hiya, how's things?

Just wondering what you are using to do your write ups on here? laptop,ipad? thinking of what is best to bring on trip.

Hey Big Pete!
I use a Samsung laptop - incredibly thin and light. I love it! And its a fraction of the cost of an Apple, with more features, and the advantage of Windows.
When you have lots of pictures, and editing, and typing to do - you want a real screen and a real keyboard.
If you dont write much and dont edit your photos - an ipad will be fine.

thanks for that, i'll be doing alot of photo's and writing so i'll be getting a laptop then.

Climbing Pico de Orizaba: Part - II

The Climb


5pm:

Climbing Pico de Orizaba (Citlaltepetl) began at the workers hut at 3900m, from which it took me 6 hours to reach the Albergue hut (my high camp) at 4633. I can’t count the amount of times I stopped, removed my overweight pack and just sat there starring off into the misty valleys below. At around 3000m breathing becomes a chore. This effect grows exponentially with every passing 100m. Sometimes I would even stop after taking only 3 steps. By the time I reached the hut I had only the strength to collapse and stare up at the 45 degree slopes of Citlaltepetl.



The path, hut and surrounding area were littered with people’s trash. Like so many other parts of Mexico, the mountain suffers from Mexican’s disregard for nature. People don’t think twice about tossing their soda cans and chip bags out of car windows, or on what could be a pristine path in the mountains – the concept of “leave no trace” has yet to make it south of the border.



11:30pm:

The wind, which brought a deadly chill to the evening had vanished, leaving a starry sky and a rare calm. For a mountain it didn’t even feel particularly cold.

After lying in the sleeping bag for hours I managed a mere 20 minutes of sleep. Add to that the broken hours of the previous night, and I could count on one hand the amount I have slept going on 3 days. At least the headache, which kept me from sleeping, had gone. Even my breathing felt a little less difficult. But still, I couldn’t sleep.



A group of 5 Mexican climbers came up around midnight. Within minutes they built a fire, and threw some tortillas and potatoes thrown on the first embers. We chatted for a while, talked about the mountain, climbing, Mexico, the filth of the hut… they offered me food and to summit with them later that night. This is just what I wanted – to not climb alone! But they needed to rest first and I couldn’t sleep. I figured I was a slower climber anyway, so I would depart at 1:30am with the hopes they would soon catch up.



1:30am:

It was just light enough that I opted against using my headlamp, and set off to an occasional gentle breeze and the helpful spotlight of the almost full moon which lit up the mountain.

Pale silvery glow of the rocks; hard shadows thrown from every minuscule pebble; shadows from larger boulders leaving in obscurity great swaths of path.



3:00am:

Based on my observations from 4600m, I determined what looked like to be the right path: a quick north-westerly traverse of a small boulder field to a rocky ridge leading up to the summit pyramid. The south side was nothing but a giant sand/dust and scree field – impossible to climb. The only options were the ridges and their relatively more stable ground, so I chose the one to the west – the closest to camp. The final approach on the south is entirely a scree field, but I would deal with that later. There was no snow or ice anywhere to help me. Whatever accumulation from a 3 day dump the previous week, was all gone.

As usual my going was slow, but it was not only the lack of oxygen which made me stop often to look around.



Directly south of Pico de Orizaba is another volcano, with an observatory at the top. To each side the valley is revealed and framed by two southern ridges of Pico. The stars in a cloudless sky, and the lights of the tiny pueblos, sparkled above and below. Hills to the far side of the valley retreated gradually into the ever-present mist. At that moment the whole world felt tranquil. I wanted less to go to the peak, than to remain in that contemplative calm.

Every step higher, as I rose above the ridge lines, revealed more and more of the valley. With every new twinkling pueblo I felt the warmth of a hearth and the comfort of a home. That it was 3a.m and I was alone on a vast and cold mountain, made no difference. Lights were on in the tiny clusters of civilization, which, by some miracle, remained in the fertile valley of Mexico’s section of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Conquest and disease, corruption and drug wars, French and American invaders, a dozen active volcanoes… all failed in displacing and snuffing out the lights below.

Sadly, what mountains are best for – contemplation, is not something they allow. No matter how fine the weather, more than 5 minutes of inactivity is the catalyst for a state of cold which is hard to get rid of.

I remember the views from every peak on which I have stood in the last 16 years. I also remember that every time I wanted to remain, to contemplate the great vastness, the insignificance of our hubris, the glorious testament to time and patience before me, I was always run off by the setting sun, 80mph winds, impeding frost bite, threatening cold or rain. As a matter of fact, in the last 16 years I have never spent more than 20 minutes at the summit of a mountain.

But only today did I realize that no matter the splendor of that view from the roof of the world – above clouds and pettiness – it is the presence in the mountains, whether in a valley or on a ridge, which is most gratifying. It is there, around, as opposed to on top the mountain, which lends one more time to observe and contemplate and listen to the great secrets which long ago every person knew.

And though I realized this, and with ever growing weakness from hunger, sleep deprivation, lack of oxygen and thirst, I still kept moving forward and higher.

But with every step my head grew more faint, my stomach more uneasy (more info here). As the water in my camel pack froze and wind began to pick up, every step became harder, and every time I would stop I nearly fell asleep on my feet. With the dehydration and increased altitude the headache returned to add to my joy. I began to feel dizzy and to stumble on the uneven and constantly changing path. What I thought would be a steadier climb turned out to be an alternating field of sand, scree and boulder. But in the moonlight I could not have known that traversing along the east side of the ridge would have allowed for a more constant, and therefore easier, assent.

Why, oh why did I not go to the north side where there is snow and ice and climbing makes more sense? The problem with sand and scree is that so often you need to take 2-3 steps in order to move forward 1. The constant sliding back and near rock slides which are avoided by draining spurts of energy, are the inglorious end to many a summit bid. For every 10 second burst of energy I needed a 4 minute rest. My fingers and toes grew more numb, and because I was not moving fast or continually enough, my body temperature kept falling.



5:30a.m:

I have now stopped and urged myself to turn around a hundred times. But after shacking myself from sleep and looking up to see how close the summit seemed to be, I would again venture a few steps. A few steps closer, a few steps higher, and the cycle repeats. I wished the sun would rise already and chase away the ominous shadows, but it remained bleak and dark and cold.

An agonizing hour later the grayness of the east began to take on a reddish hue. Finally the light is come! I stood gazing at the peak above and at the valley below. What splendor am I about to witness with the rising sun! I turned again toward the peak, took two steps, and in a moment realized I am still alone – the other climbers had not even started yet. My vision blurry, my head swimming, my water inaccessible; if I collapse and hit my head on a rock… I am alone. Even if the sun lights for me a golden path, that path would still take me through unstable ground at 30-45 degree angles. And if now I barely take 3 steps before almost falling from weakness…

With the summit so close I could taste it, I took out my GPS, marked my elevation at 5200m (my personal record), turned around and headed back to the hut.

Either as a consolation, or mocking, the sun rise was resplendent. I did not waste the opportunity to stop and gaze for as long as the wind would allow me.

As I approached the hut at 7:30a.m, the 5 Mexican climbers met me on the trail a few hundred paces from the hut. I told them about the trail, wished them luck, stumbled into the hut, made a cup of instant soup and passed out.

Steelhorse wonderful to learn about your ride. Do come to India. Be my guest anytime.

Sent from my GT-I9082 using Tapatalk

Thanks Kayjay!! I am certainly coming to India... it will take me a while as I am still in Venezuela, and am very slow (both physically, and mentally is seems).
Thanks so much for the invite! I hope to meet you there... or somewhere else on the road...?

It's not a good day when the camera and GPS, on which you spent your last pennies, break!!
The camera took a fall from Georgia and off Canelo (the actual horse I rode in the plains), and the GPS was destroyed by batteries leaking from the excessive humidity.
Already got lost in the mountains due to heavy fog, and found half of my pictures out of focus.
No bueno.

Off to cross the entirety of Venezuela in pursuit of the last drops from Angel Falls.

Cheers!

Posada Don Carlos is a real nice place to base out of in Cuidad Bolivar run by a German expat named Martin, also has a KLR, he has nice underground parking garage, good place to do any needed maintenance before heading into the Gran Sabana

__________________
www.throttlemeister.net

I hope you get the camera sorted out. You've been taking some amazing photos so far!

__________________
wolfandzebra.com

Just got back from Angel Falls!!
Now going to Mount Roraima!
Back in 8 days, and then 10 days of fishing in the jungle.
I will try to post before going fishing, otherwise, see you in a few weeks!

Two and a Half years on the road today!
47,000km. 12 Countries. 2 Continents. 2 Motorcycles. 1 New Language...

Back in Ciudad Bolivar, Venezuela. Next stop fishing in the jungle!

congrats on the mile stone of 2 half years.

Mexico City

Mexico City is everything one would expect from one of the biggest and most populated cities in the world. No matter how much I love and long for nature, there is an undeniable pulse, which only a big city has, toward which I am drawn – like a drug addict seeking his next high. The saturation of culture, the abundance and excess, the variety, the opportunity, the food, the women… a big city seems to have everything, and when you are deep within its cage it is easy to forget, for long periods of time, that you have not taken a deep breath in months. This is particularly true in this sprawling bowl of exhaust which we call Mexico City, where carpets of gray crawl ever higher upon the surrounding hills. Greens and Golds and Browns, all turn to gray with the continuous onslaught of a population which refuses to curb its reproduction for outdated Catholic bans on birth control. Every now and then a bright spot of pink, orange or red, but they are mere blips in the countless miles of gray concrete buildings.



Jorge, a brother of a friend from Ensenada, welcomed me into the frenzy on the very first night, and there we stayed until I left 3 weeks later. Most nights someone was over at his apartment, or we at one of his friends’, and with every gathering came drinking, smoking, singing, dancing and guitar playing. For countless nights we stayed up until the sun came up singing and laughing our hearts out. I have never been so reminded of Russians!



I have noticed this parallel between Russians and Mexicans before, but in Mexico City it was truly solidified. The large presence of communists, past and present, serves to further accentuate the parallel. During the height of Mexican art, in the 20’s, two of its foremost artists – Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo – were staunch supporters of communism (and even sheltered Trotsky in his exile). This means that so much of Mexico’s public art works, particularly murals, are of the Socialist Realism kind. Frida even decorated her corsets with hammers and sickles.


No matter the style, art in general stands at a very high level in Mexico – less for its collection of world masterpieces, and more for what it produces. Few Mexican artists have made it to worldwide fame, even of the 4 great muralists only one is truly known outside his country. But that says nothing of the quality of art found here. From little Ensenada, all the way to Oaxaca, I was constantly impressed by what I saw. Even modern artists in Mexico produce phenomenal work. There was, however, a strange dichotomy: as excellent as the art was, the curation and organization of the museums was generally quite poor. The organization of the pieces often made little sense; the lighting, with few exceptions, was horrible; and the amount of mislabeled and un-labeled pieces, or mistranslated labels, was astounding. This, however, did not stop me going to dozens of museums – all of which were treasure-troves of expression, color, evidence and history.

Some excellent examples of museums which are an absolute must, and not to be missed: Museum of Anthropology, Museum of Modern Art, Frida Kahlo House, Dolores Olmedo Museum, Templo Major, and Teotihuacan.

The enormous pyramids of Teotihuacan are an incredible sight. To walk down the ancient streets is to experience, in part, the grandeur of a society which flourished even before the Mexica (Aztecs). The site museum has excellent artifacts, and they are constantly revealing new buildings. Plaza Major, to the side of the cathedral, is the original center of the Mexica empire, from which pyramids the stones were taken to build the cathedral and plaza. You can literally look through layers of pyramids and see how the culture slowly grew and expanded in magnificence. The museum of Anthropology contains artifacts from the earliest settlers of the country all the way to the conquista. It’s breadth is overwhelming, as it covers every native group to have occupied the territory over the last 10,000 years, and therefore requires at least 2 days. The Dolores Olmedo museum is a treasure of Rivera’s and Kahlo’s smaller works, as well as a plethora of ancient artifacts. The grounds alone are worth a visit as they are beautifully groomed, and teeming with peacocks, geese, ducks, birds, hairless Mexican dogs… and other free roaming animals. The Frida Kahlo museum speaks for itself, and sometimes has special exhibitions of the family’s personal effects which give some insight into this spirited and revolutionary woman.



There was little else I could do besides go to museums as the city is quite expensive (for me). The wide range of fine food was as out of my range as it is for the average Mexican family. Luckily the markets serve delicious meals, and fresh squeezed juices, for around a dollar. The one thing I did splurge on – I could not help myself – was a concert at Bellas Artes – a theater worthy of its position in the capital of New Spain. I knew that it would be a very long time before I heard classical music again, so I had to go – another excellent decision!



For a person so rooted in European culture, big cities are a very real need. Most smaller towns in Central America do not have ballet or opera or art exhibitions or jazz. No matter how much I rather stay in the mountains, I’m inevitably drawn back to cities. I was also curious about one of the biggest Jewish communities in Latin America and decided to make my annual, random, trip to a synagogue. In a rare moment, I was unwelcomed somewhere, and of all places it was a synagogue. You can find the detail here.


I normally do not stay anywhere for too long, but in this case it was fate that I should. Jorge’s aunt was fighting breast cancer, and because I have experience with my mother’s two year battle, I readily offered to help. We spent most of a few days running from store to store looking for all the things she would need to follow the diet that in part cured my mother, and in part allowed her to withstand 2 years of chemo! I translated the diet into English, set her up with the food, and brought her a great book on how to help the fight with your mind (as most cancer is stress related). The whole family got together in the valiant effort to save her. This was all around Christmas – a perfect time to have everyone together, to feel the positive energy from those who care most about you. (For more information on how my mother beat her stage 4, spread throughout her breast, lungs, bones and lungs, cancer, please email me directly)

Christmas in Mexico City was a beautiful, if a little strange, time. The family kept most of the traditions, like the procession, call and response prayer of Mary asking to come into the home, the piñata, the traditional dishes like Bacalao, and of course singing and dancing. What gave it a kick was Jorge’s uncle, a chef who likes to make an occasional foray into producing gay porn films, who decided to stuff the piñata with little penis straws, condoms, lube, a ball-gag… you know, the traditional Christmas piñata stuffing. But the whole family had a blast – surely it was not his first time doing that. His greatest contribution was his artisanal Mezcal. Made from agave that can only grow wild on mountain slopes (all efforts to cultivate it have failed), it was the earthiest, most delicious Mezcal I have ever tasted – and I spent 3 weeks in Oaxaca (where Mezcal comes from) proving it. It was another night which lasted well into the morning, and was full of deliciousness of many kinds. I was truly beginning to feel that I had found another brother in Jorge.

But, inevitably, I was torn away with my need to continue. It is always hard to leave good people, but every once in a while it feels like a tearing apart. I’ve been fortunate enough to have made friends for life on my journey, and unfortunate enough to have had to leave every single one. I only pray the road, or the world, will bring us together again.

Hello friends.
My mom just passed away.
I'm flying back to Minnesota from Venezuela tomorrow, so the book, the journey... all is put on hold for now.
I will get back to updating, as I am still only in Mexico according to the RR, as soon as I find reason to live again.
Thanks for following me so far...

Alexander

Sorry to hear about your mom. May memories of her help you find peace