Trains, Wedding Cakes, and Balalaikas

After lunch, the bus dropped us off at a Metro station (truthfully, I don’t remember which one now). Our guide had explained to us on the way the number one rule for the afternoon: Push and shove your way onto the train once it stops so you don't get left behind. So for the next hour or so, the thirty of us hopped on and off trains at five or so Metro stations, and believe me – it’s a miracle that none of us ducklings got lost. It was like being in Istanbul again. At each station, perfectly nice and decent people appeared to lose their minds when those doors opened.

Beyond this, our mission was two-fold – first, to become acquainted with the Metro system so we would feel comfortable going out on our own to explore Moscow, and secondly, to observe the “beauty” of the Metro stations. On the first count, I would recommend to anyone wanting to ride the Metro in Moscow that they learn Cyrillic first. There is no way a non-Cyrillic reader could find his or her way around on that system; the trains and their riders just move too fast. On the second, while the Moscow Metro stations are unlike any others in the world – clean, graffiti-free, and filled with cool art, they’re still kinda dark and musty – well - subway stations. Here are some pics:



The whole system is old but efficient. First opened in 1935, there are eleven lines and 170 or so stations. Trains arrive every two minutes. Everyone rides the Metro in Moscow.

When our guide had had enough, we re-emerged into the afternoon sunlight to find our bus waiting to take us to Arbat Street. No cars are allowed on Arbat, so we strolled along and looked in windows and listened to street musicians. I swear – from what we saw, every Russian plays an instrument or sings. Well.

We returned to our meeting place and sat down on a windowsill to chat with our co-cruisers and look at the souvenirs they had bought. It was a little on the warm side, so I tried to squeeze myself into a little sliver of shade cast by the window frame, but couldn’t keep the sun off the left side of my face. Across the street was a McDonald’s.

Waiting for the bus, we snapped these shots of the Ministry of Defense building. Yup, it’s another of Stalin’s skyscrapers. Cool, huh? I guess no one wanted to climb up there and blast off that hammer and sickle...


Back on board the Litvinov that evening, we attended a concert in the Rakhmaninov Theater on the fifth deck. The “world famous orchestra of folk instruments” consisted of about twenty people dressed in traditional Russian costumes - young and old, males and females. Some played little hand-made pipes, while others played balalaikas and other stringed instruments (that most Westerners wouldn’t recognize). To our surprise, we really enjoyed the music, especially when a former soloist from the Soviet Army Chorus sang with the little orchestra. Wow, his voice filled that room to overflowing. Beautiful.

Can’t wait for tomorrow – we're going into the Kremlin!

Friday Morning Turistikas

Kathie’s going to disown me if I don’t get this saga moving again. Sorry it’s taken so long, Kath. This ungodly heat has sucked all motivation right out of me.

OK, so where were we? Oh yeah, aboard the Maxim Litvinov on the Moskva River, recuperating from the Russian version of “The Out of Towners” the night before.

So here are Kathie and I, in cabin 341, trying to open our eyes and get our butts out of bed and moving. We’re pretty experienced at coordinating our morning shower and dressing routine in a closet-sized cabin with two beds, our luggage, our clothes, and Kathie’s books. (This year, we also had Kathie’s iPod and hoard of dark chocolate.) So maybe it was jetlag that caused me to sunscreen only my nose.

After a lovely little buffet breakfast in the Volga Restaurant at the back of the ship on our deck, we met up with our fellow cruisers on the pier for a morning tour of Moscow city. Two hundred Americans, Australians, New Zealanders, English, and Irish folk split up onto six tour buses and set out along Leningradski Prospekt to see the main tourist attractions. As we drove along, I nearly gave myself whiplash trying to read every sign on every building on both sides of the street. One thing in particular I noticed was the presence of so many flower kiosks (flowers are “tsveti” – from the Russian word for color), and all the people carrying flowers. Nice.


Here’s Novodevichy (New Maiden) Convent. Most of the compound was built in the late 1600s by Peter the Great’s half-sister, Regent Sophia. Well, actually, she didn’t build it herself. She had it built because Peter confined her to the convent for the rest of her life, even after she had spent seven years of her life acting as the stand-in for him until he got old enough to rule. Now that’s gratitude for you. She should have squashed the guy like a palmetto bug, except that he was seventeen years old and seven feet tall. Yikes.

We milled around in the park across the lake for a few minutes, snapping shots, then hopped back on the bus and drove off, passing the Novodevichy Cemetery along the way. Famous residents (ahem) include Checkhov, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Raisa Gorbachev, and Nikita Krushchev. Now, Kathie and I remember Krushchev pounding on his podium and roaring, “We will bury you!” Wonder if that’s what got him buried in the New Maiden Cemetery with the artsy guys, while other famous Communists, such as Stalin and Brezhnev - even John Reed, an American - were all buried in Red Square behind Lenin’s mausoleum. Tsk tsk.

Here’s Moscow University. Located in Sparrow Hills, it’s one of eight (or seven, depending on whom you ask) of Stalin’s Skyscrapers (or wedding cakes, also depending on whom you ask). Tuition is free. Woof. Kathie got this great shot by crossing the street so that the overhead lines running above the sidewalk wouldn’t show up in the final product. (I’m lazy – almost all of my building photos have overhead wires.)

While Kathie risked her life to get a quality shot, I chatted some with Inga (our savior from the evening before). Turns out she’s not as young as she looks! She has a son who was a civil defense (is that like our National Guard?) lieutenant in the Urals and is now into computer design, and a daughter who’s in high school studying English. During Perestroika, Inga’s husband lost his job in the printing industry and took a construction job. Now that the economy is stronger, he’s back operating a printing press. We found out toward the end of the cruise that she herself teaches Russian literature at the high school level (she just came along on this cruise with her friend, one of the cruise staff members, on a lark). In the next year or two, Inga and family plan to move to Toronto, Canada. Wow – such ambition!

Our tour guide pointed out lots of other landmarks as we drove along through Moscow, such as 19th century nobles’ houses and the state library – in front of which is a cool statue of Dostoyevsky. We stopped along the bank of the Moskva River and climbed down from our bus onto a broad sidewalk across the street from Christ the Redeemer (or Savior, depending on whom you ask) Cathedral.

Kathie's photo.

My photo. See the difference?

Interesting history. The cathedral was built between 1839 and 1883 to celebrate Moscow’s victory over Napoleon. In 1931, however, Stalin decided the site would be perfect for his Palace of Soviets, the ninth (or eighth, depending on – well, you know) of his gothic skyscrapers, so he had the cathedral blown up. For whatever reason – lack of funds, the intervening war, and/or too many other projects going on - the palace didn’t happen; the remaining foundation was therefore turned into an outdoor pool instead. In the 1990s the pool was filled in and the original structure was reproduced at a cost of $200 million, most of which came from the government. How’s that for irony?


Across the river are the Red October chocolate factory and this crazy tall Peter the Great monument. Good chocolate. (We picked up a bar of 80% dark chocolate at the corner produkti that evening, and it was purty yummy.) On the other side of the chocolate factory is a large apartment building where Stalin’s cronies lived. All the amenities were included – theater, shops, kindergarten, etc. Such a life. It must have been scary as hell.

Back on the bus and crawling along in Moscow traffic, we passed the Duma (parliament) on the way to Red Square. We next debussed (you know, like “deplaned”) onto the narrow sidewalk that forms the perimeter of the relatively small parking area behind St. Basil’s Cathedral, and I noticed a white limo crammed into what little space was left along the curb in front of our bus. A wedding party was milling around it, chatting and having a photo or two taken. How odd, I thought, and yet this was just the first of many wedding parties we would see in Red Square. It wasn’t until Saturday that we found out what they were up to. (Photos of brides and Red Square will be included in the next post or two, Kath. I promise.)

OK, so I couldn't...

resist just a couple of shots...

We spent a while milling with the crowds in Red Square, snapping shots of the Kremlin’s walls and towers, Lenin’s tomb (alas – we had no time to stand in the queue to go in and say “Hey” to old Vlady), St. Basil’s Cathedral, GUM (pronounced “goom”), etc. It was hard to believe we were actually here. It’s much, much better to see in person, trust me. It would be cool to see in the winter, I bet (no pun intended).

Knowing we would be back the following day, we reluctantly left and headed for lunch at the Durov Restaurant, passing Theater Square along the way (Kathie and I were well acquainted with this area already). The Durov is actually a dark little theater that belongs to a famous clown (Durov?), and during the day hosts lunches for tour groups. Many, many tour groups. It was hot and close, and the food was mediocre (what was that cheese sauce covered meatball thingy, anyway?), but we had our first borscht and it wasn’t too bad. I had expected it to be a cream soup, though, and have no meat in it. Maybe this was Durov’s personal recipe.

Well, this post is already getting to be overly long, so I’m going to save the afternoon’s adventure for tomorrow. Next up – Metro orientation and the Arbat.

The saga begins.

This is our hundredth post. How appropriate.

I think it was back in February that Kathie came up with the idea to go to Russia. Would I like to go? Are you kidding me? Are the Weasley kids all red haired?

Having grown up during the Cold War, it had never occurred to me that I might some day have an opportunity to visit the Kremlin, or check out Peter the Great’s log cabin, or cruise in a riverboat on the mighty Volga River. So setting off for Moscow with Kathie on the 4th of July felt like a dream. I still can’t believe I’ve actually stood in Red Square. Someone pinch me.

Here’s the story…the beginning of it, that is.

Kathie’s flight here was delayed due to bad weather in Houston. Amazingly, her luggage was already waiting for her when she landed in Charleston nine hours late. We hoped her struggle to get to the East Coast wasn’t a bad omen for the whole trip.

When our Lufthansa flight out of DC didn’t take off on time, I hoped we might still make our connection in Frankfurt ok, but alas! – the agent had booked our flights just a tad too close together. We didn’t make it out of Frankfurt until about the time we were supposed to land in Moscow, and when we did arrive in Moscow, we had to wait for other flights to come in so our shuttle to the ship would be full.

Sheremetevo Airport, Moscow

This would have all been just ducky except that Kathie had bought us tickets for Swan Lake at the Bolshoi that evening. We finally arrived at the ship at 7 pm (the show was supposed to start at 7) and changed clothes at the speed of light (yuck – no time for a shower after twenty and a half hours of traveling). We planned to take a cab over to the theater, but then someone knocked on our cabin door as we started to leave, and I opened it to find Inga Zakharova, a pretty red-haired Russian woman who had been trying to give us directions at the desk. She obviously knew we were in too much of a dither to know what we were doing at that point.

“Are you ready? Let’s go. I’m going to walk you over to the Metro station.”

Kathie and I were shocked by such a kind offer. We flew out the door behind her and took off at a trot (in our Chico’s outfits, mind you) trying to keep up with her. As usual, I lagged a few steps behind, trying to memorize the route so I could get us back to the ship after the ballet.

When we arrived at the Metro station, Inga helped us buy round-trip train tickets and pointed out on the Metro map our current location and our destination. Thanking Inga profusely, Kathie and I waved goodbye and descended into the bowels of the Metro to board our train.

To say we were conspicuous would be an understatement. Here we were, sweating from our hike in our going-to-the-ballet clothes, riding Moscow’s subway with Russian kids listening to their iPods, workers making their end of the day commute, and little old babushkas toting their day’s groceries in Estee Lauder shopping bags (I kid you not!). I’m reading every sign and advertisement on the train wall because I’m as fascinated as I can be by everything around me and cannot control my curiosity, and I’m just thrilled to find that I can still read Cyrillic. (Long story – don’t ask.) So yeah, little kids were staring at us.

When we arrived at our station and resurfaced – I gotta tell you, the Metro escalators are about a quarter of a mile long and that is no joke - we were more than a little intimidated by what we saw. The square before us was surrounded by a bunch of buildings, any of which could be the Bolshoi. We stopped a couple of nicely dressed Russian ladies for directions.

“Izvenitye, gde Bolshoi?” I asked haltingly in my telltale American accent.

“(Something, something, something in Russian) perekhod (then something else in Russian) vnizh (and something else in Russian)”, I understood the lady on the left to say, as she gestured with her hand. I vaguely remembered the words “perekhod” and “vnizh” from thirty years ago, and figured she meant for us to walk around the square in front of us and down under the street to get to the other side.

Approaching the huge building that we figured must be the Bolshoi, we suddenly realized that we should have asked the lady for directions to the New Bolshoi. (Shortly before the trip, I had discovered online that the original Bolshoi closed in 2005 for a three year renovation, but supposedly the New Bolshoi was right next door to the old one. Likely story. There are only about a gazillion buildings next door to the old Bolshoi, and not a one of them has any kind of name or sign on the front.)

So we approached another nicely dressed lady for directions. “Izve…”, I started to say.

She walked on by, not slowing or even looking at us. I think Kathie would have taken her out if we hadn’t been in a bit of a hurry.

We walked further and asked some kids in their late teens, maybe early twenties, who appeared to be friendly. I think they were intrigued by us. A couple of them could speak a little English, but none had ever heard of the New Bolshoi. We showed them our tickets, on which was stamped the name of the theater in Cyrillic. One of the guys went over to a street kiosk and asked for directions, then came back and with gestures, some English, and some Russian, got us headed in the right direction.

We found the building but couldn’t figure out which door to enter. A balding, heavyset wiseguy offered to give us directions for $5. By now, Kathie and I were both about ready to tell the guy to “f--- off” (which would be unusual for Kathie), but we turned instead and walked off. The guy called after us and pointed to the correct door.

“Whew!” we sighed as we entered the building and handed our tickets to the lady at the door. Saying nothing, she pointed ahead and toward the right. We finally got to the right place after asking several people who, of course, didn’t understand us, for more directions. By now, however, it was going on 8:00 and intermission was about to begin, so the usher waved us over to a monitor where we could watch the show while we waited.

And believe me, the theater and ballet were worth the wait and all the struggle to get there. The inside of the theater was stunning. While Kathie took advantage of intermission to snap some shots, I sat in my second row – I repeat, second row – seat and just took in the view. Supposedly, the original Bolshoi is bigger and even more lavish. I gotta see that place.

The ballet itself was awesome. The props and stage were larger than life, the costumes were rich and glittery, and the Prince and Swans were more talented and moving than anything I’ve ever seen. If I could do one of those really loud fingers in the teeth whistles, this show deserved it. Instead, we just clapped and yelled “Bravo” with the rest of the crowd.

White Swan and her Prince

When we exited the theater at about 9:15, the sky was still light so we wandered around a bit before getting back on the Metro. We probably shouldn’t have dallied, though, because by the time we got back to our home station, it was dark and nothing looked the same as when we had followed Inga over. Undaunted, we took off in the direction I thought we should go – right through the park. There were people about but I imagined them to be leering at us, so I put my arm through Kathie’s. We followed this route until we got to what looked like a highway, at which point we turned around and walked back the way we came.

Getting back to the station, Kathie said she thought we had come from the other side of the street. I knew that couldn’t be right because we had walked through a residential section, not a shopping area. So I led us off in another direction, cursing myself for leaving the area map Inga had given us behind in the cabin.

I don’t know how many times we went back and forth, but after I almost got myself picked up by a couple of Johns who pulled up to the curb beside me looking for some fun, we decided it was time to find a cab.

I guess this is as good a place as any to say that I never take the trouble before traveling abroad to learn about the other country’s exchange rate.

We approached a couple of cars that were parked at the taxi stand and asked the guys standing by them how much for a ride to the ship. One of them said a figure in Russian and I looked at him and said, “Huh?”

“Six hundred rubles,” he said, recognizing that I was just another stupid (and lost) American.

“Skol'ka v’Amerikanka dollarov?” I winced, realizing I had just asked him the price in American woman dollars. Or something like that.

“Twenty five dollars,” he replied.

I thought that was a little high given that we were a five minute ride from the ship, but it was late, we were both tired because we’d been on the go for over twenty four hours by now, and there were no other taxis around. I looked at Kathie.

“I won’t pay it,” she said with a Kathie attitude.

I looked back and forth between them, noting that he didn’t look or smell too good. “How much are you willing to pay?” he demanded.

“Desyat dollarov?” I whined, thinking that ten dollars was reasonable.

“Nyet.”

“Pyatnadzat?” I tried again.

“Twenty,” he said with finality.

Never good at bargaining, I looked pleadingly at Kathie. “OK,” she said, and we piled into his grubby little car with me riding shotgun.

He put the car in gear and we rocketed out into traffic while I groped desperately for my seatbelt. As I continued to grope, I noticed he was driving up and down the same street, over and over. I looked to see if there was a handle on my door.

Kathie piped up, “This doesn’t look right.”

He made a turn onto a dark little dirt road through a park. By now, Kathie and I were both panicking, thinking that the cabbie was taking us to a place where his buddies were waiting to rob us…or worse.

Suddenly, the dirt road opened onto an open area in front of a very official looking, Stalin-era building standing in front of the river. Starting to breathe again, I whimpered to the cabbie, “This isn’t where our ship is.”

He pointed to the building and said firmly, “Porta. Porta.” Kathie handed him a twenty and we skedaddled out of the car and into the building, where a very official looking young guard sat, looking bored.

“Litvinov,” we said to him. When he looked at us, bewildered, we repeated ourselves several times, each time more slowly and clearly than the last. Like that was going to help. Apparently, he figured we weren’t going to leave him alone so he led us through the dimly lit lobby and out the back door, where we saw a long line of riverboats docked.

Dead on our feet by now, we approached each ship and asked of the crewmember on watch, “Litvinov?” Finally, our question was answered with a nod and we hopped on board, happy to be home.

Next, exploring Moscow…

Look out.

So where have I been?

I’ve been around.

And what have I been doing?

I’ve been a slug.

Truly, there are no better answers to these questions. But now that I’ve finished reading the last Harry Potter book and finally sifted through the Russia photos (did you say you had 900, Kath?), I feel some writing coming on.

We're in Russia!

Hello from Yaroslavl, Russia! Kathie and I are cruising along the Volga River after spending several days in Moscow. What a fabulous place! I'm trying to keep up on my notes for future blogging - but we run all day, so it's hard to find the time (and energy!).

We're taking lots of photographs - mostly of churches (onion domes, of course). Stay tuned!

Do svidaniya!

Mountaineering Story #3 Mt. Shasta , Revisited

"Lonely as God and white as a winter moon"
... Joaquin Miller on Shasta, late 1800's

Even with the failed summit on Mt. Shasta, I was pretty well hooked on snow and ice mountaineering. A few months later I called my son-in-law, Joe, in Montana to talk about climbing Mt. Rainier in Washington, also a 14'er but more difficult. No, he said, first I had to do a successful summit on Shasta. Essentially, you have to pay your dues.

So, back to Shasta the following June. Spring and early summer are the best climbing months, when winter storms have passed but snow still covers the scree (volcanic rock).

Weather and conditions looked good when we arrived in Shasta, the small town at the foot of the mountain, and we made plans to take the Avalanche Gulch route up the mountain. Wouldn't you think it could've been named something else? Like Sublime Climb or Piece of Cake? Where are those ski run namers when you need them? The Avalanche Gulch route is a class 3 on the American rating system, that is, a moderate climb requiring ice axe and crampons, but no ropes.

On the way to the trail head at Bunny Flat, Joe and I calibrated our new altimeter based on a road sign giving the altitude. This would turn out to be a significant issue later in the day. The first few hours on foot up the mountain from Bunny Flat at 7000' to Horse Camp at 7900'-- named so in early days before roads were built, because the the first part of the climb was on horseback up to Horse Camp where the horses were left to graze--were easy through cool forest trails up to tree line. From here the mountain grew steeper and in the sun temperatures grew hotter. Above tree line, walking onto the open snow was like being on a reflecting mirror. More than once I caught up with Joe stripped naked to the waist, cooling off.


The plan was to reach Helen Lake at 10,443' and set up camp, overnight, and head out for the summit early morning. Helen Lake is more like a small pond and not easy to find in the vast snow field of lower Avalanche Gulch. I checked the altimeter regularly for 10,443. No Helen Lake. We kept climbing. No Helen Lake. At about 11,000' we stopped for a rest and to confer. Could we have set the altimeter wrong? Was the thing not working? We scanned the mountain for Helen Lake. There, about 600' below we could see several climbers setting up tents by what must be Helen Lake. I told Joe there was no way I would descend 600' just to camp at Helen Lake. These were a hard-fought-for 600'.


We scraped our tent platform, set up camp and enjoyed a beautiful, private panoramic view. By late afternoon, the headache started, the kind where you just want to clutch your head - a "don't touch me, don't anybody bother me, I'm just going to lie here in my sleeping bag" kind of headache. I was feeling the effects of altitude, full on with the weakness where you can hardly put one foot in front of the other to walk out the tent. Joe set up the stove and started cooking soup because you have to drink, drink, drink. Drink until you pee clear, that's a rule of the mountain. I worried I wouldn't be able to get up and go in the morning. "You'll be fine," Joe said.

























We set out at 4:00 AM to take advantage of the crusty snow from low night time temperatures and to have enough time to summit and descend. Joe packed up his skis to ski down from the summit; he is truly a man's man. In these early morning hours we climbed a steep 2000' snowfield that steepened to 35 degrees at the top, heading then to a saddle between two glaciers. We stopped for a snack, sitting with our legs dangling into a crevasse, my first contact with a glacier. From here we had less than a thousand vertical feet to the summit, but ahead was Misery Hill, long, somewhat steep, and from the bottom it would appear the top of Misery Hill is the summit. Unfortunately, it is a false summit and the climber gets to the top of Misery Hill only to find the summit is some distance off.

Top of Misery Hill

Given our 600' mistake, we were ahead of other climbers and the first to summit for the day. The summit is a small snow and rock ridge, and I was perfectly content to say I had summited having reached the top of the ridge. According to Joe, however, the true summit is a crag reached only by a narrow snow and ice ridge, with a steep drop off, several thousand feet on one side and enough on the other it didn't make any difference. An ice axe wouldn't save you if you slipped here in either direction. Joe crossed to the true summit, man's man that he is. I thought, "I really don't need to do this," but after watching Joe I thought, "I CAN do this".

Carefully, telling myself I didn't really have a fear of heights, choosing every step placement, and making sure my crampon had a good grip, I crossed over the the true summit. A panoramic view. Truly the feeling of being on top of the world. All fatigue is forgotten, the worries and fears become distant memories, nature's high.







Coming down we began to meet other ascending climbers, and one offered to take our picture just below the summit.


Joe put on his skis in order to ski the entire descent of Shasta.








The snow had softened too much for smooth skiing and Joe wanted to wait it out at higher altitude for the snow to crisp up, taking a nap in the meantime.


I complained about having to wait, so Joe rigged up a snow "lounge chair" to stop my complaining.


Summit completed! Yeah! Dues are paid! Rainier, here I come!

Blogger Neurosis

I can relate to this....

Mountaineering Story #2 Failed Summit, Mt. Shasta , 14,162 ft.

Over the year after climbing Mt. Whitney, I was happy climbing around on southern California mountains. For whatever reason, though, it felt like it was time to climb another, bigger mountain, perhaps one of the Colorado 14'ers. I called my Montana son-in-law, Joe, to see if he was up for a mountain. Ricardo and Jonathan were content with their Whitney experience.

Joe was interested but no, not a Colorado mountain, Mt. Shasta should be next. Joe was a mountain climber, and had climbed Shasta in high school. What did I know? "I'm up for it." This one took a little more training. Shasta is about the same altitude as Whitney, but steeper. Whitney is 11 miles in about 6000' elevation gain, Shasta is about 7.5 miles with 7000' gain on the traditional Avalanche Gulch route. Another difference, the last five to six thousand feet of Shasta are snow and ice. Joe taught me the basics of snow and ice climbing, how to use the crampons, how to save yourself with the ice axe. No ropes were needed because we wouldn't be traveling on any of Shasta's glaciers.

Eric, Joe's friend from high school wanted to come along. I give credit to these young men - at 28 years old they were willing to have a 52 year old along. The three of us met in Shasta the day before the climb. First stop was the ranger station to check out the mountain conditions and routes was not encouraging. There was high avalanche risk on the main route; several groups were "hunkered down" at Helen Lake (10,400') waiting for conditions to clear. We had allowed two days for the climb, and didn't have time to wait out weather conditions. Next stop, the outdoor store to pick up some equipment -- I took the opportunity to read about avalanches. A little scary! Just in case we decided to go, I picked up a pair of snowshoes as the weather conditions had left deep snow.

Joe and Eric studied the maps in the evening and showed up at my room the next morning with "we're going", but instead of the usual Avalanche Gulch route we were going around to the southeast face of the mountain and up R14, Wintun Ridge. Before we left the room, Joe went through my pack and took out almost half my stuff. Thank God for that!



Another complication arose fairly quickly. When we tried to drive to the Wintun Ridge trailhead, we found a tree had fallen across the road at 5600' elevation. If we were going to climb this route we had to leave the car behind and continue on foot. It was also becoming clear no one else was using this route. In the only other vehicle parked in the area was a young man who had been waiting several days for his buddy to show up!


Even with Joe "lightening" my pack, I had a fair amount of stuff to haul up the mountain, pretty typical of snow climbing. Once we reached the snow line, climbing became harder. Joe put "skins" on his cross country skis and ascended. Eric attempted to climb with his skis but the going was too difficult and he abandoned them. The deep snow required snowshoes, but on steeper ascents we had to take off the snowshoes and simply "post hole", sometimes in snow above the knee. With steeper slopes it was postholing and pulling yourself up on all fours using the ice axe.




By late afternoon the weather was closing in, visibility was poor and about 5:00 o'clock we had to call a halt for the day. Joe had hoped to reach 10,000' to put us in good position to reach the summit the next day, but with all our effort we had only made it to 9000'. We set up camp on a little scraped off spot on the ridge. I made a mental note to watch my footing if I had to get up in the night. Among all the miseries of high altitude climbing, getting up in the night for the bathroom is the worst. It's cold, and you have to watch where you're stepping. It wouldn't be hard here to walk off the edge of the ridge. Well, maybe worse is a sloping pod scraped off for the tent and you keep rolling downhill onto your buddy during the night.


We got up early the next morning -- no time wasted with breakfast, all we had was gorp. It was too cold to get the stove started, the chocolate pudding and my bagel were frozen.

The day was beautiful and we could see Mt. Lassen just to the southwest. Soon we were into the snow fields, alternating with some rocks and some hairy places.


Joe is an extraordinarily strong climber. He was often far enough ahead of me and Eric that we would see him telemark skiing down some couloir. We climbed for several hours. The summit was clear and beautiful, it seemed to be just ahead.



As we kept climbing, clouds covered the summit. Visibility was getting worse, but more worrisome were the dark clouds moving up from below. Eric and I called Joe for a "summit" meeting. It looked like just a couple hours to the summit. No, according to Joe we had another four hours of climbing. Summits always look closer that they really are. What to do? Possibly we could make the summit, but we had a long descent, down some steep and snowy places, and the weather below could be moving up toward the summit. Mountains make their own weather.

Joe looked up toward the summit, then down at the dark clouds. In his wise and quiet way he said, "it's been a good trip," and with that we headed back down, no regrets.

I read a week later a climber died on this route.

Mountaineering Story #1 Mt. Whitney, 14,494 ft. and 22 miles

"You need more will than skill"...Muhammed Ali

What is it about the half century mark that gives us irrational ideas and, worse still, in the delirium of denial we put all reason aside and believe we should act on them?

This was my condition in the summer of turning 50 when, needing to make some kind of statement, I decided to climb the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. Forget that my only backpacking experience was an overnight trip to the desert, flat terrain, and even then I managed to run out of water. I had to look up what was the highest mountain -- voila! Mt. Whitney, right here in California! Must be I was meant to go!

I called two buddies who also had no outdoor experience to come along. “Hey, I’m going to climb Mt. Whitney, want to go?” I heard some foot dragging. “I can go with you, or I can go without you”. So we started training on local San Diego mountains, I read up on basic mountaineering, and come August we were ready.
My buddies were Jonathan, age 43, Jewish, from the Bronx, and Ricardo, age 38, Mexican-American. Mostly we hung out eating, dancing, and going to concerts. This outdoor stuff was new to all of us. During our training climbs, Ricardo was pretty strong, like a mountain goat going uphill, but I worried about Jonathan. He seemed to lag behind sometimes.

Mt. Whitney is 11 miles uphill, 22 miles roundtrip, and not an exceptionally beautiful mountain. Its popularity comes from being the highest by a few feet in the lower 48. One of the 14'ers.

The usual game plan is drive to Lone Pine in the valley, overnight in a motel, drive up to Whitney Portal trailhead at 8,360' early the morning of the climb, ascend six miles to Trail Camp at 12,000’, overnight in tent, and start climbing early the next morning to bag the summit at 14,000’ and enough time to descend to the trailhead. The first problem here is going from San Diego sea level to 12,000’ in less than two days, and 14,000’ on the third day -- the rule of thumb for ascending is 1,000' a day for acclimatization. The second is the total mileage on the second climbing day was 16 mountain miles. Nevertheless, we were up for it.

We discovered the first problem getting on our backpacks. As novices we didn't realize how heavy these suckers could be, especially if you pack things like fresh peaches for dinner, blue jeans to change into for camp lounging, extra shoes, etc.

We had a sunny day, and about a mile up the trail we entered the John Muir Wilderness -- and the switchbacks, which came to be an s- word for us. Still everything was beautiful, forests of pine trees, mountain streams, and more switchbacks.

At about 4 miles we approached Outpost Camp, 10,360', where many hikers spend the first night, taking three days to finish the mountain instead of the two we had planned. We had two more long miles up, but Ricardo and I learned at Outpost Camp how to take a nap without taking off our backpacks.

We left the forests behind at tree line, and we were feeling the effects of altitude and our backpacks. At about 11,500, Ricardo sat down. He wasn't sure he could go on. Jonathan went ahead to set up camp. I counseled Ricardo -- "it's not much farther, camp will be ready and you can lie down, you're doing a good job...", all the while wondering what are the choices in this situation. (Click on photo to see close up of "counseling with a view"; Ricardo and I are the two figures to the right). To his credit, Ricardo did get up and made it to Trail Camp at 12,000'.

Our energy returned fairly quickly. We hung our food out of reach of the marmots, purified some water from the lake, pitched the tent, and started dinner. Jonathan's main course contribution was an inedible gruel from Amway -- yes, believe it or not, from Amway. I thought of the Korean prisoner of war story I used to tell the children to get them to eat, but at 12,000' there's not much appetite for anything. Thank God for those peaches!




Nigthtime in the mountains is incredibly beautiful as the sky turns navy, the moon comes out, and the Milky Way is completely visible across the sky. From our tent we could see the row of Palisades and at the very end, the Whitney summit. Tomorrow we would be climbing to the top of the Palisades and crossing near the top on the backside over to the summit.







Sleep doesn't come easily at higher altitudes, not enough oxygen to the brain, and this night was no exception. Early the next morning, I set out with Jonathan, hungry, tired, and cramping from my period that started during the night. Ricardo decided to stay back at camp as he was still feeling the effects of altitude. Ahead of us lay ninety six grueling switchbacks leading up to the crest. We took a rest halfway up, and I ate some crackers to settle the nausea, and put my head between my knees. Jonathan was still going strong. My pre-trip worries about him were clearly unfounded.


We reached the palisades ridge in good time, the point where the trail enters Sequoia National Park. Now only about two and a half miles, nearly a straight shot over to the Whitney summit. The route ahead was on the crest of the palisades, narrow at some points, and on the left nearly straight down a couple thousand feet - not a place you want to lose your footing. At some points, the trail narrows to a bridge like place, and a couple thousand feet down on either side. I learned here about Jonathan's fear of heights, and he wasn't sure he could cross these little bridge like places. Again some coaxing, and he crossed on all fours. Whatever it takes, I thought.


The views were becoming more spectacular, and I realized the only people who get to see this are those who come on foot.


Finally, the summit. Those who ask why do we climb have never climbed themselves. At this point, I was not a climber. I had set a goal based on a psychological need at the time but there was no identity as a mountaineer. That would come later.

As Jonathan and I descended to Trail Camp, we could see camp and the tent was still up. Jonathan was furious, it was getting late, why hadn't Ricardo packed up to be ready to move out quickly? This was the beginning of what we called "Jonathan on the edge". We had six more rugged downhill miles and it was almost five o'clock.

I took the lead and moved quickly. We didn't want to still be on the mountain at night. Ricardo brought up the rear, asking several times how much further and each time I responded, "two miles". In reality, I had no idea, but I knew we didn't have time to stop for a rest. It was getting dusk when we reached Outpost Camp, and Ricardo asked again. Jonathan hissed back, "she said it was two miles". We knew then Jonathan was really "on the edge". Darkness came, and we had some distance to go. Jonathan had slowed considerably, he was exhausted, and his hands were very swollen. I sent Ricardo ahead to bring the car up to the trail head. We had to physically load Jonathan into the car, but we were all back safe.

I thought to myself, good trip but I don't have to ever do this again...

Together on Top of the World

Add Phil and Susan Ershler to my list of heroes (see Comments, Jorge Drexler: Dos Besos y Un Abrazo). Phil and Susan were in San Diego this week for a lecture and book signing for their new book Together on Top of the World.


Phil is a legendary mountain climber who meets a young, pretty, ambitious corporate executive who had never been on a hike and at thirty five had given up on finding Prince Charming. An unlikely match, but together they climbed the Seven Summits, the highest mountain on each of the seven continents. Along the way, Susan continues to work full time as a corporate executive, Phil has colon cancer, they get married. The book is a combination love story, adventure, climbing thriller, and has the makings of a good movie.

Phil had accomplished the seven summits himself by 1989, indeed guiding Dick Bass who first climbed the seven summits. There were other accomplishments to his credit, including first American to climb the north face of Everest in 1984, solo for the last 2000 feet as he was the "last man standing" from the American team. He has 400 summits on Mt. Rainier, a mountain most of us train rigorously to climb once.

I reached the Mt. Rainier summit once in 1996 and was resting before the requisite summit photo when a cup of hot tea was offered. Looking up I recognized the face, I knew the reputation. Hot blackberry tea from Phil Ershler at the top of a damn grueling climb... and my thought was how did that man manage to carry a pack twice as heavy along with all the rescue equipment and still have the sensitivity to pack up thermoses of hot tea for the summiters?

The next Ershler sighting was 2001 at Everest Base Camp with Susan on their first attempt to summit -- Phil's eyes froze over just below the summit and they had to turn back. We had met Babu Chiri on our way up to Kalapathar and Island Peak. He and our guide, Phursumba Sherpa, were friends and Babu suggested we "stop by" Everest Base Camp while we were in the area. Let me say now, "stopping by" in the Everest region is not quite the same as in the States.



Mountain climbers have that hard-as-nails attitude. My ex-son-in-law and climbing buddy would say they are the "aristocracy of athletes". Just before the lecture, Susan said privately, "Phil thinks this book could ruin his reputation, what with the relationship part and all." Phil, the reputation was gone with the blackberry tea.

Corrected, with egg on face

Regarding La vida es mas compleja de lo que parace, Anonymous commented

"Stumbled upon your blog and noticed you've misidentified the power plant in the background of one of your renuncula field pictures. San Onofre nuclear power plant is actually located about 15-20 miles north of the flower fields, and are actually two domes that bear a slight resemblance to Dolly Parton. The power plant in your photo is not nuclear, it's just an electrical power plant that uses coal, i believe."

Anonymous is absolutely correct. I have biked past Dolly Parton and the electric plant enough to know better than make this idiotic mistake. What can I say? It must have been intoxication from the flower fields.

La vida es mas compleja de lo que parace

Another week over and the worm is dead,
My friend said.
Yes, enough of the sordidness and world sorrow
I need some beauty tomorrow.
So out to the fields I fled.












Camera in hand, Chayanne in the ear, what better place to flee for beauty but our Carlsbad Flower Fields, 50 acres of giant ranunculus overlooking the ocean and historic Highway 101 in North County San Diego, flowers farther than the eye can see.






Beautiful, delicate flowers with paper thin petals...







Twelve million flowers, but any San Diego fifth grader will tell you there are no bees and no butterflies. The flower has no nectar, no pollen, no fragrance for attraction.






Thousands come to the fields, especially on the weekend, most like myself with cameras hoping to "capture the moment".

It's not long, however, before reminders of the real world intrude.





San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant, about a half mile from the fields... radiation levels 16 times higher than allowed in drinking water in the groundwater, security breaches, news the plant can withstand a small plane but not commercial jet - what would happen with a tsunami?



And, silently, seemingly invisible to the tourists, our Mexican brothers working the fields... life is more complicated than it appears.