Glacier Hiking- Do NOT forget your crampons

When the itinerary mentioned "glacier hiking" I could not wait. I literally flew from the Equator less than 24 hours previously and thought that a trip to an enormous arctic glacier would be the perfect contrast from tropical jungle life. I imagined myself leisurely following a worn trail through snow and morraine, commenting on the incredible size of the glacier from a distance and taking a few digital photos. I did NOT think I would be scaling vertical ice walls- crampons fastened to my full-leather boots, harness cinched and an ice-axe in hand- staring down into dark blue crevasses! This was INCREDIBLE- I felt like Roald Amundsen and Ernest Shackleton trekking the high North... but with a guide carrying dinner and the car 2 hours away! Our guide, Tura, was an accomplished man in anything extreme and Nordic- a veteran marathon and ultra-marathon runner, half-way through completing the Seven Summits, which entails climbing the tallest mountain on all 7 continents, scheduled to summit Everest in 2011, an owner and trainer of over 300 sled dogs and a finisher of the legendary Iditarod dog sled race. Needless to say, I didn't question ANYTHING he said to us.

We spent the entire day in the stunning "Stone Valley", about 1 1/2 hours drive from the center of Tromsø. The hike in was a gentle meander through birch, pine and wildflowers that followed the streambank of raging glacial runoff. I was surprised to see so many plants already familiar to me from my home in Colorado- especially what I know as Parry Gentians and Fireweed, two common flower species that color the Central Rocky Mountains from late Spring to early Fall. The landscape is so similar to what I am used to but I had to constantly remind myself of some very important differences. Tree line in the Colorado mountains roughly is reached around 11,000 feet, above which alpine trees take their characteristic Krumholz form and hikers, anticipating an approaching summit, must rely on rock cairns as guidance. However here, in the Stone Valley, the tree line seemed to be around 1500 feet above sea level- a very similar landscape at very different latitudes. And the sun- it hung in the same part of the sky for almost 10 hours, and it constantly felt like 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Guessing the time, as I found out, was difficult.

When we finally made it to the base of the glacier and Tura began explaining how the rope in his hands was our lifeline for the rest of the day, I started to realize what the day was going to be like. No more hiking through wildflowers. We suited up, strapped on the crampons, secured the ice-axes, locked our carabeaners and started marching towards an ice-covered saddle between 3 large peaks. Before I knew it, Tura was winding his way, which was our way, between crevasses and up ice walls, stepping over cracks and edging along ridges. While my friends and I were busy not disappearing into the glacial caverns, Tura explained in detail the various forms of ice- Whiskey Ice, Blue Ice, Snow and an intermediate stage called Filn- how alpine mountaineers become adept at reading ice and snow, a skill necessary to avoid mistakes that I chose not to think about. Like I said, after hearing his resume, I trusted every single word.

And as we spent hours climbing the glacier, we increasingly gained a perspective that showed just how quickly its body of ice is receeding. Markers since the early 1990s have charted the glacier's recession, with greater losses taking place over shorter time frames. It took approximately 11 years for the glacier to recede around 50 meters through the 1990s and into the early years of the 21st century. Between 2004 and 2006, 100 meters more were lost. Regardless of the major causes, a changing climate is undeniable here in the high North, and the glaciers are just one of the measuring sticks.

After reaching solid ground again, we dismantled the gear and made our way back down valley. Returning from alpine hikes can be just as spectacular as the ascent, as the downhill views offer new sites of distant peaks and blue gray waters. We stopped at a small cabin to eat a delicious dinner of pink-flesh salmon on sliced and seasoned potatoes- a meal that many have said is authentic Norwegian- and made it back to town just before 9 pm. Skål to an incredible day.

Train Bars and Rooftops: Tromsø Nightlife

With barely an hour to catch a cab, check-in, put down 3 pieces of luggage that had been as battered and bruised as I, take a shower that my airplane seatmates looked forward to probably more than I did and find something that did not smell like mold to wear, I met my program partner Alex Thorpe and 4 international students researching within the University of Tromsø for a thorough cultural exchange in one of the city's most active social scenes: the bars. With a population of just over 63,000, Tromsø is an accessible town with a lively community that seems to enjoy taking advantage of good pubs and delicious food. The crisp, cool air of late summer in Tromsø provided the perfect opportunity to see this city alive on a Saturday night. The streets are spotless and the people friendly, welcoming us at every establishment with big smiles and warm conversation. Mack Beer, the local brew, was quickly in our hands accompanied by a small bag of Tørrfisk, a popular snack of thin pieces of dried white fish that evidently goes well with beer. We completely ignored the bartender's advice to NOT eat it around friends if you want them to sit next to you, opened the pack and began the 5 minute chewing process... it's an aquired taste... and will make the perfect souvenirs.

And so we moved from the old train boxcar bar to rooftops to patios- soaking in the nightlife and enjoying the extended evening twilight. Set right on the water's edge, the city boasts an attractive blend of land and sea, both urban and open to the natural elements. A tent in the center of town was completely filled with people of all ages, cheersing their drinks (SKÅL!) and dancing to the tunes of an energized band that looked like they could play all night. We later found out that Tromsø also hosts a very popular film festival as well as other large music events that attract crowds from all parts- just a few more reasons to return... as if I needed any!

Difference in Latitude

One overnight bus, three planes over three continents and thirty-one hours took me from 3 degrees North of the equator to 3 degrees North of the Arctic Circle, from the North Rupununi in the heart of Guyana to the azul fjords of Tromsø, Norway. Approximately 9100 kilometers separate the humid, lush expanse of tropical lowland rainforest from the stunning glacial valleys carpeted in birch and pine. A passage between such extremes is spectacularly unsettling- the body moves easily while the mind is caught in an unusual balance difficult to describe- a sensation unlike any other that forcefully reaffirms the immense diversity of this beautiful planet. I grew to love the languid flow of the Essequibo River that cut large and lazy ox bow curves through a forest of a thousand shades of green, the unmistakeable call of scarlet macaws flying two-by-two and the distant rumble of a conversation between orange-haired Howlers.

And yet I was immediately blown away by the sweeping views of stone and sea that shape the landscape of Northwest Norway. My arrival into Tromsø couldn't have been more jaw-dropping, as the airplane glided between steep mountain walls framing the aquamarine waters of arctic fjords. A stunning mix of greys and blues seperated by the dark green leaves of endless trees. The elements found in both locations, though so similar in nature, arrange themselves in such dramatically different ways. Beauty presents itself in such dramatically different ways. And Tromsø, unquestionably, is surrounded by it.

Back on the Trail- Jubing

So today- what a trip, it threw everything at me. Like I said in my previous post, my rain coat was keeping someone ELSE dry- huge bummer because it's such a functional item. On top of that, it poured for half the day. And this was Himalayan rain- cold, heavy and far away from a drier. I was saturated, and appealing to Guru Rimpoche to deal some serious karmic blows to the loser who nabbed my Marmot. In the long run though, I was surprisingly calm about the whole scenario- what could I do but just keep going? Worse things have happened- like 2 African robberies in 10 hours... So we got to the top of Trakshundo Pass and decided to take a break. The rain was at the in-between phase of slush and snow and we had met 2 really cool Canadian guys- Franc and Etienne- who hiked all day with us and they wanted some food. Not a problem- I was freezing. I was at the point where I didn't really know what to do- I wanted to keep at least one change of clothing dry, but taking off my we coat just exposed me and made my coat really cold! It's fleece... super absorbant- not what I wanted at this moment. But I took it off anyways, threw on my vest, and ordered a huge cup of black tea with enough sugar to give myself instant Type 2 diabetes!
While at the lodge, we met an awesome-crazy Sherpa mountaineer who had summitted Everest twice and knew both Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. The history in these hills, created by these people, is really incredible! He was extremely proud of his accomplishments- even if those few trips up to 29,000 feet snatched the last few brain synapses required for sane conversation... what a cool guy. We were getting closer, the stories were starting, and we were getting really excited.
When we headed on over the pass, the clouds had cleared and the sun was out- snow had recently dusted the huge peaks that, previously hidden, completely emerged against a blue and white sky. It was incredible- a sign of things to come- it makes the approach that much more satisfying. My fleece began to dry out, I warmed up and had an unbelievable afternoon.
And now, I lay here, on 2 foam pads over a wooden bed- little Nepali village kids giggling below my window. My bucket bath was small, luke warm, and excellent- the most remote shower i've ever taken in my life and absolutely loved it. Naturally, I went to bed with visions of the ENORMOUS spiders I saw while eating in the kitchen and woke up to baby rats squeling just above my head...

Sherpa Dancing and Monastic Thieves

So we stayed for the popular Sherpa festival which everyone raved about. Our arrival for this celebration seemed really lucky- some might say auspicious... in hindsight, not so much. The low-key day was welcomed but not necessary. We had only been hiking for two days and really decided to stay purely for cultural exposure. During the morning we took a side trip up an adjacent valley to an old Buddhist monastery setup and run by Tibetan refugees- extremely kind and gracious in every way possible. They offered us tea and sweets, couldn't speak a lick of English, and laughed at the most random happenings... but we were in a monastery, what could go wrong? They handed us a paper in english outlining their pleas for cooperation and global recognition of the crimes taking place in Tibet- even this far removed, geographically at least, they are peacefully calling for action. After taking some ridiculous pictures with bald Tibetan nuns and ancient looking sages, we headed downhill for our festival.
We were so excited- a real Sherpa festival, on the day after we arrived... how perfect. People said that Sherpas from all over the valley were coming because the festival was the biggest in Junbesi. Well, we arrived at 5 pm and after some lacklustre horn-blowing and rice tossing we sat around for another 2 hours. Being the courteous western men we are, Kyle and I both gave up our seats for older women and children... which effectively relegated us to the furthest corner of the top balcony- not the best place for a 5'6"er. Craning and twisted, I stretched as best I could once the festivities began...
The first couple rounds of dancers were awesome- masked creatures and wizards in huge flowing robes of all different colors, embroidered with radiating gold thread, stepping in deliberate circles to the ho-hum of Ricola-style Himalayan horns. I have never seen anything like it before, and it bode well for the rest of the evening. Ironic, how things turned out...
After about 15 minutes, the show took a serious nose dive. Out of nowhere, following such unique and incredible traditional dancers came a horde of pre-adolescent boys decked out in the worst western Halloween costumes... the ones left over at the Halloween outlet that nobody bought and are 80% off because the store is going to close. They came out, bouncing to the rhythm of the horns, slowly circling the seated performers who early boosted our hopes for a great show. I thought they were kind of funny- and the audience was absolutely exploding. They were shaking their butts, jumping backwards and giving eachother piggyback rides. I didn't understand, but EAGERLY looked forward to the next round of adults... they didn't come for another 2 hours! Round after round of these boys just poured out of the monastery, doing the same routine over and over again. And the worst part was, no one in the crowd seemed annoyed at all! They loved every second of it. I couldn't believe that these kids were performing like this next to the old, wizened monks sitting in the VIP chairs... is this really traditional Sherpa culture? Was Gure Rimpoche REALLY satisifed with this performance in his honor? I have a feeling, he would have done us all a favor and shut that that trainwreck down!
And the worst of it all is that I left my raincoat in the monastery. I returned the next morning optimistic though- who steals from a monastery? I was sure to be the recipient of some pious Buddhist's good karmic behavior... not a chance. It was gone, and no one had a clue... most actually had no interest in helping me. And on that note, the following day was the only day it rained and I got soaked. Maybe I was reaping the karmic seeds I sowed the night before when I said, with gusto, "THIS BLOWS!"

Day 2

The second day bears all of this trail's colors- we knew it would be difficult, and "Knowing is half the battle (name that cartoon)". Even though the effort doesn't change, knowing that something will be difficult not only makes it seem easier, but you are more excited to do it... it's all attitude I guess. We walked for 10 long hours that brought us 12 more miles towards Namche Bazaar and over 6000 feet of elevation were gained. We crossed the Lamjura La at 11,581' to reach the high point of our approach trek. I just have to keep reminding myself that I am trekking in Nepal, towards the highest mountains in the world. Like I said before, a constant effort to keep things real. We get glimpses of snow peaks as teasers- the Rowaling Range reaches over 20,000' and is seen on the first day- 25,000' peaks on the second. A taste of what's to come- a carrot in front of this hungry man.
Right now I am laying in my bed at the Namaste Lodge in Junbesi, Nepal- facing my window, staring out at a steep valley cut by a clean, quick mountain stream. The other side is densely wooded by Asian pines and high-alpine firs, interrupted by family homes and farmsteads- some brown in fallow others bright green with abundance and harvest. I am listening to the hum of Buddhist chanting, murmured by local monks in the prayer room of our lodge. The rhododendrons are blooming- deep reds and pinks seem crisp against the heavy greens of mountain pines- stark whites blend and mix with the morning mists and fog. We are staying an extra day here to see a local Sherpa celebration- a festival of dancing and singing in honor of Guru Rimpoche, one of Buddhism's most holy figures. Seen everywhere as a seated monk with a thin curly moustache, the Guru, known as Padmasambhava, peacefully greets even the most foreign traveler into most homes and monasteries.
To stay in the moment, to really acknowledge the experience as it is happening, absorb as much as possible- into my body, my brain, my skin, my eyes, my ears, my feet, my hands- to take this trip with me for the rest of my life- to never leave these mountains. That is my goal.

Day 1

Our first day took us 9 hours to cover 2 passes and 14 miles from Jiri to Kenja- our bodies could hardly keep up with our spirits and our legs felt great. Very few people actually follow this route anymore into the heart of the world's tallest mountains- airplanes into Lukla have altogether by-passed this part of the trek and given access to many more people who would have been weeded out by miles of ups-and-downs. It is an unfortunate reality because lodges and teahouses along this 59 mile stretch suffer from the lack of trekkers walking into the Khumbu. It further separates tourists from the tour and magnifies the unbalance of wealth between foreigners and locals- no one uses their legs anymore, just their credit cards. Our trail took us through villages and past houses, alongside bhattis and around rice paddies. The scenery was incredible- these people have worked the land and made it their own- carving into the hills and making it provide. It is a new sense of order- still "natural" but heavily humanized- arranged but beautiful, transformed but productive- changed and appreciated. The terracing is ubiquitous and ownership must be understood because it all blends together to cover the entire landscape. There are no fences. There are no Private Property signs. It would be presumptuous of me to assume that the land belongs to everyone- a Commons-type idea does not seem to be at work here- but it seems like there is a pervasive understanding that everyone is in the same boat, living off the land and working just as hard as his neighbor for food and family. This lifestyle seems so simple, but then I ask myself, "Are things simple when survival is at stake?" Subsistence farming to keep your family alive- simple becomes crucial- basic becomes necessary. The sherpa porters here are the most impressive I have seen yet. The whole community carries goods back and forth using a trump-line, the largest being 150 kgs, so we've been told. Imagine strapping a load of over 300 pounds onto your forehead... Up and down these hills- and we can hardly walk down the street... it puts the American sense of effort in a new and very bright light.