Headed for Africa! Sorry, Mom

This is a screenshot from TIA Adventures website. TIA means This Is Africa. PK and I are going on a safari with this company that includes a night or two "bush" camping. Will we hear the lions roar? Maybe. Will we be nervous? Probably. But as the homepage of TIA's website quotes Helen Keller,
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

The countdown is on. Well, actually, it has BEEN on for a couple years. But now that the tickets are purchased, the itinerary is established and our (PK's and my) dream trip to Africa is imminent, we're watching the clock, obsessing about packing, and scurrying to corral the garden into jars and the freezer without killing ourselves or each other. That's the two of us.

Me? I'm also skirting the edges of guilt about leaving my mother.

She's  a healthy 97 and lives in assisted living one mile away. She keeps forgetting that I'm leaving. I have told her at least 50 times. Our initial plan was to travel last February. She asked how long before I would leave.  I told her it was eight months. She said—and I'm not making this up—Oh, that's OK. I'll be dead by then.

As if it wouldn't be OK if she wasn't dead?

Today, when I told her for the umpteenth time about our imminent departure, she expressed horror that I was going to Africa, because, Aren't there a lot of black people? What about the lions and tigers?Don't stick your leg outside the bed or something will chew on you!! How long will you be gone?

Twenty-five days, I told her. She grimaced. Grimaced.
Oh, well, when you get back and I'm not here, you'll know where you can find me, she said. The cemetery!

I laughed. Because it is laughable. And what else could I do?
Not go?

My mother never understood the part of me that wanted to GO. Never, although going has been a mostly unfulfilled part of me, she cannot relate. But really, does she need to? Is it odd, and also pathetic, that as a person nearing age 70, I am worrying about what my mother thinks?

I didn't worry about that for most of my life. But now is different. It isn't so much what she thinks, but what she feels. I know that I'm important in relieving the boredom of her long days in assisted living. I also know she's well cared for, safe, and, for at least part of each day, entertained.

I've spent many hours struggling with this dilemma, which has, of course, another side.

That would be the side of my understanding husband of going on 40 years, PK, who is hot to travel the world. He retired in 2008, the year we brought my mom to Oregon from Minnesota. He's raring to go and he'll go without me. He has. I don't like it, but I understand. I don't hold it against him.

I think I'm near the end of working through this, balancing my needs against my mother's, my husband's needs against my torn allegiance.

I have to go with him. While we're both still healthy. While we have the resources. I've explained repeatedly to my mother (who I expect to live to 100 and beyond)that I love her and admire her spirit more than ever, but that my primary relationship is with PK.

Next week PK and I are headed for South Africa and then on to Uganda. Twenty-five days total. Hardly a blip in a lifetime, especially if you're about to turn 98. Or even if you're edging uncomfortably close to 70. I can't wait to experience the places and meet the wonderful people in a world that our son Chris has opened to us. His friends and admirers will be "catching us" on a new-to-us exotic continent.

Before we know it, we'll be back home to "ordinary life" but, no doubt, itching for the next adventure, even if it's just driving the Four Wheel Camper south during the winter rains. Mom, you will have to get used to this.

I'll think about my mother every day, and send messages for her caregivers to relay about my adventures. I can't imagine that, given a sound mind, she would deny me.

NOTE: My wonderful daughter-in-law, a long-term care ombudsman, assures me my dilemma is not at all uncommon. As longevity increases and many people are living well into their 90s, their children, also aging, are caught between what they want and what their parent wants or expects. It isn't easy.

P.S. I won't be posting blogs from Africa, but I bought a New Camera! and a Moleskine notebook in which to jot notes, and I am excited to share 

images and words about a world so distant from my own.

Gorilla Tracking. Who Would Have Thought?

I recently spent, with PK, 26 days away from Ordinary Life, mostly in Uganda or South Africa. Of those, three rate as among my best days ever. I will attempt to describe them in this and coming posts, plus offer more glimpses into life beyond how it's usually experienced in rural Oregon, or the USA in general. First off...Gorilla Tracking!

This is a 350-400 pound silverback gorilla photographed from perhaps 7 meters, or 21 feet) with my new and already beloved Panasonic Lumix camera with its nifty 24-300 zoom. Looking this magnificent creature in the eye (he couldn't see my eye behind the camera, and we were told to avoid eye contact) was a highlight, competing with several other stellar moments from this vacation, or as they would say in Africa, this holiday. 

Slipping and sliding on a steep tropical mountainside searching for gorillas never occurred to me as even a remote possibility until a few months back when "gorilla tracking" was offered as an option by our volunteer itinerary planner, anthropologist, cultural/historical consultant, and all around brilliant person, Kara Blackmore. Did we get lucky, or what? Not just for seeing gorillas really really close, but in having a learned person such as Kara planning our trip and spending several narrative-packed days with us. We said Hell Yes! to gorillas, and Kara paid the $500 per person permit fee on our behalf. (A portion of that fee goes to the surrounding impoverished communities for education and healthcare, and to encourage habitat preservation.)

Looking in the direction of the Biwindi Impenetrable National Park from the Silverback Lodge, where we stayed, some 52 kilometers (32+ miles) from where tracking began. We got up at 4:30 a.m. to drive THREE HOURS on what PK describes as a Class 5 FWD road to arrive on time for the gorilla tracking briefing. 

During the briefing, our guide gave us the lowdown: If gorillas are found, we have one hour with them. Flash photography, eating, and drinking are no-nos. Unless a gorilla approaches us, we are to stay about 23 feet away. If anybody has cold or flu symptoms, they can't come into gorilla territory. Boots are recommended, but trousers tucked into long socks will also ward off safari ants that climb beneath pant legs and chomp. Gloves are recommended to protect against stinging nettles and other jungle things designed to tear flesh, produce welts, or otherwise ruin your day. Walking sticks are provided, but taken away once gorillas are spotted. The sticks could be construed as threatening by gorillas. Navigating without walking sticks, however, could be construed as threatening to trekkers. 

Our guide roughs a map into the dirt. The Biwindi Impenetrable 

Forest is in the far southwestern corner of Uganda bordered by Rwanda 

with the Democratic Republic of Congo close by. This general area is the only 

habitat for the endangered mountain gorillas of Dian Fossey fame. 

About 400 live in the Biwindi Impenetrable (don't you love that word?) Forest.

Ok. Where's the path?

I was thrilled and surprised to actually swing on a jungle vine!
Lucky I was wearing my Life is Good hat. Our trek was short compared to many I've heard described. If you decide to go, be sure you're physically prepared. The terrain is demanding.  

Here's one of the NINE Ugandans who accompanied us. In addition to the main guide and two men carrying AK 47s in case of a charge by a rogue gorilla, were a couple more with machetes to chop a path through the indeed "impenetrable" forest. Also at our bidding were porters who carried our packs for $10 per person. This is a lot of money in a country where the average wage is around $1 a day. A young Irish couple were the only other tourists that day. They reported that one of their parents tracked gorillas recently and hiked for nine hours! I can't recall if they found gorillas (sightings are not guaranteed) but one of the two had to be carried by porters and rangers in some of the steeper sections on the return trek. At around 6,000 feet elevation, the rain forest mountainsides are steep and slick. Real gorilla tracking was going on, but it was not by us. Four trackers were ahead of us in the forest radioing our guide regarding the gorillas' whereabouts. The gorilla group we came upon reportedly had 23 members. I saw only the handful I photographed, but PK sighted at least 10. Lucky for us, we had only slipped and slid for about a half hour into the forest before we stopped to enjoy our one unforgettable hour with mountain gorillas.

Expressions of delight and awe play on our faces as gorillas move around us. 

We were only a half hour into the trip when we spied this guy.
Seeing him so close took my breath away. 

This fellow, a young male, made a noisy and spirited charge in our direction, but backed off quickly,
as young males of many species are known to do.

A baby gorilla, mama nearby, cavorts. 

A ranger with a machete and a Bob Marley backpack helps clear the way with his machete.
Gorilla tracking provides much-needed jobs for villagers.
Porters rotate, sharing the wealth of $10 to $20 a day, 

For most trackers, it's all about photography, and the guides go out of their
 way to clear visual lines to the gorillas. 

PK having the time of his life. It was magical indeed.

Next up: Bush camping and game sightings in Uganda's Murchison Falls National Park with TIA (This is Africa) Adventures. 

Middle Fork of the Salmon - River of No Return

It's been almost a year since one of my best-ever family and friends river trips. Why did I tarry so long to tell the tale?

Looking upstream from one of our camps on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. 

Truth. I am a slow and deliberate writer and easily distracted. Also, I've been busy, occupied with extensive travels and interests. If I don't die first, I have a few dozen posts in the works.

More to the point, I couldn't figure out how to describe this trip without dissolving into maternal pride and boasting. Warning: there will be maternal pride and boasting. 

I'll just get to it, finally, ...No more lame excuses.

About this time in 2018, PK and I along with six dear friends were feverishly prepping for a week-long adventure down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, AKA River of No Return, in Idaho's Frank Church Wilderness.

We launched on July 12, 2018, with the masses.
 It was a tense scene with commercial and private groups vying for position to descend the steep log slide to the river.


Ferron Mayfield, in his elfin persona, blew bubbles as tempers roiled at the put-in. He soon joined the work crews.

Having our son Chris join the trip at the VERY LAST MINUTE — like a half hour before we put on the river — was a momentous surprise. Without him, PK and I might still be stuck on rocks. And in my opinion, Chris' river and wilderness expertise and humble, gentle spirit enriched the experience for all. 

As a camp activity, Chris studied the Indonesian language and the cannibal activity and other oddities in Papua New Guinea. A few days following our trip he launched into a kayaking expedition on a wild Papua river. Along the way, he and his companions were "held" for four days by still primitive human beings. He has yet to tell the whole story.

THE MFS RIVER 

The Middle Fork of the Salmon is rated the best wilderness whitewater river trip in the West. If not in the entire USA. Maybe the world. The Universe?  It deserves superlatives.

It's a permit-only experience. Would-be floaters apply for limited permits in January and in February learn whether they won the lottery. PK and I have NEVER gotten a permit, but have been involved in several trips because we own a raft, camping gear, and possess rowing expertise. That would be Paul. With me in back-up position. Plus we are kinda fun people. And nice.

Twenty or so boats are ready to roll on down the river at the Boundary Creek put-in. Most are commercial outfitters. We will add our four private rafts and a kayak to the mix. 


The river's crystalline water, natural hot springs, dramatic gorges, sandy beach camps, and pristine cutthroat trout habitat combine to create a slam-bam-for-the-whole-damn-fam wilderness experience. The river is part of the 2.3 million-acre Frank Church Wilderness area.

Except for the Boundary Creek put-in and a few historic ranches downstream, the river corridor is without electronic connectivity or roads. Hallelujah! 

The river descends 3000 feet in elevation through 100 miles of Class III-IV rapids and stunning scenery. It starts small - like a creek - through the alpine forest then gathers speed and power from tributaries before ripping through a rugged high desert to merge with the Main Salmon River. 

On Idaho's Middle Fork of the Salmon, July 2018. Chris Korbulic, Mary Korbulic, Paul Korbulic, Gail Frank, Jenna Stanke, Jerry Marmon (behind Jenna). Front, Sue Orris, John Jessup, Ferron Mayfield, Curry the Worried Dog.

Chris Korbulic, photo credit

THE RIVER EXPERIENCE

Our group gathers to position one of our rafts for its launch down the steep log-slide to the river. Most of the weight is in the back.

Did I say steep? The camera angle distorts it,

but not by much. That's Ferron on the oars,
helping another group launch.

These boaters were with another private group.
The river level was on the edge of being too
shallow for rafts. Rocks are sticking out all
over the place, and dodging them with a fully
loaded boat requires skill and luck.

Paul is an experienced whitewater rafter; this was his eighth time rowing the MFS, but luck was not with him. Like others in our group, we got stuck a few times. I took this photo from the front of our raft as Chris plunged over the slippery uneven river bottom to pull us free.


Jenna and Jerry Marmon, on their first trip down the MFS, encountered exposed rock as we did. Chris is waiting on river right, but intervention was not required.


Downriver, John Jessup rows and Gail Frank assists. Their roles reversed from time to time. 


Ferron Mayfield and Sue Orris along with worried Curry enjoy rapid after rapid mile after mile.

Our first camp was idyllic. They all were. Campsites are reserved at the put-in with trip leaders negotiating for favorites sites. Reserved camping eases the pressure of getting down the river to score an extra special spot. 

In a later camp, Ferron Mayfield, a whitewater rafter for decades, relaxes with Curry, the worried dog. Curry is concerned about Ferron, I think. 

Our hot spring camp the first night. Ahhhh! It's the Sheepeater Hotspring and is about a five-minute walk from camp. Paul Korbulic, John Jessup and Chris Korbulic.

Back at camp, Gail Frank, a fantastic cook who planned the menu for the entire trip, grills planked salmon over charcoal. Every single night was gourmet. We took turns cooking, and everyone pitched in on cleanup. As usual. 

Had we launched a few days later, we may have

been forced to put in here, avoiding the by-

then impassable shallow rocky section we'd just scraped through. This launch area requires
flying in on bush planes. Expensive and scary!

             Every camp was ideal, but I favored this one.

Paul enjoyed the fishing, catching about a dozen cutthroats 
on dry flies during the trip.

Gail worked hard and caught a nice fish. Catch and release, of course. 

Cooking partners Jenna and Gail exult over a
sumptuous Dutch oven lasagne.

Sue Orris basks in Sunflower hot spring overlooking the river. However, the four or five pools above the river are scorching. We all ended up in the "shower" at river level. Sunflower is the most popular of numerous hot springs along the river.

Chris Korbulic  (AKA Charles Atlas) is in heaven with Sunflower hot springs massaging his shoulders. Ahhhh. We all had our turns. 

That's me in my unfashionable outfit reacting to HOT.

      Ferron and Paul enjoying a philosophical moment.

Casual relaxed interludes such as this rank high in defining private wilderness river trips. 

Mornings are usually early with lots of coffee and a hearty breakfast. Packing and reloading rafts become the routine.

There she goes again! Beans, rice, and chicken

with all the Mexican condiments to accompany.

Gail is amazing. Want to hire her for a trip? Sorry, 

she's busy building for Habitat for Humanity.

Perhaps you can tell that river trips, for me, are not as much about whitewater thrills as they are about the wilderness itself. After the put-in cluster, we saw few people but lots of wilderness wonders - and hours of in-the-water relaxing. 

Jenna and Jerry prep their raft for another day on the river. 

Accustomed to sleeping on rocks and rough surfaces, Chris snoozes on a log. Sleeping like a log came to mind.


Another hot spring, this one named Loon Creek for the snow-melt creek that runs alongside it. Where's Chris?
He's in the frigid snow-melt creek, more interested in cold therapy than hot. Curry is a fool for anybody who might toss water into his mouth. Life is strange. I kinda get it about the dog. But icy water with a natural hot spring nearby? No.


Later we stopped at one of the historic ranches, that now has a nifty convenience store with ice, beer, sunscreen, tee shirts, and toothbrushes. One of the horses along the trail appeared to be dining on tasty bird tidbits.


Chris relieved Paul at the oars when river action was quiet. 

A mule train carries supplies through our lunch stop en route to a historic ranch/lodge, a throwback to the days of yore. Wilderness transports visitors to a different time. The absence of Internet connectivity alone makes some fidget and yearn, and others move toward grateful acceptance of a semblance of what life might have been like 100 years ago.

Jenna relaxes after another day of thrilling rapids. We have only one more day on the river, which by this time has warmed for comfortable swimming. 

Sue and Ferron enjoy yet another tender moment.

Our final camp. Nobody is quite ready for the trip to end. 

Close to where the Middle Fork of the Salmon
merges with the Main Salmon, Paul checks his
watch. It is beer time? No. Because the gnarliest 
rapid of the trip is coming right up on the Main 
Salmon about a mile before takeout.

John Jessup flirts with a big flip hole while Gail
contemplates her last will and testament.

Jenna makes it look ho-hum. In a few minutes, we'll be scrambling to take out just as we struggled to put in.


It's sad how the mood changes when you're in a big rush and other boaters are awaiting their turns. Then we're in our vehicles transitioning back home, to jobs, and for us lucky ones, on to further travels.  

The river experience recedes, but the glow lingers as we. prepare for the next chapter of the summer of 2018.

No one is traveling to a more exotic (or dangerous) place than Chris, and maybe no one appreciated this trip as much as he did. Although we all loved our time together.

Upon his return from Papua New Guinea, Chris posted this photo of Paul and me on Instagram and warmed our loving grateful hearts.

Posts about other river trips, including one about when I gave them up.