Let’s start at the very beginning

June 17, 2009 By

So, I’m a few weeks behind on my posts. I get that. Busy, busy but I have so many fun tings to share starting with our amazing trip to Chautauqua.

The trip that almost wasn’t started like this:

Fortunately, we made it to our first destination: the Boulder farmer’s market.

Then to play at Pearl Street.

With some hoop action behind our cottage.

But our real reward?

For the (sometimes) sordid story on the first trip on our Tour de Colorado, check out Mile High Mamas today. And please excuse my “like totally rad” video commentary. :-)

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family, Family travel, Humor, travel

I’m baaaaack….

June 15, 2009 By

And busy.

Olympic Peninsula was a blast (details forthcoming; picture taken at Kalaloch Lodge overlooking the Pacific Ocean). I arrived home late Thursday night, did laundry, and hopped in the car the next morning. Destination: The Broadmoor in Colorado Springs.

All was marvelous. Well, except that my parent’s car died in the valet and is getting towed to a dealership this morning. All six of us had to cram into my car to come back to Denver. We will then have to drive 3 hours round-trip to pick it up in Colorado Springs once it is fixed.

Really, do you think any trip ‘o mine could go smoothly?

In other news, the Mile High Mamas redesign is finally complete. Swing by and say “Hi!” I promise to do the same to you once my crazy life of travels and hosting calms down!

XOXOXOX

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, travel Tagged With:

This Mommy Blogger’s Tour de Colorado!

June 9, 2009 By

Psssssst, I’m not really here right now. I am currently living it up on the Olympic Peninsula with some other travel writers.

And Bella.

And maybe Edward will make a surprise appearance.

Delusions aside, here’s something that is not: I just unveiled my family’s Tour de Colorado. Wanna see all the fun destinations we’ll be visiting this summer? Check it out at Mile High Mamas today! Why? Because I’ll be taking you along for the ride.

Chat soonly,

Amber

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, Humor, travel Tagged With:

Oregon’s Eagle Cap Wilderness and Hell’s Canyon: Characterizing Heaven and Hell

June 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

When people grasp for descriptors about me, they usually fall back on the safe catchall phrase that I have “personality.”

But have you ever happened upon a place that is dripping with it? My friend John and I had one such encounter just outside of Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area in Oregon when we stumbled upon Imnaha, a self-professed “tourism-be-damned” kinda town.

Now, when people say I have personality, I’m sure they are referring to my charm, vivaciousness and unfathomable wit. For Imnaha, personality means down home, eclectic and unapologetic. How else could one describe a town whose lifeblood is a funky tavern with hundreds of dollar bills stuck to the ceiling, and whose pinnacle event is the annual Bear and Rattlesnake Feed each September? Juxtapose this against a rustic bed and breakfast ranch down the road and you have an eclectic mix of irascible and charming.

Northeastern Oregon is all about character. In addition to its backwater hamlets, it boasts some of the steepest and deepest terrain in the United States. The 358,000-acre Eagle Cap Wilderness is characterized by snow-capped peaks, high-alpines lakes and meadows, crystalline streams, and U-shaped glaciated valleys. As if that weren’t enough to tantalize outdoor folks, there are 47 trailheads that access more than 500 miles of trails.

Add that to the neighboring Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area, the deepest gorge on the continent. This cut of perdition hosts almost 700,000 acres of the most rugged wild lands on earth, and the wildest whitewater stretch of the Snake River, which straddles the Idaho and Oregon boundary. Ominous canyon rimrocks shoot down to the river, more than 1,000 feet deeper than the Grand Canyon.

The Popular Chief
We started in Joseph, the gateway to these backcountry playgrounds. In 1998, Sports Afield touted it as one of the 50 best outdoor sports towns in the country. For the most part, Joseph has remained undeveloped with only a smattering of funky little cafés, some outdoor shops, a few hotels, and a gas station.

We followed Hwy. 82 through town and traced the perimeter of Wallowa Lake where glaciers slithered over the area eons ago. We planned to hike 18-miles roundtrip to Ice Lake where many backpackers set up base camp and then climb the Matterhorn. At 9,845 feet, it is the highest peak in a range that is referred to as the Alps of Oregon. The peak season for the wilderness is July through September. Our visit was in April, which meant two things: there was a lot of snow and we were the only ones nuts enough to be in it.

Upon arrival in the empty parking lot at the West Fork Wallowa River trailhead, I obtained a free permit at the trailhead. We then loaded up our backpacks. In addition to my snowshoes, I crammed in all the comforts of home. Well, at least all the comforts for a very cold home—one with no heat and lots of snow.

We lasted about five minutes on the trail before we changed our route. The soupy, unconsolidated snow pack leading up to Ice Lake looked like the mouth of an avalanche waiting to roar. We instead took the right fork up Chief Joseph Mountain, a 14-mile roundtrip hike that climbs a few thousand feet to a meadow below the famous peak with a great view of the valley.

Minor patches of snow blotched the path up the gorge and icicles glistened along the walls of the cascading Wallowa River. We confronted an obstacle at the first bridge crossing: a tree had taken out the rail and a part of the bridge.

I nervously glanced at John, whose strategy for crossing was rather obtuse. Now, I am in no way criticizing him. All I am saying is that this chick[en]’s tactic would have been significantly different. Instead of using the tentative and safe approach, John pounded his foot with each step to check stability. If he was gonna go, it would be with gusto.

During the ascent, we had stunning views of the jagged Wallowa Mountains, sparkling rivers rushing by seas of waving tussocks, and the Wallowa Valley’s picturesque lowland farms. In the distance, the faces of the Seven Devils Mountain in Idaho peered over the rise from 9,395 feet. The trail climbed gradually past rockslides with chirping pika playing hide-and-go-seek, through open meadows interspersed with lodge-pole pine and alpine fir, and the occasional luminous waterfall.

As we hiked, I asked John the origin of Chief Joseph. Rather than admit he was clueless, Chief of the Bridge-Pounding Dance attempted to fake it. “Well, he was a very famous chief,” John paused as I suspiciously watched him. “And his name was Joseph.” We burst out laughing—that was my commentary? We later found out at Joseph’s grave bordering Wallowa Lake that he was the principal leader of the Wallowa Nez Perce who was a key player in treaty negotiations.

We were within a mile of the summit when a tenuous bridge of snow halted us over loose, unconsolidated mush. There was no telling if the sheet of snow had lost its strength from the balmy daytime temperatures and the traverse would be risky. I announced to John that conditions were too sketchy.

Now, his reaction by forging forward could be explained in three very male-oriented ways: 1) He did not hear me 2) He chose not to hear me 3) His definition of “sketchy” was that it would be cool to sketch his butt in the snow down the steep mountainside.

After taking a few steps, he finally succumbed to my female wisdom and we turned back.

Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area
Contrary to its name, Hells Canyon Recreation Area (HCNRA) is paradise on earth. It includes portions of the Nez Perce, Payette, and Wallowa-Whitman National Forests.

It was too early in the season to raft down Hell Canyon’s famed Wild Sheep and Granite Creek rapids, and we had to skip Hat Point for the same reason. Balanced on the west edge at 6,982 feet, Hat Point is the best viewpoint into the deepest gorge in America. The Snake River coils at 1,276 feet below and Idaho’s Seven Devil’s Mountains Range looms at more than 9,000 feet.

Imnaha River Inn Bed and Breakfast
Whether you call it a bed and breakfast or a rustic lodge, I fell in love with Imnaha River Inn Bed and Breakfast. Located five miles from Imnaha and light years from civilization, one would think this an imprudent place for a 7,000-square foot B&B. Remote. Inaccessible. But for this reason Imnaha River Inn is able to work its magic on the borders of Hells Canyon.

Nick Vidan, who spent a lifetime building similar homes in Portland, built the gorgeous log and stone lodge. With its high vaulted ceilings, Imnaha River Inn is reminiscent of the grand lodges of the Adirondacks and Rockies built by industry scions in the early 1900s. He and his wife Sandy developed seven themed guest rooms including Elk, Fish, Bear, Cowboy, Indian and the Fishing Hole.

The B&B’s greatest allure is not so much the lodge but the hosts. Nick and Sandy make this a personalized place with her home-cooked meals and his hilarious stories of the area’s history and activities. And not to be forgotten is Eula, Nick’s mother, who somehow topped them both when it came to cooking up humor and food.

Before going to bed, I stood out on the deck watching the Imnaha River wind through the valley. The orange moon pierced through the black-violet night and the silence penetrated. I gained an appreciation for this place where the Imnaha River and the star-studded heavens both seemed just a stone’s throw away.

Imnaha River Trail
We took Nick’s advice and hiked the 10-mile roundtrip Imnaha River Trail (or Cow Creek Trail). Its allures include early spring access without snow, a profusion of wildflowers and front-row seats as the Imnaha River Valley’s steep, jagged canyon narrows before merging with the Snake River.

We followed the country road for 15 miles. Shortly after the B&B, the pavement turned into a steep, narrow dirt road that is negotiable with a passenger car but high-clearance vehicles are recommended.

We parked at the Cow Creek Bridge, checked out the salmon and steelhead trap sites in the river, and then hit the trail. The hike was enjoyable but Nick had warned us about rattlesnakes in the area so we kept our eyes open. Well, John kept his eyes open while I took his ears out with my yelps each time we spotted ‘em.

After a leisurely (albeit stressful) 5-mile hike along the river, we reached the confluence with the Snake River. We stretched out on a rock and observed the gurgling waters clash, spurt and then merge into a fluid motion. American dippers dive-bombed the river, the sunbeams illuminating their heads as if their avian blood was radioactive.

As we reluctantly turned back, we heard a buzzing sound foreign to our environs. Soon, an anomalous motorboat passed by. “What is that?” I queried. John informed me it was a mail boat.

“Well, where’s the female boat?” I joked.

His reaction confirmed that I am often my best (and only) audience.

We then drove the poorly maintained yet awe-inspiring mountain passage another 15 miles to Dug Bar in Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area and on the Nez Perce (Nee-Me-Poo) National Historic Trail. Upon dropping down several feet to the Snake River, we reached the traditional crossing site where the Chief Joseph band forded immediately before the 1877 Nez Perce War. Although they did not know it at the time, this treacherous crossing was the band’s farewell to their homeland.

We drove back up the steep gorge to the apex of the mountains and paused to venerate the 360-degree view. The only boundaries of this world were the mountains’ hazy, purple curtains beyond which the horizon shimmered in the distance.

Back to “Civilization”
I realize that extolling Imnaha is very atypical. Inevitably, most people who drive through town breeze right by its three buildings—the post office, the Imnaha Store and Tavern, and the café—without a second glance. And I can’t really blame them.

But John and I were fortunate to stumble upon this hamlet when it came to life. Take a Thursday night, add some oil and oysters and you have one hoppin’ fry-fest at the tavern. Daily coffee hour at 9 p.m. also brings the locals out in spades as the day’s gossip is tossed around.

Built in 1908, almost 100 years of history is crammed on the tavern walls—old pictures, funny sayings, animal trophies and old license plates. Hundreds of dollar bills plaster the ceiling of this tavern that doubles as a general store. That night, the pool table doubled as a dinner table to accommodate the crowds.

I sauntered up to the bar to get the inside scoop. As luck would have it, I not only stumbled upon locals, but THE locals—Fred Warnock and Kelly Clark Both have deep roots in Imnaha, and were delighted to share them with me.

Imnaha is best known for its annual Bear and Rattlesnake Feed, which is held the third weekend of September. The 12th annual party will feature a rodeo, parade, dance and yep, you guessed it—fried rattlesnake and barbequed bear. The event has grown so popular that more than 300 people killed and donated rattlesnakes for the cause last year, their signatures proudly displayed on a banner in the store.

As for the dollar bills, tradition has it that when the store finally closes its doors for the last time, they’re throwing a huge retirement party. The money contains the name and phone number of those who want to be on the invitation list.

After an engaging evening, Fred announced that I needed to leave my mark on the ceiling. I pulled out a dollar bill and followed his instructions involving a pushpin and a quarter. I was then left alone to throw my bill at the ceiling in hopes it would find a place among the other revelers.

Sound easy? Think again. I knew my margin of error would be huge on this one. Fred and Kelly encouraged me. John pretended he did not know me. I won’t divulge how many attempts it took but after the first few times (and close calls), the locals caught on that I am not someone to be ignored when a sharp projectile is placed in my hands.

When my dollar bill finally stuck, I had quite the audience. I’m not sure if their cheers were for my success or that they no longer felt threatened. Regardless, it was the perfect capstone to a charismatic region that gives a glimpse at both heaven and hell.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Havasupai, Arizona: A Garden of Eden in the Desert

June 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2000. ©

Perhaps it is a bit of a hyperbole to describe Havasupai as a “Garden of Eden”.

Sure, it is a stunning region of glistening waterfalls and verdant foliage that are especially luminescent under a full moon. But our group of intrepid hikers also encountered our fair share of serpents in this garden, which amounted to danger. Big danger.

From the ferocious food-mongering stray dogs to the vile dwellings of doom known only as “the toilets”- to the deadly snare of the black hole in our campsite, to our leader’s murky sleeping chambers that we reverently referred to as “the tarp.”

Albeit risky, this trip to Havasupai amounted to high adventure. Located in the western reaches of the Grand Canyon, it is no surprise that this place is referred to as the Shangri-La of Arizona. Maze-like canyons wind through a dusty brown landscape and eventually descend upon an oasis of turquoise waters at the foot of four cascading waterfalls. A narrow green ribbon-Havasu Creek-connects them all as it cuts through the red canyon floor. A heat-induced hallucination? Not quite-try Havasupi!

It had been years since I traveled into the backcountry with a large group, and our group of 11 was like no other:

Ray – Sadistic Leader(S.L.)a.k.a. Tarp Man
Travis – Little guy with the fast feet
Julie – Kodak spokesperson
Robert – Guy with the patience of Job
Melvin – Keeper of S.L.’s blackmail Panda stories
Preston – Lopsided backpack man
Brent – Maniacal barefoot trail walker
Layne – Packer of the kitchen sink
Trisha – Giggly newlywed
Marshall – Camp dog
Me – CEO of Moleskin, Inc.

We arrived at the trailhead early on a mid-April afternoon. The sky was thankfully overcast, providing a reprieve from the region’s typically scalding temperatures. After unloading my gear, I stood for a moment on the canyon rim overlooking the parched desert before me. From here on the arid Hualapai Hilltop, the thought of Havasupai’s green and azure paradise seemed downright whimsical.

Thirteen-year-old Travis led the way down the moderately steep 1.5-mile descent to the canyon floor, and then along the Hualapai trail, which twists 6.5 miles through a flat wash to the village of Supai. The convoluted canyon’s steep and embayed cliffs dwarfed us at every turn. This dramatic sweep of sandstone was punctuated by dizzying rock pinnacles that caused us to frequently pause for orientation and inspiration.

We were alone on the trail, except for the occasional mules hauling backpacks and mail through the wash. Ray assumed the role of Tour Guide Extraordinaire. “See that tree over there?” he asked. We all leaned forward expectantly, awaiting profundity. “That is a green tree . . . with purple flowers.” His banal banter continued- from “orange flowers” to “flowing creek” to identifying graffiti on the walls as pictographic evidence that “white man was here.” Julie (somehow) seemed impressed because she had her camera out at every turn.

Despite Ray’s comic relief, the arid stillness of our narrow confines stifled at times and our packs weighed heavily on us. I looked sympathetically at Preston, whose loosely attached sleeping bag flopped with every step. And then at Layne, who in anticipation of his first backpacking trip since Boy Scouts, was overloaded with brand spankin’ new gear. Regardless, everyone remained upbeat.

About 1.5 miles before the village, the canyon opened into a wide plain shaded by cottonwood trees was correct and Havasu Creek was no mirage in the desert. We finally arrived at Supai, home to more than 500 Havasupai Indians. The tribe, whose name means “people of the blue waters,” has lived in this isolated country for centuries. They once farmed the fertile canyon floor each summer then moved to the plateau after harvest to gather abundant wild foods and firewood during the winter.

Though we already had a confirmed reservation, we still had to sign in at the Tourist Office and pay the rest of our dues ($15 per person). Conditions in town were cluttered and unkempt path and stray dogs lapped at our feet. We wandered, checked out the rodeo grounds, café and general store, and then watched a chopper land. For a price, less adventurous trekkers can buy their way into this canyon. Then again, flights in that dilapidated helicopter looked like they held their own high adventure.

The campground was another 2 miles from Supai, so we continued through Havasu Canyon to where the creek tumbles over the limestone cliffs of Navajo Falls. Less known than Havasu and
Mooney Falls, this 75-foot waterfall branches out into a series of smaller waterfalls that cascade into a pool shielded by lush foliage.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Havasu Falls, just half a mile from the campground. Pummeling 100 feet down travertine columns and shelves that were formed by limestone deposits, its blue-green color rivaled the jealous sky. Dusk only intensified the saturation of its brilliant waters and red-rock backdrop.

We paused for only a few minutes before continuing to the mile-long campground that was nestled along Havasu Creek. Most of the campsites were just off the main trail and a freshwater spring provided drinking water. We found an area that was somewhat secluded from the bustling crowds and proceeded to pitch our tents. That is, most of us pitched our tents; Ray had instead opted to take the easy and lightweight route by packing a tarp for shelter. An hour after the rest of us had set up camp and eaten dinner, he was still struggling to secure the tarp as he recited his knots aloud. So much for ease of use.

The next morning I rose before the sun but after the stirring dogs. Following a brief mishap when I discovered the camouflaged hole in our campsite the hard way, I limped to the dreaded outhouse. On the way, I was struck by the desire to visit Havasu Falls. I had yet to see them in daylight, but the thought of witnessing them by myself before sunrise was appealing.

I wasn’t disappointed. A light wind carried the falls’ mists like dust through this mystical lagoon. I expected the colors to be dim in the early light, but instead they had caught fire when touched by dawn’s cool brilliance. I tested the waters with my toe. The air was brisk and the water colder, yet adrenaline pushed me to jump in. It pulled me out even faster.

By the time I reluctantly made my way back to camp, sunrise had awakened the surrounding peaks and campers as dawn sketched patterns in the sky. Ray quickly discovered his food was missing. After searching all over the campsite we could only deduce one thing: the roaming dogs must have feasted on it the night before. Sympathetically, we thrust food his way. “Beware of dog” took on a new meaning in Havasupai’s campground.

An hour later, drowsy newlyweds Marshall and Trisha emerged from their tent. The rest of us were discussing Tarp Man’s great loss when Marshall plopped down at the table and innocently said, “Hey, I don¹t know whose this is, but someone left it out last night,” and tossed Ray’s bag of food down on the table. Laughter followed shock as we identified the dog to beware.

We had plenty of options for our day of exploration. We could: 1) Hike up the small side canyon to the east of Havasu Falls; 2) Follow another trail that can be reached by carefully climbing up a steep rocky area near the village cemetery along the west rim of Havasu Canyon that leads to Beaver Falls; 3) Hike along Havasu Creek another 8 miles to where it flows into the Colorado River; 4) Continue a few miles down Havasu Canyon and swim below Mooney and Beaver Falls.

We chose the last option and hiked to Mooney Falls, a hike of half a mile beyond the campground. Heralded as the most impressive of the area’s waterfalls, they plummet 196 feet into a vibrant pool that is a popular swimming hole. Gazing down from the steep ledge, it takes little imagination to see how prospector Daniel Mooney (after whom the falls are christened) fell to his death in 1880.

With the aid of chains and iron stakes, we eased down the steep, precipitous trail that descends through the travertine’s handiwork which resembled petrified waterfalls (or were we the petrified ones?) We were fascinated, awestruck and nervous as we passed through two tunnels that dulled the resounding drum of the falls. Upon reaching the bottom, we jumped into the chilly waters. I marveled how Mooney Falls was as much a visual splendor as an experiential one.

We then continued along the creek’s moist banks. Lush with cottonwood, willow, wild grapes and watercress, they provide a dense haven for hummingbirds, mallards and rock squirrels. The trail, though rough in places, offered a welcome sense of variety versus the flat wash that brought us to the campground. We climbed into the cliffs, passed by countless travertine pools and traversed the creek. After several crossings, a very frustrated Brent ditched his damp shoes and went barefoot, defying the sharp rocks and prickly cacti along the trail.

We discovered a swimming hole at our first river crossing and as a bonus stripped down to our bathing suits and took our turns swinging into the tranquil pool. Robert and Travis then opted to patiently wait while the rest of the group continued a few more miles to Beaver Falls. The largest of the travertine pools and small cascades, this area was more difficult to find and less frequented than the other falls.

When we finally headed back to camp, I marveled how I could feel such isolation and solitude while surrounded by so many people. Perhaps that was the magic of this canyon. It was only when I saw footprints meandering haphazardly along the trail that the presence of others was brought into my realm of serenity.

Dinner was uneventful. No missing food. No black holes. Just Melvin’s entertaining blackmail stories, Trisha’s contagious giggle and a smorgasbord of chow as we tried to devour everything to avoid packing it out the next day. And not to be forgotten was Ray’s glorified chicken noodle soup. Oh, I mean delicious angel hair pasta dish. Even the adopted camp dog (the real one, not Marshall) was invited to partake of our goods.

At dusk, we made our way down to Havasu Falls and were surprised to find that we were alone. The hues of the ebbing sun and presence of our group changed this beautiful place that had seemed frozen in time that morning. It came to life as we played Frisbee, explored the filmy curtains of travertine that produced small caves at the base of the falls, and enjoyed one another’s company.

I sat quietly for a few minutes breathing in my final scent of the spray before we headed back. Two torrents of water sliced down the canyon and bellowed over the falls. Perched between them a lone tree sat, defying erosion. Below, the subtle silver paints from nature’s palette glazed the cliffs as a waxing moon fought for space in the clouds until it finally dominated the ebony sky.
As we walked back, the full moon set the trail aflame.

“Look,” someone commented, “It’s almost like we have a spotlight on us!”

I looked around at our group and it was true radiance made us glow like beacons in the desert…a Garden of Eden in the desert

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: ,

This Mommy Blogger’s Murphy’s Law Life on the Road

June 8, 2009 By

This is one of the few summers I will not be returning to The Motherland a.k.a. Canada. It is no secret that I despise the heat. I blame my Canuckian roots and our glorious 70-degree summers. Anything over 85 degrees makes me combust and my body breaks out in a heat rash.

Having 10 pounds of hair doesn’t help, either.

To beat the heat, my family and I will be launching our own Tour de Colorado. For the next few months, we will be traveling all over the state and documenting the best family vacations. And our worst family moments. Here is a preview of what happened on our first Colorado “staycation” to Chautauqua in Boulder two weeks ago.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvf7Pv4_PQk&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3]

My Murphy’s Law life aside, many of our chosen destinations are in the mountains. Because high elevation = big cooldown for this overheated mama. I was recently complaining to my husband Jamie about a jump in temperature from the mid-60s to low-90s and how my body just couldn’t adjust.

“You see, Jamie. I need it to be like that frog in water.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, as the story goes: if you put a frog in boiling water, he simply jumps out because it is too hot. You should make it more gradual. You should put him in lukewarm water and gradually turn up the temperature.”

“Amber, that is not better for the frog. In the end, he dies.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family, Family travel, Humor, travel

Happy 5th Birthday to Hurricane Hadley!

May 25, 2009 By

Dearest Hadley,

I cannot believe you turned 5 today; it seems like just yesterday you turned 4! This was a magical year. You were not colicky, you did not keep me up all night, you were not throwing toddler tantrums nor were you potty training. In fact, I did not want to ship you off to Grandma and Grandpa B’s in Canada even once this year. That is progress and definitely love.

Speaking of Grandma B, you have a new obsession with talking to her on the phone. You are learning how to dial her number and will rattle on for ages. In fact, sometimes I’ll completely forget you’re even talking to her and will rescue Grandma B an hour later. It’s nice that your chatty Grandma has finally met her match. We knew what we were doing when we named you Hadley “Christine” after her.

Of course, sometimes you’re a bit too eager to share, like when you told your friend Maeve (whom you hadn’t seen for a while), “First I was sick, then I had lice. Now I’m constipated.”

Charming.

You cannot wait to start kindergarten in the fall. Last week, you started complaining about preschool for the first time. When I asked you why you didn’t like it, you claimed it was because your teachers make you listen. Imagine that! Good thing you don’t have to do that at home, either! I forewarned you that kindergarten is equal unto boot camp and you will likely do military-like listening drills every single day. But you were unfazed. The reason? You finally get to ride The School Bus! The greatest thing in the world!

Until you actually experience the sad reality of riding in it.

You had a busy year and are learning to ride your bike without training wheels. You have also taken up roller-blading and were a veritable ski bunny in Keystone and Park City. But your favorite of all was ice-skating on Keystone Lake. You were thrilled you didn’t need Mommy’s help and were performing a triple-axle by the end of the day. At no other time have your Canadian roots shone so brightly.

Except for when you decided to run through the sprinklers when it was 40 degrees outside.

You are currently enrolled in gymnastics, you played soccer last fall and will be in swim lessons this summer. You enjoy them all but are not passionate about any of them. When I was talking about this to your father, I mentioned I wished I could figure out what your niche is. Daddy looked at the long trail of paper, scissors, markers and storybooks that you write every day and queried, “Gee, you can’t figure it out?”

I’m a little slow. You see, I never thought I would breed a Starving Artist so I never viewed your affinity toward writing books and drawing beautiful pictures as a legitimate pastime. But I am thrilled for your wonderful imagination and maybe for your sixth birthday, I will introduce you to the ultimate outlet for all your stories.

It is called a blog.

Which means you will officially be A Chip Off The Old Blog.

Your obsession with getting a dog continues and you adopt every stuffed animal you see. For those following this saga, you are on Year 3 of wanting a pet. Daddy still hasn’t surrendered his “Not until everyone is potty trained” policy but as Bode gets closer and closer, Daddy is sweating bullets. We consoled you that your Aunt Lisa–who just bought her first house–plans get a dog. You finally had a ray of hope until she divulged she first has to save up some money.

Clever girl that you are, you snuck into Lisa’s room, put $2 in an envelope and set it on her pillow. We did not make a connection until your evening prayers when you humbly pleaded with the good Lord to help dear Aunt Lisa have enough money for a dog. So nice of you to help fund such a worthy cause.

With money that you stole from your father.

Speaking of swiping, remember that one time you took Mommy’s camera and shot a little video of your own? It resulted in the first YouTube video I have ever posted.

If the blogging thing doesn’t work out, I foresee a future in Hollywood.


You love Colorado’s outdoor playgrounds. Last weekend, we had a staycation in Boulder and we stayed in a darling cottage in Chautauqua, one of our favorite areas. One night, we went for a hike when the sun was setting behind the Flat Iron mountains and the air was so sweet we could taste it. You were in your element. As we trekked up Bluebell Road, you blew seeds from a dandelion and announced, “I wish Mommy would always love the mountains.”

And I hope you will always share that love with me. I know we sometimes clash but it’s because we’re so much alike. I see so much of my good…and bad in you. You are delightful, spirited, charming, funny, stubborn, bossy and creative. From Day 1, you have humbled us and our world has revolved around you.

We wouldn’t have you any other way.

With love,

Mommy

P.S. For Grandma and Grandpa: I had a fun time reading back upon Haddie’s previous birthday letters. To get caught up: her 2nd birthday, 3rd birthday and 4th birthday.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Family travel, Hadley, Humor, travel

Good Karma Yurting in Sun Valley, Idaho

May 15, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001

Men. You’d think after surviving a lifetime of torment as the only sister in a family of brothers I’d have a clue. I don’t.

This was confirmed during a recent trip to Sun Valley with my friend John as he gunned my Jeep up a precarious road. It was evident that my warning, “Hey don’t forget about the bikes on top” was completely lost on him when he replied “Great point, Amber. We can ride them back out when we get stuck.” We somehow made it out alive but that was just the first of many perplexing glimpses into the male psyche during the trip.

The Valley of Sun
What took nature millions of years to create has in the last several decades become the outdoor playground for the rich and famous. Sun Valley and neighboring Ketchum are gold-plated European-style resort towns with a gentrified Western feel.

While celebrities, gilded shop signs, a clock tower, opera house and fine dining all characterize Sun Valley, there is a lot more to this celebrity enclave than meets the eye. Venture a few miles out of town and you will encounter the largest roadless area in the lower 48, much of it encompassing the 756,000-acre Sawtooth National Recreation Area.

Not to be missed is the 8,701-foot Galena Summit Overlook, which marks the separation of two watersheds: the Big Wood to the South and the Salmon to the North. Galena has expansive views of many of the 40 gray needlelike spires that march more than 10,000 feet across the 35-mile Sawtooth range. With 300 lakes, four mountain ranges, and headwaters that feed four of the region’s major rivers, the Sawtooths provide what money can never buy.

Conversion in Sun Valley
John and I wanted a unique backcountry experience, so we turned to Sun Valley Trekking, featured in Outside magazine for their hut-to-hut backcountry skiing. Co-owner Carrie Douglas informed us that only one of their five yurts—Coyote—remains open during the summer because of Forest Service permit restrictions.

Nestled at 8,700 feet in a stand of spruce and fir, Coyote has a vast network of hiking and mountain biking trails for all abilities: from rolling Jeep roads for beginners, to hardcore singletrack leading to Baker Lake, to fat-tire classic Adams Gulch. Throw in some spectacular views of Boulder and Pioneer Mountains and you’ve got a yurt made for a Mongolian King in a Sun-kissed Valley.

Sound too good to be true? Yep. It was May and the yurt was still surrounded by snow. Carrie suggested we take advantage of one of their lower-elevation yurts—Fishhook—before they took it down for the summer. A 2.2-mile hike from Redfish Lake leads to this yurt where the Sawtooth’s highest peak—10,766-foot Thompson Peak—stands sentry.

It was not her description of the environs that piqued John’s curiosity, but rather the fact there was a hot tub at the yurt. That is, if you consider an old trough heated by a wood-burning stove a hot tub. John was not rattled when she told him it would take 70 buckets of water from the nearby creek to fill it.

He deflected my disparaging look. “I’ll fill that tub myself,” he announced. His machismo then proved spiritual: “It will be good Zen.” Good Zen? Last I heard, he was not a convert to Buddhism.

We set out on our Zen-ith experience to Redfish Lake, about 60 miles north of Sun Valley on Highway 75. We stopped atop Galena Pass. The sweeping views of the Salmon River’s headwaters reflexively caused a deep, whistling intake of breath. The descent into the postcard-perfect Sawtooth Valley was effortless, the mountains growing larger until we were swallowed by their shadows.

We arrived at Redfish Lake, snuggled under 10,229-foot Mount Heyburn. Named for the sockeye salmon that once spawned there by the thousands, Redfish is the Sawtooth’s largest and most popular lake.

Once at the Redfish Lake trailhead, we loaded food, clothes and sleeping bags in our backpacks. Carrie recommended we pack lightly because the yurt provided most essentials such as matches, dishes, lanterns, a stove and sleeping pads. We set out on the easy trail and wound along Fishhook Creek through a forested valley.

After a 2.2-mile jaunt, we came to an open meadow and a view of Williams and Thompson Peaks. The area is a compendium of striking vistas and a labyrinth of streams that mirror serrated peaks chiseled by a goliath’s saw.

A Yurt, a Trough and Zen
We bushwhacked back through the forest about a quarter-mile until we found the yurt–
rustic, remote and fortified by a wall of firewood. Bunk beds lined one side of the concave walls, a rectilinear table divided sleeping and cooking quarters, and mice had left their droppings as welcome.

John immediately started hauling buckets of water to the hot tub. Ten trips into it, the shirt came off. Thirty-eight buckets later, he was weary but finished.

We then explored the area. The yurt’s guidebook contained a topographical map with a gallimaufry of hiking routes. Our options for the next day were to summit snow-covered Thompson or Williams Peaks (we had no mountaineering gear), bushwhack a few miles using a map and compass to Yurt Lake (we had no compass) or to hike the well-marked 10-mile round-trip trail to Marshall Lake. We chose the latter.

Upon return from our explorations, John gathered kindling and chopped firewood. It finally came time for the pinnacle Zen cleansing: to light the fire. I reverently stood by. And I kept standing by for quite some time. John had made the inauspicious discovery there were no matches. Anywhere.

I am sure that even Buddha would have had a good chuckle over this one. After an hour of ransacking the yurt, we halfheartedly settled down to eat (note: no matches plus a gas stove equals a cold dinner).

During our meal, John thought to read the yurt guidebook, which disclosed the location of the matches. Now, this would mean good Karma for most, but not for John. While I leisurely watched a double sunset: one igniting the peaks, the other shimmering across the water, John spent four hours chopping wood and stoking the fire. He finally took a brief plunge around 11 p.m.

And his payback? He was so sore and tired that he couldn’t get out of bed the next morning. So much for our hike to Marshall Lake. Ahhh, men. Or would that be Zen?

Mountain Biking with Karma
We eventually backpacked out and then drove to Hulen Meadows, just outside of Ketchum. I left John to ponder his Zen experience while I went in-line skating. A paved 21-mile bike path winds from Ketchum to Bellevue through the Wood River Valley. I took a 14-mile chunk out of the beautiful trail that winds along the Big Wood River, through residential lands and past Sun Valley Resort.

Carrie had recommended a few areas outside of Ketchum for mountain biking that included the fat-tire classic Adams Gulch, the Norton Lakes Loop off Baker Creek Road, and the Fox Creek Trail, often referred to as the best all-around trail in the region. Again, we chose the latter.

In keeping with bad Karma, the Fox Creek Trail was closed due to high water damage from the river. We resorted to the Adams Gulch Trails network, within a short distance of downtown Ketchum. Unfortunately, we were not the only ones who chose the area—the parking lot was full when we arrived in the popular valley.

We had a couple of options. We could do the 5.5-mile loop, often called the ultimate loop in the Sawtooths, with numerous side trails and a complimentary grind during a steep 1,270-foot ascent. Or we could opt to do the Adam’s Gulch Trail, a 14-mile out-and-back with a 2,450-foot elevation gain. My sources at the trailhead used such descriptors as technical, serious and abusive. We chose the former.

It should have been the wise decision but we did not have time to fully study the map before two busloads of children arrived. Panicked by the threat of a kiddy obstacle course, we set out in the counter-clockwise direction. The only thing I could remember about the Adams Gulch Loop was that the trail started on a Jeep road. (We started on singletrack.) And that there were several stream crossings on the ascent. (The trail was dry.)

With 6-year-olds hot on our wheels, we eased through aspen groves and tight lodgepole forests. It was a climb of attrition, as biking turned into hike-a-biking in some of the steeper areas. The ascent made me forget why I like mountain biking.

But it was during our wet-footed, mud-dotted descent that I remembered. A white-knuckled
downhill led us over epic singletrack and several stream crossings. Footbridges are in place so getting splattered is optional, but all of the traverses are rideable. Well, mostly rideable. Fortunately, my inadvertent dunk was nothing short of refreshing.

We finally hit a Jeep road that felt like a freeway after the constricted trail. It took me a few moments before I clued in that this was the road we should have tackled at the beginning. We had indeed done the loop in the wrong direction. Bad Karma? Perhaps.

But hanging out in Sun Valley can only be good Zen.

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

The Flakes of Zion National Park’s West Rim Trail

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

Flakes. I can’t stand ‘em. I am, of course, referring to non-committal types; flakes of the snow variety are always welcome in my book…and most definitely on my slopes. Little did I know that my most recent trip to Zion National Park would be chock full of both.

I had already experienced most of the popular day hikes in Zion including Angels Landing, Observation Point and the Narrows, and I was itching to backpack something more remote. That something was the West Rim trail, often called the pinnacle backcountry excursion in Zion National Park. In just 14.2 miles, this moderately strenuous trail climbs along the backbone of the park and offers expansive views of a paradise where stone meets sky.

In retrospect, the trip was a gamble from the get-go because I was hooking up with a mixed-bag of friends:

Dave—Had been hanging out with him for less than a month. Seemed stable, reliable and sane (disclaimer: those were also my first impressions of Kramer.) Dave was training for a marathon and one of his favorite pastimes was night-riding Slickrock—a sure sign of water (or rocks) on the brain.

Kristy—Had dragged her along on several rigorous hikes over the years including a recent trek up Mount Olympus, after which she did not speak to me for quite some time. The West Rim was to be her first backpacking trip. Our friendship was at stake.

Mike—Volleyball buddy. Known to hit on random women in Taco Bell. No accounting for taste (regarding the restaurant and the women in question). Did Glacier National Park with him the summer prior; claimed a knee injury the day before a 20-mile hike. Instead spent the day hitting on women in the park.

Flake Number One Revealed
Upon arriving in Zion, we checked on weather conditions and obtained our backcountry permit and campsite assignment from the Visitor’s Center. We then grabbed some dinner and set up camp outside of Zion overlooking the Virgin River. That night, we watched the sun bleed into the crimson cliffs. I drifted to sleep watching lavender stars paint the sky, with no sign of either variety of flakes on the horizon for the next day.

We decided to drop Dave’s SUV at the Grotto Picnic Area in the park and then shuttle up Kolob Canyon in Mike’s vehicle and begin at Lava Point. When hiked north to south, the West Rim trail gains 1,265 feet in elevation and loses 4,825 feet. The plan was to backpack 6.8 miles from Lava Point to our campsite, spend the night, and then hike the remaining 7.4 miles to the floor of Zion Canyon. At least that was the plan.

Enter: morning. And Mike the flake. Shortly after breakfast, he announced he was not coming because he felt unprepared for adverse conditions. We had learned at the Visitor’s Center that it would probably rain or snow on the rim that night—a precaution I had given them prior to the trip. It was, after all, late-November, and the peak season for doing the West Rim is May – October. And so the first flake materialized.

Mike reluctantly agreed to shuttle us into the park to drop off Dave’s vehicle at the Grotto Picnic Area and we then followed Kolob Terrace Road to Lava Point. Beginning at the town of Virgin, 15 miles west of the South Entrance, the road climbs north into Kolob Canyon past jutting rocks, towering cliffs, and high plateaus, gaining 4,400 feet in elevation over 16 miles. The road winds past the Guardian Angel Peaks and eventually ends up at Lava Point, a fire lookout station at 7,900 feet.

It was noon when Mike finally dropped us off at the Lava Point trailhead and we were behind schedule by several hours. I surveyed my fellow backpackers. Dave, the king of supplements, downed his Blue Ox and graciously gave me a swig as he expounded upon the benefits of energy drinks. Kristy was nervous, yet eager. I inwardly chuckled as she strapped on my old Lowe backpack, its colors an obnoxious pink and teal medley.

It was very en vogue in the early ‘90s when I bought it. Really.

Storming Horse Pasture Plateau at Lightening Speed
The road leading up to the trailhead was closed because of snow so we hiked an additional 1.3 miles until we reached the West Rim marker. Once on the trail, we quickly passed a junction with the Wildcat Canyon Connector Trail. We soon found ourselves atop Horse Pasture Plateau. Over half of the hike is spent atop this finger of land that points toward Angels Landing. The trail often skirted close to the rim and we watched the wilderness unfold in shades of beige, red, brown, orange and yellow.

Blackened hulks of trees littered the plateau, remnants of the wildfire that ravaged the area in 1996. Numerous charred snags attested to frequent lightening strikes in the high country. I looked to the sky. Murky clouds were creeping in and a storm was palpable. For the first time, I made a connection between the weather and our surroundings; a lightening storm seemed inevitable on this plateau.

I was going to discuss my concerns with Dave but he had forged ahead while I hiked with Kristy. I glanced at our virgin backpacker to see if she had drawn any similar conclusions about her surroundings. Nada. She had innocently taken to quoting her favorite Simpson’s episodes, and informed me that the show could be seen 14 times a week on television. I figured it was best to keep her distracted by continuing to enlighten me with the inside scoop on Bart and Homer.

Our dramatic views really began as the trail glided up to a high overlook facing westward. The canyons began to gash deeper and deeper. We stopped and gazed at South Guardian Angel keeping watch over Left Fork Canyon. As we continued southward, North Guardian Angel, the fang-shaped crag to the right, appeared in this cut of Zion.

We followed the spine of the park until the trail led us down into Potato Hollow’s grassy meadow—the 5.2-mile mark (or 6.7 miles for us). We hiked through this narrow valley, passing an overgrown pond and a spring that fed into an old stock tank. Overgrown grasses, fir and pine sheltered our route. Numerous corpses of trees, scorched silver and black, were strewn around the meadow. New aspens were beginning to repopulate the area around the spring, breathing new life into this sheltered hollow.

Flake Number Two Revealed
Beyond the trail to our right was a campsite, the first of several designated sites along the West Rim. We had been assigned site No. 7 from the Visitor’s Center. The ranger had promised me this rooftop view overlooked some of Zion’s grandest wonders. I had envisioned we would arrive early in the day, set up camp, and then eat dinner while admiring the rose and purple canyons cast against an autumn sky.

But that was prior to the flaky Mike setback. What we got instead was dusk and an introduction to a second kind of flake—snow.

From Potato Hollow the trail turned south and we climbed steadily to regain the ridgetops. We made the final pitch and reached a junction with the Telephone Canyon trail as flurries set in. We needed to find our site, and we needed to find it fast. We took the right fork of the trail and were relieved to see a campsite marker in the distance. We were finally at lucky No. 7…or not.

As we drew closer, we discovered it was No. 6.; we had somehow missed our assigned campsite. We took one look at the sky and figured No. 6 was lucky enough for us. We quickly pitched our tents and dove in just as the snowstorm started pelting us.

Kristy felt ill but was still in good spirits. After dinner, I planned to share insights from my Zion guidebook with her. What I read did little to foster enthusiasm. As it turned out, my fears were confirmed: we were camped in an area that was notorious for getting struck by lightening during storms. In 1980, a lightning-caused fire blitzed the area, opening up westward views of Greatheart Mesa. A stellar view did not comfort me in the least, especially if we wouldn’t survive the night to enjoy it.

Kristy must have sensed my uneasiness. “So, what’re you reading?” she inquired. “Oh, nothing of major interest,” I casually replied. No sense in scaring the babe in the woods. If I thought she was mad at me for dragging her up Mount Olympus, getting struck by lightening would amount to a lifetime of the silent treatment.

Dave paid us a visit and I laughed as we jammed his 6’1 frame into our two-person tent, along with our two bulking backpacks. Mr. Supplements had a contraband cure for Kristy’s ailments—black market Canadian painkillers—and Kristy gratefully downed them. She then curled up in her sleeping bag so we had a wide-angle view of her backside, mumbled that she just couldn’t find a sociable position, and then she was out like a light. Dave and I kicked back and listened to the sky’s eruption continue unabated around us for a couple of hours before calling it a night.

I awoke to a flash of lightening at 2:30 a.m., which even roused Kristy from her drug-induced slumber. We listened to the constant hiss and flutter of the wind and snow on the tent. We timed the thunder and lightening in the distance. The strikes started minutes apart and slowly crept closer until the increments were a matter of mere seconds. We found ourselves no longer witnessing the storm from the sidelines, but a part of the perilous action.

I instructed Kristy to discard of any metal she may have had in her pack and peered outside. Herds of sinister clouds raced in the sky, imprinting the landscape with a shifting matrix of blinding snow. The only reprieves from the fusillade of snow whirling around were the colossal thunderheads that illuminated the heavens with surreal bursts of gold and blue lightening. Despite the drum roll that was pounding in my chest, I had to admit that the storm had a cold,
phantasmal beauty.

After what seemed like an eternity, the lightning inched away. Kristy drifted back to a restless slumber, constantly shifting and moaning. I poked her every few minutes to quiet her down, while also whacking the heavy snow off the tent. Suffice it to say, I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.

A New Glimpse at Zion
By 5 a.m., the storm had subsided, leaving only light flurries. A foot of fresh snow was heaped on the plateau, and we were relieved to discover we could still decipher the trail. We backtracked to the Telephone Canyon junction and opted to take the Telephone Canyon trail instead of the Rim Route as originally intended.

The latter of the two would have been ideal for a clear day and offers the best views from atop the rim. But visibility was nil at that point and our primary concern was getting down the mountain. And so we chose the shorter descent, which eventually joined the Rim Route at West Rim Spring Junction.

Dave assumed the role of pathfinder. We sandwiched Kristy between the two of us. Despite a thorny initiation into backpacking, she was in great spirits and relished in the beauty of the snow.
And best of all, she was still speaking to me. Who would’ve thought that climbing Mount Olympus would be more traumatic than almost getting blasted by lightning in the middle of nowhere? I had underestimated the dear girl and Mr. Rocks-on-the-brain.

It snowed lightly as we shot down narrow Telephone Canyon. The snow pampered our every step and the surrounding monoliths looked like they had been embedded with millions of glimmering crystal deposits. We finally reached the West Rim Spring, where a slow flow of water seeped from the ground to feed an algae-choked pool. Shrieking birds swirled like snowflakes past the fingertips of the quaking aspens and Arizona cypresses that sheltered the spring.

From here, the main trail began its descent, traversing a sheer wall of sandstone. Our views opened northward to Mystery Canyon. Morning’s white beams streamed upon the pure snow that blanketed the canyon’s tall pillars. We wound through a lush gulch of Douglas fir and spruce underlain by bigtooth maple and Gambel oak. Their branches drooped by the weight of the snow, bowing in reverence to the storm that had ruled its environs.

We continued our steady descent around the base of Mount Majestic, bottomed out at a bridge over a side canyon and then began a steady climb. As we neared the top of the grade, we were greeted with a view of the Mountain of Mystery, Great White Throne and the Red Arch Mountains. The route turned slick when we reached a passage of naked bedrock. We methodically eased by the cairns, fluidly shifting weight between our feet, calmly studying the route’s curves and bulges.

We soon began the descent to the base of Angels Landing where it reaches a trail junction at Scout Overlook. When it came into full view, we stopped, gawked and succumbed to our tourist instincts by taking pictures. Like a hooded monk with a pure, white cloak, Angels Landing presided over the valley. The sculptured textures of its knife-edge ridge were sheer brilliance in the morning light.

And at this epiphanous moment atop the world (after realizing I was not going to die), it hit me—the West Rim trail had introduced me to a new Zion. Prior to my backcountry adventure, the park had conjured up many defining images: it was a day hike down a narrow canyon, a thrilling scramble up the precipitous cliffs of Angels Landing, and the quiet appreciation of sunset over majestic peaks.

But my Zion was now a collage of images and secrets veiled in deep canyons and high-forested plateaus. Where sheer rock buttresses seamed with snow pressed in from both sides, rising like the shoulders of a malevolent god. Where even the air had a shimmering, crystalline quality and distant peaks seemed close enough to touch.

Not bad for a flaky trip.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: ,

Dominican Republic: Taking the Merengue to Extreme Heights

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide Magazine, 2000.

I wobbled up the final passage of the rigorous ascent. My feet were swollen with blisters and my dirt-splattered legs screamed out in fatigue. In the past few days I had mountain biked, bushwhacked, swam, climbed and rafted, all on minimal sleep. I looked like a woman in dire need of a vacation, when in fact, I was on one.

I was in the Dominican Republic–the Caribbean’s answer to extreme outdoor vacations. As the only place in the Caribbean that offers mountain biking, rafting, hiking, snorkeling and horseback riding, this island serves as the perfect retreat for any outdoor lover who seeks to do more than indolently worship sun gods on pristine sandy beaches.

The Dominican Republic is a tale of the highest of highs and lowest of lows. It hosts the highest point in the Caribbean–Pico Duarte-which, at 10,417 feet, reflects atypical characteristics like pine trees and below-freezing temperatures. Less than 70 miles away is the lowest point found anywhere in the Caribbean–the salty Enriquillo Lake at 144 feet below sea level.

Couple these extremes with the fact that 11 percent of the island’s land mass is set aside in the form of 16 national parks replete with crystal clear mountain rivers and thundering waterfalls and it’s no surprise that this country is becoming the Eco-tour capitol of the Caribbean.

Mountain Bikin’ With Mama
My adventure began in Cabarete. Located on the northern shore of the aqua-tinted Atlantic Ocean, this coastal village is an internationally renowned haven for windsurfers. It also serves as a point of departure for numerous Eco-tours.

While I usually enjoy exploring new terrain on my own terms, hooking up with a local guide is almost a necessity in this country. With hundreds of miles of trails of breathtaking downhills and challenging singletrack, the untouched quality of the Dominican Republic makes it difficult to explore the backcountry unaccompanied.

I turned to Iguana Mama, the oldest licensed adventure tour operator in the Dominican Republic. The owner, American-born resident Tricia Thorndike de Suriel, is practically revered in Cabarete. In addition to setting up Eco guidelines within the national parks, Tricia donates 20 percent of Iguana Mama’s income toward local schools and parks.

Our tour group was as varied as the terrain: a few hard-core Rocky Mountain bikers, a couple Scots who coined the mantra “When’s the booze?” as motivation to keep pumping, and a few East coasters who had to be introduced to the “shocking” new technology of front-suspension on our Specialized mountain bikes (note: disclaimer on their lame pun).

Our motley crew started our trek at the summit of the Cibao Valley in the interior of the Dominican Republic. We had a quick breakfast overlooking the valley, the largest and lushest in the Caribbean. This breadbasket is a staggering cacophony of glimmering emerald-green tobacco, rice, beans, pineapple, coffee and mango trees rooted in the deepest topsoil in the Caribbean.

It was against this incredible backdrop that we cruised down 3,000 feet of vertiginous drops and passed through impoverished villages of clapboard houses painted audacious shades of pink, purple, yellow and green. At each turn, the local children enthusiastically ran out to high five us.

I spotted several lemonade stands along the winding road. As a good Samaritan (and also a very overheated one), I figured I would contribute to the grass-roots economic community and buy a beverage. I dismounted my bike and approached one of the little entrepreneurs.

“How much?” I asked in my broken Spanish.

Dumbfounded, the boy looked at me and shook his head. Thinking it was my pathetic accent, I repeated myself, this time flashing my Dominican pesos. Still, the same response. I was confused. Did money not talk in this country?

Just as I was going to give this obstinate kid a few sales tips, one of the trip’s guides came up behind me. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me with laughter in his eyes.

“Trying to quench my thirst by contributing to the local economy.”

“Well, I suggest you do it in another way–I don’t think buying gas is going to satiate any kind of thirst. These jugs contain gas for motorists in this remote area, not drinks.”

Ohhhh. I gave the little guy a bright smile and feigned that I knew what was going on the whole time. He flung me a what-a-stupid-American look. I smugly scoffed. Little did he know–I’m Canadian. . . .

Our trip was not limited to the primitive mountain roads. We shot down epic jungle singletracks that evolved from dry, rutted footpaths scratched by farmers walking back and forth among their villages. We eased over rocky ledges that plunged giddily into deep valleys, crossed Herculean rivers and gorged on delicious fruit at a roadside fruit stand (which did indeed prove to be veritable fruit).

Our reward after a long, sweaty, sun-scorched day was a tropical oasis–a beautiful pool of water at the end of the Jamao river. I peeled off my gear and dove in headfirst, shoes and all. We leisurely soaked our battered bodies and relished the rejuvenating solitude.

Rafting the Republic’s Rapids
Our next destination was deep in the heart of the country. A beautiful mountain resort, Jarabacoa is to the Dominican Republic what Interlaken is to Switzerland–the country’s gateway to mountains and whitewater. With river rafting, canyoning, trekking, tubing, paragliding, horseback riding and jeep safaris, this is the Dominican Republic’s adventure playground.

Jarabacoa rests near the towering Pico Duarte and sits on the confluence of the turbulent rivers Jimenoa and Rio Yaque del Norte. The most significant river in the country, the Rio Yaque del Norte starts near Pico Duarte at an altitude of 8,514 feet and empties into the northwest coast.

We opted to take a bite out of this 184-mile beast and hooked up with Franz Adventuras, a rafting outfitter in Jarabacoa. We were provided with all the comforts of home on the water – wetsuits, helmets and lifejackets – and set loose on the class four rapids with our Dominican guide Lenny.

While certainly not my most extreme whitewater experience ever, the surroundings made this journey one of the most surreal. I had been warned not to expect much from the scenery due to Hurricane George’s rage that was unleashed on the area. The deforested landscape I expected was very different from what I saw.

Dripping orchids festooned the path down this deep-set valley that glistened with white water. Velvet waterfalls swooned down the mountain slopes, spilling into the rushing river. Often shielded by the lush foliage strung along the deep canyon walls, these cascades almost magically appeared at the fingertips of the foliage. In this enchanting chasm, it seemed as though the plants were weeping.

I was entranced with this tropical paradise. I was not surprised when Lenny informed us that portions of Jurassic Park were filmed in this very river valley.

The rapids were extreme enough to give me a few quality surges of adrenaline. We were introduced to the Mother-in-Law rapid and then socked by Mike Tyson. We resurrected ourselves in the Cemetery, slithered through the Snake and relieved ourselves in the Toilet. Well, uh, kind of. We hopped out of the raft and cascaded down the gurgling porcelain bowl.

Hiking “Hispanolian” Style
If there is a rite of passage in the Dominican Republic, it is conquering Pico Duarte, the Caribbean’s highest peak. Located in Parque Nacional Armando Bermudez– the granddaddy of all the mountain parks–Pico Duarte appears as a jagged mass of summits.

This strenuous 29-mile climb requires a commitment of at least two to four days, depending on conditions and routes. We had four hours.

Though I am known as an iron woman in my circles (which usually consists of a party of two: me and myself), I was barely able to take a chunk out of this spectacular hike. The 20-mile, four-wheel drive up the Yaque del Norte River valley was a large part of the adventure. We forded streams, skirted steeply terraced cropland and snaked through tiny villages where pendulous tree ferns swung over the fractured road.

The dirt road ended and trailhead began at the small village of La Ciénaga. We checked in at the park headquarters, paid a nominal fee for a permit and signed our lives and passports away to the park ranger. Because of numerous side trails, park regulations strongly suggest that hikers be accompanied by at least one park guide.

Tropical downpours can turn the steep mountain trails into muddy rivers in a matter of minutes during rainy months of May and August through November. Temperatures also drop below freezing at night, so preparation is essential.

We began at over 4,000 feet. We plunged into the park’s densely vegetated temperate zone, replete with paths of cana brava, or wild cane, and orchids. Giant fronds of waving palms grew side-by-side with bamboo and banyan trees whose root systems seemed to be above ground. These tropical trees gave way to alpine tree ferns and mountain pine canopies that dominated the skyline around 6,000 feet above sea level and continued to the crown of Pico Duarte.

A flock of birds with lime-green plumage and small white spots on their foreheads flittered in the trees as we ascended. I questioned Jackie, our Iguana Mama guide, about the name of this curious bird. While not sure of the exact name, she suspected it was a parrot of some sort.

“If all else fails, just put the word Hispanolian in front of the bird and chances are, you have half the formula,” she jokingly said. “The Dominicans aren’t very imaginative when it comes to classifying plants and animals and everything seems to start or end with Hispanolian.”

I repeated my question to Aldolpho, our Dominican guide. “Oh, that is actually our national bird and it is very rare,” he proudly announced. “We call it the Hispanolian parrot.”

The Pulsation of the Dominican Republic

Despite my many exhilarating adventures in the Dominican Republic, possibly my most memorable was a tranquil moment in Jarabacoa where we set up in a very civilized camp at the beautiful Hotel Gran Jimenoa bordering the gurgling Jimenoa river.

At dusk, I made my way down to the riverbank and settled in for the performance of a lifetime. Directly across from my perch, the exuberant tones of the merengue resounded from the bar. I listened, intrigued, as tourists and locals threw themselves into this fast and furious dance.

My attentions then turned to my natural setting. The clouds draped the upper slopes of the village, saturating the dense forest of verdant coconut palms. The water around me glistened with drops of light as I witnessed the birth of a slivered moon.

Two curious Dominican boys hesitatingly approached me. I eagerly welcomed their presence and before long, they choked out a few tunes for me on their rusty harmonica. As they played, the plaintive songs of birds bubbled to the surface in a chorus that continued full force as darkness settled upon the enigmatic gorge.

This strange but wonderful duet took my breath away–it was the witching hour of the Dominican Republic’s thrush.

Here was a place where two hearts beat as one—the frenetic merengue that pumped the cultural blood, mixed with an adventure playground that sets the pulse for anyone who chooses to venture beyond the beaten path.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel
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