My Blog will take you along my adventures, beginning with unbelievable camping excursions in the heart of Glacier Bay, Alaska, to oversea explorations into an array of cultures and discoveries, complete with personal reflections from the realities of a solo traveler. Read along and join me on the journey of a lifetime.
How would it sound to spend a weekend by a lake, white-water rafting down class IV rapids, camping under star-filled skies, and spending evenings soaking in hot springs? Well it can be done, and all within 2.5 hours of Los Angeles.
This past June, a group of friends and I took off for a weekend getaway and drove to the Kern River and Isabella Lake (~150 miles from LA). As usual, I planned this particular outing from a wide range of vague requests. “Beach camping! Hot springs! Nature retreat! Swimming!” were all some of the demands, and after surfing the internet and bonding with google, I discovered Remington Hot Springs and Hobo Campground on the Kern River. The white-water rafting was literally an afterthought I came up with midway into the drive. I literally had to twist arms and promise that it was safe. It was, and it was the time of our lives.
Hobo Campground is a turn off the highway before reaching Lake Isabella and the sites are large, secluded, and all abut the river. We would grill food, dive into the river, splash, swim, and stargaze, all from the comfort of our campsite. During the day, tall trees provided plenty of shade, and a short hike upstream from our site brought us to the “jumping rock” -- a 20 foot jump off a rock ledge into the river (check out the above video).
Part of the reason I chose Hobo Campground was the proximity of hot springs -- Remington in particular. Another nearby hot springs existed once upon a time, but apparently the forest service filled it in with concrete. Today, Remington is the main hot spring that remains, and was once an actual hot-spring resort. Today all that remains are stone-stairways and concrete-lined tubs. The Kern River flows just below the lip of the hot springs, allowing you to soak your head in the river to cool off while relaxing in the tubs.
The white-water rafting was phenomenal. We took an early bus to the river and spent the entire day paddling rapids, swimming down rapids (yes -- there was the option!), and even surfing a rapid. I couldn’t recommend the trip more, with stops for lunch, dips, and jumps from the “jumping rock.” Check out the video above for a quick overview of the blast we had.
For the white-water rafting, we chose the company “Kern River Outfitters” (www.kernrafting.com). They have a variety of trips ranging from day trips to 2 and 3 days of adventure down the Kern River. Apparently the 3-day trip is spectacular, with one of the days being non-stop class IV rapids and even some side-hikes to spectacular waterfalls -- I’m gonna return for this trip!!!
As for Lake Isabella, we never stopped at the lake to swim or check out the facilities. However, all boating activities are allowed on the lake (you must purchase a permit, which are sold at all the marinas and mini-marts) and there are swimming areas as well. For more info on the lake, check out: http://kernvalley.com/news/lakefun.htm
Los Angeles... I knew my return would be a continuation of my journey since leaving 2 years prior, but never did I guess that the experience would bring me to my knees from depression and despair the number of times it did. Each and every path I walked would crumble before me, and each time my tenacity would faulter and my outlook would grow grim. The message couldn't have been more clear to leave Los Angeles had it been written on a billboard with flashing neon lights, and I began considering it.
Through all my turmoil and disappointment, I realized that a graduate degree in landscape architecture would not ultimately make me happy, nor would a lifelong career in the food service industry. I am an adventurer. I am an outdoorsman. I need to integrate these traits and passions into a career where they can flourish and bring me a life of happiness.
Recently I have been hired to help launch an adventure travel division of an established travel company. The research I do, the meetings with vendors I have, and the discussions about the road ahead all excite me. I finally feel like I am on my path. So I will remain in Los Angeles, continue leading group hikes and blogging, and pursue the career of my dreams. After. Long hiatus, I am back and look forward to the stories ahead. Over and out.
From NH to Shenandoah VA, Raleigh NC, Nashville TN, Ruston LA, New Orleans LA, Austin TX, Tucson AZ, and Los Angeles CA, Jude and I drove. The trip was more than a drive, it was an experience. We had conversations that sliced down to our guts and others that stretched to the stars. Laughter (and a few tears!) filled the ride.
The trip was the perfect transition to move back to Los Angeles, yet I'm still terrified as hell being back here. When I left in May 2010, I was dead inside. I willingly cut my dreams free, convinced they were lingering relics of childhood with no place in adult life. Boy was I wrong.
My geographic wanderings served as a stimulus for self-realization. I grew leaps and bounds and then some. I squashed the voice that continually told me who I am not and who I cannot be. Sadly, it wasn't until this past year that I realized how much that voice disempowered me in my life. Yes, I grew leaps and bounds, but the greatest realization was knowing the person I really want to become and truly understanding how to get there. So after 1.5 years of gut-wrenching exploration, I have come face to face with my former self, and I am paralyzed with fear. I am ready to launch but fear Los Angeles like superman does kryptonite. I just need to understand that it was myself, not Los Angeles or anybody else, who allowed me to forget myself. Yet no matter how far I have come since I left, I look into the mirror here in Los Angeles and wonder if I have internalized my progress. I am staring at my locked door wondering if I truly am this exhausted, or if I'm equally fearful to open the door and confront my former self. Regardless, I'm going to get some sleep and kick my butt into high-gear tomorrow. It is time to take action! Stay tuned...
The time has come for the final adventure, where the journey comes full circle. After 1.5 years of crazy experiences in Alaska, Shenandoah, the Virgin Islands, and New Hampshire, I am driving back to Los Angeles to live once again. I am returning to the city where I lost my passion and drive for life, and rightfully so, part of me is apprehensive.
In 1.5 year of adventure, I grew in incredible ways. I faced countless obstacles and difficulties, but continually prevailed. The year of adventure came with numerous achievements, and as I hop in the car today to begin the drive, I truly have become a force in life to be reckoned with (finally!). I know that I will keep achieving and continue adventuring and that I will not let myself lose my passion for life ever again.
And on that note, day one of the road-tripping adventure finally begins. I'll be updating soon. Over and out....
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Welcome to my Post-LA Odyssey of Adventure. My greatest adventures and stories from the past year are from Alaska, and so I am posting my craziest experience as my first blog. The remaining entries are in chronological order.
My outstretched hand shades my squinting eyes as I watch the Fairweather Express boat shrink into the horizon. I stand at the water's edge on a small island by a pile of gear stuffed into waterproof bags next to a dark blue double kayak. I am alone and embarking on a 70 mile trip up the East Arm of Glacier Bay and then south to the lodge. I only have four days.
The main purpose of my trip is to revist McBride Glacier and White Thunder Ridge. The 2000 foot cliff that connects the sky to the water and echoes the thunderous cracks and calvings of ice as they splash into the sea, commands respect and evokes awe for the surging pulse of Nature. The trip is going to be epic. The sun is shining and the water is calm. I figure the glorious weather will continue. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The strokes of my paddle create a constant background rhythm behind the cool distant curves of Casement Glacier, the graceful dives of playful porpoise, and the unified flight of hundreds of waterbirds across the channel. Splish. Splish. Splish. Splish. My strokes become my heartbeat and the pulse of my universe. I feel alive.
One. Two. Three. Four. How many strokes in a minute? How many in a mile or back to the lodge? I watch the band of birds unperturbed by the rhythmic splashing of my paddle. Is this how the planet once looked? Was the world this wild and abundantly populated by birds, whales, and cottonwood seeds that blanket every surface with a snow-like layer of accumulating mass?
The mature forests transition to younger trees and alder bushes as I paddle further up the East Arm of the bay. When Muir Glacier retreated to its current location at the top of the arm, plant succession occurred where colonizing plants sprouted on the fresh rock exposed from the melting glacier. As decades unraveled, mature species emerged and dominated. Kayaking north in Glacier Bay is a living scientific laboratory that proves theories and observations often only discussed in classrooms. I feel like a present day explorer.
Splish. Splish. Splish. Splish. The sun illuminates the turquoise blue of the water around me, and ahead lies a series of points and isthmuses that mark the greatest stretch of land on a shoreline or the divide between the East Arm and various inlets.
With each stroke, the green blur of the nearest point becomes the outline of trees, boulders, and red white and black bands of the intertidal zone. I pass Adam’s Inlet, Wachusset Inlet, Sealers Island, the view of Rigg's Glacier and Wolf Point, and then the startling view of White Thunder Ridge and the iceberg-choked entrance to McBride Glacier.
I continue to fight the tide as my muscles strain to maintain my pace. My wrists hurt, my forearm throbs, and my shoulder aches. Parallel to the cliff face of White Thunder Ridge, I look up to the sky. Gusty cold glacial air mists my face. I shiver and adjust my beanie and cinch the hood of my windbreaker tight against my skin. The narrow entrance to the lagoon and the face of McBride is a flowing river as the tide goes out, shooting icebergs into the bay.
I pause. How do I enter? Do I wait for slack tide? Do I walk along the shore pulling my kayak through the water? I examine the steep banks of the shore. Falling into the icy water would mean hypothermia.
I decide to wait on the shore. With limited layers of clothing, I keep my bulky red life jacket zipped over my raincoat for warmth. The land and water are covered with chunks of ice.
Paddling into the ice-filled lagoon, icebergs crackle and trickle droplets of meltwater into the sea and cover the beaches from the high tide line to the water’s edge.
Crash! The thunderous cracking of ice from McBride Glacier resounds over the water and echoes off the mountainsides. Birds call and fly about the melting icebergs that flip in the lagoon. My paddle splashes in the water until the nose of my kayak meets the only sandy beach I know in Glacier Bay. I pop out of the kayak, spray skirt dangling to my knees, and drag the boat above the beached melting sculptures of ice. I hike up a steep open hill overlooking the glacier and set up my tent. Exposed to the elements, my campsite is not suited for the approaching storm.
The pitter pattering of rain on my tent is only interrupted by the thunderous booms echoing from the glacier or the crashing tumbling icebergs that collide in the water.
With the sunrise, I wake in my tent shivering. Buckets of water collected in my tent. Most of my clothes are soaked. I am fifty miles from the lodge in a storm with a bum wrist, an aching shoulder and wet clothes. I grow concerned and wish I packed more layers. Hypothermia could become my reality.
I step out from my tent to the fog and rain. I trudge through puddles and push through alder thickets to descend to the beach. Although panic instinctually tries to pervade my consciousness, I choose to find solace in the beauty of the fog and the turquoise color of the icebergs. I force myself to seek serenity and see beauty in the rain. The outdoors teaches the finest life lessons.
I boil stream water for rich hot coffee and a dish of oatmeal. I collect rocks and investigate wolf tracks on the beach.
As high tide nears, I dismantle camp and paddle off into the iceberg laden lagoon and consider the dangers. The rising tide lifts icebergs from the shallow sea floor where they join the other boulders of ice in a crashing and crackling sea. The double kayak is cumbersome to maneuver around the ice. Icebergs slam into me threatening to puncture my kayak. My heart pounds. I grit my teeth and tie two bandanas around my wrist for support and weave in and out of ice and into the bay.
Splish. Splish. Splish. Splish. The paddling begins smoothly until Sealer’s Island. Dark stewing clouds descend with horizontal rain. The calm seas sweep into a frenzy. I tighten the bandannas on my wrist, pulling with my teeth.
The wind is murder and my progress flatlines. With all my might, I round Sealers Island and into Goose Cove where white-capping swells slam my kayak from every angle. My arms burn and my legs straighten and bend struggling to control the rudder.
Panting for breath, I escape the cove and pull my kayak to shore. What do I do? I’m miles from my camping destination. If I wait for better conditions I’ll freeze.
Soaked from the rain, I hike along the edge of the forest looking for a sufficient site for a tent. A beautiful pond appears through the waist-high grass, and there buried in detritus I find a faded blue poncho with rusted buttons. My spirits soften. I found mercy in the midst of the storm.
With poncho in hand, I hike back to the beach. My eyes search the seas for ships or kayakers. What is the weather forecast? If I find a ship I consider asking for help; the storm might prevent me from exiting the East Arm. A hint of desperation plasters across my face and my eyes scan the endless waves breaking in the sea. From nowhere, determination floods me and I enter the water to continue battling the white-capping swells.
My progress is pathetic. If I pause, I’m swept backward at three times my forward speed. For the day, I acknowledge defeat.
I maneuver the waves and aim for the shore. Water crashes onto my back. Adrenaline surges and all pain subsides. Like gears of a machine, my arms paddle my kayak to shore where I surrender for the night.
My newfound poncho becomes a windbreak for a fire I miraculously start with wet wood. I warm my waterlogged feet and hands. The following morning I wake to the sound of waves crashing on the shore. The seas have not changed. I face another day of torturous paddling, but I am resolved to exit the East Arm.
The backcountry of Alaska is a world of challenge. I embarked on this adventure ready to test my physical and mental capacities, but now in the face of the cold, wind, rain, storms, dangerous seas, and limited food, I look to the sky and ask for mercy. I want to survive.
I fight the winds for hours and stop to rest at the main arm of the bay. I drag my kayak over the smooth, polished, wet rocks on the steep shore of Mount Wright. Not a moment later, my kayak shoots down the shore toward the tumultuous water. I scramble over rocks and dive for the nose of the kayak. I begged for mercy, but the battle continues.
Thirty miles to the lodge, fog fills the bay. I rummage through the bags on the kayak and grab my compass. I take a bearing of the distant vista before I’m surrounded in fog and lose sight of the shores. I continue paddling. Splish. Splish. Splish. Splish.
The absurdity of this trip is unbelievable. Without my determination and physical dexterity, the countless obstacles would have defeated me.
The winds die and I pass islands and North and South Sandy Cove -- beautiful green oases and coves that beckon the unknowing camper. However, I know better. Both locations are closed to camping because of the overwhelming population of black bears. I steer toward a distant shore separated from the closed coves by a cliff that dives into the bay. Eleven hours of paddling and I need to set camp. The restless water continues to toss my kayak, side to side, back to forward. The water is now dark like the sky. I must beat the setting sun; I refuse to paddle open waters in the dark.
At my final camp, the storm finally subsides. The gray clouds that defined my trip are now broken by rays of sunlight from the dying sun. A clearing in the clouds reveal a bandwith of mountains and sparkling inlets. Ironically, the seas that terrorized me on my trip now reflect the sunset perfectly.
With four hours of sleep, I wake for the final stretch of my journey. The water is glass. My paddles create ripples that flow across the bay and my wake quietly stretches out to the shores. The barking of sea lions from South Marble Island resume to welcome the sun. I thank the Gods for the blissful day.
Entering the Beardslee Islands, humpback whales surface and blow feet from my kayak. Pooooof! On my right two orca blow, their distinct black dorsal fins breaking the surface of the water. The orca are hunting and seals that normally surround me in my kayak are nervously flopping on the beach.
Rounding the final few islands of the Beardslees, I finally reach "The Cut" – the passageway that leads to the lodge at high tide. A take one final look around at the trees, the water, and the sunshine. One final moment of my epic solo journey before my final strokes deliver me to the lodge. Against all adversity, I finally made it home.
Alaska challenged my every ability. I escaped hypothermia. I navigated the fog. I battled storms. My determination and skills delivered me to the lodge in four days. Just as my life seemed impossible, I left the lodge and embarked on this trip and discovered my determination and undying strength. I need not be fearful of my future. I do not know what will unfold, but I know that I will survive. All I need is myself, and that is the lesson Alaska taught me.
It's been a moment since I wrote a word or processed a thought in my head.
THE VIRGIN ISLANDS!!!
Let me try that again:
the virgin islands. (no caps).
The initial experience of meeting the warm turquoise waters, the sandy beaches, the fact that I was living on a giant rock in the middle of nowhere, eventually lost its luster. Yes the islands are beautiful, but the mindset leaves something more to be desired.
Did you know that the per capita murder rate in the US Virgin Islands is second in the world behind Honduras? Don't quote me on that, but murders and gunshots are regular news here. But beyond the open air buses ("Safaris") and the local dark-skinned folk (90% of the population), the transplants from the continental US are largely perpetual uninspired frat-folk. Honestly, when you can buy a liter of vodka for $1.99, why not bathe in alcohol and be a complete douche-bag?
This is my world.
I am enjoying my time here. I am. But I also now truly miss my old world and friendships in Los Angeles.
The last few weeks were a whirlwind. I left New Hampshire, visited Los Angeles, and flew to DC briefly before an early morning flight to the Virgin Islands. I stepped off the plane Monday morning with my friend Nora and we had a mission: find a job and an apartment. Miraculously (thank you gods above!) we found a home for a month with ease on the East End of St Thomas. I am a five minute walk from a beautiful white-sand beach one direction and the town of Red Hook in the other.
I dove into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean yesterday morning with a grin that would not fade. Unfathomably, within 36 hours I found a home to drop my bags and was living in utter paradise. How did this happen??? I was shocked.
I am still trying to process my emotions from my visit to Los Angeles and this unreal reality in the Caribbean. After months of living in remote forests, I arrived in Los Angeles as a complete social monster. I tried juggling time with different friends and failed horribly. A ten day visit after five years is far too little time and surprisingly stressful. I will return soon to live (I think) and all will be better then (I hope).
Two months back in New Hampshire and I've forgotten I am on a year long journey. In the womb of my childhood home and family, I was disconnected from the regular emotions linked to my uprooted lifestyle. Now that my departure date to the Virgin Islands looms before me, reality promptly sliced the umbilical cord, allowing the return of my familiar friends: anxious, excited, and terrified. They're back and flowing through my veins.
In three weeks I'm off to the Virgin Islands, and this time employee housing doesn't exist (Thank God???). I have not secured a job and have no idea where I will be living. As a matter of fact, I don't even know which island I'm going to yet!!! This time around my leap is entirely unsettled. Slightly unsettling.
From what I've heard and read online, I simply arrive in the Virgin Islands and find a job and apartment with ease. Can you imagine arriving in an airport with no clue what your next step will be? On January 28th that will be my reality. Wish me luck.
In 11 days I am returning to Los Angeles for a visit. The trip will be a quick peek into my former life, and my baseline for determining personal growth since departing last May. Will LA feel like home, or some place lifetimes away? I'm both excited and frightened as hell.
So I'm sitting on my living room couch in New Hampshire, and unlike the previous 60 days I've been here, the unsettling emotions are back. With my roots once again retracted, I am returning to the road. Stay tuned, this is going to be interesting.
Six months since I left Los Angeles. Six months since I sold my mercedes, my furniture, and my designer clothes. Six months later I find myself with my backpack writing from my hometown in New Hampshire looking back upon my months of adventure.
My travels brought me to a period of freedom and youth where cell phones and technological connectivity were obsolete. I lived in Glacier Bay with scenic beauty, bountiful wildlife, and the moment. I loved jogging on rainforest trails knowing that I could not be reached. I loved knocking on people's doors to see if they were home and leaving notes if they weren't. In today's world where it is hard to allow your mind to truly stop, I welcomed being technological disconnected in Glacier Bay with opened arms.
The six months since I left Los Angeles did not turn out to be unconstrained joy and complete liberation. My work experience in both Alaska and Virginia devoured me at times. I often felt I was at a battle between what my journey was supposed to be and what it was. However, through all of the tribulations and overtime work hours, I learned that I am adaptable. I learned that I do not need materialism to be happy. I lived in dilapidated housing with minimal amenities, and I had moments of complete satisfaction. I had moments where I felt life pulsing through my veins where I would look up to the trees and sky and scream with excitement. I also had periods of time where I would pull my covers over my head in a cocoon of wallowing depression. Nobody said this journey would be easy, and it hasn't been.
My most treasured moments thus far have been in the wilderness of Glacier Bay in a kayak. I loved being surrounded by wildlife and watching orca surface and dive around me. I loved kayaking through icebergs with icy fingers gripped around my paddle listening to the melodic sound of meltwater droplets splashing into the water from the icebergs surrounding me. I loved walking around Bartlett Cove and measuring time by the ebb and flow of the tides.
If everything on this journey had been easy and what I expected, what lessons could I have learned? In Shenandoah I was challenged by living in a sort of "work camp" where I related to nobody and despised my job. In Shendandoah I was truly alone, but I endured it. I haven't processed exactly what I learned from that experience except that I never want to return there and that I refuse to live in employee housing EVER again.
Life is full of experiences, both good and bad. In the six months since I left Los Angeles, I exposed myself to an array of completely new and foreign experiences that granted me opportunities for personal growth. It's too early to determine how my experiences have affected the core of me, Brandon Perkins, but I'm sure the lessons will unfold in due time. Perhaps I've subconsciously internalized the lessons and haven't realized it yet. Regardless, one thing I know for sure is that I missed true summer weather in the rainforest of Glacier Bay, Alaska and have my eye set upon three beautiful tropical islands in the Caribbean. My next chapter will take me to the sunny beaches of the Virgin Islands and my first chapter outside of Los Angeles NOT living in employee housing. From the Northern Lights to some new tropical beach sites. Until then, let the New Hampshire adventures continue (just returned from a beautiful hike along the ridge of Mt. Lincoln and Mt. Lafayette). Over and out.
The last time I wrote, I explained how I was fresh from the wilderness of Alaska and experiencing a stop-over in the urban jungle of Washington D.C. The peaceful sounds of nature were replaced with speeding cars, horns, buildlings, people, and mass-media every direction I looked. After living “off the grid,” I was entirely overwhelmed, and was looking forward to the shuttle that would take me back into the mountains and forest of Shenandoah National Park.
The experience was one for the books.
With key in hand, I opened the door to my new employee housing: “The B Dorm.” I didn’t think housing could get worse than Alaska, but it did. The walls were a yellowing white and the floors old cracking linoleum. The bathrooms were communal, and everything was dingy. What I didn’t expect, and was too embarrassed to reveal until now, was the bed bugs that would cover me at night crawling and biting.
Yes, exhausted from my travels, the goodbyes, and the hellos, I just wanted a good nights sleep. After hours of tossing and turning and brushing bugs from my legs and chest, I angrily pulled out my sleeping bag and moved to the lower bunk. Yes, I was a grown adult also dealing with bunk beds.
In other words, Shenandoah did not start out well. The following day I reported the news and changed rooms and linens. What I didn’t change, however, was my sleeping bag and pillows. I transported the bed bugs to my new room.
After days of linen-changing, bug bombs, and terrible sleep, I was officially settled. My room was drab and tiny (150 square feet MAX) and I had no internet and limited cell signal, but I was still looking forward to my new environment, new hiking trails, and new people to meet.
Walking up to the lodge and the break room where numerous employees sat eating and playing on laptops, I soon learned that everyone was miserable. Everyone warned me that I would hate it and that I would be worked to death. I brushed off their warnings and figured that my co-workers had a different outlook; they could care less about nature. The majority of them were there solely for the job, and I wasn’t. I was here for the surroundings.
To better understand my situation, I will expand upon the employees. Upon arrival, I met two guys my age that loved outdoor adventure. I figured they would be my pals for this leg of the journey, but they both quit within 10 days of my arrival. They hated the work environment. The remaining employees were largely either locals, Indonesians, or Thais.
The local people drove up the mountain every day to work, and would drive back down the moment they clocked out. They could care less about hiking trails, mountains, or outdoor adventure. The Indonesians comprised the restaurant staff and the Thais the kitchen staff. Off the clock each group remained an antisocial clique, leaving me on the mountain with rednecks, weirdos, recluses, and three high-pitched squealing Chinese girls.
While living in Alaska, I looked forward to Shenandoah and working fewer hours and having ample time to explore trails and write, but I was wrong again. Instead, I entered a “work camp” where time off the clock would be spent in solitary confinement in my jail cell of a room.
Until my situation wore me down into a drained funk, I would run trails in the morning before my shifts. I loved the sunshine and my return to the forests of the East where I was raised. Unfortunately, my “solitary confinement” living situation, the coworkers I couldn’t relate to, and my endless work shifts stifled me. I had no social life and I began to miss my Los Angeles friends. Exhausted and depressed, I would spend my days off under the covers of my bed and emerge only for meals. Unlike Glacier Bay, there were no shuttles that could take me to town and no coworkers I cared to spend time with. My radius of living effectively became 300 yards, and the only store around was the gift shop where I could buy a snickers bar or a gatorade.
Like my inspiration, my writing and exercise dwindled and then ceased. I was either working or lying on my bed. I thought about quitting. I thought to myself “You elected to leave Los Angeles for a year of adventure to become reinvigorated and inspired. You did not sign up to be miserable. Quit!” The only reason I was holding on was for the great money I was making and the unemployment I could collect once the season ended. The unemployment checks would allow me to live with my family in New Hampshire and remain unemployed to focus on my writing and video projects. I just had to make it until the lodge closed November 28th. “NOVEMBER 28TH????” That was a month and a half away. How would I survive?
Enter Nora, my coworker friend from Alaska. She swooped in and rescued me from the mountain so I could break free and unwind. I returned to work a few days later recharged and with a fresh outlook. I spoke to the human resources manager, and before I knew it I was approved for an early layoff in the beginning of November. With the end in sight, I once again started jogging and exploring trails and began to capture video footage I previously neglected to take. And now, I am back in New Hampshire typing away on my laptop to get my blog up to date.
This blog is a quick window into my world at Shenandoah. The ones to follow will further explore my experiences and reflections upon Shenandoah and Alaska and the six months since I said goodbye to Los Angeles. Check back soon!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Yes, it's been awhile. Shenandoah has been an experience. I leave from here in 3 days and I'm ready. I will be heading to New Hampshire for 2 months to decompress, write, and get my Alaska videos edited. I know I've been distant from my blog, but I'm returning with great stories, reflections, and projections about my future. Stay tuned. Over and out
Twelve-hour days everyday. I was the only steward left on the boat and I was working EVERY DAY. I would ready the boat in the morning and close it in the evening. I would serve people all day, EVERY day. I was numb to the sights out the windows. I would only look if there were 18 bears fighting on the beach or hotel-sized chunks of ice falling off the glacier, and that is why the most memorable day of my life took me by surprise.
September 6th and I was working the last day cruise of the summer. The sky was so sunny and blue that you'd forgotten you lived in a rainforest. Out of nowhere, like a punch to the stomach, I realized I was saying goodbye to this place. I was saying goodbye to the most magical place I had ever known, and I didn't realize that I wasn't ready.
My camera was snapping every moment I could steal away from rolling sandwiches or brewing coffee. In fact, I might as well have put a sign on the galley counter saying "help yourself" because I was running around the outer deck gawking, smiling, laughing and crying all at once. The bay was unbelievably clear and I couldn't stop taking pictures. The sun was warm on my face, the fresh air blew from the mountains, and the bay showed every sign that the season was ending. Once green trees now dressed their leaves in yellow as the autumn weather creeped in. The birds that would cover South Marble Island had left and flown south. The pods of humpback whales were now seldom and singly, and I was on the final tour saying goodbye.
Like Glacier Bay, the day was magical. Every passenger was beaming with both amazement and excitement. Nobody was bothering me with questions of where the hot water was or why the binoculars wouldn't focus or what time lunch would be. The sun was shining, the wildlife that remained was abundant, and life couldn't be more perfect. If I could have transformed into a beam of light, I would have. I probably would have shot off that boat and into the sky from the intense emotions bubbling inside me. I swear it was the first time I saw Glacier Bay, but it wasn't.
Self-procalimed "The Famous One," the captain famously steered the boat into every crevice and corner of the bay. Usually the tour sits in front of one tidewater glacier, but on this day we did two. I even talked guests into postponing their flights so we could go where the tour never goes: North Sandy Cove.
No this gem of a cove is not some dangerous quest, but simply a spot largely unavailable because of the timing of the tour. Because "The Famous One" chose to do the tour in reverse this day, it just so happened that the geographic location of the cove was close to our route. After convincing passengers the sight would be worthwhile, I ran to the wheelhouse to report the news, and then abandoned the galley to stand on the outer deck with camera in hand.
Although I kayaked most of Glacier Bay in the 3 summers I lived there, I recently saw North Sandy Cove for the first time on my solo adventure and fell madly in love (see: "Alone in the East Arm" blog below). The lush green and steep pitch of the mountainsides that formed the backdrop to the downstage show of plump islands and green green vegetation, evokes an indescribable wonderous awe. Pure reverence for nature.
It was in this moment, after experiencing the sunshine, the endless layers of mountains, TWO tidewater glaciers, and the energy of everybody on board, that tears streamed down my face. The boat left North Sandy Cove, and I felt a piece of myself being left behind. I was in tears from the beauty of the cove. I was in tears from the beauty of the day. And I was in tears because this was my last tour upbay and I already missed Glacier Bay more than I thought imaginable. In fact, tears are an understatement. I was sobbing.
September 6th was the most memorable day and it took me by surprise. Glacier Bay is the most magical place I have ever been and it is forever in my blood. I will be back someday, and so will my ashes.
Alaska, Alaska, Alaska. What a summer and what a crew.
There was the girl who escaped death and woke up from a coma with images of Alaska flooding through her head. Her cousin died months before and he always talked of Alaska, and so she went to feel closer to him.
There was the hefty guy, and I don't really know why he went to Alaska. Perhaps to escape some aspect of his life? A bit of a loner, he was socially awkward and left Glacier Bay without a job, just heading to Sitka with a bag and hoping for the best. Similarly, he would go camping with a backpack filled with firewood, a blanket, and cotton clothes. Mind you, we lived in a rainforest. I always had this sense to reach out to him, like he was unhappy and contemplating suicide.
Then there was the hilarious girl who spent every night making arts and crafts on the other side of my bedroom wall. Her creations were incredible and brought out the child in me. I would go over and paper mache lampshades and make decorations for my room out of beer labels and markers. She took 2 months off from her job at a bookstore in Boulder to be in Alaska.
There were the couples that met in Glacier Bay and fell madly in love. Glacier Bay is a magical place, and people come from all over the globe and convene in a small area we call "Brown Town." Out of place from regular habits, routines, and circumstances, people are easily swept away by the magic, the moment, and fall into each others arms. By the time couples leave to the reality of the lower 48, often the magic and connection disappear and they go their separate ways. I wish these couples the best in their southern journeys and hope the magic continues.
Then you have the ex-meth addicts, the alcoholics, the church-goers, the chaplins and ministers, the school kids, the school drop-outs, the odd ones, the dog mushers, the mother and daughter team, the farm boys, the season to season parkies, the locals, and the city folk.
Glacier Bay is always filled with a mish-mosh of characters. Coming to the park straight from West Hollywood, the most superficial, extravagant place I know, I was overwhelmed stepping foot onto the soil of the complete antithesis of what I had known. Just as all arrivees to Glacier Bay judge and label, I saw my coworkers and wondered what I was doing here and who the hell I would hang out with over the summer. There wasn't one person that I could picture in my circle of friends in Los Angeles. In such a living situation you become friends with people that you never thought imaginable, and it opens your mind. It exposes you to fresh thought and perspective and it changes you.
All these friends and friendships I made over the summer I will miss. I met some outstanding people with unbelievable souls, and I hope to see them again in my lifetime. If not, I hope they know that they helped me along my path. They gave me a shoulder during the transition from my stable lifestyle to the unstable, uncertain life of a traveler. They shared their thoughts, their stories, and their hearts, and I thank them all. I look forward to watching our friendships grow and evolve.
The whales are leaving Glacier Bay, and I am sad. All wildlife, plants, and flowers are showing that the summer has ended. The berries have ripened and passed. Wildflower displays on the beaches are fading from blues and reds to an autumn brown. Humpback whales are seldom seen now, and with the wildlife, friends that converged in Glacier Bay for the summer are now scattering across the globe.
Today is my first day back at work and I am sad. My fellow stewards left for the summer and I hold down the boat tours alone. My Los Angeles friends visited and left yesterday, reminding me of the city and the life I left behind.
The season in Glacier bay is ending and I am sad. Two more weeks and the remaining employees will scatter like the migrating wildlife. I will miss this place and the new friends I made this summer, just as I miss the world I left before Glacier Bay.
Where to next? Shenandoah National Park? New Hampshire? Overseas? Back to Los Angeles? Every option subjects me to a predefined lifestyle, but which is most suited for this moment in my life? Which serves my best interest? After a summer where I sacrificed familiarity, I wonder if I have the strength to do it again.
It's the end of August and the humpback whales are leaving. The season is ending and like everything else, it is time for me to scatter, and I am sad.
California – The Golden Bear Republic. I smirk and shake my head thinking about the irony. The last California grizzly was hunted in 1922 and the bear is the emblem of their flag.
I’m sitting in the grass looking out to the bay completely surrounded by bear scat. I even moved some to pitch my tent. In Alaska, brown bears are a reality, a regular sighting in the wilderness of Glacier Bay. Unlike California, the ecosystem of Glacier Bay is complete and undisturbed. When combined with the protected areas to the north, Glacier Bay is the largest protected land in the world north of Antarctica.
Here in Glacier Bay, endangered species flourish and dominate. The food chain is alive. Salmon jump and splash, bald eagles soar with fish wriggling in their talons, grizzlies leap through rivers with fish clenched in their jaws, and humpbacks lunge-feed, their pleated throats bulging with fish and water. Here there are no roads, no sky scrapers, not a trace of a human.
Sitting by the beach, Glacier Bay becomes my window into the past. I try to imagine the first westerners arriving to the West Coast of the United States and seeing the sights before me. I wonder if they were struck with awe. I wonder if rivers would turn black with running salmon or if the seas were so densely packed with microorganisms that trails of light would stream behind their boats under night skies.
Looking out to Glacier Bay, I think about the explorers discovering wild lands of the western United States. I think about the turning of centuries and the expansion of camps to villages, towns, and cities. I think of the concrete, the roads, and the fallen trees. I think of the Golden Bear Republic where the iconic grizzly only exists in dusty photos and flying flags, and I wonder what has happened to this world.
Human population explosion in California fragmented ecosystems and marginalized wildlife species. Some species like the California grizzly were eradicated to extinction. With the depletion of truly wild lands, places like Glacier Bay become rare windows into the past, living examples of complete ecosystems and the abundant wildlife that follow. Neglect and oblivious destruction leads us to a world absent of iconic species, and a world full of flags and pictures advertising the wildlife that has vanished. If the world could see the wondrous setting before me, people would wish to turn back time and perhaps true wilderness would not be so hard to find.
The Beardslee Islands sit just north of the lodge and are accessible via the “cut” at high tide. There is a three hour window where the magical waterway exists and brings you to the wondrous islands. The beautiful feeling of isolation begins just after high tide when the waterway vanishes. There is no turning back.
Saturday evening, Paul and I are floating through the cut in our blue kayak. Our paddles rest across the kayak and our momentum drives us forward. The vegetation from the shore to the forest is lush, and the variety of soft, green tones and quiet curves reminds me of a watercolor painting. Bald eagles soar in the skies.
The cut reminds me of a slow-paced shallow river, except for the orange and red-toned starfish that clutch to the rocky sea floor below us. Aside from the melodies of bird songs and the gentle splashing rhythm of our paddles in the water, the world is silent.
Grand Pacific glacier carved the Beardslee Islands over 250 years ago when it reached its glacial extent outside Bartlett Cove in Icy Strait. The glacier carved an undulating profile in he glacial till of its terminal moraine. When the glacier began its glacial retreat, the undulating profile of the carved earth was exposed, and after seedling dispersal, succession, and time, the Beardslees became encased with vegetation.
The regular strokes of our paddles turn the distant blur of green vegetation on island 42 into discrete trees and a surrounding definitive ring of grasses. An orange glow from the final rays of sunlight animates the rippling water. An unnamed island the size of a small house catches our eye and becomes our destination for the night.
The Beardslee Islands are known for their population of black bears. For hundreds of years, bears have walked their same routes on the mainland and regularly swim between the islands to forage for food. Setting camp on a small island gives us initial comfort, but the well-trodden bear trail through the trees combined with the numerous piles of bear scat tell us otherwise. As the the tide continues shifting outward, two landbridges emerge connecting us to the other islands. We are in bear territory.
Mid-morning we unzip the tent door to a glorious day of sunshine. Drinking rich coffee strained through my bandanna, we greet the day watching a humpback whale regularly surface between underwater feedings. Having just reared their young in Hawaii and fasting for eight months, the humpbacks in Glacier Bay are solely here to feed. They eat over 20 hours a day.
The wildlife sightings in the Beardslees are always numerous and spectacular. Kayaking past Spider Island is a favorite paddle of mine. The network of tiny islands that comprise "Spider Island" form an ideal habitat for pupping harbor seals and consequently a site frequented by pods of transient orca.
Floating with the tide, Paul and I clutch our paddles and gawk at our surroundings. Layers of mountains stretch from the horizon in every angle around us. Dozens of seals dive into the water and circle us with heads breaking the surface of the water, popping up and diving under with childlike curiosity. Th blow of a humpback behind us competes for our attention. Flocks of birds jump into flight from their rocky rookeries along the beach creating the ideal framing for a picture with their silhouetted bodies against the blue sky. A raft of otters too numerous to count flutterkick a frenzy of water as they swim along the surface of the water beyond the overwhelming wildlife scenery.
The trip ends waiting for the "cut," our realm to reality to re-open. We hike to Secret Bay and see the oddly colored red water surrounded by bizarre thick-cuticled sea grass that leaves snow-angel-like bodily impressions after an afternoon nap. Upon awaking, we watched a black bear on the opposite shore flip rocks looking for food.
The perfect trip ended with "Alaskan IPA" beers on the deck of the lodge, overlooking the sunset and the Fairweather Mountain range. Alaska truly is phenomenal.
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." - Mark Twain
A life path of circling footsteps frightens me. I cannot do routines that fail to challenge me, mentally, physically, or emotionally. Living a comfortable life with a regular daily routine often only exposes an individual to predictable challenges, all related to the realm to which the individual lives. Living as a bartender in Los Angeles, challenges in my life were limited to financial issues, my body-fat index, and workplace dramatics. Such challenges were not opportunities for personal growth because they did not test my character or the core of my being. They were superficial challenges relevant only to the realm of West Hollywood and my life therein. For a time, I lived a stagnant routine and my mind continually reminded me. I would lie in bed in the morning while my mind castigated me. I would tear myself to pieces. I knew I had tremendous potential, but I could not leave the world of bartending. I hated myself.
I could not happily remain in Los Angeles knowing that my life produced a directionless path. I knew that each week would be some variation of the previous, and that with the passing of each season and year, the only real measurement of time would be the accumulation of costumes and bartending outfits crammed in my workplace locker. West Hollywood was my safe harbor, and I left to experience the unknown, unpredictable life of a lone traveler exposed to different people and cultures. I left because I do not want to live a life with regrets.
Life will not be easy. The challenges that I will inevitably face will likely terrify me, rock the core of my being, and test the strength of my character. I am ready to find meaning in my existence and show the world that I am not just some shirtless bartender slinging drinks, so I embarked on a journey of discovery where the product of my traveling life will be stories and reflections that will fill bookshelves, instead of useless costumes filling a locker in the back upper corner room above pulsating music, gyrating bodies and the pungent smell of sweat, liquor, and emptiness.
I cut the bowlines and I am now living in Alaska and a world of challenge. Grass and weeds now cover the heavily trodden path I walked in Los Angeles. I wake in the morning and don't know what the day will bring or where I'll be tomorrow. The demeaning voice once echoing in my head is silenced. Looking to an unknown, unfathomable future, I walk a fine line between liberation and crippling fear, never knowing which emotion will envelop me. Abandoning my life of predictability and familiarity, I willingly subjected myself to such instability and I openly welcome the struggle.
I walked a circular path for five years in Los Angeles and I know my restless mind will refuse to desist until I live the antithesis of my life in LA. I am committed to one year to travel, experience, and write and if I am meant to live a life walking a circular, directionless path in Los Angeles, then at least I challenged myself to peer beyond the fishbowl of West Hollywood, and if that is the case, hopefully the experience will be enough to quiet my mind and bring me peace.
Life in Brown Town seriously is getting me down. I took a trip to some waterfalls with some pals, and being out in Nature and having fun was exactly what my spirit needed. Just when things were getting ugly, Alaska recharged my soul.
Leaving Los Angeles for perspective, invigoration, and my writing projects has not been easy. Saying goodbye to financial security, luxuries, and friends was unsettling, to say the least. I had no idea if I was being a fool or if I would be a fool to stay in Los Angeles. I knew I didn't want to wake up in 10 years regretting never leaving and wondering what my life would have been like if I risked everything and left.
Glacier Bay was going to be magical. The summer would be perfect, my job would be secure, and there would be numerous exciting people with intellectual minds and audacious spirits. I was wrong about everything and now I find myself holding on to my writing project like a terrified boy clutching a security blanket. Every expectation shattered since my arrival in Glacier Bay, my open future now threatens to squash me into some craven soul hiding in bed behind a locked door. The knock on the door is the brutal reality of adventuring into the world alone with all odds stacked against me.
I am determined to complete the travelling writing project I embarked to pursue, and even as all good fortune and plans collapse at every turn, I will push onward. I can commit one year of my life to the unstable life of a travelling, writing adventurer, but not knowing how I will financially afford my plans or where my project will take me cripples me with fear. And then I look down at the eagle ring on my finger and remember the message, "Rise above your fears and live your life to its potential." Words spoken to me by my mentor before he gave me the ring that his mentor gave him 20 years prior with the same spoken message. He gave me that ring before I left for Alaska. I hope I've internalized the words.
People believe in me. I believe in me, but sometimes the bludgeoning from life is too severe that I want to quit. Sometimes I just want the easy road, but I need to throw caution to the wind and head into the unknown, unstable future that looms before me. Now that my travel companion succumbed to his fears about entering his own "uprooted reality," I am officially ALONE. I can hear it echoing in the mountains now. Alone.
My working and social life in Glacier Bay has become torturous. The lodge is understaffed and everyone works overtime. I am forced to pick up shifts bartending literally in a closet that solely serves waiters in the restaurant. The dream job working on the day cruise boat is a daily struggle. An engine blew on the boat, so we switched to a smaller boat that employs fewer stewards, so we lost shifts. Now we're back to the original boat, heading upbay with three of four working engines. Then the bathrooms broke so we switched boats again. Half of our eight member crew quit, including a captain. I never know when I'm going to work or when I'll have a day off. I'm trying to find time to write blogs, but my computer is broken and the line for this communal desktop is endless. Employees are no longer allowed to get dropped off upbay for camping trips by the glaciers, which is the main reason I returned to Glacier Bay this summer. My writing project and its potential is the only thing keeping me sane, and I'm struggling to find time to do it. I'm beyond frustrated and I work again at some ungodly hour, so I'm taking a bottle of wine, a mind-numbing movie, a trash magazine, and I'm going to lock my door, climb under my covers and close the curtains to the the gray drizzling sky, open some snack food, and surrender for the night.
The drone of the boat's motor hums and vibrates below my legs. My single kayak is loaded on the back of the "Fairweather Express II," and I have one hour until I'm dropped at Mt. Wright for my first (solo) kayaking trip of the season. The weather forecast of four foot swells and 20 knot winds from the south forced me to choose the safer trip into Adam's Inlet in the East Arm of Glacier Bay over a one-way paddle back to the lodge. Capsizing would not make for an ideal trip. Adam's Inlet was the last solo upbay trip I did in 2003, and returning today will bring memories and evoke reflection. Where have I been and what have I done the last seven years of my life???
In 2003, I got dropped at a slightly northern site and kayaked an open water crossing into Adam's. The inlet was calm and reflected the puffy white cumulus clouds in the otherwise blue sky. Seals followed me in my kayak and beachside hikes brought me to a set of moose antlers at the water's edge and past mountains that pierced the clouds. The grandiose mountains captured me in some poetic verse reminiscent of Thoreau, humbling me to tears and deference to the shear power of Nature. The untamed, raw beauty of the inlet was magic. Not even paintbrush strokes from the world's most renowned painters could do justice to my surroundings.
As late afternoon approached on my second day in the wild, I neared the end of my leisurely solo adventure. My exuberant trip quickly turned sour. Each stroke of my paddle drew me closer to the mouth of the inlet, and closer to my dire reality. Black clouds poured into the bay and ferocious winds infuriated the sea into a frenzy of white-capping swells that separated me from the opposite shore five miles away. I had to cross the open channel for my early morning pick-up. I clasped my paddle in both hands and considered the dangers ahead. My kayak rocked back and forth. Do I dare enter the open bay? If I camp here will there be hope to reach the other shore by morning? Waves lapped the sides of my kayak and fog filled the bay.
Clenching my jaw, I paddled onward into the stormy gray. Rain pelted my face and drenched my jacket. Cresting swells crashed upon the bow of my kayak as I paddled up and down the endless waves. The breaking white of the seas matched the gray of the fog surrounding me and I lost sight of all shores. I tried not to panic with thoughts of ships obliviously approaching or humpback whales surfacing below me. One wrong move and I would be flipped into the icy cold of Glacier Bay and instantly hypothermic. I feared for my life. Arms burning, I disappeared deeper into the fog, wishing I had a compass.
An hour passed and a shallow piece of land appeared on the horizon. The waves thrashed my kayak against the jagged shore and slammed me to ground as I struggled to exit the boat. I was relieved to be on solid ground, but I knew the barren island would be submerged under the rising tide. I panted to catch my breath and looked around. Squinting through the fog I saw the faint dark outline of my destination, Seabree Island. Wind whistled past my ears. My spray skirt dripped a stream of water onto my black rubber boots and my soaked pants clung to my shaking legs. I stood a moment longer, and then begrudgingly dragged my kayak back to the splashing seas for the final paddle.
My two hour excursion brought me to the outlet of a seasonal stream adjacent Seabree Island. Pulling my kayak above the line of brown seaweed that defined the previous high tide, I fumbled through my pockets for my stashed granola bar, sat on the cold, wet pebbles that covered the beach, sighed a moan of relief, and ate.
Standing up to look for an appropriate tent site, I glanced around and noticed a brown bear walking along the stream. I grew angry. After pressing my luck on the exhausting two hour paddle and finally reaching shore, I had to re-enter my kayak to find a new campsite because of the bear. Only in Alaska.
The trip ended safely once I boarded the Fairweather Express II the following morning, and now 7 years later, I anticipate what adventures lie in store for me today. Adam’s Inlet hasn’t changed. Two bald eagles circle overhead signaling to each other with their shrill whistle-like call. I stop and admire their beauty and tremendous size. A universal symbol of strength, a bald eagle stands at the height of a young child with a white head and tail feathers, a black torso, and piercing yellow eyes. Turning into the inlet I am greeted by a humpback whale intermittently surfacing and exhaling a misty breath into the air. Magical.
As I approach the mountains at the end of the inlet, a group of porpoises arrive. Overly joyous and teary eyed, I watched the porpoises dive in and out of the water in their synchronized swim, while a lone seal pops its head out of the water and follows my kayak deeper into the inlet. Paddling past the bizarre whirlpools created from tidal waters crossing differential depths on the shallow sea floor, I kayak to the shore and look to the end of the inlet where I camped in 2003. Seven years ago I was here. Seven years…
In 2003 I was a different man. I loved nothing more than adventuring into Nature. Fresh out of college with a bachelor’s degree in Biology, I would examine the trees and shrubbery with scientific discernment. I saw a limitless world full of possibility. Back then, my intention for moving to Glacier Bay was to kayak and explore every rock, river, and mountain of the bay. This summer, I arrived with a different purpose. After living in Los Angeles for five years, I needed to reconnect with Nature and remove myself from complacency. A lover of travel and writing, I returned to Glacier Bay to document my adventures, video scenery and personal reflections, and get perspective. Whenever I physically removed myself from my life in the past, I gained tremendous insight by seeing my life objectively. I was long overdue for a reevaluation.
My philosophy is to live life without regrets. If I remained in Los Angeles living a complacent life, regrets would have inevitably arose. Standing in the back of Adam's Inlet and envisioning my 23 year old self on the previous solo trip brings me happiness. I discovered that I remained the free, audacious soul that came to Alaska before, and that I am content with the life I lived thereafter. In the back of Adam's Inlet, I look to my future and I smile. Until next time...
Below are the videos and video blogs from my Adam's Inlet adventure. They were all linked into one "movie" but the file was too large for the internet here in Glacier Bay to upload, so they are all here, in order, and separate:
I've lived in Los Angeles for the last 5 years, sold most all my belongings aside from camping gear and clothes, and headed north to Alaska. After the summer kayaking and exploring Glacier Bay, I'll be off to Shenandoah National Park and then overseas. Read along; my blog will tell my story.
Follow my adventure blog: www.northernlightsandothersights.com
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www.blazingtrailsonline.com
