The best laid plans of mice and men so often go awry. Or something like that.
After having roused myself from a restless sleep at 4am to leave for the airport at 5 am, I had no delusions about what today’s travel would be like: long. And adding to its length would be its difficulty. 6 men, traveling from 5 different locations around the US, converging on one remote town that would be their launching point into the back country.
Hailing from Seattle, Manchester, Dallas, Boston, and Austin, we had anticipated a landing of the first two in Duluth at 2pm, then the rest at 8. So far, little has gone to plan.
Jason, coming from Boston, was delayed first. 2 hours. Since he was to get the rental car in minneapolis and drive it to Duluth, this stranded me at the Duluth airport for 3 hours or so until he got there at 5. This precipitated my allowing myself to be bumped from my flight in exchange for a $400 voucher (yes, I’m that easily bought)- the next flight would get me into Duluth @5. Sounds like a deal to me. Bested, perhaps, only by the next question: “do you mind an exit row seat?”‘ somehow, I forced myself to deal with this circumstance, even after learning that I had been upgraded to “sky priority”.
The others, at this point suffer a fate worse than death. They are stuck in Detroit. Worse, given that Duluth doesn’t get a ton of air traffic (surprise!), they’re on the same flight that now gets in a 10:30pm.
The fun really gets started then, because after shopping and picking them up at the airport, we begin the 3-4 hour drive to Grand Marais. So going from a small remote town to an even smaller, remoter town without much cell service, directions, or camping reservation (arriving at 2am or so, assuming good time) just smacks of the banjo-twanging disaster that we all feared this would become. I know this isn’t banjo country, but I’ve been up since four. Let me have this.
But honestly, this is quite fun. Texting from around the country like refugees, plans constantly in flux…this is the stuff adventures are made of.
Who ever thought “texting” and “adventure” would fit in the same sentence?
Time to board! Time to trader Discover
magazine and crappy iPhone WordPress app for a fishing pole and
Unnecessarily large hunting knife.
Filed under: Seattle | Tags: apple soup, fundraising, John Krawchuk, Parkinsons, Seattle to Portland, STP, Team Parkinsons
My grandfather’s name was John Krawchuk. When I was born he had already retired and between him and my grandmother, I was spoiled with undivided affection. I spent a lot of time as a young boy “helping” my grandfather with his various hobbies. He was an avid gardener, fisherman, coin collector, aquarium keeper, and outdoorsman. For anyone who knows me, his influence on my interests isn’t hard to see. In the hot summer months when New England thunderstorms would roll in we would sit in lawnchairs in the garage and watch as lightning cracked across the olive green sky and thunderclaps shook the house. When it was sunny, we’d collect fallen apples, put them in a bucket of water, and aerate it with a bicycle pump so I could make my famous ‘apple soup’. I was even tolerated in the garden, where my fervor for pulling out baby carrots was well known. During the winters we’d build snowmen and then retreat to the basement and, with a fire in the fireplace, pound nails into pieces of wood on his workbench–making “tables”–until I exhausted myself. Then we’d roast marshmallows in the dark, I’d fall asleep, and eventually wake up upstairs on the couch with my grandfather sitting in his chair watching nature documentaries. We were partners in crime.
Filed under: Seattle | Tags: ambassador, bicycle rights, bicycling, bike car rivalry, bike commuting, bike rage, cycling, fixie, hipster, road ambassador, road rage, seattle bike commuting, seattle biking, sharing the road, three feet
The woman in front of me is texting; that’s why she’s taking so long to pull out of the garage and onto the main street. I consider cutting along her left side to get in position for my right turn, but if she takes the closer lane I’m likely to get clipped. I balance on my bike a few more seconds before she pulls into traffic, and I am following behind her when she stops abruptly.
I’m not in the correct lane, and didn’t anticipate the quick stop—now I’m a little off balance. I look up the road and see no cars ahead in the centermost right turn lane and hug her left side and ride the white dotted line between lanes. This is a mistake. When a cyclist is approaching stopped cars from behind, he or she can get away with this. But from an approaching car, this looks like you’ve taken the lane, which is what it looked like to the Escalade that blared its horn from behind.
In my defense, it was very light colored—the color of the tan concrete backdrop of the surrounding buildings—which is why I don’t think I saw it. But that’s just a justification; it’s my job and responsibility to see it, and I didn’t. But the horn, loud and jarring, scared the crap out of me and I let fly with a terrible habit— the middle finger. This was also a mistake.
“Stay in your lane and that won’t happen!” yelled someone from the sidewalk. “Fuuuuuck you” I said back, making my turn. “Back at you,” came the quick reply that both impressed and annoyed me. I signaled left, made my way over to the far lane and stopped at a red light, shaken and aggravated with myself. Stupid.
The light changed and I pedaled forward, and that’s when, from behind, I heard the roar of a large engine, coming up. Fast. When it sounded like it was on my back wheel, the sound moved right and roared up alongside me, deliberately crowding my lane. “HEY!” screamed the driver, a spray-tanned, overly-gelled, ring-wearing , 40-something fratboy “You’re lucky I don’t drag you off that thing and beat your fuckin’ ass!”
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: apnea, Northwest Hospital and Medical Center, Northwest Sleep Hospital, obstructive apnea, sleep apnea, sleep study, snoring
NorthWest Hospital and Medical Center has a Department of Sleep. That’s not the real name, but it’s more fun to think of it that way–with a Deputy Director of Snoozing and a VP of Catnaps running the late night activities.
Joking aside, the place does exist, and I know that because I am currently sitting in a sleeping room, patiently awaiting my tech–Jeremy–to affix me with wires and suction cups before my 11pm bed time. Already the place has a surreal feel to it. Walking through a parking garage with your own pillow (recommended for the study) feels a bit like trying your boxers in your high school classroom; it’s not indecent, but its far more intimate a detail than you care to share with strangers. Upon entering the building, however, things felt even weirder. The hospital was largely abandoned, with lights dimmed or off, and as I walked the corridors looking for 320, I wouldn’t help but think of every sleepless little boy in every children’s book my mother had ever read to me–wandering the dark halls, pillow in tow, looking for the light to show him where he was supposed to be.
I found where I was supposed to be–in the waiting room with two other people–both holding pillows, thank you–with very puffy and bloodshot eyes. “This where the slumber party is?” I asked, staring at the guy. “Yeah,” he responds with a smirk. I sit down.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: guide stick, helical flow, laminar flow, rafting, rockport pub, Skagit, Skagit river, training, white water guide, White water rafting
“What the heck are you doing?” Asked Kenney coolly as we headed toward the rapids. Apparently, he didn’t like my choice of direction. ”What the heck are you doing, man?” He started gesturing to the left, “turn, TURN, THAT WAY!”
His arm jabbed the air viciously to river right, and as water smashed over the bow and the crew paddled ahead. I had decided, apparently, to make an example of myself by doing everything in this instant wrong. In the panic I did not realize that I was actually pulling in the opposite direction that I wanted to go; I’d moved from my post to the back of the raft up the side and tried–as panicked guides do–to muscle the 1400lb boat myself, and finally, as the raft began to spin wildly our of control, I froze, unable to decide what to do. Which is why we went over the rapid backward.
Filed under: Iceland | Tags: ash, braided river, Iceland, icelandic river travel, icelandic winter travel, kronas, lava field, lava tube, vik, waterfalls
We made no qualms about having slept late today, though I was a little surprised that Kevin and Stephen were able to after how much they’d slept in the car. It was nice to roll out of bed and have some cereal and yogurt (purchased from the gas-station store the other day along with 4 frozen pizzas). To say our dinner of frozen pizza was a copout would be unfair—we did couple it with some fine Viking Light beer, which was, as one might expect, terrible. Perhaps some of the historical pillaging that defines this land should have included some recipes and hops plants.
With a later start we are wanting for something to do. After some consideration of the map, we opt to go for broke—we’re going to head for Dusch’s glacier lake and grant her a life’s wish; to lick a glacier. It’s a foolhardy goal, since light will likely fade before we get there, but it’s something to do and we’ll likely see something cool along the way. If nothing else, we’ll stimulate Iceland’s trashed economy by buying huge quantities of unnervingly expensive gasoline.
Filed under: Iceland, Uncategorized | Tags: facebook, Geysir, Iceland, International travel, Keflavik, purpose of travel, Reykjavik, Strokkur, tour bus, tourism, travel
“This tastes like drinking farts.” I can’t contradict Kevin because he’s right. In fact, if we were to generalize our first day olfactory experience of Iceland, it would be farts. The first reason is that my brothers have the digestive systems of dairy cows with IBS. The second and possibly more—and I mean possibly—notable reason for this is the fact that being of such a geothermic nature, Iceland has a healthy dosage of sulfur infused in almost every aspect of the landscape. So basically the country smells like bad hardboiled eggs.
Having just taken a shower, I am appreciative of this point. I reek of sulfur. But after more than twenty-nine hours with no sleep or shower, I decided to trade my own smell for a more regional (and I hope, acceptable) one. The sensation that will take getting used to is the slimy feel of the dissolved element; it’s hard to really feel clean. Frankly, I don’t think anyone in the cabin minds the smell right now. I’m the only one who has taken to drinking the water from the tap, which also smells the same, and revisits tenfold in the frequent burps and general digestive disapproval. As it is, we’re preoccupied, periodically running outside to see the snowstorm and try to spot the Northern Lights (no luck yet), and fighting off the jetlag. Well, at least I’m fighting—the others have folded and have little hope of sleeping the night through after their 2-3 hour naps throughout the day as I drove around the island. As I write this, my littlest brother Stephen, the tallest by 4 inches, lies curled up on the smallest of the couches, a kitten trapped in a Great Dane’s body.
The day was largely successful—not as packed as I’d hope, but when you’ve skipped a sleep cycle, start exploring a foreign country before dawn, and are surrounded by what looks like tundra and a never fully-rising sun, it’s hard to not become at least a little disoriented.
Filed under: British Columbia, scuba, Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: air redundancy, black out, british columbia, buddy breathe, decompression, enriched air, HMCS Cape Breton, HMCS Saskatchewan, Nanaimo, nitrox, Ogden Point, penetration, plumose anemone, puget sound king crab, silt, silt-out, sling bottle, stage bottle, victoria, wreck diving, wreck line
The pitch and roll of the boat is not helping my situation.
Doing my best to look past the choppy gray water to the horizon, I brace for the next set of rollers that send the boat lurching from starboard to port, violently clanging the scuba cylinders strapped together against the seats with bungee cords.
“It’s goin’ to be like this the whole time, eh,” says Captain Aaron, a man so Canadian that he makes the Red Green show look less like a comedy act and more like a documentary. “You’ll want to hang on and make sure them tanks are strapped down good.”
It’s the second day of wreck diving in BC, and I think I’m getting seasick, and I never get seasick, but as Janet passes around the ginger motion-sickness lozenges, I make sure to pop one in. I didn’t have high hopes, but it seems to work almost immediately–the spice of the ginger settles my stomach, or perhaps just gives it something else to focus on beside the churning dinner that threatens a reappearance.
We’re currently moored on the shot line to the HMCS Cape Breton, a Canadian battleship that was sunk about a decade ago to make an artificial reef. This will be the first dive of the day; then we are slated to dive the HMCS Sasketchwan, which lies in the same strait, on the ocean floor at about 130′. As soon as the ladders are down we start dropping in; my buddy and I have been suited up and ready to go the whole ride, and as people double check air and dive plans, Aaron (not the captain) and I stride-enter off the boat, hand signal that we are ok to eachother, and descend into the dark green water.
