Do I want to die at 75?

 A friend urged me to drop into the splits in
 Ecuador when I was a mere 71. She thought
 I should make the photo my profile picture. I 
 was afraid it was too show-offy. Now I don't
 care. I will show off and do the splits. Any 
 time, anywhere. Just ask me.
            

The answer is hell NO. 
Do you?

Unless something hideous develops between now and my 75th birthday, which is in about 10 minutes, geezer time, I have no desire to check out.

Why am I chewing on this? It started with an article published in The Atlantic in October 2014 - the year I turned 70 - and written by the guy pictured below. His name is Ezekiel J. Emanuel.  (Click for an exhaustive Wikipedia profile. Despite his delusions, he is an impressive dude.) 

His thesis? Once you reach 75, you've surpassed your physical and cognitive peaks and it's all downhill from there, baby. Might as well kick back and wait to kick the bucket.

My gaping jaw fell as I read Emanuel's article. He's a brilliant guy, of course, but sometimes the smartest and most successful people have blind spots. He is an oncologist and bioethicist who suggests that medical intervention, except for palliative measures, are pretty much wasted on people 75 and older. I wonder if he shares this view with his elder patients, most of whom, he can't help but notice, want desperately to live.

When he reaches 75, the age at which his inevitable decline can be expected to begin in earnest, he claims he will not seek or accept medical care. Good luck with that. The photo of him was likely taken the year he turned 57  when his Atlantic article was published. I know so many people in their 70s and 80s who exude as much radiance as he does.

HIS ARTICLE 

After Emanuel's piece was published, The Atlantic was flooded with responses. It's no surprise that multitudes were outraged or incredulous, although some were in agreement with the author that clinging to life with the certainty of inevitable decline and death is a waste of healthcare resources and a bad way to end a good life.

The doctor explained that after age 75 he intends to stop all medical visits,  including preventive primary care and cancer screenings. If he develops cancer, heart disease or whatever, he will refuse to be treated and live out his remaining months or years accepting only palliative care.

I'm close enough to 75 to know that I am not going to do that. I will reach the Emanuel-age-of-impending-doom in mid-December this year and I will continue with annual physical exams, flu shots, and dermatology checks, the later every six months.

I had an ugly melanoma diagnosis a few years ago which required surgery and lymph node biopsies and introduced me to the Cancer Club. Getting clean pathology results post-surgery was a huge relief, but I'm still on the six-month check-up plan. I've had several lesions removed, one of which was pre-malignant. I can't imagine stopping those preventive screenings. 

I'm guessing that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg wouldn't think much of Emanuel's idea either. Ginsberg, at 86, is currently being treated for yet another cancer. But she has a high purpose to save us from a lopsided Supreme Court and damned if she'll quit fighting for her life. And her country. 

Her cognitive abilities don't appear to have diminished and her life force is apparently vigorous. You've seen her workout routine, right? Challenging exercise makes a huge difference, as I have also learned.

Odd that I think of Justice Ginzburg as "old" when she's only 11 years my senior. Eleven years! I now know, as do others who've lived this long, that 11 years is insignificant as the time ball ricochets through the years, wrecking all semblance of personal control over its passage.

The lesson: the only time we have is this moment. Right now. And even while thinking about it, the moment has passed, and on it goes until...it doesn't. Or until, as our bioethicist suggests, we turn 75 and accept the inevitable. Time's up.

But then there are people like me and maybe you. The thing is, even though I am officially a geezer, I don't feel like one. I sometimes forget my age. I'm no longer denying but accepting, even embracing, my status as a healthy active elder.

At a recent music festival, for example, I was drawn to the exuberant crowd in front of the band and participated in joyful dancing with total strangers. I was the elder dancer, which is often the case. 

Afterward, a young woman threw her arms around my neck and said, "Will you please be my grandma?" 

That got my attention, then my gratitude. It was a great moment. 

I feel strong, energetic, and fortunate, not at all how I envisioned this time of life 50 or even 25 years ago. I never saw myself as a dancing grandma, but hey. Things could be worse. 

Conventional wisdom says that healthy aging depends on a healthy diet, social connections, physical activity, and having a purpose.

Gardening provides lots of weightlifting opportunities. 

If I have a purpose, it is to be kind, grow and share flowers and tomatoes, and whatever lessons I've learned. It is to keep my mate happy, be inspired by - and work to preserve - the natural world, dance often, create essays and images, cultivate existing friendships and make new ones. And watch, with a full heart, as our grandchildren disappear into young adults. 

Hula hooping at a music festival
in March 2019. 

My parents lived into their 90s. Mom was almost 99 and Dad, 93. Both died of "old age." Their final months were difficult. 

My sister and I  consider our parents' numbers and realize we may be facing serious longevity. We have talked about creating our own ' final solutions.'

I am not at all resigned to give it up at a healthy happy 75. But 90? 95? 10o? I don't know. 

What do I know? Not much. Like most humans, I submit to the sun and the moon cycles, the time of bountiful gardens and the winter's dormant days. The time of raising children then stepping back to see the grown-up progeny cultivating their own offspring. It is all good. 

I was in my late sixties when this photo was taken. We were on a Blues Cruise, supposedly swimming with sea turtles in warm water as waiters carrying trays of rum punch made the rounds in their swimsuits. This sort of thing still makes me happy.

Ten years from now? At 85? I might still be writing an occasional blog post, practicing yoga, hiking, gardening, dancing, and feeling grateful every day.

If, however, I'm afflicted with a terminal condition, I may lean toward Dr. Emanuel's nothing-but-palliative approach. I totally agree with his stance that taking every possible measure with elderly patients is a waste of resources and is even cruel. Since I live in Oregon, a Death with Dignity state, that option would be on the table. 


For now? I'm going for it. Life is short!

I saw my primary care doc recently for a quick check-up and advice about how to prepare for an adventure we're taking in December/January. I will turn 75 in Cusco, Peru. 

That will be after five days in the Amazon slogging around the jungle on the lookout for everything from macaws to jaguars. Then on to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, where we expect, weather permitting, to climb the Machu Picchu Mountain and tour, with a guide, the most-visited UNESCO World Heritage site.


After that, we'll be in Colombia where our activities include whitewater rafting, trekking to an indigenous village, and taking on a "strenuous"  hike in the Andes for a grand view of mountains and the Pacific Ocean. 

Caving into multiple negatives about aging, I got skittish about whether I'm too old for the adventures this trip presents.  

I told my doc that I've had tweaks in my knees and also a hip that is sometimes bothersome. Will I be able to do all this stuff?  Should I back off on jumping in Zumba? Should I baby my knees? Should I take it easy? Should I sit out the difficult hiking at high altitude?

She did a quick hip X-ray that verified I have some bursitis and arthritis. But she also advised me to continue jumping, dancing, walking, biking, squats, yoga, and Pilates. All the hard stuff. 

"Continue doing all you do and don't stop!" she advised. 
"Go climb the mountains."

Ok then, doc. That's all I need to know.


EARLIER POSTS ABOUT AGING

Ditch the Hair Dye - plus an article about Working to Disarm Women's Anti-aging Demons 
I was into the Clairol bottle most of my adult life until PK persuaded me to stop. I'm glad I did. I like my white hair.

Camping with Gray-haired girlfriends - fun times outdoors  and moments of truth

Pauline - Is 90 the New 70?   In her early 90s when I met her, the first thing she wanted to tell me was how much men like sex. This is one of my favorite posts ever. Pauline is now 96 or 97 and still going strong.

Yoga - a Defense Against Aging - Yes, it is. Check it out. A post about a yoga class I've frequented for about 20 years. Lots of older people doing the splits and more!

Attitude and Aging - Lighten Up!  It matters how you think about getting older.

Sister's Aging Advice All Too True  I've changed my mind about what I wrote in this post a couple years ago. Rather than accepting my sister's aging angst and predictions, I'm attempting to persuade her to be more positive and proactive. 

Travel Tips for Geezers  Just go and don't worry about it.

Attitude and aging - Lighten up!

Note: I excavated this post from my draft archive— one of 163 drafts waiting to be finished —as I searched for references to attitude. Why? I participate in a quarterly discussion group, and attitude is the topic for our fast-approaching get-together. The draft is about three years old, and the primary difference between then and now is I know even more women with attitude advantage. 

 Next, I'll tackle the drafts I've started about recent Baja travels. Thanks for staying tuned!

------------------

I'm lucky to have positive, physically and mentally active, smart, deep-thinking women as friends. Most are age 60+ 

Laurie Gerloff and I resting after a 5-mile uphill hike through cacti and cairns near Tucson, AZ, a few springs ago. I was almost 70. Laurie in her early 60s.

An earlier post about ditching hair dye and accepting aging generated numerous responses, mostly on Facebook, where I share links to my blog posts.

Readers who subscribe to this blog by email may be avoiding FB, and I don't blame them, but they miss the revealing conversations that sometimes develop in comment threads. I enjoyed reading hair-dye and aging stories amidst numerous comments about the ditch-the-hair-dye post. 

I was the only person, however, to see the excerpted comment below, delivered to me via email by Laurie, my friend for 40-some years, and a frequent travel buddy. She and her husband, Steve, and PK and me, have explored together extensively, including several trips to New Orleans, Mexico, and in early 2016, the Galapagos Islands and the Ecuadorian Amazon.

This airplane would soon be flying the four of us out of the Amazon Basin on
the same runway. For more about this "old people's" adventure, See Wild in the Amazon

Laurie changed the subject from fiddling with hair and face, boobs and butts, and other attempts to preserve a youthful appearance to instead concentrate on what's in your brain and heart. What comes out of your mouth.

Guard against calcification and becoming old and set in your ways.  She writes:

I’ve spent much of today thinking about aging and my own march to wormhood. I think that the most youthful attribute for geezers like us is not a head of blond hair, but a young attitude. And I think that we, and many of our pals, have it in spades.

As a youngster, I used to think of old folks as cranky, curmudgeonly and stuck in their ways. It seems that many oldsters calcify — they resist change, don’t take risks, and allow their minds to close and their comfort zones to shrink. I struggle to fend against calcification.

Flexible, open-minded, adventuresome are adjectives Laurie uses to describe concepts for ideal aging. These are powerful adjectives for any stage of life, along with thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion, and incessant curiosity. 

Accepting aging is more than just going along with the physical deterioration without nipping, tucking, hair-dyeing or suiciding. It's about resisting cultural pressures to hang onto youth when we could be embracing the fact that elders have insights, wisdom, and historical understanding impossible for people decades younger. Oh the things we've seen!

We also have a continuing capacity to relish life and face challenges with strength and resolve because we've learned how. 

It's OK to get older. Way better than not getting older. At least that's what I think now at age 74.

I love this poem by Janyne Relaford Brown.

 I Am Becoming the Woman I've Wanted

“I am becoming the woman I’ve wanted, grey at the temples, soft body, delighted, cracked up by life, with a laugh that’s known bitter but, past it, got better, knows she’s a survivor – that whatever comes, she can outlast it. I am becoming a deep weathered basket.

” I am becoming the woman I’ve longed for,  the motherly lover with arms strong and tender, the growing up daughter who blushes surprises. I am becoming full moons and sunrises.

“I find her becoming, this woman I’ve wanted, who knows she’ll encompass, who knows she’s sufficient, knows where she is going and travels with passion. Who remembers she’s precious but knows she’s not scarce – who knows she is plenty, plenty to share.”

Getting by with Less is Good for the Spirit

A clotted sky above the Sea of Cortez, January 2019. Free to all for as long as it lasts.

PK and I are currently road-tripping on the Baja Peninsula, about halfway through a couple-months excursion in our cushy camper van. 

Shortly before we left our Southern Oregon home in mid-December 2018, I ran across a column I wrote in April 1985 when I was a 40-year-old reporter/photographer/columnist at the Grants Pass(OR), Daily Courier. 

In 1985 PK and I lived in a house built for us four years earlier. It was still very new to us, although we'd occupied a beat-up mobile home on the same property for eight years prior.

In April 1985 we had one child, Quinn, who was 7, with another about-to-be conceived, a son, Chris, who arrived in June 1986.

Our adult children long ago fledged and we have grown old, still living in the same home. 

And now, after all those years of working and raising kids and caring for an elderly parent, we are free to travel the world. Which we do. 

My 1985 column is about how we traveled before we had jobs, kids, or a care in the world. 

Unlike the photo-loaded blog posts I usually publish, this one has just one image. During the trip described below, I did not bring a camera; I couldn't afford film or developing. I had no money. Paul and I had known one another for just a couple months. 


From the 1985 column 

I live in a nice house. It's new and pretty and has lots of oak and tile and thick carpets. It has a washer and dryer and dishwasher and a color TV. Sometimes I sit in the reclining chair in the living room and admire my house.

But other times I sit in the same chair, eyes closed, and drift back 12 years to when we lived in a three-sided thatched hut on a beach on Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula.

We weren't there long, but the time was memorable both for what we had and what we didn't.

We rented our little stretch of perfect white sand beach for pennies a day. One morning I relaxed in my hammock tied between two palm trees and watched a long thick green serpent slither through our camp. I didn't care. It could live there too.

Iguanas sunned on rocks in front of our three-sided hut while the turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped at their thorny claws. A coral reef was not far out and we snorkeled to it, observing the brilliant corals and tropical fishes.

Sometimes we'd get lucky and spear the tropical equivalent of lobsters and have ourselves a feast. Other times we'd eat the dried beans and lentils and canned meats we'd stocked up on.

Paul fashioned an oven out of an old peanut butter tin, and we burned dried coconut shells for heat. We made simple biscuits, cakes, and cookies.

We had no refrigeration, and except for the bottled water we bought at a not-too-distant village, we had no fresh water. We washed our clothes, our dishes, and ourselves in the turquoise sea.

Once a week or so we'd travel a couple miles to a cenote, where an underground stream surfaced from the limestone catacombs beneath the Yucatan peninsula. I remember the sweet fresh fragrance of the crystalline emerald water as we swam. Tiny silver fish flickering in the sunlight 20 feet below seemed unperturbed by our splashing.

Swimming in that small but unfathomable hidden jungle pool was a deep pleasure I will surely never forget.

Once our old 4WD Toyota Landcruiser got buried to the hubs in the sand. I'm sorry to say we pulled down a palm tree when we attached a winch to it trying to get out. There was no AAA, or anyone else, to come to our rescue.

We made do. We learned the truth of Thoreau's observation: A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can do without.

And a woman, too, I might add.

No TV, no radio, no phone, (oh joy!) no newspapers, limited fresh water, limited diet, no washer, dryer, trash masher, vacuum cleaner, refrigerator, carpets, or air conditioner.

We got as much pleasure from solving our survival problems as we did from the natural beauty of our surroundings.

These days we recapture some of that simplicity when we go backpacking or rafting. We gladly leave our conveniences behind and make do for as many days as we can get away with what we can carry.

We need to reaffirm, somehow, that we can rely on ourselves and each other without all the luxuries and trappings of society.

Things are different for people born into poverty. They have no choice, no luxury of slipping back and forth between a world rich with material goods and an impoverished one where their children die of preventable diseases and malnutrition. Or endless wars.

But with our great wealth comes the choice. It isn't an easy choice.

Choosing to live with less, learning to simplify, certainly isn't the American dream.

A simpler less materialistic way of life would wreak havoc on the gross national product because our capitalistic society depends on us to be busy little consumers. 

Choosing to live with less would throw a wrench into the speeding reckless wheels of commerce.

What it might do for the human spirit, however, is another matter.


Postscript January 2019

OK. My younger self is talking to me, reminding me that I don't need anything.

Although this very day, in Mexico, I bought a pair of earrings and a colorful woven top. 

Clearly, I'm not ready to forgo everything superfluous to survival. 

But I intend to reexamine my relationship with Amazon Prime, which makes it way too easy to surrender to consumerism—and with all the energy-using shipping and waste-producing packaging. 

I'm so sick of styrofoam padding and air-filled plastic bags. Isn't everyone?

About 15 years ago I lived an entire year without buying anything new except for food and underwear. 

It's still January. I will make a NY resolution. 

I will buy nothing new until a year from today. 

I'll let you know how it goes January 15, 2020.

However, new landscapes and experiences will not be prohibited on the long road ahead. 

Marfa, Texas - A lesson in road-trip planning

Marfa, Texas, surprised us with a big ole dust storm and widespread fame.

We arrived in Marfa on our 10th day away from Oregon, having driven 240 miles that day from Las Cruces, NM. That doesn't seem like a lot of miles, but we'd had a rough morning hunting for yard art in Mesilla, NM. Fun! And then grocery shopping at Wal Mart for the next five days of van cooking. Definitely not fun, the shopping or the cooking.

Then, halfway to Marfa on Interstate 90, I discovered that we were within striking distance, with a half-day detour, to the McDonald Observatory. TripAdvisor confirmed it as a five-star attraction, and reports we heard later from travelers who'd managed more informed planning, said it was fantastic. I'd somehow missed it.

We had a timeframe that commanded obedience. And on we went. 

Next time.

We let go of the planning crisis as our son, Chris, called and we pulled off the road for a 30-minute conversation. He was about to embark on a 700-mile kayaking expedition into the Amazon basin. His  expedition ended with high drama that resulted later in the FBI showing up at our Oregon home. 

It's good to be clueless about some things in advance. When he's out of country, we're always grateful to hear from him. It makes trip-planning snafus meaningless. As it should.

I knew nada about Marfa, which turned out to be a Mecca for lovers of minimalist art. I include our illustrious RV park in that category. Minimalist. 

Our RV park. It even had tumbleweeds that rolled around during the wind storm.

With a population of just 2,000 Marfa is a national, if not international, art center. As such, it draws all kinds of quirkiness and plenty of star power. It even has an NPR station serving a "wide range." (We still listen to the Marfa station when programing on our local Jefferson Public Radio fails us, which isn't often.) 

Had we known that Marfa was a celebrity art town, perhaps we would have known to stop on Interstate 90 not far from city limits to gawk at the Prada installation. 

Oblivious, we bombed right past this roadside oddity in the West Texas desert, which is a minimalist art installation. Photo from the Internet.

Lesson, and note to self

If you book a camp or hotel in advance, at least take a look online to see what's there, even if there's practically no hope of anything fun or interesting, as was my mistaken opinion regarding Marfa.  A couple minutes on TripAdvisor would have had us hurrying to catch more daylight hours there, and perhaps built in a day to visit the McDonald Observatory.

Marfa revealed itself in stages during the late afternoon hours as we explored its wide tidy streets, slunk around a luxury art-and-fancy-guest-filled hotel, and strolled past closed art galleries and shops.

We were there fewer than 24 hours, but wish we'd had time to explore the art and other intriguing stuff. As it was, we were bombing along the highway by 7 a..m. the next morning to reach Big Bend National Park early enough to score a campsite, either in the  backcountry or  a campground.

Handmade stone church compares well with Marfa's water tower. 

What's the hurry? 

Why didn't we just chill and spend another day? Sadly, we'd violated a road-tripping rule by tying ourselves to a schedule anchored in reservations at a non refundbale Austin Airbnb and a date-specific commitment to friends in East Texas. (Later we were thankful for hurrying to East Texas for a most unusual and fun house concert/party and other great stuff with our hosts.)

Next road trip? If immutable plans must be made, such as for a music festival or wedding, at least build in unplanned days on either end just in case another McDonald Observatory or Marfa-type thing springs up.  

We're road -tripping. We're retired. We can hang a little bit looser. 

Earlier posts about Spring Road trip 2017

Arizona, a zone of its own

Joshua Tree National Park  

Start it UP! - SW Road Trip Spring 2017

The day the FBI came calling

Chris Korbulic shot this self portrait along the Apaporis River in the Columbian Amazon in April this year. The five-person expedition planned to paddle 700 miles, but something unexpected interrupted their plans. 

Hardly a week goes by without someone asking about our son, Chris, 30, who's sort of a local celebrity with tales of his kayaking adventures often making their way online and into newspapers, magazines, films, and, occasionally, TV.

It hasn't been uncommon for photos such as this, documenting Chris enjoying waterfall moments around the world to show up on media. This was in Brazil.

So I wasn't surprised in a hardware store in Grants Pass, OR, when a man behind me at check-out inquired, "What's your son up to these days?"

A store employee swung around and joined the conversation. "Yeah," she said. "Where's Chris?

I thought I'd have some fun with them.

"Oh, he's fine," I said.

"The FBI was at our house for three hours last week alerting us that he and four other kayakers had been held hostage by guerrillas on a river in the Amazon jungle. But no worries. They were released after a few days, and he's back in the USA."

I told the tale as if being held hostage by guerrillas in the jungle was no big deal, happens all the time.

Astonished looks all around.

"Sheesh!" blurted the clerk. "I'm sure glad he's not my son! How can you sleep at night?"

How many times have PK and I heard that?

I got a charge out of the stunned reactions. Now everyone within earshot was leaning in.

It was easy to be glib and milk the moment, but the actual day that the FBI showed up at our house, and the ensuing 24 hours—that was a different story.

For us it began Friday, April 21, 2017.  (For Chris and the expedition team, it began April 18 when they first encountered their captors.)

 I 'd left the house for a bike ride and saw PK talking in our driveway with two men in suits and a nattily dressed woman. I pegged them as purveyors of the Watchtower and prepared to bolt, head down, eyes averted.

"It's the FBI," Paul mouthed as I approached with my bike.
They'd already shown their IDs to PK and stated their purpose, but I was clueless.

The FBI? Is something going on in the neighborhood? I thought.  It did not occur to me that their visit had to do with Chris .

We'd received a text message from Chris within the past few days, or had it been a FB post?  Or was it four days ago? On Instagram? I lose track.

Whatever. His expedition team of five traveled with their best friend, a Garmin InReach satellite device, which enables them to send texts anywhere from anywhere. Hence, they're able to placate parents and other people who care with frequent communications.  Almost daily communicating created a sense of security. False, it turns out.

One of few rapids on a 700-mile expedition, unlike previous expeditions that have been rife with roaring falls, canyons, and cataracts.

In addition, through InReach, a friend in California was updating the team's location though the Amazon wilderness. The map link was available online to anyone interested. We'd seen it  but weren't checking every day, so we were unaware that InReach reports had stopped

Just stopped. The screen had gone blank. Big trouble.

Well, isn't that the perfect definition of "ignorance is bliss"? We would have been emotional wrecks, had we been paying attention. But after enduring 10 years of our son doing seemingly impossible feats and taking unacceptable (to us) risks, we've become calloused to his living on the edge.

He's strong, smart, humble, skilled, and somehow happily enmeshed in a culture that puts him amongst an elite group of modern-day explorers and adventurers. He continues to amaze and delight us as we live his adventures vicariously.

Not a photo a mom can enjoy. Chris on the first

descent of Toketee Falls on Oregon's North

Umpqua River in 2011.

I removed my bike helmet and PK and I and three FBI agents took seats in our living room. PK and I exchanged glances. What the hell's going on?

"It's about your son, Chris," said the lead agent, who introduced himself as a hostage negotiator.

Hostage negotiator?

The other male agent was an FBI special investigator, the woman was a victim specialist.

Victim specialist!

PK and I exchanged glances, and I know we're in the same boat, so to speak, of shock and disbelief. This can't be happening!

The reason for the FBI's visit unfolded.

Out of what the lead guy described as an "abundance of caution," we were told that Chris and his expedition team in Colombia's Amazon Basin appeared to have been detained by FARC, a rebel guerrilla group. FARC had been mostly disarmed in 2016, after 50+ years of conflict. But holdouts exist.

Some of the FARC holdouts were apparently holding hostage all five members of the expedition.

Team members Ben Stookesberry, Jessie Rice, Aniol Serrasoles, Jules Domine, and Chris Korbulic. Ben was allowed to take the photo above, the only one during their captivity. Actually, on that very day, April 21, perhaps around the same time we were hanging on every word uttered by the FBI agents, the armed group was telling the detainees that they would be released the next morning. Although the FARC rebels confiscated cameras, electronic devices and memory cards, camera lenses were returned and the rebels did not take thousands of dollars from their captives. Chris managed to hide five memory cards, losing only the one that remained in his camera.

The seven FARC members, led by a woman, didn't realize that Ben managed to hold onto an InReach device and had been surreptitiously communicating with a contact in Columbia and another in California.  Chris also had a GPS unit that was signaling the group's location.

Chris told us the only time he was afraid, and planning  an escape into the jungle with his GPS, was the night before they were to be released. He was in his hammock when Colombian military planes began flying over the encampment. The FARC went ballistic.

"They were running around, yelling, asking where is the GPS? Who has it?" Chris had hidden one on his body. The planes left. Things calmed down. The next morning, the team was released and paddled four miles downstream to catch a bush plane to a tiny airport in a tiny town. There, much to their amazement, they were met by representatives of the Colombian military and the FBI.

The greeting party was but a small contingent of the agents and agencies in Columbia and the USA interested in the case.

A brief account of the hostage situation is here:  Outside Online -  How 5 kayakers were taken hostage in the Amazon. It's a series of photos with longish captions outlining the basics of what happened.  The photos, all but one by Chris, provide a sense of the ethereal Amazon. A more in-depth print article about the episode is in the works by the Men's Journal.

I don't want to repeat what you can read on Outside Online, but PK and I  have some thoughts about the US government's response.

We are grateful. 

We were impressed that three FBI agents came to our home, and others to the families of two other US citizens on the expedition. Chris' girlfriend, then in Hawaii, was also contacted by an FBI agent who offered assistance.

We learned that when US citizens are held against their will in foreign lands, it's a no-holds-barred commitment to get them out safely. 

What I've described was a small part of what was going on. The agents informed us that representatives of various US government agencies cooperate in hostage situations involving US citizens.  The agents didn't mention the  FBI-led Hostage Rescue Team, but I looked it up and understood that had the kayaking team been held for ransom, or even detained for a longer time, their captors could have been subject to measures similar to what Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT ) teams do. Drop in, rescue hostages, take no prisoners.

Impressive. Check it out here.

What was the FBI's purpose in visiting us?

Learn about Chris 
They asked multiple  questions about Chris, most designed to determine how he might handle being held hostage.  Does he have medical issues? What kind of person is he? How does he handle stress? How might he react to being pressured?(tortured or threatened)

Admiring parents as we are, we described Chris as a "real nice guy." Humble, quiet, thoughtful, sensitive, intelligent, strong, and centered. Because of what he does for a living, we know that he's able to focus on the moment, shut out negative thoughts and maintain a calm center. We think he'd avoid stupid moves or emotional or angry displays.


Educate us about how to respond to ransom demands

A large part of the visit had to do with "proof of life, requiring the captors, should they call us, to provide evidence that our son was still alive. 

And on it went, all the way through the mechanics of "how to get you your money,"to responding to threats that the hostage will be harmed or killed. I was beginning to disconnect.

It was surreal. Absolutely unbelievable. If this was really happening, our lives could be changing forever, right here, right now.

The hostage negotiator said that if we got a ransom call, he would be moving into our house. As it was, he left us with a recording device should we receive a ransom call. If we were contacted by a captor, we were instructed to call the hostage negotiator any time, night or day.

We didn't have to. Thank you, Universe.

Instead, we learned the next day that the team had been released and flown by a US military plane based in Columbia to Bogota, site of the US Embassy. All were debriefed by FBI and Columbia officials, lodged in a hotel, provided meals and offered air transportation to anywhere they wanted to go. The US citizens were asked to stay three days to satisfy intelligence needs.

The Extreme Kayaking Athlete Moms' Club

One more thing. Chris K. and expedition leader Ben Stookesberry have been frequent kayaking partners for going on 10 years, covering thousands of miles around the world and sharing both magnificent and horrendous experiences. The worst, of course, was in the Democratic Republic of Congo in 2010 when a monster crocodile rose out of the Lukuga River and snatched from his kayak their good friend and trip leader, Hendri Coatzee.

Hendri's death was international news and a deep personal tragedy to Ben and Chris. Both had been within feet of the crocodile attack and were profoundly affected. Ben created an award-winning film, Kadoma, about Hendri and their expedition and tragedy, still available on iTunes.

 The 40-minute film is gut wrenching and beautiful at the same time. Hendri Coatzee was an extraordinary human being and a gifted writer. He wrote a book that was edited and published following his demise,  Living the Best Day Ever. 

PK and I were in Costa Rica when this tragedy occurred. We were pursued by media, and so was Ben's mom, Bette Campbell. During this blurred tragic time, we began communicating with Bette.

Chris and Ben were being held by the dysfunctional Congolese government. It was making us crazy. That lasted about a week before they were flown out by the United Nations.

Bette and I kept talking. And later, for a few wonderful but heart-wrenching days, we were with Hendri Coatzee’s mom, Marie Nieman, when Ben’s film debuted at the Telluride Mountain Film Festival in 2011.

Bette and I talked again on April 22 this year after we were assured that our sons were safe.

Bette told me about her interview with the FBI agents, and how she described to them her remarkable son, Ben.

"He's humble," she said. "He's generous. I'm proud of him being who he chooses to be. He couldn't handle being stuck in an office, making do with what's expected. I'm glad he is who he is."

Right on, Bette. Me too. I couldn't be more proud to be Chris' mom, and as for Chris' father, PK,  he can barely contain his enthusiasm for telling Chris stories to whatever man, woman, child or dog will listen.

We know that if  Chris wasn't doing what his soul requires, we'd worry about him being depressed and downtrodden. He's fortunate to be able to pursue his passion and have the skills, courage and inner strength to do it.

Started young. Won't quit until he must. Despite
how much he sometimes scares us, gotta love him.
But please, no more FBI visits. 

Plus we could stand a bit less of this type of action.

Galapagos2

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I can't resist one more Galapagos post. During our eight days touring the islands from a small yacht, the entirety of which now seems like a hallucination, I clicked off about 1,000 photos. Probably more. What to do with the over exposure?

Blue footed booby preening. It's "booby" singular, "boobies" plural, I recently learned.

Blue footed booby fishing

I know. It's a photographer's sickness —shutter-click syndrome. I have a severe case. Despite knowing better, we must record beauty, odd stuff, moments of truth, or whatever is in camera range that grabs us.

It doesn't take much.

During the Galapagos trip, I hurt my camera-holding arm when opening a heavy cabin door  on the yacht. A blast of wind caught the door and yanked it and my arm back, resulting in a tear/injury that persists. The door was not hurt.

But the photography had to go on. I adapted by snugging my arm to my chest and moving the camera or iPhone, robot-like, with my upper body.

You do what you gotta do to produce an excessive number of images, which you must later organize and edit, deleting at least half. Someone else may enjoy a fraction of what remains. Hope you do.

Note: Underwater shots (3) were taken by a young Swiss photographer who, unlike me, is a skilled snorkeler. He dives rather just swimming and swooning on the surface like I do. Maybe in my next life I'll learn to scuba dive.

The Devil's Crown formation, once a volcano, is now a sunken crater teeming with sea life, including a couple of warring sea lions who tumbled off an outcropping into the water close to where PK was snorkeling. PK gained a few more gray hairs. Despite its ominous appearance on a blustery day, the "crown" provided  the best day of snorkeling for the week. 

The grey tones of a cloudy day at Devil's Crown didn't diminish the brilliance of what we saw below. Here a pin cushion starfish.

The chocolate chip lemon cookie starfish? Nope, just the chocolate chip star. 
Not the scientific name.

Pacific green sea turtles were all over the place, and while snorkeling, they were sometimes above, below and beside us, all at the same time.

I love Palo Verde trees. They look dead but in December were forming buds. They are a major incense source. Sweet on the eyes and the nose. 

A few more images......

A land iguana with a jaded eye. They don't seem to enjoy life as much as the marine iguanas. There's a lot to be said for the mood-boosting effects of waterfront property. 

So many rays!

Somehow I never tired of the iguanas. This one looks like a tough old man.

Sunbathing teenagers. Maybe the most endearing thing about iguanas is that they're unabashed sun worshippers. And they smile.

The sea lions aren't far behind, if at all, in sun adoration. Also, smiling.

A fierce-looking whimbrel.

Galapagos penguins. 

The Galapagos penguin is endemic to the Galápagos Islands.
 It is the only penguin to live on the equator in a tropical environment.

Sea lion enjoying the best of both worlds.

Not all the fun was on or near water. We did a lot of hiking over lava flows and
formations. This is the Sierra Vulcan Negra, the largest crater on the islands. 

One of numerous craters we saw as the boat traveled.

 

Evidence of a recent lava flow.

PK and me after a hike to check out Sierra Negra's huge crater on Isabella Island, the largest of the Galapagos group, both island and crater.

A sweet little Galapagos Islands map.

Sweet little mama and baby moment.

Earlier posts about Ecuador travels 2016

Galapagos Islands - No place like it   - Lots of photos

Amazon Adventure - Kapawi Ecolodge  - All about tramping around in the rainforest, gaining insights into Achuar culture, and seeing how various rainforest plants are used for just about everything from housing construction to medicine to spiritual enlightenment.

Off to a shaky start at Kapawi Ecolodge   But it was all good, even the fishtailing bush plane and the drink made from manioc and spit.

Wild in the Amazon - photos and some amateur anthropology