Adventure Travel Stories – BootsnAll World Adventures - United States

Follow The Rope

suchi — Thu, 24 Aug 2006 10:28:51 -0500

Body

Mt. Adams, Washington, United States
By Ed Abell

Climbing"The man who, on such a dangerous enterprise, seeks the assurance of a safe retreat will not deserve to draw near to the throne of the gods" - Gunther Dyhrenfurth

As the plane arched to the east taking me home from Washington, I caught one more glimpse of Mt. Adams. Normally indifferent to us mere mortals, she seemed to smile as her northeast ridge flirted in my direction. We had climbed up the Adams Glacier to the summit in 5 hours. It would take us 6 hours to down-climb that ridge on our return to high camp. All of us had run out of water as we descended in the relentless heat, with the constant dust removing any remaining saliva. We stayed roped together as our serpentine queue kicked stones down the mountain and on each other negotiating the knife edged ridge. More than once I said to myself, "No fuck'n way..."

We were roped together because of safety, of course, but moving tied as one unit can, on occasion, create its own oppressive dominion. We tugged on each other as we moved over what was, for others and me, very difficult terrain as fatigue crept in.

After hours of maneuvering and stumble scrambling in our plastic mountaineering boots, we finally made it to the bottom of the ridge where we found our group resting and we un-roped. Traveling alone now with my new freedom I headed for the first snow patch, I laid face down in the coolness and filled my hat with the icy melting relief.

Horror struck me when I realized I had to re-ascend the increasingly uphill line across the high-camp snowfield for an hour before I could find water. For now, a hand full of snow would have to quiet my inescapable dehydration. I could see the clawed marks in the snow where my other teammates had scraped away the dusty surface and grabbed a fist full of barely temporary relief. Our third guide, Aaron stayed at my side as I struggled up the ever-steeper slope with heat exhaustion, fatigue and a thirst beyond any experience. (This was my vacation?)

My teammate, Randy was our strongest and funniest member. I could see him standing by his tent willing us forward. As the last three of us stumbled into camp he was standing to greet us, "Great job, Ed." I acknowledged him with as transparent and hollow a thumbs-up as I've ever given. Had I attempted to speak, all that would have come out was, "croak". Aaron graciously filled my water bottles as I folded over the top of my pack. I gulped half a quart in one slug and hobbled to my sleeping pad. My two tent mates heard me and called out, "well done." As I collapsed into the shade of our abode Paul said, "You better get into your sleeping bag, Joe and I both have the shakes from heat exhaustion." In moments, all three of us were shivering inside a tent that was probably 75 to 80 degrees. Before we found our needed sleep we took the time to celebrate our success with brotherhood of shared experience...the ordeal had taken 13 hours but we'd knocked the bugger off! It was my third volcano on three different continents, by far the most difficult of the three.

Back to the beginning...

Summit day had started at 2 a.m. We consumed hot drinks and oatmeal surrounded by the surreal environment created by eleven beams of light from the headlamps in the mess-tent and the steam from the mugs. From behind one of the columns of light, Justin, our head guide, announced, "There will be no day dreaming, stay focused. We'll run an hour and take a break. That will be the point of no return. If anyone doesn't feel strong for any reason, they can go down. The next stint will be two hours through the most dangerous area."

Outside the mess tent the guides had placed three parallel ropes on the snow in groups of, 4, 4, 3, with the figure-eight knots identifying the spot to clip on. I decided to climb with our guide Mike Hamill. He had encouraged me during my first day ordeal with the 50+ pound pack as we worked our way to the first camp. He had guided excursions on Mt. Everest and many other mountains across the world. He was the type of person I could trust easily. We were the third rope so I figured the foot placements would be well formed for our use. My inner voice said, "Well, Eddie, here you are...a real climb, breath deep, concentrate and place every step wisely." I was taking a gulp of air for each step as we criss-crossed up on to the glacier. If I broke my rhythm and forgot to breathe deeply, fatigue jumped all over me.

The previous two days were spent learning rope travel, self-arrest, cramponing, ice climbing, rappelling, safety protocol, crevasse rescue, belay and running a picket line. All the skills we would need today along with about 50 different types of knots...and me without a note pad. We all knew we couldn't remember everything but we felt well prepared for our summit day.

My world became concentrating on foot placements and staring at the rope. When it moved, I moved. When it stopped, I stopped. I could only rest when the rope did. We climbed for an hour and took a break. Mike could tell from my posture and expression that I felt good and gave me a big smile. Our next pitch would be two hours moving across the 50-degree slope where we were susceptible to falling rocks and ice from the hanging seracs we were moving under. It is the reason we left at 3 a.m. There is less chance for debris to break loose early in the morning when it is colder. We were taught to yell "rock" or "ice" if something had broken loose from above. Once we were underway, I suddenly heard "ice"! I looked up to see many small pieces falling but a brick size chunk bouncing in my direction. I can still hear the swish of the piece as it passed my head two feet away. I smiled to myself and thought, "Live every moment."

CampOur second break was near the top of the glacier. We all found spoon-shaped pockmarks in the ice/snow big enough to rest in. We would take off our packs to sit on and don our down jackets to say warm. If I had dropped my water bottle from this perch, it would have tumbled over 3000 feet. As precarious and exposed as this seems, roped together with my teammates, I felt quite safe and very alive. I took some photos and mused; nobody was going to believe this.

Somewhere along our assent we crossed an 8-foot wide by 60-foot long crevasse on an ice bridge. I'm just following along, mind you, watching my foot placements and the rope. I look up to see a 3-foot wide strip of ice everyone before me has negotiated. My mind said, "Well, buddy, you're not the heaviest guy..." I stepped onto the bridge because that is where the rope was going. On each side the view was without bottom...

The arc of the topography slowly lessened and we were soon standing on the summit plateau. The acrid smell of sulpher reminded us this was a volcano. At this point the three groups took slightly different paths but we were all together on the top in 30 to 40 minutes.

Handshakes all around and summit photos, we all felt great. I found a quiet moment alone on the summit and released some of my father's ashes that have been my tradition. The feeling perched on the summit is the motivation to climb in the first place, an absolute reaffirmation of life! At this point, we had no idea what the descent would make us endure.

Other people started to arrive from the different routes up the mountain, none more difficult than the one we took. I'm told people can push a baby stroller up the easiest route. Anyway, up walk three guys. As soon as the first one speaks I recognize the "Wis connn sin" roll, he's a Cheesehead! Turns out these fellows are from the Green Bay area 70 miles from where I live near Sheboygan. Small world.

The night before the summit push I had nervously waited in the mess-tent until I was alone with Justin Merle, our head guide. There I sat, never having lost the 20 or so pounds I wanted to for this climb and old enough to be his father. I somehow summoned the courage to breach the subject concerning my physical limits with a man who had just reached the summit of Mt. Everest this spring. I understood that this was the correct time to bring the issue up, not half way up the glacier at five in the morning.

I had been the last one to get to camp one on the first day. There were two of us who thought we were the reason we didn't push all the way to high camp. Because I was one of those people, I told Justin I could get to the top but had my doubts about two major descents on successive days. He looked me right in the eye and said, "Yes, you were slow getting into the first camp but you stayed with the group the second day and you've done well in all training exercises. If you are pumped you can do it, 50% of this is," then added, "The hike back to the cars is non-technical". He was right, of course, and I made it to the top. All of us suffered on the way down in varying degrees. I was perhaps the only one who didn't really know what to expect.

Our leaders for the Mt. Adams Glacial Seminar & Climb from International Mountain Guides, Justin Merle, Mike Hamill and Aaron Mainer were exceptional and professional in their dealings with all of us. They were also great teachers, excellent cooks and good comrades, worthy stewards of our glacial adventure.

The 5-mile downhill hike with my still heavy 50+ lbs pack began by sliding 300 yards down the first snowfield on my butt. I took my time clambering over the boulder fields we encountered and I expected my knees to give me the most pain. It turned out to be the bottom of my feet that hobbled me. They are still swollen two full days after the trip from the pounding they took. Aaron was again my wingman and towards the end I ran out of water. I wish to thank him in print for sharing some of what he had left. One has to experience real thirst to understand what a noble gesture that truly is. I was the last man to the cars, arriving to kudos from my mates.

Had I doubled my workouts before the trip, I probably would only have decreased my lag time behind the group and as teammate Jeff J. said to me, "Don't be concerned with your pace, no worries, keep digg'n, the important thing is to get it done." In the end we all covered the same distance. All my teammates were younger, more experienced and very supportive. Nobody ever said anything about the first camp and for all I know everyone was tired. I was proud to have climbed with them...all gentlemen and a great bunch of guys.

A few of my teammates knew from conversations we had that my true goal had been to climb the glacier and summit in real mountaineering style, not prepare for the next greater mountain like so many of the others honing their skills for Denali. This I accomplished on a route some felt was more challenging than any they had experienced climbing Mt. Rainer, the bigger brother of Mt. Adams.

After the obligatory never again, however, my mind has already placed my most cherished memories from the trip on the mantle of success and I've begun calculating the future possibilities...my visions already include; sherpa, porters or pack animals.

It will be the pain, dust, thirst, exhaustion, adventure and the shared experience with my teammates that I will covet the most because in the end, all I did was I simply follow the rope.

Postscript
After our return home, many of us stayed in communication and sent photographs to each other. During some of the exchanges I came to a better understanding of how the other team members felt about the more difficult parts of our trip.

In an email from Randy Todd he said, "None of us will ever forget coming down the Northeast Ridge and the last snow-field"...amen to that, brother! Then he added, "I'm a huge football fan...you are what I always thought Packer fans were like; tough, gritty and resilient..." These are very sympathetic words from a kind soul but at the time I didn't feel like any of those descriptors.

This trip more than any other, including my summit of Kilimanjaro by the Western Breach in '04, placed me at levels of physical and emotional endurance that went beyond any previous experience. For the guides it was just another day in the mountains. Most of my teammates had all been to volcanoes in Russia, Ecuador or Mexico. This Advertising VP was happy just to survive the moments when I couldn't possibility take another step but took it anyway because stopping was completely choice less.

ClimbersMountaineering is an endeavor to endure discomfort. That is why the joke is, "The mountaineer's cocktail is a blend of; codeine, Imodium and electrolytes."

Experience taught me some excellent lessons but the most valuable piece of my education was one that my teammates already knew...it was that the tremendous satisfaction of taking those impossible steps grows to the point where you want to take the "test" again.

"I meant to tell mankind about a new state about which I could tell little or nothing, to teach them to tread a long and lonely path which might or might not lead thither, to bid them dare encounter all possible perils of nature unknown, to abandon all their settled manners of living and cut themselves off from their past and their environment, and to attempt a quixotic adventure with no resources beyond their native strength and sagacity. I had done it myself and found not only that the pearl of great price was worth far more than I possessed, but also that the very peril and privations of the quest were themselves my dearest memories. I was certain of this at least: that nothing in the world except this would be worth doing." - Aleister Crowley

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Teaser

Climbing Mt. Adams taught Ed Abell some excellent lessons but the most valuable piece of his education was one that his teammates already knew... It was that the tremendous satisfaction of taking thos

Set Sail Along Maine's Mid-Coast

suchi — Sat, 29 Jul 2006 00:33:56 -0500

Body

Maine
By Becky Garrison

Isaac H. Evans (Annie Higbee)As a crewmember aboard the Pioneer, an 1885 two-masted topsail schooner based in New York City, I enjoyed the camaraderie I had developed among my fellow sailors. So, it was with great pleasure that on September 11, 2005, I joined Captain Brenda Walker and her crew aboard the Isaac H. Evans, an 1886 wooden Maine windjammer and a national historic landmark based in Rockland, Maine. Captain Brenda is one of the five captains in the Maine Windjammer Association's 13-member fleet and the only woman to own and operate her own windjammer.

Under Captain Brenda's expertise, she used the wind and tide to plot out a course for each day and supervised her three-person crew, as she guided us through the vacation of a lifetime. In addition to helping to hoist the sails every morning, I took my turn at the wheel, gave morning hellos to porpoises and harbor seals, and climbed aloft the boat's rigging for a literal bird's eye view of Penobscot Bay.

Each cabin aboard the Isaac H. Evans features amenities like chocolate coins, shampoo, body lotion, coffee cups, and an embroidered mainsail balsam pillow air freshener handcrafted by Capt. Brenda natural air freshener. While these cabins are not luxurious suites they were more comfortable and private than some other accommodations I've experienced aboard other historic schooners. Also, features like hot showers and electric heads makes this outdoors experience definitely more comfortable than camping outdoors. I'm generally not a sound sleeper on trips but after the first night, I was able to doze off for 6 hours of sleep. Even though I'm a committed night owl, I found myself hitting the hay by 11 p.m. at the very latest and rising up at 6 a.m. to catch the misty sunrise.

During the week, our group read and relaxed, as we feasted on a hearty New England dishes cooked on a classic wood-burning stove. Our meals featured New England delicacies such as Maine scallops L'orange, Boston baked bread, and blueberry pancakes with Maine blueberry syrup. Our snacks included Maine favorites Jack's zesty toe jam (spicy halapeno) or sweet red pepper jam (Maine) and cream cheese with crackers. Other afternoon snacks included a special sushi buffet featuring uni (sea urchin roe), mackerel, and scallops that guests caught diving or fishing and steamed crabs caught in the boat's lobster pot. Through the schooner's arrangements with the Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) programs, guests are guaranteed the freshest fruits and vegetables.

Hauling (Jeff Greenberg)After we anchored for the evening, rowboats, kayaks, and a sailing skiff and fishing rods were around for those that wished to partake of these activities. While a few brave souls went swimming, I chose not to venture in, as the water was clearly less than sixty degrees and no one stayed in for more than a few minutes. Sing-a-longs, poker games and storytelling sessions rounded out the evening's activities.

While pets are not permitted aboard the Isaac H. Evans, the boat does have a pet goldfish. As Capt. Brenda says, no one is allergic or afraid of fish. Other "pets" include the boat's collection of rubber duckies and a giant stuffed lobster that a guest found washed up on the shore.

One of the trip's highlight's was the annual Wooden Boat Sail-in. Our group rowed over to the town of South Brooklin, where we were treated to steamed mussels, the sounds of a steel drummed band, and self-guided tours of the WoodenBoat School. Later Capt. Brenda took some of us on the yawl boat named appropriately Tug 'n' Grunt for a tour of the other Maine windjammers that were docked for the celebrations.

Later that week, we rowed over to Buckle Island, a mystical moss covered island for a late afternoon lobster bake. As the crew prepares the lobster bake, we participate in an 'island clean-up" â€” a fair trade-off all you can eat lobster for helping keep Maine pure and pristine. All guests on Maine Windjammer cruises are instructed on the "leave no traces" behind policy that is intended to minimize the environmental impact on our visits to these isolated islands. After our feast, I hiked along the unspoiled, hiking trail, where I stumbled upon fairy houses â€” small shell, bark and moss huts where supposedly the fairies live.

Sunset (Fred LeBlanc)After the boat docked and we all said our good-byes, every guest had a gigantic smile on our faces as by now we tend to just "be.' As the group consisted of couples and single, I never felt like the third wheel in a world of couples. While there were no children on my particular trip as school was in session, the Isaac H. Evans is a family friendly schooner and is one of the three schooners in the fleet to allow children on board. As each Maine Windjammer is independently owned and operated check with each captain for their policies regarding children, pets and other pertinent matters.

For more information, contact the Maine Windjammer Association at P.O. Box 1144P, Blue Hill, Maine 04614, 1-800-807-WIND or check out the website at www.sailmainecoast.com.

Following is an example of the type of delicacies Queen Eileen serves during a Windjammer cruise.

Eileen's Peach Cobbler
Approximately 8 large ripe peaches, peeled, pitted, and sliced
2 or 3 1/2 pints of blackberries. Strew fruit in well buttered 13"x9" pan

Stir together and then sprinkle on top of fruit:
1/2 to 2/3 C sugar, depending on sweetness desired
1/4 C flour
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Mix together and spoon atop fruit and sugar the following dough:
1 3/4 C flour
1/2 tsp salt
3 tsp baking powder
1/4 C sugar
4 to 6 Tbsp shortening or butter (or a combination). Cut into flour mixture, biscuit method
1 C milk added and stirred into above.

Bake at 425 degrees for approximately 1/2 hour or until fruit bubbles and biscuit topping is browned.

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Teaser

Becky Garrison offers an overview of the beauty and joys of sailing along Maine's pristine midcoast.

Chase the Sun

suchi — Sat, 24 Jun 2006 00:44:15 -0500

Body

San Carlos, Mexico
By Dennis Brown

In Colorado's bitter snow and wind, a warm fantasy is better than cold reality any day. Ten members of Rocky Mountain Church and Evangelical Free Fellowship of Estes Park, Colorado, collaborated on a "Chase the Sun" motorcycle ride, designed to escape winter's assault. Only the strong ride. At departure time Saturday morning, 0600 hours, four riders chose warm living rooms over cold, hard bike seats.

"It's their loss," said Don Darling, a Road King warrior. "Besides, they ride whimper cycles anyway. Real guys ride Harleys."
This was my first ride with the church "wild bunch". I asked them an important question before mounting up. "If Jesus was here today, would He own a Rolex? Not likely, but I'm certain He would ride a borrowed Harley." I was the oldest biker on this ride. My old Heritage Softail provided me the comfortable ride my behind required.

The sun slid between two palm trees and out of sight into the red desert as we arrived in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We managed to stay just out of reach of a major winter storm that ravaged most of the nation. After a day of many miles on the road, we spent a comfortable night at the Holiday Inn. The next morning we faced a sky thick with clouds and heavy with moisture.

"This storm is about to overtake us. We need to drive hard toward Tucson. We're in a weather bubble, the only place likely to remain dry." We trusted Bruce Gregg, leader of the pack, a true alpha wolf, to make the decision. The road clogged behind us with snow and ice, but we arrived in Tucson dry.

On Monday morning festered skies warned us of nasty weather developing. Mark Westover, an Ultra Classic enthusiast, owned a time-share about two hours south of the border.

"I'm not interested in getting wet. It's raining in San Diego and all snow behind us. Let's go to Mexico and find a sun-warmed beach," Mark suggested. "I've been there a lot of times. It's a piece of cake. You can trust me on this."

Without a dissenting vote, six Harley's raced toward Nogales, Mexico, at the maximum allowed speed.

"Let's chase the sun." Dave Gregorio spurred us on as he hit the start button on his "03 Ultra Standard." He takes three to four trips each year with this church bike-riding club. His previous ride took on new meaning with a stop at Barnett's in El Paso, Texas, where he purchased a $19,000 T-shirt. They threw in a new Harley in appreciation.

Nogales border guards waved us through the crossing without delay. Highway 15 goes through the middle of town, and as we passed all the tourist traps, it became apparent that we were a parade. People waved, whistled, and honked their horns. High school boys dressed in preppie uniforms gave us "the bird," and young ladies fanned us with gusto.

"The sign said 'Perimeter Road', so how did we end up at the city dump?"
"Relax, Bruce." Steve Irish was always calm and collected as he sat astride his emerald Ultra Classic. "The paved highway is behind us about a mile. We'll make a right turn at the blacktop and be back on track."

"La Frontera" is a second border crossing approximately 30 miles past the international crossing. We were shocked when the officials there denied us access because we didn't have passports. Loud protests came wafting through the pack.

"We spent forty dollars each at Sanborn's for insurance, and now we can't go on." They were angry with me for bringing them this far for nothing.

"Guys, simmer down and listen. Take a few one-dollar bills and roll them up in your hand. Make sure the end of the roll is visible and stand around the entrance of the tourist shack looking like a litter of homeless puppies."

In a few minutes, the young guard came out. "For ten dollars, I get you a pass to Guyamas." Sixty dollars later, we had our visas in hand and a sticker on our windshield.

We were adventure bound!

San Carlos is a lazy beach town about 200 miles south of the border, just north of Guaymas. White buildings against the turquoise Sea of Cortez welcomed us. Route 15, an improved toll road, passes to the east. The well-maintained surface surpasses many of the roadways in Colorado. The posted speed is 100 KPH or 60 MPH. If you wish to exceed the posted speed limit, it is advisable to cruise behind an eighteen-wheeler or a bus. These moving 75 MPH billboards warn you of speed bumps, potholes, and radar cops. My nerves usually fray before the driver ahead of me tires, but this strategy helps increase my speed by 10-15 MPH.

Whenever possible, I avoid trip planning. I delight in finding a surprise around every turn. I noticed the Hotel Fiesta in San Carlos as we drove toward Club Med. We were looking for value and fun. The beachfront rooms with balconies extending over the palm-lined shores were exactly what our butts needed after 1500 miles of wear and tear. With a little negotiation, we acquired three rooms for twenty-five dollars each. The manager was reluctant to include a hot breakfast, but with a little foot-dragging and a faked departure, he reconsidered.

The main street in San Carlos is more than two miles long and follows the shoreline. The ride up and down this lovely strip was void of people or cars. Tourists must not have discovered this place yet. Somewhere along our pass through town, we picked up six riders on BMWs. Later, three retired Canadians on Heritage Softail bikes joined our pack. Fifteen motorcycles make a great parade, but this time there was no one to wave.

After dark, an assault of fifteen bikers pulled hogs and toys up into the parking lot of the San Carlos Grill. There were four guests dining inside when we arrived. They quickly gulped their meals, declined dessert, and quietly slipped away.

"Looks like we were a bit much for those diners," speculated a BMW rider.
"Not likely," a Harley guy commented. "If you can't hear it, you don't fear it."

Yellow-fin tuna, two-inch thick steaks and a pile of shrimp completed our meals. We topped off the main course with flan and coffee. No one complained about the fare.

"Okay, guys, feed the hogs. Pull up two abreast in front of the door. Let's show those Beamer boys what real bikes sound like." Our alpha wolf leader mounted his Ultra Classic with pride.

Our engines roared to life, and black stripes stained the cobble-stoned street. Windows shook and car alarms belted. We accelerated down the block, made a quick U-turn, and sped past the restaurant with thunder rolling from a dozen exhaust pipes. Doing sixty in a twenty-five mile zone, we showed those "whisper rocket" riders!

For the pack, everything is prey, except flashing red lights. There they were! Red and blue lights came from behind, working their way toward the front of the pack. I didn't want to make their job too easy, so I rode on until they waved me over. I feigned surprise at seeing them.

The three town cops were polite as they jabbered in Spanish. The few words I understood were violations, fines, and jail. The younger cop kept thumbing the hammer on this new pistol. I felt confident that he had no bullets until he produced some. Things were looking grim. Then the six Beamers showed up to taunt us.

"What's coming down, hogs? Get pulled over for a little too much noise?"
"Not at all. They stopped us hoping for a ride on some real bikes. We don't want to wound your egos, but they're not interested in riding your 'James Bond' stealth scooters. If you can't hear it, you can't see it."
"We'd like to believe you, but it looks like you hogs are going to jail."
"Not so fast, Beamers."
I turned to the oldest cop and put my arm over his shoulder. "Get on the back. We're going for a ride."
"Really?" He spoke perfect English.
"Have your two buddies follow us to our hotel. We'll buy you a beer."
I lit the fire and bellowed down the road.
The officer behind me yelled, "Faster, faster."

When I failed to crank on enough power, he reached around me and rolled it on. The cop car pulled in behind me with lights flashing. Behind him came the Harley pack blasting victory. The Beamer bikers stood in silence with their mouths agape.

At the hotel, the three Mexican cops shared beers with us. We laughed together until our ribs ached. After about an hour, we agreed to meet the next night and do it all over again.

Real men drive Harleys, others stand in silent awe!

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Teaser

Dennis Brown knows that real men ride Harleys...he just has to convince the cops.

The Everglades: Florida's Perpetually Dynamic River of Grass - Everglades, Florida, USA

suchi — Wed, 14 Jun 2006 00:28:16 -0500

Body

Everglades, Florida, USA
By Llew Bardecki

Coming from Detroit in February, south Florida seen from the air was something of a departure. Every speck of land I could see was covered by swimming pools, golf courses and canals running alongside the raised roadways.

The typical images of southern Florida didn't stop once I hit the ground. Lunch was Cuban cuisine. The evening saw my hotel's lounge turned into a bingo parlour for the (primarily elderly) guests, the air filling with laughter and shouts in New York Jewish accents.

But this wasn't the south Florida I was looking forward to seeing. That was further south still, and at once removed from, but inextricably linked to, what I'd seen so far.

On Sunday morning I hopped in my rental car and headed down the Turnpike to Everglades National Park, south Florida's "river of grass."

The everglades are the vast wetland that drains over 15,000 sq km of south Florida into the Gulf of Florida, which lies between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. They are a place of stunning diversity of life, as well as very subtle, but important diversity of land. Given that it takes hundreds of kilometers for the land to drop from 4 meters above sea level down to the ocean, tiny differences in local elevation can make huge differences in the nature of this soggy landscape.

Founded in 1934, the area is not only a US national park, but also a UNESCO world heritage site. The everglades are home to an astonishing array of wildlife, ranging from plentiful alligators and wading birds to endangered animals such as American crocodiles, snail kites and Florida panthers.

Perhaps the most interesting part of my visit to the everglades was a walk through the mangrove forest with a park ranger and a school group from Ohio. It seemed that with every step we took there was a question, or something alongside the trail that bore explaining, from the recent changes in vegetation due to salty mud blown inland by hurricane Wilma, to bare gumbo limbo trees with all their leaves blown off photosynthesizing through their bark, to a strangler fig tree (strangler figs begin their lives in the branches of host trees, dropping down roots that slowly grow to surround the host, eventually cutting off its light supply, killing it and leaving the adult fig in its place.) All around there were epiphytes (plants like bromeliads and orchids that grow on but, unlike the strangler fig, don't steal resources from host plants.) There were even cacti, which gained their competitive advantage not from resistance to dry conditions, but from their ability to survive the brackish water just inland from the sea. Even on a dark and cloudy afternoon with little wildlife about, this was still a wondrous place. By the time we arrived back at the start of the trail, everyone on the walk had decided that they wanted to become ranger/naturalists (and were only slightly dissuaded by the ranger's explanation that the only qualifications necessary were a love of the land, a love of sharing it with others and a vow of perpetual poverty.)

Though the walk with the ranger was inspiring and educational, the true highlight of the trip was the wander on the trails and boardwalks at Royal Palm during the late morning sun. They illustrated magnificently some of the things the ranger had spoken about. The effect of hurricanes was evident in the nearby hammock (a hammock is an ever so slightly raised section of land that supports a grove of hardwood trees.) I vividly remembered this same hammock from my previous trip to the glades, 17 years before. Back then it was a dark and primeval place, cool and full of shadow from the boughs of the ancient trees above the trail. Shortly after that visit, however the glade was ripped open by the 260km/h winds of hurricane Andrew. Now, so many of the trees I remembered were felled, and many more (including the venerable strangler fig I'd had my picture taken under all those years ago) were still struggling to recover.

Even more memorable than the hammock was the stroll along the boardwalk. Though it was busy with tourists, the wildlife that had congregated in this damp patch as the dry season drew in didn't seem to mind. Everywhere one looked were birds. I saw six different types of heron alone! Perhaps the only thing more prevalent than the birds themselves were the birders there to watch them. The everglades is birder's paradise, as the telephoto lenses and Audubon field guides under so many arms evidenced. If one could see past all the birders, the glades' most famous residents, American alligators were everywhere to be seen too. At one point I walked up to a dead end on the boardwalk and found a half dozen alligators sunning themselves, one with its mouth agape in a seeming yawn.

I could easily have spent hours more in the small fraction of the park I visited, but the setting sun had other ideas. On the way back to Ft. Lauderdale I passed the same farm fields, sprawling subdivisions and towering skyscrapers I'd seen on the way in. But now had an even better feel for what they meant to the land around.

Almost all of this had, in one way or another, been built at the expense of the Everglades, whether the draining of vast sections to allow agriculture, the construction of dams and dykes to reduce flow and prevent flooding, or the quarrying of the underlying limestone for the manufacture of roads and buildings.

In the earlier days of development the cost was tremendous. At one point so much water was being diverted in upstream areas of the Everglades that NONE was entering the national park. Today things, while not perfect, are better. A balance has been struck between economic growth and preservation. Now the coastal mangrove forests, which guard both natural and man-made environments, are protected. A deal has been struck that ensures at least a portion of upstream water is always allowed to flow into the national park. And just before my departure, Miami's mayor announced that the city would not be permitting development further out into the Everglades, though like all political decisions, this will always be prone to change.

All in all, the future of the Everglades is looking up. If you ever find yourself in southern Florida, do make certain to take a day away from the beaches to enjoy this wondrous wetland. Whether it be through the now-tempered actions of man, or the fires and hurricanes spawned by nature, you can be assured that the Everglades won't ever again be quite the same as on the day you visit.

Post Script:
Two months later, in mid-May, I returned to the Everglades and found a whole new world... There were many fewer birds around, most of the migratory species having come and gone. Compensating for this was the increased visibility and activity of 'gators, as their water and food sources continued to shrink. So many places that were waterlogged ponds and marshes before were now terra firma. On this later trip I also visited the pinelands, coniferous forests lifted up above the land, the trees saved from being overrun by light-dominating hardwoods by regular fires. If I hadn't already been convinced, this second trip provided further evidence that the Everglades are never the same place twice.

Location ID Click Me

Teaser

Author Llew Bardecki discovers the everglades, south Florida's wondrous wetlands.

Stay Away From Barges

suchi — Fri, 9 Jun 2006 07:42:01 -0500

Body

Michael LeutheAdventure Traveller

Age: 28
Nationality: USA
Where was your adventure?: United States
How many days was it?: 57
What type of adventure?: Overland
Give us a general overview of your adventure:I took a solo canoe trip from Northern Wisconsin to New Orleans. I started the trip with a friend, but a day and a half later it turned into a solo trip. I left in early September just north of Danbury, WI and ended up in New Orleans 57 days later. I didn't really know anything about canoeing before the trip.
I could identify the front/back of a canoe and I knew what end of the paddle to put in the water, but that was about it. The idea just occurred to me one day, and the trip itself was actually put together within a week. I followed the St. Croix River down from it's headwaters to the Mississippi River, which I followed the rest of the way. The weapon of choice was a 30+ year old aluminum canoe that weighed considerably more than I do, gladly donated to the cause by the parents of my friend who started out with me to free up some garage space.
Was it difficult?: yesWhy or why not?Bleeding hands, poisonous snakes, hillbillies, I have carpal tunnel in both wrists, impossible to lift the canoe by myself, rain, lightening, alligators, wing dams, poor maps, barges, ocean liners, rain, mosquitoes, West Nile Virus, rain, muscle cramps, huge waves, wind that ALWAYS blows upstream, sunburn, windburn, rain, ants, whirlpools, unpredictable currents, hurricanes in New Orleans, and unmapped waterfalls. And did I mention RAIN!
Would you recommend this adventure trip to someone else? Why or Why Not?Absolutely, but it is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Contrary to popular belief, the wind is actually stronger than the current. If you stop paddling, you will go upstream.
What do you wish you would have done differently?Used rigid, waterproof containers sooner - I finally traded in my bags for rubbermaid containers in Louisiana, MO. I wish I would have had a canoe that I had the ability to pick up by myself - that would have made life easier.
What kind of advice can you give to other travellers going on this adventure?Brace yourself for absolute physical torture. Watch out for barges coming downstream - they are absolutely silent. Stay near the channel - it is possible to sometimes venture down an alternate route, but those unmapped areas can kill you. Literally. Buy the Army Corps maps - the upper ones were excellent; the southern ones were not, but at least it gives you a rough idea of what is coming your way. South of Baton Rouge the river is almost exclusively commercial, which means that barges sometimes cover all the shoreline, ocean liners are all over and aren't accustomed to watching for canoes, and there are few places to stop sometimes. STAY AWAY FROM BARGES - even the parked ones! The bottom of a barge is shaped like an upside-down airplane wing and creates a sort of reverse lift effect which will draw you in and pull you under if you are near them. Bring your gear in solid containers, like rubbermaid. They not only keep your stuff dry in the rain (not so well when submerged...) but come in really handy later on as chairs and tables and tent door alligator blockers. Oh, and if you are going with another person - BRING 2 TENTS!! After not being able to shower for weeks, having to settle your burned and bleeding body into a wet sleeping bag is enough mental torture without having to do so in a small, nylon, enclosed space next to some whining, no-good, smelly, former best friend who can't paddle for shit and ate your last cookie and who you are convinced was more responsible than you for that whole capsizing episode. You get the picture.
What type of gear did you bring?An ancient canoe that weighed close to 4,000 pounds as far as I could tell. 3 paddles - one lashed tightly to the inside of the canoe. Rubbermaid containers - one for clothes, one for food, and one with inside tent stuff like the sleeping bag, etc. Army Corps of Engineers Missisippi River maps (two sets - 1 for the upper river, one for the lower river) Big water container for those long hauls between sources. Beer.
Where is your next big adventure? Why?A friend and I are going to attempt to bicycle from Alaska to Argentina in the summer of 2008. Before then I'll be teaching abroad, and I think there might be a trans-Africa safari thrown in there somewhere.
Did you travel before or after your adventure? If so, where?The canoe trip was the gateway to adventure travel for me. It almost killed me a few times, but woke up a part of me that was sleeping my whole life in the meantime. All my international travel has been since this trip. I had traveled extensively in the United States before the trip.
On your adventure, what person did you most identify with?Indiana Jones

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Teaser

Michael Leuthe completes a 57 day canoe trip.

Raging Waters

suchi — Mon, 15 May 2006 00:06:21 -0500

Body

Denali National Park, Alaska
By Kristen Pope

"Off the bus and into the food chain," the bus driver said as we stepped off the bus and into the Alaskan wilderness. The tour bus passengers looked aghast that we would venture off the bus.

My new boyfriend and I were both 22 years old, seasonal employees at Denali National Park, venturing out for our first brush with the Denali backcountry. We had no fear; we were naÃ¯ve and confident we could handle anything. We would soon be humbled.

During the week, Nate worked in Denali's campgrounds and I worked in the Mercantile. Now, it was our "weekend" of Monday and Tuesday and we had our first backcountry camping permit.

The silence was deafening.

"We're all alone," I said. Growing up in the suburbs in California, help was always a phone call away. Being totally self-reliant was new to me.

Now, the park road was our lifeline - if there was an emergency, anything from a broken leg to a bear mauling, one of us would have to make it to the road to get help. Buses drove down the road about every half hour until six or seven at night. As long as we could crawl to the road before the last bus passed, we would be okay. The buses were all equipped with radios and emergency equipment. But if we needed help after the last bus, we were on our own until morning.

Our first order of business was to hike out far enough where we could camp. The backcountry permit system allowed campers a permit to camp only in their designated backcountry "unit", to prevent overcrowding. We had selected the Toklat River unit, with the glacially braided Toklat and its intertwining ribbons of water winding along a rocky river bed. Park rules required campers be out of sight of the road in order to set up camp; in this particular unit, those rules required fording the Toklat. If we could not ford the river, we would have to turn around and get on a bus out of the park that night.

It was mid-June and the rivers were running high and fast as glacial and snow melt created a raging torrent a few degrees above freezing.

Nate and I had both spent a lot of time outdoors in the lower 48, but our first Alaska backcountry experience was something else entirely. All backpackers must watch a safety video to obtain their permits. The video covered food storage in grizzly country, river crossing techniques, and the fact that it just might be a bad idea to pitch a tent on a game trail next to a blueberry patch in grizzly country. This information would prove invaluable.

We would have to cross the many channels of the Toklat one by one. We surveyed out crossing options; some places were obviously too deep, others were far too swift. I tossed a stone into the silty water in the first channel to judge depth. It hit bottom quickly, indicating the water was fairly shallow.

Getting ready to cross, we unbuckled our packs and loosened the straps so we could get our packs off if we fell and not be dragged down. Nate went first and I followed, clutching his pack. After six or seven steps, we were on the other side of the first channel, confidence boosted. The water was very cold, but it was below the knee and the current did not throw us off balance.

A plunge into the Toklat would make for a cold and miserable night if our gear got wet. The video had warned us to pack with immersion in mind. As we stood amidst the channels, I wondered how waterproof my packing system was.

We spent what seemed like hours walking beside the channels, looking for places to cross. The first crossings were easy, but, as we grew closer to the center of the river, the water grew deeper and the crossings more difficult.

After a few nerve wracking crossings, we were right in the middle by one of the main channels, cold, wet, and fatigued.

We surveyed this channel with trepidation. The current carried away the stones we threw to gauge depth before they hit bottom so we had no idea how deep it was. It was hard to hear each other over the roaring current. We spent 45 minutes looking for a good crossing place, but did not locate one.

We had two options: hurry up and cross the river, or turn around and go home, re-fording all the channels we had just crossed, and racing for the road in hopes of catching the last bus out. Realizing it was more work to turn around and go home than to just cross the river, we decided to press on.

We kept examining the river, hoping a good spot to cross would miraculously appear, but that never happened. Finally, we decided the spot in front of us was the best we would find. The channel was only about fifteen feet across, but it was really moving. We loosened our pack straps a little more this time, the possibility of falling in and needing a quick escape weighing on our minds. We shouted to communicate over the roaring water. Finally, we took our first step. I wished I had paid more attention to the backcountry safety video.

The water rushed at us with incredible ferocity, deeper and faster than we had imagined. The water was almost to my waist and I was having a hard time mustering the strength to propel my legs forward; I was fighting to keep the current from pulling me downstream. I have never been a strong swimmer.

A grizzly could have been five feet away and I would not have noticed; my entire concentration was on putting one foot in front of the other, balancing my feet on the uneven and slippery rocks, forcing my legs through the water, fighting the current, and balancing my pack in a delicate dance.

My world became very small and clear at that moment as I was wholly focused on the act of survival. There was no time for fear, only intense concentration.

Halfway across that channel, the other bank was only a few steps away, but with each step, we plunged deeper and deeper into the raging water.

There was no way to turn around at this point. Physically turning around in the middle of the river in the raging current was unthinkable. The thought of walking backwards towards the bank we came from seemed a treacherous proposition at best.

It was at this point that I realized we had no Plan B. Coming up with a backup plan then, in the middle of the whitewater, was like asking a person in a burning building to compose an opera; not going to happen.

We only had a few steps to go. The rushing glacial melt, barely warm enough to even be water, was pounding us. We were almost to the other side, yet the water was still getting deeper.

Then, a rock came out from under Nate, throwing him off balance. Frantically, for what seemed like an eternity, he flailed his arms, slapping the water to try and regain his equilibrium.

Horrified, I clung to his pack, not having the strength to pull him up, knowing that I might not even have the strength to keep myself up if he fell. After a few harrowing seconds, we were both upright. Mercifully, the next step landed in shallower water- we had found the other bank. Three more steps and we were on the other bank.

Hearts racing, legs numb from the cold, we collapsed, relieved to have made it across, unscathed, packs dry. We were relieved, but nervous about the channels left to cross. Not wanting to re-cross the nightmare channel we had just crossed, we had even more incentive to press forward. We could re-cross that channel in the morning when the glacial melt was slower.

Thankfully, the other crossings were fairly easy. After we had successfully crossed the entire Toklat, we celebrated by firing up the camp stove and finding dry socks.

A few days later, the backcountry office had a new warning up, noting: "All rivers: Treacherous and potentially impassable".

If that sign was up a few days earlier, we would not have attempted to cross the Toklat that June day. We would have let fear and uncertainty get the better of us, and missed out on our adventure.

It is in those moments of fear, when all the distractions are thrown to the wayside and the only thing that counts for anything is the act of survival that the world shrinks to a manageable size. For me, that moment at the Toklat was a defining one; a time to reach past the fear, a time to grow, and a time to learn.

But next time, I'll damn well have a Plan B. And a Plan C, and a Plan D...

Location ID Click Me

Teaser

The rushing glacial melt, barely warm enough to even be water, was pounding us. Kristen Pope was almost to the other side, yet the water was still getting deeper. She was in the backcountry of Denali National Park, fording her first Alaskan river.

Bicycling Under the Influence

suchi — Thu, 6 Apr 2006 00:47:26 -0500

Body

California, USA
By Cat George

A sign marks the steep ride up to Lambert Bridge Winery.I hope I don't break my neck.

The thought pops up as I hurtle down a steep hill, green vineyards rushing to meet me. Driving under the influence is dangerous; what about bicycling? Then the mellow wash of the wine spreads from limbs to head and squeezes out fear. Everything's going to be fine - as long as I remember to hit the brakes at the bottom.

Bicycles and wine-touring: they're a strange pair. A vision of one conjures lazy, tipsy afternoons; the other, grunty labor. Why combine the two, especially here in California's Dry Creek Valley, where there's a hill for every bottle of chardonnay? But these "sip and cycle" tours, whether day trips or longer, are popular here and in wine hotspots worldwide. Somehow, bicycling must augment the traditional wine tour experience. This trip with Getaway Adventures, out of Healdsburg, California, is my chance to find out.

There are six of us on today's ride: me; Todd, the tour guide; Jim and Louise, a couple who won the trip as a door prize and who unfortunately don't drink and don't like bicycling - which leaves them pushing up most of the steep hills; and my parents, Ellen and Brian, who do both drink and bicycle. (My mother would want me to say that she drinks far less often than she bicycles).

Our first stop, Lambert Bridge, is typical of the boutique wineries in the valley. Nestled inside the shingled house is a cozy tasting room, beckoning bottles lined up along the counter. I choose five different wines from the tasting menu; together, the sample servings are equal to a regular glass of wine. After trying them all, I pronounce the 2003 Old Vine Cuvee my favorite. Despite the fact that my wine expertise is limited to "box wine gives me bad hangovers," it turns out to be the most expensive. My family orders a couple of bottles. I entertain a tragic vision of an overturned bike spilling seventy dollars worth of wine into the soil, until Todd explains that he'll drive back later today to pick up our bottles.

Two cyclists take a break beside vineyards in Dry Creek Valley.When we take to the road again, I begin to see the charm of touring by bike. In a car, the scenery would whiz by unnoticed. On two wheels, the valley rewards our languid pace. The concept of "wine country", rather than just a phrase for the mash of green between glasses of merlot, comes to life around us. Terraced hills are covered in the sharp green of the grape vines, the pale fruit just visible under the leaves. Tags on wooden posts identify the grapes: cabernet sauvignon, syrah, zinfandel. In a month, they'll be ready to harvest. The twisting length of the road is shaded by a parade of gnarled oaks. Then we turn a corner into a squat grove of olive trees, gray-green leaves rustling, and meet the full blaze of mid-summer sun.

There's a sensory factor, as well, as the wine amplifies the splash of the wind against my face, but I think - as I'm both the smallest person of the tour and the one who drank the most samples - that I may be the only one affected that way. Then my mother pedals up to me and begins to chatter about Todd, the guide. Maybe she's a bit topsy-turvy from her two sips of riesling.

"Todd," she says, "is getting his masters in mathematics." Then she whispers that he would be a more suitable boyfriend than my current flame. Besides his physical fitness and his education, she reveals, there's this:

"His family owns a vineyard near here!" I can't blame her for wanting a connection to property in the valley, which has the great weather and wine but none of the tourist crowding of nearby Napa and Sonoma. Todd's grandfather was one of the first people to plant grapes, back when this section of California was more taken with plums. That was thirty years ago; now everyone's gone to wine.

When we pause at the Raymond Burr winery, I pick out just two samples; there's another steep hill to negotiate. I start to feel as if the bicycling is making me - not thirsty, quite - but more appreciative of the wines I try. Perhaps it's the exercise making each drop feel like a prize, or our dusty efforts heightening the sense of luxury at each stop.

At the Passalacqua winery we break for lunch. While Todd prepares the platters, we head in for a final round of taste tests. The proprietor has us try two zinfandels, from different vintages, asking if we can taste the "strong difference." I start spouting a list of wine-flavor clichÃ©s: oaky, smoky, chocolate, berry-flavored, green, while my father nods knowingly and indicates that we'll take a bottle of each.

Oak barrels filled with wine at a winery in Dry Creek Valley.The group convenes on the veranda, looking out over the gardens below, to eat lunch. When Todd admits that the various salads - a spinach, raspberry and walnut concoction, a dish with yellow tomatoes and rounds of mozzarella cheese - are all his handiwork, I start to feel like my mother wasn't wrong about his potential as a mate. Everyone tucks in, hoping heavy stomachs won't weigh us down on the ride back up the road.

When we do take to the road again, I don't feel any of the twinges I associate with long rides. Maybe it's the wine dulling the pain. Whatever it is, I'm pleased to find that bicycling hasn't robbed wine-touring of its pleasures; instead, I cycle towards town feeling like I've earned every moment of indulgence.

Location ID Click Me

Teaser

Cat George explores the strange combination of bicycling and wine-touring, in wine country, California.

Roll On! Discovering the Wild Stikine River

suchi — Sun, 12 Feb 2006 00:10:08 -0600

Body

Stikine River, Wrangell, Alaska
By Bonnie Demerjian
Photos by Ivan Simonek

The Telegraph Creek cemetery overlooks the Stikine River and the villageMoving water captures us in a way that still waters do not. Quiet lakes generate deep thoughts, perhaps, but it takes a river to stir our imagination and propel us to explore around the next bend. In Wrangell, Alaska, we are graced with proximity to one of North America's last wild rivers, the Stikine. Pronounced Sti-keen, this river for millennia has served as a transportation corridor between the interior of northern British Columbia and Southeast Alaska. The river's glaciers and snow-capped peaks, formed eons before the last ice age, still bear witness to that remote time. Its waters have freighted aboriginal peoples, Russian fur traders and gold stampeders crowding majestic sternwheelers. Today, the Stikine River enjoys a growing reputation as a world-class paddling destination and an unparalleled scenic wildlife attraction.

The river rises in rolling highlands in northern British Columbia's sparsely settled interior, then tumbles three hundred miles westward, gathering speed and strength until it empties into the sea in Southeast Alaska. The upper river is accessible by canoe and via the Stewart Cassiar Highway #37. The Stikine Grand Canyon prohibits passage the full length of the river but paddlers can drive the gravel Telegraph Creek Road west from Dease Lake, putting in again at the historic village of Telegraph Creek and continuing downstream to salt water. Or, you can go upstream. Charter jet boat operators in nearby Wrangell or Petersburg will take visitors up to Telegraph Creek for an overnight trip or longer. We made just such a trip not long ago. Long-time residents of Southeast Alaska's rainforest are always looking for a little more sun and we knew that Telegraph Creek's continental climate was just what we needed at summer's end.

Early one August morning we climbed aboard the jet boat, a perfect vessel for carrying us through the swift current and shallow bars of the Stikine. We maneuvered through the twisting channels of the river's broad delta, home to thousands of migrating shorebirds, ducks, snow geese and sandhill cranes in spring and fall and to harbor seals and Steller sea lions all year. Once past the delta, mountains of the Coast Range begin to lift high and barren on either side of the riverbanks. Quiet side sloughs lead to U.S. Forest Service cabins and popular Chief Shakes Hot Springs. Gradually, familiar vegetation, Sitka spruce and Western hemlock, gives way to the trees of a dryer climate as we press on upstream. The Stikine is a transboundary river. The American portion, the lower 30-odd miles, is protected as the LeConte-Stikine Wilderness Area in the Tongass National Forest. On either side of the river we can see the international boundary line, a 100-foot-wide swath cleared of trees.

Later we stop for a picnic on a sandbar covered with scruffy willows and unexpected wildflowers. These sandbars shelter moose, wolves and brown and black bear. Their well-defined footprints tell us who breakfasted here, perhaps only this morning. Once through the Little Canyon, formerly a significant challenge for gold rush sternwheelers, the land changes again as mountains become rounded and dry. We clamber off the boat to explore a log cabin sinking into the ground, once the home of Groundhog Jackson, an early prospector and homesteader. Then it's on to Telegraph Creek.

A few skilled jetboat operators, such as Wrangell's Jim Leslie, venture into the lower Stikine Grand CanyonThe village first earned its name from a failed telegraph line to the Yukon and Russia, begun in 1866. The project was halted when the first trans-Atlantic submarine cable was laid that same year. Construction was renewed during the Klondike Gold Rush and completed in 1901. Telegraph Creek, like many gold rush communities, boomed and declined during several 19th century rushes and again during construction of the Alaska Highway in WWII. Today primarily Tahltan First Nations people live here. There are many deserted historic buildings in town as well as an original Hudson's Bay Company store that now serves as the village's only lodging, cafe and outfitting service, the Stikine RiverSong Lodge. The building was moved in 1901 upriver from the former gold rush town of Glenora and has been declared a B.C. Heritage Building. It was nearly dinnertime after we settled into our rustic rooms overlooking the river and we were more than ready for river-caught sockeye salmon and fresh-baked bread.

The next day we climbed into the Riversong's van to see some of the Stikine Grand Canyon from above via the Telegraph Creek Road. This dizzying but scenic route is the village's only land connection with the rest of the continent. It is maintained all year but large campers are not recommended on this road with no guardrails and a long trip to the bottom.

As mentioned, the Grand Canyon, which speculation says compresses the volume of the river through an opening only six feet wide at one point, is impassable by boat. A sign at the bridge where the Stewart Cassiar Highway crosses the river bluntly forewarns: "No craft should travel downstream from this point. Those who ignore this warning will experience certain death." Still, a handful of experts have braved a canyon called the Mount Everest of kayaking and lived to tell the tale; others have not. A few motorboatmen will take visitors into the lower reaches of the canyon in jetboats powerful enough to wrest the boat away from sucking whirlpools and vertical walls. We were thankful for our captain's skill in reading the water's turbulent surface. When we could lift our eyes from the boiling water we saw radiating basalt formations, one record of the region's lengthy volcanic past. Ancient volcanoes such as Mt. Edziza and numerous young cones are not far away. One natural sculpture called "The Eagle" by the Tahltans marks the confluence of the Stikine and a tributary, the Tahltan River. Here, the Tahltans and coastal Tlingit Indians met to trade until the early 19th century.

The next morning we said goodbye to the golden we boarded our boat to head back home. On the way, however, we had more stops to make. One was the Glenora Guest Ranch operated by Nancy Ball. The ranch itself is legendary. Originally established to raise horses for the pack trains of prospectors and fur hunters, the ranch continued to prosper with the advent of big game hunting at the turn of the 20th century. Today it's a rustic resort for river travelers. At another stop near an icy clearwater creek we became rock hounds and returned to the boat with pocketfuls of copper-green rock and rounded pebbles. We lunched at Devil's Elbow, a calm backwater used by wood-burning paddlewheelers as a refueling stop. Lastly, we tied up along the bank at Great Glacier, one of many fronting the Stikine. A well-marked trail headed toward the glacier as it trekked back in time. Hikers can follow glacial succession back in time from old growth forest to scrub alder and willow to lichen as the path wanders closer to the glacier and its iceberg-strewn lake. Great Glacier lies close to the American-Canadian border. From here it was only a few hours till we were again crossing the delta and back to town.

The Stikine River delta and the Coast RangeWrangell itself has history to spare beginning with petroglyphs that may be 8000 years old. The carvers of these rock designs are unknown but they may be ancestors of the later Tlingit people of Northwest Coast tradition. In the early 19th century the Russian American Company, a Russian fur trading corporation, built a rude encampment here, followed by the British and their Hudson's Bay Company and finally by Americans after Alaska's purchase in 1867. Like Telegraph Creek, Wrangell weathered three gold rushes and for a brief moment was the most populous city in Alaska. Today, Wrangell is a quiet village of about 2000 and, while it is on the cruise-ship itinerary, is considered to be the only "real Alaskan" town left on that route.

Travelers to the Stikine and environs can check out Wrangell and chamber@petersburg.org. For information on northern British Columbia visit: www.nbctourism.com

You can get to Wrangell or Petersburg by air or boat. One of the pleasantest ways to travel is via the Alaska Marine Highway System. Alaska ferries depart from Bellingham, WA north of Seattle and from Prince Rupert, B.C. You can bring a vehicle or walk on as a foot passenger and may pitch a tent on deck or rent a stateroom. The trip is about two and a half days from Bellingham. Alaska Airlines offers daily jet service to Wrangell and Petersburg.

The Tongass National Forest website is helpful and to rent a Forest Service cabin go to: ReserveUSA.com There are a number of provincial parks protecting the upper Stikine River and surrounding country. Learn more about B.C. parks

To learn more about the Stikine River, its history, geography, natural history and the people who have lived there and who still make it their home, read Roll On! Discovering the Wild Stikine River by Bonnie Demerjian to be released in April 2006. Visit her website at www.stikineriverbooks.com.

Location ID Click Me

Teaser

The Stikine River runs through northern British Columbia and Southeastern Alaska. This scenic untamed river is the setting for a river trip from its mouth to the gold rush village of Telegraph Creek. Along the way we see glaciers, mountains, the Stikine Grand Canyon and stay at the historic Stikine Riversong Lodge.

Fishing Oregon's Central Coast - Oregon, USA

suchi — Sat, 11 Feb 2006 00:20:47 -0600

Body

Oregon
By Jesse Sampson

Warm, quaint towns interspersed between lush temperate rain forests dot the central coast landscape. Each small town seems to have its own claim to fame, like Depoe Bay's world's smallest harbor or Lincoln City's world's shortest "D" river, yet many towns rely simply on the rivers that flow nearby for their acclaim. Rivers like the Siletz, Nestucca, Wilson or Trask. Streams that bring with them tourists, sightseers and countless sport fishermen. These coastal rivers, some measuring nearly
60 miles in length, play an important role in coastal communities. They provide a fishing destination for many and much needed industry jobs to the area.

Oregon's Central Coast season is nearly endless, but peak times for salmon and steelhead bring an influx of anglers to the area. Late summer and fall draws the most anglers trying their luck with the great Chinook salmon, silver salmon and lesser known chum salmon. Winter steelhead are targeted in these same streams from December to March. While traditional tackle is still the preferred method to angle for steelhead and salmon, fly fishing for these massive fish is quickly gaining popularity.

Fly fishermen have long sought solitude, clear clean water and nature during their outings. Oregon's Central Coast has many locations that warm the hearts of fly anglers and keep them coming back year after year. While each location has its own unique characteristics, they all share a propensity towards holding big beautiful anadromous fish.

Siletz River Gorge Steelhead
Best Time for Summer Steelhead: June 1 - October 31
Best Time for Winter Steelhead: Dec 15 - March 31

The Siletz Gorge begins at Moonshine Park some 4 miles past the town of Logsden. At this point the road turns to gravel and follows the river nearly 15 miles until it splits at the north and south forks. Fishing in the gorge is closed year round above Bohanan Falls, located at road mile 11. You'll have to spend your time here on the weekends as the access road (beginning at Moonshine Park) is private and closed for logging during the week.

The gorge section of the upper Siletz is characterized by a deep canyon, big boulders, sweeping turns and long deep pools. Its size, depth and cool dark waters make it excellent holding water for steelhead. In the summer, concentrate on days directly after a cool shower and look for fish in tailouts, behind and in front of boulders. During the winter months concentrate your efforts in areas with walking speed water, around 3-5 feet deep. Popular patterns for this river include, green-butt skunks, coachmen bucktails andsCabelleros.

The Kilchis River Chum Run
Best Time for Chum Salmon: October 15 - November 15

The Kilchis River just north of Tillamook is home to one of the few strong chum runs in Oregon. Each fall, thousands of chum salmon return the the place of their birth to perform their spawning ritual. During their journey, they travel through the Tillamook Bay and into the intimate Kilchis River, making them excellent targets for fly anglers. Chum salmon are well known as good biters and these fish are no exception. Fish runs and pools with weighted flies or sink tips with chartreuse, fuchsia and purple patterns in size 2-6. The fish range in weigh from 6-15 pounds and provide excellent sport on the fly rod. Remember to handle these fish with care as the entire river is open to catch and release angling only. (Angling for chum salmon closes November 15 each year)

Nestucca River Chinook Salmon
Best Time for Fall Chinook Salmon: October 1 - November 15

The Nestucca is one of coast's longer rivers, beginning high in the coast range and meeting saltwater at Pacific , more than 50 miles later. It is also one of the coast's most productive streams with good runs of Chinook salmon, silver salmon, summer and winter steelhead as well as sea-run cutthroat trout. Fly anglers wishing to try for that trophy salmon would be wise to start on this stream. Its moderate size and large fish (some larger than 50 lbs) make it a joy to fly fish. Concentrate your efforts with a fly in the lower river from the small town of Beaver downstream to the head of tidewater at Cloverdale.

Fish heavily weighted flies or sink tips with 9-10 weight fly rods in order to properly handle these fish. Focus your efforts in large pools and deep runs where these big fish feel most comfortable. Popular colors for these beast include chartreuse, orange and fuchsia. Come prepared for a long battle as fights with big fish can last up to one hour!

Jesse Sampson is a fly fishing guide specializing in trout, salmon and steelhead on the Oregon Coast. Check out his website at www.smallstreamoutfitters.com.

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Jesse Sampson points out what to fish, and where, along Oregon's Central Coast.

The Three Fishkateers on Idaho's Main Salmon River

suchi — Mon, 6 Feb 2006 00:59:04 -0600

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River of No Return Wilderness, Idaho, USA
By Scott Price

Scouting Big Mallard Rapids Flying above the roadless Idaho wilderness, the pilots of our little two seater Cessna were earning their wings. They kept calling me on my mobile phone earlier in the day, asking nonchalantly if we could leave earlier than planned. Sure, no problem.

Turned out they were concerned about the wildfires smoldering across the wilderness. It began as a wispy haze, then as we left the town of McCall behind and bounced our way across the mountain turbulence toward Salmon, the horizon and world faded to solid white gray. One pilot scanned the day fog as he descended to a low altitude. The other pilot peered down the edge of his window and gave the lead pilot verbal directions on how to follow an off-route river valley which made for a longer trip but which would eventually get us to Salmon.

After landing at the small town airstrip and listening to the pilots tell us how "that was an unusual one", we were greeted by Brian and his road worn red Jeep Cherokee topped with a huge metal raft frame. The Three Fishkateers reunited yet again!

The next morning we crammed everything into dry bags strewn around our motel room, and compressed the Jeep's suspension with a huge load for the ride down the washboard dirt road dug out of a valley river embankment by the CCC all the way to Corn Creek. There were no more roads for another 80 miles down river through the pleasantly named River of No Return Wilderness. Our mantra had become "watch your head" as each of us banged our skulls repeatedly on the overhanging metal raft equipment above the car, so we were all ready for open air wilderness without any smacks of low clearance overhangs.

The wilderness and forest before us was vast - taking up about a third of the state of Idaho - and the canyon was deep - second deepest in the continental US and even deeper than the Grand Canyon. Yet it was also full of history.

Lewis and Clark explored the beginnings of this part of the Main Salmon River but determined it to be impassable. Since then, reclusive trappers came from above and bushwhacked down creek-cut ravines to the enticing beauty and food of the lower canyon. Then an intrepid few survived - and others didn't - while trying to navigate their way down the tight walls of the Salmon's river canyon. Although the boats were cumbersome and decidedly low tech, a few men were able to make the run repeatedly to bring in supplies to occasional remote cabins or bring in surveyors for a railroad line that never happened. Some men actually ventured deep into the canyon, found a suitable side spot for food and perhaps mining, and dismantled the wood of their boat to form a simple cabin as uninsulated protection against the elements.

After registering with the ranger at road's end by Corn Creek, we rigged Brian's raft for a week on the river. The approach to selecting food for the trip was "it's a big raft and we ain't backpacking", so dry bags and bear-proof canisters were filled with loads of junk food plus a few recommended bricks in the food pyramid, while the cooler was jammed with chocolate milk, Pepsi, Dad's infamous camouflage patterned cans of Coors (nicknamed "camo 20s"), o.j., yogurt, and some token veggies among the ice blocks. Fold up chairs, individual tents, extra cameras, and other hardware created a mound of large dry bags in the stern, all tied together and secured tightly to the raft in case of a real time accidental white-water swim session.

Our fashion statements were synchronized: PFDs, wide brimmed hats, sunblock, waterlogged shoes, and quick drying layers. Fly fishing vests, fly rods, and a bail bucket were all within easy reach. No seat belts on a raft ride, though.

With everyone excited to get started in the River of No Return Wilderness, we launched and the current grabbed hold to take us away from civilization and down river. Brian adroitly manhandled the oars and led us through serene stretches of flat water punctuated by fun white-water rapids. We would generally hear the next rapids before seeing them, as their amplified white noise bounced upriver between the looming canyon walls.

The canyons that have been etched by the Main Salmon River are impressive and stark. All types of rock walls are colored gray black by omnipresent lichen, interspersed by vertical meadows of golden grasses that glow warmly in the sun. Hardy ponderosa pine trees sprout from hillsides, rockslides, and the river banks, yet just as many are blackened poles with their limbs and needles burned away by past forest fires. Walks through the woods can smell like the morning after a big camp fire.

The river runs cold, so hopping off the raft for any reason is rather invigorating, and fishing while standing in the water on the bottom of the raft makes those dry socks back at camp a first priority when setting up camp. Living in those chilly waters are a Noah's ark full of great sport fish: rainbows, goldens, salmon, bass, herring, and more. Our primary pursuit fish for the week was trout.

Heading downriver, just us and our raft, began the sights and sounds. The countryside is semi-arid, which is why the grasses do well amidst the sporadic ponderosa pines and douglas firs when they are not serving as perfect kindling. The rush of the waves, plunk of the oars, and creaking rigging all mix with the melodies and fluttering wings of mergansers, dippers, kingfishers, osprey, and golden eagles.

Our first day on the river took us through Killum Rapid, Gunbarrel Rapid, Stub Creek Rapid, and smaller unnamed rapids that sped us along. 6.1 miles downriver from Corn Creek we pulled onto the shore at Spindle Creek.

The flat sand and rock bar of the site served as the location for Colin Lovelock's cabin in the 1950s. A flourishing apple tree and the base of a stone wall reminded us of his presence. The apples tasted good, too!

The next day we continued onward. Dad already caught the first fish of the trip, and I caught the first rainbow trout. Our biggest catches were the raft itself and immovable "rockfish". We usually fished from the bow of the raft, feet down in a cold puddle with our knees braced against the forward tube. One fish got loose in a squirmfest on the bottom of the boat, but eventually was smart enough to flip itself into a net so it could be returned to the river.

We headed through Rainier Rapid, Lantz Rapid, and Devils Teeth Rapid, passing by several pretty creeks that cascaded over river-smoothed rocks into the Main Salmon. An interesting stop along the way is Devils Toe pictographs, one of many pictograph sites remaining untouched in the canyon.

That afternoon we landed at the beach above Chamberlain Creek, finding a beautiful campsite that overlooked both the large flowing creek and the Main Salmon. We cooked up some good food from our floating grocery store. A can of tiny shrimp added to alfredo noodles is highly recommended, by the way. Morning breakfast was classic oatmeal packets.

A heavily overgrown trail follows Chamberlain Creek for 18 miles out to a remote ranch, and it makes for some pretty hiking in the woods, even though much of it is charred from wildfires and there are many fallen trees to jump over along the trail. Dad and Brian found some productive fishing holes along the way.

Day 3, the river took us through Little Devils Teeth Rapid and Salmon Falls, which was the most technical rapid of the trip so far and required Brian to maneuver us through a small slot and down a small waterfall between huge raft-flipping boulders. Floating along, we passed the sites and derelict motors of placer miners who in the past would boat in old truck motors, fuel, and parts. The men then proceeded to "mine" by blasting away the hillside and river bank with powerful water hoses, usually looking for gold. It must have made a mess of the river when it was done; I wouldn't recommend trying to get a permit for that technique nowadays.

We also saw a few more raft and kayak groups on the river, all of which were friendly and shared a sense of camaraderie in place and purpose. A couple jetboats also cruised by, which are propellerless low draft boats that are grandfathered in since a few outfitters used them as motorized access up and down the Salmon before the entire area was officially designated wilderness.

At mile 24.8, we pulled up onto the shallow rocks at Bruin Camp, setting up our tents on a pretty and level expanse of sand above the river. Dad was able to catch some beautiful goldens from the river bank in front of camp, using both dry flies and nymphs. The next morning I walked past the fresh night-visit deer tracks around my tent and wrote by the river's edge as the sun rose over the valley walls and warmed me.

The canyon's hillsides have a different appearance whether you are looking to river left or river right. The Main Salmon flows consistently and directly from east to west. So river right, or the north shore, is facing south and therefore gets dried out by direct sun. River left is usually in shade, and retains more moisture. The result is more sporadic ponderosa pines and open expanses of grasses on river right/north side, with somewhat denser stands of douglas fir on river left/south side.

Rafting Through Bailey Rapids On day 4 the intensity level of the rapids ratcheted up a notch, and we did scout ahead on several of the more major white-water sections. After Hancock Rapid, we ran more technical stretches such as Bailey Rapids, Five Mile Rapids, and Split Rock Rapids. In Brian's words, he nearly "tore his shoulder off" powering us out of a hole (where water falls over a rock and creates a backwards hydraulic action that can spin and flip a raft if not properly handled). Many fun little unnamed rapids also pushed us along throughout the day.

This stretch of the Salmon actually has about 4 or 5 cabins on it, throwbacks to the days before wilderness designation. Most are nicely kept up, some have caretakers, and one is part of a large ranch where the owners invite Christian missionaries to stay in a place of beauty for personal introspection.

After 12 miles on the river, we rested for the evening at Upper Yellowpine campsite. Beautiful! Spacious flat site with rocks for natural tables, all looking out over an expanse of private river, fronted by trees and backed by an impressive high dark rock cliff wall. We enjoyed our time there: talking, fishing from the shore (with an apparent contest to see who could hook the smallest fish), and fixing up some good camp grub. Brian and I took a short hike down river to pre-scout tomorrow's first big rapids, hopping rocks and enjoying all the different vantage points along the way. And before sleeping soundly in my tent I was treated to a bright moon rising through the trees lining the upper reaches of the opposite canyon wall, illuminating our campsite and softening the otherwise vibrant star night sky.

The next day started immediately with a wild ride through Big Mallard Rapids. We had one plan, the river had another, and we got whisked along on a great little sprint. Other rapids were scouted in advance, too. We all took turns at the oars, with Brian at the helm for the big stuff. Little Mallard Rapids, Elkhorn Rapids, Growler Rapids, Don't Lose Me Now Rapids, Whiplash Rapids, and others greeted us today and gave us a bail bucket session or two.

As we rafted deeper into the canyon, I'd grown increasingly intrigued by the characters who have actually built their lives in the deep recesses of the canyon over the past 100+ years. Some were married with families, some were on the run from the law, others were lone trappers or miners or self sufficient farmers, and others just wanted to get away from the rest of the world and move to a place where nowadays people only visit for vacations.

We pulled ashore at a suspension bridge built at Campbell's Ferry, where an enterprising settler used to run a river crossing service for miners trying to unearth their fortunes, prior to the construction of the bridge. The dilapidated, but still standing, remnants of Francis Zaunmiller Wisner's homestead are located on a moderate open slope above the south side of the bridge. Francis was a telephone operator in Texas who decided to ditch her past life and create a new one somewhere north. In 1940 she ended up as one of the few who lived on the river, and built a small homestead with each of her two husbands (both of which were local river men; presumably because they were among the very few available men around?). On the other side of the river from her cabin, I walked around the sunny unkempt grass fields of Jim Moore's old farm, wandering among the two cabins, barn, rusting farm machinery, icehouse, and junk still laying around. It must have been quite the lifestyle, both independent and solitary.

As a solid reminder that these were not the true initial settlers, though, elsewhere on a river bank we found another well-preserved set of native American pictographs.

Paine Creek Camp was about right for stopping point distance for the day, so we pulled in and were pleased to find yet another great campsite. Tucked away under a few trees within the folds of a rock cliff, it gave Dad another good spot to ensure that he was not "skunked" by being fishless on any day of the trip. My scratchy scalp was clamoring for a camp shampoo, so I dunked myself partly in the cold river and used a soapless washcloth to clean off the day's (and week's) grime before washing my hair up in the woods (so that any soap residue would get filtered prior to entering the river). All day long we saw hardly any other folks, so I cleaned up at the water's edge buck naked. Of course that was exactly when I happened to notice six people on three rafts right in front if me, all staring at my riverside peep show.

We deliberately planned to raft the Main Salmon at this early/mid September time frame since this was the period when no reservations were required and it's all first come first served. During the high summer season, planning and camping can be a conflicting chore among both private and commercial boat groups. But this time of year the lack of people is very peaceful, and finding unoccupied campsites was consistently easy, in getting our first pick of priority sites. The water levels are also much lower, which generally makes most rapids more accessible and first-rime-runnable for private parties new to the river, such as us.

Fishing from our raft on the Main Salmon River The next day opened cool, with smooth blue skies and floating cotton ball clouds, as every morning on the trip has greeted us. The days warm and clear as they progress, and the evening slowly returns to cool after the sun disappears behind the towering canyon walls while we cook dinner by the low whooshing sound of our camp stove. It only rained three times: once just as we we were getting ready to unload at Corn Creek, which we waited out in the Jeep for twenty minutes before the sun rejoined us. The second time was a sprinkled drizzle in the middle of the night, just enough to dampen the dry ground. And the third time occurred as we were packing our raft into the Jeep on the way out. So, we were never really rained on at all during our time on the river.

While on the river, we wear several layers of clothes to ward off the chill from the air and the cold river. Canyon wall shadows - and standing in river water on the bottom of the raft - can cause big temperature swings compared to later rounding a corner to absorb full sun again. Of course, whoever is manhandling the oars is generating more heat than the others sitting up front in their splash-soaked pants. I usually announced each day when I got my first crotch soaking, which also meant my underwear was wet from there on out for the rest of the day.

Except for a couple big rapids, the river mellowed out considerably. Early on, we barreled through Boise Bar Rapids, Action Jackson Rapids, and Ludwig Rapids for some good rides and great boat handling by Brian.

Around the confluence with the South Fork of the Salmon River, the character of the river changes considerably. Guides call this section of the river "Salmon Lake" since it is mostly placid slow moving water, reflecting the scenery upside down on its surface. But, more importantly, the scenery becomes even more interesting and varied. The canyon walls tower above seemingly higher and closer than before, leaving the grass and forests behind for impressive spiky rock formations looming far overhead. Cliffs continue their gray black lichen-covered appearance, but appear more fortress-like in their solidity and huge scale.

Interjected among the beauty is also more human development, though it is still rare and sporadic, plus frequently comes with terrific gossipy history.

We passed the rock gun tower built by mountain man Buckskin Bill; the forest service said he was squatting and he was prepared to defend his land (it turned out neither Buckskin Bill nor the forest service owned the land, but instead it was owned separately as part of a private mining claim). We also oared by Polly Bemis' ranch; she was sold into an underground Chinese slave market as a child, but her freedom was negotiated by the man she later married, and they enjoyed the remainder of their lives on the shores of the Salmon. We even passed a couple very small outdoors-oriented guest lodges and an incongruous little "store" in an outfitter's cabin accessed by the river beach; this was permitted since we passed through the boundary of the official wilderness designated land on the north shore. The south shore was still designated wilderness land all the way out, and there was generally no way to tell the difference since it remained almost entirely remote, un-built, and inaccessible to vehicles. And even the wilderness areas still contain sporadic small privately owned tracts with grandfathered uses.

Alex Meadows was the setting for another peaceful and utterly private camp site. We passed a few people on the shore, but we did not come upon a single boat that day on the river; the solitude relaxed all of us. In camp, we fished from the shore in front of our tents and were visited by 12 bighorn sheep. After a lot of rowing, some headwinds, and flat water's slower currents, we continued our progressively earlier downward adjustment of bedtime. Our sleep cycles were adjusting to be river farmers.

Then, as usually happens for people with jobs, family, and other lives, the last day of this trip brightened through our tents. Some good fun rapids roared ahead of us, and there were fish out there to be caught.

Fishing had been very consistent throughout the week. Casting a line from the raft or shore during the day was usually just an exercise in practice of casting technique. But in the later evening, fish would get hungry for the insects we saw flying around, and then we started hauling a few in. Some were small enough that their downward size was probably limited by the fish mouth's ability to just get around the hook. Dad consistently won the award for largest fish catches, once from a good eddy at a rock tumble outcropping below rapids. The other big catch of the week was at the mouth of a stream while straddling the raft.

Sheep Creek beckoned for a pleasant and pretty side canyon hike up into the hills a ways. Warmer stream water flowed over rocks, around fallen trees, and into natural green circulating pools that all eventually spilled across a boulder field into the Main Salmon.

The fun rapids continued to be interspersed with stretches of slow moving flat water, and the winds tried to push our non-aerodynamic boat back up river, giving Brian quite a workout at the oars. Dad began renaming all of the rapids, mostly with an R-rated flavor for his own future spicy river guide book.

Immediately down river from Chittam Rapids, we put in at the Vinegar Creek boat ramp. This started another washboard dirt road on out, fulfilling the loop we created when we drove to Corn Creek a week ago and connected these roads by almost 80 miles of wilderness river in between.

We all got what we asked for, and much more: Guys goofing around together in beautiful scenery on a unique and interesting wilderness river, with no boat flips, too much food, and another great outdoors reunion of The Three Fishkateers!

Scott Price lives in Seattle, Washington and occasionally does freelance travel writing and photography. He can be reached at www.CelebrateBig.com.

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The canyons that have been etched by the Main Salmon River are impressive and stark. Walks through the woods can smell like the morning after a big camp fire.