The abuse of my butt

My final day in Pucon consisted of perfect sunny weather, some gusty winds, and horseback riding through the mountainous countryside for a few glorious hours.

I booked a half-day ride with Campo Antilco, about 20 minutes outside Pucon proper.  Like my mountaineering experience, I was a horseback riding virgin.  I think I rode a pony at a fair when I was 5 years old, but that is the extent of my experience on a horse.

I did ride a camel in the Namib desert outside Swakopmund, Namibia in 2010, and while that was a great experience, my butt and the camel saddle did not get along very well.  The 20-hour flight back home a couple of days later was not a comfortable one. I saddled up at Antilco hoping that the horse saddle would be kinder and gentler to my bum than the stupid camel saddle was.

Gabrielle, our lead guide, took our small group (which consisted of a young Welsh couple and myself) through some gorgeous scenery.  We rode through woods and by rushing rivers, crossed rocky creeks with mountains all around, strolled through Mapuche settlements, and took a break underneath some trees with sheep and lambs grazing nearby.  I felt like I´d been transplanted into a children´s book.  Only, I am entirely too inappropriate in general to be part of any children´s book.

Before our ride began, we received instruction on how to guide and stop our horses with the reins and how to make them go faster (kick them - it sounds mean, and it kind of felt mean, too, although Gabrielle assured us it wasn´t).  None of this mattered, because my horse did whatever the hell she wanted.  When we fell behind and I wanted to catch up to the guide, I gradually kicked harder and harder.

Me: *kicking wildly* "Come on, Esperanza, catch up!"
Esperanza:  "Whatever, bitch.  You are not the boss of me."

We reached a long, open sandy area overlooking the cold, rushing river below.  Gabrielle turned around with a huge smile on her face and said, "Would you all like to try a gallop?" Before any of us could give a definitive answer, she took off on her white horse.  With no prompting whatsoever, our horses followed suit. Esperanza galloped toward the dropoff to the river for about 5 seconds, then she started kicking wildly.  I freaked out and shrieked like a little girl.  I saw my future.  I was going to get thrown off, yanking my knee out of whack in the process because I can´t navigate stirrups any better than I can navigate an entire horse, and go plunging into the rocky, freezing river 6 feet below.

Ok, so that didn´t happen.  But I swear, it was going to.  Esperanza stopped kicking.  I firmly announced that I was DONE galloping for the day.  I told Esperanza that she could do whatever the hell she wanted as long as I stayed on until we got back to the farm.  I guess she took me up on that deal, because that´s exactly what happened.

Esperanza, the death machine

I had a wonderful time riding through the countryside, and I didn´t end up in the hospital with a blown-out knee, so I consider the day a success.  Antilco runs a great operation - the farm is beautiful, the horses are very well cared for, the guides are fantastic, and they even have adorable dogs and a kitten running around.

And a couple of hours later, I realized that my bum didn´t get along with the horse saddle, either.  It hurt.  I think this is the last time I mount an animal with a saddle strapped to it. 

Volcan Villarica, Part 2: what I wish I´d known

There are a few things that I wish the tour operators, my 6-year old Lonely Planet, and random strangers or the internet had told me before sauntering up Volcan Villarica last week.  Granted, I was extremely lucky to talk to some great people in my hostel that gave me some good advice, but frankly, this information needs to be in print somewhere.  So here you go - as a virgin mountaineer, these are the top 7 things I wish I´d known before strapping on a helmet and picking up an ice axe:

1. Don´t even think about climbing Villarrica if you have so much as a slight fear of heights.  I have never been afraid of heights, but the sheer grade of the mountain at many points gave me a bit of a start.  I willed myself not to look down unless I was sitting.  And even then, it could be a little dizzying.
2. You don´t need previous mountaineering experience, but you do have to be in good shape to make the climb.  This is no stroll on a wooded path.  The hills are not alive with the sound of music, and kittens are not up there pooping rainbows.  This is a steep, sometimes treacherous climb on snow and ice, and it takes 6 hours just to get to the summit.  So if you think 6 hours on a stairmaster will kill you, then so will this volcano.
3. Don´t believe travel guides that say the climb isn´t technical.  If you´re an experienced mountaineer, then yeah, it probably isn´t technical for you.  But for someone like me that didn´t see more than a dusting of snow until high school and runs and bikes on flat ground back on the east coast, an excursion requiring crampons, an ice axe, and a helmet IS technical.  Or maybe I´m just a gargantuan chicken. I´m ok with that.
4. Take twice as much water as your tour operator tells you to.  All the operator websites I looked at prior to the climb said to bring 1.5 liters of water.  That´s crap.  Bring at least 3.  I drank 2.5 liters during the climb and STILL got a headache from not drinking enough fluids. Drink some every time you sit down, whether you feel  thirsty or not. 
5. You will not need to drop trou to relieve yourself.  It´s a non-issue because you won´t drink enough water (see above).  Trust me.
6. Bring high SPF sunscreen with you, and reapply every time you sit down.  I was fortunate enough to receive this advice from a great group of guys in my hostel the day before my climb.  A couple of them reapplied sunscreen 5-7 times and still ended up with red faces.  I would never have thought I would have needed to put on sunscreen that often.  I got lucky and ended up with nothing more than a pink-ish nose.
7. Research your tour operators ahead of time.  I did this before I left the US simply because I´m anal, but not all tour operators operate equally.  I found Paredon Expeditions online, and they have set an amazing standard of safety, service, and satisfaction.  While I wasn´t able to climb with them in the end (they didn´t have the minimum number of people needed to make the climb that day), the effort they put into helping me find a operator to climb with simply floored me.  I would climb Villarrica again just to go with Paredon because I was so impressed.  They´re also more expensive, but your life is on the line, and I think that´s worth an extra $30, don´t you?

Volcan Villarrica, Part 1: the climb

I arrived in Pucon, Chile last week with one main goal:  climb to the top of Volcan Villarrica.  At 9,340 feet, it is by far the highest point in the Pucon area.  Its snow covered peak looms over the town, and still offers the lovely threat of spewing lava, although it hasn´t blown its top since 1971.  And that was ages ago as far as volcanos are concerned.

Ok, not really.  Whatever.  I still wanted to climb it. But looking up at it from the comfort and safety of Pucon, it looked a little intimidating.

The only other volcano I´ve climbed is Volcan Pacaya in Guatemala, and I thought I was going to get killed in a bathroom before the hike even started.  Pacaya also erupted just a year later.  I didn´t think of this until after the fact, but my track record with volcanos isn´t that great.

I tried to book a trip up with Paredon Expeditions because I´d heard such amazing things about them.  But they didn´t have enough people booked for the day I wanted to go, so they checked around and got me in with a small group being led by Tour Volcan Villarrica.

I was tagging along with a group of four 20-something French girls.  I didn´t expect them to give a hoot about me, and sure enough, they didn´t even make an attempt to say hello when they arrived at the tour office at 6:45am.  They were also wearing jeans, cutesy sweatshirts, and scarves.  For real?  Mountaineering in that garb?  Stupid French girls.  I wondered if they would even make it to the top.

As the tour people began throwing equipment at us, I began to wonder if I would make it to the top, myself. Sliding pants, snow gaiters, crampons... and an ice axe?  What do I need an ice axe for?  Of course the girl that grew up in Alabama and didn´t see real snow until the ripe age of 17 wonders this.

We took a ski lift from the base of the mountain to cut off some of the time required to get to the top.  Even from the top of the ski lift, it was a 6-hour slog to the summit.  It looked steep.  Really steep.

We started to walk at a very slow pace.  I fell flat on my face twice in the first 20 minutes.  This was not a good sign.  Just before we started up a steep section, our guides showed us how to use our ice axe as both a hiking stick and a tool to arrest ourselves should we happen to start sliding uncontrollably down the mountain.  So that´s what it´s for.  Well, that sounds just ducky.  If I start falling, I´m more likely to stab the ice axe in my leg rather than the snow.

We stopped for a break every 30-60 minutes, which gave us a chance to chug water, rest, and take in the incredible views. It also served to show me exactly how steep the terrain really was.

At one point, approximately 1.5 hours from the summit, the terrain was so incredibly steep that I got horribly uncomfortable with my footing.  The French girls were having no problems (which made me dislike them even more), so what was my problem?  How is it that I´ve come this far in life and haven´t learn how to put one foot in front of the other and keep it there?  My boots just didn´t want to grip the ice and snow where the lead guide and the French girls had already tread. The rear guide was having to give me instruction and encouragement. Well, great.  I´ve come this far, I´m going to fall down the mountain, stab myself with that damn ice axe, and die a horribly embarrasing death.  The volcano gods hate me. I consider hyperventilating.

A mere 60 seconds later, the lead guide gestures to us to sit and rest on a 6-foot long "ledge".

Guide: "Ok, we put on crampons now."
Me: "THANK &%$·ING GOD."

According to our guides, walking in crampons was even more dangerous than walking without them.  They even went over with us (again) how to arrest ourselves with ye olde ice axe should we succumb to gravity and start plummeting down the mountain.

Whatever.  I felt f-ing invincible with those suckers on.  They added about 5 lbs each to my feet, but I didn´t care.  I felt like I could do cartwheels wearing them.  Dear crampons, I love you.

We reached the summit at about 2pm.  It was insanely windy.  The volcano was spitting sulphur gas into the air.  The view was unbelievable.  I made it to the top without killing myself!

But then we had to get back down.  And for 15 minutes, I lagged behind the French chicks because I suck at going downhill.  The rear guide even held my hand at one point to help me move faster.  At the 15 minute mark, the lead guide sat us down again.

Guide: "Ok, we take off crampons now."
Me:  "WTF!"
Guide: "Now we sled down mountain."

Oh!  Ok, that sounds much better than walking down without crampons.  And so we sled in small sections down the mountain until we were back at the ski lift.

The climb was beyond difficult.  My triceps were killing me the next day.  Parts of the bottom of my feet were numb.  I had blisters on my ankles.  My chest muscles were sore.  My right palm was swollen and tender from keeping a death grip on that ice axe.  Ironically, my legs were not the least bit stiff or sore.  I was scared out of my mind more than once.  But it was amazing, unbelievably beautiful, and absolutely worth it.

Would I do it again?  Maybe... but don´t hold your breath on that one.

Sapa Part 1: Oh my Buddha!

Dan and I had a hilarious guide named Kong (well, really it's Cuong, but I like using "Kong") for our weekend trip hiking through the mountains of northern Vietnam outside of Sapa.  Instead of exclaiming "Oh my God!", Kong would yell instead, "Oh my Buddha!" which I promptly stole started using myself.  Kong was from one of the hill tribes in northern Thailand, and he spoke an amazing array of languages - Tay, Black Hmong, Vietnamese, Spanish, English, and likely others, too.  Kong was a riot, but I'll have to tell more about him later.  In fact, so much happened during our epic weekend in Sapa - there was moonshine, chicken attacks, amazing food, and late-night singing, and more - that I'm going to have to break this up into numerous posts.  But before I get to the wacky stuff, first a little introduction to this place:

There are about 54 ethnic minority hill tribe groups in the mountains of northern Vietnam.  The area they live in is beautiful but makes for a very harsh life.  The mountains here are glorious - sweeping mountain peaks, entire mountainsides terraced out for rice paddies, small villiages, waterfalls freakin' everywhere, corn fields, and grazing buffalo.  If you come to Sapa and say, "Meh", then you are not human.  Turn in your Homo Sapien card and go back to Mars.

The hill tribe women do all the work around here.  They work in the fields, harvest corn and rice, make clothing from hemp and dye and embroider it, make (and embroider) handicrafts for sale, have lots and LOTS of babies, and they have to walk up and down steep mountain trails day in and day out to make all this work.  I don't know what the men do because we hardly saw any.  But according to our guide, the men are lazy bums that sit around and get drunk off the rice wine that their wives have made for them.  Maybe they help plant rice or something, too...

Black H'mong women and their baskets 'o stuff

The two tribes that we encountered the most were Black H'mong and Red Dzao.  Each tribe has it's own traditional clothing, and it was beautifully refreshing to realize that the hill tribes do indeed wear their traditional clothing on a daily basis and not just for tourists (lederhosen, anyone?).  Most of the clothes sport very detailed and colorful embroidery work that the women do by hand.  The Black H'mong also wear clothing made from hemp and dyed with indigo.  And then there are their shoes.  All the women that we saw were wearing sandals.  I'm not talking about Keens or Chacos or anything tough and rugged.  I'm talking cheap, plastic slip-on shower shoes that you can probably get for $10 at Wal-Mart.  These women walk every day up and down the mountains on narrow, technical, rocky, muddy trails in dadgum shower shoes.  Did I mention that most of them haul large baskets of hand-crafted goods or food on their backs?  Or have babies strapped to their backsides?  Yeah.  Showoffs.



One of the Black H'mong women that joined us for a nice 6-hour trek

Dan and I were both pretty humbled by these women trotting up and down steep mountains in plastic flip-flops with babies and corn and such on their backs.  Next up:  stories from the trail and our homestay with one of the hill tribe families! 

Good morning Vietnam!

Ahh, new morning, new country!  Almost.  Dan and I arrived in Hanoi super late on the night of the 25th (or really, the morning of the 26th).  We spend yesterday navigating the maze of the old city of Hanoi, which reminded me a bit of India, except I didn't see any cows and no one tried to take my picture.  Women did keep trying to make me hold baskets of fruit, though...  not sure what the appeal of that is supposed to be.

After a day of walking around and enjoying a beer or 2 on a rooftop deck, Dan and I hopped a night train up to Sapa where we will spend the next 2 days trekking in the mountains and staying overnight with a hill tribe family.  If this morning's sunrise drive from the train station to our starting point is any indication, this is going to be an absolutely gorgeous weekend!  There are mist-topped mountain peaks all around, rice paddies going up and down the slopes, and smiling hill tribe women already hoping to sell us their wares.  Good news, none of them (thus far) have tried to sell me a whip like the hawkers did in Agra.  That's a relief. 

And on a side note, Dan got a great night's sleep on the train, while I listened to a mysterious banging sound from a trail troll or something of the like all night long.  Dan has been instructed to carry my weekend supply of coffee as revenge :). 

So here's to hoping we don't walk off the side of a mountain or plow face-first into a rice paddy.  More in a few days!