Transcendentalism in the news:
Wild and Craggy, Just Like Thoreau
Although, I can offer a few quips about Thoreau's 'experience in nature,' I like the idea of "Civil Disobedience" being played out atop a mountain in the philosopher's honor. Get out and explore--and name things after transcendentalists!
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Musing about Walden
The following entry was originally born onto the page as a sample independent reading response for my students to use as a model. Although the piece could be deemed 'snooze-worthy' by the average 8th grader (and perhaps by some adults), I recognized its potential as a beautiful edition to "The Trekking Transcendentalist." Enjoy!
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
In 1845, Henry David Thoreau decided to apply Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendental philosophies to his life by escaping society and living within nature. Although Emerson’s transcendental ideas are meant to be followed in a more spiritual and theoretical fashion, Thoreau decided to trade in materialism for self-reliance and built a cabin in the woods near Walden Pond. Thoreau spent one year at Walden where he hewed his own wood, hunted for his own meat, grew his own crops, and built his own house. Although I have a few gripes about how truly ‘self-sufficient’ Thoreau was—he interacted with many people on Walden Pond, inherited a half-completed cabin, and received food from pitying locals—Thoreau does muse well about nature. My favorite quote from Walden illustrates the inherent conflict of wanting to explore nature while guarding its purity:
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
In 1845, Henry David Thoreau decided to apply Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendental philosophies to his life by escaping society and living within nature. Although Emerson’s transcendental ideas are meant to be followed in a more spiritual and theoretical fashion, Thoreau decided to trade in materialism for self-reliance and built a cabin in the woods near Walden Pond. Thoreau spent one year at Walden where he hewed his own wood, hunted for his own meat, grew his own crops, and built his own house. Although I have a few gripes about how truly ‘self-sufficient’ Thoreau was—he interacted with many people on Walden Pond, inherited a half-completed cabin, and received food from pitying locals—Thoreau does muse well about nature. My favorite quote from Walden illustrates the inherent conflict of wanting to explore nature while guarding its purity:
“We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature” (Thoreau 122).
This quote stands out to me most because it represents how everyone seeks the tonic of wildness and that once people get a taste of nature, they grapple with the issue of immersing themselves within nature while desiring that it will remain untouched by man. In connection to Walden, Thoreau is commenting on the fact that although he finds tranquility within the woods surrounding Walden Pond, he wants to preserve the territory as a place that is vacant of man and wild with nature. While Thoreau wants to preserve nature, he also wants to live among it—claiming that “we can never have enough.” Thoreau’s message serves to illustrate the ‘slippery slope of exploration,’ in which humans have a tendency to ‘over indulge’ in something they want to preserve and end up removing its novelty and its purity through exploration.
Thoreau’s quote connects well with my life because, I too, find myself yearning for nature, yet wanting to preserve it. For me, living in the Alaskan backcountry for seventeen days was one of the most extraordinary and humbling experiences of my life. I was forever at the mercy of Mother Nature—her creatures, her weather, and her violent change. While in nature, I was in awe of everything around me and both wanted to explore it, yet wanted it to remain untouched. In my explorations most of the ‘leaving nature untouched’ came from the perspective of ‘other people leaving nature untouched;’ me, I could be immersed in nature as much as possible without fear of destroying anything. My concern in connection to Thoreau’s quote is the idea that other humans over-love, over-process, and over-harvest nature. We begin with this sense of being in awe of nature, of wanting to immerse ourselves in it—because it is so pure and wild, but in immersing ourselves within it, a bit of wildness is lost. The issue, that we all yearn for nature, yet want to protect it, is the issue about which Thoreau was speaking. This is the issue with which I grapple while exploring and it is the issue that most naturalists feel is their number one concern. Although we need the tonic of wildness, we all need to learn how to preserve it.
Thoreau’s quote connects well with my life because, I too, find myself yearning for nature, yet wanting to preserve it. For me, living in the Alaskan backcountry for seventeen days was one of the most extraordinary and humbling experiences of my life. I was forever at the mercy of Mother Nature—her creatures, her weather, and her violent change. While in nature, I was in awe of everything around me and both wanted to explore it, yet wanted it to remain untouched. In my explorations most of the ‘leaving nature untouched’ came from the perspective of ‘other people leaving nature untouched;’ me, I could be immersed in nature as much as possible without fear of destroying anything. My concern in connection to Thoreau’s quote is the idea that other humans over-love, over-process, and over-harvest nature. We begin with this sense of being in awe of nature, of wanting to immerse ourselves in it—because it is so pure and wild, but in immersing ourselves within it, a bit of wildness is lost. The issue, that we all yearn for nature, yet want to protect it, is the issue about which Thoreau was speaking. This is the issue with which I grapple while exploring and it is the issue that most naturalists feel is their number one concern. Although we need the tonic of wildness, we all need to learn how to preserve it.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Immersion in Nature Can Be Risky, But It's a Risk Worth Taking
Below is a link to an interesting article published by NPR that outlines how immersing one's self in nature can be risky. As a transcendentalist at heart, I agree that escaping into nature is a risk, but it is a risk worth taking (as long as you are prepared and head out knowing it is risky). When Gavin and I explored Alaska, risk was evident. Before leaving cushy New Jersey, I always was somewhat aware of how risky a sea kayaking trip in the wilderness of Southeastern Alaska would be, but until I was in the thick of the wilderness, the bay, and at the mercy of Mother Nature, could I fully grasp how risky the situation truly was. During some particularly trying moments in Alaska, when the danger of hypothermia was in full swing, I remember Gavin looking at me, slashing his arm through the pouring rain, pointing to nature, nature, nature; the absence of human life and shouting: "This is not some Disney princess paddle through Glacier Bay! We could die out here!" His remark came from a small mistake I had made on our journey--something so minuscule that in society, one wouldn't even bat an eye. But here, out here in 3.3 million acres of wilderness, surrounded by no one else except wildlife, a small mistake is big. So big, it could cost you your life. Although I knew it was risky, I, then, fully became aware of the grandeur of this risk. As someone who typically pays attention to detail, I became more focused on survival and surroundings than I had ever done in my life.
All of this commentary serves not to dissuade folks from immersing themselves in nature--I truly believe nature is great for the soul--but instead it is meant to remove the veil of safety from the wilderness, exposing the harsh realities for which any trekker needs to be prepared. In the words of a seasoned Park Ranger from Glacier Bay (a celebrity in his own right for being in the park orientation videos, which Gavin and I watched three times, which made recognizing the now grizzled and slightly aged ranger in an airport a simple task): "You could do everything right in the backcountry and still die."
Happy reading and happy SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, ALERT trekking!
"Immersion in Nature, Naturally, Can Be Risky" NPR
All of this commentary serves not to dissuade folks from immersing themselves in nature--I truly believe nature is great for the soul--but instead it is meant to remove the veil of safety from the wilderness, exposing the harsh realities for which any trekker needs to be prepared. In the words of a seasoned Park Ranger from Glacier Bay (a celebrity in his own right for being in the park orientation videos, which Gavin and I watched three times, which made recognizing the now grizzled and slightly aged ranger in an airport a simple task): "You could do everything right in the backcountry and still die."
Happy reading and happy SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, ALERT trekking!
"Immersion in Nature, Naturally, Can Be Risky" NPR
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park: The Beginning
Whereas sea kayaking in Southeastern Alaska was a lesson in extreme backcountry exploration, canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park was a lesson in zen relaxation. Our trip began on Kiosk lake, located just outside of Mattawa, where we spent one evening in the campground's jump-off site--the site where you can simply slip your canoe into the water and paddle into the wilderness.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
The Kiosk Jump-off Site
"Kioshkokwi" means "lake of many gulls" in Algonquin
A happy canoeist in Kiosk
En route to our long portage
Our longest portage--1355 meters
The beginning of the portage trail
Paddling on Manitou Lake
Signs at the backcountry campsites that denote where the toilet is located
Beautiful Manitou Lake
Our island campsite on Manitou Lake
Our awesome tent
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Day 1: Sundew Point to Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet
After the Baranof Wind pulled away, and Gavin and I gathered our thoughts, we began packing the kayak. Two small green stuff sacks were shoved in the bow and stern of the kayak, the five bear barrels were placed behind my seat; a gallon of white gas, the dromedary, and the tripod sat behind Gavin's seat. Our sleeping bags and pads--kept in a dry bag--were shoved in the nose of the kayak and our remaining gear was lassoed down on top of the boat. Gavin placed the park map beneath the bungees on top of the kayak and proudly wore a compass around his neck--throughout the trip, Gavin was the master-navigator.
Gavin was also in charge of the rudder--a foreign feature found on sea kayaks to which avid canoeist have difficulty adjusting. My role in this kayaking venture was to paddle. I was in charge of pushing the paddle through the water and building up endurance while struggling against wind, tides, and some hair-raising waves. In other words, Gavin had the brains, the logic, and I had the brawn.
As soon as we pushed off shore on our rainy first day, we were instantly surrounded by marine wildlife. A few yards away a humpback whale spouted--welcoming us to his territory. We also came across skittish seals who would pop up in our path, look around, and then sink below the surface. On our first paddle we also saw a few harbor porpoises jump through the water in search of a meal. The water was teeming with life and the scenery was beautiful (and rainy).
Our first day was mainly spent figuring out the kayak and working out all of the kinks with the rudder. After we left Sundew Cove--our drop-off point--we paddled into the Hugh Miller Inlet and then traveled a scant four miles before plopping on a swath of land located at the junction of Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet. The campsite we found was beautiful and in close proximity to fresh water. The beach was littered with shells and remnants of sea urchins and the wooded areas were covered in moose pellets (which meant there was a good chance of having some large visitors). Since it was pouring, cold, and we were exhausted from a long day, Gavin and I unpacked our gear, set-up the tent, and crawled inside.
As the rain was still coming down steadily, we were quickly reminded about our leaky tent. Recognizing that a wet tent could equal a wet sleeping bag, which could equal hypothermia, which--as we were miles away from humanity--could equal death, I used my creativity and wove our tarp in between the tent body and the fly. Our tent became waterproof once again. After peeling off our wet clothes and nodding at the fact that Gore-tex is not really as waterproof as it claims to be, Gavin and I crawled into our bags and bid the day adieu.
Suddenly, Gavin remembered that there was a pack of gum shoved in the front of the backpack which had been sheltered beneath the tent vestibule. Since rule #1 of backcountry camping is to have all scented items far away from one's tent and in a bear barrel, Gavin begrudgingly slipped into his Gortex jacket and hiked to the bear vault. Minutes later, Gavin burst back into the tent, his Gore-tex jacket rain slicked, and prepared to climb back into bed. Before doing so, he checked the backpack one more time to ensure all food items were placed in the barrels. Unfortunately--and this is a mistake for which I am still paying--an orange had been left in the front of the bag.
*Flashback to the Baranof Wind: Lunch on the boat consisted of a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a choice of fruit. By the time I consumed my sandwich and the bread from Gavin's, I was stuffed and decided to return both the bag of chips and the orange. As per Gavin's suggestion, I shoved the orange in the front of the backpack to be consumed as a high-sugar snack at a later time.
As soon as Gavin reached into the bag and retrieved the orange, his eyes flashed angrily at mine and the memory of the ordeal on the Baranof Wind washed over me. The orange. Why hadn't I remembered the orange? I offered wildly to dispose of the orange in one of the vaults, but Gavin simply shook his head and stomped out of the tent, into the rain and 50 degree weather, again. When he returned I apologized profusely and we both hunkered down for a peaceful, warm night.
In that moment, it became starkly clear that I was a neophyte in the backcountry and that in order to make it out alive, I would have to pay close attention to everything at all times. Unfortunately, since I was still learning how to navigate my way in the wilderness, there were a few mistakes prior to the 'orange incident' and there would be a few more to come. Luckily, Gavin and I were dry, warm, happy, and still had the taste for adventure.
Gavin was also in charge of the rudder--a foreign feature found on sea kayaks to which avid canoeist have difficulty adjusting. My role in this kayaking venture was to paddle. I was in charge of pushing the paddle through the water and building up endurance while struggling against wind, tides, and some hair-raising waves. In other words, Gavin had the brains, the logic, and I had the brawn.
As soon as we pushed off shore on our rainy first day, we were instantly surrounded by marine wildlife. A few yards away a humpback whale spouted--welcoming us to his territory. We also came across skittish seals who would pop up in our path, look around, and then sink below the surface. On our first paddle we also saw a few harbor porpoises jump through the water in search of a meal. The water was teeming with life and the scenery was beautiful (and rainy).
Our first day was mainly spent figuring out the kayak and working out all of the kinks with the rudder. After we left Sundew Cove--our drop-off point--we paddled into the Hugh Miller Inlet and then traveled a scant four miles before plopping on a swath of land located at the junction of Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet. The campsite we found was beautiful and in close proximity to fresh water. The beach was littered with shells and remnants of sea urchins and the wooded areas were covered in moose pellets (which meant there was a good chance of having some large visitors). Since it was pouring, cold, and we were exhausted from a long day, Gavin and I unpacked our gear, set-up the tent, and crawled inside.
As the rain was still coming down steadily, we were quickly reminded about our leaky tent. Recognizing that a wet tent could equal a wet sleeping bag, which could equal hypothermia, which--as we were miles away from humanity--could equal death, I used my creativity and wove our tarp in between the tent body and the fly. Our tent became waterproof once again. After peeling off our wet clothes and nodding at the fact that Gore-tex is not really as waterproof as it claims to be, Gavin and I crawled into our bags and bid the day adieu.
Suddenly, Gavin remembered that there was a pack of gum shoved in the front of the backpack which had been sheltered beneath the tent vestibule. Since rule #1 of backcountry camping is to have all scented items far away from one's tent and in a bear barrel, Gavin begrudgingly slipped into his Gortex jacket and hiked to the bear vault. Minutes later, Gavin burst back into the tent, his Gore-tex jacket rain slicked, and prepared to climb back into bed. Before doing so, he checked the backpack one more time to ensure all food items were placed in the barrels. Unfortunately--and this is a mistake for which I am still paying--an orange had been left in the front of the bag.
*Flashback to the Baranof Wind: Lunch on the boat consisted of a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a choice of fruit. By the time I consumed my sandwich and the bread from Gavin's, I was stuffed and decided to return both the bag of chips and the orange. As per Gavin's suggestion, I shoved the orange in the front of the backpack to be consumed as a high-sugar snack at a later time.
As soon as Gavin reached into the bag and retrieved the orange, his eyes flashed angrily at mine and the memory of the ordeal on the Baranof Wind washed over me. The orange. Why hadn't I remembered the orange? I offered wildly to dispose of the orange in one of the vaults, but Gavin simply shook his head and stomped out of the tent, into the rain and 50 degree weather, again. When he returned I apologized profusely and we both hunkered down for a peaceful, warm night.
In that moment, it became starkly clear that I was a neophyte in the backcountry and that in order to make it out alive, I would have to pay close attention to everything at all times. Unfortunately, since I was still learning how to navigate my way in the wilderness, there were a few mistakes prior to the 'orange incident' and there would be a few more to come. Luckily, Gavin and I were dry, warm, happy, and still had the taste for adventure.
The last photo our point and shoot camera took before biting the dust. Here, wind-whipped and rain-slicked Gavin loads the kayak before pushing onward to adventure!
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Stepping Off the Baranof Wind and into the Wild
After a couple of peaceful nights in the Glacier Bay Campground, a short hike around Bartlett Cove, coffee in the intertidal zone (the area that is flushed by the extreme rising and falling of the tide), and several orientations, our kayaking exploration was about to begin.
Prior to heading out in the kayak, Gavin and I prepared our gear by making it 'waterproof.' We stuffed the bear barrels with plastic bags and designated specific barrels for each type of product. One barrel housed our toiletries, another held the coffee, rolled oats, and dried fruit; a third had as much cheese and hard salami/pepperoni that would fit. A fourth container had dried soup mix and bouillon cubes, and a fifth contained trail mix, nuts, and dried apricots. In addition to prepping the bear barrels, Gavin and I practiced stuffing our dry sacks with clothing, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, and our tent--all items that must be kept dry. With our gear organized, we fell asleep to the comforting spouts of whales in the cove and set our sights to tomorrow's exploration.
Our alarm went off at 4:15 AM and we awoke to rain and a dripping tent. All last year when we explored America and its campgrounds during our cross-country road trip, we had never experienced a leaky tent. Then again, our tent had never experienced an Alaskan downpour. We quickly tried to protect our sleeping bags and began stuffing everything into dry sacks. After about an hour breaking down camp, and zipping up in our Gore-tex, we wheeled our gear to the Bartlett Cove dock and prepared for our departure into the wilderness.
At 6:30--in 48 degree weather and a steady rain--Gavin and I hauled our kayak and all of our gear onto the Baranof Wind, a tour boat that takes lodge visitors on a six hour journey through Glacier Bay. Gavin and I sat on board the ship wearing our PFDs unaware of the drop-off procedure. In my mind, the boat was a simple ferry that would carry us to our drop-off point, leave us in the wilderness, and would carry the remaining, jean-clad and umbrella-toting passengers on a scenic tour of the park. Little did we know that we, too, would be traveling on a four-hour portion of the tour and would be fed, kept warm, and provided all-you-can-drink hot beverages.
On the boat, Gavin and I met a lot of wonderful people. The first kind folks we talked with were an older married couple who were on a month-long tour of Alaska. We delighted in sharing stories of past trips and we were warmed with each others' company. The next group of helpful people were the wonderful staff members on the Baranof Wind--namely Jared, Lauren, and Megan--who gave us helpful tips and advice about where to paddle, where to camp, and what to see. The final group of people with whom we chatted was a group of twelve kayakers that we picked up from Mount Wright, a pick-up/drop-off location on the East Arm of Glacier Bay. The kayakers were a school group that was lead by a seasoned kayaker, Alison. In a fascinating twist of events, Alison revealed that the school group was from a New Jersey high school--information at which my ears perked up and I desired to ask which one.
"The Lawrenceville School," was her response, and the information was almost earth-shattering.
The reason I was so taken aback was this--here Gavin and I were, in the middle of nowhere Alaska, cruising Glacier Bay, waiting to be dropped off in the wilderness, and there's a group of students from a school located only minutes away from our Ewing, New Jersey residence. What are the odds? After reeling back from the shock of this 'small world' interaction, Gavin and I sought more advice from Alison and began to feel comforted about our upcoming excursion in the Alaskan backcountry.
The Baranof Wind cruise was truly remarkable and it allowed for us to see territory we would not be chartering in our kayak. While aboard, Gavin and I saw humpback whales, sea otters, seals, sea lions, mountain goats, a brown bear, and the calving Margerie Glacier. With an exception to the mountain goats, Gavin and I would see many of the other creatures during our paddle throughout Glacier Bay and within the Icy Strait.
When it came time for us to begin prepping for our drop-off, the wind was still whipping, the rain was still steady, and it was still only about 50 degrees. Being left, beached, as the boat pulled away was not looking too exciting. The Baranof Wind approached our drop-off point, Sundew Cove, located on the West Arm of the park, and all of the tour passengers ogled us as we prepared to 'fire line' our gear to the shore. We began passing bag after bag through a line of people to the beach where we, too, would soon set foot.
After all of our gear was stashed on the beach, well above the tide line, we unloaded the kayak. As per a suggestion by the Glacier Bay Sea Kayak owner, Leah, Gavin and I sported 'water shoes' out of fear of having our rubber boots top over with water. So, we stepped our sandal-clad feet into frigid Glacier Bay, caught the bow of our kayak, and hauled it on shore. As soon as all of our gear was off the boat, the kind folks on the Baranof Wind wished us safe travels and the lodge people snapped photos of us, frantically waving as the boat pulled away.
Watching the warm, sheltered ship pull away from the beach where we were stranded in search of adventure, was somewhat stress-inducing. After a brief moment, Gavin and I snapped back to reality and began to load our kayak. Our adventure was underway. No rain, no wind, nor cold conditions would stop our exploration. Day one in Glacier Bay had begun.
Prior to heading out in the kayak, Gavin and I prepared our gear by making it 'waterproof.' We stuffed the bear barrels with plastic bags and designated specific barrels for each type of product. One barrel housed our toiletries, another held the coffee, rolled oats, and dried fruit; a third had as much cheese and hard salami/pepperoni that would fit. A fourth container had dried soup mix and bouillon cubes, and a fifth contained trail mix, nuts, and dried apricots. In addition to prepping the bear barrels, Gavin and I practiced stuffing our dry sacks with clothing, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, and our tent--all items that must be kept dry. With our gear organized, we fell asleep to the comforting spouts of whales in the cove and set our sights to tomorrow's exploration.
Our alarm went off at 4:15 AM and we awoke to rain and a dripping tent. All last year when we explored America and its campgrounds during our cross-country road trip, we had never experienced a leaky tent. Then again, our tent had never experienced an Alaskan downpour. We quickly tried to protect our sleeping bags and began stuffing everything into dry sacks. After about an hour breaking down camp, and zipping up in our Gore-tex, we wheeled our gear to the Bartlett Cove dock and prepared for our departure into the wilderness.
At 6:30--in 48 degree weather and a steady rain--Gavin and I hauled our kayak and all of our gear onto the Baranof Wind, a tour boat that takes lodge visitors on a six hour journey through Glacier Bay. Gavin and I sat on board the ship wearing our PFDs unaware of the drop-off procedure. In my mind, the boat was a simple ferry that would carry us to our drop-off point, leave us in the wilderness, and would carry the remaining, jean-clad and umbrella-toting passengers on a scenic tour of the park. Little did we know that we, too, would be traveling on a four-hour portion of the tour and would be fed, kept warm, and provided all-you-can-drink hot beverages.
On the boat, Gavin and I met a lot of wonderful people. The first kind folks we talked with were an older married couple who were on a month-long tour of Alaska. We delighted in sharing stories of past trips and we were warmed with each others' company. The next group of helpful people were the wonderful staff members on the Baranof Wind--namely Jared, Lauren, and Megan--who gave us helpful tips and advice about where to paddle, where to camp, and what to see. The final group of people with whom we chatted was a group of twelve kayakers that we picked up from Mount Wright, a pick-up/drop-off location on the East Arm of Glacier Bay. The kayakers were a school group that was lead by a seasoned kayaker, Alison. In a fascinating twist of events, Alison revealed that the school group was from a New Jersey high school--information at which my ears perked up and I desired to ask which one.
"The Lawrenceville School," was her response, and the information was almost earth-shattering.
The reason I was so taken aback was this--here Gavin and I were, in the middle of nowhere Alaska, cruising Glacier Bay, waiting to be dropped off in the wilderness, and there's a group of students from a school located only minutes away from our Ewing, New Jersey residence. What are the odds? After reeling back from the shock of this 'small world' interaction, Gavin and I sought more advice from Alison and began to feel comforted about our upcoming excursion in the Alaskan backcountry.
The Baranof Wind cruise was truly remarkable and it allowed for us to see territory we would not be chartering in our kayak. While aboard, Gavin and I saw humpback whales, sea otters, seals, sea lions, mountain goats, a brown bear, and the calving Margerie Glacier. With an exception to the mountain goats, Gavin and I would see many of the other creatures during our paddle throughout Glacier Bay and within the Icy Strait.
When it came time for us to begin prepping for our drop-off, the wind was still whipping, the rain was still steady, and it was still only about 50 degrees. Being left, beached, as the boat pulled away was not looking too exciting. The Baranof Wind approached our drop-off point, Sundew Cove, located on the West Arm of the park, and all of the tour passengers ogled us as we prepared to 'fire line' our gear to the shore. We began passing bag after bag through a line of people to the beach where we, too, would soon set foot.
After all of our gear was stashed on the beach, well above the tide line, we unloaded the kayak. As per a suggestion by the Glacier Bay Sea Kayak owner, Leah, Gavin and I sported 'water shoes' out of fear of having our rubber boots top over with water. So, we stepped our sandal-clad feet into frigid Glacier Bay, caught the bow of our kayak, and hauled it on shore. As soon as all of our gear was off the boat, the kind folks on the Baranof Wind wished us safe travels and the lodge people snapped photos of us, frantically waving as the boat pulled away.
Watching the warm, sheltered ship pull away from the beach where we were stranded in search of adventure, was somewhat stress-inducing. After a brief moment, Gavin and I snapped back to reality and began to load our kayak. Our adventure was underway. No rain, no wind, nor cold conditions would stop our exploration. Day one in Glacier Bay had begun.
The Baranof Wind
Rachel posing in her rain-soaked Gore-tex on the Baranof Wind
Our 'dry' camp shoes
Our life- (and toe)-saving rubber boots
Monday, July 28, 2014
Our Next Adventure...
On July 9th Gavin and I returned to society and the humidity of a New Jersey summer. With only 19 days in the suburbs, we are aching to return to nature, desiring to drink in fresh air, and longing to paddle our way through remote wilderness.
So, why not go? Why not get out of town in search of wide open spaces? We have the gear. We have the time. We have the desire.
With that positive outlook and adventurous energy, Gavin and I have decided to head out for a 7-day paddle in the backcountry of Algonquin Provincial Park, Canada. We tested the canoe in the Delaware River and smiled at the ease of calmer waters and the renewed energy of seasoned paddlers. I also delighted in my comfort while paddling and marveled at my newly strengthened shoulders. With the canoe afloat, a waterproof tent, and a backcountry permit, Gavin and I have begun prepping for our trip.
Today, we stopped at three grocery stores for food supplies. This time we are tweaking some of the backcountry menu items. Instead of rolled oats for breakfast, we'll be fueling our sleepy eyes with dried fruit, nuts, apples, and pears. For lunch, we'll enjoy hard salami and a variety of cheeses, for snacks we'll devour trail mix and Larabars and for dinner we have a few choices--dehydrated soups (black bean, split pea, and rice noodle); cheese, or instant Indian food (vegetable korma, channa masala, and jaipur vegetables).
Over the next few days I'll continue to tell the tale of our Alaskan Adventure while weaving in shorter posts about what it takes to prepare for a backcountry trip.
So, why not go? Why not get out of town in search of wide open spaces? We have the gear. We have the time. We have the desire.
With that positive outlook and adventurous energy, Gavin and I have decided to head out for a 7-day paddle in the backcountry of Algonquin Provincial Park, Canada. We tested the canoe in the Delaware River and smiled at the ease of calmer waters and the renewed energy of seasoned paddlers. I also delighted in my comfort while paddling and marveled at my newly strengthened shoulders. With the canoe afloat, a waterproof tent, and a backcountry permit, Gavin and I have begun prepping for our trip.
Today, we stopped at three grocery stores for food supplies. This time we are tweaking some of the backcountry menu items. Instead of rolled oats for breakfast, we'll be fueling our sleepy eyes with dried fruit, nuts, apples, and pears. For lunch, we'll enjoy hard salami and a variety of cheeses, for snacks we'll devour trail mix and Larabars and for dinner we have a few choices--dehydrated soups (black bean, split pea, and rice noodle); cheese, or instant Indian food (vegetable korma, channa masala, and jaipur vegetables).
Over the next few days I'll continue to tell the tale of our Alaskan Adventure while weaving in shorter posts about what it takes to prepare for a backcountry trip.
Exploring Gustavus Alongside the Locals
Our flight from Juneau from Gustavus was one of the quickest jet rides I've ever experienced. As soon as we took off and achieved elevation, the captain came on announcing: "flight attendants prepare for landing"--an announcement that elicited an audible chuckle from everyone on board. After our whopping 17 minute flight, we landed in a tiny Alaska Airlines airport in one of the most charming cities in America. With a population of about 500 summer residents, Gustavus is stunning because of the nature, the open spaces, the sustainable lifestyles and those 500 residents--everyone Gavin and I encountered in town was friendly, kind, and would lend you their clunky pick up truck if you needed to make a quick run to the local grocery, Toshko--an offer that was actually extended to us by a kind flight attendant when a plane ride was canceled on our return trip.
By the time the stairs were wheeled to the plane and Gavin and I traipsed across the damp tarmac, the sun was shining and the clouds had parted. We were ready for our adventure to begin! The first part of the adventure was being retrieved from the airport by our former-New Jerseyan-now-Alaskan friend Keith. Gavin 'met' Keith through a mutual friend as a 'inspirational success story'--someone who escaped the rat race of the Northeast for the open spaces of the Last Frontier. For years, Gavin has poured over Keith's wildlife photography from Alaska and Antarctica (where Keith works in the winter months ferrying explorers to and from the continent on Zodiaks). In the summer, Keith runs a ferry service from the Gustavus dock to Point Adolphus. In an interesting twist of events--solidifying the world as being 'small'--Gavin and I had booked a ferry drop-off with Keith for the second part of our trip before we even realized that the Keith who'd be dropping us off was 'the Keith' we had been admiring. Through Facebook's power of connectivity, we reached out to Keith to solicit some advice about the second part of our kayaking adventure (this happened after reading an article posted about Keith's success as a photographer, masseuse, boat operator, and guide) and realized that he would be dropping us off at Point Adolphus. Keith enthusiastically gave us advice about where to paddle and he also kindly offered to pick us up at the Gustavus Airport upon arrival. The last offer was, for me, one of the most exciting moments because we could travel around Gustavus as the locals do. We New Jerseyans could be accepted into the small Alaskan community.
After most travelers were retrieved from the Gustavus airport, Gavin and I waited with our gear in great anticipation for a clunky Subaru carrying Keith to round the corner. When Keith arrived, he was friendly, funny, and full of advice. "Sorry none of the seat belts are functioning--there's no real need for them in Gustavus. If you wanted to, you could roll around town with an open six pack"--and with these words I became fascinated by the freedom of this town. Our first stop in town was to the local liquor store--not for Gavin nor me, since we needed to keep our wits about us in the backcountry--but for Keith, to refuel. We stopped out front of a small wood-shingle shack where locals streamed in and out sporting their Xtratuf rubber boots--standard issue brown wellies with a yellow toe stripe. Gavin and I got out to explore while Keith ducked in for some local brew and a bottle of Makers Mark.
Following our liquor store adventure we stopped at Toshko for some white gas, eggs, apples, and of course, bear spray (highly concentrated pepper spray that is proven effective for deterring ornery bears). Although Gavin has never traveled Alaska with bear spray, I, as a backcountry neophyte, had bear spray listed as the number one item on my shopping list.
Unfortunately, Toshko was out of white gas--a reality of small-town Alaska living--so Keith kindly offered to take us back to his place so we could pick up a container that he had. As we cruised the town of Gustavus, I marveled at the lack of street lamps, signs, and house numbers. Some homes had outboard motors on their front yard as a house marker while others existed in secrecy--tucked back into the woods unbeknownst to the uninitiated. Some homes mirrored typical suburban architecture while others either used metal sheeting as walls or were simply refurbished buses. Yes, in the same architectural vein as the shelter of Christopher McCandless, the main character of Jon Krakauer's novel Into the Wild.
A few turns after Toshko and much fascination at the local architecture, Keith turned the Subaru down a long dirt road and stopped at the end. Next to the car, littering the ground, were all of the items Keith had thrown out of his car in order to make room for us and our gear. In the pile were items associated with an adventurous lifestyle--hiking boots, buoyes, empty gas containers, a bicycle, a tire, a backpack, and an extra pair of rubber boots. Keith informed us that we had a little bit of a hike to reach his yurt--which, by the way, is one of the most badass backcountry shelters one could have--so he popped open a beer, offered one to me (which I declined on account of wanting to be fully attentive), and handed me the bottle of Makers Mark to carry to the yurt.
*As an aside, it was one of the neatest and most 'purely Alaskan' experiences to slop through the woods in search of a yurt while carrying a bottle of Makers Mark.*
Although spartan, Keith's yurt was remarkable. Inside was a bunk of beds that he shared with a friend, a two-burner gas stovetop, a beautiful wood-burning stove, baskets of clothing, jars of salmon Keith had caught and self-canned; and a crusty loaf of bread--an item that made the yurt look extremely rustic. There was also a visitor in the yurt--a vole--which had frequented Keith for some time. Although the vole was not the biggest visitor Keith had had in his yurt--last year, on two separate occasions bears had stomped into his humble abode while Keith was building a cabin just a few feet away--we sadly learned that the vole met his demise by a forcefully slammed box of pasta. The first 'bear-in-the-yurt' incident left muddy paw prints everywhere whereas the second incident resulted in Keith peering around the door of his yurt to a giant Grizzly chilling out in his house--an image that always makes me smile. Keith, of course, had to yell and physically chase the bear out--an action that is common in Alaska (one that Gavin and I would learn later in the trip).
After laughing about wildlife encounters, exploring the yurt, and awing at the cabin that Keith is in the process of constructing, we piled back into the Subaru and headed for Glacier Bay National Park. Our backcountry journey was about to begin.
By the time the stairs were wheeled to the plane and Gavin and I traipsed across the damp tarmac, the sun was shining and the clouds had parted. We were ready for our adventure to begin! The first part of the adventure was being retrieved from the airport by our former-New Jerseyan-now-Alaskan friend Keith. Gavin 'met' Keith through a mutual friend as a 'inspirational success story'--someone who escaped the rat race of the Northeast for the open spaces of the Last Frontier. For years, Gavin has poured over Keith's wildlife photography from Alaska and Antarctica (where Keith works in the winter months ferrying explorers to and from the continent on Zodiaks). In the summer, Keith runs a ferry service from the Gustavus dock to Point Adolphus. In an interesting twist of events--solidifying the world as being 'small'--Gavin and I had booked a ferry drop-off with Keith for the second part of our trip before we even realized that the Keith who'd be dropping us off was 'the Keith' we had been admiring. Through Facebook's power of connectivity, we reached out to Keith to solicit some advice about the second part of our kayaking adventure (this happened after reading an article posted about Keith's success as a photographer, masseuse, boat operator, and guide) and realized that he would be dropping us off at Point Adolphus. Keith enthusiastically gave us advice about where to paddle and he also kindly offered to pick us up at the Gustavus Airport upon arrival. The last offer was, for me, one of the most exciting moments because we could travel around Gustavus as the locals do. We New Jerseyans could be accepted into the small Alaskan community.
After most travelers were retrieved from the Gustavus airport, Gavin and I waited with our gear in great anticipation for a clunky Subaru carrying Keith to round the corner. When Keith arrived, he was friendly, funny, and full of advice. "Sorry none of the seat belts are functioning--there's no real need for them in Gustavus. If you wanted to, you could roll around town with an open six pack"--and with these words I became fascinated by the freedom of this town. Our first stop in town was to the local liquor store--not for Gavin nor me, since we needed to keep our wits about us in the backcountry--but for Keith, to refuel. We stopped out front of a small wood-shingle shack where locals streamed in and out sporting their Xtratuf rubber boots--standard issue brown wellies with a yellow toe stripe. Gavin and I got out to explore while Keith ducked in for some local brew and a bottle of Makers Mark.
Following our liquor store adventure we stopped at Toshko for some white gas, eggs, apples, and of course, bear spray (highly concentrated pepper spray that is proven effective for deterring ornery bears). Although Gavin has never traveled Alaska with bear spray, I, as a backcountry neophyte, had bear spray listed as the number one item on my shopping list.
Unfortunately, Toshko was out of white gas--a reality of small-town Alaska living--so Keith kindly offered to take us back to his place so we could pick up a container that he had. As we cruised the town of Gustavus, I marveled at the lack of street lamps, signs, and house numbers. Some homes had outboard motors on their front yard as a house marker while others existed in secrecy--tucked back into the woods unbeknownst to the uninitiated. Some homes mirrored typical suburban architecture while others either used metal sheeting as walls or were simply refurbished buses. Yes, in the same architectural vein as the shelter of Christopher McCandless, the main character of Jon Krakauer's novel Into the Wild.
A few turns after Toshko and much fascination at the local architecture, Keith turned the Subaru down a long dirt road and stopped at the end. Next to the car, littering the ground, were all of the items Keith had thrown out of his car in order to make room for us and our gear. In the pile were items associated with an adventurous lifestyle--hiking boots, buoyes, empty gas containers, a bicycle, a tire, a backpack, and an extra pair of rubber boots. Keith informed us that we had a little bit of a hike to reach his yurt--which, by the way, is one of the most badass backcountry shelters one could have--so he popped open a beer, offered one to me (which I declined on account of wanting to be fully attentive), and handed me the bottle of Makers Mark to carry to the yurt.
*As an aside, it was one of the neatest and most 'purely Alaskan' experiences to slop through the woods in search of a yurt while carrying a bottle of Makers Mark.*
Although spartan, Keith's yurt was remarkable. Inside was a bunk of beds that he shared with a friend, a two-burner gas stovetop, a beautiful wood-burning stove, baskets of clothing, jars of salmon Keith had caught and self-canned; and a crusty loaf of bread--an item that made the yurt look extremely rustic. There was also a visitor in the yurt--a vole--which had frequented Keith for some time. Although the vole was not the biggest visitor Keith had had in his yurt--last year, on two separate occasions bears had stomped into his humble abode while Keith was building a cabin just a few feet away--we sadly learned that the vole met his demise by a forcefully slammed box of pasta. The first 'bear-in-the-yurt' incident left muddy paw prints everywhere whereas the second incident resulted in Keith peering around the door of his yurt to a giant Grizzly chilling out in his house--an image that always makes me smile. Keith, of course, had to yell and physically chase the bear out--an action that is common in Alaska (one that Gavin and I would learn later in the trip).
After laughing about wildlife encounters, exploring the yurt, and awing at the cabin that Keith is in the process of constructing, we piled back into the Subaru and headed for Glacier Bay National Park. Our backcountry journey was about to begin.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Exploring the Last Frontier: Juneau
After an overnight layover in Seattle and a burnt cup of joe from Starbucks, we boarded a flight to Juneau, Alaska. Flying into Juneau was beautiful--and rainy--and I was antsy to see what Alaska's capital city had to offer. Upon arrival, a set of stairs was wheeled to the door and Gavin and I set foot on Alaskan soil. We had made it to Juneau. The only thing standing between us and the backcountry was a six hour layover and a plane ride to Gustavus.
Since we had a few hours in Juneau, Gavin and I stored our carry-on luggage at the Juneau Airport and tried our hand at navigating the public transportation system. The bus routes to and from the airport can be a little confusing and we were told that the drivers would only stop if you waved them down. Thank goodness for my cheerleading training, because as soon as that bus rounded the corner I was flapping my arms around to save my life. The scene of a wildly waving woman was enough to elicit a chuckle from the driver who transported us to downtown Juneau.
Upon arriving downtown, Gavin and I were starving for both culture and food. As we walked through the rain swept streets, clad in our Gortex gear, we realized that we had unfortunately landed in the 'touristy' section of the city. 99% of all the visitors swarming the shops had come off a giant cruise ship. As they had their fill of whale charms carved in soapstone and wooden bear figurines, Gavin and I fled in search of something grander than fur pelts--breakfast.
Guided by the yelp app on Gavin's phone, we ducked into several small shops offering pastries and coffee, but yearned for something bigger, fuller, something stuffed with salmon. While studying the yelp app and trying to orient ourselves in Juneau, a local gentleman approached us and asked if we were in need of assistance. Starved and somewhat lost, we told the man about our salmon-less breakfast plight and he helped us find a local gem. Not only did he give us directions, but he took time out of his morning to walk us--almost directly--to the door of the restaurant.
This moment--of being guided by a local--renders such warm feelings and elicits another layer to our backcountry story. Although the 'point' of being in the backcountry is to escape society and to immerse one's self in nature, a large part of what made our Alaskan Adventure wonderful were the people we encountered. Later, in my crafting of this blog, I intend on writing a piece about the kindness of strangers--with a focus on small-town Alaska--because several times on our journey, Gavin and I encountered such kind, helpful, and caring people. People who extended a warm welcome and an inviting smile. But before a kind word about humanity, back to breakfast....
The local gentleman (known to Gavin and me as 'the local old dude'--a term granted to any seasoned, knowledgeable local who extends a helping hand) told us about his life's journey while walking us to our breakfast haven. The man was a former teacher from the midwest who decided he wanted to escape the wide-open prairie for some wilderness. He began his new life in Hawaii and then finally moved to Alaska. He's lived the past fifteen years in Juneau where he has worn many occupational 'hats.' He began his life in Juneau as a teacher then traveled the ranks to administrator. After leaving public education, he expanded his reach to the government and worked as a government official in Alaska. Following his work with Alaskans on a grand scale, he left the political realm for the warm-fuzzy glow of a non-profit organization. While the local old dude (l.o.d) divulged his life story, my eyes widened and I grew excited by the fact that he began his new life as a teacher--which registered in my mind as 'job transferability.' Gavin and I both informed the l.o.d. that we, too, work in public education and that one day, we may find ourselves making a jump from the lower 48 to rural Alaska. Speaking with someone who has achieved the feat of living a dream was comforting, awe-inspiring, and 'fueled the fire' so-to-speak for us to potentially do the same.
After parting ways with the l.o.d. Gavin and I enjoyed a delicious breakfast at the Sandpiper Cafe--a must-visit if you plan on going to Juneau. Gavin dove into a gluten-free Elk burger and I delighted in a salmon-stuffed omelet topped with mascarpone cheese. If we were going to have enough energy for our backcountry explorations, we'd best pack on a few last minute pounds....
Following breakfast, and a mini-tour of Juneau, Gavin and I passed through the baby security checkpoint at Juneau International Airport and we waited in anticipation for our flight to Gustavus.
Since we had a few hours in Juneau, Gavin and I stored our carry-on luggage at the Juneau Airport and tried our hand at navigating the public transportation system. The bus routes to and from the airport can be a little confusing and we were told that the drivers would only stop if you waved them down. Thank goodness for my cheerleading training, because as soon as that bus rounded the corner I was flapping my arms around to save my life. The scene of a wildly waving woman was enough to elicit a chuckle from the driver who transported us to downtown Juneau.
Upon arriving downtown, Gavin and I were starving for both culture and food. As we walked through the rain swept streets, clad in our Gortex gear, we realized that we had unfortunately landed in the 'touristy' section of the city. 99% of all the visitors swarming the shops had come off a giant cruise ship. As they had their fill of whale charms carved in soapstone and wooden bear figurines, Gavin and I fled in search of something grander than fur pelts--breakfast.
Guided by the yelp app on Gavin's phone, we ducked into several small shops offering pastries and coffee, but yearned for something bigger, fuller, something stuffed with salmon. While studying the yelp app and trying to orient ourselves in Juneau, a local gentleman approached us and asked if we were in need of assistance. Starved and somewhat lost, we told the man about our salmon-less breakfast plight and he helped us find a local gem. Not only did he give us directions, but he took time out of his morning to walk us--almost directly--to the door of the restaurant.
This moment--of being guided by a local--renders such warm feelings and elicits another layer to our backcountry story. Although the 'point' of being in the backcountry is to escape society and to immerse one's self in nature, a large part of what made our Alaskan Adventure wonderful were the people we encountered. Later, in my crafting of this blog, I intend on writing a piece about the kindness of strangers--with a focus on small-town Alaska--because several times on our journey, Gavin and I encountered such kind, helpful, and caring people. People who extended a warm welcome and an inviting smile. But before a kind word about humanity, back to breakfast....
The local gentleman (known to Gavin and me as 'the local old dude'--a term granted to any seasoned, knowledgeable local who extends a helping hand) told us about his life's journey while walking us to our breakfast haven. The man was a former teacher from the midwest who decided he wanted to escape the wide-open prairie for some wilderness. He began his new life in Hawaii and then finally moved to Alaska. He's lived the past fifteen years in Juneau where he has worn many occupational 'hats.' He began his life in Juneau as a teacher then traveled the ranks to administrator. After leaving public education, he expanded his reach to the government and worked as a government official in Alaska. Following his work with Alaskans on a grand scale, he left the political realm for the warm-fuzzy glow of a non-profit organization. While the local old dude (l.o.d) divulged his life story, my eyes widened and I grew excited by the fact that he began his new life as a teacher--which registered in my mind as 'job transferability.' Gavin and I both informed the l.o.d. that we, too, work in public education and that one day, we may find ourselves making a jump from the lower 48 to rural Alaska. Speaking with someone who has achieved the feat of living a dream was comforting, awe-inspiring, and 'fueled the fire' so-to-speak for us to potentially do the same.
After parting ways with the l.o.d. Gavin and I enjoyed a delicious breakfast at the Sandpiper Cafe--a must-visit if you plan on going to Juneau. Gavin dove into a gluten-free Elk burger and I delighted in a salmon-stuffed omelet topped with mascarpone cheese. If we were going to have enough energy for our backcountry explorations, we'd best pack on a few last minute pounds....
Following breakfast, and a mini-tour of Juneau, Gavin and I passed through the baby security checkpoint at Juneau International Airport and we waited in anticipation for our flight to Gustavus.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Our Pre-Adventure Adventure
After years of dreaming about hiking/camping/setting foot in Alaska, I received my chance on Friday, June 20, 2014. Our sea kayaking adventure in Southeastern Alaska was months in the making as we researched, re-researched, and re-re-researched to ensure any and all kinks in our planning were worked out. In the months leading up to our trip, Gavin called someone in Alaska at least once a week, we watched countless youtube videos of people doing the same sort of adventure, we viewed all of the camper orientation films on Glacier Bay's website, we planned our food, we brainstormed how we'd pack our gear, and I created checklist upon checklist for each aspect of our trip. The months, weeks, and days leading up to our trip was a whirlwind of calls, scribbling, researching, and packing until June 19th when we, and our gear, boarded the West Trenton train to Philadelphia International Airport. With a kind send-off from friends, well wishes from neighbors, and hugs from family, we boarded a flight to Seattle and waited in anticipation for the adventure to begin.
Before setting foot in Alaska, our adventure began in the Seattle airport--some 891 miles away from Juneau, our entry point to the Last Frontier. Our Seattle airport adventure consisted of an overnight layover, harsh lighting, late-night construction, and a deafening snorer. After a quick dinner at an airport restaurant, Gavin and I scoured the terminal for a 'perfect' sleeping spot--1) not too crowded, 2) not too loud, 3) not too bright, 4) somewhat secluded, 5) equipped with armrest-less seats for easy lounging. As our sleepy eyes scanned possible options, it became glaringly evident that our hunt for the 'perfect' sleeping spot was sharing the same plot line as "Goldilocks and the Three Bears":
The first spot was too crowded. The second spot was too noisy--why a restaurant would be doing construction at 12 AM is still mind-boggling. The third spot was just about right--that is, until the loudest snorer in the land made his invisible, but very audible, appearance. Finally, around 1:30, Gavin and I found an agreeable spot--not too loud, not too frequented, and pretty comfortable--beneath a glowing advertisement for Wells Fargo. With our bags tucked beneath us and layers of clothing wrapped around us, we settled in for a peaceful rest.
A rest that lasted a mere five minutes.
*Blaring Announcement: "Terminal N will be closing in approximately ten minutes. Please relocate to Terminal C."
With disbelief and a sudden urge to rebel, Gavin and I looked at one another and begrudgingly slumped to Terminal C. Several times while walking to Terminal C, I considered the possibility of hiding in a Terminal N restroom until it would be possible to sneak back to our 'perfect' location beneath Wells Fargo.
Finally, after stumbling sleepily around Terminal C, we found a bank of seats--armrest-less, score!--and hunkered down for a 'restful' night. The next morning, I awoke to a vacuum cleaner, major bedhead, and burnt Starbucks coffee. All in the name of fun, experience, and adventure!
In spite of the discomfort of sleeping in an airport, I found the whole experience somewhat enjoyable. It was neat to scour the terminal for a decent place to rest alongside other weary travelers, and it made our exit to Juneau that much more enjoyable. Although sleeping with a bandana pulled over my eyes and my legs through the arm holes of a fleece was not as miserable as expected, next time I'm opting for zenning-out in the meditation room.
Morning coffee after a night in the Seattle Airport
Thursday, July 24, 2014
About 'The Trekking Transcendentalist'
While most folks would rather pluck out their 'transparent eyeball' when pouring over the philosophies of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, I delight in the prospect of becoming one. In 2007, I enrolled in an Early American Literature course--a required class for English majors--and discovered a life-guiding philosophy while immersed in the ideas behind "An American Scholar," "The Divinity School Address," Nature, "Self-Reliance," and, of course, Walden. As a result of my obsession with these Early American men, I have written a conference paper about Emerson's ideas on scholasticism in connection to American Education and the apparent disconnect between high school- and college-level writing; I have backed my pedagogical philosophy in Emerson's ideas of scholasticism, I have become a self-proclaimed transcendentalist and have been named--by friends and students--a hippie; I have, and continue to desire to, escape to nature during backcountry, off-the-grid, explorations; I've received many transcendentalist tchotchkes--children's books about transcendentalism, cardboard cut-outs of Emerson and Thoreau, countless quotes, and textbooks about Emerson's philosophies; and, adorably, my rescued dog is Ralph Waldo Emerson's namesake.
Additionally, my love of transcendentalism has lead to the creation of "The Trekking Transcendentalist." The purpose of this blog will be to serve as a public forum in which I can capture my experiences, and the experiences of others, as they trek through life as 'a transparent eyeball.' It will contain articles about nature, travelogues about backcountry explorations; Emersonian musings on life, philosophy, and teaching; and will 'prospectively' follow two New Jerseyans' exit from the Garden State to a land teeming with wildlife, open spaces, and new lifestyles. Get ready to consume "the tonic of wildness!"
Happy trekking and happy reading,
Rachel
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