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.

Mexico

I have found my way back to Baja for another kayak guide training course which departs in the morning. I love everything about these trips- the amazing interface between desert and ocean, the shifting colors of ocean and sky, the feeling I have when I stretch out under a dome of stars, feeling great after a full day of paddling, snorkeling, and hiking; lungs full of fresh air and belly full of fresh food.

My Mexican colleague, Isis, is a delight to work with, picking up my slack with logistical concerns and making the best guacamole and tortilla soup you'll find anywhere. We have a routine by now and it just gets more and more fun. During the course we taught in April we returned to visit our friends on Isla San Jose, two generations of ranchers who have lived on an impossibly beautiful stretch of remote beach for fifty years, the only residents of the entire island. We met them on our first visit to the island three years ago, when we stopped in to buy a goat. The old man, Tacho, carefully selected the animal and humanely slaughtered it, while his daughter Linda pounded out fresh tortillas and chopped pico de gallo for a most memorable taco experience. The following year, we paddled up to the beach unannounced and they greeted us warmly, saying that just the week prior, they'd been wondering if we'd ever come back. Linda's husband Fernando took me fishing for red snapper off the rocks that evening as pelicans dove for their dinner, backlit by a magnificent sunset. Soon a bucket was filled and Linda worked her magic again. Before leaving the next morning, we showed our thanks by humping a few dozen sacks of concrete up to the ranch house from the beach. Coming back this year, the greeting was even warmer, like a meeting of old friends. Typically reticent Linda dropped her work and beamed as she embraced Isis. This time we celebrated with a goat and some fish. We helped Tacho thatch a roof and dug a new watering hole for the livestock. The students had the unique opportunity to see what life is like for a rural Mexican family eking out a simple living in a fantastic place.

After the gear was washed from that April course, I caught a flight to Mexico City. In 48 hours I soaked up as much street food and culture and tequila as I could. I found delicious tacos al pastor right around the corner from my hotel near the Zocalo, plus heaps and heaps of wonderful pastries at La Vasconia, and a wonderful omelet stuffed with Oaxaca cheese across the street at cafe El Popular. I marveled at Diego's mural at the palace, and at the Pre-Columbian treasures collected at the Museum of Anthropology and stood in Diego and Frida's amazing kitchen in the Coyacan neighborhood. Memo, a friend of my guiding colleagues, showed me around the university area and fed me delicious tequila plus some squash blossom quesadillas. I love to hit a new city this way, short and sweet, on public transportation- leaving groggy and full of good food and a bit hungover, with a couple museum ticket stubs in my pocket and sore feet.

A bus took me to San Miguel de Allende, a well-preserved colonial city four hours to the west of the capital. I think it was west, I never looked at a map. Kristin was studying Spanish there and we had made plans to spend a few weeks together, our crazy international itineraries intersecting again after our three months in Africa.

It felt like an odd place, incredibly beautiful yet hollow, like a Faberge egg. It's a mecca for a certain kind of retired American and you see them everywhere- he in an expensive Panama hat, she with a grey ponytail, both in loose-fitting linen clothes, feeling just a little smug that they have found the authentic Mexico. The place caters to them, with more than its share of yoga studios, juice bars, transcendental meditation classes, and posh home furnishing stores.

I can definitely appreciate the appeal- it's a great place for long walks through the cobblestone streets and all aspects of life seem saturated with color. But it was all just a bit too precious.

When Kristin wasn't in school we too went for those long walks and marveled at those colors and bought huge sacks of produce from the markets and dove into some serious cooking.

We sat on the roof and sipped margaritas, munching on Isis' guacamole and some improvised salsas. We started each day with a vampiro, a blend of fresh beet, orange, and carrot juice; until one beet took the blame for our brief bout of Moctezuma's revenge.

We stuffed poblano chiles with oaxaca and requeson cheese and baked the most delicious chile rellenos ever. We blended leftover black beans for delicious enfrijoladas, and gently sauteed squash blossoms to fold into quesadillas. When Kristin got her way, we went out for posole at La Alborada, where an old woman stirs a cauldron of the magical stuff like a witch from MacBeth. We strolled through the streets in a downpour, squeezed under an umbrella while everyone else huddled under eves, and made our way to a cafe for an authentic Mexican chocolate con churros. Once inside, I mocked the owner, a famous Argentine actress, for covering the place in photos of herself, then realized she was sitting at the next table.

My last week in SMA coincided with Semana Santa, and the pageantry was impressive. It had begun two Sundays before Easter, with a dawn procession to bring a treasured statue of Jesus from one town to the next. The whole route was carpeted in the amazing murals of crushed flower petals and herbs, and the streets were strung with garlands and lined with lanterns and real and paper flowers. It was an amazing spectacle. Another evening, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, saw altars pop up all over town in public places and inside houses, also elaborate and containing symbolic flowers, herbs, and bitter oranges. People walked the streets and visited the altars, where they were offered a drink or frozen treat that symbolized something I've forgotten. Other days there were elaborate processions through the streets, complete with Jesus being flogged, and hundreds of locals playing Roman soldiers.

Our final weekend together was ripe with symbolism, and not just the Christian kind. On Holy Saturday we hesitantly went to a bullfight. It was very interesting and quite beautiful in many ways, but also disturbing and sad. The bull was destined to suffer and die....there was no other possible outcome here. We also saw a couple men dragged off to the hospital after the bull got a piece of them.

On Easter Sunday we gathered in the square for the "destruction of the Judases". Colorful, life-sized pinatas of human figures were hanging above the street- maybe 20 of them. One by one their fuses were lit, they spun for a while and then exploded into bits. When the smoke cleared there was nothing left but a pile of wreckage- kids scrambled to grab a leg or arm, and the heads were gathered to be auctioned off.

Later we sipped drinks and played backgammon at a roof-top bar and smiled and laughed. I would leave the next morning, and we would return to our separate lives. But for right then, there was one last perfect Mexican sunset, and the best taqueria in the world just a short cab ride away.

Reflections on 9/11

"Don't bleed the propane 'til you see the whites of the pilot's eyes".

That was one piece of advice from a veteran river guide before the trip. There were many others, mostly dealing with how to stay reasonably warm and dry on a late season river trip down the Tatshenshini/Alsek Rivers. The message about the propane was simple- the outer coast of southeast Alaska has very finicky weather in September, it is possible to get stuck for a few days, make sure you have propane, extra food, and whisky. But the day turned out to be bluebird. A crisp autumn day with a nice high-pressure bubble keeping all the clouds away. We bled the propane, dumped the drinking water and milk, deflated the rafts, gorged on the last of the food, and threw some frisbee as we waited for our planes to arrive.

The trip was ambitious- seven friends(JBell, Corndog, Miller, Chris Chambers, Anna, Cara, and myself) with minimal river trip experience, fairly new to the wilds of Alaska, floating a very remote river system pretty late in the season. We were pounded by a couple intense storms, and were tested at various times, but made it through and loved every bit of it. For ten days we travelled by raft through the biggest protected wilderness in the world, starting on a canyon in the Yukon Territory, floating through British Columbia as glacial melt swelled and widened the river, navigating swift channels and iceberg calved from huge valley glaciers as we rode the mighty river to the sea. We saw no one for ten days, and we relied completely on ourselves and each other. Surrounded by huge mountains, glaciers, and rivers, were we as free as could be. On the last night of the trip, on the shores of magnificent Alsek Lake, we sat around a fire reflecting on the trip and toasting the folks who made it possible: our boss who had an unused permit, friends who loaned us gear, gave us good advice, helped with the shuttle. For some reason, "Osama bin Laden" came out of my mouth, hardly a household name at the time. Later,I lay out under the clear sky looking at the stars and the streaks of northern lights, unable to sleep but feeling very peaceful. It was midnight, four AM in New York City, September 11, 2001.

The next day, after prepping the gear and throwing some frisbee, we started watching for the planes to arrive at the grassy airstrip used by a bear hunter. The appointed time came and went with no planes. This was unusual because bush planes in Alaska usually run on time, and the weather was perfect for flying. The ground-to -air radio, which allows communication with pilots, was picking up nothing, so we assumed it was broken. Finally a call was made to the bush plane office in Yakutat. Our first contact with another human in ten days went like this:

Us: "Hi. We were wondering where are planes are."

Them: "YOUR PLANES? THE UNITED STATES IS UNDER MAJOR ATTTACK! THE PENTAGON HAS FALLEN THE WORLD TRADE CENTER HAS FALLEN, IF YOU WERE IN THE AIR RIGHT NOW YOU'D PROBABLY BE SHOT DOWN."

Us: (after passing the phone around and absorbing this information. "How will we get back to Haines?"

Them: "Get back to Haines? Well, what would you do then?"

Them: "You are on your own."

In retrospect, it was a confusing and upsetting time, and I can forgive the woman in the office for her hysteria. She probably thought we were trying to fly on from Haines to somewhere in the lower 48. But, the message we absorbed was "World War, no Haines to go back to."

Disbelief lead slowly to acceptance and assessment. We didn't have much, but there were worse places to try to survive. There was a river full of fish and a hunting cabin we could break into. But, I couldn't think about anything but my sister, Eliza. A recent graduate from NYU, she had stayed in NYC and just landed her first job, a position with Time Warner that started while we were on the river. Even hours later, as we got more information I didn't know if she was OK. I couldn't remember where her new office was. Finally, I reached my mother on the satellite phone and found out she was fine, and that her friend and roommate had escaped the WTC. I broke down with relief and despair and everything else I was feeling.

Soon our group dynamics broke down too, and the infighting began. There was blame to be doled of for our lack of extra food, and people had very different responses to the attacks, some expressing that they were in some way justified by US foreign policy, which I found very offensive. At one point I remember sitting with Corndog in an old truck at the hunting camp, listening to a Steve Earle cassette. If you only have one cassette at such a time, you could do worse than Steve Earle.

Soon, the bear hunter returned, himself very nonchalant about everything. He gave us some moose meat and in return we cut brush from his runway over the next couple days. A fisherman gave us a salmon. The weather turned bad. Really bad. Morale was low.

Of course, all planes were grounded, so for the first couple days we couldn't hope to leave. We cut brush in the downpour and made a huge pile on the runway, the bear hunter sparked it with a big bucket of diesel fuel and fanned it with the prop of his plane. He then roared down the runway and took off, if only to flaunt the FAA grounding.

A lot of folks were stuck in bush Alaska, 600 of us according to a report I read later, so the government was working to lift the grounding for the bush planes first. Unfortunately, when it was lifted, there was a catch. Planes could only cross the border if they had a special transponder, which our hired Cessnas did not. We had to wait for a weather window that allowed for a flight around 15000 ft. Mt. Fairweather, and kept us out of Canada, or hire something bigger, and much more expensive. On Sept. 16 we finally made our way out to the main airstrip of the fish camp, cautiously optimistic. Three sandhill cranes overhead seemed a good omen for three planes we hoped to see. They did arrive, to much celebration. We loaded the gear onto one, and split ourselves between the other two. The half of our group in the last plane had a more cautious pilot, who refused to follow the other two through a hole in the clouds, instead returning to Yakutat. It would take an Alaska Airlines jet, the state ferry, and a couple more days for them to finally make it back. So, it wasn't until Sept. 18 that our group was reunited in Haines.

We are all still friends, and we love Alaska more than ever. In fact, today, ten years later, three of us will gather under a similar perfect blue sky to smoke some salmon, play some tunes, and throw some horseshoes. My sister married someone she probably wouldn't have met if not for 9/11, so my niece and nephew are two wonderful results of that terrible day. The world changed, and lots of awful things were perpetrated on its citizens as part of a long chain reaction that stemmed from that day in September. But despite it all, the one simple lasting message for me is that life is beautiful and every day is a gift to be savored.

Across to Argentina

We wrapped up the course with five days of trekking in Parque Glaciares near El Chalten, Argentina. More phenomenal weather and a final morning sunrise view of Mt. Fitz Roy made for a happy ending to the South American adventure.

Torres del Paine

The famed park in Chilean Patagonia was our location for part two of the trekking course. It was welcome respite to get up into the drier pampa and a spell of good weather meant great views of the enormous Glacier Grey and the dramatic Torres at sunrise. We completed the loop of the entire park (the "Q"),

plus side trips, in ten days. This place can be crowded, but with good reason and definitely worth it.

To the tip

Coming right on the heels of the sea kayak debacle, the 24 day Patagonia trekking course in february restored my faith in my chosen career. From the start it was apparent that our group dynamics would be fine and the itinerary, split into three parts, would be challenging and spectacular.

We began with a five day "out and back" shakedown to Cabo Froward. This little known trek follows the coast of the Straits of Magellan to the very tip of the American continental landmass. The terrain alternates between beach scrambling and forest scrambling and gives the trekker a great sense of the interface between the ocean and the temperate rainforest. The going is often slow, as beach travel tends to be, but this only makes it easier to check out the tide pools and tundra bogs. The notorious wind and rain was at a minimum and we were treated to fantastic views across the straits to Tierra del Fuego. We crossed three significant rivers, for a total of six crossings, including a neck deep fording of the frigid Rio Nodales at 9 PM with a storm brewing. Travelers that reach the tip are rewarded with a final, airy climb to a giant cross sculpture, erected to commemorate Pope John Paul II's visit to Chile in the 1980's.

On the day we were there it was clear and beautiful and "the end of the world" actually seemed like an apt descriptor of the place. Aside from a stealth, late night attack on our camp by a pack of foxes, the course was off to a great start.

Sea Kayak Course in Patagonia

The strike, it turned out, was the easy part. In our 20 day expedition sea kayak course through the wild fjords of southern Patagonia we faced incessant rain, wacky winds, big seas, dense forest thicket where pitching a tent was practically impossible, faulty communication systems which nearly lead to an evacuation by the Chilean Navy, entrapment on a ranch, and undercooked lentils. I personally was challenged by foot fungus, mysterious hand blisters, explosive diarrhea at an inopportune time, and sunglasses that jumped suicidally out of a hatch and dove to the bottom of the sea. All of these were but petty inconveniences when compared to some really horrible group dynamics. In the coming months there would be plenty of recrimination and finger-pointing. Apparently some folks missed the obvious point here, when you plan an international expedition, things often go wrong. The learning comes in how you deal with those things.

Despite the challenges and some suffering, we completed our objective of accessing some of the most remote tidewater glaciers on the planet, and exploring a part of the world few people get to see, especially in a way afforded by a sea kayak.

Near the end of the course our group of seven found ourselves trapped in a small fjord, due to a strong tidal ebb current courtesy of the new moon. We couldn't paddle against the current, and "eddy-hopping", a kayakers term for using the surrounding areas of slack water, was not an option. So, how about killing some time with an impromptu lesson in ferrying in current?

I slipped into the strongest part of the flow and maneuvered into the sweet angle that allows the current to slip past while you more or less hold position with a few adjustment strokes. This is called surfing, and river or sea, it is the paddler's nirvana. The water rushes past, but everything becomes briefly still and perfect.

The rain eased to a slight mist and the elusive sun began to poke through. A rainbow spanned the arc of the fjord behind me. Giant kelp blades glistened in the sun. Two southern sea lions leaped in unison behind me, enjoying the current as much as I was. Storm petrels arced and swirled above my head. My kayak carved effortlessly through the glassy flow.

Even when nothing seems to go right, the ocean always offers these perfect moments of beauty and light. For this reason I will probably be powerless to refuse the next time the office says, "How about a kayak course in Patagonia?"