Canoeing the Everglades !

In 1998 at a garage sale I picked up a map called the Wilderness Waterways representing the Everglades in Florida. I didn’t have a clue what might be involved with a water trail that goes for 150 miles through swampy wilderness. I guess you can’t call it exactly a trail since it follows rivers, creeks and large bays according to my new map. I could tell from the pristine condition of the map that the previous owner had bought it on a whim or his wife slapped some sense into him. I was thinking along the same line, how, where and why should I get started on this adventure.

I bought a canoe magazine that happened to have a story about canoeing in the Florida Everglades. It mentioned about a company that rents canoes and runs a hostel for me to lay my head before I started my trip in Everglade City. The article mentioned about marauding raccoons and hungry looking alligators. After looking at my map I knew that the trip like most adventure where going to take lots of planning.

I contacted the Everglade Rental & Eco Adventure Canoe Company and set up a reservation for my canoe rental for eleven days. I also needed a place to lay my head for the first night at their Ivey House. After I finished my adventure in Flamingo I needed someone to have my rental car waiting for me.

Because of the tricky raccoon with their goal of eating all my food, I would need to raccoon proof my food containers. I bought a few thumb screw locks that I could attach to my ice chests. Because I would be away from any forms of ice I would have to carry dry food in my containers. I made two weeks of dried vegetables and snacks. I dried oranges and mixed them with coconuts, nuts and mixed with honey for a quick energy food. In waterproof stuff sacks I packed my sleeping bag and cloths.

Pam my wife was going to celebrate her fifth year on this earth and she didn’t want to be in Denver during that time. I decided to have my trip revolve around Pam’s birthday. So I needed to buy my plane ticket to Miami Florida for the middle of January and then acquire Pam’s ticket for the first week of February after my trip was done, or I was and she would meet me.

When I showed up at the Denver Airport, I had the looks of the Beverly Hillbillies meet the swamp people. Coolers and stuff bags lay in front of the check in counter ready for my agent to raise her thumb or turn it down and then I am thrown to the lions, or gators in this case. After explaining what I had on my pea brain I was allowed to continue with my trip. The agent with everybody else on this giant blue marble had hundreds of questions. “What are you going to do if you wake up with a spiders is on your face and a alligator is chewing on your feet?” was some of the questions. “What if you get lost and all you hear is banjo music and some one is squealing like a pig and hopefully it’s not you!” was another one. My parents must have dropped me on my head but I don’t contemplate about all the hardships, I think of all the new excitement and sights that I can add to the library in my brain.

As I arrived at the Miami airport I noticed it was raining and dark, and now I wish I had bought a earlier ticket. After loading my rental car I headed for the Tamiami Trail with my headlights pointed towards Everglade City. I found out that there was possibility that I might see a alligator or two along this road but I didn’t. By 10:00 pm I pulled into the parking lot of my temporary home. The lobby was empty except for a few people that you might picture living at a Ivey House hostel on the edge of the Everglades. I found a note on the check in desk with a my name and key attached. Maybe the clerk had gone for a walk during the night and had a close encounter with a gator or two. After dropping my bags in my room I returned to the water hole in the way of the lobby. Everybody had some sort of liquor in their hands and they seemed to have years of experience behind their bent elbows. I brought out my map of the Everglades and most people gathered around to see what crazy ass idea I had in mind. Most of the people in audience didn’t have much information or experience in the Everglades but they had more then just a few suggestions. I found out that the man with all information that I would needed for my ten day trip was away but would return tomorrow. During the night I had to get up and use the community bathrooms. As I walked down the hall way I thought I was dreaming when a German girl just wearing a smile came strolling down the hall towards me, since I am married I diverted my eyes of course . What do you say, where do you look, and I thought what a way to start a adventure.

The next morning I noticed a large fella behind the lobby desk that had the looks of knowing how to handle the swamp. After introducing myself, he suggested that I eat breakfast and then we would meet and plan my trip. After wolfing down my breakfast I found my savior outside his time and again my plans was put on the back burner behind my guides other obligations. Then after walking a few miles around the lobby trying to keep my anxiety in check, my path founder made a appearance. I followed him to a room beside the lobby and as I opened the door and flicked on the light, I noticed maps with a curled over edges attached to the walls. On tables lining the walls sat artifacts from past adventures. Jaw bones from alligators without many pieces of tourist stuck to teeth sat on the table beside turtle shells without the original owners. On a empty table I proudly spread out my map of the Everglades Wilderness Waterway. Just as quickly my guide roughly curled them up into a ball and threw them into the waste basket. “If you used that map you would be so lost that gators and snakes would send out thank you notes to the map printer!” he said as he brought out a two navigational maps. I found out from the man with the knowledge that some of the chickee where in different places then were on my map. By the way a chickee is a raised wooden platform above the swamp, that has been constructed by rangers in the Everglades to keep campers from becoming some animal’s bile movement! My new best friend helped me set up my ten day trip through the swamps and to see everything that needs to be seen. Now I needed to drive to the ranger station and reserve chickees and land sites with the National Park Service.

As I drove to the ranger station, I was also able to stop by a sporting good store to buy a fishing license. The store was a great place to start to come in contact with local flaunt and flora. A man with a beer belly that could be a poster child for sumo wrestling was standing behind the counter, with half his stomach covering the glass top. “Where are you going to fish besides the water, the ocean, lakes, rivers or just swamp?” asked the ton of fun of a man. After buying the right licenses, to keep the southern sheriffs from boarding my canoe, I got to hear all the horror stories about swamp travel.
“One time I caught a mess of fish and had them tied to the back of my canoe with the thought of my wife gutting and cooking this batch for my dinner, when I noticed the front of the canoe was being lifted skyward.” he said. “ An alligator had swallowed all my dinner of fish attached to the boat and was pulling the canoe down to the bottom of the muddy bottom.” said the salesman. “Then luckily the rope snapped and the canoe with me came back to the water surface with a boom.” said the fisherman. With the weight of this fella it’s close to a miracle that the canoe didn’t sink like a rock with him as ballast.

The ranger station only had one car in it’s parking lot which would be good for me. As I entered the station, the lone ranger was sitting at his desk with his head laying on the top. As he sat up his eye’s looked like they had rolled back in his head. I found out that the all night party with Jungle Juice as a the host, packed quite a punch. I tried to keep my voice down and the lights turned low, as we looked over my newly bought map. Hopefully the ranger wouldn’t decorate my map with last nights party food as we discussed my plans. I was able to reserve all my campsite which made my day. I found out that the park service has the policy, if you see a alligator don’t get into the water. The ranger was really glad to see me leave so he could lay his head back down to where he had left it and roll his eyes back in his head.

I made it back to the hostel where my canoe and gear had been loaded in a pickup truck. With my new maps in my front pocket and hope in back pocket I was ready to head out. The owner’s son would drive me to the Turner River where I would get this show underway. It took us a more then a few minutes to get all my gear in the canoe. I had four five gallons containers that would hold my fresh water, since most of the waterways are brackish or pure salt. I loaded it in the front of the canoe to hold down the bow in case the wind decides to play spin the canoe. After saying my goodbyes I started my trip with just one paddle in the still water. With my map I knew I had to make Sunday Bay and the chickee before the sun said adios. I noticed a few people walking along the river bank and got a occasional wave of their hands as a way to wish me good luck or a way to say what in the hell are you doing! After a couple hours of paddling I came to Cross Bay and their was group of boats fishing in the neck of the bay. I thought it might be fun to paddle by and exchange a greeting or two. This was going to be the start of my education when I noticed the water getting very shallow. I was going to learn about the different colors of water and what to look for when the tide was going out. I came to a sliding stop on top of sticky mud with a full load in my canoe. As I looked at the fisherman I tried not to have the appearance of a trapped rat. I slowly started to back paddle and slide backward since I couldn’t get out without sinking up to my arm pits in baby poop mud. I got quite a education in a short time, don’t get stuck in mud and my next lesson would be in navigation.

As I entered the Sunday Bay I noticed how big it was compared to the map. I thought I could figure out where the rivers and small coves where as they entered the bay by looking at them and then looking at the map. I thought I was on the right cove when I came to it’s dead end and there wasn’t any more bay. I came back up the bay with a little more strength in my paddle since it was getting late, when I noticed a fellow canoeist bobbing along the shore line and looking at a map as he scratched his head. “Well I knew where it isn’t, because I have been there!” I said. “I think it’s in this cove straight ahead!” said my new friend. Luckily this time I didn’t turn up the cove and I let this fella try it out. I told him I would give a holler if I found the chickee. Within a matter of minutes, my friend got stuck in a shallow bay. I paddled into the next bay and there stood two chickees and it looked good. Four post sunk into the swamp held up a roof and there was a walkway connecting to a outhouse. I pulled up to the chickee and tied up my canoe. I started to yell to my fellow canoeist and then noticed his canoe come into the bay. I set up my tent and got all my food out of the canoe. It felt good to get out of the canoe and straighten out my legs. I had enough energy to get out my fishing gear and scare a few fish. I didn’t have a good way to cook the fish so I would be doing catch and release instead of catch and grease. The two chickees where about forty feet apart but close enough to talk to my friend. I found out he was going to stay out for just two nights and was from Gettysburg Pa. I caught a few fish and had my line out while I cooked my dinner.

After the sun went down, I turned on my propane light which put out a lot of illumination. After reading a few pages from a paper back book that I brought along, I noticed the bright light had attracted many fish. As I turned off the light you could hear a loud swish noise as the fish drove under the water. Just like people had been doing for thousand of years, but for a minute I thought I had discovered it!
The next morning after hearing everything in the world swim by my temporary home during the night, I got ready to leave. Just like a Country Western song I wrote my wife’s phone number on a five dollar bill and as I handed it over to my partner on the next chickee, I asked him to call Pam when he hits civilization and tell her I am not gator bait yet.

I found out the importance of knowing where the hell I am at in the Everglades and paying attention to where I am going. There are 4x4 post sticking out of the water arranged by the park service with numbers attached that are suppose help us adventurers stay on a steady course. These numbered posts are be followed from Everglade City to Flamingo, the promised land, in my case. The numbers also correspond to the numbers on my spanking new map. It all seems so easy, just follow the recipe for disaster, I mean the way out. I have a compass but who needs a compass, when I get to a bay I just follow the shore line with my eye and get a reference off the map and paddle like a wild man. My first experiment was meet with complete and utter failure. I looked across Last Huston Bay and saw the inlet for the river that would lead me to Oyster Bay. All was wonderful in the world, I would paddle leisurely across and there would be a post with the number 101 attached. When I arrived there wasn’t number or post to be found. Maybe it’s in the inlet a little bit, I’ll just paddle some more, that’s when I slide into the sticky mud. It took me a few minutes to back out and start all over again. This time I went to the next inlet and low and behold was post number 117. Maybe it’s time to break out the rusty trusty compass. The sight of Oyster Bay gave me the feeling of accomplishment, I had paddled two miles and didn’t get lost or eaten. The bay I noticed on my map was cut into two sections. The first section had another post marked 114 and from here I would take a compass bearing. I had one of the cooler sitting right in front of me. I turned it into a picnic table and map table, where I could set the compass and take a bearing. I pointed the compass towards where Huston Bay should be and made a bee line for that point. I didn’t take my eyes off my bearing point and arrived at the right spot. That would be my job from now on, every night after dinner I would make reference compass sightings and write them down on the map.

The sight of Sweetwater Chickee put a little more energy into my paddle strokes. I had made it all the way and only had one little mishap with directions. The chickee was all by itself and there wasn’t soul around, except for birds and fish. It felt real good to get out of the canoe and walk around my ten feet by ten foot platform. I brought out the fishing gear and caught a few salt water fish. I don’t know why they call this place Sweetwater when it’s salt water for miles around.

The next morning I was up and at it with the next chickee on my horizon, I hope! I had to maneuver through Deer Island Creek and then make my way over to Chevelier Bay. The Florida mornings so far have been the same. I would wake to cool weather and then by 10:00 am it would warm up. The wind would also be right behind the sun’s heat. The bay was beginning to get some white caps and this made for a interesting crossing. The canoe that I had rented had a gunnel along the bottom so it stayed on course in a slight breeze, but you still had to paddle like mad to keep from being turned into a spinning top.

The next bay was called Cannon, which I didn’t see or hear any thank goodness. Then I entered Tarpon Bay that would lead me to Alligator Creek. The creek was very narrow with just enough room for my canoe to slide through the mangrove. I was paddling along when I spotted my first gator. I got out my camera and just let the canoe coast up to my quarry. The one thing I didn’t notice was the fact that another gator was sunning itself a few feet closer. As the canoe coasted into the mangrove it rubbed against the branches and made a loud squeaking noise. Lucky for me I wasn’t standing up because the sleeping gator woke and came towards the river like he was shoot out of a cannon and smashed into the front of the canoe. It was a like a giant had taken a play canoe and turned it completely around in the opposite direction. The gator that I was trying to take a picture of joined in on the fun and made a big splash into the river and disappeared into the depths of the river.

After I changed my undies I continued into Alligator Bay but didn’t see any of the critters. Then I paddled across Dad’s Bay and went down Plate Creek. On a small island in the end of Plate Creek Bay I found my next chickee. I had just emptied the canoe and had my tent set up when I heard this noise like a large flock of birds was flying towards me. I stepped back under the roof of the chickee when the rain came pouring down. The noise was the rain bouncing off the leaves of the mangrove as the storm made it’s way towards me. I was glad I was able to sit under a shelter and eat my dinner instead of being out in a open canoe getting soaked.

This morning the map pointed out the fact I had to cross over Lostman’s Five Bay and I hope it wasn’t going to be me. I was heading to Willy Willy campsite that was on solid ground. I would be staying here for two nights, that way I could explore around the mangroves and possibly get myself into more trouble. I crossed Onion Bay and then continued to Third Bay without much trouble. My compass readings seemed to be working out. At Big Lostman’s Bay I had to follow the Rocky Bay Creek to my campsite. The creek was narrow for thirty minutes of paddling and then a small bay signaled my campsite.

I stayed here for two days and this gave me time to fish and take the canoe out onto the water empty and do some exploring along the creek and small bay.

This morning I would take my canoe into waters hardly made for a canoe, the Gulf of Mexico. First I had to paddle down Rock Creek River until it emptied into Rodgers River Bay. Then for the rest of the afternoon I would follow the Rodgers River until it spilled into the sea. The delta was dotted with small islands just before I entered into the Gulf of Mexico. I saw some dolphins and sharks in the water directly in front of me, but by the time I got to the spot they pulled a Harry Houdini and disappeared.

I followed the shore line until I found a good spot to beached the canoe. Swaying coconut trees in the wind decorated the shore line. I pulled the canoe up far enough to not lose it to incoming tides and set up camp. Then came time to explore and beach comb for lost treasures, I figured a few gold coins could come in handy. I did find the spot where Horseshoe Crabs come up on shore to breed and croak. There was hundred of empty shells from over sexed crabs that must have made some hungry raccoon very happy.

This morning could prove to be very interesting with a waterway called The Nightmare between me and my next campsite. It is only passable during high tide and then very quickly, or you’ll be left high and dry in the middle of the wilderness. I was sitting in my canoe and as soon as first light made appearance and was paddling, like no tomorrow, which might be right. The Nightmare connected to the Broad Creek, which sounded a tad better. I was paddling along though this narrow passage way that had heaps of large trees all around. Some times I would have to back my canoe around into a side creek, just to make a tight turn. By noon I noticed the tide going out and taking my water source with it. My last obstacle was a fallen tree over my passage way. I had to get out of the canoe and by standing on the log lift the canoe over the tree. Most of the Everglades is pristine clean, because the tides come in everyday day and washes out the swamp, except for this part. The water here because it couldn’t drain all the way, was the color of Mountain Dew soda pop.
From the Broad Creek I paddled into the Harney Creek and at the intersection I saw my next chickee named Harney Creek! On the mud flats along the river sat large logs rested in the mud, except these logs had legs and teeth. Five large alligators had pulled themselves up on the shore line and was soaking in the sun. I thought maybe I could paddle over and take a great picture or at least put on some sun tan lotion. I decided the chickee was close enough to have my Kodak moment. Wouldn’t you knew it, but this chickee had seen better days or the gators had chewed out the supports and it swayed with the breezes. I had visions of while I was sleeping that a big wind comes along and push the chickee over and I become a gator’s midnight snack.

This morning I would head up Harney Creek and make my way across Tarpon Bay. It was early in the morning when I got under way and as I was paddling along I noticed a gator swimming towards me and we crossed paths. It reminded me of that German girl I saw in the hall at the hostel, I didn’t know what to say to either one of them! As I entered Tarpon Bay I noticed a couple boats. Two boats were bobbing along with one fella standing on each platform above the engine. He had along pole that he used to push the boat along and was giving instructions to a older fella monkeying with a fishing rod. “Look over there to your right, it’s a big one cast that way!” yelled the guide. I paddled up close enough for the guide to inform me that a giant Tarpon was in these waters and if they caught him he might come right thru my little canoe. In other words get the hell out of the way, I got a paying customer here, you granola eating canoeist!

I had Cane Patch Mangrove on my mind and it would be my camp site for two whole days. The Avocado Creek would lead me to my temporary home. The creek was small but it lead me into a bay that held a dock and my campsite. I noticed a few gators on the far right side of the bay as I paddled in to the mooring. There was a picnic table and out house, the only thing missing was cable TV. I unloaded my stuff and headed down to the dock. Maybe I was getting a bit cocky being out in the swamps for all of five days and still being alive, but damn it I was going to wash off! I dropped my cloths and stepped into the water. I kept my eye on the far shore to see what Mr. Alligator thought of my foolish idea. As soon as I placed one foot in the water the two gators turned and started to slowly swim towards me, maybe they where a welcoming committee. I did a complete wash off in ten seconds maybe shorter, because I didn’t want to become shorter, not any part of me! I made it back up on the dock and made the choice of leaving the swimming to the gators. Being a fine clear day I decided to try my hand at fishing off the dock. My fishing rod was in the canoe and as I reached in to the vessel for the rod I looked down in the water and saw a twelve foot alligator just laying on the bottom. It looked like a prehistoric monster, with large legs and a larger snout. His back was covered with sharp scaly points that where colored white like the broken oyster shells that lay beside him. This gator was the perfect specimen of camouflage blending into the back ground. I had found a large lure along the mangrove and I came up with even a crazier idea then swimming with the water monsters. Why not hook a gator and see how it feels at the end of my fishing rod. I dropped the lure directly in front of the alligator but because the water was a bit cold his reaction time was just had been slowed down. He would open his big mouth while slowly trying to bite it and at the same time I would try and set the hook with all my might. I missed his big mouth but did get the lure stuck in a over hanging tree branch above my quarry. I thought this could be a blessing in disguise, because why would I want to piss off a gator and I have to be here for two days.

I got into my canoe and paddled up the Rookery Branch River with some serious fishing in mind. I was casting my lure when I caught a Northern Pike, which lives in fresh water. I tested the water and it was fresh water. I must have caught forty Bass and was having a grand time just catching and releasing the fish. I noticed over by the mangroves a fish would come to the surface occasionally. I threw my lure in the exact spot that I had seen the ripples on the water and wham my line went tight. The lure must have hit a nerve because this fish with a attitude came straight for the canoe. I reeled in the line as fast as I could until the rod bent under the boat and the then the line snapped. I didn’t know what I had caught but it was big and mean. I put on another lure and after a few more casts caught another killer fish but this time I was able to land him and it was a Snook. The fish has the reputation of putting up a great fight and they proved it.

As I paddled my way back to camp I could hear talking coming from that direction. A guide with a helper had brought a couple of fisherman into the area to fish for Snook. I told them of my luck with Bass and Snook and that only wetted their appetite. It was getting close to dinner time and I got invited to a cookout with steaks and beers. As soon as the guides helper fired up the stove the raccoons came out like they had heard the dinner bell. As soon as the steaks hit the hot grill the raccoons almost came swinging out of the trees like Tarzan. The raccoons would come up to the cook making snarling noises and showing their teeth in the most menacing way that a creature the size of cat could muster up. This barbecue jockey would get so shook up he would throw pieces of steaks to the raccoons. Then the marauders would carry their prizes back into the cane forests, as they give each other a high five. I didn’t have to show my teeth to get food but I did have to sit on a chair and talk with the group about my trip, which I was glad to do. The two fisherman where more interested in the fish I been catching then where I had been and going. The story of the Snook really got their juices flowing, since they had come all the way from Ohio to catch a few.

After dinner it was still light and I decided to paddle back up the river and see if I could hook a few more fish. I stopped by my picnic table to gather some snacks, as two killer raccoons made their appearance. I guess the snapping teeth worked so well with the cook why not try it on the canoeist. There is a good reason why they call this place Cane Patch and I had found a cane and knew how to use it. The first Raccoon jumped up on the table and did his best impression of a cat size Grizzly Bear. That is until I hit right between the eyes about three times with the cane, then he had the look of disbelief. Him and his partner are probably still trying to figure out why the intimidation didn’t work.

After my animal training I went fishing. As I was paddling along I noticed a feather resting on top of a mangrove bush, just as a wisp of wind picked it up and set it down on the river surface. The second the feather landed a three foot alligator immediately came to the surface and went swimming over to the feather and then sunk below just as fast. I got a crash course on what would happens if I fall in the water

After two days of actually standing and sleeping on solid ground I was paddling to a chickee. I paddled back down the Avocado Creek and then found myself on Shark River which didn’t sound very good for my mojo. At the delta where the Shark River joined the Oyster Bay I did actually see a few sharks and dolphins. They where doing a porpoise type thing when a fish comes out of the water and you just see it’s back. By the time I got to the playground the critters had said adios, which is probably just as well. I arrived at the Oyster Bay chickee with plenty of time to spare and got my fishing gear in it up right and locked position. Since I was back in salt water, I was catching Red Fish, Sea trout and Rock fish. It had been a pretty easy day and I wasn’t complaining.

Since I knew the winds would pick up across the Oyster Bay by 10:00 am I wanted to be past it and on a river system. I was paddling along very nicely, but he wind must have awoken early because a steady wind came out of the south and I was heading right into it. I was paddling as steady as I could and kept on eye on my compass as I headed to Joe River inlet. I couldn’t stop paddling for one second or the wind would turn the front of my canoe right back where I started. By afternoon I coasted into the Joe River and then it was clear paddling since I left the wind to the open bays. The river banks with birds flying around the mangrove was a welcome sight as I kept one eye open for any manatee swimming around.

By dinner time I arrived at South Joe River chickee, my last platform above the gators. On another chickee sat a two fisherman, with fishing poles in hand as they where sitting on white plastic buckets. I paddled over for a little conversation and any advice about my last leg of my trip. As they turned their heads to talk I noticed a white shine on their faces. I also noticed they wore gloves and long sleeve shirts. One of the fellas stood up and opened the white bucket and asked if I wanted any mosquito repellent. They had made up their bug lotion in the five gallon size and it looked a lot like lard. As the fisherman stuck his hand in the bucket and brought out a white dripping mess, that was draining through his fingers he said. “ Are you sure you don’t want any?” The thought of me in my sleeping bag covered with lard was almost to much to stomach. I told them I didn’t have that much trouble with mosquitos up north. “You have entered bug land and the blood suckers down here will carry you into the mangrove as snack!” they said. I paddled back to my chickee and did notice a few mosquitos. By the time I tied up the canoe I couldn’t get into my tent fast enough, as I heard my fisherman friends falling off their bug buckets with laughter. By the time I closed the tent fly I had killed enough mosquitos to fill a shot glass and maybe that’s what I needed instead of lardo bug lotion!

The next morning while it was still too cool for a mosquito not wearing sweater, to make a appearance I paddled down the lower end of Whitewater Bay. On the bay I saw a tourist couple on a party boat and they where out for a few days of sight seeing. I had a ten day beard that would make Big Foot jealous and as I pulled up a long side the boat a woman appeared and then ran back inside. She came back immediately with all kind of fruit and food. She must have thought I had been out here for months or came off a ship wreck. To add to the moment, just for fun I asked her who was president now and O. J. Simpson, was he found guilty?

The Coot Bay would be my last bay as I entered the Buttonwood Canal. Then within a few hours I pulled into the Flamingo ranger station docks. I tied up my canoe and walked up to the ranger station. The ranger had the keys to my car, since my hostel hosts had delivered it with out any problems. I unloaded my gear which weighted a lot less after drinking and eating most of the food.

It was getting late and I still had to drive back to Miami airport to pick up Pam and celebrate for fifth birthday or is it forty ! I just had enough time to call my dad from a pay phone and tell him I had made it. The mosquitos must have been hiding in my pocket, because they almost devoured me as I told him of my adventure. I wouldn’t have changed one thing and what a experience I had!

South Coast Trek in Tasmania !

This adventure takes place in Tasmania in 2002, after my Franklin River trip on the last blog. On January 11th I awoke to rain, it was a dark and gloomy day for Hobart’s Regatta. Hobart is the southern most city in Tasmania and has the distinction of being the capital. The Regatta is held every year to celebrate Tassie’s love of the sea. Sail boats races will take place where the Derwent River empties her contents into the Tasman Sea. From locals I found out that the Queens’ Domain Gardens, will give me a prestigious viewing point of sails bellowing below my perch. Later that day the Australian Royal Air force jets shadows were streaking across the freshly mowed lawns of the Queens’s Gardens as I strolled into the entrance. My objective was to find a terrific viewing point of all the festivities and a place that had a back and leg support in the way of a park bench.

Two older women were gracious enough to let me share their grand viewing spot. Sunlight began to reflect off the tall masts of the sailboats as the black heavy clouds slowly turned a gravel grey then a snowy white. Holding my travel book, I carefully used it’s edge to wipe the rain water off the bench. All my actions where being observed by my new costumed companions. Attached from their antique hats were long shiny ribbons that waved in the gentle wind, that read Hobart Regatta. Consuming energy from the wind, the thin ribbons were like serpents gently responding to a snake charmers commands, coiling slowly at first around the puffy sleeves and then around the waist of the women’s vintage white dresses. An embroidery of blue sail boats had been sown on the hem line of the decorative dresses, that folded over their silver sequin decorated Nike running shoes. The reflection of the emerging sun off the highly decorated shoes was bouncing off my sunglasses as one women broke the silence. “Local women in vogue, nor my departed husband would approve of our foot ware, but they can all go to the devil, we need comfort dammit!” Mrs Osborn introduced herself and her sister while their sailboat cuff links clicked as their hands caressed each other like a pair of cats on a sunny morning.

I remarked that the sailors on their boat seemed to be doing a great job with the weather conditions not being ideal. As soon as my comment left my mouth, dark stormy clouds formed on Mrs Osborn’s brow. “My son Mad Max, I mean Max, could do a better job of sailing by mistake then these wimps could do on purpose!” Mrs Osborn said. “Just because of a little misunderstanding Max is banished from the Regatta!” she explained. The sister slowly started to tell the story about Mad Max and the banishing. It seems Max and his father were very interested in building a fast yet strong sailing boat. The hours just in the planning not to mention the building of the vessel cut into Max’s time with his new wife. The wife got tired of playing second fiddle to a wooden ship and left for a another sailor that had a bigger boat. During their short time together, Max’s exwife always wanted something a little better then anybody else in town and had ordered a iron figure that resembled herself that would fit on the bow of Max’s new boat. Max had forgotten all about the figure until it was delivered to his boat yard one morning. Being a thoughtful man Max decided to delivery the figure to the his ex and her lover in person. Max carefully tied the figure on the front of his finished sailing boat and with a strong wind behind him headed straight out into the bay. The fifty foot sailboat that held his exwife and her new love was not hard to spot as it bobbed with the waves. Max with the wind as his power source made a sharp turn and with a sickening sound of snapping wood plowed straight into the love birds boat. The iron figure attached to the bow saved Max’s boat from much damage and the figure stayed on his exwive’s boat as he backed away. Max claimed it was all a innocent accident and only meant to deliver the figure, but he as banned from the Regatta none the less besides getting the name Mad Max. “Where is Max hanging his sailor hat now?” I asked. “He should be in Hawaii with a girl on each arm!”said Mrs Osborn.

After some more conversation I found out that Max was really walking the South Coast Track, in Tasmania with a group of friends, since he likes to be out of town during the Regatta. I told of my plans on walking that trek starting next week, as I opened my travel book to that section. “What you need to know about the South Coast isn’t in any fancy travel book sonny boy!” explained Mrs Osborn “My late husband and I use to take Max on long trips into the South Coast, when we where all younger.” she said. With great excitement she explain about some of the unpleasant situations I might encounter. It’s a 82 kilometers hike from Cockle Bay to a small airfield at Melaleuca, which was made for servicing an old tin mine. Along the way I would crawl through mud bogs, that had poisonous Tiger snakes guarding the path. The cold windy weather on the Ironbound Mountain can be darn right dangerous, if you’re caught out in it. I also found out that Max had flown into Melaleuca and was walking back towards Cockle Bay. I had plans on walking in the opposite direction, so maybe I would meet this famous pirate of Hobart. “Mrs Osborn if I happen to meet Max on the trail do you have any messages.” I asked. Without hesitation she gave me a message for her misunderstood son.

The morning sun was beginning to illuminate Macquarie Street, as I sat with my back against the Metro Bus building. In my back pocket I had a ticket for Cockle Bay on the 7:15 a.m. bus. I had heard so many unsolicited plights about the South Coast that they were ricocheting around my brain. The most common theme of these stories were poisonous snakes. Three types of snakes on Tassie are hazardous to your health. A hiker last year tried to kill a Tiger Snake and ended up finding out why they call them Tigers. Another great story going around was about a hiker that got turned around in the thick bush and was lost for a month or two. Last but not least was the story about the trail being so muddy. Some of the mud holes are so deep, while your wading through them all that is sticking out of the mud is your hat.

*The anticipation of the destination is only escalated by the adventure of the journey! After boarding the bus I noticed an older gentleman with a wind burnt complexion was tapping his walking stick on the metal floor of our bus to the tempo of a Irish jig. A small leather knapsack breaching with books was his only companion on the seat. This leprechaun of a man noticed me in the reflection of the bus window, as my eyes looked into his. “Your pack has the look of an extended holiday.” he said. “Yes I said, I’ll be trekking for eight days along the South Coast.” “My needs are very small, they resemble my pack.” said the man. Holding a book the fella explained. “I just popped on to Tassie for a couple months from Ireland to entertain the church members with a few songs at assorted Catholic churches.” “These hymn books are all that I need to carry, from them I can produce food, drink and shelter from the kind church patrons. “This proves that the book is mightier than the back pack.” he laughed. Our bus turned into Hunonville as my friend had turned his head that was decorated with a big smile and pointed to the church steeple, which would be his meal ticket. “Lets have a Guinness on me, then sing a few songs and chuck your pack for the night!” he explained. “Thanks for the offer but I bought a ticket to Cockle Creek.” I explained. As a closing remark I exclaimed that it was nice that the Irish seemed to be living together in peace. At that suggestion his bushy eyebrows rose up and down like caterpillars doing the hookie pokie. “For the life of me I can’t figure why God made mosquito, Satan and Protestants!” he exclaimed as the bus doors closed.* In our travels thru life we are never really alone, we pick up little pieces of our friends souls that travel with us.

At the next stop Tony our bus driver announced a fifteen minute break as the station master set a small Styrofoam container next to his seat. Due to the island’s small size or just by chance, Tony had been my bus driver on a few of my trips around the island, so I got to know him. He had the unnerving habit of turning his head to talk to a passenger sitting behind him, as the bus barreled down the narrow winding roads. It would just about take your breath away as we had more then just a few close calls with sheep, bicycles and on coming buses. The Styrofoam container made a squeaking noise as Tony pulled it towards himself. “Did one of your girlfriends make you lunch?” I asked. “This would be a grand lunch for a vampire!” Tony said as he held up a small container of blood. Tony explained that a local scientist was studying the breeding habits of the Tasmania Devil. Tony would deliver the blood to Hobart where a scientist would study the DNA of the South Coast Devil. The woman scientist in this area with the help of DNA, found out that a female devil will be impregnated by as many as five males in one night. Some of the males will travel as far as ten miles for this one night stand.

After our fifteen minute break Tony fired up the bus with puff of black smoke as the signal for everyone to come aboard. An older woman with the looks of being a feral hippy came running up to the open bus door and asked Tony if this bus went to Cockle Bay. Her long hair and sun baked complexion gave some indication about the amount of time spent walking a beach figuring out the universe. All the passengers on the bus where looking out the windows at this poor woman struggling with her large back pack. So with compassion in my heart I jumped from the bus and grabbed hold of her belongs and was going to help her with the burden. She immediately pulled her back pack from hand and yelled “Who died and put you in charge!” as she stormed towards the bus. I think this woman did spend some time on the beach but it was at Camp Pendleton Marine base learning to kill with a sharp tongue! “This bloody woman could make Tasmania Devil’s seem like lap dogs!” Tony said with a smirk as I passed by him. The smirk soon disappeared from his face when the woman from hell, zeroed in on his world. “Why in everything that is holy, didn’t the three other busses that zoomed by me this morning didn’t stop?” yelled the hippy girl. “Because I am the only bus scheduled to stop here.” Tony explained. “Likely story, likely story, well what are we waiting for now, lets get going so we can get there today!” she said with a sigh.

The next stop was Dover and a back packer was waving his arm like a windmill and yelling for Tony to stop. Tony pulled up and immediately the young hiker jumped on board.
“I am so glad you stopped three busses have passed me by this morning!” said the young fella. The hippy lady jumped right into the conversation. “What did I say, what did I say, the buses passed us by like we where trash along the road!” she said. I heard Tony say under his breath, “It a good thing that the company doesn’t let us drink on the job, I could use a pint or two!” Tony shifted the bus into high gear and off we went, I had a feeling we were all going to pay for these two jokers that we just picked up.

The young back packer had a Australia accent but looked Chinese. As we hung onto anything nailed down as the bus turned into a sky rocket as it hit every pot hole and rough road it could, my traveling companion told of his life. He was born in China but was adopted by a English couple staying in Australia in the northern part of that country. The new baby didn’t fit in to the country club scene of the English couple’s life style. As a consequence this poor fella ended up spending more time with the Aboriginal servants that managed the home, then his adopted parents. The last straw was when the English couple got transferred back to Jolly Old England. They took the family pets but he was left with the cook’s family and was brought up in a Aboriginal household. “ I can’t eat with chopsticks but I can play a mean didjeridu mate!” he explained. * True love has all the energy, understanding and tolerance is the fuel!

As we entered the last twenty miles before Cockle Creek the bus was followed by a thick plume of dust from the dirt road. A heavy timbered wooden bridge was our last obstacle was we came to a stop at the ranger station at Cockle Creek. “End of the line boys and girls, it’s not the end of the world but you can see it from here!” said Tony. The Aussie Chinese hiker and the devil woman couldn’t get off the bus fast enough. Both of them tried to go through the bus door opening at the same time wearing their packs. I wanted to laugh but I didn’t want to have the hippy woman turn her wrath towards me again. As I sat down next to Cockle Creek and got ready to eat my lunch I heard the ranger station screen door slam twice and then again when my two traveling companions left the station with their permits. Tony at the same time was doing his best get the hell out of here by shifting through all four gears as he rolled down the dirt road. I had taken off my shoes and was enjoying the cool water of the creek caressing my toes when the two hikers doing a imitation of Grouch Marx all bent over and their little legs pumping came flying by me heading towards the trail.

While the ranger stamped my pass, I noticed the afternoon sun beaming down on artifacts, found along the South Coast. As I picked up each item the ranger would explain it’s meaning, either from boredom or wanting someone to talk to in this out of the way place. A large transparent snake skin that had been shed from a reptile was the topic of conversation. “Do you think I’ll see many snakes?” I asked. “Just when you least expect it, that’s when the buggers will be laying on your path or theirs according to their point of view!” he explained. “The most common snake you’ll encounter in the bush is the King Snake and the best thing to do is absolutely nothing!” the ranger explained.
“All three snakes in Tassie are venomous but Mr. King is the most aggressive especially during mating season!” said the ranger of doom.
“Let me guess, it’s mating season now?” I asked. “What did you hear the heavy breathing in the brush as you ate lunch?” asked the ranger. Between Tasmania Devils and the King Snake doing it in the grass all this place needs a drive in movie screen, I thought! “I found out in Hobart that besides the killer snakes there are large bogs to cross, if I don’t get lost first, is that correct?” I asked. “You’re first mistake was staying in Hobart but your information is correct.” the ranger said. “I was born in Hobart but since I have this job I stay clear of that town.” said the ranger. “My whole family lived in Hobart and my dad worked at the hospital.” said the ranger. “Was he a doctor?” I asked.
“My brother and myself always wondered what poor old dad did at the hospital so one day we sneaked into the hospital.” said the ranger. “My dad must have got wind of our plot because when we entered his office he had his head bent over his desk, with a tooth pick in one hand.” reply the ranger. “My older brother got the courage to get up close to dad and just stared down at the desk blotter covered with black pepper.” said the ranger. “Bloody hell dad what are doing” asked the brother. “ I am doing my usual job of separating the pepper from the fly shit, I am in public relations!” said my dad.

As I left the office the ranger warned again about not playing with the snakes, “They are twice as fast as you ever thought of being.”
*Don’t let possible storms in the future, cloud your dreams in the present!”

The trail began like most trails do when there is a lot of local foot traffic. Wide trails with numerous signs and manicured forests beside the paths, that would lead deeper into the unknown. As I left the forest, a kangaroo with a roo on board hopped ahead of me and what nice welcoming party it was. It made a deep thud sounds each time the critters paws hit and bounced along the ground. As both of us entered the marsh, the kangaroo had the option of turning back and hiding in the forest. A moor like setting that reminded me of Scotland, seemed to carry on for miles across the landscape in front of me. Two parallel boards had been laid down on top of the swampy marsh to keep the hiker from sinking up to their elbows. The boards went on for miles, until the rangers ran out of lumber or energy or both. Then the famous muddy bogs started, I couldn’t find much relief if I tried to walk over the brush beside the trail. It was tough like barb wire covered with leaves and just as sharp. Relief came when I came to a rise and it was a sand dune covered with grass lead to a large beach that when on for miles . The waves where coming onto the beach in three foot high breakers and then would disappear into the sand.

I came to the South Cape Rivulet just about the same time that I was needing a place to camp. The water was a deep brown from all the tannins in the water. I couple of people where camped out on this side of the river but I didn’t want to have to cross it tomorrow so it would be easier to get it over with now. I had been wearing rubber sandals so all I had to do was cross the river very carefully so I wouldn’t become part of it. I made it across and found some level spots that had several inches of mulch that would make a soft bedding for my tent. After eating dinner a couple came to the far rivers edge and ask if I wanted to come over for a night cap. I asked if they were the activity directors for the beach, with a laugh. The drinks where nice and the conversation went on into the night. I spent to much time looking at the bottom of a tipped beer bottle and forgot that I had to cross back over the black river at night. A couple of times as I crossed I would walk into a hole that put the water level close to waist line. There was a few hairy moments but I made it back and after looking inside my tents for snakes I fell asleep.

This morning I started the section that everyone and his dog had warned me about from Rivulet to Granite Beach that was covered with muddy swimming pools and decorated with King Snakes. I have hiked around the world enough that sometimes people embellish the hardships a bit beyond the real world. But in this case it was all correct besides a few extra treats. I had just kept my Teva’s sandals on since I didn’t want to completely ruin my hiking boots with the mud, hopefully the snakes would cut me some slack. My first muddy bog was actually a giant mud puddle that was going up hill, so it was combination climbing and swimming in mud. As a added attraction at no extra cost except for me losing my religion, where marsh flies. These pest where the size of your thumb nail but flew as fast as a HMO paying for your wife’s breast enlargement. They just buzzed around your head or exposed legs waiting for the right time to come in for a snack. If your lucky enough to catch one in your hand, it sounds like your squeezing a piece of popcorn. I found a log running up beside the bog and decided to walk and crawl along the log. I should have stayed with the crawl because when I stood up my sandals where covered with mud and my legs kicked out and I came down straddling the log with full force. Now I know how Pee Wee Herman got that high pitched voice. I made it to the top of the mountain and was just ready to celebrate when I glanced down to a sunny spot on the trail that was covered in King Snake. I have seen a lot of snakes in the states and they are usually very motivated to get the hell out of your way. Not Mr. King, I guess it’s good to be king, I’ll move when I jolly well feel like moving and not before. I stamped my feet and he looked over his shoulder if he had one and slowly slide into the brush off the trail. Well I thought at least I didn’t get bit and die a horrible death, that could ruin your day!

After lunch and thinking that maybe I was through the worse of the mud traps, I got a little snap in my step. Then ahead lay miles of mud puddles, maybe thirty feet long and deep as the bottom of my back pack. Each one was exactly like the last, there was a muddy ramp that you walked down into a waist deep watery muddy hole. The water was so dark and deep if I would have walk across Jimmy Hoffa, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Branches along these traps had been snapped off from past hikers trying to hold onto anything that was stable.

After ten hours of walking and crawling I came to a camp spot that had a few campers already spread out. The campers made me feel at home which was nice since my temper from fighting mud and flies needed it’s temperature lowered. The campers told me of a waterfall that was below the camp. “I don’t think there are any ladies there now, so it’s safe to bath!” said the one camper. I didn’t care at this point if Queen Elizabeth herself was there I was headed to the waterfall shower. I was covered with mud, so I just stepped into the shower with all my muddy cloths and sandals on. Now I know what a corn dog feels like, being covered with batter. Then I stripped naked and stood under the waterfall for another fifteen minutes, what a relief!

When I made it back to camp another group had come from Melaleuca. I started to unload my backpack and set up my site, when I noticed one of the hikers. He started to swat at real marsh flies and imaginary marsh flies that had been buzzing around his head for hours. He fell to the ground with a thud and just started to moan and hid under his pack from the pesky critters. We all stood around in a little bit of disbelieve but also wondering if this is how we would end up.

After dinner I walked to another part of the camping area and asked if anybody knew Max Osborn. “Over here!” yelled a camper. I went on to explain about meeting his mother and aunt at the Regatta. “By the way I have a message from dear old mom.” I said. “Don’t wipe your snotty nose on your sleeve!” I relayed to Max. At the same time Max wiped his nose and said “You mean like this!” Standing beside Max was his girlfriend which said. “We can’t get away from that woman!” she said with a sigh.

This morning I would head to Surprise Beach, which in everybody’s description was the next best thing to heaven. The marsh flies had the job of guarding the sandy beaches as I walked across them. After I disturbed their slumber on the beach the flies would fly pattern around my body, like a airplane circling a airport. I had a extra shirt in my hand and would swipe it back and forth like I was a cow with a two foot long tail, to keep the pests from feasting on my flesh. The trail was suppose to be a 10 hour hike over and through large and messy mud bogs. With a large supply of snakes guarding their sunny spots on the trail.

By dinner time I could hear the ocean pounding against Surprise Bay, my home for a couple days. It was picture perfect with a lush jungle and fast moving river pouring into the beach. The beach must have been a half of mile long with a rocky out cropping starting and stopping the beach line. The trail that lead down to the beach was very steep with a rope attached at the top for a secure hold. Log steps had been anchored into the trail as a extra support. The thought of staying on this beach for two days without having to fight mud and snakes made for a almost religious moment. The sunset on the beach was the icing on the cake for my coast trek.

The next day I woke to a clear and sunny day with warm winds from the jungle meeting cold winds from the ocean breezes and making small wind cyclones of loose sand. The ocean was so inviting but I knew that it could have a seductive spirit. The ocean currents had been cooled by icebergs from the Antarctica only moments ago. I decided to take my chances in the river, I felt like a penguin when I made my leap of faith and hit the water. I half expected there to be a layer of ice on the surface, judging from the water temperature. As soon as I got my breath back I swam back to shore like a Olympic swimmer. I felt like a lizard in sun as I tried to get warmth back into my body, as I lay on the beach.

As I lay on the beach a couple of Eco rangers girls came walking by looking for a campsite down by the river. They where also looking for Phytophthora cinnamomi which turned out to be foot rot, which I thought I might have after walking through muddy water. The disease affects plants that grow in wet conditions, which is everywhere one looks. The fungi attacks the roots and kills the plant. Anyway, they where on the lookout for this killer of young and innocent plants, plus it was a excuse to get out and camp. After setting up their camp one of the women walked along the beach to the rocky point as the ocean watched her every move. Just as she turned her back a big wave engulfed her and threw down on the rocks. She came back to camp with the bloody elbows to prove it. As we sat around and watched the one woman bandage up her arm, I was told the story of the South Coast Trail. In the 1800's so many ships floundered off the Tassie cost because of the crazy ass weather off Antarctic that a path was cut in the territory to help stranded sailors walk to freedom.

After dinner I walked down to the beach to watch the sun go down on another day of beach combing. As the day light started to fade I noticed a group of five hikers come out of the forest on the far side of the beach. They seemed to be wondering around aimlessly. I had a flash light and shined it in their direction and turned it off and on as a signal. I noticed the group had regrouped and started to walk towards me. There was a big smiles on all their faces, they had been hiking for twelve hours and had missed a trail turn off to Osmiridium Beach. One fella that was so completely worn down to a nub that he just dropped to the beach and feel asleep. The rest of the group walked up the trail to the camp sites and set up their tents and then fell asleep.

The next morning I again would be on the muddy trail to Osmiridium Beach. I had heard stories about the difficulty in finding the trail down to the beach off the main trail. After several hours of fighting my way through the bush I came to a large flat area covered with the barb wire bushes. The turn off to the beach was easy to find because two younger hikers where laying along the trail head acting like markers. First I heard the moaning and gut wrenching noises way before I saw the victims. These poor fellas had been desperate for water this morning and had drank water out of a watering hole used by kangaroos and wombats that didn’t have the best bathroom manners. As a result these back country adventures had their trip into paradise turn into a hospital trip. Thankfully for me as we talked I saw a trickle of water coming out of the hillside that ran down to the water hole from hell. I filled up my water container here for my two days that I was going to spend on the beach. I didn’t have a helicopter in back pack so there wasn’t much more I could do for these poor victims except step over them.

The trail down to the beach was faint and gnarly, with a few side trail that lead to no wheresville. I eventually found a group of trees and a few old campsites. I thought this must be the promised land so I set up camp and walked down to the mile long beach. I had the beach all to myself for two days. I would walk the beach and search the little inlets and rock out cropping for discarded trash from the sea. I had quite the collection which I turned into beach art, to bad their wasn’t anybody to enjoy it, or maybe it was better no critics showed up. I felt like Robinson Crusoe as some of my art work had turned into a giant mobiles on top of a few sand dunes and blew around in the wind.

After lunch I was sitting along a dry river bed that was a hundred feet from the crashing ocean. I had been reading a Stephen King and really getting into the blood and gore when I looked up and sat a wall of water coming towards me from the ocean. The ranger at the check in point warned me about not keeping my eye on the unpredictable ocean breakers and here it came. I grabbed all my belongings and headed to high ground just in time. Then the water retreated never to show it force again. The surge had been so strong that it had gone all the way to the pond where my dead and dying hiking companions had drank from. So beside drinking kangaroo ka ka they drank salt water mixed with it like a chaser.

Before I left the beach I arranged a pile of large flat stones to spell welcome in the beach, but it should have said don’t drink the water!

The next morning was going to be more of the mud puppy walking and snake dodging. The map informed me my next stop would be Deadman’s Bay which sounded encouraging. I thought my last place should be called Deadman’s Pond. The snakes on this part of the trail where on the right of me and on the left. I knew the encounters where going to happen you just didn’t knew when. Typically I would be day dreaming about little or nothing when there would be a speck of sunlight on the trail like a spot light. The King Snake would be curled up in the beam of light. I would think, I hope he got all his mating duties out of his system and he is mellow yellow. Sometimes I would stamp my feet so that the snake would open it’s one eye and then the other one. You could tell the snake was thinking, I am in charge and don’t rush me off the path, or I am going to change your life. I met a doctor that did a lot of fishing along the rivers in Tassie and he always wore high gater to protect is legs from the venomous snakes. He also whistled or sang out load, just to make himself feel better, since he knew snakes can’t hear.

After lunch the trail disappeared into a river that ran into the raging ocean waves. The trail was in the middle of the river with poles sunk into the river bottom and marked with orange plastic tags. Every once in a while the ocean would make itself noticed and come rushing up the river. The green thick algae that was floating on the river would then be lifted and cover your legs and bottom of your pack with green slim. Then I entered the New River delta which was a ½ mile across. A genius had figured this river crossing puzzle out. There was two boats, one on each side of the river bank. I would have to row across the river and drop my pack but then hook up the other boat and bring it back to where I started. I would drop this boat and then go back over to where my pack was. That way there would always be a boat on each side. Have you payed attention there’s a test at the end. A couple that where doing the same hike where studying the whole situation when I walked up. We decided to do our portage together. Lori was from Quebec Canada and Trent was from Australia. They had met in school and where doing a trip together. The portage went off without a hitch and we where all on our way.

By dinner time I had reached Deadman’s Bay without finding anything in the way of a corpse. Except when I was eating dinner a hiker came out of the jungle covered with scratches and mud. “Is this trail someone’s idea of sick joke!” he yelled. He had been walking for 10 hours and was hungry and thirsty besides being dead tired. He described the hike over the Ironbound Mountains and it didn’t sound like loads of fun with what he related as five hours of stair master with a side order of mud bogs.

Tomorrow is another day according to Scarlett O’hara and it came as a clear morning, after it had rained all night. Trent, Lori and I started off to make our way over the 2,700 feet in elevation gain of the Ironbound Mountains, that was covered with tree roots and mud. Since they where half my age, they wanted to go ahead of me a so I wouldn’t hold them up. Half way up the mountain I found both of them along the trail rubbing and holding their knees with a sick look on their faces from the continuous steps. I continued on and turned to take a picture of the beach below. Within a matter of seconds the weather turned faster then you can snap your fingers. You can’t see Antarctic from here but we got it’s fury! There was big sign at the beginning of the trail “This is the most dangerous spot in Tasmania when the weather changes, you can die in several different ways, all of them not good!” when I passed the sign the temperature was nice with a cool breeze in my hair, now it was hurricane force with thick fog. My two hike companions had just caught up with me when the sound of thunder could be heard. I had just said we had better find some shelter, when lightning hit on the hill above us. Just the moment before that they had said, “Don’t worry!” Now all of us fighting our way into the cave shelter I found. After about twenty minutes of steady rain it then turned into drizzle with heavy fog. We climbed out of our shelter and I heard talking ahead of us. A small group of hikers where standing on the trail, looking around in a dazed state. It was so foggy I stood up close and couldn’t make out one person’s face, I could just hear questions. I found out that the weather had been bad in the direction that we where heading, for several days. After exchanging advice we said our good byes and worked our way down to Louisa River.

After clearing the summit thunder could be heard off in the distance but because of the fog I couldn’t see the lightning. Then within thirty minutes the skies cleared and we could see the whole river system and it looked like it was in flood stage. I kept walking with the idea of getting to camp before the next storm came and really ruined my day. I was able to set up my camp within a eye shot of the river which was kicking up a ruckus as it rambled down the river bed. I noticed a lean-to type shelter and two fella’s outside of it, just starring at the river. I walked into their camp and found out these two friends Mick and John where from Melbourne Australia. Mick was on vacation from the police force and John was on permanent vacation after buying the right lottery ticket. They also had two other friend with them named Johnny Walker Red and Jack Daniels which they truly seem to love. Mick’s plan of action was to mix the two liquors that then resembled a mixture that you might put in your car gas tank. This afternoon and most of the night called for them to consume as much of the mixture as possible, so they wouldn’t have to carry the extra weight over the mountain. They tried to get me to join in the fools game but I had no plans to have my head explode tomorrow morning, thank you very much. As I told them about the muddy trail that lay ahead of them as the walk towards Cockle Bay the more they drank. Then John brought up the subject of joke telling and by this time they where pretty well hammered. John then stood up and made the announcement that he was going to show and tell us the correct way of telling a joke. I can’t remember the joke but the body language was the funniest thing I had every seen and the more that Mick and I laughed, the more John did more twists and bends with his lubricated body. By the end of his story he lost his balance and when over backwards and slid down to the rivers edge and the top of his head was in the river. I thought I was going to wet my pants, especially as Mick and I tried to bring John rubbery body back up the hill.

The next morning the skies didn’t show a lot of promise in the way of a dry crossing to the next beach campsite. Mick and John’s party site was very quiet as I walked by, I could only hear their throbbing heads! Right away I came to the Louisa River and I had to cross the river, that was in flood stage. Someone had strung a thick rope across the river for support as you waded across the river. Trent and Lori where already at the river crossing. Trent had his arms and legs wrapped around the rope while wearing his pack and he was trying to slide along the rope. There was a raging river going over giant boulders below this plan of attack. Trent hung about two feet above rocks of death and this seemed like a good way to break your back if the rope broke. I told them it didn’t seem like the way to solve this problem as I took off my boots and slipped on my sandals. I slowly made my way through the slippery boulders while holding onto the rope. On the far side the jungle was soaked from the rain storm that lasted all night long. I thought I was walking through a car wash as long stemmed plants dripping with water slapped me along the sides of my body. At the first sign of rain I put on a cover over my pack and then I put on a rain coat and then I covered everything with a orange tarp, I looked like a giant pumpkin walking over the moors. The famous Roaring Forties wind storm was beginning to make itself known. This is a weather pattern that comes of the Tasman Sea that is hurricane force. When ever I came to the top of a hill I had to lay flat on the ground not to be blown over by the micro burst of wind. Then to add to the fun I came to a river that luckily someone with a axe had cut down a tree that spanned the river. The tree still had all it’s thousand and one branches on and I had to crawl through the branches without falling into the roaring river below. Within fifteen minutes I came to another river crossing with the same type of tree bridge. I felt like Daniel Boone all I needed was waterproof coon skin cap.

I could see the bay at Cox Bight and I could hear the breaker smashing against the rock wall that made up the shore line. At the crossing stood another sign”Wait at least fifteen minutes before crossing next to the rock wall incase the tide is coming in and it sweeps you out into the ocean!” Five minutes seemed like fifteen minutes with a hurricane force wind while a driving rain is trying to rearrange my cloths. It looked like the beach was about 1/8 of mile long so I guess it’s time for the Great Pumpkin to turn into Jesse Owens. I took a deep breath and made a mad dash for the distance beach and freedom. I made the beach just as the high water was lapping my knees. I had planned on camping here but the cold rain with the wind changed my mind, I couldn’t have set up my tent if my life depended on it.

The airfield at Melaleuca with a dry shelter in the way of steel huts seemed like the way to escape this torture. It would be a four hour walk and it was already four o’clock, but I had everything to gain if I could reach the huts. I had already been walking eight hours so what was few more hours. The trail again turned into muddy bogs and wooden planks had been laid on the swampy bogs for miles on end but the water still was ankle deep. By eight o’clock I could see the huts. The first hut I stopped at was full of hikers and they explained there was another shelter in the next grove of trees as they closed the door. I walked into the next hut and seven fellas sat at a long table eating steaming food and didn’t hardly look up even though my outfit looked like I had survived a atomic bomb. They didn’t ask about the weather or my walk, I thought it was a monk convention. I asked about the schedule of the next airplane and this hit a nerve. “We have been waiting two days for a plane and we get it first!” came the response from the crowd. Now I figured out what had upset my bunk mates they thought I was going to steal their plane. “I have two day of food so don’t worry your pretty little heads, I’ll wait my turn!” I exclaimed. Then all was right with the world, cheese, pasta and beer was brought forth and questions were asked and answered.


Someone asked me if I ever got lonely on any of these trips, and this was the only time I felt lonely when I was with people but they wouldn’t talk!

When I started to unload my pack, I noticed rain had been driven through the pack cover and through the tarp that I had covering the whole thing. Luckily for me I had my sleeping bag and cloths in a plastic bag so all was dry. Within a hour Trent and Lori showed up and where glad to find a dry bed. I was short on gas for my stove and there must have been fifty gas canisters since airplane passengers can’t carry gas on a plane so hikers drop them here. We all made dinner and talked about the day.


The next morning we where all up and the skies actually looked clear. A French hiker that had twisted both ankles was wobbling around the hut. The all of a sudden everybody stopped talking and started to listen to the sound of a small plane flying towards the air field. Everybody had the look of being rescued from a dangerous place after months of being stranded rather then just two days. The French men found new strength as he grabbed his back pack and items where falling out of it as he scrambled towards the field. As I ate my breakfast I just looked out the window as these poor men ran towards the air field. As I walked down the same path I found shoes, sleeping bags and clothing that had dropped from open packs in the mad dash to freedom. I use to run a hunting and fishing camp in Quebec Canada and use to help pack bush plane. I just walked up to the plane as everybody else just stood back and watched. I started to hand the pilot some gear as he packed with it’s weight in mind. “You’ll be back in few hours right?” I asked. “You bet I will and you can have a front seat.” he said. With in few minutes the plane took off and I walked back to the hut and got all my gear ready. Trent, Lori and I walked down to the fielded when we could hear the plane coming back. I picked up a small stick to act like a make believe microphone as I starred at the plane and like out of a movie I started to yell,”PULL UP-PULL UP!” just joking around. Then I looked around and Trent was snow white. “That would really funny if I wasn’t deathly afraid to fly!” he said.

The pilot looked at me and said I guess you weigh about 190 pounds so it should be OK with all our gear. I weighed 190 in junior high now it’s closer to 250 but I didn’t want to say anything incase I would have to walk all the way back to Hobart.

The eight days of walking through mud and snakes was reduced to a hour plane ride back to Hobart. I had great time and wonderful thoughts of the South Coast Trek, but I realize it maybe isn’t for everybody!

Titililating Tales of Tasmania

This adventure story is from my two month trip to Tasmania in 2002, which you might have guessed since it’s in the title! “Da” Not that long ago, considering I was born the same year that water was discovered!

Where is Tasmania and what is Tasmania? South of the unexplored and north of the unexploited. Geographically speaking, place your buttock towards Crocodile Dundeville and look towards the Antarctica. Five hundred miles south of the main land of Australia lies the largely unexplored island of Tasmania, which is affectionately known as Tassie.

Where do adventures start? My Tassie travels were born in a used book store with a box marked, books 50% off. I was intrigued with this half priced travel companion’s table of content. The South Coast Track, a ten day trek with magnificent beaches and dreadful weather. The Freycinet National Park known for Wineglass Bay and fine weather. The Franklin River is Tassie’s largest and most sensational river that only recently had been explored. It is known to have a wild side and with hazardous rafting. The weather can be both dreadful and fine at the drop of a life jacket in the river gorges!

Since I would be on the island for two months I wanted to experience all three of the adventures, but first I would do the Franklin River. I figured if I got killed right away it would save time and money in the long run. Tall tales that my newly purchased book had filled my risk starved entity with fuel for endless daydreams. The Franklin River, part of the Western Tasmania World Heritage Area, would be my main course, on this smorgasbord of adventures. Eight days of traversing deep gorges, only accessible by kayak and rafts by a guided travel service, promised to welcome me to Tassie’s back country! E mail addresses and foreign looking phone numbers from a country half way around the world, would prove to be a major stumbling block, before I even got started. Let’s face it, most people, especially long distance operators, don’t have a clue where Tasmania floats in the ocean. Repeated unanswered e mails from a lover is annoying but one from a adventure travel company is totally inexcusable when a grand adventure lies before me! I was wasting valuable daydreaming time, without a confirmation from the raft company. For $7.50 you can buy a Starbuck double latte or get brow beaten by some button pushing telephone operator, who has access to any phone number in the world for a price. After convincing the gum chewing operator that Tasmania was part of the world, I acquired the phone number of the travel agency. With a push of a few buttons on my phone I reached Tassie and made contact with a real live Tasinate. It was all worth the hassle because there was room on the raft and we would leave Hobart on January 10th. The travel agent described a physically demanding river trip with class four and five rapids for eight days. After the trip starts there is no turning back, come hell or high water. I told the agent to order me a large body bag and save me a spot on the raft with a warm seat and a river view, I was committed.

After flying for a zillion hours from LA to Sydney Australia, I could have gotten a straight flight to Hobart Tasmania, but that would be to easy. I wanted to fly along the surface of the ocean in a hydrofoil called the Devil Cat from the main land to Tassie. Just the name Devil Cat gave me goose bumps! The Devil Cat purrs over the Tasmania Sea from Melbourne to the Tassie coast for a distance of 429 km. Painted black from stem to stern, and with a shape that remained me of Moby Dick, I wondered if Captain Ahab was on board sharping a harpoon or two. I boarded the Cat and noticed the large distance between all the tables in the dining room. As we backed away from the dock one of the sailors on board mentioned that the Devil Cat could metamorphosis itself into a bucking bronco if we hit waves of 3 feet. As luck would have it the seas turned into 3 foot waves as soon as we pulled away from the dock. All the little cowboys and cowgirls on board that weren’t use to riding a bucking bronco had all turned a shade of green. I walked into the dining room with a idea of having lunch and it looked like the scene from Gone with the Wind when all those rebel soldiers are laying in the train station in Atlanta. I found out why there was so much space between the tables, it was to lay down the sick and dying from sea sickness. The waiters had turned into nurses with cold wet napkins for the patients foreheads. There was moaning going on just like in the movie and I half expected Scarlett to make appearance. I had to step over quite a few casualties in order to get my lasagna lunch served at the counter. I tried to be nice and ask if anybody wanted to share my lunch as they lay on the carpet but I didn’t have any takers. One fella thought he might die and then he was afraid he wouldn’t as his skin color turned from green to grey in color, after I made the offering. The crew mopping the floors weren’t the only ones glad to see the stable coast of Tasmania.

I walked into my hostel in Hobart and noticed two fellas on both sides of the door, like two stone lions guarding a grand building. Their plan didn’t call for much guarding, it was mostly to check out the female travelers as they arrived. After the proper introductions, the thirty something year old sheep shearer told me that cold fusion must have been invented right here on this door step. An invisible cold wave must be surrounding the door frame was his theory. As he scratched his head he explained the women all seem very warm and friendly when they ask him if this is the hostel but when they enter the dwelling they turn frigid. I speculated the frequency of his scheduled baths between sheep shearing and wind direction were also factors to be considered in his hypothesis.

Our rafting group that was going to take on the Franklin River was to rendezvous at a sporting goods store in downtown Hobart tonight. I nervously awaited the opportunity to meet my nine co-paddlers. Picture meeting nine blind dates in a sporting goods store and a commitment that would last for eight days. I started to whistle the song from the spaghetti western the Good the Bad and the Ugly as I walked down Hobart’s main street. The group represented all walks of life but all called the main land of Australia home, I was the only gringo. John and Jill were both doctors. The newlyweds were Don and Donnie, what a way to start a marriage, besides the cute names. Peter and Tom’s striking resemblances to each other confirmed a father and son team. The carefree acting Tony was single. Our guides Bruce and Kate that happened to be consultants on the Survivor series and had dealt with the Franklin River many times in the past. Bruce didn’t paint rose garden picture image of the raft trip as we sat around a dried food display case. Last month Bruce had guided a group down the Franklin and it rained eight days straight. Mud and mildew consumed the sleeping bags, they also endured bone shilling temperatures and strong winds blew the rafts around when they weren’t going over death defying rapids. I raised my arm and ask if I could call my exwife and explain our trip, my horrible misery and certain death would make her day, maybe the whole year a bit brighter for her!

The next morning our rafting group meet at a parking lot where our bus was hooked to a trailer that was piled high with rafts with all the items we would need to survive for eight days. The road trip to the river of no return would take three hours, which would be a good time for each one us to tell about their experience rafting and anything connected to the water. The combined experience of the doctors equaled zero. From the expression on the newly weds faces it was a surprise to found out for them and us that they each had very little experience in fast water. The father and son combo had mostly been spending time on the beach looking at the babies and hanging onto a surf board. The single fella named Tony had done some paddling in a kayak in the Northern Territory of Australia. I had been on half a dozen trips and have had the sensation of having the swift river currents treat you like a mouse being flushed down a toilet.

The three hours of driving zoomed by and we unloaded at the Collinswood River, which would lead us to the mighty Franklin River. We laid out the deflated yellow rafts on the river’s edge and as water lapped our heals, each one of us took turns using hand pump to inflate our rafts. Then came the chore of loading food barrels, tarps, and water tight bags that held our cloths and sleeping bags. This brought back memories as I remembered we would have to do this everyday for eight days. Our destination would be the head waters of the Franklin River which was only 4 hours away. Thick vegetation covered every square inch of the surrounding river bank. Huge myrtle trees with massive limbs stood guard over the river. The river water was the color of a very dark tea from all the tannins that leach through the terrarium like setting. Our group could drink water right out of the river because it was very pure due to the pristine setting.

It felt good to be on the water after months of planning and dreaming. As we pulled up to the headwaters of the Franklin River there was a large flat rocky beach that would be our first camp stop. Almost like magic a couple of rangers walked out of the forest with a list of does and don’t while we ventured into the depths of this Heritage area. The story of the last unlucky travelers was told to us as we unloaded the rafts. Because of the narrow gorge and the frequency of rain, the river level can rise very fast and without warning. Last week a group had be rescued by helicopter, and most of their gear was left behind after the last big gully washer. The ranger asked us to keep a eye out for the lost gear and report it’s location. I got to thinking this could be a very interesting trip on the river of no return.

The next morning I awoke to water dripping off the tarps that we had strung up for our shelter. I looked out from my sleeping bag and noticed a fine mist covering everything with a dew like consistence. Locally it’s known as Angel Rain since it’s so docile and friendly while you get soaked to the bone but you can’t feel any ill will towards it since it’s so melo. It’s like Canada as much anybody tries you can’t hate Canada, it’s like hating toast.

After eating a great breakfast and loading the rafts, the guides gave us a five minute instruction on paddling and self preservation if we got thrown from the raft. As usual with a teacher standing in front of everybody trying to get their attention, people where looking around, counting their toes and talking about this that and not paying much attention. After our class let out we raced to the rafts without knowing how the river gods would treat us.
I was told to go with Kate in her raft and sit in the front, incase my head was needed as a bumper against rocks and fallen trees. Everyone’s face had the look of anxiety as our yellow raft bobbed along in this sea of tranquility. I noticed the sound of water roaring first and then noticed our guides fasten down their life jackets a little tighter. The narrow gorge ahead resembled the mouth of a very hungry dragon as tons of roaring water was being poured down it’s throat. It looked like the safest escape route was being blocked by a fallen tree caused by the last major rain storm. The rushing river water traveling over the tree trunk made a loud whistling sound, as if it wanted us to come closer to kick our butt. The distance between two large boulder that marked our only escape route equaled the width of our quaking raft! If we made it between these two chess pieces then a large black boulder would have to navigated just on the other side as we came out.

Bruce with his raft was the first one to shoot the needle. Being a tad bit more experienced then Kate, his girlfriend he executed the maneuver with perfection and came out of the trap without touching the rocks. Now it was our turn to take on the big bad rocks. As we entered the area that would provide a perfect place to turn and take the rapids straight on we were swept sideways between the two rocks. Tony was trying to yell something to me as we sat in the front of the raft, it could have been his last will and testament, I don’t know because of the loud noise from the angry rapids made it impossible to hear. Our raft got stuck between the two rocks and got turned into a pretzel. The sounds of water rushing over the raft and the noise of rubber raft being sucked through a tiny opening, didn’t settle our nerves. Then in a matter of seconds we popped out from between the two chess player rocks, only to be thrown into the guard rock. When we collided with this rock we where going about 30 miles per hour and then we stopped dead in our tracks. John the doctor from the main land was almost catapulted back home. Him and his wife had been sitting behind Tony and I until we had this close encounter with the giant rock. He was thrown over me and then cleared the rock by two feet easy. He landed in choppy churning water and came to the surface gasping for air and a plane ticket home. Bruce was down river and threw our Flying Walinda a rope and pulled his ass into their boat. We started to paddle and where able to turn the raft around and come off the rock.

Just a few yards down from the rapids we pulled our raft into the shore and slowly got out and set our grateful bodies onto dry land. From then on when the guides where giving instruction on river survival everybody and their dog payed attention. With the throw ropes from the rafts we tied them between two trees we made a sort of shelter with the tarps thrown over them to form a tent. This is a very simple way to make a shelter but with simple comes problems. The ends of the shelter are open and it forms a perfect wind tunnel and the strong breezes carries in driving rain and annoying insects.

We all walked down to the river after dinner to look over our next set of rapids. They looked a lot worse then the ones we just had managed to live through. As the sun went down the temperature dropped and I put on all the cloths that I had brought. From the mishap in the rapids, our raft was covered with two feet of water and my cloths and sleeping bag was wet even though they where in a dry stuff bag. Luckily the sun was out for four hours and I followed it and hung my gear in the trees to dry, or it would have been a long night. I could see the bright stars in the sky and then I noticed a dark cloud ruining my sky show. Then the wind picked up and a heavy rain began to fall. We had to get up and dig a ditch with the paddles around our shelter to divert the water from our sleeping bag and cloths. The sound of the rapids in the river and with the driving rain serenaded us into a groggy half sleep.
The rain had raised the level of the river by two feet at least. Bruce decided to portage around the rapids below our camp. All the paying victims, I mean guests would have to carry food barrels and life jackets around the next obstacle. Bruce and Kate resembling cowpokes as they tied long ropes to the rafts and mosey the critters through the swirling rapids. We all meet up on the down stream side and reloaded the rafts as the river seemed to watch with devilish delight.

A symphony of sound echoed along the river surface, from a distant waterfall as it cascaded into our river. This part of the river was calm and it was relaxing as we drifted and paddled between monoliths of rock that sprouted out of the river twenty feet wide and in height. I looked up and noticed on top of one of these monster, a kayak and a life jacket. Bruce explained that the slow moving river now had risen that high and was a raging torrent just last week. The owners of that kayak had to rescued by helicopter twenty feet off the river. I got the feeling the river gods had control of everything that happened on their surface and out of the kindest of their heart they had let us pass. I was also glad I didn’t show up a week early for this trip!

Bruce announced that we would have lunch around the next bend in the river. He forgot to mention that a rock slide had made the river impossible to ride the rafts through. We would all have to carry the equipment over the mountain that had caused the rock slide, which added insult to injury. After climbing over the mountain in a drizzle of a rain, we carefully made our way back down to the river on the other side. The wet clay mud of the mountain side made for some entertaining moments as rafters turned into human toboggans, as they skidded down the slippery slope on their derrieres. After portaging all of our gear it seemed like we should be growing long ears and kicking up our heels like a burro. When we made it to the river bank, food was brought out for lunch. The food barrels held all types of surprises in way of delicious food. All of us flocked to the barrels like kids at Christmas, when we heard the lids being unscrewed. Because of the cool weather and cold water splashing the barrels, we didn’t need ice chests. Cold cuts and cheeses flowed out of the deep reaches of the container. Hot tea and hot chocolate was brought from a stove and all was right with the world. Sometimes we caught some trout from the river and we fried them in butter. It was great treat and tasted like it had been cooked in a fine restaurant, but we all know you could cook a shoe in butter and it would taste good!

In the afternoon our small rafts coasted to a stop along a gravel bank. High mountains with tree covered slopes seemed to really dwarf our little group of adventures. Little did I know that the biggest adventure was yet to unfold. Bruce made the announcement, that he wanted Tom and I to volunteer to help take the rafts through the next obstacle. Bruce said you couldn’t even call it rapids it was a bend in the river, that had two narrow channels with churning water running through it. He explained all the things that we would have to do, but it was to much to gather in at one time. I told him, lets make it to the other side of the river and then we would make a plan. The rest of the group would have to hike and crawl over the mountain and then we would meet them on the other side. Bruce and I where in one raft and we paddled like mad to cross the river. When we reached the shore I jumped out and pulled the raft up on a flat rock the size of a two car garage. I noticed water was swirling all around the rock, especially in a space that was two feet wide. It formed a perfect trough, in fact they call it the Pig Trough and it was full of roaring water. While we waited for the other raft, Bruce yelled in my ear, to not get to close to the water. Last year a friend of his, a guide was helping a fella with a kayak when he lost his balance and fell into the trough! Before anybody could reach him the suction of the water pulled him head first deeper into the trough with his legs sticking straight up. A rafter pulled out the pump they use to pump air into rafts and tried to get air to this poor guide, but to no avail. A ranger was called but because of the powerful current and recent rains, the rescuers could only wrap his legs in a tarp and put a tag on his toe and not release him. Needless to say I stayed back from the Pig Trough. Kate and Tom made it across the river and we all picked up the raft and carried it to the other side of the rock. There was a eight foot drop on that side and we lowered the raft down. Water was coming out from under the rock and the raft was acting like a surf board in this rushing water. Bruce and I held onto the ropes that where attached to the raft as Kate and Tom jumped into the raft. When we let go of the raft the current swept them down river and then they got stuck between two rocks in the middle of the river. Tom climbed out of the raft and stood on one of the rocks, just then the raft flipped! Kate was thrown into the river and the raft was carried around the bend in the river, which block our view of Kate’s survival. I ask Bruce about the river around the bend and he said there was more rapids unless Kate when far right. Now this was going to be very interesting since Bruce and I had held the raft for Kate and Tom to get in, but we where by ourselves. Bruce and I lowered our raft and he held the rope as I jumped the eight feet to the raft. The raft was bouncing up and down like a bucking bronco. I tried to hold onto the rocky sides of the canyon to some what steady it, but the water was to rough. Just then I noticed a large shadow come over me as Bruce made a leap of faith and landed in the raft. I threw him a paddle and off we when in a instant. We paddled towards Tom on the rock and just as he got ready to jump the raft was moved by the current and he missed the raft. I was able to grab his life jacket and pull him into the raft. By this time the rest of our team had made it down the mountain and had witnessed the while crazy thing. Bruce told everybody to get in the best the could since the raft is made for five and we had the whole crew except for Kate. We all paddled and wondered what we would find around the bend in the river. We saw the upside down raft and Kate was laying on top pretending she was sun bathing. I sure was glad it all turned out for the best and we didn’t loose anybody but we gained more respect for the mighty Franklin River.

That night at dinner we sure had some stories to share. Since it was early and we had plenty of light, Bruce knew of some caves that the Aborigines use to live in and we could explore. We walked into the caves and it was very dark as you might imagine a cave would be. Then within a few seconds of walking we came to a large room that was lite up with sun light. A hole the size of a one car garage opening had been eroded away from the cave wall and it had formed a perfect picture window. The dark interior with the bright outside with all it’s ferns and total green landscape, made it look like we where looking into a giant terrarium.

The next morning Bruce gathered us all together to make announcement that there wasn’t anymore rapids from this point on. I was some what disappointed but glad nobody got injured. I knew what it was like for a lion tamer when he puts his head into the lions mouth. I too felt the breath of the lion on my neck and was able to walk away from it.

A western tour with my Italian friends !

The idea of this 2010 western USA trip actually started in 2009 in Scotland. If you have read my blog about TGO challenge then you know about me meeting a group of hikers from Milan, Italy. If you haven’t read it then get your butt over to that blog spot first and we will wait!

I found out in Scotland that my Italian hiking buddies had so many memories of the good old USA from western movies rattling around in their nogins. The Italians had visions of everybody and their dog wearing a ten gallon cowboy hat west of the Mississippi river. Together as we hiked across the heather in Scotland I came up with the idea of my new friends visiting the west, with your’s truly as their guide.

In the past almost everybody I have meet traveling around the world hardly ever keep in contact with me after I have returned to Denver Colorado. Maybe I should use more deodorant or switch toothpaste! The Italians not only kept in contact with me but the idea of coming to our crazy country seemed to grow like the national debt on their agenda.

When I got home to Denver I spent a few days getting my act together as a guide of the old west, then I e-mailed my ideas and the budgets to the Italians. I would rent a large vehicle, big enough for the six Italians to fit in comfortably, but small enough that it wouldn’t take up two lanes with flashing lights.

All the planets and stars seemed to be in line for the winter western travel to start on February 8th. Our travels would begin in Las Vegas Nevada, so we would end up at my home in Denver. On Feb 8th I walked to the car rental offices in a blizzard, I thought what a way to start a trip. I had all the camping gear and coolers loaded in the Suburban and was on the road by 9:00 am. My first destination was going to be Summerlin a suburb of Las Vegas. I had remodeled a home there in 2008 for a friend of mine and had a set of keys to the refurbished home. By 9:00 pm I drove into the driveway in Vegas and the first part of my our travel log had just begun. My own vehicle is a 1993 truck with close to 3 hundred miles almost as much as it’s owner and they both have as many aches and pains. After driving 900 miles I realized my rented Suburban also had all the latest and greatest conveniences that my truck lacks like air conditioning, cruise control, CD player and a smooth rides instead of the feeling of riding in a wheel barrow.

The next day Feb 9th, I drove to Trader’s Joes a grocery store and picked up a few supplies and three cases of a cheaper wine named accordingly Two Buck Chuck’s. Dave Guzy a friend from Denver had planned on joining the group for the first part of the travel and he was due into Las Vegas this evening.

Feb 10th was the day my Italian friend would fly into Vegas and then we would have a great reunion party. I knew they were really nervous since most had never been to the USA, and they weren’t even sure I would be there to pick them up. Dave and I arrived early at the airport and waited with probably the same amount of nervousness. At 8:00 pm after many hours of flying time under there belt my group arrived. Biagio was the only one that spoke English and I had been e-mailing him during the past year. Giorgio was single after losing his wife a few years ago and I had meet him in Scotland. Pierino was also in Scotland but this time he had his wife with him. Allessandra was going to stay at home in Italy and miss out on our adventure until I mentioned that I could find Pierino a nice substitute Indian wife here. Another woman named Afra was also in Scotland but this time she had her husband named Melchiorro was with her. She also had a cast on her leg after a skiing accident back home. Everyone had a giant smile on their faces as we waited for the luggage to arrive.

I drove the vehicle back to our temporary home with lots of questions coming from the seats behind me. All questions and answers had to go through Biagio. So it took a few minutes to go through a series of questions. The group was completely blown away with the beauty of the remodeled home that would be our base camp for a few days. Tracy and Bob the owners had gone over the top with the decorations and furnishings. Our group sat around the table and drank wine and talked. After all their travels the group just wanted to find a clean warm bed. The house had three bedrooms in the upstairs. The Italians would sleep upstairs and Dave and I would sleep down. I picked the couch but Dave sleep on the first floor landing which was just big enough for his sleeping bag.

The next morning after coffee and toast we headed to Red Rock Canyon. The canyon is part of the national park service and I had a pass. The rock formations were deposited millions of years ago from wind blown sand dunes. The weight of the piled up sand compressed it into mountains of colorful mountains. The colors with the morning sun bearing down on it was a picture perfect moment. We all went on a few hikes in the canyons, with lots of questions about the Mohave Desert and it’s plants and animals. Than we got back into our machine and drove north to Valley of Fire, the first state park in Nevada. The park was the setting for the first Star Wars film. The rock formation and Native American petrography on the rock walls was a big hit for all of us. A series of Indian art that tells a story in the life of these ancient people is scratched into the dark sandstone walls. As we ate our first picnic lunch by a giant rock formation a Red Tail Hawk came swopping down and had chipmunk for his lunch. Later I took the group on a cross country hike to the top of one of the red rock mountains looking for Desert Big Horn Sheep.

I could tell that everyone was feeling like they where part of the scenery, like they belonged there. As we drove back to the huge city of Vegas, my group had questions about the other part of Nevada the glitter and lights of downtown Lost Wages, I mean Las Vegas. I tried to tell them about the phoney baloney part with all the smoke and mirrors. But I also knew everybody had to experience the night life for themselves.

Everyone put on clean cloths and we head down to the Vegas Strip. Remember what ever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, if you take enough penicillin! As I drove closer the lights of sin city lite up the sky. I found a free parking spot at the Bally Casino. We all walked thru a make believe French Village in the Bally casino with real life slot machines and other equally easy places to spend our money. As we stepped into the street, the night air was filled with the sound of craziness, like only Vegas or New Orleans during Mardi Gras can generate. A homeless man that must have been 6'8" was wearing a red wig and a red bra and little else, as he stood along the curb. He was holding a dirty black felt hat in front of his waist hoping people would drop money in it. Right above his belt buckle someone had sprayed with red paint on his bare hairy chest a unique comment. “I AM A WHORE FOR MONEY!” Luckily five of my Italian friends couldn’t read English. Biagio on the other hand got very close and then turned with a puzzled look on his face and asked about the meaning of the words. I was trying to come up with a explanation when three other crazies got into a loud argument. Two of the rascals had been handing out cards with a phone number that guaranteed you a woman in your room in 15 minutes. Another guy with smoke coming out of his ears yelled that he had called the number and no one had shown up. “It’s false advertising!” he kept yelling at the two pimps. All this took place in the first ten minutes of our Vegas visit.

We continued to walk around looking at the make believe and the plastic people for another few hours. I could tell everyone had seen enough to prove that the place was a waste of our time and energy. We all walked to the car and drove home in silence, but for the next three weeks, every day someone would ask a question about Las Vegas. My friends came to the conclusion, if they didn’t like someone in Italy, they would send them to Vegas for a week!

Everyone was glad to have Vegas in our rear view mirror as we headed north towards Utah. Our first stop would be Zion National Park. We stopped at a small town for lunch and this would turn out to be quite fun in it self. With six people talking at the same time, I would take the orders of food from everyone and then I would tell the waitress. Most time though we had a lovely picnic for lunch with cold cuts, cheese and wine. In this same Mormon town we stopped by the library so we could all use the computers for e-mail. The library folks were so friendly and helpful, it made the experience very nice and fast.

By 5:00 pm we checked into a motel. I then rounded everybody up so we could drive thru Zion as the sun went down on the beautiful red rock canyon walls. The Virgin River has cut a canyon out of solid red sand stone and my group had never seen anything like it. After taking a few hundred pictures and getting our mind wrapped around a magical place, we found our way back to our motel. Earlier I had found a large room to have a place to drink some wine and sample some cheese before dinner. As we all sat around a large wooden table I could tell my friends didn’t know what was about to happen. “Why would someone eat food before dinner and ruin their appetite?” they asked. The more food I brought out the more they pushed the food towards me. It was a case of one culture learning about another culture.

The next morning we all got suited up with back packs and hiking boots. Afra with her crutch, would stay behind in the valley of Zion while the rest of us would walk the trail up to Angel’s Landing. We left the parking lot and headed across the Virgin River by way of a bridge. The trail is like a giant serpent with us on it back as it follows the river bed and then goes up the mountain. The farther we all walked up the mountain the greater the view became. I had bought ice grippers that can be attached to our boots and within a few hours we needed them. The trail was facing the north side and many boots had stomped the snow into a iceberg big enough to sink the Titanic. The trail was a steep toboggan run, with one false move and we would find all of us at the bottom of the hill. After we climbed along the steep trail we found ourselves at a saddle in the mountain. With a restrooms and a place to sit down and have a snack. I had walked and crawled on this trail last year, so I knew it would get real tricky after this point. Years ago some very nice rangers had attached chains along the trail at waist height that would help to keep hikers from sliding off the mountain side, it was that steep. Dave and Alessandra wisely decided to stay behind at our snack spot. Ice and snow was under our feet as we climbed along the mountain side with a 500 foot drop into the valley below if we lost our grip on the cold chain. Within a hour we came to the next saddle and ahead of us was a knife edge covered with more ice and snow. The slope was at a 30 degree slant and we could see a couple hikers working their way back down to us. The woman wore tennis shoes and the man had rubber boots on his feet. Last year when I climbed up this section there was half as much snow and it was just crazy with one false step and you would become part of the valley below. With the 500 foot drops on both sides the Italians could not believe that the rangers would allow anybody without the proper climbing equipment to walk this section. I tried to explain that in America, most people don’t like the government’s involved in their business and it was up to the individual if they wanted to kill themselves.
“But doesn’t the government rangers have to come in for a rescue or pick up the pieces after a accident and then pay the medical bills of these fools?” asked Biagio

We all worked our way back to Dave and Alessandra waiting patiently along the trail. When we arrived I noticed Alessandra talking to her husband Pierino. Then they talked with Biagio, as they walked towards me, with a smile on their face. It seems Dave trying to be friendly had asked Allessandra to come sit by him as they waited for our return, in Italy that is a come on for “why don’t we have a relationship”

After eating lunch we walked farther up the trail towards large rock formation, with out the danger of sliding to our death. After a minor snowball fight, we all turned around and head back to Afra and our ride to the visitor center, that was run by the park service. The center is completely heated by the sun and is a piece of functional art work in it’s design.

This time we had dinner in the same room with the large wooden table and all had plenty to eat and drink. This is also a good time to explain about the Italians eating habits, they would never think of over drinking or eating. If they had a glass of wine it was only half full and then the next glass was half water and half wine. They had never been drunk in their lives! Dinner time was never before 8:00 pm. After dinner we would all sit around and they would talk about the food and how it could have been improved or how much they enjoyed it. Biagio told me sometimes that the dinner at home would start at 8:00 pm and then they would talk until 1 or 2 am. I found out to my delight that they treat meal time and the food as a sacred thing. Where American’s eat just to get it done with so we can all do something else more important, like stare at the television. The dinners and picnics that followed in the next weeks was always a great time to talk about our days activities.


The next morning we all piled into the car and headed to Bryce Canyon. The road thru Zion follows the river bottom and then winds it way thru a long tunnel onto the mountain above. This tunnel was carved out of solid red rock by the CCC, in the 1930's. These workers left port holes cut into the tunnel that lets light and a killer view of the valley below. The bright sun light coming through these port holes only added to the magic of this special place.

The Utah landscape of the mesa as we exited the tunnel with red rocks and desert plants was very unreal to my Italian friends. We stopped at one place that had a large arch cut out of rock and it made a natural bridge over the road. All my friends had their picture taken under the rock formation and than we broke out the wine and cheese and had a picnic. By noon we arrived at Bryce Canyon that had gotten a boat load of snow during the winter. The rangers had shoveled a path of waist deep snow in order to get the visitors closer to the edge where the best views where. We traveled these path ways like rats following a maize. It was well worth the effort since the views of the valleys below are beyond description. My new friends had seen the vision of Bryce Canyon on there travel station at home but they loved the real view better.

A ranger had told us about the town of Kanab in southern Utah and it had a wonderful old hotel. The movie stars that had made movies in this area, had used the hotel as their temporary home. The prices where very reasonable and every wall in the lobby had an old autographed photo from all the movie stars that use to stay there. Since the Italian’s where all brought up with western movies, just the thought of John Wayne staying here sent my friends into orbit. I had the feeling that the ghosts of a few stars where still wondering the hall ways! After getting settled most of the group decided to walked around town and with one eye open for a place to eat dinner. We found a Italian restaurant that had been in town since the town was founded. An old tin type picture of the chef owner’s grandmother that had immigrated from Italy in 18800's and had started the place hung above our table. She seemed to be watching our every move and wanted our praises. The soups and pasta salads had to be tried out before ordering to make sure they where like momma used to make back home and the samples meet with the groups approval.

The next morning we all headed southern towards the Grand Canyon. I found a dirt road that lead to Lake Powell and the lake was a grand sight with a mill pond reflection of the rock formations on the far shore. A county sheriff had pulled up to the lake side and was out walking his patrol dog, when we drove up. Like a chorus line the Italians slowly worked there way over to the patrol car and the policeman. In a matter of minutes each one was sitting in the car and or standing beside the patrolmen having their picture taken. I walked over after a few minutes and said to the smiling sheriff. “At least they didn’t ask to shoot your gun!”

By noon we arrived at the Glenn Canyon Dam and took a short tour of the area. In the visitor center I walked over to the information desk and told the ranger about my Italian tourist. “Wait a minute we have a ranger that speaks Italian!” she said. Allen walked up and he not only spoke Italian but he was a Navajo Indian. We found out that Allen was a Mormon missionary and had been sent to Italy to convert a few people to Joseph Smith’s way of thinking. Which must have been a uphill battle since most Italian’s are Catholic and your close to the home office in Rome! He talked to all my friends in Italian while we worked our way through wine and cold cuts for lunch. They had many questions about his culture and then Glenn Dam itself.

By late afternoon we arrived at the entrance gate to the Grand Canyon National Park. I must have stopped fifty times for my group to take pictures of the vast Grand Canyon as I drove along the rim. I parked the car at the Bright Angel Lodge and we all walked into the building with many different thought running through our minds. My friends wanted to see all the art work on the walls and then go through the back doors and see the canyon itself. I on the other hand needed to check in at the front desk for our rooms and arrange to have mules carry down some of our camping gear into the canyon for the 2 nights of camping. The rooms worked out nicely but we missed the cut off time by 15 minutes for the mules for tomorrow. We would have to carry all our supplies like little burro. “There isn’t any problems only solutions!” I tried to arrange a mule for Afra to be carried down in the canyon because of her bum leg. I was told she had to go see Poncho the mule driver and see if he thought it was OK to have a mule carry her down. After the reservation clerk found out that Afra only spoke Italian we didn’t have to find Poncho. I guess Poncho can speak mule but not Italian!

Since Mel and Afra where not going down in the canyon I reserved a room for 2 extra nights since we would be camped out in the bottom of the canyon with the coyotes. Before dinner I brought the camping gear, all tents and sleeping bags from Dave’s truck . I made sure everybody would be covered with tents and bags. Then I distributed our camping food so everyone had enough to eat. Some of our meals would be bought at the bottom of the canyon at the Phantom Ranch Lodge.

The next morning after breakfast at the park cafeteria we all headed to the trail head. I had a camping permit for 8 people but we only needed one for 6. Dave Guzy had a extra permit so he walked to the ranger station and tried to turn his in. After waiting a hour he finally returned without any luck on turning in his permit.

The Bright Angel trail that would lead us into the canyon was very slippery with several inches of a ice packed snow. We attached the steel cleats on the bottom of our shoes so we wouldn’t all slide down the trail into the Colorado River. Each and everyone of us had sore necks from looking around at all the wonderful sights as we followed the trail down. Within a hour, the snow had melted off the trail and we didn’t needed our cleats. The farther you walk down in the canyon the warmer the temperature. By noon we had made it to Indian Gardens where there was fresh water and a picnic table to eat lunch. The sun was warm and it felt real good to finally be down in the canyon after months of planning.

After lunch the trail wound it way down to the river bottom. The rocky canyon had a trail chiseled out of solid stone and it made quite a back ground for our travels. The sight of the Colorado River was something all of us where glad to see. The Italian’s had a tear in their eyes since they had heard of the river their whole lives and now were standing beside the river in real life. I walked ahead and got across the steel bridge spanning the river about 30 minutes ahead of the rest of the gang. I walked to the camp ground and dropped my pack at a perfect campsite. A ranger was walking around the site and I introduced myself and explained about the Italians. “Oh you’re a guide!” the ranger said. “No I meet this group in Scotland and I am just showing them the west..” I said. With a wink in his eye he said “Right!” I didn’t have time to talk more to Ranger Dick so I walked back to the bridge and guided my group to the sites.

After a little wash up we walked up to the lodge where the meals are served and waited to be called in for grub. The picnic tables are long and covered with all types of food. The numerous hikers that are sitting at the table are as different as the food. It is always fun to find out about the different people and their plans for the canyon. After dinner the cook allows the hikers to sit at the tables after they have been cleared and talk while washing the dust from the trail with a few beers.

The next morning the breakfast is served at 6:30 am. The Italians wanted to know if I could talk to the cooks about changing the time to maybe 8:00 am. After a great breakfast we all head up the north canyon trail to Rainbow Falls. We had a lunch spread out by the multi colored falls and it was a great place for a picnic. The cold water was to inviting for some who stuck their heads under the water spilling off the cliffs above.

When we made it back to the campsite another group had shown up that had walked all day and part of night down the North Rim trail. They had post holed snow up to their waist for many miles. They where so tired they just went to bed. Another group that was heading back up the Bright Angel trail had two liters of red wine and they didn’t want to carry it out so they made some Italian I knew very happy.

The next morning we all got our packs ready for the walk back up the hill by way of Kabab trail. I noticed my permit wasn’t on my tent any more and I thought maybe the wind blew it off. Just then the ranger showed up and wanted to talk to Dave and I at his office. Dave thought he had been seen peeing in the bushes at night, but it was nuttier then that. I had to wait outside while the ranger talked to Dave in his office. I was just dressed in a light shirt and was freezing my butt off as I sat in the shade. Finally the ranger and Dave came out of the office and the ranger gave both of us tickets for knowing each other but not sharing a camping spot. It all boiled down to the fact Ranger Dick thought Dave and I where outfitters without a license but he couldn’t prove it. He even had a ranger on the top of the canyon check us out on the internet. They found out Dave worked for the Dept of the Interior the same as they did. They found out that I was listed under the Screaming Weasel a rock band in Chicago. The whole thing was like a Saturday Night Live skit!.

After a few hours of waiting we all headed up the long trail. Another steel bridge crossed the Colorado River and then we all walked through a rock tunnel. The climb was a long haul with many stops and plenty of pictures taken. At the top was a bus that would take us back to the hotel rooms and warm showers. But before Dave and I had chance to feel warm water on our back side I wanted to go to the ranger station and try and get the ticket fixed or explained or both. The head ranger was understanding and was going to look into the while affair. Which was good enough for me, since a warm shower and meal had my name on it. Later on while we drove away from Grand Canyon the ranger called on the cell phone and said he was voiding the ticket.



The next morning we head out of the Grand Canyon with a Hopi Indian reservation on our mind. Our first stop was for lunch at Tuba City in the Navajo Reservation. I found a perfect restaurant with lots of Indian cars all around. We all walked in and I noticed an Indian with a Code Talker jackets on and about the right age for that type of jacket. I explained to Biagio about the Code Talker, how they help the Army with communicating in their Navajo language and the Japanese could not breaking the code during the Second World War. After that Biagio couldn’t wait to talk to this fella. I walked over and explained to this Indian about our little Italian group and he agreed to talk to them. Picture and hand shakes where exchanged. I also explained to our group about how the Navajo and the Hopi don’t get along and don’t talk to one about the other. Dave must have forgotten and went outside the restaurant and ask a Navajo man the directions to the Hopi Reservation. “Let see here you go north on highway 160 until you come to Kayenta and then you take a dirt road for 25 miles!” he said. Which is the complete opposite direction!

The afternoon sun followed us as we drove up onto Second Mesa, the home of the Hopi. The village homes is kind of scattered without any rhyme of reason. I had met a few tribe members last year and I was hoping they might magically appear in front of the car. The muddy road wound around the stone houses and there was a little surprise around every corner in the way of a barking dog. As we worked our way around a series of homes I head the sound of someone chopping firewood. Two Hopi Indians had a large pile of wood that needed to be split. I got out and asked them if anyone was selling any Native American wares. The one fella went into his house and came out with a bag full of rattles. The brilliant colors on the large gourd rattle matched their colorful handles. The beads inside the rattles made a nice sound and a few of us bought their wares and did a small dance around the mesa to celebrate.

We had a bit of a drive to Canyon de Chelly on the Navajo reservation. The weather was holding perfect with clear skies as we drove onto the reservation. We checked into a motel and still had time to check out the visitor center on the rim of the canyon. The whole area is owned by th Navajo nation and you can’t drive down into the canyon without a Navajo guide. I drove down last year with a guide in my 4 wheel drive truck and I didn’t think I would every get out of the boggy mess so we would skip that part this time.

The next morning I drove our group along the rim and stopped at different spots to explore and take pictures. The canyon below the rim held beautiful sights with a occasional Navajo farm laid out below. Numerous signs explained that no one could enter the canyon without a Navajo guide. Biagio wanted to know what it would hurt if he entered without a guide. With tongue in cheek I told him an arrow in his back might hurt a tad.

After a few hours of exploring we all drove towards Moab Utah and Canyon Land National Park. I saw a road sign pointing to Valley of the Gods, which sounded interesting because I wondered where the Gods hung out. The road was covered with loose gravel but it was in nice shape without many ruts. The high walls of red rocks crowned the road as we worked our way down the valley. The Italians couldn’t believe their eyes to come across such a perfect example of Utah at it’s best. I drove for about fifteen minutes and then parked the car so all could get out and stretch the legs and bend the neck looking at all the magnificent sights.

By dinner time we had pulled into Moab and got settled into our motel. This was a good place to do some laundry and use the internet for email. We had enough food in the coolers for a dinner in our room and we had a nice bedside dinner.

The next morning I drove the group up along the Colorado River towards Cisco. A cold weather pattern had pushed it’s way onto some warm weather so fog was along the river. Looking through the lens of our camera’s made the surrounding canyon walls look even better. I followed the road up into Arches National Park. A thin layer of fresh snow covered all the large monoliths and arches. We decided to walk to Delicate Arch and have a look see. After passing a small pioneer cabin the trail got steeper and muddy. After a few hours of walking we came around a curve and there was Utah’s famous Delicate Arch. After a few pictures where taken it was a race to get back to the car and have lunch.

Dave Guzy decided that he had seen enough and was going to drive back to Denver from here. We loaded his truck with all the camping gear from the Grand Canyon. With limited space we had to tie some of our gear on top of our car. We had the look of the Beverly Hill Hillbillies as we headed towards Colorado.

As we drove higher into the mountains the snow got deeper along side the car. The town of Ouray would be our final resting stop for tonight. This is a old mining town that is known now for it’s ice climbing on a frozen waterfall. As we walked to dinner a lite snow fell on our shoulders. Red Mountain Pass a little farther south was closed but that wouldn’t effect our travels until the day after tomorrow. We found a small little restaurant and had a fine meal. With cold crisp night air on our cheeks, it was fun walking along the old store fronts and have a peak at the goodies inside.

The next morning Mel, Giorgio, Biagio and myself got on our skiing cloths for our downhill adventure at Telluride. The town is also a old mining town with heaps of history. Butch Cassidy robbed his first back here. The rest of the gang could wander around as we skied our legs off. It was a real job getting all the Italians outfitted in their ski equipment. It was a bit pricey, but how many times would they get to ski Telluride. Maybe old Butch Cassidy robbed the bank in order to ski here we all thought! We all made plans with the non skiers to meet at a local place for lunch and then off we went. We had a great day of skiing, with blue clear skies. Everyone had a different style and speed but mostly we just wanted to get down the slope in one piece.

This morning we woke to a few inches of new snow but not enough to worry about. I took everybody to the frozen waterfalls that ice climbers come to from all over the world. Then I started the drive up over Red Mountain Pass. The views on top are breath taking. We stopped at the old mining town of Silverton and looked at a few of the old buildings.

The town of Durango would be our lunch spot today. An old hotel with a ancient saloon would make perfect lunch spot. As we all sat around a large around table, a bar girl wearing a outfit from the 1800's with a low cut blouse came and sat on Biagio’s lap. He had the look as if he had died and gone to heaven. After all the lap sitting for the male’s in our party we all went on a tour of the upper floors of the old hotel. I skipped the lap part since I am married! Ha ha When it was time to leave I had to almost yell fire to get everybody out the door. I made reservations for dinner tomorrow night with more cute bar girls as a money raiser for the historical society.

We had spent so much time on the entertainment at the hotel it ate into our sightseeing time at Mesa Verde National Park. The drive can be quite long to get to the first exhibit of the Anasazi Indians that lived in the area thousands of years ago. By 4:00 pm we finally made it to the visitor center and a ancient site that we could visit. The walk down to the site was steep but well worth the time with a under ground kiva that could be visited. After our tour we all walked through the visitor center and got idea of how big the area was and how many people had lived here.

Now we had a long drive to Pagosa Springs where we would stay and unwind a bit. We drove to our motel in the dark and many elk where beside the road and it was a blessing to get home with out a elk becoming a hood ornament. After surviving our driving trip home we decide to cancel the dinner at the hotel with the cutie bar girls tomorrow.

In Pagosa Springs only four of us made dinner while two decided to hang in the motel rooms and watch some television. I found a small Italian restaurant that didn’t know what to make of our group. The menu didn’t make any sense to the Italians either. Items on the menu meant something completely different then what it meant in the old country. Biagio made the announcement that there wasn’t a real Italian within a mile of this town.

The next day I had plans on skiing Wolf Creek Pass but the Italian’s heart wasn’t in riding the boards down the hill. I took them to the ski slope but we just walked around and found out prices. It was just as well because a few members of my fine group got lite headed at the high elevation.

The town of Pagosa Springs has a first rate hot springs and we would spend the afternoon soaking our aching bones in the hot water.

The next morning I knew my group needed a little more rest, so I suggested we skip Crested Butt ski area and go directly to Westcliffe where I have access to a cabin. This put a smile on everybody’s face. Along the way we stopped at Alamosa and used their library for some over do email. At Fort Garland we went on a tour of the old fort where Kit Carson lived for a few years. Right next door was a older restaurant that had a wonderful lunch menu and after sampling a few dishes we ordered.

I knew a short cut to the Wet Mountain Valley but it involved driving on a back road. In this case the road was snow packed and there just enough room for our big machine to plow through. Snow was spraying off the fenders as we worked our way over the pass. The sight of a paved road was a welcome sight. By 3:00 pm I drove up the mountain road that lead to the cabin. The views from the cabin is breath taking to say the least. Everybody was so glad to be settled in one place for a few days. While I turned on the water and the hot water heater my friends made out a food shopping list. It only had one problem, it was written in Italian. The one item that was very important that was on their list was a good size bone with a bit of meat attached. The women wanted to cook this bone with onions all day to make lovey broth. Then this broth would be poured over a bed of rice with seasoning. The grocery store in this small town isn’t the largest by any stretch of the imagination. The butcher did everything in his power to find a bone that would meet the standards of my friends. At the end I think he sprayed red paint on a old soup bone out of the dog dish and called it good. As the women cooked dinner, Biagio, Mel and I walked outdoors to observe the night skies with all the stars shining bright. Mel pointed a to a bright star that can be seen in Italy. Mel explained since he was older and had lived through the Second World War, that star meant something special to him. When his parents where sure that Milan was going to be bombed by the Allied they sent the youngster Mel to live with his grandfather on the farm in the country to be safe. Mel was very young and didn’t want to leave his parents side, they told him to look at this star every evening at 9:00 pm and they would do the same in Milan and that way they would be in each others heart.

The next morning I took part of the gang to a mountain located behind the cabin for a bit of the stretch of the legs. While we climbed, the women folk got busy cooking the lunch with this bone. As we gained in elevation on our little mountain we had a great vantage point to see the Sangre de Cristos across the valley. I found a different route to come down off the mountain and we came to a fresh mountain lion kill site of a deer. Our group was fascinated with the results of the power of the mountain lion.

The next morning we all got ready for a trip to Monarch ski area. Georgio, Mel, Biagio and I where the only ones that where going to ski. The prices where a lot better then Telluride. Half the group because of age got to ski for free and the skis and boots rental where cheap. We all had a grand day skiing and then all got together for a lunch break. The snow and weather couldn’t have been any better.


I stopped at the Salida Hot Springs, where again just part of us got into the soothing hot spring water. We had a ball just floating around in the pools and just watched the other bathers do same. A local Italian restaurant with a cold beer finished off a perfect day. By the time we got back in the vehicle the skies had opened up and it started to snow. I drove through a snow storm all the way home without a peep from my passengers. There was a big cheer though when I pulled into the garage, since we had made it home without any problemos!

The next morning we would drive south to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Along I-25 I pulled into the Fort Union National Monument so every one could have a look at a old time fort. The museum with all it’s information about the Santa Fe Trail was just what the doctor ordered. After the tour we broke out the food for one of our grand picnic’s and I asked two girls that we meet from Colorado to join us. They had both been to Italy so there much to talk about with the group.

Later on in the day we stopped at Pecos Monument and had another tour with plenty of things to look at and discover. By dinner time we pulled into Santa Fe and found our motel.


The next morning we drove south to Albuquerque and I took them to Old Town. I dropped them off and I drove to the airport to pick up Pam my wife that was going to join us.

When Pam and I got back my friends had bought a large arrangement of flowers and gave them to Pam. Pam had bought each and everyone a different fetish and she handed them out with the meaning of the fetish attached. After lunch we all walked around old town and window shopped.

As we drove back to Santa Fe we all talked about dinner and where we should go, since there is so many choices in town. Pam selected a good place and we had fun eating and talking for few hours.

The next day we toured Santa Fe and looked at all the Native America handy work. At lunch we stopped at a famous Hotel La Fonda and they had a excellent buffet. That night we walked along the old street of the town and looked at the sky and the shine from the street lights.

The next day we drove north towards Taos but we stopped at Los Alamos and had a look at the museum dedicated to the making of the atomic bomb. Then we stopped by Ojo Cliente hot springs for just a look without getting our bodes wet. For lunch we stopped at Chimayo de Rancho for lunch and had the best time with the food and the atmosphere of the old ranch. Then we drove into Taos and checked into our motel for the night.


The next morning we drove to the Pueblo de Taos where the Tewa Indians have lived for centuries. We hired a guide that gave us information about the pueblo and then I would try and explain what she had said to Biagio, which in turn would tell his friends in Italian.

Within a few hours we where all in Denver and it seemed like just minutes since I had left four weeks ago, the tour was that much fun. The night before my friends where ready to board their plane back to Milan Italy we had a big dinner. One of our dinner guests told Biagio about when his father fought the Second World War in Italy. So when it time came to give a toast, Biagio said that everybody didn’t agree with Mussolini and he was just crazy.

Our time together was so much fun and entertaining for all parties. But I think everybody was ready to go home after all this time away from home