Hobuck Hoedown Surf Comp, Neah Bay, WA

 

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Me and Mo

Me and Mo

I’ve always grown up with dogs. My dad seemed to have a tendency towards owning German Shepherds. As a result, much of my childhood playtime included a large, four-legged companion. My Dad’s first Shepard, Eric, combined the protective home security of a sphinx with the gentleness of Lassie. As an infant, I would crawl the hairy hill of his body, up over his head, and down the other side via a red, wet tongue. He put up with such annoyances rather well, I am told. However, this dog’s over-protective, genetically programmed instinct to guard his pack and his territory was both a blessing and a curse. A relaxing jog with my Dad’s buddies was not always so relaxing. Eric would run in between the two men, separating them, and flash his teeth if the partner merged too close to his human. Soon my Dad found that Eric would be his only running partner.

One of my first memories that I can remember was bringing home a German Shepard puppy from a breeder somewhere in the farmlands of Nebraska. I was three years old. I thought “Butterpeppersalt” was a perfectly good name for him, but settled on a simplified “Pepper.” I must have just discovered condiments at that time. This dog was one of the most intelligent dogs I have ever known. I think that he could have learned to drive a car if he had opposable thumbs. He was a most gentle dog, especially for a Shepard. Yet, the hunting instinct was strong in him. He brought home all kinds of animals to display for us. Rabbits, opossums, a pig’s head (remnants of the neighbor’s barbeque) and a cat from down the street. The dead cat was especially terrifying for me as a twelve-year old boy. After I explained what had happened to my Dad, I was left with the morbid task of breaking the news to the cat’s elderly owner.

Pepper and I spent countless playtime hours together down at the nearby park and in the creek behind the golf course. We built forts, swam through the murky water, evaded make-believe pursuers and fought dragons together. I was 15 when he died, twelve years after my first memory of him. Part of me died with him then and I never really felt quite the same again.
Nearly ten years went by before I had another canine in my life. My logical side told me that I was too busy with graduate school and running a university’s outdoor program to be able to train and raise a puppy. This was several years before I met my wife and I wanted a companion. I wanted some ”body” with which to share travels and experiences with. Years went by and a less busy life was not materializing. Regardless of all that, I think that the time was right when I found “Mo.” No matter how busy I thought I was, the important thing, overall, was to find that which would add joy to my life. I had to listen to that call.

I found Mo on a small farm in eastern Nebraska. I had learned about an available litter of black lab puppies from the local whole foods co-op. I was not expecting to bring home a dog that day. I just wanted to take a look at them. It was an overcast spring morning. I drove out into the country with a peculiar feeling that this day was somehow different. It was similar to the feeling I experienced on the day that my wife and I had our first date. There was a house, barns and tractor equipment about the place. The farmer had two Labrador Retrievers, one black and one chocolate, which he used as bird hunting dogs. These two had a litter of eight black puppies. I did not see the mother. She was off somewhere in the fields. However, I did see the father who looked healthy and muscular. I asked if I could see the litter, which slept over in the barn. Anticipating my question, the farmer pointed in the intended direction. I walked over, opened the creaking barn door and immediately paws and small puppy heads, groping on top of one another, squeezed themselves through the narrow opening. Then, the door swung wide and puppies ran out helter-skelter into the open, disrupting the tranquil space. The atmosphere was instantly transfixed into a buzzing, romper-room of activity. Everyone at some point in life should witness a scene like this.

The puppies clumsily stammered about, knocking into one another. It brought me the strongest feeling of freedom, joy and humor to witness the melee. I tried to meet and examine them all. There was one female, who seemed skittish, and six males who were too occupied with the interests of their brothers to acknowledge my cooing. However, when I called, “C’mere, puppies!” Mo ran and leapt into my arms. I trusted his judgment over mine in picking a companion at this point. In fact, there have been several occasions in the mountains and in the desert when I was not completely sure of the way home and trusted in his instincts to get us back on route. As I drove home Mo fell asleep instantly in my lap. He was an awkward football-sized mass that smeared me with mud. Instantly, a human-canine bond was initiated, one as old as when hunter-gatherers first bonded with the wolf.

Naming a pet is not always easy. At the time I was studying a lot of eastern philosophy in graduate school. “Myoho” or “Mo” seemed like a good name to me. “Myoho” comes from the Japanese Sanskrit phrase, “Nam myoho renge kyo,” roughly translating into meaning devotion to the mystic law of cause and effect through meditation. I thought the cause and effect relationship between him and myself an appropriate reason for his name. I have often thought that the happenings in our lives are due to particular choices or previous causes which we have made. In essence, we are the accumulation of all our past thoughts, words and actions. There is really very little coincidence in our lives if we are able to see the entire picture. Additionally, I doubt that it is coincidence that brought Mo and I together.

Labrador Retrievers were originally bred in Newfoundland to retrieve fisherman’s nets from the icy waters of the north Atlantic. Now labs are notorious for many things: bird hunting, drug sniffing, search and rescue, seeing-eye dogs, etc. I wanted a dog that was a strong swimmer, one that would make a good river dog. Mo’s first water experience was the same day that I brought him home from the farm. I immediately took him to the lake. I thought that seeing as though he is a water dog, he would naturally wish to explore a large body of water as soon as feasibly possible. He and I walked down the hill to the lake as the water lapped slowly onto the shore. Mo seemed afraid at first. He had never seen such an open expanse of water before him. Perhaps the most water he had ever seen in one place was the horse tank on the farm. He warily crept up behind my legs and peered out to one side. I then walked down into the water myself, splashing it around with my feet as if to prove that it was indeed just water and it was okay. Mo strode towards me, sticking one paw cautiously in first, then the other. Within minutes the correct synapses began firing in his little brain. Instinct started kicking in as hundreds of years of breeding were then displayed. Soon he was all the way in and imitated my actions in the water. Finally, he was swimming in the deepest parts of the lake.

Mo was an easy dog to house train. The next day he went #2 on the downstairs cement floor. Anticipating this, I researched this training chore as much as I could before hand. I had a vinegar and water solution nearby. I immediately grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with a verbal reprimand and sprayed some of the vinegar solution on his mess. The vinegar smell was repugnant to him. This episode combined with positive praise reinforced with treats of bacon when he did go to the bathroom outside helped him make the connection. He never had an accident indoors again.


Leash training was easy with Mo also. After some initial hesitation, he took to it quickly. The first time, like all puppies do, he squirmed disgustedly at the uncomfortable feeling the leash provided. For a week we worked only on the “heel” and “sit” command. I was sure to keep his shoulder in line with my knees as we walked (as this was the wisdom of the resource books and people of Pet Smart). We soon advanced to a choke collar and later to the one with the spiky teeth. This is an excellent teaching tool. To look at it reminds me of a dungeon keeper’s torture device. It simulates the biting of the neck, which in the order of the pack, establishes dominance. Since we as humans cannot effectively get down on all fours and bite our dog’s mane, this collar is the next best thing. Mo always paid attention when this was on him and eventually all I would have to do is to shake the links for him to heal or sit.

Mo was still only a few months old when we walked downtown together the first time. I wanted him to get used to being around people and people’s things early on. I have always thought that the more experiences he could have as a puppy, the calmer he would be later. Mo was wide-eyed when we came to a busy intersection on the sidewalk in downtown Lincoln. He must have been surprised to see the traffic, loud buses rumbling down the street, the crowds of people and all the smells. The smells! Canine olfactory senses are much more acute than humans, nearly a thousand times stronger. Dogs have the ability to smell one part of urine in one million parts water. Imagine all the scents he must detect in the city street! Despite the entire surrounding stimulus he was able to pay attention and heal with me like a champ.

When Mo was nearly one year old I took him and a canoe from work to the city lake. My hope was to familiarize him with boats, open water, and their relationship with one another. This was a trial run for a six-day fishing trip I was planning to the Boundary Waters Wilderness in Canada. We were to leave in a few weeks. Mo excitedly jumped into the canoe and I paddled away from the shore. At first, he seemed concerned about the unstableness of his new world. I let him pace back and forth, climbing over the thwarts in the boat. More sauntering ensued, like a farm dog in the back of an over-powered pickup truck that paces from side to side investigating passing cars and signposts. However, he quickly eased and relaxed onto the bottom of the canoe. After paddling around for about an hour I felt we would be fine living out of this craft together during our week-long romp in Canada’s fishing haven.

Mo spends a lot of time airborne. He launches himself over sagebrush and downed logs as he tracks the scents of rodentia. Vegetation is not likely to get in his way. There have been times that I have pulled twenty prickly-pear cactus barbs out of his face in the desert. He never made the mistake of sticking his nose into that plant again. He has also gotten into thick vegetation that has taken me a whole summer to completely remove all the burrs for his fur. He is always easy to spot. All I have to do is look for the bush or small tree with the shaking branches and leaves and I know that it is Mo tracking a scent. I sometimes wondered if I was not allowing Mo to live up to his potential. I think he could be a great hunting dog if I were to train him to be such a dog. I know he has the hunting genes inside him. I think there may be a lot of untapped ability waiting to be extracted under the right circumstances and with the right instructor. He is naturally a good flushing dog and would be a great pointer dog with some training. Unfortunately, I am not a hunter myself and he has to suffice with hunting sticks and tennis balls, which he retrieves to me with fervor.

I knew I wanted a dog big enough to carry a backpack. If Mo were to accompany me into the mountains he would have to learn to carry some gear. Since I wanted him to be a pack dog this task would put a damper on his airborne acrobatics. A backpack would hinder his freedom of movement in this respect. However, I knew that my own pack already tests the limits of my vertebrae when it is loaded down with climbing and backcountry gear. I was not about to add ten more pounds of puppy chow to my pack, which was already bursting at the seams. Plus, I thought, “What good is a large dog going to be if he can’t take a little of the load?”

I wanted him to get used to this way of thinking early on. The vet explained that an adult dog could carry up to 20-25% of its total body weight, although dogs should not carry a load until their bodies have had some time to develop. When Mo was six months old, I obtained a good dog pack for him. I was skeptical at first, yet hopeful of the outcome. I would start out with no weight - just the empty pack. We would work up to a heavier load as he grew older. The pack was made of two nylon pouches, fastex buckles and straps that would attach around his abdomen and blocky chest. The nylon zippered pouches would hang down on either side of his torso like panniers. When I introduced it to him, he sniffed it up and down curiously.

Trial use of the pack was in the Collegiate Mountain Range in central Colorado. I had just finished kayaking for three days on the Arkansas River and now Mo and I would hike together for a few days in the mountains south of the river. I placed the empty pack on him, without gear, so he could get used to the feel. Instantly, Mo squirmed in his energetic puppy way at the feel of the foreign device attached to his back. He appeared extraordinarily distraught because he could not reach his head far enough to the side to see how it was attached and exactly how to remove it. He walked about ten feet in this manner then plopped over on his side and rolled on his back trying to squirm out of its uncomfortable grasp. After two more attempts like this I gave up and took it off. Mo had won. This time.

It wasn’t until several months later, when Mo was older, that he became used to his pack. Mo was about ten months old when we were on a seven-day trip in the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming. This was actually a scouting trip for work. A co-worker and I were looking for a good location to hold the climbing and hiking section for our staff training. This time Mo did not reject his load. He packed his share of food along with our stove and water. He worked like a champ. Now, whenever I pull his pack out from the back of my truck he wags and wiggles his body with anticipation of a new adventure.

I knew I wanted a water dog to accompany me on rafting and kayak trips. A lab seemed like the logical choice for this lifestyle. I did a lot of research early on when picking out my pup. Because Labradors were bred to retrieve fishermen’s nets in the icy waters of northeast Canada, they have a few built-in adaptations. They are conveniently equipped with an oily water-wicking undercoat and webbed feet. Incidentally, their webbed feet also act as effective snowshoes when running through deep powder. Despite all his natural cold-weather outfitting, I still helped him out during some of the coldest winters outside. When sleeping in the snow, I would supplement his fur coat with a down vest I found at the goodwill. I cut four inches down the back of the collar to allow for the girth of Mo’s neck. He did not like wearing it much. Much of the time would stand with a lowered head and look at me with hopeful eyes that I would soon take it off. He felt especially self-conscious around other dogs when wearing the garment as it made him look like a yellow Twinkie with black legs.

Mo’s first rafting experience was on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho. My wife, Kristen, and I were still dating at this time and we had planned a seven-week road trip that took us from Virginia to the Pacific Ocean and back again, making stops to kayak and climb in Colorado, Idaho, Oregon and the Grand Canyon. It was a most awesome adventure. Being together in close quarters, 24-7, for seven weeks solidified the bond between Kristen and myself. It was just her, me, the Mo and a carload of gear. At times, Mo would have to clamor on top of the pile of sleeping bags, kayak helmets and ice axes in order to get room in the back seat. Then his head would hang down onto our shoulders as we drove if it wasn’t outside the window, ears and tongue flapping in the wind.

We launched on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River July 1st, 1999. This was a gem of western whitewater. The river trip was an eight-day float until it finally conflued with the Main Salmon River and our take out. The Main Salmon was dubbed “The River of No Return” by the Lewis and Clark expedition because it provided no safe return passage for them due to its treacherous rapids. I started out kayaking through the class III-IV whitewater while Kristen and Mo navigated the raft. Fortunately, I brought Mo’s doggie PDF (personal floatation device) that fastened around his chest and back. It conveniently had a grab loop like a suitcase handle so the dog could be lifted up out of the water should he go for an unexpected swim.

The giant rubber raft must have seemed so strange to him. It apparently careened out of control through the waves and hydraulics. Each obstacle would jolt the raft violently and spray the occupants with chilly water. I think Mo would have preferred to take his chances swimming rather than riding on the oar rig. However, Kristen had everything under control and I was having a blast in the kayak surfing and squirting through the rapids. After that first day Mo mellowed out. He claimed the back of the raft as his own (behind the rower) and sat, paws crossed, looking out from side to side as we floated down river. He might have thought he was Captain Meriwether Lewis, exploring the west for the first time. Soon, he became complacent with the constant rapids and refused to seek a more secure stance during the bigger whitewater despite Kristen’s urgings.

Eventually, the raft would hit a falls big enough to rock his world. As the bow of the raft went through a hydraulic, the stern went down into it. Then, when the raft passed over, as is common with this type of craft, the stern bucks up sharply. As this happened, Mo was ejected straight into the air. Our companions and I estimated that he was launched about ten feet into the air. Wide-eyed he came splashing down into the river and had to swim the rest of the rapid before Kristen could haul him back into the raft. He has had many river trips since the Middle Fork and now is a veteran river dog.

Before Kristen and I were married she took me down to Florida to visit her family. This is where Mo first learned about salt water. We traveled the two hours from their house to Daytona Beach for a day of surf kayaking. As we drove into the state park by the beach, Mo perked up and began to shake uncontrollably. This was his usual behavior when he anticipated an upcoming game of fetch. It was as if he knew what we were going to do before we even got there. Even before he saw the water he knew swimming and retrieving was in his immediate future. Maybe he could understand some of our human language. Maybe he recognized patterns of behavior. Maybe he could sense what we were thinking by the energy we gave off. I think this was what people meant when they said that dogs could “smell” fear (or swimming in this case).

I found some driftwood on the beach and extracted from it a log just right to throw for optimum distance. I walked to the water and wound up to huck it into the surf. As I released it, Mo sprinted towards its landing zone in the ocean. Mo always likes to get a drink of water while he is working. He usually does this by dropping his head close to the water and letting his lower jaw scoop the water into his mouth as he sprints by. He is also effective at doing this with snow. Such was the case this time. However, when the salt water went down his throat he sputtered, hacked and shook his head from side to side like he had licked a porcupine. He looked at me in dismay, “What cruel trick is this?” He forgot about the floating stick for the time being. He needed further confirmation that this was indeed some strange devil-water. Mo lapped up another mouthfull of salt water, but only to elicit the same results.

He proceeded to fetch the log from the surf. The surf was not terribly high, but definitely over Mo’s head. Each time he went out for the log he would have to swim through the breakers to access it. After several successful attempts, he began to learn that if he waited a little bit, the current would bring the log closer in to shore, much reducing his labors. The next time I threw, he would sprint towards the water and stop, as if he were aborting his mission, just before the first breaker would crash down onto the sand. Then, when the log came within an acceptable distance, he would swim through the surf, clamp it in his jaws and bring it to me. I have to give him points for problem solving.

Kristen and I have spent much time at a small cabin in Colorado. The cabin has electricity and water, during the summer months, but is still very rustic. We have to shut off the water before the first freeze of fall (usually in September) lest the water pipes break. I’ve chopped a lot of wood there. There was an outhouse over by the tool shed. The cabin was seven miles into town. Nowhere else have I experienced such peaceful stillness as in that little cottage tucked away back in the pine forests. Mo had every ground squirrel in a 20-foot radius of the cabin staked out. Often times, from within the cabin, I would hear him sprinting off the deck in pursuit of an inattentive ground squirrel. Each time, the squirrel would flee for its life up its tree trailing high-pitched utterance of disgust. Mo never was fast enough to catch one, but he felt it was his duty to always try.

There was a creek nearby, about a five-minute walk down a gravel road from the cabin. We frequently walked by this rippling brook on our way down to the moraine to watch the elk in the evenings. One day Kristen and Mo did this walk, like they did everyday, but this time it would change how Mo looked at squirrels forever. Mo was on leash as they walked together in unison down the road. Mo wagged his tail in anticipation of fetching at the stream. Then the most bizarre thing happened. An unlucky ground squirrel darted in front of Mo’s path. In less than a second, Mo bent his head down and scooped the squirrel up into his mouth. Two pair of squirrel legs extended out from under the flaps of Mo’s jowls on either side of his mouth. Wide-eyed, Mo looked up at Kristen in disbelief. “After all these years I have finally caught one!” he must have thought to himself. Horrified, Kristen yelled, “Drop!” Mo looked back up at her and it was clear that he did not want to relinquish his prize, not after years of chasing the vermin. “Drop!” Kristen insisted. Reluctantly, Mo lowered his head, dropped his jaw and the furry mass rolled off his tongue and onto the ground. Amazingly, the squirrel seemed to be okay, although disoriented and covered in slobber. Then it lurched in a semi circle, ran into Mo’s front leg and fell over. Mo rolled his eyes at Kristen as if to say, “Oh, pu-leeze!” Eventually, the luckiest squirrel in the world regained its bearings and ran off in a trail of dog saliva. I’m sure he will retell his near-death experience to his children for years to come.

There was an over abundance of elk at and around the cabin. They would walk right past us and seemed to not be bothered by our presence there. After all, the elk knew that they were the ones who really owned the mountains. Mo was especially distraught at times like these. He was torn between his duty to protect the humans and the massive size of a bull elk. He sat on the deck and seemed to know that he would probably be skewered if he challenged one of them. The herds did not fear predators because they had protection by their sheer number. There were so many elk that in town traffic would stop and may have to wait up to ten minutes for the herd to pass. At the golf course in town, golfers would add one par to each hole due to the numerous elk droppings on the greens. The elk were especially loud in the fall. Late September and October was mating season. Their bugle was a hollow, eerie sound, but beautiful at the same time. Bull elk bugled to attract mates, keep their harem together and also as a warning of any potential danger. Often, this bugling could go on all night. I once called out in a sleep-deprived state to them, at two in the morning, but they did not seem to acknowledge me.

One particular male led his harem down the hill, past our cabin and onto the moraine for water each afternoon. This elk was huge. It had a 16-point rack and was bigger than a horse. He was a regular in our neighborhood. One day, this particular elk walked down the hill behind the cabin, as he usually did, and stopped in the moraine. Snow was lightly falling and absorbed all sound, as falling snow does. He stood still, ankle deep in snow, for an hour enabling Kristen to paint a most excellent picture of him. He seemed to have an affinity for Kristen despite her assurances to him that she was not his type. Eventually, Mo learned to accept the elk. Instead of raising his hackles and growling he learned to just watched them. In time, they developed a very peaceable coexistence together.

Black bear, coyotes and mountain lions also inhabited the mountains. I made a point to keep Mo in a shelter at night. Every now and then I would read about people in town who left their poodle or house cat outside overnight only to be snatched up by a mountain lion as a midnight snack. One night in June, Mo and Kristen were house sitting for some friends. I was out of town working a kayak course in Utah. This particular night, around midnight, Kristen heard footsteps outside on the deck. Immediately Mo’s ears perked up and he uttered a most scorching, hellish growl at the door. The footsteps didn’t sound like a person, but were slow, heavy and deliberate. Kristen grabbed Mo by the scruff of his neck and went into the bedroom. Kristen could hear alternating footsteps slowly arc around the side of the house and up onto the front deck. Then there was a creak of wood as the door was tested. The creature outside was pushing on the front door! Kristen heard the metal latch of the door clink from the nudge applied from outside. Then Kristen heard the creature’s lopey gait wander off the porch, around the side of the house and nudge the backdoor. It seemed to be testing all possible entrances.

Kristen was thoroughly freaked out at this point. Mo’s growl alternated with occasional whimpers. He could sense that the being outside was much stronger and more “wild” than himself. Then they heard a thud and creak of the ceiling slats as they supported the thing’s weight from above. The creature had jumped onto the roof! It must have climbed the rock pile outside and made the ten-foot leap onto the roof of the house. Kristen thought, at this point, that it must be a cat of some kind. The roof creaked again as it circled around a couple times then came to a rest on top. Mo was entirely pissed at this intrusion. Mo thought, “How dare it jump on my house?” Kristen stared at the ceiling with anxiety and Mo stared with aggravation of the situation and a feeling of helplessness. They waited in that room for most of the night until the cat grew tired, jumped down and wandered away. The next day Kristen learned that it was indeed a mountain lion by cross referencing the tracks it left in the snow with a book of rocky mountain mammals. The cat had remained on top of the house until four o’clock in the morning before wandering off to seek solitude from the oncoming daylight.

Kristen and I lived in Utah for a few years when Mo was four to five years old. One great thing about Utah is the excellent snow. Even the Utah license plates boast, “The greatest snow on earth.” One of my favorite spots to go backcountry snowboarding was in Little Cottonwood Canyon, a short jaunt up from Salt Lake City and across the valley from Alta. The great things about backcountry skiing and boarding are no crowds of people waiting in lift lines, deep and untouched powder, and remote, spectacular views. I felt more at peace out there. I would rather spend two hours hiking up a mountain in snowshoes for a 30-minute powder run rather than ride a man-made chair lift and descend a groomed run. Also, boarding in the backcountry meant that Mo could occasionally accompany me. Mo excelled on the hikes up, as he could stay well ahead of me with his four-wheel drive motoring up the snow slope. On the way down, however, he could not keep up with my snowboard and I would have to stop periodically to wait for him to catch up. Nonetheless, he bounded through the powder like an animal on a mission; he looked like a black mass plowing through the whiteness trailing a red tongue.

Kristen and I worked with “at risk” youth in the deserts of Utah for a year and a half. This was a program that took troubled youth out of their negative urban environments and brought them to the high desert of Utah. Here they could learn to live simply. They could learn to get their needs met in positive, productive ways and, at the same time, learn useful life skills. The students hiked together, built fires together, set up shelters together and grew together. The Mo, of course, came with us in the field. He was nearly four years old at this time. There were several reasons why a group of troubled teens in this environment would benefit from a canine companion. He became a therapy dog. Simple tasks, like feeding and brushing a dog, could elicit an amazing response from someone who has never had the opportunity of taking care of a living creature before. Also, some students just missed their pet back home. A sense of ownership and responsibility was created. Eventually, students wanted to take turns feeding him each day. Mo was also a motivator to the unmotivated. I remember Sam, the small fourteen year-old from New York with behavioral and emotional problems. He thought himself to be thoroughly unable to accomplish even the smallest tasks in our group. Getting up in the morning was a chore. Granted, it did, at times, take some coaxing to crawl out of our sleeping bags. It was especially hard when our tarps sagged low under the weight of newly fallen snow and getting up meant facing the rush of cold air. Some nights like this Kristen would wake up in the morning to find that Mo had eased onto her sleeping pad during the night and she had been forced off onto the ground. Sam, through a history of learned helplessness, would feign an injury whenever we had to hike, which was often. I would let him hold Mo’s leash and soon he would be at the front of the group high-stepping up the next mountain.
Keeping bears and other unwanted visitors out of camp at night was another chore assigned to the group dog. He did this job perfectly. He would also frighten away coyotes, mountain lions, white tail deer, killer rabbits, lost cows and the occasional student returning from the call of nature.
Mo was very good at not begging for food. I loved the fact that I could eat on the floor in front of him and he would not even acknowledge me. I found that a water gun was a most effective teaching tool for Mo as a puppy. After he performed an undesired behavior he would get a squirt from the super soaker followed by a stern verbal reprimand. After only a few incidents like this, the watery blast was no longer necessary and a simple “No beg!” sufficed. He would then slink away to entertain himself with other things. However, he did not always extend this courtesy to strangers. He was quite covert in this way. If he could get away with something then he would.

Most nights the students sat cooking around the fire and cooked their meals in 64-ounce coffee cans on top of the hot coals. Mo would sit patiently waiting for me to bring him his bowl of food. He always ate after the humans, as is consistent in the pack order of things. The alpha male should always eat first; in this case, me, the dog owner. If the dog eats first, then they can have a tendency towards entitlement. After all, who wants a spoiled pet?

He was sneakiest around dinnertime. One night, as students prepared their meal of beans and rice, Mo devised his master plan. Evidently he felt his dinner was somewhat inadequate and ventured to see what additional morsel he could find. The students sat around their fire, as they did every night. Their shadowy silhouettes from the fire danced on nearby juniper trees. Mo seized the opportunity to nonchalantly take a cooled can in his mouth, which rested next to an inattentive student. He warily carried his prize into the shadows where he proceeded to devour the contents by sticking his whole head into the can. When the students realized their dinner was missing, such an alarm was raised and a chase through the sagebrush ensued. After relocating under several additional hiding spots, Mo finally gave up his extra ration.

Now Mo is living more of an indoor life. We have moved into a house outside Portland, Oregon and he enjoys the luxury of sleeping on his very own cushioned dog mat made by Kristen’s mother. It is quite a step up for him. It is a cushy, fluffy dog mattress that one might order from a Martha Stewart catalogue. Kristen and I laugh at the absurdity of it. However, Mo seems to think it perfectly normal that he be entitled to such a bed and took to it without a second thought. I’ve learned a lot from his example; he can appreciate the little things in life. He also lives completely in the moment. Mo does not remember what he did yesterday. Nor does he worry about what tomorrow will bring. He simply enjoys the present and makes the most of it. Regardless of his quality of life at the moment, he always displays an attitude of humor, patience and loyalty. I look up to him for that. I like to think that I am deserving of his affections; he does not hold a grudge if I scold him for getting into the trash or tracking mud into the house. His love is unconditional. I like to think that I can grow to be a better person if I strive to be the person that my dog thinks I am.

Mo 1997 - 2011

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Norway in a Nutshell

Norway in a Nutshell

After several days of travel Kristen and I finally made it to Norway via a series of airplanes, trains and buses. Whew. There was little to no sleep on the long flight across the Atlantic. Jetlag and sleep deprivation rendered Kristen barely coherent. Upon reaching Stockholm, Sweden, we found a nice outside table cafe as we waited for our overnight train that would take us to Narvik, Norway and north of the Arctic Circle. Located at 66.33 degrees north latitude, the Arctic Circle marks the southernmost extent of the midnight sun on the summer solstice and the ragged edge of polar night on winter solstice. During the first two weeks of our travels in northern Norway we never saw darkness. The sun simply followed an oval arc through the sky, dipping below mountain peaks, only to immediately rise again overhead. As we waited, second-hand cigarette smoke drove us to find a shaded corner of a nearby city park where we could lay down in the grass and wait for our train north.

The train from Stockholm was 20 hours long and rolled thorough sunny green forested countryside of Sweden. The landscape was strangely reminiscent of our home state Oregon. We looked out of our sleeper-car window like kids at gingerbread houses whizzing by. As the train approached the Norwegian border scenery became considerably steeper and dramatic. Fjords and snow-capped peaks peppered the landscape. In Narvik we found a secluded campsite, ate our first real meal in several days and settled in for a long-needed rest. During WWII the strategic port town of Narvik became an obvious target for the Nazi war machine. Epic naval battles ensued here and, consequently, impressive war museums show what life was like in occupied Norway. The next day we gathered supplies and caught the early bus to Slovaer, on the Lofoten Islands, and the start of our sea kayaking expedition.

Lofoten is an archipelago consisting of four main islands, Austvagoy, Vestvagoy, Flakstadoy and Moskensoy. The 200 KM long Lofoten islands are separated from mainland Norway by the Vestfjorden and consist of primarily glacially carved peaks. At our put-in we sorted all our gear, checked over our boats and organized charts. Food, fishing supplies, tent, sleeping bags, rescue equipment, and everything we would need to be self sufficient was all stowed in the bulkheads of our kayaks. In a surprisingly short amount of time concluded packing and quietly slid our kayaks out into a fjord of dreams.

We paddled 6 kilometers north into Vestpollen Fjord with light winds and calm seas. Kristen and I gaped in awe as sheer cliffs rose straight up out of crystal clear water. We glided in with the flood tide and watched hundreds of starfish pass beneath our hulls. Patches of bull kelp offered the only obstacle requiring us to make slight, leisurely alterations to our course. At the head of the fjord we found more massive headwalls at a terminal glacier. We camped on a rocky outcrop with a nice overlook of the amphitheatre surrounding us. It had been several days without washing, so I stripped down and went for a swim. The wash was short-lived, though, as the water was between 30 and 40 degrees F. Kristen laughed from shore as she cut vegetables for dinner. After a replenishing dinner of pasta primavera, we fell asleep in our tent and slept for 12 hours.

When we awoke the next morning we found our kitchen ledge wet with salt water. It was a good thing we moved our gear and boats to higher ground overnight, because the tide had risen 12 feet as we slept. The morning was cool and overcast as we packed up to catch the last two hours of outgoing tide. Each paddle stroke entered calm, glassy water that reflected white cloudy skies. Our kayaks glided silently down a mountain-studded fjord. The grandness was nearly overwhelming. The silence was only broken by a whippoorwill and grey heron. Air passing the heron’s wings could actually be heard from quite a distance. We saw several grey herons in Lofoten. They are quite talented fishermen. Grey herons closely resemble the American Great Blue Heron and will often wait motionless for prey, or slowly stalk its victims.

After paddling until noon, we “podded-up” for lunch. With our boats side-by-side, facing opposite directions, we could easily talk, share hot tea and check our charts together. As we munched on an early lunch we saw a small pod of dolphins in the distance. I think they were Atlantic Spotted Dolphins due to their coloring and spots. When the calves are weaned, they then begin to get their spots, and as the animal matures the spots spread until the body appears black with white spots at full maturation. They came up for air at regular intervals and seemed like the most graceful species on earth.

The sun was now out and a gentle northerly helped push us towards our destination. I tied a spoon hook to a hand line and set it out, letting it trail 30 feet abaft of my kayak. Within two hours I felt a tugging on the line. I had to stow my paddle under my deck bungee to grab the line. “I think I have a fish pulling down. I think it’s big, “is all I could say. Kristen paddled over to assist me. As I pulled in the line I caught my first glimpse as it swam under my boat. Silver and long, it wasn’t putting up much of a fight. As I lifted it to the surface of the water, Kristen scooped the net under it. The cod was about two feet long and I had hooked it in the tongue (which, eerily, resembles a grey human tongue). I did not have anything to string through the gills, so I stabbed it in the head and lashed it to Kristen’s stern deck. The head and tail hung over either side of her boat as she and I paddled to a nearby rocky island. Once there our catch of the day was cleaned and we enjoyed it over a plate of rice and steamed vegetables.

After paddling 24 KM we found a beautiful southeast-facing double lagoon with white-shell beaches extending in all directions. Kristen and I set up camp on this island in the trees where we would be less exposed to the prevailing winds. After dinner we took a stroll around the island to explore the other side. We found an old WWII shipwreck with half of its hull exposed out of the water. Other parts of the wreckage were strewn about the beach and in the turquoise water. We identified hoists, tiller, rigging and large wooden beams. Around midnight dusk settled in (this was as dark as the midnight sun would allow). Mosquitoes increased in number and intensity, so we opted to turn in for the evening. We walked back through a field of wildflowers and noticed Moose tracks surrounding a small pond.

The next morning (feeling a little stiff and sore from our long crossing the previous day) we opted to have a leisurely breakfast of potatoes, sausage, vegetables and tea. Afterwards we paddled south, eventually passing into more coves of white sandy beaches. We glided over sea biscuits, sea urchins, bull kelp, jelly fish and clam shells of all the colors of the rainbow. In the afternoon we paddled into a narrow channel connecting us to another fjord and island 5 KM to the west. “Raftsundet” is actually one of a series of fjords breaking the up the Lofoten archipelago and allowing boats to travel completely though in a north-south orientation. Here, winds picked up to 10-15 knots from the north. Unfortunately, this was the direction we needed to go. So, we worked our way into the headwind, tucking behind small islands of rock and resting in their eddies. Kristen loved it – the rush of the wind, the playful action of the waves rocking the boats and the smooth glide over white-capped seas. Rudders helped keep our course. Spray flew off our paddles and water broke over our bows.

Eventually, we were able to eddy-hop our way north to “Trollsfjord,” a fjord perpendicularly joining the main fjord in a T-shaped intersection. Trollsfjord is a fascinating geologic specimen. It is 1/8^th of a kilometer at its widest and 1000 meters deep. Rock walls rise out of the water on either side hundreds of meters up before trailing off to join with the higher mountains. Hanging waterfalls cascade down these cliffs. It was a humbling feeling to be in such a deep and narrow chasm.

The next morning we paddled over to one of the largest waterfalls to fill up our water supply. Kristen mentioned that it sounded as if the cascade were “singing” like a choir of children. While I filled our water containers, Kristen noticed a fat crab sitting underwater near the tide line, its claws moving slowly, picking up algae to the mouth. It did not seem to notice anyone watching, so Kristen floated a little closer. “Want to have it for dinner?” was the obvious question. I braced myself on some rocks and leaned way over holding the fishing net in one hand. I scooped up the unsuspecting crab as it desperately tried to grab for anything it could. The crab was bigger than I expected and would barely fit into the net. With some coaxing I stuffed it in. The crab seemed shocked to be in this predicament. I lashed it, net and all, under the stern deck bungee and we paddled out of our fjord and headed south along the coastline.

Winds were light from the north and seas calm. Sky was clear and temps were warm. Along our corridor monster-huge white capped mountains, the true giants of Norway, rose one after the other out of the fjord. By noon we reached our next camp. We intended to rest and catch up on sleep because we had been pushing hard the last few days and covering a lot of distance. Camp was set up in a meadow of yellow and purple wild flowers with a small brook that wound its way out to the sea. Soon it was time to cook more rice and lentils to eat for lunch with the crab. I carefully removed it from the net, the crab trying to pinch me all the while. I wore gloves in case the crab got off a lucky shot. Placing the crab into the skillet of boiling salt water was a bit tricky. With some fumbling I was able to get it on its back and quickly cover it with the lid. Kristen and I cringed as we heard a little scraping of chitin against the fry pan. I cooked the crab for six minutes on a boil, turned it over and took it out after a few minutes more. We used channel-lock pliers to crack open the legs and peel apart the shell. It was delicious and we smacked our lips with each bite.

That night Kristen awoke around 3 AM and stared outside the tent screen door as a fox walked past and around our food pile to investigate. Kristen woke up an unhappy Bradley who wanted to be left alone, but once the words “fox” and “our food” entered a sleep-induced mind I sat up to look out. The fox was sniffing around our food pile where we had eaten the crab. I yelled at it, but it only froze for a moment. It didn’t look scared, just hungry and annoyed that someone else was here. It was thin and its mouth was open like it might have been rabid. After some time it finally trotted off to inspect our kayaks on the next hill and did not return.

We awoke the next morning to the drone of mosquitoes outside. Eventually, we had to go out, but it was a frenzy of swatting and packing up as quickly as possible. Even mosquito head nets offered little protection. We shoved our gear into our boats and paddled to the middle of the fjord. Several mosquitoes followed us out onto the water until we killed them. Here we had breakfast and hot tea from the thermos, floating side-by-side in our kayaks. We watched a large white-tailed eagle fly over us. I caught a sea perch on my hand line. Seas were calm.

After some discussion we decided to paddle to Litlmolla Island, hoping to not get winded in there. We made the 6 KM crossing in 10 knots of wind and quartering seas. The windiest part of the crossing was a short section where wind funneled through an adjacent fjord and blew onto our beam. Paddling hard and cautiously, we eventually reached a nice set of south-facing beaches. Kristen and I chose one with good southerly protection and white sand and turquoise colored water. As we set up camp we noticed several old ruins. Possibly an old Viking fishing camp? All that remained of them were the stone walls of the structures. A dinner of chicken noodle soup fueled our bodies and afterwards I went for a swim on our own private beach. Wind began to pick up from the east and we grew a bit anxious for tomorrow’s passage, but it steadied at 6 knots or so. We fell asleep in our meadow surrounded by yellow violets and a host of other unknown flowers. Behind us rose tall, steep cliffs with green grass and bushes growing on the lower ledges. Birds called in the distance and gulls squawked. It was like an Eden.

Awoke to fair skies and calm seas. A gift! We ate a hearty breakfast of potatoes and vegetables and fell into a well-rehearsed routine of packing up camp. We were on the water in no time. Our route this day would bring us back to the main islands of Lofoten. After starting the first leg of the day crossing to a group of small islands, we noticed a bigger southerly swell – residual wave energy from a storm out on the Atlantic somewhere. It wasn’t too big, but we wanted to get across in case conditions changed. Weather and sea state can change quickly in a marine environment. We paddled past several “boomers” (rocks just under the water surface that splash up whitewater as the swell passes them) before we reached the main crossing. We weaved between a boomer and another small island of rocks that created a 10-foot high sucking whirlpool as the swell washed on and off. Kristen and I were focused paddlers now and passed more boomers with exploding foam, but kept a safe distance. Seven more kilometers of open-ocean paddling found us at our take-out bridge in Slovaer. After a week of sea kayaking and 80 kilometers traveled in a variety of conditions we had made it back to civilization.

The remaining 2 weeks of our Norway expedition took us to the central mountains in Jotunheimen National Park and later to Arendal and the islands of southern Norway. I will write about this later.

more pics on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=467996&id=673370110&l=734ca49589

Mount Saint Helens

Mount Saint Helens

Our Mount Saint Helens climb was a sudden plan. We had wanted to do the climb for some time and the limiting lottery permit system would go into effect May 15-two days from now. These factors became our motivation to make the trip a quick reality. The only problem was arranging work schedules to take the time off. However, with a bit of finagling we were able to pull it off. We have since climbed Mount Saint Helens numerous times, but our first is one of the most memorable.

On Wednesday night we drove from Portland to the climber’s register near Lake Merwin, Washington to obtain our permit for the climb the following day. Luckily, Kristen had done all the food organization a few days prior, so we didn’t have any food shopping to worry about. We went straight up to Marble Mountain Snow Park, the highest paved part of the mountain. At 2670 feet, Marble Mountain Snow Park is used as a cross-country skiing and snowmobile area during the winter months. This time of year it serves as the trailhead for climbers. After getting our bearings, we found a nice little secluded spot nestled back in the trees to settle in for the evening. Kristen prepared a delicious dinner of grilled chicken burritos with sprouts, avocado and tomato. Then, at nightfall, we went to bed in the back of our truck anxiously awaiting our adventure tomorrow.

We woke at 5:00 am to eat cold sandwiches of hard-boiled egg and sausage on bread. We then organized our packs and were off. There was one mile of forested trail before we reached snow. Another mile brought us to tree line at 3600 feet and a beautiful view of the mountain. Mount Saint Helens presented itself before us, looming above the landscape in a snowy shroud. Although the mountain changed a lot after its eruption in 1980, it is still climbed every year. On the morning of May 18, 1980, a magnitude 5.1 earthquake triggered the collapse of the summit and north flank of the volcano and formed the largest landslide in recorded history. Gas rich in magma and super-heated ground water trapped inside the volcano were suddenly released in a powerful lateral blast. A plume of ash and pumice billowed out of the volcano reaching a height of 15 miles and transformed day into night across eastern Washington. In less than three minutes 230 square miles of forest lay flattened. Hot gas and magma-melted snow covered the volcano. The resulting floodwater mixed with the rock and debris created concrete-like mudflows that scoured the valleys surrounding the mountain.

The forests have made a strong comeback since the eruption 24 years ago. Kristen and I now hiked up these “tunnels” that had been scoured by the mudflows. “Worm tubes,” as they are now called, are giant half pipes of volcanic rock and are the quickest access to the glaciers. We soon reached the snow and took a much-needed rest. The sun shone brilliantly and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Contently, we lunched on dried prunes, snickers and peanut butter.

Swift Glacier is the shortest route up the mountain. Once on it, we began kicking steps in the snow as we climbed upwards in a zigzag fashion. We had crampons with us, which are spikey metal devices that attach to one’s boots for traveling up ice and hard snow. However, to our delight, we didn’t need them due to the soft snow conditions and moderate slope. Our progress uphill was not slow going. The wet spring snow offered firm footing for our boots. Our gain in elevation was 1200 feet per mile at this point. The sun shone fiercely and it soon became brutally hot. Sweat dripped off our noses as we trudged upwards and onwards.

We took another break at 6400 feet above sea level. We stood on a snowy slope peppered with rock strands that looked as if they had just recently poked their heads out of a wintery hibernation to see the first signs of spring. We could clearly see Monitor Ridge to our west, which offered many potential descents perfect for skiing. We noticed a few slide avalanche remains (mainly clumps of snowy remains at the bottom of chutes), but not too many. Most slides were on typical 35-45 degree slopes. Our ascent route remained on Monitor Ridge and out of harms way. On the snowfields to our right and left we began to notice a few S-shaped turns in the snow undoubtedly from skiers or snowboarders on their joyous descent.

By nine o’clock clouds began forming; puffy Simpson-like clouds in the distance. We used ski poles to aid us in balance and to take some of the work off our legs. They are a great aid for climbers. We also had ice axes to use in the event that the slope became more steep or icy. However, the spring snow remained soft. The challenge remained one of endurance: to continue pushing on. With each rest break we looked back at our progress. The distance to the summit was slowly shortening while the trees from where we had come disappeared behind us.

By ten o’clock the sky to the south was very dark and clouds began to surround the mountain. To the east, Mount Adams was shrouded in white. However, the summit of Mount Helens remained clear, for now. The forecasted good weather seemed to be deteriorating quickly. The mid-day showers, which are so common in the mountains, were upon us. We were at 7200 feet above sea level and the summit looked just within reach. We could make out the ridge that would take us there. Now, it seemed to be a race against the weather to gain the summit before clouds blanketed our desired view. We took one more long rest in the snow, drank some water, ate a few snacks and then we were on our way.

During the last two miles we used existing steps that had been previously kicked into the snow. This made our traveling much faster. The slope to the summit steepened ever so slightly. Our elevation gain on the last mile was 2500 feet. Even so, we were pleasantly surprised at the moderate slope. We had encountered no crevasses and there was no place where we felt the need to use our ice axes. However, dark clouds began to wrap around our mountain. Above and below us was becoming white.

With a last effort we made the summit at noon. To our delight, we witnessed clear skies to the north. We had climbed 5650 feet in six hours. Standing upon a snowy cornice, we looked down into the crater. Below us, 1900 feet down, was the “lava dome,” a rocky plug from which steam and gasses still seeped. Also below, was the north-facing amphitheater, formed by the crater walls. In the constant shade of the amphitheater, a growing mass of stone and ice has begun to form North America’s youngest glacier. To the east and west were jagged slabs of rock and ice. To the north was a gaping U-shaped hole, nearly a mile across, that had been blown out the side of the mountain during the eruption. We could see the smooth debris path that had been made as mudslides had gushed into the Windy Ridge drainage to the northeast. It was a most spectacular sight.

We enjoyed our view atop the crater rim for nearly fifteen minutes before the clouds completely blanketed or view. We were now inside the clouds. Since we couldn’t see anything we sat down in the snow to enjoy a well-deserved rest and snack. Our stay at the summit was a blissful half hour as we waited for our window. When a break in the clouds did appear, we began our descent via Swift Glacier to the south. I snowboarded while Kristen glissaded, using her ice axe as a break. The snow was perfect; a few inches of day-old snow on top of the winter’s accumulation. There were no rocks or chop. I carved several turns then stopped to wait for Kristen. She slid, upright and feet first, down the slope towards me. She held her axe to the side with the spike at the ready. Should she need it, she could plunge the spike into the snow to slow her descent. I could hear her laughing all the way down.

We repeated this ten or twelve times: me shredding down three or four hundred feet then stopping to wait for my climbing partner. I had a blast spraying the heavy wet snow with each turn, picking my way down the glacier. Kristen, also, had a riot; it was the longest sled run ever. As we descended down and out of the clouds, the view became brighter. We could again see Mount Adams with its peak wearing a cloudy hat. Together, we stopped occasionally, to take in the view around us. We didn’t want it to go away too quickly.

We reached tree line again at three o’clock in the afternoon. I had snowboarded 4400 feet without lift lines or crowds of people. Even though I had only one run, it was ten times more rewarding than any ride at the local ski area; and that is the difference between seekers of wilderness and their pseudo counterparts. A mountaineer is one who seeks the freedom of the hills, full wilderness citizenship with all its privileges and rewards, responsibilities and demands. Later in the afternoon, as we returned to our vehicle after our eleven-hour climb, a fitting Walt Whitman quote jumped out in my head, “And now I know the making of the best people. It is to live in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth."

Baja Sailing

The following documents a three-month sailing expedition in the Sea of Cortez along the east coast of the Baja Peninsula from mid October, 2007 through early February, 2008. I sailed from LA Bay (Baja California Norte) to La Paz on the southern end of the Peninsula, including the midriff islands. These entries include events encountered while instructing sail sections of Baja semesters with the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS).

The Gulf of California: Sailing the Baja Penninsula

10/24/07
My expedition starts at Bahia de Los Angeles, a tiny port with many offshore islands created by extinct volcanoes. The islands that rise out of the water all along the Baja coast are comprised mostly of jagged basalt and pumice, tell-tale signs of their firey past. The largest of these islands is Isla de la Guarda, or Guardian Angel Island, aptly named for the protection it gives to the fishing town of LA Bay from fierce northerlies.

Spanish conquistadors first arrived on the Baja peninsula under the aegis of Hernan Cortez in 1533. Cortez dubbed the hot and arid land “Calafia Fornax,” or hot furnace. This nickname eventually evolved into the more recognizable name of California. The first major efforts at colonization of the Baja peninsula were made by the Jesuits in 1683-1685. Consequently, the native population steadily diminished primarily under the impacts of European diseases and occasional violent conflicts. The Jesuit missionaries attempted to limit Spanish and Mexican settlement, fearing their harmful influences, but eventually had to accept their inevitable presence and control from central New Spain.

After a few initial days of sailing around Bahia de Los Angeles, our expedition of four boats, four instructors and twelve semester students sailed ten nautical miles to Isla Coronado. Winds were light and variable, but we were able to sail without having to row much through the calms. On Isla Coronado our expedition camped under tarps on crisp white sand. During our multiple-day visit at Isla Coronado, the expedition practiced capsize recovery drills on one of the boats as it lay at anchor. This is a useful skill for crew to become familiar with, should one of the boats capsize in larger seas. We removed the boat’s motor and gear to avoid any unnecessary flooding. The whole exercise took a good portion of the afternoon and involved students tipping the boat, working together to upright it, laying a sea anchor, dropping sails, deploying mizzen and then bailing out all the water. We worked late until the sun dipped behind the mountainous curtain of mainland Baja creating a spectacular sunset splashed with orange and purple.

10/29/07
In the morning I taught an introduction to coastal navigation, deduced reckoning and VHF radio use. Chart work and coastal piloting was continuously practiced and skills built upon as we traveled down the coast. When a diurnal breeze picked up in the afternoon we set sail to the south. Throughout the afternoon we used all points of sail. The wind veered clockwise steadily causing us to leave Isla Coronado close hauled and ending our passage running downwind to a point jutting out from the mainland named Salina.

We sailed longboat yawls called Drascombes. Our Drascombe longboats did amazing things for us. They far exceeded their design and sometimes were pushed beyond their capabilities. We shoved close to a ton of gear and people into them and sailed them hard in the wilderness. Most of us will not have cause to survive a ship’s mutiny and then sail 3618 miles across the Pacific in an open boat as Captain Bligh did. Still, it is some comfort knowing that Drascombe longboats have voyaged with a sterling safety record over at least as much ocean as the “Bounty’s” launch. John Watkinson, an English boat builder, designed and launched the first Drascombe in 1965. He called it a Lugger, after the speedy coastal boats that English smugglers used to outwit the King’s Navy in the 1700’s. The NOLS Drascombe Longboats are a longer version measuring 24 feet overall. Longboats have ranged the world’s oceans, making numerous crossings of the North Sea, passages through the Aegean and Mediterranean, the Atlantic, pacific most of a global circumnavigation and hundreds of expedition miles in the Sea of Cortez.

Later, our fleet rounded a point and worked upwind for half a mile into a tight anchorage called Animas Slot. This was a very narrow and hidden anchorage, but provided a fair amount of protection from storms. Today there was a strong northerly wind in the bay. I had students on my boat ready on all the sheets and bow anchor while I helmed. My boat came screaming in on a close reach into the anchorage. As we turned into the wind to drop our anchor, the student on my bow was a little excited due to the speed at which we were traveling. As I made the call to release the sheets, the student on the bow dropped the anchor prematurely, before we were making much stern way. The risk was that the chain could become wrapped around the anchor flukes and not catch in the sand properly causing us to drift back onto the rocks to the south. However, as the boat drifted astern the anchor held. It was a dumb mistake and a little embarrassing because the other boats were already watching us at their deep water anchors.

10/31/07
Last night we slept with whales past our camp. I could recognize them as Finback whales due to their signature aft-pointing dorsal fin and I listened to the “Pffff” of their breathing all night long They swam up and down our bay as they played and snacked on small pelagic fish less than 50 meters from our beach. Finback whales have baleen plates which they use to feed on schooling fish and krill. A fin whale can eat 2-3 tons of fish per day and are many are double the length of Humpbacks. However, their sleek design, fast speed, and elusive nature make these "greyhounds-of-the-sea" more difficult to observe than the slow-moving Humpbacks. Finbacks are one of the most poorly understood whales in the world. Their private nature makes it difficult to know where they go to breed. It is assumed that they seek out warmer waters in which to give birth... just like the Humpbacks. The gestation period of a calf is 11 months and babies measure 18-20 feet long at birth! Calves nurse for about 6-7 months and separate from their mother after about a year. Fin whales are endangered and there are estimated 75,000-100,000 fin whales worldwide.

The day ended with a Halloween party and we sang sea shanties around a low-tide fire. Bioluminescence covered the water and offered us a fantastic light show. Bioluminescence is the production and emission of light by a living organism as the result of a chemical reaction. Anywhere the water was disturbed, by waves, fish or rocks, resulted in a flash of bright blue-green light. We could look out and see flashes of light where fish jumped, where our anchor rode slapped the surface of the water and where we skipped rocks from the beach. As we walked through the water we left a fairy contrail of bright stars and our wet legs would glow like phosphorescent light sticks. It was a grand display.

11/3/07
Tonight the expedition is camped on Salsipuedes island, which in Spanish, means “Leave if you can.” Deep trenches surround the island on either side 1000 feet deep and strong currents bring a steady flow of cold water. The result is a ready supply of nutrients from deep in the ocean and thousands of large tropical fish. I taught an introduction to free diving and snorkeling, an ongoing curriculum including clearing the mask, snorkel and ears as we practiced free dives into a shallow corral reef.

Ted, one of my co-instructors (and coast guard reservist from Virginia) found a stowaway in our food bag during dinner. In a plastic bag of flour was a quarter-sized hole with a tail and two hind legs protruding out from the white powder. A mouse had somehow found its way into our food bag and proceeded to eat it’s way through our flour eventually becoming either stuck, trapped or unconscious. Ted pulled out the mouse by the tail and re-located him at the other end of the beach. Covered in white, the mouse slowly regained consciousness miles away from his former home. Disoriented and dazed from high blood sugar, he scurried away into the rocks, hopefully avoiding any turkey vultures passing by overhead.

During the night a coyote visited our camp. When I woke up in the morning I noticed that my sun glasses had been dragged a few feet away from where I had placed them the night before. Also, the apple I had been saving for breakfast (which I had set right next to my sleeping bag) was snatched away and mostly eaten. This annoyed me the most because it was my only piece of fresh fruit and I had been saving it. The coyote(s) also tried to steal a rations bag out of our kitchen. Fortunately, the food bag was too heavy and difficult to tear open, causing the coyote to give up on the project. Some students did loose their shoes, which were eventually found several hundred meters away in the arroyo. Evidently, coyotes like to play hide and seek with odiferous objects that they cannot eat.

11/5/07
Today we sailed from Isla Lorenzo back to the mainland of Baja after several days of island hopping. Winds were calm on our passage. Halfway across the passage pods of Bottlenose Dolphins appeared all around us. I could see them swimming and jumping for ½ mile on either side of our boat. There must have been 150 dolphins or more. Their elongated snout, called a rostrum, gives the animal its common name. The real, functional, nose is the blowhole on top of its head. In fact, the nasal septum is visible when the blowhole is open. Every 5-8 minutes, the Bottlenose Dolphin, like all other dolphins, needs to rise to the surface to breathe through its blowhole, though it generally breathes more frequently - up to several times per minute. Its sleep is thus very light. Some scientists have suggested that the two halves of its brains take turns in sleeping and waking. It has also been suggested that it has tiny periods of 'microsleep'.

Some of the dolphins follow us for a short time, weaving back and forth across our sailboat’s heading. The species is commonly known for its friendly character and curiosity towards humans immersed in or near water. It is not uncommon for a diver to be investigated by a group of them. Occasionally, dolphins have rescued injured divers by raising them to the surface, a behavior they also show towards injured members of their own species. Such accounts have earned them the nickname of "Man's best friend of the sea." In November 2004, a more dramatic report of dolphin intervention came from New Zealand. Three lifeguards, swimming 100 meters off the coast were reportedly approached by a 3 meter (10 ft) Great White Shark. A group of Bottlenose Dolphins, apparently sensing danger to the swimmers, herded them together and tightly surrounded them for forty minutes, preventing an attack from the shark, as they returned to shore.

12/17/07
The expedition is camped at San Fransisquito, halfway along our intended route, and we are waiting for a re-supply of food and water from Bahia De Los Angeles. We are expecting it to arrive by ponga, a large fiberglass boat with large outboard motor, generally used by local fishermen. However, our re-ration is two days past due and we are beginning to wonder what the problem could be. The sea is calm. However, winds could be stronger to the north. The ponga could also have had mechanical difficulties causing its delay. At this point, we really have no other option than to patiently wait for its arrival.

Our group still has plenty of water to sustain us, but our food is quickly running out. As a result, I am tired and weak from not eating. Today I was reduced to drinking straight olive oil just for its calories. We are not seriously hungry, however, and I know that people can go days without food (up to 40 days according to the bible), as long as they have water to sustain them. We have enough water for several more days, so there is not too much worry. Students are supplementing our rations by catching stingrays with make-shift spears they cleverly constructed from tent poles. However, stingray is not good meat. It is rubbery like an old tire. Other students are catching fish using the limited fishing supplies we brought along. We ate some tasty triggerfish, which was one of my best meals in a long time.

12/18/07
There is still no sign of our re-ration ponga. A rancho is a few miles to the south of our camp, so half of the students and two instructors set out to try and procure food. At the ranchero we found a very generous couple living in a small shack built of cactus wood and scrap metal. Their herd of 50 goats milled about the hillside, eating choya cactus and elephante brush. The family here lived simply, cooking over a wood fire in a cinder-block oven. They were happy to have visitors, even dirty and unshaven gringos like us. The ranchero happily offered us most of their supplies: rice, cheese, tortillas and machaca (dried and shredded meat). Initially, they offered to give it all to us for free. However, we insisted they take 200 pesos anyway. This couple possessed so little, but were willing to give us all they had. Their generosity gave me renewed faith in the human spirit.

12/19/07
The ponga arrived this morning. Evidently there was a logistical mix-up on the dates of our re-ration. At any rate, all the food, fuel and water was split between the four boats and our fleet set sail the next morning. It was a crazy day of sailing. We left camp at 9am and didn’t reach our anchorage until eight hours and 20 nautical miles later (one minute of latitude = 1 nautical mile). We had every kind of wind from all directions. My boat, “Spray,” sailed well and was out front most of the day. Spray was running downwind, wing-on-wing, in the afternoon. Then the wind shifted 180 degrees, and in less than 10 minutes we were close hauled skimming over the water at five knots.

Later in the day the wind lay down and we were forced to row our boat for a lot of the afternoon. Then, suddenly, the wind picked up again causing us to sail with two reefs in the main. The varied and seemingly random wind was just a reminder to me that nothing is predictable or constant in Baja. I love sailing. There were times today that we were beating upwind, water flying over the deck, students wide-eyed and loving every minute of it. However, it was also the kind of fun that occasionally bordered on frightening. I felt in control of the boat all day long even though Spray occasionally heeled over to the point where the leeward gunwale scooped up a bit of water. It is far enough along in the course where students know enough to be competent crew. But, being out in the open ocean with crests of waves breaking, howling wind and us in our little boats bobbing up and down in the swell – is quite humbling. It made me feel very vulnerable to the might of the sea. All the same, I love being in charge of my own boat and my own crew. It is an amazing amount of responsibility. Sailing is one of the oldest forms of travel and the more I do it, the more I feel some kind of ancestral gene hook me with a desire to cast off to sea and not look back.

Coming into anchor at Santa Anna that day I had a working jib and two reefs. My thinking was that the working jib would help Spray beat up into the wind towards our anchorage better than with a storm jib. The combination of the force 5 wind and the lift from the headsail was strong enough to bend the top of our mast. The forward rake of the mast made the forestay loose and the luff of the jib ineffective. I thought the mast might break under the force, so I shook out the reef which provided more pull to the aft on the top of the mast straightening it out somewhat. I made sure the main sheet was in my hands so if we were hit with a powerful gust I could de-power the main and avoid a knockdown or taking on too much water over the gunwales.

I should have hanked on the storm jib earlier with one reef and a wrap in the mizzen which would have been an adequate upwind sail plan. Sailing in heavy weather is exciting and definitely got my heart rate up. Once safely at camp, I sat down on the cobbley beach to rest. Even after an hour I still felt tense from the day’s intense sail, so I brewed some Chamomile tea to help settle my nerves. I realize that we must sail the wind we have, not the wind we think we should have or the wind we think we “ought” to have. As with all things in life, we must simply sail the wind we have.

1/13/07
Today was another incredible day of sailing. Our hearty crew and four boats sailed 23 nautical miles to the anchorage at El Submarino. Along our route lay Tres Virgenes, a formidable stretch of coastline with no anchorages and frequent strong off-shore winds that funnel down out of the mountains. The jagged cliffs looked very ominous, yet beautiful. The morning presented no wind, so we used our four-stroke Nissan motors for two hours. Winds gradually increased and we systematically reduced sail from genoa to working jib and one-reefed main. Swell also increased and our boats surfed down the waves as we tried not to jibe. We were running wing-on-wing at six knots which felt like the boat was trying to take flight out of the water. The mast and forestay began to bend again and the stern of the boat was fish-tailing all over as we rode over the waves. We had too much head sail. I had a student crawl out onto the foredeck, a tricky balancing act in the choppy seas, and hank on the storm jib. Another student forgot to tie a stopper knot in the new jib sheet, but luckily we noticed the problem before the halyard was raised. Had we not properly fed the new jib sheet through with a stopper knot the jib would have shot forward, flinging the starboard sheet out into the water and out of our reach. After everything was sorted and calm on board again we continued broad reaching down wind, jibing back and forth along the coast. We were sailing well and were getting ahead of the fleet, so we jibed to “hove-to,” a maneuver which uses the back-winded jib, center board and tight mizzen to maintain a stable position that will not make much way to windward.

As the other boats were catching up I saw a six-foot long fish jump and twist out of the water. I could see the dorsal fin, white under belly and long tail fin as it flew out of the water 100 to starboard. It was a Great White Shark and it had a piece of fish in its jaws. Sometimes Great Whites will swim up from underneath their prey and fly out of the water as they snatch shallow-swimming fish. We looked up the shark later in our library at camp and I am certain it was a Great White Shark. I am just glad I never saw one while I was swimming or diving.

2/2/08
This course is wrapping up and I suddenly find myself at the end of my journey. Our group is camped at the southern tip of Isla Carmen, our final night in the field. I slept alone atop a white limestone cliff, conglomerated with shells and coral uplifted from the sea hundreds of thousands of years ago. Sailing over the past few months has been engrained into my mind, to the point that I sail in my sleep. I look out across the sea and see the islands silhouetted against the mainland. Baja is a place where even the mountains swim. Beautiful and wild. As the sun rises in the east, it casts its preliminary light onto the bottoms of low stratus clouds, painting their underbelly pink and orange. As the sun rises, this color fans out across the sky. The spectacular image is breath taking and etched into my memory forever.