A man transports good via bicycle at the Tsukiji Fish Market

In Tokyo exists one of the craziest places on earth. The Tsukiji Fish Market processes in excess of four and a quarter million pounds of fish with a value of more than fifteen million dollars every single day. However, if you want to see this show you have to get up early as the place is all but closed down by midday. The true spectacle is the tuna auction which starts at a few minutes after 5a.m. and finishes a couple hours later. Visitors are allowed however they are confined to designated areas, limited to 120 on a first-come first-serve basis and there are times the market is closed to the public, most notably around the new year. Once the auction concludes the goods are transferred via bike, cart and forklift to one of the almost 1,000 wholesale stalls. You would be well advised to keep your head on a swivel. If you keep a low profile and stay out of the way most visitors won’t be bothered and can roam the market and see the processing of all assortments of fish from the smallest minnows to large tuna weighing upwards of hundreds of pounds. If you go, know you won’t be alone and check the closures online at the markets homepage: http://www.tsukiji-market.or.jp/tukiji_e.htm
The market is composed not only of the inner market where the auction and processing take place but also an outer market. The outer market is where fish is sold at retail stalls along with prepared foods, hand crafted knives and kitchenware. Be on the lookout for sushi restaurants in the outer markets where you will taste some of the freshest toro possible.

Ice vendor cuts ice blocks

Ice gets loaded into the crusher

A market vendor receives ice to keep his goods cool

Tuna await transportation and processing after the early morning tuna auction

Tuna being transported via cart.

Men load a crate onto a cart

A fresh tuna awaits processing

Fish for sale in the outer market

Mill Creek, UT

Mill Creek, UT

Mill Creek is a short hike to a nice pool with some shorter cliff diving, making it a popular destination. If you’re truly adventurous, treat yourself and hike further up  the canyon to another pool.  It does not have the sheer cliffs of the lower pool, but it is much more secluded. If you climb up the small waterfall at the end of the pool you can walk around to a small natural water slide. The waterfall is the destination for most, but continuing up canyon provides a nice hike in a beautiful setting.

Climbing areas nearby:
All the awesomeness near Moab.

Getting there:
From downtown Moab, head east on Center Street, turn right on 400 E, then left on Mill Creek Dr. Follow Mill Creek Dr. when it bears right at Sand Flats Rd. Finally, left on Powerhouse Lane until it ends at a dirt parking area. From the pullout you will see the trail heading east on the south (right) side of the stream. Less than 5 minutes from the car is a sandstone gorge below a small dam that provides a great place to hangout a short distance from the car.
For the more adventurous, continue heading up canyon, staying on the well-used trail. The trail crosses the stream a few times, so don’t be afraid to get your feet wet right from the start.

Paradise Cove, CO

Paradise Cove, CO

Paradise cove used to be a word-of-mouth, locals-only hangout. Today it’s much easier to find this retreat, thanks to blabby writers like us. Here you’ll find sheer rock leading down to a very respectable pool.  The pool is deep enough that only the truly brave touch bottom, and the water is free of obstacles.  There is something for everyone — from the tame 16 foot jump to the crazy 100 footer.  There are also plenty of sun-soaked rocks to warm up on.  Year round the water is brisk at best. Best visited on really hot days.

Climbing areas nearby:
Eleven Mile Canyon.
Everything else in the South Platte

Getting there:
From Colorado Springs, drive west on U.S. Highway 24 for 26 mi. About a mile past Divide, turn left onto Twin Rocks Road. Drive 5.8 miles until the road dead ends at Teller County Road 1. Turn left and drive 5.9 miles to a fork in the road. Veer right on Teller County Road 11 and continue 4 miles until the road dead ends. Turn right onto Teller County Road 112. Drive 2.7 miles to a dirt parking lot on the left at the top of a small rise. The trail to the cove starts across the road. Follow a clear a half a mile to the pool.

Split Rock, NY -- Photo: Kate Galecki

Split Rock, NY

The Mohonk Preserve outside New Paltz, NY is a climbing mecca. Home of the ‘Gunks’, the Mohonk preserve attracts thousands of climbers from around the world each year. However, during the summer, the heat and humidity can be nothing short of brutal. A dip in Split Rock can be more than just a welcome relief. Although Split Rock may not be the biggest secret, there are many places to swim in and around the preserve but Split Rock is not only the most secluded and serene but also contains the coolest water.

Climbing areas nearby:
The Gunks

Getting there:
From New Paltz head west on Co Rd. 299 until it dead ends. Make a left onto Hwy. 44 for about 1.5 mi. Go under the small bridge and follow the road to the bottom of the hill and look for the parking area on the right. From the parking lot head south on the trail to the Trapps and make the first left. In a few hundred yards find your refreshing oasis. You are required to have a preserve permit to use the area but if you show up early enough you may sneak by before the ranger station is staffed. Obviously, reverse the direction if you are coming right off the crag.

Blue skies above

No one complained during their commutes to work, but those of us who enjoy a good day of skiing on our local backcountry 14er looked painfully upon barren Pikes Peak.  After a glimpse of spring in early March that had me excited for warm days of climbing, the snow and rain hit hard.  From the end of March through most of May the Front Range went from a drought to above average levels of precipitation.

Long after I had decided that it was time to pack away the skis for the summer, my roommate Josh, floated the idea of a ski day ‘the Peak’. After a few phone calls it was set, and I committed to the trip so long as the weather wasn’t more conducive to rock climbing.  I woke up on May 15 to rain and really wanted to stay in bed. Josh told me there was enough new snow on Pikes Peak that the road was not currently open far enough for us to get any decent skiing. The ranger advised us that they were working on getting the road open to the summit and it was currently sunny with no wind. Skeptically I continued to get my things together hoping for any news that would let me return to my pillow.

Weather down below

One thing you should know about my friends and me is we don’t do things halfway. So I hit the road to grab the pop-up tent, table, grill, cooler and a host of bar-be-que supplies.  The burgers were made, the beer was cold, and thank God the ranger was right.  After driving though clouds we hit 10,000 ft. and saw the sun for the first time that day.  With palpable excitement we set up camp in no time, piled in the pick-up, picked up some fellow skiing hitch-hikers, and headed upwards.  Although there is an old ski area with a few runs cut into the trees that can be accessed from the road, we spent our day riding what most people consider to be the better terrain.

Glen Cove offers something for everyone.  There is a nice run that is easy to reach less than 50 yards downhill from a pull-off on the side of the toll road.  There is also more technical terrain to descend, like the W’s, and wider shoots like Little Italy, which offer a nice mix of open terrain and narrow shoots.  It allows you plenty of area to turn out of the fall line but is still reasonably steep with enough consequences to keep your attention.

Hero Snow on Pikes Peak

It was the kind of day that keeps the smiles coming and makes for great ‘you missed it’ talk at the bar later. I can’t say enough about the snow.  True hero snow. It was soft enough to let your edges dig in, but firm enough to let you rip.  That day in May we were all better skiers.  The endless number of tourists made us feel like better skiers as well.  Questions like “are you going to ski that?” poured out of car windows. And the people forced to pull over with overheated brakes near to our base camp further reassured us of our awesomeness.

After a handful of runs we broke for lunch. Unbelievably the majority of the conversation that day wasn’t about how great the snow was.  It was about how we still could not believe the weather. From the top of Glen Cove to our base camp at the bottom, the usually visible Colorado Springs was amazingly obscured — buried under thick clouds.  Our smiles grew as we donned some more sunscreen and thought of all of our friends stuck in the rain.  In town it was the kind of day you could only enjoy if you were miserably hungover. It was dreary and you wouldn’t feel bad about staying at home and watching ski movies all day. We were living it.

Since that day in May, Pike’s Peak has gotten more snow and I can happily report that my skis are still out and ready to hit ‘the Peak’ again.  Just waiting for another rainy day… At least for those who stay in town.

CJ Sidebottom

About CJ Sidebottom

C.J. Grew up a long way from anything resembling the Front Range of Colorado where he now calls home.  He was closer to the highest point in Kansas that the red sandstone towers of the Garden of the Gods.  C.J. left cow-tipping country and headed to the big city for college.  He stumbled upon a couple of climber while in college and quickly developed a passion for the sport.  Working as the climbing coordinator for the college and as a guide for the Front Range Climbing Company during the summer his skills and love for the sport grew rapidly.  While in college C.J. took the opportunity to dabble in white water kayaking, mt. biking, backpacking, and some backcountry skiing.  Today C.J. spends almost all of his free time pulling on rock across the western US.  He retires a lot of ropes falling on cams, nuts, bolts, old scary pins, crash pads and the occasional ice screw all within the given year.

Paragliding Mt. Fuji

When I was a very young child in England, there was a programme on television that granted wishes. It was run by a man called Jim, and children from around the country would write to him with their hopes and dreams and wait for him to sort them out: a kind of Santa Claus for experience, instead of presents. There was a little boy who got to drive James Bond’s car, and a child who got a part on Doctor Who; there was a young viewer who managed to temporarily become the third drummer in Adam and the Ants, and a class that got to eat lunch on a moving rollercoaster (or try).

I wrote to Jim every single month for three years, and eventually my mum said she wasn’t giving me any more stamps unless she knew where they were going.

“I`m writing to Jim,” I finally admitted.
“What have you asked him for?”
“To fly,” I said, showing her the letter. “Like Peter Pan. Or a bird.”
There was a pause. “Umm,” mum said eventually, “Sweetheart, that’s quite a tall order.”
“No it’s not,” I told her firmly, because I’d thought about it a great deal and it seemed perfectly feasible. “Peter Pan can do it. So I can as well.”
“Well… Will you mind terribly if Jim attaches you to a string and swings you from the ceiling?”
I glared at her. “Peter Pan doesn’t have a string and he’s not attached to the ceiling.”
“What about if you go up in an aeroplane or a helicopter? Will that do?”
“No.”
“A hot air balloon?”
“No.”
“What about if I take you to the top of a tall building and then swing you around by your arms?”
“Mum,” I sighed, rolling my eyes at her. “This is why you`re not Jim, isn’t it.”

I waited and I waited, but Jim never wrote back. Because – my mum eventually told me, when I was a few years older – what I wanted was impossible. Not for small fictional children, obviously, but for real life people. Flying just wasn’t one of the privileges granted humans, she said, and the sooner I came to grips with that fact the happier I’d be on the ground.

She was wrong, and I never adjusted to the disappointment of being land-based. Over the next twenty years, I tried it all. I tried the aeroplane and the helicopter, but it wasn’t like flying at all: it was like sitting in a moving room. I tried the hot air balloon, but that was like standing in a moving basket. I went up in a micro-light, and while it was definitely closer to the sky it was also noisy and jittery and felt like a machine. I got one of the local theatre companies to pull me around on a string, but – as I had suspected at the age of five – that was very much like being pulled around on a string. And my dad had to stop swinging me around, because eventually his arms started hurting.

It was only on moving to Japan, however, that I finally got the wish that Jim hadn’t been able to grant me. It was only in Japan that I found paragliding.

Mt. Fuji dwarfs paragliders

In the world, there are dozens of perfect paragliding spots. You can paraglide over the Himalayas in Nepal and the Dolomites in Italy; you can hoist yourself over Table Mountain in Cape Town and Coronet Peak in New Zealand and the Swiss Alps; over the rainforest in Brazil and from fairytale castles in Europe. You can fly over the plains of Africa, or in India, or Korea, or Pakistan, or France; from Pakistan or Canada or the UK. Basically, if there`s a hill and a view you will find a nearby paragliding school.

In Japan, there is nowhere better to paraglide than Mount Fuji. It’s not just because it’s the legend-riddled symbol of the nation, beloved by poets and artists for thousands of years, or the fact that it’s a near perfect volcano: almost perfectly symmetrical and at the right time of year topped with snow like the cream on a Japanese shaved ice “Kakigori”. It’s not just because it’s beautiful, or the biggest mountain in the country, or an internationally recognizable view. It’s not just because there are paragliding companies spread around the base of it so you can take your pick, or because the distinct four seasons in Japan mean that no flight is ever the same: blossoms in spring, red leaves in Autumn, a haze of white heat in summer and a blanket of snow in the winter.

No: it’s also because if you fly in front of it, you don’t have to climb it too. That was my reasoning, anyway.

Unfortunately, the infamously mysterious Fuji disappears completely at the slightest hint of fog or cloud, and so the rainy morning of my first ever flight was spent sitting in a room, with an inexplicable box of newborn puppies, waiting nervously to see if the sky would clear enough for us to leave the building. The paragliding company I flew with – WingKiss – is based on the Asigiri plateau, on the South East of Fuji in Fujinomiya, Shizuoka prefecture, and the building was packed full of semi-professionals and professionals waiting to get into the sky, with myself and my friend as the only two terrified first-timers. And, frankly, the confidence we’d had that morning had started to subside about four hours into sitting in a room, watching videos of people jumping off mountains with nothing but large nylon blankets harnessed to their bottoms. “Such a shame it’s bad weather,” we’d ended up muttering to the floor. “We might have to do it another day. Like tomorrow. Or next week. Or, you know, when we’re much older and closer to dying anyway.”

The school – like most schools – offers courses that teach you how to fly on your own. There are any number of combination packages, ranging in experience and time and aptitude and cost, but we had taken none of them. For the first flight, we’d opted for the tandem jump where no experience or knowledge is required. We would simply be hoisted onto the front of a tandem glider with a professional flier and then left to hyperventilate our way down to the ground again with no responsibility whatsoever for our own safety. Easy. And the brief video training required was especially brief for me, because I don’t speak Japanese. So, I had simply watched with round eyes, nodding occasionally and hoping that I wasn’t being told anything I’d be expected to know at any stage in the future.

Just after lunchtime the sun came out and the skies abruptly cleared – as skies in Shizuoka often do – and what was left of the nervous wrecks that used to be my friend and I were piled into a bus and driven to the top of the nearby mountain, Kono Azuma. At an altitude of 1,050 metres, this looked much bigger when I knew we were jumping off it. Before, it had looked quite little. Now, it looked like Everest.

On the top of the mountain facing Fuji was a large, flat, blue tarpaulin area, slanted downwards towards a sheer drop: like an extreme sort of picnic blanket. When the bus stopped and shaky legs were swung out of the sliding doors, I held my hand up.

“I’m sorry,” I told them, “but I’ve just realized that I can’t jump off a mountain. I’m game for flying, but I’m not game for jumping off mountains. They’re two very different things.”
“Don`t worry,” they said, handing me a helmet. “You’re going with an English speaker. That way she can tell you if there’s a problem.”

“Problem?” I squeaked, before being pushed gently over to a very tiny Japanese lady who grinned at how pale my face had gone. “What do you mean problem?” And then I looked at my tandem partner: the woman who would be controlling my life for the next thirty five minutes. She looked younger than me, and half my size. I`d been hoping for a six foot five mass of sheer fat and muscle to break my fall if I needed it.

“Don’t worry,” she said, hooking the parachute on to us and slipping me into the holster. “It’ll be fun.”

“Uh,” I replied, unconvinced, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure about being Peter Pan after all. It was suddenly too real, and too clear that there was absolutely nothing separating me from the air or the ground: nothing but a few bits of material under my bottom resembling a big crotchless rope nappy and a large bit of material over my head that looked like hi-tech bedding. No floor, no metal, no seat. No large basket to walk around in. No in-flight films or speaker systems to tell me about turbulence. No ceiling, and definitely no string. Just me, a stranger, a few bits of material, a very big mountain and a whole lot of sky.

I looked anxiously at the cliff edge.

“Now,” she said, “when I say run, run. And when I say lift, lift.” She started walking forwards.
“Now?” I squeaked. I had thought we’d be given a few hours of motivational speeches first. “You want me to run at nothing?” I clarified.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I can,” I explained. “I can’t really run when there’s earth on the other end of it.”
“Sure you can,” she said from behind me. “Now run!”

And I ran.

I ran the only way you can run towards the edge of a mountain edge when every single natural instinct in your body is telling you not to: muttering swear words under my breath.

“And lift!” she shouted from behind me.

I swore again and lifted my legs. And the ground abruptly disappeared.

Suddenly, it was silent. The only sound was me – no longer swearing but taking large, shuddering breaths as I watched my feet float 1,000 metres above the ground – and the wind around us and on top of us and underneath us. We had been abruptly suspended in the air, the way eagles hang looking for prey: not falling, as every part of my unconscious brain expected to be, but flying. The thin harness underneath our bottoms and the sheet above our heads seemed to become part of us and as natural as wings: to almost disappear completely. And as the parachute swayed gently to the left and the right, my breathing grew steadier and deeper and the sky grew strangely bigger.

Paragliding Mt. Fuji

Around us, the farming lands of Asigiri stretched: green and brown and patchworked and tiny. Below us, a dark green pine forest lined the mountain. To the side, my friend waved from his parachute: presumably no longer swearing under his breath either. And in front, looming perfect and clear and huge, was Mount Fuji. With its snow cap hanging in the air above the blueish cone like some kind of lid you could pop off. The view of a million postcards, and a million calendars, and a million paintings. And much, much better than any of them.

I took another shuddering breath. After nearly thirty years, I was finally flying. And it was exactly the way I thought it would be.

“Like it?” my tandem partner said after ten minutes of watching the sky open up and my feet dangle into nothing.
“No,” I said, still trembling. “I love it.”
“Want to spin?” she asked.
“Umm,” I said, and suddenly the sky disappeared. And we span: in spirals that looped us like an invisible rollercoaster while I shouted until my throat hurt.
“Okay!” I finally managed to yell. “Enough spinning!”
She laughed. “That’s my favourite bit.”

Thirty-five minutes in the air, and it was the longest thirty-five minutes of my life and also the shortest. Every minute felt different, and every minute I noticed something else. Birds were flying below us, and planes were above us: for the first time, I was airborne and squidged in between. Now that the sky had cleared paragliders were appearing by the minute, and the sky was filling with tiny puffs of neon sheets, like bright pollen. The air smelt of the pine trees and the grasslands underneath us. And never before had the adrenalin of an extreme sport combined with such a sensation of peace: the heart-pounding, hand trembling, mind sharpening excitement of knowing you’re hanging 1,000 feet above the ground mixed with the dreamy, calm, surreal experience of floating. Never before had something so unnatural felt so organic. Never had something so dangerous seemed so safe. And while it wasn’t flying the way Superman flew – zooming through the air – it was flying the way Peter Pan flew when he hung in the air and waited for Wendy to catch up. Without a motor, and without metal. Just me and the sky. And that was what I had wanted as a five-year-old. Not to zoom, but to be suspended

As we reluctantly descended, I asked how long we could have stayed up there if I wasn’t paying for a thirty-five minute session.

“As long as the wind lasts,” my tandem partner said. “All day, sometimes. I usually bring a sandwich.” Then she laughed. “Now,” she said as the landing field got closer, “when I say run, run. And keep your legs bent.”

Moonrise over Mt. Fuji

“There’s a whole lot of running involved in flying, isn’t there,” I grumbled, and prepared my legs to run into nothing again. And as we watched the ground approach, I realized that I wanted to cry. It had taken me so long to get into the air, and it seemed so unfair that I had to come back down again so soon. I wanted to stay up there all day too.

“Now,” she told me as the ground approached, “run.”

And I ran until the ground caught up with me, at which point I promptly fell over. All the grace and peace I had found in the sky immediately abandoned me, because I was land-based all over again. And I really didn’t want to be.

“Was everything okay?” my friend asked as we de-parachuted and de-helmeted and I did a few little jumps of happiness; partly to celebrate, and partly to get back in the air.

“Amazing,” I told him.
“I saw you spinning and thought something had gone wrong.”
“Nope. Apparently she just likes doing it.”
“You know,” one of the other parachuters told me: “of all of us, you won the jackpot. You know that girl you just came down with? Your tandem instructor?”

“Yeah?” I looked at the tiny girl behind me with flushed cheeks and the big grin: the one who had controlled my life – and whether I would continue having one – for thirty-five minutes. The one who wasn’t a six-foot-five lump of muscle and fat, and hadn’t had to be.

“She’s a world champion paraglider, just back from the Olympics in Italy. She helps out here for fun. You just had the experience of a lifetime.”

I looked at her again, and then I thought about it for a few seconds. “I know,” I said eventually. Because I already did.

As we drove away from the site, I looked back at the sky where dozens of tiny paragliders were hanging: dots of colour against the blue. They didn’t look like planes, I realized, or helicopters, or micro-lights. They didn’t look like they were on strings, or hot air-balloons, or any man-made type of flying. They looked like birds of prey, hanging in the sky and sitting in the wind. And they looked exactly like Peter Pan and a hundred Lost Boys, just after they had flown out of the window.

The letters I wrote may not have gone to the right place, but they worked in the end. Twenty years later I gotten to fly, just as I was sure I could. And eventually I’ll take enough flights that I’m allowed to go on my own. Because that’s how Peter Pan flew too: all by himself.

Most of us want to fly as children, and sometimes as we get older we begin to believe it’s impossible. As Wendy asked when she was little, “Why can’t you fly, mother?” And as her mother answered: “Because I am grown-up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.”

There aren’t many wishes we make as children that we can grant ourselves as adults, and there are too many dreams we put away unfulfilled.

With paragliding, even the most land-tied adults can remember how to fly all over again.

Paragliding Companies on the Asagiri Plateau, Japan:

Wingkiss
www12.plala.or.jp/wingkiss
Tel – 0544-52-1090

Asagiri Kugon Paragliding Company
www.asagiri-para.com
Tel – 0544-52-1031

Sky-Asagiri Paragliding
www.skyasa.com
Tel – 0544-52-0304

Holly Smale

About Holly Smale

Holly Miranda Smale is a writer, teacher and ex-PR Girl from a place in England that you won’t have heard of unless you read the back of packets of Shredded Wheat, and has never been referred to as “the love child of Anne of Green Gables and Adrian Mole” in her life.

Over the past twenty nine years, Holly has wanted to be: a ballerina, a starving poet, an airplane pilot, Claire Danes, a scientist, a spaceman, a journalist and an internationally best-selling author. She has been: a courgette packer, a dinner lady, a cleaner, a (very bad) fashion model, a PR executive, a receptionist, and a door-to-door salesman. Holly has improbably high hopes that one day something on these two lists will match.

However, until or unless this happens, she fully intends to continue “gadding around the world with no shoes on” and can only hope that when further gadding becomes impossible her younger sister will convert the shed so that she can wrap herself in a blanket and live in it during the winter months.

She lives at www.thewritegirl.co.uk, and is currently based in Japan.

The author readies for battle

With its sleepy, sedated reputation, I expected my recent journey around The Lao People’s Democratic Republic to be a gentle wander through Asia the way it used to be before high rises and KFCs took the place of indigenous hill tribes and wild elephants. Only once I joined up with Stray Travel Asia did I learn my trip dates fell during the one time of year where Laos is not so languid – the annual Water Festival.

Laos, Burma, Cambodia and Yunnan, China each celebrate the season in their own way during the second week of April, but it’s usually Songkran in Thailand that attracts the most attention and subsequent splashy (pun intended) photos in Western travel sections. I’d heard conflicting reports about the Pi Mai Laos festivities. Was it a milder, gentler version of Songkran or a celebration worthy of its own story? I set out to see for myself.

The Water Festival commemorates the sun beginning its journey north and traditionally is marked with cultural performances and religious ceremonies. Homes, temples and images of Buddha are given a good scrubbing in a countrywide spring-cleaning event. The revered act of watering came from the tale of King Kabinlaphom, who lost his head in a wager with an advisor. After decapitation, the seven princesses kept his head in a cave, visiting once a year to sprinkle it with holy water in the hopes of bringing prosperity and good weather to the land. Today, it’s customary for elders and monks to receive gentle sprinkles of flowered or perfumed water during the holiday to signify renewal and reverence. Once tradition is satisfied, the Water Festival becomes the wildest, wettest party of the year. This is great news for the non-monk because now tradition has evolved so even “falangs” can join in.

Touring with Stray Asia

Loation countryside

Traveling in the region is tricky in April, as trains and buses sell out quickly and accommodations can cost almost double. As a first time visitor, I wanted someone else to help me sort out the details so I chose to meet up with Stray Travel Asia, a hop-on, hop-off tour of Thailand and Laos with several predetermined tracks. I picked the Tom Yum pass, beginning in Bangkok, taking a train to historic Sukhothai and Chiang Mai, and snaking around north and central Laos via bus before a final night in the capital of Vientiane. Known for small groups and a very laid back vibe, Stray Travel Asia manages the transportation aspects of the experience – buses, trains, tuk-tuks, slow boats – and helps to book into (dirt cheap but nice) guest houses at each stop. The rest is really up to the individual. While I traveled straight through on the Tom Yum itinerary as scheduled, I met several folks who stopped for a few days or a week based on whims. It all depends how much time you have.

Since the trains to the north were booked up, our initial group of three (guide Anna and fellow traveler Amber) instead took public buses on the way to meet the big saffron-hued Stray bus across the Thailand/Laos border. After a fast bike trip around the sprawling historical park and the night market in sleepy Sukhothai, we made our way to the capital of Songkran, the ancient city of Chiang Mai. There’s plenty to entertain there, like the walled old town, dozens of wats, elephant parks and a famous night safari, not to mention a happening backpacker nightlife. This particular week though, everyone was in town for one reason – to get soaking wet at Songkran. Each stall at the night market offered half a dozen varieties of water guns; it seemed everyone was preparing for the Water Festival.

The Tom Yum pass allows for two nights in Chiang Mai, so we were able to sample a bit of Songkran before moving on to Laos. Our first run-in with water was after a relaxing Thai massage. Afterward, we found ourselves trapped inside the spa when a troupe of elementary school-aged kids set up a bunker just outside the door. Though we were able to divert the kids long enough to run screaming down the street and escape a soaking, a little old lady with a hose and a handful of American guys did us in on the way back to the guesthouse anyway.

Getting to know Laos

Loation kids prepare for the party of the year

We escaped Chiang Mai just in time to avoid a complete drenching and made our way to the border, spending a gecko-enhanced night in Chiang Khong, Thailand, before crossing the Mekong and clearing customs in Laos. It was there we met our Stray bus and local guide, Mr. Pon, and began the scenic drive through the Bokeo Province to celebrate the Water Festival in dusty Luang Namtha.

Luang Namtha is one of the best places to begin a true Laos trek and many travelers stop here to acquire a guide and head into the jungle. With so much Water Festival activity in town however, we spent the day dodging scattered pockets of kids and teens with water guns and garbage cans full of water, intent on saturating the newest ‘falangs’ in town. A fierce gang of water gun-wielding toddlers attempted to break into our guesthouse room once they saw we were dry and safe on the inside; luckily, they were unsuccessful in their attempts.  We managed to stay quite dry in Luang Namtha, but only due to strategic street crossing and a lot of fast running. In the evening once the random street soakings ended, we sampled phenomenal grilled duck and mango fruit shakes at the market, followed by a bewildering visit to Luang Namtha’s famous Chinese disco for Beerlaos and some bizarre dance moves with the locals.

A word to the wise: don’t drink too much Beerlaos at the Chinese disco, because the next day’s bus journey through Oudomxai is like riding the Magic Kingdom’s Thunder Mountain roller coaster for six hours.  Though scenic, the ride is not fun even if you don’t suffer from motion sickness; if you do, bring a bucket. Fortunately for the nauseous, we stopped about halfway to get lunch and de-nauseate. But instead of searching out grub, we spent our time locating the best water guns in order to be prepared for our arrival in Nong Khiaw. Little did we know we’d be soaked (and really hungry) long before we made it to the next stop.

As we drove along the rough mountainous roads, smatterings of Laos villagers would appear around the corner, prepared with Water Festival weaponry – guns, hoses, cups, buckets – and thwack! They’d splat our bus, which wasn’t a huge issue so long as we kept the windows closed. Once we had our own water guns however, we turned into a moving four-man war machine, hanging out of the moving bus’ open windows with our guns, spraying giggling children and screaming “Sabaidee Pi Mai!” like vikings on the rampage. Though it means a friendly “Happy Laos New Year,” our vigorous and earnest shouts sounded a bit more like “You’re going to die!” and certainly startled a villager or two along the way.

We drove through a larger village a few hours later, hollering and shooting like modern day pirates, when the bus stopped and Mr. Pon abruptly told us to get out. He and the driver were taking a break, right in the middle of the village. That would’ve been good to know before we soaked everyone along the road on the way in! As we got off the bus, dozens upon dozens of children with cups and buckets encroached and immediately war broke out. It wasn’t a fair fight; there were four of us and at least 50 kids. Ladies in the market roared with laughter as the youngsters splashed us again and again; the sleepy village erupted with activity and I’m sure they’ll remember the random epic falang fight for years to come.

Between the windy mountain bus ride and the village water war, we looked like we’d been through the spin cycle by the time we arrived at our rustic bungalows in dreamy Nong Khiaw, home to the sleepy Ou River, imposing limestone cliffs and Phathok Cave, where North Vietnamese sympathizers hid during the US bombing of Laos in the 1960’s. Water Festival activity was at a minimum here, so we finally had time to dry off, grab a great meal and play Petanque (a game that remained even after the French ended their occupation) with the locals before crashing hard in our sparse hillside shacks.

In the morning, we moseyed down the hill to board a slow boat for a lazy, beautiful six hour cruise up the Ou River to historic Luang Prabang. Rugged and secluded, the ride afforded a view of rural riverside Laos, highlighting the subsistence livelihood of many Laos people. After a brief stop at the Pak Ou caves where the Ou and the Mekong converge, we made our way to Luang Prabang, a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the most romantic locations in all of Laos. Laos has been occupied by everyone from the Japanese to the French, so the myriad of influences at play in the cultural fabric can be seen in monasteries, Buddhist temples and French colonial architecture.

The Party of The Year

Do bring a waterproof camera

Although technically the Water Festival only lasts a few days, in many towns the party (and the soakings) lasts for a whole week. Since temperatures can reach more than 100 degrees during the hot dry season, no one really minds the constant dousing in cold water, but as we learned in Luang Prabang, Laotians have added to the arsenal of liquids to chuck at passersby. We were told to expect shaving cream, baby powder, paint and even motor oil, and did we ever get it.

Upon arrival, we found that due to the festivities, the Stray bus couldn’t get into the center of town to bring our luggage or our water guns. We’d have to manage with what we had on. It wasn’t hard to procure buckets, cups and a free hose from our guest house, so within moments of checking in, Anna, Amber, Franz and I were in the street whooping it up, soaking passing motorbikes and tuk-tuks like the locals did and beginning to experience the euphoria of the Water Festival.

We ran around Luang Prabang for hours, from hose to hose and bucket to bucket, dousing others and being doused in return, making new friends, dancing to Justin Bieber and Beyonce with groups of raucous teens and seeing the wild side of a normally conservative, quiet society. Only monks are exempt from soaking; I saw people dump freezing buckets of water on completely dry old ladies, tourists with all their luggage and even directly into cars onto drivers who forgot to lock the doors. If you dare show up in Laos the second week of April, accept that you’ll be wet the whole time. And not just wet. I was alternately covered in green, red and blue paint, followed by motor oil, topped off with a splash of baby powder for good measure. There’s no looking pretty on this day.

Later on at dinner, once we’d scrubbed off the paint and oil, we all agreed that our day celebrating the Water Festival in Luang Prabang was one of the most fun days any of us had ever had in our entire lives.

Early in the morning before the revelers were again rousted for more splashing, the monks passed by in their Stray Bus-orange robes and we departed for Vang Vieng, another riverside town in the throes of celebrating the Water Festival. While the scene here is normally filled with rowdy Westerners tubing from bank-side bar to bar, today was off the rowdy Richter scale as the locals joined in to crowd the shallow river and party the day away. There were thousands of people, Western and Laos, mingling, eating, dancing, drinking and singing, all while completely and utterly soaking wet from head to toe. Again, we met new friends, laughed at the silliest folks, splashed little kids and soaked up the gorgeous scenery around us.

Whether or not my journey through Laos displayed the true character of the country, I can’t say. For 51 other weeks out of the year, a trip to Laos would be a lazy jaunt filled with breathtaking scenery and gentle, peaceful people. For that one unusual week though, I felt like a kid instead of a traveler. Nothing else mattered but filling up my bucket and finding someone who really needed a good splash in the face.

Tips for visiting SE Asia during New Year

There’s no way around it, you’re going to get soaked. Pack plastic bags to house anything you don’t want to get wet.

Bring a waterproof camera. You don’t want to forget the watergun fights with village kids or the huge day-long celebrations in towns like Luang Prabang, but you just might if you can’t take any photos.

Dress conservatively. Despite the wild atmosphere during the Water Festival, Laos is no place to be parading around in a bikini and short shorts. Cover up in light fabrics that will dry easily.
By all accounts, Laos is still considered “off the beaten path,” offering everything from rugged mountains to lazy rivers to endless rice fields. Koh Phi Phi was once undiscovered, too, and I suspect it won’t be long before franchise restaurants and hotels spring up here like they have in other Southeast Asia hotspots. Laos is still an ideal destination to stretch the budget for a few weeks, costing around $30-40 a day, and it certainly qualifies as a notch on the obscure country travel bedpost.

Visiting Laos
www.strayasia.com

Angie Orth

About Angie Orth

Angie Orth is a location independent globe trekker. Born in Jacksonville, FL, and ultimately landing in Manhattan, she recently left a career in travel PR for adventures on the road. She’s passionate about the Florida Gators, trying everything at least once, and storytelling at www.angieaway.com.

After my recent visit to The Bahamas, I realized that too many people may hear the name “The Bahamas” and automatically visualize the grandiose, Vegas-like Atlantis super-complex on Paradise Island or an easily forgettable stop in the port of Nassau during a Caribbean cruise. These people are greatly mistaken and (unfortunately) uninformed about overly-friendly residents and unique character of The Bahamas and its 700 islands and cays.  Once port visitors venture past the strip of duty-free shopping on Bay Street, they will find Nassau’s true identity bursting at the seams with its rich history defined by its unique landscape, colonial architecture, evidence and stories of pirates and 18th century explorers and true Bahamian culture.

For first-time visitors, Nassau is a great way to begin your exploration of the Bahamas.  With countless historical landmarks, beautiful colonial  buildings and pristine beaches, one could happily spend days sightseeing.  A great way to see Nassau’s true natural beauty is by chartering a boat to explore the coast and nearby islands.  Captain Ryan Russell at High Seas Excursions (http://highseasbahamas.com) can provide a personalized trip off the coast of Nassau, whether its fishing, snorkeling or discovering private beaches on remote islands.  His intimate knowledge of the surrounding islands and extremely kind, laid back crew will provide an adventure that guests will not forget.  Nassau also provides the perfect setting to begin the exploration of the maritime Bahamian cuisine, which is essential to the backbone of Bahamian culture.  Residents pride themselves on serving some of the freshest seafood in the world.  Here, conch reigns supreme with Caribbean lobster running a close second.  If you are in Nassau during the weekend, inquire about the Fish Fry, a notorious community gathering dedicated to eating local cuisine and meeting new people.

Much of the essence of Nassau, past and present, is captured at the Graycliff Hotel (http://www.graycliff.com).  This exquisite colonial building turned perfect vacation getaway was originally built in 1740 by Captain John Howard Graysmith, a pirate of the Caribbean.  The establishment’s extremely gregarious, hospitable proprietor and welcoming staff will show you 5 star living within its nearly 300 year old property.  Relax with a bottle (or two) of wine and a cigar in the lobby (which could pass as a James Bond movie set) and spark conversation with first jolly Italian gentleman with a necklace made of gold shipwreck treasure.  There is only one, and his name is Enrico.  If you get him on the right day, be prepared to stay up until early hours of the morning listening to stories of his former life as a Ferrari race car driver and international bachelor.  Guests who are lucky enough to experience Enrico’s overly animated storytelling can be guaranteed a sore stomach the next morning from the hours of convulsive laughter through the night.

The Greycliff now boasts the third largest privately owned wine cellar in the world, a cigar factory and one of the county’s only 5 star restaurants.  The wine cellar, a former prison, holds some of the rarest wines in the world including Bordeaux wines predating World War II, as well as the oldest registered bottle of wine, a 1727 German Riesling.  The Greycliff Cigar Company has become one of the most recognized name in fine cigars.  Guests at the Greycliff are able to tour the cigar factory, witness the magical process of cigar rolling and even try to roll their own.  At the Greycliff Restaurant the chefs expertly and harmoniously blend Bahamian, French and Italian cuisines to create one of the most exquisite fine-dining experiences in the Bahamas.  There are few places in the world where one can learn to roll a cigar, tour one of the rarest collections of wines in the world and enjoy a lobster cappuccino.  The Greycliff Hotel is a historical landmark and a must-see destination for anyone who sets foot in Nassau.

Now for adventure!

Nearly 23 out of 700 islands are inhabited, which leaves a lot of room to explore.  Most larger islands and even several cays have airports, and further exploration can be done via boat.  With vast areas of reef, James Bond-inspiring landscapes, unique geological structures and rich fisheries, The Bahamas provide any type of outdoor adventure that you can think of including, spear fishing for lobster and grouper, scuba diving on unexplored reefs or blue holes, trekking through uninhabited islands and even surfing on the outer islands.

One of the best ways to begin a tour of the Bahamian Islands is by flying into Exuma, also called the Pearl of the Bahamas, via Sky Bahamas or any other Bahamian airline.  The Exumas are a tropical paradise made of a chain of 365 cays and islands stretching over 100 miles with two major islands, Great Exuma and Little Exuma.  The northern tip is located 35 miles southeast of Nassau.  The Exumas offer hundreds of miles of empty, pristine white-sand beaches, an over-abundance of marine activities and spectacular geological structures.  The bright aquamarine water is so intensely colorful that it turns the clouds blue.  The islands are dotted with towns of historical importance that were settled during England’s colonial rule as commerce hubs or plantation settlements.  The Exumas’ culture exemplifies Bahamian lifestyle on the outer islands.  The landscape dictates the way of life.  Residents are easy-going and say that they would not live anywhere else in the world.  Many catch their food from the sea daily and have a visceral connection to the delicate marine ecosystem.

The best way to experience The Exumas’ adventures to the fullest potential is by chartering a boat to the northern islands and cays with Captain Pat Smith at Four C’s Adventures (http://www.exumawatertours.com/).  Capt. Pat will have his boat ready to launch when you reach Baraterre, located at the northern tip of Greater Exuma.  After you have made it this far, it’s your marine playground.  Here, the true adventure begins.

During the full day excursion, Capt. Pat navigates north through crystal clear waters passing untouched beaches and celebrity-owned islands.  Passengers can request to stop the boat to explore anything they desire including islands, reefs, sandbars or perhaps dock at locally owned bar along the way to chat with the locals about day-to-day life in the islands and cays.  As a member of a guided tour, visitors are able to participate in some of the most Bahamian of activities, diving for conch and spearfishing for lobster.  Guides have the local knowledge to ensure a successful hunt resulting in the most rewarding meals of a lifetime.  Conch is a staple in the Bahamian diet, and conch salad is the most celebrated dish.  Once lunch is caught, Capt. Pat will boat to a sandbar that rises from the middle of the sea.  Then, he expertly butchers the conch and dices onions, tomatoes, green bell peppers and chiles.  Add fresh lime juice, orange juice and sea salt and lunch is served.

Staniel Cay provides a great base to explore the northern part of the Exumas.  In fact, it is so perfectly positioned that it provided the base for the filming of the 1965 James Bond movie, Thunderball.  Accommodations, boat rentals and kayak rentals are available at the Staniel Cay Yacht Club (www.stanielcay.com).  Only a two minute boat ride from the Staniel Cay Yacht Club is the infamous Thunderball Grotto, an underwater cave saturated with tropical marine life and breathtaking underwater geological features.  Be sure to bring a waterproof camera.  If you are thrill-seeking and the tide is high enough, climb to the top of the cave (bring booties) and take the 20 foot plummet through the narrow hole at its peak.

Staniel Cay is a scuba diver’s paradise.  Located just a short boat ride north, the Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park offers 176 square miles of wildlife reserve and national park.  The PADI dive center on the island, Staniel Cay Divers (http://www.stanielcaydivers.com) can guide divers to a range of sights — from a relaxing drift dive for those looking to become certified to a technical deep water dive for the highly experienced.  The adventurous owner/divemaster of Staniel Cay divers prides himself for quality over quantity, so crowds on the boar are never an issue.  With countless dive spots never visited, the possibilities for new exploration are nearly endless.   Danger Bay, located within the nature refuge proved to be a great dive.  The dive begins with a 40 foot descent with reef sharks circling.  After the descent, divers tour of the underwater coral maze teeming with eels, lion fish, lobsters, tropical fish and conch.   After about 30 minutes of swimming through small caves and under overhanging coral structures the dive path winds back around to the boat where the sharks surround one last time.  Divers of all levels are guaranteed to be pleased with the dive opportunities just a short boat ride from Staniel Cay, weather permitting.  The PADI dive center is extremely accommodating and will find the right dive for any level of experience.

Although exploring the Thunderball Grotto and the Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park provides the most the most adventurous experience around Staniel Cay, other locations can provide relaxing entertainment.  Boaters can dock at nearby Compass Cay to swim with the island’s friendly nurse shark population or just pet them from the dock.  Visitors can also find the swimming pigs of Big Major Cay.  The geographic misplacement and unorthodox activities of the pigs has captured the fascination of visitors.  Whether the pigs were brought intentionally as a food source or escaped a sinking vessel, the pigs have created a remote colony in the middle of the Exumas.

After exploring the northern cays and islands, Greater Exuma and Little Exuma offer visitors plenty of opportunities for rest and relaxation.  A day with OFF Island Adventures (www.offislandadventures.com) is the perfect way to finish an adventurous tour around the Exumas.  Captain Steve’s laid-back, educational tour around Elizabeth Harbour is breathtaking.  The 6th generation Bahamian will point out amazing rock structures, blue holes and world famous sandbars that attract top fashion icons for photo shoots, as well as the filming of the blockbusters, Pirates of the Caribbean II and III.  As lunch time approaches or thirst sets in, ask Capt. Steve to stop by Chat N Chill on Stocking Island (http://www.chatnchill.com).  The restaurant is off the beaten path and only accessible by boat.  Public transportation is available by water taxi from the Government Dock in Georgetown.  Chat N Chill epitomizes a tropical destination bar and grill.  It is a great place to mingle with locals, play volleyball with new friends or find a secluded spot on the restaurant’s expansive beachfront property.  If feeling particularly indigenous, order the famous Bahamian Goombay Smash and a conch burger.  Do not miss out on the island’s pig roast every Sunday at noon; however, great food, drinks and conversation are guaranteed on any given day.  For those feeling overly hedonistic, the Sandals Emerald Bay Resort and Spa (http://www.sandals.com/main/emerald/em-spa.cfm) offers a range of services designed to soothe mind and body.  The deep tissue sports massage can be quite useful after snorkeling for dinner, diving with sharks and day-long boat excursions.

After touring Nassau and The Exumas by land and sea, it is clear to me why Bahamians love their way of life.  The country’s unique landscape and colonial history have shaped its people and culture.  Bahamians depend on the vulnerable marine ecosystem as a food source and as an attraction for their thriving tourism industry.  This respect for the sea and its gifts drives a nationwide respect for not only natural resources but for neighbors as well. The result is a nation with a low domestic crime rate and minimal environmental exploitation.  The Bahamian people and their land are welcoming and hospitable.  The love of their country is unwavering and infectious.

Must-Do List:

• Dive in Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park in northern Exumas
• Visit the Greycliff Hotel, Restaurant, Wine Cellar and Cigar Company in Nassau
• Snorkel for conch and make your own conch salad
• Visit Chat N Chill (best on Sundays) on Stocking Island
• Explore the Thunderball Grotto just north of Staniel Cay
• Order lobster at Santana’s Bar and Grill in Williamstown, Little Exuma

About Jonas Ahern

Jonas grew up in southern Delaware, coastal Maryland, and central Florida and attended the University of Florida.  While earning a B.A. in History and a B.S. in Zoology, he discovered his love of travel, wine, craft beer and home brewing.  During his study abroad in Sydney, Australia he became hooked on adventure travel.  He backpacked through the Tasmanian wilderness, studied reef ecology on a small island in the Great Barrier Reef and endlessly searched for new and remote surf spots up and down the east coast of Australia.

After graduating from college, his obsession with adventure inspired him to pack up and drive cross country. He worked seasonally for two years between wineries in Northern California and a ski resort in Vail, Colorado.  He now lives in New York City and works as a craft beer and wine specialist.

Learning to fly

Devyani, the PR rep for The Four Seasons on Exuma, Bahamas, (now Sandals Emerald Bay) dodged the erratic trainer kite I was learning to fly on the white sand bordering the bay. I hadn’t yet learned to control the wind within its broad canvas, and she happened to be in my kite’s path of destruction. After feebly trying to steer the kite anywhere but at the hapless PR rep and screaming because it wasn’t working, the kite caught a huge gust and bore down, sending Devyani tumbling onto the sand. She escaped injury, but I realized then that I might not be the kiteboarding prodigy I’d expected to be.

The sport initially appealed to me because as a publicist for The Bahamas, I was always on the lookout for new angles to pitch to writers. When I first heard about Exuma Kitesurfing (pronounced ex-zooma), I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to introduce some adventurous journalists to both the sport and the destination. I’d recently completed a similar trip with a group of novice scuba divers, so I was enjoying my status as the official adventure publicist back at the office.

I’m the first to admit that I am more “up for anything” than “capable of anything,” so I was a little worried that despite my new reputation as the adventure guru, I might not be cut out for this new endeavor. Most of the kiteboarders I’d met had a background in a board sport – surfing, wakeboarding, windsurfing or snowboarding. A year earlier, I’d surfed for the first time in Hawaii; however I was far from considering myself a “surfer.” Would the learning curve be too steep?

Gary explaining the wind window

I brushed doubt aside and decided to go for it. From what I’d read, there’s no better place to learn than The Exuma Islands in The Bahamas, and I’m not saying that just because I used to represent them. Located in the southern Bahamas, Exuma’s water is shallow, warm and crystal clear, the wind and weather conditions are ideal and the instructors are IKO and PASA certified. Exuma is blissfully uncrowded, so jockeying for space and avoiding swimmers and other kiters is not an issue. Most of the time, you have entire bays to yourself to practice. Plus, there’s always a cold Kalik and a buttery Bahamian rock lobster to be consumed at the end of a day on the water. It’s kitesurfing nirvana!

Exuma Kitesurfing caters to small groups like ours, so we each received plenty of attentive instruction from Gary Sweeting, who founded the school in 2007. During the off-season, Gary is a graphic designer but as you might expect, his passion is kiteboarding. When I called Gary to plan the trip, he said he could teach anyone with a desire to learn and a moderate level of physical fitness. After taking lessons from him for three days, I couldn’t agree more. All of the other participants, from a seasoned windsurfer to a first-timer just like me, progressed as expected. Luckily, I was the only one who crashed the trainer kite into a beachgoer.

On our first day, we spent some quality time with Gary in the classroom, a patio right on the beach. We learned theory, how to determine wind direction and quality and the all-important release technique. At that point, everyone had seen the clip on YouTube where a kiteboarder was lifted by a gust out of the water and into a nearby parking lot. The simple way to avoid a similar fate? Just let go of the bar! The kite deflates the moment you do – a lesson worth committing to memory immediately, just in case.

Angie Flying the Kite Simulator

As for wind conditions, cross-onshore winds are preferable for kiteboarding, especially for beginners in an ocean environment. With offshore winds, you might just be blown away from the shore which, if you’re in The Bahamas, could take you an awfully long time to find land going east. In a lake setting, offshore winds are a much safer bet.

After the briefing, Gary set up a small, maneuverable trainer kite on the beach at Emerald Bay and we took turns flying it. Even though I nearly beheaded Devyani, I began to understand the fundamentals of steering, turning and harnessing the wind. The next day, we put our safety and preliminary flying lessons into practice, setting up the actual kite we would fly in the water the next day.

I will confess I didn’t realize there was so much set-up involved in kiteboarding. In my imagination, I thought it was a grab-and-go sport – grab your gear, go get in the water and then, voila! You’re kiteboarding. On the contrary, Gary explained all the details including how to ensure all the lines are appropriately attached and untangled, how to attached your harness, how to inflate and deflate the kite, how to launch and re-launch it and how to tie the perfect knots to ensure not only your safety, but the safety of people on the beach. Perhaps for true athletes who are used to prepping gear for a day out, it isn’t much work, but as a novice, I was overwhelmed by details.

We spent our final day of lessons with Gary in the water, and I was ready to master the kite flying skills and finally add the board to the equation. My classmate in the gorgeous Exuma water that day was a beautiful blonde writer from North Carolina who was at least 8 inches taller than me. It was high tide when we donned our harnesses and waded out to what amounted to waist deep water for her. At 5’3”, I had trouble keeping my feet planted on the sandy bottom while I was flying the kite, so when I attempted to scoop some wind into my sails, I was lifted up and dragged away. A few times, I scooped too hard and was yanked fully out of the water. If not for the release bar, I may have flown my kite straight to France.

Kites on the beach

By the end of our course, I almost had kite flying figured out. With a bit more time, I could reasonably expect to add the board and maybe even putter around the scenic shoreline a bit. As it turns out, the students who had previous experience with board sports did catch on faster than I did. After only 3 days of lessons with Exuma Kitesurfing, several were able to stand on the board and cruise a short distance. Even though I didn’t manage to get as far in my lessons, the euphoria each successful kiteboarder felt was contagious. We toasted the group’s achievements with Kaliks and one last lobster dinner at Santana’s Bar & Grill in Williams Town, and the next day we all flew home.

Much to Devyani’s relief, I never did return to Exuma Kitesurfing to finish what I’d started. I realized that while I had the desire to look sexy in my carefully selected kiteboarding vest, that wasn’t quite enough to make me into a kiting guru. Without the patience to focus on details, like checking my kite for rips and tears, I would only be a menace to beachgoers everywhere. Perhaps in the future, Gary will let me come back and try again. For now, I’m with Devyani – ducking for cover in the sand dunes.

Getting to The Exuma Islands Fly direct from Toronto, Atlanta, Fort Lauderdale or Miami into George Town (GGT) or head to Nassau and connect with an interisland carrier like BahamasAir or Sky Bahamas.

Where to Stay Exuma Kitesurfing offers accommodations at its beach house as part of certain packages, but if you prefer to stay elsewhere, there are some great options.

Club Peace & Plenty | 800.525.2210; peaceandplenty.com Sandals | 888.SANDALS; Sandals.com Grand Isle Villas | 888.472.6310; grandisleresort.com Augusta Bay | 242.336.2251; augustabaybahamas.com

When to Go Exuma’s windy season is November through May. The weather ranges from a low of 62 degrees in January to a high of 89 in August. Water temperatures hover at a comfy 77 – 84 degrees.

About Angie Orth

Angie was born on a superstitious Friday, got her names from the Allman Brothers and Mick Jagger, grew up in the backyard of a Magic Kingdom, cart wheeled at Versailles, laid bricks in South America, interviewed with Trump, bleeds orange and blue, worships the Savior, sings enthusiastically, avoids public speaking and falls asleep when sitting still.

As a publicist, she coordinated press trips, video shoots and events, wrote a press release or two, launched a magical theme park, pitched media until she was blue in the face and met amazing travelers from all over the world.

In 2009 Angie became one of the top 50 out of 20,000 entrants for  Queensland’s Best Job in the World. This reminded her of all the places she hadn’t yet visited, reigniting her wanderlust. In 2010, after careful consideration, lots of prayers and years of saving for a rainy day, Angie decided to take her travel show on the road. Follow her adventures at www.angieaway.com or on Twitter at @bigappleangie.

The red rock of Tusher Canyon

“Get two good hand jams and just do a pull up.” Brian calmly informs me.

“Oh, just a pull up with a hand jam? Is that all?”

“Yep, there are no good feet, you just have to go for it.”

Brian’s instructions do not inspire much confidence, but I do as I’m told and put my flat hands into the crack as far as I can and retract my fingers into my palm to create counter-force between the heel of my palm and the top of my knuckles against the warm sandstone. It feels as if I am climbing on 100 grit sandpaper as I apply enough force to effectively hold my body weight, if just barely. I can feel the skin being grated off my hands. This sacrifice, to be repeated time and again the next few days, it’s a rite of passage into the world of crack climbing. No tape on this trip, it is a sacrifice after all.

To those that are strictly face climbers, cracks are something of a mystery. I have always been intrigued by cracks and those that venture to some of the most remote corners of the world to climb them.

As the owner of Front Range Climbing Company, Brian is a climber with an ability far beyond what I can even comprehend. Luckily, he is a good enough friend to tolerate my weak climbing abilities and complete lack of crack experience and invite me along with a few other guides, Mark, CJ, and Josh from Front Range Climbing Company to a desert climb outside Moab, Utah. Although the area surrounding Moab lays claim to some of the most visited desert climbing meccas in the world (including Indian Creek) there still are some areas that are relatively unexplored. Tusher Canyon is a favorite spot of Brian’s. Located about 30 minutes northwest of Moab, Tusher could almost be considered deserted wilderness. In the three days I spent climbing in Tusher Canyon I saw only one other vehicle, the driver of which was apparently too preoccupied with air conditioning to exit. Thankfully, this lack of spectators allows me to retain some of my dignity as I begin my pull-up and flail with my feet for anything they may help in my desperate bid for ‘up.’

The author tries his hand at 'Piece of Shit, Pile of Monkey Nuts' (5.11+)

I finally manage to complete the opening move and begin to link hand jams with wedging my foot into the crack and twisting it to create something to stand on, a process known as ‘jamming,’ progressing about two body lengths much to the surprise of myself and all parties concerned. A rest is in order and I take the time to examine my hands which roughly resemble hamburger meat and leave small blood stains on the already red sandstone. I smile. The joy of being here overcomes the pain from my hands. Onward and upward! After a few more moves the crack begins to open until it’s large enough for me to arm-bar for my life. I rest. I can hear my belayer, Mark above me feeding me some much needed beta and I contemplate the next move. I Rest. Using what can only be described as an awkward shimmy I mange to move up higher into the expanding crack and make use of a chest jam. I rest. After what seems like an eternity I work my way high enough to make use of the coveted, but rarely used, ass jam. It becomes a shimmy up the crack using any means available. Chimney, counter-force, jams, it’s all fair game at this point. I rest. I feel slightly trapped as I struggle (in what can only be described as flailing) and finally see Mark, a welcome sight. I was exhausted and at the time was thinking maybe the desert was just too much for me. Maybe I had bitten of more than I could chew. Maybe these guys are just too far out of my league. But as the exhaustion was overcome by a feeling of euphoria I realized the two days I had left wouldn’t cure my new-found lust for crack climbing. Who knows, it may even become love.

That night we sat around the campfire. Mark played the guitar and sang. We all drank and joked. We laughed and told stories and made fun of one another. We slept in the sand and in the back of trucks. Out here the wind blows the fine sand into every nook and cranny and my sleeping bag was no exception. The next morning broke cool and bright. Brian and Mark were already up making breakfast. I would need as much bacon as I could consume if I were to make it through the day’s activities. I eat. I silently question what I am doing out here with these guys. Then I hear Brian ask “ready?”, and I do what I always do, get up and grab some gear.

The names escape me. Rubber Duck, Merge, Pile of Shit – Monkey Nuts, and a host of other oddly named routes chew at my hands and build my fondness for cracks, fueling my desire to return. There were triumphs and heartache and pain. Lots of pain. But mostly there was love. Love for the rock, the climbing, the people. But mostly there was love for the place.

Looking out the window on Echo Pinnacle

Seeing the rock in Tusher Canyon is nothing short of inspirational. Some blood red, some gray, some black. Multi-colored layers on all. Cracks can extend 300 feet into the sky on what may be some of the straightest, sharpest lines rivaling those made by man. A religious experience to be sure.

On the last day we climbed the Echo Pinnacle. The Pinnacle climbs 270 straight out of the desert and at the top of the first pitch there is a large protected ledge and window that looks out to the East and West. Here we eat, talk, joke and laugh.

We drive out of the canyon on that third day with the intense desert sun setting behind us as I reflect on the past couple of days. Cracks, it turns out, are all that I had expected and more. I expected the climbing to be hard. I underestimated them. The skin will regrow, but what will forever remain is my desire for more cracks.

Logistics:

Tusher Canyon lies about 30 minutes north of Moab, UT on US 191 and is easily accessed from I-70. Outside Moab, UT. What passes for roads in the canyon are more like trails — rough and possibly impassable during some parts of the year. A high-clearance vehicle is recommended. Many areas of the canyon are rather developed whereas others have just a handful of routes with plenty of lines to be explored. Although you may run across a few climbers on Echo Pinnacle, if you continue deeper into the canyon to a dead end you can access the areas of Putterman, Neighbor of Putterman, and Convoy walls where chances are good you will be alone, even on the busiest of weekends. Not many people have attempted climbs back here and the potential for new routes is still high.

Tusher Canyon is owned by the BLM and as such primitive camping is allowed around Tusher Canyon (although not in the dead-end canyon). Other facilities are not available without making the trip back to Moab. Obviously, water can be very scarce in the canyon so make sure you have sufficient quantity (more than you think you’ll need) before setting out. Back in Moab you’ll have all the facilities you could ask for. Pagan Mountaineering (59 South Main St. #2 Moab UT 84532 Phone: 435-259-1117) is the source for gear, and restaurants and hotels are plentiful. Weather can be a major consideration as the heat can be unbearable in the dead of summer. Early spring and late fall are perfect candidates for an epic desert trip.

Alternate Climbs:

If you’re looking for just a quick climb in the area, Wall Street (located on Route 279) is a good place for a quick send, although solitude is not something you will find here, especially on weekends. And, of course, Arches and Canyonlands National Parks are both great places for some climbing in their own right.

The author and new friends at Old Moses Camp

Day 1 (16 January 2011)

Nairobi – Nanyuki – Old Moses Camp

Lunch of pepper steak and chips followed by greetings by trekking guide, Daniel, and technical guide, Kim. Team photograph (2 guides, 2 porters, 1 cook) in front of 4×4 before setting off in it to Sirimon Gate @ 2650 meters above sea level. Rearranged packs at Sirimon Gate, swapping out the 80 liter Lowe Alpine pack for the 35 liter Berghaus day pack that Tom gifted me some years ago (old lover, old backpack) to one of the porters. Handed one of my Black Diamond Women’s trail lite compact hiking poles to Daniel and started the trek to Old Moses, where we spent our first night on the mountain.

The Sirimon route leads up from the Mt. Kenya ring road some 14 kilometers east of Nanyuki. The route climbs over the northern moorlands. It’s renowned for wildlife and dry, green scenery and it’s the most frequently trekked route up to Lenana. En route to Moses, I met a group of Bible-study Norwegian youths, spreading the word of Christian God throughout Kenya, and a Kenyan-Danish couple. Admittedly, I totally had a crush on one of the Norwegian Christian kids (ok, fine, two – Rune and Gisle, who, incidentally, is from Iceland but speaks Norwegian). First night’s dinner consisted of fried fish, potatoes, and veg. Didn’t have much of an appetite after my big breakfast of muesli, eggs, yogurt, fruit (not to mention the pepper steak lunch) but nibbled a bit. Finished up night with warm water wash and exfoliating cloths – luxury at its finest.

Howell's Hut

Day 2

Old Moses Camp (3300m) – Shipton’s Camp (4200m)

Early AM start through Ontulili River up Mackinders Valley via Liki North Ridge. Big breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, porridge, passion fruit, pineapple – far too much to digest at 630 Kenyan time! Trekking proved to be harder than I thought – already at this point below 4000 meters sea level, and I had to slow down my pace or my heart would not have forgiven me. The itinerary called for 7 hours but my pace got me there in about 9. Stupid endurance. Began to get annoyed with guide at this point, with his frequent mobile phone chats and somewhat disregard for my pace and frustration. When it was finally time to lunch circa 14:00 at the ‘lunch point,’ it couldn’t have f*cking come sooner; I was starving and exhausted and the ‘picnic lunch’ was well deserved. And certainly munching on my ham cheese and butter sandwiches and Ribena in a surreal Joshua Tree-like setting below towering peaks and glaciers, furry rock hyrax (think non-spiky hedgehogs) and sunbirds was appreciated. At 4,000 meters, one really begins to notice vegetation that exist only here and at a few other lofty points in East Africa as a result of the combination of altitude and a position astride the equator, for example, the ‘water-holding cabbage,’ ‘ostrich plume plant,’ (whose skeletal remains would make for fantastic silver grey goth bijoux) or ‘giant groundsel,’ seemingly designed by some 1950s science fiction writer when first encountered – surreal indeed.

Shipton’s camp: infested with bunk beds and rats – how is it possible that these f*ckers survive at 4200 meters when I nearly ripped off my head due to high altitude-inducing pounding hangover times hundred thousand headache? Napped for about twenty minutes upon arrival, only to be thwarted by obnoxious, burping, snoring, farting Czech tourists. Learned how to play kickass Icelandic card game. Sympathized with Norwegians and Danish and Kenyan couple for their upcoming 3am assault on Lenana (4985 meters). I would get my taste only a few hours later…

Much deserved lunch break

Day 3

Shipton’s Camp (3300m) – Point Lenana (4985m) – Austrian Hut (4700m)

MISERABLE SCREE. headaches. lemon tea. snow. ice. tears. nausea.

Awoke many times through the night with a pounding headache and perturbed by the presence of rodents @ 4200 meters, rummaging through my pack in search of Clif and Luna bars. Breakfast of lemon tea with orange blossom honey, sausage, pancakes with peanut butter (or was that the day before?), eggs, bit of a rest, and greeted the Christian Norwegian kids goodbye before pushing straight for Lenana (which Lonely Planet describes as a tough 3.5-5 hour slog via Harris Tarn and the tricky north-face approach).

Looking back after having summited, I suddenly don’t feel so crap about my pace. Also, I can’t help but laugh maniacally at myself after having realized just now I bagged both Point Lenana AND the bloody Summit Circuit on the way down from Lenana to Austrian Hut in the same bloody day: ‘While everyone who summits Point Lenana gets a small taste of the spectacular Summit Circuit, few trekkers ever grab the beautiful beast by the horns and hike its entire length. The trail encircles the main peaks of Mt Kenya between the 4300m and 4800m contour lines and offers challenging terrain, fabulous views and a splendid opportunity to familiarize yourself with this complex mountain. It’s also a fantastic way to acclimatize before bagging Point Lenana.’

Splendid and spectacular my ass! All I could remember on the way (incidentally, I took the Summit Circuit on my way down from Point Lenana so there was no such ‘fabulous’ acclimatisation opportunity) was MISERABLE SCREE!

‘Depending on your level of fitness, this route can take between four and nine hours. Some fit souls can bag Point Lenana (from Austrian Hut or Shipton’s Camp) and complete the Summit Circuit in the same day.’

Well, that was dumb, and I’m not _that_ fit but apparently my Kenyan guide (who did not want to insult me and my ‘level of fitness’ and hence agreed to take me up to Point Lenana then Austrian Hut the back way, trekking across MISERABLE SCREE) believed that I was.

8.5 grueling hours, headaches, vomiting, tears of anger, fear, and frustration later, I reached Austrian Hut after having summited Lenana 3 hours prior (~14:45).

The author and her guide pressing for the summit of Mt. Kenya

Day 4

Austrian Hut (4700m) – Nelion (5188m) – Austrian Hut (4700m)

After the previous day’s debacle, in which a planned summit of Lenana and slog across scree to Austrian Hut (to better acclimatize and alleviate my AMS by climbing high and sleeping low) had taken 80% longer than anticipated (9 hours vs. 5 hours), I was rather uncertain about my ability to bag Nelion. The thought of an alpine start (4:00) after having suffered consecutive sleepless nights, headaches, nausea, aching quads, swollen fingers, and sheer exhaustion was not exactly the most exhilarating. I had spoken the night before with my technical guide, Kim, about the real possibility of turning back and abandoning the ascent midway if the AMS persisted and my pace and endurance were to take a toll (read: turn to shit) as a result.

Surprisingly, I slept through the night and made sure to be diligent about striking a fine balance between hydrating sufficiently to battle the effects of altitude sickness and over-hydrating, resulting in countless trips to the bathroom (which, in the case of Austrian Hut, was a precarious uphill trek from the lodge across icy boulders in below freezing temperatures to the outhouse) in

the middle of the night. Kim woke me up around 4, only to be greeted with a painfully pounding headache for the second day in a row, coupled with the pleasures of altitude-induced nausea, which resulted in a supreme loss of appetite; I had absolutely zero interest in putting away the hard-boiled egg, sausage, toast, pancakes, porridge, pineapple, and passion fruit that my cook, Joseph, had prepared for me, but forced myself to fuel up for the Nelion climb with a piece of toast, egg, fruit, and heaps of lemon tea to sooth the headache. Also, after much resistance, I finally succumbed to treating the effects of altitude sickness with Diamox, swallowing the bitter pill to cope with the headaches and nausea.

5:30: so far, so good. We trekked downhill before reaching the Lewis Glacier, where we strapped on our crampons and armed ourselves with ice axes for the trek across icy terrain. After having been on the mountain for three days, this was the first time that I had really experienced ice or snow, and it was stunning to see the peaks rising out of white pockets of snow deposits.

According to the Mountain Club of Kenya’s Guide to Mount Kenya and Kilimanjaro, the Normal Route (via Nelion South Ridge, South East Face and Summit), is ‘rather complex, and much of the climbing is not above grade III (5.7)…Throughout the climb care is needed to avoid dislodging loose stones.’ Sounds straightforward enough. The apres-Lewis Glacier approach was itself an adventure, before the route finding even began: ‘From the Austrian Hut cross the Lewis Glacier and scramble up the scree, which has many precariously balanced boulders and can be dangerous in half-light.’ Awesome. More scree? And by the light of dawn? My favorite!

After MISERABLE SCREE PART DEUX, we finally reached the base of the crag circa 7am, and began to gear up for the climb. Although my badassedness is usually in full effect when I climb, I was completely sketched out when Kim asked me if I wanted to ‘scramble’ (read: free solo) the first two pitches ropeless and I insisted that we rope up (my nerves were in full effect, tingling like mad, due to the effects of Diamox). The route starts up a side groove about 55m left of the Brocherel Couloir and although the first two pitches of climbing were indeed short (18m and 25m respectively) and easy, I could barely keep my eyes open and myself from yawning every 22 seconds, and couldn’t tell if this extreme exhaustion was a byproduct of Diamox, high altitude, the intensity of activity the last few days, or a combination of all. Even the most basic tasks (e.g. securing my Metolius PAS to the anchor system) required some assistance, because I felt myself fumbling with the ‘biners and having a difficult time concentrating at times (blame it on the limited/lack of oxygen going to my normally big brain).

The climb consisted mostly of cracks, chimneys, and traverses, and I was grateful to Kim at pitch 4 or 5 for his consideration of my rather weakened and pathetic state, asking whether I wanted to follow the more aggressive route involving a wicked overhang (my response: no thanks!) or climb a more conservative route. This kind of backing off was somewhat out of character for me, but there were too many unfamiliar elements and conditions at play, and the tendency to prove myself departed rather swiftly on the mountain (circa day 2, if I recall correctly).

After climbing what seemed like 10+pitches (but was, in reality, probably only 6 or 7), we reached a tin shelter (Baillie’s Bivi) just below the notch beneath Mackinder’s Gendarme on the main ridge: ‘This is approximately half-way up Nelion.’ Please be kidding me. Again, the climbing was not technically difficult and weather was certainly on our side, but these 5.5- 5.6ish moves felt more like 5.10-5.11ish given the effects of high altitude. Also, although the weather conditions were friendly by mountain standards, I had packed only my hot pink Evolv rockstar climbing shoes and North Face Summit Series waterproof in my mountaineering bag to the summit, naively leaving behind my Scarpa mountaineering boots and down jacket – a move I came to regret as snow flurries greeted us on the traverse across snowy terrain to get up higher (and therefore colder) points. Luckily, I was clever enough to pack a pair of merino wool socks, which came in rather handy at the summit.

A large gully, two short chimneys, and some traverses later, we reached the summit of Nelion circa 15:00. I was thrilled to discover a gem of a hut (Howell’s Hut) on the summit. Ian Howell built it in 1970 and boy did I feel like one lazy mofo as I crawled into the hut, sat down, and lunched on my packed ham, cheese, and butter sandwich and piece of Kenyan chicken leg whilst listening to my guide explain how the structure was built. The corrugated iron for the hut was dropped onto the Lewis Glacier by helicopter and then this Howell dude CARRIED it to the summit in thirteen solo ascents and built the hut. BADASS!

One of the stark differences between rock climbing in my own backyard (aka The Gunks) and on Mount Kenya – aside from the obvious fact that the former is a ridge of bedrock in Ulster County, Sullivan County and Orange County in the state of New York, and the latter is a 5,199m stratovolcano created approximately 3 million years after the opening of the East African rift – is the descent. Gone is the luxury of a two or three pitch rappel when you’re on a mountain. This might seem self-evident (like, duh!), but it wasn’t to me (again, blame it on the high altitude), and I was less than thrilled to discover that we had to abseil 14 or 15 pitches down to the base of the crag. The abseiling wasn’t quite the walk in the park that I thought it would be, due to the weather changing on us (it had gone from sunny and warm to snowy and cold by mid-afternoon), somewhat sketchy down-climbing and traversing to get to the abseil bolts, and the fact that we were now a party of 5 (I had met up with the Polish couple I knew from the Lenana trek and their guide en route to the summit), increasing our rappel time. And the downward approach from the base of the crag is no simple Gunks ‘StairMaster,’ but another 1+ hour of precarious trekking down scree by nightfall, in the cold, with a headlamp: score.

You can imagine my enthrall of having to put on crampons and trek uphill across Lewis Glacier after having descended scree (I guess icy scree > rock scree?) and 15 pitches; I kept myself motivated with the idea of being greeted by hot soggy ramen and Kenyan tea back at Austrian Hut. Certainly the descent was not pretty (but neither were any of my ascents) so I slogged on, often leaning lazily on to my ice axe and nearly toppling over on to the ice (at some point, I’m certain that I did, and Kim had to help me back up at least once or twice).

Around 21:00, I returned to Austrian Hut cold, wet, bloody, and famished, at the awe of Daniel, my trekking guide: ‘You made it back! I did not think you would summit but felt very glad in my heart when I saw a dot on the mountain top through my binoculars and I knew that it was you. Here, let me take your pack.’ Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.

And damn, that apres-summit soggy Kenyan ramen and hard-boiled egg hit the spot! As did my 20F down sleeping bag that night.

Day 5

Bandas Huts near the base of Chogoria (2950m)

Newbie mountaineer mistake: you do not conquer the mountain; the mountain conquers you. A hard lesson learned, 100 kilometers and 5000 meters later, having battled equatorial sunburn, AMS (acute mountain sickness), blisters, swollen fingers, chapped lips, aching quads, greasy hair, and damn, this Tusker lager and bar of Spruengli Grand Cru Criollo de Maracaibo I picked up from Zurich airport consumed by the fireplace in my 1BR hut (Bandas) near the base of Chogoria gate (~2900 meters) tastes good.

About Jeanne Fu

Jeanne suffers from a chronic case of wanderlust and is constantly in search of the next adventure. She has bouldered in France, climbed crags in California, China, and Colombia, surfed shore breaks and point breaks in Costa Rica and Peru, and trekked mountain trails in South Africa and rain forests in Argentina.
Born and bred in New York, NY, she spent summers in Shanghai – her parents’ hometown – and spent extensive time abroad, studying philosophy and languages in Scotland, India, Germany, and England. A former Fulbright Student Scholar, she earned her B.A. in Philosophy from Colgate University and M.Phil in Philosophy from University College London.
She speaks fluent German and Shanghainese, decent Spanish, aspires to brush up on her (now) very rusty French and Italian, and learn Portuguese to prepare for her upcoming surfing and climbing adventure in Rio de Janiero, Brazil.

Bellingham, Washington

This article originally published in the September 2010 issue of Adventure Insider Magazine.

Bellingham, Washington is a growing city that has been able to keep the smaller town charm while offering some really exciting adventures. Being in the northwest corner of Washington state between Bellingham Bay and the North Cascades Mountain range makes Bellingham great for both water and mountain adventures. Bellingham has received awards for everything from best paddling destination (Outside Magazine in August 2006) to 7th best locale for mountain biking (Mountain Bike magazine in June 2001) to being named one of the top adventure cities in the United States by National Geographic Adventure.

Bellingham, Washington

On your next (or first!) visit to Bellingham, be sure to head up to Mt. Baker. A 30-45 minute drive up Mt. Baker highway (Highway 542) from the city of Bellingham will get you to gorgeous hiking or skiing, depending on the season. When I went towards the end of July, Artist Point had just opened due to the walls of snow along the road and I actually got to do a bit of sledding. With over 200 miles of trails, there is definitely something for everyone from the beginner to the more advanced hiker (http://www.fs.fed.us/ r6/mbs/about/mbrd.shtml). After a day at Mt. Baker, fill up on some authentic Italian food at Milano’s Restaurant (http://www.MilanoRestaurant.us) in Glacier, just off of Highway 542, or grab a beer at North Fork Brewery (http:// northforkbrewery.com), also just off Highway 542. The North Fork Brewery, also known as a beer shrine and Wedding Chapel, makes hand-crafted British ales served directly to the tap room from serving tanks.

If you forgot your bicycle or ski gear, head over to Fairhaven Bike & Ski (http://fairhavenbike.com). In addition to renting equipment, the store is also a great place to jump onto the Interurban Trail into Downtown Bellingham or over to the Larrabee State Park. Looking for a great brewery in town? Besides being voted Best Washington Brewery and Best IPA in the Northwest by Northwest Brewing News, at Boundary Bay Brewery (http://www.bbaybrewery.com) you can find live music, community events, and a great local crowd outside in the beer garden.

It’s not just hiking, skiing, and biking, you can also find kayaking, sailing, and even whale watching within miles of Bellingham city limits. With so many year round activities, it’s easy to see why Bellingham is one of the best adventure locations in the United States.

About Abbie

Abbie Mood

Abbie lives in Southern California and, in addition to being a freelance writer, teaches preschool Special Education. Originally from Delaware, she moved to California after graduating from the University of Delaware with a Bachelor’s degree in early childhood development. Abbie earned a Master’s in special education from Cal State Fullerton while she developed a love for the outdoors and exploring. She has been an avid runner for more than ten years and has more recently taken up rock climbing. Abbie takes every break from teaching as an opportunity to get out and go (often with pups Daisy and Sadie in tow). Check out Abbie’s adventures on AbbieMood.com and keep and eye out for her soon-to-be re-launched travel sneakersandsuitcases.com, or on Twitter @AbbieMood!

Abbie is an intern at the Matador Network, the budget expert for Planet Eye Traveler online magazine, and Managing Editor for Barefoot-Running.us. She has also contributed to BootsnAll, and Adventure World magazine.

I was able to visit Bellingham courtesy of the Whatcom County Tourism Board, but the suggestions are based on my own opinions.