Straw Mountain

2009-10-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

Looking for my Hot Rock adventures? Start at the beginning in South Africa , start at the end in Turkey, or browse the archive links on the right for the country of your choice. Enjoy and remember to climb hard!

January 30, 2009: Kodiak, Alaska

2009-04-09T16:14:00.000-07:00

This was the first winter I had spent in Kodiak in nearly 18 years. The slushy winters filled with window-rattling storms I recalled as a frustrated youth wanting to play outside had been replaced by crisp days and snow that stayed on the ground for more than 30 minutes before washing away in the rain. It was quite enjoyable, actually, to tromp around in the snow,

My footprints on Kashevaroff Mountain:

especially not having to worry about the bears now deep in hibernation. Frequent sunny days made the island into an airport giftshop postcard -- too good to be true.

Bluebird sky day view of Women's Bay:Salonie Creek at sunrise:
It's not that it wasn't beautiful, because it truly was, but anything too good to be true comes with a catch.

Reflection of mountains in Felton Creek in Middle Bay:Lake Rose Tead in Pasagshak:

The hitch with this Winter Camelot was spending three-quarters of the day in the dark. I had conveniently forgotten what it was like to spend the majority of the day in darkness, wondering what was going on outside. More importantly, I had forgotten that there is something about the lack of sunlight that makes me hungry. Ravenous, even. I have no idea why. Maybe I have a hibernating instinct or deep down I worry that I might be stranded in the backcountry and need to live off my own fat for several months. When I see sea lions or seals out in the bay with their thick layer of blubber I feel admiration with a side twinge of jealousy. And a little peckish. Beware the fat-laden baked good that comes into my view.

Kodiak, with about six hours of daylight around the solstice, isn't even that bad compared to places like Fairbanks which is located at a latitude that teases one with glimpses of the sun (I watched the sun rise and set over the course of two hours while sitting in a hotel room in Fairbanks in December. That was depressing.). One day in Fairbanks I went to an antique store with my mom. The store had a plate of cheese, salami, and veggies set out which I hovered over while trying to feign interest in a blackened pitcher that appeared to have lived over a campfire for the last century. Eventually, I finished most of the plate, proud that I had exercised enough restraint to leave a couple cherry tomatoes and carrots for another customer. I was still hungry, however, and decided to venture further afield in hopes that I might stumble upon another plate of goodies lying about.

My search was fruitless. There was nothing else ready to eat in the store and someone had taken the cherry tomatoes and carrots by the time I circled back to the known food source. I caught myself considering the merits of gnawing the leather on a pair of old snowshoes hung on the wall. I forced myself to look away and my gaze fell on a cookbook: Cooking Alaskan. Since I was already hungry, I decided perusing a cookbook wasn't going to make me any more famished.

I opened to a page at random and was instantly delighted with what I saw. The cookbook was pure gold. Aside from the mundane recipes for Roast Moose Heart with Cranberry Stuffing, Fried Beaver Tail, or Caribou Agutuk (caribou tallow, seal or whale oil, ground caribou meat and broth all whipped into a fluff with a few berries for good measure. Allegedly sweet.), there is both big game like Polar Bear Braised Steaks with Onions and the dubious, smaller game Chicken-Fried Muskrat. Perhaps some Lynx Stew is in order? Let's not forget the ocean. Four-Day Spiced Walrus sounds rather spicy, but definitely preferable to Boiled Walrus Skin or Whale Oil Sugar Cookies. Perhaps you like living on the edge and feel like illegally consuming something endangered. How about the delightful Sea Lion Meatballs and Spaghetti? If you prefer to stay out of jail, it might be possible to console yourself with Seal Liver and Wheat Germ Saute or perhaps Seal Brains au Gratin. Don't tell me you aren't tempted.

My favorite so far involves our feathered friends: Duck in the Mud. The recipe assumes that one has shot a duck in the morning before having breakfast. I, personally, would have to eat breakfast first, but whatever. Here are the directions: "While you are having breakfast, build up a good campfire in a hollow. Your duck or goose is eviscerated, so wipe it inside and out with a cloth. Rub the inside thoroughly with salt and a little pepper. Stuff cavity with an apple, an onion or both. Fold the feathers to cover all openings and plaster the whole thing with a coat of clay mud (sand or loam will not do) about an inch thick. Place the bird in the bottom of your fire among the ashes and cover it well with wood. Go hunting all day, and when you return for dinner, be prepared for the best duck or goose you ever tasted. Dig it out of the ashes (it should still be hot) and break off the clay. The feathers come with it." Genius. Pure genius. And there are no dishes to clean!

There was no question. It was clear I couldn't live without the cookbook so I bought it as a Christmas gift to myself.

I pored over the enticing pages all the way back to Kodiak. With no muskox or black bear in the freezer, I would be unable to whip up anything in the 300 pages set aside for animals roaming in one's backyard or found mangled on the road. The section devoted to baked goods with sourdough as a main ingredient soon had my full attention, however. Cooking with a batter descended directly from a partially fermented substance that may or may not have included potatoes, flour, and assorted malt beverages thrown together over a century ago is not for everyone. Personally, I love sourdough pancakes and waffles, but had never considered including sourdough starter in baked goods. In my mind that would be an unholy sweet and savory mix like chocolate covered bacon. Excellent separate, yes, but together, well, that's not exactly a taste sensation a person wants lingering on their tongue. I was intrigued. Especially because these would be fat-laden baked goods made with lard. My palms got sweaty just thinking about the possibilities.

I started off with something simple: Sourdough Squash Bars. With no canned squash on hand due to a terrible summer for the greenhouse, I used the allowed alternate ingredient of canned pumpkin. So basically the Sourdough Squash Bars became Sourdough Pumpkin Bars. But what bars they were! Not too sweet and satisfyingly moist, they tasted faintly of sourdough in a pleasant way. Not at all like chocolate covered bacon. I made three batches.

As winter progressed, sourdough bars led to sourdough cookies and sourdough cookies led to sourdough cakes. By now I was confident enough to improvise and in a flash of inspiration I added a bit of peppermint to a sourdough chocolate cake recipe. It was superb (and 2 1/2 inches high in the cake pan!). I'm fully convinced sourdough is the way forward for baked goods.

Cooking Alaskan has become my favorite cookbook ever -- the ultimate antithesis of all the low-fat and vegetarian cookbooks clogging bookstore shelves. Although the baked goods section is well thumbed, the game section sits patiently while I look outside at the snow,

Cope and Erskine mountains just before sunrise:View from Salonie Creek flats at sunrise:waiting for hunting season or for someone to bring me some seal brains, whichever comes first.

November 19, 2008: Kalymnos, Greece

2009-03-06T18:39:00.001-08:00

I am a fan of extended stay travel. Years ago I realized that when traveling I tended to wander around a neighborhood on foot and eat from street vendors rather than shuttle from place to place on the tight schedule of an organized tour seeing the sights. I just like getting a flavor for a place, and that flavor becomes more intense the longer one is able to stay in one area. The four days I had in Kalymnos the previous May were not enough and I was excited that I had managed to plan an entire month on the island. Not only would I be able to take advantage of the fantastic rock climbing at my leisure,

Me hanging out at sunset:but I would also have time to go local. First I just had to find a place to stay.

Diana and I had decided to wing it instead of trying to locate a place to stay before arriving on the island. In practical terms, it can be an adventure to arrange lodging in Kalymnos by Internet or phone. The locals are not especially prompt with email replies and have an inexplicable habit of hanging up in mid conversation over the phone. More often than not they hang up before the conversation even starts. It is not meant as a personal affront, they likely decided to chat with a passerby, yell at a relative, eat lunch, or simply didn't feel like cradling a phone to their ear. Phones are a bit of an afterthought in Kalymnian life, really, and it may be several days before you get a response to a text message. It is advisable to go climbing while waiting for a response.

Maverick on Totenhansel at the Ghost Kitchen wall:The little red shirt is Mike in the stunning Grande Grotto:
We didn't exactly show up, however. Diana secured us a couple of days on a couch with a fellow in Pothia, the capital of Kalymnos, through couchsurfing.com to at least give us some place to hang our hats while we looked for an apartment. Aris, our extraordinary host, seemed to know everybody. Though not a native Kalymnian, he had contacts with government officials and farmers through his job as a promoter/coordinator of the island famed thyme honey industry (who knew?), and everyone else through his theater group and traditional dancing club.

It was Aris who was able to explain more about the explosions that had nearly shattered our windows in May. For whatever reason, there was quite a bit of dynamite in the waters surrounding the island after WW II. Diving for sponges was the primary industry on Kalymnos and divers would collect sponges as well as dynamite. One explosion led to another, and pretty soon every holiday had food, a parade, and dynamite in downtown Pothia. Nothing says "celebration" like exploding massive quantities of dynamite. People survived more or less intact until one year when a dynamite stick didn't light and one of the guys in charge of the explosives tossed it over his shoulder into a pile of unexploded dynamite. Big mistake, big explosion. Details are still murky because the fellow managed to blow himself up as well as several other innocent bystanders. Determined to learn from their mistakes, the townspeople kept the now traditional big dynamite explosions but moved them to a hill overlooking the town in order to make them bigger and better than ever. There are rather frightening pictures in some Pothia restaurants of fireballs generated by those hillside explosions, the shockwaves of which must register at least 4.2 on earthquake sensors. It is not suprising that Kalymnos has a reputation with neighboring islands. When Diana was on the nearby island of Rhodes and locals there found out she was staying on Kalymnos they would say "Oooh, those Kalymnians are crazy! They blow up things!" It seemed the best way to avoid random sticks of dynamite was to go climbing.

Mav looks like he's getting swallowed by a rock wave:Rock climbing is easiest when one has all limbs intact so Diana and I had even more incentive to find lodging outside Pothia. Our goal was to find a place in Masouri -- the town most centrally located to developed climbing on the island -- so we took the bus there (we used the bus so much that the drivers started to let us off at unscheduled stops) and started to poke around. We decided to drop in on Fani, a women who runs a mini market that we had frequented when we were in Kalymnos in May. Turned out she and her mother managed the flats around her market, as well. When she found out that we were staying in the area for a month, she decided to put us in a room reserved for clients arriving in a few days, booting them to some other building. Diana and I felt guilty about dislodging the folks until we saw the view. Done deal. We had an apartment and deck.

Albin, George, Mike, and Diana playing cards on the deck on a cool November evening with the island of Telendos in the back: It was time to get climbing!

An ominous goat skull at the base of some seaside cliffs:Me gearing up:Diana rests before making her next move:
Although I loved the view and loved our location, I was less than keen on the mosquito population that magically appeared every evening precisely as I was drifting off to sleep. I smacked myself more than a few times in the face in a vain effort to smash the high-pitched whine buzzing around my head. Bug spray did nothing. The sacrificial arm outside the covers didn't work. Unable to sleep with my head under the sheets (I feel like I'm suffocating), there was only one thing to do: go hunting. Every night I would spotlight with my headlamp, searching for my prey, then leap into a whirl of action, wielding my climbing magazine "sword" like a samurai as I swatted the little bloodsuckers out of the air and on the walls, leaving trails of smeared blood from floor to ceiling. Neither our cultivated spiders in the ceiling corners (a great sacrifice for me) nor the squished carcasses of my successful hunts prevented the nightly attacks. Then we realized that the mosquitoes were coming in through the open bathroom window and getting into our room under the closed bathroom door. Right. Should have checked that possibility earlier. Best just to climb to the point of exhaustion and sleep through the feeding frenzy.

Diana is determined to get one more climb in before the sun sets:

If nothing else, our mosquito skeleton "scarecrows" may have given us that hint of eccentricity to fit in with the local characters of Masouri. There was the pierced car and scooter

Hell's Angel Lite. My favorite scooter on the island -- pink with flames on the seat and a goat skull strapped to the front:rental guy who organizes jungle raves in Thailand in the off season, and maintains the only mullet with dreadlocks (mullocks?) I've ever seen. Or the pub proprietor with the magnificent skullet who is the only registered fan of Deadliest Catch on Kalymnos and dreams of visiting Alaska one day (I'm sending him an Alaskan flag to hang in the bar). Tradition mixes with the modern in Masouri creating a cultural mashup where one can use wi-fi while watching herds of goats pass by, or see women sunbathe topless who are watching other women swim in the ocean in dresses. (I observed that particular scene only for it's anthropological novelty, of course.)

There were plenty of other things for me to scratch my head about, as well. As the traditional climbing season ends in October, things start to shut down or change with no warning. I went to get money from the lone ATM in Masouri ("open 24/7" according to the sign) only to find it had been removed without warning for the season until April. Diana and I couldn't figure out why we kept missing the bus and then discovered that while the bus schedule had officially changed, the posted times were not updated for two weeks. I tried to make reservations online to fly from Kalymnos but the websites only showed options for the airport at the neighboring island of Kos. (Luckily, cheap ferries run several times a day between Kalymnos and Kos so it was not a problem to catch a flight.) Allegedly, it is possible to make reservations to/from Kalymnos only through a travel agent for a few of the winter months, although some locals maintained that the planes stop flying during that period. I gave up trying to figure out the transportation puzzle and went climbing.

Me and Mav finishing yet another climb in the last bit of available light:George, Diana, and me waiting for the first ferry to Telendos (background) for a day of climbing:Mav loves the nightlife:
In perhaps the oddest experience in my life, the water in our flat became electrified. Diana was washing dishes one morning and suddenly shrieked, dropping the bowl she had been holding with a clatter. "I think the water just shocked me!" she exclaimed. I didn't quite know what to make of the situation. Huh? Electric water? What, did we have an electric eel in the water tank or something? I of course had to give it a try and sure enough, it was like a liquid electric fence. The fact that the sink and part of the counter were metal didn't help matters. Showers were a hair-raising experience, and merely washing hands became hazardous to one's health. To make matters worse, this happened on a holiday weekend -- it's hard enough to get anybody to do anything, let alone on a holiday weekend. Luckily, the entire building had the same problem and since Fani and her family lived in the building it only took a couple of days to get things straightened out. The only thing to do was go climbing while we waited to once again sit on the toilet in peace.

George puts his footwork to use on a slab:Albin pulls rope:
One would think that with all the odd things happening in town that left the local populace unfazed, our behavior wouldn't seem like a big deal. It may have been, however, that our group seemed to be increasing in size with no end in sight. First our friend Maverick from Hot Rock joined us, which we had planned. Fani and her mother marvelled at his 6'7" frame that he somehow managed to fold up on the cot in our room.

Mav puts his long reach to good use: George showed up a few days later with about 12 hours of warning, although we weren't really sure from his Facebook posting if he was truly coming.

Yes ladies, this man is single!:Fani was as surprised as we were when he showed up. "Your friend?" she asked quizically, perhaps recalling the ruckus we made the night Mav showed up. Things got really good when Mike showed up a few days later and we had no idea at all he was joining us.

Mike all smiles after a successful climb: He had been cycling in Turkey, heard we were climbing in Kalymnos, and decided to pop over. I happened to be hanging laundry out on our deck when I heard a voice say "Mzungu!" (Swahili for white man/foreigner), looked down and saw Mike grinning at me from street level. Although he knew we were on Kalymnos, he had no idea where we were staying yet still found us almost immediately. The man has serious tracker instincts. I think Fani tossed her hands in the air when a couple of fun French guys started hanging out with us.

Alexis showing some skill while Albin belays:

Our climbing crew was creating an impression. Whether it was good or not was beside the point. When we weren't turning heads with our sartorial sense on our way to the pub,

George, Mav, Diana, and me ready to celebrate:

George was trying to sunbathe in the weak November sun.

George, the last determined tourist in Kalymnos:When a perplexed Fani came up to Diana and asked, "Your friend, this Mike, why he have his camp on the bed? How can we change the sheets?" there was a moment of confusion. Was there something wrong with the fact that Mike had erected his tent on top of his bed and was sleeping inside of it? Perhaps it was the mosquitoes or perhaps he really liked his tent. Who could say for sure? It didn't seem particularly odd or unusual when compared to, say, an electrified shower, overzealous dynamite explosions, or a disappearing ATM -- events that barely turned the heads of locals. Maybe that was it. Odd and unusual behavior no longer seemed especially odd or unusual to us. We were going local!

Other pics:

Diana on the Kastelli Church steps with Telendos in the background:Sailboat passes by the Kastelli Church:George belays in the evening sun:Telendos Island:Cool flower:

Another cool flower:Clear waters:Mav picks another climb to do just as the sun is setting. Typical:Alexis, Diana, and Albin hamming it up:Church on Telendos:Inside the church:George and Diana on the descent after our day climbing the fun multi-pitch Wings of Life on Telendos:Diana, George and me waiting for the ferry back to Masouri (in the background) from Telendos:My attempt at sewing the rip in my trousers:George exhausted after a climb:Lovely sunset:

October 19, 2009: Athens, Greece

2009-03-06T16:49:00.000-08:00

Athens was a stopover for me on the way to my rock climbing destination, Kalymnos, and I figured it was just another chaotically full city with history to spare, heavy with the odors of its people and attendant smog. Not to mention plugged with tourists. It's a rare day that I readily enter a tourist scrum so I wasn't counting on seeing much the day and a half I was in Athens. Especially with jet lag. Ancient Athenians were scrappy in their day, but the outcome to several key battles may have been slightly different if they had been under the influence of jet lag.

All it took for me to change my mind about sightseeing was the view of the Acropolis from the roof deck of my hostel (any lesser sight, however, and I would have ventured out only to get my shwarma or kebab fix).

Those ancient Greeks were onto something with their design aesthetic and it is still impressive to see the grand structures. Even with a crane in the middle. If anything, the crane made me appreciate even more the amount of effort it would have taken to do repairs before the advent of modern machinery. These are the musings that plague my mind.

So I rallied myself for a partial day of taking in the sights. One "borrowed" guidebook from the hostel lounge later and I was ready to hit the tourist laden streets. I was pleasantly suprised to discover that Athens has built a lovely, wide promenade linking together a number of the major sights, negating many of my crowd issues. I could stretch my arms to the side and not touch anybody! It made for a pleasant stroll trying to figure out which nubs of smooth-worn rocks were historic versus the nubs of smooth-worn rocks that could have been oversized skipping stones. Luckily, there was usually some sort of plaque around.

Reflection of the Acropolis on the side of a museum:
The reality is that parts of places like Pnyx Hill could simply be grassy fields with some boulders because most of the structures are so well-worn or missing. It was easier to imagine what things looked like, however, than try to determine the purpose of some modern structures.

As you can see, nobody has been using the door:At least the hill made for nice views of Athens.
One of the things I love about having no agenda is stumbling upon places like Tom's Place. An expat squatter of mysterious origin, Tom creates an ever changing structure on his corner lot from objects he finds. Call it art or call it a shanty, his political views were on full display.
Despite being inspired by the sight of the Acropolis to step out of my hostel, I never actually made it to the Acropolis. There just wasn't time to check it out because an hour wouldn't suffice. I figured I would take a couple more days on my way back from Kalymnos but those couple of extra days disappeared in the excellent rock climbing on the cliffs of that island. That just means I have an excuse to go back to Athens.

October 17, 2008: Kodiak, Alaska

2009-02-12T16:39:00.000-08:00

I never saw the world's largest land carnivore, the Kodiak Bear, while growing up on Kodiak Island. Even though I lived with my family in a tiny log cabin 21 miles out of town on a gravel road in prime bear country, I never saw one. I heard them growling in the alder, saw fresh tracks and scat, yet never actually glimpsed a bruin in the flesh. They were a bit like Bigfoot in my mind's eye as a child (complete with a grainy black and white image) -- a large and potentially menacing presence hovering on the edge of my reality. Eventually, I had numerous bear encounters in other parts of Alaska when I spent summers counting fish for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, but they weren't a Kodiak Bear which I was convinced would be a majestic creature the size of a Hummer (H2 at least), fur continuously ruffling in a light sea breeze. Now I know they are more like vermin.

2008 was the Year of the Bear in Kodiak. More than 80 bears were taken on the island in hunts, 25+ on the road system alone (which is impressive on only 70 miles of road). It seemed like a person couldn't walk more than 10 feet without tripping over one. When the bears weren't trying to gnaw their way into someone's home (this really happened, I just can't seem to find the link through the local paper), they were busy developing dumpster diving skills to pass the time until the salmon and berries arrived. At one point a friend counted 12 of the lumbering beasts on the two rivers within a mile of my mother's house. It became a daily occurrence and cars would line the main road to gawk and take pictures when one of the bears appeared. It was as though they had unilaterally decided to stop skulking behind chicken coops and go public in some sort of weird Bear Pride movement.

I was excited at first, I admit. It's hard not to get excited when your childhood grainy black and white image becomes tangible and viscerally real. So real, in fact, that on a couple of occasions I thought I might have the opportunity to examine my own viscera. One morning I was blithely biking along on my roadbike enjoying the 6 a.m. sun on my shoulders when I belatedly noticed a large boulder start to move out of the corner of my right eye on the side of the road. Much slower than the gears on my bike, my mind recalled that there are no boulders in the river marsh flat and boulders don't typically move on their own and wait a minute THAT'S NO BOULDER! I accelerated from cruiser speed to Tour de France sprint finish speed in half a pedal stroke before my brain had even processed the word "bear." I'm pretty sure I left some rubber on the pavement. It took half a day before I lost the coppery taste in my mouth from all the blood vessels I had spontaneously burst from my overdrive effort.

Another time I had decided to try out a different trail for a run. My typical route by the house had become a dicey proposition with an ever increasing number of tracks indicating the bears were interested in asserting their ownership and might be setting up a toll booth. With all the thick brush and high grass, my morning runs had become about as relaxing as that scene in Jurassic Park where people keep getting picked off by velociraptors in the field.

Not what a runner wants to see hanging out by the trail:I wasn't about to let some bears stop me from getting a run in, however, even though my options seemed rather limited -- I have yet to see running shorts featuring gun holsters or pockets to accomodate pepper spray. There was some logic to the idea of testing an area outside my normal pattern, one away from the bears, for instance. They all seemed to be congregating around the rivers at sea level for the salmon so a nice mountain trail seem reasonably safe. Silly me.

The day I chose to run up the mountain was a lovely Autumn day. Sunlight dappled the ground through the trees and the light perfume of wild roses suffused the air I sucked into my lungs in heaving gasps. With quivering quads I took a moment to survey the phenomenal view at the summit, then headed back down the rocky trail. I was in the grip of a full-fledged runner's high when I passed back into the thickets of alder from higher alpine meadows, in love with everything in the world and completely relaxed. With no warning, the trees exploded with sound about 20 feet from me and I saw a large, brown mass go hurtling away from me through the brush. I took three running steps while my mind considered the fact that I had spooked a bear by the side of the trail which made me wonder if I smelled really bad or just looked really scary. I was just about to try breathing into my hand to see if my breath stank when my brain finally went on full alert and injected enough adrenaline in my system to resuscitate an elephant heart. I can't say for sure because I don't remember much from that point until I got to the car, but I might have reached terminal velocity. Who says runner's lose speed as they age? I think it is only a matter of proper incentive. Life or death is pretty effective, I'd say.

Although my skin and bones are still intact after my encounters, it is probably only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all, and it happens on both sides of the equation. When the bears get too comfortable around human habitat they can be removed or shot, like the bears that were frequenting areas near school bus stop sites (But Mooooommmm, I don't want to go to school because there are bears at the bus stop...). When humans get too comfortable around the bears, however, someone is going to become human confetti.

My, what big claws you have:

I was flabbergasted to watch one person in full camouflage gear try to sneak up on a bear chewing on salmon. The Timothy Treadwell wannabe was literally crawling toward the bear commando style, popping his head up occasionally to determine his progress. Who tries to sneak up on a bear? Yes, things do get rather large in Alaska, but that 2,000 pound animal is not, I repeat NOT, an overgrown ground squirrel. I almost hoped the bear would get surly and smack the dimwit down so that I could nominate him for the Darwin Awards. Another time I saw a bear approach a woman fishing on a river. She simply crossed the river in her boots and continued fishing while the bear stopped directly opposite her on the far bank and watched. I couldn't believe it. I've seen how fast a bear can move and that bear could have been across that river in three steps and had her head in its mouth before she had a chance to drop her fishing pole. This isn't a zoo, for crying out loud. Please, have a little healthy respect toward keystone predators, people. Some healthy respect and we can all co-exist.

September 14, 2008: Kauai, Hawaii

2009-02-09T17:54:00.001-08:00

Everyone should go to at least one wedding held in Hawaii. The island vibe promotes a much more laid-back feel to the proceedings and...it's Hawaii! A couple of good friends from college decided to get married on Kauai, an island they lived on for awhile and vacation to quite often. I'm always up for a good wedding and just had to go because...it's Hawaii!

How can a person not be happy when there are palm trees?:
I've been to Oahu several times (a couple of times for work, no less, back when I was working), but never Kauai and was excited to see another island. It was lovely, of course, and with my keen eye for detail I discovered a few things about Kauai which are unlikely to be found in any guidebook.

1. There is one fire eater on the island.

We took the groom to a luau as part of his bachelor party

Clockwise from top left: Bill, Soykan, Jose, Diogo (the groom), and me after a few drinks:and thought the fire eater there was amusing even if his lines seemed a little too polished. He had to leave in a hurry to go to a wedding. A couple of days later he made an appearance at my friends' wedding reception, sandwiched between two other weddings he was performing at. Busy fellow. I'd say with his crammed schedule there is room for an understudy.

2. There is no bungee jumping on the island. The guys took the groom out for a zipline adventure the morning after the luau (It wasn't anything like the world's longest zipline in Namibia, but it was thankfully a whole lot safer.), and, while it was not perhaps the most brilliant idea to be speeding through the trees suspended in mid-air from a harness with a hangover, Dueling zipliners!:we did learn from one of our guides that there is no bungee jumping on Kauai.

There are great rope swings, though. Bill freefalls into a lake:Yet another business opportunity. That is, of course, if you don't want to be a fire eater. From the same guide we learned that...

3. ...the Sheraton is built on a massive known traditional burial site. Creepy. Not to mention ethically problematic. And a bit unsettling because we were staying at the Sheraton. The guide, who once worked there as a bartender, claimed that the hotel is haunted, citing several examples of unexplained events that happened with some regularity in the system of tunnels under the hotel. A system of tunnels? That got my attention. I had never thought of it, but of course there is a system of tunnels under all large hotels to allow housekeeping and room service and maintenance personnel to get from point A to point B without being seen by guests. More importantly, was it possible for me to get into those tunnels?

Turns out it was and I did, and it freaked me out. Not because of anything ghostly, but because of the tunnel layout. There were your garden variety service hallway tunnels with mattresses and linens etc stacked up along the walls, and then there were the tunnels at the equivalent of dugout height that skirted the edge of the outdoor public areas. Noting the decorative cutouts allowing unobstructed views of even the "private" hot tub, I was struck by how easy it would be to eavesdrop on and take pictures of people without being seen. That was creepier than any ghost story. No more skinny dipping for me!

September 4, 2007: Ross Lake, Washington

2009-02-09T16:34:00.000-08:00

Taking a miniscule inflatable raft loaded with four days of supplies and camping gear for a two hour journey on one lake, a mile portage, then another two hour ride on a second lake to an out-of-the-way campground seemed like a good idea at the time. Pleasant, even. In my mind I pictured Diana in a bikini sitting in the bow of the boat under the hot sun squealing in mock terror as the occasional wave misted over the bow of the boat while we roared across the lake, a huge rooster tail in our wake. Like a music video set in Miami. The fact that we were on the opposite side of the country from Miami, had a 3 horse Johnson outboard, and that Diana does not, under any circumstances, "squeal" in mock terror did nothing to dispel my fantasy. Too bad the reality almost turned into our version of the Perfect Storm.

Every Memorial Day weekend a group of Diana's friends makes their way to Ross Lake in Washington -- a National Recreation Area requiring passes and accessible only by boat or hiking. Hemmed in by 10,000 foot peaks on the eastern side of the Cascades, Ross Lake is a narrow, 21-mile finger of water pointing into Canada. There are no cars, no houses, and no Costco on the corner. Other than the motorboats rented by a small lodge, no engines can be heard. Ross Lake is, understandably, popular with the canoe and kayak set.

Most people hike the mile in (downhill) from the highway holding their boat of choice aloft, or hire a boat from the lodge which will also taxi people to and from the various campsites. In an effort to avoid both hiking and paying the extortionate rate for a water taxi, we chose the more adventurous option of boating across a neighboring lake and portaging over to Ross Lake. With an inflatable raft and outboard at our disposal, why not?

Why not, indeed. It took under 5 minutes to inflate the raft with a foot pump and over 2 hours and 5 minutes to try and make everything fit in it. The raft was clearly 10 feet too small. In the end, we perched precariously on the pontoons and set off -- hours behind schedule.

Not quite a pleasure yacht:
It was a glorious voyage until we rounded the corner of the dock and were promptly assaulted with gale force gusts. Wind was whipping the lake into a frenzy of white peaked waves that broke over the bow of the raft, soaking us with spray. Our little motor barely provided enough power to move through the surge and was completely helpless against the gusts that pushed the inflatable to right angles of our intended course. It was like trying to drive a bathtub across the high seas during a hurricane. Except for the small detail that the high seas were mere 6-inch wavelets.

The raging wavelets were still high enough to crash repeatedly over the bow, however, and my toes soon became squishy as an alarmingly large amount of the lake collected inside the raft. We had no bail bucket, of course (no room for one, anyway). Thinking fast, Diana grabbed my beloved Death Ride water bottle which I carry everywhere with me and started bailing. It was a bit of a David vs Goliath contest. In a moment of clarity I realized how ridiculous we looked: two people perched on a tiny, overloaded raft blown around by a light wind in oversized ripples using a water bottle to bail out the boat. I couldn't help laughing when a light rain started falling.

It was funny for the first 20 minutes -- especially when we found ourselves locked in a dead heat with a two person kayak (they must have been incredibly annoyed with the whine of our straining motor pacing them). As 20 minutes stretched into an hour then 2 hours and we were wet and cold and had not even made it halfway, it was a lot less fun. Just about the time we were considering returning to the dock we rounded a corner into a gorge that led to the portage site and found ourselves mercifully protected from the wind. Hallelujah. I was just excited that I could open up the motor full throttle.

Forty-five minutes of blessedly calm water later, the engine started to sputter and ran out of gas. Luckily, we a) had a small gas can with us and b) were about 100 feet from the portage point. We hauled out the oars, discovering to our chagrin we made much better time rowing then we did using the motor. At least we had made it halfway!

After a 20 minute search to find the alleged "conveniently located phone" to call about a portage, we settled in to wait for our transport. A couple of kayakers turned up and admired our raft. "Great idea!" they exclaimed, apparently not noticing that we were soaking wet and shivering. They were clearly excited about the concept of a motor. I gave a non-committal grunt in response, deciding not to point out that the shape of a kayak is much more efficient in water than a tiny outboard motor attached to a bathtub. I got some satisfaction out of hearing them grunt when they helped load the raft onto the transport truck -- it was quite a bit heavier than their sleek kayaks.

Remarkably, Ross Lake was mostly calm and there was even a little bit of sun when we arrived after a slow mile in granny gear on the portage truck.

No raging waters here!What a difference a mile makes! Energized once again, we fired up our deathtrap and headed toward our campsite, trying to mentally block out the obnoxious whine of the motor in the stillness by looking at the scenery.
It was with a huge sense of relief that we finally docked at our campsite in late afternoon.

Evening views from the campground dock:

We had managed to survive the storm, arrange for portage, and, most importantly, we had not lost a single beer. I promptly opened one in celebration. Let the weekend begin!

August 28, 2008: Kodiak, Alaska

2009-01-21T09:31:00.001-08:00

While growing up on Kodiak it seemed like there was nothing to do. The scenery failed to impress, the wildlife was standard issue, and exploring the WW II bunkers was positively boring (there's only so much concrete one can look at). Occasionally something moderately interesting became crammed in the rocks on some beach after a good storm, but when the novelty wore off after a few minutes, what else was there to do? Look at flowers? Exactly my point.

Perhaps it is because I have been gone for more or less 15 years, but things seem far more interesting these days. It's exciting to watch someone catch their first fish,

It may be a spawning humpy, but it was still Diana's first fish!:

the beaches look pretty in the rain, and fresh bear tracks in the mud add an extra shot of adrenaline more effective than coffee to my morning run.
I thought I had seen and done most things in Kodiak. But the locals are inventive and new technology has fostered new hobbies. I couldn't believe it when my mom told me that a family friend was snorkeling with some regularity. Snorkeling? That's only done in Hawaii or some place within spitting distance of the equator. Needless to say, the water surrounding Kodiak Island tends to be a few degrees colder than tropical locales condusive to snorkeling. I was aware of a couple of hardy souls that surfed in the area, but surfers are a rabid bunch that would paddle behind an icebreaker in the Arctic if they thought they could ride the wake. Besides, surfing by definition requires staying on top of the water in contrast to snorkeling which involves intentional, full-body submersion. Wetsuits only keep one warm for so long and don't do anything for the face. Try putting your head in icewater and see how long it is before you get a headache. Snorkeling in the Gulf of Alaska ranked right up there with pitching a tent next to a fresh bear kill -- insane.

Enter the new and improved drysuit. The last drysuit I had worn was during a summer job working for Alaska Fish and Game counting fish. We wore them in glacier fed rivers to clean weirs (a structure we would build across rivers that prevented the salmon from swimming upstream until we opened gates to count them) of debris and they were terrible. It was like wearing a couple layers of Tyvek that would tear as soon as a person came within 10 feet of anything sharp. We called them wetsuits because we would be soaked within minutes of flopping in the water. That was the Dinosaur Age of drysuits.

Today's drysuits are impressive testaments to technology and human determination to stay comfortable in water temperatures that would send walruses south for the winter. When I tried on my rental drysuit at a local dive shop, I was surprised to find it was almost comfortable and looked like it could withstand a couple swipes by a bear (or, more appropriately, withstand a shark attack -- sharks, especially salmon sharks, are appearing with greater frequency as Alaska water temperatures rise). The real test for me was would my fingers, toes, and face stay warm?

We arrived at our chosen beach on a classic damp Kodiak day, suited up, and jumped in.

Not exactly Hawaii conditions:I knew it was going to be different from snorkeling in the tropics, but I didn't realize how different. I had fished for halibut and thrown out a subsistence crab pot or two on the waters around Kodiak, but sitting in a boat on the surface of the ocean I might as well have been 3,000 miles away from the scene happening below me. The waters are cloudy in the summer because they are literally teeming with life. Tiny life. Plankton and algae and mini bits of other organic matter swirled in the currents and I suddenly realized why these waters are so productive. All this life in miniature supported all other life in the ocean; it's the base of the food chain, and it is one massive base.

Not everything is in miniature, however. Mats of monocrhomatic seaweed swayed gracefully with the gentle swells, while bright red and orange starfish slowly stalked even slower prey. Rocks and boulders were covered in irregular patches of salmon pink algae across which sea urchins marched like small porcupines. In contrast with tropical fish, many fish here tend to be camouflaged, requiring sharp eyes to discern their forms among the rocks or sand. I might not even have noticed the large school of needlefish swimming nearby -- so perfectly did they blend in with the color of the water -- until they swiftly changed course, flashing me with a shimmering curtain of silver.

I was enjoying myself so much I didn't notice that I was warm. All of me. Fingers, toes, and face included. And I stayed that way the entire time. The drysuit was a marvel and I felt like I could have stayed in the water all day. Except for the minor drawback that I couldn't just pee in the drysuit like I could in a wetsuit. Well, I guess technically I could, but my clothes would be rather stinky and I didn't really want to go down that path. Despite that small detail, it really was a blast to be facedown in the chilly waters of the Gulf of Alaska looking for crab to pick up for dinner. Trust me when I say that snorkeling is not just for the tropics anymore.

Happy snorkelers L to R: Diana, me, and John

August 6, 2008: Blake Island, Washington

2009-01-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

Diana and I traded the cramped quarters of the tent for the slightly less cramped quarters of a sailboat upon our return to Seattle from The Enchantments. Her parents had invited us to join them on an overnight sailing excursion to Blake Island and we jumped at the opportunity.

Which one is the jib again?
Located mere miles from downtown Seattle in the Puget Sound, Blake Island is a state park that can only be reached by boat.

Sailboats at anchor on the back side of the island:Allegedly the birthplace of Chief Seattle, it was clearcut like everything else in the region, then used by smugglers and rumrunners before a wealthy real estate financier, William Trimble, bought the island and turned it into a private estate. Trimble intended to eventually give it to Seattle as a municipal park, but when Trimble's wife died, the family abandoned the island and the plan. After decades of neglect, local government bought Blake Island and Washington State turned it into a park in 1959.

Today there is a small marina that charges a nominal daily fee to dock, about 12 miles of hiking trails on the island, and dynamite views of downtown Seattle. The idyllic setting is spoiled only by a tourist attraction known as Tillicum Village. It's actually not that bad. Tourists are ferried from Seattle to eat "traditional" Northwest Coast Indian food, watch some traditional dancing, and buy some ethno-tat (aka traditional art/weaving/etc). It's kind of like the Northwest version of the Hawaiian luau. The set-up is pretty localized, however, and it's only from the marina that a person sees the tourists. On the plus side, there is a little shack associated with the village that sells ice cream.

Staying overnight at the marina was peaceful. The scent of barbecues wafted along on the gentle ocean breeze and everyone watched the lights of Seattle twinkle to life as the sun set. I was ensconced in a little congenial community. Sitting in a boat rocking gently on the water, lulled by waves lapping softly against the bow, promotes a sense of peace and well-being that is contagious, I guess. It was easy to fantasize about setting sail, encircling the world with the web of our wake, and spending hundreds of future nights in similar places, sharing tales and tips with other vagabond sailors.

August 3, 2008: The Enchantments, Washington

2009-01-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

Imagine a prototypical alpine wilderness with lakes so clear they appear transparent and reflect the calendar-worthy mountains in near perfect mirror images. Now watch the sunset accent the land in orange and rose hues after a day of satisfying hiking on scenic trails and breathe in the crisp, still air as it becomes heavy with the scent of pine. Now sprinkle a few mountain goats calmly wandering through your campsite mere feet from you as you sit by your tent cooking oatmeal for breakfast, or, if you happened to bring your rod, perhaps a trout you caught from the lake 20 steps away. Dare even to imagine that there is not another human being in sight. A place where even the pit toilets are sparkling clean and feature tremendous views. View from the above pit toilet:Can such a place be real? Why yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is real, and it's called The Enchantments.

I knew nothing about The Enchantments. I've never read about the place, never seen pictures of the place, never even knew it existed. Completely off my radar. I was stopping in the Seattle area after my reintegration-to-the-States time in Nevada, and Diana suggested immediately heading to the other side of the Cascades to go camping at a park called The Enchantments. I was, in a word, reluctant. As if I hadn't seen enough of the inside of a tent during the previous year. Plus it was The Enchantments with a capital "T" like one too many indie bands that preface their band name with "The." I'm generally against that. But after a few gushing phrases from Diana who had hiked through the area once years earlier with a friend, I caved.

Then I asked what the catch was.

"Weeeelllll," Diana drawled, drawing in a big breath before launching into her explanation, "we'll have to drive up the night before or maybe leave like 2 a.m.and sleep out in front of the ranger station well not if we leave at like 2 in the morning but we want to be there early to put our name in for the draw for unclaimed tickets because it is first-come first-served." Say what? Tickets? I waited for her to catch her breath and continue. "The rangers only allow around 15 people up there per day depending on group size at any one time and you have to enter a lottery for tickets in March in which only about a third of the people get tickets but," she drew a breath, "they have a daily drawing for no-shows."

Let's see, a five hour drive, sleep deprivation, plus the chance to take part in a drawing with no guarantee of getting tickets. Now I really wanted to go. Seriously, I did. It suddenly had all the makings of a potentially great random adventure instead of merely throwing the tent in the car and parking at the trailhead.

After a full day of Seattle sightseeing, dinner with one set of friends, then drinks with another set of friends, we set off at 10:30 p.m. -- too late for a full night of sleep and too early for showing up right before the drawing. We drove until we got tired, then snuck into a campground and slept for a couple hours before continuing on our way. We arrived, groggy and cotton-mouthed, at 5:30 a.m, 2 hours and 15 minutes before the scheduled drawing. There was already another car waiting.

Cars of fleece clad sporting types continued to arrive as the minutes ticked by. Competition was looking fierce. We played guess-the-people-with-the-new-gear, while I wistfully looked at my own travel-stained trousers which had seen me through three continents.

The ranger appeared at 7:30 to lay the ground rules and talk about encounters with mountain goats. She told everyone it was important to urinate on rocks, preferably in a crack, otherwise the mountain goats would destroy the fragile alpine fauna with their hooves pawing to get to the urine which they licked up for minerals. I had some trouble rectifying my image of cute, fluffy, white mountain goats frolicking along pristine mountain cliffs

with this new image of scavenging mountain goats with a urine fetish -- greasy coats stained yellow, of course. I decided it was all rather silly, anyway, because I doubted I would see one. Maybe through binoculars, but they rarely allow a person to get close enough for a photo with a decent zoom lens.

I put the matter out of my head because at precisely 7:45 a.m. the ranger began to pull names out of the hat and the assembled Goretex-ed group of hopefuls shifted anxiously. The first slip belonged to a couple (blast!) and the second slip belonged to a group of four (crap!). The crowd let out a collective sigh of defeat as the ranger proclaimed that no more names would be drawn. But then, wonder of all wonders, another ranger rushed out the front door and announced that there had been a cancellation. One more slip would be drawn! The dispersing crowd quickly recoalesced, hopeful once more. "Alright now, don't rush me when I draw this name," cautioned the ranger with a wry smile as she pulled out...Diana's name! Woo-hoo! More quality time in a tent!

While others immediately jumped in their vehicles and sped straight to the trailhead, Diana and I celebrated our good fortune by going to breakfast. Then we had to buy food for four days of camping. I was not about to have a pack weighted down with canned food like our last camping trip on Mt. Mulanje. Thankfully, we were back in the land of slick packaging and discovered supermarkets now sold both tuna and pasta sauce in handy, lightweight packets. Some things had changed for the better while I was overseas!

We stuffed our packs with our provisions and camping gear at the trailhead and finally set off close to noon. With few exceptions, alpine starts never seem to work out for us. Turns out I needed that breakfast because the trail climbs constantly for a grueling 4,100 feet to Snow Lake where the scenery really starts, then keeps climbing. Because of our late start, we decided to camp on the shore of Snow Lake and continue to the upper basin the next day. I slept like a log.

Snow Lake:
The nice thing about having several days in The Enchantments is that it allows one time to be leisurely. It is possible to dayhike into the upper basin (even from the trailhead if a person is feeling masochistic), but the scenery is worth taking the time to enjoy. Granite mountains like Prusik Peak tend to get the most attention, though every mountain seems to have its own reflecting lake.

Little Annapurna:
We ambled along, taking pictures of flowers and the scenery, exchanging pleasantries with the occasional dayhiking group. I soon started to wonder if I needed to change my prescription, though, because with alarming frequency breathless hikers started asking if I had seen the mountain goats that were just around the corner, in the patch of trees over there, or that really amazing one that was standing right by the lake. I began to develop a complex. Why was everyone seeing mountain goats but me? Was there an airborne hallucinogen at upper elevations? Was I giving off some type of goat-be-gone phermone? I stopped smiling at the other hikers in hopes that they would shut up about their stupid mountain goat sightings. hmph.

I was standing on a rock investigating yet another picture angle for Prusik Peak when I caught motion out of the corner of my right eye. It didn't appear big so I kept peering through my viewfinder, preoccupied with the light on the peak. The movement started again and was irritatingly just outside of my vision to identify whether it was a small, benign animal or a hulking, malice-filled bear. Whatever it was, it wasn't moving fast, so I continued to concentrate on the peak because I didn't want to miss the instant of perfect light. But there was that movement again. And now it is definitely closer and starting to break my concentration and I finally gave up and looked to my right and nearly fell off the rock. Standing there, mere inches from my foot, was a mountain goat staring up at me quizically.
"Diana," I hissed, trying not to scare the mountain goat. She was busy taking pictures off to my left. "Diana!" I repeated, slightly louder as the goat cocked his head at me.

I winced as she answered "What?" Her voice sounded like a jet engine to me and I was sure the goat was going to bolt. "There's a mountain goat RIGHT HERE!" I stage whispered as I slowly, ever so slowly, lowered my lens to take a picture of the cute little fellow. I prayed the sound of the shutter wouldn't scare the little guy. It was unbelievable. There was a mountain goat right in front of me! Staring at me! Chewing his cud and burping! How cute!

I quickly snapped off a few shots without composing the picture, just wanting to get some proof that there had been a mountain goat RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! My excitement might seem strange since this goat was about 1/60th the height of a giraffe, 1/3,000th the mass of an elephant, and, unlike a lion, had no sharp teeth. But, as opposed to those animals, I've only seen mountain goats from afar (in two countries, no less) and nowhere even close enough to contemplate taking a photo. This was special. Besides, I was pretty sure we had bonded. Then he farted softly, turned, and walked away from me. Maybe we hadn't bonded after all, but now he was walking RIGHT TOWARD DIANA!
You get the idea. I continued to be giddy as a schoolgirl even after the mountain goat nonchalantly wandered off. I was sure none of the other hikers had been that close to one of these beautiful creatures. It was amazing. It was unique. It was hyperbole to new heights!

Setting up camp took forever because there were mountain goats coming out of the woodwork looking magestic or just waiting to be anthropomorphized. It was goats, goats, and more goats.I couldn't walk without tripping over one and it took a couple of hours for the novelty to wear off. Rather abruptly, as it were. Precisely when they started trying to nibble on my tent. Why is it that animals are always attracted to my tents? I keep food and cooking gear far away from my tent and there's no St. Francis of Assisi halo over my head as far as I can tell. I just don't understand.

Me, not so happy with the mountain goats after they started showing an interest in my tent.

Although I went to sleep with a still generally positive feeling toward mountain goats, the next morning changed my view of them forever.

Through the mesh tent ceiling I could tell it was going to be another glorious day in The Enchantments -- fluffy clouds drifted silently across a robin egg blue sky and the air was crisp but not biting. I unzipped the tent to go answer nature's call and involuntarily let out a gasp at the sight of eight little black eyes staring at me. Four mountain goats were hovering right outside my tent door, eyes fixed directly on me. I looked at them, they looked at me. A bird chirped off in the distance. Pine needles whispered in the slight breeze. I blinked first. Cautiously, I continued my exit from the tent while the mountain goats followed me with their eyes. Not their heads, mind you, just their eyes. I moved right, their eyes moved right. I moved left, their eyes moved left. It was a little creepy.

The standoff might have continued indefinitely, but my bladder was now sending increasingly urgent messages to my brain that I could no longer ignore. I stood and three mountain goat heads tilted up, maintaining eye contact. The other goat seemed to be fixated on my crotch. Weird. Remembering the ranger's advice, I set off toward some rocks to urinate and the goats parted to let me pass, then closed ranks and trailed along behind me. I stopped on my chosen rock -- relatively flat with a few cracks -- and started to unzip my pants. The goats formed a semi-circle in front of me. Eight eyes peered directly at my crotch. I froze. It was too much, I couldn't go being watched in such an expectant manner. Four tiny mountain goats were giving me stage fright.

Stage fright or no, my bladder would not be denied and nature took over. The goats immediately erupted into a frenzy of scrambling hooves and slashing horns in an effort to lick up my urine. My jaw dropped as I watched these formerly adorable creatures shove each other out of the way to get their licks in. Several other mountain goats came running, tried to get in on the action, and a full-on brawl erupted. I backed away slowly.

The aftermath:

I found it rather difficult to take photos of the mountain goats after that. Thankfully, there was plenty of scenery to distract me. I'm sure I confused more than one dayhiker with my reluctance to discuss mountain goat encounters and utter lack of enthusiasm at taking goat photos. It was so, so, distasteful, really, that I'm still considering therapy.

Parting shot:

July 30, 2008: Spring Creek, Nevada

2009-01-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

If the balloon ride wasn't cool enough, I also got to witness one of the better lightning storms I've seen in recent memory. It was a pitch black evening and the lightning was attracted to some (very) low hills behind my sister's house. I aimed my camera in the general direction on a long exposure, hoped it was in focus, and prayed for the best. When the storm moved directly into my sister's backyard, I wasn't so excited... Here's some of the shots:

I had really only been to this part of the world for the holidays and was determined to investigate the nearby Ruby Mountains a little now that it was summer. Though not particularly high -- the peaks are in the 10-11,000 foot range --there are no foothills and they rise an additional 5-6,000 feet above the surrounding area.

View of Rubies from my sister's backyard:While the rest of the region is sun-baked brown, this narrow band of mountains hides trees, green grass, accessible alpine lakes, some decent rock climbing according to the sporting goods store owner I spoke to (about 100 routes currently up. I couldn't find anyone to climb with while I was there, but I did do some bouldering and the rock quality is quite good.), and even a few small glaciers hiding out.

Multi-pitch potential:

So my sister and I rousted the dogs out, and took them for a little stroll over one of the passes. It was a completely different world from the sagebrush lowlands with leftover snow, pretty little lakes, and an abundance of wildflowers thriving at over 10,000 feet.

Someday I would like to take a little time and hike the length of the Rubies. They are only about 12 miles wide and 70 miles in length, although it would be possible to add another 20 miles by incorporating the adjoining East Humboldt range to the south. It could be rather spectacular, actually, to do it in winter with a randonee set-up and ski some of the peaks (there is heli-skiing in the Rubies). That may just warrant a little more investigation...

July 25, 2008: Spring Creek, Nevada

2009-01-05T16:31:00.000-08:00

About 5 years ago my sister moved to Spring Creek, Nevada, a town that would have merged into neighboring Elko years ago were it not for a hill between the two communities featuring a National Forest full of 4-foot high trees (not like the planted forests of the Cascades, they just didn't get any taller). It was my plan to continue my re-integration process there, primarily because she has dogs and it had been ages since I had taken advantage of the simple pleasure of absentmindedly stroking a dog while reading a book.

Higgins, the Best Boxer in the World:

Plus my sister also lured me in with the possibility of going for a ride in her friends' hot air balloon. Despite multiple ballooning opportunities while overseas, I never felt like paying an exorbitant amount for 1/2 hour of airtime with a bunch of other tourists. Gayle and Martha, on the other hand, were hardcore balloon enthusiasts and all one had to do was meet them by 4:30 a.m. to help set up, thereby scoring a free ride. Thankfully, I'm a morning person.

Ballooning, it turns out, is a lifestyle, not a hobby. The balloons are expensive, the multitude of gear fills a painstakingly organized trailer, and the sheer scale necessitates a crew of able bodies (there were 10 of us that morning). A launch site requires a large space preferably free of basically anything standing higher than an inch off the ground, and a landing site, well, one takes an open spot when they can find it (hopefully accessible by a 4x4 and owned by someone who doesn't mind unannounced guests dropping in attached to a 50 ft high balloon shooting flame out of gas burners). I would not be surprised in the least to find out that it is cheaper to own and maintain a plane than own and maintain a balloon.

In contrast with the image of effortless flight, it requires a surprising amount of loud noise and physical force to get a balloon off the ground. It took five people to move the the rolled balloon sitting neatly in a humongous basket and, while unrolling it is easy, holding the opening wide enough to accomodate the hundreds of cubic feet of air being blown in by the industrial fan powered by a generator gave me quite the shoulder and arm workout. That wicker-y looking basket? Also a minimum two person job. Thankfully, the gas tanks get wheeled around on a dolly.

With everything snapped, screwed, and bungee-ed in place, we allowed the balloon to right itself, dominating the landscape with a smile that must drive non-morning people crazy.

The "Misbehavin'" in all her glory:

After a few ill-advised jokes about trapdoors in the floor of the basket, the crew released their hold on the basket and we shot up into the air. Seriously. Balloons do not all rise gracefully and slowly from the ground. This was a rocketship headed for the stratosphere and my ears started popping like popcorn.

Man, myth, balloon pilot, it's Gayle!:
Once I recovered from my shock at being instantly transported from the ground to several hundred feet in the air, I noticed that it was indeed quiet, peaceful, and quite pleasant. Drifting at altitude gives one time to study the landscape in detail, and be studied in detail, as well -- some early risers waved at us as we passed overhead.
I was marveling at the play of light on the nearby Ruby Mountains in the early morning sun
when Gayle set off the burners and I yelped as 8 gazillion BTUs of flame erupted with a roar and nearly lit my hair on fire.
Height is not an advantage in a balloon. I wedged myself in the corner of the basket as far away from the burners as possible, not quite believing Gayle's amused assertion that he would warn me next time he was going to hit the burners.

I took stock of my immediate space from the comfort of my corner and realized with a start there was nothing even slightly resembling a steering wheel in the basket. In the back of my mind I knew there wouldn't be, but it's only when I found myself suspended from the air way too high above the ground beneath a giant, maniacally smiling balloon, sharing space with way too many gallons of combustible fuel, that it really sank in there was no steering wheel.

"How do we, uh,..?" I stammered while making a circular motion with my hand.

"Steer?" chortled Gayle. "We've just been maintaining altitude. Check this out," he said, firing the burners with gusto.

In an instant we were 20 feet higher than our previous altitude and...floating in a completely different direction at a completely different speed. I know that there are different air currents at different altitudes, but to see it in practice with such marked variation in such a short vertical space (to me) was an eye-opener.

Especially in a wide-open space devoid of mountains or other formations that I would expect to influence wind. We played around for a few minutes finding a multitude of different currents moving in different directions at different speeds, the balloon suddenly displaying a surprising amount of manueverability. I was impressed. The balloon was no longer such a passive means of transport.

Eye in the sky -- the early morning traffic report view:

Because we had been frequently firing the burners to find the different air currents, I soon discovered they were great for harrassing jackrabbits. Every jackrabbit in a 200 yard radius would freak out when the burners went off, zig-zagging at top speed in a frenzy of activity that looked like pinballs bouncing off the sagebrush as we floated above. Unable to look up and identify the source of the noise, they would settle down after a few seconds, only to have us set off the burners again and set them leaping off frantically once more. I could have done that all day and been happy.

It was time to let a few of the other rookie crew have a go at flight, however, and we set down with a gentle crunch amongst the sagebrush near the main road. With the new passengers loaded up and set on their way,

Up...Up......And away!

my sister and I jumped in one of the "chase" vehicles -- yet another integral component necessary to pick up passengers and dismantle the balloon.

It's a little like a tornado chase (without quite so much at stake) trying to figure out which roads to take and which direction to go in order to follow the balloon. Radio communication with the pilot helps some for anticipating directions, but can't open up fences or locked gates. After about 15 minutes, Gayle found himself caught between some powerlines next to the main road, unable to catch a current that wouldn't blow the balloon directly toward a hill at speeds he considered unsafe with passengers. So he set the balloon down. Right on the side of the road. Impressively not crossing the white line with the basket.

Within minutes a cop was there not quite sure whether to arrest us or shut down the road. I doubt there are any guidelines in the cop handbook specifying what to do when a hot air balloon sets down on a main road in one's jurisdiction. Meanwhile, the few early morning cars on the road slowed down to rubberneck. I could see them thinking "Whoa, did that cop pull over a balloon?!" Turns out so-and-so's kid was in the same school as the cop's son and pretty soon it's "Hey, how would your son like to go up in the balloon sometime?" Crisis averted. Quite effectively, I thought. For a brief moment I considered getting a balloon so I could talk my way out of potential future moving violations.

Gayle offloaded his passengers and we let go of the basket, releasing the balloon. Initially it went straight up above the power lines, then caught a quick current that pushed it directly to the hill Gayle had been trying to avoid in the first place, picking up speed as the air encountered the initial gentle slope. "I'm going to try and put her down before I get carried too far," he shouted over the radio. Then we lost contact. Note to self: Invest in radios that don't require line of sight.

There did not appear to be any roads in that general direction, but luckily Reed, the driver of our chase truck, remembered a dirt road that he thought led where the balloon should have landed. One rutted dirt road impassable to cars and a healthy dose of off-roading later, we saw the Misbehavin', balloon being pushed at an angle with the wind. Gayle had managed to set it down in a level spot, although it soon became apparent that the real challenge would be to get the balloon down without it getting caught in the sagebrush. A couple of super-size tarps later (all those bumps are sagebrush),

we wrestled the balloon into a coil in its basket, loaded it in one of the trucks with help from a hydraulic back gate (I hereby nominate the inventor of the hydraulic lift for sainthood), then put the rest of the balloon away, and headed back to the launch site.

The real treat turned out to be the spread of food and drinks Martha set out back at the launch site upon our return.

Martha and Heather setting out the start of the spread. Yes, there was also champagne:

Now that's a tradition I can appreciate! It had been an especially interesting first flight experience and worth celebrating. Martha and Gayle are always looking for volunteers, so let me know if you happen to be near Elko and I'll see what I can do to hook you up for a little adventure.

July 14, 2008: Return to the U.S.

2008-07-30T12:50:00.000-07:00

Although I had been enjoying my weeks of sloth in Istanbul, it was time to head back to the States for family and friend obligations. And I figured I was pushing my luck after getting my passport back with additional pages from the US Consulate in Istanbul the day before the shootout (thank goodness I chose not to procrastinate for once in my life!). I didn't really want to leave Turkey, though, and apparently the feeling was mutual because Turkey almost didn't let me leave.

For starters, I had not really considered what kind of effect my baggage would have. The closest thing I had experienced to airport security in nearly a year was making sure my lunch cheese was sufficiently hidden at border crossings in preparation for the occasional cursory locker inspection. Nobody cared about my knives, or battery packs, or laptop, or solar panel, or all my other miscellaneous electronic equipment that, when properly configured, probably could have powered a small town and supplied them with Internet. Add the electronics to my binoculars, multiple cameras, and telephoto lens and I'm starting to look like someone of interest. Now add in the camping gear, first aid kit, and water purification systems and I'm starting to look like a self-sufficient someone of interest who might be a mule for at least one military industrial complex. My normally innocuous climbing gear suddenly seems to be capable of far more than ordinary sports equipment. A quick flip through my passport reveals stamps for Syria and Sudan and Zimbabwe and now I'm hearing "Come with me, Sir" in a tone that will not be argued with. Not to mention that my visa was within days of running out and I couldn't really recall the exact day when I had entered Turkey. Then come the questions about me (Are you a soldier? Do you have additional ID?), about my travels (You've been rock climbing???! Uh-huh, where, exactly?), about my gear (What is this? Will you take this apart/put this together/show me how this works?). Let's just say I went straight to the head of the line.

With so much special treatment you would have thought I was flying first class. But no, I was back in cattle class, next to a U.S. high school student who asked me to order another bottle of wine from the stewardess and give it to him in return for his Coke. Apparently he thought I was joking when I responded "Only if that Coke comes with a bottle of rum," because he tried three more times to convince me that his lukewarm Coke was a worthwhile trade for cheap wine. I put on my earphones and began watching movies.

About the time I finished with movie number five (All About Dave), we started our descent into Chicago and I started to get a bit excited at the prospect of being back in the States. Finally, food I wanted, when I wanted! With 2 hours and 45 minutes to catch my domestic flight I figured I could probably sample my way through at least the C Terminal. Until, that is, I saw the lines for Immigration. Both receiving halls were jammed with people such that one had to push their way off the escalator. I started to feel panicky. In Botswana I could have thrown elbows and pushed my way to the front while pretending nothing was happening like everyone else does. In Sudan I could have joined a throng of people waving money over their heads at the front of the line. In Lesotho I could have simply passed through a hole in the fence. But this! This was positively British. The Queen Mother of all Queues, if you will. 2 hours and 31 minutes later, resigned to missing my domestic flight, I finally handed my passport to the immigration official who asked "What did you do that allowed you to travel for a year?" while eyeing me suspiciously (Did I look that rough? And I had actually showered only two days before!). Welcome to America.

July 13, 2008: Haircut in Istanbul, Turkey

2008-07-20T11:11:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea to get a haircut in Istanbul. Women visit their hairdresser weekly -- not counting the times they show up just to get their hair done before going out for the night -- and men on the street have nary a stray hair in sight. Every street corner seems to have more than one salon, faded posters of hair models giving their best Blue Steel look taped to the windows in an effort to coax in new customers while a steady stream of regulars looking sleek and glossy rush in and out wearing couture sunglasses. It is definitely a high maintenance hair culture. The last time my hair had been cut was October 2007 with a number 2 affixed to a slightly rusty pair of clippers, and now, surrounded by perfectly coiffed men and women, I also wanted to be sleek and glossy.

8 1/2 months of growth:I had plenty of hair for even the most uninspired person wielding a pair of shears to work with, and figured there was no reason I shouldn't emerge from any salon looking like a god, or at least a marginal, minor demi-god.

I was ready for my new stud persona and traipsed down the hill to a place I had noticed before that looked respectable. I eagerly hopped up the stairs, swung open the door, and... walked into an obvious conversation lull. The music video on the TV literally ended as soon as I crossed the threshhold, plunging the room into complete silence as eight people swiveled their heads, locking their eyes on me. The door closed with a quiet clink behind me. Nobody moved. I fought the urge to scratch an untimely itch in my groin area.

The next music video started, but everyone continued staring at me. One stylist had an air of command about him so I looked directly at him, gave him my best goofy smile, and said "Hair cut?" He tilted his head quizzically. Uh-oh. This was clearly a no English zone. I mimed cutting my hair with scissors. The General, as I decided to call him, smiled broadly back at me in understanding and gestured for me to sit down in a waiting area chair. And with that, everyone went back to their business.

I settled myself in and surveyed the scene to see what I had gotten myself into. The salon was small, only three chairs and two of them occupied, but had that universal hip look that would have been at home in any major city in the world. There was one woman seated behind the counter chatting on the phone, one woman standing by a set of stairs with her hands folded intently watching the stylists, one woman cutting a client's hair, and the General cutting another client's hair. There were also two boys about 8 or so sporting perfectly gelled and styled hair rushing around in constant motion washing windows, cleaning mirrors, sweeping the floor, bringing various cutting implements to the stylists, and I grew weary just watching them. I was completely fascinated by their hair, however. When I was their age I had no idea what gel was, typically sporting dirt and twigs in my oh-so-stylish bowl cut.

After a few minutes, the General motioned for me to sit in the remaining salon chair. He said something to the standing woman who immediately ran up the stairs with alacrity, returning shortly followed by a fellow with a shaved head (who I named Mr. Clean). The General and Mr. Clean bent heads to talk as the woman approached me shyly and asked "Cafe? Chai?" I was beginning to think they didn't get many foreigners in the place. I said yes to the chai and looked expectantly at Mr. Clean as he glided over, his brow slightly furrowed, accompanied by the General. In what has to be the most in-depth discussion ever had over my hair, they both completely ignored me while taking turns apparently making their case for specific styles. Mr. Clean would fluff up my hair, holding handfuls this way and that with a running commentary while the General hovered, arms crossed, occasional gravelly grunts emerging from his pursed lips as he contemplated Mr. Clean's vision. Then the General would toussle my hair, running his fingers through it and pulling some to the side with animated gestures as Mr. Clean stood back, hand on hip with finger on his mouth and arched eyebrow, trying to envision the General's genius. This was a clearly a consultation of the highest order.

Finally, they reached some sort of agreement and Mr. Clean snapped his fingers at one of the gel twins, sending him scurrying out the front door, before spinning on his heel and disappearing up the stairs. Gel twin returned momentarily, breathless and flushed, followed by a fellow that I just had to call Guido. He walked in with what can only be described as a swagger, hair perfectly swept back from his face, dressed all in black with gold cufflinks in his french cuffs and shirt unbuttoned the three buttons necessary to display the thick gold chain hanging around his neck. His Errol Flynn style mustache twitched as he stopped behind me and said "Hello!" with an amused glint in his eye. My follow up response and inquiry elicited a shrug -- he had already said his one English word. He gave my hair an appraising look, eyeing it from all sides, then snapped at the gel twins who hustled over and prepped me for my hair wash with a flurry of fabrics and uncannily efficient tucking.

It was only then I noticed that the sink was directly in front of my chair. Well that's useful, I thought, expecting to be turned around and tilt my head back into the sink instead of having to get up and walk to the sinks like a typical salon. Guido smiled at me and motioned for me to lean over the sink face first. Face first? As in, head under water? Ok, that's awkward. With a sigh I leaned over and put my head under the faucet, envisioning blowing bubbles with my face underwater. What ensued was a combination hair wash, face wash, head massage, and face massage, all while I desperately tried to breath through the water running into my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe through my mouth continuously or else I would wind up with Guido's fingers in my mouth as he scrubbed my face, and I couldn't breath through my nose continuously because Guido kept splashing water up my nose as he was washing my hair. I setttled on alternating 4 quick mouth puffs and 4 quick nose snorts in hopes to avoid fingers and/or water 50% of the time. I ended up sounding like I was simultaneously practicing Lamaze and blowing water bubbles with my nose.

Unable to ignore my choking noises any longer, Guido turned off the water and I managed a fast gasp of air before he slapped a towel around my head and face. In one quick, brusque motion, he jerked me back upright into my chair, forearms wrapped around my head and neck in a modified Half Nelson, then proceeded to roughly slap pat my head while keeping the towel tightly wound around my face. It was a bit of a challenge to breathe with someone whacking me about the head and suffocating me with a towel. With no warning, Guido whipped the towel back from my face and began briskly toweling my hair with such effort that a felt like a wet St. Bernard. It was all I could do to sit upright in the chair as he spun around my chair rubbing my head with the towel at hyperspeed, flinging droplets of water on the customer two chairs away. He stopped abruptly, panting slightly. I took my first real breath in 10 minutes and cautiously opened my eyes. Guido took a moment to admire his work with a triumphant grin, then swept his arm out at Mr. Clean who had magically reappeared, signalling it was time for the main event.

Mr. Clean strode over to me confidently and paused behind my chair to survey the morass of hair confronting him like a man sizing up his enemy. This was not going to be a kinder, gentler cut. Oh no, it was evident that Mr. Clean felt hair was to be chopped and tamed and molded to his will. Woe be the curly headed patron. I noticed with a start that the employees had gathered around -- Guido, the gel twins, the chai woman, and the front desk woman were all standing a respectful radius around me, sensing the upcoming battle. With a flick of his wrist Mr. Clean held out his hand and one of the gel twins slapped a pair of scissors in his palm. The thwack echoed in the room. Mr. Clean slowly raised the scissors, all eyes watching its silvery arc, then held them, poised above my head, in the most ridiculous dramatic pause imaginable. The anticipation was palpable. Then, with a fell swoop, the scissors descended upon my head and Mr. Clean attacked my hair.

It was the most dazzling display of cutting I've ever seen. Mr. Clean was a dizzying whirl of speed, wielding the scissors with such flourish and verve that I half expected him to air snap the few times he paused to assess his work with grim satisfaction. The crowd was appreciatively wide-eyed and he was clearly putting on a show. Even the General could not help but glance over, increasingly ignoring his client. It was a magnificent effort.

As my hair piled up on the floor, I began to suspect what Mr. Clean's vision was for me. I continued to hold out with hope that I was wrong, however, even as Guido took over for further duties that included trimming my sideburns and nape of my neck, and rinsing me off once again with the whole face underwater and rough towel treatment. I cringed when the hair dryer appeared and Mr. Clean brandished it with a wild gleam in his eye. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the cut was not exactly me as I watched my hair volume get bigger and bigger because he had obviously put his heart and soul into it. I did manage to shake my head when he produced the industrial size can of hairspray, but quickly broke down under his pleading gaze, much to his relief. How could I not let him finish his creation? He was an artist, after all, although I may not have agreed with his viewpoint.

With a few spritzes of hairspray from three feet away and a couple of final fluffs, Mr. Clean stood back to admire the final result. It was breathtaking. I could tell he was extraordinarily pleased with his handiwork as he smiled in acknowledgement to the murmurs of approval from the gathered employees. The General even congratulated him on a job well done. I, too, might have basked in the glory that was my hair if I had not been trying so hard to control my mirth. Mr. Clean had given me a haircut decades younger than my years and I looked like a member of a second rate emo band. Although, to be fair, I did look remarkably like many of the pre-20 set strutting around the streets. Struggling to maintain my composure, I thanked them all as graciously as possible, quickly paid and hurried out the door in an effort to get back to the apartment to take a photo. I was touched when they all waved goodbye. Unfortunately, it was a rather windy day and this was the best I could do to recreate the "look" by the time I got back to the apartment.

I should have let Mr. Clean use more hairspray:
I chalked it up to an amusing cultural experience and opted to get my hair cut again a few days later, although I felt somewhat guilty destroying Mr. Clean's creation. I knew I didn't really deserve to wear it, however, for I didn't fully appreciate his artistry. Plus I'm just not high hair maintenance enough. Instead, I wound up with something that doesn't require hairdryers and hairspray, something that thankfully doesn't require daily showers.

If I'm ever back in Istanbul, though, I intend to pay another visit to Mr. Clean just to see what else he comes up with.

To recap, let's just group everything together to better understand the freakish transformation:

July 13, 2008: Sloth in Istanbul, Turkey

2008-07-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

After travelling countless miles involving dumploads of dust and constant packing and repacking, it was time to stay stationary for a bit and rehabilitate myself for re-entry into the real world. Personal hygiene was at an all time low (despite months of accumulated grime embedded in my pores, I was distinctly uninterested in showers) and I had developed an obsessive compulsive habit of noting and ranking potential tent spots five times daily using a complex decision matrix. I needed to reacquaint myself with things like refrigerators, UPS, and sun-dried tomatoes. I needed to sleep in something other than a sleeping bag for more than two consecutive nights. I needed to cook a meal on something other than a noxious, tear-inducing smoky fire. My friend's apartment in Istanbul seemed just the right place get back into the swing of (mostly) Western life.

Once I was ensconced in my friend's apartment, the siren songs of great views, wireless, and modern conveniences like electricity conspired to keep me on the premises. It didn't take much encouragement.

I mean, seriously now, why leave when you have these views?:

In no time at all I had embraced sloth like a long lost lover and my butt had created permanent hollows in the ridiculously comfortable couch. Deadly sin, shmedly sin. Sloth was willing to be a complete couch potato with me and not leave the apartment for multiple consecutive days. That's right, there were several times when I did not step foot outside the front door for several days running. The cleaning lady simply vacuumed around me as though I was a piece of furniture. Which, for all intensive purposes, I guess I was.

It's not all fun and games being a stationary sentient being. It is necessary to keep the brain occupied so my friend and I devised a plan to start watching marathon sessions of TV series on DVD. As a complete side benefit I figured I would have an excuse not to shower. Two complete seasons of 24, one season of Heroes, and most of a season of Rome later I came to the conclusion that it required more discipline and effort than any marathon that I have run. Here I thought it would be an amusing and frivilous experience -- little did I know I would have to treat the endeavor as a job. Who knew sloth could be so demanding?

I've been trying to avoid the whole job thing -- even for sloth -- so occasionally I found it necessary take a break from the TV marathons. In desperation I would shuffle down the block to buy groceries, stagger down four flights of stairs on my partially atrophied legs to take out the garbage, or pull the apartment windows shut when it became too windy. It wasn't often, but when I was feeling really trapped by too much 24 I managed to break through my two block radius barrier to go to a couple of concerts (you haven't lived until you hear 8,000 Turks singing along in French with an American band), visit a museum or two, and check out what else but more mosques.

One of my favorite exhibits at Istanbul Modern contained thousands of books suspended from the ceiling adjacent to the library. Looks like they are flying off the shelves from this perspective:Mosque at the juncture of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn:Lit up at night:Bridge over the Golden Horn:Mosque door detail:Sunlight on tiles in a mosque:Detail of ceiling section in a mosque:

It was tough to do these other activities because I felt compelled to be back to the apartment once the sun set to watch the nightly fireworks. Somewhere in recent history a Turkish wedding party decided it would be a good idea to celebrate their nupitals with excessive amounts of colored flame and loud explosions. It was probably more like a sparkler or two initially, but, as with most trends, it has now escalated arms race style into increasingly extravagant displays lasting up to 15 minutes or so. Some (actually most, who am I kidding?) of the shows are bigger than the annual weather dependent Fourth of July fireworks in my hometown. One night, no joking, I watched six different displays from the apartment. Six! And that was just in one small section of Istanbul. Talk about an, ahem, booming business. I guess there could be worse ways of making a display of wealth than fireworks. The only problem is that it is a very public show and probably sets the tone for the rest of the marriage. The bride will either be able to hold her head up high, becoming an important part of Turkish society and having a marriage full of all the trust and love that only obscene amounts of money can buy, or never be able to appear in public again because of the shame at the poor showing, turning into a bitter, foul-mouthed crone, forevermore berating her father for attempting to lob a few flares in the air.

Happy bride:Sad, sad, sad bride. The fireworks didn't even make it over the bridge:The rest of the bell curve:

Despite all the distractions, I did leave Istanbul feeling somewhat more prepared for my return to the U.S. I can trust postal systems, I no longer have to stock up on unnaturally processed cheese with a shelf life longer than the average life expectancy of the citizens in the nations in which it is most prevalent for my dairy needs, and I don't feel jittery if I haven't set up my tent by nightfall. I may never catch up on pop culture, and showering on a regular schedule didn't go so well, but hey, I need to have some goals. And I'm not talking about showering.

June 19, 2008: Return to Olympos, Turkey

2008-07-08T08:23:00.000-07:00

It was with no small amount of anticipation that we returned to Olympos. The first experience had been so fantastic that my expectations were high and I couldn't wait to get back on some of the crags. The second time around, however, was a bit different. Let's just say one month can significantly change the nature of a place and the bloom was off the rose a bit -- it was way hotter, there were way more tourists, and we were staying way further away from the crags.

So "way further" may be a bit of an exaggeration, but an additional 10 minutes to the crag is quite difficult to motivate for when the heat has gone up by another 30 degrees and the humidity causes sweat to bead up on my brow when I reach for a beer. Really now, there's something quite amiss when I'm breaking a sweat trying to drink a beer that is supposed to cool me down. It is entirely possible that someone's doctoral thesis is contained in my sweat glands. I swear, the amount of liquid that my skin has secreted over the course of this trip likely rivals the Great Salt Lake in quantity and salinity.

I probably would not have left the campsite at all to climb except that the 5,412% increase in tourists meant that the camp complex was overrun with people and that doesn't fit in with my misanthropic tendencies. Luckily, it was possible to stop at the beach on the way to one of the crags, although that, too, became an open-air convection oven in mid-day. There was only one thing to do then: climb, or at least take some photos.

Teresa employs George to help hold her down to prevent her from flying too high up should Steve fall. George is, of course, sitting down on the job:Will Carolyn or Simon make it to the top first? Place your bets now!:Tia topping out on a lovely climb:Her view at the top:Faye channels a little Saturday Night Fever at the top of the same climb:Diana taking a photo of Faye now doing her best muscle mania pose:Aidan a little confused about his next move:

Thankfully, evenings were quite pleasant. And when the evenings are lovely and the moon is full it is prime time for...you guessed it...night climbing! Although the climbing once again happened after a celebratory evening and much ridiculous dancing at the one disco (now disturbingly full of people) in Olympos,

Simon keeps Teresa from falling off:Chicken fight! Hannah on Simon strangles Aidan on Steve:

the important distinction is that George and I had no intention of climbing that particular night because it was way too far to go back to our new camp and we weren't really, shall I say, in planning mode. Then Diana produced a backpack stuffed with our shoes, harnesses, and a rope that she had packed unbeknown to us. How could we say no to that?

George can climb:

But has trouble staying vertical while being lowered...:Diana lighting it up. This is what it looks like while climbing by headlamp:My reaction after sending a 7a in the dark. I couldn't believe I had climbed it clean (let alone even gotten off the ground) given the circumstances:

Like moths to the flame, or perhaps because we're usually not content until we get thrown out of somewhere, we continued to go back to the disco until Aidan came up with the glorious idea of bouldering around the inside of the establishment.

Aidan demonstrates in his pajamas:

It was surprising none of us had thought of it before, really, since we all have become accustomed to looking at everything (and I do mean everything) for its climbing potential -- cars, trees, tables, camels, buildings, boats, and unsuspecting tourists are all fair game. We managed to make it a good third of the way around until security took notice.

Except for Nathan who was having trouble standing up:All of us hopped off the walls good-naturedly rather than risk a sound beating, except for George. He completely confounded the bouncers by climbing straight up the wall and out of sight on top of the roof. I'm sure security sees a lot in Olympos, but I doubt they had ever faced a 60-year old human gecko.

Barely two hours later it was time for me to get on BiRT for the last time.

Diana and I had decided to take a bus to Istanbul from Antalya and BiRT was dropping us off on the way to Adana. Warm enough to roll up the tarp windows, cool enough to hang my head out the side, it was a beautiful morning ride.

Ben warily eyes the ocean and wonders if we are going to be swimming in BiRT:I'm ready for the water in my orange floatie vest that Henry bought me:

It didn't seem like I was leaving the truck, though. Even after we had rolled up to the bus station, parked in our usual spot clearly marked as no parking, unloaded our gear, said our goodbyes, and were serenaded with a farewell song, I didn't feel a smidge of sentimentality.

Faye, Carolyn, and Mel do their best to keep a straight face while singing a ridiculously sappy goodbye song:

Not even as I waved back at the bodies and arms hanging out the windows as BiRT drove off, an unstoppable force rolling on to the next destination. I was already focusing on the particulars of sorting out a bus to Istanbul, thinking about what needed to be done. And then it happened. As I watched those crazy misfits still waving at me while BiRT become smaller and smaller until it looked like the coolest Hot Wheels toy on the planet, I'll be damned if some tears didn't well up in my eyes. It's tempting to chalk that lump in my throat up to seeing what had been my life for nearly 11 months and thousands of miles disappear into the distance, but it was more than that. What really got to me was watching those madly waving arms and bodies and thinking of all the extraordinary people who I've shared some amazing and outrageous experiences with. People I now count as lifelong friends. Without them, the trip would not have been nearly as wild and wonderful and wacky. Without them, it just wouldn't have been Hot Rock.

June 16, 2008: Geyikbayiri, Turkey

2008-07-01T07:04:00.001-07:00

We arrived at Geyikbayiri, a climbing destination near Antalya, and people were promptly herded into a police mini-truck and carted down to the local station. In the rain no less. It was bound to happen sooner or later, I guess -- perhaps we had been in Turkey long enough that our reputation was beginning to precede us. I missed the dragnet because I had immediately sprinted off to the toilets as soon as BiRT stopped. It's probably the one and only time on this trip that I was glad to have stomach "issues."

Would you break this crowd out of jail?:

Maybe we were in trouble because we repeatedly ignored No Parking signs:

Though a rather dramatic welcome, the cops were apparently more interested in checking out the women on the trip than anything else and sternly warned the group that nobody was to go climbing until the next day. It was very dangerous to climb on wet rock, they stressed, and it would not be safe to climb until the following afternoon, after 1 p.m. to be precise. Uh, thanks for the warning?

There was no way anybody was waiting until the following afternoon to go climbing; it was just too fantastic of an area. Second only after Kalymnos in terms of sport climbing quality, there were loads of superb routes to keep one busy for months.

Jenny picks up a new friend on the way to a crag while Duncan works the limestone in the background:Jenny in the sun upper right. You can just make out BiRT lower left:Sam displays his now patented gritting teeth grimace as he goes for the next hold:Diana makes a desperate clip:And takes a rest while being heckled:Me going for the big jug:And onto the ledge:Me displaying one of my endless climbing dork poses

The only problem is that it was just way too hot.

Yes, that is a two-inch thick layer of sweat reflecting the sun on my shoulders:To avoid severe sunstroke it was necessary to climb early in the morning, pant away the next five or six hours in whatever shade was available, then go climbing again in the early evening.

Adam weighs the risks of climbing up out of the shade into the sun:The best time to climb (that's a full moon you can just barely make out upper left):Or forget the crag and climb on BiRT at night (unsuccessfully) like Nathan:

There was also the small detail of allegedly domesticated goats that tried to eat your lunch, backpack, nalgene bottle, guidebooks, or anything else that was not immediately strapped to your body.

Billy Goat Gruff goes for the guidebook:

It was unfortunate for anyone I happened to be climbing with because given the choice between properly belaying and saving my lunch, I'll save my lunch every time.

My favorite place to spend mid-day was along the little river near our campground. Towering trees covered the river as it burbled through, over, and around big boulders, creating little waterfalls that splashed into inviting pools, Distorted shadows of water skimmers:while spectacular blue and green dragonflies flitted about, wings sparkling in the dappled light.

The real reason we were in Geyikbayiri was not for climbing, but for the Hot Rock party. Folks from Hot Rock expeditions of yore showed up for climbing and general merriment, doing everything possible to alienate other travellers who had the misfortune of sharing the same campsite. Juliet organized a Hot Rock Olympics which included a group dance/striptease,

apple bobbing race (no real name for that event), the five-point distance game (no real name for that event, either),

First someone takes two steps from behind the line (me) and the next person (Dolphin) steps on the first person's feet then takes two steps further out:Like this. Then the third person steps across the feet of the other two people:Like this before taking one further step (the fifth point): and then stretches out to set a bottle in the ground:and an obstacle course.

Eat your heart out, Beijing.

After receiving an angry text from the camp owner at 3 a.m. (whatever happened to the days of face-to-face tirades?) there was nothing left for us to do but head back toward Olympos with a large group of newbies onboard.

June 6, 2008: Istanbul, Turkey

2008-07-01T06:19:00.001-07:00

We had a hell of a time driving into the center of Istanbul. Between the worthless Lost Planet (aka Lonely Planet) travel guide maps, and conflicting information about the availability of bridge crossings into the city center for the 20-ton behemoth that is BiRT, we spent the majority of the day driving around, looking helplessly at our general target area off in the distance. It didn't help that greater Istanbul is massive (unofficially 20+ million people) and invariably connected by a cat's cradle mess of roads. We finally resorted to drastic measures and called a taxi. Not for everyone to ride in, mind you, but to guide the truck into the city. Doubt that happens very often. About one hour and several police escorts later, we eventually arrived in the district known as Sultanahmet, the tourist center of Istanbul.

The 86 major attractions (give or take a few hundred) within a stone's throw of each other in Sultanahmet make it an irresistable magnet for countless tourists. In the short space of the two-and-a-half days Hot Rock was there to pick up new trip members, I experienced everything from moments of extraordinary peace to barely suppressed tourist rage.

Usually the early bird gets the worm and Istanbul is no exception. Diana and I got up early to take pictures of two of the most famous structures in the world -- the Hagia Sophia

and the Blue Mosque -- and wound up inside the Blue Mosque, lights off, alone except for one janitor vacuuming the carpet (apparently a good thing as the mosque reputedly smells like rotting feet by the end of the day). It was stunning to watch the hundreds of stained glass windows radiate with increasingly brilliant intensity as the sun slowly rose, occasional beams slicing through the half-lit interior creating golden spotlights on the ornate pillars and domes while the surrounding muted pinks and blues of the stone inlays glowed softly. The background hum of the vacuum cleaner faded leaving an overwhelming sense of peace. I felt strangely cozy, comfortable as though I had wrapped myself in a fleece blanket, despite the soaring domes above me. We must have spent an hour in there, enjoying the interplay between stone and light, before someone turned on the power. Diana and I exchanged a smile as a few people trickled in, speaking in hushed tones of wonder. It was time to move on.

We had a little bit of time to kill before meeting a good friend of mine now living in Istanbul, Riva, and so we set off to wander on a neighboring street. Within two minutes I saw an entrance to the Basilica Cistern which we had been told to check out. The cistern is a cathedral-sized underground structure designed to collect water via aqueducts originating 19 km north of the city. It is packed with 336 carved marble columns and may gone unnoticed for years except that one fellow began to wonder why the hole that he was throwing his trash into for years never filled up. Really. With no trash in sight, it is now lit from below with red lights and has new age-y music playing over the speakers. It feels vaguely mystical and vaguely like a fun-house. I would not at all have been surprised to see either chanting monks or scary clowns pop up out of the dark water. Of course, I couldn't stop taking photographs and wound up being 20 minutes late meeting my friend.

We had intended to go to the Topkapi Palace, but that was closed so we went to the Hagia Sophia -- all of three minutes away. The Hagia Sophia is huge. Once the largest church in the world, it was turned into a mosque by the Ottomans and is now a museum. Most people tend to prefer the Hagia Sophia over the Blue Mosque but, although it is undeniably impressive, I found the Hagia Sophia to be much more impersonal (I'm sure the fact that I basically had the Blue Mosque to myself influences my opinion).

Those are tiers of domes in the background:Ground floor:Looking up to the second floor:From the second floor looking at the upper domes:Me still looking up:Martha Stewart's room in prison?:Mosaics that had been plastered over when the structure was converted to a mosque:Bronze door:

Mosque-ed out for the day, we needed sustenance and went to a nearby Indian restaurant, Dubb, that Riva's boyfriend, Fehmi, manages. We proceeded to sit there for about three hours laughing like idiots while chowing down on the awesome food that kept appearing like magic. Why move, really, when there is great food and a great view?

We couldn't figure out why people kept staring. Thought maybe it was the Hagia Sophia in the background:Fehmi, Riva, Diana, me:

Reluctantly, after scaring all the other diners away, we eventually decided to head to the Grand Bazaar, even though it had a reputation for being insanely touristy. Yes, with it's flat screen TVs suspended from the ceiling and stratospheric prices, it was clearly geared to monied tourists -- not at all like the market in Damascus which locals still use. I was ready to buy a handmade, funky hat that would have been great for ski season...and then saw the $90 price tag. Right, I'll take the $4 cup of coffee instead, thank you very much. Still, the Bazaar is a good place for people watching and taking photos.

Glass lamps:Bright and shiny!:Underground view:

With evening closing in on us, Riva wanted to take us to the Asian side for dinner. How great is that? I ask you, where else can you hang out in Europe then go to Asia for dinner? And it's only a quick ferry ride away. One of the fantastic things about Istanbul is all the ferries that act like water busses.

Looking like the Bay Area:

Sure, places in the U.S. like the Bay Area have a ferry system, but Istanbul's ferries are extensive and cheap due to competition. There are a myriad of companies with ferries, many only operating between a couple of stops. The end result is a useful, and enjoyable, method of travel between various parts of Istanbul on the water.

Blue Mosque from ferry on Asia side:

The next day Diana and I roused ourselves to make it to Topkapi Palace when it opened. Unfortunately, 46 groups of 30 people each were also there. Seriously. I admit to the occasional embellishment when it comes to numbers, but each group had a leader carrying a sign with the group's number, and I was able to locate almost all the numbers up to 46. A cruise ship had docked in the night and purged its contents into Sultanahmet. It took 45 minutes to get into the Palace. I alternated between nearly crying and nearly snatching one of the signs from a group leader and soundly beating all the members in such a manner that they would be finding splinters for weeks in crevices they didn't know they had. It's a little unfair, I guess, because it is the cruise ship that was unbelievably irresponsible in this case. Come on, you don't send over 1300 people all to one attraction at the same time. The Hagia Sophia is right around the corner and the Blue Mosque is 50 yards further on. Give all the other tourists a chance to be annoyed by 15 groups of 30 instead of incensed at 40 friggin 6 groups of 30! Spread the hate. Please. I beseech you, oh mighty cruise ship.

Needless to say, Topkapi Palace was a bit of a scrum. It was lovely and all -- even the stables

Ceiling in the stables. Puts my room in San Francisco to shame: were impressive -- though the only semi-escape from the masses was to pay an additional fee and enter the Harem. Basically a town of 5,000 within the larger town of the Palace, the Harem was amazing.

Just your average sitting room:Just your average hallway:Just your average four-poster bed:Whoops! Wrong door:Cool door:

It was designed to hold the sultan's many concubines, children, and supporting eunuchs, and one can only imagine all the scheming and manipulations and murders that took place within the ornately decorated walls. With so much power at stake with potential heirs, it's a wonder any child made it past infancy. I'm willing to bet the knife slipped more than once for many a boy that lived to see the circumcision room.

I don't really see how this is a comforting view while being circumcised:

Thankfully, we slipped out of Istanbul at night for the long drive to Antalya before my seething rage made me go all Jackie Chan on some tourists. "Slipped" might be the wrong verb, really, since it took us 2+ hours to drive out of the city. In retrospect, it was somehow fitting that it took us hours to get into, as well as out of, Istanbul.

June 2, 2008: Ephesus and Kaynaklar, Turkey

2008-06-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

We passed yet more ruins on our way to Kaynaklar. Ephesus, containing the best Roman ruins East of the Mediterranean, and an important city throughout the Hellenistic era, Roman Empire, and Byzantine Empire, as well as being a center of early Christianity (Saint Paul lived there for awhile and the Virgin Mary's final home is nearby) was nice enough, but I'm frankly rather tired of looking at crumbling, ancient structures. I'm jaded, I admit it, and my eyes are starting to glaze over after seeing so many impressive archeologically significant sites on this trip.

Another theater:More beautifully carved stone:Fabulous statues, architecture, design, blah blah:It's all Greek to me:Discreet archway:Understated stone boulevard with columns and decapitated statue:Mauling yet another ancient wonder:
My uninspired attitude carried over to our climbing destination, as well, because it would have been pretty exciting to go to Kaynaklar earlier in the trip. The crag setting is nice and the sport climbing is decent enough, but Kalymnos is a tough act to follow and Kaynaklar is not even close to being in the same league. We tried to climb, but holds felt slippery, the bolts were awkwardly placed, the rock quality wasn't that great, it was hot, and, let's face it, thinking up vague, insubstantial excuses every day for not climbing is extraordinarily tiring. So we had to come up with other ways to entertain ourselves.

Thankfully, Dolphin met up with us again carting his tattoo equipment (he had been unable to go to Greece). When he made a moving speech that first evening about how much he enjoyed being with us and how he had racked his brain thinking of a special way to show his appreciation for the way we had accepted him into the fold, the last thing I was expecting him to offer was free tattoos. Tattoos?! I was initially skeptical, envisioning Dolphin in an ominously lit dingy room with a single rusty needle dipped in the ink from a broken ball point pen jabbing away at a twitching arm. Clearly I've watched too many prison movies. My medical fears were put to rest, however, when he whipped out a fully professional and sanitary kit. At least nobody would be dying of gangrene. My artistic fears were put to rest when his mother showed up (she lived nearby in the city of Izmir) and displayed a very impressive seahorse that Dolphin had tattooed on her leg. Game on!

While everyone discussed the endless variations of image, size, and location of a tattoo, Henry was already prepared to add to his collection with a design that Gail had created.

Partially finished. Notice how it says "Hot Rock":

Hannah had a gecko that Gail designed put above her ankle, and Teresa had the same gecko put on her wrist.

Teresa winces while Dolphin goes to work:Teresa proud of her new acquisition. :

It was a good thing that it took four days to do those tattoos and that Dolphin was getting tired of squinting in the dim light of BiRT because I came very close to getting myself permanently inked. If ever there was a time to get a tattoo with a good back story, that was it. I'll just have to continue relying on my scar stories.

We couldn't spend all our free time jumping up and down on the steps of BiRT trying to break Dolphin's concentration, so we turned our attention to other pursuits. Sam channeled his inner fashionista and spent an afternoon painting his toenails,

Call now for your very own pedicure by Sam!:I finally stopped procrastinating after 10 months and organized my crap,

How did I wind up with more gear than when I started? And don't ask about the Karate Kid headband -- it's a long story:

and Teresa, Tazzy, and George tirelessly worked on their bodybuilding poses.

Something to aspire to: Teresa at almost 40, Tazzy pushing 50, and George at a solid 60:
A kidnapping, however, abruptly stopped all the fun and games. George had brought along with him the mascot from his mountain search and rescue team back in the UK, an engaging little fellow named Monty that team members had taken turns carting around the world. Though quiet, slightly faded, and rather limp, Monty never complained and was universally liked by everyone on the trip.

Monty and George in happier times:

Then one day someone snatched him from his usual perch at the front of the truck facing out the windows and left this note taped in his spot.

"We have Monty. We want 6 beers or it means certain death. Details follow soon. No cops."

A pall descended upon the truck as we all realized that we had a full blown crisis on our hands.

George searched desperately for Monty, organizing search parties and frantically trying to locate six beers should the kidnappers be serious. The second note that appeared made their intentions clear.

"Drop ransom on roof at midnight and Monty might live."

In these tense times George contacted me to aid in his search and I accepted his plea for help. These were professionals and I knew that threatening the suspects with burning sticks in their eyes would be useless, so I decided to fall back on solid science. The ransom notes had not been handled by anyone other than the perps therefore fingerprints would be the best way to (ahem) finger them. After dusting for prints with some generously supplied eyeshadow, I called up the suspects and used yellow Savlon antiseptic spray (hygiene first!) to capture their fingerprints. Hannah was unusually nervous, dancing from foot to foot and chattering quickly while avoiding eye contact. Come to think of it, other members of the trip had been exhibiting some behavior that was out of character: Aidan had been especially tired and Danny had been shockingly quiet. Hunches, though, were not enough.

Unfortunately, I didn't have sufficient time to analyze my findings before we set off suddenly for Istanbul and George was forced to leave the ransom on the top of the truck. A drunk looking Monty was returned unharmed the following morning.

"Thanks for the beers. Ha Ha."

Unable to contain their glee, the Terrible Three of Hannah, Aidan, and Danny confessed to their heinous crime. Life returned to normal except I was racked with guilt over the fact that if I had only acted on my hunches I could have saved George six beers (and maybe drank them with him). Always listen to your gut!

May 27, 2008: Kalymnos, Greece

2008-06-13T01:17:00.000-07:00

Kalymnos is The Promised Land for climbing. No two ways about it, the island definitely has the most spectacular sport climbing I've seen on this trip. There are 15+ kilometers of cliffs along the rugged coastline that people have developed into over 40 crags with 900+ routes. Unbelievable. The incredible thing is that there are so many more places to develop on this picturesque island.

The town of Masouri where we stayed as seen from one of the numerous caves: Yet another gorgeous morning:
It was a confluence of events that made Kalymnos into what it is today. The main industry on the island used to be sponges that locals harvested in abundance from the sea and when that collapsed in mid-80's it left many of the local economies in ruins. Shortly after, a visiting climber noticed all the amazing cliffs and started developing them. As word spread about the area and climbers began flocking to the island, the locals realized that the crazy people who wanted to climb the rock could be a reliable money source and embraced the sport. Today, the thousands of people who come yearly to to test their mettle on the extraordinary limestone cliffs are now the economic mainstay of many communities on Kalymnos.

The famous Grande Grotto is an enormous cave filled with tufas:Nathan on a climb inside the Grotto. It's only slightly overhung...:Nathan giving it everything he's got:Danny sweating it up another climb in the Grotto:And streeeeetch!:Danny in the money shot:No, this picture is not in the wrong orientation -- it really is a roof and yes I am hanging almost upside down. I don't really know what possessed me to jump on this French 7b+ route, but it was incredibly fun:Where's my next foothold again??!!:Ah, forget it, I'm just going to hang here:Wheee! The scenic loweroff:
Kalymnos climbers are probably the fittest tourist set on the planet and also likely the dorkiest. As sure as you can count on a gorgeous sunset,

Masouri at sunset:
you can also count on the distinctive two-stroke whine of fleets of scooters twice daily. In one of the more amusing daily migration patterns on Earth, scores of climbers outfitted with helmets and precariously balanced packs swarm out from the tiny towns dotting the coast every morning to the one road connecting the crags, maxing out the rpms on their rented scooters as they push their geek machines to the limit on the twisting, hilly road. Of course, Diana and I also rented a scooter one day and joined the dork parade. It had to be done, really, especially because of my new-found love for scooters.

Masouri in the far distance:The world's smallest cabin boat. It couldn't have been more than 7 feet long:

Since we were in Greece, Diana and I figured that it was only appropriate to host a wine and cheese toga party on the pool deck of our guest house.

Uh, yeah, that's the view from the pool:The scene before the soiree:
We tried to secretly slip anonymous invitations under everyone's doors, but failed miserably. I put an invite under one wrong door by mistake, Diana was spotted leaving another invite, and our tag team effort of making small talk while I surreptitously placed an invite on top of a room mini fridge was painfully transparent. Oh well. It was still loads of fun and the array of toga designs was pretty impressive.

L to R: George, Sam, Aidan, me, Danny, Hannah, Teresa, Angie This was as close as we could get to approximate a column. Top down L to R: George, Danny, me, Hannah, Aidan, Teresa, Diana, Sam, AngieLet's get a closeup on the incredible cheese happening on top, shall we? George doing his best to look beatific while Danny and I do our best to look like devoted acolytes. Or something like that:Don't we look like a bunch of ridiculous statues:Danny and Teresa kick it up a notch:Tazzy and Angie discover they are both genetic freaks and can touch their nose with their tongues:Aidan depressed about his arm? Or just a sympathy ploy?:Ready to hit the town:
The one black mark against Kalymnos has to be the local custom of setting off explosives for celebrations. I'm not talking firecrackers here, I'm talking full on dynamite. As in hitting the deck when you hear the first explosion industrial strength dynamite. Birthdays, weddings, graduations, a youngster's first lost tooth -- all apparently are appropriate explanations for the massive excavation holes dotting the hillsides. Ok, maybe the holes aren't there, but they should be since the explosions are strong enough to be accompanied by shockwaves. I seriously thought about taping the windows in our room because they actually bulged with the shockwaves. Another reason to always travel with duct tape. Thankfully, the perpetrators seem to either lose steam or pass out by 1:30 a.m., so it is possible to get some sleep at night.

The positive marks for Kalymnos far outweigh the negatives of obnoxious random explosions, however, and I fully intend to be enjoying the months of November and possibly December eating my weight in feta cheese while knocking my head against the tufa filled caves of this awesome island.

Crutches or live for Another Day???:
Look me up if you happen to be there -- I'll be the dork on the scooter.

May 21, 2008: Bafa Lake, Turkey

2008-06-05T01:59:00.000-07:00

Bafa Lake is an interesting mix of ruins, cows, excellent bouldering, and very nice locals (the pension owner let us camp for free).

Hot Rock style camping. You can just make out the orange tent dome on the roof next to the electricity pole on the far right:
There was also an extraordinary amount of insect life, including some creepy spiders that looked like fat black jellybeans teetering along on stilt legs. They had an unhealthy fascination with my tent and I woke one morning to see 12 of them doing their best to join me in my sleeping bag as they crawled over the mesh searching for a way in. At first I thought they weren't too bad -- mostly because they are pretty slow moving. Then I discovered that they feasted on each other when I saw one actually dragging another one across the road. At first I hoped it was some type of rescue mission, but closer inspection revealed that spider 1 was indeed sucking the fluids out of spider 2 while moving. ugh. Talk about eating on the go. Spider cannibalism is one step removed from eating human flesh, really (or at least in my mind), and it became clear that they were vicious, man-eating arachnids. They were next to impossible to avoid and I found myself constantly staring at the ground as I attempted to gingerly step around them.

Spiders were completely inescapable at Bafa Lake. Several people almost walked into this lovely specimen, which was about the size of my hand. Not my palm, my entire hand. There was not a chance in Hell that I was going to put my hand next to that behemoth to give a sense of scale. You'll just have to take my word for it. There was another, marginally smaller version of the same species that made for some cool pics on this bouldering problem.

One of the best boulderers in Turkey, Goktug Aydemir (AKA "Curly" because none of us could pronounce his name) puts on a clinic:I don't look nearly as cool on the same problem...:
Which just so happened to be called "Yellow Scorpions." So named because the fellow who found the problem noticed he had a yellow scorpion on his foot while he was climbing. If it's not one thing, it's another around these parts.

Thankfully, we were only in Bafa Lake for a day and a half so I didn't have to deal with the creepy-crawlies for too long. Hannah, though, had to deal with more than a few mosquito bites for awhile.

May 19, 2008: Karakaya, Turkey

2008-06-02T07:33:00.001-07:00

Karakaya had not been in the plans at all. In fact, we had not even heard of the place. We met some Turkish climbers in Olympos, however, who told us about a climbing festival that coincided with our general schedule, and we all decided it would be fun to go. I, in particular, thought it would be a nice bookend to the entire trip after taking part in the climbing festival in South Africa so many months ago. With an early 4 a.m. start we loaded up four new Turkish climber friends in BiRT and headed north to Karakaya.

The hamlet of Karakaya seen from the granite crags:

Karakaya and early evening moon: Some industrious person started carving a dwelling out of this granite block near the town eons ago:
It turned out to be a fantastic decision. The festival was sponsored by a university climbing club (various uni climbing clubs apparently sponsor festivals throughout the year) and it was like a reunion for the 250 or so people who turned up,

The busses start arriving!:

pitching their tents among the grove at the base of the crag.
From the beginning we were welcomed with open arms, even given the festival packet (although we were a last-minute group) which included a load of food for several days (!), a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. It was definitely a festive atmosphere and when people weren't climbing they were on the slackline,

Future tightrope performer?:
poi dancing, confounding the local shepherd by practicing yoga,

George strikes some poses:
or putting in hair wraps (the wraps were a huge hit among the Turkish students).

Aidan displays some intense concentration while perfecting his technique on Teresa:
Although I'm waaay past university age, it was enjoyable climbing with the enthusiastic students, many of whom were relatively new to the sport. One morning Diana and I were up early at the crag on a route when a Turkish student wandered by. Most people were still asleep and I could tell that he wanted to climb, so I told him through a combination of mime-ing and bad English to go get his harness. He returned grinning ear to ear, obviously thrilled to have a chance to get on some routes which usually required a good half hour or more wait due to the queue.

We made loads of friends and decided to adopt one fellow, Dolphin, who had been quite helpful to us. Turns out that having someone who speaks Turkish on the truck is a good thing, and we were all to happy to assist him in procrastinating his return to university. With a sad farewell to David and Andy (aka the Super Flirt consultant),

Nice, uh, chili there, Andy. Roasting peppers the hard way:

we headed toward Bafa Lake on our way to Kalymnos.

May 16, 2008: Olympos, Turkey

2008-06-02T07:07:00.001-07:00

Olympos was one of the best climbing areas I've been to on this trip. Nestled in a narrow, green valley a short walk from the Mediterranean Sea, it is scenic, blessed with pleasant weather, cool ruins, and full of great climbing.

One of the developed crags overlooking the Mediterranean:
The Promised Land, really, if it wasn't for the cheesy "tree houses" which Olympos uses to draw in tourists. They are not so much tree houses as scrap pieces of wood nailed together on a platform a few feet off the ground. Which, I guess, is what tree houses are, except they are usually in trees. Anyway, the area is really quite wonderful and there is always a camping option or cabin rooms if well-ventilated tree houses full of a variety of fauna are not your thing.

Although Olympos really wants to be a tourist town, it is quite small and quite laid-back (other than one open air bar which insists on blasting club music between the hours of 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. every day) and it is tempting to never leave. The manager of our camp, an Aussie with a PhD in Economics, arrived seven years ago and has never left. The place can be that tempting. Especially as some Turks have been developing the climbing over the past couple of years.

I spent so much time climbing that I didn't even have time to sew up my trousers which had completely ripped along the entire length of my butt seam. It was time to bust out the heavy duty tape.

From a sartorial standpoint, tape is far better because I can change the color whenever I want (and when I've been wearing the same clothes for 10 months a little variety can be nice). It wasn't that I was too lazy to sew my trousers, I just couldn't sit around. I mean, who wouldn't want to go climbing, really, when the walk to the crag takes you past this: And this (the tree has grown through the rock so that a chunk of rock is attached to it):And this:And this:And funky, huge, possibly man-eating flowers like this one that Tazzy is holding:And, well, not really this. I couldn´t resist blowing this super-sized dandelion thing and the result is yet another cheesy, 70s style pic to add to my other one from the Ala Dag:
Climbing was so much fun that George and I decided to do a night climb -- through a rather dubious decision making process, of course. BiRT was leaving at the insane time of 4 a.m. so most of us decided to stay up all night and sleep on the truck while driving the next day. We were casually sitting around the firepit at camp when we decided it would be a good idea to go to the local club in hopes that the music would keep us awake. A club in Olympos means about 10 people are in the joint so we weren't expecting much -- especially nothing like floodlights illuminating some climbs on one of the crags. George and I immediately saw the lights, looked at each other and said in unison "Wouldn't it be fun to climb that?" Instead of immediately grabbing our gear, though, we proceeded to have a few more beers and make a spectacle on the dance floor, all the while sneaking glances at our watches in between longing looks at the crag.

Finally, at 2:45 a.m. I couldn't take it any more and said "Look, George, if we run back to the truck now we can grab our gear then run back here and be at the base of the climb ready to go by 3:10. If we each take 15 minutes to climb then we can be done by 3:40 which leaves us plenty of time to be back to the truck before 4." A good plan, I thought, especially in light of the fact that I was able to do higher math at that point in the morning. George was ready for anything as usual, so we sprinted off to the truck laughing like schoolboys, threw on our harnesses, grabbed a rope and some draws, put on our headlamps, and raced back to the crag, arriving 10 minutes ahead of schedule. Yes, we are that good. It took me a few unsteady moves before I got the hang of climbing in the dark -- luckily before our cheering section composed of Aidan, Andy, and a couple of Dutch girls staying at our camp appeared to shout encouragement and insults at us.

George shines his light down upon the adoring crowd:

By the time George had finished we were 15 minutes ahead of schedule and sauntered back to the truck with time to spare. We aren't just good, we're great.

Me and George looking surprisingly peppy at 3:30 a.m.:

Night climbing was such a blast that I'm definitely planning on doing it again in the future.

May 10, 2008: Ilhara Gorge, Turkey

2008-05-31T05:11:00.001-07:00

After the sightseeing in Goreme, we were excited at the prospect of possibly setting new routes in the Ilhara Gorge. Actually, we were just tired of the cold (Goreme got a tad chilly at night) and were looking to go somewhere, anywhere in fact, that was within the 75-77 degree temperature range we craved. Yes, at this point anything outside that narrow range is too hot or too cold. Ilhara Gorge unfortunately did not meet our requirements.

Except for maybe this place which looked like a cozy place to curl up and sleep:

The gorge was beautiful and had a lovely little river running through it, but it was neither warm nor really an option for putting up new routes -- primarily because it was impossible to walk more than 20 feet without seeing another church carved into the cliffs.

Apparently, early Christians built secret churches in the Ilhara Gorge in an effort to avoid persecution for their faith. With so many of the churches practically built on top of each other, though, I couldn't help but wonder how many of them were contemporaneous with one another at any one time.

Carved hand and footholds to get to the second level of one church:

Obviously some were built later than others, but it seems possible that some were fully operational at the same time and not really so secret. Was it like competing congregations? Regardless, some of the frescos were pretty well preserved.

With no prospect of climbing -- especially with the apparent daily rainstorm -- we voted to head to Olympos and the beach (!) a day early.

May 7, 2008: Goreme, Turkey

2008-05-27T05:45:00.000-07:00

Tired of the cold in Ala Dag, we headed down a 1,000 meters or so in elevation to Goreme, located in the heart of the Cappadoccia region famous for its fairy chimneys.

I will never understand why all guidebooks and tourists insist on calling sandstone pillars into which people had carved dwellings "fairy chimneys." For crying out loud people, give the monks and folks that lived there some credit -- I'm sure their existence wasn't exactly fairy-like and magical. Nobody carves a home out of rock with the entrance a couple stories above ground level unless their existence is decidedly unfairy-like.

But I digress. Before entering the land of revisionist history packaged for tour group vacations, we stopped at an underground city carved from bedrock. Yes, that would be a city with room to hold 10,000 people, some of their animals, and food for extended periods of time. Like a year (at least that is what I overheard from a guide talking to his two clients). Unbelievable. Although I would have gone mad after a day in there from constantly bumping my head on the Lilliputian sized passageways, it was surreal to see the end result. The part of the city available for viewing extends seven levels down and contains a warren of rooms that lead to a church, a monastery, a wine cellar, a massive well, etc. The only thing that was missing was a town square, although that may be located somewhere not yet open to the public for all I know. One thing is clear: the situation must have been pretty bad to cause a group of people to spend God knows how long carving a city from bedrock as an escape shelter. The only problem is that it is just not photo friendly. Why were they not considering tourists during construction?

Nathan displays some flair in his tunnel bridging technique:

Anyway, back to Goreme. I was bored by the cute and extremely overpriced town after a day and was forced to search farther afield for entertainment.

Although reminiscent of the Shoe Tree on Highway 50 in Nevada, there were only so many times I could visit this Clay Pot Tree in Goreme:

Tempting offer this is, yes! David opted for a motorized ride instead:

Diana and David wanted to rent dirtbikes for a day to go sightseeing in the area and convinced me it would be a good idea to join them. Never mind that I haven't ever operated a motorcycle. Or any type of motorized two wheel contraption, for that matter. David claimed to have a foolproof method for teaching anyone how to operate a motorcycle, but that didn't take into account the manager of the rental office watching us as we tried to drive off. Needless to say, it was blatantly obvious that I had not a clue about what I was doing and, after much cursing and shouting and pleading and pouting between me and the manager (guess which verbs applied to me), I found myself on a scooter. Not only was I now a bona fide tourist dork, I was with two people on awesome dirtbikes which only amplified my dorkiness.

Despite my geeky helmet and two-stroke engine whine, I had an incredible blast on that silly scooter. Probably because I almost had a bad accident about 1 minute after driving off the rental lot when a fellow opened up his car door right in front of me as I was whizzing by. I turned sharply and I'll be damned if that scooter didn't respond like a dream in a balanced manner. Right then and there I knew we would get along just fine. It was love at first near death experience.

The scooter had decals proclaiming "Off Road" on its sides and I took that to heart. I'm not sure it was really designed for crossing rivers, barrelling up and down outrageously sandy dirt roads (hello fishtailing), and going completely cross country down hillock-y slopes (not recommended), but I put that sucker through its paces. I had that baby going 85 kilometers per hour on the freeway (downhill, but still...), though it was difficult to get above 20 kph on the uphill. I almost -- almost, mind you -- felt like I was in a motorcycle gang. Yes, I felt cool and I was on a scooter. Delusions of grandeur, I know, but it really was on of the more fun days I've had in ages. We rode through cities, tiny towns, on crappy roads that were little more than glorified goat trails, past loads of ridiculous chimneys, dodging chickens and cattle and sheep and goats, and even picking up a shepherd who wanted a lift.

Pics during the ride:

Hobbit House!:Rock village worthy of The Flinstones:More, uh, chimneys:Funky river chasm:It was such a blast I think I might embrace my inner geek and buy myself a scooter when I get back to the U.S.

As if the scooter ride wasn't fun enough, I also made it a point to visit the International UFO Museum. It was a bit of an experience. Carved out of the rock (of course) at the base of a chimney, the museum is definitely worth the 3 Lira admission fee, if for no other reason than the chances are quite good that you will have the entire place to yourself. In fact, I had to track down the woman who was working there to get her to open the door for me.

Entering the museum is quite the production. First the woman cued up the sound system with some New Age-y type music while I stood in front of the large, locked, vault-like entrance door. Then she pressed a button on the sound system console and, with a loud, echoing unlocking click, the door slowly swung open revealing an unlit tunnel. I stood there wondering if perhaps I should have brought a flashlight when a series of lights successively blinked on, illuminating the tunnel like something out of a movie. They definitely had the effect down. I tentatively crossed the threshold and had only taken a couple of bemused steps when I felt a slight rush of air and heard the entrance door shut behind me with an ominous thud. After a brief moment of panic (it's not every day one gets locked in a museum, after all) I decided I might as well explore. I could always tunnel my way out with my fingernails if necessary, I figured.

The museum is pretty much just covered in a confetti of newspaper clippings and colored, photocopied paper describing various incidents and sightings. It is thoughtfully laid out into sections like "Types of UFOs" (photos of UFOs), "International Sightings" and "Turkish Sightings" (first account descriptions), and "History of UFOs" (alleged evidence of aliens and UFOs in cave paintings, etc). It was a little eerie to have the motion detector lights click on and off as I passed from one room to the next all by my lonesome, but it added a bit of ambience.

Until, that is, I found myself facing the "Alien Abduction" room. Which was pitch black. And waving my arms around did not seem to trigger the lights. I'm not a UFO believer, but I must admit it was rather disconcerting to be alone in a cave standing in front of a completely dark room marked "Alien Abductions." I took a deep breath and forced myself to walk into the room, hoping the lights would come on. They didn't. I took a couple more steps and did a slow turn. Still no lights. Creepy. Just as I was about to succomb to my time-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here response, the lights flickered on around a shriveled alien on its back in the corner of the room. Whoa, freaky. Then the rest of the lights came on and I couldn't help but wonder if the lighting was on purpose to maximize effect. If so, kudos to the design team.

Other than the lighting, my other favorite part of the museum was a life-size scene of aliens about to operate on a human.

I'm not sure why the museum creators couldn't have come up with something more, well, benevolent, than four aliens holding various ominous tools standing around a dummy sporting a long, curly wig. Maybe they were concentrating on the lighting effects. Whatever the reason, the museum was amusing and worth the visit.

The only true otherworldy experience I had in Goreme was listening to musicians playing traditional Turkish music in a small, 1,000 year old church carved into the rock. We had been told that there would be some music in a cave near our hostel and it sounded like something worth checking out. Turns out the music was absolutely stunning Turkish folk music, and the "cave" was a fantastic (though freezing) small church built into the rock. It is a yearly event put on by a group of folks from San Francisco and Berkeley, and three of them "opened" for the local musicians with some classic Bay Area style poetry and music. The Turkish musicians, though, were incredible. The last guy to play had an instrument similar to a guitar (can't remember how to spell it) and he was amazing. To me he sounded on par with guitar greats like Segovia, not only for his precise, yet effortless musicianship, but also for the depth of feeling with which he played. Another fellow was like the Turkish version of Boubucar Traore with a raggedly beautiful voice and was a true wandering troubador (the guy has spent his life just wandering around playing music). The third man played a simple Irish type drum with his hands in a soft, nearly caressing manner I have never witnessed. It was almost lush. The three musicians were truly gifted, yet none of them had any recordings. They simply played for the love of music which was a refreshing change from the typical commercial bombardment.

May 4, 2008: Ala Dag, Turkey

2008-05-27T05:06:00.001-07:00

"Ooooh, the Ala Dag is, eh, um, ah, er, uh... mystical," said the beaming man, pleased with himself that he had managed to come up with a word in English that expressed exactly how he felt about the region. I had fallen into conversation with yet another kind Adana denizen, and he had become quite excited when I told him that my next destination was the Ala Dag. I simply smiled in response, not entirely convinced by his word choice. It was a stretch for me to imagine a place that was truly "mystical" after everything I've seen. Definitely a bit of travel snobbery on my part, but I have a pretty high standard these days after 10 months on the road. The other thing I should know by now is that the world has a limitless capacity to impress me. Let it be written here and now that I, too, find the Ala Dag to be mystical.

Last evening light on some peaks:Fantastic evening clouds:
A stunning stretch of rugged 3,000+ meter peaks that are part of the Taurus Mountains in west central Turkey, the Ala Dag is just the kind of region that should be crawling with outdoor enthusiasts, yet it is freakishly empty. It is pretty small -- roughly 25 kilometers wide and 35 kilometers long -- so it is reasonable to think that one might see a few fleece clad folks skipping about. Yet other than two Bulgarian climbers and a handful of Ukrainian mountaineers, the only other people we saw in our week there were a shepherd and the single ranger responsible for patrolling all of the Ala Dag.

Oh, and this guy on horseback (lower left):

Perhaps that was because we were on the early side of the tourist season. It was early Spring and we did get snowed on a couple of times, but there certainly was no tourist infrastructure to indicate heavy use of the area.

How's this for a campsite?:
It was, in a word, refreshing -- especially because the Ala Dag is the kind of place that inspires a person to take off and explore. Several people packed their gear and headed off into the mountains for two or three day treks, while others chose to tackle the nearby peaks as a dayhike or, in Nathan's case, a dayrun. All returned to camp completely pumped from their experiences.

Evening tall tales around the fire. Back L to R: George, Hannah, Juliet; Front: Henry, Theresa, Ruth, Rich, Danny:
Those of us that were lazy and stayed in camp could look forward to two things: the flock of sheep that ambled through our campsite daily and excellent sport climbing.

Ordinarily, a flock of sheep are not that interesting. They just mosey along grazing making everything look ridiculously pastoral while taking taste test nibbles of my tent. This flock, however, was protected by sheepdogs the likes of which I've never see before. Imagine if the offspring from the unlikely union of a polar bear and a rotweiller was outfitted with a homemade metal spike collar straight out of Mad Max.

Do not touch!:

The end result is rather intimidating -- even more so when combined with a booming bark, the speed of a greyhound, and the intelligence of a wolf (the dogs supposedly have some wolf blood in them). They are the most perfect sheep guards I've ever seen, and apparently need to be for occasional tangles with local wolves. Hot Rock being Hot Rock, however, we immediately befriended the semi-wild canines and ruined them from ever being effective work dogs again. Although one had to be careful of the spike collar when petting the beasts -- especially when they tried to thrust their head into one's lap -- they clearly loved the attention (something they likely rarely, if ever, experienced as a work dog) and often hung around camp long after the sheep flock had moved through.

Awww, can I keep him? He was even shaking my hand after a single petting session. It is unfortunate, though, that my hair makes this look like a bad photo from a cheesy 70's album:
It was tempting to sit around and dodge spiked collars all day, but the sport climbing called. Located in Kizikli Canyon just outside the boundaries of the Ala Dag, the limestone routes have all been put up by a local married couple who are in the process of developing the area.

Sector Five of the canyon where many routes are located:

The great thing is that they know what they are doing. The 100+ routes that are currently open are well bolted, cover a variety of grades from French 5c to 8a, and, most importantly, are interesting. They intend to publish a guidebook soon and I expect this area will become a must for sport climbers in Turkey.

Theresa flexes her forearms (she's nearly 40): Tazzy (aka Anna) crimping her way up a climb (she's nearly 50): And, of course, George still stretching for holds at 60: David, Ruth, and Diana topping out: Sam sporting retro neon orange shades. Will the 80's never die?:

April 28, 2008: Aleppo, Syria to Adana, Turkey

2008-05-15T12:17:00.001-07:00

We almost didn't make it into Turkey from Syria. Turkey recently passed a law that no trucks older than 20 years old could enter the country, and, of course, BiRT's registration says 1988. It was unclear from several sources (including various governments) if 1988 was or was not an acceptable year. For several weeks we weren't sure if we would be able to cross the border and there were at least 47 different contingency plans floating around should we get stopped, all of them a complete pain in the ass.

Tensions were high so there was only one thing to do: watch Rambo 4 at the movie theater in Aleppo, Syria the night before we were going to attempt to cross the border. Yes, Rambo 4 was playing in a movie theater in Syria and we figured that few things could match watching a gratuitously violent American film in an Axis of Evil country. The bonus was that it was a double feature. I can't even remember the last time I saw a double feature. I think it might have been some sort of cheesy ABBA movie lead in paired with Return from Witch Mountain. But I date myself. Granted, the first movie was a Chinese martial arts flick filmed in Australia dubbed over in English with Arabic subtitles, but it was still a double feature. Although mostly empty, the theater was quite splendid and even had a balcony where management seated our group. Yes, not only was there an usher, but a fellow walked around selling sodas. How cool is that? That's service we just don't have stateside any more.

The movie was, well, rather ridiculous. I watched it highly amused, yet acutely aware of how movies color people's perception of America, and Rambo 4 is not something I would choose to use as a point of reference for America. One thing I found most surprising was that nothing had been censored out of the movie. I was expecting some of the language and perhaps some of the women's bare shoulders to be edited out, but nothing had been altered.

The whole experience made me realize that going to the movies could very well be a bit of an erotic thrill for Syrian men. Not a single woman was in sight that night -- not in the theater, not down in the lobby, not entering or exiting the restroom -- and it appeared to be a men only type experience. All the movie posters were, um, enhanced. Although not especially erotic by Western standards, the posters had been altered so that even Nicole Kidman had prominent cleavage. That may not seem like a big thing, but in a country where exposed elbows are practically viewed as another pair of breasts by the older generation, exposed cleavage is huge. In fact, as we were leaving the theater, which had turned out the lights in the lobby exit, men were looking at the movie posters featuring prominently exposed cleavage with flashlights. Flashlights! That's not exactly something a person carries around with them, especially when they are not an usher.

So, with the terse dialogue of Sylvester Stallone in our ears and the non-existent yet somehow still extraordinarily large cleavage of Nicole Kidman in our minds, we trotted back to our hostel (with a falafel stop, of course) and said a prayer that BiRT would make it across the border to Turkey.

And, what do you know, our prayers were answered! BiRT was on the bubble but ok, and we were so excited that we stopped at a duty free shop on the border between Syria and Turkey. It was, hands down, the best duty free shop I've ever seen. Everybody went crazy and bought outrageous amounts of chocolate and alcohol which must have been quite a sight. Imagine 12 homeless looking people running up and down brightly lit aisles throwing booze, chocolate, and snacks excitedly into their overflowing carts with abandon. The duty free shop had no idea what hit them. But, come on, when Laphroig scotch is $30 for a liter, how can one not stock up for the next year? I got so caught up in the buying frenzy that I even bought another point and shoot camera. I believe it was at that point that the manager appeared, pledging his eternal gratitude to me. He did actually come talk to me and asked me if I would fill out a customer satisfaction card. I gladly and heartily endorsed his shop as the best duty free shop I've ever had the pleasure of spending an obscene amount of money in.

Fresh from duty free and literally bouncing up and down with excitement that we were allowed to go through the border, it was inevitable that we should break into our new purchases in celebration. Here's the result.

The beer that started it all. And from Danny's home country to boot:Nathan in repose: When nature calls we all piled into a toilet in a random town. Counterclockwise: Mav, Aidan, Hannah, Diana, Me. In a rare moment, I'm the only person smiling semi normally:

Bathroom photo #2. Nathan, Gail, and me: Aidan needs to fix the split in his trousers. Might I suggest industrial tape?: George takes Paul out for a spin in a supermarket parking lot. Apparently the staff ran to the windows to view the antics: Group photo on BiRT. L to R: Diana, Mav, Hannah, Danny, George, George's dirty foot, Aidan, Gail, Nathan, and Paul: The return of the pirate flag!:Everyone spots Hannah as she attempts to boulder into BiRT after a toilet stop:
Nathan and Hannah get caught in BiRT's windstream: Danny plows into the lake at our bushcamp. Note his Crocs floating in the foreground. George made a raft and sailed them out into the middle of the lake later:
Gail and Hannah struggle to tango:
Danny and Mav after a post lake dip pose with...sheep. Nice farmer's tan by the way, Mav:
Henry enjoys a well-deserved rest:
The anti-family portrait. Hannah, George, and Henry:
Sunset at our bushcamp:
Aidan gets buzzed by George The Barber:
Is George trying to feel up my girlfriend?:
Kids following BiRT on bikes as we drive through a random neighborhood:
Hannah forgot to wash...15 days ago:

Ruth beats Mav at arm wrestling?: After our beautiful bushcamp, we pushed on to Adana. Adana was great because, although it is a large city, there didn't seem to be many tourists around so everyone was super friendly and nice. One morning Diana and I were looking for a coffee shop when a fellow stopped us and asked if he could help. We explained we were looking for somewhere to sit down, have some coffee, and chill for awhile, and he personally walked us to this fantastic place 15 minutes away in an area we never would have found on our own (note to those looking for business opportunities: comfy coffee shops in Adana would definitely be a hit). Although Adana was great, it was bittersweet because we were dropping off a couple of members. Paul, another Yank studying in London, had to go take a final, and Maverick (aka Mark the walking jukebox) had to go back to work for the RAF. Aidan gives Mav a goodbye hug:

April 23, 2008: Krak des Chevaliers, Syria

2008-05-14T09:40:00.001-07:00

We continued to cram some culture into our trip as we drove north toward Turkey and stopped to see a castle that had been inhabited for more than a thousand years. I don't consider myself much of a castle person, but Krak (or Krac or Crak or Crac -- there appears to be no standardization) des Chevaliers is rather fantastic.

Although it does not look that impressive from the outside, Krak des Chevaliers is quite big inside the walls, as well as gloriously dank and damp and full of hidden rooms and passageways and stairways.
It is, quite possibly, the best place ever to play Hide-and-Seek. I spent nearly four hours in the castle exploring, wishing I had brought my headlamp in with me, trying to sneak up on Hot Rockers attempting to scare other Hot Rockers, and, of course, a little bouldering.

Diana swings by:
It was a total blast and I felt like I was six years old again.

Thankfully, I was not six years old when it came time for cook duty that night because my six-year old self would have cowered under one of the seats on BiRT, refusing to emerge. Our bushcamp that evening was decidedly more urban than anything before on the trip and consisted of parking along a crumbling road adjacent to a small town beneath Krak des Chevaliers. It was, shall we say, rather public, and the entire town passed by at some point to see what was going on. While some Hot Rockers desperately tried to entertain the hordes of children in an effort to keep them away from the fire, Diana and I set about cooking dinner in front of an ever-expanding group of adults. It was like being a celebrity chef. Everybody had questions about what we were cooking and how we were preparing it, and would then proceed to take the lids off the pots and peer in while clucking in approval or shake their heads in disapproval. Talk about too many cooks in the kitchen. Then there was the matter of me cooking. Men are just not involved in the cooking process, and I was a source of ridicule among the men and endless amusement among the women. I imagined all the women using me as an example in an effort to get their husbands to help out in the kitchen, unintentionally creating an entire generation of 5-star Syrian male chefs. Anything to make me feel better about myself.

If the dinner was not enough of an event, evening turned out to be the absolute worst night of sleep on this trip. Braying donkeys, braying dogs, Danny getting sick and retching his innards out (I have never heard anyone so violently ill before), a seemingly all night motorcycle rally, mysterious coughing men pacing along the road, and, of course, the ubiquitous mosque with an especially egregious sound system. I don't think anyone slept more than an hour that night. I couldn't, however, help but laugh at what has to be one of the most bizarre nights I've ever experienced.

The morning after. My tent on the crumbling road. Probably not the safest tent site ever:

Ah, look, it's the town. And that spire is the mosque. Trust me, I thought that mosque was right inside my tent when early morning call started:

April 22, 2008: Palmyra, Syria

2008-05-14T09:17:00.000-07:00

Hmmm... choices, choices. L to R: Aidan, Maverick, and me:
I don't understand why Palmyra supplanted Petra as the main trade center in this region of the Middle East -- Petra ruins are way more impressive. Actually, it was the favoritism of Rome which played the most important part in the rise of Palmyra, but apparently all that Roman favoritism only resulted in arches, columns, columns and arches, columns and castles (that's a castle up on the hill in the background), and columns and camels.
At least there is no charge for one to wander around the Palmyra ruins today. The danger being that a camel rider may befriend you, offer you a free ride, then turn into a lecherous lout as he takes you miles away into the desert. Luckily, Hannah and Diana returned unharmed, although they both felt rather "icky" after the experience.

We tried to find a pool to wash off the "ick," but the Lonely Planet directed us only to a ditch with running water that gathered in sad puddles in a random fellow's yard. So we did the next best thing and went for high ground to a castle overlooking Palmyra. We weren't particularly inspired to go in, although Gail managed to find a decent bouldering problem.
I took a liking to this motorcycle (note the fringe) and a local fellow struck up a conversation with me while I was admiring the seat cover, eventually working up the courage to ask me if we perhaps had a book on sex in the truck that he could have. A what?! A number of quips came to mind, none of which probably would have translated very well, so after a bit of an amused pause I simply shrugged and said "Sorry," and he dejectedly slumped away. I'm not exactly sure what he was expecting. I mean, I suppose I could have given him a copy of "The Stud" by Jackie Collins (the most lascivious and hilarious book we have on BiRT), but I think he probably was looking for something more graphic. Besides, I couldn't very well let this poor guy get all his ideas about sex from a Jackie Collins book. That's just not good travel karma.

April 21, 2008: Damascus, Syria

2008-05-13T02:30:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but I've rather become a fan of Axis of Evil police states and Syria has quite unexpectedly become one of my favorite countries on this trip. I crossed the border fearing the worst due to news about the U.S. cage rattling and threatening to bomb the country while I happened to be there (nothing like scheduling a bombing run to put a damper on enthusiastic tourism), not to mention the past history of strained relations over nuclear weapons, terrorist involvement, etc. Yet this was the first country in which I had absolutely no negative experiences.

Well, let me qualify that last statement. I did not quite enjoy being woken up between 4 and 4:30 a.m. every morning by the 6 mosques around our campsite blaring out the early morning call to prayer at top volume from what were quite possibly the worst speakers ever to be manufactured. You can't walk more than 50 feet without seeing yet another mosque, and they all have 5 daily calls to prayer. Count 'em, five. The last 4 are fine, but that early morning call is really, dare I say it, uncalled for. Some days begin with extraordinarily distorted recordings complete with sucked in breaths, hacking and wheezing, and the distinctly annoying sound of the mic repeatedly clicking on and off, while other days are perhaps training days and some 8-year old boy goes live in a tremulous tenor. The one definite thing you can count on every day is 28 of the loudest neighborhood dogs -- and occasional guest donkey or two -- joining in with their loudest howls and brays. The resulting cacophony is enough to either induce murderous thoughts or fits of laughter (and sometimes both). I can't tell you how many mornings I woke up peeved, then started laughing uncontrollably at the ridiculous array of sound piercing the calm morning. To be fair, the singing can be quite beautiful when done live by a professional, but those automated recordings are the closest things I've heard to fingernails grating on a chalkboard since I was in grade school.

Anyway, back to the positives. People in Syria were incredibly generous and friendly and genuine. Perhaps everyone is so well behaved because the secret police is allegedly the largest employer in Syria, but I don't think that can explain a completely random stranger buying me a soda and a shopkeeper giving me an ice cream cone for free. And I had not even talked to them! It was simply a nice gesture on their part welcoming me as a tourist in their country. On multiple occasions people went out of their way to be helpful, such as leaving their shop to assist me when they noticed me having difficulty communicating with taxis (English is not especially widespread).

There are not exactly hordes of tourists in Syria and that may be why people were still so nice. Shopkeepers were friendly and almost always charged the same price as they did for locals. I absolutely loved wandering around Old Town, an ancient, walled portion of Damascus that is a warren of markets, shops, houses, restaurants, mosques, etc, because people were respectful and it was a fully functioning slice of Syrian life. Locals did their shopping there for everything from tires to wedding dresses to forged iron items (smelting on site!) to fake flowers. It was fantastic and I had a blast there with my camera, even going on a couple of night shoots with Diana.

Moon rises over a church:
Pigeons fly around a mosque:Some Syrian boys mugging for the camera:Open library door in Old Town:

Night shot in Old Town:I loved this guy sitting in his shop at night surrounded by bolts of colorful fabrics:Wedding dress shopkeeper on the phone. I liked the way the dresses form a heart shape with him in the middle:Cool lights hanging over an alleyway of shops:Everything this fellow was selling was white and frilly. His posture cracks me up:A man looks in a necklace shop:Spices:Interesting doorway:The posh part of Old Town at night:

More often than not people were just curious and surprised to see tourists -- especially an American tourist -- and were full of questions. The usual questions involving marriage, babies, and politics (Are you married (safest to answer yes on that one)? How many babies do you have? Obama will win?) were sometimes followed up with more unusual questions. One night Maverick, Diana, and I went to a night club and a fellow asked me if I was Christian. That took me by surprise and I was not quite sure what the proper response might be in a Muslim country. Do locals normally ask tourists if they are Christian? Was it a trick question? I simply nodded, he seemed satisfied, and everyone carried on dancing.

The bathroom at the club also threw me for a loop because the attendant sidled up next to me while I was at the urinal and laid a tissue over the divider. I wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Was I supposed to blow my nose? Use it on my hands before washing them? Uh, wipe? With him watching me expectantly from a discreet distance at the sinks, I settled on wipe and was then immediately unsure about what to do with the tissue. I couldn't very well flush it down the urinal and there were no trash cans near, so I carried it back with me toward the sinks. The attendant held out his hand and it was an awkward moment until I realized he wanted me to give him the used tissue. An even more awkward moment passed until I reluctantly handed it over, unsure if this was standard protocol or I was completely botching the situation and he was simply being tolerant. With a flick of his wrist he dumped the tissue into a nearly hidden trash can, then proceeded to spritz me with rose water. By this time I was so out of my element I merely stood there dumbfounded as he proceeded to wash my hands, dry them, then spritz me with more rose water. Was my shower that morning not as thorough as I thought it had been? I stumbled out of the bathroom confused and smelling like Valentine's Day bouquet, but rather liking the service. Four Seasons could learn a thing or two in Damascus.

The climbing around Damascus was also surprisingly quite good. A core group of expats have been developing a few crags within an hour or so of the city, and they have put up some quality sport routes over the past few years. Once you get past the extra sharp rock (hello bloody fingertips), excessively modest grading (can you say sandbag?), and sound of nearby machine gun fire (military training grounds were near one crag and the military had recently decided to build near another crag), it is possible to have an enjoyable day out. Thankfully BiRT was undergoing some upgrades so we were in Damascus for over a week and could get used to some of those quirks at the crags. It was great to once again do a lot of climbing and even have the luxury of picking out a project or two. As a bonus, the climbing club had put together one of the nicest climbing guides I've seen on the trip, and I bought one as a souvenir.

It was so cold one morning at the crag that Maverick (aka Mark) and I put on rope bags to keep warm:I look like a complete idiot climbing with the rope bag on, but it did help keep me warm:Diana's back muscles mean business:All 6'7" of Maverick on a climb:Nathan does his best guerrilla impression. Note the snow on the mountains in the background:Danny gets himself into another odd contortion:You can just about make out Aidan center far left in this pic doing the classic I'm-so-cool-while-I-reach-into-my-chalkbag pose:Mav all tuckered out using his quickdraws quite possibly the most uncomfortable pillow ever:

April 14, 2008: Dead Sea and Amman, Jordan

2008-05-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

I finally floated comfortably in water! After years of thrashing around in pools failing miserably at trying to glide effortlessly across the top of the water like even the least athletically inclined 4-year old, I actually bobbed like a cork for once. It took me jumping into a body of water six times as salty as the ocean, but, well, I can't be too choosy about these things.

I clearly have not taken the headline to heart:

The Dead Sea was on our way to Amman and everyone wanted a chance to go for a dip to see what all the fuss was about. Turns out we created most of the fuss just by showing up. There was a "beach" (aka rocks) en route that was free and popular with locals because of the springs nearby to wash off the salts and minerals from the Dead Sea. And, trust me, you want to wash all that off your body or risk becoming encased in a salt shield as the water dries.

So, following our we-pay-for-nothing mantra, we parked BiRT along the road with about 30 other buses and cars that had ferried in the approximately 436 men that could be seen levitating above the water. Yes, that would be 436 men and 0 women. Definitely not bikini land. Recognizing that it would likely cause a riot among the horde of Muslim men if they wore anything revealing, four of the women on the trip donned long shorts and shirts before heading to the water. It was like chumming for sharks. Along with death and taxes, the third thing you can be assured of in life is that four women together (let along four white women) are guaranteed to draw a crowd in a Muslim country.

Within seconds of appearing at the water's edge, a jostling, splashing scrum of leering men encircled the women. There was no way that we could fend off the horde, and, inevitably, the women began to feel sly hands pinching and brushing up against them. After one too many lingering touches, Diana went ballistic and started punching one fellow in his late teens that had been sneaking up on all the women to touch them. He immediately became the laughing stock of his buddies. All the men backed off after that incident (watch out for the crazy Western woman!), but it was just too uncomfortable for the women and we all left shortly after feeling as though we had swallowed a bit of the acrid Dead Sea.

Thankfully, Amman had 24-hour falafel shops to raise our spirits. BiRT need to undergo some repairs and so we had several days in Amman to explore its hidden treasures like banana shakes and sushi (I know, it's shocking enough that I had a craving for sushi, let alone that I managed to find a rather spectacular place serving sushi during lunch.) I've definitely reached a point on the trip where food trumps culture every time, and didn't see a single historical site in Amman.

I did, however, make a bit of a splash with the locals. One night at the hostel another traveller told us about a marathon taking place in Amman the following day. We all thought it sounded like great fun to run it and arranged for a taxi to pick us all up at 7 a.m. the next morning. The decision to run a marathon is either planned months in advance to accommodate a disciplined, arduous training schedule or, in our case, after a few drinks in to the evening. A few drinks turned into an epic night and it was a bit of a struggle to wake up after hitting the pillow barely an hour before the alarm went off. Despite pounding loudly on doors and pouring water on my formerly eager marathon participants in a desperate effort to wake them, I managed only to wake the entire city block and three other delusional, still moderately sauced Hot Rockers.

Looking fresh in the morning L to R: Me, Diana, George, Aidan:

Although still slightly swaying when in the strenuous upright position, George, Aidan, Diana, and I managed to throw on dresses, obscenely short running shorts, crop tops, and load ourselves down with climbing gear. Yes, we planned to run roped together in our climbing harnesses. Someone had taken it upon themselves to cancel our taxi and so we hit the street in our understated outfits to find a cab at 7:30 in the morning. It was clear at this point we would not make it in time for the start of the marathon, but we figured we could at least jump in on the 10k. We had managed to get ourselves up and barely dressed, dammit, we would not be denied!

We hailed a cab in a surprisingly short amount of time -- apparently seeing a fit 60-year old male in a neon yellow and pink crop halter top was not quite the deterrent we thought it would be -- and the driver claimed to know the start of the marathon was located. Ten minutes later, he delivered us to a large sports complex. High-fiving and well pleased with ourselves, we eagerly hopped out in search of the start. Four and a half minutes later we noticed that the complex was strangely quiet as we headed for the enormous stadium. We were sure that everyone had already started, but there still should be some noise, a few booths, music, and maybe even some people milling about. It soon became evident that our friendly taxi driver had no clue what we were talking about when we asked for "marathon" and had simply delivered us to the most logical place for an oddly dressed group of foreigners mime-ing running: a stadium far from the rest of rational humanity.

Bound and determined to find the damn marathon, we started asking hapless people in track suits if they knew anything about it. Due to a mutual language barrier, the people usually gave a confused look and hurried on without stopping. I'm sure it had absolutely nothing to do with our appearance. Eventually we found some friendly policemen who did their best to help us -- even calling in to headquarters -- but, although people seemed to know some type of race was happening, they had no idea where. After a few photos, we headed undeterred to another main road in hopes of finding a cab driver that knew something.

With the morning patrol:

George, Aidan and me get our daily dose of culture:

After several unsuccessful attempts, we eventually hailed a cab driver that appeared to understand what we were trying to communicate and agreed to take us for a reasonable sum. We had caught our second wind and were once again excitedly laughing and joking while we drove and drove and drove and drove and finally started to become somewhat concerned when we wound up in a random neighborhood far from the center of Amman. Were we being kidnapped? Who on Earth would want to kidnap us? Especially in our outfits. We decided screw it, we had come this far let's see what happens next. Suddenly, the cab driver stopped next to a house, shut off the engine, got out of the cab, and disappeared. For 10 minutes or so we sat in the cab wondering what the hell was going on, but didn't really feel like going for leisurely walk around the neighborhood. A few minutes later a different man jumped into the cab and we drove off. Once initial questions established that he spoke no English, we settled back to enjoy what we figured might very well be our last ride in a car. A few nervous miles later I saw a billboard for the Dead Sea Marathon. Forget Amman, at least we were headed toward a race.

We caught our third wind and became downright hysterical when we finally saw a runner. At last! We stopped the cab, burst into a store for a quick breakfast of potato chips,

Breakfast of champions:
tied ourselves together with the climbing rope, then started running down the road laughing uncontrollably. We had no idea where we were, but we were in the race!

It didn't take us long to figure out that it was hotter than Hades, we were following the last runner in the race, and, most importantly, running while tied together is a pain in the ass. Then we jogged by a sign that said 30k.

Was that 30 kilometers from the start or 30 kilometers to the finish? When we saw that the next sign was 29k we started trying to hitch a ride from the ambulance that was bringing up the rear. They weren't particularly keen on taking us to the 10k point, so we once again stuck our thumbs out.

Would you stop for these people?:
A truck carrying empty milk crates took us part of the way

Me and Aidan enjoying the breeze:George The Bathing Beauty:
and our next ride was a van with empty paint thinner cans in the back. Not exactly the best smell when you already have a touch of nausea. We asked the driver to take us to the 10k sign, but it took him about 1k to actually stop -- probably because he had been smelling paint thinner for the better part of the morning -- and he dropped us off at the 9k mark. We were finally in the race two hours, two cab rides, and two hitched rides after we had set off from Amman.

So, with our fourth wind we joined the ranks of runners and jogged our way to the Dead Sea, climbing gear clanking merrily away. It was such a blast, despite the fact that I was sweating profusely under my climbing helmet. I couldn't complain though because there were Muslim women running in long sleeve shirts, trousers, and head scarves. Talk about hardcore!

People loved us. Other runners laughed or gave us a weary thumbs up, passing drivers honked and waved, and, at one point, a car screeched to a halt in front of us and a man with an excessively big camera jumped out of the passenger side and started snapping pictures. We felt a bit like celebrities while running, but were unprepared for the onslaught of attention once we actually crossed the finish line.

Everyone wanted to talk to us and take photos with us. We even met a fellow who was living in Syria that was friends with the head of the climbing club in Damascus, our next destination.

If the race itself wasn't fun enough, the party at the finish line was, by far, the best post-race party I've ever seen (and I've seen a lot). It was in an open air complex with two swimming pools on the shore of the Dead Sea and was absolutely jammed with local runners and their friends and families. People were dancing on the dance floor, splashing around in the pools or in the Dead Sea (I jumped in, as well),

Pool party!:
drinking and eating great food, and just having a good time. It was a completely different scene from our first Dead Sea hoodlum experience and we spent the entire afternoon there. One bus and a claustrophobic car ride (8 of us in a car smaller than a Mini Cooper) later from a couple we had met at the party, and we were back at our hostel.

George and I struggle to get out of the car with legs that had long ago fallen asleep:
Definitely another lifetime highlight day!

April 9, 2008: Petra, Jordan

2008-04-26T04:11:00.000-07:00

What does it take to really put a World Heritage site on the map? Why Hollywood, of course. Petra, an astonishing city carved out of sandstone, hit the big time (for better or for worse) thanks to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Harrison Ford goes galloping through a canyon and sees this, immediately making the viewer think "Whoa! Where the hell is that?!" Too bad every hotel in the area shows that movie incessantly now for the masses of tourists. I used to like that movie.

One nice thing about tourists on packaged tours is that they all tend to visit Petra at the same time so it is possible to have the place pretty much to yourself if you don't mind getting up at an ungodly hour.

Donkeys lined up and ready to take tourists back to the top of the canyon: Definitely worth it, however, as there is certainly something special about walking through the canyon and seeing The Treasury building appear between the narrow walls with nobody else around. It does feel a bit like stumbling upon something that nobody has seen for centuries, if you ignore the tourist tat shops that is.

And perhaps the signs vying for a person's attention:

Duh:

Historians do not know when the Nabataeans first started building Petra, but it flourished as an important trade center until the rise of Palmyra (due to Roman support) to the north in Syria around the mid 300s A.D. I was completely blown away by how much time and effort it must have taken to carve temples and tombs and homes and a theater out of the rock by hand -- especially because it is unclear why the Nabataeans decided to chip away at the rock for centuries. Evidence suggests that the first peoples in the region were cave dwellers and I like to think that the massive buildings were simply a result of "keeping up with the Joneses." Early McMansions, if you will.

The Monastery:

Massive temples and tombs line the base of the cliff in the background:
Whatever their fixation with rock, the Nabataeans ability to control water certainly played an important role in the growth of the city (although I like to think that people came to see the beautiful colors and patterns of the sandstone).
Water conduits built into the rock are still plainly visible today, and I was struck by how effectively they had utilized natural lines to aid in the movement of water. It must have been quite an impressive site to enter the natural fortress-like city from the surrounding desert and see water running along canyon walls.

Petra is huge and incredibly picturesque. Diana and I must have taken around 800 photos between us (thank God for digital cameras), and took a break from constant shutter snapping to explore a canyon near The Treasury. We thought it would be hardcore clambering around through micro thin canyons and over precariously balanced boulders, but it turned out the Nabataeans did the logical terra-forming thing and had conveniently cut steps the entire way for us a few centuries ago. Not exactly hardcore canyoning, although some of the steps were a bit polished and sloping after thousands of years of use by countless feet... We couldn't resist doing some bouldering along the way, of course, especially when we found ourselves on top of a cliff overlooking The Treasury. I'm sure the rock-loving Nabataeans would have approved.

April 4, 2008: Wadi Rum, Jordan

2008-04-19T05:08:00.000-07:00

Wadi Rum is like the American Southwest on steroids. The sandstone mountains are bigger, badder, and unlike anything I've seen before. Matt B and Diana hiking across red dunes to check out a climb:Eroded cliffs with red dunes in the distance:
The erosion has created fantastical features on the mountains giving them the appearance of melted wax, dripping and twisting down the cliff faces. Sometimes, encircled by cliffs, I felt as though I was in an immense opera house surrounded by tiers of box seats filled with people. Rather impressionist, I know, but it was an amazing similarity if I squinted into the sun just right.

Diana and Matt B. hiking through Rakabat Canyon to a climb:I liked the region so much that I actually enjoyed all the trad climbing I did, and it is a special place, indeed, if I'm enjoying the trad climbing.

Cool evening light on mountains behind the town of Wadi Rum:
Sunset:Tom, me, and George celebrating at the top of a climb:Abseiling down a route:Tom and George coiling ropes at the end of a route:So much for peace and quiet. Tom decides to actually respond to clients while on vacation:The awesome 50 meter 6a+ crack first pitch of Warriors of the Wasteland. You can just barely make out Matt B. at the horizontal break near the bottom of the pic:Red dunes:Lonely yellow flower:Dune ridges:Me leading the first pitch on Essence of Rum:
Maverick (aka Mark) and Aidan wound up having one evening where they weren't enjoying the trad climbing so much. They had set off on a long route that would take them to the top of Jebel Rum, a massive mountain directly behind our campsite, and didn't quite make it to the descent before dark. Wisely, they chose to spend a chilly night on the mountain instead of trying to find the abseil points in the dark with headlamps. Duncan and Nathan set off at first light the next morning in case they needed help, and ran into the tired and hungry pair who were rapidly descending. While everyone was relieved that Mav and Aidan were ok, I was just happy to welcome a couple more people to the "I've-unintentionally-spent-the-night-on-top-of-a-mountain-on-Hot-Rock" club. It was getting lonely being a club of one now that David is gone.

It is quite surprising, actually, that there are not more climbers here. We passed through during the alleged high season for climbers, but saw maybe 12 other climbers at the one official campsite in town while we were there. Tourism is taking off in this town of 1,500 people, however.

George sunbathes (lower left) on a cliff overlooking the town of Wadi Rum:

It is the reason the town exists in its current form, having started out 20 years ago as just a couple of houses. The busloads of daytrippers that come to Wadi Rum for a jeep or camel ride into the desert, plus the groups on multi-day treks into the spectacular canyons, use the Bedouin as guides. Now the Bedouin all have cell phones and 4x4s in addition to camels, yet they have lost none of their legendary hospitality.

We took a three day trip out into nearby Barrah Canyon for climbing and the fellow that dropped us off and picked us up invited our group of 15 people to his house for dinner. What person in their right mind would invite a group of grubby, hungry climbers to dinner? We're likely to eat them out of house and home! Of course we took him up on it, and there was so much food that most of us were reduced to wallowing around like bloated maggots before we could finish it all. I did my best, but couldn't make it past five helpings.

Freshies! First morning tracks on the way to Barrah Canyon:Bedouin and camels on the move. Heading for coffee?:Tom might look suave and sophisticated if it weren't for the headlamp:We hadn't broken down in BiRT for some time, but it really wasn't necessary for one of the jeeps taking us to Barrah Canyon to splutter to a stop:Better than pushing BiRT, I suppose:This Bedouin fellow (lower left) tried to talk to me and Diana before going his merry way with his camels:Sunrise from camp in Barrah Canyon:Diana (lower right) takes on some serious crack:Gail (top) and Hannah (bottom) try out the double climb method:Diana relieved to be on the belay ledge:Yet another gorgeous sunrise in Barrah Canyon:Now for something different -- sunset:I'm growing weary of sensational sunsets:

I don't consider myself much of a desert person, yet found Wadi Rum to be extraordinary. It's not necessary to be a climber to appreciate the area, even. One day Diana and I joined Matt B. on a canyon adventure hike that he said was one of his all-time favorite days out ever. He had done the hike twice before -- once with a guide when he had first visited Wadi Rum several years ago and once with Emma and a couple of Germans he met before Hot Rock arrived (Matt and Emma had left the group back in Aswan to spend more time in Wadi Rum).

Diana and I figured if Matt says it was a good day then it must be a good day. We eagerly agreed to join him and, what do you know, it turned out to be one of my favorite days ever. We hired a Bedouin to drive us to our start point, hiked up a mountain (which involved much clambering and climbing without ropes along a rock "trail" that had maybe five cairns the entire distance), then proceeded to abseil through 10 different ab points -- some of which dropped a person into water and required swimming -- into a canyon. Never have I had such an experience. Definitely a 10+ on the funtastic scale. To top it all off, we hitched a ride to camp at sunset in the back of a Bedouin truck that just happened to be carrying a camel. I never envisioned that I would one day share space in the back of a pickup with a camel while speeding through the desert.

Diana climbing up the mountain:
Why did we decide Matt knew where he was going?Matt and Diana get close to the edge:And now we enter the slabby portion of our hike. blech. That's Matt lower left:Who needs rock climbing shoes? Me working my way to the top:Definitely don't want to fall down into that abyss. We had to bridge the entire length of this chasm, which, at one point, required turning the other direction. Very bizarre, but somehow it worked. Diana gingerly works her way along:Overlapping steep-sided, mini-canyons. Easy to get lost when you get down in that mess:Diana doing some more free-climbing. About this time we were wondering why we didn't bring our climbing shoes:Matt and Diana checking out a cool cliff:Colorful rock shards:Stunning sandstone features:These types of formations were everywhere:Now the fun begins! Time to start descending:Matt works his way across one of the pools deep in the canyon:Diana checking out her reflection? Nope, just prepping for...:her next scary step:Tree in the canyon:View from the top of one of the abseils:Matt comes down one of the final abseils:And it's sunset by the time we exit the canyon. Bedouin tent in the foreground. Wadi Rum is around that gap in the mountains far left:
Tent update: The tent blew away again during a particularly windy day while I was out climbing. Only 3 of the original 12 stakes remain now. I'm going to recommend to Marmot that they make stakes at least 4 feet long when pitching on sand and ground that turns to mud in the rain. Perhaps also include some cement blocks with the tent... I may also have to start setting cat traps for all the little buggers that find my tent irresistable since the urinating frenzy at St. Katherine's. Their sense of smell is better than the average soap washing, apparently.

March 26, 2008: St. Katherine's, Egypt

2008-04-16T04:51:00.000-07:00

I discovered that I had lost my head for climbing at St. Katherine's. I was tentative, I was not trusting my feet, and every move felt awkward and forced.

Tom has no problem gritting it out on a boulder:Aidan tries to get some help from his feet:
It was a shame, really, because there is massive potential for climbing on the granite mountains that fight for space in the area, many of which have barely been explored by modern climbers (although a handful of people have climbed in the area, Dave Lucas, a former Hot Rocker, has spent the past few years trying to develop the region in an effort to make it a viable climbing tourist destination).

Typical views:
I say modern climbers because the Bedouins have "paths" -- many of which require trad gear by today's standards -- they have used for centuries to criss-cross the mountains. It is humbling to realize that a population made their way up and over countless granite domes without the helmets, ropes, harnesses, climbing shoes, and extensive trad gear that we deem necessary today.

One day, Duncan and I finished an 11 pitch climb on the later side of sunset and still needed to find our way back down the mountain. Luckily for me and the meager light from my headlamp (I really did mean to change the batteries), the rock glowed blue-white in the full moon, making it possible to navigate solely by eyesite. Although we didn't make it back to camp until close to 9:30 p.m., we had an amazing descent along one of the Bedouin paths which just happened to be haphazardly marked with cairns. We made our way down one gulley, which, on a few occasions, appeared to drop away from us, neccessitating leaving some gear for an abseil. We knew full well that people had used the route before us, however, and they certainly didn't have any modern gear. Sometimes it took us a good 20 minutes, but eventually we would find a small hole or cave formed by water we could squeeze through that would double-back underground, sometime taking us from one side of the gulley to the other, leading eventually to an exit point from which we were able to downclimb. It was a magical and exhausting evening. Later, Duncan happened to talk to one Bedouin who knew of the gulley path and said that it was no longer in use. We very well may have been the first people to use it in years.

There are other paths, though, that are heavily used year-round. Day-tripping tourist come from all over to hike up the trails to the top of Mt. Sinai. Yes, that is The Mt. Sinai of Moses fame. Although we had all heard horror stories of hundreds of tourists bussed in at 2 a.m. to climb the mountain in order to view sunrise, they apparently avoided sunset like the plague. Seems a bit silly, really, since sunrise and sunset can be equally spectacular,

Sunset from the top of Mt. Sinai:

and one is either hiking up in the dark or hiking down in the dark.

Even more to the point, starting the hike during daylight would probably take care of one of the biggest problems for tour operators: injuries. I spoke with an Israeli tour operator that was staying at our camp one day and she said that they had a serious issue with people becoming so excited that they literally rushed the mountain in a religious fervor. Now, ordinarily, a little excitement is a good thing, but not when the majority of clients tend to be the kind that have exercised a total of three minutes in the past few decades. Apparently, broken legs, head injuries, and even heart attacks were common occurences. And that's just in the first few hundred meters which are relatively flat, well-travelled trails. Needless to say, I decided at that moment never to become a tour operator.

I did, however, decide to make a sunset assault on Mt. Sinai. It was fantastic. Other than the multitude of huts along the way selling everything from Snickers Bars to freshly brewed tea, that is. I pretend to be extremely annoyed by their presence, but what did I do upon descending from the top? Buy some tea. Lack of self-control aside, Gail, Juliet, Nathan, and I all had a great time watching the sunset from the top of Mt. Sinai.

Church at the top. There was also a mosque and a synagogue:

It was beautiful and there were maybe 10 other people on top so we could take ridiculous pictures without suffering ridicule.

Gail, Juliet, and Nathan claw their way to the summit:With so much sweat pouring down my body, I decide to position myself between Gail and Nathan in an effort to look normal:Me attempting to boulder at the summit:Well, we are in Egypt, after all...:

And eat Twinkies until we felt like throwing up (for some reason, Twinkies are unbelievably cheap in Egypt).

Juliet enjoys some additives and preservatives while Gail and Nathan try not to look famished:
Food in general is actually quite cheap in Egypt. We took a break from climbing to go to Dahab, a tourist town on the coast, for a couple of days, and wound up eating ourselves silly. We chose one lucky restaurant, Al Capone, purely because it was close to where we were staying and they were giving us a deal on thick shakes. I had no idea how good a milkshake would taste until I went eight months without one. It turned out to be a win-win situation because we literally stayed at the restaurant for eight solid hours each day eating. I've never, ever done that in my life. The closest I've come have been my multi-hour dinner visits to The French Laundry (I still have dreams about those meals...), but those visits put an obscene dent in my wallet. At Al Capone, we could eat and talk and eat and laugh and eat and nap and eat all day and it was still only the cost of a $10-dollar lunch in San Francisco. You know that you are a valued customer when the owner offers you floor space to pitch your tent. We seriously considered the offer because they had exceptionally nice bathrooms. You have no idea what a novelty that can become. The fact that I lost both my small camera and watch in Dahab does nothing to marr the fond eating memories I have there. Does that mean I have a problem?

After yet another gorge-fest in yet another African country, it was time to climb off some calories. Danny had managed to set up a three-day climbing trip with camels as pack animals that would take us out into the desert through a Bedouin friend of Dave Lucas, Nassar.

Man, myth, legend; it's Nassar:Nassar takes a moment with his camel, Schnapps:

For some serious mate's rates, we hiked over a mountain, Danny and Nassar discuss bringing oxygen for the group next time:

past a small oasis or two, Nassar knocks down fresh almonds for us:House near an oasis:

and past some opium fields (gardens, really)

The group trudges by soom blooming poppies. Note the black irrigation hoses:Opium! Needless to say, it is not a good idea to go wandering off without a known guide unless you want to meet up with guys carrying machine guns protecting their crop:

into a small river gulley next to a mountain surrounded by virtually unclimbed peaks.Sunset from camp:
It was unreal. Not just because Nassar whipped up amazing meals at the drop of a hat -- including bread baked in ashes one day and over the fire the next -- Nassar could also whip up a pot of tea in 5 minutes flat including the time it takes to start the fire:

but also because it was an exceptionally beautiful place full of great climbing. Danny and I had issues initially trying to find suitable routes, but eventually he drug me up a couple of previously unclimbed cracks which scared the crap out of me.

Uh, Danny, you need to turn around:

It was such a great vibe to be out in the middle of nowhere with great friends, great food, and fall asleep to the sound of camels chewing cud.

Or, in Aidan's case, wake up to the sound of a camel chewing cud:
Clean camel saddles before we set off back to St. Katherine's:Loading the gear:Lonely Aidan trudges through the sand:Who needs a hammock when you can lie down on your camel?:Tired camel:
It was, yet again, another highlight on this trip. I find myself hesitant to use "best" and "most" now because the temptation to describe events in ultimate terms is ever present. Would that we all should have problems with hyperbole. Perhaps I should start a "funtastic" meter.

Bedouin + camel + bouldering mat = 10 on the funtastic scale (out of 10, of course!)

Cats repeatedly pissing on my tent fly in St. Katherine's in apparent anger over the dog piss smell still lingering on my fly from Sudan = -1,023,325 on the funtastic scale

March 10, 2008: Cairo/Giza, Egypt

2008-04-07T04:12:00.001-07:00

The dizzying array of archeological sites and tourists in Aswan and Luxor really just lead to the grandaddy of world historical sites: The Pyramids.

A couple of police on camel watch the pyramids in the distance. It was pretty hazy with smog so I did mostly b&w:Camel and horse riding touts head off to intercept tourists. Looks idyllic if you didn't know what was going on:I had heard so many negative comments about them that my expectations were buried six feet under, and actually found myself surprised by how few tourists were there. Granted, "few tourists" is a relative concept, but I had truly been expecting a lemming experience.

Lemming lite -- only about 50-60 busses were at this parking area:

I was pleased to find that I could actually throw rocks in some instances and not hit a tourist -- maybe one of the 4,586 touts pushing camel rides, but not a tourist.

Camel rider tout not quite in rock range: Duncan and Mike warily watch the camel rider tout. Oh yeah, that's Pyramid #2:

The Pyramids are 1) huge,

2) a pretty damn impressive testament to human power, as well as willpower, and 3) rather boring. Not that I was hoping to take part in a game of Hide and Seek inside Pyramid #1 (although that would be a blast), but there really is only so much oohing and aahing one can do while walking around the outside of a massive, blocky pyramid. And, since climbing on them is out of the question,

Like a moth to the flame... I can't resist:

we bought a ticket to go inside one and crouch walked/crawled through a tunnel into a large-ish room that presumably held something in the past. Much more interesting were all the mystery tunnels that branched off the main tunnel, apparently used for continued excavation. Perhaps one day they will be open to the public and everyone can play Find the Mummy.

I must admit that it was mildly disconcerting, however, to literally saunter along a paved road down the hill to see the Sphinx (if that was too much effort, it was possible to hail a horse drawn carriage). I rather liked the Sphinx, even though it was a bit smaller than I had thought it would be.

Awaiting the ultimate nose job:

Then again, the artists probably would have felt a bit ridiculous refusing to carve an enormous sandstone monolith on the grounds that it was too small. "No, no, no! We refuse to work on anything less than a 500 million ton block of sandstone you impertinent imbecile!" At least there were a few more tourists clamoring to take the exact same photographs.

Apparently 8 gazillion tourists a year aren't enough to pay for a proper exit sign:

One of the other "musts" in Cairo is the National Museum. I went one day with Phil and have never seen a more amusing museum. There are so many pieces, any one of which would be the pride and joy of other museums in the world, that they are haphazardly stacked under stairwells, cast off in corners where they fight for space with piles of broken chairs, and huddle in dark hallways as though waiting to pounce on hapless museum visitors. I got the impression that, despite all the security, the staff might actually encourage people to walk off with whatever they could carry to reduce the number of antiquities clogging the corridors. It was almost a relief to stumble upon a random room that inexplicably contained a number of pieces from Hellenic Greece. Although clearly earning a healthy sum from entrance fees, the museum hasn't bothered to modernize even simple things like display descriptions. Half of the painstakingly manually typewritten descriptions have been crossed out and amended in handwritten ink to announce that "Priceless piece X is now on loan to museum Y." I figure most of the staff doesn't have the time to print proper description updates because they are busy performing search and rescue mission looking for weary tourists that decided to lay down and rest in a sarcophagus.

March 6, 2008: Luxor, Egypt

2008-03-27T04:32:00.001-07:00

Aswan proved to be a good warmup for the full onslaught of tourists that inhabit Luxor. I was ready to join in and let myself get swept up in the tide of sightseeing, however, I wasn't ready for locals offering me cocaine as I walked down the street in search of bread. You know you are in Tourist Central when a man riding by on a bicycle offers you cocaine, then tells you to "Go to Hell" in an affronted manner when you refuse his offer. Considering the number of other more forceful words he might have chosen to use, I found the entire encounter rather polite, not to mention amusing, which, I suppose, are normal reactions after travelling for eight months and being hasseled to buy everything from pens to prostitutes.

Illicit substances aside, Luxor is not Tourist Central without reason -- a number of extraordinary temples are in the area, both the Valley of Kings and Valley of Queens are across the river, and, perhaps most importantly, nobody can get from Aswan to Cairo in one day because you have to have a police escort and they are only available at specific times. Tour busses, private cars, motorcycles, etc all form an orderly convoy with one police car at the front and one at the back, proceeding in an organized fashion through Aswan until the city limits at which point the whole thing falls immediately apart when the cops push the nitro button and are suddenly going mach 3 down the highway. Now BiRT is not without a certain amount of speed, and Henry has no trouble putting the pedal to the metal, but the convoy was going so fast that we were left in the dust and actually missed the approved piss stop because we were going too slowly. Yes, there are scheduled piss stops and by the time we arrived at the only one between Aswan and Luxor, everyone had already left and the cops honked at us to keep going.

And so, bladders bursting, we arrived in Luxor to begin our sightseeing binge. That afternoon we went to Karnak temple which is quite spectacular. It is difficult to do justice to the size and scale of the buildings, and I found myself simply taking pictures of the strong architectural lines. Successive kings and queens kept adding to the complex and what tourists see today is only a relatively small portion of the structure as it would have existed all those centuries ago. Given its current awe-inspiring state, I can only imagine what it must have been like for some Egyptian peasant from the countryside to see it for the first time gleaming in the sun centuries ago. Much of the area is reconstructed, with pieces of the original statues and stonework and hieroglyphics incorporated into their rightful spaces. I have no idea how many archeologists are dedicated to working at Karnak, but it must be the world's largest jigsaw puzzle. There are a mind-boggling number of stones of all sizes scattered about the site waiting to be fit into their original spaces and I doubt anyone is able to provide a decent guesstimate of when the entire reconstruction might be complete.

Tourists entering the main part of the temple:

The shadows on the obelisks were amazing:I thought the shadow looked like those cartoon dog pharoahs and looked pretty cool:Statue of Tutenkahmen:Shots from the reconstructed reflecting pool of the main part of the temple:Reconstruction will continue for years and years:The columns were amazing and huge. Something like 134 filled one space in the temple: Juliet drawing in one of the side pathways:Her subject:
The next day we decided to head across the river and check out the Valley of the Kings. Because of all the tomb raiding that was happening at the pyramids in Giza, Egyptian kings started building their tombs into the ground in one special valley, the whereabouts of which was known to a very select group of people and passed down from king to king. More than 60 tombs have been discovered to date and archeologists continue to search for additional tombs. I would have spent the entire day there, except for the fact that a ticket allowed me entrance to only three tombs (!) and it was extra to enter popular tombs such as Tutenkamen. They could make much more money if they charged a nominal fee for each tomb and that would likely keep more people there who would get hungry and thirsty and order from the overpriced cafe. Anyway, the three tombs we saw were really fantastic and the site is definitely worth a visit.

The valley is rather unassuming:Each unearthed tomb is marked by a small, unobtrusive entryway:We weren't supposed to take pictures, but this is the backside of Phil descending into one of the tombs:Paintings in one of the tombs (shot from the hip in an attempt not to attract the attention of the guard):
Not so the tomb of Hatshepsut, however, unless you find tourist watching to be an amusing hobby. There is way too much reconstruction, although the few paintings there are quite nice. I suppose that is the most one can expect after centuries of looting and uninvited guests like armies from the Crusades camping out under the stairwell.

Tourists flocking to the tomb:The cave openings mark the tombs of relatives:The paintings were pretty well preserved in some areas:

March 4, 2008: Aswan, Egypt

2008-03-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

Our arrival into Egypt was marred by tourists. We had seen few tourists over the past several months, let alone entire herds of them, and suddenly came face to face with masses of blindingly white (even I looked tan next to them) people lumbering onto and off of air-conditioned tour busses or one of the 500 enormous river boats that ply the Nile between Aswan and Cairo. And the smell! Shampoos and bodywashes and perfumes and insect repellent all mixed together in a shockingly sweet scent that enveloped the hordes in cloying clouds. We had stopped using deodorant within minutes of clambering on BiRT, of course, a fact that led us to wonder what we smelled like to them. But it was a passing curiousity of a thought, really. Our stained, torn, and faded clothes were clearly not items that any self-respecting tourist on a package holiday would put in their luggage, let alone even have in a musty box in an attic, so there was no use blending in. Besides, why would we want to blend in? Our ratty clothes, greasy hair, and undoubtedly ripe smell were badges of honor. At least that's what we tried to tell ourselves as we self-conciously adjusted our clothes and discreetly sniffed our armpits.

I would be lying, however, if I didn't admit to enjoying the contrast. In a bit of travel snobbery, I felt as though my tattered person marked me as someone who had really been travelling and was rather proud of my lack of hygiene. Or perhaps that leap of logic was some type of psychological self-defense mechanism... At any rate, it was true culture shock.

Especially when a large group of tourists showed up at our campsite one night.

The entrance to Adams Home Camp:Inside the compound:Sunrise:Gecko!:
The women were appalled that we didn't shower daily and that some of us didn't own shampoo (no surprise I fall into that category). Their sense of humor was socially approved in that it was insipid, pack-like, and safe. Granted, our sense of humor was lucky to rise above the potty level, but how is a game of slap the live croc not amusing?

Or three really ugly women? L to R: Lorenzo, Danny, me:
I couldn't deal with it and went into a corner to drink my beer. Nobody from Hot Rock managed to have even a marginally interesting conversation with the well-scrubbed tourists and we retreated back to our own groups like enormous magnets, mutually repelled. Was this going to be the real world? Dear God help me if it is.

That being said, how did we wind up spending our time in Aswan while waiting for BiRT to clear customs? By being tourists, of course. There was great food to eat,

Danny and Phil dig in:camels to ride, Classic lone camel rider:

and faluccas to sail up and down the Nile on. It was time to put the tourist hat on, albeit a rather crusty and dirt-stained one.

First up, camels. Danny, Juliet, Mike, Phil, and I decided we might as well take advantage of the copious number of camel touts around and go for a two-hour ride that would take us to a monastery

and an obelisk. Riding a camel is absolutely hilarious. Coming from a horseback riding background, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I threw my leg over the saddle, but it definitely was not being pitched forward, then back, then forward again as the camel stood up off the ground. It was like a massive horse bucking in slow motion and I couldn't stop laughing.

Camels rock:

Once up and after much giggling, the camel riders threw us the "reins" -- a single rope -- and we moseyed off, swaying and rocking with the motion of the camel while the camel riders walked behind us smoking and talking amongst themselves without giving any of us any instruction on riding the beasts beneath us.

Mike leading the pack at a fast-paced plod:

Just when we were getting the hang of it, the riders stopped us and clambered on so that we were riding double. And it is just next to impossible to keep from banging into the rider in front of you repeatedly when the camel stands or kneels down. I had plenty of practice because my camel rider kept losing his sandals and had to repeatedly stop our camel and dismount in order to retrieve his footwear. That was fun and all for the first few times, but by the time he flipped his sandal off for the 6th or 7th time I really wanted tell him to buy something with velcro. Regardless, it was a blast and I highly recommend jumping on a camel if the opportunity arises.

Where the town ends and the sand begins:Camel rider and ruins in foreground, Aswan across the Nile:Nearing the monastery:Looking like a camel convention outside the monastery:In true Hot Rock fashion we didn't want to pay the entrance fee and wandered around the outside of the monastery which was much more entertaining -- especially when the guard with the gun took a shine to Juliet:Tourists leaving the monastery:L to R: Phil, Omar, Juliet, camel guy, me, Mike:Heading back:

After the camel ride, we went on a falucca for 5 or 6 hours, cruising along the Nile.

Danny watches for crocs off the bow:

It was a fantastic way to spend the afternoon, tacking our way through the hundreds of other faluccas and boats crammed onto the river. We ate, dozed, jumped into the river,

Tom somersaults in:Mike psyches himself up:And jumps!:

and created the typical Hot Rock spectacle.

Captain Cheese at your service:Mike gives the faraway sailor stare:How is it that we are not more tan (excluding Danny, who tans without trying)? L to R: Phil, Tom, Danny, Duncan, me, Mike; Front: Lianna, Lorenzo

It wasn't so bad being a tourist, after all.

February 29, 2008: Sudan

2008-03-18T02:30:00.000-07:00

I was moderately concerned about entering Sudan, and spent some time trying to figure out what nationality I could claim to be should anyone ask me where I was from. A small precaution, I thought, figuring I wouldn't exactly be welcomed with open arms as an American since the U.S. bombed Sudan and all. Especially in light of the fact that on New Year's Eve an American expat working in Khartoum, the capital city, was shot and killed. However, the soldiers at the many checkpoints on the way to the capital were more surprised than anything else that an American was traveling through their country. It wasn't until I got to Khartoum that I heard Sudanese express anything negative about my nationality, and then the anger was typically aimed at Bush. Regardless, I found myself obliquely answering questions about where I was from by talking about all the countries I had just traveled through in BiRT.

What was Khartoum like? Well, I enjoyed it enough and felt safe enough there that I decided to stay a few extra days and take the train to Wadi Halfa on the Egyptian border to meet up with the rest of the group. The people were overwhelmingly friendly (after visiting a food stand twice I would be greeted as an old friend), the city quite modern (fastest Internet since South Africa hands down), the street food superb (I lived off of shwarmas, falafel, and fresh fruit juice), and there were hardly any beggers or touts around (a relief after Ethiopia). Khartoum is billed as the safest major city in Africa, and I believe it.

Of course, it is also a police state, make no mistake about it, and the omnipresent soldiers and cops keep tight control. Homeless and beggars are "moved," and shantytowns of internally displaced people that spring up around the edges of Khartoum are regularly razed. Chalk it up to healthy paranoia, but I would be willing to bet that a few people who talked to me did so for routine surveillance purposes. Tourists were few and far between, after all -- I may have seen one white person a day outside of areas where the expats lived and worked.

Some allowances, however, are made for foreigners living in Khartoum. I went to the home of some UN workers one night and was amazed to see a fully stocked bar in one room. Alcohol is forbidden, but the government apparently turns a blind eye to expats who bring alcohol into the country. They are allowed to drink and have a party in their own homes, although if any local Sudanese people happen to be in attendance the police will raid the party and only the locals punished. I had a beer, feeling all the while like I was in a Prohibition style speakeasy.

Although Sudan is a strict Muslim country with a huge police presence, there is a pleasantly vast array of people in Khartoum. Emma and I sat outside of one of my favorite food stands for awhile watching the human parade, and both of us were struck by the unexpected variety of dress. Women swathed all in black with only their eyes showing floated by other women in European style skirts mincing along in heels. There were mothers constantly adjusting their traditional, brilliantly colored fabrics wrapped artfully around their bodies walking with their teenage daughters attired in long jean skirts and daringly showing some hair under their headscarves. The same spectrum of dress from traditional to modern also applied to the men, but the contrast was more startling in the women.

Because of oil, Khartoum is developing fast. The Chinese are building and paving roads through Sudan, Ethiopia, and possibly into Kenya to assist in eventual export of Sudan's oil. Large luxury hotels are springing up in anticipation of businessmen and wealthy tourists; companies such as Adidas are opening large stores; upscale bakeries and ice cream shops are full of both expat and rich local customers (one place called Ozone would be a hit anywhere in the world, and had some of the best cheesecake and ice cream I have ever tasted). I talked with one man on the street who had recently returned to Khartoum after being a professor in Malaysia for over 10 years and I expressed amazement at the wealth I saw around. He said that it was all new, mostly within the past year.

I couldn't help but wonder what effect the prosperity might have on the country. The northern and southern portion of Sudan are strongly divided, and there is an upcoming referendum in 2011 in which the south will vote whether or not to join the north. It will likely lead to full-blown civil war because it all boils down to control of oil reserves. However, will the newfound wealth have any type of mitigation effect? Will it influence the outcome in a positive or negative manner? Will there be enough other nations with vested interests at that point to broker peaceful resolutions? Unfortunately, I think the picture is pretty bleak.

Despite the nascent prosperity, Sudan retains a healthy, Byzantine system of rules and regulations when it comes to government offices. For example as a foreign tourist, one is required to register within three days of entry into the country. We all chose to go the morning after we arrived in Khartoum, thinking we would be finished within a couple of hours and be on our way. Talk about a misguided assumption. First, we spent a couple of hours trying to find the correct place because, as we discovered, the offices had moved. Countless accosted locals and wrong turns later, we finally blundered upon a building with the words "Alien Registration" on a placard outside the surrounding rock wall topped by concertina wire. The crowd inside was either shoving and shouting or standing on the sidelines with set looks of resignation on their faces. It was a daunting hive of activity precisely because there was absolutely no order or process for registering. It seems none of the officials knew what was going on, either. We rushed from office to office, some repeatedly, throwing elbows at people who were trying to elbow their way past us, getting chided by police -- and that was just to obtain the registration form. At one point, a soldier took pity on Mike, Matt, and me, guiding us to a room in which a woman stapled our forms and pictures neatly in a folder. Finally! Progress! He then ushered us to another jam packed room where a fellow presided imperiously over one corner, wielding a stamp and a look of constant distain. We presented our neatly packaged registration forms only to have him wave his hand dismissively. An Arabic argument of epic proportions ensued between stamp wielder, his presumed lackey, and the soldier of goodness, while Mike, Matt, and I watched bemusedly. Eventually, the soldier rushed us back to the room with the stapler woman, first consulting with another woman who immediately started castigating the soldier while repeatedly slapping the folder with no small amount of force. The stapler woman finally ripped our forms out of the folder (presumably at the other woman's direction) and handed our torn forms back to us. The soldier of goodness then shepherded us back to Mr. Imperious Stamp Wielder, who, after more arguing with our soldier guardian while peering at us coldly over the top of his glasses, finally pompously stamped our forms. With successfully stamped forms in hand we joined the scrum outside trying to pay for the privilege of registering as an alien. Upon successfully fighting through the jostling horde and making it to the payment window (a few of us banded together and formed a human wall so that others could not reach through the window), one had to scream and wave money in order to get an official's attention who would actually take the money and passport. It was as if they couldn't be asked and needed to finish smoking their cigarette first. It is the rare government office that does not take one's money at the drop of the hat. And God forbid you didn't have exact change. After finally getting someone to take the registration money, it was time to wait. And wait. And wait. I think it was about three hours before we eventually received our passports containing our coveted alien registration stamp (luckily, there was a fantastic shawarma place around the corner). Six hours had passed since we had walked into the building.

Emma, Matt, and I had a similar experience with the train. A train ride seemed like a pleasant, peaceful method of transport north through the desert, and we had decided to give it a go. The train runs once a week to the Egyptian border for the express purpose of meeting the Lake Nasser ferry which is the only method of transport between Sudan and Egypt. The journey by train is 36 hours versus up to a week by car. Easy decision, right? Nothing runs very smoothly in Africa, though, especially Sudan. We had all budgeted to leave Khartoum on Monday and made it to the train station with little cash to spare. As our 8:30 a.m. departure time came and went, it became clear that something was wrong. We pieced together that the ferry had been cancelled for a maintanence check and so the train had also been cancelled. No need to run the train if the ferry wasn't on schedule, after all. After several hours, the powers that be decided the train would run on Wednesday which, if everything went smoothly, would get us to the border with one day to spare before our visas expired. With basically no money in our pockets and nowhere to stay, we hiked back to our campsite some five kilometers away across the Nile, which isn't very far until you try to carry bags that distance in 100 degree heat -- including one which we took turns balancing on our heads.

Once back at the campsite we had to figure out how to get money. Because of American sanctions, there was no way for me to use my ATM or credit card in Sudan and I had left them on the truck. No ATMs accept foreign bank cards, anyway, and basically dollars are the preferred type of currency one can exchange at banks. None of us had any dollars to spare (rookie mistake), and Matt and Emma only had enough Sudanese Pounds to pay for themselves at the border. We had heard of places that might be able to do cash advances on Matt's credit card, but it was certainly not common knowledge. So we embarked on a quest to find one of these fabled businesses. We figured Western Union would be a good bet, or at least might know something, but once we found them (a quest in and of itself) they were completely useless. We tried a couple more banks before hitting upon one where the bank manager had a friend who might be able to arrange something for us. After a few minutes he emerged from his office and said "Come with me, I take you," and he drove us in his car (in which I spent a few uncomfortable minutes in the passenger seat non-commitally listening to him go on a tirade against Americans while Matt and Emma, both from England, tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter in the back seat) to an Indian hotel where we were swept into the manager's office. Yes, it was true that he sometimes did cash advances on credit cards of up to $500 dollars for some of his guests, and he could probably do the same for us. We exchanged glances and started raving about the smells of Indian food coming from the kitchen, saying we were starving and had been craving Indian food and was it too late to have lunch there? That seemed to be a good enough trade-off for the manager, and he handed Matt a form to fill out which he subsequently faxed to an office in Saudi Arabia that processed the cash advance. Once the transaction had been accepted, the Saudi Arabia office called back the manager with the ok and he paid out crisp US dollars to Matt. Cash in hand, we promptly spent the majority of it on the Indian lunch.

We made it to the train station without incident Wednesday and saw with delight that the train was at the station. We piled into our first class cabin compartment to find peeling paint, the most uncomfortable seats in the world, and that only two of the six seat backs were actually fastened to the wall -- the other four required an engineering degree to keep balanced on the seat without falling to the ground. It was a dusty, uncomfortable, bustling train ride featuring random stops of indeterminate length (one had to be ready to sprint to the train because it would give one toot with the horn and start rolling about 8.4 seconds later), spectacular scenery, and the loudest tea and coffee hawker ever (he repeatedly popped into our compartment until we bought from him). One needs a permit to take pictures in Sudan and even then there is a laundry list of things one cannot photograph -- everything from bridges to cripples. I didn't have a permit so the train was my only chance to take photos, and even then I had to be careful of the soldiers. In fact, Emma got in trouble when she took a seemingly innocuous scenery photo. Regardless, I managed to get a few shots out the window.

At some points it seemed like a donkey would been faster than the train. Especially when we stopped once for 8 hours (!):The entire length of the Nile is cultivated:A man selling candied dates at one of the train stops. I bought nearly 5 pounds worth for $2:Random fellows on the train:Boy from the neighboring compartment that had recently discovered how to make farting noises. Some things are truly cross-cultural...:Tuckered out:Impish smile:The scene at Station 6, a few buildings in the middle of nowhere that seem to exist only for the train:Lining up for food:Lonely view at Station 6:Interesting buildings outside of Station 6. No idea what they are for, but they looked cool:Shadow of a couple of roof riders. Apparently it is free if you ride on the roof, but not sure how they manage to stay on because the roof is curved, there are no handles, and the train is quite possibly the bumpiest on the planet:Dejected donkey:
Me, Matt, and a whole lotta desert:Emma accepts a bet on how much of her body she can get outside the train:Sunset on Lake Nasser

February 2008: Gondar, Ethiopia

2008-03-14T01:41:00.000-07:00

The road from Axum to Gondar was mind blowing, especially when we were skirting the Simen Mountains. If the 2,000 meter ascents weren't enough to give you vertigo, on many of the descents it was impossible to see the road around hairpins because the slope was so steep -- in some cases the hairpins doubled back so sharply we had to do three point turns in order to maneuver through them. And of course there was the dust.

Coal miner or Hot Rock member? Me a bit dusty after a couple hours on the road:

Henry was white knuckle on our final ascent when the gravel road narrowed to the point we were inches from scraping the cliff on the left side in order to avoid the 1,000 meter drop on the right. Some roads just weren't designed for BiRT.

Other than spectacular scenery, the road is also entertaining because of all the old Soviet tanks and various military hardware used in the war between Ethiopia and Eritrea that lie abandoned and rusting in the ditch.

Tom, Phil, Henry, and Matt investigate a tank:

Or, in some cases, a river. One early evening we noticed a tank half buried in the embankment next to a bridge and stopped to investigate.

Me on a tank:

Further poking around revealed yet another tank that was in the river under the bridge.

Bathing beauties. Henry and Matt try to wash of accumulated road dust:Danny prepares to do some cliff diving:Phil goes for the big splash:There was no question about it: we had found our bushcamp for the night.

Random local, me, and BiRT at site of bushcamp:
The rest of our drive passed without incident. Gondar proved to be a nice little town that afforded us a chance to blow our food budget on the first decent cheese we had seen in a month, gorge on cheap cake, and receive dancing lessons from the locals in the numerous bars. After a few days we were fed, we were rested, and we were ready for our entry into Sudan.