Basking in the mud

Cochamo Valley, Arco Iris, Chile 2017

We we’re in a time crunch. The storm had maniacally thrown remnants of ancient trees onto the road, blocking the only route to Cochamo. Highway 65 stitched along the Estuaria Reloncavi fjord and, on its left, a wall of ancient trees towered. Row boats bobbed, a lone cow stood motionless, stranded by high tide on a sliver of land in the bay. One goofy orange-clad attendant stood pushing around the limbs, either meticulously or lazily, I could not determine. 

The directions per Refugio Cochamo denoted the entrance closed at 4:00 pm. It was 3:51 and we were dodging buses and babies in a Versa on a gravel road. At 3:58 we pulled up to the parking area, rushing with impending doom to get to the trailhead.  The lot and sandwich steward assured us that the trail would remain open until 8pm. How foolish to think that there were actual time restrictions imposed in South America.

We prepared our sacks and stuffs, opting for more than necessary – denoting the distance of the hike and not the elements and obstacles that existed along the way. It was amateaur packing at best. Cloth napsacks weighed down with inessential rubbish. My shoulders shrugged at ear-level while my arms hung – lifeless pendulums. The first hour was gruelling for what was normally such an easy trail. The rain from the days prior packed the crevasse with feet of mud. It was hard to adjust to the weight of the packs. Footwork wasn’t trustworthy, balance faulty.

River crossing to Refugio Cochamo, Chile 2017

During the 3 miles of mud-tunneled Viet Cong canals, we encountered, at a minimum: 30 high lunge steps, 50 pole vault body- thrusting swing arounds, thousands of Satanic horseflies, 20 rolling log river crossings (with false sense of safety), 15 false checkpoints and 100 minutes of cattle-crossing planks.

In return for our miserable existence, we reaped a river-bed lined with smooth, bleached logs, clear to the depths, a valley cradled by sculpted granite trickling with linear waterfalls, a sublime palpa filled with an idyllic commune, and the sole satisfaction of seclusion from the leeches of modern society.

// The light slowly made its way to my eyes. The short night had finally fallen near 10:20 and speckled the sky with glistening sequins and smocks of blackness. I had awoken during the night, convinced it was time for morning but was mistaken. For when day lasts for over a dozen hours, day becomes the norm.

​The dorm’s window that had earlier framed the gargantuan granite kings of Anfiteatro and Laguna displayed a dense fog – a disappearing act. I lay relieved, for if the granite was too wet the route to the top would be foolhardy to attempt. A reprieve from testing my courage, a cop-out. Only after studying the map and evaluating alternative trails did I realize that it would be foolhardy not to attempt the Acro Iris. A regret that would last infinitely.

Arco Iris did not offer an introduction, it began in the crux of the plot. The earth ascended straight to the sky, aligned with the trunks of the Alerces. Bamboo shot out of the mountainside, flimsy and silly compared to the thousand-year old Alerces that dominated the sky (whose roots had sprouted ‘new’ trees older than all the trees in Louisiana combined). We climbed for hours until we reached a slab of wet granite. A deteriorated rope lapped with the streaming water that ran down the center, the route up. There was no margin for error, we were on the edge. 

If you go:

Refugio Cochamo – Book in advance and plan on delays getting there. They offer pricey meals each day and if you’re vegetarian you will be eating a lot of rice. Warm showers! Bring insect repellent and a towel. Booze too.

Arco Iris – The trail became impossible, unkempt and in rough condition from the elements. No one that day was able to summit but the views were still worthwhile. Check out the trail description here.

Rental car – we found Seelman to be fairly priced and flexible.

In and around:

Volcano Osorno – Amazing place to ride or run. Plan at least a few hours, if not a whole day and night in Petrohue. The beaches may seem like a great idea but you will be harassed by gigantic horse flies. 

A corridor of yaks and Russian jeeps

Yaks crossing the White River, Altai Mountains 2016

It began with a drive in the dark. For the first time in a day the streets were empty. So we ran the lights. All of them. We passed by self-declared luxury housing developments with delusions of grandeur: Dreamland, Time Square, English Gardens. Frumpy, deteriorating housing complexes beside an ‘American FastCook’ and numerous windows shouting ‘PIZZA!’.

We arrived at Chinggis Khaan International Airport in one third of the time than the journey the day prior. On the prop plane, I fell asleep immediately and dreamt that the old man in a newsboy cap declared ‘We will be there in one mile!’ and I raised my fist in solidarity. 

Bound for Dayan Lake, Mongolia 2016 I awoke two hours later with a burdening sense that the propeller out my window would be hovering in the depthless white clouds forever. At the brink of hopelessness, the sky opened up to a smooth suede mountain range engraved with a silverback river.

// For days we passed over mountains – passing on barely visible paths into valleys formed by ancient glaciers, over white sand and cracking earth, wading through rivers that met the sideview mirrors.  The sun which beamed from the blue sky was no match for the Siberian wind. Winter crept in during the night, engulfing the surrounding land – forming a circle of white. Our plot of land was left untouched, like a lone tree that survived a tornado’s path. Inside our spackled dwelling, the pelts of four wolves hung from a wall layered with crooked vinyl flooring. A stack of bananas, fried donuts, smokey dense air. A stubble-haired man held his shotgun nonchalantly as if it were a titled tea cup. He kills wolves as a hobby during the winter, a bounty hunter to the “neighboring” families during winter (read: 10 miles away on roadless terrain).

Outside I quickly gave up my attempt not to step in shit while searching for a place to go to the bathroom. Pellets layered the ground as snow does in the surrounding high country.

Suede mountains, Altai Tavan Bogd, 2016

// We kept driving, scratching our way along the range. Columns of dung remained where families had left their summer properties and retreated for their winter bases. Erie scarecrows dotted the hillside, loose borders speckled the ground around the remaining gers, idling dogs barked  – an attempted protection from the roving wolves. 

Hundreds of sheep watched patiently, their eyes blank, unwavering. Only the rushing sound of the icy water and occasionally the flap of a bird’s wing broke the silence.  Along a river, we spat out watermelon seeds staring at the orange and yellows of one of the few forests. The limbs parted, materializing a border controlman on horseback. He jostled over, asking for our permits to be in the preserve. A surreal, outlandish plot. True travel. The unknown around every corner, no map, no building, no expectations. Wide open earth.

// In the Mongolian countryside there are only two cooking techniques, pan-frying or boiling, and there is only one seasoning: salt. The spread and dishes are invariable, yet expected with anticipation. Bowls of cream, butter, fried bread, dried curds, and a platter of sheep pasta to be washed down with milk tea. 

As far as I’m concerned, breakfast without coffee is not breakfast and a cold meal is not a meal in Mongolia. No matter the outside elements – skirting a rocky mountain top, bouncing through the snow, toppling around a wind tunnel – a meal could be prepped. If a yurt was in sight when hunger called, we would drive up to the front door, ask if we could cook, and intrude with five cardboard boxes of food stuffs, pots and pans, a plastic folding table chair set, and a butane stove. 

Sometimes we would stay the night – in which case there would inevitably be at least one child, a baby, three adults plus our party of three in the yurt (‘ger’). The combined noises were raucous. If that weren’t enough, one night I lay awake grimacing from an overwhelming nauseating smell. I thought of plugging my nose with my earplugs and, if it wasn’t for the human symphony, I would have succumbed. Fidgeting, I tried to jam my backpack under the cot but something was preventing it from fitting. I leaned over with my flashlight, buckets of dismembered, skinned sheep. Oh, so that’s the smell. The smell of rotting blood.

​If you go:
UB (Ulaanbaatar) : 
1 – Naran Tuul: Get seedy in the black market. The sheer amount of Chinese knock-offs is impressive.
2 – Mongolian National Art Gallery: spectacular collection and they have interesting contemporary openings.
3 – Choiijin Lama Temple Museum: Unique art and artifacts, I’ve never seen anything like it.
4 – Bogs Khan Summer Palace 
5 – The Zaisan Monument – climb here at night.
6 – Gandantegchinlen Monastery

Bayan-Oogli: Do not spend more than 36 hours here. You’ll probably wind up eating at one of the only restaurants, the Turkish joint.

Altai Mountains: The best time to go is before October. Once October hits, the weather is unpredictable and can throw a hatchet in your plans to hike to the Glacier (Tavan Bogd).

Monks & destination propaganda 

Boating on the Kumano-gawa River, 2016

​The train to Tokyo Metro was packed with silent shirts headed to their desks. Advertisements on train doors aptly positioned at eye level showed an over-enthusiastic gesturing professor. Next to him, an ad for ‘Sweat Jelly.’ Overhead, Arnold Schwarzenegger indicated his military prowess for the latest war scenario game. It was silent the entire journey besides the Nokia noises indicating the train’s arrival & departure. As if the loudness and excessive ads sucked the life out of any normal level of activity. All the passengers’ necks were horizontal, staring at their phone screens. Curious, I took a peek trying to discover what had everyone so enthralled. About 60% were just flipping back-and-forth between the various homescreens.  It was a bee’s hive near the top of the escalator at Tokyo Station. In merely a few moments, everyone had neatly compressed into a single file line on the left. This was a revelation of neatness compared to the obviousness of Americans and their sloppy- joe tendencies.

The Japanese train system is impressively connected and far-reaching to the point that the trains are taken completely out of contemporary context and placed in atypical, natural scenes. Its tentacles reach into the most remote and seemingly natural, untouched areas. This is a fact that they’re obviously proud of – posters portray the trains as if they’re were movie stars. Their sleek noses overlaid on top of vibrant scenes of their daily journeys. Red-filled maples in Autumn, pink-cherry blossoms exploding in Spring, a rainbow of bright flowers before a snowcapped peak. We selected the one splashed with giant cedars and valleys of dark green mystery. 290 minute runtime.

The train to Tanabe cut through towns overflowing into the ridges and seasides. At Tanabe, I traded the train’s sizeable window seat for the captain’s chair on the bus to Kuyama. The bus jutted besides the following waters and slopes packed with concreate diamonds to hold back the pack mud. Whenever the bus was entering or exiting a one lane road, oncoming traffic halted immediately and let the bus pass. This was done seamlessly and without the anxious looks and erratic motions that typically accompany such waiting in the U.S.

A smell enveloped the bus, a sudden overwhelming eye-watering occurrence. Photographs of the Yunomine Onsen had been picturesque. In reality, however, it was a boiling creek of festering sulfur-emitting gas smack dab in the middle of all of the eateries that existed in the town. Luckily, we had opted to stay in Kuyama Onsen. The proprietor’s son, a delightfully attentive man with an overgrown bowl-cut and unknown age, instructed us to venture to a trail, fiercely elbowing the air while talking.

We ran down in the apparent direction, but no matter. We were cursed with traveler’s doubt and proceeded along our own way. A high-grade slope winded its way into the mountainsides, ferns crowded their way to the sky. Stacks of walking sticks piled at the trailhead with a curtain of shiny, scratched CDs pronouncing their once-esteemed artist. Within 15 minutes we were densely surrounded by an Amazonian landscape. Ancient concrete walls swallowed in algae and moss, water rushing down at constant speed. Tall cedars massacred ­– their limbs layered the forest floor, asleep on maroon piles of dead leaves. Flies and some vigilant type of biting insect tunneled around us while spiders were continuously misplaced from their homes to my head and shoulders. Their webs dispersing into fragments of floating wisps.

Sprinting along the Kumano Kudo, 2016

At every bend of the river, the trail was to be rescouted, yet it never seemed impossible to locate­– rather the perfect level of discovery. Each new portion of the route complete with the moss-grabbing, feet-tipping, rock-slipping, spider web shakes.  After a few miles of high-jumping fallen cedars and skirting the river on mossy rocks, we reached the O Falls. Their cascading water audible to the point that I thought we were nearing a road.

Little did we know this was the intended destination. The way back was sloppy as is usual with any out-and-back trail, the adventure had given way to monotonous routine. Cross the mossy tree bridge, jump stream, find this marker, etc. etc. We emerged from the dense forest and broke into full sprint, running through the wide corridor of the valley along the gray rock-lined river beds, its frosty water dappled with the setting sun. A small cabin perched in the middle of the river’s curve. Covered with sweat and fragments of the forest, we peered into the open door. An old man sat presumably enjoying dinner on his wooden stool. His kitchen filled with covered barrels, papers neatly stacked on the table. Beers? Out came two small glasses and large bottles of Ashita. We saddled up on a square basin overlooking the valley and bruising sky.

Using two tattered English-Japanese dictionaries and primeval noises, we extracted four (seemingly) fully communicated stories.  The most entertaining, a tale of the demise of a pack of snorting, gluttonous wild boars that had ventured down from the mountains to feast on his onions only to be killed and cooked on open flames. The meat enjoyed by this cook and enthusiastic avenger.

If you go:

Boating on the Kumano-gawa River unless you’re going to be entertained for the pure absurdity of the experience.

Ashita No Mori

Dig into the sand along the river and relax in your own outdoor hot tub. 

Horsing around in Bogota

Bogota, Colombia 2014

After a beautiful night’s sleep on a mattress that sounded like sheet metal and felt like a trash bag stuffed with over-starched towels, I opened the shutters to find a miraculous day waiting for me. Blue skies and birds chirping, I was like Snow White but with a boxed wine hangover. The street was speckled with ravaged garbage bags that had been looted by the homeless for recyclables that they could cash in. It was May, the rainy season, but the sun was pouring in, illuminating the colorful walls of the Candelaria district.

Took a cold shower (not on purpose) and had a hearty breakfast of one medium-sized mediocre apple and four cups of glorious black coffee. The place was practically kicking me out, motioning me to get a move on.

Many described the route to Monserrate as though it was a ramshackle stone path but instead it turned out to be a well-manicured park gleaming with bright plants and a plethora of policemen. Along the way, I passed a milieu of life. A lonely horse galloped up the path with no traces of the owner. Shanties grouped together, their residents displayed their pickings for sell – papaya shoots and pineapple slivers. Women robed in sweats were nearly melting into the ground while old men passed by breathing heavily but at a cruising speed. School children, on their decline, were all flirting with one another — dressed in white shirts and neatly pressed navy pants. I was confounded— they had no traces of sweat. Only when I got to the top did I realize they had taken the funicular up. 

​On the mountain top, I could see life playing out below. A futbol match — people scurrying about like legos: just color and shape. The Transmilenio snaked through Ave. Carrera 14 — its red street easily identifiable. The dense, wild side of the mountain was quite the contrast to the expansive city that sprawled below.

// Down in the city, I sauntered through the Emerald Street Market. Street vendors announced their offerings with megaphones. Their fast chants resounded making the whole place vibe like a betting window at a racetrack rather than a marketplace. This place was a sight to behold. A man stood playing the drums on his bare stomach next to his juice stand. Next to the drummer, a homeless man with a scholarly suit and lab coat wore his glasses on the tip of his nose, his pleas for change slightly nasally. A store advertised their newest product – 3D sculptures made from the ultrasound of your unborn baby. This seemed rather suitable for a city that legalized prostitution and banned abortion. The traditional Colombian crafts had been replaced with cheap Chinese knockoffs — their vendors too lazy to remove the stickers. Surely it was time for more boxed wine.

​If you go (in a nutshell):

La Despensa Calle 70A # 9-95, Bogotá
La Taperia -Carrera 4A # 26d-12 – spectacular food in La Macarena
Abasto_ in Usaquen
Casa de Citas for music/ drinks

– La Calera – best views of the city. Go here at night and buy hot, spiced drinks from the vendors
– Bogota graffiti tour: Where: Plaza de Periodistas
– 10 best contemporary art galleries in Bogota
– La Macarena is home to a collection of funky boutiques 
– Cool Crafts // Artesanías de Colombia – The shop carries crafts made in different regions of Colombia. They have rings made from tagua nuts, macramé shawls, black pottery, sisal baskets. El Retiro Shopping Center, Calle 82 No. 11-75
– Museo Botero Home to Fernando Botero’s private collection, this colonial mansion displays the work of the Colombian maestro alongside canvases by the likes of Miró and Monet. 

Fulano Backpackers (not the hostel mentioned in this post)

Dolomite days and eonian nights 

Blyde Canyon, South Africa

​Hiking in Africa is like a dangerous, fatal porcelain shop: don’t touch anything. When you’re walking in the brush – or anywhere near the brush – your senses are heightened. A leaf crinkling 50 m away registers. A blade of grass wiggles – dually noted. The further along the trail you go, the more the thoughts spiral in the caldron. Root or snake? Antelope or mountain cat? Is this the poisonous plant that kills with one fatal scratch?

Thank goodness the view points and trail markers still placate, if only for a few heartbeats. Fleetingly gratifying. But the views in Blyde River Canyon surpass simple gratification. The three Rowdavels pleasantly peering down over the monstrous canyon walls – third largest canyon on Earth. Their domes a symbol of safety, comfort. The trail continued onward, towards the multicolored beach – red, yellows, greens speckled with barely distinguishable sunbathing hippos. Every time the trail dipped out and into a new patch of forest, the noises evolve like a new set. An interlude between the screeching and clamoring of a thousand beetles. A dense circumference of layered commotion – like emerging from the depths of a public pool on a Saturday.

Blyde River Canyon, Limpopo Province, South Africa

About 85% of the way in, racket up the mountain. Antelope and brown guinea like creatures running my direction. Not a trusting sign. As I continued forward, I fumbled over the entangled roots around my feet as I thought about the leopard sighting the past two days. Defeated, I turned around and headed back. Careful to not to scratch my knee on the potentially poisonous bush.

When the Nature Conservators’ hut was in sight, the sky thundered and opened up. The rain poured down filling the air with freshness. A mammoth kudu strutted across the road and paused, looking up towards the dark clouds that had rolled in.

I left Blyde as a rainbow spread across the river down the short 2.5K Pennisula Trail. The rain eased as I carefully hiked along, taking in the splendor of the glistening emerald water below. About halfway a sign glared ‘Krokodil’, jolting me from a brief state of calmness.

While starting at the sign in disbelief and terror, I stumbled on a snake?!

No, just a gigantic lizard.

It was enough to seize further hiking, I promptly turned on my heels. Just in time to be greeted by a baboon.

If you go:

Stay: Blyde River Canyon Lodge – Located in a gated botanical garden on the river, it is a splendid property just outside the Reserve gates. Dine at the lodge – the fantastic traditional meals are made by locals.

Venture: See the Canyon from all angles. Drive into the clouds and witness the magnificent rock formations from the ridge. Hike the canyon. Take a boat trip on the water and engulf yourself in a panoramic view. 

Notables: Check out the museum in the reserve. The exhibition provides a great description of the rock formations and how the canyon was formed. Disregard the yellowed photographs that haven’t been touched in decades.

Transpecos: welding rattlesnakes

Derelict roadhouses, rolling hills, whipping grasslands bleached by the high sun. The wayward journey to Marfa feels as though you are perpetually becoming more lost. Only when you enter and pass the schools of perfectly tailored men and glamorously robed women do you realize you have arrived. And it’s somewhat off-putting. Here, in the middle of nowhere, where you have supposedly left the confines of highbrow society and its grasps on values, lies the exemplary dog and pony show of the art world. Another cast system relayed as a bohemian mecca. 

The 2 x 2 pinhole in Southwest Texas airs a perplexing aura – there is an undisputed novelty in everything from an abandoned warehouse to the street light’s glow. El Cosmico, the undisputed lodging treasure lies on the edge of the Chianti Foundation property, about a mile from the center of town and is no doubt an experience of its own. The teepees are luxurious and the company an interesting breed for a fireside tales. Nothing is as enlivening as an outdoor sunrise morning shower with the crisp desert air whirling through the steam in a tin and wooden bathhouse followed by freshly brewed coffee.  A kick before the Chianti tour.

Visionary contemporary artist Donald Judd imagined a place where art lived amongst the landscape. The two former artillery sheds were renovated to hold his 100 aluminum works – each differentiating slightly, providing various reflections of light and color. The whole tour a stiff, cult-like pace with canvas-lad Brooklynites and art-lovers dragging their heels in reserved bewilderment. Silence besides the wind and leaves. 

And then Chamberlain. His work punched us out of hypnosis. Crinkled graphic steel a tangible graffiti seemed to implode before our eyes.

STAY: El Cosmico teepee 
DINE: Maiya’s 
VISIT: Marfa Studio of Art
MIND:  Chianti tours and dinner reservations should be booked in advance.

Nightmares of huckleberry pie

The Highline Trail is synonymous with Glacier National Park. The 11-mile trail follows the Sun Road – curving through the pass to bestow immaculate views of the Continental Divide and surrounding peaks. The trail profile is practically a straight decline from Logan’s Pass to the Loop. The route follows along the mountainside so that you can see every nook and cranny of your surroundings.
Like the weather or traffic in the city, there are two impending dooms that are staples of everyday conversation in GNP – bear sightings and wildfires. During my first day in the Park, a local calculated my fate: at the rate of hiking 12 miles a day for 10 days, I was destined for at least three sightings. Maybe four.
Like any other runner (or human), I used my biased rationality to prove why this trail was an exception to the GNP tenet ‘avoid running’ (running increases the chance of a bear attack). Since this was a popular trail with unimpaired panoramic vision – it was safe for me to jog along this trail. Plus I had bear spray and a bear bell*, this was my chance.
As I galloped along the ridge, I couldn’t help but concentrate on the dry river beds, streams, waterfalls, glaciers. Smoke filled the air and a wraithlike haze lingered – a cornea over the landscape. The land dry, too. Dirt whirled around my feet. Is this a snapshot of the world that lies in our future?
The Sun Road is usually known for evoking a humbling sense of wonder in the face of nature’s grandeur. Below along the Pass, motorists stood on the side of the road with their binoculars hanging idle. Midwesterners seemly stymied in more of bewilderment than awe while looking out at the landscape.  Although it was nonetheless still gorgeous, there was a deep sense of loss for the land.
I emerged near the historic Granite Chalet without even realizing that I was near the final decent – somewhat surprised that my half-baked timing was actually going to get me where I needed to be before sunset. I stopped to admire the view with a family that was perched on a rock in the bend. Five minutes later I was invited to stay in their extra bunk bed at the Chalet. The Chalet’s entire lodging for the season typically sells out within a few days of going live. I won the lottery.
Normally I would say yes immediately, but I’ve grown somewhat weary about whether invitations are sincere these days. I thought about this invitation for the half-hour as I climbed the steep trail up to Grinnell Glacier. The sight was if I was beholding a fragile, fragment of scenery. The glacial lake below looked broken, shattered bits and slivers of ice cut their way through the lagoon. The red faced peak looking straight at me behind its defeated body. Spectacular. As I crumbled down with the mountain. I saw the stone Chalet in the background. An patriarchal presence. In the foreground the family was waiting for me.
Dedicated hikers share a common bond which is rooted in underlying appreciation and willpower. That night we watched the sun set until 10pm with about 30 others then laid on our backs to catch the meteor shower. At sunrise the next morning, I tiptoed out of my bunk and ran down the mountain like a little kid who spent the night in an amusement park.
If you go:

  • * Bear bells: The consensus on whether they work is actually still unverified and some outdoorsmen think they actually attract bears. I retired mine after finding this out. The only proven defense is bear spray and making noise. Oh, and a bear was definitely sited on this trail.

Granite Chalet & Highline Trail details

  • The bit about the water is invalid, there is fresh treated rainwater available at the Chalet.
  • Complimentary earplugs and tea available during ranger talks
  • Bring a headlamp
  • Full kitchenware available for use
  • Check the bus schedule that services the Loop & Logan Pass, hitchhiking works in the morning but is hit or miss at nightfall
  • Be extra cautious around huckleberry shrubs during the harvest season

Diverse trail beds of South New Zealand

Rob Roy Track, Aspiring National Park, Wanaka

Your calves will be burning but no bother, the trail is grassy and the endless array of mountains will keep you distracted.
Wear layers – storms emerge out of no where.

Stay: Te Wanaka Lodge
Dine: Relishes Cafe
Cheers: Kai Whakapai 

Hooker Valley Track, Mt. Cook National Park

An endless array of terrain over bridges, through the valley leading to the glacial lagoon.

Stay: Hermitage Hotel
Dine: Yesh. Get ready for a random, expensive Asian buffet unless you bring you’re own food.
Cheers: Bring you’re own wine & nestle in next to the grand hearth.

Queen Charlotte Track, Marlborough Sounds, Picton

Ship Cove to Endeavor Inlet

Lush tropical forest. Depending on the weather, it feels like a combination of the upper Atlantic Ocean and Polynesia. 

Stay: Furneaux Lodge is spectacular This is a difficult call though based on the length of your stay in the Sounds. Ferries leave from Picton in the am and pick up early evening. The schedule changes according to season. If you stay in Anakiwa backpackers you’ll be isolated and nestled at the end of the track, but the curvy roads are mind-numbing at night. Only bonus is the glowworms and dolphin songs at night, which you can find anywhere along the track.

Dine: Furneaux Lodge at the end of the trek, especially if you’re heading back to Picton.
Cheers: Bring you’re own wine from one of the vineyards in nearby wine country.

Mt. John Summit Track, Lake Tekapo

Run this route through the meadows, vie to take your own path to the summit and run down on pine needle trail then through meadows surrounded by the white-capped foothills of the Alps.

This place is tiny and does not have a ton of outdoor pursuits, best bet is a one night stay after you catch a golden sky and a starry night.

Stay: The Chalet
Dine: Tin Plate
Caffeinate: Run77

Statures of society


King’s (Queen’s) Day // Amsterdam, Holland

The streets are lined with spreads of unwanted goods, vendors selling kebobs and pot dessert items, and jobless gypsies pitching games of luck for a buck. The techno soundtrack never fades too much as random DJs are dispersed every couple of blocks. Smells of cigarettes yet to be smoked. 
King’s Day Festivities  he
streets are lined with

PictureHungarian poet Jozsef Attila near the Parliment // Budapest, Hungry

Around each corner, a message left by the transitory reigning authority and the subsequent vigor and life contra.
History of Budapest


Helsinki Central Railway Station // Finland

A dystopian illusion: drying rugs lying on wooden beams listlessly catching wisps of the bay’s wind. Traces of human life, dark hollow windows match the hollowed eyes of the city.
Midsummer Holiday

PictureTraditional life // Miranda do Duro, Portugal


The sky: lilac, a rosemary scent from the passing fields.  Rows of lush olive trees, a donkey grazing on overgrown shrubs in a peach orchard.
Miranda do Duro History

PictureSt. Petersburg Russia


An underlying melancholy, hint of paranoia. Birds move methodically taking their positions. Air uplifting the waters weight beneath the minimal white light.
St. Petersburg Statue Guide


Theater master Henrik Ibsen outside the National Theater // Bergen, Norway

Sun setting beneath the ocean’s soft cape at midnight to the echoing sounds of heavy metal racketeering.
History of Bergen 

PictureSafed, Israel

An oversize fur cube glides atop a crowd of yamakas and shrunken black hats. Heels on cobblestone, flags whipping the dusty air as it encloses bright ribbons of color.  
Safed, Israel History
The many hats of Judiasm

Missed Isolation


Sauntering towards Mont Saint Michel, 2010

Left at the crack of dawn (possibly before) for the Normandy Coast. Took  the train from Gare Montparnasse to Dol-de-Bretagne, then the bus from there to the island of Mont St Michel. Driving up the peninsula, the gray marble water of the Couesnon River looks like smoothed terracotta in the stillness of morning. The tide is low and calm- emitting an emanation of serene mysteriousness. It feels more like the coast of Ireland (i.e. Cliffs of Moher) then it does a part of France. Hikers energized with croissents and cafe-longe march along the marshy path, pressing their walking sticks into the silt. The seabreeze bitterly snaps the cold against my skin.  

The mysterious aura is abrubtly ended upon entering the tourist trap.  Packs of Asian tourists with their loudly clicking cameras and gereatrics cause a congestion as they snail upwards along the cobblestone path towards the Abbey. Intolerable clots form around stands offering free sugar cookies and apple cider. Then again around the shops handing out identical samples. Irritated, I hastenly navigate through the soon to be diabetics in time to vanquish my sins at twelve o’clock mass. 

The cold wind chills the abbey like an icebox. It seeps in through layers and I can feel it in my bones. Constructed out of granite, it is almost unbearable . I think about retreating until the friars and nuns emerge. Dressed in angelic white robes, they begin to light the candles. The place suddenly feels warmer. The friar gathers the long rope laying between the center aisle separating the rows of stiff pews. Giving it a powerful tug, the bell echoes imperfectly, penetrating through my frigid body then once again after the waves ricochet back. The bell’s sound unnoticeablely fades to the comforting chants. The psalms softly follow a harp’s lead. I follow along, raking through the frail pages of the petite psalm book.  Everything is serene until an old French man blows his nose into his hand (later of which I am to shake in greeting).  

Then it is a slowly unraveling domino effect. Apparently unaware of social politeness, four-eyed Asians continue to ignore the multiple ‘No Photography‘ signs as they flash their Fujis. The last possible space untainted by tourists’ assault. Undaunted, the young priest begins leading an inspiring sermon. He lifts my spirits, telling a story of a bird, free to choose any direction to fly in. After mass, I lookout at the residue of the Atlantic, swallowed by the Gulf of St.Malo’s marble clay and glistening in the sun. 

I weave down to the ancient, famous omelette eaterie, Le Mere Poulard, which has the fluffiest, largest omelettes even seen. Two eggs enlarge to the shape of twenty. The downstairs is oversimplified and overrated, but an unintentional escape upstairs uncovers character-lined walls leading to a high-class cigar bar (which is no doubt never as packed as the downstairs chicken coop). Afterwards, I hightail it back to Paris in need of class after endless free butter cookie samples and fanny-packs.

If you go, don’t miss:

Mont St. Michel
– Free entrance into the Abbey with mass attendance (highly recommended)
– Morning mass recommended, 11:00AM

Le Mere Poulard Restaurant
Grande Rue, 50170 Le Mont-Saint-Michel, France
+33 2 33 89 68 68 ‎ · merepoulard.com