Monday, July 27, 2015

A Dangerous Stroll in Central America

We naively didn’t care that we were in the sixth most violent country in the world. We are adventurers. We walked cautiously along the deserted strip of uninhabited homes and empty lots, littered with garbage and untended foliage. We weren’t wearing shoes. Hence the caution. It was hot. Hence the decision to walk in the back door of a seedy dive bar. The locals eyed us curiously, wondering where the hell we came from and how soon until we’d vacate their territory.

We downed our drinks from dirty glasses and moved on, watching our backs.  We ended up at another bar, this one nicer but very small – just eight stools and a few unoccupied tables. We met two locals there; one of them covered in menacing tattoos and wearing what looked like a gang symbol on his hat.

The next thing we knew, we were locked in the back seat of their truck and brought over to their duplex in the outskirts of the village. Their dogs barked furiously at us and we were warned to stay away from the vicious one that will bite at any time. These locals held us there until a guy named Chino was ready to see us.

Chino immediately asked us for our money. We handed over what we had and waited to see what would happen next. The local guy with the ink and gang hat held a grappling hook in front of us with a wicked smile. Chino approved and said it wasn’t as good a weapon as his but that it would do for the grisly task at hand.

The next thing we knew, we were herded onto a small speedboat and eventually docked at a private island inhabited by an associate of Chinos and his three wild dogs, one of which was covered in fresh battle wounds.

We sat there looking around us, wondering how we got to where we were.  It was crazy.  Crazy awesome.

We were in Belize. The we is me and one of my favorite people in the world.

We had been walking along the coast on Maya Beach, about ten miles north of Placencia, a sleepy village anchoring the peninsula. This is a quiet part of the coastal country and not many people were around (it was also kind of off-season for tourists). The first bar (Mango’s) was indeed a dive but had a fantastic view of the Caribbean Sea.

The next bar was actually the next day, but I like to make writer’s embellishments to add color and interest to stories. And although it was indeed small, it was a pretty swanky sweet place – a tiki bar on the beach (Turtle Inn owned by Francis Ford Coppola).

It was at the nice bar where we met Rick and Candy. They had just moved to Placencia a few weeks earlier. Rick has a bunch of cool tattoos and was wearing an Oakland Raiders visor.  They were raving about a great snorkeling trip they had taken with their next door neighbor Francis (no relation to Coppola) who prefers to go by the name Chino.

So the next day, Rick picked us up from the Maya Beach Hotel (this is a whole other story – awesome hotel and restaurant owned by great friends) and brought us back to his sweet little pad that is right on the beach in Placencia. Candy greeted us and they gave us a tour of the house while their tiny little lap dogs yapped and hopped around us.

Chino pulled up in his boat right on the beach in front of Rick and Candy’s and we went snorkeling around two awesome reefs in water clear as day. While we snorkeled, Chino was spearfishing and caught a bunch of lobster, crab, a hogfish and a barracuda.  Rick was able to use his newly homemade grappling hook to nab a crab as well.

We then went to a private island where Chino cleaned the fish and cooked it all in one tin over charcoal for about twenty minutes. And then we feasted.  It was heaven.

As we filled our bellies with lobster, crab and fish that had been swimming in the sea less than an hour earlier, we looked around us and wondered how the heck we got to where we were. Who is this Chino dude with his mad spearfishing abilities and great snorkeling tour? How lucky are we to have met Rick and Candy on our random beach walk along the coast (keep the spare room ready for us!)?

It was crazy awesome to be in the sixth most violent country in the world and being captured by the locals. We will be back.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Stand Up Paddle Boarding Without Much Standing and Plenty of Swimming

I wouldn’t call myself clumsy. Despite the fact I bump my head on stuff all the time. I blame that on having a big noggin, being 6’-3” and perhaps not paying full attention to whatever I’m doing because there are shiny things everywhere. I play sports and although nobody has ever called me graceful, I consider myself athletic.

I recently took up stand up paddle boarding (SUP). My ex is selling them out of her garage at half price so I bought two. Yeah, yeah, usually back-in-the-alley sales involve drugs, electronics, human trafficking or guns, but I live in a suburban family oriented hood where big trouble usually means Billy’s dad got home really late Friday night (9:15pm) or Sally’s mom was seen drinking wine at the pool on a Tuesday afternoon.

So I bought two boards thinking my kids may get into it and/or that I can get friends and guests in town to go with me. This sport requires a heck of a lot of balancing skills with the main variables being the size of the board, the size of the person, the wind and the roughness of the water. 

I’ve seen many pictures of friends and strangers doing yoga and headstands on paddle boards so I figured it can’t be that difficult to pick up. 

My first outing was on Lake Dillon up in the mountains.  The water was icy cold but the sun was shining. Being the dummy I am, I figured it was perfect conditions. I really didn’t want to fall in that water and die of hypothermia so I took a wussy approach and pretty much sat for the first half of the adventure. The water was really choppy and the wind was in my face.

As I rowed and my legs were tightening up from being pretzeled worse than on an international flight in the back of the plane with the dude in front of me completely reclined, I realized I had to stand up to stretch. So we turned around and had the wind behind us. I contemplated the icy water and shakily stood up, more so because my legs had been folded so long than because of the choppy water.  I was proud of myself for making it back without falling off and looked forward to going again.

Round two was this past weekend at a reservoir here in Denver. It was a hot hot hot day and the water was warm so falling in would not be a concern. What I didn’t realize was that I would be a clumsy fool.

Just walking from the truck to the beach in my flip-flops down a gravel path while holding my board, I stumbled in a rut and in effort to protect the board I put all my weight on my left side. Which means my left knee got ripped open and my left foot got all scratched up on top. And my right ankle got sprained from turning sideways in the rut, causing the fall. But I didn’t drop the board and it never touched the ground!

Let’s just say this was a clear sign of things to come. If I can’t maintain my balance on dry land, how would I do on water that was full of wake from countless speedboats and jet skis? The answer is I may or may not have fallen eleventeen times.

I was wearing a Yankees hat I had bought in Yankee Stadium while attending a game. I hate the Yankees, but I figured, while in Rome… And also a buddy is die-hard Red Sox so I wanted to send him pics and also wear it around him to piss him off, cuz that is what friends are for, right? Well, my Yankees hat now resides at the bottom of Cherry Creek Reservoir, along with some of my pride.

How the hell do people do headstands on these things? I was told by my friend the water was really rough, so I feel a little better about my flailing and having a swollen ankle and bloody knee and foot didn’t help matters. I’m gonna have to get back on my horse as soon as possible!

I did make quite a bit of distance at the end without falling so I may be getting in a good spot. I decided to quit while ahead and make for shore where I had a camp rocking chair and bottle of wine waiting.  It was a fabulous day.

So whose with me for round three?

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

More Trouble in Alaska

After a whopping fifteen minutes OTR (on the river) on day one (read about that here), we were eager to get on the water on day two.  Thankfully, the patches held strong and we were able to experience rafting on the North Fork Koyukuk all day! Good old Mt. Doonerak was getting further away, but no less spectacular than from day one.

Day two OTR was a grand total of five hours of us navigating around rocks, tree spears sticking out of the water, guessing which fork to take (when the river wanted to take us straight up the middle), navigating braids, riding through rapids and rowing fairly constantly.

We hit some minor rapids that don't look too crazy on video, but they were a lot of fun. I think all the amusement parks modeled their river rapid rides off these. I kept looking for a track under the water, but we were really fully on our own!


Again, props to Tom for steering the ship. We learned that as long as we made decisions early enough, Tom could consistently steer us around trouble. We also learned we had to respect the river at all times – even a ten-second attempt at putting feet up or taking a picture would often lead to the river current taking us straight at a huge boulder or massive thicket of sharp tree branches peeking out of the water.  As you can see, I was very very busy following Captain Tom’s orders on rowing right or left while he navigated obstacles.

Heh heh. Tom got some breaks too. I enjoyed seeing bald eagles in Glacier Bay and Juneau, but I didn’t like being exposed to spread eagle Tom in the raft – although he worked hard back there and deserved some breaks.

Our morning OTR was two hours.  And then we took a two-hour lunch break before three more hours OTR in the afternoon.

Here is a little video update of our lunch break. I didn't do a good job of talking into the mic so the volume will go up and down.


I’ve mentioned a lot of the dangers we had in the river. There was also plenty of danger on shore. True, at this point on the trip, the only wildlife we saw besides each other was a swimming Alaskan chipmunk-looking rodent (clearly I don’t know what it was, but it had a tail) and six butterflies.  We were getting convinced the Alaskan Tourism Office has falsely convinced the world there are bears everywhere. But then anytime we’d pull over for a break or camp for the night, we’d see lots of animal tracks.  Moose, wolf/coyote and this:

Bear tracks. Big ones!

We saw various size tracks and they were prevalent. This set was ten yards from our tent. They were already there when we set up camp and a smarter person may have chosen not to pitch a tent in the recent path of a bear, but hey, Tom had a sweet knife and we were both armed with bear spray.

There were lots of dangerous and serous issues we had to consider while rafting and camping in the Gates of the Arctic, way north of the Arctic Circle in Alaska. They included all those in-river obstacles such as rocks and tree spears; and on-shore threats such as moose, wolves and bears.  There was also weather and mosquitos. This is some serious stuff people!  But I’ll tell you right now what the biggest problem was and it was none of those things listed above.

Our problem was that our beer was getting warm. I know! Bear spray and raft patches will not help cool off a warm IPA from Denali Brewing Company! We thought that early season in the Arctic in a freezing cold river would provide some ice patches along shore to replenish the cooler. Its one thing to lose some perishable food due to lack of coolant (we had backup food aplenty), but quite another to have to chug a warm can-o-beer.

We spent lunch break brainstorming ways to get our beer cold.  The river was freezing, so there had to be a way!

We knew the answer involved towing beer in the river. But how? Tom came up with half the solution – my tent footprint bag was mesh and had a drawstring and would hold three beers.  I know, I know.  Three beers for two people. Clearly I need to contact REI and alert them to the design flaw of their tent footprint bags and make sure in the future they manufacture them to hold two or four beers. I thought you were better than this REI!

As we packed up the raft for the afternoon run, we looked for ways to attach the beer bag (no longer known as a tent footprint bag) to the raft. The drawstring was too short to attach to the raft and still hang in the water.  We thought about the rope at the front of the raft, but it was too long and would involve tying knots.

We continued to load our gear back on the raft and I stepped on a strap on the ground. Oops. It must have fallen off a bag as we were loading. 

“Tom, what is this? I found it here on the ground.”

“I dunno, it must have fallen off a bag.”

“I’m glad we found it!”

“Yeah, so how are we gonna get this beer bag attached to the raft….”

As I’m holding a strap with clips on either end that we found on the ground next to our raft. River karma at its finest.

Beer Floaty, engineered by Tom Cummings

Tom rigged up the strap to the beer bag and the whole thing to the back of the raft and it was perfect!!!! He’d have to play all-time bartender, but we’d constantly have up to three cold beers.  It worked like a charm and crisis averted!  No need to use the emergency satellite phone to call for a plane to drop us some ice!


We had a fabulous afternoon and four more days on the river. We didn’t have to switch to non-stop whiskey until the last day as Tom had done a great job of cleaning out the Bettles Lodge of their stash of cans of Denali.  Bear schmear, holes in raft schmoles in raft – we had cold beer!

As I said earlier, we learned quickly we always had to respect the river. Anytime Tom climbed back to unhook the beer bag, grab two and replenish with two more from the cooler, I had to keep an eye on the river and avoid obstacles.  This all worked fine and dandy, until, well, until we accidentally littered and lost the beer bag (containing one beer) and also the strap was floating off separately – both disappearing from sight.

It was like when a bartender drops a glass and it shatters. It happens. Problem was, Tom dropped a beer bag and strap in the beautiful Last Frontier, in the North Fork Koyukuk river, land where we leave no trace! We felt horrible. 98% of our distraught was from littering and 2% from losing our awesome beer cooling mechanism.

We spun the raft around and kept our eyes peeled for the bag and strap, but could see nothing. So we carried on, discussing what a bummer it was and then a couple minutes later I looked to my right and saw something.  I jammed my right arm deep into the water next to the raft and firmly grasped the beer in the bag.  I raised it triumphantly over my head and screamed, “Beeeeeeeeeeeeeer!”  Not bear. Beer. If any bears were anywhere near us, they scattered after that exclamation. 

We were laughing so hard and high-fiving and knew that we had to find the strap.  The river wanted us to remove our crap and it was respecting us back. Tom spun our raft in circles and suddenly he saw the strap.  We fought the current and rowed furiously toward the strap.  It would go under and then pop up again just out of reach.  We’d finally get close and both of us had multiple shots at it by reaching with an oar.  We kept barely missing.

This went on for about five minutes of us ignoring the river in front of us and all around us. We were solely focused on retrieving that damn strap and we didn’t watch for sticks, rocks, tree stumps, tree spears, forks, running aground or anything. Five minutes may not seem like long, but that was more than enough time for us to get our raft ripped wide open again before we would even know we were in trouble.

Finally Tom got us really close to the strap and I was able to hook it with my oar.  Another wild celebration ensued and suddenly we saw the current taking us right to danger again.  We cleaned up our act and the river had forgiven us, but now we were back to our same old routine. Let up for a second and she will test us.

We steered around trouble and Tom re-rigged our beer bag.  We celebrated with another round of beer – river cold ones.

Life was good.  River in the Arctic Circle Selfie good.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Alaska - First Day on the River

“Have fun in the Last Frontier.” That is what was said to me when I had to make an emergency call on a satellite phone to alert someone that our raft ripped open in two places while we were on the North Fork Koyukuk River in the Gates of the Arctic, far above the Arctic Circle and far away from any other humans.

“Uh hi Eric, this is Brett. Yeah, the plane just dropped us off an hour ago and we’ve been on the river a whopping fifteen minutes when some of the shady patchwork looks like it got snagged and caused old punctures to turn into two giant rips.  We are going to try to patch it and hope it holds, but wanted to let you know if you don’t see us in five days to send out a search plane.”

His response consisted mostly of, “Have fun in the Last Frontier!” I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it to see if there was a tagline button that I accidentally pressed with my cheek or if that was really how the proprietor of the Bettles Lodge responded to me when I told him we might die out here.

It all started with an afternoon flight from Bettles, Alaska traveling about 55 air miles north to a gravel bar near Fishless Creek at the Gates of the Arctic that was about 85 river miles away.

The North Fork Koyukuk snakes around many mountains and has tons of braids (channels going in multiple directions that crisscross and eventually end up in the same place again). This river is like a woman’s mind – we never knew where it was going next. The river literally goes in every direction, including north again, as it eventually flows south and continues on past our ending spot of Bettles. And like some women, this river has many personalities. Sometimes it was mellow and forgiving, other times it kicked our ass. Sometimes it was fast and narrow, others it was wide open with many forks. At first, we’d try to choose our channels and forks in the river, but we quickly learned to just go where the river takes us.

As we marveled at the winding river in the wilderness that would be our home for the next six days, the plane started descending. The little three-seater honed in on a gravel bar which is basically a silty sandbar covered in stones. These gravel bars are prevalent along the river, but not very many of them can be landed on by an airplane.  In fact, the one we were about to land on didn’t look anything like an airstrip unless you consider a short length of somewhat cleared land between forest and river consisting of rocks and boulders to be a runway. I quickly understood why the plane’s tires were deflated so much upon takeoff. The landing was as smooth as one can be when its on a pile of rocks and requires slamming on the brakes.

We unloaded our gear and the pilot took what I hoped would NOT be the last photo ever taken of us by another person again.

And then he was gone. The pilot. With his plane. And our only real connection to civilization.


I don’t know how to describe the feeling I had as the plane disappeared and it was just Tom and me standing on a gravel bar next to a majestic river in a magical land with only ourselves to rely on for our safety, sustenance and the journey back to civilization. It was a bit of a rush. High on life, the land, the risks and the fun. Its similar to the common way people try to describe the experience of Burning Man – you can’t.  It’s like trying to explain the color green to a blind person. And yet as I still try to put this feeling in words, someone posted the following online:


When that plane disappeared and I looked all around me, it was a perfect moment of yugen.

We looked at all our gear and the deflated raft that we trusted was tested by the Bettles Lodge before we loaded it on the plane and decided the first thing we needed to do was have a beer.  We sat down and toasted to, well, yugen I guess. And we did so under the marvelous peaks of Mt. Doonerak, the Matterhorn of the Gates of the Arctic. Doonerak stayed with us for three days and I have only about 372 pictures of it from various angles, distances and light.

It was time to inflate the raft. We spread it out and were stoked (roll eyes here) to see four valves on the floats and two more on the benches that would be blown up with a tiny foot pump that looks like it was from the Alaskan gold rush of 1896 complete with duct tape wrapped around a leaky connection between the pump valve and the hose.

About two hours later, we had a fully inflated raft and totally pumped up calves – Hans and Franz would be proud. We loaded up our gear which consisted of three bear cans, one cooler, one large bin, three large dry bags, one dry duffel and three small dry bags. Considering we didn’t know exactly what we were doing, we did pretty well.  We were finally ready to shove off.

Tom took the captain’s position in the back of the raft. I sat in front.  I will give Tom major props for being really good at steering the raft. This river ended up requiring some serious maneuvering and if I were in back, we’d still be impaled on a tree. And I still applaud Tom’s skills even though he did indeed almost impale me on a tree on day two or three, but that is a different story.

We decided to pop open beers but quickly realized this was not a float and chug part of the river. We got in a decent groove of teamwork and were enjoying the huge mountains all around us while trying to steer around trees and rocks. We were on about our 12th minute on the river when suddenly there was a loud THUMP!

Tom yelled, ”We are taking in water fast! We have to get to shore as soon as possible!”

I said, “Oh shit!”

And perhaps the quote of the trip came next. Tom said, “Row like you’ve never rowed before!!!”

I said, “Oh shit!”

It was scary; for me anyway. I couldn’t see what happened since I was in front and there was a ton of water pooling at my feet.  Whatever hit us was under water and neither of us ever saw it.  There was nothing we could have done differently.

All I could think of was those cartoons where two dudes are rowing in a lake while their boat is sinking and pretty soon all you see are their chests and heads while they are still furiously rowing the oars underwater. I thought about gear floating down the river, hypothermia, drowning and bears feasting on our carcasses. And I thought about how hard it was to row to the left side of the river to the gravel bar when the current was taking us right.

We came around a bend and since I was in front, I could see the gravel bar to our right first.  “Tom, go right instead!” And we were able to glide in easily and safely to a large gravel bar.

In hindsight, we weren’t really in deep trouble.  Our gear was secured better than Fort Knox. And the floats kept us afloat. The rips in our raft were on the floor and although that isn’t good, it sure won’t make us sink.  And although the water was freezing cold, the outside air was quite nice (we had 60s and 70s most of the trip). Plus, the water was shallow enough to stand as we got close to shore. I was never in panic mode, but admit the initial scare was really no worries. I’ve just never been on a raft with two major gashes in it taking on water on a river in the middle of the Arctic before, have you?

We inspected the raft and saw this:

A big L shaped rip next to another long rip. I caught sight of something blue in the river and found two old patches that had been on our raft. Based on the lack of glue on the L shaped cut and the shoddy patches, we figured out what happened. A tree branch must have snagged the edge of a poorly applied patch and pushed up under it until catching on the original puncture. Then it went through and acted like a knife slicing open the raft. We must have turned the raft to cause the ninety degree slice and can only assume the same thing happened with the smaller patch.

We unloaded the raft and turned it over. There are so many patches on the raft, we felt like idiots for accepting this is as our floatation vessel for the next six days. A three-year old would have said, “Uh, is there a raft that doesn’t have three-dozen holes in it?”

I found the patch kit, which also was from the gold rush of 1896 and was not surprised to see there were no instructions. And of course nobody told us what to do if we needed to patch the raft, nor did we ask, so we were on our own. The task at hand:


Tom is great at steering and rowing a raft, but he didn’t have confidence in his ability to fix it, so I took on that responsibility while he worked on a campfire (he is awesome at this by the way, including disposing of and leaving no trace in the morning).

I knew we had to let the raft dry, so I figured I should tap into the emergency resource we were smart enough to bring along – a satellite phone. Of course we were not smart enough to test it before we got on the plane, but hey, its all part of having fun in the Last Frontier.  As I called the Bettles Lodge on the phone I thought we’d never use, much less in the first 20 minutes of the trip, I knew we’d be fine because if we had trouble and had to stay, the gravel bar we were on was big enough for a plane and there aren’t many better places to camp that I’ve ever seen.  It just would have been a bummer to not do the raft trip – something we had been planning for months.

Luckily the phone worked and I had the conversation with Eric that I summarized at the opening of this story. And again, the gist of his response was, “Have fun in the Last Frontier!” This became our motto for the rest of the trip.

“Brett, look at these fresh bear tracks going right by our tent!”

“We are having fun in the Last Frontier!”


“Tom, we are about to slam into that pointy tree branch sticking out of the water!”

“Just having fun in the Last Frontier!”


“Holy shit, these mosquitos are horrible, even with the head nets. We sure are having fun in the Last Frontier!”

Tom had a sweet fire going at this point and we set up our tent a good 75 yards away in what might be the best spot I’ve ever camped in.

We had a great dinner and more beers.  Perhaps even a shot of whiskey or three. Since the sun never sets this time of year, we had plenty of sunlight to dry the raft. I figured I was buzzed enough to go patch our raft of life. I grabbed the patch kit and wasn’t sure what to make of the messages all over it to “open only if needed,” nor the fact the glue was dated from 2011 (I may have exaggerated about the gold rush).

I buffed the edges of the gash wounds, cut out shapes and rounded the corners (when I remembered – forgot to on two of the four patches). The glue is like a wet rubber bandy rubber cement. A brush connected to the lid is supposed to enable you to spread the goo over the surface but it was hard to work with because it was so sinewy and elastic. Plus, the fumes. Holy cow. I’ve never taken any drugs in my life, nor gotten high, but now I’m not sure I can legitimately say that.  Between the beer, whiskey and inhaling glue, no wonder I forgot to round some of my edges!

We did all we could do and needed to let the glue dry. Plus, even though it was light out, Alaska truly is the land of the midnight sun. It was time for bed. We crashed and although I’ve never prayed for anything in my life, I may or may not have prayed those patches would hold on the river.

In the morning, we ate a hearty breakfast (pop tarts) and quickly broke camp.  We were anxious to see if the patches worked and since our first day OTR (became our code for On The River) was only fifteen minutes we were eager to be on the water. We discussed if we should test the raft before loading it up and immediately agreed that would be way too sensible so we loaded that sucker up, did a few chants to the river and raft gods and were ready to shove off for day two OTR.

It was a glorious day. Sunny blue skies, probably seventy degrees.  Mt. Doonerak towered over us with glistening snowcapped peaks. We pushed off and rowed down the river for a few minutes. We went over a few rocks and shallow areas. No water in the boat.

We were stoked. The fricking patches were holding strong! Although we both had a little distrust of the raft with all those other old patches, we felt great about our situation and went on to have a beautiful day.  The rest of this day is a whole other story, but it involves two hours OTR, two hours on shore for lunch and then three more hours OTR of which thirty minutes were nothing but crazy fun wild rapids. And the raft held strong!

Mt. Doonerak kept an eye on us all day and we felt like we were now part of the mountains and even more so part of the river.