The experiment has failed. Enough was enough. After two weeks of natural growth, I shaved off my facial hair. Please note, I did not say, “I shaved off my beard,” or “goatee” or any form of hair growth that we would recognize. The only thing I succeeded at in those two weeks was to grow long stubble. It wasn’t very uniform nor dense at all. In essence, it was ugly.
The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.
Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.
My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Voyage: On Smells
During my fifth day at sea, I began to miss something that I had taken for granted – odors. Let me explain. I am not talking about the smell of athletes foot or the stink of rotten trash. Rather, the Earth itself gives off a smell that is noticeable only when it is missing. Here on the ocean, there are no trees giving off fresh oxygen, no moist soil giving off the smell of a fresh garden, no animals giving off odor to either attract mates or to keep away predators. Here on the ocean, there is a characteristic lack of any smell.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Voyage: On Adaptation
As the first few days went by, I began to notice many little things around me that were not the same as on land. Many little nuances are taken for granted and when they are missing from the environment, it can take quite awhile to adapt.
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Voyage: Getting to Know the Ital Oceano
So here I was, flying to Savannah to board my freighter. I was nervous, for no one I knew had ever traveled by freighter before. As we landed, we passed over the port itself. From above, the ships looked like miniature game pieces from Axes and Allies and the containers themselves looked like the blue, orange, red and white roads from the Settlers of Catan. My heart raced, both for the excitement of the upcoming journey, but also for nervousness as to whether this was the right decision.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Dear Friends,
From Aug 31st to Sept 15th I will be unreachable, as I will be on board the Ital Oceano, a freighter traveling from Savannah, Georgia, to Taranto, Italy. Reactions to this news have run the gauntlet.
“WHAT!?!?!?!” was the common response.
“That’s terrific! You’re going to have such a great time!” sometimes followed.
“Oh my god, you’ll be bored out of your mind!” was the other most common follow-up.
In polling my friends, about half of them thought I was crazy. The other half though I was crazy too, but wanted to hear all about it.
The normal conventions of travel do not exist as surprises pop up at every turn of the whole process. For instance, my ticket was printed in German. Regarding luggage, I was told “Take only as much as you can carry. It is 1-2 miles from the terminal to your ship and you’ll have to walk.” “Oh, and by the way, your Antwerp trip was canceled. But we can rebook you to Italy”.
Friends would hear me talk about this and exclaim with amazement that I was still interested in going.
“But its two weeks of peace and quiet,” I would argue. “No internet, no cell phone.”
“I would rather go to a beach and turn off my cell phone,” they would counter.
“Do you get sea sick?” they would inquire.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been motion sick before.”
“But you realize it will be hurricane season?”
“Aren’t you worried about pirates?” some would ask.
“Uh, no? They are more of an issue off the coasts of Nigeria and Somalia. I’m going through the Straight of Gibraltar.”
“Dude – do you also go through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Um…yes?”
So here I am, the day before boarding. Truth be told, I am a tad nervous – no one has told me what language the crew speaks. I wonder if I brought enough books. Whatever happens, it is sure to be an adventure.
http://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Ital-Oceano-9300984.html
“WHAT!?!?!?!” was the common response.
“That’s terrific! You’re going to have such a great time!” sometimes followed.
“Oh my god, you’ll be bored out of your mind!” was the other most common follow-up.
In polling my friends, about half of them thought I was crazy. The other half though I was crazy too, but wanted to hear all about it.
The normal conventions of travel do not exist as surprises pop up at every turn of the whole process. For instance, my ticket was printed in German. Regarding luggage, I was told “Take only as much as you can carry. It is 1-2 miles from the terminal to your ship and you’ll have to walk.” “Oh, and by the way, your Antwerp trip was canceled. But we can rebook you to Italy”.
Friends would hear me talk about this and exclaim with amazement that I was still interested in going.
“But its two weeks of peace and quiet,” I would argue. “No internet, no cell phone.”
“I would rather go to a beach and turn off my cell phone,” they would counter.
“Do you get sea sick?” they would inquire.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never been motion sick before.”
“But you realize it will be hurricane season?”
“Aren’t you worried about pirates?” some would ask.
“Uh, no? They are more of an issue off the coasts of Nigeria and Somalia. I’m going through the Straight of Gibraltar.”
“Dude – do you also go through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Um…yes?”
So here I am, the day before boarding. Truth be told, I am a tad nervous – no one has told me what language the crew speaks. I wonder if I brought enough books. Whatever happens, it is sure to be an adventure.
http://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Ital-Oceano-9300984.html
Roadtrip Second Half Report
There is a popular map of the world that NASA publishes of the entire world at night. You can see the outlines of the continents as cities light up the darkened earth. Upon close inspection of the USA, there is a distinct line in the middle of the country. If you look east, there are large clusters of lights next to large clusters of lights. If you look west, there are sporadic pinpoints, until the solid sheet of light that makes up the California coast. There are not many people in this middle area that make up the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. This was the second part of the road trip.
The rural nature is obvious. Kadoka, SD, the closest large town to the South Dakota Badlands has a whopping 5 hotels. Gas stations on the interstate are separated by 40 miles or more. You’d think you couldn’t get any smaller, but then you hit Lost Spring, Wyoming, population 1. Yes, one, lone person. Literally, you miss it in a blink as it is merely a sign next to a house. One can only imagine what sort of industry can be sustained by a population of 1. In fact, the population itself isn’t even stable. It needs at least two.
Some small cities are able to profit on being a tourist trap. Wall, SD is one of these places. The world’s largest drug store is in Wall, covering a city block. But when you walk in, you quickly realize that this is no ordinary drug store. A robotic T-Rex next to the gem sluice roars as you walk to the restrooms. Billboards advertising for Wall Drug start all the way in Minnesota, and there are subsequent ones at least every ten miles. The first few billboards scream of “tourist trap!” especially when they tout their media exposure on Oprah. But when that is all you see for the next 300 miles, you wonder, “is that all that’s out here?” By the time you reach Wall, you feel obligated to at least stop in and take a look at the Western Orchestra, made out of wax figurines. If you’re wondering, yes, they will fill your prescriptions too.
The Bonneville Salt Flat was eerie. It was flat and white. In most of my travels, I have visited cities or natural parks that have some topology – mountains, trees, lakes, valleys. The salt flats are formed when large deposits of salt water evaporate, leaving behind miles and miles of salt that follows the natural curvature of the earth. Even Kansas, scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake, cannot compare to the pure flatness of the salt flats. It is white for as far as the eye can see. The salt crystals are huge, formed in its natural environment. But what makes it eerie is that it is dead. Death Valley, by its namesake, is dead, but every year, after a spring shower, wild flowers shoot up for a few short weeks and spread their seeds before succumbing to the brutal environment. Death Valley is called that because life does not usually grow. But nothing can grow on salt. The flats are eerie because there is no choice for life.
What amazes me the most about America is the amazing extremes the country has to offer. Twenty-four hours after the salt flats, I drove through the San Joachim Valley of California, home to some of the best fruit crops. At the Casa De Fruta store, there were dried mangos, kiwis, strawberries, cherries, apricots, along with a dozen different nuts roasted a dozen different ways, such as tequila walnuts, chili pistachios, and guacamole almonds. But be careful. This too is a tourist trap. After being welcomed by the parking lot peacock, you can go to Casa de Restaurant for meals, Casa de Sweets for candy, and Casa de Choo Choo for the kid that lives in all of us.
Thus I arrived at my destination, having visited majestic mountains and urban jungles, harsh deserts and fertile farmlands. I feel rested and full of memories of people, places and things. My favorite moment was staring at the sky in the Grand Tetons, seeing the Milky Way and thinking how we are being whipped around the galactic core at thousands of miles per second and the only thing keeping us from flying off into oblivion is a force called gravity. Then I fell asleep. My friends along the route, thank you for your hospitality; my country, thank you for sharing your beauty; and my car, thank you for not overheating.
The rural nature is obvious. Kadoka, SD, the closest large town to the South Dakota Badlands has a whopping 5 hotels. Gas stations on the interstate are separated by 40 miles or more. You’d think you couldn’t get any smaller, but then you hit Lost Spring, Wyoming, population 1. Yes, one, lone person. Literally, you miss it in a blink as it is merely a sign next to a house. One can only imagine what sort of industry can be sustained by a population of 1. In fact, the population itself isn’t even stable. It needs at least two.
Some small cities are able to profit on being a tourist trap. Wall, SD is one of these places. The world’s largest drug store is in Wall, covering a city block. But when you walk in, you quickly realize that this is no ordinary drug store. A robotic T-Rex next to the gem sluice roars as you walk to the restrooms. Billboards advertising for Wall Drug start all the way in Minnesota, and there are subsequent ones at least every ten miles. The first few billboards scream of “tourist trap!” especially when they tout their media exposure on Oprah. But when that is all you see for the next 300 miles, you wonder, “is that all that’s out here?” By the time you reach Wall, you feel obligated to at least stop in and take a look at the Western Orchestra, made out of wax figurines. If you’re wondering, yes, they will fill your prescriptions too.
The Bonneville Salt Flat was eerie. It was flat and white. In most of my travels, I have visited cities or natural parks that have some topology – mountains, trees, lakes, valleys. The salt flats are formed when large deposits of salt water evaporate, leaving behind miles and miles of salt that follows the natural curvature of the earth. Even Kansas, scientifically proven to be flatter than a pancake, cannot compare to the pure flatness of the salt flats. It is white for as far as the eye can see. The salt crystals are huge, formed in its natural environment. But what makes it eerie is that it is dead. Death Valley, by its namesake, is dead, but every year, after a spring shower, wild flowers shoot up for a few short weeks and spread their seeds before succumbing to the brutal environment. Death Valley is called that because life does not usually grow. But nothing can grow on salt. The flats are eerie because there is no choice for life.
What amazes me the most about America is the amazing extremes the country has to offer. Twenty-four hours after the salt flats, I drove through the San Joachim Valley of California, home to some of the best fruit crops. At the Casa De Fruta store, there were dried mangos, kiwis, strawberries, cherries, apricots, along with a dozen different nuts roasted a dozen different ways, such as tequila walnuts, chili pistachios, and guacamole almonds. But be careful. This too is a tourist trap. After being welcomed by the parking lot peacock, you can go to Casa de Restaurant for meals, Casa de Sweets for candy, and Casa de Choo Choo for the kid that lives in all of us.
Thus I arrived at my destination, having visited majestic mountains and urban jungles, harsh deserts and fertile farmlands. I feel rested and full of memories of people, places and things. My favorite moment was staring at the sky in the Grand Tetons, seeing the Milky Way and thinking how we are being whipped around the galactic core at thousands of miles per second and the only thing keeping us from flying off into oblivion is a force called gravity. Then I fell asleep. My friends along the route, thank you for your hospitality; my country, thank you for sharing your beauty; and my car, thank you for not overheating.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Hiking in the Grand Teton National Forest
Dave and I were finally going to be climbing Jackson Peak in the Teton National Forest in Wyoming. This 10,700 peak is south of the national park and gives a grand view of the mountains in the horizon and the valley and buttes below. From a distance, you could see snow on parts of the mountain through the rugged terrain. Our plan was simple. On the first day, we would climb up to Goodwin Lake at 9000 feet and set up camp. From there, we would take the second day to summit the peak at 10,700.
To guide us through the harrowing journey, we hired a local sherpa, Dawa, to lead the expedition. He had safely taken many people up to the summit before and we felt confident that he would be able to lead us safely. He spent much time warning us of the dangers of what we were attempting, but we were determined. After agreeing to help us, Dawa rounded up an expedition of 10 men along with a full complement of horses and mules. He purchased nearly 2 weeks worth of food and supplies, including fresh basil for cooking and a glockenspiel for the evening’s entertainment. Confident that we had everything we need, we set off on the journey.
As we started off on our hike, tragedy struck. One of our horses was not shoed properly and quickly lost her footing on the rocky path. She fell over and was in no condition to continue. Determined to overlook this temporary setback, we set off on our journey. Two long hours later, we arrived in a daze at the Goodwin Lake campsite. The first part of the journey was much more difficult than any of us could have anticipated. A wandering bear had attacked our group and took out two sherpas before we were able to subdue it with the most blunt of force. They were the masseuse sherpas for we had hoped to rest our aching muscles at base camp that night. Along with them went a few of the horses that carried scented perfumes and oils. The odor of the broken bottles attracted a herd of attack chipmunks that crossed our path. There were too many of these little pests such that our machetes were of no use. Dawa commanded us to out-run them and so the crew took off on a sprint. When we stopped to catch our breath, we found that 3 sherpas lost their nerves and ran back to the starting point, 4 were still with us, and one was unaccounted for. Animalwise, we had lost a total of four mules and two more horses.
Goodwin Lake, named for its discoverer, Goodwin, appears calm on the surface. Its crystal clear water flows from snowmelt in surrounding mountains. Nestled between several hills, it is protected from the harsh winds and is somewhat of a sanctuary in the wilderness. The pine trees grow calmly and quietly and reflect in the water below. As the sun set, the surrounding hills turned deep red and the sky turned an ominous blue. As night set in, we sat outside, staring at the Milky Way and surrounding visible stars, clear of air pollution and light pollution. Dawa, playing the glockenspiel, brooded about the hike. “This not right. Stars is not right. Wind is not right. Trouble for climb tomorrow. Better rest well tonight.” He then got up and went into his tent and left us with a haunted feeling that maybe we were over our head in what we could handle.
The next day, we awoke to two more horses missing. When we questioned Dawa, he quickly said, “Never mind horses! We need to get moving before worse happen!” Up and up we went, hiking through forests, scaling boulders and occasionally passing though patches of snow. Every once and awhile, we would take a rest in a meadow before continuing our upward trek. It was a strenuous hike – one of the sherpas collapsed in exhaustion and slid down a rocky side of the mountain.
The scene was beautiful. Across the low-lying valley, the snow covered Grand Teton mountains rose majestically in the distance. Clouds hung effortlessly above us and were close enough that you could seemingly touch them in the next mountain range. Green meadows, pine trees, snow and rocks littered the surrounding mountains to make a beautiful collage of colors and textures. Words can describe the world as it unfolded to us but it cannot capture the emotive beauty of the moment. As we looked around, we saw Goodwin Lake from above and understood the reason for Dawa’s haste in leaving in the early morning. There was a giant eel-like creature swimming in circles. What had looked like gnarled tree branches were in actuality digested bone fragments form this horrible creature!
When we returned to camp, we understood what happened to the animals last night. Dawa had left them tied up next to the lake as an offering, hoping to satiate the lake monster such that it would leave us alone. Tonight, we helped Dawa and his crew perform the same gruesome task. We only had two horses left, but Dawa was adamant. “Tie both next to lake!” he demanded. “Better them than us!” We went to bed fearful of any sound that came out of the woods.
The next morning at sunrise, we were awoken with a “whoosh” off in the distance. Dawa ran out from his tent to the lake just in time to see the tail of the giant eel disappear into the lake. The horses were nowhere to be seen. Dawa ran back to camp. “Quickly! Leave now! Monster feeds in the morning!” We immediately began to break down the tents and put away our gear. Fear was in the eyes of our remaining Sherpas. “No more time! Must leave now!” Dawa yelled. We took what we had put into our packs and ran off on foot as fast as we could. As we approached the trail near the lake, we saw two giant eyes looking at us and we took off on a sprint. Behind us, we could hear the yell of two of our sherpas that lagged behind a bit too long and a few more seconds later, silence, except for the crackling of branches below our feet.
Dawa, Dave and I, the only three left on the expedition, slowed down to catch our breath once we were a good distance from the lake. “Good job”, said Dawa, huffing and puffing, more tired than we’ve seen him this entire journey. “I have seen that monster eye to eye many times. Each time he scares me. Do not tempt monster.” We were proud that we performed so well in the face of such danger. We stumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Just as we were about to turn around the clearing to where the car was parked, Dawa collapsed.
“Dawa!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stop now! We are almost at the car! You can almost see it from here!”
1301
1505
Dawa shook his head as I held his hands. “It is too late for me. I have seen it in the creature’s eyes. He had claimed me. It is my time to go.”
“Dawa! No!”
But it was too late. With one last nod, his head ceased to move and his body became a lifeless mass.
Somberly, Dave and I made it the rest of the way to the car with no problems. As we drove off down from the parking lot, we could not but think back and remember our brave sherpa guide, his crew of able-bodied men, and the spectacular views and scenery that unfolded before our eyes. Photos can only act as memory beads to the weekend’s events. And for as long as I live, I shall never be able to look at a glockenspiel without remembering this story.
A suspiciously calm looking Goodwin lake. Who knew danger lurked below?
The Grand Tetons mountain range as seen from Jackson Peak, a treacherous hike.
To guide us through the harrowing journey, we hired a local sherpa, Dawa, to lead the expedition. He had safely taken many people up to the summit before and we felt confident that he would be able to lead us safely. He spent much time warning us of the dangers of what we were attempting, but we were determined. After agreeing to help us, Dawa rounded up an expedition of 10 men along with a full complement of horses and mules. He purchased nearly 2 weeks worth of food and supplies, including fresh basil for cooking and a glockenspiel for the evening’s entertainment. Confident that we had everything we need, we set off on the journey.
As we started off on our hike, tragedy struck. One of our horses was not shoed properly and quickly lost her footing on the rocky path. She fell over and was in no condition to continue. Determined to overlook this temporary setback, we set off on our journey. Two long hours later, we arrived in a daze at the Goodwin Lake campsite. The first part of the journey was much more difficult than any of us could have anticipated. A wandering bear had attacked our group and took out two sherpas before we were able to subdue it with the most blunt of force. They were the masseuse sherpas for we had hoped to rest our aching muscles at base camp that night. Along with them went a few of the horses that carried scented perfumes and oils. The odor of the broken bottles attracted a herd of attack chipmunks that crossed our path. There were too many of these little pests such that our machetes were of no use. Dawa commanded us to out-run them and so the crew took off on a sprint. When we stopped to catch our breath, we found that 3 sherpas lost their nerves and ran back to the starting point, 4 were still with us, and one was unaccounted for. Animalwise, we had lost a total of four mules and two more horses.
Goodwin Lake, named for its discoverer, Goodwin, appears calm on the surface. Its crystal clear water flows from snowmelt in surrounding mountains. Nestled between several hills, it is protected from the harsh winds and is somewhat of a sanctuary in the wilderness. The pine trees grow calmly and quietly and reflect in the water below. As the sun set, the surrounding hills turned deep red and the sky turned an ominous blue. As night set in, we sat outside, staring at the Milky Way and surrounding visible stars, clear of air pollution and light pollution. Dawa, playing the glockenspiel, brooded about the hike. “This not right. Stars is not right. Wind is not right. Trouble for climb tomorrow. Better rest well tonight.” He then got up and went into his tent and left us with a haunted feeling that maybe we were over our head in what we could handle.
The next day, we awoke to two more horses missing. When we questioned Dawa, he quickly said, “Never mind horses! We need to get moving before worse happen!” Up and up we went, hiking through forests, scaling boulders and occasionally passing though patches of snow. Every once and awhile, we would take a rest in a meadow before continuing our upward trek. It was a strenuous hike – one of the sherpas collapsed in exhaustion and slid down a rocky side of the mountain.
The scene was beautiful. Across the low-lying valley, the snow covered Grand Teton mountains rose majestically in the distance. Clouds hung effortlessly above us and were close enough that you could seemingly touch them in the next mountain range. Green meadows, pine trees, snow and rocks littered the surrounding mountains to make a beautiful collage of colors and textures. Words can describe the world as it unfolded to us but it cannot capture the emotive beauty of the moment. As we looked around, we saw Goodwin Lake from above and understood the reason for Dawa’s haste in leaving in the early morning. There was a giant eel-like creature swimming in circles. What had looked like gnarled tree branches were in actuality digested bone fragments form this horrible creature!
When we returned to camp, we understood what happened to the animals last night. Dawa had left them tied up next to the lake as an offering, hoping to satiate the lake monster such that it would leave us alone. Tonight, we helped Dawa and his crew perform the same gruesome task. We only had two horses left, but Dawa was adamant. “Tie both next to lake!” he demanded. “Better them than us!” We went to bed fearful of any sound that came out of the woods.
The next morning at sunrise, we were awoken with a “whoosh” off in the distance. Dawa ran out from his tent to the lake just in time to see the tail of the giant eel disappear into the lake. The horses were nowhere to be seen. Dawa ran back to camp. “Quickly! Leave now! Monster feeds in the morning!” We immediately began to break down the tents and put away our gear. Fear was in the eyes of our remaining Sherpas. “No more time! Must leave now!” Dawa yelled. We took what we had put into our packs and ran off on foot as fast as we could. As we approached the trail near the lake, we saw two giant eyes looking at us and we took off on a sprint. Behind us, we could hear the yell of two of our sherpas that lagged behind a bit too long and a few more seconds later, silence, except for the crackling of branches below our feet.
Dawa, Dave and I, the only three left on the expedition, slowed down to catch our breath once we were a good distance from the lake. “Good job”, said Dawa, huffing and puffing, more tired than we’ve seen him this entire journey. “I have seen that monster eye to eye many times. Each time he scares me. Do not tempt monster.” We were proud that we performed so well in the face of such danger. We stumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Just as we were about to turn around the clearing to where the car was parked, Dawa collapsed.
“Dawa!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stop now! We are almost at the car! You can almost see it from here!”
1301
1505
Dawa shook his head as I held his hands. “It is too late for me. I have seen it in the creature’s eyes. He had claimed me. It is my time to go.”
“Dawa! No!”
But it was too late. With one last nod, his head ceased to move and his body became a lifeless mass.
Somberly, Dave and I made it the rest of the way to the car with no problems. As we drove off down from the parking lot, we could not but think back and remember our brave sherpa guide, his crew of able-bodied men, and the spectacular views and scenery that unfolded before our eyes. Photos can only act as memory beads to the weekend’s events. And for as long as I live, I shall never be able to look at a glockenspiel without remembering this story.
A suspiciously calm looking Goodwin lake. Who knew danger lurked below?
The Grand Tetons mountain range as seen from Jackson Peak, a treacherous hike.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)