Another trecking adventure, Calmontgo Beach in Las Cala Spain

August29
I knew I was in trouble when Ruben asked if I had good shoes. The last time he asked me this, I found myself climbing on all 4s without any gear, up the mountain of Montseratt, dangling over thousands of feet of exposure…..With him saying “caution” over and over again…



This day he wants to take me to a beautiful beach that is about 2 hrs from his home. Calmontgo’ beach in Las Cala, Spain is the destination for the night and the next day until we leave for Barcelona to catch the train to Switzerland where I will be his guest as he works the night train. I ask if I should bring my bicycle and he said no….we take the hiking route to the beach. Ok..so I really knew I was about to embark on another adventure.

Like most places on the cost of the Mediterranean, it is developed for tourist. American food, trinkets, snorkeling, paddle boats, disco tecka’s, fru-fru drinks with little umbrella’s, and too many tourists… Ruben gets enough of tourists on the train; he prefers places with no people. So if you can imagine you must go where a car or train will take you, a place that most people would not find because it is not meant to be found.

Caution…Caution… the fimilar words with the Spanish accent is what I heard as we begin the hike (with my good shoes)- to only look at a possible camping spot. 30 minutes this way, we go to investigate if we can camp at the “house on the beach”, then we will return by hiking back 30 minutes, eat dinner, and get the gear, and then return by hiking another 30 minutes to the camping place that may be available…all in the dark…. Up and down a rocky path, that narrows along the cliff to expose a 600 ft drop. I am on 4’s again, balancing grasping for dear life on portions of the trail. Occasionally, Ruben looks back and says,”Are you ok?”. I just say, “bien”…what else could I say? I look up and Ruben is walking perfectly erect, arms crossed, not even out to balance. I just giggle because I termed him the Spanish Mountain Goat during our last hiking adventure and it remains true this night as we walk in the dark with light from our headlamps and the full moon..

We reach the house on the beach… Well not what I expected, but much cooler. It is actually an old war bunker from the Spanish War. A perfect and appropriate location for what Ruben termed the “War of the Mosquitoes”-and can I say Spanish mosquitoes apparently prefer Spanish blood compared to American. Nonetheless, a perfect place to remain dry, and awake early the next day, close to a favorite swimming place of Ruben’s.

I just thought I was going to lay around on the rock beach and occasionally take a dip in the sea to cool myself, but I was surprised with flippers and a snorkel. He actually told me the night before, but I guess I did not understand until he whipped them out of his bag. I just thought he wanted to swim. You see most of our conversations is in broken English with charades and sound effects mingled in place of the “missing” words…so sometimes we get things a little mixed up. Anyways… Looks like when I was on the computer in the village he went to the store so I could see the “little fish”.

So another day of getting my work done while sunning myself in the sun; seeing the Mediterranean; swimming with little fish; hiking along a gorgeous cliff edge; and learning more about life from my Spanish friend. I guess the only bad part is the mosquitoe bites that continue to itch. I guess..no… I know I am a lucky girl….

Different this time, Montseratt, Spain. Swim and a River Run

August 28th-

It is different this time.. When I arrive I will have familiar faces waiting for me at the airport, I have a plan, a goal. I will not wonder this time, bike bag and bicycle with me at all times. Spontaneous, go as I feel, eat when I am hungy, sleep when I am tired, move when I have had enough; was the way I lived for two months when I was here before. This time, I have work to do, 25 hours a week, projects to be completed, email’s to answer and teleconferences to dial into. I have friends with an itinerary, a mission to plan routes for next year’s cycling tours. So I find myself with a little more stress that all this will not go as smoothly as I planned. I have prepaired..of course. Finding the latest technology for communication and remote work has become a kind of hobby of mine. Gadgets.. I amaze people when I pull them out at café’s and on the train’s bar car. It is fun to try to explain to them what I am doing…interesting actually because they do not speak very good English and it has not changed that I do not speak anything but good English….well that really depends of who you ask. I think, “I am lucky that Europe is even more “connected” than the states”.

As I go to take a morning jog by the river, in the mountains, at the place I called Heaven. I wind up and down the familiar narrowed cobbled streets of monissori de montseratte, look towards the breathtaking mountains. I remember where the bank is, where I can get on the internet, where I can get my café con leche, and where to buy the fresh produce. I pass familiar faces that smile, I stop and they greet me with the typical Spanish greetings and besicos (little kisses) on each cheek. I am the American girl, with her bicycle, the sport woman of Ruben.

Today, I have awaken early with the sun to begin work; writing policy, populating spreadsheets, and analyzing data. After a few hours,Ruben’s roommate Caroll has joined me at the kitchen table for morning tea, tostada, and apple spread that she has made herself. She comments that she loves the apple mint leaves that my grandmother grew and dried for Ruben. We drink them in our morning tea as I speak of my country and show her pictures of the Smokey mountains.

It is hot here in Spain, but not as hot as the southern Tennessee hot humid climate. Actaully, it feels perfect. Cool breeze, sun that warms the skin, and the smell of fresh air that is brought by the mountains. I should get back my Spanish tan in no time, especially since I am told by Ruben that his favorite summer activity is swimming. Today, this afternoon, he takes me to a remote swimming hole that is fed by a brisk mountains stream.

We scale down a small rocky cliff. Difficult enough that he must go before me, place my feet, and spot me as I maneuver to stability. I find a beautiful place, he even mentions that it is not as beautiful as most..but I think this is more than beautiful of what I have seen in all my life. Purple flowers accent the tiered shelved rock layers of the stream; green algae creates padding if you fancy a slide down to the pool that is deep enough to jump into from the cliff ledge. We swim, sun, eat a picnic lunch, and I work a little. I catch him sleeping, on his towel, working on his Spanish tan….something he can care less about, he is just exhausted from working on the train during tourist season. He told me that last month he had to work 320 hours; sleeping for a few hours, for days at a time. He apologizes because he is tired and falls asleep, but then I remind him that it is ok, because I need time to work.

So I can tell this time, these memories of Europe will be different, a slower pace, my priorties are different, not my bicycle this time, but getting my work done so I can enjoy my friends and bicycle. The real life…. If I dare to even call it this with out you all rolling your eyes at me. I guess my life is what I have made it..and this is it. Perfect....

Amor

Life that takes your Breath Away, Off to Europe

August 26,2007

I never thought I would be ecstatic that my flight was delayed. Usually, once you hear the announcement you have an instantaneous overwhelming feeling of panic… Will I make my connection? Will I have to spend the night in the airport sleeping on the floor, eating a 15 dollar sandwich, and consuming 7 dollar beers at the bar with other stranded travelers. However, as I walked through the airport doors, back pack strapped full with the weight bearing heavy on my hips, mobile office strapped around one shoulder positioned in the front of me, and bicycle perfectly situated in Grandma and I’s home made bike bag… I saw him and so being delayed was the best thing that could happen.

Grin on his face… I did a triple take…… disbelief really. You see I am not really accustomed to surprises. I am the first one to surprise, but the last one to receive. Farmer, Jeff, or nick name Pita…(well one half of pita, our buddy Mark is the other half of pita and I am the hummus, they call me Chick Pea which originated on our trip to Ashville, North Carolina..a long story in its self ) had driven from his home in Knoxville, Tennessee, about 2 ½ hours away, to see me off on my trip.

A man, in some ways that has a spirit that is allot like mine. So when I found out that my flight was delayed even longer, I smiled because that meant more time to with him.

After a two-hour delay, I finally board the plane. I begin to reflect on why I am sad to leave but then happy to leave. I can tell you that I am happy, happy with my new life, happy with my new job, happy to be with my family, happy that I get to ride my bicycle almost every day, happy that the people that have been brought into my life are good, beautiful people. Beautiful people that take my breath away because of their sincere hearts. There was a time in my recent past when all this was shadowed. Shadowed by a feeling because of a bad time in my life that was brought on by actions of people or a person that was not beautiful. I felt that I could never trust, believe, live a happy life. Now this is fading.

Why leave this? But then I remember what Farmer told me, a quote that he felt I needed to hear. He said, “Life is not about the breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away”. In this next month I go to have my breath taken away. I go to feel, see, and live things that most people will never get the opportunity to experience. I get to continue a dream of making my bicycle and traveling part of my life…and I will share it with you as best as I can.

My River, Ocoee River, Benton Tennessee, Cherokee National Forest- I do it all here

Why is it that a place, a mere location on a map, a patch of land that is traveled to by familiar roads, can make ones stomach all tied up in knots? How can a smell of a lost scent reawaken memories that were hidden deep in you mind and lost in your heart? Even the feel of a breeze against your skin can stimulate memories of a touch.

Memories… some good and some bad. Some stay and some run from them. The question is are you actually running away completely, will “it” reemerge in a different form, years down the road? I question this because of conversations with two close friends, both contemplating running or hiding, contemplating not going, or going far away, all in attempts to remove any pain, suppress any memory of times lived in the past.

I think it is very “human” to do this. Self perseverance- a state of emotional homeostasis is what we seek. I too have struggled with this all my life, however have decided not to let this reaction to life, rule my life. I plan to face head on what ever my body is telling me to avoid.

My River, is this. A place that was thought to bring so much happiness in my past; but come to find is also tied to a lot of “heart ache”. I did not even realize it until I was doing the drive to the Ocoee River that is nestled in the Cherokee National forest, http://www.fs.fed.us/r8/ocoee/that Friday night a couple of months ago. Stomach in knots for no present reason….well until I started to ponder why my body would react this way. I realize I came that weekend and many other weekends after that, to face my past, create new memories and return to a place that stole my heart that summer of my sophomore year of college when I was a young woman only 19 years old.

Ironically, I found this place because I was running. I wanted to start fresh, go where no one knew me, start over. I decided to pack my little ford escort with camping equipment, summer clothes, and a bathing suit. Not knowing what was ahead of me, not knowing much about the out doors, what it was like to live in a tent outside, never knowing the pain of chiggers and mosquitoes bites, poison ivy, and river rot all at the same time, and having no clue about whitewater and how to steer a raft down the river. A river guide is what I became, I lived in a tent behind a outpost that housed a dozen of others. People from all walks of life, who for some reason kept finding themselves back here at this place every summer.

As I drove up the Gorge, I smelled the pine mixed with fumes from chop busses hauling rafters to the put in.
My mind wanders back to that moment when I remember that day, a hazy day, in the evening, cool breeze, with the view of canyon on all sides of me. Forest and river is all that I saw. I felt as if I was the only one there, my river. A warmth, a genuine love of nature put its mark on me. This was the moment, the distinct point in time that I can find that changed me. Made that city girl into this country girl that likes the simple life; that needs to be outside. A women that prefers a dirt trail, a raging river, or open field, wildflowers; not the mall, a museum, a fancy restaurant, a dozen roses. This woman can now be found riding her mountain bike on miles of trails at the White Water Center that was once the location of the 96 Olympics for white water events.

I can also be found riding up the 7-mile climb of Chilhowee mountain pass on my road bike, a place the Cherokee Indians named as the “Place for King Fisher” and was also the high look out point for the confederate army during the civil war.

I can be found in my kayak, hiking trails to trout fed streams, and snoozing on a blanket under a tree as good as I would in my own bed. I make new friends and run into old ones. I pass the place where I kissed my first love. I sit at the picnic table where my ex-husband and I had a picnic lunch after a bike race. I returned and sleep at the place where I thought I found my sole mate.
So over the past couple months each time I returned, I have created new memories, remember old ones, some good and some bad…but what matter most is- I did not let the bad ones stop me from finding my River again.

Road Trip Destination Appalachia- Ocoee River- Middle section& Tsali North Carolina 16 miles 2.5 hours

Have you had that thought as you go to the carwash when you think..”I wonder if I have enough quarters to get this clean and get the soap off”. Should I go to the ATM and get more cash, or wonder if the guy next to me can change a 20? You think..”well I guess I will try it and figure out later what to do if I have soap left on the car. I have had this conversation with myself many times, because a majority of the time car washing for me is spontaneous -not planned.

I actually went through this conversation today with myself, but not about washing my car…it was about washing myself.

A shower, something that I take for granted and tell you the truth I could not really care if I have one every day or even every other day. I guess you can call me a closet hippy. Mom told me I was always a dirty kid. I would go to the beach, sand box, grass area and throw myself down and roll around till I was absolutely covered in filth. She said I took great pride in my food art creations that I molded with my hands and that usually made it to the floor to feed my childhood dog Clancy. As a adult I know better then to buy white clothes, and I have learned that most of the time I have a collection of food on my face and remnants stashed on my clothes; majority of the time food can actually be found down my shirt and in my hair. When I go biking I come back looking the filthiest. Mud on my face, energy gel smeared on my jersey, chain ring grease all over my legs, some type of bodily fluid dried and crusted on my face because I have not mastered the snot rocket or loggie spit.

Today is not different I need a shower, really need one for multiple reason. One being that I am on a 10 day adventure of the Appalachian mountains range

and so far half way through my road trip, my days have consisted of me traveling around to the Ocoee river

and Nantahala river. Me, Cleo, and Snickers have been car camping, crashing on friends couches and raft outposts; our days are filled with kayaking, biking, going for runs, doing yoga, working on my laptop, all in 100 degree hot humid weather. They hang out on their leashes in the shade as I play and work hard for a living.

One other reason for needing a shower is the fact that I have somehow acquired poison IVY that has made its self from my hand- to forearm- to leg- and who know what next? Maybe face tomorrow? I am told I need to take a shower to get the oil off.

So as I looked at the shower at the Nantahla Outdoor Center’s Outpost, there is actually a little box, a change machine, and a sign that states one minute of water for one quarter. I have 2 quarters this means 1 minute for washing and one minute for rinsing. “ What will I do if I do not get all the soap off. Ohhhh welll. I would not change a thing being here covered in poison ivy, filthy from the mud, dirt, and sweat for the 100 degree weather, and about to take my first 2 minute shower ever…. all good because If not -I would not of had all these awesome days like being….

On the Ocoee river with Dub, a graduate student that summers as a raft guide; graciously offered to be my Kayak buddy down the class IV Ocoee River that was home for me 8 years ago.

Now it scares me….really scares me. I actually shake, my stomach gets in knots, and multiple times I considered taking my kayak up the gorge and just say “forget this!” I do not know if it is because I have not been here for the last 8 years, or if it is because I am getting older and wiser and I can see my life flash before my eyes alot easier. However that day on the river was a good day. I made one combat roll (this means I flipped over, not on purpose, and flipped upright on purpose) only swam one time (this means I flipped over, not on purpose, tried and failed to flip upright, and then ejected myself out of my boat to swim the rapids while trying to hold onto my kayak and paddle all while tring to swallow as little water as possible), and did a boof move (I have no idea how to describe it, but gave myself definite style points). So I was so happy to make it down the 5 mile stretch of river.. without bloodying my face, losing a shoe or paddle, with limited cussing, and most importantly having such a good time that I may have refound my passion for white water.

I would also not of had such a wonderful day with Debbie Sue and Mark as we rode Tsali Mountain Bike Train System http://www.mtbikewnc.com/trailheads/tsali.html, one of my top 5 trails of all time.
This place has alot of good memories, my hunny-moon was actually at this place. I can remember the excitement of a beginning with my husband, doing what we both loved to do, riding fast on the single track that covers about 40 miles of trails around Fontana Lake.

So being back here brings a since of sadness that he is not here with me to enjoy a place we both loved so much, but instead my new life has brought meeting a wonderful friend like Debbie Sue. She would not be in my life- this day would not of come unless he was not my husband anymore. Giving, thoughtful, strong, genuine woman that has been brought into my life under ironic circumstances.

So I reflect on this; how I came to find my new friend. I find myself imagining my ex-husband peddling in front of me, determined to no be passed by me, becoming irritated that I was on his wheel, and remind myself that things are better this way, remind myself I am happy this way.

This way….. Remind myself that I am happy this way. I am happy to be a girl that is a little dirty, does not plan simple common sence everyday things, seems to find herself being in the wrong places that end up making her itchy, a women that is not phased because she locked her keys in the ignition of her running car that was parked in the Walmart parking lot with her dogs trapped inside (yes did this yesterday and two wonderful women helped me),

a person that is hooked on a adrenalin rush from going too fast on her bicycle or kayaking rivers that she probably should not be on, a adult that can act like an "adult" or behave like a child...but no matter what knows how to have fun. I am learning to not appologize for me anymore... becuase this is me.

amore

Katelyn

4. I found my laugh again, Bent Creek Trail, Pisgah National Forest, North Carolina: miles: who knows time: no idea either

I guess I could be considered a Tom Boy. What does this really mean anyway? As a kid I remembered I liked to play sports, get dirty, and race the boys. I was the only girl on a all boy’s select soccer team; likewise made a lot of people question and laugh at why “the bull” would want to be a football cheer leader her senior year. On the other hand, as a kid I loved to play house, apply makeup to my little brother, and remember how excited I was to wear my first pair of pantyhose. As an adult, I still struggle with a balance of tom boy vs. girly girl. I go through phases where I am really into having nice clothes, perfect nails, highlighted hair; and throw myself into domestic activities like knitting, cooking food, an gossiping with the girls. A month later, my nails will be ripped off, I could care less with what I have on, my hair never leaves a pony tail, and I find myself in the company of men usually with a saddle between my legs.

Not by preference really, but I realize as I get older women that play outside are hard to find, especially for multi day adventures. I guess women are still the ones to stay home with the kids why the dad goes and play.

This time in my life, I am in the tomboy phase. I feel like one of the boys this weekend as I find myself riding mountain bikes covered in mud,

joking around,

and drinking beer with the boys.

No deep conversations, no talk of how hot Justin Timerlake is, no hugging, I am not getting advise on what I should wear to dinner and I have not even looked in the mirror. Just riding and laughing.

As I ride with my friends, mark and Farmer, we are laughing. As we eat and drink we are laughing, When we are in the car, we are laughing, Dancing-laughing. Listening to music-laughing. Walking through crowds- laughing. Lauging so much that my face hurts.. my abs feel like I have done a million sit-ups.

I reflect on all this laughing I am doing, as I ride through the lush forest of the Pisgah National Forest. http://ncnatural.com/NCUSFS/Pisgah/So green, drafts of cool air chill my wet skin, mud splatters on my face and legs and I smile because I like it.

Laughing is something for a long time that I was unable to do. I remember the first time that I caught myself laughing during a sad point in my life. My grandmother had come to Cheyenne to visit me. We were taking a walk around the lake and I just had asked her that if I left my husband would she come and stay with me. In the middle of this it seems a family of birds did not like that we were walking by. They started dive bombing our heads, we both started running, covering our heads, dogs in tow, laughing, the birds continue to follow us, dive bombing, squawking…. It lasted for minutes. As this event settled, I distinctly remember being happy that she was there with me, that I was laughing; but then sadden that I could not recall in a long time when I had laughed at all…….

So this weekend, filled with laughing, I am reminded how better my life is..now that I am laughing.

Bellchere Music Festival, Ashville North Carolina

I look at things differently now; my life is different now….. no life is the same but the way I view life is different and people have taught me this...

People watching, I have always been a fan of the sport, but was never so attentive until my trip to Europe. I had a mere mission to understand things differently, change my paradigm of life, and create more options. A quest to find what story could be told, what puzzle would be put together by immersing myself in the music, language, food, and art of a culture.. the people. As I stepped off the plane onto Tennessee concrete, that afternoon after traveling 20 straight hours, I made a promise that my new found passion would not disappear but evolve as I emerge into a new life in the south east. I knew I did not have to travel half way across the world to learn from foreign people, I had a wealth of unique culture at my finger tips.

I find myself this weekend in good company …. Two southern born and raised, home grown fellas, Mark and Jeff, have invited me to join them for weekend days full of mountain bike riding and evenings filled with a music festival that is taking place in Ashville, North Carolina http://www.exploreasheville.com/index.aspx in the heart of the Appalachian mountains. I ask my friends to define the Appalachian culture as they see it, growing up on the outskirts of this way of life Mark answered instantly…”It means starting everything with …” momma says”……I can see it. I sense this in the southern culture, and maybe especially the Appalachian culture as it seems to be deep rooted in family. So I guess what mamma says is best. That is.... what my momma says is always best.....
I have more to learn from Bellchere, the festival located downtown Ashville that has given reason to close the streets of this small city that is nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. Temporary stages, beer stands, food vendors, and artist selling their creations take over the streets that would normally give passage to the “city” life.
Ashville, or what I remember from a previous visit, is defined by the artist community, blue grass music, and vegetarian food. A unique culture defined by mountain life, a movement of people searching for the natural life; their ancestry is spanning back to Scottish immigrants that were pushed to the mountains. Poor people that adapted to their environment; these people have a very unique culture

Music is an obvious defining component of any culture, and is especially evident at a music festival. Belchere, has a venue of all music from folk and bluegrass to techno, southern rock and blues. What I find interesting is the prominent feel of blue grass; this music is rooted in the young. I am almost taken back by two young ladies, with an outward appearance of what could be unfairly defined as “Hippies”, embracing the traditional bluegrass instrument that for me is normally associated with older mountain men finessing the stands. However, their petite hands gracefully manipulate the instrument to accompany their perfect harmony.

I assume the traditional Scottish dance was taken, manipulated, and adapted to fit the needs of the people hundreds of years ago. I see hints of the traditional dance as I watch a child and her mother “clog” dance in perfect accord to a bluegrass band that is performing on a small stage.

You can tell a lot about people by the food they eat and prepare. It is evident in grocery stores as you scan the carts of what people plan to purchase and can also be discovered at local festivals. Apple pie pilled high smothered in what appears to be camel sauce. I do not think you can get any more southern then this. My mouth begins to water as I stop and hesitate ..hmmm…. it would surely spoil my dinner.

One other thing distinctly southern is Church. Yes there are such things as snake handling churches around these parts. With any festival, a group of people, a gathering of the saved or unsaved; here in the south, the Bible belt, we have those extreme Christian groups that believe the forceful hand of God is the most effective. Crowds gather, protest against what this extreme Christian is saying. Condemning these people, not knowing their hearts, judging, slandering what Jesus was all about. I am instantly sadden, because being a Christian myself I know that this mere person with his forceful antics is turning all that is good about Christianity into a circus.
People amuses me, I could stay here all day a learn, absorb life, learn about myself, and reflect of the world as I see it through my new eyes.