Private Boaters' Trip Through the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River July 2015

Everyone has heard of boating trips through the Grand Canyon, but few people know much about what they are like.  Rapids.  Big, motor driven pontoon boats.  A group of strangers paying guides and boatmen and women.  These images come to mind.  But when we tell people we've done a private trip, they are a bit baffled.  "You have a guide, of course," is a common response.  There are hundreds of people who go on private trips each year, and many of them manage to go on many trips in their lifetimes, despite the difficulty of obtaining private boating permits.  They do it on their own; no guides, no cooks, no tent erectors or toilet facilitators.  And they consider it a privilege of incalculable worth.

George and I have done five or six trips together, and he's done several more without me.  This most recent one, perhaps our last as we are now both 74 and it's a strenuous undertaking, was particularly significant.  Several family members were among the 16 participants (the largest number permitted on a private permit), including two grandsons, Max, 17 and Theo, 14, their parents, our daughter Cammie and son-in-law Loren, and our daughter Jocelyn and her husband Jason.

The permitting process starts as long as two years before the desired date of the trip.  The more participants one can gather who are committed to going, the better one's chances in the National Park Service lottery.  The lottery for the annual permits took place in February 2014 for 2015.  By that date we had more than 16 people enthusiastic about a July, 2015 trip, most of whom entered the lottery.  We won a permit.  (The permit holder is often the trip leader, but not necessarily.  Our daughter won the permit, but she did not want the responsibility of being TL, so she deferred to George.)  We would gather from New Mexico, Washington, Maryland and California on July 14 for the launch on the 16th.  Planning began.

In the early days of private boating permits, the only option we knew of was to bring your own equipment, plan your meals, pack the food and gear and show up.  George and I did this a couple of times, and the work load is huge.  The other negative factor is that most private boats are 14 to 16 foot long rafts or catarafts, and the big water of the Colorado River though the Grand Canyon can and does flip over many such small tubed crafts.  Not to mention that our early boats were not self-bailing, which meant that they would fill up with water in major rapids, and would be immoveable by the oars person until somewhat lightened, which was accomplished by five-gallon-bucket heaves by hardworking passengers.  On one private trip led by our friend Tim, every one of the six or seven boats on the trip had been upside down at least once.

Eventually, river outfitters in Flagstaff began to offer help.  I have come to love rented eighteen foot long rafts with tubes of 24" diameter and a carrying capacity of 3500 pounds.  These boats are just what you need to plow through some mighty big waves at 20,000 cfs (cubic feet per second) of water, which is what we encountered this year.  And a variety of menus are offered, the shopping and packing is done for us, and all we have to do is figure out the system and cook. 

We asked for bids from several companies, but fell back on our favorite, PRO, or Professional River Outfitters.  No trip is outfitted perfectly, but PRO has come closest for us.  Our philosophy is to do some of the work ourselves, saving considerably on the costs.  We do this by providing our own trucks and trailers to load and haul our gear from Flagstaff to the launch site, 231 miles away at Lee's Ferry just a few miles below Glen Canyon Dam.  If this is not an option for you, outfitters will deliver and even assemble the boats and gear.   A separate shuttle company then drives our vehicles to the take out point, 281 miles down river, and a lot father by road.

George worked with one person at PRO on the equipment and logistics, and I settled in with another to select a menu and order food.  We carried on a group correspondence with the participants, getting input about food preferences, gear needs and more, over several months.

The day came, and we gathered at the Aspen Hotel in Flagstaff, a river-runners friendly place that will let you park cars in a back lot for weeks and offers a free happy hour libation as well as a substantial breakfast.  Eight of us were related, and others were friends or friends of friends.  Only four were on their first Colorado River trip.  The age range was 14 to 74, with seven at 40 something and five over 60.  The hotel is close to downtown, so we could walk to various brew pubs for expensive beer and hamburgers.  Flagstaff is old west charming.

The next morning we showed up at PRO, just west of town on old US 66.  The loading began.  Heavy coolers, half full of solid ice and filled up with frozen meat, produce or dairy, rode on the truck beds. We began to pack the trailers with large rocket boxes (military surplus and waterproof) and other water resistant metal boxes with dry goods and cooking gear, our portable toilet and supplies,and more non-perishable food.  Ten foot long oars (two sets per boat for five boats), bulky metal rowing frames,  life jackets, waterproof river bags of personal gear, umbrellas and holders (July trips experience intense sun and 100 degree + temperatures), all got piled on and strapped in place.   The boats, rolled up and bulky, went on at the ends of the trailers so they would be easy to pull off.  Thousands of pounds of gear.  How did the tires look?  We checked.

Sixteen of us cosily fit into three trucks, and we were off.   It's a beautiful drive through such empty high desert country that there is not one town along highway 89 north from Flag to Lees.  In a way it's a nice transition to living on the river for 17 1/2 days where the developed world ceases to be, except for what you have managed to carry with you--and not including many electronics.  No internet or cell service.  No battery charging, unless you brought some solar equipment.

At Lee's Ferry, we got to work.  First the boats came off and were inflated with an electric pump that belonged to PRO and was kept at the launch site.  Next the rowing frames were lashed to the boats.  The heavy coolers took their places next: each boat has one which serves as the oars person's seat.  They have white insulating covers, to help keep them cool.  Everyone pitched in to offload the rest of the gear, so that the trucks and trailers could be moved away.  There would be another private group rigging that day, and several commercial trips.  The launch site beach is a busy place.

It takes hours to rig the boats, and it was hot.  But gradually order emerged.  Cammie was the official location recorder.  PRO provided us with a blank map of each boat.  We named the boats with a yellow tape label (George, Bob, Tim, Jason, Tiki Boat, which was Loren's but it was festooned with a Tahitian style umbrella so that was Cammie's name for it), then described the contents of the coolers, drop bags (front and back), rocket boxes and dry boxes on each boat.  This step is crucial in being able to find important things later, like the toilet resupply box, for example, and she did a perfect job of inventory location.

These inventory maps are kept in what we soon called the bible.  It's a notebook containing each day's menu, the list of ingredients needed for cooking the meals, where they are, and a recipe on how to prepare each dish.  After the chairs, it was often the first thing we wanted when we started unloading the boats.  The cook crew needed to know if they had to start charcoal.

While rigging was in progress, a ranger arrived to inspect our equipment.  The park service is extremely particular about their requirements for optimizing a safe and environmentally correct trip.  Life jackets must be adequate, and if the specifications printed inside are no longer readable, the jacket is rejected.  The ranger wants to know what type it is, and if it is designed with enough flotation for Grand Canyon rapids.  He or she will not guess based on its appearance.  He told me mine was on its last trip; he had trouble reading the text inside.  I told him I was probably on my last trip as well.  You must also have such things as tarps to spread under your kitchen tables.  These tarps are then shaken into the river at the end of your stay.  Why?  Because if campers consistently leave food particles behind, there are soon enough ant colonies to render the camp uninhabitable.  If you don't have what you are supposed to, the trip can be cancelled.  The other private group rigging next to us did not get permission to launch because they had not provided the required hand washing system for their party.  They had brought sanitary wipes only.  Each group must have two hand washing stations each consisting of two buckets, a foot pump, soap, and a spigot.  This ingenious system brings river water (we are to add one capful of bleach) from the clean and settled bucket (white) through the foot pump and spigot into the dirty bucket (grey).  After toilet use and before preparing and eating food, using the hand washing station is required.  The park service has had trips, prior to such policies, where everyone got sick, passing around a virus of one sort or another.  The toilet also must meet requirements.  All human waste and garbage are carried with each group.  Nothing is left in the canyon but footprints, is the goal.

While such heavy-handed government regulations may seem onerous to some, the result is amazing.  Camps are pristine.  You cannot find a gum wrapper, most of the time.  There is a park service patrol craft on the river now and again, just to keep on eye on things.

We camped south of the launch site in a primitive camping area provided for private boaters.  The next morning was our official launch date.  After a  makeshift breakfast (we did not want to set up the kitchen) we had to be checked in by a ranger.  Everyone must have a photo ID with information on it that matches the registered trip participant list.  And if your trip leader is not there, the trip does not go.  No hanky-panky.  Our 14 year old was the only exception, but he did have a school photo ID.  We didn't get off until almost 11 because our ranger couldn't resist telling us some tales of her river rangering experience--like the time boaters camped on a helipad landing zone, and she had to throw their tents down the hill as the 'copters approached.

On the George boat, Max (17) was on the oars.  Grandpa George had taken several river trips with Max, and felt he had a natural understanding of river behavior and boating.  He was eager to teach Max to row a Grand Canyon raft.  (George had taught others on the trip to row on earlier journeys, so he was considered the old master.)  Max had paddled kayaks on earlier trips, but never rowed.  Oaring rafts is not much like propelling a row boat.  The inventor of the oared raft technique was Nathaniel Galloway, and it is interesting to read about his innovation (http://adventure-journal.com/2015/06/historical-badass-whitewater-pioneer-nathaniel-galloway/), which involves facing the front of the boat, instead of the rear, and guiding the raft in the current, rather than actually moving it down stream by rowing.

At first, you could see the panic on Max's face, though at the same time I knew he had confidence that his grandpa would not ask more of him than he could deliver.  George sat at his elbow, quietly instructing him on controlling the boat in the fast but not white water current.  After an hour or so of practicing two-oar-turns and spins and reversals, he was more relaxed, and even ready for white water.  There was a beach stop for lunch, then we came to the first significant rapid, Badger Creek, rated a 5.  Max decided to let grandpa row that one, but by day two, he was ready for some bigger stuff.

Bruised Ribs
The ranger had reminded us that most injuries in the canyon happen NOT on the boats but on the shore.  She urged us to take our time, not take risks, be aware in camp, and when hiking.  Sure enough, we had an accident at camp the first night, and it was me.  Perhaps it is careless, but one tends to use the front tube of the boat as a stepping "stone" when getting something off the boat and taking it to shore.  I'd always done it, and did it again that evening.  But maybe I am less graceful, agile, and strong at 74 than in past decades.  And, the tube was wet and more slippery than I realized.  In any case, my left foot hit the tube, slipped into the boat, and I slammed into the rowing frame to my back and left, giving my ribs a good whack.  I lay in a heap for a minute, knowing I was not going to be very happy about this.  My son-in-law Jason saw it happen and picked me up, urged me to breathe and comforted me as I cursed and cried.  Of course my left side hurt the rest of the trip,  I had to take pain pills to sleep, and felt unwilling to try some of the climbing hikes the group undertook.  But it was not a major disaster.

We had lots of other little injuries in the days ahead, but mostly they were red ant bites, blisters from sandal straps, or nicks and scrapes from hikes.  We have learned from earlier trips that skin infections are more common here than at home, so we took extra care to use antibiotic ointment, and keep wounds clean.  I also urged hot water soaks on as many people as would tolerate the hovering.  It's an old home remedy, but it works amazingly well on small wounds showing signs of infection.

House Rock Rapid
The first major rapid on the Colorado River below the put-in at Lees Ferry, House Rock, gets private boaters a little worked up, since it is likely to be the first big rapid they've faced in years, or ever.  The river narrows, because of a cliff on the left, and debris chocking the channel from a canyon on the right.  The water piles up against a rock as big as a house, forcing the water to go right, away from the cliff--and that rock--on the left.  There's not a lot to this rapid.  Just try to miss the big depression, or hole, in front of the rock--which is hard to do because the current wants to pull you in.  The water is turbulent, rebounding from collisions with multiple surfaces.  The perfect course is to run right, skimming the hole on your left, dancing on down without getting tossed about or flipped.  One boater watching us go through said it was beautiful--a great feat by the old master.  Others had more exciting rides, whooping in joy or terror as their boats thrashed and bucked through the hole, or missed it.  We all got through okay, and I think there was a group sigh of relief.  The first big hurdle had been cleared.

It's interesting to think about why we put ourselves into this position of undertaking something that can be so terrifying.  I remember the first time I stood and looked at Hance Rapid, ranked an 8 (out of 10) that is a frothy torrent strewn with huge boulders.  I was so frightened, I couldn't imagine why I had agreed to take this journey.  But the ride through was surprisingly fun.  The boat would climb up a huge wave, and we'd hang on tight and yell in amazement. Then its tail would rise as it slid down the other side.  The person rowing would work to keep us from getting sideways against these curlers, and as long as he or she could do that, and avoid rocks, we were good.  At the end, the sense of relief coupled with the thrill of the ride made us euphoric, and willing to do it again.  There's a lot to be said for euphoria as a life experience.

Terror was what Theo, 14, was feeling on the days leading up to Hance Rapid.  (Scouting Hance, photo above.) This cerebral young man had done too much internet research about the river, viewing no doubt terrifying boat flips on all the major rapids of the Colorado.  Hance was the first one rated 8 in difficulty, and he was dreading it.  He asked me if it might be possible to walk around this or other rapids that we scouted and that he decided he didn't want to experience.  I told him it was possible, in some cases, but that it was also really difficult for boats to pick up walkers, since getting to shore can be a challenge in swift water.  I also told him I thought it was unlikely that he would still want to walk, once he'd gotten more used to running big rapids.  Sure enough, after Hance he was a changed lad.  Big waves, big grins.

Camp Life

Early in the trip we had to get used to how to do certain things.  The second evening, in the "chair circle" we always set up near the kitchen, our trip leader had to bring up a difficult subject.  Someone had peed in the "porto," our human waste receptacle.  This was a no-no for obvious reasons; we did not have the capacity to be carrying gallons of urine with us.  A bright yellow urine bucket was provided at the toilet site, and we had all been informed that urine should be deposited directly in the river (wow, do guys have an advantage here), or in the bucket.  There was an uncomfortable silence.  I didn't really expect anyone to confess, but just to understand that this was not okay.  Suddenly Natalie said, "Well, it was me.  I told Sam about it.  I was so upset.  But I have never had to think about separating functions, and I couldn't do it!"  There was great tension-relieving laughter, and some of us laughed harder than others.  On my first river trip, I ran into the same problem.  For women, especially, this seems to be an issue.  My solution then was to have a tin can handy to catch inadvertent urine.  Gradually I learned how to produce one and then the other.  We all chimed in with advice, loving Natalie (yellow hat, below) for sharing her problem so gamely.

Each day was different to some extent, but we did get into a routine.  We'd be up at sunrise, many of us, which was about 5 am in Arizona.   (Five sounds painfully early, but we were almost always in bed by 9:00.)  Tim was always first, and he'd get the coffee going.  The three members of the day's cook crew would start preparing breakfast, and everyone else would either start packing up their camp, or come for coffee, or both.  We got faster at packing as days passed, and we often launched by 8:00, even on days with an elaborate breakfast like pancakes or burritos.  As the boats filled, someone with a big voice would shout: "Last call for garbage," or for the toilet,  or filling water bottles.  There would be talk among us about where we hoped to camp that night, what "tour" stops might be coming up this day, if there were any rapids to scout and when and where we'd look for a lunch spot.  As we floated, we'd often get widely separated, but we'd use whistles to notify each other to get back together if there was a need to communicate.  With maps, we'd keep track of where we were, though sometimes we'd not be certain.  But then a definite landmark would set us straight.  Redwall Cavern, the Little Colorado River joining us, the Nankoweep Granary visible on the right.  Occasionally a commercial, motor-powered tour boat would pass us, most careful not to get too close.  We'd wave, thinking we were glad we didn't have to listen to that motor all day.   They'd wave too, probably feeling sorry for us in these little boats, moving slowly at the river's pace.   A couple of our rafts were armed with water shooters, and if it was a sunny, hot day and the water was calm for a ways, fierce battles would take place.  Most days we'd stop by 4:00, leaving a bit of time for hiking, bathing or sitting under the umbrellas on a beach, reading, enjoying a river chilled drink, or chatting.

A popular event was the "layover day."  We did three of these, choosing a spot where there would be nice hiking from our camp for those who were so inclined, though there were always others who loved just having a day to bathe, read, nap, write, take pictures.  The first was not until day six, after we'd  come 94 miles on the river.  We felt lucky to secure Granite Camp--camping is first-come-first-served, though we were urged by the park service to communicate with other groups we'd see about where they might be hoping to camp, and work things out.  Granite is particularly nice, with a sandy beach, lovely shade from giant old tamarisk trees, a big rapid nearby where we could watch other boaters make their way through a boulder field, and gorgeous Monument Canyon, up which you can walk for miles, even connecting to trails that reach the south rim.  I think the monument for which the canyon is named is a great tower a short hike up.  It is a spire capped with just enough harder rock to have kept it from being eroded away--though it leans precariously, and makes one think it may have only a few more centuries of existence.  The hiking was hot, and we were glad to dip in the river and huddle in the shade of our umbrellas in the afternoon.  Though it's a bit sad to say that the river water, coming out of the bottom of Glen Canyon dam, is so cold, a short dip is all one can bear.  Yowls of shock accompany most plunges into the 50 or so degree water.  Which is why the ecology of the canyon has changed.

An interesting detail of Granite Camp was a number of young, purposely planted, native trees.  An ammo box containing a notebook told us that the Grand Canyon Association brought in and planted the young trees, exhorted us to water the trees, and record the deed.  Many people had done so, and Cammie took on the job for us.  Using a camp bucket, she hauled river water to two dozen or more willows, cottonwoods, and mesquite trees, most of which appeared to be thriving.  Someday they will be big enough to make a very shady, inviting camp, replacing the dying old tammys, which are being attacked, on purpose, by a beetle which is gradually eliminating them from the Southwest.  Great swaths of dead tamarisk, non-native and invasive, now bedeck river banks all over Utah, and parts of New Mexico and Colorado, and we wonder how long it will take the skeletal remains to disappear.   Fires would do it, but would also be dangerous, and would kill emerging willows.  You can read about the attempt to eradicate the non-native and invasive tamarisk on line.

River Highlights

Some days we would have a chance to visit classic Grand Canyon river trip destinations.  Many can  be reached only by boat, as much of the river environs are inaccessible to hikers.  Theo especially liked those which offered him an opportunity to practice some free climbing.  Redwall Cavern, Nautiloid.  Bob, a retired science teacher with interest in geology, loved Blacktail Canyon with a gap in the rock of the canyon wall of two billion years.  "I don't understand," one of us kept saying.  "What happened to it?"  Bob would explain again, how it had eroded away.

One favorite stop is called Elves' Chasm, mile 117.  The name is apt, for the spot seems mystical.  After a hot scramble over rocks and cactus, one enters a small, shaded bower, where ferns cascade along a waterfall, and the inviting pool below looks like a scene from the tropics.  It never takes long for someone to remember or discover you can climb above and behind the water fall, work into position, and jump into the pool below.  We have the popular spot to ourselves just long enough for everyone to enjoy its beauty.  Another party arrives, and we begin the hot walk down the steep canyon to our boats below.


One of my favorite stops is Matkatamiba, mile 148.  The main canyon is hidden from the river and accessible only by a challenging route.  If you are lucky, there's no one else there.  You can park boats at the small mouth of the canyon and make your way up its twisting narrows, shimmying and chimney walking.  It is great fun, and our group did a nice

job of helping each other when necessary, so that we all got there.  The canyon widens out into an amphitheater, and it is a place that makes you want to sit and soak in what you can of a bit of the natural magnificence of the water-sculpted geology.

Yet another scenic stop was one that I had wished to explore on previous trips, but there was not time, as Fern Glen Canyon (mile 168.5, Day 13) takes awhile to visit.  This particular day we could tell was going to be really hot.  And, we wanted to run Lava Falls early the following morning.  So we had extra time this day, and we were looking for a shady place to wile away a few hours of the heat.  And doesn't "Fern Glen Canyon" sound lovely?  So we packed up the lunch--this might have been the day we had Chinese chicken salad in pita, but we tended to swap out one for another some times--and one of our rugged guys carried it.  There were a couple of challenging places (of course) that required a push and a pull to get us all up, but we all made it to the surprisingly lovely amphitheater where we could go no further.  A thin stream of water fell over a pouroff, with no way up or around.  But that was okay.  There were ferns, monkey flowers, shelves of rock, canyon wrens trilling, and welcome shade.  People pulled out books, did yoga, took naps,  pictures, got in 100 or more pushups (Max) or made rock sculptures.  Bob initiated this canyon creativity, stacking balanced rock creations at many of our camps as his signature, which he does around his rural home in New Mexico as well.

Camp Scrambling
On Day Nine we had a small adventure toward the end of the day.  It was getting late, and we were worried about getting the camp we wanted, called "Below Bedrock."  We knew there was a private group ahead of us, but we hadn't talked with them about camps.  Would they take "our" spot?  It was getting close to 5 pm; we were tired, and our dinner called for charcoal.  We still had Bedrock rapid to run.  This rapid is just about always scouted.  A huge rock sits in the middle of the river.  Most of the current goes right, but part of the channel to the right is really shallow as the shore is close to the rock as the water bends around the rock, and most of the deep water current sweeps you right into the rock.  Though a strong current also goes left, there is not an alternate run to the left, for the route is narrow, twisting, rocky, and has a spot that can trap boats in a small, fierce eddy.  Our TL had a plan.  The river was running high--maybe 20,000 cfs.  This would suggest that the shallow rocks on the right would be covered, and the right run could be somewhat easier than usual.  If, George said, the private group was there, scouting, we would just skip the scout, run the rapid, and grab the camp we wanted just below.  It was brilliant.  We loved it.  As we rounded a bend, there was Bedrock, and the private group was parked on the beach!  We sort of thumbs-upped everyone, and George was the first one through.  The private group dashed over to watch us.  Actually, we were helping them plan their own runs.  With high water, the power of the current toward the "bedrock" was massive, but George  could start pulling right much sooner than usual, and he did.  Without a pause, he rowed as hard as he could away from the rock, crossing the current, and we missed it.  The current continued to threaten to carry us into further rocks on the left, but he maintained the effort, and we cleared all hazards and at the bottom,  turned around to watch the others.  Everyone pulled with supreme effort, and all came through beautifully.  We whooped with glee.  We pulled into an already cliff-shady, welcoming camp, so grateful to be there.  We talked about feeling a bit guilty.  But the other group, with smaller boats, did have to be cautious and scout, and we made note of the fact that they had started much later in the day than we had--we passed them getting ready to go--so they wouldn't be as ready to stop as we.  Well, that's what we told ourselves.  And, there were more camps on down the river.

Second Layover
Our second layover day came at Tuckup Canyon, mile 165, day 11.  The text of our guide map told of two camps here, and we stopped at the first, not sure what each was like, and not wanting to miss the first one if it were the better.  The camp inspectors ran to take a look, and declared the second camp better (good camps have a spacious open area for a kitchen and the chair circle, with adequate cleared, flat spots for tents), with a better landing beach as well, so we had to move the boats.  This is one of those times when people can get testy, but this group handled such little glitches with great calm.  One by one, the boats floated on downstream a ways, with a person in front ready to throw the bowline and be hauled in by a waiting person on the beach.  The oarsman was at the ready, just in case.  No one wanted a boat to miss the pull in, for then we would all have to go on down the river and look for another camp.  Once the current gets you, there's no backing up.

Except we did once.   Day five, we had to stop early to position ourselves to pass Phantom Ranch (mile 88) the next day.  There are camping restrictions close to this area, where the two main trails from the south rim to the river converge.  Many commercial trips drop off and pick up passengers here, so camps can get congested with boats poised to exchange people.  We had a camp picked out near Neville's Rapid, mile 76, but there was confusion about where to pull in.  Two boats hit it just right, getting into an eddy left of the rapid.  Three others of us were in the rapid when we saw that we were supposed to be pulling to shore.  We all pulled like mad to get to river left, and George's boat would have been swept on down without help from people already on shore grabbing and holding our bowline.  It was a rocky perch, with current.  No good for a landing.  So, after some deliberation, we decided to attempt to drag the three downstream boats up into the eddy.  Everyone left their life jackets on, in case of accidentally getting pulled into the water.  It was all a bit risky, but we felt uncertain if there was another big enough camp before hitting the granite gorge, where there were NO camps at all until you hit the restricted zone.  So one boat at a time, we struggled to swing the boats out around rocky points or brushy willows without losing them, always a person on the oars just in case, slowly hauling them upstream.  It took awhile, though each boat got a little easier as we figured out what worked.  It was the first serious test of our ability to work together to solve a problem, and we did it with determination and good cheer.  It's the kind of group cohesion you need on these trips in case a really serious challenge arises.  And it turned out to be a spacious camp, with an interesting canyon to hike.

Tuckup, our second layover, had early shade, but the heat radiating off the rock walls kept it toasty well past sunset.  It was cool enough in the morning for hiking, and a group set off to explore.  It was a challenging hike, with some narrow, steep spots to negotiate, but they were rewarded with a look at a seldom-visited natural bridge.  In camp, we had a relaxing day under the umbrellas.

Food
One of the benefits of outfitter-supplied food is that you can select some amazingly delectable meals, considering that you are camping.  At Tuckup we were surprised to find that our orange roughy fish fillets were still icy cold from the cooler, and wonderful when cooked on a griddle and topped with our homemade spicy cilantro sauce.  Well, the fresh cilantro had gone off so we couldn't use it, but the coconut-curry-based sauce was still delicious.  At the end of the trip, people asked for copies of some of the recipes.  Especially popular were Chicken, Shrimp and Chorizo Paella, and the Dutch oven prepared green chile enchiladas and spinach lasagna.  We also grilled steaks, pork chops and salmon.  Dutch oven desserts made occasional appearances: we had German chocolate cake, and another night, pineapple upside down cake.  A wide range of options are offered by PRO, from meals with little chopping and preparing, to some fairly gourmet undertakings.  The cost for our rather elaborate menu came out to about $29 per day per person, including the cost of the food and the shopping, packing, and detailed instructions by PRO.

River Mishaps
 I suspect on every private boating trip there are memorable mishaps.  On Loren and Cammie's first trip with us, for example, on oarsman lost three pairs of prescription glasses during unexpected plunges into the river.  After the last pair was gone, he could no longer see to row.  Loren was a novice, but had to take over the oars.  He'd been studying with the old master, and did well.

On this trip, our first mishap occurred on our third day on a small rapid called Basalt.  It was rated a 2, so it hardly warranted any attention, or so most of us thought.  The George boat went through first, Max on the oars (photo above).  "Whoa, what was that,?" Max exclaimed as we skirted a nasty hole right at the top.  Max was in the habit of asking me to read the description of a rapid as we approached, from our fifth edition of the popular "Guide to the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon."  He was glad I had, for it said, "Basalt Rapid has a sharp drop on the left side at low flows.  At high flows, the hydraulics here are sharp.  Either way, sit up and pay attention to this sleeper."  Max paid attention, and carefully entered the rapid to the right, on the tongue; he missed the hole.  At high water, this rapid developed a challenging hazard that was not real obvious--especially if you are lulled into thinking a 2 does not deserve much scrutiny.  Maybe a shelf of basalt protrudes into the river here, making  the hole below it.  But this day, so much water poured over the shelf, it was almost impossible to see the hole.  When Tim's boat came along, novice Todd on the oars, no one noticed the shelf, and Todd went right into the hole.  The boat stalled and shimmied about, stabilized, then emerged, but without its oarsman.  Todd remembers being shocked to find himself in the water, but he also recalled getting a big breath as it happened.  After tumbling about in the hole for awhile, he popped up, swam to the boat and was able to grab the frame and hoist himself back in just as Tim was taking the oars and Karl was looking for him.  Meanwhile, four other boats had gone on down, only to be signaled by a large commercial boat, that a group pulled off on the left bank in a sort of bay needed help.  Two of our boats couldn't make it out of the current, but two did.  A private party with a lot of teenagers had flipped a boat in Basalt, and were having trouble righting it.  With Jason and Andy's extra help, they got it over, and began the re-rigging.  So there was much to talk about in camp that night.  One of the things we wondered was, why didn't the commercial trip motor over there and help them?

A medium sized rapid got the George boat into big trouble many days downstream.  Theo was on the oars.  He was the second boy apprentice, and had been rowing his dad's boat through some small rapids for several days.  This day he wanted to row with his grandpa, and try some bigger things.  So we approached a rapid ranked a six.  I expressed my concern that this one might be too difficult for Theo, but George's philosophy is, let the boys learn by doing.  He sat at Theo's shoulder, coaching him.  There were some big waves, and Theo did well, keeping us straight.  But in his delight--"I rowed a six!" he was cheering--he and his coach failed to notice in time that the current was very powerfully taking us directly at a large rock at the bottom of the rapid, and a lot of water went to the right of the rock, into a wall, where it swirled tempestuously in a surging eddy.  Yep.  Theo's best efforts to move left, much too late, were not enough to keep us off the wall and out of the eddy.  The rest of our party passed, no doubt assuming we'd soon be out of the eddy and on our way.  But no.  Theo, following instructions, rowed back up stream in the eddy, crossed the eddy line back into the current, and promptly, despite hard work, got sucked into it again.  George's turn.  Twice he rowed back upstream, twice entering the main current, and both times, though pulling as hard as he could to the left. was caught and flung back into the now seemingly impossible-to-exit-eddy.  Near the end of the first of George's efforts, we got a glimpse of Jason, well downstream, attempting to make his way on the river bank back to us.  Wow, I thought, what a great guy he is to try to help, but surely we'll get out on our own.  At the end of George's second attempt, I saw Jason again, closer, but could he get to us?  There was a rocky chute in the eddy, down which he could scramble, if he could find it.  We stayed stable near the chute for awhile, George studying the surging current coming into the eddy,  trying to analyze an escape, and me hoping to see Jason at the top of the chute.  Suddenly, there he was.  George moved the boat to the base of the chute, and we tossed the bowline to Jason so he could snug the boat to the rocks long enough to climb in.  George told him the current seemed to come in surges, and that if we could time it just right, he might be able to row out right in front of the rock.  We watched awhile, then "GO."  With a mighty effort, the big guy managed to move the boat out of "Impossible Eddy."  What a relief.  To get to us, Jason had had to swim in his life jacket around a cliff that stopped his upstream progress, then scramble up over the rock outcrop that was imprisoning us.  He did not know if he would find a way down to the water again, but there was that chute.  Good luck for us all.  Another night with lots to talk about in camp.

Mishap at Lava Falls
The river's most anticipated or feared rapid is Lava Falls, rated a 9.  The day we ran it, the water was high, which made a left run an option--usually it isn't even considered--and the favored right run a nasty looking smash up of big water.  But the left run, as we scouted, looked too obstructed with visible rocks to be viable, though it was tempting, given the alternative.  With our bigger boats, though, we hoped we'd be able to stay stable through the torrents on the right.  Two boats--Tim and Jason--got through with exciting, but beautifully finessed runs, skirting holes, and hitting waves just right.  Max wanted to row our boat, but deferred to his grandfather.  George, however, has a history (twice before) of swimming Lava, and he managed to stay true to form. We hit one enormous wave face on, but at the same time got clobbered by a wave from the right.  Max and I hung on and stayed in the boat, which tilted onto its left side at an alarming angle.  The oarsman has nothing much to cling to, and George washed overboard.  I had a feeling, as we leveled off and I looked around to check on him, that he would be gone.  Sure enough.  I alerted Max, who scrambled for the oars, while I looked for George.  Happily, one of the earlier boats to run the rapid, Jason's, had stopped on river left.  Tim had tried to stop, to be in position to help anyone, like George, who might need assistance.  But Karl, their bowline person, who hopped out to secure the boat, could not hold it in the current, had to let the boat go without him.  Jason's boat stopped to pick him up, and all four passengers got out to watch the rest of the boats come through.  They had a good view of our boat losing its oarsman.  Andy had gotten out the rescue rope and heaved it exactly in the right spot upstream of George, who managed to grab it, and he and Jason pulled him in.  By then, Max and I were through the upper part of the rapid, but were headed for a wall on the left, and Lower Lava.  One oar had been knocked from the boat, and he was struggling to get it back in the boat when he realized the oarlock had been bent over on its side, making it just about useless.  Meanwhile I'm telling him about two rocks in front of us that I did not think we were going to fit through.  This was a nasty prospect.  But Max, with one oar, managed to spin us around the first rock, and we slipped by the second.  Whew.  Then the chore was to get across the rapid to shore on the opposite side of the river, where there was an eddy to help us land, and another boat from our party.  I used one oar in an effort to move toward the eddy, while Max retrieved the oar in the water, tethered to the boat, so we still had it, and managed to get it into the slumped oarlock, but we were running out the time to catch the eddy.  He  used both oars in a most difficult manner to pull us across the rapid toward the shore.  All I could do was yell encouragement, and get the bowline undone, hoping someone would be there to catch us.  We came in well below the other boat, but we had made the eddy, just barely, and the current was slow enough that I could jump out and wrap the line around a convenient rock.  We were safe.  But full of adrenalin.

Several people gathered to help replace the damaged oarlock on the George boat, while George, still a bit shaken, warmed up in the sun.  All the boats got back together again about a half mile downriver on a small beach, where we set up lunch.  There was lots of excited chatter about who had done what when, and how the whole scenario had played out.  Jason allowed as how it was a pretty fortuitous situation, that Karl had been left on the shore, and he had to stop for him, giving him and Andy the chance to pull George out of the water before he had to survive running Lower Lava in his life jacket.  We were all grateful for that, especially, I suspect, George.

The Tribe
I started out to tell the story of one private boaters river trip in an attempt to capture some of what its like.  As I've written, I've realized that what makes such trips particularly memorable and satisfying are things that just can't or rarely happen on commercial trips.  There, professional paid staff, as great as these people usually are, do all the work, make the decisions, and do their best to avoid mistakes, glitches and mishaps.  We amateurs have the advantage of working together, and sharing excitement, triumph and occasional trauma together.  On the best of trips, these experiences turn us into a cohesive group, pulling together, appreciating each other.  Cammie captured the feeling when, home again, she wrote a poem about it and us, noting that we had become a tribe.  Here's her effort, and you'll recognize some of the characters:

On a blistering breezeless day, under a merciless sky,
Together toiled sixteen travelers this mid-July.
The blue of the sky, and the green of the river,
called them together to float yon and hither.
Some chaotically clumsy, some agile as bats,
They turn rubber and steel into tight habitats.
The fruits of their labor are lemony rafts,
With flouncy umbrellas serving as masts.
Jaunty in spirit, but with some trepidation,
The flotilla sets off down the canyon's foundation.
Next morn comes the ranger, hands on hips by her Taser,
Telling tales about how throwing tents doesn't faze her.
Staring mutely, impatient, the travelers listen,
As the leaves of the cottonwoods flutter and glisten.
Once released, they set off,  a bouncy flotilla,
Folks pulling on oars, needing strength of gorillas.
Busting through eddies and landing on beaches,
Shouts of "pull, pull, pull," as experience teaches.
The travelers grow closer, becoming a tribe.
Their quirks and their humor adding joy to the ride.
One lovely loquacious gentleman had a powerful sneeze,
Prompting jokes he could move the boats should he please.
A young couple ran upwards whenever they could,
Their energy boundless, their attitude good.
One lone oarsman toiled so, with no help on his raft,
He gazed longingly at those with more helpful staff.
His passenger preferred to ride, not to oar,
Her gaze on her river map, location sometimes unsure.
Their sons were with them, but not oft on their raft,
As Zen Master Grandpa taught them his craft.
The elder devoted to learning just how rapids twist,
The younger to climbing steep walls made of granite and schist.
Grandma kept her eye on the tribe's cooking,
Helping the kitchen crew keep everything moving.
Meanwhile, the uncle, strong as the stuff in a flask,
Performed many rescues, always up to the task.
His friend pitched in rowing, ever lending a hand,
The only bone of contention being which rapids to land.
Their passengers laughed, the aunt and her friend,
Toasting each rapid, with good cheer to the end.
The master of hiking explored many canyons,
Taking more steps than any of his companions.
Days and nights the photographer set up his tripod,
Chasing light and moon shadow, and shapes that were odd.
The geology teacher spent much time composing
Descriptions of the rocks through which they were floating.
Everyone in the tribe had a magical sojourn,
Because terrifying fun is no oxymoron.
Nights of no moon, full of comets and stars,
Followed by full moon, with shining sand bars.
Basalt Rapid, named mild, wildly washed one from his raft,
Followed by other rides, nameless, spinning rafts fore to aft.
Umbrellas and drag bags were sucked in by the river,
While t-shirts and rubber ducks rose and came hither.
Water guns sloshed, the youngest wielding Big Red,
Dousing his aunt, always game, who never fled.
Lazy ankles in river, seeking shade under umbrellas in sand,
Reading books, drinking beer, the tribe relaxed as a band.
A young hawk crying out, his wings madly flapping,
Screeching loud joyous terror, while canyon spanning.
The north star stayed steady, in the Canyon's grand halls,
Constellations like river, swirling between its walls.
Weary travelers awoke and waited for coffee,
Perking slowly, tainting glass bubble like toffee.
This was the day which caused tightness in smiles,
As the legendary rapid churned in just a few river miles.
Scouting river left, one rafter sought a good omen,
Finding heart of lava with a hint of green crystal totem.
Thor's coyote, this rapid named Lava, wrapped the master up tight,
Leaving his apprentice, with Grandma, only one oar for the fight.
Tequila passed 'round, once all landed safely,
Including swigs for the young lad acting bravely.
The trip not yet over, many miles yet to go,
Schist flutes in the rain, helicopters, river slow.
Rubber duck rafts deflating, racks of steel stacked,
Gear off, food divided, the tribe's belongings packed.
This journey has ended, as memories of canyon and water call,
The tribe may come together, there are more journeys for all.

A caveat about private trips.  It's so important to gather a group that has the potential to become a tribe.  It would be good to have a check list in mind before you settle on a roster.  People need to be willing to forgo their individuality, at least somewhat, for the group.  If someone is likely to say, "Up at 5 am?  I don't think so!" instead of grasping that on the river you don't waste daylight, or if you suspect another would grumble about sand in their food, or their bed, or another might rebel at taking a turn packing up a stinky toilet, take care.  Disharmony and complaining don't contribute to tribal cohesion.

Cycling the End to End: Cornwall, Devon and Somerset, England

Bicycle touring: Cornwall, Devon, Somerset

May, 2014

The Cruel Cornish Hills

We were not counting on the punishing hills. We should have been more realistic. Our only previous bike tour had been on a rails to trails outing of five or six days where doing thirty to forty miles in a day was not a problem, even for us at 70. Okay, we thought, it will take a little longer. But we can manage. Wrong. Our bikes were more heavily laden, we're now 73, and we think we were lacking a lower gear or two that "real" touring/road bikes have (ours were a compromise purchase of commuting bikes at a reasonable price with elevated handlebars which is much more comfortable for us than the bent over road bike style). Consequently, we couldn't even peddle to the top of many of Cornwall's steep back roads. We'd have to get off and push the last bits. By the time we'd reach our day's destination, we'd be really done in. Then we'd have to get up and do it all again the next day. After only three days, we took a day off. That was in Mortenhampstead. We'd made it all the way through Cornwall, Devon and across Dartmoor. But we were wiped out. Our host in a B and B there (Cookshayes Country Guest House), Barry, was terrific. Sympathetic, supportive, caring. He did our laundry, we enjoyed his fabulous breakfasts, and hiked the moor--that was dumb. We should have just slept. Anyway, there were lovely moments we could reflect about. The gorgeous stone houses and churches, many draped in blooming clematis, just like in the pictures of English cottages. The brilliantly colored rhododendrons blooming in multiple front gardens, just like as though it were nothing special. Lovely tea breaks in cute shops. Gorgeous, hilly fields newly spread with, yikes, smelly manure. Well, that wasn't so nice, actually. Tall hedges/stone walls lining one-lane roads with few cars, and when there was a car, they were so careful of us. BUT, the downsides were heavier. While the UK is working on making more cycle trails, and traffic free routes, at this moment it is still not easy to go long distances without hitting A or B roads for some miles most days. The B roads aren't so bad, but the A roads can be awful. There's no tradition of shoulders on roads in the UK, probably because of rock walls. Ancient stone walls line most of the roads, and to move them and make shoulders would probably raise a howl of protest. So paved roads are two cars wide, in most cases, and that's it. So picture riding along on the edge of your lane, with lots of traffic, including trucks and buses. Cars line up behind you, or else pass inches from your terrified body. It's not fun. Most drivers are courteous and careful, waiting to pass when it's clear. But not all. My neon yellow rain/wind jacket probably saved our lives a time or two. It was eye catching, even on dark days. There are modern roads with shoulders, the M roads, but they are off limits to cyclists, as they should be.

We pursued, on to Bristol from the moor. But on the way, the second day from Bristol, I took a spill. Geo had warned me about trying to cross even a low curb on our rather slick roadie tires. Sure enough, I was trying to leave heavy traffic to do a route check (we had to constantly pay attention to our written directions) and there was just a one inch edge. I didn't have enough of an angle to cross it. My front wheel just hit it and stopped, and the bike keeled over sideways, kaboom. My head hit the ground hard--I was so grateful right away for my helmet. And my whole left side. Wham. Geo pulled me up, and I really thought I was okay. I knew it was as hard a fall as I'd ever experienced, but nothing was broken. Only a scrape on the left side of my knee. It took a couple of days for the bruised ribs to let me know how affected they were. We cycled on to Wells, looked at the cathedral, then Bristol. The next morning I was beginning to feel worse. We decided to stay another night. But that afternoon, we concluded we'd best abort the ride. We were just not making enough progress to get to Scotland in the time we'd allotted, even were I not injured. So we planned to ride 50 miles further on, where we could get a good train connection to Glasgow, in Hereford. Meanwhile I started taking ibuprofen, after reading that pain control was the most important treatment for bruised ribs. But getting out of Bristol proved to be an awful morning. First we crossed the Avon on the wrong bridge, adding ten miles to our ride to Monmouth. Then we had miles of A road with terrible traffic. Stressful. Finally we got into Wales and gorgeous peddling (Tinturn Abbey!) though still hard. By the time we reached Monmouth at 3:00 or so, I was a wreck. I showered and fell into bed, sleeping an hour. 

The most painful time was at night, Moving around in bed was so difficult. More pain meds. I was sorry to have to go another 20 miles the next day, but it was a beautiful, warm, sunny day (we'd had a week of spotty rain, clouds, chilly temps), and no really steep hills, though hills there were. We had booked in to the airbnb home of Kathleen B., a welcoming, generous host who took really good care of us, which helped a lot. The next morning we caught the train, and in 5 hours with only one change we were in Glasgow.

At first we thought I could rest a couple of days and we'd pick up the cycling again. But impediments loomed. The weather was Scottish: cold and wet. The hill profiles and distances were challenging. My injuries were not just healing overnight. So we rented a car. The next phase has become a road trip, with a tiny Fiat. That blog to follow. Meanwhile, I'll tack on some photos, though I did not get many of the early days of cycling.

Photos: Top, George near Mortenhampstead.    A misty morning in Cornwall.  Middle, a nice B and B north of Exeter.  Below, the start at Lands End, and Barry's super "full English breakfast"--enough to cycle on all day.

A Repositioning Cruise across the Atlantic

Words from a Winch Wench

April 26, 2014 on board Adventure of the Seas

We know we are in a remote part of the Atlantic Ocean when our room TV tells us there is no satellite signal and thus no TV, and no news.  No more reminders of the lost 10th graders from South Korea.  No more worries about Russia, Ukraine, and what to do.  What we can see is the view off the bow from a live mini-cam, or the information about our position, speed (17 knots) and distance traveled so far: 1700 nautical miles or so.  Or pay per view movies and such.  Not that we mind our lack of television.  There is much to do on board, as our cruise director constantly reminds us--on the intercom and at various venues.  This morning I can choose among a belly dance class, ice skating, working out in the gym, or water aerobics in the pool--not to mention doing the daily sudoku or reading my library book.  And those are just the things that interest me.  There are also trivia groups, bingo, napkin folding, Spanish language, and a seminar on sparkling wines.  Later, this afternoon, a group of women meets for our second rehearsal for a flashmob dance routine to "Killer."  I'm doing that too, if I can manage to learn the steps.  Life on a cruise ship has not been about shuffleboard and deck chairs for a long time.

Cruising is a difficult travel subject to discuss.  I am sitting on our tiny balcony looking at large swells coming at us in a sea that is the deepest and most glorious shade of blue I have ever seen.  Having this experience is to be treasured and savored, in my opinion, because we are traveling upon a part of our planet that makes up most of our surface, yet how few of us get to spend any time getting to know it with any intimacy?  Travel of any sort if to be valued, and sea travel is of enormous value to one's perspective on our earthly home.  Yet, there are all the negatives.  Cruise ships use huge amounts of fuel to move passengers for no very good reason from continent to continent--in this case North America to Europe--or simply port to port.  Our chief engineer talks about thousands of kilograms of fuel.  In answer to a question about gas mileage, he says we get about 1.5 feet per gallon!  Not that we use gasoline--rather a crude oil called "cabbage."  I'm sure that's what he said.

And, it's all just old people overeating.  Well, it's true that 65% of the 2800 or so folks on board are over 55, and in fact, 300 of them are over 75.  And it's hard not to overeat, what with the spread put before us three times a day.   But there are a few younger folks too.  We met some Canadians in their 50s, we guessed, whose motto is "Eat dessert first."  Take that cruise while you are alive and kicking.  Don't wait until you maybe can't manage it for one reason or another.   Like Mary Poppins urges, let's go fly a kite.  We got to see Saving Mr. Banks in the ship's theater, followed by an outdoor screening of Mary Poppins, which I had never seen, and which BEGAN at 10:30 at night, and lasted well over two hours.  I was pretty worn down by that evening.

Cruising can be affordable, but it requires a certain amount of dedication.  We suspect the staterooms are priced very reasonably because the company is convinced that once aboard you will indulge in the many sometimes pricey offerings available.  A glass of wine is $8.  Off ship tours are $30 to $200 a person.  Buy diamonds.  Designer clothes.  French wines.  Or gamble in the casino, pay for spa treatments, visit the fitness specialists for individual programs.  There's not much you can't buy.  Frugality is a challenge, but it can be done.  Though we did buy a $100 each excursion.  That's when I got to be a winch wench.  We were visiting the island of San Martin in the Caribbean, port of Phillipsburg.  On offer was a sail aboard an Americas' Cup racing boat.  Three of them actually, which would be racing, with cruise ship passengers as crew.  Stars and Stripes, which was America's entry in 1987 and won, I think; Canada II, and Northwind, also Canadian.  To me it seemed like an experience I was never likely to be able to have unless I did it now, so I talked George into it, and he was game, given that his seasick pills seemed to be working just fine.  We were assigned tasks, based on our willingness to be "active."  I was nervous about this, of course, but I was glad I spoke up for active, because one of the women who declined to be active was given the job of watching for icebergs.  How demeaning is that?  Another was the bar tender, which basically meant making sure people had enough water.  I and another woman became winch wenches.  Well, that's a little demeaning too, but the job was challenging.  In the stern, we sat with a rope wrapped about a post (I'm sure it's called something nautical), and it had elaborate hardware and we had to do winding and unwinding in a specific way whenever the captain barked orders at us.  It was so unnerving we had a hard time paying much attention to the boat's progress in the race.  (Hence I'm not even sure who won, but it wasn't us.)  There was the command to "ease," meaning let out some rope, but in a certain sequence we were to ease until he told us to stop.  Let out a LOT of rope, in other words.  I hope it wasn't because my companion wench and I were a little slow to ease that our boat came in third, but it wasn't about winning, anyway, in my opinion.  It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy hour on the water, and I would have loved a whole day of it.  George was a mainsail grinder, and he and another man worked a winding device that let the mainsail in or out as we tacked.  Our captain was cool, even with such a novice crew.  He was on his fourth sail race of the day with these land lubbers.

Last night we were up late again.  This time it was a 50s and 60s rock and roll party--held on a dance floor of wood covering the ice of the skating rink.  Yesterday's ice show was remarkable.  There were young professional skaters from Russian, Canada, the US and Ukraine.  We had rink side seats, which was neat.  No charge.

May 2--day 13 of the cruise

We've covered 3800 nautical miles--slightly longer than land miles--and have moved our clocks and watches ahead five times in seven days.  It is a bit difficult.  Each morning there are fewer people at breakfast early.  I'm only guessing because we are not there either.  The lunch crowd at 3pm is huge.  Our bodies are struggling to catch up.  Still, it is better than doing it all at once, as is required when you fly.  We'll arrive in England adjusted to English time.  The seas have been amazingly calm.  We've had no rough weather at all.  We've lost our Caribbean temperatures, of course.  It was still fairly balmy in the Azores, our last stop, but now, two days north from there, it is in the 50s outside.  Europe in spring.  Also gloomily cloudy.  Today the regulars usually sunning themselves at the pools are all tucked in the library and other indoor spots with their books.  Only the hot tubs are popular.  And lots of people are remembering the gym is there.

The Azores are a Portuguese autonomous region of nine islands (900 miles from Portugal), but most of the population is probably on San Miguel with a tidy and historic port at the small city of Ponta Delgado.  There is an area of old homes and shops on narrow cobbled streets--the buildings hung with wrought iron balconies, tile touches, cut lava stone trim and pastel colored stucco.  One was being restored, and you could see the primitive building material of the original walls: mud, volcanic rocks, pebbles.  Many are for sale and would require loving restoration.  But it seems to be happening.  With our friends we hired a taxi to take us to see one of the sites--a view down into an extinct (they must hope) volcano with two large connected lakes and a town in the tree lined caldera, and then a walk in the crater among the inhabitants, who didn't seem nervous.  The last eruption was 1440.  The island is teeming with cows, and our taxi driver explained that the island exports milk to Portugal.  Azorean milk, he said, is the best.  He claimed the cows were stress free, but I think they also get a lot to eat.  There is no grass like this west of Vermont.  There were dozens of cows per five acre pasture.  It must grow faster than they can eat it.

Sigrid and I walked to the presidential palace and grounds up on a hill in town.  We bought senior tickets for one Euro each and walked all around the building looking at the gardens.  Apparently they don't worry about terrorists here.  The climate is mild enough for towering Norfolk Island Pines.  And we saw a hibiscus TREE that was ten feet tall in a park nearby.  They grow pineapples to export, as well as tobacco and tea.  Until 1981 Sperm Whales were harvested.  We estimated that gasoline cost $16 a gallon.  Happily the island is only 60 kilometers long and varies between 8 and 15 wide.

George and I ride the stationary bicycles in the gym every day.  We know we have to if we expect to ride any distance at all on the End to End route in the UK.  We're even worried about making the 40 miles we're committed to on our first riding day, as we've booked a B and B in a town 40 miles north of Penzance.  It's hilly, and we've only toured once with luggage--four full panniers each--and that was on a rails to trails route in Missouri.  Basically flat.  Then we look worriedly at the forecasts on the TV--which is up and running again.  Most of Europe is in the midst of cold, stormy weather.  And we've no doubt added to our challenge by gaining weight on the ship.  

A few words about Mercedes Lafuente.  She's our cruise director, from Argentina, and a hard working woman.  She's in charge of the ship's entertainment, which goes on most of the day and night.  She's good humored, lively, six feet tall, attractive and formidable.  We all got a little tired of her telling us to "put our hands together" to welcome this or that magician or ventriloquist or the ship's terrific orchestra, and reminding us of all the wonderful things there are to do each day--she appears at as many as she can manage, and conducts a good number of events from bingo to evening parties.   But I think Royal Caribbean must treasure her, for she is hugely energetic, enthusiastic and successful.  She had half the 1300 British cruisers out one night for a sing along sort of event in the promenade--a kind of Main Street in the middle of the ship--and they were a happy bunch, singing along with a tape of 30 or 40 years of popular tunes--about half of which were also sung in the US. One day she gave a lecture on Evita Peron.  This is a multifaceted woman.

On May 4 we docked at Southampton at about 5 in the morning.  It has been the calmest of crossings.  We've had no rough weather, and just a day or two when the water sloshed around in the pools much at all.  We hardly noticed we were at sea unless we got out on the decks and felt the wind.  George and I and our friends Sigrid and John got off the ship about 8 in the morning and took a bus to the train station.  They were off to Manchester and Ireland, and we went south to Penzance--taking three different trains to do it.  English trains seem to be as punctual as those in Switzerland.  We had four minutes to make one connection and it went off without a hitch.  Today is the 5th; we are in cloudy Cornwall, ready to collect our bikes and begin the next phase of our journey.

The photos are a shot off our balcony on the exceptionally blue water day, and a view of the front of a sister ship much like Adventure of the Seas, parked next to us in San Juan, PR.

Cozumel

January 27, 2012


Cozumel, Quintana Roo (Yucatan) Mexico



The island of Cozumel appears prosperous in January, largely because of the 5 or more cruise ships that dock here six days a week. One day we counted seven. We figure that could be about 20,000 visitors in one day--on an island of 75,000. The taxis line up near the port for blocks, hopeful that they'll have a fare. Tourism workers drive cars and SUVs, talk on cell phones, take their chunky children to Burger King, dress smartly. But the minimum wage in Mexico is 54 pesos a day--which makes it, at 13 to the dollar, a hair over $4. In the tourist restaurants, a beer costs 20 pesos, a taco plate 100 or more. Old men drive three wheeled bicycle carts for hire to carry luggage, cement blocks, soft drinks for sale, or grandma. And anywhere you go in town, taxis circle like sharks after an elusive fare.

We came to Cozumel because of the clear, warm waters for snorkeling and diving, the balmy weather, and the chance to be in Mexico again. And because we found, on line, an apartment for rent owned by an American woman who was most communicative and helpful, for a monthly rate of $1300. Although that's not cheap, it is much less than most of the hotel rooms in the entire "Riviera Maya"--the coast south from Cancun to Belize that is thronging with visitors from Europe and the US. And it includes a kitchen/living room and separate bedroom and bath, a garden setting and a small pool, with maid service if we need it, plus wifi. We've been doing more apartment renting in the last couple of years of travel, finding that we really enjoy settling in, cooking, getting into a routine, and feeling a bit like residents. Calvin Trillin, in Travels with Alice, calls it hanging out. He thinks there ought to be a series of travel books on Hanging Out in Fance, Italy, and more. Cozumel isn't as glamorous as Tuscany, for sure, but hanging out here is really good.

So back to prosperous. There are houses behind high walls. You can't see them, but you can see the jungle of trees and flowering vines that surround them, and you sometimes get a glimpse, as a solid gate opens and a car emerges, of spacious hacienda living inside. Such houses occur randomly around the city. We live on Avenida 55, between Calles 3 and 5. There are no haciendas on our street, but we do have a wall and a locked gate. Our apartment is one of six in three buildings. We are many blocks from the port, and miles from the nearest beach. On our street are colorful little concrete block houses. Some are tidy, and a bougainvilla or palm peeks over a wall. Some have a covered porch in front that serves as a parking spot, a minivan bulging out over the sidewalk. Smaller ones, if you catch a glimpse inside, look less upscale. Often there is a hammock, a TV and some chairs, and not much else. On each block, a few houses have commercial activities on the porch or just inside. There's a man selling fruit--grapefruit and oranges stacked up neatly on a little table, while he sits much of the day in a plastic chair. There's a loncheria across the street, just down from the house where a tiny dog spends the day on the sloping metal roof. (He's stopped barking at us, finally.) There tacos are sold, and our Canadian neighbors in the apartment next to ours buy guacamole from him. (They were amazed to learn guacamole was mostly just mashed avacados. They had never known what an avacado looked like before they encountered one in our fruit bowl.) There's a guy who welds all day long in his garage. Another house has Abarrotes (groceries) Gaby painted on the wall, and the living room behind the open front door displays racks of chips. Many of the houses look run down, and some are empty: a severe hurricane sat malevolently over the island in 2005. There are broken down vehicles, scrap metal, discarded plastic toys, metal drums, plastic barrels--all sorts of detritus stuck here and there. Many houses are built right up to the sidewalks, which border the street. Walking the sidewalk is often not possible because of the clutter. And other issues. Sidewalk construction is the responsibility of the property owner, we surmise. Each section looks different, and the quality varies. Some are perfect, even cut with striations so they are not slippery in a rain. Others, though, are broken, heaved, cracked, humped or missing altogether. They are blocked by concrete electric poles, a parked car, a garbage can chained to a wall, or even, in one case, a row of recently planted royal palm trees, thriving in their concrete casing. This morning I had to detour around a clothes line filled with wash. We walk a lot. We have a little Nissan rented sedan, but it's a bit scary driving it around town, what with all the motorbikes filling the streets, passing cars whenever and however they can.

So this is our neighborhood, and we think the prosperity is a little thin. Maybe not trickling down to so very many on the island. Many of our neighbors seem to be just getting by.

We walk in the morning for exercise. There's a soccer field/track only a few blocks away, and each morning it is full of locals jogging and doing calesthenics. One very heavy guy has been there every morning bundled up in long pants and a Donald Duck sweatshirt. We are in shorts and a tank top in my case. It is warm. He was walking really slowly the first day, but he's picked up a little speed. Geo thinks it's a New Year's resolution. Our favorite walk is to the the old mercado, which still exists downtown, even though there are modern supermarkets just south of the city a few kilometers. There we visit "our" fish man, who filets the freshest of sea critters for us--snapper, mackerel, grouper. They cost about $7 a kilo--less than $3.50 a pound, guys. Another favorite is to the ice cream shop, also downtown. The coconut has so much actual coconut in it you have to chew. Okay, let's see it's 17 pesos--$1.30.



When we want to go to the beach, we drive. The beach scene in Cozumel seems a little strange. Maybe because of the day-visits of the thousands of cruise ship passengers, a series of day-use beach clubs line the calm, western side of the island instead of multiple hotels, though there are a few of those. Buses and taxis take the passengers out to these clubs where they can pay a fee to rent a beach chair, swim in a pool, drink a margarita, parasail, snorkel, kayak, scuba, play on giant inflatable water playground equipment (picture a floating slide and trampoline) or eat a $13 hamburger, or a $15 serving of ceviche. Happily at most clubs you can park, walk in, pass the souvenir stands, restaurant and booking staff, and walk up or down the beach to a relatively quiet spot to spread your beach mat, all without parting with a peso. We smuggle in a lunch. Posted signs tell you no food or beverages--in English. Better is to leave all that behind and find an empty beach, but this is a bit of a challenge. The island is a solid slab of ancient reef limestone, and much of the coast is rock. (Tidal pools form in the sculpted, sharp stone, and tiny crustaceans take up residence. You miss this on a jeep tour.) The best sandy bits are taken up by these clubs, hotels, and national parks that cost a lot to enter. The solution is to go to the wild east side where the surf roars in, there are no hotels and only a few palapa restaurants, and most of the visitors are just passing by on jeep tours of the island. But much of that coast is rock too, with intermittent pockets of beach. Still, you can have them to yourself. It's dangerous to swim, however, as there are currents and undertows. Our favorite beach, on the south coast and not dangerous at all, is in a park variously called Punta Sur or Faro Celarin. There's a reef off shore there, and after a long swim out to it, you can follow it with a current parellel to the beach. There are great fan corals swaying in the surges, and heaps of fascinating fish. The fish seem to swim with us as the current pulls us all along. Magical. We saw one absolutely brilliant fish today that had at least six colors. There must be a fish life list. I have to find out what he's called. Dive shops have fish ID cards. It's great that this beach is protected from development, but it's not so nice that it costs $12 a person to visit. Another way to snorkel is to go out to a reef with a boat. We tried one such outing, and were impressed. Snorklers were given neon green vests, and a snorkel master with a buoy went with us. There are many boats about, so we appreciated such concern with safety.


Many days we stop at the Mega on the way home. This is a Walmart sort of store with a terrific produce department. And anything else you can think of to buy. (Its logo is a pelican with a large pouch.) I fill my cart with more than I need, failing to focus on the fact that my present home is just a couple of kilometers away and I can come back tomorrow. It's an ingrained habit for someone living 40 miles from a grocery. I remembered to bring an old Mexican paperback cookbook from home, and it's been fun hunting ingredients for regional dishes and experimenting. There's a local flavoring paste called achiote that's used in sauces for fish and pork. I made Yucatecan Fish one night using it along with orange juice, onion and limes as a simmer sauce. The local tacos are made with unfried corn tortillas--just heated briefly on a griddle. You top this with cooked fish (or meat), chopped onion, cilantro, tomato, cabbage and lime. They are served open face, and you have to figure out how to pick them up and eat them. Delicioso. I've learned how to make an acceptable ceviche. I figure a flash frozen fish from Costco might just work. It could be my new pot luck hors d'ouvre. Food from the grocery is cheaper here than at home, if you buy tortillas and local produce, fish and meat. Most costly are processed and imported things like chips, canned salmon, peanut butter. We bought a heavy metal orange juice squeezer once we'd found 20 pounds of sweet ripe oranges for two dollars. It's a lot of work, pressing out that juice. But wow, is it good.


Local Color. We gave a worker at the Punta Sur park a ride one day, and I asked him if he was a Maya. There are many of Mayan descent here, and they do look a bit different than most Mestizo Mexicans. He said he was, and that he came from a small inland village where all the residents were of Mayan origin. He speaks Mayan, as well as Spanish and English, but his children do not. He says now kids can study Mayan in school, but his 14 year old daughter does not want to. "I tell her she should," he says. "It's important. It's our culture." The fear is so many young Maya are moving to the coast to serve the tourist industry, the language and culture will disappear even more rapidly than in the past.



At the lighthouse museum, Punta Sur, we learned that the Maya were great navigators, and undertook long trading voyages up and down the east coasts of the Americas. They built stone structures to tell themselves something about where they were, and if there was a good port--or danger. They planted signal palm trees, as in, pull in at the three palm island. I didn't know that.

There's a really good history museum here with descriptions of exhibits in Spanish and English. Gripping is the tale of a Spaniard of the 16th century who married a Mayan maiden and raised a family. Subsequent Spanish explorers urged him to return to Spain, but of course he was now a committed immigrant. He was later killed in an uprising, fighting along side his new people.



Tips for Travelers. We assumed renting a car from a local company would be cheaper, and benefit the locals. Wrong. We started looking for a car after we found that we could not get a pair of decent bicycles for a reasonable cost for a month. Renting bikes by the day is the norm--for $14. If you reserve a car online, even after you get here, it is MUCH cheaper than just showing up at the local office. For $28 a day-- one week minimum--we got a car including the local liability insurance--a must to stay out of jail if you have an accident. The local guys want $60 a day, and $25 for a motorscooter. There's no local bus transport except around town. The taxis seem to have island travel locked up, and it's $10 each way to get to the nearest beach.

There are a few small hotels and other apartment rentals on line. Staying in town is cheaper than any beach hotel, but you have to be prepared to rent a car, or bring your own bicycle. Some nice beaches are 10 or more miles from town, and the loop road around the island is more than 40 miles. Just for fun we looked up the price of a modest looking beach hotel. $275/night. This is the Caribbean, I guess.

Turkey Two

TURKEY TWO
October, 2010

Things to Like, things that are annoying, about Turkey

I’m getting to like cucumbers, tomatoes, feta cheese and olives for breakfast. It’s kind of like having a Greek salad--without the onions.

Free tea. After a meal at most Turkish restaurants you are offered a free glass of cay. Pronounced “chai” as the c has a little tail that makes it a “ch.” Acik cay means you want it half water and half tea, because otherwise it is very strong. It comes in a tulip shaped glass of three or four ounces, with two lumps of sugar on the saucer. You must hold the rim to drink it. What a nice custom.

Tourists are not usually offered real coffee. Somehow they have the idea that we want Nescafe, and that’s what we get. Real Turkish coffee, strong and in a small cup, you have to go and find in a café.

Most of the pension bathrooms have showers that are on hoses fastened at shower height just randomly stuck somewhere in the small room with a drain in the floor. There is no shower stall per se. The toilet gets sprayed, or the sink or everything. Occasionally the space is so small you cannot sit facing forward on the toilet. In addition, the rooms are usually a step up from the bedroom. In one place, it was two steps up. We both missed the first step more than once, as it was hard to see and you just are not expecting it. There do not seem to be building codes for minimal requirements.

Which reminds me of a general irritation, which is floor levels. One constantly must contend with changes in floor level from inside to out, or room to room, or sometimes within a room. Stairs too have unpredictable heights--one staircase can have several different heights of risers. This is most disconcerting to feet that think they can predict the depth of the next step based on the one just previous. We’ve stumbled and tripped and almost fallen any number of times, and are grateful to so far have remained upright. It makes us appreciate the oversight we have at home that assumes such unconformities are dangerous, which they are, and regulates them generally out of existence.

Turkish buses. They are comfortable, spacious, clean, reliable, frequent, convenient. The bus stations are often far from the center of town, but individual bus companies will collect you from your hotel and take you to the station, and the reverse, in minibuses--the procedure being called “servis.” A host serves tea, Nescafe, fruit juice, colas, sodas and water as well as sweet packaged cookies or cakes on long distance buses.. They stop for meals on occasion, but often at a company owned restaurant where the prices are inflated. We’ve been on buses that went four hours without a stop, and there is not a toilet on most of them. Smaller towns are served by a dolmus, a minibus, usually from a stop close to the center of town. You can get just about anywhere in Turkey by public bus--and in a timely manner. Costs are not dirt cheap, but moderate: $20 to go about 200 kilometers.

Baklava. Bakeries make lots of greasy, heavy sweets, but they also do a big variety of baklavas--called something else depending on the flavor: walnut, pistachio, almond and many more. All are the usual honey-based oozing confections, and delicious, but best taken in small doses.,

Turkish Delight. Turns out this is a powdered sugar covered gelatin candy in a huge variety of flavors and prices. We’ve bought a sort of generic flavor in a grocery for as little as $3 a kilo, but it’s usually more like $16 a kilo--though you generally don’t want a kilo, but 100 or 200 grams. My favorite, though I’ve only tasted a few flavors, is “the sultan,” which is coconut and pistachio, or at least that was what it was called in Selcuk. George likes lemon.

Olive oil. We love olive oil. But it’s a bit of a shock to go from thinking that, as Dr. Joel Fuhrman admonishes, a teaspoon will do on your salad, to having things cooked in oil that, if it is measured at all, must be in cups. On our recent “Blue Voyage” in the Mediterranean off Fethiye, our captain Ahmet was also the cook, and had learned in local big hotels. He knew how to make omelets, which was a treat, as usually the only eggs we’ve eaten have been hard boiled. However, he cooked the omelets in copious amounts of oil, negating, somewhat, their delectability. One dish I love, except for the oil factor, is something called “Imam Fainted.” It’s called this, we hear, either because the Imam fainted from delight at this marvelous dish, or because it required the use of so much olive oil. An eggplant is halved, its center scooped out and mixed with ground meat, this is mixed with spices and cooked in oil, stuffed into the shell of the eggplant, and the whole is simmered in olive oil until done.

Beds: Maybe if we were staying in hotels with any stars at all we wouldn‘t have this complaint, but the small pensions universally buy mattresses that are, I believe, an innerspring style that “firm“ doesn‘t begin to describe. Besides a rigidity that will put your arm to sleep if you are on your side, you risk getting poked with a spring. We remedy this somewhat by traveling with ultra light Thermarest mattresses--after bone jarring experiences sleeping in Asia.. Usually the pillows are okay, but occasionally they feel like they have about as much give as a basketball.

A Wallet Found

Recently we set off on a seven kilometer hike to a town over the mountain from Fethiye to Kaya. The trail was a section of the Lycian Way. There was a road to the town, and we could have taken a dolmus, but we wanted to train up a bit for some more hiking on the long distance trail we hoped to do--should the weather improve. We walked a kilometer or so on a road before we got to the trailhead, and Geo found a wallet on the ground, its contents strewn about. We gathered up all the little scraps and looked through the pile. There was a national photo ID card, a credit card, various receipts, and tucked in the wallet was 500 lira--$350. Whoa! We puzzled over what to do. We were a little afraid that if we just turned it over to the police, the money might not get back to the young man in the picture. But there was no telephone number. How could we find him? We asked Omer, our hotel man, and he felt the police would be best. Geo went to the main station. There was no one there who spoke English, so he could not explain to the guard outside, who would not let him in. Finally we went to the tourist office, and there one of the staff who did speak English went with us to a police station nearby. She and the officer went through the receipts and found that the boy had just paid for a driver’s ed class. They called the school, got his phone number, called him, and he said he’d be right over. George was pleased, for he wanted to hand the boy the wallet and the money himself, to know he’d truly gotten it. Twenty minutes later he arrived, and Geo gave him his things and shook his hand. He kept telling us thank you. A police staffer came out and in halting English said to us the boy was very lucky that we had found his wallet, and that he had a whole month’s pay in the wallet when he lost it. We wish we could have conversed with him, to find out how he could have lost it, and how long ago, but we had to be satisfied only with knowing he’d gotten it back. That, and I took his photo with George.

The Lycian Way
With a remarkable effort, a British woman (now a Turkish citizen) named Kate Clow has gotten the Turkish government to recognize and support a long distance hiking trail is the southern most part of Turkey sometimes called Lycia or Likya after the people who were early inhabitants and builders in stone, often in harbor settlements. She put together the system using a hodgepodge collection of goat herders’ trails, ancient links between towns, contemporary dirt roads, and a few created trails. It stretches from Fethiye in the west to Antalya in the east, and covers about 500 kilometers. When the route intersects major roads, there is a distinctive yellow sign describing the two destinations at hand. Along the path, there is a system of way markers, which are two small stripes, red and white, painted on rocks, trees or poles. Wilderness purists will cringe, but it is really great to have these guiding marks. When you come to a fork, often a red x on a rock let‘s you know which is NOT the way to go. It must be difficult in the extreme to hike the whole thing, for the route goes relentlessly up and down the contours of this rugged, mountainous coast, and it’s rough, rocky, narrow at times, often steep, brushy with the thorniest of shrubs, mainly far from any fresh water, extremely hot in summer with very little shade, and without huts or organized camping. However, it does pass through small villages, and there you can, we have heard, pitch a tent, find a bed or buy a meal. Our plan was to walk a few sections of the trail, parts we could organize from one town or another so we could hike with simply a day pack or at most, a slimmed down load of overnight gear suitable for staying in a pension. One such part we did went from a small hilltop settlement called Akbel down to the sea and the ruins of Patara near a town called Gelemis, a hike of about 14 kms. The highlight was a section of Roman aquaduct that contained many remnants of a siphon system (see two photos) the engineers designed to get the water over a low valley. It was remarkable to see how they had cemented the sections together, sections that had been hewn from blocks of stone with fittings much like what we see in water pipes today. Even more remarkable was to spend an hour in this spot completely alone. After the congestion at Ephesus--dozens of bus loads of people packed into a ruin that had been so ransacked, many of the few existing statues were copies of things now resting in London and Vienna and other big cities of the world--it was a joy to soak in the scene at the Delikkemer, as the siphon is called. This and dozens of other ruins along the Likyan Yolu, the trail’s Turkish name, are just laying about. You can sit on them, poke through them, exclaim and puzzle over this and that, and just let your imagination fill in the blanks. It’s not important to know that it was a fifth century BC Likyan settlement that got taken over by Greeks and then Romans, then Byzantine era folks who built Christian churches out of blocks and pillars they pulled out of falling down temples to Athena or Artemis. It is nice to just sit meditatively for a while on a block and let the weight of all that history soak into your consciousness along with the warmth from the stone.

We ended up spending three nights in Gelemis in a comfy hotel, enjoying a wide sandy beach (a three km hike away), protected from development, amazingly, because of nesting turtles, ruins and gorgeous sand dunes, and hiking to see further ruins, like what our hotel man, Mustafa, claimed is the world’s first light house. Only the bottom ¼ of it is still upright, but it was all of hewn stone, beautifully fitted together with a spiral staircase, once tall enough to shine a firelight over the dunes to show the way into the harbor of Patara. On our first afternoon at the beach, Geo napped and I went swimming, past the surf line and over my head. I soon realized a current was taking me slowly away from the beach. I completely forgot I was not supposed to fight the current--just try to cross it and get out of it. Instead I began to swim as hard as I could for shore. It was not a good feeling to see that I was making no progress. I began to get really tired, and swallowed some water. It suddenly struck me that I might not be able to get in. I decided I needed help. As a wave crested, I could see Geo, lying on his back, his red hat over his face. “George,” I would yell and wave, then the wave would slide under me, and I’d lose sight of him. A woman on the beach called out, “Are you okay?” “No,” I said. “Get George.” I pointed to the sleeping man. (Recreated scene for photo) She sent her husband (he later apologized to me, saying he was not a strong swimmer) after George and started in to the water toward me. I yelled at her not to come in. I could just see two of us stuck out there. Then there was Geo, dashing into the surf (he hates cold water, but he didn’t even flinch), soon able to reach out and grab my hand. We swam in together, Geo giving me occasional shoves and pulls until I could get my feet solidly on the sand. What a guy. My hero.

Another day on another section of the Likyan Way we took a dolmus from the delightful small city of Kas up into the hills to a place called Cukurbag. From there we walked higher still to explore a ruin, then we planned to walk back to Kas--a total of 14 kms. About noon we found a bit of stone wall in the shade to have lunch. There was no lunch in the pack. I had either left it at the ruin when we dipped into the bag for a snack, or it had come out of the unzipped pack accidentally when we were scrambling about. In any case, we had only our water and two pieces of bread. Apples, sardines and almonds were gone. We glumly ate some bread as we hiked along a gravel road. There was a truck with two women at the back. It was a traveling store, and they were buying batteries and light bulbs. I got out our trail guide which had a glossary. Mevey? I asked (fruit). Elma? (Apples). By gestures we gathered that the truck man had no fruit, but one of the women did. He gave her a bag, and we followed her to her house, just there, a lovely old stone and tile roofed number. She disappeared into a basement like room, and soon came back with a whole bag full of apples! We tried to explain that we were walking and could not carry a whole bag of apples, but we would happily take four. I got some coins from my pocket and held them out to her. She brushed my hand away roughly, as if to say, “How could you think I wanted money?” and just gave me the fruit. We hear Turkish village hospitality is remarkable, and this was our first experience with it. As is so often the case when you travel, if you are needy and have to ask for some help, that is often when you have the most memorable moments. She let me take her picture, too. Attached.

When we first arrived in Kas (the s has a tail, so it's Kash)a pension owner met our bus--named Suleyman for the sultan--so we let him carry a bag and we went to look at his place. It had a great roof terrace, and the room was fine, so we took it. Room with breakfast 50 Turkish Lira or $35. The breakfast was exceptionally nice, with lots of fruit and a pretty presentation (see photo). Suleyman’s sister-in-law was in the kitchen. We talked often with a guest named Brian who has retired to Turkey from the UK. It was interesting to learn that he has a one bedroom apartment in Fethiye for about $225 a month, which may be why we have met quite a few retired Bits here. He says Turkey has a three tiered economy: tourists pay dearly for everything, foreign residents pay somewhat increased prices, and locals pay rock bottom. Everything has to be negotiated, he says. We have noticed that it is rare to see fixed prices on things. You ask, and are told the price. So it depends on who you are, what you pay. We are often asked what country we are from. Many Turks think we are German. Geo wants to tell them we are from anywhere but the US, as he thinks Americans will be charged the most for everything.

Our last stop on the coast was Antalya, and city that boasts of being paradise, and in many ways they have a point. The climate is mild, fruits and veggies grow abundantly in the area, the city is set between mountains and sea and just glows, it has protected its old neighborhoods and ruins to some extent, so that narrow, charming streets with restored Ottoman era houses remain--now all pensions or shops, and it boasts a world class museum full of artifacts from area ancient cities. There were, among many glorious treasures, some elaborate sarcophagi. One, however, was small and plain. Around third century, AD. The text nearby explained that it was the tomb of a dog. An inscription had been diciphered which explained the dog had died suddenly and its owner was grief stricken. The dog, it said, was named Stephanos. Its owner was a woman named Rhodope. It was, she said, a happy dog.

Turkey is often cited as being a country that bridges Europe and Asia, and it is fun to see examples of that. Toilets come to mind. In bus stations and city-provided “WCs” there is usually a choice between the classic Asian squat toilet with its faucet and container of water, and the standard western model. We see the Asian phenomenon of small shops--some just a little larger than a closet--lining the streets. There’s a mini-mart selling bottled water, cigarettes, potato chips and sweets on every block. The poor owners are there for hours and hours every dang day. Yet Turkey is modern and western, with good roads, great buses and bus stations (they look like mini airports, with food stalls and internet connections and news on TV) block after block of five to twelve story apartment houses, all with balconies and tidy landscaping. The cities have good mass transit and parks, road signs and walk lights. On TV there are women news readers dressed fashionably with stylish hairdos. Ads are snappy and sell coke, cars, milk and McDonalds. TV soaps are very popular, with waitresses forgetting their customers to watch the latest episode. The current raging issue of headscarves is so typical of the dichotomy here. The country wants to be thought of as modern--and head scarves seem so backward. Yet, there is a strong urge to say people must be free to choose. If a woman cannot be true to herself and take off her scarf to go to college, then she shouldn’t have to. But so many modern Turks wish that she would. The current prime minister is taking a more conservative stance than has been the norm in the government. He is saying let them wear headscarves, and his wife has been wearing one for public events. Shocking! The military says--not at our events. So there’s tension.

Urhan Pamuk has written a book called Istanbul in which he describes Turkey’s great effort to be more western than eastern, and says that it has cost it a lot psychologically. He finds Istanbul a melancholy place, because it has long striven to be what it just isn’t and can’t be. Perhaps eventually Turkey will find an identity that it can be proud of, and it will be something uniquely its own, a blend, for sure, of east and west.

In any case, it’s a great country to visit, and we’ve enjoyed being here very much.