Category: Leigh

Into the Tundra: Part Three

Leigh, Travel

The following is an account of day three of our trip to the arctic circle.  If you missed day two, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here. 

The wind died down on Saturday morning, and we got the text we were hoping to see.  “Can you be ready in 15?”  Ten minutes later we were anxiously waiting for the van to take us back to the staging area.   We got our bags organized and in the van, and enjoyed a few laughs as the guys from Wisconsin seemed to be forgetting everything in their rush to get into the field… including a rifle!  We also noticed they were well under the weight limit, and we heard one of them regretfully admit, “I didn’t really bring any cold weather gear.”  I glanced down at my bag of coats, hats, gloves and wool long johns and felt a little bad for him.  It’s Alaska, friends.  It might be late summer, but it still gets cold.

We needed our waders for the boarding process, since the float planes were tied up close to shore, but still required a few steps in the water.  I got to sit up front next to the pilot, while Edgar took the chair right behind me.  Taking off on the water is unreal.  The plane glided for a while while we got up speed, and then lifted effortlessly into the Alaskan sky.  It was a bumpy ride for some of the 150 miles north to our camp site.  While my stomach lurched and dropped, our pilot was completely unbothered.  I glanced over and caught him sending a smiley face emoji to someone.  Edgar and I locked eyes and I knew we were thinking the same thing.  If your bush pilot is confident enough to text while he’s flying you out, he’s either unhinged, or there’s nothing to worry about.  We settled on the latter.

We saw caribou, and so much water.  It’s crazy how many rivers and lakes we saw from the air.   We knew we were being dropped off by a lake, so every time I saw a big one I was thinking… maybe we land here… or here… this one looks nice.  Finally the pilot spotted what he’d been after, and we landed smooth as silk on a good-sized lake.  A bunch of guys were gathered in camp chairs on the beach, and they greeted us warmly.  They wasted no time in sharing the layout of the camp, where they saw animals, which direction the caribou were going, and which meals they enjoyed the most from the Mountain House packs.  They also had a stack of leftover firewood, which was much appreciated.  There were six of them, so they’d had three tents, and left one standing and ready for us to move in.  Only half of them could fit in the plane, so the other three stayed back with us for a few more hours.  It took 90 minutes each way to ferry us back and forth from the staging area.

Fish and Game officials have serious rules about NOT hunting the day you fly.  But there is no law against getting the lay of the land, so once our new friends had departed we spent the next five hours of daylight getting to know the valley.  We saw a few caribou, including one rather large bull we nicknamed Mr. Wide.  He had really tall uppers, but no bez.  We watched him for a good while, and slowly got closer, until he’d had enough of us and headed back toward the canyon.

The visual judging of distance is deceiving.  These caribou were close to camp, but still about 200 yards away.  With our binoculars we could see for miles, so it felt like everything was so close, but the actual distance and the mushy give of the tundra made crossing the valley more time-consuming than it appeared.

The daytime temperature was comfortable – in my wool base layer, lined overalls and fleece I was plenty warm, but when the sun went down the temperature really dropped.  We got a fire going and each enjoyed a warm Mountain House meal before burrowing into our sleeping bags.  I admit it took some time for me to fall asleep that first night.  I heard soft, unidentifiable noises, that for no reason whatsoever I suspected might be a grizzly bear.  Once I was certain it was just the wind, I pulled my hat low and my sleeping bag high and drifted off.

On day four we established a morning coffee routine, had an unconventional camp breakfast, and devised a strategy for crossing the tundra.

 

 

When Does a Journey Begin?

Leigh, Travel

When does a journey begin?  The answer might seem obvious – maybe you feel like it begins when you get on the plane, or pack the car, or even make the reservations.  But we might argue it begins much earlier… before you even make a list, or hit “enter” on that first internet search.

Since our journey into the arctic circle (part three is coming soon), we’ve been thinking about our next adventure… and watching videos of other travels into the wilderness.  One that caught our eye was posted by a guy named Justin Gibbins and you can find it here.  His assertion in telling the story of his moose hunt in Alaska, is that the journey began when he was talking with his friend about trips he always wanted to take.  They always thought of the moose hunt as one they would do “eventually” but hadn’t even gotten to the first mark in the actual planning.  But in this particular conversation, something turned.  They began to ask themselves: why haven’t we done this yet?

That’s the moment.  They committed.  That one-second click between “I’ve always wanted to do that” and “I’m going” — that’s when the journey really begins.  That’s when you can first picture yourself on the beach, the lake, in the mountains, or across the globe in a coffee shop surrounded by people speaking a language that’s foreign to your ears.  No tickets have been purchased, and no budgets made.  But the decision is there.  The journey has begun.

 

Into the Tundra: Part Two

Leigh, Travel

The following is an account of day two of our trip to the arctic circle.  If you missed day one, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.

On Friday we got packed up not-so-bright and early for the 6a flight into Kotzebue.  The journey took about 90 minutes, and most of the passengers had one common denominator: camouflage.  Nearly everyone on the flight looked like they were prepared to rough it in the elements for a few days, and hoped to fill their freezer in the process.

It makes sense.  Kotzebue is a small town, and is considered the gateway to the artic.  It’s also an island, so getting goods in or out is tricky.  (That might explain why a bag Cheetos at the local market sold for a cool $7.) Once we landed at the small airport, it wasn’t too hard to find the two young men with the name of our outfitter embroidered on their jackets.  Kaleb and TJ helped us load up into a van to take us over to the staging area.  A few other hunters shared the ride, and a couple more were already at the base camp.  There was a team of two from California, one bearded quiet guy, and one clean-shaved and chatty fellow.  Another pair of guys were traveling from Wisconsin and said they had hunted together for 30 years.  A third duo were also longtime hunting buddies from somewhere in the lower 48.

We all got busy breaking our big bags down into smaller bags, per the instructions of the outfitter.  The bush planes are small, so the pilots prefer many small bags that they can tuck into limited cargo spaces, versus just a couple larger and more cumbersome bags.  We had quite a few items when we broke everything out, and were a little nervous about how the weight would add up once they put everything on the scale.  As it turned out, my bathroom scale had set us up for success.  We were both at about 71 pounds, one pound over the limit, but the outfitter let us slide.

The plan was for us to get into the field that morning, but the wind was up and we decided to grab breakfast while we waited it out.  It was fun to chat with the other hunters and hear their stories about “that one time” when their buddy shot a big moose, or how one guy had the perfect spot for his trophy bull, until he put it on the wall and couldn’t open his back door without hitting the tines.  We all had a delicious breakfast (Edgar raved about the chicken fried steak) and a few good belly laughs before heading back to the staging area to see if it was safe to fly.

The weather was beautiful in town, but reports were that the wind was still howling en route to our camp, so it was decided we’d wait a day and get into the field on Saturday.  We resigned ourselves to the delay, and wandered around the town.  Hunting, fishing, four-wheeling and sled dog mushing are clearly the big pastimes in Kotzebue.  We also saw quite a few broken down vehicles and equipment in yards. Living in a place that remote, and for some of the year, that cold and snowy, must make it hard to get those items removed, and people probably make use of whatever parts they can.

We had a nice dinner with a view, and pondered about the journey ahead.  Would we see caribou?  Would we see bears? Was it really that tough to walk on the tundra?  What kind of camping area would they select for us, and would our gear stand the test when the Alaskan wind and rain blew into the valley?

We couldn’t wait to get out into the wilderness and see what the arctic circle had in store.

 

Rides Around: Somethin’ ‘Bout a Truck

Leigh, Travel

As I mentioned in last week’s Rides Around, I’m not really a car person.

But it turns out I am a little bit of a truck person.

When I was growing up my dad had a pick up truck. Dodge. Blue.  He drove it to work, mostly, but sometimes he’d work an overnight shift at the steel mill, and he’d let me drive it to school.  It was a treat to have my own wheels, even if it was an old truck, and even if it sometimes wouldn’t start right away, or stalled out on occasion.  I do remember turning the key in the school parking lot, and willing it to start… hoping it wouldn’t stall just at the point somebody super cool was walking out of the building.

Once I hit senior year of college I got my own car, thanks to a great deal given to me by my grandmother.  I don’t remember how much I put down, or even what the total was, but I remember that I paid her $100 a month until I could pay it off.

I leased a car, then tried a Honda del Sol (fun!) and then ran the wheels off a Civic and needed something else.

A Mini Cooper caught my eye.  Not many people had them in Texas, and it was a convertible (like the del Sol) and a great deal, so I snatched it up.  I found I enjoyed being a Mini “person”.  It got great gas mileage and when I made moves from Texas to California and back again, it held me, three suitcases, a guitar, a backpack and a dog just fine.

To be fair, the dog doesn’t take up much space.
It could even hold blinds for 19 windows. Barely.

But this new neighborhood and its sea of potholes have been rough on the Mini.  In just a few months I quickly had to replace tires, and this week new issues began to surface that felt more like Big Trouble.  It was time to face facts.  I had to bid adieu to the Mini, and get something a little more…max.

I whined; I researched; I consulted my personal panel of experts, and I test drove a couple small SUVs.

But, as I learned when I was sixteen… there’s something about a truck.  I saw one online I liked.  Blue. No frills.  Just a truck with a few years and a few miles on it.  Grey and blue seats and two little jump seats in the back, for some very small passengers, just in case I run into any.  When I turned the key it started right up (thankfully) and I scanned the radio for a country station.  I had a big smile on my face the whole ride home.  It doesn’t fit in the garage as easily as the Mini, but I think it suits me just fine.

The Rig: a 2005 Ford Ranger
The Location:  just north of Houston
The Rider: a city girl with a mild case of nostalgia
The Special Circumstance: getting a new deal on an old truck

Rides Around: Little Joe

Leigh, Travel
When I think of riding around, it doesn’t bring to mind anything with a motor.
Little Joe was one of three “new horses” purchased by the barn where I worked in north Georgia.  He came along partway through my ten years there, and quickly earned a place in my heart.  He was on the small side (hence the name) and very timid.
The first morning we met, I arrived at the barn with some advance warning — there were new horses; they were just settling in, and there were instructions on how much and what type of grain and hay they should receive for breakfast.  The first hour of the barn days were always heaven, but when there were new horses I would practically skip to the office.
The routine was simple, peaceful and relaxing.  I’d check to make sure all stalls had hay and clean water, and then fill up food buckets one by one.  Once all the stalls were ready, I’d walk up to the pasture and let the horses down for the day.  Most of the time, they’d go to their own stall and quickly get to munching on breakfast.  But some of the smarter and faster horses knew they could get a couple extra mouthfuls by zipping into a neighbor’s stall.  They’d snatch gulps of food before one of the staff could shoo them out and into their own stall, where a full bucket would still be waiting.
So there was a bit of a pecking order, and poor Little Joe was new, and … little.  He came down last, and was trembling.  He didn’t want to go in his stall.  He was intimidated by the bigger, more dominant horses.  The poor thing was just scared.
I got him into his stall by coaxing him with food from my hand.  He ate some, but was still shaking, so I got my breakfast, a bowl of instant oatmeal with apple chunks, and brought it to him.  He slowly relaxed while enjoying my breakfast, gently taking scoops from my hand.
Day by day, Little Joe got more and more comfortable, until he found his stall just fine in the morning, and he no longer trembled when the other members of the herd came near.  I chose him for many a trail ride, and he stayed calm and steady.  While he eventually settled in, he never settled for just one breakfast.  He would smell the oatmeal in the microwave and meet me in the breezeway, ears up and ready for a treat.  I’d have a bite and scoop one out for him, back and forth, until it was gone.  Oatmeal and apples.  Breakfast for two.
The Rig: A little gelding with a sweet personality
The Location:  a barn in Georgia
The Driver Rider: a sucker for the underdog
The Special Circumstance: helping a new friend get settled

Cold Country

Leigh, Travel

Minneapolis.  Cold country, my family called it.  I called it home for four years, and the better part of a fifth.

I went to school in Minnesota, but not at the U of M, where most people assume when I say that.  Instead I went to a small private school downtown, a few nondescript buildings that covered a couple of blocks and became my first home away from home.  My first Big Move.

I remember not knowing at all what to expect, and being worried about how I would make friends.  I was enthralled with the adventure, but nervous about how it would all play out.

As is often the case, I needn’t have worried.  I made friends quickly… tight ones, the kind you make when you’re all in the same situation, and in desperate need for community.  I landed on a major, found a part time job, and decided the snow wasn’t so bad.  I got used to my wet hair freezing into a crunchy mess on the way to class, and learned which bus lines go where you want, and which will strand you in the middle of nowhere at the last stop of the night.

I’m not sure who taught me this moving method, but I remember regretting it right about this point.

After college I got my first TV job in Minneapolis, at the same place where I interned my senior year.  The city was different though, after all my friends had moved on, and the place where I had so many great memories seemed brand new again, back to a sea of strangers, with no forced orientation or constant comfort of communal living.  I got lonely, and didn’t stay long.

This week a chance work trip will take me back.  Back to Elliot Park and Hennepin Avenue.  Back to skyways and skylines and Prince’s club downtown.  I bet the quarter bus route is up to a couple of bucks, and I would be surprised if Jitters, the downtown coffee shop is still around, packed with students “studying” and enjoying the all night shenanigans.  For old time’s sake, I’d love to go to the airport at dark, park under the route the planes pass as they head for the runway, and think about the 18-year-old me, sitting there bundled up in my dad’s flannel with my new friends and my wild dreams, striking out on my first adventure.

Cracking Up in Toe Stand

Leigh, Yoga

When people think about yoga, they usually think about flexibility, strength or peace… maybe a calmness and an attention to the breath.  And they would be right — yoga is all of that and more.  But what people don’t often talk about is the laughter.

Yes, you can laugh during yoga.  Some of my favorite teachers make me laugh on a regular basis, and it’s part of the reason I keep coming back.  Trying a new pose can be challenging, and laughter is one way to shake off the nerves.  If you’ve ever tried an acro yoga class, then you know there are roars of laughter shaking the room, as partners pair up and put feet into backs and flyers wiggle and wobble, and things don’t turn out exactly as you envision at all.  

Heart-opening poses might make you tear up, but they also might make you smile, wondering if you’re leaning into it a little too much… and feeling your fingers sliding off their grip.

Directions to look your friend in the eyes, or even meeting a gaze of a fellow yogi in the mirror, might spark snickers…even if you can’t pinpoint the reason for it, and think it would be more zen of you to hold it in.

Keep in mind that a good belly laugh is great for the soul, and the abs.  We’re all human and we’re all imperfect and on a unique journey that asks us to be vulnerable and authentic.  We’re asking our bodies to move into strange positions, and to breathe into impossible places, and there’s no law that says we always have to take it so, so seriously.

So the next time something awkward or silly happens in class, don’t feel guilty if a chuckle rises up in your throat.  Don’t swallow the laughter.  Be real.  And if you want to feel supported, feel free to look over at me.   I’ll be the one giggling in savasanah and losing it in toe stand.  (Thankfully, my friend Sarah is of the same mind, and we laughed our faces off during this shoot.)

 

Volcanoes and Banana Thieves of Costa Rica

Leigh, Surfing, Travel

This is part two of the recap of our trip to Costa Rica.  You can catch up on part one here. 

La Fortuna was a little bigger and catered to tourists.  Just about every street corner had a shop with supersized pictures of people zip lining, riding horses and jumping into waterfalls… and big signs advertising the best prices in town.  We talked to a few and found out the horse ride wasn’t exactly what we’d hoped — it didn’t go to the volcano at all  — and we decided to ride later in the week at our beach stop.  But there was an option to hike to the top of a (dormant) volcano and swim in a crater at the top!  A quick group conference confirmed we all thought that sounded amazing, so we signed up for the next day.

The climb up to the top of the volcano was no joke.  It was hot and a bit more strenuous than we anticipated, but we all felt very accomplished to make it to the summit. When we reached the highest point, we met up with a group of German bodybuilding tourists, who tried to warn us in heavily-accented English about a big, long-nosed creature that came out of the woods and stole their bananas.  I thought they were pulling our legs until they showed us the video one of them had captured on their phone.  Sure enough, there was a banana-stealing creature confronting them.  I wanted it to come back out so we could get a look, but guess it was off in the jungle enjoying its banana stash.

The water at the top was chilly.  Some of us enjoyed a dip, while others enjoyed the leftover chicken we’d dragged up for a picnic.  It didn’t take us very long to head back down, where we decided a proper swim was necessary.  We’d passed some rushing water with a natural pool and a rope swing on our way to the hike, so we pulled over and got in.  This was clearly the place where the locals came to cool off, and they welcomed us with big smiles.  Edgar even got cheers and applause for his elaborate swing, tuck and dive off the rope.

With our waterfall and volcano boxes checked off, it was time to surf.  We got on the road again, this time headed for the coast.  On the way we saw a car pulled over and people feeding some sort of animal.  I had to see what that was, so we pulled over too and saw a bunch of the banana thieves all together! They’re called coati or pizote, and even though they look a little like an opossum to me, they’re actually in the raccoon family.   A family was there feeding them apple jacks.

It took us a few hours to reach Tamarindo, our destination for the next three days.  The hostel where we stayed was across the street from a break, and it even had a surfboard rental place right out front.  We walked into town and got some supplies for breakfast, and lined up our boards for the next day.

I don’t have beach pictures because we were all in the water and I didn’t want my phone to get stolen.  Just imagine several pretty beaches with some of us catching waves, and some of us petting dogs or playing hacky sack.

I do have some shots of the open air kitchen where we made breakfast, and the contraption that gave us delicious coffee.

I know this is sounding like quite the animal-themed recap, but I couldn’t leave out one of my favorite activities.  While Edgar checked out one more break, the girls and I took a two-hour horseback ride up into the mountains.  I asked the guide if he thought we’d see monkeys, and he said maybe.  But I think he over-estimated my desire because he kept doing little detours into more jungle and looking up, and then sadly saying, “Ohhh… no monkey…”    There was a bit of a language barrier, but I tried to communicate that I was just curious, and would not be heartbroken if monkeys were not spotted. (They were not.)

We said goodbye to the beach on Thursday and drove back to San Jose.  CR traffic can be a bear, and we didn’t want to be stressing out for our flight back to the states on Friday.  All in all it was a great visit. Everyone got a little color, a little exercise and a lot of ice cream.  Pura Vida.  🙂