Tales of a Rambling Rover

Springtime in Bloomington: canoeing the Flatrock River

2011-04-14T22:19:00.000-04:00

Bloomington is beautiful in the spring! Flowers – daffodils, bluebells, violets, and tulips are everywhere, cheerfully sprouting out of the ground, growing by the hour. Trees all around are enveloped in a greenish – and sometimes a white or pink – haze, somewhere in between buds and fully-developed leaves and flowers. Birds chirp in the air; water gurgles in the forest. The earth is very much alive – and, with only three weeks before I'm done with my masters' degree, so am I!

This past weekend, I took a university-organized "Outdoor Adventures" canoeing daytrip at Flatrock River, some two hours north-east of Bloomington. I say "I", because unfortunately we were also told that there was only one spot on the trip, so Katrina – helped by massive amounts of work she'd intended to do that weekend – sacrificed that spot for me. Outdoor Adventures' description of the trip ran as follows:

Join us for a day exploring the Flatrock River by canoe! Depending on water levels, this could be a relaxing class I river, to an exhilarating class II moving water paddle. The Flatrock River is one of few low-level whitewater rivers in the state of Indiana. ... We'll meet the morning of the trip, at 8am at the IUOA office to talk about trip details, then we'll drive an hour and a half to paddle 6 miles of Flatrock Fun! We should return to the office by 6pm.

The trip sounded like good spring fun, though I personally had my reservations about the bold "class II" statement. When Matt had visited us last year, we'd looked at nearby river-kayaking possibilities, and had come to a definitive conclusion that Indiana is just a little too flat for real moving water. We'd still had a good time paddling the Blue River, some two hours south of Bloomington, but we were definitely paddling: the river was doing little to propel us. Still, with the beautiful sunny springtime weather now showcasing itself outside my window, combined with the chance to go with a group and the opportunity to see something new, I was pretty excited.

The day before the trip, we had received some heavy rain in the morning, followed by warm sunny skies in the afternoon. I had gone for a walk with Hazel in the woods by our house, where the influx of water had formed tiny streams along dried creek-beds. It had been a good walk, and the trickles of water (along with the blue skies and high-70s weather) had made me all the more hopeful about the upcoming trip. Perhaps now we would have a tiny bit of rapids on the river!

On the day of he trip, I woke up a little before 7 in the morning. It was still dark outside, which put a slight kink in my plan: I'd intended to bike to campus, so as to leave the car with Katrina. By the time I was ready to leave, though, the sky had lightened – indeed, I left the house with the very first rays of sunshine.

It was a pleasant bike ride. Dew still lingered on the grass, and the trees all along the road were in bloom. Patches of fog drifted lazily past the base of each "rolling hill" along the road, invigoratingly cold and fresh compared to the otherwise sunshiny road. Within forty minutes I was on campus, as awake as could be.

It took some time to grab gear and load canoes in the car, and even more time to wait for other participants, half of whom never did show up. We had with us three trip leaders, including the main organizers, Julie and Taylor, and six participants, myself included. They were all girls, which was strange, because I would have expected a more gender-balanced group, male-biased if anything. Two girls were first-year students (roommates), two girls were sisters (a fourth-year and a visiting older sibling), and one lady, Beth, was a member of the Bloomington community, training to become an outdoor leader (though just a participant for today).

By the time we arrived, in two suburbans, at the river, dropped off one of them at the take-out point, ate lunch, and transported the canoes, paddles, lifejackets, helmets, and a random assortment of gear to the riverbank, it was half past noon. Ironically, we almost left the keys to the take-out car in the glove compartment of put-in car, but while the rest of us nodded complacently, the older sister, in a split-second flash of brilliance, pointed out how remarkably foolish this would be. Instead, we wrapped the keys in a dry bag, and secured it to one of the canoes – the same canoe, in fact, that the older sister would be paddling in.

After some brief instructions, we were off floating down the river. The water was quick-moving but flat – perfect for enjoying the views while the river carried us forward. Most of the banks smoothly transitioned into a forest, but some displayed a colorful array of bluebells, or were composed of very thin sheets of rock, stacked like pancakes (maybe that's why they call if "Flatrock River"?..), or had an occasional mini-waterfall trickling down their side. Trees grew right out of the base of the water, tall sycamores with great thick trunks, shining white limbs, and little balls of seed, hanging off of delicate white branches like Christmas decorations. Many of the sycamores also had picturesque cavern-like openings in their trunks, or bumpy tentacle-like roots that extended into the river. The roots – along with stray logs and branches in the river – harbored a bunch of turtles, several on each branch, that would jump one-by-one into the murky river as we approached.

I am not sure if I'd ever been in a canoe before. I'd thought I had – but the paddling motion did not feel familiar, so maybe all I've ever been on were kayaks and rafts. In a canoe, there is only one paddle, and it only has one blade, so, in a two-person canoe, you're constantly paddling on just one side, while your partner paddles on the other. The person in the back does get a little variety, as he is responsible for steering (though it is the person at the front that can see ahead better – hence necessitating good communication!). I was the steersman in a canoe with Beth, and we made quite an excellent team. The other double-canoes housed, respectively, the two roommates, the two sisters, and two of the leaders. We also had a smaller, single-person canoe, captained (and crewed) by Taylor, the third leader.

The river continued to be mostly flat, though certain sections were punctuated by a series of class 1.5-ish water: turbulence that was noticeable, but still pretty mild and really fun. Beth and I maneuvered the canoe beautifully, and even the novice sisters – who, initially, were more piloted by the canoe than successfully in charge of piloting the canoe, had gotten into a rhythm. It was roughly then, some 45 minutes or an hour into our paddling, that we came across a bridge.

The bridge was for a highway, and was supported by two concrete pillars, which divided the river into three even sections. It was also right after a bend in the river, and in a series of those lovely rapids. Now, with all that foreshadowing and careful description, you might think we turned over here. No, we didn't. We were the first to go under the bridge, and though the current did pull us with surprising vigor towards one of the pillars, we paddled fast and hard and had a beautifully smooth ride. But the roommates, canoeing a little behind us and to our side, were swept sideways and promptly turned over on first contact. The instructor canoe dashed over to aid the roommates, whose boat was floating alongside them in the water, completely covered in water, and spilling paddles, booties, water jugs, and miscellaneous contents into the river. The sisters, meanwhile, were so caught up in watching the roommates, that they forgot about their own precarious predicament altogether – until their boat turned sideways and hit the pillar square on the side, throwing the two overboard. Taylor, in her one-man canoe, saw that she was on course to collide with the two floating sisters – and, in an attempt to not mow them down, flipped as well.

All in all, it was an eventful 10 seconds. Once on the other side of the bridge, and seeing the domino effect of canoe-flipping, Beth and I paddled hard to the bank, snatching up a couple of paddles, a neoprene bootie, and two girls along the way (well, not quite snatching up, but extending a hand; the third made it to the bank a little downriver by swimming). We were not quick enough to intercept the roommates, but the two actually looked quite content floating in the water, with Julie in the instructor boat chasing after them and the two loose canoes. Taylor, meanwhile, joined us on the bank, looking slightly dumbstruck: "You should see that boat", she said, referring to the sisters' canoe. We walked 100 yards up the river, and came to the bridge. Sure enough, the boat was there, bent at a near-90 degree around the pillar, water gushing on either side, completely inaccessible. We waited for a few minutes for Julie, but, realizing that she might well be half a mile down the river by now, we decided to turn back downriver. Except we had a bit of a problem: five people, one two-person canoe.

We toyed with the idea of loading all five of us in the boat, but Taylor, the wisest and most experienced of us, sensed that that would end very badly. Instead, she and the sisters walked downriver along the bank, while Beth and I stuck to our boat. Within a few minutes, just around a bend, we saw Taylor's canoe, floating peacefully in an eddy. It must have been floating there, undisturbed, for a good 15 minutes, but just as we approached, the boat took off downstream, and into the largest rapids we'd seen yet. We gave chase, narrowly avoiding capsizing as we reached out to the boat, only to have a standing wave wash it right out of our fingertips (and fill our canoe 1/4 full with water). Finally, the river flattened, and we managed to capture the feral boat. In another minute, we came to the bank further downstream, where the two leaders and two roommates were awaiting us.

Loss of a canoe, a paddle, a couple of water bottles, a neoprene bootie, two or three waterproof jackets, and a bit of self-confidence notwithstanding, we were actually doing pretty well. The water was cold but not icy, and the sunny 80 degree weather could not have been more welcome. Taylor and the sisters had already made it down the bank towards us, so there was nothing more for us to wait for: and it's not like we had any choice about which way to go, either. As for the lost boat, we'd have to do without it: we could not recover it by ourselves without more people and lots of rope, and even if we did manage to pull it out, the boat was in such a condition that it still would not do us much good. The roommates, as the least experienced and the most shaken by the recent swim into the water, volunteered to become "passengers", so that one sat in the middle of the leaders' boat, while the other joined Beth and I.

With three of us in a two-person canoe, the boat had become palpably less stable and maneuverable. Beth and I tried to avoid as much of the whitewater as possible, but in another 10 minutes we came, full speed, to a lose-lose choice of hitting a rock on the right, or a clump of branches on the left. We opted for the branches, and managed to almost not flip... almost. On colliding, I grabbed the branches we hit, and tried to hold the boat in place – but the bow had began to fill with water, and once it did, there was no turning back; I was merely postponing the inevitable. Soon the three of us were taking a plunge, the cold water squeezing air out of our lungs, so that I was suddenly very aware and very thankful for my lifejacket. Grabbing the boat, I guided it to shore, while muffled commotion upstream told me that we were not the only ones to have capsized; indeed, looking back, I saw that only the leader boat had remained afloat.

Another scene of gear-rescue followed, where I valiantly saved a paddle and a water jug by jumping out onto the river and swimming towards them. I was getting ready to jump in for Taylor's boat, too, but evidently the not-quite-tamed canoe had a mind of its own. Veering at and under a fallen tree, it managed to get itself 90% submerged and 100% stuck on a rock or some other submerged feature. Having already gotten myself thoroughly soaked, and as the only guy and proud member of the Chugiak High School swim team, I swam to the tree and spent a good 15 minutes trying to extricate the boat: tugging and pushing the boat, lifting and swinging the branches of the falling tree – but all to no avail. Finally, we were forced to conclude that that boat, too, was claimed by the river, at least temporarily. The leaders would have to try to extricate the uncooperative boat some other time, perhaps in a week or two, if the water level would drop.

On the shore, we once again re-grouped to find a spot for Taylor and her gear, and to go through a mental inventory of what else went missing. Nine out of nine participants were still with us – check. Three out of five boats – 60%, just barely passing. Food: probably failing, as most of it either got carried overboard, or soggy beyond repair; fortunately, I had brought an extra five or six granola bars in my backpack (note to self: extra food = always worth it). Paddles: 90%, impressive, I guess it's a good thing they're so big and they float – granted, you'd think the boats would too. Water bottles: one less than whatever we had 5 minutes ago, and one less camelback-like water jug from the group gear; that's a shame, the University won't like that. It was roughly at this point in the list that the older sister gave a cough: she'd just realized that the car keys – both sets of car keys, one for each vehicle! – were still in a dry bag, securely attached to her boat; and the boat, in turn, was crumpled on a pillar in the middle of the river, 20 minutes upstream, and completely inaccessible by us (lesson learned: always keep the keys on you, i.e., in a zippable pocket of the lifejacket... and, in the case of multiple keys, preferably distributed amongst different people!).

As it turned out, none of us had a cellphone on us (granted, the one electronic device that we did have, a camera in a supposedly waterproof ziplock, proved that maybe leaving the cellphones in the car was only for the best). So, we continued downriver, till we came to a house near the shore where Julie borrowed a phone to make an uncomfortable call to the university. I was not there to hear it, but I can imagine how it went: "so... we might need someone to pick us up... or bring us keys. Well, no, we didn't lose them, we know exactly where they are... but they're in a canoe. ... Yes, we're in a canoe too, but that one's jammed on a pillar in the middle of the river, we can't get to it... yeah, and we lost another canoe too. Yes, of course I'm serious! ... Where are we? On the river, downstream from the put-in, not quite at the take-out ... What, what do you mean no one has spare keys? – well, call the office. Oh, they're closed on Sundays, aren't they?..." Poor Julie continued down her list of University emergency contacts, while the rest of us sat on the bank, engaged in idle talk or staring down at the river. The weather was still great, and the nature resplendent. This would all be quite comic, really, if we didn't feel bad for the University's outdoor club's lost gear, or for the fact that the soonest anyone could come pick us up was some 2.5 hours away.

We continued downriver, which had now become exceedingly flat: probably a good thing, too – as refreshing as falling overboard had been, it was getting to be later in the evening and a little cooler, and none of us fancied another swim. We had less than a mile left, and at least a couple of hours until the University could get someone out to us; so, with nowhere to rush, we let the current carry us at its own speed, taking in the scenery. A goose squawked at us loudly as we passed, taking off low above the water, and landing some 50 yards away, only to repeat this another handful of times more; perhaps it was drawing us away from its nest? We also saw many more turtles, basking in the fading rays of the sun, as lengthening shadows crept over the trees and the water. Then, right as we neared our destination, a blue heron – a Native American omen for good luck – flew overhead, and then onwards and onwards... further downriver. All is well that ends well! (– And having to wash only three canoes instead of five, when we got back to campus in the wee hours of the morning, counts as "well" enough, right?!)

Europe 2010 and New GoldenPup

2010-06-20T11:05:00.054-04:00

Katrina's quick summary of our trip, given that my blogs about all of our other recent trips -- including our two-week trip to Corsica in 2007 -- are still at the work-in-progress stage, or more accurately, the hope-in-progress stage ;) ...

After a slightly frazzling start -- namely, forgetting one of our two large, 50lb bags in the trunk of our car and discovering that the only way we could get it to Europe by the time we remembered about it would cost at least 500 dollars (i.e. we did without!) -- we began our 3-week trip to Europe. We landed in Rennes, France, rented a car (for having only driven stick shift once before in his life, Michael has now become a very skilled manual driver!), and drove for about 3 hours to the northern coast of Brittany. There we stayed in a charming Chambre-d'hotes (Bed & Breakfast), where for the first time in our relationship, I got to become the speaker and the translator as Michael watched in bewildered silence as I conversed with our hosts in French (usually it is I who have silently watched the conversations between Michael and his family as they speak in Russian, in gradually diminishing bewilderment as my Russian has improved over the years)! ....

Day 1: Chateau de la Roche Jagu

Here Michael and I happened upon a "Spectacle" -- of water and glass, as it was called: it was quite interesting, though perhaps a little too mystifyingly "New Age" for us, with lots of ritualistic audience participation walking around a pond holding long glass tubes...! But there was a really interesting instrument being played during this "ceremony", made entirely of crystal tubes and water, and played somewhat like the piano, but by sliding wet fingers over the crystal, rather than pushing on hammer-like keys...

And meanwhile, the ritualistic walking had transformed into some impressive feats of yoga-like "dancing" by the two leaders...

It turns out I'm not actually that short -- I would not have been able to pass through this medieval door without the square extension on top of the arched door-frame!

And who knew that Misha was such a giant!

Day 2: Côte de granit rose (the Pink Granite Coast)

Isn't French architecture so charming?!...

Île de Bréhat: a flowery island 10 minutes away from the North shore by ferry, where no cars are allowed, and distances are given in minutes!

Abbaye de Beauport(early 13th century)

Day 3: Chateau Fort-la-Latte: a defensive castle built in the 13th century, at the same time when most of the castles in Brittany were built, in order to protect Britton independence from the growing threat of centralized French power; and Michael's favorite castle due to its impressive surroundings...

Chateau de Combourg: childhood home of famous French writer Chateaubriand (18th century), where we discovered that living in a castle might not have been a fairy-tale-come-true back in real historical life when castles were built thick and sturdy for defense (the walls are 3 meters thick!), and furnished not in the lavish aim of personal comfort, but rather dismally with damp, cold, dark rooms and towers haunted by ghosts ... (Chateaubriand himself claimed that the cat ghost who haunted his childhood room not only truly existed, but was actually just the companion of the real ghost, a lord who had died a century earlier in the same tower he would thereafter haunt, identifiable by his wooden leg....!)

Day 4: And, of course, I could not leave Brittany without exploring its mythical Celtic "landes" (moors) and forests, where the old Medieval French lais that I had been reading last semester recount of the mysterious adventures in which white deer or boar lead valiant young knights over into the "other"-world to win the love of some beautiful fairy...

And here, in the Cojoux moors, we got to see some of the prehistoric Neolithic and Bronze Age monuments (4,500-1,500 BC) that Brittany is famous for...

The charming Medieval town of Rochefort,

where we saw a horse-drawn carriage selling fresh fruits and vegetables that reminded Michael of the phrase: if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain...!

Chateau Josselin: My favorite castle, where -- because we arrived a little too late to catch the last tour -- we were kindly granted our own private tour, in which I got to practice simultaneous interpretation for Michael!

In the 11th century, this "castle" consisted only of nine defensive towers, but over the next five centuries, a much larger and more luxurious castle connecting all the towers was gradually constructed. Today, though, only a few of the original tours remain, and the history is an interesting one: the duke living in the castle in the 16th century was a Protestant, and during the terrible wars of religion in France, Cardinal Richelieu had to retaliate against this treasonous heretic. Normally, Richelieu would have had no scruples killing the duke and completely destroying the entire castle, but this particular man was actually his distant cousin, and blood ties could not so easily be forgotten.... So, he decided not to kill him, but only to destroy his castle... except that he quite admired the beauty of this Renaissance-style castle, and so decided only to destroy a few of the towers, leaving the rest intact!... lucky duke! (And later in the 19th century, the whole castle was restored and renovated in a neo-Gothic style ...)

And passing by on the way back to our Chambre-d'hote, we stopped to look at this private castle: does this chateau serve as evidence of the progress of modern geographical studies, that teach constructors NOT to build houses on the very edge of a cliff or a lake?! The variety of mold species in their basement must be quite impressive by now!

The Brittany part of out trip concluded, we spent the next day taking trains from Rennes to Cologne, Germany, where we met Michael's uncle. We stayed in his apartment for the rest of trip, spending our days traveling by bike or tram down south of the city to visit Michael's grandparents (Michael's parents and his mother's parents all immigrated out of Russian to Israel in 1993, but his father's parents and brother immigrated to Germany, lured by Germany's offer of free housing and a monthly pension as reparation for their earlier anti-Semitic crimes). There Michael played guitar, we listened to stories, and of course -- ate! We thought we had "splurged" on food and especially deserts in Brittany, where the Chambre-d'hotes provided bountiful and very sweet French breakfasts (croissants, bread with jelly, crepes with jelly, hot chocolate...) and for lunches and dinners we would enjoy crêpes and galettes (main-meal crêpes with eggs, cheese, tomatoes, onions...), but Brittany has nothing on Russian hospitality! -- you just can't say no! One day, after having already eaten breakfast at Michael's uncle's house, we came over to his grandparent's house where we could only stay for half the day. Even though we had already eaten not too long ago, his grandparents wanted us to help out in the kitchen to prepare lunch, so we entered the kitchen... and did not exit the kitchen until we had to leave their apartment four hours later! And then, getting back to Michael's uncle's apartment, we were offered to join him for his dinner! I don't think I have ever eaten so much in my life as I ate during this trip in Germany! And not only were we continually offered food from Michael's grandparents and his uncle, but every time we passed by a German bakery the delicious aroma of freshly baked pastries and pies wafted by us... As compared to other European countries, German body types are definitely those that most closely resemble Americans, and I can see why! When you go into a pastry shop in Germany, and buy some tasty-looking pastry, it's amazing how it almost always actually tastes as good as it looks!

Originally, Michael and I had planned to go on a five-day camping trip through the Austrian Alps with Michael's uncle during our stay in Germany, but unfortunately (due to our lack of most of our camping stuff in our forgotten bag in Bloomington, and to the awful weather forecast in the mountains of heavy rain and cold), we decided to cancel. Though rather disappointing, it ended up working out nicely, as we then got to spend more time with Michael's grandparents, and got to spend a few days visiting some of Cologne's surrounding castles and towns.

Our first such trip was a day-trip organized by a Russian tour group (there are apparently some million Russians living in Cologne) to explore castles along the Rhine river. Riding in a bus along the scenic river, we got to admire castle after castle, and listen to the history and legends of the area (granted, this was all in Russian, so I unfortunately missed most of the details, but Michael translated later on for me). We made several stops -- the first for wine-tasting (the valley along the rivers supports an incredibly grape-growing conducive climate) in a small medieval town where we learned about the very high standards for German wine-producing (nothing artificial allowed!), and the second for touring Marksburg Castle:

Constructed between the 13th and 15th centuries, this castle -- like all the others lining the Rhine -- was designed for defense and to charge tariffs along the river, but unlike all the other castles, it is the only one that was not destroyed by Napoleon in the 18th century to be left in ruins or subsequently renovated in the following century. Besides touring the castle and its wax museum of ancient Germanic warriors,

I also got to experience one other memorable event. Having grown up with cats, I have come to love animals with a passion, as evidenced by my decision to become a vegetarian. However, I always knew that, presumably, not all animals were as loveable, intelligent, or "alive" in a human-like way as cats are, which I assume is the usual justification people use for killing and eating them (in America at least, people would definitely object to eating cats or dogs). However, I was very surprised to discover the incredibly affectionate nature of a goat that was kept at this castle: Michael discovered that he enjoyed eating grass and flowers out of your hands, which is fun and all, but not particularly surprising. But who knew that a goat would like being rubbed and petted behind his ear so much, and would seem so sad when I had to leave!

Our last stop that night was to the city of Düsseldorf, where we joined the throngs of some million people who were celebrating the finale of a week-long Japanese festival by watching a huge fireworks display over the Rhine, and it was quite a firework display, with glittering explosions of colors and smiley-faces and the night sky shimmering with gold...

Our other trip was a two-day trip Michael and I organized ourselves by renting a car: the first day we drove to Belgium to tour the underground caves in Remouchamps, named "la merveille des merveilles" (the marvel of marvels), where we saw many impressive stalagmites, stalactites, and other rock formations, and took a boat ride through the lower, most recently formed stretch of the cave. As an aside, you can remember the distinction between stalagmites (grow up from the bottom) and stalactites (hang from the top) by the T-shape of the stalacTites (which grows downwards), and the M-shape of the stalagMites (which grows upwards). As per our tour guide, you can also use the "ants in your pants" phrase: "the ‘MITES go up, and the ‘TIGHTS (tites) come down". Afterwards, we spent the evening in the small medieval "city" of Durbuy, and toured a very unusual garden made of sculpted trees...!

The second day, we left

Belgium

and headed back to

Germany

, to visit two of the castles towering over the Moselle River: Cochem,

and Eltz:

Both castles possessed an interesting feature: a hanging mermaid winged with deer antlers, meant for good luck! (a little strange, no?!)

Michael's Uncle:

Grandfather:

and Grandmother:

And after three and a half weeks in Europe, we returned home to be greeted by the most wonderful of welcome-backs: the meows and purrs of two very loving and very furry kitties!

And only one week later, we added a new furry to our home: a 9-week old goldendoodle we have named Hazel. (And no, he's not a girl: while apparently Hazel is commonly used as a girl's name in

America

, everyone who thinks that this is exclusively a feminine name should go read Watership Down -- our puppy's namesake is that of a heroic, valiant, and altogether masculine bunny!!) Here he is in his very nice, not-so-little play-pin that Michael made for him...

And finally, our first-ever, amazing vegetable garden! We've already made ten delicious salads from our very own spinach!

Pianist Alexander Zlatkovski

2009-08-19T20:43:00.010-04:00

For those who have heard me rave about my pianist father (http://www.AlaskanPianist.com), have enjoyed listening to his CD (http://cdbaby.com/cd/alaskaklezmer), have gone to his concerts, or are otherwise interested, my father and I have recorded a few videos of his arrangements and performances (http://youtube.com/alexanderzlatkovski). Please see below:

"Ochi Chernie" ("Dark Eyes" -- Russian):

About the song (from my father's YouTube information about the recording):

This composition is little known, though its main melody is known all over the world: it is the melody of the Russian song “Ochi Chernie” (“Dark Eyes”).

Dark eyes, burning eyes
Passionate and splendid eyes
How I love you, how I fear you
Verily, I saw you at a sinister hour.

If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't be suffering so
I would have lived my life smiling
You have ruined me, dark eyes
You have taken my happiness away forever

This is a Feodor Chaliapin version of the lyrics by the Ukrainian poet Yevhen Hrebinka. The music was arranged in 1884 from the waltz composed by one F. Hermann, but not much is known about him. In some websites he is called a French composer, Florian Hermann; in other sources, a Russified German, Feodor Hermann.

I learned his waltz from Russian sheet music, where it is called “Вальс Воспоминание” (“Recollection Waltz”, in my own translation). It may be that the original title is “Hommage Valse”.

Anyway, whatever the title and whoever the composer might be, the music is beautiful and exciting. I hope you will enjoy it!

Kalinka (famous Russian folk song):

About the song (from my father's YouTube information about the recording):

Kalinka is perhaps the most famous and the most recognizable Russian folk melody. Actually, it is not a folksong: it has a definite author – the composer Larionov – who wrote the song in 1860. But it captures the essence of Russian folk music in a way unlike any other Russian song.

The word Kalinka is the name of a bush. I have seen translations as diverse as arrowwood, snowball bush, viburnum and highbush cranberry. That does not really matter, though: the name has no bearing on the meaning of the song. For that matter, nor does the song itself have much meaning! The verses do not complement either each other or the refrain. What can be extracted from this collection of incompatible lines is that a young boy is dreaming that a pretty maiden will love him.

But of course it is not the nonsense of the text, but the beauty of the music that has made Kalinka so popular. And popular it is! There are countless Russian cafes, souvenir shops, dance groups and singing choirs, named after this song. There is even a small terrier dog breed called Kalinka!

Here I am playing my own arrangement of the famous Kalinka.

"Czardas", by Vittorio Monti

I hope you enjoyed the recordings! Please feel free to pass a link to this page and/or the videos to your pianist-enthusiast-, Russian-loving-, or just plain needing-Classical-music- friends...

Hawaiian Adventures, 2009

2009-07-31T02:00:00.001-04:00

For our honeymoon, Katrina and I embarked upon a three-week camping-hiking-and-scuba-diving trip to Kauai, the "garden isle" of Hawaii. Like most Alaskans, my parents discovered Hawaii a few long winters after our move to Alaska, and since then have visited Kauai Island nearly every year, typically around February. During the spring break of my freshman year at college, my father took me to Kauai for the first time, to the majestic and isolated Kalalau Valley. Now, three years later, I was back in Kauai, this time as a "seasoned visitor", showing Katrina that which had so awed me on my previous visit, and also exploring new facets to this charming island.

Scuba Diving
Kauai Beaches (written by Katrina)
Koke'e State Park and the Grand Canyon of the Pacific (written by Katrina)
The National Tropical Botanical Gardens (written by Katrina)
Na Pali Coast and Kalalau Valley
.......... The Gruesome Trail
.......... The Welcome Valley
.......... The Uninhabited Honopu Beach
.......... The Wildlife
.......... The "Locals"
.......... The Rangers Strike Back
.......... The Return

Katrina has also written her own account of our past year, her memories from the wedding, and about our new home and future plans. For those who are interested, please read "Our first Christmas letter, a few months early!"

* * *

SCUBA DIVING

One of my fondest memories of Kauai is scuba diving. This is not to say that Kauai is actually the most ideal spot for scuba diving -- it's probably not. But it is a pretty good place nonetheless, and only on a honeymoon could I justify spending a thousand dollars for the two of us to get scuba-certified. And what a great way to spend a thousand dollars!

By this point, I had already done an "intro" scuba dive three times now (where a certified instructor teaches you how to use the scuba equipment, and then guides you under water, pointing out unusual and pretty sea life while vigilantly watching over you to make sure that nothing goes wrong). My first dive had been on the Red Sea in Jordan (http://zlatkovsky.blogspot.com/2007/08/visit-to-allahs-fascinating-land-jordan.html#Jordan_scuba), and my second and third with Katrina on the Mediterranean (in Corsica and Malta). But the intro dives are always done in shallow water (no more than 20 ft), do not allow for nearly as much freedom, and are actually more expensive in the long run then becoming a certified scuba diver yourself. So, having waited for two years since my first dive in Jordan to get certified, I was now ready to "take the plunge" (so to speak).

Our three-day course began with scuba-ing in a pool: learning how to assemble and disassemble our equipment, clear a mask, equalize our ears, share air with an out-of-air buddy, switch between a snorkel and a scuba regulator, and so forth. Though the pool was shallow, cold, and completely lacking in marine life, it was actually still pretty fun to perform all of these skills, some of which were pretty challenging (try breathing from a free-flowing regulator, bursting with air!)

On the second day, we dove in a confined ocean bay. We continued to practice skills, but, this time, the focus was more to get us comfortable with scuba-ing in the open water. We descended down a bland sandy beach, and then suddenly found ourselves surrounded by colorful corals and marine life. One memorable creature was a black starfish, with a small prickly body in the middle, and five thin, long "tentacles", reminiscent of spruce-tree branches. Another was a sea horse, uncommon to the area (usually they rest at some 200 ft below the surface, whereas this one was only some 30-40 ft below!); another still was a sea turtle (I had no idea they were so large!), sleeping peacefully in a nook between two large rocks. There were also countless fish of all varieties and colors, and one particular area housed a whole mega-school of fish, suspended motionless in the water, clustered so tightly that it looked like a woven blanket or a game of pick-up sticks, which parted around us ever so tightly as we passed through it. It was interesting to watch, too, how inter-dependent the fish were upon each other -- one sharp movement of a single fish caused the whole school to turn in that same direction. I think that Dr. Beavers was absolutely right when he remarked, once, that for all practical purposes, fish should be counted not as organisms, but as organelles, comprising the single grander entity of "school-of-fish" (whose intelligence is but an emergent property of masses of interconnected un-intelligent individual fish).

(from Wikipedia)

One remarkable thing that I learned was that scuba-divers control their ascent and descent not through inflating and deflating the BCDs (buoyancy control devices) on their backs, but through taking deeper or shallower breaths. A diver, holding a normal breath, is supposed to be neutrally buoyant: in the water, he should neither rise nor sink, but simply float in place. This neutral buoyancy is accomplished by hanging a weight belt on the diver's hips, so as to compensate for all of the extra volume of air in the divers' lungs and tank. Once the diver is neutrally buoyant, he can simply exhale extra-deep to start the descent (and breath normally afterwards, descending by force of momentum), and inhale extra-deep to stop the descent and/or start an ascent. While breathing normally and continuously, the diver tends to oscillate within a foot or two in each direction from his desired depth, though it is possible to hover completely in place by taking short shallow breaths. One fun "skill" related to neutral buoyancy was a fin-pivot exercise: to lay on the sandy surface of the ocean, inhale deeply to rise to a 45-degree angle, and then exhale back to return to the ocean surface (like a push-up). Another was the hover exercise: to hover in place a few feet above the surface, taking care to neither damage the fragile reefs below, nor to rise too high as to not see them!

The third day was more exciting still, for it involved two boat-dives (and an accompanying boat ride as a bonus!) Like the previous day, Katrina and I had an instructor to ourselves, though the boat also carried a second dive-master with a group of five divers, who were all a fun, talkative bunch. As the boat cruised by Kauai's shoreline, the second dive-master (a really hilarious lady) told us about the corals, the fish (and fish lips -- apparently fish have quite a variety of possible lip shapes), and plankton reproduction... good stuff!

Our first dive was at the "House of Turtles", where we actually did see turtles -- a nice handful of them. The turtles are remarkably graceful in the water, effortlessly flapping their giant "wings" as they glided past us, rocking their heads side-to-side in a calm, fluid manner. It was a joy to watch! We also saw two ten-foot-long sharks, one of which was a recently-mated female (as seen by the scar on her shoulder -- male sharks make abusive husbands!), who swam a short distance below us, fast and streamlined and rather intimidating in its cool indifference to our presence. And then, there were the corals and fish, of course: colorful, alien, and fun! Some favorite fish included the long, big-eyed, alligator-shaped fish (a Needlefish or a Cornetfish), a striped fish that looked very determined and robot-like and kept reminding me of some sci-fi movie (Reef Triggerfish), the aptly-named Bluespine Unicornfish (just look at it!), a black polka-dotted, really-long, jaw-snapping fish, and the ever-smiling Yellow Tang Surgeonfish. (If you are interested, YouTube has a video of someone else's diving adventures at the House of Turtles, including videos of the turtle's majestic flight through the water: check it out at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cbtGd3xvl0, 7:50 minutes into the video [and elsewhere]).

[borrowed from http://www.kauaiinfosource.com/]

Oxygen tanks exhausted, we swam back to the boat, and were soon on the way to another dive site (quite appropriately for Katrina, the "Yellow Brick Road"). On the way, to our delight, we saw a large number of lavishly-twirling spinner dolphins, which followed the boat for a few minutes. Funny creatures, those dolphins... Then, with fresh tanks on our backs, we back-flipped off the boat (in itself a hella-cool skill!) and dove down once more, swimming at about 60-70 ft below sea level, and encountering oodles of fish. There were so many fish, in fact, that it seemed completely impossible not to brush by one of them as we swam, but (whether due to the magnifying effect of the water, or due to the fishes' incredible stealth-maneuvering skills), I don't think I ever did touch one! I also had a great time watching my air bubbles rise slowly and ceremoniously through the water, and/or poking other scuba-ers' bubbles and dividing them into ever-smaller crystalline air pockets. We saw another shark (6-7 feet long), this time swimming far up next to the surface, and passing only yards away from our unsuspecting snorkeling captain! Once on the boat, we also saw two purpleish-blue Ono (65+ pounds each), circling right underneath the hull, much to the dismay of our captain, who had forgotten his fishing rods at home! (Ono means "delicious" in the Hawaiian language).

(from Wikipedia)

Scuba left me with a feeling of wonder and a longing to return to the ocean's colorful depths -- as soon as possible! And now that Kat and I are certified, it should hopefully be much easier to do... if only Bloomington were on an ocean!

KAUAI BEACHES (written by Katrina)

I have always loved the sea -- the constant power of its surging waves and the beauty of its swirling foam, and the enjoyment of sinking into sand with bare feet and watching footprints slowly fade away with each oncoming wave -- presumably due to my family's tradition each spring break throughout my childhood to visit Grandma and Grandpa Halpin in Florida and enjoy the beaches of Longboat Key. Unfortunately though, it had been four and a half years since I had last had the pleasure of visiting Florida, and two years since I had last swam in the ocean in Corsica during my year abroad, with this last pleasure being somewhat dimmed by the coldness of the water -- in May, the Mediterranean Sea was a bearable but somewhat chilly mid to high 60s. The ten-degrees-warmer Pacific Ocean coupled with the warm upper-80s Kauai afternoons of late May made swimming one of my greatest pleasures in Hawaii. Having spent five years of my life on the swim-team, I feel quite at home in the water, and with my first long-strokes towards the open sea, my long-neglected swimming muscles rejoiced as they played in the water, hovering afloat in the buoyant salt-water, sprinting towards beckoning waves, butterflying, and dolphin-spinning! Moreover, the beauty of these beaches was something that I had never seen, where the crashing of cerulean waves on crystalline sand is intermingled with the darkness of volcanic stone and framed by jutting cliffs and rearing mountains -- vertical accents that are jagged and wild, and yet gentle in the vigorous, green blanket of trees and plants that swarm upon their sides.

Each beach shore was different, offering its own beautiful charm. On the western shore of Palihale, we found miles of unbroken sand rippled by the wind and washed over by gentle, rolling waves that shimmered in the sunlight and beckoned me to swim further and further towards that calling blue infinity! (Which unfortunately caused some trouble to a watching native, afraid that he would need to rescue his third reckless tourist that summer! Fortunately, I was able to assure him otherwise as I swam back towards shore!)

On the Northern beaches of Ke'e and Tunnels, the sandy shores were interspersed with rock-like stretches of coral reefs, that only a few feet into the water harbored an unimaginable world of colorful fish!

I have never found fish to be the most exciting species of wild-life, but these fish came in such a variety of shapes and colors, that were it not for humankind's instinctual desire to gulp for breath, I would easily have found myself in danger of drowning, forgetting to breathe from fascination of such a hitherto-unbeknown world of sea-life! Simply watching their manners of swimming was mesmerizing, as each specie had its own behavior of solitary foraging or sheep-like massing, forming schools of fish undulating through the sea like an enchanted flying carpet! Swimming off the shores of the Kalalau valley, I even had the great fortune to spot a sea turtle below me, creatures I had long dreamed of swimming amongst, and yet whose grace and majesty surprised me, seeming specimens from ages ago when the world was still young!
On the shores of Manahupe we spent some time swimming amidst the colorful coral reefs, and once, gulping for air and diving below the surface again and again to catch glimpses of a large undulating red creature who seemed to be an octopus. There, too, we enjoyed the most picturesque intermingling of patches of volcanic rock formations amidst the white sand, creating little bays with still, emerald sparkles reflecting the sky above, the sand below, and the merging of sun and sea in sparkles and shimmers of all shades of blue and green!
To the west of Secret Beach, we walked along one of my favorite coasts on Kauai, that of pure volcanic rock, carved and pierced by the power of the ever-crashing ocean waves.

The breaking of these watery waves against the rock created such feats of ocean power and such beautiful foamy dances that they were a pleasure to watch, each crash causing a different size and style of dance, and each crash succeeded by the melting away of the previous surge, only to see the next surge reappear, stronger than the last!

Amidst these rock formations, pools could be found of quite a deep depth, water left over from the out-going tide and warm and deep enough to be inviting to swim in!

Moreover, this walk among the rocks (for which I highly recommend to anyone interested to wear water shoes: our first attempt along these rocks brought such pain and discomfort that the beauty was entirely lost!) brought us to a beautiful waterfall, where an inland stream flowed down upon the rocky shore to intermingle with all the other streams that have found their way to the great blue ocean!

Standing under a real waterfall has been a long-held dream of mine, and here was my chance! Despite the slipperiness of the wet and mossy rocks and the cold of the stream-spray, I crawled my way over to the bottom of the falls, and -- pound, pound, pound! I must say that I had imagined this moment to be slightly more poetic, with streaming water flowing over me and the veiled colors of the sun reflected through it. Instead, it was such a heavy flow that I could not see through it, and once under it, I felt like I was being beaten over the head with a hammer! Ah, how sad to see the illusions of childhood disappear! Nonetheless, the waterfall was beautiful, and it was an interesting experience to stand amidst it!
Above all, the beauty of these beaches was created by the constant variations of streams of sunshine interplaying with the colors of the sparkling water, the swirling clouds displaying all shades of the setting sun, and the movement of the water itself, constantly undulating and surging, pushing forward and pulling backward, swirling amidst itself in gaping chasms that close moments thereafter -- colors and movements to which the pictures can hardly do them justice!

KOKE'E STATE PARK AND THE GRAND CANYON OF THE PACIFIC (written by Katrina)

It is hard to imagine that a small island of only 550 square miles could house such different scenery as that found on Kauai. With the benefit of having our own rented car, we had the freedom of visiting all the parts of the island that we could desire, and as such, towards the middle of our stay, we drove up the half-hour winding road from the coast to the inland peaks where we spent our next five nights camping amidst the 10-degree cooler, 5,000 feet higher mountainesque interior of Koke'e. The jungle-y, mosquito-y forests and red earthen trails could not have presented a greater contrast to the sandy beaches we left behind. Here we had two memorable hikes, the first along what was called the Alakai' Swamp Trail, which promised spectacular views along the way. Beginning through a jungle-like forest with unusual trees and alien-like vegetation, (see the hairy-stemmed, claw-like stage of the developing fern!) the path proceeded along a colorful dirt trail, in which the island's natural red and orange clays intermingled with rich purples, blues and greens caused by natural mineral accumulations.

Towards the end of the trail, the dirt path transitioned to boardwalks meandering among a boggy swamp with a variety of mossy, shrubby growth (I have always loved to play with different textures as a child, from mud to peanut-butter-ball dough, and I must say that this mud had the coolest texture I have ever felt: it was squishy and soft, and yet held together and resisted impressions… quite fascinating!) The unusual vegetation, the striking colors of the natural ground, and above all the mist flowing in and out over the green growth of the valleys falling away below us and the distant blue of the ocean made this trail seem a mystical journey, reminiscent of the ancient Hawaiian rituals involving shells, grass skirts, swords, and a mysterious connection with the inner soul of the island.

The second trail we took offered even more spectacular views, as it followed the inner ridge-line of the famous Waimea Canyon.

This 10-mile-long canyon was created from the Waimea River flowing down from Mount Wai‘ale‘ale, a peak on the center of the island that traps so much rainwater each year it is actually known as the wettest spot on earth (averaging more than 426 inches of rain per year)! The steep walls of this canyon present a spectacular mix of colors: layers of black lava representing the different years of this ancient island's creation (some of which reach back some 5 millions years ago!) intermingled with the red dirt Kauai is so famous for, that results from the lava's long exposure to water and wind, which over time has caused the iron inside to rust.
Unlike the true Grand Canyon, Kauai's offers the additional display of large expanses of green growth covering the valley's wall and the cheerful gurgling and crashing splashes of several impressive waterfalls, complementing the canyon's timeless immensity with the feeling of new vigor and life.

Standing in awe of nature's power and blind vision to create such beautiful works of art, including huge arches and stone piles that surely seem to have been fashioned by man for prehistoric worshipping, the sight of the canyon's soaring white egrets frolicking to and fro, dipping and twirling throughout the wide, deep valleys offered the perfect proof of the continued vitality of this ancient place.

THE NATIONAL TROPICAL BOTANICAL GARDENS (written by Katrina)

Towards the middle of our stay on Kauai, I convinced Michael that I wanted to take a tour of the island's national botanical gardens, located on the southern shore near Poipu. Both of us really enjoyed our tour of the Allerton Gardens, though it turned out to be quite different than I had expected. Instead of wandering through miles of pretty flowers with lectures on different plant names and their properties, we were instead transported by the stories of our tour-guide back through the history of the island, beginning with the tale of the ancient Phoenicians who first colonized the island. Sailing on small rafts for months at sea, they survived their journey thanks to the animals and plants they had brought with them, which in turn helped their survival upon arriving on Kauai, whose native plants offered little edibility. Their chosen seeds and plants were selected for their numerous potential uses, not only as food, but as medicine, lumber, and tools. Looking down upon the now highly-nurtured garden valley, we were able to imagine the semi-bare valley that had first welcomed the Phoenician colonizers, attracted by the brackish water that offered the promise of plentiful fish and a fresh-water river nearby.

Interspersed with stories of the plants we were viewing, we were then taken forward to the 19th century, when the entire valley and surrounding land was transformed into a sugar plantation, and for a brief while, welcomed the beloved Hawaiian Queen Emma, bereaved from the death of her son and husband, and whose short stay left long-lasting impressions upon the valley with the naming of many a deep-purple flower after her.

And finally, arriving by trolley to the small one-mile lot we would tour by foot, we were transported to the hardships of WWII and the luxury and vision of a single man who transformed this land into the natural-looking jungle-inspired collage of green bushes, shrubs and trees intermingled with the occasional blooming flower, flowing creeks, mini-waterfalls, and various classical- and eastern-inspired sculptures and gazebos that welcome tourists today.

The result of Robert Allerton's work has been a calm and soothing tropical haven, not overwhelming in a bright patchwork of conspicuous colors, but instead offering a shady retreat from the hot afternoon sun, with the freshness of misting water and rich oxygenated air.

Having arrived on Kauai in the late 1930s, the rich Robert Allerton purchased a portion of the McBryde sugar-plantation then for sale to have a tropical-retreat from the cold winters of Illinois. On the island during December of 1941, Allerton suddenly found himself stuck on the island in the midst of a giant world war, and found, for the first time in his life, that despite all his wealth and riches, he could not bypass the war-time laws forbidding all civilian travel.

Enduring his own manner of hardships (he was so to be pitied, stuck on a tropical island for years at a time!), his long years on Kauai helped him fall in love with the island and gave him a vision of how he would transform the valley into a tropical jungle paradise. Once the war was finally over, Allerton then decided to donate his mainland park and manor home to the University of Illinois, and to bring his adopted son and skilled water architect with him back to begin work in the Kauai valley. Here there was an interesting story of how he cleverly chose to invite native workers to help with his landscaping, erecting trees and digging out streams, once everything had already been prepared and set in place. Thus, in one day, Allerton could save money and time by not hiring special landscaping labor, and at the same time make friends with the natives who could feel themselves a part of his work and benefit from a good lunch all at once!

Later, upon returning to Illinois and discovering the chaos and destruction that had been wrought upon his campus donation, Allerton clearly stipulated in his will the desire to have everything in his Kauai garden maintained by the National Tropical Botanical Garden (which he had helped to start) exactly as he left it. After the death of the Allertons, our tour-guide led us finally forward into contemporary times and the modern reality of needing to hold true to Allerton's last wishes in his will, despite its cost. For most interesting of all was the discovery that everything we were seeing, all the natural-looking tropical vegetation, was naught but an illusion, one that cost some 65 gallons of water a day to prevent the whole "paradise" from dying away and returning to the island's natural sparser and dryer vegetation within one month! The importance of maintaining such a costly illusion, due to the stipulations of Allerton's will and the desire to conserve the land for public research and tourism struck me as a strong demonstration of the shifting values of humanity over the centuries, from the land, money, and effort being spent towards transforming nature into a pleasure garden for the individual enjoyment of a single rich man to the focus of conserving land for humanity at large, now that land has become such a precious commodity and each person has continued to gain greater worth in world eyes.

Along the way, we were also enlightened by interesting stories about the plants we were seeing. Mango, for example -- such a popular tropical fruit and so enticing to weary hikers hanging on the many wild trees growing alongside the island trails -- is of the same species as poison ivy! The liquid produced in the stems of the fruit cover the fruit with its poison-ivy-like protection, that makes picking the mangos with bare hands a dangerous endeavor! It is instead better to pick them up with a shirt and let them sit a few days until the poison-ivy-liquid has a chance to wear off. A good tip to know before starting a week-long hiking trip! Moreover, another good tip to know is that apparently poi, a staple on Hawaii made from the taro plant, is so filling and full of nutrients that not only would it be a good sustenance on a long hike, but it was also known to quiet babies all through the night! And one particular tree showed an amazing story of survival: when during storms or strong wind, the tree was pulled up by the roots and toppled over, its branches could actually dig into the ground and act as roots, allowing the tree to live just as long sideways as it would have lived upright!

We also heard again the story of the infamous Hawaiian roosters…

A tourist visiting Hawaii can always be differentiated from a native (or from a camper) by their desire to take pictures and feed the ‘cute little roosters' all over the island. This Hawaiian emblem might seem cute for about one day, but try sleeping outside on a public campsite where food crumbs litter the ground, and the following day you will no longer think the roosters cute, but a public nuisance needing extermination rather than feeding. I knew that roosters crow at dawn, and thus I had expected to be awoken around 5-5:30 by their crowing, but surely there could be no mistake about the potential rising of the sun at 11:30pm, 12:00am, 12:30… it seems that they have become such a stupid breed of roosters -- initially bred domestically on the island for the enjoyment of cock-fighting, and then ‘freed' during a hurricane that let them loose to interbreed at will -- have no idea when the sun will actually rise, and so keep crowing every five minutes just to make sure that they won't miss it! As per Michael's theory, the increase of tourists and locals at the beaches and public places across the island provides the roosters with a continual food supply, rendering it unnecessary for them to fly around the island looking for food, which in turn prevents them from intermingling with all the other roosters. This leads to a catastrophic degree of inter-breeding, whereby each successive generation, much like the moody, violent, and extremely temperamental kings of England and other royal families -- suffers degradation from lack of new gene mixing (i.e. gets dumber and dumber!). The turning point of this vicious cycle will be when the roosters get so dumb that they no longer remember how to eat or breed, and hence cleanse the gene pool of their unwelcome presence. However, this long-awaited cycle could be facilitated if tourists would simply stop feeding them and leaving crumbs everywhere, preventing the roosters from continuing their disastrous interbreeding! Or, of course, if tourists could simply give in to their desire to enjoy the rare delicacy of Hawaiian rooster for their next dinner! (I know that I, a vegetarian, am quite the hypocrite for stating this, but nonetheless, Kauai roosters truly are a public nuisance!)

Our last exciting venture in the gardens was getting to visit two of the filming sites for Jurassic park, one through a jungle walk where the scene of the attack of the hunter by the three velocirapters was shot, and the other of the large bay fig trees used to film the discovery of the somehow-born-in-the-wild-to-all-female-dinosaurs egg shells, and where the two kids pet the "vegiosaurus" from the high branches.

The roots of this tree were indeed huge and Jurassic-looking, but it was moreover an interesting irony that such a movie with such a message of life somehow "finding ways" to survive and evolve would be filmed in this man-made, unnatural garden, one in which masses of water are required to maintain the illusion of a natural jungle, and one in which a variety of strongly invasive plants, including the famous bay fig trees, could easily take over the island if they were let loose, destroying native plants and natural variety, and held back now only by the efforts of gardeners and the current lack of pollinating species to these introduced plants.

NA PALI COAST AND THE KALALAU VALLEY

The "Ultimate" hike on Kauai is considered to be the Kalalau trail, leading through the remote and rugged Na Pali coastline to the majestic splendor of the Kalalau Valley. The trail twists and turns along the near-vertical mountain slopes, up and down, into small valleys and back out of them, onward and onward. It is only 11 miles long, and both the start and the finish are at sea level -- but, between all of the ups and downs, 5,000 ft of elevation are gained and lost, and the trail is gruesome under the hot sun and with a large backpack. Finally, the trail gives way to a large, semi-circular valley unlike any other along the way: two mountains, tall and intricate, stand as sentries on either side, while the whole of Kalalau, like an amphitheatre, climbs upwards into the interior of the island, sending down shoots of green and intricate hills, reminiscent of spruce trees. By the trail, a green meadow -- sometimes with wild sheep grazing nearby -- slopes towards the sea, some 100 ft below; and, through the heart of the valley, a large creek bubbles gaily as it slips by rocks and trees, forming myriads of little pools along the way. A mile away, a sandy beach approaches the ocean, into which the sun dramatically sinks every evening amidst a sea of glowing clouds.

THE GRUESOME TRAIL

It is a magical valley, but there is a price to pay for this magic: the trail, with 8-days worth of supplies on one's back, is no cakewalk. On the way there, my backpack weighed between 55 and 60 pounds, depending on how recently I had filled up my water bottles; Katrina's too, was upwards of 45. Some of the weight was sheer idiocity: for the first two miles (until some bleedin' wild cats ran away with it, and in so doing saved my back!), I carried two pounds worth of pasta sauce -- not the most ideal camping food! But most of the other weight was necessary: two backpacks, a tent, sleeping pads, blanket, clothing, camping food, snack bars, gas stove, fuel... With a backpack rising far above my head, I looked like a sweating, exhausted ant, trying to carry a twig too large for its own weight (Kat: "Does any ant actually sweat? -- then again, does any sane human actually hike this trail with a 60-pound backpack?!")!

THE WELCOME VALLEY

But how gratifying was the sight of Kalalau, when, standing on the "Red Hill" at the very "lip" of the valley, as ruddy-cheeked as the red dirt below us, we could sense that our destination was mere minutes away! Like a mountain goat I raced down the slope (admittedly, with the backpack being as heavy as it was, I had no choice but to obey gravity's pull!), ready to kiss the spot where I could finally lay down my backpack! We set up our tent on a bluff right next to the green meadow, some 20 feet away from the near-vertical drop to the ocean; from there, we had a magnificent view both of the valley behind and the ocean below. In the days that followed, we kept the tent as our base camp, returning to it each evening to cook dinner and to watch the sunset, while we spent most of the rest of our day exploring the valley sights.

And sights there were! Within the very heart of the valley, the creek provided a ceaseless variety of pools and cascades, each with its own unique look and murmur. The Ginger Pool, the "Twin Falls", the "Troika" Falls... each was a treasure in its own right! Some of the pools were deep enough to swim in, and we'd swim against the current, which proved harder and harder as we neared the head of the fall; other sections were more like a slip-and-slide, slippery and swift; others yet were best left alone, as the powerful creek sent shimmering pulses of water into the air like a waterwheel. We hiked -- mostly along the river -- as far as the Big Pool, some two miles into the valley, catching glimpses of a waterfall on a distant slope; along our path, we also came across the stone remains of ancient Hawaiian dwelling places and walls.

Then there were the evenings, our favorite time in Kalalau. During the day, it was too hot to stand, unprotected, on the ocean bluff, overlooking the waves below us and the mountains surrounding us; it was better to seek cover in the valley groves, or to swim in the cold Kalalau stream. But, as the sun began to dip, we could go back to the bluff for a spectacular view of the whole semicircular valley and its jagged peaks, now immersed in pink hues from the radiant glow of the sun's setting rays. Slowly, the sun would proceed to set, entering a broken sea of clouds that almost always seemed to form on the western skies, emerging in and out of them to cast its precious last sparkles upon the earth. And then, with a last farewell glance, the sun would set into the ocean -- or, more precisely, almost into the ocean, for we noticed that each time there was a thin layer of clouds on the very edge of the horizon, into which the sun would sink before "hitting" the water (could it be because, slanted as they were, the sun's rays had to cover more atmospheric distance to reach us than when the sun was overhead, and so the slanted rays were invariably bound to hit a cloud somewhere along their long path? This is my theory, but I will gladly learn otherwise from my astute readers...)

The sun would set, but the evening would not. Slowly, the pink hues would turn purple and then a shade of muted violet; slowly the mountains would lose their crisp sharpness, slowly the bright clouds overhead would melt into the night sky... And each stage was so beautiful! Then, at last, the evening would give way to the night. On all but two nights, the moon -- a full moon during our stay -- would come out almost immediately after the sun had set, so bright in the valley, away from any other sources of artificial light, that we had to wear a sleeping mask in order to fall asleep! But on our last two nights, the moon had fallen behind the sun's setting schedule, and we were treated to an unparalleled view of our galaxy: myriads of stars, like countless diamonds, sparkling right above us, so luminescent that it seemed like we should be able to get up and pluck one right out of the sky! It was truly a stargazers' heaven, complete with a few shooting stars to make the moment even more memorable. For a long time we gazed into the constellations and the far-away unbeknown, feeling a connection both to galaxies- (Michael the scientist) and civilizations- (Katrina the archeologist) of the past...

THE UNINHABITED HONOPU BEACH

When I came to Kalalau last time, during the winter season, the beach was deserted: there was not a soul there except for me and a single Monk Seal. Now, with the seas calm, the beach (alas!) was actually teeming with people who had kayaked in, but the calmness of the seas allowed us to swim to a different beach, Honopu, uninhabited and beautiful. As we swam, we came upon a few tiny islands, covered in seaweed, where I played "king of the mountain" by scrambling on top of them -- and then trying to properly time my descent so as not to be crushed by an incoming wave! Katrina, in turn, swimming a little further in the ocean, was rewarded for her bravery by observing a sea turtle. When we got to the beach itself, we found its sand to be remarkably fine and moist, and the views from the beach -- the steep mountains, the distant mist, the ocean bay, and a stone arch in the middle of one of the walls -- were fantastic. In the very center, next to the arch, pounded a thin but tall waterfall, which shook me like grass in a hail storm when I foolhardily attempted to stand beneath it. From the waterfall also flowed a small creek, whose banks -- from the continuous erosion of sand by the water and wind -- resembled a miniature model of the jagged and picturesque mountains rising overhead. It was remarkable to watch the forces of nature create and destroy these sand mountains, and to imagine how the whole island and its sandstone mountains were carved by these very same forces. It was like watching a time-lapse video of the geological evolution of Kauai...

THE WILDLIFE

Apart from the sea turtle, we saw a group of dolphins almost every morning, though the dolphins were too far away to see them in great detail. (We did get an offer to go on a kayak with another couple to view the dolphins, but when we woke up in the morning, our ride was gone -- see the "Ranger" section). We also observed some birds (most notably, Katrina's favorite South American Cardinal) and some really tiny frogs (less than 1/2 inch in length!) at the river. The only other notable animals were the mountain goats, though they seemed to be less plentiful this year than when I had last come.

Speaking of mountain goats, those grass-chewing pellet-dropping machines can actually be a quite a hazard! On my way back from Kalalau three years ago, I was walking along the trail on one of its steeper parts, with near-vertical cliffs above and below me, in the drizzling rain. I was listening to my mp3 player -- a cheap $40 kind, which, over its long life and particularly over it rainy stay in Hawaii, had developed a particular pickiness with regards to responding to its buttons. After fiddling with the mp3 player in my pocket, I finally stopped, took it out, gave it a nice little shake to recognize me by, and proceeded to wiggle its capricious buttons into obedience. As I did so, a large rockslide tumbled over the very spot where I would have been walking, had I not paused; evidently, my approach had scared a few timid goats, far overhead, who were now hurling stones at me in retaliation! And the fickle mp3 player -- that attention-demanding, unresponsive, extra-sensitive piece of $40-dollar electronic junk -- well, it just saved my life!

By the time that Katrina and I made this trip, I had long lost that ailing but venerable mp3-player, having upgraded to an iPod Touch (the "iPhone without the phone") -- a beautiful piece of technology that is reliable, resilient, and a joy to behold! As such, I had to take extra goat-safety precautions. Fortunately, as the ads say, with an iPhone (and iPod Touch), "there's an app for just about... anything" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TGQtk1iAQY). Enter GoatWatch 2.7, a revolutionary application that utilizes the device's camera, accelerometer (for sensing goat-caused turbulences in the air), GPS, and an extended database of goat sightings (available via the 3G network) to alert the user of potential danger, and to signal a fog-horn-like sound via its built-in external speakers. Now that's what I call a useful application! (... April Fools, anyone?)

THE "LOCALS"

No account of Kalalau would be complete without describing "the locals". They are an eccentric and lively group of people, who come to Kalalau not like us "tourists" -- those who come for only a few days, whose gear is of showy REI brands, who carry camping fuel for cooking and chlorine tablets for filtering the water, and who, when not hiking, belong to the "normal" outside world -- but as residents, who walk barefoot (and/or bare-naked!), who stay for weeks, who have little gear, and who have chosen to come to Kalalau precisely to escape the "normal" outside world! Some live in bamboo huts that they have built deep in the valley; others simply carry a pack on their backs and sleep or eat where it pleases them, visiting fellow "locals" or sleeping ‘neath the sky wherever the evening finds them. They share a common culture, talking of the "powers" of Kalalau, calling each other "brothers" and "sisters", wishing "blessings" upon everyone they meet, and sharing communal food (often cooked around their large campfire in the "Sanctuary" -- a large camp of many a strung tarps, decorated with Hindu flags and other tapestries). Their Sanctuary was in the woods immediately behind the bluff, not far from our tent; and, in the evenings, we sometimes did hear them talking and laughing and playing musical instruments, and once they even gathered on the bluff to have one of their guys demonstrate some pyro-acrobatics.

They are hippies of days gone by, meditating in the forest, swimming in the streams and pools, playing musical instruments (bamboo flutes, drums) and living almost self-sufficiently in their valley, returning to the rest of the island only once every several months to re-stock on a few staple supplies. Hearsay has it that some make their living by growing and selling marijuana, in exchange for supplies and food that come to them via a small boat (the boat -- along with newly-arrived hippies -- we did see; the marijuana we did not, though we did hear the locals talk about smoking weed). Most of the "locals" we saw were in their late twenties or early thirties, though a few were probably in their late 60s. One such "old timer" was "Kalalau Ron", nicknamed "mayor" of Kalalau, who has lived there for 20+ years, making and selling bamboo flutes and even recording a CD of his music right in the valley. Here is an excerpt from his website, http://www.kalalauron.com/ -- yes, I know, I was surprised too! -- about his CD:

"My first recording, entitled Kalalau Stew, was literally a dream come true. I've been playing around campfires for years and often thought about recording some of these fantastic jams. But I wasn't about to leave the woods to make it happen. Eventually someone showed up with portable recording equipment and we made this CD... and I never had to leave the valley, make a phone call or sign a contract."

One of the first locals we met was a handsome guy with a huge 6-foot stick ("telescope", he joked), which he said was a musical instrument, like an oversized flute, but one that he fills with stones to get it to the proper pitch or resonance. Almost immediately we saw another local couple, most memorable for the girls' unusual attire: she was totally naked, but the large backpack on her back and the bag in her arms rendered her no more naked than if she were wearing a conservative swimsuit! A few days later we saw our "telescope" friend again at the Ginger Pool -- he knelt in front of it, put his hands together as in a prayer, and then dove headlong into the chilly water, kicking vigorously against the current until he emerged straight underneath a small waterfall. He opened his eyes, mediated for a few moments, asked us not to neglect to go for a swim ourselves ("blessings, blessings!"), and then disappeared down one of the many "hippie trails" (a mesh of small interconnected paths that extend throughout the valley). As for the couple, we proceeded to see them almost every day in the valley, clothed, more often than not, like the children of Eden.

For all their hippy tendencies, I could not help almost envying the locals' strange lifestyle -- to be able to live out in nature, in a close bond with their eccentric community, and to find ways to occupy themselves in the valley (gardening, meditating, keeping the river clean from natural debris, cooking "spiritual pizzas", etc). As we had plenty of extra food, we invited a few of them to join us for dinner on our second-to-last day in the valley. We had a delightful evening, talking to the one "truly local" hippy (formerly an Alaskan), two "soon-to-be locals" (who had come only a few days ago, but had immediately bonded with the existing community and the Kalalau spirits), and a tourist-esque college-graduate girl who, like us, was only visiting. Two of them (the Alaskan and the formerly-surfer/rug-cleaner) were discussing their plans to go settle deeper in the valley, away from the rangers -- the one fear of the otherwise worry-free community -- and to build themselves a camp in the bamboo groves. The surfer had come to the valley rather under-packed, with little food, and without even a blanket, but he was planning to stay for at least a few weeks -- things would turn up, he said. And that they did -- when we left Kalalau two days later, we gave him some 10 pounds of extra food (soups, pasta, milk powder), complete with a can of propane gas and a water jug. As for that evening, we prepared a "gourmet" meal of MountainHouse pasta primavera goodness -- the very "deluxe" variety of expensive freeze-dried camping food, quite unlike the locals' usual fare of 15-cents-a-package Ramen noodles...

THE RANGERS STRIKE BACK

I should say that we were never sure if we had been camping legally. We had a valid permit, which is more than could be said of the locals, but it was only for five out of the seven nights we stayed in the valley, and we were camping on the bluff, whereas the "official" campsite was at the overcrowded beach. On our last full day at Kalalau, I was returning from the creek after washing dishes, when I suddenly heard the approaching roar of a helicopter, and, to my horror, realized that it had set right next to our tent, on the other side of the wood. The rangers had come!

Racing back to the tent, I tried to regain my composure and to prepare an answer to any possible question from the ranger. Why were we camping at the bluff? Because, when we came in, we saw another tent here, and there seemed to be nothing to indicate that this was not allowed. Why did we stay an extra night? Well, I'd have to bend the truth on that one, but I could say that we were planning to leave the day before, but I had injured my leg on a slippery rock at the river, and was waiting an extra day for it to heal, before embarking on the treacherous trail.

It was not long before we were indeed visited by 3 policeman/rangers, dressed for battle. One was wearing a bulletproof vest and carried a gun, a stick, a radio, and the somber demeanor of an enforcer of the law; the others looked only a little less intimidating. They asked if we had a permit, and looked rather surprised when we said we did. "Oh, good!", exclaimed one, "I was starting to get a writer's cramp! [from writing all those court orders to the locals]". They checked the permit, said nothing of our location or of the fact that the permit was one-day expired, and, seeing some shoes laying on the grass a short distance away, motioned to each other to sneak quietly in that direction...

That morning, we saw a number of grumbling locals (including our friends from the previous evening), who had all gotten $150 fines from the rangers; evidently, we were the only ones to have permits. Others, who were not caught off guard, went into hiding somewhere upstream. "Helicopters, cops creeping in the woods... like f-ing Vietnam!" cursed a passing-by local. Kalalau Ron told us of last year, when the rangers came rappelling off of cliffs and helicopters in a major "assault" against the locals, burning and destroying their tarps and dwellings; it did nothing to stop the local population, but it generated a whole bunch of trash that the locals had to meticulously pick up...

By the time we came to the beach two hours later, we saw some 20+ rangers standing at their station, ready to be helicoptered back out. What was even more surprising than their sheer number was the beach -- it was now completely empty! Hardly a person remained; the vast majority, who had come by kayak, must have taken flight into the water. The same, unfortunately, was true of the couple who had promised to take us dolphin-watching on their kayak -- they were nowhere to be found. We still had a good time splashing in the waves, and we saw the dolphins quite close to the beach when they came, but the water was too choppy and the dolphins too quick to be able to swim to them...

On the whole, the rangers seemed to be held in low esteem by the locals, who of course have a bias -- but we too felt that the rangers were not particularly friendly or helpful. During their two-hour wait to be helicoptered out (there was only one chopper, and only four could fit in at a time), the rangers just stood there at the landing side, not bothering to clean up the trash in the area, or even to put in new toilet paper into the toilets nearby. Nor do the rangers seem to maintain the trail -- this work is done by the hippies and by volunteers, whereas the rangers just fly in by helicopter. We can certainly see how the $100 that we paid for camping permits could have easily been used up in the helicopter assault -- but I daresay that it was of little benefit to us, honest tourists as we were...

What the rangers should do about the hippies is a difficult issue. Kalalau's appeal lies in its seclusion and natural beauty, which, of course, would be violated if an uncontrolled number of hippies were to roam loose in the valley. All the same, the hippies are taking care of the land (cleaning the river, preventing erosion, controlling the goat population), and are there for spiritual meditation and fulfillment -- and who could deny them this right? Most are dirt-poor -- our Gregory backpacks, tent, and hiking boots stood in stark contrast to their sacks, old blankets, and bare feet -- and would never be able to afford a place as beautiful or a valley as filled with abundance as Kalalau. Here the cost of living is just the cost of foods they can not grow themselves, and of occasional camping supplies (some of which come free, courtesy of overpacked tourists) -- where else in the civilized world would the locals find similar conditions? What is clear is that the park rangers' current system simply causes frustration and animosity between the locals and the government, while costing time and money both to the hippies (hiding and re-building their encampments) and the state. For my part, my sentiments go with the hippies...

THE RETURN

To each good thing there comes an end; after spending six nights at Kalalau, we took one last stroll up the river and down the valley, stood for one last time on the perfectly-aligned rock in the center of Kalalau, and then headed back to civilization -- up the Red Hill, down the other side of the valley, over a dusty bare section, and up, up, and onwards... for 11 miles. Our food supplies exhausted or left behind, our backpacks were significantly lighter than on the way to Kalalau, but it was still a full day of strenuous journeying before we made it to the trailhead at Ke'e Beach. There we collapsed, thinking of the story that the kayaker couple told us a few nights before.

The first time that the couple had come to Kalalau, they had come with a friend, by boat. One evening, as the lady was filling up water at the waterfall on the beach, a tall, sweaty, and seemingly delirious guy came up to her, grasping her hand. "Is that it then, the waterfall?", he asked her with a trembling voice. She assured him that this was, quite undoubtedly, a waterfall; but what, she asked, was he looking for? Apparently, the poor guy was only intending to go to the waterfall that is 4 miles from the trailhead, but he had taken the wrong turn, and kept going and going, determined to make his journey worthwhile. Tired, without food or water, he fell down the Red Hill ("a controlled fall", he explained; "not too controlled", jeered the couples' friend, looking at the guys' dirt-splattered white attire and multiple scratches), and finally made it to the absolute dead end -- the waterfall at the end of the beach, past the 11-mile marker! "Where am I", "How do I get out of here?", he kept asking. He was told that the only way out was the way in -- the 11 mile trail. "Then again", said the friend with the boat, "I could take you out tomorrow, two hundred dollars". "Two hundred?", the guy hesitated, thinking of the large sum of money; then he thought back on the slippery trail, of his aching muscles, of his lack of water, and was glad to be let off so easily -- "can we go now"?

In the morning, at dawn, we packed the tent and got ready to go. Before departing, I jumped into the completely deserted ocean for one last time -- the water was perfectly still in the protected bay, and, in the first rays of sunrise, the ocean was refracting all the colors of the rainbow, as if I was swimming through molten metal. It was a spectacular feel -- and a worthy end to our Kauaian adventures. Then we put the familiar packs on our backpack and hitchhiked out to Princeville, where we took a bus to the airport and flew back to Kansas... to a new life with a honeymooned wife!

Our Very Own Wedding!

2009-07-30T16:23:00.001-04:00

Having never been to a wedding before, I was not quite sure what to expect of my own. From the very beginning, the whole process of preparation was a bit beyond my normal sphere of expertise -- a computer scientist is just not trained for making color-matching decisions, choosing the number of tiers and toppings on a cake, or helping his soon-to-be-wife with hemming her wedding dress. So, with that in mind, not only would I like to offer full credit for the wedding to Katrina and her mother, but I should also say that I was absolutely amazed at how beautifully the wedding worked out!

Anyone reading this knows that Kat and I are unique in our tastes, to say the least. We wanted our wedding to be outside, in a pretty place, with flowers and fragrant fresh air; we wanted our wedding party to be clad in beautiful renaissance costumes; a grand piano with classical music and renaissance dancing; a cake adorned with pretty designs and ripe colorful berries; perfect weather -- bright sky with just a touch of clouds, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 68-69 degrees... What is remarkable is that after a year of preparation, all of the above -- including the unpredictable mid-May weather! -- was indeed granted to us!

Our wedding took place at Powell Gardens -- a beautiful botanical garden in western Missouri, half an hour east of Kansas City. The wedding was mostly attended by Katrina's numerous relatives, but we also had a few friends from Evansville who were able to make it (it is a day-long drive), my parents (who drove all the way down from Alaska, taking a month and a half for the round-trip!), two friends from high school (Erik and Ian) who acted as groomsmen and flew down from their respective colleges, and three of Katrina's friends from high school (including her two bridesmaids, Anna and Lauren). For the wedding party, Katrina had meticulously sewn beautiful Renaissance costumes throughout all of the previous year, and some of her relatives likewise chose to buy (or, in the case of Katrina's parents, hand-sew) appropriate Renaissance attire.

We (the wedding party, minus Katrina) arrived to the gardens an hour early, and -- while Katrina was getting her hair braided -- walked around the gardens. Then, an hour before the ceremony, we (plus the now hair-braided and blissfully smiling Katrina) changed into our festive costumes, ready for pictures. We began to stroll through the majestic gardens again -- but this time, like a royal procession, dressed in rich attire, with flowers about us, bouquets in the girls' hands, and a photographer to document these splendid moments. It was a remarkably surreal experience, not only because the wedding -- this mysterious event, to which so much effort and thought and emphasis had been given, and whose purpose I had not clearly understood until that very moment -- had finally begun, but because we did look so natural and yet so out of the ordinary as we strolled down the wooded paths, amidst the flowers and the completely bewildered but admiring visitors!

We had a very efficient, thorough, and confoundingly-quick-speaking photographer. He took pictures of the two of us (standing, walking, leaning towards each other, facing each other, facing the chapel, kneeling, kissing, dipping…), of the whole procession (Bride's parents, bride's parents and the bride, Katrina and each of her parents separately, groomsmen only, bridesmaids and Katrina, the in-laws, and any combination of the above), of various groups in and out of the chapel... (If you have not yet seen the pictures, and the ones in this post are not enough, by all means visit http://zlatwedding.googlepages.com/weddingphotos).

After the "garden tour", we made our way to the picturesque chapel where our wedding ceremony was to take place, muttering our still-needing-to-be-memorized vows as we went. Inside the chapel, classical music (courtesy of an iPod) was playing, and friends and family were talking amongst themselves, getting ready to sit down. At exactly five o'clock (or, potentially, some ten minutes later, but we were in our own time zone -- quite literally, as we had our own recording of a five o'clock bell chime!), our ceremony began.

We (mostly Katrina) had put some deep thought into the program -- or, really, into most anything throughout the whole wedding! Katrina was also particularly fond of traditions (whether real or created on the fly!), so they were numerously interspersed throughout the program. For the seating of the parents we used "Sunrise Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof, much as it was used in Katrina's parents' wedding. Similarly, for the wedding processional, we played a recording of my father's own arrangement of "The Swan" by Saint-Saens, which was played to my parents at their wedding. During the ceremony we exchanged rings that we had hand-made ourselves out of Alaskan birch during the previous summer, and which, as per the Russians, we wore on our right hands. Also in honor of my Russian cultural heritage (and because Katrina wanted a pretty new rug for our new home), we said our vows while standing on a special carpet. Not to forget my Jewish ancestors, though, we sipped grape juice out of a beautiful goblet at appropriate times during the ceremony, and had the bridesmaids carry lit candles (symbolizing the presence of God, as in the fire on Mount Sinai when God chose Israel as his chosen people). In the middle of the ceremony, to give everyone -- and us -- a chance to meditate and to breath in the moment, I sang "Adon Olam" ("Lord of the Universe", a lovely Jewish prayer), which we balanced nicely with an equally traditional-Christian "Ave Maria", in a beautiful recorded rendition by the Libera Boy's Choir.

After the seating of the parents and grandparents, we began the ceremony by playing a segment from Carl Asch's "Nature Boy", during which the two groomsmen and two bridesmaids walked up to the altar. This was followed by a perhaps-eccentric fairytale that Katrina and I wrote, and which I narrated to clips of music from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake (the full text of the story, along with a recording of my narration, can be found in my previous blog post, here: http://zlatkovsky.blogspot.com/2009/05/once-upon-swan-lake.html)

Then Judy, our pastor, walked up the aisle, to the triumphant processional music from "The Sound of Music", followed by Katrina, to the graceful, flowing melody of "The Swan". Judy spoke beautifully of love and marriage and of a personal prayer for us, and of how we were gathered here in the presence of our friends and in the beauty of these gardens to celebrate the bonding of our souls. It was a very special moment, though so surreal did it feel, that I can hardly remember anything particular about the ceremony, except for a haze of happiness and the feeling of something profound happening about me. I looked about me throughout the ceremony, observing Judy and the chapel and our friends... yet all I truly saw was Katrina, with her braided hair, her astoundingly-blue veil, and an expression of radiant bliss upon her face. We exchanged our hand-made rings, recited our vows to each other, listened to more of Judy's talk... and, rather suddenly, were pronounced man and wife and, still dazed, were prodded gently by Judy to walk down the aisle, to the accompaniment of "Le Mariage" from the French "Les Miserables": "be happy, cherish each other forever, and make many children of love".

The ceremony over, more pictures were taken in the chapel -- of various groups, of Katrina and I, and of Katrina herself in the full glory of her trailing blue veil (the photographer assigned me my first task as a husband: to stand on one leg upon a bench, holding my arms ridiculously to the sides of me, so as to cast a shadow upon Katrina's face for the picture). This done, we asked the photographer to take more pictures of Katrina and I in the gardens -- now at a more leisurely pace than our earlier entire-wedding-party procession towards the chapel -- as we headed, this time, towards the reception building, on the other side of the gardens. Meanwhile, our groomsmen and bridesmaids (and also our devoted helpers, Leona and Josh) took everything from the Chapel to the reception building, and helped put some finishing touches on everything, including Katrina's car, which they decorated with lavish pink-ness and just-married-ness!

The reception took place in Powell Gardens' beautifully-transformed Cafe, decorated with garlands and centerpieces and flowers and fancy chinaware. To the side was the wedding cake, ornately decorated and surrounded by colorful berries and a swan sculpture on top. My father played upon a grand piano, brought in for the occasion, and was joined for some of the Jewish and Klezmer music by his friend Marcus Bishko, playing the flute, which whom he had recorded a CD some five years ago (http://cdbaby.com/cd/alaskaklezmer). At each table there were ornate place cards and shiny golden bells (which were rang to prompt us to kiss, along with shouts of "Gorko", meaning "Bitter" in Russian -- a Russian tradition whereby guests tell the couple to kiss so as to "sweeten the bitter wine", much to the enjoyment of Katrina's relatives! [Note to self: never again hand out embarrassment weapons to such a rowdy crowd!] ).

We were greeted by a receiving line, where I was introduced to some of the relatives that I had not yet met, and Katrina's parents, in turn, were introduced to some of our friends. As he passed through the line, Kris, Katrina's computer-science brother, "upgraded" me from a handshake to a hug, followed -- with the help of a few drinks, no doubt! -- by a "hug 2.0" at the end of the reception (a bone-crushing hug while being lifted off of the ground)!

While the musicians proceeded to entertain us, dinner began, followed by a series of toasts. Erik told three entertaining toasts in the Georgian (country Georgian) tradition: of Successful Transactions, Real Men, and Best Friends. Georgian toasts always begin with an often-convoluted story, which then transitions -- sometimes rather unexpectedly -- into the "message" of the toast. For those who were not at the wedding to experience this fun aspect of Georgian culture, here is one of the toasts (borrowed and modified slightly from http://www.irakli.ru/english/toasts.html):

Two friends were traveling on a hot day to a market to sell their wine. On the way, they stopped to rest and eat. "How good it would be to drink a glass of wine now", sighed one. "Good indeed", said the other. "But we are bringing this wine to sell and can't waste a single drop." The first rummaged through his pockets and found a five-kopeck coin. "Pour me five-kopeck's worth of wine", he said. His friend poured the wine and, handing him back his money, said, "Now pour me some". So the money went back and fourth until the wineskins were empty and the two friends snored drunkenly, well-satisfied with their deal.

So let us drink to successful transactions!

Then Ian got up, proclaiming that he can't be outdone by his fellow groomsmen, and proceed to charismatically deliver a story of his own making, also modeled after the Georgian tradition: (Ian, thou art remarkably clever!)

Three friends were hiking through the woods. They came to a sunny patch of forest, and the first friend said, "The sun is nice here, the breeze is cool, and the mountains please me. I think I will stay here."

But another friend said, "No, we must cross yon ravine." So the first friend stayed behind and the two others continued forward. They went down into the ravine and the air became cold and the wind began to blow. Soon they came to a wild and frothy river. The second friend said, "Let us turn back, it is too dangerous."

"Nay," said the third friend, "we must accomplish this task." So the two friends felled a tree across the river as a bridge, and began to make their way to the other side. The sky was dark, the wind blew violently, and the waves splashed up against the tree.

Halfway across, the second friend began to lose his grip. "Help!" he said. The third friend tried to turn to grab him, but it was too late. A gust rushed down and pushed the second friend into the tumultuous waters, and he was gone.

The third friend said to himself, "I can't stop now, I've come too far." So he inched his way down the log. He was within arms reach of the far bank when he heard a noise. He looked up and saw the bushes quiver and shake.

Just then, a wild and frothy bear bounded forth, and gobbled him up in one bite.

So, this toast is to that first friend, Michael, who taught me to take it easy, and enjoy the sun, mountains and trees when they are around.

Then Larry, Katrina's father, got up to deliver a very touching toast, speaking of Katrina's unique nature, and of how lucky she is to have found someone equally unique. A little while later, Anna delivered a toast that too was very touching in its simplicity: "Katy and I knew each other since 8th grade... and now she's graduated from college, and bought a house, and gotten married... so here's to Katy!"

Dancing ensued, first the "formal" variety (where Katrina and I showed off our newfound Waltzing abilities, having taken a couple of classes in preparation for the wedding), and then the more "fun" renaissance folk dancing. Ian -- whom I had taught the Renaissance dances the previous evening, yet who, in that half an hour, had grasped them better than I! -- led the rest of the guests in "Korobushka" and "Strip the Willow", filled with twirling, clapping, accelerating music, and much frolicking.

After the quick-paced dancing, we took a moment to step outside, where the photographer lost no time in taking romantic-sunset- [and groomsmen-jumping-into-the-sky-] pictures. Once back inside, we cut the cake, Katrina tossed her bouquet (twice -- a skilled Frisbee player, but an amateur bouquet tosser, Katrina forgot to plan for the low height of the ceiling on her first toss), and we spent the rest of the evening meandering about our assembled friends and relatives. Then, after a ceremonial sendoff (accompanied by more bell ringing and the prompting of "gorko!"), Katrina and I headed to Chateau Avalon, a Renaissance-themed hotel in Kansas City, where we happily spent the following day, in an absolutely gorgeous suite (complete with lavish breakfast, an hour-long massage, a winding staircase leading to the bedroom and the Jacuzzi, and the feeling of splendor and luxury…)! And, only a few days later, Katrina and I began our three-week-long hiking-scubaing-and-camping trip to Hawaii, to which I shall dedicate its own separate post.

Once Upon a Swan Lake

2009-05-20T11:15:00.006-04:00

An original fairytale written by Michael and Katrina Zlatkovsky for their wedding, inspired by the original Swan Lake story and incorporating Tchaikovsky's music for the ballet. Michael's narration of the story -- complete with Tchaikovsky's music in the background -- can be downloaded here.

* * *

Once upon a tale, when the earth was still young, there grew a beautiful flower. It had seventeen delicate petals, each endowed with a magical spark. It was said that anyone who gazed upon this flower, and smelled its fragrant scent, returned home blessed with unusual luck in finding happiness for the rest of their lives.

Grand fables and tales spread throughout the land, speaking of a magical flower with extraordinary powers. But the petals themselves, seized and fought-over by greedy men, were torn from the flower’s stem and spread throughout all the corners of the world, their power diminished. It was said that only the one who could unite the petals could bring peace and prosperity upon himself and his people – but no possessor of the magical petals was willing to give up his own prized treasure. Over time, all that remained of the flower was a legend -- a children's story -- and few but the wise and the naive believed in the flower's existence, let alone in its alleged might.

It was in this age that there lived a prince, who, from childhood, had heard of the flower lore. Even as he grew into adulthood, he continued to believe in the old magic, and in its ability to bring him happiness and to someday make him a great ruler of his father's kingdom. And so one morning, he straddled his silvered horse and rode into a long and perilous journey, determined to return home with the mystical petals.

The prince crossed narrow bridges over deep and foreboding precipices, journeyed over rivers of fire, clashed his sword against the unbreakable scales of ferocious dragons, and bargained with rulers in neighboring kingdoms by performing heroic deeds -- all for a handful of delicate and unwithering petals, which the prince kept carefully tucked in a traveling pouch. At last, he had found all but one petal, which was said to have been blown off of the flower by a powerful gust of wind, right before all the rest of the petals were taken captive and scattered. It was now in search of this last petal that the prince rode forth, hoping that the wind that once took the petal would chance to return it to him.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a distant land, there lived a fair young maiden, who often ventured into the woods to pick berries and wild mushrooms and flowers. One day, an unusual petal flew into her basket -- a petal that looked ancient and unlike anything that grew in the surrounding forests, yet was as fragrant and fresh as if it was still attached to a growing flower. As she paused to admire it, wondering what strange chance had brought the mysterious petal to her, an owl, soaring high above the trees, was attracted by the petal's unnatural shimmer. Like a rock the owl dropped to the ground in front of the girl, transforming into an old and wicked sorcerer. "You know not what you hold!" the sorcerer bellowed, "Give back the petal, for it contains magic that I alone am entitled to possess!"

Terrified, the girl flung the basket of mushrooms at the sorcerer, and ran deeper and deeper into the woods. Behind her, she could hear the screeching and the beating wings of the sorcerer-owl. Soon, to her terror, she saw that the path she had taken was leading straight into the shore of a lake. In desperation, as she rounded a corner, she tucked the petal beneath a clump of green moss, where the owl would not be able to find it.

As the path emerged at the lake's shore, the owl flew straight at girl and turned back into the cackling sorcerer. Yet when he discovered that she had fooled him, and had hid the petal somewhere along the way, the sorcerer became enraged. Raising his staff, he turned the maiden into a swan, so she could never tell of the secret she knew to anyone else. The sorcerer-owl then flew away, determined to keep a watch on the swan lest she should try to retrieve the petal.

Around this time, having traveled far and wide and finding no trace of the last elusive petal, the prince had come to the land where the fair maiden had lived. He was traveling slowly through the forest, his spirits sunken, when suddenly, just off of the path that he was following, he saw the shimmer of moonlight on the surface of a lake, and gliding gracefully through it, a snow-white swan. He watched her, enchanted, until the moon disappeared completely beneath the clouds, and the prince found himself engulfed in darkness.

* * *

In the morning, the prince once again watched the beautiful swan glide through the calm waters. As he proceeded to return to the lake every morning and evening to watch the majestic swan, she grew accustomed to his presence, and would flap her wings happily and glide close to the shore when he approached. On his part, the prince was glad of the company, and would tell the swan of his beloved homeland and of his plentiful adventures.

One day, as the prince was telling the swan about his quest for the very last petal, the swan became very alert and excited. When he finished, she flapped her great wings to get out of the water, and started waddling down a forest path. Perplexed, the prince followed her, and soon they came to the mossy nook where the girl, pursued by the sorcerer, had once hidden the magical petal. The swan dug her long black beak into the moss, and, turning to the prince, dropped the petal towards his outstretched hand.

Suddenly, like lightning, the sorcerer-owl swooped towards the prince, grabbing the falling petal with his beak, and, with his talons, seizing the prince's pouch that contained the remaining petals. Then, flapping his wings triumphantly, the owl flew out of the range of the prince's sword, and turned the prince, too, into a swan. "Now the secret is mine and mine alone!" cackled the sorcerer. "How fitting, noble prince, that the petals you sought to make you a great ruler will now give me the power to conquer and destroy your land!"

The evil sorcerer flew back to his mountain dwelling, where he began to concoct a most malignant array of powders and mixtures and spells, toiling for many a week in preparation for harnessing the flower's great powers. Meanwhile, passing travelers through the forest would often stop to admire the two beautiful and inseparable swans, who, unlike other swans at the time, seemed to have chosen each other for life.

Before long, the sorcerer was ready for battle, and prepared a large cauldron of sanguine potion to render himself more powerful than ever before. Yet, as he tossed the petals into the cauldron, the powers of good within the flower refused to be subjugated to such an evil purpose. The cauldron erupted into flames, and when the smoke cleared, all that remained were seventeen petals, floating away in the wind and looking as fresh and fragrant as ever, and a benign little owl that had lost the magical powers and the mean demeanor of the evil sorcerer.

With the demise of the sorcerer came also the end to his evil magic, and the two swans turned back into a fair maiden and a noble prince. They were happy to have re-gained their human form, and, more importantly, to have found each other -- as happy, indeed, as any whom, in the days of old, had beheld the magical flower. As they approached the prince’s kingdom, trumpets were sounded, and friends and families of the couple, clad in beautiful attire, gathered about the prince and his bride. And so it was that, once upon a tale, a truly fairy-tale wedding took place.

(click above for a larger image).

Photo-blog of Fall Semester at Harlaxton and Winter Break in Alaska and Kansas

2008-01-14T17:24:00.000-05:00

[A picture-filled post, borrowed word-for-word from Katrina, describing our Fall 2007 semester at Harlaxton and our Winter Break in Alaska and Kansas. Preserving Kat's formatting, I shall list all the captions BELOW the pictures that they describe.]

* * *

My humble home for one exciting semester! Otherwise known as Harlaxton Manor, a house built in the 18th century by Gregory Gregory in a fantastic baroque style and currently owned by the University of Evansville (hence my living there and taking classes there for a semester).

The Great Hall of Harlaxton Manor…

... with a crystal chandelier, the largest at the time (bought thanks to the chaos of the Spanish Civil War).

The Gold Room, once a music room, now used as one of our classrooms…

...filled with plenty of mischievous cherubs who fly around on the cloud-swirled ceiling trying to unscrew the chandelier!

The conservatory -- the largest one built at the time of the manor's construction -- serves as a beautiful light filled study-room that boasts not only of sunshine and views of the surrounding grounds but even of wireless internet access!

The grounds at Harlaxton… what a picturesque way to spend a semester! (Please don't hate me or send jealous thoughts my way!)

Bob, the local swan: despite possessing a broken wing, this swan does not hesitate to flap his way up the side of his lake waddling along with his awkward stride (swans are much more graceful floating along the water!), begging us to feed him more of the crackers he so thrives upon! And, unlike a usual swan who would mate for life, Bob likes to get a new girlfriend every year when he goes on a vacation during his lake's chlorine-cleaning!

A view of Harlaxton's bell tower that chimes out quarterly rings to berate its students with the loss of study-time, to lull them to sleep as the hours pass, and to hurry them to class as the first bells of the hour begin.

Fantastic sunsets whose beauty was enhanced by the surrounding towers and grounds!

Michael's and my first trip: to visit the cliffs that run along the shores of southern England in Dorset.

Local wildlife!

Cliffs in Dorset

Michael… slowly sinking into a haystack…

The most plentiful living creature in England (or so it seems), and once England's ticket to prosperity: sheep.

Our second trip, to several towns throughout Lake District…

Hiking in Keswick, Lake District

???!! Perhaps an abstract glorification of the brain???

Our very own fence-free Stonehenge! (Otherwise known as Castlerigg Stone Circle, near the town of Keswick.)

...Of course, our Stonehenge was slightly smaller than the original... i.e. the taller stones came up to our waists... Nonetheless, we did not fail to appease the native gods by duly performing the standard pagan-rituals involving our sacred 'life is good' Frisbee!

Looking down upon the lake outside of Grasmere in Lake District.

Our third trip, to Loch Lomond in Scotland, where we camped at a beautiful campsite directly overlooking this picturesque lake. However, the prospects did not seem quite so grand when arriving at night (i.e. unable to see or appreciate any picturesqueness) and having to set up our tent in the pouring rain...

Overlooking Loch Lomond...

Cascades in a beautiful river eventually leading into Loch Lomond...

Mossy trees springing out of the forest surrounding Loch Lomond...

The river we explored leading into the loch...

Remnants of a stone wall (another typical component of English countryside, having served as boundary markers and sheep fences) near the river leading into the loch...

the same river...

The first dawn Michael and I have ever watched together!

The first school day-trip to Lincoln where we were given tours of Lincoln Cathedral, a church originally built by the Normans after William the Conqueror's conquest of England in 1066 to serve as a dominating reminder of the new ruling power's authority.

Inside the cathedral: a striking example of the English Perpendicular gothic style...

Amazing! (A congregation of swans in the river flowing through Lincoln)

The second school day-trip to London, where we were given tours of St. Paul's Cathedral, the first specifically Anglican-built cathedral designed by Sir Christopher Wren to imitate and compete with St. Peter's Basilica in Rome...

View from the top of St. Paul's Cathedral

We got to watch Les Mis from some of the best seats in the theatre!

Our fourth trip, to Malta, a tiny country composed mainly of two islands (Malta and Gozo) off the coast of Sicily.

Malta boasts of the world's oldest free-standing monuments, from around 3,000 BC, thought to have served as temples housing a Mother Goddess Fertility cult. (This is Mnajdra temple on Malta)

Hagar Qim temple on Malta

Altar in Tarxien temple on Malta

Ggantija temples on Gozo...

...constructed with huge megaliths of local limestone moved into place using round stones and ropes...

altar in Ggantija temples

Typical Maltese countryside, strewn with terraces and odd stone structures...

A Maltese sunset!

Our apartment, ordered from hostelbookers.com!

A typical Maltese landscape: clusters of incredibly densely populated houses built out of local limestone, dominated by a towering domed Cathedral (Malta is 98% Roman Catholic)...

A red sand beach in northern Gozo (right next to Calypso's Cave!)

Wow!

Odd wind formations in the Maltese limestone...

Definitely well worth the long walk and the upcoming hitchhiking!

A view of Gozo's celebrated "azure window"!

Michael = smiling...
Katrina = simply praying that no earthquakes will strike in the next few minutes! Does he know he is practically walking on air?!

Even these cliffs alone within 15-minutes-walking of our apartment were indeed worth the visit to Malta, despite the island's overpopulation, oddity and relative lack of non-civilized areas...

Another Maltese sunset!

Costume ball at Harlaxton: I in homemade renaissance garb, and Michael in an Uzbekistan hat and a Jewish prayer shawl.

Christmas at Harlaxton

The nearby Belvoir Castle, visited by Harlaxton students on a school trip to admire its fantastic-medieval construction (redesigned in the early 19th century to please the Duke's soon-to-be wife)...

The gardens at Belvoir Castle

A sunset at Belvoir Castle viewed by me and Michael as we returned in the first week of December to view the Castle's Christmas pageantry...

Striking colors of the sunset at Belvoir Castle...

Belvoir Castle houses amazing rooms reminiscent of the ancient splendor Britain offered to its reigning nobles, a splendor heightened by the countless candles lit in honor of Christmassy events...

* * *

Christmas break... in Alaska! ... when it finally snowed! (I believe there was actually more snow in Kansas at times this year than in Alaska!)

Viewed from Hatcher's Pass

The cross-country ski trail in Hatcher's Pass where Michael tried to teach me to skate ski!

Hatcher's Pass

Michael's mother skijoring

Blue skies glimpsed between the branches of snow-covered trees... "livin' in a winter wonderland"...!

The river running through the forest near Michael's house

Walking through the forest near Michael's house

The river running through the forest near Michael's house

What a romantic way to become engaged! (And the camera hardly does this image justice: imagine a wintry forest sparkling with moonshine, a clear starry ski above, the sound of a waterfall splashing gently in the distance, and a song composed for the occasion... And 3 layers of coats and socks plus handwarmers in mittens ensured appreciation of the above!)

Getting ready to see Wicked in Chicago! (It's fun to get dressed up!)

Michael's and my gingerbread house, modeled roughly after Harlaxton manor! ...

...complete with a fountain in the center niche of the second story ...

...two bells towers with swinging bells!...

...and Bob the swan! ( Indeed we continue to carry the memory of Harlaxton in our hearts! )

* * *

Such, in a photo-nutshell, was our Fall Semester (and Break) of 2007!

Quaint England in a Nutshell: Ely, Cambridge, and Yorkshire

2007-11-19T08:18:00.001-05:00

[A chronologically misplaced blog post detailing my mother and I's recent visits to Ely, Cambridge, and Yorkshire. I will return to my earlier adventures in Corsica, Scotland, Alaska (summer), Lake District, and Southern England in upcoming posts -- please keep checking my blog!]

* * *

ELY

In the beginning of November, on her way to visit Israel (a trip doubtlessly inspired by my hot-off-the-press Israeli post :-) ), my mother decided to join me in England. Our joint adventure for the week began in Ely, a neat little town some 70 miles north of London: quiet, rustic, and very peaceful. At the center of the town stands a cathedral -- not quite as tall and imposing as Lincoln Cathedral, built around the same time, but beautiful and monumental non-the-less. Long, tall, covered in stained glass, with an unusual octagonal tower at its center, the cathedral is definitely the landmark of Ely, and is seen from nearly every place in town. The other less-prominent landmark of Ely is the Great River Ouse, though it is not particularly grand in this part of England, where its water stands so still that it's far more reminiscent of a canal. The river is favored by ugly turkey-resembling ducks (actually, a genetic cross between those two species), and by far more intriguing longboats, docked at its banks. Those boats, low, narrow, and disproportionately long, are the canal version of RVs, containing tiny kitchens, bathrooms, a number of rooms, and even an occasional bike-rack! We were told that though some people live on the boats permanently and have no other home of their own, most owners use the boats just for traveling along England's plentiful canals (a leftover of the Industrial Revolution, where canals were seen as a cheap and safe method of transporting products from remote inland factories to the booming marketplaces of large cities).

On the day of my mother's morning arrival, we walked for several hours throughout the town, observing its old and ivied homes, the ever-English neat gardens and hedges, the cathedral, the river, and just the tranquil and anachronistic atmosphere that hung over Ely. We also chanced upon a crafts fair, where, among other things, we saw the making (and selling) of beautiful glass figurines -- a process deceptively easy, where, almost by itself, a glass rod stuck in a hot flame and touched by other bits of colored glass would placidly morph itself into a bird, dolphin, walrus, or any other animal, springing to life out of the skilled craftsman's tongs.

In the evening, which happened to be the first Saturday after the 5th of November, a spectacular fireworks display was held in the center of town. The place was buzzing with a festive air! Several thousand people poured out into the park adjacent to the cathedral, where a large fire was already consuming the effigies of Guy Fawkes. Soon, a dozen rockets took off into the sky, showering the heavens in color and light; they were immediately followed by other fireworks, all launched one after another, so as to not give the darkness the slightest moment to retaliate. Though I have always loved fireworks -- attempting to see them whenever I could -- I have never actually seen a comparable fireworks show! Some rockets exploded in a broad circle, their sparks of light continuing up into the sky; others released streams of warm glowing light that descended gently, as if through a thick fog, towards the ground; others yet, multicolored and launched in parallel from some twenty spots on the field, sliced through the air with an atypical R2D2-like squeal, changing course every several seconds in the most random and comical fashion. The air was so thick with fireworks that it seemed almost too sparse to hold any more rockets, and yet the fireworks kept coming, one lush eruption of color after another! Indeed, with such an abundance of ever-present light raining down upon the ground, it seemed like I was on some fantastic scuba voyage through the brilliant constellations of the sky, hurtling through the air from one fading explosion of light to the next!

* * *

CAMBRIDGE

The following day, my mother and I took a train to the nearby town of Cambridge. We arrived to the sound of a military parade, and it took me some time to realize that it was just past the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month: the 89th anniversary of the long-awaited amnesty of the First World War. We proceeded from there along the cobbled streets, past (and briefly into) a beautiful small cathedral, and finally into the heart of the University buildings in central Cambridge.

Cambridge University is composed of many colleges, scattered throughout the town, each with a fair share of autonomy and self-sufficiency. Each building complex includes a residence hall, a classroom hall, a dining hall, and maybe even its own library or chapel. Some of the colleges are organized by departments (such as the School of Engineering or the Arctic Research Institute), while some are less academically divided (such as the King's College and the Queen's College). What they share in common, apart from the underlying Cambridge University funding, is a visible atmosphere of student learning and academic endeavors, combined with a feel and look of an ivied and a tradition-filled campus.

Of all the colleges, one of the most fancy and well-endowed was King's College, home to some of the most astoundingly beautiful architecture in Cambridge:. A spectacularly-gothic chapel -- complete with thin spires regularly piercing the skyline, tall stained-glass windows and elaborate stone sculptures -- stood in the middle of the College's spacious grounds. By its side ran the narrow river Cam; not so much "ran", perhaps, as rested in shallow motionlessness, but its waters were constantly rippled by the traversing of punts. Those boats -- wooden, shallow, moderately long and with a slightly-raised platform at their rear -- were typically filled with a group of tourists and captained by a single college-age student standing on the platform. The steering and propelling of the boat was quite a spectacle: towering, like Moses, with a tall wooden staff in his hand, the student would drive the wooden pole into the river, pushing off of the shallow bottom and thrusting the boat forward. Even more of a spectacle, though less Moses-like, was when a tourist rented out one of those boats instead, only to discover that it takes having a Cambridge-student wisdom to successfully pilot the boat. Such cases usually led to the boat drunkenly swaying from one side of the river to the other, bumping into other boats and spontaneously reversing directions along the river. Once, indeed, a newbie punter accidentally let go of the pole and it fell into the river, out of reach of the boat. Fortunately, each rented boat included a rented paddle, so after some re-adjusting to the new mean of propulsion, the clumsy punter regained possession of his pole. With renewed zeal he forced the boat up the Cam, soon ramming into a central pillar of a nearby bridge, and undauntedly proceeding onward.

While in Cambridge, my mother and I also visited a beautiful art gallery and museum -- beautiful both for its collection of portraits and sculptures and fine china, and for the overall extravagant design of the building itself. What I remember most from the gallery, however, was a painting on a familiar theme, but presented in an entirely new perspective. The artwork was named "Sunset" -- but, unlike all previous sunset images I have ever seen, this one did not focus on the beauty of the moment, nor on the changing colors of the sky, nor on the dawning tranquility of the earth. Indeed, the red disk of the sun was not even present in the picture, obscured by an oceanside cliff, and known only by the reds and oranges cast upon the floating clouds above the water. And the subjects of the picture -- a group of fishermen, some sailors and two women -- were all too busy completing their daily chores to glance at the setting sun. For them, the sundown was not a romantic symbol -- a nostalgic image of a long-gone past, or a natural wonder in its own right -- but a somber reality of impending darkness, with many a task still to be completed before nightfall. Despite the touching beauty and the possible sadness of the moment, to the subjects of the painting, the sunset bade nothing more than an ending to another wearisome day...

* * *

YORKSHIRE

On Monday, leaving the comfort of Ely and Cambridge and other "civilized" towns, we boarded a train to Yorkshire. Though I had bought the tickets several weeks in advance, and though I had painstakingly scraped together some information about our destination, I was not particularly sure why we were heading to Yorkshire. In my mind, Yorkshire was composed of tiny authentically-English farmland communities, unpleasantly cold in the winter and set in a fairly uninteresting flat landscape (after all, those who wish to visit the mountains go to nearby Lake District, or to the further-north of Scotland) -- most notable only as the setting of James Herriot's sentimental veterinary stories. However, as I had already visited Lake District and Scotland and as my mother felt inexplicably drawn to the place of Harriot's lovingly-described natural settings, I consented to travel with her to Yorkshire.

As scant as information on visiting Yorkshire was, I understood that our best bet would be to stay in the small town of Aysgarth, and, from there, to explore the surrounding area of the Yorkshire Dales. The Dales, as it turned out once we arrived, are wide valleys with plentiful streams and waterfalls, surrounded by far more picturesque hills than I had ever given Yorkshire credit for. Aysgarth, as I read on the web, contained some famous cascading falls, as well as a convenient hostel and information center within the town. I decided that we would worry about finding information on local attractions once we got there and, in the meantime, my only care would be figuring out a how to get from Ely to Aysgarth using some means of public transportation.

Despite Aysgarth's many advantages, it did not stand directly on a rail line; for that matter, neither did any of the other Herriot-associated villages of which my mother had sent me a list. Aysgarth was situated, however, a mere fifteen miles from the station of Garsdale on the main railroad route. The Aysgarth website spoke of a "regular bus service" running throughout the area, so I had little qualms about our journey. Armed with that information -- and imagining Garsdale to be a bustling railroad town -- my mother and I stepped out of the train onto a deserted wooden station, and almost collapsed back onto the departing train!

Garsdale, from where we stood, appeared to be composed of approximately four houses; a closer inspection revealed another six homes hidden from view. The rest of Garsdale was populated strictly by sheep, consisting of only two small roads (one leading to the station, and an even narrower one -- shared by animals and cars alike -- leading to some distant nowhere) and two larger roads (leading east and west the hell out of Garsdale). As for the station at which we arrived, it consisted of a small elevated hut, which, despite the total isolation, was manned by a friendly railroad worker. When I asked him for directions to Aysgarth, our conversation was interrupted by a series of patterned rings -- not telephone rings, but TELEGRAPH-LIKE rings, produced by some ancient piece of machinery, communicating the arrival of a train to a neighboring station!

Not only was there hardly a house in Garsdale, but there was also hardly a bus service: though we had arrived at two in the afternoon, the next bus would not arrive 'till 5:30pm, and it listed only one destination -- some unheard of village of Hawes (although, to its credit, it did boast of a youth hostel and a tourist information center). The weather seemed pretty enough, but cold; two hours later, with the sun (and a glorious sunset) long gone by, and with cars -- unwilling to pick up hitchhikers -- whizzing next to us in the engulfing darkness, it became bitter cold. To add insult to injury, when we finally arrived to Hawes, we found the hostel to be closed for the season! Fortunately, at least plenty of Bed & Breakfasts were available in town, so we decided to settle in one of those for the night.

As it turned out, Hawes was actually not a bad choice at all! Unlike Garsdale, it proved to have a good bus service to the surrounding villages (Aysgarth included), and, unlike Aysgarth, its Tourist Information Center remained open on weekdays even in the end-of-the-season November. Tourist-oriented, filled with museums and arts workshops and surrounded by hills and sheep, Hawes turned out to be a great "base camp" for our exploration of the surrounding Yorkshire Dales!

* * *

In the next two days, we visited Askrigg (a small town on the way to Aysgarth), Aysgarth, and the hills surrounding Hawes. Askrigg's only claim to fame was that the James Harriot TV series was filmed there, but as the road to Aysgarth ran right through Askrigg, we decided to take a quick peek there first.

To be honest, we did not get very far through the town. Very soon we came upon a "POTTERY STUDIO" sign over an ancient-looking house, and, as a hobbyist wheelthrower myself, I could not resist the temptation to step in and take a look. The pottery there was indeed very beautiful, of pleasing classical form and of a fabulously painted earth-tone design. The pots were all made by the same man, the owner of this 1600s house, whose studio was located in the home's basement. We had come to the studio right as he was carefully loading his new work into a giant kiln, which he had built himself many years before. Colorful Indian flags hung from the ceiling above the kiln, and a small Buddha sat on the topmost brick, meditatively blessing the proceedings. That, the potter said, was his religion -- Hinduism, or something of such contemplation- and living-in-tune-with-the-Earth- sort. The design of the pots themselves, too, must have come from the potter's beliefs in a simpler and more earthly life. Born in England as a hippie child of the 1960s, and eventually kicked out of college for the possession of marijuana, he at last decided to go to art school, but had to wait a year before he could enroll. Taking the opportunity to travel, and leaving home with but five pounds in his pocket, he hitchhiked his way through England, across to France, down to Spain, and finally through the Gibraltar Straight down to North Africa. Working odds-and-ends jobs all along his route -- from mixing cement for the building of cathedrals and mosques, to cleaning streets, to assisting in art studios -- he finally settled in Cairo. When the time came for him to head back to England, he and his girlfriend bought an old ambulance, painted it in psychedelic colors, wrote "SMILE" in big bold letters across the back of it, and journeyed back to Britain, getting stopped and thoroughly checked by police at every town along the way.

By the time I had bought a beautiful goblet, thanked the potter for his stories and his hospitality, and admired his well-cared-for garden (where I could not help but wonder if -- out of old habit -- some marijuana plants still grew), my mother and I had but ten minutes to spare before catching the next bus to Aysgarth. The "bus" that came was actually not a regular town bus, but a Royal Mail van instead. In these isolated areas of Britain, particularly in Yorkshire and in parts of Scotland, the Royal Mail often supplements regular bus services, transporting paying passengers along its remote mail routes.

The town of Aysgarth scarcely exuded the same charm of Hawes or Askrigg, resembling not so much a town, but a chain of buildings lining one main road. Aysgarth's claim to fame, however -- a series of three cascading waterfalls, surrounded by beautiful woods -- proved quite worthy of the trip. Each waterfall was composed of multiple rock "steps", formed by the natural pealing away of whole slabs of rock over the course of time. The waterfalls were separated from one another by several hundred yards, with still smaller cascades of steps running in between. Though Aysgarth was mostly surrounded by grassy pastures, the area immediately around the creek was enclosed by a thin strip of woods, whose trees still carried late-autumn leaves.

From the waterfalls, we leisurely followed a footpath across expansive cattle fields, each separated from one another by typically-British stone walls. The long-established path cut across these fields, taking "grandfather-rights" precedence over private property, and even provided gates and steps to help people cross over the enclosures. Walking along the path for about three miles, and stopping to admire nearly every adorable sheep and cow along the way, we finally made it across the wide valley to Bolton Castle. Though the castle was closed for the winter, its unmistakably strong walls and fortress-like look was easily discernable even from a distance. Contrasting sharply with these stronghold features was the Castle's garden, where a maze made of hedges and a lovingly-enclosed vineyard grew peaceably along the castle's impenetrable side.

The following day my mother and I chose not to travel to other nearby villages, but instead to hike up one of the hills that overlooked Hawes. The day was beautiful -- blue-skied, not windy, with but an occasional feathery cloud floating overhead. Like in Aysgarth, we cut across the fields of Hawes along a series of public footpaths, passing through more stone walls and more flocks of sheep. I should note that nearly all the sheep in Yorkshire were coated with streaks of paint -- red, orange, blue, or a mixture thereof. We were told that the paint indicates ownership of the sheep (if more than one person owns a plot of walled land), or the mating status and/or age of the ewes. The paint is fairly weather-resistant, but comes off eventually (perhaps through a chemical process) when the wool of the sheep is sheared and sold.

We walked through a tiny hamlet, built into the base of a hill before proceeding further up. Like nearly all settlements in Yorkshire, however, the tiny cluster of houses was a picturesque addition to the surrounding hills. As one book on Britain pointed out, English scenery is not spectacular, but pleasant. There is no pretense about fearsome towering mountains in the British Isles, for there are none; what Britain is known for is its enclosed coziness, its maintained gardens, and its peaceful -- albeit small -- lochs. Thus, quaint villages scattered amidst peaceful sheep-grazed hills only add to the English charm! And if the houses within are crooked, small, and "cobbeldy-wobbeldy" (an actual term I heard used by a Briton with regards to a village in Yorkshire), those lovely details just reinforce to the village's British authenticity!

We did not reach the top of the hill. The gentle slope seemed to recede far into the horizon, away from the tranquil Hawes, its traditional homes, and its baa-ing sheep. There seemed no reason to keep following the hill away from the pleasant Yorkshire scenery, so we soon turned back into the valley that we had grown so attached to. On the way down, we also witnessed the flight of a pheasant: a surprisingly beautiful and free glide, with the pheasant's wings spread like that of a model airplane -- quite unlike the ungraceful trotting that pheasants usually do while walking on land.

The following morning, after strolling around town, visiting numerous shops and seeing a ropemaker's workshop in action, we took a southbound train to Harlaxton. The scenery around us -- at first beautiful and remote, with plenty of sheep grazing amidst valleys and hills -- soon grew flatter, bleaker, and more cluttered with modern cities. We were out of Quaint England, at least for the duration of the train ride. But ahead of us, looming over the modernized cities of Britain, rose Harlaxton -- of whose beauty and prominence my readers have surely read in previous blog posts. With that, my mother and I's journey across the quaint and charming England was complete.

- Michael

Of Falling Leaves...

2007-11-06T17:31:00.000-05:00

I do not remember ever seeing leaves fall in autumn... 'till I came this semester to England. When I was four or five years old, living in Russia, I vaguely recall strolling in the forest with my mother, collecting the red and golden maple-tree leaves into colorful bouquets -- but I don't remember ever observing the actual process of the falling of leaves. The rustling of the wind; the peaceful float of the leaf through the air; the tapping noise as the leaf strikes a branch, where it's still-attached brethren await their flight; the gentle landing of the adventurous leaf onto the moist ground... all this has gone absurdly unnoticed by my supposedly outdoorsy and contemplatory self. And yet, how could such a wonder have escaped me?

I had known of the season called "autumn". I suppose that its synonym, "fall", should have sufficed as a clue. I knew, too, that in summer, leaves are green, plentiful, swaying high in the branches of trees; and that, by winter, hardly a browned leaf remains on the suddenly-barren branches, while, below, countless leaves lie crunching beneath my feet as I walk through the forest. The Intermediate Value Theorem, Mathematical Induction, and probably a handful of other principles could all have told me that if the leaves were initially on branches and were later found on the ground, then surely there came a time when they were floating in between those two non-adjacent states. But somehow, I had never seen this process in action.

Indeed, until now, I've never had a good chance to observe falling leaves. In Israel, leaves don't fall: they wilt in the summer heat, barely hanging on to the branches, awaiting the rains of early November. In Alaska, the leaves don't so much fall, as freeze off, descending onto the ground enshrouded by thick mid-October snowfall. And in Evansville, away from the climate extremes of Israel and Alaska... well, the leaves probably fall in Evansville, but, alas!, in my previous semesters at college, I must have been too busy studying the mathematical principles mentioned above to take note of how those principles apply to nature...

But leaves fall in Harlaxton! They soar through the air, they twirl in the wind, they land on heaps of other yellowed and reddened leaves... They are a perfect companion to my cheerful, carefree, winged 13 credit hours; the sound of their rustling is but an echo to my exuberant singing! Yes, leaves do fall at Harlaxton!

* * *

... Actually, to those who observe the flight of leaves -- and now I am fortunate enough to consider myself part of that exquisite group of free-spirited poets -- the word "fall" is a terrible misnomer. Autumn leaves don't fall: they may glide or slice through the air, they may soar or fly over treetops, or they may even dive recklessly onto the ground, but they definitely don't fall. Falling is passive: it implies the unintentional death of the fragile leaf. Yet the flight of the leaf is not involuntary, nor is its state frail!

Leaves are strong, healthy, and beautiful when they leave the tree. The people who think of autumn leaves as frail -- indeed, the same types of people who must have come up with the word "fall" to mean "autumn" -- must only have noticed the old and crunchy leaves on the ground, but not the leaves as they float through the air. Yes, leaves on the ground do turn frail within days, if not hours: their flights -- the leafs' most glorious moments -- drain them of their spark of life. But do not, dear reader, let the sight of dark lifeless coals expunge your memories of the liveliness of the fire, nor let the heap of dead leaves on the ground wipe out your memories of leaves magnificently soaring though the air!

"I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze
than it should be stifled by dry rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor,
every atom of me in magnificent glow,
than a sleepy and permanent planet."

-- (from Jack London, personal credo)

Leaves choose the opportunity of their one and only adventure. They hang onto their branches just long enough, withstanding wind and rain, until they're prepared to leave their long-time home. So much have they heard of the great World that exists beyond the scope of their tree; of creeks, and waterfalls, of flowers, of all sorts of creatures... even of things as common and magical as dew on the grass below them. The faint whisper of the butterflies, the singsong-y chirping of birds, and the gentle caressing of the wind have all told the leaves of the great Beyond that lies ahead of them. And now they're ready. They have waited long enough; they have donned their new colorful garments; they have quenched their thirst with sunlight. Some leaves have even sprouted little balls on their sides, to help them twirl in mid-air. Winged and colored like the butterflies that they had once so envied, the leaves are now ready to take flight.

So even in Harlaxton the leaves do not fall! They take a deep breath, drink one last drop of golden sap from the tree, and then they let go. The wind catches the adventurous leaves, and they soar blissfully through the air, beautiful, free, and unafraid. To these leaves, who had never left their branches before, time slows down while they glide through the air; so that, by the time that they have reached the soft ground below, a whole eternity seems to have passed for the leaves. And so, while a blanket of snow gradually piles upon them, and while spring creeks trickle and dance by them, and while summer shade falls over them, and even while new leaves take flight and land upon them, the leaves peacefully lay to rest, for a short eternity more, re-living their extraordinary journey in their bright dreams.

- Michael

Israel: My Past- (and Historical-) Homeland

2007-10-25T18:22:00.000-04:00

[A little-longer-than-usual blog post regarding my visit to Israel in May 2007. (I'm still working on catching up with my more recent travels). Those who wish to skip onto a particular part of the story, click on: introduction and general observations about Israel, the Holy City of Jerusalem, the small town of Zikhron Yaakov where I grew up, and a beautiful nature-walk up a creek in northern Israel ].

* * *

INTRODUCTION and GENERAL IMPRESSIONS:

Having already written about Jordan, I feel compelled to also write about Israel -- the complementing part of my Israeli-Jordanian visit. It was actually Israel that was originally my prime destination: to visit my sister and grandparents, and to re-experience the country where I had spent my earlier childhood. Jordan, on the other hand was more of a lucky afterthought.

Israel. Yes, I needed to re-visit that country. I had been a great Israeli patriot when I was growing up there, and I now wanted to see how much of my fond Israeli memories were accurate, and what I think my life would have been like if my family had stayed in Israel these past 8 years.

Israel, as my sister had noted, has changed and grown dramatically in the past eight years. I, coincidentally, have done likewise. In essence, then, my moderately grown (and wisened) self was now re-visiting a country which has changed so much from my naive childhood recollections thereof, that it was almost a new country for me.

I flew into Israel on El-Al, an all-Israeli air carrier. From the very moment I boarded the plane -- with all of its Hebrew-lettered signs, yarmulke-wearing passengers, and an overall color-scheme to match that of the Israeli flag -- I could feel that I was steadily re-entering Israel. The final touch was the arrival announcement, pronounced in both Hebrew and English: not only was the Hebrew announcement spoken first, but instead of welcoming people to Israel (as the English announcement did), the Hebrew one welcomed El-Al's passengers home.

The airport was new, beautiful, and monumental, built after we had already moved out of Israel. Right outside the airport, half the buildings of downtown Tel-Aviv were likewise newly-built. Israel was definitely well on its way on the path of expansion, growth, and modernization.

With my sister and uncle, we first drove to my grandparents' apartment, where we ate a traditional Jewish meal and engaged in a traditional grandparently conversation. Then, the topics of my health, college life, and scholarships exhausted, we drove to a nearby area where my sister and her husband Boris live.

Their apartment complex, built on the outskirts of Tel-Aviv right after Israel's inception in 1948, had not had the sweeping wind of modernization blow even the historical dust off of its stairwell. Both the building and the rooms within it were dark, small, and cluttered. Outside, the noisy sidewalks of two streets were bustling with immigrants, negotiating better deals on already cheap commodities. Whole clans of children played soccer on nearby school-grounds, countless signs announced permanent 30%-off sales next to each and every store, and 60's-looking buses rumbled tiredly along the streets. An unmistakable Israeli air, mixed with an even more unmistakable air of immigrant quarters, hung over the sun-drenched neighborhood...

* * *

THE HOLY CITY -- JERUSALEM:

Undoubtedly, my most authentically "Holy Land" experience was visiting Jerusalem. I traveled there with Boris and Nica, both of whom are finishing up degrees in Archeology. They led me through all of the beautiful -- and sometimes overlooked -- sights of Jerusalem, all the while trying to out-do each other's historical tales. To all those who intend to visit Jerusalem or anywhere else in the Middle East someday (whether with the intention of an archeological/historical tour or a more involved outdoorsy trip), I once again highly recommend Boris' and Nica's guiding services -- their contact info is nica123@gmail.com and +972-54-632-7789.

Jerusalem is a fascinating city. I had visited it only once before, on a three-day sixth-grade trip, just before my family moved to Alaska. I remember being very impressed with Jerusalem then, and proud of how Israel had captured it in during the Six-Day War of 1967 (before that, under the 1948 treaty that created the nation of Israel, Jerusalem had been left in the clutches of the Arab world). The battle for Jerusalem was not easy: Jerusalem stands on high hills, and the access to it is very visible and distinct, so the enemy had the advantages of high ground and the predictability of attacks. Many a men died in the successive attempts to capture the city, who are commemorated in beautiful and tragic Israeli songs: "Givhat ha Tahmoshet", "Babel Vad", "Ha Kotel", and others... The eventual success was put into verse in one of the most lyrical and beautiful songs in Hebrew: "Yerushalaim Shel Zahav" -- "Jerusalem of Gold".

But when I had visited Jerusalem with the class, I had been living in Israel for six years, so some of the "Israeli" flavor of the city did not surprise me. This time, however, I was visiting Jerusalem the very next day after arriving to Israel for the first time in eight years; thus, the contrast between Jerusalem and all the other cities that I've ever been to seemed all the more apparent.

Jerusalem is a very eccentric city: no element of Jerusalem seems to be quite in place. Old ruins of the Wailing Wall, the Dome of the Rock, ongoing archaeological digs, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (the holiest church in Christianity -- the site of the crucification of Jesus) are all situated almost side by side. A burial site -- in fact, the most holy of all burial sites, from which the souls of all the righteous will spring up to heaven at Messiah's second- (or, if you're Jewish, first-) coming -- rests, unmaintained and disarrayed, a mere walking distance away. Nearby, modern Israeli homes stand in disharmony with cluttered Arab houses across the street. At a loud street market, predominantly Arab tradesmen, speaking in every major touristy language of the world, loudly proclaim the worthiness of their products. Barefoot children play soccer off the walls of homes, mosques, synagogues, and churches -- indeed, there's little room to kick the soccer ball anywhere else. An immeasurable number of fully-armed young soldiers patrol the streets, sitting on benches with their guns forebodingly ready. Rabbis hurry off to a synagogue, stern looks upon their faces; behind them, equally orthodox priests, clutching their crosses and other religious ornaments, hurry to perform sacred Christian rituals across the street. Loud and prolonged calls for Muslim prayers drift from ornate minarets scattered throughout the city. Countless tourists drift within the crowd, their distinct languages melting into one incoherent sound hanging high over the streets; sweet smells of bakeries, shish-kabobs, and falafel fill the air. All that -- and in much more vivid colors than I could ever hope to describe -- washes over Jerusalem like waves over a polished rock, refining the city's undeniably unique flavor.

The Wailing Wall, our first destination, seemed actually rather anti-climactic compared to the profound emotional catharsis that it had once induced upon fervently-religious travelers of the early 1900s. Gone are the days when the Wall was the symbol of all that Judaism stood for, remembered, and had left after the Diaspora; gone, too, are the days when caravans had to travel for months through the hot desert to get to Jerusalem's cool olive trees. The re-birth of Israel and the age of aviation had rendered the Wall a broken fragment of the past, surrounded by a religious and touristy commotion that takes away the remainder of its monumental nature and beauty. Each crack between the stones was stuffed full of small pieces of paper -- by tradition, Jews from all over the world come to the Wailing Wall to write down a small note to God, asking the fulfillment of their wishes. I too considered writing something down, but upon seeing how crammed God's Jerusalem inbox was, I decided to wait until I find a more spacious address for delivery at some later point.

From the Wailing Wall, we proceeded to an ancient and long-abandoned cemetery, built into the side of a mountain. There, each family's burial occupied a small cave. Within each cave, a number of "shelves" were reserved for the most recently deceased, and the remnants of the rest of the bodies were piled in a burial pit below. Hence, as Boris explained, the phrase historical phrase "to join one's ancestors" is actually inaccurate towards death: rather, the dead body would first be placed separately on a cave's "shelf" upon death, and only a generation or so later would its bones join that of its predecessors.

We continued forth, stopping for a long time by the Dome of the Rock, and admiring its spectacular beauty. For ridiculous political reasons, entering inside the Dome was not permitted to anyone but Muslims (religion has nothing to do with it, and several years ago it was still possible to see it from within), but the Dome was irrefutably gorgeous even from the outside. Covered in blue Italian mosaics and surrounded by dozens of matching "mini-domes" and wells, the Dome is the crowning architectural jewel of Jerusalem. The main dome was built between 687 and 691 AD by the 9th Caliph, Abd al-Malik, who decided to bring the beauty of the Italian mosaic to his Arab homeland; the mini-domes were built by private contributors.

We visited a number of churches of all denominations. Most memorable was a Greek orthodox church, for its fragrant smell of incense and for a spectacular display of chandeliers dangling down from the ceiling. Another church -- in fact, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the site of the crucification of Christ -- included many separate rooms, each for its own denomination, as well as an especially beautiful and holy chamber in the middle. Finally, on a hill adjacent to old Jerusalem, we stepped into a small chapel that was memorable not for its own beauty, but for the breathtaking view of Jerusalem from within its arched glass window: the cross of Christianity, the Muslim Dome of the Rock, a Jewish synagogue, and the rest of Old and Modern Jerusalem all intertwined in one unifying and representative scene.

* * *

THE PLEASANT TOWN OF ZIKHRON YAAKOV:

One of my finest memories from when we still lived in Israel is of my elementary school, Nili, which I attended from 3rd to 6th grade. Nili stands at the heart of a small pleasant town of Zikhron Yaakov, situated on a hill a mile or two from the sea. The town itself was founded over a hundred years ago, far before the formation of Israel, when the land had still been barren, swampy, and malaria-infested. In a successful effort to dry out the bogs and to eliminate the disease, eucalyptus trees had been planted all around the emerging towns. As one of the oldest settlements in Israel, Zikhron is hence one of the greenest, with plenty of shade along the streets and with a beautiful adjacent forest. The houses within the center of Zikhron are likewise old but lovingly-maintained, built in a traditional style out of white Jerusalem stone.

I had loved Zikhron, and I had loved my school. So much had my classes there given me: wonderful friends, overall cheerfulness, a feeling of patriotism towards Israel, a sense of community and camaraderie, a passion for singing, an enjoyment of sports... Zikhron, too, contributed to whom I later became: I spent long hours tranquilly observing the forest and breathing in its pine-scented air, I participated in numerous clubs (from swimming and tennis, to pottery, to chess, to writing), and I even took part in an eccentric European sport that involved doing gymnastics within a giant hamster-like wheel (if you're curious, click on that link!).

When I visited my sister this summer, I naturally wanted to return at least for a day to Zikhron Yaakov. Nica too has not been back to Zikhron for several years, so together we set out to explore and reminisce the town where we had once lived. We began by walking about the surrounding forest, which, coincidentally, proved to be much smaller and less hilly than I had ever remembered it -- I guess living in Alaska has introduced a new definition of "vastness" into my mind. The summer heat was already setting in onto the early-May Israel, so some of the grass had turned brown and dead, but a spectacular variety of beautiful but thorny summer plants had sprung up all over the fields in its wake.

(Note: the black dots in the flowers above are NOT insects -- they're just a black dots on the flowers. However, from above, that dots do indeed look very much like bugs. What the flower gets through this odd tactic is self-promotion: it advertises to bugs flying overhead that "hey, my pollen's amazing -- look how the other bugs loves it!", thus causing REAL bugs to come and pollinate it!)

After a leisurely stroll through the forest, we emerged back into central Zikhron. Though I thought that I remembered virtually nothing of Zikhron's layout, some unconscious part of me easily led us down the familiar forgotten roads. The school gate was closed, but, with perhaps a somewhat alarming expertise at jumping fences (I swear that I'm a reasonably nice and law-obeying fellow), I quickly found myself on the cherished school grounds. With the exception of a new gym building, the school had remained just as I remembered it: a small one-level building, filled with children's artwork and an overall feel of cute childly endeavors, surrounded by green trees and tenderly planted flowers. A small outdoor amphitheatre where we used to play an Israeli ball game of "hayei sarah", along with an even smaller stage elsewhere (how large it seemed when I sang for a school play there in 3rd grade!) completed the school. So simple was the design, so old the building itself -- and yet, how much joy it had given to us, its students!

For fifteen minutes I walked, enchanted, around the school's perimeter. Finally, much slower and more thoughtfully, I climbed back over the fence, to where my sister was waiting for me. Could I have grown as attached to an American school, I wondered? Perhaps -- I was an impressionable child. But part of my bond to the school had been created by patriotism towards Israel, and I don't think that any country other than Israel teaches its future citizens to so fervently adore and protect their land.

* * *

A NATURE-WALK UP A CREEK IN NORTHERN ISRAEL:

That same evening we embarked upon my last trip in Israel, to Nahal Meshushim, a creek in northern Israel. We arrived to the trailhead around 11pm. The night was clear and silent; overhead, thousands of bright stars lit our way through the darkness. A deep valley opened to our right, with the creek whispering softly below. We walked along a secluded jeep road about an hour, and then turned onto a barely-visible and rarely-used trail down the valley. The path was overgrown, full of thorny flowers and shrubs, and much wilder than anything that I'd have expected in Israel. As we walked by some of the plants, we saw a remarkable display of sleeping chameleons (probably fifteen in total on a half-a-mile stretch), adorably clinging onto the swaying branches and leaves with their fragile and baby-like fingers.

(Photos taken by Konstantin Hoshana, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

At last, we made it to the bottom of the valley. The creek running through it was small, about 12-15 feet wide, with small stones that murmured softly as the water glided past them. A small aquatic turtle lived at the side of the stream, looking as peaceful and inactive as nearly all turtles do. When we attempted to lift it out of the water to examine it, however, the turtle vigorously shook its ligaments and tried to set free. As we placed the turtle back in the water, it immediately proved to be far quicker than its land-walking relatives, swiftly maneuvering through the rocky waterbed to safety.

(Photo taken by Konstantin Hoshana, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

We crossed the stream, set up our tents, and made a large bonfire on which we prepared our gourmet past-midnight food. Leka, one of the guys in our group, even brought a small guitar that he used to entertain us for the next several hours. He had the most unique voice that I'd ever heard in my life -- a voice so seemingly "PhotoShop-ed" that it sounded as if it was synthesized on a computer. His voice bent, skyrocketed down and up the octaves, echoed with itself, imitated an electric guitar, and was quite literally as malleable as a piece of soft playdough underneath Leka's supreme command. He sang well into the night, and only when his voice was joined by that of early-morning cocks did we finally go to sleep.

We woke up several hours later, the intense heat of the sun microwaving us within our own tents. Upon sluggishly getting out, we were immediately rewarded by the cool of the shade and the freshness of the creek. The area downstream from where we'd crossed the creek formed a sort of a dam, in which we relaxedly swam for a good half an hour. Then, completely refreshed and rejuvenated, we walked back to our tents and began the day's intended journey.

(Photo taken by Konstantin Hoshana, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

Our goal was to leisurely walk up the creek, eventually reaching a series of small cascading waterfalls and a set of unique rock formation. As natural as the idea of walking through a knee-deep creek seems, I've never actually done it before. I had walked through, jumped over, and swam across creeks before, but never with the intent of staying in the water longer than I had to. Yet purposefully walking in a creek -- for the sake of feeling the softness and moistness of the water, hearing the murmurs of the stream, seeing the occasional glimmer of sunlight water, and elegantly maneuvering across rocks and fallen trees -- proved to be such a tranquil and rewarding activity! The water temperature was perfect, just cold enough to offset the mild heat that was seeping in from between the branches of trees overhead. Around us, small creatures of the earth -- from an alien-looking caterpillar, to a pleasant conservatively-dressed bug -- were likewise enjoying the beautiful day.

(Photos taken by Konstantin Hoshana, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

After several hours, we reached the unusual pentagon-pillar rock formations, created by some mystical natural processes. The pillars were indeed very near-perfect pentagons at their cross-sections, and quite impressive. Just upstream of the pillars were several smooth cascades, which we slid down to our heart's content, before finally turning back and walking -- this time on a trail above the creek -- back to our encampment.

(Photos taken by Konstantin Hoshana, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

* * *

The following morning my sister, Boris, and I left on a week-long trip to Jordan (see my previous blog post, "A Visit to Allah's Fascinating Land"). Having Jordan take up the latter half of my Israeli visit was actually an intentional plan on my sister's part -- in her words, once I'd see Jordan, there'd be little for me left to do in Israel. I think the statement is overly harsh towards the patriotically-loved country of my childhood, but for the purposes of what I wanted to see and visit and re-experience in Israel and the surrounding region, I think that the timing of my trips was just right. To those who have not been to either of those countries, and have found my blog post intriguing enough -- do plan a visit someday!

Shalom Aleychem! -- "Peace be upon you"

- Michael

Mutiny: A Cautionary Tale

2007-08-30T13:50:00.000-04:00

I should mention a random comic episode that took place when my father and I went kayaking at the end of this summer in Alaska.

In the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, we find out that Captain Barbosso had once committed mutiny against Captain Jack Sparrow for the sake of treasure. In the same great spirit of scalawag comradeship, I attempted to do the same to my father, on kayaks. The moral of the story is to follow:

We had set out in kayaks on Beach Lake (near Eagle River, where we live) with far more peaceful and poetic intentions: the lake has a gorgeous view of the surrounding tundra-y mountains, and is a tranquil spot where one can lazily paddle upon the calm reflective waters. We did just that, gently exploring the shore and occasionally following the trail of a lone loon, when suddenly we came upon a treasure...

The treasure was of an unusual kind: small red berries alluringly hanging right off the shore. They were red currents. We have frequently picked them on land, but plucking them off the plants straight out of the kayak was an unheard-of luxury. Unfortunately, my father was first to discover the berries, and, having parked his kayak parallel to the shore and grabbing all the berries that were within reach, he had effectively blocked my reach of the treasure.

I attempted to wedge my kayak between him and the berries, but to no avail; he clung onto a bush and pulled himself firmly against the shore. As I endeavored to storm his kayak again and again, following Dodge's headstrong prescription of "if you can't dodge it, ram it", he even began pelting berries at me, forcing me into retreat.

Desperate situations call for desperate solutions: untying a rope on the front of my kayak, I sneakily attached it to my fathers', and then paddled, full-force, until I jerked my father's kayak out of his well-chosen spot. The surprise attack was a success; but, when I attempted to reach the freed berries, my father paddled me out of reach, just as I did to him. The rope had had turned out to be a double-edged sword!

An inconclusive tug of war ensued. Unable to win, I rushed at my father's kayak and untied the rope that bound us, grabbing straight onto his kayak instead. That too was an un-thought-out plan, as I was forced to use at least one of my hands to hang onto his kayak, whereas he had both hands at his disposal to splash me with his paddle. Alas, I had no choice but to let go.

It was now no longer about berries; it was about honor, and I was not willing to admit defeat quite yet. Several more times I tried cornering my father's kayak, but he managed to escape every time, and I still had no idea what I'd do even if I managed to grab hold of his kayak...

Sweet revenge! -- I wanted it to be poignant and fitting. If my father was so attached to his berries, so be it: I'd tie his kayak to them for good. Unfortunately, my father had already eaten his fill, and was now paddling around the lake, uninterested in the berries. Thus, my plan to lure him to a bush by rushing towards it stood no chance. Left without a choice, I asked him for help, instead: to assist me in finding the eatable berries, as opposed to the fairly similar poisonous ones. I figured that, finding the berries, he'd undoubtedly want to take a "sampling tax" on them, giving me my chance.

I supposed that asking for help and then betraying my helper could technically be considered immoral bad karma But, hey, mutiny is difficult enough to execute even without observing peacetime morality. Either way, my father refused to help (muttering something about God's will with regards to which berries I eat), so we were both square. As we were about to head home, however, and as I continued to be at a loss as to how to re-gain my honor, my father finally stopped at another red current bush. Paddling with all my might and provocatively yelling at him to get out of the way of my bush, I arrived at my father's side to see him entirely occupied by the berries.

The only main rope I had was tied onto the front of my kayak, in a place where I could not reach to untie it. I had, however, a shorter rope that secured my paddle to the kayak, if ever I was to let go of the paddle. Determined to succeed and to think through my entire plan this time, I stole to my father's kayak and tied it onto a convenient tree stump nearby. I even made sure to tie his kayak in a way that he could not reach the knot by hand, and to leave the rope short enough that he could not swing around to untie himself from the tree. Unfortunately, in the noble strive for mutiny, I failed to observe that without the paddle strap, my paddle had begun floating away. When I attempted to reach for the paddle without capsizing, my father suddenly noticed that I had suspiciously lost interest in the berries. Something was amiss -- and, correctly associating my location with the pinpoint of trouble, he was quick to detect the charming new use that I had discovered for paddle straps.

The ensuing scene was that of a struggle. I reached for the floating paddle; my father reached for my kayak. For a good two minutes I tried, in vain, to yank my kayak out of his grip, but couldn't. Finally, under threat of recurrent splashing, and seeing no other way to end the stalemate, I agreed to untie him.

Of course, in the spirit of the moment, I was not going to honor my word as soon as my father let go of my kayak. Unfortunately, my father expected nothing else, and refused to let go of me until he was certain that his kayak was set free. We paddled back to shore, and, as we did, he suddenly perceived that my bow line was still trailing dangerously behind me. He chased after it, and I, not expecting any particularly nice treatment if he were to get a hold of the line, raced to shore. He was catching up. My muscles ached. Fortunately, I made it just about to shore when he caught the rope, ready to "jump ship" into knee-deep water if necessary, so there was no point for him to try to do anything to my kayak.

We were both back on land, safe and sound. But I remained soaked from the continued splashing I had received, and it was my father who had eaten all the berries.

Kids, mutiny is not a solution!

- Arrrrrrr!

PS: Pictures taken from random websites across the net. Please don't sue me! Puhuley, parleli, parsley, parle?.. PARLEY!

A Visit to Allah's Fascinating Land (Jordan)

2007-08-14T18:57:00.000-04:00

[A rather extended story of my visit to Jordan in May 2007. I will attempt to write about my other travels to Scotland, Israel, and Corsica later. Those who wish to skip onto a particular part of the story, click on: introduction, Jerash and the desert castles, a small canyon and the colorful mountains of Petra, scuba diving, and a thrilling and awe-inspiring canyoning experience. (Note: if you're short on time, the latter three may be of greatest interest to you) ].

INTRODUCTION:

Those who frequently read my blog have surely noticed that I delight in nearly every trip and experience that I engage in. Undoubtedly, part of the reason this apparent enjoyment is that I only write about interesting travels and episodes -- I do not feel compelled to write about mundane details of uninteresting days. But it is also part of an innate ability to enjoy and appreciate Life: to come back from almost every hike with a feeling that it's been the best hike I've ever been on, while knowing full well that my next "best hike ever" is awaiting me in the very near future.

Still, even keeping my habitual unobjectivity in mind, Jordan was absolutely fabulous! It stands out among my other trips not just because it was the most recent out-of-state one (it actually isn't -- by the time I'm writing this I've already hiked for two remarkable weeks with Katrina in Corsica, and spent most of the summer in Alaska, hiking, kayaking, and playing frisbee), but because of how varied and unexpected everything on that trip was. Before Jordan I have had traveled only in Western Europe, the United States, and Israel: all reasonably civilized, reasonably modernized, and with a mostly white and Christian population. But Jordan was a new frontier. It held surprises of culture, surprises of history, surprises of religion, and, unexpectedly, even surprises from almighty nature. Jordan was not a neat European country with mowed lawns and prices printed on every item in a grocery store: it was a country of rich Islamic traditions and nomadic tendencies, with wild-roaming camels and loud arguing at open-air markets. The above does NOT mean that the country was the very Heart of Darkness -- on the contrary, Jordan has experienced tremendous growth and development over the last 20 years, bringing it closer to the dubiously bright light of the 21st century. Most evident is the country's in-progress transition to living in permanent homes: side-by-side to nomadic tents of questionable sturdiness, held up by little more than Allah's good grace, now rise prominent villas with rich decorations and arched windows. In general, Jordan's tourism is high, while crime is low -- in our experience, nearly all of the locals (of all layers of society, from illiterate fishermen to policemen) were incredibly nice and friendly to us. Jordan is still a third-world country, but it's a third-world-country-plus, closer in development to Israel (which I would label as first-world-minus) then what I would imagine most destitute third-world countries to be.

(On a quick side note: it was funny to see how much Jordan tried to emphasize its transition into a modern and touristy country. We saw many signs like "Amman's Modern Pharmacy" or "Modern School of Engineering", all stressing Amman's newfound technological development).

A quick outline: I went to Jordan with my sister Nica, her husband Boris, and their friend Leva, in early May. Our trip lasted just over a week, and on the last three days we were joined by four other friends of Nica and Boris. The first five days were spent mostly exploring Jordanian culture and history, while the last three days were dedicated to canyoning in a beautiful valley of Wade Feid. Nica and Boris are both studying to become archeologists, and both are adventurous rock-climbers, trekkers, and outdoors people. This was Boris's fourth trip to Jordan, and he's been nearly everywhere that he led us in Jordan with the exception of the canyon. He frequently leads groups of tourists of all levels of experience to various places in Israel and the surrounding countries: in fact, the weekend after we got back from Jordan he took a group of clients to the newly-explored canyon. I highly recommend that anyone who wishes to truly immerse themselves in the Middle East (whether with the intention of an adventurous outdoorsy trip or more of an archeological/historical tour) contact Boris or my sister to find out about their prices and availability -- their contact info is nica123@gmail.com and +972-54-6327789, and they charge quite little for their guiding.

Before I plunge into details of the actual trip, allow me to point out some rather general observations about Jordan. As I already mentioned above, Jordan's people were remarkably friendly to us. At first I was a little hesitant to tell native Arabs that I was from America or that our group had just crossed over from the Israeli border, but no one seemed to care. Everyone we ever asked for directions went out of their way to help us, despite the extra time and effort involved with explaining directions in another language. The only people I did not particularly care for were tradesmen at touristy places, each of whom assured us that "he gives us good price", despite obvious indications to the contrary.

The people of Jordan seemed religious, at least in outward appearance and clothing. Many had a calm and wise expression upon their faces, endowed with a belief in Allah's greatness and the consequent lack of need to worry about things. Coincidentally, this reduction in worries also translated into a reduction in work ethics -- nearly everywhere we went we saw countless workers taking perpetual cigarette- and coffee-breaks.

The Jordanian people lived in all sorts of houses, from flimsy tarp-shacks in the desert (surrounded by camels, goats, roosters, and plentiful children), to spacious stone-built homes. Quite interestingly, even the prettiest of homes had ugly cement-and-wire columns sticking out of the top: as my sister explained, those are foundations on rooftops to allow for the future building of additional stories for the family's grown sons.

The roads in Jordan were incredibly smooth, wide, and well-maintained, far better than most roads in Alaska! Few roads had speed limits, so we drove a consistent 90-100 mph on the highways. Only when we drove through the cities, either for food or lodging, did we need to slow down. The food in Jordan was very good and cheap at restaurants and bakeries, though I found the Jordanian desserts and candies to be highly odd and relatively untasty. In general, prices at restaurants and hotels were significantly lower than in the United States or in Israel, though the separate "raw materials" for the products (ie: food products, batteries, etc) cost roughly the same as in the U.S.. Presumably, this was because labor costs in Jordan added little to the overall price of a product or service, whereas the US labor costs would typically compromise most of a product's price.

One last general note: sad to say, but my fluent American English was very poorly understood in Jordan. My sister's inarticulate English, however -- despite its mixed tenses, heavy Russian accent, and extremely basic vocabulary -- was understood flawlessly. It got to the point that not only did my sister act as a spokesperson for our group, but she even translated my English into the English that Jordanian people could understand!!!

* * *

JERASH AND THE DESERT CASTLES:

We set out from Tel-Aviv, Israel, on a Sunday noon in Leva's car. Three hours later we had arrived at the northern crossing-point of the Israeli-Jordanian border (a second crossing-point located at the southern tip of Israel, near the Red Sea). After tedious security checks and petty fees, which took about an hour to clear, we were finally on our way. In another hour, we reached our first destination, the ancient monumental Roman city of Jerash, currently surrounded by a contrastingly ugly modern Arabic town. Unfortunately, admittance to Jerash had closed just five minutes before our arrival, so we decided to return to it on the following morning, and meanwhile to find some food and lodging in the modern part of Jerash.

Finding food was easy enough: the town had a plethora of restaurants and grocery stores to choose from. Finding lodging was more tricky, as the town had only one hotel, which would charge a monopoly price of 10 dinars ($15) per person. To me, after Europe, $15 seemed like a laughable price (I've stayed in simple hostels for $25 before), but my sister and Boris were determined to find something cheaper. We were directed to the Tourist Police (a convenient hybrid between a police station and a tourist office) for further inquiries, but the best the police could find was a campsite for $10 per person, albeit with toilets, showers, and a swimming pool. Seeing our determination to keep searching, however, the head policemen offered us a free stay at a parking lot just across the street, even though it was technically illegal to stay there. The parking lot (with an amusing sign of "Private Gate Just For Officials and Delegations") proved to be a wonderful place to stay, right underneath the old city of Jerash. As for our friendly police officer, he ordered that the nearby visitor center's bathrooms were unlocked for us, and even came over himself to check on our comfort, jokingly apologizing that the parking lot did not include a fancy swimming pool like the other campsite...

After drinking a toast to the health of all amiable policemen worldwide, we went to sleep and woke up early on the following morning to be the first visitors to enter Jerash. Doing so proved to be an excellent idea, as we saw nearly no other tourists for the whole two hours of our visit. Jerash is considered to be the best-preserved Roman city outside Italy, and its architecture indeed offered an impressive sight. Jerash's huge columns, monumental temples, magnificent streets, fancy stone carvings, and a large amphitheatre -- all nearly untouched by the test of time -- were truly spectacular to behold. But an even more dumbfounding sight (and sound) awaited us within the amphitheatre, where an ARAB, dressed in a KILT, was playing a moderately MUSLIM-sounding melody on a BAGPIPE. After I recovered from my shock at such a phenomenal inter-mixing of cultures, the Arab explained that Britain had once "occupied" (or, in essence, formed) the country of Jordan until its independence in 1946; some British cultural influence, then, has remained behind even in present-day Jordan.

(A water-powered wooden stone saw!)

For the next two days after visiting Jerash, we drove throughout the area, exploring desert castles. Most of these castles had been built not so much for fortification, but as luxury winter homes for kings and princes some 1,000 years ago. They were of all sizes and designs: the oldest of them had giant stone doors and a roof that was made of long stone blocks laid in a grid-like pattern; another, built with the intention of looking rich without being too expensive to construct, was created out of stone, but covered in easy-to-carve plaster with ornate designs. In addition to the castles, we also visited an interesting bathhouse situated in the middle of the desert. Not only were its mechanisms for drawing and heating water quite intriguing, but the inside of the bathhouse contained colorful frescoes of animals, musicians, and naked women! Apparently the God-fearing Muslims who built the place were not quite as God-fearing as one would think, at least in the modern sense of this word. For while these medieval frescoes flaunted the full nakedness of women in all its beauty, the fully-clothed and head-covered Muslim women who walked about the modern streets of Jordan provided a striking contrast. That disparity became all the more apparent several days later, at a beach on the Red Sea, where the women swam in the very same full-body garments as one would see them walking on the streets in.

I suppose I should mention something about the desert. Initially, I found the desert plain and uninteresting, stretching flatly and lifelessly across a littered countryside. But where the desert rose to form dunes and mountains and canyons, I found the desert to be quite beautiful. This third dimension not only added perspective and size to the desert, but it also allowed for expanses where water could run and vegetation could grow. In some places, especially in canyons and valleys along the way, the sand and sandstone were composed of multiple colors, ranging from yellow to orange to red. Also, within those valleys, the rain and wind had often blown holes within the sandstone walls, creating picturesque textures.

As our two-day desert castle saga was coming to a close, we saw came upon yet another desert castle, perched on a hill right alongside our road. Despite having already seen many castles, and having grown progressively less enchanted by each individual visit, we decided to stop. At first, the castle seemed quite similar to many of the others, halfway in ruins and rather unspectacular. One of its doorways, however, seemed to lead somewhere underground, so we decided to follow it.

The stairway soon turned around a corner, out of reach of the sunbeams. We proceeded a little onwards, though still seeing no visible end in sight. Turning on the flash in our cameras, we took a picture and saw that the passage seemed to descend further; beyond that, nothing else could be said about the passage's use or destination.

After debating whether or not it was worth it to go back to the car and get a headlamp, Leva finally decided to run back to the car and get his. When he returned, we proceeded to go down by the light of his lamp. The stairs grew more and more slippery and somewhat steeper, but at each turn we thought that the stairway would soon end, leading us into a forgotten cellar. And, with each turn, we were wrong.

Absolutely astounded that the stairs kept going for about 10 minutes (!), we guessed that this I was actually a secret passageway leading to Australia, and that we would soon see hopping kangaroos and bright sunshine on the other end. As we proceeded, we finally saw a dim light flickering in the distance; two minutes later, we came upon a twenty-foot-deep manhole out of which we cautiously climbed. So surprised were we by what we saw, that we nearly fell back into the darkness of our by-then familiar stairwell.

Kangaroos or not, the landscape where we emerged looked nothing like where the castle -- and where we ourselves -- had stood 20 minutes before. A valley, an unpaved road, a female shepherd, and some old ruined homes were all that there was in sight. No castle, no highway, no nothing. Based on Leva's high-tech watch, we calculated that we had descended over 500 feet down the unmarked and unexpected tunnel, which presumably had once served as an emergency escape route. Unwilling to climb back the way we came, we determined the castle's location based on the position of the sun, and eventually made our way up the unpaved road towards the unexpectedly surprise-filled castle.

* * *

A SMALL CANYON AND THE COLORFUL MOUNTAINS OF PETRA:

After the desert castles, we spent a day in a small canyon with hot springs (still not the "canyoning canyon" that was to come at the end of our journey), and then another day in Petra. As the two are somewhat thematically connected, I will let the first transition into the second.

The "small canyon" was fed by two springs: one hot, and one cold. The hot spring had a man-made pool surrounding it, to which we walked on the evening of the same day that we had discovered the mysterious castle. The day had been so warm, that initially I saw no point in going to a hot spring, but the cooler night air convinced me otherwise. Floating on my back in the warm pool, marveling at countless stars glimmering from heaven, I felt completely immersed in nature's kind nurture, and completely at peace with myself and with the Universe.

In the morning, we walked for a couple of hours down the canyon, stepping in knee-deep water, but otherwise not needing to do any technical canyoning (real canyoning, with equipment and all, was to come several days later). The canyon was surrounded by colorful sandstone, with its various patterns and designs laid out by Nature's Department of Abstract Art. In parts, the walls were near-vertical or even leaning inwards, with plants and rocks above forming a ceiling over our heads. The main stream in which we walked was of lukewarm temperature, with occasional hot or cold streams joining on the side. Sometimes the water would even join the stream from above us -- in one spot, a series of water droplets kept falling from a tiny creek 100 feet over our heads. The water droplets fell in a regular rhythm, separated enough that each could be viewed individually, but close enough that 10-15 were in the air at any given moment. The resulting image was a classical "free fall acceleration" time-lapse illustration that is so prevalent in physics books, but that I've never before seen so vividly (and without needing to imagine a time lapse) in real life.

After returning from the canyon, we drove for a while to reach Petra, which we explored all throughout the following day. Petra (which, by the way, had since been included in the "New Seven Wonders" list), is an incredibly touristy but beautiful site of even more colorful mountains and sand, with one important aspect: Petra used to be a town. Because sandstone, by nature, has an unusual number of caves and holes within it, the people of Petra some 2,000 years ago utilized the existing caves for shelter. As time progressed, the people began to decorate the caves' exteriors by chiseling columns and ornate designs out of the mountains. Hundreds of caves were decorated, with many later becoming burial grounds or temples. The result of that touched-up natural beauty is simply marvelous!

Beyond the touched-up caves, even the untouched ones were beautiful and full of color. Petra stands at the heart of a mountain range, so when we had seen our fill of caves and temples, we hiked up for a panoramic view of the surrounding region. The views were beautiful, surreal: from Petra, the surrounding land looked like an alien landscape of jagged red rock and sand. In the evening, by the colors of a setting sun, the temples and burials looked even more impressive, adding the pink of the setting sun to the already red and orange rock.

The only problem with Petra was how touristy it was: herds of visitors from all countries flooded into the city and crowded the paths, serving as prey to the countless tradesmen scattered along the main road. There were tradesmen of all sorts: gift shop owners, camel drivers, donkey owners (yelling "taxi, 2 dinar"), artists, and others. The only thing they shared in common was a lust for money at the expense of rich European tourists, who would un-bargainingly accept any price. The prices of souvenirs, as expected at such a high-demand place, were several times higher than fair market prices, but even that wouldn't have been a problem if the tradesmen did not so actively try to exploit the tourists. Just one careless glance at a vase or a painting would lead to an enthusiastic speech of "I give you good price", "Only 10 dinar", "8 dinar to start off the day", and etc. Each speech was unwelcome, repetitive, and false -- if someone was just starting off their day at 4pm by selling me a 5-dinar product, their business was definitely in trouble. In one particular instance I accidentally looked at a knife displayed in a nearby stand, and immediately a teenage Arab began telling me of its miraculous qualities, and asking what price I'd pay. I said I didn't need the knife, but he jumped in front of me and told me that usually the knife goes for 50 dinars on the market, but he'd give it to me for 25. I told him I didn't need the knife and walked away, with him walking right behind me and naming progressively lower prices, finally stopping at 5 dinars. When I later thought back on the episode, I was amused at how it must have looked like from an observer's point of view: a frustrated Arab boy, shouting out various sums of money and with a knife at hand, pursuing a white American in a Hawaiian t-shirt amidst a sea of tourists.

We left a bit after sunset, after quickly venturing by a more remote area of Petra, where the tradesmen and their families lived by night. There everything was quite as usual: dirty tents, free-roaming chickens and goats, a whole clan of kids playing tag... For the tradesmen, as soon as the tourists left, life again resumed its normal Bedouin course -- a patriarchic simple existence without excess worries or liabilities...

As we were leaving, some workers were placing and lighting candles along the main path, in preparation for Petra's night visitors. These tourists would be treated to food and storytelling, among other activities. As there was a separate charge for these evening events, however, and as Boris said that the best part of it was the candles we were already seeing (in his opinion, the rest of the show had great potential but lacked glamour in practice), we did not stay for the night program. Still, sauntering through Petra by candlelight was undeniably beautiful, and left us with a lasting mystical impression of the Petra we visited.

* * *

SCUBA DIVING:

The following day was most notable for our visit to the Red Sea, where I went scuba-diving for the first time in my life. I dove with a friendly native guide, who was remarkably patient with me and who spoke wonderful English. After I had donned my suit and scuba equipment, we stepped chest-deep in the water onto soft white sand, where he instructed me how to breath, how to relieve pressure in the ears, how to clear the mask, and etc. Breathing was one item that was not as easy as its sounds -- I had great difficulties in breathing normally while on such an artificial-respirator-like device. Several times I tried submerging my head underwater and emerged, panic-stricken, back to the surface. Finally, after several minutes, I mastered my fear and dove in.

[Photo borrowed from: http://www.landof3shadows.com/egypt-tour-travel/diving-red-sea.jpg]

Scuba diving is probably one of the most breathtaking activities I've ever done. It is more than a sport -- it is a union between the gracious gods of the sea and the lucky diver. Equipped with a tank, mask, fins, weights, and other divine objects, the diver descends into the water, where the sea gods assure him of a safe passage in exchange for a handful of shiny air bubbles. Effortlessly, the diver flicks his fins and water parts in front of him, leading him into the depth of the sea. There, the sea gods show him their untold treasures of colorful fish and spectacular coral reefs. Fish of all shapes and sizes swim by his mask, play hide-and-seek with him behind rocks and corals, perform amazing water acrobatics... Sea hedgehogs, crabs and punk-looking fish with radiantly-colored fins parade about the water, displaying their latest styles and trends. Even the sand and the seaweed are alive 'neath the water, moving to and fro with each rhythmic heartbeat of the sea.

It is a wonderful world! But the diver must not outstay his welcome (the precious oxygen in his tank lasts for only about an hour), and so he rises back to the surface, leaving gems of white bubbles along his path. The colorful kingdom of the sea dims, turns gray and sandy, and soon the diver finds himself back on the beach. The water's surface looks plain and devoid of life, with barely a school of colorless plebian fish to break the monotony; only the diver knows of the true wealth of beauty that lies underneath this unembellished facade. And from that moment on, the sea will never feel the same to him, for underneath the glimmers and foam of the water, he'll always feel the sea gods calling him back.

[Photo borrowed from http://www.AqabaDivingCenter.com -- the place where I took my intro dive]

I should say that I was very lucky to experience the Red Sea on my first dive: the Red Sea is renowned for its beauty, colorful fish and abundance of corals. If I did not realize how unusual the Red Sea is then, I certainly realized it two weeks later while diving with Katrina in the Mediterranean Sea in Corsica, France. This Mediterranean dive had still been an enjoyable experience, but the gray-green rocks and relatively bleak fish could hardly compare to the lavish display of color and life that I saw in within the Red Sea. To the Mediterranean's credit, I did see some nifty sponges and spectacular seaweed that I had not experienced in Jordan, but the Red Sea still left me in much greater awe.

After scuba diving, I swam in the sea some more, joined by my three companions and later by an ever-increasing fleet of jelly fish. The jelly fish were small, purple and relatively non-stinging, but it was still unenjoyable to be touched by them. When we turned to swim back to shore, we found that we had been blockaded by a coalition of the United Jellyfish Front. Bravely taking to the offense and cursing their multitude, we dove under them as best we could, finally making it -- victorious -- back to the shore.

We decided to camp at the beach, right by the sea. As we were setting up our tents, an Arab guy in the tent next to us warmly offered us to come join him for fish. Slightly taken aback by such hospitality (the image of the money-grabbing Petra tradesman was still fresh in our memories), we told him that we'd join him after we were done setting up the tents. He walked back to his tent, stayed there for several minutes, and then brought the fish -- along with pita bread with which to eat it -- to us. We offered to make him some tea to return the favor, but when Boris got out a camping stove to start boiling water boiling, he gestured that he had a real teapot in his tent, and that we were more than welcome to come along. Submitting to his invitation, we followed him to his tent: a sturdy, heavy-duty enclosure the size of a room. Outside the tent, on a clean laid-out rug, sat his friends, mostly fellow fishermen. They were watching a Jordanian comedy on TV -- a comedy done so over-the-top that even we could understand it. Our host brought out more chairs, served us tea with the pitas and fish (borrowing lemon juice from a friend in a nearby tent), and did his best to converse with us in English. We, in turn, told him about life in Israel and Alaska, along with our most recent experiences in Jordan. We departed back to our ten only an hour or two later, quite amazed by the kindness and warmth of the Jordanian people towards their Israeli brethren.

* * *

A THRILLING AND AWE-INSPIRING CANYONING EXPERIENCE:

The following day, our last epic journey in Jordan began: the canyoning of Wadi Feid. Wadi Feid is a valley carved in the rocks of western Jordan (Wadi means valley in Arabic), with a small creek running through it. More notable than the creek, however, is a series of eleven waterfalls that pass through the valley, ranging from a mere 20 ft to about 160 ft. The waterfalls are spread out over the course of several miles, and our goal was to walk from one waterfall to another and rappel (i.e.: descend by rope) down through them.

For the crossing of Wadi Feid, we were joined by Nica and Boris's four other adventurous friends: Vitalik, Kostia, Kucher, and Arkadi. All four were quite experienced climbers, and Kostia was also a professional photographer (all of the upcoming pictures were taken by him -- many more photos and his contact info can be found at http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/). Loaded with rappelling gear, a seemingly endless supply of ropes (including two main 700-ft lines), food, camping gear (we were intending to spend one night in the canyon), and overall bravado, we set out to conquer the canyon and its innocent narrow creek.

To get to Wadi Feid, we first crossed the rocky but dry surface of another valley, Wadi Shemah, only reaching Wadi Feid by mid-afternoon. We strolled along Wadi Feid's creek for another quarter of an hour, looking severely over-packed and over-roped, till we finally came upon the first waterfall. Our true canyoning experience was now about to begin!

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

I should say mention that I've never gone canyoning before. With the exception of scaling the man-made walls at a rock-climbing gym twice before, never have I done real rock-climbing, either. I have done plenty of rock-climber-esque stuff before, but it was always done without gear, outside, on hurtful ground, and hence with a very firm mindset of clinging on to the rocks for dear life (for lack of any rope supporting me). Rappelling is totally different: one must lean back from the safety of a firm grip on the rock's surface, and trust in the flimsy, shaking rope, holding you some 100+ feet above pounding water and rocky spikes; that is, hang by nothing more than thin air and an even thinner piece of twisted fabric. Even the knowledge that the rope is securely attached, that it could easily hold my weight several times over, and that a backup rope is in place did little to ease my qualms. I did my best to keep pace with everyone else and to numb my fears, but I always felt hesitant as I transitioned from standing on a rock's firm surface to leaning back and putting my life at the mercy of a small fabric harness.

(Photo taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

After securing a main rope to the side of the first waterfall, Boris made his way down, easily pushing off of the rock wall and quickly getting to the bottom of the waterfall; he was soon followed by another two or three climbers. Usually, on hot days, the rope and its occupants would descend among the wet, cool water for a nice refreshing shower; as cold weather had overtaken the typical Jordanian heat in the last several days, however, we tried to avoid getting directly underneath the chilly waterfalls for the duration of the trip. Meanwhile, as the first several climbers descended, Nica and Leva taught me a quick crash course on… not crashing. The basics were simple enough: Nica would tie me on to the main rope, and I would simply push with my feet against the rock (see lamentations above), and slowly let the rope pass through my right hand while sliding another knot down with my left hand. The right hand, which controlled the speed of the descent, was to ALWAYS remain on the rope (not easily done at times, such as when I bumped my elbow on a jutting rock). The knot that I was to slide down the main rope with my left hand was a backup device: much like a car's seatbelt, the knot would loosely slide along the rope at a slow speed, but would hopefully lock up during a sudden jerk.

(Photo taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

With a quickened pulse but a sluggish pace, I finally made my way down the first, 30-ft, waterfall. Much like the rest of the waterfalls, it was surrounded by firm, barren, near-vertical, light-colored rock, made somewhat slippery by the presence of continuous water spray. I almost injured myself on a second waterfall, about the same size, but fortunately Nica and Leva noticed that there was slack in my rope, and helped me amend it. Evening was setting in by this point, so we made a fire, cooked food, told tales, and prepared for sleep in the canyon, right next to the water. A light rain sprinkled for several minutes early at night, and our proximity to the water would have become potentially dangerous if actual rain fell and the water level rose, but the drizzle had fortunately stopped soon thereafter. After a safe night's sleep, we continued our descent through the canyon.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

(Photo taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

The waterfalls got progressively taller and more difficult as we went -- soon I found myself facing a daunting 100-ft drop that curved out of sight, and that forced me to cross right through the splashing creek, drenching and blinding me as I stood underneath it. An hour or two later I descended down an even taller, 140-ft, waterfall, from the top of which my companions below looked like hunched backpack-carrying ants. The day had turned out cold and drizzly, to the point that my fingers -- especially when clinging on to a wet rope, with water mist splashing upon me -- felt so numb that they could barely keep a firm grip on the rope (an uneasy feeling at 70-80 ft above ground, to say the least). To speed up the process of descending, and to spend less time shivering while waiting for the climbers before us, we were now utilizing both main ropes on two waterfalls at a time: the first climber to descend down the first waterfall would immediately start tying a rope onto the second one, while the rest of the group would slowly join him and continue to descend down the second waterfall.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

For several short bursts throughout the day, the sprinkling rain turned into a true downpour, but it always returned to an innocent drizzle several minutes later. Then, contrary to the pleasant forecast of partly-cloudy weather, the rain unexpectedly picked up again and did not wish to stop. We had, at that moment, reached the most climactic part of our trip – rapelling down the two last and tallest 170-ft waterfalls. Most of us had already descended from the first waterfall, and were standing on a little plateau some 200 yards away, with the second waterfall at our feet. Two guys had already made it down the second waterfall, and my sister had just begun descending towards them when the rain started pounding upon us with newfound force; Leva, the last person remaining at the first waterfall, had likewise just commenced his descent.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

It should be noted that the desert hardly absorbs rain; most of it rolls off the sand and down into valleys. For that particular area of Jordan, the valley chosen as collection point for all nearby off-flows conveniently turned out to be Wadi Feid -- our canyon. So when the drizzle, bypassing a rather critical threshold, turned into a downpour, our little creek, bypassing a medium size, became a roaring, turbulent stream. Leva and Nica had just barely made it out of their respective waterfalls when the water took on a distinctive shade of brown; within minutes, the rushing water had become intertwined with hefty rocks. With rumbling screeches, the rocks fell off the walls of the waterfall, bouncing back into the water and crashing into a violent lake that formed at the bottom. From the mountains all around us, many a stone began rolling down the steep slopes, crashing into the ground with thunderous blasts. There was no question of continuing the descent down to where Nica and the two guys were -- in fact, we barely managed to pull the rope out of the way of the expanding stream. We gestured to them to get onto higher ground and wait for the flood to settle. All we could do for now was cling onto our patch of high ground, gaze in awe at nature's unpredictable burst of wrath, and hope to come out of this unexpected peril alive and uninjured.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

And awe it was. Imagine a train, coming out of a sharp corner at full speed, and then falling -- falling -- falling nearly 200 ft into a lake. The water parts with the incoming blow, rushes to the side, and then shoots 50 feet back up in the air. Short trees, standing on what was once the bank of a small pond, and now covered in several feet of water in a raging lake, bow down like grass as this second impact of the water crushes upon them. Hardly do they straighten back up when another pulse from another "train" of water crashes into the lake, once again sending the trees into a reverend bow. And again, and again, and again... non-stop for two hours, as Allah's rage passed through our canyon.

A word about Kostia, our photographer. He had impressed me much earlier on: for his bravery, calm, willingness to extend a helping hand, and the unmatched skill and ease with which he jumped from one rock to the next, clinging on to slippery surfaces as if his shoes were coated in industrial-strength Velcro. Now, during the flood, his ability to grip onto rocks was all the more astounding: with a camera in hand, not taking his eyes off of the viewfinder or his hand from the shutter, he would leap blindly from one rock to the next, in search of a perfect angle for his shots. Guided by what seemed like intuition alone, he landed flawlessly time and time again, taking row after row of spectacular pictures. With scrupulous dedication, ignoring the mist, the cold, and the flying stones, he remained by his hard-clicking camera for the whole duration of the spectacular flood.

I should note that we were quite lucky that the flood caught us in a place where we could easily scramble to safety. Our "top" group had a great (though not rain-proof) plateau to rest on, far above the water; the "bottom" group was less comfortable, but still out of imminent danger. They were able to retreat to a large rock jutting out from the side of the canyon, and, though the water level kept creeping up to their hideaway, they still had a few feet to spare when the water level began dropping. Their comfort was somewhat curbed by the fact that most of the water mist sprayed full-force onto their sanctuary, that rocks kept flying at their sides, and that, as they huddled together on the crowded rock, they were joined by all sorts of shelter-seeking creatures of the Earth -- snakes, crabs, spiders... Based on my sister's account, they felt quite like on Noah's ark :-) But, again, at least we all were reasonably safe. A group of climbers less than a hundred miles west of us, stuck in a similar canyon, could find no retreat; they were found dead several days later.

(Photo taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

By the time the flood had partially subsided, afternoon had turned to early evening, and Boris decided to attempt reuniting with our stranded companions below. He would descend first, and then gesture to us if it was safe to follow. After we agreed on a system of signaling (shouting was of no use against the roar of the water -- instead, we used one arm gesture for "yes" and another for "no"), Boris re-tied the rope and began his descent. Upon reaching the ground, however, Boris became hindered by a seemingly uncrossable lake that had expanded vastly underneath the waterfall during the flood. After exerting hour-long painstaking efforts to cross it, Boris finally conquered the lake and signaled for us to proceed; but, hardly had Leva fastened himself onto the main rope, when the rain picked up again, the roar of the waterfall increased dramatically, and Boris's conquered lake once again became engulfed in a spray of water and rocks. A long signaling dialogue ensued, during which it became abundantly clear that a language of just "yes" and "no" signals is hardly enough to maintain a robust conversation. We gestured to the waterfall, pointed "no", and tried to understand the strange signals that Boris was trying to convey, made all the more obscure by the enclosing darkness. In desperation, Boris finally dug out his flashlight and proceeded to spell out some mysterious letters, symbols, or signals, but to no avail. Finally, with the help of a second flashlight, Boris managed to convey a straightforward "no". At last something coherent! We fumbled around for our flashlights, repeated the "no" signal back to him and, satisfied with our mutual understanding and our unparalleled communication abilities, prepared for sleep.

(Photo taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

Funnily enough, despite an even distribution of four-and-four adventurers, our groups turned out to have a remarkably uneven distribution of gear, let alone of sleeping conditions. When we had packed in the morning, we could not have guessed that we would get split up, and so many of us carried each other's gears. Thus, the "top" group, with Leva, Kostia, Vitalik, and I, ended up with both sets of cooking stoves, nearly all the food, an extra sleeping bag, and a reasonably dry patch of high ground; the bottom group ended up with a deficit of everything but cold mist, bedfellow-snakes, and countless bottles of alcohol!

The following morning, hardly a trace was left from the previous day's flood. The sky had transformed into a bright, cloudless blue, and the small creek bubbled innocently with perfectly clear, mud-less waters. Without any difficulties we climbed down to re-join the bottom group (who were boiling the last of their coffee supplies on an open fire) and proceeded to walk down the canyon. Within several miles, and without any further waterfall descents, the canyon opened up into a wide valley, the creek retreated underground, and our path led us into the flat desert.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

Within another couple of miles, a sad truth dawned upon us -- we were in the middle of nowhere, an arbitrary number of miles away from the main road, on a scorching, cloudless day, and with almost no water. The rain that we had so vehemently cursed yesterday would have been a blessing today! Exhausted, we sat underneath a solitary tree and began to consider our options. According to a moderately confused map, a little town lay five miles west of us. Unfortunately, the desert in that direction was sandy and impenetrable; a much easier route would be to walk around the sand at the expense of another 2-3 miles. As Boris and Kostia debated which route to take, and the rest of us looked gloomily at our near-empty water bottles, a mirage of a black car sped past us, some 200 yards beyond our tree. In disbelief, we jumped up in the direction of the car, and immediately came out to a beautifully paved road that corresponded to absolutely nothing on the map.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

We walked the road for a bit till we came to another lone tree, sat underneath it, whipped out a cell phone, prayed for reception, and successfully called a taxi. As we waited, the lifeless desert erupted with another loud roar of engines, and soon we saw a number of motorcyclists heading on the road towards us. Dressed in black leather, on shining new Harley-Davidsons, they probably looked as out of place to us as we -- loaded with backpacks and rappelling gear in the middle of a flat desert -- did to them. We stopped one of them to ask what road we were on, and he explained to us that we were indeed not on the main road, but rather on a small local road that connected this area to another village. The remaining motorcyclists asked us who we were, and we replied that we were Israeli adventurers who had just canyoned Wadi Feid; they, in turn, told us that they were rich Lebanese thrill-seekers, out for a ride in Jordan. Despite the recent disputes between these respective nations, the Lebanese were quite nice to us, offering cigarettes, shaking our hands, and wanting a picture with us. When another car passed by us, and my sister tried to negotiate a ride back to Leva's vehicle, one of the Lebanese motorcyclists helped us as an English-to-Arabic translator. Our ride secured, we parted with our new Lebanese friends and headed back to where we had parked Leva's car, right as a taxi appeared to pick up the rest of our group. We left Jordan on the following morning, with some incredible memories from this fascinating and mysterious land.

(Photos taken by Kostia, http://www.targetpoint.com/greenview/)

- Michael