It began yesterday. For those of you who are regular readers of this blog, I’m pretty sure I recounted our August 2012 climb up Mauna Kea, which only occurred because husband J managed to contract one of the few cases of out of season flu in the state of Hawaii, thus putting the kabosh on our plan to backpack the Mulawai trail. I didn’t think something like that could possibly happen again. But yesterday, J announced to me that for a week he’s seen cobwebby things in his left eye, initially accompanied by a flash of light. Now, the only time I’ve heard of “floaters” (J keeps calling them floaties, like the water wings your kids wear when they’re four years old) involves detached retinas, laser surgery and possible blindness.
So, rather than google “floaters,” we – of course – researched retinal detachment, only to discover the surgical repair involved a healing period that would greatly cut into our 13 days from now departure for Ecuador and the Andes. Apparently high altitude is not considered an optimum recovery spot for eye surgery.
In any event, a “quick” visit to our local optometrist today, together with full pupil dilation and photographs of the eyeball innards, reassured all concerned that these floaters were nothing more than part of the normal aging process for people in their fifties. I keep asking why no one has given us an instruction manual. We’re highly aware of the normal wear and tear on the body, but floaters? Really?
While all this was transpiring, I was facing my own Private Idaho – we have long had a pact that if one of us can’t make it up a mountain the other goes forward. And that I would have done – but the idea of scaling Cotopaxi and maybe Chimborazo with just me and a guide was definitely going to push that pact to its furthest limit. I lay awake last night thinking of the worst case scenarios – just to get my mind in gear to accept that it could conceivably be me versus the mountain. I would have done it – but it wouldn’t be optimum.
Yesterday I did a seven mile run in unbelievable heat and humidity. Now I know many of you run further, but believe me, it’s hard when it’s in the 90s at 9 am with an equal percentage of humidity. At one point I realized my shoelace was progressively getting looser and I could feel it flapping on the ground as I ran.
You know what? I actually stopped; paused my Map My Run app; and tied the damn shoelace. All the running in the world isn’t going to do me much good if I trip and break my ankle two weeks before departure.
It’s coming soon now. Please send some good karmic vibes our way.
The beauty of taking a road trip under the guidance of Google maps is that, Dr. Seuss-like, you’ll never guess the places you’ll go – or the things that you’ll see. And such was the case this weekend when Google maps itook us off I 4
and routed us onto Florida Road 570 and 540 – and then continued to take us down 17 South cutting across the great state of Florida – until we finally met up with I 75 near the Gulf and made our way to Naples, location of my law firm retreat.
One of my favorite parts of Google maps on this particular adventure was its insistence that we were traveling north – despite all indications to the contrary, including road signs, Google’s own moving map, and the location of the Gulf of Mexico itself ahead of us.
Living in metropolitan Central Florida it’s easy to forget that Florida still has vast swathes of rural land. Cows graze in brownish green meadows and rest in the shade of the curtains of Spanish moss that cascade down from clusters of live oaks. The land has just a little roll to it, just enough to envision it once as the sandy floor of a lapping ocean.
Every few miles you happen upon yet another small town. Most of them seem to have escaped the scourge of McDonalds, Chick-Fil-A and Burger King. In fact, the one time we really only had time for fast food all we could find was slow food. The Double JJ Restaurant, the Pioneer Cafe, Smokin’ Joe’s BBQ. It wasn’t until we returned to the interstate that the familiar chains showed up again.
Small town USA no longer looks like Archie Bunker’s US of A. Smokin’Joe’s is right next to the Taqueria and the place that specializes in wiring money to Mexico. In towns like Zolfo Springs and Bowling Green and Cleveland, the Pioneer Restaurant is across the street from the Acapulco Cafe and the Mercadio. In the fields growing who knows what, converted school buses were busy delivering migrant farm workers to do the back breaking picking of whatever it is that we only encounter in the pleasant coolness of the produce sections in our local grocery stores.
After passing through Polk, Hardee and DeSoto counties, as we neared the Gulf, stucco walls surrounding golf communities started to partition the wide open spaces. The old Florida cracker tin rooves gave way to the repetitive Florida idea of Mediterranean tile. Funny how those Mediterraneans had garages as a central feature of the facade of their houses.
Despite all that nothing beats the glassy lake of the gulf or its sugar sand that was waiting for us in Naples.
We returned home the same way. We stopped to eat a quick picnic lunch in a small park across from the DeSoto County Courthouse. Somehow that seemed an appropriate way to end a law firm retreat. And what better way to prepare for the mountains of Ecuador in three weeks than to really experience the Flatlands of Florida.
As I plowed uphill on the first half of Saturday’s seven miler, I reveled in the knowledge that the backside was going to be all down. I was running a new route – through “downtown” College Park, our area of town, all the way up Edgewater Drive, past the public high school, the Catholic high school, an abandoned juke box store (who has thought of those for a while?), a gun shop, a driftwood designer, and assorted and sundry other small establishments.
But after I turned around at the half way mark, to my utter horror, nothing but uphill faced me. I kept running along, confident that at some point I was bound to find the downward trajectory of the long hill I was sure I had climbed. But none was to be found, at least until I reached the very short half block leading down to our lake.
I’ve been punked like this before. Mt. Elbrus has a fake summit that after several hours of climbing looks like the real thing. And on the long slog down, the random metal structures that dot the slopes of Elbrus all resemble the barrel huts we were staying in. Not to mention our explorations of the buttes around Sedona, Arizona where I was convinced that each arch must have been the one that would lead us out of the vortex and to the parking lot that housed our rental car and escape to civilization.
I can’t risk thwarted expectations on the way up Cotopaxi, much less Chimborazo or whatever other mountains we end up climbing. They stop you in your tracks; they bring you down – figuratively, and in the case of climbing, literally. I just need take each step in the moment, so that when that summit finally appears, or the refuge hut out of the winds can be seen, it’s a wonderful surprise.
And maybe it’s not so bad not to have the downhill stretch. There’s either an optical illusion where long flat stretches ahead of you appear to rise up in a gentle swell – or, it could just be the fact the prescription in my sunglasses is wrong. But the real point is that maybe something that can feel so hard is really easier than you’re letting yourself believe. Maybe the world is flat after all.
A warning – today’s post is not for the faint of heart or weak of knee. As we pass the five week countdown for our Cotopaxi trip we are at the now or never stage. If we aren’t in good enough shape to make it up these mountains now, I think it highly unlikely that we suddenly achieve such a status over the next month.
So, I’m trying to keep going with what I’ve been doing – and I like to think that it’s a lot more than I did getting ready for Mt. Elbrus last year. In a few weeks we’ll find out if it worked.
Of course, today’s training adventure was less than noble. After my regular Sunday afternoon yoga class I was planning to walk the three miles home with my real mountaineering boots (Koflach Degres), just so my legs would remember what they felt like. No, I didn’t wear crampons as well. As it had already poured buckets during one of our typical Florida storms, I decided to wear a rain jacket also. Naturally, there was then not a drop to be seen, but the steam rising off the hot and humid sidewalks practically created a rainstorm from the ground up. So there I was, black yoga pants, black rain jacket, red backpack, and double plastic boots, hiking along the streets of downtown Orlando on a ninety degree day. I was just waiting to be offered directions to a homeless shelter.
Finally, I made it to about a block from my house. As I contemplated the ridiculousness of the interstate widening project that is going to cause the loss of several grand old oak trees that border the lake we live by, I lost my concentration and the next thing I knew I was rear down on the slippery wet sidewalk with a cracked iPhone screen in hand. (Yes, I am one of those people who run and hike clutching their phones.) A couple in a pick up truck going past stopped to see if I was ok. I think they thought they were encountering a mentally disturbed person who was going to require emergency services. Husband J was outside our house as I staggered up – he said from a distance he didn’t even recognize this all in black, sweaty person marching along.
Otherwise, my training regime generally includes the following:
Stairs – my office building is 16 stories, but since you start at 1 (unlike the English “G”), it’s really 15. Believe me, I’ve had a lot of time on the stairs to contemplate that. The building is 227 feet tall and each floor has two flights with a landing between. A couple of weeks ago, I reached my personal record of 8 times the building in about an hour and 20 minutes with a 24 pound pack. I have all sorts of ways to go up the stairs to alleviate the boredom. Every step, every other step etc. I will not bore you with the details (although feel free to ask). Doing that twice a week or so. And it’s hot in that fire stairwell – I mean well into the 90s. Surely that counts for something.
Running – historically I was not only a non-runner, but an aggressively anti runner. And as recently as last year I had only run five miles at a shot and only then because the Mt. Elbrus application asked how you felt at five miles – which at that point I had not even attempted. But now I have now worked my way up to seven miles at a time, and in a couple of weeks plan to run a five k race. I haven’t run a race since elementary school – where I was way at the rear of the pack. But I’m convinced that getting enough cardiovascular fitness is the key to these next summits.
Yoga – unfortunately my late Saturday afternoon Bikram class was cancelled so I’ve only been able to do that sporadically. But my Hatha yoga classes on Sunday afternoons and Wednesday nights are regular events. It’s the breath control that should help me on those long slogs at super high altitude. So much of mountain climbing, for me at least, is sheer fortitude. It’s how you train the brain that makes the difference between taking that one more step and giving up.
There’s a bunch more stuff. There’s extreme walking – a la the 20 miler we did in April – there’s weight lifting, which I haven’t done enough of, and there’s general fast walking with weight. Of course, general free floating anxiety should count as a training tool as well. I’m really good at that one.
I think we can do this. I’m in as good a shape as I’ve ever been – or better. Now I just have to go find the duffel bag to house all the gear. And – anyone have any training ideas? I’m all ears.
Little did I know when we dropped off daughter #2 (she bitterly resents that designation, so let’s call her S) in NOLA four years ago that we were taking her to a city she would grow to love so and call home. But that’s certainly been the case. Husband J and I have loved his place since 1986, when my frequent flyer miles on the now defunct New York Air enabled us to go there for our honeymoon. The alternative was Detroit – anyone remember how New York Air flew primarily to Boston, Detroit, New Orleans and New York? Never an explanation for that bizarre combination. We were already living in Boston and New York, and, Prince aside, Detroit didn’t really seem like the best option.
S has taken full advantage of the city, and at her graduation the city itself almost seemed to assume human qualities and participate in the ceremony. Her graduation, at one of the city’s stellar institutions, is likely the only one in the U.S. with an equal amount of jazz music to spoken word. And what about the second line handkerchiefs handed out to the graduating students, as well as Topsy Chapman singing “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans.”
In keeping with family tradition, a large contingent of family members from all coasts made their way to New Orleans for the festivities. Many of us stayed at the Hotel Villa Convento on Ursalines Street across from the convent in the French Quarter (yes, that does seem to be an oxymoron). The hotel (not the convent) is where husband J and I stayed for our honeymoon in 1986 – we actually found it through a Let’s Go guide we consulted in a bookstore and that we were too impoverished (or cheap) to actually buy. The hotel is by folklore the famous brothel, The House of the Rising Sun, and has been owned by the same family for decades. It has a faded charm that embodies the city – our rooms had balconies that fronted Ursalines Street, and which were the perfect location for a before dinner glass of wine.
Seersucker – what else can you wear to Delmonico’s?
Emeril’s Delminico’s did its usual spectacular job of service and food for the graduation dinner on Friday night. We were in a smaller room with two tables of eight that felt as private as could be without being a private room. A smaller group of us were at Appolline on Magazine Street the night before and I still can’t quite figure out why that restaurant is never more crowded. Graduation night we made it to Frenchmen’s Street, where the music rolls as solidly as the Mississippi itself.
This visit we checked out a new area of town as well – the Bayou Boogaloo Festival in Mid City – lots of great bands and unusual watercraft making their way down the bayou. We were particularly pleased to get there because we’d actually tried to go a day too early only to find we were ther only attendees aside from the vendors setting up! Reading schedules closely has never been a strong suit in this family.
After our second – and successful – trip to the festival, we went to the Bywater area – scene of gentrifying and gentrified shotgun houses – and had a great time at Bacchanal. You walk through a wine shop, buy your wine, and sit out in a shaded back yard listening to music. The band we heard even included a tap dancer. There’s also a great small plate menu and sitting under the trees, with food, wine, music, family and friends at hand sums up New Orleans.
Homemade raft floating down the bayou…
So what more can I say? Daughter S is planning to stay for another year. And I did manage to get a run in. The swampis fun – but there are a couple of summits waiting to be climbed in about five weeks.
Today is Mother’s Day, at least here in the U.S. And since the theme of this blog is from swamp to summit, a brief shout out to all mothers may be appropriate.
Of course, there’s my own personal experience of motherhood – both as mother to my two daughters and as a daughter and granddaughter myself. I was fortunate enough to know both my grandmothers – one from South Yorkshire in England, and the other from a small town in Alabama. Yes, I know it’s an unusual combination, but that’s a story for another day. Both of them worked, one as a career teacher and the other as a registrar at a college. They were both determined and fiercely independent women. I still wish I had seen them together when the Alabama grandmother and the Yorkshire grandmother went sight seeing together in London. I can only imagine.
My own mother shares all those characteristics. She took up running in her late 40s, after discovering she had a natural talent for it, and ran for many years – including winning her age category in quite a few 5Ks. To this day she still walks a good two miles daily. I sometimes wonder if her sudden shift to become a runner helped inspire my decision to take up mountaineering and trekking at age 49.
Being a mother certainly encompasses both swamps and summits. And since the younger daughter – known as S – graduates next weekend from Tulane University in New Orleans, I’m looking forward to experiencing a summit in the swamp.
And just one more musing on the topic of mountains and mothers – the earth itself is described as Mother Earth, Gaia…maybe we’re all looking to return to the mother of all of us, to reach back to something primal and life giving, and that’s what leads us to the swamp, along the trail, up the mountain. Countdown is seven weeks to Cotopaxi and Chimborazo.
When an opportunity presents, take it – and that is how I found myself on a five day excursion to New York City and Somerville, Mass. this past week. Although my fare consisted of having to attend a two day legal seminar, I got to catch up with old friends and visit daughter A and the boyfriend N and enjoy perfect spring weather in Boston.
Before I return to the theme of “all roads lead to” (see All Roads Lead to Fludir – adventures in Iceland), I must spend a few minutes mentioning the mountains of Manhattan. They aren’t products of geology – the City is remarkably flat – but they certainly are metaphorical. Everywhere you turn people are striving toward their own personal summits, whether professional or artistic or simply individualistic. And against a backdrop of skyscrapers looming over city canyons like sharp mountain peaks over a valley. It can all be a bit exhausting.
I last lived in NYC from 1986 to 1989 and each time I visit I still experience the disconnect between the city then and the city now. This time it was men wearing suits with open collared shirts. People scurrying down the sidewalk, cigarettes in hand – probably a side effect of the fact smoking is permitted practically nowhere. The Freedom Tower, gleaming over the city in the spot I still expect to see the Twin Towers. And some remarkably ugly multi story apartment buildings poking up out of midtown – that my college roommate, a long term resident of the area near the United Nations, described as a giant middle finger to the City. And I am convinced there were not as many Duane Reades back then – there now seems to be one on every corner – and they sell food and beer.
View from the Acela Express – on the way to Boston
On Friday I caught the Acela Express, having arrived at Penn Station way earlier than necessary, and spent a very comfortable 3 hours traveling to Boston’s South Station. It was a great way to travel – free wifi and had the woman next to me not been so determined to close the curtain, a beautiful view for much of the way.
Boston was spectacular. I managed to run 4 miles Saturday morning, The trees were in full blossom, white and pink bridal bouquets cascading to the ground, silhouetted by the very pale green of new leaves of other trees playing attendants to their more glamorous sisters. I got to stay on the very comfortable futon of the 20 somethings’ level of a Somerville triple decker. One of our projects was buying planters and flowers and herbs to turn their back porch into something worthy of daughter A’s Florida heritage. And a shout out to the housemates for creating such a nice living space.
Somerville – spring blossoms on steroids
Boston – or Somerville – highlights included multiple trips to the Market Basket – the iconic Somerville family owned and inexpensive grocery store with a very convenient parking lot. Open Studios Somerville was also fun – over 400 artists open their homes and studios to the general public – especially the house of the older couple filled with dioramas (in case you didn’t know what to do with any small scale model of anything that you ever saw), the quilling artist (a way to use every scrap of colored paper you wish you’d never thrown away and clearly to become daughter A’s new hobby), and interesting paintings of the backs of industrial buildings in Somerville. The day was topped off by a vegetarian Indian meal at Dosa ‘n Curry (dosa the size of the table) and listening to Mike Stern, former guitarist for the unlikely combination of Miles Davis and Blood, Sweat and Tears, at the Regatta Bar.
Plus, I got upgraded on the flight back to Florida. Some summits are hard – but some are pretty easy. Have a good week.
Mt. Elbrus – an avalanche seen from across the valley
As we near two months out from what I expect to be our hardest climb ever, up Cotopaxi and Chimborazo, it’s the power of fear that’s keeping me training. By now I’ve hit the point when I’m terrified that taking even one day off from some sort of exercise will cause the last months of training to be flushed down the toilet. Irrational, I know, but that’s what fear’s all about.
By now I have probably watched every YouTube video and read every blog out there related to these two peaks. They range from tales of cheery climbers who apparently think not twice about the journeys up and down to poor souls who are wheezing, pale, and throwing up even before they reach 18,000 feet. And, of course, everyone posts the photos that make both mountains appear the most insurmountable – veritable jungles of crevasses and steep walls.
Things haven’t been helped by the news of this week. An earthquake in Nepal that causes an avalanche at Everest Base Camp – filled with many trekkers who had no higher ambition than base camp itself – only to find themselves in the path of runaway snow, rock and ice. A volcano in Chile – good for underscoring the fact that Cotopaxi is still active and erupted only 70 or so years ago. And celebrating my 54th birthday this past week can’t help but remind me that I am not exactly going to be the youngest or fittest climber out there. A point that one of my fellow climbers brought home to me last year on Mt. Elbrus when he pointed out most of those on the mountain were half our age. And that was a year ago.
Now it’s not as though I’m a stranger to fear. You can’t be a litigator and appear in court without having experienced dry mouth or pounding heart before you embark on an impassioned plea in defense of your client. But there’s something that’s a little bit different when it’s you up there against the forces of Mother Earth.
I just keep saying to myself that fear is good. It keeps you going. And it keeps you grounded.
Husband J and I have been walking different chunks of the West Orange Trail for about the last year, as memorialized in “A Walk on the West Orange Trail” and “The West Orange Trail – Starting from the Other End.” But we also had an overarching desire to see if we could walk the whole thing in one fell swoop – well, at least 20 of its 22 miles. (The very last couple of miles – mostly along the side of a busy street in Apopka and culminating in the middle of a sidewalk in front of a strip mall – are simply not worth including.) After all, we reasoned, if the Romans could march miles like that in one day while laden with armor and the spoils of war, surely we could manage it with hiking boots and backpacks.
So, early on Saturday we set out with a couple of friends who had agreed to participate in the initial stages – M, of Iceland fame (see the prior weeks’ Iceland saga), one of my law partners who is affectionately known as King A, his daughter A, and her large, brown brindled part Weimaraner who shall be known by her full name, Daphne.
It was a beautiful, if humid, day and the first five miles to Winter Garden were like a walk in a shaded park along oak lined paths. The park theme was particularly evident as we passed a meadow inhabited by ostriches and long horned cattle (or maybe buffalo?) – not what we were expecting amid the Spanish moss.
The amount of rapid development along the trail is incredible. In the months since we were last there houses have sprung up like proverbial mushrooms. While many developments are promoting their ecofriendly characteristics, the fact remains that each of them is occupying what used to be open Florida land.
Just before mile 5, M abandoned us to return to a more normal day of activities. King A and his daughter left us in the charming town of Winter Garden – after Daphne lay down in the middle of the sidewalk and clearly announced she had had enough.
Downtown Winter Garden
Miles 5 to 10 wind through multiple housing developments and old citrus groves; they pass warehouses and fields, and the site of the Ocoee high school sustainable agriculture program, where three students were tending a cow. Some of the housing developments share great swaths of green semicircular common areas surrounding retention ponds – the manicured grass for all intents and purposes looking like a giant green unibrow. But where were all the people? It was as sterile as a glossy page from a magazine. When we walked through some much poorer areas later on the outskirts of Apopka there were men outside sitting on lawn chairs, kids playing with hoses, people walking down the trail to actually get somewhere.
Only in Florida – hill warning with no discernible hill in sight!
At just after mile 10, we decided it was time for lunch and eventually located a bench in the shade of a freeway overpass, with a golf course running along one side. I had started off in running shoes, believing their light weight would help with the distance but had packed my boots just in case. By mile 10 it was clear it was time to shift footwear. So after a sandwich break and foot ministrations, we set off for the final 10.
Things, as they are wont to do, got even stranger during the last half of the hike. As we neared the end of the seemingly interminable golf course, lining the other side of the trail was a field dotted with bright flowers – which after a few moments we realized was a memorial garden. We had been thrown off by the office building – a small frame house with a filled in swimming pool. Huh? And I’m not sure what the proximity of the memorial garden to the golf course says about the nature of human existence but it doubtless means something. We also concluded that Apopka must be slightly higher than Oakland, at the beginning of the trail – although there were no real hills, we kept going up a steady slight incline – and never seemed to get to go down.
When we reached mile 15 we had travelled more miles than on any previous hikes, and we were also on a part of the trail we hadn’t seen before. All of a sudden, peering over the edge of the trail was a giant white statue of Buddha gazing down serenely on the cyclists whizzing by him – it turned out we were next to an extremely large and ornate Buddhist temple. The religious juxtapositions were interesting. We had started by the “Mosaic Church” near Oakland, now the Buddhist temple, and shortly after encountered churches ranging from the Seventh Day Adventists (where a very dressed up congregation was just departing church services) to something called St. Elizabeth, a Church of God By Faith, with no other apparent denominational affiliation.
After a wooded section we emerged onto another road which offered a tour of Apopka’s dying foliage industry. Nelson’s Florida Roses (I had never realized it was even in Apopka) still seemed to be flourishing – although we couldn’t help but note that when we saw them switch on the sprinklers the electrical transformer over our heads actually crackled and sparked. But next to Nelson’s are acres of semi-abandoned greenhouses, giving a sort of post apocalyptic feel to the whole place.
Finally we made our way through a wooded area, dotted with small houses, and up to the Apopka bridge. Just beyond that is the Apopka Station, our ending point, but we were just under miIe 20. So we forced ourselves to go on just a little further so that when we turned around back to the Apopka Station we stopped at mile 20 on the nose.
This particular training adventure, unlike most, was a one way trip. Except for the half mile at the end, when our friends A and T retrieved us, we hadn’t covered any of the same ground twice. Sometimes I wish summits were like that – you could get to the top, just stay there, and not have to come down again.
After the adrenalin of our glacier hike and adventures in Vik, and the harrowing drive back to our Farmhotel – so much so that at dinner that night a couple from Sydney, Australia stopped by our table to ask what we had been doing that had engendered such excitement – we decided our last full day needed to be one of stark contrast.
We had seen an advertisement for lunch in a family-owned greenhouse that produced 18% of Iceland’s tomato crop, which seemed bizarre enough to fit well with the overall ethos of our trip. But first we wanted to sample one of Iceland’s famed hot springs, which we thought would be a good balance to the frigid ice of the day before. So we said farewell to the Efstidalur and set back along what was now our favorite snow covered road, heading, of course, in the general director of Fludir.
We had already decided to reject the more famous Blue Lagoon hot springs in favor of the much closer Laugarvatn Fontana geothermal baths. For a very reasonable price, you are given access to a series of pools situated at the edge of a lake, which is surrounded by snowcapped volcanic mountains in the distance. The changing room was possibly the most spotless place I have been – two girls were diligently vacuuming the tops of the lockers themselves. The pools ranged in temperature, rising up to 50 degrees Celsius, and were adorned with rocks for resting your head, jets of varying water pressures, and benches to sit on. After steaming ourselves for a while, we started to resemble good New Orleans shrimp that has just started to turn pink. That was our sign to transfer to the Finnish-style, cedar lined sauna to dry ourselves out. Once our shrimp-like selves had started to take on a slight bacon-like overlay, we felt that was a clue we had had enough. M and I retired to the previously empty women’s changing room only to discover it had been taken over by a bus load of middle aged jovial naked German women for whom this was clearly one of the highlights of their trip. We also realized we had probably violated most of the shower rules (don’t ask) but fortunately no one had been there earlier to observe our general American incompetence.
Keeping the red theme going, we then slipped and slid along more snow covered roads to the tomato greenhouse, Fridheimar. And what a greenhouse it was! Masses of tomato plants, all growing from small boxes at the ends of the aisles, their vines entangled along string structures spanning the entire width of the greenhouse. Electricity is very cheap in Iceland due to the geothermal energy pulsing under everything, and no one would think twice about the energy costs of greenhouse gardening of this magnitude. Automatic on off light switches don’t even exist. Tables were set for lunch, which was, of course, all you could eat tomato soup, or if you were a big spender like S, pasta with tomato sauce. There was also a hollowed out tomato filled with birch schnapps – Iceland was covered by birch forests until the Vikings cut them all down.
Having had our fill of tomatoes, we returned to Reykjavik by way of a quick hike around and into the Kerid crater and a stop at two seaside villages. Very empty in March – the small towns are best summed up by unpronounceable names, giant waves crashing on sand bars out at sea, black sand beaches littered with tiny shards of snail shells, and a solid 50 mph wind that didn’t let up. That wind pursued us the whole way back to Reykjavik, where even on the main road the local drivers had slowed down to a crawl due to the blowing snow. When we finally staggered back into the by then familiar Hotel Natura we were more than ready for a happy hour drink in the bar, together with the car mechanics convention attendees who seemed to have taken over much of the hotel.
Return to Reykjavik
Demonstrating some travel smarts, we enlisted the aid of the front desk clerk who was able to wangle a reservation for us at one of the city’s trendier restaurants – the not particularly creatively named Seafood Grill. All the food was good (although I could have passed on S’s whale and puffin appetizer) but the desserts were outstanding. I had an almond skyr cake infused with thyme….possibly one of the best desserts I’ve ever had.
We headed back to the airport the next day. But adventure still wasn’t letting us go. Just when we thought we had already faced some of the worst driving conditions known to man (at least to Florida man), the road to the airport – exposed, flat open – was simply consumed by blowing snow. J could see absolutely nothing – occasionally the yellow stakes at the side of the road made a brief appearance, but much of the time we were simply in whiteout. We arrived at the car rental return place to the spot where supposedly you could refuel – only to find the pumps were closed and we had to drive yet another 10 km to find gas. We did, eventually, only then to have to turn around and drive along the same terrible road we had barely survived before. And, if anything, it had gotten worse the second time around! To say we were happy to leave the car with the rental people is an understatement. We later learned the road had been closed right after we had driven along it following a six car pileup.
But lest you think our happy travelers simply then boarded their plane for a smooth flight back to the land of sunshine and oranges….no, not indeed. We had been unable to book a direct flight back and were returning via Toronto. But our flight was delayed out of Iceland (I’ll leave it to my brilliant readers to guess why) and the airline would not hold the connecting flight from Toronto to Orlando the necessary 15 minutes – despite the fact there were about twelve of us on the plane who were missing that very connection. But this blog doesn’t exist to complain about the incompetence of airlines – by now that’s just part of the condition of human existence – suffice it to say that we ended up with an unexpected night in Toronto and a very early morning flight back to Florida.
I’m now sitting here listening to one of our first Florida wet season rain storms pelting down, and contemplating the next summits facing us in June in Ecuador. Iceland wasn’t really a summit, per se. But travel takes all forms – and travel with friends is one of the highest.
FromSwamptoSummit 