After Banff and Jasper - Canada has more!

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We stopped for lunch in the delightful little burg of Kaslo, British Columbia, which we never would have discovered without recommendations from a native Canuck. (see below). We lunched, overlooking Kootenay Lake, on baked chicken with arugula and a tart-sweet sauce on chewy sourdough bread. It wasn't just the town, or the great lunch, of course, but getting there that gave us generous helpings of Canadian backroad treats.I regretted leaving.

It's hard to beat Canada's two most spectacular western national parks, Banff and Jasper. But PK and I discovered that they can be at least rivaled as we made our way through British Columbia back to the USA.

We're lucky to have a Canuck buddy who clued us in about out-of-the-way places as well as popular attractions. Everybody knows that advice from a like-minded and well informed "local" is way better than shucking through a guidebook and agonizing over a thousand choices. (We did consult a guidebook, Lonely Planet's Banff, Jasper and Glacier National Parks, and found it useful during our time in the parks.)

Our friend Gordy Longhurst has lived in Oregon for decades and is a US citizen, but still thinks of himself as Canadian, which is preferable, in his view, to being American. He's a rabid hockey fan and former player and is also keen on skiing, so his enduring love for his native country is easy to understand. After hitting some of the high spots, so to speak, of the mountains and meadows of his youth, I know why he loves Canada.

That's Gordy on the right, living it up at Oregon's Mt. Bachelor, one

 of his favorite stateside ski spots.

Our return trip actually started in the town of Jasper, which bills itself as "the wonderful and formidable." Egads. Imagine the rumpus that must have erupted amongst that small town's population when formidable became part of the town's tagline. Tourism marketing gone wrong? We turned around in "formidable" Jasper and returned to Lake Louise, driving back over the Icefields Parkway rather than the longer route Gordy recommended, to reach another small town, Revelstoke, where we spent the night.

PK traced the route out of Lake Louise back to the US as he and Gordy conferred during pre-trip planning. The redline tracing to the north was part of the recommended route but involved a couple extra days that we didn't have. 

Gordy said we had to see Takakkaw Falls, so we turned north off the Trans-Canada Hwy for a short but steep climb passing the roiling convergence of two glacier-fed mountain rivers, the Kicking Horse and Yoho.

This is a seriously steep road to the falls with a couple of switchbacks that require many vehicles to back up and reposition to make it around the bend. Trailers and big RVs not recommended!

          Takakkaw Falls tumbles 836 feet, not counting the  top section. It is Canada's

          second highest waterfall. The walk to its plunge pool was a paved stroll through

          a fragrant pine forest. 

Not too far down the Trans-Canada Hwy we ducked off the freeway again to see the natural bridges of the Kicking Horse River, a Canadian Heritage River. When I say "freeway" don't think of LA or Seattle or I-5 through Oregon. The Trans-Canada Hwy between Calgary and where we exited at Revelstoke offered stunning surprises one after another. As I mentioned in an earlier post about Canadian travel, we enjoyed a continuous peak-studded panorama for days on end.

This road cut  on the Trans-Canada Hwy isn't mentioned in the guidebooks, but it is impressive.

Gordy talked up Revelestoke, British Columbia, and we made a point to stay overnight. (At the Regent Hotel, very good.) But it was a Monday and pre-season (school was still in session) so that downtown wasn't quite buzzing yet. The area is gorgeous and is a year-round outdoor playground. Looked like great skiing, biking, rafting, hiking and so on. 

Photo of Revelstoke courtesy of the Internet's screenshot technology.

Our one-night stay offered just one indelible memory—the Colombia River flowing through town, so young and muscular, fresh off the Colombia Icefields. We crossed the Historic Revelstoke Bridge, the old-fashioned kind of bridge where you can see the rushing river through the grating.  

The next morning we were off on our last couple of days in BC, roaming amidst so many lakes and rivers, mountains and valleys, we couldn't keep them straight.

We took the free Shelton Bay ferry to Galena Bay, then east via 31A to Kaslo. That's our Four Wheel Camper on the right and two identical rental RVs to the left. Canadian roads were glutted with rental RVs. Highway 31A was one of our favorite backroads ever. Narrow, winding, hilly, and practically deserted, amidst lush scenery with lots of lakes and streams and numerous small groups of cyclists on road bikes. We took notes to plan a return trip, thinking a bike route could be cobbled together with 31A and various rails to trails routes. Maybe someday. After lunch in Kaslo, where I wish we could have spent the rest of the day and night, we continued to Nelson along Hwy. 31 and our thoughts of a longer road bike trip in that area were dashed. The scenery was fantastic but the bike-unfriendly narrow busy highway was not conducive to cycling dreams. 

This welcome sign pretty well shows the recreational richness of this area, which is well worth another visit. It's a great area not quite up the national park standards, but perfect for backroad sightseeing and opportunities to see what life is like in rural British Columbia. If we go again, we'll do so before school lets out in early summer or after it resumes in September. Our final Canadian camp was at a provincial park on Christina Lake. The camp host told us  that all sites were reserved starting the next day, when school let out, until the second week in September, when it resumes.

Earlier posts about Road Trip 2015

Banff and Jasper

Road Notes, first couple days across the Great Plains of Canada

Theodore Roosevelt National Park and Changing Times in North Dakota

Getting Along on the road, and Yellowstone Park

Riding the Trail of the Couer d' Alenes

Road tripping in the Four-Wheel Camper

Uganda - Best Travel Day Ever

Our "best travel day ever" in Uganda was our last touring day in that country. It was also when we saw Nile crocodiles for the first time. They are fearsome, huge, powerful and deadly. Ironically and tragically, a croc was behind what brought us to Africa. See the "back story" at the end of this post. 

It has been nine months since PK and I returned from Africa where our socks were blown off so many times we had to swathe our feet  in bandages and drink strong potions. Just kidding. But seriously, three of our way-too-few days in Uganda (only 12 days!) stand out for over-the-top-all-time travel greatness. They were days studded with surprises that kept us breathless.

What does it take to inspire breathlessness in a couple of almost-geezers, aside from hiking a steep slope, dancing to Talking Heads,  or having sex in a VW bug?  Quite a lot, actually, but Uganda's wildlife and natural wonders delivered. (The sex in a VW bug is ha ha, of course. Check out an earlier post. My prediction was correct! That post continues to attract deviants (!), and, I'm sure, has left them crestfallen in the titillation department. Hint. The post is not about sex.) Don't even look.

But onward. Of the three best-ever days, one emerged as the most-best because it started full-tilt before first light and didn't end until way after the last shafts of a spectacular sunset disappeared from the Nile near the Murchison River Lodge. The two other contenders for "best ever" days were when we scrambled through a rain forest  Gorilla Tracking, and when we experienced Bush Camping in Murchison Falls National Park.

Here's a quick rundown of one day in October 2013, ruled by excitement, surprise, wonder, and awe. We were in or near Uganda's Murchison Falls National Park. 

 EARLY MORNING CHIMPS 

5:30 a.m. We meet  guide Pete Meredith (a wonder himself) for a quick breakfast, then squeeze into his Land Rover and roar down another rutted red road, this time to the Budongo Forest for chimp tracking.
8 a.m.   Chimp tracking was so fun and exciting. Highlights: running through the tangled jungle behind our guide in pursuit of chimps, both in the canopy and on the ground. Stopped dead in our tracks by chimp choruses. Exhilaration. (Full post of chimp tracking here.)

COFFEE BREAK WITH CAPE BUFFALO 

10:30 a.m.  Skitter along the red dirt, rolling up windows to ward off tsetse flies, en route to Murchison Falls. This cape buffalo grazed just a few feet off  the road with his buddies. Yawn. Just the usual massive African wildlife. A herd.

LUNCH AT MURCHISON FALLS 

Noon: Murchison is the most bad ass of falls. It roars, plummets and boils for 141 feet, compressing the mighty Nile River into a 23-feet wide gorge. Great place to eat a sandwich! 

 PK is just a few feet from the top. Note the safety sign painted on rock behind him. Stop! Other spray-painted signs say Slippery! Do not cross!

 Murchsion Falls is an awesome spectacle as it thunders, booms, and vibrates the earth. 

PK puzzles at the sight of an old bridge piling surrounded by slippery rock and surging water. We know supposedly intelligent people (Chris Korbulic, Leyla Ahmet, Pete Meredith) who ignored the signs and stood atop the slick piling for photo ops. They lived. Somehow. The wet rock is super slick.

A 30-foot boil surges up the gorge walls before cascading another 100 feet.

We had the place to ourselves except for a couple of British soldiers returning home after training forces in Mogadishu, Somalia. We enjoyed their stories and insight into what it's like to serve in the world's most dangerous city. A guide, arranged by Kara Blackmore, ushered us down the river to board a tour boat. (More about Kara below.)

3 p.m.  Ho hum, we thought. A boat ride  with a bunch of tourists. Big deal! What could we possibly see that we haven't already? We figured we'd kick back and watch the green banks drift past as we enjoyed a Nile Special (beer) and digested the excitement of chimp tracking and seeing Murchison Falls. But no. 

     BEERS WITH CROCODILES 

3:30 p.m. Crocs cooling off below Murchison Falls. Seeing crocs was creepy and transfixing in equal measure. Some in this toothy gang were 15 to 20 feet long.  At least 25 were gathered on a spit of land or cruising the river nearby. No one swims in this part of the Nile, by the way.

Nor do they collect water without a makeshift croc barrier. Even then, the river devils sometimes manage to get around the barrier and snatch people. or whatever warm-blooded hapless creature is in snatching range. 

                     MATINEE

            AFRICAN BEE EATERS 

4 p.m. Just a short sweep downriver, the boat veered toward a sandstone cliff. The closer we got, what appeared as dark spots from the middle of the Nile came alive with primary colors. At least 100 vivid birds perched, flitted and flashed for our viewing pleasure. Where's the popcorn?

I was able to capture close-up images while on my back on the deck, hands shaking and eyes tearing. I don't know. Sometimes beautiful things make me weep. 

                DRAMATIC DUSK

5:30 p.m.  As we caught our breath after the sensory overload set off by the bee eaters, we were stunned by the clotted sky and the gathering dusk. In the meantime we had left the tourist boat and boarded a skiff suitable for four passengers for the approximately 15 minutes it took to get to Murchison River Lodge, where we were staying. With the driver, five were in the boat. Crocs and hippos were in the river, which is wide and still and musky. On the opposite bank, the pilot spotted an elephant. Ho hum. An elephant, and he roared right over to the grassy bank where the behemoth was feeding.

 ELEPHANT!

5:40 p.m.  Our little boat bobbled close, but the elephant paid us no mind, except to move away. What a thrill to be so near we could hear him rustle and almost feel his movements. So beautiful. And like most of the day's wonders, unexpected. 

6 p.m.  We return, exhausted but jubilant, to Murchison River Lodge in time to rinse off the day's dirt and have dinner before falling into bed. But wait! There's more!

         KARA HAS OTHER PLANS

6:30 p.m. Kara Blackmore, our personal Cambridge-educated cultural anthropologist, cultural consultant, Uganda expert and minute-to-minute itinerary planner, clears the view so we can get the full impact of the coming sunset. No rest yet on our best-ever travel day. And about 50 sunset photos later....finally......

 THE END

This will be my last post about Uganda. Much gratitude to the late and great Hendri Coetzee, whose brilliant  memoir,  Living the Best Day Ever, along with our son's travels with Hendri in Africa, inspired our trip.

Hendri perished, as you may know if you've followed this blog, in December 2010 when, on an Eddie Bauer-sponsored expedition he was leading, a giant crocodile exploded out of the still waters of the Lukuga river in the Democratic Republic of Congo and took Hendri in an instant. Our son, Chris, was just a few feet away in his kayak. PK and I met Hendri's family in 2011 at the Telluride Mountainfilm Festival, where Kadoma, a film about the expedition, premiered. They invited us to visit them in Africa. Two years later, we did.

Thanks also to Kara Blackmore, who planned our 12-day itinerary in Uganda and spent several days with us, and Leyla Ahmet Meredith and Pete Meredith, owners/operators of TIA Adventures, Inc. The Merediths are highly recommended if you ever want to go on safari or experience a teeth-clenching Nile River adventure. Or, if practicing yoga with a glittery slip of a woman with a beautiful spirit is up your alley, you can do that, too.

Hendri's memoir, Living the Best Day Ever, was published in 2013. It's a great read. (You can buy it here.) Hendri tells in fascinating, sometimes jolting, detail about his myriad adventures, plumbs his unique philosophy, and in between, explores the nature of the hours, days, weeks, and months between peak experiences and how to make every day the best day ever no matter what. 

PK and I read the book before our trip (we got it prepublication  as I did light editing of the manuscript at the bequest of the book's real editor, Kara Blackmore. ) The book helped to inspire us to visit Africa, Uganda in particular. We were determined that, while there, we would go with the flow. Good idea, because the flow swept us from one trans formative experience to another. Our African days truly were our best days ever.
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If you've made it this far.......OTHER POSTS ABOUT AFRICA

My personal favorite 

Traveler, not Tourist

Gorilla tracking 

Chimp tracking

Rafting the Nile

Bush Camping

Murchison Falls National Park Wildlife

Sorry, Mom. I'm headed for Africa

Old friends..... like bookends

Here were are with some of our "old" friends after a spring Rogue River trip in 2008 (PK and me on the far right). Some of us are getting grey around the gills, long of tooth, and short on synapse. I'm not naming names, except for me. Our kids are grown and gone, many of us are grandparents, and we're advancing reluctantly into the next stage.

Do you remember this great Simon and Garfunkel song?

Old friends, old friends sat on their parkbench like bookends A newspaper blowin' through the grass, Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends . . .[ Ls from: http://www.l Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a parkbench quietly?  How terribly strange to be seventy. Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears

When I first heard that song (and wept) I was just 20-something living in St. Paul, Minnesota, and my best friend was Marcy. I imagined the two of us as crones in voile dresses with wispy hair staring down the specter of 70. And here we are, lookin' at it.  Marcy lives not far away, although I rarely see her, but I remember and value the intensity of our youthful alliance. I dare say that neither one of us considers ourselves "old." Marcy has developed an incredibly creative life and business, and I can't imagine that she's obsessing about old age. Or is she?

When you enter into a friendship, you never know where it will lead or how long it will last. PK and I have lived for nearly four decades in the same spot (except for 4 years when we  defected to a nearby town to spare our youngest kid the local high school.) Anyway, we've been rooted in rural Southern Oregon since 1973. We didn't mean to stay, and were, in fact, planning an adventure to South America, but baby Quinn! came along, then jobs and entanglements, then baby Chris! and lo, 38 years passed. Thirty-eight years.

When you're young, you have no idea how this can happen, and probably don't believe it will. But it does, in an appalling flash, and the days and months and years form a dark distant cloud to which you have limited access. You look into the mirror, into your photo archives, and the faces of your adult children and say, What?! 

Except, of course, if you have had the same friends for nearly 40 years, and maybe even a few going back to high school, and you can sit around like old-timers and rehash the shared memories of when you were young, your kids were small, or maybe before you had them, or when you did this or that river trip or camping excursion, or when you shared meals and games and adventures that helped to shape the kids into who they are today. And also you into who you are today—we're all still works in progress.

Our now-adult children are amazing, of course. Even kids who have struggled share rich common experiences that helped to lift them into adulthood. I recognize that PK and I and our two sons have been incredibly fortunate to have long-term family friendships and live on the edge of so much accessible wilderness and a piece of land that has fed and sustained us through many seasons.

But there's more to old friendships than reveling in those great times. There's the going forward together, whether we want to or not, and honoring in one another the inevitability of gray hair and wrinkles and, dare I say it? physical decline and maybe even cognitive lapses.
 Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears.
There's the continued joy in sharing with one another our adult children's lives and the sweetness of grandchildren, as well as the maturation of our friendships. Same goes for our childless friends. We're all sharing now the transition from middle age to seniorhood, and for me, frankly,  it sucks.
I'm adjusting to this inevitability with my old friends. We're all in various stages of denial and acceptance, and riding our bikes, walking our butts, and doing yoga like crazy. We'll stave this off, right?!

I never thought I'd be here, climbing the hill to 70. Or is that descending the hill? Of course it is descending. I need to stop kidding myself. At age 66, I have lived more than half of my life.

Spending quality time now with my almost-96-year-old mother reveals how it is to be really old. All her "old' friends have died, or have been left behind as she's moved from independent to assisted living over three states during the past decade. Her dearest friend, my father Floyd, died in 2006 at age 93. She has no deep ties to anyone but family, but she has new friends, a handful of wonderful people who do what they can to enhance their own lives and hers. New friends are good!

But there's no replacing old ones. For at least 20 years, PK and I, along with some others, have kicked around the idea of establishing the Purple Sage retirement home, where we could live commune-style, take charge of our aging selves, and kick some butt. Despite lively conversations, we have yet to make a move. It's too complex, and besides, we're not there yet. It seems unlikely the Purple Haze will ever happen. For now, my friends, let's stay connected, hold hands into the future, and ski our withering flanks off this winter.

Forty-nine days on the road together? Not so bad. Really.

We recently returned to our rural Oregon home after a seven-week 10,000-mile cross-continental road trip (and back) in a class B - that means small - Roadtrek van. Holy moly! 10,000 miles! Just the two of us! (In the serious RV world, our trip is puny. Lots of Class B RV people practically live in their vans, along with their dogs, cats, and significant others. And they do so for months!)

A selfie taken near Yellowstone National Park in October 2008, our first road trip after PK's retirement.

Lots of folks express envy about our adventures, but, at the same time, others are horrified, incredulous, appalled, repulsed, terrified, or nauseated at the prospect of spending that much time in close quarters with their mates.

Here's a representative comment, uttered (sputtered?) by a dear friend in a long-term loving marriage. (A woman. Men don't confide in me like this.)

She said:  I can't imagine spending that much time with "his name." I'd go crazy! How the hell do you do it?

My friend is in a niche demographic of much-appreciated people who read my blog, which includes retired boomers who travel, or who would like to. People who love to cook, garden, and who relish life. People I've known forever. People I love. People I don't know but would like to. People, who in one way or another, have something in common with me, and also with each other.  

Most of us have been married for decades and have weathered all kinds of storms. We've survived raising kids, or deciding not to have them. We've had disappointments along with successes, and health issues that scared us.

We've rolled over at 5 a.m. to negotiate whose turn it is to take the dog outside, argued in the grocery store about whether to buy the organic chicken or the tofu, and evaluated and re evaluated our relationships, in the end, deciding to stick together.

It makes sense, after all the years of grind and grit, growth and giving, love and lust, struggle and survival, that we should cash in as we arrive at the golden time of life. And it really is golden.

Topped by gray hair and oddly outfitted with saggy necks, we're now holding hands as we navigate aging, a most challenging journey that requires a rugged 4WD and trip insurance, currently not available.

Could there be a more perfect time to extract ourselves from our comfort zones to embark on really really long and exotic road trips!?

Well, maybe not everybody is ready, but we are. PK and I have determined to log as many miles and experiences as possible before we're forced to acknowledge that we're inexorably approaching the glowering edge of the flaming pit of death.

I know, "flaming pit of death" sounds bad. It is bad!

I thought I saw the glowering edge a year ago when I was diagnosed with melanoma. Talk about sounding bad! All is well now, despite the fact that "invasive" and "metastatic" were part of my initial diagnosis.

Here's someplace I didn't want to travel. A radiology lab in a regional hospital watching glowing radioactive stuff light up my lymph nodes to guide a surgeon who was to carve me up a few hours later. Welcome to the Cancer Club 

The month-long drama of thinking we might be in for a life and death struggle jump-started us, invigorating the travel bug.
See Back from Cancer's Brink - 10 Lessons Learned

A week after the results of my surgeries came back benign, we bought a 2010 Roadtrek, and a week later we were chasing the super bloom in Death Valley.

Life is grand as we enjoy freedom, health and vitality. PK is only 67, while I am 71. I used to worry about our age difference. Now it doesn't bother me, except on paper, where it seems he has the youth advantage, but in real life, we're very much on the same page.

Not exactly a typical camp spot, we're at a very special place on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia.

Well, we're not always on the same page, which brings me to how we tolerate endless days together without a break. It's true that we bicker. We sneer. We roll our eyes, suppress emotions, lash out and so on. On our 49-day road trip

we squabbled a few times, mostly about whether we should follow our plans or our hearts when unexpected opportunities arose. Our heads were not always aligned. Outcomes were about 50/50. We have not filed for divorce.

We had rainy days. In New Brunswick we hiked in raincoats after spending a long morning listening to the deluge pound the van's roof and deliberating, in a friendly way, about whether we should leave a day early. We'd paid for two nights. We stayed. It was OK.

Rainy day hike, Fundy National Park, New Brunswick. Red chairs placed in random spots in parks across the nation are courtesy of the Canadian National Parks.  We love Canadian parks!

When van-bound by weather or darkness, I read and/or write and always have photos to work with. PK has maps to study, books to read, and music.

Every now and then, we stream Spotify on a cell phone that blasts over our robust sound system, burning up cell data as we enjoy a bit of a dance party.

On the road, PK prefers to drive. I fill in when he needs a rest.

I cook. He cleans up. Just like at home. Division of labor is understood and pretty much undisputed.

On long travel days, such as during the tail-end of our recent trip when we were booking it to get home, we listen to books on CD, or music, or public radio stations, and time and miles. Sometimes we even have a conversation!

Mostly we've adjusted, after nearly 40 years, to the comfort of one another's company. I believe we appreciate one another more with every passing year - and mile.

Spending extended together time in a small space is offset by moving through space and time, landscapes and cities, most of which we've not seen before and which are always of interest and beautiful in their own ways. Even the low-key locales, not destinations but places we must traverse to get where we want to be. Kansas? North Dakota? Eastern Montana? Ohio? Missouri? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. All good!

Ohio! In the middle of the afternoon! An iPhone photo through the windshield.

A sorghum crop slashing across a Kansas landscape. This day featured 40 mph sustained sideways wind with gusts to 50 mph. Fun! We drove about 500 miles, as we were on our homeward push.

In Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota. 

Oh yeah! North Dakota is walleye country!

Most often we camp in pleasing spots where we can spill out and set up our little table, unleash our bikes, or lace up the hiking boots and tramp around incredible places, only to return to camp, uncork a bottle and relax in our REI camp chairs. 

Real, but blurry, life in the van. One-pot dinner on the propane burner. PK prepping for the next morning, and for putting the bed together. After all our years of tent and river camping, our Roadtrek is extreme luxury. When one of us is working in our limited space, the other is outside or viewing van life from a swivel chair in front. 

Active retirement is a privileged state.  We've enjoyed an occasional music-centric cruise, and are booked for a trip to the Galapagos Islands and Ecuador later this month, making up for having to cancel the same trip last year due to melanoma. But soon after our return, we'll be driving the Roadtrek south to the Baja Peninsula and the beautiful bay at Loreto, where seabirds, dolphins, and blue whales rule.

Few people have a home on the road and also a sticks and bricks home to which they can return. We're fortunate, and we never take it for granted. I've wanted to live this life for most of adulthood, during all those years working and raising kids, and now I'm incredibly grateful that we've made it happen. 

I can't complain about squeezing into a small van and traveling the plains and deserts, mountains and seashores, cities and villages in close-quarters in the company of the man I've spent the past 40 years with building this wandering life.

Photos from the early 1970s in the first year of our relationship, the ONLY photos of us until we had a child in 1977. The red and white Landcruiser was our first RV (!). PK removed the backseats and made a platform bed with storage underneath. A plywood box on top made additional storage. 

Photo credit: Pat Teel

Earlier posts about Road Trip 2016

Meat Cove, New Breton Highlands, Nova Scotia

Kouchibouguac National Park, New Brunswick, travel moment lasting an entire day

Cemetery near RV park offers contrast, contemplation


Rain and a nasty encounter in wonderful old Quebec City

Meeting a time traveler on the road

Buy Hendri Coetzee's Memoir, Please

Dear Readers - I'm asking you to consider purchasing a memoir written by Hendri Coetzee, Living the Best Day Ever. No one asked me to promote the book and I have nothing to gain other than the satisfaction of sharing insight into a young man whose impact on my son, and the ripple effects through our family, have been significant. Also, it's a good read! A bonus is that this first hardcover collectors' edition is being produced in the spirit and style of a classic explorer book, complete with Hendri's hand-drawn maps. The book includes five photos by Chris Korbulic.

Hendri Coetzee, 2010 shortly before his death.  Photo by Chris Korbulic.

Do you remember Hendri Coetzee? I sure do. I became acutely aware of him late in 2010 when our son Chris Korbulic and his kayaking partner Ben Stookesberry launched into what was planned as a three-month circumnavigation of rivers that connect Africa's West Rift Valley. Their expedition was to end when they arrived at the Congo River. Hendri was their guide.

Who the heck is he? I asked Ben, who had searched-out Hendri online and made the long-distance arrangements. Is he legit?

Ben said, in as many words, This guy is great. And indeed he was. Hendri was a modern-day explorer,  extreme kayaker, and adventurer. I later learned he was also a thinker, philosopher, comedian, and one helluva writer.

The trip would take them down the gnarly hippo and crocodile-infested Nile River in Uganda, across Lake Victoria, into the Ruzizi River and then the Lukuga River. Ahh, yes. The Lukuga, which I bet anybody who's reading this had never heard of before this expedition.

By this trio's ridiculous standards the Lukuga was tame. Most of Hendi's exploits were far sketchier, and Chris and Ben travel the world chasing waterfalls and unexplored rivers. The Lukuga was an unlikely place for any of them to die.

Hendri was taken by a crocodile on that river. Chris was just a few feet away and saw the split-second attack. Why didn't the croc take Chris? Or Ben? They will never know but will forever question: Why did I live? Why did Hendri die?

Just the previous evening, sitting cross-legged in a rainstorm while Chris and Ben huddled beneath a tarp, Hendri laughed and joked, bringing light to what could have been a miserable situation. Despite the downpour, their meagre dinner of a shared candy bar and a bit of dried fish, he was having the time of his life— another Best Day Ever. The next day he was gone.

 What could be more ironic than dying when you feel most alive?      From Living the Best Day Ever 

His memoir brings to life many of his incredible adventures, and he tells the stories with delicious detail, impressive descriptive power, humor and self deprecation. In most cases, he's aware that death is at his side, a subject he mentions time and again.

He wrote in one of numerous foreshadowings:

The lack of happy old people in my environment is a good indicator that this is an unsustainable lifestyle. Either I find something better, or I die on the river. Either way I have nothing to worry about. The worst possible scenario is that I don't let go when the time comes, that I live out my life by an empty well, depressed and chained to a dead passion."  From Living the Best Day Ever

I was asked to give the manuscript a quick edit. (It had been edited already and would undergo a more thorough treatment before publication.)

It was sent to me from Uganda via the Internet. I printed all 296 single-spaced PDF pages, sharpened my pencil and went to work. (The boxed manuscript traveled back to Africa with Chris a couple weeks later.)

Fascination and awe grew as Hendri's life unfolded. My eyes flew over the words, stopping now and again to correct a comma, substitute a word choice, or eliminate excess. I laughed out loud, (Yes LOL!! as they say on Facebook) teared up, shouted at Hendri, talked with him quietly, and marveled that a young man bent on apparent self destruction was also sensitive, compassionate, thoughtful, self deprecating, courageous, outrageous, damn smart and funny!

With his muscular physique and history of daring adventures, you might think he was macho in the worst sense. Not at all. In fact, he was full of self doubt, always questioning, always thinking—and always writing. He began his  Great White Explorer blog to chronicle what would be his final expedition. He was 35. His blog posts are part of the book.

Note: If you check out the blog, you'll find a piece written in August 2013 by his good friend Leyla Ahmet. Her piece is worth reading. To see Hendri's 11 posts, scroll down on the right to 2010 archives.

When our Chris is deep into an adventure, we are always hungry (desperate!) for news. When Hendri's blog came to light, I was thrilled to learn expedition details, terrifying as they often were. I was also amazed by his writing. He generated a flurry of words that he obviously didn't have time to labor over, let alone go through the torture of revising/rewriting. He was a natural. He wrote out of excitement and the need to tell his stories. As I worked through the manuscript, I was taken with his respect for African people, who somehow manage moments of joy in the midst of great poverty and pain. A couple of my favorite quotes:

 White people are not tough enough to be black. 

The Heart of Darkness is a label that will hang over the Congo for a long time. The cliché is turned on its head when you find out it is your own heart that leans in that direction. 

His ability to create a sense of place in the here-and-now and also in historical context is remarkable. I developed a desire to GO THERE and I am! (PK and I are soon headed to South Africa and Uganda.)

Fear,  disillusionment, death, good, evil, leadership, self-doubt, haves and have-nots, joy in the moment, guilt, implications of being white—all are themes that are woven throughout the book. All this is mixed with the adventure stories that wouldn't be unbelievable  if they were in a novel. Who would believe, for example, that cannibals are still operating deep in the Congo and that Hendri nearly succumbed to a group of them?

Extreme kayakers will relish the wave-by-hole accounts of class five and six rapids, and the trials of expedition leadership as well as unsupported solo explorations. The rest of us will enjoy those parts, but will be taken as well  by his insights and original thinking.

Why do I care? Because I care about the people who put their hearts and resources into getting it into print, and I care about Hendri, although I never met him. And I care about my son, Chris, who could have been crushed between a crocodile's jaws but wasn’t.

Chris escaped death, and because he loved and admired Hendri, he thought about conducting his life in a more conscious way that Hendri had demonstrated, specifically about accepting the troughs that occur between peak experiences, and learning to accept and even welcome the “flat water.” He wrote about Hendri’s  “best day ever” state of mind in a piece in Canoe and Kayak magazine.

Hendri's philosophy demands embracing the moment, whatever it brings.

Do I always do this? No. But I do think about it, and I do try. And I believe I have been elevated in some situations that otherwise would have been terribly dull or uncomfortable. Hendri’s memoir made me realize the role individuals can play in creating their own realities. 

He caused me to think and wonder. What more could one ask from a book? Or from a person, dead or alive?

 For how-to-pre-order info, keep reading. 

North Cascades National Park with guilt, bone spurs, and a bad hip

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When I think about our three camping trips to Washington's North Cascades over four decades, spectacular peaks come to mind. And also rushing turquoise rivers, glaciers hanging on for dear life, old growth forests, profuse wildflowers in mountain meadows, and campgrounds draped in the lush foliage of the mountainous Pacific Northwest. I also remember guilt. And pain.

2014 Guilt Trip. With turquoise river. Thunder Creek Trail.

Unwelcome "peaks" in my foot are bone spurs, which I recently had removed. They'd plagued me

for years and finally got bad enough that I chose surgery over letting them take charge of my mobility. They're the reason that I wore Birkenstocks almost exclusively as described in an earlier post, Beloved Birkenstocks Bite the Dust. I've worn sandals year round for dancing, biking, and, yes, hiking mountain trails. Plus ordinary everyday life. It has not been ideal. I'm hobbling around now in an orthopedic post-surgery "shoe" hoping and praying the surgery works for the long haul. Bone spurs have been known to grow back. Mine recurred with a vengeance after an earlier surgery.

The mountains are little changed since we first visited in 1978. The Cascades is a youngish range, only 200 million years old. Eons and ages will likely pass before it starts going downhill, so to speak. The peaks won't be so pointy in a zillion years after wind and water, quakes, shakes  and glaciers have their relentless way. This is a stretch, but in 1978 we were sorta like the North Cascades—we'd been around for awhile but were still youngish, vigorous, pointy, and, well, pretty. We fit right in.

Diablo Lake is a reservoir and a major feature in the North Cascade's alpine landscape.

Family history as measured by North Cascades National Park visits

August 1978 - Poor Young Family Trip

PK and I fired up our orange and white Volkswagen pop-top van and, with our one-year-old baby boy, Quinn, headed to the North Cascades to camp and hike before veering west to visit my Grandmother Dorothea, now long gone, but who then lived in Everett, Washington.

Those were the days.  So young! I was 32 and PK, like now, was 4.5 years younger. I know. Thirty-two does not seem young. I didn't think 32 was young until I was that age and glorying in every new day. Now any time between 30 and 45 seems a wonderful age. Not that I don't like being 70, and that I don't relish life, but there is a lot less to look forward to. And there are bone spurs. And other things.

It rained. No problem! We erected the portable playpen we'd squeezed into the van, and set the kid out there in the drizzle to gurgle and coo. We have some old-fashioned photos in which little Quinn is delighted in his enclosure and kept warm by a hand-knitted blue and white cap. In another photo PK poses on a steep trail with Quinn in a funky baby backpack that would  certainly not meet the standards of finicky modern-day parents. Remember. This was 1978, long before child safety restraints were required in vehicles and child backpacks became wonders of safety and convenience. Not that we could have afforded one if they existed.

In those days we lived paycheck to paycheck, made do in a tin-can trailer where, for a time,  you could see the ground  between the metal siding and flooring. I discovered Diet for a Small Planet, which offered a sane and frugal way to eat. We  consumed countless meals based on combining beans and rice into complete proteins. I sometimes had to return cans and bottles to buy food or gas. We had trouble keeping the lights on, but we somehow smiled a lot. We had love and a beautiful baby, if not a lot of groceries.

The North Cascades are part of a young mountain range whose peaks are still pointy and whose glaciers, while diminished , continue to gouge and scour.

Then, all of a sudden, it was 1989. Hooray! We'd survived the leanest years. PK ascended the ladder at his job, and continued to do so until his retirement in 2007.
I progressed from unemployment to teaching English to newspaper journalism. I still reported and made photos for the Grant Pass Daily Courier in 1986, when, shockingly, we had another baby! I was 41. This was appalling, even to me.

 But at the same time, I felt a stirring about this child, prompted in part by a vivid dream. In the dream, before I knew I was pregnant, a magnificent but fearsome tiger was stalking around the house, trying to get in. I was curious but afraid. I awoke with a start and couldn't get back to sleep, thinking about the tiger dream.

Quinn and Chris Korbulic, June 1986

A week or so later, I bought the drugstore pregnancy test, and there it was— a little red circle closing around my future. When baby Christopher turned three, I quit the newspaper and substitute taught while developing  a writing and editing business. This turned out to be a great decision, and I enjoyed more mothering time and greater income  while serving numerous wonderful clients until I retired fully in 2013.
During our lean child-rearing years, our family recreation centered not too far from home, the Rogue River and the many beautiful outdoor opportunities afforded by Southern Oregon.
It took us a few decades to return to the North Cascades, one of the West's most beautiful and dramatic parks.

Flash! What was that!? Life blazing past like a freaking comet

August 2014 - The Guilt Trip

Fast forward. A lot forward, to August 2014. PK and I, empty-nesters for years, retired, and solidly in the elder demographic, traveled to the North Cascades for the second time. Quinn was, and is, a grown man with a quirky little family and a doctorate degree. Son Chris travels the world as a professional kayaker with various accolades including being recognized as one of the World's Most Adventurous Men. (A tiger!) My mother, LaVone, was then 98.5 and lived a mile away. I was her touchstone and only family member close by. I was the light in her increasingly dim world. Thus guilt cast a pallor on my emotional landscape.

One of numerous glaciers in the North Cascades, this one viewed from The Cascade Pass trail in 2014.  Our hike was only 3.7 miles one way, but 3 miles with 31 switchbacks was a bit daunting for one just shy of 70 whose foot harbored peaks that look something like the mountains.  Along the way we saw marmots, butterflies, wildflowers, glaciers, and a handful of hikers. The air was hazy from the 2014 wildfires in Washington. The fires are even worse this year, and a few days ago, the North Cascades Park was closed due to fires and smoke..

It gets worse. When we left for the North Cascades and to visit relatives in Bellingham, my mom was in hospice. I didn't understand exactly why. She was 98, but I somehow believed she would live to 100 because there was nothing wrong with her. She did not have cancer, heart disease, kidney failure, Alzheimer's, COPD, pneumonia or any of the other afflictions that kill so many elderly. Her innards were just fine. Her doctor shook his head in disbelief at her great labs.

The Cascade Pass trail with sandals, bone spurs, and guilt 2014.

However. She did have disabilities. She could barely see or hear and was unable to walk without assistance. She needed help with every physical task. Her muscles had turned to mush. Hospice provided an extra level of attention and care, for which I was grateful. But I secretly doubted she was near death.

What does my mother have to do with a vacation to the North Cascades?

Everything. This is complicated, as are all situations that force people to decide between what they want to do and what think they should do. I struggled whether to stay close to mom or go with my mate, PK, to revisit the North Cascades. I wanted desperately to go.

Seven years earlier, PK had retired the very month that we traveled to Minnesota to relocate my then lively 93-year-old mom to Oregon. Since then, many a trip had been deferred or shortened because I felt I needed to be nearby. To his credit, he went to Spain without me. Also to his credit, he never failed me.

And so, despite the fact that my mother was in what turned out to be her final decline, PK and headed to the North Cascades. This was just over a year ago. We spent a few glorious days that included a seriously steep and beautiful hike. I only thought about my mother every other minute.

PK hiking the Cascade Pass trail in 2014, before his hip went straight to hell.

Awesome views in every direction along the Cascades Pass Trail.

So fun to see butterflies near tree line.

Columbine along the trail.

June 2015 - Bad Hip and Bone Spurs Trip

My mother passed away September 7, 2014, about two weeks after our return from the Guilt Trip. I was able to spend time with her and assuage my misgivings about having been absent for a time before her end arrived.

In late May this year, we headed out for a month-long road trip that included a family reunion in Minnesota and a return trip via Canada to the North Cascades. We were fortunate to be there in June, long before fires closed roads, obscured views, and recently, closed the park. Our journey across the USA to Minnesota and back West via Canada and the Canadian Rockies was great. Only a couple little things....PK's hip was giving him major grief and my bone spur was testing my endurance. It's not that we can't handle a little discomfort. But.....the things we're accustomed to doing, like hiking five or six miles on mountain trails, well, that wasn't going to happen. And it didn't.

View from our bad hip and bone spurs hike in the North Cascades.

We managed several short walks, and even a couple hikes that included a four-mile round trip in the North Cascades on a clear, cool and beautiful morning, a gift from the universe.

Now I am gimping around with an awkward orthopedic shoe hoping that this procedure will leave me without  peaks in my foot and pain in my step
 PK? He's  awaiting a surgery date for a hip replacement. People are always saying,  Do what you can while you're still able. Yes, do it.

There's no more identifying with the North Cascades for us. They're as young and beautiful and thrilling  as ever. We're not. Plus we're going downhill fast. No more guilt, as my mom was released from her decaying physical body a year ago. (Not that guilt can't be called into play for a number of other reasons, and I wasn't even brought up Catholic.)
Resignation has now entered the aging vocabulary. Maybe reality is a better word? If I live as long as my mom did, and I'm not sure I want to, I hope to get  another crack at the North Cascades' hundreds of miles of hiking trails.
And  also trails into other parts of a full life that are without physical landscapes.

Gotta get to it because, as we know, no matter now long you live, life is short.

Earlier posts about 2015 road trips

After Banff and Jasper, Canada has More

Banff and Jasper


Road Notes, first couple days across the Great Plains of Canada

Theodore Roosevelt National Park and Changing Times in North Dakota

Getting Along on the road, and Yellowstone Park

Riding the Trail of the Couer d' Alenes

Road tripping in the Four-Wheel Camper