New Mexico

 

Shop in Taos Pueblo

 Rio Grande Gorge near Taos

Snow, sage and the Sangre de Cristos

Classic in Carson

Art and adobe in Arroyo Seco


 Enjoying the view from Wheeler Peak, 13161'

White Sands

San Andres Mountains above White Sands

After leaving the Gila Wilderness I drove south, through the mountains to the old mining town of Silver City. I'd met a friendly guy camping up in the wilderness and agreed to give him a lift. Johnny was an interesting guy, a student of religion and alternative healing, who had given himself to wandering the land. He told me stories of working on a trail crew in Idaho, about how he was headed back to a farm in Missouri, and how he was trying meet up with a friend of his in Silver City. Apparently this friend sold kettle corn out at Woody's Flea Market east of town, but we never found him. He entertained and engaged me with stories and religious philosophies for hours. I ended up dropping him at the Greyhound station in the storied desert town of Las Cruces. I stopped long enough for a taco salad and a coffee, then got back on the highway. I was headed to sleep out in White Sands.


In south-central New Mexico, bound by the Sacremento and San Andres Mountains, lies the Tularosa Basin. It's an ancient lake bed with no outlet, where gypsum washed from the encircling ranges has collected for millions of years. Here, in White Sands National Monument, is the world's largest gypsum dune field. Unlike silica sand, this rare gypsum sand is a pure, blinding white that absorbs none of the sun's energy. On a triple-digit summer day the sand stays cool to the touch. Most visits involve driving out into the dunes for some photos and a short walk. Sledding some of the steeper, higher dunes is a lot of fun too, but for me nothing beats a night in the dunes. A limited number of backcountry permits are available on a first-come, first-served basis, allowing people stay after the monument closes for some peace and quiet under the stars. 



I got to White Sands just in time to get my permit, top up my water and drive a few miles out into the dunes. I'd done this three years previous and always dreamed of coming back, the dreams full of the most brilliant and subtle sunset colors on the planet. I parked in the backcountry lot and hiked the trail out to my site, guided by plastic stakes stuck in the ever-shifting, wavelike dunes. The sun was already sliding behind the San Andres in the west, and in the soft evening light the sunset colors deepened and flooded the sky with pink, purple and peach. Everywhere I looked were soft pastels, broken by bright brown clumps of dry grass and spiky green soaptree yucca. The silence in that ivory sandscape rang in my ears as I walked the dunes. A bright, chalky moon waxed nearly full in the eastern sky. The sun finally sank and left the west to Venus, sparkling above the darkening purple peaks. Shadows slid between the dunes and I climbed into my sleeping bag. 

Sometime after midnight I woke to a cold, clear sky. The moon had sunk low in the west, and a huge constellation stood out high above me: Orion, hunter of the winter night. I stayed awake for a few minutes, gazing up at the milky way, amazed by the November sky. Later, the surprisingly heavy dew turned into an icy frost that crackled on my sleeping bag when I woke at dawn. I shivered and checked my watch - 30 degrees! I packed up and snapped a few more photos as the sun exploded above the Sacramentos, flooding the sky with a blast-furnace yellow. 

My camp in the dunes

White Sands sunrise

Soaptree yucca

The Alamogordo breakfast spot

As I traversed the dunes to the parking lot, I decided to drive north to Taos in one shot. A 300-mile drive requires a good breakfast, and as I drove through nearby Alamogordo I spotted the Pancake and Waffle Shoppe (add chicken-fried steak and gravy to any order for $3.10!) A massive meal, three cups of coffee, the El Paso paper and a day on the New Mexico highways. Carrizozo, Corona, Estancia, Santa Fe: I watched the towns roll by. Cattle, pick-ups and cowboy hats. Diners advertising green chile stew. Distant, snowy mountains. Tamales and a beer at the Mineshaft Tavern. The canyon of the Rio Grande and the pretty adobes of Taos. A long day's travel ended in the ski valley with good friends, grilled salmon and an early winter storm dropping two feet of powder.

Gila Wilderness

 West Fork Gila River

I really dig New Mexico. I have for years, ever since my first trip to Santa Fe. There's a unique vibe I can't put my finger on. It's a special blend of green chile, kaleidoscopic deserts, huge mountains, red chile, hot springs, canyons, adobe and the Rio Grande. On my latest trip I wanted to hit the road and explore. Check out a new mountain range, do some backcountry camping and enjoy a few hot soaks before heading up to Taos for a week with my buddy Ben. GPS will never take the place of paper, and one of my great pleasures in contemplating movement is spreading out the map and letting my fingers run. This time I scanned the southern half of the state and zeroed in on a huge area of wilderness - all mountains, canyons, mesas and parks: the Gila National Forest.

Just getting to the Gila is trip. After a very sustaining breakfast of eggs, tortillas, beans and green chile I grabbed some supplies at REI and turned my back on Albuquerque. I gunned my little rental south on I-25 and blasted across the legendary Rio Grande - a clear, cold stream swathed in cottonwoods quaking gold. A long, narrow oasis running from Colorado to the Tex-Mex border. One of the most beautiful features of the New Mexican landscape and a rich corridor of life in a parched land. Standing on the mesa-top flats near Taos, covered in dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, you can look down into the Rio Grande Gorge and find lush oases of cottonwood, oak and boxelder.

As I drove across flats and gullies of eroded grays and browns, I admired the river and the Manzano Mountains beyond. After a quick stop in the hot springs town of Truth or Consequences, I headed west and into the southernmost folds of the imposing Black Range. The plant communities act as a living, leafy altimeter, changing constantly to reflect the great variety of elevations and micro-climates found in the Southwest. I drove across wide-open flats of rabbit brush, up into foothills studded with shrubby juniper and pinyon pine and over Emory Pass, cloaked in ponderosa pine and fir.

A slow, winding drive through the pretty Mimbres Valley and up NM 15 took me into the heart of the forest, to the tiny community of Gila Hot Springs. I spent the night beside the river, at a laid-back campground where five bucks buys you a place to pitch, as much firewood as you can carry, and three rocky pools of steaming relaxation. A good naked soak under the western stars does wonders. I splashed off in the river and counted myself lucky.

The next morning I bought a topographic map at the visitor center, double-checked my gear and hit the trail. I hiked west along an old pack trail, into the Gila Wilderness. Barely a mile down the trail I spooked a little herd of elk, a bull with six or seven cows. A few footsteps later I spotted a black, bristly javelina (wild pig of the Southwest.) The trail crossed a high burnt area with good views of the wilderness - mountains interspersed with open parkland and small river valleys. I turned into the Little Creek drainage and hiked several miles through a 'park,' a beautiful woodland of mature, widely-spaced ponderosas towering over an understory of dry, golden grass. Some these giants, centuries old and clad in cracked, orange bark, rose to over a hundred feet. The weather was sublime that first day of hiking, almost 70 degrees under a boundless blue dome. 

Twelve miles out I reached Little Spring, at a trail junction next Little Creek, where a thin trickle of water wound down the gravel stream bed through a spacious glade of pine, fir and oak. Horse packers of days past had built a sturdy fireplace and dragged a few logs close for seats. As sunset faded to an alpenglow behind the high ridges ringing camp, the temperature plunged and I hurried to start a fire. The quiet of the deep woods, a crackling fire and another fantastic star show.   

Friday morning

Saturday morning

I'd decided to camp at Little Spring for a couple nights before moving on. I had a water source, a fireplace and the site all to myself. I woke up on Friday morning and had a nice slow start. Filter water, make coffee, eat breakfast, relax. I threw a few things in a small bag and set off to explore. I hiked around a some of the surrounding valleys and enjoyed the forest vibe, although it was breezy and cooler than the day before. I followed an old trail up Granite Peak, climbing up a steep bowl and through a stand of slender gray aspens. The last dead leaves rattled in the wind while a fat Abert's squirrel scolded me from a tall fir: whup-whup! From the 8,700-foot summit, the mountains and forest stretched out to the horizon, uninterrupted by road or ranch. Three ranges (Black, Diablo and Mogollon) reposed under a blue sky streaked with racing white clouds, separated by cutting valleys and expansive parks. As much as love the vistas of my native Vermont, it's a special feeling to hike a mountain and not be able to see your neighbor's house. In fact, on that afternoon very little moved. Not even the raven, dependable companion of wanderers everywhere. The stillness was soothing and sobering.

Gila Wilderness from Granite Peak

I made my way slowly down the mountain and back to camp. The wind started to blow harder and I retreated to my tent early that night. I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to a Dead show and writing in my notebook. Thundering gusts rolled down the valley and shook my little tent all night long. I lay awake listening to the wind build up miles away and come blasting down the valley like a train, the huge pines groaning and swaying all around. I fell asleep eventually and woke to a surprise: winterworld. Snow was blowing in sideways, with an inch or two already on the ground. Gray skies and biting wind. I had a hot breakfast and a cup of coffee in my tent, waiting and watching. In the end I packed up and left. I was alone, 12 miles out, in a snow squall. I decided that retreating out a rail I knew was better than going further into the unknown with no idea what the weather was doing. So I beat it.

A few miles down the trail, tiny patches of blue started opening, only to be closed seconds later in  a white whorl of flakes. Eventually the snow lightened, then stopped. Further down the valley the clouds started to break and only the north-facing slopes held snow. I saw another squirrel and a dozen western bluebirds. A flock of quail exploded from their brushy hideout and scattered up a hillside. Startled, I froze for a moment, then started to hum Johnny Cash songs as a walked back through the sunny forest.

Retreat

Ponderosa parkland along Little Creek

Canadian Rockies

A hoary marmot relaxes near Jasper

The marmot dreams reached a portentous peak in early August. After two months of brutal, unwavering desert heat, why shouldn't I have visions? I criss-crossed scorching sand and shimmering slickrock, with nary a juniper to hide behind. The southwestern summer fired me like clay in a kiln, polished by a blinding glaze of sweat, sunscreen and windblown sand. I stumbled across sandstone mesas like a mummy, back bent under a triple-digit blue dome. Ever-present, inescapable: The Heat.

Lying quietly amongst the sagebrush one night, I started dreaming of marmots. I was standing in a cool forest of spruce and fir, watching a boulder field below sharp, white peaks. Fat hoary marmots lounged in the sun and scampering pikas filled the fresh air with shrill peeps. A broad glacier crouched beneath the mountains, radiating an impossible blue from every crack and crevasse. A chalky stream bolted from somewhere beneath the ice, smashing down the mountainside to pool in a turquoise tarn, ringed by moss and flowers.

I woke the next morning beneath a sun already high, broiling the barrens of southern Utah. My brain felt like a poached egg, but I managed to write an email to my manager requesting a return to the north country.  . . Barely month later, I stood grinning ear-to-ear, staring up at 13,000' Mount Robson, shining crown of the Canadian Rockies. The following two weeks through Jasper, Banff and Yoho National Parks was a dream: a sublime succession of bluebird skies, glittering summits, bugling elk and plenty of marmots.

A bugling bull elk herds his harem

Classic Canadian Rockies vista near Lake Louise

A September sunset lights Mount Rundle near Banff

Moraine Lake

Mount Edith Cavell

Me, standing in front of Canada

I love Tim Hortons because Canadians love Tim Hortons, not because I'm crazy about the coffee (I'm not.) But the apple fritters, one of the original menu items dating back to the first shop in 1964, are awesome. I became fascinated by Tim Hortons as a symbol of Canada while living overseas in 2005. One of my roommates was from Ontario, and received regular shipments of Canadiana from home. One morning I woke to find a 1 kilo tin of ground coffee on the kitchen counter, bearing the now-familiar red logo. I noticed that Jon was more animated than usual, and pretty revved up. I was curious: What's Tim Hortons? Initially stunned into silence by my ignorance, Jon collected himself and introduced me to the brew that flows daily through the veins of Canada. Since then, I've eaten donuts at Tim Hortons from the Yukon to Quebec (mostly sour cream glazed, my personal favorite.) Started by a pro hockey player and dear to the hearts of that Great Northern Nation, it's a necessary stop on any Canadian road trip.

My Tim Hortons Top 5:

Apple Fritter
Sour Cream Glazed
Dutchie (a Tim Hortons original)
Canadian Maple
Bostom Cream

Black/Bristlecone/Fire

I was excited when I found out I'd have a few free days in Vegas, but after twenty trips in five years and a mild case of Sin City burnout, I didn't gamble, party or jump in a limo. I put on my backpack. Within an hour of The Strip are endless opportunities to explore southern Nevada's surreal geography. To the west of the city, the snow-crusted summit of Charleston Peak shimmers 10,000 feet above the valley floor, crowning a range dark with ponderosa, fir and bristlecone. Across the valley, beyond Boulder City, the Black Mountains rise in a chocolate-dark jumble, hiding Hoover Dam and the Colorado River in their depths. At the bottom of Black Canyon, the river races away from its squat, gray jailer and celebrates release with a splashy run past feathery green tamarisk and the nervous quack of mallards. Somewhere between these extremes is the Valley of Fire, a state park northeast of Las Vegas protecting a fantastic scarlet-orange gash of rock erupting from the muted browns of the Nevada desert. Colorful humps of sandstone stand squished together, eroded into caves and arches and smeared with dark streaks of desert varnish.
I kicked the whole expedition off on a Friday afternoon with a pint of IPA at the Boulder Dam Brewing Company. My goal was to hike down to the Colorado, check out a hot spring and sleep on the beach. Since it was 96 degrees and I still had four hours of daylight, I decided I might as well stop in downtown Boulder City for a cold beer. A few hours later, after a three-mile hike down a gravelly wash, a dip in the hot spring and an icy bath in the river, I was wishing I had another beer. I settled instead for a sublime sunset/moonrise in that dark canyon bottom, listening to the water and watching weird shadow patterns in the sandstone crags. In the morning I hiked back up to the Arizona Hot Springs, sandbagged into a slot canyon above a twenty-foot ladder. After loosening up in the warm water, I climbed back down and retraced my steps to the beach, surprising a heron as I dove into the river. After a handful of apricots and a Clif Bar, I started the tough slog back up White Rock Canyon, every step feeling like two in the soft gravel. I pulled my visor down and bowed my head to the heat, trudging past creosote bush, bursage and smooth white boulders.

Black Canyon, Colorado River

Tired but exhilarated from the fresh air and purity of the light and heat, I stopped in Boulder City for coffee and a block of ice. An hour later I was driving through miles of Joshua Trees, climbing steadily toward the Spring Mountains. A local had given me a tip on a remote, quiet overnight in the Mount Charleston Wilderness, so I headed up Lee Canyon. My ears popped and the scenery changed with elevation. The Joshua Trees gave way to huge shoots of cliffrose, covered in creamy yellow flowers, pinyon pine and juniper. Soon the low shrubs were dwarfed by towering ponderosa pines, thick orange bark cracked like plates on a dinosaur. Higher still were remnant groves of green-leafed aspen and white fir, while gnarled stands of bristlecone pine covered the high ridges over 9000 feet.

Charleston Peak 11,916'

Bristlecone Pines

Clifftop camp near Wood Spring, 9,000'

It was a perfect day for a hike, warm and dry under bluebird skies. From the parking lot at the Lower Bristlecone Loop trail head, it was 13 gorgeous miles out to Wood Spring. The undoubted highlights were the near views of big peaks and a miles-long ridge-top jaunt through ancient bristlecones. Considered the oldest trees on earth with an estimated 5000-year lifespan, these primeval evergreens survive only in a few high ranges in Utah, Nevada and California. After climbing the bowl across from the ski area, the trail crossed to the southwest side of the ridge, with views opening to a dozen desert ranges south of Death Valley.

I set up camp on a bluff near Wood Spring, the only water for miles, and made a cup of coffee. From my sleeping bag I could see Charleston and Bonanza Peaks and the town of Pahrump far below. As the sunset sky turned pink over the purple-shaded mountains, the lights of town came. Instead of ruining the feeling of wilderness, seeing that modest grid of civilization miles away created a sense of wildness. I felt very far removed from humanity, knowing nothing that happened in town could affect me on my clifftop. No sound reached me on the mountain.

The sun woke me early the next morning, and after a couple clifftop coffees and a little Grateful Dead I headed back across the ridge. It felt a lot longer than 13 miles, but I let my mind wander and took a the opportunity to add to my collection of tree photos. I realized it was Father's Day, and started thinking about my dad and my first camping trips in southern Vermont years ago. In honor of old Walt I played John Hiatt as I drove out of Lee Canyon with the windows down, singing along to Slow Turning and Buffalo River Home.

That night I camped in Valley of Fire State Park. My walk-in tent site included a picnic table tucked into an alcove between two sandstone fins. From this vantage point I watched the ground squirrels dart back and forth to their burrows beneath clumps of bursage. I listened to a little country and made a few notes. The sun sank and the colors softened. A large bird swooped overhead, then another, before I could get a good look. Owls? Hawks? Soon the bats appeared, dipping and diving in the twilight.

Desert vista in Valley of Fire

Los Angeles

Dusk from the Griffith Observatory

Desert Spring

Beavertail Prickly Pear

Claret Cup

Desert Prickly Pear

Cliffrose

Engelmann's Hedgehog

Grand Canyon, March

Elephants Etc.

A trail winds through coffee trees in Kodagu

Tusker in Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary, Kerala

I found this small Ganesh shrine in the broom closet of my guesthouse in Varkala, Kerala

Indian sweets in Mysore

Roadside langurs in Wayanad

Powdered dyes at Devaraji Market, Mysore

India and Sri Lanka

A few excerpts from my notebooks:

I was surprised when my call to the coffee plantation was answered by a thick Australian drawl. Les was the last person I expected to meet up there - short brown hair and pale blue eyes, a little off-kilter. He sat and smoked beedies on the porch in a sloppy old sweater vest. He'd lived up the valley on and off for years, in a dirt-floored shack on a farm. One story involved a run-in with the Indian Army in Kashmir. Another involved pulling a knife on some rickshaw drivers, sending them scattering. . .

---

The hours hiking between the estate and the main track up Mt Tadiannamol were pure and peaceful, and I'd fallen into a walking meditation. Walking the high ridge and crossing above a waterfall, long views of mountains to the south and nothing but the sere crackle of dry grass in the wind. Far below, thick native forest filled the valleys. And not a soul in sight.

Upon reaching the main track up the peak, my mood soured and I fought a disappointing frustration: Indian tourists. Cigarette butts, trash and bits of plastic littered the trail, and ridiculous, repetitive yelling echoed from every high point. I fought the feeling and cursed under my breath. So much for peace and quiet. . . but it's their country, I told myself, their way of doing things. I kept climbing and was pleased to have the summit to myself, relaxing for a few minutes up top with a view stretching all the way into Kerala.

Picking my way down the rough trail, I heard loud voices and ran into a group of software engineers from Bangalore. We chatted for a minute and they begged me to have lunch with them. Come on, they said, we've got plenty of food. We want to talk to you. I thanked them but explained I had a long way back before sundown. Those huge Indian smiles and their big-hearted generosity made me laugh in spite of myself, and I barely noticed the trailside trash and needless noise on the big path.

It's all about perspective. I imagined spending my whole life in a cramped city, pressed upon day and night by a million bodies, rarely alone, always compressed. Wouldn't I open my mouth and scream with pleasure to be in the mountains, under the blue sky and far away from the gritty dust and diesel smoke? My American notion of individual rights had led me to curse my loss of peace, while they had gained a chance to be free of the crowd, and fill their lungs with fresh grass-scented air. . .

---

I followed one cow path, then another, stumbling through thick undergrowth and looking to the sun for direction. I was on the wrong side of the ridge, I knew, but hoping a forested bowl would lead me up and out again. I entered a small clearing in the trees, a seasonal waterhole dried down to a small mud patch. Elephant tracks the size of serving platters were pressed into the dry, cracked earth. I saw no tiger tracks, but looked around reflexively. From the sunlit clearing, the forest was a silent, dark wall. What was watching me?

---

The day before I flew to Sri Lanka, I told the gang at Honey Valley how much I looked forward to a day of airports. A chance to swap dusty concrete chai stalls for glass and steel, just for a day. A clean seat, a good cup of coffee and a newspaper. In anticipation of joining the privileged classes for a day, I dressed in jeans and carefully selected a clean t-shirt when I dressed at 6:00am. In clean clothes, in the cool of the morning, I felt fresh and ready.

An hour and a half later, surrounded by suits and briefcases in the check-in line, I stared down in disbelief. A thick, dirty smear ran from left to right, just above the hem across the front of my shirt. What? How? It took a moment until I realized: the seat belt in the taxi! In the entire life of that filthy machine, I was probably the only person to ever use it. It had hung there next to the open window for years, building grimy layers of diesel fumes, dust and trash smoke. I almost laughed out loud. Habit had gotten the better of me, and again India had taught me a lesson.

---

I sat with Eloo in the back garden of my guesthouse in Kandy. He worked at the hotel as one of those jack-of-all-trades indispensable to the hospitality industry in India and Sri Lanka. Cooking, cleaning, fetching the boss cigarettes, on duty for seven days at a stretch. He had a wife and two young children in a village two hours away. The oldest had just started school. He missed them, but had to work. I'd had this same conversation so many times, and never knew what to say. He finished, and we sat for a few minutes, not saying anything. A green and blue bird flitted past and a house gecko chirped. Eloo looked down at his hands, then leaned forward to speak.

"So, what about Mike Tyson?"

---

I filled the doorway of Nilushi's Saloon and the old men lifted their eyes to the stranger. The busy barber paused mid-shave and gestured to a bench with his straight razor. One of his feet was bare, the other wore a dirty blue sock. Haircutting, sir? Yes, and a shave. In this 10x10 plywood shack at the edge of the bus stand, there was no fussing and no pretension. Just sharp steel and fast hands. He placed a thick palm on my forehead and pushed my head back, forcing my gaze up to a fixture universal to wherever men congregate: a calendar bearing the name of an auto parts store and a picture of a half-naked woman astride a motorbike. Shaving, sir?

He draped a striped cotton cloth across my chest with a matador's flair and reached for his tools. I barely had time to close my eyes before my face was soaked, slapped, sudsed and scraped. The closest shave I've ever had and a damn fine haircut to boot. The sting of witch hazel was softened by a free neck crack and a 30-second head massage. I thanked him, and as I stood I caught a glimpse of the endless, rolling hills of tea that surround the holy Buddhist peak of Sri Pada. The green leaves reflected the sunlight as clouds swirled around the mountaintop temple. And I'd be marching to God with a clean face.

We shook hands. How much? Two dollars! Sir.

---

At Achinika in Dalhousie, the crafty owner used his knowledge of geography to generate business. He also asked every single foreigner where they were from. A passing couple reluctantly offered their nationality as they strolled by his shopfront, where he lay waiting like a spider. "Ah, England!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Lancashire, Birmingham, Bristol, London, Manchester, Queensland -" "No, no, that one's in Australia," said the man. Laughing at this performance, the couple lingered long enough to buy two bars of chocolate.

Smiling with satisfaction, the owner stuffed the notes in his pocket and resumed his place in the plastic chair. He lit a cigarette and hummed a happy tune.

---

After driving my rented scooter into the chaos of Galle, where I spent half an hour searching for a bookstore that turned out to have nothing in English and honking my horn 152 times, I felt like a swim.

I took a book and a towel and rode over to half-hidden Jungle Beach, and parked in the shade under the watchful gaze of a grinning old-timer. I knew with absolute certainty he'd get some money out of me, but anyone capable of sitting motionless on a boulder for days on end deserves either spiritual enlightenment or a 75-cent parking fee.

---

In Matara, I saw a young guy at the bus stand wearing a t-shirt stating "BROKE IS THE NEW BLACK." Undoubtedly a popular sentiment in a country with many poor people.

---

I sped by the woman on the corner, then turned right around and got off the scooter. She was sitting in the shade of her shopfront with a few coconuts and bananas for sale, and such a radiant smile that I had to pay a visit. She hacked the top off a coconut and I sat down to drink the tasty water. We stared up at the green hillside across the street and watching some dark clouds building up in the East. She told me that business was bad, all the tourists went right to the beach, not stopping at the small businesses along the path. I asked if the bananas were good and she gave me a taste. Her daughter came out front, a fifth-grader just starting to study English. I wanted to do everything I could, so I bought another coconut and a bunch of tiny, sweet, thin-skinned bananas.

OK, she yelled as I drove off, Goodbye my friend!

The Friendliest Town in India

The tea hills of Wayanad

I woke on a Saturday morning in Calicut, a hot, uninspiring city, with no idea what to do. A long, unpleasant train ride the day before had done little to bolster my uncertain mood, and I sat in my hotel room, trying to figure out where I should go. Wayanad was my goal, a rugged, mountainous area of thick forest and tea plantations, where the provinces of Kerala, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu meet. By all accounts a great place to explore, but my guide had almost no information on the area, and I couldn't turn up much on the internet or questioning locals either. I was down to ten days in India, and wanted to make the most of that time. Where should I go? How? I wanted to do some hiking and try to see some elephants, but where? Sitting around was getting me nowhere, so I walked down to the bus station. I knew of a town, Kalpetta, that was more or less in the center of Wayanad. I also had a feeling that it was gritty, hectic town like all the rest, with little character. I bought a ticket and squeezed into a space on the back seat.

It wasn't long before we started to climb, zigzagging our way up the Western Ghats. I'd memorized the few sentences in my guide and went over them in my head. There was a mountain, Chembra Peak. . . it could be climbed from a town called Meppadi. . . set amidst rolling hills and tea estates. But how big was this Meppadi? A wide spot in the road or a town big enough to support a hotel? I questioned the man sitting next to me, who'd been glancing at me the whole trip. He wore a light green shirt over a blue check longhi (a common wrap-around skirt worn by men) and had small gold-rimmed glasses perched on a small noses supported by an enormous mustache. With a few words of English and much gesturing we worked it out. The bus would reach a junction at Chundale, then bear left to Kalpetta. The road to right went to Meppadi and the tea country.

I made my decision and jumped out at Chundale, crossing the road quickly to a tea shop. Drinking the sweet, milky chai outside in the sun, I saw a row of jeeps and a large purple bus with the words Love Birds emblazoned across the top of the windshield. It was filling up with passengers, and I caught the driver's eye. He grinned at me, and that white, toothy smile was so whole-hearted and friendly that I knew I was taking that bus. I paid for my tea and walked over to the driver's window. 'Meppadi?', he asked. I nodded and climbed aboard to the soft wail of a popular love song. Everyone on the bus seemed to get a kick out of the simple fact that I was there on that bus. It was obvious to me that I was getting off the beaten track, and I started to get a good feeling. The bus swung through plantation country: rolling hills covered ion bright green tea bushes, as far as the eye could see. Above it all, a few high ridges and peaks shone in the sun.

Meppadi was a town alright. It stretched for about half a mile along the narrow main road, but was nowhere wider than a hundred yards. A temple, a mosque a church and dozens of shops lining the roads. The small lanes and pathways branching off into the hills hinted at the population beyond. The village strip was a focal point where people living out amongst the tea came to shop, worship eat and gossip. I climbed down from the bus, directly opposite and long row of green and white rickshaws. The brown-shirted drivers stood around in groups or sat in the shady backseats, smoking cigarettes and chatting. One caught my eye and waved. Of slight build, with wavy black hair slicked to one side and a faint mustache dusting his lip. When he smiled his whole face lit up and his dark eyes twinkled.

His name was Shareef, and I spent the next two days with him. A native of Meppadi, a student studying to be a fire safety inspector and a part-time rickshaw driver. With no formal classes, he showed his knack for language through the conversational English picked up over the years. I was still thinking about hiking Chembra Peak, and needed a permit from the local Forest Office. Hardened by the hustle of Calicut, I asked him how much, and his very first words assured me: he smiled, held his palms out, and said 'You say.'

I never climb Chembra, but I saw it every day as Shareef and I cruised around the hills. That first day, after I checked into the New Paris Hotel (the best in town, Shareef assured me) we drove out to a pool scooped out of smooth rock at the base of a waterfall. The cold mountain stream was incredibly refreshing after so many days of sweat and salt water. Four young kids had followed us up and showed off by jumping off a big rock and skipping stones. We stopped by his brother's house unannounced and found his two young children playing in the yard. His brother was laying on a bed, watching TV. If I was him, and my brother walked into my room with a foreign stranger while I was napping, I'd almost certainly react with annoyance. But Shareef's brother smiled immediately, got up and put on a shirt. He rubbed his face to wake up and shook my hand. After a shout toward the back of the house, his shy young wife appeared and gave us tea. The kids made a bis show for me of talking on their little plastic cell phones, which kept breaking in half. They'd hand the phone to me and I'd put it back together for them.

He asked if I wanted to play soccer, and when I said yes he took me by his house to get his shoes. We drove down a little path on the hillside between the chest-high tea bushes. Women in colorful dress filed by with burlap sacks on their heads, workers on the tea plantations on their way home. We parked the rickshaw and Shareef led me down a hill, to a grove of trees where a little stream flowed. Under the forest canopy were coffee and banana trees. Tall plumes of cardamom shot up from the forest floor and peppercorn vines clung to the trunks. The hard-packed earth of the yard was swept clean, and some coffee cherries were laid out to dry. Inside the house, he showed me his room, where a simple bed, a bookcase and a David Beckham poster filled the space. There was no embarrassment in his voice when he indicated that it wasn't much, but as we walked outside I told him there were plenty of city-dwellers from the rich countries of the world who would love to live in a place so fresh and clean.

We left the shade of the wood and walked up to a flat clearing in the tea. Cows grazed to one side as a few enthusiastic locals kicked a ball back and forth. Shareef took his place between the wooden goalposts and we did our best to beat him. Everyone who came to the pasture to play was curious about Shareef's American friend, and whether in English or Malayalam, a lot of encouragement was offered during the game. It was a lot of fun, and there was no arguing about the score, no cries for free kicks and zero aggression. Ayoob, a burly police trainee, called the game when it got to dark. The sun had set behind the wall of mountains to the west, separating Wayanad from the steaming lowlands. As the air cooled and the alpenglow faded, Venus appeared above the tall, knobby summit of Chembra peak. Laughing and shaking hands, goodbyes were shouted as the players struck homeward on different paths.

Meppadi Cricket Club

The rest of the weekend was just as good. A game of cricket was hilarious, as the American tried his hand at batting and bowling while good-natured laughter rang out from all directions. With his friend Shaheel, Shareef took me out to Sunrise Valley, hiking to a cliff overlooking a massive, bowl of jungle devoid of any houses or roads. Shaheel told me he'd seen a tiger there the year before. After meeting a friend on the road, we turned around and ended up at a housewarming party, where the families of neighbors and friends had gathered to wish the young couple well and feats on huge piles of chicken biryani. Several people stopped by our table, to meet me and ask how I'd gotten there. The people were open and curious, and kids ran up to meet me, then run away again to tell their friends.

Back in town we stopped at PeePee's Cool Bar for a glass of spiced almond milk and ran into some of the soccer players from the night before. Everywhere we went in that small town we saw people we knew, and shouts of 'Sky, hello Sky!' came every few minutes (using a nickname much easier to pronounce, and therefore remember, for the average Indian.) Another swim at the waterfall and a few bottles of beer. Another game of soccer and fond goodbyes. I thanked them all for letting me join in and there were handshakes all around. We walked up the hill through the dark tea bushes, the constellation of Orion high above. Back in Meppadi, the smell of incense and chai as people loaded bags of vegetable and rice into rickshaws bound for home.

Shareef and I shared a final tea. He reluctantly accepted some money, 'for the gas' I assured him, and wrote down his address. I promised to send him the photos I'd taken of his friends and family. A few other locals I knew turned up and we said goodbye again, and I walked back to New Paris. I wasn't that hungry, but I leaned over the kitchen wall to see what the cook was up to. This stooped old many had given me a broad, toothless smile every time I came and went from the hotel. Chopping, stirring, reaching for this or that, he grinned again and said, 'Beef chili.' I somehow felt I owed it to him, and when he sent the plate out it was amazing. Sliced chunks of beef dredged in spicy seasoning and fried until crispy, served with a few slices of carrot, cucumber and onion with a lime wedge. I thanked him and he squinted his old eyes with pleasure. This must be the friendliest town in India, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my room. I hadn't climbed Chembra peak or seen one advertised attraction. But I also hadn't seen one other foreigner and knew I'd be welcome back any time. I guess you have to be willing to take the chance. . .

Backwaters

Coconut palms and water hyacinth on the backwaters

Spicy food, shaded waterways, weatherbeaten fishermen and St Joseph's Parish Hall. Born on the bayou? It did feel like Louisiana - until I saw a local taking a bath and brushing his teeth, in the canal. I was definitely still in India, where thousand year old customs collide with the present day, every day. The backwaters of Kerala, India's lush southwest corner, are a beautiful and fascinating geography. Canals, lakes and rice paddies covering an area bigger than the state of Vermont. A vast, watery web of houses, coconut palms, birds and villages. And boats of every shape and size, from slender old half-sunk canoes to public ferries surging dock to dock. Bobbing in the wake is the trade fleet: fishing boats big and small, propane delivery skiffs and wide, shallow barges hauling sand and stone. Hulking old kettuvallum rice boats, converted into luxury houseboats, do a roaring tourist trade in the wide canals near the regional hub of Alleppy.

Life is lived at the water's edge. People bustle back and forth to town while uniformed schoolkids march along the stone-built banks. Coconuts palms and drooping mango trees dominated the skyline while green thickets of water hyacinth choke the narrower channels. Each house has a set of stone steps leading into the water, where bathing and dish washing take place. Communal wells supply drinking and cooking needs. In the backwaters, schools, stores, temples and restaurants face the bank and boats are the only mode of travel. I spent a day on the canals with a couple of other travelers and a cheerfully buoyant local guide named Saidu.


Adi, the ever-smiling owner of our guesthouse in Alleppy, gave a Spanish girl and me a lift on the back of his Honda down to the docks at eight o'clock in the morning, where we met Saidu and jumped on a battered red and white passenger ferry. It wasn't long until we were out of town, across the lake and into the smaller channels. Breakfast and tea at our guide's house and into a canoe with Saidu at the stern. A wooden boat, 20 feet long, one seat behind the other under a canopy. And the soft, rhythmic sploosh. . . sploosh of Saidu's paddle.

It was a mellow day on the water, sunny and serene, as we toured Saidu's old stomping grounds. Women washed, men paddled and the high voices of children called out. We explored a few villages and survived some mild evangelizing when we stopped at church (to use the bathroom). Lunch was tasty and typical - rice and several sauces, vegetables and pickle served on a smooth green banana leaf. Sitting canalside in the sun, I drank a pale, yeasty glass of coconut beer and dug the scene.

Snack break on the backwaters

The afternoon slipped by, and as I laid back on the cushions my mind began to wander back to the night before. I'd found a small food cart on a dark corner by the beach where a solemn old cook served fresh, crispy-fried chilies with chutney and strong ginger tea. . . We'd played the spice game, a ritual practiced all over the world, anywhere foreigners and hot cuisine collide. I gestured for the chilies and he shook his head no, fanning his open mouth to indicate their heat. In turn, I signaled that I knew, and I liked them. As I chewed the peppers (which were damn hot), everyone gathered at the cart stared and waited. Waited for the sweat, the coughing, the tearing eyes, the cries for water. When I calmly finished my plate and asked for more, there was murmuring, laughter and a tiny smile from the cook: the cultural breakthrough. Little did they know that almost two years of eating in South Korea had burned off my taste buds long ago. An unfair advantage?

As the afternoon light softened, we retraced our steps to town and found ourselves saying goodbye to Saidu on the dock in Alleppy. The roaring, belching bus and high, raspy whine of rickshaws made those hours on the placid water all the more precious, and I thanked our guide warmly. With a few good books and a little coconut beer it would be easy to spend weeks, lost in time, in the green and wet of the backwaters. I turned reluctantly from the canal to catch a rickshaw back to the guesthouse, immediately catching the smiling eye of a waiting driver. It wasn't so bad to be on dry land, I thought as we careened through the streets of Alleppy. There was still enough light for a swim at the beach. And the chili cook would be setting up his cart. . .

Backwaters homestead