Galapagos Magic

Blue Footed Boobie - The Galapagos Poster Child

The Galapagos Islands are truly fascinating because of their diversity. Ocean tides, currents and winds have all influenced their animal inhabitants and the natural features of each island – as we would discover during our January 2008 visit.

All the more fascinating is that the reptiles, birds, mammals and marine life present have evolved over time, living in relative isolation with few predators.

The Galapagos Islands have a long history – pirates used the Islands to regroup, hide treasure, take on supplies and giant tortoises (for food) in the 1600s.

In 1835 HMS Beagle brought Charles Darwin to the Islands. Darwin spent five weeks studying the fauna learning that it was possible to distinguish which island a tortoise came from by the shape of its shell. He observed that a species adapts to its environment as necessary to survive, publishing his theory in the Origin of Species in 1859.

In 1959 Ecuador declared the Galapagos Islands a national park and in 1964 the Charles Darwin Research Station opened on Santa Cruz as a centre for education and conservation.

Barking Sea Lion on North Seymour

Marine Iguana - unique to the Galapagos and a perfect example of Darwin's theory

Arriving from Quito on mainland Ecuador, our week-long adventure on board the Celebrity Xpedition took us from Baltra to the islands of North Seymour, Espanola, Santa Cruz, Bartolome, Isabela, Fernandina, Santiago, San Cristobal and Floreana. Our treks ashore were led in small groups by knowledgeable guides from the Galapagos Parks Service.

Sally Lightfoot Crab - black at birth to hide from predators, it becomes yellow and orange at maturity

Every day a variety of land excursions were offered - from low, medium to high intensity.

Land Iguana can live up to 60 years

There were wet and dry landings via zodiac, snorkelling and swimming and every night after dinner informative talks were given on the following day’s activities.

This was not a “lounging around” cruise by any means – more like boot camp, but you came back wanting more marvelling at both the harshness and perfection of nature.

Fur Seal is not shy about hijacking a fishing boat as a place to nap

We had not been expecting how different every island would be – in fact every day really was a brand new adventure and a joy to experience.

Giant Tortoise which can weigh up to 500 lbs and live well over 100.

Suffice it to say - a picture is worth a thousand words.

Timeless Petra

The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan is a tiny country bordered by Israel, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and the Gulf of Aqaba.

We had arrived in Jordan to visit the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Petra, the ancient capital of the Nabataeans who dominated in pre-Roman times, carving elaborate buildings and tombs out of solid rock.

Petra is now one of the new Seven Wonders of the World but lay hidden from Westerners until 1812 when it was discovered by a Swiss explorer.

Much of Petra’s fascination comes from its mountainous setting on the edge of Wadi Araba which stretches from the Gulf of Aqaba to the Dead Sea.

Petra lies in rugged, rust coloured sandstone which forms a well-protected canyon, accessible through a narrow gorge, or Siq.

Arriving in Petra we travelled down a winding dusty pathway on horseback to the beginning of the Siq. From here we began our walk through the Siq’s winding passageways, its mountainous walls towering above us.

After about an hour our guide asked us to close our eyes before turning the final corner. It was a revelation – framed in the sky-high rock on either side of us was the magnificent Al Khazneh - the Treasury building.

It was one of those "wow" moments and inadequate as that sounds, we were in good company. Steven Spielberg had chosen the Treasury six years earlier as a setting for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

Like all rock-hewn monuments in Petra, it is the facade of the Treasury that captivates despite the fact that many of its architectural details have eroded over time.

Well protected from the elements, the Treasury was carved to serve as a tomb but received its name from the legend that bandits hid their spoils in a stone urn within the structure.

Beyond the Treasury the canyon widens to expose an amphitheatre and numerous tombs carved in the rock face.

The sandstone’s colouring changed throughout the day as the sun’s position moved. Hot and dusty, we took one last lingering look at the Treasury before turning to enter the Siq for the return journey to Aqaba which took us through Wadi Rum, stomping grounds of the enigmatic T.E. Lawrence.

Sunrise Paddle

When we planned our sunrise paddle on the Nicomekl River it had been the height of a lingering hot summer. July and August had been relentlessly sunny with very little rain. Getting up early and being on the water as dawn was breaking over the pastoral 1894 Stewart Farm sounded idyllic. No more than a mile from our house, an adventure yet to be experienced. We couldn’t wait.

The word Nicomekl is a Sto:lo word, meaning "the route to go" or "pathway" and was first documented in writing during an 1824 Hudsons Bay Company expedition to the Fraser River.

As our own paddle day drew closer summer ended abruptly. More rain fell in two days than during the entire summer. The next morning we had to be up by 5 a.m. and when the alarm went off we both groaned, wondering why we were doing this. The only souls pleased to see us up at that hour were the cats – early breakfasts all round. It was pitch black outside, but fortunately the rain had diminished to a light intermittent drizzle from the deluge during the night.

We drove to the Stewart Farm entrance to find the gate locked but soon connected with Laura our paddle leader in the boat house near the river. The next task was to move the kayak trailer closer to the dock and carry our kayaks down to the water. Soon we were paddling towards Crescent Beach marina and Blackie Spit. The current was amazingly strong so there were not too many opportunities to coast.

A lone heron swooped over us curiously, landing in a tree which overhung the river. Ducks paddled across the river, unperturbed by our presence. A seal popped his head up from the surface and eyed us for a while, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

The dramatic sunrise we had mused about was instead a sky heavy with fast moving clouds, a palette of charcoal and blue-grey. Suddenly the glass-like surface of the water was pierced with raindrops.

It was as though a thousand pebbles were falling in unison from the sky. Within minutes the rain had stopped and the wind played with us as it gusted across the river.

It was very difficult to stay in a straight line, no matter how steadily we paddled. The current added to the workout but soon we had a rhythm going and had reached the railway bridge with Mud Bay beyond it. Paddling under the bridge we could see Blackie Spit from a completely different perspective. One of our favourite walks, this was the first time we had seen it from the water.

Several hours later we arrived back at the dock and helped put the equipment away, coffee and a bacon sandwich on the horizon.

Harp Scratchings 8 - Never on a Sunday

The Harp from the meadow - open for business

At one time licensed premises were not allowed to open on Sundays in Wales. I believe that edict also applied to other retail outlets but what that meant in the village of Glasbury was that the pub and the two village shops on our side of the river were “out of bounds” on Sundays – at least officially.

It’s really interesting how the village network operated. If Mum was in desperate need of some grocery item because of an unexpected bed and breakfaster, a knock on the back door for the required item was generally all that was needed, as long as one didn’t behave outside the bounds of propriety – for instance interrupting Sunday dinner or being public about the transaction.

I recall that was the state of play at the Harp. With the blackout blinds drawn down at the front of the pub to indicate the business was closed, Dad obliged the dire need of some of his trusted regulars on Sundays now and again.

I digress for a moment to mention that the blackout blinds were a relic of wartime when German bombers flew overhead to the factories of Hereford. Dad was with the 8th Army in Italy and North Africa during World War 2 and Mum had the job of managing the Harp.

She often worried about her sisters who worked at the Hereford munitions factory and in later years mocked the US Army officers billeted at Glasbury castle. “They think they can buy us with nylon stockings and chocolate” she would be heard to mutter when talk in the bar turned to wartime memories.

On any given Sunday, the front door entrances to the Harp were bolted, the blinds were drawn but the cellar door at the side of the property was left unlocked.

The Harp was a “free house” which meant it was not owned by any particular brewery and Dad as “owner operator” could deal with whoever he wished. A steep concrete ramp with stairs built into the structure provided the means by which the various suppliers would roll their barrels from street level down to the cellar, through the cellar door and into dispensing position. Mum and Dad used the cellar for various things besides bar supplies – laundry, storing feedstock for pigs, fowl and of course our two dogs as well as gardening supplies.

I didn’t like the cellar, it was dark and damp and the place of nightmares. So when a thirsty local appeared from the depths of the cellar, stepping apologetically through our scullery and into one of the blacked out bars it would catch me off guard.

I was very young when all this activity went on and have vague memories of what took place but I do seem to recall the village constable parking his bike by the cellar door and appearing on the scene once. I am not sure whether it was to join in the Sunday session or to issue Dad with a warning not to get caught again.

As with all things, they change. Soon Sunday opening was commonplace. That led to other problems. Sunday hours were restricted to a short late morning opening and a second evening opening.

Everyone seemed to enjoy a Sunday drink, whether it was after church, a pre-Sunday lunch nip or to obtain the hair of the dog from the previous night's activities. As you would expect, there were those who opposed the activity because it got in the way of family members being present and correct for Sunday dinner when they overstayed their welcome at the pub.

Mrs. Meale who lived three houses down from the Harp was so angry on one particular Sunday when her husband didn’t appear at the appointed time that she brought his beef dinner, complete with vegetables, Yorkshire pudding and gravy, and was observed by the entire bar hurling the plate at the front of the Harp along with some colourful language.

Dad did sell pork pies, pickled onions and crisps (potato chips) but I don’t remember whether Mr. Meale actually felt like eating after being embarrassed so badly.

Harp Scratchings 7 - Bucket Diplomacy

Dad taking a break after scrubbing one of the Harp's two bar floors

One of Dad’s daily rituals was to scrub the bar floors on his hands and knees.

He had tried a mop but had decided it just didn’t get the wooden boards clean enough. Years later a linoleum floor was put down in order to make cleaning easier. Dad tried the mop but soon resorted to his old bucket and scrubbing brush.

As he worked methodically through the bars Dad would change the water periodically, throwing the remnants of what was left in the bucket across the gravel car park. If Dad had a busy day ahead of him he would sometimes wash the floor after evening closing.

On one occasion his nocturnal cleaning activities had unexpected consequences.

Taking the dirty water in his bucket out to the car park, now in darkness, he emptied it, obviously with some enthusiasm. Coming up the path that adjoined the car park was Mrs. Jeffs’ daughter and her boyfriend. Mrs. Jeffs lived two houses down from the pub and ran a small shop. Unfortunately her daughter was the recipient of a late night shower from Dad’s bucket.

I don’t know how the conversation went and while it has an amusing side I still feel sorry for Dad. He just would not have known what to say to calm the situation. I do remember that Mrs. Jeffs and her family ceased to communicate with us briefly. But economics came into play. We were regular customers of the shop and Mr. Jeffs did enjoy a pint with the boys. I imagine that the apology was offered and accepted because before long I was being dispatched to the shop to buy raspberry ripple ice cream to put with the fruit for whoever happened to be staying at the pub that night and needed dinner.

Years later in 1971 Britain launched a new decimal currency to replace the old pounds, shillings and pence, with the old coinage being phased out over an 18 month period. I don’t recall Mum and Dad having too much difficulty with the transition. Mrs. Jeffs did. In fact she was so indignant about it she refused to switch over to the new currency and would instead recalculate everything in the "old money".

Entering her shop from street level a bell would ring alerting Mrs. Jeffs to make her way up the stairs from the kitchen below to serve her latest customer. Purchases made, she would undertake the arduous task of recalculating what was owed in LSD. She said she was too old to change, but as the phase out period came to an end, even Mrs. Jeffs embraced commerce in decimal currency. It made shopping trips much quicker and the bucket incident was never mentioned again.

Harp Scratchings 6 - The Speed Trap

The meadow gate, directly across from the Harp's car park

The empty cups and crumb riddled plates rattled on the tea tray as Mum hurried breathlessly into the top bar from the car park. “They’ve got another one!” she exclaimed. Dad nodded, a man of few words at the best of times.

Because we lived on a relatively straight segment of the main road between Hay and Three Cocks there was a tendency for drivers to become a little lead footed as they drove through Glasbury.

While traffic was relatively quiet most of the time, this activity did draw the attention of the local constabulary who would occasionally knock on the door of the Harp with a request to set up “the trap” in our car park. It seemed the car park was an ideal location to hide their equipment and squad car from unsuspecting drivers who exceeded 35 miles an hour past the pub.

My mother’s hospitality gene usually kicked into gear within the hour, and taking pity on the officers “being outside in the cold for all that time”, she would muster up tea and welsh cakes although not in the best china of course.

There was a hierarchy for china. Mugs for every day, cups and saucers acquired from Typhoo Tea coupons and the tea set in the glass cupboard that was only aired for weddings, christenings and funerals, usually funerals. The police received Typhoo Tea treatment.

On this particular day Mum was quite excited because the driver who was now in the process of receiving a ticket, and a telling off for his transgressions, was a radio personality whose name escapes me, but not my mother. "Where does fame get them" she remarked philosophically.

That night in the bar the day’s speed trap activities were reported by Dad to his patrons and received in typical Welsh fashion. “Bloody drivers, serve them right – when you’re ready Bill can you pull another pint please”.

Grousing up the Grind

She sat clumsily on a rotting tree stump, flicked a wet strand of hair from her face and announced loudly “I am never ever doing this again, I hate it!” Close to my own sentiments I thought as we sweated our way past the tired pre-teen and the three-quarter way marker on the Grouse Grind.

I’ve been tour guiding for the past couple of years and had often wondered what the Grouse Grind was really like. On a typical North Shore tour, which usually takes in Capilano Suspension Bridge and Grouse Mountain, commentary would generally include a reference to the Grind and its popularity.

I would tell the tour group that the Grind is a hike of approximately one and three quarter miles that gains elevation rapidly. The trail starts in the parking lot at an elevation of 1000 feet and ends near the Lodge at the top of the mountain at 3600 feet. There are very few flat parts. I would explain that the average hiker does the trail in about 60-90 minutes and that the fastest climb was recorded at 24 minutes. Reminding my group to look after their skyride tickets I would tell them to expect to share the downward tram with sweaty hikers. And that would be that.

Talk really is cheap.

On 31 August I found out first hand what it was all about. It was a beautiful Monday morning and the parking lot was already full. I can do this, I told myself. I don’t have to break any records, just finish it and next time I take a group up Grouse I can speak as one “who knows”.

When I was younger I used to run but all that pounding has taken a toll on my knees and these days I have to treat them with a great deal of respect. Today would be a test.

The trail itself is quite amazing and has been well maintained in parts. Other areas are somewhat rustic as you are forced to pick your way up well-trod foot holdings over large rocks and tree roots. Looking down is really important.

It was a busy day on the Grind with lots of people of all ages on the trail. Doug and I saw several energetic fathers with babies on their back. Young children with their teachers, groups of friends and many hikers considerably older than me.

Also of interest was the variety of languages being spoken around us - Cantonese, Punjabi, German, Farsi and Russian.

Stepping aside for the fleet of foot happened a lot, as well as plenty of water stops and photo opportunities, all of which provided an opportunity to catch a breath or two.

At one stop a friendly fellow remarked on the elevation. It turned out he was an Air New Zealand flight attendant who had flown in the previous day and would be returning on the return flight to Auckland the next day. This was his “down time” in Vancouver.

The water had gone by the three-quarter mark so there was no reason to linger at that point as we clambered up a steep, winding incline. We could hear voices ahead of us exclaiming that they had reached the top of the Grind.

As a Grouse Grind “first timer” I can safely say I will be a “one timer”. Despite the creaky knees, the sweating and the laboured breathing, it was fun and worthwhile – and grist for the next North Shore tour.