The Mighty Redwoods

So I have established that I am not a planner. Which is why you will not see pictures of the giant Redwoods in the Tall Trees grove Karin and I hiked 9 miles under full packs to see. I forgot to charge my camera battery before heading to Redwood State Park last week, and it naturally died around mile 2 of the 9 mile hike that was the highlight of the trip. Having worked 68 hours in the week leading up to this trip, while squeezing in training workouts for my upcoming half-marathon, I found myself waking in a panic 2 1/2 hours before our flight was supposed to leave and throwing things we figured we would need into our packs. No charged camera battery. No pocket knife, since we would now not make the cut-off time to check our bags (my accidental attempts to bring knives through security in the past had been frowned upon). No toilet paper.

One of MANY pictures we took on the way TO the Redwoods.

We flew into San Francisco, where we rented a car and hit the 101 North. Mapquest (which I checked for driving distance to compare with other cities, but of course did not print and bring with me) said the drive would be about 5.5 hours. About 8 hours later, we rolled into Orick, CA. The original "plan" involved arriving at our trailhead around 4:30pm (allowing 6 hours drive time) and hiking the 8 miles in to where we would camp for the night, arriving with just enough time to set up camp and cook dinner before sundown. Since we arrived far too late to hit the trail we opted to reverse the order of the trip, camping at Gold Bluffs Beach Campground the first night, and hitting the trail the next day. At the end of a 6 mile windy rutted dirt road we found (of course) a full campground! So we parked, set up our little camp stove on the beach, and watched the sunset over a dinner of macaroni and cheese.

Then we headed back to Orick where, for the bargain price of $77, we scored a room at The Palm Motel. In the morning we enjoyed biscuits and gravy and omelets at the adjacent Palm Cafe, dining in the company of the owner, 81-year-old Martha. After I locked our key in the room, we also became aquainted with Diane, the housekeeper, who we hunted down, with the help of the maintenance man, to let us into our room.

Cooking macaroni and cheese on the beach.

I am so glad we wasted the battery to get shots like this:)

The Redwood Creek Trail is an 8-mile hike to the Tall Trees Grove, where there is a 1-mile loop hike through the grove (unbeknownst to us, of course). It involves 2 creek crossings, which are usually accomplished via temporary footbridges put in place at the beginning of the summer season. Late rains and high water had prevented the installation of the bridges, which in turn prevented us from having any clue where to actually cross the creek and pick up the trail on the other side. That is when a trail map would have come in handy. Now what do you think the odds are that I had a trail map?

Karin crossing the stream.

Another piece of useful information would have been the fact that the available camping (on the gravel bars) was actually several miles downstream from the grove--thus the best plan would be to set up camp around mile 5, then hike the remaining 4 miles to the grove and back with just a small daypack.

The truth is the lack of planning did not really affect the hike itself--it was great and the scenery was beautiful. The trees were huge and awe-inspiring. You will have to take my word on this, of course.

We decided to extend the trip an extra night to avoid a ridiculously early trail start and mad dash back to San Francisco to make the last flight back to Phoenix. So we decided to drive down Hwy 1 along the coast. One thing we should always plan for automatically is that cold, tired Kari equals Crabby Kari. Crabby Kari does not want to hike another mile and a half to an ocean side campsite after hours of driving and put up the tent only to have to break camp very early the next morning because we are still 4 hours north of San Francisco and our rental car is due back at 10:30am. Crabby Kari wants to stay in a motel that is not at all in her budget. The wise traveler lets Crabby Kari have her way. Admittedly it was not difficult to convince Karin to stay in an adorably charming ocean-front motel with a comfy bed. We got delicious take-out clam chowder and ate it in adirondack chairs overlooking the ocean.

So, after 2 nights in motels on our 3-night "camping" trip, we left bright and early the next morning and hit the road, rolling into the Alamo Rental Car Return area with 6 minutes to spare! You can't plan that kind of adventure!

The last picture we got before the battery died.

And so it begins...

My first trip out of the country was to London. Well, that's where it started. That was the destination on my roundtrip airline ticket. The return date, however, was five months after I left, so where I went from London was anyone's guess. I had a vague idea of traveling overland through Africa, and therefore got all the requisite shots. Having no real idea where I was going, and no desire to do any actual research, I packed for all possible climates.


So it was I found myself in the London Heathrow airport, sagging under 50 pounds of every possible thing I might need for every possible scenario for an unplanned five month trip.
Having never been on foreign soil before, much less alone, and not having made any plans, tentative or otherwise, I realized I had no idea what to do next.

So I promptly sat down and cried.
I had always thought of myself as an adventurer. It was always my plan for life to venture forth into the world and explore and experience. What I am not, is a "details" girl. Where to stay? How to get around? What is the exchange rate? Details. These were not my specialty. They did not interest me. They are like brushing my teeth: I do it twice a day because I enjoy having teeth, I enjoy having the tools to chew my food, but I do not enjoy brushing my teeth. I had worked and saved my money for months; I had gotten some shots and a big fat Africa guidebook and a backpack, and a bunch of inappropriate crap to put in it and a roundtrip ticket from Boston to London with a return date five month hence. Clearly I was prepared. I was a traveler. All that was left was to figure out what a traveler does, exactly.

I thought very seriously about going back to the ticket counter and getting on the next flight to Boston. Seriously, but briefly. Then I wiped my tears, wrangled my ridiculous pack onto my shoulders, and went to a hotel reservation desk. I booked a hostel and bought a ticket for the Tube, and off I went...traveling.

I spent 3 days in London, much of it sleeping, but with enough waking hours interspersed to see what one is expected to see in London. I bought a one way ticket to Cape Town, South Africa. I would travel overland from Cape Town to Nairobi, then fly back to London.

It was a 12 hour flight, dinner and breakfast served on the plane. We flew over Mt. Kilimanjaro. I did not want the flight to end. When we landed, I would have to start all over again in another foreign place. This was TRAVEL, after all.
The plane did land, and I got off of it. Here I was, in South Africa! The beginning of an adventure! I was a traveler!

Except...they wouldn't let me in. A TRAVELER to South Africa cannot enter the country and obtain a visa without a ticket out of South Africa. I had bought a one way ticket. Naturally, I had not looked into visas or immigration laws.

Details... Cape Town, South Africa

The Do-Over

It was that time of year again: Birthday time. Time to plan a somewhat cliched soul-searching, self-reflective, preferably physically challenging trip to celebrate the passing of another year. Time to see if I was getting wiser or just older. Unfortunately, until fairly recently it seemed the answer was: only older. But the past year I had started, finally, to see some progress in the wiser arena as well, and was looking forward to a trip to bask in self-congratulation.

So, where to go? As I considered the possibilities of early April in the Great Outdoors, a memory came to me...

When I was ten years old my fourth-grade class took a camping trip to Death Valley. During that trip we found ourselves at the edge of Ubehebe Crater. Everyone in the class held hands and walked down the very steep trail to the bottom of the crater....Everyone except me. I was too scared, and I stayed, all alone, at the rim of the crater watching everyone else.

In the 22 years since then, I have scuba dived with sharks, skydived, bungee jumped, hiked steep trails up mountains and narrow trails through canyons, faced Grizzlies in Alaska, kayaked all over the western U.S., climbed an active volcano, and generally sought out risk and adventure all over the world. Yet that moment of cowardice on the edge of the abyss of Ubehebe over two decades ago remains cemented in my mind.

I decided that for my 32nd birthday, I would return to Death Valley and have a Do-Over. They say you can't go back again. I say "They" are wrong. I WOULD go back again, back to Ubehebe Crater, my nemesis from the past. I would relive that moment, the moment when my ten-year-old self chose to let fear overrule bravery, and I would do that moment over, as the new, older, wiser, braver me.

So off I went, alone, to Death Valley. I spent two nights there, and on the third morning, I reached the fork in the road marked Ubehebe Crater. More accurately, it was marked: UBEHEBE CRATER, 5 MI.-CLOSED. I guess "They" were right. You really can't go back again. Still, I drove on, hoping the sign was outdated. After a few miles I reached the loop road that led to the actual crater. Both ends of the road were barricaded with signs that said AREA CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION. The road was torn up and at the top of the hill I could see earth-moving equipment quietly and patiently awaiting the arrival of workers. Dejected, and, I admit, damn near tears, I turned my little rental car around and began to drive away. About a mile down the road I had a breakthrough: Running away when the going got tough is what 10-year-old me would do! Well, this was 32-year-old me! And I was going to go back to that closed road, walk around those barricades, and have my Do-Over! So that is what I did. I chose, in all my new-found age and wisdom, to interpret AREA CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION to mean ROAD CLOSED; FOOT TRAFFIC WELCOME! I parked my car on the non-existent shoulder, put on my hiking boots, walked up that torn-up road, and went down that steep trail into Ubehebe Crater. And I must admit, my victory was all the sweeter because I had to work that much harder for it.

My Nemesis. (Sure looked scarier when I was 10)

I don't know when the ME who dives with sharks and skydives and seeks out risk and challenge and adventure came to be. Looking back, I now think it is possible that the ME I have become was born 22 years ago, standing alone on the edge of a vast crater, watching everyone else take on life in the form of a steep, scary trail, and not liking the role of spectator. And I realized as I walked out of Ubehebe crater the day after my 32nd birthday, I was actually celebrating a whole different kind of birth.

Birthday morning hike to Wildrose Peak...

...Celebratory cupcake on top!

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