Monday, October 1, 2012
Kathmandu, That's Where I'm Going To
It's a little unnerving to look at your flight information and see an exclamation in the details proclaiming "This flight arrives two days after departure." Two days of airplanes and airports is a lot, but I've survived a three day greyhound ride, so I put it to the back of my mind and get to the terminal on time.
Do you have your connecting flight information? I stare at the ticket guy blankly. Sure, it's in an email, being beamed all around me, but the airport doesn't have wireless. There is a Starbucks every third gate, but no wi-fi. And isn't it the airlines' job to keep track of that? I bought one flight, not three. Well without proof of an onward ticket, you might be deported as soon as you land in China. My mind races. Surely I can conjure up a flight number or city name or anything-- wrong. My trip to Asia is collapsing before my eyes. But Walter at the ticket counter, the first of many representatives standing between me and Nepal, steps up to rescue me. He leaves to get his iphone, and I chafe at the fact that my technological reluctance is stabbing me in the foot. Sure, I could have just written the information down, but I'm not that organized either. I'm starting to see why smartphones are so popular-- you can only be as dumb as your phone.
So I make it to Shanghai, leave customs, collect my bags and reenter for a domestic flight to Kunming (population little less than New York), where I will again leave and reenter the airport for an international flight. This is the coldest airport I have ever been to; you can see your breath, I have a nine hour layover here, it is one in the morning and one hour into the city. So me and my new airport companions grab some KFC and crash in one of the airport restaurants. No one questions it. The next morning a merciful three hour flight brings us to Katmandu.
Relief gives way to panic. I don't have cash for an entry visa, and neither debit card works at the sole ATM. Again, I am saved by a stranger. If Karma is real, I am quite in her debt.
Do you have your connecting flight information? I stare at the ticket guy blankly. Sure, it's in an email, being beamed all around me, but the airport doesn't have wireless. There is a Starbucks every third gate, but no wi-fi. And isn't it the airlines' job to keep track of that? I bought one flight, not three. Well without proof of an onward ticket, you might be deported as soon as you land in China. My mind races. Surely I can conjure up a flight number or city name or anything-- wrong. My trip to Asia is collapsing before my eyes. But Walter at the ticket counter, the first of many representatives standing between me and Nepal, steps up to rescue me. He leaves to get his iphone, and I chafe at the fact that my technological reluctance is stabbing me in the foot. Sure, I could have just written the information down, but I'm not that organized either. I'm starting to see why smartphones are so popular-- you can only be as dumb as your phone.
So I make it to Shanghai, leave customs, collect my bags and reenter for a domestic flight to Kunming (population little less than New York), where I will again leave and reenter the airport for an international flight. This is the coldest airport I have ever been to; you can see your breath, I have a nine hour layover here, it is one in the morning and one hour into the city. So me and my new airport companions grab some KFC and crash in one of the airport restaurants. No one questions it. The next morning a merciful three hour flight brings us to Katmandu.
Relief gives way to panic. I don't have cash for an entry visa, and neither debit card works at the sole ATM. Again, I am saved by a stranger. If Karma is real, I am quite in her debt.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Lualualei
At the horizon, the water is a ribbon of the darkest blue; closer
in
it sweeps to a brilliant turquoise and whitecaps at the last moment to
punch against the rocky shore. Here and there the spray plumes into
the air, or wrestles through holes in the rock, or pools up in jagged
baths to await high tide. Beyond the water's reach, a narrow swath of
parched grass and ground too hard packed for tent stakes. Finally a
highway and its steady stream of traffic and white noise, a sewage
treatment plant, and more parched grass on the brown mountains that crowd Oahu's west coast.
Its an unlikely spot for a campsite, let alone one that costs $20 a
day; but much of this side of the island is unlikely. The Nepali coast
of Kuaie [sp] is one of the rainiest places on Earth, but here it is
only green when the trade winds shift to bring winter rains. Most days the wind here just wafts the smell of shit.
The people I've met are surprised I would come to the west side and
shocked that I would travel alone. They insisted I share the campspot, but asked I move my tent; they travel in packs here. Five giant Coleman tents, a canopy to hide from the noonday sun, tables, chairs, lights, music, coolers of beer and trays of food, hordes of playful children and enormous adults. This Labor Day is all about family (and drinking once the little ones are put to bed), and I have the fortune to be an awkward extension of that family for a few days. Though we share little in common, the warm attitudes are genuine. This is Aloha, a sentiment of respect that grows strong here in the self-described "ghetto of Hawaii", but one I've run into time and time again over the past two months.
A friend in need is a friend indeed, but a stranger in need is a
friend waiting to be made. It often takes more courage than effort to
help someone far from home; let us all be a little braver.
it sweeps to a brilliant turquoise and whitecaps at the last moment to
punch against the rocky shore. Here and there the spray plumes into
the air, or wrestles through holes in the rock, or pools up in jagged
baths to await high tide. Beyond the water's reach, a narrow swath of
parched grass and ground too hard packed for tent stakes. Finally a
highway and its steady stream of traffic and white noise, a sewage
treatment plant, and more parched grass on the brown mountains that crowd Oahu's west coast.
Its an unlikely spot for a campsite, let alone one that costs $20 a
day; but much of this side of the island is unlikely. The Nepali coast
of Kuaie [sp] is one of the rainiest places on Earth, but here it is
only green when the trade winds shift to bring winter rains. Most days the wind here just wafts the smell of shit.
The people I've met are surprised I would come to the west side and
shocked that I would travel alone. They insisted I share the campspot, but asked I move my tent; they travel in packs here. Five giant Coleman tents, a canopy to hide from the noonday sun, tables, chairs, lights, music, coolers of beer and trays of food, hordes of playful children and enormous adults. This Labor Day is all about family (and drinking once the little ones are put to bed), and I have the fortune to be an awkward extension of that family for a few days. Though we share little in common, the warm attitudes are genuine. This is Aloha, a sentiment of respect that grows strong here in the self-described "ghetto of Hawaii", but one I've run into time and time again over the past two months.
A friend in need is a friend indeed, but a stranger in need is a
friend waiting to be made. It often takes more courage than effort to
help someone far from home; let us all be a little braver.
Monday, August 20, 2012
The Most Beautiful Day
Opened eyes and heart, and the clouds did part.
Snowy black peaks and the most verdant green hill, blue/purple lupine and strange green snow peas with white fur whose leaves trapped dewy diamonds. A glacier that echoed the rainbow, curving into the distance, all its cracks and contrasts lit up. A lake with tumbled icebergs, a lowland and its lazy river. Intricate brown cliffs and the solemn blue of Kachemak Bay, turned to gold by the setting sun. Halibut Cove lagoon with its green waters, black beaches and Disney perfect islands. And beyond the bay, beyond the Spit, past Homer and Cook Inlet, a ring of volcanoes rising from the orange and pink clouds.
And I realized the price of such beauty, is being so far from home.
Snowy black peaks and the most verdant green hill, blue/purple lupine and strange green snow peas with white fur whose leaves trapped dewy diamonds. A glacier that echoed the rainbow, curving into the distance, all its cracks and contrasts lit up. A lake with tumbled icebergs, a lowland and its lazy river. Intricate brown cliffs and the solemn blue of Kachemak Bay, turned to gold by the setting sun. Halibut Cove lagoon with its green waters, black beaches and Disney perfect islands. And beyond the bay, beyond the Spit, past Homer and Cook Inlet, a ring of volcanoes rising from the orange and pink clouds.
And I realized the price of such beauty, is being so far from home.
End of a Season
Within minutes of being dropped off on the Spit I was invited to the Texan's birthday. Corwin wasn't there yet, just his tarp and driftwood teepee; but it wasn't really his birthday, just his last night in Homer. His birthday cake-- a six foot hole in the sand stacked with ten pallets-- was lit before he got off work, so by the time he showed up with a case of beer in each arm there were a dozen drunks arguing who was sober enough to drive the truck down to the docks for more wood. Tom Cod and Jackson, Kentucky and River, Danno and Joe Maze. The season is winding down, the gang is breaking up. Soon all that will remain is Joe's notebook of drunken quotations. It's a rough life working fish for beer money (Kentucky got himself arrested for "three hots and a cot") but my guess is, these Spit Rats will be back next year: "if it ain't broke, it's not broken."
The Hitchhike Diary
Anyone can hitchhike, but who picks them up? Our guess was old men and young women. Let's see!
1) Young girl taking care of her grandmother for the state; turned around to come get us when I shrugged defeated (which I don't remember) 2) Old guy who worked as the pit boss at Capitol Speeday; told us about guiding at Denali and hunting fox with shotguns attached to the wings of an airplane 3) Faye the firedancer-- picked us up a total of three times due to an accident on the highway that literally stopped all trafffic from Anchorage to Denali; we got to see her and Carly perform at the Brown Chicken Brown Cow show 4) Molly, who works at a nonprofit educating old folks about Denali; invited us to the Greensky show, and a week later we closed down the Spike 5) Caroline-- Molly's neighbor who always picks up hitchhikers and inspired Molly to make room for us; we camped on the beach in Talkeetna and feasted at the Roadhouse before her yoga retreat 6) An older native woman who drives her grandson to work on the weekends, when the spur bus doesn't run 7) James and his girlfriend; the first couple to pick us up. Gave me ice cream and called Faye about any upcoming bluegrass festivals-- small world! 8) Brian, who owned land in four states and was actively searching for the link between Anchorage's missing people (four women at last count-- I saw a woman on the city bus stopped by police because someone thought she was one) 9) DJ and Jolene who shared their Red Hook IPAs with me and let me ride a $2000 bicycle for the first time 10) Animal, guy with mustache, Dylan and the girl; this group shared their PBR on the way to Whittier and lived to fish 11) Lyndsy and Kelly, seasonal workers from Gird who had already worked, picked up a hitchhiker, delivered gas to a friend, found me and now were ready for a drink! 12) Guy who owned three sub shops (gave me a free day-old) who liked the west but not Colorado 13) Mike, who loved Colorado and restored the airplane hanging in the Anchorage airport; he both drives and flies without a license 14) Will Davis, who was part of the second group to ever complete the Traverse summit of Denali back in '79. A fellow English major who was sailing around the world until he met a Brazilian in Panama, and made me think maybe that degree isn't so useless after all.
1) Young girl taking care of her grandmother for the state; turned around to come get us when I shrugged defeated (which I don't remember) 2) Old guy who worked as the pit boss at Capitol Speeday; told us about guiding at Denali and hunting fox with shotguns attached to the wings of an airplane 3) Faye the firedancer-- picked us up a total of three times due to an accident on the highway that literally stopped all trafffic from Anchorage to Denali; we got to see her and Carly perform at the Brown Chicken Brown Cow show 4) Molly, who works at a nonprofit educating old folks about Denali; invited us to the Greensky show, and a week later we closed down the Spike 5) Caroline-- Molly's neighbor who always picks up hitchhikers and inspired Molly to make room for us; we camped on the beach in Talkeetna and feasted at the Roadhouse before her yoga retreat 6) An older native woman who drives her grandson to work on the weekends, when the spur bus doesn't run 7) James and his girlfriend; the first couple to pick us up. Gave me ice cream and called Faye about any upcoming bluegrass festivals-- small world! 8) Brian, who owned land in four states and was actively searching for the link between Anchorage's missing people (four women at last count-- I saw a woman on the city bus stopped by police because someone thought she was one) 9) DJ and Jolene who shared their Red Hook IPAs with me and let me ride a $2000 bicycle for the first time 10) Animal, guy with mustache, Dylan and the girl; this group shared their PBR on the way to Whittier and lived to fish 11) Lyndsy and Kelly, seasonal workers from Gird who had already worked, picked up a hitchhiker, delivered gas to a friend, found me and now were ready for a drink! 12) Guy who owned three sub shops (gave me a free day-old) who liked the west but not Colorado 13) Mike, who loved Colorado and restored the airplane hanging in the Anchorage airport; he both drives and flies without a license 14) Will Davis, who was part of the second group to ever complete the Traverse summit of Denali back in '79. A fellow English major who was sailing around the world until he met a Brazilian in Panama, and made me think maybe that degree isn't so useless after all.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Hot Lava/ Cold Water
Traversing a glaciated wilderness means fording glacial rivers. Not true rivers; rather streams that break apart with no rhyme or reason, crisscrossing over each other at random across a mile of water-smoothed rocks. But some hikers are hydrophobic, or at least fear the sting of water so recently frozen. With watershoes on, fording is safe but the sting stays with you. Times like these you wish you could just leap across... and, well, sometimes you can.
Jeff was the hot lava master back at work, jumping from mat to mat and never touching the tiled floor. Some things never change. Machete in hand, he would charge forward and leap swollen rivers with a single bound. Some of us were born with shorter legs however, and my feet may never forgive me.
Jeff was the hot lava master back at work, jumping from mat to mat and never touching the tiled floor. Some things never change. Machete in hand, he would charge forward and leap swollen rivers with a single bound. Some of us were born with shorter legs however, and my feet may never forgive me.
Unfocus the Eyes
Denali is unlike nearly every other National Park in that it is considered a "trail-less" park; that is, the majority of the park has no designated or maintained paths and visitors are informed not to walk in single file lines, so that unofficial "social trails" are not created. But the landscape is littered with passages, for those who know how to see them. These are game trails, created by bear knocking through the willow thickets; or caribou and sheep carving out narrow ledges on steep scree slopes. Sometimes they appear from nowhere and return just as quickly-- but often if you just stop searching so intently, if you learn to unfocus your eyes and "see" instead of looking, it is right there in front of you. These paths are gateways to wildlife and the only roads through true wilderness.
Colors of the Kenai
First and foremost green-- a lighter shade for the young ones, the cottonwoods and devil's club, the moss and marsh grasses and alders; all the plants that make life after the glaciers possible. Darker for the spruce, the old trees that only come later, choking out the chaotic undergrowth. Brown for the earth, above in the mountains where the snow has left, as well as underfoot; the mud churned up by the snowmelt that sticks to your shoes and tells you that people, and dogs, and moose and bear have all been here before you. White for the snow on the ground, the clouds that blanket the horizon, six thousand feet of ice burying mountains whole. These three colors dominate the Kenai Peninsula, but there are others. Blue Bell's of Scotland and Lupine, the fish lakes and glaciers; grey in the beautiful silty rivers, red and pink salmon when they return to the place of their birth, doggedly struggling upstream as many as 2,000 miles without food, just to breed and die.
Alone on the Williwaw
Tonight will mark my third night in the Chugach, camped on the Williwaw Lakes trail at the base of Little O'Malley. The views from here are stunning but ever changing. The grey waters of Cook Inlet turn silver as the sun gently lowers itself out of the sky; the Alaska range further on seems one dominant black heap one moment, and a string of intricate snowclad peaks the next. Even Anchorage itself, tucked below me, seems to shrink and swell at the clouds behest.
It is generally pleasant here-- warmer during the day than I would think, though colder at night. The rain, when it comes, is light and short lived. But the wind-- I never expected the wind. I've since learned that a Williwaw is a sudden windstorm, and fierce enough to threaten my tent with collapse no matter how many adjustments I make. Very little mosquitoes are the silver lining I suppose, but tomorrow I will pack up for Green Lake, and hope for greener pastures. Mt Williwaw dazzled me, Black Lake with its impossible deep turquoise color won me over at first sight, and Little O' Malley's postcard perfect peak will keep me smiling-- just hopefully at a more sheltered campsite.
It is generally pleasant here-- warmer during the day than I would think, though colder at night. The rain, when it comes, is light and short lived. But the wind-- I never expected the wind. I've since learned that a Williwaw is a sudden windstorm, and fierce enough to threaten my tent with collapse no matter how many adjustments I make. Very little mosquitoes are the silver lining I suppose, but tomorrow I will pack up for Green Lake, and hope for greener pastures. Mt Williwaw dazzled me, Black Lake with its impossible deep turquoise color won me over at first sight, and Little O' Malley's postcard perfect peak will keep me smiling-- just hopefully at a more sheltered campsite.
By Hook or by Crook
They say even the best laid plans oft go awry; curious that my shoddy ones ever get off the ground then.
I bought a bicycle off craigslist for less than I'd hoped (good because I forgot to bring a lock-- that cost more than a quarter what the bike did) and spent hours carefully packing my bag (forgetting that to fill up my Platypus I needed to nearly empty my pack) and looking up routes to get to Flattop (which I neglected to write down). No matter. What is clear in retrospect is that riding this Kmart brand mountain bike with a 40 pound pack is not like riding my Panasonic back home. Quite the opposite.
Downhill is fine, except for the jerky breaks (that pack adds considerable momentum, usually trying to rack me on the handlebars) and level ground is tiring but doable. But the road named Toilsome Hill-- that is another story altogether. That song "...nobody/ said it'd be/ easy..." played though my head a hundred times, and still it was all I could do to walk the bike from one sidestreet up to the next and then yet again. Pickup after pickup passed by, with empty beds, staring at the weird kid struggling. And then... just as two locals came pushing their own bikes up to where I was thinking about locking up the bike for good and just walking up the damn hill, a self-described Mexican pulled over and we all three piled in the back. Not the glorious way to the top, but I have to remind myself the bike is a means and not the end. These mountains at the end of the road though, glorious enough for the both.
I bought a bicycle off craigslist for less than I'd hoped (good because I forgot to bring a lock-- that cost more than a quarter what the bike did) and spent hours carefully packing my bag (forgetting that to fill up my Platypus I needed to nearly empty my pack) and looking up routes to get to Flattop (which I neglected to write down). No matter. What is clear in retrospect is that riding this Kmart brand mountain bike with a 40 pound pack is not like riding my Panasonic back home. Quite the opposite.
Downhill is fine, except for the jerky breaks (that pack adds considerable momentum, usually trying to rack me on the handlebars) and level ground is tiring but doable. But the road named Toilsome Hill-- that is another story altogether. That song "...nobody/ said it'd be/ easy..." played though my head a hundred times, and still it was all I could do to walk the bike from one sidestreet up to the next and then yet again. Pickup after pickup passed by, with empty beds, staring at the weird kid struggling. And then... just as two locals came pushing their own bikes up to where I was thinking about locking up the bike for good and just walking up the damn hill, a self-described Mexican pulled over and we all three piled in the back. Not the glorious way to the top, but I have to remind myself the bike is a means and not the end. These mountains at the end of the road though, glorious enough for the both.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
The Cold Fusion Candidate
I met a would-be politician at breakfast this morning, whose main platform is getting cold fusion started in Alaska. Currently impossible, but hey, it does get cold here. Among his other goals: stopping immigration, legalizing marijuana, moving all of the halfway houses out of Anchorage (theoretically related to the next item), moving the capitol and all the other nutty politicians into Anchorage, installing year round greenhouses in the city, lowering taxes of every sort, and mandatory ten year sentences for corrupt politicians.
As a side note, I heard from someone that the governor was recently sworn in, over skype, from a vacation in Hawaii; Hawaiin shirt and all. Only in Alaska.
As a side note, I heard from someone that the governor was recently sworn in, over skype, from a vacation in Hawaii; Hawaiin shirt and all. Only in Alaska.
Speaking of Drinking...
Today I witnessed a guy getting a haircut sneak outside to swig from the Keystone light he planted among some flowers. I heard some guys talking about how you should always get your taxi to pull right up to the bar entrance, so you won't get caught taking that last drink home. The big liquor store here is called "The Brown Jug", where thirty packs are always on sale. The bar around the corner is staging a mock "intervention night" to poke fun at people's habits-- funny since apparently much of Alaska goes dry in winter to stanch the suicide rate comes with extreme cold and no daylight. I'm sure this list could be extended daily; this all came from one 24 hour period!
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