I worked here for a few summers, some of those young staff were my campers. Le sigh...
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #4
Dingle Way, Day 4
5 July 2010
Fred and I got up early and humped our gear down to the dining room. While I was writing postcards, drinking a cup of coffee out of an awesome Batman mug I found in the dish cupboard and worrying about the retired Belgian Army beating us out onto the trail Fred was using band-aids and moleskin in some ingenious combination that I wouldn't have dreamed of in a thousand years.
It was a drier morning than the other two and we were in good spirits as we headed up the road from the hostel. We had planned to do 17 miles and we were both nervous about the distance--neither of us had done such a long day before. But, we had all day and nothing else to do but walk.
Shortly after leaving the hostel we passed a famous pottery shop (Louis Mulcahy Pottery). The guide book promised coffee in the cafe, but we were passing by an hour before opening and didn't feel like taking a break yet. We dropped down over some dunes and passed the beach where Tom Cruise once stood--they filmed Far and Away on Dingle. Fred and I took a picture, but neither of us had ever seen the movie, so we weren't too impressed.
We walked over some beautiful cliffs, located Skelator's Island and crossed some fields with the Three sisters in the background. We started a race with the Belgian Army when we spotted them on the beach. It rained on us earnestly and we ducked under someone's overgrown garden wall to pull on raingear. Fred draped his overgrown self with his brittle blaze orange boyscout poncho. I was embarrassed to be seen with him thus attired but we pressed on. It stopped raining precisely when we'd left our garden wall shelter. It warmed up quickly but the damage was done. My feet were wet and I didn't stop to change my socks. Trench foot had begun.
We ambled over beaches and fields for the rest of the day. Around the town of Ballynagall, after we'd walked the square of Smerwick Harbor we crossed a few creeks headed to the bay that were full of giant scallop shells. I tossed a couple into my backpack for souvenirs. In town we stopped at the Post to buy some Cokes and candy bars. Fred was looking for more moleskin, he'd already gone through my whole supply. Irish Posts have pretty much anything you could want (including fresh baked bread) but sadly no moleskin. The Belgian Army was there when we pulled up.
The rest of the day was a blur of wet feet and road walking. We missed a crucial turn around Feonagh and accidentally headed east up a road off the Dingle Way. By the time we figured out our mistake and made our way back to the Dingle Way we'd added a few extra miles onto our trip. Around 5pm we were nearing our critical exhaustion point and passed a Bed and Breakfast. Rooms were 80 euros a night, way beyond our budget so we pressed on.
When we reached what looked like the last house on earth, right at the base of Brandon Mountain we hollered over a high wall into a paddock where a man was working on a tractor. Fred asked him if we could camp in his yard. He seemed a bit put off--maybe by our forward desperation, but he offered us a small private corral for ourselves and even showed us where the spigot was.
I hung my socks on the fence, spent some time lamenting my sore feet and discussing nutrition with Fred. Based on his calculations and the assumption of 10% efficiency of human metabolism coupled with the force it takes to move our weight a certain vertical distance (not accounting for horizontal distance) he figured we needed only 97 calories to power us over the mountain in the morning. I scoffed and had a second helping of our gourmet trail dinner--rice and cheese.
We kicked the sheep droppings out of the way, dodged the 3 foot high thistles and settled down for the night after watching some tv on the ipad. Luxury camping.
5 July 2010
Fred and I got up early and humped our gear down to the dining room. While I was writing postcards, drinking a cup of coffee out of an awesome Batman mug I found in the dish cupboard and worrying about the retired Belgian Army beating us out onto the trail Fred was using band-aids and moleskin in some ingenious combination that I wouldn't have dreamed of in a thousand years.
It was a drier morning than the other two and we were in good spirits as we headed up the road from the hostel. We had planned to do 17 miles and we were both nervous about the distance--neither of us had done such a long day before. But, we had all day and nothing else to do but walk.
Shortly after leaving the hostel we passed a famous pottery shop (Louis Mulcahy Pottery). The guide book promised coffee in the cafe, but we were passing by an hour before opening and didn't feel like taking a break yet. We dropped down over some dunes and passed the beach where Tom Cruise once stood--they filmed Far and Away on Dingle. Fred and I took a picture, but neither of us had ever seen the movie, so we weren't too impressed.
 |
| Three Sisters |
We ambled over beaches and fields for the rest of the day. Around the town of Ballynagall, after we'd walked the square of Smerwick Harbor we crossed a few creeks headed to the bay that were full of giant scallop shells. I tossed a couple into my backpack for souvenirs. In town we stopped at the Post to buy some Cokes and candy bars. Fred was looking for more moleskin, he'd already gone through my whole supply. Irish Posts have pretty much anything you could want (including fresh baked bread) but sadly no moleskin. The Belgian Army was there when we pulled up.
The rest of the day was a blur of wet feet and road walking. We missed a crucial turn around Feonagh and accidentally headed east up a road off the Dingle Way. By the time we figured out our mistake and made our way back to the Dingle Way we'd added a few extra miles onto our trip. Around 5pm we were nearing our critical exhaustion point and passed a Bed and Breakfast. Rooms were 80 euros a night, way beyond our budget so we pressed on.
When we reached what looked like the last house on earth, right at the base of Brandon Mountain we hollered over a high wall into a paddock where a man was working on a tractor. Fred asked him if we could camp in his yard. He seemed a bit put off--maybe by our forward desperation, but he offered us a small private corral for ourselves and even showed us where the spigot was.
I hung my socks on the fence, spent some time lamenting my sore feet and discussing nutrition with Fred. Based on his calculations and the assumption of 10% efficiency of human metabolism coupled with the force it takes to move our weight a certain vertical distance (not accounting for horizontal distance) he figured we needed only 97 calories to power us over the mountain in the morning. I scoffed and had a second helping of our gourmet trail dinner--rice and cheese.
We kicked the sheep droppings out of the way, dodged the 3 foot high thistles and settled down for the night after watching some tv on the ipad. Luxury camping.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Bears
 |
| Bear Safety by the USDA |
In a nutshell: Bears? How do we feel about bears? Do we take bears seriously, or not? The question is whether or not bear canisters are overkill on the AT.The answers range from "No, a bear canister saved my cache" (including a picture of a well gnawed but not comprised canister) to "Don't be silly, bears don't exist on the AT/aren't real on the AT (compared to the Real Bears Out West)/aren't anything compared to the mice on the AT". Not a small proportion of responders claimed to sleep in their tents with their food. What? Folks, c'mon, really?
Bears do get bags down from time to time. If bears become adept at retrieving food bags they can become habituated to an area and become a nuisance--which puts them at risk for being shot. (I hear they're pretty fond of the Spring thru hike season in GA) So, in that way one could argue that hanging bear bags is actually a bad thing to do and therefore sleeping with a bag of food between your legs, or near your head in your tent at night is good.
But, bears are smart and have an amazing sense of smell. How long before they decide that it's easier to pluck the bag from the tent you're in? A layer or two of nylon certainly isn't as difficult to get through as a minivan door.Besides the risk of losing your food, there's the risk of loosing limbs or worse. People do get grabbed from tents--it's not common--but it happens.
It seems to me that a bear can is the safest bet, but if the choice is between hanging a bag or keeping a sack of bear bait next to my head, I'm going to hang a bag. After all, hanging a bear bag seems like common sense, and it's free.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Passing it on
You never forget your first. The campmor catalog was a staple in our house but I don't think I seriously picked one up until I was about 11. I'd grown out of my kid sized bag and needed a new one. Dad taught me that one must not pick sleeping bags by color alone.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Bears! and the PCT bagging method
My middle school Scouts want to go backpacking over Memorial Day weekend. They were supposed to go a few weeks ago but we had an unfortunate limb-breakage that precluded us from saddling up (so-to-speak). Consolation prize is a trip over the last long weekend in the school year. But it's going to be hot. They're thinkers though and have decided that we'll go somewhere with springs to cool off in. Okay by me, but now we're looking at getting into bear country--since there are no places in South East or West Florida that satisfy their requirements for backpacking AND springs. North/Central Florida does fit the bill.
I won't lie. Bears make me nervous. Nervous for myself, but mostly nervous for other people's children. Maybe I'm irrational. I've never even seen a bear in my life. I do find that sort of surprising considering I spent lots of time traipsing through the woods as a kid, and there were probably plenty of bears out there. There are firsts for everything--for instance, I was never stung by a bee until last summer. I was sitting in my living room watching TV when one ambled right up and rudely jabbed me in my elbow. I was just minding my own business, the NERVE.
That's just me though. These kids are tough and are remarkably calm. They've handled torrential downpours and freezing overnights (literally, in FLORIDA!), they've come face to face with a roving gator and didn't even pee their pants (though I nearly did).
Mostly one just has to be a bit more vigilant while in bear country. The Scouts already know how to hang food bags--they've spent tons of time in raccoon-land--but bear bags require a bit more thoughtfulness. Some folks even take it to the next level by cooking dinner along the trail a mile or so before making camp and hanging anything that smells (which always includes toothpaste and other toiletries). I'm not sure if that's totally necessary in the dense wilderness of Florida, but it couldn't hurt.
On my first East coast backpacking trip I made the critical mistake (no, not EVERY backpacking story features a critical mistake...just the interesting ones) of forgetting a rope. I figured that we'd be okay without the rope--there's no bears on Cumberland Island anyway. Just wild horses. I've always been careful to hang my food because of bears, so for some reason I never considered the possibility that other animals may also eat food--like raccoons. Of course, when we got out to the island the ranger reminded us to hang our food and I felt pretty dumb. We had a couple extra straps and managed to rig up a really pathetic hanging system. It lasted two nights, but on the third and final night the raccoons stopped feeling sorry for us and raided the stash. Cumberland Island is a popular place and the campsite we were at was fairly crowded. It was one of the most embarrassing things that's ever happened to me in the woods--or, rather one of the more embarrassing things that I'll ADMIT to having happened--stooping around picking up plastic and food wrappers sheepishly. Luckily there was only breakfast in the bag--a couple cliff bars and left over oatmeal packets. Lesson learned: it's not just bears that eat food.
I found this really awesome video on the Youtube of the PCT Bear Bagging method which I'll make the Scouts practice before we head out.
I won't lie. Bears make me nervous. Nervous for myself, but mostly nervous for other people's children. Maybe I'm irrational. I've never even seen a bear in my life. I do find that sort of surprising considering I spent lots of time traipsing through the woods as a kid, and there were probably plenty of bears out there. There are firsts for everything--for instance, I was never stung by a bee until last summer. I was sitting in my living room watching TV when one ambled right up and rudely jabbed me in my elbow. I was just minding my own business, the NERVE.
That's just me though. These kids are tough and are remarkably calm. They've handled torrential downpours and freezing overnights (literally, in FLORIDA!), they've come face to face with a roving gator and didn't even pee their pants (though I nearly did).
Mostly one just has to be a bit more vigilant while in bear country. The Scouts already know how to hang food bags--they've spent tons of time in raccoon-land--but bear bags require a bit more thoughtfulness. Some folks even take it to the next level by cooking dinner along the trail a mile or so before making camp and hanging anything that smells (which always includes toothpaste and other toiletries). I'm not sure if that's totally necessary in the dense wilderness of Florida, but it couldn't hurt.
 |
| Fig 2. There are no bears on the beach |
 |
| Fig. 1 Horses don't steal food |
On my first East coast backpacking trip I made the critical mistake (no, not EVERY backpacking story features a critical mistake...just the interesting ones) of forgetting a rope. I figured that we'd be okay without the rope--there's no bears on Cumberland Island anyway. Just wild horses. I've always been careful to hang my food because of bears, so for some reason I never considered the possibility that other animals may also eat food--like raccoons. Of course, when we got out to the island the ranger reminded us to hang our food and I felt pretty dumb. We had a couple extra straps and managed to rig up a really pathetic hanging system. It lasted two nights, but on the third and final night the raccoons stopped feeling sorry for us and raided the stash. Cumberland Island is a popular place and the campsite we were at was fairly crowded. It was one of the most embarrassing things that's ever happened to me in the woods--or, rather one of the more embarrassing things that I'll ADMIT to having happened--stooping around picking up plastic and food wrappers sheepishly. Luckily there was only breakfast in the bag--a couple cliff bars and left over oatmeal packets. Lesson learned: it's not just bears that eat food.
I found this really awesome video on the Youtube of the PCT Bear Bagging method which I'll make the Scouts practice before we head out.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #3
Dingle Way, Day 3
4 July 2010
Fourth of July, which meant nothing since we were camped out in a kind stranger's back yard in Ireland, began in a cloud and settled on spitting mist heavy enough to rattle the fly on my tent. I would have liked to lie in and let the moist Irish morning burn off, but that wasn't really an option. We were in the rose garden, the cows were leaving the barn and clomping down the road and we didn't want to overstay our welcome. Also: one shouldn't pee in a stranger's backyard. So we got up, packed our tents up wet and huddled next to the shipping container that served as the backyard shed to half-heartedly make breakfast.
Maybe we were trying to look miserable. I didn't have to try too hard. The rain was starting up harder, it was blowing in my face, and I'd made a critical mistake with my fuel pump. See, I wanted to strap the fuel bottle to the outside of my pack. That makes sense because it reduced the risk of spilling gasoline inside my pack--on my clothes or my food or my dishes. I unscrewed the plastic fuel pump and figured that because it was fragile it needed to be protected, so I naively tucked it into my bowl--There! That'll keep it from getting smashed. And it did. My fuel pump was not smashed, but it leaked into my bowl. Petroleum distillates besides being disgusting are dangerous. Wind and rain in my face, every layer of clothes I owned, huddled up next to a rusty corrugated box, staring longingly into my fuel-flavored instant coffee I must have looked a sight and tugged the heart strings of the nice Irish lady doing her dishes at the kitchen sink.
The woman came out and told us that we were welcome to come inside and have breakfast and use her bathroom. I waved my hunk of soda bread at her and tried to convince her that we were really okay. She wasn't having it and told us to get inside. Twice was enough. We threw our packs in the shed and shed our outer layers at the door and padded into her kitchen.
We tried to have a conversation about Obama (they like him) and rashers (she was sorry there weren't any, she forgot to take them out of the freezer last night!) and the Dingle Way while the woman gave us tea and toast and honey and cookies (for breakfast!). She spoke Irish at our request and tried to explain how to pronounce the various dotted letters. I think her name was some variation of Katherine, but I had a very hard time understanding her accent. I did understand that she often offers her backyard to Dingle Way hikers, but we were the first she'd had that year. The economy, she figured.
Her kitchen reminded me of every farm house I've ever been in back home--warm and distinctly utilitarian despite the floral pattern of the dishes or the faded wooden plaque above the sink with Irish proverbs in pastel. We were at the table, the social hub next to the back door where folks come in and out, stamping their feet, removing their hats and looking towards the stove to see what's on after being out working hard on the tractor/bringing cows up/taking hay down.
After we'd had a few pieces of toast and I'd slurped down two cups of tea that didn't contain gasoline we headed out into the rain and down the trail.
The trail lead through a narrow gap between two hedgerows for about a half a mile. I was glad to have my gaiters. From there, we headed up a hill on a short road walk before turning north and traveling around the shoulder of Mount Eagle. This was the best walk of the whole trip. We walked through pastures along some wickedly steep inclines. Great Blasket Island and Dunmore Head grew in front of us and there were archeological ruins all around--the clochans, beehive huts and old stone walls were still being used in some places.
The rain had burnt off and the hills were greener than anything I'd ever seen against the turquoise ocean.
After a few miles skirting Mount Eagle we came down steeply onto a road at Slea Head and stopped at a cafe there for coffee. After we finished our coffee the Dingle Way took us along a gravel road for maybe another mile before we crossed a stream and headed back uphill towards the Great Blasket Centre outside of Dunquin.
It was warming up but we were still a big wet from the morning. We dropped our packs beside a stone wall and headed into the Museum. I think the admission was around 4 Euros, which is also what we were paying for a pint of Guinness, so it seemed reasonable. Great Blasket Island (An Blascaod Mór in Irish) was inhabited by a small community of fishers and farmers and an inordinate amount of artists and writers until it was forcibly evacuated by the government in 1953 following a period of hardship. Now it's a ghost town of ruined cottages that can be accessed by ferry and explored on foot in the summer. Fred and I skipped the ferry ride over, but I wish we had gone.
We decided to do a big day to the base of Mt. Brandon on the following day so Dunquin was the end of the line for us on 4th of July. We were too early to check into youth hostel so we walked down into the small village of Dunquin to see if we could get a Guinness. The pub, with a plaque of James Joyce by the door, was closed so we hobbled a bit further up the road to kill some time first in the cemetery and then, tiring of that, with our feet in a small cold stream in someone's back yard.
The youth hostel was fine, it had books and games and a telephone that I managed to call home from but lacked internet. In the kitchen, we met a group of tough looking guys from Belgium. They weren't terribly friendly and we didn't chat or linger in the kitchen too long. I made my dinner and set my pot next to the sink while I went out into the dining room to eat. Within 2 minutes the lady of the house tracked me down to tell me to Get in there and cleanup after yourself! I humphed and did her bidding. I didn't so much appreciate the bossing but Fred and I DID get a whole 10-bed room to ourselves which almost made up for that. We stayed up late looking at old pictures on the iPad. It was still light out at 11 when I went to sleep.
4 July 2010
Fourth of July, which meant nothing since we were camped out in a kind stranger's back yard in Ireland, began in a cloud and settled on spitting mist heavy enough to rattle the fly on my tent. I would have liked to lie in and let the moist Irish morning burn off, but that wasn't really an option. We were in the rose garden, the cows were leaving the barn and clomping down the road and we didn't want to overstay our welcome. Also: one shouldn't pee in a stranger's backyard. So we got up, packed our tents up wet and huddled next to the shipping container that served as the backyard shed to half-heartedly make breakfast.
Maybe we were trying to look miserable. I didn't have to try too hard. The rain was starting up harder, it was blowing in my face, and I'd made a critical mistake with my fuel pump. See, I wanted to strap the fuel bottle to the outside of my pack. That makes sense because it reduced the risk of spilling gasoline inside my pack--on my clothes or my food or my dishes. I unscrewed the plastic fuel pump and figured that because it was fragile it needed to be protected, so I naively tucked it into my bowl--There! That'll keep it from getting smashed. And it did. My fuel pump was not smashed, but it leaked into my bowl. Petroleum distillates besides being disgusting are dangerous. Wind and rain in my face, every layer of clothes I owned, huddled up next to a rusty corrugated box, staring longingly into my fuel-flavored instant coffee I must have looked a sight and tugged the heart strings of the nice Irish lady doing her dishes at the kitchen sink.
The woman came out and told us that we were welcome to come inside and have breakfast and use her bathroom. I waved my hunk of soda bread at her and tried to convince her that we were really okay. She wasn't having it and told us to get inside. Twice was enough. We threw our packs in the shed and shed our outer layers at the door and padded into her kitchen.
We tried to have a conversation about Obama (they like him) and rashers (she was sorry there weren't any, she forgot to take them out of the freezer last night!) and the Dingle Way while the woman gave us tea and toast and honey and cookies (for breakfast!). She spoke Irish at our request and tried to explain how to pronounce the various dotted letters. I think her name was some variation of Katherine, but I had a very hard time understanding her accent. I did understand that she often offers her backyard to Dingle Way hikers, but we were the first she'd had that year. The economy, she figured.
Her kitchen reminded me of every farm house I've ever been in back home--warm and distinctly utilitarian despite the floral pattern of the dishes or the faded wooden plaque above the sink with Irish proverbs in pastel. We were at the table, the social hub next to the back door where folks come in and out, stamping their feet, removing their hats and looking towards the stove to see what's on after being out working hard on the tractor/bringing cows up/taking hay down.
After we'd had a few pieces of toast and I'd slurped down two cups of tea that didn't contain gasoline we headed out into the rain and down the trail.
The trail lead through a narrow gap between two hedgerows for about a half a mile. I was glad to have my gaiters. From there, we headed up a hill on a short road walk before turning north and traveling around the shoulder of Mount Eagle. This was the best walk of the whole trip. We walked through pastures along some wickedly steep inclines. Great Blasket Island and Dunmore Head grew in front of us and there were archeological ruins all around--the clochans, beehive huts and old stone walls were still being used in some places.
The rain had burnt off and the hills were greener than anything I'd ever seen against the turquoise ocean.
After a few miles skirting Mount Eagle we came down steeply onto a road at Slea Head and stopped at a cafe there for coffee. After we finished our coffee the Dingle Way took us along a gravel road for maybe another mile before we crossed a stream and headed back uphill towards the Great Blasket Centre outside of Dunquin.
It was warming up but we were still a big wet from the morning. We dropped our packs beside a stone wall and headed into the Museum. I think the admission was around 4 Euros, which is also what we were paying for a pint of Guinness, so it seemed reasonable. Great Blasket Island (An Blascaod Mór in Irish) was inhabited by a small community of fishers and farmers and an inordinate amount of artists and writers until it was forcibly evacuated by the government in 1953 following a period of hardship. Now it's a ghost town of ruined cottages that can be accessed by ferry and explored on foot in the summer. Fred and I skipped the ferry ride over, but I wish we had gone.
We decided to do a big day to the base of Mt. Brandon on the following day so Dunquin was the end of the line for us on 4th of July. We were too early to check into youth hostel so we walked down into the small village of Dunquin to see if we could get a Guinness. The pub, with a plaque of James Joyce by the door, was closed so we hobbled a bit further up the road to kill some time first in the cemetery and then, tiring of that, with our feet in a small cold stream in someone's back yard.
The youth hostel was fine, it had books and games and a telephone that I managed to call home from but lacked internet. In the kitchen, we met a group of tough looking guys from Belgium. They weren't terribly friendly and we didn't chat or linger in the kitchen too long. I made my dinner and set my pot next to the sink while I went out into the dining room to eat. Within 2 minutes the lady of the house tracked me down to tell me to Get in there and cleanup after yourself! I humphed and did her bidding. I didn't so much appreciate the bossing but Fred and I DID get a whole 10-bed room to ourselves which almost made up for that. We stayed up late looking at old pictures on the iPad. It was still light out at 11 when I went to sleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)