A Portland, OR native and avid outdoors man, I recently resigned from work to travel South America, Africa, and Europe. Here you can find my adventures, thoughts, stories, and learnings.
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia: The World's Largest Salt Flat
Salar de Uyuni (or Salar de Tunupa) is the world's largest salt flat at 10,582 square kilometers (4,086 sq mi)... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salar_de_Uyuni">more on Wikipedia.
Click here to download:
salar-de-uyuni-bolivia-the-world-s-largest-salt-flat-lEJjEbBsJehDGDnoyjtx.zip (26119 KB)
Comments [0]
Realizing the Small Smiles
For the past week I stayed in a small jungle town, alongside a river, in southern Bolivia. I did lots of exciting things while I was there — like, renting a motorcycle, hunting anaconda, fishing for piraña, and swimming alongside pink, freshwater dolphins — but looking back, the things I appreciated most about the town of Rurrenabaque were the small things. Things like lounging in a hammock, drinking water, and sharing laughs with friends.
Looking back to the other places I have been, I began thinking about all of the other small smiles that I have shared while enjoying the most simple things... Watching kids and adults alike step foot onto an escolator for the first time in Lima, and the smile that would form as their nervous legs ascended automatically. Upon reaching the top they would immediately turn and descend the other side, looking to see if their friends were watching. Such an event that at every escolator in the shopping mall was stationed a security guard, following riders up and down to ensure their safety, hiding her smile behind a guise of seriousness and professionalism. Seeing a father hold his son while jumping on a trampoline, both laughing uncontrollably while his wife snapped pictures with a smile from behind her camera. Ducking out of the way as a dozen laughing school boys ran down the middle of their neighborhood street, throwing handfuls of berries at each other that they had picked from trees. So out of breath from running and throwing berries that they had to call a truce in order to pause and laugh. Discovering how much the indigenous woman appreciated it when I offered to help carry her things up a flight of stairs. It meant nothing to me — I was just carrying a heavy suitcase up some stairs — but to her it meant that she mattered, and that someone cared to stop and lend a hand. She smiled. Watching a grandmother take her grandson for an ice cream cone, and sit outside to watch the people walk by. No words were exchanged between the two, yet they still managed to smile and laugh in the sun with their ice cream. Within a week of traveling in South America I discovered that Latins absolutely *love* their ice cream, which, in itself is a great simple smile. While ordering a gyro from a street-side market, the son of the señora came into the shop, still dressed in his school uniform, and began making faces at my grino friend and me. Grinning from ear to ear with bits of gyro stuck between my teeth, I made my best faces as he laughed. It continued for half-an-hour as we laughed together, with both his mom and sister joining in the smiles and laughter. Upon leaving I smiled and said, "Hasta mañana" to the boy, and he responded in a cryptic, Frankenstein-like tone followed by an uncontrollable laugh. "Hasta mañaaaana". I think that too often in our lives we over-complicate things, both as adults and as kids, burdening ourselves with material posessions, toys, and the myriad of other things we think we need in order to smile, to be happy, or to simply love life. And, after seeing so many Latins smile, laugh, and seem sincerely happy while having so little in comparison, it makes me want to strive to simply my life and the lives of those I love. So, here's to a simple, fun-filled year full of small smiles in 2010-11! (And no, I won't be selling any of my bicycles in the simplification of John. Some toys may go, but the bikes must stay.)Comments [0]
The (almost) Summit of Huayna Potosí: 19,974'
For the past 8 months (maybe even a year) I have been reading Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer, which is a story of disastrous events that led to the death of 8 climbers on Mount Everest in 1996. But it wasn't until recently that I really got into the book -- it consumed me -- and decided that I wanted to climb a mountain. With the book almost finished, I headed to an agency in La Paz to find a guide and make it happen.
Huayna Potosí is the mountain I chose to climb, and is the closest high peak to La Paz, the highest capital city in the world, making it the most popular peak to climb in Bolivia. Considering the ease of access and location, it is often called the "easiest 6,000er in the world", but the easiest climbing route still entails an exposed ridge, small crevasses, and moderately steep ice...
Day 1: Base Camp, 15,416'
Accompanied by a cook and our guide, a 25 year climbing veteran named Marco Antonio, Dan from San Fran, Helen from Wisconsin and I hopped in a van headed for Base Camp. Passing the highest peaks in Bolivia, we arrived at the Refugio at around noon to spend the afternoon practicing with our equipment. Armed with climbing boots, crampons, and ice axes, we hiked to a nearby glacier to play around and learn the basics: ascension, descension, how to arrest a fall, scale a steep face, etc. I soon learned that I wasn't the only newbie in the group, and that for all three of us it would be a first summit.
Day 2: High Camp, 17,220'
Although we had all been in La Paz (11,942') for several days prior, to help our bodies acclimatize to the altitude we loaded our packs with everything we would need for the rest of the climb and began trekking to High Camp. It wasn't a technical climb and there was no ice involved, but carrying a fully loaded pack plus technical gear, boots, and a sleeping bag made it quite burdensome. After a couple of hours we arrived at a well built, but primitive shack situated on a mound of rocks filled with climbers who had summited that morning and were headed back to La Paz. "The last 200 meters were the hardest", one guy said, followed by, "it is a 70 degree wall of ice". Another accounted, "I was out of breath after the first 30 minutes. It took 5 hours to summit and I wanted to quit several times, but it was worth it. The sunrise was spectacular". After hearing these stories and reading the notes of successes and failures thoughtfully scribbled on the walls inside of the shack, I have to admit that, although extremely excited, I was quite nervous for what the morning would bring.
Given instruction to do nothing more than rest, drink tea, and load calories, we spent the afternoon and evening lounging around the shack, hoping in and out of our sleeping bags to stay warm. By 6PM the sun had set behind Huayna Potosí, effectively dropping the temperature almost instantly to below freezing. We were soon zipped into our bags listening to the fierce wind tear across the building.
Simply breathing at such altitude is a laborious task. I soon found that going from laying down to a standing position would induce a serious headache, and a trip to the outhouse would prevent sleep for hours, which, is already hard to come by when your heart is oxygen-starved and racing on excitement.
Day 3: Summit Push, 19,974'
We awoke at 12:30AM and scarfed down a final bit of food and tea before strapping on our boots, gators, and harnesses and heading into the darkness. Helen, a mature 19 year old from Wisconsin, had spent most of the night vomiting and opted not to join us for the summit push, leaving only San Francisco Dan and myself to finish the climb. Dan and I were each roped to our own guides, which would later prove to be a very good thing. By 2AM we were stabbing our crampons into the glacier and starting our approach to the summit. Having never walked on a glacier before, I was surprised at how noisy it was. Every other step seemed to bring a crack! or a pop!, and sometimes I could see or feel the ground move beneath me. Marco Antonio didn't flinch at the sounds, so I pushed forward, ignoring the angry sounds coming from the ground beneath.
Every 10 minutes we would stop and I would take a drink from my camelback, each time flicking tiny droplets of water near the spout, which would immediately freeze upon hitting my jacket. Any water left on the outskirts of my mouth would freeze solid within seconds. Every step was accompanied by a deep inhale and stab of the ice axe, which, was hard to control with my numb fingers. Having skied and snowboarded since I was a kid, I was used to the cold, but never before had my hands been so cold that I was limited in my mobility -- at one point I even thought to myself about frostbite, but quickly dismissed the idea considering the short time period of exposure. By 4:30AM we had ascended to an elevation of 18,700' from High Camp, crossing two minor crevasses and scaling a couple of small walls of ice along the way. My hands and feet no longer had feelings, but that wasn't my only problem. I felt terrible. I didn't have a headache, nor did I have any of the other signs of altitude sickness, but rather, I was on the verge of fainting. Having fainted a dozen-or-so times before and being diagnosed with neurocardiogenic syncope I knew when it was coming, so I dealt with and ignored it. We moved forward as I calmed myself, but it soon returned and my vision began to fade. I calmed myself again, but this time I wouldn't push forward. Two and a half hours into the climb and less than 400 vertical meters from the summit, I turned around and returned to High Camp. From 2AM to 4:30AM all I could think about was getting to the top of that mountain, taking a few photos, and returning as quickly as I could to the warmth of my sleeping bag; and from 4:30 to 5:30, still, all I could think about was my sleeping bag -- but in a different context. I wanted nothing more than to dive into the warm shelter and hide from the cold and failure. I had one goal for the morning of Tuesday, April 27th, 2010 and I couldn't make it happen. There was little conversation during the hour long descent (partially due to the language barrier), and the feeling was as if I were a schoolboy who got in trouble on the playground and was now walking home with his head down. Once back at the shelter and hiding in my cocoon I was able to squeeze in a few minutes of sleep here and there, but anytime I would hear footsteps I would awake to peek out and see if it was Dan. As it would turn out, he would be the first to summit that morning at around 6AM. 24 hours after the decision to prematurely return to High Camp I am still thinking about it. The feeling of failure it terrible, and I can't imagine how it would feel to spend months ascending a mountain like Everest only to turn around within a few hundred vertical meters of the summit. I am certain that I made the right decision, and had I pushed myself further I'm not sure what would have happened. Perhaps I would have made it to the summit with Dan, or maybe I would have lost time and been saved from a crevasse by Marco Antonio. Regardless of what the outcome might have been, I have too much to love in this life to risk it claiming a summit. Until next time Huayna Potosí. I'll be seeing you again.
Day 1: Base Camp, 15,416'
Accompanied by a cook and our guide, a 25 year climbing veteran named Marco Antonio, Dan from San Fran, Helen from Wisconsin and I hopped in a van headed for Base Camp. Passing the highest peaks in Bolivia, we arrived at the Refugio at around noon to spend the afternoon practicing with our equipment. Armed with climbing boots, crampons, and ice axes, we hiked to a nearby glacier to play around and learn the basics: ascension, descension, how to arrest a fall, scale a steep face, etc. I soon learned that I wasn't the only newbie in the group, and that for all three of us it would be a first summit.
Day 2: High Camp, 17,220'
Although we had all been in La Paz (11,942') for several days prior, to help our bodies acclimatize to the altitude we loaded our packs with everything we would need for the rest of the climb and began trekking to High Camp. It wasn't a technical climb and there was no ice involved, but carrying a fully loaded pack plus technical gear, boots, and a sleeping bag made it quite burdensome. After a couple of hours we arrived at a well built, but primitive shack situated on a mound of rocks filled with climbers who had summited that morning and were headed back to La Paz. "The last 200 meters were the hardest", one guy said, followed by, "it is a 70 degree wall of ice". Another accounted, "I was out of breath after the first 30 minutes. It took 5 hours to summit and I wanted to quit several times, but it was worth it. The sunrise was spectacular". After hearing these stories and reading the notes of successes and failures thoughtfully scribbled on the walls inside of the shack, I have to admit that, although extremely excited, I was quite nervous for what the morning would bring.
Given instruction to do nothing more than rest, drink tea, and load calories, we spent the afternoon and evening lounging around the shack, hoping in and out of our sleeping bags to stay warm. By 6PM the sun had set behind Huayna Potosí, effectively dropping the temperature almost instantly to below freezing. We were soon zipped into our bags listening to the fierce wind tear across the building.
Simply breathing at such altitude is a laborious task. I soon found that going from laying down to a standing position would induce a serious headache, and a trip to the outhouse would prevent sleep for hours, which, is already hard to come by when your heart is oxygen-starved and racing on excitement.
Day 3: Summit Push, 19,974'
We awoke at 12:30AM and scarfed down a final bit of food and tea before strapping on our boots, gators, and harnesses and heading into the darkness. Helen, a mature 19 year old from Wisconsin, had spent most of the night vomiting and opted not to join us for the summit push, leaving only San Francisco Dan and myself to finish the climb. Dan and I were each roped to our own guides, which would later prove to be a very good thing. By 2AM we were stabbing our crampons into the glacier and starting our approach to the summit. Having never walked on a glacier before, I was surprised at how noisy it was. Every other step seemed to bring a crack! or a pop!, and sometimes I could see or feel the ground move beneath me. Marco Antonio didn't flinch at the sounds, so I pushed forward, ignoring the angry sounds coming from the ground beneath.
Every 10 minutes we would stop and I would take a drink from my camelback, each time flicking tiny droplets of water near the spout, which would immediately freeze upon hitting my jacket. Any water left on the outskirts of my mouth would freeze solid within seconds. Every step was accompanied by a deep inhale and stab of the ice axe, which, was hard to control with my numb fingers. Having skied and snowboarded since I was a kid, I was used to the cold, but never before had my hands been so cold that I was limited in my mobility -- at one point I even thought to myself about frostbite, but quickly dismissed the idea considering the short time period of exposure. By 4:30AM we had ascended to an elevation of 18,700' from High Camp, crossing two minor crevasses and scaling a couple of small walls of ice along the way. My hands and feet no longer had feelings, but that wasn't my only problem. I felt terrible. I didn't have a headache, nor did I have any of the other signs of altitude sickness, but rather, I was on the verge of fainting. Having fainted a dozen-or-so times before and being diagnosed with neurocardiogenic syncope I knew when it was coming, so I dealt with and ignored it. We moved forward as I calmed myself, but it soon returned and my vision began to fade. I calmed myself again, but this time I wouldn't push forward. Two and a half hours into the climb and less than 400 vertical meters from the summit, I turned around and returned to High Camp. From 2AM to 4:30AM all I could think about was getting to the top of that mountain, taking a few photos, and returning as quickly as I could to the warmth of my sleeping bag; and from 4:30 to 5:30, still, all I could think about was my sleeping bag -- but in a different context. I wanted nothing more than to dive into the warm shelter and hide from the cold and failure. I had one goal for the morning of Tuesday, April 27th, 2010 and I couldn't make it happen. There was little conversation during the hour long descent (partially due to the language barrier), and the feeling was as if I were a schoolboy who got in trouble on the playground and was now walking home with his head down. Once back at the shelter and hiding in my cocoon I was able to squeeze in a few minutes of sleep here and there, but anytime I would hear footsteps I would awake to peek out and see if it was Dan. As it would turn out, he would be the first to summit that morning at around 6AM. 24 hours after the decision to prematurely return to High Camp I am still thinking about it. The feeling of failure it terrible, and I can't imagine how it would feel to spend months ascending a mountain like Everest only to turn around within a few hundred vertical meters of the summit. I am certain that I made the right decision, and had I pushed myself further I'm not sure what would have happened. Perhaps I would have made it to the summit with Dan, or maybe I would have lost time and been saved from a crevasse by Marco Antonio. Regardless of what the outcome might have been, I have too much to love in this life to risk it claiming a summit. Until next time Huayna Potosí. I'll be seeing you again.
Comments [0]
I Held a Monkey (and it bit me!)
Monkeys are my favorite animal, so it's no surprise that when I was given the opportunity to play with some at an animal refuge in the jungle, I jumped at the opportunity. Elvis, raised in La Paz and trained as a pick-pocketer, now lives at the refuge and likes to bite gringos.
Comments [3]
Biking "The World's Most Dangerous Road"
The North Yungas Road, cheerfully known by backpackers as El Camino de la Muerte (or, The Road of Death), is a 64 kilometer stretch of road diving from 15,260' outside of La Paz to 3,900' in the jungle of Coroico, and in 1995 was christened by the Inter-American Development Bank as "The World's Most Dangerous Road". According to one estimate, the road has claimed the lives of an average of two to three hundred travellers a year since it's construction in the 1930's, mostly due to buses slipping from the 10' wide path and stumbling down a 2,000+ foot cliff. There is a whopping 50 meters worth of guard rail along the entire road, and when there is no rail present, grim crosses often serve the dual purpose of keeping travellers on the road.
I first heard about "The World's Most Dangerous Road" from friends who had visited Bolivia years ago, and since arriving in La Paz I have been anxiously waiting to ride it. Earlier this week I was granted my wish. Renting equipment from a Kiwi-owned company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking (who I highly recommend if you ever get the opportunity), a group of 14 of us hopped into a mini-bus and headed up the road at 8AM. An hour later we were playing on our bikes in a big gravel lot and listening to the obligatory safety speech. Soon after, as a blessing to the Bolivian Earth Goddess, we all shared a swig of some terribly strong alcohol and simultaneously spilled a bit on the bike's front tire and ground as a sacrifice. As told by the guide and owner of the company, this was so that "She wouldn't require a blood sacrifice today". The first part of the ride was on a paved road shared with many cars, who I would soon discover enjoy blasting their air horns and stirring up dust as they pass the gringos on bikes. I can't say how fast I got going since the bikes intentionally do not have a cyclometer (nor do they have their largest front gear, purposely retarding the bike), but had I fallen at that speed there would undoubtedly be some bone showing. In fact, there got to be a point where the only way to go any faster would be to slide my butt off of the seat, grasp the center of the handle bars, tuck in my elbows, flatten my back and lean forward with my chin hovering above the front wheel: very aerodynamic like! After a short 7km uphill section we got to the REAL ride: El Camino de la Muerte, The Road of Death. The views were spectacular and it proved to be a challenge not to ride near the edge and peer down the 2,000+ foot drop. Just two weeks ago an Israeli girl died after taking a flight off the cliff (cyclist number 14 to die since companies began riding TWMDR in 1998), so I made certain not to be lucky number 15. Six hours later, all 14 of us had survived the ride and ended the day with cold beers, homemade pasta at an animal refuge (I held monkeys!), followed by even colder beers on the long drive home.I've ridden far more challenging and more dangerous trails and roads on my bikes, but this was a ride unlike any other. The pictures below were taken during our ride, and the video is a feature that ABC did about the ride.
Pics @ http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2256893&id=19701396&l=6acfa78897
I tried taking my own video while riding, but decided I was better off finishing alive without video, than dead holding my camera.
Comments [2]
Comments [0]