I am many things, but one thing I am not is a runner. Despite my many years of playing sports, running was always my least favorite activity. So how I let myself be talked into running a 10K as my very first (and most likely my last) is beyond me. In a flash of what I can only describe as temporary insanity, I signed up for the 10K. The thinking was that if I knew I was going to run a race, I’d train for it. Ummmm… not so much. I don’t enjoy running, and I enjoy cold weather less so October-ish was the last time I did any real training.
My goal is always the same– to not finish last.
Cooper River Bridge Run – 10K RUNNER 26285
MICHELLE PRYCE TRAVELERS REST, SC Female / 35
Cooper River Bridge Run
I wore trail running shoes instead of actual running shoes and warm up pants instead of shorts. To say I didn’t dress the part is an understatement, but no matter– I finished 12536th place… decidedly not last in a field of near 40,000 other runners. My friend DJ finished a lot higher up than I did.
Part of my issue with running is that I get distracted by the scenery… and this is why I make a much better traveler than runner.
We were up much earlier than the sun to catch the shuttle boat from Charleston to Mount Pleasant.
the bridge in the frosty moonlight…it was right around freezing when we headed over to the starting line
we got to see the sun rise over Shem Creek before the race started
The American flag was parachuted in. It was super-cool to watch
At about 8:30 or so, I was off. The winner had already finished by the time I started. Since the main draw of the race in running over the Cooper River bridge, the bridge is the focal point.
it is a beautiful and architecturally interesting bridge.
Charleston and I have a long, complicated history. Charleston is where I fell in love with travel. I vividly remember an elementary school field trip to visit Ft Sumter, Drayton Hall, and the historic battery. It’s a short boat ride out to the fort, but my imagination stirred–what if we keep going? Where will we end up? What was daily life life in the 1700’s? 1800’s? 1900’s? As a self-professed history nerd, Charleston has everything. Pre-Revolutionary history all the way to today.
Charleston is also where I fucked-up the best relationship I’ve ever been in. So now my relationship status with the city can only be described as “it’s complicated.”
Old cemeteries rock my world and Charleston is full of them.
Cannons still guard the entry [by water] to downtown
for shoppers, the city market is awesome… going strong 200 years +
my favourite meal ever–Shrimp and grits, and if you don’t care for that, there are plenty of other awesome places to eat and foods to try.
I am known for being *somewhat* spontaneous at times. Other times I suffer from an the lack of ability to make a decision as simple as what I want for dinner. What can I say, I’m a study in contradictions
After a spontaneous 100 km trek to Machu Picchu, I headed south towards Bolivia. On my own once again for the first time since arriving in Peru, I wasn’t quite ready for solitude just yet. Through the traveler grapevine, I’d heard of home-stays on Lake Titicaca, and thought that would be something worth checking out. Onward to Puno.
Puno, a small town in the southern Peru, is bordered by Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable body of water. The town, at 12,500 feet above sea level is breathtakingly [and I mean that literally] beautiful. It is alive with bright colors and friendly people. Boats lined with neon colors and shops filled with alpaca sweaters and scarfs give color to the town. The Uros Islands, the man-made floating reed islands, can by spotted from the shoreline and people from all over visit to get a taste of the island traditions.
Puno is a quiet, quaint town with all of the attractions located on the main plaza. Spanish is widely spoken as the town’s main source of income is tourism, but the town still has indigenous ties and as such, Aymara is spoken by most citizens.
Puno is small and as such most visitors only stay for a day or two. The main draw to the town is the opportunity to visit the islands and do an overnight tour with a local family. You can, of course, visit the islands on a day trip, but as it is relatively inexpensive to do an overnight home-stay, I recommend you do the overnight stay.
The overall experience is pretty touristy, but informative. We arrived to the first island and were greeted by the “Island President” who explained that each island only has room for 5-10 houses, so the families that reside on each island form small committees and work together to remain afloat.
The president demonstrated how each island is anchored down by heavy square blocks of reed roots so they stay in Peru and don’t float to Bolivia. He also explained that the islands are made up of layers of reeds and a new layer has to be added to the ‘island’ every fortnight. Each island has a committee, and the committee divides the chore of laying out new reed layers between the residents.
The local economy consists of trout fishing, quinoa, yucca, and potato farming, tourism and artisan handiwork. Most of the people who live on the islands also have a house in town where they stay during the week and travel to town by speed boat; island residents are not as segregated as they seem.
After a lesson in Uros culture and reed house construction, we were divided into groups and invited in the houses to see an example of island living. The construction was simple and each house is one giant room. Each house is powered by clean energy– an individual solar panel soaks up the bright mountain sun all day and is used to provide electricity to the house. In the past candles were used, but you can imagine that the fire + straw combo was a bad idea…
The houses contained artisan work and the couple that was showing us around sat silently stitching in the corner. I felt as there was some pressure to buy something but as I wasn’t headed home, and didn’t need anything, I resisted. I got a few dirty looks, but I try not to buy things I don’t need just for the sake of buying it. Maybe had I visited the Uros Islands prior to setting up my apartment in the north, I would have been in the marker, but as it was, I was going to be backpacking for at least six weeks and I like to keep my load to a minimum.
From the house-shop were we were ushered onto a reed boat to be transported to the next island where fresh trout was available for lunch. The reed boat and lunch are technically optional because it costs an extra 10 soles to ride and lunch prices depend on what you order, but with an exchange rate of nearly 3 soles = $1, lunch of trout and quinoa was well worth the $3.50.
Reed boat construction is rather fascinating. The reeds are rather flimsy and they soak up water quickly so at first glance not the obvious first choice for a vessel to navigate the frigid waters of Lake Titicaca. But someone had the truly genius idea of filling the frame of the reed boat with empty plastic water bottles. Thus adding a layer of security to the reed frame and second, and just as important, finding a way to recycle some of the overwhelming number of plastic bottles in Peru.
Best piece of advice during this tour… take minute, set down your camera, find a quiet corner of the island and just sit. Sit and appreciate the beauty of nature. Take time to appreciate the massiveness of the lake, the warm [almost hot] high, mountain sun, the bright blue water and the incredible floating island energy that surrounds you.
I remember the first patient that I liked that died. Really liked. James was a 16 year old boy with Cystic Fibrosis. He was surly, uncooperative, and mouthy. He never wanted to take any medicines or do any therapy. A lot of my co-workers would rather not have him as a patient, but whenever he was on the unit, I volunteered to take care of him.
One day, James said “you think I am sexy. that’s why you always want to have me.’ I replied ‘1. You’re jailbait, little boy. 2. You’re scrawny, and you can’t even cough without getting short of breath. Let’s do your breathing treatments and CPT.’ And he would let me. Every.Single. Time. For whatever reason, he responded to me not treating him like he was sick. I always give him a choice–“do this… you know what your other options are–get intubated, put on a ventilator, and we can suck the goo out of your lungs all day long or do the CPT, take the treatments, and cough.” He always chose to take the treatments. He knew that if he ever went on the ventilator chances of coming off were not good.
One day, he asked me if it hurt…does being on the ventilator hurt?…does being intubated hurt? My answer was truthful–whether it does or doesn’t, I can’t say because I’ve never been in that situation, but I do know you would be on pain meds and meds that will make you not remember. He said OK then asked if I wanted to play chair basketball with him. And we did. Because that’s what you do in peds.
The next day was the Duke-UNC basketball game [James was a big Duke fan]. He asked me if I would watch it with him, and I said I would with the understanding that if I got paged, I’d have to go. He said OK.
I got through first rounds, saving him for last, and we did his therapies while watching the game. Duke won and after the game he told me he was ready to be intubated because it was just too much of a struggle to breathe. I asked him if he was sure and he said he was. I found the resident and told him what James had said. He went to talk to him and James called his parents. They came and it was decided that they he would be transferred to PICU and started on the ventilator later that night.
I stopped by to see him later that night. He was still awake, had his blue, fuzzy Blue Devils blanket on his bed. James said, “I know I can be a pain in the ass. I know I’m probably not going to survive this, but thank you for not treating me like a kid.” What do you say to that? ‘You’re welcome’. My pager went off and I was saved by the bell. ‘I gotta run but you know you’re awesome, right?’ In typical teenage fashion he said ‘Yeah, I know. See you in my dreams.’ My last words to him was ‘Hush your mouth, jail-bait.’
James was right; he didn’t come off the ventilator, and died a few days later. It sucked, but it’s life. He knew he had a terminal disease. He knew that most people with CF as severe as his didn’t survive much past 20. He accepted life and a death with grace and dignity. He may have been just a teenager, but James had a wise soul.
Nursing Lesson #1: Some people. The memory of some people stick with you forever.
2016 Michelle here. Here I sit… older and wiser and all. 2005 was a particularly low spot in my life, and going in Italy in 2006, while not the best idea I’ve ever head, was really what jump-started my love of travel. And also here I sit, older and wiser and all, dating a special dude. One day I may even commit to something more serious… like a love lock.
As a single, late-20-something suffering 3! break-ups in the last year, I’m pretty cynical about love these days, and not even being in the undisputed romance capital of the world is changing that. In the last 12 months I’ve caught a boyfriend with another person, had a few months’ long fling, and returned– against better judgment– to hook up with a previous partner. If my judgment is any indication of how my life is going to go, I should run, not walk away from any man that approaches, but me being me, hope springs eternal.
The Lover’s Walk is one of the easiest trails in the Cinque Terre. It’s just over a mile, flat, and connects Riomaggiore with Manarola. It could be the perfect trail to stroll with a lover… not very private if you catch my drift, but wide enough for two people, and the views are amazing.
Like nearly everything, there’s a story that goes along with the trail.
Built between 1926 and 1928, the Via dell’Amore was born out of necessity and not at all with love in mind. As workers blasted through the rock in order to upgrade the railway line, they found it necessary to build a gunpowder warehouse safely away from the two towns. They created a pathway from both villages that lead to a central storage area. After the railway was finished, locals rallied to reinforce the pathway, cover part of it, and keep it open as a second link between the two very isolated villages.
The story goes that, apart from aiding in commercial dealings, the new pathway also made it easier for young men and women from Riomaggiore and Manarola to meet and fall in love. Thus the pathway came to be known as the Via dell’Amore. Through the decades, the Via has stayed true to its name with lovers from all over coming to enjoy a stroll through its cliff side galleria, which displays breathtaking panoramas to visitors in any season. Approximately halfway along the Via sits the Bar dell’Amore, the original gunpowder warehouse that is now a quaint and welcoming café where visitors can rest, sample a glass of local wine and enjoy 180° views of the coastline and the turquoise waters below.
Decades’ worth of amorous graffiti painted onto or carved into the rock adorn the cliff face and the walls of the path’s galleria. Although off-putting to some, true romantics seem to find the sentiments behind the graffiti endearing. “Lucchetti d’amore” or love locks — padlocks marked with a couple’s name and locked in a public place for all to see — are a frequent sight as well.
You know, one day I’d like to lock a lock somewhere special with some as of yet undetermined male.
Most of last year sucked. Like straight up sucked. Yes, I graduated from school and got an amazing job, but other than that 2005 was shitty. Watching my father die, seeing my boyfriend tool around town with some floozy, having a fling with my boss, and moving to a new state–none of those things made me happy. I decided early on that 2006 was going to be a much better year. I’m going to explore my new surroundings, take real vacations, go on actual dates with appropriate people, make new friends…you know all that stuff that is supposed to make life more fulfilling.
Real vacation #1–hanging out in Itlay.
One of the things that always helps me to see things clearly is getting back to nature… getting outside and communing with the trees if you will. After being surrounding with throngs of people at the Olympics, I needed some alone time… Enter Cinque Terre, a coastal area of five little villages. This part of Italy is usually DEAD in the winter, but courtesy of the Games, some areas have opened up, providing a much needed escape from the Alps. Don’t get me wrong, mountains are awesome. The Alps are amazing, but I’d take a cold, sunny day on the coast over the snowy mountains any day.
One of the main draws to Cinque Terre aside from its location is the interconnect hiking paths. Some of them are easy, more like leisurely strolls through the woods. Other trails are actual hiking trails complete with mountains and steep climbs.
A lot of people just hike the leisurely trail; I opted to hike the entire network of trails. Hiking the entire length of the trail took about 8 hours or so. I went at an easy pace; it was bright and sunny except for the early morning fog, and temperatures were awesome for February. I had a lot of shit to sort out in my head. So I walked. And walked. And walked some more. Those paths are amazing. And snapped photos [2016 Michelle here: with FILM]
I took the train back to my room after hiking all day and indulged in a massive plate of pasta, all the bread I could get my hands on, and a carafe or two of the most wonderful red wine ever. Of course I say that every day… today’s wine was the best ever… today’s pasta was the best ever… today’s gelato was better than yesterday’s gelato. But the hike… the hike was amazing. The towns are pretty cute too.
Also I am amazed at how green everything is. You’d never know it was February.
We all make mistakes… especially when doing something you’ve never done before, and traveling to a new place definitely fits in to that category. It seems as if I make at least 10 mistakes a day when I’m traveling. In that regard, I am just like everyone else [although I am not ashamed to admit my shortcomings], and when it comes to traveling, I make plenty of mistakes… usually the same ones or variations of the same theme. You’d think I’d learn, but so far, I haven’t… it’s almost as if I am allergic to learning or something.
I’ve been on my own now for half of my life, and sneaking away to travel even earlier than that [Exhibit A–Alone in Atlanta as a 7th grader… Exhibit B… Baseball in Baltimore as a 14 year old], so you would think I’d learn a thing or two about this whole put stuff in a bag and go somewhere thing. Yet, I am surprised as anyone…maybe more so because a reasonable person wouldn’t keep doing the same things over and over again… when things don’t go according to some ill defined plan.
Traveling is not easy… Things do not always work out like you think they should in your head… There are often hiccups, last minute change of plans, substitutions, and other clusterfucks that a lot of people never talk about. So with that in mind, let’s review the travel mistakes I keep making.
Mistake # 1 Not making reservations ahead of time.
I really [REALLY!] hate planning. I also hate commitment, and to me, making reservations, is both planning AND making a commitment. In my head, I’m screaming “Reservations cramp my style. I want to be free. I want to be spontaneous. What if I change my mind? What if something better comes along?” In reality what happens is the flight I want is already booked. There are no more hotel rooms to be had. I have to keep changing hotels everyday because none of them had availability for the duration of my stay. Or I have to scrap plans all together. I really should get my ass in gear and make reservations more than 45 minutes before something starts.
Seeing fireworks at the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Eve was awesome; arriving in Chamonix, France in the French Alps on January 2 without a place to stay and without a cellphone [see #4] during a snowstorm was not awesome. Spending 400 Euros for the last remaining hotel room [#truestory] in town also was not awesome.
Mistake # 2 Packing the wrong things
I’m a pretty light packer as things go. I have never had my bags go over the weight limit, and I’ve never had more than I could handle. South America in general was a lot colder than I thought it would be… [altitude is a tricky beast] I ended up wearing the same clothes for days… [I did change my underwear though] because they were they only warm clothes I had… I even slept in my fleece pullover a few times… In the end, I had to buy some things while I was on the road, and at least in the upper half on the continent 5’9″ women aren’t too common so fit was generally an issue.
You’d think that in those two bags, I’d have everything I need for a year in South America. Nope, I had to go shopping in a mall in Quito for for jungle/cloud forest gear. I had to buy a poncho for warmth in Peru [and used it in Bolivia]. Traditional Andean clothing does not come in tall… just so you know. My flip flops fell apart in Chile. I rented clothing for the Inca Trail. I bought a warmer jacket [down in case you are wandering] for Patagonia, and by the time I hit Brazil, I was ‘accidentally’ leaving things behind. Let’s not even talk about the time I showed up in a ski resort area without appropriate gear. I am ever hopeful that I will eventually happen on the right combination of clothing for the actual destination and the actual weather.
Just a few weekends ago, I went to the coast for a few days. When I left it was 75F with highs in the mid 80s. When I came back it was 48F. I did not pack for 48F… Yes I knew was October, but it was 75 degrees at 8am. I threw in my swimsuit, a pair of shorts, water sandals, 2 t-shirts, and one long sleeved shirt… Yes I probably should have thrown a sweatshirt and jeans or something in my bag, but my mind was singularly focused on being on the water and 80 degrees. Friday and Saturday were awesome; Sunday I froze my ass off.
Mistake #3 Not letting anyone know my itinerary.
This all goes back to #1. I don’t intentionally wander; I just change my mind. I may intend to go one place, but hear something great about another so I just go… Or some place may be great, and I end up staying there longer than planned. Or I meet fascinating people and want to hang with them. All of these things have actually happened, and all have changed my original plans. I’ve boarded a plane for Chicago on the spur of the moment. I was in Serbia when I ‘should have been’ in Austria. I was having such a good time in Peru that I got an apartment. Chile wasn’t as awesome as I thought it would be so I dipped in and out, never staying in one place very long. Venezuela nor French Guiana were never on my original itinerary, but I made allowances and ended up spending Euros in South America.
Although I should probably let people know if I am headed to an area where there are landmines.
Mistake # 4 Not using a smartphone when I travel.
I realize that a smartphone is so much more than a phone, but I’m terrified of forgetting to turn off the roaming or something and the racking up a $500 bill. So on international trips, I turn the phone off completely. I know I need to suck it up, move into the 21st century, and just get an unlocked phone. Life abroad would be SO.MUCH.EASIER. [2018 update. I now have a dual SIM unlocked android phone I use exclusively for travel. Although free wi-fi is not universal, life is way easier with the smartphone]
Mistake#5 Not signing up for any loyalty program
Nothing. No travel rewards credit cards. No airline frequent flyer program. No getting triple points for every $ I spend. Nothing. I don’t know where to start. I have rarely fly the same airline twice, and 10,000 miles just doesn’t get you very far. If I had started way back when I could have at least gotten an upgrade by now.
Mistake 5.5 Booking things at the wrong times.
I am inherently a night owl. I am much more likely to stay up until 5am than get up at 5am. I know myself enough to know that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I am going to be able sleep the night before anything is scheduled, and if I do, I’m likely to nod off 30 minutes before it’s time to get up and wake up in “oh shit!” mode… either I’m in a rush or I’ve missed it all together. I’m getting better at picking the right flights, buses, tours, ect, and I am fortunate enough to be able to sleep just about anywhere. As long as I can make it to the beginning point, I’m all right.
Mistake # 5.75 Not having insurance.
After getting severely dehydrated in the jungle… falling a breaking my arm in Mexcio… needing stitches in Belize, I have come to accept that I am inherently clumsy, and as I get older, I am less likely to bounce back from various injuries. Starting a couple of years ago, I never leave the country without travel insurance. Since I’ve started buying travel insurance, I’ve yet to have an accident. Coincidence… I think not. I’m never leaving home without it again. See… all is not lost… I do learn… eventually.
Like many things I do, my trek to Colca Canyon was not carefully planned; it was more of a spontaneous impulse.
I arrived in Peru mid-March hell-bent on hiking Machu Picchu. The universe was equally hell-bent on making sure that didn’t happen. As always, the universe won. I poked around Cusco for a while, contemplating where to go next. Arequipa seemed like a logical place. It has everything I look for in a destination: history, interesting architecture, something special in the vicinity that you can’t find anywhere else.
Enter Colca Canyon. It is the second deepest canyon in the world, and home to the world’s largest and most romantic bird: the Colca Condor.
The condor has a wingspan of 10 feet, can live to be 100 years old, and mates for life. In fact, the remaining partner often commits suicide when its partner dies. The bird just refuses to flap its massive wings and plummets to its death. Tragic, but also somewhat romantic.
After poking around Arequipa for a few days, I headed out to Cabanaconde, a small town nestled in a chasm deeper. I had nowhere to be until May so I planned on doing a little hiking/backpacking in the area knowing that I’d be back in Peru in the fall [technically, I suppose I mean spring since seasons are reversed] I had just returned from a short day hike and was admiring the view of the canyon while sipping what would become one of my top five all-time favorite alcoholic beverages–a maracuya sour– when I saw it far off in the distance. What ‘it’ was was a small white waterfall standing out against a wall of green. At that moment, I knew that I’d have to get a lot closer, and I wasn’t leaving the canyon until I felt that cold water on my feet
As it turned out, the white blip was the Huaruro waterfall, a 250-foot behemoth accessible from the small village of Fure on the opposite side of the canyon. A hiker and explorer by heart, a mountaineer I am not. Thankfully I’ve been blessed with the curse of self-awareness, and knew that getting there completely on my own was so far outside my comfort zone it would not be advisable to try. Enter my new best friend, Jose [maybe not his real name, but he answered to it]. As a solo female traveler and even more so as a solo female adventurer heading into a canyon where I could be raped and dismembered and left for the condors to eat, I have to trust my gut when meeting guides. After all, I am literally putting my life in their hands–at least for a few days. I met my tiny Quechua guide the day before and maybe he recognized my hesitation since he invited me to meet his family.
Meeting the family put me at ease that this wasn’t some serial killer trying to get me alone and away from civilization. Dinner was potatoes and meat, probably alpaca–I didn’t ask–and chincha, a drink I’ve already come to loathe, and conversation was probably 75% Spanish and 25% Quechua. Don’t worry, I didn’t know I could understand Quechua either, but apparently having studied/lived with Mayans 10 years ago
predisposed me for understand other odd languages. My brain works in mysterious ways… I digress.
After dinner, the women-folk did their cleaning up and Jose and I discussed the particulars of the trek. We would start at 7:00 in the morning, and hike from Cabanaconde down to the bottom of the canyon [a descent of approximately 3,300 feet]. After that, we’ll cross the Colca River, have lunch in Llahuar, hike up about 1,650 feet to the town of Llatica and then continue up another 600 feet to Fure, where we would sleep that first night.
The next day, we’d set out for the waterfall and then hike back down the canyon to the Sangalle oasis, where we’d spend the night. Then, early in the morning of the third day, we’d leave the oasis to hike up back to Fure and on day 4, it’s back to Cabanaconde and civilization. Looking back, I’m grateful I’d mention up front that I wanted to go slow since I’d would be taking a lot of pictures because Jose said in the past, this had always been a 3-day trek for him.
Jose said he didn’t do this route often; not many guides did since most people just wanted to see the canyon, but for 4 days he charged me $50. Food was extra, but in reality still only amounted to another $25 for the two of us for the four days. So $75 total for four days of guiding, food, drink, and our one night in a shelter. What a deal. Fortunately, or maybe not, I had no idea of what I was in for.
Into the canyon
The next morning, I was up at 5 for breakfast and last minute backpack arranging. As promised, Jose arrived promptly at 7 and off we went. We walked through the town of Cabanaconde, passing an empty bullfighting ring and the goal of an abandoned soccer stadium. From there, we descended into the canyon.
I was weaving my way down Colca Canyon, slowly– little by little, when I caught my first glimpse of the Colca River. This glistening sliver of hope encouraged me that I was getting closer to reaching the bottom of one of the deepest canyons on the planet and helped me carry on.
Almost immediately, Jose started pointing out all kinds of indigenous herbs and fruits. A plethora of plants with a variety of uses grow in the canyon: muña for indigestion, cactus fruit for asthma and jatupa for insecticide, for starters. The canyon also hosts an incredible bounty of fruit. Peaches, apples, papaya, several different types of squash, lucuma, corn, mango and figs all flourish there. And you know this just fed my little nerd heart so much.
Five hourse later, we crossed the rushing Colca River and arrived at Llahuar, a small settlement consisting of two guesthouses, where lunch was a hearty heap of protein in the form of trout, and the requisite unidentifiable soup with a mass of avocado or potato in it, and rice. The view was simply amazing–an overlook of the convergence of the Colca and Huaruro rivers.
After lunch, more hiking, this time up as we ascended to the town of Llatica, a sleepy place with a rundown church. At the end of the first uphill leg of our trip, I was completely winded. I maintain that this was due to the altitude (about 12,000 feet), not the fact that I was, well, a bit out of shape.
At Llatica, it was time for a rest stop and a snack. Jose had some fruit for a snack. I still don’t know what it was, but it was banana flavored and had seeds in it. After the break, it was onward to Fure.
That’s when things started to get interesting. Right outside Llatica, we met the bearer of bad news. A group of three Peruvians guys told us the path to Fure had been blocked by a rockslide, and we’d be unable to continue. Specifically, one of the guys said that I wouldn’t be able to cross the affected path, which was now apparently a heaping pile of boulders. I am at most most effective [and stubborn] when someone tells me that I can’t do something. The guys pointed out a different trail, one that went almost to the top of the mountain and then descended to Fure.
I, of course, was not in favor of this option, considering the dire state of my knees and lungs. However, if we reached the rock slide and couldn’t get around it, we’d have to return all the way to Llatica in the dark for the night. Night hiking is not my favorite. By this time, it was already 3:00 in the afternoon. We’d been hiking since 7A and sunset would be about 6P. If I’d been smarter, I would have suggested staying in Llatica for the evening and re-evaluating my options. I wasn’t smart.
Obstacle surmounted–chasing waterfalls
We soldiered on to Fure where we met a young teenager who seemed more confident about our chances with the rock slide. The catch, though, was that we’d have to rock-climb up a 20-foot chasm in the mountain. There were no ropes and no harnesses, and there certainly was no emergency room close enough to make any difference. Rock-climbing has never been an interest of mine, and now I’m mentally cursing myself for never having visited a rock-climbing gym. And I was tired. Bone-tired, but I was not at a place to stop.
By the time we got to the slide, I was running on fumes. The path ended and in its place stood a substantial rock face, which there was now no choice but to climb. On either side of the rock slide, the mountain shot straight up and dropped straight down, so there would be no walking around the boulders.
My new friend took my backpack up the crevice. Then it was my turn. My new friend and Jose told me where to put my feet and hands, and I inched up the mountain. About 15 feet up, I got stuck. For nearly a minute, I balanced on one toe on the crack in the rock, using three fingers to grip the rock above my head. I held myself there, paralyzed, unsure whether my next move would hoist me up or land me with a broken leg.
Honestly, though, the climb was almost a relief, because I was able to make use of my arms in addition to my legs. With one big heave that involved placing my other foot on the rock above my hip and hoisting myself up, I cleared the worst of the climb. From there, just two more moves took me to the top. My new friend (I never got his real name) helped me up at the end, and Jose scrambled up quickly behind me like the native pack mule he is.
We picked up the trail again on the other side of the rockslide, and from there, we crossed a rickety bridge to Fure, where we were shown to our room for the night: a mud hut with four walls, a dirt floor and a mattress propped up on bamboo and logs.
After a long soak in the town’s natural spring and a dinner of soup, squash puree and white rice, I went to bed and slept like a dead animal until sunrise the next day.
After a relatively mild hour-and-a-half hike, we approached the waterfall. At first, all we could see was a watery mist drifting up into a vivid green pasture. Then we turned a corner, and suddenly we were at the foot of a mass of water plunging to the ground. The vegetation was dripping wet from the mist, and the noise from the water’s 250-foot drop silenced our conversation.
The hike to Sangalle oasis was thankfully, drama-free.
Colca Canyon has more to offer than resounding views and an oasis. It has the power to challenge us both mentally and physically whilst giving us strength and a connection to the world around us.
Arequipa, the second largest city in Peru with approximately 1 million city-dwellers, was formed by Spaniards in the 1500’s after conquering the Incas. As you enter the Plaza de Armas at the heart of Arequipa, you’ll feel as if you’ve stepped into time and place outside of modern day Peru. Surrounded by 3 volcanoes, the view from Arequipa would have been reason enough for the Spanish to settle there. The sillar from these volcanoes is what forms much of the architecture surrounding the Plaza de Armas and crowns Arequipa as the white city. At 7640 ft (2300m) above sea level it is not the highest city in Peru, but it still has an altitude associated with some of the higher cities. If you are coming straight from Lima, you’ll definitely feel it; if you are coming down from Cusco, you’ll hardly notice.
If you’ve been to Machu Picchu, you may think that nothing can top that. And while it’s true that Machu Picchu is amazing (or at least I’ve heard it was pretty awesome), but Arequipa can certainly hold its own and is well worth exploring and a great starting point for many other outdoor adventures in the area. Want to hike into a canyon? Or go white water rafting? Or explore volcanoes? Arequipa is the perfect place for all that. Want to learn about the naughty nuns? The ice princess? Or are you OK with just people watching. Once again, Arequipa is the answer.
My weekend in Arequipa went something like this: People-watching, nerding out on history, hiking down the world deepest canyon, people watching, and market exploring. My sole reason for coming to Arequipa was to visit Colca Canyon. I am not missing out on another awesome hiking expedition
One of my favorite things to do is just hang out in the square and people-watch, and the Plaza de Armas is the best place to do just that.
Nerding Out Part One: The Santa Catalina Monastery is one of the main tourist attractions in Arequipa and anytime I can get a glimpse of nuns behaving badly, I’m all in. As a bonus, the cafe was serving apple pie and lemonade so I indulged my appetite after indulging my nerdy side.
Nerding Out Part Two: After the monastery, I checked out the Andean Museum to see the “ice maiden” Juanita – the body of a young Inca girl found completely preserved (frozen) at the top of a nearby volcano. To go in, you have to do a guided tour, which includes a 20 minute video about the discovery of the body. The guide told us about the sacrificial rituals and the other artifacts found with Juanita’s body.
When I’m at home, I hate all things winter. Being from the southeastern United States, winter [meaning snow, skis, cold] is still a bit of a foreign concept. Just the threat of snowflakes sends everyone scurrying about buying up all the milk and bread in sight. Should the grass actually be covered, expect the entire city to shut down. For days.
So my position statement on winter has always been I like to visit winter; I do not like winter to visit me.
My previous adventures on skis consisted of one adventure when I was 16 to the North Carolina mountains and my recent trek in the French Alps where I discovered that I LOVED cross-country skiing So, bolstered by success in the Alps, I knew skiing would be on the agenda when I ended up in Sarajevo. Why Sarajevo you ask? Sarajevo [as Yugoslavia] hosted the 1984 Winter Olympics than Sarajevo, and if you know me, you know that I love all things related to the Olympics.
Sarajevo is a city surrounded by mountains which makes for some awesome outdoor adventure activities. These mountains have seen a lot in their day–from being a world-class Olympic destination in 1984 to being occupied by Serbia in the 1990’s to being used to attack the city in the Siege of Sarajevo. Sarajevo the city has experienced peaks and valleys just like the mountain that surround it. Sarajevo’s popularity is surging yet again as it is much less expensive and much less crowded than say -France and Switzerland, and it’s mountain are just a good for a variety of winter sports.
Jahorina and Bjelašnica are the two of the most popular ski resorts in the area; both are approximately 30 minutes’ drive from Sarajevo city center. If you are new to skiing, I’d recommend Jahorina Olympic Center. It’s perfect for skiers of all levels, offers ski equipment rental, but not clothing rental, and has cheap ski lessons for 10 euros/hours. A day pass can be had for less than 20 Euros.
The great thing about this resort is there are fewer crowds.This resort is probably Europe’s best kept secret. I am not a downhill skier. And I know my limitations, so lucky for people like me there are other options such as hiking and snowshoeing and just riding the ski lift. On this trip I opted to try snowshoeing, and man, is that a workout. My heart was pumping; my lungs were screaming, and my legs were crying by the end of the trail.
But to see these views, to do something new, and to experience these mountains…
It was completely worth the time and effort and expense it took to visit the mountains surrounding this city on the rise.
The transition from pediatric registered respiratory therapist to adult registered nurse has been… difficult, to say the least.
Six months after graduation, I’m two months in to my first job, still on new-RN orientation, and question my decision on a daily basis. Nursing is not inherently a difficult profession as compared to respiratory therapy, but it is a completely different one.
After graduation I promptly took and passed the NCLEX, went to Europe, then began applying for jobs. I was contacted by an adult pulmonary step-down unit, interviewed, and hired. After three weeks in hospital orientation, I was released onto my floor, and then realized my mistake. This unit, and perhaps this career is not for me. Transition sucks; it is a time that brings out all my insecurities and fears, and having multiple preceptors and an unavailable nurse manager and educator has not made this easy. As a RT, I knew what my job was, and how to do it, and who to go to when I had questions. In this position, I have different people telling me how to do things differently on a daily basis. While I understand that everyone develops their own system for doing things, it would be helpful for people to not constantly tell me I am doing ‘this’ wrong– whatever ‘this’ may be.
The transition from working essentially independently under protocols in several areas of the hospital to being confined to one area and essentially having to ask permission to do anything with a patient is a hard one, and it has confirmed my decision to become a nurse practitioner sooner rather than later.
I am already looking into what my next steps are going to be. I start my BSN next semester. It should take one year and then I can apply to NP school… which was my goal for becoming a registered nurse to begin with.
Hi, I’m Michelle and this is my own little corner of the interwebs where I write, share photos, and interact with others in the blog-o-shpere. So in addition to that–Who am I? I am –in one way or another– the following: hiker + backpacker + swimmer + pediatric respiratory therapist + registered nurse + avid traveler + cat parent + gardener + photographer + medical science junkie + adventure-seeker + DIY enthusiast + voracious reader + history and science nerd + football fanatic + aging athlete + wannabe chef + trying not to succumb to the trappings of a 9-5 life. And beginning in 2018, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Madagascar.
Everyday life doesn’t have to be routine. Anyone can do just about anything he or she wants to do– sometimes one has to find creative ways in doing it. Sometimes one has to tear down the barriers that might stopping them. Everyday is an opportunity to choose your own adventure. That is what I ultimately write about.
Charleston + Portland + Vancouver + London + Cardiff + Bristol + Asheville + Wilmington + Atlanta + Richmond + Savannah + Knoxville + Thru-hike the Foothills Trail
Charleston + Reykjavik + Stockholm + Orlando + St Augustine + Seattle + Columbia River Valley WA and OR + Portland + Pacific Crest Trail + Wales Coast Path + Charlotte + Ocracoke Island + Kitty Hawk + Great Smokey Mountain National Park
Charleston + Asheville + Tybee Island + Budapest + Pecs + Vienna + Prague + Berlin + Copenhagen + Stockholm + London + Washington DC + Montreal + Quebec City
Italy + England + Venezuela + Mexico + Jamaica + Dominican Republic + Haiti + Peru + Colombia + Ecuador + Bosnia + Albania + Serbia + Kosovo + Russia + Czech Republic + Croatia + Argentina + Chile + Paraguay + Bolivia + Brazil + Uruguay + Slovakia + Austria + Switzerland + Slovenia + Netherlands + Belgium + Romania + Montenegro + Ireland + Wales + Scotland + Macedonia + Northern Ireland + Belize + Guatemala + Costa Rica + Poland + Finland + Panamá + Nicaragua + Honduras +