Ushuaia, Patagonian peat moss, and a polar plunge

PK and I traveled through Chile and Argentina from December 18, 2017, to January 18, 2018,  first on a ship and then on a road trip. Most of the time we were with our son, Chris, and his partner, Chelsea. This is the second in a series of posts about sharing adventures with smart, intrepid, super-fit millennials on a mission to show us a great time. This post is about New Year's day when the assignment was hiking to a mountain lake via peat bogs and beaver dams. Polar plunge, optional.

PK and I at Laguna Esmeralda in the southern Andes Mountains near Ushuaia, Argentina, on the Tierra del Fuego Archipelago in Patagonia, which encompasses the southern reaches of Chile and Argentina. We never dreamed we'd be here. Remembering this, and other stellar days, is like a dream. Sure makes ordinary life, well, ordinary. 
Photo credit, Chris Korbulic  

This is how Ushuaia looked on New Years' morning as we awoke on the cruise ship. We got an early start on our hike because the ship was scheduled to leave early - 3:30 p.m. so as to have daylight to navigate Glacier Alley through the Beagle Channel. 

The 6.2-mile RT trail to the lake began as a flat stroll with an occasional hop over tree roots. This forest persisted as a thick grove for a while, but we saw many more of this beech-like tree called Lenga, in different sizes and conditions along the trail. We hired a taxi both ways as the trailhead was 20 kilometers, about 12.5 miles, from Ushuaia. The driver also arranged to pick us up. Cost? $100. Nobody said traveling in Chile/Argentina is cheap. On the other hand, guided tours were being offered for this hike at $140 a person. Guess we did OK.

This hike was not a shore excursion arranged via the cruise ship, but one Chelsea knew about due to her status as the ship's naturalist. It was just the four of us, although we saw other small groups along the way. The trail wasn't too steep. It did, however, require balancing on shifting footing, jumping over obstacles, and getting your feet wet and/or muddy. 

After climbing a short heart-pumping slope we ended up in a peat bog! The earth's surface, a quick Google search reveals, is covered 3 percent with peat. The southern hemisphere's bogs, mostly in Patagonia, represent only 1 percent of the total. Peat is an accumulation of partially decayed vegetation, and a peat ecosystem is the most effective carbon sink on the planet. For hikers, though, the peat is a pain. Think mud.

Makeshift (and shifting) bridges carried us over some of the
mud holes. But many sections were without a clear trail.
Hiking poles are recommended! I managed to find a serviceable stick
in the woods. And left it, a stick in the mud. 

Another group heads over to take a look at a significant beaver dam that blocked a creek to form a pond. Beavers are not native, and their work is considered destructive.

Chelsea and Chris at Laguna Esmeralda, which is fed by glacial melt. A few minutes after this photo was taken, they did something that was common throughout our month together. Whenever cold, clear water was near, and they could get to it without serious injury, they went for a dip. I couldn't believe it either. 

Chris leaps rock-to-rock over the river flowing from the lake, chasing Chelsea as she charges over hill and dale for a private polar dip. I read later that we could have taken a path to the right and circled the small lake, even climbed to the glacier that feeds it. 

We were surrounded by mountains. Every turn brought another ahhhhhh vista.

This grey fox appeared on the return trip not far off the trail. It seemed amenable to being photographed as we were not the first to click cameras around it. Earlier, we saw an Andean Condor. Quite a thrill! However, it was too distant and active for a photo.

  The fox hurried downhill, perhaps tired of the attention.
 It was fun to see that its tail was as long as its body
 and twice as bushy.

Chelsea, her hair still damp from her polar plunge,
couldn't contain her enthusiasm as we made
our way back to the trailhead. 
 Agreed. It was a fine day!

We were back in Ushuaia in time for lunch and were
jazzed about sampling the King Crab for which the area is known.
Alas, the cruise ship had spilled so many people into the town that
finding four seats in a seafood restaurant at 2 p.m. was as unlikely as
having clean boots after navigating a peat bog.

Our last look at beautiful Ushuaia as we sailed away on this unforgettable New Year's Day. I feel bad about not having had time to see the nearby Tierra del Fuego National Park or any of the SEVEN museums in a town of around 60,000 (as of the 2010 census.) 

(The negatives about cruising, which I plan to explore in a later post, include port visits that can only touch the surface.)

Ushuaia has a surprising electronics industry in addition to tourism and a naval presence. However, its major claim to fame, emblazoned on many a T-shirt and hat, is that it is located at The End of the World—the southernmost city in South America.   

EARLIER POST ABOUT THIS TRIP

Rounding Cape Horn - a New Year's Eve to remember 

https://ordinarylife-mk.blogspot.com/2018/01/around-horn-happy-new-year-2018.html

Around the Horn - Happy New Year 2018!

A typical scene off the southern part of Argentina from a cruise ship. Cape Horn is not far away. This area encompasses a park called Tierra Del Fuego, which is part Argentina, part Chile. It is also part of Patagonia, which encompasses the southern-most reaches of each of the two nations. They don't always like each other.

We celebrated New Years Eve sailing around Cape Horn - the southernmost tip of South America - with our son, Chris Korbulic and his partner, Chelsea Behymer. The experience - and the entire month traveling that it included - was stellar, way more than we could have hoped for back in late October. That was when we discovered that our original winter travel plans had been crushed.

What we'd planned—two to three months on the Baja Peninsula in our camper van.

Why it didn't work — Van requires ultra-low sulphur diesel fuel, which is not yet widely enough available in Mexico. 

What we decided, on a whim, to do instead — try for a last-minute cruise deal in South America.  

So en route home from visiting our Reno family, I began searching. An outfit called Vacations to Go includes last-minute cruise deals. The site asks for trip preferences to narrow your search, so I put in two: Depart in early December and start from Chile. 

Only one result popped up, a 15-day Celebrity Infinity cruise starting in Santiago, Chile, sailing around Cape Horn and ending in Buenos Aires. 

Interesting!  Cape Horn!

But wait! I felt my heartbeat quicken. 

I asked PK,  Isn't Celebrity the cruise line that Chelsea contracts with for her naturalist programs? And isn't she expecting to do her first contract in South America sometime this winter?! 

I texted her.

Seconds later she confirmed. YES!

Random and wild. It gets better.

Not only would she be on this ship, but if we could wait a couple weeks and embark in Buenos Aires, Argentina, instead, Chris would be with us, too. 

Unbelievable. Unstoppable. A gift from the Universe.

Within a few hours we went from doldrums and searching blindly for a destination, to anticipating a sea-and-land journey beyond our imagining. Three days later we were booked for the trip of a lifetime. 

We also made plans to spend a few days with Chris in Argentina before the cruise, and for a two-week road trip in Chile afterwards. I hope to write a series of posts with words and photos highlighting some of the best days ever.

Here's the first, New Year's Eve 2017, sailing around Cape Horn and then through the Beagle Channel.

We spent a lot of time on our cruise ship veranda with binoculars and cameras on December 31, 2017, and many other days. Even though December and January are officially summer, we were, for a time, just 400 miles from Antarctica. The days are long and can be cold. We used every bit of winter clothing we packed. This was one trip where we did not succeed in getting by with carry-on luggage only.

The cruise highlights, for us, were mostly contained within this mapped area. After our leisurely look at Cape Horn,(see below) the Infinity made its way to Ushuaia via the Beagle Channel, named after a ship that did the first hydrographic survey there. On its second voyage the HMS Beagle had on board an amateur naturalist, young Charles Darwin, who paid his own way while gathering information that led to the the theory of evolution as described in his book, Origin of the Species. 

Albatrosses were thick on this day, December 31, 2017. Hundreds, if not thousands filled the air and the sea. This image represents a fraction of the multitudes. What are they doing? Most likely feeding on sealife brought by upwelling as currents from the Atlantic and Pacific oceans collide. The oceans were in a rare state of calm, defying the Horn's reputation as weather hell. 

Albatrosses flying solo, or in small groups, were common.

For the first time in three years, the captain announced the Infinity would pause at Cape Horn, and he would guide the ship on a lazy 360 turn. Passengers were invited to the helipad, usually closed. I was disappointed that we missed the drama of high seas, but was grateful for the long look at a historical place. Part of our journey was reading nonfiction books (on small devices) about early explorations, primarily about Magellan. More about this later.

As the ship paused at Cape Horn, Chelsea was invited to bring "her family" up to the captain's bridge to enjoy the view. We did. Plus it was fun seeing the command post.

Imperial cormorants. The only ones we saw.

Lack of brilliant color didn't detract from the pleasing effects of light and clouds, land and sea, in all directions. 

The next stop: Ushuaia, Argentina, and a New Year's Day hike I'll never forget. Well, we didn't take any hikes on this trip that I will forget. But this was the first hike of 2018. And after hiking, came Glacier Alley. Unforgettable, of course. Pictures coming. 

If good fortune is leading you toward a cruise, spring for a
cabin with a balcony, or veranda, as they're called.
The extra cost was worth every peso. If you go around the Horn
from Buenos Aires, be sure to get a starboard cabin. Best views!

A Christmas story from the grocery store

The woman in front of me in a bargain-store grocery line looked tired. A bit on the heavy side, she was dressed in saggy pants and a well-worn sweatshirt. Her hair was unkempt, her posture slumped. 

I made a quick judgement. Poor white trash.

I should know, at my advanced age, that you can NEVER judge a person by appearance. I learned that when teaching high school in my twenties. Not infrequently, the most thoughtful, creative, sensitive, interesting and bright students were also the weirdest looking.

I overheard the poor white trash lady telling the checker that she was exhausted and  soooo glad that she didn't have to go to work the next day (Saturday) and that she had two weeks off.

"Oh," I piped in."You're a teacher?"

Brilliant deduction, eh? I continued my strong line of questioning.  I was once a reporter, you know.

"What grade do you teach?" I inquired.

Another preconceived notion wormed into my brain; a woman with her appearance probably didn't have a college degree and taught in an unlicensed daycare or preschool. This was not a conscious thought, but there it was anyway.

But no.  She taught two high school classes and three junior high. (I didn't ask what subjects she taught. But by now I'm thinking physics or math.)

She said she works in a Title 1 school, which means a school where the majority of students are officially impoverished, qualifying for reduced or free lunch. Homelessness, child abuse and neglect, domestic violence, meth use, hunger, lack of health and dental care, yards festering with rusted cars and crumbling appliances, skinny dogs and feral cats are not uncommon. And neither are feral kids.

Sadly, this type of poverty not unusual in rural Southern Oregon. Teachers who choose to work in impoverished communities are to be honored.

Now she has my full attention.

"I teach five classes a day, and yesterday I had a Christmas party for every class,' she said.

No wonder she was tired. But it gets more interesting.

Not only did she have five holiday parties, but each one was a tea party! I didn't get all the details, but she mentioned the porcelain tea cups and little sandwiches and such. And the fact that she had lots of volunteers helping out.

Imagine! I could hardly. Five hours of porcelain tea cups in the hands of adolescents.

In my twenties, I taught four years of high school English in Minnesota, and one year in a Southern Oregon middle school, the worst year of my life! Including 2002, the year I almost died of septic shock.

I told her I'd been a teacher and strongly preferred high school to junior high.

"Not me," said declared. "I like them both, but the younger kids are my favorites."

"That's great! "I enthused. "The junior high kids really need people who love them."

After a pause, she looked me the eye and said, "They do need that, and that's what I give them. I love them."

Her groceries were checked, and so were my misconceptions.

I thanked her for the vital work she's doing, and for loving young people who can be difficult to love.

She was headed toward the exit and flashed a bright smile as she rounded the corner toward the parking lot.

As she left the store with her overflowing cart, I thought she was the most beautiful person I'd met in ages.  A dedicated teacher with an overflowing heart.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to her, and to all teachers.

 And to you, people who read my blog. You can't imagine how much I appreciate you.

May 2018 be filled with insights, adventures, love, acts of kindness, and impromptu and enlightening conversations with strangers, no matter what they look like.

Let your little light shine.

Older sister's warnings about aging all too true

My dear sister, Monette Johnson, alongside the Mississippi River in Coon Rapids, Minnesota, not far from where she lives. To my knowledge, she has never addressed the river regarding unpleasant changes it may encounter as it meanders through the eons. Not so with me, her way younger sister, as I grind along behind her through the decades. She has issued multiple dire warnings, and lo, they are coming to pass. 

The first time Monette alerted me about aging, she was perhaps in her fifties and I, my forties. She sent me a birthday card with the thoughtful message: If you think you're old now, wait five years.

Later her warnings had to do with cringing at the mirror and seeing "new wrinkles every day." She was closing in on 70. I was a mere 61, which you must believe, if you are younger, really does make a huge difference. 

Now, at almost 73, "new wrinkles" is my every-day mirror experience. And also divots, shadows, sags, rough spots, or food particles lodged between my crowded teeth.  And let's not talk about the neck.

Nora Ephron, a fabulous funny writer already did that in her 2006 book, I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.

On second thought, let's do talk about it.

From a NYT July 2006 review, an excerpt from Ephron's book:

“Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t if it had a neck.”

This is true. I had a friend who was married to a plastic surgeon. He often  told her, his hand hiding his mouth because the object of his observation was near by, "There's one," he'd whisper. "A 35-year-old face, a 50-year-old neck."  

When my sister, way back in 2006, saw that Nora Ephron had a new book called "I Feel Bad About My Neck," it fed her angst about aging. But instead of rushing to read it, she wrote her reaction to the title, which revealed her own wicked sense of humor, as you shall see. (She has since read the book and recommends it, especially to women over 60 who need a laugh as they experience their own quibbles with Time.)

  Nora's Neck

      By Monette Johnson 

When I first read that Nora Ephron wrote a book called I Feel Bad about My Neck, I knew what she meant, but had to wonder how she picked her neck when there's so much else to feel bad about that's so much worse. 

I haven't yet read her book, so maybe she covers some of the other stuff too. But still. I would have thought a professional writer like Nora would  have picked something equally bad that at least could have led to a snappier title, something alliterative such as I Feel Bad about My Belly. Or better yet, I Feel Bad about My Bulging Belly or why not My Bulging Belly and My Behemoth Butt.

And I guess her whole point is what's happening as she ages, so bad bellies and butts aren't really pertinent since they happen to the young, too, although I swear my belly was as flat as the proverbial pancake until it started to get old and the older it gets, the badder it makes me feel. My butt is a whole other story.

Maybe Nora picked her neck because necks are usually naked whereas bellies and butts usually aren't, at least not for any woman over 16 or so if she's got an ounce of sense after sagging and bulging starts to set in. 

You can always attempt to camouflage bad necks with scarves, and bad butts and bellies with long, loose-fitting garments. No one is fooled by this, of course. But it makes women of a certain age feel as though spending an outrageous amount of cash on a stylish tunic and still more on a fashionable scarf is somehow worth the expense. 

Or maybe Nora focused on her neck because some of the other stuff hasn't happened to her yet. Maybe her belly is still flat, her butt nicely rounded, and her boobs firm and perky. Maybe she looks in the mirror, sees the skin sagging around the prominent neck tendons and thinks this is as bad as it's going to get. 

I've got news for Nora. It gets way worse.

On the other hand, Nora is rich. She must be after all those successful books and screenplays. Maybe she's had it all fixed. That must be it! 

Yes, she's had her belly and butt liposuctioned and her boobs lifted along with parts of her face. Or maybe she's a Jane Fonda follower and keeps it all properly in place working out 10 hours a day. 

If her neck truly is all she's got to feel bad about, she's a woman to be envied. I know women who feel bad about varicose veins, thick, ropy blue things that wind and coil around legs that are way more unattractive than scrawny necks. 

Some women even feel bad about brown spots on their hands; this is probably because they're referred to as liver spots. Calling them large freckles instead might have prevented at least a bit of angst.

Some women feel bad about thinning and/or graying hair. Of course, there's an easy fix here with wigs and hair dyes but again, no one is really fooled. 

 Others feel bad about disappearing libidos, especially now that studies have revealed hormone therapy could be deadly. 

Then there are women who feel bad about knees, hips, and shoulders that need replacement. Or hands and feet that no longer work with dexterity and without pain 

And some women feel bad just because they feel bad, dammit. So there you have it, Nora. Buck up, buy a spiffy new scarf and try not to think about what lies ahead.

Monette and me about 10 years ago. We knew that if we lifted our chins, our necks would look better. If not, then a little more wine would help.

Ditch the hair dye! Going gray into that good night

If you've lived long enough, you'll remember the Clairol ad with the tagline, Is it true blondes have more fun?  Notice that blondes is underlined in the ad. You say that word LOUDER.

I tested the verity of that line for, oh, about 50 years, and found that it was sorta true. Except maybe for the years when we were raising two boys, one of whom was born when I was 41. I had a few "not fun being blonde" years juggling work with sketchy childcare. But for the most part,  it's been all good. Did being blonde make a difference? For all those years? Probably not.  

High school and college graduation photos.

I had a lot of fun being a young blonde.

Then I just went on being blonde until I was gray,

and became gray with a golden tinge.
My sister points out these two photos make me look
better than I ever did in real life. True. 

Age 17 was my first year of blonde-from-a bottle. I was decades from denying gray, but I was in full assault against light brown. Mousey brown, as it was called. People asked me for years if it was true that "Blondes have more fun." My standard response was the shameless lie, "I don't know. I've never been anything else."

By the time age 17 turned into age 71, (how did that happen??!!) no one asked whether grays have more fun. In fact, female grays are largely ignored, except by surgeons pushing facelifts and companies preying on women's fears of aging. Magic wrinkle creams and other potions promising to turn back time are ubiquitous in our culture, which  despite the social and cultural changes that have occurred since Clairol ads, including the rise of feminism, remains skewed grotesquely toward youth and beauty., 

But somebody has to occupy the "elder" positions. Women who are only in their sixties, like most of my friends, may not quite be copping to the "elder" handle. 
  But at age almost 73, I'm acclimating to the higher elevation and at the same time being alarmed at physical transformations. What happened to my neck, for example. And my once-flattish stomach? I haven't gained weight, so what's with the rolls of blubber?

Then there's the wrinkles and sags - no cosmetic "work" has been done,  nor is any being planned. I've given up trying to make my gray (white) hair appear blond with a golden tinge, and I'm adjusting to my new and evolving position in the march from womb to worms.

In my early seventies, I am what I am.  I'm getting used to how old 70 sounds, and concentrating instead on how much I'm enjoying myself.  In the seasons of life, I'm mid-to-late fall, and so is the time during which I've been writing this post. I can't help but draw parallels. I look my age, but I don't feel old. I really don't. Not unlike the trees glowing with color being at their most proud before winter sets in.

A serene scene along the Upper Rogue River trail. In a month or so the trees will be bare and the trail thick with snow. Wintertime, folks. It's a-comin'.

A significant source of contentment and stimulation growing older is having ongoing friendships reaching back 30-40-some years. My girlfriends and I have seen one another through all kinds of crap, including ugly marriages, recalcitrant children, and life-threatening illnesses. But we've celebrated together more often than not our successes and luminous moments, many of which have occurred during shared outdoor adventures.

We're now embracing life as age continues to take its little nips. Mostly retired, each of my friends profiled briefly below demonstrates gusto for the freedom retirement offers and a life that wasn't possible during her naturally pigmented-hair-and-wrinkle-free work-centered days.

We've all suffered losses, but I know that these girlfriends, all in their sixties, accept the gathering of years, embrace their new-found freedoms, and are moving toward the great beyond with a spring in their steps. I hope to keep up! (Well, they can keep up with me; I'm the oldest.)

Apologies to wonderful friends not pictured. I included a handful of girlfriends who live in my community, go with the gusto, and who've demonstrated aging acceptance, in part,  by sticking with the gray hair, wrinkles and divets that ages delivers. No "work" to smooth the wrinkles, no nips and tucks elsewhere, and no hair dye. Just a calm going with the flow, like on the rivers we've rafted and trails we've walked so many times.

Sueji and I met when she was in her twenties and I was in my thirties. She was a white-water river guide and I was a journalist/photographer doing a story about a woman-owned rafting company with all female guides.What a trip! Our adventures continued through the decades as we were two of four women who rowed, for 17 years, on an annual all-women whitewater trip down the Wild and Scenic Rogue River. (The two others are Michele and Margaret, pictured below.) We continue to hike, socialize, confide, and enjoy our longtime friendships. Sueji is a retired community college counselor, and always has a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on.

Margaret is as sassy and fun as she looks in this photo
taken about 10 years ago when she was president
of her Rotary Club and Communications Director
at the local community college. We were both
journalists and worked at the local newspaper
when typewriters and actual cut-and-paste was
how editing was done. She says she's had more
compliments on her straight gray hair than she ever
did when she dyed and permed it.

I'm not sure when Jeanne and I met, but I'm sure we
   made a quick and lasting bond 30-some years ago. She's an avid
gardener and creative cook. She's also fierce,
principled, and quick to call bullshit on
racism, misogyny and the like. Jeanne
made her living first as a cabinet maker
then as a community college instructor teaching
everything from basic living skills to
carpentry. She's a champion for women in the
trades. When I asked her about being included
in this piece, she said, "If it's about not worrying
about appearance, I'm all in." 

Michele was the first friend I made after we
moved to Southern Oregon in 1973. We were both
substitute teachers looking for kindred spirits in
our little rural town. This photo is from a few years
back, but now at 68 she still has but a wisp of gray hair.
"It's my genes," she says, "which also gave me migraines
and breast cancer." She's a 19-year survivor. Michele joined
the Peace Corps in her early 60s and spent a couple
years in Swaziland. Wow. Recently, on a limited
budget in a super-tight housing market, she bought
a fixer-up with great promise. Guts and brains.
"I've learned to be comfortable in my own skin," she
says of moving into her later years. 

Denise, 68, is a yoga and art teacher, making her way in the world on her own terms. She taught me, and numerous others in her classes, that doing the splits, and many other outrageous moves, are possible no matter your age. She's my hero. I started doing yoga with her about 25 years ago, and we've gotten gray together. She never dyed her hair or even used make-up. Still, she glows and has tons of energy. She is not among those enjoying retirement, however, as her mother, age 104, remains healthy and lives with her. Denise says she's never been tempted to alter her appearance. "I am curious about how I'll look," she says. I predict she'll still be doing splits in her 100s. And her mother will break longevity records.

Me in July, au naturel. Grays really do have more fun!
Photo credit Rose Cassano.

Accepting aging

Working to Disarm Women’s Anti-Aging Demon  - A New York Times article persuading women to embrace rather than deny the inevitable. The inspiration for this post.

Camping with gray-haired girlfriends - my post about a quick get-away and some

quality bonding with longtime friends.

 - 

Pauline - another way to look at aging. Hair dye and estrogen all the way. At age 96, it 

still works for her.

Taking charge of aging with Yoga! See Denise, above. All about her yoga class and the 

people in it. Let's say it's an older demographic.