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A Journey Through Asia

2009-11-06T12:35:00.010-07:00

Below is a collection of images from our seven month journey through Asia. This slide show is a showcase of images captured in
India, Nepal, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand and is set to the music of Brasileiro, Gomez, Jack Johnson and Michael Franti. Turn up the volume and enjoy!

Climbing in Siung Beach, Indonesia

2009-08-29T01:02:00.000-06:00

Hey guys. Just thought I would share some images from our recent trip to Siung Beach, Indonesia. We had a fantastic time throughout Java, but Siung was the highlight for sure. Amazing people, wonderful food, and fantastic beach side limestone. The bolts had seen better days, so if you plan on paying the area a visit, bring a drill and some hardware!

Just finished the story on the trip and it should be out soon. I'll keep you all posted!

Lisa on a low tide boulder problem.

Flo taking the sharp end on this very nice 5.10.

There were some great routes in this canyon. It was a great place to escape from the midday sun.

Flo on Kuta Laut - an amazing 5.11a.

To clip or not to clip? Unfortunately, many of the non-stainless bolts in the area met the same fate as this one.

Lisa gets friendly with the locals.

The Burning Ghats of Varanasi

2009-06-23T23:13:00.000-06:00

First a glow, then the ash falls. To my surprise, the product of these fuming pyres stings my eyes. Drifting past this medieval scene in our leaky wooden vessel, I feel as if I transcended back through time at least a few centuries. I swear I hear voices whisper through the black night, the final dreams of passing spirits or perhaps last requests. In this feeble light it seems the shores themselves were hewn of rib and joint. Each ghat is crowned with roaring flames. Corpses wrapped in gold linen are carried down the stone steps for their Gangal dip then brought to the burn – back to the earth. The clang of bells dances upon the river; carrying with it weeping and sorrow. Costumed disciples twirl candles upon a stone tower with silent rhythm for those they know not. Another is lit. A dark, human profile turns to ash as the sandalwood smolders to infinity. If Hades were on earth, this river would truly be the fabled Styx.

Our boatman slowly paddles on. The air is so thick with spirits we nearly choke. I turn my head back to the night just to clean the slate before taking one last look at this haunting scene. The feeling is more than I expected of these public cremations. Blank. Solemn. Smoke. I feel quite voyeuristic, almost guilty for witnessing this scene. But the spectacle is so encompassing and the feelings so physically powerful – you are not merely watching, you are truly part of it all.

India Journal

2009-05-11T23:36:00.001-06:00

4/18/09
One more day in Delhi. It seems that Uncle Sal (my Dad’s pet name for salmonella) decided to leave me a birthday present in my spinach cannelloni. It was a gift delivered on my birthday, but not opened until the following morning. At least I can say that I have now vomited in a public urinal in Delhi. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. Let’s not relive the details though, ok? We hurried back to the hotel, bogged down by the triple digit heat every step of the way.

We actually sprung for a really posh place for my birthday. So if I’m going to be sick, this is the room to let loose in. But at thirty bucks a night, we can’t afford to stay long. One more day, one more bout with food poisoning.
In India, it seems every dining experience is a spin of the roulette wheel. Every spoonful lands on either red or black. We have been fed rotten food five times collectively now over the period of six weeks. Week after week, the odds have been in our favor. But, sooner or later the house always wins.

4/20/09
Two days have passed since my little ordeal. Now that we’re finally here in the mountain town of Vashisht, Lisa found that she should have placed her bet on black instead of red. Her last meal in Delhi, caught up with her here in the foothills of the Himalaya. Food poisoning is annoyingly persistent that way. But at least the symptoms were well mannered enough to wait until we checked into our new room. Poor thing, she’ll feel better in the morning.

I sit with my Tom Robbins book, nearly asleep in ‘frog pajamas’ myself. Then a billowy storm system rolls into the valley. For a mere 200 rupees per night - approx four U.S. dollars - our room boasts a wall of windows that allow sweeping views of the Himalayan range, prefaced with a river carved gorge below. With this view, I can spy every craggy ridge and every slot coulier. And this gift of rain dances upon the landscape; it may be the most refreshing act of nature I have seen in India so far.

I wake from my lethargic fog, and dust the 14 hour bus ride to the floor. A greater sense of awareness falls gently upon my shoulders and I realize that I feel as if I’m home. The mountains always steer me towards that direction. And with the trials we have been pitted up against in this country, I have to say that it’s about damn time! A quote by Ruskin Bond pops into my mind: “Once you have lived with mountains for any length of time, you belong to them and must return again and again.” Right on, so very, very right on.
I haven’t been inspired to write a poem for quite a while, but suddenly here I am pressing the pen to the paper for the first time in well over a year.

Vashisht Drops

And to my chagrin, it happens again
New place, new face(s)
Only this time, rain the wet blanket
It’s familiar touch, soothes souls and such
The Vashisht drops, she never stops
Only a rainbow can save us now

If that rainbow comes out tomorrow, we hope to head to the hills and get some climbing in!

And That's How I Got Rabies

2009-04-17T03:55:00.001-06:00

After being in the small Indian town of Hampi for nearly three weeks, Lisa and I had peeled through and exhausted all forms of literature in our possession. Apparently, it was time to hit the bookstore. We remembered seeing one not too far from our hotel, so we set out to grab some piles of pages to pacify us on our upcoming (twenty-six hour) train ride to Delhi. Our mission began with a left turn onto a chossy Hyderabadi sidewalk. We dove into the churning sea of what we have come to accept as a typical Indian street scene – wave after wave of sweaty humans threatening to topple us over – the undertow of shouting rickshaw drivers, careening motorbikes, and blasting horns grab at our bodies and drown our senses. The only way to survive is to surrender to the flow.

Not two minutes had passed when I felt a sharp and piercing pain in my left leg, followed by about twenty pounds of dead weight trying to stretch my skin. It was as if I walked into a piercing shop and asked for a heavy gauged needle to be threaded through my kneecap and accessorized with a bowling ball. I sharply blurted out a “What the hell!” then looked down and discovered the bag of mange that was clamped onto my leg.

I immediately began to shake my leg violently, but the scrappy monster had a solid grip and hung on for the ride. Locked away somewhere in the instinctual part of my brain, I had a plan for just such an occasion and I was able to access and process this plan in the span of about two seconds. Honestly, I had no idea my brain operated that fast anymore. Locking out my left leg and swiftly spinning clockwise on the ball of my right foot (speed aided by the greasy pavement no doubt), I flung the little bastard from his crushing grip. Landing on all fours, he stood about four feet before me. This was the first time I actually got a good look at him. Patches of bare black skin shown through the brown muted fur of what just might have been one of the ugliest stray dogs in all of India. He was a little guy – about nine months old, but as mindlessly ferocious as an undersexed, juiced-up frat boy. His foamy jowls were pulled tight, bearing his toothy weapons as he stared up at me. He has already tasted my blood, and I can see he is about to come back for more. Waiting for him to turn broadside, I chambered my kick, then let my sandled foot fly into his boney ribcage. He was airborne for about five feet before skidding down on the sidewalk’s opposite side. Defeated, he let out a whimper and disappeared back into the sea of Indian legs.

Marveling at the fact that I had never actually punted a dog before, I felt a small sense of Cro-Magnon pride for defending my mate and scaring off the wild beast. I hadn’t noticed the circle of people that stood watching the flying dog act. I wondered if they had seen the dog attack, or if they had just seen some white guy kick a poor defenseless animal into the street. I pray for the former, because I am greatly outnumbered here. Instantly, they lose interest. No concern is shown for the dog – or me for that matter.

Lisa inspected the leg of my now shredded (and only) pair of pants to check out the damage. They were covered in some sort of black frothy goo. “My God, what the hell has this little bastard been eating?” I asked, praying not to hear a reply. Rolling up the pant leg, we took a look at the rest of the collateral damage. I was bleeding, but not much. Just four small punctures encircled with red, soon to be bruises, showed around my left kneecap. “God damn hell hound – I should go finish him before he bites some kid’s face off. Where the hell did he come from anyway?” Lisa explained that he was just trotting along, happily walking towards us when he turned and pounced on me. “Must not like whiteys., the damned racist mutt,” I shakingly joked. “Off to the pharmacist for you,” laughed Lisa. Lucky for us, we knew the drill. Our friend Alonzo was bitten by a stray dog in Hampi and had to undergo the same rabies vaccination process that I would now have to endure – five shots over the period of a month. It’s not so much painful as it is a hassle. We all had a great time laughing at poor Alonzo’s expense. Unfortunately, rabies jokes are so much fun, but Karma is such a bitch.

Now, I’ve been an animal lover ever since I was a kid. I remember one time when I was about seven years old, my folks brought me to the Jersey Shore. There were these children about twice my size who were using sticks to stab and chop the jellyfish that washed up on the beach. So, I ran up to the group of savages, placing myself between the pointed sticks and directionally challenged invertebrates and demanded that they stop this madness at once. I was promptly pushed into the water and stung by several jellyfish. It seems that animals just don’t care.

My leg - post chomp.

Me, taking shot number 1.

Kudle, not so cuddly...

2009-03-27T05:10:00.001-06:00

Kudle Beach, India

After an eight hour pucker-fest of a bus ride and just over 10 hours of train travel, we found ourselves on sandy swampland with angry shores. We arrived expecting to find the typical lot of greased up tourists wearing cheap sunglasses and expensive suntans. But somehow we drifted right through that mess and found ourselves in quite another. All it takes is a quick glance up the shoreline to gain a full understanding of this place. It’s as if a freighter en route to Eugene, Oregon wrecked In the Arabian Sea and the survivors managed to save only the most valuable of their possessions: patchouli oil and hacky sacks. I’ve experienced the scene countless times during Phish tour and Festival season, but this was different. Something was amiss in these people’s Kool-Aid.

Our enormous packs, swollen with climbing and photo gear draw guffaws and disapproving nods from these seemingly half-starved creatures who apparently have only been living on yoga practice and bean curd. We continue down the beach for more of the same. I was sure of our immediate doom. A Frisbee goes sailing to my feet. I lean over to grasp it hoping to return it to a friendly face. Then my weight combined with the 40 + lbs transfer to my sprained ankle and I nearly topple into the surf. I recover and toss the little red ‘bee back to the owner, without even thanks in return.

I remember receiving a welcoming of this sort at a Wal-Mart set in some backwoods Adirondack town this past winter. Carhart and flanneless, I entered the building only out of necessity – we were out of beer. I remember strolling past the gun department after selecting a twelver of microbrew, and walking down the aisle just fast enough not to appear nervous. A few of the local boys, donning their mossy-oak camo, were standing at the glass counter. Talk about a recent 4-inch lift that one had done to their Chevy pick-up was keeping the pack pleasantly entertained. Out of habit of forever being a casual observer, I glanced over and accidentally made the mistake of making eye contact with one of the brutes. This “eyeballin’” was not taken well by the big fella who felt that it was his duty to puff up his chest and screw his face to the appearance of someone that wanted to carve his initials into my forehead. I decided it was best not to look up again until I made it to the checkout line. While smiling at the customer before me, the kindly old cashier began to greet me with pleasant “Hi there.” And when laying eyes upon my out of towner appearance, she finished with “Oh, hand me your I.D.” Word to the wise, leave the puffy Mountain Hardware jacket in the car when venturing into this sort of backcountry.

The crispy noon sun turns our naked heads crisp and the searing sand is doing the same on our bubbly toes, but we continue to hump our packs down to the very end of the beach. Surely we will be handsomely rewarded for having to endure such a gauntlet. We continue on, thinking of the Shangri-La that awaits us at the end. Turning our heads to the right, we notice that we are walking parallel to some sort of liquid nastiness. Earlier, we observed a small channel opposite the surf when we first stepped foot on the beach. We dismissed it as a stream. But here, it opened into a large festering pool of sewerage and jungle rot. We stop and watch as people wade through the dank sludge on their way to restaurants. We make an oath to avoid the mystery liquid no matter how good we hear the food is on the other side.

Reaching the end, we trudge up the concrete steps where we are informed by the smiling Thai ex-pat that all the rooms are full, but we should try next store. Ducking under a paisley tapestry, we make our inquiry at the Ganja Café (eyeroll). It was a cursed little shack that resembled more of a tomb than a shelter. Four concrete walls, a sporadically operational fan, and a soggier than usual cotton mattress. Looking at Lisa, I feel she is about to cry. I don’t blame her. But after I tell her that the mosquito netting will keep the nasties at bay and the waves will sing us to sleep, all is well and we head to the surf.

Due to the raw sewerage that streamed from the faucets in Ooty, it’s been four very humid days since we last bathed. Our plan is to first swim, then shower. Stripping down to our bathing suits, pasty skin blinding all those around, we run into the sea where we are instantly taken out at the knees. “Jesus, this place will kill us yet!” I yell. We stand up and give it another go. The sea grabs us, and sucks us into the party. Pummeled by breakers and pulled at by the rip tide we give up the fight and head back to shower.

After a few minutes of searching around the hybrid tree house/fortified compound for the bathroom, we decide to ask a guest for directions. He was a tall, stringy, dreadlocked German with crazed grey eyes. There seemed to be a little too much pupil showing for this time of the day. I would have just kept walking but it was already too late, Lisa had already intiated the conversation. At first he looked at us like we spat on his mother. Then his thin lips pursed to a smile when Lisa repeated the question “Where can we shower?” “Oh no showaz?! Therz no showaz since zee storm came through yesterday.” Well that explains the beachfront sewer, I think to myself. Then thwarting a plastic water bottle in our faces he shouts, “You must take cat shower! Like zees!!” He splashes the water over himself, hooks his veiny wrists like paws and uses them to spastically wipe down his torso. “See, like cat!! You try!!” From the corner of my mouth I lean to Lisa and ask, “Holy shit, do you think Shultz needs to chill on the acid a bit?” Without words we agree that we have to leave this scene at once, so we slowly back away while the tall German finishes his feline grooming.

We decide to try our luck at some lunch. I’m hoping for a piece of Tuna and a cold beer. Instead, I get a doughy pizza and a mineral water. Should have known, “there ain’t no liquor in this town.” These people are ritualistic tokers, not casual drinkers. We decide to leave immediately the following morning.

We arise early the next morning, visit the squat toilets, pack up our gear and grab some breakfast. We take the walk up the beach, back to our point of origin. Happy to put this beach in our rearview, smile brim our faces. From beach, there is a short jungle approach to the drop off point atop a bluff. We ask the rickshaw drivers how much to the train station. Unsurprisingly, transportation inflation has set in over night. It has a funny way of doing this when you are stranded 20km from nowhere in blinding heat. Lisa’s usually quiet demeanor instantly takes a back seat as she berates the drivers for doubling what we paid to arrive - cursing them all as thieves. One driver calmly replies, “Madame, your taxi takes cheaper gas than our two-stroke auto rickshaws.” And another “Madame, followed by more mouthfuls of lies.” These people are so polite, even when they are screwing you.

We decide to find some shade beneath swaying palm until a cheaper driver comes along. But with every vehicle that rolls up, the drivers inform the newcomer not to go charge anything other than 300 ruppees for a ride. “Goddamned pimps!” I shout. “They’re all in it together!!” I want to slap one just to teach the others a lesson. But I figure the rest of them would be on us like jackals. I could probably only take a few out before being dragged into the jungle, kicking and screaming as they politely say “OK sir, we kill you now. OK mister?”

We decide to take an offer of 240 rupe’s, only because of our desire to put this place behind this. We climb into the 3-wheeler, and we’re off – cursing the tout at every mile that passes.
Next stop Panjeep - Wish us luck.

Eight Things

2009-03-10T07:21:00.000-06:00

Morning. Ooty,India . 2240 meters above sea level. A spider web of shadows cling to a folded window curtain. A Spattering of flattened mosquito corpses adorn the cool adobe wall. There’s an off center photo hung a bit too high for anyone to easily view without a step ladder. Standing on the balls of my feet, I see the man in the image is meditating upon a granite slab amongst a sea of coffee fields. Not a bad place to be. Accented English slips beneath the hallway door – breakfast time. Talk of tea and destinations, past and future. I slump back in bed for a few moments more – I saw my first wild elephant yesterday and it was more than I could have asked for.

There are 8 good, bad and ugly things that I have learned since I touching down on the tarmac just one week ago:

1 – Similar to the European way of nodding one’s head up and down to signify the answer ‘yes’ or side to side for ‘no,’ in India the wobble of one’s head while conversing can mean one of three things: yes, no, maybe. I still don’t really get it, so maybe I really didn’t learn anything here.

2 – Never, ever smile at a monkey. In monkey speak this means ‘bring it on!’ That for me is going to be a tough one for sure. I mean, how do you not smile at a monkey?!

3 – No matter where one finds themselves in the world, the crows will be waiting. Ghastly creatures, these oil slicked nuisances’ favorite game is to shrilly caw their Nevermore prose just outside my morning window. And it seems that they are larger here than their stateside cousins. Their call carries with such strong contrast compared to lilting twitters of the morning keets. They sound like an overweight Armenian man with a mouthful of sandwich who just stubbed his big toe on the way back to therefrigerator. I am convinced that these feathered demons have been sent from the blackest realm of Hell just to poke at the resting soles of all mankind. Crows are truly the douche bags of the bird world.

4 – Natural Oils are an absolute miracle. For example: water lily extract is a natural mosquito repellent. Goodbye Deet! And sandalwood is a fantastic cure for aching muscles, treating mosquito bites (if you forgot to use the water lily), healing the inevitable cuts & scrapes, and apparently damaged tendons. It was recommended to me our ‘oil salesman’ that I apply this sandalwood to my sprained ankle to accelerate the healing. I applied the miracle oil to the sprain and within minutes I had full mobility. My foot has never smelled better!

5 – Common barnyard animals will eat just about anything. Just yesterday morning we watched with disgusted intrigue as a chicken pecked at a dead rat. And every day we are truly amazed as bovine graze happily on piles of street trash.

6 – There are a lot of goddamned people here. I’m pretty sure that every square inch of this country is currently occupied.

7 – I’m convinced that all cars, trucks and busses cannot operate without a working horn. If it’s on the road, it needs a horn. Preferably, the blaring kind. Horns like the wobble of the head can signify many things. Such as: I’m passing you, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m going around a blind corner at an alarming rate, get the hell out of my way! Or, what there’s a cow in the road, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m running this traffic light, get the hell out of my way! Or, Hi friend how have you been, get the hell out of my way! I approached two men that were repairing an auto rickshaw in the street that apparently wouldn’t start, I asked them if the horn was broken. They didn’t find it nearly as amusing as I did.

8 – India has the best coffee in the world. Yes that’s right Seattle, I’ll say it again – India has the best freaking coffee in the world. I don’t know how they do it without fancy cappa-frappa-soy mocha-steamer machines or by selling thirty-five different varieties of travel mugs or those special Starbucks artist cd samplers – but somehow they manage. Maybe it’s because they focus on the experience of sharing the beverage as opposed to swilling it down by the pint like recluse junkies. And I suppose the fact that it’s grown, roasted and ground about a kilometer away has a bit to do with it too.

Well, my internet cafe bill is racking up, time to cut this thing loose. I leave you with some photos of the day...enjoy!

I call it, "Freerange Chicken pecks at rat before a dung wall." Catchy? Yeah, probably.

Rickshaw Down!

A craftsman hammers out chain links in Mysore.

Roadside tattoo anyone?

Mysore - Day 1

2009-03-07T03:12:00.000-07:00

Fireside in my parent’s backyard – Gripping a foamy, red, Solo cup I hear the joyful laughs lap their way from the pool. The happiness just seems to have a way of echoing through the fields at my parent’s place. John is strumming out some Bowie, confirming that it is indeed Saturday night. Then the wind shifts, wafting the smoke to my stinging eyes. I roll over and awaken to an attack burning plastic wafting from the alley below as castanets ping from the hallway. A new dream begins: India.

After over 35 hours of travel via car, jet, prop plane and now bus, I’ve been awake for well over 40 some odd hours, maybe 50. It’s tough to sleep on a plane when the passenger behind you confuses a touch screen monitor with one of the punch-screen variety. Not to mention my ankle sprain developed into quite a purple, throbbing cankle while en route. Tired, groggy and limping we at once decided it best to keep our momentum and leave Bangalore immediately to continue south to a town of less severity. Three highway hours of cow dodging swerves eventually brought us here to Mysore.

Doing our best to dismiss the jetlag after an eventual pass out session, we dropped 20 rupees on an auto rickshaw and buzzed right to the zoo. It was here that we accepted our fate that we were more of an exhibit than the animals themselves. Traveling with a blond-haired, blue eyed girlfriend certainly draws some attention on the streets. But here in a place of education and wonder, these qualities instantly give you celebrity status. For hours we smiled as people shifted their gaze from the suddenly uninteresting animals to Lisa’s “opposite” complexion. Posing for group photos and responding to the inquisitive, this was a zoo experience like no other.

Heading over to the reptile exhibit, we were greeted by a smiling man in his 20’s by the name of Hariesh. A zookeeper, he had learned the trade from his late father who had taught him the zoo keeping trade since he was a young boy. In broken English and an open heart, he explains the details of his job while taking us on a tour of his vast region of responsibility: the entire retile and hippo collection. The cleaning, feeding and daily maintenance that these animals require is unsurprisingly constant. Not to mention it’s very dangerous. (not long ago, Hariesh’s father was attacked by a bull elephant, injuring him severely) But Hariesh has no qualms about jumping right in the cage and slapping a hippo on the rear with a stick to stop her from destroying a gate. And we watched in awe as he lifted a hefty 5-foot crocodile by the tail to give us closer look. He truly loves his job and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Group photos with strangers, personal zoo tours, new friends, perfect sunny weather – we were thinking that this day couldn’t get any better. Then there were the bonnet monkeys. A local troop, these free range little buddies were not caged and were truly in full effect. Anybody who knows me, knows of my fondness for these guys. We were so enthralled by the troop’s antics as one turned on a faucet to take a sip of water, then respectively turned it back off when he was finished. Others tangled and bounced their way through the trees above. And still more wrestled in the walkway. We were surrounded by the troop, who paid us no heed whatsoever. For me, this is paradise found.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the added bonus of the sweet signage displayed throughout the grounds. Here are a few of our personal faves:

Let There Be Ice!

2009-02-06T09:32:00.001-07:00

Swing, Thunk - Swing, Thunk, Thunk - Clink...Clink. My arms scream and begin to quiver like frightened chihuahuas. My calves turn into tight spirals of pain. My brain begins to lecture me: you're not twenty any more, you can no longer muscle your way up. So much technique has been forgotten while living in the Pacific Northwest. I shake my head as a smile warms my face. Marveling at what was once so elusive on the west coast and is so absolutely bountiful here in the Adirondacks , I swing my picks and let my arms scream with glee! But despite the good time I'm having, if I don't start getting back to the basics I'm not even going to make it through this single pitch, never mind an entire day of WI4+.

Back to Basics - Don't expect to throw the figure 4's like Ines Papert right off the bat. Just like climbing rock, ice climbing is a sport that requires patience, skill and time to develop proper technique. Here are a few pointers if it's your first time out (or if you're just a little rusty like me):

Rules of the Swinger:

Start off with a good book. Will Gad's book is a great one. This book is truly an invaluable resource for any ice climber to keep - novice or expert.

Don't swing unless you need to. Keep an eye out for pick placements, these sweet spots are a gift to be used for energy conservation.

Keep 'em close - When you do swing, be careful not to overextend your arm. Think of it as hammering a nail into a 2x4. Wouldn't it be much more comfortable if that nail were closer to head-level? Not to mention that keeping those arms closer your heart makes for much warmer paws.

The best way to stick it is if you flick it - Remember: it's all in the wrist (isn't it always?)

Heads down - When it's time to remove that pick from it's icy grip, for God's sake don't look at it! Adze and eye don't make the best of bedfellows.

Spread 'em - Swinging from a stable & balanced position equals less falls. Create a triangle by spreading your feet fairly wide, allowing them to be the triangle's base. Allow your non-swinging arm to be the point - just above your center of gravity. After you get a good feel for ice, you can move on to more advanced techniques.

Drop those heels - Unless, of course, you are an absolute glutton for punishment. It is oh so very tempting to want to keep those front points sharply angled and buried into the ice. Remember, by trusting your front points and keeping your heels down, you'll create a stable base that will save your calves from a lot of unnecessary torture.

Stay warm. Remember, you're not going to be climbing all the time. For half the time, you'll most likely be belaying your climbing partner. During this down time, bundle up and have some rockin' gloves or else you can fall victim to the screaming barfies. Believe it or not freezer gloves work wonderfully.I poked fun a my climbing partner on our entire ascent of Liberty Ridge because he looked like he was dressed to clean dishes while wearing these things. But when the climb was over, I was the one with frostbite.

Keep your cool. When your thoughts become a bit too heady and you start wigging out because your feeling ridiculously exposed, your hands are cold, your anchors are making a funny creaking sound and the mountain goats are giving you the stinkeye, just remember that you're carrying your holds: your frontpoints and the shafts of your tools. As long as you still have them, you're still in the game!

Technique - it's what we develop to conserve energy and climb longer. It's byproduct is a beautiful display of grace and fluidity. Develop this and you are well on your way to a bright and shining ice climbing future.

Escape!

2009-01-21T08:37:00.000-07:00

After five years of outfitting others for the trips of their lives, it is finally my turn. No more living vicariously through others as they escape to the dark jungles of Burma. No more envy of the travelers flying south to climb limestone Patagonian giants. And best of all - no more work!

Yes, the time has come - Lisa & I are going to Asia! Our year-long, overland journey will begin in Bangalore, where we will immediately head to the hills in search of some elusive sport climbing. Then we'll spring on up India's sandy, left coast before tucking northeast for a visit to tea country - Darjeeling. From there, we polish up our yak saddles gain elevation...lot's of it. We'll trek, bus and hitchhike our way over to Kathmandu, racing against a weather window. Once the June Monsoons head into the high country - every road, trail and walkway becomes a leach infested, muddy slip & slide.

From Kathmandu, we head east. In a perfect world, we would pass from Nepal to Tibet and on into China before heading south to Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam & Thailand. However, China doesn't readily hand out visas to those who travel from occupied Tibet. (In fact, if you're not part of an organized tour, you're not crossing the Tibetan border either). Though this is not really a surprise; China is the great walled country after all. Politics, it'll kill romance quicker than a baby seal on bat day.

So, our backup plan is perhaps the lesser of two evils. Head back south and through the foreboding country of Myanmar, essentially taking a short cut to Thailand. The more I read about Burma, the more intrigued I become. Sure it's got an uber paranoid and oppressive government. But the country is virtually untouched by tourism and blessed with some of the most unique landscapes in the world. Boasting glaciated peaks of 19,296 feet, buffered by over 1200 miles of sandy coastline and filled with countless acres of lush rain forest Burma offers something for every traveler who wishes to find himself a bit more off the grid. Sounds good to me!!

A Journey Through Thailand @ The Leary Traveler

2008-11-30T14:52:00.000-07:00

Current Photo Exhibition: A Journey Through Thailand is showing now through January 2009 at the Leary Traveler (4536 Leary Way, Seattle)

Dan Holz Photography presents: A Journey Through Thailand

2008-08-15T00:56:00.000-06:00

Hey guys! I've got another show coming up on Thursday - August 28th at 8pm. This one will be held at the Great Nabob in Queen Anne (819 5th Ave). Come down and see images from my recent trip through Thailand. Hope to see you there!

Come on down to my opening!

2008-04-29T00:46:00.000-06:00

For Love of Food

2008-04-19T09:19:00.000-06:00

To truly experience, wholefully enjoy and just flat out live Life, one must just get out there and taste. What have we become here people? Our "food" is processed, warmed and delivered by a pasty clown wearing big red shoes! C'mon now, that's just not right. Why must everything in our lives be so damn prepackaged?

I want my fast food to have wheels beneath it. Pad Thai from a food stall rolling down the humid roads of Bangkok. A bowl of red curry on the outskirts of a street market in Bangladesh. Hell, I'll settle for a churro from that little guy pushing his little belled cart down the dusty barios of Tijuana.

With that churro, you may get a story, be told a joke or maybe just exchange a sincere smile. I don't really see that exchange happening with the speakerbox in the drive through.

America, we've lost our sense of adventure. Trade in your chocolate Frosty for a wooden cup of Brazilian Mate. Even if you can't cross any international borders right now, try to seek out something different. Break out of your flavorless rut and mix it up a little. Just get out there and let your mouth be your passport and food a tasty visa.

Mt Rainier ~ June 2006 ~ The lost pages

2008-03-27T00:03:00.000-06:00

After digging through one of my random memorabilia boxes the other night I came across a journal that I thought was long gone. Tucked away in the last few pages was an entry I had made on a climb up Mt Rainier a couple of years ago. It's a cool little entry depicting an act of sheer and utter stupidity. The part of the village idiot is played by myself. Note: This is not the continuation of the Rainier story I began a few months ago and never finished. I will finish that one for you folks soon enough, I promise.

June 26th, 2006 - Camp Schurman, Mt Rainier - 9460 feet

We descended from the summit during an unseasonal and until earlier this week a very unexpected warm spell. The freezing level rose to a hefty 14,500 feet. It was tee shirt weather at the top for sure! Hooman and I thought it would be a good time to glissade back to camp for the last 1500 feet of the glacier. Hooman on foot by standing glissade, myself on rump - slip and slide style.

Because of the extreme warmth (approx 45 degrees F), the glacier resembled the look and feel of a 7-11 Slurpee (minus of course the flavoring and that cool little red-cupped straw that you can use as a spoon when you're tired of slurping through said straw.) But I digress. And with both Nalgenes empty, I was getting extremely dehydrated from the altitude and reflected heat. After we unroped, I plopped my Gore-Tex covered bum down in the slushy layer, picked a line and with ice ax in the ready to self arrest. Then shot on down the mountain. I love glissading. It takes me back to when I was a kid riding the gigantic water slide at the Jersey shore. Not too much difference between the two; only in the mountains there are no lines and a lot less mullets.

Within minutes, I descended the first 600 feet cheerfully and without a hitch, but I found that I was uncomfortably out of site from my climbing partner who was undoubtedly still plugging away on foot. Not to mention that I was now paddling and bicycle kicking through at least eight inch layer of slush in order to make any progress down the mountain. Moving fast via my bum is now pretty much out of the equation. I gave sliding a few more earnest attempts, then decided it was time to continue back on foot.

As I flattened by cramponed boot on the glacier to begin to stand, the entire lower part of my right leg disappeared into the mountain. And all of the weight which it was once bearing shifted to my right elbow as I shrunk into the ice. Oh shit. Calmly, I continued the shift to my right arm in effort to distract my torso and prevent it from getting any smart ideas like following my leg into the really neat hole that it just made in the snow. As I did this, my right arm thought that it was bored anyway and decided to join its' buddy (the leg) in this little game of hide and go seek. So it dissapeared into a neat little hole as well. The funny thing about emergency situations like this is that you suddenly begin to think in the 3rd person. Its' as if you are an instructor who has to talk a hopeless moron out of this super shitty and extremely perilous situation. And the kicker is that you have to go home and have beers with this asshole even after you save his life!

So the first thing the 'instructor' tells me is, 'Dude, you are so screwed right now.' The second is to breathe. So I took his advice and with a deep breath analyzed the situation. I am slowly being eaten by a very angry volcano. Its' mouth is a cold, gaping crevasse; possibly hundreds of feet deep. Do I quickly roll to my side and hope that it's solid? But a shift in weight could send me plummeting to my demise. So this 'mouth ,' is it running vertically or horizontally? Perhaps it's running on an angle? No telling! With my free hand I attempted to spin my ax on it's end in order to probe the surrounding glacier. I'll just poke around until I find something solid. But that subtle motion was enough to make the thin snow bridge give way and my entire body dropped out beneath me. Luckily the instructor took over and both my hands were tightly gripping the shaft of my ax while its' teeth bit tightly into the crevasses' lip.

Slow motion. The dyneema sling vibrates with tension from ax head to belay loop. It is then I realize only the first few centimeters of my pick are set upon the edge. My legs kick with authority into what seems like concrete, sharpened crampons desperate to make purchase with no success. I take a moment to look down into the blue ice; centuries deep and contrasted by seemingly bottomless black nothing. This mountain wants to devour my very soul. I throw two more fierce steps into the icy wall, this time they stick. Climbing way way out of the shivering maw, my heart races and eyes have never been wider. Hyperventilating, I flop upon my grateful belly on the solid ice and remember that famous statistic on how a vast majority of climbers are injured on their descent.

Lesson Learned. Always rope up kids!

The Decemberists Winter in Seattle

2008-01-31T11:34:00.000-07:00

Photo compliments of www.decemberists.com

After canceling their world tour due to an illness of a group member, the Decemberists came back to play at that city by the Sound. While I didn't catch their opening act's name last night, they were certainly entertaining. The lead singer sounded something along the lines of a Matt Costa who was trying a bit too hard to weather & scratchify his voice. It got to be a bit grating, but they certainly had a solid rythm section thanks to the retarded monkey that stood on stage left. He had a beautiful set of congas, a couple of musical shakey-rattley devices and a tambourine that he used to beat the congas while jumping up and down. Smiling and spiddleing all over his set the guy was having a hell of a time up there. I remember my buddy Noyes would loose his shit every time I even thought of playing his congas while I were wearing a ring on my finger for fear of damaging the instrument's skins. Imagine what these skins must look like after being beat by a furry primate with a tambourine! Every time I looked at this guy, I just couldn't hold back the laughter. I imagined that if my friends had lashed together a somewhat successful band and went on tour, I would most probably play his part. 'Dan's cool, but he doesn't know how to play a single thing except for that little egg with the sand in it. But he sure does look happy jumpin' around up there, doesn't he?'

Set Break - After a whopping 30 minutes of playing. The opening act said their goodbyes, packed their monkey into his cage and left the stage. Can't drink in the theater. And we couldn't muster the motivation to battle the crowd at the bar for $7 Makers & Cokes. So, we sat & waited over an hour for the show to start...

Just as I was thinking these guys better wow me after keeping us waiting that long in between acts, Colin Meloy took the stage. As the opening song unfolded each player found their position on stage. One by one they wove themselves into the rich tapestry that is the Crane Wife. It was a beautiful experience, and I could have truly left the theatre content after hearing only that one song. I have never heard such a voice; so distinctly clear, yet stirring. The show picked up momentum from there until it boiled over into a heaving, frothy stew rich in both vocabulary and feeling. Writhing on the ground, instruments clutched in hand, the Decemberists apparently had tied just the right buzz on.

Meloy's words tell of corduroy clad street urchins who have drowned in lost rivers and mariners seeking revenge while in the belly of a whale. Their songs reek of brine. And I love it! I was slightly surprised to see such a young crowd playing the part of bookend by the 60 somethings sharing the theater. All ages show indeed. And Meloy knows how to entertain these young fans that swarm the front of the stage. Grabbing a cell phone from a fan, Meloy calls someone from the contact list then screams the words from Culling of the Fold into the receiver. Bestowing a rock and roll moment that teeny bopper will never forget.

Would I see them again? You be your sweet patutty I would. But I'll only see them again if it is an 18 and older show. The band clearly catered to the younger crowd this evening. With their tried & true rock n' roll antics that we've all grown tired of seeing night after night at our favorite dive bars, they forced more than one eye roll out of me. There was a bit too much self indulgent crowd seeking, speaker jumping, bass humping for me to get into. They are amazing lyricists and fantastically geeky musicians. So maybe a little less dropping to the ground and writhing on the stage and a bit more playing of the music. Guys, what do ya say?

The Boognish Rises in Seattle

2007-11-16T23:11:00.000-07:00

For those of you not familiar with the Boognish, allow me to introduce you. The Boognish is that spiky-headed fellow you see there looming in the top left portion of the frame of the above the band. Cute Little guy, eh? He's kind of what the Dancing Bear is to the Grateful Dead. Only if you had your back up against the wall and some twisted weirdo was going to slit your throat in a dark Detroit alley, the Boog is the one you want to have your back. Whereas the bloodshot eyed little Dead Bear would most probably just offer the hell bent attacker some dope and a sheepish grin. He's quite a little ass kicker, that Boognish. A suitable totem for one of the most rockenist bands to ever emerge from the right coast of our continent.

So, if you don't know Ween. I'm sorry I can't help you, your just too damn lost. It's a journey one must navigate on his or her own. But for those of you that do know the band I must say that they truly rocked Seattle to its' very soggy core. I've been going to these shows for about a decade now, and I can honestly say that they have actually gotten tighter. Deaner's guitar playing has always been vicious and Gener's vocal range impressively wide & powerful. But this last show truly blew me away. Here's the setlist:

1. Fiesta 2. Take me away 3. Transdermal Celebration 4. Waving my dick 5. Richard Smoker 6. Learnin 2 Luv 7. Voodoo Lady 8. Yer Party 9. Spinal Meng 10. Buckingham Green 11. Happy Colored Marbles 12. Mutilated Lips 13. My Own Bare Hands 14. Touch My Tooter 15. Gabrielle 16. Zoloft 17. Johnny on the Spot 18. Object 19. Bananas & Blow 20. Little Birdie 21. Hammer Down 22. Final Alarm 23. Ice Castles 24. Mollusk 25. Booze Me Up 26. Ocean Man 27. Pony 28. Fat Lenny ENCORE 1. Lullaby 2. Drifter in the dark 3. Mucuss Off my brain 4. Fluffy

When we arrived at the Paramount Theater in downtown Seattle, I was a little nervous about the actual existence of my press pass. I showed my I.D. to the guy in the will call window, and just like that I got my envelope. In it was one ticket for the show - absent a press pass. When I inquired of the missing credentials, I was curtly informed by Mr Will Call that there was nothing else in the envelope, but all cameras are allowed in and that I should get the hell out of the way. Fair enough, I got a free ticket to see Ween. And this allowed me to give the tickets that I had purchased to a couple of friends.

Off to a long line and a pat down. When it became my turn to get groped, my camera was immediately put into question. "Yo, what'd they say 'bout dese cameras?!' 'My, the ape can speak,' I barely kept from spilling from my mouth. After a bit of confusion and a couple of radio transmissions later, I was ushered over to a leathery old woman who handed me a pen. They wished me to sign the typical consent form stating that I was not to sell any of these images for profit or else forever suffer torment, eternal damnation, etc. I signed my mark, printed my name and went to turn away when the raggy old lizzard croaked, "Ya signed where you were supposed to print your name!" I looked at the page, pointed at the ineligible scribble above the signature line and asked, "Can you read that line?" "No, " she hissed. Tapping my finger on the line above the please print name I reply, "Then this one is clearly the printed name." I walk away and wonder why everyone is trying to stop me from getting a beer.

The tickets I got for my friends were Balcony, G/A. I had a floor seat. It wasn't a tough decision. I would much rather enjoy this show with my friends than elbow my way to the front just for a couple of pictures. I've seen these guys before, and I've got some great images from those shows. Besides, Leslie had the flask of whisky and I wasn't going to stray far.

We grab our beers and head up to find a seat. Immediately we are turned away, no beer allowed outside the lobby. What kind of show are they running in this place. It's like walking into Burmese embassy. The moment you step inside, your rights are automatically revoked. We slam our beers, and head on in to catch the show, already in progress. Standing on the balcony, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I take out my camera to snap off a couple of frames. My arm is instantly seized by some sort of Amazonian tree dweller. My camera almost fumbles to the ground. "No!!" she screams. I'm a little confused, and a bit light headed from slamming an full cup of I.P.A in like 42 seconds. I ask her what the hell her issue is. Then regrettably think that may be too long of an answer that I care to hear. Luckily she dodged that arrow, and asked if I had a press pass. "As a matter of fact, I do!" I retort with as much smugness as humanly possible. Then follow up with, "I got it from the band manager, Greg." Still thinking that I'm trying to con her, she demands to see the pass. Shit. I explain that I signed a consent form when I came in and that no actual passes were issued. Just like that she said "OK." That's it?! No 'Oh sir I'm sorry I grabbed your arm and almost made you drop your camera then yelled into your face. I march up the stairs, find us some seats and Leslie hands me the flask.

Fuck it, I was there to have fun. And we had a blast! Josh & Leslie got to see their first Ween show. Afterwards, we went out for Sushi. Then Josh did the Hula. Good times were had by all.

Liberty Ridge - part II

2007-10-30T20:56:00.000-06:00

(Hooman Aprin on the approach to the Carbon Glacier)

The drive was wretchedly scenic; after three highly caffeinated hours of traveling through ancient forest and rural delight all I could think about was a destination. Any destination will do just fine. A guilty notion fell upon me that like the comfort of a stolen blanket: I just should have just grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark, skipped over the Canadian border and went climbing with the guys up in Squamish. But I made a commitment to my climbing partners that we were going to climb this Ridge, and dammit there’s no turning back now, no matter what.

Wearily arriving at the moonlit park entrance gate, we now had a decision to make. The hope of obtaining our climbing permits disappeared with the setting sun hours ago. If we wished to stick to the original plan, that is to arrive at Glacier Basin Campground by this evening. Then we must do it without permits, without setting a pen point to a registration book and without any authorative knowledge of our existence on this mountain whatsoever. We must move like ninjas and live like outlaws among the glacial moraine; lurking in the shadows throughout our entire expedition. This would be a gamble that would fringe the realm of utter and absolute stupidity. Therefore, this notion was entertained for approximately thirty seconds before being shot down like a slow moving goose from a September sky. We made the safe and sound decision to wait until the following morning. The reasoning was simple really: climbers register for their own safety. When it gets heavy up there, and when it seems like you have just seen your last sunset, these rangers are very often your only way off a mountain alive. After all, they’ve got helicopters. Do you have a helicopter? I didn’t think so. And the purpose of the thirty-dollar climbing permit, you ask? Where do you think the money comes from for those life-saving chariots that fly to your rescue? The other purpose is poop removal. Nearly five tons of human waste is removed from Rainier’s high camps annually via 55-gallon drums also tended to by climbing rangers. Poor bastards, it’s not enough that these guys have to save yahoos like me from imminent danger on a routine basis, but they also have to clean up our excrement. The least we can do as responsible members of the climbing community is wait one day to buy our permits.

We turn the car around, and made our way back to a Mexican restaurant we all cravingly eyed up en route a few hours before. Time for a round or two of dos-equis, burritos and a few laughs. We found ourselves some accommodations and decided to sleep late the next day. Seeing how it is going to be an easygoing three and a half mile hike from our starting point at White River Campground to Glacier Basin, we may as well rest while we can.

June 27 – Day 2

We ambled into the ranger’s station late in the morning, to cross our little t’s and dot our standardized i’s. And after the forms were properly completed, the ranger raised his head from his suspicious proofread and scanned our meager climbing faction from left to right as if still analyzing my discernible scrawl. After what seemed like a ceaseless amount of time of eyefull scolding, the khaki clad operative firmly threw us some words, “So, Liberty Ridge?” Remembering how many frivolous citations I’ve received from park rangers growing up back east, despite my leave-no-trace ethics I so religiously practice, I suddenly felt as if I were trying to plead my way out of a speeding ticket. My confidence melted under the heat of his sobering glare, my nerve was completely lost. Pointing at Hooman I jibbered, “He was an Exum Guide!” That would surely pacify this man’s desire to squash our plans. After all, Hooman has led more than his share of Himalayan expeditions, two of them being on Everest. The word Exum carries much clout in ballpark we play in. And Hooman is our climbing partner, our team member, our ace in the hole. There’s no way this khaki monster can take this Ridge away from us. No way! My inner dialogue screamed, ‘You wanna play hardball, let’s play Ranger Bob.’ As if sensing the angst and disorder that seemed to be coming to a boil beneath my skull, the Ranger warmly replied, “So, you guys are in for some beautiful weather, let’s get you some beta.” It seems I’ve had way too much coffee.

The man rose from his swivel chair, gave me one last odd glance and motioned to a man on the other side of a flapping door. A lanky figure wearing a big toothy grin beneath a long squiggly beard, he introduced himself as one of the climbing rangers who just took a poke at the Ridge few days ago. Looking at this long-limbed, bearded fellow I think to myself that I must have met this guy on Phish tour somewhere in the green hills of Vermont at one point. But feeling sheepish at my previous outburst I decline to make the statement.

Gesturing towards a poster of Rainier’s formidable north face, The Ranger excitedly dished out some of the best beta we’ve come across since researching this climb. I read from his encouraging demeanor that he is every bit as confident in our abilities as we are. With eyes wide and ears open, we absorb the information like sponges reclaiming the tide. He explained in great detail every life-saving nook and cranny that can provide an emergency bivy to wait out certain ferocious events that may or may not happen. It’s no secret that brutal weather has a tendency to come in fast and hard; clamping it’s ugly jaws into your hide when you least expect it. Then pointing at a dark, chossy triangle at the top of the Ridge proper that appears to be neither nook nor cranny, he made it clear that this is our last oasis if the “shit really hits the fan.” “The Black Pyramid,” he grins, “though incredibly exposed, is the safest location between the Ridge and Liberty Cap.” I instantly imagined being marooned on that cold lunar island of chunky volcanic debris, sandwiched between two active avalanche chutes from east to west, then shivered. The ranger followed up with more hints and tips until our minds were fully quenched and dripping with new found knowledge. We thanked the generous man and shot back to the car in order to gear up.

It’s an inevitable, no matter how many countless hours you spend packing, unpacking and reconfiguring your backpack at home, its’ contents will always be purged and dumped haphazardly in a trail head parking lot. More energy bars will be added, cookware will be traded, extra pairs of rolled-up socks will disappear, fuel will dance from pack to pack. And if all goes well, ounces will be traded for grams. Knowing this ritual is indeed inevitable; to this day I still load and balance my trusty 55-liter Gregory until the wee hours of the night until every single precious piece of gear prioritized to perfection. Again I ponder my coffee consumption and vow to invest in a duffel bag.

We finished up our parking lot juggling act, laced up our Koflach boots, donned our packs and headed to the trail. The warm sun fell on our backs while wafts of soil and pine filled our snouts. That’s when I noticed that the gray spongy handle of my trekking pole suddenly became warm, sticky and vividly crimson. Peering down at the five little suspects, I began my interrogation. I poured contents of my Nalgene on their heads until at last one of the little piggies squealed. Gawking at my torn flesh, “Shit, that’s a hell of a flapper!” shouts Jared. “Yeah, must’ve been the Koflachs, I guess they’ve got a bit of an edge on them somewhere.” I replied through gritted teeth. The drippy wound ran deep under my left pinky’s knuckle. Luckily, I always keep some swatches of duct tape wrapped around the bottom of my water bottle for such an occasion. I quickly dismissed the thought of how this lesion will later become an unbending menace when the temperatures take their inevitable evening plunge. I plucked the dead skin as one would a swollen tick from a hound then quickly dressed the wound. Coming for a closer look, Jared asks, “So, what do you think he meant when the ranger said, when the shit hits the fan?” “Ahh, he was just giving us the worst case scenario, we’re in for great weather for the next few days! It’s gonna be smooth sailing, don’t worry about it a thing man.” I didn’t know who I was trying to fool, Jared or myself. But satisfied with my response, we gave a nod towards the trail and let the sunlight carry us deeper into the park.

Liberty Ridge - Revisited

2007-10-21T23:19:00.002-06:00

Epic:
A: very imposing or impressive; surpassing the ordinary, especially in size or scale

B: A climbing adventure in which abnormal events occur on such a routine basis that the feats undertaken to survive them come to seem routine as a consequence

Known to local Seattleites simply as “The Mountain,” the 14,411 foot heavily glaciated Mount Rainier holds distinctive challenges not many mountains found in North America can offer. It is no wonder that so many people have often drawn strong comparisons between Mount Rainier and it’s distant Himalayan cousins. It is here that sub alpine meadows and vast canvassing glaciers hold hands with massive avalanches, gaping crevasses, hazardous rock fall, calving seracs and violent weather. Rainier truly has it all - minus of course an altitude that extends itself into the death zone[1]. So much beauty, wrought with so much danger, and yet it’s only a two and a half hour drive from downtown Seattle. Rainier’s allure resides in her steep, milky-white slopes. Enormously visible on the occasional clear Seattle day, these slick icy couliours sing a Siren’s song to so many climbers who have sworn to their loved ones that they shall never step another crampon on her again; a promise often broken come early Summer. Rainier is an object of sheer massiveness that looms over the town like a conical war chief cloaked in white. Its’ lips sealed in a steady meditation. There is a dismissed notion that grumbles in the minds of the great Emerald City’s residents, “When will this chief awaken?” Oh, did I mention that Rainier’s an active volcano?

The first recorded summit of Mount Rainier was made in 1870. Today, the summit can see up to 4,000 people stomping up its snowy slopes to greet it annually. For some, Mount Rainier is a lifelong goal and aspiration. For others, a stepping-stone to the 20,320 foot Alaskan giant, Denali. But for all it is an undeniable challenge that is guaranteed to leave you humble and with great stories to pass on to the grandkids. Not to mention, a trip like this gives you the excuse to buy the coolest gear imaginable. Can you say, shopping spree?

There are over a dozen routes that can bring you to the summit. And for a fee there are a host of guiding companies that can get you there in a very calm and casual manner. For most people that is the way to do it. ‘Here’s my thousand bucks, now get me to the top.’ The guides earn their seasonal business, and the clients walk away with an amazing experience - A wonderful symbiotic relationship indeed. But I like to think that the act of climbing is so much more than just getting to the top; so much more than stroking one’s ego. Climbing is about the climb itself. The sharing of responsibility, the experience of hardship, the witness of beauty; its all to simply earn the view and fill the soul. If the intention of your climb is only to reach the top, you will never truly summit any mountain. Though, there are climbs where you must reach the top, for the alternative is a much more harrowing endeavor. Which is the case of the famed
Liberty Ridge route. There is only one thing more dangerous than climbing the Ridge, that’s descending it. Once committed to the Ridge, you must summit. You must then descend a much kinder, gentler slope, such as the Emmons route. Overall, it is a solid climb that can be summited quickly and safely; provided the weather, rocks and ice decide to play nice with you.

Liberty ridge is a true climber’s climb. The route is not quite the roped up, monotonous, one-foot in front of the other, boot packed, death slog to the summit akin to March of the Penguins. Categorized as one of America’s top 10 alpine climbs,[2] Lib Ridge from its very beginning emits a very committed, summit or die trying kind of vibe. Not that the route has any extra sketchy segments in its’ beginning; in fact it shares the same entry point as the very casual & climber friendly Emmons route. It just has this air about it from the moment you strap on your crampon and pierce the glacier’s frigid crust. It’s one part beautiful, one part sinister. But, recalling the accidentally found information one stumbles across while collecting beta[3] prior to this climb often transforms itself into one hell of a mind-fuck right from the start.

It is difficult to find any information about this route without skimming over information regarding the numerous injuries and fatalities “June 2004- climber dies after falling 200 feet on Liberty Ridge—May 2002 - Climbing party of four descend the wrong slope from Liberty Cap during a whiteout, three fell to their death.” These are the very headlines my mom really shouldn’t read. But in attempt to keep up on her son’s adventurous lifestyle, she does anyway. So, when I called her a week before the climb at the ol’ New Jersey homestead, the conversation went very much like this:

“So, you’re going to Rainier again this weekend?” (with just a hint of a N.Y. accent)

“Yes, mom.” (escaped with no accent)

“Didn’t you already climb it?” (why do you do this to me?)

“Yes mom, three times.” (…)

“So, why are you going back up there? Are you trying to give your poor mother a heart attack?!” (here comes the guilt)

“No mom. Don’t worry, I’m doing an easier route this time” (lie).

“I’m taking some friends up there that have wanted to climb the mountain their entire lives.” (big friggin’ lie – actually going with a couple of friends a retired Exum guide and a current glacier guide from Juneau. I thought that I would make up for my lack of experience with the wealth of theirs)

“Oh.” (…)

“ I promised them I would take them up as a wedding present to them. It’s my gift to them.” (oh c’mon now!)

“Well, that’s very sweet of you, what is the name of this easier route you are going to do?” (care-ful, she’s getting suspicious)

At this point, I’m distracted by a combination of tv commercials being over, the Simpson’s flashing back onto the screen and an especially delicious apple that I’m eating and say, “Liberty Ridge, mom.” (oh shit.)

“What?!!! Oh no you’re…” (..!..)

Quickly interrupting, “Oh, did I say Liberty Ridge? I meant the Cleaver. We’re climbing Success Cleaver. I…umm…the dog’s on fire, I gotta go.”

My mom has known me for thirty-one years. She knows when I’m lying. I will now carry the mother’s curse: Five phone calls a day for the next seven days.

June 26- Day 1

Getting from point A to point B has never been one of my strong suites. Some may even say that I am “directionally challenged.” So when I called a friend of mine in Seattle to get the short cut to the National Park, even I knew that it was a bad idea. I scribbled the directions as quickly as I could, racing against the fading cell phone signal; then read them back to my friend for confirmation. Just before the garbled signal crapped out, a couple of failing words managed to trickle through the tiny earpiece of the cell phone. Unfortunately, they weren’t the right words. “dude—you—go—entrance!” Yeah, buddy you go entrance too!” I replied. (translation: Dude, wait since you are climbing Liberty Ridge, you need to go to the north entrance!) Unbeknownst to us, we had received flawless directions to the south entrance to the park. And in fact, if that were the entrance we wanted to get to, we would have been elated! However, since the roads running through the park were washed out by unusually severe floods last season, we were now screwed if we wanted to begin our climb this evening. We must now drive entirely around the park, delaying our arrival to east entrance by over three and a half hours.

[1] Death Zone – Elevation of 26,000 feet and above, point of where no living thing can survive due to lack of oxygen.
[2] Alpine Climb – In short, alpine climbing is the act of rock and/or ice climbing at altitude. Usually entailing the use of passive pro, cams, ice tools, ice screws and a slightly larger set of balls.
[3] Beta – Updated route data passed to a climber typically from another climber that has recently finished the route. When beta is given at a rock gym, the casual passerby often interprets this climber jargon as testosterone fueled, eye rolling, bruddy gibberish. The passerby is often correct in this observation.

Ween!!

2007-10-16T12:24:00.000-06:00

So, I was sitting at an internet cafe in Chiang Mai going through my emails when I came across one from my friend Zack back in NJ. The subject read something along the lines of 'Boognish and Shit.' And the body of the email was a simple reminder that Ween was coming to Seattle in November. And that I better get my ass in gear and buy some tickets. Oh crap, I need to buy my tickets! So, I busted out my plastic and clicked over to ticketbastard.com. Five minutes later, I had tickets to see a band from my home town in New Jersey who are playing in Seattle that I purchased from 7,000 miles away in Chiang Mai. The internet is a beautiful thing.

So a few years back, my friend John had an online zine that allowed us to actually get our grubby little paws on highly coveted press passes from time to time. John actually got us into some pretty big shows. We shot the Summit Festival where String Cheese headlined, Bonnaroo in Tennessee where everybody headlined and we even interviewed Strangefolk on their tour bus one time in Manhattan. Needless to say, those were some happening times. So, on a whim I thought I would just drop Ween an line to see if I can grab some press passes from them. I merely said, hey I haven't had a chance to photograph Ween since I was back home in New Hope and it would great if I could shoot them out here in Seattle. About an hour later from the band's manager. I had my reply. It read: Dan sure you can shoot the show, it will be waiting at will call...Right on!

Man, I can't believe all that took was an email. Ween is by far one of my most favorite bands to photograph. Even after so many years of touring, they still manage to have such a great time on stage. And it shows. Check out Deaner's new blog here:

brownietroop.ning.com

Beer, Barns & Brown (Greg that is)

2007-10-12T00:17:00.000-06:00

So I went from being deeply immersed in humid jungles, Thai food and Asian culture to folk music, golden aspens and pick-up trucks. And honestly if you were to ask me to pick a favorite theme, I really couldn't do it. Apples & Oranges my friends. But I must say that it truly does feel good to be home. Although when I called Woj up this morning and announced that he and I were going for a little 4-hour road trip to see Greg Brown play in a barn, I wasn't really thinking of the all out absolute Americana experience I was about to experience. But you know what, it's exactly what I needed. And luckily for me, I had a friend who was game for the journey.

We coffeed up, jumped in Woj's VW, and off we went. For those that have not experienced the pleasure of driving on Washington's highway 20, you are truly missing out on one of the most beautiful drives in our country...Seriously. SR-20 begins in Discovery Bay at route 101 and goes north to Port Townsend. It then takes a ferry (yup, according to Wikipedia, the road takes a ferry) into Island County. From Island County, the route continues into Skagit County, crosses the Cascade Mountains into Eastern Washington, and ends in Newport Washington near the Idaho border. It's a fairly long road, but we're focused on a sleepy little town located out in the Methow valley known as Winthrop. It's chock full of skiing, fishing, hiking, biking, camping and just great people. And getting there is half the fun.

Once I-5 is in your rear view and you plug a few miles onto the 20, the drive transforms itself from simply pleasant to maddeningly beautiful. Waterfalls carve their way down from unfathomably high cliffs, leaving moss to grow in their wake. Webby clouds cling to granite walls, promising snow and covering routes that I once only dreamt of. Brilliant autumn tones weave a tapestry of crimson and gold; it's like reading a living poem. It's prose most divine.

After about 2 hours, we near the top of the pass. A classic alpine climb in these parts called 'Liberty Bell' pokes it's head through the clouds. The peak lingers just long enough for us to pull over and take a few candid shots before disappearing behind it's cotton shroud. There's no doubt that we've made this drive at the most dramatic time of the year, and I feel so fortunate for having done so.

Continuing through hairpin turns, over rivers and down the pass we reach the flashing red light in the middle of a very western town. When I say 'western' I mean it's a wooded walkway, hand painted sign, deer rack above the saloon kind of place. Tastefully arranged, the town of Winthrop is a little Spaghetti Western mixed with a hint of Northern Exposure. Cars look very out of place and you can't help but mosey everywhere you go. This is the place to see your favorite folk singer play. We pull into an open space (easy to find now that tourist season has slowed to a trickle) and mosey (see, I told you) up to the Brew Pub. We order couple of bacon burgers and matched them with some pints of really tasty ale. Not even 15 minutes go by and two burgers covered in Gouda cheese & peppered bacon arrive. They were ridiculously good. It's been a great day and we haven't even been to the show yet.

Fast forward a couple more beers and a trip to the bakery and we find ourselves at the highly acclaimed Winthrop Barn. Now I have been looking forward to seeing Greg Brown play in this barn since last year when I saw him at, well here at Winthrop Barn. Leaning up against the red building and I'm listening to people to my right chat about their orchards and the problems that they are having with a horde of invading gophers. To my right a woman decides to share the coveted recipe of her peach cobbler with who I think is her new daughter in-law. I cock back my head, look up at the darkening autumn sky and just smile. Man, I can really see myself spending some (or all) of my time in this town. The doors open and we stroll in. I hand the smiling man my ticket at the door who says to me, "It's going to be good." I smile back and say, "No, It's going to be great." With that everyone chuckled in agreement and continued to file in.

Woj & I grabbed a seat 5 rows from front, and nearly dead center of the stage. Perfect distance for the lens that I had brought. The opening act, John Prime is a very close friend of Greg's and as well as in the Iowa Blues Hall of Fame. He walked on stage with a warm grin and an open heart. Dressed in a turquoise button down and wearing a black ball cap with blue flames. What he lacked in fashion sense, he more than made up for in talent. The man is the blues. He was sitting down, but his body just moved with all sorts of exaggerated motions that just seemed beyond his control. He was a man possessed by music. He knocked down the mic stand once, and had a few close calls shortly thereafter. He took it all in stride and just kept on playing. The man's got style.

Then, intermission time to grab another round. Standing on line, I let my eyes drift over the crowd. 250 people strong; most wrapped in wool or fleece. The occasional waft of patchouli fills my snout. Again I feel like I'm home. The man in front of me is greeted by first name and orders a beer for himself and a couple of locally baked cookies for his son. Two beers in hand, I take my seat, Greg takes the stage.

For those that are not familiar with Greg Brown, I'll do my best to describe. Or you can just click on one of his songs that are on the streaming music jukebox to your right. In fact, I encourage you to select one of his songs while you read this blog. Go ahead, I'll wait.......OK, ready? Good stuff, right? So Greg Brown is one of the most respected Folk singers of our time. His poems, stories & songs are sure to strike a chord with us all. His words, share the same values as Dylan. Born in the farmlands of Iowa, his style is Americana through & through and it carries a strong flavor of Springsteen's classic: Nebraska. But the magic, my friends is in his voice. Like a foghorn that barrels through rising storm clouds, Greg Brown's voice is just as real & powerful as it gets.

And I don't mean to rub this in the faces of our friends that missed this show. But guys, hands down the best Greg Brown show that I've seen to date. He even had a local fiddle player join him for a few songs! Sure the wonderful day may have swayed me to be a bit biased, but here's a few tunes that we heard:

Poet Game

Boomtown

Hey Baby, Hey

Spring Wind

Just by Myself

Mose Allison Played Here

Where is Maria

Oliy Boys

Vivid
Down at the Mill

Sorry folks, you missed a good one.

So directly after the show, I proposed a shot a tequila and a pint for each of us at the local brew pub. I was hoping that there I would be able to talk to that girl that smelled like strawberries and patchouli. At this late hour, that was the only open bar in town. I figured that if there was going to be a mellow little after party of sorts in this sleepy little town, that's where it would be. But first we would go back to Brian & Kristen's place down the road (where we were crashing for the night) to see if our friends are still awake. We were invading their home on a weekday, after all...Sorry about that guys.

Luckily enough, they were up. We quickly scrapped the bar idea and decided to drink a few beers, catch up and swap a few stories with friends. The next day: coffee, breakfast, ping pong and cattle roping practice. (yup, cattle roping...so fun) Then, back on the road for a long, leisurely drive; stopping along the way for a few photos and some short hikes to more rewarding vistas. Have I mentioned how much I love this place?

Chiang Mai Zoo

2007-10-04T11:03:00.002-06:00

So, I said goodbye to Chiang Mai and hopped in my taxi to the airport. As a series of food stalls, bars and guesthouses filled my view in a steady passing stream, I began to reflect on my day. I spent most of it reading, visiting wats and finished off at the zoo. I knew it was going to be depressing to see all of those caged up animals. But I had to see what a zoo in Thailand would be like. I half expected the animals to be running around between your feet with nothing barring you from imminent danger but perhaps a big stick. You know when I got there, I realized that I wasn't too far off.

They say that in Africa, the hippopotamus (Hippopotamus amphibus) is responsible for more attacks on humans than any other animal. In fact, hippos regularly attack boats approaching too close or anyone standing between them and water. Knowing this, I walked up to the hippo display and hung over the whopping 5 foot wall with my camera in hand. I was pretty sure that hippos don't jump, they only charge. Pretty sure. Instantly the, hippos submerged themselves into the dark & scummy water. The only thing that even gave you a hint that there were very large animals in this very small enclosure were a trail of very fine bubbles; leading directly under me. Seeing how I was pretty much petting distance away from the blubbery beasts and I didn't want to be the joke on the front page of the local paper, I decided to take a step back and just lean on the concrete edge until they passed. As they did, they rose back out of the water, gave a couple of big yawns, and well just hung out and did their little hippo thing. I snapped a shot and went to the next display.

Before I go on, allow me to tell you all a bit about the zoo's layout. This attraction is most definitely set up for motorists, not pedestrians. Most guidebooks describe the walk through the Chiang Mai Zoo as an extremely strenuous hike. I strongly agree. And I will also add that the map the provide you with is a navigational nightmare. The largest animal displays are not on the map; however the animal pics which are supposed to represent the captive animal on the map aren't even at the zoo. They have deer listed in about 15 different locations. And here's the best part about this map, north is represented on the little compass as right, south is left, west is up and east points down! With all of the animals running around within chomping distance and a map that appears to drawn by an eight year old; this zoo seems like a very elaborate tourist trap. And I mean trap in the most literal sense. After about 5 hours of dazily wandering through a maze of hilly roads, incorrect signage and vast fields of steaming dung, I thought for sure I was going to be on the menu for tonight's crocodile feeding. For sure these zookeepers are out to dehydrate, exhaust then feed me to something. Or in the very least drive me absolutely mad.

Next I find the rhino, whose hope looks very similar to a velocaraptor paddock. I swear, I half expected those things to jump from the bamboo forrest at any moment. Well, the rhino seemed happy. He was wagging his tail, probably because of the flies, but I'll just assume for now that he was happy until someone proves me wrong. He also had a large roaming area filled with plenty of mud to roll around in, lots of food lying around and nobody has yet killed him for his horn. You see, Rhino horn is a key ingredient in Traditional Chinese Medicine. Even today, traditional Chinese practitioners use rhino horn to treat life-threatening fevers. It's a myth that the Chinese believe the horn is used as an aphrodisiac. But whatever, these animals are endangered. Oh, you have a fever, so you want to kill I rhino. I see, but I've got a better idea, take some fu**ing Tylenol you jackasses!!

I walk away from the happy rhino after I begin thinking that rhinosar'o's would be an excellent cereal name. Then I realize that the heat must be getting to me. Perhaps I'll seek some cool air in the penguin exhibit. I look down at my crude little map, rotate it in a few different directions then head north, which is actually east of my current location. When I reach the enclosure, now dripping wet with perspiration I saw that there was a sign informing me that left lead to the penguin exhibit and right led to the aquarium. Now after my short stint at Sea world, I learned one thing; penguin exhibits are supposed to be cold. Aquarium exhibits supposed to be in roughly the 70's to keep the water temp roughly the same without relying too much on chiller units. Man, get me to those birds! When I did reach the penguins, it was only slightly cooler in the display compared to the outside air temp. I know this because the crooked little mercury thermometer hanging on the inside of the by a suction cup. I swear, I've worked at pet stores that were more professional than these 'habitats.' As the penguins stood there, beaks agape and wings held up to help cool themselves in the inhumane conditions I read the thermometer. It informed me that is was 82 degrees in their enclosure. I assumed these penguins were being conditioned to survive the global warming issue. Maybe they're creating a new super penguin, one that doesn't need all of that extra fat and fluff to survive. Then they'll release them into the wild, so they can teach their other penguin friends how to beat the heat. Then I realize, I have to find somewhere to cool off quick. Poor freaking birds. Now a little depressed, I wander over to the fish. Maybe they're happy.

After following a dirt path over gnarled roots and thick bamboo forest, I realize I am waaay off the grid. It's crazy, I haven't see a single employee only or keep out sign anywhere...in any language. For all I know, I am wandering into right into the lion's habitat. Again, I smell a trap. So, I backtrack a bit and turn out onto the pavement. Of course, the aquarium is located right next to the giant45 foot long fish statue. Who would have guessed?! Once again, I pass blame on the heat. I trudge up the hill and stroll into the buildin, grateful for the shade. I stood there for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Then noticed something was wrong, there's no lighting. I fumble around for a light switch, half expecting to place my hand on a giant cockroach, or centipede or one of the many squirmy little creatures that are indigenous to the tropics. Then I start singing a little happy song to keep calm, "Something tells me It's all happening at the zoo, I do believe it I do believe it's true" Then CRUNCH. Oh God what the hell did I just step on? (mind you, I'm wearing sandals) Then another step, CRUNCH. Oh God, please tell me that was a Frito. Where the hell is the light switch?! Crunch, Crunch, Crunch. "The monkeys stand for honesty, Giraffes are insincere. Something, Something, Something the zookeeper is very fond of rum." Well, maybe that's why he forgot to turn on the god damned lights! Two more crunches, then I finally find the switch. It doesn't take me long until I realize that they cut the power. So being as clever as I am, I remove my camera turn on the flash and strobe away. I don't really want to look down, but I do anyway. Only to discover that I have killed a bout a dozen and a half snails. I'm so relieved that they weren't giant, disgusting cockroaches. Though I'm sure the snails feel differently. Poor little crunchy fellas, they only wanted to have a little snail party in the shade. And because my camera actually flickers the flash until focus is found, it looked like a little disco party in there. I must say, it really freaked most of the fish out. They started jumping out of the water and splashing around in their tanks. So, I thought it best to leave as to not allow them to over exert themselves in their overheated tanks.

So, there were many more animals that I passed. Crazy ostriches, depressed looking bears, content turtles and a little too close for comfort crocodiles. But the weirdest thing I saw there was a mini bike racetrack that looked like it was scooped up right from the Jersey Shore and delivered right to Thailand. You know the ones I mean. They are pretty much novelty sized. So when one sits on the bike their knees are at about chin level and elbows are thrust out like you're doing a little pirate dance. It's actually quite comical to watch someone ride one of these things. But I couldn't believe it. Really, a race track..in the zoo?!

After I decided that I was out of there, it took me an additional hour and a half to find the exit. Passing the mini-bike track 3 times, I thought for sure I could hop on over and ride one of those mini-bikes to freedom. Which I probably could have, if I were a midget.

So, I finally got out of there, grabbed some dinner, then hopped in my taxi. Which is where we started this little tale. (I must say that even though this entry seemed like a bit of a rant, I assure you I had an absolutel blast on this little adventure.) Shortly after some more conversation with some really interesting folks, I hopped on a plane then spent 8 hours doing Bangkok bivy on a cold metal bench until 8am. I couldn't find soft cushy seats anywhere, but I've slept on worse during this trip. Then flew off to Taipei, where my plane was delayed for an additional 3 and a half hours. Once aboard the plane, I spent the next 10 hours having my chair kicked, my hair pulled and drooled upon by the lovely little monster sitting behind me. Oh and this 3 year old had a habit of crying for no reason about every hour while her mom yelled at her in between her loud hocking of something flemmy which was lodged apparently very deep in her lung cavity. Must be my lucky day, I thought. (That part really did suck!) When I got home, I went to sleep around 8pm, waking up the following day at 2pm. As I looked around I thought, whoa this bungalow looks a lot like my room. Then I realized, wow I'm home.

A Walking Tour

2007-09-30T02:53:00.001-06:00

So, I've done a fair amount of walking around Chiang Mai, and I must say it's nowhere near as overwhelming as Bangkok. That place is just a jumbled mass of main roads, side roads, and alleys no wider than a midget's back. Spin around in a circle once and that's it, you're done. And with my incredible sense of direction added to the mix, there wasn't a map in the world that could have saved me. Most of the time I just found my guest house purely by chance. I would wander the city for hours, ducking around corners and under the many dangly things that I'm sure are the Thais' private little joke that they like to play we tall Westerners. We're just not used to looking at that extra added dimension of up.

Anyway, Chiang Mai is dived into 2 halves: the old city and the new city. Thus easing navigation, sort of. The old city, located near center of town, is surrounded by both a brown muddy moat (disappointed that there are no crocodiles in there by the way) and a very, very old, wonderful, semi-dilapidated wall. On the inside of the wall there are a series of markets, temples (the oldest being built in 1296 by King Mengrai) guest houses, restaurants, street vendors, cafes, dogs, cats, tourists, monks..well you get the picture. The roads that surround both the the moat and the wall link to an exact square (1.5 km/side). This being said, I typically have a 1 out of 4 chance of knowing where I am in relation to the rest of the square. Unfortunately though, I have not ever been one to be successful at the game of chance. Each time I would pass a landmark, I would know exactly where I was on the map and where I had to go. That little moment of brilliance would typically last for about 1 to 2 seconds max. Every single time I thought I should go left, I should have gone right. I've tried to trick myself by saying out loud, "OK Dan, you think that your guest house is right, so you should definitely go left to get there.' Walking down the street after happily committing to the direction of left, I felt pretty good about out smarting myself. Though as chance would have it, this was always the time the 1 to 4 ratio would have worked in my favor.

Note:

I have my sweet mom to thank for that wonderful inherited trait. To this day, when asked which direction it is to Clinton (right) and which direction it is to Flemington (left) my mom will stand out in the front yard and proudly point left to Clinton and right to Flemington. My mom has lived in the same house for over 15 years.

Today while on my search for a market that I've been to three times already now, I inadvertently took a lap around the city. I had a feeling that this was happening, and that my destination was on the other side of town, but I was really powerless to do anything about it. Well, not really. I suppose I could have just hopped on a Tuk-Tuk. But after about 5 km of steady walking, I made it. It was a lovely walk past flower merchants, wats & parks; despite the smog and 90 degree heat. Needless to say by the time I got to the market, I didn't feel much like shopping. But I did take comfort by being in the shade of the overhanging awnings for a bit. Sticky with sweat, I pawed over 'vintage' t-shirts that just about 8-12 years from being cool again. (or never at all) Then I saw it. It kind of had that shimmery wavy look all mirages cast in your finest deserts, salt planes, and roads that you really shouldn't be on at that time of the year. I found an ice cream parlor! Oh man, Ice cream and air conditioning?! Sure it must indeed be a mirage. I ran across the street, playing tribute a version of Frogger . Only replace the fast moving cars with Tuk-Tuks, rickshaws, songtaews and other modes Thai vehicles that I can't pronounce (or spell). I reached out my hand to grab the door, and sure enough it was real. The air conditioning almost instantly turned my sweat to salt, leaving a thin layer of rime on my arms. No matter, I was in a whole now sugary sweet and civilized world of desserts. I ordered a waffle cone and 2 scoops of cookies and cream. The total came to a whopping 236 baht. Holy crap, I paid less on my hotel room! That 's like $6.40...for an ice cream cone. You know what, I don't know if that ice cream cone was worth $6.40, but it was pretty damn good! Ice cream, Thailand's fillet mignon.

OK guys, time to go shower and hit up the night market. I'll be back to the states in 2 days!

Later!

Thai Massage

2007-09-29T02:16:00.002-06:00

As I'm typing this a boy around 12 years old is walking down the street with an acoustic guitar in hand. He's belting out a song that sounds almost entirely nothing like Rainy Day Women. A monk draped in flowing orange garb follows shortly behind. I am really starting to fall in love with this place. Thailand is kind of like when you're a kid (or an adult!) and you peer into a tide pool. In just one contained area, there's a plethora of little scurrying surprises under every stone you flip over. And it's just waiting to be discovered. Anyway let's get to the title shall we?

If you've never had a Thai massage, you haven't lived. Imagine going an hour in the ring with Brazilian Jui Jitsu legend, Joyce Gracie. They throw you through a series of back stretches, leg locks and various other creative submission holds I never even imagined. They stretch every ligament you have in you're entire body. (And before all of your perverted little minds start drifting towards the dark side here, I will say that it was very professional and wasn't a "massage." No happy endings here folks.) Afterward, you feel like jello, and you're about a full inch taller than when you first went in. And it's all done by a Thai lady who stands about 5' tall and weighs no more than 90lbs. My friends and I decided to go a round with one of these lethal little ladies after a big climbing day in Railay. After pulling down on overhanging limestone all day, it's just the thing for those pumped out arms. We followed it with a huge fish dinner and drinks with a few fellow travelers. And I swear, every time I went out to dinner with the guys, it was like a U.N. meeting. Swedes, Israelis, Spaniards, British, Irish, Aussies; but very few Americans. I must say I represented the U.S. pretty well. In other words, I kept up.

So, in Chiang Mai right now. Went out for Sushi with a few friends and it cost us about 100 baht each. That's about 3 bucks! With beer!! Have I told you how much I love this place?!

back in chiang mai

2007-09-28T02:34:00.002-06:00

met some very 'interesting' folks in pai. and it was a very strange feeling to be spitting distance from the Burma border. man, those poor damn monks. more to come later