tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76004319574306937682024-02-08T05:33:56.806-08:00beth kohnBeth Kohn is a San Francisco-based writer and photographer who specializes in outdoor recreation, social justice issues and Latin America.Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-49125527460283921182020-07-01T09:32:00.000-07:002020-07-01T09:32:00.217-07:00Sheltering in (a Breathtaking) Place: My Last Pre-pandemic Adventure<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; page-break-before: always;">
It was a warm spring day in mid-March, and I didn’t look like a
typical BART commuter. I shouldered a full-sized (though ultralight)
backpack crammed with cold weather layers, a zero degree sleeping bag
and a bear-proof food canister. In my hands I carried a canvas bag
with an awkward jumble of snowshoes, hi<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">king</span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">stick</span></span>,
snow shovel and fleece-lined snow boots.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
After multiple
seasons of drought, <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">national</span></span>
park shutdowns and some nasty health issues thrown in for good
measure, the stars had finally aligned for this trip. Fresh Sierra
snow awaited, more was forecast, and I was going snowcamping in
Yosemite<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">—</span></span></span>
hooray!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Exiting the train
station for my carpool meet-up, I balanced the bags on a shady cement
seating area and scanned for a similarly geared up stranger. I fished
a Purell wipe out of a pocket and washed my hands. A few texts later,
I located my Sierra Club carpool crew and we launched into
introductions.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The previous week
had been a roller coaster of unsettling <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">headlines</span></span>.
The WHO had declared a pandemic the day before, and no one knew what
to make of it. As our car cruised through sparse highway traffic, the
backseat passenger noted that school closures had just been announced
in San Francisco.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
I <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">switched</span></span></span>
off my phone and beseeched my two cohorts not to share virus updates
with me during our trip- just a short respite from the <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">unspooling
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">apocalypse</span></span></span>.
I’ve never taken my phone backpacking because I appreciate being
off the grid and feeling present in the wilderness. Bad news can
always wait.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Our pre-hike lodging
just outside <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">the
park </span></span>had hand sanitizer pumps mounted at every
public entrance, and my soft-spoken roommate snored seismically. In
the morning, our 7-person group caravanned to the winter road closure
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">on</span></span>
Glacier Point Road and parked at the Badger Pass resort. Tantalizing
powder frosted the hill but the lifts were deserted. Patches of snow
and ice contoured the car-closed continuation of the road, though
nothing appeared deep or treacherous, so most of us ditched our
snowshoes & cautiously plodded on in snow boots. We encountered a
handful of cross-country skiers<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">—</span></span></span>
carrying their skis<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">—</span></span></span>
on their way to the coveted Ostrander Ski Hut, and we swapped phones
to <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">snap</span></span>
group photos. After a <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">short</span></span>
section of road walk, we veered off onto the snow-<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">blanketed</span></span>
winter trail to Dewey Point and bid farewell to the skiers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Our trek followed a
tight cluster of footprints overlaid <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">around</span></span>
faint ski tracks, like a frozen trail of 3D sheet music. When our
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">route</span></span></span>
became indistinct, we <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">searched
</span></span>for the bright yellow winter trail markers
sporadically affixed high in the tree trunks. Traipsing through a
marshmallowy white meadow, we navigated across the shallowest
crossings of snow-crusted creeks, testing <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">for
solid</span></span> footing before lumbering across with full
packs. Some trail sections meandered through prickly tendrils of
brush that snapped back behind you and threatened to whack
tailgaters.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
A few hours <span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">—
</span></span></span>though just two and a half miles <span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">—</span></span></span>
later, we reached an open expanse <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">above</span></span>
the Yosemite Valley rim with a <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">stunning</span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">panorama</span></span>
of granite peaks. D<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">ropping</span></span>
our packs to <span style="font-weight: normal;">worship</span> from
the Dewey Point overlook, we feasted on private views of El Capitan,
Cathedral Rocks and the dramatic tips of Cathedral Spires. Walking
in, we’d encountered just a few fellow hikers exiting the
backcountry, and we reveled in the <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">celestial</span></span>
solitude.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">Back</span></span>
from the rim, in a clearing framed by sentinel evergreens, our trip
leaders scouted a deep snow deposit where we would construct a
communal camp kitchen. We set up our individual tents in dry-ish
private nooks around it, and then shoveled and formed snow bricks to
build a three-foot-high amphitheater snuggled beside a long snow
table. As daylight receded and stars popped into view, we tied a line
between <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">the</span></span></span>
trees and draped a rope of colored lights overhead to make sitting in
the cold darkness more festive. After eating dinner shoulder to
shoulder <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">in</span></span>
our <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">tightly
packed</span></span> social zone, we shared whiskey and
alfajores cookies.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Before
melting snow to rehydrate or cook our dinners, we’d strolled to
nearby Crocker Point, where we <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">reveled</span></span>
at the gushing white line of Bridalveil Fall and the distant
silhouette of Half Dome. <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">A</span></span>qua
blue sky descended into puffy clouds on
the horizon, casting
dramatic shadows and texture onto a never-ending <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">vista</span></span>
of <span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">snow-capped</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">knobs
and </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">sheer
rock walls. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Looking
</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">down
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">into</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
the</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
Valley </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">chasm,</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
avalanche gullies</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
streaked gray paths through precipitous slopes of forest.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Because it’s home
to so many <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">opportunistic
(habituated)</span></span></span> bears, Yosemite is one of
the few places in the Sierra Nevada to require bear-proof food
storage <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">in
winter</span></span></span>. Before turning in for the night I
puzzled over the best location to <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">cache</span></span></span>
my bear canister so it was far enough away from camp (no overnight
food raids, please!) but not so distant that it would be impossible
to locate after the morning snowstorm <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">to
come</span></span></span>.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
I began hearing
drops hit the tent as soon as I’d donned four clothing layers and
zipped into my puffy down mummy bag. Though the temperature was close
to freezing, the rapid taps sounded like rain, so I gathered my boots
further under the rain fly and felt a wave of <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">gratitude</span></span>
for my warm dry shelter. The wind picked up & stayed active all
night, battering my low profile tent like a pesky speed bump.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oudJlIVIfC4/Xvy3pUsHEuI/AAAAAAAAP9E/BcTq8jdksPYyGE08vK4YHR3m8bm0EucsACPcBGAsYHg/s1600/IMG_5774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oudJlIVIfC4/Xvy3pUsHEuI/AAAAAAAAP9E/BcTq8jdksPYyGE08vK4YHR3m8bm0EucsACPcBGAsYHg/s400/IMG_5774.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dewey Point campsite in the morning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I awoke at daybreak
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">to
the sound of a</span></span> zipper and the crunching of snow
fading <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">off</span></span>
towards the Valley rim. I peeked out to see a white dusted <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">world</span></span>
and the foot of my tent sagging under hours of accumulated snow.
Exiting my <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">shelter</span></span>,
I knocked off the snow drifts and located my blue food canister in a
seemingly new <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">locale</span></span>.
My food partner was already up and boiling water for coffee and
oatmeal, and I remarked at how decadent it felt to have someone
making me breakfast in the backcountry.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
The hike back was a <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">transformed</span></span></span>
landscape of fresh unconsolidated sno<span style="font-weight: normal;">w
and the footprints our group left behind in it. We unintentionally
demonstrated the myriad ways to gra</span>celessly posthole, at
least once extracting someone buried up to their waist. The snow
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">continued
to</span></span></span> fall, gusting into our faces and
fogging up glasses and goggles.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="left" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As we
departed Yosemite, arriving visitors <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">were
being</span></span></span> stopped for tire chain controls,
and we felt fortunate that we’d never had to <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">chain
up</span></span></span>. On the drive back home, I silently
ticked off <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">some</span></span>
personal landmarks along Highway 120: the <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">impossible</span></span></span>-to-spot
sign for Rainbow Pool, the white-knuckle descent of the Old Priest
Grade, the melancholy remains of Chinese Camp, <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">plus</span></span></span>
a helpful new traffic light at the junction of Highways 120 and 108.</div>
<div align="left" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
A few
days later, San Francisco Bay Area residents were ordered to “shelter
in place,” as if an active shooter had taken the entire region
hostage. Soon after, Yosemite itself was closed and the governor
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">enacted
a statewide stay at home order</span></span></span>. Looking
back, the <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">trip
</span></span></span>seems like an improbable fantasy, a
<span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">distant
</span></span>history where it was reasonable to venture out
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">and
explore</span></span></span> the world, meet new people and
talk face-to-face, masks weren’t ubiquitous accessories, and
people didn’t <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">cringe
when </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">strangers</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;"><span lang="en-US">walked</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">less
than six feet away</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US">.</span></span></div>
Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-17689914521438777262017-02-01T13:01:00.001-08:002017-02-18T20:35:28.384-08:00Never again!It's been a while since I've posted here, but Trump's <a href="http://www.npr.org/2017/01/31/512439121/trumps-executive-order-on-immigration-annotated" target="_blank">Executive Order</a> banning refugees, legal residents, and Muslims from the U.S. has my blood boiling. Has this country not learned anything?!<br />
<br />
The following is a reprint from an article I wrote for the March 30, 2005 edition of the San Francisco Bay Guardian:<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Civil wrongs</h2>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Speeding
down scenic Highway 395,<b> </b>many drivers
don’t notice much beyond the snow-covered vistas of Mount Whitney and its environs. And the view is indeed breathtaking. But the land has also borne witness to an unsettling history. From 1942 to 1945, barbed wire and guard towers
mounted with machine guns ringed a dusty square mile of Owens
Valley, housing 11,000 Japanese American internees at the Manzanar War
Relocation Center. Admittedly, visiting
a former concentration camp doesn’t top many vacation wish lists. Manzanar closed sixty years ago, but it
remains a time capsule too chillingly important to ignore. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The
bombing of Pearl Harbor set off a hysterical backlash against people of
Japanese origin. Within two months,
President Franklin D. Roosevelt approved Executive Order 9066, resulting in the
wholesale removal of all Japanese Americans from the West Coast. On little more
than a week’s notice, 120,000 people, two-thirds of them U.S. citizens,
were forced to sell their homes and businesses at hastily arranged bargain
basement prices. Their fates uncertain,
they were transported to a dozen isolated “war relocation centers” scattered
throughout the country. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
During
this period, Manzanar became the largest city between L.A. and Reno. Now
tumbleweeds bounce across the windswept high desert plain, easily outnumbering
cars and people. When the camp closed, the
military sold off most of the buildings or gutted them for scrap. The remaining landscape is shaped by absence
and memory. At
the sentry post entrance, brochures map out a self-guided auto tour. Row upon
row of cement slab foundations stretch across the camp’s vast footprint,
crisscrossed by a grid of now-empty roads. Shaded rock gardens and empty pond
basins exude a curious tranquility, hinting at grace under pressure. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
In
2004 a spacious $5.1 million interpretive center opened in the camp’s former
high school auditorium. The names of the Manzanar detainees fill an
entire wall inside, and a movie shows former residents recounting their
experiences with relocation and racism. One area recreates a typical room in the flimsy tar paper
barracks, including the invasive noise level<b> </b>from living in close quarters. Newspaper clippings depict the virulent
anti-Asian sentiment of the late 1800s, and there are displays of toys and
furniture that residents created from scrap material.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
There are personal
testimonies, including that of Ralph Lazo, a 16-year old Mexican-Irish boy who felt
so strongly about the injustice of the internment that he lied about his
ethnicity in order to accompany his friends. Toyo Miyatake, a studio
photographer, smuggled in a camera lens and eventually became the official camp
photographer, although camp officials made him employ a white assistant to
click the camera shutter.<b> </b>Orphans of even partial Japanese ancestry
were interned in Manzanar’s Children’s Village.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Touring
the grounds, it’s hard to come to terms with the existence of overtly race-based
prison camps in the United States. Even
harder to deny are the striking parallels between the discrimination against
Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor and the treatment of Arab and Muslim Americans
after September 11.<b> </b>And the government’s
admission of fault and reconciliation towards the Japanese American community
has been slow. In 1988, Congress formally
apologized and authorized reparation payments, and in 1992, after decades of
official neglect, Manzanar became the only former camp to win designation as a
National Historic Site. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
It
wasn’t an easy journey. The Los Angeles-based
Manzanar Committee organizes a yearly camp pilgrimage, now in its 36th year. “When we started, a number of
local people didn’t want us here,” notes Sue Embrey, the Committee’s chair and
a former Manzanar internee. Although
local opinion is now much more favorable, during discussions about preserving
Manzanar’s wartime history, “there were daily letters of opposition to the
newspaper, and the first superintendent received death threats.” The group spent years advocating for Manzanar’s historic site status, and its work with the
National Park Service shaped the insightful<b>
</b>content<b> </b>of the interpretation
center. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
A
split-rail fence traces the border of the camp graveyard, casting sinuous
shadows on the grassless ground. Hundreds
of brightly-colored origami cranes, symbols of peace, festoon the fence posts. A
brilliant white obelisk thrusts skyward, evoking the jagged snowy peaks just
beyond. An inscription in Japanese reads “Monument to console the souls of the
dead.” At the base of the marker lie empty
china teacups, bottles of sake and unopened letters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
A
comment book inside the interpretation center records the emotional reactions of
visiting adults and children: <i>How could this have happened here? Why didn’t we know?</i> During 2005, there are plans to reconstruct
one of the guard towers that originally stood on the busy highway next to the
camp, a provocative lure to those who might otherwise speed past<b> </b>and never ask.<b> </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gp0wmyjIyiA/WJJAIZA9bwI/AAAAAAAACu4/rkVBV7H8a7IDp1yKM33QdSGPAOYcbBr2ACLcB/s1600/manzanar%2Btrip%2B021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gp0wmyjIyiA/WJJAIZA9bwI/AAAAAAAACu4/rkVBV7H8a7IDp1yKM33QdSGPAOYcbBr2ACLcB/s400/manzanar%2Btrip%2B021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">36th annual Manzanar Pilgrimage (2005)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">IF
YOU GO<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><a href="http://www.nps.gov/manz" target="_blank">Manzanar National Historic Site</a> is on U.S. Highway 395 between the California towns of
Independence and Lone Pine. The site itself is open dawn to dusk year-round,
and interpretive center hours are generally 9am-5pm. Admission is free. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The 48th annual Manzanar Pilgrimage will take place on April 29, 2017. The program reunites former internees, their families, and community members, and
includes an interfaith ceremony and cultural performers. Members of the public are welcome. For more information, contact the <a href="http://www.manzanarcommittee.org/" target="_blank">Manzanar Committee</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-40382082856622295832015-06-29T23:17:00.001-07:002015-06-29T23:17:12.390-07:00Early season SierraCalifornia's in the midst of an epic drought, though you wouldn't have known that at the end of April. Lack of snow cancelled my late winter igloo-building trip. The mountains were dry and the ski resorts were getting desperate to put a positive spin on premature "spring conditions."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back at my tracks</td></tr>
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So I got a head start on researching the next edition of Lonely Planet's Yosemite guide, crisscrossing through the western gateway towns and shouldering my backpack for what I thought would be a straightforward three-day hike across Yosemite Valley's north rim. The Snow Creek trail has been on my to-do list for years, and my only real concern was the availability of water. Ha!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hope these footprints aren't leading me astray</td></tr>
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There was a brief snowfall two days before my arrival, and I figured that it would be melted out before I hit higher elevations. But a few hours into day one, the trail tread went white and I had to follow other people's tracks in the snow. That was fine until dozens of snowy treads petered out to just two sets of footprints. Did these damn people really know where they were going?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail or creek?</td></tr>
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I had the top of El Capitan to myself, camping in a dry patch with fog streaking by at dusk. After sunset, the wind began to scream and tried its best to scour me off the granite. The tent stakes held for a few hours and then blew out all at once, collapsing the tent walls and wrapping me up like a supersize burrito. If there were any El Cap climbers dangling in portaledges that night, it must have been a sickening ride.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite Falls and Half Dome on the way down</td></tr>
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Without a GPS or any more tracks to lead me, I bumbled my way (well, maybe I checked the topo profile on the map a few times) to the Yosemite Falls junction and bailed, knowing that the lesser-used trail further on would be completely invisible. The falls were frothing nicely and I rejoined the Valley crowds down in the 90 degree heat. Snow Creek: shelved again.Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-62880813137922192632014-11-03T20:30:00.000-08:002014-11-03T20:29:13.263-08:00Non-stop Yosemite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's a fantasy year when you can wrangle five visits to Yosemite. Even better? Experiencing each season, like stepping into a glossy calendar. It was an odd year in the park, with severe drought dashing any hopes of reliable snowshoeing, and quickly choking off the springtime waterfalls. Summer wildfires led to <a href="http://abc7.com/news/officials-yosemite-wildfire-grows-to-700-acres/298971/" target="_blank">dramatic helicopter evacuations of Half Dome</a>, a firefighting fatality, and on flights back east, views of ethereal smoke columns framing the Valley. <br />
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In January, there hadn't been enough precipitation to snowcamp under the giant sequoias, so I saddled up for a short backpack up and around Glacier Point. After the winter road closure, the snack bar turns into a backcountry ski hut with bunk beds and pleather sofas, and the usually packed overlook is as hushed as a meditation retreat. My trusty microspikes kept me upright on glassy ice-sealed trails, and sections of crusty snow preserved the paw prints of unknown critters. Important lesson learned: in frozen ground, plastic trowels don't dig catholes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite Valley from Four-Mile Trail</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icy Mirror Lake Trail</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daytime temp at the Glacier Point Hut</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hikers tempting fate at Vernal Fall</td></tr>
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Instead of skinny dipping in granite bowl lakes, a spring work trip was more about poking hotel room mattresses and dissecting restaurant menus. On the way to Hetch Hetchy, logging machines feasted on downed and blackened forest - the aftermath of the 2013 Rim Fire - and a bear stopped traffic by sashaying across the road like a supermodel.<br />
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After completing the John Muir Trail, my long-distance hiking obsession evolved into ticking off sections of the <a href="http://www.pcta.org/" target="_blank">Pacific Crest Trail</a>. This summer's stroll was a 150-mile chunk between Tuolumne Meadows and Lake Tahoe, traipsing between high passes and mosquito-cursed canyons in Yosemite's northern wilderness. My daily mileage kept up with most of the nimble thru-hikers I met, and after so many sola hikes, it was a joy to break up the introspection and become part of a trail community.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandy beach at Benson Lake, the "Sierra Riviera"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stella Lake, at Yosemite's northern border</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PCT thru-hikers clock in at 1000 miles from Mexico</td></tr>
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Tuolumne Meadows lured me back for a second summer excursion of long day hikes and storm-wary peakbagging, but it still wasn't enough. In mid-October, I braved nights of late night guitar solos and opportunistic raccoons at Camp 4 and checked off a handful of higher elevation hikes before first snowfall. But my snowshoes and boots are primed for winter action, and I can't wait to get back soon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mono Lake from Mt Dana</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wildlife near Parker Pass</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Hoffmann begs to be summited</td></tr>
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-40644038284377926302014-05-23T15:21:00.000-07:002014-05-23T15:21:32.760-07:00Eastern Sierra ahoy!Researching the Eastern Sierra before Memorial Day is always a gamble. Late season snow can block car access across Yosemite's Tioga Road, and many places haven't yet opened for the season. Sadly, this year's drought worked to my favor. Though I did spot some diehards skiing what looked like slush on Mammoth Mountain, there were no snow issues to worry about. The nights dropped below freezing in Sequoia National Park, and I experienced my first frightening wind storm along southern Hwy 395, but the tire chains never went into action.<br />
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For the next two weeks I'm sequestered at home, writing up everything I witnessed, tasted and experienced, so a few representative photos are in order.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tall trees in Sequoia</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spotted along Yosemite's Hetch Hetchy Road</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guard tower at the Manzanar National Historic Site</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frozen Tioga Lake (~9700ft)</td></tr>
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<br />Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-75443825646948288162013-10-05T22:20:00.001-07:002013-10-05T22:20:44.931-07:00Occupy TuxtlaThe last day of a long research trip to Chiapas is always bittersweet. I can't wait to be home, but I already miss the culture and people here. My final landing place is Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital. It's generally a chaotic daytime cacophony of cars and <i>colectivos</i>, but this visit is very different: it's actually quiet.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tent city/parking lot along Tuxtla's main thoroughfare</td></tr>
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Well, relatively speaking. Since Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto pushed though a series of education reforms, teachers from the entire state have been demonstrating here (and throughout the country) for almost two months. A tent city of low-strung tarps and cardboard-covered pallets (makeshift sleeping areas) has blockaded Tuxtla's main plaza and a huge stretch of the city's principal road. Before arriving yesterday, I knew that there had been protests here, but didn't realize that thousands were paralyzing the entire center.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Alteration on the Verde party facade</td></tr>
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Besides the occasional teach-in and amplified speeches, the noise level downtown has been pretty minimal, and nearby businesses are practically despondent. Some restaurants have hung ABIERTO banners across the front, and waiters mull about at tables inside, fiddling with their cell phones until customers come in. Lots of stores are closing early and posting signs offering bathroom use for 5 pesos<span style="font-size: 15px;">.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teachers sleeping along the sidewalk</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 15px;">Maybe because it's Saturday night, but the street life was more lively tonight. An encampment a block away projected a Sandra Bullock movie on a sheet, and a fiery speaker </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">with an evangelical fervor </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">paced a stage on the plaza to massive applause. Huge cooking pots steamed in the dim light underneath rain tarps, and extension cords and invisible twine guy lines threatened to snare the unwary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 15px;">It's time to head home.</span><br />
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-80383144598275929412013-09-21T07:29:00.001-07:002013-09-21T07:29:56.916-07:00Paean to the unpaved jungle road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
For this trip to Chiapas, I rented a car so I could prowl around more of the Lacandón Jungle and investigate some off-the-beaten paths places that are so time-consuming to research. When a <i>combi </i>passes maybe three times a day, the hours really stack up against you. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--GaVyl-3ugY/Uj0DqVoMrJI/AAAAAAAAAiU/eDEq-clcQfA/s1600/IMG_2489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--GaVyl-3ugY/Uj0DqVoMrJI/AAAAAAAAAiU/eDEq-clcQfA/s1600/IMG_2489.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cascada de las Golondrinas </td></tr>
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Well, my cheapo rental car got a merciless workout on hours of puddle-splotched and washed out <i>terracería
</i>(dirt roads) as well as countless car-maiming <i>topes </i>(cement speed bumps). It was a horror show. Rocks clinked against the axle. Tall grass grazed the low frame. The shocks screeched and my jaw clenched thinking I heard blowouts. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Plan de Ayutla ruins</td></tr>
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The car looked pretty feeble at
the end. The front bumper came loose and a skin of orange mud splattered the undercarriage.
There was no way in hell the rental car folks wouldn’t notice what I’d done to
their stodgy white sedan. But I cleaned it up, had the bumper reattached . . . and returned it with more than 2000 miles tacked onto the odometer. And I smiled a lot.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13px;">Dangling howler monkey at Las Guacamayas</span></div>
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Rental car agent: <i>¿Todo bien con el coche?</i><br />
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Me: <i>¡Sí, por supuesto!</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZozDA-Ce_eI/Uj0F7yelGKI/AAAAAAAAAiw/OgnMjpZhOgY/s1600/IMG_2514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZozDA-Ce_eI/Uj0F7yelGKI/AAAAAAAAAiw/OgnMjpZhOgY/s1600/IMG_2514.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock paintings at Laguna Metzabok</td></tr>
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Today I sat in the back seat and let someone else do the driving. Supposedly the road to the Lacandón villages of Metzabok and Nahá was a big bumpy mess, but compared to the muddy up and down drive to the Laguna Miramar embarcadero, it was a magic carpet ride. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lacand<span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">ó</span>n boy overlooking Laguna Metzabok</td></tr>
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-5653258029153960522013-09-12T21:57:00.000-07:002013-09-13T15:55:09.334-07:00Rain + earthIt’s never dull researching during the rainy season in
southern Mexico. During the morning I dashed around Tapachula, trying to finish
up and then traverse the uber-curvy road through the Sierra Madre range before
the afternoon rains made it impossible to see. Yesterday, I headed out too late
to the coffee-growing mountain areas of Santo Domingo and Union Juárez. I’d had
to pull over on the outskirts of the city and wait an hour as the thunder cracked
overhead and the rain was an opaque non-navigable blob. Once I could see,
certain intersections of Tapachula resembled cresting rivers, with whitewater
at least two feet deep.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mjlr7A7iq3I/UjKW6PdVx_I/AAAAAAAAAiE/W2PIqiscqsE/s1600/IMG_2464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mjlr7A7iq3I/UjKW6PdVx_I/AAAAAAAAAiE/W2PIqiscqsE/s1600/IMG_2464.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I wasn’t able to leave until about noon today, but the drive
north twisted through dense cloud forest so gorgeous that it made all the back-and-forth
steering contortions worthwhile. The road sign pegged Motozintla at 30
kilometers, and Comitán was a few hours past that. Rounding a curve, a line of
cars and trucks idled with their hazards on, and I did the same. One by one the
engines went silent, so I followed suit and asked what was going on. A
landslide, they said, it’s been here since this morning and it’s a few
kilometers ahead.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cMrMVFhXtgw/UjKWzsPoQcI/AAAAAAAAAh0/gMWEqBvUz8Q/s1600/IMG_2458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4XnOlYczlTY/UjKW09igS_I/AAAAAAAAAiA/ohb-2OEyias/s1600/IMG_2461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4XnOlYczlTY/UjKW09igS_I/AAAAAAAAAiA/ohb-2OEyias/s1600/IMG_2461.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Well, it was more like ten minutes walking until the front
of the line, where a huge stripe of mud and trees had skidded into the roadway.
Thirty men with shovels barely dented the surface of a hill some fifteen feet
high. Combis, the vans used for regional public transportation, discharged
their passengers close to the muck on both sides, and people carefully climbed
over to continue their journeys with combis on the other side. Folks near that
front of the stagnant queue said that the mud had dislodged early in the
morning and amazingly no one had been hurt.<br />
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So it was a morning of frenzied and needless rushing, followed by an entire afternoon waiting for an earth mover to scrape the road. And perhaps a nudge for me to slow down my schedule and take things at a more relaxed pace.</div>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-cMrMVFhXtgw%2FUjKWzsPoQcI%2FAAAAAAAAAh0%2FgMWEqBvUz8Q%2Fs1600%2FIMG_2458.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cMrMVFhXtgw/UjKWzsPoQcI/AAAAAAAAAh0/gMWEqBvUz8Q/s1600/IMG_2458.JPG" -->Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-18322846250315350442013-09-07T21:03:00.002-07:002013-09-07T21:06:07.321-07:00Water-logged TabascoYou can't talk about Tabasco without talking about water. With its cacophany of rivers, swamps, and blobs of land in between, the geography of this southern Mexican state looks like a toddler's squiggle drawing - though one dotted with scores of PEMEX oil drills. Somehow I always end up researching here during the rainy season, when major flooding becomes routine and the TV news kicks off with footage of families being rescued by boat.<br />
<br />
I swung up to the northeast corner of Tabasco today for a quick visit to the <a href="http://www.parkswatch.org/parkprofile.php?l=eng&country=mex&park=pcbr&page=sum" target="_blank">Pantanos de Centla Biosphere Reserve</a>, a massive and biodiverse wetland and river delta. Huge iguanas lumbered along the raised wooden boardwalk of the reserve's interpretation center, and chunky islands of waterlilies flew by on the river current. Driving back to the main road, I stopped to marvel at a house completely surrounded by a swampy tide and accessible only via a skinny walkway. One of the residents invited me in, but first I had to embarrass myself by inching across the wobbly planks as his family giggled and encouraged me to walk with confidence. Inside the dirt floor room, a woman cooked over a fire, three 'tween girls thumbed through bilingual dictionaries to do their English homework, and I chatted with the ten inhabitants as we waited for the rain to let up. <br />
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Every so often you rush through a place and wish you'd been able to linger and explore it more deeply. Last night I stayed over in Tapijulapa, a little town that dazzled me a few years ago with its cobblestone alley streets, red tile roofs and never-ending green mountain ridges. It reminded me of some of the towns - mostly Spanish - I've visited in the Pyrenees, except with little kids sidling up to me to ask where I was from. </div>
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<br />Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-1495166666202176052013-02-14T20:46:00.001-08:002013-02-14T20:51:11.774-08:00Invierno, al frescoIt's been a really difficult year. I usually fantasize about the Sierra summer backpacking season all damn winter, but the months of obsessing just didn't seem healthy this time around. I wanted to get out there NOW, even if I had to risk snow-dusted equipment and the baffled looks of friends.<br />
<br />
When things get tough, for me it always feels good to get outside and move around. But the conditions this time of year can be pretty challenging. Like what do you do when the temperature's below freezing and liquid turns to slush in your water bottle? How about when your boots freeze into rigid blocks and you can't get your feet back inside them?<br />
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And lo and behold, I discovered that the local Sierra Club organizes snow camping trainings for fools like me. I could meet other deprived backpackers who didn't mind trudging through high altitude snowdrifts in search of their nature fix. Obsession solved.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UBlMPybMyQY/UR2nsFS30fI/AAAAAAAAAgk/ve1QSAHJgTQ/s1600/IMG_0612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UBlMPybMyQY/UR2nsFS30fI/AAAAAAAAAgk/ve1QSAHJgTQ/s400/IMG_0612.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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After the last few years of sola adventures, I was a bit skeptical about joining a big group outing, but the weather was kind and my fellow snowshoers (unsurprisingly, mostly fellows) were a friendly group of outdoorsy folks who were psyched to learn about survival tips like digging snow trenches (below) and the intricacies of <a href="http://lnt.org/teach/winter-recreation" target="_blank">Leave No Trace in winter</a>. My comrades-in-cold also delighted in finding animal tracks in the crusty snow, a trait I always find endearing.<br />
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Everything was hunky dory during the day, but after sunset I began fondling the brandy flask, popping hand warmers into my gloves and worrying about the circulation in my frigid toes. Sure, the temperature skirted the low 20s and I was socializing in a snowfield, so numb extremities were no surprise. I finally tore myself away from gazing at a ceiling of stars and dove inside my down bag, where I spooned Nalgene bottles filled with hot water. Unfortunately, it was still damn cold. Every hour or so, I tried to calculate how much heat I'd lose by unzippping to don more clothes, which didn't add up to the most restful night.<br />
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So next time I'll wear more clothes to bed. And definitely skip the summer hiking boots. But this all-season mountain thing may be a game-changer. We'll see.<br />
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<br />Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-45957697233119019772012-10-25T20:59:00.000-07:002013-02-14T20:53:09.773-08:00Ready for the deadIt's that time in Mexico. Painters are furiously whitewashing the cemeteries, and flower sellers are stockpiling their sweet-smelling inventory - especially sunset orange marigolds - to get everything in place for Day of the Dead.<br />
<br />
I'm currently on the road in the Yucatán for Moon Handbooks, breezing along some of the back roads (read: potholes) connecting the major sights here. Daylight seems to be slipping into the trees earlier and earlier every evening, and yesterday I shut down my overachiever tendencies and spent the night in a nondescript transit town instead of pushing on in the twilight.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gld-68Ia90Q/UIn_r05xSfI/AAAAAAAAAgM/ZDbvYkgFnzg/s1600/IMG_5924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gld-68Ia90Q/UIn_r05xSfI/AAAAAAAAAgM/ZDbvYkgFnzg/s640/IMG_5924.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
So I was walking the streets of Tizimín this morning after breakfast, and talked to these guys prepping flowers for sale next week. The floor of their shop was awash in leaves and stems, as was the street outside.<br />
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Tonight I'm in the town outside Chichén Itzá, where December 2012 is reaching a fever pitch and everyone's offering tongue-in-cheek "end of the world" packages and the archaeological site is revamping its sound and light show to capitalize on the influx on Maya doomsday revelers.<br />
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-14831651627964811662012-09-04T14:17:00.000-07:002012-09-04T14:18:12.336-07:00Four seasons on the JMT<br />
I didn't start backpacking in the wilderness until I was an adult. My first trip was organized by friends of friends, and we were a group of six women with varying amounts of backcountry experience. I still wince thinking about the slip-on leather shoes that gave me blisters within a half an hour and the hip belt-less pack I carried, but I'll always remember scrambling to a natural rock pool and skinny-dipping in the 90-degree afternoon heat.<br />
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I started backpacking by myself a few years ago, mostly because I couldn't find anyone game for longer hikes. Before setting out the first time, I geeked out overpreparing myself. I borrowed library books on wilderness first aid, lurked around online backpacking forums for gear pointers and read up on the most effective bear hazing techniques. My bicycle suffered benign neglect as I walked everywhere for weeks, loading up my backpack to hike home with big grocery shops or ambling miles over San Francisco hills and back to meet friends. I also read Bill Bryson's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Woods-Rediscovering-Appalachian-Official/dp/0767902521" target="_blank">A Walk in the Woods</a></i> and thought: if those jokers can take a stab at the Appalachian Trail, I can plod along a well-marked footpath without requiring a search and rescue team.<br />
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So after four summers, I recently finished section-hiking the <a href="http://www.pcta.org//about_trail/muir/over.asp" target="_blank">John Muir Trail</a>. Hurrah! If not for the snow-packed Sierra Nevada passes last summer, it would have been three seasons, but no sense dwelling on that. <br />
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After logging all those miles on the trail, one sticky issue keeps swirling through my brain: <i>where are all the girls? </i>I hiked alongside a dozen Boy Scout troops and scores of father-son duos, but encountered only one group of girls (a Girl Scout group from SoCal) during that entire time. Besides the ubiquitous Boy Scouts, most of my fellow hikers were men going solo (beard mandatory), groups of male friends (<i>duuude!</i>) or men with their female partners. And so few women hike alone that almost everyone I met assumed I was there with someone else.<br />
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So why aren't more girls trekking the trails? It bugs me that it's such a boys-only (and mostly white) rite of passage. If no one takes them into the wilderness, how are girls going to learn the self-reliance and camaraderie found there, or a deeper respect for the natural world? I'm committed to change those statistics as best I can, and I hope that other folks will do the same. </div>
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If you're wondering why it's worth slogging over mountains with a heavy pack and digging catholes every day, I'm posting a few photos from the southernmost section of the JMT (accessed via Onion Valley) below.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kearsarge Lakes</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forester Pass facing east</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ApjZQO9-wCY/UDMcixRr0AI/AAAAAAAAAfc/n8ft6kX7R5g/s1600/IMG_5594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ApjZQO9-wCY/UDMcixRr0AI/AAAAAAAAAfc/n8ft6kX7R5g/s400/IMG_5594.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bighorn Plateau</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFYA8B3S0Ws/UDMcxOsNNzI/AAAAAAAAAfk/_QX6jG2ci5Q/s1600/IMG_5609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFYA8B3S0Ws/UDMcxOsNNzI/AAAAAAAAAfk/_QX6jG2ci5Q/s400/IMG_5609.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guitar Lake basin</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bwMYLPJrVZ4/UDMc6jZVe-I/AAAAAAAAAfs/uz9Mhgk1jEc/s1600/IMG_5614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bwMYLPJrVZ4/UDMc6jZVe-I/AAAAAAAAAfs/uz9Mhgk1jEc/s400/IMG_5614.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over ridges west of Whitney</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h6tBqoQVjPA/UDMeenzsFaI/AAAAAAAAAf0/E9DhcHQ_glU/s1600/IMG_5633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h6tBqoQVjPA/UDMeenzsFaI/AAAAAAAAAf0/E9DhcHQ_glU/s400/IMG_5633.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Mt Whitney</td></tr>
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Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-53071146754009118982012-07-14T20:54:00.001-07:002012-07-15T16:23:02.966-07:00Venezuela in photosBlame it on the road, but I've been too exhausted to do much more than hit the pillow every night. Here are a few photos to narrate my trajectory over the last few weeks.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b3gzru06G9A/UAIwEGAy4BI/AAAAAAAAAd0/Cz3O1E4DuDU/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b3gzru06G9A/UAIwEGAy4BI/AAAAAAAAAd0/Cz3O1E4DuDU/s400/017.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
In Caracas, and soon to <span style="font-family: inherit;">open </span>as the new resting place for <span style="font-family: inherit;"><em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Simón Bolívar. Some have derided it as overpriced ski slope architecture, but it does mirror the upward slope of El </em></span><em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ávila behind it.</span></em><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mO2jZQcNOc/UAI0Si4GCSI/AAAAAAAAAeA/fJuFbTCGRTk/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mO2jZQcNOc/UAI0Si4GCSI/AAAAAAAAAeA/fJuFbTCGRTk/s400/023.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Flying in over Gran Roque, the main settlement in Los Roques. Most of the houses on the island are on the righthand side, next to the lagoon.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pz7_zoJ7q10/UAI0hKCkBaI/AAAAAAAAAeI/OJV0jSp9k8U/s1600/033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pz7_zoJ7q10/UAI0hKCkBaI/AAAAAAAAAeI/OJV0jSp9k8U/s400/033.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
An <i>astillero</i>, or boat-building yard, along the northwest coast of Isla Margarita. I think it looks like the skeleton of a whale.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--R0eMKA-Lqw/UAI0wIwxFWI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/TzdUqK0IpNs/s1600/IMG_5428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--R0eMKA-Lqw/UAI0wIwxFWI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/TzdUqK0IpNs/s400/IMG_5428.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
A worker preparing tobacco leaves in a cigar factory in Cuman<em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">á.</span></em><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rac-XESwqUM/UAI1MxhjXVI/AAAAAAAAAeY/7vKATQgjI9w/s1600/IMG_5471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rac-XESwqUM/UAI1MxhjXVI/AAAAAAAAAeY/7vKATQgjI9w/s400/IMG_5471.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 16px;">I noticed this store in Puerto Ordaz during my first visit to Venezuela back in 2006. When I asked them about the name, the folks working there had no idea where it came from.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAMyngbiO3A/UAI1YtGp5dI/AAAAAAAAAeg/YYccOFe183s/s1600/IMG_5476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAMyngbiO3A/UAI1YtGp5dI/AAAAAAAAAeg/YYccOFe183s/s400/IMG_5476.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 16px;">One of my biggest disappointments was just missing the arrival of presidential candidate </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 16px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1769171938">Henrique </a></span><em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henrique_Capriles_Radonski" target="_blank">Capriles Radonski</a> at the airport in Ciudad </em></span><em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Bolívar, but my plane was leaving for Canaima. Hundreds of flag-waving supporters mobbed the airport- a true rockstar moment.</em><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNbS7FkRdtM/UAI8JPW6T4I/AAAAAAAAAe0/OdipFwTmRDs/s1600/IMG_5461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNbS7FkRdtM/UAI8JPW6T4I/AAAAAAAAAe0/OdipFwTmRDs/s400/IMG_5461.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Dusk at Playa Medina, along the northeast coast near Rio Caribe. I hired a taxi to drive me to remote beaches along the coast all day, and this was the last one. We drove back </em><em style="font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">in the dark </em><em style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">along a road that had more holes than pavement. Wish I could have stayed here instead. </em><br />
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<em style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Bus . . . or boudoir? One of my many experiences with unusual interior decorating on public conveyances. </em>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-76701240913927955742012-06-22T18:56:00.001-07:002012-06-22T18:56:47.771-07:00Touchdown in the land of BolívarA friend described arrival in Venezuela as akin to getting your sea legs. To me it feels more like running a gauntlet. It's certainly not like flying into any other place I know.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Iz53kyfSgsM/T-UUQ_iP8jI/AAAAAAAAAdo/4Lf2ZPO73Xw/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Iz53kyfSgsM/T-UUQ_iP8jI/AAAAAAAAAdo/4Lf2ZPO73Xw/s400/014.JPG" title="Caracas grafitti" width="300" /></a></div>
First of all, the embassy travel reports hyperventilate about crime at the Caracas airport. Don't arrive after dark. Don't catch rides with unofficial taxis. Be wary of strangers, who could be drug smugglers (putting things in your bags), or run-of-the-mill thieves (removing things from those bags). Other warnings include nightmares like "express kidnappings" en route to town and extortion by police authorities.<br />
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Because of an artificially pegged currency situation, local currency withdrawn from ATMs means you’re essentially paying double for everything- unless you change money on a dodgy black market.<br />
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And the merciless airport touts <i>know </i>you need bolívares and transportation, with every other person trying to herd you into a makeshift taxi or whisper “change money” as they stroll by.<br />
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It's enough to make you completely paranoid.Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-6850216801392931982010-12-31T09:02:00.000-08:002011-12-24T09:03:20.693-08:00goodbye tropics<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZSyGsqWHm8/TvVGLyBLhCI/AAAAAAAAAVE/z0wwNMGR7c0/s1600/sign-at-vieques-beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZSyGsqWHm8/TvVGLyBLhCI/AAAAAAAAAVE/z0wwNMGR7c0/s320/sign-at-vieques-beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't be a pig</td></tr>
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It was finally time to head home, pile down comforters on the bed and take a few deep breaths before checking if all my research notes were legible. So here are a few belated highlights as I whip this Puerto Rico assignment into shape and indulge in a little flashback procrastination:
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<b>Culebra</b><br />
Wow. As I've hinted at a number of times, this pale scribe is no lotion-bearing beach bunny, but the white sand and dreamy coastline of Flamenco Beach lived up to the hype. After biking there to cross it off my to-do list, I had to return the following day and indulge in the full sensory experience (and get body slapped by a sneaky wave). On the drive over, I <i>swear</i> I saw a road construction flagger teasing a tarantula with the end of a pole. Or was that long-legged thing a crab? Shows how tired I must have been.
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<b>Fajardo</b><br />
Got caught driving through a succession of downpour curtains blanketing the highway, and had to slalom through the resulting water parks on the pavement. Same thing at night, plus a few thunderbolts thrown in for good measure. In the countryside just south of town, the hills sprang to life after dusk, with frogs that chirped like rusty swing sets and fist-sized toads lurking outside my door.
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<b>El Yunque<br />
</b>At a deserted ecolodge on the south side of the park, the coquis really <i>did</i> eat all the mosquitoes, and a chartreuse 5-inch-long lizard stared at me from the wall across the room. Snails with shells the size of golf balls slurped up the exterior walls, and I could see a waterfall from my bed when the clouds cleared away. I hiked a bit up Rte 191, which crossed the park until closed by landslides years ago. Traipsing along through warm rain, I watched the road devolve from rutted pavement to jungle-reclaimed rivulet, turning back when the water crested over my sneakers and the route demanded a sharp machete.
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<b>Western mountains<br />
</b>You know you're driving a true back road when a half dozen dogs snoozing in the middle of a hairpin turn raise their heads up to look at your car but don't bother to move. That and the sight of basketball nets set up in the road. At this point, you also realize that you are very lost.
</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-48745991106279739472010-11-13T11:00:00.000-08:002011-12-24T09:01:53.137-08:00temblorcito<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMBrPFtdEbk/TvVGII41z2I/AAAAAAAAAVE/amS6qFHEHlM/s1600/lago-caonillas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMBrPFtdEbk/TvVGII41z2I/AAAAAAAAAVE/amS6qFHEHlM/s320/lago-caonillas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lago Caonillas</td></tr>
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Pinch me please. Did I really journey over 3000 miles from earthquake central to feel the damn ground jostle me awake last night?! Note to universe: I can get that nonsense at home. Thankfully, the quake didn't achieve enough vigor to rouse me from the suddenly squirmy bed of my rural mountainside ecolodge. Half-asleep, I probably remembered that the windows above me were just screens and metal shutters, not glass. So after a groggy time check I snuggled back under my guava bubble gum-scented covers and forgot about the whole experience until dinnertime.
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The last week or so has been the usual crazy pace of road travel- meeting people, getting a crash course on their lives and eccentricities, then shuffling in new personalities and geographic locations. I'm losing track of the many guesthouses I've stayed at where the owners foster and adopt out stray cats and dogs. The evening serenade of coquis is a given, louder in some places (El Yunque rainforest) than others (surf town of Luquillo). And the quest for tasty well-priced vegetarian food never makes sense. A mini-mart on tiny Culebra island carries tofu, but I've been stumped to find more than one decent meat-free restaurant in San Juan.
</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-87143910518493835452010-11-08T10:59:00.000-08:002011-12-24T09:00:11.657-08:00vieques untamed<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_p5_-scxBc/TvVGRoyYDWI/AAAAAAAAAVE/xFFriAN93YY/s1600/vieques-bunker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_p5_-scxBc/TvVGRoyYDWI/AAAAAAAAAVE/xFFriAN93YY/s320/vieques-bunker.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vieques bunker</td></tr>
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Another swoon-worthy visit to Vieques. Though blowing the place to bits wouldn't have been my first, second or third choice for a lazy day activity, it's no wonder the Navy didn't want to leave. Wild horses graze by the side of the island's twisting one-lane roads, depositing squishy brown souvenirs on the pavement. Teenage boys ride bareback, their bays pacing a quick yet restrained gait like hip-swiveling speed walkers. Two-foot-long iguanas feast in the bough of tall trees, and weaselly mongeese dash across overgrown stretches of pavement lined with sealed concrete bunkers. Miles of solitary sand beaches buffer aquamarine sea, reached by rough dirt tracks that end in "no trespassing - dangerous explosives" signs.
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I took a second excursion to the island's ethereal bioluminescent bay, this time in a completely clear kayak, like Wonder Woman on the water. Crossing the darkened bay to our tie-up spot, fish careened just under the surface, leaving silver trails like never-ending sword marks of Zorro. Dinoflagellates, microscopic marine plankton that glow when disturbed, flickered like ghostly bubbles as the boat slid through the water under a moonless sky. Jumping into the water, I watched the fairy dust trails from my limbs until the tour guide made us climb back in.
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On Halloween night, the local cops set up a checkpoint in Esperanza. A half dozen guys stood around, loaded up in bulky flack jackets and bearing rifles. They stopped all cars going past, but since not many people were out, they mostly just hung around and chatted amongst themselves, looking puffed up and unnecessary. A stray dog was trotting down the street, and I had to laugh when I saw it stop to piss on a patrol car's tire.
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</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-7386144595101334562010-11-02T10:56:00.000-07:002011-12-24T08:58:23.899-08:00natural disasters & other big surprises<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z10_cmngXhI/TvVGSuQZV_I/AAAAAAAAAVE/571hgXs8yFU/s1600/vieques-malecon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z10_cmngXhI/TvVGSuQZV_I/AAAAAAAAAVE/571hgXs8yFU/s320/vieques-malecon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Esperanza on Halloweeen</td></tr>
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A few years back while researching in Chiapas, I recall the look of horror from someone when I mentioned that I was heading on to Tabasco soon. <i>But . . . they've had lots of rain</i>, he stammered. I hadn't read the regional news for a few days, and when I checked it that night it just so happened that the entire state was bathing in the largesse of its overflowing rivers. Without a hydroplane, a visit was impossible, so I took a literal rain check.
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Fast forward a few years. Last night I was poking around the tiny Puerto Rican island of Vieques, noticing that waves at the usually placid malecon were cresting and showering passing cars. Stopping to gawk, I commented to a passerby about the spirited Caribbean waters, and he dropped a tidbit about Hurricane Tomas lurking a few hundred miles offshore. You'd think I'd pay attention to these salient details by now. Little kids in Halloween costumes hung over the side of the boardwalk, screaming with mock fear when the whitewater crashed and spritzed them.
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After dinner tonight, I stopped by one of the local bars to gather their details for the book. As a reggae cover band droned on, the World Series played without sound, and a handful of rapt patrons texted as they watched the 8th inning of the game. I'm not a sports fan, but I was a San Franciscan far from home without anything better to do, so I pulled up a stool and quickly made friends with an SF couple at the end of the counter. As the bottom of the ninth inning sped up, the spectacle drew me in and I teetered on the edge of my chair. At three balls and two strikes, conversation stopped near the television and eyes leveled without blinking. As the batter struck out, we exhaled to cheer, and the bartender lined up free chichaito shots for his three San Francisco patrons. ¡Salud!
</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-48717008589699995502010-11-01T10:52:00.000-07:002011-12-24T08:53:51.294-08:00encantada<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-621KsNVtNDI/TvVGDHWIaII/AAAAAAAAAVE/9hk4ykBDcnM/s1600/Pinones-bike-path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-621KsNVtNDI/TvVGDHWIaII/AAAAAAAAAVE/9hk4ykBDcnM/s320/Pinones-bike-path.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm currently on the ground in Puerto Rico, wilting in the late hurricane season humidity while researching the next Lonely Planet guide to the island. Friends from home keep asking me if I've been snorkeling or swimming, but until the sun's almost down, I'm reluctant to expose my skin to insta-cook.
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San Juan was a rush of mushrooming beachfront high-rise condos, concrete streets running between them and a public bus authority that plies the roads but refuses to publish or post route maps. A breezy woman from the tourism office insisted that everyone knew where the buses went so there was no need to produce maps. (Yeah, right.) And that buses went places that tourists didn't want to go anyway. (Um . . . sure.) A desk clerk at the guesthouse confirmed my suspicion that residents were just as perplexed by the dearth of transit information. She'd somehow gotten her hands on a map a few years ago, and she'd kept it like a sacred object. An object that she let me borrow and photocopy, thank you very much.
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A few highlights from my time in the capital of Borinquen:
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an invitation to the birthday party of a dapper sexagenarian barfly in Condado
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drinking my first <a href="http://www.remezcla.com/2008/latin/chichaito-the-new-cosmopolitan-2/">chichaito</a> shot (passion fruit flavored!)
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chatting with a right-on bartender inside a <a href="http://www.perlarestaurant.com/" target="_blank">crazy oyster-shaped restaurant</a>
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biking a few miles of the undeveloped Piñones coast on a brakeless bicycle
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finding the coolest live music club in Old San Juan by following rock music down a dark and deserted back alley
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realizing that the best natural foods store in town was right across the street from where I was staying</div>
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</ul>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-13586729919356618362010-10-23T10:48:00.000-07:002011-12-24T08:50:03.799-08:00daily dose of wildlife<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-97TccJv7X98/TvVGDhnXFOI/AAAAAAAAAVE/HwUyC-JZ7eE/s1600/Tomales-Bay-harem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-97TccJv7X98/TvVGDhnXFOI/AAAAAAAAAVE/HwUyC-JZ7eE/s320/Tomales-Bay-harem.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Roomy green spaces and unexpected pocket parks quilt San Francisco, and red tail hawks routinely terrorize legions of pigeons. But sometimes I crave truly wild places- expanses without buildings, landscapes with few people, and the rush of encountering large animals that make you feel small.
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All the bases got covered during a recent day to the northern tip of <a href="http://www.nps.gov/pore" target="_blank">Point Reyes</a>. Driving to the trailhead, raptors with stern expressions and never-ending feet perched on wooden fenceposts, staring me down like miniature roadside gargoyles. Majestic tule elk vamped along the bluffs between Tomales Bay and the ocean, trying hard to exude that effortlessly photogenic look. At the tip of Tomales Point, seals bodysurfed angry white swells.
</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-21060521361384683312010-02-14T10:47:00.000-08:002011-12-24T08:50:37.261-08:00epic day<div align="left">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wGQfI8YRVg4/TvVGDLEyIqI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qblNPQCL6P0/s1600/Mavericks-break.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wGQfI8YRVg4/TvVGDLEyIqI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qblNPQCL6P0/s320/Mavericks-break.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I dragged my zombie-like self out of bed this morning to gaze at small dots on the ocean's horizon. Granted, these ant-sized figures were careening down raging 40-foot barrels of frothy sea water at <a href="http://www.maverickssurf.com/">Mavericks</a>, one of the scariest big wave surf contests in the world. But if these fools could stand up to tempt death, the least I could do was wake up before 9am and run a brush through my hair.
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The presence of ambulances and SUVs full of cops gave the impression that some kind of commotion had recently transpired, and I soon found out <a href="http://www.ktvu.com/video/22559630/index.html">rogue waves had just pummeled hundreds of beachside bystanders</a>, sending many to the hospital with broken bones, bloody arms and twitchy stories of near-drowning. From the safer upper bluff, thousands set up blankets and chairs to watch sets of monster tides crest and slap down everything in their paths, and we all sucked breath every time a surfer took the suicide plunge.
</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-11261648432634222002010-01-28T10:44:00.000-08:002011-12-24T08:46:59.032-08:00thank you, Howard Zinn<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_DYNxLLvPk/TvVGHrNfUlI/AAAAAAAAAVE/iUDBH2MABR4/s1600/howard-zinn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_DYNxLLvPk/TvVGHrNfUlI/AAAAAAAAAVE/iUDBH2MABR4/s1600/howard-zinn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Howard Zinn<br />1922-2010</td></tr>
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You will be missed.</div>Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-80947257446057331162009-11-24T10:43:00.000-08:002011-12-24T08:51:09.677-08:00cusp of winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UXy6Tto3SSY/TvVGDVnEFhI/AAAAAAAAAVE/d-cYuG5RMlc/s1600/Tahoe-lodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UXy6Tto3SSY/TvVGDVnEFhI/AAAAAAAAAVE/d-cYuG5RMlc/s320/Tahoe-lodge.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
Few things feel as wickedly self-indulgent as blowing off work to ogle the autumnal Sierras. Why yes, I'm supposed to be writing up my reams of tropical Mexico research. I should be tackling a section of steamy jungle every day, chipping off enough guidebook destinations in Chiapas and Tabasco that this project will be tucked away in a drawer before food goes in the oven for Thanksgiving. But ever since my plane home hit the tarmac, I'd been pining to see big mountains the way that people without phone or internet access brood for long distance lovers.
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Minimal cajoling produced a willing road trip partner, and we headed toward the north shore of Lake Tahoe, listening to books on tape so her daughter wouldn't implode from the transportation boredom endemic to 7-year-olds. Since visiting for a research trip last summer, I'd been angling for a cohort to overnight at the <a href="http://www.sierraclub.org/outings/lodges/ctl">Sierra Club lodge</a> near Donner Pass. And since the snow was still a few weeks away, we had the whole damn place to ourselves, and we padded around in our PJs like it was our private country home. Any stray nighttime thoughts I had about the sprawling hotel in <i>The Shining</i> I kept to myself, as we built up a fire and busied ourselves with alpine jigsaw puzzles and an addictive journal of shield-your-eyes before-they-fall mountaineering accidents.
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I'd also been meaning to explore the <a href="http://www.koskiphotography.com/rr/trans-sierra-tunnels/FrameSet.htm">abandoned train tunnels and snow sheds</a> just next to Sugar Bowl. Built in the 1860s by <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/tcrr/peopleevents/e_tunnels.html">Chinese laborers for the Central Pacific Railroad</a> the tunnels were blasted out by hand, with work continuing in the avalanche-prone area even during winter blizzards that stacked snow 18-foot-high. Armed with a headlamp, we dodged long puddles and occasional drips inside two smaller tunnels (7 and 8), but turned back for hot chocolate when the frigid wind blasted us near the 1659-foot Summit Tunnel.Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-9777388979946772382009-10-19T10:42:00.000-07:002011-12-24T08:51:55.618-08:00hasta la próxima<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the airport hotel in DF on my last night in Mexico, my stomach was topped off with chocolate and churros, and I was already missing Chiapas.
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My bus from San Cristóbal to the Tuxtla airport had descended through the clouds, where an enormous valley sprawled below and green mountains lingered beyond. Along the highway were huipil-clad women tending a herd of goats, and men in straw cowboy hats clearing brush, their pants ballooning over tall green rubber boots.
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And it felt hard to leave San Cristobal. I'd finally stashed enough javelin-sized sticks near where I was staying so I could fend off irate territorial geese from all directions. The loudspeakers on water trucks, endlessly advertising <i>¡AGUA PURA!</i> were starting to sound mildly poetic. Casa del Pan finally had tofu for sale every time I wandered in. The neighborhood dogs that napped along the street I took home seemed to recognize me, merely opening their eyes and stretching instead of jumping up to bark. And my friends' six month-old loved nothing more than slowly tearing the leaves off trees.Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7600431957430693768.post-29613552904267383242009-10-02T10:41:00.000-07:002011-12-24T08:52:30.755-08:00better than TV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Go6C7iUwg4g/TvVGIV_zg4I/AAAAAAAAAVE/4Grn3MZ9GWk/s1600/la-encrucijada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Go6C7iUwg4g/TvVGIV_zg4I/AAAAAAAAAVE/4Grn3MZ9GWk/s320/la-encrucijada.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
At most hotels in Mexico, the front desk hands over a TV remote control along with the room key. Television is very important here, and for many, that remote is probably as important as the room access. And the main genre is the telenovela. Soap operas with no subtlety and loads of camp, the music crescendos with every conflict, hyper-feminine and <i>deep</i>ly masculine voices mirror cartoon characters, and the wicked always get their comeuppance. I haven't turned on a set for ages, but things here have been entertaining nonetheless.
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<b>the drama within<br />
</b>In the empty beach town of Puerto Arista, I gave up on finding any non-seafood and tore into my last Tasty Bite. For the uninitiated, Tasty Bites are spicy MRE Indian dishes so yummy you don't even need to heat them up. They're excellent for car camping but especially useful as emergency travel sustenance for vegetarians. I'd been craving leafy vegetables for two weeks, and the lukewarm saag paneer (spinach with cubes of cheese) made me feel all warm and happy. Until it didn't.
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A half hour after eating, I realized that my heart was going turbo on the autobahn. I laid down and tried to relax, but this all-important organ refused to slow down. After a while I remembered the stomach medication I'd taken earlier in the day, and started googling possible adverse reactions. The doctor had told me not to drink alcohol, and harrumphed that I needn't deny myself anything else. But guess what? Cheese happens to be a mammoth no-no with these cute red pills. For hours, my pulse ran a double marathon. Huge bombs of thunder jolted me awake in the early morning, and my chest continued to thump away like a dribbled basketball.
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<b>drama in other people's living rooms<br />
</b>Hanging out with exotic foreigners has social cachet in small let's-sit-and-stare-from-the-sidewalk towns. Still, I was surprised when a 20-something bike taxi driver I'd met earlier showed up at my hotel after dinner. He'd brought his wife, and they invited me to their house for coffee.
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They pedaled me a few blocks away and I was ushered into large low room marked off with a red curtain. Seated on plastic chairs, the woman's family watched a blaring telenovela episode set at the beach. The actresses played with tumbling hair and somehow kept their plunging necklines from misaligning, while the men played goofy cuties or sexed-up lotharios. Everyone greeted me warmly, and I shook hands with the elders. Then my hosts and the rest of the family tuned back in for the bonfire and bikinis. I tried to engage by helping a teenager with his English homework, but he became too embarrassed, his nervous laughter escalating into manic high pitched squeals. He eventually corked it and stood one foot away from the television screen, staring intently and looking soothed. I fielded family status questions every so often, but mostly I just watched them watch TV.
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<b>drama at home</b><br />
Back at my hotel, the night staff was now on duty. The youngish man sat on the end of a couch in front of the loud lobby TV, canoodling with his girlfriend. He looked up just long enough to verify that I posed no threat, then put his lips back in business. Determined to find a puff of unsecured wi-fi, I roamed around the cement hotel courtyard, my laptop a divining rod. Passing the lobby again, I noticed another woman sitting beside the couple. Moments later, a shriek: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY HUSBAND?" It wasn't a cliffhanger in their cheesy telenovela, but a real live confrontation. A long silence hung before a woman sashayed past me out the back door. Screams and recriminations began.
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With drama like this, who needs cable?Beth Kohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11578728794511541265noreply@blogger.com0