#until it turned into a beautiful mountain lane winding over the ranges

[foreignobjecticus]

Going to go to bed soon. Offering my full night of dreams to anyone: trade for deep, restful sleep only.

[katehuntington]

Title: Black Dog - part four Word count: 4475± words Episode summary: When  Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part four summary: Dean closes in on the location that the coordinates lead to, and soon begins to grasp the magnitude of this case. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only!  Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury   and  medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of   demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and   flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies,   depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     Darrington, Washington      December 2nd, 2005 - Present Day

     Two days later, Dean and his Impala roll down a two-lane highway through Stillaguamish Valley. Mountains rise from the earth as if they are still growing, overshadowing the villages beneath. Rays of sun pierce through the clouds, spotlights of the sky shining down on the land below.  

     It’s not nearly as warm as it was in Texas. In fact, Dean has the heaters on to cast out the cold. The radio started jamming some time ago, not because of the presence of a ghost or some other supernatural force, but simply because the high mountains are interfering with the radio signal. To break the silence, Dean threw in an old Metallica mixtape, one he used to listen to whenever he was on the road alone. Enter Sandman rages through the speakers as Dean taps his thumb on the steering wheel in the rhythm of the drums. 

     He needs his music right now. It’s the only thing that can keep him sane. The evident empty space next to him and the silence that filled the car before the screaming guitars did, had him almost turn around at least half a dozen times. The knot in his stomach hasn’t exactly loosened ever since he left Sam on the side of the road, but with his father’s orders in mind, he kept pushing north. You’re here now, Dean. Might as well solve this case.

     When he crossed the Texas - Oklahoma state border, he stopped at an internet cafe and traced the location of the coordinates. It turns out that 48°13’11.00”N 121°41’4045”W isn’t an abandoned factory building in the American wastelands or a graveyard which happens to be the final resting place of a not so peaceful spirit. These coordinates are those of a pass on the south side of a mountain range, west of a small town called Darrington, located in Washington State. 

     When he searched for articles on anything out of the ordinary in that area, he stumbled on a bunch of missing person reports and killings in the local newspapers. The growing population of grey wolves and bears, plus the city closing in on nature, are the causes of this unusual animal behavior, according to the wildlife services. Apparently Dean’s father doubts that the animals have anything to do with it. The missing people and casualties are random. Dean couldn’t find a link between any of them, so he went on and eventually got himself on Arlington-Darrington Road, heading for the small village. 

      As far as Dean knows, the last attack took place nine days ago. It happened at the exact location of the coordinates, where a family was hiking. The teenage daughter and the father were killed by God knows what, only the nineteen-year-old son survived. He expects the local police will know more about his state and current whereabouts. Having a word with the poor kid is on the hunter’s to-do list, once he finds him. 

     Dean looks over to the right, where a high peak stands out from the other mountains surrounding him. It seems ominous and beautiful at the same time, intimidating anyone who enters the valley as it reaches for the sky. That’s the place where it went down; Whitehorse Mountain. 

    The hunter carries on and passes a church and a short airstrip, then he enters the town of Darrington. Not quite sure where he’s supposed to go, he follows the main road, and soon spots the police department on his right. The Impala turns to the curb and through his windshield, the driver takes a look around. The benefits of a small town; everything is close by. Across from the police department he finds a diner and a small hotel, no need to drive around to find a place to stay and to eat. First things first, though, he has to figure out what he’s up against. 

     Somewhat carelessly, the hunter rummages through the several false ID’s and badges in the glove compartment, choosing one that his father printed a couple of months back. As he gets out of the car and walks around it, he checks out the ID as he mouths the false name.      “Glenn Frey. Brilliant, Dad,” he chuckles, instantly recognizing the name of one of the founders of the Eagles.

     Confident, Dean steps inside the governmental building.      The deputy, who’s reading a file by a large desk in the corner of the room, looks up from his work. “Can I help you?”      “Yeah, I’m Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services,” Dean flashes his identification as he walks up to the counter.      “Ah, you’re here for the attacks.” The officer stands up and walks over, after which he shakes Dean’s hand. “Deputy Steven Morson.”      “Is the sheriff in?” Dean wonders, getting straight to the point.      “Not at this moment, but he will be later on,” the young deputy replies.

     The hunter purses his lips, letting a sound of discontent slip past his teeth. “I was hoping to gather some more information about the Cleveland family.”      “Your colleague missed something?” deputy Morson assumes.      Oh oh, the real rangers got here first? Quickly, Dean improvises, the slight hesitation barely noticeable. “We just don’t want to miss any details, make sure we know what we’re up against.”      The deputy nods at that. “No problem. I’ll get the documents for you.”

     He moves over to the file cases against the back wall, opens one of the doors with a key, and leafs through the files. As he’s working, Dean takes his time to have a look around  the small police station. Pictures of officers decorate the bleak walls, together with a collection of medals and declarations. The sheriff’s office is separated from the main desk. A bit further in the back, Dean sees the door that leads to the holding cells. It looks pretty much like every small town’s department he’s been in; way too familiar. There have been several occasions that he saw places like this from behind bars.

     “Here you go.” The deputy interrupts his thoughts as he hands the file to Dean.      With a grateful nod, so-called Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services lays out the documents on the desk. Attentive, he scans the pages as he flips through them, but there isn’t much there.      Puzzled, Dean faces the policeman. “This is it? No imaging, death reports?”      “The remains haven’t been brought down the mountain yet. Three hunters went up to track them down, bring the bodies back and shoot the animals if they get the chance, but it snowed for quite a while a few days back, so I think they got delayed,” the deputy explains.      Dean hums at that, but doesn’t say anything. And I think they got killed, he ponders quietly.      “So all you have is an eyewitness report of ...?” Dean concludes, leaving the line open for the deputy to fill in.      “David, the oldest son. Poor guy,” he sighs.      “Got hurt bad?” Dean presumes.      “No, not at all. He didn’t have a scratch on him. But what he saw… Well, read for yourself,” The policeman nods at the page on the counter, and gives the ranger some space.

     Dean scans the eyewitness report intently, taking out the details that matter to him most. Tear wounds, bite marks, limbs shredded off, major blood loss. By the looks of it, the two victims were torn in pieces. The description of the suspected killer is rather poor, though. Apparently Deputy Morson notices the change in Dean’s facial expression, because he comments on it right away.

     “The kid lost his entire family, so I can imagine it was all a blur, but he said the animal was ‘invisible’. He also claimed he heard a wolf-like howl right before the incidents happened, but nothing like any grey he has ever heard, apparently. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? One lone wolf attacking people? I think he kind of lost it, if I may speak honestly,” he says with a little chuckle. 

     Dean, however, doesn’t find it funny at all and keeps a straight face. “Why don’t we both stick to our fields of expertise, shall we? Is he still in town?”      The deputy clears his throat awkwardly. “He is, Sir. He refuses to go back home until his family is recovered from the mountain.” 

     The hunter nods, able to get behind that reasoning. Foolish, but understandable. Either way, for his investigation on this case it’s quite convenient that David is still here. The report doesn’t give him a lot to go on, and he really needs to know more before he sets foot onto the creature’s hunting grounds.      He straightens his back and looks the deputy in the eye before he exits the police department. “Tell me, where can I find David?”      “He has a room at the Inn, but I’ve seen him in church a lot,” the young officer says.      “Thank you, I’ll see if I can find him.” Dean knocks on the wooden counter before he turns away.

     When he exits the building, he halts on the doorstep, narrowing his eyes to shield them from the bright surroundings outside. Snowy mountain tops reflect the sun, a chilly wind rolling through the valley. The hunter adjusts the collar of his leather coat to protect himself from the cool breeze.

     “You’re a ranger, aren’t you?”      He glances aside, finding an older man on a bench by the grass. The grey-haired local glances at the badge in Dean’s hand, before he makes eye-contact.      “I am,” Dean confirms, despite it being a lie.      The elder nods at that, averting his gaze to the peak on their west. The deep wrinkles become more evident while he folds his boney hands around the handle of his cane. “That missing family? You won’t find them.”      Frowning at that, Dean watches him, curious if he knows more. “What makes you say that?”

     “Three of this town’s best hunters have gone up there, they should’ve been back by now,” the senior says with a voice raw from age. “If you’d ask me, I’d say they befell the same fate.”      Dean tilts his head slightly in agreement, beholding the menacing scenery as well. The wise man seems to know that there is more going on than meets the eye at the treacherous slopes.      “Have you seen anything up there?” he wonders.      The old local shakes his head, his stare turning to the icy pavement. “No one has seen anything. It moves too fast. I’ve heard it, though.”

      Intrigued, Dean turns his head to face the man on the bench again. There is a fear in his eyes that seems out of character for the old soul who has without a doubt seen so much in his long life.      “I’ve lived here for seventy years. Have protected my cattle from quite a few predators during that time. Grizzlies, mountain lions, coyotes, wolves. But what I’ve been hearing lately is unlike any animal I’ve ever heard,” he tells.

     Plenty might think the local has gone mad, but Dean has a growing respect for the senior. If he ever had any doubt that this was his kind of deal, it is taken away now.      “Well, whatever is up there, I’ll take care of it,” he claims, sure to succeed.      “You’re not the first one to say that, and yet no one has returned, but that boy,” The old farmer nods in the direction of the church. “If I were you, I would leave the mountain be.”      “Can’t do that,” Dean shakes his head. “More people will disappear.”      “So will you if you go to find that beast.” 

     The elder’s blue eyes surprise Dean when they meet his green ones. They are so piercing and weary, that it startles him, but he manages not to flinch. Instead, he tries to read the man of age, who has one last message for him.      “There is something evil in those woods.”

     The much younger hunter can’t stop himself from swallowing thickly at the intense stare that comes his way. The local is desperate to change the ranger’s opinion, pleading with him to reconsider. Dean won’t, however, although he takes the warning seriously. The hunter might not know what he will be up against once he heads up, but it’s beginning to dawn on him it’s something unlike he has ever faced before.

     On the corner of Commercial Avenue and Riddle Street, Dean halts in front of a small church. The sign in front of the house of God, which is called St. John Mary Vianney Catholic, has his stomach reacting in a way he didn’t expect it to. The fact that both his parents’ names stare back at him, gives this place a whole other meaning. A strange feeling comes to him as a chill runs down his spine. It bothers him, because he’s not one of those new-agey kids who believes in destiny. Of course, this is just an odd coincidence, but somehow it feels like he was meant to be here. 

     Cautiously, he steps up the porch and enters the building. The church seems deserted, even the priest is nowhere to be seen. Light from outside falls through the stained glass and brings color to the house of the Holy. Candles are lit by the altar and have been burning for a while, given the way the wax has dripped down the silver candleholders. Several smaller flames flicker at the sidewall, worshipping the statue of the Virgin Mary. 

     As Dean enters the small church and walks through the central aisle between the rows of wooden benches, he spots a figure on the front row. Although the hunter’s footsteps echo through the old building, the guy apparently doesn’t hear him coming in. He absently stares at the statue of Jesus, nailed to a cross. And so Dean halts at the end of the aisle, trying to judge the situation and how to approach. Either the young man on the bench is ignoring him, or he’s so trapped in his thoughts that he has shut himself out from the world around him. Dean decides to say something to break through to him.      “Are you David?”

     Slowly, the young man glances aside, but doesn’t look Dean in the eye. His gaze is empty and beholds immense devastation. As if he has cried so much over the last couple of days, that he’s unable to express himself any longer.      “Who are you?” he asks with a raspy voice.      For a moment there, the hunter considers taking out his ID, but then he changes his mind. Sam is always far better in these situations, so he tries to imagine how his little brother would approach David. He decides to be upfront.      “I’m Dean,” he answers.

     The introduction doesn’t trigger a response, though; the only living member of the Clevelands continues to stare into the nothingness absently. Dean exhales, pondering. How the fuck is he going to get through to this kid? It’s clear as day David doesn’t want company, and right about now, he could use Sam’s people’s skills. His little brother can work miracles with a few kind words and a pleading gaze.      A bit ill-at-ease, Dean looks down at his feet. “I heard about your family. I’m sorry.”      The silence that follows is even more evident under these high ceilings. The acoustics should allow every sound to be amplified, yet it remains eerily quiet.      “I know how you feel,” he continues carefully.      David scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

     His firm answer catches the hunter off guard. The young man is right, he doesn’t know how he feels, not entirely. Dean didn’t see his entire family die, but the sound of his mother’s horrifying scream still rips through his mind every now and then. 

     For a moment he goes back in time. He doesn’t remember much of his early childhood, just bits and pieces, stills taken from a movie. But what went down on November 2nd 1983, the one day he wishes he could erase from his memory, he can recall in detail. 

     He remembers how he was comfortably sitting in his mother's arms. She held him close, she always did. She carried him into Sam’s room and they wished his little brother goodnight. Dad was there too, it was the last time he remembers him truly smiling. He remembers being tucked in by both of them. ‘Angels are watching over you,’ Mom said, right before he drifted off. Then he was awoken by the chilling cry that would continue to haunt him until this day. He remembers rushing out of bed and into the hallway, where he froze to the ground. From Sam’s nursery, a rage of flames heated up the entire house. Then his father appeared from the fire, holding little Sam in his arms, handing him over.

     Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don’t look back! Now, Dean! Go!

     Even though the heat was unbearable, as was the toxic smoke that filled every room of the house, he ran downstairs as his father told him to and eventually found himself in the front yard, looking up at his burning home. Then Dad came out, snatched both his sons from the grass, and carried them away from the house, after which moments later the second floor exploded. As he looked over his Dad’s shoulder at the burning remains of their house, he knew: he would never see his mother again. 

     Dean swallows with difficulty, coming back to the present. “Believe me. I know.”      A bit surprised by that statement, David looks up into Dean’s eyes, holding his gaze for a few long seconds. “You’ve lost your family too?”      “My mother,” he replies. “She was murdered.”

     Dean looks away for a brief moment. His Mom’s death was hard on him then, it still is now. It might have happened twenty-two years ago, yet avenging her is what motivates him to keep going. She is the reason his father is willing to go to the edge of the earth and beyond to catch the son of a bitch that killed her. That defining moment kickstarted the hunt that would turn out to be his life’s work. That night, he lost so much more than just his mom. 

     Dad never recovered from her death, condemning his boys to a career of hunting. They are soldiers now, fighting a war of which they can’t grasp the magnitude. A crusade against the monster that tore the family apart. Ironically and sadly, that same crusade seems to have driven the Winchesters apart even further than Mary’s killer ever did. 

     Look at him; he has no idea where his father is and he got into a huge fight with Sam. He is truly on his own right now, unsure if his remaining family will return. What if right now, Sam walks into a trap? What if Dad gets killed by the same thing that killed Mom? 

     Suddenly it strikes him. David is what Dean is afraid to become; he’s alone.

     “What happened on that mountain?” Dean asks, trying to focus on the case again before his mind spirals out of control, but the only survivor cuts him off immediately.      “I don’t wanna talk about it.”      “I think you do, but you’ve given it up because no one believes what you are saying,” Dean replies, seeing right through it.

     Perplexed, David looks aside, eying the stranger who is still standing in the aisle, in the middle of the church.      “Like I said, I know how you feel,” Dean repeats, reading the question from his face. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”      The young guy shakes his head, defeated. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”      “Try me,” Dean encourages.

     With a sigh, David looks down at his feet while the hunter observes him. His dark hair is a mess and he has a stubble growing. Blood and dirt has embedded in the prints of his fingers and around his nails, the blood of his family that seems impossible to wash off.

     “Dad, Ruth and I were hiking on the north side of Whitehorse Mountain. We started out early in the morning and everything went smoothly. We had about an hour of light left, when me and my sister reached the location where we planned to set up camp first. Then it started…” he tells as he folds his shaking hands together. “Ruth and I heard a cry of some sort of animal. For a moment we thought it was a grey wolf, but I’ve heard them before, this… this was different. It took Dad ages to get over the Lone Tree Pass, I thought he might have some equipment trouble or something, so I went back.”

     His jaw clenches and he takes a breath, now he has come to the hard part. Tears fill  his eyes, but he is able to hold them back.      “I found him, against a tree. There was blood everywhere, his chest was… he was torn into pieces. He - he had bite wounds and nail scratches all over him, so deep that I - I could see the bone, his - his intestines. His arm was s - severed,” David stammers.      “And your sister?” Dean asks sympathetically.

     A short pause and he can see in David’s eyes that he relives the haunting memory every time he talks about it.      “Same thing... I heard her scream, but by the time I got there, it - it was too late. There was barely anything left. She was only sixteen,” he reveals with a trembling voice.      David rubs his face and wipes away the tears, but he stays strong.      “Then I heard it, this deep growl. It felt like it was right behind me. When I turned around I didn’t see it, but I heard the call again. Then everything returned to normal,” he remembers.      “What do you mean, back to normal?” Dean questions, curious about his choice of words.

     The young guy looks up at him again from the bench. He hesitates, as if what he’s about to say will just confirm that he’s completely losing his mind. “The mountain came back to life. Birds started singing again, the wind blew through the trees. Right after the first cry, everything went dead. You could hear a penny drop in that forest,” David tells him. “I don’t know how to describe it. It… It was surreal.”      Intently, Dean listens to him and doesn’t give any sign of disbelief what so ever. “Then what happened?” he asks, intrigued.

     “I ran. I knew I needed help and the only place where I could find it was down in the valley. So I ran.” David drops his gaze again, ashamed. “I’m such a coward. I should’ve called it in with the satellite phone. I should’ve stayed by their side.”      “There’s nothing you could have done for your family. You would’ve ended up dead if you had stayed,” Dean says, trying to relieve him from his guilt.      Carelessly, the lone survivor shrugs. “Maybe that would have been better.”

     Dean keeps quiet, because he understands where he’s coming from. If your entire family ends up dead, what is there to live for? He wouldn’t want to stay behind either.

     “You - you know what the worst part is?” David stammers. “I have absolutely no idea how to explain what happened. It wasn’t an animal, I know that much. But if it wasn’t, what the hell was it? There’s just no explanation.”      “There is,” the hunter states.      “What? That it was bigfoot?” David scoffs sarcastically.      “There’s no such thing as bigfoot… I think,” Dean answers, doubting his own words the moment he says them.      “Then what killed my family?” the young Cleveland wants to know.      “I’m not sure yet, but I can tell you, it ain’t no wolf. It’s not from our world,” Dean states.      “I don’t care from what world it is. I want it dead,” David makes clear.

     “I’ll track it and get rid of it,” the man next to him promises.      Determined, the mourning teenager gets up from the bench. “Good. When are we heading out?”      But Dean holds out his hand in front of him, stopping him. “Whoa, dude. I don’t think it’s wise for you to come along.”      “Do you know anything about that mountain? Do you know anything about the trails? About hiking?” David questions.      “I’ll manage, that’s beside the point. This is gonna get ugly, David. You don’t want to be a part of this,” Dean makes clear, trying to discourage him.

     “Trust me, that mountain is one big monster by itself. If you don’t know her paths, you’ll get lost and die. I know these woods like the back of my hand. Together we’ll have a chance. I’m not gonna sit here while you go up there and get killed just like those three hunters,” he argues, his voice gaining strength.      Dean huffs. Smart kid. He’s got spunk, alright.      “Whatever it is, it killed my family. So don’t tell me I can’t be part of this,” the young guy insists firmly. “If you had the chance to face who killed your mother, wouldn’t you take it?”

     Dean doesn’t have an answer ready for that one, he wasn’t expecting a curveball. David is right. If he had even the smallest opportunity to have a share in the fight against the monster that killed Mom, he wouldn’t even have to think about it.      “Alright,” the hunter sighs. “But if anything happens to you--”      David doesn’t even let him finish and walks past him towards the exit. As he does, he looks over his shoulder. “What? Like I have anything to lose?”

     Dean watches him leave, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile. He recognizes himself in the kid; hands on, not cowering in the face of danger, willing to do everything for his family. He won’t be able to stop the only remaining Cleveland, and so he follows.

     As he descends down the steps of the church, he finds David standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky. Before them, Whitehorse Mountain stands tall, looking down on them like a dark, looming thunderstorm. That’s what they need to overcome, that’s their challenger. 

     It is going to be a difficult climb, but fighting a vicious creature along the way makes things a little more complicated. Dean wishes he had Sam to back him up on this one, because he’s sure his smart brother would have an idea what they are up against. Even though he’s not fond of having a civilian to worry about on a hunt, David does know this terrain. Dean has to face reality here; he’s going to need a guide. He only hopes that he can bring the kid back down, safe and sound. Enough people have died on that mountain already.

Story fact: the church mentioned in this chapter was the actual name of a church in Darrington in 2005. Came across in during research, and just had to use it!

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate  every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love,  you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the  top of the page)

Read part 5 here

[sparkmender]

Close Encounters two and three are now up. Three’s text below (as chap. 2 is the above image + a transcript)

ao3 link click here!

She might be speeding. Just a little.

The occasion called for it, in her opinion, but what was she supposed to tell a cop if she was pulled over? ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Officer, I just want to get home and make sure my boyfriend hasn’t been eaten alive by some sort of massive prehistoric gorilla creature?’

The winding road back down to town felt impossibly long as it stretched out before her, branches and tree trunks whipping past and morphing into one long oppressive blur. Even the radio, tuned to some inane early evening talkshow broadcast with its meaningless chatter and happy voices, wasn’t doing anything to calm her down.

Charlie gripped the steering wheel of her Bug a little tighter, enough to make the skin of her knuckles turn pale, to keep her hands from trembling. Samson had mentioned he was going to fill out an incident report on their way back over to the office, especially since if that sinkhole they’d spotted really was as large as it looked they were going to need to get some heavy-duty equipment out to figure out what was going on with it.

There were the other broken trees to consider, too, and more of those clumps of fur, but what had caught Charlie’s attention— and yet had only gotten the briefest of glances from Samson and which Spike hadn’t even stopped to look at— were the scratches in the ground and on some of the boulders and surrounding trees not only around the wildflower patch but on most of the path leading up to where the rockslide happened.

Whatever had made those marks was doing it on purpose. There was no other explanation. The scratches were repeating themselves, some sort of half-wild writing, maybe, but they were definitely meant as a message. And it was a message Charlie was desperate not to know the meaning of, because something deep in the lizard part of her brain knew whatever it was, it probably wasn’t going to be a friendly greeting.

And Samson was going to send her out tomorrow morning to check on the apiary up there like he hadn’t even seen anything other than the unfortunate tumble of shale and granite in the way.

Despite every fibre of her flight or fight response screaming at her to run home and grab Memo and catch the next flight back to Colorado, she knew she’d have to go. If not, it wasn’t unlikely that some civilian camper might wander out too far and… not come back. At least Spike would be with her. God, she missed college; the Rockies themselves might have been unforgiving at times, but they were beautiful, and she missed being within an hour’s drive of the ski slopes on the weekends.

Oregon had mountains, sure, and Mt. Bachelor’s slopes, but Mt. Bachelor wasn’t Aspen.

Something bellowed further down the road, out of the range of her headlights, sounding like an elk. Charlie slowed almost to a crawl at the noise, not a stranger to spotting some of the deer or moose wandering across the old two-lane road but not particularly eager to have to engage with any of them. Moose especially could be stubborn, and she didn’t have the time to linger on waiting for it to either get a move on or go back the way it came. It was already past dusk, so Memo was probably starting to put the latest article he’d written down for the night so he could get a start on reheating the leftover spaghetti bolognese Charlie had prepped for them both on Saturday and frozen in the nice tupperware she’d had to order from a catalogue.

He’d been childishly excited about getting to pick out the jar of spaghetti sauce when they went shopping together. The memory of it was almost enough to keep her on just this side of the speed limi—

And then something huge and black and purple and screaming hit the passenger side of her car with a deafening shatter of both windows and half of her windshield, the sudden impact jolting her forward against her seatbelt and causing it to jam hard across her chest as her head thumped back against the headrest with a dull thwack. She had just enough time to scream back at it before her Volkswagen was forced off the road proper, the hood crumpling on impact with the rock shelf to the left and giving out with a pathetic, strained groan.

“Shit! Shit, shit—”

Between the sudden lack of light and the seatbelt strap digging into her and refusing to disengage, Charlie was practically a sitting duck if whatever the fuck that screaming thing was decided to take another pass at her, and she couldn’t see or hear it and hadn’t seen where it went but from the brief split-second look she’d gotten of it the thing had looked like a massive, mutated wasp with a human face and huge wasps with human faces were not a thing that existed.

There was that strange sound again, much closer, definitely not a moose, and the seatbelt unlocked and Charlie threw herself out of the car just in time for the… the wasp-person to make a charge at the Beetle again, slamming down on the roof in a furious rush of limbs and wings. She could barely make sense of it in the rapidly deepening dark of the woods, only belatedly realizing some of the glass from the initial impact had cut into her arm and thigh when she felt the hot seep of blood down the side of her pants leg.

Goddamn it, she only has two of these uniforms.

As the violent thing thrashed against the car and punched through the remains of the windshield, the horn went off, which enraged the massive purple and black insect more— it was intent on pulling the car apart, as far as Charlie could tell, but it was completely ignoring the fleshy, bleeding passenger the Volkswagen had spat out. Distantly, Charlie realized the creature was— speaking, shouting, something, but if the hissing and rounded consonants and clicks were a language it was flowing over her like water, incomprehensible beneath the buzz of massive, beating insect wings and the dying splutters of her poor Beetle.

At least, it was ignoring her until she rolled over and tried to push herself up, but her leg wasn’t having any of it and Charlie gasped despite herself, and the wasp-monster froze.

On her knees and probably concussed and definitely losing blood, she swayed, staring up at surprisingly frightened red eyes in return. They were huge and luminous and bizarrely humanoid in a face that, otherwise, was entirely alien; the wasp-person’s (wasp… man’s? wasp lady’s? Actually, who cared) bottom jaw split down the middle into wicked looking mandibles, which twitched and scraped against each other as it jerked back and fled off into the canopy.

What right did this thing have to be afraid of her? It had appeared out of midair, screaming, and wrecked the car she’d spent most of her teenage years saving up for! All she’d done is scream back at it and bleed a little!  

It was gone, anyway, leaving Charlie stranded in the middle of the road with the remains of her Beetle and strange, floating flickers in front of her eyes, like static on the television set.

That’s probably shock setting in, actually. She had classes about first aid, but she can’t remember any of it now, not in the moment when she’s the one hurt and everything feels like it’s happening thirty feet away and underwater. There wasn’t anything to be done about it, other than using the intact door of the Volkswagen to pull herself up so she can strip her uniform shirt off and tear the mostly shredded sleeve free to use it as a makeshift tourniquet while keeping her eyes open in case the—

Winged person… thing. It shimmered, even in the low moonlight, and it made her head ache, but she keeps getting stuck on the eyes. First the blue ones in her window, now the red ones, and there’s some sort of weird glitter all over everything. Charlie sniffles, fighting off the urge to rub her face in favor of yanking the flashlight off of her belt to hold it up.

The glittery dust smeared near the cut on her arm from how she pulled herself up tingles, a little, and as she watches it the cut clots over into an angry looking scab.

Charlie nearly drops the flashlight.

“What the hell. What the hell, is this pixie dust? This isn’t happening. Okay, I hit my head harder than I thought when I hit some kind of animal and now I’m dying. I’m dying and nobody’s even going to find my dead body until tomorrow morning. Go Charlie, hallucinating some kind of fucked-up fairy in the middle of dying!” She seethed, but seeing as she wasn’t immediately, like, actively dying, and there didn’t seem to be any other problems with the snarled-looking scab on her arm other than the fact that it looked kind of awful… Leaning against the rock wall her Beetle had been thrown into, Charlie grits her teeth and feels around the cut in her leg to pull out a— smaller than she’d thought, bigger than she’d hoped— shard of glass before swiping her other hand over the roof of her ruined car and slapping the palmful of gathered glitter onto the gash.

This is the stupidest thing she’s ever done, but honestly? It was try this and limp back to the base and campground or sit here and bleed out, or worse, deal with the Tooth Fairy coming back and finishing her off.

The air rushes out of her lungs in a low huff but… It doesn’t hurt. The warm, slippery feeling tapers off, at least, and even if she can’t get herself to look down at it just gently prodding at it confirms that it sealed the wound closed.

Right. No idea how she’s going to explain this to an EMT.

Or Memo.

What the hell was she going to tell Memo?

Her flashlight flickered worryingly. Charlie bit her lip, looking over the wreck that had once been her Volkswagon. Nothing to be done for it, or taken from it, really. She’d refused to so much as keep snacks in the glove compartment after finding bees under the hood, once.

“…Right.”

The beam steadied and she straightened up as best as she could before setting off back the way she came, staring out at the branches— though something told her that if her fairy godmother was coming back, she’d hear that eerie, hollow sound again first.

Well, fine. Let it come back. Maybe she’ll scream at it again, but louder this time, and show it what for.

[discopiratetanis]

In a Earth where magic exists, an immortal lineage of noble wardens is responsible for protecting magical creatures from humans.

Jaskier, the young grandson of Queen Calanthe, Poland's ancestral guardian, arrives at the small town of Blaviken, a refuge for magical beings who do not wish to have contact with humans, to complete his training as a warden.

There, in that haven of peace and safety, he'll meet strange but good people who will help him to learn and understand the true importance of his heritage and what really means to be a warden.

magical town!Geraskier AU. Sets in a not historically accurate Poland during the eighties, specifically 1984. So there will be a little bit of socialism (but decent socialism) here and a few references to WWII in a good way.

This is solely for my pure personal pleasure, so it will have an erratic update dates, sorry. But I hope you like it! Likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciate and encourage me to continue, thank you! ❤

Rating: M (for the moment)

Words: 6888

Chapter: 1/of many

Characters who show up in this chapter: Jaskier (of course, is his POV), the pack of wolves, Filavandrel as a humbled lumberjack, Yennefer, Renfri and Regis. Honorable mentions to Queen Calanthe, the Seven Dwarfs, a sleepy greyhound and a happy old woman on her rocking chair.

N/A: There will be Valdo Marx X Jaskier during the course of the story, but obviously Geraskier is the endgame pair!

You can also read the chapter on AO3!

If you want to support me I have a ko-fi!

It was raining when Jaskier got off the bus, a silent drizzle, a faint curtain of mist that you couldn't see if you didn't pay attention. But the air was wet. 

Very wet.

Surprise, Jaskier, water wets! the boy thought, moving away from the road so that the bus would not soak him when it marched over the puddles in the ditch. He stepped on the mud beyond the asphalt. The bus stop was a simple wooden post, marked with a blue metal rectangle on which the number fifty-eight had been painted white. The road had two narrow lanes, one southbound, the other northbound. And everything else around was wilderness. Green, silent, lonely, deep woods. Jaskier grunted, hung better his duffel bag over his shoulder, and pulled a small piece of paper and a compass out of the front pocket of it.

"Alright," he said aloud, before reading what it had written on the paper, already getting wet because of the rain.

From the sixth stop of bus number fifty-eight, walk west until you find a big gray oak tree. Once you have arrived, pass underneath and continue straight ahead, Blaviken will appear before you.

If you encounter the wolves don't be afraid, they'll smell your magic and probably leave you alone.

The directions were simple but not much revealing. He knew it was for safety but. Jaskier clicked his tongue, crumpled the note into a ball, put it back in the pocket and opened the compass. Tiny dips blurred the glass, but the needle pointing north indicated the direction the bus had gone, so he looked on both sides of the road, crossed to the other side, and walked straight ahead, into the trees. Soon his silhouette was lost in the mist as if he had never been there. 

The leaves crunched under his feet with an eerie noise at every step he took. The rain seemed to drown out the sounds of the woods, but Jaskier could still hear the peep of the boldest and bravest birds not scared by a little water. The wind was weak but sharp against the boy’s wet skin, who tried in vain to dry his cheeks and forehead every few moments with his also wet sleeve. It had been stupid not to grab an umbrella, despite his grandma's advice before he had parted his way, but it had been hellishly sunny in Warsaw for being September so he had felt rebellious and had dressed up with cotton trousers and a linen shirt with a lightweight wool jacket. Now he was starting to think that he was an idiot. The weather could be part of Blaviken's protection, yes. No traveler would want to get lost in those woodlands, in the middle of nowhere near mountains full of wolves and bears. But he also could be just a silly boy who had not taken an umbrella because he thought it would be sunny all over the country at the same time. At least he had his mountain boots.

It didn't take long for Jaskier to reach the tree that said the note, a huge gray oak in the middle of the forest. The boy stopped in front of it, noticing immediately that the rain was no longer drenching him. He checked the compass one last time before closing it and putting it in the bag. Then he took a deep breath. Yes, the tree was enormous. His trunk was so broad that Jaskier would need the help of ten more people to encircle it with his arms completely. It was covered with moss and tiny mushrooms everywhere and its branches stretched in all directions high in the sky, coating all the smaller trees within meters with their leafage. And then there was the hollow, the passage. It looked like an enchanted path, like those described in fairy tales. 

Jaskier stepped into the entrance and looked up, tightening the strap of his bag. The way under the oak was not very long so he could see the other side of the tunnel perfectly. He walked slowly through that natural corridor of wet bark and lichen, fascinated, still looking up and around, amazed with all the magical static in the atmosphere. When he reached the end of the tunnel and came out into the open air again, the sun was shining and a cool, pleasant breeze shook his hair, playfully, and dried his clothes. A huge knee-high grassy clearing, sprinkled with yellow and white flowers, opened up before him. He reached the clearing with renewed energy, making his way through the grass and flowers under the sun, suddenly feeling that he was breathing much better, that his lungs were filling up with clear, clean air. There the birds sang louder, stronger, more beautifully.

Jaskier smiled.

He was in the middle of the meadow when he heard the rustling of a branch, the brushing of bushes and leaves on his back. Jaskier turned around, feeling his heart racing. 

His throat went dry. 

There, by the entrance to the oak tree, stood an enormous grey wolf. The animal was easily two heads taller than Jaskier himself, who was about five feet and nine inches tall. Its fur was streaked with darker flecks, and their dark green eyes glared the boy with interest. Jaskier didn't make any move and repressed a whimper, as if he feared the animal would jump on him with the slightest hint of activity. Then a new crackle made him look, this time to his left, and see another wolf, only one head taller than Jaskier. This one had murky brown fur and its right ear torn and ripped, probably by another wolf or a bear. It was wagging its tail quickly, staring at the boy. Jaskier blinked, feeling an awful and cold sense running up his back. A third wolf equally tall as the second one, with light hazel fur, appeared near the dark brown one. Both had intense green eyes.

Then, Jaskier remembered the note. 

And it hit him.

It was weird. Even having been born and raised in the court of one of the great queens of the wardens, among magic and elements of all kinds, even though he had to know that these wolves were not merely wolves, Jaskier felt that he was an intruder. 

The third wolf growled, low. 

Jaskier swallowed.

“Uh, okay, alright,” he said, not sure if for himself or for the wolfs. “Uh, I… !” he tightened the strap of his backpack again as if that could calm him. “My name is–" he hesitated only for a second. "Jaskier! I came to Blaviken to train as a warden, Queen Calanthe told me to come here!” he paused again, looking at all the wolfs successively as he stood still, anxious, knowing that probably the animals were smelling his nervousness. He licked his lips, feeling his throat cracked and tight and, of course, still dry. “I’m… I’m sorry if I have bothered you stepping into your territory?!

The animals did not react to his words, except for the arrival of a fourth wolf, which emerged slowly among the bushes and foliage next to the big one and the oak tree. Its fur was white as freshly fallen snow, the cleanest, purest, most beautiful white that Jaskier had ever seen. It was slightly bigger than the smaller wolves, but not as large as the one in front of the tunnel. Its eyes were golden and gleamed bright and luminous, like the sun, like an endless field of mature wheat. Jaskier held his breath, looking directly at the white wolf, feeling dazzled and astounded.

It was as if time had stopped.

But then the grey wolf let out a hoarse bark, making Jaskier feel a chill, and the other three left immediately, disappearing just as they had appeared: from nowhere and in silence. 

Jaskier exhaled all the air he was holding back, without taking his eyes off the animal. The wolf wagged his tail once, turned around and went into the trees next to the oak. The sound of paws scratching the ground, rustling leaves and twigs echoed for two seconds in the sudden silence of the clearing. Then that silence was broken by the joyful chirping of the birds and the breath of the wind.

Jaskier blinked, confused, still a little scared. He turned around as well, facing west, and ran. He did not look back even once.

* * * *

Blaviken was a little town located next to a lake nestled in a small valley between two arms of the mountain range. Jaskier discovered that because he not only had to go through the forest that hid it from the west, but he also had to go up the slope of the mountain to the entrance of the valley, where the river that drained the lake emerged from the ground a ran down the woods and the steep hills. By the time the boy reached the entrance of the canyon, the sun had already passed its zenith and was approaching the first hour of the afternoon. He stopped to rest near the road, a path full of grass that must have been carved by the wild animals.

Or the wolves.

Jaskier took a canteen out of his bag and took a sip of water. From there he could see the lake, so long that he almost couldn't discern its birth at the west; the mountains still with snow on their peaks, and the town itself. Jaskier had seen Blaviken's engravings and photographs. It was a picturesque, bucolic village, which did not seem to have changed much in centuries. It had the look of a medieval town, with a main street that was connecting the goat path and the entrance of the valley with the first houses, and was leading through the village to a central square where there was a fountain with a statue. Its houses, made of wood and stone, had two floors with smoking chimneys, orchards surrounded by small wooden fences, small sheds, barns... The more distant shacks were surrounded by larger fields of crops and fruit trees. A few horses and cows were grazing in the pastures that surrounded the village. 

Jaskier took another sip of water and inhaled deeply. The air smelled and felt pure, fresh and lighter, healthier, than in Warsaw. In the distance, he could hear the squealing of the pigs and the rumor and echo of Blaviken's life. It seemed very peaceful... Jaskier bit his lips, put the canteen in the bag and stood up to continue the march. He knew that even though the village seemed to be close because of the slopes, the nooks and crannies, in reality it could be at least another hour's walk downhill.

He wasn't wrong, it took him an hour and a half to get to Blaviken. 

There weren't many people at the entrance to the town. The first houses looked more like huts and storage sheds than real houses. A man with long blond hair tied in a ponytail and dressed with thick work pants and flannel shirt, was cutting wood near the main street road, next to one of the shacks. A pile of perfectly cut logs was piled against the wall of the shed, along with other smaller pieces made into more manageable firewood. A few hens with their chicks were pecking at the ground, paying no attention to any passers-by. A black dog, a greyhound, with a collar made of a leather band was lying, merrily asleep, not far from the log cabin. Jaskier took a deep breath and approached the man, being careful enough not to do it from behind.

"Excuse me?" he said.

The man, who had just finished splintering the log he was busy with, stopped, stood up with his axe in his hand and looked at the boy. Then Jaskier saw his pointy ears and noticed his strangely beautiful features, halfway between roughness and delicacy, and his so intense raven eyes. Jaskier blinked. The man, the elf, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a little.

"You're the kid, aren't you?"

His voice was melodious, like thick honey sliding down a wooden spoon. Jaskier cleared his throat.

"Uh... yes, I suppose?" he frowned, confused. "Could you tell me where Renfri lives? 

 The elf nodded and turned a bit towards the main street.

"Go straight on to the square, the house with the red roof is hers, you can't miss it," he said.

Jaskier peeked out a little. The road, even though it was the main artery of the village, was not very wide. From there you could see the fountain with the statue, but not much more. 

"Thank you, uh..."

The elf smiled warmly.

"Filavandrel,"

Jaskier looked and smiled back at him.

"Jaskier,"

Filavandrel nodded again. He was watching Jaskier a bit curious, inquisitive. Jaskier parted his lips, feeling as the elf knew something he didn't quite understand. He was about to ask if there was something wrong when Filavandrel turned around to clean the supporting trunk of the pieces he had cut off and put a new log on top. He picked up the axe and cut it cleanly in half. Jaskier made a tired sound and headed for the square.

"Thank you again,"

Behind his back, Filavandrel continued with his task and responded:

"See you around!"

Jaskier advanced step by step down the street, trying not to look around too much as if it were the first time he had set foot there. It didn't matter anyway because every person who crossed his path gave him an odd look, except for a few groups of random kids who were more interested in his current games than in a stranger. The village was tiny, Jaskier knew that one glance was enough for everyone to know that he was the new face.

The new toy 

The toy

Jaskier flinched and made a grimace at the thought.

The square was wide and long as four houses together, surely buildings for more important things than storing wood or food. The central fountain was an oval structure, made of very old stone eaten away by the years. Several springs of water flowed from the pipes rooted in the pedestal of the sculpture that adorned the fountain. Jaskier stopped for a moment to admire it. It was made of bronze, already rusty with green, and depicted eight figures, five women and three men. Seven of the statues were smaller than the eighth, located in the center of the pedestal, and they held up both rifles and swords with a defensive, dignified, and heroic attitude. They wore clothes that were at least forty years old. Jaskier held his breath for a second. The eighth figure was a young woman whose impressively realistic expression denoted loneliness and sadness. She also wore old-fashioned clothing from decades ago, on which she had a hooded cloak clasped with a fancy brooch. She carried a spear and a gun in a defeated stance. Jaskier looked down and saw a plaque, made of degraded bronze too, which read:

In memory of the brave men and women

who protected Blaviken from the nazis

The boy blinked. And then his eyes started to sting. He contemplated the memorial for a long time, in silence, unaware of the people, both those who were passing by and those who were quietly at the doors of their houses chatting with their neighbors or simply resting, that were staring at him more and more curiously. 

"Hello,"

A soft, gentle voice drove Jaskier from his thoughts. As he looked at, Jaskier saw a deformed hunchback girl with black, wavy hair, pale skin, and absurdly beautiful lilac-colored eyes. She was wearing a brown woolen dress and a blue apron with a pocket from which hung a bouquet of flowers and several colored rags, and carrying a large earthenware jar in her arms which she started to fill it under one of the pipes.

"Oh, uh, hello," Jaskier replied. Then the girl looked away from him to see how much she was filling the container. Jaskier contemplated her with genuine interest as if her task was the most interesting thing in the world. "So it's potable, the water, right?" he said a little awkward.

She giggled, still not looking at him, attentive to her chore.

"Yes, it's from the mountain, "

"Ah,"

"The pedestal also has a purifier,"

"Oh," Jaskier glance at the pipes. "Oh, yeah, right,"

The boy was silent then, not exactly uncomfortable, and certainly not quite sure if the girl wanted something from him or she just had greeted him because in little towns everyone greeted everyone whether they knew them or not. Jaskier wondered what kind of creature she was. It was, and it would be, very rude to ask that to someone you had just met, and Jaskier didn't have enough experience or expertise to guess the nature of a creature by sight alone yet. His grandmother could do that even with her eyes closed, only by analyzing the magical pulse and the auras around someone.

"So... can I ask your name?" Jaskier said, watching the water pouring into the jar, again as if it was terribly interesting. 

He knew he only had to walk away with a 'see you later' to go and find Renfri, but he was going to live there all year round, so it was all right to have a little chat with the rest of the locals if he has the chance. And she had been kind enough to address him without pointing out that he was new around even if it was something so obvious.

"Yes, of course," she looked up, with those stunningly beautiful purple eyes that were smiling even if she wasn't. A warm feeling ran down his back and he felt much better, less nervous and more relaxed. "I’m Yennefer, but you can call me Yen if you want, is what my friends call me,”

“Oh,” Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “That’s… Are you sure? You have just met me, I'm not exactly your friend,”

"Right, but you're going to be our warden, so..."

"Well, technically I'm an apprentice–wait, how do you know?" Jasper arched his eyebrows.

"Oh, I just know," she smiled and raised the jar to the thick edge of the fountain. Then she embraced it and lifted it with some effort.

"H-Hey, do you want me to help you?" Jaskier took two steps towards her, almost extending his hands to help her hold her load.

Yennefer shook his head without being bothered by the weight at all.

"Don't worry, I can handle it myself,” she said, cheerfully and definitely not annoyed, and starting to walk away. "See you later, Jaskier"

Jaskier blinked without answering and watcher her until she disappeared around the corner from the southbound street. 

What the hell has just happened?

When he looked to one of the nearby houses, he saw an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, who chose that exact moment to wave jovially at him. Jaskier blinked again and waved back, perplex. Then he shook his head and headed for the red-roofed building. 

It was like every other house in the village, made of stone and wood with two floors. Its windows were half-open, with curtains of floral motifs full of patches. Jaskier looked up in case he saw anything through the windows, but the curtains were flapping with the breeze and blocking the view, so he went to the door and raised his hand to knock. He stopped at the sight of the heavy, corroded iron knocker shaped like a sun half-hidden by a moon. He touched it, lost, feeling that the shape was familiar somehow. But he didn't think much more about it and knocked three times with blows that sounded hard and cavernous.

He waited.

And waited.

And when it was clear that nobody was home, Jaskier pouted for himself and turned around.

"If you are looking for Renfri she is in the tavern right now!" The old woman on the rocking chair exclaimed without stopping its swing.

Jaskier looked at her, feeling dumb.

"Oh, oh, thanks!" he said and asked immediately after. "Errrr, sorry… where's the tavern?"

He saw the smile spreading on her wrinkly lips.

"Across the square, that building with the little cute drawing of a tankard hanging over the door!" she replied.

Jaskier nodded, trying then to appear confident, and bowed too much pompous and grandiloquent.

"Thanks, nice old lady!" he said.

"You're welcome, young man!"

Jaskier snorted, hung better his bag, and walked towards the aforementioned edifice. It was another house almost indistinguishable from the others except for that sign hanging over the door like in the soap opera stories about Robin Hood. He could hear voices coming from inside. Jaskier took a deep breath and walked in as if he were putting his hand into the mouth of a bear. 

The interior of the bar was exactly like the taverns that could be seen in the few films that the polish government agreed to show in cinemas: a long wooden counter that looked old and worn but was actually very well cared for, long tables for several people, round tables for smaller groups, barrels and bottles behind the counter. The tiny modern touches that broke the illusion consisted of an old TV placed on a shelf full of glass bottles next to the most visible wall of the establishment, the beer dispensers, the radio on the shelves behind the counter, and some photographs, both in black and white and in color, of the town and the surrounding area. On the TV there was what appeared to be a match with the polish national football team, and it seemed to have the few customers engrossed with it. Jaskier took a quick glance at the screen and slowly approached the counter. Behind it was an older-looking man with short gray hair, very pale skin and dark eyes. His features were sharp, hard, as if he were rock polished by time. He was dressed soberly but elegantly, with clothes that did not quite fit in a place like that. When the man looked at him, serious and severe, Jaskier felt a huge, dense weight on his shoulders, as if someone suddenly sat on him and would not let him breathe. But that feeling immediately faded as the barman, who was drying a line of glasses, raised his eyebrows weakly and blinked. 

Jaskier swallowed, thinking that those eyes looked terribly deep and old. And that they knew everything.

"You are the boy," the man said. 

The clients hissed in frustration and disgust, still oblivious to Jaskier's arrival.

"Uhm...yes?" Jaskier said, feeling he was repeating himself. "I was looking for Renfri, someone told me she was here," he said, glancing around.

He didn't need to be told who Renfri was. Jaskier immediately located the woman, sitting at one of the small round tables farthest from the door and the television cabinet. She was half lying on the table, with a metal cup in her outstretched hand and her face resting on the other arm, as if she were...

"Is she... drunk?" Jaskier asked.

The man sighed, resigned.

"Luckily not, no, not yet," he replied.

"Not yet," Jaskier repeated.

The barman made a sad grimace but didn’t add anything more about it. Instead, he said:

"Sit with her, you must be tired from the journey,"

Jaskier let out a deep exhausted, and only a little dramatic, sigh.

"A little, yes, this place hasn't exactly been easy to find,"

The man smiled.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

Jaskier put one arm on the counter, glancing at the barrels behind it, searching.

"Do you have Tyskie?" he inquired. 

Then he noticed the smell. He knew it was coming from the owner of the bar. It was a heavy, not entirely unpleasant smell, a mixture of thick, wet earth and lavender, a curiously unique perfume for a man. Jaskier swallowed. The bartender grimaced and picked up a clean tankard from under the counter. He went to the dispensers and placed it at a certain angle under one of them.

"I assume you're legal, right?" he said.

"Well, technically I'm forty-eight, if that doesn't make me legal..." Jaskier shrugged, trying to inhale not too hard.

The man pulled the lever on the dispenser, shaking his head with a snort.

"In human terms, yes, but if we calculate your real age you would be about... what, eighteen, nineteen years old? You almost didn't pass,"

"What can I say?"

The man poured the beer, a fresh pint with a crown of white foam. Jaskier grabbed the tankard with both hands and started to head for Renfri's table, from where she hadn't moved an inch. A wave of whispers and hisses indicated that a play in the match had not gone well.

"Thank you, sir,"

"No, no formalities. You're going to be spending a lot of time here, you call me Regis, "

Well, that's...

"Sure, thanks, Regis,"

Jaskier sat quietly at Renfri's table, leaving his tankard in the gap that she did not occupy with her body and arm. As soon as he touched the table surface, Renfri raised her head like a cat caught by surprise. Jaskier stared at her, taking a sip of his beer as she narrowed her eyes, slowly, and wrinkled her nose, finally rising to rest her back on the chair. She looked exactly the same as in the fountain sculpture, with slightly longer hair, a more wavy mane. But his eyes were just as sad.

Terribly sad.

The two watched each other silently for minutes, Jaskier sipping from his tankard, and Renfri holding her metal cup, making no attempt to drink from it, if there was any drink left. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw Regis and various of the clients who had been watching the game up until then, were very attentive to them. Jaskier licked his lips and clicked his tongue, not taking his eyes off the woman who had to train him in the ancient arts of the wardens from that day forward. He thought his grandmother had a slightly strange sense of humor, sending him to a little town like that, and to a warden with alcohol problems.

He couldn’t blame her, though, if he had the statue in mind.

But still...

“So…” he said, realizing that she wasn't going to be the one to break the ice first. He also noticed that she was looking at him in a very cautious way, scrutinizing him as if she was taking note of each and every one of his features, the color of his eyes, the shape of his face, the arch of his nose, the curve of his lips, or was estimating the number of moles he could have, or looking for the exact words to describe the color of his hair. “I’m here…”

Jaskier counted five seconds. When he was about to open his mouth again, the woman spoke and her voice sounded also tired and exhausted, though definitely sober thanks to God.

“Yeah, you are here,” she scoffed, blinked slowly and made a weak grimace. Then she drank from her cup and whipped the remained drops off her lips with the back of her hand “Let's make this easy, okay?”

“Okay?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows.

“There's not much to do in this place really, but since the queen is so interested in you finishing your training here, I'll do my best to fulfill her wish,"

Jaskier noticed the clear, perfect tone of sarcasm in her voice as if she was deeply annoyed that Calanthe had sent him there and didn't like the idea at all. He felt a bitter, awful sensation in the pit of his stomach and swallowed hard. It hurt him as if he had a stone stuck in his throat.

“Okay,” he said, lower.

She huffed.

"Today it's late and I've finished all the tasks, but tomorrow morning I'll start teaching you. I usually get up at sunrise, so I expect you to do the same,"

“Okay,”

Then she smiled leaned a little over the table, resting her arms on it.

"So... everything’s okay?"

Jaskier blinked, baffled.

"Uh… yes?"

"Has anyone said anything to you?"

"Uh... No?"

Renfri glanced at the rest of the bar. Jaskier followed her gaze. The clients turned around on their seats immediately, except for Regis, who slowly looked down with a sigh. More and more Jaskier had the feeling that something was going on or people knew something he didn't understand. And it was starting to get a little bit annoying for him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Renfri looked at him with a flat and apparently disinterested expression.

"Nothing," she replied. "As I was saying, rules. Luckily for both of us, I have two bathrooms at home, yours is upstairs. Take a bath before you go to sleep, you won't have time in the morning. We have access to hot water but don't waste it or I'll kill you, do you understand?"

"Yes,"

"Good," Renfri took another sip from her cup, pensive. Jaskier did the same, staring at her intently. "We'll have breakfast here at the bar, then we'll start with the routine duties. At noon we’ll eat here again and continue until we finish whatever needs to be done. There are days when you finish early, but others..." she grimaced.

"Yeah, sure, I understand,"

"Don't worry, kid, you'll do fine. As I said, there's not much to do really, it's a small town,"

Jaskier nodded and took the last drink, then reached into the pockets of the bag, looking for the purse. Renfri snorted.

"Don't bother, we barely use money here," she said.

"But–"

"You'll pay him with your wardenship, it works that way,"

Jaskier arched an eyebrow.

"Let me guess, everyone lets you pay by doing your job,"

For the first time since he had sat at Renfri's table, Jaskier saw the outline of a faint, small smile on her lips.

"You'll understand," she mumbled. Then she handed him her cup and waved him up. "Go on, be a good boy and get me more drink, and ask Regis to make us dinner,"

Jaskier pursed his lips, took his tankard and Renfri’s cup and went to the counter, where Regis was still drying glasses as if seconds before he hadn't been watching them.

"She wants–" Jaskier started to say.

"I know, I heard her, don't worry," Regis put down the rag and the glass in his hands, took Jaskier's cup and tankard and brought new ones. When Jaskier looked at him he saw his old, tired eyes and felt a wave, like a vibration in the air, of concern that sent a chill down his back. Regis sighed again. "You'll have to be patient with her, it's the first time–" The man hesitated for a second, as if he was looking for the right words. "It's the first time she has an apprentice,"

Jaskier blinked, suppressing the urge to look at her. A little further down the line, at the end of the counter, the spectators at the game were cheering their team on to score. Jaskier clicked his tongue.

"I see..." he whispered.

Was that it? Am I the first student she has?

"Do you like leek soup?" Regis asked then, leaving the new drinks in front of the boy.

Jaskier blinked, and thought about how little he had eaten soup in his life just because his grandmother didn't let the cooks prepare lower class meals in the palace.

"Sure," he said, nodding enthusiastically.

He took the cup and the tankard and brought them to Renfri's table, which was waiting impatiently for his return. The woman took her drink with energy and gave a sip. Jaskier sighed.

They drank in relative silence, Renfri more and more concentrated in her cup and Jaskier feeling more and more tired, both from the trip and from the alcohol. By the time Regis brought each of them a bowl of soup, both were lost in their own thoughts. The man gave them a silent glance before giving them the spoons and returning to the counter. The bar had been left empty, with the game about to end and the few remaining customers marching home for dinner. 

Jaskier tasted a spoonful of soup after blowing on it a little and found a myriad of flavors so strong and delicious that he thought it was probably the best soup in the world. Not only did he notice the leek, but there was also potato, carrot, onion, he even rosemary and pepper, all perfectly mixed together. The soup wasn't quite broth, it was thick enough to melt in your mouth. After a whole trip based on cold meat sandwiches, that first hot meal in Blaviken would be forever his favorite.

Jaskier might have cried for joy if he hadn't had Renfri watching him over her own bowl with a strange expression. Jaskier swallowed the soup and looked at her.

"What?" he inquired.

Renfri instantly looked down, at his own food. She did not answer. The boy pressed his lips and stirred the soup with the spoon, watching the potato and leek lumps go around. He ate one, thinking. As he swallowed, he looked up again.

"Renfri?" he said.

"Hm?" She made no attempt to pay more attention to him.

"Can I ask you something?"

She shrugged.

"What's up?"

Jaskier licked his lips, feeling the taste of the soup. He took a deep breath.

"On my way here, after crossing the tree passage... I came across four giant wolves. They were... Are they from here, from Blaviken?"

Renfri took a quick and… a curious look at him.

"Yes, of course they're from here. You noticed they weren't normal, right?"

"Well, yes," Jaskier stirred in his seat. "So they're werewolves?"

She nodded.

"Vesemir and his pups, they help me to patrol Blaviken's territory. It's pretty huge and it would take me weeks by myself. If you saw them at the tree entrance they'll be back in two or three days,"

"Ah,"

"I'll introduce you to them when they get back, although... they probably know you better than you know them by now,"

"Oh, yeah? How?" He sounded more interested than concerned.

"The smell. There's no one in all of Blaviken with a better sense of smell. Vesemir could track you back to Warsaw if he wanted to. And in the rain. If you've seen them, they'll have smelled you enough to know your trouser size,”

Jaskier whimpered and took another spoonful. So he had made a bit of a fool of himself in that clearing. Renfri snorted.

"Don't worry, they're wolves, the most harmless and friendly creatures in town,"

"Really?"

"Really,"

"Regis doesn't look dangerous," Jaskier said, pointing his head at the bartender.

Renfri snorted again and leaned over the table a little and lower her voice.

"Regis could break you in half, though before that he'd sink his fangs into your neck and drink all your blood in one gulp,"

Jaskier opened his eyes wide and arched his eyebrows, suddenly feeling his throat dry. Of course, the smell of earth...

"I wouldn't do that, don't be absurd," Regis said from the counter. Jaskier looked at him. Although the man had the same calm expression as before, the boy noticed the irritation in his tone of voice. "Don't put such old-fashioned ideas into the kid, please,"

"But is it true?" Jaskier held his breath, turning in his seat to look at the man.

Then Renfri burst into a clean, heartfelt laugh that somehow that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat. 

"What?" Regis asked.

"Could you break a person in half? Or drink their blood in one gulp?"

Regis looked at him in complete and utter disbelief, and resignation. Renfri's laughter slowly faded. He gave Renfri an annoying look for instigating such questions and then grunted. 

"I could. Split someone in half I mean. Drink five liters of blood in one sitting? No, ancestors no. And I wouldn't sink my teeth into your neck either, there's too much muscle to go through. If I wanted to drink someone else's blood, I would first ask them nicely and then, if they said yes, I would drink from their wrist, or forearm,"

"What a gentleman," Renfri mocked, eating his soup.

"Oh, shut up, Renfri,"

She laughed again, much shorter and lower than before. Jaskier felt excited.

A pack of werewolves

A vampire

An elf

And whatever Yennefer was.

He had known from the beginning that this town was a refuge for magical creatures, but he had imagined goblins, elves, yes, okay, maybe some trolls, but werewolves, vampires? All he knew about them was from reading books that not even his tutors wanted him to read.

"Hey, don't look so excited and finish eating that, you'll want to go to bed early tonight," Renfri said, pointing him with her spoon.

Jaskier bit his lips, thinking fast and concentrated on eating what was left of the soup and drinking the beer. Renfri grunted approvingly and ended up with his own dinner.

By the time they left the tavern, it was already dark and there was no one left on the street. The sound of the animals in the village had turned into a silence broken only by the singing of the crickets and the sound of the families finishing their own dinners. There was little light, no lamppost. When Jaskier looked up, he could see the dark blue and purple sky dotted with millions of twinkling stars. He did not need to make an effort to discern the trail of the Milky Way over the lake.

He had never seen it before.

It was beautiful.

"Hey,"

Renfri got his attention. Jaskier swallowed, stopped gawking at the sky, and walked faster to follow in his master's footsteps. Once in the square and in front of the red-roofed house, Renfri took a rather large and quirky key out of his pocket. He opened the door with it.

Inside, the house looked like a ghost hostel. 

Jaskier didn't have time to explore much, Renfri made him climb the stairs, made of crisp, dry wood, up to the second floor. There, in addition to the aforementioned second bathroom, there was a corridor with seven little rooms where, with luck, a bed would fit. In some of them there were small closets. Jaskier chose one of the rooms with a wardrobe, which had one of the windows with flower curtains overlooking the square.

"Remember, at dawn," Renfri said, before he went down the stairs back to the bottom floor.

Inside his new tiny room, Jaskier heard the sound of a door closing. When he was sure Renfri would not return, he sighed deeply, left his bag on the bed, a mattress with no sheets or blankets ready, and closed the window. He also drew the curtains. The window faced north, so it wouldn't get much light during the day, but.

He didn't think he'd be spending much time in that room anyway.

He took the bag off the bed and opened the closet. He found several bed sets, so he picked the first one in the pile and he laid out the sheets, the pillow, and the quilt. Then he opened his bag and took out what little clothing he had brought with him. Only clothes, no personal belongings that were not strictly necessary. He found his toothbrush and toothpaste at the bottom of the bag, along with the hairbrush. Jaskier brushed his teeth while filling the bathtub. He was grateful to find soap in the bathroom cabinet. He also took note of the first aid supplies he had. He assumed Renfri didn't spend much time in the house either, judging by how poorly conditioned it was. It didn't matter. Jaskier took a towel and his pajamas into the bathroom. 

It took him a lot less time than it used to at home to take a bath, and not because he was sleepy.

When he came out of the bathroom, with his pajamas on and the towel over his shoulders, he walked down the hall and past the empty rooms quickly to his own. He closed the door and breathed a long sigh. Even if he did not smell closed or old, or a house that had not been used in a long time, Jaskier sensed an energetic tension in there. 

He couldn't explain what it was.

Bit it was… nasty.

He turned off the light and got into bed looking at the door. There was silence, a tight silence. Jaskier gripped the sheets with his fingers. With all his senses alert, he only heard that silence. Not the crickets outside, not Renfri at the bottom floor. He held his breath.

But he was tired, so he soon closed his eyes, and his mind wandered into forests full of crisp leaves, vampires serving beer, and golden-eyed white wolves. It was fast.

That night Jaskier did not dream, exhausted, and slept soundly.

So soundly that he did not notice that, after midnight, the door of his room opened slowly with a faint squeak and stayed open all night.

[runswith]

Travel diary:  Pamplona.  Entry 8 – March 26, 2002

With Curtis having done el Camino de Santiago so many times, he’s fairly knowledgeable about it -- extremely, even excessively knowledgeable compared to someone like me.

As we stood in Sunday morning sunshine, Curtis talking about el Camino, two people hiking the trail toiled up the grade in our direction. Across the small road, off in the other direction, the land spilled down and away. Nesting birds appeared from hillside bushes, making short, swift flights to nearby points, producing sharp bursts of song. Though the sun shone strong and warm, a cool breeze blew -- Curtis had encouraged me to leave my jacket in the car, I found myself glad I had it on and pulled it tightly around me as I peered off across the countryside.

Back in the car, we drove further west of Pamplona. Several miles along, Javier hung a left and sped down another two-lane, flanked by fields and the occasional spread of vineyard, until we approached a turnoff for a small church that sat amid acres of fields, la iglesia de Santa Maria de Eunate. Javier turned in, guiding the car to a small parking area, pulling in by a pair of porta-potties, them looking a bit out of context there in the middle of nowhere but logical considering the number of visitors the place received.

The church: a lovely stone structure, small in diameter with a high domed roof that gives it a sense of great space. Built in the second half of the twelfth century, appearing at once austere and complex in structure. The small windows had no glass, no surprise given where and when the church was constructed -- instead, they’re covered with slabs of marble cut thinly enough that light passes through. The church is surrounded by a portico, nearby sits another building constructed of stone, a refuge for hikers making the pilgrimage, where they can find a shower, get some sleep.

On our arrival, the only other people about were three young women who seemed to carefully avoid us. As we walked back to the car, other vehicles pulled in, discharging people, changing the atmosphere drastically with noise and motion. I was glad we were leaving.

Javier drove back out to the original two-lane, heading further west to the town of Puente la Reina, a pueblo with at least three churches -- all Catholic, natch. I was taken into two, both several centuries old -- one austere, the other extravagantly elaborate -- both on a long street that ran from the east end of town to the river at the town’s west side and the bridge that gives the town its name. Built in, I think, the 15th century. Old, beautiful, nice to walk across, providing nice views of the old town on one side, green hills and flowering almond trees on the other.

The morning sunlight had strengthened, the temperature edged upward to jacket-divesting levels as the day tilted toward noon. We walked back toward the car along a different street -- wider, relatively busy -- passing the third church as we left the river behind, I mulled over how it felt to be among so much Catholicism, past and present, from the perspective of having grown up in it and ditched it the day I turned 18.

From there we traveled west to a stretch of el Camino that ran along the course of an old Roman road, cobbled and crossing an original Roman bridge, out in the middle of countryside, in a ravine off the two-lane where trees were showing green and birds called. As I moved ahead of Curtis and Javier, two hikers passed -- young women, both sporting huge packs, one of which had two or three pieces of washed clothing spread across it to dry in the sun as they walked. Curtis began chatting with them, when I returned from enjoying the near-total quiet off across the bridge it turned out they were college-age American women -- one from Tennessee, one from Illinois -- doing the pilgrimage and experiencing the contrast between what they’d imagined when they dreamed about it and the rigorous, sometimes disheartening reality of traversing mountainous, rural terrain with a full pack. Curtis gave them encouragement, some tips on stops they’d be making in the coming days, and they headed off.

Next: the town of Estella, the day’s final stop. A medieval pueblo, with old, narrow streets, large plazas, and a pretty, shallow river that wends through the heart of the town. Javier parked the car, we made our way up a long series of stairs to yet another church perched in the, by then, early afternoon sunlight. We passed through to the cloister, a sizable area of flowers, grass, flowers and a tree or two, sheltered by walls, surrounded and bisected by walkways. Quiet, with lots of old stonework. I would have been happy to remain there a while, as lack of sleep was becoming an increasingly major factor in my day. Curtis had also been up late -- later than me, I think, having far more fun -- also looked to be at less than optimum. Javier was fine, and when I got too quiet he made a point of chatting me up, explaining things or asking about my experience in Spain. Between that and the fact that he had volunteered to do the driving for the day, he went far beyond what would be expected of someone who had never met me before. An extremely considerate person with a generous, gentlemanly nature.

A mass had begun while we were outside, we couldn’t pass back through the church and so took a different stairway down to the street -- old, narrow, with vistas of sky and neighborhoods. We found our way to the center of the town, crowds of chatting, well-dressed locals milling in and out of restaurants/tabernas. We made our way into one, found a space at the bar, got something to drink, then went somewhere else to eat, a place off another narrow, quiet street. A long meal, punctuated by stretches of silence between which Curtis and Javier conversed, Javier now and then addressing some conversation in my direction, which I did my best to engage with. Afterward, we found our way through more narrow streets toward an old medieval footbridge we’d spotted earlier. The street that led us there -- old and, of course, narrow -- only permitted resident traffic, and at the end of a block that fed out onto a larger busier street, passage was blocked by a thick, squat metal column, maybe two feet high, planted in the pavement directly in the middle of the street. A car approached from the outside road, stopping by a box at the roadside where the driver produced a card and swiped it through a slot. A pause, then the column slowly sank into the pavement so the car could pass, after which it reappeared, regaining full height. Freudian traffic control.

We made our way across the bridge, trees and large sprawling expanses of bushes on either side of the river a bright, vibrant green in the early spring sun. Willow trees rose three or four stories into the air, trailing long branches thick with new leaves. Javier and Curtis had yet another ancient church or two in their sights, we made our way toward them though not into them (for which I gave silent thanks), settling down instead on some stone structures by the river to flop and get some sun. It was late afternoon by then, the town had the feel of a place slowly dealing with the coming reality of returning to the workweek. Couples were out, two groups of people came together not far from us, talking, then headed off in the opposite direction from which we’d come and disappeared. We eventually pulled ourselves together and returned to the car, walking along a stretch of el Camino which included an old, well-kept building that functioned as the town’s sanctuary for pilgrims.

As we neared the car, the snug street opened out into a small plaza that fronted a park and two old buildings, one of which apparently housed the local equivalent of a circuit court. Paint had been hurled against the door and the facade of the building, leaving splashes of red, yellow and green, the colors of the crest of Euskadi, the Basque Country. As we stepped out into the plaza, I glanced into the windows of the other building we passed, into a room filled with old, old furniture, including what appeared to be an ancient canopy bed, draped with mosquito netting.

At that moment, we became aware of a car coming in reverse along the narrow street that faced us, coming fast, the gearbox whining loudly, the rear end jerking back and forth as it approached, tires squealing. It skidded into the plaza where the driver hit the brakes, spraying gravel before changing gears then gunning his way through a loud, aggressive three-point turn, almost hitting me at one point, the afternoon air suddenly thick with the odor of testosterone. The driver: a truculent, macho 20-something whose behavior had Curtis hooting and mocking him in English. My last image of Estella.

An hour and a half later I found myself gazing out a window of an Iberia airliner. My final view of Pamplona, from a plane angling up away from the ground: a line of wind turbines ranged along a ridge of hills to the north of the airport, extending off toward the Pyrenees and the border with France, white rotor blades turning lazily in afternoon sunlight.

[kinfriday]

Wandering Hops: Black Holes and Blast Zones

Cliches, I feel, are annoying because they are a reminder of simple, near universal truths. No matter how clever, or accurate the wisdom they hold may be, just hearing them reminds me of something I should have never forgotten, and thus, I cringe.  

All of this is, of course, natural. None of us are perfect, we all make mistakes, get ahead of ourselves, mislay our car keys, all of that; thus life is full of cliches to remind us that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Shit, there’s another one.

Saturday, that very cliche presented itself and slapped me in the face.

Now, I should have been prepared for it. I woke up, eager, excited and early, ready to take on Black Hole Falls. My hiking checklist was beside my pack and trekking poles, the husband woke up early, and my directions were all loaded in. We even left almost on time.

All of this proved to be ominous portent of the day ahead.

With breakfast done and everything in the car, we left about 930am. Waggs was looking forward to an exciting day in Vancouver, Washington and I was eagerly awaiting my trip to Black Hole Falls. The site is billed as one of the best hidden waterfalls in the Pacific Northwest, perched on the edge of the Gifford Pinchot forest. It had all the makings of a wonderful day.

Heading out towards Amboy, Washington, we followed our directions dutifully. Eventually the two lane highway gave way to a simple paved forest service road that had certainly seen better days. As always in the Pacific Northwest, there were other campers and hikers camped beside conspicuous openings in the forest, portending trail and adventures just beyond.

This is where I start getting excited. The idea of other people on fun adventures reminds me that I’ll soon be on my own as well.  

“Keep left at the fork.” Sounded over the speaker, drawing both of our attentions, because the road that awaited us was a steep and graveled dirt road taking us up into the mountains. This was not unexpected. Before I go to any trail, I take a look at things via satellite and try to get the lay of the land. The trail head I was looking for showed to be set off a similar road, and so, all seemed groovy.

Up we went, gaining elevation as the road began to switchback aggressively and an unsettling feeling began to arise that the GPS was leading us on a boondoggle.

Finally, after almost half an hour on gravel roads, covering almost ten miles, it announced we had arrived, there were just a few problems…

No pull out, no trail head, no indication whatsoever of where the trail should be.

Son of a bitch.  

Undaunted, I fell back to my InReach navigator, knowing I had synced the maps from my computer the night before. While not designed for vehicle navigation, it should have been able to tell me if I was close, or off in the great beyond relative to the trail location.

That was when the second big surprise of the day hit me. Though I had synced it on my computer, I later found out that only works for software updates, it requires being synced through my phone to push the routes back to the device.

Deep in the pit of my stomach a worried feeling blossomed as  I looked up and down the road, it finally coming into clear focus that we were lost, over half an hour from town, one hour out from signal, and no idea where the trail was.

All of my Saturday plans were firmly obliterated at that point.  Some careful backtracking followed, as we made our way back to the main road, and off for a day of fun in Portland.

It was actually a pretty good time, save that I didn’t feel I had earned my post hike eat out treat. After all, I hadn’t hiked anywhere.

At the end of the day though, a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill is a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill, and as I sat there, talking with my husband I resolved that this weekend would not be shot for Wandering Hops. While he browsed a bookstore, I hung out outside, using my all trails map and then hit upon The Coldwater Lake Loop.

The Coldwater Lake Loop is best described as a franken-trail, a mix of the south coldwater trail and the lake trail, with the last section incorporating elements of the main forest service road to take you back to the trail head. All told, it’s about 11.5 miles, and rated as a Hard/Difficult hike.

This time, dear reader, I wasn’t about to be caught unaware. I synced and resynced my maps, verified in full that the route was on the device, checked permits, passes and hours, as well as my directions.

0630 Sunday rolled around, and as Maya likes to say, it was time to “get this bread.”

This was my first difficult rated hike since the Hamilton Loop of last year, and as I drove, alone along Highway 504 (letting the husband sleep) I was filled with a degree of trepidation. My chosen route had me going counter clockwise from South Coldwater, which gains a half mile in elevation over the first two or so miles, and then you have to go right back down again.

The challenge though, is part of the fun, you never know what you can do until you do it, after all.

The Coldwater Lake Loop proved amazing from its first moments. For one, Mount St Helens loomed large just behind me. Back in 1980, the region I was hiking was at the very heart of the blast zone, dramatically reshaping the landscape in a moment, wiping away thousands of years of patient erosion and gentle world building. What surprised me was that there was still evidence of the volcanic cataclysm everywhere I looked, from petrified, stony trees to soil mixed with ash.  

For two, the caterpillars were out by the thousands, massing on the trail, trees and plants in numbers I had never seen before. They made their migrations back and forth, largely oblivious to my movements as I attempted to side step as many as I could. All the while I took in sweeping vistas full of dramatic mountain ranges and colorful wildflowers, until about a mile and a half in, I found some curious bits of metal sculpture.

Back when the volcano blew, the area I was hiking in was being logged. Still buried bulldozers, twisted by the titanic forces of Mother Nature in a full on rage still dotted the trail in two locations, accompanied by an observation tower that was shaped into loops and bends. All of this was found in the first two miles after a punishing round of ever upward arching trail, until it dumped me out on a wide and sandy plain,  grey white from volcanic ash, and full of scrubby, stubborn plants and flowers clinging to life.

From there, I continued to go up, and up, and… well… up.  There were moments when I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as my legs burned from exertion. For my day hikes, I normally move with about 15lbs on my back. It’s good training for backpacking, and besides, I’m not carrying weights. Things like flashlights, extra water, and power bricks can come in useful if anything goes wrong, so up I went, lugging my necessary gear, until I found myself just inches from a ledge, with a heavy drop to my left, and a steep incline to my right as I traced my way up a mountain.

Finally summiting a little over three and a half miles into my trek, a cool breeze began to blow off Coldwater Lake, which was quite refreshing after the hike I had just completed. Originally I had planned to eat lunch there, but I was feeling peppy. Deciding to press on to the halfway point, I began my descent, entering a thick and verdant forest, with the canopy so thick above me, it blocked out much of the sun.

The transition was as quick as what you might see in a movie script. Suddenly, the world goes from open, to close in, the air cools and becomes humid, sticking to your skin, and the heavy scents of earth percolates all around as the world falls to hushed silence, broken only here and there by the chirping of a bird or the rustling of a fern.

It’s peaceful, but also leaves you with a feeling of anticipation. The size and completeness of the silence makes it feel like the world has found a pause, but there’s an expectation at its edge. At any moment it feels like the world around you may lurch forward again, bursting out upon the stage in an unexpected way.

Does that sound like foreshadowing?

As the descent began to level out a roar began to build progressively, until soon, it was deafening. Still, the thick canopy of forest surrounding me offered nothing in terms of view, but I was certain I was coming to a rapids crossing or a waterfall.

Turns out I was right on both accounts; emerging from the wood a sturdy looking bridge revealed itself, spanning the gap over a raging torrent of river and a stair step waterfall, working its way back up into the mountain. The entire scene was breathtaking, and marked about a mile past the halfway mark for the day. It was a perfect time to stop for lunch.

After a few minutes rest and a Probar, my energy surged back, and I hit the trail again. This is where it began to feel long. Especially in the moments where I began to climb. Now, initially, upon my setting out, it was my belief that all the climbing would be done in the beginning, giving me a nice and level trail beside a lake shore to complete my day upon.

No such luck. Examining my map more closely, I noticed the topographic detail that my trail route vacillated on this second stint a few hundred feet at a time in elevation. This was by no means the same level of challenge as I had started my day with, but it still proved daunting as the hours rolled on. However, the scenery was beautiful, alternating between verdant forests and vast meadows filled with both butterflies and wildflowers, until the sound of people enjoying Father’s Day began to carry on the wind.

That could mean only one thing. I was nearing the boat docks, which marked my return to the highway and trailhead. Roughly 1.5 miles later, and the day was done.

After 11 miles, the sudden stop of forward motion felt strange. My brain had dialed into the idea of me moving forward at a constant steady pace, and as I unloaded my gear into the wagon, I felt a bit  lost.

Glorious air conditioning awaited me. Sitting there with the engine idling, preparing to leave after finishing my post trail snack, I began to reflect upon the last few days and  realized there was a type of lesson in all of it for me.

To put it in one word, I’d have to call it persistence. I could have quit when my hike was thwarted by bad directions and haywire planning for Black Hole Falls, but I didn’t. I fell back, reassessed and found something that would work.

Still, it wasn’t that easy. Finding the trail is one thing, but hiking it is another entirely. I covered almost 12 miles, up mountains, along ledges, and across bridges. There were times when I was tired, there were times when I even got bored, but the one thing I didn’t do was stop. My perseverance rewarded me with a day full of beautiful memories and moments that I feel I will carry for a long time.

Persistence pays, dear reader. One last cliche to finish the day.

[ourwickedworld]

The Rambling Man Travel Review: Reno, Nevada

Reno, Nevada…  The Biggest Little City in the world, located mere miles from scenic Lake Tahoe.  Reno, known for so many things.  Yes, gambling is probably the first thing that creeps into your head as you begin the initial descent into Reno / Tahoe International Airport on the East end of Reno.  But, Reno is so much more!!  And, to be clear, because in an odd way I get this question more often than not.  “No, Reno is not any where near Las Vegas!” Frankly, Sin City is a 6 plus hour car trip away.  And, yes, the two Old West towns have some things in common, but the truth is they have more uncommon than you would expect.  This is the Silver State, Ramblin with the Rambling Man, checking out the dudeability, the hang outs, the good time, hidden gems….  Rambling, walking, eating, drinking, fishing, hunting, sporting…   Rambling into town, and taking in the town for all its worth.  From local sporting events, to grabbing a cold beer, or strolling a midnight street in search of every dream inside my soul.

If you want to double down on 11 in a game of black jack, sure…  You can take lady luck for a twirl at most locations in Nevada.  Heck, you can gamble in the grocery store! Gambling, of course, does not hold a stick to legalized prostitution in the Silver State.  A must see “dude event,” a most unique experience while in Nevada.  One must visit a brothel.  The experience of Ringing the bell, having the ladies line up, and the entire pomp and circumstance of legalized prostitution…  This is Nevada!!  Embrace it Bro..    And, hey, I am not singing a sad cowboy tune, but one does not have to sleep with a hooker to visit a Brothel.  Gentleman, the experience of visiting the Whore House is truly West Coast Cowboy Country Cool.  The experience of visiting the relic of the old west sorta makes actually having to bang a hooker totally unnecessary.  But, if you do decide to go to Tuna Town in the desert.  The house madam at the Brothel, and Brothel ownership, usually have high standards of safety and satisfaction. Plus, the State of Nevada ensures STD safe sex.  What a Country!  More like what a State.  Yes, the only state with Legalized Prostitution, but not the only state with prostitution.  As the oldest profession continues its strong industry and economic success globally.  

Some suggestions: Mustang Ranch on the outskirts of Reno defines old west prostitution, and if you can avoid the rush of tires truck drivers who frequent the place, the experience is sure to remind you that being a dude is still groovy.  The experience is sure to make you proud once again to be the sole proprietor of your personal penis, regardless of size.  Mustang offers drinks and libations with the most perfect bar to take in a conversation with one of the many girls patrolling the room.  The many patrons, of course, have their own unique stories as well sitting near if you so desire to engage.  But, dang it bro, you are on vacation, strike up a conversation. Most Renoites will be more than happy to share a story or two, especially if you are talking golf, hookers, skiing, cold beer, or cards.  

I woke up a bit foggy… I think I got home around 3:30 AM, an UBER brought me from Mustang back to my downtown Reno hotel room at the Eldorado Hotel and Casino.  I was nude, my clothes from last night thrown over the chair adjacent to my bed, I could still smell the stench of Mustang and Crown Royal bellowing from my garments. What a night…  I need some coffee and to walk some of the haze from behind my eyes.  I take a quick walk upon exiting the casino doors at the Eldorado, moving South down Virginia St.  I then take a right turn on First St.  

I arrive at Hub Coffee Roasters on Riverside Dr in Reno.  I sit outside, a round table with an extra chair my only company.  I sip a tall black coffee and pick at my cheese Danish. My view is of the Truckee River and the adjacent walking trail and park.  The trees scream early fall as I sit still listening to the peace of the morning.  

On foot one can embrace a new city on a much more intimate level.  You can walk almost in slow motion as you take in the new sights, smells, and people.  My walk today has a walking path that winds around the Truckee River directly West towards the Keystone Ave Bridge, the Booth St. Bridge, and Idlewild Park.  The orange, yellow leaves under my feet, as cool mountain air surrounds me.  I hear chirps from a few birds, and the 10:00 AM train and its screech and horn.  The water from the river heads East, against my walk.  It is a most perfect morning, and I am stoned immaculate in my city by the big lake in the Sierras.  You can almost smell that the snow of Winter is near, I walk.  My head phones in both ears, music plays, song after song.  I hear my playlist, my shuffle playlist. The many songs from Apple I-Tunes subscription.  

Three miles is a decent introduction walk to Reno, as I start my daily stroll from Hub Coffee Roasters by directly heading west on the adjacent walking trail…  I walk with the morning sun on my back, music keeping me company.  Beck, REM, Pearl Jam, Band of Horses, Elliot Smith, Mount Eerie, Bob Dylan….  The Truckee River from the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountain range brings fresh and clear water from the tops of elevated peaks seen in the distance, the river keeps me company as I ramble on.  It is a most perfect walk, a mix of solitude, water, fall, and some strange faces.  My own music allows me to not skip a beat.  

I have a personal tour of a local Cannabis Dispensary at 4 PM.  And dinner with an old friend, Clint Cates.   Yes, above and beyond gambling and prostitution, Nevada has recently legalized cannabis.  Yep, you can literally go pick up a sack at a local retail weed dealer.  What a country?  And they deliver…  

The inner workings of a cannabis dispensary, a bit underwhelming.  It is all about security in a cash only business… And, the chronic has some street value, no doubt.  So, bullet proof sheet rock, big safes with secret codes and levels of management. Not to mention, a big wall of people. I thought “Starbucks but weed” after 15 minutes into my tour because the Mynt Dispensary in Downtown Reno.  The place was packed, all sorts of sour faces and young people alike looking at such a variety of products.  Heck, when I was a kid, getting a sack of weed was a crap shoot. You would get a plastic sandwich bag with something green inside, and you would pay the man the cash.  Today, its sativa or Indica.  It’s oils, wax, vape pens, and don’t get me started on the names.  Pot can’t just be pot anymore.  Marketing has invaded the space, so pot now is Orange Krusk Kush, or Spiral to Insanity. Regardless, Reno has it all, and the Mynt Dispensary is close and will satisfy one’s curiosity on what is recreational legalization.  Check it out….  

Mr. Cates urged me to see the Grow Facility, the actual place the pot is grown.  And, talk about impressive…  To see such a green forest of pot inside the facility was one most unique experience.  What a country?  And, Nevada, Northern Nevada.  This place is lit, no pun intended.  

And, when you are stoned? Besides taking a walk and being outdoors, I enjoy food, duh…  I think that is the pothead mantra, let’s get high and eat are faces off.  For Clint’s chronic hospitality, and world class tour of the Mynt Dispensary facilities, I offered to buy the pot entrepreneur dinner.

Clint, he suggests a local staple, but a Cougar Stop first.  

We walk into The Polo Lounge with glazed eyes and an unquenchable thirst.  We pull up to seats at the bar, we were Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday in a pair of cowboy boots galloping into this local dive bar. And, we were looking for a cold drink.  

The Polo Lounge located in Midtown Reno is a retro and freaky dive bar with strange faces everywhere. The bar, however, is first and foremost a place to drink in a town of drinkers.  Did I mention?  Reno can drink.  I am feeling a Vodka and Tonic with a lemon night is on the horizon.  I am in the land of milk and honey, as this dive bar is also a Cougar den.  Hot, horny, older women.  And like fine wine, and vodka to my tongue, an older woman is truly as sexy as a woman can possible be.  Especially, if the music is loud, the drinks are cheap, and last call is just a rumor. That’s right, you can drink all day and all night in the Biggest Little City.  No last call!!  What a country bro!!!

Clint stumbles back from a food run, we lost most of the night in a haze of laughter, pick up lines, and bar games.  We even missed the food reservation.  Clint finds a solution!  He brings back some food from Miguel’s Mexican Cantina, a short walk away from The Polo Lounge.  I am mouth first into an onion and cheese enchilada and a chili relleno in the most elegant egg crepe as 2 AM reared its ugly head.  I order a cold beer to wash it down, The Polo Lounge happily accommodates our request to bring in outside food.  Dive bar, check.  Great company and laughter, check.  Great Mexican food, check!!  The Rambling Man thinks highly in regards to the drinkability and Eatability in the Biggest little City…

I sleep until high noon. The partly cloudy fall day brings a day to catch up.  I have one more night in Reno, what will the last day of my weekend getaway bring.  I hope more laughter, and more food.  

What will today bring, a Sunday afternoon and night in Reno.  I stick to my vacation theme, let’s walk, drink, eat, and find some laughter.

I start my last night with a Sunset Walk at nearby Virginia Lake.  The manmade lake is exactly one mile around, it is a big oval walking / running path near the intersection of Virginia St. and Plumb Lane in Reno.  It is a most beautiful walk and sunset.  I start my walk, set for 3 laps, at approximately 5:45 PM, sunset set for 6:20 PM, and the sky was set ablaze with all of autumn’s glory.  The lake is full of aquatic life, ducks, geese, turtles, fish.  With the best feature of Virginia Lake, a forest of sage brush. As dusk approaches, the smell from the sage brush is worth a billion silver dollars.  The smell of sun fading from summer, the old west meeting the fresh air of ancient mountain shadow.  Air so still, my heart beats in rhythm with the season.  

After the walk, I go to the nearby Atlantis Casino….  The Atlantis, less than a quarter mile from Virginia Lake, is where I will partake in the Steam Room with Eucalyptus spray and a world class massage.  I feel like I am made of rubber, I feel happy.  So, I make my way down to the sportsbook within the bowels of the Atlantis casino.  I grab a beer and a nearby handicapping sheet, I am going to bet on the NFL Sunday night game of the Week, it’s the Patriots vs the Chiefs.  What a game!!  I put $500 on Tom Brady, the old man from Nor Cal, to win the game by more than two points.  

At halftime, I stagger over to the Purple Parrot restaurant within the Atlantis to get my all time favorite sandwich, The Monty Cristo.  This fried sandwich with a side of strawberry preserves is not something I eat, nor even have the option of ordering.  The Monty Cristo with a side of fries, I sit at my table, lost in the casino carpet, and flashy neon lights, my eyes fixed upon the next numbers in the never ending run of Keno games on the overhead TV.  In my head, I keep wishing for eight numbers to match, a dream of wealth and fame surely awaits if I can only just get 8 numbers correct.  

The night fades into the swallows of tomorrow, I make my way back to downtown and the Eldorado.  My flight leaves tomorrow at 10:15 AM….

Hue of the TV radiates upon my tired and sleepy head, a weekend in Reno.  I spark my lighter, weed set aglow, I inhale.  Stoned immaculate, I am the Rambling Man.  Reno ENVY… Reno, Nevada…  Walkability Score:  9 out of 10,  Drinkability Score:  7 out of 10, Eatability Score:  7 out of 10, Overall Value:  8 of 10, The Ability of the City to Provide a Unique Experience:  10 of 10.

Or course, my weekend getaway is meant to start a conversation regarding travel.  Reno has so much more to offer, like most cities, it would take multiple trips to take it all in.  I, do however, list below some activities or events to consider when traveling to Reno.  

1.       Fish for Brown or Rainbow Trout in the Truckee River. Entrance Point at Mayberry Park west of town make this easy to access.  Artificial flies, a Salmon Egg, or even a piece of Bacon on the end of the stick will find success at dawn or twilight.  

2.       Check out a University of Nevada Football game at nearby Mackey Stadium in the Fall, a Nevada Basketball game in the Winter, or a Reno Aces Minor League Baseball game in the Spring or Summer.  Hey, we love our sports, and checking out a new venue is always cool.  

3.       Walking Options: Mayberry Park, Downtown Reno, Virginia Lake, Rancho San Rafael

4.       Harrah’s Auto Museum – This is a legit place, full of classic cars that will blow your mind.

5.       Rib Cookoff, Balloon Races, Hot August Nights, all tourists traps but a place to start a weekend to Ramble On…..  

Finally, and in closing, what is the soul of the city, what is the Soul of Reno?  Reno has two faces, and contradiction surrounds.  The beauty of Lake Tahoe, the Truckee River, the Sierra Nevada Mountains, alongside the despair of prostitution and gaming.  The city is the chain of vice, and the elegance of a perfect small town.  It is the old west, yet modern day growth and opportunity abounds.  It’s the Wild, Wild West, it’s the Biggest Little City in the World.  Regardless, Reno is a fantastic place to Ramble On.

The Rambling Man continues next week, we explore Athens, Georgia.  Please follow us on Twitter, @BarkmanPete. We are no longer on Facebook.  Why? Because Facebook sucks.  

Please consider checking out other Podcast segments available on The Pete Barkman Show. Segments include the following: The Rambling Man, Las Vegas Larry’s Losers ( sports picks, predictions, and handicapping).  And, our How To Live a Happy and Healthy Life Series.  Plus, much more.  The Pete Barkman Show, available on most Podcast Platforms.  

[forsoothsayer]

Bolivár by Nikos Engonopoulos

A Greek Poem        THEY SAW AN APPARITION OF THESEUS IN ARMS, RUSHING        ON AT THE HEAD OF THEM AGAINST THE BARBARIANS Le cuer d’un home vaut tout l’or d’un pais For the great, the free, the brave, the strong, The fitting words are great and free and brave and strong, For them, the total subjection of every element, silence, for    them tears, for them beacons, and olive branches, and    the lanterns That bob up and down with the swaying of the ships and scrawl    on the harbours’ dark horizons, For them are the empty barrels piled up in the narrowest lane,    again of the harbor, For them the coils of white rope, the chains, the anchors, the    other manometers, Amidst the irritating smell of petroleum, That they might fit out a ship, put to sea and depart, Like a tram setting off, empty and ablaze with light, in the    nocturnal serenity of the gardens, With one purpose behind the voyage: ad astra. For them I’ll speak fine words, dictated to me by Inspiration’s    Muse, As she nestled deep in my mind full of emotion For the figures, austere and magnificent, of Odysseus    Androutsos and Simon Bolivár. But for now I’ll sing only of Simon, leaving the other for an    appropriate time, Leaving him that I might dedicate, when the time comes,    perhaps the finest song that I’ve ever sung, Perhaps the finest song that’s ever been sung in the whole    world. And this not for what they both were for their countries, their    nations, their people, and other such like that fail to    inspire, But because they remained throughout the ages, both of them,    alone always, and free, great, brave and strong. And shall I now despair that to this very day no one has    understood, has wanted, has been able to understand    what I say? Shall the fate then be the same for what I say now of Bolivar,    that I’ll say tomorrow of Androutsos? Besides, it’s no easy thing for figures of the importance of    Androutsos and Bolivar to be so quickly understood, Symbols of a like. But let’s move on quickly: for Heaven’s sake, no emotion,    exaggeration or despair. Of no concern, my voice was destined for the ages alone. (In the future, the near, the distant, in years to come, a few,    many, perhaps from the day after tomorrow or the day    after that, Until the time that, empty and useless and dead, the Earth    begins to drift in the firmament, The young, with mathematical precision, will awake in their      beds on wild nights, Moistening their pillows with tears, wondering at who I was,    reflecting That once I existed, what words I said, what songs I sang. And the gigantic waves that every evening break on Hydra’s    seven shores, And the savage rocks, and the high mountain that brings down    the blizzards, Will eternally and untiringly thunder my name.) But let’s get back to Simon Bolivár. Bolivár! A name of metal and wood, you were a flower in    the gardens of South America. You had all the gentleness of flowers in your heart, in your    hair, in your gaze. Your hand was huge like your heart, and scattered both good    and evil. You swept through the mountains and the stars trembled, you    came down to the plains, with your gold finery, your    epaulets, all the insignia of your rank, With a rifle hanging on your shoulder, with chest bared, with    your body covered in wounds, And stark naked you sat on a low rock, at the sea’s edge, And they came and painted you in the ways of Indian braves, With wash, half white, half blue, so you’d appear like a lonely    chapel on one of Attica’s shores, Like a church in the districts of Tatavla, like a palace in a    deserted Macedonian town. Bolivár! You were reality, and you are, even now, you are    no dream. When the wild hunters nail the wild eagles, and the other wild    birds and animals, Over their wooden doors in the wild forests, You live again, and shout, and grieve, And you are yourself the hammer, nail and eagle. If on the isles of coral, winds blow and the empty fishing boats    overturn, And the parrots are a riot of voices when the day ends and    the gardens grow quiet drowned in humidity, And in the tall trees the crows perch, Consider, beside the waves, the iron tables of the cafeneion, How the damp eats at them in the gloom, and far off the light    that flashes on, off, on again, turning back and forth. And day breaks – what frightful anguish – after a night without    sleep, And the water reveals nothing of its secrets. Such is life. And the sun comes, and the houses on the wharf, with their    island-style arches, Painted pink, and green, with white sills (Naxos, Chios), How they live! How they shine like translucent fairies! Such is    Bolivár! Bolivár! I cry out your name, reclining on the peak of    Mount Ere, The highest peak on the isle of Hydra. From here the view, enchanting, extends as far as the Saronic    isles, Thebes, Beyond Monemvasia, far below, to august Egypt, And as far as Panama, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, Haiti,    San Domingo, Bolivia, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela,    Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Uraguay, Paraguay, Ecuador, As far even as Mexico. With hard stone I carve your name in rock, that afterwards men    may come in pilgrimage. As I carve sparks fly – such, they say, was Bolivár – and I    watch my hand as it writes, gleaming in the sun. You saw the light for the first time in Caracas. Your light, Bolivár, for before you came the whole of South America    was plunged in bitter darkness. Now your name is a blazing torch, lighting America, North and    South, and all the world! The Amazon and Orinoco rivers spring from your eyes. The high mountains are rooted in your breast, The Andes range is your backbone. On the crown of your head, brave palikar, run unbroken    stallions and wild cattle, The wealth of Argentina. On your belly sprawl vast coffee plantations. When you speak, terrible earthquakes spread devastation, From Patagonia’s formidable deserts as far as the colourful    islands, Volcanoes erupt in Peru and vomit their wrath in the heavens, Everywhere the earth trembles and the icons creak in Kastoria, The silent town beside the lake. Bolivár, you have the beauty of a Greek. I first encountered you, as a child, in one of Phanar’s steep    cobbled streets, A lighted lamp in Mouchlio illumined your noble face. Are you, I wonder, one of the myriad forms assumed, and    successively discarded by Constantine Palaeologus? Boyaca, Ayacucho. Ideas both illustrious and eternal. I was    there. We’d already left the old frontiers far behind: Back in the distance, fires were burning in Leskovik. And in the night, the army moved up towards the battle, its    familiar sounds could already be heard. Opposite, a grim Convoy of endless trucks returned with the    wounded. Don’t anyone be alarmed. Down there, see, the lake. This is the way they'll come, beyond the rushes. The roads have been mined: the work and repute of that    Hormovo man, renowned, unrivalled in such matters.    Everyone to their stations. The whistle’s sounding! Come on, come on. Get the cannons uncoupled and set up,    clean the barrels with the swabs, fuses lit and held    ready, Cannon-balls to the right. Vrass! Vrass, Albanian for fire: Bolivár! Every pineapple that was hurled and exploded, Was a rose to the glory of the great general, As he stood, stern and unshaken, amid the dust and tumult, Gazing on high, his forehead in the clouds, And the sight of him caused dread: fount of awe, path of    justice, gate of salvation. Yet, how many conspired against you, Bolivár, How many traps did they not set for you to fall into and vanish, One man, above all, a rogue, a snake, a native of    Philippoupolis. But what was that to you, like a tower you stood firm, upright,    before Acongagua’s terror, Holding a mighty cudgel and wielding it above your head. The bald-headed condors, unafraid of the carnage and smoke of    battle, took fright and flew up in terrified flocks, And the llamas hurled themselves down the mountain slopes,    dragging, as they fell, a cloud of earth and rocks. And into the dark of Tartarus your enemies disappeared, lay    low. (When the marble arrives, the best from Alabanda, I’ll sprinkle    my brow with Blachernae’s holy water, I’ll use all my craft to hew your stance, to erect the statue of a    new Kouros in Sikynos’ mountains, Not forgetting, of course, to engrave on its base that famous    “Hail, passer-by”.) And here it should above all be stressed that Bolivar was never    afraid, never, as they say, “lost his nerve”, Not even at the most murderous hour of battle, nor in the bitter    gloom of unavoidable treachery. They say he knew beforehand, with unimaginable precision, the    day, the hour, even the second: the moment, Of the Great Battle that was for him alone, In which he himself would be army and enemy, both    vanquished and victor, triumphant hero and sacrificial    victim. (And the lofty spirit of such as Cyril Loukaris reared within    him, How he calmly eluded the despicable plots of the Jesuits and    that wretched man from Philippoupolis!) And if he was lost, if ever lost is such a one as Bolivar! who    like Apollonius vanished into the heavens, Resplendent like the sun he disappeared, in unimaginable glory,    behind the gentle mountains of Attica and the Morea. invocation Bolivár! You are a son of Rigas Ferraios, Of Antonios Economou – so unjustly slain – and brother to    Pasvantzoglou, The dream of the great Maximilien de Robespierre lives again    on your brow, You are the liberator of South America. I don’t know how you were related, if one of your descendants    was that other great American, the one from    Montivideo, One thing alone is sure, that I am your son. CHORUS strophe            (entrée des guitares) If the night, slow in passing, Sends moons of old to console us, If in the wide plain phantom shades Burden flowing-haired maidens with chains, The hour of victory, of triumph has come. On hollow skeletons of field marshal generals Cocked hats soaked in blood will be placed, And the red that was theirs before the sacrifice Will cover with rays the flag's lustre. antistrophe    (the love of liberty brought us here) the ploughs at the palms’ roots and the sun that rises resplendent amid trophies and birds and spears will announce as far as a tear rolls carried by the breeze to the sea’s depths the most terrible oath the more terrible darkness the terrible tale: Libertad epode            (freemasons’ dance) Away with you curses, come near us no more, corazón, From the cradle to the stars, from the womb to the eyes,    corazón, Where precipitous rocks, where volcanoes and seals, corazón, Where swarthy faces, thick lips and gleaming white teeth,    corazón, Let the phallus be raised, the revels begin, with human    sacrifice, dance, corazón, In a carnival of flesh, to our ancestors’ glory, corazón, That the seed of the new generation be sown, corazón.        CONCLUSION: Following the success of the South-American revolution, a bronze statue of Bolivár was erected in Nauplion and Monemvasia, on a deserted hill overlooking the town. However, the fierce wind that blew at night caused the hero’s frock-coat to flap furiously, creating a noise so great, so deafening, that it was impossible for anyone to get a moment’s rest, sleep was now out of the question. So the inhabitants complained and, through the appropriate steps, succeeded in having the monument torn down.    SONG OF FAREWELL TO BOLIVÁR (Here the sound of a distant band is heard, with incomparable melancholy playing popular nostalgic songs and dances from South America, preferably in sardane time)       general       what were you doing in Larissa       you       from       Hydra?

[tripstations]

The world’s most harrowing roads

(CNN) — Ready for a road trip you’ll never forget? Set your sights on one of these adventurous stretches of highway that provide access to some of the most arresting scenery on the planet.

These are hands-on drives: none of our 10 picks will allow you to let your guard down or let cruise control do most of the driving.

But you’ll be rewarded with travel panoramas few people ever get to see. Just remember to keep your eyes on the road, though.

Stelvio Pass

Italy

Sure, the Stelvio Pass is no longer a secret. There’s an Alfa-Romeo SUV named after the switchback-laden stretch of Italian tarmac bordering Switzerland, and hordes of drivers show up every summer to check out the road British motoring program “Top Gear” once called the greatest in the world.

But wake up early, and you’ll find that the Stelvio’s still a jaw-dropping drive worthy of your bucket list. Boasting epic views of the eastern Alps — that is, when you can afford to look up from the road: there are 75 turns during the climb to 9,045 feet above sea level.

Big number: Three — the number of languages (Italian, Romansh and German) that historically converged at Dreisprachenspitze peak, just above the route.

Fly into: Zurich, Switzerland (ZRH) or Milan, Italy (MXP)

Transfăgărășan

Romania

Sometimes referred to as “the road to the sky,” the Transfăgărășan climbs from 1,630 feet to 6,700 feet.

Alamy

This wild Romanian road that crosses the Carpathian Mountains has quite the backstory: depending on who you ask, it was built either to protect against the possibility of a Soviet invasion, or it was a folly, built by Nicolae Ceaușescu simply because he could.

Either way, hundreds reportedly died during dynamite blasts during construction in the 1970s. The result of their efforts is sometimes referred to as “the road to the sky” as the route gently climbs from 1,630 feet to 6,700 feet in elevation, with near endless hairpin turns (such a design would facilitate moving heavy military equipment.)

It’s an engineering marvel: the 71-mile route required a mind-bending array of bridge crossings.

Big number: 1,480 — the number of stairs that climb toward the 13th-century Poenari Castle where Vlad the Impaler, inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, lived. It’s just off the route.

James W. Dalton Highway

USA

Stretching from central Alaska to Prudhoe Bay, James W. Dalton Highway is one of America’s northernmost roads.

Jim Lo Scalzo/EPA-EFE/Shutterstock

This mostly gravel Alaskan road is one of the loneliest routes in the world — and that’s the draw. Only a quarter of the Dalton Highway’s 414 miles from Livengood to Deadhorse are paved, and the travel can be rough going as the route traverses above the Arctic Circle, through the Brooks mountain range, and towards the Arctic Ocean.

The road was built in the early 1970s to assist the creation of an oil pipeline that runs along it, but it wasn’t until 2009 and the TV show “Ice Road Truckers” that the road gained notoriety as a dangerous, though beautiful, drive.

You still won’t find much traffic. Or food. Or support. There’s just one rest stop on the road. Well-laid plans are a must and survival gear is recommended.

One note: the major car rental agencies won’t allow their cars on the road; contact a specialist for SUVs that are prepared for the task.

Big number: 126 — the mileage where you’ll come across the “Oh Shit Corner,” a particularly tricky curve for trucks traveling too fast.

When to go: mid-May to mid-September

Fly into: Fairbanks, Alaska (FAI)

Trollstigen (‘Troll Ladder’)

Norway

The “Troll Ladder” climbs at a 10% incline through an enchanted mountain landscape.

James D. Morgan/Getty Images

Got Dramamine? You might need it before taking on Norway’s famed Trollstigen, a road that climbs a 10% incline and makes 11 hairpin turns in the process of ascending a mountainous landscape befitting a troll-filled fairytale.

Along the way, you’ll cross impressive waterfalls such as Stigfossen, over a thousand feet high. Near the top there’s a modern visitor center where you can catch your breath.

Big number: 3,600 — the number of feet of straight vertical drop of Troll Wall, Europe’s tallest vertical mountain wall, a short drive from Trollstigen.

When to go: May/June through October/November

Fly into: Oslo, Norway (OSL)

Ruta 40

Argentina

At more than 3,100 miles long, Ruta 40 is the longest road in Argentina (and one of the longest in the world).

Hermes Images/AGF/UIG/Getty

Ready for the “big trip” — the real deal, like-a-rolling-stone, once-in-a-lifetime wander? Set your sights on Argentina’s Ruta 40, a national road that travels over 3,100 miles from La Quiaca, Jujuy in the north, which is near the Bolivian border, to Cabo Virgenes in Santa Cruz to the south. The partially unpaved route is studded with national parks — 20 of them — and runs through 11 provinces, paralleling the Andes mountains and traversing stretches of wild and windy, remote Patagonia.

One-way car rentals are prohibitively expensive, so if you’re doing the entire shebang, buying a used car and selling it at the end of the trip may be the way to go. Just make sure your ride is sturdy enough to chug across mountain passes including Abra del Acay, which, at 16,060 feet in elevation, is the highest road in the Americas.

Big number: 236 — the number of major bridge crossings on the route.

When to go: September to November; April to May

Fly into: Rio Gallegos, Argentina (RGL)

Karakoram Highway

Pakistan and China

Karakoram Highway covers 810 wildly high miles along an old Silk Road path.

Shutterstock

The KKH, as it’s called — or the eighth wonder of the world, depending on who you talk to — covers 810 wildly high, wildly scenic miles along an old Silk Road path from Abbottabad, Pakistan to Kashgar, in Xinjiang, China, crossing the Himalayas, the Karakoram, and the Hindu Kush.

The 20-year project was finished in 1979, but it’s not a polished modern route: many stretches are unpaved. Car rentals are rare. Many adventurous travelers get around the KKH via a patchwork of bus services, where you’ll hear an impressive array of languages spoken.

A word of warning: note your country’s travel advice to the region before planning a trip.

Big number: 15,397 — the number of feet above sea level of the Khunjerab Pass, the highest international border crossing in the world. It’s also the highest point on the Karakoram Highway.

When to go: May to October

Fly into: Islamabad, Pakistan (ISB)

North Yungas Road

Bolivia

North Yungas Road, sometimes referred to as “Death Road,” saw more than 200 deaths a year in the mid-1990s.

VW Pics/UIG/Getty Images

If you’ve spent a night shooting the breeze in a hostel anytime in the last couple of decades speaking to backpackers who have “done” South America, you’ve likely heard of the “Death Road.”

The 40-mile Bolivian route became famous in the mid-1990s, when the road was responsible for more than 200 deaths a year.

North Yungas drops nearly 12,000 feet as it winds from La Paz to Coroico in Bolivia, much of it cliffside. In 2007, a safer new route was opened to automobile traffic, and the old Death Road is now relegated mostly to mountain bikes. To experience the still-deadly route (18 bikers have reportedly died since 1998), you can rent a cycle or join a tour through an operator like gravitybolivia.com.

Big number: 1,900 — the number of feet of sheer drop-off on some stretches of the Death Road.

When to go: April to November

Fly into: La Paz, Bolivia (LPB)

Million Dollar Highway

USA

Million Dollar Highway stetches across 82 miles in the rugged and remote southwest side of Colorado.

Shutterstock

US Route 550 is a ribbon of road that drapes over 82 miles of the San Juan Mountains, running past three 10,000-foot passes in the rugged and remote southwest side of Colorado.

The most memorable miles are the couple dozen between Ouray and Silverton, where the million-dollar views are as epic as the driving can be harrowing — limited guard rails and plenty of curves will have your passengers reaching for the grab handles.

Big number: 23 — the number of species of evergreens you’ll see on the roadside.

When to go: May to September

Fly into: Montrose, Colorado (MTJ)

Kahekili Highway

USA

Highway 340 gives you an intimate look at Maui’s North Shore.

Shutterstock

Traversing 20 treacherous miles of Maui’s North Shore from Kapalua to Wailuku, Highway 340 gives you an intimate look at the area’s countryside, the unique rainforests and the roiling sea below.

That is, if you can manage to take your eyes off the road. And you probably shouldn’t: Kahekili is barely more than a single lane wide. Blind curves and snaking pavement around cliffs and bridges demand full attention.

The reward is a hidden side of the Aloha State very few visitors get to see. If you come across another car, just remember that the inside traffic has the right of way.

Big number: 100 — the number of feet the Nakalele Blowhole, a natural geyser just off the Kahekili route, can shoot sea water into the air.

When to go: April to May; September to November

Fly into: Kahului, Hawaii (OGG)

Atlantic Ocean Road

Norway

At just over five miles long, this dramatic, windswept stretch of road is the shortest entry in our list.

Alamy

At just over five miles long, this dramatic, windswept stretch of road is the shortest entry in our list, but it’s a crown jewel anyone with a sense of automotive wanderlust shouldn’t miss.

Traversing an archipelago connecting the Norwegian town of Eide with the island of Averøy, the Atlantic Ocean Road ducks and bobs over 12 architecturally distinct bridges, which, depending on the time of year, you’ll find shrouded in mist or smacked by full-on waves. (Check your windshield wipers before departing.)

The project was originally drawn up as a railroad route and was finished as a motorway in 1989. It’s now a frequent backdrop for car commercials.

Big number: 12 — the number of hurricanes that hit the Atlantic Ocean Road during its construction.

When to go: May to June; September to October

Fly into: Oslo, Norway (OSL)

Jesse Will is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas.

The post The world’s most harrowing roads appeared first on Tripstations.

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[travelingtheusa]

UTAH

26 May 2019 (Sun) - I apologize.  We have been so busy with the caravan that I have not had a chance to write anything in this blog.  The caravan will be over on June 11.  Things should return to normal then.

 We have been rafting on the Colorado River, driven a UTV through the desert, and hiked/driven some of the most incredible landscape imaginable.  This has been an incredible experience.

 20 May 2019 (Mon) – We pulled up stakes and left Torrey at 9 a.m. with four rigs in our group.  One member of the caravan, Hank & Brenda, had to dive further south to Freightliner to get their rig repaired.  They’ve been having problems with power trying to go uphill.  Hank changed the fuel filter but it didn’t help.  Hope they can find the problem quickly and they can get back with us.

     Another member of the caravan, Shirley, broke down just after leaving the campground.  Our tail gunner, Jon, and another rig driven by Jim & Lida stopped to help.  Group four and five were combined and sent on. Shirley had her 19’ class B RV towed to a repair shop.  

 19 May 2019 (Sun) – We did the laundry this morning.  We went to one building but it was locked (reserved for housekeeping – they wash the linens for the cabins).  We went to the second building which had two washers and two dryers stacked one on top of the other.  Both washers had laundry in them.  As we started to leave, Steve (a fellow SMART member) came up and moved his clothes to the dryers.  We loaded our clothes in the two washers and when we put in the coins, one machine broke down.  We had to unload that washer and just let the one washer go.  When we came back, we moved the wash to the dryer and put the second batch of clothes in the washer.  It took longer to do the wash than usual.  Ugh.

     At noon, we drove down the road to the general store.  We couldn’t find most of what we wanted so we just got travel tissues and post cards for the grandsons.  Then we went to the Wild Rabbit Café for lunch.  They had a very limited menu – two sandwiches or a salad. We both got BLTs.

     It was back to the campground and finishing up with the caravan materials.  At 5:00 p.m. we had a potluck dinner.  Paul managed to hang a tarp over one of the open doorways to cut down on the wind. Jon brought over his propane fireplace, which added a nice warmth to the pavilion.  The food was, as usual, good and plentiful.  At 6:30 p.m. we had our travel meeting.  The weather turned nasty and cold.  Some kind of cold weather system blew in.  Brrrrr.

 18 May 2019 (Sat) – At 9:00 a.m. we pulled out of the campground with 8 cars following; 19 of us looking forward to a great day of exploration. The temperatures were warmer than yesterday and most of the clouds were gone.  With John Denver songs playing on the stereo, we led the group down Route 12, America’s Byway.  The scenery was very lush.  As we moved into higher elevations, forests of pine and aspen lined the roadway. Soon, whole sides of the mountain were filled with quaking aspen waiting to explode into their springtime bloom. We stopped at several overlooks to admire the grandeur spread before us.

     When we reached the end of Route 12, one couple turned back and four stopped to tour the Anasazi Village Museum.  Four of us turned left onto the Burr Trail.  John Denver done, we slipped in a CD of music of the American Southwest. The sound of screaming eagles and howling coyotes joined in with flutes and drums.  We drove along the two lane road, admiring the ever changing scenery before us.  The variety of colors and shapes was incredible.  After about two hours of driving, we pulled onto a turn out that overlooked the Black Canyon and had lunch.  For half an hour, we gazed out over the land below and were filled with awe at the Creator’s handiwork.

     Lunch all done, we continued on the Burr Trail.  That’s where things got really interesting.  A little after turning heading out, the pavement ended and we were driving on a dirt road.  A little further on, we came upon a series of switchbacks with deep downgrades.  It was an adrenaline pumping ride!  We turned off Burr Trail on to Notom Trail and the road soon found pavement again. The entire ride was about five hours long.  

     At 5:00 p.m. we all drove to the Capitol Reef Inn & Café. There was some confusion and the group wound up arriving too early and ordering things that were different than the pre-ordered food.  Most of the food was good and the service was excellent.

 17 May 2019 (Fri) – We packed up and left Bryce Canyon City at 9:00 a.m.  We led four other rigs on a 110-mile route to Torrey.  The scenery was absolutely beautiful!  We had free range cows wandering in the road, there was a skunk walking on the side of the road in the bushes, cows grazing in wide open grasslands, and hawks flying overhead.  The weather was cold when we started out and got colder.  Eventually, we had sleet and snow in small spurts.  The wind was really cold.

     When we arrived at the campground, I went in the office to pay the bill.  The clerk gave me campground maps to hand out to everyone and informed me that ten sites were 50-amp and eleven were 30-amp.  That is bad news in the camping world.  You always want 50-amp.  I waited until Jon got in and then we went in to talk to the manager about the situation. I couldn’t believe she didn’t see any difference between 30-amp and 50-amp sites except if you needed to use air conditioners.  Ugh.

     The group tried to have social hour at 4:00 p.m. but the weather was cold and the wind was blowing so we all retreated to our rigs.  I hope tomorrow is nice for our ride on Route 12.

 16 May 2019 (Thu) – Paul and I drove part of the route for tomorrow’s move just to ensure everyone would be able to negotiate it alright. There were two herds of cows wandering on the roadway and a creek was very full and touching the roadway.  If we get rain tonight, the road may be flooded when we try to drive it.  Otherwise the drive was pleasant.  We stopped in Panguitch and looked at the boyhood home of Butch Cassidy.  It was just a log cabin with a storyboard outside. Not much to see.  We had lunch at the Cowboy Café.  Their roasted red pepper soup and cole slaw were so good that we bought more to take home.

      We had social hour at 4:00 p.m. and travel meeting following.  The wind was blowing fiercely and the temperatures have dropped dramatically.  We have a freeze warning for tonight.  Also, it rained heavily for an hour.  Paul will have to get up early and drive tomorrow’s route to make sure the road is open. Otherwise, we will have to use an alternate route.

     After the meeting, we went to dinner at Ruby’s Inn Restaurant with Rick & Brenda and Hank & Brenda.  The food and company were good.

 15 May 2019 (Wed) – The National Park Service provided a special bus for us to take a tour of Bryce Canyon.  The bus arrived at 10:00 a.m. and we took a three hour tour.  The driver drove all the way to the end of the 17-mile loop then stopped at various overlooks on the way back.  He was a retired vet and provided an entertaining and informative ride.

     At 7:00 p.m. we went to a cowboy dinner show at Ebenezer’s Barn & Grill.  There was food and music and lots of clapping and singing.  We had a very good time.

 14 May 2019 (Tue) – We moved from Zion to Bryce Canyon City today. We packed up and left at 9 a.m. with four rigs following behind us.  The ride was easy and we arrived around noon.  The campground is very nice.  We are in a new part where the campsites are very roomy and each has a large grassy plot. The interior roads are nicely graded.

     Bryce Canyon City is an interesting town.  It is owned entirely by the family of the original founder. The entrance to the National Park is just a block away.

13 May 2019 (Mon) – We got up at 4:30 a.m., fed the animals, and packed up for a sunrise hike to Zion Canyon Overlook.  We met Rick & Brenda at 5:30 a.m. and they drove us up the route through the Mount Carmel Tunnel.  We climbed up the trail

     We had a potluck dinner and travel meeting today.  The food was so plentiful.  It was a delightful day.  The cell phone serve and wifi in this area sucks!  Whenever I try to send a message, I get an error message saying the message could not be sent.  The jet pack can’t connect to the internet.  I have been unable to connect to Tumblr or to post anything on Facebook. I don’t know what it’s so bad. It’s hard to try to download anything or to make calls.  I can’t wait to get out of this area.

 12 May 2019 (Sun-Mother’s Day) – Jan & Nancy gave all the ladies a red rose this morning.  We all drove into Zion National Park today.  Some hiked trails and others drove scenic routes.  We rode with Rick & Brenda into the park.  We left the car at the visitor’s center and caught the shuttle to stop 6 where we hiked to The Grotto.  Then we hiked to the lower Emerald Pools.  The upper Emerald Pools and Kayenta Trail were closed due to recent flooding.

     I checked in at 12:15 and got tickets for everyone.  At 12:45 p.m. everyone gathered at the foot of the stairs to the Red Rock Grill.  I turned in the tickets to the head waiter and we were all seated on the second floor. The restaurant served a taco salad bar. The choices were plentiful.

     Afterward, we returned to the campground and worked on caravan stuff.

 11 May 2019 (Sat) – We left Boulder City, NV, at 8:00 a.m. and drove 170 miles to Zion Canyon.  We are staying in Zion River RV Resort in Virgin, UT.  It is a very nice campground with pool, spacy sites, grass at each site, concrete pads, picnic tables, fire pits, wifi (poor), and asphalt roadways.

    We had group 4 follow their GPS rather than the prescribed route and they wound up driving through Las Vegas.  Sadly, they missed a very scenic route through Lake Mead National Recreation Area.  Everyone was finally arrived by 3:00 p.m.

[travelworldnetwork]

By Olivier Guiberteau

27 February 2019

The streets are brightly lit with holiday decorations, mounds of grapes standing at the ready to accommodate the Spanish tradition of eating 12 grapes at the stroke of midnight to ensure good luck. As the minutes tick past, the small town of Bérchules prepares to ring in the New Year.

Only it isn’t 31 December. It’s the first weekend of August.

View image of The town of Bérchules, Spain, celebrates New Year’s Eve in August (Credit: Credit: Sergio Camacho/Getty Images)

You may also be interested in: • Spain’s untranslatable secret to lunch • Italy’s town pretending to be British • The town that throws wine in the sea

In the grand scheme of head-scratching ideas, celebrating New Year's Eve in August must lie somewhere near the very top. However, Bérchules, nestled high in the Alpujarras region of Andalucía, has, for the last 25 years, done exactly that.

It was in the final hours of 1993 that this story begins. Preparations to welcome 1994 were complete, but the clock strikes never came.

“I was 11 at the time,” said Ismael Padilla Gervilla, now mayor of Bérchules. “Just before 20:00, all the lights in the town went out.” A power cut caused by bad weather meant that the small town would creep unceremoniously, and in almost pitch black, into 1994.

Just before 20:00, all the lights in the town went out

“We dined by candlelight” he continued, “then for hours we listened to an old battery-powered radio that my parents had brought back from their time in Germany – we never used to listen to that radio because we always watched TV – but that night it was really useful.”

Electricity was restored the following day, but the New Year had begun in a most regrettable manner. Later in the month a town meeting was convened. Frustration and anger was vented towards the electricity company that, in some eyes, had robbed the town of a new year. Yet through the discord a radical idea finally emerged.

Bérchules finally threw its New Year’s Eve party on 6 August 1994 – a move that would drastically alter the town’s course. Since then, those attending the festivities has risen dramatically. “Last August there were over 10,000 people here,” said Antonio Castillo Sanchez, president of the village’s New Year’s Eve Association.

“The original idea to wait until August was simply so that the bars, restaurants, shops and nightclubs could recover their losses from the past 31 December, and to take advantage of the summer tourists,” Padilla Gervilla said. “But it was such a success that we’ve continued celebrating it [then] ever since.”

View image of Bérchules now welcomes thousands of people for the summertime celebration (Credit: Credit: Olivier Guiberteau)

If changing the date of New Year’s Eve sounds bizarre, it’s worth bearing in mind that 31 December hasn’t always been the last day of the year. It wasn’t until 46BC that Julius Caesar ordered the reformation of the original Roman calendar, which for the first time introduced 1 January as the start of the year.

But the practice fell away in the Middle Ages. Caesar and his astronomer had miscalculated the length of a solar year by 11 minutes, a mistake that added 10 days to the year by the mid-15th Century, by which time many European countries had chosen days of religious significance, such as Christmas, to mark the beginning of a new year. It wasn’t until 1582, when Pope Gregory XIII and his astronomers corrected the length of the solar year and introduced the Gregorian calendar, that 1 January was re-introduced as the start of the year, and even then it was only initially adopted by predominantly Catholic European countries, including Spain. England would continue to celebrate the New Year on 25 March, known as Lady Day, until 1752, when it too adopted the new system.

31 December hasn’t always been the last day of the year

Located 1,319m above sea level in the foothills of Spain’s imposing Sierra Nevada mountain range, Bérchules is not an easily accessible place. From Granada, a road barrels freely south towards the Mediterranean, but at the Rules Reservoir the route swings east and winds slowly upwards through a rocky wildness, pocketed with blossoming almond trees that seem to hang desperately from the slopes.

Bérchules’ buildings are simple and whitewashed, the lanes narrow and winding. Once nicknamed ‘Paperos’ for its famed potatoes, the town now produces some of the finest cherry tomatoes in the region. Bérchules is also known for its iron-rich water, considered not only good for the muscles, but also for the heart: according to a message in blue-and-white tile above the fountain at the town’s entrance, those who drink its slightly effervescent water will find true love (or at the very least get married).

View image of Bérchules is located in the foothills of Spain's Sierra Nevada mountain range and is only accessible by one road (Credit: Credit: Olivier Guiberteau)

Preparations for the town’s New Year’s Eve party begin as early as January. August is traditionally a month of fiestas in Spain, and for a party of this size in a town with one road in and one road out, it's important to get everything just right.

“Security, parking, merchandise, waiters…” Castillo Sanchez quickly rattled off a mental checklist. “Then there’s the food.” Despite taking place in August, the celebration still incorporates culinary traditions typically reserved for the holiday season. Polverone and mantecado are types of shortbread certain to be found on any self-respecting Spanish Christmas table, and there are 3,000kg of it to supply the high demand. The typical Christmas dishes of turkey and veal are served alongside refreshing, regional summer favourites such as gazpacho and the similar tomato-based cold soup, salmorejo.

Three wise men on horseback amble through the crowds. Samba dancers saunter to a thudding beat, and a trusty donkey plods along while traditional sweets are hurled from giant sacks on its back to the excited children. Small pouches of a dozen grapes are sold for €1 to those wishing to stick with tradition, while a small shop does a roaring trade on Santa hats and reindeer horns.

“It’s Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Carnival, but in the summer,” Castillo Sanchez explained enthusiastically.

View image of Local legend says that those who drink the iron-rich water from Bérchules’ fountain will find true love (Credit: Credit: Olivier Guiberteau)

As the blistering heat of the day slowly abates, people gather in the town’s two main squares. The clock’s hands high on the village’s church tower inch slowly towards midnight. A thunderous roar splits the night air as the first chimes heralding the arrival of a New Year echo through the streets. Champagne corks rush skywards while artificial snow begins to rain down from above. Hugs, kisses and well wishes are exchanged in the typical Spanish carefree manner to friends and strangers alike.

This being Spain, the party has only just begun. The residents of Bérchules and their thousands of guests will continue singing Christmas songs and dancing under the warm night sky well into the next morning.

“It’s a magical place,” Carmen Espinosa, a pharmacist from Granada, told me wistfully. “The air is clean and pure from the mountains, with the smell of the Christmas food drifting through the town – it just feels so festive. Even as a visitor you feel at home here – there is so just much kindness.”

View image of People come from all over to celebrate Bérchules, Spain's New Year's Eve in August (Credit: Credit: Sergio Camacho/Getty Images)

Like Júzcar, the town just under four hours away that was famously painted blue to advertise the Smurf movie – and chose to remain blue – Bérchules has found its niche. This year marks the 25th anniversary of the change, and the town is currently applying to have its alternative New Year’s Eve recognised by the Andalusian government as a Festival of Tourism Interest – an honour that can only be awarded after quarter of a century.

We managed turned the negative into an enormous positive

“We managed turned the negative into an enormous positive, and now we have visitors from all over the world,” Padilla Gervilla said proudly.

“Last weekend I was in the UK, in Brighton, and I met somebody who had heard of this small town – it was incredible,” Castillo Sanchez added. “You can find a wonderful street party anywhere in Spain. But only here in Bérchules can you find a new year in August. For me this is beautiful.”

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BBC Travel – Adventure Experience

[jo-shanenewzealand]

Haast to Hokitika

Day 7 – 5/10/2018

Once again it was a gloomy morning. Cool weather, ten degrees and drizzling. Today we headed to Hokitika, a self-proclaimed cool little town and 'must stay' destination. We'll see if it's cool or not and we are staying there. We'll see.

Flat bottom boats, whitebait nets and fisherman's waders flanked the covered walkway in front of the room just up from us. Outside the door sat the fisherman and his young son. As we headed past, he gave a nod, we gave a hello before scampering through the light rain to the corner café for breakfast. At the Fantail Café, we were served by a couple of local ladies who were both friendly and inquisitive. They dished up a simple and inexpensive breakfast that was plentiful and tasty. After bacon and eggs and pancakes were paid our dues and returned to our rooms to prepare to leave.

Breakfast at the Fantail Café

It was a little after nine when we finally hit the Glacier Highway heading north east but before we had travelled a kilometre, we had our first stop, within one of the passing lanes on the three quarters of a kilometre long Haast River Bridge. It spanned a vast expanse of rocks and occasional streams that punctuated the river bed before crossing the main water body on the other end. When we first got there, we stopped at the road's edge and watched a couple of small trucks parked a ways away at the other end of the bridge, the occupants standing in the middle of the road looking around so we thought that it would be a good idea to do the same. We pulled into one of two passing bays and got out for a look. All was fine until we upset a grey nomad towing his caravan across the river. A toot of his horn and a shake of his head showed his disapproval at what we were doing. We don't know if the people at the other end got the same response but after we took a few photos of the river bed surrounded by mist, we started back on our journey. The people at the next passing lane were local fishermen checking out the conditions to set their whitebait traps up. We doubt that they would have cared what the grey nomad thought, this was their turf. The grey nomads had the last laugh though as within a few kilometres they were in our way cruising along, taking most of the road and well below the speed limit.

Haast River from the passing lane and Mosquito Hill, the snow capped Mataketake Range beyond

After we passed the oldies we encountered flat countryside for a short period. The sea to our left wasn't visible due to cow paddocks immediately adjacent to the road and the dunes and saltbush type vegetation beyond. The snow-capped mountains to our right weren't visible either due to a high canopy close to the road. Soon after the road started to curve upward as the steep escarpments closed in on the coast and interrupted the flat countryside (just near Ship Creek). This in turn lead us to our second stop for the day, a brief period spent looking at the rugged coastline and reading the information boards at Knight's Point which separated Jackson Bay, south of Haast and Bruce Bay further to the north.

Looking south from Knight's Point toward Arnott Point

Early South Westlands Moari traded throughout the areas around here. They built canoes around Bruce Bay (Northern Maitaki) and travelled along the coast and further south to Jackson Bay (Okahu) trading with a settlement which produced fish and jade. The only taste of civilisation that the settlers experienced was when ships rowed their supplies ashore, accompanied by cattle made to swim. By the 1930's they were visited more regularly with Captain Bert Mercer delivering mail, goods and passengers by landing his aircraft on the beaches and paddocks. Otago and Jackson Bay were linked by road via Haast Pass by 1960 but the Haast to Paringa section wasn't completed until five years later, the two roads finally linking just near Knight's Point. The idea was to make the stop a toilet break as well but the toilets were filthy (the womens' anyway) so we spent a bit of time looking at the rugged coastline and kept heading on.

The Haast Highway meandering north

As soon as we hit the road again, we headed down the winding highway and immediately inland. By the time we reached flat land again we were crossing the Whakapohi River, passing the Wilderness Lodge and stopping for a short break at Lake Moeraki. Due to the terrain we started heading south again until we got around Moeraki Hill, from which the road turned back to the north and directly past the beautiful Lake Paringa. Shane and Jo initially missed the campsite turn off and ended up doing an about face at the caravan park. This was a lovely spot and it had a toilet for the women. A quick stop, some photos and a look around and we were at it again, through Paringa, around Ward Hill and over the river flats and cattle country that surrounded the Paringa River (what imagination), and then further on to Bruce Bay.

Lonely bench on the shore of Jamie Beach, Lake Paringa

From the river flats and farmed salmon of the Paringa River we kept on Haast Highway north east, through a green valley bounded by Hunt Hill and the much larger Douglas Ranges until the next open area appeared. We had entered the Mahitahi River flats and were guided to Bruce Bay by the river and a rather small Mount Arthur on one flank (much smaller than the hill that we had just passed), and the other, Pakihi Swamp. A small village soon appeared with only a few houses on either side of the road and the Bruce Bay Hall, advertising the Sunday sports day. Further along, the road ran very close to the coast along Maori Beach, so close in fact that caution signs were erected warning of debris on highway during high seas. It was almost immediately apparent why the warning was necessary, the road was practically built on the sand dunes, protected somewhat by large rocks to quell the sea.

A wild Maori Beach, Bruce Bay

Keen for a look around, we pulled over to check the place out. This place was wild, windy, wet and the seas rough. Driftwood lined the side of the road, washed up during the last storm. Accompanying the debris were curious piles of rounded white rocks strewn along the side of the road. Some piles large, some not so. On these rocks some people felt it necessary to write messages and greetings, maybe to their friends back home or just to make a statement. Others proclaimed that the All Blacks were the best (we already know that) or a profound quote from Ferris Bueller. It was quite interesting.

Itchy head or bewilderment?

Apparently, this pile of rocks is called a Cairn, by tradition a mound of stones at the edge of a river by which travellers in the high country indicate a place of departure and a place to regain the shore. These boulders must have come from the nearby Mahitahi River or maybe they just washed up on the beach.

Cairn

After a few photos we kept moving ahead. The power of the ocean was evident towards the northern end of Maori Beach where a significant part of the road, over a hundred metres had been repaired recently. Apparently ex-Cyclone Fehi caused a bit of havoc last February trapping seven hundred people in Haast and destroying plenty (the locals and the Hard Antler would have been busy), including a local church being washed away when Makawhio (Jacobs) River burst its banks. The storm also washed roads and bridges away and plenty of landslides trapping people everywhere with no way out.

https://www.stuff.co.nz/national/101144230/birdseye-view-of-stormravaged-west-coast

https://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=11986976

The Makawhio River was in fact the next river we crossed, just north of Maori Beach. Beyond was the Karangarua River with an old suspension bridge. The old bridge was pretty impressive and the river and surrounds lovely. We stopped here in the drizzling rain for a short period before proceeding. It was an hour nonstop between Knight's Point and Franz Joseph so we had to keep moving.

Old suspension bridge

The following river, the Cook, was where the road veered left to skirt around the base of Mount Fox, crossing the Fox River thereafter. We had considered going to the glacier that feeds the river but the maps showed no discernible parking facilities and with Jan more than likely intending to sit out the walk to the glacier, we chose Franz Josef Glacier instead. Crossing the bridge, we drove through the village and kept on ahead, this time along the Fox Glacier Highway. The road rose from here, meandering to and fro to compensate for the mountains on either side until it spat us out on the flat country surrounding the Waiho River and the entry road to Franz Josef Glacier.

Franz Josef Glacier was named by the German geologist and explorer Julius von Haast who was the first to explore the terminal of the glacier in the 1860's. He named the glacier after his Austrian Emperor, Franz Josef I. From high in the Southern Alps, the glacier drops around two and a half thousand metres in eleven kilometres, the gradient and gravity pushing the ice down the slopes at more than a half metre daily. The terminal was located at the car park during the 1920's, almost three kilometres further down than where it is today but its cyclic. When Saint James Church was built in 1931 a panoramic window behind the altar was specifically located to provide a good view of the glacier, by 1954 it had gone. It reappeared again in 1997. The time taken for ice to travel from the neve to the terminal is about five years so there is a considerable lag from when conditions on the snowfield vary and the change of the location of the terminal.

The Maori name for the glacier is Kā Roimata ō Hine Hukatere after a local legend involving a Maori girl, Hine Hukatere, and her love Wawe. She loved climbing the mountains but he came from the coast and wasn't so keen. One day Wawe agreed to accompany Hine Hukatere into the mountains but lagged behind and an avalanche swept him to his death. A distraught Hine Hukatere shed many tears that froze and formed the glacier.

The window in the local church was positioned to view the glacier

The access road to the glacier car park was almost four kilometres from the turn off, some fit looking people were actually walking it, braving the weather. They must have come from the village a further half kilometre back. The car park was very busy, mostly with campervans but they were parked as close as they could to the walks. We done a loop and parked in the near empty return road, still close. There was some discussion as to who would walk to the glacier. Shane, Brett and Justine were in, Jan was definitely out and Jo was not confident that she could keep up so also declined. After some coaxing she agreed and we headed off. "See you mum, we'll be back in an hour or more".

The glacier from the first viewing spot

The track slowly climbed and weaved through the vegetation for a kilometre before we reached the first viewing platform. The walk was about a kilometre and by the time we had arrived, Brett's ankle was playing up and Jo had had enough. She stayed there and worked her way back. Brett battled on. The view from the platform was amazing and the truth be known, the view from the highest view point wasn't much better.

Almost there

The last viewpoint was a couple of kilometres further up. The path was a signposted track that was elevated, although still part of the river bed. Cascades were everywhere as we worked our way along the path, and quite close. Around a half an hour after we left Jo, we climbed a few mounds and a few large rock formations and we were there. Shane and Justine led the way, Brett a little behind and feeling the pain. He wouldn't give up though.

Justine & Kā Roimata o Hine Hukatereustine  

Apparently a couple of Indians climbed to the terminal a couple of years ago and were crushed by a hundred tonne of ice

After maybe twenty minutes of looking around and taking photos we turned back for the downhill trip to the cars.

After the glacier we headed back to the Bailey Bridge across the Waiho River. The bridge was supposed to have been lifted last winter due to a continual build up of gravel in the river bed, fed by the Franz Josef Glacier which spills into the Upper Waiho Valley and the three glaciers further south, the Callery, Spencer and Burton Glaciers which spill through the steep Callery Gorge and into the Waiho River just upstream from the bridge. Since the nineteen forties the river bed has risen well over ten metres and still going causing issues with the bridge height and the levee banks providing flood protection for the locals. There is a real problem here as the bridge was raised in 1988, 1996, 1998, 2002 and 2011. The levee has received more attention than the bridge. Since 2011 the river bed has risen between a half and one and a half metres.

The Waiho River Bailey Bridge. Continually being raised

Once across the bridge we veered left, past Saint James Church, semi hidden in the bushes but noticeable by a sign at the gate requesting donations for its renovation, over a slight rise and into the village of Franz Josef Glacier for some lunch. The atmosphere was similar to several other towns that we had driven through, giving the impression that with winter over so were the peak times and they were tapering off approaching summer. The crowds on the street reflected this as few were around. After a look in the Glacier Gift Shop while waiting for Brett and Justine, we all assembled and headed across the road to the Snake Bite Restaurant for a beer and pretty large burger. Mum's shout. Not long after we were on our last leg to Hokitika.

Mum's shout at the Snakebite

The next couple of hours were spent driving through a country side of river flats and undulating landscape from the road up to the base of the escarpments and steep walled valleys, cascades a plenty as we had witnessed the whole day. The road was regularly chequered with culverts channelling water from the frequent scoured and rocky streams, some fed by the cascades. This continued until we crossed the Hokitika River and entered the township. The GPS pointed us straight ahead until we reached the Fitzherbert Hotel on the northern outskirts of the town. While booking in the manager listed a few good eating spots including the Royal Mail Hotel at nearby Woodstock, back over the river and a little up stream. He said the pub put on a good feed and was family orientated so we could have a quiet afternoon after the journey. Advice appreciated, we chose to take it easy and get some takeaway Chinese. We had a quick drive around the town, back over the bridge across the river and back down the main drag to Easteat Country Restaurant. An easy night was ahead.

Tomorrow is the last leg of our journey. We return to Christchurch.

[foxcreekcampout-blog]

Top 5 Mind-Blowing Hikes in East Idaho

Finding a hidden treasure, now THAT would be something! Well what if you could walk out your back door and one was laying at your feet? Welcome to Idaho!

We all have those “hidden gem” hikes or trails that seem to be lost to the outside world. Something we merely stumble upon. Well, if you are looking for gems in the Eastern Idaho area, read on! This is a list of the 5 best hikes in the Eastern Idaho area that you probably never knew about.

 1.Darby Wind Cave, Teton Valley 

Right out your back door in Teton Valley is one of the most scenic and family friendly hikes in the state. Crossing an old-fashioned foot bridge you will make your way through the Jedediah Smith Wilderness with no shortage of beauty around. Quickly make your way up the trail and soon you will run into the awe inducing Wind Cave. Your hike will take you to the bottom of the cave, but be warned! Entering the cave is not for the novice climber. However, one who dares will thoroughly enjoy exploring the Darby Wind Cave.

Directions: Head south from Driggs on Highway 33. Turn left at 3000s and continue for 3 miles. Make a right at the T-intersection and follow the signs to South Darby Trailhead.

 2. Upper Palisades Lake, Sway Valley

The Upper Palisades Lake was formed due to a landslide that rolled down the canyon and damned the creek. The Palisades Canyon has been practically untouched and is rich with a thick forests of fir, aspen and willow trees. Teaming with native cutthroat trout, the lake is also a main spawning tributary for the South Fork of the Snake River. This 6.2 mile hike provides one of the most scenic and beautiful views of the Swan Valley area.

Directions: From Swan Valley, head southeast on Highway 26 towards Irwin. Take a left onto Palisades Creek Road at the sign for Palisades Creek Campground. Stay on that road for 1.5 miles. Just before the bridge is the parking area. The new trailhead is across the bridge to the right at the horse staging area.

 3. Table Mountain

Come prepared for this challenging hike. Hiking Table Mountain or “Table Rock” is not for the faint of heart. This is a 12.8 mile round trip with a gain of 4,100 feet in elevation the summit. Making an impressive climb to 11,106 feet. However, the difficult challenge of the hike rewards those who make it to the summit. With breathtaking views of the Teton Range, Cascade Canyon, Teton Canyon and Alaska Basin, this one is hard to pass up.

Directions: From Driggs head up Ski Hill Road for 6.3 miles then take a right onto Teton Canyon Road. Continue for 4 miles before you cross 2 single lane bridges and meet the trialhead.

 4. South Bitch Creek

Looking for a family friendly hike weighing in on the scenic side? Take a hike up South Bitch Creek to clear your head, find solitude and enjoy mother nature. You can start at the Coyote Meadows Trailhead which is just over an hour north of town. You can take that trail as it winds seamlessly through quaint meadows, thick forest and canyon slopes. If you please , you can turn this little hike into a 21.7 mile loop by linking with the Carrot Ridge Trail. If not, you can turn around whenever you please. Don't forget your fishing pole! You might reel in something big…

 5. Bannock Trail

Just up the mountain at Grand Targhee is a quick 6.4 mile round-trip hike with 1,800 feet in elevation gain. Make your way up through fields of aspens into stunning views of the Jedediah Smith Wilderness and the infamous Tetons. This hike starts at the bottom of the Shoshone lift. Once at the top, you can retrace your steps, or hop on the lift if it’s still running!

 Directions: Heading north through Driggs, take a right at the only stop light. Follow the road until you make it to Grand Targhee!

[dil-howlters-mirror]

WORLD RECORD GRIZZLY

NOT MANY PEOPLE CAN CLAIM A WORLD RECORD…

Barry and Bob Steed are good friends and clients; we have hunted and fished all over the world together. Having just returned from New Zealand, we decided it was time for Grizzly. Anytime you can hunt Alaska, you are enjoying yourself; and when you are hunting coastal Brown Bear or interior Grizzly, you are really doing well. When you hunt interior Grizzly, only one place will do: Stoney River Lodge, just south of Sleetmute, Alaska. Proprietors Curly and Betty Warren are a class act and have a top notch concession. Joe Mott is their lead guide and responsible for taking over 100 Grizzlies over the years. Late April and early May is a beautiful time in Alaska; the days are getting long and the nights are brisk. The ground is still snow-covered and big bruins come out of their dens looking for food. Their hides are flawless and their claws are long -- everything you could want in a Grizzly. These bears have been in their dens for up to seven months and have one thing on their mind…FOOD. In spring, food is sparse until the snow melts, so if you can locate winter kills, there is a great chance a bruin or two will visit. I’ve only seen boars this time of year, which greatly increases your odds of taking an animal. The sows will almost always have cubs and stay in the dens a bit longer. In Alaska, you cannot hunt the day you fly; however, when flying you can spot bear, and see where they are moving and searching for food. We spotted a moose kill this way and that was the buffet we were looking for. The closest place to land the Super Cub was nearly three miles away. Barry was in one plane and I was in the other. We got dropped off and then the wait started. We set up camp, ate dinner and tried to sleep.

The next morning, we got on the trail about 7:00 am, in three feet of snow and on snow shoes; I anticipated a three-hour trek. If you have been on snow shoes…there is no need to explain; if you haven’t, there is no way to explain it. The plan was to approach the moose kill from the downwind side and see what this feast had enticed. As we got close to the kill, we slowed our pace and checked the wind. Things were looking good and if there was a good boar on the kill, we would be in business. Closing to within 500 yards, we broke the heavy timber; I glassed the area on the edge of a clearing with scattered trees ahead of us, but saw nothing. We crept slowly, one snow shoe at a time, stopping to canvas the area every few steps; we were in stealth mode. We knew the moose kill was on the far side of the clearing. It had been two and a half hours since we left camp; and now we were on the cusp of Barry’s first Grizzly. We crested the rise and spotted what we were looking for in the clearing, a bear 225 yards ahead and sleeping on top of the moose…not just any bear…a BEHEMOTH. The bear looked like a buffalo sitting on its haunches -- big, dark and exactly what we were looking for. I have guided many bear hunts in my lifetime, and have seen many big coastal brownies. This one did not take a back seat to any of them. The wind was good, the sun was shining and the timing was right. Another 50 yards and we would be at the edge of a patch of trees with a clear shooting lane to the bear. We got to 175 yards and made our stand. Packs off and tripod out, we got ready for the shot. Hindsight is always 20/20; looking back, I should have found a tree for Barry to rest on. Instead, I opened the tripod and tried to get Barry comfortable. Neither sitting, kneeling, nor crouching felt right to him. The last thing you want to do as a guide is have a client take a shot they are uncomfortable with. The shot is the most important thing, especially when you are hunting something that can hunt you. As we tried to get Barry comfortable, the wind switched, blowing right on the back of my neck. I knew we had little time to make this happen. This bear was as big as many of the coastal Brown Bear I have hunted; this was a magnificent creature and would rank high in the record books. Knowing the bear had scented us by now, increased our anxiety; Barry finally got comfortable and I made sure the gun was loaded and safety off -- we were ready to let lead fly. We looked up to put the boar in our sights…and saw nothing. How could this be? He was there five seconds ago, broadside, lying on a moose kill. Quickly, my binos came up and I scoured the clearing -- left, right, left, then to the kill. Nothing. Not a sign of the bear anywhere. Sitting in disbelief, we waited 10-15 minutes to see if he had just wandered a bit, but I knew better. Barry’s bear was long gone. We walked up to the kill and saw his tracks heading back up the valley. That monster of a bear had smelled us and didn’t stick around for lunch. Unbelievable. We were at the cusp of a lifetime dream and now it escaped into the snow-covered hills. Back at the lodge, I told Curly and Joe that this was quite possibly the biggest bear I had ever seen. Asking them if they thought the bear would return to the kill they both said highly unlikely. I knew what they were going to say before they said it but I had to ask. The wind had beaten us. Five more seconds and we would have had the bear of a lifetime. We were full of would’ve and should’ve. But would’ve and should’ve couldn’t change what happened. Five days left to hunt and now it was Bob’s turn. Licking our wounds would not change anything. We needed a change of luck and Bob was about to get it. We found several nice bears over the next few days, but nothing either guy wanted to take. When you know there is a nine foot in the area, it’s kind of hard to shoot an eight foot, so we kept looking. With minimal hopes and time fading away we were desperate. The more we thought about and discussed that bear, the more we wanted one more chance. On day eight, against their better judgment, Joe and Bob went back to the moose kill to see if the big bruin would come back, hoping the bear (or any bear) would return -- but knowing deep down the bear was long gone and not coming back. Bob and Joe approached the kill site from a little different angle; we had advanced from due east, so they decided to come in from the south. This allowed them to see the moose from farther away; if a bear was present, they would have longer to formulate a plan. Surprisingly, there was a bear sleeping on the moose, and Joe told Bob he was a shooter. The wind was right, enabling them to sneak to within 150 yards of the kill; Bob took a rest on a tree branch. To get the bear in a position to shoot him Joe made moose calls with his hands. 

Believe it or not, that bear stood up on its back legs with its nose in the air trying to see and smell what it had just heard -- the last thing the bear would ever do. Bob lowered the 300 mag and put the crosshairs right on his chest. BOOM, the gun went off, the bear whirled around; boom, another shot rang out. The number one rule when you hunt Grizzly and Brown bear is: shoot and keep shooting until the bear does not move anymore. Bob listened well; he unloaded his gun putting five shots into the beast. And there laid a magnificent creature that even pictures couldn’t do justice to. Joe’s first words as they approached the bear were, “That is the biggest bear I have ever been part of killing.” When the Lodge phone rang and Bob was telling Curly what had happened, I knew they had killed ‘Barry’s bear’. There just aren’t two bears that big in the same area. Though Joe and Curly both insisted it was a different bear, I knew better. For ten minute, I stood 175 yards from the biggest bear I had ever seen in my life. Joe had just guided Bob on the biggest bear of Joe’s life. Joe has guided over 100 Grizzly hunts and Curly has dropped him off on every one of those. This bear was in a league of its own. Now in all fairness, Stoney River Lodge has eight of the top ten SCI record book Grizzlies. They kill giant bears every spring and fall. This one was going in the record books and I knew it was going high. There is the mandatory 60-day drying period before anything is officially scored. The SCI record at the time was 28-2/16, and had stood since 2001. Bob’s bear scored a whopping 28-5/16 after the drying period. THE NEW SCI WORLD RECORD GRIZZLY BEAR. By nearly 1/3 of an inch, Bob’s and Barry’s bear was the top dog. But all records are made to be broken. Bob’s bear squared at over 9’0”, a true monster in the Grizzly world. The bear was 20 years old and the king of his mountain. Bob is having him mounted and I can’t wait to see the finished product. I will no doubt be taking this bear to some shows in the future. A bear like this needs to be seen in person to be fully appreciated. If any of you have Grizzly on your bucket list, there is no better place than Stoney River Lodge. My cell number and email are below. Drop me a line or a message and I will get you set up on the hunt of a lifetime. Who knows, maybe you will be the nest world record holder of the great Alaska Grizzly bear.

[maelliottcrucible-blog]

Chapter 1

A rock nearly gave way beneath Zera’s feet, the almost inaudible hiss of stone against gravel warned him to change his footing. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding; he was getting too old for this. There had been a time when he would have easily scaled the narrow paths that snaked along the windswept canyon wall. It seemed that now he was just too big for the task. Another rock trembled beneath his wide feet and he adjusted, shifting his substantial weight until he was parallel with the rock face. Muscle was unfortunately far more dense than fat and he had plenty of it. Red tinted stone irritated the tip of his nose. It was only a bit further. Three, maybe four meters between him and the roughly hewn steps that had been once part of some ancient structure.

Zera threw himself to the left, catching a solid looking stone and holding on for his life. Sweat began to bead on his face and chest as he strained to pull up his own weight. That was no easy task. Even as a boy he had been the biggest child in Benhurst; and that was including the orcish kids. He shook the thought from his mind and pulled, heaving his bulk up a bit farther. He reached up once, twice, three times before he was able to grab hold of the next stone. Stopping to rest, he glanced to his left. The sheer red cliff face went on until the hazy mist of morning blocked it from sight.

He looked back up, just a bit further. He tensed his muscles and checked his footing. Locking his eyes on the next handhold he released the coiled tension with one burst. His fingers stretched out and onto the first of the curving stone steps. He was certain that they had been some kind of marble in the past but wind and weather had reduced them to something that reminded him more of quartz than anything else. He checked his footing, solid enough, and looked back over his shoulder.

The canyon valley stretched out as far as he could see, only a narrow river now marked the general location of its midpoint. Across the river stretched two lanes of railroad tracks, around which had been built the town of Benhurst. Not exactly a bustling town, but not the smallest in the frontier either. It was the sort of nondescript place one went to disappear and not cause trouble. After all, nothing happened in Benhurst and he liked it that way. The age of myth was over, no more heroes or great armies or dark lords. There were no more tales and legends to be spun by adventurers. The world had calmed down at last.

Zera pulled himself up and began to ascend the steps, one heavy foot at a time. He checked to make sure his weight didn’t cause the whole thing to collapse under him. Not that it would readily matter, as high up as he was he doubted he’d survive a fall even half as far as the crags he had started from, and catching himself on the rocks would ruin his hands. He peered up as the stairwell curved toward the open air above the canyon. He could see the thin outline of the Schisma mountains against the blue sky to the east.

It was the woman sitting at the summit that made him pause for only a heartbeat. He cracked a smile when she rose, black hair fluttering in the wind and her hand resting on a spellbook slung over her shoulders by a narrow leather strap attached to each end of the spine. She had a button of a nose and eyes that made him think of a pair of emerald green razor blades. He could not help but flinch under them. Her lips parted into a smile as he huffed his way up the last few steps, and she reached out to take his big hand.

“Got your note,” Zera said, his voice hoarse and accepted her hand. She stepped back and guided him over the last precarious step.

“You’ve grown a bit,” Catherine said. Her tone sounded hesitant as she looked up at him. Her eyes widened in that way they always did when she saw something that fascinated her, a subtle dilation of the pupils.

Catherine Haust was the one person he trusted the most. They had known one another since her father, a merchant, had brought her in to purchase jerky from his grandfather. They had been around the same age and she had been just a few inches shorter than him at the time. Now she stood just tall enough that her head was level with his breast, though that did not seem to intimidate her at all. She had always had a backbone of iron, something she used to get her way on more than one occasion. It was the reason why her father had allowed her to study magic instead of becoming a merchant like himself.

“Have I? I didn’t notice, practically ran up those steps," Zera shot back sarcastically, throwing himself onto the ground at the summit. To his left, the canyon dropped off into a lethal fall, to his right the world stretched out forever. She kicked him in the shoulder. He winced and reached over to rub it. “Ow, what was that for?”

“How are you so calm? You nearly slipped three times!” Catherine chided him, he cracked a smile at her and stared up at the blue sky, catching his breath. “You are a stubborn git, Zera Leigh," Her voice had changed over the years, it had deepened a bit as well as lost the sort of sing-song lilting that he remembered. Instead it struck him as strained from whispering in a library.

Zera let out a long chortle of a laugh, right from his belly. He loved laughing, singing too. He was terrible at it though. Catherine sank to a knee and stared out over the edge of the canyon, down at their home. He drew himself to a sitting position and rested his weight back on his palms. It was always beautiful up here. A sea of red stone giving way to an ocean of greens, yellows, and browns. There, at the center, was the mass of blue tiled roofs that made up the town, small white pillars of smoke rose from some, the butcher shop was no doubt one of them.

“You got here safely then?” Zera asked as he took a few breaths to ward off the fatigue of the climb.

“I assume you are talking about the raids,” Catherine asked and Zera nodded in response. “The Thuul were quiet, thank the gods,"

There were two uses for the word Thuul in modern society. It could mean a person who was not of pure Mataian descent, with the idyllic blonde hair and blue eyes that was a mark of their race. Zera was fortunate to have pure Mataian blood, which helped given the strange nature of his physique. The other use of the word, though, referenced the barbarian tribes that made their homes in the Schisma mountain range to the east of his home. They were a violent and warlike bunch that eagerly raided trains and shipments for weapons and goods. As far into the frontier as they were, the Imperial military did little to discourage their raiding.

“I was afraid you might have been delayed, the raids have picked up,” he said and looked toward the mountains.

“Did we lose anyone?” She asked and Zera nodded again, the two falling silent as the wind blew over them from the west.

“This was always our spot,” Zera said, pushing off his hands and wrapping his arms around his knees. Catherine didn’t look at him at first, too taken in by the natural beauty beyond.

“We spoke of anything we wished,” She said finally, looking back at him,. Even her manner of speaking had changed; it was so much more sophisticated. “Not a soul to chide us,"

Zera barked out a laugh and took a deep breath of the air through his nose. How long had it been since had last made the climb? Years? A decade? She had been gone for about that long, off studying at the University at the capital. She had only come home now to pick up her tuition to go back. She was to be an imperial mage, a wizard of the highest order. Something he could never afford to do as much as he dreamed about it.

“Tell me about the capital," Zera prompted, deciding it would be easier to listen to her story than to try to think about something that could never happen.

“I would much rather hear of things here,” She said, turning back to look at the view. Zera squared his shoulders and frowned at her deflection.

“Cat, you know how things are here, they don’t change,” Zera growled; nudging her arm. She glanced back at him and gave an apologetic smile. He knew what she was doing, avoiding the subject since he had been forbidden by his grandfather to travel. He knew so very, very little about the outside world. It was a fact of life now, something he had grown to accept as he passed into adulthood. That said, any sort of tales and stories of the outside were like a breath of fresh air to him.

“Beautiful," Catherine began, “They call it the Grey City for a reason. Matra is an all encompassing disk of slate gray stone. The buildings seem to rise out of it if they were cut from the same piece of rock, it goes on as far as the eye can see. It shines on mornings like this. Salt in the sea air crusting on the walls,” She said, running her fingers over the dewy grass beneath her. He tried to imagine that many buildings but the idea simply baffled him. Matra apparently held nearly a million souls within its walls. Compared to the few hundred in Benhurst.

“What about the people?” He asked.

“The people? There were so many, from different places and cultures. Gods above Zera, It was a microcosm of the world," She made a face that Zera didn’t quite understand; like she was upset about not being able to describe it. He was still wrestling with the word microcosm; though he imagined he understood for the most part what it meant.

“Find yourself a lady friend?” He asked.  Her eyes went wide and she pursed her lips, a half smile threatening to break her attempt at looking upset. She dug a handful of dirt out from the ground and threw it at him. He laughed and held up his hands to protect himself.

“Now that is private you bird brain! I should turn your hair pink," Catherine retorted, slapping her hand against the spellbook. He raised a brow and waited for her, either to answer his question or actually turn his blonde hair an unseemly color. She sighed; “It… did not last long,"

Zera’s face fell and he let out a sigh. Catherine’s taste in romantic partners had always been a topic of conversation out here in the frontier, but to the west, in the greater part of the Empire, things were very different. People were far more open minded out there. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, it seemed so small now compared to how it used to feel under his hand when they were children.

“I’m sorry," He offered, she just shrugged and looked out to the sky.

“It was nice while it lasted,” she began and then glanced back at him; “What about you?”

Zera had not given a single thought to romance for years. It just was not in him. How could it be? He was something of a pariah in town thanks to his grandfather and he counted very few people as friends. His life had revolved around working toward inheriting the butcher shop from his grandfather. He did not know anything else.

“Not really anything to discuss,” Zera said, she growled and tossed another handful of dirt at him.

“You have got to stop giving up on yourself, Hawk," She snapped, he winced at how harshly she used his nickname. The word Zera, in the old tongue, literally meant ‘bird of prey’. His grandfather had given him the name as an accusation since Zera’s mother died in childbirth. Catherine had done her best to make it something of a badge of pride for her friend and it had worked for the most part. He didn’t hate that part of himself as much as he had used to.

“I’m not giving up on myself," Zera shot back; “I am just happy where I am,"

“Same thing,” Catherine said, Zera looked away, warmth coming to his cheeks. What was so wrong with living a simple and quiet life? It just felt wrong to aspire to anything more than that.

They remained quiet for a while after that; just staring off toward the town far below them. Zera knew he should say something to break the silence but he also could not just let go of what was said. He was happy with his life now; he was comfortable. His grandfather was too old and small to give the beatings he used to and now contented himself with the occasional snide offhand remark. Even so, Zera had never done anything to further justify it and it was becoming apparent to the people in town that maybe Zera wasn’t the man that his grandfather claimed.

Things were getting better, so why change now?

“I’m sorry,” Catherine said, and Zera caught her gaze. He could tell she was not sorry for what she had said, she meant every word of it. She was sorry that what she had said had derailed their reunion. He supposed that was enough for now, he could not just let their first conversation in years end like that. Especially since she was not going to be here for long.

“Then tell me some stories from the academy.,” He said and she rolled her eyes. The sigh that came out was more of a ‘woe is me for being your friend you insufferable lout’ than ‘I’d rather not’. He gave her his best smile and she conceded.

“Fine, but then you are going to tell me all about what I missed here,"

“Deal,"

They spoke until the sun began to dip low in the sky. Their laughter echoed in the open air. Life was so peaceful then, there was so much to look forward to. Zera even wondered if maybe he did have a chance to ask for a little bit more for himself. If he deserved to have such a dear friend then maybe he deserved a tiny bit extra. Years after this moment, Zera would look back and wonder why he didn’t spend more time on that cliff. Because, as they told one another all about their lives apart, a train bearing fate on it was approaching in the distance.

[brophyblam]

Write What You Know 1st Place Winner: “Woven Essay” by Jack Cahill ’17

House Fight - Strand A

Christmas time is always a bit dysfunctional at the (name redacted for anonymity) house. Christmas 2005 was such a year. Mom is in the kitchen, struggling to whip up a gluten free meal, frantically running back and forth to find new ingredients. Dad is in the family room, watching a Fox News special about the War on Christmas. I sit next to him and ask him what beer tastes like.

“Beer can kill you,” he says. “Ok,” I say nodding my head.

A light snow falls outside, dotting our rural Pennsylvanian backyard, coating the dead trees in a beautiful light blanket.

“When is Gus coming,” I ask. “Uhh...maybe half an hour,” my mom says somewhat nervously. “He has a new girlfriend, so be on your best behavior.”

Around six, Gus walks through the front door.

“Grandpa,” I yell! “Hey,” he grunts. His arm is wrapped around his girlfriend, Anna, who is about thirty years younger. With her long brown hair and curvy hips, I was really proud of my grandpa for landing that.

“Hey dad,” my mom says. She hugs him and he cracks one of his rare smiles. Grunting again, he walks away. Presumably into the liquor cabinet, not that I understood that then.

…..

That Christmas Eve I’m sitting in the basement, playing with my toy cars. I have a Volvo S60 figurine, and I push it across the tattered carpet, hoping that I can get more toy cars for Christmas.

As I make car sounds, I hear other sounds upstairs.

“You’re a freaking bitch!” “Screw you you balding old prick!”

Tears swelled up in my eyes. Such abrasive, horrible, deplorable words - they were so foreign to me.

My mom was upstairs, shielding Anna from my grandfather. He was stumbling and slurring his speech, I thought something was horribly wrong. Did he have rabies?

“Gus, get the hell out of our house,” my dad says firmly.

Before Gus packed and left, however, he walked upstairs to my room and left an assortment of toy cars on my bed.

“With Love, Gus,” the present reads.

He even carved a miniature parking lot for me to place the toy cars. In that moment, I knew he loved me. But I also knew he had demons. That night, my mom walked into my room and turned on the Toy Story nightlight. She smiled, but in a sad way, her face was visibly red from crying.

“Your grandpa is an alcoholic, Jack.”

Red Jaguar - Strand B

“Whaddya think, Jack,” he asks, taking a swing at his cigar. “It’s pretty.” “Of course it’s damn pretty, if this car were a woman, I’d marry it.”

The Jaguar XK8. Sleek and red as a model’s lipstick, droplets of rain shined on top of the roof, reflecting the beautiful car in the coming sunshine.

“Let’s drive this son of a bitch.” “Okay.”

I hop in the passenger seat and he whips the Jaguar out of my driveway, the smell of creosote after a rain permeating my senses. We pull out of the neighborhood, and he clutches the car into sixth gear, and we fly down Pima Road, the humid, post monsoon wind throwing my wispy blonde hair into disarray.

Grandpa Gus reaches for his water bottle, takes a big sip, and puffs on his cigar. Being thirsty, I reach for the water bottle and take a sip, but immediately spit it out. It’s so harsh and acidic and bitter.

“Don’t drink that, Jack.”

“Is that…”

“Yeah, if you tell your mother, I’ll tell her about that magazine you have.” Blackmailed by my own grandpa, gotta love it.

We make a U-Turn at Frank Lloyd Wright Rd, and he keeps the car at as high a gear as possible as he goes 105 up the steep incline of Pima.

“God bless this machine,” he says laughing.

I didn’t see that Jaguar for another eight months. When I saw it again, I was in Missouri.

I walked through snowdrifts and the blustery wind up the winding road in St Joseph Missouri. In front of me was his house, or what used to be his house. Bill Faulkner is in the front yard, placing a “For Sale” sign in the snow, but I focus on the red Jaguar, covered in snow. It looks sad, like a dog without an owner. It looked widowed, orphaned.

“Don’t talk about it so loud, Bill,” I hear my mom say from a ways away. “The kids are right over there.”

Strand C - Dr. Engelsa

“You have to tell me something.” “I don’t want to,” I say crossing my arms and pouting.

Ms. Engels sighs and takes out her red pen, jotting down some notes.

“Is it because of your grandpa,” she asked. “No - it’s been since before he died.” “Then what is it?” “I told you, I don’t know!”

I was becoming increasingly frustrated, my legs were bouncing restlessly, and I glanced at the clock.

“You’re here until I say we’re through, do you understand,” she said, noticing my wandering eyes. “Yeah.” “Yeah or Yes.” “Yeah,” I say, trying to be a smart ass.

I sit there in silence for about twenty seconds before she takes out her pen and starts interrogating me again.

“When did it start?” “Maybe last year? I don’t know.” “So 4th grade?” “Yeah.” “You mean yes, Jack, you mean yes.” “Yeah.”

At this point, I find myself being crushed by frustrations and anxiety, so I ask her;

“I have a lot of homework, can I go now?” “Fine, I’ll see you next week.”

I walk out of the dreary, sterile room and into the poorly lit hallway. Pictures that are supposed to convey happiness, pictures of families rolling around in the grass, pictures of beaches and sandcastles are plastered all across the wall. I want to knock those photos down.

I see my mom in the waiting room and we walk out to the car.

“How was it,” she asks in a hopeful tone. “Well...she’s mean, I don’t like her.” “Ok - but we need her to get your medicine.” “I don’t want my medicine.” “I know you don’t, but you need it.”

Strand D - Austria

   A light drizzle falls and is illuminated in the eerie moonlight. Streetlights flicker, showing me the way to go. The grand clock in the village center strikes 4am, and the entire town square echoes with a loud chime. I glance at the street sign, shrouded by early morning’s mist;  “Verlassen St Wolfgang im Salzkammersgut/Leaving St Wolfgang.”  I nod silently and continue walking. To my left, the Austrian alps, to my right, the stunning blue waters of Bad(Lake) Wolfgang. A lone Audi driver rolls down his window and slows down to ask me; “Sind sie gut?” “Ja, ich bin perfekt, danke.” I keep on walking, occasionally stopping to glance at the scenery. I soon exit the village and am drawn into the countryside, enamored and stricken with the natural beauty of it all. The lush green, snow capped mountains, the lake glistening in the sunrise. I smile a genuine, natural smile. I missed that feeling, that feeling of calm. Despite this, I keep walking. I walk until my legs nearly go numb. I walk until the two lane, winding countryside road comes to a sudden halt. By this point, the clouds have covered up the sun, and a summer storm is coming in. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and take a right at a dirt trail with a sign that simply reads;  “St Wolfgang, 13 KM.” 13 kilometers away from the hotel, just fantastic. The light drizzle soon turns to a steady downpour, but I don’t care. In the distance, I see a quaint, cozy little village, like something you may see in a Berenstein Bears book, or maybe a German fairytale. A few dogs hide under a tree to shield themselves from the rain, and as I go to pet one, a man stops me. He looks no older than twenty and has a droopy facial structure. With his overalls and childlike, yet red face, I assume he is a farmer’s son. “Wie Gehts?” His German is lacking - he is clearly a native speaker, but his slow mannerisms and style of speech leads me to believe that he is cognitively deficient. I spoke German with the man, but for the sake of simplicity, I will use English in the dialogue. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say hoping to avoid a conversation. “Why are you here?” “I don’t know, I went for a run.” “You are wet.” “I know, I don’t control the weather.”

 He failed to understand the joke, but he was smart enough to understand that I was lying to him. “Why are you really here? What are you running from,” he asks. “I’m exercising.”

“You are big child.” “Thanks, I think.”

….

“Are you sad?” “No,” I say insistently. “I mean...I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. I don’t know what I am.”

He seems to understand my broken German and pats me on the back.

“We all lose things,” he says. “We all go through the trouble, we all go through the (crap) - but everything is pretty.”

We didn’t say anything more - he just looked at me and then pointed to the serene mountain ranges in front of us and nodded. Slow as he may have been, he was wise. I arrive back at the hotel by around 11am, still surprised by the strange event that had just transpired. Regardless of how absurd and surreal it is, I smile, I take a shower and smile widely, knowing that I feel a bit more calm. I feel more calm because of the little things.