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.

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.