Hidden Water

Appropriate Technology: The Potato Gun comes to the Costa Rica Jungle

2009-02-23T10:18:22-05:00

Sustainable development advocates working abroad in the field of water supply and sanitation like to talk about the need for appropriate technology: the use of sturdy, effective equipment that can be repaired locally, is robust, and fits into the local culture. An example is installing hand-powered PVC and rope pumps into shallow dug wells for village water supply, rather than electrical submersible pumps that require more mony, an electrical supply and expensive parts and repairs.

I have worked on development of water supply on 3 continents, and know the frustration of finding broken, abandoned and useless water projects installed with good intentions by foreign workers only a few years before. And on a whitewater trip to Costa Rica, I found the perfect metaphor to illustrate, and demonstrate the success and satisfaction of a more apprpriate choice: The Potato Gun as appropriate technology!

In case you don't know, the potato gun is a home-built PVC and glue contraption that fires whole potatoes, with shocking velocity and limited accuracy, using a shot of fuel and a simple ignition spark. Mankind has long struggled to launch potatoes (or tomatillos, jicama, small mangoes or other locally grown produce) long distances to impress his drinking buddies. The satisaction of a successful potato shot, the root vegetable launching in a tongue of blue flame and becoming into a speck in the sky, as a pack of children of all ages clamor for a turn to fire it, is a slice of true domestic happiness.

It builds a feeling of comunity, and of connection between the generations (OK, between generations of silly guys; Moms usually don't get it) that has to be experienced to be understood. I find it also bridges a language gap very effectively and builds trust and common interest when you are a newcomer. You don't have to explain the potato gun, you just assemble and shoot it, and you are soon one of the community. Everyone understands the purpose (there is none) and the joins in the process of optimizing the experience. There is a natural tendency to suggest improvements, and try alterntive projectiles. Mandarin oranges and jicamas work pretty good, tomatoes and other fruits less so. Prettty soon, even in remote villages, sombody drags out an old broken TV to blast a potato into, and your team building mission is complete, joined with a cultural commentary on the worth of broadcast entertaiment. A wIn-win. Just watch out for local authority figures who might want to be consulted first. I have found that cops everywhere love potato guns, but they also love confiscating them.

Yet, fancy technological modifications, such as battery powered sparkers and propane tank fuel lines (to replace the traditional hand-sprayed shot of carburator cleaner accelerant) have prolifereated in designs in the United States. A potato gun arms race. It was not until I introduced the potato gun to the talented local river guides on the Pacure RIver in the Costa RIcan highlands that I understood the importance of using appropriate technology.

NYC Kayak Circumnavigation: Paddle a Lap around Manhattan

2008-09-25T11:34:01-04:00

Water surrounds Manhattan, and it is in constant motion. New York City's most famous island is set in one of the most complex harbor and waterways systems of any great city. The Atlantic Ocean meets the Hudson River on the west side of Manhattan, and the Atlantic also flows up and back down the East River, thru the Hells Gate narrows, and out to the Long Island Sound on the other side. North of Hells Gate on the East Side, the skinny Harlem River completes the water route, connecting the tides of the East River to the tides of the Hudson, all of them pulsing back and forth, and changing direction four times a day.

But Then Which Way Do You Call Downstream?

By timing this tidal dance, it is possible to paddle completely around Manhattan, a grand day trip of 31 miles, with the current flowing with you the whole time. And so we did, launching 6 kayaks at dawn from Pier 40 near the southern tip of Manhattan, on the last of the Hudson's morning ebb tide. We went south-around, 6 paddlers, for three rivers, one day, 31 miles, one lap. We circumnavigated the island like a pod of cautious orcas, at home in the watery environment along the perimeter, but never penetrating the teeming land surface. When people asked where we were from, we said we had paddled over from Ireland.

Start with a Paddling Plan

I had read the paddling web pages and tide charts to plan the route. The NOAA page was best:

http://tidesandcurrents.noaa.gov/tides07/tpred2.html

We had snacks, water bottles, Google Earth air photos, radios, and a series of milestones to hit to stay with the tides: around the Battery by 9:30AM, under the Brooklyn Bridge and up past the UN building to Hells Gate by noon, through the Gate with the tidal flood (6 knots max!) by 1 pm, then on up the East River, now ebbing north out to the Hudson, toemerge at the northern tip of Manhattan, Sputen Dyvil, by 4:PM, and ride the Hudson's grander, more mature and elegant tidal ebb (2 knots), south along the long 10 miles back to our origin.

And it all worked. We moved through the early river traffic of the Battery cautiously, podding up our kayaks to allow the Staten Island Ferry to bellow past, and then meeting with the Coast Guard runabout boat. Twin machine guns reminded us that the Coast Guard had some rules down here, and would like to have them obeyed. (Imagine if Grand Canyon rangers had machinee guns). We tried to look like innocent tourists, and promised to keep 150 yards away from the UN Building, power plants and bridge abutments. City views going up the East River were terrific, with the sun coming up clear and strong, Brooklyn Bridge iconic and ancient, the Chrysler Building and Midtown sparkling with promise, and joggers everywhere along the shores sending us waves. Expensive toys like cigarette boats and helicopters were clustered around Wall Street riverfront, with no visible sign of the billion dollar financial meltdown of the previous week. The City looked like Hedge Fund trader's dream, but who owned those yachts now, after their brokerage went bankrupt?

Our group of paddlers was strong, untroubled by the harbor chop or the eddies of Hells Gate. We were making great time, at ease in our boats, almost outpacing the tide. We pulled out on the rocks at the top of Roosevelt Island and climbed the seawall to relax at the park, lunch and watch the max flood through the Gate. We stopped later along the Hudson-Harlem line railroad tracks that line the Harlem River, and again at a waste patch of land we dubbed The Murder Scene, near an overpass north of Yankees Stadium. There was a steady and mysterious flow of car traffic to an apparently abandoned group of shanties on the Bronx riverfront, and we got back in our boats and launched quickly.

As with any day in the city, we had casual interactions with all manners and classes of NYC officials and citizens. A NYC Police helicopter buzzed us twice, and then returned to its hovering station over Yankee Stadium (watching the game?). We saw fiberglass ski boats and and classic wooden motor boats, NYC and Yonkers police launches, a pack of 15 racing jet-skis with We're-From-New-Jersey written all over them, the Circle Line, and a few other kayaks, including another circumnavigationn group, with a hired guide. I caged a cold beer from a friendly motor boat gal, paddling hard to catch her stern (ahem) under a bridge for the handoff, and then to stay ahead of my buddies till I drank it. From the river, we glided past family picnics, South Street Seaport, subway car storage yards, exercise classes, football practice, and all manner of abandoned industrial waste yards. A tug pulled an enormous empty barge, floating high and boxy witha sheer bow wave, by a cable as thick as my leg. There is a separate city life on the rivers around Manhattan, and we were visitors to this society.

As the day wore on, and our backs and legs got stiff, our breaks got more frequent. We decided this river needs a surfing wave somewhere around Brooklyn to up the fun level, and a good rope swing would be nice at one of those Harlem River railroad bridges. Good scenery, but still, 31 miles of flat-water will do that to you.

Finally, we left the narrow Harlem River and emerged back onto the main Hudson. It seemed enormous after the intimate gorge section of the Harlem River. Our paddling group moved out into the river to catch the main Hudson flow south, and all of Manhattan seemed to stretch out before us. That is one glamorous island, but when you have been paddling for eight hours already and have to go the length of it, it is the size that is most impressive. The sun was heading down as we floated past the George Washington Bridge and the Little Red Lighthouse, and we still had 180 blocks to go. But the horses smelled the barn, and we paddled on. The ebb tide south increased and carried us, as Manhattan and Newark towers caught and reflected the sunset, and our day on the water came full circle. We reached our dock below Houston Street as the sky became purple, and made our take out and load up before the first star appeared.

Tired and proud, we drove north out of the city, land creatures once again, but able to claim ownership of a full view of one of the most complicated, interesting and storied waterfronts on the planet.

Next: Circumnavigate Ireland?

Green River Rafting : It Takes a ViIlage

2008-07-31T14:57:53-04:00

It takes, well, at least a small village. A Park Service lottery led to a July 1 launch permit, to float the excellent Gates of Lodore section of the Green River, through Dinosaur National Monument in NE Utah and Colorado.

And to do it right, you have to bring a mountain of gear, some old and some new friends, a pack of kids, some river veterans, some rookies, some fun Moms, a couple of boatmen, and a trip elder: Grandma Elaine, in our case. The Queen of the Green. So we did. Nineteen people, 5 rafts, 3 kayaks, one canoe. Four days on the river, and a fleeting chance to glimpse a bit of North America as it was 500 years ago.

Step By Step to the Promised Land

All the stages of the private river trip repeat themselves anew each voyage: the Joy of the Permit notice, early recruiting, building excitement and a crew list, logistics glitches and trip planning, an email frenzy the week before, and finally, break from your house and get out of town. The Pre-Trip, a journey of its own and scene of some hilarious road trip encounters and memorable excesses in former years, calmer now but still full of the limitless potentiality and sense of coming fun. Rushed final shopping ensues. I like to put on a cowboy shirt at this stage, and make my spirit big.

The Put-in Scene: a most trying and tricky stage, take a calming breath, don't rush it, as the Tribe pours in road weary and partially insane from the accumulated stress of getting away for this trip. Confusion and anxiety peak at this stage. Everyone tries to help, cross-purposes occur, Park Rangers are lurking on the ramp, piles of gear everywhere, shaking hands with new folks pulling up, sometimes it is difficult. Try to remember ten thousand things as you rig your gear and boat, ask who moved your cheese, and don't step too hard on anyones mojo. Here is where I felt my back go out, a stab of pain at the belt-line, as I lifted 2 cases of soda out of the mini-van while rushing to load a raft. Always relearning the same lessons, we are. Breathe, stretch, have beer at hand but not too much too soon. Gradually, the mountain of gear becomes a fleet of boats. The river whispers, boat squeak in the eddy, the canyon is almost within reach.

Finally, The Launch.

Top Ten Moments from High Sierra Ski Tour 2008

2008-05-06T12:07:09-04:00

Escape From Bishop: Ski Mountaineering into the Kearsarge Basin

The trip sounded great: we are getting the gang back together, going in with packs and alpine touring skis to High Sierra backcountry over 11,000' Kearsarge Pass, and spending a week skiing and skinning along the Sierra Crest, in some of the most remote and spectacular mountain basins in North America.

Of course, I underestimated the damage which rental ski boots could do to my feet in less than 2 days, and overestimated the joy of carrying heavy packs and skis over mountain passes, and overall, learned a lesson about ski mountainering: it is a lot of hard work and pain, which is why those backcountry winter basins are so empty and gorgeous. We ended up escaping back to Bishop with me limping in borrowed tennis shoes, and Dwight skiing out with a broken upper arm. But, like they say in the Grand Canyon, if it was easy, anyone could do it. The days in the upper Kearsarge Basin, living in alpine beauty with good companions, and solving the series of small challenges that winter camping consists of, were the payoff.

Top Ten Moments from Kearsarge Basin :

1) Singing Amazing Grace and playing guitar with Richard Fartswell, Truckee street musician, and a dozen enthusiastic Russian tourists, the night before Rendezvous with friends in Reno airport. Waking and meeting the gang at Reno, making the trip finally real, filling up Tim's truck, and sharing the sense of excitement of the coming outing.

2) Packing food, gear, and weighting equipment on the lawn at Darla's house , Bishop, California the night before. You have to love good gear to enjoy winter camping, as it makes all the difference. How heavy is that bivvy sack? Which fleece jacket should I bring? Room for a little whiskey? Sleep on the lawn after closing the packs, with our snowy mountain destinations in sight.

3) Drive south down the Owens Valley on 395, the loveliest highway in America, again. Remember living in that hot summer valley as a 20-something geologist, teaching and learning at UC Summer Field Geology camp.

4) I cannot say that the climb up to Kearsarge Pass was a top moment, so I won't. Gasp. It hurt. But, arriving at Kearsarge Pass, and looking west, down and into the High Sierra backcountry, the promised land of snowy solitude and stony beauty, was.

5) Taking off my ski boots of torture at night and having the foot pain stop.

6) Awaking in Kearsarge Basin, disoriented from a nap on the snow, exhausted from carrying pack and skis up, and feeling the momentary utter surprise at finding myself in such a thrilling setting, high amid lovely peaks.

7) Talking politics, world events, ski gear and old stories with old friends, while sprawled in camp melting snow and boiling water for hot meals.

8) Hiking out in borrowed sneakers on Day 5, worried about my feet, starting early to move on the still-frozen crust, and getting safely up to pass before snow got soft.

9)Skiing the scary long snowfield ski run down from the pass, with potential consequences for a long fall, heart thumping, and legs quivering, pack on my back and snow flying by as I chanted, 'Keep it together, keep it together, ..." and made it to the flats.

10) Careful technical descent over remaining snow fields to trailhead, using ski poles and sneakers in deep snow, mixing sliding, heelplants, unexpected post-holing, and careful walking to arrive back at cars intact. Every step out was tricky and it took a couple thousand.

Thanks to all my Supporters on this trip:

Robin Hayes, enabler extraordinaire

Mike Hayes, John Bowman: winter camping gear supply

Brian in Truckee: comfortable lodging and altitude

Darla in Bishop: staging area, gear prep and home invasion

David Loewen, Pilates on Main, Gardiner, NY: body core training and prep

Richard Fartswell, Truckee musician: surreal humor, singing Russians, and good music.

Tim, Al, Gillian, Jan and Dwight: about as good companions as you could find for a ski trip or a high altitude prison break.

Thoughts on Leaving

2008-04-24T13:49:30-04:00

My dogs know what it means when the suitcases come out, and they whine and slouch around the door. I am going again, and they can't stop me, and yet I must wait a bit. Every traveler knows the feeling, just before leaving home (again) for a big outing in the world. The accelerating rush of preparation mixed with work tasks, the must-do-before-I'm-gone list, the gradual shift in perspective from " I can get it all done before I go", to "I can get all the vital stuff done", to "ah, this stuff will be here when I come back". The excitement of the coming trip, mixed with leave taking and a suddenly enhanced appreciation of family, home and the beauty of the every day. But, Joe gotta go.

Now I am on the brink again, bound for Reno, and a long ski trip into the Range of Light, Sierra Nevada backcountry. The high elevation lake basins there are among the most scenic and pleasing locations on this planet, and I have not been among them for way too long. My window to see them ever again is closing, as my knees are going. This trip is also a reunion with my running mates, old geology grad school and hard-core kayak trip buddies. Winter camping and randonee ski gear to climb and descend long empty basins are part of the program. It seems like a lot of work to get solitude and some inner calm, but If You Don't Go, You'll Never Know.

Only the traveler feels the keenness of joy at a return to home, and only the traveler finds new family and second homes everywhere they go. SO, go we must, and may we return to be embraced and healed and rested and launched again.

Moral of The Story: Never Underestimate the Grand Canyon

2008-03-31T14:59:09-04:00

Just when I thought I was done with another Grand Canyon river trip adventure, I relaxed, patted my self on the back, sighed, and then got my butt kicked by the Grand Canyon. Let me explain.

River to Rim is a Mighty Long Walk

Last June, our small group of river buddies hiked out from the Colorado River on the Bright Angel Trail, sadly departing on day 8 from a private river trip to return to our families and lives. The rest of our river tribe was still down there, preparing to run the big water of Granite Creek, Horn Creek and the giant waves of Hermit to continue down the river. We were the departing half-trippers, done for this cycle. As savvy veterans of previous trips, our hike-out group had Gone Big in the early whitewater, charged the river play holes, enjoyed the layover day at Nankoweap Canyon, surfed our kayaks to private glory at every glassy wave, protected our feet, knuckles, brain and skin cells from the brutal punishment the Canyon and river trip fun habits can dish out. We saved just enough stamina for, and worried just a bit about, the famously steep and hot Bright Angel Trail (4400 feet of elevation gain, 9 hot miles, with routine June temps in the 100+ by 3 pm). At Cremation Creek camp on our last night, the traditional changeover night party was ended by a sky-breaking lightning storm and glorious downpour that sent people giggling into the tents. Summer monsoon season had begun in Grand Canyon.

Slightly hungover and slightly depressed the next morn, our group of 4 hikers meet at one raft in the predawn eddy and loaded up. AJ, one of the boatman, was ferrying us down past Phantom Ranch to Pipe Creek to start our hike, shaving a couple of miles off the hike. AJ would drop us and wait there in the eddy for the other boats. We floated quietly down past the Bright Angel Creek riffles and silently shared a last few miles on the great river together. It had been a beauty of a trip, and now we had a sense of mission for the hike.

Experience Allows One to Avoid Mistakes

The departure hike to the rim went as planned: we said our goodbyes and were started before the sun was over the rim, we hydrated well, dressed in hats and lightweight sunscreening outfits, ate light, and carried plenty water, we were past Indian Gardens rest spot before noon, and rimmed out, a bit light-headed and winded, but still feeling prime, into the hub-bub of South Rim by 2 pm. Dayhikers of all ages, tourists in sneakers with video cameras running, and National Park concession workers surrounded us in a summer-at-the-National-Park swirl that made my head spin. My Country Tis' of Thee. ..we were back in America.

As always after a long GC river trip, the onslaught of cars and buses, dozens of new faces, and general return to the world was jarring. We were cheerful, still a tight river group, and we hid offtrail in the shade, eating our last energy bars. Mentally, we each considered our private mix of thoughts of our coming re-entry work, tomorrow's Flagstaff flight times, mixed with the fading euphoria from the powerful glories of recent days in the river canyon. We had once again navigated the perils of the Colorado River (upper 80 miles this time, anyway), playing hard and strong, with no paid guides, and relying on our experience and our tight-knit group of friends, the river tribe, to keep us safe. We were mighty. OK, high fives, and lets go into Flagstaff and get some beer and a hot shower. Oh, yes, pride cometh before the fall.

Wait, the shuttle car was nowhere to be found.

We had paid a shuttle guy to leave it here, but, hey, glitches with shuttles are part of a million river trip stories. No big deal for Grand Canyon vets like us. Lets spread out and check the parking lots. Probably out in that vast Remote parking lot. Agreed to meet at the South Rim Bus Shuttle stop.

And so, five minutes later, after reaching the far end of the vast Remote lot, I looked up from searching license plates and noticed the temperature had dropped 20 degrees, and a black wall of cloud with lightning flickering from the bottom was sweeping in. Ah, cool, I thought; an afternoon canyon storm to send us off. I am one with the canyon, and will enjoy the Thunder Gods. But, perhaps I will leave this open, metal-filled, parking lot before the lightning reaches it.

The hard rain started suddenly, with crashing thunder, as I walked back towards the bus stop. In my cotton pajama pants and T-shirt, I was soaked instantly. I had hiked out with only a light daypack, with water and sunscreen, no change of clothes or shell because I had some in the (still missing) shuttle car. Then rain changed to hail, big, honking, serious, hail, and more lightning, very close now,setting off car alarms and the hail dinging car paint on all sides, ricocheting hard off car roofs, and hurting my head. I speed up towards the distant shelter, my tired legs cramping slightly with lactic acid. I was no longer too cool to run out of the rain. Monsoon was on!

Oh, The Humanity

By the time I reached the open-sided shuttle bus shelter, it was like a refugee scene. Sixty people crowded in there, all getting completely soaked in a howling rainstorm. It was huddled masses, ponchos flapping, families yelling at each other, babies and children wailing, rain and hail downpour forming sheet flow off the roof, which was then blowing in waves over the wretched crowd. Instant streams had formed in the street, and waves of hail would occur, drumming onto every exposed surface. Too loud to talk. Mothers cradled their children like biblical exiles, and a young woman near me was sobbing openly as her husband cradled her and both cameras. It was a full-on Grand Canyon summer downpour, ready to blow the tattoo off your arm. And I was caught out: almost naked in my cotton, chilling fast, exhausted, soaked, with no warm gear, no shelter, no car, crouched in the wind shadow of a concrete roof support. And on cue, the wind, thunder and rain doubled in intensity, and I realized the hail was now accumulating to several inches deep. Instant icy snow drifts were forming along the Bus Shelter, in June. Grand Canyon weather is strong.

The Bus Stop storm view over the rim was utterly spectacular, with steady lightning strikes in the near and distant vista, purple light coming thru the black raincloud, and sun still shining 3 miles away on the North Rim. The temperature had dropped probably 50 degrees colder than it had been hiking, and within 10 minutes, I had uncontrollable body and jaw shivering, and the detached perspective of early stage hypothermia. My partial exhaustion from the long hike (and my all cotton outfit) made me extra vulnerable to the heat loss. My friends had been caught near various South Rim buildings, and were not to be seen. A long train of shuttle buses came, and the soaked crowd loaded up and left, until I was all alone in the blowing rain, hunched over, semi-fetal on the ground and shivering. The light bulb in my head was dim and flickering. I almost dozed off.

A piece of my brain said, get up, get warm, start walking. I walked in the now steady rain for several hundred yards along the South Rim road, a drowned shivering rat, and into the lobby of the Bright Angel Lodge. It was jam-packed with tourists in any rain gear they had, a flock of fleece and Gore-tex birds, waiting out the storm. With no money, no ID, empty pockets, my body core temperature dropping perilously, dripping wet, I found it quite strange, almost hallucinatory, to be suddenly among so many dry, well dressed strangers. The crowds parted to avoid touching my wetness, and I slid into the hotel lobby Men's Room. There, I took off and wrung out my T-shirt, my pajama bottoms, and then still shivering uncontrollably, lay down on the tile floor in my underwear and river sandals under two hand dryers, and began to hit the silver On buttons repeatedly, bathed in the electrically heated air. I remember thinking, "Thank God for the Handicapped Access Code, it made them put the hand dryers closer to the floor". Even when you are freezing, it takes a lot to overcome the unwritten social taboo against laying in your underwear on a public bathrooom floor under the hand dryers. I know, because I've been there. I knew it was wierd, but I did not care.

The next couple of tourists who came in the Men's Room looked at me with great fear or suspicion, and did not dare approach my dryers after rinsing their hands. Then two guys with backcountry experience arrived, realized I was hypothermic, rushed over, asked me simple questions, looked in my eyes, and offered some of their clothes to put on. Very interesting human experience, there in the Bright Angel Men's Room. After 20- 30 cycles of hot air from my twin dryers, I was recovered enough to dress and leave.

I stole a yellow rain slicker from the bathroom maintenance closet to put over my damp outfit, and walked back to the bus stop in the rain. Hallelujah! My friends had the car, they had dry clothes, food, they were searching for me, they embraced me, all was not lost. The rain was stopping. We loaded up, we returned my lifted rain slicker to where I found it, and we left the South Rim for Flagstaff. Ambulances came blazing into the park with sirens on as we left. Hikers had been hit by lightning, waterfalls had formed and closed the trail we walked up, workers on the roof of the Lodge were looking at wind damage. Wasn't that a mighty storm. Good thing we were done the hike early, we mused ...wonder where on the river our group was when it hit? Later, we would learn the main Colorado turned red from flash floods entering from side canyons that afternon.

But Remember, Experience is Gained by Making Mistakes

The funny thing about hypothermia, is how quickly you can recover from being a shivering zombie, almost catatonic, back to being a dry, warm, functioning person. Then the recent memory of your condition seems like a dream state. Just before I fell deeply asleep in the back of that warm car headed to Flag, I thought, how ironic;

Me, with my years of Grand Canyon trips, after weeks of my river time and exposure, taking chances and living large on whitewater adventures, using my skill, my specialty river gear and my preparation, carefully gauging risk-versus-reward behavior to best enjoy the mother of all great rivers. Then, I relaxed at the end and got my ass kicked when I least expected it, in a South Rim tourist bus shelter. What a lesson; After you scout the run, make your entry, and make the key moves, Finish Strong, bucko, and do not drop your guard until the rapid is done.

Never underestimate the ability of the Grand Canyon to hand you a powerful life lesson, a dangerous thrilling experience, and a glorious view all at the same time.

Top Ten Moments from Pavones, Costa Rica March 2008

2008-03-27T16:11:37-04:00

From Hayes Family Trip, Pavones, Costa Rica

"A Family Vacation is a Contradiction in Terms"

1) A Scarlet Macaw, the most outrageous of wild birds, settles into Almond Tree outside the Cantina, as Ben and I watch. Two-foot long ridiculous tail flutters above us as we creep forward across the parking lot and watch it crack nuts. The locals leave their bar stools to come gaze with us, and smile with satisfaction.

2) Goofy children grinning and splashing in the hotel pool, well, like children, playing with underwater camera and self timer to get the definitive underwater grin shot. They act like they like each other.

3) The Jungle Vine Swing, a native vine twisted into artisan's work by locals for perfect sketchy rock climb, swing and big splash into Rio Claro jungle river swimming hole. Sudden rain downpour to soak us as we swim just feels that much more more jungly. Sam test-pilots it, then Ben directs Vine Video of himself dropping,(YouTube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xDAnftEVUo )

4) Horseback ride with family becomes full-on horseback gallop with Eva, as our pair of spirited, willing horses, running hard,side-by-side along mountain roads, leave other horses way behind. I am barely within my ability (but trust the horses and hold on). Squeezing my Gunpowder quarter horse hard with my legs to hold on is like pressing the accelerator, and our paired horses sprinted in mutual competition,well matched. Eva passing me with a determined grin on the inside at full speed, Gunpowder surging to retake the lead, thru shadow and clouds of sudden flower fragrance, with purple sunset over distant ocean, when .. a toucan bursts out of bushes and escorts us down an avenue of jungle trees at eye level. Yow! I am still walking funny.

5) Dawn hike and skinny dipping in Rio Claro with my Jewish Jungle Goddess, no one there but us and the Blue Morpho butterflies.

6) Cool flights in and out , as our single engine plane flies down the Pacific Coast from San Jose, across the wild Osa Peninsula, and then cranks a turn over water and drops into Golfito, the fishing village with jungle airstrip that accesses Pavones. That nice young guy who took our tickets is also the pilot, and I can watch final approach from seat just behind him.

7) Playing guitars and telling stories with the Canadians from the cabina next door, as Sam buys his first legal beer (in Spanish), and Mark from BC tells us about (aboot) his scorpion bite.

8) Ben returns to the (powerful, demanding ) surf 3 days after a bad wave/rock smash, and paddles out calmly, facing his fear.

9) Hot lazy afternoons with the full team on the porch, hiding from sun in hammock and playing chess and Boggle marathons. Music jams with Sam on harmonica and guitar, playing blues and ska.

10) Big Swell arrives on Day 3, and Dad finally gets to surf alone on Day 4, when family goes on Jungle Hike. After excitedly paddling over-the-falls, I calm down, find my takeoff spot, and drop cleanly into half a dozen fast, steep, challenging waves, thru a bottom turn, and burst into a moment of speed, balance, light and magic. Racing down a wall of green water, overhead wave power unfolding in front of me and exploding foam behind, all in motion, all frozen, a breathless heartbeat, until the hanging green lip drops on my head, in an engulfing liquid crush. I surface after the hold-down to capture my board, battle my way back outside, and try again. My dream wave arrived, and found me. I finally stagger ashore grinning.

Paddling Song: One Great Thing

2008-03-14T10:58:16-04:00

ONE GREAT THING

And I think over and over again,

of when, with a North wind

I drifted in my kayak along the Great River

and thought I was in danger.

My fears,

those small ones

that I though so big

for all the vital things

I had to get and to reach.

And yet, there is only

One Great Thing

the only thing:

to live and to see,

on journeys, in camps, and at home

the great day that dawns

and the light that fills the world.

- Copper Tribe Inuit Song.

Santa Cruz: No Rest for the Cool Crowd

2008-03-06T15:44:35-05:00

Santa Cruz, California, March 2008

Returning again to Santa Cruz for a week of work, I realize how much work it is to stick there. It may be the coolest town on the planet, but being part of it is not as easy as it looks.

Now, I am no tourist here. Santa Cruz is a skein of memories for me: I lived there 20 years, got a grad degree at Slug U., had my children, bought and sold houses, raised a family and a business. My name is on the wall list of notable beer-drinkers in a downtown tavern, I got the secret local knowledge you can only acquire over years, and I paid for it with my youth. I know where to park downtown for free without getting a ticket, I know the best topless beaches versus the best surfing beaches on the North Coast, what combination of tide, wind and swell creates perfect left barrels at Davenport Landing, how to get from downtown Santa Cruz to Capitola when the freeway is clogged (almost always now), and where to get great carnitas burritos in any neighborhood (OK, that one is easy in California).

But now I have jumped ship, moved my family back to the Old Country, the full four seasons and white winters of the Hudson Valley. We keep our footprint in Santa Cruz, though, with a condo for summer living, and with my monthly returns to work at groundwater consulting. Now I see more clearly how not mellow it is: everyone is stuck on the freeway, talking to their partner about childcare, trying to make the frickin' mortgage payment and still get in a little longboard session (or Ultimate team practice, or climbing gym, Wilder State Park mountain bike outing or running in Pogonip with doggie friends, or whatever).

In Santa Cruz, the pulse never stops. There is always new surfers in your lineup, new restaurants to try, another batch of good-looking young people and sketchy panhandlers on Pacific Garden, no parking to be found in Capitola since 1979, fog in the morning, and blue skies after lunch, pretty girls on cruiser bikes, pretty Moms in mini-vans, too many cars on the freeway, hummingbirds in the garden, good music coming to town and Realtors setting up and taking down Open House signs. There is no rest for the cool.

Phantom Ranch Guitar

2008-02-21T15:21:19-05:00

Phantom Ranch Guitar

The guitar at the Phantom Ranch cookhouse hangs on a wooden peg in the old mess hall, in reach of any hiker, river runner, or Grand Canyon wanderer who comes in and wants to play. It’s an old nylon string cowboy guitar, sturdy and a little battered, with the loving words, "Be Gentle Please" clearly lettered on the side. It has no visible brand, no fancy logo on the headstock, but it has the unmistakable patina of age and seasons, and the touch of countless caring hands.

We had walked up the trail into Phantom Ranch from our boats, early on day 8 of our Colorado river trip, sunburned, scruffy and happy, to get ice cream and send out letters. I took the guitar down off the wall while my raft trip buddies were buying stamps, and strummed a chord. It rang out loud, in tune and clear. It was morning at Phantom, and the place was quiet. Breakfast had been cleared away, sun was streaming in onto the wooden floor, and outside were scattered campers and chattering groups of tourists, starting their day in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

And just for a few minutes, I sat at the cookhouse table in a straight backed wooden chair and I played that old guitar. I played the intro part to Ghost Riders in the Sky to get the cowboy feel, I strummed my favorite dramatic Spanish falsetas. Then I settled down and played Don’t Fence Me In, for the part about the horses, and so I could sing the line about " I wanna gaze at the moon until I lose my senses".

The guitar had an easy action and sounded surprisingly good. Some folks came in and some left, my river trip buddies went back to the boats, and I was left to play for myself in a sunny corner of the empty dining hall. The music rang out and no one watched or cared, and to me, my playing never sounder better.

After a few more songs, I knew I had to get back to my boat. I hung that guitar back on its peg, to wait for the next wanderer to find it, and I walked out the door down to the trail along Bright Angel Creek to the river. My trip was almost ready, with the other boatmen rigging their rafts and filling water jugs. The Colorado River was shining in the sun. I checked my rig, sat in my seat and took the oars. Time to focus. Big water lay waiting downstream, a string of serious and reverent names like Horn Creek, Granite, Hermit and Crystal. As our group pushed off and my boat swung out into the Bright Angel riffles, I started to sing Don’t Fence Me In, and, you know, I think I never sounder better.

I can’t wait to play that guitar again.