Wintery weekend in Vermont

For the long weekend, Mark and I went to Vermont with a bunch of friends for what has become an annual weekend excursion of wintery fun! You have your choice of skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, or just relaxing in the chalet by the fire or in the hot tub. And of course there's always lots of feasting and merriment.

Conditions could not have been more perfect for snowshoeing, as the area had just received several feet of fresh, beautiful powder (which made for a terrible drive down, but was great once we got there).

The first day we went to Gifford Woods State Park, and followed someone's snowshoe tracks along the campground road, but when that trail looped back toward the parking lot, we veered off into the forest following the yellow blazes on the trees. Mark had to break our path, as we were the first on the trail since the fresh snowfall. And in doing so we discovered a bizarre winter phenomenon that occurs when there's this much fresh, powdery snow. 

Because the yellow blazes on the trees were sporadic, and there had been so much fresh snow to completely obscure the previous tracks, it was difficult to know exactly where to create the path. Generally this doesn't matter when snowshoeing, as you can go wherever you want, which is one of the many things that makes it so awesome. But we discovered that when Mark stepped off the trail into fresh, undisturbed snow, it suddenly created a startling and incredibly loud 'fwhoomp!' sound as the snow in a large radius collapses, shaking the ground and the trees in the vicinity and echoing through the air, creating an event that feels not unlike a tiny earthquake. Which, when you're happily tromping through a very quiet winter forest, is rather terrifying. 

The first time it happened, we didn't know what it was, and I thought perhaps it had been a very small, (and very localized?) earthquake, or perhaps there was some blasting nearby, or maybe we had just collapsed a small bridge over a creek far beneath us under the snow. But it kept happening every now and again, and we realized what it was, and then we could actually replicate it. However every time it did happen, it made my heart skip a beat to feel the ground drop beneath me, so the next day we found a trail that had already been made, and followed their tracks. Much more relaxing!

Even though it was a bit out of the way, we came home via the Adirondacks and Lake Placid, and it was so wonderful to see those mountains again, as it's been a while since we were last there. So worth the detour to see my favourite view.

It was such a fantastic weekend, a last hurrah for winter. Now, I am officially ready for spring!

Trailblazing at Gifford Woods State Park.

Snowshoeing at Chittenden Brook campground, Green Mountain National Forest.

My favourite view. Algonguin is the highest peak in the centre, with Wright the first bump to the left
(the 3rd and 4th peaks we've hiked),  Colden on the far left, and Wall Face on the right.

Whiteface Mountain is the white peak on the middle-left. Adirondacks, New York.

A year ago today: we set off on an adventure

Aw, look, we were just pups!

I remember barely sleeping the night before (or really, the night of) our flight. Waking up with my heart in my throat: excited, anxious, nervous, jittery... Eyes wide as we took one last look around the house, so quiet and empty without the cats and most of our stuff packed away... Hoisted our stiff, pristine packs, full of our carefully thought-out things we thought we would need... Locked the door, to be opened in a few days by our tenant who would be moving in... Leaving the known, and setting off into the unknown in the pre-dawn darkness... Tears of excitement and disbelief pouring down my cheeks on the cab ride to the airport... The day had finally arrived! Mind racing through all the possible scenarios that awaited us... Flying west-ward and passing the edge of Canada, the farthest west I'd ever been in my life.

And then being thrust into the intensity of Bangkok. Eyes wide at everything... trying to navigate our way around... Getting suckered at every turn (and oh, we were suckers...). Our first tuk-tuk ride... Our first dish that was too spicy to eat, and we didn't know how to ask for it any other way... Seeing more Buddhas in one day than possibly my entire life up until that point... So many colours, and sights, and sounds, and scents! And oh, the heat! I remember being so overwhelmed... everything was so new and unexpected and in-your-face... It was incredible, and I would do it all again, but I'm still happy to be home, and excited for the first good snowfall to arrive.

I haven't had a good snow for over a year and a half...

Leaving O'Hare after appropriately dosing up on Gravol as I failed to do for the first leg. (Lesson learned.)

The only way to get around! Ottawa could use some tuk-tuks.

Off again. This time to the West.

Barely two months home, and we were off again. But this time, we weren't gone nearly as long—it was still the same season when we got home!—and we stayed in the same country. What could possibly make us pack up our backpacks to hit the road again? Two very, very good reasons: Mark's best man getting hitched, and Mark's ultimate frisbee team playing at Nationals; both of which very conveniently happened to be in Vancouver, and only a week apart. In between all that good stuff, we had a couple of fun road trips in our stellar Rent-A-Wrecks* exploring beautiful British Columbia, and long overdue visits with friends and family.

Radiating out from Vancouver in spurts, we visited Tofino on Vancouver Island, taking in the magnificent splendour of vast stretches of beach (often enshrouded in impenetrable fog), towering cedars, mossy rainforests, and bogs full of lichen and stunted, gnarled trees. Then on to the mainland where we did a loop to take in Whistler (and happy relive our engagement there, 10 years ago this winter!) and through the mountains and glorious landscapes that changed with every mountain pass and curve in the road, to the arid Okanagan Valley where we tasted our way through the orchards and vineyards while ospreys soared overhead. Then back to Vancouver via Canada's desert (who knew?!) for all the wonderful wedding festivities befitting the most perfect pair, and happy reunions with old high school mates. Good times, I can assure you. There just may have been some jumps to the left and other such dancing-related shenanigans.

*A note about our car rental experience in Vancouver: Apparently August is a very busy and popular time for renting cars, so fleets sell out quickly, and for the remaining cars the rates are extortionate (like $149 per day; this is five times the rate for renting in Ottawa). But fear not! For a more respectable rate of about $40 per day, you can Rent-A-Wreck, which just means the car has a few more km on it than regular rentals, or has some other fun quirks that you will grow to love. For instance, our second rental, a Malibu with almost 200,000 km, was a bit bi-polar and prone to random freak outs (the car alarm would go off if the car was unlocked for too long, very embarrasing), with non-functioning A/C, and had a bit of trouble maintaining speed to get up those steep mountain roads. We lovingly called her Ursula, The Little Car that Couldn't. Well, she did, but barely.

First glimpse of the Pacific through the trees.

I love this quote seen on an interpretive sign in the forest:

There are themes everywhere... tender youthfulness laughing at gnarled oldness. Mosses and ferns, leaves and twigs, light and air, depth and colour chattering, dancing a mad-joy dance... only apparently tied up in stillness and silence. You must be still in order to see and hear.  —Emily Carr

Trip, by the numbers

Number of countries visited

• 11 (Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Bhutan, India, Nepal, Japan) 

Time on the road

• 199 days, or 6.6 months (from November 23, 2012 to June 10, 2013) 

Number of different “beds” (including overnight trains and planes)

• 77 (Amberlea), 100 (Mark) 

Best and worst accommodation

• Worst: Pak Ban Phoen “Hotel”, Chiang Khong, Thailand (still the worst! though there have been some other serious contenders… like sleeping on that train in India...)
• Best: Hotel Dewachen, Phobjikha Valley, Bhutan (spectacularly remote setting, gorgeous view, and deliciously luxurious, even without heat) 

Different types of transportation

• Plane, train, bus (big bus, mini bus, local bus), car, jeep, van, taxi, bicycle rickshaw, tuk tuk, song-teow, pick-up truck, moto (self-driven, moto-taxi, and moto-with-sidecar), city bus, subway, skytrain, monorail, longtail boat, ferry, junk, kayak, raft, innertube, bicycle, and by foot (the ol’ heel-toe express) 

A local bus in Nepal – how many people can you cram in a mini-bus?

Number of photographs taken

• Just over 20,000… but Mark took at least 3,000 of those... Somehow this will be whittled down to a manageable number for a photobook(s) – coming soon! 

Santa Monica, California

We had a 10-hour layover in LA on the way home, which turned out to be plenty of time to get out and see a little bit of the city (even after baggage claim took over an hour, but a 600+ passenger, double-decker plane = a LOT of luggage…). How easy it is to get around when you speak the language! The hardest part was deciding where to spend our few hours: Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Rodeo Drive, the Sunset Strip… so many fun places to spend an afternoon! We decided upon Santa Monica because we wanted to dip our feet in the Pacific, now that we were on the other side of it!

We went for burgers, and it was a reality check when the bill was equal to our entire daily budget for most of the countries we visited… But the burgers were really, really good… (I had the Earth Burger – a mushroom and edamame patty, truffled ricotta, cipollini onions, butter lettuce, roasted tomato, and white soy aioli… drool! So glad I’m not stuck on rice and bananas anymore!)

Since 9/11 there are no lockers in LAX at all, so we had to carry our bags.

Last stop: Tokyo

I was still nursing some gastro troubles for our time in Tokyo, so we didn’t get to explore as much as we had hoped. But even with 6 months in Tokyo alone, it would still be difficult to explore it all. It’s big. The biggest city in the world by many counts. But for such a massive city, it doesn’t feel as overwhelming as you might expect, with so many spacious parks and temples and gardens. And it’s so clean! I’m pretty sure the streets of Tokyo are cleaner than some of the guesthouses we encountered earlier in our travels.

We wandered around Ueno Park, Asakusa, Shibuya, Ginza, and of course Shinjuku where our hotel was. We also went to a cat café! I can’t remember where I heard about this phenomenon, and I thought there was only one, but apparently there’s almost 40 of them throughout the city! Black cats, fat cats, or just a random assortment of cats – I know you probably all think I’m a crazy cat lady now, and you’re right, but it was a fun and unique experience. Only in Tokyo.

Also, before I wrap up my posts about Japan, there are three things about Japan that need mentioning: vending machines, toilets, and school kids.

(1) Vending machines – they are everywhere! Even in the quietest town (like Koyasan), they seem to be spaced at frequent intervals for all your beverage needs. You can get the typical selection of cold beverages (pops, iced teas, juices), but some vending machines also issue hot beverages. Yup, you can get hot canned coffee. It’s pretty cool. I mean hot. Good. Excellent. And there’s always a recycling bin right beside it for the empties.

(2) Toilets – the Japanese have perfected the bathroom experience; no consideration has been left out. Cold tushie? No problem: heated seats. Stage-fright? No worries: complimentary flushing sound or music. Ever feel that unfresh feeling? The Japanese have got you covered: your choice of bidet or spray functions – all of which have temperature and directional control.

(3) School Kids – in every city it seems to be Field Trip Day. Which also means Interview The Foreigners And Practice Your English Day. In Nara alone, we were approached by no less than seven groups of kids, all with varying degrees of confidence in their English skills. It’s generally the same series of questions: where are you from, what is your name, do you like [city name], what Japanese food do you like, etc, etc. Then they may ask for your signature, but will always, always ask for a photo. They are all impeccably polite, and adorable, and you might just get a little origami gift for your time.

Kyoto

Kyoto is a beautiful city, full of lovely parks, zen gardens, temples, riverside picnicking, busy shopping streets, and quiet forest pathways. Unfortunately I was fighting some sort of gastro bug (an Indian souvenir no doubt…), so we got out as much as possible, but certainly missed a lot. And who needs scrumptious okonomyaki, tempura, tepenyaki, and sushi when you can have rice and bananas?

Koyasan: the definition of serenity

And I thought Nara was serene! Koyasan is a peaceful and tranquil mountain-top town of centuries old monasteries and temples, and a pilgrimage site for Buddhists. Mark and I stayed at a monastery – the same one he stayed at when he came to Japan almost three years ago – and like his experience last time, we were the only two guests in the entire place! The long hallways were silent, save for the occasional pitter patter of the resident cat.

It was a traditional ryokan experience, sleeping on futons on tatami mats, and our lovely room looked out over the beautiful garden and coy pond. This unique B&B includes use of the onsen (bath/hot-tub), and a delectable, vegetarian, multi-course dinner and breakfast. Sort of like Japanese tapas. Or edible art. So many new and interesting flavours. And so much! Monks might eat with austerity, but they provide quite the feast for their guests!

We were also invited to join the head monk for his morning prayers. Since the morning prayer wasn’t until 7am, we woke up at 5am and walked along the Okunoin, the two-kilometre path lined with memorials, graves, and monuments, set amongst towering cedars, and leads to Gobyo Mausoleum where the founder of Koyasan, Kobo Daishi Kukai, is buried. It was so lovely walking amongst all this history, hearing the wind through the branches, while the morning sun began to brighten the forest.

Riding the cable car up to the top of Mount Koya.

Mark (Obi Wan) in the yukata robes they provide.

Our dinner and breakfast feasts were so beautifully presented!

Pleasantville. AKA Nara.

We left the relative chaos of Kathmandu, Nepal, and found ourselves surrounded by the complete and utter serenity of Nara, Japan. From one world, into another, very different one. Arriving to the jarring cleanliness and orderliness of Osaka's airport made us realize the level of dirt and disorderliness we had grown accustomed to. And the trains: so punctual, so fast! They arrived and departed precisely when the schedule said! There was a schedule! And the price was fixed as stated on the fare list! "Yeti, I don't think we're in Kathmandu anymore..."

Everything is so clean and well-put-together. The people are groomed and trimmed, the streets are impeccably clean, all the little trees are pruned into order and refinement. There hardly seems a need for anti-littering laws -- who would think of littering?! And quiet. No shouting, no honking, and even the cars are quieter. Probably electric.

I know Canada has a reputation of being polite, but seriously, Canadians, we need to up our game. The Japanese make us look like roughnecks. All the bowing and arigato gozaimasu's and giving and receiving things with two hands, wow. People are really passionate about their jobs and customer service, and it shows.

The whole experience is just so nice, and pleasant.

The deer of Nara.

Bhaktapur

After spending a lovely week in the countryside near Kathmandu, it was back to the bustling capital for a couple of nights before leaving for Japan. On our last full day we went to nearby Bhaktapur for the afternoon. I say nearby, since it's only about 17 km away, but like Sankhu, it takes over an hour to get there. We walked to Ratna Park, the southern bus "terminal" -- which is really just a rutted, muddy parking lot of competing bus "companies," honking and driving in every direction, the "ticket boys" shouting (presumably) the route name or destinations. We were approached by several of these entrepreneurial young lads, and when we said "Bhaktapur," they very nearly fought with each other to get us onto their bus, shouting and gesturing (and shoving) us, indicating that the other boys were lying, and that their buses weren't going to Bhaktapur, and so on. It was confusing, mayhem even, and once we were shoved onto a bus, we still weren't certain if it was the right one, but the other passengers and (very young) driver confirmed it. And sure enough, we arrived after about an hour of our bus hurtling down the streets, ticket boys hanging out the open door shouting the route auctioneer-style, signalling to the driver to stop for new passengers through a very sophisticated system of whistles and thumps, and only once getting pulled over by an undoubtedly corrupt cop for some unknown infraction, and the fares being collected in advance to pay the bribe.

But it was worth all the mayhem to get to Bhaktapur: a crumbling, sagging medieval village, still operating much the same way as it would have centuries ago. In the squares, wheat is still being threshed by hand (only now using an electric fan to help separate the wheat from the chaff), laundry washed communally around a central tap, and vendors selling their colourful vegetables from the fields surrounding the village. Late afternoon sun streamed through cobblestone alleyways, turning the red-brown brick to fiery orange, and filling the streets with a soft haze. Streets curve and wind up steep slopes, opening suddenly onto large squares of temples and multi-tiered pagodas, while other alleys narrow and narrow, funneling through hidden courtyards, making you wonder if you'll end up in someone's house before you find your way back to a main street.

After I asked if I could take her photo, she started chanting "rupeeeee, rupeeeeeee."
Clearly I am not the first person to ask.

In a cottage in Nepal

For our final week in Nepal, we rented a cottage on the edge of the Newar village of Sankhu, a small village about 17 km north-east of Kathmandu. In the countryside, overlooking a lovely valley of terraced rice fields, it was the perfect place to relax after trekking and yoga training. We spent our days reading, doing Sudokus, preparing blog posts (no wifi here!), doing yoga, walking in the rice fields, and cooking. It was the first time on the entire trip that we had a kitchen, and it was very exciting being able to cook for ourselves again! We walked into town almost daily to get fresh veggies and supplies, and always seemed to be the talk of the town, since not many tourists come to this small village. Locals would smile and heartily return our namastes and then try to get their shy children to say it back. I love Nepal! The people are so friendly. Walking along the cobblestones through this charming, tumbledown village to so many warm hellos and smiles was a joy.

The cottage is owned by a man in the Netherlands, but he employs a local man, Suraj, to take care of things, and he would bring us fresh eggs daily, and sometimes tomatoes and fresh ghee. He came over one afternoon and showed us how to prepare dal baht, and we had a fun afternoon preparing and cooking it together. It made more than the three of us could eat, so I prepared a big platter and brought it over to the elderly neighbours, who we see out in the fields every day, bent to their task.

That evening Suraj invited us to his home for dinner, which was a humbling experience. His simple family home was his father’s and his grandfather’s and is still shared by his extended family. While we sat on the porch drinking coffee that is saved for guests, goats nibbled into the potato sacks, while the children ran around playing with each other and watching us with interest. We sat together in his tiny, earthen-floor kitchen, while his wife made chapatti and a potato curry over the small, indoor fire-pit. The low ceiling above us was thick with black smoke and soot from 70 years of cooking fires. His young daughter charmed us with her cuteness, and we fell into a game of her saying sounds for me to repeat, which sent her into fits of giggles. The whole evening was very special, and again made me wonder why we isolate ourselves in such massive houses in North America, where there are more rooms than people.

Once when we were outside tossing a Frisbee (around puddles, bits of garbage, and a rooster head), a young boy ran over to join us, then ran off and dragged his sister over to join, followed shortly by another sister or a cousin. It alternatively devolved into a game of monkey in the middle between the three of them, and chase the stray disc and tackle each other. Whenever Mark or I would catch it, they would shout “auntie [or uncle], come onnn!” which then became “sister [or brother], come onnn!” as they clapped their hands and gestured wildly for the disc. We said goodbye after a bit, so we could make dinner, but they ran back to our cottage later hollering for us to come out and play.

A cat comes around the cottage every day, who we took to calling Mr. Mollassey for some reason, and he is quite a meowly sort! Most of the time he would just cry for a while, then settle down and sleep outside the door, or wander in and sleep on the rug. But he could be a bit crotchety, and we had to shoo him away one afternoon after he nipped at both of us. But the cat came back the very next day, and continued to sleep on the rug.

Riding the local bus back to Kathmandu at the end of the week, it was so crowded that I ended up with a toddler on my lap for half the trip. At first he seemed quite unsure, eyes welling up and lip quivering, but he settled down and ended up falling asleep. I wish all buses were always that crowded.

Mr. Mollassey.

Most of the time he would sit on the rug.

Namaste, Nepal!

Thankfully Mark enjoyed his trek so much that he was willing to re-do a portion of it so we could trek together. After a couple of days in Kathmandu, we took to the foothills north of Pokhara, and were off for 5 days of trekking! Starting and ending our loop in Nayapul, we went counter-clockwise through Ghandruk, Tadapani, Ghorephani, and Tikkedhunga.

Mark, fresh off of 23 days of trekking through these mountains, acted as both my guide and porter, lucky me! He carried a big pack with our combined stuff (which he said weighed less than his pack, so really, I was helping), and I carried a small pack with the really important things, like snacks.

But still, barely weighted down, the often ceaseless steps (3,280 in one particular stretch!), steep ascents and abrupt descents were grueling and exhausting. A month of doing yoga 4.5 hours a day did not prepare me well for all this cardio. But of course all the effort was worth it to get beyond roads and honking cars and zipping motos and fully into nature. And after a month in dry, hot, dusty Rishikesh, my lungs were so happy to have fresh, crisp, sweet-forest-smelling mountain air.

Tantalizing glimpses of frozen mountain peaks rose up beyond cloud-filled valleys of green foothills (mountains in their own right!). Tiny villages of quaint and charming stone houses, strung along the terraced hillsides in clusters; blue roofs indicating tourism dollars (a guesthouse or restaurant) contrasting sharply against more traditional slate-stone roofs, or rusted corrugated metal roofs held down with rocks. Deep valleys plunge into depths unseen, but the distant whisper of rushing rivers and plummeting waterfalls echoed up to meet our ears. Pink carpeted trails of spent rhododendron blooms wound through beautiful, ancient forests dripping with moss and colourful prayer flags.

Children play and chase each other, stopping us to demand “sweets?” Naked, pudgy babies getting bathed and massaged in the sun. Locals and other trekkers greet us, namaste, as we pass with a smile. A ding, ding, ding, signaling a lumber-laden mule procession, causes us to pull over (mountain side) to let them pass. Rounding a corner, we are greeted by an enormous, horned, huffing, puffing buffalo, and we watch, mesmerized as it tackles the stone steps with such impossible grace.

Goats bleating and frolicking in fields and along the trail – one pair stood sentinel on a bridge we needed to cross, and when I stepped onto the bridge, one of them bit my knee! Thankfully their teeth aren’t very sharp, and we were able to shoo them along with our hiking poles. They’re lucky they’re so darn cute and endearing, even with their bitey tendencies (you’ve all seen this, right? Or this?).

As Mark mentioned, making friends along the trail is easy – when there’s only so many villages, with only so many guesthouses, chances are you’ll end up in the same place. And if you’re traveling in the same direction, you’ll likely keep running into each other. I even led my first yoga class (!!!) one afternoon to one such friend after she found out I’d just become certified.

It was incredible being on the main “road” that ran between villages – we were on the trail the entire time; no wasting time getting to and from the trailhead each day. Even in the biggest village, we were only ever a few steps from the main route.

Accommodation on the trail is unfathomably cheap. Cheaper than the food. A room with shared bath costs about 200 Nepalese rupees per night—about $2.50—for the both of us. But for these cheap rates, you are expected to have your meals at the hotel restaurant—in fact, if you don’t, you are charged an exorbitant surcharge. Dal Baht cost about 350 rupees, and western dishes would cost a little bit more, maybe up to 500 per dish. On Mark’s trek, in the higher and more remote villages (where supplies and fuel have to be hauled in farther), dal baht could cost up to 520, but the rooms might be even cheaper.

As it was the beginning of monsoon season, it would start raining daily at about 1 or 2 pm, and continue raining off and on for the rest of the day. Sometimes it would clear a little bit at sunset to expose an illuminated snippet of some massive rock face, looming impossibly high in the sky. Without their full majesty and grandeur laid bare against clear skies, they seemed even more frightfully massive.

Because of the rain (and also because we were lucky if we made it to 8:30 pm before falling asleep), we started our days early, and did our 4-6 hours of daily hiking before lunch. In Ghorepani, we woke up even earlier to ascend neighbouring Poon Hill for sunrise. And though the Annapurna range remained hidden, we were treated to a glorious and theatrical reveal of the Dhaulagiri range. Our small feast of delectable yak cheese made it a perfect morning before the punishing descent to Tikkedhunga (partly in the rain). On our final day we met up with the road again, and it was jarring coming back to the world of cars and crowds; Pokhara felt like a bustling metropolis after a few peaceful days on the trail!

Alright, let's do this!

Walking through Nayapul.

Together in Kathmandu!

It was a happy reunion with Mark at the airport in Kathmandu, after a month of doing drastically different things, and having very little contact with each other (not much in the way of internet services on the trail…). We talked non-stop for the next few days trying to get caught up.

We enjoyed a couple of leisurely days in Thamel, a clustered, colourful, captivating neighbourhood in Kathmandu, home to backpackers and trekkers, and stores catering completely to them: knock-off gear and supplies, and grocery stores with entire aisles devoted to chocolate, trail mix, and “Mountain Man” granola bars. They’ve targeted their audience well.

Ornate, decaying medieval architecture sagging against gravity; thick, carved, wooden doors, painted with logos for pop, beer, or paint companies, open to reveal closet-sized stores, jammed full of things for sale. Yak wool blankets, felted slippers, rice sack bags, knitted socks and hats, cashmere sweaters, Buddha sculptures, masks, singing bowls, and anything else you could ever want.

Doors and archways lead to alleys which lead to open squares with flag-draped stupas, painted with half-closed eyes looking at you looking at them. Telephone and electrical wires arranged in precarious, crowded rat’s nests, in front of signs ironically advertising some technological gadget. Colourful piles of vegetables sit on bright blue tarps beside bulging sacks of grains, as brightly-painted bicycle rickshaws roll past.

At the south-end of Thamel is Durbar Square, an area of centuries-old temples, palaces and pigeon-filled squares. Where ancient tree roots entwine around carved archways and alcoves of small shrines, and windows of multi-leveled palaces are buttressed and framed with lavishly-carved screens and pillars. It is a thoroughly enchanting place to wander and let your eyes feast.