Where in the World are Brig & Meredith?

Taking Orders from the Chief

2008-05-31T16:10:00.000-07:00

My time in Laos was amazing. From Northern Thailand I crossed the bustling Mekong river in a rickety old boat into Laos. The locals were much poorer, but wonderfully warm and welcoming. I decided that this was the place to take a trek into the mountains and experience the natural environment of the Laos hill-tribe people. If I had been told I was going to be yanking leeches off of my legs as I hiked through the pouring rain, slipping in muddy jungle creeks and then later taking orders from the village chief, I might have opted out. I am so glad I didn’t know, because the rewards of this adventure far outweighed the nuisances. Our journey to the Akha forest camp of Nam Lai started from the town of Luang Namtha. We met our guide “Cy” and piled into a songthaew (an old truck with bench seating in back) and headed for the hills. We reached the trailhead, and began our hike through thick jungle plants, past water buffalo and up muddy trails. I learned quickly that leeches are like slinkys. They start on your shoes and then slinky front to end, then end to front all the way up your leg. When they find a nice spot, they latch on. Yes, they are disgusting critters, but as they don’t do much harm, I found it best to just laugh as I pried them off my thighs.
In the early evening, we finally arrived at the Akha village. The local women were just arriving home from working in the fields, the children were chasing chickens outside their thatch huts, and the men stood around chatting and smoking tobacco. We took off our wet clothes, hung them around the fire, inside our sleeping hut, and sat down Indian style on the floor for dinner. We were soon greeted by the village chief, who spooned food onto our plates and then passed around the traditional Laos-Laos whiskey. I tried to politely refuse the whiskey, but the look the chief gave me quickly convinced me to graciously receive what I was given. The night ended with traditional, and brutal, massages by thirteen-year-old Akha village girls. Exhausted, we crawled under our mosquito nets, into our lined up mattresses on the floor.
The next morning we woke early and made our way to the chief’s hut for breakfast, visiting with villagers along the way. It was 7am and I assumed coffee was on the menu. How wrong I was. The chief began passing around more Laos-Laos whisky. I cringed as I swallowed and felt the burn in my empty belly. I managed to fake drink a few more shots, and then pour them out when the chief wasn’t looking. We then learned that a wedding was planned for the day, and changed into our cleanest hiking pants for the occasion. The entire village was involved, and music streamed out over a loud speaker, as wood was carved and chopped to make tables and benches. Although none of us shared a common language, we were able to communicate for hours with smiles, laughs and gestures. After wishing the bride and groom good luck, we headed back out of the jungle, in awe from the glimpse of village life that we were able to witness.
From Luang Namtha, I journeyed eight hours southeast to Nong Khiaw, a picturesque town on the banks of the Nam Ou River, where I explored caves that the local people had used for hideouts during the war. From there I floated down the river, on a tiny slowboat from Nong Khiaw to Luang Prabang, watching villagers fishing and children playing by the riverbanks. Above all I appreciated my opportunity to explore a beautiful country that has yet to be totally exploited by tourism.
Laos marked the end of an amazing journey, but only one chapter in a lifetime of adventures. Thank you for your support and for tirelessly following Brig and I around the world through this blog.

Thailand: Same-Same but Different

2008-05-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

The above phrase describes perfectly how I felt upon arriving in Bangkok. A huge western city with skyscrapers, 7-elevens and lots of traffic. Same as home, but different people, food and customs. This phrase is also commonly used by Thai people to describe how two things differ, or don't as the case may be. Maybe you are trying to decide between two rooms in a guest house, two different dishes, two modes of transportation. The Thai people will tell you "same-same, but different" which is true I guess, in the end.

In this entry, though, I think I will focus on the differences rather than the sames. The biggest difference is well, the food. All of the amazing, delicious, spicy, sour, sweet, cheap, ever-present, did I mention delicious, food. You can't move five feet down the street without bumping into a food stall. And behind every good food stall, small as it may be, there is an amazing cook ready to whip up any of about 200 dishes, all for under a dollar. Oh and the best phrase of all in Thailand "gin len" literally translates as "eat for fun". And gin len is what Thai people love to do! This makes me happy. I have always felt a close kinship to food which goes beyond just being hungry and filling the belly. Gin len describes one of my favorite hobbies, and refined talents. And what better way to hone this talent than to devote my time in Thailand to food? So this is what I have been doing.

Besides eating five meals a day in Bangkok, my time was spent running from super soakers (huge water guns). I arrived during Songkhran, the Thai New Year and water festival, where the city shuts down, and locals stand on the corner with huge buckets of water or spray guns, ready to soak unsuspecting walkers, like me, from head to toe. This was a surprise, but I adapted quickly by wearing my same sweaty running clothes for three days straight. And in fact, it was so hot that being drenched, and laughed at, every 10 minutes or so, wasn't so bad.

From Bangkok I headed north by train to see the sacred ruins of Sukhothai. From there I continued on to Chiang Mai. I quickly signed up for two days of cooking classes from a Thai TV chef, intent on bringing a taste of Thailand back home with me. The classes were great and involved a trip to the local market, making my own curry paste and 12 other classic Thai dishes and then eating every last one of them. Is this heaven? After that I headed up to the cute little mountain village of Pai, where I rode a scooter through the hills, past elephant camps and to a WWII Memorial Bridge. While in Pai I happened upon a flyer that was advertising a three day farm stay, with yoga classes and two full days of , you guessed it, cooking classes. By this time, my stomach had recovered from the last binge session, so I packed up my bag and headed for the farm.

It was a rustic, wet and buggy experience, but delightful all the same. The cooking classes were even better than before and the fresh farm air was invigorating. The termites on the other hand, were disgusting. Our accommodations were open mud huts with bucket showers and squat toilets, a small mattress and mosquito net. Unfortunately, termites of the flying variety, can shimmy through the holes of the nets. My nights were spent burning mosquito coils and brushing termite wings off my body. But hey, I got my fill of delicious food, yet again.

After leaving the farm, I headed six hours north to Chiang Khong and yet another border crossing, with plenty of food stops along the way. The border crossing over the Mekong river went smoothly and I found myself safely in Laos, with a new language to tackle and a new cuisine to explore.

All Aboard the Marrakesh Express

2008-04-20T04:10:00.000-07:00

Touts, hustlers, scammers, wheelers, dealers or accomplished salesmen? You be the judge. In Morocco, a sales men's opening price for any service rendered or product sold is at least three times higher than the fair price. If you are good at bargaining, which I happen to be, you quarter the price, confidently state the new, much deflated number and smile sweetly while they glare at you as though you insulted their grandmother. "No, never in a million camel rides" they say dramatically, with their hand on their heart, a frown on their face, but a twinkle in their eye. "Now, my friend", they implore "give me your real price, a democratic offer." This can be tricky, because the truth is, you don't know if you really want the rug/lamp/eggplant/shawl/snake/spice. You were really just curious of the price, but now if he accepts your offer, you are stuck buying the item.

What makes browsing even more difficult is that 99 percent of these salesmen have graduated with honors from the Guilt Trip School of Sales. When you come in to the store and ask to look at one rug, they start to systematically wreck their showroom by climbing ladders, pulling out dozens of rugs, throwing them everywhere. This is when the guilt starts to set in. Then they offer you tea, and they won't let you refuse. You sit and chat and have your nice mint tea. They tell you that their favorite tourists are Americans. The guilt builds. An hour of rug explanation ensues. It's too late to say "I'm just browsing" and walk out. The guilt is insurmountable. If you have your wits about you, you don't start bargaining, you just say thank you and run. If you do bargain but the price is still too high and you tell them you may come back tomorrow, you are in for a nasty goodbye. They will eventually let you go, but not without some choice words and the final Moroccan sales attempt " One dirham today is worth 10 dirham tomorrow" .

If you can look beyond the somewhat exhausting daily harassment focused on tourists, you discover an enticing country filled with intriguing people. To stroll inside the maze-like medina walls of Marrakesh is a treat to the senses. Bright colors glitter from the shoe shops, lamp shops, and silver stores. Local women glide through the streets dressed in vibrant robes and head scarves, revealing only their sultry eyes. The smell of curry, spice and fresh baked bread floats from the many food stalls. Snake charmers, fortune tellers and witch doctors beckon you toward them. If your strapped on cash, you can entertain yourself day and night in Marrakesh without ever spending a dirham.

Legend of the stunning mountains of Morocco eventually loured us from the city and into the small villages of the High Atlas. We arrived in Imlil, a small Berber village at the base of the mountains and prepared to set out on a three day hiking trek.Unfortunately, there are dozens of local men claiming to be certified guides, insisting that its impossible to trek alone. Of course they levy a heavy charge to guide you through the mountains and refuse to give you even basic directions without payment. Shrugging off their offers, and our annoyance, we set off alone, confident that where there are villages, there are beds and food. Money talks, even in the High Atlas mountains. The scenery was beautiful and the villages perched on the hillsides blended perfectly into the slate surroundings. Although we didn't hire a "certified guide", we had dozens of child- guides along the way, who demanded much less for their services.

At the end of the trek we hopped into a grand taxi (an old, beat up Mercedes stuffed with seven passengers) and headed to the coast. After a few days of relaxing in the charming fishing village of Essaouira, we packed up our bags, strapped our new Berber rug to Brig's backpack, and left Morocco with the happy knowledge that we managed to escape without buyer's remorse.

Cape town

2008-03-31T05:05:00.000-07:00

Travel weary, and well, weary, we tucked our tail between our legs and purchased a Malawi Air flight to Cape town. Never heard of Malawi Air? Neither had we. Our plane ticket cost 80,000 kwacha (about $280) payable in cash. Sound suspect? The next day we got a call: flight cancelled. Then I pick up a paper, Malawi Air files bankruptcy, planes grounded. At this point I’m certain of two things: I just lost 280 bucks and I need another way out of here. Just when things are looking pretty grim an email arrives from my favorite airline. Sticking with their country’s motto, the warm heart of Africa, Air Malawi will drive us 3 hours to another airport where we’ll board a South African Airlines flight..

In light of said travel weariness, we decided to stay in Cape town for a month. On the official worlds-most- radical-cities website, Cape town is deservedly awarded gold medal status; Amazing beaches, big mountains, wine, great food, and gorgeous drives all within stones throw of the city… luckily for us, our apartment came with a 2 person scooter to see them all. As if that wasn’t enough, we reunited with some long lost friends we met in Bolivia 5 months ago.

Our first field trip was to the top of Cape town’s Everest: Table Mountain. The cities natural growth boundary rises steeply 2000 meters above the Mother City below. A late morning start virtually guaranteed the summit would be covered by the “table cloth,” but fortunately the clouds cleared from time to time. Later that week, we met up with Nic and Caroline, our two friends from Bolivia and drove to Cape Point, meeting place of the Atlantic and Indian oceans. It is not only amazingly picturesque, as many car commercials can attest, but also home to the endangered Prada Baboon.

Baboons are mean critters. I double dog dare you to try to get that bag (the owner thought throwing rocks would scare off the baboon. It did, he ran into the shrubs with the purse).

After a few solid days of scooter driving on the left side of the road, I felt ready to drive a real car, which is much more difficult than English films let on. Steering wheel (right side), shifting (left hand), seat belt (right shoulder)… Damn Brits.

We managed to scurry west a few hours to Montagu, where everyone speaks Africaans and some people speak English. Perhaps if the hotel owner spoke English, he could have informed me of this snake

which I nearly stepped on. In fact, I would have had it not been standing up, tongue out, ready to strike. Later inquiries identified the dude as a Cape Cobra... Sixty percent of bites are lethal.

Our final little excursion was a full moon hike to the top of Lions Head, which is basically a lower summit of Table Mountain. The locals do this every full moon, and since Lion’s Head is at our doorstep it was a no brainer. We missed the sunset, but got up in time to snap a few pictures and enjoy dinner and wine. All told, Cape town is a fantastic city. Where else can you feast on Springbok steak or warthog ribs (hands down, the most delicious thing I have eaten), swim with great white sharks, and explore different cultures. Sure, it has some problems, most of which seem rooted in racism. But remember, Apartheid ended in 1994, only fourteen years ago. And while that seems crazy at first thought, recall that southern schools integrated only 35 years before that and look how much things have changed.

Final boarding for flight 8637 to Morocco, better run.... oops, don't forget to check out the new uploaded pictures!

The &%*#!@ Border Crossing

2008-03-26T06:18:00.000-07:00

I can’t say that we are happy to leave Brig’s mother and our ever accommodating safari guide, but since technically they are leaving us, we don’t have much of a choice. We board a hot crowded bus, switch on the bladder control button, and head south through Tanzania. We share a couple of days in Dar Es Salaam with our president. Picture a city with four million people, and only the main roads are paved. We visit the U.S. embassy to add a few dozen more pages to our passports and then board a Chinese built train (a relic from the Communist era in Tanzania) bound for Mbeya. From Mbeya we plan to cross over into Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world, but praised for their gorgeous and massive lake.
We wake up before dawn and board the only minibus headed for the border. After six hours and fifteen stops where the driver honks madly on his horn in attempt to refill the minibus, we complete the sixty (yes, sixty) mile journey to the border. Did the thought cross my mind that if I could only hijack that rusted bike from the kid carrying a stack of logs twice his size that we could be to the border in half the time? Or perhaps just pay off the driver not to stop anymore. Nope, this never crossed my mind. I love the journey, the experience of having my knees crammed against the seat in front of me, fighting for space with a giant barrel of rice, and the excitement of wagering how slowly something with a motor can get from point A to point B.

Upon finally arriving at the border, we take a deep breath, elbow our way off of the minibus, and prepare for what I like to refer to as “Border Madness” to begin. Brig and I are immediately surrounded by fifteen adolescent African locals, eager to scam our pants off. They are all bombarding us at once with offers to exchange our money, cycle us across the border, carry our backpacks, and on and on. It's just too much for me right now, I look at Brig and want to cry, scream, demand my personal space. But instead I just laugh. I know as well as they know that the only way to have any peace, is to select one of these guys to “help” us so that the rest will leave us alone. We select David, reluctantly hand him a few of our Tanzanian shillings and receive what are presumably counterfeit Malawian kwacha in return. Assuming that our money is now gone, the hawkers disperse, leaving us to cross without further harassment into Malawi.
One cab, two more buses and nine hours later, we arrive in the lakeside town of Nkata Bay. Our secluded lakefront cabana perched on the manicured hillside is in sharp contrast with the villagers thatched huts and polluted river. The local population is poor, and stricken by one of the largest percentages of HIV in all of Africa. The lake is beautiful and the snorkeling amazing, but this discrepancy of opportunity puts a damper on my enjoyment.

Another damper comes in the form of aching muscles, fever and a burning headache. Symptoms that would normally be the sign of an unfortunate flu in America, happen to be exactly the same as the first signs of malaria in Africa. On top of that, the malaria medicine that is supposed to prevent me from getting malaria is also giving me crazy nightmares. Usually some local thugs are trying to kill me, sometimes Brig saves me, sometimes he doesn’t. And occasionally, Brig is the one trying to kill me.

A trip to the local hospital in the back of a pick-up truck and I am pronounced clear of malaria. I switch malaria medicine, and things start looking up. We briefly consider heading to Cape Town, South Africa by bus, but the thought of any more tortuous bus rides overwhelms us with feelings of panic, abuse and cruelty. We splurge for a plane ticket and sigh with relief at the thought of staying put in one city for an entire month.

Safari Part II: The People

2008-03-16T03:52:00.001-07:00

Hadza Bushmen (n.)
Definition:
1. An ethnic group in central Tanzania, living around Lake Eyasi in the central Rift Valley and in the neighboring Serengeti Plateau. Only 300-400 Hadza Bushmen remain. They are perhaps the last functioning hunter-gatherers in Africa.
2. The craziest thing I have ever witnessed in my life
3. This one’s for all you creationists (a.k.a. Brobergists)

This is a story about a few guys in goat skin vests, running through the forest with wooden bows, hunting for small game to eat for lunch, just like they’ve been doing for tens of thousands of years. This is also a story about a young lady (yep, that’s me) staring dumbstruck as she is invited to observe the daily rituals of a prehistoric culture. This is also a story about how a few days of immersion in African tribal culture can alter your perspective of the world and its inhabitants. Let’s get started.

Safari Cultural Day 1: Five fifteen dawns early, but we are told to be bright eyed if we want to find the Bushmen. And find them we must, because they are nomadic, usually residing in one area for only a few weeks, or until the food runs out. Fortunately we have a lead. Mimoa, a young man from a neighboring tribe, has contact with the Hadza Bushmen once a month when they trade honey for arrowheads at the market. Here he finds out their current location in the forests above Lake Eyasi.

We pick up Mimoa on the roadside and he points the Land Cruiser up steep jeep roads for about an hour. Eventually we pull over, climb out of the jeep and are told to start hiking. Half an hour later we spot a crude shelter made of sticks and brush from a young acacia tree. A few more minutes and we are in the Bushmen camp. The scene is best described in snapshots.
Three small African men in their forties, shirtless, squat around an early morning campfire, in the shadows of a giant acacia tree. They take huge puffs off a wooden pipe, eyes glazed over, laughing. Thirty meters to their right near another campfire, four small but strong men in their twenties with feathers in their hair, sit on a gazelle hide, sharpening arrowheads on a rock. Forty meters behind, two very small women draped in sarongs with two children (one malnourished), huddle around another fire, staring blankly at us, two make-shift huts in the background.
We shake hands with the Bushmen family and they welcome us in the Khoisan language of clicks and grunts. The group of young men gathers all of their hunting tools and run up the hillside and out of the camp without a backward glance. Mimoa urges us to follow while explaining that they are taking us on their morning hunt. They don’t seem to be willing to wait for us while their stomachs growl and so we scramble after them as we glance bewildered at each other. Within ten minutes of squeezing under bushes, leaping over rocks and chasing bird sounds, the Bushmen shoot their first bird, a dove in a tree, with the wooden bow and arrow. The eldest brother doubles back to show us his kill and, stoic as he is, I’m sure I catch a small grin of pride on his face. And then……. he’s off again.

For the next two hours, we struggle to keep up with the Bushmen as they continue to hunt. They hunt not only for birds and small game, but also for honey. This they find with the guidance of a bird that leads them to a specific tree that is pollinated by bees. Upon discovery, one of the Bushmen climbs into the honey tree and begins chopping madly with his hatchet. After ten minutes or more, the limb breaks off and out oozes the sweetest, lightest honey I have ever tasted. The Bushmen go wild with excitement, dipping their fingers in the honey, licking it off and elbowing the others for another taste. Besides small game and honey, wild berries and roots complete the Bushmen diet. They also occasionally hunt elephants, giraffe and other large game.

We finally arrive back to camp where the Hadza women are digging up tuber roots from the soil. The older men are still sitting in the same position around the fire, smoking their pipe. Within fifteen minutes the young men have skinned and cooked their game and are enjoying breakfast while the youngest strums a song on a homemade instrument.
After glimpsing for a few more moments through this remarkable window to the past, we say goodbye and hike back out to the car.

I am unable to explain how this experience affected me, other than to say this: there are people in this world who truly do not care for material goods, societal progress and western ideals, and although we can not understand them, we can respect them and protect their habitat. The Hadza Bushmen are some of the few left in the world, and they have resisted attempts by the government to settle them in villages. They are currently allowed to continue their hunter-gatherer lifestyle, but their land, and therefore existence is being threatened by overexploitation.

Safari Cultural Day 2: As if our visit with the Bushmen isn’t rewarding enough, we are treated to visits with four more tribal African families during the Safari. We spend a morning with a Datoga family of two husbands, their six wives and seven children. They invite us inside their small dung huts (continuously repaired with fresh piles of cow dung) to participate in their morning rituals of grinding corn and making butter. Later they milk the cows, and we join in as they perform their traditional tribal “jumping” dance. As we leave, I noticed sadly, a young handsome man lying on the hot ground, covered by blankets trying to smile and wave goodbye as he shivers with fever from malaria.

Later that day we share an afternoon with a Hadzabe tribal family who demonstrate how they make jewelry over an outdoor wood fire, heated by pumping homemade leather billows. I walk away wearing a brass ring and bracelet hand made and decorated by my new friends.

Safari Cultural Day 3: Today we visit schoolchildren from the Masaii tribe. They sit crowded on wooden benches, flies covering their faces, and sing happily to us. We also spend time in the village of Mto Wa Mbu touring the rice fields and banana farms and enjoy a traditional African meal of delicious garlic and ginger marinated fish, cooked spinach, roasted eggplant and fresh fruit.

The safari went far beyond animal viewing. It acted as my introduction to the Dark Continent and her beautiful, welcoming people. Africa is so much more than the violence, sickness and poverty portrayed on the news. It is also home to thousands of peaceful tribal cultures who are positive, polite, proud and hardworking.

Safari Part I: The Animals

2008-03-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

Safari is Swahili for journey, but the real translation should be more along the lines “damn, look at that.” Other than seeing a few animals, I really didn’t have any idea about what would happen on our safari. I had no idea I would see a giraffe from 7 feet, a lion brush against our bumper, or elephants 20 feet from my shower... Or that I would see all the above within an hour.

A small side note to give you an idea of scale and distance, all of the pictures here were taken with a happy snappy, look what I wore to the costume party camera. No 600, 400, or 200 millimeter lens on a tripod resting on a sandbag.

We met my mom in Nairobi during Kenya’s elections fiasco. Probably not the safest time but our options were pretty limited and (on a good note) the complete dearth of tourists gave us great bargaining power at the artisan markets. After a day in Nairobi we rallied the landcruiser 3 hours west to Tanzania (which we found out, the locals pronounce Tan-ZAN-ee-ya, not Tan-za-NEE-ya) and just a few hours later we were on our first game drive in Tarangire National Park. Within 2 minutes we were treated to our first game sighting, a huge bull elephant slowly crossing the road in front. Yes, elephants are the largest land animal in the world, but the size of the jeep (or lack thereof) gives a better perspective.

That evening we settled into our “tent” on the shore of lake Manyara to enjoy our first African sundowner, a fantastic expression simply meaning to enjoy the sunset and beverage simultaneously. This would be, more or less, the routine for the next 10 days. A day later we left Tarangire and drove up to, and then inside, Ngorongoro Crater, the largest intact caldera in the world. The flat and almost treeless crater floor is teeming with millions of flamingoes, thousands of wildebeest and zebras, and hundreds of elephants, lions, and cape buffalo. Not to mention jackal, hyena, rhinos, gazelle, baboons, monkeys, and countless others.

After two days in the crater we moved on to the great Serengeti, another Swahili word for endless plain, where millions (literally, about 1.7 million to be somewhat exact) of wildebeest migrate across the plain every February in search of water. Accompanying them were not only millions of zebras, but also thousands of predators and scavengers. It was on the Serengeti where we watched lions feasting, cheetahs hunting, and scavengers, well, scavenging.
We spent the majority of our time in the Serengeti, about 4 days, with two game drives a day. In the morning we enjoyed playing with the kittens.

And later we watched giraffes snacking while making hilarious faces.

On the way back we came across the huge elephant family, about 80 in total, that kept us up every night as they marched through or camp. But how could anyone be mad at faces like this for keeping you up at night?

The safari was amazing, far better than we ever imagined. There are so many amazing memories and pictures. Thank you mom not only for this wonderful gift, but also for coming halfway across the world to enjoy it with us.

If you all want to see more pics, check the link on the top right. If you want the memories, you’ll have to go. You won’t regret it. Stay tuned for Meredith’s entry, Safari part II, the people.

Leaving Brazil behind

2008-03-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

Well, soon we will be leaving Brazil behind (I had to make up some lame sentence to use this picture, right?).. As our last few days approach, so does Carnaval. Some places ooze culture, but this time of year Salvador sprays it. It´s as if everday is a contest to be the most Brazilian and for better or worse, we leave this town the day it hosts the biggest party in the world. Bold words, I know, but we have witnessed the prologue and it´s hard to imagine the main event. Every night this week thousands of people pack the narrow, cobbled, streets that were paved by their enslaved anscestors nearly 450 years ago. Drummers march past 16th century churches and street vendors selling fried meat, mounds of spicy black beans, and cold beer while dancing locals (and tourists) fill in every last square inch of free space. In short this place is New Orleans on more steroids than an Eastern Bloc powerlifter. Meredith and I are not sure when we will back to celebrate Carnaval, but we will (maybe even next year)... Anyone wanting to split an apartment down here for 10 days next winter?

During the day we really just walked around the historic district.....(We had to walk cause it wouldn´t start)

.....snapped a few pictures of the ladies.... kicked it with the kiddo´s..... After all that walking I was hungry, so we ate the worlds most delicious ugly fruit from ripped old man...... and then to the worlds most crowded beach....... and well, I don´t remember much after that... Sadly, the end of our South American adventure is winding down, in just a few days left we will be running frantically from elephants, lions, and my mom. While we know we could stay longer, we also know another great chapter in this adventure is just a few pages away. We´ll keep you posted.

City of Gods

2008-02-18T07:04:00.000-08:00

If a city could be described as a wild and whimsical dream, flooded with beautiful contradictions, majestic and frightening scenes seamlessly entwined, that dream would be Rio de Janeiro. To say I love this city is an understatement. Jogging along the beach, sun beaming down, sweat pouring off my forehead, I looked around at this gigantic and stunning city and actually got the chills.

Rio´s contrasting layers are what truly astound. The first layer is the gorgeous white sand beaches with ships floating in the distance. The second is huge skyscrapers interspersed with 16th century buildings lining the beaches. In layer three the mountains become visible, where an old streetcar winds from the city center up the side of steep cliffs to hundreds of crumbling 19th century mansions. Layer four is favelas, spilling down the hills, shack upon shack as if they were one long and continuous eight story structure. The final layer is the steep mountain of Corcovado, rising 700 meters straight up from the city, with the amazing 38 meter tall Christ the Redeemer statue atop, surveying, protecting, blessing the entire city.
The week that we spent in Rio was unforgettable. Each area we visited provided more culture, more history and more juice bars with unknown fruit than I could have ever imagined.

Each day meant visiting a different neighborhood and with each new neighborhood we experienced a new and vibrant culture and a different type of street food. The Centro is Rio´s commercial district where we strolled along wide cobbled sidewalks, viewing baroque churches and colonial buildings, while nibbling on piping hot cocoa popcorn drizzled with sweet condensed milk, fresh from the jolly street vendors.

Copacabana means serious beach time to the Rio residents. On the weekend the place is packed with umbrellas, tanning beauties and beach sports. We shoved our way past the other tanners to the edge of the ocean and practiced relaxing while balancing a caiparinha and a grilled shrimp on a skewer.

Lapa is the gritty and edgy center for Rio´s nightlife. Who needs to pay a cover charge when the streets themselves are so entertaining? Anyone with a few limes, some booze and a make shift cart can make a quick buck selling cocktails on the street. We didn´t ask to see their drink license but thoroughly enjoyed their drinks. Samba music streamed from every alley and the corners were dotted with some very scantily clad ladies that I am afraid were uhh, also trying to make a quick buck.

No trip to Rio is complete without a futebol game and so Brig and I squeezed into the packed metro and headed with thousands of rowdy fans to the famous Maracanã stadium. We got to yell GOOOAAAAL four times while munching on grilled meat on a stick and something crunchy in a bag.

If you are looking for the perfect city, one that has all of the elements of a crazy dream, amusing and startling, look no further. Rio is magical, the residents are spirited and an expression of love for life appears in every way imaginable.

Brazil......

2008-01-31T10:13:00.000-08:00

We´ve landed in Brazil and so far it's everything (and more) than expected. Hot days, sticky nights, really cold beer and $2 Caipirinhas. Oh, mix in some white sand beaches, atlantic rainforest, turqoise water, and well, things are good. Really good. Sooooo, if you get the impression we´ve been drinking in the sun you are umm, well, correct. And Bendites, I must say, it is nicer than a cold beer in a cold bar, where outside there is.......snow. Anywhooooo, like I was saying.From Rosario (Argentina) we headed north to Iguazu falls. Or, dry to tropical. For those who have not heard of Iguazu Falls , Eleanor Roosevelt´s reaction of "Ohh, poor Niagara" says it all. The "waterfall" is actually a collection of nearly 300 hundred falls, spread out side by side for over a mile, each plumetting about 350 feet to the river basin below. Our first view of the falls came from our ski boat as we zipped upstream through the rapids and then again later from the catwalks above the falls. Like all the other pictures in the blog, they never really seem to capture the full effect. But if you look closely, you can see that the falls keep going and going.... One more for good measure, with some earthlings for scale.

Although we´ll spend about a month in Brazil, we decided not to pretend to see too much of the worlds fifth largest country. The Amazon and the Pantanal will be another trip. Nope. Just the coast, please. So, from the falls we headed south to an island called Santa Catarina. We did nothing here for 6 days. It was great. But it's a damn nice place to do nothing.

We learned to surf (actually, not at all), got a sunburn (sorry moms, we were having too much fun), and cooked mussels that we picked right off the rock. Believe it or not, doing nothing in the same place is exhausting, so we rolled north to do nothin' somewhere else, namely a little town called Paraty. Paraty is a town of 17,000, that until 1950, could only be reached by boat. It is also, coincidentally, almost perfect. The 300 beaches and 65 islands no doubt impacted Amerigo Vespucci when 500 years ago he proclaimed from his wooden boat, "Oh! God, if there were a paradise on earth, it wouldn´t be far from here!"From Paraty we headed north to Ihla Grande, which in the past has been a leper colony, political prison, and pirates lair. Today all that remains is natural booty..errr, beauty, and what many Brazilians consider to be the best beach along their 4,700 mile coast. Tell me what you think.

So that is what I did today. . In paradise. If only my portuguese had less portu-guess.

Time to take a dip.
Tchau, Brig and Meredith.
PS- make sure to check the link on the right for a few more pics..

Christmas, Tango and Chocolate

2008-01-17T05:56:00.000-08:00

When Mom and Pop Gentry rolled into Argentina to spend Christmas with us, the vacation from all of our hard travels began. Their contribution to our trip and our traveling sanity started in Bariloche, the heart of the Lakes District. This fabulous town of 100,000 inhabitants stretches lengthwise along the shores of the deep, blue, sparkling waters of the gigantic Nahuel Huapi Lake. The lofty mountain peaks, cobbled streets with chocolate shops and trendy boutiques give Bariloche the feel of a European village at one third the price. The recreational opportunities abound in the surrounding area full of rushing rivers, beautiful mountains and lush national parks.
As it was my parents first trip to South America, I was a little nervous about how they would handle the "culture shock". My worrying was completely in vain as their ability to not only accept but fully embrace the culture was a cinch. Mel felt right at home browsing and sampling the massive rows of chocolates in the many artisan shops. She found that pointing and nodding worked just as well as actually speaking Spanish and she rarely left with less than ten types of treats for our enjoyment throughout the day. Gary, on the other hand, practiced his limited Spanish exhaustively, always making the locals smile and impressing Brig and I with his uhhh, proficiency. He also enjoyed trying the grossest thing on the menu, including a huge plate of grilled offal (tripe, lung, liver, & udder). Just like the locals, he loved it!

Outside of Bariloche we spent a lovely day with two local guides who took us kayaking (Go Mel!) through the pristine waters of Moreno Lake, hiking up a steep, rocky trail to a stunning vista, and driving along the famous and scenic Circuito Chico. No surprise, Mel fell in love with the animated and patient young guides and invited them to visit us anytime in Texas or Oregon.

Other highlights within the Lake District included driving the bumpy but beautiful, Seven Lakes Route, hiking to multiple waterfalls and vistas and soaking up the sun on the lovely lakeside beaches. In Argentina, dinner is not served before 9 p.m. and so our pre-dinner evenings were usually spent sitting on the porch of our lovely accommodations, peering out on a lake or mountain and playing spades while sipping a glass of Argentina´s renowned Malbec wine. Yes, I felt very spoiled.

Christmas Eve and day were spent in San Martin de los Andes, another gorgeous lakeside village. The hot weather and lack of Santa Claus paraphernalia hindered the typical holiday spirit a bit, but I felt very fortunate to be spending the time with my family. The best Christmas gift for all of us came in the surprise announcement that my sister, Lauren, is expecting her first child. Well, it´s about time!

The last few days of the Gentry visit could not have been more different than the first. We flew to the electrifying city of Buenos Aires (population 13 million) and joined the culturally rich, slightly gritty and totally exhausting beat of city life. B.A.´s many and diverse neighborhoods deserve to be explored on foot, which is what we did. We visited the famous Recoleta Cemetery, where generations of elite Argentinians (including Evita) rest their bones. We brushed elbows with tango dancers as we strolled past the colorfully painted shops and artisan booths of Caminito, located in the working class neighborhood of La Boca. We hit up San Telmo area for the famous Sunday antiques fair which was full of vintage dresses, antique watches, and delicate china. (I thought we might be kicked out when Gary was reprimanded for playing with a 150 year-old gun which was on the verge of breaking.)

The highlight of Buenos Aires, though, was the tango shows. The sensual, precise and incredibly beautiful dance was performed by talented couples gliding across the stage in time to the breathtaking live tango music. The first show was so amazing, that we booked a second show for the next night. The experience as Mel would say was ¨transcendental¨. The huge plates of sizzling steak served simultaneously weren´t bad either.

The ten days of luxury vacation with my parents was such a treat. Checking into a loud, dirty and hot hostel the day after they left us was truly heartbreaking. But hey, no pain no gain (at least that is what I keep telling myself).

Goin´to Patagonia

2007-12-12T11:58:00.001-08:00

Well folks, here is the scoop. If you want to go from central Argentina to Patagonia, there are two ways. For all you hustlers, just book a flight or cruise into Puerto Natales. For all you bike racers, your callussed bums will be just right for the 80 hours in buses of variable condition, 15 hours in ferries (again, variable condition), some good old fashioned hitch hiking... oh, and go ahead, set a day or two aside for ¨sorry, no ferry today, bad weather. Maybe tomorrow.¨ Our route, in a nutshell, rolled something like this: Mendoza to Santiago, south along the Chilean coast, ferry to Isla Chiloe, bus further south, ferry back to mainland Chile, border crossing, overnight bus, day bus, et cetera, repeat.

Eventually we arrived in Puerto Natales, which really has nothing going for it except being the springboard into Torres Del Painne National Park, Chile´s (and maybe South Americas) flagship park. Against all of our will, we boarded another bus to the park, where we set out on (my first) a multi day backpacking trip. Our 4 day hike really was not that impressive. Just 3 granite spires rising thousands of feet above an emerald green glacial lake on the first day some deer, vicuñas, glacial avalanches and wild rivers on the 2nd day, more mountains rising 10,000 feet above the valley on the 3rd day, and huge glaciers calving blue, green, and white icebergs into a wind ripped lake on the last... things like that. Mix that with a heavy pack, limited amounts of clean clothes, and two smelly souls in a tiny tent and you get love (or murder). Actually, my biggest gripe was the sun setting at 10:45 and rising at 5 am, which really cut into my required 10 hours per night agenda.

Seriously, the park is amazing, I would venture to say the highlight of the trip so far and most likely the most stunning scenery I have ever seen. Chile has the whole park ¨thing¨dialed. There are refugios every 8 miles, so with reservations and a little bit of cash, one can simply carry a day pack a few hours, then have dinner, wine, hot showers and comfy beds waiting for them. Let the record show we had neither cash nor reservations.

A few days later we found ourselves in El Calafate, home to Glacier Perito Moreno, another gigantic glacier. The glacier thrusts forward about 7 feet per day, producing some pretty spectacular calving. Like everything in Patagonia, no picture will ever capture the size of this glacier. It is a few miles wide, dozens of miles long, and about 200 feet tall. To help you out with scale, the small speck in this picture is a boat that easily holds 70 passengers.

The last destination of our Patagonia adventure took us to the north end of Glacier National Park to hike amongst the Fitz Roy range, just outside of strange Chalten. Those interested in foreign real estate investment, buy here now before the 300 miles of ¨highway¨into town is paved. Oh, the hiking, biking, climbing and view is also okay.

So now we are heading north along route 40, the (gravel) road Che Guevara´s motorcyle puttered up some 55 years ago. Unlike Che, we´ll travel by.... you know what, I can´t see that horrible 3 letter word again. In a few short days we´ll be toasting the Gentry's first foray to South America in Bariloche.

Freedom is a Suzuki Fun

2007-12-02T16:12:00.000-08:00

Buses can get a little tiresome. While in Northern Argentina, Brig and I decided that car travel was our ticket to freedom. Buying a car in Argentina couldn´t really be that complicated, right? After a few afternoon beers in the plaza, the idea became more than just a passing thought, we deemed it absolutely neccesary to own a car. We spent an hilarious afternoon being decieved by Argentinian used car salesmen. The idea fizzled almost as quickly as it had materialized. We would have to settle for a 3 day rental.

North of San Juan in the wine region of Mendoza was our road trip destination. The cheapest, most gas efficient car we could find was a little, 2 door Suzuki Fun. She will hereafter be referred to as lil´ fun. We stuffed our bags into lil` fun and waved goodbye to the jolly owner of Classic Car Rental as we stalled out at the first light. Driving in a city in Argentina can be terrifying and as Brig gripped the wheel and I gripped the map, we plotted the quickest way out of San Juan. Soon we were flying along the vineyard lined country roads, windows down, listening to Spanish renditions of bad American songs on the radio. There were 2 bars of gasoline in the tank (whatever that means) and we were free and happy. Turns out that 2 bars of gasoline means the tank is almost empty and lil' fun sputtered to a stop in the first town we came to. The fact that this town didn't have a gas station was only a small dilemna. We asked around at locals homes until we found someone willing to sell us 5 liters at a 250% markup. Well, lesson learned, right? The more bars, the better.

In the next three days, lil' fun took us down multiple gravel roads, past gorgeous painted hills, rolling rivers and windswept valleys and dropped us in lovely campsites each night. We visited the Valle de la Luna, a desolate Mars-like park loaded with red rock formations and dinosaur remains. We fought the 50 mph winds in the little town of Rodeo known for the best windsurfing in the world. We spent a starry night in Barreal under the enormous shadow of 22, 840 ft Mt. Aconcagua, the tallest peak in the world outside of Asia. Lil' fun worked hard for us but the roughness of the road finally took its toll and left her with a flat tire.

All in all, freedom was great and we shed a tear as we left lil' fun with her owner. I would like to think she shed a tear too.

Dont Cry For Me (while Im in) Argentina

2007-11-22T07:56:00.000-08:00

By crossing the border into Argentina we just unexpectedly fell into the lap of luxury, relatively speaking. Sometimes you dont know how hard things have been, what trials you have endured, how incredibly strong-willed you are, until everything becomes easier. I dont mean to toot my own horn, but travelling in Bolivia was pretty hard-core.

After leaving the salt flats in Uyuni, we hopped on a 5am bus to Tupiza, a small old west town near the southern border of Bolivia. The kidney wrenching 8 hour bus ride bumped through a dry creek bed and up rocky hairpin turns as I tried to massage out my side stitches while protecting my head from bouncing on the roof. History buffs might remember Tupiza as the location of the ultimate demise of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. I remember it as a lovely and quaint town surrounded by tall red canyons and fin-like rock formations. I also remember it as the first time I have hired (aka trusted) an eleven year old guide to take me on an all day horse back ride. Of course I didnt know he would be eleven until I was timidly mounting my scrawny 20 year old horse and I heard a squeeky voice coming from a boy as tall as my waist.

"I am Miguel, youre guide, vamos!" said the boy. I glanced at Brig, who seemed equally perplexed and then I asked politely if our boy-guide shouldnt be at school. "Night school" he said. "Vamos!" So we headed out through the canyons past wild bulls, wild dogs and the occassional goat. The scenery was breathtaking and I couldnt help imagining I was gloriously robbing banks across Bolivia, just me and my horse (and my eleven year old son Miguel.)

As I mentioned earlier, Argentina has been a pleasant surprise. Most importantly, the busses are lovely and clean, and the roads are..... drumroll please..... paved! If you are a carnivore, you will understand my excitement when the steak I ordered came out thick and flavorful and literally curved around my plate. This plus a bottle of wine for $5, who needs vegetables?

The cities of Salta and Cordoba were bustling but beautiful and the nightlife doesnt get started until about 1am here. I will let you know if we are ever up late enough to partake. South of Cordoba in the Central Sierras we visited two small mountain villages famous for their German heritage. Hiking and camping, goulash, chocolates and beer were on the itinerary. The first night at the biodynamic farm where we camped, we were invited to partake in the mate-drinking ritual with some local Argentinians. The next night we shared the small outdoor kitchen with 8 teachers and 75 junior high school kids. That, my friends, was a lesson in patience.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! Today we are thankful for friends, family and this unique opportunity to travel. We realize more and more how fortunate we are compared to the rest of the world.

Salar de Uyuni and Death Road

2007-11-05T07:48:00.000-08:00

No photoshop here... Just one huge salt flat (biggest in the world, actually) which allows tourons to stand in the salt and dream up ¨look at me in my girlfriends hand¨ pictures. For those that have never heard of it, the Salar, as locals call it, is a few hundred miles long and up to 60 feet deep. Everything here is made of salt.... Salt churches, salt hotels, salt tables, chairs, you name it. In the dry season the flat is solid white until the horizon, but in the wet season water fills the flat to a few feet, creating a perfect mirror image.... And a tricky situaton for said tourons in jeeps.

We spent 3 days driving along the flats and the rest of southern Bolivia. Eight of us crammed into one jeep made for some long miles, but the scenery was pretty spectacular and well worth the discomfort. Where else can you see flamingoes at 13,000 ft above sea level, bright green lagoons so rich with minerals they don´t freeze until -10 farenheit, or cactus islands surrounded by hundreds of miles of white nothingness?

Further along we spied a mummy, lovely hot springs, and a few amazing rock formations.

THE WORLD´S MOST DANGEROUS ROAD

First off, I would like to thank everyone for the enormous amount of love and support. The cards, flowers, and gifts were overwhelming and no doubt played a major role in my speedy recovery.

Two days post illness mer and I joined a group of gringos to ride bikes down the most dangerous road in the world. The road starts around 16,000 feet above sea level and drops 15,000 feet to sleepy Coroico. A few bushes are all that protect you from falling thousands of feet to your death.... Of more concern are the throngs of tourist on poorly maintained bikes all racing to get to the bottom. Needless to say, there were lots of macho guys slapping the gravel at 30 mph.

After a few hours we arrived in Coroico, which was bustling with La Pazites (La Pazians?, La Pazers?). So bustling in fact, there was not one single hotel room to be had-luckily a nice local was willing to let us sleep on the concrete foundation of his future home. Yummy.

I would love to add a few pics for your enjoyment, but the 20 computers in this cafe all going through one phone port is a bit frustrating.

Adios Peru, Hello Bolivia

2007-10-30T15:20:00.000-07:00

And the score is.... La Paz water district with 2 points, Brig´s stomach with 0 points. La Paz water district took a quick lead yesterday morning by omitting to boil Brig´s coffee water for 3 whole minutes. After a house call from a Bolivian Dr. Roy Patty Jose Salazar (the more names, the more qualified?), it looks like Brig´s stomach might triumph. Lets give it seven days and 2 pills every 8 hours to determine the final outcome.

Crossing the border into Bolivia was a cinch. We had about 6 bicycle pedaling rickshaw drivers fighting over our business to take us to the frontera. Too bad the man we hired ended up having us pedal for half of the time. Copacabana, a small town on Lake Titticacca, awaited us with delicious food, drinks, views and expat hippies who found the sun and the slow pace of life too enticing to ever leave.

After a day of hiking from Copacabana to the little town of Yampupata, we hired an indigenous woman (and her two children) to paddle us across to the beautiful island of Isla Del Sol. (Don´t worry we all took turns with the paddle). The next day was a bus ride to La Paz. The only unusual part of this trip was when we pulled up to the shores of the lake and the bus stopped. The driver announced that we should all get off the bus, buy a ferry ticket, and meet him and the bus at the plaza on the other side of the lake. We laughed as the bus was precariously ferried accross. Hey, I guess its cheaper than building a bridge! La Paz is gorgeous, with adobe houses clinging to the cliff sides and plunging down into the valley and city center. I better get back to my patient, but I will keep you up to date on the score as the game unfolds.

PERU & Patita con Mani

2007-10-23T14:33:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Lima, Peru on Wednesday and reality (or my lack there of) finally began to set in. Our Spanish is pretty bad and our Quechua (the indigenous language) is nonexistent. It is easy enough to get around, but reading el menu ($1-$2 set lunch menu) can be a challenge. I usually just ask the waitress what her favorite is. A few days ago, her favorite was the patita con mani. She assured me it was muy rico. Sounds great. Turns out it was a clear something that resembled chewy squid with cartilage but perhaps less appetizing. When I asked a local later they giggled as they told me it was cow foot.

From Lima we took an overnight bus to Arequipa. The bus was great and included nonstop entertainment, including a game of BINGO where the Peruvian winner was asked to give a short speech. He spoke for about 10 minutes and thanked everyone (especially the bus company) for giving him this wonderful opportunity. It was almost like the Oscars.

The highlight so far was our trip to Colca Canyon, the 2nd deepest in the world at about 3500 meters. We hired a guide to take us on a 3 day trek through the canyon. The trip included several bumpy bus rides (sometimes standing for two hours), steep hiking, and swimming at a gorgeous oasis. The first day was a holiday for the indigenous people of the Andes. They packed into our bus in their colorfully embroidered dresses and hats headed from the farm to the town to dance in the streets. When we arrived in Cobanaconde, we hiked down the gorgeous canyon towards the handful of villages below. The steep 3-4 hour hike is the only way the locals can access their homes and the village above. Mules and llamas help to make the job a little easier. That night we stayed in cozy cabins, complete with a soccer field perched in the canyon walls. Day two and three involved more hiking, swimming in hot springs and views of the Andean condor (the heaviest flying bird).

A few more days in Arequipa and then its off to Bolivia.

My Harvest Moon

2007-10-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

The Harvest Moon is the full moon nearest to the autumnal equinox, which occurs (in the northern hemisphere) on or about September 23rd. In times past the incredible luminosity of these autumn moons was said to help farmers working to bring in their crops. They could continue being productive by moonlight even after the sun had set. Hence the name Harvest Moon.

Each night that we camped on our way down to Texas, the moon gradually became bigger and brighter. You may not have noticed from the safety of your dark rooms, but the moon was so bright, even as a sliver, that not once did I need a flashlight in the middle of the night. The nighttime harvesting I did was minimal, but I definitely feel closer to our farming ancestors and Neil Young after sharing this phenomenon.

Durango, Colorado was our last official road trip excursion. Our fabulous host Kricket, toured us around a very vibrant and scenic town. As a bonus, Mesa Verde National Park is only 45 miles from Durango. I wanted to share with Brig the magical memories from my childhood of climbing ladders and squeezing through narrow rock walls to reach the Anasazi ruins. Lucky for us we hit the park on the one free day of the year and enjoyed a tour of Cliff Palace. If you have never been, go!

Two more days of interstate driving and we arrived in Dallas, Texas. The temps rose to 95 degrees, the traffic became bumper to bumper, the southern hospitality oozed out of every corner, and I felt like I was home. Today will be spent in a bar watching the TEXAS VS. OU game and tomorrow will land us in Austin, my real home. GO LONGHORNS!

To Crested Butte

2007-09-28T09:08:00.000-07:00

Well, we got into Crested Butte and went straight to the bar. I guess we missed "real" beer more than we thought. We sampled the local brew and, well..... Mer put it best "tastes like someone's homebrew." Crested Butte reminds me of Big Sky in many ways. Ten guys to every girl (on a good night) and one of those guys is a crusty old man who is too drunk to speak. Every bar in every mountain town has this guy. I was lucky to have him sit next to me and tell me where I could find everything. You want scenery he said, go here. Aspens? Go here. "Unicorns" I said. He's still stumped.

Once again we bounced the Legacy up the dirt road, bottoming out here and there, before reaching a "campsite" 10 miles off the nearest paved road. The approaching cold front and 10,000 foot elevation meant I would freeze in my bag while Mer stayed toasty in hers.

Eleven hours after crawling onto our bags we emerged from our tent. Frost was everywhere and our 5 gallon water jug was virtually frozen solid. Coffee. Pastries. Then we hit the trails.

The riding in CB is hard.

Big climbs.

Bring big views.

We missed the wildflower season, I can only imagine these huge alpine meadows filled with them, but we did catch the Aspens in full neon green and yellow.

Off to Durango (via Ouray) to see old Dallas friend Kricket.

Slick Rock Rocks

2007-09-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

Moab is the mountain biking mecca, and the 4 wheel drive mecca, and base jumping and dirt biking and hiking and on an on. To understand the town, you must imagine all of these sports and all of the enthusiasts stereotypical personalities plopped together in the desert. It makes for a fun and slightly bizarre place. I learned a few things while I was there.

1. Slick rock isn't really slick. You can ride your bike up and down the steepest rock without ever slipping. I was an incredible rider for those three glorious days.

2. 3.2% beer will never give you a buzz. It doesn't matter how many you have or how empty your stomach is. Stick to the margaritas.

3. Watching good ol' boys in jacked up jeeps going through high water crossings is incredibly entertaining. (See video) Walking your bike across the same crossing to reach the trail is incredibly dangerous. (But rocky, technical Amassa Back trail with views of red cliff formations and the Colorado River below makes it all worth it)

4. You never know when your going to run into your college roomate. Strolling into Poison Spider bike shop to catch a shuttle, Brig was suprised to see Jim Mundell, his freshman roomate working as a bike mechanic. They had lost touch for 5 years but now of course they are B.F.F.

5. The desert is hot and dry except when we visit and it becomes cold and wet. Go figure.

Off to Crested Butte, I hear the lows are 28 degrees. Brrrrr.

Grand Canyon et al

2007-09-26T10:12:00.000-07:00

TO SPARKS-

The times we shared were short lived, but the memories will last a lifetime. For those that never met him, you have missed a kind, caring, and adventurous little dude. Your company will be missed, we can only hope you were rescued by another traveler, someone to set you back on your path. We like to think. RIP Sparks. PS- Mer wants me to apologize for leaving you on the side of “the loneliest road.” PSS- Did I leave my shoes with you? If so, I’ll come back and get ya.

Speaking of shoes, just a few miles down the same road, we came to this. Not sure how things like this happen, I guess it just snowballs after someone tossed there (boy)friends smelly shoes.

We camped that night high above Cedar City, outside Brianhead for you MTB’ers, just off some dirt road. Refusing to pay for lodging for two weeks travel can sometimes be tough… and the cold temps and high winds almost cracked us. But we headed out early and made the short push to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. My first time here, and it lives up to the hype. We drove a long, slow 15 miles on another dirt road, battering the poor Legacy, but eventually arrived at our site for the night, a lovely little camp just on the Canyon Rim.

This morning we toured the canyon a bit more before loading up and scootin’ to Moab for some slick rock adventures.

Cheers, Brig

Downieville to Truckee

2007-09-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

I can’t say that the joy of retirement has completely sunk in yet, but it’s the little things that make you realize that your life just might be changing for the better. We chose the scenic route from Ali’s farm to Downieville. Hwy 89 led us leisurely through the Shasta-Trinity National Forest and brought us to Lassen Volcanic National Park around dusk. The park was empty on this Sunday night and we took our time weaving past the glacial rock, bubbling caldrons and a wee black bear.

With no real schedule and darkness arriving we decided to hit a gravel road and pitch our tent. We enjoyed a quick meal of grilled farm fresh veggies on the Coleman and busted out the plastic wine glasses and Grocery Outlet $2.99 wine bottle. (Oh yeah, and the harmonica) Ahh, the great out of doors. When suddenly there came a deafening loud crash of trees and brush in the woods only 20 feet from our camp chairs. Brig yelled fiercely at what had to be a gigantic bear. I threw my wine, dropped my harmonica and was in the car with the doors locked before you could say bear. The noise stopped, I poked my head out of the car door and Brig tried to convince me through nervous laughs that it was just an owl. Yeah right. I carved out a small hole in the stuffed backseat and spent the night in the Subaru.

Tuesday morning landed us in Downieville, population 370. It's a beautiful town in podunk California on your typical pristine river, surrounded by the mandatory huge mountains. We found a bearless campsite perched on a cliff and spent the day riding the twisty, steep singletrack for which they are famous. The next morning we blew that joint to drive a whopping 90 miles to Truckee. A longer bike ride near the Boreal ski area took us past amazing views of Castle Peak and down rocky, technical and really fun singletrack.

Wednesday afternoon and we are on the “Loneliest Road in America” headed down to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Colorado City here we come. Under the Banner of Heaven anyone?

Ali's Farm

2007-09-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

We’re off like a herd of turtles.

Day one of our journey covered a staggering 170 miles from Bend to Ali’s beautiful family farm outside of Medford. The farm has been in the family for just under 100 years, and strolling around the property is a step back to how things used to be. Llamas, horses, pigs, and kittens all roaming about on the 100 acres. We had a fantastic dinner courtesy of Ali and her mom from the garden followed by wine from the neighborhood.

Thankfully, unlike every other farm (and many busses we will be on in the near future) this one lacks roosters and chickens, so sleeping in was not a problem.

After another quick tour of the farm we headed to the winery to sample a few glasses and eat some home grown fruits. After our third scrumptious meal in 12 hours, we figured we should hit the road, so we did just that. Right now we’re on I-5 headed to Downieville, California (pop 325) to ride some fantastic singletrack.

The begining is near....

2007-09-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

Well folks, I think it might happen.. Our trip around the world is set to start next week, with (drumroll please) a drive to Ali's farm in Medford. Then farther south and farther south still.

By no means do we have this whole trip planned, how could we? But for the curious, here are the basics. Two people, two backpacks, four continents, $100 (each, more or less) and exactly 43,262 miles.

From Texas we will fly into Guatemala for a few weeks, then on to South America. Thanksgiving dinner will be Chicharron in Bolivia, while Christmas and summer solstice will be in Chile. We'll goof off for a few more months before heading to Africa.

We hope to keep an updated blog, although depending on 'net connections and the thousand other things beyond our control, well it could be a while between posts. But be patient, from time to time we should have some great stories and pictures. And between posts, feel free to share with us some of your travel stories, must sees, and don't do's. And if you get jeoulous, buy a ticket and meet us for a drink.

Well, that's it for now.