Odyssey

Gökçeada Moonscape

     I was born in 1964, Deb during the "Summer of Love" '69 - teenagers during the early 80's. I thought I missed this hippie dream life. Hitch-hiking through the hills, living on bread, tomatoes and salt, playing naked in the sea, sleeping on the beach. . . Happily, the islands of the Icarian Sea are still here, and I was wrong.

      We were last seen in Winterspring, Kyrgyzstan, headed for Khorog, Tajikistan, close by the Afgan border. With hard-won Tajik visas in hand and a car booked for early morning departure from Osh, we were primed. Drug related violence in Khorog had us a little worried about our destination, but when our driver refused to cross the road blocks in the Kyrgyz village of Sary Mogul, still 50K from the border, for fear for his own safety, we were done.  Once again, as has been the theme of our travels, it was time to listen to the Gods and take full advantage of our adaptability. We booked the next flight to Istanbul and switched mountains for the Sea.

Switched mountains for Sea, Muslim for Christian.

     We knew we'd crossed from East to West, Asia to Europe, Muslim to Christian when the swim attire changed from orange one-piece "swim burkas" complete with tie down head scarf hoods for the surf, to nothing at all. We embraced the naturalist ethic fully as we moved from Gokceada and Bozcaada in the Turkish North Aegean to the Ikarian Sea and Greece.

Sunset on Ikaria

Blue eyes and olive skin, Classic Hellas.

      We hopped South from island to island, one unique paradise to the next. We swam through caves that may have held a cyclops, jumped naked from high cliffs and ate octopus on our wedding anniversary. Not much to report here. Our days were filled with swims in aquamarine sea, trail runs across the goat paths and of course tomatoes, olives and fresh feta cheese. A "vacation from our vacation" we liked to say.

Fourni Islands fishing vessel

       Our plan was a quick return to Turkey to explore the highland mountains and make our way slowly North to the Black Sea, but we fell in love with the beauty and pace of the Greek Islands. And to be honest, we were tired of moving like sharks through our travels and needed to slow down and even stop. On tiny Lipsos Island we found our home and it there we stayed until the time warp collapsed and we zoomed- ferry, bus, ferry, train to Istanbul watching this amazing trip come to an end before our eyes. 

Art

     There was time in Istanbul for one last adventure, one more miracle, one last present during the best and longest lasting birthday party ever. Those of you who've known me forever, yes that's you Woody, Creature . . . you know who you are, will understand that it was Destiny that brought Neil Young to play outside in Kükçükr Park for the last night of our travels. My My, Hey Hey.

      As I type on my tiny iPad keyboard one last time here on the airplane headed home, I know that it's too soon to try put together all the pieces of this trip in my head let alone on a computer screen. One last photo speaks a thousand words.

Freefall into the Aegean 

       

Spring Skiing in the Babash Ata Range

Blue skies in the Babash Ata Range.

     We were married high in the Andes Range in Peru, with the mountains as our witness. Deb will tell you I tricked her into it while she was in a weakened state of high altitude craziness, but that's just not true. We learned then to trust and listen to the mountains.

     We stared at the steep and rocky slopes of Babash Ata from Arslanbob all winter, and could only dream of what the hidden North facing aspects held when stable springtime conditions might allow us access. We also dreamed of a first ski descent of this noble mountain.

     With our friend Fazil as our guide, we set off on horseback with five days of food and packs laden with ski and climbing gear. 

Fazil!

     We left the horses at the snow line, and after two days touring up and over the range, we set basecamp beside a still frozen glacial lake beneath the fantastic couloirs that rose to the summit of Babash Ata. We slept restlessly in the cold night in anticipation of another perfect day climbing styrofoam-like snow up and skiing corn snow down during our first descent. Once again, however, the mountain Gods had other plans.

     After coffee and oatmeal, (yes, even Fazil the diehard Uzbek chai drinker joined us for some instant black magic) we headed up into thin clouds that looked like they might give us passage. 200m from the summit with 40 minutes of climbing to go, the snow began to rage and it was time to listen to the mountains. Babash Ata said "No".

Turnaround time as the clouds smack down.

     The storm raged on for two days and two nights with Deb and I snuggled up in our cozy tent and Fazil somehow happily surviving in his plastic wrap burrito bivy system. I will say this only once so I don't offend - Fazil is one tough F#€^er! We took advantage of the brief pauses in the storm to shovel out the tent, drink a bit of chai and wolf down some naan. During the long windy nights as the snow sifted up under our vestibule and dusted our faces as we slept, I lay wondering if the muffled sounds I heard from Fazil's burrito were snoring, singing or praying.

Fazil emerges from his cocoon as the storm breaks.

      On the fifth day we made our escape, vowing to never camp again. Of course after beer, vodka and plov with Hayat that night in summer-like Arslanbob we'd hatched a plan for horses and first ski descents above Friendship Pass. For our adventurous friends, a first ski descent of the gem of the Babash Ata range is there for the taking if Hayat does not get there before you!

The consolation prize- first turns down the mountain we will call Lugge Apa, the mother of the skiers.

     

Deb cruises through wet corn down Friendship Pass towards camp.

       We'll leave our skis behind again tonight as we head South towards Tajikistan and more adventures.

Tragedy On Everest

Everest from the summit of Kala Patar 18,044 ft.

      Thirty-four days of walking in Nepal! Yes, our bodies suffered with the altitude, we climbed a few minor peaks and Deb got blessed by a Lama on her 45th birthday. But this time, instead of focusing on our adventures, I'll write a bit from our perspective about the recent climbing tradgedy on Mt. Everest.

      We were one valley East of the Khumbu when rumors arrived two days later at Chhukung of an avalanche that had taken the lives of 16 Sherpas working on Everest.

Sherpa man counting his prayer beads.

     Those who perished, included five men from the small village of Thame, a hamlet we'd spent a few days in during the early segment of our trek. Because of our affinity for Thame and it's nearby monastery, the loses here hit us especially hard, and it is difficult to even imagine how it is affecting this small community.

     The 16 who died were not your average load carrying Sherpas, though they did carry gigantic burdens up and through the mountains. These men were charged with finding the path, breaking the trail and setting the fixed ropes that make the climb up Everest a relative walk-up for Western mountaineers. They were the elite of the elite.

Butter lamps line the wall in a Nepalese monastery.

     Though the Sherpas are paid relatively well for three months of work walking in these beautiful mountains, none that I spoke with or watched enjoyed their jobs. Over-burdened to the extreme, they were working hard in the mountains purely to support their families at home. There was little joy and a lot of grunting.  Over use and a lack of respect for the environment has left a mark on the region, and left a bad taste in my mouth, not only from the polluted waters of Gorak Shep.

Looking out over the Third Gokoyo Lake.

     Out of respect for the Sherpa people, and also for lack of a safe route for Western climbers, Everest climbing was shut down for the season after the accident. Unfortunately, neither insurance nor the wealthy Nepalese government offered much support to the workers and families who have now lost both loved ones and a years worth of wages in an already hand-to-mouth economy. I asked a man in Namche Bazaar how many of the dead were his friends. With tears in his eyes, he said he knew every one of them.

White pebbles at a Gompa near Thame.

     An odd transition from the poverty and sadness of Nepal to the opulence and excess of Kuwait awaited us as we slowly made our way back to Central Asia. One day we were giving alms to limbless beggars on the streets of Katmandu, and the next morning we enjoyed brunch with a group of Generals from the U.S. military in an overly air conditioned four star hotel in the capital. After a quick and relaxing family reunion with Deb's dad, brother and brood, we headed back to Bishkek again, to again seek more snow in Arslanbob and our favored mountains. Maybe Babash Ata this time?

Reunion in Kuwait!

     

     

     

     

     

Crossing the Muslim~Buddhist Line

Mani stones on the trail.

    I'm no Heinrich Harrer, nor Brad Pitt for that matter, but after miraculously escaping Katmandu without getting sick, we ventured off on our own little walk around the Himalaya. We spent the first seven days walking from tea house to tea house, through small villages, past remote monasteries, finally catching our first glimpse of Mt. Everest on a corner of the trail in a collection of houses called Phurthang. In the end we will spend 34 days walking through the mountains.

Sherpa woman in Dagchu.

     Those of you who know me and my culinary tastes will understand how I've died and gone to heaven here in Nepal. Everyday starts with a big bowl of oat porridge with maybe a bit of yak milk and a cup of hot coffee. Lunch is Tibetan bread with peanut butter and supper dahl baht, better known as rice and lentils. Om Mani Padme Yummy! Now that we are camping, we've added cookies and increased our peanut butter intake to a jar every two days. Life is good.

View from our first Himalayan summit-Sumder Peak 16,300 ft.

     Yes, it's true - you can get anything you want in Namche Bazaar including chocolate cake and an espresso, which we indulged in after wolfing down a "vegetable" pizza. This is where most Everest expeditions begin after flying into Lukla airport and it's where the second part of our journey starts from as well. On a Namche side note, it is here that I've said good-bye to my trusty and loyal old orange puffy jacket which has travelled with me to the summits of Bolivian peaks, skied cold smoke powder in Kyrgyzstan and cozied up at home in Montana. Farewell, my duct tape covered friend. Happily, in true Buddahist style, my jacket has now been reborn to hopefully live an even better life on the shoulders of a now warm Sherpa in Namche.

My new jacket even works as a sleeping bag! Nap time @ 16,000 ft.

        We're slowly acclimitizing to the altitude, and as I type this we are hunkered down in sleeping bags on a clear chilly evening at around 15,900 ft a stones throw from the Tibetan border. Once the sun disappears behind the mountain, the temperature plummets so we'll spend the next 12 hours or so tent bound until hot coffee and porridge motivate us toward Sundar La (18,300 ft), Goyko and onwards toward Cho Oyu.

Namaste!

Chai-Naanistan

Caravan across Chai-Naanistan

     Tea and bread, you cannot escape it in Kyrgyzstan. That and invites home to sleep with the family are a couple of my favorite things about this country. Our taxi driver, Iliaz, who speaks absolutely no English is a wonderful example of Kyrgyz generousity and hospitality. Despite the fact that his three word vocabulary- "hello, Mr. John" severely limits communication (and my slim Kyrgyz does not help),

he is unrelenting in his requests that we stay at his home, enjoy a free taxi ride to the airport and "talk" on Skype when we return to the United States of America. Mr. Iliaz, you are a gem!

Iliaz and his wife Tamara. Eventhough you almost killed us, we appreciate your generousity!

     After more than two months on the road travelling through southern Kyrgyzstan and China, Bishkek feels positively cosmopolitian. Back at Interhouse Hostel to connect our circle and complete the first third of our big adventure, we are not quite ready to give up on winter and skiing, despite the coming Naurvooz (Spring Equinox) celebrations and decididly transitional weather. We were fortunate to meet up with a new friend, Mark Novacs, a Romanian living in Kazakstan,visiting Kyrgyzstan, who was game for adventure and had his ski gear with him. I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into by hitching his pony to our little cart, but off we all journeyed to Suusamyr (2-3 hrs South and 4,500ft above Bishkek) for four days of skiing and exploring.

With Mark, high above the Suusamyr valley on the summit of Belaya Grud' 3,800m.

       Once we broke through the valley fog, we found glorious blue skies, snow capped peaks as far as the eyes coulds see in every direction and inescapeable sunburn. We saw the same avalanche conditions we've seen everywhere in Central Asia - super weak facets on the ground with a thick solid slab on top. A classic continental snowpack in the middle of the largest continent on earth!

Suusamyr peaks rise above the clouds

       With sunny and warm weather, altitude and aspect were our friends and we found great dry corn conditions on high and North facing slopes. Once again, it felt like we were alone in a sea of untracked snow.

Our guardian angel in Suusamyr

      Our tolerance for mutton finally bottomed out during our stay in the Suusamyr Valley. After one visit to the only restaurant in town, we decided to opt for the healthy choice to fuel our adventures. We powered through our alpine days on a steady diet of dried noodles, Yak Yak bars and my new favorite condiment - canned sweetened condensed milk, which, combined with a couple teaspoons of instant coffee, makes a fine frontcountry latte.

Naurvooz celebrants in downtown Bishkek

     The greatest benefit of travelling without a plan, is adaptability. In this spirit we find ourselves today in an endless sea of a different kind. Birkas and turbans as far as the eye can see in every direction, this time at the Dubai airport on our way to Katmandu for a six weeks vacation from our central asian vacation. Thanks to everyone for following us! More to come soon!

     

Mountaineers' Hut on the trail to Ala Archa

Dreams Denied

Top secret spy photo at the border.

     Putting all the pieces together to travel independently with our skis into China took a good bit of work.  We had dreams of skiing off the Karakoram Highway; no big objectives, just adventure turns in a land far, far away. Unfortunately, the Gods had other plans for us.

Subashi yak on a thin snowpack

      First, southern Central Asia is having a very low snow year this year.  Everyone we talked to in Kashgar said we were crazy and stupid to try to ski, but we are used to hearing that. This time, however, they were right. Because of the political situation on the borders near Pakistan, Tajikistan and Afganistan, the West side of the Karakoram Highway is a "Forbidden Zone". Travel of any kind above 4,000m on Mustagh Ata requires a $3,000+ permit not to mention gale force winter winds and glacial ice. We might have been able to ski the East side of the road, below 12,000 ft, but it would have been on dirt. In the end, we left our skis in Kashgar and went looking for "cultural experience" in the Tajik Autonomous Zone towns of Subashi and Tashkurgan.

Our host in Subasi who curled up next to me at night and proceeded to snore like a chainsaw for 8 hours straight until he got up to pray at 5:30am.

The walls of Tashkurgan's Stone City with the Karakoram in the background.

      We drank salty yak milk tea, visited Tashkurgan's 1,400 year old Stone City and absorbed a bunch of Chinese Tajik culture (and a little bad bacterial culture as well!). Hitch-hiking our way North on the chinese Karakoram Highway, we found ourselves in a small coal truck.

       I've had a lot of scary moments in vehicles; from sliding backwards down the Fairy Lake Road at home in Montana to drunken Bolivian bus drivers pulling off 10 point turns on a hair-pin curve. But I've never been scared like the last hours of our journey out of Tashkurgan. The ride began with the usual basics- miscommunication surrounding the price on the ride, the Figuring of Ages and the shock and awe at our lack of children. As the "road" crested a pass, the tarmac turned to a skating rink. With a 2,000ft drop off to the river valley on the left, semi trucks choose to jack-knife right, face first into the sheer walled cliffs on the left. Our driver choose to slalomn through the insanity with his horn on permanent honk and, to our horror, actually accelerated as he made passes around blind corners. The only hope we had was that he valued his life as much as we valued ours, but with the culture of suicide bombings growing in this corner of the world, we were'nt too sure. I'll take this moment to reveal that seatbelt use is seen as a sign of weakness in the 'stans.

Kashgar kids

       We are chilling on the bus as I write this back in friendly Kyrgyzstan, so obviously we survived! Winding down another 24 hr bus ride and happy to be back in the KGZ. Onward toward Bishkek tomorrow (another 15 hrs by car) and hopefully a little more winter and skiing!

China, Kashgar and The Uyghur People

     It took us almost two full days in Osh to figure our where, when and how to take the bus to Kashgar. After arriving at the burned out, abandoned and apoctolyptic "new" bus station, we were still a little worried. Slowly, the bus filled, including three little old ladies who we suspected were smuggling heroin inside their candy boxes. Eleven of us borded the "sleeper" cab and we were off at around 10pm. 

      The journey took us 25 hours, 12 of which we spent driving. The other 13 hours we spent enduring childish beratings, searches, and endless waiting all at the hands of the chinese military. The border patrol were particularly interested in Deb's feminine hygiene products, all the heroin the little old Uzbek ladies were carrying, and my Black Diamond snow saw.

       Somehow, we made it to a bed in Kashgar by sleeptime and were ready to check out town in the morning. The cultural/political situation in Xinjiang is similiar to Tibet, though much less publicized. The Uyghur people,their religion and culture are literally and figuratively being bulldozed, over-run and buried by the Han Chinese.

Uyghur man at the Kashgar Bazaar

      The Uyghurs, however, are not going down without a fight. What is seen by the outside world as terrorism, and billed by the Chinese as such, as well, are the last desperate breaths of a people fighting an un-winable war. Sad.

Hot peppers in the market

      Kashgar is crazy. One side of the street is crumbling mud hovels with thriving and lively street markets while across the boulevard are three story malls filled with plastic goods, giant plasmatron TV billboards and 20 floor cement tenament buildings. Deb and I enjoyed jumping back and forth, sport shopping and being the only tourists in a huge melting pot as we preprared our own goods for a trip to the mountain village of Subashi and Mustagh-Ata . . . without our skis. But that's another story.

Cultural graveyard with Ferris Wheel in background.