning ahead or come up for a meal and expect to find food available. The park was more accessible from nearby cities than Paine, and much less expensive, with neither entrance fees nor camping fees. The difference in clientele, including some rock climbers camping near refugios for weeks at a time, meant the energy surrounding the huts was less competitive and more inclusive. Like Switzerland, there were day trippers just visiting for lunch, but in the evening when just the overnighters were left, the guest kitchens buzzed with the conversation of rock climbers and scouts and hikers cooking all together. The inclusive, informal attitude extended so far that I actually heard a refugiero (hut guardian) voice a kind of mountain ethos that would be impossible in the overcrowded Torres del Paine: A girl my age asked in there was space for the night --"There is always space," the refugiero said, "If there isn't space we make space." That reminded me of my first night in Switzerland, when I showed up at Berghaus Aescher with no reservation on a Friday night that happened to be the national holiday as well. There wasn't space, but they made space for me.

I spent a week tramping around in each of those parks. Some of the huts were more exclusive or expensive than others, but all offered a warm sleeping space and hearty mountain fare (even a bife de chorizo).

Category 2-Stand-alone huts with minimal services

When I planned to stay at a farm in La Quebrada de San Lorenzo, I excepted something similar to a Swiss experience, where I got to try the food they produced right there. But the campesinos were offered a bed (with puma skins for warmth) and nothing more--no smelly cheeses or cured meat. The family hospedaje in the village of Parinacota in Lauca NP likewise lacked an enthusiastic presentation of local products. The family served meals of quinoa soup and alpaca meat if you asked for it, but they seemed surprised to get such a request and did not readily advertise it on arrival. The refugio el Caulle in Puyehue was another shelter with little to offer--some rough slabs of wood nailed together made crude bunks and there was a slow combustion stove for warmth. There wasn't any sign-in book or extra fee for that hut; it was just what the El Caulle company maintained in addition to the adjacent campsite. The people at the category 2 huts--the farmers and locals--were the least friendly. I got an "hola" but nothign more--it seemed like hikers were intruding on their busy lives and they put up with the inconvenience in order to earn money. The farm in La Quebrada and the hospedaje in Parinacota were not built for hikers--they existed for the families long before hikers came along, unlike the refugio systems of category 1.

Category 3

The third category of huts includes all those that CONAF, the Chilean Park Service, rendered inaccessible. I thought a combination of bad luck and bad timing prevented me from staying in a hut in Lauca, the first CONAF-run place I visited in Chile. The CONAF office in Arica, the nearest large city, assured me I could reserve space for the Lago Chungará refugio from a little town called Putre, at the base of the park. I spent 24hours acclimatizing in Putre and never once found the park service office open, despite the posted hours and despite returning at various times over two days. I found my way to Lauca without any park service information, so when a truck dropped me in Parinacota, I headed to the CONAF office at the end of town (which was only about 200 meters from the front). The office was locked and dark despite posted hours of opening. I could see bunks and a kitchen inside a building attached to the office but no sign of life. When a CONAF truck finally pulled into town the next day, I fired question after question at Ernesto, the park ranger. It turns out that the Parinacota refugio did use to be open to the public but now it is only for CONAF personnel and visiting researchers. I asked when the last researchers were there... months ago. And park service personnel? Well, Lauca only has 5 rangers total, only 2 on duty at a time, and with offices in 3 locations all with long (promised) opening hours, they can't be everywhere at once. And while on duty, they don't actually sleep in either of the park refugios--they descend down to Putre to sleep. So is there any refugio then? The Lago Chungará refugio was open theoretically, but you had to reserve it in advance otherwise there would be no ranger there to open it up. And how can I reserve it if I can never find the rangers? It was a bad cycle. Ernesto was friendly as I peppered him with questions, pointing mostly to inadequate funding as the source of this disorganization. Lauca receives few overnight visitors so there probably aren't too many people demanding to know how lodging there works. And so I left Lauca having seen the refugios but never having seen any sign of life, from a ranger or otherwise, inside of them.

I explained my experience (or lack thereof) with CONAF refugios in Lauca not to complain but rather to show what Category 3 huts are like. I assumed that my Lauca experience was an anomaly, until I visited other national parks with huts ran by CONAF and never managed to stay in them either. I arrived on the island of Chiloé because I read about the refugios like Colé Colé in the national park right on the Pacific Ocean. But when I asked at the Castro CONAF office, they said the refugios are closed. Of course I couldn't just accept that as an answer. I insisted, pointing out that the maps and trail descriptions written by CONAF all mentioned the availability of refugios. But they insisted, saying that they existed but were nonetheless closed. At the park I got the same story; we were welcome to camp, but there was no access to the refugio, and no reason as to why that was. At Huerquehue, I was less than surprised when the CONAF rangers told me there was no hut. Although the guidebooks and signs still pointed to Refugio Renahue, but the rangers said that the weight of snow had caved it in and now it was gone. And that was it. So we camped at Renahue where we couldn't even see a trace of the refugio that once was there.

Only when I saw a sign in Nahuel Haupi posted on the door of Refugio La Pedrita warning of the HANTA-virus in the rats did I start to wonder again about the reasons behind CONAF's reluctance to discuss huts. It was a fellow hiker who posted that note on La Pedrita, based on information he got from refugieros at Frey. CONAF, a government organization, didn't dare mention the diseased rats (or other distasteful problems) in their refugios, choosing instead to shut down their operations without explanation.

My time in these parks was not wasted even if the refugios I planned to visit were inaccessible.I kept hiking as usual and I found other places to sleep of course. Most importantly, I learned as much about Chile and CONAF's conception of wilderness from not being able to access the huts as I had expected.

What's the big idea?

If you remember back to my 1st quarterly report, I concluded that wilderness in Switzerland and India existed where ever there was danger. So the snow and ice-covered mountain peaks frequented by climbers was much more of a wilderness to the Swiss than the easily accessible and well-marked mountain farm land with trails running through it. In India, it was not the danger to human life but rather the threat to national security that turned mountain areas into wilderness. The "no rules-no rescue" warning posted at the entrance signs in national parks in Chile matches up with the impression of wilderness-as-danger that I got in Switzerland and India. These CONAF signs warned that there would be no search-and-rescue parties, no helicopters flying in for a deus-ex-machina finish, and admonishing visitors to be responsible for their own safety. But in Chile, the most relevant questions to the wilderness question were not related to danger, but rather to boundaries and ownership.

When hiking in Lauca, I sign a sign that said "Private Property No Trespassing Fine." It surprised me because I thought I was in a national park--how could the land be privately owned? Then Ernesto, the park ranger at Lauca, told me that 95% of the land encompassed by Lauca National Park is privately owned. This was the effect of years of making decisions about the park from the capital without effectively transmitting the information to the people who lived there. Now in Lauca there is a precarious balance between the locals who maintain houses there and who want to have farms or run hospedajes, and the CONAF and governmental officials who want to preserve the land as it is.

But Lauca is not the only place where I was confused by a national park label. In Puyehue, I paid an entrance fee to a private company, El Caulle, rather than to CONAF. The owners assured me that I was entering "one big farm" where no one would check up on me. But Puyehue was a national park at the same time. El Caulle owned the land at the entrance, and so it was that company, not CONAF, that created and maintained the trails and basic refugio. I had to get off the trail for their cows being driven up the mountain. Down there it was a ranch, not a park, but at some undefined point, there was a switch, and I was in a national park, climbing up a volcano.

In Huerquehue national park, there were no services besides pit toilets ever since the Renahue refugio fell. But the lack of services didn't really matter, because individual families lived at strategic points just beyond park boundaries and offered what the park itself could not: showers, hot bread, a roof for rainy nights. I knew where the park ended and private land began because the barb-wire fence indicated that there were animals to be kept out or in, but the exact boundaries did not really matter. What mattered was that any sense of isolation in the park was broken by the sign at a trail intersection that said "homemade bread, 15minutes" with an arrow pointing downhill.

In the places where CONAF was definitely in charge, I liked thinking about how much control they had over how visitors experienced the park, even if that meant rendering refugios inaccessible. It seemed that by taking away shelters and services, or by not rebuilding what had once existed, CONAF was making national parks even more wild. When there are not huts, no trails, and no permits, basically anything goes. I met hikers who left a note with rangers saying they would be camping near a certain lake for 3 days, and I met other hikers who left no note, who wanted to travel under the radar. In the case of those kind of visitors, the "no rules- no rescue" saying is even more true.

Another important consideration for wilderness (and on my list if I ever created a checklist) is: can I drink the water? I felt incredibly free dipping my Nalgene into rivers in Patagonia and being able to drink the icy water without purifying it. The more the boundary between national park and farm blurred, the less safe it was to drink directly from streams. The presence of animals, ski lifts, and even refugios above a stream meant that I had to treat the water. And untreated water felt very much like wilderness. The cleanliness of water isn't a requirement for my understanding of wilderness in the US, where I would always treat the water. But it does make sense to add it to that informal checklist on wilderness.

My experience in Chile was a great success. The frustration I felt in India because of limitations on spontaneous hiking, limitations like permits or guide requirements, dissipated in Chile. I felt free and safe in my movements, and my ability to speak Spanish gave me a chance to have better connections with the locals in the huts and parks. One of my best conversations was with a park ranger, Guillermo, in El Morado. He told me about his vision for building a refugio in the small park in the mountains outside of Santiago and about the surveys that Chileans filled out that said that most wanted their national park free of park benches and BBQs. My conversations in Switzerland and India never got as detailed as that--I could ask pushing questions without communication barriers. But that doesn't mean that I have more answers as a result. This report is a description of the huts I visited along with some musings about what makes the question of wilderness in Chile different than in other places. As I write this from Tanzania, I know there is a lot left to discover. I anticipate some of the same frustrations as India, because there are requirements about guides, porters, and contracting agencies here. But there will be some new twists--- like the fact that my guide on Mt. Meru will have to carry a gun to protect us hikers from any aggressive elephant attacks. As I write this from Dar es Salaam, just having landed on a new continent, my muscles are twitching. They are ready for me to once again head to the hills.

Puyehue, Nahuel Haupi, and then some

2009-02-08T07:29:00.000-08:00

Puyehue National Park, near Osorno Chile. Instead of paying a national park entrance fee, I had to pay a private company called El Caulle because the trail passed through their land. It was that company, and not the park service, that maintained the trail and the refugio. I walked in the restaurant to pay with an Australian couple, and the girl behind the counter gave us a single receipt, thinking we were together. When they asked about a receipt, the guy behind the counter said, don't worry, it's just one big farm, no one is going to check your proof of purchase up there. I thought it was a bit strange to think of my national park visit as more of a farm visit. The first 30 minutes was indeed like a farm, with gates to be opened and closed with barbed wire to keep cows on one side or the other. I closed a last gate then the trail ascended steeply for almost 2 straight hours. It was a poor trail, easy to follow but dusty with loose rock and sand, the grooves in the mountain sometimes following 4 different paths at once. It seemed very run down for a trail, even though there were a lot of people walking it that day. I made it to the top, to the refugio. The El Caulle Refugio was a run-down old shed, with slabs of wood across bunk beds as the place to sleep, and a slow burning wood stove in the center of the single room. The Refugio was free, or at least, included with the entrace fee. I slept in my tent that night, as did every other hiker there (almost 20 tents). The Refugio was not the standard sleeping area, it seemed, just a back-up for bad weather. And our weather was great. Clear blue skies during our long long days. I headed up the trail 25 minutes to get water from a glacial stream. The whole round trip took 50min, which was pretty long just for water, but it was good to stay occupied since I was having a tough time being by myself after Carolyn left. I managed to light the stove without any help and even have some thick chocolate pudding for desert. It seemed like hiking alone just wasn't fun anymore--even though the park was beautiful, I didn't have anyone to share it with me.

The next day I had banana oatmeal for breakfast and hiked up and across scree to cross the lower slopes of the volcano. The mountain turned into rocky dunes, with psychadelic patterns of brown in the sand. The trail was marked by tall bamboo sticks, faded by the sand and time, with red tubing nailed into the top to make them more visible. I left my bag at the tent sight, called Banos 2 because it was by a hot springs, and walked with two Israelis another 2 hours to see geysers. We waded across rivers in our sandals then got rocks in our shoes in the sand. The geysers were yellow and green and bubbling mud, but they didn't smell quite as bad as I remembered from Lassen National Park. On the way back I cut in on their Hebrew conversation (YES!) and talked about the importance of being Jewish according to the religious definition (they hadn't met an American Jew quite like me before). Back at camp, I shared by zapallo soup with them in exchange for pasta with tuna. I enjoyed their company and started to remember a bit more the benefits of being on my own.

I woke up early to go into the hot springs before leaving--I had to because they were there but also because I wanted to since my dusty pants. The bubbling springs mixed with river water right where I was sitting, so I could regulate the amount of heat I got with a wave of my hand. I walked 3 hours back across the sandy dunes, relishing in my ability to drink from the mountain streams. I added flavor packets like peach or lemon to the water and so had icy cold drinks to keep me going to whole day. With the refugio in view below, I left my pack behind a rock and climbed an hour and a half up the snow-filled crater on the top of Volcan Puyehue. Up there I had 360 degree mountain views, even over into Argentina. I almost napped except for the biting flies that kept landed on my face and hands (now finally, the white spots from the fly bites have gone down). I slid down half running in the scree and wrote 20 postcards to send home,since I had been slacking on that front for a while. It was a quiet night at camp, with only 2 tents and 4 people in the refugio compared with about 20 tents two nights earlier. It was my first day since Carolyn left that I was calm the whole day, with no major internal turmoil. I didn´t feel quite so lonely up on the crater when I felt like I could see the whole world.

Without bothering to add 50 minutes up the hill to get more glacier water for the final day, I started down the hill. The few people that were in camp and the refugio had already left so I bid goodbye to the volcano alone and headed down the hill. The descent was shaded in the forest, so it wasn´t hot, but it certainly was tedious. I couldn´t believe that I had managed to walk up that whole way. I shook my head again at the poor state of the trail, the erosion I assumed the influx of hikers had caused. An hour in to my mindless descent, I heard shouts in the distance, then a man on a horse told me in no uncertain terms to get off the trail so that I wouldn´t scare the cows. I moved off a ways but he kept shooing me further and further away. Stay hidden and shut up was the message he gave me. Oh, and there are four more groups of cows coming after his, so wait there for all of them. And so it was that I remembered that this was private farmland, not national park, and that I was invading the space of the cows, and not the other way around. So I ducked down behind bamboo and waited for the cows to pass. After the first group, I skipped a ways down the trail and found a better hiding place. The cowboys on horseback passed with shouts of UY-YUY to keep the cows moving while dogs barked behind them. I wasn´t waiting more than 10 minutes in the bushes, but I could feel the blood rushing to my foot, threatening pins and needles, because I didn´t dare make a sound for fear of another cowboy´s reprimand. When the cows had past, I rejoined the trail, understanding why the trail conditions were so poor. It wasn´t the 70kilo hikers who had pounded the mud down the mountain, but rather the herds of animals who are decidedly less interested in maintaining a single pristine path. And the way down certainly wasn´t pristine after that. I watched carefully where I stepped until I made it all the way back to the end of the trail at the El Caulle restaurant.

I picked up my bag and walked to the road, hoping to catch a ride to the next park instead of backtracking to a city and possibly waiting a few days for the next available bus. It took a while waiting in the sun, but made it most of the way to the next park, stopping at an urban campsite for the night when it was clear I wouldn´t make it all the way. I enjoyed luxuries like a shower and a pomelo soda before going off to sleep. I woke up to pounding rain and pulled all the clothes I had rinsed inside so they wouldn´t get more wet. But it was too late for that. It rained the whole next day, as I broke camp and bussed to the next city, dropped my bag, restocked on mountain food, and bussed to the starting point of the trek at Villa Catedral. This was my one day off from the trail, and my one day of rain, so I didn´t complain too much.

I awoke to clear blue skies and found the trail at the base of some ski lifts. I took the roundabout route through a forest recovering from a major fire, the remaining tree trunks still bright white, but slowly being overtaken by a green understory (good term, right Carolyn?). I dipped my toes in a river before the big uphill started, but it was so cold in the shade that I put my socks on and kept going almost right away. Halfway to Refugio Frey, my destination for the night, I passed a small Refugio called la Pedrita because it was built underneath an overhang in a big boulder. The refugio was made of wood, and was complete with windows, a stove, and a platform with space for maybe 8 sleeping bags. Basic, certainly, but a welcome sight in bad weather, I bet. The way it was built in the rock was so different from anything I have seen-- it was more dramatic even than Aescher Berghaus in Appenzell way back in early August. One problem: a handwritten note by the entrance warned of that there were rats inside that were known to carry the HANTA virus. Now this was something I had heard about, but never had I encountered a refugio or hut that screamed so strongly ¨stay out.¨ So I just poked my head inside for a second, but stayed out as recommended. The hut was unusable, but curiously they CAB, the mountain organization that owns it, chose not to dismantle it. Passing by what would have been my favorite refugio but for the possibility of diseased rats nibbling through my sleeping bag, I headed up the valley, climbing up rocks painted with smiley faces and kilometer numbers to encourage me to the top. A roof then a whole building then 3 buildings came into view. There was a crowd of grungy people and a pile of backpacks all strewn about the rocky ground outside the hut. Frey stood proudly at the foot of a short valley, just past a small lake. Jagged cliffs soared up on both sides of the hut, with the rock climbers´ carabiners glinting hundreds of meters above me in the sun. A woman came outside carrying a freshly baked pizza. I felt like I was back in Switzerland. I sat outside the door in Frey (outside the main hut-- there was also a smaller toilet building--squat but with flush-- and a storage building) and just watched the people below by the water and above on the sheer rock faces, trying to get a feel for the rhythm of life here.

This hut seemed so similar to the European ones I knew. It was a simple two room design on the bottom floor, with a kitchen for guests and a kitchen for the staff, along with some wooden benches and tables. Stairs led up to one big room filled with bunks and mats, maybe 40 or 45 spots in all. The sleeping area wasn´t quite as clean as the ones I remember from Switzerland, and there were certainly no fluffy down comforters arranged just so waiting for tired guests. And the food you could order or buy was different too, of course. Alfajors instead of kuchen, pomelo instead of appenzellerbier. Outside, I felt a difference because there was free camping around the hut and along an entire length of the lake. Some tents I could see from my viewpoint, others were hidden in the leña scrub along the water. The campsites were free, and it seemed like some visitors, especially the climbers, entrenched themselves there for weeks at a time, bathing in the lake whenever the sun shone and descending only to stock up on food (I confirmed this a week later when I saw the same dirty looking campers an entire week later when I returned to Refugio Frey). Every camper who had been there the night before was air-drying all possessions, sleeping bags, underwear, everything. I sat by the lake, the shore dotted with these colorful possessions, and watched the lake surface calm from ripples to mosaics, to glass reflections. I glanced away to assess my dinner food and when I looked back the reflection was gone, the wind picking up as the sun set. I made too much soup, cooking for 2 instead of just 1, and I tried to each as much as I could. I saved the extra broth for breakfast. Mmm.

The next evening I wrote in my journal: ¨nothing like seeing the smoke rising out of the hut´s chimney from far off away a long day hiking.¨ I woke up late, at 10, after a cold and uncomfortable night on what I realized too late was a slanted surface. I walked around the lake up the valley, until loose rock and boulders rose and all sides and I couldn´t imagine there would be a path out. But I trained my eyes to spot the red splashes of paint on the rocks and I picked and dragged my way out of the valley, heaving myself up with 2 hands at points. I bid goodbye to the craggy Catedral Peak and looked out at infinity yet again. A few quiet moments on the top like that is enough to remind me why I am doing this. Downhill was much harder, with more skiing through scree than I felt comfortable with. I fell 3 or 4 times, nothing serious, since the path was so steep I was never too far from the ground, but my confidence was shaken enough to opt for less dangerous route the next day. The most trying part of the two mountain passes I descended was not the loose scree, which just demanded attention, but rather the larger rocks through the trees when I was almost at the bottom. That demanded patience, which was in shorter supply. But like I said in my journal, there is nothing like the smoke rising out of a chimney in a lone building by a lake in a long valley, knowing that I am home for the night. Offcially named Refugio San Martin, my home for the night was more commonly referred to as Refugio Jakob after the lake over which it stood guard. I stopped to talk to an American outside who mentioned how friendly the huts he had visited had been, and walking inside I found the same to be true at Jakob. For the first time ever, including Switzerland, India, and the rest of my time in Chile, I went into a hut and someone greeted me without demanding what I wanted. When I said I didn´t want anything, the guy in charge said that everyone was welcome to hang out in the hut, even campers who weren´t staying there or buying food there. The atmosphere inside felt comfortable too, with strangers sharing tables and couples playing cards, without the pressure I have seen at other huts to buy at least a beer before being able to sit at the tables. The sleeping area was a room with bunks on the ground floor along with a loft up above the dining area. There was a hefty log ladder right by the door to get up to the loft. My last view of the hut before my early night was of a candle-lit room buzzing with conversation.

In the morning I hiked up away from the trail to Laguna de los Tempanos, bounded by a snow patch and high rock walls. I left the refugio at 12, the same times as the rest of the locals--most of the international hikers left hours before. As I mentioned before, I chose not to do the demanding route because I didn´t want to fall any more. The route required extra navigating because rock falls meant the route was unmarked or non-existent in places, so I gave myself and my knees a break and walked slowly down out of the valley instead of up and over the passes. This meant extending my 5 day trek to 6, with a shower in a little town halfway through-- sounds just about right to me. The little demanding part of the route was crossing a stream holding a wire cable above my head. Also a bridge that seemed sketchier than any I crossed in India. I stopped for two hours in the shade of trees by the same river and read Isabel Allende´s Eva Luna while dipping my toes in the glacier water and eating an entire Sahne-Nuss chocolate bar (Amazingly, I carried that chocolate bar in my bag for a week without once feeling inclined to eat in. I knew I was back to my old self when I couldn´t but help myself to another little square or two). I walked down in the dusty late afternoon, yanking off my boots in pain at one point... because ... well... ok, so the night before I dropped a tent stake on my big toe--ouch, but not a big deal-- but I ignored the way the band-aid rubbed against my other toe the next day until it was too late and I had a little circle of raw skin in just the wrong spot. It is healed now, finally, 10 days later, but that was a stupid and terribly painful little spot. The path ended at a T to a jeep trail, with no signs to point me in the right direction and no indication on my poorly labelled map either. I waved down some grandpa-bike riders and asked the way to Colonia Suiza. They told me and said it was 7km, but with great views. I started walking and calculated that I would just make it at dark unless I hitched a ride. I waved down a car and their reaction when I said I was going to Colonia Suiza was that it was still really far-- 7km. Such is the attitude of the mountain bikers from the city vs. the Colonia Suiza locals. I had a shower at the lakeside campground and walked down the only street in town. It was basically just a long block, a curious conglomeration of Swiss flags and food in a random town in the Lakes District of northern Patagonia.

After this I stopped writing in my journal for the rest of my hiking time, because I acquired hiking companions which kept me busy and talking the entire day, right up until I went to sleep.

Ha. I had to take a break and read the Style section of the nytimes just now (what Rachel... style... you. ok. simma). This is just like being back at school (ok, not just): I have postponed this as long as possible, I have thought and talked about writing, I have had my preparatory snack (just like a stop a Diversions back in the day) and I have read all the news I should on nytimes.com. There is nothing left to do but to finish writing. And its not like this is unpleasant to write. No, I enjoy this. Just like I know I will enjoy writing soon about the mountains huts as a system (or not) and what my latest thoughts are on the meaning of wilderness. And I have the time right now to do it. And I am in front of the computer. But now, of all times, I´d like to just lay in bed and read another book, or merely go to sleep. No escaping it this time, though. I will finish this tonight.

So from Colonia Suiza I ascended a gentle path by a river for 4 hours, taking off my boots often to air them out (increasingly smelly after non-stop hiking) and more importantly to give my tent stake/band-aid induced injury a chance to get some air too. After barely being able to tear myself away from the last 20 pages of my book, I started up the last section of the trail. Steep steep steep up and out of a valley. The t-shirts they sold in the hut had a picture of a squirggly line, ok, a squiggle, and said maldito caracol, which means basically damned switchbacks (at least that´s what I understood from my Argentine friend Carolina´s explanation of it... yes I do know that caracol also means snail, but the switchbacks are called that because they go in a kind of spiral like the shell of a snail). And I basically was thinking maldito caracol in other words going up for that hour, but I made it. Refugio de Laguna Negra was the coolest shaped refugio I have seen so far. Well, it was equally as cool as la Pedrita but it had no HANTA rats so that gives it a boost up, I think. The hut was one small building, with the entrance wall at about 9 ft tall and the opposite wall about 15 ft, with a slanting flat roof to cover it and a layer of sheet metal on the lakeside wall. The funny shape--none of this ¨classic¨chalet business--was to help it survive minor avalanches during the winter. The lake after which the refugio is named is not actually black, but the rocks above it are. I sat trying to read by the lake but the wind kept turning the pages too soon, so I gave up and joined the nearest conversation which happened to be in English. I met Carolina, a Porteña, and Naomi and Seth from Brooklyn. Carolina gave us our first taste of mate, which, since I had been preparing myself for drinking grass (according to Callie´s explanation) was a pretty pleasant green tea. We talked the rest of the afternoon, moving a couple times to stay in the sun and finally giving up and going instead to stake out our table for dinner. That night I ordered the hut food instead of making my own dinner. At that hut however, we were the odd ones out because all the locals cooked their own food. I stayed up late, having a class of wine and failing to understand when Carolina tried to explain truco, an Argentine card game like (and I´m going to butcher this spelling) schaffkopf with special cards. We went outside to look at the stars. The wind was warm that night and we watched for shooting stars and satellites together as I pondered why Orion would wear his belt so tilted. After my friends went to bed, I stayed up even longer because I had to finish my book. Some teenagers shared my table around that time. They started hiking at 6.30 and so didn´t arrive until 11.30pm--hiking in the dark doesn´t sound too fun to me but I guess if you know the way... There were still hushed (and not so hushed) conversation going on downstairs when I climbed up to the loft and found my sleeping bag where I had left it spread over a mat in a corner. I went to sleep to the noise of campers going in and out of the hut as they prepared for bed and multiple snorers up in the loft.

From the refugio, I made my way around Laguna Negra up and over rocks (including a brief rapelling section) along with Carolina, Naomi, and Seth. We climbed for an hour up to a dip along the ridge for views of Mt. Tronador right up close. I had seen the same mountain from the other side not too long ago when I was on top of the volcano in Puyehue. From there the red dots disappeared and we (poorly) chose to walk across the loose rock to get to the next part of the ridge. Tired and frustrated, especially since after 2 hours the refugio was still in plain view, we finished that section and talked to some hikers coming the other way. They guessed there were another 6 hours left until Refugio Lopez, which would mean we would arrive... at 8pm. We followed the path along more scarily shaky rocks then down into a sludgy valley. The red splashes disappeared again and so our patience wore thin searching for the trail. The trail descriptions and map I had were of no help; the second group of hikers didn´t help much either. We could see the path in the grassy meadow down in the valley and knew we had to get there, but weren´t sure how. I walked off across more slanting rocks (Mckenna, it was kind of in the style of me searching for our hostel in Florence 2 years ago--I walked like I knew where I was going but really...), but eventually it was Carolina who found the path and I backtracked and humbly followed. We ate lunch around 4.30 in the shade of some trees. Everyone was subdued thinking of the huge climb that awaited us. For lunch I cooked up some veg. soup with rehydrated mushrooms. Not awful, but I couldn´t really call it a success. The climb was one of those loose rock--stab your toe into the shifting dirt--pray that the whole mountain doesn´t come sliding down climbs. I once again felt glad I hadn´t down the more difficult route the day before--this was enough of a challenge. I wasn´t out of breath going up because I went so slowly that that wasn´t possible. But I had to take breaks because my legs were shaky and my heart would start racinh whenever the rocks threatened to slide out from underneath me. The four of us walked far apart, so that any possible falling rocks wouldn´t hit the rest of us. I had to do some Mark Massey style self talk, particularly on the lower half, when I could see I wasn´t even close to done. But there was no choice but to continue. It took 2.5 unnerving hours to get to the top. Carolina thought that called for some mate. We hid from the wind and slurped it up before heading right back down again. The last 1.5 hours to Refugio Lopez, which we could see below us, passed in kind of a daze, because for all of us, our energy and our emotions had gone into the climb, so we had nothing left. 10 hours and 15 minutes after setting out from Laguna Negra, we stumbled into the busy Refugio Lopez. It was just past 9pm, but since this wasn´t Switzerland, that wasn´t too late to order dinner. The bife de chorizo and pomelo felt just right after such a long day. We all talked for a bit but everyone was dead. We didn´t bother busting out a deck for more truco lessons though the rest of the visitors, it seemed, played late into the night. Our bunks were on a separate floor, not a loft, so it was pretty quiet as we put out our sleeping bags and went to sleep.

I shared my oatmeal and dulce de leche for the last morning in the mountains, then we walked down down down away from the refugio. Somehow we ended up on the jeep road, not the path, which took us to the right place but took 4 hours. Those 4 hours did seem pretty easy compared with the day before, but it was still more mindless than other days I´ve had on the trail. We caught a bus just before Colonia Suiza and headed back to town. I got to shower and enjoy fresh fruit, my favorite things after 6 days of hiking.

But I couldn´t leave it at that. I had 1 day left before my very long bus ride to Buenos Aires where I had my flight out of South America. So I went back to Villa Catedral with Erez, an Israeli guy I met at the hostel, for one day of hiking. It was a weekend so the buses were infrequent, and with our poor timing we didn´t actually start the walk until 1.45. The sign warned that the hike to the refugio was 4hours, which I hadn´t cared at all about one week earlier when I was here, but I didn´t want to miss the last bus (a la Puerto Natales). We hiked fast, with only a few short breaks, as I kept calculating how long it would take to get there and back. The last bus was at 9pm. 4 hours and 4 hours and we wouldn´t make it. But we were fast hikers. Up to the top in an impressive 2 hours and 45 min. I gave my feet a rest and ate an artesenal alfajor, accepting an offer of leftover pizza the couple who shared our table (Erez said that reminded him of a kibbutz). We started down at 5.40, half jogging the steep sections and otherwise keeping the same brisk pace. I remembered that a week earlier when I had been listening to conversations, someone had said there was a 7.45 bus. Erez and I decided to try for that one. At 7.45 we were still 20 min away. We saw the bus pulling into the village from the main road and started to jog. The bus had to drop off passengers and drive around the whole parking lot then wait for every new passenger to pay before leaving, so I figured we had a chance. We took a wrong turn when the trail hit a jeep trail almost at the bottom. Hurry hurry as I backtracked then found our way. I saw the bus at the bus stop, with the last passenger pulling herself up. Full out sprint move move move until I was 10m away and knew that the bus driver saw us. We climbed on hot and sweaty and happy to be there. Erez said I was in pretty good shape and I knew it was true. All those hiking days in a row will do it. Back in town I stocked up on fruit for the bus ride and showered before joining Erez and some other Israeli travellers for dinner. I couldn´t speak in Hebrew, but I started to remember enough to respond in English to comments in Hebrew. Yes! After that we walked and bought some gourmet chocolate as an after dinner treat. There was a band playing in the street, and there were crowds out enjoying the summer evening everywhere. A fine last night to cap off my hiking for South America.

In the morning I got on a bus and got off 22 hours later. Callie and I found each other and I unloaded myself and my smelly clothes for a couple days of city adventures. Now I am on my way to Tanzania for another chapter of new food, new people, and new mountain hut systems.

60 beautiful pictures

2009-01-24T06:38:00.000-08:00

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2039916&l=9d3bd&id=17700639

Long time gone

2009-01-23T12:19:00.000-08:00

I just finished 4 days trekking in Puyehue National Park near Osorno, Chile. I have two weeks left in South America, so I am planning one more trek in a park before the long ¨trek¨ back to Buenos Aires for my flight to far off points. Obviously, I will write more about my trekking, volcano climbing, and other adventures, but I need to really sit down at a computer to do that. Caroyln managed to upload photos, which is more than I could do, so I will put up a link from her soon.

Cajon del Maipu and Ranger Rachel

2008-12-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

Something I forgot to mention before: on the bus ride from Putre to Arica I noticed a run-down roadside restaurant called Markamasi (say it with a normal American accent). Anyone who is a UPS volleyball fan would definitely have stopped here.

After an afternoon paragliding in Iquique, I took the long bus ride to Santiago, made even longer by out-of-synch episodes of The Nanny. I didn´t stay in Santiago, instead making my way by bus 95km away to Cajon del Maipu, where Refugio Lo Valdes (also known as Refugio Aleman) awaited me. Once again there was no public transportation all the way there, so I hitched a ride with a dump truck driver to Baños Morales, where the refugio is. The refugio was a surprise-- a rock building with wood shutters in contrasting colors, just like the third generation huts of Switzerland. The similarity comes from the fact that the refugio was built by Germans, members of the Andean German Climbing Club. The decorating motif was edelweiss flowers, which seems pretty funny for the outskirts of Santiago. I slept in la mina, the attic, where I just rolled my sleeping bag out on a mat. (I read on the sleeping bag company website that I should avoid washing the sleeping bag... always, so that means I will go an entire year leaving it smelling just as it is... anyone want to go camping??).

In the morning I walked over the river in the valley to el Monumento Nacional El Morado. The CONAF (ranger) building at the entranced was staffed and I paid an entrance fee of $3. I walked past burbling red streams full of minerals to a quietly rippling lake at the base of a glacier. On the way back, I stopped to check out at the CONAF office and the ranger on duty (or off duty, as it turned out) asked me up on the balcony for a cerveza. I said ¿como no? and climbed up, nearly hitting one of the guys sitting on the bench with my poles. Oops.

The conversation that followed was one of the best I´ve had since the start of my Watson project. In Switzerland and India, I could talk to the locals, but I didn´t have enough of a command of their languages to get very deep. But here, with Ranger Guillermo, I finally got to discussing how wilderness should be according to Chileans. Perfect. That is exactly why I was there. I stayed watching the sun set on the vertical curtain rocks across the valley, then went back to my refugio for the night, satisfied with my invitation to return to the CONAF office the following day.

I hiked another valley that day, but, hindered by the strong wind and a wandering mind, I walked fewer kilometers. In the afternoon, I stopped at the refugio to get my pack, almost falling asleep in a lounge chair looking out at the snowy peaks (with, sure enough, German chatter in the background). My pack, decidedly heavier than one week ago, is full of books in Spanish--I am ready to spend the long bus rides catching up on South American literature since my Spanish major had a decidedly peninsular bend. I had a coffee with Guillermo the ranger back at the hut as the last walkers of the day wandered down from the glacier. We made two big loaves of bread together and spent the night talking with Fernando, the other ranger, and el viejito, whose name I never caught. We discussed why there were no women working at the CONAF station and the machista mindset that keeps them from working elsewhere. I got to take a photo in Guillermo´s official looking park ranger hut and even snuck the rubber duck in for a shot or two. In the morning, I ate more homemade bread and scrambled eggs out of a shared skillet with my new ranger friends before heading down the road. I got a ride to Santiago before I even hit the crossroads.

Now I am sweating away in the big city and the locals rush around doing Christmas shopping. My thoughts are back home as today is the first night of Hanukkah (no wild Hanukkah in Santa Monica parties for me). Tomorrow I meet Carolyn at the airport and we head south to Patagonia in search of refugios in Torres del Paine.

Lauca2

2008-12-17T04:17:00.000-08:00

A police truck drove by and the driver asked me where I was going. I was quick to defend--no where, just walking. I finally got that he was telling me there was another tourist climbing GuaneGuane and that I could join. I hopped in the back of the truck and met Laurent, a French guy who had been backpacking South America for 15 months. He was carrying his whole 50lb bag, but he was still the one stopping and waiting for me. My head was pounding as we headed higher and higher, past the scratchy bushes to the loose dirt and rock closer to the top. Laurent was a fellow couchsurfing and he was full of suggestions for my hut adventures in Chile, so while he waited for me to catch up, he made a long list of connections and recommendations for the rest of my time here. I shared my chocolate with him, which he said was like champagne to him since he was living off of just rice. The view from the top was incredible. It was a clear day, and I could see out to the twin volcanos and to the laguna cocacotani and lago chungara. We added our own little rocks to the cairn and then calmly sat at 5,096ft and went over the list Laurent wrote for me. I headed down at 5.45 but Laurent thought he would build his tent up there on top. I felt good the first 20minutes going down-every step I slid downwards at least a foot. It was like skiing in powder at Cystal. I made my way along a bifodal valley. I tried not to step where it was green-the bifodal was soft and squishy and crunchy, like walking on turf grass after rain. It seemed so delicate, and I couldn´t tell which parts would give way under my feet, so I just stayed on the rocks at the edge.

OK, well I can´t write more now. I have my bus ride (23.5 hours) from Iquique to Santiago in a half hour. From there I will visit one more refugio just a few hours from the city before meeting Carolyn in Santiago on Monday.

y mas fotos

2008-12-15T18:55:00.000-08:00

fotos

2008-12-15T12:20:00.000-08:00

Lauca National Park

2008-12-14T07:21:00.000-08:00

The idea of no public transportation to a national park was hard to grasp considering what we have in Yosemite, with buses going around the entire park. But Yosemite gets the same number of visitors in a day that Lauca does in a year, so ok.

A few days ago, I packed my bag in Putre and walked up the road intent on catching a ride to Parinacota. The locals in town assured me this was the way to go, legal and safe. I took a dusty trail into a valley and crossed a river, climbing up on the other side. This cut off the 5km I would have walked on the road back to the international highway. At the crossroads, I walked up to the police and asked them when there were buses or anything going that way. One of the policemen waved down a truck and got me a ride. So I heaved myself and my pack 6ft up into the cab of the big-rig and we were on our way. The driver and I had lots of time to chat because we were going up the hill at 10mph. And we had to stop a few times to let the engine cool down. But I didn´t mind--with snowy conical volcanos slowly coming into view, I needed time to look around. We passed green bofedales and vicuñas grazing by a river. In Chucuyo, we stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch... me and all the Chilean and Bolivian truckers. The lunch special was quinoa soup and alpaca steak with rice, typical Altiplano fare. Thus fortified, my driver dropped me off at the tiny whitewashed adobe town of Parinacota. I took a quick turn around town. There was little sign of life on the two streets in town and the CONAF (national park ranger office) office was closed despite a posted sign promising long hours every day of the week. A local Aymara family offered lodging for tourists. There used to be an official park service refugio but it was no longer available for tourists so as not to compete with local families. At such high altitudes--4,000m I think--my head hurt and I felt pretty tired, so I napped under my sleeping bag for a couple hours before venturing out into the village.

The CONAF office was still closed in the afternoon, but there was a well-marked trail that led out just beyond the village. The Parinacota interpretive trail had seen better days in terms of interpretation, but the wildlife was as stunning as ever. The big black ducks made funny noises while playing in the shallow water of the lake. I walked past spiky plants in the dry dirt and had a larger than life view of the volcano Parinacota, over 6,000m, and its twin volcano across the border in Bolivia. The bofedal stretched out in front of me--rounded patches of green with water flowing slowly all around. Alpacas and the fuzzier llamas grazed all around, uninterested in my progress through their feeding ground. A quick dinner with food I brought from Arica then I went outside again. The wind was stronger this time, but the colors were so vivid in the sunset that I had to keep snapping photos despite my numb fingers until the battery on my camera ran out (don´t worry... I had another one). The almost full moon rose just behind the twin volcanos. The sun lit up the snow in pink, then as the light fell, the color transfered to the sky behind them--a swirl of pink and blue. The moon grew a fuzzy ring of yellow. The orange stripes the sun left behind were reflected in the pond where the black taguas were still playing. Then my mom´s thoughts on how taking pictures interferes with the moment came into my head, and I put away my camera and tried just to be. The volcanos set off in pink, the ripple patterns of the water, and my hood crinkling in the wind. But enough of that--it was too cold to enjoy the moment for too long, so I went inside to my room--the pleasure of a mountain hut means being able to escape to somewhere warm.

I woke up late--the cold had kept me from sleeping late into the night. After a granola breakfast, I hung around the main square waiting for the CONAF ranger who had finally shown up to stop talking with the kiosko owner so that I could ask him about trails and huts. Ernesto told me about the trail to Cocacotani Lagunas and the Cerro GuaneGuane trail, but it was probably to late in the day to do them since there are often afternoon storms during the invierno boliviano. So I emptied my pack of everything except necessities... which ended up being quite a lot: clif bars and tuna as snacks, 3.5 liters of water, 2 jackets for the afternoon, and my first aid kit. I walked down the road in the direction of the lagunas, no really thinking I would make it the whole 11km. After only 20 minutes, I passed a house and a big sign that said propiedad privada, no pasar, multa (private property, do not pass, fine). The road split so I walked one way, thinking that maybe the sign referred only to the other part of the dirt road. But rocks all along the jeep trail were painted with the same words: propiedad privada. I realize why that struck me-not just because I don´t tend to trespass on land when there are signs warning against it, but because I was in a national park. How could this be private? Another thing to ask the rangers about. The road ended soon after that, a watery bofedal had swallowed it, so I turned around. Maybe the ranger meant that I should go the other way down the road.

Still feeling good, I passed Parinacota and the little lake as I followed the jeep trail in the other direction. I was just walking, my own slow pace, enjoying the vast empty landscape. In 1.5 hours, maybe 2 cars passed me. I had a snack sitting on the side of the road in the sand, watching the heat waves rise in the distance then be blown sideways by the wind so that the picture I saw was like a bad-quality VHS.

I kept walking up the road, watching the shape of Guane Guane peak change as I moved around it. I had thought of this day as a warm up, getting used to the altitude, before I attempted to climb GuaneGuane.

Coming up on my next entry... climbing into the back of a police truck, a 5,000 meter hill, and a serious grapple with national parks in Chile and how they are run.

L´chaim... yes the hills are still alive

2008-12-10T13:37:00.000-08:00

...with the sound of music, what else. After my trek past la Quebrada de San Lorenzo, I returned to town for a day before leaving for points further north, and wouldn´t you know it, the sinfonia in town had a open air concert in the plaza de 9 de julio. Of course I decided to attend, especially since the poster said comedias musicales. I looked at the program and was disappointed for a second. I read ¨La Novicia Rebelde¨ ¨Mi Bella Dama¨ Ël Violonista en el Tejado¨ and ¨West Side Story.¨ It took a minute to sink in that these weren´t just some local Spanish language musical comedies and that I knew more than just West Side Story. The Rebel Noviate... wait a minute - that must be my good friend Maria von Trapp. And Mi Bella Dama and El Violnista en el Tejado tranlate easily to old favorites My Fair Lady and Fiddler (ok techniquement Violinist on the Roof, but I got the picture). So the Saltenos and I enjoyed a night under the stars with some real classics. The concert, with the locals humming along to the music, drove hum how similar South America is to the US, especially compared with India. But ok enough about the post-trek music... here´s a bit on La Quebrada hike.

Climbing up out of the quebrada, or gorge, I moved from wet jungle to clear views of the valley. Overlooking the flat city with shiny buildings in the distance reminded me of the hikes I took while studying abroad in Granada. Then, as in now, I was thrilled to be up in the mountains, looking down. There is no better place. After the 2 hour climb out of the valley I made my way just below the ridgeline, with ups and downs, and views of the valley on one side and rolling hillsides stretching out on the other. As the wind picked up and clouds threatened me with rained, I sat down by Lago Bravo (or something) for a rest. I renamed it Tapps that 2 / Sludge Lake in honor of the nice layer of green sludge that covered most of the surface of the lake. I watched the leaves on the lake that left tracks of clear water in their wake after being blown by the wind. It was loud by the lake, like the sound of generators at an overused campsite, but it was nothing man-made: the ranas (frogs) were just announcing their presence. The intermittent drops of rain on the little bit of lake that wasn´t covered reminded me of my visit to the Pitti Palace gardens in Florence, the rain drops breaking up the reflection I would have seen otherwise.

I enjoyed splashing through little streams as the trail wound its way upwards through another quebrada. I sampled a local plant, a kirusilla. It was about 3ft tall, with a single curling leaf on top. The stalk, or stem really, was over an inch thick and covered with little spikes that looked like they would hurt but were actual pliable to the touch. Manuel ripped out a stalk from the root and peeled out the outer layer, handing me the white flesh of the center. It was sugary sweet, juicy, and wonderfully cool after the long walk.

This ¨hut¨ was a building by a farm that the farmers offered out to hikers. There was no idllyic Swiss countryside living--with no other buildings in site and a 5-7 hour walk to town, this was real mountain (dare I say wilderness?) living. Life was rough there--the faces of the farmers reflected that. Their role as hosts was a mere economic exchange. I got a handshake and then they went back to work. The older couple merely offered a cot in a mud brick hut--the room across from their own room, in fact. Tiny windows with misshapen wooden shutters offered light by day but the warped boards promised to let in the cool air at night. Down the path 200 meters were other farm buildings, the musty cooking hut and buildings that offered protection to the animals. This was just a place to sleep. There was no hot meal at the end of the day made with fresh milk or meat. Just the crackers and cheese we brought from below (of course that is fine for me for one night--it is more the difference with other lodgings for trekkers that families offer that I am highlighting here). There were lots of dogs around - at least six - and I was surprised by the fact that they didn´t try to snatch my food away even though it was on a stool at their level. I only learned the name of one of the dogs. The senora of the farm kept yelling ¨Willy¨ ¨Willy¨ as if that was the only dog that was being mischevious (kind of like our neighbors do with one of their triplets).

I watched the goats and sheep come down the hill for milking near sunset. Most of the cows made it back too, but we could see the outline of a couple cows way up on the hillside, sillouetted in the fading light. The men ran up the hill to round up the cows. I went to bed early, spreading the puma skin over my sleeping back in case I got cold. I made sure that the head was facing toward my feet, so I wouldn´t wake up with a snarling animal in my face.

As it turned out, the night was so warm, I threw of my puma skin during the night. I hung him up properly in the morning, though. Before I left, I watched a calf being lassoed. The usual.

I collected more kirusillas, even better on this day since it was warmer and sunnier. I strapped them to the back of my pack, thinking that was a pretty good look for me (maybe it was, but it wasn´t the best place for the kirusillas--they ended up falling off during my descent in the jungle. oops). We stopped in the afternoon at Manuel´s abuela´s farm. She was a real abuelita-- referring to everything in the diminuitive form. Manuel brought her kirusillas - Ay las kirusillitas! We should sit in the shade (sombra)? La sombrita! She was impressed with out (not so big) packs and the fact that we carried them all this way. I think she takes a horse to go into town. I bid goodbye to the sombrita and the comfortable breeze of the mountainside and descended the rest of the way back to the start of the San Lorenzo reserve. Coming back to civilization meant luxuries like fresh alfajores oozing dulce de leche. Well, that AND musical comedies under the stars. A good day.

I took a long bus ride over the mountains, stopping in Calama for a wonderful peek into Chilean family life. My couchsurfing host Pablo brought me to his house in time for his tia´s birthday fiesta. There were all kinds of sweet goodies on the table, not to mention bottomless cups of rich hot chocolate and birthday cake. Despite all the food, however, what caught my attention was the way the family gathering was not about the food-it was about conversation and just being together. I saw a procession in the streets of the Calama, accompanied by dancers in the flashiest costumes I have ever seen.

Another long bus ride, this time overnight, to Arica and I was much closer to the park I was aiming for. I left my big pack in the bus station luggage storage so I could get around the city easily. I hopped in a colectivo to the center of town and walked around inquiring about trails and transportation in Lauca National Park. Another new CS friend, Christian, made my life so much easier by meeting me (and my bag) at the station and later taking me to the big store to stock up for the trip inland. This morning, he even dropped by La Paloma bus to Putre. I slept the whole way up - 3 hours and almost 3500 meters up. That is as high as Leh in Ladakh. I feel better then when I landed in Leh way back in September, perhaps because I didn´t fly here. But I still decided to take the day slowly in order to get accustomed to the high altitude. I made more inquiries about the trails I can take. I will start by staying in Parinacota and go from there to the refugio by Lake Chungara. This is a parched landscape, dry and dusty, despite the promises of summer rains every afternoon. This is a small city, one story buildings and dirt roads, with no gas station or big grocery store. During the afternoon, the roads were eerily quiet. took a short walk along a dusty trail, passing a kids´ futbol game on the return. It will be an early night then I am off, making my way to Parinacota for a few days.

Happy 24th to Becca! (wow)

photos from India

2008-11-24T10:11:00.000-08:00

I am in Argentina planning my overland adventure to reach trekking destinations in Northern Chile. It is great having Mom here visiting (although I have to do most of the talking in Spanish). Happy Thanksgiving!

1st Quarterly Report

2008-11-15T23:26:00.000-08:00

I know I asked the right questions about mountain huts and wilderness because three and a half months in, there are no easy answers. Thinking about intellectual questions even as I enjoy the pink glow of sunset on snowy peaks is not new to me, but there is more complexity surrounding the meaning of wilderness in Switzerland and India than I imagined when I wrote my proposal.

My first night in a mountain hut was at Aescher Berghotel in Appenzell. It was the Swiss national holiday and the celebratory fireworks matched my mood as I began to understand the Swiss system. There certainly is a mountain hut system run by a single organization, the Swiss Alpine Club, but I realized that narrowly defining my project liker that would leave out so much of the infrastructure available to hikers and climbers in Switzerland. So I happily trekked to and stayed at Berghotels in tiny alps and isolated, privately run inns as well as SAC huts.

My success in Switzerland was finding out about these different kinds of mountain huts and figuring out how to creatively arrange my own hiking circuits. I did not visit the most famous tourist destinations like Jungfrau in the Berner Oberland or the Matterhorn in Wallas. Instead, I went to the little huts--the ones Swiss people visit-- the ones that, according to their log books, haven't seen an American in years. The looseness of the Swiss system and the wide availability of services for hikers allowed me to be spontaneous, planning only day by day. I walked alone most of the time, silently passing through deserted alps and past cows with clanging bells (ok, silent except when I was belting out "the hills are alive..."). My mind was racing, though: could I really call any of the places I walked wilderness? There were branded cows and goats everywhere, indicating the presence of farmers and, more importantly, the fact that someone owned the land. I crossed countless fences---wooden, wire, electric-- and walked on well marked trails not only at altitude but also all the way down into villages. These were trails to get places, not tourist trails to see places. There was nothing wild about this landscape. Even an eerie howl turned out to be no more than an alpine horn player giving an afternoon concert to the misty mountains.

I explained my project to my friend Claudia, a Swiss mountain biker I met at Aescher on my first night. Claudia speaks English well, but she didn't understand what I meant by "wilderness." I have her my crudest definition: wild nature, untouched by humans. "Oh yes," she said, "we have some of that much higher up." After hiking hut to hut in Appenzell, Ticino, the Berner Oberland, and the Valais, I came to agree with Claudia. There is some wilderness "up there," but it wasn't where these huts were. I was in farm country--the presence of hikers does not disturb the cows or their farmers (and their purchases are certainly welcome). Importantly, it is the farmers tolerating hikers, and not the other way around. For the Swiss, wilderness begins when it is too high for the land to be used as summer pasture for cows. Wilderness is the land on crampons and ice axes, where daily climbers make daring ascents to peak summits. There was no question in the minds of the Swiss media who reported on the numerous climber deaths that took place while I was hiking in Switzerland. These victims had ventured into the uncertainty of wilderness, where no hut can protect you from the elements.

I left Switzerland with confidence--I had built up strength by carrying my pack over high mountain passes and I knew how to schedule my time to see the huts that I wanted. My failure in India was my inability to do what I had done in Switzerland: independently organize my time. Two bouts of illness undermined the strength I had built up and government regulations concerning foreigners on treks hampered the spontaneity I had while hut hopping in the Alps. Eventually, of course, I did go on the treks that I wanted--I saw the Himalayas from three different states: Ladakh, Sikkim, and West Bengal. But at times, I felt that my Watson spirit was lacking because I had to wait for permits or for other travelers instead of setting off for adventures on my own.

My experience with the limited access that I had to trekking regions naturally influenced my perception of wilderness in India.

As I had anticipated, there were villages scattered throughout the Himalayas, even at high altitudes. Like Switzerland, grazing animals were the surest indication of human presence. There was a variety of lodging available to trekkers depending on the trail and time of year. I stayed in wooden shacks with warped plank walls and just a space to roll out a sleeping bag on the Dzongri trek in West Sikkim. I stayed in a solid stone building with bed frames and an indoor toilet on the Singalila Ridge trek outside of Darjeeling. The biggest factor affecting the trekker experience was whether the lodging was built specifically for trekkers or was simply a part of a local family home.

In the mountain hut systems I visited, the rhythm of life was determined by the locals, not the trekkers. At times I was eating breakfast as one of the family, on a wicker stool by a fire in the dirt-floor kitchen. And even if farmers did not run lodges themselves, they still interacted with tourists, selling snacks and drinks in small shops nearby. And the physical evidence of those goods -- the plastic wrappers along the trails and the scent of burning trash -- was everywhere.

A wilderness utterly lacking in human presence is something to be guarded against here in India. Roads reach past 18,000ft outside of Leh, the capital of Ladakh, making what would have been extreme wilderness at altitude another access point to the border for the Indian army. The difference in political situations between Switzerland and India certainly affects the meaning of wilderness here in India. The trekking regions I visited seemed to be dangerous wilderness areas not ebcause of the risk to human life, like in Switzerland, but because of the possible threats to national security. An empty landscape is one to be guarded against in the border regions of India, even the supposedly non-threatening ones. The regulations that frustrated me, like needing to hike with another foreigner and needing to hire a guide, seemed intent on monitoring the actions of foreigners in the wilderness regions. And I registered my passport at army check posts innumerable times while on the trail. Certainly not all of Indian wilderness is near a border, but based on the places I visited, it seems that like Switzerland, wilderness in India is where things turn dangerous. In both countries, there are the same considerations like villages in remote areas and icy peaks requiring crampons, but the political situation added another dimension to my understanding of wilderness in India.

I am looking forward to taking more chances in my planning of treks in the coming months as I head to South America tomorrow. As I visit more mountain hut systems, my understanding of wilderness becomes more and more complicated. I am glad that there are still so many unknown factors out there to challenge me.

Singalila Ridge Trek

2008-11-12T01:31:00.000-08:00

I got up early so that I would be ready to meet my guide, required by the Indian government, by 8.30. It was early enough that the streets were still quiet and I could smell the fish slopped out on wooden slabs and the chickens freshly slaughered, all ready for sale. Rajin and I took a share taxi to the start of the trek. There was traffic along the way, caused by rows of trucks filled with flag-waving singers, all shouting Jai Gorkha. In Mana Bhanjang, the officer at the checkpost who looked at my passport asked me what I thought of Obama. This was a common response when I said I was from the US, even in the tiniest Nepali villages in the mountains. The road at the end of the main bazaar was blocked off and a banner strung above the road said that this was the finish for the Himalayan 100 mile run/trek. Wow. Imagine running a marathon. In the mountains. Four days in a row. We were there along with the schoolchildren waving Indian flags to watch the first finisher cross the line. With a more limited effort, I began the walk up with Rajin. The first 2 km were quite steep, but the effect was lessened by the two stops we made for tea along the way. These "huts" were part of the system - we could have stayed here except that would have made for a very short day. It was nice to have a local refreshment without the weight in our packs. Right before we got to Tonglu in the afternoon, we plopped down on the grass (well Rajin was more graceful anyway) and looked off into the blue landscape. To the left of the ridge is Nepal-- the rolling hills don't look too different from the ones on the Indian side, but it is a cool feeling knowing that across the way is an entirely different country. The trail the first day was often deep groves in the dried mud. The park is closed for 3 months during the summer monsoons, so I imagine that is enough time to wash away the trail that is set the rest of the year. We passed only a few people, all locals walking down with huge baskets of wood balanced on their foreheads. By the end of the day, my face ws crusty with dried sweat and my sleeves were black with soot, but I was loving it. It was late afternoon and the light falling on the full-on view of Mt. Kachendzonga was hazy. There was Hindi music playing as I sat outside in the fading light, but otherwise I just heard cows walking home on the rocky road. The lodge I stayed at was part of a family home. I was the only trekker there, so I got to warm my hands by the same fire as the children and watch as they cooked. I ate separately from them, but it was the same Nepali fare. The lodge felt homey and my room was a huge step up from the trekkers' huts on the Dzongri trek -- there was no cold wind coming through cracks in the wall and I even had my own bathroom. I went to sleep with my Nalgenes filled with hot water (purified for the morning) so my toes were warm as I went to sleep.

Breakfast was at 7am. I could pack my jacket because the sun was warm even at that hour. I got a stool in the kitchen and got to watch from only inches away as my host family for the day made Tibetan roti over the fire. The dough was rolled out then cut in the middle 3 or 4 times, long lines that didn't reach the edge of the circle. The roti were fried up to cripy, almost flaky perfection. We left at 7.40 am and I arrived at Sandakphur a full 8 hours and 45 minutes later. This day was a tie, in my book, for the world's longest hiking days ever (this is mostly in terms of attitude, not in terms of actual length). The first part of the day was sold - it was pretty flat and easy. We passed through a village much bigger than the one we stayed in the night before, but it was very quiet - everyone was either inside or out working in the fields. Only an hour into the hike, I got a clear view, albeit from far away, of the flat-topped Lhotse and that most famous of peaks, Everest. I felt exhilirated after that, ready to walk and walk. We covered 13 out of 19km before lunch. There were steep bits, switchbacks up entire mountainsides at impossible angles that seemed to go on forever. I occupied myself by calculating my walking speed at different times - this was better than focusing on the blisters on the back of each heel. The last set of switchbacks were the worst -- I could see a roof at the top of the hill, but I couldn't walk any faster. I needed a break every 20 steps to make it up the next section. How happy I was to put my feet up on a bed when we got to the trekkers' hut at the top. The soles burned and tingled and froze all at the same time. I had to get on my feet again quickly though to check in at the checkpost with my passport. This night I was comfortable, but there was little feeling of family. I was glad to have the hot water bottles in my sleeping bag at the higher altitude. I stayed up and looked at my photos of the day. It is definitely fall here: the mountainside looks like a zoomed in Seurat painting - the overall effect is green, but there are discernable blobs of color-yellow and gold and maroon and white- dabbed everywhere.

Rajin knocked on my window at 5.15am. Was it really my idea to get up at that insane hour? But how often will I get a chance to see the sunrise on both Kanchendzonga and Everest? It was a much easier walk to the viewpoint than the one I had at Dzongri. There was only 1 other American there and a few Indians. The fiery red skittle of a sun hit Kanchendonga before Everest, and its light was on us quickly, making the morning warm even before 6am. After taking the "usual" sunrise in the Himalayas with prayer flags fluttering in the foreground picture, I descended. It was all blue skies and easy going for most of the day. 21km seemed daunting after my experience the day before, but I regained my confidence quickly. We left the jeep road and made our way across grassy hillsides. The trees here were wind-blown-all knobbly and spindly. The red arrows spray painted on the ground a few days earlier to direct the runners in the Himalayan 100mi race were oddly reminiscent of the Swiss trail markers I saw back in August. There were no villages to stop at for tea on this day, so we ate biscuits instead. Isn't that reason enough to go trekking--when cookies are allowed at 9.30am? Phalut, just below the dividing line of West Bengal, Sikkim, and Nepal is not a village but merely a forest service outpost. I took off my boots right away, the Chacos giving my raw heels a chance to breath. I sat and ate noodle soup outside and watched as the officers in uniform scurried around in a hurry. An important personage--the secretary of the environment of all of India- was expected at any moment, so the men were tightening belt buckles and straightening hats. Three jeeps pulled up in a cloud of dust and the forest service men stood at attention. I could tell who the head honcho was by the stiff posture of the men as they saluted. There were at least 12 people milling about after getting out of the jeep, along with the uniformed men who were already there, but when the Secretary saw me he greeted me and sat down at the table with me. We preceeded to have an entire conversation while with whole contingent stood back and waited-- and yes, everyone was listening. He asked me where I was from and what I was doing here. He didn't see the connection between my study of history and my interest in mountain hut systems, so he decided to enlighten me on the topic. "Do you know what it was like here 30 or 50 years ago?" he asked. Well, no. He could tell me because he had been here 50 years ago, when the trekkers hut, now destroyed, was further up the hill. In those days, the huts were made of wood, the kind of buildings that let cold air in as I had experienced at Dzongri. He indicated the new trekkers hut where I had left my pack--a stone hut would have been unthinkable back then. After ennumerating a few further concepts, he thanked me for talking with him and the whole group shuffled down past the trekkers hut to the green forest service hut. Only afterwards did it strike me that my casual, American nature of talking might have seemed rude to those listening, since I didn't use sir as automatically as they did. Rajin and I left the hut and went up the hillside (past the the ruins of the old trekkers hut, as promised) to the viewpoint. With prayer flags fluttering, I admired my last view of the snowy Kanchendzonga and Everest ranges.

In a final episode of growing pains, I woke up and realized my last wisdom tooth is growing in. The others did the same in Spain - they must like traveling. I ate my porridge sitting in the sun outside. I couldn't finish the whole bowl, that it turned out ok because it was an easier day. The trail was gentle downward slopes through shady forests. The trees were mossing and I crunched on speckled fallen leaves the whole way down. We came to Gorkhey just past 11. The unique location didn't really sink in until I was sitting in a kitchen drinking tea. I looked out of the window at brightly lit terraced fields. I could see cows grazing and a few weather-beaten farmers digging in the dirt. I had to remind myself how different this is-- how special to be in a quiet Nepali village. Like a true Indian, I squatted by the water spicket outside and washed my pants for the first time in 25 days. How's that for adventure. I might have been in shape to walk 10 miles a day, but washing clothes by hand was a different matter- my forearms felt very tired after that. I took lunch outside--roti, an omelette, and a highlighter green prickly vegetable. After lunch, with our smelly socks drying on the top of a thatched bamboo roof, Rajin and I walked across a rickety bridge and we were back in Sikkim (oops no permit this time). It is past harvest time, so all that is left on the terraced fields are the bottoms of corn stalks.

I ate my morning porridge and we set off through other quiet villages on the way to Rimbik. We were on a local trail, just stoned laid out between fields. The people along the way were interested in me like I was in them. I took a much needed hot bath in Rimbik and enjoyed the views of Darjeeling across the valley. And finally, I started working on my thoughts about wilderness, my conclusions (or at least my observations) from the last 3.5 months of travel. I am now back in Darjeeling after a long morning drive. Cold, cloudy weather has set in, so I know how lucky I was to have sun and clear skies for the entire trek (yes, even in the afternoons). I will take a share jeep to Siliguri then a taxi to Bagdogra and fly to Delhi from there. All this to do mundane things like get a Tanzanian visa and add pages to my passport (both only possible M-F). I got train tickets for a day trip to Agra so I can take a picture of my rubber ducky with the Taj Mahal, my one concession to famous sights in India. And somewhere along the way I will type up the quarterly report I wrote and post it here. My last few days in India, coming up...

Darjeeling Limited

2008-11-06T03:33:00.000-08:00

no not the movie - it's just that my time in Darjeeling is limited. It was tough to leave Gangtok since Sikkim has been my home for the last month. I especially didn't want to say goodbye to my "family" there because I know I will miss them. I said goodbye to Prerna, Zoe, and co. this morning and took a share jeep to Darjeeling. It was an easier ride than the one I remember taking 1 month ago from West Bengal into Sikkim; this time, there were no obstructions on the bridge. I knew we were getting close to Darjeeling because I could see peaks off in the distance brushed with snow -- not just a few mountains like there were in Pelling, but an entire mountain range. The line of peaks seemed to go on forever (in reality it was maybe 120 degrees worth of viewing). I don't think I've ever seen so many mountains all together. It was also hazy enough that the lower parts of the peaks, the parts with no snow, seemed to vanish, so that all that was visible was a long line of pointy snow. The tiny old man sitting next to me knew enough English to proudly point out where he lived in the city. I said goodbye and dropped my bag at a hotel before going off to organize my trek for tomorrow. Within an hour, I had done it, and visited the post office on top of that. I will leave tomorrow for a six day trek on the Singalila route.

Diwali in Gangtok

2008-10-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

Gangtok was celebrating Diwali the day I got back. We spent the evening upstairs watching fireworks go off all over the city. When I walked up to the balcony, I was greeted by smoke and loud noises--fireworks are illegal here in Sikkim but still very much available. Bangs, whistles, and whines were the noises of the day as we covered our mouths in the rising smoke. I tried some flaky Indian sweets that other people had brought over and watched Prerna light some fireworks of our own--these were the little ones, more like friendship fountains and sparklers than actual fireworks. Dinner that night was especially fun because it was the first time I ate with my hands. I learned the right technique, mixing the rice with the daal and potatoes and creamy pumpkin and green beans before scooping it up in my right hand and using my thumb to push it into my mouth-but I still looked pretty silly eating that way. Diwali lasted a few more days--there was a certain energy to the city at that time. The lights seemed brighter at night and during the day the garlands of marigolds hanging from most doorways were another reminder of the festival.

Dzongri, the rest

2008-10-31T20:13:00.000-07:00

I woke up the next morning thinking that something was wrong because neither my watch alarm nor my camera alarm had gone off, but it was just a half an hour too early (imagine that happening if I was back at school -- me waking up before I was supposed to - ha). We had our morning tea and packed up our sleeping bags before enjoying a pancake breakfast. We were on the trail by 8.15. I had packed up my two jackets it the yak pack because I didn't want to carry them, so it was still cold for me in my lightweight blue shirt. But it was all uphill, so I warmed up right away. About halfway, we past Bakhim, where there was a government-owned rest house as well as a little farm with a shop selling candies and drinks for trekkers. We went inside the rest house, empty since it was the middle of the day, to see what it looked like. It was wooden and two stories tall-the only rest house that was two stories along the trail. Bakhim is at 9,000 ft, so the broken windowpanes probably made it drafty inside at night. Downstairs was a room for cooking and a big dining area. Upstairs were 6 or 7 rooms, each with two wooden bedframes. It was sparse but clean. I was ready to see the rest house we would stay in that night (if there was space), but there was still quite a ways to climb. I tried to take steps up like I was on a staircase rather than go straight up the incline, so that my heels wouldn't rub the back of my boots. My feet were feeling infinitely better than the trek in Ladakh, but I didn't want the pain to go from irritating to debilitating. That night we stayed at Tshoka, a veritable village. There were almost 10 houses where the locals lived. Phurba explained that Tshoka was settled when the Sikkimese king needed a place for his yaks to graze. The 3 rest houses, two government owned and one privately owned, came into existence only in the 80s. Tshoka is lively because it is on the main trekking route--trekkers going up to Dzongri or Goechla pass here at the beginning and end of their trips. There are only so many rooms available--maybe 3 or 4 at each rest house--so the majority of trekkers actually pitch tents on the ground outside the buildings. Our guide explained that it was first come first serve to get the spots inside, but it seemed that if your guide was friends with the right people he could find a way to squeeze you in if your group was small enough. Our mountain lodge had a nice balcony from which I sat and watched the activity in "town" while enjoying my afternoon tea. The foothills rolled out from Tshoka in shades of blue, echoed by the lines of the bright blue A-frame tents set up by my room. We could see the lights of Yuksom when the sun set--it made me proud of the human (and yak) power that got us this far. Although I miss the strength I felt in Switzerland, carrying my own pack over mountain passes, I did enjoy the sight of my green Gregory pack strapped to the back of a panting, drooling yak, my Watson Fellowship flag flapping with every step. It was noisy that night, with a big group of Russians celebrating their last night on the mountain with singing and clapping and stomping, but we still had days to go so we turned in much earlier.

We walked on wooden planks through foggy forests of spindley rhodedendron trees, reminding me of the rainforests of Washington. Bark peeled off in big maroon strips and the yellow moss was soft under our feet. After lunch, the fog so so thick we couldn't see the views at all. I wasn't worried though, remembering my day of fog in Switzerland when I walked from Schwarzwaldalp to Faulhorn; the mountaintops, pink in the setting sun, were even more striking because they came as a surprise. Dzongri is above 14,000ft and it definitely felt that way. My tent was crusty with sparkling frost by 6pm. I was in a tent and not in the rest house because Dzongri was much smaller than Tshoka, so there was less space for trekkers to stay inside. We were lucky that Kevin and Margie got a room because it meant we had a warm place to eat our meals for the two nights we were up at Dzongri. As we were drinking tea that afternoon, I heard people talking outside and immediately identified them as Spanish. I busted out my rusty language skills to talk with the Basque and Catalan guys. I floundered a bit for the right words but the basic structure I still have down (Chile here I come!). We went to bed early that night in preparation for the busy morning we had planned.

Phurba came to my tent at 4.15 to wake me up. It was freezing. Really. I dressed in all the layers I had and met Kevin and Margie by their room. They were similarly bundled up. I downed some biscuits with honey along with my tea to have energy for the walk and doned my headlamp. By 4.40, the whole group headed out and up under a dark and starry sky. The walk to Dzongri viewpoint for the sunrise left me breathless from the beginning. The frozen dirt crunched under my feet as I trudged upward. We turned off our headlamps after a while because the path became more and more clear. I kept glancing to my right, to the line of orange on the horizon. That was my timekeeper, my statistics -- all the pressure I had been missing up until this point. I thought back to 8 (ish) years ago, when I took off on a sunrise adventure and missed the sunrise... it was one of those winter trips to Montecito Sequoia. Rebecca was the only one who was up for the trip up to a ridge at such an early hour. I strapped on skis like all the other guides while she donned snowshoes. I remember how the moon was bright enough to guide us as we slid silently past the snow-laden branches. But I didn't really know how to use cross-country skis in the backcountry - so Becca on her snowshoes passed me up when 6 feet of powder was more than I could manage. I was stubborn enough to make it to the top, of course, but by that time everyone on top was enjoying a fully risen sun while they sipped tea. So I couldn't miss it this time. Not when I knew everyone else in my group would make it. There was no conversation as I fell in behind Kevin and Margie on the march up the hill. There were no flat bits of trail, it seemed, only steep climbs. My breathing was heavy and loud and I could feel a cramp coming on in my stomach. But we negotiated a curve and I could see the prayer flags waving at the top of the viewpoint. I could see the rest of the trail. I knew I could handle it. My breathing stayed heavy but I calmed down a bit. My hands, sweaty but warm in the fleece gloves, kept my trekking poles pumping all the way up. We made it with time to spare. I took and posed for a few obligatory pictures but then I sunk down to rest. I felt warm enough to take my beanie off and let my crusty hair breath, but the sweat made me get cold again. I let my feet dangle as I looked all around. Mountains in every direction. Snowy peaks that soared above 20,000 ft. Nepal just on the other side of the Singalila ridge. My exhaustion--the climb and the early hour combined--was like the feeling after a volleyball match. My wind, my power was gone. Then the sun, up until then hidden behind the peaks in front of us, hit the top of Kanchendzonga. The snow, and the swirls of snow coming off the top in the wind, were all lit up pink. The sun rolled forward, lighting up successive peaks in order of their altitude. Sitting there, so drained and sweaty, so hot and cold, I could only feel awe that I had reached that spot--yep Rachel "softie" Gross got a little teary-eyed at the sunrise. We stayed up at the viewpoint a lot longer, but for me, that was the moment. The sun hit us at 6.03, warming us, giving new excitement to the little group gathered by the prayer flags. The snowy peaks had been the highlight thus far, but I turned round and round as the sun lit up the surrounding landscape in rainbows of orange and green and brown. We got back to Dzongri 3 hours after we left, tired but increasingly thrilled with the morning adventure as we processed what we had seen. The rest of that day pales in comparison with the morning adventure. We took a day hike to a lake. The lake itself was not a big sight, but the clouds stayed away until 1pm, which afforded clear views of the same peaks we had seen that morning. I thought of a brochure I saw for UPS when I was still in high school-- the photo was of the Sound, downtown Tacoma, with Mt. Rainier looming in the background. From 0-14.000 with a sweep of the eye, or something like that. The landscape I saw that afternoon was almost the same--a feast for the eyes at every altitude, only this landscape started at 14,000 and towered higher and higher. That night was even colder--the only time my sleeping bag was pushed to its limits.

I woke up fully expecting the clothes I had rinsed out to be frozen. They were. There is nothing like shaping a crunchy long sock and having it hold that exact shape. I dressed in other clothes, leaving my crisp clothing in the yak pack awaiting a thorough session in the strong sun of the lower altitudes of Tshoka that afternoon. The first part of the walk was in the shade, and the little streams we passed were all frozen to varying degrees. It was my duty, naturally, to test each one to see just how frozen--I skated and scooted and stomped my way across ice--some of it cracked, some fell through completely (only a couple of inches, Mom, don't worry). My gore-tex boots held up to the test and I managed not to fall. When the sun hit the trail, the views were dramatic enough to keep me looking back every chance I got. These were the views we didn't have on the way up because of the fog. Going down is much easier for me. My boots kept me sure footed and my recitation of the entire Oklahoma! soundtrack kept me energized. We were at a different guest house in Tshoka this time--I liked all the space I had though it seemed a bit strange to have so much room to myself when the porters just set their sleeping bags on the dining room floor. The afternoon we lazed away over tongba (well, not for me) and good conversation at a "cafe" that one of the locals runs. A conversation with a trekker who had been to some of the places I plan to visit in Patagonia, along with Margie and Kevin's recommendations for Tanzania, kept me thinking about my plans for the rest of the Watson year.

The last day was more difficult than I thought. My feet told me they had had enough pounding on the rocks for this trip. Lunch was pretty special--we ate at the foot of a waterfall and had a chance to dip our sore toes in the icy water. We got back to Yuksom in mid-afternoon. I was tired and dirty and I could feel the old ankle "fun" starting up again, but I knew this trek had been a big success.

I took a 6.30am jeep back to Gangtok and admired how the rice fields that mark the contours of the hillsides are turning golden in the sun.

Dzongri trek (first days)

2008-10-31T07:32:00.000-07:00

I left Gangtok for Pelling last week on a share jeep. Prerna's suggestion that I get my ticket the night before made the 6 hour ride more pleasant because I was in the front seat, sharing the bench with only 2 other people as opposed to 3. I got there after dark, so I couldn't see the mountains peaking through the clouds, even though I knew they were there. Dinner was at a westerner-filled restaurant, a strange shift for me since I had been so long in the local scene in Gangtok. But it was pleasant, nonetheless, because I sat next to an older Swiss couple and the conversation turned to Aescher and Wildkirchle and other places in Appenzell that usually only locals know about. I enjoyed the first few chapters of Robinson Crusoe, one of the books taken from Bandana's schoolbook collection (since I exhausted Prerna's already). It seemed fitting to start the adventure book as I was starting my own adventure, though I had none of the misgivings or bad omens that Crusoe suffered. I woke up at 6:15, not early enough for the sunrise but it was still clear enough that I could see across to the snowy peaks for the first time. Gangtok has some views of Kanchendzonga, but only if you are high enough and it is early enough to still be cloudless. Peaks like these I hadn't seen since the dramatic flight out of Ladakh. During the 26km taxi ride to Yuksom (which took more than 2 hours), I stopped at Khecheopalri Lake, a holy wishing lake surrounded by fading prayer flags. Surrounded by Bengali tourists, I didn't make a wish, but I did find a little trail that led away from the crowds and around the lake. The silence the holiness of the lake demanded was dimished somewhat by the buzzing of insects on the reeds--it is a sound that might fool you--it seems silent until you really stop and listen. There were some small waterfalls along the road that all the jeeps stopped at--they were nice but after Yosemite Falls (and Vernal and Nevada Falls) these little ones aren't quite as notable. In Yuksom I met with the guides, Phurba and Jeewan, and my fellow trekkers, Margie and Kevin. I read a few more chapters in my book - by this time Crusoe had left his Brazilian plantation and landed on a deserted island - but I left the book for another day since we were meeting at 7.15 to start our trek.

After breakfast, we climbed up above Yuksom to see an old monastary on a hill. I was slow on this first little walk and I worried that too much time had elapsed since my last trek. But this was just a warm-up, and the walking only got better. We gave our bags to the porters who brought them to the yaks (4 total for our group), and we stopped briefly at the Coronation throne before starting on the actual trail. The throne was basically an eroded, whitewashed rock. The colorful designs of the monastaries I still find interesting, but I am not very attracted by the rocks imbued with holy powers or significant histories. The first day on the trail lasted only 3 hours, but it felt like a full day since we didn't get on the actual trail until past 11. We had to stop and have our permits checked at more than on outpost at the beginning of the trail. Permits are necessary for all foreigners, which is why it took a while to arrange this trek. Part of the permit fees went to government organizations like the forest ministry that was in charge of environmental concerns, but although we saw plenty of signs in English advising us on environmentally friendly trekking practices, we saw little of this in action. From the farms just outside of town, we climbed gradually on rocky trails. We passed over 3 suspension bridges, some with loose boards that threatened to fall at any minute, and were passed by teams of yaks heading down the mountain. I mentioned how hungry I was to Jeewon and he obliged by finding a few roots for me to sample. As he played Beatles songs and music from a recent Bollywood hit, Rock On, from the speaker on his cell phone, Jeewon picked a yellow leafy plant with a white stem. Peeling away the outer layer of the stem, he told me to eat the rest. It was tart like a lemon and surprisingly juicy. The other plant I tried wasn't quite as good--it made my mouth go all dry and pasty. I made it to camp about 10 minutes behind Kevin and Margie. Together we enjoyed tea and chubby bananas and then lunch, quite late at 3pm. We were at a campsite rather than staying in a rest house because the nearest rest house would have been too far for our first day. There was still a structure--2 rooms, made of wood-- where the guides and porters could cook (and sleep). Our tents were up above the trail while the cooking went on in the building below the trail, so there was no scent of fuel wafting towards us as we relaxed in the afternoon, only the sound of huge nuts falling from the trees. I enjoyed talking with Kevin and Margie from the very beginning. I understood the subleties of how they described themselves ("I was raised Catholic" and "we live in Georgia but we're from the Midwest") and that made me realize how long it had been since I had spent time with Americans. Of course I have met a few during the last 3 months, but mostly I have spoken to local people and trekkers from other countries. That is what I was expecting as I planned for this project, but it was comforting to find people from back home with whom I had so much in common. From the earliest conversations, Kevin and Margie proved to be great trekking partners. We all enjoyed the starry sky for a while that evening while the light played tricks on the mountains across the valley, making us think that an outcropping of rocks was some abandoned building.

gangtok etc. -- one month later - oops

2008-10-16T01:50:00.000-07:00

I flew from Leh to Delhi and Delhi to Bagdogra, covering the long distances across India in only a few hours. The last 120kms were not quite so easy, however. There is no airport in the hilly state of Sikkim, so you have to drive to get there (or take a helicopter, I suppose, but I really wasn't up for that). There was supposed to be a direct taxi service at the Bagdogra airport to Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, but when I enquired, I was informed that no taxis would be leaving until 5 that evening (it was 11am then) because of a strike. This didn't bother me too much, because it was India, after all, and travel inconveniences are part of the territory. Besides, Zoe had emailed me to tell me that because of the strike she and Prerna couldn't pick me up. So instead I took a taxi ride into Siliguri and tried to get on a share-jeep going to Gangtok. They also warned me it would be hours until one left, but we loaded up after only 2 hours. By loaded up I mean that in the SUV 2 plus the driver squeezed into the front while 4 people each got to share the bench seats in the middle and back row. Imagine four adults sitting in the back of an SUV like elementary school kids in carpool. Add heat. Add Hindi music. It was a real party. I couldn't believe that 120km would really take 4 hours -- I was right, in a way: it took more than 6. The roads in West Bengal (the state just south of Sikkim) and Sikkim itself are worth noting. They are incredible - windy, crumbling, rocky - and cars of all kinds, not just jeeps and trucks, manage to use them. I was lucky enough to have a window seat, and I couldn't help but keep my head almost out of the car the whole drive. It wasn't the heat, which was uncomfortable but not unbarable, but rather the sights along the way. In Sikkim all the roads are windy - inclines of almost 30 degrees and curves that make the road south out Sequoia seem easy are the norm here. At best, the roads resemble the alley at home- mostly smooth but a few potholes. Because of the rain, the roads are always falling apart. During the drive it was pavement, rock, dirt, mud, and stream. Luckily the jeep had no problem with all this. I could see why a short drive would take so long. Another reason was the animals on the road. Cars have to stop (or at least swerve) to let chickens, goats, cows, and monkeys cross the road. I kept my head out the window as we passed 4 storey high bamboo and waterfalls pouring onto the road and the monkeys stared right back at me. After 2 hours we made it to the bridge with a sign that said "Welcome to Sikkim" in the usual light green that is practically the state color. But I wasn't welcomed quite yet. Our jeep joined a long line of cars waiting for the strike to end. People could walk across the bridge, as I did to register as a foreigner, but the cars had to wait. 2 hours later, the sun had set and the police finally whistled at us to start moving. We had lost a few passengers so I was comfortably situated in the front seat now as our jeep was the first to slowly move through the crowds of people right at 6 o'clock. It took another 2 hours to get to Gangtok on the windy roads; I was almost lulled into sleep except that the driver kept stopping to pick people up along the way. Gangtok is a city on a hill--the main road, the national highway, that we had been on the whole time, goes right through the center of town. The driver handed me my backpack from the top of the jeep where it had been tied down and I walked down the road to find a phone to call my friends Zoe and Prerna. It was too late to meet them that night, so we hooked up the next morning (Rosh Hashanah, in fact). And this whole description was only the first day.

Comfortable with Prerna and her family, I checked out the possibilities for trekking after a couple of days. To do the high altitude trek with huts, Dzongri, I need a permit, which was impossible to get only for one person. This meant waiting for another foreigner's travel plans to coincide with mine to insure that I got the permit. It finally worked out--I am leaving today for Pelling en route to Yuksom to start my trek. I will be out there for a week before returning to Gangtok.

One highlight while I have been waiting is getting to stay with Prerna and eat all the local food that they eat normally. Meals always include rice - usually we have dhal and some kind of potato or vegetable dish. I have tried nettles and prickly vegetables and bitter ones too. I have had new kinds of fruit juice, bitten into a guava for the first time, and had my mouth burn from eating things that are just too spicy for my American palate. Prerna's house is pure veg, which means no meat, no eggs, and also no onions or garlic. I helped Prerna's sister Bandana make momos - by help I mean mostly I watched and I tried my turn at folding the dough around the cabbage mixture a few times. My momos were lumpy dumplings rather than expertly creased but they still tasted pretty good.

While waiting for the trekking agencies to find some other trekkers, we went to Yangang where Prerna's grandparents lived. It rained every day there, which created perfect conditions for the best rainbow I have ever seen: it was a full arc, reaching across the entire valley. I couldn't help thinking how funny it was, to be driving on the eroding roads of steamy Sikkim--a place entirely new to me--while at the same time singing along to Avril and Pink. I see the influence of American music and movies everywhere here-Prerna and Zoe know both Backstreet Boys and Rihanna's latest hits better than I do.

Along with my friends, I have been a guest at a neighbor's place downstairs and at the house of a family friend. Being a part of life here means that the time I spent here trying to make the trekking work wasn't wasted. I am lucky to have the connections here that I do. I am sure Zoe and Prerna are ready to have a break from me asking "what now?" all the time, but they will get to see me next week since I am leaving the gear I don't need here. Now I will see how my body will hold up to the mountains again. My camera is charged up. My bag is packed. My boots are shiny and clean-- ok not really. I didn't get that carried away. But I am ready now for another adventure.

leh festival

2008-09-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

As I tossed and turned this morning I could hear the wind outside in the garden, but by the time I woke up it was sunny again. I walked around the town this morning, attempting to book a littile outing for tomorrow. The bike excursion I was interested in (for the sake of acclimatisation, of course) may or may not happen, they told me, so come back later. Over a cup of tea and some almonds, I officially booked my Markha Valley trek with Dreamland Trek and Tours. I had a mushroom omelette and a banana pancake for breakfast, which admittedly, is not very Indian, but it is on every menu in town so I have been thinking about it for a while. I walked to the polo grounds, basically like the town square, where the closing ceremony of the Leh Festival was being held. I got there 45 minutes late and the crowds were big, but they were still in the speech making phase of the ceremony. I struggled to see over all the heads for a while as men in traditional costume, the same as the ones we saw in the street last night, did dances with swords. I noticed that there was an unspoken rule for viewing the dances: children and women could go up closer and sit, but Westerners could walk up in front of everyone and sit in the shade in the very front. That felt a bit strange, to go past all the local people to watch their festival, but it meant I had a good view of the rest of the performances. As some women in long furs and caps danced, some men in uniform, the army, no doubt, came out with big dogs on leashes. Now no matter how safe everyone says this place is, this is still Jammu and Kashmir, so my immediate thoughts are not comfortable. But they were just their to show off the tricks the dogs can do, like jumping over hurdles and through firey hoops. The usual. The little boy dressed in the monk robes got scared when the dogs came out, especially the big attack dog, so he came and hid behind me until it was over. At the end, all the dancers (because there were people from different regions in different kinds of dress) came out together and the announcer welcomed all tourists (no local people) to join in on the dance. I needed a cool break in the shade after the sun and the crowds, so I ducked into a German Bakery (yes, there are many German bakeries here in Leh) for a tea. I ran into Martin later and we walked the city a bit as I enquired after my bike trip again. We heard various reasons why it (along with Martin's jeep trip to the Nubra Valley) might not happen tomorrow: the road is closed because of snow; the road is closed because the llama from the festival is going that way; the road is open but there aren't enough people; and also, the road is most definitely open. Basically, this means come back tomorrow and we will see. Zoe always said don't plan too much in India because something always happens to alter the plans. So tomorrow I will see. On another note, while writing an email to Carolyn I realized I had 5 different kinds of tea in the last 10 hours: masala tea with Javeed while booking the trek, a black tea with breakfast, a milk tea after the festival, and then a Tibetan herbal tea followed by a mint tea at the "Pure Veg Tibetan" restaurant I went to with Martin tonight. Also a banana lassi for dessert. There are no mango lassis this time of year, we have realized, so now we just ask anyway as a joke.

more on india

2008-09-14T07:54:00.001-07:00

In Delhi I got to try all kinds of exciting new things. Like coconut water straight from a coconut that they slashed open in front of us. And Masala dosa - South Indian food - when I was out and about with Tony. A full meal (and a burning mouth) for only a few rupees. With Zoe and Poonam, I went to Sikkim house and tried momos and thukba. Momos are a bit like won tons - can be fried or steamed - with chicken or veg or whatever you want in the middle. Thukba is a noodle soup. Most recently, with my new Swiss friend Martin, I had chicken korma with bananas and potatoes in a sweet sauce stuffed with nuts and fruit and lots of butter naan to pick up all the extra sauce. A good meal, though it was cold enough that we had to move inside from the terrace where we were sitting listening to the call to prayer from the towers of Leh.

When we are waiting for power outtages to end or just hanging around, Zoe would play around on her guitar. I managed a weak "happy birthday" but I don't think I have a future in music. On another earlier morning (anything before 3 was a success) we went to Qutb Minar. This is the tower that marks the start of the neighborhood where I lived for almost 2 weeks. I passed it for days, admiring it lit up at night and particularly admiring its red glow at sunset. Finally, I got to go up close. The motifs were Islamic, so geometric patterns and writing in Arabic formed most of the decoration (reminding me of my days in Granada). The tower itself was very well preserved and quite detailed, although the rest of the area, tombs and walls, were crumbling. The bright green parakeets offered an interesting contrast to the red-brown of the structures. We autorickshawed our way over to Lotus Temple, the new Ba'hai temple built in the shape of a lotus flower. We had to take our shoes off to walk inside. In our bare feet, Zoe and I took a turn around the quiet and cool room, though neither of us were really interested in sitting down to pray. The information center for the Temple was strange--it seemed like a propaganda center for a religion with a lot of private money... which is exactly what it is, I suppose. But the architecture was interesting to see and made me think of Andrew building exciting and practical buildings all over the world (ok, maybe in a few more years).

Today I walked around the city and bit and stayed low-key--the altitude still has its effect on me. In the afternoon, Martin and I met up for a walk to the palaces above the city. Winding through narrow white streets where tourists didn't go, I was again reminded of the little villages of the Alpujarras. Winded from the climb, we looked back over the city of Leh. It was marked by green trees in the very center, but otherwise it looks like a very dusty mountain outpost. The mountains nearby are all bare and brown--you have to climb up or look at just the right angle to see any snow-capped mountains--all this is so different from my last set of mountains: the grassy hillsides of the Alps so slippery from rain you could slide right off. The palace is really more of a ruin, but it was fun to duck into dark hallways and climb up ladders to explore the place. We continued up to what looked like another palace, the one we had admired the night before over dinner. The trail was just dirt and you had to pick your own way... I chose the direction that looked the easiest, but it turned out we had to boulder our way over some big rocks to make it back on the main track. As we pulled ourselves up to the top, the colorful flags, almost mere threads in the wind, greeted us with their flapping. We climbed up until locked doors blocked our way, then we sat and looked out at the view, doing a little language stalking in the process. (over tea the night before, I had explained to Martin how one of my newly acquired German words was genau since we heard an Austrian woman speaking English and struggled to identify her nationality... so today we both laughed as one of the Germans next to us said genau in the midst of their conversation) We picked the back way down, which led us through a non-touristy part of town once again. People were lined up in front of ovens, buying their naan for the evening. Back on the main Bazar, we heard an annoucement coming from a car. The only association I have with this kind of microphone is the one the Germans use in Casablanca that Ingrid Bergman translates for Rick and for us. But this announcement was in English--a woman telling us to pay particular attention to the clothing the men in the upcoming procession would wear. So out of nowhere, it seemed, a crowd formed and men beating drums, then men holding swords and women in traditional (and very warm-looking) clothing passed by us. A little dance, many flashing cameras, then they continued on. I imagine this was part of the touristy festival in Leh that ends tomorrow.

I will continue to reflect on the time I had in Delhi to see if I can scrounge up any more stories to write here. Tomorrow I will try to be a bit more active, as the altitude allows. It is hard to imagine that this is just the start, that the Markha Valley trek reaches 16,000 ft. Hmm.

2008-09-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

A look back at the pictures I posted earlier...
I went around the city in the green and yellow autorickshaws. They are completely open, which is nice around 10pm when there is no traffic and you can feel the air on your face. Otherwise it means you are always close enough to hold hands with the truck driver next to you and to breath in the exhaust fumes. I also go to go on Tony's bike. Mostly that was a good experience, except for the time we ran out of petrol. I thought he was kidding when he said that, but sure enough, the engine put put putted its way to a stop. It was pleasant at 12.30am so we walked a mile or so to the nearest petrol station and went on our way again. When Zoe and I were finally both feeling well, we woke up early enough to make the trek (haha) to North Delhi. It took about an hour by autorickshaw and then by metro (surprisingly clean and quiet). It turns out everything, including the Red Fort, is closed on Mondays, so we didn't get to go inside, so instead we went to Connaught Place and to some shopping areas there. For the first time I saw a touristy part of the Delhi rather than the one where people simply live. This mostly meant that every place I passed in the shopping area would say "excuse me madam please." No jewelery or clothes shopping so far since I don't really do that anyway, but I did finally buy a couple of books to read yesterday (Kite Runner and an Orhan Pamuk--none of this milly-tilly nonsense).

first impressions: delhi and leh

2008-09-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Delhi in the middle of the night and was struck most by the heat and the traffic. The heat jumped out at me, slammed me in the face in a way that not even high speeds on the roads with the windows down could solve. For 4am, the roads were busy, but it was not the congestion as much as the drivers' interpretation of road rules that struck. Basically, there are none. No lane dividers, no real red lights, no stopping for people or bikes... just an idea that you should stay to the left side. The more aggressive vehicle always wins and it is always a test of nerves. That made me glad I wasn't driving in India. The roads the first few days always felt crazy like I was hurtling down the street at ridiculous speeds, nearly clipping everything in sight. But like much here in Delhi, I got used to it.

Through a couchsurfing connection, I met my new friends Zoe, Tony, and Poonam. They have welcomed me into their home and made me a part of the harried city life here. From the first sip of chai to the yummy chicken Zoe made as a goodbye treat, the "home-food" has been good and comforting. Usually we eat when Tony, a DJ, comes back from work. which means 1 or 2am. That means I stayed in Delhi on a rather strange schedule. That was time because it meant I was outside less during the hottest part of the day.

I spent a week and a half in Delhi, and, because of my friends, lived almost like a local here for that time. That means traveling around in autorickshaws (after Zoe did the bargaining), seeing a few sites in the cities (with prices 10 times higher for foreigners), and even catching a movie in Hindi. Some of the things I saw were surprising. I was surprised by the lines at the gas stations (no waiting for petrol or diesel, but for gas you waited at least an hour). I was ready for the cows on the side of the road but I didn't think they would be so scrawny, so dirty. I was ready for a different kind of security, but I didn't think I would go through a metal detector and patted down at a movie theater. I was ready for heat, but not the dripping sweat when the fan stopped running when the power went out. None of these things, all new to me, were bad--they were just different from the way I was used to living.

Now that I have arrived in Leh, Ladakh, my experience in Delhi becomes even sharper. I had thought that I wasted too much time there, especially when I stayed inside for 3 days when I was sick. But just being there, breathing the dirty air until my throat hurt and buying huge bunches of bananas from the street vendors, was the real Delhi--all a part of the India I came to see. And I learned so much from talking with Zoe and Tony and Poonam while I was there, not just about Delhi but about the northeast, where they all come from, as well. Like how most Indians in Delhi assume that Zoe is a foreigner because of the way she looks. Or how traditional women might still fast during the full moon "for the health of their husband."

I could explain things like seti to my new friend in Leh, Martin, because of what I learned in Delhi. Martin, a Swiss guy (of all things) about my age, shared a taxi with me from the airport in Leh to the city center. We found a guesthouse together and so have shared a couple of meals together, which is nice for two people traveling alone. I could tell him about the heat and intensity of life in Delhi since I had just been there, and he came straight from Zurich. It was fun, too, to talk with someone from Switzerland, because of all that we now shared.

Leh is a great place to be a tourist. It was a brisk 5 degrees Celsius when we landed at 6.40am, but it warmed up to at least 12 or 13 in the sun during the day. The sky is bright blue and cloudless, the land is desolate and brown. We are at over 10,000ft here, which means my head hurt the whole day. The first walk through the town reminded me, somehow, of Capileira in the Alpujarras of the Sierra Nevada in Andalucia. That is a funny connection to make, I know, but this town has the same kind of white buildings, the same quiet in the streets. Most of the town center is focused on Western tourism. There are clothing and shoe and craft shops alternating with trekking agencies all along Fort Road and the Main Bazar. There are little German bakeries where westerners in hiking boots sit and sip chai. There are restaurants everywhere advertising their fare as Itealian (yes spelled like that) / Tibetan / Chinese / Israeli. And the food they have really does cater to the international clientele. For breakfast today with Martin, sitting in the shade of a garden, I had eggs and potatoes and toast along with my chai and mango juice. Now this is not very adventurous of me, I know, to order that when I am in India, but it was such a nice feeling of home. Of course yesterday's breakfasts was parathas and curd (potatoes-stuffed naan and a sort-of yogurt), so I balance it out.

I leave for a trek to the Marhka Valley on Thursday, the 18th, which gives me a few days to acclimatise and see some of the gompas (monasteries) in the area.

India part 2

2008-09-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

India!

2008-09-10T05:07:00.000-07:00

2008-08-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

On Boots, New and Old

2008-08-31T07:15:00.001-07:00

Seven and a half months doesn`t mean a heck of a lot. When it comes to hiking boots, I guess Doris Day`s Pajama Game mantra was right. I got my Vasque boots seven and a half years ago, in anticipation of my adventure in Yosemite with Mom. It was the summer I turned fifteen, The boots gave me blisters then, of course--they were new. But now?! What`s up with that? `Well, maybe if you took a few pounds out of your pack, or walked uphill a little less, I`d think about easing up.` Ok ok, I get it.

Normally, we came to an agreement about these kinds of thing--`If your`re going to scuff me up in front like that, I`m going to take a full two days to dry when you get me wet.` It didn`t make sense, really, but for us, it worked.

And oh the places we went. Like all Gross Family gear, we warmed up together at Will Rogers State Park--a dusty beginning, to be sure, but then it was on to Vogelsang and Merced Lake and Vernal Falls. We took it slow the first year--rest breaks by mountain streams, climbs up big hills with the promise of a thorough cleaning adterwards. I was proud of my boots. I took my cues from my boy scout brother--he had the same Vasques, 4 sizes bigger. If they were good enough for backpacking at Philmont scout camp, then they certainly would do for my adventures, real or imagined.

Sand in Death Valley, snow in Sequoia, mud in the Olympics--we got through it together. We had some disagreements, of course, like how to appropriately deal with slush on the trail--around it or through it? But even these discussions were nothing a big bottle of waterproofing chemicals couldn`t solve.

I had confidence in my boots. They knew me, my penchant for long rest stops, my swollen right ankle, my sloppy footwork. I didn`t think twice about taking them on this yearlong hiking adventure in the mountains. When some dinner companions at Aescher, the first hut I stayed in, looked under the table to check my shoe staus, my boots and I got the highest compliment--`Oh, you have serious shoes--you`ll make it.` That`s what we really wanted, to be taken seriously on these trails even if sometimes we felt like we didn`t deserve it.

We had almost a month of serious walking in the Alps of Switzerland before this seven and a half year -anniversary blister made me start thinking--I knew our relationship wasn`t for life, but was it time to start looking around? Was I ready to give up all we had together? All those memories? I stared to notice the little idiosyncracies I had laughed off before--the grass that got stuck under the rubber peeling off the front of the boots, the way even a little morning dew would give my smartwools a session in mopping up, the way I could feel the shape of the rocks under my soles. A few days later, just to be sure, I checked the bottom of the boots--sure enough, the biggest tread was less than a half inch deep, and many had worn away to nothing. It was time.

I hadn`t told my boots--heck I hadn`t even admitted it to myself--but I had been doing some comparison shopping while on the trail for a month. I already knew the best brands, the lacing system I wanted, how high the boot should come up on my ankle. With an hour to spare before catching a bus from Sion to Arolla in the Valais, I spotted a sports store across from the grocery.

I found a boot that met all my criteria--the back came up a full 3 inches higher on my ankle, they were gore-tex--no dew seeping through here--and I could lace them up to my heart`s content. But we were off to a rough start, the Lowas and I. Tying them tightly in the store, searching for the right fit, chaffed my hands until my pinkie bled. Besides, they were as stiff and as heavy as ski boots. And worst of all, they were navy blue--what kind of color is that for an outdoor shoe?

But these were it, my new--serious--Swiss hiking boots. The comforting light brown of my Vasques would be a thing of the past--yes I know they turned muddy when they sopped up water, but we had a history!

The first few hours out of the shop didn`t go so well either. I had to carry around these dead weights like I was on some volleyball training program. And there was no instant gratification when I got to Arolla. I had to sponge on a smelly liquid to insure the impermabilité of the Gore-tex surface. I left my smelly navy boots behind and made my day`s hike in the trusty old Vasques. Ahh the open mountain trail. No need to think about expensive equipment--just me and the `wilderness.`

But perhaps I was just a little too comfortable... At the Cabane des Aiguilles Rouges, when I got out my francs to pay for a mug of soup and a tée froid, I also got out my tape and scissors, layering the athletic tape on to protect my heels yet again from blisters. maybe the time had come, after all.

Back in the Val d`Herens, I took a pre-dinner walk in the Lowas--when I figured out how to lace them properly, they actually felt pretty good. My old Vasques, I reasoned, as comfy (and as flimsy) as old sneakers, will get to hang on for the ride a bit longer, until I`m sure my new partners and I understand eachother. Later, when I was back in my room, `organizing,` I found the tag I had cut off the new boots-- it said: Lowa trekkers, size 43, color charcoal gray-black. Suddenly, I felt much better. No, of course I wouldn`t have been silly enough to pick navy hiking shoes. Charcoal gray--that sounded sufficiently serious. Well, the Himalaya of India is the testing ground for us... I guess we`ll find out just how serious.

In the morning I headed down into the valley to catch a bus. I put on the new boots for the walk down. I forgot all about them until I started whistling the Doris Day song again--was I really ready for another seven and a half years of just getting to know my boots? I looked down at my Lowas, all innocent, with the sparkling charcoal gray leather grinning back up at me. `Well, what do you think?` `Let`s do it!`

basel

2008-08-27T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have spent 2 days with Claire and Emma and Mattias in Basel. Tomorrow morning I am off to the Valais for a final stint in the Alps before my flight to Delhi. Emma likes art so we took some time to draw together. Normally (as most of you who know me well would imagine) I don`t like to show off, but I was particularly pleased with these two drawings. Feel free to leave comments on the blog so I know who is reading this and what people find interesting. (No, that does not mean you need to tell me your opinions about my art... I was thinking more along the lines of my written adventures and my photos.)

just to clarify

2008-08-25T03:52:00.000-07:00

the new photo at the very top of the page is from an evening shot from Faulhorn where I stayed my 4th night in the Berner Oberland mountains. That day I had walked from Schwarzwaldalp to First to Faulhorn, from 11am to past 6pm, in complete fog. Visibility was about 20 feet at best. This did not make the path dangerous, as it was not at all exposed, but it did mean that my view of the famous surrounding mountains was completely obscured. So that day, I took photos of raindrops on little flowers and blades of grass. I walked up the switchbacks to Faulhorn, a building resting on the top of a mountain, without seeing where I was going. I was so happy to be in a warm, bustling dining room after a day of gradual getting wet despite my rain gear. It was still foggy, but I didn`t think about that much once inside, talking with other guests. After dinner, when my new friend pointed outside to a mountain peaking through the clouds I looked over, glad to finally see something in reward for the day`s climb. It was funny when, a moment later, the rest of the dining room noticed too. There was a cry of joy and almost the entire room emptied out as people rushed into the 2 degree weather outside to glimpse the mountains they had been missing all day on their respective hikes. The clouds had covered the Eiger, the Mönch, and the Jungfrau by the time I got my camera ready to take a picture, but by sunset, the fog had settled some 200 meters below us. The mountain peaks, at least, were there to stay.

The other pictures are out of order, of course, but are nevertheless a sampling of the last week. If you are wondering about the appearance of Das Hotel Sherlock Holmes, reread some Conan Doyle. Meiringen is at the base of Reichenbach Falls, where Moriarity pushed Sherlock to his supposed death. In town there were Sherlock Holmes statues and signs that said Baker St.

The second photo, of the Milch Shake and the lake behind it, is from my climb up from Engelberg past Jochpass. I had been going up for a view hours with little variation in scenery when I came to this lake halfway up to Jochpass. It is a funny thing, the Swiss wilderness. I would really call it more of a playgroud. This particular lake had a few buildings around it, the terminal or starting points of lifts, a hotel and restaurant, and a few alps. I stopped at the farm house because I saw a sign that said milch shake 3 chf. I stepped inside and asked for bananen. Here, after hours of sweating on a mountainside, I could have a cold glass of frothy milk with banana (because it was a milk shake, not an ice cream shake). I slurped it up after taking this picture then continued snaking up under the chairlift on my way to bigger--and perhaps a bit more isolated--heights.

pictures

2008-08-25T00:31:00.000-07:00

Berner Oberland adventures

2008-08-24T16:28:00.000-07:00

I will just copy what I wrote in my journal, with only a few edits for literary embellishment...

Walking down from Schnyge Platte towards a city where I would take the train to Lauterbrunnen, I passed an alp, a summer farm, and say an old man just standing around. The sun was shining, there was a clear view of the mountains, and I was feeling good, so I said (and Carolyn will forgive my spelling and translation) Hallo schön Tag (beautiful day). He responded by asking where I was going on my hike, but of course I did not understand because he asked it in German. With a smile I had to say I did not actually speak German, and, amazingly he switched to a broken English. It turns out this old Swiss farmer was born in Portland, though he moved with his family back to Switzerland when he was only 6 months old. He knows his English from his family that is still in America-it is broken, but I understand it.

He told me, with words and gestures, that he was waiting for the cable car to bring up hay for the animals. Ernst liked to talk. About his family. About the farm. He was the boss of the surrounding alp, he said, and in charge of 300 or more cows. He told me where there were farmers around there. I took a big breath and asked if I could sleep the night there on the farm and offered to pay. He asked me to repeat what I had just said, that he did not understand it. I did and he said yes yes I could sleep in his big farmhouse where there was plenty of space, a separate room for me, and he had plenty of food, no paying. Wow! what a chance. A night on a real Alp farm. Somehow this fit into the Watson idea of getting a real chance to see the countries you visit, even if it isn`t exactly a mountain hut system per se.

We had views out onto the Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau mountains, the big 3 of the Berner Oberland. The hay came up in the cable car... it was loaded to the brim with 30 bales. I offered to help unload but Ernst said no this is not a woman`s work, this is a man`s job. Not wanting to disrespect my new host right away, I listened and watched as the 77 year old man heaved around heavy hay bales. Finally they were out of the cable car, but in a pile outside. When Ernst started to bring them into a nearby barn, I started to carry too. I though immediately of Mckenna and Megan and Carolyn on Whidbey over winter break, when, yes, I couldn`t manage to lift a hay bale... I guess I was just more motivated this time.

The barn chores finished, we headed up to the house, me with my bag and sticks and Ernst with his big leather pack and cane. The house was a big building with a barn attached. Ernst, a builder, had constructed two newer barns so the cows no longer went inside this one. There is a long entry way with boots under a bench and heavy coats hanging on hooks and lots of windows for light. The main room had a big table, a sink, a stove, an oven, a heater and pots and lids hanging from the walls everywhere. The room next door is the bedroom of sorts... 4 beds against the wall lengthwise. I could pick any one to be my bed for the night. They all had the usual big fluffy comforters.

Ernst put water on for tea and then we went upstairs, through the barn, to see his room, and something he really wanted to show me. He was proud of the wood up there. He had restored it himself. He unlocked a cabinet with a hidden key then reached under and around things for another key to unlock another cabinet. Eventually, he found what he was looking for--the original deed to the farm dated from 1792. He showed me pictures of his American family. We went downstairs for tea. Ernst served some biscuits and cheese too, cutting the bits of mold from the old cheese first. We sat down and Ernst put on the Berner Oberland radio station--of course they were playing American music. Soon we heard a motor and Ernst jumped up. I got up in time to see a younger man in a blue work suit come through the door. He was the cheesemaker from the alp downstairs, as Ernst called it. He also was in charge of picking up the post with his motorbike. So Ernst, as I suspect most would, insisted that he have a cup of tea with us. He brought out a little cake too, a special treat for all of the guests I suppose. Ernst went out later to fix a water pipe a cow`s bell had broken, and I had a couple minutes to myself to think...Here I am, at a farmhouse in the Alps.

Ernst made a quick call to his cousin in the US, just because he loved his telephone. I talked to Maria, his cousin, for a minute or two, explaining how I came to be a guest at this farm. She told me Ernst is a great ole guy. Yes, I know.

We walked down to the cheesemaker`s alp for a pail of milk just before dinner. I saw the huge vats of hot milk with a layer of film on top to be removed, and cheese in its big round shape, covered in blankets to sit over night. Benny, who works on the farm, came for dinner. We had red wine as well as coffee with the fresh milk, potatoes fried up with noodles (yes the noodles got very crunchy) and some meat, cold, and someone preserved in a jar like a jam. We stayed up talking for a while. Benny knew some English from a trip to Jamaica and he liked world music. But it is a farm, after all, and since most rose early in the morning, we had to go to bed early. Ernst assured me I could sleep in but...

at 6.15am he came in saying COFFEE COFFEE. We had bread and cheese for breakfast, bright and early, then I was awake with not much to do. Ernst had promised me a ride down to the town where I could catch a train in the cable car, so I was waiting for the hay to come up so I could go down. When it did come, I got in and waved goodbye as the car descended. Ernst and Benny waved for a bit, then got to work with the hay. It is a working farm, after all.

Well that was the adventure on the farm, but it wasn`t all that I did in the Berner Oberland. I made it from Engelberg where I rode on a mule with Armin to Engstlenalp to Meiringen to Faulhorn before the farm at Iselten. All those days means I left the mountains pretty smelly, but feeling pretty good.

(see pictures below)

2008-08-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

Well these are 20 photos selected from the last 2 weeks in a bit of a random order. Some of these things you have read about a bit, some stories will be new.

1. Me with Rena at Ballenberg. (Rena this is the first showing of the shirt!)

2. This is the hut I walked to today. It was a day trip with my new couchsurfing buddy Armin. We started in Engelberg in the Berner Oberland and went up up up. Click on it to see the impressive altitude (hence the fresh snow) posted above the door.

3. When we started walking, I was wearing a t-shirt and had my sunglasses on. But up here, there was probably about 7 inches of fresh snow and rain coming down too. By the end, the hike on the trail became more a trudge through sludge. Really. My boots did not get wet all the way through because they were too caked with slushy mud.

4. Armin and I enjoyed a hearty rösti at the CAS hut. We were calculating a long and rather tiring walk down, but he actually had a friend who worked at the hut, whose parents ran it. The father had just brought a family up on two mules and was taking them down again, so we got to ride mules part of the way down from the hut. The weather cleared, so it was feeling like spring at least (still too wet for a proper summer hike). The mules were very sure-footed, much more than I was going up, but they certainly were stubborn. They insisted on eating all the plants along the trail. I suppose it would be difficult for me to stay focused on a hike too if there were rösti or melted caramel-chocolate bars lining the trail, only one foot from my mouth. Hmm.

5. Outside Scaradra hut (see last entry)

6. This is inside Scaradra... a self-help kitchen, a simple table, and stairs leading up to the loft with mattresses. I had this whole place to myself.

7. Lugano, part 1-- this is the lake, impressive colors despite the cloudy weather

8. Lugano, part 2-- it seems that there has been a large Orthodox population in every big city in Switzerland

9. Me with Jolanda at Ballenberg. We went to see what traditional architecture is like from all the regions... but we didn`t need to go to the Tessin section since I have certainly seen that. It was a great sunny day though, good conversation, and good coffees. I had a chance to try älpler noodles with cheese and potatoes and apfelmus (no, not all together)

10. Capanna Adula

11. The view out of the front door of Scaradra... no I wasn`t scared of these goats, either.

12. My name in the Scaradra book

13. couldn`t help myself

14. Scaradra again

15. Capanna Prou

16. En route to Quarnei, self timer

17. Click on this picture and scroll to the middle. Look for a small helicopter pulling a white sack. This is the food and supplies drop for Capanna Quarnei.

18. Mildly curious goats that came straight toward me.

19. Capanna Adula (UTOE)

20. Waiting for a English-speaker on the radio to ensure my safe passage up the mountain to Dagro.

pictures!

2008-08-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

Ticino adventures

2008-08-12T04:29:00.000-07:00

Since setting off many days ago in Diepoldsau...

I took a train over (well actually it was through, considering the number of tunnels) the mountains to meet Claire (Watson Fellow `77 I believe) who has a house in a village near Dagro. I made it to an empty lift that goes up the mountainside and waited until someone who spoke English could talk to me over the intercom, making sure I was inside the car with the door shut. I made it up there, and Claire and I hiked down to her house, where I met her daughter Emma and her German friends who were also visiting. I had a refreshing break from hiking, spending it playing with Emma in the freezing cold fountain by the house. We had dinner by candlelight and I enjoyed the warmth of my sleeping bag for the first time.

The next day Claire and Emma headed back home to Basel because Emma was sick, so I headed up to Capanna Prou alone. It seemed like it was straight up the mountain, but eventually I came to the treeline, and saw the hut along with fantastic views of the surrounding mountains. Prou had no guardian, which means that we just write our name in a book and put our payment in a cassa inside. Only one other person was staying there that night, Nathalie from Belgique, so we made soup together in the little kitchen and talked about the US Civil War in French and English (a conversation prompted by Nathalie`s reading of To Kill a Mockingbird in French).

In the morning I headed off to the next hut, Quarnei. I stayed above treeline most of the time, crossing 10 or 15 streams from the snowmelt. I saw Quarnei for 2 hours before I actually got there. I watched from afar as a helicopter came roaring through the valley and dropped a huge white sack right at the entrance to Quarnei. When I finally got there, past the goats and cows and more streams, I saw that it actually four white sacks, full of supplies too heavy to carry in. Quarnei was bigger than Prou, with an entry way especially for dirty boots--you take off your shoes and put on sandals to walk around inside (this was standard for all the huts I visited-no boots allowed). There were families here for the night, Swiss, Italian, and German. I was glad to be cozy inside reading Snow Falling on Cedars as the wind roared outside.

From Quarnei I went over a pass (my first of the trip) to Capanna Adula (CAS). It was so windy that I put on my serious mountain gear for the first time, windproof pants, rain jacket, and I even cinched my hood up tight around my head (you know Carolyn, with the cincher that all rain jackets have). After a brief encounter with goats that scared me (even though they were just curious), I made my way up the rocky path, putting aside my walking sticks sometimes to use my hands for the climbing (yes Mak, what`s his name from rocking climbing class would be proud). There was a little lake at the very top of the pass, but it was too windy to pause and admire it for long. Further down, I could not help but stop and take pictures pictures all around. 360 degrees of green meadows dotted with purple and white or brown rocky cliffs splattered with white snow. The waterfalls and streams caused by the snowmelt were loud, but only up close, so that you would hear nothing until you turned a corner and then there it was, rushing down the mountainside. At the first Adula hut, run by ATOE, I stopped for a break and watched a group of climbers head off, their ice axes securely attached to their (much smaller) packs... (maybe next trip). My hut for the night was down another 300 meters, perched over the edge of a valley. I spent the afternoon outside in the sun, speaking French if someone spoke to me because no one spoke English there. Dinner, since that was a hut with a guardian, was classic Ticino food, or so they assured me. It was a kind of thick noodle stew, with noodles fat like fettucine but purple, and with vegetables like brussel sprouts and chard, and maybe cauliflower, brought together by a thick cheesy sauce.

Adula to Scaradra was the longest day. I walked through a valley, a very busy one, in fact. It was Sunday so families and big groups were everwhere. At the end of the valley I got confused, but in the end I saw the trail did, in fact, go through a narrow dark tunnel. Oy. That was scarier than the pass the day before, but with a deep breath or two and my headlamp securely fastened, I hustled through. No car actually passed me, so it was fine. The tunnel came out on a big dam, with a lake beyond it, and yet another tunnel. Great. This one actually had a sidewalk of sorts for pedestrians like me. I walked all the way around this big lake, then stopped at the little farm at the end for a snack. An old Italian woman sold me a small container of homemade yogurt-- almost liquid, drinkable, and unsweetened, but very good, along with some cheese. I spoke in Spanish but she assured me, in Italian, that she could understand. Then it was up up up forever it seemed to Capanna Scaradra. I got discouraged seeing a huge group ahead of me on the trail, thinking they would take up every spot in the hut, but it turned out they were going somewhere else. 2.5 hours later, only an hour longer than the trail marker had indicated, I was at the hut. Actually I was outside again, scared by another huge group of goats that were all gathered right by the door. Of course, they were as scared of me as I was of them, so they scooted off and I squeezed inside the door. I had the place to myseld. I turned on the gas, spread out my things, and made myself at home. I had figured there would be pasta and soup and coffee along with some other essentials like there had been at Prou. There were some things to eat, but for dinner-like food, only rice. Now Mckenna can attest to the fact that rice is not exactly my speciality. But it was risotto, and I resisted calling home on my satellite phone for directions from Mom and half-figured out the directions in French. There was a little bouillon in the hut, so it turned out great... I will just have to shows off my skills when I get home (or when I get a visit).

I slept in late, until 9.30, since my body was pretty tired. I finally finished drinking my tea (the Stash Peach tea from our trip, Carolyn) and cleaning up at 12.30. I had just shut the door to the capanna when a Swiss (German speaking) couple came up asking if I knew the way to a hut they were going to. I did, so we headed off down the mountain in the same direction. I said goodbye to them, and retraced my steps from the day before through the tunnel. I walked down towards the towns in the valleys on a trail until I saw a bus that would take me back to big towns and train stations.

Now I am in rainy Lugano, hoping the weather will clear. I am staying with Carmen and her family, another couchsurfing adventure. Tomorrow (rain or shine...?) I will walk up the little mountains around Lugano for a view of the city and the lake from up above. It will be nice to take a walk without my 20kg pack. After that who knows... I still don`t plan ahead that much. I was on the bus back to Biasca and I still had not decided to what city I was taking a train. Rena and Jolanda invited me for a weekend of hiking if there is good weather, so I will go to Zug to meet them on Friday. I am considering going to see Claire and Emma in Basel before, to give my body a few days to recover, and to wait for Switzerland to get its weather patterns figured out.

Photo Highlights

2008-08-05T12:54:00.000-07:00

My Swiss/Italian family, me with Claudia, some views of the Alpstein, Aescher Berghotel, Grandma and some classic European snacks, me with our couchsurfing host Carmen, and my hiking buddies Jolanda and Rena