Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part One)

     Sometimes crisis requires fast action, a nearly unconscious response. Other times a situation offers the luxury and curse of a long period of reflection. I've often imagined falling off a boat out at sea, the initial shock and fear quickly giving way to resignation as the boat fades into the distance. Recently in the Bahamas this terrible vision became reality. So there I was, two days into a sailing trip, calmly watching my boat fade slowly into the distance. The boat wasn't moving, but I was, caught in a rip current and pushed farther away minute by minute.  I was swimming hard and making no headway, just losing more ground. There was plenty of time for reflection. First, the things in my favor: the boat was at anchor, with my two friends  on it. Also there was land nearby. A small island sat just a few hundred yards off to my side. I wasn't going to drown. Then the cons- I had jumped in the water to relieve myself, and as such was buck naked, ill prepared to traverse this island far enough to get up-current of the boat. The islands of the Bahamas feature a topography straight from Dante's Inferno- an eroded limestone known as iron shore that resembles the surface of a fossilized English muffin. Crawling naked across it would have reduced me to a bloody, howling, sun burnt husk of a man. I had to get back to that boat!
     The trip was not going smoothly. When Ben, an old friend from Alaska, had called and said he'd like help moving a sailboat for a friend of his, from Florida to St. Thomas, I jumped at the chance. Just pay for food he said. We'll catch fish and snorkel and sail and drink rum. When a work obligation during that time period had been cancelled, the choice was easy. I tossed mask and fins and plenty of sunblock into my bag and headed to Nassau.
    Unfortunately, I also packed bedbugs from a dodgy hostel in Guatemala, and spent my first day in town putting everything I had into a commercial dryer and turning the knob to the "grilled cheese" setting to try to smite the beasts before I brought them aboard. As it was, the weather was terrible, so we weren't going anywhere anytime soon. The trip from Florida aboard S/V Skookum had been a tough one for the original crew, and morale was pretty low. Also, one crew member also joining in Nassau had recently become pregnant. She and her husband had made the trip to the Bahamas, but were questioning the wisdom of  a trip that would  entail amplified morning sickness and lack of access to definitive care.
     Skookum— named after classic native Alaskan word meaning "strong"— is a 36' Hans Christian,  a legend in its day but now a project boat with a bunch of problems large and small. We were a week behind by the time our trimmed down crew of three finally pulled anchor and headed for the Exumas. Now, just a day later, I was watching my floating home slowly fading into the distance.
   The stereo was cranked when I left, and my two compañeros, Captain Ben and his college friend Kavour, were just settling down for a siesta. A naked torture scramble was looking more likely by the minute. I yelled anyway. I hollered, and shouted and yelled again. I swam, harder this time and yelled again. Treading water to rise as high as possible, I looked at the hateful island and screamed with all I had. A few seconds later Ben popped out on the deck and jumped in the dinghy to fetch my sorry bare ass. By luck, he'd turned off the tunes just moments prior in preparation for nap time.

Things turned around for the crew after my rescue. We jumped off the boat that afternoon and found scattered coral heads teeming with reef fish. Learning to use the pole spear took some time, but eventually Ben and I headed back to Skookum with several fish, including a prize grouper killed instantly with a perfect head shot. For the next two weeks we enjoyed the freshest, most delicious fish every day, either from spear-fishing or trolling behind Skookum while we were underway. We would jump around like excited kids when the line started peeling out, fight the fish from the port side deck while rolling with the boat, and when we'd dragged one aboard, give thanks to the creature for it's sacrifice. A piece of driftwood Kavour found at Allen's Cay was propped up on stern pulpit as a wonderful makeshift filet station. Soon we had a constant supply of fresh fish in the fridge. The crew gorged on sashimi, ceviche, and all manner of grilled and fried filets. It's an amazing way to live and eat and one of the best parts of travelling the sea.

Skookum poked it's way down the Exuma chain, holding five mph on a good day. Sometimes we ran under power, more often under a combination of power and sail. On blissful occasions we killed the diesel engine and travelled by wind alone, the forces pulling and pushing our 20, 000 pound floating home effortlessly through the crystal waters. With music wafting from the cabin we'd toast our tremendous good fortune.
On Hawksbill Cay a simple hike up a mangrove slough and over to the other side of the island provide escape from the dozens of other boats moored in the bay. Here we found a dazzling white sand beach without a soul, with gentle rolling surf and the most amazing spectrum of blues. We stretched our boat-bound bodies and wandered around on the beach in a psilocybin daydream. Stretched out on a limestone bench worn smooth by many years of surf,  I let the sea foam envelop me with each breaking wave. As the shadows grew long we returned to the boat to watched, as we always did, for the mythical green flash. I've never enjoyed a failed effort as much as my years-long search for this phenomenon.
We checked out the swimming pigs at Staniel Cay, as well as the Thunderball Grotto made famous by James Bond films, then high-tailed it out of there as fast as we could, anxious to trade the country club yachtie atmosphere for more remote environs.
Crossing through the Exuma chain meant the more exposed Exuma Sound on the windward side of the islands. The sailing was wilder and the fishing much improved. Close to Georgetown we battled several mahi-mahi, stocking up food rations for an unexpected layover while we waited for the repaired auto-pilot to arrive via Fed-Ex. I had been filling the machine's role since Nassau and loving it, but Ben pointed out that the auto-pilot holds a straighter course and requires a smaller energy input than I do. Soon I appreciated the ability to run around the boat— catching fish, cooking meals and watching dolphins, all while a small machine held our precise course. We travelled for many days this way, only scanning the horizon from time to time to ensure we weren't on a collision course with a big tanker.
Skookum's problems had not disappeared and Captain Ben was constantly fixing some things and worrying about others throughout the trip. It's amazing how many different systems one relies on during a sailing journey- the boat rigging that keeps the mast and sails in place, the sails and related gear, the anchors and related gear, the engine and propeller and related gear, the electronics, plus all of the things that allow a boat to be a house, e.g. batteries, inverter, refrigerator, water pumps, toilet, plumbing, and on and on. In a best case scenario, constant vigilance and routine maintenance is required. But Skookum was not best case. A very well-made boat built by an acclaimed boatwright in the early 1980's, she had fallen victim to neglect in the 90's. Abandoned in a Florida boatyard for many years, she was mere days from being chopped up when Ben's friend traded an old Harley for her seven years ago.  Like an animal rescued from euthanasia at a shelter, she had been nursed back to health and made a tremendous recovery, but still had some intractable behavior issues. A few weeks past Nassau we were still many hundreds of miles from St. Thomas and the odds seemed stacked against us. Still, all that tended melt away as we served up heaping plates of sushi while slowly bobbing on a secluded anchorage, dripping from a swim in perfectly clear water and watching the sun dip below the horizon. The green flash remains elusive, but life, for the moment, is perfect.

Can you love a plastic bag?

These days plastic bags don’t get much love. If you look out the window of your car or bus, you will see plastic bags stuck in bushes and trees along almost every road in the world.  Right now, sitting on a dock in Nassau, I watch them float by constantly.

 A tangible symbol of a wasteful modern society, plastic bags have been replaced in some places by their reusable cousins, a sort of small tote bag made of canvas, or cotton or hemp or anything that is not plastic. These bags have found their way into our vehicle trunks and our kitchen closets, if not into everyday use. Some towns have even enacted laws banning plastic bags altogether.

Given all the understandable animosity, I must take a moment to sing the praises of a plastic bag. Not plastic bags in general, but one that I came to love.

It all began on a sunny afternoon in January 2009, in La Paz, Mexico. I was about to lead my first sea kayak guide training course around the islands near La Paz and needed a way to keep my sleeping bag dry. I purchased a roll of 15 white trash bags, heavy duty, designed for trash compactors.  One was destined for greatness.

I used the bag to line the stuff sack of my sleeping bag. With this system, you put your sleeping bag into the lined sack, squeeze out the air and twist the top of the trash bag tightly. Then, tuck the tail down in the stuff sack and cinch the stuff sack tight.  You have now created a nearly full-proof dry bag for something that needs to stay dry no matter what happens out there. It worked well on that 24 day Mexico trip, but that was just the beginning.

The trash bag traveled to Alaska, where it kept glacial water away from my sleeping bag even when a kayak hatch flooded. It went on backpacking adventures in the mountains of northern Canada, and made many return trips to Mexico. It went to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, not once, but eight times, ensuring each day that no matter what was happening outside, I have a cozy and dry nest to climb into by bedtime.

Once, in the wilds of Patagonia it was missing one morning after a ferocious wind the night before. “You’re missing your trash bag?” my companions asked, clearly not getting it. After a frantic 45 minutes I found it lodged in a tree (of course) none the worse for wear and tear.  Over the four- year period between 2009 and 2012, I spent more time outside than in. My work took me to four continents and too many amazing and wild places to count. Stuffing and un-stuffing my sleeping bag day in and day out, the humble trash bag never let me down. It actually outlasted two of the sleeping bags it was charged to protect, and several stuff sacks, with never so much as a tiny hole.

This winter I new the end was near. A bad smell had permeated my faithful servant, and then the first dreaded hole. After one last trip to the islands in Mexico where the great odyssey began, it was time to say goodbye. Not knowing what else to do, I threw my beloved bag in the trash It’s gone now, replaced by another compactor bag, but the lessons I learned from it live on. Recycling is fine, but lets not forget the part about reusing and reducing. If a simple trash bag can last four years and travel the world, what can this morning’s plastic iced coffee cup sitting on your desk do? How about bringing it home and starting a tomato plant in it?

In Oaxaca, on the hunt for mezcal

Many years ago I worked at a wonderful restaurant in the mountains of Colorado. It was a great job, with many perks. One was the sublime joy of skiing to work just as the lifts were closing, and stepping in to a cozy dining room filled with wonderful aromas and good friends. Another was the chance to learn about all manner of delightful food and drink.  The maître’d was a man named Stu, a charming, irascible, lewd, hilarious southerner with an encyclopedic knowledge of wine. One snowy Sunday evening Stu produced, with typical fanfare, three bottles of mezcal.  I knew the stuff vaguely, when someone came back from a trip to Tijuana or spring break in Mazatlan this was a typical souvenir. A yellowish, vile liquid with a resemblance to tequila, its only charm it seemed was the presence of a worm at the bottom.  But, this was completely different. The liquid was clear, the bottles had cool folk art paintings on them, and it was delicious! A really interesting beverage, kind of like a single-malt whisky from Islay- smoky, almost a touch oily, with deep flavors and a pleasant finish.  Moreover, each bottle was slightly different, supposedly reflecting the subtle differences in terroir and production methods between villages near the Mexican city of Oaxaca. I was hooked. Well, not exactly hooked, but I took notice and would seek out a fine mescal from time to time when the opportunity presented itself. I also resolved to one day track them down in their villages of origin.

Seventeen years later I finally made it to Oaxaca, and along with the moles, the tamales, the chocolate, and the fried grasshoppers, I was ready for my mezcal experience. 

Mezcal has come a long way since then. It’s been written up in food columns and travel pieces and is probably available in bars in Omaha and Biloxie. This has not escaped Oaxaca’s notice. All over the city center there are little shops dedicated to individual mescal producers. They resemble fancy clothing boutiques, with only a few bottles artfully displayed on shelves. My gateway mezcal, Del Maguey, probably took the cake, occupying a tiny, modern space between a fancy restaurant and an art gallery, where a fashionable woman sat behind a Mac book next to a table displaying all of their varieties available at the same hefty price they fetch in the US. One sunday we took a bus out to the village of Tlacolula, and after gorging ourselves at the wonderful sunday market, made our way to one of the mescal producers on the outskirts of ton. Despite what the tourist offer had said, there wasn’t much to see on a Sunday. A gruff woman poured a few samples of mediocre product and sent us on our way.

I had to be missing something. I was sure locals drank this stuff, and I was also pretty sure they didn’t buy it in a boutique. I scanned the shelves at one of the ubiquitous corner stores, appropriately called “miscelanea” in Oaxaca: Nothing. Then another, and another. Had the boutiques cornered the market? On the way back to our hotel I decided to check one more place, a little store just like the rest. I didn’t see any alcohol at all, so I asked the woman behind the counter: 

“Ustedes tienen mezcal?”

 She shot a glance at her husband, then back to me, and nodded slightly. 

“Cuanto quiere?” she whispered. 

No way! I’d found it, a mescal speak-easy.

 I kept my cool and asked “Es muy buena? De donde es?”

 She told me the name of the village, one well-known for producing fine mezcals and assured me it was very good. Her husband even fetched a sample from somewhere in back. It was delicious, just smoky enough, and very smooth. A liter was produced in a plastic water bottle, and the price was right. Soon I was sitting on the roof terrace of the hotel, sipping my elicit mescal and munching fried grasshoppers as the sun set over the distant Pacific.

On our last day in Oaxaca I found something of a combination between the corner store speak easy and the tourist boutiques.  A dilapidated old building near downtown the housed the Union de Palanqueros de Oaxaca”, the mescal makers union. Part museum, part enoteca, Kristin and I sipped a dozen different varieties of mezcal from traditional gourd cups, and had a lovely chat with Carmen, daughter of the union’s president., and a mezcal expert in her own right. We learned a bit about mezcal’s pre-columbian, history and the advent of the copper stills brought by the Spaniards. We tasted mezcal infused with various fruits and herbs and two rare gems: la olla, made in the ancient style using a clay still, and “pechuga” a famed, almost mythical mescal that is made using a raw chicken breast hung in the still. I’m not quite sure what the raw chicken does, but the stuff is really delicious. We tottered away into the afternoon sun with a few samples in tote.

So tonight I raise my gourd to Stu, to the mountains, to the resourcefulness of people everywhere who ferment whatever is nearby, to beautiful Oaxaca. Pass the grasshoppers. Salud!

Jamaica Market

One Sunday afternoon in Mexico City we took the metro to the Mercado de Jamaica. The city’s markets are legendary–huge indoor expanses with labyrinthine pathways coursing past stands selling everything imaginable. For a visitor the food area is the big draw, offering a chance to browse exotic produce and grab a stool next to the locals and sample culinary treats from every corner of the country. In addition to the standard market fare, Jamaica (Spanish for hibiscus) serves as the city’s wholesale flower market. Rows and rows of flowers, sold by the stem or in very elaborate arrangements for every occasion. The assault on eyes and nose was intense.

We moved on to the produce section and the focus on aesthetics continued–beautifully arranged sparkling fruits and vegetables of every variety on display. We bought some limes and a pineapple, expertly carved by a machete-wielding vendor. But, it was the food stalls that had really brought us here.

Eating local specialties in a market is one of the joys of traveling. I feel a little bit sorry for those not brave enough to take part in this ritual. I understand the trepidation, but in my experience food stands in the street or in markets that are popular are less likely to give a traveler problems than the average restaurant. Because they have small spaces to work with and typically specialize in just a few things, food doesn’t sit around for long. Plus, all those locals can’t be wrong.

A perfect example of this is tucked away in a corner of the Jamaica market, a little bit of heaven for the adventurous food lover.

“Carnitas Paty” is the name on the sign above the counter. I misread this as “Party”, and with good reason: the place was packed and folks were excited. Every stool was taken and more customers queued three deep, like 2-for-1 night at a college pub. Plates stacked with steaming tacos were doled out in every direction.  We queued up and gracious locals quickly found a couple stools up front for us.

At Paty there’s only one thing on the menu–slow-roasted pork–but still some decisions to be made. The pigs are roasted in big drum cookers just a few feet away, specially vented to keep the smoke out of the Mercado. Workers in white aprons bring steaming piles of meat to the counter where they are sorted into huge metal trays. Customers pick the part they want– everything is available from standard cuts to organs, brains, tongue, or snout. Crammed between queuing customers, waiters running plates to other tables, and the three taco maestros looming above us, we had a crazy view of the action. Huge slabs of meat were tossed on the massive butcher block and within seconds reduced to tiny taco-ready chunks by the blur of a gleaming cleaver. Chunks of meat and fat were flying in all directions. It was like having front-row tickets to a Gallagher show. Talk about being connected to your food.

The maestro then deftly palmed two corn tortillas and used them to scoop up a huge pile of meat for each taco. Repeat three times for a plate, top with minced onion and cilantro, and off they go. Waiters balanced five or six plates at a time. All sense of personal space was abandoned as we watched in awe of the spectacle.

Opting for the standard pulled-pork macisa, we soon had plates in front of us. Stone matetes crammed the bar filled with pickled onions and different salsas. The tacos were so huge we could take the tortillas apart and make two. 2-for-1! Juicy and so flavorful, we couldn’t stop eating them until we were beyond stuffed.

A waiter arrived with a carafe filled with a liter of tepache, a sweet and spicy drink made of fermented pineapple. The atmosphere was crazy, but convivial. Everyone was smiling and passing salsas and enjoying each other’s company and the delicious homemade food and drink.

After stuffing ourselves, then having just one more and downing the last of the tepache we asked for the bill–$8 including tip. Que fantastico!

If It Rains, the Leaders Had Sex- Carnaval in the villages of Chiapas

Our time in San Cristóbal de las Casas coincided perfectly with Carnaval, which is famously celebrated in some of the Mayan villages surrounding the city. On Sunday we took a bus to Huixtán, a village that had advertised their celebration on posters throughout San Cristóbal.  Our expectations were fairly high, given the publicity. When we arrived the villagers were all gathered in their traditional dress around the town square watching a basketball game between two local teams, while a marimba band was warming up in front of the church.  Occasionally someone would light a big bottle rocket or blow into a conch shell. We ate some tostadas at a nearby comedor and looked for a spot in the shade.

Before long a band of masked men came dancing into the square. Their outfits featured ripped jeans and grotesque Halloween masks, and they jumped around, played guitars and hooted.  Other, more elaborately costumed groups followed, but the jumping around and hooting was basically the same. We wondered if we were missing something.  I bought some local aguadiente flavored with wild cherries to see if that would help liven things up. It did seem that most of the performers were drunk, but unlike New Orleans, most of the crowd was definitely not.  The performing groups returned to the square with one member dressed possibly as a goat, beaten by the others with a stick. The other groups, each in front of a viewing station where five judges sat scribbling notes, repeated this scene. How the judges scored the stylistic variations on goat beating was a complete mystery. We left scratching our heads, despite enjoying the festive atmosphere.

On Fat Tuesday we tried again, but this time with a guide named Cesar and a small group of foreigners. The plan was to visit the small village of Zinacantán, and later San Juan de Chamula, most famous of all the Chiapas villages for its Carnaval celebration.

The villages of Chiapas are almost entirely Mayan, speaking various Mayan languages primarily, and retaining many of their traditional customs. The religion they practice is something of a blend of Catholicism and pre-Columbian Mayan polytheism. They also have their own police force and judicial systems, and each village has a unique dress. In Zinacantán that meant intricate embroidered bright flowery clothing, a smock like thing for the men and a shawl for women.

The church smelled of sap incense and the floor was covered in pine needles. Candles burned in holders depicting Mayan animals. In the square outside, the scene from Sunday in Huixtán was being repeated--groups of men in masks playing instruments and parading around. As we left Zinacantán we were wondering if the whole Carnaval thing was even worthwhile. Could Chamula pick up the slack?

As we entered town, it seemed they could. Thousands of people had packed into Chamula’s main square, rooftops, and side streets. It was easy to spot people from the neighboring villages because of how carefully everyone adhered to the traditional dress of their particular village. Cesar warned us not to take any photos or bad things would ensue.  As if to underscore the point he took us past the town lock-up, a grimy cell open on one side to the main square, where the condemned were shamed in front of the whole community. The town has its own police force and court system. Apparently, capital punishment, illegal in the rest of Mexico, is not unheard of. I tucked my camera away, at least for the moment.

 We were lead into the house of one of Chamula’s 122 spiritual leaders. Each leader serves a one-year term taking care of one of the town’s 40-odd patron saints. Inside the house, a temple of sorts had been built, with walls and ceiling covered in cuttings from sacred plants and a carpet of pine needles on the floor. In the center of the temple sat a small statue of St. Rosa de Lima, adorned in a blanket of ribbons. Our host and his wife look after her, saying prayers and lighting holy candles at certain times of day. Their duties prevent them from working during their year of service, but they are allowed to collect donations and sell pox, a potent liquor made from sugar cane and corn. They looked a bit stoned. A glass of pox was passed around and incense filled the air.  Donations were made and we bade them farewell.

After leaving the temple we proceeded through the festival rabble to the church on the main square. The Vatican clearly has no sway here. There is an altar in front and a baptismal font in back, but all the pews have been removed. Here again the floor is covered in pine needles. Families sit on the floor in front of saints that line both walls and light candles, the melting wax spreading out on the floor around them. Bottles of Coca-Cola are scattered around, not for refreshment, but due to the belief that evil spirits can be dispatched through an epic belch.

The villagers also believe that one’s soul can be frightened out of the body during a traumatic event. If such a thing is suspected, the person in question enters the church with a shaman.  Who are these shamans? People from the community who have distinguished themselves in some way--maybe they have six fingers on one hand, or maybe they survived a terrible illness or maybe they just seem clairvoyant. The shaman grasps the victim’s hands and takes a radial pulse to determine the course of action. Eggs are cracked and dripped over the victim.  Another is cracked into a gourd bowl and divined for further clues. And then a chicken is procured, brought by the victim—a hen for a woman, a rooster for a man, black in either case if witchcraft is suspected. Remember, this is all happening in the church, in the center of town. The shaman passes the live chicken over the soul-less body and snaps its neck. The chicken is then prepared at the victim’s home and the victim eats only the head, then goes to bed for five days. The family eats the rest, and returning to the scene of the traumatic event, buries the feathers and bones.  All of this is done in hopes it will entice the soul to return.

Our heads filled with these wild images, we filed out of the church and back into the bright light of the square and the madness of Carnaval. Groups of men in bright costumes descended on the square. They wore conical hats— possibly made of howler monkey pelts, with streaming garlands— and held sticks made from the stretched penis of a bull. A big explosion startled us and sent a percussive wave through our chests. A kid stood grinning a few feet away, with a hollowed out stone smoking in his hand. He’d packed the stone with explosive powder and ignited it. Other kids sent huge bottle into the sky above the square. Drums pounded and conch shells were blown. Things were getting under way.

The middle of the plaza was clear of people and had been covered in dry thatch. The costumed groups gathered holding large colorful flags.  The thatch was set ablaze and the group ran 20 abreast through the flaming plaza, flags trailing behind in a primal battle scene.  The crowd loved it. Again they ran through fire, feet protected only by the woven sandals Mayans have worn for thousands of years. This continued until the flames died down and the thatch was just black smoking ash. The young governor of Chiapas watched approvingly with other costumed dignitaries on a balcony above the square.

Next it was time to bring in the bulls. Angry, but well tethered, they charged around the square, spreading the crowd in brief moments of panic. Macho young men, no doubt fueled by pox, took turns trying to mount each bull and when successful posed and preened for the crowd like a matador.

The sun beat down, the crowd fortified themselves with grilled chicken and pox, and the scene with bulls and men was repeated over and over. The entire time this was going on we didn’t see a single camera in the crowd, not even a cell phone. At one point a fight broke out and the crowd parted to make way for a posse of 30 Chamula police. They were wearing the village outfit—a shaggy white wool tunic and cowboy hat—and waving big batons. The crowd identified the miscreant, some form of justice was administered, and the posse ran off just as quickly as they’d come.

The bulls were tormented but not killed. Others had not been so lucky. As we made our way out of town we spotted several houses with bulls heads nailed to the threshold. Cesar explained that six bulls are sacrificed for the festival, and eaten by the villagers in one last bacchanal before Lent.  He also noted the day’s fine weather and gave credit to the prudent restraint of the town leaders.  They are expected to practice abstinence for two weeks before the festival. “If it rains, it means the leaders had sex,” he explained matter-of-factly.  It all seemed a little weird, but then again, so does every religious festival in the world, if you really think about it.

Alpacka Diaries, Part 2: Wrestling with Mrauk

To find the source of the Soča River, a pilgrim must make his way to Triglav National Park in northwestern Slovenia. Passing through increasingly deserted villages, he will head away from the road and climb up towards a pass in the shadow of the Julian Alps. The trail leads high up a gorge and peters out into a sheer climb, aided by a cable that has been bolted to the cliff face. Matching hands and sliding along the cable above the roaring gorge brings the pilgrim to a still and perfect pool, crystal clear and with the same emerald tint for which the river is famous. At this point, safely off the cliff and enthralled with the beauty surrounding him, a pilgrim may crack a celebratory beer carried for the occasion.

Locals speak of the Soča in similar reverent tones as Indians do the Ganges, and a pilgrimage to the source seemed like the best way to start my second run down the river by packraft. I dipped my cup and drank from the pool and tilted my head skyward. It was getting dark, or seemed to be; hard to tell with the low clouds and rain that had become more steady during the hike. I watched the raindrops mix with the pool that was gently bubbling up out of the mountain, then slide over the rim and begin their journey to the Adriatic Sea. Having paid my respects, I was ready for a journey of my own.

What a difference two weeks had made. A large cloud mass had parked itself over Central Europe. The rain was intense and was expected to linger for many days. The river had responded quickly. I'd been tracking the water level online and things were looking good when I left Italy. But, in the four hours it took me to get to the border by train, the level shot up 800%! The Soča was in flood. At current levels much of the river would not be safe for a lone packrafter. I'd decided not to give up for the moment, but see what was happening the next day.

As I scrambled out of the gorge my immediate concern was finding a not-too-soggy place to pitch my tent before it got dark. A lone car descended the quiet pass and I stuck out my thumb, just to see if I might make my way closer to the put-in. The car stopped, and once again I was stuffing my soggy self and belongings in with a family, and once again at their urging I was invited to stay at their home, a weekend cabin near the river. Great luck, or testament to the Slovenian character? I'm not sure, but I didn't put up very much resistance.

The Flajs family was on their way from their home in the capital to spend the Easter holiday at their mountain cabin. They decided to bring a stranger along. Their hospitality was remarkable. We ate the traditional Good Friday fish dinner, washed down with Union beer. I learned how to make eggs dyed with onion skins and wild herbs, and taught the family to play backgammon. In the morning, the water levels were still high, but had dropped by half. The whole family came down to the river in a steady rain for a little bon voyage party as I inflated the packraft and set off.

The tremendous increase in volume made for a very different experience on the water. The river was fast, pushy, and fun. I was making my way downstream at better than twice the rate of my first trip. The pack raft rocked the drops with relative ease and I kept her upright until it was time to portage the big (now huge) stuff.

After the canyon portage I descended 600 feet straight down into the gorge to get back to the river. Ahead lay a section I'd missed the last time, but one that sounded fine from the description I had.

As soon as I took off, things felt different. There were some big moves to be made and the strong current made them tough. Plunging through a slot the little boat buried itself in a hole, the wave collapsing over my head as it the raft barely punched through. Blinking the river from my eyes and hoping not to lose a contact lens, I set up for the next move. Bam! Another wave hole pummeled the boat. I relaxed a bit as I gained confidence in the bigger water. Maybe too much. My weight was a bit far back through the next drop and the huge wave stood the boat on its rear end. In boating vernacular this was a classic "dump truck". I was staring at the front of the boat up in the sky and trying to stay in. I managed to, barely, but any celebration was short-lived, as a big lateral wave flipped me fast.

Now I was swimming the rapid, trying simultaneously to: a)calm my impulse to hyperventilate, b)time my breaths for moments my head was above the surface, c)keep from getting pinned against boulders by deflecting them with my feet, and d)swim into slackwater, all without losing grip on my paddle.

I reigned in my brain, caught a decent breath, and kicked hard to reach a small eddy, the last chance I had to avoid swimming another nasty rapid. My free hand grasped a couple of tiny willow shoots and swung in a pendulum arc onto shore. The boat was gone by this point, so I spent the next hour scrambling through the woods, around cliffs, and traversing meadows. In a double stroke of luck, my little boat washed up on my side of the river, right next to a beautiful patch of morel mushrooms I could bring to Easter dinner.

The family I'd met on my first trip had invited me back to spend the holiday with them. When I dragged my sorry, sodden self into their farmhouse— warm with a roaring fire and the sounds of nine children running around— I couldn't have been happier. I sat with the adults on the floor in the loft and drank tea while the rain hammered on the roof. Outside the window, a peach tree in full bloom stood out in the heavy fog and twilight, another Slovenian image plucked from a fairy tale. It is no wonder that everyone I met spoke of gnomes, dwarves, fairies, and goblins. Telling the story of my misadventure on the river, I was met by a circle of solemn nods. Apparently, Mrauk is a mysterious and fearsome creature that lives in the deeper pools of the Soča, only coming to the surface to make mischief in times of high water. Even a diehard sceptic had to wonder.

Later I had fun pouring over a coffee table anthropological study on gnomes. It was the Slovenian translation of the exact book I'd loved as a child, when my uncle bolstered my belief in the small forest dudes by making tiny footprints on the snowy windowsill of my grandparents' house.

Beyond their belief in forest spirits, Slovenians seem to have a real connection to the land, even the city folk. Homemade jam is on every table and everyone seems to be knowledgeable about wild herbs. It is common to garden by the lunar cycle in many parts of the world, but Slovenians let the moon dictate when they get haircuts, and when they do many other things, the important and the trivial.

On Easter morning I walked with my hosts, aged 3 and 4, to the neighbor's farm to fill a classic enamelware milk jug. I got to meet the cows responsible and the boys scored some chocolate eggs. Later we took dyed eggs and other food in baskets to the church service in the neighboring village for the traditional blessing of the priest, and returned home to a feast of traditional Serbian delights.

The morning I left, the storm finally broke, and the roller-coaster ride to the train station offered up incredible views of the Soča valley and the Julian Alps, covered in fresh snow and visible for the first time on my trip. With an extra ten minutes at the train station, I scrambled across the tracks and up into the forest and filled a paper sack with wild leeks to bring back to Italy. I made sure to leave plenty for the gnomes.

Alpacka Diaries, Part 1

Slovenia!

As I stood on the roadside at dusk last Sunday evening outside Nova Gorica, Slovenia, it occurred to me that there were a few holes in my plan for a solo raft trip down the Soča river. I had just parted ways with K. after a weekend exploring the capital Ljubljana and other sights in the former Yugoslavian republic. By a combination of trains and a beautiful hike we had made it to the Škocjan caves, one of the largest karst cave systems in the world. We toured the huge caverns, then quaffed a pint of Union lager at a dusty little train depot in the remote outpost of Sežana to wrap up the weekend. Later, K. walked across the border to catch a few more trains, and I headed north to the river.

The problem was, trains don't go there very often, nor do buses, certainly not on Sunday evening. So off I went, walking to the north with everything I needed for a rafting trip—including the boat— in a large pack on my back. I hitchhiked a bunch in my youth, and from time to time in the last few years when the situation necessitated it. Though the golden age of social acceptance is long past and it can be a real pain in the ass, I still love the spontaneous connections that sometimes come from spending time in a stranger's car or letting a stranger into mine.

The pressing issue last Sunday was that I was about to run up against one of my hitching maxims: avoid trying to get a ride at night. It had taken us all day to get to Nova Gorica and by the time I was out of town and posted up at a good spot to get a northerly ride, darkness was quickly descending. Another rule- women don't generally stop, and moms with kids almost never do, nor do people with cars already packed full. Imagine my surprise then, when a car pulled over at dusk, driven by a mom with two toddlers in the back, and at the front seat piled high with a huge sack of potatoes and a dog carrier. One hour later I was having mock sword fights with the boys and sitting down to dinner with the family. Any doubts I had about the trip melted away like the organic butter we slathered on thick hunks of buckwheat bread.

The next morning, fed and rested, I stuck out my thumb once more, heading north to the upper reaches of the Soča River, near its source in Triglav National Park. I never waited more than 10 minutes for a ride and found myself in the lovely village of Bovec before noon. Slovenians learn English from an early age and it seemed everyone I encountered on my journey was warm, friendly and helpful. I picked up a map of the rivers and some useful beta from a local outfitter, Philip at Soča Sports. A plan took shape. I would spend the next couple days hiking and scouting the river, then a couple more rafting some 65 k back towards the south.

It was cloudy and raining, but still beautiful in the forests and fields outside of Bovec as I made my way to a 15^th century castle that had been remade into a fort during World War I. The area around Bovec was the frontline between Italy and Austro- Hungary in 1917 and the remnants of war are everywhere. There is even a rapid on the Soča named after the bunkers that line the riverbank.

Eating my simple lunch in the old castle well to avoid the rain, I caught my first glimpse of the Koritnica River, deep in the valley below. I’d been advised not to run it, but its crystalline water and perfect winding granite canyons were beckoning. At the very least I had to hike down and take a look. The section was rated class IV, but all the rapids were scout-able, and the water level was low due to the abysmal snowpack this year. Plus, my pack raft, though small and lightweight, is meant to handle some serious whitewater. Change of plans!

I ran back to town and grabbed all my gear, hiked back to the river and pitched my tent just before a thunderstorm settled in above the canyon. In the morning the storm had cleared to reveal a landscape out of a fairy tale. The Julian Alps were showing themselves, huge snow-capped peaks rising above the river. The water was even more alluring in the morning sunshine, clear and emerald tinted, flowing over smooth stones with native Soča trout darting here and there.

I inflated the raft and pushed off down the river. Picking my way through the narrow slots and channels of a low volume river in early spring, I spun the raft now and then in a full arc to absorb the incredible mountain backdrop. After a couple hours I reached the confluence of the Soča and headed back to Bovec for a quick resupply.

In the afternoon I caught a ride to the upper reaches of the Soča, where it leaves the park and becomes navigable. Some of the bigger rapids are found in this section and next few hours were full of by tight slots and drops and spray glistening in the evening light. Anytime I couldn’t see a drop from my boat I hopped out and scouted. Everything was pretty straightforward and smooth, with the exception of Krsovec rapid, where a lateral wave flipped my boat, giving me a momentary trout’s eye view of the Soča. When dusk arrived I pitched the tent and put on every piece of clothing I’d brought to aid my too thin sleeping bag in fending off the chill of a clear and cold night.

At dawn I reluctantly left the tent and shook frost from boat and paddle. Ahead lay a very full day of boating and scouting, and boating some more. The river meandered away from the road and deeper into the forest. White-throated dippers bobbed comically at the river’s edge, just like their American cousins. A pair of mergansers circled in a quiet eddy. Swallows darted overhead, scooping up gnats.

Slovenia is roughly the size of Massachusetts, and is the third most forested country in Europe, after Sweden and Finland. With less than 2 million people it feels very rural, even wild, especially by central European standards. The soundtrack of my river journey reflected this peace—moving water, songbirds, and the distant peal of church bells.

In the afternoon I walked a canyon of class V and VI rapids and hiked back down to the river for one last big push, to the Soča’s effective end at the hydroelectric dam at Most na Soči. After several miles of flat water, I paddled into town exhausted and in love with Slovenia.

Spring seemed to have sprung in those few short days- the trees were budding and the rolling hills were carpeted in saffron flowers, giving the appearance of thousands of purple and yellow Easter eggs. I visited my new friends once more and swam in a perfect pool below a waterfall.

The next day I lingered at the border, sipping a final pint of Union in the sunshine before walking across the border to Italy and hopping a train to Verona with a silly, giddy smile plastered on my face.