Paragliding in Italy

OK, if you were shooting a video here’s what you’d see:

Behind me are the Dolomites, the rugged crenellated mountains that saw through the northern reaches of Italy. Facing me, maybe thirty kilometers on the horizon, the Gulf of Venice gleams in the summer sun and just to the right, barely discernible, Venice looks like a smudge on the sea (although describing Venice as a smudge seems sacrilegious). Above me my paragliding wing is a thin neon green strip of fabric outlined against the blue sky and 500 meters straight down the church steeple in the tiny Italian village of Dardago is peeking up at me between my boots. It's so far below me it looks like a child's toy village. 

A funny sight that; it catches me off guard. I imagine I am Gulliver, my huge feet stomping through the village.

But this whole paragliding thing is catching me off guard. I was pumped for an adrenalin filled adventure, something akin to skydiving or bungee jumping. But this is different. Sure, it’s exciting but it doesn’t have that falling-to-your death feel of jumping out of an airplane or plunging off a bridge.

I knew from the get go that this was a different kind of adventure. I hooked into my harness, took a half dozen running steps down a gentle alpine meadow above Dardago and—almost belatedly—I realized I was no longer standing on Mother Earth.

It’s smooth, thrilling and—get this—comforting. It’s a feeling I’ve never encountered before. I thought: Wow, so this is what flying really is all about. No engine, gauges, propellers, cockpit, fuel, tires, wings, rudders, pedals, sticks, throttles. Just a brightly colored canopy stretching languidly overhead. One minute you’re running, then your feet are treading air and you realize you’re airborne. Simplicity.

This was my son Michael’s idea. He is an accomplished paraglider and he and a buddy took me out for a flight. My pilot Neville, an impish Aussie who spends his summers fooling with paragliding novices like me and his winters teaching skiing, seems pleased that I am loving this flight.

And he delights in giving me the full flight experience.  We have hardly cleared the grassy slope when we catch an updraft and climb rapidly, maybe 500 meters above our takeoff point. Neville banks left and we swoop parallel to crest of the mountain ridge. It is gorgeous. I swivel my head from side to side, jagged mountains fronting a blue Italian sky on my left, the sparkling Adriatic on my right. Updrafts thrust us up another 300 meters and we are looking down at the mountain crest.  I love the feel of riding the updrafts and downdrafts, like an invisible roller coaster.

We scud along the mountain ridge before gently arcing right, over the valley below. I look down and see a falcon soaring beneath us. How cool is that? I’m flying above a falcon.

I spy Michael and friend flying in formation near the valley floor a thousand or so feet below us. They are skimming along, seemingly able to touch their boots on treetops, although they later said they were much higher. It’s a beautiful sight, two brightly colored paragliders in a gentle ballet over the picturesque Italian countryside.

We bank left, floating above a sinuous road that tracks back and forth down the mountain towards Dardago. We circle over the village and I lean forward in my harness and gawk at the red terracotta roofs in the Lilliputian village below.

I suppose it sounds like a cliche to say I feel like a bird--in fact, I know it does because I say those very words a few minutes after landing and my son and his friend give me such a raft of crap I instantly regret it. (But just between us, it's true.)

Tacking east, we head toward the landing field and begin our approach, gradually losing altitude as we line up for landing. Everything is relaxed; the earth rises up slowly and things on the ground become increasingly larger. We skim over a line of trees bordering the field and glide down toward a large white "X" on the grass. I put my feet down, promptly lose my footing and scoot across the field, just a few feet before sliding to a stop. Nice and easy.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I loved paragliding. It’s a dichotomy, both exciting and relaxing. Paragliding is as close as a human can come to flying like a bird. I didn’t use any verbs like plummet, lunge or dive because this isn’t that kind of sport. Like any extreme sport, it can be dangerous but it doesn’t seem that way; when you’re lazily soaring over a gorgeous countryside, danger is the last thing on your mind.

Details: Pay your money and take a tandem flight, it’s that easy. But be forewarned, the sport is almost immediately addicting. If you get the bug you’ll want to get your (required) paragliding license. In the states, check out the U.S. Hang Gliding and Paragliding Association, http://www.ushpa.aero/ for info on schools, requirements and tandem and solo flights.

Floating the Hiwassee River

Whew! I knew the water was going to be cold, but this was ridiculous. As I pushed my canoe into the cold clear rapids of the Hiwassee State Scenic River near the Tennessee-North Carolina border an involuntary gasp and shiver shook my body. It was early March and the waters of the Hiwassee, which originate in the Blue Ridge Mountains in northern Georgia, were still frigid from the winter snow melt. The morning was cool but the air temperature was much warmer than the water, resulting in a light wispy fog arising from the tumbling waters of the river. I quickly shoved off from the rocky bar and settled into the relative warmth of my canoe seat.


I had heard about the Hiwassee for many years but had never made the trek to Benton, Tennessee to experience its offerings. My mistake. As I was about to find out, the Hiwassee is a sparkling little river that makes for an easy one day or overnight trip. The river offers a little bit for almost every interest--call it a multi-purpose river. Along the river’s stretches you can experience exceptional whitewater rafting and canoeing, some of the best trout fishing in eastern Tennessee, and camping and hiking on nearby trails.

While the Hiwassee does not have the exhilarating rapids of nearby and better known rafting and kayaking rivers like the Chattooga and the Ocoee, the waters of the Hiwassee are nonetheless exciting for all but the most jaded whitewater enthusiasts. The most scenic stretch flows through a scenic five and one-half-mile stretch of the Cherokee National Forest. There are a outfitters who provide rafting and floating services on the Hiwassee and on a warm summer weekend the river can be way too crowded with watercraft, which is why I found myself pushing into the Hiwassee's current on a such a cold day.

The stretch of river I am running is somewhat longer and on this particular day I see no one else canoeing or fishing on the river. Admittedly, it is too early in the season for all but the most dedicated (or idiotic) canoeists and the trout don’t come into their own until later in the spring. So today offers me a good opportunity to take in the offerings of the Hiwassee without distraction. What is immediately apparent is the crystal clear water of the river. The Hiwassee flows directly from Georgia where it drains mainly forested lands of the Chattahoochee, Nanatahala, and Cherokee National Forests. There is not much chance of silt or pollution from towns and farms to degrade the water quality and it shows. I can see clearly to the bottom through all but the deepest pools.

Little more than a tiny mountain brook near its source, as it rushes across Georgia and North Carolina, it slows down and picks up volume before being temporarily harnessed behind the Appalachia Dam on the North Carolina/Tennessee border. For the next twenty-three miles below the dam--the section of river I am canoeing--the Hiwassee is a splendid river of fast rapids and deep pools, conducive to interesting paddling as well as excellent fishing in the deep cool eddies. For the length of this run, which has been designated a Tennessee State Scenic River, the Hiwassee is the perfect river for a combination fishing and canoeing trip, hard to beat for serious fly fishing.

By noon the sun has warmed me considerably and I paddle over to an inviting gravel bar where I eat lunch and kick myself for not bringing my rod and reel. I am in the middle of one of the finest fly fishing streams in the area and no way to take advantage of it. There are five access sites along this section, and a two mile stretch of the river from Big Bend to Childers Creek has been designated by the state as a Trophy Section, where trout fishing is at its best. This section yields impressive brown and rainbow trout in the 15-inch to 20-inch range. Trout up to nine pounds are taken from the Trophy Section, with five pound and up catches not uncommon. The water here varies from shallow ripples to swirling eddies behind large boulders, perfect hiding places for the brownies and rainbows.

After lunch, I quickly discover that paddling a canoe leisurely down the Hiwassee provides the perfect platform from which to spy likely trout spots. The best strategy is to reconnoiter a likely spot, disembark just upstream, and work the area to pick off fish. If your angling preferences lean toward spinning tackle, the river also supports largemouth bass, catfish, and yellow perch, all of which I spot as I scan likely fishing holes. I make mental notes of likely haunts for a return trip--with fishing gear. The river picks up below Childers Creek, a good time to stow your gear and concentrate more on canoeing and less on fishing. There are some interesting rapids in this section, but don't worry about dumping your expensive fishing gear: the Hiwassee is primarily Class I and II water which means easy rapids with small waves requiring minimal expertise.

Although you can run the Hiwassee in a day, a two-day journey makes for a more relaxing trip and there is a campsite available along the river to accommodate overnighters; the Gee Creek campsite near Highway 411 has 43 primitive sites, and backcountry camping is permitted along the John Muir Trail which runs near the river. This twelve mile long hiking trail begins near the town of Reliance and meanders along the river's edge for a good distance before veering back into the hills surrounding the river. Take extra time to hike and enjoy the hills and views offered by this trail.

For fishing and canoeing the best river run is from the access point at the Tennessee Valley Authority powerhouse to the take out at Highway 411 near Benton. You can take two days to float and fish this section. A mid October weekend is the best time to float the river, when the Tennessee hills are bursting with brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows as the leaves turn. The weather is still warm but has just enough evening coolness to stir the trout.

Details: The Hiwassee is about fifty miles northeast of Chattanooga, TN. Take the Cleveland exit off of Interstate 75 between Chattanooga and Knoxville. Follow Highway 64 east to U.S. 411 and turn north to Highway 30. The river is floatable year round, with the best fishing from early spring to late fall. The fishing slows up a little in the winter months. Hiwassee Outfitters provides rafting and inflatable kayak services (800-338-8133). Campsites at Gee Creek are available on a first come, first served basis (no reservations) and there is a fee for their use. There are restrooms and picnic grounds at some access points. State fishing regulations apply and are vigorously enforced, particularly in the Trophy Section. For maps and brochures, write Ranger Naturalist, Hiwassee State Scenic River, Box 255, Delano, TN 37325, or call 615-338-4133. A flyfishing outfitter, Dry Flyer Outfitters, Rt. 1, Box 227 J, Calhoun, TN 37309, 615-336-1585, offers guided one- and two-day fly fishing trips with an overnight stay at their base camp on the banks of the Hiwassee.

(This article originally appeared in the Nashville Tennessean)

New Zealand Jet Boating

I had this great idea:  front seat in a jet boat, shooting dramatic videos of my adventure as I blasted up the Kawarau and Shotover Rivers in New Zealand.  It was a great idea.  Unfortunately reality intervened. 

It all started out just the way I envisioned. We strapped into the gaudy banana yellow boats of Kawarau Jet, one of a number of companies that offer high speed river trips out of Queenstown and I prepared to start filming a grand video adventure.  We idled away from the main pier in downtown Queenstown and once we cleared the pier area our boat driver slammed the throttles full forward and roared across the smooth expanse of  Lake Wakatipu.  So far so good, I was capturing some great moments as our driver threw our brawny boat into a series of 180s and pirouetted the boat like a child's toy. 

Then we hit the Kawarau River.  Our overpowered banana bellowed through the shallow braided currents of the Kawarau.  My last bit of video records a dizzying blur of sky, spray and rubber boat flooring.  I clung to the boat's handholds to keep from being thrown around like a pinball.  But what a ride!  The trip turned into a blur of G forces, blinding spray, and overpowering speed.  I thought; this is very cool.

But the Kawarau was just a warm up.  We raced from the Kawarau to the Shotover River.  Where the Kawarau was broad and lined with low willow-lined banks, the Shotover was narrow and crowded by high rock cliffs that perched on river edge, waiting to reach out and smack our boat.  So imagine caroming through a twisting narrow river with huge overhanging boulders suddenly jumping into your path, waiting to decapitate you.  That's the Shotover.

Anyway, my death grip on the grab handles precluded any video shooting so here's one from the web:

http://www.shotoverjet.com/the-video

Like I said, lots of companies offer jet boating out of Queenstown.  Here's the one we used:

http://www.kjet.co.nz/

Little River Canyon



Courtesy Huntsville Times

 It's not often that additions are made to the national park system, so when an area is considered significant enough to be protected by the National Park Service, it is worth seeing first hand. That's how I found myself standing at the bottom of a deep canyon in Alabama, taking in the beauty of the Little River Canyon National Preserve.


I never expected to encounter anything so rugged or so mountainous in the deep south and I immediately understood why the government wanted to protect this area. The Alabama I was used to consisted of long flat fields of cotton, dusty red dirt roads, and beautiful Gulf Coast beaches. The trees were supposed to be southern live oak festooned with Spanish moss or tall southern pines. But this area of extreme northeastern Alabama fit none of those descriptions. Above the early morning mist rising from the rushing water I could barely discern the rim of  the Little River Canyon, 600 feet above me. The huge boulders looming through the mist were a glistening black where they were touched by the clear cool water of the Little River, the gray canyon walls on each riverbank climbing to the cloudless blue sky above.

Courtesy NPS

This was without a doubt the wildest and most inaccessible area I had ever visited in Alabama. The sparkling mountain river thundering over the boulders beneath my feet and the steep forested canyon walls reaching for the sky seemed out of place. If I didn't know better, I would have sworn I was deep in the mountains of West Virginia.

But the 14,000 acre Little River Canyon National Preserve sits an hour south of Chattanooga on the Alabama Georgia border. This natural jewel was established as a National Preserve in 1992 and, with the acquisition of surrounding land by the federal government, recently became one of the newest additions to the National Park System as the LIttle River Canyon National Preserve, a continuous stretch of protected land from the canyon mouth extending 20 miles through the heart of the canyon.

What the government added to our National Park System is the deepest canyon land east of the Mississippi River. The hills and mountains surrounding the canyon sit on the southern edge of the Cumberland Plateau, a giant sandstone table extending through Tennessee into northern Alabama. The Little River carved its way through the soft sandstone over eons, leaving a deep natural gash through the heart of the area, at some points the river flowing 700 feet below the canyon rim. If you hike along the parkway which follows the north rim of the canyon, you can still spot sandstone slabs etched with waves and ripples from the ancient river when it still flowed at that elevation. Look over the edge of the rim and far below you can see the river still carving its way through the canyon rock.

The preserve's spectacularly rugged canyons and clear sparkling rivers and creeks are largely untouched by any type of development, including trails. The only exception is the Lookout Mountain Trail that runs from Gadsden Alabama, 30 miles south of the canyon, to Point Park near Chattanooga. The trail is 123 miles in length and for about fifteen miles runs through the heart of the canyon.

This trail is not well marked or maintained but it provides the only viable access to the length of the canyon. Be forewarned that this is extremely rugged terrain and that the hike through the canyon is very strenuous. The trail follows the river and is well below the canyon rim. But the elevation varies and at times you may be 200 feet above the canyon floor, with little if any margin for error between the trail and the escarpment edge. At one point I looked down 200 feet with my toes hanging over the edge of the trail and nothing under the rock overhang beneath my feet. A half mile later, the trail had descended sharply to the canyon floor and I was wading through an eddy of the Little River. You do not want to hike this trail in times of limited visibility or in rainy weather the trails can be dangerously slick. At the present time, backcountry camping is not permitted in the canyon, so plan on dayhikes only.

Courtesy Birmingham News

Courtesy Birmingham News

There is a campsite located at the south end of the canyon, near where the Lookout Mountain Trail enters the canyon. Canoeists and kayakers use the trail for river access at this point, but access is difficult, requiring a steep descent with a boat down a quarter mile of mountain. But what awaits at the bottom makes the trip down worthwhile. Little River is a whitewater enthusiast's dream and boaters from Alabama, Tennessee, and Georgia can be found working through the boulder strewn river when the water levels are right, playing in the Class III and IV water within the canyon. The river is susceptible to variable water flows, so it pays to check with local officials before attempting to run this section. Too much water can be extremely dangerous, compounded by the difficulty of getting out of the steep canyon for help; too little water can make for a lot of pulling and carrying over boulders and very little paddling.

All of this may sound forbidding, but a trip to the canyon can be very rewarding. Unlike the canyonlands of the west, Little River Canyon is awash with trees and wildflowers and after a rainfall the canyon walls literally shower you with mini waterfalls spouting from crevices in the rock faces. In Summer, the canyon walls are almost totally hidden by the thick green vegetation. The riotous yellows, reds, and oranges of the turning leaves dazzle the eyes in Fall. In Winter, the deciduous trees have all dropped their leaves, revealing the stark, vertical canyon cliffs and walls, the dull slate gray rock reaching almost straight up from the riverbed, the rim barely visible from the canyon floor. Winter is perhaps my favorite time to visit the canyon, the bare canyon walls having a more commanding presence than at other times of the year.

Getting There: From Chattanooga, take Interstate 59south to the Alabama Highway 35 exit. Highway 35 crosses the canyon at Little River Falls. Turn onto Highway 89 to get to Desoto State Park.

Details: Information can be obtained from the Little River Canyon National Preserve office, (205) 997 9239.

Okefenokee Swamp, Land of the Trembling Earth

Courtesy USF&WS

Our first night of camping deep in the bowels of the Okefenokee Swamp is a chaotic opera of splashing, grunting, croaking and shrieking. We are amazed at the boisterous racket that grows ever louder as the sunlight ebbs and the coal-black sky closes in. The sounds of alligators, birds, frogs, and who knows what other creatures living and dying all around us describe an endless tale of animals eating and being eaten. We hear the startled croaks of frogs being gobbled up, gators bellowing from the surrounding grass, and owls hooting from the shadows of the tall cypress overhead. This ain’t Disneyland. We are sitting atop a 20-by-25-foot wooden camping platform perched twelve inches above the water’s surface—just high enough to ensure that none of the hungry alligators patrolling the surrounding swamp can climb in our sleeping bags with us. Still, the frantic splashing and the cries and squawks of critters in the enveloping blackness of the swamp make for an eerie night.



Courtesy USF&WS


But then the Okefenokee is an eerie place. Encompassing more than 400,000 acres of tea-colored water, towering cypress trees, open wetlands, peat bogs, and wild swampland in the southeastern corner of Georgia, the Okefenokee is a land of water and marsh that has been only minimally touched by the hand of man. From the moment you enter the refuge, either from the east entrance at the historic Suwanee Canal off of Georgia Highway 121/23, or from the west entrance at the Stephen C. Foster State Park via Georgia Highway 177, you will feel that you have entered another world. An extended canoe trip through the swamp’s interior transports you from the hectic pace of modern day life to an isolated world that is unlike anywhere else, a place where even the earth under your feet is different from the rest of the world.

“Okefenokee” comes from an Indian word which loosely translates to “land of the trembling earth”, an apt way to describe the quaking peat bogs and spongy ground here. Foot travel through the swamp is impossible. The best way to experience this watery terrain is by canoe. There are more than 40 miles of canoe trails winding through the interior of the swamp, with raised wooden camping platforms strategically placed at intervals to allow for overnight stays. The narrow canoe trails are designated with trail markers and meander through the refuge’s maze of cypress groves, islands, and shallow lakes.

Courtesy USF&WS

Swamps invoke some rather stereotyped images, but the Okefenokee is actually a land of contrasts. Some areas typify what you expect to see in a swamp; crowded forests of thick-trunked cypress trees festooned with Spanish moss, wisps of mist threading through the thick air, and skillet-sized lilypads carpeting the black water. Paddling silently through these areas, with the deep guttural grunts of alligators echoing from the hidden depths of the swamp, you feel as if you have been magically transported back to the Jurassic Period. A Stegosaurus suddenly appearing out of the gloom would almost seem expected. Other areas--called prairies--are open sunlit expanses of low grass, wild orchids, water lilies, and wildflowers that cover hundred of acres.

These areas still exist thanks to the foresight of the federal government which protected most of the swamp as the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge in 1937. Before the refuge was established, the swamp provided hardwood for a busy lumber industry. Billy’s Island, named for Billy Bowlegs, a Seminole Indian chief who once lived on the island, was the center of a logging operation in the early part of this century. The island still contains remnants of an old lumber town that once existed here—rusting machinery, crumbling building foundations, and toppled chimneys—and for that reason it is a popular stop for canoeists. It is disconcerting to stumble over evidence of human habitation in a place so wild.

Courtesy USF&WS

Within this wild place deer, black bear, snakes, turtles, frogs, and 235 species of birds thrive. Ospreys, bald eagle, wood storks, sandhill cranes, egrets, herons, and numerous other wading birds are often seen. But the premier resident, the one everyone wants to see, is the American alligator. As we launched our canoe into the still water of the swamp, my primary concern was that I would spend a week in this huge refuge and not spy any of these impressive reptiles. I needn’t have worried. Within a half mile of our launch point, I saw the first gator of the trip, a six-footer sunning on an open bank along the edge of the canoe trail. As we paddled closer, he slid slowly below the smooth surface of the swamp and disappeared into the seemingly bottomless water. By the end of the week, gator sightings had become so common that we barely acknowledged their presence. The Okefenokee is home to perhaps 12,000 alligators and we joked that we had seen every one. Their presence is constantly on your mind. The canoe trails, although generally clear and passable, are sometimes blocked by “peat blow ups” which occur when gasses from decaying plants build up under a mat of submerged peat and cause a mass of vegetation to rise to the surface—kind of like a balloon. There it sits, a quivering island of mushy earth, too light to walk on but too thick to paddle through. If these blowups are very dense and large, practically the only way to get through is to get out of your canoe and push, pull, or coax it along. Stepping over the side of a canoe into waist deep, black water can be intimidating. Especially when you have to keep one eye on a nearby seven-foot alligator who is watching you with more than passing interest.

Courtesy USF&WS

But despite the large population of alligators, there has never been anyone bitten by one in the refuge. Generally they either sit impassively sunning themselves as you paddle by or else slip quietly into the water. Still, keeping a respectful distance and following common sense rules—such as not feeding them—are advisable.

A few other rules apply. A reservation is required for overnight trips. These reservations ensure that you will have a place to camp at night, usually one of the raised wooden platforms, although some campsites are located on islands. A favorite campsite is on Floyd’s Island where an old hunting cabin built in the 1920’s provides overnight shelter. Reservations can be hard to get—especially in the spring and fall. They are issued up to 60 days prior to the trip date—and they go fast. Requests for permits are accepted by telephone only at (912) 496-3331 beginning at 7:00 A.M. Monday through Friday. If you don’t get a reservation on the morning of the day 60 days prior to your departure, chances are you won’t get in on that date. The key is to be persistent and flexible. A visitor center at the Suwanee Canal entrance and a museum at Stephen C. Foster State Park offer exhibits and interpretive programs. Both locations have short boardwalks that give a feel for the swamp environment. Guided boat tours, canoe rentals, cabin rentals and campsites are available at the State Park. State Park information is available by dialing (912) 637-5274.

(This article originally appeared in the Huntsville Times)

Hawaii's Hanauma Bay State Underwater Park

Most times if you want to see swarming schools of tropical fish, and exotic marine life you’d better be prepared to burn up a couple of tanks of air and endure a long boat ride to an offshore reef or wreck. Or you can save yourself the cost of the boat ride and the SCUBA gear and simply walk down the beach at Hawaii’s Hanauma Bay. Crystal clear water, abundant marine life and a living coral reef mean Hanauma Bay is one of the premiere snorkeling destinations in the islands. A gently sloping beach fronts directly on the horseshoe shaped bay, formed in the remains of Koko Head Crater, an ancient cinder-cone volcano, now breached and filled with sea water. Within this half-mile-wide bay are one of the prettiest reefs and the most abundant fish life in Hawaii.

Courtesy USF&WS

Your first look at the bay will be on your trek down the crater’s rim from the parking lot. The reef and coral formations are strikingly visible in the turquoise waters. The walls of the bay rise sharply up from the calm water and the shores are rimmed with wide sandy beaches and glistening black lava rock formations. Attractions include the Toilet Bowl (prettier than it sounds), a natural pool in the inhospitable lava rock, and the Witches Brew, a rocky point on the bay’s edge where incoming ocean waves crash with spectacular foaming sprays over the break. It’s easy to see why Hanauma Bay was once considered the almost exclusive domain of Oahu’s elite.

Be forewarned, this is not an isolated and undiscovered secret known only to the hard-core snorkeling crowd. One of the primary attractions of Hanauma Bay is its accessibility. The park is an easy 30 minute drive from downtown Honolulu, which means that on a hot summer weekend, the water can be crowded with snorkelers. Hanauma is probably the most popular snorkeling spot on Oahu. But don’t despair, this is not all bad. The popularity of Hanauma Bay means that the bay’s vast and diverse marine animal population has become accustomed to humans. And because the bay is legally designated as a State Underwater Park and Conservation District, the marine life is protected, so fishing and spearing are prohibited.

The result? No sooner have you wet your toes in the warm Pacific waters than you are greeted by cruising schools of Blacktail Wrasse. Pull on your mask and snorkel and your underwater window is filled with Spectacled Parrotfish, Yellow Tangs, Hawaiian Sergeants, Moorish Idols, Pufferfish, Butterflyfish, and Bandit Angelfish. And in copious quantities. Take an underwater camera and your frame is filled with milling schools of tropical fish. Unlike many snorkeling destinations where the fish are skittish from infrequent human contact or spearfishing, Hanauma’s aquatic denizens are expert schmoozers. If you're used to catching only fleeting glimpses of scales and fins as startled critters beat a hasty retreat upon your arrival, you’ll be amazed at the welcome that awaits you here. You can get up close and personal with these guys. Fish, large and small, will swim right up to your mask and interact with you for an experience that is hard to match anywhere else on the islands. If you’re lucky--as we were the day we visited--you may see moray eels, spotted eagle rays, and the local favorite, green sea turtles. Many of the fish at Hanauma Bay are unique to the islands, so if you’re keeping score, this is the place to one-up your friends.

The bay is protected from the offshore winds and waves, so the sandy bottom is undisturbed, resulting in 40-plus-foot visibility. The bay floor is a combination of sand, living coral, and lava stone. The coral reef extends about 300 meters offshore and prevents any ocean surge from reaching the beach. A keyhole opening in the reef provides snorkelers access to the more open bay beyond the break. The keyhole is practically the only way through the reef for both humans and fish so it’s a great place to just hover in the water and watch the passing parade. Beyond the keyhole the waters are less protected from the ocean surge. The surge is generally light but is also variable and can catch the unaware and inexperienced snorkeler off guard. Being raked over sharp lava rock and coral is not a fun experience so use caution.

Which brings us to another point. Since this is a nature preserve, the emphasis is on protecting the environment and the marine animals. Feeding of the fish is discouraged--there are volunteers at the entrance areas who provide information on the detrimental effects of fish feeding. (But in one of the park’s incongruities, you can buy fish food at the beach concession stand.) Some of the larger fish have become quite aggressive and are expert at tearing fish food from divers’ hands. Care should also be taken in not walking on or touching the coral reef that covers much of the bay. Living coral is very fragile and careless touching can kill the reef.

Hanauma Bay State Underwater Park Park is open every day except Tuesdays from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. There is an entrance fee for non-residents; free if you have valid local identification. Masks, snorkels, and fins can be rented at a beachside concession stand. For information, including notices of occasional weather closures call (808) 396-4229. Use caution when walking on the rocky ledges where waves are breaking, particularly at the Witches Brew.

(This article originally appeared on Great Outdoor Recreation Pages (GORP.com))

Ecuador Zipline

This zipline was on the road from Banos to the Amazon jungle in Ecuador.  An exciting ride, made even more so by the fact that the people running the line weren't exactly sure that they had my harness attached correctly.  The zipline was almost a  mile long and overflew a mountain river.  I felt like a bird soaring over the rainforest--beautiful.

Cumberland Island National Seashore

Remember your last trip to the beach, tripping over coolers and sunscreen bottles to find a piece of open sand to spread your beach towel? Well picture this: 17 miles of white sand beaches, 33,000 acres of forests, seashore, and marshes, and only 300 people. Which means if all 300 have the urge to hit the sand at the same time, you’ll have to scrunch up and try to make do with your own small 100 yard stretch of pristine beachfront to spread your towel.

Some mega-buck resort for the ultra-rich? Hardly. This is Cumberland Island National Seashore, an undeveloped and totally natural barrier island off the coast of Georgia. While practically all of the barrier islands on the east coast have been developed into condos, golf courses, and resort hotels, Cumberland Island has been protected by the National Park Service and exists now pretty much as it has for centuries. With the exception of a very few private homes and park service buildings, the island is unaltered from its natural state.

Cumberland Island escaped the hands of the developers due to the largesse of Thomas Carnegie, the steel magnate. Originally purchased by the Carnegie family in the 19th century as a personal oceanside playground, the family donated the island to the federal government, which protected it as a national seashore in 1972. Evidence of the Carnegie reign on the island remains. The crumbling walls of their massive mansion, Dungeness, which was destroyed by fire, still stand on the island’s southern end. An equally impressive mansion, Plum Orchard, built as a wedding gift for son George, dominates a point on the western side of the island. And a third mansion, Greyfield, has been turned into an upscale hotel that is still in operation.

One of the most beautiful legacies left by man on the island is its herd of wild horses, descendants from stock originally owned by the Carnegies. A herd of about 250 grazes the interior grasslands and the beach dunes. They are skittish and can be dangerous in the mating season but the sight of a wild stallion grazing in the dunes with the surf breaking in the background is a sight not to be forgotten. Another, less attractive legacy, is the island’s wild pigs. Like the horses, descendants of domestic herds, the pigs have become feral and roam the island’s forests and marshes. While heading back from the beach just before dusk one evening, we ran face-to-face with a large male. He eyed us warily for a second then tore through the underbrush and began to circle around behind us. Not wanting to encounter a large angry boar in the fading daylight, we made a beeline for our campsite.

The only public access to the island is by a Park Service-run ferry, which departs at least twice daily from St. Marys, Georgia for the 45 minute run to the island. Once there, there are three ways to experience Cumberland: primitive, civilized, and luxurious.

First, the primitive. There are four backcountry campsites, which can only be reached by foot. The closest one, Stafford Beach, is also the best. Just behind a thirty-foot dune on the beach, Stafford is dominated by large spreading southern live oaks. Hard to find a prettier spot for camping. The other three backcountry sites range up to 11 miles from the ferry dock. None of these campsites have any facilities and while water is available in the backcountry, it must be treated.

The civilized option is Sea Camp, a short jaunt from the ferry dock. Unlike the backcountry sites, Sea Camp has rest rooms, showers, and drinking water. There are no stores on the island so all supplies and food must be carried in.

The luxurious option is the Greyfield Inn, built in 1900 as a home for Lucy and Thomas Carnegie's daughter, Margaret. Since the 1960’s, Margaret’s daughter Lucy Ferguson has operated the mansion as an Inn. Walking into the lobby of the Greyfield is like walking into the past, since it is furnished as it was at the turn of the century. The air conditioned Inn provides respite from the summer heat and large stone fireplaces blaze in the living room and dining room in the winter. Dining at the Greyfield is an experience. Dinner is served in the dining room by candlelight with fresh flowers and an island sunset for accompaniment. Fresh seafood, Cornish game hen, lamb or beef tenderloin, homemade breads, fresh vegetables, desserts and a fine wine list complete the experience.

No matter how you choose to experience Cumberland Island, the slow pace of nature will govern your time on the island. Long slow walks through palm trees on flat island roads, gentle offshore breezes, golden sunsets, and dolphins playing just offshore will dominate your days. Miles of hiking trails lace through the island and the wide gently sloping beaches are also good for hiking. Beachcombing, birding, fishing, swimming, or just cooling it are the preferred pastimes on Cumberland. You’ll find yourself kicking back and just enjoying the sound of the surf and the sea birds, on an island so quiet you can hear yourself breathe.

INFORMATION:

Visitation is limited to 300 people per day. Reservations are required and are first come, first served. Reservations may be made up to six months in advance. Call 912-882-4335.

The Greyfield Inn may be reached at 8 North Second Street, P.O. Box 900, Fernandina Beach, Florida 32035-0900. Call 904-261-6408.

(This article originally appeared in the Huntsville Times)

Nantahala River

The Nantahala River flows like the plot of a Stephen King novel. The intensity of the rapids slowly increases, tension building to a screaming climax at notorious Nantahala Falls. You’ll recognize the Falls by the unruly mob of spectators crowding the riverbank. These people are not your friends. They are rooting for an overturned raft or crumpled kayak and the Falls feeds them a steady diet of chaos and calamity. The river funnels through a narrow chute of boulders and ledges that catches the unwary in a wrenching spin cycle and spits any remains out the other end. Mess up here and your experience will forever playback in your memory accompanied by a soundtrack of whoops and guffaws. You’ll be a hero or a goat, depending on luck or skill, but either way the Falls is a splashy (literally) finale to this river, one of the Southeast’s most popular whitewater destinations.

Tucked away in the highlands of North Carolina, a couple of hours from Sugar Mountain and Ski Beech ski areas, the Nantahala tumbles cold and crystal clear along the southern edge of the Great Smoky Mountains. With almost two dozen major rapids in eight-and-a-half miles, you’ll be able to paddle on a near-constant string of exciting mountain whitewater. The most memorable drops–Patton’s Run, Tumble Dry, Whirlpool, and Surfer’s Rapid—are excellent spots to try out your kayaking moves or just play in the spray. The biggest rapids on the Nantahala are Class III, which means that you don’t have to be a world-class paddler to handle this river.

This challenging-but-not-life-threatening reputation also means that you’ll be sharing your run with a fleet of kayaks, canoes, and rafts—about 200,000 people float the Nantahala annually. If you’re a serious kayaker you may have to queue up for the most popular play areas. But don’t let that bother you, there is plenty of river here for all. Peel out and paddle a few yards downstream and there’ll be another rapid to surf and play in. And if your arms start to ache, lean back and float through the flatwater stretches where you can enjoy the richness of the rhododendron, mountain laurel, azalea, and trillium that paint the near-vertical cliffs of the Nantahala Gorge. Just remember to save some muscle for Nantahala Falls!



Details: More than a dozen outfitters serve the river but the premier outfitter is the Nantahala Outdoor Center (888-662-1662), www.nocweb.com. If you are running the river in your own kayak or canoe, NOC offers a restaurant, outdoor equipment store, and lodging conveniently located right on the river. Kayaking skills a little rusty? NOC also provides kayaking classes. If you’d rather attack the Nantahala in a raft NOC can handle that too, or you can also try USA Raft (800-USA-RAFT), www.usaraft.com. Check out the Bryson City website at www.greatsmokies.com for info on the area.

(This article originally appeared in SKI Magazine)

Arenal Volcano, Costa Rica

I keep having this bad premonition that I’m going to be conked on the head by a flaming hot basketball-sized rock. This is not an irrational fear given the recurring crescendo of boulders pounding and bounding down the cinder-ash sides of Costa Rica’s Arenal Volcano over our heads. We are hiking through the deep green rainforest that circumscribes the base of Arenal. A low cloud cover obscures the mountain’s peak so all we can see through the green jungle canopy is a fine white mist. But the constant burbling emanating from the volcano’s cone some 4000 feet up the slope and the crashing and rumbling of the rocks being flung from the volcano’s core are unnerving. We keep an eye cocked towards the sky, ready to scamper out of the way of any red hot missile that may come hurtling out of the mist towards us.

Actually, the chances of us being carbonized by an errant lava rock are not that great. The last hiker to actually be burned to a crisp occurred a decade ago when three hikers were caught by a particularly energetic eruption. One was fatally burned, the other two were critically injured. But the volcano seems particularly active this day, a fact confirmed by a local guide we happen across on the trail, and we are wary of flying lava. We don’t want to have our names added as a footnote to the lore of Arenal.

Arenal is like an impulsive child and the local populace never knows what to expect. The volcano goes through cycles of relatively calm dormancy, interspersed by outbreaks of active spitting and spewing. When we planned our trip to the volcano, we naturally hoped for a period of high activity with its accompanying fireworks show, but now that we’re within a stone’s throw of the hot magma, and Arenal is throwing, we are having second thoughts. While we marvel at the power that is evidenced in the clamor and spectacle of the eruptions, it does nothing to ease our fears about being incinerated. We continue our trek through the rainforest and come to a second-growth hillside that was once cattle grazing pastures but is now being slowly reclaimed by the jungle. We don’t see any of the impressively tall Ceiba trees that dominate the uncut inner jungle at lower elevations in Costa Rica. But it is obvious that the long growing seasons, abundant rainfall, and warm climate of Central America are providing conditions that are fostering nature’s rapid reclamation of the rainforest from the rancher’s hands. Palm, ficus, rosewood, chicle, and balsa trees have already appeared. The magenta jacaranda, the ochre-colored poro tree, and the almost blinding yellow corteza amarillo tree are re-staking their claim to the land. Understory plants—bright red heliconias--members of the banana family, begonias, purple orchids, thick carpets of morning glory, huge bromeliads, and the ubiquitous ferns, are everywhere. Too early for the howler monkeys and three-toed sloths to move back in, but we see plenty of toucans, aricari (a smaller but just as colorful version of the toucan), and orapendula birds with their daffodil-colored tails, and electric-blue morphos butterflies flitting in the leafy canopy. Long lines of marching leaf cutter ants go busily about their business, carrying small bits of vegetation across the jungle floor to their nests.

But our goal evades us. We still haven’t caught sight of the volcano’s active crater. And if the low cloud cover stays, we will never see the peak of Arenal, its cone spewing rocks and lava. So we continue upward, hoping that we’ll get a break. We leave the second-growth area and hike through a zone of thicker rainforest. The canopy here completely hides the sky. So now we are even more skittish. At least before we were comfortable with the pretense that we could see a hurtling rock and scramble out of the way. Since we can’t see through the jungle canopy some 80 feet overhead to watch for flaming meteors (not that it would do much good anyway, we’d probably stand awestruck while a boulder flattened us.), every rumble from above results in involuntary flinches from us.

About 2200 feet up the mountain’s steep lower slope, we break out of the thick rainforest into an open area on the western slope. This face of Arenal has been scoured clean of all vegetation by the heat of the volcano’s core and the rocks flying out of the volcano’s innards. The climbing is tough here, the slopes a combination of loose gray ash, small porous lava rocks, and irregular football-sized boulders. There is little soil to hold this aggregate together and we find our footing precarious and dicey. Our hiking becomes an ordeal of sliding and stumbling. The contrast between the open slope and the rainforest is dramatic. From the deep green rainforest vegetation with its colorful splashes of red and yellow and blue birds, butterflies, and flowers we have emerged into a dull monochromatic world of ash and smoke. Everything is gray; the ash-laden slope, the dreary gunmetal volcanic rocks, and the dull sky overhead.

The grumbling from above, no longer muffled by the isolating effects of the jungle canopy, is unnerving. Each eruption is announced with a sharp report similar to a cannon shot, followed by a growling roar that sounds like a cross between rolling thunder and Godzilla’s stomach after eating half of Tokyo. We can feel the ground rumble beneath our feet. From somewhere up the slope we hear gigantic rocks skipping and somersaulting down the gradient. We have come about five miles from the road near the village of La Fortuna, through the rainforest to this point on the naked slope. It has been a hot and hard climb through rough terrain with the ever-present threat of catapulting rocks on our minds. We have ascended beyond the recommendations of the local guides, who at this time are no longer leading clients much beyond the confines of the upper rainforest.

With the limited visibility, we know it is unsafe to proceed further. Besides, any further progress would be futile since we would practically have to reach the summit to see any volcanic activity. The day is growing short and light is fading. We decide to stop and regroup and decide on our next move. Then, as if on cue, the mist disappears, the clouds that have enveloped Arenal blow away and there it is. In its near symmetrical beauty, the conical mountain is revealed. Arenal has two peaks, the result of an ancient eruption that blew out of the side of the mountain and then formed another cone. Both summits sit before our eyes. We can see the cone flinging rocks up into the sky where they tumble back to earth and begin their cartwheeling roll down the mountain’s flanks. A puff of ash dust explodes with each impact and the rocks fracture and splay into ever smaller and more numerous bits, one trail of hot rock becoming two, then four, then twenty, fanning out over the lower slopes.

In the bright daylight, we can barely discern any color to the show. But as we watch from our slopeside vantage point and the setting sun is chased by encroaching darkness, the show becomes more intense and vibrant in the fading light. As the sun slides below the horizon, the orange glow from the mountain’s mouth replaces the sun’s glow and we are treated to a fiery display of shooting sparks, skyrocketing boulders, and streaking lava. After dark, the dull scenery transforms into a colorful palette of reds, oranges, and yellows, the lava an incandescent flow, lighting paths of fire down the smoldering black mountainside.

Arenal is one of the most active volcanoes in the Americas. Located along the mountainous central spine of Costa Rica, in the Tilarán Range, about 80 miles northwest of San Jose, the volcano is surrounded by a number of hotels, lodges, and restaurants that cater to hikers. Guides and maps are available at most of these businesses. Be aware that the many tour companies and guides serving Arenal strongly discourage independent hikes up the volcano. This is not only for selfish reasons, but also due to safety concerns. Local guides know the safe areas to enter and the unsafe areas to avoid and will discourage you from hiking to the mountain alone. Still, the available maps show various trails to take to reach points on the mountain that are well beyond where most guides are willing to take you. With a little bit of coaxing, you can squeeze hiking advice from the guides. During our hike we encountered more than one guide who strongly discouraged us from proceeding up the mountain beyond the limits of the rainforest. Despite this, hikers commonly proceed onto the lava fields. But use caution and definitely do not proceed up the slopes into the volcano’s active danger zones. Many of these are marked with signs and flags. You can get a great view of the volcano and experience the beauty of the rainforest without frying the rubber soles off your boots.

If you decide against hiking up the mountain, an attractive alternative is to hike around the edges of Lake Arenal which sits at the western foot of the volcano. On a clear day, the smooth waters of Lake Arenal reflect the image of the volcano perfectly. Don’t forget your film. The lake is especially popular with fishermen and windsurfers. The anglers are drawn there by the abundant guapote, or rainbow bass. Windsurfers gather at the western end of the lake, where strong and consistent winds make it one of Central America’s premier windsurfing spots.

Also near the foot of the volcano is Tabacon Springs, whose volcano-heated hot springs are famous for boiling tourists. There is a spa located along the highway leading past Arenal and after a tiring day of hiking the mountain, this is a great place to catch dinner and soak in the steaming springs while partaking of a cool drink from the swim-up bar in the spa’s pool.

Arenal volcano is one of the major tourist attractions in Costa Rica. As a result, a significant infrastructure of hotels has grown up in the surrounding area. Finding adequate lodging and dining is no problem. There are many fine lodging options in the area but a notable one is the Arenal Lodge, located about 10 kilometers from the volcano. Rent a junior suite at the lodge and your picture window will face Arenal. You can sit on your front porch and watch Arenal’s show all night long. The nearby tiny town of La Fortuna offers shopping and a smattering of local restaurants offering authentic Costa Rican cuisine.

Contact Arenal Lodge at 011-506-228-3189, email: info@arenallodge.com. If you prefer not to hike solo, many Costa Rican companies provide tours to the Arenal area, offering combinations of guided hiking tours, mountain biking, or horseback riding. A couple of these are Fantasy Tours, 800-272-6654, email: fantasy@sol.racsa.co.cr , and Sunset Tours, 011-506-479-9415, email: info@susset-tours.com, http://www.sunset-tours.com/.

(This article originally appeared on Great Outdoor Recreation Pages (GORP.com))

New Zealand on our Own

“Shaving their bums” is not a memory I expected to bring back from New Zealand but these words from a local sheep rancher stick in my mind. We were cruising down a lonely country lane on the North Island when we spied a dog working a flock of puffy white sheep in an adjacent field. The dog was gradually herding the sheep toward a long low shed near the end of the field where three men were stooped over, working the animals. We stopped, hoping to see a sheep shearing in progress. “Hey mates,” a tall wiry man caked in mud called to us, “come on over.” Except once we slogged through the deep mud to get to the shed we saw they weren’t shearing sheep—at least not the entire sheep. The sheep’s caked and clogged rear ends were getting all the attention and we got the questionable privilege of viewing this delicate process up close.

Not something you see on the agenda of a packaged tour. Which is why we prefer the spontaneity and surprises of simply getting in a car and striking out cross country on our own. And New Zealand is the perfect place to do that. Apart from the unfamiliarity of driving on the left side—which quickly becomes more familiar--road signs are in English, roads are generally well maintained, and traffic is practically nonexistent once you leave the cities.

We mapped out a two-week route beginning in Auckland on the North Island and ending up in Christchurch on the South Island. In between we planned to hit some of the major attractions and still leave time to just ramble at our whim.

Auckland discombobulated us. Everything we had read about New Zealand led us to believe that the country was rural and bucolic but we dropped into a modern, bustling center of commerce. Perched on the edge of the Pacific, Auckland’s 350,000 residents seemed to be all business, hurried and harried, much like those uptight corporate types that are fixtures of large American cities. But as we explored the downtown area, another facet of the city emerged—an air of adventure and fun that we would surface as a recurring personality of the country everywhere we went. We shopped along unremarkable Victoria Street, with the usual line up of boutique shops and restaurants, but then stumbled across Quay Street, a short, almost hidden lane with quaint pubs packed with a vibrant mix of young free spirits and middle-aged artist types. We took in the Tower of the Pacific, a 600-foot tall glass and metal skyscraper that dominates the skyline and presents a very ordered and disciplined face to the city, but we also watched people queue up to bungee off the tower’s upper floors. We ferried over to Devonport and walked through the town’s back streets, viewing its pretty Victorian houses and hiking up to Mt. Victoria, which provided a grand vista of the bay bracketed by the Auckland skyline.

Once we left Auckland we discovered that the rest of the country bears little resemblance to its capital city. We consciously avoided the main thoroughfares, opting instead for secondary roads, and headed south for the Waitomo Caves, famous for their endemic population of eerie glow worms. Admittedly a tourist attraction, the caves are still well worth the visit. The entrance is a drive-up located right on the road and you can stop and buy tickets on site. The cave tour is actually a boat ride through the high ceilinged labyrinth with the attraction being the tiny glow-in-the-dark creatures that cling to the cave ceilings and suspend short silky strands down to entrap passing insects and other food sources. Thousands of pinpoint pricks of light gleam in the inky blackness of the cave’s twists and turns, and the specks of light above reflected in the water underneath provide an eerie and memorable spectacle.

We headed down highway 3 to Rotorua, through a sweet green valley that curled gently among farms and forests. Houses were few and far between and we passed through a half dozen wide-spot-in-the-road towns, most of which consisted of a few houses and maybe a farm implement business or garage. In the tiny town of Benneydale, we stumbled into the deserted Benneydale Hotel where the proprietor seemed flabbergasted to actually have customers walk in the door. Clearly not too many tourists make this stop. We had an excellent meal of fish and sausages amidst a motif of beer signs, a wall plastered with pictures of the locals in various stages of inebriation and posters of the beloved All Blacks, the national rugby team.

Rotorua smelled of sulphur—an unpleasant byproduct of the town’s plethora of geysers and steam vents. The odor is quickly forgotten as the town’s scenic location on the shores of Lake Rotorua and its green Government Gardens located near the city center grab your interest. The Princes Gate Hotel, a rambling 1880’s-era Victorian-style inn conveniently located at the front gate of Government Gardens, offers quaint accommodations, with a warm, wood-paneled off-lobby sitting area and outdoor garden dining complete with steam heated pools. South of the town are the geysers, with hiking trails winding around numerous active vents and geysers. Also here are Maori-run venues that provide a glimpse of native culture and customs such as native dance, wood carving, and traditional hangi, feasts featuring meat prepared in the time-honored Maori method of cooking over hot stones. We chartered a boat and fished the deep clear waters of Lake Rotorua, hooking a number of 4-5 pound lake trout which we took directly from the boat to one of the local restaurants for preparation. Fresh New Zealand fish from boat to table in less than an hour, with all the fixings. Rotorua has a fairly active nightlife, with the Pig & Whistle Pub and a couple of nightclubs on Tutanekai Street being the local hangouts.

We headed on to Nelson, which, with its meticulously maintained art-deco buildings, can best be described as passing into a time warp and coming out in the 1920’s. The city sits on the eastern shore of Tasman Bay with a narrow pebbled beach between the calm bay waters and the city storefronts. Apart from the picturesque buildings, the main attraction in Nelson is the Possum Store, offering everything possum-related.

Possums are to New Zealanders as Osama bin Laden is to Americans. A New Zealander would as soon compliment an Aussie as hug a possum. These introduced critters have overpopulated to the point of ecological disaster, stripping the countryside of vegetation, plundering native bird eggs, and otherwise exhausting their welcome. The national sport seems to be squashing the slow moving animals as they trundle across the roads and drivers can be seen careening down the highway, swerving toward them in murderous attempts to contribute to possum family planning. Possum carcasses litter the roads and are invariably squashed flatter than a fritter as succeeding drivers ensure that yes, that possum is indeed dead. In keeping with this cheery philosophy, the Possum Store has stuffed possums, possum recipes, possum fur coats, and a shoot-a-fake-possum arcade. Don’t miss it.

After a night hitting the clubs and bars of cosmopolitan Wellington, we caught a ferry across to the South Island. The Western shore of the South Island is a rocky and rugged landscape of rocky cliffs, lush rainforest, and windswept mountains. On the shoulder of this coastline is Punakaiki Rocks, one of New Zealand’s most breathtaking natural areas. Hiking out to the rocks to view the surf crashing into the rocky formations and spewing upwards in spectacular natural geysers is not to be missed.

Further south we arrived at Franz Josef, the staging area for treks onto Franz Josef and Fox Glaciers. These massive ice flows dominate the area landscape and are a major tourist draw. The area abounds with hiking, camping, helicopter, and biking concessions so picking your method of approach to the glaciers is an easy propositions. We opted to hike to the glaciers’ bases first to get a feel for their massive proportions. Both are huge but Franz Josef seemed more dramatic to me. The fractured and tortured face is a near vertical 500-foot jumble of ice with a torrent of milky white water and tumbling ice boulders flowing out of an ice tunnel carved in the center foot of the icy face. You can hike up onto the glacier with a guide, but the hike is strenuous and if you suffer from vertigo, forget it. If you forego the glacier hike, hiking across the tumbled scree alongside the river of glacial water makes for a dramatic trek. We hitched a helicopter ride onto the top of the glacier, rising up from the cloudy sky on the valley floor at Franz Josef into the brilliant clear skies above the glacier. The bright afternoon sun hitting the white and glacier ice was near blinding and the deep crevasses that striated the glacier’s back glistened a brilliant cerulean.

Queenstown is the adventure center of New Zealand and it was bustling with young and athletic types. Take your pick here; jetboating, bungee jumping, horseback riding, biking, parasailing, hiking—you can try a new pursuit every day for weeks and not get bored. We spent a day jetboating and horseback riding and closed out our Queenstown visit with a shared a bottle of wine on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, the Impossibles Mountain range reflecting off the cool blue waters.

Last stop: Christchurch, a very proper and British feeling city. We arrived during the Annual Buskers Festival and dozens of street performers were singing, dancing, juggling or performing other, more arcane shows in the shadows of imposing cathedrals and buildings. After taking a punt ride on the gentle Avon River flowing through the city center and viewing exhibits at the Art Museum, we took in the architecture before hitting the pubs and restaurants. The Bog, a lively Irish Pub on Cashel Street, was hitting stride with a Celtic group playing traditional Irish folk music and the crowd bustled with lots of hot young bodies hitting on each other.

The next morning we opted for a day trip to the seaside village of Akaroa and a boat trip out to the ocean to spot Little Blue penguins, endangered Hector’s dolphins (which repeatedly shot through the water alongside the boat) and New Zealand Fur seals lounging, pups and mothers, on the rocky shoreline.

Two weeks of leisurely driving, picking and choosing our next destination and seeing the finest of this lovely country at our own pace, provided the perfect alternative to a structured package tour. If you want to avoid the tourist rut and experience your own customized adventures, New Zealand is a hassle-free place to make your own way.

Len Foote Hike Inn

I’ve spent thousands of hours in the wilderness, from the tundra of Alaska’s Denali to the jungles of Costa Rica. In all that time I’ve seen dozens of different kinds of animals—gray wolves, grizzly bear, caribou, elk—but I’ve never seen a bobcat, that fairly common wild feline of the southeastern states. So when I see my son Val ahead of me on the trail silently motion for me to catch up with him, bobcats are the last thing on my mind. After all, we had just left the parking lot in Amicalola Falls State Park in northern Georgia less than an hour before. We are barely three miles into Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains and, although the mountains are relatively untouched, this is far from a secluded wilderness. Yet he had met a bobcat in the trail.


We were hiking up into the mountains of Georgia to spend a night at the Len Foote Hike Inn, a cozy backcountry lodge that opened in 1998 and has quickly become one of the most popular attractions of the state’s park system. We had briefly looked at the topographic map of the area and the trail to the lodge didn’t look too strenuous; still, our experience with mountain hiking had taught us that hiking in the Blue Ridge is often an exhausting slog up steep and rocky trails. So we came prepared for a long hike over rugged terrain up the side of this mountain. What we encountered instead was a delightful trek through blossoming mountain laurel thickets and across splashing streams. Which is why we were so surprised to meet a bobcat—we felt like we were on a stroll through a park instead of way back in the mountains of Georgia.

That’s what I like about Len Foote Hike Inn—you’re only five miles from civilization but you feel like you’re dozens of miles into the backwoods. You can leave the crowds, traffic, and hustle of modern life in the parking lot and barely three hours later plant yourself in a comfortable Adirondack chair on the wide wraparound porches of the inn and sip a steaming cup of hot chocolate. The temperature differential between the inn and the state park can also be dramatic. The day we hiked to the lodge it was almost ninety degrees when we left the parking lot; at the lodge it was a cool and refreshing 65 degrees.

You also don’t need to worry about traffic and noise at the inn; the only way to reach it is by foot on the narrow trail we just hiked. But that has not deterred a steady stream of hikers from trekking up the mountain to experience the inn’s unique mixture of simplicity and comfort. The lodge is a modern rustic structure that looms suddenly out of the lush hardwood forest as you approach. It is a complex of twenty rooms surrounding an airy, two-story central lobby, an attached dining room, bathhouse (with hot showers), and a gathering room. The central lobby is designed with lots of glass, the result is a feeling of being outdoors while indoors. The sleeping rooms are small but adequate. Bunk beds and a shelf line one wall, on the other wall hangs a mirror and wooden clothes pegs; that’s about it—this is not a four start hotel stocked with all the amenities but it is comfy and inviting. The inn sits amidst a lush forest of mountain laurel, rhododendron, and majestic oak and hickory trees. These is no other sign of civilization for miles around so even when the lodge is full, there’s plenty of rambling room on the grounds and in the surrounding forests. If for some reason you get the urge to roust yourself out of your chair, you can follow the trail past the inn further up to Springer Mountain, the southern end of the Appalachian Trail, four miles away.

This will work up your appetite for the inn’s excellent meals. The cook rings the cast iron dinner bell which brings guests from all parts of the forests and grounds. Dinner is served family-style at long tables in the dining room. On our visit we shared our table with the night’s other nine guests, hungrily wolfing down a hearty meal of lemon pepper chicken, twice-baked potatoes, broccoli, peas, macaroni salad, potato salad, and the best homemade cornbread in northern Georgia, with cupcakes and ice cream for dessert.

We dawdled over after-dinner coffee and hot chocolate with our fellow guests, getting to know each and then waddled into the Sunrise Room, where a well-stocked library and games kept us occupied until late evening. As dusk settled over the surrounding countryside, we wandered back out to the porch and watched as the fading light turned the sky into inky blackness. Sitting 3100 feet up near the peak of a mountain in the Chattahoochee National Forest, the inn offers a scenic panorama of the surrounding area. Off to the southeast we could see the twinkling lights of the city of Dahlonega. But to the east and north all was dark, the thick forests undeveloped and pitch black.

The mountain air quickly cooled as the sun set and we headed for our room. The rooms are unheated but the stacks of fleece and wool blankets in each room will fend off all but the coldest nights. It got down to 48 degrees when we were there but we were warm and toasty in our room and fell asleep to the hooting of an owl.

We awoke to something quite different; the pounding of a drum. Penny, our cook, was giving us fair warning that the sun would soon be rising over the eastern horizon. Trust me, this is a sight that is worth stumbling out of a warm bed for. We gathered on the eastern slope of the mountain and watched the orange sun tiptoe up over the hills. A great send off for our hike back down to the real world.

Details: The Len Foote Hike Inn is located at Amicalola Falls State Park near Dawsonville, GA, about four hours from Huntsville. The Inn is open year round. Reservations are required and accepted up to 11 months in advance. Call 1-800-864-7275 for reservations. Call well in advance, the popularity of the inn means that some date fill up quickly. Rates are $65 per night per person (children under 12 are discounted) and include dinner and breakfast. Weekdays are often available but weekends may be booked up several weeks in advance.

(This article originally appeared in the Nashville Tennessean)