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Climbing Mt. Rainier – My 8 year journey to the top – Part II

04 Saturday Aug 2018

Posted by Anita in North America, United States, Washington State

≈ 4 Comments

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Adventure Sports, Climbing, Mountaineering, Mountains, Personal

Rainier – taken at sunset from Camp Schurman

In January of this year, I had been made an offer to join a wealth management practice in the bay area and assumed I would be moving to Oakland around May or June.  As such, I decided I had to have another go at Rainier before I officially had been away so long that Seattle didn’t feel like home anymore.

I signed up for the Peaks of Life All Women’s climb of Rainier via the Emmons route, July 21-22, 2018.

I spent the first 3 months of this year traveling around West Africa and I certainly didn’t get much exercise.  I started training for this climb in April, but more seriously starting in June – getting in at least one or two 3-4000 feet of gain hikes each week as well as cross-training at the gym.  The opportunity in Northern California fell through, and I was struggling to decide what to do next with my career.  As such, training was hard and the stress of looking for work made me question whether I had the physical and mental stamina to go through with the climb, and whether I was going to be able to fundraise enough $$ to hit my goal (especially since things were financially tough not working.)

All this stress began to take its toll, but I pressed on and managed to get close to reaching my target fundraising goal and felt relatively and adequately physically prepared for the climb.

The “before” picture of our Peaks of Life All Women’s climb (including honorary woman, Forrest, replete in his dress)

What about mentally?  For me, time spent in the mountains can be very contemplative and almost meditative.  But it can also be additionally difficult to concentrate and focus when there are lots of emotional obstacles in life to contend with at the same time.

It was during this difficult time of transition in my life that the week of the climb began to approach, and along with my trepidation about being ready or not came the anxiety fed by memories of three previously unsuccessful summit attempts.

If that weren’t enough, the climbing rangers put out reports the week of the 17th of July that suggested the route was getting broken up, that navigation had become far more difficult, that running belays might be necessary through a re-route that would make the journey through the Emmons much steeper and more of an intermediate climb for teams.  I distinctly remember feeling quite alarmed when I read that the route presented the potential for “team-eating snow bridge collapse”.

That didn’t sound good.

The 3 climbers and the 2 leads from Peaks of Life – Forrest Barker (Brooke was unfortunately, taken sick) and Eve Jakubowski gathered over dinner at the Himalayan restaurant on the Thursday before the climb to discuss options.  Personally, I wanted to delay the climb by a day and do the DC route on Sunday through Monday when we might have a shot of getting a walk-up permit.  Kara was able to follow through with that plan, but Christina couldn’t take the day off.

Forrest rocking his dress and signature helicopter hat

Forrest assured us that the weather forecast looked really good and that simply put, if we still wanted to do the Emmons together, he felt confident that he would be able to guide us through it and set protection along the way where necessary.  You could see the gleam in his eye that always lights up at the thought of guiding newbies through somewhat hazardous, challenging terrain.  He thrives on that and I knew he wanted us to go for the Emmons.  Eve was on board too – and the plan would allow all 3 of us to see our fundraising goal through to its potential fruition.

We all agreed we would stick to the original plan.

That night I had horrible dreams about crevasses, climbing on steep snow and falling into a dark void.  I felt very uneasy about the weekend, but I set about packing my gear in any case – I had volunteered to drive down Friday afternoon and obtain our climbing permit before 5pm so that we could hit the trail at sun up.

That Friday I hit the most horrendous traffic that Google Maps failed to anticipate and I missed the permit office being open by over an hour.  I felt additionally despondent when I realized that I had forgotten my annual park pass and was charged $30 to get into the park, and I was informed that no camp spots were open.

Me heading up Steamboat Prow – PC Eve Jakubowski

Things turned around when a couple at the very first campground I drove past were kind enough to let me pitch my tent on their site which had plenty of room.  I was so grateful, and managed to sort out my gear and re-pack it, since in order to leave the house by 2 I had literally thrown a bunch of gear in my back seat and then realized all the stuff I’d forgotten as I drove south (Diamox, an extra Nalgene, AAA batteries, caffeine gel shots – shout out to Eve who was kind enough to grab those items for me and bring them down Saturday!)

The campsite was by a lovely stream and I settled happily in my sleeping bag after enjoying a cold beer and managed to get one of the earliest nights before a climb ever.

I broke camp early and met with the rest of the team at the Ranger Station at 7am the next morning to pick up our walk-up permits.  I had freshly baked banana bread for each member of the team as we stood in line and Forrest made coffee.  We managed to secure our permits and were given the harsh warning about the state of the route before we headed on up to the trailhead parking lot.

We finally headed on out up the trail around 9am.  As usual, my main concern was being a slower hiker than everyone else.  No matter what I do in terms of training, I usually find myself to have a slower pace than most which makes me extremely anxious doing group climbs such as this one.  Whenever the group made a stop, I would press on because I knew they would catch up sooner or later and I didn’t want to hold everyone up.

Me and Kara getting ready to rope up

Despite the weight of my pack, I felt that I was progressing along the trail much better than I had almost 11 months ago.  The extra time and energy I’d put into training and gaining elevation was paying off – even if I was still slower than everyone else on the team.

By the time we hit the interglacier, I was hitting my stride and only suffering from the sweltering heat of the day.  We put on crampons and headed up in a much more direct route than we’d taken a year ago – luckily there was more of a boot made staircase this time around, which makes steep ascents on snow much smoother.

Steamboat Prow crept closer, the last 30 minutes or so of that long steep trudge was a challenge, and I was very thankful to finally sit and take a break and eat some food.  We were making good progress time-wise, we were just now going to need to rope up for the final hour’s glacier crossing up to camp.

The crevasses were wide and open and Eve (with whom I was on a two-person rope team) applied her climbing experience to route finding our way up, over and around the gaping holes in the snow.  By the end of this climb, I was getting used to stepping over these wide cracks that led to deep dark blue ice of unknown depth.

We arrived into camp six hours after starting out.  That was an entire 2 hours faster than it had taken us the previous year and I was feeling good about it.  Even more lucky – we managed to secure two tent sites from folks who were just leaving – meaning the amount of snow shoveling and leveling out the ground for our tents was minimal.

Our Campsite at Camp Schurman

After setting up our base camp, we set about melting snow for water and dinner.  That was when our first disaster struck – we ran out of camping gas.  One of the canisters brought up was thought to be full but later we determined it to be near empty.  We were in trouble – and Forrest thankfully traded some gear for another used canister from a bunch of climbers heading out.  In any case, we were going to be limited in how much snow we could melt for the summit push, and to make matters worse – Forrest had forgotten his water bottle and ended up getting quite dehydrated in the process.

I had my 3 liters which was recommended for the summit, but by the time I drank some that night and with “breakfast” – I only carried two bottles for the summit.  We all became quite dehydrated during the following day – which turned into an epic, almost 22-hour day of physical effort.

After dinner, where I had very little appetite, I took a hit on my vape pen to try and calm my nerves and relax myself enough that I might catch an hour or so of sleep before we had to get up again.   I was having a lot of anxiety – especially knowing that we were going to be getting up at 9pm to leave by 10p.  This was it.  The big moment.  A large part of me knew the pain that I was walking into and I wanted to pull the plug and just stay in camp.

I buried those feelings and tried to settle in Forrest’s circus-like tent for what amounted to about 90 minutes of sleep.

My favorite part of alpine climbs – the first glow of the sky as the sun rises – I’m the first climber in this photo – PC Eve Jakubowski

All too soon the alarm was sounding, and adrenaline took over.  I packed my gel shots loaded with caffeine that I knew I’d need (thank you Eve!) warm layers including my summit jacket that only gets used on climbs like this.  Gaiters, crampons, ice axe, helmet and headlight on.

Ok…deep breath…here we go.

The next few hours were kind of a blur.  We were keeping a quite brisk pace up solid snow that had a steep incline to it such that you often had to duck or French step with the points of your crampons to ascend.  We would stop every 90 minutes or so to drink fluid and take in snacks.  Christina would take a power nap.  I would just keep the thought patterns in my head spinning in a positive direction as best I could.  I felt strong, but the mental fears of needing to turn around perhaps, again, kept creeping into my consciousness.

We deliberately slowed our pace when we realized we would top out before sunrise if we kept going the way we were.  The trail edged up, relentlessly.  I was breathing hard, wondering just how much longer this steep gradient was going to last.

That’s when Forrest announced that things were “about to get steep” as we hit the section of the trail that was the ranger re-route.  “What?! Steeper than it’s already been?” It involved a far left traverse followed by a far right traverse to reconnect with where the original trail goes to the summit more directly.

This section was so steep it really hurt one’s ankles.  I was so glad it was still dark because if I shone my headlamp down mountain, I could see just how steep the run out under us really was and I tried to suppress the thought that a single misstep could have me hurling down that icy slope, yanking Eve off of it with me.

Climbing up steep snow as sun rises – PC Eve Jakubowski

No, don’t think about it.  Just one foot in front of the other.

It was so cold that I put my summit jacket on and found that I could still climb with it on and not get too warm.  The wind was pretty calm and Eve said this was the best weather she’d ever experienced on Rainier.  It certainly was the best I’d experienced!

These moments are both the best and worst of alpine climbing.  You are so totally alone out there on a rope with the next person 30 feet or so in front of you just putting one foot in front of the other.   All you can hear is the sound of your own breath, and the crunch, crunch, crunch, of your crampons and ice axe hitting the snow.  And then there are your thoughts: nagging at you.  Willing you to quit.  Asking questions like “what if someone on my team gets AMS?  They didn’t take any Diamox like you did.  Both of them haven’t been above 12,000 feet before! What if one of us bonks out?  Will we all have to turn around?” – and fear sets in which you have to actively ignore and go back to your breath and each step.

Just keep climbing.  Just keep breathing.

Every time we got to a section of the re-route that a stumble/fall could produce a team pulled off the mountain scenario, Forrest would place a picket and a running belay as we moved through.  One section was quite a vertical climb of snow with steps kicked in nicely.  This sort of turned a corner and it felt like we were finally within an hour or so of the summit.

More sun glow PC – Kara Hedges

I started to get excited.  The sky was glowing amber as the sun rose and there is that wonderful and albeit surreal visual of the stream of people with headlamps in front of you getting ever lighter with each passing minute – and it is just so beautiful it takes one’s breath away.  I had a feeling that we were going to make it!

The final push to the summit presented a challenge to me that I could not have imagined.  Penitentes.  These are extremely sharp snow formations that stick up like thousands of ice picks and form in the same way as sun cups, from rapid thawing and re-freezing.  That last section required us to walk on top of these Penitentes and it was by far, the toughest physical and mental challenge of the ascent so far.  Each step, your body weight was only distributed through about 10% of your foot as you had to balance precariously with your crampons, all the while trying not to fall over because these things were sharp and painful.

I cursed those penitentes of death under my breath (and out loud) the whole rest of the way which seemed like the longest hour of my life.  We finally got to a rocky scree slope that Forrest told me lead all the way to the summit.   This was where we could remove our crampons and head up without packs.

What he and none of us realized was that the rocky scree led to even more penitentes!  And this time I didn’t have crampons on that helped grip each step as I precariously balanced on each one.  I was falling, stumbling every which way and my feet were being pummeled.  I have morton’s neuroma in both feet and this enlarged nerve was flaring up from the pressure of these nasty ice formations.  Oh, how I hated them!

Penintentes of DEATH

Then the summit of Columbia crest was in sight!  The air was thin, my heart was beating out of my chest.  I was the last one to clamber up and when I finally stood on the summit, I became overwhelmed with emotion.

Disbelief, pride, exhaustion, accomplishment, a sense of “Finally!  I have made it!” 8 years after my first attempt – I was finally atop Rainier.

Most of all – I had this overwhelming relief that I would never have to put myself through this again.  Ever!!!!

I had made it!

We took our obligatory summit photos and posed with the Peaks of Life Banner.  I cried tears of joy and took a video expressing my gratitude to Forrest and Eve for their help getting to the top of this monster of a mountain, unfortunately, the playback is almost inaudible due to the wind howling.  All you can see is my facial expression and tears – and that will be enough when I look back on it in years to come.   We were the only ones out on Columbia Crest at that time – 8 and a ½ hours from when we had left camp the night before.  We later learned that the DC route was out and that was why we were lucky enough not to have to share our photo spot with a large group of other climbers.

Thank goodness we had stuck to our original plan of climbing the Emmons!

By 8am we began our descent and I continued my cursing of the Penitentes of death once again and willed for that section to end.

Obligatory group summit shot for Peaks of Life

Then it was the long, long, long, slog down the steep snow back to camp – this time, however, we could actually see what we had walked up during that long cold night.  About an hour into our return, we realized that we must have taken a wrong turn and we were on the original route instead of the re-route.  Forrest and Eve decided that if we moved quickly we could minimize any hazards and so that’s what we did – basically eliminating probably over an hour of extra walking since the original route is much more direct.

The downside to this fact was that it put us about 1500 vertical feet below where Forrest had placed his protection in some of the sketchiest parts of the route.  Being the mountain goat that he is, he took off back up the mountain to retrieve his pickets and we thankfully took the opportunity for an extended break.

The sun was so strong at this point and those who haven’t climbed a glaciated mountain cannot fully appreciate just how much glare and UV are constantly reflected back on any of your unsuspecting skin that you haven’t doused in sunscreen- even the insides of your ears and nostrils.  We kept adding snow to our almost empty Nalgene bottles, hoping the sun would melt them enough that we’d have some more to drink on our descent.

Me – happy as a clam at the top of the world.

Forrest finally caught up and now we were fully plunge stepping through soft snow all the way to camp.  At this point, my quads were totally fried and I was physically quite useless.  Every few minutes I would fall backwards, unable to stay upright, sitting in the snow and cursing my legs.  Eve was so patient with me.  She would pull on the rope telling me that we just “had to get moving!” and each time I would explain that I going as fast as my broken body could carry me.  I was doing my best!

Getting into camp I desperately wanted to just lay horizontally for a while – but I soon found that it was way too hot inside the tent to get any sort of rest.  Taking off my boots and letting my feet breathe provided a measure of relief.  Every single cell in my body did not want to have to walk back to our cars that evening.  I wished we had enough camp fuel and food that we could simply rest and recover that day.

I would recommend to anyone attempting the Emmons to turn the climb into a 3-day trip rather than 2.  The hike out proved to be painful for me.

We used up the very last of the gas to melt about 400mls of water for each person – we vowed to re-hydrate at the river that crosses the trail at the base of the interglacier.

And so, with heavy heart and even heavier feeling legs, we packed up camp and re-roped up to head down the Emmons over to Steamboat Prow.  Everyone got off the rope at this point and it was each man for himself.

Forrest, Eve and Christina rest on the ascent

This is when my self-pity kicked into high gear as I watched the rest of the team tearing down the face of the interglacier and I struggled to keep pace – my legs and feet were screaming.  I decided to try glissading when the glissade chute seemed to offer a viable and faster alternative to kick stepping – however, I did a terrible job of fixing my crampons to the back of my pack and ended up losing them and a bunch of other gear on my first attempt.

Taking time to reassemble my pack and put on gloves – I re-entered the glissade chute and used my ice axe to brake strongly as I wasn’t a big fan of speed on steep slopes like this one.  I could see everyone else on my team already drinking water at the river – Forrest appeared to be waiting for me to get down the chute.

Starting the long ass descent – PC Eve Jakubowski

After refilling my water bottle, waiting for a chlorine tablet to sterilize it first, I decided to keep walking down the trail ahead of everyone because of how slow I was moving.  Forrest had hidden his approach shoes among the rocks and marked the GPS on his phone but was having a hard time locating them.  I didn’t want to hold everyone up (again!) so off I set down the trail…wishing and wishing that I had trail runners to change into as well.

Mountaineering boots are wonderful as torture implements.  Something about the stiffness of their soles and wearing them for 22 hours straight make them so painful that you’re swearing under your breath at them, just waiting for the moment when you can take them off and throw them into your car.  Those last few miles of trail were the hardest for me – especially once we made it back into the easy forest trail that skirts the river.

Beautiful summit crater – under this is a large ice cave system and a lake

It seemed to continue for hours and all four of the others passed me.  I told them in no uncertain terms to please not wait for me at the car – to please go ahead and find food and text me the restaurant they were at and I’d meet them there.  I didn’t want anyone waiting for my sorry ass.

The pain on the underside of my forefeet had taken on a whole other level.  They felt so swollen and my nerves so inflamed that each step felt like I was stepping onto the head of a nail.  My pace slowed to a crawl, and by the last 2 miles, tears were rolling down my cheeks and I seriously wondered if I could somehow get rescued?  Every step just shot up my legs and into my eye sockets.  I needed the parking lot to appear.  Now.  And then there would be another turn and another – still no campground or parking lot in sight.

Me about to cross another dicey looking snow bridge that I’m not happy about – PC Eve Jakubowski

Finally, around 7:30pm I emerged at the trail head.  I was suffering so much though, that I couldn’t initially remember which direction we had parked in.  I knew if I made a mistake and turned right instead of left I might be forced to make hundreds of sharply painful steps in the wrong direction.  I opted for walking straight ahead and then found some people who took pity on my face and pointed me in the right direction – offering their congratulations as I miserably trudged away.

When I finally saw my car, I was alarmed to see that everyone except Christina was still there!  I angrily asked them what the hell were they doing there and why had they waited for me?  I was being super irrational because of the pain.  Forrest claimed they’d only gotten back ten minutes before me and apologized for telling me that we were close to the trailhead when he and Eve had passed me.

Hmpf!

Lies!  Hahahaha.  I got my pack off and feet into my flip flops – and I was alarmed that the pain actually intensified rather than feeling that typical relief as the blood starts to flow back in and around one’s foot.  Hunger and exhaustion were equally tugging at my brain – and I knew that I was also going to be forced to drive another 2 ½ hours home at this point as I’d brought my own car.  We elected on a burger/brewery in Enumclaw and headed over.

I stopped on the way to get gas and realized I also hadn’t stretched and so took the time to work out my hamstrings and quads, calves and hips while waiting for my tank to fill.  I got some strange looks – but I couldn’t care less.   My body was a mess.

Crossing on the original trail

On arrival we asked for water, right away – but our waitress was overworked and distracted so I got up and let her know why we were all so dehydrated and she immediately gave me a pitcher to take back to the table.  No matter how much we drank – we didn’t feel it quite satiate our thirst.  The physical push of the day, the lack of fluids and the extreme heat was taking a toll.   Turned out we weren’t all that hungry either and after eating half of our plates, the desire to crash set in with such fervency that we bid good night and raced to get home before falling asleep at the wheel.

That was a pretty tough drive home.  I had the windows open and my music blaring – even still, it took all my strength to keep my eyes open.  Leaving all my gear in my car, I walked into my house and almost directly into the shower where I let the water wash the day away.

We had done it.  We had gotten to the summit of Mt Rainier.  Though I still couldn’t feel my feet, I fell asleep with a big grin on my face.

Climbing Mt. Rainier – My 8 year journey to the top – Part I

26 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by Anita in North America, United States, Washington State

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Adventure Sports, Climbing, Mountaineering, Mountains, Personal

My IMG team heads up to Muir from Paradise for my 1st attempt, Summer of 2011

I have been wanting to climb to the summit of Washington’s highest mountain, Mt. Rainier since I moved to Seattle in December of 2004.  I can remember the first time I saw the mountain, majestic and mocking in her sheer size and prominence – like she was looking down over the city, a clear winner in the contest of who’s bigger and badder.  My first attempt at climbing Mt. Rainier was with International Mountain Guides in 2011.  Like most guided first-time climbs – we went up the DC route but were unfortunately turned around due to high winds and very low temperatures about 500 vertical feet above the top of the cleaver.

That first experience on the mountain was a great lesson in how the mountain has its own weather and how unpredictable she can be.  I can remember thinking to myself that I had never in my life felt that degree of physical cold.  It was terrifying.  I remember desperately needing to drink some water from my Nalgene which had partially frozen despite being in my backpack and weighing my aching thirst with my fear of taking my hand out of my glove to unscrew the cap which was stuck.  I remember the disappointment at having to turn around coupled with the sheer sense of relief that the team wasn’t planning on pressing on into the night while that weather raged because it would have brought untold suffering.

“Team Eurotrash”, with our guide Andreas Polloczek in a white out right before turning around

Being so stubborn about attaining goals I set for myself, however, I know that had the guides deemed it safe, I would have continued no matter how much it hurt.  In other words, I was glad that in that instance, it wasn’t my decision to make.

The following summer, a dear friend of mine, Karsten Delap, was in Washington State training for his American Mountain Guides Association certification, and offered to help lead my boyfriend and I up the DC for our second attempt.  Once again, we experienced very shitty weather: not quite as cold, but definitely very high winds.  Additionally, we were faced with what has become another hazard on the ever-popular DC route – especially in the high season for climbing that is July – and that is the human traffic jam that lines the route all the way from Camp Muir to the summit.

Our team heading out from Paradise for my second summit attempt

In crossing a section after the Cleaver that was notorious for rockfall, I watched as a football sized rock fell from overhead without warning – narrowly missing my friend Karsten.  He looked at me, shaken, urging us to press on through that section much faster.  Later, as we came to what I remember as the endless switchbacks of snow about a 1,000 feet higher than our first attempt had gotten us, we caught up with the crowds of people on the mountain who had now come to a grinding and painfully slow stop-and-go line.  A long queue had formed heading to the summit.

Heading out by the light of one’s headlamp – one of my favorite things about alpine climbing

Karsten became agitated, and as the wind picked up, he started cursing as he noticed the number of inexperienced climbers doing stupid shit like sitting near an open crevasse eating snacks unclipped from their team’s rope.  This, combined with the worsening weather and the fact that we were unable to push on at a pace that would result in us getting to the summit with a reasonable safety margin to return before the snow/ice had softened to a dangerous level led him to pull the plug on our ascent.

That being our second attempt, I felt crushed.  As we descended to Muir, we realized the wisdom in Karsten’s decision as the wind had now picked up to the point where you would see these bursts of color flying by as tents below us at Camp Muir were being ripped off the mountain, one by one.  I remember him picking up the pace and managing to secure his yellow Black Diamond tent which had had 3 of its 6 stakes yanked out by the time we got to it.

Picture of Karsten looking back from above the cleaver

To add insult to injury, we experienced what so many climbers must face on their descent to the Paradise area and parking lot:  day trippers asking dumb questions/comments when they see you descending in mountaineering gear.

“Wow!  Did you climb all the way to the top?”

“What’s it like up there?”

“Oh…you didn’t make the summit?  Did you get too tired?”

“How long does it take to walk up there?”

“My sister did it last year and said it was super easy.”

Our Team for attempt Number 2 heading out around midnight from Muir

You get the idea.  Mostly you just grit your teeth and smile, but it eats away at you as you watch them smiling back in their jeans and toddler on their shoulders laughing because they can’t believe there’s snow up there “in the middle of summer!”

My boyfriend was super miserable after that climb and declared he was done with the mountain and wouldn’t attempt it again.  Conversations with friends about our experience were also not helpful and anytime someone would point out that they had had a successful summit climb on their first attempt, it made it worse.

Karsten arriving at Muir

What people don’t understand is that it takes just as much physical effort to get within a 1000 vertical feet of the summit as it does to summit.  It also takes, by order of magnitude, a hell of a lot more effort to get close to the summit in really bad weather, than it takes to make the summit on a calm, bluebird day.

For several years, I tried to forget about Rainier.

But then she’d always just be there.  Staring at me as I drove across the bridge.  Taunting me.  Reminding me of how I hadn’t succeeded at something.  Somehow, she became a metaphor for lack of accomplishment in my life.

Taken from Mt. Si. Pointing out the goal as I started training for my first Rainier Climb

In 2014, I decided to take a course in climbing with the Mountaineers.  I thought it would be a great way to learn the skills I needed to have another go at the mountain by myself with a team of friends I’d make in the class.  What I didn’t realize was that the other 500 students who’d signed up had the same idea…and Rainier climbs got filled, literally, within seconds of them posting to the website.  You’d be lucky to get “Waitlisted number 14”.   That issue, coupled with the fact that I lost my job that May and decided to spend the majority of the summer hiking and climbing in Peru (on 18,000 foot peaks that didn’t count at all toward my Mountaineers climbing badge) meant I didn’t really make the kind of connections I needed to form my own climbing team, nor did I get a chance to go with any of the basic climb leaders that year.

2014 became 2015 and then 2016 – each of those years posed serious career challenges and climbing took a bit of a backseat as I struggled financially.

First time to Muir – training hike

Last year, however, I became more involved with a non-profit here in Seattle called Peaks of Life.  I’d met the founders – a couple called Brooke and Forrest (I know, it’s the cutest pairing of names for a nature loving couple ever) at a prior Washington Hikers and Climbers event up at Mount Baker – but we didn’t connect until I joined them on one of their “Adventure Series” hikes to Lake Serene in June.  This Adventure Series was designed to raise awareness of their non-profit which seeks to bring groups of mountaineers together to climb local peaks and raise money for uncompensated care at Seattle Children’s Hospital.  So…I could find a group of people who loved to climb AND raise money for charity at the same time?  Seemed like a winning combination to me!

Peaks of Life had a Rainier climb scheduled for the summer of 2017, however it was already full.  I joined them on climbs of Mt. Adams and I also summitted The Brothers independently with a good friend of mine.  I was in great shape from hiking and climbing all summer – and I was finding my joy in it again.  When a member of the All-Women’s team had to turn around near the summit due to AMS – Forrest offered her the chance to have another go via the Emmons route in August – and he was kind enough to offer me the chance to be 3rd on the rope team.

Peaks of Life gave me a whole other incentive to climb again

This would be my 3rd attempt at Rainier and 5 years since my last attempt.  Plus – this was a new and exciting route.  I didn’t have to climb to Muir – a huge bonus in my mind alone (I’ve hiked to Muir so many times and I really don’t enjoy it.)  I was excited to go with Forrest – he is genuinely a climbing savant and an all-around wondrously talented, funny, and generous human being.

So, one Saturday very late into the climbing season, we ignored the warnings of how broken up the route had gotten (relying on Forrests’ navigation skills to get us through the maze of crevasses) and heartened by a decent weather outlook, the 3 of us set out to Camp Schurman on the Emmons route which starts at White River.

Gorgeous sunset at Camp Schurman, August 2017

Pyramid shadow of the mountain at sunset from Schurman

My first recollection of that day was putting on my fully loaded pack and thinking “Hmmm…this is so heavy, I’m not sure I can make it out of the parking lot!”

I managed.  But it was a long, slow, and difficult trudge for me up to camp.  It took us 8 hours, though we were delayed for about an hour while Forrest set off after some rather expensive looking gear that a hapless climber must have lost in a gust of wind.

When we got to camp – we were the only group there!  Forrest told us that during the height of the season, there could be 50 groups heading up the Emmons.  I felt lucky.  It was a gorgeous evening and sunset…with only a very light breeze in our faces as we fired up dinner and good conversation.

The plan was to head out around 2am so we tried to get to sleep as early as we could – around nightfall.

The hole ripped into my tent by wind

I was anxious, but really vibing off of the positive energy and outlook of my two teammates.  I was finally gonna get my Rainier Summit!!

I woke up around 2am, but not to the sound of my alarm clock.  I woke up to Christine’s face literally on mine, her body rolled on top of me like she was trying to smother me.  I remember saying something like “what the hell is going on?” and she replied with “Look up!”.

I did.  It soon became obvious that a storm had rolled in and brought high winds with it that had torn several holes right through my rainfly which was now flapping helplessly.  The poles keeping the tent up were being bent almost in two, causing the tent to collapse on Christine’s side, hence her having to roll up and on to me, flattened by the bending structure of the tent itself.

Expressing our feelings about the weather

I couldn’t help but laugh.  It was a hysterical moment.  I remember how loud the wind was.  I really needed to pee, but I had no idea how I was going to get outside the tent, let alone manage to stand up once I was outside.

We heard Forrest call out to us.  He said something about wanting to come talk to us, but not being able to, and that we would give it another hour or so and see if the wind abated a bit.

It didn’t.

In fact, after managing somehow to pee (with the spray going in every which direction let me tell you) – back in our tent, Christine and I were forced to dig out our goggles because the dust was being blown into the tent with such ferocity that we couldn’t open our eyes. We tried to get more sleep – but being pressed into each other like that was just not amenable to shut eye and we ended up chatting and giggling into the morning hours when it calmed enough to get some sleep.

Goggles and dust

Unfortunately, it was now too late to attempt the summit as we wouldn’t make it back in time for the glacier to be safe to traverse.

Christine and Forrest had a great attitude about it, and I tried as best I could to bottle my emotion and disappointment as we headed back to the car.  Carrot cake and beer cooled in the river certainly helped…as did my new life-long friends.

Shenanigans at Schurman with Forrest

Did I mention that climbing forges the best of friendships?  Going through experiences like this with people you dig is priceless.  Knowing Christine and remembering her on me like that in my slashed tent will always make me laugh.  It was a wonderful start to our friendship.

The real reason we climb is the bonds formed between friends – made stronger with post-ordeal beers!!!!

And so…this brings me to 2018 and my decision in January to sign up for the Emmons All-Women’s climb of Mt. Rainier and finally bag this bitch of a mountain once and for all.

Part II will tell that story…

Ethiopia Part I: Impressions from Ethiopia

27 Tuesday Feb 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Ethiopia

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Culture, Opinion Pieces, Personal, Women

Men chanting and singing during a church ceremony in Lalibela

I’ve now spent about three weeks in Ethiopia and one thing is for sure.  This is unlike any country I have been to in Africa.  It is a confounding place – it is both claimed to be more purely African than any other nation – since it is the only country on the dark continent that managed to escape the atrocities and impacts of European colonization.  On the other hand, it doesn’t feel like Africa at all – at least, to me.  So, I must state as my opening caveat to this post – these are merely my opinions and my impressions of this – my 21st African country.  Other tourists here may have totally different experiences, in fact, I hope they do.  These are just my own personal experiences, and I grant you – they might have felt different if this were the only country I was visiting on this trip.  Since we came here after having spent almost two months in West Africa, it was far easier to compare the people with those we had just had experience with.

Ethiopia is a staggeringly beautiful country – the geography is interesting and diverse and the history is rich and there is so much to learn and see for a history lover. It is an archaeologist’s paradise – ancient civilizations that have only just started to be excavated.  The potential for tourism, therefore, is immense and from what I can tell – there is an established tourist circuit in the north, and wherever we traveled – we met a lot of tourists.

Having said all of that – I would recommend to anyone wanting to visit Ethiopia to consider coming here on a package tour that is organized and paid for by a western company – OR – be prepared to need nerves of steel.  In order to fully appreciate each and every day, it is important to have a “separation” from needing to deal with local tour operators, guides, and almost any type of service staff.  The reason for this is there is more hassle, difficulties, price-gouging, unfair treatment, lying and horrible service here than anywhere else I have traveled.  Some of it, of course, can be attributed to the language barrier – but this does not explain all of it.

Stunning landscapes and beauty of Ethiopia

Before I launch into descriptions of the struggles Mike and I have faced, I would like to point out that we did have a handful of positive local interactions.  Our driver in Tigray was a 22 – year old called Sneetchie (spelling?) and though he didn’t speak English, he was always cheerful and helpful.  In the Danakil, our driver was the exact opposite of everything I’m going to describe here – but to the extreme.  Sisay, constantly asked if we were okay, did we want the windows down or AC?  Did we want to stop for a photo?  When we responded, he would verify our answer by re-asking the same question 3 or 4 times.  It was overkill – but at the very least, he was extremely caring.  I will give him a great review on Trip Advisor – because these two individuals were absolutely the exceptions to the general rule.

Just last night, at our hotel in Bahir Dar, I decided to order the same dinner I’d had the night before because it had been so delicious.  It was a chicken breast with a mushroom sauce and mashed potatoes.  The meal arrived but it was a chicken thigh and leg served with rice.  Looking at the menu, it was a totally different meal.  The waiter came over and I asked if it would be possible for him to bring me some mashed potato?  He said “of course” and went away.  Fifteen minutes later, a woman arrived (who I presumed is the restaurant manager) and asked me “what is the problem?”  I said, “there is no problem, it’s just that I got a different dish to what I ordered and could I have some potato?”  She pointed at the menu and told me that I had the dish I ordered.  I said, “no” – this isn’t a chicken breast.  To which, she responded “Yes, this is chicken breast – it has just been flattened out.”  I laughed because I thought she must be joking.  “No, this can’t be a chicken breast because there are bones.”  “No bones, madam.” “Yes, bones…look!” I said, holding the chicken leg up for her to see, “…this is a chicken leg, right?”

“No,” she replied, “this is not a chicken leg. It is breast.”

This went on for a few hilarious minutes while she continued to deny that what I had on my plate was a chicken’s thigh and leg.  I told her I didn’t care about the chicken (I had only wanted some mashed potatoes instead of rice) but what I did care about was her lying to my face that the chicken leg was breast meat.

She simply didn’t care, and walked away.  The waiter also just walked away.

I sighed and ate my meal.  Then, without being told anything, 20 minutes later a fresh plate of food arrives – and it is the dish I had ordered and the one I’d eaten the night before.  Of course, now, I wasn’t hungry – just exasperated.  I thanked the waiter and told him that next time, it might be a good idea to TELL the customer that you are planning to replace a dish.

Traditional Ethiopian coffee being served street-side

This is an extreme example, but Mike and I experience hassle and trouble here with logistics and site-seeing on a daily basis.  Vendors pester us with a persistence that is mind-numbing – you can say “no” 15 times and they still come after you to buy whatever it is that they’re selling – even super strange things like, in Axum, a round rock split in two filled with purple-looking gemstones.  Or wooden flutes.  Or strange-looking hats with a giant pointy bobble on top that we are told are “traditional Ethiopian hats” – yet we haven’t seen a single person wearing them other than the vendor pressuring us to buy them.

Even with the kids.  We have come across kids selling items and/or begging all across West Africa.  Here, they follow you, not taking no for an answer.  It goes like this: “Sir, you buy?  I give you good price?  Please.  Sir, you buy?  You want this?  Sir?  Madam?  Where you from?  You have pen?  Give me pen.  Pen. Pen.  I want pen.  Money.  Give me money.  Hey, money!  You.  You.  You give me pen?  Money. Pen. Pen. Pen.  Sweets?  You have sweets?  Madam, Madam, Madam….” This entire time, you’ve been walking away, fast, and they keep up with you, not tiring out.  I have had to take to stopping, looking them in the eye, and yelling “NO!!!!!” to get them to stop.  The other day, while visiting the Blue Nile Falls, a young girl no older than six, actually hit me in the legs with her bag of wooden flutes when I told her “sorry” but that I didn’t want to buy one.  Mike had rocks thrown at him.  Today, a school boy hit me in the small of my back as I rode past him on a bicycle.  It is really, really sad situation – that I’m actually afraid of groups of children here.

Thank God for Mike – he saved me from most of the hassle and dangers I would have faced if traveling here solo

As for issues with money and pricing for all things needed to see this country – I don’t even know where to begin.  As a foreigner, we are called “Faranji” (or even more hilariously, “China”) and everywhere you go, service providers will name a sky-high price that is sometimes 3 or 4 times what the standard price for a service should be, just on the off-chance that you don’t know this and you’re a stupid tourist who will fall for the quote.  In Lalibela, I was quoted 100 Birr for a tuk-tuk ride that I knew to be 30.  In Gonder, we wanted to buy a beanie hat for the mountains, and they asked us for 700 Birr.  That’s over $25!   We laughed and walked away.

While visiting the Rock-Hewn churches of Tigray, we negotiated with a scout who told us we needed his services to get up the steep trail to the church Abuna Yemal.  Our driver had told us we should pay no more than 100-150 birr in total.  This scout tried to charge us 300, but we managed to negotiate him down to 200 birr, with him explaining that entrance to the church was separate at 150 Birr each.  After carefully repeating this back and confirming that there would be no additional fees or costs, we agreed to head on up the trail.  At which point he asked us if we wanted him to bring a rope?

“A rope?  What for?  Do we need it?” we asked.

“If you want, I can bring” his response.

“But will we need it?”

“It’s up to you.”

“But we haven’t seen the trail – do most tourists use the rope?”

“Some do, some do not.”

“Ok, well, then, let’s bring it and then we will have it if we need it.”

“Then that is extra 100 Birr.”

“Oh. Isn’t it your rope?”

“No, you have to rent the rope.  It’s 100 Birr.”

Mike and I look at each other, exasperated.

“Ok, but if we pay you another 100 Birr, that is EVERYTHING, right?”

“Yes. Everything”

So.  We pay him the 100 Birr for the rope and move to get going.  He then stops and says:

“No, it’s 100 Birr EACH to use the rope.”

“What on earth?  Why would it be 100 each?  It’s one rope!  You said we have to rent a rope. You can’t charge per person for a rented rope! That’s just ridiculous.”

“You pay each…”

Me, ascending sans rope to the Rock Hewn church of Abuna Yemal

And so it went on.  Mike walked away, his energy for talking to this guy having evaporated.  I told the guy, we’d pay for the rope, and I would see if I needed to use it.  In the end, I climbed without the rope and Mike used it, however, the whole “rope rental” cost was a total fabrication because our scout LEFT the rope up there for other tourists to use who came by.  Other clients who shared our car in the Danakil told us they were charged 150 birr each for the rope going to this church.  It feels like those who work with tourists simply pull prices out of the sky whenever it suits them – depending on just how much they think they might get away with charging.

So, you can see, it is quite tiring having to negotiate for each and every little thing.  Everything is a discussion.  Everything.  Nothing is simple.  Nobody ever apologizes.  Ever.

We have had some very shady/incompetent/mendacious tour guides during our time here.  The owner of the tour operator we booked with to go to the Simiens got into an argument with me when he claimed that almost no-one ever suffered symptoms of altitude sickness while hiking to 4500 meters – I told him that not only was he wrong, but that saying that to less experienced hikers could actually be dangerous.  On our first night – over half of our camp had symptoms of AMS.  The same guy who promised our main luggage would be stored safely for us and returned to us, at no additional cost per his website (our trip cost us $300 each) – had the audacity to yell at me on the phone and tell me that he had never claimed our bag storage would be free and that we would have to pay 120 birr to the hotel manager to get them back.  He had never mentioned this additional cost and we were lucky that we had spare cash on hand at the end of our 4 day trek – but seriously?  Why would you argue with a client who’s just paid you $600 for a four-day tour over $4?  On the last day when we were scorched, dirty and exhausted?

On our boat trip to the Zege Peninsula in Bahir Dar – we negotiated to pay 1500 birr to visit two monasteries on the peninsula, then visit one of the islands, and the outlet to the Blue Nile on the way back.  After we’d finished the second monastery- our boat captain informed us we were “going back to hotel now” – and when we pointed out that we’d only covered ½ of our promised itinerary, he rolled his eyes and started getting pissy.  We called our hotel, who had arranged the trip, and explained that if we were going to be taken directly back, we wanted a discount (thank goodness I had refused to pay the full 1500 Birr before the trip, stating that a tourist typically pays for a day trip at the end.  They finally agreed to letting me pay 1000 up front and I would owe 500 at the end.)

Me and our lovely driver, Sissay, in the Danakil Depression

At this point, the trip was ruined anyways and we didn’t want to visit any more places with a boat captain in a foul mood.  The guy from our hotel asked to speak to the boat captain who proceeded to start yelling into the phone for a good five minutes while we tried to calmly enjoy a coffee at a tranquil lakeside location.  After giving us the phone back, our hotel person said that there was “no problem, and he would take us to all the promised places now, no problem” to which we explained that “yes, there was a problem in that we didn’t sign up to have to listen to him arguing about giving us the service we’d agreed upon.”  There was more yelling and calls back and forth, and we had to insist he just take the boat directly back to the hotel, whereupon we got out giving him 300 Birr less for the hassle we’d suffered.

In the Danakil, we stayed for one night in a hotel, and after several days in the hot dusty desert, I was eager to take a shower.  I didn’t have a towel with me as we’d been told we’d be camping for each of the 3 nights.  But the hotel gave us a double room, which, unfortunately, only had one towel on the bed.  I took the towel to the manager, and asked if I could possibly get another towel?  He said he would go get one for me.

Half hour later, I still didn’t have a towel.  I went out of the room looking for the manager.  I spoke to five housekeepers, showed them the towel, and asked for another towel.  “You want water?”  “No, just a towel.  A TOWEL.”

Five women commence a long and loud conversation in Amharic.  It goes on and on and on and on.  Eventually, they point me to the restaurant where I see the manager sitting and eating a meal and having a beer.  All five women follow me into the restaurant.  I ask the manager for a towel, again.  He just stares at me.

Then, his phone rings.  He leans back in his chair and takes the call, completely ignoring me.  I look at the women, who start to laugh.  I ask them again, pleading, “Please?  May I have a towel?”  One of them says “Office is closed.”

Oh, God.

I’m about to lose it, when a GUEST of the hotel who has observed this whole fiasco, gets up from his meal, apologizes to me, says something to the douchebag still on his phone, then something to the five housekeepers still standing there gawking at me and laughing, and proceeds to go behind the counter of the reception, grabs a key hanging from a hook, saying “Come with me.”

We walk down the hall to another hotel room, he unlocks the door, grabs the towel from the bed and hands it to me.  I thank him profusely.

Guys being guys in Ethiopia – Friday night cuddles in the bar

These situations – unfortunately, have become very common interactions for us as independent travelers.  The bigger downside, is, however, that I feel I have my back up, and I’m already on the defensive whenever someone approaches us, or offers us a good price for something we are actually interested in doing.  When most of your experiences with vendors is bad, one can’t help tensing up, anticipating getting lied to or ripped off.  The problem then becomes that I can inadvertently come across as hostile or nasty to someone who genuinely wants to help.  I admit that – the effect of this daily hassle has been cumulative and I’ve almost reached my breaking point.

It is a real shame, because as I said earlier, this is a stunning country with so much that is worthwhile to see and visit.

That covers what it feels like to be here in Ethiopia as a tourist. Let me tell you a little bit about how it feels to be here as a woman.  First, I have been hassled, ogled, stared at, whistled at, called after, yelled at, and grabbed (once) during my three weeks here.  It has been the worst in terms of unwanted male attention compared with anywhere else in Africa.  I get this attention even when I am out with Mike walking along the street together.  If I am separated from him, it gets much worse – to the point that I would probably advise any white woman thinking of traveling to Ethiopia alone – to not.  I even got hassled when riding a bike today.  Almost every 20 meters, a guy or group of guys would call out, ask me where I was from, tell me I was beautiful, stare and say “hey, Baby!”, and the funniest of all…every tuk tuk would pull over next to my bike, even on a crowded bridge where driving close to a bike could be dangerous, and the driver would try and get my attention in any way possible.

It is exhausting and a little unnerving, even if it is flattering – which I’m not even sure about.

The shirt I should have worn every day in Ethiopia to ward off unwanted male attention

I was grabbed in a park a few nights ago in Bahir Dar and the guy said he wanted to spend the night with me and would I let him bite my butt?  I mean, what the hell? Luckily, I swiveled around kicking him and told him to “fuck off” sharply and loudly enough that he let go – but it was in a crowded place and no one even noticed.

From Gonder to Debark, from Axum to the Danakil – everywhere we went – whether in the cities or in rural areas (though it is worse in rural areas) – men are abundant in number, be it on the street, in restaurants, bars or cafes.  Men are everywhere.  Women ? – not so much.  Yes, there are a few, and definitely more in the markets selling goods.  But for the most part there are at least 10-15 men out to every 1 woman.  In Debark, we went out to the bars after our hike through the Simiens and got to witness the famous “shoulder dancing” of the north – but it felt super strange to me because all the men were only dancing with other men.  Some even “coupled up” and never once broke eye contact as they gyrated their shoulders and bodies in time with one another.  I asked our guide where all the women were – he remarked that since the next day marked the first day of their 55-day fasting schedule – the women were probably at home preparing food for the family and caring for the kids.  Whatever the reason, women simply are not out in public as much.

Men getting it on, I mean “dancing”, on the dancefloor in Debark

Incidentally, the shoulder dancing is really something to see.  It reminds me of “pop and lock” dance – which I’m sure was influenced by this very traditional form of dancing.  When it is just guys – like it was that night in Debark – I find it altogether very strange.  And, of course, it just looks so different to me as dancing is such a culturally below-the-waist activity (for me) – and in Northern Ethiopia, the movement is concentrated above the waist.  We did go see some traditional dancing in Bahir Dar and this was far more enjoyable to watch – the movements are so intricate and fast it almost defies belief.  I will try to upload some video to YouTube! so you can see what I’m talking about.

The country as a whole is predominantly Christian and very very religious at that.  Women, however, are even kept seated in a whole other section of the church during mass, many churches don’t allow women inside (because they might be menstruating – oh the horror!!!) and choirs that sing during mass are all made up of men only.  So, there’s discrimination even in the practicing of their faith.

In Mekele, after our trip to the Danakil, I went to get a haircut and met a group of six female students from the university there.  One of them spoke very good English and asked me what my general impression of Ethiopia had been.  When I mentioned this lack of women, and also how men had treated me here – she immediately sympathized and nodded with understanding.  She agreed that a female is still treated as a second class citizen in much of the country – but she was positive that change was coming.  She explained that a large portion of girls, especially those in the countryside, don’t get educated much past the age of 12 and often are married and starting a family by the time they are 14 or 15 years old.  She said that many women just accept what men expect of them – that they belong inside the house and nowhere else.  Again, she said she was happy to be getting her masters’ degree because it meant she at least had the chance of getting her own job so that she wouldn’t have to get married just to be supported.  We talked about how educating girls was the key to progress – and she assured me that even though it was difficult, women were starting to be able to compete for jobs.  Twenty years ago, she said there were almost no jobs available to women.

I hope she was right and that things are improving for women here.

Yummy traditional food

On a final note – I’d like to tell you about the food here.  For the most part, it has been quite delicious, though typically very hot & spicy – notably our first meal in Gonder at a restaurant called the Four Sisters – it was a vast array of traditional foods like Ndjera that was served with Lamb Tibs, lots of different sautéed vegetables and a variety of side dishes.  However, on the day after we completed our trek through the Simiens – Ethiopian Christians began their 55-day Fast for Easter/Lent – and this meant that many restaurants now would only serve “fasting food” – which is a paradise for vegans or vegetarians because all the dishes did not contain any animal products whatsoever.  So, no meat, no eggs, no dairy, no butter.  Meaning, rather bland vegetable based dishes only.  As a consequence, we have had to seek out non-fasting restaurants or stick to more touristy places where we can satisfy the unavoidable cravings for food from home, such as pizza or a burger.

Oh!  You can buy delicious juices everywhere here too – that has been a huge hit with Mike and I.  We love the avocado, guava, mango and banana combinations!

Coffee has a very long history here, and it is served everywhere on the street and at makeshift huts lined with grass on the floor and always a little stool where a woman boils the coffee in a traditional pot over hot charcoal before pouring out an espresso sized blackest of black liquids into a tray of waiting cups.  I’ve grown more accustomed to taking one of these strong black coffees in the afternoon, but in the morning, I still crave my coffee a little less strong (I just add hot water) and with some milk.

It has been quite a feat trying to get all 3 items in the morning when we aren’t at a hotel serving a breakfast buffet.  I bought packets of powdered milk which I use sometimes, but even in a 4-star international hotel, when I ask for one coffee, and some hot water on the side – the servers just stare at me and begin a debate with all of their co-workers that lasts at least 15 minutes.  Eventually someone brings me a coffee and then I pour it into my to-go bottle and ask again, with different hand gestures for more water?  They just stare at me and laugh.  What is this woman doing with her coffee? – they must be thinking.   Hahahaha…I guess it would be easier for me just to learn to take my coffee strong and espresso sized.

My remedy at the end of a day being a woman and a tourist in Northern Ethiopia

The language barrier has also been difficult – moreso with guides who claim they can speak “very good English” but, as it turns out, they can speak English but they cannot understand it spoken to them, and cannot answer the simplest of questions.  So, communication has been a little bit of a struggle.  My favorite exchange was in Bahir Dar with the aforementioned mean boat driver (before he got mean).  I asked him where he lived, and his response was simply:

“Hippo?”

Ghana Part IV: The Asanti Nation, Accra, and a Big Decision

02 Friday Feb 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Ghana

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Independent travel, Personal, Travel Days

The incredible expanse of the Kumasi Market. Photo by Mike Hoeffner

We had an incredible Indian meal on arrival in Kumasi – albeit an adventure in travel just trying to get the taxi to get us to the restaurant, which as far as he was concerned – didn’t exist. Having looked up the address, we kept repeating where the restaurant was located, per the guidebook, and he kept pulling over to ask random people if they knew more than he did about what we were muttering.

None of the cab drivers in Kumasi seemed to know anything about anywhere in their city. It’s always amusing, if not stressful – but this is so Africa. Funnily enough, I had my own brain fart when it finally dawned on me that since I’d gone to the trouble of buying an SIM card and had Ghanaian credit for 3G – I could have just pulled the restaurant up on Google Maps and given the taxi driver play by play directions. I laughed hard when this dawned on me.

Me Jack and Mike at the Asanti Museum

The next day we had free time and it occurred to me that my brain was starting to get “travel soft” in the sense that I was starting to too heavily rely upon Sinead and the truck to tell me where to go and what to do. This happens when you’ve been on an organized tour for too long. I was so not in the mood to visit the enormous market in Kumasi, nor go to the many museums this center of the might Asanti nation had to offer. Primarily, I was in a bad mood because my time of the month had still not arrived. But there was another issue that was bugging me.

The following day, this “section” of the trip would come to an end; and the few members of the truck that I had formed an emotional attachment with would be leaving the journey as we started the next leg of the itinerary – the 21 day tour through Togo and Benin. Mike, Peter, and Danny were all leaving the truck, and I was gonna miss them the most.

Need some Pray toothpaste?

On top of that – I had learned that another member of the group, Jodi, was desperate to stay and do the Togo/Benin loop but had been told that there were no available spaces for her, barring someone who had booked on from Accra not showing up due to some unforeseen circumstance.

Mike was going to be traveling through roughly the same region solo, and we had casually discussed the possibility of my joining him. But this possibility hinged on whether or not Dragoman would allow a “name-change” this late in the game – meaning Jodi would be able to stay on the truck, and I’d be able to get off and be reimbursed for the cost of the trip by Jodi herself.

Hilarious front page of local paper in Kumasi

When I was under the impression that this was quite possible three days prior to Kumasi, I was actually quite excited by the idea, but we had since discussed this with Sinead and learned that Dragoman didn’t typically allow for such a last minute change without incurring cancellation charges.

So…for the most part, we had left the idea alone – believing that Dragoman wasn’t going to permit such a change in any case – and so giving it anymore serious consideration was a waste of time.

It was in the late morning on our visit to Kumasi, that Sinead messaged Mike saying that Dragoman had finally responded to her email declaring that they would be ok with Jodi staying on the truck and me getting off…but the caveat was that I’d have to decide that day.

And so began what was ultimately two days of internal monologue and agonizing back and forth decision-making. Poor Mike is as bad as I am at making decisions and we agonized over the pros and cons finally resting on leaving things as they were on that particular evening.

Penultimate meal with the Truck crew in Kumasi

Though we did visit several museums including the former royal palace, which was very interesting indeed, I was super distracted and couldn’t figure out exactly what I wanted. I have always valued independent travel and figuring out the logistics of getting from A to B, in addition to being free to decide where I wanted to stay and for how long. Mike is one of the most proficient and capable travelers I’d ever met and I trusted him implicitly – but spending one on one time with someone you’ve only known in a group setting can be difficult to predict.

I felt haunted and just didn’t know what the best choice was (this is funny to me now in retrospect…hindsight is so 20-20)

The following day Mike and I sat together on the truck for the drive to Accra as this was technically his “last day on the truck”. Something still wasn’t sitting right within me and by the time we arrived in Accra, I knew I’d made the wrong choice. Right before our goodbye evening meal – I went to Mike and told him I’d decided to give my spot to Jodi. He gave me his blessing and now I just had to tell Jodi and Sinead. Sinead told me she would immediately tell Dragoman and would have to shuffle some paperwork to get Jodi’s visas sorted out in time. Jodi was utterly ecstatic and this made me extremely happy. Though nervous I almost instantly knew I’d made the right choice and felt such a wave of relief – especially after announcing the change at dinner – much to the disbelief of everyone staying on the truck. Miller immediately asked “Mike! Are you sure, man? You really want to travel with Anita?!!!” – which I took to be a joke, but he was really drunk and might have been totally sincere. I didn’t care either way.

The following day Mike was really sick with a cold – so we moved him into what would now be our room at the hotel and I set about spending a day in internet cafes doing research for our itinerary and coming up with a plan for how we were going to go about this journey on our own. It was exhausting and frustrating at times due to wifi speeds but I had almost forgotten just how much I enjoy and am gifted at trip planning. Despite being groggy and under the weather, I think Mike appreciated my efforts and by that evening, we had re-packed – leaving everything non-essential in a spare duffel bag to leave on the truck (we planned to meet up with it in Ganvie, Benin) and we had our plan in hand.

First we would head to the Burkina Fasso Embassy in the morning as soon as Sinead handed me back my passport with my Togo visa in it. Then we would head to the Lake Volta region first for 3 nights, returning to Accra that Friday to pick up my passport and fly (saving two days of buses) north to Tamale where we could get transport to Mole National Park. We would then head north to Burkina Fasso and the Tiabele villages in the south before taking in the capital and heading east to Benin. After Penjari National Park we would head south and catch up with the truck for some beach, voodoo, and stilt village time.

I was excited!! Goodbye Dragoman truck – hello independence and god knows what may happen!!!

Ghana Part I: Physical and Personal Journeys

26 Friday Jan 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Ghana

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Personal, Transport, Travel, Travel Days

Tuesday the 9th turned into a super long, hot, and frustrating day of driving with a long sweaty border crossing thrown in for good measure. The guards at the Ghana border were quite funny though and kept telling us that all was good because we could finally stop having to talk in French and speak English again. “This is Ghana! We speak English here!” they kept saying.

We stopped at a market to do cook team shopping and I caught sight of an exact replica of the very first car I drove – a 4-door Silver Renault 5 from the early 80’s. I had a photo standing next to it and for some reason, it made me feel rather nostalgic.

We stopped on the side of the road to make lunch in the middle of the day and quickly were told to move by a local because an armed robbery had taken place in that exact location the day before. It was a little unnerving but I was super impressed with how efficiently the group quickly packed everything away in just a few minutes so that we could find a safer spot to eat.

We arrived at our destination for the next two nights – Elmina’s Stumble Inn – when it was already dark. Most people set up tents on the beach but I was feeling quite tired and stressed out and so I opted to upgrade to my own beach bungalow which came with its own private outdoor bathroom. I include photos of that here because it was truly a unique room to enjoy.

The reason for my stress was quite a personal one but I will share it here as I will surely look back upon it with relief rather than embarrassment. The truth was – my monthly flow was severely overdue and I had finally broken down and bought a pregnancy test. Due to the stress I’d experienced prior to my departure, my last menses was extremely light – and that fact combined with the calculation that I was now 18 days overdue had caused me to become completely paranoid that I might be pregnant. That is not something I would wish upon anyone traveling on an overland truck in West Africa. Denial was proving to be much more than a river in Africa, and I had been putting this off for days now – convincing myself that there was no WAY I could be pregnant with my ex’s baby given the fact that I have an IUD – and ignoring the fact that I had been throwing up in the morning the past few days and feeling more bloated and emotional than possibly any other time in my life.

Thoughts of what it would MEAN if I were pregnant had been haunting my every waking moment for days and it was my friend Jack who convinced me after I’d broken down crying to her in Grand Bassam that it was time to buy a test and just find out for sure.

The test was negative.

On the one hand – it was a huge relief. And on the other – an emotional kick in the gut. If a baby had found a way to form in my body, at 41 years of age, despite the measures I’d taken to prevent it, I’m almost certain I would have had the child. That possibility wiped from my mind, I immediately could stop ruminating on the “what ifs” such a scenario would impose upon my life and all of its repurcussions.

Additionally, it led me to be even more worried about my physical health. I had never before been more than a few days late. I was as regular as a clock. Clearly, I had mentally underestimated the extreme stress and heartache I’d been going through – but my body was not so easily fooled.

In the end, it wasn’t until Accra 4 days later that my period finally arrived. I don’t think I have ever felt so relieved and happy, mentally, hormonally, physically and emotionally.

When it’s Time to Travel Again

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Opinion Articles

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Opinion Pieces, Personal, Travel

Seattle Skyline

A distinct and undeniable pattern has emerged in my life.  A job loss precipitates a period of long term solo travel.  This is an embarrassing thing to admit – but I have been fired or forced to resign 4 times in the last 3 and a ½ years.  After each kick to the gut, I have booked a trip abroad for one to six months.  I admire people who can jump right back into the job search after losing their job.  For me, a job loss, especially one that is a result of a firing for personal/painful reasons and not poor job performance is too hard to come back from without a chance to hit a reset button.  Searching for a job requires you to be truly “on” in regards to self-promotion and self-marketing.  At a time when personal confidence has been severely tested and the inevitable self-doubt regarding whether I should continue in an industry that keeps spitting me out like sour milk rises to the surface, a job search is very unappealing.  Then, well-intentioned friends shower you with the advice to take this opportunity to do some reticent soul-searching to discover a way to make a living fulfilling myself on a deeper ‘soul’ level; or how this is simply an opportunity disguised in tragedy – the inevitable and unavoidable assurances that “as one door closes another one opens.”

As true as these well-wishes might be, the only thing that ever really helps me move forward after such a traumatic event is going away for a while.  Call it escaping one’s problems, refusing to face reality, shirking responsibility, or being fiscally irresponsible – it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me in the past.

This job joss was particularly harsh because I really loved my job and the company I was working for.  After nearly 12 years as a financial advisor/planner – I had finally found a firm whose values were aligned with my own.  Unfortunately for me, I misjudged the value alignment between me and the CEO of the firm.  The firing could not have come as a bigger surprise, totally out of left field and only four days following a positive performance review.

I was left feeling totally shattered.

Me at my former office

There’s nothing worse than finding yourself unemployed right before the start of the holiday season in Seattle, when the weather is so grey it looks like late evening at 10 o’ clock in the morning.  I found myself going through a grieving process, in shock and disbelief over what had happened and in a state of growing anxiety about what the future might hold.

It was in this rather unstable frame of mind that I set about booking my next big trip.  West Africa was high on my list as the next big “adventure” and lucky for me- the only tour company that offers overland trips in West Africa had their once-a-year trip leaving at the end of November.

As exciting as it sounded, I was also suffering from the typical pre-booking anxious ‘glued to my couch’ syndrome that has also resulted in me booking and canceling flights in a repeating cycle in past years.  Adding to this issue was the fact that unlike East Africa, 5 of the countries on the Dragoman itinerary required visas be obtained in advance and it started looking like I wasn’t going to be able to obtain all of the necessary documents by the time of my intended departure.  The trip was starting in Senegal, and being a dual citizen, forced to use a visa agency that could only obtains visas in DC for US passports, I tried to convince the tour company that I could fly there on my British Passport since the first 3 countries permitted visas obtained on arrival for British subjects.  What harm could there be in getting my US passport fed-exed to our guest house in Guinea-Bissau?  Being told it was simply too much of a risk in that the passport might not show up and I’d be left stranded/unable to continue the journey – I was forced to book only part of the tour that started in Freetown, Sierra Leone and took in the countries of Guinea, Cote D’Ivoire, Ghana, Togo and Benin.

Landing in Freetown, Sierra Leone

I booked everything on a self-imposed whim and found myself crying hysterically on the drive home after sending off my passport for the $1,000+ visa process.  What had I done?  Was I emotionally/mentally stable enough to handle the rigors of overland travel in such an undeveloped-for-tourism area of the world for two months?  What if I experienced a repeat of my last overland experience where I didn’t connect with anyone on the truck and it was filled with 18-year-old party/sex/alcohol driven lads from pretentious private schools in the UK?

I found myself full of trepidation and regret that interchanged with excitement and fear on an endless loop.

Faced with spending Thanksgiving in the States, I made plans with one of my best friends and former “flame” who’s sister was visiting that week from out of the country.  Little did I know at the time that the 3 night/4 day excursion to Olympic National Park would turn into a nightmare.  Heading out to stay on the peninsula at a friend’s place to avoid the Thanksgiving day lines at the ferry – an innocent dinner conversation turned into a huge fight that continued to escalate into the night.  In the morning, both of my so-called “friends” refused to follow through with our plans to stay at a lodge a few hours’ away.  In tears, I told them I would call another friend to see if he might join me that evening since I was damned if I was going to spend the holiday alone – especially one that is characterized by family, love, good times, and gratitude.

When I emerged from the bathroom after making my tearful phone call – they had both left and ensured that they were non-contactable by blocking me on any and all forms of cellular communication.

I spent the holiday alone and in tears.

I’m not sure if I have ever felt that emotionally devastated in my life.  I’d now lost my job and my so-called best friend.

I was in such poor state I immediately flew down to Palm Springs to visit my dear friend Craig and hopefully get my mind off the previous weeks’ events.  I was so grateful to have someone to talk to, laugh with, and get up to no good with.  Despite my best efforts, the pain and struggle continued and I knew it was going to take being somewhere so foreign that it felt like Pluto to really help me process, heal and move on from the past months’ trauma.

Visiting Craig in Palm Springs

The last few days spent in a frenzy of last minute arrangements for house-sitting, packing and buying essentials – I finally headed to the airport for my 3-leg journey to the capital of Sierra Leone: Freetown.

There was no going back now: with a heavy but hopeful heart – I got on the plane.

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anitagotravel

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