August 17, 2007

Aran Islands - Inis Mhor

Driving in the car, I heard a joke on the radio, “How can you tell the difference between Summer and Winter in Ireland?” (I lived the response today.) The answer is “The rain gets warmer.”

Ireland is having the worst Summer in anyone’s memory. Everywhere I go the locals are bantering about the rain, pouring at a heavier than normal frequency. The month of April was apparently perfect and then a warmer Winter set in.

Taking things in stride I drove from Galway to Rossaveal to catch the Aran Islands Ferry with Inis Mhor, the largest bit of offshore rock, as the target.





The rain threatened to stop while we waited for the boat, but after traveling the channel it opened up for off-boarding at the island’s tiny wharf.



After dropping my backpack off at the hostel the mental debate and “wetness tolerance” index began.



It costs 10 Euro to either rent a bike for the day or take a two hour guided mini-van tour. Armed with a Gortex jacket and a spirit to see the local life I took the bicycle option.



Inis Mhor is literally one large tessellating rock. Somehow in the cracks vegetation began to grow and in places a very thin layer of topsoil established.



To delineate property lines and help this process the natives build stone walls out of seemingly every stone manageable enough to lift. With the constant moisture grasses grow almost while you wait. Tiny paddocks feed livestock practically perpetually.



In spite of the lush grass waiting in the background, blackberries are just too tempting a treat for this cow.



Riding a bike on the island means sharing the road with all kinds of vehicles, from minivans to horse carts.



One of the benefits of taking the bike is the ability to stop and take photos. When wind blown red hair and a horse caught my eye, I knew this would be the classic Irish shot.



Proud of my accomplishment, I shared the picture with an Irish woman, later that evening in the hostel. Her response stunned me, “Oh my God, where’d ya fin’ dat?” She laughed, then called her friend over to look at the picture. Now they were both laughing. “Dat’s not-a horse, dat der is a spotted cow.” I was pretty sure it was a horse, but what they later explained is that Irish horses are typically a single color and this one looked like a local breed of cow. That was when I had to confess that the red haired woman in the picture was actually Dutch, so my classic Irish photo was a total sham.



Apparently, true Irish horses sould look more like these.







For some reason there is something inherently moving or monumental about a Celtic Cross that demands attention.



The main target for the day was Dun Aonchus Fort, a pre-historic stonewalled settlement high on the cliffs.



With the aggressive weathering washing the island practically clean, archeologists struggle to put a date on the site. The best guess is somewhere between one thousand and five hundred BC.





The scale of the fort is impressive with over eleven acres of enclosure, but the cliffs steal the show.



The howling winds and slippery footing made for an “all fours” scramble to the sea cliff edge. Tourists lay prone on the edge while their traveling partners leaned against the wind and held tightly to the daring photographer’s ankles. Others stood on what seemed to be a perfectly safe perch for a “photo-op”, not knowing that their footing was literally hanging over the waiting ocean.



Climbing down from the fort the quaint Irish precipitation nuance turned into a cold nuisance.


Even the horses cowered under the drubbing rain.



The wind whipped across the treeless countryside and howled through the power lines.



There was only one thing left to do, push past the classic houses...







... and on back to the hostel to make dinner in the protection and relative warmth of a kitchen.

8.15.07 to 8.16.07

August 16, 2007

NYC to Dublin to Galway

Traveling must have been good to me over the last ten months. While in NYC I had lunch with my long time friend Ginny. It was great to catch up in person and experience the city in “every day” lunch mode. The next day she called with a single simple message, “That was the first time I’ve seen you relaxed, ever.” She was absolutely right. In the seven years we have been friends this “was” the first time “ever” for her. Somewhere along the way in Africa, something clicked and my troubles just didn’t seem to afford the gravity they used to, against the obvious comparison, and were dismissed.



I am really lucky to have such great friends in New York City. I stayed with Julianne, a buddy from San Francisco who moved to the city about a year ago. Just looking out her window provided many familiar cityscapes. The funny thing is that her apartment is less than 400 meters away from my first apartment in NYC back in 1999. In spite of the obvious landmarks, like the Empire State Building,



and the seemingly endless blocks of townhouses,



the New York skyline is in perpetual motion as old buildings are razed and skyscraper co-ops replace them. (The one on the far right is new since leaving the neighborhood...)



Leaving JFK for Ireland was a anti-climactic compared to launching the trip last October.



The six hours to Shannon, Ireland, followed by the quick flight to Dublin zipped sleeplessly by. Departing at 6:45 pm EST we arrived at 6:30 am GMT. Remarkably the missed night’s sleep wasn’t that painful physically but would prove a mental hurdle.



Bad guys one, Paul zero was the score after picking up my car at Dublin airport. Thrifty is my new least favorite rental service. Expedia is typically very good about including all taxes and mandatory charges on line. So, either the Russian desk clerk was telling a bold face lie or the 29 Euro a day insurance is governmentally required. My total bill shot up from about 35 dollars a day to close to $100. I was too mentally tired to redirect all my plans to make an impromptu stab sans car in Ireland. So this leg of the trip has instantly turned very over-budget.

It took about five hours to wander the overly crowded and under construction roads to the West of Ireland. (Thanks to Mom allowing me to shift gears from the passenger seat when I was in 6th grade, the manual transmition with left handed shifting was no challenge. Driving on the left side of the road is more of an international friend these days than a four wheel mental maze.)



Over the course of the traverse a conscious decision was made to “let it go” and utilize the car to its fullest to enjoy the beautiful countryside.



Galway appears to be a city in transition as well. The fishing community lingers in the harbor but the streets packed with tourists must be the main source of revenue.



The locals still find time to themselves, away from Eyre Square and surrounding tourist blocks. The swans seem to bond with the full time residents, but in reality are just looking for a handout.





Wandering off the beaten track is still my favorite thing to do. The buildings can be so tightly packed together, with no distance between the sidewalk and front windows, that it is far too easy to gaze through the plate glass while passing by. To my surprise, whenever someone was home the response was a warm smile, nod, or wave. I couldn’t keep the pace with the windows, as it just felt way to intrusive.



So instead the city sites along the river were my focal point.



For dinner it seemed appropriate to eat at the acknowledged, “Best Fish & Chips Restaurant” in Ireland. I must admit that McDonagh’s was pretty darn good.





The chips have a different flavor, which must be linked to the Irish breed of potatoes and the cod was “out of this world”. The batter was left behind but the whole fillet cut was juicy and perfectly cooked.



The only thing left to end a good start to an Irish adventure was a cold glass of Guinness. At one of the local pubs off of Eyre Square my pint was slow poured and allowed to stand over the course of about five minutes and then topped off. The head was so thick and smooth it was like whipped cream. There was no harsh finish like the exported version. Finally, I understood what friends had been trying to explain for the last fifteen years.



The Irish pub is an interesting experience and definitively is not "a bar" in the early evening. Families sat together discussing the day. Typically Dad had a pint of Guinness, Mom a pint of lager, and the kids sipped from cokes. No stigma at all and a very genial atmosphere.

Finally, it is interesting what one finds in doorways. Who knows if this will be Bill’s lasting legacy, but he appears to still be the literal “poster child” for the topic of “Why Men Cheat”.

July - Mt. Shasta

Mt. Shasta Climb

One of the fun aspects of traveling is to return home to family and friends to recognize that many, many things have changed and a few very important things have not. Community and friends are exceptionally important. I was blown away by the support of the Grace Marin Church community and by the friendships that seemed to blossom despite distance and time.

Althea is one such friend from the Marin Co-Ed Soccer league. She is a dominant force on the field and commands respect with her controlled, strong, play, e.g. great ball skill and she's not afraid to acquaint anyone with a solid shoulder charge.



So when I loosely threw out the idea of climbing Mt. Shasta on returning to California and she agreed, there was no doubt she could hold her own.



The two and a half day trip turned out to be much more than a simple climb. We left San Francisco about 4:00pm on a Friday. Naively, choosing the devil I didn't know (the East Bay route North) over the devil I did know (101 North to HW37) was almost a terminal decision. On a good day the trip to Mt. Shasta should take a little over four hours. Over three hours later and it was time to pull out of the fourwheel sludge for dinner in Vacaville.

Jumping back on the road about an hour later brought some relief as the traffic was actually moving at a decent clip. As Althea napped and the sun dipped down, one thing was beginning to be notably missing, well actually two things. I had brought my car to Circuit City to replace the dead radio, which they seemed to accomplish, but the antennae didn't raise and it was now becoming very apparent that the craftsmanship on the wiring was really in doubt. There was no headlight reflection in the bumpers of the cars ahead of me and this was a real problem.

We pulled off to get gas in Willows, only to confirm that the main headlights were totally absent. The good news was that the side running lights were lit and if you pulled the hi-beams arm the bulbs flared, but there was no way driving to Shasta tonight was possible as the hi-beams would not "click" into place and released immediately without constant pressure. With no protest, Althea took the wheel and we drove to a local campground, shared with partying teenage locals, for a fun evening of cards and left over pizza, combined with attempts at sleep.

Daylight brought an enormous breakfast at the Black Bear Diner and then we were ready to get serious about climbing Mt. Shasta. The remaining drive seemed almost non-existent and before you knew it, armed with crampons, helmets, ice axes, and the ever-important burrito, we were ready to start the climb. One final “gear check” at the car, a picture with a random kid...



... and we were off for the short hour hike to Horse Camp, a Sierra Club station.


Climbing this time of year is exceptionally painful, with the ice pulled back behind Elizabeth Lake. Three and a half hours of scree climbing fun stood between us and our camping spot for the night. The drag with scree, or loose rock that has broken off and accumulated is that for every two steps forward, gravity pulls you one step back. Traction is a constant slipping game. We were really looking forward to getting on the solid footing and traction of ice trekking with crampons.



Elizabeth Lake can be a very windy bivwack, so previous hikers had erected stone walls to help block out the wind. Fortunately, the setting sun only brought a burrito-fest for dinner and mild outbursts of wind occasionally shaking the tent.



Looking above the Lake Elizabeth campsite gave us a preview of just how many hours of scree climbing remained for tomorrow before finally reaching the ice.



Three in the morning came earlier than expected but really shouldn't have been a surprise. Pulling together just enough water, food, and gear to summit we were onto the scree slopes by three-forty-five. I was really glad that the dark hid the heights of scree we would need to cover prior to reaching the ice.



Scree is one of those obstacles that simply wears and wears at your psyche. We were both plenty physically strong for the hike, but the drag of scree can get defeating after droning hour after hour. Finally reaching the ice's edge a quick decision was made to get onto the surface as quickly as possible, instead of trudging further up the mountain to a broader section of glacier. This decision was not a bad one and just required being extra careful of "break through" into the waiting vacuoles below. The ice was really very hard in the cool of the darkness and the added attention helped to erase the mundane scree experience.



Given the relatively light winter precipitation accumulation and our ascent late in the season, the typical route "right of the heart" was practically closed due to rock fall. So we headed "left of the heart" and up to the steep thirty meter ice wall that separated us from the rest of the climb. Heading up the face with ice axe and toe picking crampons, my grip was not precarious but a little questionable as my crampons were designed more for long-term ice trekking as opposed to ice climbing. Althea scrambled up ahead, so I had some catching up to do.



Over the edge and we were just one false summit away from the actual peak. This was by far the most challenging physical section of the climb. The altitude starts to play a roll here. After a couple of hours of steep purchase climbing thighs and calves start to ache. In reality it is just a reasonably steep "walk-up".



After the false summit the actual peak is a little anticlimactic and a short twenty-minute stroll to sign the Summit Log.



The strong winds made for a "wind tunnel" capture of the moment.



Along the way the sun had risen providing some good warmth. The steady wind, combined with the sun's warmth, create some pretty awesome straw crystal ice formations. Just as the ice begins to melt, the droplet is blow by the wind extending the formation as the drop cools and refreezes.



The real excitement of the trip happened on the descent, after re-strapping our crampons.



The warmth of the sun had softened the ice crust all over the mountain.



This was not a problem, except for climbing back down the one ice face. Althea's saw-tooth ice climbing crampons cut through the softer outer inches of the slope to firm ice, while my shorter trekking crampons struggled to toe-in a hold. So Althea sunk her ice axe beneath me, as a foothold, then I would sink mine further to the right. Once I was hanging she would move her axe to the right. We repeated this process until under the rock shoots of the Red Banks. From there Althea made the great suggestion of glissading down the steeps and the remaining ice flow. This is basically a glorified "butt slide" with ice axe dragging to slow or arrest descent. After getting the hang of it, we made great progress.

With wet and sore hips and bums we were very happy to make it back to Elizabeth Lake and our camp for a snack of Thai Spice Kettle Chips. The race then began to get off the mountain. With the summit behind, we couldn't wait to get out of the constant struggle and monotony of the scree fields.



After returning to the car, the adventure wasn't over just yet. We had about six hours of daylight and still needed to return gear, get some food, and drive home. If everything ran perfectly we would just make it back to San Rafael before needing the absent headlights.



Our luck ran out by Lake Shasta. With one lane closed southbound on HW5 the traffic hung up for over an hour. We were literally racing the sun. It set behind the coastal range as we reached Vallejo. So we turned on the running lights and pushed on. Driving on HW 37 in the twilight we became aware and surprised at the number of cars running under the same lighting arrangement. Had that many cars gone to Circuit City? We made the final ten miles under sporadic hi-beam flashes and were ultimately happy to reach Mom's house to trade out the Volvo for her Camry.

Net, net it was a great trip, snags and all. Thankfully Althea was flexible, patient in many occassions, and just rolled with the stream of unexpected turns, not to mention getting me off of the ice on the descent.

June 05, 2007