July 25, 2008: Spring Creek, Nevada

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.

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

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

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

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.