An Extended Hike

                                                 A Long Hour

     Standing in the clouds at 10,627-feet up,  we played in the snow for a bit, like a bunch of kids, at the top of a glacier in Switzerland.  It was not as cold as I expected, but after a while we went inside and visited a 427-foot long ice cave.  Built between 1974-’78 the temperature is constant at 30-31 degrees. The ice  is 15-50 meters deep and there are several rooms in the cave. This is where it was cold and when we were done a visit to the café provided us a chance to drink a hot liquid of our choice.

     Warmed up, we rode the gondola down to the first level where we hiked a well maintained trail around small Lake Trubsee. We stopped several times to learn the names of the many alpine plants in bloom.

    About three-quarters way around the lake a path led off to the right and the sign said Engleberg. The Swiss do not mark mileage, instead  they talk about  the time needed to make a destination. This sign read one hour.

    Five or six of us decided to be smart and take the shortcut.  It didn’t take long to realize the foot path was a cow path and very muddy in spots as it wound around large boulders. We climbed up and down over slippery rocks sloshing about in the mud.

    A few hundred meters into the path I seriously thought about turning back as I really wasn’t into playing mountain goat. But it looked better up ahead so we trudged on---for the next 2 ½ hours.  The trail alternated to fairly decent in areas, then turned mucky again. When we finally hit level ground,  as in a narrow paved road, several of us were ready to pay some farmer to get us back to the train station. Since there was no farmer or motor vehicle of any kind  in sight we had no choice but to walk on.

    Rounding the last turn in the road I could see the gondola station. I shouted, “There it is! I can’t believe we all safely made it with no mishaps.” 

     The two who had elected to ride the gondola to ground level were sitting at a picnic table waiting for  us smart-alecks who took the sign as gospel!

    It was really rugged, and it was obvious our guide had not hiked that trail in a very long time.

In hindsight a few years later and after many more trails, easy and tough, it was probably not as rugged as we thought at the time as much as it was a surprise and the realization that we hadn’t been so smart after all!

A Drunken Walk

                                   Long Suspension Bridge

     In Vancouver, Canada I could not resist walking across the longest suspension bridge in the world.  At  230-feet above the rushing Capilano River the 450-foot long bridge swayed with dizzying vigor. The wind swooped down to snare a man’s hat off his head carrying it like a floating balloon over the valley.

     The setting for this steel suspension bridge is in a temperate rain forest in British Columbia, Canada.  Many timid visitors watched as others stepped onto and walked drunkenly across the ravine. I compared it much like walking on a tightrope.

     A Scotsman by  the name of Mackay was so impressed with the beauty of the area that in 1888 he bought 6000 acres spanning both sides of the river.  The following year he suspended a hemp rope and cedar plank footbridge across the deep ravine.

    The bridge became quite an attraction and in 1903 a more secure wire bridge was built. Over the century the bridge was sold four times and the fourth and present steel cable bridge was built in 1956 with 13 tons of concrete firmly anchoring the cables in place on each end of the bridge. In 1962  hurricane Freda uprooted 82 large trees in the park with eight of them falling on the footbridge, but caused no damage!

    On the other side of the  swaying bridge I hiked several of the nature trails through the rainforest. Excellent interpretive signs, with delightful imaginative art work were informative. On successive trips to Vancouver I always make my way to Capilano to again cross the bridge.

On one trip there was a story pole carver on the premises who was happy to answer questions and explain his craft and the history of story poles.

    With no wind blowing it is  quite an easy walk. No matter what the weather, the lovely park-like forest on the far side is worth the walk, swaying and wobbly or not.

Box for What?

                                               A Bread Mailbox?

    One year I ventured off to Tahiti, meaning many islands.  Part of French Polynesia, Tahiti is both a country and an island.  Tahiti is the largest of the 118 islands and atolls that make up the Society Islands. The island is 35-miles long and shaped like an hourglass with two distinct volcanoes, one at each end,  that are connected by an isthmus. The islands are 2790 miles from Honolulu and 4000 miles from Los Angles so it is a long plane ride.

    Papeete’s streets are crowded with sport cars, motor bikes, and the island’s cheap public picturesque transport, les truck. The city is the country’s capitol, and seemed crowded, smelly and dingy  with little resemblance of the common P.R. of swaying palm trees and pristine beaches. Outside of major ‘down town’ there are some nice resort hotels. Bora Bora, Moorea and Tahiti are the major islands of the country. Each island has one road around its perimeter. There are no roads over the mountains.

    Houses were small and almost always on the mountain side of the road; they sat side by side rather than clustered.  The road follows the coastline and there is little room between the road and the water. Riding the road, small waterfalls seemed to appear around every bend in the road. Surrounded by greenery and lush vegetation, they were quite picturesque.

    The thing that fascinated me most in Papeete was the long narrow mailboxes along the side of the road. They were not mailboxes at all, but were for the delivery of freshly baked French bread which was delivered daily. They were built like little houses with slanted roofs. A stranger would never know the express purposes of the cute little bread boxes.

    Bora Bora is an incredibly beautiful island and it is a photo stop around every bend and curve of the road.

ALMOST NO LUNCH

                                       French Sidewalk Cafes                                  

     Although sidewalk cafes are popular in many places, and I have eaten in so many of them, perhaps the first place to really popularize them was Paris.

     During the lunch hour most stores in France close and tables and chairs of cafes spill out onto the sidewalk or patio, which may or may not be covered. Umbrellas are often present and the same is true for tablecloths and candle center pieces. The French tend to linger  as conversation flows over 

   After a long docent-led walk/tour of Bordeaux, France it was well along, almost after, the lunch hour when we finished. Nearly mid-afternoon my friends and I found a different picture of French lunch time. By the time we started scouting for a lunch location, many tables and chairs had been taken inside leaving the sidewalks bare and the cafes closed.

     We wandered a good distance checking various establishments along the  way and glanced down many an empty alley. When we finally spied outside tables down a cobblestone alley we hurried to the café to get there before they also took everything inside. Although they were about to close they took pity on four very tired old American ladies and allowed us to eat.

     Our gracious hosts did not rush us in any way. We thoroughly enjoyed a delicious lunch accompanied with a glass of very good wine---of course!  We indulged in  lively  conversation. We all felt regretful it had been time to surrender our bikes and we all shared particular highlights of a fabulous trip. It was a lovely warm day and we were in the country known for its sidewalk cafes.

    Leaving we all left generous tips and thanked our waiters who had been so pleasant and kind to us.

Subnarine Ride

                                                Submarine Ride

     Admittedly I am quite claustrophobic. I don’t like elevators and take them only when necessary to travel several stories up. I have to do a lot of self-talk to remain calm when in tunnels and mines and am always happy to see daylight.

     So in Grand Cayman a few years ago I hesitated to take a submarine ride. Although I snorkel, I do not scuba dive, even though I was a good swimmer. However, the people I was traveling with urged me to take the submarine ride. Reluctantly with some reservations  I did consent to go along.

     In my younger days I had boarded various submarines—the real ones—and toured them, but never sailed on one.

     On entering the sub I learned that each seat had its own large porthole for viewing.  As the sub quietly submerged, the voice of a naturalist came over the microphone to explain everything that was happening and to describe what we were seeing.

     The lower the sub went the more fantastic the scenery became. The oohs and aahs were loud and constant reminding me of kids in a candy store.

     We descended over a reef deeper and deeper into the ocean. Seeing things I had never seen before intrigued me. Besides the colorful fish I remember lots and lots of barrel coral. Each time interesting things came into view, the sub turned around so that the scenery, sea creatures, and fish could be seen by all on both sides of the sub.

    The submarine in Grand Cayman was the first of the several ‘tourist’ submarines that are now popular and located all over the world.

     Suddenly the sub started its ascent. I couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed, and I hadn’t once thought about being enclosed in a small space under the water. Afterward I was so glad I had taken that ride!