Tag Archives: nature

Keeping Big Bend a secret

17 Sunday Apr 2016

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My out-of-office message on both voicemail and email said I was on vacation and “unplugged.” My boss knew how to get ahold of me in an emergency, but I warned him that I may not get his messages immediately.

Big Bend National Park is in the middle of nowhere. It’s a you-can’t-really-get-good-cell-service kind of nowhere. It’s 3G cell service in that southwest corner(ish) of Texas and even then, you’re lucky to get two, maybe three bars. And when you do, don’t be surprised when you get a text from your cell carrier saying “Welcome to Mexico where you’re going to enjoy roaming internationally!” because the only thing separating you from Mexico is the Rio Grande, which, by the way, you can easily cross on foot with the water not going past your ankles.

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Trust me, this is the Rio Grande.  (At Santa Elena Canyon, Big Bend National Park.)

So yeah, getting ahold of me on vacation was going to prove difficult because my phone was in “airplane mode” and yes, I really was unplugged.

When I say, “middle of nowhere,” I mean it.

You aren’t going to see Starbucks, McDonalds or a Subway sandwich chain anywhere around Big Bend. In fact, I hadn’t seen any of those for several days. This is Road Runner and Wyle E. Coyote country. Its palette of brown earth, cyan skies and the occasional red or yellow bloom is empty of the droves of people you find spattered over other Big Daddy national parks like Yosemite, Yellowstone, Zion, Bryce and Grand Canyon.

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Tunnel near Rio Grande Outlook (Big Bend National Park). Tell me, doesn’t this remind you of Road Runner?

We were at the park during peak season and still, there weren’t the crowds you’d find at other national parks. I remember my first trip to Yosemite back in 1995 and people were at every turn. Tent sites were staked within feet—not yards—of each other and trails were so crowded, you would bump shoulders with others on the trail. Imagine what it’s like walking around Times Square in Manhattan or along the Las Vegas strip—that’s what hiking the trails was like in Yosemite.

Even lesser-known parks, like Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming would have clusters of hikers on the popular trails, passing each other quickly whether coming or going like in an airport as people are scrambling to make their connecting flights. I remember hiking behind a man on one of the trails as he talked on his cell phone and I wondered how the hell he got any cell service in that area while also thinking, are you kidding? 

And same for those aforementioned parks, Zion, Arches, Bryce Canyon and Grand Canyon. All fantastic parks with geology that your mind has trouble taking in at first. Hoodoos, red rocks, big ass canyons in the earth, and an ominous hike called Angels Landing. These are some of my favorite places on earth, but the problem is everyone else seems to also want to see them.

What we need is a park that either people don’t know about or one that is not particularly easy to get to. That’s where Big Bend National Park comes in.

If you enter at Big Bend from the west—via the scenic FM170 highway—you’ve already been given a preview of the mountains. But that drive is only a snippet of what’s to come. That snippet, by the way is called Big Bend Ranch State Park and it has a whole bevy of activities to do for the adventurous—back packing, mountain biking, and horseback riding.

Back to Big Bend National Park, though.

Shhh. I’d rather no one else know about Big Bend.

Honestly, I’d love it, though, if you’d just keep this find between us, okay? Please don’t tell anyone about the acres of Ocotillo cactus, with its skinny tentacles reaching toward the sky. If you’re lucky like us, you will have arrived in the springtime and you’ll drive past fields of these with red flowers adorning each branch. Close up they look wonderfully delicate as they reach up to the sky in a “jazz hands” sort of way. At a distance, when you see acres and acres of them altogether it looks like a red haze laying on top of the horizon.

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Ocatillo cactus with its fiery red flowers.

Also keep it on the down low about the massive Santa Elena Canyon that’s been carved out by the Rio Grande over the course of 2 million years. The sheer, vertical walls of the mountains on each side of the gorge reach 2000 feet. Right now you can easily cross it by foot, but most people—when there’s enough water—will raft it, following it on to the nearby town of Lajitas. There’s a 1.7 mile (round trip) hike, which is mostly on paved stairs that will take you to great vistas of the Santa Elena Canyon.

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Santa Elena Canyon (Big Bend National Park)

Don’t tell your geologist friends either. They’ll start coming in droves because the geology of Big Bend is complex. It’s a mix of sedimentary basin with significant faulting and volcanic activity, which means you’re going to find elevations in the park ranging from 2,000 feet above sea level to just over 7,800 feet. And all makes for a variety of unique bio zones contained just in one park, which leads me to the next thing that is awesome about Big Bend: birding.

Big Bend contains the most species of birds than any National Park in the U.S. That would be 425 birds, making it a mecca for birders. This was really the reason why we were at Big Bend National Park on this trip. We were a few weeks too early for the elusive Colima Warbler, but we weren’t disappointed in what we saw.  (Oh, and fun fact for your next dinner party: High in the Chisos Mountains in Big Bend National Park is the only place in the U.S. where you would find the Colima Warbler.)

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Birding Chisos Basin. (Big Bend National Park)

Also, be sure to not say anything about the fantastic wildlife here at Big Bend, especially the Carmen Mountain White-tail Deer, which don’t seem to mind if you’re standing or hiking two yards away. They’re not hunted and so they’re not wary of humans.

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Carmen Mountain White-tail Deer

Promise me that you’ll keep Big Bend National Park a secret—especially from those in the office. The last thing you need is a Starbucks or McDonalds with WiFi out here. To unplug is to get away from the madness. Right now Big Bend is far from madness.

It’s pure happiness. Purely unplugged.

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Viewing the “The Window” from Chisos Basin in Big Bend National Park.

 

Confronting the enemy

01 Friday Apr 2016

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This is going to suck, I thought to myself. It was time to head up out of the cavern and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it. Not in the way of I thought it was going to be hard, but that I really was convinced that Steve would have to leave me for dead in the cavern. I suck at hiking and we just descended down a steep pathway for 1.25 miles and there was no way out except to walk it back up the steep climb, which–as you guessed–is the same 1.25 miles. Yes, 1.25 miles is really nothing. People in somewhat okay shape do it all the time. But I didn’t think my nearly half-century-old body was going to allow me.

We had stopped for a sandwich at the little cafe at the bottom, drank a big bottle of some green drink with electrolytes in the hopes that it would give me not just the physical, but also the mental strength to do what I needed to do. After some time I couldn’t delay the inevitable. It was time to go back up.

When Steve and I had walked down, I couldn’t take my eyes off the spectacle of stalagmites and stalactites of the Carlsbad Caverns National Park. The mythical shapes that were sometimes called whale’s mouth, lion’s tale or drapery were illuminated by up-lights like sculptures in a gallery or museum, yet the walk down into the bowels of the cavern was a walk into the absence of color–as if my life became film noir.

There were handrails all along the way, but the cavern’s temperature of 56ºF made them cold to the touch and I realized quickly that my ultra-sensitive fingers would quickly turn blue.  It’s a life hazard I’ve learned to deal with the past 10 years–fingers and toes that turn white, then blue and then eventually red–and I usually carry around gloves (oh, I have so many pairs of gloves), but this time I forgot them on this trip. Usually it’s not a problem, but without gloves deep in a cavern I could lose one or two fingers if I’m not able to get circulation to them. My solution became to just keep them in the pockets of my polar fleece jacket and occasionally Steve would take a hand and hold it tight in order to pass on the heat from his hand to mine to help my fingers thaw.

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Lion’s Tail

The path was nicely paved, making it a smooth walk down, albeit a little steep, throwing off my balance from time to time, so I’d grab on to the ice-cold handrail for a moment to steady myself. A young man in his 30s briskly trekked by with a long stride up the steep incline. He was grasping the ankles of a toddler perched on his shoulders, and at this point it didn’t register to me that the walk back up was going to be hard. But then I saw a man in his 50s who paused at one of the switchbacks. He clearly was on his way up and was clutching the handrail and he had his other hand over his chest. His breathing was loud and deep and I thought, Good Lord, someone should call someone to help this man. He’s going to have a heart attack. 

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Whale’s mouth

So at the bottom of the cavern in the little cafe all I could think about was that man who struggled for breath. I’m going to be 50 this year and I had been recently feeling my age, and while I was grateful to have survived menopause, what with it’s night sweats and sudden onset of low energy, I was not at all happy with the toll it has taken on my body. Muscles that were once there seemed to have abandoned me, while a new squishyness encircled my waistline. Something as simple as bending over to pick up something off the floor has become my own personal CrossFit challenge. My arm isn’t nearly long enough to hold a piece a paper to read. Words look like faded, blurry shapes on paper now and everything seems to hurt as I get old and I can’t turn the switch back. I am beginning to accept that aging is a cruel companion to which I’m now forever shackled.

But pouting wasn’t going to get me back up out of that cavern. “Let’s do this,” I said to Steve, and we began our climb up.

It wasn’t too bad at first. The way back was relatively flat and then the first steep path presented itself. Not a problem I thought to myself as I tried to mentally cheer my body. Up the path and then a switchback and then up again and switchback. Two more times and then I had to stop at the switchback and cling to the rail and I realized, I’m that man. Geez, I hope there’s a paramedic around.  “Let’s take a break,” I said to Steve after going a quarter of the way.

“We can take our time. We’re not in a hurry,” Steve kindly encouraged.

My breathing was heavy. My heart beat was a rapid staccato. “You know those people who do all that walking?” I asked Steve.

“Like the Pacific Coast Trail?” he  responded.

Still catching my breath. “Yeah. Or that pilgrimage in Spain or that walk in Scotland,” I added. “I honestly don’t understand how people do it or why people do it. I mean, I get so bored walking for so long.”

“Are you bored now?” he asked.

“No. I’m just focused on finishing.”

Drapery

Drapery

I’ve never been an athlete. Since the age of 10 I ended up in emergency rooms multiple times thanks to knee problems that led to three different knee surgeries between the age of 11 and 16. And when you have chronic knee problems you also get a special note from the doctor freeing you from all physical ed classes at junior and senior high school. I thought I had hit the jackpot–no climbing the rope, no running around a track and no horribly uncomfortable locker room showers. I was free of physical ed classes, but I also was no athlete.

I later learned no amount of Step Aerobics, Spinning or Zumba classes as an adult would make up for lost time. I’ve just never been able to catch up cardiovascularly. And now my body is turning on me and there’s not an apology in the world that it will accept. It’s my enemy now.

Back on the path my heart rate got back to normal very quickly, which was a relief, and I said, “Let’s go.”

Calf muscles were stretching like pulled taffy with each step I took. My quads. My butt. They were all working together and I kept mentally scolding myself for not taking the stairs at the office more often. You wouldn’t be having this problem if you would just take the stairs, I kept thinking.This was not uplifting me at all as I continued the climb. Walk a little. Rest a little. Get my heart rate down. This was repeated over and over as we walked the steep pathway out of the darkness. Then back to walking some more. My injured ankle from my accident in Zion National Park over five years ago was beginning to swell. I kept checking my fingers for loss of color and when I did, I reached for Steve’s hand. He knew what to do as this has been our drill since we met.

After an hour and 45 minutes of enduring the steep pathway out of the cavern I then heard voices raised in excitement. “Ah, light!” I heard someone exclaim. I could feel the muscles in my legs power up as if recharged and my pace quickened. My heart was still racing, the dampness of my t-shirt from my sweat chilled my back shoulders. I felt like a mess, but I somehow got the energy I needed to climb out of this darkness.

It was too bright. I had to squint as the light that poured in from the outside burned my eyes. A collective sense of euphoria came over those of us ascending out of the cavern. Color was back. Oh, how I had missed it these past four hours. The light was relief as it touched my skin and warmed me. My fingers thankfully turned their natural color, and my 50-ish body–this enemy of mine–managed to get me out of the darkness.

Yes, thank you body. But I’m going to start taking the stairs more back at the office, so be warned.

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A life of work or travel?

23 Wednesday Apr 2014

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I was floating in the Tiffany blue waters of the Galapagos off of San Cristobal, letting the swells rock me teasingly toward the sandy beach. I want to do this forever, I thought. What if I just don’t return back to life?  I would just float. Yes, float for the rest of my life.

Being buoyant among the sea lions was clearly better than working on PowerPoint back in the office or managing interoffice squabbles like a guidance counselor. Everyday I read blog posts and tweets from people who travel the world, claiming the rest of us are part of the rat race. It’s as if they’re heroes or people who have reached the pinnacle of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, waving down to us poor, downtrodden corporate slaves with shackles on our ankles, rowing like the prisoners in Les Miserables, singing, “Look down, look down / Don’t look ’em in the eye / Look down, look down / You’re here until you die.”

Yes, being held up by water in the Galapagos is way better than copyediting corporate fact sheets or taking mandatory online legal compliance courses. I imagined the ridiculous—texting my boss with a picture of the the turquoise water with the words: “Not coming back. Thanks for everything,” and proceeded to work out in my mind how I would have a little shop selling Panama hats to tourists, customizing each hat with a different color grosgrain ribbon. My husband, Steve, could also chuck away his career and become a bird guide on the islands and we’d eat banana chips by the bagful and my mayonnaise-white skin would turn a lovely cocoa brown and that knot in my right shoulder that I get from working at a desk job would go away forever.

Floating in water like a little piece of jagged driftwood makes you think crazy things.

But I do that every time I travel. In Belize I was going to have a bed & breakfast. In Panama I was going to be a writer. And in the Yucatan I was going to sell tickets for boat rides. Steve, of course was going to be the bird guide in all those places. I can see why those who make their place in another corner of the world, away from office politics and the daily structure at a desk are in a state of bliss, but by no means am I an unhappy occasional traveler who happens to have a demanding job in the corporate world. Full disclosure here: I really like working.

Is traveling more noble than working? 

I certainly regret not traveling more when I was younger–especially international travel. I had neither the resources or the chutzpah to do it sans resources. I’m certain it would have changed a lot of who I am in a positive way, particularly in the areas of confidence and empowerment, and at times I do regret missing out of the romance of making mistakes that make for great story telling as a more mature adult at dinner parties. But I chose a career working for large corporations as my path and took advantage of having my graduate degree paid by my employer. It was a sacrifice, indeed, but I chose the $40,000 free education over backpacking across Europe. Yes, a Master’s degree instead of some wild stories at dinner parties. I’m okay with that.

For me, it was financial security first and travel second. I know nothing is 100% secure. We all watched our hard-earned savings unravel like an old sweater right before our eyes in 2008 and 2009. I admit, it squeezes my heart when I open up statements that show significant losses and I catapult immediately to those daydreams of just walking out of the office and heading right to the airport to fly off to sandy beaches and a hat shop waiting for me.

But I remain committed to working in my career. I remain because I look at long-term advantages and have come to realize that the glamorous life portrayed in travel blogs is truly an edited life of showing the ups and rarely the downs. We all can’t be traipsing around the world with a backpack. Someone has to be back holding down the fort. Who is making the stock market operate and keeping the economies of the world in tact so that there are places to see, vessels to take you there and roads to be maintained and order created in the world? Should we all just up and leave our jobs and wander the earth? Is that the essence of nobility? I’m suggesting that it’s not. There are noble acts both as a traveler and as a financial supporter. Both are doable and it’s not a race of who’s the awesomest.

The economy of travel

For many countries the primary contributor to their GNP is tourism. These countries have tremendous reliance on those of us willing to spend a portion of our salaries in their countries. There are also so many places in the world that need funding and support–the Galapagos Islands is one of them. It takes people with money to do that. Corporations and economies with means to keep forests, jungles and archipelagos in tact. While progress and humans have negatively impacted a lot in the world, funding is helping to restore some of what we have tampered with. If we were all backpacking the world, who would fund the research? Who would be able to financially support change?

The economies of the world are indeed complicated and society as a whole is not mature enough to kindly hold hands and contribute in an orderly manner (nor be able to agree upon structure) to preserve endangered areas and keep National Parks pristine.

It’s okay to travel the world and make that your life. But it’s also okay—actually necessary—to be a part of the world from a desk. It’s not a rat race to help keep the lights on. I’m happy to participate in the process, not just for my sake and my future, but to keep the cogs and wheels moving. Sure, there are days I feel shackled, but it’s not all the time. It’s not even most of the time. You don’t feel shackled if you take a break and travel. We all need breaks. Even travelers, I suppose, need a break from traveling. I’m a big believer in the need for opposition. Good versus evil. Light versus dark. Work versus play.  It would be impossible for me to understand—to appreciate—one without the other.

Maneuvering re-entry

I’ve played for the past 15 days and it’s changed me forever, just like all my travels do. My normally mayonnaise skin is now a light cocoa. I snorkeled and played with sea lions, swam with a penguin, ate more banana chips than I should have, and I didn’t answer a single work email and I didn’t get fired. By the way, that knot in my shoulder? Gone.

I walked into the office after the 15 glorious days abroad and everyone commented on my tan and my big smile. How do I get back to work after these fantastic 15 days? I wondered. I shared my stories around the water cooler and as people dropped in my office to welcome me back. But I had a long, scrolling list of emails to hammer through. And meetings to get to. And problems to solve. It was time to get back to work.

I uploaded the photo of the Tiffany-blue waters to my computer for the desktop wallpaper. Yes, that will help me remember that there are beautiful places in this world that I can support all the way from my office. That, and I’ve already got our next adventure booked.

Lessons from a Grand Canyon Helicopter Ride

28 Friday Mar 2014

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Grand Canyon 2I’ve never wanted to get into a helicopter because there’s this thing about the helicopter people needing to know how much I weigh. Something about making sure the weight is distributed evenly in the helicopter. That, or just the plain joy they must get in humiliating people.

Oh, and there’s also that thing about helicopter crashes.

People don’t talk much about the helicopter crashes, but I know about them because on some Saturdays I might get sucked into some cable channel TV show about helicopter crashes in between binging on episodes of “Locked up Abroad,” which, to be honest, freaks me out just a little bit more than hearing about helicopter crashes.

But when husband, Steve, suggested we take a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon during our weekend stay in Las Vegas part of me thought it was cool and the other part of me was frightened to death—mostly about the being weighed thing. You see, I adore my husband and he can suggest pretty much anything and I’ll go for it. After nearly six years of marriage I’m still like the smitten gal he first met who wanted to impress the socks off of him.

Yet, there was no way I was going to discuss my weight with him or anyone else. I don’t care how official they were and how it impacted a helicopter ride.

Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.

All the way to the little helicopter airport, I went over in my head how I was going to address the weight issue. It’s not like my driver license where the weight listed there is a complete lie. You see, I wrote that down years ago and never really corrected it. But to tell someone at the little helicopter airport? Out loud? If I lied about my weight, I’m certain the airport person would survey me up and down with her eyes and I’d get that “oh, you’ve got to be kidding” look. I couldn’t face that.

I was wringing my hands in the airport in Boulder City, Nevada—which was smaller than my local DMV—and I was still trying to plot out this whole thing. If I just said it super speedy, maybe husband and others would never hear how much I weigh. Or I could write it down on a Post-it Note and give it to the gal behind the counter after I folded it up into a tiny piece the size of a dime. Yeah, that’s what I would do.

Astonishingly, I didn’t have to do any of that. I didn’t have to lean over the check-in counter at the little airport and whisper my weight into the ear of the lady. No, I just had to stand on the magic tile on the floor in front of the counter—a tile that looked like all the other tiles on the floor—and it weighed me and secretly put my weight number into her computer. Not on a big, flashing display for all to see, or shouted out to the whole airport, like I feared. My weight number just magically slipped through some tiny wire or cable into the lady’s computer. It’s like I didn’t weigh anything AT ALL. The number was imaginary. I could pretend I was 30 pounds lighter if I wished. And the lady didn’t look at me in a judgy way either.

It was our secret.

It’s actually possible to feel lighter than air

Riding in a helicopter

When it was our time to go, we loaded into the helicopter by assigned seats, which I’m told had something to do with our weight. I couldn’t figure out the rhyme or reason as to who sat where and the math of it. I was just happy they didn’t make me wear my weight number around my neck or on a shirt. After a brief instruction and snapping into the seat belts, the helicopter lifted straight up as if we were pulled by a string. No barreling forward at high speeds like a jet to race up to the sky. Some skilled (and giant) puppeteer had us by a string and was taking us for a ride on a beautiful day with cyan skies above the reddish-brown landscape. I felt light! I was up in the sky and apparently wasn’t so heavy that I kept the helicopter from rising.

I followed our helicopter’s shadow over the dusty desert of Nevada as we headed toward Arizona. This desolate area was free from the shiny, glittery loud Las Vegas we just left. In the headphones our pilot narrated where we were, but mostly I heard the whirring engine of the helicopter and felt like a baby who was comforted by the vibrations of a car. The only reason I wasn’t lulled to sleep was I couldn’t keep from looking out the window at the tiny rocks, mountains that looked more like hills, and itty bitty cars on what few roads there were.

Of course, I’d been in a gazaillion airplanes and have looked out the window at tiny Monopoly-sized homes and streets and baseball diamonds, but being in a helicopter provides a certain intimacy with the ground. Airplanes are so high maintenance and complicated to get up off the ground and back onto it. Helicopters, on the other hand could take off and land in a jiffy. No matter how much I weigh. (Actually, that’s not true. I’m sure there are limits.)

We hovered over the Hoover Dam and took a peak at the wall of concrete with its arms wrapped around it’s little section of the great Lake Mead reservoir. Having just stumbled upon birding over the last seven years, I wondered if this was what it was like to be a bird, soaring over the earth. I know being in a helicopter is not exactly soaring, but it’s not a jetliner either. To be above the earth and feeling weightless was startling to me. Startling that I ever cared about the weight thing.

The 30-minute highlight

picnic at Grand Canyon

After a 40-minute flight, we landed at a part of the Grand Canyon, not in the National Park area, but at an Indian Reservation. This was supposed to be the highlight of the trip, according the tour’s brochure. We had 30 minutes on the ground at the bottom of the canyon, so we snapped a few photos, had a picnic lunch of a sandwich, Lays potato chips and a little brownie bite in a plastic cup. Not the meal of a dieter and certainly no one was weighing us to get back on the helicopter, so I didn’t care.

Our time at the bottom of the canyon felt cut short. We couldn’t hike and explore. Being in the air was what took my breath away. Peering into the canyon from the South Rim a few years earlier was heart stopping. However, being on the floor of the Grand Canyon was more about looking up and around. There just wasn’t enough time to absorb it. No time to stoop on a rock and rest my chin on my fist and do some contemplating. None of that. Just time to gobble down the cute little picnic and look quickly at my surroundings.

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Lessons learned from helicopters.

Our pilot called for us to get back to the helicopter and the propellers began to spin and we were lifted up in the air again. We didn’t take the same route back over the Hoover Dam, but headed straight toward Boulder City. I peered down at the ground, looking for Mule Deer or Mountain Sheep, but they were out of site. Unlike dramatic Saturday television shows, we didn’t crash our helicopter and, really, no one cares how much I weigh except for me. It made me think of how many other things I’ve avoided because of what I feared and that maybe I cared too much about what people might think of me or how I look or how much I might weigh. I mean, really—no one cares.

None of that matters, of course. None of it, except this:

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When the clouds parted

31 Friday Jan 2014

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Zion National Park Rendezvous

You would have never known that 24 hours earlier you couldn’t see but five feet in front of you. But that was Bryce Canyon National Park the day before and this day we were at Zion National Park and it was a bright, warm October day.

Uh, yes. That's me in front of Bryce Canyon

The day before. What do you mean you can’t see Bryce Canyon?

And the next day there were clear skies.

The next day: Zion National Park’s clear skies show no hint of the neighboring fog.

This was day two of my third rendezvous with Steve. To recap, just six months earlier we met in Scotland, then met up again three months later in London and Bath, England, and three months after that we were rendezvousing in my home state of Utah, discovering National Parks just four hours sound of where I live.

And things were going very well.

So well that I took the clouds parting as a sign. A sign that I was officially in a long-distance relationship, which was something I swore I would never do.

I swore I would never do a lot of things.

Like date online.

Fly across the ocean to another country to meet a guy.

And, yeah, find myself in a long-distance relationship.

A long-distance affair.

A long-distance affair.

Walking the trail, hand in hand with Steve, I couldn’t feel more lucky to have ignored all my “rules.” This is perfect. Absolutely perfect. The trail ended oddly at the bank of a shallow river and as I began to turn around to walk back to the trail head I was being pulled in the opposite direction into the river.

“Wait! We’re going into the water!” I felt the water up to my calves.

“Of course,” Steve said. “Let’s hike it.”

“No we can’t,” I insisted. He still was pulling me along. Do I stop him? Do I follow him? I don’t want him to think I’m not fun.

“Sure we can. Everyone else is,” he assured me.

And that’s when I noticed that there were others hiking the river. (I later learned that this was called “Hiking the Narrows.”

Trying to look cool as I hike the Narrows.

Trying to look cool as I hike the Narrows.

The water was cold but after a few minutes I didn’t notice it any more. The bottom of the river was full of pebbles and rocks and I might as well had been walking on marbles. Everyone else made it look so easy. I was desperate not to look stupid. I wanted Steve to think this was no big deal, like I do it all the time.

Posing in a kettle during our hike.

Posing in a kettle during our hike.

After awhile I began to get the hang of it. Just walk slow and steady. Keep your balance, I kept telling myself. Just pretend you do this all the time. Because normally I would never do something like this. I never thought of myself as an adventurous person.

But getting on a plane to rendezvous with a stranger in Scotland was adventurous.

And so was repeating that in Bath, England.

Plus that whole long-distance relationship thing.

Sometimes people drag you into the river to go on an adventure and experience something new on a warm October day with cobalt blue skies.

Steve takes a break on a rock in the Narrows.

Sure, I’d follow this guy into a river. Anytime.

I wouldn’t mind re-doing 2013 and it’s not just because of the typo

22 Sunday Dec 2013

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Curse the typo.

In the last couple of weeks I have at least three friends who posted on Facebook that after they printed their holiday cards they noticed a typo. It’s a shake-your-fist-at-the-sky moment for anyone who has done this, and I venture to guess that we’ve all done this at least once in our lives.

As I write this post there’s a present under the tree for Steve, which is a calendar I made for him using iPhoto on my Mac. I’m sure he knows it’s there because he requests this each year.

The printed calendar arrived from Apple last week and I was beaming as I opened the crisp white packaging (because it’s Apple, ya know) to check out my creativity, my work of art, my museum piece.

And then I saw it written right on the front in 60 pt. font: 2013.

%&#$@!

Thankfully, I did produce the calendar with all the proper 2014 dates and holidays. It’s just that I wrote 2013 on the front. Oh, for Pete’s sake.

And then this thought popped into my head: I’ll just tell Steve I loved 2013 so much I want to repeat it.

So yes, let’s repeat 2013 because it really was a great year!

So good that I have here the highlights in a little photo essay.

Stuff I bought at NatGeo

When in DC for business I swung by the National Geographic headquarters to visit someone I met on Twitter and also saw the Birds of Paradise exhibit. Oh, I got all this stuff, too. Oh, and called Steve and made him a little bit jealous.

My mention in Nat Geo Traveler

And what a coincidence that the day I was visiting the National Geographic HQ their latest issue of National Geographic Traveler hit the streets and I was quoted in it.

Patagonia State Park

In February Steve and I escaped our winter homes and headed south to Patagonia State Park in Arizona to do some birding.  Yes, it is just this beautiful.

Birding at Whitewater Draw

We are smiling because we’re at Whitewater Draw, AZ and just saw a gazillion Sand Hill Cranes. Oh, and there’s sun on our faces and we’re not wearing winter coats. Yeah, that.

On the canopy walkway at Sacha Lodge

In March we headed really south to Ecuador where we climbed towers and canopy walkways in the Amazon…

Custom boots made in Quito

…got me some custom boots made in Quito….

holding a hummingbird

…held a beautiful hummingbird in my hand in the Andes…

kissing across hemispheres

…and kissed across hemispheres (Steve never crossed over to the south. Okay, he did. But barely.)

SL birding festiva

In May I went on my first birding field trip without Steve. This was the Salt Lake Bird Festival and these Yellow-headed blackbirds were at Bear River National Wildlife Refuge. Yeah, I was pretty proud of myself that day. 

Canadian Parliament building

This is the Canadian Parliament building in Ottawa where Steve and I visited late May as I toured the area where he spent a lot of his childhood. I have to say I’m rather fond of Ottawa. In the summer, of course.

TBEX writing workshop

Hey guess what, I want to be a better writer! So I went to TBEX (Travel Bloggers Exchange) in Toronto and I learned from these great writers. I have more to learn, but this was a big milestone for me. No more throwing up adverbs all over my posts. Promise.

mom and me with makeovers

During the summer I invited my mom to move in with me while Steve is in Canada. It’s been loads of fun. We go to Las Vegas, get makeovers at Nordstrom and probably shop a little too much on QVC.

Jasper National Park

In the cold months Steve comes south to Utah to visit me, but during the summers I go North and this is why. This is Jasper National Park in Alberta and it’s what heaven is going to be. If not, I’m going to change my ways.

Buffalo at Antelope Island

This is what buffalo look like when they’re trying to look pretty. It’s why Steve and I visit Antelope Island State Park in Utah during October. It’s not so birdy at this time of year but the yellow salt bush makes up for that.

On the Continental Divide in Panama

Why, of COURSE we went back to Panama in November This is me standing on the Continental Divide at La Fortuna. Steve and our guide are looking at a hawk and what do I do? Well, I take a selfie because I have no idea what kind of hawk it is.

Rufous Motmot

But when birds in Panama are this gorgeous (like this Rufous Motmot), you don’t take selfies. You pay attention.

So, let’s do 2013 over again, shall we? Really, I wouldn’t mind.

Want to hear some Howler Monkeys?

13 Wednesday Nov 2013

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Last big trip for the year is coming up: Panama (cue Van Halen song)

My twitter pal, Natalie (@_nctaylor) is in Costa Rica right now and has had the pleasure of discovering Howler Monkeys, which of course is cool, because I love it when anyone finds Howler Monkeys interesting. (Who wouldn’t?)

Sharing in Natalie’s excitement over Howler Monkeys, combined with my own thrill in preparing for our upcoming trip to Panama prompted me to dig up this video from last year’s trip to Panama. You can hear (but not see) the two groups of Howler Monkeys battling it with their lungs in a bit of a territory dispute as we listened atop the tower near the Discovery Center at Pipeline Road. They’re in the distance, but imagine being in the very same jungle with these guys. My heart was beating very fast with both joy and terror. But mostly joy because I wasn’t in the way of these howlers.

The real treat, though, is Steve’s spot-on impersonation at the tail end of this. Go ahead, give it a play. It’s short and totally worth it if you’ve never heard a howler monkey before. (Or if you’ve never met my husband either.)

Yeah, that’s my husband. He’s a Howler Monkey. And this is him birding, too:

ZZzzzzzzz

ZZzzzzzzz

Pressures of Ecuador

12 Monday Aug 2013

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The following post is from my other blog The Accidental Birder. I finally gathered enough courage to write it. I’ve included the intro here and to continue reading it, jump over to the Accidental Birder blog by clicking “read the whole story” at the end of the intro.

Act 1: The pressure to keep up

Muddy boots in Ecuador

It was 5:00 a.m. and the rain, warm as bathwater, was coming down hard and in giant drops. Thud, thud, thud, on my head, my shoulders, my arms, my back. The drops looked huge in the light emanating from my headlamp. Our group, in single file, walked on the slippery boardwalk over the swamp—a swamp full of anaconda, caiman and piranha.

The unimaginable entered my mind: Right now I’d rather be back at the office doing Powerpoint. No, it didn’t enter my mind. I heard the words come out of my mouth. 

Right now I’d rather be back at the office doing Powerpoint.

Who says that? Like, ever?

The rush was necessary but I was failing everyone around me, making the awful journey slower and more arduous than it needed to be. This death march over the swamp would lead us to a boat ramp. We would take a motorized canoe on the Napo River to clay licks where we would see possibly hundreds of parrots and parakeets. But we had to hurry. Parrots and parakeets wouldn’t wait for slow pokes.

Read the whole story.

The Amazon and Sacha Lodge: Getting there is half the fun (as long as there are toilets)

12 Friday Apr 2013

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It had been a long day already. We flew from Quito, the capital of Ecuador, to a city called Coca, which actually was bigger than I thought it would be. I expected a little town with only a dilapidated tin-roofed store where a few locals would hang out, sipping colas. I imagined it quiet and sleepy.  Instead, it was a city with busy streets—one right after another, in a proper grid—where people took their lives in their hands when they crossed the street. There was a man in the middle of one street juggling three machetes. (Note to self: Don’t cross the street there.) Taxis zoomed by, cars were hurriedly negotiating the streets without much concern for anyone else (in other words, get out of the way), and a fish market with a long row of vendors cutting and displaying their catch took up two blocks, attracting a multitude of buyers. This was not a quiet, sleepy town.

I was in one taxi and Steve was in another. I don’t know what taxi our bags were in. The folks from Sacha Lodge had met us at the airport and quickly shuffled a group of us—six new arrivals—in random taxis as if we were planning to escape the country in a hurry. Yes, in taxis. At the edge of the Amazon Rainforest. With Gangnam Style blaring on the radio of our taxi.

That’s how I arrived in the Amazon Rainforest.

Coca is actually Puerto Francisco de Orellana, the capital of the Orellana province in Eastern Ecuador, and is located right where the Coca River meets the Napo River. We were there to take a motorized canoe on the Napo River (the largest tributary that feeds into the great Amazon River) to get to Sacha Lodge.

Excited to begin our adventure in the Amazon

Excited to begin our adventure in the Amazon

We’re totally in the Amazon!

It had just occurred to me that morning that we were going to the Amazon. A place on this planet I never thought I’d ever visit. Mostly because it’s my husband’s fault. Had I not met him, I would probably just do artsy-fartsy stuff like go to museums, tour old European villages and lounge around on sandy beaches reading a book.

No, none of that. Instead, he’s lured me into adventure travel via global birding.  Yes, bird watching is pretty badass. (See my other blog, The AccidentalBirder, where I documented about when we needed armed guards in Belize while we went birding and chasing a swarm of army ants in Panama. Yes, totally badass.)

We didn’t have our luggage on our canoe ride. It was all taken to Sacha Lodge ahead of time so it would be waiting for us in our cabin. (Sacha Lodge is owned by the Swiss.  I would expect nothing less from the Swiss.)

When you arrive at the airport a person from Sacha Lodge puts tags on all your luggage. They're very organized.

When you arrive at the airport a person from Sacha Lodge puts tags on all your luggage. They’re very organized.

After my rear end was numb from the two-hour canoe ride we then arrived at what I thought was our final destination.

Hooray! We're here! Actually, not really.

Hooray! We’re here! Actually, not really.

Getting there is half the fun, or so the saying goes.  Well, that’s only if there’s also a bathroom on that journey. Thankfully, there was a bathroom (flushing toilets!), which I ran to once the canoe docked. There was even toilet paper. (Aw, those Swiss think of everything.)

Now, there’s a reason there’s a bathroom here. Turns out our journey’s not done.  We then had to walk about a mile in the jungle. Over a boardwalk laden path and sometimes over the swamp. Awesome! Kind of.

This trail became known affectionately by others (and us) as the Death March. This was not the only time we would walk this path.

This trail became known affectionately by others (and us) as the Death March. This was not the only time we would walk this path. It’s just long and arduous (for me, at least). And doing it at 5 a.m. in the dark in pouring down rain (which is what we did one morning) makes it seem endless.

Once we finished our mile-long walk I thought we’d be at Sacha Lodge. Not yet, folks. We then got into canoes–not motorized this time, but instead two Sacha Lodge guides paddled us to the lodge through a creek for about 20 minutes and to a lake right outside the lodge. And then there it was–Sacha Lodge. Finally.

Praise the Lord. We're here.

Praise the Lord. We’re here.

Our group of six—they call us “newbies”—had a briefing in the main lodge. We were told the food was all safe (meaning we could actually eat salad), there would be morning wake-up calls (knocks on our doors), always be careful where you put your hands (I didn’t want to know) and then I asked my question:

“Uh, what’s the password to the wi-fi?”

The guide giving the briefing chuckled and said, “You’re in the Amazon. There is no wi-fi here. But there is a shared computer where you can pay $5 for 30 minutes, but I think you’ll be fine without the Internet.”

No wi-fi?  What is this? The jungle?

At least we have toilets.

Oooh! Some bonus video here:

To give you an idea of how large the Napo River is, here’s a very short clip of our ride. You’ll notice that it’s about as wide as the Mississippi River (well, for those of you who know all about the Mississippi River).

This next video shows our arrival at Sacha Lodge on the non motorized canoe. You can hear our guide, Marcelo talking to Steve and asking him if he’d ever seen a Hoatzin (that’s a very strange bird).

I admit it. I shoot in Auto mode.

03 Sunday Mar 2013

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It’s a dirty little secret. I shoot in Auto mode. It’s not like I’m a great photographer. I don’t sell photos and it’s not my livelihood. I just enjoy it as a hobby. But I’ve got a bad-ass camera (Nikon D7000) and several lenses and if the dial on my camera isn’t set to the green Auto button I panic.

I'm so in love with the Auto mode.

I’m so in love with the Auto mode. (And even this picture isn’t sharp, though I took it with my phone and probably got a little too close.)

But I’ve resolved to change that this year. It’s my New Year’s Resolution to start learning how to use my camera in a manual mode. I’m determined to understand ISO, Aperture and Shutter speed even though it terrifies me like math terrifies me. Plus, I need to make sure I’m worthy enough to carry this guy around with me:

This is my D7000 bad-ass set up with the awesome AF-S TC-20E III lens.

This is my D7000 bad-ass set up with the awesome AF-S TC-20E III lens. (And I don’t even know what all that stuff means)

So, I took yet another photography class, this time at local shop, Pictureline and I think as long as I try to practice in Manual mode I think I might have a shot at this whole manual thing. (Sorry, didn’t mean for the pun.)

After class it was kind of warmish outside (it was only 48° Fahrenheit outside—it’s all relative folks) and so I thought I might try to get some shots of backyard birds and wouldn’t you know it, I think I just might be getting the hang of this.

Okay, don't count this shot. I'm just getting started.

Okay, don’t count this shot. I’m just getting started.

And this one sucks too. Ignore this.

And this one sucks too. Ignore this.

Awww, nuts!

Awww, nuts!

Hey, not so bad! Hello Scrub Jay.

Hey, not so bad! Hello Scrub Jay.

And hello to you too, Mr. Downy Woodpecker. I don't seem to suck as this so much.

And hello to you too, Mr. Downy Woodpecker. I don’t seem to suck at this so much.

So there you go. My first attempt at trying to shoot in Manual. To be honest, I think I’ve shot in Manual before, but I’m sure it was an accident. I think my finger inadvertently turned the dial to manual.

I’ll report more on my progress as time goes. I’ve got another class in a couple of weeks. We’re going to be talking histograms. Scary!