By Eimear Quinn, Adventure Co-ordinator of Wilderness Ireland.

1. Question: What are some of the “things” or activities that the people of Connemara do for fun?

Answer:

Hiking the ‘terrible beauty’ (Oscar Wilde) of Connemara.

You can explore some of the best hiking in Connemara – and Ireland! – while immersing yourself in Ireland’s archaeology, geology and natural history. From a tiny shrine in the remote hills of Connemara to the summit of Ireland’s most famous pilgrimage mountain Croagh Patrick, your route will follow in the footsteps of Ireland’s famous patron saint, Saint Patrick.

You can tackle three of the highest mountains in the west of Ireland including Mweelrea, the highest peak in Connacht. At what feels like the edge of the world, breathe in the some of the freshest air in Europe as you take in stunning Atlantic views at every turn. Far from the traditional tourist track, you’ll explore a secret Ireland that few visitors will ever see. Hiking in Connemara and Mayo offers the best way to truly experience the wild landscapes of the west of Ireland.

Exploring the Irish Gaelic language of Connemara by bicycle.

Connemara is one of Ireland’s few remaining strongholds of the Irish Gaelic language and is commonly referred to as the largest Gaeltacht region in Ireland. You’ll know you’ve reached a Gaeltacht region on your travels throughout Éireann (Ireland) when the English translations on road-signs disappear. There have been many attempts throughout the ages to overthrow the Gaelic way of life, but each time, those who came to conquer, from the Vikings to the Viking-Normans, eventually assimilated. Unfortunately, at the turn of the 19th century, the Gaelic language went into rapid decline due to the harsh marginalization of the native Irish people and the state establishment of national schools, which placed emphasis on learning English over Irish Gaelic. After Irish independence, the Irish language has seen a resurgence in schools (it is considered a mandatory subject alongside English) but English is still the principle language.

2. Question: What’s one thing the public probably does NOT know about Connemara?

Answer:

Pilgrimage Sites

The glorious Croagh Patrick, known locally as simply ‘The Reek’, is situated just 5 miles west of Westport in Co. Mayo. This pointed peak has been a location of pilgrimage for many centuries. In recent times, the sacred mountain of Croagh Patrick has been attributed to Ireland’s patron saint, St. Patrick. In a much earlier time than this, the mountain we call Croagh Patrick was originally known as Mons Egli, Croachan Aigli or Cruachan Aigli and is known to have been a highly revered place for the ancient polytheistic people of the country, who made the ascent in the name of the sun god, Crom Cruach. Since the time of St. Patrick when we supposedly made a pilgrimage to the summit to fast and pray, thousands of pilgrims has climbed Croagh Patrick each year. The most important day for these pilgrimages is Reek Sunday, the final Sunday of July.

3. Question: Share some aspect of what Connemara has contributed to the world.

Answer:

Flora & Fauna

In May 2010, Connemara National Park won a ‘Biodiversity Blitz’ wherein a total of 542 species of flora & fauna were recorded in 24hrs. Six wildlife sites across the country took part in a bid to categorize as many species as possible within a day. The following is but a sample of what was recorded: mountain hare, red deer, feral goat, four species of bat, seven species of butterfly, 51 species of macro-moth, 10 species of micro-moth, four species of dragonfly/damselfly, 46 other invertebrate species, 2 amphibian species, 55 bird species, 218 flowering plant species, 83 bryophytes, 17 lichens, 18 liverworts, and 18 algae. Connemara National Park itself encompasses part of the Twelve Bens mountain range, including the well-known Diamond Hill, a popular spot for visitors and locals alike. Your best bet to see the wildlife is by exploring Connemara’s rugged backcountry of the Twelve Bens with a local hiking guide and wildlife expert.

The Connemara Pony

The Connemara Pony is an internationally renowned breed of pony that is uniquely Irish and the largest of all pony breeds. The famously good-natured and tremendously hardworking Connemara Pony descends from the magnificent Andalusian horses of the Spanish Armada – a tragic fleet of 130 ships which fell foul of Ireland’s rough and rugged coastline in 1588 en route to invade England. The liberated team of Andalusian horses ran wild and began to breed with the Scandinavian ponies residing in the mountains of Connemara from the time of the Viking invasions between 800-1169, eventually creating what is known today as the Connemara Pony. The Connemara Pony Breeders Society was founded in Clifden in 1923 to protect and develop the breed – with the Pony becoming an official pedigree in 1926. The ponies can still be found throughout Connemara.

The post Three Things We Didn’t Know About Connemara appeared first on Traveling Archive.

When the ebb and flow of the urban densities that wash over us start to feel like riptide, we yearn for nature’s open spaces.  Do kids – does pre-teen daughter Katie Jane – share that quiet panic sorting out a place in the world amid all the cultural noise, the school and family pressures?  Sooner or later she will, living in the middle of Washington, DC, and dad wants to impart early the tools of realignment.  Nothing against the plains or oceans, but if you want to hypnotize a kid with nature, go for three-dimensional spaces with high vertical, try the Bugs – Canada’s Bugaboos – one of the continent’s premiere hiking and climbing arenas.

Throw in a helicopter chauffeur, a magician in rarefied air who puts a twin-engine Bell 212 into a dive that threads a needle eye of granite spires like a biplane.  Imagine that sight through the eyes of a child, jaw dropping, this new wow factor tumbling theme park thriller rides into second tier memory files.

Pressures ease as they thin out over an infinity of gray granite peaks wrapped in white glaciers.  They sink amid colorful valleys with a rich palette of greens – from cedar and hemlock and larch – the latter in fall sliding into yellow – to stream-drenched moss and lichen, punctuated by meadows of wildflowers driven in August by the reds and yellows of Indian paintbrush, columbine, monkey flower and fireweed.

These are the views that jerk the rugs of ho-hum usual, that will put everything else in perspective.  It’s a lasting comfort that there are very different places that, properly shepherded, will endure and wait for us for when we need them most.  When KJ, a patent pending perpetual motion machine, is on the road with me, she’s overtaken by serene calm.  But the underlying energy still bubbles, positively, and the Bugs can take whatever she dishes out.

Consider the vastness of the area, spilling beyond the Bugaboos into adjoining ranges of the Columbia Mountains of British Columbia.  This includes the world’s only temperate inland rainforest, running amid the rugged peaks which are a couple hundred million years older than our upstart Rockies.

The  purveyor of this experience, Canadian Mountain Holidays, operates twelve lodges, mostly for the main bread and butter of helicopter skiing, across an area nearly half the size of Switzerland.  Roll all the European Alps together, and that’s about the size of it.  And there is a similarity to the Alps, being at the top, seeing an array of peaks to the horizon.  But no people.  Five lodges also do helicopter hiking and mountaineering, and KJ and I signed on for one of the family specific offerings, at Bugaboos Lodge.  We flew to Calgary and motored to Banff and then a couple hours on a motor coach took us past Radium Hot Springs to a helicopter that took us the remainder.

The 35 room lodge is nearly a mile in elevation and looks up at the remarkable Bugaboos Glacier, flowing around the stunning Houndstooth outcrop, which tops out at 9,250 feet, all framed by a forest bowl and higher granite spires.  It’s a dang impressive swath of white for August, even if considerably trimmed from prior glory by global warming.

The guides, most of whom are also ski pros who never let career stand in the way of a good life, exhibit a genuine joy, and skill, at working with young people, from early grade school to teens.  I marveled at the heights they could coax KJ to climb, beginning with the daunting four story climbing wall that runs alongside a high stairwell.

Rooms are spartan but comfortable and roomy, ours had two big beds and a nice bath, and incredible views through windows that open wide.  Zero television anywhere!  Each room has a portrait of someone with a local mountain connection.  Ours was an English WWI military nurse, Edith Cavell, with a mountain named for her.  She became a English hybrid of Patrick Henry and the Alamo after she was executed by the Germans who claimed she helped Brit soldiers escape.  The bath is nice, but we usually showered by the roof deck with the hot tub, and adjoining steam and sauna rooms.

Our days at the lodge began early.  We were summoned by a bell ringer strolling the halls, prompting us to a stretching class and a hearty breakfast – the meals will make your lips quiver and dinners can honestly claim gourmet status.  We then scramble into queue near the copter with our equipment.  Weather changes on a dime and for most hikes one carries the necessary options in addition to plenty of water and energy snacks – chocolate to your heart’s content.  Packs with warm, rainproof parkas, rainpants, and poles are provided, as are hiking boots and, if needed, climbing shoes, ice axes and helmets.

Groups take off in fast succession,  like a precisely timed military assault, no one dares tarry. Which party one is in depends on general abilities or preferred activities, sorted by a joint assessment of guests and guides.  For some efforts families stick mostly together, for others, kids can split off with special hikes and activities, including a lake swim and games like capture the flag.  Guides impart a deep knowledge of the local ecology.

Camaraderie thrives along mountain slopes, and in a few short days of long hikes, usually two a day – four copter rides – people from very different walks of life connected to their feel for nature soon know each other.  Most return, including for ski season.  One guest told of a ski group introducing themselves at dinner, tossing out what they did, and one fellow sheepishly mumbled he was a king – for the rest of the week most thought Carlos of Spain was a wiseacre.

One late afternoon, an English barrister and his wife celebrating their 25th anniversary invited everyone to join them for champagne.  The mom then beat the pants off her son, a college athlete, at ping pong.

Katie joined my hiking group the first day, getting along well with the adults and keeping up after a guide and I divided her extra gear.  The next day she elected to hike with a younger group, no offense, Dad.

One day everyone, kids and adults, ‘coptered in after their first hikes – each copter group goes to a different locale so they don’t see anyone else on the hikes – to lunch at a fantastic locale where a barbecue was set up and the lady chef hard at work on steaks and sausages.  The surrounding mountains were deceptive, as the copter lifted away it looked like it would collide with granite any moment, but it just kept getting smaller and smaller, the canyon we were in growing larger and larger.

After lunch, most kids remained to climb area cliffs, most adults coptered to their second hikes, though they could stay, as I did, with the kids, climbing with them, some of the cliffs quite challenging in the moves they required.  KJ, now a human fly, wouldn’t believe she made it to the top of one very high granite cliff, belayed with a rope, until I later showed her photographic proof of the sun coming through her hair as her head popped above the edge.

Later that night, after a swim in lake by the lodge and a grand dinner, we joined families at a campfire for sodas and wine and stargazing.

KJ proved a marvel to the guides, who confided to me they wanted to bottle her and wished other kids were more like her.  Guides deal with their share of privileged kids whom some might regard a bit spoiled, and teens in particular aren’t shy about griping.  Katie never complained, despite her pack and despite having considerable blisters – though well-tended – owing to our discovery of too tight shoes before she was fitted with boots. The airline lost our luggage, so for the entire trip Katie had only what she was wearing and what I could find in the lost and found bin of a Banff hotel.  Wide-eyed and open to everything the guides  said, and easy with conversation, the guides couldn’t get enough of her.

But I was most proud of the attention she showed a young lad with aspergers who was there with his grandparents and who took a shine to her.  He’s the age of her younger brother, who’s recovering, splendidly from a medical fright that’s been a long tension, and her blossoming empathy was the prettiest wildflower on the mountain.

A grandfather who treats his family to a yearly hiking session confided to me that the mountain tonic worked well for one of his grandkids.  The teen had gone off his rails, heading to trouble in school and with a tough crowd.  The Bugaboos entranced him, and remain a carrot that keeps his school work up and his behavior in bounds so he can return the following year.  Along the way, he’s become a different kid, a pleasure to be around.

CMH’s empire of solitude began with Austrian Hans Gmoser, who in the 1950s became a guide for Canada’s Matterhorn, Mount Assiniboine.  During his off-time, he performed little mountain feats like the first Wickersham Wall ascent of Mt. McKinley.  One has to be in awe of such climbs, particularly given the difference in equipment decades ago.  In 1965, helicopters seemed like a good idea, and he flew with it.  CMH now catches about 7,000 skiers and 3,000 hikers a year, most of them repeat customers.

This 53 year old pressed his luck with a rocky all day climb led by Mikey Olsthoor, a seasoned skiing and mountaineering guide.  This wasn’t a venture I let Katie in on.  Mikey used the occasion to spank a college kid he’d heard complaining the day before that he wasn’t adequately challenged.  Though an innocent bystander, I was spanked as well.

I was stunned by Mikey’s sure-footedness up glaciers and cliffs, skimming the edges of crevasses and their deceptive optical illusions, his guardian angel an ice axe he wields like a sculptor.  Great to watch, then one remembers where Mikey goes, I got to go, wishing all the while I’d skipped the last couple drinks offered by the copter pilot filling in as bar keep the night before.  A gastrointestinal confrontation during the final nail biting climb forced me to summon a Zen concentration I’d thought beyond me.  I began to mull the multiple meanings of bugaboo, first a business scam in old England, then when a miner’s treasure vein runs out, finally the fears and anxieties one challenges oneself to move past.  It’s not the mountain we conquer, wrote Sir Edmund Hillary, but ourselves.

Mikey looks at a mountain, it’s like reading a book, with near psychic reading of his clients’ abilities and reservoirs of remaining strength.  Though one can’t recall exactly which crack in the rock he tickled or goosed with his toe, one at least knows there’s something somewhere one can grasp for a moment and advance inches here, a foot there, ultimately to find out no, that’s not the summit, more thrillers to come, but first a pause for views one struggles to commit to memory, with density now defined as someone up the rope, and someone below, and, things being relative, being the middleman seems crowded.

Post Script:  Catching up on our timeline, the celebrated Katie is currently finishing a masters in social work at Catholic U., and brother Jack is well and studying art at SCAD. Canadian Mountain Holidays is now booking for summer of this year, and for skiing, for winter ’21-’22.

CMH

Main Switchboard:
Tel: (403) 762-7100
Fax: (403) 762-5879
Toll Free: 1-800-661-0252
E-mail Inquiries:

In**@cm****.com

Mailing Address:
Canadian Mountain Holidays
Box 1660
Banff, Alberta
Canada
T1L 1J6
Tel: (403) 762-7100
1.800.661.0252
Fax: (403) 762-5879

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On the hour’s ride, when I was willing to unclutch the steering wheel long enough to wave at an occasional wild turkey, pheasant or deer (I was disappointed we didn’t see any of the Black Bears who sometimes show up on the tour) or look out over the magnificent countryside, I was reminded once again to take it easy on the turns. Though not for the faint of heart or heavy of foot as we bounced over rocks, dipped into ruts, careened around hairpin turns and stormed through muddy ravines, the adrenaline surge was thrilling. I had to keep reminding myself to relax my body, none of whose internal organs were where they started out before the ride. Okay, so yes, a tad nerve-wracking – but oh so much fun!

Even once I was in a real car on a real road, the driving still felt treacherous. Windy, hilly, curvy roads surveying mammoth, stunning overlooks cover the 12,000-acre campus – Primland is just shy of the size of Bermuda – and the shuttle drivers carry Dramamine with them to assuage those prone to motion sickness. Not your usual hotel amenity. And a lot of driving is involved. Once you arrive at Primland, you haven’t actually arrived. It’s six miles from the North Gate to the Lodge; another 7 miles to the South Gate. Shuttles to the different activities felt like activities in themselves.

So it was not surprising to be happily on our own two feet again when hiking with naturalist Tim, who enhanced our walk over varied terrain with knowledgeable explanations of flora and fauna and an even more interesting worldview.

And then it was time for archery, of course. And air rifle shooting. And tomahawk throwing. Doesn’t every hotel have that? Channeling my inner Native American, I raised my bow and arrow and shot at the target, choosing to spare the ersatz bear, wolf and wild turkey statuettes who all seemed like less appealing options. Turns out I was a natural, hitting the target every time. Not so much with the air rifle. Seems I’d make a much better Indian than Cowboy! Although admittedly, my tomahawk throwing was a little rusty. To assuage my diminishing self-esteem, I reverted back to my trusty bow and arrow.

And the list of things we didn’t do is longer than those we did.  Fly fishing, clay shooting, disc golf, horseback riding, hunting, watersports, outdoor fitness track, and oh yes, of course golf and tennis.

But still, I felt I had definitely earned my Signature Massage at the spa, continuing the Native American experience which is more than just a theme, it’s a philosophy. Artifacts from the local Saura tribe abound and are considered sacred. In the signature massage, tribal elements of fire, water, air and earth are incorporated through hot stones, oils, scents and touch. And afterwards, you come full circle by sipping tea from the Native American Tea Company.

Prior to the massage, I was taken to a “relaxation space,” past hallways all decked out in shades of turquoise and brown – the color representing a “drop of heaven” and the stones, anti-aging. I was already well-relaxed before I even got to the Relaxation Room, where a wide span of windows looking out over the countryside, reinforced the sense of ennui. At this point, I didn’t even need the massage.

But that was before I met my spirit animal. Heather, my masseuse, led me into the massage room where, of course, there were animal feathers to clear the energetic pathways around me. I was told to ask myself a question I was seeking an answer to and to pick a card that spoke to me from the eight laying face down in front of me. Cynic that I am, I had no question and heard no card. The one I picked was the rabbit which apparently represented an internalized fear I needed to let go of. I didn’t relate at all – I didn’t like being a rabbit – but somehow felt the need to apologize that my rejection was nothing personal. I asked about the other cards – eagle, deer, wolf, skunk, turkey, squirrel, raccoon, each representing some personal exploration. Skunk? Turkey? Squirrel? The rabbit was beginning not to look so bad. We both thoroughly enjoyed our massage.

That night we went to the observatory for some star-gazing, of course. Foggy as it had been driving in, the sky overhead was crystal-clear, with a very sophisticated telescope projecting the stars onto a video in front of us. The full moon provided even more clarity. All of Primland emphasizes a return to nature and you can’t get much closer than this. We were surrounded by stars, planets, constellations, galaxies – including the Orion Nebula, a star-forming nebula approximately 1300 light years from Earth, the Pleiades Open Star Cluster (also known as the “Seven Sisters”) and the show-stopping Andromeda Galaxy (the closest and largest galaxy to the Milky Way roughly 2.5 million light years away). We saw over 1000 stars on the screen, including the mere 150 that the naked eye can see. So much that was impossible to fathom – in 4-6 billion years, the Milky Way may collide with Andromeda. Not to worry.

To mention once again that this is not your usual hotel amenity seems ridiculously redundant. For more information, visit the Primland site.

The post Virginia’s Primland Resort: Where the Out-of-the-Ordinary Happens Everyday appeared first on Traveling Archive.

“Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike” by Julie Gianelloni Connor, is the latest of the many books about the Spanish pilgrimage popularized for the American audience by the Martin Sheen movie “The Way.” With a history of 12 centuries of pilgrims making the arduous trek from all over the world to the Spanish city of Santiago de Compostella to see the tomb of St. James, the author learned that there is still plenty of history and tradition left to discover.

After retirement and other life changes created a now-or-never window of opportunity, this book is the culmination of the author’s 40 year desire to walk the Camino de Santiago finally realized. Years of planning, last minute cancellations, and a major change of plans later, she plants her feet on the Way, grabs her day pack and maps, and, with her son in tow, takes the reader on the journey of a lifetime.

There are many routes to Santiago de Compostella. From the north, coming in from all over Europe, the routes converge on the tiny village of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, on the French side of the Pyrenees. This is known as the French Route, and is the one the author writes about. It crosses the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles, famous for “The Song of Roland,” then comes down through the Basque region to Hemingway’s Pamplona, across the culinary Mecca of Castilla y Leon, and finally into Galicia, known as Green Spain, with its capital Santiago de Compostella.

Writings about the Camino are legion. In this iteration, the author makes the point that it is a journey, not a hike. Originally pilgrims went by foot, taking six months and more to complete the Way in order to receive indulgences from the Catholic Church and be assured entry into heaven. Modern purists still insist upon walking the entire route, but today there are all manner of transportation choices to complete the trip in a matter of weeks, not months. The author used local buses and taxis to supplement the extensive walking she did, with a luggage service to move heavier bags ahead to each evening’s accommodations. In my own Camino experiences, I walked only a few miles of it, bicycled more, and took a 10 day bus tour the entire length.

While walking (or driving) a marathon is not the same as running it, I have still done the Camino from start to finish, and seen more churches along the way than most people have. The author rightly complained that due to budget constraints, too many of the smaller rural churches were closed when she was there. For my tour, arrangements were made in advance for all the churches to be open when we got there. I endorse her recommendation to visit as many as you find open, and join her in encouraging the others to open more frequently. The artwork, architecture and history of each are well worth the time spent.

The first part of the book is a collection of occasional blog posts about the journey the author made along the way, combined with others she wrote after her return. The second part is her day-to-day journal entries with photos and charming little drawings. Then there is the resource guide and an index. The author has an engaging writing style, and – to her credit – I found not one typo in its 265+ pages. However, an editor’s job is more than just catching typos. I found this one too indulgent of the repetitive nature of many of the blog posts. Perhaps that would not have been so annoyingly apparent if I read them the way they were written instead of all in one sitting. But, don’t let it bother you too much. Some of the information bears repeating.

Furthermore, as an informed reader, it was so nice reliving my memories of the route as she carefully described it. Place names, historical tidbits, and apocryphal tales I’d nearly forgotten came alive again. And because the author was much more involved in the day-to-day hike, she was able to share experiences I never had, such as interactions with interesting people like the Almond Man, who handed out almonds and treats to the pilgrims, and the hospitable locals she met who offered food and drink and company.

You don’t have to be a Camino veteran to enjoy this book as much as I did. In fact, it has many useful bits of knowledge that would help the neophyte. The author lists guide books, histories, and personal recollections to read as you prepare for your Camino. To them I would only add my favorite, Andrew McCarthy’s award-winning travel book: “The Longest Way Home.”

The author, Julie Gianelloni Connor, often refers to American Pilgrims on the Camino, an organization that offers advice and guidance to all would-be pilgrims. She recommends finding a local chapter to join. Then there are practical tips about technology, hygiene, and first-aid that she had to learn the hard way. You can learn them simply by buying and reading the book.

In an age when we can only travel vicariously, “Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike” by Julie Gianelloni Connor, is a comfy armchair of a journey. So leave behind the blisters, injuries, aches & pains, and inclement weather, to revel in the author’s descriptions of the people and the places she encounters, and the comfort she finds along the Way. Buen Camino!

Savoring the Camino de Santiago: It’s the Pilgrimage, Not the Hike
Bayou City Press ISBN 978-1-951331-01-6 Paperback 276 pages $17.99

So, now you’ve read the book and want to trek the Camino. Next year, 2021, is Xacobeo, a rare Holy Year when the Feast of St James, July 25th, falls on a Sunday. During Holy Year the east door of the Cathedral of St James is open and a record number of pilgrims are expected to travel the Camino and pass through it. Which means that now is a good time plan to be a part of history and a possible spiritual awakening. If nothing else, you’ll enjoy the beautiful Spanish countryside, meet warm and friendly people, and discover the culinary excellence of Spanish cuisine.

Get some general travel information about Spain

Then talk to my friend Alex Chang about a Camino Tour

And contact American Pilgrims on the Camino

The post Savoring the Camino de Santiago – Book Review by Richard Frisbie appeared first on Traveling Archive.

I was especially excited at the prospect of going on this trip.  I was already an avid hiker and I was trying to accomplish as many hikes in the book Afoot and Afield in San Diego County as I could.  This book inspired me to hike areas I might not have tried otherwise, but Mt. Whitney was the temple of hiking.  To reach the highest point in the United States, outside of Alaska, was an accomplishment I needed for my ego and my soul.  A place that very few people have ever been or could ever be.  I was committed to being ready for this journey.

We started with a January 3^rd meeting of the men who were serious about joining us.  There were about five of us at first.  John had already researched much about the hike and laid out his plan for the trip.  We were to drive up to Whitney Portal first.  It’s the campground at the end of the road from Lone Pine that many call “base camp.”  We were going to camp two nights there and hike on one of the days to acclimate us to the higher altitude.

At the February meeting, a new man showed up who was interested in hiking Mt. Whitney with us.  He knew some of the members of our hiking team already because, like the rest of us, he was a member of a men’s group called the Mankind Project.  The new man, Larry, told us he had hiked for 20 years and is up for the challenge.  He was 74 years old but, who am I to question his capabilities.  The rest of the group welcomed him, and so did I.

LESSON #1:  When someone says he has been hiking for 20 years, it may be important to find out exactly when those 20 years were.

We decided at the meeting to start the SoCal Six Pack with a hike up Mt. Baldy.  At 11 miles, it’s the shortest of the six hikes, yet it’s a difficult 4,000-foot elevation climb to the 10,068-foot summit.  The date was set for March 23^rd.  We were about to kick our training into high gear.

The day came and only three of us opted to hike Mt. Baldy.  So, John, Larry and I drove up early in the morning so we could get a good start and have plenty of time to do the hike.  The start of the hike was a dirt road at the east end of the town of Mt. Baldy that headed up to the Mt. Baldy ski area.  The directions showed that there is a trail that heads off the dirt road.  The word was that the turnoff trail is poorly marked.  Apparently, some local environmentalists often take the signs down to deter hikers from ruining the pristine area.  Well, they were successful.  We did not see a sign, nor did we see a trail that ran off the dirt road.  Luckily, the other end of the trail head for the loop can be found at the ski area, so we continued up the dirt road until we found the trail.

On our way up the dirt road, Larry was stopping frequently to rest.  These stops, in addition to his slow pace, made our progress to the peak in question.  As we all chatted, we discovered that it had been many years since Larry had hiked.  Apparently, his twenty years of hiking was not a recent span of time.  What also came up was that Larry had some sort of respiratory issue that he would not elaborate on.

We continued on the trail from the ski area and up Devil’s Backbone.  This 2.6-mile section of the trail is a bit narrow with a very big drop on both sides of the trail.  Over the years, a number of hikers have fallen to their death on this part of the trail, especially during the winter when conditions can be wet and/or icy.

This particular day showed some snow and ice on the ground along the backbone.  We were aware of this condition before starting the hike so we were careful to stay on trail and go slow.  Most of the hikers who died, or needed rescue, were venturing too far off trail.

We successfully made it to the summit. Once there, John and I chatted about how much time it took to reach the top.  We were concerned that we were unlikely going to get back to the trailhead again before nightfall at the expected pace.  Since it was March, the days were shorter and it was getting dark around 6 pm.  We needed a plan to safely descend back to our vehicle.

Being the stronger hiker of the group, I made the call to hike back down on the short leg of the trail loop.  I was planning to quickly hike down to the car, and drive up the dirt road to the ski area parking lot.  John was to hike with Larry back down Devil’s Backbone while it was still light, and meet me in the parking lot before dark.  There, I could pick them up and drive us down to town.  With that plan agreed upon, I set off on my descent.

LESSON #2:  Be sure that all plans are actually agree upon.  Repeat plans if necessary to assure everything is understood.

My initial descent down the trail went smoothly and quick, but at some point I got off trail.  I could blame the poor trails, or lack of signage, or the snow that covered some of the area, but it mostly came down to just trying to hurry and not paying enough attention to my surroundings. I veered off course, following a worn path that lead to an old plane crash, thinking it was the main trail.  Research later showed that the wreck was from 1949 when two USMC F-6 Hellcats crashed together during a training mission.  I continued until I could not see any signs of a trail.  I knew I had to head downhill so I just kept going down until I ended up getting into Goode Canyon.  This canyon is a steep and rugged descent with large boulders and very little access for hiking.  My descent was more like climbing over, sliding down and squeezing around boulders than hiking.  It was very difficult and I was getting exhausted.  Luckily, my GPS was telling me that I was heading in the right general direction, so I pressed on.

As I was trying to find my way to the car, John and Larry were making their descent back down.  Unfortunately, as I found out later, they were heading down the same trail as I did, instead of heading back down the way we came up, towards the ski area.   This is where the trouble really started.  John’s account was that they decided to go the same way I did because they knew it was shorter.  They got off trail the same way I did and saw the same wrecked planes.  They continued downhill until the trail faded but figured that they would eventually hit the road if they kept on.  Once down into the canyon, John realized that going up the steep canyon was too difficult, especially for Larry, who was very tired by this point.

I made it to Glendora Ridge Road, about a mile west of the town of Mt. Baldy, just at dusk.  I was exhausted and too tired to walk back to my car, but I needed to meet up with John and Larry as quickly as possible.   I was waving down passing cars to get a ride to my vehicle when a woman in a jeep stopped to ask what I needed.  When I told her the short version of my story, she agreed to help me out by giving me a ride to my car.

During the short ride to my car, I realized in our conversation that I could not have been luckier than to have Missy pick me up.  She was a long-time resident of the area and an avid hiker.  She and her husband Ron owned the Mt. Baldy Lodge and restaurant.  After hearing my story, she dropped me off at my car and told me to contact her at the restaurant if I needed her help.

I drove my car up the dirt road toward the ski area in hopes of finding John and Larry on their way down.  Unfortunately, I was greeted by a locked gate.  I decided to park there and hike up to see if I could meet up with them.  I hiked all the way up to the ski area, which was no easy feat since I was still pretty exhausted from my adventure up to then.  No sight of my hiking friends anywhere. I did not feel I could safely hike up Devil’s Backbone in the dark and in my physical condition, so I hiked back to my car and drove to the Mt. Baldy restaurant.

Once there, I found Missy and asked for her help.  She had keys to the locked gate so we drove her jeep up to the ski area and looked for the hikers.  They were not to be found.  Even at a slow pace, I expected they would be there by then.  I was growing more concerned now.  It was late and had been about 5 hours since I left my fellow hikers.  Were they already back and roaming around town somewhere?  We drove back down to the main road and went to a couple of spots where Missy said we would be able to see their lights on parts of the trail if they were coming down that way.  That was assuming they had lights.  We saw nothing.  We drove into town and looked around to no avail.

LESSON #3:  Before embarking on a serious hike, make sure all hikers in your party have the 10 essentials.  They include:

1. Navigation: A map and compass, GPS or some other devices so you don’t get lost.
2. Sun Protection: Sunscreen and sunglasses protect against sun damage.
3. Extra Clothing: Especially for any possible cooler weather in case you get lost.
4. Illumination: A flashlight or headlamp could save a life in the dark.
5. First Aid: Bandages, bug spray, medicines, antiseptic, etc.
6. Fire: Bring matches and/or other fire starters in case you’re lost in cold weather.
7. Tools: Have a multi-tool at least.  A knife, screw driver, or scissors can be handy.
8. Nutrition: Bring more than you will need on the hike in case you get lost.
9. Hydration: Bring more water than you will need for the expected hike.
10. Shelter: Consider an emergency tent, space blanket or other protection.

Missy had another thought.  Maybe they came the same direction I did, and got off trail, like me.  She drove to a couple of spots where someone might come out if they were off trail.  We did not find them anywhere.  It was getting late.  It was getting dark.  And it was now serious.  It was time to call for rescue.  We went back to the restaurant and Missy made some calls.

The Mt. Baldy Volunteer Fire Station was soon all a buzz with volunteer firefighters, sheriff, local search-and-rescuers and others wanting to help.  They quickly set up an incident command and dispatched the local volunteer search-and-rescuers to work their way up the trail to see if the hikers could be found.  Additionally, the Fontana Sheriff’s Air Rescue helicopter 306 was dispatched to search the mountain and the canyon areas.  I stayed at the fire station to wait for any word, and to provide any information I could.  I also took the opportunity to call the wives of both men.  I let them know what happened and that there was a full search-and-rescue operation going on.  I told them I would keep them informed of further information. They didn’t seem to panic, but they both were obviously distressed by the news.  I couldn’t help but think they didn’t know everything I did about Larry’s condition, and it was better to keep it that way for now.

It was after midnight and reports from the search-and-rescue team, as well as the helicopter, came in with negative results.  I was very uneasy about what might have happened to the guys, especially considering Larry’s age and physical condition.  As a retired career firefighter and rescue specialist, I have been in many, many situations where I was challenged with finding, rescuing, and treating victims of a variety of emergencies.  I can generally handle this type of situation with relative calm.  This is different. I am emotionally involved in this one.  These are my friends and I feel somewhat responsible for the outcome.

After about two hours of searching, the helicopter pilot radioed that they had to discontinue the search.  His maximum flight hours were about to be reached, and he had had no luck spotting the hikers.  They were going to have to stop for the night and resume at daybreak.  Soon after hearing that, the local volunteer search-and-rescuers radioed that they made it all the way up to the summit and were unable to find anyone.  They were going to continue to search down the loop of the trail.  I was starting to get a bit emotional about the possible outcome. All we could do at this point was wait for daylight.

During the evening, the lost hikers continued to make some progress down the canyon.  It was very difficult for both of them as they pushed through the obstacles of large boulders and prickly bushes.  John would push ahead and then wait for Larry to catch up.  John’s fear of being stuck overnight was driving his behavior to keep pushing.  At one point, both hikers discussed bedding down for the night but they were not equipped for camping.  Even so, the conversation calmed John and they decided to continue as far as they could.

The obstacles became harder to navigate as they descended down the canyon.  John would get so far ahead that he would lose sight of Larry so they would yell back and forth at each other to keep in contact.  John would yell at Larry, explaining how he got through an area in hopes that Larry could navigate the same way.  Both men were getting extremely tired by this time.

John worked up the east slope of the canyon, trying to find a trail of some kind.  The slope was covered in gravel and the footing was very difficult.  At one point, John slipped on the gravel and ended up sliding downhill for quite a way.  When he came to rest, he called out to Larry and got no response.  He tried again but nothing.  John thought that maybe Larry found the trail and headed back.  John did not hear from Larry again for the rest of the night.

John decided to continue to work his way down the canyon along the east slope as long as there was light, hoping he would soon see a trail or the road.  He continued for a while until darkness approached.  John thought he could see a road ahead but it was at least two miles away through very rough terrain.  Exhausted, he looked for a place to bed down for the night, thinking he could get injured if he continues in the dark.  When it gets dark on a mountain, it gets DARK.  Many people may not appreciate that unless they have experienced it.  Trying to climb boulders and navigate around prickly bushes is dangerous when there is no light.

John found a good place to rest for the night.  It was quite chilly so he opened his emergency space blanket and wrapped up in it to stay warm.  John then took out his flashlight and set it on a rock next to him, then made stock of his supplies.  He had plenty of water for the night and some food.  His biggest fear at this point was not the dark or the cold, or even being alone…it was the possibility of bears.  Now John debated what to do with his food.  Should he keep it close or should he place it farther away from him.  Bears have a great sense of smell and can detect food from quite a distance so generally campers keep food in special metal boxes or up a tree.  John decided to keep it in his pack and not open it.

Throughout the long night John’s senses were heightened.  He did not get much sleep worrying about bears, if he would be rescued, where his buddy Larry was, and the dropping temperature.  To calm his fears, he started to sing made-up songs to himself in a key that would definitely crack a window.  “I’ll make it out of here, out of here.  Tomorrow will come in eight hours, just a long eight hours.”

After a few hours, John heard a sound that got his attention.  It was the sound of a helicopter.  John was so excited that he reached for his flashlight to signal the approaching aircraft.  But it was not there.  He looked all around but could not find it.  He kept looking at the approaching helicopter, then looking for the flashlight.  John became angry. “Where the hell is my flashlight?”  It was nowhere to be found.  He gave up looking and concentrated on the helicopter.  He saw that the copter had a search light, so John moved to an open area where he thought the helicopter could see him better.  For the next two hours the helicopter flew overhead.  It flew up and down the canyon area and into other smaller adjacent canyons.  Then it would disappear to search other areas.  John would get excited when it was searching around his area and curse it when it left.  When the helicopter was near John, the search light seemed to hit everywhere except where John was.  He was getting very frustrated.

Eventually the helicopter flew off.  John figured it was low on fuel and probably wouldn’t return until morning.  John found an area under a big pine tree with a bed of pine needles under it that he thought would be comfortable and warm and bedded down again.  He slept from 2 am until 6 am, waking just before sunrise.  John gathered his supplies and looked for another area where he could be seen by the helicopter that he expected would begin the search again soon.  He tied his emergency blanket to his hiking pole thinking the reflective silver blanket would be a good signal device.  John waited.

At about 6:30 am the original Sheriff’s rescue helicopter, and a smaller spotter helicopter, were sent up again to look for our hikers.  The search-and-rescue team had been hiking all night, but now they moved into Goode Canyon.  After about an hour into daylight, the smaller helicopter spotted John Marsden.  Using their loud-speaker they asked about John’s condition and told him to stay put before taking off again.  John figured that helicopter was not suited to rescue so he waited patiently to see what came next.  After what seemed like hours, a larger helicopter showed up.  It seemed the smaller helicopter was showing the larger one where John was, but then they left again, flying back down the canyon.  Shortly after, the larger helicopter returned, only to fly off again.  This was frustrating John.

After several minutes, the larger helicopter reappeared.  It hovered overhead for a while until John saw a man being lower down with a cable.  The rescuer landed nearby, unhooked and greeted John.  John was never so happy to see anyone in his life.  The rescuer didn’t waste time and prepared John to be lifted into the helicopter by putting him in a special rescue suit.  John was hooked up to a cable and lifted up to the hovering aircraft.  Feeling safe, John was now having fun.  An interesting bit of irony here.  On the hike up the day before, we had talked about things we had never done in our lives.  John said he had never been in a helicopter.  Be careful what you wish for.

The lost hikers’ wives, Debbie and Jackie, both decided to drive up and meet me at the fire station.  They arrived in tandem around 7 am.  I let them know that Jackie’s husband had been found but they were still looking for Larry.  Jackie was obviously relieved.

Right after Debbie and Jackie arrived, Larry was found by the team searching on foot.  He was in an area hard to see from the air…tired, cold and a bit injured.   Because of his injuries, he had been rescued first.  The search-and-rescue team worked with the air crew of the rescue helicopter to get Larry ready for the 90-foot lift into the helicopter, and to Cow Canyon Saddle where he was checked out by paramedics and transported to the fire station.

When Larry arrived at the fire station around 7:30 am, he was in good spirits but he had cuts and bruises on his face and neck, as well as a swollen black eye that completely blocked his vision.  He told me that he kept falling while trying to maneuver over the boulders in the dark.  His wife, Debbie, showed emotions mixed with happiness that he was found, and anger that he took the risks that he did.  He was made to promise on the spot that he would not go on the Mt. Whitney hike with us.  He agreed.

John was airlifted out around 9 am to the same area where the paramedics checked Larry out, and gave him a clean bill of health.  A sheriff asked John some questions for his report.  After that, John asked if he could meet the rescuers to thank them.  He went to where the rescuers were gathering to thank them when one of the rescuers asked to see the bottom of his boots.  The rescuer said that those were the boots they had been tracking for about 1/3 of the way down until they lost the tracks.

John was then transported to the fire station where the command post was.  He ran over to me and we hugged, relieved we were both safe.  John told me that most of the time he was lost, he thought it was me in need of rescue.  He thought Larry had already made his way out.  John hadn’t even noticed that his wife was there at first.  Once we were all together, hugged, and realized we were safe and relatively unscathed, we met with the Incident Command team to give them all the particulars for their incident report.  We thanked the team profusely for their efforts and I professed we would happily donate to their organization soon.  Each of the rescued hikers loaded into his vehicle with his wife for the drive home.  John, Jackie and I decided to stop for breakfast while Larry and his wife headed home.  It was interesting to see our story on the news while we were eating our breakfast in the restaurant.  John exclaimed “Damn, I’m a star but not the way I thought it might happen.”

On my drive home alone, I was able to contemplate the 30-hour episode.  I realized how it could have gone so much worse than it did.  Larry could have gotten seriously injured from one of his falls.  One, or both of them, could have encountered one of a number of wild animals in that area.  In his physical condition, Larry could have suffered from dehydration or exposure to the cold.  None of that happened, so it’s a happy ending with an interesting story to be told.

I saw Larry once more, a couple of months after that fateful trip.  The three of us met at a coffee shop to discuss what happened, and the lessons learned.  Larry quit hiking after that day, as requested by his wife, and they moved to Memphis soon after.  He died of cancer on September 5, 2019.  John and I completed the Mt. Whitney summit, along with three other friends, on September 16^th of that same year.  We definitely applied the lessons learned from the Mt. Baldy hike.  John and I still see each other. We travel and hike together, and talk about this event now and then.  Mostly, we each learned some lessons as a result.

LESSON #4: If you get lost while hiking, stay in one place so search-and-rescue can find you.

LESSON #5: Don’t split up with fellow hikers when you get lost.

In a less technical aspect, I learned that living sometimes has a price, but do it anyway.  The only other choice is dying and that will happen soon enough.  Just do the best you can to be prepared before setting off on an adventure.

I also learned to be thankful for those willing to help.  Missy spent all night trying to help me find my friends.  She fed me, drove me around to search for my friends, made the necessary contacts for a rescue, and was supportive. She was so amazing.

The entire rescue effort, volunteer and paid members, selflessly worked all night to help find the men.  Even after a long career of a similar service, my perspective in this situation was different.  And so, my appreciation is so very heartfelt.

I still hike, go on adventures, and travel a lot.  I try to be prepared before I go.  I still pay the price occasionally and I’m still learning lessons, but overall… life is an adventure and I’m enjoying the journey.

The post The Hike of Lessons Learned appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The hike was one of four daily activities during our 8-day adventure exploring Amazonia. Calling the Motor Yacht Tucano, an 18-passenger river yacht home, we traveled over 200 miles along the River Negro where the only other waterborne human we saw was the rare fisherman in a dugout canoe. For our daily excursions, we clamored aboard a small power launch which took us hiking, bird-watching, and village hopping, and on night-time outings that dramatized the allure of the river not experienced in any other way. But more on that later.

Souza demanded quiet during our launch rides, using all of his senses to read the forest, listening for the breaking of a branch or a flutter through the trees, sniffing for animal odors, scanning leaves above and below for motion, or the water for ripples… and alerting us at every junction of what he has discovered.  On our own, we would have heard, felt and discerned nothing.

Souza’s most amazing talent was his ability to identify the multitudes of birds traversing the river and forest, many of whose calls he could replicate precisely.  What to us was a dot on a limb was declared a green ibis. Then a snow egret, crane hawk, red-breasted blackbird, jacana, snail kite — so many I just stopped taking notes. So confidently did he identify the inhabitants, we would have believed: “That’s a green-tongued, red-beaked ibirus with one brown eye and a pimple on his right cheek…”

He could imitate more birds than the most gifted comedian can impersonate movie stars. He carried on such intimate conversations, that halfway through a lengthy discussion with a blackish gray antshrike, I think they became engaged. Then Souza, fickle male that he is, romanced a colorful azure blue-beaked Trogan perched upon a dead branch high in a tree. Birds have a surprising preference for dead tree parts. As one of my travel companions observed, “If you don’t like birds, you might as well take the next flight home.”

Back to Machete Man. Our forest walks also were a time for observation, not conversation. On a stop to view teca ants swarming over the bark, Souza wiped his hand across it, proceeding then to rub the ants over his forearms. Instant mosquito repellant — handy tool in the Amazon.

At one point, I looked down and saw a long brown twig draping a log. Souza saw a snake. I looked again and still saw a twig, albeit one that now had an eye. I stepped more gingerly.

We learned of the many medications the forest supplies to the natives; of vines for baskets and brooms; bark for strong rope; plants providing poison for arrows. As we heeded orders to be quiet, the dried leaves below screamed in protest at being trampled, the buzz of the horsefly the most persistent sound.

And then there are the leaf cutter ants! A long assembly line of tiny leaves paraded up a hill, as organized as a marching band. A closer look revealed leaf cutter ants to be the burly carriers. Hard to believe something so fragile can carry so large and unwieldy a load as much as half a mile to its colony.

Surprised at how much he learned about himself on the trip, Ritesh Beriwal, a 23-year-old worn-out Wall Street trainee, noted: “I didn’t realize how interested I’d be in the little things, like how insects such as the leaf-carrying ants build homes. Before it was just an ant; now it’s an ant with an entire life and work history.”

Each day brought new revelations and insight into our surroundings whether on land or water. Our visits to several villages only reinforced that impression.

Commonalities among villages: a dance hall where residents party once a month; a soccer field where youth exercise once a day; a school room where students of all grades learn; a clinic that caters to the medical needs of the community, 2-3 requisite churches where parishioners of different persuasions pray — and a generator. And that’s about it. But the differences are notable as well.

I found the contrast particularly interesting between one village of no more than 30 families producing one farm product and a larger “company” town in which thrives an asphalt industry. In the larger village, there is a convenience store, a small café, a bakery. Each hut has its own outhouse and there are several satellite dishes throughout the community.

The entire economy of the farm community revolves around manioc — a product made from grain that is the mainstay of the Amazonian diet. “If there is no manioc on the table, there is no meal,” explains Souza.

There are no stores in the village, no satellite dishes, and there are no outhouses. Using the woods that border their village as their toilet, it was clearly the largest bathroom facility I had ever seen. On the other hand, the men don’t have to worry about remembering to put the seat down.

Although every day was an adventure, nothing compared with the nighttime jaunts. Our post-dinner sojourns, beginning around 8 p.m., pitched Souza and his searchlight against the dark horizon, scanning shoreline and trees desperately searching for something to entertain his charges.

An all-pervasive quiet loomed, yet everything, including the sounds, seemed magnified: dolphins snorting, fish jumping, caimans slithering, monkeys howling — all vying for attention.

Eventually the flashlight, seemingly darting randomly above, below and beyond the trees, alighted (so to speak) on a caiman in the brush, his whole snout protruding for a moment before slinking away. Or perhaps instead the light reflected off a kingfisher’s eyes, temporarily blinding him so that we could drift in almost close enough to touch. Then for an encore, we watched a spider grab a dragonfly from a crack in a tree directly in front of us — and diligently devour it. Did I mention it was pitch black?

Once again, the refrain in my head: “How does Souza do that?” Either he has a seventh sense about the animals, or the Amazon Tourist Board set them up ahead of time.

Whereas during the day, the trills, tweets and twerps of the birds dominate the landscape, at night it’s the croaks, caws and throaty outpourings of the frogs and caimans.

In between our first launch at 6 a.m to our final return sometime after 9, we pretty much spend the rest of the time eating. The native foods, beautifully prepared and presented, are a surprise this far from civilization.

As much as that is a typical day, so are the exceptions. One particular day we got to sleep in until 6, still early enough to watch the sun pull itself over the forest, and late enough to feel the already oppressive heat seep into my lightweight, washable. anti-bug-treated blouse (though overall, the weather was much more comfortable than anticipated). We were going fishing.

I sat with my Tom Sawyer fishing pole thinking the Amazon’s a long way from the Mississippi. I attached the chunks of beef to the end of the line thinking this was strange bait until I remembered our prey. Watching Souza rattle the water with his pole, I remembered that being quiet was the order of the day on most fishing sojourns. Still, I followed his lead — make the quarry think there’s a wounded fish thrashing about — and within a minute I knew I had snagged the big prize: at the end of my line was the famed carnivorous predator — a 6” piranha.

Souza held it up to a tree and used it like a scissors to cut a branch in two. Just looking at its imposing teeth, we knew it came by its reputation honestly. Still, piranhas get a bad rep. The truth is unless they’re starving, or you’re bleeding, we’re really not in their food chain. Nonetheless, the fried piranhas we had that night as appetizers were scrumptious, their tiny bones crunchy and the meat flaky, proving the wise adage that more people eat piranhas than piranhas eat people — at least in Amazonia.

If You Go

I flew United, one of several airlines that go nonstop from several U.S. cities to Sao Paulo, then transferred to TAM for the hop to Manaus. American Airlines and LATAM Airlines also have daily non-stop flights from Miami to Manaus.

When to go. The January to June rainy season brings heavy but relatively brief downpours. Rivers rise dramatically — often as high as 45 feet. The high water enables small boats to reach areas inaccessible at other times of year

During dry season, roughly July to December, rivers run shallow, and while white sand beaches — excellent for a refreshing swim — appear, most of the area is more arid and less lush.   Best time to visit is April to September.

For more information, contact Latin American Escapes or call 800-510-5999.

Some Caveats

• If you’re looking to see a lot of four-legged wildlife, go on a safari.
• If taking a nightly hot shower is important, stay at a hotel (although the river water is tepid enough so as not to be too uncomfortable). There are hot water showers during the day on the vessel.
• Although we didn’t experience any, the pre-trip information warns of glitches, inconveniences and delays and advises to bring along a lot of tolerance and patience.
• Post-hike showers are required, including the need to wash out your clothes to prevent any insect mishaps.
• There is a certain sameness to the daily activities.
• There is also a 5 day/4 night option.

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