The Second Long Walk

When I first met Jean-François walking the Camino, I assumed our conversation would follow the usual pattern of hello-where-are-you-from-why-are-you-walking-have-a-nice-day.  But we started talking travel, and before long he was telling me about sailing in Greenland, backcountry skiing between alpine refuges, and medical missions in Afghanistan.  I don't usually read articles or books with titles like "Top 100 Places to Go" but when he told me he'd read about a hike in Turkey that's supposedly one of the most beautiful in the world, I thought, "Well, maybe he's onto something."

The Lycean Way winds around cliffy-mountain fingers that reach into the Mediterranean from Turkey's southwest coast.  There are Bronze Age ruins, Ancient Greek ruins, villages abandoned a hundred years ago after forced relocation, family farms perched on hilltops, luxury hotels with infinity pools, traditional guesthouses, terraced olive orchards currently dotted with red poppies and dandelions and various purple flowers, and the platonic ideal of beach tucked into every cove.

The route was pieced together by a British woman (enthusiastic hiker and Turkophile), linking old donkey trails with remains of Roman and medieval roads, and forging some rough connectors.  From Fethiye to Antalya is 540 km.  We're here for five weeks; the first week we've averaged 12 km per day -- because even when the gain is reasonable, the grade is often very steep, with scree and rocks of all sorts to navigate.

There were large populations of Turks in Greece and Greeks in Turkey; unfortunately, many lives were lost and entire villages abandoned in the early 1900s.

looking down down down from Faralya

Jean-François hiking into the mist

spring is in full swing

1,000 ft down and up, abruptly

baby goat tree

Patara ruins

Mon Cheri

As previously predicted, I did indeed gaze upon glaciers, revel in the technicolor cornucopia of the supermarket, and enmesh my toes in grass as well as beach sand.

But enough burying the lead.  You guys: I joined my companion in France, and everything is très excellent.  Allow me to introduce you...

- Name: Jean-François (fact check: he is French)

- Age: 66 (not a typo)

- Meet cute: walking the Camino de Santiago, discussing our mutual interest in poetry and type-two fun  (-Is that redundant?)

- Profession: author, surgeon (retired)

- Enthusiasm for consuming cheese from a rucksack:

off the charts

A common and legitimate question is, aren't you worried he'll die or get sick?  This is not a new concern for me, I thought of this often even as a newly-married 23 year old.  Now, as then, such thoughts are eclipsed by the dazzling sense of fun and warmth that radiate from the man in question.

We have eaten so very much cheese -- it has essentially replaced dessert at the end of the meal, and served as the main course in the form of fondue and raclette during two weeks in the Alps.  And I tried unctuous Mont d'Or for the first time.  Who knew spruce bark could do so much for a cheese?

hiking near Chamonix

backcountry skiing and trying not to die (for me anyway)

Carcassonne is home to a medieval walled old city, and delicious cassoulet

home at Ile de Ré

Febrilary

The end of February has been a momentous time these last several years* -- it's the end of austral summer and most contracts in Antarctica.  As my first seasonal gig it set the timeline of October - February.  So this time of year means a return to green grass and grocery stores and, if you know what's good for you, glaciers.  Four years ago (previous Leap Day), a friend and I hiked up the Rees River valley in New Zealand.  The sunny days were almost painfully beautiful; we also spent a day at a refuge hut playing cards with our ten new best friends while waiting out a deluge of rain.

*this is the ninth time; my near-decade of seasonal life paused for a year back in Michigan, but don't worry, I still had a temporary food service job that fluctuated with seasonal tourism, and regularly involved cleaning bits of dough and canned tuna out of the sink.

The following year was when covid threw a wrench in everyone's plans, threatening plague and breaking down society.  I couldn't go to Antarctica, so I sought escape in northern Alaska.  A few months of burger flipping and truckers ranting about climate change hoax passed surprisingly quickly.  Despite the sense of the world collapsing, a friend and I decided to tie a bow on our Arctic winter with a ski-road-trip to Denali and Homer.  Much like my first season way south, I thought way north would be a one-timer, but the endearing familiarity of decrepit infrastructure and lackluster food combined with stunning scenery and unique recreational opportunities reeled me back in.

Some coworkers live here year-round, but I stuck to my usual cycle.  Four months is a good amount of time to thoroughly enjoy a place but not grow too discontent with repeatedly jamming a giant pipe cleaner into the fryer oil drainpipe to dislodge carbonized old hunks of chicken.  Four months is also when you qualify for a sizable bonus.  So once I reached that date, another friend and I headed to ski in Denali and I gave winter camping a try.

In partial honor of a significant birthday, last year involved a great deal of travel.  The end of February found me, finally, back in Michigan, to thoroughly wash my socks and dream up what would come next.  An apartment! Unlimited avocados and fresh pastries! A dating pool > 5! Swimming laps at a pool!  But, best laid plans, or whatever Bobby said...

It's the end of February and, as usual, it's about time to pack up, take a long flight, and do some fun stuff.  I will visit a glacier -- in the Alps! -- with more than a friend for company.

Crossing the frozen Koyukuk to climb up to tree line on the base of Coldfoot

Headed north past Sukakpak to our company's perfect little cabin on the edge of Gates of the Arctic National Park

Jace and Lars did the cooking while I blazed a trail on skis

Boos!

The Koyukuk winding south

Looking back down on camp 

The iPhone SE is not known for its photography, particularly in low light, but there's a smattering of aurora

Today's murder mystery on the trail: who dumped the body?!  Will they senselessly kill again?!

The Short Month

You can, alas, ski too much.  Or rather, if you ski for three hours and then go to work several days in a row, you will likely grow quite fatigued.  But it's tough to let warm days go by without enjoying the snow.  The sun has rebounded with shocking speed, we've traded pink-fringed sunset mountaintops for bright midday glare, and (lately) you don't even really need a jacket.  A few of us crossed the frozen Koyukuk to snowshoe-flail a path up the base of Coldfoot Mountain, and upon return found a bit of slush in our footprints.

We've started meeting in one coworker's room to listen to jazz and drink home brewed blackberry hooch.  Club 26 features a string of xmas lights and a few fake succulents for ambience.  Tonight we burned incense and pretended it was sophisticated cigarette smoke.  We're also planning a "funeral" for a departing coworker, to celebrate her time here, to have an excuse for a good dinner and party, to maybe read aloud some poetry and build a small igloo of ice blocks that another coworker has been carefully molding and stockpiling.

Aaaaaand...I'm getting pretty jazzed to go to France.  In about three weeks I'll leave this diesel-soaked boreal paradise of endless deep-fried delights, and have a crack at la vie en rose.

snowshoe crew

some aurora super solid for sure

Overflow on the creek -- not because it's warm, but the weight of the ice is squishing it out the edge

It's back, baby!

on the plateau

At 50 Below

- don't breath in too deeply

- steam and exhaust don't rise or evaporate away

- put Vaseline under your eyes

- wear more than one hat

- potatoes freeze on the bottom shelf

- bacon fat congeals even on the shelf over the stove

- soup is revered 

- the diesel pumps break 

- the water pump fails

- the ravens are fine

- we look out for each other

- -30 feels pretty nice 

nippy

the day the sun came back 

moonrise

Sarah did the boiling water thing!

Laissez-Faire

Once again, some twists and turns have found me nestled in a 70s wood-paneled former construction trailer, flipping eggs and skiing in the Arctic.  While I had been looking forward to living on my own for the first time in a while, dipping back into city life, reading physical copies of newspapers, swimming at a pool, meeting more than eight people every six months, a good reason to delay came along.

Instead of moving to Anchorage, I visited just long enough to haphazardly dig my car out from three feet of snow and sell it, then packed my things, and fled north to wait out the 60 days until I can legally return to France.  The country has long exerted a pull on me -- wine, over 1,000 kinds of cheese, myriad buttery sauces, Romantic classical piano, chivalric legend, the Norman invasion, tongue kissing -- and now one of its fine citizens has invited me to live there.  Ah, mais oui.

Jace's photo of Sukakpak

sunset and heavy equipment

airport sunset

Modigliani Exhibition

Late November, late afternoon sun reaches obliquely through the trees and guilds a smile already gold.  Coffee, bread, crossing the river, walking in step -- easily filled days short and cold.  Gazing at portraits, neck outstretched, dark almond eyes, her prostrate languor artfully told.  Wishing it was longer, wanting time to hold.