A Tropical Idyll in the Pacific Northwest: Part I Kayaking the Sunshine Coast

My two Teva clad feet poked above the water, framing the view of the mouth of the cove opening into the broad channel that wrapped around us. The silhouettes of several tree-covered islands and mountains overlapped in different shades of pastel and receded in the distance across the channel. I was floating on my back in the waters of coastal British Columbia. Not exactly the Caribbean – no palm trees, no rum drinks with paper umbrellas, and the water temperature was more than a tad or two colder. But the water was warm enough for a late afternoon swim, the scenery was more dramatic, and there was no one else to be seen other than my four sea kayaking companions relaxing after a long day of paddling in the warm bright sunshine of the aptly named Sunshine Coast.

The Sunshine Coast is just a relatively short drive and an even shorter flight northwest of Vancouver (about 3 hours by car but most of that time is spent on two ferries; about 30 minutes by plane). It’s easily accessible but still feels somewhat remote -- most of the coast above Powell River, the “urban” center of the region, can only be reached by boat or float plane. Like almost all of the BC coast, it is strikingly beautiful -- islands of all sizes covered in Douglas fir, hemlock, cedar and madrone; narrow inlets and fjords indenting the rugged coastline; and jagged snow capped mountains in the distance framing long views across wide sounds. But unlike most of the BC coast, the Sunshine Coast is in the rain shadow of the low mountains of Vancouver Island to the west across the Georgia Strait, so the weather is usually sunny, dry and warm, sometimes very warm. The convergence of two ocean currents, one from the north and the other from the south, also keep the waters warm enough for swimming, especially for the hardy Canadians who frequent the coast and the occasional American, kiwi, and European willing to explore beyond the immediate vicinity of Vancouver.

I was here because it was easily accessible and, therefore, relatively inexpensive, not an unimportant concern in this era of bursting economic bubbles and fiscal uncertainty. The trip that lured me here was the seven day “Into the Majestic Mountains” kayaking trip offered by Powell River Sea Kayak Ltd. (PRSK). There were five of us on this trip, our guide Jaime, Kathy and Tracy, a 50ish couple from the San Francisco Bay area, Tania, a 36 year old woman from New Zealand, and I.

The opportunity to paddle a single kayak was another reason why I chose this trip for my annual kayak adventure. I have taken many sea kayak trips over the years, but have rarely had the chance to paddle a single kayak for any length of time. Most trip operators use doubles because they are more stable, not an unimportant consideration when there are relatively inexperienced kayakers on the trip, as there usually are, or when the waters are rough and cold -- challenging and potentially dangerous conditions for even experienced paddlers. The warm, protected waters of the Sunshine Coast create ideal conditions for relatively inexperienced kayakers to try out single kayaks. The four of us, not including Jaime, rotated among two singles and one double so we all had ample opportunity to paddle the more maneuverable singles and go off on our own – but not too far off – to explore the rocky shores or to spend a few minutes in thoughtful silence.

But don’t let the phrase, “warm protected waters” fool you. This trip was no piece of cake. We paddled 10-16 miles a day, probably closer to the upper reaches of that range on most days. In addition, the steep, rocky beaches presented their own challenges, requiring both agility and muscle to shlep camping equipment, food, and other supplies to and from the kayaks and our campsites which were often back in the trees or high on the beaches, well above the tide line. On many days, the kayaks also had to be hauled up at day’s end, and back down to the water the next morning. So, despite the seductive ease of the weather, it was a fairly demanding trip. We ate well, sometimes very well (see shortly), but I still managed to lose a few pounds.

SEVEN DAYS OF SUNSHINE AND SERENITY

At the top of the Sunshine Coast is Desolation Sound, one of the most popular boating destinations in the world. Despite the name, the Sound is anything but “desolate.” It was named by Capt. George Vancouver, one of the first Europeans to discover the Sound, who had the misfortune to arrive on a damp, foggy, ergo “desolate” day.

This is not a wilderness but a wild area, an area where humans have worked and lived since the earliest years of the First Nations people who first inhabited the region. Signs of humans, past and present, are all over – oyster farms, vacation homes, boats (both power and sail), and logging. This is all part of the historical, cultural and visual fabric of the area. But the wildness of the place is also easy to see in the scenery and in the wildlife -- bald eagles, loons, ducks, seals, orange and purple sea stars, and the occasional porpoise, as well as in the wildlife that we didn’t see but are there, nonetheless -- black bears, grizzlies further up the remote inlets, and cougars, though from what I hear, you don’t see actually the cougars until it’s too late.

We crossed the Sound the first day of the trip and spent most of the second day putting some distance between us and the boat traffic in and around the Sound, especially the big power boats and the yahoos on deck. But with each day that passed, the scenery grew more beautiful and dramatic, and we felt more remote from civilization. By the third day we were into a semblance of wilderness, a wild, scenic, and serene landscape with few signs of civilization other than the occasional boat, vacation house, or distant patch of logged and partially re-grown forest. We set up our tents on a high, mossy rocky point jutting out into the water and went for a swim in the warm shallow waters of the cove below.

Our fourth day was sheer ecstasy. It was a layover day so we didn’t have to pack up camp and had time for a leisurely breakfast of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon made by PSRK’s owner, Adam Vallance, from locally caught wild salmon. The plan for the day was to poke around and explore the nearby islands and channels. It was overcast at first, and the water was like glass. Everything was hushed. It was one of those magic paddles – a couple of hours of muted light and sound as we glided past rocky banks on the lookout for seals poking their heads above the water and eagles diving for fish.

The sun peeked out, then burst out in full as we pulled onto the beach for lunch. This spot was even more magnificent than our camp site. Beyond the small grove of trees behind the oyster- and mussel-strewn beach was a high point almost surrounded by water on all sides. Stretched before us was a vast expanse of water broken up only by islands and mountains in the distance. This is where we ate our lunch, in reverent silence accompanied by the occasional squawk of birds. After lunch we dug for clams and gathered as many of the oysters and mussels as we could carry to the kayaks and paddled leisurely back to camp in time for another swim before dinner.

The next day we paddled to our last destination, Toba Inlet, a long fjord that cuts deep into the coastal mountains which had been only a distant backdrop for our trip until now. It was another great day of paddling, but the highlight was dinner. Jaime, ably assisted by Tania, cooked the oysters, mussels and clams we had gathered the day before. He steamed the oysters and mussels in garlic and butter and chopped up the clams in the veggie chili. I am a big fan of oysters – raw, steamed, pan fried, whatever – and I eat them whenever I can. I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur, so I don’t think that this is just a case of camping-compromised taste -- where everything tastes good, even the freeze dried crap we would never consider eating at home -- when I say these were some of the best oysters I have ever had! Realizing that we were nearing the end of our trip, we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the beach looking silently at the mountains growing dark across the inlet.

The last full day rivaled Day 4 for highlights. The plan was to paddle deep into the inlet, then return to our campsite for our last night. The first highlight was the waterfall only a quarter mile or so from our camp. Everyone had the opportunity to paddle their kayaks under the waterfall for our only shower of the trip. It was cold but the air was warm so it really didn’t matter. Then after a couple of miles of paddling, we rafted all four kayaks together, hooked two corners of a spare rain fly to the two outside kayaks and rigged the other two corners to paddles held vertical on the decks of the outside kayaks. With this improvised sail, we sailed briskly down the inlet. It was a wild ride with Jaime and Tracy holding the paddles upright, me in the stern of the double holding onto the stern of the two kayaks on either side, and Kathy and Tania just holding on.

In what seemed like no time at all we were pulling onto the beach for lunch. It was one of the most beautiful spots of the trip, except for the logging in full operation a quarter mile away on either side, reminding us yet again of the tradeoff between accessibility and intrusiveness – the easier it is to get to the wild, the less wild it will be.

We didn’t linger long. We ate our lunch, took in the scene with enough tunnel vision to block out the sounds and sights of the logging, then headed back, but only after a few minutes of wrong way white water kayaking up the stream that ran by the beach – i.e., paddling upstream against the current through a small rapids just far enough for a brief thrill. The wind that had been at our backs and filled our sail on the way in, was in our face on the way out. I’m sure I burned more calories heading back than were saved by our brief sail in the other direction, but the thrill of sailing in kayaks down the wild, narrow fjord was well worth the extra work.

The next day, we packed up camp and paddled several miles to our pick up point. After an exciting, 45 minute, high speed ride in a Zodiac, I was soon on my way to the airport for my short flight to the Vancouver airport to meet my wife for a long weekend in what is one of the most beautiful and cosmopolitan cities in North America, perhaps the world. I felt as relaxed as I had felt in months and fitter than I had been all year. I was also as tan as a South American tourist on Venice Beach and as slim as I ever get. Within just a few minutes of landing we were off to one of the many outstanding Chinese restaurants that can be found in this glorious city in a successful attempt to regain some of the weight I had lost during the trip. There is a lot to be said for accessibility, other than its easy to get to.

FURTHER INFORMATION

For more information on the kayak trip and the trip operator, Powell River Sea Kayak (PRSK), go to www.bcseakayak.com. Besides their home made smoked salmon, bread, energy bars and other goodies, PRSK also features top of the line equipment including new, high-end fiberglass touring kayaks.

I stayed at the Cedar Lodge B&B (www.cedarlodgebb.ca) the night before the trip. It is an attractive, affordable, quiet place to stay that is only short drive to the offices of Powell River Sea Kayak, where the trip begins (the friendly owners, Mary and Andy, will drive you there if you don’t have a car), and a 10 minute walk to an excellent gourmet restaurant, the Laughing Oyster (http://www.laughingoyster.ca/).

Vancouver has some of the best, most authentic Chinese restaurants to be found outside of Asia. My personal favorite is Sun Sui Wah Seafood (www.sunsuiwah.com). At the other end of the elegance/cost (but not quality) scale is Sha-Lin Noodle House for fresh, hand cut noodles made right before your eyes. Great entertainment, great food. They don’t have a website but they are easy to Google.

A Tropical Idyll in the Pacific Northwest: Part II Hiking and Backpacking on the Olympic Peninsula

The sun is shining as I pass the town of Sequim (pronounced “Squim” like some kind of squishy, low tide cephalopod) on Washington’s State’s Olympic Peninsula (OP). I am on my way to Olympic National Park, one of “America’s Ultimate Parks,” according to National Geographic Adventure magazine.

Times are tough and money is short, so that is why I vacationed this year on the Olympic Peninsula, home to one of the most diverse and accessible wilderness areas in the United States and one of my favorite destinations in North America. In my opinion the Olympic Peninsula, especially Olympic National Park, offers the best value for the money -- variety, solitude, beautiful scenery, and easy and inexpensive to get to and enjoy once you are there. It is just an hour or so drive and a 30 minute ferry ride from Seattle, and its varied attractions -- a rugged coastline, empty beaches, glacier-capped mountains, alpine meadows, pristine lakes, and thick rain forests – are a relatively short drive from one another.

There is another reason I am here, to see if this 67 year old itinerant adventurer could still haul a fully loaded backpack into the wilderness and survive a few days on my own. From my mid 30s to my mid 50s, I used to do solo back packing trips almost every year, several of them on the OP. It was always a deeply satisfying experience – a meditative, reflective, man-alone-with nature, listening-to-your-inner-voice, getting-in-touch-with-your-primal-self, city-boy-alone-in-the-wild kind of thing. I loved it.

I stopped backpacking altogether, solo or with company, about a dozen years ago as my knees and back started to give me trouble and the goop collecting in my arteries began to remind me of my mortality. But I’ve missed it. So, after getting the go ahead from my cardiologist and my knee surgeon, I decided to give it another try, to see if I could recreate those seminal experiences of my earlier years on the relatively flat, low altitude trails of Olympic National Park.

Before heading off into the wilderness with my overloaded pack, I did a couple of practice hikes first, one on Dungeness Spit, a 6.5 mile narrow stretch of sand poking into the Strait of San Juan de Fuca, and the other to Klahhane Ridge, a 3.7 mile hike from the Hurricane Ridge Visitor Center in the heart of the Park. These two hikes illustrate the accessible but diverse attractions of the Olympic Peninsula – a flat walk along a narrow beach and, just a short 18 mile drive away, a hike up a rugged switchback trail at over 5000 feet.

THIRD BEACH: DAY 1

For the first of my two back packing trips, I planned an easy three day, two night hike into one of the rugged, relatively remote wilderness beaches that run almost continuously along Washington’s Pacific coast. I chose Third Beach, about a two hour drive from Hurricane Ridge. It was an easy hike in, only 1.4 gently sloping miles through a thick, green forest down to the beach and only a little bit further to the more secluded section at the far end. This was, indeed, backpacking for geezers.

At the trail head, I hefted my pack with nervous anticipation. Would it live up to my expectations? Will I get eaten by a black bear? Will I collapse from the effort?

The latter was of particular concern since the pack weighed at least 50 pounds. In my younger days, weight was not an issue. I just packed what I wanted and figured that I could handle it. It soon became clear that those days are long gone. Although I’m in pretty good shape, my body just doesn’t respond the way it used to. The hike wasn’t a struggle, but it sure was uncomfortable.

It all seemed worthwhile when I reached the beach. Third Beach is about a half mile long, bracketed by a rocky headland at each end. All of the campers on the beach were clustered around the stream at the beginning of the beach, the only source of fresh water. The rest of the beach was deserted, except for a beachcomber or two or the occasional backpacker heading to or from the even more remote beaches to the south which are only accessible via a steep rope ladder over the headland at the end of the beach.

I found a great campsite on a level bench of sand, several feet above the high tide line. The edge of the forest was just a couple of yards behind, and the waves crashed just a few yards in front. Big driftwood logs served as my “furniture” – an easy chair to lean back in, a counter top for my stove, and branches and roots to hang my sweaty clothes. I could see a virtual rock garden of sea stacks jutting out of the water off shore in the distance just past the first headland. I had the beach pretty much to myself.

After I finished setting up camp, I took off my boots and it wasn’t long before I dozed off in the warm sun. When I awoke a few minutes later, I began to feel feral, that state of being that defines the wilderness experience -- a bit funky, but in a good way, and a shift in focus from the obsessive internal buzz of the work-a-day world to the immediate tasks of keeping track of my gear and avoiding the annoying bites of mosquitos and the possibility of the more significant bites of hungry bears.

THIRD BEACH: DAYS 2 AND 3

The next day was pure ecstacy – sunny and warm with enough ocean breeze to keep me reasonably comfortable. I packed a lunch, a bottle of water and a shirt and headed to the rope ladder at the end of the beach. To get to the next beach and beyond requires hiking across the headland at the end of the beach. Trying to walk around it at beach level is hazardous, even at low tide, requiring climbing over a jumble of very large rocks while dodging the large waves crashing all around. So like everyone else with any sense, I worked my way up the rope ladder like a commando – about 50 feet up at approximately a 60 degree angle -- to the top of the bluff overlooking the beach.

It was so much fun, I did it twice. It would have been a different story with a 50 pound pack – very strenuous, a bit scary, and somewhat risky. I watched several backpackers go up and down the rope ladder with varying degrees of difficulty, but most were significantly younger and carrying lighter packs. I was glad that I decided to camp on Third Beach and do this as a day trip rather than try to backpack into the more remote beaches on the other side of the headland.

The 1.2 mile trail across the headland took me through a cool and silent rain forest dappled with sun light filtering through the thick canopy overhead. The muffled thunder of the distant surf was the only sound I heard other than the thud of my boots on the soft, mossy ground, the clink of my hiking poles against the rocks, and the rhythmic sigh of my breath. The trail ended at another rope ladder which took me down to a beach looking out onto a rocky bay filled with the same needle-like sea stacks, some topped with trees, that I could see from my camp site.

I spent the next several hours exploring this wonderland. I poked around in the tidepools, gazed over the crashing surf at the sea stacks, and climbed up another bluff and hiked across the headland to the next beach. I ate lunch and watched the tide come in, then headed for the rope ladder to return to Third Beach. The hike back across the headland was so quiet that I whistled a good chunk of the Thelonious Monk songbook – even more atonally than he intended -- to scare off any black bears hiding in the forest. I hoped they weren’t jazz fans.

I was back at my campsite by mid afternoon. After a short nap in my tent to get out the increasingly hot sun, I leaned back on my “sofa” and alternated between napping, reading and, liberated from the need for conversation, listening to my increasingly languid inner voice. After a while, I even stopped that and just watched a family of deer wander out of the woods onto the beach a few yards away and the fog wrap around the distant sea stacks. It’s for moments like this that I haven’t yet given up on this solitary exercise.

The hike out the next day was easier than the way in, even though it was now slightly uphill. My pack was lighter – no food and less water – but I am convinced that I was just getting used to carrying the weight. The next trip would be the real test -- a four night, 38 mile round trip hike along the Hoh River through the rain forest, up to a 4300 foot-high ridge overlooking the Blue Glacier at the foot of Mt. Olympus, the tallest mountain on the Peninsula at 7980 feet. But first I had to find an air-conditioned motel room. It was getting hot, really hot.

THE HOH RAIN FOREST

I listened anxiously as the weatherman on the morning TV news show predicted record breaking heat in Seattle, 103 degrees F, shattering the all time record for the “rainy” city. The forecast for Forks where I had spent the night was not much better. “Oh well,” I thought, “it should be cooler in the rain forest.” Wrong! When I checked in at the ranger station, I listened carefully as the ranger warned the backpackers in front of me about the heat, a predicted 105 degrees in the sun and 95 in the shade!

She seemed especially concerned when I stepped up to the counter. Maybe it was because I was the oldest person in line (how could she tell?), or maybe it was because I was the only person in line who wasn’t as thin as a wisp. My water filter gave me some trouble on the last trip, so I started to worry that I might not be able to pump enough water to avoid a potentially lethal case of dehydration or heat exhaustion. I did this trip many years before and remembered it fondly. Five days surrounded by the lush green cathedral of the rain forest was as close to eco-heaven as I’ve ever been. But the intense heat on this day washed out the metaphorical color from the trip and made me realize that, even if I wasn’t putting myself in danger, I probably wouldn’t have much fun.

I decided to bail on the back packing trip and went for a nine mile up-and-back day hike instead. That relatively easy hike convinced me that I had made the right decision. With more than a mile left in the hike, I was exhausted and had drained a full Camelback and a 1.5 liter bottle of water.

I headed back to the hellish heat of Seattle. After a sleepless night in my friend’s spare bedroom (no air conditioning), I found a cheap one way air fare home and returned in time for the heat wave that helped spark the largest fire in the history of Los Angeles County.

EPILOG

Despite the heat and my cancelled trip, I still had a great time. Those three days on the beach made me realize that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on solo backpacking. But it also made me realize that if I wanted to continue I would have to go ultra light, or at least figure out a way to trim a minimum of 15-20 pounds from my pack. The problem is I am not sure that at my age, it is worth the expense of replacing my present gear with light weight versions. How many years would I get out of the investment? Should I spend $1000-2000 just to squeeze out a few more back packing trips before I have to throw in the towel and make the full transition to geezer hood?

Maybe I need to try this again and take another shot at the hike in the Hoh rain forest. Maybe next year…..

OTHER PLACES TO GO ON OR NEAR THE OLYMPIC PENINSULA

Point Flattery is the rugged wind and wave battered northwest corner of the State and of the “lower 48.” It is just a short (half mile) scenic walk from the end of the road. Port Angeles is the jumping off point for almost all of the OP and has a certain rough hewn historical appeal of its own. You can also catch the ferry to Victoria on Vancouver Island across the strait to spend the day soaking up the English influence, looking at the flowers in the world famous Butchart Gardens, or walking or riding a bike along sea wall. Quaint, somewhat touristy, but still charming Port Townsend is also worth a stop to check out the Victorian architecture as well as the art galleries, antique stores, fine dining, and the live music. For something different check out Crescent Lake, Sol Duc Hot Springs, and a couple of ferry rides away, the San Juan Islands. Their attractions are apparent from their names. There are also numerous other beaches and rain forests to explore.

Riding the Hulahula to the Arctic Ocean

Condensation of a chapter in

“Riding the Hulahula to the Arctic Ocean:
A Guide to 50 Extraordinary Adventures for the Seasoned Traveler”
(Mankin and Stowell, National Geographic Books, 2008)

My doctor’s words were like a punch in the stomach. “Don, I think its time we looked into this,” he said while looking at the results of my latest blood test. I was leaving in a couple of weeks for my latest “trip of a lifetime” and did not want to hear about anything that might get in the way. I had been dreaming of this trip for years – an 11 day raft trip starting near the headwaters of the Hulahula River deep in the Brooks Range in northern Alaska, running through the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR), and ending on a mere sliver of an island a mile or so off the coast in the portion of the Arctic Ocean known as the Beaufort Sea (the river was named by a crew of homesick Hawaiian whalers trapped in the ice near the mouth of the river in the late 19th century).

The doctor scheduled me for some further tests. The problem was, besides the potentially life threatening implications of the results, there was no way I would get the results back before leaving for my trip. He assured me that there was no reason I couldn’t go on the trip. The worst case scenario would be serious but not imminent, and there was little that could happen on the trip that would make the situation worse. Being a true obsessive, and a hypochondriac to boot, I couldn’t imagine enjoying the trip with the test results hanging over my head until my return, but my doctor and, most important, my wife prevailed. Several days later I left for my trip as originally planned.

Flying Into the Alaskan Bush
Like most Alaskan adventures, the fun began with the flight into the bush. After an hour long flight to Arctic Village, a Native American settlement at the southern edge of ANWR, we were ferried in groups of three to our put in point in a small plane specially designed to land and take off in places too confined for more conventional aircraft. I would soon see why this was so important.

Our pilot was the prototypical Alaskan bush pilot – rangy, weathered, and nonchalant. I had the good fortune to get the front passenger’s seat with a view to die for. From the looks of the plane and the terrain, I wasn’t all that sure that I wouldn’t have to pay that price. Snaking through the mountain passes and river valleys at low altitude, it sometimes seemed as if our wings almost brushed the tundra covered slopes. The pilot would occasionally swoop even closer to the ground to give us a better view of musk oxen, moose, or grizzly bears just below.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better or more breathtaking, the pilot pointed out a small gravel beach beside the river a mile or so ahead. “That’s where we’re landing,” he calmly noted. It was a very short and uneven stretch of beach, hardly what I would call a landing strip. I gulped and replied, “I’m impressed.” He smiled, “Don’t be, not yet. Wait to see if we make it.” I assumed he was kidding. Whether or not he was, he slowed the plane to what seemed like an aeronautical version of a crawl, hovered for a second or two before plopping down on the gravel, and came to a stop in just a few bumpy feet. It was probably the strangest airplane landing I have ever experienced.

Adapting to a Unique Environment
After we set up camp for the night, it was time for our orientation to life in the Arctic – high rubber boots for walking on the spongy, mossy, marshy tundra; individual canisters of bear spray, also for walking on the tundra; and the ubiquitous shovel and ditty bag of toilet paper for….well, you get the picture. David, the lead guide from Arctic Wild, our tour operator (http://www.arcticwild.com/), also showed us the shotgun that he would always have at the ready, just in case, and instructed us to be sure to talk, sing and otherwise make noise whenever we wandered off for a walk or to take care of “business.” Although the terrain was pretty open – bluffs, rolling hills, and stream beds – there were depressions and obstructed views that could hide a bear. The key was to avoid them when you can see them, and to make sure that you do not surprise them when you can’t.

While our guides made dinner, we explored our surroundings, slogging up and down hills with the spray canisters grasped firmly in our hands, constantly scanning ahead for bears. We also had to keep our eyes on the ground just ahead. Much of it was made up of tussocks of moss, lichen and tiny yellow, white and purple flowers. In between the tussocks were boggy depressions a foot or so deep. It was tricky going. Miss a step and twist an ankle, or worse. There were also low woody shrubs, mats of tightly clumped plants, lots of rocks, and tufts of grass but no trees or bushes. The views from the many bluffs, ridges and rises up and down the river valley were stunning – snowcapped peaks flanked the meandering river, its wide ice-crusted banks sparkling in the rays of an evening sun hanging low in the sky. The sun, which never set through the entire trip, cast long shadows and brought out the varied hues of green that make up much of the color palette of the Far North.

Getting Into the Flow of the Trip: In the Mountains
For the next two days, we drifted and paddled down the river, past huge banks of ice still remaining in the long, first few days of the Arctic summer. Mountains lined the river on both sides and waterfalls cascaded down to meet us. I thought of little else but maintaining a steady paddle stroke and the beauty that surrounded me.

In camp and on the river we saw lots of wildlife – arctic birds, musk oxen, sheep, the occasional caribou and moose, and several grizzlies, usually and thankfully from a distance. One evening a wolf almost wandered through our camp until he (she?) noticed the strange creatures in colorful GoreTex gear emitting unfamiliar chattering noises.

At the end of the third day we set up camp on a high bluff near a bend of the river. The views from this spot were particularly impressive. Looking up the river from where we had come, the view of the river, valley and mountains was expansive. We had several hours of free time before dinner, so after setting up my tent, I took off on a short hike along a ridge overlooking our camp.
Standing on the ridge surveying the Arctic landscape that stretched before me in the extended dusk of the midnight sun, I started to think about the still unknown medical test results awaiting my return. Curiously, I did not seem to care. I was aware of the potentially life changing news waiting for me at home, but I was thoroughly immersed in the here and now. I knew that I would eventually have to deal with that other reality, but all that mattered at that particular time and in that particular place was the awesome beauty surrounding me….and the very large grizzly bear traversing the ridge across the river!

For the rest of the trip, thoughts about the test results would occasionally pass through my mind, but they would quickly be pushed aside by more immediate concerns – keeping warm and dry and out of the clutches of wolves, grizzlies, and moose – and the unmatched majesty and solitude of that very special place.

Through the Foothills, Down to the Coastal Plain
Over the course of our 11 day trip, the scenery changed dramatically. After about three days floating through a broad, relatively level river valley, we hit a patch of faster, more turbulent water as the river dropped through a narrow canyon in the foothills before spilling out onto the coastal plain. The set of rapids in this canyon were rated an adrenaline-pumping Class IV and looked and felt every bit of it. It was quite a ride paddling in the front where I was. Just as I was about to celebrate our successful run through the hardest part of the rapids, I was slapped in the face by a standing wave. It barely dampened my enthusiasm, but did a pretty good job on my clothes.

Soon the river took us through the foothills and down onto the wide open coastal plain. In the coastal plain the Hulahula turns into a very different kind of river – wider, slower, and very shallow, so shallow that we sometimes had to get out and guide the raft as it bumped along the bottom. The scenery here is quite different than it is in the mountains. To the east and west, the views went on forever and to the north, a misty haze hung over the pack ice a few miles off in the Arctic Ocean. To the south, the mountains and deeply carved valleys of the Brooks Range, where we had been just a day or two before, frame the unbroken expanse of the plain. I have rarely felt so insignificant and small, nor so exhilarated by such dramatic, untouched beauty.

The wildlife viewing was also exceptional. The trip was scheduled to overlap with the annual migration of the Porcupine Caribou herd from Canada to their calving grounds on the coastal plain of the refuge. In good years, thousands of caribou would be scattered over the tundra as far as the eye could see. This year, a heavy snow fall late in the year had trapped most of the caribou herd in Canada, so we saw fewer of them, and therefore, fewer grizzlies than usual. Nonetheless, we did see more caribou than I have ever seen before plus musk oxen, arctic birds, and enough bears, including one very close encounter, to keep us on our toes and the shotgun and bear spray canisters close at hand.

As we neared the coast, we entered the river delta and the river broke up into a series of very shallow braided channels. Not all of the channels reached the sea, and picking the wrong one meant carrying the rafts and all of our equipment for a half a mile or more over soggy ground. Fortunately, we only had to portage once, but that was more than enough.

To the End of the Continent and Beyond
Our trip ended on a small island, little more than a gravel bar, about a mile off the coast in the Beaufort Sea. It was as close to the end of the world as I had ever been. After a short paddle down the last channel of the river, we poked our way into the sea. From the edge of the continent to the island, the water is only a few inches deep. We could have walked most of the way without getting our knees wet. The water was too shallow to paddle, so we pushed the raft along by digging our paddles into the sand on the bottom. The guides often had to get out of the rafts and pull them through especially shallow sections.

The view from the island south, back in the direction from which we came, was incredible, with the Brooks Range framing the horizon as far as the eye could see. But just as incredible was the view in the other direction from the north side of the island. Just a couple of feet offshore was the edge of the polar ice pack, which stretched into the distance until it met the sky. That is where we spent the last few hours of our trip, walking on the pack ice, as far out as we dared, keeping our eyes open for seals sunning on the ice or most important, a polar bear looking for his next meal. In fact, we spent the summer solstice walking on the ice casting long shadows in the midnight sun. This was the high point of a trip that was filled with high points, a fitting end to a long-delayed adventure that I almost did not take.

Oh yes, about those test results. They were negative!

A Life Transformed on the Back Roads of Cambodia

first in series of profiles of people whose lives have been transformed by adventure travel

Less than five years ago, Daniela Papi, age 30, was teaching English in Japan, the latest in a string of jobs ranging from management consultant to ski instructor in her ongoing search for a meaningful career after graduating college in 2000. Today, she is the founder and Executive Director of the PEPY Ride, one of the most highly regarded volunteer adventure tourism organizations in the world.

The PEPY Ride is an annual bike ride across Cambodia to raise awareness and funds for improving rural education and supporting a wide range of educational projects throughout the country. The letters of the name stand for "Protect the Earth, Protect Yourself," reflecting the organization’s basic ethos that “by making small changes in our lives and continually striving to educate ourselves and those around us, collectively we can truly make a difference.” PEPY's mission is “to aid rural communities in improving their own standards of living, with a focus on increased access to quality education.”

Since the first PEPY Ride which raised enough money to fund the construction of a school in rural Chanleas Dai, Cambodia in 2005, the PEPY Ride has grown dramatically. This nonprofit organization, in conjunction with PEPY Tours, the for-profit adventure tourism company spun off in 2007 to help cover operating expenses for the non-profit, has generated over $1 million for education, health, and environmental programs in Cambodia in less than four years. Through the schools the organization has built and the education initiatives it has undertaken, PEPY is currently supporting education for over 1,700 families in 12 villages and 10 schools in rural Siem Reap, the nearest town to the world famous Khmer ruins at Angkor Wat. In addition, many clients have been inspired by their experience and gone on to pursue related activities of their own – e.g., several are graduate students doing research on Cambodia and others are working with non-profits and NGOs to support education in other developing countries.

How did Daniela get here, from an impromptu career path as management consultant/ski instructor/English teacher to mover and shaker in sustainable tourism and education in the developing world? It all started with that first cycle trip across Cambodia in 2005. Daniela and her five friends, most of whom were also English teachers in Japan, first viewed the trip as a fun adventure, a welcome respite from the hectic pace of urban life in Japan. Then they thought about using the trip as a one-off fundraiser and found an organization on-line that was raising money to build a school in the country side around Siem Reap. They created a website to solicit the required $16,000 in sponsorships from their family, friends and colleagues, and by the time they had left on the trip, they had over $100,000 in commitments. Many of those who pledged funds also wanted to go along on the ride, but Daniela and her friends had to turn them away. This, however, planted the seed of the idea that eventually grew into the PEPY Ride.

The six friends rode for five weeks along the red, dusty back roads of rural Cambodia from the Thai border to Vietnam staying local guest houses as they traveled from village to village. Their first stop was the school that was the focus for their fund raising efforts. They also visited other schools and orphanages along the way, often serving as guest instructors teaching lessons about the environment, sustainability, and the wide world that the students could only glimpse via their village’s TV.

It was not an easy trip. They pedaled up to 50 miles a day, the roads were rough and the accommodations were often rougher. They often ended up in places rarely, if ever, visited by foreigners. The strange environment, unfamiliar culture, and most of all, the heat, humidity and especially the bugs made for a physically and mentally challenging trip. Daniela often felt way out of her comfort zone. But the rewards were great. As they sat around in the evenings, making up games, sharing their thoughts about the day, and talking about their lives, their aspirations, what they were learning about themselves and how the trip was changing them, she grew closer to her friends, bonding in a way that she never thought possible.

The physical activity cleared their minds and the well-earned soreness and fatigue lowered their defenses and opened them up to connect with each other and with the people they met along the way. The intimacy of the conditions and the opportunity to experience the environment and the people on their own terms, not from the safe but distant remove of a tour bus, luxury accommodations and guided activities seemed to feed the intimacy of their relationships with each other.

Just as significant was the daily excitement of learning about another culture and most of all, seeing the impact of their fund raising and teaching on the Cambodian children in the school they helped build and in the other schools they visited. The tragic history of Cambodia had almost wiped out an entire generation, so most of the children they met were the first in their families to go to school. Many even took their lessons home to teach their parents. Everyone, kids and adults, recognized that education was essential for their future and the future of their country and were ready to embrace any promising educational opportunity that came along. “It is great time to be alive in Cambodia,” Daniela notes, a place when it wasn’t long ago that people could not take being alive for granted. “People are working hard to change their lives and their country so that it is a better place for their children.”

The problem is that educational opportunities are scarce in the rural areas, so Daniela saw an opportunity to make a difference by sharing the experience with others – the excitement of meeting new people, seeing a new place, experiencing a different culture, of learning more every day, and most of all, helping bring educational opportunities to the children of Cambodia. Daniela realized that there was so much more that she could do and that whatever she did could have a profound impact on the children and possibly even the country. She decided to do the trip again, then again and do it better each time. From that, PEPY was born.

This fateful trip in 2005 transformed Daniela’s life as well as the lives of the many children of Cambodia who are touched by PEPY’s programs and trips. She now has focus, motivation and a fulfilling career. In her words, “this is something I really care about.… It’s what makes my heart beat faster… “I never worked hard like this for anything, but now I am doing something that I believe in, and I want it to succeed so much that I am willing to put in the time to learn and improve to make sure that it does.” This is one of the best examples of the transformative power of adventure travel and demonstrates how it can change our lives, our work, and perhaps even the world.

For more information on PEPY, go to http://www.pepyride.org/ and http://www.pepytours.com/.