Cayambe

I like to write. Writing helps me express myself, and when I refer back to pieces I wrote long ago, it helps me remember the experiences I wrote about more vividly. Today while cleaning out some old files on my computer, I stumbled across this piece, written shortly after my trip to Ecuador in three years ago.

CAYAMBE

I tossed and turned. I rolled onto my stomach then back onto my side, and finally lay with my back against the thin mattress, head pointed to the sky, hands resting on my chest like a corpse. In this position I found I could not breathe. At 15,000 feet above sea level the air was too thin, and for some reason when lying on my back my chest felt weighted, as if a large dog had fancied itself a lap dog and placed itself there. So I turned back onto my side and looked at the watch on my wrist. I had by lying in bed for hours but had yet to gain one wink of sleep.

Every sound was amplified. Will, to my left, was restless too, and his every movement further condemned me to sleeplessness. I lay awake, eyes closed, trying to trick myself into falling asleep. The time crawled slowly, and by 10:50, I could take it no more and started to dress. Static sparks from my polyester long johns danced like miniature green fireworks as I pulled them over my legs. Soon, everyone else had joined in, dressing the the dark, pulling on warm layers of clothes.

We tiptoed downstairs to empty our bladders, top off our water bottles, and nibble on breakfast. Little conversation was had. We were too distracted by the unknown journey ahead and too tired to focus on much else.

At midnight, we left the hut and started our death march up the mountain. It was slow at first. The fifteen of us walked like ants, single file, following close behind one another over a trail of volcanic rock and loose gravel. Up and down we walked, although mostly up, until the sand beneath our feet grew hard and failed to give way as we stepped. Patches of black ice, decorated with trapped bubbles, occasionally appeared underfoot and soon we reached the frozen edge of the glacier. Here, we put on harnesses and crampons, added layers, and armed ourselves with ice axes for the climb. Rope teams formed, and each team of three or four tied into a long and sturdy rope, led by an experienced guide.

For hours, we climbed the glacier. We stopped infrequently to rest and when we did, it was only briefly. Our tired bodies grew increasingly fatigued, our bellies more hungry and nauseous, and our throats burned from want of water, aggravated by exertion and the cold, dry mountain air.

At one point the clouds gave way to stars. Looking up, one could see a thousand tiny diamonds glistening in the night sky. Behind us, the lights of the city glowed amber in the valley below. As the hours passed, gray-purple clouds moved in, flowing over the mountains, merging earth and sky, first framing, then consuming Quito’s urban landscape. It was beautiful.

We were tired beyond tired. As we climbed, the weather worsened. Soon, the wind took the stars and visibility was reduced to the glowing orb of our headlamps.

We marched onward and upward into the black night. Our progress was slow. The air was thin. We were tired beyond tired. Our feet dragged. We stumbled, our bodies swayed, and occasionally, some of us pitched and fell. When this happened, the guides would catch us, halting our failing bodies by tugging tight the rope that connected them to us. They half walked us, half dragged us by our leashes ever higher onto the mountain.

My mind was fuzzy. I felt drunk. My throat burned and the bits of cracker stuck in my teeth from the few I had nibbled on earlier tasted rotten and sour. Standing was hard, walking was harder. I was sure I had never felt closer to dying in my life, save for the one time at Christmas when I had a fever so high I could not stand at all and had to drag myself across the floor to the bathroom just so I could pass out on the cold tile floor. I thought of Cotopaxi, the even taller mountain we would attempt to climb in just a few days, and was not sure I would convince myself to endure this again. I wanted to lie down, to collapse onto my knees and then tip sideways into the snow, giving in to the exhaustion that I felt. But even my broken mind was too stubborn to let me, so I continued to plod forward, like a diseased and injured animal, possessed by the need for something. Each step seemed to require an extreme amount of effort, but I kept forcing myself to take them.

Dawn rose slowly. The black night softened as the hours passed, but the sun never came. Our world was blue and empty. Gray clouds and fog and windswept snow consumed us in every direction. The wind howled at us. Forward and backward looked exactly the same, yet we continued forward, following our leaders blindly.

At a point just shy of the summit, we stopped to rest, for maybe only the third time since midnight. The rope teams convened and the guides told us to drop our packs. “We are very close,” they said, “but the next part is very steep.” I stuffed my down jacket and sunglasses into the front of my rain jacket, and reluctantly left my camera and water behind. They told us the summit was just one hour away.

We plodded onward and were met with a vertical wall of blue ice. The structure must have stretched fifteen to twenty feet high, and had the texture of unfurling coiled rope, thin strands of ice interlaced and woven into a delicate pattern. The ice was aquamarine, like the color of the sea in the clearest most tropical oceans of the world, only bluer, softer, and more translucent. It had no snow on it to spoil its beauty. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, and had I had any more clarity of mind, I might have stopped and pondered it more deeply. As we walked past it, the strong smell of sulfur permeated my nostrils, rising from the geothermic vents of the volcano upon which we stepped. I knew we had to be close.

The only way around the great wall involved a steep climb up an adjacent snow covered slope. Nico, our guide, punched holes into the ice with his feet, providing us with small steps to climb, and I smashed my way up the steep slope, thrusting the pick of my ice axe deep into the snow for purchase. Beneath the snow, the ice glowed blue. The new motions and effort required provided me with a brief moment of clarity, and despite being exhausted from the effort of punching and clawing my way towards the top, I urged myself forward.

Beyond this, there were more gradual and steep ascents, winding in and out of icy obstacles in our way. I don’t remember much of it very well, as I am sure I would have found it disorienting even had I been in a clearer state of mind. I trudged along the flatter parts in a straight line as best I could and scrambled up the steep pitches in a maddening fashion, like a person possessed. My mind had locked onto its goal, and despite the pain and lunacy of continuing forward in such a shattered state, I continued to follow Nico, slowly advancing towards the summit.

At some point I fell. My legs gave way, and my body tumbled, pulled by gravity down the slope. Nico and my rope team members, Josh and Kelli, caught me, stretching the rope tight to stop my downward fall. My mind was so unraveled that I lay tangled and suspended in the rope for almost a minute before I found my footing and a good placement for my ice axe and managed to right myself.

The summit itself was rather anticlimactic. It was a small rise following a steep pitch, and had Nico not told us we had arrived we never would have known. There, Nico placed his ice axe into the ground, point end first so it stood tall, like a flag. The spot was unremarkable, and the clouds around us were so dense that we could not tell how much more there was to climb or in what direction in might possibly be in. But he placed his axe with such certainty that when he said “Congratulations!” and told us we had reached the summit, I doubted him for only a second. I was too exhausted to want to go any further, so even if I had been less convinced, I am not sure I would have objected to stopping there.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry, because the journey had been so trying, and we had reached the summit, but I couldn’t. I wanted to jump up and down or shout out with joy, but I didn’t have the energy. I was glad and relieved to have reached the summit, but the emotions weren’t as fast, as sudden, or as strong as I wanted them to be. I mostly just stood there, dazed. It was as if the reality of reaching the summit couldn’t find its way through the muddled mess of my brain.

Nico came over to me and gave me a long hug. His embrace was one of those that seems to fill you with life, as if the person hugging you is actually transferring energy from their body to yours. His hug was so comforting that I didn’t want him to let go, but when he did, I felt instantly better than I had before. Only then, could I start to comprehend what I had accomplished.

Make Next Year One of New Experiences

Saddle River County Park, New Jersey, winter, snow storm, snow, storm, trees

Trees in Snow Storm : Prints Available

Every year, at least once a year, I learn or try something new. I think embracing new experiences and learning new skills is important for personal growth, and it keeps life interesting and me sane. Sometimes the new thing is something I have wanted to do for a while but never gotten around to, like SCUBA diving (my graduation present to myself last year when I finished my Master’s degree) or skydiving (circa 2009), and sometimes it is something that had never even crossed my mind but the opportunity presents itself and I just have to take it. I’m one of those people who really doesn’t like being bad at things, and I’ve been tempted to say no to trying new things because of fear of failure. Fortunately, I usually convince myself not to be a wimp, give whatever new thing it is a try, and always have a good time, even if maybe I’m not the best at it. Turns out you don’t have to be good at everything, but if you have a good attitude about it and are able to laugh at yourself a little, trying something you’ve never done before will most likely result in you having a good time regardless of your ability.

This year was full of firsts for me! I went ice climbing on New Year’s day for the first time and led my first sport and trad rock climbing routes, tackled my first high altitude glaciers while mountaineering in Ecuador, traveled alone to Nepal, drove stick shift for the first time, shot my first gun, went for a ride in a snowcat, collaborated on my first documentary film, visited many new areas of New Hampshire, and the list goes on. While I’m not particularly good at trap shooting, still frequently stall when getting into first gear on a standard vehicle, and haven’t yet started editing the film, I enjoyed each of those experiences greatly. As 2013 comes to a close I can look back on the year and say it was a good one, and a lot of that has to do with my willingness to venture out of my comfort zone, go to new places, meet new people, and try new things.

Today the days gradually start growing longer again. It’s not the official new year yet and we still have one of the year’s biggest holidays to celebrate, but with the recent passing of the winter solstice I think now is a good time to remember to seek out life’s adventures, be they big or small. Life is short and fleeting and beautiful, and we better get to experience its wonder when we take advantage of the chances we are given to dabble in parts of it we have never been exposed to before, to step beyond our current perspectives and abilities, and embrace the opportunities that come our way. Enjoy the last bit of this year and resolve to make the next one different, maybe not with a big resolution but just in a small way – try something you have never done before. Go see a Broadway play. Hike to the top of that mountain. Try photographing night scenes. Do a polar bear plunge. Run a marathon. Whatever it is, find something new and do it. You’ll be glad you did.

Enjoy Where You Are

I’m a restless person.

For me slowing down is hard. My mind wanders constantly. No matter where I am, I am always wondering, what’s next? What am I going to do with my life? What is my purpose?

I complete my Master’s degree, and instead of celebrating, rejoicing, or just feeling proud, even for one minute, I found myself thinking, “Now what?”

Fortunately, what was next – after my commencement ceremony, after the potluck picnic in the park where I saw at least a few dozen friends for what will probably be the last time ever, and after my mom and friend Molly returned home to New Jersey and Pennsylvania respectively, and my roommates Mike and Hillary headed to Rhode Island for the summer – was a trip to Baltimore, where one of my best friends, Tzvi, was waiting for me in the airport with a hug.

And then followed 10 days in West Virginia, one of my favorite states, with a small group of amazingly bright and inspiring students from Johns Hopkins University. This is the third year I’ve led an outdoor instructor training trip for Hopkins students, and its one of my favorite trips. I was also expecting this one to be my last.

West Virginia, Dolly Sods, Dolly Sods Wilderness, morning, Bear Rocks, mist, meadow, rocks, landscape

Happiness for me is a mountaintop with a scenic view of the valley below. The smell of azaleas and wildflowers on the wind. The red sun bowing below the horizon, bidding farewell to day.

More than that, it’s sharing experiences such as these with others. It’s sharing myself with others. It’s being me, all flawed and full of love and hope and with a hamster on a treadmill in my head.

Sometimes I just need a reminder.

Sometimes I just need a breath of fresh air. No Facebook or internet or email. Just good company. Laughter. Nature. And that feeling of holding on just long enough to fall in love and then let go. And know that even though everything doesn’t feel ok, it is ok.

And it will be ok.

Happiness is a day in the woods. Or a week.

There is a great quote from Calvin & Hobbes. It goes “We’re so busy watching out for what’s just ahead of us that we don’t take time to enjoy where we are.”

Enjoy where you are.

 

Au revoi, Haiti!

My short time in Haiti is up, and in just a few hours I’ll be boarding a plane to Newark. I’m eager to get back to the states and the comforts of home, despite having a great time in Haiti.

Children from a small village in Parc Le Visite national park in Haiti surround conservation photographer Robin Moore, eager to see their faces on the back of his camera.

There are so many photos and stories to tell, but I’m quite tired so they’ll have to wait. I have quite a bit of work to catch up on when I get home, but hopefully I’ll have time to process and post photos from Haiti before I leave for Costa Rica next month.

See you soon, America!

PS: You’ll be glad to know my stomach bug lasted only about 36 hours and I’m feeling back to my normal self again. I’m not even sure what the cause was (it could have been the water or something I ate), but I’m sure glad I’m feeling better for my return flights home!

Bonjou! from Haiti

Well, I’ve arrived. This novice world traveler departing from New England has successfully endured her first half day of 90 degree temperatures while navigating through Haitian customs at Port-au-Prince and has settled into the Kinam Hotel for the night.

Wow. Haiti is so… different. Different and beautiful. Haiti is one of those places that conjures up so many questions; as an outsider, I know I have so much to learn. It seems that everything here has a story – every person, every piece of artwork, every store and yard of rubbish and building and stray dog. It’s incredibly humbling.

Anyway, this is a short post, as there is much work to do and long days ahead. Just wanted to check in and tell you all that I’m alive and well. Internet (and even electricity) here is a luxury, so I thought I might as well take advantage of it when I can!

I like caving

I went caving for the first time yesterday.

It was awesome.

A friend of mine from Antioch, John Dunham, just so happens to be an alumni of nearby Marlboro College in Marlboro, Vermont, and still volunteers for the college to lead caving trips to caves throughout the northeast. I had never been caving before, but thought it sounded like fun, so I joined John and a group of six students from Marlboro College to explore Clarksville Cave near Albany, New York.

Caving is a pretty sweet way to explore a side of Mother Nature that few people experience. We crawled through tiny passages, on hands, knees, and bellies, getting covered in wet clay and trying to avoid the pools of water that had gathered in the gullies beneath the surface. We wedged ourselves into crevices that seemed impossibly narrow, and shimmied ourselves through tight spaces between rocks. I felt my limbs twisting awkwardly at weird angles, my muscles struggling to pull and push my body through the most absurd spaces. Sometimes the cave opened up into small “rooms” rarely big enough to stand in, and in one section, we waded through a cold and shallow river of rushing water in a spacious underground tunnel that reminded me of something out of an Indiana Jones movie.

At one point, while standing in the underground river, we stopped to turn off our headlamps and experienced the darkest of dark. The blackness surrounded us so completely, it was impossible to see anything, and I even was able to brush my eyelashes with the tips of my finger and still see nothing at all, not even the faintest shadow or outline of my hand.

The girls started to sing – I’m not sure what exactly, but they sang in-the-round and their lovely voices filled the cave with the sweet sound of music. Eventually, the song they had chosen to perform came to an end, and their voices faded out, two by two, gently and beautifully, until the only sound in the cave was the loud rushing of the water around us. We stood in silence and total darkness for a bit longer, then switched our lights back on and continued our exploration of the underground world. I could never ask for a moment like that to happen, but when it does, I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

When I climbed up out of the cave to grab lunch on the surface, I felt like a groundhog on Groundhog’s Day. According to my calculations, we have six more weeks of winter. Funny when you consider that we’ve hardly had a real winter at all this year!

At the end of the day, I felt like I had been beaten up. I could feel bruises already forming and my muscles were fatigued. I was dirty and tired, wet and cold. My joints ached a little, and I had the distinct feeling that Mother Nature and I had an interesting relationship. I loved the feeling of her abuse, but realized that, unlike unhealthy relationships between people, the challenges she put before me only heightened the rewards she dished out. The thrill I get from being outside in and nature makes the soreness I feel afterward more than worthwhile. I thrive on the adrenaline and endorphin kick I get from physical exertion, and I love nature; put the two together and you end up with one happy Kari.

Nature is therapy to me, and sometimes, I suppose therapy is painful. Therapy forces us to examine our real selves, to dig deep inside and push beyond the barriers that are in our way. Emotional walls or physical ones made of rock and earth, we can gain a lot by conquering them and exploring beyond that which is known. The journeys are not always easy, but they make us stronger, and we are better for them. Perhaps that is why I do some of those “crazy” things others wouldn’t dare to do, like biking across the United States or climbing Mount Washington in the winter.

Or going caving.