Dispatch from Argentina: Environmental Self Doubt

I find myself wanting to slash through the tent wall, scream a battle cry and sprint sparsely clothed to shelter! I am panicked, not out of fear, but from the frustrations of not having slept in 48 hours while at 20,200 feet on Aconcagua. Who knew that the wind could blow with such intensity for 14 days straight with only 15 second lulls? Listening to hear the wraith building it´s strength only to hit the tent with a force that flex poles and pops you in the head for 12 hours. My neck and upper back are sore, the unpopular headache at altitude is present, the pee bottle is full, at the end of my Skittles, Marquez´s magical realism and lack of punctuation in ¨Autumn of the Patriarch¨ just spews from page to page not helping matters of sanity, I am unravelled and its only 8pm.

2 years ago after climbing this very mountain I proclaimed it the hardest physical act of my life. Crossfit changed that benchmark and I find myself back guiding with my friend Brian Rougeux. We have hauled 500 plus pounds of gear and food up this slag pile of a mountain, beautiful as she is, damn the carries steep. The plan is to get up at 4 am and leave for the summit by 5ish. Midnight arrives and I still have not slept, my nerves are wrecked, I am not going, I can not.

´Hey Brian, I am done, can´t make the summit push´ I say at 4am. He casually tells me to just get up and start moving around and the blood will start flowing, drink some water and get your Gore-tex on, that I will feel fine. All I can do is lay there paralyzed with self-doubt. How am I going to do another climb if I feel this strung out? The first trip back to altitude is always the hardest, I know this. The wind is howling and I start to sit up. I find myself searching for my layers spread along the side of the tent to trap heat. Next I find myself putting on my Gore-tex and down layers. Next my inner boots and looking for my water bottle that is no doubt frozen. I take my multi-tool and cut out the ice to free that trapped liquid underneath, and swallow.

I am still a little shaky from sleep deprivation, but I am relaxed. No headache, warm feet, the wind has died down to a 10 mph breeze while gusting at 20. The skies are clear, the sun just cresting hundred of miles away. We hit the trail and start our step-breath-step rhythm which will carry us to 22,841 feet over the next 6 hours. Once past the Indepencia Hut, our first landmark I am grinning ear to ear. I feel great, our acclimatization plan worked and 2 days without sleep has not fatigued me. The 1300 ft Candeleta proved rough, only 2/3 filled with snow, the scree sections drain your oxygen and strain your calf muscles as you try to gracefully move to conserve energy. By 11 am we are on the summit looking at the 9,000 ft. South Face of Aconcagua. Filled with environmental self doubt only hours earlier, I am through another test, confident for my next climb. Should the wind blow for another 14 days, well that's part of the experience.

Dispatch from America: Coast to Coast

We finished our bike tour after 70 days of riding, 3,600 miles on our tires and we saw but a fraction of what lies out there. Spending the majority of our miles on county and state roads I noticed how federal interstates deprive drivers of what really lies off an exit. Next time you use Google maps or similar software, take US-highways and state routes so that you will see forgotten towns like Ash Grove, Missouri and Walden, Colorado.

Thanks goes out to everyone who donated sub money, read the blog, gave us shelter from the weather, without you we probably would not have finished!

Enjoy the holiday season and stay tuned as Project Wanderlust heads South of the equator to Argentina for the winter months. More pictures and stories to come from Aconcagua and Patagonia!

Dispatch from America: Observations and Happenstance

As we enter Virginia, I am back to the lighter side of our bike trip. Abby likened Eastern Kentucky to places in Peru she had seen, third world where sanitation and garbage are concerned. The past two days brought back a PSA that aired when I was in college(See the YouTube link below). Keep in mind that while the PSA was meant to be over the top, we have seen areas that are worse!

We have had ideal camps on the ridges of the Appalachians. Catching the waning daylight and waking to the intense orange dawn light that warms the tent. There are often turkeys calling and hound dogs baying in the early morning hours. As we ride up and over the steep hills of Appalachia you can not help but take in the immense poverty that has strangled this area since people fled the crowded East Coast more than a century ago.

Coal is King and everyone has "Friends in Low Places" as dictated by their truck decals that depict a miner crawling through a shaft. The shoulder is the white line; often with sharp pieces of gravel and coal strewn about near mountain top removal sites. The convenient aspect of loud or lacking exhaust on vehicles is that you can hear them coming and move over. People are mostly indifferent to the foreign bikers, occasionally a member from the "Greatest Generation" will wave and talk with you. There ought to be more of that spirit. You get the random, "dumb ass" or other incomprehensible mutterings of a passenger car as they fly by you at 60+ mph. None of those people say anything when you see them at the next gas station; with looks of," their here already?", lacking the stones to confront you.

I look forward to crossing the Appalachian Trail outside Damascus, VA where this time 3 years ago I walked these very mountains. Then we are onto Boone, NC where I went to college and have not visited for 5 years. Finally we ride out of the Appalachians and into the sand hills of NC and head for the ocean to finish our bike tour.

Dispatch from America: People who litter and their Corporate Accomplices

I was too hard on Missouri upon rolling through it's steep Western hills. The Ozarks, while short in distance were quite stunning. Everyone warned us about the heeling dogs of MO and KY, turns out that all you have to say is "NO" with some force and they do an about face. We are sitting in Berea, KY, the gateway into the Appalachian Mountains. Back to the topic at hand.

There has been an exponentially growing trend that I have noticed along the roadsides of our country . . . LITTER. Now this has very little to do with an environmental concern, more a socio-economic observation. I do not have to be a statistician to make the following statement, all I had to do was ride 6-8 hours a day, 3000 miles across the country. By riding a bike at an average of 8 mph one sees the amount of trash easier then at 60 mph.

There is no doubt that the amount of litter increases in rural areas within this country. Call it the lack of volunteers for road side cleanup, I'll give you that. Never the less, this McDonald's trash is not just wrappers and cups. Imagine if you will, the next time you eat on the run; that when you finish your meal, place the wrappers in the bag and simply roll down the window and chuck it. A complete disregard for your community and neighbors. There is an understood truth that animals do not defecate where they sleep, well you would think that this is not much different.

With all the options of today's mega-gas stations and fast food chains, the most numerous items found along America's byways are McDonald's, Pepsi/Coke products, Miller/Coors/Anheuser-Busch products, and cigarette/smokeless tobacco items. You do not see traditional grocery items frequently unless some slack jawed yokel has tossed out an entire bag of house-hold waste. The bulk of road-side trash are items bought primarily at fast food and gas stations, consumed within close proximity to their point of purchase, and from a small amount of manufactures when considering the amount of companies that produce the offending items.

This is not to stereotype individuals that use the mentioned products, but to point out who's company they are in and thus represented by and associated with. The answer? Signs warning of fines and jail time will continue to be mocked and blasted with buck shot unless strict and just punishment is policed. More roadside disposal containers,it worked in British Columbia, even in the most rural and desolate sections one can find a trash can. "Who's to empty the cans", you ask? How about the offenders?

In closing, throw your trash away in a proper receptacle, do not dump your old furniture into streams, and have some respect for where you and others live. If you find that you just can not wrap your troglodyte mind around this concept, chamber a round and place it in your mouth!

Dispatch from America: There will be blood . . .( possum blood that is)

Well Abby and I escaped Kansas with only 1 reference to Oz thankfully! When I saw the rolling limestone hills of Missouri I had a familiar sensation from childhood. Was it that Appalachia looks similar, the amount of road kill present, or could it just be the Hardees cup along with some trash on the road? Ah the sights and smells of Dixie! Now the James Gang were from Missouri and they did all their train and bank robbing on accounts of "Dixie" after the South fell. Turns out that Missouri was not a member of the Confederate States of America, but was claimed by the CSA without any formal control or succession. Could have fooled me.

To date the bike tour is slowly approaching the East coast. What motivation we had in escaping the snowy roads of Colorado has been sucked through the soles of our feet. The daily fight against an enemy who takes no form but manipulates all that it encounters; THE WIND. A "tail wind" falls into the realm of gnomes and sprites, often talked about in the mountains but never seen. Missouri has proven to be a human powered roller coaster with short and steep hills. Between a sore knee and the lack of a shoulder to ride, the hills make our gear selection erratic and clumsy like the driver tossing Keystone empties out his window. I instantly hate riding in Missouri, worst of the 8 states thus far.

I look forward to the day I ride out of Missouri and can deliver possibly the best line when dealing a coup de grâce to my foe, Missouri. As Daniel Day Lewis so eloquently states, "I drink your milkshake, I drink it up"!

Dispatch from America's Breadbasket

I am going to attempt this Dispatch, but the Achilles heel will be that WiFi in the majority of the country thus far has been a joke. I think that if the cell phone company's can speed it up then their devices might be worth the greenback.

Abby and I have exited Colorado into Kansas. The last 2 weeks were cold and more than the freezing temperatures was the WIND! We all know head wind v. tail wind, but until I had spend weeks fighting a moderate to strong head wind/side wind that wants to push me into oncoming traffic I had under estimated wind's ability to unravel the nerves. We have been fortunate to meet some great people on this trip and Lander, WY was really the pinnacle. Don, Dot, Jake and Tori(pictured above), of the Newton Clan put us up for 2 nights, opened their house to 2 stinky bikers and then drove us out of their way to get beyond the winter weather. THANK YOU!

With the wind pushing us aside we rode through the remainder of WY, a desolate state. In Saratoga, WY there is a hot springs. Once called Hobo Pool because of the proximity to the train tracks and who frequented the hot and relaxing waters. We were awakened at 1:30 am by the local peace officer for camping in a "no camping" site. He proceeded to make us pack our bikes and go else were. We took in another soak then shoved out of town with our hobo binndle's of bikes. 10 miles later and a near miss with a scared badger, we found our new campsite.

Our original route was slapping us in the face with winter weather, "Why are you still here?" it chided. We took Cameron Pass at 10,276 ft. into Ft. Collins, CO. Damn near 40 miles of downhill with a tail wind and we were back in the land of t-shirts. We spent the night in Ft. Collins, checking out New Belgium Brewing and visiting Tom and Michelle, some of Abby's extended family.

So for the past few days Abby and I have been picking our way Southeast through Colorado to get back on route. As a friend of my Dad says, "everything in this part of the country is square with the world". Hot days abound but a storm is coming in from the West. Abby walks in with a gas station biscuit and some coffee and smiles, "wind has changed, and it's a tail wind" with a grin from ear to ear.

Time to ride!

Dispatch from America: Damn this place is cold!

They said, "head South, you are going to run into snow". They also said, "Y'all are late to be riding bikes here". Finally they said, "Not me, I could not do what you are trying to". Well, "they" were right on the first two. I am riding up to 9,000+ feet outside Teton National Park, there is ice building up on my tires. What starts out as tiny ice crystals in minuets is a snow encrusted tire and out slides my rear wheel. Thanks to my worn multi-directional cleats I am able to detach one of my shoes to keep from laying the bike and myself on the frozen asphalt. Abby and I ran into snow outside Darby, MT last week. Since then we have have seen temps go from the high 80's to a low of 7 degrees.

We holed up in the kitchy town of W. Yellowstone, MT for 2 days. When the sun came out and melted the snow, we rode into Yellowstone. Geysers, bison, elk and RVs abound. The wind is against us, we take in Old Faithful and a walk around the thermal areas of the Park. The theme of "closed for the season" signs looks to be a trend. When we approach Grant Village in the South of the Park, nothing is open. The conditions are cold, windy and snow is on the forecast, we just want a cup of coffee. We ride into the employee housing area and ask Bill if there are any camp grounds open nearby. He tugs at his white beard that has been stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke and puts his hands back in his government issued green coveralls and says, "Nope, but I can rent you a room here for 20 bucks". Sold!

Montana was great, not to ride a bike through when we did, but definitely a state that I would love to spend more time in. Wyoming as well, its just to cold to be on a bike. Hiking in the cold is different, slower with potential wind breaks in the trees. Biking on the other hand in these conditions is arduous compounded by frozen toes, frozen water bottles, and headwinds that cut your mileage in half but force you to put out twice the effort.

So "they" were right about the weather, but I am not going to plan my life and trips around what other people suggest. I listen and apply some of what people have to say, but I am going to see for myself and ride my own ride. This is where great stories and adventure come from. Following a prescribed way of life is what diminishes our cultures sense of exploration and adventure. "They" are semi-correct, a cross country bike trip is not in most people's realm of possibility, but a 2 day ride through Yellowstone could be. Take the inspiration of the 2 day ride and let your mind run with other possibilities.

What I want to tell people is to stop eating the lumberjack sized portions at Applebees and re-watching re-runs; evaluate their priorities. I am confident in my critique because I have been on both sides of our society. I lived the debt ridden and consume at all costs lifestyle and I got fat, unfriendly, and depressed. I unplugged and semi-dropped out and while some haunts are still there, I don't deliver pizza anymore hoping that a semi-truck strikes my car so I do not have to pay for it.

Abby and I are outside Dubois, WY wishing that the headwind would reverse itself, the Indian summer would return, and we would not be skipping the Rocky Mountains of Colorado due to winter setting in. At the same time, we are enjoying the ride and challenges we face. Our plan is to ride to Rawlins, WY and into the Ft. Collins, CO area, then into Kansas to meet back up with our original route. The wonderful thing about bikes is that we can re-adjust and roll with what comes our way. Thanks to all of you who sponsored the foot long subs! Besides the scenery and Americana we take in, eating copious amounts of food is a perk of punishing yourself on trips like this. In closing, if you ride 60-100 miles a day then you can eat a mandarin pork ribblet basket from Applebees that contains 2 days worth of recommended calories, just make sure you earn it.

More from the road.

Dispatch from America via Bike

So there is a little background information and catching up to do. The route that Abby and I are riding starts with section 7 of the Lewis and Clark route, Cape Disappointment, WA to Missoula, MT. We will take the Trans America bike route South through the Rockies and East across Kansas. Once in Virgina, the plan is to drop into NC and ride to the coast for Thanksgiving on what I am calling the improvised "Tobacco Road" bike route, which is yet to be mapped out in detail.

That out of the way I can start at the beginning of the trip. This "Project" to ride across the country started when I learned about mapped bike routes from Beast on the AT a few years ago. I thought it would be a fun trip and not take 6 months of savings and time like another thru-hike. 3 years later, I am approaching 700 miles and besides the heat which has been a blessing/curse the ride could not be better.

Abby has stuck with me the whole way despite my desire to ride more miles and get earlier starts. So far we have reached a compromise on early starts and late mornings to make both of us enjoy this experience. Abby has done some touring and has helped me learn bike-touring specifics. I have never done any bike touring and with one 66 mile ride earlier this summer we have set out across the country, besides it can't be much different then thru-hiking, ride-eat-sleep-repeat.

The first 11 days took us from the Pacific coast at the mouth of the mighty Columbia River. In Astoria, OR we found places the 'Goonies' movie was filmed, my favorite from childhood and maybe to this day. Along the Columbia and through the Gorge to Hood River, OR there was the coastal temperate rain forest and scenic byways to ride through. Then it stopped and Eastern WA-OR gave us the intense sun and strong head winds followed by sweltering windless days. The scenery right out of a Steinbeck novel, looking for Lenny and George, "working up a stake".

From Hood River we crossed the Columbia a few times, constantly reminded about what the river "used to look like" as told by interpretive signs before the dams went in. The most striking where the pictures of rapids and elaborate fish traps that brought native tribes from as far as Alaska to trade, it was called the "Great Mart" by Meriwether Lewis. Now a series of dammed lakes, the Columbia above it's mouth holds little of what I would define as a 'river'.

Upon reaching Walla Walla, WA we continued to be zapped by the heat and head winds. Getting early starts to beat some of the heat, we peddled into Eastern WA and over the Snake River to the sister cities of Clarkston, WA and Lewiston, ID. From Lewiston we continued on US 12 up the Middle Fork of the Clearwater River, through logging towns following the L&C trail/Nez Perce Trail. Climbing on a gradual grade towards Lolo Pass was refreshing because of the clean river to swim in and the being back in the mountains, which is why Abby and I chose this route. With out steepest climb to Lolo Pass 5233ft. we descended into Montana.

Now we are in Missoula taking a "zero" day, relaxing, and getting ready for Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Rockies.

Thanks for the support and keep posted for more "Dispatches" from the road.

Dispatch from America

First: The internet is slow and scarce in Eastern OR and WA.
Second: Yes there are new pictures but due to the "First" situation they are not up.
Third: I have seen approx. 75 bungee straps/day and only 3 "urine" soda bottles on the road these past 5 days.
Fourth: The Columbia River Valley is rad, with a rich history living under the dammed up river, which is sad.
Fifth: The Chinook People here once had a thriving salmon trade which was bought for 26 million in the 50's. Now instead of waiting for the mighty King Salmon to return we as a country wait for the McRib from McDonalds to come back on "tour" as if the McRib is an aged out classic rock band, which again is pathetic.

More from the road soon.

Dispatch from Alaska: There aren't even billboards here!

Ya I know it's been over 4 months since my last post. Call it writer's block, living in a van, work, whatever you want. The damn near endless days here in Haines, Alaska fly by when you have enjoyed the best weather on record accompanied by blue-bird days, little to no rain and calm seas.

I am leaving AK in 9 days, but who's keeping count? Its not that I am excited to be leaving Haines, I love it here. Really the best way to describe this community is to come experience it for yourself. If you cannot visit, look at my pictures and realize there are no billboards, in your face subliminal advertisements are limited and society's massive shortcomings are not flogging all your senses like most places down South.

After a brief stint in Washington St. and Oregon for a wedding, not mine just to be clear. Abby and I are loading up the bicycles and riding the Trans-America bike route, just 4,262 miles. The plan is to arrive at Atlantic Beach NC, for Thanksgiving. For anyone that is interested you can follow the Ride from this blog via our SPOT GPS transceiver and the embedded GOOGLE Map at the bottom of the screen.

To sum up this season in Alaska: I sold my truck, acquired a 1978 Yamaha SR500 motorcycle, flew throughout the mountains and glaciers of SE AK inspiring future trips, Drank the Kool-aid that is CROSSFIT with Damond & Scott at Dijon, ran a successful cruise ship season and continued living the DREAM!

Look for the next round of "Dispatches" and follow along as we ride the Trans-America bike route and then jump South like Cassidy and Kid to Argentina for some mountaineering and Patagonia adventures. Please remember to Embrace the Wanderlust or I might end up at your doorstep. Just some food for thought.

Leaving Kilimanjaro

Dispatch from Kilimanjaro: Last Glimpse of Uhuru Peak

I believe we all choose to remember people, places and events in our lives as they appear at a particular moment in time. My Grandpa de la Pena will always be seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old boy, when he was the most resourceful and knowledgeable man I knew. My old hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska, does not look the same through the eyes of a 29-year-old as it did through the impressionable eyes of an eight-year-old.

I awoke this morning to use the bathroom around 5 a.m. at Millennium Camp (12,500 ft.). This camp has my favorite view of Uhuru Peak, the summit of Kilimanjaro, and is surrounded by wind-bent trees (resembling cedars) that stand slightly overhead, some reaching 10’. My tent is facing south and the silhouettes of the Usambara Mountains far beyond the lights of Moshi Town are starting to emerge from the faint dawn light.

In the sky sits Venus with the Milky Way slowly being devoured by the sun that has just cracked the horizon. The colors are like those reflected on the mirrored sunglasses worn by the beach volleyball players and lifeguards at Redondo Beach in the early 90’s. The horizon is deep blue fading into black the further west I look. To the east are shades of orange and greenish-yellow tints topped with a velvet crimson layer. The Southern Cross is visible along with all the constellations existing near the equator, some Southern and Northern.

Often my guests have marveled at just how many stars are visible, their own memories of childhood before ambient light was so dominant in the skyline or perhaps they have never seen the stars with this much clarity and abundance.

To the north lies Kibo, the youngest volcanic formation on Kilimanjaro. In the dawning light the white of the Rebbman Glacier swallows the volcanic rock around the crater rim and then pours over the sides and begins to glow with the rising sun. I blink my eyes and cannot trust them at first because I thought I just saw headlamps up high near the crater rim. I refocus and sure enough there is a large group of hikers looking south that makes one huge, bright white LED light. Judging from the time, they are nearing Stella Point with mixed feelings of relief and dread as they finally reach the crater rim. After five-plus hours of hard walking and focusing on “step, breath, step and repeat” the summit is but an hour away for most climbers. The 5’ world in range of their headlamps slowly starts to expand. They can see more than just the feet of the person in front of them and the lights of Moshi Town. Then the massive glaciers appear on their left side for the first time, the enormous crater realized!

Back at Millennium the camp has started to wake as it does most mornings, the last day always a little earlier for porters and climbers alike, as all are anxious to get back to their families, beds and a cold Kilimanjaro beer. The cooks are making breakfast and the porters are quietly murmuring to each other, possibly about last night’s English Premiere League football match or the news reports flowing from their little hand-held radios.

Glowing orange, red and yellow orbs start bobbing in the dark as the climbers turn on their headlamps and stretch after 12 hours of well-deserved sleep. Sore knees from the descent and dry, scratchy eyes from the dust, 40 mph winds and intense sunlight are the common ailments after summit day. The camp songbirds begin singing and scavenging for food scraps, out early to beat the much larger and more aggressive white-neck ravens.

To the east over a ridge juts the ominous peak of Mawenzi, now crumbling rock as a mountain returns to the earth. I unzip my tent and kick off my Crocs, time to start packing. It’s my last trip on Kilimanjaro and this is how I choose to remember Kili…

Why I Run

The whole concept of running has never been foreign to me. From an early age my Dad was involved with the Lincoln, NE track club, running marathons and helping organize them. Some of my earliest memories are of him building water stations out of PVC pipe, the Schlitz beer cups that are still in our basement from the post-race refreshments(beer and flat coke were the sports drink of choice in the early 80's and still are for me). Around the age of 6 I joined my first track team, The Lincoln Roadrunners. I do not have many memories from this time, except a picture of me and my best friend at the time, Brett Wiklund lined up at a road race.

After my family's move to Marietta, GA, I continued running with Shaw Park Track Club, then with a break away club started by Coach Brian Corfield, The Southern Stars Track Club. The Southern Starts training would take me to regional and national track and cross-country meets with the AAU and USATF. All this time, running was what I excelled at and never did I really question why I participated. I took pride in the sport that my Dad had been good at in H.S. I also would have a baseball coach who turned me to running full time with his statement of, " If Mike is ever going to be good at a sport he has to decide on one and stick with it". I never played baseball after that season, not that they missed my ability to strike out with ease or inability to accurately field a ball from the outfield.

My time with the Stars, would eventually end with H.S. track and cross-country. The team would dissolve and it's members going all over the county to different schools. There would be a 4 year period where all the former Star's runners would compete against each other. We had a competitive camaraderie, which added to my enthusiasm for the sport. High School and all the changes that come with those 4 years would come and go. Eventually, I began to fill out and my times would increase in the 2mile, which led to my taking on of the 800m and 1600m more seriously. My 5k would continue to marginally improve. By the end of my senior year, "burnout" would best describe what I felt.

I would leave Coach Jenkins and Coach Patty's teams for college. Coach Jenkins, the only teacher that could teach me to understand math and make good grades in the subject. He also had more patience when I had a lackluster performance on the track compared to my abilities than I did. He would say, "we will work on it and get you there". Regardless of where I finished each season, I always bested my mile and half-mile times. Coach Jenkins passed away a few years ago after his fight with cancer, his guidance and presence on the track is missed. Coach Patty, was all together different than any coach I ever had. He knew little about training distance runners based on workouts. What he lacked in running knowledge, he made up for in intensity and dedication to his athletes. He was from the old guard of coaches, the kind that would get in your face and yell, and hit your helmet with his whistle, amongst other things that changed with the times. He was forced out of football and found his way to cross-country and track. While he toned down his tactics a little, he was always fond of telling a complaining runner to, "rub some dirt on it". He expected his athletes to give their best, because he gave his. That slacking off hurt your team more than it did the individual. He was a tough man to get through to sometimes, but a larger heart and more caring coach I have never come across. I saw him years after H.S. and he stopped to talk, but soon left as if he did not recognize his team captain and best runner for so many years. I would find out a few years later that he is suffering from Alzheimer's, and that day when I ran into him it had not been diagnosed.

I had decided to walk on the cross-country and track team at Appalachian State. Little did I know that a summer of little running, beer drinking, along with the 'burnout' would seal my running career. With one practice into the pre-season, I was done. In one hasty decision I had quit a lifestyle that defined my life for the last 12 years. Without retracing the unproductive and destructive years of college, I found little motivation to get back into running, despite the longing to experience the early mourning of a road race, the endorphins of a 12 mile run on Sunday after a meet, and the exhaustive joy of a good work out.

Years later with some valiant and some not so valiant attempts to regain my 'lifestyle' I find myself in a network of rice fields outside Moshi, Tanzania. I awoke this mourning and laced up my trail runners, donned an old ball cap to keep my long blond hair out of my face, a pair of running shorts that are on the big side. I set out across the dusty road to the trails that lead through the rice fields and into the forest on the other side. I have run a few times while I am off the mountain, but not with consistency. I am not out of shape, but running is different than walking up mountains with a backpack.

To my right is a small mosque and next to it a makeshift Lutheran church. I run past the swimming hole where local boys swim and their parents do laundry below the fresh water spring that emerges from the ground. The area is surrounded by these springs that feed the rice and local villages with fresh water. Once I get out of the village where lifestyles range from mud-brick huts to block and mortar houses with elaborate metal 'keep out' gates I am in the rice fields. Each family in the village has a plot, with several locals already out hoeing grass and weeds. The paths through the fields are only 2.5 feet at their widest. I tip toe across bridges made from fallen trees along the path, careful not to fall into the mud. Bright, white Egrets are eating insects through out the plots and frogs chirp and bale off the path as I approach. I am slowed down a bit where new mud and grass has been added to the path to repair a section that has fallen in. 2 women step aside to a grass island that has been made beneath a shade tree to allow me to pass. They are dressed in brightly colored clothing, carrying tools and lunch for themselves or their husbands that are working the rice.

Once at the edge of the forest, I inquire with a local, 'how do I get back into the rice fields?'. Since my Swahili is marginal at best and his English the same, he points down the path. As I make my way through the forest, the Colobus Monkeys are making a racket as I run past their trees. They are black with long, white, bushy tails. The white hair continues to flank their sides. The monkeys make flying leaps to branches, where they sit and watch the traffic, which this mourning is me. I arrive at a dam that is collecting and controlling the spring waters. I cross the dam, and make my way across a path that is wet and not more than a foot in width. Eventually I fall into the water and mud. I am taken back to cross-country practice on rainy days, my favorite. The mud covers my shoes, my calfs are speckled in mud and water, I continue to make my way through the rice fields looking for a wider path that will lead back to the road. Zaza, a local farmer points me in the right direction, with a little help from another farmer farther down the path. Once on the main path through the waste water treatment plant, which is down water from the rice, I meet up with a service road and make my way past the gate, the guard greets me with a 'Mambo' or 'Whats up?' my response is the proper, 'Poa' or 'cool'. Once back on the main road the hotel is on, I pass small school children in their uniforms and skipping to class. I pass a road side bicycle shop and a food stand. Crossing the railroad tracks, I am back at the hotel just before the mourning sun raises the temperature to undesirable numbers.

Towering above the horizon is Kilimanjaro, glaciers pouring over the summit and her sister Mwenzi to the right. The sky is blue with the haze from dust, heat and pollution not yet visible.

I knock at the gate and am greeted by Simion one of the Masai warriors that guards the gate. Muddy, a little winded, and with a smile on my face I think to myself, "this is why I run".

Dispatch from Africa

So 2 months later and I am finally getting around to updating the blog. A synopsis of the last 2 months follows. I completed 4 climbs up Kilimanjaro via the Machame Route from 11/30-12/31. 13 guests in total and all 13 made the summit, one opting to go down only to return the following day and finish in 3 days. A huge 'thanks' goes out to John, Colman, and Killian my local guides that I have been working with and to all the AMG guests for pushing though what one called, 'the hardest thing I have ever done'.

After working with the MIT Sloane School graduate students, I went on Safari to Lake Manyara, Ngorogoro Crater, and the Serengeti. More wildebeests, zebras, and baboons than you could shake a stick at. The highlight had to be watching a female cheetah stalk a group of Thompson's gazelles with 4 of her cubs, mirroring her every move. The hunt was unsuccessful, but according to the park information, 75% of cheetah hunts fail to produce a kill. Watching the top speed of the mother cheetah, was amazing! I have always loved the cheetah because of it's speed and agility, and seeing one in action made the long and hot days in the Range Rover worthwhile.

From the safari, I headed to Uganda with an Irish guy named Ivan, whom I had been on safari with along with Gerry(that's Jerry, but with a 'G'). The 24 hour bus ride to Kampala was horrible, hungover from a late night, I utilized a 1 gallon 'Ziploc' and emptied the contents of my stomach. Once in Kampala, I spent a few days riding around town on 'boda-bodas', little 125cc motorcycles. The preferred mode of taxi in town since they zip in and out of traffic and avoid the jams. After stumbling upon the filming of a local rap video on the shores of Lake Victoria, hilarious, I headed for the town of Jinja. Once there, rafting on the White Nile with it's huge class 4-5 rapids lead to some down time. I took a one day kayak instruction on the upper portion of the Nile, paddling next to sub-merging corrant birds and watching river otters emerge with fish in their mouths. No croc sitings, but I was able to stick my kayak roll in a rapid towards the end of the day, my goal achieved.

On my return to Moshi, Tanzania I found myself on the same over night bus ride. At one particular point in Kenya, there was a burst of AK-47 fire, in which all passengers dropped to the floor in fear of being hit by stray bullets or direct fire, that is except me, who had just woken up from some hard to get sleep. Turns out that, where the bus was stopped is a notorious place for 'robbers' as the local guy sitting in front of me said. I guess that they will often hold up a bus when it slows to go through road construction( you think road construction is slow in the States, try East Africa). The state police had set up a 'sting' and were waiting for the 'robbers' to strike, using buses with people on them as bait. Well after a short, one sided strike by the police, one suspect was killed and one injured according to people in Nairobi when we arrived at 4 am.

So I find myself back in Moshi, waiting for my next climb to start on the 27th. I will have 4 more climbs starting on the 27th of January and wrapping up on the 27th of February. I have plenty of stories, accounts of Kili, Uganda, etc that I am working on. My plan is to have them finished and posted once I return to the States since the next month will be spent almost entirely on Kilimanjaro.

Thanks for all the support and emails. Planning has started for the Trans-America bike ride that will start in September 2009. A new website, charity cause, sponsorship options, and fundraising T-shirt will be forthcoming.

All the best,

Mike