Knapp Adventure Blog

Practice makes perfect

2012-01-07T08:52:00.000-06:00

Megan poses at our "how to keep your baby alive" class at Presbyterian Hospital.

A Weekend in Water Valley, Texas: Or, How to De-Skunk a Dog

2011-10-16T19:01:00.018-05:00

We have just returned to Dallas after a weekend of rest and adventure at the Double D Game Ranch in Water Valley, Texas.

Double D is a beautiful place notable for its rough terrain and abundance of game. The ranch house could comfortably sleep at least 20 people and is brilliantly functional. From porch sitting to shuffleboard to watching the Rangers take the pennant, the house treated us well. Of course, the outdoors is why we came. In addition to beautiful white tail bucks (who clearly knew November had not yet arrived), we spotted red stag, black bucks, axis, yaks, and exotic sheep. It reminded me of being on safari without the 30 hour flight and intestinal ailments. All in all, a great anniversary weekend, as Megan and I celebrated our fifth and George and Laura celebrated their third. Some human fun below:

Reloading the Judge

George and Laura, the trusty Mule in the background

Megan at the blind known on the ranch as the Playboy Mansion. Easily the most comfortable blind I've ever been in.

George invites some friends to dinner.

Some enormous Pere David deer I watched from the front porch this morning:

Dogs on the Ranch

As much fun as we had, I'm fairly sure Harper and Lady enjoyed themselves more. With open spaces, a muddy stock tank, and deer to chase, they never ran short on entertainment. In fact, I am pretty sure labs and golden retrievers are bred with places like the Double D in mind.

Having witnessed Harper's adventures in Red River and in Brenham, we expected a certain degree of mischief. However, new levels of mischief were achieved.

As it turns out, a ranch that specializes in professional hunts produces a fair amount of exotic bones, skulls, hides, and other odds and ends. These left-over bits provide immediate interest to vultures but long term interest to certain dogs hardwired to find things and bring them back to their owners. By time we left, we had retrieved 15 such items from our beloved retriever. A few examples below:

Last night, after a long day of hunting and deer cleaning, George and I contemplated the fire pit, which would soon provide us with delicious axis deer filets to join the mashed potatoes and quinoa salad Megan and Laura had prepared. Enjoying a cold beer and warm fire, I briefly forgot to check up on my pup. After a while, I heard a low growl coming from some nearby scrub. I recognized the growl as Harper's and my heart sunk--I was convinced he'd come across some wild hogs. I expected him to be gouged at any moment, and my nearest firearm, the Judge, was loaded with 7 1/2 birdshot . . . not enough shot to even mildly annoy a hog. George ran to the Mule and swung the headlights around in just enough time to spot a skunk. But by then, we were too late.

My fragrant friend came running back towards us, so proud of himself for acquiring yet another layer of exquisite wild scent (layered over perfume de stock tank). I assessed our options and settled on tying him up until morning.

Unfortunately we had no tomato juice, but I had spotted some unique soap in the shower. Designed to take the human scent away from deer hunting humans, Scent Killer seemed promising. Megan read the bottle and discovered it actually breaks down proteins. Between that and our alternative--a half bottle of Ragu, which was as close as we could come to tomato juice--I went with Scent Killer.

The washing process was brutal. Harper squirmed, and the scent was overwhelming. Fortunately, the soap worked, and we were able to drive back to Dallas with a skunk-free dog . . . a dog who is now taking the longest nap of all time.

Fox and the Bird

2011-10-06T17:45:00.001-05:00

Live in the Dallas Arts District on a gorgeous day. Any band with a guitar, uke, banjo, and mandolin has to be great. These folks are particularly good. I predict a bright future.

Red River

2011-07-28T18:28:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when Harper turns a 6 mile hike into a 20 mile run. Sleep well, pup. We are headed to the Motherload.

Red River

2011-07-24T20:37:00.000-05:00

Two days of swimming in rivers and chasing deer have left this guy pretty tired. Five more to go, Harper. Better rest up.

Morning harvest

2011-07-16T08:42:00.001-05:00

Spicy food for spicy weather. Also check out one of Megan's new mugs. Her work just gets better and better.

Belize: Heading Home

2011-06-15T14:31:00.000-05:00

I find myself with a couple of free hours in the Belize City airport before I head back to the real world. Like everything in Belize, the airport has its own laid back qualities. No lines. Just six gates. And, at Jet's Bar, perhaps the best rum punch around. Not a bad place to begin the arduous process of adjusting my mind for the return.

My return trip caps off six awesome days in Placencia with Megan's family. I hope to get pictures up soon, but the highlights included a trip to the Monkey River, where we found ourselves surrounded by trees bearing screaming howler monkeys. As impressive as the howlers were the many crocodiles we spotted up and down the river. Yesterday we took a snorkel trip to Laughing Bird Caye, a small strip of beach surrounded by gorgeous reefs teeming with fish.

Perhaps the best part of the trip was the food. The food quality was greatly improved at every meal by the availability of Marie Sharp's hot sauces. The company is apparently a national treasure, and I am convinced that Marie Sharp should receive a Nobel nomination for her contribution to the science of salsa. Her habanero sauces turned the Belizean staple of chicken, beans, and rice into some of the best food around. Our own culinary experiments turned out delicious (with the prize going to Megan for a mango salsa she added to chicken marinaded in Belizean spice rub . . . another amazing product), but my trip was capped off with a meal cooked by Natasha, manager of Los Porticos Villas. She steamed grouper on the grill, and I can't remember better tasting fish. Of course, the One Barrel rum was a great accompaniment to every meal.

Megan and the crew get a few more days down here. I'm told they will be taking a sunset sailing trip this evening before enjoying the first day of lobster season. I'm a bit jealous.

Made it to Belize

2011-06-11T08:19:00.000-05:00

From the front porch. I think we could get used to this.

Belize in 30 Hours

2011-06-09T07:16:00.002-05:00

Not that I am counting or anything, but Megan and I will be in Belize in about 30 hours. We are joining Megan's family for some beachy delight in celebration of her brother's high school graduation (and not just graduation, he closed it all out with a truly stellar academic performance).

Our destination is Placencia, which is apparently a small community where most everything is accessible by bicycle. The plans include snorkeling, sitting on a beach, seeing monkeys, sitting on a beach, tropical cocktails, and sitting on a beach. I'm a bit excited.

We have some new, high tech gizmos that should allow us to update the blog occasionally with photos and stories. For now, an epically long day of work ahead to try to make this break happen.

Asian Cajun

2011-05-29T19:57:00.001-05:00

Just fulfilled a two-year-old wish to eat at Asian Cajun, an icehouse on highway 105 between Brenham and Navasota. The name is descriptive--a nod to the unique menu. I sampled pork dumplings, Asian fried shrimp, crawfish etouffe, and fried crawfish. All delicious. Hopefully the first of many visits.

Ecuador: Quick Update

2011-03-14T22:02:00.003-05:00

I got a call from Megan this evening through some sort of Google-based phone program. Despite the horrible connection, I was able to learn that she arrived in Quito safely, is having a great time, is living with a family, plans to visit the markets tomorrow, and has not yet eaten guinea pig.

Off to Ecuador

2011-03-13T11:20:00.002-05:00

Megan began an epic journey very, very early this morning. For her first spring break on the faculty side of things, Megan was asked to be the faculty sponsor for a service-learning trip to Quito, Ecuador. Once in Ecuador, Megan and the 14 students on the trip will volunteer with an excellent organization called Ubelong. Anyone interested in following Megan's trip--or any of the other SMU service programs--can visit the SMU Adventures Blog (note: Knapp Adventure Blog predates the SMU Adventures Blog . . . I'm sure our lawyers will work out the rights at some point).

So far, the getting to Ecuador part has been the main adventure. To save limited funds, Megan and the student travelers were forced into an arduous journey. They gathered at our house for pizza and hilariously bad 70s movies dubbed in Spanish before leaving by car for Houston just before 2 AM. Of course, the hour of 2 AM did not exist last night, so they arrived in Houston shortly after 6 this morning. They are now en route to Miami for a refreshing six-hour layover before flying to Quito. Harper (world's best dog) and I are still recovering from the late night with the students, so I cannot imagine how tired they are. Fortunately, they will have some great sleep in the Andes fairly soon.

Icy Austin

2011-02-04T08:07:00.001-06:00

Knowing I had a rehearsal dinner in Austin tonight, I came down last night before the I-35 corridor turned into an ice rink. The bridges out of Dallas were frozen, hit heavy snow from Temple to Georgetown, and reached Austin just as the light mist began falling.

The news this morning says this is the most snow since February 14, 2004, a night I remember as perhaps the best snowball fight in modern Southwestern University history.

No snowball fights for me today though. For now, I will enjoy the view and wait for the sun to show up.

Snow day in Dallas

2011-02-01T14:14:00.003-06:00

Harper, our fragile little Golden Retriever, is a huge fan of the snow. We discovered this about a year ago, but we're thrilled for another rare opportunity to watch him go completely nuts in the white stuff. We have a pot of black beans with green chile and chorizo on the stove, so we're settled in for a great snow day.

Feliz cumpleanos

2011-01-28T18:20:00.001-06:00

Dallas skyline from the Bar Belmont as we celebrate Megan's birthday. Great evening for a patio!

Way Down South: Torres del Paine and Estancia Cerro Guido

2011-01-15T09:40:00.018-06:00

I am finally ready to start posting photos. I thought I'd start south and work north. Our southernmost point was Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. During our brief visit, we stayed at a massive ranch called Estancia Cerro Guido. The ranch itself was beautiful with stunning views of the landscape (including some amazing cloud formations). The hiking pictures come from a trail near Salta Grande within the national park.

At Cerro Guido, Megan and I got the chance to see how lamb asado was prepared from beginning to delicious end. First, the lamb is "crucified," or placed on a large metal rod. The rod is then leaned next to a fire so the lamb can slow cook over a period of four or five hours. The only seasoning is a light rub of salt, an epic load of smoke, and the herbal seasoning of the grasses the lamb ate.

We hiked up a hill above the restaurant at Cerro Guido to take in the views.

The black and white shot is of the front porch of the restaurant (and, oddly enough, matches a similar picture on the Cerro Guido website--an inviting view for others too apparently). The food and service was outstanding. Best pisco sour I tasted during my time in Patagonia. The picture with the horses was taken from our breakfast table.

After leaving Cerro Guido. We headed into the national park.

Some nourishment for the road back to Argentina . . .

Leaving Buenos Aires

2011-01-02T17:20:00.001-06:00

We are now at the airport waiting another hour or so to board the flight home. Unlike previous trips (Africa, for example) we are not quite ready to go. Our stay here has been wonderful, but we reluctantly head back to reality. A few thoughts as we leave.

Fireworks. We assumed we would not see any on new years. During dinner, we heard of a show from a nearby plaza, so we decided we would run back to our hotel to watch the show from the roof terrace. As it turns out, nearly everyone launches fireworks, and our rooftop terrace quickly became the center of a multicolored war zone. Great fun.

Steak. We ate lots of it, and it was cheap and delicious. Ate two filets yesterday at $7 and $12 respectively, each at or over eight ounces and each very delicious. A meat eater's paradise.

Flushers. Toilets here are far from uniform, and finding where to flush was often a puzzle.

Markets. There were craft markets, antique markets, and nearly anything anyone could need or want is bought and sold in streets and plazas. Today we went to a massive antique market in a public square.

Walking. Great city for walking. We wandered yesterday with Erin and Martin. Left from the architectural wonders of the Ricoleta Cemetery and wandered through gorgeous avenues and beautiful parks as well as along the Dakar rally course. Great hosts for a beautiful trek.

Once we return we will sort through our nearly 2000 pictures and post the best online as we are able. For now 11 hours on a plane, taxi to our house, and then I head to the office before an afternoon court hearing. The vacation is now over.

Buenos Aires

2010-12-31T17:38:00.001-06:00

Happy New Year!

We have had a great two days here in Buenos Aires. Our hotel, The Cocker, is fascinating. Recently remodeled, the place is gorgeous, and our room itself is an architectural marvel with the bed in an alcove underneath the bathroom. Interesting place to call home for a few days.

The evening of our arrival we met up with one of Megan's friends from the Brenham days who now lives in Buenos Aires. Erin and her boyfriend, Martin, offered an orientation to the city and excellent conversation while also guiding us to a restaurant that served our best steak yet.

We have spent most of our time meandering the city's boutiques and cultural sights. We wrapped up some Christmas shopping, and Megan ordered custom boots that should be gorgeous (the bootmaker has made boots and belts for multiple presidents of various countries, including the US, and recently designed a pair of boots for Carolina Herrera). The 2011 Dakar rally leaves from Buenos Aires in the morning, so we checked out the rally vehicles today. After seeing the fine art of off road vehicles, we went to the MALBA, which has an excellent collection of modern Latin American art (Rivera, Kahlo, Wilfredo Lam, Berni, Xul Solar, etc).

On Thursday, we went to the Plaza de Mayo to rally with the Madres of the Desaparacidos. Having studied revolutionary politics of Latin America in college, seeing the Madres was, for me, a pilgrimage of sorts. Even then, Megan and I found the experience overwhelming. For those who don't know, the Madres are mothers of people (largely students in their 20s) who were "disappeared" by Argentina's most recent dictatorship. 34 years ago, they began a weekly protest in a plaza surrounded by government buildings. The gathering continues weekly to this day. As one of the mothers said in a very moving speech: "This is the last march of the year, but of course this is not the last march for the Madres. The Madres will march forever." While the dictatorship fell (in part due to the Madres' relentless struggle), the Madres are a powerful reminder of the dangers of authoritarianism and the ability of normal people to make a profound difference in the world.

Tomorrow we head to the famous Ricoleta Cemetery and then join Erin and Martin for an afternoon in the park.

With respect to tonight's celebrations, we have learned of two new year traditions. First, people throw their calendars and shredded work papers from the year out the window. This has caused a huge mess in the business districts. Second, and a bigger problem for us, people in Buenos Aires celebrate the new year at home with family. As a result, nearly every restaurant and bar is closed tonight. The few that stay open are booked up, and we were not among those who had the foresight to make reservations. In a stroke of luck, we found a small cafe off the beaten path that has a fixed menu and an open table. Should provide more nourishment than our backup option of the Cliff bars leftover from our hikes.

A few thoughts on Patagonia

2010-12-29T04:22:00.002-06:00

We head to the airport shortly, so I thought I´d write out a few quick thoughts as we get ready to go.

The daylight situation is remarkable. It is light outside by 5 AM and not dark until roughly 11. We are awake nearly all the time it is light, but it has not left us exhausted. The daylight makes it very easy to play, and you can start a decent sized hike late in the day and still have plenty of time to make it back safely. I understand the winter days are brutally short, but I also get the idea very few people stay down here through the winter.

The mountain ranges are impressive and make for more difficult travel. For example, the house we stayed in on Christmas Eve, Estancia Alta Vista, was only 20 KM from Estancia Cerro Guido, the place we stayed in Chile. Our hike at El Chalten was longer than 20 KM. However, the trip driving was a 5 hour trip over 200 KM through some very rough roads. The overland trip is possible with about 8 hours on horseback, but the Chilean government doesn´t like folks entering their country undocumented. Anyway, always shorter as the condor flies, but the Ford Ka has to stick to roads.

Dogs everywhere. We miss our pup tremendously, but it is hard to walk a block in El Calafate without coming on some friendly stray looking for a small something to eat. Once the sun finally sets, the valley fills with a symphony (okay, cacophony) of howls and barks and yelps. Bob Barker´s message never made it this far south.

There is almost nothing better than the food here. I don´t know if a cuisine could be more perfectly designed for my tastes. The diet consists largely of grilled meats and meat stews. Plus, forget all this organic and free range stuff we pay a premium for in the states. All the animals here feed on grasses along mountain slopes with amazingly large spaces to roam (the 60,000 sheep, 2,000 cattle, and 2,000 horses at Cerro Guido share 100,000 hectacres, for example). The animals here are likely very happy, and they taste very happy too.

Dulce de leche. This is essentially a caramel sauce served like ketchup. It is everywhere. The center of a table is not complete without a bit of butter and gobs of dulce de leche. In order to adequately blend into the local culture, I smear it on all my bread products. Delicioso.

We are already formulating plans for a return trip. There is just so much to explore and so much ground to cover. We never made it to the coast for whales and penguins, and we barely scratched the surface on the hiking. And did I mention grilled meats and meat stew? Any other takers?

It has been an awesome week in Patagonia. Now off to Buenos Aires.

Glacier update

2010-12-28T16:52:00.001-06:00

The post-hike whiskey tastes even better with glacier ice. Traveling in Argentina is so tough.

Glacier trekking

2010-12-28T13:56:00.001-06:00

Here is a photo of Megan and me trekking on the Perito Moreno Glacier, a glacier with a surface area larger than Buenos Aires. Behind us a pool has formed in the glacier.

Last night in Patagonia.

Hiking in Torres del Paine

2010-12-27T16:24:00.001-06:00

Great walk today with amazing views. Tomorrow we go on a glacier hike near El Calafate.

A Patagonian Christmas

2010-12-26T04:56:00.003-06:00

The evening of December 23, Megan and I received some dreadful news. The estancia we had reserved for Christmas Eve had no room at the inn (well, kind of, the estancia could only be reached by ships, and the winds on Christmas Eve would be too high to allow navigation through the iceberg filled channel to get to the place). Like that first Christmas long ago, we were in need of other accomodations. Fortunately, Megan is not about to give birth, and our manger turned out to be a nice country ranch called Estancia Alta Vista (that said, we did end up eating in a barn that night. More on that later).

We arrived at Alta Vista initially skeptical. Estancia Cristina was written up in the New York Times as essentially the best place to stay in the area. The photos we had seen were stunning. We quickly moved past this disappointment. Alta Vista had a simple country elegance with beautiful and stately antiques. It was nice without being overstated. A place that simply felt like home.

Upon arrival we began to bond with our fellow refugees, the other folks who had intended to spend their Christmas in the most remote estancia in the area. Our other travelers were fascinating, and we quickly passed the time with hilarious conversation.

Later that afternoon, Megan and I took a horseback ride with our own gaucho guide. We set off on horseback, the saddles mercifully padded with thick sheepskin blankets for comfort. The horses themselves were very well trained despite constantly being distracted by the gorgeous grasses that grow this time of year.

A half hour into the ride we came upon a meadow dotted with bones. In my finest Spanish, I asked our gaucho who had massacred these helpless creatures. Turns out the mountains are full of pumas. We later learned that the toughest time for the sheep is when the puma mothers teach the cubs to hunt. To ensure the kids get great practice before prowling the hills on their own, the mother will lead them on a massacre of 20 to 50 sheep in a night. I figured sheep were easier targets than our horses, so tried not to worry too much about this apparent danger.

The ride ended on a mountaintop overlooking 300 degrees of mountains, Lago Argentino (the largest lake in Argentina), and several glaciers. Behind us in a field 20 wild horses grazed, and condors and eagles soared overhead. It was nothing short of magical.

The ride down was even more enjoyable as our confidence on horseback grew. By time we returned, delicious smells started to emerge from the barn near the house. It turned out our hosts were preparing a Christmas feast in typical Argentine fashion. They had placed an entire lamb on a metal pole over a large fire with other meats include thick cuts of beef, various sausages (including an incredible blood sausage), and chicken. After a snack of salamis and cheeses accompanied by a local favorite beverage, pisco sour, our hosts lead us to the barn where our gaucho hosts kept the parilla (grill) going. The meal was planned perfectly to avoid distracting from the meat. Sure, we had bits of green things and some potatos, but the star of the show was massive slabs of juicy meat cooked al punto (medium rare) and served on small grills with coals underneath to make sure the meats continued to sizzle throughout the meal. The Argentine Malbecs flowed as well.

During the dinner we learned some of the history of the area as our hosts joined us at the table. The area was settled essentially 100 years ago with primarily British and Scottish pioneers aching to get some land of their own. A few Italians and Spaniards moved to the area, but they quickly migrated to warmer climates. We learned about the different types of sheep to raise different types of wool and the various implications of choosing a merino sheep, for example, as opposed to a cashmere. We learned which sheep give the best wool prices and best meat prices and which would simply fail to survive the Patagonian winters.

The festivities continued until well after midnight although our group slowly dwindled. It was a Christmas to remember, and we felt extremely fortunate that our previous reservation had been cancelled.

And now, off to Chile!

Hiking to Cerro Torre

2010-12-23T15:35:00.001-06:00

The 14 mile hike was worth it. Feliz navidad from Patagonia!

A Christmas Song

2010-12-21T20:48:00.003-06:00

Heard a new one at dinner tonight in Buenos Aires. To the tune of jingle bells, ching ching ching, ching ching ching, ching ching navidad!

So there you go. Also, you can now post comments freely without my moderation. so feel free to express yourselves.

Yet further South tomorrow. I expect my internet access to vanish or at least decline substantially. Just in case, felize navidad!

A few thoughts on Rio

2010-12-21T09:00:00.001-06:00

We are waiting for our departure to Buenos Aires, and I thought I would sketch out a few observations from our time here in Rio de Janeiro. By the way, you can wear your shoes through the metal detectors and don't get felt up here. The airport has been effortless.

First, Brazil (or at least Rio) is more advanced when it comes to energy conservation. Lights tended to have timers and the timers tended to run down quickly with an empty room. Escalators are activated by a platform in the floor, and napkins are just the right size. Windows and fans ran instead of air conditioning units. They just get this right.

Police were interesting to observe. We encountered them a few times, and they almost always had guns drawn and almost always had their finger on the trigger. Maybe this is part of the effort to tame the city before the World Cup, but we found it unsettling--particularly when the gun in question was a machine gun.
Salsa innovation last night. We ended up at a small but lively neighborhood restaurant called Baroquim Informal. Our appetizers were served with a remarkable hot sauce. One of the more delicious I have ever tasted. After complimenting the sauce in my best Portuguese (gastoso means delicious), our waiter brought out the manager to give us the recipe. We need to do some translating, but it has a couple types of oil, cachaca (the Brazilian brandy), and a pepper called malagueta. We found the peppers in a market this morning but anticipated problems with our next four border crossings. So our goal is to find malagueta peppers in Dallas.

After the salsa discovery, we ended up in a bar so excellent I don't think I could have imagined a better place. Extensive beer list with offerings from all over (including Brew Dog's Sink the Bismarck--a 40 % alcohol beer priced around $350 USD). Blues music too. Just great. But then a bartender pulled out a knife and started shaving his head and arms at the bar. He followed that up by digging in his hand. So we left slightly creeped out but pleased by the find nonetheless.

By the way, Santa Claus sells beers on Ipanema beach before the holidays kick off. Probably how he unwinds before the around-the-world journey. So if you have last minute requests, best head south.

Sunsets were inspirational. We went to a rocky outcropping overlooking Ipanema and Leblon beaches. Mountains, ocean, sunset, and, behind us, moonrise. The moment the sun set, the crowd, which had all paused to watch, cheered, as if to say "thank you" (obrigado) for a great day.

Rio de Janeiro update

2010-12-20T16:30:00.001-06:00

A quick update after a great three days. Our host at the Rio Dolphin Inn has given us excellent information and been a huge help.

Our options for the first night included going to a samba school in a rougher part of town (the school itself, however, is apparently protected by drug traffickers, no worries) or going to Rio Scensarium, a famous samba bar in a neighborhood called Lapa. We evaluated our options over an excellent meal at Zaza Bistro before deciding we would pass on the sketchy joint and head to Lapa. Proved to be a good choice, and we enjoyed the samba until our overnight flight caught up with us and forced us to samba home.

Cristo Redentor was amazing this morning. Aside from that, a meal in the Santa Teresa neighborhood, and a market known as the "Hippie Fair," we have concentrated on studying local beach culture. The bathing suits are wildly skimpy, the beer wonderfully cold, and the vendors remarkably innovative. One of the most interesting beach options is a block of cheese on a stick. The vendors carry small grills and roast the cheese before serving.

About to head out for dinner. Tomorrow to Buenos Aires for a brief night before heading to Patagonia. I am shocked to be headed to jacket weather again.

By the way, your comments to the blog posts won't publish because I cannot moderate them. Feel free to comment, and I can publish them when I return to the states (which is fortunately two weeks away).

Ciao!

In Rio

2010-12-18T09:29:00.001-06:00

In a steamy Rio safely. Now we have some beaches calling. Ciao.

Rio Bound

2010-12-17T19:07:00.001-06:00

Miami greeted us with coconut shrimp and an adequate bookstore. Rio bound!

Success

2010-12-16T07:44:00.001-06:00

The photo posted. Sure, it isn't rotated correctly, and it is apparently a picture I posted already. But, the point is, we can now share visual images of the upcoming adventure.

Speaking of, we're still figuring out how to pack. Rio looks to be in the upper 80s, chance of storms, and heat indexes north of 110 degrees. Patagonia looks to be in the 50s, lows in the 30s, with hard winds, rain, and snow. So looks like I'll pack a swimsuit and a parka and be good to go.

Less than 20 hours until departure . . .

Remote photo posting test

2010-12-16T07:06:00.001-06:00

This is a test to see if I can post photos to the blog from my Blackberry. If a picture of me with a mustache appears, then expect some shots from South America. If not, you will just have to wait until next year.

In Which We Return After A Lengthy Hiatus

2010-11-21T18:40:00.004-06:00

The Knapp Adventure Blog has experienced an unprecedented hiatus. It isn't a result of a shortage of adventures. On the contrary, we've been in and out of the mountains with amazing regularity. We've gone two-stepping in Luckenbach, we've avoided aggressive mountain goats near New Mexico's highest peak, and we white water rafted in perhaps the lowest trickle of water I've seen. It's been a good year.

But a big adventure awaits. In December, we once again bid farewell to our families for the holiday season and set our sights on distant shores. The schedule includes Rio de Janeiro, Patagonia, and Buenos Aires. We'll welcome Christmas from a remote estancia (ranch), and we'll greet the New Year with malbecs, steak, and tango. Likely to be an epic time.

Since our travels to Africa, the availability of internet service has expanded at a remarkable pace, so I have a hunch I'll be able to post tidbits from our journey at various spots along the way. Will Megan match her Hawaiian surfing prowess on the beaches of Ipanema? Will views of Fitz Roy leave me speechless forever? Will our diminutive rental car handle the roughly 600 km of Patagonian roads we plan to traverse?

Check back to find out. For now, donate money to prostate cancer research and enjoy this photo from yet another wonderful Movember:

Homer's Backyard Ball: Amarillo Mudfest

2010-05-16T20:40:00.002-05:00

When I go home to Amarillo I look forward to a number of things. Visits to grandparents and other family. Long conversations on the porch. Hugs from siblings. Just catching up. I have never gone home to Amarillo anxious to catch some great live music, but that all changed this weekend with Homer's Backyard Ball.

Homer's is a barbecue cook-off and fundraiser for the Make-a-Wish Foundation set on a large patch of pasture near Amarillo's waterpark. The lineup this year caught my eye. Matt Martindale (of Cooder Graw fame), Tommy Alverson, Tejas Brothers, Band of Heathens, and Eleven Hundred Springs were all huge draws. That, as well as promise of potentially delicious barbecue, made this visit home something extra special to look forward to.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect. The FAQ section of the website elaborated on the BYOB policy, emphasizing that it is limited to the amount of alcohol one can move into the festival under human power . . . dollies, wagons, and carts would be okay. This impression--that some folks would be going hog wild--was reinforced as we stopped to get a couple beers to take out to the pasture. Upon hearing I was headed to Homer's, the manager of the liquor store looked at my paltry stash of brew and informed me I would need substantially more. Earlier that day he sent a series of kegs out the door toward Homer's on dollies. He finally agreed to let me leave with my minimal quantity but advised I make friends with some of his better-prepared customers.

As we approached the concert site, it occurred to me that the previous days' torrential downpour would potentially turn the pasture into puddles, the green grass into goo and gunk. We slid the vehicle into a disturbingly soft field, and set off through light mud toward the tunes. As we approached, people were walking the opposite direction drenched in the brown stuff--coated in a sticky dark mud. While some would see this as a warning, we took it as a challenge. These people were obviously fools who made a conscious decision to swim in mud, living some sort of Texas Panhandle meets Woodstock fantasy. We would escape unscathed.

Minutes later, sunk up to my calves, I began to reassess. We found a patch of grass struggling to stay on the surface against the rising tide of mud and set up some chairs, dropping the cooler with a very soft thud. Mom and Matt set off in search of food as Gary and I began to appreciate the chaos unfolding around us. We realized most of the crowd had been drinking . . . for hours. For many hours. And drinking a lot. This, naturally, provoked random mud tackles, giddy mud-wrestling, angry mud-wrestling, and two-stepping which turned into mud-wrestling.

Mom and Matt returned to inform us that the competition barbecue had been long consumed. They found the only food available: calf fries or Rocky Mountain oysters. Whatever the euphemism, we'd be eating the nether regions of bulls.

Fortunately, this dinner complemented the accordion-spiced country coming from the Tejas Brothers. It also worked well with outlandish straw cowboy hats matching random facial hair on stumbling cowboys. And, when I entered a porta-potty after a man with a massive grey handlebar mustache, furry calf-skin blazer, and massive sombrero, it all just made sense.

While the mud reduced the crowd size, it left behind a group either too dedicated to the tunes or too immobilized by various forces to give up. Tejas Brothers had a fun and exciting show. Band of Heathens were remarkable with multi-instrumental talent and a barrage of great, great guitar action. But then the fist fighting started, and we thought we'd escape--unfortunately leaving before a personal favorite, the Dallas-based Eleven Hundred Springs, took the stage.

The trek back to the car was fraught with peril. We were blinded by the highbeams of F350s while struggling to keep our feet on fairly solid ground. Our boots had accumulated an improbable quantity of muck, turning each step into a workout. Finally at the car, we removed the muddy weights and delicately slid into seats--happy to be headed to warm showers, a healthy meal, and blissful sanity.

Movember: The Manliest Month of the Year

2009-12-01T08:48:00.005-06:00

This month, I participated in an international fundraiser known as "Movember." The basic idea is that I spend the month growing a mustache, and then I solicit sponsorship for my mustache from friends, family, and basically anyone who asks why I have a mustache (which was pretty much everyone). The month of Movember has reached its conclusion, but there is still time to donate to the cause. Donations benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and Livestrong.

Last night, I said goodbye to the mustache with a relaxing evening with my dog, my guitar, and a Mo-retti. Below are some photos to share the greatness that was my 'stache.

Red River and Taos: Mountain Time!

2009-11-14T08:22:00.000-06:00

A long overdue post from our Labor Day trip. This year we decided to capitalize on the Labor Day holiday, squeeze in a couple extra days off, and manage to enjoy a handful of days in the Rockies. The main destination was my family's cabin near Red River, New Mexico, but we also tossed in a day trip to Taos.

While the legendary tales of this adventure will be echoed in the pines for years to come, I will use the blog to share the photos. But first, a game of I Spy--how many sheep can you find in this photo:

Summer Update in Photos

2009-08-08T06:23:00.026-05:00

This latest blogging hiatus has been far too long. At this point, a detailed narrative of each adventure would take a long time to write, so I'll rely instead on photographs.

Graduation

The summer began with a milestone in Harper's life, graduation from puppy kindergarten. The ceremony was complete with cap and gown . . . this is as close as we could get to capturing a picture of Harper in his. I wonder if he was benefited by social promotion.

Bonnaroo!

Four sweaty days in Tennessee. The first night brought an intense storm with driving rain, leaving the fields full of ankle-deep mud. Fortunately the storm hit, for the most part, after camp had been constructed, so we had shelter (but missed great acts like Low Anthem, Alberta Cross, and Passion Pit). The rest of the weekend went much better, from the surprise show by Jimmy Buffet to Ben Harper's remarkable new iteration, the Relentless 7. Other highlights included MGMT, Zach Deputy's Shakedown Alley performances, and the local brewery tent. Oh, and someone was allegedly stabbed in our campsite this year. Oh yeah, and we witnessed heroin usage. Otherwise, great Bonnaroo.

Shakerag

From Bonnaroo, I dropped Megan off in Sewanee, Tennesee, for a week-long pottery workshop called Shakerag. The workshop featured gourmet meals consisting of locally-grown produce prepared by accomplished chefs. She returned with roughly a dozen beautiful pieces and culinary bragging rights for life. The last bowl was Megan's masterpiece, unfortunately completed too late to fire. The blue building below is a place called Shenanigans, where Megan and I enjoyed the blessed post-Bonnaroo first meal.

Fourth of July

Floated the river . . . two-stepped while Gary P Nunn played "London Homesick Blues" at Gruene Hall. Enough said.

Harper

Of course, the most significant event of the summer has been keeping Harper from destroying the planet. (As I type this, he is removing the leather casing from a baseball. Most exotic thing consumed, that we know of, was half a mole during a visit to Brenham.) He's a friendly guy, chock-full of mischief and energy. He's also growing with remarkable speed. Here are some summer highlights. The white dog is Harper's long-time lover and best friend, Emma.

Opposite Day

2009-05-04T16:24:00.002-05:00

I finally decided that living with a puppy is like living in opposite day, a very popular day in elementary school where every word took on its opposite meaning. "Release," a command often given when the puppy is trying to make a meal out of the couch, is interpreted as "bite harder, and maybe add a touch of growl." "No," shouted loudly as he begins to chew a plant that we so carefully added to the garden just weeks before, means "this plant must be the best thing to chew on . . . ever." "Come" means "keep doing whatever I'm doing and definitely ignore that guy over there." "Down" means "rip Megan's pants off and then go for the shoelaces."

It's been tough, but tonight the tables turn. We begin "puppy kindergarten" at a place near our home that actually sells a product called "Happy Tail Ale", a beer designed for dogs. I'm not sure how much discipline can be learned at the only purveyor of dog beer I've ever seen, but we'll give it a shot.

Harper

2009-04-19T08:00:00.007-05:00

Just before six this morning, I knew my weekend routine was forever changed. I heard pawing and a bit of crying coming from inside the crate at the foot of our bed. We had been through this drill: Harper needed to take care of some business. Megan had taken the 3 AM shift, so it was clearly my turn. If we have any hope of housebreaking the little guy, I needed to get in gear quickly. Day Two of dog ownership had begun, and, as I noticed the remnants of last night's margaritas trouncing around my skull, I felt it had begun far too early.

But, it turns out, this was a great way to start a day. Harper reminded me immediately that there is so much to do that I was missing just laying in bed. There are noises to investigate, bushes to pounce, and, most importantly, a whole world of objects just waiting to be gnawed. We played hard until sunrise, at which point I grabbed a guitar and he grabbed a nap. This may just work out.

Mountain Road Trip: Shredding the Nar, Loving the Pow Pow, Encountering UFOs

2009-03-13T18:43:00.018-05:00

1889 miles. 30 runs. 5 nights. 3 states. 1 UFO watchtower. It was a heck of a road trip.

Megan's job offers one benefit that few other "grownups" get to enjoy--Spring Break. Around the time her Spring Break was getting started, I noted a lull in my litigation calendar, a brief window free of briefing deadlines and discovery due dates. So we capitalized in a big way.

We left on a Thursday morning for Amarillo. Thursday night offered the theater as two of my siblings, EmElise and Barrett, were starring in Peter Pan. The play was a tale of daring and danger (literally, as it turns out). The set included a gigantic pirate ship, and sword fights were plentiful. All in all it was a good stop.

We left Friday morning for the long drive to Denver. The towns fell by quickly as the elevation increased. The drive was noteworthy for a tasty stop at Tequila's in Trinidad, but perhaps more noteworthy for Trinidad's one-stop shopping, including this store that peddles antiques, jewelry, and liquor. Notice the dreamcatchers on the roofline . . . just great.

After nearly 8 hours on the road, we made a sling-shot around Denver and headed up a canyon near the Red Rocks concert venue. Megan's conversation gave way to a repetitive mantra: "I can't believe they live here." "They" were friends from college, Megan's roommate Erica and her husband, Spencer. "Here" was just past Morrison near the lovely, bustling town of Conifer. Their gorgeous house sat on a hillside with great views of nearby mountains. They had arrived, and fortunately, so had we.

Shredding (Shifting) the Nar

Well rested and very well fed, we skied like champs, like the kind of champs who flawlessly pose for cheesy ski shots like the one above. Megan's progress throughout the weekend was incredible. She began the first morning expressing her growing nervousness at having to dismount from the chairlift, a mundane task, for sure, but really the first test of one's ability to stay upright while sliding downhill. She got on and off the lift flawlessly, and we knew it would be a good day.

The snow was falling quickly, and the air was cold. None of this stopped Megan from perfecting a gorgeous parallel turn . . . as long as she was turning left. The right turns were lacking, but, after a couple of afternoon beers and some coaching from Erica and me, things started coming together. Finally, by the close of day two, Megan was turning left and right like a pro and selecting blue runs over greens. She had graduated from shifting to shredding the nar.

Alien Encounters

The drive to New Mexico was incredible. We left Erica and Spencer's retreat, turned right on 285, and drifted by the Collegiate Peaks, 14,000 foot giants that took our breath away. We were immediately thankful that we drove instead of flew.

As 285 took a hard turn south, I struggled as I drove through Poncha Springs without turning toward Monarch Pass, the cite of a legendary ski trip that Tom and I took several years before.

Fortunately, the San Luis Valley opened up before us, and we soon found ourselves distracted by the UFO Watchtower in Hooper, Colorado--a research facility, museum, and energy vortex dedicated to the extraterrestrial. It was a unique visit, and the owner of the property invited us to leave objects in one of the vortexes to contribute to the positive flow of energy. I noticed one person who ditched their smart phone--while I felt a similar inclination at the moment, I settled on a rubber band. Megan contributed a pen cap. If the universe seems more harmonious this week, you now know the cause. Below are some snapshots of our stay.

We left Hooper and headed to Taos where we enjoyed enchiladas and avocado pie at Orlando's. From there, it was onto Santa Fe and the familiar comforts of Ten Thousand Waves and the Compound. The trip, it seemed, was coming to a comfortable conclusion.

Heading Home

But an unexpected thing happened--Santa Fe ski area got 3 fresh inches of the white stuff. Never one to neglect a fresh batch of the pow pow, I found my dear wife convincing me that we had time for one more morning on the slopes. While I knew we had a roughly 650 mile ahead, I also knew the end of that drive would present zero inches of delicious powder. So, we donned our ski garb one more time, pointed the car up-valley, and prepared for another gorgeous morning.

The snow fell softly as Megan skied blue after blue--each run with increasing confidence and increasingly beautiful right turns. I bombed Muerte once, for tradition's sake. Just less than three hours and eight beautiful runs later, we were back in the parking lot saluting ourselves on a job well done.

While rational people would have then pointed the car east and worked their way home, we had one more stop to make--Pasqual's where Megan chose the huevos motulenos. This was another tradition that couldn't be avoided. And, while we were at it, we picked up an art gallery here and there, and finally, yes finally, we headed toward Texas around 2:30 Mountain time.

The drive back went quickly at first as we chattered with the last remnants of the morning rush. As we cleared Clines Corners, we knew we were in for a long haul. By Amarillo, we were thankful to stop at Mom's house for some food and conversation. By Claude, we had begun the longest road-sign alphabet game ever. That came to a close with the "z" in "fertilizer" as we passed through Memphis. In Childress, we started picking out hotels that seemed inviting. By Wichita Falls, I was doubting whether we would make it Dallas alive. At 3 AM on the spot, we pulled into the driveway with 1889 miles on the odometer. We had arrived.

Catching Up

2009-01-18T17:06:00.009-06:00

The caretakers of the Knapp Adventure Blog are in desperate need of some adventure. Since the fun in Southern California, our wanderings have been much more local in nature, keeping us in and around Dallas with occasional trips to Hill Country. We plan to ski Colorado (all of it) in early March. June will find us in Bonnaroo and back to Red River for a family wedding. Otherwise, we'll be staying close. In the absence of embarrassing stories about African adventures, I decided I would post some pictures to catch our readers up on what we were up to as 2008 came to a close.

Southern California

2008-09-17T21:46:00.000-05:00

As my plane descended into Palm Springs, I noted a stunning but bleak natural environment that eventually gave way to a small island of development with vibrant green golf courses. The city just did not seem to belong there. The plane landed, and I soon found myself roaming through a city without much history beyond the California celebrities who used to visit, evidenced by streets with names like "Frank Sinatra" and "Gene Autry." Palm Springs seemed to be a creature of a previous time that had perhaps had a glory day now seemingly eclipsed by summer heat and economic slowdown. I was not impressed.

So, I cruised the streets to kill some time before meeting Megan and high-tailing it to San Diego. Both of us were exhausted--Megan from a week of emotionally-exhausting training, and me from an excellent but very late night watching the Dedringers rock Dan's Silverleaf in Denton. Thus, when we cruised through San Diego's Gas Lamp District through throngs of elaborately costumed party-goers, we wondered if we'd made a smart decision. The lobby of our hotel, The Keating, offered a surreal scene. A man with a Mohawk sat down at the piano playing some jazz while his companion, also sporting a radical mane, danced frantically. Fairly certain that we had inadvertently wandered into party central, we stumbled upstairs and crashed.

The next day we wandered. We ate a beast of a breakfast at the rural Indiana-themed Hash House A Go Go. We strolled La Jolla's beaches, saw an stimulating Bruce Nauman exhibit, and received validation from a gallery owner that, yes, the Brandon Maldonado painting we purchased in Santa Fe was an excellent choice. We visited a wine bar at Ocean Beach before checking out its nightlife and then wandered back to the Gas Lamp District where we saw Common in concert for free.

Sunday offered the hipster neighborhood of Mission Hills where I purchased the so cool in SoCal hat pictured below. We visited Balboa Park to see an organ concert, where I jammed to Bach while rocking my trendy lid and holding a colorful umbrella. Word.

That evening we stumbled upon a last-second, cash only sale of tickets for the smash Broadway hit "Spring Awakening," which landed us on the front row of the balcony at the Balboa Theater. Fortunately we had just enough time beforehand to devour a California burrito (a steak burrito that someone brilliantly decided to augment with french fries).

Monday morning, we made a final visit to the Hash House before heading back through the desert and on toward home. I have yet to introduce my hat to Dallas, but I'm sure it will make an appearance . . . but maybe this town just isn't quite ready for it yet.

Okay, so let's get Megan with that crazy sculpture from La Jolla just one last time . . .

Spanish Market: Santa Fe, New Mexico

2008-07-29T21:02:00.005-05:00

Occasionally New Mexico lives up to its state motto, "Land of Enchantment." Maybe it didn't the time I found myself wandering through waste-deep snow somewhere vaguely below Wheeler Peak. It did not feel too enchanting the time I was running down a mountainside and tripped, sending hunks of high iron-content rock deep into my knee. And it was not so enchanting to be stuck on the highway for hours while waiting for the department of transportation to clear a mudslide.

But last weekend in Santa Fe, the state certainly provided enchantment. Megan and I joined Dad and Toni to head to Santa Fe on what has become a bi-annual pilgrimage to the city of art and artists, spas and ski slopes, meals and meanderings. In the winter time, we visit to shred the nar. This weekend we visited the Spanish Market.

Art and Artifact

The Spanish Market is a juried art event consisting of entries primarily from New Mexico. As the name suggests, most of the artists paint in styles reflecting the original Spanish settlement of the area with a heavy focus on statuary and retablos, small paintings of saints. The artists are often known as "santeros," or saint painters, and the work transports the viewer to another time. Other artists create furniture or jewelry in a similar vein. Many were kind enough to let me photograph their work.

Accompanying the traditional work are more innovative, contemporary works that celebrate the Spanish roots but often adapt the representation to the culture that emerged in the Southwest. The work featured at the top, by Arthur Lopez, shows the result of that cultural transformation by taking a traditional Spanish method of representation and transforming it into something mystical.

Naturally, Megan and I could not leave the market without a few treasures. Our first find was by Michael Vargas, a supermarket manager turned santero. Megan was initially drawn to his booth by a painting of the holy trinity. I entered the booth to give my opinion, but, as we both turned to our right, we found ourselves mesmerized by a painting called "Santo Nino," a portrayal of Christ as a boy. The work was in pastels on clayboard. Below Megan and Michael Vargas show off the work.

Our second purchase came shortly before departure. We had spotted the work of Brandon Maldonado from a distance, but his booth was always too crowded. Finally, we found an empty booth Sunday morning and wandered inside. We looked at his more shocking works, works portraying deep pain in a unique, surreal style. We pined over some of the works and eventually settled on a book of his paintings themed loosely on the Dia De Los Muertos. The book was a consolation, we thought, until Megan dropped her coffee. This forced us to apologize for the mess and take a longer look at a painting we had barely noticed on our way in. Inspired directly by an Ingres painting of the same name, "The Bather" revealed Maldonado's historical inspiration while transforming that work with his unique style. The painting took Ingres' bather and warped her for a dynamic world while removing her from a comfortable setting, replacing it with a vague void. Below, Megan and I pose for a picture with the painting and the artist. He has a blindingly bright future ahead of him.

Food, Clothing, Shelter

The trip to Santa Fe was not entirely about art . . . it was also about getting some much needed rest while celebrating Dad and Toni's anniversary (just look at the celebration occurring above . . . merriment abounds). We stayed at a cozy bed and breakfast with an excellent daily happy hour called the Water Street Inn. An attentive owner made our stay a delight.

Beyond sleeping, we ate, and we ate well. Tradition sent us to Pasqual's for brunch upon arrival, but we also tried some new spots. Aqua Santa offers sumptuous dishes with some of the more complicated but impressive flavors I have ever tried. These dishes were complemented by an excellent brew, Monk's Ale, from a monastery in Abiquiu. The beer was modeled after Belgian Trappist ales, but surpasses its Belgian cousins. The second night we gnoshed on a smattering of exquisite seafood dishes at Geronimo's on Canyon Road.

All in all, it was a great trip . . . interesting sights, delicious food, and just enough time sitting on a balcony with a glass of wine. Now we are back in Dallas wondering if ski season could come just a bit earlier this year.

The End of Bonnaroo

2008-06-23T20:52:00.001-05:00

"I walked and walked and walked . . . until I finally came to the end of Bonnaroo. And there were no more tents."

Megan and I overheard these comments while waiting in line to splash ourselves with sulphur-scented spring water before heading out to a day of rocking. The comments were obviously the results of some serious drug. After all, we had been at Bonnaroo just over twelve hours, but we already knew it was all-encompassing. It had no end, only middle places that wrapped you in constant stimulus and unending sensory adventures. And the tents did not end--there were tens of thousands of them. But, as it turns out, Bonnaroo did come to an end, and that gives us the chance to share the experience and hopefully keep it alive, at least a bit, for a while. The pictures tell the story, so I'll keep my commentary to a minimum (Mastodon!).

Arrival

Our rag-tag crew of Bonnaroo rockers gathered in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. There we could stock up on last-minute necessities before departing civilization as we knew it.

Our group was a great conglomeration. We had a car full of folks arriving from Austin, some flying in from Austin and Amarillo, a bunch from Dallas, and other drivers arriving from Louisville and Ashville. We had 11 people, and when the weekend began, there was no single person in the group who knew everyone else--the prospect of meeting new folks only added to the excitement. We all arrived planning to make friends, and nothing prompts unity like constant sweat and a shared cooler (or three) of cold beer. With the crew assembled, I turned over the starter on my sweet Kia minivan, and we prepared to rock. Below you can see the eager anticipation of my passengers.

Lines

Our early experience with Bonnaroo consisted of lines. Our high speed departure from the Murfreesboro Wal-Mart quickly slowed as we queued in a 13 mile line on the shoulder of I-24. The line took about four-and-a-half hours, but entertainment was plentiful. We had the joys of watching passengers attempt to find secluded spots in which to urinate, and we enjoyed debating the festival schedule while listening to the Bonnaroo radio station.

But lines became a common experience. There were lines for the bathrooms, lines for the drinks, lines to twist one's head underneath a spigot to steal some sulphur-scented water . . . which is the experience captured below. That said, the frigid spring water was delightfully refreshing and allowed us to keep the grime down.

Camping

Our campsite was the refuge, stocked with beer, guitars, plenty of snacks, and bountiful shade--I treasured the time hanging around camp. Some images . . . (and yes, that is the incredible Kia Mastodon in the background)

Festival

The festival itself was stimulus overload. The music varied from genre to genre, as I found myself listening to bluegrass, rock, heavy metal, hip-hop and country--often within the period of hours. Festivals reward folks who are receptive to new types of music. I enjoyed obvious favorites, like Jack Johnson, Ben Folds, Sigur Ros, and Pearl Jam. But the most surprising joy came from acts I did not even think I would hear: M.I.A., Ghostland Observatory, Gogol Bordello, Ladytron, Abigail Washburn . . . and it goes on. Below, Jeff took particular enjoyment watching Jack Johnson and Eddie Vedder play "Constellations."

Music was a small part of the festival experience. I also enjoyed people-watching and spontaneous naptime. Thus, a people-watching/ naptime montage:

Bonnaroo also presents monumental art as outrageous as the musical acts:

The End of Bonnaroo

Eventually, Preston played taps on the bugle (or kazoogle), and we lowered the Texas flag and Jolly Roger--the flags that allowed us to find home base in the city of tents. We came to the end of Bonnaroo . . . but there were still tents.

(as you may tell from this one, Mark Everett did not wait in line to bathe . . . compare his hair in this photo to his hair in the van on the ride in . . . we're glad he had his own tent)

Countdown to Bonnaroo

2008-06-09T15:03:00.001-05:00

I am excited. Probably more than excited--I'm actually thrilled. We are now in the countdown to the final days (hours? . . . no, still days) to the Bonnaroo Music Festival.

It is an inaugural visit for Megan and me. We have loved our Austin City Limits festivals, but those are drastically different. After all, each night after ACL featured a bed and a shower and a large meal.

Bonnaroo involves camping, in tents, in the heat. The showers are hoses, and the food comes from vendors. The shows do not end promptly at 10:30 PM but instead range through the night. It is a different sort of experience and one that will likely bring the crowd closer together.

So here we are, on the brink. We currently have the tent airing out in the media room, clothing piled on the guest bed, snack stuff and various tarps on the dining room table, and a few final supplies on order overnight from REI. We are darn near ready. Updates and photos to come . . . . first comes the music.

Musical Month: Bon Jovi, Poison Cherry, and Steve Earle

2008-05-06T13:14:00.001-05:00

My blogging has become worse than sporadic . . . after producing material at a fairly regular (albeit irregular) pace I have fallen into posting almost monthly, which isn't going to cut it. If we ever plan to make this blog our ticket to a career as an elite husband-and-wife duo on the Travel Channel (I will take recommendations for the name of our show), I better start blogging more regularly . . . and about more than just trips to flea markets, even if they are markets of apocalyptic proportions.

Last month was a very musical month for us. First, my father-in-law kicked of his career as a blogger by opening a fascinating blog about the blues that I highly recommend visiting (www.bushdogblues.blogspot.com). Perhaps inspired by his content, I decided it was time for a music post here as well.

We kicked off the month with Bon Jovi, live and in concert. Our expectations were mixed--I assumed it would be entertaining, and Megan could not quite remember what Bon Jovi sang (of course she knew the songs, but they weren't permanently fixed with the man himself). The concert exceeded expectations as I became embarrassingly excited as the words "Shot through the heart . . . " echoed across the American Airlines Center. The show had plenty of cheesy stage antics (my favorite was Bon Jovi's gestures which suggested that Bon Jovi was somehow directing the ethereal rock pouring from Richie Sambora's ax). Megan seemed disappointed at Bon Jovi's conservative attire as the show began, but he quickly ditched the leather jacket to reveal a low-cut leather vest. Later, he donned a black leather jacket featuring the name of his new album on the back--"Lost Highway." A friend who attended with us noted that the words looked more like "Love Machine," and we decided that would have been more appropriate anyway. We left quite pleased, but not as pleased as the drunken middle-aged lady to our left who moaned, "That's my song," as each verse began. I am pretty sure she had a better time.

Not willing to release the 80s, we later found ourselves at the Lakewood Bar & Grill to watch Poison Cherry perform. Poison Cherry is a big-haired, immaculately-costumed band that seems to exist in some strange bend in space and time, the 80s living, loud, and quite healthy today. Such is the force of their time warp, that many of the bar's patrons also seemed to have stepped foot into the concert directly from another era. None of that really mattered, though, because Poison Cherry simply rocks in the most grandiose and obnoxious ways possible. The guitarist sported red tights with tiger stripes, and not to be outshown by his righteous garb, he managed to strum the guitar with his tongue shortly before smashing it to the stage. Once again, we found ourselves rocking to Bon Jovi but in a more intimate and somehow much more exciting way. We were baffled upon entering the bar to see the number of diehard Poison Cherry fans, and, as I watched Megan shouting the lyrics to "Bad Medicine," I realized Poison Cherry had won two more.

Finally, we wrapped up the month with a Steve Earle concert at Lakewood Theater. The show began wonderfully with Steve playing acoustic guitar and harmonica to some of his great songs. And then a DJ walked out on stage and approached a turntable. I wasn't sure what to expect at this point, but, needless to say, the show just got weird from there. The DJ was spinning beats to Steve Earle's tunes, and the compositions seemed disjointed and cacophonous. He broke up the set with a great performance of "Galway Girl" on mandolin, but then the DJ returned and the strangeness continued. As he left the stage, I felt terribly disappointed and confused.

Fortunately, his encore salvaged the entire experience. He walked out and began playing the tune to "Rex's Blues" while telling stories of his times with Townes Van Zandt. That alone would have been worth the ticket price for me. Then he launched into "Rex's Blues" followed by "Fort Worth Blues," and I have never heard those songs the way I heard them that evening. I never got the chance to see Townes Van Zandt in concert, but Steve Earle managed to connect us to that experience, if only a little bit, that night.

The live music will continue. We are now a bit over a month away from the Bonnaroo Music Festival. While my college friends are now veterans of the festival, Megan and I look forward to our first experience. And maybe, just maybe, I'll manage to craft an entry or two between now and then.

Canton Revisited: Story in Photos

2008-04-06T12:23:00.001-05:00

I am assuming that my last post about Canton Trade Days was a huge hit and widely read by most of the world's webgoers. Tipped off to the threat of imminent apocalypse, the kind ladies from the First Baptist Church appeared to monitor the situation . . . this woman seemed vigilant.

The last post captured the feeling of the place in words, but this time I decided to carry the camera along. This allowed me to capture the piles of random post-consumerist litter that will constitute our economy should the folks from the First Baptist Church fail to stave off total economic destruction. Without further delay, bring on the fiesta-ware, duck decoys, and strange bear head . . .

We also found plenty of colorful options for food and beverage . . .

In my last post, I mentioned the odd assemblage of vehicles, automotive homes from a bygone era.

The favorite vehicle was the psychedelic creation below. I took a number of photos before being noticed by the van's owner. He approached me, and I commented on the beauty of the work. He replied, "Yeah, I painted all of this, and I smoke the chronic." I was taken aback and looked at his face for a clue on how to react--his expression suggested that he had just shared the secret of his artistic skill. He pointed out each detail and what variety of marijuana he had smoked before painting it. The mural on the back (the second photo below) was modeled after "that painting that was stolen with the screaming guy . . . except the chronic suggested to me that I should add a cactus and a palm tree . . . you can only do this sort of work with the help of the chronic." So in case the reader wonders at how to achieve this level of artistic genius, apparently it can be nurtured with an "illegal smile," to quote John Prine.

While we were fascinated by all of this visual excitement, the vendors seemed bored . . . just another weekend at the flea market.

We headed back to the car content from our day's wanderings. We left Canton the proud owners of a firepit while Megan's folks found a part of a windmill to take home. Not a bad haul . . . would have been a bit better if Megan's brother had purchased these stylish spectacles, but there is always next month.

Canton Trade Days: Life After the Apocalypse

2008-03-07T12:49:00.000-06:00

I've long been fascinated by visionary works that glimpse into a dark and distant future. Orwell's 1984, Huxley's A Brave New World, Cormac McCarthy's The Road, and of course, the best trilogy of movies ever made, Mad Max, Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior, and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (it is basically inevitable that Tina Turner will play a critical role in some sort of future world after society collapses).

While these highly creative works of fiction give a taste of life after some sort of apocalyptic event or major societal readjustment, Megan and I were able to visit our post-apocalyptic future by attending the Canton First Monday Trade Days in Canton, Texas.

Megan and I drove out to the event not quite knowing what to expect. I guess we mainly expected to finds lots of stuff and various assortments of things, and we assumed this stuff would be cheaper than the stuff available for purchase here in Dallas. We also expected funnel cake.

We pulled up on a warm Sunday with a hard wind blowing from the northwest. The sky was grey with fast-moving clouds overhead. We wore shorts, but it would snow the next afternoon . . . the weather itself seemed to reflect a world turned on its head.

We parked in a pasture and walked up to what appeared to be a refugee village. The area was covered with a scattering of tables and random pieces of furniture. The vendors stood outside ramshackle RVs and worn-out vans. Many sat back from the merchandise, just staring into space while petting mangy dogs. The tables were covered with dusty objects from the past--old pieces of furniture, rusted hammers, random bits of china, odd-looking art, mismatched wooden boxes, spooky dolls that might have slithered off a horror movie set, faded paperbacks, the occasional firearm, gas lamps, vintage soda machines, and really just about anything else that might come to mind.

The place was fascinating. I've never seen such a wide variety of objects in one location. At the same time, it gave us a spooky feeling. When society ends, I imagine that this will be how it reinvents itself. The survivors will salvage the useful remnants from the bygone era and peddle that detritus in a proto-economy marked chiefly by its mobility (this market would not exist in just a couple more days before reappearing a month later). Cash was the only currency here, but I imagine that barter would have worked just fine if Megan and I had brought something more useful than our windbreakers and ballcaps.

Eventually we walked out of this eerie glimpse into a bleak future and into the covered pavilions, which took us to the next stage of life after the apocalypse. This area felt more permanent with such pleasant features as a concrete floor and metal roof. The vendors peddled recently manufactured wares and clever inventions (like footlong, folding fishing poles that apparently work as well as a regular length pole). Here society regained a sense of permanence despite its portability (the RVs were just better hidden over here). The next step in development would be the shopping mall, and, when shopping malls return, I suppose human life will have come full circle and recovered.

Eventually the wind began to carry bits of rain that mixed with the blowing dust, and we decided to depart. One could not leave this place empty-handed, so we carried back to the car an assemblage of objects as random as the day itself: a wooden bench for our porch, a cowboy hat, a few pounds of corn meal, and a religious triptych. We'll be back there again next month . . . this time with a bigger vehicle and perhaps something to barter.

The Caucus

2008-03-04T22:13:00.003-06:00

Well, we survived. There was plenty of chaos, lots of angry shouting, and a few shetchy moments. All in all, the event made me wonder if we are the best example of democracy. At the same time, I could not have asked for better entertainment this evening.

The Obama Rally: Obamania In Texas

2008-03-03T21:20:00.001-06:00

It's the eve of the primary to potentially (but probably not) end all primaries, and Dallas is experiencing serious election fervor. My drive to work carried me past a crowd of Hillary supporters waving signs in a cold rain, and our local news is now updating polls on a daily basis. In honor of all of this, the time has come to blog about the excitement and give the official Knapp Adventure Blog endorsement (which I assume will eventually be featured on one of the campaign ads being shown with regularity rivaling the pharmaceutical industry).

Our best taste of the intensity of the election came two weeks ago when Megan and I decided we'd head down to Reunion Arena to attend a rally by Barack Obama, the candidate now Officially Endorsed by the Knapp Adventure Blog. The event was scheduled to start around noon, so we planned to arrive when doors opened at 10:30. This was just naive.

Obama has reached rock star status, and the crowd was something one would expect for the Rolling Stones. I took the DART train from the office and quickly realized that the packed train was already full of folks attending the rally. I found Megan somewhere near the stadium, and we noted the hordes before attempting to find the end of the line.

So we walked and walked. The line wrapped around the arena and then a block away to a parking garage entrance. Then the line snaked through the first level of the parking garage and up four more levels. After 20 minutes of walking we reached the end of the line.

To quote the great thinker, Eric Cartman, "Lines, lines--I hate lines!" But something was different here. First, the weather was cool, so terrible memories of sweating in line at various theme parks did not arise. Second, everyone was happy to be there. I expected grumpy faces, impatient huffing, sarcastic commentary, and a general state of agitation. The crowd seemed thrilled to be standing in a parking garage. Most of us opined that the line stretched far too long for us to possibly make it into the arena and actually hear the speech, but that didn't matter. We waited, and we waited happily. Then the third observation, this had to be the most diverse crowd I had ever joined. It was like a quintessentially American version of It's A Small World (another time I stood in lines, lines, lines!). I saw all races, ages, shapes and sizes, hipsters and punks and goths, corporate types and retired folk, hetero homo trans and metrosexuals. I could not conceive of a demographic that was not represented in that line. And that's when I knew that Obama was really onto something.

And so, one big happy family of Texans, we waited and waited. After a half hour or so the line began creeping forward ever so slowly. A few steps at time, we walked over a mile through that garage, snaking down toward the rally. But time kept passing, and, as noon arrived, we were nowhere near the entrance to the arena. The motorcade flew by the garage, and we wondered whether that would be our closest encounter with the candidate.

Megan looked up to me, "Should we go get some barbeque and go back to work?"

"No, Megan, we have to have the audacity to hope."

Eyes were rolled, eavesdroppers chuckled, and we kept on waiting. And soon enough, we were moving quickly and then more quickly. Eventually campaign volunteers were encouraging us to hurry "but not run," so we picked up the pace, passing people who had spent most of their energy just standing. We rushed toward the prize, which, in this case, turned out to be two seats in the lower earth orbit but still barely within Reunion Arena. We had made it, and the rally could continue.

We watched former Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk give a rousing introduction followed by Emmit Smith, who gave a more exciting introduction. Finally, Barack himself arrived on stage, and we were all quite impressed despite his headcold. Alas, the wait was worthwhile.

Now a number of folks have asked me why I support Obama--whether it is the result of whether I love hoping for hope to change the lack of hope and then receive more hope. I have few skeptics offer anything more tangible than these superficial criticisms, but occasionally folks come up with something more substantial.

More recently I was given an exact dollar total of what Obama's policies would cost me in immediately higher taxes. The purveyor of this information then asked me how, oh how!, could I possibly support this fellow knowing an exact and gargantuan amount of cash that would be ripped from my pockets.

Here is the way we think about it at the Knapp Adventure Blog. I think we look at the world with a drastically different notion of time and self-interest. The policies of the past decades, from both sides of the aisle, focus pretty carefully on the short term. It is short-term thinking that gave us a plan to pay everyone in the country roughly $300, an unnecessary fit of deficit spending with likely no net economic benefit. It is short-term thinking that prompted us to invade Iraq with no real prospect for stabilizing the country. It is short-term thinking that has caused widespread environmental devastation with untold future harms.

And we do pay for this type of thinking. Of course, my taxes may be lower, but I pay more in health insurance to compensate for uninsured people who are forced to eek out some semblance of health care through emergency room visits. Someday I will pay a huge sum to educate my children. I will pay throughout the years, stashing away money to care for my health and my living when I can no longer work. I will pay in unimaginable ways for our misguided environmental policies (global warming aside, I'm concerned about our water resources, especially if ethanol becomes our future).

Obama cannot solve all of these problems. Actually, he supports ethanol production (but at least he addresses CAFOs in his policy, something Hillary ignores). He does not have a plan for universal college education, and his health care plan will not create some sort of Scandinavian utopia in this country.

But his policies take us closer, even if just a little. Unlike Hillary, a divisive figure and continuation of this absurd American Aristocracy (two families ruling for 24 to 28 years?), I believe he can accomplish his goals, and, in exchange for a surrender of tax dollars, he offers to end the war, to make sure my money is headed toward the greater societal good instead of some great global futility. The mindset of the short-term assumes individuals can better manage resources than the government. For many individuals, this is certainly true, but everybody pays somehow for the rest of society's failings in various, less obvious ways. It's time we come up with a better fix that leaves us all a bit better off. Obama won't accomplish much of this, but he's the best start in that direction.

So there is the endorsement. If he loses the nomination, our backup option is Ron Paul (anti-war and delightfully anti-ethanol . . . after that it gets a bit strange). If he can't get the nomination, then we'll find ourselves facing yet another November walking toward the ballot box wondering why we're choosing between two jokers. Let's hope we'll be getting to vote for Obama. That'd definitely be worth waiting in line.

Congratulations

2008-02-29T10:59:00.000-06:00

A loyal reader of the Knapp Adventure Blog is now engaged to an amazing gal. In a display of enviable smoothness, he took his lass to the top of a promontory overlooking a snowy mountain valley in Montana. He asked the question, she answered affirmatively, and, to quote Monty Python, there was much rejoicing.

Well done, amigo, and our best to both of you.

Congratulations!

My Swiss Didgeridoo

2008-02-13T09:07:00.001-06:00

Recently it has come to my attention that some folks are confused by the fact that I have a didgeridoo that I made by hand during a stay in Interlaken, Switzerland. Despite all signs pointing to complete globalization, people still expect certain products to come exclusively from certain corners of the world. My didgeridoo should have come from Australia, preferably from an aboriginal community. But, the fact is, it did not. While I suppose it originally came from Australia in some sense, it more directly came from a youth hostel in the Swiss Alps.

My introduction to Interlaken came from my grandparents who visited the charming mountain town quite frequently. They spoke of enjoying glorious views and taking trains and gondolas into quaint mountain towns. Since I was already studying in Milan, a trip up to this quiet mountain village seemed appropriate. More importantly, my roommate in Milan, inspired by a homesickness only curable by hot wings, discovered that the nearest Hooters to Milan happened to be in Interlaken--so the trip was set.

Upon arriving in town, I discovered that Interlaken was a tourist town catering to two distinct clientele. First, folks like my grandparents enjoyed beautiful, lake-front hotels with picture window views of the mountains. The second group, which included myself, shacked up in crowded youth hostels while spending the day bleeding cash toward adventure sports. During this initial stay, we crashed at Balmer's Youth Hostel, more frat house and anything else, and enjoyed local delights such as beer and rosti (essentially skillet potatoes with various delectable toppings). This first trip passed far too quickly--we ate wings with a Miss Switzerland runner-up as a waitress, we watched hang-gliders sail around town, and we scurried onto Zurich to try to see more of the country. I knew I'd be back.

Return

When I returned to Interlaken, I intended to stay a while. I also intended to ditch the frat-scene at Balmer's and unwind with a more laid back crowd at The Funny Farm. I checked into the hostel, claimed a top bunk in a room that slept sixteen, booked myself on an ice climbing trip, and surveyed my surroundings.

First, I noticed the mountains looming overhead. Then I noticed marijuana plants looming overhead as well and was soon informed that the herb had been decriminalized in Switzerland. Not one to partake, I quickly realized why the Funny Farm crowd was so relaxed. Later that night I went to shower and realized that my evening shower would have to take place under black lights and to the tunes of Widespread Panic. Fair enough.

The next days allowed me to enjoy the outdoors. I went ice climbing in a glacier with a gang from Cancun who had never seen glaciers before--they provided lots of laughs and greatly expanding my knowledge of Spanish epithets ("putissima madre," being my new favorite). The next day I discarded my mildewed sneakers and bought some Solomon hiking boots to set out on a long trek that took me from Grindewald to the foot of the Eiger and down to Lautebrunnen. The hiking was glorious, and I returned to the Funny Farm that evening with plans of hitting more trails the next day.

And then the rain came. At first I welcomed the moisture as a chance to explore the town, rest my legs, and plan new routes. The rain continued a second day. I filled this day by playing chess. Chess offered fantastic entertainment. Being the only clear-headed person in a hostel full of smokers, I absolutely dominated. I felt like a Russian grand-master doing battle against toddlers who could not decide whether to stare at the pieces and wait for them to move or just to stare at the pieces.

Dominating chess offered two days fun and then I needed something new to do as the deluge continued. Finally, I asked the New Zealander who tended the bar if he had any brilliant ideas, to which he responded, "You need to make a didgeridoo, mate." Obviously.

Didg

It turns out that the Kiwi was himself a talented player, and he happened to have stashed away a massive pile of hollowed out eucalyptus just for this purpose. For extra cash, he made some to sell at the front desk of the hostel, but he also allowed bored guys like me to select a piece of wood and get to work. With some coaching, I began shaping the raw hunk of wood into something resembling a shiny raw hunk of wood.

As the afternoon approached, all I lacked was applying varnish and crafting a beeswax mouthpiece. But, as this step rolled around, my mentor went missing. I searched the Funny Farm from the TV room where stoners had fused with the couches while watching some sort of Hungarian pornographic film to the front desk where students accepted rainchecks for cancelled bungee jumps and hang gliding trips. Alas, my Kiwi teacher was lost.

I retreated to the biergarten whether my didgeridoo awaited its chemical coating. Finally, the bartender wandered back, his eyes full of tears, the tears perhaps 9% alcohol. He was hammered. Ever the dutiful instructor, he tossed a bucket of varnish next to me along with a brush and told me to apply it evenly. He then stumbled away, and I began to grow concerned, not just about my musical project, but about the guy himself.

I asked one of the Kiwi's compatriots why the drunken tears. Turns out the guy went home for a quick sandwich while I continued to haplessly craft my didg. He realized something was amiss when he stumbled upon a pile of clothing. His concerns only grew as he realized that the pile of clothing previously housed his girlfriend and one of his best friends. To make matters worse, the duo had apparently undressed together and were now engaged in activities similar to those documented in the Hungarian film being viewed at that very moment in the TV room of the Funny Farm.

Dejected, the didg-maker retreated into a bottle of something strong and returned to work where he handed me varnish and helped me hone a mouthpiece from beeswax. Later that night, he invited me to a concert where he would be playing the didg alongside a reggae band in an underground night club (not that it was criminal in any way--given the strict noise ordinances, most clubs were literally underground). He played beautifully, I rejected the advances of a sallow Swiss teenager, and I awoke the next morning, as usual, to the sound of Cake's "The Distance," blasting from the direction of the biergarten.

So, this is how I ended up with a Swiss didgeridoo. As the rain continued and the ultimate rainy day entertainment complete, I decided to hop a train toward Belgium to work my way to my study abroad program in London. My Kiwi instructor stayed in Interlaken and just maybe learned how to get the didgeridoo to play some blues.

Rodent Invasion: Early Success

2008-01-21T20:40:00.000-06:00

We slept restlessly The Night of the Rodent Discovery. Megan compared waiting for the snap of the mousetraps to waiting for Santa Claus . . . I did not quite agree with the analogy, but it does suggest her state of mind as we entered battle.

Sometime in the night, while I was dreaming of being hunted and poisoned by a polygamist henchman (too much Big Love), Megan heard a snap. She was kind enough to let me sleep through the night before tip-toeing into the kitchen to observe our victim.

And then the shout, "Brad!" I sprinted into the kitchen to see a rat of prehistoric proportions dead on the counter. While Megan assured me that they have larger rats in her part of the state, I tried to avoid the mental image of a larger beast--this one was big enough.

Megan left the kitchen feeling victorious and began preparing for her day. I sat there contemplating the inevitable next steps, disposal and reconassaince. I would need to somehow transport this harbinger of Hanta virus to the alley and then figure out how it came to inhabit our most sanitary of rooms.

Quickly, I concocted a plan that would allow me to rid ourselves of the carcass without forcing me to touch the monster. I set the trashcan below the counter and found a plastic pole. I used the pole to scoot the device and creature into the trashcan. Problem solved.

Next it was James Bond time. Fortunately (fortunately?), rodents leave miniscule black deposits as they travel that allow a sleuth to track their journey. The location of the dead creature suggested that it climbed onto our counter from behind our stove. Having recently installed the stove, I knew the wall was solid behind it, but the gas line seemed to be an obvious entry point. I opened the counter with the gas line and found a gaping hole that lead into the void between the walls and presumably into the crawlspace below the house. To confirm my suspicions, I found the telltale trail of dark, little doodie all over our baking sheets. Cookies, anyone?

While I resented the vandalism, the problem can now be addressed. If a rat intends to gnosh on our grub, it'll have to find another entry.

Of course, questions remain. Was this rat the rat? Is this the cause of the rustling in our bedroom wall as well as the creature who robbed our sourdough? I'm hopeful, but we cannot be too sure. The war continues, and we will fight it on any front necessary to protect the security of our homeland. The enemy we fight is evasive and well-funded, and it has no respect for the institutions of peace, democracy, and antibiotic cleansers. Hopefully, someday, we will be able to live in peace once again. For now, we're pretty sure we need to buy bigger traps.

Rodent Invasion: Home Ownership and Warfare

2008-01-17T20:17:00.000-06:00

I had a deal worked out with the vermin that lived in the wall of our bedroom. During the first cold spell this winter, I woke to the sound of clawing and wiggling inside my bedroom wall. The nocturnal activity suggested rat or mouse, and either option was unappealing (think of bubonic plague and Splinter from the original Ninja Turtles movie). That said, I could accept that cold weather would inevitably drive rodents into warmer spaces, and I knew my odds of sealing off rodent access to our sixty-year-old house were slim. If the rodents would let me sleep and not alert Megan to their presence, then they could stay in the wall until spring. Peace treaties were signed, confetti was tossed, speeches were made, and life resumed to normal.

Today (or, I should say, sometime last night) the whole deal came crashing down. Working from the house to supervise some carpet installation, Megan decided to prepare herself a midday sandwich. She pulled the loaf of sourdough bread out of its ceramic bowl and noted an odd hole in the side of the bag. Behind the hole a strange tunnel of bread had gone missing. Her first thought, naturally, was to blame me. She wondered, "Why would Brad rip this strange little hole in the bag and then tunnel into the bread?"

Her second thought was to reflect on the strange scratching noises she had begun to hear at night and accept that rodents had invaded our kitchen. My office phone rang loudly: Megan had declared war.

I quickly realized that, had Megan commanded the US military during World War II, the Bomb would have been dropped everywhere, just for good measure. These mice were leaving us forever, period. Megan is the consummate public health professional, and rodents have been public enemy number one throughout history for all those trying to eradicate various forms of fecal and flea-borne pathogens. Megan had a professional goal, no, an obligation, to restore the healthfulness of our abode.

After the initial phone call, Megan called back with an action plan for sealing certain weaknesses in our defense against the order rodentia. With the defense plotted, it was time to prepare the offense.

A flurry of research took place. I read a 12-page manual on how to make a spaceship-like "humane" mouse trap out of a 3-liter coke bottle. I learned that glue traps are illegal in Ireland. I learned that, while I could hope I was dealing with mice, there was a darn good chance that rats were involved (and, unlike Splinter, I learned that they lack the thorough knowledge of Renaissance art and Zen philosophy). I learned that mice can enter a home through an opening the size of a dime. I learned that mice do not like to eat cheese (though, Megan was quick to point out that she once woke in the wee hours of the morning in a youth hostel in Amsterdam to witness a rat devouring a massive block of cheese . . . . right . . . ).

Research complete, the traps have been set. The war has begun.

Rainier Climb: Summit Day

2008-01-16T09:45:00.000-06:00

The wake up call came around midnight. I had expected waking up to be a shocking experience at that altitude and at that time of night (morning?), but, at this point, I was happy to get permission to abandon my pathetic attempts at sleep.

I scarfed down as much oatmeal as my belly would tolerate and unpacked and repacked again. Our load for the summit would be as light as possible--a few outer layers, some food and water, climbing harness and rope. I laced, unlaced and relaced my boots and finally walked out onto the glacier to join my rope team.

Anticipating the intense physical challenge, we were advised to dress in pretty light layers. While this eventually proved to be great advice, at the moment the frigid air was bathing me in icy regret . . . somewhere in Texas I had a warm bed with a soft pillow . . . here I had total darkness and air so cold that I was ready to measure it in Kelvin.

But, after powering the headlamps, stepping into our harnesses, and roping ourselves to our team, we were ready to set up and up. The first part of the climb took us through the "bowling alley," a fairly flat glacier below some steep cliffs. The name stemmed from the fact that the cliffs sought amusement by spewing hunks of rock at the climbers below. By climbing at midnight, we would minimize the risk, we were told, because the rocks were safely frozen in place. Despite this reassuring theory, our first movements of the day were quickly interrupted by a shout, "Rock!" My training taught me that this was not something I wanted to hear. Following instructions, I thrusted my pack uphill and hoped that the rock was hurtling toward the gap in a split-7, leaving us all alone. The crunching sound of the falling rock grew louder and then suddenly vanished into the darkness. We resumed the hike, just a bit faster this time.

The next five or six hours passed in a blur. My world existed of a tiny patch of snow illuminated by my headlamp, a rope trailing up to Gabriel and another rope trailing behind to the guy who had previously climbed Shasta. We stopped for an occasional break to guzzle water, try to eat some food, and bury ourselves in down jackets to keep our core temperatures somewhere near those of the living. Ceasing motion meant intense cold, so I finally decided I'd rather move than sit still.

The routine continued, and just as light crept over the world, we made the summit. We staggered out to the center of the crater, dropped our packs, and continued across to sign the guestbook and pose for the obligatory victory photo. For that moment, we were lords of the ice ax, masters of the mountains, heroes of the high country.

And then a funny notion crept into my mind . . . we had to go down. Not only did we need to get down, we needed to get down soon before the warmth of the day opened huge crevasses and before the bowling alley became a death zone. This notion was a huge disappointment. It would be like running a marathon and then being told to turn around and do it one more time. I imagine Tiger Woods knocking in a birdie on the 18th green at the Masters. The announcer then approaches him and says, "Good job, Tiger, you won the tournament. But, you now need to play the same 18 holes backwards or you will inevitably perish." In this sense, mountaineering offers a unique psychological challenge--the summit has the illusion of success, but the true victory comes through survival.

I don't think we were ready for this challenge.

Going Down

While the climb had been a beautiful experience, the descent proved to be harrowing. First, since I was not even close to Gabriel's physical condition, my legs felt as if the bones had been removed and replaced with jello. Second, we had climbed in total darkness--on descent, we learned how scary this terrain was. The slopes of the volcano were terrifyingly precipitous. A good tumble would have meant thousands of feet sliding down ice, bouncing off boulders and eventually plunging into what appeared to be an abyss of apocalyptic proportions.

To make matters worse, we were struggling. The altitude affected Gabriel mentally. His speech became somewhat nonsensical, and he had lost all motivation--asking me from time to time why exactly we needed to go down the mountain after all. I was just exhausted enough that the question seemed fine by me. While intellectually I realized that getting off the crag would be in our long-term interests, it did seem like a sweet spot to plop down and enjoy an epic view. After all, we'd pay some big cash for the opportunity to enjoy the view. What was the hurry?

While Gabriel struggled mentally, I struggled physically. My legs were not pleased with the situation, and they began plotting a massive rebellion. Their tactics included highly unusual pain followed by the occasional spasm. They distracted me to such a degree that I lost track of my main task on this rope team--to keep the rope out of Gabriel's boots. Instead, I managed to dangle the nylon cord in and around his crampons causing him to stumble.

In all fairness, Mr. "I Climbed Shasta" sent the rope hurtling beneath my boots on several occasions. This replaced my feelings of exhaustion with pure rage, which then caused a psychological downturn sapping my motivation.

We were descending in every way possible.

The Funk

Miraculously, we were shocked out of this funk by a terrifying event. To give some background for the uninitiated, glaciers are essentially rivers that happen to consist of ice. They constantly move, albeit really really slowly. In the process of moving, they occasionally pull apart opening chasms called "crevasses." Like people, crevasses come in all shapes and sizes ranging from pretty deep, wide, and scary to extremely deep, wide, and scary. Crossing crevasses is a tricky endeavor. Occasionally they are hidden by thin crusts of snow leaving the unsuspecting traveler to find herself in a freefall (hence the rope team: theoretically the other three climbers would be able to stop the fall). Sometimes, crevasses are so wide that climbers have to wind around them until they can find a safe place to cross. In our case, the season was young enough that many crevasses still had strong snow bridges that could be used to cross.

Of course, there was a catch. Washington had baked under record heat for a few days, and sun-up meant the temperature was quickly soaring. As heat is the enemy of all things frozen, the snow bridges were getting softer and softer, soon to become trapdoors into infinity. To avoid this pitfall, a massive metal beam had been hammered into the glacier at the sketchier crevasse crossings. Before going across the snow bridge, we were told to attach our rope to the beam via carabiner and enjoy the comfort of some extra anchoring.

No problem. Except it became a big problem. Gabriel, as I mentioned, had gone a bit loopy at the altitude. As Gabriel approached the crossing, he inadvertently neglected to hook himself up to the new carabiner. Instead, he managed to detach himself from our rope team entirely, stand up, and march toward the abyss. At this point, his only safety equipment was the ice ax at his side and the helmet atop his head.

Not sure how to respond to this shocking turn of events, I started screaming at him. The words shouted are lost to history and hypoxia, but I'm sure I articulated a brilliant motivational speech because Gabriel quickly snapped out of the funk, tied himself in properly, and began to march down the mountain like a championship athlete (while I credit my speech, Gabriel later attributed his newfound vitality to a sudden awareness of wanting very badly to be home with his wife . . . I'd like to think it was some combination of our efforts, but the reader is free to judge). The funk had lifted, Gabriel was moving in top form, and the adrenaline gave me a needed, if short-lived, boost.

As I approached the Muir Snowfield and the shack that had housed us just nine hours before, I felt slower than ever. My feet felt uncoordinated, my legs felt heavy, and I wondered how I would make it all the way back down to the Paradise Lodge and back to my own special lady in Texas. As we reached the cabin, I removed my crampons only to find that a massive rock had lodged in one of them, which might have accounted for some of my sluggishness. I used the ice ax to jimmy the hunk of stone out of its spiky trap, tossed the rest of my junk in my pack, and began putting an end to this glorious experience with nature.

Freed from my crampons, I tapped into my long experience shredding the nar and used my mountaineering boots as snow skis. This allowed a fairly fast and enjoyable trip off the volcano, even if my ankles would swell to the size of softballs as a result of the strain. In those moments, I no longer felt pain.

Heading Home

We reached the bus which took us to the lodge which allowed us to consume pizza, burgers, chips and beer: all calories desperately needed to replenish our weary bodies. After stuffing our faces, we cruised back to Seattle where Gabriel began his second Herculean effort by boarding an overnight flight to Atlanta in order to be at work at nine the next morning. I collapsed in an airport motel with a fairly good view of Rainier out the window. As I stared at the mountain, I reflected on a high-speed blur of weariness and pain, my mind barely able to remember the scenery, so cataclysmic and sublime.

Fortunately memory is a strange creature, and as time has passed, my thoughts have changed. I mainly remember the joys of the summit (captured in a photograph sitting next to my desk) and minimize the trials of descent. Now, I look at our climb as an ultimate tour de force and one of the greater tests of my life, and I am pretty sure I'm ready to climb again.

Rainier Climb: Onwards and Upwards

2007-12-01T08:00:00.000-06:00

The morning of the climb arrived. We woke, scarfed some food, downed some coffee, and packed and unpacked and repacked, just for good measure. Our packs were transporting the lightest load that would allow our continued survival, so we stashed the excess gear in the rental car and headed to meet our guides. Below is an image of us in those precious naive moments before the climb:

Our lead guide frequently guided trips up Kilimanjaro and was pursuing his 132nd summit of Rainier. I realized immediately we were in good hands. I reaffirmed this opinion by glancing at the guide's pack, visually weighing it in at a solid 90 pounds.

Our fellow climbers were of all ages. Many had lived in the area and looked up at Rainier for most of their lives just wondering about the summit. Others had placed Rainier as the goal of a personal fitness revolution. Others of us weren't quite sure why we were there except for a general desire for adventure. I am pretty sure Gabriel and I fit in this last category.

The bus ride to the Paradise Lodge seemed interminable. I felt thankful for every small gain in elevation along the way, each foot up was one less I would need to surmount. The bus parked at Paradise Lodge, and my altimeter watch (I know, gearhead) indicated an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet. Only 9,000 feet up along 20 miles round trip awaited me. I refilled water bottles, grabbed my trekking poles, and got in line. From the parking lot, I looked up the mountain to see the view captured in this photo. The summit did not seem so far away, but I had to remind myself about the intense foreshortening that occurs in these settings. Distances are wildly deceiving to the eye. The summit seemed close, but it was very, very far away.

The hike began gradually and quickly became more vertical. We had been clearly instructed that we could only stop when the guides allowed a break, so complaining was no option. We were headed up through nature's greatest solar reflector, cooking in an icy oven. The sweat began gushing as it had the day before, and I was feeling fantastic.

A break arrived, and I munched on another Cliff bar. Each bar is dense and flavorful--three or four swallows offered over 300 calories, and I was thankful for the fuel. Each rest stop came after such a long march that the views became substantially more spectacular at each break. The rest stops allowed us to continue our education. For example, we learned an important mountaineering rule of wisdom: don't walk if you can stand still, don't stand if you can sit, don't sit if you can lay down, don't lay down awake if you can lay down and sleep, don't lay down and sleep alone if you can lay down and sleep next to a woman, . . . and it goes downhill from there. Anyway, here is a photo from one of our breaks:

The march continued at a fast pace. Gabriel and I made a point to be near the front of the line. The group generally stayed together, but as the march continued, some folks began to drag behind. By being near the front, Gabriel and I knew we would get the longer breaks, getting to enjoy a few precious extra minutes while the stragglers finally made it our way. The disadvantage of being near the front was the need to keep up with the grueling pace set by our lead guide. I kept thinking of Gabriel's label for the climb: a "tour de force." I let willpower triumph and demanded that my body follow suit. Upwards and upwards we struggled. At each break, I'd down some more calories, but I absolutely could not keep up with my body's consumption. I downed a sandwich, Cliff bars and other candies. I tried, but I felt continually behind.

When I get hungry, I tend to get really grumpy, and I found myself approaching camp in a rather foul mood. I wondered what compelled me to climb, why I didn't just enjoy a long weekend in less glaciated locations. I sat on my pack and consumed a sandwich. I wondered if I had what it took to make it the rest of the way--knowing that the five mile lug of that morning was nothing compared to the fifteen-mile task facing me the next day.

Muir Snowfield

With each bite, my mood improved. Pretty soon, I realized that I was sitting at the most beautiful place I had ever visited. I knew I could do it, but I also knew I would have to do a better job scarfing the food during the summit bid.

The stopping point for the night was the Muir Snowfield, 10,100 feet according to my altimeter watch. Climbers using the RMI guides get to stay in a cabin on bunks:

Other independent climbers choose tents. The bunkhouse was nice, but, I had to capture the cliche, outdoor magazine image of a tent perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking an abyss:

Rest

We arrived at our rest spot in mid-afternoon. We would eat a quick dinner and face lights out at 6 PM. We had to go to sleep at 6 PM, naturally, so that we could wake at midnight and then climb up and down over the next 15 to 18 hours.

I ate some sort of freeze-dried nastiness and realized my mistake. Many of my fellow climbers had simplified the food situation by ordering a pizza the night before and wrapping that to eat cold the next evening. That allowed them a very tasty, calorie-laden meal. In my effort to recreate my old backpacking days, I had purchased a freeze-dried meal that I had fondly remembered in hikes of my past. These fond memories excluded how truly salty and disgusting most of those meals are. And, for a short trip like this, how unnecessary. Remembering my utter grumpiness earlier in the day, I opted to eat the whole meal.

After dinner, we had a group meeting. We had climbed the first part of the mountain unroped, without ice axes and crampons. Tomorrow morning, the climb became much more serious. They reminded us of the basic safety measure: if someone screams "falling," you should drop to the mountain and dig in with all of your strength. If someone shouts "rock," turn your pack toward the mountain, hope your helmet is on tight, and pray that the missile either misses you or is small enough that it does not kill you. Awesome.

Then they announced rope teams. Apparently they had evaluated us on the climb up to assess our strength. They wanted to match teams evenly and then send the teams out according to ability. Despite our utter lack of training, Gabriel and I were selected for the lead rope team. The lead team can be tough since that group would potentially have to break trail for the other teams. I also knew that being on the lead meant greatest chance for success. Most importantly, I felt that I had duped the mountain. From the time I signed up for the climb to the time of the climb itself, I had exercised very little and assumed my willpower would allow success. Apparently it was working wonderfully (little did I know that the mountain would soon have its revenge).

I crawled into my bag, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately all of my fellow climbers also struggled to sleep, and the cabin filled with the sound of tossing, turning and frustrated breathing. Except, of course, for the one guy who managed to snore at epic volumes. The snowpack seemed stable, but I was certain that this snore would trigger cataclysmic avalanches. Alas, the shack survived, and after six hours of lying in a down bag terrified and wide awake, I donned my garb to climb this beast. It was "tour de force" time.

Rainier Climb: Education

2007-11-24T11:04:00.000-06:00

Ashford, Washington is a quaint place. The city vanishes into a lush valley of green with rivers and lakes and other visual pleasures that would have been much more enjoyable had a massive hunk of stone and ice not loomed over everything. Yes, I could enjoy the scenery, but these same vistas constantly reminded me of my goal, a goal resting nearly three vertical miles off the valley floor.

We had reserved a spot in a bunkroom at Whittaker's Bunkhouse, a climber's hotel affiliated with the Rainier guides. The place was wildly stimulating. Climbers who usually stick to crags were testing their skills on a climbing wall or on a tightrope. Others were planning climbs of Rainier as a step toward a Denali expedition. Folks coming off the mountain seemed haggard, and those of us about to head up were wired with anticipation. Nerves were building.

Warning

We found our room, picked up the rental gear, and headed to the bunkhouse to sort and re-sort, to pack and unpack and repack, to anticipate and get anxious. Eventually we dropped our tasks to head out for some pasta (carboload) and salad with blackberry dressing before eating some blackberry pie (they grow enormous loads of blackberries in the area, so nearly every dish had been topped with various derivatives of the succulent fruit).

We returned to the bunkhouse to try to rest up for climbing school. As we walked in, we met a guy who was preparing to head out the next morning for his second climb of the mountain. He began a strange rant, what seemed the product of decades of serious experimental drug use:

"You guys goin' up the mountain? It's a huge, freakin' mountain, man. I mean, that is a huge freakin' climb, man. You just got to stick your face in the mountain and don't look down, man. 'Cause if you look down, you're comin' off the mountain, man. You're fallin' down like 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' (arms waving wildly), man. You just got to stick that ice ax in the mountain and keep going up. You look down, and it is over, man, over. It's over. Just look at the mountain."

I tried to dismiss the comments as insane, but my anxiety latched onto his words and the fear mounted.

"So, here's what you need to do tomorrow. You'll go to climbing school, and you'll pay attention. You'll learn what to do, and you'll pay attention, man. Then you got to come back here, and hit the climbing wall. Just burn it out. You have to burn it out. Just hit the climbing wall and burn it out. Just burn it out, man. You know what I'm saying? Just burn . . . it . . . out . . . man. And then you'll rest, you'll sleep, and you'll head up the mountain. Remember to look at the mountain. Don't look down. Just look at the mountain. Then come back down, get some food, have a cold beer, and then hit the climbing wall and burn it out. You have to burn it out, man. Just burn it out. It's going to be awesome, man. Just burn it out."

Sweet. All I had to do was burn it out. No problem. Just had to burn it out. Fair enough. But I was a little more concerned about the "aaaaaaaaah!" part of the climb. Somehow, Gabriel and I extricated ourselves from the deranged monologue, and proceeded to our bunkroom to quietly express our shock and incredulity. We packed and unpacked and repacked and tried to sleep.

Climbing School

Climbing school was brilliantly designed. They managed to take a tremendous and daunting task and make it seem achievable. I was thrilled to finally have crampons on my boots for the second time in my life. I broke out the climbing glasses (old school-style with leather shields on the side), and I was happy to be moving around the snowpack. We practiced arresting a fall, learned how to work with rope, learned that we needed much more sunblock and generally figured out what we were going to have to do. Here is a picture of Gabriel and me enjoying climbing school . . . notice the massive summit looming in the background:

I also learned that I needed to reevaluate my gear situation, something that I love to do. After watching my father over the years, I realize that I am genetically predisposed toward "gear-headedness"--it's a recessive gene that effects some individuals. While a problematic condition, at least financially, I note the genetic advantages that the condition brings. A gearhead often accepts his or her own limitations, limitations, physically and mentally, to what they can accomplish in climbing or motorcycling or hunting or photography or cooking or golf or whatever. Then, the gearhead does extensive research to ensure that their equipment will eliminate as many of these limitations as possible. So, for example, I knew that I was not in condition for the climb, so I grabbed my lightest backpack and proceeded to pack in the most efficient manner possible with ultralight long underwear, ultralight shell, etc. Of course, this also meant an ultralight disposable camera which left the climb poorly documented, but, heck, I needed my gear to work for me because I was definitely not strong enough to do it myself.

Anyway, I had expected my time on the glacier to be a cold experience (gear switch: ditch Smartwool Mountaineering socks). Instead I found myself gushing sweat, massive loads of fluid pouring off my skin. I might as well have been running a marathon on a July afternoon back in Texas (gear switch: use Patagonia lightweight long underwear, switch to a lighter padded Smartwool sock). The side effect of the sweat was the need to constantly reapply sunscreen. It also meant a stream of metallic taste into my mouth, which was less than pleasant (gear switch: Burt's Bees lifeguard lip balm to reduce metallic taste). The intensity of the sun was truly stunning, and the hat I had purchased the day before at Seattle's REI offered little shelter (gear switch: acquire goofy hat with extra long bill and protection for neck and ears).

With climbing school over, we enjoyed the new education. I made some gear adjustments and packed and unpacked and repacked. Gabriel and I headed out for a dinner, a "last supper" of sorts. We felt tired in a great way and ready for the task. I enjoyed more salmon with blackberry topping of some sort, and looked forward to a good night's sleep. We'd need it for the tour de force.

Rainier Climb: Preparations

2007-11-18T11:23:00.000-06:00

"This is crazy, just crazy. Utter insanity. Absolutely crazy." I kept muttering this to myself, fortunately unheard by my cabin mates. It was roughly one a.m., and I was shivering as I stuffed my sleeping bag. The plywood bed had offered little rest, but I doubt a feather bed would have allowed me to sleep given my nerves. I choked down a couple doses of oatmeal and a Cliff bar, chugged a load of water, and re-laced my boots. My hands were shaking out of a perfect mixture of adrenaline and frigid air. In what seemed like moments, it was time to head out onto the Muir Snowfield and rope up. The summit bid was on.

Getting Ready

Six months earlier I had made the initial decision to climb Rainier. Having read about mountaineering adventures for years, I decided it was time to actually have an adventure of my own. I had visited Everest Base Camp and handled the altitude with ease, so I needed to find a good test. More importantly, this test would have to fit within a five-day vacation window at the end of June. My objective would have to require ice ax and crampons, and this pretty much left me with Rainier. Coincidentally, the last week of June tends to offer the best climbing conditions on the mountain, so all signs pointed to go.

I was reluctant to head off on this feat alone, so I began searching for a climbing partner. I had to find a person whose idea of a great vacation also included hauling a heavy pack up a massive glacier. Gabriel Rainisch was just the person. He and I had not-so-gracefully gone swimming in a class four rapid named "Tablesaw" just the summer before. Although we both swallowed our fair share of the Ocoee River in the process, we had survived--so surely our good karma would carry us up and down Rainier.

So, we booked the trip, reserved some rental equipment, and spent the next months intending to train. Instead of training, I studied, ate lots of food, and began a clerkship at a law firm. Gabriel got married, bought a house, and worked long hours. It quickly became clear to us that victory on the mountain would have to be a result of willpower and determination. As Gabriel put it, our climb would be a "tour de force" in every sense of the term.

Lift Off

Departure day arrived quite suddenly. Gabriel and I had been chatting often that week trying to figure out gear, meals, and generally venting our nervousness. I spent an edgy day at the firm before leaving a bit early and heading to DFW. Somewhere in the midst of trading my wool suit for climbing pants, I realized that I was really going to have to climb this thing.

The flight passed slowly. My nerves built as I reread Jim Wickwire's excellent climbing memoir Addicted to Danger. Wickwire accomplished amazing achievements in mountaineering while also practicing law. I sat on the plane wondering whether I would follow in his footsteps or find my own climbing career end on my first three-day "expedition" up the easiest route on the mountain.

As the plane descended, I spotted a peak in the distance, and I felt really confident. It didn't look so bad. I really couldn't see what the fuss was about. Even adjusting for the distance, the peak really didn't seem like a big deal. Rainier ray-schmeer. Apparently the money I had spent hiring the best mountain guides on the planet was unnecessary.

And then the plane landed and turned around. I'm not sure what peak I had spotted earlier, but Rainier was now in my window--and I lost my breath. It's enormous. Absolutely enormous. I knew the mountain was 60 miles away from me, but it still loomed over everything. Tour de force.

I waited for my baggage as Gabriel reserved a rental car. I noticed that my baggage was different that most. Almost every other person from the Dallas flight picked up a rolling bag and a cooler. These people, the sane ones, were up in the Northwest to go fishing for salmon. This is a healthy activity with little chance of plummeting into a crevasse or losing fingers and toes. I picked up my Mountainsmith pack and wondered why this was going to be better than fishing.

I found Gabriel and we headed to his cousin's house on Bainbridge Island. The scenery was beautiful, but the mountain was always right there in the distance. Gabriel's cousins were skeptical that we would make it up, and I was wondering if I would find any confidence myself. We sat in the backyard, sipping coffee, watching a bald eagle in flight, and I wondered if it would be a smarter decision to just enjoy Bainbridge for a few and head home rested.

Fortunately, we had spent a substantial sum reserving our spot on this climb, so we had to climb, out of fiscal responsibility if for no other reason. The time on Bainbridge rocketed by, and it was time to head to Ashford . . . climbing school was a day away.

Texas Bar Exam: Reprise

2007-11-07T07:54:00.000-06:00

The advantage of being a sophisticated blogger of such a popular blog is that I have the technological sophistication to know what brings people to my blog. In the beginning, folks came to the Knapp Adventure Blog by clicking on links that we so generously emailed out. Then folks turned to search engines and found us when wondering about "hardebeest" or "South African wine" or "naked culture shock" (actual search terms used . . . I wish I had been inspired to actually write that exact combination of words).

For the past several months, most folks have discovered the blog by searching for "Texas bar exam." Thus, the worst single task of the past 25 years of my life, mentioned briefly in just a couple of posts, became the major source of new traffic to the website. Meanwhile my lengthy and reflective posts on Tibet and the Maasai have produced a mere blip of interest in a planet full of googlers.

When faced with this issue, I really had two options: a) ignore; b) pander. Obviously, I selected the latter option. So, this post exists primarily to pander to the bar exam traffic and maybe help out those stressed souls desperately hoping for a blog to solve their study problems.

In the weeks leading up to the bar exam, I did my own searches for blogs about the Texas bar exam. I found a great post on Above the Law where Above the Law solicited general bar exam advice for anyone who might be seeking help (which is everyone about to take the test). One comment struck me as particularly helpful: "Stop reading blogs and study." Yeah, probably sound advice.

Eventually, I found something that was somewhat reassuring--one blogger's reflection of his own successful study experience. He took it easy in May (I golfed and socialized in various drinking establishments in May), put forth more effort in June (less golf, more reading for me too), and then dedicated his life to the task in July (ditto). Seems to be the formula everyone employs, and it has worked for generations. Presumably it will work for generations to come until, in a blessed rebirth of human wisdom and profound rediscovery of basic human rights, the bar exam is firmly and finally abolished.

As far as actual study tasks, I worked countless practice essays, enough multiple choice questions to know that I felt terrible about the multi-state, and enough Texas procedure questions to realize that the bar examiners repeat the same 20 questions on nearly every test. Practice added the illusion of comfort, but that illusion was vital.

So that is it. My last and most shameless attempt to pander to any steady source of internet traffic. Maybe my next step should be to head to Africa again . . . some naked culture shock could be in order.

Yes, The Blog Still Exists

2007-11-04T10:28:00.000-06:00

Literally hordes of readers have expressed deep discontent at the lack of recent posts on the renowned Knapp Adventure Blog. Countless readers have been left wandering the earth in utter curiosity about the lives of one famous couple, bound by fate to journey the globe . . . driven by a combination of madness and insatiable wanderlust.

So an update is in order. I would write about our voyage to Timbuktu, Kathmandu, Ouagadougou, and Tuvalu, but, alas, we have not been to any of those places.

We have, however, rooted ourselves in Dallas in a more permanent, 30-year fixed fashion by purchasing a house in Lakewood. The house is a ten-minute walk from White Rock Lake, so we look forward to days of running, biking, rowing and sailing as we slowly get settled in. Here's a shot of the house . . .

Since my last post, I claimed victory in the Chaco Challenge. Originally we planned to let my avid readers vote on the victor, but Mark Everett conceded defeat. Below is an image of domination. Mark Everett requested a rematch, but my feet find themselves permanently encased in leather dress shoes . . . meaning my Chaco Challenge days are behind me.

We are both settling into new jobs and currently face a void in our travel schedule. We went to Austin City Limits Festival a month ago and had a fantastic time as always. Our next adventure will likely consist of a Thanksgiving trip to exotic San Angelo, Texas. Over Christmas we will be in Brenham and Amarillo, and we're hoping to get a ski trip going in February or early March. Otherwise, we'll be kicking it in the Big D, doing some unpacking, and enjoying the fall . . . and maybe, just maybe, I will start blogging more regularly again.

Pony Up!

2007-08-31T09:00:00.001-05:00

Just a little something to get the SMU spirit flowing before we dominate Texas Tech on Monday . . .

San Miguel de Allende: Overview

2007-08-15T11:43:00.000-05:00

Our plane landed at Queretero at sunset. Upon descent, I noticed that the clouds and mountains had conspired with the sun to give us an appropriate welcome. The scenery stunned us as we slowly walked across the runway toward the world's tiniest baggage claim and onto Manuel's minivan for the hour-long trip into San Miguel. Immediately we realized that were in for a great week.

Food, Shelter

We arrived after dark in front of a large wooden door on an extremely narrow street called "Animas" just blocks from central San Miguel. We had rented a room, unwittingly, from a woman who had recently completed a fascinating documentary about expat life in San Miguel called Lost and Found in Mexico. Since she and her husband were in Dallas at a film festival, her daughter showed us to our spacious room, impeccably decorated with artifacts from trips to Oaxaca. The room looked out into a garden courtyard, and we looked forward to afternoons, book and wine in hand, among the hummingbirds.

The food we encountered was remarkable. We enjoyed an amazing variety of salsas. From the restaurant salsas, the standout had to be the green chile salsa at Cafe La Parroquia that featured massive chunks of avocado. We enjoyed fresh fruits and fantastic meats, culminating in an unbelievably affordable Chateaubriand at Tio Lucas. For a break from the spicy, we headed to La Palapa, which is a funky little burger stand run by a US expat off Calle Nuevo. La Palapa sits next door to the Longhorn Smokehouse, a Texas-style barbecue restaurant run by a British man who lived in Houston for roughly 30 years. As one expat told us, San Miguel offers any type of food you could hope for . . . except Thai. Restaurant ambiance in San Miguel is almost unbeatable. We enjoyed martinis on the rooftop bar of La Azotea, and we shared pasta in a peaceful courtyard at Chamonix.

Activities

Before visiting, I had searched on line for lists of "things to do," which proved to be rather pointless. Aside from eating, San Miguel really offers two main activities--either wandering or sitting. Both proved to be fantastic.

The main joy of wandering came in discovering random architectural details like the door knocker pictured above. The town is full of fascinating nooks, small churches, and interesting fountains. The wandering also carried us into amazing shops and art galleries. And maybe more significantly, we encountered the world's most terrifying handicap ramp, featured below.

We also spent a lot of time just sitting in the main plaza, called the Jardin. From a bench in the Jardin, we watched men laden with inflated playthings sell items to jubilant children. Our favorite toy was a 10 peso balloon designed to be inflated and released. Upon release, the balloon makes an obnoxious screaming noise as it flies around.

We also watched the interesting cast of characters that move around the square on a daily basis. Our favorite was a guy we nicknamed "Teddy Roosevelt." He wore knee-high riding boots, khakis, a denim button-down, a wide-brimmed olive hat, and a narrow TR-style mustache. Teddy drew our attention by sitting kids down on benches, studying their eyes and their feet, and determining the quality of the child's soul based on the examination. He also purported to be a miracle worker. Needless to say, his antics left many Mexican grandmothers a little disturbed.

After a day of wandering and watching people, we would normally retire to the room while the afternoon rains arrived. We'd grab a book, open a bottle of Mexican wine (best $5 bottle I've ever had), and just enjoy the rain.

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

2007-08-06T12:02:00.000-05:00

Just thought I would give everyone a head´s up that Megan and I may never leave this place.

From New to Mexico

2007-08-02T22:11:00.000-05:00

New Mexico offered a fantastic way to unwind after the exam. I enjoyed cool temperatures, dart games at a mountain bar, road closures due to mud slides, and plenty of time to romp in the rivers.

Now Megan and I leave for San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. We're hoping all that Spanish we once learned will start to come back to us . . . and soon.

Texas Bar Exam: Three Days in Arlington

2007-07-27T07:44:00.000-05:00

Arlington is a strange little place. While I assume people actually live in Arlington and work in Arlington, most people in Dallas tend to think of Arlington as just a place to play . . . and as the city that keeps stealing the stadiums.

This week, Arlington was a different sort of place as a massive load of people from around the state collected at the Arlington Convention Center for the Texas Bar Exam. I wish I could estimate the number of people taking the test, but I really can't begin to guess . . . and most readers probably don't want to learn how many new lawyers will be joining the world this year alone.

My mornings in the City o' Fun are now a hazy memory. I'd pull in to the parking lot, my mind racing with various tidbits of legal minutiae. I'd park, glance over the flashcards relevant to that day's exam, and grab my pens and laptop and slowly walk toward the center. On the way I saw that my routine was pretty normal. Several cars were filled with people studying up to the last second, others collected on a concrete platform over a storm drain to smoke that last cigarette for the morning. Being tired was a non-issue, the nervous energy filling the space was infectious.

And then some testing would happen. It kind of felt like blacking out for three hours and coming to, realizing that I had vomitted a massive load of jargon onto the paper.

At lunch, I could observe my surroundings and realize that the Texas Board of Law Examiners likely had a great laugh when they selected the Arlington Convention Center as a test site. To the north of the center, I could see the famed "Black Hole," a water ride at Hurricane Harbor (formerly Wet 'n Wild). To the east, I could see the top of the best rides as Six Flags. To the west, I watched the construction at the gargantuan new stadium being built for the Cowboys. And to the south, separated from the Convention Center by a beautifully landscaped park and pond, stood the Ballpark. Yes, literally everyone in Arlington was having fun except us.

The test ended yesterday afternoon. I expected to conclude the test with a late night of partying, but I soon realized that I was just genuinely tired. Of course, the margarita, flank steak, and beers magnified this exhaustion, and I was pleasantly unconscious before 10 pm. And, yes, I think that turned out to be a fantastic way to celebrate.

Hiatus Update

2007-07-19T20:44:00.001-05:00

The posts have become scarce this month as bar exam studying has dominated my life. The bar exam is just days away, so you can expect more regular posts to resume once this mess is over. Here are a few things to look forward to:

1) The nitty-gritty of the Rainier climb

2) A day in the life of a guy studying for the bar, a story in photos

3) Details on our July trip to the glorious Twin Cities

4) Photos from my upcoming trip to New Mexico

And best of all . . .

5) Stories and photos from Megan and my upcoming trip to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

For now, I need to get a better grasp of Article 3 of the Uniform Commercial Code--figure out how transfer warranties differ from presentment warranties and what not . . .

Mount Rainier Summit Anniversary

2007-06-26T17:03:00.001-05:00

One year ago this morning, I reached the summit of Mount Rainier. To mark the occasion, I originally intended to write an in-depth account of the climb. Unfortunately, the bar exam has thwarted that plan, so my frequent readers will have to wait a while longer for that post. For now, a few photos will have to suffice. The photo below features Gabriel and me standing at climbing school the day before the hike. The summit appears in the background, roughly 10,000 feet above and ten miles away from us. The photo at the top of the post shows us enjoying our accomplishment, completely ignorant of the difficulties that would face us on the long walk out.

Japanese Game Shows

2007-06-21T12:36:00.001-05:00

Really no commentary is necessary for this one. The video says so much about Japan.

Tales of Two Road Trips: "The Places In Between" and "The Road"

2007-06-13T15:01:00.000-05:00

My daily schedule has become hectic, but each morning presents a solid half hour of blessed public transportation. This allows me a half hour to read and relax on the train before a day of trying to cram information into my head. My recent selections have presented stories of two drastically different road trips, each devastating in its own way.

The Places In Between, by Rory Stewart

I began The Places In Between with a large number of preconceived notions about the author. I knew the story detailed the author's walk across Afghanistan in 2002. Based on that detail alone, I expected the author to be a macho risk-taker. I expected the story to be interesting but full of boastful anecdotes. I formed these opinions by pondering the type of person willing to take such a risky trip.

Fortunately, I could not have been more incorrect. The author comes across as introspective and knowledgeable, resourceful and kind. He weaves threads of his own story along with Afghanistan's history--both recent and ancient. The result is a beautiful tale of danger and discovery. His narrative is a welcome contrast to the way Afghanistan tends to be presented in the mainstream media. Instead of discussing a monolithic culture, Stewart reveals an Afghanistan marked by diversity. While reading, I realized that much of what I have read about the country had been littered with overgeneralizations, and the lack of subtlety in our conception of the nation will likely be the downfall of the US project.

As a travel story, the book was one of the best I've read. He faces difficult conditions throughout his trip, and his survival depends on the hospitality of strangers. He encounters dangers that seem alien and absurd, but the dangers make the journey so remarkable.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

I assume most folks who come to this blog have heard of The Road by now, so I will keep my comments short. It's a story of the love between father and son, the end of civilization, and being. The writing transports me, and each time I set the book down I have to shake off the world McCarthy creates so deftly. The story is scary and beautiful, and it unmasks existence to its core, finding a perverse clash of good and evil. I call it "perverse" because I'm forced to decide where I would fit in this world. I'd like to think that I'd be "carrying the fire," but I can't be sure.

I now face the first time that I have been afraid to finish a book. I lack only fourteen pages, but I don't know if I can face what they may hold. When you read the book, pause at the bottom of page 272, and I imagine you will feel the same way.

Gun Barrel City, Texas: Saturday Night at Cedar Isle

2007-06-06T17:23:00.000-05:00

The moon illuminated Cedar Creek Lake as we slowly cruised toward the bar. It was a cool night, the sort of night one sorely misses in August. The water was calm, and, as the breeze from our motion forced me to squint, I soon fell into some strange space between sleep and consciousness. The short trip was relaxing and peaceful, and it in no way prepared me for what would ensue.

We were headed to Cedar Isle, a bar that squats above a dock along highway 334. It's the kind of bar one expects to find on a lonely tract of tourist beach . . . the type of place that should have Jimmy Buffet blasting from the radio while the owner bitterly rants in a drunken haze about how the beach bar was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. In that vein, the bar sports tattered turquoise siding, a guy grilling burgers near the dock, and easy boat access. This bar was different though. First, the ocean is roughly 500 miles away. Second, Jimmy Buffet never entered the band's playlist. Third, this bar made me feel out of style for not having a mullet. Cedar Isle is a world of its own.

As we pulled toward the dock, we strained our ears to determine whether the bar had a live band or a karaoke machine. The water distorted the sound, and we couldn't tell whether the vocals came from a self-labeled "professional" musician or a drunken hack reliving past glories. We soon realized the sound definitely came from the band, but it was likely also coming from someone reliving past glories.

We muscled past the grill and onto an open patio. Our senses were soon occupied with an eclectic cast of characters. We saw an aging woman in a red top with Shirley Temple, red-died curls framing her weathered face. The band seemed to be a gathering of utter strangers: a bass guitarist who looked like a young Paul McCartney with Ringo's 70s hair and a cut-off tank top. The lead guitarist flaunted a grandiose mullet that moved with his rockin' gyrations. The other guitarist looked twenty years and about nineteen thousand cigarettes behind the rest. Together, they offered three distinct sounds: Beatles (he sounded like a young John Lennon, meaning this one man was effectively channeling three Beatles), high-pitched hair rock (via the Mullet), and 90s grunge rock. They were perfect.

We staggered through the crowd and immediately realized that we were about five beers behind our fellow patrons. We also realized that we would not, and probably could not, catch up to them. We found a table next to a couple of guys from Waxahachie who were just passing through, apparently enjoying a day of "fat doobies" on the deck of their boats. While they confirmed that detail in conversation, their smiles had told us that already.

Our table gave us great views of the dancefloor. A lone dancer in a polka-dot top thrusted her arms about violently, jerking in utter disregard for rhythm. Occasionally she would collapse suddenly on the ground and then rise again, a drunken phoenix. Her efforts were soon joined by countless others. Perhaps a result of the crowd, the polka-dot dancer vanished. A while later I spotted her in the distance, continuing her dance quite alone on the dock. This night was all about her.

We sipped our beer and laughed, thankful to be the hell out of Dallas. Megan and I had visited a posh Dallas establishment the night before, a place notable for its creative cocktails, unique food items, and plastic-surgeried patrons. Cedar Isle was a simpler universe. The beer was canned, the music was classic, and the deck shook with a lust for life repressed in the Dallas restaurant by self-consciousness and glam.

I took in the scene and reveled in the unbridled joy. Somewhere in that reveling, I noticed a woman had pulled off her shirt and was giving lap dances to her friend. Meanwhile, polka-dots was coming dangerously close to assaulting the younger guitarist. The cops seemed to have circled in on a group of underage partiers, and somewhere in the emerging chaos, we decided it was time to head home.

We untied the boat and headed off toward the moon, which was now high in the sky. The cacophony of Cedar Isle slowly slid into the distance, and the hum of the engine prepared us for sleep. I shook my head and wondered whether that trip to the bar was just a strange dream.

Brothers Australia Update

2007-06-04T17:14:00.000-05:00

Just finished a brief online chat with Tom and Mark Everett. They are currently in Cairns, and there were a few items to note.

1) They couldn't talk too long. They needed to eat a quick breakfast before heading out to a rainforest where they will "snuggle with koalas."

2) They are enjoying new experiences with beer. Tom's favorite so far is called Toohey New, or "new" by the locals. Mark Everett prefers mango weizen, a German hefeweizen featuring a couple small dollops of mango nectar.

3) Tomorrow Mark Everett will get to work on his Chaco tan during a seven-hour boat ride . . . that will take them to an empty sandy atoll . . . which will be their starting point for a snorkel trip . . . on the Great Barrier Reef.

Bar review classes might be a bit tougher to sit through tomorrow!

Bon Voyage, Brothers!

2007-05-31T13:42:00.001-05:00

My alarm went off at 4:08 AM, and I was immediately confused. My first sensation was regaining awareness of the fact that I had these things called "hands" that could be used to silence alarms. I heard that someone was in the shower and quickly remembered my next task--taking Tom and Mark Everett to the airport so they could get to Australia. I looked at the clock one more time and thought, "I'm a really nice brother."

The guys were significantly more energetic. The alarm had brought little surprise to either. Tom had a difficult time sleeping given his anticipation. Mark Everett assured me that his body fell soundly asleep, but his mind remained awake all night.

They made last minute packing adjustments. Tom decided to leave behind his 600 page book of poker tips to lighten their otherwise quite heavy load. Then again, there is nothing wrong with being prepared. These two have roughly 6 to 7 books between them, three iPods, two large sets of Bose noise cancelling headphones, and two sets of "nap" fabric socks from Brookstone. Oh, they also packed a rum cake, just in case. Below, Mark Everett proudly displays the rum cake (which is surrounded by Cliff bars, granola bars, some strange sort of fabric wipe and other essentials):

I drove the guys to the airport, and their energy was infectious, making the drive pass all too quickly. I dropped them off at the terminal, and we hugged farewell after I snapped this photo.

I drove away wishing I could join them and hoping their journey would be a safe one. As I approached the DFW exit, my phone rang. Tom and Mark Everett had not checked updated gate information, and I needed to get them to a different terminal. So I grabbed the guys and moved them to terminal D--then we repeated the farewell process. Two more hugs, and they were off to fight the Panhandle High School marching band through the security line. They reached Los Angeles, and they should reach Sydney in about 16 hours or so.

Safe travels, guys!

Brief Chaco Update:

Mark Everett has proven a worthy adversary. His feet are right, mine are left.

More on our Cape Town photographer

2007-05-29T17:46:00.000-05:00

I have previously written about a fascinating photographer that we encountered at breakfast at Cape Town, Jehad Nga. Since I last wrote about him, he has recorded a multimedia feature with the New York Times that offers an insight into his art. What we would have given for another hour of conversation with him.

Next "Knapp Adventure" involves two of my brothers. Tom and Mark Everett arrive tomorrow for a brief night in Dallas before flying out toward Australia and New Zealand. Needless to say, Megan and I are jealous . . . but hopefully our jealousy will be short-lived as we work out our plans for August.

A New Adventure Begins

2007-05-21T14:12:00.000-05:00

This one will be much less exciting. Today is the grand kick-off of bar exam preparation. I picked up 8 hefty volumes of review materials and have started trying to adjust my brain to learning once again. The review course will keep me very busy over the coming weeks, but hopefully it will get me ready.

If anyone is curious about the details of bar exam preparation, I found a good discussion of what it takes at a blog by a person who took the Texas bar last summer. Hopefully I'll enter the test feeling that confident!

Thoughts on Editing

2007-05-18T09:34:00.000-05:00

I'm now deep into the process of editing the Africa footage, and I find the task to be stressful for a number of reasons.

First, my timing has been less than ideal. Had I edited this footage immediately, I could have preempted the whole "Planet Earth" show on Discovery Channel by wowing the world with our terrific footage. After watching this video, no one would be interested in seeing sharks in HD. After all, why watch sharks in HD when you can see shaky footage narrated by two wildlife geniuses?

Second, I have had to revamp my project in response to Planet Earth. Since they have done the "beautiful wildlife footage" thing so well, I am left with two options: art film or mockumentary. I think the art film option is foreclosed by the lack of angst and torment. Megan came up with the idea for a safari mockumentary, and I think that idea is golden. Discovery Channel did the documentary--now it's our turn to take it to a whole new level.

So, I'm currently scouring our footage for potential hilarity. The folks from Cannes and Sundance are calling me nonstop, and I've just had to set up our phone to forward our calls to our agent. I just can't deal with the fame anymore.

Liberation!

2007-05-09T07:57:00.000-05:00

Last night I handed in my last assignment of law school, meaning I am now liberated. Bar review begins very soon, but I'm hoping to use some of my free time in the next few weeks to edit some of the video from Africa. We'll see how that goes. Doing nothing might be good enough too.

The Great Chaco Challenge of 2007

2007-05-03T21:44:00.000-05:00

Well, the gauntlet has been thrown . . . metaphorically at least. I don't know anyone who owns a gauntlet, but if my brother, Mark Everett, did have a gauntlet, he would have thrown it, thereby initiating the Great Chaco Challenge of 2007.

Why Chaco Sandals Barely Leave My Feet

To back up. The Chaco sandal is the greatest single piece of travel footwear ever created on the face of the planet, and I say this having previously been a wearer of the Teva. Unlike the Teva sandal, Chacos feature vibram soles that can handle the toughest terrain, and the absence of velcro make them ideal companions for river activities. My Chacos have carried me through crowds of tourists in Europe, through flooded rivers in tropical rains in Mexico, through dusty streets in Tanzania, and to Everest. Megan and I wore them almost exclusively throughout Africa, and I can imagine no better travel shoe.

Why I had to take the bait

That said, a side-effect of extensive wearing of Chacos is the Chaco sandal tan. And, a side-effect of that phenomenon is that the tan provides yet another means for sibling rivalry to take flight. Specifically, Mark Everett sent me a random email last week stating:

"I hereby bet you the amount of $20 of who can achieve the best chaco tan by Sept 1 at 12 noon. I started mine this weekend and I can already see the outlines of greatness. I am no where near your level, but I aim to destroy you.

Do you accept??"

I assumed Mark Everett wrote the email and followed it with this facial expression:

Normally, I would ignore this email as a random product of an extremely well-developed imagination by a very creative fellow (after all, I think Mark Everett's main goal in life is to obtain some sort of machine to record his dreams to DVD . . .). So, I'm used to getting random emails of this sort . . . but I also have lost nearly every bet I've made with Mark Everett in the past two years . . . in this email, I saw my chance at redemption. Nay, I saw my chance at victory!

So, the competition is on. My plan is to randomly chronicle our progress on this blog over the coming months. On September 1 (or thereabouts if the date proves to be impossible), I will post photos of our final product. At that point, readers will have several days to vote on which tan has achieved the highest level of greatness.

Let the competition begin!

Here we are at the beginning of a battle. The first photo shows my feet, and Mark Everett's are second . . . and no, I don't mind that I have an amazing head start.

More Texas Storms

2007-05-03T08:16:00.000-05:00

Well, the storms returned, but this time Megan was able to participate in the chaos. Here is Megan sheltering in the closet as tornado sirens sounded:

To back up, I came home from a day at the library yesterday and turned on the TV to see that a tornado watch had been issued. The day was cloudy but not bleak, and I was surprised . . . until the radar revealed a massive line of storms heading our way. The main storm was traveling west to east with straight-line winds at 70 to 80 miles per hour. Another line of storms was headed south to north with a tendency to produce tornadoes.

The clouds darkened, the line of storms approached, and, predictably, sirens sounded. At this point, Megan's emergency preparedness instincts came into play, and she moved our massive emergency kit (this thing has everything . . . if we needed to perform open heart surgery, the equipment would be in this box directly next to the coloring book, there in case children need emergency entertainment). Megan moved into the closet along with the entirety of our bedding.

Meanwhile, I'm looking out the window. After all, we'd seen about an hour of footage so far of reporters around the metroplex being blown around in winds that had now been gusting to 100 miles per hour. It was raining sideways, and it was very impressive to watch. Naturally, I wanted to witness this first-hand, but, with safety in mind, we retreated together to the closet . . .

Hopefully the weather will mellow out, but, if not, we'll be sure to keep the camera handy.

Beijing Olympics: Making Rain, Angering Governments

2007-04-27T09:08:00.000-05:00

I read a fascinating article today that connects to yesterday's book review of The Worst Hard Times, by Timothy Egan. During the worst years of the Dust Bowl, the drought-stricken region saw many individuals who purported to be rain makers--people who could shake the moisture from the sky. Many would collect money for their services and simply skip town. Others, like Amarillo-based Tex Thornton, would launch dynamite into the clouds hoping to explode the clouds and release their rainfall.

Apparently the Chinese are also working on how to artificially cause rain. I have previously written about China's air pollution problems, which I experienced first-hand in Beijing. One morning in Beijing, we headed out after a long night of rain, and some locals told us that we were very lucky to get to see blue sky. Well, given the high chance of rain during the Beijing Olympics next August, the Chinese hope to artificially trigger the rain early to avoid rain during competition. Moreover, they hope to cause the rain in order to clean the air.

Let's just hope they are more successful than Tex Thornton.

On a side note, the Beijing Olympics are set to be a very big deal for a variety of unusual, political reasons. In fact, the most contentious Olympic torch relay in history is already in the works. China wants to run the torch to the top of Mount Everest in Tibet as well as through Taiwan. Taiwan, which has never accepted China's stance, is livid about the plans. The run to the top of Everest has caused controversy of its own. Many around the world do not accept China's occupation of Tibet, and, after visiting Tibet, it became clear that most ethnic Tibetans do not accept the continued Chinese occupation of Tibet. The plans to run a torch up Everest has already sparked protests landing several US climbers in jail.

Beyond the political message, others oppose using Everest for a political statement. After all, the mountain is called Chomolungma by the locals, "Goddess Mother of the World," and climbers engage in a "puja ceremony" before climbing to ensure that their climb is blessed religiously. Moreover, this season the Chinese have sent a large team up the North side of Everest to test the viability of a torch placement. In the process, the team has taken extra large campsite areas with armed guards stationed to protect the gear. These "preparation" efforts destroy the sanctity of the mountains and really taints the climbing experience for the north side climbers this year . . . climbers who are very well aware of other misdeeds by the Chinese military in the Himalaya region . . . typified by the massacre at Nangpa La near Cho Oyu last year.

This blog intends to keep an eye on these developments. China is a fascinating place, and these games give an opportunity to spotlight the good and the bad.

Book Review: The Worst Hard Time, by Timothy Egan

2007-04-26T07:32:00.000-05:00

One of my new favorite movies has to be The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, starring Tommy Lee Jones. The story revolves largely around a young Border Patrol officer who committed a terrible crime. While his crime is appalling, the bulk of the film traces his punishment--part human inflicted and part seemingly inflicted by nature itself. The story of this officer is one of karma . . . with teeth. By the end of the movie, the viewer wonders whether the officer's sins are worth the repeated punishments: the beatings, the snakebite, the grueling journey, and the corpse companion.

Timothy Egan's book, The Worst Hard Time, reflected a similar theme, this time rooted in history. Set in the Texas Panhandle, Oklahoma Panhandle, Baca County Colorado, and parts of Kansas and Nebraska, Egan traces the broad history of the Dust Bowl from cause to windy conclusion. Just like a viewer watching Three Burials, the reader becomes very well aware of the farmers' fault in contributing to the Dust Bowl but later concludes that no one deserves the hell that followed.

Hubris. It's a word that appears frequently in Egan's work--probably because it's the perfect choice to explain the growth of that part of the country. The entire region was founded on hubris. The grasslands had been home to millions of very well-adapted plains buffalo who fed on equally well-adapted grass in a region of high wind and low rain. In an effort to settle the central portions of the US, railroad marketing programs and US government incentives led farmers into this arid region with promises of limitless fertile croplands. An area that had been home to the Native Americans became the home of cowboys until the farmers appeared and plowed millions of acres.

At this point, the history began to remind me of Collapse by Jared Diamond. Diamond studied societies defined by their hubris (or at least ignorance) in good times, hubris which became their downfall in times of environmental or economic change. The good times were really good on the plains. World War I left grain prices soaring, and the early part of the 20th century saw unusually high amounts of rain. Towns exploded, and banks responded with risky lending practices, allowing farmers to acquire new cars, homes, and farm equipment--which created more plowed land. That part of the world was built in a guarantee of continued good conditions, environmentally and financially, and, when the world began to change, it all came crashing down. With the grass gone and crop prices plummeting, that world of hubris vanished in a massive cloud of dust. The plains had a collapse rivaling any detailed in Diamond's book, leaving the population propped up, and barely, on pure grit and government subsidy.

Egan paints the story of the impending struggle clearly and beautifully. His language carries the feel of an old time Panhandle slang, and he leaves the reader almost tasting dirt in her teeth at times (then again, this reader grew up in the Panhandle and is very familiar with that particular flavor of dirt). While the farmer obviously carries the blame for plowing up land fit only for grass, Egan makes it clear that the punishment for that sin outweighed any normal sense of justice. Egan quotes a diary entry from the time: "Those who coined the phrase 'There's no place like Nebraska' wrote better than they thought. In Nebraska, you don't have to die to go to hell."

The people who survived that time period are a tough lot, and I wondered, while reading, whether I could have weathered that decade. More importantly, I wondered whether I would have to survive conditions like that and then look back on another period of hubris. Let's hope not.

Inn of the Anasazi: Santa Fe, New Mexico

2007-04-20T09:10:00.000-05:00

A loud noise appears somewhere in the walls around me, and I woke up in a haze.

"Megan, did you hear that?"

Given the volume, I was sure she had to have heard, but it was 3 AM. We were in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the previous evening had involved a nice amount of wine with the folks--so perhaps she wouldn't have heard.

"Yes, and you need to do something about this."

Right. So I sprung to action. We were lodged at the Inn of the Anasazi, frequently rated in the top 500 hotels on the planet. And the place had, so far, lived up to this expectation. The staff was amazingly helpful. The rooms were spacious and charming, and the location could not have been superior.

But now it was 3 AM, and the walls were making a groaning sound of epic proportions. I was pretty sure this was the sound a dinosaur would make if it were having bamboo wedged under its toenails. As I walked toward the bathroom, the volume increased. I turned on a faucet, thinking that perhaps our pipes somehow had some air pressure that needed releasing (obviously I had no idea what I was doing), and the volume just increased. So, I called the front desk.

"Ummm. This is Brad Knapp in room 226, and a loud, groaning noise is coming from the bathroom." Immediately I realized that this probably sounded delusional, if not perverted, to the night manager. "It's like a loud, echoing screech." Maybe that would help.

"Well," he began in a voice that notified me that I definitely woke him, "we have someone in the basement working on the plumbing. Maybe that is it. See if it goes away."

Translation: I don't want to deal with this right now.

So, I laid back down, and the sounds continued. Megan and I mused that the sound was the ghost of the Anasazi coming to warn us about something (I was reading Collapse, which details the collapse of the Anasazi civilization, collapse triggered by a long period of resource depletion followed by a drought). Megan is not a fan of ghost stories however, so we quickly focused on our annoyance.

Meanwhile, I heard doors opening and shutting in the hallway, leading me to believe that the problem affected many. I didn't realize that my father was, at that moment, walking the hallway in his own investigation.

I decided to call the desk again. "Yes, this is really, really loud. Is everything alright?" The noise continued.

"Wait, is that the noise in the background? Wow! Okay, we'll get on that." Finally, the proof had been transmitted by phone, and action would take place. I felt better--if this hotel is among the best in the world, I would need to see proof and quick.

About twenty minutes later, the noise ceased. Shortly therafter, I heard a knock at the door. I quickly tossed on one of the soft robes featuring the hotel's monogram and opened the door. In front of me was an older gentleman in a denim shirt and jeans. He appeared to be completely soaked in water.

"I'm sorry for the noise, sir. A pipe exploded in the basement draining all of the water in the boiler and gushing cold water as well. The noise should be finished now."

I was speechless. I choked out a "thank you" and closed the door. I felt like an enormous jerk. I had spent the previous morning on the ski slopes enjoying a late March snowstorm that left me with empty slopes and gorgeous powder. That evening we had dined at The Compound, my favorite restaurant in Santa Fe. We had enjoyed gorgeous afternoon sunshine in one of the prettiest settings on earth. After all of that,I had crashed on a very soft mattress surrounded by down blanketing, and I had slept beautifully until briefly disturbed by the noise.

Meanwhile, this messenger came to the door after spending an hour, at least, getting soaking in a cold basement at 3 AM. He then was sent, by the management, to apologize to me, which, of course, made me feel like a horrible brat. I went back to bed feeling guilty but finally drifted into sleep.

The next morning the hot water was gone. Other guests were complaining about the situation, and, at this point, I decided I'd just keep my mouth shut. I'd shower later. For now, we'd just let the ghosts of the Anasazi work their mischief on someone else.

Thoughts on Wine . . . and Resource Depletion

2007-04-18T10:21:00.000-05:00

Well, we really weren't kidding when we extolled the beauties of the Cape Town area wineries. Apparently the New York Times has caught on as well.

But this only reminds me of our latest wine problem. Cape Town made us South African wine converts. In fact, Megan and I normally avoided white wines altogether until we were introduced to the sauvignon blancs of the Western Cape. While we were greatly restricted in the amount of wine we could bring back with us, we soon began the quest for the perfect Cape Town-area sauvignon blanc at our local wine store.

And after arduous testing and tasting, we encountered the Southern Right, a wine named for the whale that thrives in the waters of the South Atlantic. This encounter left us hooked.

The first bottle went fast, and we restocked. Those bottles complemented grilled fish, pork, salads, air, water, etc., and they were soon gone. We returned to our store to find at least a dozen bottles left, so we acquired three more.

Those passed quickly as well, and when we returned to the store, we found just three bottles stashed away in the back of a wine refrigerator. Our resources, it seemed, had been depleted at an unsustainable rate. As a result, our attitude toward the wine changed drastically.

The first bottle in the new stash went relatively quickly--after all, we had two more, and maybe we could find another supplier in the meantime? Despite my best efforts, no new supply was forthcoming. Monday night, we consumed bottle two. This leaves just one bottle of the precious elixir. This last bottle now has an elevated status: it has transformed from a nice complement to sauteed fish to a "special occasion" wine. We will likely hold onto the bottle until some point of celebration, preserving that resource as best we can.

Meanwhile, we have begun the hunt for a sauvignon blanc that reaches the quality of the Southern Right and at about the same price (around $12 a bottle). If any reader has a suggestion, please, please, let us know. And Golden Kaan doesn't cut it. Neither does Arabella.

I suppose we should feel fortunate that our only depleted resource, at this point, is wine. After all, it's hardly necessary to our continued existence, and we can safely stash this bottle away without any economic penalty. I just wonder what happens when the rest of our resources start vanishing. For example, if instead of sauvignon blanc, we were stashing away our last bottle of clean water, I think we would be in a drastically different situation.

That situation, however, is not entirely unimaginable. Perhaps I am paranoid having just finished Collapse, the terrific book by Jared Diamond, but, unless folks across the globe make some big changes, we might be savoring each drop someday in the not-too-distant future.

For now, though, we are blessed to simply need a good white wine. Suggestions?

Shelter from the Storm

2007-04-13T19:13:00.000-05:00

It's been a remarkable evening here in the DFW. The local news has fixed its attention for three days now on the "massive" storms that would reach Dallas this evening. All week I assumed this incessant coverage was just a result of slow news (I know, Anna Nicole Smith's baby's daddy was discerned . . .). After this evening, I realized they really weren't kidding.

The storm has moved very quickly--in and out of Fort Worth in a matter of minutes, leaving behind tennis ball, baseball and, apparently "teacup-sized" hail.

And Brad Remembers One Fateful May Evening . . .

As the reports came in, I had flashbacks to a May night in my grandmother's basement in Amarillo. Tornadoes approached town, and baseball-sized hail ravaged rooftops and car dealerships all over town. Meanwhile, safely in the basement, my then 8-year-old sister began wailing, "Why does today have to be today!?!" Megan comforted her while Dad and I fulfilled her one urgent request, "Brad (sob), would you (sob) please go get (sob) my blue bunny (prolonged wail)?" And how can you say "no" to that?

Dad and I rushed around the cul-de-sac, sprinted into the house, and, alas, I spotted the blue bunny. We returned to Mommer and Grandad's basement, and, to Em's disappointment, I had grabbed the wrong blue bunny. While this created a moment of distress, I think she simply appreciate the effort . . . either that or, at 8-years-old, she had already inherited that universal joy at seeing men jump through hoops on a lady's behalf . . . maybe a bit of both.

Anyway, we escaped that hail storm with a few broken skylights, and Megan had finally seen a real humdinger of a West Texas storm. My grandparents ended up with a broken window and an imperative to replace their shingles. Otherwise, we were unscathed, a fact I credit to the strange powers of my grandparents' basement to ward off danger.

Back to the Present

The storm raced this direction from Fort Worth. Sirens began wailing, and, simultaneously, the news began showing the destruction in a small burb north of Fort Worth. Quickly, I assessed my situation.

With Mommer and Grandad's basement roughly 398 miles to the north and west, I considered the structural integrity of our building . . . something I should have considered before leasing I suppose. Very quickly, I recalled our utter lack of faith in this structure. At night, Megan and I feel the building shake whenever anyone sets foot on the stairs. The walls are remarkably thin, and the windows shake with passing breezes. More importantly, we sit on the third floor . . . on a building supported by 12" diameter concrete stilts . . . and enjoy an entire wall of windows.

As I imagined our glorious windows with their stunning downtown views converting into massive machete-like projectiles, I realized that the central closet was my only hope. Sirens began wailing, and I prepared my shelter.

At this point, I realized that preparing a shelter was more a psychological boost than anything that would actually sustain my continued existence. For those minutes, I felt like I might be doing something to assist my survival . . . even if that something proved utterly futile.

The closet is crowded and something had to go, so I tossed my entire rack of pants on the floor of the bedroom. When the fury of Nature hit, I would have no need for pants, after all. Since Megan is safely in Chicago, I had a small temptation to make some extra space by tossing her shoes out of the shelter--then I realized that sacrificing her shoes might be an amateur new-husband mistake, so they stayed in. If I was going to live, these shoes, also, would live on.

The sirens continued wailing, and I quickly realized, as I listened to the massive drops of rain, that a hail stone the size of a teacup could pierce the ceiling and smash my skull (that May storm in Amarillo sent hailstones through the ceilings of several two-story houses). Ever the quick thinker, I located my bicycle helmet . . . just in case.

Then I realized that massive hailstones would also hurt my body, so I tossed some pillows and blankets into the shelter. And when we lost electricity, I'd need lighting, so the headlamp joined me, my blanket, my bike helmet, and Megan's footwear.

The sirens began again, the news reporters shouted for us to take shelter, and I dove into my hovel. Two minutes passed, and apparently the storm had already set its sights on Rockwall County. The sirens turned off, the wind died down, and I came out of hiding.

It turns out I am safe . . . and now I have all this stuff to pick-up. What a night.

That Time of Year Again

2007-04-11T14:47:00.000-05:00

Yes, the time has come once again for the weather to taunt Dallas-ites in various evil and carefully planned ways.

Naturally, the Easter holiday weekend came with menacing clouds, snow flurries, and chilly temperatures. This transformed a planned camping trip in Dinosaur Valley State Park into a day hike. It turned a usually raucous Easter dog parade into a more subdued event, two hours of toughing it out in the cold followed by fleeing indoors.

As can be expected, the return of the work/school week brings sunny skies and perfect temperatures, a light breeze and, naturally, a mountain of work to prepare for final exams. When these forces conspire, I have to work really hard to get myself to walk into a classroom. Once inside, I forget about the ramifications of Uniform Commercial Code section 9.323 on the continued priority of a security interest after a future advance, and I focus entirely on the idiotic decision-making process that carried me indoors in the first place. After all, Dallas is probably two weeks shy of 100+ degree temperatures--these perfect days must be enjoyed while they last! While I don't welcome the impending heat, it will at least help with one task . . . forcing myself indoors to study, this time for this alleged "bar exam."

Anyway, we hope to have Dinosaur Valley pictures up soon. Megan and I found a thick field of bluebonnets that became the perfect setting for a very cheesy photo opportunity. Megan's travels take her to Chicago this weekend (a city neither of us have visited despite frequent stops in O'Hare airport), while my "travels" will likely take me between the law library and coffee shops.

Were we in Africa four months ago? Sometimes it really doesn't feel like it . . .

Flight of the Baton Twirlers

2007-04-02T07:36:00.000-05:00

Well, April has arrived, and it appears as though I can return to my usually laid-back 3rd year pace. After two intense weeks of work, I can now focus again on writing random stories and book reviews and what not.

Yesterday offered an interesting travel experience. I went to the Amarillo airport to fly back to Dallas at about 5:30 or so, and I noticed a lot of strange-looking young girls. They had bizarrely sculpted hair with enough metal pins to surely set off the metal detectors. Some wielded trophies or strange velvet tubes. All had a mother plodding behind carrying a massive garment bag.

It turns out that I happened to catch the same flight as about 25 competitive baton twirlers who had recently competed in some regional event up in the Texas Panhandle (I think Pampa . . . not sure). I made several observations about this lot. First, I was stunned at the choice of hair style--they looked like minature versions of a bad movie about Dallas in the 80s. Not sure why this style persists.

Secondly, this was a very annoying lot to fly with. I don't know what it is about groups flying together that makes them inherently obnoxious. I used to fly places with a speech and debate team, and I assume we could occasionally be annoying--then again, my main flight memory was having an older teammate explain why everyone should read Michel Foucault's Discipline and Punish (by the way, he's right--everyone should). Okay, so I guess that's almost as obnoxious as the conversation about Justin Timberlake I endured on this flight.

Finally, I had flashbacks to the last time I flew to Dallas with a plane load of strangely perky women wearing way too much make-up. I caught an Atlanta to Dallas flight along with about three dozen women headed to the international Mary Kay cosmetic salesperson convention. Perhaps they had traded in their own batons for pink cadillacs. Regardless, I think I'll be a more conscientious group traveler in the future.

Slightly Preoccupied

2007-03-23T14:55:00.000-05:00

Well, the Knapp Adventure Blog has had a very silent week . . . the silence was largely the result of a 52 page paper I finished yesterday on the liability of successor corporations under CERCLA. While I considered sharing the work with the blogosphere, I quickly realized that I would inevitably lose all of my readers, now and forever.

DC stories still deserve mention. After all, Mark Everett and I witnessed three arrests, were attacked with soda, and spent glorious hours throwing the frisbee around the Mall. Our trip also provided some great photo opportunities, so I hope to add those pictures next week.

For now, Megan and I are packing once again--this time for Santa Fe, New Mexico. With nearly 70 inches of snow still on the slopes, I plan to join Dad for another run down Muerte. Otherwise, we should enjoy a few days of food and relaxation before returning for the final weeks of my time in law school.

Shamrock Fest, Washington DC

2007-03-16T11:17:00.000-05:00

I got an early start to Saint Patrick's Day celebrations with Washington DC's Shamrock fest last Saturday evening.

Mark Everett and I had traveled by plane from Dallas to Kansas City to Baltimore before catching the Amtrak to Union Station and then a cab to the hotel. The trip took a while, and we were pretty beat. Upon arrival, we kept getting calls from our brother, Tom, to head to RFK Stadium to some event called "Shamrock Fest." We were told the event was some sort of festival with Irish music, and we expected a low-key time.

As we reached the Metro platform, we noticed large numbers of folks wearing green. In fact, it seemed that a ton of folks were headed that way.

We started walking to the stadium after reaching the Armory-Stadium metro stop, and we soon noticed that we would likely encounter something a bit more exciting than just traditional Irish music. The crowd leaving the festival consisted of a mass of stumbling, mumbling, near-comatose individuals . . . and it was 6 PM. We saw guys concentrating hard to stay on their feet while several couples decided that the world needed to participate in their affectionate cuddlings with their drunken escorts. The crowd that had decided to cut themselves off from the party was sloshed, which left us a bit fearful of what the actual festival would hold.

It was like Dante's journey through the Inferno. Except we were encountering deeper circles of drunkenness. Finally, at the eighth circle, we found the festival and the madness it entailed. The ground was littered with cups and food wrappers with several individuals deciding that games of kick-the-cup were wildly entertaining.

The music hardly qualified as Irish traditional as covers of rock songs filtered through the air. Thousands of people rocked on their feet on the verge of unconsciousness as they horded around beer lines and food lines and toilet lines. Needless to say, Mark Everett and I quickly had to shake our exhaustion and wake up fast, even if just for added awareness and self-preservation.

We wandered for the first hours observing the madness around. We partied to a Journey song at one stage, grabbed chicken sandwiches, and listened to the musical brilliance of DJ AM.

Finally, Flogging Molly was set to headline, so we made our way down to the main stage. The crowd, at this point, was rowdy, and Irish punk music lit quite the fire. The front of the crowd immediately became a mosh pit leaving one of Tom's roommates with a hand injury. Folks began streaming out of the center of the crowd with fearful looks on their faces.

After a while, a guy staggered our way being held up by his friend. The friend was gripping the guy by his t-shirt. At one point, the drunken fellow fell to the ground--we assumed he would be out for good, but he rebounded, did a really silly dance, and wandered away.

Immediately behind us, a mosh pit opened as a group of folks decided that this music really required them to smash their bodies into one another on full runs. Occasionally the pushing from behind would shift our group into near collapse, but we escaped unscathed.

Flogging Molly tried to sedate the crowd, imploring them to take it easy and be kind to one another. Their words had no effect, and after a few awesome songs, we decided to head to calmer climes at the Hawk and Dove, a bar near the Capitol.

I decided that the music scene on that particular day suffers from a serious lack of hippies. I could not imagine Austin City Limits turning into such a raucous drunkfest . . . then again, ACL doesn't take place near St. Patrick's Day.

Great Links

2007-03-09T07:49:00.000-06:00

I am headed for a week of great times in Washington, DC. Since Knapp Adventure Blog will remain idle for a week or so, I thought I'd provide a couple of links that will potentially fill the void.

The Long Roadtrip South is a great chronicle of a car trip from England to Cape Town. Last time I checked, the couple was in Lome, Togo. Their route is enormous and audacious, and it is exciting to read about their latest adventures.

One of the Conde Nast travel magazines is sending a writer Around the World in 80 Days. He has created a number of rules for the trip. He cannot travel by air, and he cannot travel over 100 miles per hour. He began in Brooklyn just a few days ago, and, at his last entry, he was headed westward out of Denver. The trip promises to be fascinating, and I cannot wait to see if he makes it.

War and Witchcraft

2007-03-07T08:05:00.001-06:00

I was reading a BBC article on a conflict in Vanuatu sparked by a claim that a sorcerer used black magic and witchcraft to kill a rival. This accusation spiraled into wider conflict along "tribal" lines.

It is easy to dismiss these sort of news stories as a product of another culture's "ignorance" or "superstition." These stories seem far removed from our generally scientific way of thinking.

But, as I read this story, I thought about our own motivations for the current conflict in Iraq, motivations that proved as ephemeral as these accusations of witchcraft. Weapons of mass destruction and ties to terrorist networks were myths encouraged by our own fears, and we will probably be leaving Iraq in pretty bad shape. While the violence in Vanuatu left three dead, the violence that has emerged in Iraq has killed tens of thousands (and probably more than has been estimated).

Moreover, our decisions are branded as policy decisions based on "intelligence" gathered by various agencies. The term "intelligence" is invoked as some untouchable, mysterious set of sources that we-the-people obviously cannot understand but is something we should just trust in. In that manner, "intelligence" becomes our own "black magic," and, in this case, proved just as elusive.

Perhaps we are not so immune from war out of ignorance after all.

Driving Across Africa

2007-03-06T10:22:00.000-06:00

I previously wrote my thoughts about "The Long Way Round," the documentary tracking Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman's trip across Asia and North America. As I mentioned in that post, they plan to leave in September on the "Long Way Down," a trip from the northern tip of Scotland to Cape Town.

I have wondered what route would be feasible given unrest in various places along their path. Fortunately, Ewan and Charley will have a chance to determine the appropriate route by following the Long Roadtrip South, an overland trip that a British couple is taking from England to Cape Town. Instead of motorcycles, they are in a well-equipped Land Rover Defender. Their vehicle looks up to the journey: though, in the words of Andy of hobotraveler.com, "man, this seems like a great truck to rob." Hopefully the couple won't face that threat . . . as long as they watch out for picnics near rivers in Tanzania.

I'm excited to follow their progress. They have posted photos, diaries and video tracing their journey from initial preparation to their current location in Lome, Togo.

Concert in Cardiff: No Room at the Inn

2007-03-03T10:22:00.000-06:00

Shivering as we walked through the dark streets of Cardiff, I had fantasies of being tossed in jail . . . at least that would be warm, right? And how bad could a Welsh jail be? Shake the thought . . . and just keep moving . . .

The thoughts were largely provoked this morning by tantalizing blog entries by a couple of cousins currently studying abroad. My cousin, Will, is at St. Andrew's in Scotland, and his blog describes a close encounter with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds in Glasgow. Similarly, my cousin, Alyson, is enjoying a study experience in Copenhagen, and her blog mentions an upcoming music festival where she'll be seeing great shows like Galactic and Keller Williams. Their experience with these US musicians in intimate European venues reminds me of my last week in London in December 2002. We headed to a venue called "Bush Hall" where we saw Austin singer-songwriter Patti Griffin give a remarkable show. It was a taste of music from home as welcome as the barbecue restaurant we found in an East London market (run by a guy from Arkansas . . . which was good enough for us).

Meanwhile, I have been creating a mix of global music back home. I've collected some great stuff over the years ranging from random Tibetan pop music to the bluesy sounds of Ali Farka Toure. I've add some interesting European finds, like Sui Vesan and Sigur Ros, to the mix as well as a great Blanquito Man track from the movie, Babel, called "Cumbia Sobre El Rio."

I sit at home listening to music that reminds me of being abroad while my cousins are abroad listening to music that likely reminds them of home. And we all do a bit of travel, at least metaphysically. But back to the cold streets of Cardiff . . .

24 Hours in Cardiff

My favorite international concert experience involved a much different situation than the ones above. A friend from college, Shelby, and I headed to Wales in November 2002 to see Welshman, David Gray, perform before an adoring home crowd in the city of Cardiff. Even his grandfather watched from a balcony.

Our plan was to stroll into Cardiff the morning of the concert, see the sights, find a youth hostel, and have a few drinks at local pubs before and after the show. Immediately upon our arrival in Cardiff, we knew our plans would be derailed. The streets were swarming in a strange patchwork of black and green and red. The black colors belonged to the jerseys of the New Zealand All Black's fans while the green and red represented the Welsh team. Cardiff was mad for the rugby event about to unfold, and we soon realized that our lodging prospects were dimming. Regardless, we headed to a castle and some shops and generally fell in love with the town. The day felt like Mardi Gras, with the Kiwis getting a very early start to the celebration. In the first match between New Zealand and Wales in a very long time, both sets of fans were there to party . . . and to win.

A quick inquiry into our lodging options revealed that there was really no room at the inn, so we determined the time had come to reach a pub and get a pint before the concert. We watched the match from the bar and soon received lectures from our fellow patrons on how rugby is a vastly superior sport to American football. After all, why do our guys have to hide behind pads? They had a point, and they were buying us beers--so of course, we agreed. After watching more rugby, our agreement was suddenly genuine.

So we headed to the concert, and we loved every second of it. The venue was like a high school gymnasium, maybe a bit larger. The crowd adored the show, David Gray's drummer performed his usual quirky antics, and, for those hours, I had forgotten that we would soon be out on the cold streets without shelter.

And then we were on the cold streets without shelter. The post-rugby party was in full swing, and we began thinking creatively. As we wandered, we grew colder before noticing a glow from a nearby Burger King. A bit hungry anyway, we realized we could hang out at the Burger King until they closed at 2:30 AM. So, equipped with fries and cokes, we headed to a long wait at a warm booth.

But we hadn't really thought this plan through. After all, drunk people tend to be attracted to fried nastiness, and Burger King offered exactly that. After a few hours, the natives were growing restless, and the Kiwis and Welsh fans were started to have a bit of a row. This was relatively entertaining until some genius realized that cups of coke make ideal projectiles. Soon, the Burger King was turning to a chaos of soda showers as cups missed their targets and smashed into the walls. Hoping to avoid a cold night of soaked stickiness, Shelby and I headed out of the King and back into the streets.

But the streets had changed in the passing hours from clean cobblestone to knee-high refuse. Styrofoam containers, previously home to delicious doner kabobs, now blocked our path, and the bottoms of our shoes became stained in condiment juices. Nice.

So we wandered and wandered. We soon found the train station was closed (the Gare du Norde had been a nice home on a cold Paris night once), so we huddled into seats at a relatively sheltered bus stop. Soon , we were shaking from the cold, and Shelby threw out a suggestion, "Dude, why don't we just sleep in a hotel lobby?"

I pondered his suggestion and images of vagrants flashed through my head. We couldn't be vagrants (obviously not thinking . . . we had just been sleeping at a bus stop). "Come on, man, maybe a hostel has some space."

So we navigated the dark streets until we found a youth hostel. We rang the buzzer and soon heard a voice, "We're full."

"Please, just a little room on a couch? Do you have a floor we could sleep on?" I sounded pathetic because I was. It was 3:30 AM, and my body was shaking.

"No room."

And we were wandering. Movement kept us warmer. We noticed some doner kabob stores open, but we were both short on cash--the exchange rate had been killing us for four months, and paying for a sandwich seemed like steep rent.

"Maybe we can find a hot vent." That's what people find in the movies, right? We just needed to find a grate with steam rising up.

We wandered through the refuse and considered making a small fire. The fire would warm us, and, worst case scenario, a night in jail would give us a warm bed, right?

Around 4:30 AM we spotted a hotel. The doors were open, the lobby looked warm, and a group of All Black's fans were still drinking at a table. Shelby's suggestion, made two hours before, seemed brilliant, and we soon found ourselves unconscious in green wingbacks in the lobby. We were warm and asleep and life was good.

At 6:30, a manager tapped me on the shoulder. "Sir, you will have to leave around 7. The guests will be waking up."

I thanked the man for his hospitality. We must have looked pathetic to warrant the charity . . . it was welcome.

We wandered back toward the train station to catch the first train back to London. We had down duvets awaiting us. As we boarded the train, we miserably slumped into our seats and began to doze. As I passed out, I noticed the seats next to us being filled with three guys carrying a few cases of beer. It was 7 AM, and they were beginning to drink.

Their energy was nauseating, and I was soon blissfully asleep.

It was an awesome concert.

Preliminary Thoughts: Jared Diamond's "Collapse"

2007-03-02T10:14:00.000-06:00

Normally I would wait until the end of a book to review it, but I can't resist sharing some preliminary thoughts at the half-way point of Jared Diamond's book Collapse. By telling the fascinating histories of the environmental collapses of many great civilizations, Diamond hopes to reveal the fragility of our own society, and his analysis proves as thorough as it is terrifying. I basically find myself constantly thinking about this book. For the traveler, the book provides stunning descriptions of amazing and remote places. As a human in the world today, it provides valuable lessons in our own fallibility and will hopefully force people to change the way they live.

So far, I have read Diamond's analysis of the Maya, Anasazi, Easter Island, and other Pacific Island civilizations. Each of these societies reached a peak of greatness and complexity noted by construction of monuments honoring an elite class. These booms in architectural sophistication and population came at the expense of the natural environment, and many of these societies soon encountered a lack of building materials due to deforestation and a deterioration in food quality due to high population and soil depletion. With such human-caused devastation of the natural environment, small outside factors like drought or other temporary climate changes could exacerbate the situation and lead to societal collapse. The ruling elite in the societies often relied on supply chains that suddenly stopped functioning, and the populations dwindled to non-existence in some cases.

When I first started reading the book, I assumed that the parallels between these past societies and our own would be too tenuous for me to believe that a collapse would be possible. I had visions of Mad Max movies and laughed those off as fiction. Obviously we use our environment to support an enormous population, and obviously we reveal the magnitude of our resources through monumental architecture and countless luxuries. It is quite difficult to imagine centuries of modern society being brought to its knees by environmental destruction . . . until, of course, you consider that the Mayan civilization developed for over 800 prosperous years before collapsing over the period of roughly a century. Our modern history is a blip on time line, and we are cocky to assume we are invincible.

Environmental skeptic? Let's talk flu

But my readers are thinking that I'm a paranoid environmentalist anyway. Yesterday, I started thinking about Collapse in a much different and much shorter term context, pandemic flu.

Megan and I spent yesterday morning at a fascinating conference called the "Conference of the Professions," an event designed to unite lawyers, physicians and clergy to discuss ethical issues facing all three professions. The topic of this particular conference was pandemic flu planning. I was surprised by the number of unknowns in the process. Some epidemiological evidence suggests that we are already in some sort of influenza pandemic based on the historically high number of annual deaths from influenza in recent years; however, I was presented no evidence as to whether these numbers are just tied to the fact that the population is so much larger.

What really interested me were the descriptions of food supply. In the societies Diamond talks about, the elimination of the food supply is often the trigger for widespread chaos and even cannibalism. Apparently the city of Dallas has roughly 48 hours of food on the shelves at any given moment. If influenza disrupted the supply chain (as it likely would), one can quickly imagine the repercussions. Arguably most homes will have longer stockpiles, but perhaps not much more. In a society that loves to refrigerate and eat at restaurants, the end of the grocery store would create severe problems. Moreover, relief would likely not come from other locations since most models of a flu pandemic show a national and global impact. During Hurricane Katrina, other areas could provide support (however slowly)--a pandemic flu would preclude such relief.

This Stuff is Scary

Diamond says he concludes his book with some examples of societies addressing environmental problems to save their societies from collapse. I'm ready to get to those chapters. I'm assuming the solution is not to depopulate and live in isolated farming communities with individuals self-sufficient on their own agricultural production. We have to remember that life on the earth is actually life from the earth, and I think Diamond's book will provoke individuals to discover that principal more fully.

Ski Santa Fe: Affirming Life on Muerte

2007-02-27T08:45:00.000-06:00

Two weeks ago, I found myself making a quick car swap in Amarillo. The trade was simple: take my beautiful car with its high repair bills and swap it for my brother's car. As long as I was headed that far, I figured I'd join the family for a quick run up to Santa Fe where the eating is good and the skiing is great.

Muerte

Muerte, or "death" in Spanish, is probably my favorite run at Santa Fe Ski Area. The run is very steep and very fast. Very fast. The wide, flat slope contains several possible lines leaving the skier the option of diving into the most precipitous paths or taking a slightly more gradual approach down.

In the past, Muerte has been unkind due to lack of snow. Two years ago, my uncle, Rick, featured below, and I spent quite a bit of time bombing down that run. That year the snow was thin and crisp, and Rick and I had to stare hard at the slope in order to navigate. At those speeds, we feared hitting a small tree top, rock or pine cone left on the fragile surface, and Muerte presented a slalom course of perilous obstacles. We destroyed our bodies trying to get down unscathed.

This year was different. Santa Fe has copious amounts of snow, and Muerte holds a glorious, thick blanket. Early on Saturday morning, Dad had declared that we would not be skiing any black diamond runs that day. I stayed quiet as I eyed Muerte from the lift--the snow looked beautiful, and even at that distance, I knew we'd have to get over there.

Eventually, I coaxed Dad to the top of the run, and I think he had started to feel a bit more daring. As I began to put my hat in my pocket (I planned to go really fast), I heard Dad say, "Okay, Brad, I'm going to ski this slow and controlled." By time I had zipped my jacket pocket, Dad had devoured the first half of the run and was nearing its end. I pointed my skis down and labored to catch up, but he was gone. By time I reached him, I could tell by his smile that we'd be heading up again.

And we did, and it was glorious. There were times on the run where I took a particularly steep line and couldn't tell whether I was still attached to the slope. The run presented a feeling of controlled free fall, and it was beautiful. We will be back on the slopes at the end of March, and I can only hope that Muerte will be as inviting.

Group Ski

After spending a morning bombing down runs with Dad, it was time to rejoin the part of the family fresh out of ski school for a more leisurely afternoon on the slopes.

At lunch, my brother, Mark Everett, complained of a sore knee. He lifted his outer layer around his knee to find a bloody patch on his long underwear. Both layers looked as though they had been cut with a knife.

Apparently Mark Everett had suffered a bad crash during his ski lesson. In an attempt to master the art of heli-skiing, Mark Everett had jumped out of a helicopter onto the top of a snow-laden ridge. The ridge was heavily corniced, and his guide noted the avalanche danger. They turned on their avalanche beacons and decided the powder basin below called their name. With such beautiful snow, playing it safe means missing a great opportunity to baptize oneself in a holy fount of powder. Anyway, they started down the bowl making quick, telemark turns when a slab avalanche broke loose above. Mark Everett knew that he had no choice but to pick up the pace. As the avalanche gathered strength, Mark Everett and his instructor found themselves at the top of a series of frozen waterfalls. They precariously shot down the icy river bed with the powder on their heels before the avalanche caught them and smashed them into the trees. Fortunately, they were able to tunnel out of the snow pack, and Mark Everett escaped with minor injuries. (Note: This story has been embellished at Mark Everett's request. The actual accident may or may not have occurred at low speed on a groomed run).

The afternoon was good. I watched my younger siblings demonstrate a growing confidence and better grasp of the fundamentals. Mark Everett had shaken off the terrible events of the morning and managed to ski the afternoon with his knee wrapped . . . later he would receive 12 stitches, but for the time being, I treasured hanging with him on the slopes. Chairlifts are great spots for conversation, and we chatted until runs were covered in shadow and our legs wouldn't take any more.

We closed out the day at a Spanish restaurant called, El Maison. Diving into a massive skillet of seafood paella, we relaxed and recounted the days' glories. We only had the one day on the slopes, but we were glad to have made the most of it.

Amazing Travel Video

2007-02-22T18:22:00.001-06:00

This video is pretty remarkable. Very creative idea in mesmerizing settings.

Book Review: "A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier" by Ishmael Beah

2007-02-22T15:03:00.000-06:00

I wandered into Starbucks late last week and noticed a stack of books near the pastries. The cover featured a disturbing photo of a thoughtful young boy walking with an AK-47 across his back and some sort of grenade launcher across his shoulders. Curious, I picked up the book, A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah, and decided to use it to break to the law school monotony. Instead, the book broke my heart.

Beah writes a beautiful memoir with succinct and devastating language. The narrative begins with a description of his childhood in a small village in Sierra Leone where he had a reputation as being "troublesome." As a child, Beah developed a passion for rap music and enjoyed dance and memorizing the lyrics.

Eventually, rebel forces attack the village and separate Beah from the bulk of his family. He becomes a refugee fleeing violence and horror only to find the conflict chasing him across the country. Eventually, as the title suggests, Beah becomes a soldier for a government army unit and watches his childhood vanish in a haze of drugs and killing.

The story follows him through the conflict and into rehabilitation, where life outside the war zone casts a spotlight on the transformation from child to soldier as Beah struggles to reclaim his former identity from a cloud of guilt and anger.

My description above seems dark, but the story is a continual roller coaster of hope and brief periods of elation interrupted with violence and sorrow. It reads quickly and beautifully, and I highly recommend it--after all, Beah's reality is echoed in conflicts across the world every day.

The Role of Nature

From a literary standpoint, I particularly savored Beah's invocation of nature. He grew up in a village surrounded by lush foliage. The bushes become a hiding place, the trees offer a food source and shelter from hog attacks, the streams provide relief from the heat, and the ocean heals Beah's torn feet.

But his use of nature goes beyond providing a setting and fuses two of three story-telling traditions Beah acknowledges as influential in his narrative (the third being rap music). He grew up in a culture of vivid nature stories, several of which are repeated in the memoir. For example, he tells the story of a hunter who could transform himself into a wild hog. Then, by eating a certain plant, he could change back into a hunter and kill the hogs. Eventually, the hogs discovered the hunter's secret and attacked, which is why hogs are distrustful of all humans. Later, Beah finds that the cycles of violence also make humans distrustful of each other.

Beyond the parables of his youth, Beah grew up on Shakespeare and loved reciting the great speeches from Julius Caesar and MacBeth. Suddenly, Beah's descriptions of nature took on a different meaning. I remember reading in awe at the way Shakespeare wrapped the natural environment into his works. When evil is afoot in Julius Caesar, the shutters begin flapping around in some sort of phantom wind. Throughout his works, good and evil in humanity is reflected in benevolent or menacing signs in the natural world.

Beah invokes his natural world in similar ways except, while Shakespeare's use of nature probably derived from Elizabethan-era theology and superstitions, Beah suggests a horror so brutal that nature itself cannot remain passive. The crickets, moon and trees are not immune from the violence.

After an attack on his home town, Beah notes, "With the absence of so many people, the town became scary, the night darker, and the silence unbearably agitating. Normally, the crickets and birds sang in the evening before the sun went down. But this time they didn't, and darkness set in very fast. The moon wasn't in the sky; the air was stiff, as if nature itself was afraid of what was happening."

Whether this reaction from nature existed in reality or only in Beah's mind, the effect is just as powerful. After an attack, "the moon disappeared and took the stars with it, making the sky weep. Its tears saved us from the red bullets." Here, nature responds to human sadness and, in doing so, provides protection to the scared children.

Eventually, Beah makes the transition from child refugee to soldier-barbarian, addicted to cocaine and methamphetamines. After his initiation into the world of bloodshed, Beah loses many good friends in an ambush in a forest and "left them there in the forest, which had taken on a life of its own, as if it had trapped the souls that had departed from the dead. The branches of the trees looked as if they were holding hands and bowing their heads in prayer." At this point in the story, I began to get the idea that the trees were the last creatures with the will to keep praying.

In the midst of conflict, nature offers shelter while disguising threats, offers food along with predators, and reacts as it watches the horror unfold. The description of nature enriches the reading experience and helps explain the magnitude of the evil involved.

Pick up Beah's book. It is a well-written story that, at minimum, will transform the way you think about the headlines. At best, his story will leave you with a burning question: how can I help? That's exactly what I intend to ask the author when he appears for a book signing here in Dallas on March 6.

Beijing Puts on Its Manners Cap

2007-02-20T13:05:00.000-06:00

Growing up, we were frequently told to don our "manners cap" upon entering restaurants and other public establishments. The cap was a metaphysical reminder to not act like wild heathens in the presence of our grandmother--if I remember right, my grandmother actually crafted the hats herself and could remind us of their function with one of her classic looks (many have attempted to imitate her legendary facial gestures--few have succeeded).

Anyway, Beijing is apparently attempting to put on its own manners cap. China will find itself in an international media spotlight for the Olympics and, in an interesting act of self-consciousness, has decided to crack down on "anti-social behavior." The Chinese government hopes to thwart major Chinese pass times like spitting and cutting in line.

What I find puzzling is the application of the term "anti-social behavior" to these activities. Spitting and cutting in line is extremely social behavior--it's the social norm. Sitting on a bus in Beijing, Clayton Brown and I witnessed people hurling massive loogies onto the floor of the aisle, which was nothing compared to what happened across streets and sidewalks around town. The most shocking loogie event occurred in the Beijing airport where we watched a greenish glob of goo smack against the pristine marble floors--apparently this behavior knows no boundaries.

As for lines, they frankly do not exist. When an airplane lands, people race for the door in a no holds barred struggle to flee the plane. As an experiment, I once jumped out of a seat on an Air China flight immediately upon landing, yanked my bag out of the overhead bin (smashing two heads with my elbows in the process) and pounded past people toward the door. While this behavior would have horrified US passengers (and likely landed me in an interrogation room), the Chinese accepted my assault as normal behavior. Again, these are social norms--far from "anti-social."

Elevators provide similar forums for chaos. In the US, the doors usually open and the people at the front of the elevator exit gradually. Once emptied, the people outside slowly enter the elevator--usually ladies first.

China presents a life or death struggle for elevator loading and unloading. The folks outside the elevator doors are rushing into the elevator as it begins to open. They slip in rapidly through the doors like a wave of water while those inside have to struggle to get out. We would have to swim out of the incoming crowd or face another elevator ride. Again, this procedure is the social norm.

But China attempts to impose Western social norms on its people--"it's glorious to be polite." The efforts have been highly effective in Shanghai, where public spitting is a rarity. We'll see how it works for Beijing.

This is how China hopes to avoid embarrassment in 2008. But I wonder if they are looking the right direction. After all people spit and blow their nose onto the sidewalks probably because Beijing's air pollution causes serious mucus issues. I would end my days in Beijing by blowing black snot into tissue paper. I wondered how athletes planned to compete in the thick, green air. Long walks left our lungs agitated by the particulates--how will the marathon runners feel?

So, when 2008 comes around, Beijing may be as "polite" as Shanghai with the population kindly withhold their polluted mucus for more private locations. The homeless will likely be shipped out of town, and the government will then expect Westerners to awe at the cleanliness and sophistication of China. But late at night, when the tourists return from the day's Olympic events, they will blow their own black snot into tissues with lungs throbbing from the particulates. That is an embarrassment that China cannot avoid.

Waterproof iPod: Perfect Travel Toy

2007-02-19T16:20:00.000-06:00

I tend to pack a massive load of zip-loc bags. Somehow, I always seem to travel during the rainy season wherever I go (Chiapas, Honduras, Tibet, Tanzania, etc.), and I often find myself soaked (see places above). Megan and I spent a lot of our days in Tanzania rushing to stuff documents in plastic bags while deciding who got to use our one large waterproof pack cover. I tend to travel without electronics for the same reason. At the same time, an MP3 player can offer desperate relief from a world of strange noises, offer a short break from the culture shock, or provide a Zach Braff-esque soundtrack for the world around you.

Anyway, iPod is apparently creating a waterproof Shuffle with 2 gigabytes of memory (link to a great blog written by a tech-savvy 12-year-old). This will be an amazing breakthrough for travel purposes. That's one key item that won't face ruin when I end up in my next rainy season (maybe India during monsoon?).

Valentine's Day: Hilton Head, South Carolina

2007-02-14T07:28:00.000-06:00

Ever the romantic geniuses, Megan and I decided to celebrate Valentine's Day 2005 with a romantic getaway to Hilton Head, South Carolina. We had never visited the island of golf and retirees, so we were excited to see the ocean and weave through golf carts. Of course, to make things more interesting, we decided to run a half marathon just to spice up the weekend. I flew from Dallas to Atlanta, and we loaded the car to drive across Georgia to the island retreat.

Off to the Race

The drive itself was relatively uneventful except for noting the shifting location of chewing tobacco. In Atlanta, the chewing tobacco remained behind the counter with the normal tobacco products. Outside of Atlanta the chewing tobacco moved closer to the customer until we finally found it next to the candy bars near South Carolina. This is another reason why the South is awesome.

We pulled into Hilton Head late Friday evening and found exactly what we expected. The number of golf courses was staggering. I would like to see actual statistics, but I'm guessing there is roughly 3 holes per person at any given moment. Naturally, my sticks were at home.

After checking into our hotel, we met friends at an Italian restaurant to try to intimidate ourselves. One of the friends was training for a full marathon and saw this as just a practice exercise. The other friend had qualified for the Boston Marathon by running some other marathon in 3 hours 10 minutes. They told stories of injury and glory (amazing how "injury" and "glory" come all tangled up together in the running world), and I looked sheepishly at my mound of chicken parmagiana. These warriors of the asphalt are featured in the photo below.

Megan, on the other hand, loved this talk. Megan is a runner. She ran cross-country in high school, and the competitive running environment really gets her going. She lives for that sort of thing. She is a natural competitor, runs without injury, and has willpower that lifts her abilities to a much higher level.

I am not a runner. I started "running" as a way to ease the stress of law school. Initially, these outings consisted of high-speed strolls around the block. When that didn't suffice, I started circling several blocks. Eventually I was running six to eight mile stretches faster and faster. My routes were arbitrary, my times were irrelevant, my joints were beginning to not like me. How I ended up signed up for a half marathon was beyond me, and, as I stared into my pasta, I felt a touch out of place among the runners.

Jitters aside, I downed my pasta, followed it with ice cream, and assumed this fuel would lead me to glory (hopefully without injury) the following day.

Pre-Race Ritual

We woke early. Well . . . that's an exaggeration. To say, "we woke" would imply that we slept, which we did not do. How could we? Megan was in some competitive zone that night, readying herself to will herself to go really, really fast. I was in a different zone: readying myself to hopefully not have a heart-attack around mile 4 requiring me to be stretchered off into some Hilton Head hopital, presumably over-flowing with patients who recently threw out their backs on the golf course. No, sleep was tough to come by, and around four, still three hours until race time, we decided to join the day.

Somehow we had determined that our best start would come from bagels and coffee. The bagels would provide more carbohydrates while the coffee would help us . . . hmmm, what euphemism to use . . . would help us lighten our digestive load a bit.

While downing these tasteless items (bagels were cold and soggy, the hotel coffee tasted like metallic dirt), we stretched and stretched and applied body glide and tied and retied shoes . . . heck, I was even wearing foam nipple protectors since I had a tendency to chaffe (did I mention that I am really not a runner?). The nipple protectors were part of my Valentine's gift from Megan.

Of course, these hours of warm-up ritual only left me more nervous, and the awful coffee left me losing my breakfast in the toilet. That didn't concern me--I had consumed enough carbs to run for a while. What did concern me, however, was the amount of liquid I lost with that upset stomach. Dehydration would be scary, and I had taken a huge step in that direction.

Meanwhile, Megan tried to calm me down. She seemed nervous in a different way--maybe nervous someone would beat her. We made for quite a duo--she was driven to win this thing, and I was hoping to come home alive.

Ready, Set, Go

The air was cold that February morning. Romance, it seemed, had yet to fill the air. Worse, we realized the route was not going to be what we expected. We assumed that a half marathon on a beach resort island would mean 13.1 miles of running along the sea, fresh wind at our backs, sun rising over the ocean. Instead, the route seemed to follow a very, very busy road in the center of Hilton Head that was only partially blocked off. So, we realized we would spend the next 13.1 miles breathing fumes without so much as the sounds of the ocean breaking the monotony.

Shake it off. I had tried to drink a little more water, but I seemed to constantly have to urinate . . . nerves, I was told. Megan, at this point, was freezing, so we jogged in place, moved up to the starting line, re-tied our shoes, and tried not to think about how bad we had to urinate.

After a while of that dance, the gun fired, and we were off. Megan and I clicked our watches as we crossed the line. And thus began a great experience for learning about one another. Some learn these sorts of lessons about each other slowly, painfully, over years and years--we condensed all of that pain into under 2 hours . . . and the watches were the root of these lessons.

Out of the gate, we were flying, soaring. I hardly felt my Mizunos on the pavement, hardly noticed to cold vanish into a brilliant warmth. I definitely did not realize that we had destroyed the first mile in 7 minutes and 22 seconds, a pace faster than I had ever run. Cool, we could do this.

Mile 2. 7:21. At this point, I'm getting a little more concerned but still feeling good. Megan is a machine and shows no similar concern. "Hey, should we slow it down to around 8 or something close to what we've practiced?" I asked for two reasons: first, if you can speak while running, you're still doing okay. Second, I really wanted to slow down. "No," and Megan focused on the road.

Mile 3: 7:22. I only know this, mind you, because Megan is keeping our split time down to the second. Her watch is computing almost as fast as her mind as she calculates split times and speeds, visions of glory dancing through her head. Meanwhile, I'm noticing the trees and the joy of moving.

Mile 4: 7:22. Amazing. I don't know how this gal next to me keeps this pace so perfectly, but she's moving as if her race were forecasted. I'm inspired. I notice a water station on the side of the road. During all my training, I tried to master the art of drinking on the run, and I never got very far. I grab a cup and immediately pour it all over me, so I grab a second and try to slow down--Megan refuses to take water and definitely refuses to slow, so I ditch the cup and move on. This is how downfalls begin.

Mile 5: 7:24. Megan is disappointed at the two-second slip, and I'm wanting to run back a mile just to lick the water off the sidewalk. Another thing about me--I sweat. I sweat like a Knapp, and for those who don't know, Knapp men sweat enough be considered a major water source. As I jogged, I pictured weather forecasters scratching their scalps in puzzlement at the great Hilton Head Flash Flood of '05. Meanwhile, Megan had scarcely broken a sweat.

Mile 6: 7:22. Back on track. I'm starting to not feel so healthy. Another water station passes without my being able to drink, and I'm wondering where this is going to lead. I'm starting to feel a bit grumpy. I have one pleasing vision: removing the watch from Megan's hand and trampling it to pieces.

Mile 7: 7:22. Megan is now counting the women. She keeps track of how many she passes, how many pass her, and, most importantly, what age group the faster women are running in. I am often consulted. As long as they are older or younger, she doesn't care. But if they are her age, she's taking them down. I, on the other hand, become jealous of the folks taking stretch breaks on the side of the road.

Mile 8: 7:24. Another water station goes by without a drop, and I'm sinking fast. I start to slow, my muscles cramping. I'm still sweating, but my mental state is crashing rapidly. I feel upset, but I don't know why. I'm feeling awful and not able to communicate well. I realize somewhere in the cloud that I am dehydrating.

Mile 9: 8:12. I've slowed Megan down, and here, at a water station, I send her on her way. We're trying to run the same race on very different philosophies, and it is time to split up. Somehow, Megan can run for 13.1 miles without a water break. I hit mile 9 without water, and I'm quickly approaching serious health problems. The parting is not a problem. I need to swallow 9 mini cups of Gatorade and 8 mini cups of water. Megan needs to destroy her competition.

Mile 10: ?. I'm recuperating. I'm moving slow, my muscles hurt, but my mental state is more balanced. I'm back to running as I tend to run. I can't think in split times, and I find myself returning to the joy of movement for its own sake.

Mile 11: ?. No sign of Megan. I'm hoping she is preparing to hoist a trophy. I hit another water station and take the time for 8 or 10 more of the little cups full of fluid.

Mile 12-13.1: And I cross the line. I see Megan and a distance, but I'm so shaken by the entire event that I really need to be alone. I grab a water bottle, a Gatorade and a slice of pizza and head off to a field to pull myself together. The sensation was amazing and intense. My muscles chastized me for the audacity of those first few miles, but, caloried and hydrated, they started to quiet down. Megan found me, and we hugged for a while. Oblivious to each other's stench, we had made it, and, finally, it felt great. In the end, we had to run slightly different races, but we ended up in the bliss of the finish together.

Happy Valentine's Day

Megan won her award, taking one of the top places for her age group. Our competitive friends from the pasta dinner were similarly successful. As I ate more pizza along with some oranges and apples and more water, I felt very successful as well--after all, that pizza tasted really great.

We hobbled back toward the hotel and collapsed. We knew napping would leave us immoble, so we reluctantly decided to take a stroll along the beach. Fully hydrated, we enjoyed a glass of red wine and some smokey cheese as the sun vanished over the sea. Tired and content, I think we realized this Valentine's Day celebration would be tough to beat.

Long Way Round: Vicarious Travels Across Asia

2007-02-12T14:07:00.000-06:00

Frequently, a traveler finds herself jaunting between a series of transportation hubs. The backpacker headed to Europe normally explores larger cities connected by the rail system. Travelers to Asia tend to stop in only major cities accessible by large aircraft. But these sort of travels cut out the amazing opportunities available by road . . . opportunities exploited to the max by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman in "The Long Way 'Round." I'll just call them "Ewan and Charley" from here on out because, after watching the documentary, they are starting to feel like old friends (they even note this phenomenon when they meet the folks at Orange County Chopper).

This weekend, Megan and I indulged in some vicarious travel by enjoying the DVD of the Long Way Round, a documentary of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman's trip around the world . . . by motorcycle. While neither Megan nor I ride motorcycles, we found ourselves drooling at the thought of setting off across these vast territories by road.

The trip began with what seemed like Ewan and Charley's insane dream to travel from London to New York by motorcycle. After months of intense preparation (self-defense classes, first aid classes, the desperate search for motorcycle sponsorship--KTM lost a great opportunity as this film could be the greatest advertisement for BMW motorcycles of all time), the duo heads out on a pair of BMW's with a camera man and two support vehicles ("support" is a bit of a stretch: for most of the trip, the vehicles merely allow the bikers to restock on food and film before setting out on their own again).

The route was daunting. From London they would take the Chunnel train to Paris. After crossing Western Europe, the pair traveled to Prague and through Slovakia into Russia. From Russia the team entered Kazakhstan (finding a very different country than Borat describes). After Kazakhstan, they reenter Russia before crossing Mongolia. From Mongolia, they make a third entry into Russia and travel Siberia's "Road of Bones" to Magadan. From there they fly to Anchorage, Alaska. Then, they enjoy pavement toward Fairbanks and into Calgary before dropping down to the US and crossing the plains toward Chicago and, finally, New York City.

The route meant 20,000 miles through often absurd obstacles. The joy of the adventure often comes through the experience of random fortune. Kazakhstan finds them at the center of bizarre media frenzies. They end up spending the night in the home of a random, underworld character who entertains with machine gun and guitar. The "roads" in Mongolia leave the group at the mercies of random passersby who can perform instant repairs. Finally, they try to navigate the Road of Bones shortly after the winter thaw, so the roads often vanished into raging rivers, leaving the travelers to hitch rides in the backs of passing trucks. Needless to say, this trip wasn't easy.

To avoid spoiling the film, I'll cut the description short. Megan and I watched it with hopes of changing the way we travel in the future. While I doubt we'll cross Asia by motorcycle (and my mother and grandmother just breathed a huge sigh of relief), we would like to start hitting the road more often . . . probably even starting in Mongolia. Traveling by road, the duo encountered the joys of empty space and open highway, often finding themselves in nearly inaccessible hamlets in Far Eastern Russia. These sort of places offer rich experiences and fascinating interactions unavailable in major cities. I watched the DVD and found myself growing both jealous and bolder by the minute. And I'm guessing Ewan and Charley wanted their viewer feeling those exact emotions.

We finished the series aching for more, and, as if reading our mind, Ewan and Charley plan to deliver with the "Long Way Down," a journey from the tip-top of Scotland to Cape Town. While I do not know the exact route (and imagine that will depend largely on political conditions), the journey is bound to be as harrowing and fascinating as the first. Megan and I, after crossing part of Tanzania, assumed that navigating large parts of Africa by road would be prohibited by peril . . . we're hoping that Ewan and Charley prove us wrong.

Zimbabwe News: The Audacity of Robert Mugabe

2007-02-12T10:08:00.000-06:00

The authors of the Knapp Adventure Blog are laughing really hard right now at a bit of news--we had to share.

Apparently Robert Mugabe, the intensely incompetent leader of Zimbabwe, is asking for citizens to contribute funds to his birthday celebration.

I love the audacity. So he expropriated the lands of anyone with money and then destroyed the homes of the poorest . . . I'm assuming folks are lining up to buy him champagne and tasty treats. Oh yeah, the country has also been experiencing 1,600% inflation, and the party will only cost $ 1.2 million (in US dollars, mind you . . . that's 300 million Zimbabwean dollars . . . wait, thirty seconds have passed, make that 301 million and counting).

It is truly amazing when world leaders become totally disconnected from their electorate and begin making decisions as if they exist in a vacuum. That would never happen here . . . would it?

Most Dangerous Places to Travel and the Top 5 Reasons to Go Anyway

2007-02-09T10:05:00.000-06:00

Forbes has released its list of the most dangerous places to travel in 2007. The list contains few surprises: most of our readers are probably not planning to visit any of these places ever . . . ever. Then again, other more intrepid travelers have already planned routes to these dangerous spots (Hobotraveler is headed to DR Congo, for example).

2007's Most Dangerous Places on Earth

1) Iraq
2) Somalia
3) Sudan
4) Burundi
5) Chad
6) Democratic Republic of Congo
7) Pakistan
8) Afghanistan
9) Haiti
10) Cote d'Ivoire
11) Sri Lanka
12) Lebanon
13) Liberia

But the places really got me thinking . . . isn't there a major upside to traveling to some of the world's most dangerous places? The question is not rhetorical--we see at least five key advantages of putting one of these spots on your destination list this year.

Top Five Reasons to Visit an Excessively Dangerous Country

1) No crowds. Think about the time you tried to get that perfect picture of yourself in front of St. Peter's Basilica. . . remember the crowds? Remember waiting for everyone to move out of the way? Well, you won't have that problem in many of these spots. Your snapshots will capture you as the lone wanderer . . . because no one else wants to go there.

2) Empty beaches. That's right--a number of these spots have long, uninterrupted coastlines. Somalia, for example, has many miles of pristine beaches just waiting for a romantic getaway. Sri Lanka is supposed to be a glorious island paradise, even if the sound of the waves is occasionally interrupted by gunfire.

3) Great hiking. The outdoorsy folks should be hankering for a trek in Pakistan. Fly from Islamabad to Skardu and take jeeps toward the Concordia Glacier--in just a week or so, you could be standing at the foot of K2! Afghanistan also has plenty of rustic mountain scenery. We also hear Afghanistan offers great opportunities for cave exploration.

4) No news is good news. While the world is saturated with stories about Anna Nicole Smith (this link takes you to a blog addressing the excessive media coverage), I'm guessing you could escape the media blitz in Darfur. Imagine the other senseless cultural frenzies you would be able to avoid as well. Let the rest of the country get progressively dumber as you retreat.

5) Good yarns. Traveling to these places would generate a set of stories to intimidate the most seasoned travel veteran. Just wait for someone to tell some "adventure tale" of that "rough night" in "Paris." Then you can chime in with the time you dug shrapnel out of your knee while participating in the "running of the guerrillas" in DR Congo.

So don't count these places out. After all, it can't be that bad . . . right?