Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Mt. Marcy



I spent my summer checking intoxicated backstretch worker credentials before allowing them entry to the track at three in the morning and flagging traffic to a halt on Union Avenue so that horses could cross for their morning workouts. Meanwhile, my sister, Robin,  climbed peaks in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Last year after we had climbed Mount Washington we decided to hike up Mt. Marcy.  I was doing little to condition myself for the 14.8 mile trip. 

Robin had climbed the highest peak in New York back in the 80s, but I had never climbed it, much less seen it.  At 5344 it is not a towering peak. It is 3000 feet shorter than the mountain behind my condo in Hawaii. But the peak is a remote one, nestled in the heart of the Adirondacks making the summit a long trek. Some people make the trip a long day hike. Many hike part way, camp and bag the peak on the second day. We elected for the long day.  But, of course.

My work schedule and the attempt to paint my neighbor’s barn kept me from getting as ready as I was when we hiked Mt. Washington.  I did some short hikes getting use to my new low-top foot gear.  I felt good when I put in an eight mile hike around Moreau Lake only to learn Robin, who always has been more athletic, had put in a 10 miler on a 4000 foot peak.  Sigh. She was going to skunk me up the mountain.

To get an early start and to avoid the two-hour drive to the Adirondack Loj where the trail head is located we got a very nice room in Lake Placid.  The room came with breakfast served at 6 am. Anticipating an energy-packed breakfast we instead got something that looked like little yellow marbles, bounced like rubber balls and I presume was made of 1972 military-issued powdered and pulverized eggs. The only good thing about the breakfast was the laughs we got as we reflected on the horrendous eats considering how exceptional the hotel had been.  It made a great trail tale.

I don’t know how old I was when Dad took Robin and me to Marcy Lake.  Pretty young, I suppose. He might have had the intentions of hiking to the summit, but we had enough of  carrying a canvass rucksack full of peanut butter sandwiches and a can of beans by the time we got to the dam, about 2 miles in on a relatively flat hike.  (This part of the trail is the saving grace of the whole trip. As it is a trail on soft earth and pine needles, verses the rest of the trail on rocks.)  Instead of proceeding up the trail, I wanted to swim in the lake and got my first wilderness lake experience. It might have been cold, I don’t remember that. What I do I remember was the thick mucky debris that settled in the lake. It stirred easily off the dark lake bottom and made swimming as unappealing as climbing to the summit.

Two miles from the Loj and you feel the heart of the Adirondack wilderness, the place of plaid-clad woodsmen and Iroquois Indians, black bears and badgers, of glaciers and granite. These places and times held my imagination as a kid – the geology, the history, the legends of 46ers -- the challenge of becoming one of the elite who climb the peaks above 4000 ft. But I grew up and moved away never to do any serious hiking in the place of “new mountains from old rocks.”
As Robin and I approached Marcy Lake it looked nothing like I remembered. No lean-tos on the lakes edge. Nor was there a lake as the dam has been breached. There is a slight detour to a newly constructed bridge a bit downstream.

What does one see when one hikes through the woods?  To tell the truth, not much but the forest for the trees.  As we gained in elevation we caught glimpses of surrounding summits through the breaks in the trees.  Tall deciduous yielded to red pines and spruce, which yielded to alpine shrubs and finally to lichen and moss. The one time I looked away from the trail to see the summit of Mt Marcy I tripped over a rock and fell into the alpine bushes.  

Footing was precarious. It is the little rocks that will trick you. Step on one and it may roll twisting your ankle. This happened to me on the way down.  Luckily I recovered quickly throwing my weight off my ankle onto my hiking poles.  

The last bit of climb is over open rock face. Fortunately the weather was perfect. Sunny with little wind, but cool enough to keep ice on the rocks protected from the sun’s warmth. Hard to imagine that these high places were once covered by  glaciers more than a mile thick just a short 10,000 years ago. It was the glaciers that left the Adirondacks a jostle of peaks and gives them their beauty.

At the summit we sat on the rocks facing southeast, the high sun on our backs.  Unlike Mt. Washington there are no concession stands or warming huts. I broke out a hot drink and two paper cups from the hotel carefully packed so not to be squished. Cheers!  Roast beef sandwiches and peanut butter with honey re-energized us for the return trip that took us the same amount of time we had taken to climb.  Old knees!

 I told  Dad to call the State Troopers if he had not heard from us by 9 pm. We made it back to the car by 6:15, but no cellphone signal was available until we reached Keene at 7 pm.  Robin wanted a cup of coffee and we both expected that the best she would get would be gas station coffee. But we found the perfect place with an espresso machine,  the ADK cafĂ©. She got a cappuccino and I had a decaf latte.  

As we headed down the Northway there was still a tell-tale sign of daylight on the western horizon.  Another great adventure behind us. I relaxed in my sister’s new Subaru to discover heated seats are a great recovery therapy. I might have to get me one of those.  

Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Day Forty


I expected the morning workout to be light. After all, the horse trailers had been rolling out all night, shipping horses to Belmont, Kentucky and other destinations where thoroughbred racing continues after the six week meet at Saratoga ends. One day of racing remained. One important race, the Hopeful was ahead. 

A hard gale-force wind and an electrical storm kept the training light. Even the early morning Bond Boys wearing red blinking lights on their helmets and safety vests with 007 on the back made a quick exit to the barns when lightening touched too close for comfort.

Between the downpours D. Wayne Lukas crossed Union Avenue to come to the main track. It was the only time I saw him during the 40 day meet. Dressed in a long riding coat and mounted on a large painted pony he came without the typical entourage of thoroughbred owners. Not even an assistant trainer accompanied him.  Alone, he took his horse to the sloppy track emptied of exercise riders by violent rain and wind packed beneath a thunderstorm.  Like a solitary stranger that rode into a one-horse-town on the edge of a prairie, he carried a noticeable presence.  He brought a little hope and a little fear to the town.
But this lone horseman was no cowboy in a  B-western movie. He was a famed trainer. In the midst of thunder and distant lightening a calm air hung around him.  He entered the track and turned toward the far turn, away from the empty grandstand. I wondered what he was doing. Reminiscing? After all, he had certainly sent many great horses to the winner circle. Inspecting the conditions of the soaked surface?  It had rained hard and frequently during the past three days. Saying good-bye? This was the last day of the 150th year of racing at Saratoga.
I will never know what he was thinking, but I suspect he was being one wise trainer. Scouting the track, considering the conditions, figuring it's impact on the race horse.  He had a horse entered in the Hopeful, the race that features the top two-year olds in the country - those that often go on to greatness as three-year olds in big races like the Triple Crown and the Travers. 
When skies cleared and thousands of fans filled the grandstand hours later, his horse, Strong Mandate, became a surprising upset.

The significant event of my last day at the track wasn’t fully appreciated until the following morning when I was sitting at the table eating my breakfast at a normal hour of 7 am. My midnight shifts were over.  Reading the newspaper I learned yesterday was also D. Wayne Lukas’ birthday.  I believe I witnessed a man give himself a birthday present at beautiful and historic Saratoga.

Sunday, August 04, 2013

Making The Transition



Bit by bit. Or perhaps more like hour by hour, I have begun to hit the third shift stride. The first week was tough, when I threw my body’s clock onto graveyard. Although I pretended I was still living in Hawaii it wasn’t an easy transition.  I pushed myself not to doze during the day. My body cried against the new rhythm.  My plan was to be tired enough that I would go to bed at 5 pm and actually fall asleep. That first week, the northeast was perspiring in a heat wave, a six day stretch of ninety plus degrees. I slept in my old room squeezed in a twin bed between two needy cats – one at my feet and the other tucked under my arm pit. In the shade-drawn room the air conditioner droned on cutting out sounds of some mysterious construction project underway in the neighbor’s back yard, and the sound of Dad watching the weather channel’s endless 8 minute cycle.

When the heat broke I moved into the master bedroom. Despite having a larger size bed for my two cats I locked them out of the room. Their curiosity insisted on demanding entrance to the room. My need for undisturbed sleep and their need for access to a liter box ruled otherwise.  There were days that Diablo yowled outside the door and slippers flew through the air out of sheer frustration.

With a project to prep and stain a neighbor’s barn I imposed a curfew. By 3 pm I was to begin to relax and ready my uniform and gear for easy assembly at 11pm. Bedtime was 5 pm.  That kept me up all day after I got off at 8 am. During the remainders of the mornings I pressure washed the barn and then hand washed every rough cut pine board.  By noon my arms had fallen off and my wrists felt like I did a double shift at the Target Distribution Center. And, not to let the summer get by me, I loaded the kayak on the jeep and took off to cruise around Moreau Lake in the early afternoons.

But I had done no hiking since my week in Alaska at the beginning of July. With the plan to hike Mt Marcy after Labor Day I knew I needed to condition my legs for the long 14 mile trek to the summit and  return descent.  Robin and I had talked of doing this last summer and I knew she would be cresting peaks in New Hampshire to get ready. Always more athletic than me, I would have a grueling climb if I didn’t start preparing.

So yesterday I hit the trails above Moreau for the second time this week and got a little disoriented when I forgot my map. I knew I would eventually hit either the lake or the Hudson River, a place I really did not want to end up at.  Three and a half hours later I emerged from the woods on the lake side. By five I was in bed sans cats.

The past two nights have gone by fast. I've been writing and surfing the internet for camping and hiking gear or reading up on the trails in the Adirondacks. During my break I crawl into my sleeping bag laid out in the back of my jeep. I’ve managed to zone out for twenty or thirty minutes, a power nap at 3 am. After 4 am, the gate is wide open to traffic and the next four hours I am on my feet checking IDs, credentials and monitoring horse traffic.

Midway through week three, almost to the half way point of the six-week racing meet at Saratoga, I have got the routine.  I confess I am sleep deprived and I have noticed brain lag. Nothing too serious.  Just a moment of not being able to remember where I put my paint scraper or forgetting what I was going down into the basement to get.   Heck I’ve done that before.  I’ve also fallen asleep under the dryer at the beauty salon.  I did ask my hairdresser is I was drooling.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Nightshift



Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. Is there such wisdom for those who watch the sun rise after working the night? 

Across America people wake up to work the nightshift.  It is not the sole domain of the blue collar or unskilled laborer. Professionals prowl the hours between 11 pm to seven in the morning.  Doctors make their residencies in ER, airline pilots trek coast to coast on the red eyes.  International business people speak to call centers a dozen time zones away.   IT geeks tweak code; the independent writers type out 500 word articles; DJs on local and national air waves stir tired imaginations with spooky ramblings of international espionages, government conspiracies, UFO kidnappings, the miracle of vitamin power and  the spoils of  Franken foods. With them are the traditional over night workers – the factory employees make, shape and build America.  The nocturnal long-haul truck driver rolls down the center line,  the janitor swabs bathrooms and restocks the paper towels, the garbage collector clangs metal cans at the street-side curb,  the cab driver delivers passengers and the security guard patrols long hallways, and the dark stairways of warehouses, sky scrappers, office buildings, schools, wharfs and barns. (Some barns have hallways and stairways.)

There is a whole industry of night beyond the making of donuts and the printing of newspapers. It is of shipping and hauling product and produce, of unpacking and stocking merchandise, of staging and positioning packages for morning deliveries.  These activities ready the economy for the upcoming day.  Nights make days and it is done by an estimated three million Americans.
   
I’ve never worked a graveyard shift.  I was in sweet dreamland long before the moon rose and red traffic signals glared across the cityscapes with angry fiery eyes like the devil himself.  No one should see creepy shadows run across open fields or lurk at the edges of forest. No one should have to venture into poorly lit alleys or cross a street in the echoes of their own foot steps.  After all, we know the story of Ichabod Crane.  

As a teen I rose early. This might have had something to do with my mom whose trigger finger on a light switch was faster than a bolt of lightening on a golf course. It didn’t matter if it was a 6 am on a school day or a weekend. When the slim thread of light stitched its pattern across the horizon to reveal the green mountains of Vermont it was time to rise and shine. Time to up and at’em. Time to make hay. And at the other end of the day I got between the sheets early too. Even in the summer before the sun sank below the crown of pine on the hill I “hit the hay”.  To go to bed with the chickens.  And chickens never worked the nightshift.

I love the morning. Full of promise.  Long sun rays enrich the landscapes with golden tones first caught on hill tops, then tree crowns and finally open fields. The sounds of crickets and katydids fall silent to the birds’ song that seems to coax the sun into splendor..  In the dips and valleys cooler air settles as if it slept the night away.  There is an anticipation of the morning lingering in the faded shadows of night. Mornings are fresh starts.  They are daily do-overs.

Now I am on nightshift and lost.  My mind and body are confused. It is like having the “sleeping” me on Hawaii Time, but the “waking” me on Eastern.  I wake at ten pm feeling the night, so aware that what is ahead are more hours of darkness.  The crickets’ chirps sound like “sucker, sucker.”  The moths dance in the yellow hues of tungsten. Watching their futile flutter exhausts me. Kamikaze June bugs dive bomb into the side of the guard shack.   The whispered rustling of invisible trees is unsettling.  I feel the burden of summer humidity sink in the low lands – damp and chilled.  There are faint odors of disturbed circumstances: a distant thunderstorm, a nest of skunk, the musky smell of horse and tilled earth on a silent track.

This is where I chose to be.  I traded the fevered excitement of the crowds gathered in the grandstands clutching winning hopes on horses that breezed easily in the soft blue light of dawn two days ago.  Requests to know the whereabouts of the nearest bathroom or ATM have been replaced with friendly “good mornings” exchanged with grooms and exercise riders or semi-polite nods from trainers and owners who flash ID cards with slight annoyance.  The post parade has become a frenzied coordination of horses, bicycles, golf carts, cars, vans and trucks across a busy street.  

And four days on the nightshift and I have not smelled one cheap cigar.  Just one more thing I don’t miss about working days at the Saratoga Race Course.  Wise move.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Whittier


Am I already forgetting? Did I hike the Crow Creek Trail on the same day we also went to Whittier? July 3rd? What a packed day in Alaska!  So let’s recap a bit here, including some photos for those of you who manage to stay off my FaceBook. And new ones for those who are on FaceBook.

I’ve been to Whittier three times before this trip.Twice by train and once by sea. Back in the day the only other way to arrive would have been to fly.  Since 2000, Whittier has been connected to the world by car when the 2.5 mile long train tunnel was resurfaced to accommodate vehicular traffic. The tunnel is a straight shot through the massive mountain that confines Whittier to a narrow seaside strip of land on the west side of the Prince William Sound. This makes the tunnel the longest car-rail tunnel in the US.

Finally someone got the brilliant idea to let cars drive through the tunnel and so autos, buses, campers and even tractor-trailers alternate between westbound and eastbound flows every half hour except when a train is scheduled. Then the traffic cues at the entrances to wait out the train and the clearing of smoke in the tunnel. Easier access makes Whittier a hot spot for tourists who wish to see a town where the entire population lives in one large ex-military bunker that once was the largest building in Alaska. (1940 time frame) I know, weird.  It’s a big building. 

Where everyone lives. One floor use to have a bowling alley. 

  There is a long pedestrian tunnel underneath the train yard that connects the residents with "downtown."  Because everyone lives in one high rise structure few roads need to be plowed in the winter.  Good thing.  Winter doesn't forget Whittier and in the summer it gets over 120 inches of rain.

So, it was rainy when I showed up 39 years after I first came here when I took my scuba certification dive in mid-January. It was 18 degrees on that day. The water was warmer than the air.  The best time to dive in Alaska is January.  Little glacier runoff to muddy the waters.
 
The third time I came to Whittier I rode my bike from Glennallen to Valdez.  Then I jumped a ferry to Whittier where I caught the train back to Alaska. That trip was awesome. 

I am still struck by the uniqueness of the little port that hosts some of the finest halibut fishing. I never expected to return there on this trip but when my friend, Mike, told me the tunnel was open to cars, and he had never been there…well, I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to get there.   

We kicked around “town” because if you are not taking a cruise or going fishing there isn’t a whole lot to do. You can rent a kayak and have an ice cream cone, but it was 52 degrees and raining. That had hypothermia written all over it.

On the way back to Anchorage we stopped in Girdwood and drove up to the Crow Creek Trail head.  It was about 3 pm and I never hit the trail in late afternoon. But the sun wasn't setting until almost never, and this hike was the only thing I wanted to do while visiting Alaska.  Thirty-five years ago, on July 4th I had hiked this very same trail with Mike and his buddy Dan. We hiked on snow.  I wanted to duplicate the hike. I thought hiking in snow in July was just as unique as, well... Whittier. Mike and I duplicated the hike, minus Dan, but we remembered him.

Since Alaska had been experiencing 80 to 100 degree temperatures prior to my arrival, there wasn’t much snow on the trail. We made it to the old abandoned mine, a good climb. Since Mike and I are both photographers it was easy to have the excuse to stop and catch our breaths while snapping the incredible vistas.  Actually, I am in better shape now than I was then. So the trail wasn’t hard. I got my feet into snow. This is all I will say about that.  
 
No bear sightings. However here’s a link to an article posted five days after my hike.

By Chris Klint
Channel 2 News

July 8 2013, 4:58 PM AKDT

ANCHORAGE, Alaska -- Chugach State Park rangers have closed three miles of a trail within the park, after reports of a hiker being charged by a brown bear and a possible moose carcass seen in the area after the weekend incident.

The complete article can be viewed at:
http://www.ktuu.com/news/chugach-state-park-trail-closed-after-bear-charging-incident-070813,0,2129152.story

PS: If you go to Whittier on foot or on bike, you still have to catch a ride or jump the train. 


Saturday, July 06, 2013

Like the Mountains


Arrival 5:45 am. After a six hour flight from Honolulu I was back in Alaska after a 35 year absence. Back then I had spent the summer working at Castleton’s Photo Lab. It was a transitional time, the summer when I moved from the back waters of Louisiana to the booming town of Atlanta. I stayed with a friend who also had been in the Army and worked in the same photo lab. 

Even before I got off the plane and walked through the Ted Stevens International Airport I recognized the changes that had occurred in the past years. From the plane’s window on the approach to Anchorage I saw Earthquake Park - full of trees. No longer was the angulated ground caused by the devastating 1964 quake visible for the thick green canopy hid the once broken earth. Afterall, It had only been nine years since that damage occurred.  In the distance I recognized a few building in the Anchorage skyline. Only the Chugach Mountains resting on the eastern horizon seemed unchanged.

This had been the place I grew up. Not in the sense of new born to adulthood. But here I had my first experiences away from home. At eighteen I had joined the Army. Spring of 1973, the end of Viet Nam. After completing basic training and my Advanced Individual Training (AIT) as a Photo Lab Tech my orders came down for Alaska. I was a bit bummed about this for most of my new Army friends were headed to Germany and they ribbed me about my assignment. “Dog sleds and mukluks are standard issue.”   

In the wee hours of the morning I boarded a bus at Ft Lewis to catch a military transport to Ft Richardson/Elmendorf.  I stared beyond my reflection out the window into the darkness at silhouettes of barracks and other undistinguished government buildings on base.  Home sickness overwhelmed me. The most lonely, isolated feeling struck my gut.  I longed for something familiar. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home.  There was nothing adventurous about this trip. The next two and a half years of my life lay ahead of me. The rest of my life was beginning and I saw nothing but the reflection of a young soldier who was headed north to Alaska all alone.

When the plane landed the pilot announced it was fifteen degrees outside. I thought he said fifty.  I wouldn’t feel that until next summer. One of 30 women on base I was soon making friends and having a good time doing stupid things, things that are curiously all part of growing up. When I left the Army and Alaska, I was married, headed off to college and happy. That Alaska experience wasn’t so bad after all.  

Now I was back. My Army buddy, Mike was still here and so were 200,000 more people added to the town that was approximately 150,000 in the seventies. Dirt roads were now paved. The Glen Highway had additional lanes. The boonies now covered with strip malls. Here was Target, WalMart, Olive Garden and Bed, Bath and Beyond. We crossed North Lights Boulevard. Tudor Ave. C Ave. Nothing was familiar but the names. The bars and strip joints on 4th Ave were gone.  Some things do change for the better.

As Mike took me around the city I had a faint feeling of a dream. I remembered bits and pieces of that dream, but nothing coherently ran together. It was as jumbled as the city after the ’64 quake.  I was sure I had done this before, been here once upon a time, but everything was different. Like hearing a movie score but not being able to recall the movie. Like smelling a certain fragrance, but not recalling from where. Like tasting a spice but not being able to identify it.  I knew this place and yet I knew little about it.

Except one thing.  I came down the airport concourse and immediately saw Mike, a friend who had kept in touch when keeping in touch was not as easy as a FaceBook post, a Google search, Twitter account or hitting send on an email. A friendship that lasted pretty much unchanged, picked right back up much like it was when we met for the first time in October 1973, forty years ago. Some things change. We might have more wrinkles, less hair, grayer hair, more weight and a few aches and pains of age, but the best things don’t change.  They last like the mountains.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Two If By Sea


After missing my guide on Friday night I headed back to the cabin in Volcano Village. My cell phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but I answered it anyway.  It was Shane the boat captain of LavaKai and the owner of Lava Ocean Tours, Inc, the company for which my “missing” tour guide worked.  Shane apologized and explained what had happened.  Shane had been out on the boat and unable to call when the company’s reservationist tried to find out why my guide was a no-show.  He offered to make arrangements for another hike but of course I had already done so.  He invited me to take a boat tour, compliments of him. I told him I was already signed up. All the better he said. And it would be at no charge.  I thanked him for his call and looked forward to meeting him on Sunday morning. He assured me if I didn’t eat much Saturday night, stayed away from coffee in the morning and sat in the back of the boat I wouldn’t get sick.  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Been there and done that. I get sea-sick in elevators.

On Saturday, after I managed to find my way out of Ed’s community it took an hour to get back to Volcano Village. It was around 10 pm.  I was tired. My feet hurt. I knew my legs would be sore from walking on the uneven lava surface.  A hot shower helped, but the unheated bathroom left me quickly climbing back into my sweatshirt and socks.  Before turning in I downloaded the photos and recharged the camera and phone batteries. The alarm was set for 2:15 am.  Sleep didn’t come easily despite my weariness. Every half hour I found the clock staring at me. I gave up at 2 am, gathered my gear and headed out into the mist and drizzle. 

Early on Saturday I donned those pressure point wrist bands that supposedly prevent seasickness. After I arrived at the launch site I popped one Dramamine. If I took two I would surely fall asleep.  In my backpack was plenty of water, and a bandana to wipe the puke out of my nose and off my face.  I checked to be sure had the wintermint gum to rid the bitter tasting bile from my mouth. I am a puking pro. The dread of sea sickness doesn’t stop me from going to sea, but by sitting in the car and waiting I psyched myself into a little queasy.  I got out and walked around the empty parking lot.

It was 65 degrees and a light mist fell as Shane went over the realities of the boat ride. “Not your dinner cruise. It will be rough and you will get wet. If you have any back problems, heart problems, respiratory issues, this is not your trip. Be honest with yourself. Pre-existing conditions will not be covered by my insurance. Remember you are on vacation. You don’t want to end up in the hospital.  If you want the smoothest ride, move to the back of the boat. Does everyone speak English?”  We nodded. “Good. Then I will assume everyone just understood what I said.”  If anyone had second thoughts nobody spoke up. We stood silently in the rain under the eerie yellow glow of lamppole #4.

We boarded the LavaKai by climbing a ten foot ladder while it sat on a trailer in the parking lot. I put on another layer under my rain gear and followed a couple of professors for the University of Wisconsin to the stern.   The boat was then taken to the launch and turned loose in the harbor. Shane turned the craft on a dime and we headed out to sea.  I glued my eyes to the dark ridge that hung on the western horizon. The boat cut quickly through the three foot sea swells flinging a sometimes heavy spray into the boat.  Periodically a dim pin point of light emerged from the shore line and disappeared.  Not too many people lived along this remote coast.

High above the lava plain sits the source of all the current flows Puu Oo.  The cinder cone’s glow hovered in a void of black. January marked the 30th anniversary of Kilauea’s ongoing eruption from Puu Oo.  Due to its remoteness inside the Volcanoes National Park most visitors never see it. Until now, I had never seen it. Those who hike the trail to the cinder cone are warned not to come closer than a mile. At the forest edge near Puu Oo all the vegetation is dead from toxic fumes.
 On the fast moving LavaKai, we soon approached the red glows from the ocean entries. The captain kept the boat moving by maneuvering the craft just outside the shore break.  The water is over a couple hundred feet deep here so waves break within a few feet of the fresh lava.  The crashing roar of waves on the advancing lava and stirred winds from its rapid cool wrapped the boat in a surreal environment. The boat’s engine’s growled in the churning surf fighting the draw of the sea to the rocks. Noxious sulfur swirled around us and invaded my lungs.

The crew tossed a bucket into the water and drew up the sea water so we could feel its temperature. I only dipped a finger in it as I didn’t want the sticky salt all over my hands as I operated my cameras.  It felt Jacuzzi hot.

The brightness of the lava ripped the night apart.  Frustrated by the cameras’ attempt to read the lava’s light, the bright glow reflected in the steam clouds and the stark darkness I had trouble setting a good exposure.  The sea’s motion made shots blurry. But I kept experimenting and wondered how everyone else managed to just shoot the scene. As day broke I got cleaner shots. 

I stopped myself to just look. To simply sit on the deck and view the awesome struggle of endless creation and destruction. Globs of molten lava spurted forth from behind a curtain of pink clouds that shrouded where it emerged from deep inside the earth.  Waves crashed ashore, ripping the red flow from the shelf and sweeping it unto the sea.  Burning rocks floated near the boat. In the raging surf the lava dramatically cooled, hissing in painful protest.  Vapors swept off the coast and danced across the black waters where reflected light patterns shattered beneath the lava’s demonic glare. Neither sea nor volcano ceased in its efforts to dominate the other.

I finally had seen lava flowing. New earth created and destroyed at the same time. Acres upon acres of new land have been created by Kilauea in the last thirty years, yet everyday the sea steals acres of the new creation.  The captain made one last pass at the lava before turning toward dawn and then back to Hale Isaac Beach. 

I never even thought about feeling sick. 
  



Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Of Tiger, Lava and Ed



While I enjoyed a masalada from Punalu‘u’s Bake Shop (“southernmost Bakery in the US’) Jeff, my lava tour guide, was t-boned in a Hilo intersection 50 miles away.  These two events effected the weekend.  Instead of stuffing my face with a creamy vanilla treat I could have checked my email and learned that my lava tour – a two to three hour one way trek to see molten lava spill forth into the ocean – had been cancelled for the night. Instead, I jumped back on the road destined for Volcano Village where I’d check into a cabin before heading south pass Pahoa to reconnoiter a boat launch a Hale Isaac Beach.   Finding the launch in broad daylight would save me precious sleep time on early Sunday morning. At least this was the plan. I found the 4 am meeting site for the boat tour at the end of a twisted narrow single lane road. Next, I hurried off to the End of the Road about 16 miles away.  Here the eruptions from Kilauea long ago consumed attempts to circumnavigate the island with pavement.  If I had known Jeff ended up in the hospital I would have detoured to Green Beach for a hike and some body surfing, my plans for Saturday.  

Instead, Friday’s events changed my weekend plans. Not the masalada, but his accident.  I expected to hike Friday evening to where the lava flowed into the ocean. On Saturday I planned to go to Green Beach and on Sunday morning a boat trip to sea lava.  Now Green Beach was out and the hike and boat trip were crammed together Saturday night and Sunday morning. I wasn't angry or frustrated.  I had tried for years to see lava and tigers.  Both have been elusive. Maybe it wasn't in my karma. What would one more day mean?  

It rained most of the Friday night.  The 4000 foot elevation cools Volcano Village nights and Mauna Loa keeps it wet.  In the tiny cabin I had rented I buried myself under two thick wool blankets, the weight pinning me to the bed where an electric pad took the damp coolness out of the sheets. Darkness crept quietly out the fern forest beyond the cabin’s lanai.  Crickets and other insects hummed in the depths of night.  By morning the birds’ symphony replaced the insects’. The light drumming rain did not stop. It didn’t matter to me. The day had to be easy and relaxed.  No super hikes to converse my energy for the night followed by a very early boat tour.  

 
I wandered up Mauna Loa Road a narrow ribbon that climbs the flank of the largest mass of mountain in the world. Mauna Kea is the tallest, but Mauna Loa is the largest. The ascent takes you through kiawe and lowland shrubs, up through forests of Ohia lehua, over barren rubble of lava flows through lust green woods and stark grey standing dead timbers.  The diverse climates compacted within such a short space.   The 15 miles road stops well short of the summit.  In a stunted forest at 6668 the hiking trail gently leads to the summit. It's a good two day hike.  But I was just to dream of the summit and take in the panoramic vistas below. Except for one lone car parked here, but I saw no evidence of others. Alone to enjoy the solitude.

As I rounded the corner of a tiny picnic shelter I came face to face with a tiger.  Knowing my poor luck in seeing lava and tigers a friend wished me luck in finding both on my birthday.  The striped cat made me laugh as if someone played a joke on me.  On a rock wall perched a stuffed toy tiger. Its beady eyes and silly grin stared at me in seemingly equal surprise.  I have wanted to see tiger in the wild.  I never expected to find one in Hawaii. I brought the little guy home with me to play with my bunny rabbits. 

By 4 that afternoon, I returned to the End of the Road. Ed, the local resident of whatever the village on the lava is called, sat on the trunk of his beater car. He slipped on a pair of socks preparing for our trek. Yes, it was now going to happen. After all these years. After all the tries. I was finally going to see lava flowing, and on my birthday!

When anyone wants to see lava from the county side (verses the National Park side) they have to cross private land before reaching beach access which is open to anyone. The private land entry is guarded by a security force hired by the county of Hawaii.  They  prevents the random tourist from walking through the property where the most crazy people buy and build structures completely off the grid – no utilities what so ever. Most of these structures are mere house shells, simple frames and skins that resemble Tennessee zoning codes - none.  When you can wake up any morning to find lava flowing down your driveway you don’t invest too much in the building structure.  The houses are of every shape, size and color.  They sit on treeless, green-less black lava flows, under a beating sun and in a wind that rarely stops to take a breath. Solar panels roost on roof tops and wind mills blades scream constantly in the wind.  The road that cuts a large U through the scattered houses is a crushed red cinder. Its dust settled on the inside and outside of my car almost immediately.  Ed's piece of paradise among the fifty-odd other residents goes for $300 a month.  

I asked if I could use the bathroom before we left.  He turned the water on so I could flush. I couldn’t close the bathroom door completely because from the corner of the door hung a closet’s worth of clothes. I took a quick look around. Open studs on the outside wall.  Electrical wiring snaked through the joists to the rocker panel light switch.  There was a shower area behind a curtain. A post card from Maui posed five girls with their tight round butts facing the camera. Ed was an ass man.  Before leaving the house I glanced at the carefully potted marijuana plants that lined the livingroom beneath his large picture window. 

Ed wore the exact same tie-dyed shirt he had on the previous day.  My sister called to wish me Happy Birthday as we headed down the cinder road. The wind made hearing my sister difficult. I was surprised we even had a connection. To reduce some of the noise, Ed switched to the up-wind side. I assumed Ed had worn the shirt more than just yesterday.  Made a mental note to stay up wind.

While picking our way through the “yards” of the community I saw the white billows rising from the coast. Our destination. I estimated it to be about three miles as the crow flies.  Longer on foot.  To be honest, I had little expectations of seeing any lava. Great hope, but little expectations.  Even as we headed toward the steam clouds I knew several things could prevent me from seeing the lava.  Its location could be hidden behind cliffs. The wind could trap the steam cloud over the lava. I could fall and break my neck before arriving – or after wards too.  Ed could be the total hippie flake I expected him to be and never get me there.  He already had my $100.

It takes a different kind of person to live out here. These are private loners who have gotten away from something, someone or some place.  While they share a community, they don’t readily share with the outside.  Nevertheless like all humans there is a need to socialize.  It was tough cracking Ed’s veneer.  When I asked him where he was from he responded, “my mother.” I laughed and said, “Oh a wise guy, huh?”  I let the ocean roar fill the voids of silence and the wind carry thoughts away. He finally said California.  Pieces of his life slowly filled gaps between carefully placed footsteps and pauses to absorb vistas.  It was brain cancer that sent him off to live where and how he lives. Later when the doctors couldn’t find any trace of it they asked what he had done. He said, “Got off your drugs and went sailing.”  Oh Boy. A sailor. He even used the word trippie and I suppressed my flashbacks.


Ed showed me where old lava covered new. The 1960 flows, The 80’s. Last year’s. Where old cinder cones eroded to their basalt core. Where lava shelves and domes collapsed.  We hugged the coast line, not the place where the guided tours trekked. The hike was longer, but he claimed smoother.  In places we walked on green sand. Then we paused in the shade of a huge cliff to wait. He wanted to be sure other guides were out here. If reports were that it was not safe due to new breakouts the tours wouldn’t run. He didn’t want to discover that accidentally. While we waited the man who would not take me on the lava after a beer broke out his bowl and marijuana. As he lit up his weed he commented, “Yeah I stopped doing drugs of any kind years ago.”  He did not offer me any.  I assumed it was medicinal.  But from that point I really paid attention to everything. And he became more talkative. He talked about the woman that the fishermen found a couple weeks ago. I had read about the body found floating in the water. 
 
The first time I saw red lava, I got the camera out and as I took the shot, a breakout on the upper cliff occurred. I was so excited as the flow drooled down the cliff to the sea. I apologized for acting like a little kid. “Hey, it’s your birthday.”  He seemed pleased that I got such a thrill out of the sight.

We arrived at an upper breakout. I was overwhelmed by the senses. Excited but cautious.  I watched a boy poke at the lava that had skimmed over and turned silvery gray.  He twisted the stick to reveal the thick glow of red that ignited his stick.  Heat filled the air in a way I had never experienced. To the eye the source was not apparent for it was from black lava on which we were standing.  I wasn’t just feeling heat. I was in the heat. On the heat.  The heavy air smelled of burning rock, not so much sulfur although that was part of it too. And the fresh lava crackled as it cooled.  We moved off the hot spot toward the cliff above the ocean entry. Immediately it felt as if I stepped off something that was alive.

We waited for the sun to fall behind Kilauea to reveal the spooky awesomeness in the battle between the sea and the lava.  Although after millions of years five huge mountains have risen from the depths of the ocean floor to form the Big Island of Hawaii, they are destine to sink back into the ocean from which they came. The sea wins every time.

I had packed trail mix to snack on. My guide had the munchies. He consumed it like a tiger on raw meat. I suppressed my laughter.  I had been so absorbed in watching the lava that when I turned around to retrieve my bottle of water, I was completely surprised by the number of people behind me. Ed and I sat at the ledge but away from the upper break out. Everyone else sat the next outcropping behind us. When one young man ventured ahead of us and even closer to the cliff a guide came over to retrieve him.

I wanted to begin the hike back when there was still a bit of daylight. My eyes and feet coordination would adjust easier.  From my caving experiences I knew the first few minutes inside a cave is a little disorienting when darkness shuts down senses. I always feel clumsy looking for the ground.  When you walk you rarely pay attention to foot placement.  Now every step mattered.  Headlights on the new lava sparkled. What didn’t sparkle were holes and cracks.  I never fell, but stumbled a few times catching myself with my hiking poles. A few times I accidentally stuck a pole tip into an empty space.

I became disoriented. The ocean was on the left, not the right side.  Ed was back-tracking. Going out the destination had been the red glow and billowing clouds. Returning, there was nothing to sight on but darkness. The upper ridge of Kilauea disappeared. The ocean disappeared. The lava beyond my head lamp disappeared. Only the stars, the wind and the ocean's roar remained in this world. We approached the jungle – the remnants that have been able to avoid eruptions. I made out  faint silhouettes of coconut trees. The distant whispers of insects and coqui, the tiny invasive frog with an ear-piercing chip, could be heard.  The closer we came the louder the sounds, but still I could see no lights expect the flashlights of other people returning from the lava flow.  

About 9 pm we crossed the cinder road and emerged in the village. Ed invited me in to use the bathroom and have a drink of water. He drew a map for me to get out of the community. I couldn’t believe how freaking dark it was. I was concerned that I wasn’t going to be able to find my way out. Before I left he sang Happy Birthday in a decent cocktail lounge voice and gave me a big hug.





Saturday, June 08, 2013

Patience


I first came to this place eight years ago. He wanted to show me the island at least, that is what he said. In hindsight he wanted to seek out old runs, dives and friends to share a joint or two and talk story all while I was devoured by mosquitoes.  I wanted to hike, to stomp across the lava fields, to walk through barren calderas and get lost in the forest of man-size ferns and to explore the dark insides of a lava tube. But most of all, to see lava oozing from mysterious origins deep below the earth.  He didn’t bring anything but a pair of flip flops having little intensions to spend any time here. He’s interests were in kicking up twenty years of old dirt with the drop-out, hippie freaks and otherwise social errant outcasts of the 70’s.  His good old days.

The second time I came it was my birthday, just a couple months after the first visit.  Alone and on a mission: to see earth born on the same day that I was born.  In those days it was a three miles hike across the lava beds inside the Hawaii Volcano National Park.  I hiked during the day across what was an endless black sea following carrions assembled of the same black rock. The ground baked in the tropical sun. In a land of no features that provide a scale for size or distance the hike was a bleak trudge, but I finally came upon a hot stop where lava was a grayish charred red beneath a black glassy cape. It looked no much different from a dying charcoal briquette in a barbeque grill. Disappointing.  On the hike back I rendered first aid to a young woman who had fallen  and had a knee that looked like it had been in a meat grinder. 

After moving to Hawaii and buying my condo I took seven Brazilian kids to volcano. I warned them not to expect to see shooting lava fountains or enormous lakes of red.  That stuff was for tourist brochures.   Sure enough we saw no flowing lava, but we had a great time exploring the lava at the end of the Chain of Craters Road, the Holei sea arch, and Thurston Lava Tube. We stopped toured around Crater Rim Drive and stopped to look into Halema’um’a getting a snoot full of sulfur and other hazardous volcanic fumes.  One of the best trips I have ever had to Volcano despite not seeing the flow.  A week later Halema’um’a exploded in the middle of the night. The road is now closed and the Big Island air quality has been the worst ever.

I can’t count the number of times I have been here, alone or with friends, cousins, my dad and sister. The story is always the same. No 2000 degree molten lava here. I have made special trips to see it after hearing of new breakouts that have torched houses and buried roads. But the story is always the same. “Should have been here yesterday. Came right over the road.” Or, “This stuff you are standing on is from last week.”  I have called myself the anti-Pele. Pele being the goddess of the Volcano.  

This year the flow is once again reaching the sea at locations both inside and outside the park. The best and most exciting way to see the lava is by boat.  (That’s the best way if you don’t get sea sick, like me.)  I decided to invest in a weekend, my birthday weekend to see earth born. Rent a car, get a couple nights in a cabin in Volcano Village. Paul Revere I’d cover land and sea.  I hired a guide, and then signed up for a boat ride. All with the same company.   

The best viewing is at night. This means making a difficult trek on uneven black terrain that is not well marked. To do alone is crazy, but you also cross private land. Solo treks are something I’ll leave for the invincible twenty-somethings.  I arranged to meet my guide at 4 pm.  

I arrived early, use the port-a-potties and talk with the security guard who confirmed where I was waiting was the spot.  I waited. I called to be sure I was in the right stop.  The road to Kalapana is the longest dead end road in the world. It just disappears beneath a lava flow.  Makes it kind of hard not to be in the right stop. I waited some more. I waited long enough to start directing people down the road beyond the restricted area (I know this because I have been there before.).  I call the company three times. Fortunately I got the same reservationist, who felt for me, but she couldn’t get a hold of the manager to find out what happened to the guide.

Meanwhile, I watch another company shuttle people in.  After a full hour I drove back to the security staff. “Remember me?”
“Yeah. He didn’t show?”
“Nope. Anyway I can hike in alone.” I knew I couldn’t.
She empathized with my plight and introduced me to Shawn, an agent for another tour company. Unfortunately all the tours had already gone out.  But he didn’t quit there.

Most people who have seen me in the last two weeks know I need a haircut. In the humidity of Hawaii, my hair comes alive, frizzing and curling everywhere. Add the wind and the end of a 180 mile car ride after a three mile walk to get it and yeah I was looking a little tussled.  But my hair had nothing on the Ed’s fro that shaded his tie-dye t-shirt.  

Ed has a place in Kalapana a village of structures built on recent lava flows.  He was hanging with the boys who work the random tourist who wants to wander out to see the lava.  Shawn asked Ed, “you want to make a quick 100? Take this lady out to see the lava.”

“I would man, but I already had a beer. No can do.”  I am doing my best to asset the situation and Ed.  I can’t see Ed’s eyes hidden behind his Cool Rays.  He’s a lean dude, the kind I always associate with hard druggies, 70 dropouts and homeless.  I don’t smell anything. He speaks clearly. The security guard had not made any effort to shoo Ed away or discourage this free enterprise transaction.  In conversation I learn he’s  been on island for four years so he is not one of the friends mentioned in the first paragraph.  I appreciated that Ed acknowledge his current physical state.  He agreed that if I could be there at 4pm tomorrow he would gladly to take me out.  I agree.

The Shawn hugged me and then Ed did the same saying “Now I can get a new phone. My other one somehow got fried in the investigation.”

I asked if Obama had listened in on his conversation.

“No we had a murder out here last week and the government fried my phone.”

Hum, there ought to be some interesting conversations tomorrow.



Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Dwellable: An App for Dwelling


Reviews are generally not found here. However, there are exceptions for everything.

It just so happens that my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. And for the bazillionth  time I’m headed to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park because I have yet to see the lava flow.  Every time I make the 90 mile trip from Kona  I seen nada. Zip. Okay, creepy red glow from Halema'uma'u crater is exciting, but it is not flow, the slow oozing cascade that drops slow-mo into the Pacific where it explodes, sizzles and kicks up a toxic cloud that wraps back to Kona in the form of vog.   Don’t get me wrong I've done the hikes but I hear the same thing, “You should have been here yesterday. It was flowing right over the road where you're now standing.”  Volcanoes are unpredictable forces of nature, that don’t conveniently erupt like Yellow Stone’s Old Faithful – same time, same spot. Kilauea, located on the southern flank of the Big Island of Hawaii, has continuously erupted since 1983. One could reasonably assume to see some oozing lava creeping across the acres and acres of black lava fields. This is not always the case as the flows constantly change and can require miles of hiking over sharp, sun toasted lava beds. Or blindly walking on black in pitch black.

My birthday quest this year is to see earth born from the volcano on the very same day I was born. To do so, I am investing a weekend to traverse barren grounds under a tropical sun.  And I'll spend the night to see the red snake slitter into the sea.  Since the drive from Kona to Volcano takes several hours and the most dramatic viewing of lava is at night I was looking for a place to stay in Volcano Village.  Enter the app called Dwellable, vacation rentals and reviews with photos, maps and more. They ask, "Where do you want to go?"

Easy to download the app opens with an intoxicating scene of a gentle wave washing over a sandy beach. The only thing missing is a soft gentle sound of water lapping ashore. (Did I hear a seagull?)  There is a menu of hot vacation spots across the country from Cape Cod to Virginia Beach. Okay, that is an alphabetical listing that seems east coast oriented but honestly the west coast is more heavily covered.   

I entered my destination:  Volcano Village and was surprised to find fifteen rentals.  As a test I typed in my hometown, a summer time hot spot in upstate New York: Saratoga Springs. One hit. So the concept is building its base.

The listings are presented without the clutter found on your typical internet search travel sites. Even the Dwellable website site is clean, the way you expect your room: no clutter, simple and effective with a nice view. That is, the pictures are quality. Using the app to explore lodging availability is a click away.  More photos pop up, feature descriptions and contact. Some listings include a convenient calendar. Since we are not dealing with major hotels, but privately owned lodgings each owner may have a preferred way of contact…email, website, phone etc. 

Why would I use this app?  Because I just arrived unplanned and unscheduled in a city. Maybe a spontaneous excursion or when  the airlines dumped me due to weather.  I pretended this happened in Minneapolis.   I discovered seven places in the city, and using the map I find one located near the airport. A charming 2 condo bedroom for $150.  I had to scroll into the text to find a phone number, but the email was front and center.  I would want the phone number first. 

I couldn’t think of any reason not to use this. And I couldn’t think of any reason why someone with lodging  – say in Saratoga – wouldn’t want to be on Dwellable.I don't know the business model - how they make money. There are no stupid ads trolling this app. 

I found lodging limited in some place. It was weird to find accommodations in Scio, Ohio but none in Cleveland. If Dwellable continues to serve up a clean and easy to use display I am sure this will grow.  If you’re headed to Lake Tahoe you can filter through the 1723 rental options – selecting price, beds and options like pet friendly, swimming pools. And then use the map to be exactly where you want to settle in.. north end or south of Lake Tahoe.  My beef with some apps is some are difficult to quit, exit, stop. Not so with Dwellable.   

A couple little hiccups: “Sadly we don’t have the exact calendars for these rentals” popped up frequently when trying to zero in on a availability date.  And if you have gone deep into a search and would now like to try a new location, only a repeated use of the back button will take you home.  But save a favorite and it will always be there. Kind of like having the porch light on.

Armed with the knowledge that there are fifteen Dwellable lodging sites in Volcano I’m off to find the lava that flows from Kilauea.  Now there should be an app for that.