Mera Peak

Mera Peak has just the sort of base camp you'd imagine: a set of tents splayed about some rocks by the foot of the mountain. But the town of Khare is close enough to the mountain that it's become the de-facto base camp.

After a comfortable night in a tea house (basically a hybrid campsite-hotel) in Khare, we left for advanced base camp at 8am. After 2 hours of hiking, we pulled out our climbing gear, including mountaineering boots, crampons, a harness, and an ice axe.

The remainder of the hike would be on snow and ice, so the 7 of us roped up to make sure that if one person slipped, the rest would catch him.

Our badass hiking crew outfitted with crampons and ropes.

Our badass hiking crew outfitted with crampons and ropes.

We started ascending a bowl of ice and snow. I was convinced that the advanced base camp lay at the top of this bowl, but boy was I wrong. We opened our packed lunches at the top of the bowl. It was windy and cold, so a couple of us ate standing up, backs to the wind. I don't think anyone ate much --I just stuffed a bunch of Oreos into my mouth then rushed to put my face mask back on.

After “lunch,” we continued climbing. To my dismay, it turned out we were at the foot of a massive hill. Climbing with crampons was exhausting, so we agreed to take a break every forty steps. With this slow pace, we were still on the snow when the afternoon fog rolled in. That was surreal! The 7 of us tied together, stomping through a foggy nothingness.

At around 4pm, the fog cleared and we could make out a rocky outcrop spotted with orange North Face tents: advanced base camp.

Advanced base camp (18,958ft)

Advanced base camp (18,958ft)

We were warned in advance that the camp was not much to sneeze at, but it exceeded my low expectations. Marloes and I spent the evening in the cooking tent, hanging out with the cook and his assistant. While we peeled garlic, our assistant climbing guide Tanzi came in with bags full of ice he’d chopped off the glacier. These were boiled for water.

This probably gives you a sense of just how cold it was, but let me emphasize further: it was friggin cold! My contact solution froze, and I slept with my water bottles in my sleeping bag to stop them from freezing too. I also froze, and did shamefully little stargazing in the -20C air.

Everything not in a sleeping bag froze!

Everything not in a sleeping bag froze!

We were served dinner in our tents: tomato soup, popcorn, and spaghetti. Popcorn seems to be one of those Western foods that has really taken off here in Nepal.

Dinner in bed! Spaghetti with canned ham.

Dinner in bed! Spaghetti with canned ham.

We were leaving at 12:30am the following morning. Like with most snow covered mountains, it's best to climb in the early morning, before the sun has turned snow to slush and triggered avalanches.

A headache and some nausea made my sleep very restless. I dreamt of being back in Khare, drinking chai and sitting by the fire. I kept waking up and checking my watch: 11pm, 11:30pm, 12:15, 1am… where's Lackba?

Turns out he was waiting to see if the wind would die down. At midnight, wind gusts reached 60mph. Thankfully by 2am the wind settled down, and Lackba came to our tent to wake us.

I was wide awake already, but not feeling great. I considered staying back due to my headache and nausea, classic signs of altitude sickness. Bizarrely, none of our guides had a pulse oximeter so it was difficult to measure how bad it was. I decided to start the hike, and turn back if the symptoms got worse.

My dad had enough adventure climbing to the high camp, and decided to stay back and photograph nearby mountains, including Nuptse, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, and Everest.


The view of Everest (left), Nuptse (center), and Lhotse (right)

Our climbing party consisted of Marloes (a Dutch hiker), Nandini (a local woman from Thagnag), Captain Lackba (our climbing guide), and Just Lackba (our assistant climbing guide). Because two members of our party were named Lackba, we promoted our climbing guide to Captain, relegating the other to “Just Lackba.” We in turn were referred to as Team Boca (translation: Idiot Team), and agreed that if we could climb Mera Peak, then surely any idiot could.

It took an hour to force down some oatmeal and saddle up. We stepped back onto the ice at 3am, once again roped together.

I found out later that the route to Mera Peak passes by 27 crevasses. Early in the climbing season, Sherpas will map and mark a safe route to the peak. At the time I thought it was miraculous that Captain Lackba was navigating this route by starlight. Once the sun rose, I realized that he was following a shoveled trail.

The hours before sunrise were hard. It was very cold, and while my two down jackets and down pants kept me warm, occasionally the wind would cut through my balaclava, sending sharp chills down my body. We stopped every few minutes. During most of these breaks I collapsed on top of my poles, hunched over like an old man.

Hiking at altitude is exhausting. The closest analog is hiking with the flu --you feel exhausted so easily. When taking a break, I wouldn't drink water because opening my pack took too much energy. Altitude also zaps you of personality. When on long runs or hikes, I try to entertain the people I'm with, or at least check up on how they're feeling. That doesn't happen at altitude --my mind is fully occupied with the task at hand: overcoming the pain to keep moving forward. This also explains why I have no photos from this stage of the hike.

We saw the first hints of dawn at 4:30am, and by 6 we turned off our headlamps. At least now we could see our progress. But we were moving so slowly and taking so many breaks that this was actually demoralizing. I decided to only look up at our route once every 5 breaks, spending the other 4 staring at my shoes. This sounds depressing, but at 20k+ feet it makes little difference what you look at when taking a break.

Nandini started hurling about an hour into the hike. I was sure she would turn back, but after a few words with Captain Lackba she plowed onwards. Our trail was littered with vomit, urine, and feces. Being from San Francisco, this was nothing out of the ordinary, but I'm sure it disgusted others. The temperatures are so low that bacteria doesn't consume the waste.

As we rounded yet another hill, a peak appeared in the distance. Just Lackba said it was Mera Peak, and I excitedly repeated the news to the folks behind me. As we drifted farther from the peak though, I realized something was off. I was too tired to ask though, and kept ploughing past this peak. It turned out to be Mera North which is the true summit of the mountain, but is too prone to avalanches to climb. We continued onwards to Mera Central.

At this point Marloes turned back. She couldn't catch her breath, even when standing still. At this altitude, the oxygen levels are 40% what they are at sea level. She and Just Lackba took the ropes, so Captain Lackba, Nandini, and I bound our harnesses together and carried on. We looked like a lethargic chain gang, constantly pulling each other forward.

At last we reached the base of the central summit. It didn’t appear that steep, and I was strangely reminded of Stokes Hill, where I went sledding as a kid. We dropped our packs and began to climb. First snow, then ice, then snow again.

I didn't realize we were at the summit until Captain Lackba stopped and hugged each of us. The final ascent was far less difficult than I thought it would be --the real challenge was getting there.

The final ascent up to Mera Central

Mera Peak is described as the highest “trekking peak”. It requires a lot of endurance and perseverance to climb, but relatively little climbing skills. It was a challenge, but mainly a physical one. The trip has inspired me to start climbing more technical mountains, beginning locally with Shasta and Rainier. Later, I think I will return to the Himalayas for some of the easier technical climbs like Island Peak and Nuptse.

Stok Kangri

Stok Kangri, the tallest peak visible from Leh

The mountain had loomed over us since the day we'd set out from Stok Village. We hopscotched across glacial streams and climbed high passes, moving from campsite to campsite. Even in the night, the mountain made its presence known: a 20k foot summit blocking the starlight.

Stok Kangri is 20,187 feet. Higher than Kilimanjaro, higher than Everest Base Camp, and just 100 ft shy of Mt Denali.

Rather than scaring us, this motivated us. By summiting Stok Kangri, we would prove that we could handle the altitude of any mountain in North America, Africa, and Europe. 

The team was made up of 3 clients: My dad, a young Frenchman named Coco, and myself.

Only July 20, we arrived at the Base Camp after 3 days of hiking. That night, at midnight, we left.

Headlamps on, jackets zippered, Under Armour uncomfortably compressing last night's dinner. The three of us were led by Lobi, our head guide, and Stanzen, his 15 year old assistant. Gazing into the moonless night, five flashlights were tackling the initial 1000 ft pass. We began to do the same.

My dad turned to me, "I'm not going to Stok Kangri. You go ahead." My instinct was to pressure him to go on, but I ignored it. At 16k feet, the oxygen level is about half of that at sea level, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. With a quick hug, we separated.

I could feel my pinky toe going numb in the 10F weather, but decided to wait to address the issue. We stumbled forward eagerly, confident that we could face this and any other challenge the mountain threw at us. Feeling a strong wind beating against my face, I was surprised to find that we'd reached the top. The ascent had been quick and painful.

Coco with his headlamp

Feeling like a sailer confronting the stormy sea, I stood at the top of the high pass, wind beating against my face. There was a rocky, downward slope in front of me that led off into blackness. We turned left, starting on a trail that cut along the side of the hill. Our headlamps illuminated only a few feet of the path in front of us. My mind flashed to hours of my childhood spent jumping from couch to table, playing The Floor is Lava. Everything but the three feet in front of me was lava.

An hour passed. The trail beneath our lamps turned from scree to snow, and by 2:30am we had reached the base of Stok Kangri's glacier. A massive figure obstructed the bright stars: The mountain's Eastern flank.

As Lobi led us on a winding path to avoid crevasses, we could hear the rush of water beneath the ice under our feet. The trail got steeper, and soon we were scrambling up rocks piled on the snow. It was dark.

For the next few hours, I lost my sense of purpose. We could see neither how much distance there was to cover nor how far we'd gone. I forgot the 23 hours of flights I'd taken to get here, I forgot the hours spent pouring over trail guides, I forgot how much I wanted the summit. 

Every 15 minutes, Lobi would call out "Break." There we would collapse in place, often not having the energy to remove our packs.

Looking up drearily at the stars, my eyes drooped and I felt myself drifting.

We carried on like narcoleptic dogs, collapsing in place whenever we heard "Break!". But within a few steps after getting up, I would feel exhausted and be mentally urging Lobi to call another break. 

Hallucination is a common symptom of altitude sickness. Turning to my left, I was concerned. A giant, luminous caterpillar was shuffling along 200 feet from us. Rubbing my eyes, I saw four headlamps in a line. As they moved forward, one would suddenly drop and fall back into the previous. The caterpillar, scrunched up, would then stretch out and make progress. The climbers were approaching the mountain from the ice field. As one slipped, his fall would be broken by the climber behind him. Moving so slowly, the caterpillar was easy prey for any beast of the mountain. It occurred to me that we were also a caterpillar.

The caterpillar crawling beside us

At 19k feet, Lobi started throwing up. I asked if he wanted to turn back, but he assured me that it was nothing. Vomiting could be a sign of serious mountain sickness, or it could just be indigestion as Lobi said it was. Susceptibility to mountain sickness is a career killer for guides.

Regardless of his affliction, Lobi remained a steady beacon of light and leadership on the mountain. We ploughed on.

First hint of light on the mountain

At 4:30 AM, the first rays of sunlight illuminated a dismal situation. We had reached the snow slope, however the exhausting efforts of the past two hours had only taken us up some 150 feet.

But the sun brought hope. I could see the top ridge of the mountain, however far it was. I strapped on my crampons and left the tedious rocks in favor of open snow. Crampons made my feet feel like lead, and every 10 steps have to stop to catch my breath. 1.5 hours later, we reached the top of the snow slope. Blinded by the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the snow around me, I fumbled to remove my crampons.

The snow slope

"How much farther?" I asked. Lobi, still sick, responded, "A few hours."

The narrow trail along the ridge

Jesus.

We traveled along the ridge at the top of the mountain, steadily gaining altitude. The trails were narrow, and we were joined by other groups. It was claustrophobic and slow and, in spite of the climbers pressed so close to us, lonely.

A steep drop-off into a snowfield 2000 ft below

Squinting in the blazing sun, I saw prayer flags ahead. The summit. 

But we didn't rush forward, energized by a goal. There was no energy left for final sprints. We took another break. Leaning backwards on my pack, Stanzen warned, "Be careful...".

I turned. A sheer 2000 ft drop into a snow field was just a few feet behind us. We edged forward skittishly.

At last we took our final steps towards the top. At 8am on July 21, we summitted Stok Kangri.

Hugs, high fives, and crazed photos. This was it, the highest mountain Coco, Stanzen or I had ever climbed. A goal etched into our minds months before, and a scene replayed hundreds of times in our dreams before actually occurring. I felt happy, for the first time since I had lost feeling in my toes. 

A crazed Avesh with his ice axe and snow pole 

Normally, the return trip on a hike slides out of you memories like the commute to work. This one, however, is embedded in my mind as the most challenging physical and mental experience of my life.

The trail along the ridge, which I'd approached on the ascent with sheer grit, was now treacherous. It was narrow, with steep dropoffs on either side at times. The top layer of snow had melted in the morning sun, and parts of the trail were now made of slippery, compacted snow. We stayed hunched over, using our ice axes to break our falls. 

I pretty much lost it, and became crippled by my fear. Stanzen, the 15 year old, marked each step that I should take and grabbed my pack whenever I slipped. The process took hours, and was exhausting for the both of us.

We reached the top of the snow slope, and found that it too was dripping. Each step had to be deliberate and powerful, else we risked skidding down uncontrollably. We marched down the slope like an overconfident colorguard. Half way down, we saw some industrious hikers "skiing" down the slope on their boots, and tried the same. It worked, and we were at the base soon afterwards.

Near the end of the glacier, I once again thought I was hallucinating. My dad, in his florescent blue shirt, was waiting for me. I hugged him, and we lingered behind the rest of the group on the way back to camp. I had intended to tell him all about the hike, but couldn't find the words. We walked mainly in silence.

The team, back at the base of the glacier

I reached camp by 1pm. Stripping off my clothes, I lay in my sleeping bag listening to my iPod, trying to process the past 13 hours. 

Days passed as we hiked back, and slowly I told my dad about the mountain.

Two days later, we ran into a pair of reporters searching for the answer to a simple question: Why do people climb Stok Kangri, or any mountain?

I didn't give them an answer because I didn't have one. 

In the first place, I still did not want to think much about the hike. And privately I wondered if I was doing this, and so many other things, only to feed my own ego. What was the point? Frankly, climbing the mountain had been dangerous. A slippery rock could have twisted my ankle. My numb toes could have turned to frostbite. I could have slipped on the narrow ridge leading to the summit. I would have been much safer back at camp.

I didn't have an answer, or feared that I was doing these things just to say I'd done them. 

It was only once I'd reached New Delhi, a full week later, that I figured myself out. Climbing mountains, like running marathons or lifting weights, is about pushing aside mental and physical barriers. It is not in spite of but because of the inherent dangers that climbing is so appealing. They allow you to test the limits, and to become your best self.

The Next Adventure

I arrived in Houston on Thursday, and have been spending a few calm days with my family.

In a few hours, I'll be catching a flight to Mumbai1

I'm taking this trip with my dad. We've been hiking partners since 2001, and are embarking on our biggest adventure yet.

After visiting relatives, we fly to Kashmir, the long-disputed region in northern India. We land in the Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport, one of the fifteen highest airports in the world.

After a few days of altitude acclimatization, we set out for a 5 day hike through Markha Valley. Our trail passes primarily through a cold desert, but it would not be fair to call the landscape bleak. We'll be passing through high altitude pastures and Buddhist monasteries, and hope to spot some blue sheep and alpine ibexes. Should the immediate landscape get boring, we'll be surrounded by Himalayan peaks to gape at.

Next, we head south to Hemis National Park. Here, one peak towers over the rest: Stok Kangri. At 20,000 feet, it will be the tallest mountain we've ever seen. It will take a day of hiking from the nearest village to reach the base camp. We'll rest here for a short while, and will wake up at 2am to attempt the summit. The trek to the summit takes 5 hours, and our hope is to see the sunrise from the tallest mountain of the Stok Range. Should we have to turn back, we have one more day allocated to attempt the summit. 

I'll be in India for a month, and the hike will take just under 2 weeks. I won't have electricity or internet for much of this trip, so unfortunately I can't blog on it. 

This just arrived in the mail, however:

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With this solar panel, I'll be able to keep my camera alive for the hike. I will be posting a few photos when I get back!

1 This originally read New Delhi. Figured out my mistake when I landed in Mumbai...

The Damage

This trip was expensive, and that sucked.

Backpacking through Europe can be ultra-cheap --like $60 per day, not including travel costs. I began my trip with a budget this tight. I booked overnight trains without sleeper cars, planned to cook most of my dinners at the hostel, and aimed to explore the off-beaten paths of cities rather than the major sites. I thought that this thriftiness would lead to a sense of adventure.

I quickly realized that this was too idealistic. On such a tight budget, you miss things. You don't get to watch the sunset on the Acropolis while eating dinner, or you miss a whole day of sightseeing in Rome because you're too tired from your overnight train. You don't get to try exotic foods like escargot, or take spontaneous trips to places like Cinque Terre. Travel can be ultra-cheap, but you must make some serious sacrifices.

As a recent college grad, I fully understand what a very limited budget looks like. I would still recommend saving up more money so you don't have to do Europe ultra-cheap.

While traveling, I tracked every euro I spent, from the 155 Euro flight change fee in Barcelona to the 2 Euro I dropped in the gutter in Athens. Here's the data on my spending.

Average cost per day, not including long-distance travel: 99€ (Euros)

Category break-down of my daily costs:

Misc includes such expenses as hiking equipment for Switzerland, souvenirs, and giftsThe transport section does not include pre-booked long distance trains and planes. It is such a large percentage of my budget namely because I missed my flight in B…

Misc includes such expenses as hiking equipment for Switzerland, souvenirs, and gifts

The transport section does not include pre-booked long distance trains and planes. It is such a large percentage of my budget namely because I missed my flight in Barcelona, costing me a total of around 200 euro to catch up on my itinerary.

Total long-distance travel: 873€ *

*My wonderful parents bought my trans-Atlantic flights for me as a graduation gift, so I am not including that cost here.

There was an interesting trend in my daily food spending...

daily_food.png

The massive peak is from Brugge, Belgium. The fantastic beer here caused me to lose all common sense regarding food costs. 

The local troughs mark travel days, where I'd usually skip a meal and eat a cheap sandwich for lunch and dinner.

You'll also notice a general upward trend. This is partially because as the trip went on I cooked less, realizing that my cooking time could be better spent exploring. I also did consciously increase my restaurant spending in order to try more foods, like escargot from France and pesto dishes from Cinque Terre, that are expensive.

The total trip cost was 3826€, or $5.2k.

I would do it again in a heartbeat. But not anytime soon, because I'm broke.

Anecdotes

Traveling leaves you with all of these short anecdotes that excitedly bounce around your head until you can finally hurl them out to your relief and your listener's displeasure. For long-term travelers, the condition is so bad that meals between hostellers inevitably degrade to a back-and-forth of short, cute stories heard by no one.

In addition to boring my family and friends with these stories, I will inflict the same pain on you.

Some short anecdotes.

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I don't have a job.

While waiting for my laundry to finish in Milan, this Steve Jobs doppelgänger, Luigi, invited me to sit with him. After a lengthy conversation on Apple and the tech scene, he took me to the health club he ran. By the tennis courts, a 30-something year old man was walking his tiny white dog. Luigi tells me: "That man is always on the phone, walking his dog here. Never uses the facilities, just talks and walks his dog." They exchange some rapid Italian. Luigi translates for me.

"Go to work!", Luigi says.

"I don't have a job," the man replies without skipping a beat. He continues his phone conversation.


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The Cinque Terra Zoo

While eating lunch with Ken and Katia in Vernazza, Cinque Terre, I noticed a snail creeping up my chair. Worrying that is was toxic, I stood up and reached to replace my chair with one at the table next door. I pulled the heavy chair from underneath the tablecloth, revealing a massive grey cat sitting on the seat.

He sleepily looked up at us, all doubled over in laughter, and continued his nap.

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Amsterdam

I was offered drugs in a fairly normal fashion throughout Europe. I mean, being offered drugs is never a totally hum-drum experience, but there was nothing differing far from the typical "You got a lighter? ... Want some weed?". 

Within minutes of Abhinav and my first walk through Amsterdam, however, a man shouted across the street "Yo, want some MDMA?". No pretense of selling herbs, no discreetness. He means business.

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A cat from Mykonos

The wildlife on the island Mykonos is primarily cat. It's as if some cat of ancient lore swam the 140km from mainland Greece hoping to end up in lovely Tinos, but instead reached the party haven of Mykenos. Since then, all of her progeny have been prowling the coasts in search of a way to escape the drunken crowds. One particular great-grandson of this Mother Cat approached me while I was enjoying some grilled squid at a restaurant. He looked up at my plate, actually licking his lips. A softie for cats, I cut off a tentacle and dangled it before him. He looked from me to the tentacle, and suddenly a spat of terror came over the tiny creature. He scampered backwards, hair on end, nearly knocking over a nearby chair.

While I was trying to figure out what made him so suspect of my squid, the owner of the restaurant came out. "You've met my cat!", he said. "Well, not mine, but he follows me wherever I go." The owner whistled, as if to an attentive guard dog. The cat's head perked up, and he scrambled towards his perceived owner, obediently following him back into the kitchen.

The Naples Underground

By the end of my 2-day stay in Naples, my throat ached due to the pollution. The roads of the inner city, being too narrow for cars, were filled with noxious motorbikes. Being the local equivalent of the USA's mini-van, many of these tiny motorcycles were ridden by families of four. A little boy pretending to drive in the front, with his father sitting behind him actually steering. The mom took the rear, and a young girl was pressed in between her parents. 

The apartments, precariously stacked one on top of the other, were designed by sadistic architects excited about the possibility of an earthquake. Naples is as close to the volcano Vesuvius as the ancient Roman town of Pompeii, and so is prone to tremors and very-occasional eruptions.

Naples was my favorite city of Italy.

Because of laws that required all building to remain within the city walls, Naples is layered. At the base are ancient Greek ruins, above these Roman homes, then early Christian structures, and so on.

My tour guide stopped in front of a graffiti covered garage door, no different from the many  other doors we'd passed. She pulled open the door, and we entered a passageway of never ending stairs. At the base lay an ancient Greek aquaduct.

Like the rest of Naples, this underground network had been used by many cultures. In WWII, the portions of the aquaduct lying under churches were used as bomb-shelters -- the Italians mistakenly assumed that the Nazis would not bomb churches. One room had been bizarrely decorated to remind visitors of the threat of a biological weapon.

On the second leg of the tour, our guide told us about a Roman theater which was, according to some texts, supposed to lie beneath the city. 20 years ago, archeologists had narrowed down the area and began knocking on doors of residents. One of the homes had a basement which was being used as a wine cellar. This was uncommon for this neighborhood, so some archeologists took a closer look. They found that one of the walls was shaped like an arch, again an uncommon design. 

Knocking this down, they found the dressing room of the ancient theater.

The main theater is still being excavated.

This is what I loved so much about Naples. On the surface, the city was dirty and unsafe. Digging deeper, one could find  ancient and modern treasures. 

Rivendell

In The Lord of the Rings, Rivendell is an elven haven in Middle Earth. The valley is filled with waterfalls and wildflowers. Tolkein's description of the place was inspired by the the valleys around Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland. My destination.

After 7 hours of trains, buses, and cable cars, I arrived at The Mountain Hostel, the only hostel in the village of Gimmelwald.

Adventurous travelers use the Mountain Hostel as a base camp for hiking, canyoning, and cliff-diving. Evening conversation was more interesting than the typical "Where are you from?", "How long are you traveling for?". Questions asked included "How many of Colorado's 14ers have you summited?" or "How do you keep from passing out when base jumping"?

My first night at the hostel, I spoke with some experienced hikers, Austin and Ramsey, about trails. They told me to go to Tanzboden, a peak which provided a good view of the surrounding glaciers. Sticking his head out of our bedroom window, Austin pointed to the peak, a knife-blade sticking out of a rocky mountain side. They mentioned that they had only passed this peak on the way to a more distant destination, the glacial lake at Oberhornsee.

At 5:30am the next day, I set out.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

While the hiking was still easy, I carved a walking stick.

Reaching the base of Tanzboden, I found that the trail, which prior was carefully landscaped into fields or carved on the edge of hills, gave way to a minefield of rocks and boulders. In my left hand was my walking stick, and my right was covered with a climbing glove. The ascent was exhausting, but not dangerous: The rocks were all stable and had many foot-holds. I reached the summit, and looked in awe at the glaciers that surrounded me.

After a snack, I began the descent. 

Approximately half way down, the air seemed to explode. A colossal boom, like a cannon firing or dynamite exploding, left a ringing in my ears. It echoed throughout the valley. Then, a long-lasting rumbling. I looked up, expecting to see the rocks and boulders crashing down the hillside. But all was still. My heart beating rapidly, I took off my pack and sat down to calm myself. 

What was that noise? It sounded like large gun -- parts of the valley are used as a shooting range. But it was too loud for a gun. Perhaps a plane had just passed the sound barrier? But the sky had been clear of planes for hours.

Then I realized what it was. Just minutes ago, I had been surrounded by snowy peaks. This snow, in the winter season, could fall and injure skiiers. The noise I had heard was a controlled avalanche.

Catching my breath, I continued down to the base of the rocky slope.

It was still early in the day, so I decided to set out for Oberhornsee, the glacial lake Austin and Ramsey had told me about.

The funny thing about hiking in Europe is that you are always within an hour's walk of a hotel. On the way to Oberhornsee, I passed through Obersteinberg and stopped for sausage soup and hot chocolate.

With a full stomach, I set out for Oberhornsee. I had heard that the route marked on my map was covered in snow. Since I was hiking in my running shoes, snow was an impassible obstacle. Austin had told me about an alternate route, not marked on my map. It was supposed to lead me through the town of Oberhorn, and then to Oberhornsee. I decided to take this route. 

The town of Oberhorn turned out to be nothing more than an abandoned shack. 

The trail from Oberhorn to Oberhornsee was not well marked, and many trail markers had been covered in snow. Gazing ahead, I set out for some footprints in a snowbank. These turned out to be deer prints.

I considered turning back. Checking my GPS, I noted that the lake was just a few hundred meters Southwest. I decided to abandon any hope of finding the trail and instead hike through the brush-covered hills. After having to backtrack several times due to my path being blocked by snow or icy streams, I climbed a tall hill to get a better view of the terrain. 

The lake was ahead. It was tiny, with crystal clear water, and was the source of the cold streams that surrounded me. I made it!

Am$terdam

Amsterdam's facade of lawlessness and hedonism masks the true logic of the city, one that takes more than a few hours to figure out. 

How do you explain the oldest church in Amsterdam set in the middle of the red-light district? Why did Dutch Jews flourish during the Golden Age while elsewhere they were isolated and persecuted?

The answer to these questions, and many more, is $$$. Amsterdam is a libertarian paradise where cash is king.

The city is confusing to an outsider. The pecking order of vehicles is bikes, pedestrians, then cars --the opposite of the USA. Standing at an intersection, one must hop across the bike lane and press the crosswalk button, then jump back to the sidewalk.

The first location my friend Abhinav and I went to was, of course, the red-light district. After dodging a few bikes and being cursed off in Dutch, we entered a quaint neighborhood of skinny canal houses. The ground floors of these homes were bizarre: A shop dedicated to novelty condoms and another to S&M with a dummy chained to the ceiling. Coffee shops everywhere.

Most of the ground floor was taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows. Blue lights illuminated the scantily clad women sitting, often texting or eating, on the interior. Red lights shined outwards, the universal sign of prostitution. The interior blue lights, believed by many to be a designator for transexuals, are actually used to hide blemishes.

The bizarre thing about the red-light district was not the prostitutes or weed. It was the assortment of high end restaurants, day cares, art exhibits, and hipster cafes throughout the area. The city has been working to make the district less seedy, while the locals have been pushing to preserve the culture. The result is a precarious mix of hookers and high society. 

The prositutes are not what I was expecting. In the red-light district, all women run their own businesses, and none are managed by a pimp. Storefronts cost about 150 euro per day, and prostitutes charge their clients 50 euro per 15 or 20 minutes, with additions for extras like the "girlfriend experience" (kissing, talking, etc.). The prices are not regulated, but due to the commoditization of prostitution in Amsterdam costs have standardized in the red-light district. Though these prices are relatively low, the women make good money. Typically they immigrate from across Europe to work for 3-5 years before returning to their home country with enough money to start a business or raise a family. The majority of the women are also married.

The hottest prostitute in the red-light district.

At the heart of the red-light district is the oldest church of Amsterdam. It lies along what used to be a major trading port in Europe. Sailors would come in for a few night's rest between voyages. After months spent at sea with only scurvy dogs for company, the sailors would seek out women at the port. The government recognized that this could lead to infidelity amongst the wives of Amsterdam. To fix this problem, they set up brothels at the port, in what is now called the red-light district. The church lay at the middle of this scene. Rather than protesting, the clergymen sold indulgences to the sailors. The sailors could have a lovely night with a prostitute, and then be forgiven by god before setting sail.

Later that day, we visited the Jewish Quarter. During the Golden Age, Jews were being persecuted across Europe. Knowing that the nearby Jews were experienced in the diamond trade, Amsterdam welcomed them with open arms. An island near the center of the city became the Jewish Quarter. Today, the quarter is unrecognizable. During the time of Nazi rule in Holland, shortages of wood caused locals to tear apart the homes of their Jewish neighbors who had been sent to concentration camps. The position of the Dutch during WWII was confusing, and I do not understand it well enough to explain.

In the 1970s, the city decided to decriminalize marijuana in order to increase tax revenue that could help cut down on hard drug use. There are now hundreds of coffee shops (not cafes. Cafes sell coffee, coffee shops sell weed) sprinkled across Amsterdam. For the curious, a brownie with 1/2 a gram costs about 6 euro.

Amsterdam was definitely the most fascinating city I've visited.

(Due to the rain, I do not have many good photos of Amsterdam.)

The Kindness of Strangers

I was explaining how hostel life has a similar dynamic as summer camp to a new friend in Paris when she interrupted me.

"Summer camp?"

"Yeah, like sleepaway camp you go to as a kid."

"Like in The Parent Trap? We don't have that." 

So the concept of summer camp apparently does not exist in New Zealand. The young Kiwis instead spend the summer on family vacation, or stay put at home.

Well, as my readers (reader? I'm not sure who's still reading this blog...) are mainly American, I can explain to you how hostel life is like summer camp. Friendship is easily earned with "Want to have a drink downstairs?". This leads to going sightseeing together, and the excitement of travel inevitably bonds newfound friends. Just as in summer camp, the process of going from complete strangers to close friends is extraordinarily and wonderfully short.

I met Paul and Lily outside of the bike rental shop in Blois, France. A couple in their 60s, they had traveled from California to bike the Loire Valley. 

Talking with Paul, I realized that the idealistic dream of so many American 20-year-olds to travel the world, unrestrained by careers or families, was attainable. Paul's early life included hitchhiking through Europe for 5 years, spending months working on an oil rig in Venzuela, and teaching English at a military base in Germany. Until beginning a career as a professor, he had lived by crashing on couches and staying in hostels, taking on seasonal jobs whenever money was short. 

He did all of this in the 80s, but such a lifestyle is still apparently possible today. I met a girl, Kori, who booked a one-way flight from her remote hometown in Alaska to Barcelona. I met her in Paris, where she was looking for work.

I wouldn't be satisfied traveling full time, though, as I love coding too much. As an accountant and a professor, Paul and Lily represented a novel concept: Traveling the world alongside a successful career. I wonder if this will be possible.

Paul, Lily and I spent the next 48 hours biking from Chateaux to Chateaux together.

This post has been all over the place, but the best motif mirrors that of this week's This American Life broadcast: The Kindness of Strangers.

To finish up, here's a photo of Chateaux Chambord:

The Cabin in the Woods

The forest was thick with crows and leafy green trees. I was on a run, currently 2 miles south of Bruges, Belgium. Leaving the asphalt road in favor of the softer ground meant for horses, I conveniently ignored all signs marking private property as they were in Dutch. I trotted through horse-trampled dirt for just over a mile. Then the stifling heat of the forest in the midmorning sun caused me to turn towards the road so I could head back to my hostel. 

Just then, I saw a flicker of light different from that of the sun glistening through the leaves. The orange glow made it seem that the woods were on fire, and I took a few steps forward. 

Hidden from the trail was a hut made of stone and mud, and dripping with ivy. What I had taken to be a fire was actually the light of hundreds of candles illuminating the small structure. 

I approached with hesitation, stuffing my headphones into my pocket. I walked up the stone stairs, my heart racing with a mix of excitement and fear. Standing at the doorway but still safely outside, I peered in the flickering interior. The circular room had a radius of no more than 5 feet, but my eyes had not adjusted from the forest glow so I could not see much besides the candles.

I called out "Hallo" (the universal European way of saying "hello"). There was no response. Without waiting for my eyes to adjust, I took a silent step into the structure. Looking with both my eyes and my hands, I found a small wooden chair on the left side of the hut. All around me were lit wax candles, neatly arranged on wooden shelves covered in dried wax.

It was the smell of the place, the cornucopia of burning scented candle, that brought to mind a distant memory: Celebrating Diwali, the Festival of Lights, with my family. We carried around a thali of lit candles and holy water. My sister and I fought over who could sprinkle the water that would bless each room of our home.

My fear had disappeared, but was replaced by a feeling of intrusion. This temple, or whatever it was, was extremely important to someone. Who lit all of the candles that morning? 

I left quickly, my eyes burning in the sunlight that intruded into a brief moment of peace and nostalgia. I don't know what this place was, but feel honored to have stumbled across it.

The Fiasco in Barcelona and the Hostel from Hell

Fiasco is a strong word. It's not a mistake, which could be resolved with some effort. Rather, it's a decision that leads to a series of increasingly unfortunate events.

Leaving Barcelona, I made a bad decision which led to fiasco. My last night in Barcelona was also my last night with my childhood friend Emily, and I wouldn't see her again for months if not years. We (read: She) made an Italian dinner, and finished our remaining alcohol. The latter was the mistake, since I had a 7am flight to Paris. 

At 2am, we meandered back to our room and crashed.

I managed to turn off both of my pre-set alarms in my sleep. Waking up with a jolt as my plane left the country, I bolted for the airport. 150 euro and 7 hours later, I boarded a flight to Paris.

But Paris was not my final destination. That was the Loire Valley, 2 hours West of Paris by rail. I had to spend the night at a hostel by the Gare d'Asterlitz (the train station). 

Thus how I ended up in Hostel Blue Planet. I waited in the entrance, a dimly lit brick corridor, behind an assortment of scraggly backpackers and older, roughly shaven men. To my right, a lounge filled by neon lights had a video loop of some French music video from the 80s playing on repeat. 

Climbing 5 stories, I entered my room. It was completely unadorned except for 4 beds and a sink in the corner. Just after putting my bag down, my new roommate arrived. A short, balding man who smell strongly of French cheese, he spoke only Italian. Based on our brief, multilingual exchange, it seemed that he had a mental disability. A bit unnerved, I locked my pack to my bed and went to take a shower.

Opening what was clearly a bathroom door, I came across this:

This moldy shower was shared between all 24 residents of the floor.

After a night of little sleep, I caught the first train to Blois, France in the Loire Valley. There my fortunes took a positive turn. 

Bag of Dicks

Walking down the narrow streets of the Born district of Barcelona, I came across this in a storefront.

My curiosity, and perhaps my previously latent homoerotic tendencies, led me into the store. 

I thought that perhaps the stone penises were the result of the great castration of the Vatican, where in 1857 Pope Pius IX neutered statues in order to make them more modest. 

¿Dónde está pene? (translation: Where is your penis?). The clerk, a young, pretty girl, giggled. She then explained that the stone penises, like all the art in the store, were recreations by an artist. 

Paella on Paral.lel

The nobles danced on Paral.lel while Europe was slain.

-One of many quotes by my Civil War tour guide.

Reaching Spain on Wednesday afternoon, I set out to explore the city on foot with little prior knowledge of the place. After exploring the harbor and the exterior of the aquarium, I moved in town down Avinguda del Paral.lel, determined to make tapas my first Spanish dinner.

The cheery, drunk faces of 20-some-year-olds window shopping were a tribute to older times with a similar facade but darker undertones, little did I know. Avinguda del Paral.lel was Bourbon Street for the French nobility in the 20s. Spain not only managed to stay out of the first World War, but also made a fantastic profit by selling weapons to both sides.

Sure, this money revolutionized the Spanish economy. But it also created a massive rift between the rich and the poor of Spain. While the wealthy were literally having orgis, shooting cocaine, and downing expensive alcohol on Avinguda del Paral.lel, much of the rest of Spain could not afford a pair of shoes.

This is what led to the Spanish Civil War.

Moving to more important topics, I eventually did find tapas *and* paella at a street-side restaurant. The portions were smaller than I expected.

Barcelona is one of those rare places where the anarchists are in cahoots with the government. In all fairness, it was more of an enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend sort of deal. During the revolution, both the anarchists and the Republic hated the pro-fascist Nationalists.

Walking into Plaça de Catalunya, I came across the old headquarters of the CNT, the anarchist confederation. Anyone familiar with Orwell's Homage to Catalonia will appreciate that this building is also known as Telefónica, the Telephone Exchange.

Telefónica building in Plaça de Catalunya

The CNT has some hostile neighbors. Just across the street, still in Plaça de Catalunya, was the headquarters of the PSUC, the Pro-Soviet Communist Party of Barcelona. The anarchists and the communists were of course at odds. This tension grew when the communists actually had power after the USSR pumped money into Spain.

Headquarters of the PSUC Pro-Soviet Communist Party

Seeing these buildings, the recency of the Spanish Civil War hit me. Guess how I found the PSUC building? By searching for the Apple Store which lies in it's first floor. Spain, like most of Europe, wears the baggage of old wars openly. This is very different from the US, and from anything I've seen before.

Everyone else in the hostel common room is asleep, so that's all for now. This has been a dense post, so to lighten the mood here's a photo shoot of a duck I found in the Barcelona Cathedral.

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