LIFE CHANGING MOMENTS

by

Brian J. Leitten

There are a few moments in everyone’s life that can change a person in astounding ways. Some are moments of accomplishment, some of greatness and some that can totally clarify one’s life in an instant.

ACCOMPLISHMENT

My first moment of accomplishment came when I earned the Eagle Scout award in the Boy Scouts of America. I was 18 years old.

Copyright Tony Hoare

GREATNESS

When I was 22, it was a moment of greatness. I became financially independent from my parents.

CLARITY

Earlier this year, I experienced a life-changing moment of clarity.

In February, I found myself in the Patagonian wilderness of Chile, stuck on a mountaintop, four people crammed into a two-person tent, waiting out a torrential downpour that had been following my group for the last four days.

As mid-morning crept upon us, the clouds began to clear, revealing a majestic landscape of icy blue fjords and luscious green mountains. A rainbow graced the spine of a mountain range as some of the world’s top endurance athletes raced against time to reach the checkpoint where my group had camped for the night.

That was when it hit me. This is what I want to do with the rest of my life.

I wasn’t actually out in the wilderness racing. I was there documenting the athletes as they competed in the toughest competition known to man, the Wenger Patagonian Expedition Race. Last December I sent an email to the race, hoping to be chosen as a volunteer during the competition. I figured I would end up setting up tents in the wilderness or cooking food for the competitors as they passed through checkpoints.

Through a series of follow-up emails, I went from being a volunteer to a cameraman to a director and finally to the executive producer.  I’ve been in television production for close to a decade and this would be my first project as an executive producer.

I’ve had some challenging assignments in the past. Filming in Alaska while kayaking and backpacking, having music celebrities back out of appearances minutes before their tape time and the toughest by far, filming with a dance crew of 13 teenagers. Producing a documentary in the middle of the wilderness would prove to be the most difficult assignment of my life. Let’s play the numbers game:

4 Weeks – That’s how long I had to prepare for the filming, from 10,000 miles away.

10 Cameramen – I had never met any of them before. They had varying experience levels in filming and wilderness expertise.

7 Editors – Only 4, including myself, worked on the entire film. We had two who returned to the US, one who didn’t speak any English, two who spoke only broken English and one who became my translator.

600 kilometers – The distance of open wilderness the racers and the film crew had to traverse, using boats, trucks, helicopters, mountain bikes and our own two feet. 2 wild cameramen trekked with the first place team for 30 hours.

6 Nights – That’s how long I went with less than 2 hours of sleep while we were filming. 3 of those were with no sleep.

30 Days – We worked for 30 straight days editing the documentary together. Most of those days were 18 hours long.

Filming in the wilderness can get tricky — do you have enough battery power, memory and light? A lot of thought must go into the pre-production. No matter how thorough I try to be, I always leave something behind. This time I thought of everything, 4 cameras (10 batteries), 13 memory cards, a camera light and headlamp, a tripod and monopod a Costco size package of AA batteries, and that was just my equipment.

The crew started filming before I even got there. I had an edit to finish in New York and initial interviews had to happen while I was on a plane. In some cases it took two days to get to certain checkpoints, so I had to send cameramen into the wilderness before the race even began.

Copyright Scott Clark

The race started at Hotel Las Torres in Torres Del Paine and we had seven cameras ready to roll, more cameras then cameramen. As the racers jumped on their mountain bikes, we spent the first 60 kilometers of the race alternating between the back of two pickup trucks and leapfrogging the teams to film them pass us by. At one point 100-mile per hour winds attempted to stop the racers, the perfect moment for story. Also the perfect moment to ruin your camera. Putting a clear filter on my camera saved me when a small pebble struck the lense, cracking the filter. The race took to the water and so did half the crew, in small zodiac boats. The other half followed the river by truck, jumping out to film the two-dozen kayaks as they passed through canyons. I was dropped on an island and had the chance to film wild horses that lived there as the racers paddled past.

The first place team, ADIDAS TERREX PRUNESCO (England), was so fast they arrived at the next checkpoint before the film crew; I leapt out of the boat to film with them as they were transitioning to the first hiking portion of the race. I ran for about 10 minutes with them, and a 15-pound camera, as they raced into the dusk with the closest team 20 minutes behind. As I navigated my way back to the checkpoint, two more teams were coming out of the checkpoint and my stamina was put to the test again.

The next two days were a blur as my crew worked without sleep to edit together a newsreel that would be transmitted around the world. I send a camera crew back into the wilderness after just two hours of sleep.  And the rest of our crew had to take a seven-hour boat ride to get to the next major checkpoint. We can now say, that we have filmed in places that no human has ever been before.

We were moving on to the end of the trekking section and I spent the night on the beach waiting for teams to arrive in the darkness. None did.  As the rain started and the next day passed, only the lead team came into the checkpoint and was able to start the kayaking section. That night I saw a dozen headlamps on the mountainside and climbed as quickly as possible to film them coming down in the darkness. When I reached an intersection I knew the teams would pass, I waited…and waited. After an hour I guessed the teams had bedded down for the night, so I climbed back down to the checkpoint. The next day each team confirmed my guess. Their reason — it was too dangerous at night to climb down the mountain I had gone up and back down!

Teams went from kayaking beside stunning glaciers to trekking through an insanely dense forest. Two of the cameramen went out to film with the teams during the 191-kilometer section. The rest of the crew was on their way to the end of the trekking section, while I made my way to the mountaintop checkpoint I spoke about earlier. Luckily my trip was by helicopter. This was my first time filming from a helicopter and the first time I had ever flown in one. I had seen some amazing scenery up to this point but Patagonia from the air is breathtaking.

Only 7 of the 14 teams made it to that checkpoint and they described that trek as being the toughest trek in Adventure Racing history. One team member from EASTWIND (Japan) had been hiking for two days with broken ribs. Once they finished trekking, the remaining teams completed the course on mountain bike and the film crews were back to filming from the pickup trucks.

As teams completed the race in the volcanic park, Pali Aike, I felt like I was crossing the finish line with them. Completing the filming process, sleep deprived, with an unknown crew and in a country I had never stepped foot in before was a major accomplishment. But I still had to edit the raw footage into a documentary.

I lived in Punta Arenas for the next five weeks while we pieced the documentary together. I called on friends from New York City and Los Angeles to help with graphics, music and narration. There were two editors from Santiago who volunteered their time to edit the film and in the end I was astonished and incredibly proud of what we accomplished in such a short amount of time.

But it wasn’t all work and no play. One day while we were editing, we took a day-trip to Antarctica. We were there for a total of three hours and saw two operational bases, a Russian church, rusted tanks and a family of penguins. During the last week in Chile, I travelled to Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine with two volunteers from the race staff. It was amazing. We tackled the well-known W Trail, experiencing every possible weather scenario during out four-day trip. The first night we hiked through a monsoon. The next morning we awoke to sunny skies and the crumbling sounds from Glacier Grey. On our final day of the hike, we ascended to the towers hoping to watch the sunrise. Ten minutes after the start we were hiking in a blizzard. The skies opened for a perfect photo opportunity at sunrise but quickly closed again and continued snowing for the rest of our descent back to Hotel Las Torres. The entire trip was full of perfect picture moments. Turns out after all my preparation, I did leave something behind. Unfortunately I lost my camera on the bus back to Punta Arenas.

A day later I returned back to hustle and bustle of New York City, wondering what the next step in my life would be. I spent the next month getting reacclimated to the city where I had spent the last nine years of my life. I approached Outside Television in the US, they picked up the documentary and I started submitting to film festivals.

The Killarney Adventure Film Festival was my first submission. I went to Ireland with high hopes and left with my first festival win. Best Adventure Sport Film! From there we racked up two Best Environmental Film awards from the Colorado Film Festival and the Yosemite Film Festival, as well as a Best of the Fest award from the Vanka Regule Adventure Film Festival.

After that, I partnered with the Gold Rush Mother Lode Adventure Race in Northern California. I got lucky in this case — two of the cameramen from Patagonia came on board to help document the race. We filmed an amazing race with quite the finish. Keep your eye our for another great documentary, details to come…

2011 has been an incredible year, my “Year of Adventure”. I’ve gotten to do some amazing things and document some truly epic stories. I have even taken up Adventure Racing, with three races under my belt, including a second place finish at the last one. My racing partner was one of the producers from Patagonia. I already have my mind set on racing full tilt and filming in three new countries in the next six months and I’m working with two adventurers I met in Ireland to launch our own adventure race next year.

The Last Wild Race, the documentary about the Wenger Patagonian Expedition Race, is now available at https://prescreen.com/movie/The-Last-Wild-Race.

Brian is a multi award-winning producer and director that built his reputation working extensively with MTV and the music industry. In January, Brian started his own production company, Hyperion XIII Productions and has spent the past year focusing on adventure programming, filming in the Alaskan wilderness, Chilean Patagonia and Antarctica. He executive produced and directed The Last Wild Race, a documentary on the 2011 Wenger Patagonian Expedition Race, which world premiered at the Killarney Adventure Film Festival in April 2011 and walked away winner of the Adventure Sport category. He is currently producing for Fuse TV, VEVO.com and is creating a series on the Gold Rush Adventure Race in Northern California.

I am talking the well-to-do-world here, not the developing world, where bare funds and pure survival is an issue every day. But I am still strongly convinced, no matter how complicated your circumstances are, if you want something very much, you go for it and you will eventually get it. But, the reason I highlight this topic, is due to the fact that amongst the thousands of emails I have received since that initial moment of leaving, many simply ask, what does it take to fulfill their dream to do this or that? And, when I think profoundly about the subject, one of most common things said to me after a lecture, when people come up to me for a small chat or posing a question, they say (all men, by the way, older, over 50):

“I would have done exactly the same, if this and that wouldn´t have happened.”

Well, I have spent a lot of time thinking about this. Either you have the urge or not, but if you are right on the border, when it comes to go for it or not, whether it is a big Expedition or a weeks hike through the local mountains or forest, maybe these three tips can help you go for the adventurous choice. Because, there´s no doubt, every little adventure will raise your level of understanding and enjoyment of  life.

Planning is half of the fun, daydreaming a way to relax and once you leave, you will realize that reality is more fantastic than the dream.....

1. Half the fun of any Expedition or adventure, is planning it. Go to the library and get all those books, maps, travel guides, reference bibles and encyclopaedia’s. Start researching and read. And once you have made a picture of what you want to accomplish in front of you, once you have started to realize the dream, I am sure things will get in the way, obstacles such as well meaning family members or the pressures of culture, well, this is the time to leave the books and contact real people. Phone, email or in any good way, get into contact with people who´s been there, who can assist you with realizing your dream and I think there´s very few explorers or adventurers or specialists who wouldn´t help you. If they don´t, I feel genuinely sorry for them. Without these people I wouldn´t have chosen this life for myself. I remember such a decisive moment very clearly up until this day.

Just before leaving on my first big Expedition, the one on a push bike from Chile to Alaska 1986-1088, I went to the local library in Dala-Järna to return the last of the books I had read regarding my trip and met a very good friend there, Gösta Tysk (unfortunately he passed away last year), in those days a globally well known nature photographer, with Alaska as a specialty and we had spent hours together talking about this amazing place. This time, he was together with his wife. She said immediately after I had said that I am ready to roll:

“Do you think you can do it? I think it is impossible.”

Hearing those words where a shock to me! In a few seconds a lost all confidence and stuttering I tried to find my words, red faced of embarrassment….a fell silent. My good friend moved in and saved me with this words:

“Of course he can do it!”

That was all I needed. A bit of confidence. 2 years later I reached my goal. Thank God I didn´t listen to Göstas wife!

2. Don´t listen to the voices of negativity! I am amazed how many people who actually spend so much time of their possibility to live and enjoy life, to try to ruin the life of others who wants to go beyond the limits of their beaks. It is beyond my concept of understanding! And they´re everywhere. Family, friends, acquaintances, pals at work and school, media…well, everywhere, even amongst other travelers, adventurers and explorers…it is especially hard in the beginning until everybody realizes that you are a lost cause and let you get on with life. After that moment of discovery,  it is only opponents, media and people you have made unhappy along the way who will try to ruin your dreams…;-) As quick as you hear something negative, just turn of f your hearing and smile and say, yes, I will give that a good thought.

3. Buy the ticket! Once you have explained for those you love, why you have to do it, just buy that ticket and get on with it! And remember to enjoy every minute of it, whether it is a few days or many years, because next time around, it all starts from the beginning!

Border Madness

by

Lorraine Chittock

Underneath the floor of my Chevy van is a whole chicken, lamb meat, as well as fruit and vegetables. The vehicle was once used as a surveillance vehicle for the Arizona police department and a long metal box hidden underneath the floor once held four batteries used to power a periscope and other electronic spying gizmos. Normally, I use the space to store valuables such as money, a laptop and paperwork for myself, Dog and Bruiser. A bitter cold winter in the Altiplano is making me leave Bolivia for Chile sooner than I’d planned, and I’m using the compartment to stash enough food to feed me and the dogs for a week.

In LaPaz, Bolivia’s capital, I’d met a German couple traveling in a huge Mercedes RV. “Chilean customs have very strict rules for bringing in agricultural products, almost unheard of in the rest of Latin America. When we were at the border, I pretended we only had a couple of tomatoes,” the woman had said. “I wasn’t going to let the custom officials know how much we were really carrying…”

Earlier in the day, I’d removed all the food from the fridge, and prominently displayed a tangerine, leftover milk and half a lemon—just as the woman had advised. Dog, Bruiser and I navigate through the Bolivian border formalities with lightening speed before driving through a stretch of land uninhabited by people from any country. At over 13,000 feet, the mountain pass is stark, cold and windy.

We roll up to Chile’s immaculate border and are greeted by three sniffer dogs and their handlers. My stash of hidden food… A year before, I’d done a story about the largest police dog facility in Bogota, Colombia. The words of their veterinarian, Dr. Nancy Lopez, rings in my head. “The Labradors are perfect as food trainers, as they have mucho appetites. The only time these dogs eat is during their daily training sessions.”

If I open the sliding side door, the Labs will get a huge whiff of my illegal goods. Before I even have time to contemplate the consequences of my contraband being discovered, an official greets me.

“You’ll need to get your passport stamped over there,” the man says, pointing to a line of people inside. “After that, fill out these forms for your dogs.”

The man escorts me inside, making it difficult to slow a chain of events which could result in a heavy fine or worse. Meanwhile, Dog and Bruiser lean out the open window and bark furiously at the Labs. The furry creatures pant happily, oblivious to the onslaught of fury they’ve unleashed, and to the role they could play in my future. But wait. Could the sniffer hounds be so sidetracked by Dog and Bruiser that their scent glands are deterred from the pounds of hidden meat? “Food is the motivation for Labradors,” Dr. Nancy had said. It’s likely the minds of these mutts are already focused on my smuggled goods.

While my passport gets stamped and a uniformed official looks at the rabies vaccinations, a smile from a portrait of Chile’s first woman president, Michelle Bachelet, a sash draped over her cream colored tunic, soothes my fears.

“This rabies vaccination is good for three years?” the man asks suspiciously of the jabs received in California. “The inoculations in Chile are only good for one year. I’m not sure if we can accept these…”  I feign disappointment while my heart leaps at the possibility of being turned away from the border without further incident. “And where’s the certificate from a vet?” he asks, shuffling through the stack of documents. “And proof they don’t have worms? And we need a form from SAG.” Servicio Agricola y Ganadero is the Bolivian governmental agricultural office which deals with livestock and other animals. I have none of these documents. Most borders I’ve crossed since leaving America have barely acknowledged the existence of my two canine companions and I’d erroneously assumed this one would be no different. “I’m sorry, if you want your dogs to enter Chile you’ll have to return to Bolivia and get the correct documentation.”

After five days, we head towards Oruro, with the intent of completing the veterinary paperwork for Dog and Bruiser. Before hitting town we take a dusty track leading to low hills which I hope will provide a sheltered place to camp for the night. Dust gives way to a white surface. A salt lake! Not the famous Salar de Uyuni, the largest and highest salt lake in the world. This one is more like a large pond, but does have five flamingos, and the dogs and I walk around the perimeter until we find a perfect spot to camp.

“Time to move the van,” I say, following tire tracks across the lake while Bruiser runs alongside, mouth agape in joy. Suddenly the back tires, low on tread and needing to be replaced, begin spinning into the salty surface until hitting dark mud. The van comes to a halt. “I guess we’re camping right here tonight. It’s too late and I’m too tired to deal with it now.” I hope the back tires and mud dry out when the sun rises in the morning.

The next day, it’s impossible to tell where salt ends and frost from the frigid Altiplano night begins. Ice makes everything damp, and by the end of our morning walk my boots are caked with a few inches of spongy moss and salt. Dog is none too happy her paws are covered in the salty mess and tries to clean off a mixture which resembles cow dung without the smell on our bed.

The sun gets warmer and higher, but doesn’t shine on the back tire which is responsible for propelling the van forward. Bruiser follows me back and forth for the next three hours as I haul bucketloads of dirt and stones from higher ground to lay in the path of each tire, and then painstakingly edge the van forward. Ten yards from a firm patch of coarse grass at the edge of the lake, I hit another wet area. The tires sink deeper than before.

I hide in the van for an hour, cry a few tears, and hug Dog. The break gives my mind a chance to find an alternate solution. What if I lay out the van’s rubber floor mats in the path of each tire? After a half hour of shoveling underneath each tire and laying the rubber and a small piece of carpet underneath, I drive out of the muck and mire and onto hard soil. Bruiser runs after me, sharing in my victory. Free!

After a month camped on the outskirts of Oruro in an area, I have all the paperwork completed for the dogs, have bought two new tires, and finish recording the audio version of On a Mission from DOG. Time to head once again for Chile. I veto the idea of visiting the famed Salar de Uyuni, the largest and highest salt lake in the world at 7000 square miles, since the road to get there is horrific. But a trip to Bolivia wouldn’t be complete without at least visiting Salar de Coipasa, a substantially smaller salt lake at 1500 square miles, which is en route to a less frequented border than the previous one we attempted to cross.

Twenty miles past Oruro the raised and paved road turns first to gravel, then corrugation. Bruiser is alarmed by the body jarring motion and trembles. I speed up, then slow down, but the pounding doesn’t change. It quickly becomes apparent the trucks that pass this way leave the raised road during the dry season and create their own paths through powdery dust. I do the same. The van is immediately engulfed in a fine dust which enters every vent and crack in our aging conveyance, as well as coating the occupants fur and hair. The hours and miles pass slowly and the cold winter air receives extra reinforcements from the higher Andes mountains.

140 miles takes the better part of a day as I make sure there’s enough stops so the dogs are able to walk, pee and rest from the journey. At the small town of Sabaya we leave the main track and an hour later reach Villa Vitalina, where a long, horizontal drawing at the entrance to Salar de Coipasa serves as a guide for which mountains to aim for in order not to get lost on the deceptive expanse of white salt.

“Careful,” I think, remembering how easily I was stuck on the tiny lake. I negotiate the van hesitantly, but it’s quickly clear from the numerous tire tracks imbedded into the salt that this lake is frequented by far more traffic. The tires make crunching sounds and we pass several men mining the salt.

At 11,000 feet, the wind is sharp, and shafts of late afternoon light reflect off the salt like billions of crystals. I want to camp on the lake. I drive a mile, then pull away from the tracks and come to a stop.

“Here. We’ll stay here the night,” I announce, stepping down from the van and rushing quickly around to slide the door open for the dogs. I can’t wait to see how they’ll react to this new environment. In our five years of travel, we’ve experienced deserts, swamps, savanna and forest, but never a salt lake. Bruiser, wanting to be with me above all else, jumps out and licks the strange surface. Dog is more hesitant, and after only a few minutes on the hard and sometimes bubbly surface, decides she’s had enough and jumps back inside. I repeatedly try coercing her out for photos, but it’s clear she’s not interested. There are no smells to interest them, and I wonder if the salt burns their pads. Or do they sense that just beneath this hard surface is water and potential danger?

When the sun drops below the horizon, the air turns frigid. I close the doors against a world of sparkling lights which shine above, which are reflected on the hard surface below. Inside the van, the bed covers are sprinkled with pieces of salt. By morning, the dog’s opinion of Salar de Coipasa has not changed: this is their worst camping location ever. It seems pointless to stay if two-thirds of the pack are unhappy. We head back to Villa Vitalina, before continuing onto the Chilean border.

“Do you have meat, vegetables, fruit or dairy products?” the agricultural inspector asks. I’ve already thrown away or eaten the type of foods he’d be interested in, so I pull out some dry goods to give him something to do. I’d read that tea bags of every variety are forbidden, but when I offer mine, they’re ignored.

“Dog food?” he asks. The word no slips out of my mouth, as much a surprise to me as the question. Dry dog food had been difficult to find in Bolivia, and every time I found vendors who divided up huge bags to sell by the pound, I bought some. I now have over forty pounds of dog food stockpiled behind the driver’s seat.

I continue pulling out food items, when I notice the bright yellow plastic sack containing dog food is no longer concealed by my dirty laundry bag. Desperate it not be discovered, I abruptly yank open the passenger door and fling the seat up, thus hiding the yellow sacking.

Just then, four officials appear to check on my vehicle and like ants, they work their way through the van, poking at this, and prodding at that, one man even poking a screwdriver-like tool into the floor to ceiling carpet. Only once since leaving America has the vehicle been inspected.

“Give me sniffer dogs any day,” I mutter, remembering the first aborted crossing with some nostalgia.

I open my secret compartment with a flourish, and fling open the back doors, expecting the team to mutter about the fifteen gallons of gasoline I’m hoping to bring into Chile, where prices haven’t been under $5 a gallon for as long as anyone can remember. All they confiscate are wood chips I’ve been using to cushion two wine glasses.

Meanwhile, the veterinarian on duty is concerned about Dog and Bruiser.

“We have a problem,” he says. I had all the paperwork from a vet in Oruro, along with new rabies jabs, de-wormer and distemper. But somehow I’d forgotten about getting the correct paperwork from SAG. In addition, I don’t have an address in Chile. I bluff this by finding a hotel address in my guidebook, and agree to go there directly once I cross the border. The newest dilemma is that my letter from the vet in Oruro is only good for ten days. This is day twelve. And some of the shots were done after the letter was signed. The border vet has already examined Dog and Bruiser and found both to be in good health. We’ve been at the border two hours. I recognize that despite the ridiculous amount of time this is taking, this man is on our side, hoping to prevent me from having to return to Oruro on a road he knows to be hideous.

“The only way to get around this problem is for you to agree to keep your two dogs quarantined inside your vehicle for twenty-one days. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” I quickly agree.

“The dogs can’t mix with any local dogs, or with Chilean wildlife.”

The rule is ridiculous. Even America with all its laws, only quarantines pets if the animal displays symptoms of being ill, and then for only fourteen days. But quarantining Dog and Bruiser inside my van? For twenty-one days? I listen intently while the veterinarian makes sure I understand the gravity of the paper I’m about to sign. I nod seriously, grateful of acting classes in college.

It’s after six p.m. before all the paperwork is complete. “I’m sorry, so sorry! I couldn’t do anything to make the crossing go faster.” Dog licks my face while Bruiser whimpers in excitement. “I missed you too… Let’s get out of here,” I say, while waving good-bye to the officials and casually driving through the border. It’s freezing, the sun has set and the wind howling. I have grit in my ears, and my hair is matted and dirty. I long for a scalding hot shower, but the nearest one is over 100 miles away after a drop of over 10,000 feet in altitude.

When I see llama tracks in the dust I drive off the main road and park. Already ignoring the possibility we’ll run into local dogs, and less than five kilometers away from the border I fling open the door to the van and take Dog and Bruiser on a quick walk, all three of us ecstatic the ordeal has ended. A thick layer of dust coats the windshield and everything inside. I have no energy to clean out the mess. I’m chilled to the bone and need to eat, but there are no stores nearby. I light the stove, and the dogs and I share what little food we have: a can of mackerel, pasta, and for Dog and Bruiser, a very generous supply of dry dog food.

In 1991 Lorraine Chittock arrived in Egypt as a magazine photographer
and within months was researching the legendary Forty Days Road. A few
years later she crossed the Libyan Desert with 200 camels and eight
Sudanese men.
After twelve years living and traveling throughout Africa and the
Middle East, Lorraine decided to take her career and two Kenyan
ex-street dogs on the road. The pack of three touched down at San
Francisco Airport and began exploring North America in a Jeep
Wrangler. Two years, 30,000 miles, and twenty-two states later,
Lorraine tranferred her belongings to a $750 Chevy van once used as a
surveillance vehicle by the Arizona police and headed to Latin
America. The pack are now residing in a Chilean cabin overlooking the
Pacific Ocean.

Lorraine’s five travel books explore the world’s unique bond with
animals. DOGS BEYOND BORDERS – TALES AND TIPS FROM THE ROAD includes
interviews with fourteen human-dog packs, and how to bridge cultural
gaps while traveling with your dog. http://LorraineChittock.com

Also see The Long Riders Guild!

Please visit my sponsors Termo who are making it possible for me to write 2 blog reports per week. Just click the logo to find the best underwear on earth.

ON EXPLORING

By

Kate Harris

Thoreau, a ne’er-do-well Harvard grad who mucked about in the woods rather than seeking a steady job, once wrote, “Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw at still.” Exploring the wildest places on this planet; writing to honor the wonder and perplexity of life on it; and advocating for wilderness conservation in the process - such are the bones I gnaw at, bury, unearth, and gnaw at still.

I have always been drawn to the far-flung. As a little kid I dreamed of becoming a Martian colonist, or failing that, a self-declared citizen of Antarctica. My family lived in rural Ontario, where mountains and oceans and places like Mongolia effectively seemed as alien and unattainable as Mars, so I figured heck, why not aim for Mars?

In the meantime, I devoured books on space travel and polar exploration, on the great land and sea voyages of discovery, on scurvy and frostbite and gritted-teeth striving in wild places. Words served as my portal to the wider universe, and the worlds they brought to vivid and immediate life were incendiary to my imagination. A fierce love for language and for exploration were for me inseparable from the start. And really, they are two and the same, each a variation on what you might call wilderness.

My first bonafide expedition was a month-long Outward Bound course in Utah, made possible by the Morehead-Cain scholarship. After growing up in farm country, where the widest horizon framed a field of corn and the tallest summit was a haystack, the stark and tortured geology of the southwestern desert hit me like a revelation. There I was, a gawky scholarship student displaced from the Canadian backwoods, lugging a fifty-pound pack and gaping at a mountain for the first time. It was torture. It was sublime. So began my life beyond treeline.

A decade later I count myself lucky to have swallowed dust on all seven continents. From stalking wild horses in the Gobi desert of Mongolia, to biking across the Tibetan plateau, to scouring the Chilean Altiplano for evidence of aliens, to collecting groundwater from the McMurdo Dry Valleys of Antarctica, among other adventures, it’s been an amazing ride. High latitudes and altitudes are my natural habitat, and I am pulled again and again to immensities of sky, stone, and ice.

So whether exploring through science or writing, on a bike or on foot, solo or with friends, on this planet or beyond, my simple goal is to move, be moved, and move others in turn. Here we so incontrovertibly are, to my continual shock and amazement: alive on a spinning chunk of rock in a random solar system in a universe reckless, exuberant, and vast. Every age is the age of discovery; every one of us is an explorer; every moment of genuine awareness is a frontier. And wilderness is all around.

Kate Harris is a young Canadian writer, adventurer, and wilderness pilgrim. A nomad who loves unfenced countries and far-flung life, Kate has lived, researched and expeditoned in some of the harshest places on all seven continents. As a Rhodes Scholar at the University of Oxford, she wrote a Master’s thesis on transboundary wilderness conservation and conflict resolution, with a focus on the Siachen glacier dispute. She then earned another Master’s degree in earth sciences at MIT. Kate was named a 2010 “Woman of Discovery” by Wings WorldQuest for her efforts to advocate for wilderness conservation across borders. Her latest expedition is Cycling Silk, a year-long bike journey exploring transboundary conservation in the mountains of
the Silk Road (see www.cyclingsilk.com). Her official website: www.kateharris.ca

Please visit my sponsors Termo who are making it possible for me to write 2 blog reports per week. Just click the logo to find the best underwear on earth.

The other day I had a phone call from Chiles biggest daily newspaper, El Mercurio, from a really qualified reporter with profound questions. Since my Spanish visit, I have received hundreds of emails and requests from the Spanish speaking part of the world and I like their questions, their passion and analysis of life far better than in my part of the world. Three of the questions I received from Sebastian, the Chilean journalist was:

Are you the last romantic? Does any truly challenging Expeditions still exist? Have you found the meaning of life?

At the same second I was talking to him, this poem arrived, sent from my very good friend Tom Sjögren.  As much a philosopher of life as an explorer.   It answered all his questions. And it could well be me in a nutshell.

The wanderer

by

Sterling Hayden

To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm
foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine
traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen, who play with their boats  at
sea–”cruising”, it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the
wanderers of the world who  cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are
contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the  venture until
your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about.

Little has been said or written about the ways a man may blast himself free.
Why? I don’t know, unless  the answer lies in our diseased values. A man
seldom hesitates to describe his work; he gladly  divulges the privacies of
alleged sexual conquests. But ask him how much he has in the bank and he
recoils into a shocked and stubborn silence.

What does a man need—really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in—and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That’s all—in the material sense. And we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.

“I’ve always wanted to sail to the South Seas, but I can’t afford it.” What
these men can’t afford is  not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous
discipline of “security”. And in the worship of security  we fling our lives
beneath the wheels of routine—and before we know it our lives are gone.

What does a man need—really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and
shelter, six feet to lie  down in—and some form of working activity that
will yield a sense of accomplishment. That’s all—in  the material sense.
And we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end
up  beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry,
playthings that divert our  attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.

The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in
dust on the shelves of  patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.

Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of
purse or bankruptcy of life?

Guest writer number 8 is an old client of mine, a good friend today,  who I met as a tour leader, Christian Jansson, who lives and works for Ericsson in Santiago de Chile. He wrote this thrilling report to his friends just after the earth quake!

Hi everybody,

Here’s an extra travel email, I want everybody to know I’m ok, and also say thanks to all that have worried. Maybe you are also interested in how it felt.

I woke up in the middle of the night, wondering why. From looking at the lit-up screen of my mobile I knew it was 03:34 and I was thinking there are strange sounds from the outside: humming, buzzing, dogs barking, and other sounds I couldn’t identify. Then the shaking and the noise started. First a little bit more than usual, but moments later it got strong. “Shit this is the one”, I remember thinking as I walked to the door frame of my bedroom. It became very loud: the sounds of things hitting the floors, walls cracking, furniture moving around, and I don’t know what. Hearing things falling made me think this is strong. Hearing concrete cracking made me think this is bad. In the darkness I went into the guest room and with one arm managed to keep my laptops from leaving the desk, while with the other holding on to the doorframe. Normally ”a strong one” refers to a 6-7 on the Richter, like living very close to a subway track where one can feel vibrations, plants shake their leaves, and water in glasses move. The Sunday shake is better compared to sitting in a sailboat when extra big waves hit and one unsuccessfully tries to keep all plates on the table, while holding on to whatever. With the loudness of a discoteque. And without seeing almost anything. It felt like the shake would never end. I remember thinking “ok, now I know what the big one feels like, it can stop now, please”. But it just kept shaking. I have no idea if the shake lasted 45 seconds or three minutes, but suddenly it was silent and calm. And pitch dark.

At Ericsson Chile we must attend a safety course so I knew the recommendation after a big shake is to leave the building, in case it got damaged and a second shake brings it down. I couldn’t immediately find a flashlight so I put in my contacts helped by the screenlight of the mobile, dressed, grabbed my passport (not sure why). I then quickly inspected the apartment  (many things on the floor, drawers pulled out, the refrigerator had moved 15cm into the kitchen door) and walked down the nine stairs to the street. All electricity was gone except in the building entrance, so the walking down was a mix of seeing siluettes of people, feeling with hands and feet where to go, and avoiding bumping into persons entering the stairway from lower floors. There were many people outside. Some wrapped in blankets, some in pajamas, couples and families hugging each other. All very quiet. To have something to do I decided to walk around the neighborhood. “Had the earthquake really been that big? Or was I just imagining it?” Both those questions could easily be ignored when I saw the scenery outside. There were 1-2cm pieces of rubble everywhere, and many large windows of banks had exploded into small pieces laying below. I live in a modern neighborhood so I could see none of the destruction hitting older houses in other parts of Santiago and the country. After checking that the tallest building in Latin-American was still standing I went back. It was still very dark although traffic lights worked. Like many others I stopped next to a car that had it’s radio on and could hear that the epicenter had been further south, and that six people had been reported killed.

Ahu Tongariki, located 5000 km:s from the mainland, silently watched the quake....

Back at my building, inspired from not seeing any fallen houses, I walked up the sixteen stairs to the top of the building where the swimmingpool is. The darkness made the stars shine brightly and I could see that the only lights in the city were likely powered by local generators. Then came the big aftershock. I sat down on the roof, not too close to the building edge and could see how the pool water was moving furiously from one end to the other like in a filled teacup held by someone walking with a bad balance (as I’m writing these words from my livingroom couch I can feel another shake start, maybe a five, now it is calm again). When the aftershock subdued I returned to my apartment and after again failing to call my family in Sweden (to let them know I was ok) I turned on the mobile radio to follow the live reporting from around the country. The electricity returned at maybe eight in the morning and I could watch the catastrophe-reporting from CNN. At this time I was also able to communicate with colleagues to learn everyone and their families were alright.

Later in the day I met with friends and walked around the city, had lunch and then we made dinner in my apartment. Things were back to normal, but suddenly when we were drinking whisky on the balcony (the beverage for moments like these) everything went dark again, or rather my apartment went black. Everywhere else there was light. Probably something with the fusebox, I need to wait for an electrician tomorrow. But I have bought a long extension cord and plugged it into a socket in the stairway so at least I can power the refrigerator/freezer and charge my laptop and write this. Hope you enjoyed the read.

Saludos.

/Christian

On a totally different topic though, look at this, friends who are doing a great job of connecting cultures!

The lovely Larson couple who joined me to Ecuador, Peru and the Galapagos wrote:

“Hi Mikael! We just want to say thank you for your extraordinary way of guiding us during this spectacular journey! We will never forget your humble way to confront nature, people and life in itself. We have never met a captivating human being like you. You have experienced so much in your life and you told us just fragments of it. We will go to Patagonia next year, only if you will be the guide!

Marianne, on the Patagonian journey said this:

“This was the best journey I have done in my life. All thanks to your guiding. It was exiting all the time and very funny. I haven´t laughed like this in twenty years! “

The Lawrences wrote:

“You are not only an excellent guide, but a genuinely sincere and honest human being. We are sure that you will have a very rich and engaging life, no matter what path you follow. We admire your courage and enthusiasm.”

It is once again time for me to return back to Sweden. This time after six fantastic weeks as a guide in South-America. At the same time, last year, also after guiding a group through Patagonia, I felt the biggest worry of my life. I had no idea at all what was waiting for me back home. And the time that followed, turned out to be some of the worst moments of my life. This time however, even though I still don´t have an idea what life has in store for me, I look forward to whatever, a lot! I have healed well during these six weeks and a genuine return to life again, it is. Well, as healed a complicated personality like me can feel…..

I have once again had the privilege to return to Patagonia, so during the last three weeks, I have heard the thunder from the great Iguazu Falls, I´ve seen the gigantic southern right whale starring at me from a yards distance, been to the end of the world, had some great seafood in Ushuaia, ridden over the dry Patagonian Steppe with a great group of clients, but most of all, I have had the uttermost privilege to visit Rapa Nui, or Easter Island. This very mystic island located, really, in the middle of nowhere, so far from any other land, around 4000 km from the Chilean Mainland and as far away from Tahiti. Before arriving to the island, I´ve heard quite a few positive comments about the Island, but also, far more, negative comments about Rapa Nui. Man has really changed the face of the Island, there´s hardly any trees left on this piece of volcanic rock that once, before the arrival of man, was entirely covered by a native palmforest. Personally, after having been a professional explorer for the last 25 years, I thought I had seen pretty much everything. I was wrong. I wasn´t prepared at all for Rapa Nui. It is, no doubt, a highlight of my life. There´s definitely something very special with this odd island, surrounded by this vast ocean called the Pacific. It is a tiny spot in a vast ocean of blue. It is indeed the statues, or the Moais, as they´re called who has made me full of awe. They´re put there by the local Polynesians, facing the land and its people, with its backs towards the Ocean, so free of worry that other people would arrive, but they´re still doing what they were set there to do. To inspire people, to give people the strength of their forefathers. It is called mana in the local Polynesian tongue. And, even though, we, me and my group of 16 people, have encountered and experienced some of the most spectacular scenes made by nature on this trip, the Iguazu Falls, the glaciers and icebergs of southern Patagonia, still, we all feel knocked over by the sight of the moai. Maybe because they´re man made. However, personally, the most intriguing discovery is that these Polynesians who arrived here, forget the Heyerdahl theory, about 1200 years ago from, well, maybe as far away as New Zealand on the other side of the Pacific, they did start to navigate this gigantic part of the earth, around 40 000 years ago. Now, this is far before the arrival of man to the Americas…..It has given me ideas….

One of the things on my wishlist before leaving Sweden, was that these 6 weeks in South-America would pave the way for a new Expedition, since after doing the Kolyma expedition, well, I felt, what more can I do? It felt like an end, an enormous emptiness. Well, things are once again beginning to develop….

Another thing which I have had in my thoughts, is that I´ve spent a lot of time thinking about emigration. Patagonia in itself is made up of pioneers and emigrants, people who have left their countries of birth to begin a new life. It sounds like a great prospect. Something worth trying. I am getting fed up with the foreseeable.

Finally, being and working as a guide is pure joy. It seems that I am very lucky with just having great clients all the time. They teach me so much about life and things, and for me, to share my experience of life and my travels and perspective of life, well, it is an honor.