Moving on

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une carte

One month ago,
I purchased a world map.
Not an engrossing wall mural waiting to be tortured with pins,
but rather a timid foldout
with Europe and Africa placed centrally, Asia to the east leaving the Americas far left.
Whimsical, hand-drawn watercolor pictographs of mountain ranges, cites and countrysides are surrounded by ocean hues of blue. I am reminded of my 6th grade history textbook and smile.

At first, it just sat in in the corner, propped up carelessly,
resting atop less important papers,
I ignored its significance.

Today, I caught myself flirting with its folds, brushing a finger across Cameroon, down into Namibia. How might I traverse such miles of desert? Winter or spring? Would we skip South Africa, continue East searching out a sailboat to crew, direction Madagascar? Vietnam for Christmas?

I'm liable to stumble down Alice's rabbit hole....

playing possum

Another week at the hospital, the clinic- treating patients with numerous aliments, Tuesday smells like Thursday, the days blend. Ticking cowardly, the clock's rotations slowly bring me closer to another anticipated weekend.

The legendary Umpqua River beckoned us forth, a summons for adventure. Cramming the truck with toys- climbing gear, crusty mountain bikes, guitars, books, Moose Drool and wine, we headed down south. It was almost midnight when we pulled into the camping spot, friends were still awake howling at the moon. Throwing my futon atop the dirt, tentless as always, I slept heavy.

Percolating coffee waifed through the woods, entering my senses like a dream luring me into an awakened state. I thumbed through the local guide book, my fingers stopping, lingering over the words, "...sections closed, too narrow, super exposed, must walk..."
I looked around, wondering if anyone could see my perverse smile? Perfect! an 18 mile out and back along the Northern Umpqua River.

4.5 hours later, Jay and I returned no less physically intact, but indeed mentally harangued and teased. This addiction to steep, harrowing rides has got to stop before someone gets injured. But not this weekend, as a brief liaison with The Woman in the Meadow awaits at Smith Rock, and Surveyors Ridge a favorite single track east of Mt. Hood calls.

To be completely exhausted, body worn ragged...
Adrenalin seeking refuge, body jostles under muscle memory of a hard day's ride.
We slept under the darkness of a new moon, stars exposed above us, melting into the snug makeshift quarters of the chilly night.
Our last morning gave way to pure sky azul with sunlight rays warming the air. We played possum, languidly tending to breakfast, guitars and reading while basking under the radiant sun.
Summer is beginning to fall from fashion, calling on its fall and winter wardrobes. Not ready to succumb to the inevitable rain, diminishing daylight hours and vitamin D deficiency, I fight until the end devising an escape route.

sushi, dungeness crab, mountain biking and climbing- these are a few of my favorite things

Saturday finally barged in and pushed me on the highway heading south, away from Portland's dreary weather. Last week's storms moistened our parched earth, ensuring a rare summer weekend free from billows of dust that lodge in the lungs and coat the nares black. Communing with nature was utmost on my list, as if 7 days rafting the Main Salmon (link) had not sufficed.
I had spent the last few years exploring Bend's single track atop an archaic 920 Trek with failing brakes and no suspension, and was eager to dirty my new Fisher on Jay's pick of the day: Shevlin Park and the Mrazek Trail.

The first 4miles meandered along a generous river trail with lush foliage and flat terrain; I began questioning the seriousness of this trail, wondering if I had been mislead for the map's black diamond and difficulty rating, or perhaps lost. With my guard down, the trail suddenly morphed into its true nature, the beast exposed- a narrow, technical path dispersed with jagged lava rocks and prickly desert shrubs, switch back elevation gain and narrow pine tree corridors. Save a swollen left shoulder, a broken chain link and an out of tune gear shifter, we completed our 4hour out and back just in time for dinner and beers at the Bend Brewing Co(link). With salted smiles and sweaty shorts, we found our way to a gaudy rented house on the Deschutes and unable to keep my eyes open or chat with the other Portland contingency, I drifted off to sleep.

Awakening to the growls of a hungry belly, we headed straight for a favorite at Smith Rock, The Sun Spot- a guaranteed basic of eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns and hot coffee. We pulled our tired, weary bodies inside and found a 20min wait. The waitress offered outside picnic tables and with the morning warming up, we placed an order and waited for coffee. Without blinking an eye, she pulls out two cheap Styrofoam cups and begins to pour. "Styrofoam! Wait, we want regular coffee mugs," exhasperated, I looked around wondering if anyone else suffered the same fate. Guess they can't serve glass outside and there was no way on this beautiful Sunday morning, I was going to have my first cup of joe in Styrofoam. Bemuttled, I left unsure whether I had already paid, and sought out the only other restaurant in town.

Seeking solace, we drove on to Smith Rock's northern most parking lot, wherein lies a lonely trail leading to some of the shortest, yet arduous climbs out there, all shadowed by east facing columns. Woman in the Meadow was our find, an innocent 5.11 overhangish, killing me until the second to last clip, climb. I just couldn't finish it, unable to fully focus and wrap my head around the goal, I was too scared to jump for that last, "are you sure it's a bomber hold?" hold. High step, lie back, crimp, back step, twist encompass the lower sequence, the day was spent working the wall, avoiding any thoughts of setting up a TR. My new nemesis. Loading up the truck, we headed back for Portland.

Fighting the waning light of Sunday evening, unable to succumb to the thought of Monday, we pulled over one last time just south of Hood River, east of Mt. Hood to attempt Gunsight ridge. For the last two hours of sunlight, we danced in the forest with our bikes.
I ended with a solo performance endo, tumbling poetically over my handle bars. Following suite, Jay flew upward, sending the bike onto its side, both remained unscathed.

It was a graceful end to a sensational weekend.

Yeti Airlines

May 2008, we left for Everest in a cramped jet built for 15, including the crew, and endured a harrowing 35 minutes to Lukla Airport. Built on an incline, the 900ft mountain slope runway decelerates the plane to a screeching halt and within an hour, it is reloaded, circling around for takeoff. The nose lowers toward the abyss, rolling down with the speed of gravity as it first dips and finally begins to climb, delivering its prey back to civilization.

Returning home, legs weary and spent from our rapid descent, 8000 ft. since Everest Base Camp, we arrived in Lukla exhausted and a day early. Expecting to escape on an earlier flight, our ignorance surfaced as we learned the reality of such a request. Only three airlines have rights to this airport and only ideal weather grants access. Yetti Airlines held no promises of an early return to Kathmandu. Nightmare rumors of 7 day waits and planes turning back midway were feeding my fears of an extended stay.

The next morning, we dragged our feet to the airport and awaited the dispatch, had the planes left the city, would they land, could we go home? By midday the airport's dilapidated gates were once again locked and we were diverted back to our overcrowded tea houses. San Miguel beer, the consolation prize, was running low.

Another sleepless night, cheers and songs culminating from a group of successful Taiwanese climbers tossing back bottles of Rum, I awoke restless and anxious. From the window, a heavy layer of morning fog dampened spirits as the growing number of trekkers waiting for pending flights reconciled their fate. We were stuck another day.

At 10:30am word spread- four planes had left Kathmandu. A warm wind pushed at the fog, allowing a small window of opportunity.

Three planes were able to land, ours the auspicious third: Yeti Airlines, embossed with a large green bigfoot bobbled onto the runway, the cargo was emptied along with the new round of virgin trekkers. Moments later they herded our nineteen sweaty bodies, packs and gear into the steel vessel, propellers spinning, we headed down the roadway, cheering.

A Sunrise over River Ganges

Sunrise on the the River Ganges, a romantic wooden boat ride with bamboo oars awaits at the dockless Ghats, 325 now vacant palaces built by kings with narrows stairs descending to the river. Never mind the occasional dead body or cow floating by, as this is the pilgrimage taken by most Hindus. Ceremonial crematoriums line the river, sending smoke signals to the destroyer god Shiva. After a river washing the blazing wood catches the golden wrapped body, 4 hours later the remains are set afloat.
Children under 5, death by snake bites or small pocks, eunuchs and priests I have learned are not allowed to burn.
Rowing down river, the Ghats are filled with morning rituals of bathing, washing, singing, yogi and fishing. Swimmers maneuver around bodies, boat paddles and floating offerings of banana leaf candles wreathed in marigolds.
It is said for clarity, one should dunk in these waters, but I am unable to persuade myself.

Harri Krishna

Leaving Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, in attempt to catch an overnight sleeper train to Varanasi led us on a wild time chase with our Harri Krishna taxi driver. Thinking 12km = 20min we had no worries, until the smell of rain engulfed our senses. The beckoning lightening storm closed the skies just as govt. road work narrowed our passage. Our determined driver whirled us through games of chicken, swerving opposite traffic, and par for the course, no head lights. We were cruising until a grid of cars, cows, rickshaws, trucks and bikes came to a halt and chaos ensued, 5km from the station. He shook his head, prayed to Krishna, I prayed to Krishna.... We would never make the train, not tonight. Rain fell, horns screamed, people coursed, we were all stuck. What seemed hours later, Krishna answered our prayers, parted the streets with his hand of blue and blew the clouds westerly aside. We whirled on, brainstorming the next plan of attack.

Skidding into the back side of a dark alley, our driver jumped out of the car, yelled at some kids who came flying over, grabbing at our luggage and ready to take foot. "Station," he pointed, "Go, Go." With that, I grabbed my porter and we fled, toward the dark station, up the stairs to our track and there we found the delayed train. Smiling in between rapid breaths of relief, we tipped everyone for their gallant efforts.

This is India, Indian time and the train was later than our furtive driver, 4 hours later to be exact. At 1am we finally pulled from the station, jostled through sleeping passengers and found our beds, 10 and 11; of course we had to oust a squatter from my bed, but that's another story.
Namasté Krishna.