We Climb To Solola

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, March 2007

Solola is reputed to have been lost to the mists of time. Edie and I set out to find it. Taking a lancha to the nearby Mayan village, we inquired as to the directions and got explicit advice to go uphill, somewhere, vaguely waving his hand, uphill. Since we were down at Lake Atitlan, and the land rose everywhere about us, it was not hard to grasp that indeed we were going to go uphill. But which hill?






Climbing to the village above us up the steep road we finally came face to face with the old church, around which we were to walk, skirt the garbage dump and proceed on our trail. We did so, found our trail and headed up a gentle grade through a forest, with a stream trickling down below.










Soon after, our trail seemed to grow a bit less distinct. It appeared to cross a boulder-choked ravine but didn’t appear to continue across the other side. It didn’t appear to climb the ravine either. We followed a diminishing path up ever steeper, scragglier and more precipitous terrain. Clearly there was some kind of path, but for whom? Goats?



Finally, after struggling several yards further through increasingly tangled undergrowth Edie called a halt. It was well she did. I did not appreciate this at the time. My view of a good hike is to keep on going in the face of increasing evidence that we are not on the proper trail until we finally burst out onto a golden path with smiling natives profering us cold drinks and happy animals mooing contentedly. This has not yet happened.
More frequently I emerge dirty and bleeding, in a desperate state of thirst, hoping that someone will show up to lead us out of the mess before darkness falls. Edie knows this, hence our retreat.

We came down our trail far faster than we ascended and near the bottom happened upon an old Mayan woman and what was probably her young grandson. We said ‘Solola’ and she pointed. There was a very large mountain in the way. We said ‘Solola’ again and she again pointed towards the mountain. Then she wisely sent her grandson to show us.

We soon found the trail and happily wound our way up a grassy slope. ‘Now, this is more like it’. And so it was, until the fine trail through the grassy slope turned the shoulder of the mountain and apparently proceeded downhill to the next village below. This was clearly not Solola. We retraced our steps. I checked the water supply. Half gone. I checked the sun. Half gone too.




Working our way along the mountain slope I heard voices and spotted several men descending from above. ‘Solola?’ I pleaded. ‘Si, Solola’. ‘Quantos horas?’ How many hours hike? ‘Tres’. Gulp. 3 hours more. All uphill. We had to scramble to attain the grade. Rains from last year’s hurricane had washed out parts of the trail. White paint on some rocks appeared to inidicate the path. Or was it warning us away from it?







Up and up we scrambled. Somewhere up there was supposed to be a dirt road to Solola. We had taken so many wrong turns and spent so much time on the mountain we had almost given up finding it. Only the thought of having to face Mike, leisurely floating on the shoreline waters of Lake Atitlan and having to admit defeat, kept us going. Or at least kept me going. Edie was kept going because I had all the water.



Finally we found the dirt and gravel road. No more scrambling. We looked a mess. Dirt and dust everywhere. One bottle of water left. And maybe 2-1/2 hours to reach Solola and the bus to Panajachel.
The last lancha leaving Panajachel for our town of San Marcos along the lake was leaving at 6PM. After that….?

We hiked the switchbacking road up and up. Bulldozer tracks could be seen guaranteeing us that the road had to come out somewhere at the top. I told Edie we only had another 6 switchbacks. After those 6 I predicted another 6. The water was gone. And finally, hours later, we were at the top. The top of what?








Ahead was another garbage dump. And walking by that dump was a kid who most likely lived off it, toting what appeared to be a realistic pistol. We waved. ‘Buenos tardes’, and walked hurriedly on, not daring to look behind. For some reason, no shots rang out.

We came to farmed land, then a village, then what appeared to be a suburb of sorts and far below, way over on the other side of the valley was Solola. Much too far to be reached in the half hour we had left to catch our bus. Still we walked and walked and walked, found a small tienda from which to buy a Coke and walked some more until an open-backed truck came by and to our delighted, assented when we gestured for a ride. This was common in Guatemala where most people don’t have cars. Others piled in along the route. I kept watching the time and the distance and the increasing traffic.

Finally in town I gave the driver what I thought to be a good fare, asked directions and dashed to the plaza where the buses wait. Edie had a better idea; let’s flag down a taxi. A taxi, in this case, was a 3-wheeled motorized golf-cart like vehicle with seats for 2 in the back and a canopy over us. ‘Panajachel’ we cried and, I think, understanding that we were trying to catch the last lancha, he launched his vehicle into the steeply switch-backed 1500 foot descent into the town. We made it dashing down the street, with 15 minutes to space. And a story of how we conquered the route to Solola.

Mayans For A Day

Beautiful Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, March 2007






I, having recovered from the arduous 2-1/2 day backpacking trip and Edie having recovered from the equally arduous stomach ailment that prevented her from going, we both met at the busy village of San Pedro on the shores of Lake Atitlan, sun shining, waves bouncing and volcanoes sending out the odd whiff of smoke in the distance.

Soon after, we took a lancha (launch – a 30 x 8 foot mostly open boat with sun roof to San Marcos, the fabled San Marcos, named after Marco Polo who, upon reaching China across the Gobi desert, mistakenly thought he had found Central America.



It was from this paradisiacal setting that we set out to circumnavigate the lake, or at least walk a goodly part of its shores, heading east towards the fabled markets of Panajachel, the town at the head of the lake from which all lanchas, launch.

We didn’t get that far. Our beginning was not auspicious. Mike, proclaiming familiarity with the terrain from last year’s trip, took the low route by the lake, above which stood a spacious house and grounds owned by a fellow reputed to be a Microsoft partner, not as in, ‘Cleveland State is a Microsoft partner’, but as in ‘Bill Gates is a Mircosoft partner’. This fellow apparently took offense to Mike’s friend Gary’s comment about his big sombrero last year and we decided to steer clear of touchy folks like that on our hike. The low route petered out, as do most routes in Guatemala (see We Climb to Solola) and we found ourselves scrambling up a steep slope with few handholds. Edie was dismayed and proceeded towards an opening in a wood fence where workers building a wall on the hacienda were beckoning her. They pointed to an easy path up to the road and our eventual escape from the low route, now named the ‘No Route’. Such is chivalry along the Atitlan shores. Mike and I would have been left for the sun and the lizards.



The lovely road became a somewhat less lovely road, finally turning into a dirt path. We stopped at a fancy hotel clinging to the cliffs above the lake and dropped many stories down the stone path leading to their restaurant for a meal. We met some of the fellows from our backpacking trip, treating themselves sumptuously to make up for their prior privations on the trail.





Edie and I proceeded on, Mike deciding to return by lancha, although, in fact, he also decided to continue but was too far behind to call us. The trail turned into a rough, rocky track.





When an American couple hailed us from one side of a steep descent I was momentarily distracted, fell and then to my surprise tumbled forward. By the time I arrested my fall I had a bloody elbow and knee and a very apologetic couple in attendance.



Lacking first aid equipment or knowledge we chatted for a moment before continuing on our way. The accident was to have fortuitous consequences. I recommend such an accident to traveller.

The Mayans are reserved people. They speak one of 23 dialects, none of which resemble Spanish. It wouldn’t matter if it did. I can speak 23 dialects of New York-ese. But not Spanish. It’s hard to do more than murmur ‘buenos-dias/tardes/noches’ depending on the time of day. If you don’t know the time of day, you can estimate it by trying one of the above. If the response is buenos tardes, you know it’s afternoon. If it’s buenos noches, you know it’s evening. This can also be determined by noting that the sky is dark.

As we passed through Mayan villages, people would stare at my knee. When I stared at it I saw what drew their eyes: blood had trickled in 3 distinct streams down to my socks. It looked awful. It wasn’t, but who was I to let on. The Mayan men would looked briefly, then avert their eyes, the women would look interestedly, then shyly look away as I tried to catch their eyes, the children would stare wide-eyed and I took to feigning an exaggerated limp which would send them into giggles. Most unseemly.

As the village of San Something-Or-Other we made out final breakthrough. The lancha had landed some 15 -20 foot long squared off ridge poles for a house. These were very heavy, more like oak than pine. And down at the dock woman after woman would lift these beams, place them on the cloth wrapping they used to protect their heads and form a stable base, and then carry these beams on their heads up the very steep path to the village above. One poor young woman had not quite mastered the technique, despite practice since near-infancy. Her beam was front heavy and kept rocking forward threatening to hit the steep ground ahead of her up the hill. Emboldened by our limited success in communication via a bloody knee, we came to the rescue. We know about portaging canoes and what happens when a canoe is front-heavy. I made as though to shift the beam rearwards a bit to better balance it. But body language has its limitations. The young woman thought I was going to help her carry it. And apparently I was. As I grabbed the front end to shift the weight, she moved to the back and I realized that I was now her partner. Silently we proceeded up the steep hill up up up, how far I wasn’t sure, until about 10 minutes later we reached a building site where her family was waiting for that beam. I made to shake hands with her. She limply responded and we bade our goodbyes. Turning back I saw another pair making their way up hill. Edie had similarly grabbed the front end of another beam and was helping another young woman, carry her roof beam up the hill. We had make the grade. We were Mayans for a day.

Newly re-discovered winter paddling exercise!

Cleveland, Ohio, February 2007

During the winter storm that hit the lower Great Lakes last week, I inadvertently discovered a long-lost technique for practicing good paddling technique and exercising long-dormant paddling muscles. With the University closed for the day and driveways equally closed under 2 foot drifts I took to the sturdy plastic shovel to live the dictum 'Hanta Yo' (clear the way).

And clear the way I did, until a nagging pain began to assail my back. It was then that I made my historic discovery. By switching my lower hand, the one NOT gripping the top of the shovel handle, but gripping the lower part of the shovel from a forward to backward grip I may have freed mankind from an ancient scourge, lower back pain.

If you're used to gripping the lower part of the shovel forehanded with thumb facing the blade, try switching that grip to a backhanded one with the thumb pointing back towards the shovel handle. Now lay into that snow. In one smooth motion you both grab a shovel full, heft it up and scatter it to the winds. Actually it's better to scatter it away from the winds or you get it right back in the face. No lower back pain, an easy stroke, but, better than all this, a replication (if you move your upper body along with the shovel) of the classic Canadian canoe stroke. A little twist and flip at the end and you've got a classic J-stroke. A little lean on the snow and you've got a brace. Reach out over the snow bank and you've got a draw. Need I elaborate further?

Taken with such a discovery I proceeded from neighbor to neighbor, clearing driveway after driveway, no longer grumbling about my accursed fate, but dreaming of sallying forth into the north woods, the loons calling and the forest drifting past.

A bit of research brought up the little known fact that this shoveling technique was employed by the voyageurs centuries ago to limber up for the coming spring's challenges. Deep in the heart of the wilderness in 1641, Father Pierre LePoivre, of Our Lady of Perpetual Motion in the tiny hamlet of Mishuggena, Quebec, recording his parishioners, all couriers de bois, chanting the songs of Superior in unison while clearing their driveways with the backhanded stroke.

So, in one fell swoop you can ease your back, practice for the upcoming season and relive history all in one motion, the backhanded snow shovel stroke. Your life will never be the same again.

Marty
backyard photo by Edie

When A Chain Breaks

You ever have a chain break?
Remember the sinking feeling when your feet went around the pedals and seemed to pushing against air?
They were pushing against air.
Okay, so it was no big deal.
You took your chain tool, broke 2 links out and re-attached it, right?
But what if you didn’t have a derailleur bike?
What if your bike had a 7-speed internal hub with a single cog that allowed for no chain wrap?

Edie and I were going uphill out of Chagrin Falls when this happened to my trusty (and rusty) winter commuter. Fortunately there are 2 bike shops in Chagrin Falls, so we just turned around and Edie pedaled, while I coasted, back down the hill.

At the first shop I was ushered into the bike section in the basement. It’s a pretty shop and my bike was an oily, greasy mess, so I was cringing when the young mechanic undid the lug nuts holding the rear wheel and tugged on the chain. All he got was grease. The 7-speed internal hub has a special hub brake on one side and a shifting mechanism on the other. And both seemed to be stuck. The mechanic pried and poked, yanked and pulled, but the brake and the shifter seemed to move together rather than independently, and neither would come loose. He called his partner over. They tried to logic it out. With the same result. Something was stuck. Something was wrong. The brake and shifter were not coming loose.

A moment’s inspiration got him on the phone with a second bike shop a mile away. In his truck went the bike and off they sped to the other bike shop, with me, on Edie’s bike not far behind. But at the second bike shop, the same conclusion was reached. Something’s stuck. Something’s jammed. This is not coming loose. Back in the pickup and back to the first shop. Apologies, embarrassment. They couldn’t figure it out, but they were very kind. They charged me only for the new chain and not for the hour they’d spent monkeying with the bike. And let me keep my panniers there while we plotted our next move.

At this point the rear wheel was partly disconnected from the frame and not going back in its dropouts. I had to hold the rear end up as I walked the bike out of the shop. As Edie rode off home to get the truck, the young mechanic poked his head outside to ask how I’d get home.

‘I’ll just walk’, I said.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Oh, in Cleveland Heights’, I replied.
‘Cleveland Heights?!’,
' how far is that?’
‘Oh, about 14 miles away’, I said, ‘not a bad walk except for having to walk the bike back too’.

At this the young mechanic grinned, knowing he’d been had. I locked the bike out by the ice cream place on Main Street and headed down to the river for a snooze. It would be a while until Edie returned. As I lay on the banks of the river it dawned on me I had no need to lock up the bike. In its condition, no one was going to take it anywhere.

A week later I picked the bike up from Ken Schneider’s Bike Shop at Lorain and Denison.

‘Good as new’ was Ken’s greeting.
‘How’dya fix it?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t it jammed?’
‘Well, actually there’s this little lock ring that was partly broken and it was keeping everything
from moving. Hardly took any work at all to get it free’.

Next time I break a chain, I want to do it on the West Side, somewhere, just uphill from Ken’s shop.

Marty

A Tale of Two Cities

Shediac, New Brunswick, September 2007

It was dark before we arrived at our campsite, tired and hungry and eager to start dinner. We’d been traveling for several days in New Brunswick on our 2-week bicycle trip to circumnavigate the Bay of Fundy and had left a very hilly section by the Fundy National Park that morning. It was reputed to be the most remote and roadless area along the entire Eastern seaboard from Florida north. Much of the rugged, forested coastline was only accessible by approach roads, there being none than ran the length of the shoreline.

Edie was setting up the tent as I pumped the stove, turned the knob to prime the cup with fuel only to find no fuel flowing. I pumped some more, still nothing. We fiddled and played with it and then, looking forlornly at what might have been a nice, hot meal, we pulled some bread and cheese out of our panniers, tomorrow’s lunch it was to have been, and had a cold, sad meal instead.

The next day I inquired of the campground owners where the nearest outdoors shop would be. ‘Nearest OUTDOORS shop? Never heard of one. I don’t think there is one. You know of any OUTDOORS shop, Mike?’ The word ‘outdoors’ was pronounced the way you’d pronounce ‘Nuclear Test Facility’ if someone stopped you in the street and asked the whereabouts of the nearest one. Finally the yellow pages gave us hope. Xtreme Outdoor Adventures, the only listing in the book, showed a shop in Shediac, a French-Canadian enclave along New Brunswick’s sand beach coast, half a day’s cycling away. Most of that cycling would not be in the direction we were headed.

The folks at Xtreme were not altogether encouraging. ‘Your stove conked out, huh, a camping stove, right. Well, might have one, yeah here it is’. ‘Boy you must sell a lot of backpacking stoves to be down to your last one’, I replied. ‘Oh no, he chuckled, ‘we only had this one. No one’s ever asked for a stove before, so we’re selling it ½ price. I’m not sure it’s a backpacking stove. The box is kinda big, but I’m sure the stove inside is a lot smaller. You can see for yourself when you get here. By the way, it burns butane and we don’t have any cartridges but you can get ‘em at the Walmart in Moncton. You have to go through there to get to us’.

And so we did. From the barely traveled roads of coastal New Brunswick we plunged into the Saturday shopping traffic of Moncton, their 2nd biggest city. We got our cartridges as fast as possible, and we had to buy 4 of them. Nearby was a goofy looking stove that looked like someone had hacksawed off a quarter of a kitchen range and packaged it. Thank goodness we weren’t going to have to carry that monstrosity.

At Shediac we thought we’d get to see a different coastline. Beautiful sand beaches, wildlife, birds. What we saw was a strip development of small motels, fast food places and raggedy shops. Our first look at Xtreme was a 10 foot high billboard display of a girl in a bikini. I don’t remember Appalachian Outfitters or the Backpacker Shop having a sign like that. Our first sound was the loud hip-hop music coming from some sports car parked just outside. With trepidation we entered the store. Beach ware was everywhere, all of it on sale. Sandals, T-shirts, sunglasses, lotion, swimsuits. But no tents, backpacks or cookware. At the counter I greeted the fellow who recognized us from the morning phone call. ‘Say, you must be the cyclists who need that stove. I kept it right here by the front desk’. And out came the very same thing we’d seen at Walmart. Our hearts sank. When he opened it, which he’d never done before, we both were surprised to see a big, heavy ¼ kitchen range with a connector for a butane cartridge. Even at $22 it seemed ridiculous. But eating out would have cost us far more. We were still on the first week of our 2 week trip. ‘There’s no OUTDOOR shops anywhere around here’, he assured us. The nearest one’s in St. John’. St. John is the capital of New Brunswick and we’d left it behind 5 days before. Reluctantly we bought the stove, managed to strap it on the bike and pedaled on, past more strip malls, fast food joints and traffic until we found the turnoff to Sackville.

Sackville, New Brunswick

After a pleasant night’s camping at the campground just outside of Sackville, we thought we’d go into town to see the historic town center. At least that was what the sign said. After Shediac ‘New Brunswick’s finest beach resort’, we were leery. But Sackville had an old brick downtown, small, compact and very pretty. Like some rural Ohio towns, except this one was thriving. On a sunny Saturday morning the street was lively with people, many of them students from the nearby college and most of them on foot.

A local café was hosting a farmer’s market and inside were the best breads I had yet seen in the province. It was tough to choose just one amongst the many fine loaves. Edie smelled something delicious with a long line leading up to it and returned some time later with a lunch of fine Indian food cooked right there on the spot. She’d snagged their last batch.

Our best find of the day, however, was an outdoor shop. A real one. Peeking inside I saw names like North Face and Sierra Designs, Mountain Hardware and Arcteryx. In this small shop were the finest in tents, sleeping bags, clothes and…and…stoves. Right there on the shelf was the replacement for the stove that had malfunctioned. And right then and there we bought it. As it turns out, our stove began functioning again, perplexing us. It functioned fine the rest of the trip. But it might, we thought, be a good idea to take the lightweight spare parts just in case.

We chatted with the young woman in charge of the shop. We showed her our kitchen range stove and told her the story. She had a good laugh over it, then said: ‘the fellow at Xtreme knows we’re here. Why didn’t he send you to us?’ Why indeed. Hearing about an upcoming auction to raise money for a charitable cause, we decided to donate our kitchen range stove and cartridges both to perform a good deed and to lighten our weight. The young woman accepted our donation and assured us that someone, probably someone who camps from a camps from a car would be happy to bid on it.

She made a point of showing us the Arcteryx garments, well aware of the normal reaction to seeing a jacket selling for $500. ‘Everyone who looks at the price just backs off in astonishment, but I tell them to try it on just for fun, see how nicely it fits, how well it’s made and what a wonderful garment it is. About a quarter of them actually wind up buying it’. Edie and I, frugal to pennypinching were not among those quarter. But I must admit we did entertain the thought for a good ½ hour’s ride out of town, munching on chunks of that delicious bread and inhaling the aroma of our Indian feast awaiting lunchtime.

Marty
photo of the Fundy National Park, New Brunswick at low tide by Edie

The Snowstorm

Cleveland, Ohio, December 2007

I must say that you all missed a wonderful opportunity to bicycle several Sundays past, instead of spending time shopping for last minute Xmas gifts. We had a magnificent blizzard starting at noon.

Edie, I and Ann and Mary bicycled down to the Cuyahoga Valley to look for the Stone Rd bridge (which, we discovered, had been removed 30 years ago, but not from my old map).

We consoled ourselves with a modest pancake breakfast at Yours Truly in Valley View by Rockside and Canal roads, as people came in, saw our cycling outfits and commented on how brave we were. Having cycled through the slightest of drizzles to get there, we just chuckled and told them it was no big deal. It was not until we went outside again, that we discovered that it was a very big deal indeed and a 30 mph (with gusts to 50 mph) blizzard was raging in our absence.

We cycled up Rockside Rd to Garfield Hts and were probably the most stable vehicles on the road. Most cars, SUVs, etc. were slipping, swerving and wobbling, with a few vehicles having made it half way up and gotten stuck, unable to summon the traction to go further nor the courage to retreat. I can't say I blamed them as visibility was less than 100 feet.

We took refuge in the Marc's at the top of the hill in order to clear one of Ann’s fenders from the snow that was collecting between the fender and the wheel and slowing her to a halt. The 'wagon boys' at Marc's were very kind, letting us inside so the warmth would melt the snow and ice on her bike, directing us to barbeque skewers which we bought to dig out the ice from the small spaces by the fender, and to the last of the mittens, hats, scarves, etc. with which to sustain ourselves on the rest of the ride home.

Eventually we solved the fender problem by removing it entirely and taking it home in one of my panniers, and after thanking everyone in the store, struck out for home. We took the main roads, our only close call occurring when 3 snowplows in tandem blasted their horns to clear the traffic and we had to immediately retire to a nearby snowbank, still mounted on the bikes. When we dug ourselves out we found the road much more manageable and only had to watch for sudden gusts from the west, in open areas, that would send us flying to the curb. It was a true cycling day, and I only regret that you were not here to enjoy it with us. Maybe next time.

Marty

Thanks to the intrepid and camera-carrying JN for her photos of Marty and Ann on Lee Road.

Aground

04/01/2008

We were paddling quickly but carefully in the early morning light. Each turn in the creek had us switching paddle strokes, squinting into the sharp light and trying to make out obstructions. Obstructions, in this case, were oyster bars. They’re solid as granite and the shells are extremely sharp. I’d already hit a number of them, one, hard enough to put a small shatter mark on the gelcoat of my canoe. Innumerable scrapes had preceded this and a damaged rudder mount was to follow. But this morning, our main concern wasn’t oyster beds, but the tide. It was dropping.

Heike and I had been out only 2 days on our 7 day trip along Florida’s Big Bend Saltwater Trail on the Gulf Coast. You know where Florida starts turning from east to south? That’s it. That’s us. As you can gather from the discussion about oyster beds, this trail’s not been all that well paved.

The shore in this part of Florida is mostly marsh, the bottom, mud. There are a few sandy patches, but not many. Which is why this whole coast is almost free from any development, so prevalent in the more sandy areas further south. The State owns much of it, as does the Nature Conservancy. The trail follows the shore mostly. And as we paddle north to south (and that how you have to do it according to their rules) to your right is open water clear to Mexico. Starting to feel a little queasy? Open water clear to Mexico would mean huge waves in a southerly gale. But for one thing. The water is very shallow. The main consequence of a capsize would likely be getting your hands muddy as they hit the bottom. This trail is safe. Unless you forget the tides.

That nice, safe, shallow mud bottom is lurking there waiting for you. It’s waiting for your boat too. Should you neglect the tides, you might find your boat comfortably aground on that mud. And you, should you step out to remediate the situation, might find yourself, well, pretty muddy. And maybe stuck.

Heike and I had woken early at our Spring Warrior Creek campsite, several miles up the creek from the Gulf, on a falling tide. It was cold. 34 degrees that night. And windy, maybe 15 knots from the north. We’d eschewed breakfast, hastily struck camp and dashed for the boats, the river mouth and freedom before the tide dropped too far. Heike was all for waiting it out at the campsite. It was a pretty place looking a bit like a Tarzan movie site. I was for rushing things and making a run for it.

And it looked like I was right. We’d cleared most of the creek’s obstacles and were coming into the mouth, as it broadened to the Gulf. In the distance we could see channel markers perhaps a quarter, or was it a half mile off. We were heading for them, fast as could be, when my canoe slowed, then stopped. I pushed off backwards with the paddle and slowed to a halt again. I pushed sideways, then the other way, and then realized I was aground.

Looking up I saw Heike equally aground. I jumped out of the boat, but quickly sank to my knees in the mud. Even using the boat for buoyancy it was going to be a long haul ½ mile to those channel markers. It was going to be a longer haul yet. Heike refused to leave her kayak.

‘Marty’, she exclaimed in her calm, reasonable, German accented voice, ‘I think we are stuck’.

‘Whaddya mean WE? I thought of replying.

But the look in Heike’s eye told me not to. Heike does not like to get messy. Heike does not like to play in the mud. Heike was going to sit there until Florida froze over before getting her feet stuck in that stuff. And so Heike in her kayak and I in my canoe, quietly sat there in the mouth of Spring Warrior Creek, waiting.

It was not much above 34 degree and the 15 knot wind blew hard at us in our exposed location. We had some good clothing on, but our warmth depended on us being on the moving, not sitting still. I looked at Heike in her paddling jacket, balaclava and spray skirt. She didn’t look any warmer than I, and I was getting pretty cold. I lay down on the lids of the cat litter buckets I use to carry gear. I started to doze and got colder. The tide wouldn’t really rise much for several hours. We were stranded.

Heike might have been willing to wait until Florida froze over before stepping into that mud, but, as the hour wore on, she began to think it was Heike freezing over that would occur much sooner. And an hour into our ordeal, Heike finally did a very unGermanic thing. She stepped from her boat into the mud, leaned on it for buoyancy, and began to slog her way seaward to the channel markers.

I watched her for quite a while. In the sucking mud she was making slow progress. But progress still. As she reached the first channel marker, I realized she was committed. There was no turning back for her. So I, too, got out of my boat, and leaning on it for buoyancy, began my own trudge seaward.

Eventually the tide came up enough, or we trudged seaward enough to barely float the boats. With paddles scraping the ground and muddy feet defacing our lovely hulls we struggled on to our next night’s rendezvous with destiny.

Marty and Heike actually did manage to figure out the tides and successfully complete the water trail. But it took a long afternoon with a strong garden hose to undo the consequences of their grounding.

Marty

The Illegals

The sun was beginning to set and in these latitudes that meant another 20 minutes of daylight before...before…..well before we’d be groping along the barbed wire looking for a gap. We’d been cycling all day after leaving the Chiricahua National Monument, a gorgeous park in southeast Arizona with the most bizarre rock formations we’d ever seen. We had food and water but no campsite and it was getting late. Our only chance was guerilla camping but the sagebrush ranches were all barbed-wired for miles. And then we saw it, an abandoned ranch with an old metal Quonset hut and a rutted driveway leading behind. This is it! Edie did not look pleased.

Me, I can put up with beautiful scenery, quiet campfires and soft rustling of a breezes as long as I can guerilla camp. Edie prefers legitimacy. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. The world’s filled with little nooks and crannies just begging to be camped on. Better we should throw ourselves on the tender mercies and graveled pads of a brightly lighted all night RV park? We’d done that already.

We’d been traveling for over a week and adjusting to the Arizona way. No more little country roads dropping into quiet streams and climbing winding hills. The roads were mostly wide, the scenery grand. Everything was on a big scale. Mountains in the distance might be a few hours’ ride away…or a few days. A pee break didn’t take place comfortably deep in the nearest forest, but furtively behind a spindley cactus.

Towns were far apart too. This was nearly our downfall our first day out. A half day’s ride from Tucson Edie’s left crank arm fell off and shortly thereafter my front derailleur broke. Now I can live without a front derailleur, but Edie seemed unduly alarmed by the detached crankarm. We had to call our hosts. Our hosts were the most wonderful folks. We’d contacted them by email, listed, as they were, as the touring directors for Tucson’s bike association. We wanted to know about camping. Turns out, they’d never camped. They stayed at motels. But between the emails, we established a very nice relationship. And in no time, they’d offered to pick up our shipped bikes, pick us up at the airport and host us at their house overnight. Sight unseen. And now their hospitality was being taxed as they came to pick us up on a lonely Arizona road and haul us back to the bike shop for repairs and another night’s stay at their house.

Camping in Arizona had its delights. With the low humidity we could leave shoes, clothing and maps out at night with no moisture to affect them. We never listened to the weather forecast. It was always nice and sunny. With all the mountains around we found a mix of cycling with a few days hiking in between to be ideal. But there had always been an RV park at the end of the day.

Very reluctantly, and by the dim light of our headlamps we blundered into the sticker bushes behind the Quonset hut. We’d heard of goat-head thorns. Now we felt them. Trying to keep the bike tires clear we managed to set up camp in a thicket that offered some visual protection. Protection from what, you ask? The nearest ranch house was ½ mile off. But Edie had noticed discarded clothing and day packs along the road. And dozens of border patrol vehicles roaring past, or maybe just one guy roaring past dozens of times. Behind the Quonset hut she noticed more discarded clothing. Illegals!

The folks in Arizona, regardless of social station or political affiliation agree on one thing. They hate illegals. You don’t have to ask; they’ll strike up a conversation about it from out of the blue. Illegals steal, litter, deal in drugs and are a menace to society and a deadly threat to life and property. We tried to make light of such conversations by talking about our own illegals, Canadians sneaking across the border of Lake Erie to take advantage of a cheap U.S. dollar and make off with our merchandise. This did not go over well.

Edie kept a wary eye on the darkness beyond. Every car headlight approaching on the nearby road was followed by her gaze until it passed well by. Every scratch in the ground or scrape on a bush could be a squirrel bedding down for the night… or… illegals. She got a fitful night’s sleep. Had I been a less scrupulous person I would have been tempted to sneak outside the tent at night, bump hard against it and mutter something threatening in Spanish. Truth be told it wasn’t scruples that prevented me. I just don’t speak Spanish. And, a dozen miles from the Mexican border I didn’t think a few phrases in French would have had the same effect.

We had a fine night and a fine trip. We never did meet an illegal. But if you’re traveling down some lonely Arizona highway, and realize you’ve left some gear behind, take a gander on the side of the road. Chances are someone making a run from the border has left an item for you.

Marty Cooperman

Photo by Edie, reluctant guerrilla camper

Creek Crossings and Cross Dressing

This is a story about a trip I took this past weekend when I got to try out creek crossings using another idea, Crocs. Not the big Crocs, but a slimmer, better fitting pair made for women called Mary Jane's. They are bright green. Garish green. They have a more secure strap system too. Perfect for water pursuits.

This is it below.

January 2009

The best and most rugged of the local Metroparks are bisected by large creeks that can't quite be stone hopped across except in dry summer weather. With the recent rains, and warm weather run off, they are swollen. A fine time to test some more ideas. Armed with the Mary Jane's and a small day pack and my hiking poles I set out to hike the length of my favorite park, cross the creek and hike back the other side.

The park is cleverly designed so that the trail ends about 1/2 mile from the start at a little falls and then leaves you...on your own. I like those kind of trails. The steep terrain requires hands and feet (and sometimes teeth) to ascend the steep ravine walls and some downhill ski techniques to descend them without losing those valuable uphill teeth. No skis, you understand, just the technique. The miles covered have little relation to the time involved, much of it spent scrambling for roots and branches. My goal was the far northern end of the park where a steep cliff cuts off further access and requires a descent into the flood plain. Here the river is braided and more fordable, less likely to sweep you away.

Off came my trail sneakers, socks and pants, on came the Mary Jane's and, down to a pair of shorts (full top clothes, though), I waded into the first channel. The turbid water was opaque and my hiking poles showed me the depth to be about mid-thigh. Oddly I began to feel my upper legs banging against what had to be some submerged branches, that broke away as I surged forward. It took a few seconds for me to realize that what I was encountering was not branches at all but the surface ice breaking as my legs moved forward. The surface was obscured by some rain that lay on the ice and fooled me into thinking it was open water. Up on a gravel bar and down into the main channel at a shallow point, and out the other side in about 30 seconds. The hiking poles were very useful in maintaining balance. No sense stumbling over a rolling rock and getting completely soaked.

My feet were numb and aching and cramping by the time I got out, but warmed in a minute and I could casually sit on a log and change back into my original clothes. A success!

The rest of the day was spent exploring the other side of the park I had never seen before, intending to re-cross the creek at the shallow part of the falls I had passed hours ago. But from the tops of the ravines, 300 feet up I missed the view of the falls and passed them by, realizing this only later. No big deal. A small, dilapidated, crumbling road crossed the south end of the park where I was headed. To the east on that road, where it was still a road, was my car. I would just hike to what was left of the road, follow it to the little metal bridge, cross, head uphill and be back.

In the gathering dusk I found what was left of the road and heading to the crossing. It was some time before I got there, the road being a real obstacle course, unsuited for any vehicle, and barely good enough as a hiking trail. It had been closed many years ago. Arriving at the bridge I discovered there wasn't any. It had long ago been removed.

Hmmm...I stuck my hiking pole into the water. The river at this point was not braided and the full current ran in a single channel. I was on the outside of a bend, the deepest part and my hand went right into the water without the hiking pole reaching bottom. I pondered the Mary Jane's. Pondered a walk across the river, pondered a swim. Hmmmm..

Then I did a silly thing and scrambled up the 200' cliff above, hoping to see from that vantage point, a shallower crossing. But up on top the view was obstructed and darkness was falling fast. I couldn't see the bottom. I walked along for about 15 minutes and then came to my senses. I stopped, put down my hiking poles, got out the map, compass and headlamp, and proceeded back. Five minutes later I realized I had left the hiking poles behind. I dashed back, but the rain had ruined the snow for tracks and after searching fruitlessly for another 5 minutes I realized I had lost the hiking poles. I'd have to come back some other day in daylight and find them.

Now I had to get back far enough to descend the cliff where the road ended but not too soon. Too soon and I'd descend right down to the creek. If it were really steep I'd be swimming the creek after plunging in. I took extra care to go extra far back, descended with the light of the headlamp but without my hiking poles. The scrap branches lying around were mostly rotten and of little use as hiking poles. They snapped when I poked them into the ground and were more hazard than they were worth.

Finally I reached the road, hiked a 1/2 mile to where houses began, flagged down a kind lady in her car and got driven back to mine. In my mind I was concerned that the park rangers might have closed the gates on my car after dark and worse, called out a rescue, but they're understaffed and the gates were open. Understaffing is a good thing sometimes.

I was home an hour later. A wonderful trip. I like those Mary Jane's.

Marty