How to Ford a River

1. You need a willingness to get your feet wet (and cold).

When hiking the 26 miles or so through Crow Pass, you'll see snow-capped mountains (even in August), immense glaciers, bears, moose, and bright, red salmon who have come all the way in from the ocean to spawn. If you're lucky, as we were, sunlight will stretch across the vast expanse of mountains and valley, and give it a all a golden glow at dusk.

But the part you'll hear about most from anyone who's done it, or knows of it, is the crossing. (To confirm this assertion, I actually got pulled over for driving too slowly post-hike, so sore I could barely walk, and the policeman didn't give me a ticket. Instead, he asked all about the crossing, and we swapped hiking stories. Alaska is so cool.)

In order to hike from Girdwood to Eagle River, more than an hour's drive, one must ford a river perhaps 40 meters across, waist-deep and as icy cold as the glaciers from which it flows. And it does flow, quite rapidly. We had been talking about the crossing for some time, loudly, out of nervousness and a desire to scare away the bears.

"I wonder how much farther to the crossing?"
"I wonder how high the water will be?"
"Is it better to cross in the evening or the morning?"
"How much do we have left after the crossing?"

2. It is essential that you bring along good friends to keep you steady.

Since we camped over night, we all had a change of clothes and extra shoes. We (Britta and I) also had two very important hiking partners: the river guide (Cate, our intrepid leader), and the Boy (Jordan, capable of carrying a 60-pound pack and my shivering pup). Hiking boots were tied to backpacks, backpacks unclipped in case of slips -- not a good idea to be tied to a huge weight downriver -- and our tired feet had their first invigorating feel of cold sand and smooth stone while we strategized.

Despite the sign pointing hikers toward the usual spot, Cate explained that the river patterns change seasonally and even daily. She walked up and down the riverbank looking carefully at changes in depth, the current, for big rocks and smooth entry and exit points. Jordan and I handed our trekking poles to her, and he hoisted Leona up into his arms. It was time to go.

3. Whenever possible, face the current head-on.

We held tight to each others' backpacks thus forming a circle of support. Cate, out in front, used the trekking poles to check for depth and anything we might stumble over. She warned us of slippery areas. Jordan, Britta and I side-stepped behind her to keep balance against the current. Our feet went numb after the first 30 seconds or so; it was not possible to feel our way along, and despite our desire to move quickly to the other side, we took lots of breaks to regain our footing and discuss our next movement.

Leona barely twitched a muscle, quite content to watch things happen from her safe little perch. She now considers Jordan to be her savior; for the rest of the journey she would not let him out of her sight.

4. Celebrate on the other side.

These are the things, life's challenges overcome, new experiences, new friendships and accomplishments, that make me feel most alive. We took long swigs of Jim Beam on the second shore and swapped stories with a group of Army guys who had crossed just before us. I didn't know them and probably never would have otherwise, but we shared something that day that made me understand why people always ask about the crossing. While each experience is unique to the group, the day and the individual, each person has made the same choice to take this chance, and come out stronger for it.

Likewise, it was a little risky for me to move all the way out here to Anchorage, Alaska, but it was time for something new, an opportunity to move forward. I get such comfort in knowing that we can all, to a point, choose our life stories. If this had been a disaster, it would still have been a memorable experience (remember that crazy time you moved to Alaska to be with a boy you barely knew?), and I still would have come out stronger for it. But instead, I have an editing job that I like, a boy that I love, and landscape so beautiful that I often forget to breathe. I got my feet wet, I faced every current, and relied on new friends and old to steady me along the way.

You know, we do have a guest room. Come join the celebration!

Northern Lights (Greetings from Alaska)

We are five people packed into the Subaru, which sits low on its tires, laden with sleeping bags, cooking supplies and beer. To be exact: two 24-packs of Miller High Life, a 6-pack of Ubu Ale, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream (coffee flavored), some champagne, two bottles of wine and a 3-liter box of it, as well.

We are thirsty people. (Would you believe that we ran out of water?)

But we are soulfully thirsty, on our respective quests “to live deep and suck out the marrow of life,” and to “burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,” and perhaps, somewhat, “to boldly go where no man has gone before,” or at least to do it all a little differently. For example, I’m willing to bet neither Thoreau, Kerouac nor Jean-Luc Picard experienced anything quite like the frighteningly powerful hand-dryer-on-crack in Wasilla that would be better suited to a local taxidermy shop, which attracted admirers from as far away as the next bathroom over.

In the seven days I spent in Alaska, I never saw the Northern Lights. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of Denali though we drove through both the State and National Parks. But we did complete a scavenger hunt that included Carhartt’s patched up with duct tape, glaciers, dog sleds, bunny boots, and a few miraculous additions: refurbished and surprisingly functional military vehicles (patched up with duct tape?), people biking nonchalantly along snowy roads in the middle of nowhere, a cache of long-haired drunkards at an all-night diner in Anchorage whom I thought were speaking some sort of native language, etc.

So while the Northern Lights might have made me tear up with awe, I kind of preferred laughing until I couldn’t breathe when Dawn unintentionally left Brandon peeing by the side of the road; I’m sure Denali is impressive, but on par we had Chauncey creating the world’s first Miller’tini, thereby preserving an ice museum tradition while saving us each $15.

I had awful stomach cramps the second day, a sinus infection the third day and jetlag the whole way through. But I gulped down reindeer chili, mixed a Sudafed cocktail and soaked my tired body in hot springs.

I did a LOT of thinking. I would be lost in a train of thought at any given moment, wondering if I could recover my carefree spirit, about how a sign of maturity is supposedly the ability to make rational decisions, yet I think more and more it’s the ability to see people, including myself, in full color – that no one person is all bad or all good. I think that makes it very difficult to hate anyone, but the opposite is also true. When you see people for all that they are, and all they are not, it does not become easier to love everyone, or anyone.

Eventually someone would bring me back to reality, to a bald eagle soaring above or a moose perusing the roadside. Or perhaps, lounging in our toasty Fairbanks cabin well off-the-grid, to something a little more worldly:

“Are we having mimosas or wine with [breakfast/lunch/dinner]?” ~ Dawn

“No, Erika! Is that the only card you can play?” ~ Amy

Between us, my fellow travelers have lived on every continent except Antarctica. To most people, we have already seen so much of the world. But we are kindred spirits in our understanding of something sacred: it’s the endless journey, not any one, two or ten destinations that define us. Something to ponder:

We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.
We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.

*****


The Official Iditarod Start takes place in Willow, Alaska. I finally give my shotgun seat back to Chauncey for the ride, much preferring to sit with a handsome, (blue-eyed, sandy-haired) not-quite-stranger in the backseat. He was Chauncey’s idea two days ago, I swear. But it was a very good idea, and despite having to pull 48 hours straight because he works nights and had skied with us the day before, he agreed to tag along. We picked up our usual “lunch” at the beer store and headed north, talked our way into a snowy, crowded, non-parking space and added layers over and under everything we already had on. (I imagine that de-layering is some sort of amusing Alaskan foreplay).

The dogs are ecstatic. They jump, bark and poop their ways to the front line before embarking on their 1,000+ mile journey – it takes several handlers to quiet or even contain the 14 or so dogs, and people cheer for everyone who goes by regardless of hometown or nationality (most are Americans and Canadians, but I think there was even a Jamaican this year? Or maybe that was a rumor.) Wow, this beer is delicious.

Just after the last sled slips past and the crowd begins to dissipate, I feel myself hesitate, not wanting the day to end although another beginning – the after-party – is 5 miles up the road, and then a plane is waiting to take me home. I am not alone.

In one unbearably short moment, frozen in time on this frozen lake, my handsome not-so-stranger makes a familiar gesture. Anticipated, craved but unexpected, this epic first kiss permeates my innermost core with white light from all directions. It leaves behind the sweet taste of barley wine, and an unsettling level of consciousness.

That is, until a little girl in the background says, “Eww, gross!”

I think to wave her away, and then I think, “Just wait! Girl, you have no idea!” and then I stop thinking and just exist, eyes closed, heart open, for several seconds. Later, I wonder if maybe love is not impossible after all. The illusion of perfection takes a backseat to inspiration.

Samaipata: Farewell Tour 2008

Quick snack break on the ridge. Tamara (left) is a friend we met on the road back in La Paz. She's from Australia.



Helping Tamara through a cattle guard. "You sure this is the trail?"



Purrrrty.



"Guys? I mean, I don't think the waterfalls are anywhere near here. Maybe we should have gotten a guide?"



Our guide (yes, we smartened up the second day) Carmelo. Unfortunately he was married; I adored him!



Can't do the landscape justice with photographs. Come visit Samaipata! Their slogan is "hiker's paradise." This is a day trip to Los Volcanes.



Tajibo, my favorite tree, found all over Bolivia.




Two happy girls with happy ponies. We were able to rent the horses ALL DAY from a local hotel. We rode almost 3 hours up to the ruins (walked for a while then rode back).



We reached the top! On foot from here ... see you later boys! (we tied the horses to trees)



Trip to El Fuerte, site of Pre-Incan, Incan and colonial ruins.



More Pre-Incan ruins.



Me, howling to my Leona back in Santa Cruz.



Samaipata's little mercadito.

Saying Goodbye (cue Muppets take Manhattan)

Drinking puro outside my house.



Dona Vicky and Don Yonny threw me a going away tea party, and everyone brought food.



Then we went next door to Profe Negra's (the math teacher) for a proper drunkfest with some teachers. Rosa, Chela, Dawn, Profe Hernan (school director), me and Negra.



Dawn and I busting some moves.



Sair wants to join the party.



We're not sure how they knew we wouldn't end up taking the early micro (as planned), but people showed up to see us off in the morning, too. From left, Don Yonny, my host dad; Jacky, my host mom's sister who has a little baby/eats lunch with us/watches the novela at our house every day; Dona Uba who picked me up when I first moved to town and introduced me to the community; Profe Ruth, the English teacher, my first friend; Profe Negra, the math teacher and my neighbor -- she insists on feeding me (and occasionally Emily) every time my Dona Vicky goes out of town; Dona Vicky hiding in the background because she's crying; Profe Rosa teacher of life scienes thus my work partner; Jhon, one of my older host brothers who stays at the house off and on, who called me something like 8 times on my last day in Bolivia, Profe Marlene, who teaches social studies and makes me drink more beer than I ever should. Regretfully missing: me. I'm in the taxi,waving goodbye.

Back to site

Fiesta de la Virgen Rosario. First we paraded her through the plaza and prayed on each of the four corners, then we went to a mass -- we entered the church by walking underneath her and a priest with a carnation 'baptised' us with holy water at the other side, then the party literally started right after mass at about 10am. I'm told they change her dress each day!



And the band played on ... and on, and on from 10 am until forever. The party was inside the alcaldia and they locked the doors not so no one could get in, which was occasionally allowed, but so no one could leave!



My lovely site mate, whom I will miss immensely.



Don Yonny brought us a horse to play with from the campo! So we took turns cruising through town.



Visiting Don Yonny's chaco, the land where he raises cattle and grows corn.



Leona, pig. Pig, Leona.



Don Yonny and I chatting by the fence. He always says he wants to move out of Gutierrez and out into the monte.



One of my trees didn't make it, so Dawn planted another in its place.



Local housing on the outskirts of town.



Professor Wilson, a good friend, in Palmarito -- a small Guarani community about half an hour from me.



Dona Vicki in her natural state.



Don Yonny, in his natural state? Or just butchering some pigs.



A homemade stove. Everybody's got 'em.



Dawn, me, a giant cactus tree. You know, the usual.

Cuzco

Cuzco, Peru from above.



Some very silly ladies in Cuzco, one of whom practically chucked her baby alpaca into my arms.



Bet you know where this is ...



... but really all of Peru is this gorgeous, and then some.



Hiking, afraid of heights. So worth it.



Back for some horseback riding in the mountains! And yes, Dawn and I totally galloped off into the sunset later.



This was my favorite day: a festival for San Jeronimo outside of Cuzco. No tourists, great people, *interesting* food. See below.



Cuy (guinea pig), best washed down with several large beers.


*photos by Dawn*