Ellie Claire

She came naturally this morning, in the early light of a new day while my own mother raced across the state's frosted hills to aide my sister exhausted from the good fight.

Today I wear the thrilled smile of an uncle, Ellie Claire. Rest up, beautiful girl all tightly wound in your blanket. Rest those eyes, you are in for one hell of a ride.

This is serious

It was the most alarming news, probably because it was completely unexpected.

With the Red Sox a half game out and the Yankees in the basement, I dropped my guard on the Patriots and woe and lo and behold: Tom Brady gets his knee knocked sideways in the first quarter of the first game of the season.

He is out; watching the entire year from his livingroom.

Well, I did what any good New England sports fan would do. I bought two east bound tickets, grabbed the sexiest orthopedic, knee fixin' medical expert I could find, and (seeing as it's still lobster season) headed immediately to the scene of the crime.

Hang tight Brady, Darlene'll get this knee knocked back right. Darlene, pack your hammer, you got work to do.

And what better place to do it than under the granite walls, fall foliage, and lobster traps of New Hampshire. Such is my dedication to that fine corner of the world.

Don't Forget to Tip Your Gods

"Microburst [mahy-kruh-burst]: A sudden, violent downdraft of air over a small area (less than 6.24 sq mi) that lasts at least 25 minutes. Microbursts can cause winds with speeds as high as 167 mph. They are difficult to detect and predict with standard weather instruments."

We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.

We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon's beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.

Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I'm not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.

When it finally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.

"...some of you looked better in red
dresses than others." -Dorian Parker

The next morning, in quiet awe, we floated our final miles in deep respect. Relenting, the sun came out, spirits returned, rapids rock and rolled and we remembered how much we love our gods.

It was a simple reminder: Always Tip Your Gods.

(Photos:  here.)

Perfectly Temporary

Temporary. It's my size, it's my color. It just fits.

I'm back at work temporarily, I'll be working there thru October. I've moved off the yatch, but the yatch was temporary. On my desk is a two quart jug of carrot juice. I've stopped buying the single pints at the cafe. I could drink this stuff all day.

I use to drink coke all day. Hey, I'm a software developer; it's the culture.

It wasn't that I craved the soda, but rather I was completely addicted to the shiny red can. It called to me. I could hear it's siren song a mile away and when I saw one glimmering in the soda aisle, I would go mad for it.

I don't keep cokes in my fridge at home. I don't have a fridge at home. I don't have a home. In fact, I'm living in a buddies attic. I know it doesn't sound as luxurious as a yatch, but it's really quite grand with an enormous antique shiny round red metal coke sign hanging in the center. It's not my sign.

The attic has a completely open floor plan. In fact, it's nothing but studs and skylights, but it has three of it's four walls. If I stand in the enormous shower and turn around, I see nothing but neighborhood and open sky where the wall use to be.

Whatever, it's not permanent.

Last meal

Second Time? Second Time?

Yes. Second time, we nod.

About ten minutes from the airport is a lesser known hotel that offers all the amenities at affordable price. We stopped on the way in and we stopped on the way out.

Down the street, we returned to an outdoor restaurant which treated us well the first time through. A large concrete slab with a tin roof and plastic tables, they remembered us and catered dutifully to our whims. There was no English, just a plethora of fresh fish, soups, and smiling faces despite turning down their proffered chicken foot soup.

In the warm night, the rains came down hard and the canvas walls were lowered to lash about in the wind. We soaked it up one last time, a second time indeed. And we’ll be back.

Voted off the island

A gentle tide and waveless beaches. Perfect: a handful of days on warm, sunny Thai beaches with bowls of green curry, fresh coconut shakes, and the occasional beer Chang.  

No tours, schedules, or agendas. Just a gentle jungle breeze on the beach. 

But the time has come, I’ve been voted off the Island.

I’m heading home.

Chitwan National Park

I came to see the rhinos and we trekked thru grasslands and jungle forest to find them.

In the grasses, which are higher than me at this time of year, the guide said we’d notice movement of large animals by the rustling. Yet it was the still grass of animals lying in wait that concerned me.

In the forest, we found the tell-tale tracks of the three toed Indian Rhinoceros and followed them as they trod along a small path. When they wandered off the path into the thick of the forest, we went in the opposite direction.

If I were a tracker, I’d follow the tracks. But I’m not, and our guide is, and he’s still alive. So what do I know?

An hour later we climbed atop a raised, wooden viewing tower and spotted yesterday’s wild male elephant. Arguably more dangerous today due to his unrealized goals from the night before, he looked peaceful and graceful to me.

From the raised station we watched him disappear into the jungle, right in the vicinity of our path. This unnerved the guides so we waited and the clouds grew darker.

Eventually we could wait no longer and with dramatic thunder in the background, we amassed in number, joining forces with two other groups and proceeded into the jungle toward the frustrated beast. Our guides were visibly anxious.

After half an hour of jumping at each snapped twig, we finally saw his tracks cross ours, leading away. Guides scrambled into trees, verified the stillness of the grasses, and we proceeded to track monkeys and deer.

It was then, deeper in the forest and on foot and at the furthest point from our lodging that the canopy thickened, the clouds blackened, and the rains came down hard.

I really, really want to see a rhino

Ten bucks for the tourist bus, luxury non-stop with air con. Or, maybe, no aircon. And maybe just one stop: to kick us off.

The students were pissed. Three months ago the government promised them books, pens, and paper. Three months later, they still had none and it was the week before exams. So they dragged trees and rocks across the road and stopped traffic.

Our bus company simply re-routed their trip, dropped us off on the side of the road, and shrugged as they pulled away. We crawled atop a local bus and endured five more hours of crossing picket lines on foot, in taxis, on buses, each one dead ending and sending us forward to figure out how best to go forward, toward Chitwan National Park.

At one point our cab was waved into the mob by a few authoritative students, but was stopped twenty feet later, by student intervention physically blocking and pounding on the vehicle. Were forced to pay up, get out, and start walking again, concerned for our taxi’s ability to extricate himself from the melee.

Finally, at sunset, we sank into riverside chairs in the national park and drank a well earned beer while a wild male elephant sauntered across the river in what would be a late night attempt to break into the elephant breeding center down the road from our lodging.

He was categorically denied access and the locals said that makes him dangerous.

That makes sense to me.

Celebrity

Peter Habelar was the first man to summit Everest without oxygen. He did it with legendary climber, Reinhold Messner, and the night before our first attempt to fly home, we showed him how to play pool. He’s a much better mountaineer.

The next morning, after everyone else flew out of Lukla, we sat in an empty lodge, eating breakfast, awaiting our turn. Sitting next to us was Sir Edmund Hillary’s son and granddaughter.

Hillary is a local hero, not only for first summiting Everest, but for the dozens of schools and hospitals he built for the Sherpa people, after 60 plus children signed a petition, asking him to build them a school.

The “house wife” presented the granddaughter with a Sherpa gown to be worn at a ceremony later that week. Peter, the son, was taking pictures and I offered to take one of the whole family. He appreciated the offer and I snapped away.

It was my first celebrity photo shoot. Albeit on his camera.

Popcorn at fourteen thousand feet

Getting down is the hardest part and we were aggressive. So much so, we broke our Sherpa and had to pay him double that day.

On the second descent day we nursed our ailments from the previous day’s twelve hour hike with dal baat and chang (the rice wine).

We drank a lot of chang that morning.

Back in Lukla, we were greeted with chocolate cake, wine and showers which our tight budget on the ascent excluded. We never skimped on ever-present Nepalese popcorn, an indulgence at every teahouse.

Our descent was so aggressive, we arrived a day early, but so did the rains and it wasn’t possible to fly back just yet. The next day was quite cloudy, but we were on the first flight so if any plane came in, we’d be on it when it returned. So we waited and one came.

It was a little twenty seater and mine was right behind the pilot. Our little plane bounced along the runway, down the hill, and toward the cliff we flew off.

The pilots window was down and I could feel the fresh breeze on my face, though it didn't change the fact that my clothes still smell like smoked yak dung.

Ringing Everest's Doorbell

On May 10th, the twelfth anniversary of Jon Kraukauer’s Everest summit, we found ourselves in the airport heading to Lukla and the trek to Everest’s south side. Just before boarding we grabbed a copy of the book.

Nine days later, visiting the lodges and familiar with the trails the books expeditions took, we marched into Everest Base Camp. We stood at 17,400 feet in a city of tents. It's Everest's welcome mat and we rang the doorbell.

It’s a place of dreams and all their varied outcomes.

Prayer Wheels

I first intended to go to India a few years ago, but instead fell hard for a remarkable woman and cut my trip short. But it wasn’t meant to be and two strong personalitie soon found themselves frustrating one another. One year later I was again dreaming of India.

In the Khumbu Himalaya of Nepal, prayer flags, prayer wheels, and mani walls line the paths I trek. As is the Buddhist custom, they are always passed on the left and as I encounter the wheels, I give them a spin, and for each one think of a loved one, past or present, in the winds of the Himalaya.

In Tengboche, I visit a monastery and spend an afternoon in the cold room at twelve thousand feet, open doors, monks bowed and chanting, accompanied by occasional music. I watch from the dark as streams of light silhouette the rhythmically gyrating saffron robes and the air is thick with incense and frosted breath.

It is peaceful, the chanting, and I close my eyes, sitting cross-legged on the carpets in the corner and wish I could lie down and fall asleep here; for it to never stop.

Today, as is her wish, and for reasons I’ll never understand, our relationship is estranged. But after another morning in the monastery, I leave, breathe the cold mountain air, and return to spinning the prayer wheels, wishing peace for her and all.

Hike, eat, sleep and repeat

Yaks perform only above ten thousand feet; the cows below sixty five hundred. They cross bred them to fill in the gap and the mixed breed works inbetween. How is it I’m expected to function at all these elevations? I’m not even from around here.

Acclimitization days we hike packless, generally climbing 1200 feet or so, then return, eat, sleep, and wait for the next days climb. After each rest, dahl baht and tomato egg drop soup, we are all psyched for another day of climbing; to take the next step.

Aside from that anticipation, it’s barren. From the menu, to the accommodations, to the landscape. It’s cold, windy, and colorless. But the mountains are tremendous, this place is big. It’s a place of dreams, when sleep comes and even a midnight bathroom trip is a heart racer.

Completely Unprepared

Compared to India, Kathmandu is almost a cheat. Crossing the street is almost easy. There are a couple stop lights, the occasional sidewalk, and not a single sign of livestock. Thats not to say you couldn't get yourself killed, but with no cow patties to hop, no hagglers to dodge, and temperatures back in the pleasant range, a lot of the challenges have been removed.

Regardless, today was a bit exhausting as we whipped around town in cabs and on foot, following Perwa Sherpa as we raced along to finalize permits and tickets, secure the last minute cold weather gear, and gather with the mountaineers around a map.

Tomorrow is the twelfth anniversary of Jon Krakauer's summit in the book, Into Thin Air. We've got the book and a six a.m. Yeti Airlines flight into the Everest region.

We ain't comin' out for twelve days.

Hey Doc, I got this wrist thing see...

Somewhere between doctor and nurse is a term for Darlene's job that doesn't seem to exist in other countries.

Physicians Assistant? Never heard of it.

Nurse? Blasphemous!

Doctor? Hmmmm.

You're a doctor? Well, now that you mention it... Every one seems to have a little something that's bothering them, but no, they haven't been to the doctor and maybe you could just take a look at it?

Darlene was called into service today. Our guides older brother punched out someone while gallantly defending the honor of his clients, a mother and daughter pair. Or so the story goes.

However it played out, the guy had a serious wrist injury. I could tell by the jolt and grimmace whenever she poked it; "does this hurt?" Yes, it obviously hurts.

I've never seen Darlene work before, but today she was a star.  Operating with dull shears, a razor blade, a bucket of water, and cast plaster, she had all she needed to sink into her element, a buzz of activity, questions, and care.

A line formed mid operation and a second wrist was examined and prescribed a simple, "if doing that hurts, then don't do it." Plus a couple aspirin.

When all was done, she had rendered an impressive removable cast to one happy customer. We were later invited to their home, his mother gave cooking lessons and we dined on the best food we've had yet.

A Flower for Mom

A childs hands arranged a small banana leaf bowl adorned with bright orange flowers and a centerpiece tea light candle. We were adrift in a small wooden boat on the Ganges River.

Her tiny voice instructed me as we lit the wick, then I sat in quiet reflection for a moment, thinking of loved ones gone, most specifically, my mother.

As the sun set, I lower the craft into the water and sent the light afloat on India's holiest river.

Getting the hang of it

What kind of holy animal lies in it's own shit? Rats wont even do that.

I boated down the Ganges River at sunrise this morning, past the blazing riverside crematorium fires and alongside several dead, bobbing bodies wrapped in burial cloths. After lunch I walked back up the river along the ghats. A lot of stuff happened in between, but as I walked, I watched dead, naked cows float by. Cows are sacred and when they die, they are dignified with a toss into the Ganges. As I stood watching them drift by, I couldn't help but wonder if the carrion birds riding the bobbing steak are worthy of such a holy meal.

Yesterday, I was attacked by a cow. Karma? I think it was just a warning, because one firmly placed hand on it's head redirected it's aggression.

In the days before cars and rickshaws, the vehicles of the Gods were animals. Shiva used cows, or perhaps bulls. Regardless, thats why cows are sacred and it's illegal to kill them (though I see them getting whacked with sticks a lot).

Hinduism has three primary gods, as part of the trimurti: a creator, a sustainer, and a destroyer.

Shiva is the god of Varanasi and the Ganges. He's the destroyer. If you don't believe me, ask his son, Ganesh. Shiva chopped his head off in a case of mistaken identity and barely saved his life by replacing it with one from a baby elephant. Ganesh is a favorite of the people because he eats lots of sweets, is a bit rotund, and quite jovial. If you had an elephant head, you'd have to have a good sense of humor.

It's all rather complicated, but I visited a number of temples today and i think I'm finally getting the hang of it.

I really quite fancy Ganesh, actually.

Morning Chai

I woke up this morning on a train crossing the Ganges Valley in India. The day was already hot when I moved from the air-conditioned coach to the open doorway, but the movement of the train kept it fresh. I stood watching kids playing in the fields, waving to us as we passed, a hot chai in one hand, a warm samosa in the other. I slept well and stretched to welcome a new day.

Last night we stiffed our driver after he flew into the parking lot a few hundred meters from the train station. We had minutes to catch our train and the old man, a faithful hare krishna, ran from his car to fetch a young porter, who then raced us on foot, thru alleyways and across parking lots in total darkness to the station.

Running up the stairs, we learned out train was an hour late. Lucky us.

Or so we thought.

We tipped the porter and sent him back to the driver to thank him and explain. The old man came back to us beeming and we tipped him well.

It wasn't his fault we were late; in addition to the ever-present traffic, there was massive construction five kilometers from the station. (There were also blinding sandstorms, but they stopped when it started to pour.) The clock reset to noon everytime he powered off the vehicle, so we weren't sure what time it was, but could more or less add up the minutes passing us by. While he sat in his seat, his face buried in his hands, we formulated plans B and C, which were mercifully unnecessary.

At the station, the hour delay turned to two, three, and four plus. Each time the departure time encroached, it disappointed. We sat on the platform, perched atop our backpacks staring into the tracks, fighting sleep, and waiting for that train.

Under the stale warmth of the platform lights, the scene was pretty banal, minus the adolescent three ring circus piled high over the bench of two young female travelers and the wily bearded man with a grain sack that found infinite jest in pestering a young man for his plastic bottle. Meanwhile, we were the quiet center stage in a sea of stares, engulfed by dropped jaws and devoted awe.

When I finally laid down in my berth, sleep came fast and as the train rattled along India's rails, I knew there was no where else I wanted to be.

Eviction

The Nepalese Royal family has been evicted from their palace as a result of the Maoists winning a democratically held election. They've also been slapped with an overdue one million dollar utility bill. How embarrassing; you'd expect the palace manager could have better kept up on the royal expenses.

A Great Place to Bring a Date

This morning I watched the sun rise over the Taj Mahal. I sat on its smooth marble steps and marveled in it's cool interior.

They say it's the greatest building ever built for love.

Probably true.

But if I were a Maharaja (in those times), I would have put a swimming pool in the center, entombed my lover below, and enjoyed this sensational building on a daily basis.

Timeless

Pssst. Hey, are you awake?

Yeah.

Turn on your camera. I want to know what time it is.

She reaches for her camera and turns it on. We have no watches, no clocks. Every room in the hotel displays a completely unrelated time from the other rooms. Even the computers in the cafe are only within a couple hours of each other.

We flew on one ten, one six, and one four hour flight to get here. We crossed the international date line, zipped thru time zones, and traveled with the sun thru our internal clock's night-time hours.

The camera is the only item we have that tells time and it's only accurate to within a couple hours. But whats more interesting is that we have no idea what the date is.

That's just the way I like it.

Its Absurd, But its Real

Photographically speaking, this place is explosive. The colors are brilliant, the chaos is charged, the absurdity is invigorating. But what I see, sense, and feel is not yet captured by the lens, not to my liking.

We shoot all morning, walking the streets, surrounded by assertive people full of hope to a commission for unwanted services rendered. Tired, we break for the sancity of lunch and hold an enthusiastic review of the days field sessions over thali and lassis.

The mornings playbook was bold, but blank. Darlene deflected unwanted solicitors like an offensive linesman, while I danced thru the busy streets like a quarterback, my camera cocked and ready for action. We were surrounded, a complete canvasing of solicitations. We've discovered that speaking together in Spanish, even complete gibberish Spanish, turns the masses away. Though one hardy soul persisted beyond comprehension, but eventually huffed off seriously postulating, "Lady, are you crazy?"

Nicely done girl, they think you are nuts.

No Guidebook Necessary

Bangkok and its curry welcomed me back for the third time. Like an old friend, we dined on fresh fish, caught an excellent soccer game, drank some beer, and wandered together on a timeless morning.

It was a quick, eighteen hour affair, an easy transition back into Asian culture, a soft step to prepare for the culture shock of India. It was so smooth, we didn't even bring a map.

Coincidence

At 2:10 I get up from my computer and take a break; a stroll down the street for that shiny red can of refreshment. Upon return, I crack open the soda and mull over the term "Short-timer" as though it were etched into the window. Five minutes pass and the electricity goes off.

Its my last day at work.

Without electricity, our computers glow in the dark, but their batteries drain and our wireless routers are powerless. We're dead in the water and when they tell us we're out until at least four fifteen, we pack up and head out for an earlier than anticipated happy hour.

This is all coincidence, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Finding Gandhi

Every now and again I find myself itchin' to unplug, back away, and shake out. This means travel and it generally entails leaving a perfectly good job. In good faith, its tempered by finding a replacement so the employment transition is smooth.

I just spent fourteen months donating time and sweat to Powermand, Inc and now more than ever, my legs need a good stretch. Hence, the procurement of tickets to India and Nepal.

Powermand, however, isn't like most jobs I've walked away from. I actually have a significant interest in it's success as I've "invested" a lot of cash in the form of unpaid salary, aka stock. It also happened to be one of the coolest jobs I've had. I also want to work there again.

So the replacement needed to be top-notch. Stakes are higher this time around and as I applied for my visa to India, we recruited a well-known java guru: Gandhi. (We knew someone that knew him.)

So, now I take my leave and make my pilgrimage.

Watch my investment, Prashant Gandhi, my faith is in you.

Proof of Onward Tickets

By the way, the Maoists won. The Maoists beat the Marxist-Leninists in a democratically held election. That's great.

We have no idea where we're going, but we have onward tickets to prove we're leaving. Most countries require that. We wont take it personally.

Saving the World, One Vacation at a Time

Today, Nepal held a historic election. Jimmy Carter headed up some sort of committee to oversee it's success. The British tossed in fourteen million dollars and the world over sent delegates and goodwill.

I haven't done all my homework, but there seems to be a monarch, a Maoist fugitive rebel revolutionary, and everything inbetween.

There are a lot of pissed off factions. The monarchy can't even vote for themselves because they didn't realize they needed to register. In the months leading up to the elections, there have been bombs, fires, drive-by anger and a handful of walkup candidate assassinations.

Naturally, the election was declared a major success. In what scattered news I could accrue, there was one stolen ballot box, twelve voting centers closed down, one voting booth set ablaze, one candidate assassination, and countless black-eyes and scuffles (I presume).

We are going to Nepal. I want photos, she wants to donate her time to third world medicine. Perhaps we'll dedicate future time to participate in the democratic process, running a fire-proof voting booth, for example.

Perhaps we can save the world, one vacation at a time.

The Snow Shark

She ain't exactly jaws, just a giant toothy grin; a fin of golden curl.

They say you shouldn't look her in they eyes, they say her eyes are wild.

But all the same, when she kicks into the snow, she cuts it like a shark and I watch and I am at peace.

Avoiding the Crowds

"You're going in May?"

The travel agent needed to confirm what she thought she heard, but didn't make sense.

We don't like to stand in lines.

Taking the much hyped culture shock of India seemed way too easy. We figured we'd take all those sights, sounds, smells, and touch, bundle 'em up, put 'em in the oven of India's summer, and crank it up to a "freakin' hot" (in the words of my friend Kranthi Yemula) one hundred and five.

And then, check out the culture shock.

Cause my girl looks good in rivulets of sweat.

The agent booked the tickets.

Delhi is a city of thirteen million, but if it's too hot for the tourists, we should have the place to ourselves. Right?

National Geographic

Moved into a new office today. Walked the downtown waterfront at lunch and indulged with a smoothie for desert. The little cafe had a large stack of slightly used National Geographics under a sign that states "National Geographic makes you smarter. $1.00".

I paid the dollar and bought the February issue for 1970, my birth month.

"White-water Adventure on wild rivers of Idaho" covered the Middle Fork Salmon.

I covered that same river last year, here: .

This year, it's the Main Salmon, the "River of No Return."  For the second time.

A Bed of Nails

The bed of nails was not my idea, but the realization that I could build one was.

As with so many good stories, it started with a beer, a dream, and a proclamation. We both had the beer, Joni had the vision, I had the proclamation.

A bed of nails? I can make that.

Joni had a story to tell, I had a friend with tools, she shot, I nailed, models came, and before I knew it, I had a gallery shoot.

It's the heaviest thing I own.

For my loving Mother, A Blog

It's a blog, for Mom. Not sure what more to say about it.